The following three poems have been written with profound care. They are expressions of my perspective, paintings of my experiences; they are the soft beating of my heart, offered to you in a brief recording. I find myself most poetically stirred when I venture into the woods, to the shoulder of the creek, planting myself in the dirt and facing the sun for strength and touching the water for love. I hope you enjoy my watercolor words, and namaste to all.
(Read parts one, two, three, four, five, six, and seven!)
After breaking several of the Great Slantia’s laws and abandoning a lifetime dedicated to its success by allowing an enemy of the state to kidnap her by boarding a space ship and traveling to a secret rebel base satellite located in the shadow of the moon, Agnes, our formerly unsuspecting retiree protagonist, stood at the door which led to her twin sister, whom she had no idea existed until earlier that day. And she didn’t quite know how she felt about this. Continue reading “I Fuel the Great Machine: Part VIII”
Nobody really teaches you how to be still. They teach you how to crawl, how to walk, run, ride a bike, drive a car, but nobody really teaches you how to be still.
I graduated from college and nothing happened. The stillness felt like failure. They teach you how to run, and then you run. That’s what you do–you’re not supposed to stop. But then I stopped.
Stillness makes people uncomfortable; sometimes, it upsets them. The ant must carry the leaf; the bee must pass the pollen. It was a spring day in May I walked across the stage set up at my university’s football field, the fresh electric scent of bloom tickling my nose. Continue reading “A Year of Stillness”
If I had to tell you the story of how Ned Theodore Ed became the Diplomat of Flowers, I would probably start the story a week or so before it happened, during a time when N.T. was feeling especially blue, and his friend Reid paid him a visit, and a conversation ensued that would somewhat fatefully put a few things in motion. And since we’ve already gotten this far, I may as well just finish it up, yeah?
Nothing beautiful can be done with a gun.
I mean that, too, because I’ve been brainstorming what guns do and time and time again I come back to death and injury. The possibilities keep circling around to atrocity. And so I’m left to feel, achingly, that nothing beautiful can be done with a gun.
Slanted Spines 