Motif put out an open call for visual artists and poets to submit work for an experimental new event: Pics & Poets. Artists and poets were randomly paired. Each participant had two weeks to create a new piece inspired by their partner’s original submission. Creativity ensued.
For one night only, the work was displayed at the WaterFire Arts Center alongside painter and AS220 founder Umberto Crenca’s Divine Providence show. The matching artworks and poems hung together, poets read their work aloud, and the audience cast votes for their favorites.
It is our pleasure to present a few of those favorite matches in print. Art inspires poetry. Poetry inspires art.
FAVORITE POEM INSPIRED BY ART
Who is She Glasses of air are heavier in the morning Fuller than the nights before And I’m left to wonder Did it spill upon the earth Across the floor. I’m lying here My body branched in limbs And curls and mirages Becoming more and more aware I’m only as far as my blood rushes. What can you hear Maybe there’s loudness in silence But I can only make out These notes of compliance. I stare into the mirror in front of me And ask, who is she? She is certainly not the bits and pieces I feel so sharply within me. A daughter within parameters A dreamer in life’s brevity A Capricorn clutching her freedom As the tides wash her of sensibilities Who is she? She’s put storm windows on teary eyes Yet it’s the rain inside that floods her vision I’d take the shutters off my skin But only know hammers to lock me in I’m lying here It’s slipped my mind who am I And the mirror offers no suggestions Why am I not made of mountains and rivers Made of earth, sky, and other dimensions Perhaps I was before I woke But now I’m not I stare into the mirror in front of me The world in front of me Who, who, who is she? – Jill Miller
FAVORITE ARTWORK INSPIRED BY POETRY
Resurrection & Revival Falling for you, like I fall for the flowers. Every phase more exquisite than the last; yet they each must come to an end. Do we mourn the darkness of what we don’t understand? Or enjoy the rebirth and beauty .. All which comes from death. There is no better teacher of life than the seasons. - Lindsay Brierly
FAVORITE ART MATCHING POEM
Like Hela Cells if i die mid experimentation working with tuberculosis will I be used like Henerietta Lacks if it’s not written on a document does the brain lose its privacy as if rotted thoughts cannot still be trapped by skull before my body fuses with mother earth will my cells be enslaved by latex gloves pretending to hide white hands will my stem cells proliferate more melanin begin to paint an institution in night help nature create this “Blackface” granting them funds for incorporating my color in their bigger picture watch how useful i can become when my breath is snuffed and my cells begin to divide into diversity/equity/inclusion Do not excavate my organs I do not concede my blobs of tissue to wipe your face clean your tears for a Nobel Prize for tagging my culture as an asterisk I do not grant my unconsented name to be worn as a mask I do not auction my body to be remembered for your science’s immortality let me denature when I die have only the covers of 8th grade science textbooks and the occasional park bench remember me let my discoveries inspire unheard voices before my cells become controversy – Kenny Bradley
FAVORITE POEM MATCHING ART
I am myself, even when I am not When the universe made me, she whispered all her secrets in my ear. She said, You’ll never know you can fall asleep until you close your eyes. I said, I don’t know anything, and I never have. So she asked, what do you wish you knew, then? I wish I could tell you that I haven’t forgotten when we were just kids, and we would crush every bug just to see what color its blood was. Blue. Last night, I drank from a cup that smelled like you. The water was sweet and warm and blood-blue, even when I spat it right out. I told the universe that I think I feel you every time I enter a room, when the first thing I notice is a mirror. It tells me that my body is soft, and that is the best thing about it. She asked, did you know that you don’t always have to be the hero of your story? I said, I don’t know anything, but I am myself, even when I am not. – Rachna Iyer
ART INSPIRED POETS
We Are Here Give me your tired your poor your helplessly addicted your hopeless alcoholics Give me your worn out your broken your mad ones howling at the moon on a Tuesday night downtown Give me your forgotten Give me the truth of the mad American night that the mainstream has thrown away These are my people The true American heroes Methadone messiahs in thrift store finery I want their knowledge and wisdom I want the wisdom of mortified flesh and a soul in agony When the American dream turns its back I will be here To hear your story and lift you up You matter You have value Our society may have failed you but you have not failed your society Take your fear and anxiety, bring it to Main St Take the horror of the real America And throw it in their faces You are not lost You are the REAL You are the ones who make people stop and think Tell me your story Break my heart Knock my dick in the dirt and make me feel I am here for you Whisper my name Let me lift you UP To remind you of who you are You are a force while they are a farce Bring your tears and your fears to the doorstep of power and avarice Bring your rage And I will match it with mine We are here And we are coming for you America - Brian Shovelton
