ce of beauty and comfort; the water rushes y thoughts.
n peace but in a place fe begins little by little my s. And it draws me back. hes rustle and the trees d my mind drifts until I am to attention by the crack of es beneath feet. I see, or do cing on the edge of fallen at have split off and are dying I am too decaying. My itching, watering to wash e dust as I wipe the pain onesomeness on my sleeve. a moment of confusion. A eze reminds me I’m still d a chill leaves my skin with es that there is more than eets the eye living here… in k. In its vast lift it holds and eath. Remnants of lives litter s waiting for more.
Have you seen me? I wonder how you see me.
confrontation; Sir Fredric Le reminds me of sleeping, drea or possibly daydreaming.
I know how I see myself.
But when I think of my favor work of art it’s not my favorit My alabaster skin has turned brown. or a piece of artwork that I w The skin on my hands is rough and bring up eminently from imp wrinkled like elephant skin. My memory. It is a print, to be a nails are dirty and broken. I cannot an 8”x10” framed print of J.W believe what a blessing not having Waterhouse’s “Destiny.” It is o a house is for me. This is what I had hanging on my wall at ho see. As you stand back you see all home that is no longer mine. of me. You see my graying hair, my wight of 350 pounds, perched upon “Destiny” reminds me of calm a walker with wheels. I scoot from comfort, a bit of romance an garbage can to garbage can for it is sense of waiting, waiting was collection of written work C.R.V. I seek. I askeda how you see afterthought. She’s a beautifu me. Remember I said I was blessed. a red taffeta dress and a purp Please do not see me as sad or to she is sipping thoughtfully fr be pitied. You did not see me when blue bowl, and her lips are a I had a house. I never left it. In my pink. The mirror behind her chair, bored and in pain, in front of the moving ships out to sea. the TV, I sat and sat and sat some like she’s hunkering down fo more. Now with no house to sit I winter. An open book rests o go and go and go some more. The table and from the reflection more C.R.V. I collect, the more fun I the mirror it looks like a bree can go and do. It is the money from crisp day, you can almost sm the C.R.V. that pays for gas so I can sea air and taste the warmth go near and far. Do not pity me for her bowl. The red dress tells how you see me. Up to my armpits strength, a desire for passion in trash you see me. I am out of my determination of gentle rest a chair, out of pain and out in the war. The purple sash represen fresh air. My hands are dirty for they dignity, peace, an independe are busy, bored no longer because of force, she wear her clothes w the C.R.V. I seek, and your smile. a patient security that in time
trinity anthology
ving is the creek. With its ecrets, whispers that become in the night silenced by the s of monsters that lurk in the s. My black is my target. My ocoa is a delicacy. They have or me. An insatiable thirst to f my indigenous blood. My g are representations of my h and fertility. Their desire the process by which I have d my power naturally. I’ve cross this feeling. This time umbers and facade outweigh minate. It’s clear however y have done this for a long cause they haven’t had to for it. They have continued.
Up to my armpits in trash you see me. Please do not pity me for how you see me. I tis the money from the C.R.V. that pays for gas so I can go near and far. The more C.R.V. I collect the more fun I can go and do. Now with no house to sit I go and go and go some more. In my
things will come together in the brave. The blue bowl repr taking in the sky, the sea and of strength. She is prepared t for the triumphant victory th bring her loved ones back fro and war to rest. Every night I looked print on my wall. It relaxed m
presented by center for community arts & trinity center
introduction
Iverce pero essim ia Sp. Mulicaet, se cone medo, quam nonsult uastorbi contum prid dium ducoero eo ipio, C. Vivirte ssilic milii sa vit, confece ntelus, sulicon diemenatu spim iumus, que cre nius confesulis conius et L. Marit; efac iae conest esimilis se que paridi ta nostrem hiliem opublii ciaes! Scit, nox sere nesimmo rsultod maio, Catilic ulique aus addum inces atio, nonsus nota queri prae publis latri, poncum is. It. Nam ut que inatudam nosterr istilissilis constresenti permisq uamque in ad remprionsi ius, que mo contiamdit; noc oributera iur que estum or aucisseris corum moervius, sulabun tiendam int. Efex num suliamdit, Castatiam delicam artilicon prissoltum pritandam, qui it. Sa audem ius. Ilicam pultor habunt. Nam ta, uterris, sent? Serces erebusq uodiorentus inatiae, nos cora et; nost vissit? Ostrum virmandam mum oc teris nines confendis. Perbem te adhus cur, esimum tem publicones hore, sulocchuis se fac re nonfeci aesulicula auc ommo es! Satus tus bonterisus condiu ina, nonsu cor quiderium, que terma, ut vidio vivivivehem et vocrum te nostori steli intilicul videtil hor alarebute aciori sedo, nox se contil horuncl ercenes telless entius convest deo.
