The Day I WOWED Webster’s.

By Shannon Scott (C) 2015

Its probably apparent to most who know me, and for even those who hear me speak for just a few moments, that I love words. I count myself as a wordsmythe and or wordist. On occasion, I believe I add some to the human vernacular like “Storyist.” Which for the record, is my word and have been using that one to refer to myself for several years now. Basically it means I’m “more than” a storyteller, and much more than a tour guide. In fact, I came up with it to add something more chic sounding to the concept of tour guide. And another thing for the record, I loathe each and every time I have to kowtow to the system and get my “tour guide” license renewed of have to go to a “tour guide” meeting at City Hall where we can be corralled or talked down to. Savannah doesn’t even realize what it could do to change the world of perception by just calling us “Storyists” or “Storytellers.” It would be yet another way the City of Savannah could set itself apart and show that it can think for itself as a place. It would elevate us into the realm of the artists that we are or that many of us can be, with our words. Can you imagine a town full of people saying to other, “No, no, no. We don’t use the word tour guide. That’s for other towns. We call them storyists.” Now that’s a city I could happily be a part of. But at the very least give us the option to check a different box on a government form. “Are you a tour guide or a Storyist? Check the box that applies.” But I digress. The point is, sometimes terms need to grow or there need to be new ones to apply to a new level of something. Taphophile for example, is one stirring around that one day may see the likes of being officially in the dictionary but for now, is a groundling word used in the backstreets and mean streets of unofficial lingo tossed around by word anarchists, lip terming hipsters and wordy wannabees. The Urban Dictionary defines it as a person with an “abnormal love of funerals, graves and cemeteries.” Obviously those who know me know that I fit the bill.

But then there’s “foodie,” and that’s what I’m really here to speak of. Long before I was a government licensed story doorman, I was a free thinking foodie. Especially in my early life, I cooked quite a bit and had jobs around restaurants. My career basically started in my hometown’s Country Kitchen as head breakfast and lunch cook, extended to sous chef work in a private club, later running a high end deli for a few years, and my last chapter was a 3 day stint at the prestigious Elizabeth’s On 37th as a night saute’. It was then that I decided my heart, mind and body belonged in something beyond making food for people. It became publishing and for 7 years, my company Jones Street Productions, Inc (as I lived on Jones Street), turned out four publications. And although it had a short run of 3 years, “The Foodies’ Guide — Where Area Foodies Really Do Eat,” was my pet favorite and was coveted by people in the hospitality trade to the point that even a few years after it was gone, some concierges harbored copies of it in their desks at work. I had to give it up because Savannah’s restaurant scene was far too small and I was more in love with providing information than I was selling ads to print it. But I’ll never forget that it was due to print the week of 9/11 and even though life stopped for the world that day, I paid out of pocket to get it over the hump of the printing press so that it would be proof that life goes on and it was my way of keeping something about fun, happiness, prosperity and American, very much alive. It in fact, was the least and biggest thing that I could do that week actually. You know, still go out and plant a tree kind of message.

First City Club

First City Club

Elizabeth's On 37th

Elizabeth’s On 37th

The first time I really heard the word “foodie” was in 1991 while working under Executive Chef Chris Barnett and Night Sous Chef, Tony Kelly at Savannah’s First City Club. Or at least where I paid it attention because it came so casually out of a classically trained chef’s mouth. And said so definitively of one member in particular who was a high power Savannah lawyer that prided himself on knowledge of cuisine, French food in particular and was not shy about sending things back to the kitchen. Especially as he was Jewish and if it wasn’t fully cooked, it would be returned and I’d hear Chef Barnett exclaim with some amusement, “KILL IT” as he returned it to the flattop or sometimes fryer to ensure it was dead enough for Mr. Levy.

It was then of course, that I decided this is what I must be too. A foodie. I felt part of a special league in knowing this word, using this word, and yes, by my position cooking in a private club, that I was truly one of the privileged to crown others with this term should I see fit. Even if one’s paycheck barely paid the bills, having entitlement to such words made you feel like you were going places. I was now a foodie on my way to being an expert in the young, burgeoning science of foodieism.

