Poems, Prose, Photos & the Art of Being Human
poetry, writing, novel, yoga, restorative yoga, improv, near death, asthma, hope, social imbalance
THEY HOLD THE SEA
Contagious as your hummingbird smile may be, it is your hands... hands that sculpt ki into a dragon's mouth with arcs of mother-of-pearl framing rainbow flames that smell of warm milk and nutmeg, while your touch draws the breath of muscle to bone, then deeper. Too few lines cross your hands, large, almost too large, they hold the sea.
Thank you to the editor of Something Like Homesickness for first publishing this poem.
Ki–Japanese word meaning energy or life force.
In researching other poets in preparation for the Community of Writers, I’ve been especially impressed by an interview with Dawn McGuire, who is living one of the paths I would love to have lived. A neurologist, McGuire used to read her poetry with Judy Grahn, about whom Ani di Franco states, “When I was nineteen I discovered the poetry of Judy Grahn, and I was so moved by “A Woman is Talking to Death“, it’s still one of my favorite poems.”
Grahn’s poem illuminates where we rise from as a people and where too many remain stuck. I don’t understand bigotry, cruelty, or a lack of empathy, but do know when someone finds a way to clearly expose and trace its ripples. I’m relieved I couldn’t write “A Woman is Talking to Death,” because I wouldn’t want the experiences; however, I’d be grateful to write with this brilliance and power.
BUGS
did you see three green bugs eating coffeecake flowers & squirming on bellies as they danced to the beat of caramel kisses from here to their hole?
Thank you to the editors of The Magnetic Poetry Book of Poetry for first publishing this poem.
“Why is it we are who we are —
what makes a person a dark or a star?”
From “The Princess of Sight Asleep” by Jenny Donahue
DRAGONFLY
Dragonfly ascends; moon silent beneath the drum of wings screaming past.
Thank you to the editor of tinywords/haiku for first publishing this poem.
MOTHER’S DAY
How she watched him turn me on the stairs, force his tongue in my nine year old mouth as she basked in the warmth of fire and merlot, and left me for weekends with his Marine Corps son though I cried, begged her not to, his crew cut head telling me to lie down, stop crying, spread my legs. And the Mother’s Day when she slapped my face, kicked my ribs, ripped the head off my doll because I was still making her gift when she woke—she screamed you worthless shit after all I’ve done these seven years. Even now I would forgive the nights from the time I was five that I pressed the cold glass of her bedroom window against my cheek while he beat her, waiting for her to tell me to run next door, call the police, forbidden to run before ordered, forced to listen to her pleas, his fist, the breaking chair. Forgive if she didn’t wish me dead or could engage in dialogue, but instead she remains three, six, twelve years old simultaneously, unwilling to approach maturity or sanity. I too have crawled the edge of madness, felt its sweet vortex as if cauterizing pain, but I keep stepping back from her outstretched arms, reaching always to pull me beside her.
Thank you to the editor of Writing Our Way Out of the Dark for first publishing this poem.
DESERT RAIN
mud seeps
between bare toes
almost naked I walk miles
soaked in desert rain
and catch it with my tongue
laughing as my mother
walks the balance beam of stone walls
while her husband and I point at Catalina cows
and shout Buffalo, buffalo! and she so nearsighted
believes us
spinning
wrists held tight as Geno soars me
round &
round
parallel to the ground
chimes bells ice cr
eam delivered by truck
treasured pink green
yellow plastic dogs
birds
tigers buried in
chocolate strawberry vanilla to be lipped
licked
sucked away
curled like a sow bug
laughing
belly aching as a finger waving in air
tickles as effectively as one would
touching
Thank you to the editor of Something Like Homesickness for first publishing this poem.
In the summer of 2009, a friend drove me past this sign, which I had to jump out and photograph while she drove around the block.
Turned out to be a happening for an artist involved with Exit Through the Gift Shop , a documentary that focused on Banksy: underground and overground hero, artist, thinker and social critic. He is illusive, creative, technically stunning, brave, quick and smart. While some argue that he is the best graffitist, Banksy has many peers.
Throughout the world, usually by night, graffiti artists draw attention to the greed and propaganda that relentlessly pushes products, images and manufactured lives into the primal part of our brains. Six repetitions is often enough to bypass our critical thinking skills so that we think something false is true. Yet these people and corporations cry foul when graffiti reveals the real cost of their words, images and products.
Exit Through the Gift Shop not only exposes ruthless greed, but also graffitists’ sensibility and artistic craft, courage and brilliant social commentary. This film explores both some of the best graffiti and guerilla art waged and why Life Is Beautiful!
Simonova redefines performance and sand art: Enjoy!
“When dogs dream they travel between this world and the other world;
when dogs dream they visit the before life and they visit the afterlife.”
Denis Johnson from “Tree of Smoke”
Elizabeth Oakley Weaver 