Begin with Me There was no particular reason, No special holiday or season. I just awoke and as I lay, I heard my gentle spirit say, “Please, no routines today. For once, just go a different way. Please...just give us this one day.” Now I’d heard that voice several times before, But I had always chosen to ignore. Responsibilities overruled!!! Too many things to always do. Too many people to answer to. If I wasn’t there, what would they do? But today, for some reason...I don’t even know why, I heard my spirit and finally I obliged. So I called in...with a feeling of dread. “OK. Goodbye,” Is all they said. So I responded, “OK,” And I went ahead. No real plans. Just headed out. I walked around and ventured about. A cup of coffee with a fancy name. A long walk down that pretty lane. Bought a scarf I didn’t need. It was green...and nice, indeed. I tossed it on and moved along, Then started humming some old song. I didn’t even know the name. ‘Just popped itself into my brain. And I must have hummed for quite a while ‘Cause people looked at me and smiled. Now usually, I am quite shy. But today...I smiled back and then waved, “Hi.” I walked along my little stroll, Loosening typical self-control. I embraced all that I saw in this world, Like I hadn’t done since I was a girl. Yes, I took it in and absorbed it all And by the time that dark began to fall, I knew that something had to give If I was truly going to live, And love, and laugh, and lift my heart. And today -- today would finally be the start. Then I stopped for a moment and I thought: When did we become so overwrought? Who said to have success that we should Make stressful ways our greater good? Am I keeping up? Am I doing okay? Why do we live By what others say? ‘Cause it’s a race. Until we die So shut up. Don’t think. Do not ask, “Why?” We’ve responsibilities, okay, yes. We have our jobs and days of stress. And things and stuf to all sort out That pressure us so, and leave us in doubt. We’ve got to do them, yes I see… But today it became quite clear to me: You see, my spirit, she made me listen today To what, for so long, she’d been trying to say. But sometimes my head is too darned hard, And I find it difficult to lower my guard.
I just couldn’t be “Supershe” for this 24. I needed something, just a little bit more. I needed time. I needed air. I needed to just...just be here. With no clocking in and no deadlines. I needed to simply clear my mind. She said: “Take care of what you have to, Dear But when I speak, please stop and hear. When I’m telling you to take a break, Just listen please, for goodness’ sake. Yes, live responsibly and keep your word. Don’t let your duties go deferred. Just make it a point to let in the joy. Because you are worthy...you are ROYAL!!! You’re not in this world to only pass a test, To be filled with worries or consumed in stress. And Darling...never forget...that you are truly so very blessed. And remember, you have the power to be The face of peace that others see.” And so I heard, And I cherished each word, And by nightfall, I had embraced it all. And tomorrow, I will step back into “my role,” But...I think I will do so with a bit more soul. I’ll take a break and maybe even a walk. I’ll stop by someone’s desk to talk. I’ll remember to smile a wee bit more, Because life needn’t be such an awful bore. I can crack my day open and make it more bright And be that someone who adds a little more light To the gloomy, moody, draggy day, Because it doesn’t need to be that way. Amongst all of the noise and the deadlines and the chatter, I can remind those I am with that they matter. We’re not just a bunch who gather for eight hours To simply perform duties and to be devoured By rules and demands by those who hold power. And I say, “Thank you, my spirit, for making me see That the goodness you gave is not only for me. If I take care of me, I can appreciate others, And be kinder and gentler to my sisters and brothers. Spirit...now I can say that I see your plan. I get it now...I understand. If I want more joy to be felt, and heard, and seen. I must always first, begin with me.” - Clarisse Annette Brooks
