Poems, Prose, Photos & the Art of Being Human
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CATALYST
As if disintegrating the stone of our being to sand we pour ourselves empty to be remade beyond the merciless sins we rise above. The beauty of your breast cleaved away, my lungs stomping their sun-fire dance always, yet we reshape ourselves as balm for each other till we can bear our stories’ terrible weight and are transformed as if to sound— water on granite, wind through pine, an osprey’s haunting cry.
Thank you to the editors of The Tishman Review for first publishing this poem.
And if you are to love,
Love as the Moon loves;
it does not steal the night
It only unveils
The Beauty of the dark
PASSING
you're in Hawaii so I drove to your house clicked off the headlights rolled down the windows and bathed in the dry oak and grass winds that normally surround you which made me think of Langston Hughes and Zora Neale Hurston, how for decades they missed each other, each too proud or lost to find themselves back to the other's laughter and company all that longing over language used and I wonder if your life is so full that one less relationship is relief or if this same ragged cloth beating my face and chest wind-whips through the vacuum I've left
Thank you to the editors of Apollo’s Lyre for first publishing this poem.
SAND
brown naked body sprawled beneath the sun scars of ritual and beauty crossing its belly where birds, dogs and people have left tracks soon made invisible by waxing tide
Thank you to the editors of Agape: A Creative Arts Magazine for first publishing this poem.
Religion is a process of turning your skull into a tabernacle, not
going up to Jerusalem once a year.
IF BIRD
you would be my loon calling long past light, my mourning dove, my sweetest finch flashing sun from black as night. If my bird you were I'd feed you nectar from my palm and plant thick trees for you to rest and nest until I could transform my arms and hands to feathered limbs— our hearts remade as song.
Thank you to the editors of The Tishman Review for first publishing this poem.
Anything or anyone that does not bring you alive is too small for you.
David Whyte, The House of Belonging
Upon commitment, the Universe conspires to exist; who are you not to shine…be brilliant!
Marianne Williamson on Nelson Mandala
Though this looks like a single figure from a few feet back, Elizabeth used dozens of magazine strips to create the yogi, light and shadow. The green framing is van Gogh’s.
There is something terribly radical about believing that one’s own experience and images are important enough to speak about, much less to write about and to perform.
Elizabeth Oakley Weaver 