But yes, it became a real measure for me and was critical in the spirit of me developing a character called “Foodie Agent008” for my publication The Foodies’Guide. Sometime in 2000, I conceived of him as a mix of James Beard meets James Bond and with a comic streak of a 1950’s “Bob” character that was wholesome in appeal. I drew him out one night for my graphic design neighbor, Chris M, and off we went to constructing the complete look. I was ecstatic with the end result.


Which by this time in history, “foodie” as a word was more commonplace for sure, but in my vision of carrying it further into mankind, I was determined to “define” it with my definition and style. Literally. Because at that sitting, it didn’t exist in Webster’s. Which before the internet was a big thing or things like “The Urban Dictionary” even yet existed, meant in so many ways, that it wasn’t really a word. I mean, need we evoke what I now look back and call “The Great Ain’t Debate of The 20th Century”? Thank you, let’s not. Those were dark times between people.

So, I sat down and defined it. And yes, I borrowed the dictionary to make sure it looked right, sounded right, felt right and could easily convince any onlooker, even the folks at Webster’s, that it belonged. Especially foodies right? And so when I was done, I put it right on the front cover of every issue I printed over those 3 years.

Ok, so it passed Grey Poupon in the general sense, but would it pass mustard at Webster’s? So I decided to try and phone the Word Gods and see. But yeah, how does one do that even? I mean is Webster’s in the phone book or is the phone book in Webster’s? Luckily, the internet was a tad more than an infant in 2000, but barely, and I found what appeared to be some rudimentary contact information for them. But could a lowly member of the English speaking public, albeit one of their biggest unconscious promoters, just dial them up? Let alone, be given access to the Department of Word Creationists? I imagined these people to have body guards and carried “WIPs” in briefcases handcuffed to their wrists. Oh, WIPS are Words In Progress BTW. Yeah, just made that up. Pass it along.

And aren’t we all a little curious about how words get into the dictionary? And when I say “the dictonary,” of course I mean The Dictionary — Webster’s. I mean Collier’s? I don’t think so. The Oxford? Who has time for all of those volumes and the space to boot! It’s Webster’s Jack. Everybody else, take a number. Step aside! But is there a committee? Surely. Are there word agents representing a word or for that matter, words? Or people that invented the word and are now peddling it to Webster’s? Do words get rejected and keep having to beef up their street cred for years before making the cut? Are there power trippers at Webster’s who sneer and laugh and say, “Maybe you should try the folks down at Roget’s,” and then go stonefaced and shout, “And where do you think Roget’s gets permission huh? Us! Now take your measly word back to the uneducated hovel it was borne from and call us when you’ve really got something for us to define!” And do those Webster’s cronies have signs behind their desks that read = “Ain’t is a word, but it isn’t a good one” — I don’t know, these are the things my mind had been asking itself for years.

Can you then imagine my delight, my thrill when they passed me back to the office of the ultimate wordsmiths? While on hold I was felt like glittering gilt on a Webster’s leather bound! It was as if I was standing on top of a 1000 dictionaries as I prepared to drop a definition on someone who made The Definitions! Finally, a very nice sounding man picked up the other end. I expected some high brow tone but instead here was this easy going gentleman, who was very welcoming to my inquiry. I should’ve known that he’d be so kindly to a fellow wordist! I got the feeling that wherever he was, that it was very quiet. Like a library you know? To this day I wonder was just a plain old office or was it in fact, a library? And did this guy go undercover to listen for new words? Put on disguises to be here and there in order to catch a rare new sound? Something just manifesting in the language and if it sounded musical enough, he jotted down where he was at the exact moment? During our talk, I could hear his brainy glasses hitting the phone receiver. I could tell he took a distinct pleasure in the nature of my call, as well the timing. He happily noted, even flattering me, that on his desk was an official piece of paper bearing the word and that it was a solid go for the 2002 Webster’s Edition. I’m not sure if the reader can appreciate what I’m fully saying here. I was in on the conversation about a word that wasn’t officially a word and was made privy to the fact that it soon would be before any kind of word was given to the public! I mean that literally and rhetorically! I can think of few things more awesome personally! And yes, you may now call me a word nerd. I realize how nerdy this is but you’ve got to admit, its the best kind! Although I can’t really tell you that a word is added with any real ceremony. I’m sure when “ain’t” made it, it made the news. But not sure foodie did oddly enough. But for me, it was kind of cause to celebrate even if I did like the Pre-Word period of the word foodie. It had more street cool then.


