Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.
The Looking Glass
I thought life was made of stones, When they said it is hard, I thought life was a king, When they said it is cruel, I thought life was a dream,
#Type #Scroll #Click #Repeat
Thinking of my childhood, I get lost in my thoughts, Browsing the social media posts, try to connect the dots. To the times when I got up and rushed to mom for a hug,
Old Songs on NW 8th Street
Old yellows and new blues felt so rhythmic against the starkness of I 95 I could feel it in my spirit, I sensed old souls and new lives
It is a sacred act to create. You and I know this intuitively. It is inexplicable. And we must tend to daily for if not, it will wilt.
Horizontal horizons looking at myself in the sky climbing divine director the cuts are biast I had to learn to see the bigger picture
When I was young, my mother had a pair of metal scissors until she got a taste of those bright orange-handled Fiskars.
How I stop time
There is one invariable fact of life. It is the pressure point of the busy and auspicious, the fleeting moment of the young and the uncertain reach of the elderly, the hopeless desire to rewind after the expected but reluctant goodbyes, and the promising gaze into the new and the possible. The one consistent universal experience we all share; the unstoppable passage of time. As people do, we all try to find our own little ways to move and manipulate time to suit our desires and our disciplines. Teenagers act like they know it all already to combat the feeling of uncertainty the uncomfortable part of life hoists upon them. New parents filling camera rolls to the brim with milestones and monthiversaries, hoping that the more memories they make, the longer they get to avoid the phrase “they grow up so fast”. Spending as much time as possible with those who may be leaving, in multiple senses of the word, holding tightly to the belief that the more seconds you make count, the less regrets you will have by the end. Or else simply watching day to day as a bouquet of freshly cut flowers, once bright and fragrant and full of presence, slowly dull and droop within their stagnant vase, serving as a self-inflicted reminder of that one universal truth. However, we humans are crafty creatures. Although we can never stop the passage of time, we are driven enough to discover creative ways around it. Myself included.
Trust Your Hand
Do he sing to Cupid, when in need of love? Or does he reach out to Heaven, praying for a gentle dove? When his heart leaps at the sight of thee,
Butterfly Guard’s Epic
Designing; alcoholic smells of markers, eraser shavings, and vibrant mistakes that fill up the page. The negative space is overcome by the beauty of her runway dress, his ‘40s suit, their foreign lives. The person on the page is luxurious, something most of us will never come to understand. They will never see the people who create them. Their hardworking hands that always seem calloused and shedding on the tips of their creative fingers. Their brain overworked and tired after a long day of work. For a high school student, artistry is not a priority, they’ve been conditioned by rulers and degrees. Homework and tests at the forefront of their mind cloud the sequin and dress forms. The future —salary— is always on the line. But for a brief moment, the seventeen year old student leads a life without money or borders, at one with her dreams and culture. The girl sees herself in a world where she is liberated from the people who hold her back, her physical limitations. Her feeling, unexplainable, maybe even controversial, forms a textile, unique and unaffordable. For once she will have something for herself, in her own world. She creates a portal to her new world through her sketchbook. Figures made in her image look alien, the contorted fabric that drapes on them defies what reality allows. Each design femine, expensive, and simple. Dozens of portals, a never ending list. She can’t possibly fit all her worlds into one book. The designer must now decide for herself which portals she opens. She sets her eye on the butterfly. She rarely embroiders, but she has already reached summer, and her closet is destitute of the wind only the monarch can bring. She opens the portal that it guards, and is suprised by the music. As she longs to create, she starts to listen to it; the energy, the fairytale, the guitar she has only heard in the butterfly’s fourth song. The voice is feminine and powerful. She feels the soft, textured linen and lays it flat against the floor. Gravity bruises her knees whenever she asks it to help her to the ground. There, where she lost her tomato pincushion for the fifth time that day, she continues her pattern drafting until the moon appears in the left window. The next morning, she cuts with dull blades, smelling the tiny frayed threads that match her fingers. She sews and sews to create two pieces of the same beige song. The sewing machine can only take so much, she convinces it to work with each seam. They look and feel as if she wrapped herself tightly in a blanket of summer weeds. She could show off her creation now with a walk to the park with her beloved now, just a few minutes away. Hopes high as she puts her converse on. Even though most are tucked away in their cocoons, she wishes all would look her way. Her beloved and her would bask in the sun as they smell the grass and asphalt. But that walk would have to wait for the butterfly’s approval. It would not let her leave until her mark was placed on her chest, engraved so well that not even the washing machine could tear them apart. After a couple days, the girl sees that the butterfly added it’s wings to the bodice so she could walk freely to gather eyes as she walked up the hill. She honors each thread that pulls her body in a close embrace, forgetting about the flies and spiders that once bothered her as she made this trip to the park. All she hears is the music of the butterfly, playing its eleven songs in her ear. She no longer needs to enter this world through a page. She no longer needs to ask permission of the butterfly to hear it’s music. She no longer needs to measure her time so she can come back to reality. While she wears the dress she embodies the world, she can wonder and roam within its environment. Time is not a bother to her anymore. After weeks of planning, cutting, and creating, one portal is closed as she hangs her outfit in the right side of the closet. The memories of wiping blood off of her pricked thumb and the smell of the linen split between the scissor blades will remain in each stitch as she ages and moves along.
Poetic Letters to Self: A Healing Process
"i dream of flying" i DREAM OF FLYING being FREE AND NO LONGER a PRISONER INSIDE MY MIND the WAY MY DAD IS. i DREAM OF BEING ONE WITH THE WIND,
The Anticipation Preparation
…Mug goes back in the kitchen... …pens back in the drawer… …work laptop off the desk… …papers get stacked together, I’ll sort them out later,
The Cut-up Poem
WRITING A CENTO Writing is my passion, my craft, my life, my hobby, my career, and so on. It constantly supplies me with love, happiness, and overwhelming stress (do any of your loves and passions not stress you out?). The best part about writing is the challenging intensity that comes with constantly creating new art and life through words.