Sick I'm sick no jokes, pay attention closely, Sick and lonely no one to hold me Boldly she told me I was her one and only I'm so sick of these lies because she's f*kin Anthony I'm sick of fake friends who never promote me I'm sick of being talented, even my family doubt me I'm sick of the sh!t radio stations play mostly If a never social media, you woulda never hear about me I'm still in a cold dark world, sickened how my life nah sparkle I'm sick of crying tears with no one to talk to Ajani hears me grumbling inna de bathroom, askin "daddy who and you a argue?" "I'm just sick of being broke son, can't do wah me waan do." I'm sick of fake foods and fake medications I'm sick of fake news, fake information Some sick and confused with fake education Amaziyah The Great views? We are living among a sick generation. - Craig "Amaziyah The Great" Kirkland
Mountaineers Attacked By Bears It was an awfully cold day Up in the mountains With that mean sort of wind That wicks cusses from a gentleman When the river freezes over And cedars start shivering And nothing’s happening Except for time-wasting At the mountaineers’ cabin Benny and Bobby And toothless Billy Joe Benny is the tall one Bobby, round and low Gathered by the lantern And a smoking woodstove Retelling the same stories In gruff, bearded baritones Bobby said to Benny “This log is nearly through Go out and get another Before my toes get blue” With a grumble and a mumble Benny left to go outside Leaving door ajar A feeble act of pride Beef stew and whiskey Was thick in the air Unknowingly To Billy Joe and Bobby Had roused a cave-full of bears In the dim lit cabin With a stupor thick as molasses The mountaineers remained oblivious To a hairy trio, most carnivorous It was only when Benny Returned from outside
That he realized his two friends Had grown into five Panic ensued But Mountaineers don’t run They have painful gout And ash-ridden lungs Billy Joe grabbed the poker And Benny clutched a shovel Bobby made the bold decision To sock one in the muzzle The cabin shook The lantern lost its light And the bellows of beast Rang out into the night The mountaineers awoke at dawn With no memory of before But found the cabin in disarray It all strewn on the floor Billy Joe still had no teeth And Bobby was still wide Benny had some cuts and bruises But couldn’t think of why It’s a shame they don’t remember ‘Cause what a story to share! Between the booze And rotten beef stew “Mountaineers attacked by bears” - Jill Miller
Ode To Harrison Bergeron Emperor and Empress defying gravity Read to me for the first time In a dusty shaded room Raspy English teacher timbre I was the only one who heard your story Harrison Thor and a Ballerina A story told a story written Dancing dancing The most beautiful idea Of Rebellion towards strength and Beauty Rebellion ended like they often do from The barrel of a gun Who knows what kind of Empire Would you have built with our Empress Perhaps the idea itself was the most beautiful Perhaps you shined in those moments you escaped The pull of earth Gravity defied to embrace the self You'll dance forever to me Harrison - themantheycalljohnnythreefreebeers
Fall Fall is where things go to die Little sentimental things like A favorite piece of jewelry Timed turned green And memories stayed Even though you let go of the piece Cutting edge Clarity see Right through me Into the colorful inside Value my worth Weight in per carat Or simply put Places where you go With a broken heart To bury the pieces Or where you go to Break a heart But cant stand to bury the pieces Bitter pumpkin orange squashed Slices of life cut into sections Pie Follow the math The logic cant be flawed Unless You plus me Dont equal anything at all Maybe just couldnt get enough Oxygen into the situation to breathe Or maybe couldnt shine bright enough To see Or maybe jealousy got the best of me Greed Or maybe Fall is just simply where things go to die
We bury the hatchet Put the past behind us Get stabbed in the back From a ghost in our past And Wonder why winter is wet With lights, pure, innocent Dazzling to look at Distract from all those dead things Yet to be dug up Those dead things to be celebrated Moved on from And eventually heal Time is this cruel unforgivable beauty Always falling forward Sometimes high noon Sometimes you hit ground And dont know how to get up Just laying still Remembering Fall is where things go to die - Mr. Orange Live
Glad To Be Black (2021) I'm glad to be black And Indian, too, in fact. That's how I feel About being real. Born in Woonsocket, Blessings came knocking. But it wasn't until I was grown, And who would have known? I taught myself how to read at three And started writing with glee. My black hair was pretty and long. My passion for life was strong. When I got older, And at the time, some folks got colder. An autism advocate as black skin Made me the young woman within. Jealousy occurred because of me Knowing so many things. Especially information and languages. Those people didn't understand What to me, God has given. And there's some who still don't now. That's kind of foul. But oh well. With God's help, I'll excel.