All the same, the Webster’s wordist and I got to the subject of my publication and my definition for it. It was kind of a unique moment of, “you show me your word, and I’ll show you mine.” Hah! And I think we both knew that we were holding some cards here. His greater perhaps than my own since he was the one who rubber-stamped the official definition in the end. So he read me the Official One, and then I read him mine. Upon reading it, I could hear him laugh and smile with delight and he said, “yours is definitely better.” And I asked him, was there any chance he could use my input to improve it or change it? He sincerely expressed regret that in the early phases, they take input from the public but even with that, in the end, its a very internal decision and their think tank has final say and that they were past the process for any revisions. And I could tell he wasn’t just saying that because its policy. What I knew, because it was in his voice, and what we both knew, was that my word was better. I don’t mean “definition” either. Because a word is only as good as it is defined and then used as such. What I mean is that in the whole sense, I had the better WORD. And so was the day that I like to think I left Webster’s with word envy.

Rose Ellen Scott & Goth

Rose Ellen Scott & Goth Me

I realize this sounds all self aggrandizing, and it is but I mean it in good fun. But you know who I really give the credit to inside of this silly story? My mom. She made me this word nerd by hovering over me with everything I wrote or typed up and made sure I used proper structure and punctuation. She inexhaustibly tested me for grammar and English exams when we were both beyond bleary eyed at the kitchen table late at night. And I didn’t always make A’s and not saying I’m perfect at it now. But it made me great in my ambition to express myself and to love words like she loves math. She loves words for their meanings to but a little more for their math as she’s the mathematician and chemist. She made me this mad scientist for words and passionate for prose. Who else calls up Webster’s to talk about words right and to brag on their own defintions? Nobody I know. You gotta be a crazy person to be someone like that and a little strange if you know one too.




The Warmest Cold

By Shannon Scott (C) 2015

I still covet this work as one of the best I’ve ever done. Long ago I met a person on my road to a higher self and learned much about visiting a world where I did not belong but fell for their Siren call. She was all 3 of them in one body. 

Click To Hear Shannon Recite This Poem


She was the ice queen.
A boreal beauty.
Bearing love formed by tiny crystals,
shimmering silver, red and gold.
Fracturing light into rays spectacular.
Storing the warmth of the sun in all her parts.

But only to a specific degree.
For ice is ice.
And some goddesses are frosty indeed.

Her ardent smile could freeze you solid,
but left your blood running lukewarm.
Her febrile words were a fireside invitation,
but to the inside of a frigid room.
Her burning eyes could melt you to a puddle,
but found you bathed by gelid water.
Her pyretic touch invigorated cold skin,
but leaves your love frostbitten.

Yes, the ice queen can only be warmly admired and never handled.
Her wintery land does see the sun pass and set, but there?
Spring and Summer are but seconds and not seasons.
Only what is born there can inhabit her artic domain.
Her kingdom is enchanting, but for warmer creatures life there only promises pain.

Travelers like thee will always be her curious.
Opposites attract as opposites will be.
Momentary fools maybe, but in the end, her destiny divides.
For she must find someone as cold as she.

For ice is ice.
And some goddesses are frosty indeed.


Heartlight by Shannon Scott

Click To Hear Shannon Read This Poem

Beating below the twilight,
not far from my nitelight…
– is the heartlight
I carry for you.
“It shines in the guise
of Egyptian sparkling
Its glow, waking me for the
Its beam my esteem’s
Its cast, carrying me
through the dim.
Its ember my kiss before I sleep.
The sun inside of my dreams.
The moon inside of my night.
This is the song of my heartlight.