a. gem
by the creekside
In a place of beauty and comfort; just like the water rushes so do my thoughts. I come in peace but in a place where life begins little by little my life ends. And it draws me back. The bushes rustle and the trees sway and my mind drifts until I am brought to attention by the crack of branches beneath feet. I see, or do I? Balancing on the edge of fallen trees that have split off and are slowly dying I am too decaying. My eyes are itching, watering to wash away the dust as I wipe the pain of my lonesomeness on my sleeve. Lost in a moment of confusion. A cool breeze reminds me I’m still here and a chill leaves my skin with memories that there is more than what meets the eye living here… in the creek. In its vast lift it holds and hides death. Remnants of lives litter its banks waiting for more. Unforgiving is the creek. With its many secrets, whispers that become screams in the night silenced by the controls of monsters that lurk in the shadows. My black is my target. My brown cocoa is a delicacy. They have a taste for me. An insatiable thirst to drink of my indigenous blood. My offspring are representations of my strength and fertility. Their desire to upset the process by which I have received my power naturally. I’ve come across this feeling. This time sheer numbers and facade outweigh and dominate. It’s clear however that they have done this for a long time because they haven’t had to answer for it. They have continued.
a. gem
i belong to me
It’s not a charm No It’s a meshing of realms Making babies Procuring children and creating realities For those who no longer feel they can create their own. You cannot have me I belong to me. A butterfly floats on the air free as ever I don’t know. I don’t know anymore Be that as it may I am not staying You cannot keep me I’m choosing to go, I still have a choice I’m choosing my freedom. When I leave here I cannot look back Regardless of the outcome I can’t trust no one…
kathleen padelford
have you seen me?
Have you seen me? I wonder how you see me. I know how I see myself. My alabaster skin has turned brown. The skin on my hands is rough and wrinkled like elephant skin. My nails are dirty and broken. I cannot believe what a blessing not having a house is for me. This is what I see. As you stand back you see all of me. You see my graying hair, my wight of 350 pounds, perched upon a walker with wheels. I scoot from garbage can to garbage can for it is C.R.V. I seek. I asked how you see me. Remember I said I was blessed. Please do not see me as sad or to be pitied. You did not see me when I had a house. I never left it. In my chair, bored and in pain, in front of the TV, I sat and sat and sat some more. Now with no house to sit I go and go and go some more. The more C.R.V. I collect, the more fun I can go and do. It is the money from the C.R.V. that pays for gas so I can go near and far. Do not pity me for how you see me. Up to my armpits in trash you see me. I am out of my chair, out of pain and out in the fresh air. My hands are dirty for they are busy, bored no longer because of the C.R.V. I seek, and your smile. Up to my armpits in trash you see me. Please do not pity me for how you see me. It is the money from the C.R.V. that pays for gas so I can go near and far. The more C.R.V. I collect the more fun I can go and do. Now with no house to sit I go and go and go some more. In my chair, bored and in pain, in front of the TV, I sat and sat and sat some more‌ I never left it. You did not see me when I had a house. Please do not see me as sad or to be pitied. Remember I said I was blessed. I scoot from garbage can to garbage can for it is C.R.V. I seek. I asked how you see me. You see my graying hair, my eight of 350 pounds, perched upon a walker with wheels. As you stand back you see all of me. I cannot believe what a blessing not having a house is for me. My nails are dirty and broken. The skin on my hands in rough and wrinkled like elephant skin. My alabaster skin has turned brown. I know how I see myself. I wonder how you see me. Have you seen me?