I might be viewed as rude When I'm actually being true. I might be viewed as ignorant When I'm actually being confident. I might be viewed as a harasser When I'm really telling the truth after. As a black woman with a disability, With people, I want tranquility. I want respect like everyone else. When need be, I'll ask for help. I'm going to stay true to myself And nobody else. There are people who say they love me. But in reality, in the corner, they shove me. Smiling in my face one day But then they turn the other way. As someone who is unapologetically black, I don't like that. I believe in the power of unity, And I need to focus on those who are nice to me. I'm glad to be who I am in God's eyes. With my writing, who knows what the future lies? - Ondrea Robinson
When I Hold the Mic When I hold the mic oh how it excites my soul I need it, I need it to let go the release in me comes from so deep nothing and no one can tame the beast the beast that unleashes When I hold the mic it’s like my body is there and my spirit is watching I’m floating nothing holding me back I can’t stop as the words seep out my mouth, my heart beats rapidly no thinking it’s just my mic and me When I hold the mic I’m paralyzed I can’t move the vibe the energy it takes control the music begins to evoke my soul I let go No one knows the power I hold the dark the good, the bad, the ugly the light who am I what is me begins to release the beast When I hold the mic - Othannah Tomasina
I Am. I? Am. I? Am. I? Am. For Victoria Lucas, pen name to Sylvia Plath It was a queer, sultry summer, the summer they convicted Derek Chauvin, and I didn’t know what I was doing in Ann Arbor. I’ve never worked hard, not for a day in my life, but that June I convinced myself I was doing research and sat in coffee shops listening to conversations. I didn’t write about them afterwards, but I did wipe my kitchen counters just the way my mother used to. A nice old man from the dollar store followed me all the way home, and I swallowed my knuckles, calloused and stained with pepper spray, and then I dreamed I was on the counter in a yellow tank top gently licking his paws. We are not so different, you and I. We take what our mothers gave us, leave it with our sons and daughters. I never asked to be a golden lotus amidst fierce flames, and I don’t think you did either. - Rachna Iyer
Cemetery Dreams
My mother dreamed of being laid to rest in a cemetery of green
with paths of stone and birdsongs across centuries
These cemetery dreams included plots for me and my husband
to rest beside her in our time for eternity
She would say, “There is no God”
Yet these cemetery dreams made her glad and hopeful
to face death with courage, know love will endure
fill her empty spaces with an aroma of freshness
a touch of summer’s breeze
under the calm shade of tree canopies
After a life of exhaustion, in her older years
She moved from a dark apartment caked with dust
in a city built of cold concrete
To be near us and our sprouting sons
where lush trees danced outside her windows
she could sit in the sunrays that lit her newspaper
which she devoured every day with joy
For a while she loved a man
his charm and sparkle obscuring unkept promises
She tried to love herself but could only see ugliness in the mirror
Took diet pills to eradicate swaths of her belly and arms
an attempt to make shrinkage the cure to her depression
Having babies gave her purpose
To protect and love them as she had not experienced
So began her journey towards love and generosity
like a flower that buds between cement slabs
where it is least expected to grow
Recalling her early years
that single orange in the ice-box there to feed a family for a week
Those lonely subway rides as a teen
when she would daydream about a time she would want to live
not feel the empty inside her body hollowed out
The angry mother who made her wash each tile of their floor
with a toothbrush, still called her dirty and fat
The mean older sister who hovered over her, an Ice-Queen
casting a shadow so dark it blinded others in her wake
Trees calmed her
their majestic branches and green leaf songs
soft vibrant white cherry blossoms, the texture of her cheeks
Seeking refuge from a childhood of being unloved
- Sandra Levy
In response to Mark Binder’s “Do you drink coffee?”