My Huckleberry Friend…

By Shannon Scott

Some of my fans and friends out there have already read this but wanted to add it to my blog as its been a popular request. Really looking forward to the expanded version of this story one day so people can really appreciate what a great friendship I shared with Paul Blatner and what a great man he was to this life!


So I have a theory on why I saw the ghosts two days ago. It was today that I learned that on the same day, one of my very good friends, mentors, teachers, Paul Blatner died. He was an amazing man who I will never in my life forget and he was just 58. He was one of the most amazing collectors I have ever met and very distinguished in his accomplishments. He started The Savannah History Museum, was an archivist at The Smithsonian and some of the objects on permanent loan there in the black studies collection, are considered priceless and the most valuable in the museum itself. He was funny, like a brother and I just talked to him less than two weeks ago for the last time and we shared some laughs. I am currently writing a story to honor his memory and our friendship and will be sharing it with everyone soon. A funny moment occurred this morning. I did not know his funeral was in Bonaventure at 10:30am but as I walked my tour to the map board there, I see the red funeral arrow bearing his name. I briefly mentioned him to my crowd, and first person to drive in and up to me was Professor John Duncan (Midnight In The Garden of Good and Evil character) and naturally he asks me for directions. So for about 5 minutes I stood there and directed everyone towards Paul’s plot. I believe this was the universe operating yet again and Paul was smiling on this. Our friendship was about stories and ribald and while he was being sent to the Great Beyond, I was peppering the grounds shaman style with the energy of my storytelling. Naturally I intend to make him a stop on my tours in the future. Yes, later I went back to have a word with him and wanted to take him something personal that was “of me” and “of us.” As he was one of the great bottle colllector’s of Savannah, and almost literally, “The Father Of,” I placed a broken 19th century Savannah made Ginger Beer bottle at his grave as a flower vase. I found this in Bonaventure awhile ago and to me, the broken aspect, symbolic of the end of our earthly friendship and that yes, an earthly gesture that there will never be another like him. Bottles can be seen as the foundation collection of real collectors and shows humbleness and the ability to see beauty in simple things, which too are often very valuable as objects. At core bottles show others that you’re willing to really get dirty and dig to find something great and that you’re more than high brow academic or snooty antiques’ dealer. I kid the reader not, but I could bring Paul a pile of mixed glass out of a hole in the ground and Paul could tell me where and when every piece if it was made! The other object is a miniature of the statue to the Unknown Confederate Dead that you find in Oakland Cemetery in Atlanta. Paul was a Reb through an’ through and had one of the most amazing Confederate collections in America, including the rifle surrendered to Sherman by the Savannah Mayor. Interestingly, Paul was also buried with his father today. Howard Lee Blatner who died in 2009. I also knew him and he was a great man who grew up in the orphanage, Bethesda, America’s oldest orphanage begun by Ben Franklin in 1740. His father had been cremated and Paul had his ashes in a closet the whole time so Paul’s sister interred both of them together and as they were really a team for so many years in so many things, it was only right. I am grateful that Paul doted some amazing story objects on me as collector and that these things are now part of my storytelling. I consider it a blessing that I will always be evoking his name with the ways that I continue to inspire people. In that sense, we too will always be a team. And to some degree, this is why I believe I saw the two children spirits with their Tom Sawyer & Huck Finn hats. We were two friends that like children, delighted in the world around us and made one another giddy without any thought paid to who was watching. Long live Paul Blatner. The South mourns you fine sir.



My Song Dedication To My Friend Paul Blatner

The Bird Girl Guy…A Reflection

By Shannon Scott

This writing is a little something I’ve read at Jack’s grave during my tours of Bonaventure. Its fitting he’s buried near the entrance of the place that his photograph immortalized for the rest of time. I avoided telling his story grave side because it was too emotional. In fact the first time I read this, a group of 30 people basically saw me cry, pause and then cry some more. I didn’t see it coming but it was like I could process his loss doing that there. I’m sure I’ll cry again there some night. I don’t mind. I think it adds to the storytelling and is fitting of his memory to show people how he was admired and loved. I think this is the role of story teller at times. You become a vessel for such spiritual feeling and its personal but more than that too. With the recent passing of another friend and recent burial in Bonaventure, I was reminded of this writing and wanted to share it.


