Friday, September 30, 2005

"Those Sensitive People"

a continuing story....

One night in a moment of weakness Entloff missed the side of Dallyanne that spoke of possibilities and magic. He crossed over his own line. He snuggled up to Dallyanne in pillows of soft down peacock feathers and gazed into her emerald eyes.
"Tell me Dallyanne, tell me of your secret treasures"

Dallyanne was gleeful and she pulled out a little journal from under their bed. She began to read from her last posting.

"When I was very young, I came across a curious little pathway. It led through gardens of orchids and ferns that were ten and twenty feet tall. The orchids changed colors as I passed them. At first glance they were glowing with the yellow of the sun. As I walked deeper into the forest they changed into orange then pink and later a lovely lavender. I spent months on end with a book on orchids matching their glow with their name. I later named them all individually...each and every flower."

Dallyanne stopped for a moment, kissing the cheek of Entloff and stroked his hair.

"It's true you know Entloff, all of it. If you understood the life of each flower and their sensitive side you would never be the same. I named each and every flowering orchid because it was neccessay, everyone needs a name, don't you think?"

Entloff held her close, no reason to push her spirit down to match his disbelief. There was no one around to judge either one of them. He was torn but this was an orchid in itself and he decided to cherish the moment.

"Yes my dear Emmie, everyone deserves a name."

to be continued....

Thursday, September 29, 2005

"I Grasp A Circle"

(a song)

I touch the wind inside my eyes
I grasp a circle and I hold it tight
I close the door
and I form a simple key
to keep me in here
and you
out there

If there are other circles to the day
better memories on display
will you help me
to unwind them?
I'm bound to see them
don't you think
If I ponder on the moment long enough

Does time cease
do memories?

You may not use my memories
You may not misconstrue
because as they're unfolded
they are me
of course
and not you
The song above was taken from a poem I wrote, these are the missing lines of the poem

If I allow the most quiet comment
If I hand over
even for a moment
my memories
to be changed by yours
I will not even have this moment
or this circle
to enclose
and you know...
how many dreams can we allow in
when so few come true?

Wednesday, September 28, 2005

"Speak of the Devil"

a song:

Where do you go
when you're not with me?
Who do you see
when you're not seeing me?
Who do you smile at
with those eyes... that I
wish I never knew?

Who grew the flowers
in the vase on your table?
Who props your pillow
and strokes all your moods?
Who is the one
you stare off in the distance to?
Who is the one
you leave here for?

I weave a little token
a blanket made of smoke
as the colors touch each other
I remember
the fire

Who do I run to
when the road leads black?
Where do I surface
when hell freezes over?
Bleeding out passions
that I knew
Well... speak of the devil
Sphere of the devil
oh Babe it's you

Tuesday, September 27, 2005

"It Smells Like Silence"

a song:

It smells like silence
The kind where no one cares
Your clothes are filled with the fragrance
of someone who left
If I wash them for you
will the memories be removed?
Or has all the fighting
that suffocates the loving
worn the deeper groove?

It smells like silence
and isn't silence cold?
the ribbons have unraveled
no future to hold
A hint of life discarded
you packed and sent away
tidy little sentiments
of warmer days

I suppose I could wash these clothes
and no one will ever know
Only you ... for the fragrance will be gone
But then there's all that silence left behind
miles of better dreams and saner songs
mingled with the scenes of loveless eyes

It smells like silence
the kind where no one cares.

Monday, September 26, 2005


There are places
that you've never been to
There are spaces
where you'll never go
There are passions
waiting to be lived yet
Mystie I know

Mystie I know (four times in background)
When the rain falls
cold on my shoulder
Mystie I know (three times)

Vacant eyes hold
tears that rest silent
faces scatter
a child needs to grow
and the wounded
continue their struggle
Mystie I know


Sunday, September 25, 2005

"Without Blinking"

Last night I dreamed it
I hope it's not true
the shelter for many
had grown to quite few

No resting spaces
and no quiet time
they're closing up our borders
and standing by their lines
hoping the few who're left standing
will die
in little time

Oh my God
we're killing thousands
without thinking at all
Oh my God
we're killing thousands
without blinking

Some people have no faces
they live with withered hearts
they sing "Amazing Grace" only
because they know their parts

In a hungry lost world
it's not enough to say
I go to church on Sundays
and before I eat I pray

Saturday, September 24, 2005

"Those Sensitive People"

A continuing story (rough draft) that began in previous postings.
This is a song that played in King Entloff's heart when he felt himself losing Dallyanne, his dear Emmie to insanity.