POEMS INSPIRED BY ART
Shared Space
Welcome! come in complete me.
Color me in find the right number that will guide you through this canvas of who
I am and what I want to be, through my eyes you will see and create a recreation in unity.
Color by numbers 1 blue 22 yellow,
Sit on the couch soak in the space
create, let this be therapy
don’t want to overthink should we use markers, crayons or paint.
Come come closer sit lets snug and make a masterpiece created with love
help me add to this canvas 1 plus 1 makes the perfect 2
red and white makes pink the color of love when cold turns blue.
Color by numbers stay in the lines don’t hide or deny this strange feeling inside
when you stroke I stroke Boom Shaka laka no smoking in the room
with every stroke there’s smoke as we move together, boom!
The clock strikes 2 yellow and blue make green guide me 55 brown orange 43, fill in my space.
Color me in stay within the lines pretty pretty picture tells no lies
Only the story through your eyes and mine
Poetry and Art become one , align
come in and share with me your side.
Complete me
- Othannah Tomasina
Remember I can see the future All possible futures Just as I can see the past All in the blink of an eye I am the hub With spokes that radiate outwards Supporting the wheel That turns for humanity From now and then To here and when The breath of the universe Will slow yet never stop Taking the time To revel in its grandeur And divinity Do not waste time Looking for answers Within the ruins of yourself The answers are already there Within and without In this and all times Let emotion temper the intellect And be the light That guides the wheel As it turns for us all Remember who you are - Brian Shovelton
Reflecting Pool Midnight gymnast Scampering off into the woods With a jump, skip, hop Entertain the thought That maybe I’ve been wrong All along That maybe the end Really is the beginning That for now I am temporary And with everything reaching inwards What once terrified me I now keep close (because) Maybe the end Doesn’t have to be (You’d make me smile And then everything would be okay again) Walk this path It makes me think of you Sit in this spot It makes me think of you Listen to the breeze It speaks of you And things start to look Beautiful again - Katie Rejto
From Flowers From flowers, come dresses From flax and cotton To make thread and linen To sew with a needle From flowers, come fruits From blossoms to peaches To make pie To eat with a knife From flowers, come drugs From opium poppies To make morphine To shoot with a needle Women come From flowers Too - Brydon Conti
What Fireball Does As The Devil This is what Fireball does as The Devil. It's an alcoholic drink that makes you think Like everything's in a hot uproar and burns. Cinnamon Whiskey with a twist of fire Causes people to tell the truth about What they really think of others. Fireball burns into the mouth, And it's really, really, really a deep burn That can't be shaken off for a few days. The Devil comes out of you by saying You're responsible for all the wrong happening. Many people choose to drink this to Shove their problems away and act like Everything is okay. But I'm here to tell you that drinking Fireball Makes you see red, and the Devil will not Want you to get ahead. - Ondrea Robinson
my life is a black and white t.v screen a series of channels cradled by the hypnotic laughter of static, my blanket the trumpets horn of denied things I choke down ambitions, shards popping in my stomach— the long flash of orange filament illuminates oceans blue beyond the glass womb I make a deal with the white man and fall out of palm trees, into lush pools of suits where I was promised color, in exchange for dreams the new pictures are fake to touch, like christmas trees it looks like I am free but they just painted over me - Mara Hagen
Art Teacher Tuesday As my mind recaps on the experience, I told Motif my day start great. The morning was cold, I'm running late. Glanced at the time, few minutes past eight. I grabbed Dunkin Donuts and hot chocolate, Even though I was approaching class late. Art Teacher Tuesday was like fun in the sun, Painting pictures with my classmates. This is relaxing, somewhat soothing to my past heartbreak. Soft acrylic on my heart's canvas, Satisfying to my heart's space. Melanie Ducharme helped us to apply colors of love, It's quite lovely what we make art creates I told Dana it's exciting, reciting poetry in an art space, While painting, It's entertaining. It's breathtaking how we make art great. But what makes it even greater as creator, The combination of colors that grabs your attention, transforming your mind, in a calm state. - Craig A. Kirkland