I lived on Jones & Abercorn for 14 years, and Jack Leigh’s studio & home was at the corner of Oglethorpe & Abercorn Street. We shared more conversations in that stretch of city life than I can count. He was a sage soul. Quiet & reserved so it was hard to “know him.” He spoke worlds in a chuckle, nod or smile and not sure if he was conscious of that or that was just “him.” Me, I just talk a lot. His ex wife, Susan Patrice spoke to that in regard to his taking the famous photo of “The Bird Girl” for the dust jacket of “The Book.” She told me that Jack told her he “courted the fog” in order to get this shot. Yes, perhaps in his quiet reserve, he could siphon such moments with the energy he didn’t spend speaking. Anyway, Jack always showed real appreciation for other artists and people doing their thing and always wore black jeans, black shoes and a black t-shirt like some college kid in art school. Its been weird, following his death, to have watched his prolific studio go from convenience store to Thai take-out. His ex-wife, mother of his children, one aptly named Gracie and you can guess why, is a dear friend of mine & photographer too. As Jack was dying of colon cancer, the theory being the exposure to dark room chemicals, he turned very yellow and Susan, his ex, my friend, would walk with him up and down Abercorn. Of course he was dying and so the looks we all exchanged were what they were, but he seemed like same old Jack, not bothered by too much, even dying. But his eyes also said to me he didn’t want to leave the world, especially for his children. Even so, The Bird Girl became their angel and my guess set them up for life financially and has helped them go to college and much more. The memory of him evokes a big sigh from me as I sit here…. I know Bonaventure Cemetery was famous before him, but how famous would it be now without that photo? The book was good, but the photo was what sold it all the way around and everyone kind of knew that. It made Bonaventure famous in the way Jim Morrison made Pere Lachaise a worldwide, household name. I mean only so many know Jean Paul Sartre right? Anyway, Jack would appreciate us thinking of him and me bringing him back to life a little here today. I’ll tell you something that I don’t always share with folks. The magic of Savannah is that even if you don’t know the local characters in depth, like you grew up with them, or sat at their dinner tables or shared a beer with them? Doesn’t matter. What you do know of them, makes you love them like they were your dearest, and when they pass on, it tugs at you just the same as if you had done all of that and more with them. And THAT is what makes Savannah so magical. Visiting Bonaventure is kind of like getting a free moment inside of Heaven. You get to visit old friends for a minute. Sure you have to go after a bit, but its like having a pass to the place that you can use time and time again.

Jack Leigh November 8, 1948 to May 19, 2004. My friend.


Imaginary Sleeping With You (by Gandre’)

Click To Hear Shannon Play With Words

This wasn’t written by me but a poet named Gandre from Germany. She used to have me narrate all of her poems as she said I sounded like Klaus Kinski. She was a strange bird but a mind blowing writer and poet. Scientific even. She always apologized for her English but had a command of it that few English could even match. Partly she wanted to know how her words were supposed to really sound together and so yes, she was using me. Sigh, my fate. We used to talk on the phone and she had an angelic voice and was just beautiful. But she rather liked having benefactors over boyfriends. Either the angels stole her back, a sugar daddy or the misty ether. All I have left is this funnily read poem by yours truly. I had fun adding sounds to the words and part so she could feel them in action.

A Love Note

Sometimes the universe will let me divine a little something on the human condition and I’m compelled to share it. Hope it touches someone out there…

A lesson on love. Even as soft as the human heart is, it has bones to protect it, yet even so, it remains vulnerable and exposed. Proof of your own love’s strength is knowing that even as much as we love someone, you cannot sacrifice yourself upon their ramparts. Which does not mean you do not love honestly, intensely, openly or whole. It just means you do not love tragically. This is the rub of life. We love so much at times we want to burn for someone, but to do so means the end of you. There is no honor in that. Only self sacrifice and no one is worth that, even if we love them beyond words. Love does not want pain in the end. It wants peace and joy and not eternal suffering and death. This is the real test of a strong person and where real honor lies. Those that love foolishly are really only that in the end, fools. So don’t be one. Grow and go live instead. ‪#‎CSLewis‬ ‪#‎TheFourLoves‬