"Memories That Burn"

Pardon my staring
at dreams going by
unguarded moments
and mirrors that fly

Each time I've relished
the winged in a word
a moon full of heartbeats
and memories that burn

Pardon my staring
I thought that I knew you
Your eyes toast a signal
to fly through the loops

Yet your chalice seems empty
your frown can be heard
I thought that I knew you
yet pause... I'm unsure

Moments I play on
secrets I hold
who challenges teardrops
if you cover your soul?

Friday, September 23, 2005

"In Every Tear"

In Every Tear there stands a scorn
committed to loves past and rivers wasted
Skies gloom and focus on a generation of madness
and darkness covers the hue
that could have saved us

The petals of contentment
whiten in place
deceiving the masses
and even their own minds

As noon breaks -all is well
the commitment of the silver lining
that contentment is just a state of mind

So we weave back into our cubicles
and perceive
the muted consequences

Thursday, September 22, 2005

"Those Sensitive People"

"Those Sensitive People is a continuing story which I will add to from time to time. I started this a few posts back. It is a rough draft so bare with me as the story unfolds.

continuing on....

King Entloff stopped encouraging Dallyanne to tell her tales of the Emerings, in hopes she would one day forsake her imaginings. There were no more fireside chats that glowed with smiles that are emanate when secret spaces are discovered. Eyes no longer met in the moments where hearts endeavor to greet impossible dreams, with convictions of living them out. The King no longer spoke of it.
Entloff had been touched by the Emerings at birth because of his true zest for life. He had become afraid of it though. It was a feeling not something tangible like Dallyanne knew of. He was never aware of anything but the spark at birth and certainly never aware of where the spark came from. The King began to feel lonely though...
to be continued...

Wednesday, September 21, 2005

"Those Sensitive People"


After the Kings countless questioning of where Dallyanne would disappear to each day for hours at a time, with what he felt to be inadequate answers,the King grew weary. Dallyanne quite easily replied, each time, that she had been to her secret forest by the pond to visit the Emerings. It was not enough for him. One day the King decided to have her followd. Word came back that she had indeed been seen in a most amazing forest with the clearest little pond. Yet... the messenger bowed his head and said that he saw her talking and laughing to no one at all. The Kind could only stare out his window to the sea. Tears welled up inside his heart for he feared his dear Emmie to be mad.

to be continued....

Tuesday, September 20, 2005

Paper Dolls

When I was a little girl I started making paper dolls. In my eight year old mind their attire was romantic and full of all the fairly tales my mother read to me before I went to sleep at night. They came alive and I could hear them breathing. The glow of those memories has followed me to this day in the strokes of oil on canvas and the forming of clay under my fingers. My goal remains the same; to hear them breathing.

Monday, September 19, 2005

"Pole Dancer" 48x36 oil on canvas is from my "Erotica Series.

"Eyes On Queens"

Her excuses were of frailty
like any other soul that breaks
All the ones that complicate
just to find some sense of dignity
search out
the eyes that fall on queens.

Sunday, September 18, 2005

"Lap Dancer"
48x36 oil on canvas

is from my "Etotica Series" along with "Pole Dancer" which will be shown on another day. The "Erotica Series" has several more pieces to go with the series, which I will post from time to time.

I have received quite a bit of flak for painting lap dancers and pole dancers and not goddess'. My retort to that is that I have never claimed to paint goddess' I paint women; in their daily lives, in lives they question and in lives they wish they had. My art explores the atmosphere revealed by our emotions; the anticipation of a first kiss, the fragrance of an infants breath, the magic of flight at sunrise. I am compelled to try to record the chaos as well as the calm in the eyes of those I paint and sculpt.