Golden Goddess & The Rising Sun Protector of the Heavens Angel on Earth Capable of moving mountains For all that it’s worth The God of War sent the sign It was golden hour, her time to shine She descended to his defense This one last time Thunder began to crackle Lightening is released She doesn’t have to say a word The rumbles let her speak With that golden arrow Twin flames ignite Welcoming the rising sun & saying goodbye to the night - Lindsay Brierly
A WOMAN’S JOURNEY THROUGH GRIEF HANDS DANCE IN SEARCH OF SELF Marrow of my palms bathe enchanted in midnight air no longer beseeching the moon to open her kind eyes finger beds rested_revive dance with grace and wisdom my hands no longer shackled my grief a landscape traveled feather fingers nimble finding love anew losing you a time ago as a dancing child swan i awake a woman who remembers beckoning laughter to begin again wrists touching splayed open holding time in my grip raising spirits with rising palms quenching grief’s great thirst unleashing love’s waterfalls dragon fire fingertips melting glaciers somber resonance resisting capture sensual soliloquy of desire_urgent gestures creating language Needing to speak to know myself wanting to be free as a bird is free beyond tragedies of fractured cities i cannot tell if i am dancing in courage or desperation to survive a music box caught in my knuckles swallowing my pain playing its tune wishing movement will heal me my star born constellations shining jewels hoping to be seen for my radiance performing a song of windswept leaves ablaze - Sandra Levy
Masquerade We are feeling ourselves like a masquerade when the party ends we return to our ugly reflections but it doesnt matter because i want to make love to your mind the way a grenade makes love consuming everything with it including life and thought I will know you as intimately as a coupled secret between breast I want to make love to you till your speaking in an unknown dialect recanting and chanting our future They will hire your screams command it be their voice in their misery making wishes like Disney blowing candles four leaf clover and melt away into fantasy that they have what you have and what you have is Juliet’s poison the conduit to our eternal love A nevermore midnight dreary where the raven tortures their war plucks there jealously out from its beak what they dont know is the misery that follows after it's all said and done and we made a mess of our nature hidden our morals in full view shame proclaims itself mighty (but this too shall pass) and we lay there, attached to the bed of problems (same book different page) breaking silence -but at least we have each other.(we spit acid) we recall memories as if we were old (she was a snake) we just hold each other like the past we never let go of or the mistake we cant forgive ourselves for we hold on because we know love will walk out that door as soon as we let go. we dont believe in things that might return we see all the signs life puts up reminding us what we are missing but we are just lost in each others feelings dancing in each others melody until the masks fall off until the parade ends until they refer to us by two name but one personification Heartbreak! - Mr. Orange Live