Shannon On National Public Radio

Click To Hear Shannon’s Interview

When I was growing up, I loved the radio. WLS in Chicago and “Animal Stories” or Paul Harvey (who once mentioned me on his show!), Wolfman Jack, Kasey Kasem and so many others. I would buy crystal radio hobby kits and build them with my solder iron and at night, move the antenna wire around my headboard to catch the signal just right. I would also play with my voice and create characters and did my best to emulate and immitate the rise, fall and other nuances of my favorite MC’s voices. All of this made more ironic later when at 15 I learned that my biological father had been a radio announcer and confirmed without doubt, I’d inherited at least his voice.

Before the video game craze

Before the video game craze

Eventually, like lots of young intellectuals and music snobs in the making, I learned there was nothing cooler than National Public Radio. Other than sugar & cream, it was the other condiment for your coffee. And I lived for this station and their relative affiliates from state to state. I couldn’t wait until announcer Karl Haas opened his “Adventures In Good Music” with his intellecutally amused, “H-E-L-L-O every-one, I’m Karl Haas.” And of course Garrison Keillor to modern day storytellers, was the Mark Twain we never got to meet. My co-pilot is Lake Wobegon Days! In High School, when public radio was still largely classical music, it was my soundtrack for artistic all nighters, and continued later in my art school college years. Sadly my affections have waned as now, NPR has just become a government control tool funded by the worst of government operators and the wildest of liberal, Leftist political circles. I know, don’t throw the baby out with the bath water, but let’s just say I savor my memories and my fingers, eyes and ears now shun the call letters. You know, Paradise Lost an’ all of that.

Karl Haas & Arthur Rubenstein

Karl Haas & Arthur Rubenstein

But “Back in the early 2000s,” a tall yummy writer with naturally licorice red hair, Heather McHelhatton, contacted me about doing an interview for the Minnesota NPR show, “Savvy Traveler.” That was also a goodie back then. The show’s announcer, Diana Nyad (Champion Swimmer) had one of those smart, sardonic, even bedroom tonalities that you just wanted to worship and take a bath in. Sticky good. So when one of her field agents, Heather wanted to interview me about Savannah’s growing paranormal reputation for the show, I was beyond thrilled. I really wanted to do a good job for Savannah and myself. Which I was all about promoting Savannah to the greater world and having my name on the marquee as such. I’ve been criticized and hated for what people have called self promotion through the years, but if that’s all people think its been, they just don’t get it. Anyway, Heather was familiar with Savannah and had lived here for brief writer meditation periods, but didn’t know much about the ghost scene of Savannah. She arrived with headphones attached to a very cool 4-Track recorder and after sitting on a bench in Monterrey Square around sunset and did a “Testing, Testing, Testing 1-2-3,” we went off into the night together as we discussed many subjects tied to Savannah’s weirdness and mysticism, real and imagined.

Heather & Her Map

Heather & Her Map

Heather’s Website (Click To See)

Heather has a very silly kind of demeanor and was a lot of fun to be around. We had a natural repoire and I just did my best to conceal that I really just wanted her job instead of my own. She made it easy really and it was kind of like we were just hanging out as friends more than as interviewer and interviewee. To our credit, the NPR folks after hearing it, told her they didn’t just want to use me in a soundbyte, but wanted me to have the whole 7 minutes of the episode. This was manna to my ears! I felt like I was following in the footsteps of my heroes or something! Joining the ranks! And yeah, as my mom was a fan of NPR, I think as her son I couldn’t wait to tell her!

On premiere night, which was around Halloween if I recollect correctly, it sounded so smooth. Diana narrated the front end and the back end, introducing the episode and to me the coolest thing of all, was the music that they used to close out the episode and not sure if that was Heather’s choice or not, but it was music after my own heart — Massive Attack. Which at that time, was the coolest kid on the block. Unfortunately my own recording version in this article doesn’t really let you hear it-hear it but to me, it was the icing on the cake. Heather also did an amazing job with the narration and of course, I bow to her for her production of it and honoring me with the participation. Heather has since become a novelist, writing several smart story books that allow the reader to kind of go their own direction with different options. Yes, like grown up Choose-Your-Own-Adventure-Books. I’ve got them all autographed. Last I heard she’s writing a novel where I’m a character driving a tour bus in Bonaventure and something about me carrying around the head of a statue but that’s that last thing I’ve heard….