I almost exclusively paint in oils. I feel it is the best and most respected medium. I am not fond of acrylics... they seem fake and plastic. I do use them on murals though. I have done watercolors quite a bit but my love is oils.

Yesterday I finished a 60x18 piece of glass. I transferred my bamboo design with three geishas and did a chemical etching. I turned out beautiful! yay!
I will post it when I can figure out how to get my iphoto images on my Mac to upload on this site!

Have a lovely day.

Saturday, September 17, 2005

"Those Sensitive People"


In the spring they were wed. The King delighted her her smiles and her charming whimsical ways. Dallyanne would cherish the night she saw her love ride upon the shoreline on his ghost white horse. When their eyes met their love rang sweet.
Dallyanne would tell marvelous tales of little water creatures called Emerings. She described them in great detail; their glowing little forms, their charms and their never ending efforts to please. The most wonderful of all she exclaimed was the warmth they generated from bright blue lights that detailed their edges. Wherever they chose to dwell, she would explain, thorns and thistles would abandon their spots and be replaced with whatever the Emerings whims were for the day. Flowers, trees, moss, ferns and wonderful little delicacies to eat. She would describe the most elegant little pond in the forest nearby. A forest with a pond that no one had ever seen. The King always listened to her fireside stories with amusement. He loved the glisten in her eyes as she described her dear little friends. He would clap and cheer in delight.
Since Dallyanne had become queen the Emerings had blessed the land with their glow. Every inch of the kingdom was revived. New species of plants and wildlife covered every vacant spot.
It could not be denied, the coincidence of Dallyanne's tales of the Emerings and the prosperity of the Kingdom. Deep down the King wanted to believe her, dreamed to believe her. He took it all in, smiled upon it, yet believed the prosperity to be of his own making, the existence of the Emerings a sweet little tale. be continued

Friday, September 16, 2005

"On Display"

Little pieces in the way, creating clutter.
Little pieces of my soul (on fire) set out on display.
Magnified a thousand times to me - I guess you see?
Little pieces on tables and walls, collecting dust.
I scrubbed them all, but time won't come out of the crevices.
Collected emotions that I felt yesterday.
Collected in the crevices, days of inspiration, hours of lost worlds.
A focus no one knows of, a temporary lapse of reality.
I am reminded of someone I don't always know.
It is me.

Thursday, September 15, 2005

True Story:

"Why Macy's Cleans Their Floors At Odd Hours"

I was at Macy's the other day checking out pots and pans. The salesman came up to me and told me about a set on sale for $99. marked down from $300. It was EXACTLY what I had been looking for to replace our teflon bare pans! I said let me go call my husband. A hundred bucks is still a hundred bucks, right? So Denny and I decided to get them. I went back and grabbed a box with a small saute pan to add to the boxed set on sale. I stood before the display and grabbed the larger box underneath. At one point I noticed that the display was shifting a tad. All the pots and pans were displayed along with glass (glass being the operative word here) jars filled with gourmet mustards and sauces. Other 'glass' jars were filled with rice and pasta ... well rice for sure... and I think the other was pasta.....
As I said... I noticed the display began to shift... in s-l-o-w m-o-t-i-o-n.... you know how that is? You have time to envision the inevitable end? The disaster at hand?
The crash was awesome! Rice and gourmet sauces...EVERYWHERE. It was hard to decipher which was louder... the SCREAM of the salesgirl nearby... or the actual crash!
Sheesh a ma neesh I thought... even in the midst of this... CALM DOWN! As we all know... I am not exactly a low keyed person once prompted in the direction of excitement. Yet... I still felt the salesgirl was a bit premature. I mean, the items had not fully landed!
'DON'T MOVE!!' exclaimed the salesgirl as she surveyed the final damage.
Meanwhile the clerk who had first talked me into getting the pots and pans had arrived at the scene.
"Why didn't you ask me to get them for you?" he said with mournful regret.
Keep in mind... I am still standing there... remembering the salesgirls cry of 'DON'T MOVE!', holding the boxes in place against the display. I am sort of wondering how long I must stand in this position.
The salesgirl begins yelling at all wanna be passers by..."DON'T COME THIS WAY!! GO AROUND... THERE IS RICE ALL OVER THE FLOOR... IT IS 'VERY' DANGEROUS!!!"
Naturally... EVERYONE... from far and wide in the whole store was curious at this point.
I had to move... ya know? Just how long was I to stand in that weird position?....I did... and the final jar of mustard... flew to the ground, splattering everywhere the sauces and rice and what not, had missed.
"NOOOO000000ooooo!' I heard the salesgirl exclaim... adding to the drama. "DON'T WALK ON THE FLOOR... THERE IS RICE 'EVERYWHERE ... AND 'GLASS!"
"STAY THERE!" she redirected her attention back to me.
Hummm I thought after another 3-4 minutes... am I to stay in this spot 'forever'? I decided to break another one of her newly set rules and tip toed ever so carefully onto the carpet.
"OK then", I said, "Well I would still like the pots and pans"
"Come this way", said the salesman, who had first helped me, as he quite gingerly picked up the boxes from still another display. (I think they must get a commission)
I was glad to get out of there needless to say.
As I left I could still hear the salesgirl directing potential traffic... "STOP!... DON'T COME DOWN THIS WAY... GO A-R-O-U-N-D!!"
When I went home I went through my cupboards, gathered up all the worn pots and pans in question and replaced them with my shiny new set! Awesome! I made a couple eggs for Denny and they were fabulous!
What can I say... I have never been graceful and never been a dancer... I am exercising though and I think I heard or read somewhere that makes one more sure on their feet and clears ones head!