Ode to Sometimes I be Introvert by Little Simz I am two worlds apart, orbiting myself at a pen's length. One of me is a dense body, expected to pull masses, when my craftsmanship decides to escape my notes app gravitational pull, spew rocks, debris, ozone gasses, everything must be toxic into the microphone, let an audience get high off my fault lines. Become a “star” illuminate my public persona. The poet of me is “extrovert” studied like solar system. Has astronauts walk my craters, dive into all my past rubble, have my life be unearthed, so scientists understand my dusty ashes, since that is what is expected when a tongue plays with static, a room braces for you to be electrifying, wants every life story before you know their names. This poem is how writing has let others think they can probe my soul, dig my roots and control me, that I am the same set of cells, on and off a stage, how I am measured only, in how much my plight can give an applause and be showered in your “validation” But, One of me hides the fact that my craters hold water. No one has seen me cry. No one has seen me stare at my own reflection in the puddle. See… Sometimes I be Introvert How my mental capacity is a suitcase at the end of a road trip, it has added one more piece of dirty laundry and still expected to not buckle and find its way home. How this poem, is to the therapist that does not know me yet. How this poem is to the dead homies I’m afraid to visit the graveyard of old conversations. How this poem is to feeling like a ziplock bag, translucency does not mean I want to have my contents traversed. How it's easier to open up About opening up. How most days I want to be Pluto. Existing, large enough to be remembered, but not letting my privacy revolve around you. - Kenny Bradley
Thresholds...on the move Upward reaching inspirited fingers eager to weave fluid heart songs of tethered pulsing decay feathered in neverending flight Crossroads abound here Songs of tender entanglements reaching, spinning dendritic tapestries of death and lifeforce Threads in a dance of unraveling interwoven uncertainty blessed are we Blessed are we integrating birdsong into ancestral bodies primed for the keening...may we crumble and cry together Singing forever into rupture into cracks and voids ripe with the imaginative tendrils of myth What story is this, my beloved? What trinity of hand, heart, flight? Land, sea, sky? What liminal spell has been exposed here... Land learning hands to dig into dirt and drop into muddied histories of Oceanic hearts engorged, salty, ebbing and flowing pulsating and churning up into moon into Mist, swirling through sky towards unknown infinite eternity My beloved, this... is a lost love letter of not knowing A prayer to the blackness An invitation to be birthed there in the dark and blossom into blurry unfurling bodies boundless, porous As tides—ripe to disrupt the story seeping in fields of mystery Blessed, blessed be. - Emma Malbon
My Multicolor Self What if I found shoes to match my long red beard? Or should that be a beard to match my shoes? Perhaps, you can take a good look at me So that you can then help me choose? I think that because my beard came first That this is what should lead I bought the shoes long after So I’ll list them next, you see. Now for my face and arms, There is no cause to be confused They remind me of the lovely sky Because they are bright blue. Now I mix and match my shirt and pants To add some variation I buy tons and tons of each of them So that there will be no duplication. Now my only matters are my cheeks and nose They do their own thing on my head My nose is such a deep dark blue And my cheeks have a splotch of red Most people are just one color To me that is quite a bore. I love my multicolor-self I am so fit to be adored. - Clarise Annette Brooks
Get Out While You Can Is it kooky to fear the cucuy? Under the mattress, nothing is there Or is there? Is the fear that blossoms with the thought of getting out of bed Real? Or just a thought? The shearing teeth of sidelong looks. The glowing eyes of disapproval. Distraught, Destructive, Disappointed. Real? Imagined? Lurking beneath you or imagined before you. Maybe only the bed really knows Contemplate exposing an ankle to its capricious maw, that thing beneath the bed. Leaving the nestling snug comfort of safe covers. Or contemplate exposing much more than an ankle. How would that end? A baleful bloodbath beckons. The talons of tomorrow may eviscerate Or evaporate as reality collides with imagination. Collides with the unknown. With hate, anger or distrust. Will it pounce? Maybe only the bed knows for sure. The demons beneath will not slay openly. They lurk within errant glances. Whispered assessments. The hot breath of innuendo. Detractors in the dark. Nesoxochi summons shadows that ask you whether they exist. Ask the bed, but Only the sleeper knows for sure. - Mike Ryan