One of my greatest validation moments regarding came later, at go figure, a coffee house. My home away from home was Savannah’s The Sentient Bean on the south end of Forsyth Park. Still the city’s best I think and occasionally I moonlight there reading poetry and telling an adventure story on stage. I was talking to a newly arrived barista, and while he was making up my latte, we mentioned what brought him to Savannah. He said, “well I grew up in Minnesota and years ago I heard this story on NPR about Savannah being haunted and after that, I knew I wanted to be here.” Yes, job well done and one more recruit secured for Savannah.

Massive Attack

Massive Attack



My Favorite You

by Shannon Scott (C) 2015
Click To Hear Shannon Recite This Poem

So many you to choose
So many you to know
So many you to admire
So many you to grow
The you that rises so early,
to make herself all pearly
The you that breezes the city
and makes hard work look so easy
The you that decorates, stays tidy
and keeps things so straight.
The you that wears things sassy
but keeps it all so classy.
The you that creates words of feeling,
and pushes poetry’s ceiling.
The you that brushes canvas,
and gives your soul’s color new compass.
The you that senses, sees, shoots,
and gives film unimagined roots.
The you that records ever word of every song ever heard.
The you that is there, gives much care.
while others just stare.
The you that plays, nurtures & defends,
one of man’s best friends.
The you that rolls and jams,
showing of one of the world’s toughest lambs.
There are more yous in you than there are minutes in a day.
There are more yous in you than this poem can’t help to convery.
With you, one is never bored with things to say.
You make art of yourself in every possible way.
My favorite you?
How can I pick?
Me choosing a favorite is almost sick.
Maybe the best is yet to be done.
But if I must, there is just this one.
Its my pet favorite and my secret crush.
The one I caught glimpses of and made my love blush.
Now and then I could conjure it with a joke.
Or if I said something wry.
When this you came it was so revealing and unshy.
All that was kempt, came unkempt,
and it would let fly.
High walls tumbled, muscles unrumpled,
and blood filled up.
From deep inside you this beautiful sound,
began to go eruptible.
Joyous noise completion and vibration uncorruptible.
Jarring was its witness.
But seductive none the subtle
Head rearing back, eyes gleaming lightning beams.
Tears welling up
Champagne bottles shooting streams.
Cheeks filling peak for the coming shrieks.
Lips slivering long, delivery ready,
for your heart’s song.
When it sprung on the air, it surrounded me,
and spun me like a top.
But so delicious to hear I never wanted it to stop.
When I felt of its causation?
I never felt such glad sensation!
I’d done something well in your heart’s nation.
Your body in perfection.
Your soul’s music a vexation.
Your spirit in its truest,
and suddenly on vacation.
Your laugh…
You. Laughing.
This is my favorite you.

Wellsprung Waxation

By Shannon Scott (C) 2015
Click To Listen To Shannon Read This Poetical Work

Ah, the delightful slope of heartwrench and accomplishments.

In which while sliding your feet reach the muck before the stable ground before your mind does.

Thus is life. Have minds like ours come to concur?

The fact that you’re just here is promising.

The prizefighter mentality has not seen too relinquish far enough to let that dark shadowy mixture that’s swishing in the back of your mind to claim grounds to your brain matter.

This is good.

Those abstractionary realists who tiptoe around society that suspects them to be stepped in cynicism?

Could in fact be holding the golden ticket to deeper levels of rest amongst outside clatter.

Perhaps rest came to you when you needed it…

My point is — that healing feels no rush for closure.

And while you’re being bumped or bruised as you continue sliding down or up said slopes of self acknowledgment and disparaging.

You’re not alone.

Consider yourself an experiment.

Reweave yourself with confidence that mistakes are a part of the purifying process.