Wednesday, September 14, 2005

"Those Sensitive People"

Born on a day so silent it chilled even the kindest of hearts, Entloff rang out a cry, loud enough to call upon the truest soul, alive enough to call upon the Emerings. Entloff was a hope.
Entloff was born to the King and Queen of Besteel. Besteel was a kingdom of silence, deep in the darkness of lost love. It was located near the Sea of Ganezia where legends tell of broken dreams.

On the night of Entloffs conception the King and Queen came together with the same routine as a days arrival and a days end. Without the magic of songbirds in the spring or the warmth of a summers day. Courage did not rise in the Kings longings nor soothing breezes in the Queens hair. There was no life in the land...except for the spark of Entloff.

One a chilly winters night, soon after the birth of Entloff, the Queen took ill and died. The King stood mourning but could not strike up a tear that did not exist. Somewhere in the Kings heart there was a passion. If only he could find it.

One evening, while riding on the shoreline of the Sea of Ganezia, the King spied a most glorious creature. She had been swimming under the moon. It was as if she belonged there. As she approached he had to turn his eyes from her. He felt so overcome with passion he feared she might not be for real. As she stood before him he looked down upon her from his white horse. He could smell the fragrance that came from a wreath upon her head of orchids and stephanotis gathered together with ribbons and tiny glistening emeralds. He felt that she was a gift from the sea.
"My name is Dallyanne" she said breaking the silence.
He smiled down at her. She would always be Emmie to him, because of the emeralds set on her flowered crown.
to be continued....

Tuesday, September 13, 2005

"Those Sensitive People" (A novel in progress. I will add to it randomly)

Jarian pulled away from the seaweed that had encased her and kept her from the lightened skyline. With less struggle than pulling away chains of mist, she loosened the rubber like cords of bulbs and leaves. Her blood ran free to her numb limbs. Color rushed to her white cheeks and she felt the tiny pin pricks that free blood brings. It was almost too painful to move, yet for her own breath she knew she must search out the ceiling of the waters. She pushed off from the rocks that covered the homes of a tiny underworld and surged forth. Surged forth from the world she had embraced and loved, yet a place now impossible to survive in. She moaned as she reflected on all that had transpired, stretched her arms out and stroked downward, sending her body to the surface. All the other Emerings swirled around her now, lifting her to the very same rock she had gazed upon from the shoreline only days before. Jarian moved her fingers to the middle of her breast, her wound now gone. The secret of the Emerings would stay hidden as deep as the red that had flowed from her heart. If only the Emerings had come sooner. She reached up her hand and touched the orchid wreath upon her head. Hot tears ran across her cold cheeks. She looked upon the shoreline and saw Entloff. Jarian then removed the wreath from her head and placed it gently on the water and swam towards her love. be continued

Monday, September 12, 2005

Poetry, Stories and Art by Kathy Ostman-Magnusen


"Gentle Lambs Do Not Lie Here Anymore"

I heard an angel sing last night.
She used to dwell inside my soul.
She mustered up her strength to tell me,
pages turn and enemies can fold.