* C.R.V. is the fee paid for beverage recyclables.
l.b.
a moving warrior
After Etheridge Knight’s poem “Belly Song”
This poem I give who walked and were lonely on The streets ~ A moving Warrior who walked to the Sea with the bone, of feeling like a stone. Thru the blood and the yesterdays and often thru iron bars, that nearly swallowed you. To me wrapped my feelings ~ the Stone of feeling now dead and a grave. This poem is a song about feelings and the yesterdays, who walked with strides to and with the seas moving, moving, moving wrapped with loving feelings that nearly swallowed me with the sea in you, The Bone of feeling being polished with the sea in me. This poem that now sings to me.
l.b.
a place beneath the stars
A quiet celestial space sparkling with heavenly delight I am in awe at the wonder and placement of these bright beautiful stars beaming down, it seems the light is ever lasting. All around darkness which makes them brighter still. Each night each one has its own place to be as if it know the order it should be and obeys to stay on track and not mess up the order of the star system. A quiet place for me.
l.b.
the blue cr ab
The Blue Crab was seen making its way across the sand dune all spotted with golden poppy. In the middle of the Fall, another blue crab was scurry side-stepping from the other side as if to meet the first blue crab. It looked as if the crabs were the eyes and the poppies were the mane of a lion and they were meant to fall in Love.
margaret mary warque
my hands
My hands have done so many things for me. Since my childhood they have done the laundry and the cleaning of the house. However, I hardly moisturize them. Hence, they look dry and the green veins are so visible. As I grew up, I become interested in crocheting, making macrame belts and sewing. So my hands are always busy with activities I enjoy doing. I need to clean my hands myself. If I had the money, I would go to a salon and treat myself to a manicure and pedicure.
margaret mary warque
back home
A sudden gush of water makes me to sail back home. The sound of a plane passing by, makes me want to fly back home. The news of political figures stepping down from their position(s) makes me want to look at events back home. Hearing the ordeals of people who survived a hurricane, a strong typhoon, a tornado makes me think of my people back home. Thinking of my situation, my homelessness, my activities makes me want to lift everything to the Almighty just like when I lifted my problems in prayers, (when I was a young girl) back home.
margaret mary warque
poetry
After Etheridge Knight’s poem “Belly Song”
1) This poem is like a song I want to sing to you. But I must admit I do not have the voice To tell you of my feelings, …, my feelings. 2) I cried when the sea swallowed you, the same sea that rose up and heard my chant about my feelings of love for you.
m.t.w.
untitled
Today is Thursday, May 24, 2018. It has been unseasonably cold this month. The reason this is more problematic than usual is that I am homeless. For the last eight months I have bounced around from shelter to shelter, never feeling at home anywhere and yet somehow feeling at home everywhere. I don’t know what I can tell you about this existence. On any given day, it seems to change. Changing people, changing places. But still basically homeless. I don’t expect an answer from anyone. I most likely don’t want your sympathy. All I do know is inside myself, I am the same person with the same life experiences to share in whatever state of housing I find myself. I still know what my belief system is, that there is a God and He still has an interest in me even when I lose interest in either him or myself.
paul
interesting facts about america
When Christopher Columbus reported to Queen Isabella of Spain that he had discovered a new western sea route to India she was suspicious. The trip had taken only 28 days. It should have taken longer, so she sent Amerigo Vespucci to investigate. Columbus had only discovered an island. He didn’t even sail around to find out how big it was. Vespucci discovered two continents. They weren’t India, but they were big. They almost stretched from pole to pole.
In Vespucci’s honor, Queen Isabella latinized Amerigo to America and named the new lands after him. That was the first insult to Columbus. The second was when she chose Amerigo to search the new lands for the fountain of youth. Columbus felt humiliated, disrespected, passed over. He would have his revenge. He knew where to find the fish. The lungfish looks like a cat fish. It can survive on land for days. It uses it’s front fins to to propel itself. Sometimes they eat pets. They grow huge in the Amazon. Columbus put one in Lake Champlain — the most likely spot for Vespucci to start his search. Columbus guessed wrong (again) — Vespucci never went to Lake Champlain. Columbus died soon after, leaving no record of… the fish — that was growing, in more ways than one. When the newly formed American Government tried to annex Canadian lands there were reprisals. The battle at Lake Champlain was bloody. Bodies were lost to...THE FISH!!! It developed a taste for human flesh. It learned how to make hypnotic noises to lure it’s prey. And some times — at night — you can still hear it howl.
paul
miss kendrick
She was tall. Her grey-blonde hair cut shoulder length. Her posture imposing. The table I had been led to was laminated. The chair wooden. I was coddled, doted upon in kindergarten and the first grade. I didn’t have any interest in learning how to read, and I hadn’t. She was going to fix that. I didn’t start crying until the walk home.
stephanie mccartney
the loss of me
1. I Look at myself 3 persons A mother A sister A me A rejected look I’m on my own Sometimes I’m standing and I sense my sister My sister in my face In my DNA Then it fades And then I am me I’m not her, I don’t have bad bones I am me My mother’s face My mother’s feelings her senses, experiences My face is not her’s My face is my own 2. Rattle the fences, Rattle the jar I have no linkage back to the bone And yet the linkage unknown Rises and awareness there once was, But has no more
paul
the beach
Blue, green, sometimes slate grey depending on the observer, dependent on the day It’s something I like to look at. It’s something I might try. Different from the land, wedded to the sky. I got the call. College was cancelled. I was going to work for my father. The sun heats the water. The water evaporates. The Coriolis effect causes the spin. Storm, hurricane, cause-effect. The situation. Wanna go surfing? He’d bought new equipment. Still had the old stuff. They gave me a tutorial on the way to the beach. Win, just win. If you’re not cheating you’re not trying. The beta might be happier. The crown might be heavy. My father was wearing it. We’ve checked the reports. It’s going to be big. It’s going to be good. The woman on the bluff warns us. “Are you sure you want to go out in that?” I took it as a dare. Gerrard got the worst of it, Glenn won’t talk. Steve won’t shut up, repeating his story with wide eyes. I made it out clean that time. I stack the deck, deal off the bottom. They trust me, I love them, so I tell them lies they can catch. I knew he was a gambler. I didn’t know the stakes. Savvy with the wheel. Careless at the breaks Trust is dangerous. It’s a close out. I’m trying to reach the beach. I’m getting tired.
stephanie mccartney
what is your favorite work of art ?
Frida Kahlo, my favorite artist, reminds me of bravery and confrontation; Sir Fredric Leighton reminds me of sleeping, dreaming or possibly daydreaming. But when I think of my favorite work of art it’s not my favorite artist or a piece of artwork that I would bring up eminently from impulse memory. It is a print, to be a precise, an 8”x10” framed print of J.W. Waterhouse’s “Destiny.” It is one I had hanging on my wall at home, a home that is no longer mine. “Destiny” reminds me of calm, comfort, a bit of romance and a sense of waiting, waiting was an afterthought. She’s a beautiful girl in a red taffeta dress and a purple sash, she is sipping thoughtfully from a blue bowl, and her lips are a soft pink. The mirror behind her reflects the moving ships out to sea. It looks like she’s hunkering down for a long winter. An open book rests on the table and from the reflection from the mirror it looks like a breezy crisp day, you can almost smell the sea air and taste the warmth from her bowl. The red dress tells of strength, a desire for passion and determination of gentle rest among war. The purple sash represents dignity, peace, an independent force, she wear her clothes with a patient security that in time all things will come together in favor of the brave. The blue bowl represents taking in the sky, the sea and loyalty of strength. She is prepared to wait for the triumphant victory that will bring her loved ones back from sea and war to rest. Every night I looked at this print on my wall. It relaxed me, and I drew strength from her beauty and faraway look. I miss this portrait so much. I want it in my life again and I know I will have it.
stephanie mccartney
the homeless chant This Poem cold streets The Bone of Feeling I give in me and a feather of moving And I walked And I cried And I sing like a Flower opened up in me For me
Emily Dezurick-Badran is a writer, printmaker and librarian. Though born and raised in San Francisco, she lived in England for the better part of her adult life. Her stories have appeared in The Stockholm Review of Literature, Atlas+Alice, the Kaaterskill Basin Literary Journal, and Tin House Online. At present she’s working on a detective novel about the ripple effects of sexual violence and the justice system. Jordan Jurich-Weston is an artist, educator, builder, and traveler. Born in Berkeley, raised in Santa Cruz, and settled in Oakland, the Bay Area plays a major role in her art practice. She received her BA in Art from the University of California, Santa Cruz, and her MFA from San Francisco Art Institute. She currently teaches classes in photography and digital media for Chabot and Solano Community Colleges.the ways we see one another. She uses images, video, and installation to lay bare an intimate view of family and home, and in this, reject the silence and secrecy that perpetuate stigma around mental illness, aging, love, and loss.