Flags fly at half mast,
dreams crumble.
spirits cease to be.
Creativity sighs a lonely call.
Gentle lambs do not lie here anymore.

Her calm swept across my face.
Her whisper had been lost.
I longed for when I really heard her.
I measured all and could not see,
not you, not me.

Accidents will happen.
I cleared my empty glass.
I bought a tiny ribbon
and tied it to my moods.
I cradled a stone of mercy
and carried it for penitence.
Apologies once freed,
lend hope to a careless loss of precision.
I found those leaves were hidden.
It felt so unkind,
so cold.
I had nothing there to warm me,
no berries in my basket,
only feathers carved in stone.
There were blades of grass,
that reached the sky.
There were bodies on the highway.
I held myself as she turned the page,
and said,
you are not alone.

When someone comes along the path,
maybe they will pick up the cradle,
then with a softer vision,
find a lovelier candle.

I sat across the table
from a heroine of light.
The moon would not forgive me.
I had all the stories in my pocket
and tiny grains of sand.
I told her I'd been humbled
and I did not understand.
She set aside her book of colors,
kneeling by it's side.
There are cheaters in the closet she said
and vacuums down the hall.
There are prices for the wise.

If I lack the salt of luck
to throw across my shoulder.
If I wander through all the treasures,
this life,
the ache,
the opportunity.....
If I leave these words,
commit their little spirits,
if I can, can you?

Hold me close dear angel,
muster up a little tune,
and rock me like a serpent
that rises to the moon.

"The Vacancy Left Behind "

It's hard to leave such vacancy behind.
There are qualities I may have missed.
Isn't everything more complex
than what was first observed?
How simple to decide this spot was useless.
This pebble, soft spoken stone.
This avenue that spoke of being no where.
I missed that it was adjacent to an explosion
of well meaning gestures.
I missed the sight of a hollow bamboo
that stood silent
before the ever moving currents of the seaside.
I missed the warm, breathing wind
that brought tiny grains of sand
and touched my skin on lonely days.
I missed the memories of reflective thoughts.
I should have measured them;
the treasures that unfolded while sitting still.
I missed
I missed
the vacancy left behind.

"Inside Of Me"

I feel lonely for the things I ran away from.
Everything feels so loud now.
The voices I did not cherish, then
are put in boxes
screaming to get out.

This piece inside of me
perhaps in you.
This mystery, uncharted routes
that lead to hidden closets,
spaces,voices. lyrical musings
hums and secrets.
Alone in deed and conflict.
I failed to find myself.

There are answers-- I know it.
There are ribbons and sequins
sticks and leaves
green under my feet.

I can make a little boat here.
Blades of grass will be my sail.
There is a ribbon in my pocket
and a note I carried well.

There are words that could not be spoken
neglected smiles
that should have been given easily
replacing my tight and uncomely mouth.

There are moments in the note
that help me pace myself.
I can neglect them here
or I can feel them

"Princess Hurry"

On this night
She took her eyes from the clear flight
buried her dreams in a sons light
wrapped up in patriots marching.

the turbulent sound of a peace dove
handed her fate with a white glove
that hastily captured the moment.

....Hurry ....... hurry...

And truly
white doves were made to be trusted
stories were meant to be ended
she had her cause
she pretended

Her dreams
focused on whole hearted ventures
always her lover would enter
climb up the mountain
and take her.

.....Hurry.... hurry .....

I think
refuge is found in a clear rhyme
clouds should be noticed as dark signs
.... no time to waste I'll....
climb to the mountain
no time to waste I'll ....