the stolen poem, winter issue version 2

the

stolen poem winter issue

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yolanda mora * stacey l. welsch * john rossi leeza coleman * maggie * robin * mat gould the stolen poem winter issue mystic lady * word.mind *carlos caamiĂąa garcĂ­a

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edited by yolanda mora and susana martinez published by susana martinez please send your comments to jackiemorvic@yahoo.es 4 the stolen poem winter issue

contents

maggie * cover picture yolanda mora * p6 john rossi * p28 leeza coleman * p42 ms.art * p44 mat gould * p48 word.mind * p52 carlos caamiĂąa garcĂ­a * p54 mystic lady * p56 robin * p60 stacey l. welsch * p72 yolanda mora * p92

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all works showcased in the magazine are copyrighted by their authors please write to jackiemorvic@yahoo.es for any further information

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yo l m a nodraa

an interview with

by Robin

Hello again everyone. It is with a particular affinity held within me that I present to you our featured guest. Having had the good fortune to travel to Spain on a few occasions (my sobrinos' were born there) and actually walked and breathed in it’s rich historical significance. Fascinating it was to see the architecture, especially those of the massive cathedrals and museums that are found there, as well as, venturing down several narrow brick layered roads with it’s old world appeal. Just an enriching artistic culture to observe. I’m very excited to introduce you another of Spain's fledging talents, poet and painter Yolanda Mora.

Traveling the cities and smaller towns of Spain I discovered a flourishing local artistic community. Certainly a result of, and influenced by this being the birthplace of world famous artist’s who’s legacies will live on into infinity. As happenstance placed Yolanda’s poetry before me, I was curious to see how closely her expressions reflected those noted influences.

is uniquely her own. As I communicated with her in preparing for this presentation, initially I found her surprisingly modest and yet came away even more intrigued. I share now with you our conversation;

Indeed within her writing I discovered the bold emotions, spontaneity and surrealism. The passion and subtle contrasts of realities that comprise the artistry known as being born from such. However, as it should be, her style

Rory: I'm doing just great

Rory: Hi Yolanda, How are you?

Yolanda: Fine, thank you!! How are you?

Yolanda: You make me smile, he he. I smile easily the stolen poem winter issue 7

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"Yes, I am a bookworm, or I was a bookworm,

daydreaming and all that."

Rory: Well thank you Yolanda. You make me smile too!

Especially when I read your poetry.

Yolanda: ...and thank you for your smile when reading my poems. ha ha, they tend to be so murky... to me.

Rory: You write and you paint. When did you begin to take your art, both writing and painting seriously?

Yolanda: Excuse my English. I use to write and speak in Spanish but poems come in English. Weird!

Rory: Ha ha, your English is just fine. Tell me of the art that resides in you.

Yolanda: I thought i was a writer at 1 4, when I wrote my second novel....ha ha Rory: It appears that you were a writer.. Two novels by the age of 1 4. That’s an impressive accomplishment for such an early age. Tell me of them. What are they about?

Yolanda: (smile) Yes, I am a bookworm, or I was a bookworm, daydreaming and all that.

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"it’s like a fever

and

at 6 in the morning, you have to get up

write down some lines"

The first novel, unfinished, at the age of 11 , was about Egypt and the mystery of the pyramids and a group of teenagers that resolved all the enigmas, just like Enid Blyton.

The second one was about a red-haired teenager named Norma jean, very much like the author Katherine Patterson, you know, I didn’t want to grow up, I wanted to write for children and teenagers, I thought those books were more interesting than books for adults.

Rory: Was it about this time also that you begin writing poetry or did that come sometime later?

Yolanda: Writing poetry is an odd thing, they just come or don’t come to my mind in years, the words, I mean. I always loved English language. I read a lot of poetry and novels, essays in English. I don’t know what to say, it’s like a fever at 6 in the morning, you have to get up and write down some lines or whatever.

Rory: When did the drawing and painting start for you?

Yolanda: At preschool?? Yes! Oh, it’s just an awesome experience! You can release all the stolen poem winter issue 9

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your fantasies, all your demons, genii, and all your thoughts. And the subconscious speaks for you. For me, a painting is like a poem. a vision.

BOOM! Of course there are historic paintings that are entire novels. Velazquez/Tolstoy etc...

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Rory: Interesting the artists you mentioned here. I have visited Madrid a few times. I found that there is quite an artistic community there. Of course this would be, seeing that this is the birthplace of Salvador Dali. It appeared that many local artists were influenced by him and emulated much of his abstract and symbolic painting style.

Were you influenced by Dali

yol a n d a m ora

Yolanda: Oh Dali. I love surrealism, I feel I am influenced by surreal drawings and writing, especially Leonora Carrington and Lorca and Unica Zürn, but Dali, I don’t have anything to say about Dali. Sorry if I hurt your feelings about Dali. I prefer Picasso!!

Rory: Oh no my feelings won't get hurt LOL!!.

That’s what this is about. Learning more about you and for the life of me, how could I have forgotten about him. So what is it about Picasso and the other artist(s) you mentioned that captured your attention.

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" A memory, a trauma, a change in my life all that namely,

trigger Yolanda: Velazquez painting soooo well, effortlessly, apparently. He wanted to be a philosopher maybe? I love LAS HILANDERAS, so sensual, and yes of course, the atmosphere, the air, the colors and that Old God in Decadence. Those silvers and reds and blues. Picasso, another one, one of my "teachers", he always pushing his different styles to the limit!! I learned you must go to the limits in art.

Rory: You’re influences are quite interesting I must admit. When you sit down to write a 1 2 the stolen poem winter issue

piece, what typically has inspired you to do so. Listening to music perhaps or ????

Yolanda: Who knows?? I was thinking right now of the movie THE HOURS, 3 women I suddenly say 3 hours and maybe I start writing. Dreams, they always help me with the subconscious part. ha ha, maybe I am a surrealist woman after all. I let the subconscious flow. A memory, a trauma, namely, a change in my life all that trigger writing. Anxious to know the why of events.

Art is healing, I believe. I started myspacing and posting writings as a need to be listened

yol a n d a m ora

writing" to. I have so many notebooks, writings, drawings Oh, there’s another one of little paintings. I manage 3 notebooks at once right now. Oh, my!!! That’s amazing!!! ha ha ha ha.

I was sick of keeping all that raw material only for myself. And no, I don’t want to see my work published or do more exhibitions. I give my drawings for free now, ha ha. As a gift.

What am I saying? I speak too much!! ha ha Rory: Which leads me to this question. As you are aware, many if not most writers DO want their work published/exhibited. You have just said that you do not and yet you have a need

to be "listened" to. Can you explain this need and how it developed within you.

Yolanda: ohhhhh.... if my work could be exhibited without ME, the person, the artist, the show and all that, I’d be delighted. I hate to appear as the "star", I am talking about the openings of exhibitions I have been invited to. ohhhh It’s a total fight of egos, many artists there.... ego, ego, ego... if I could disappear.

The 2 exhibitions I did at the museum Reina Sofia (I used to work there and all the workers who were artists could exhibit their art in a the stolen poem winter issue 1 3

yol a n d a m ora corridor, near the toilets, oh, so funny, yet depressing). The 2 years I did that THING, to expose my work to the public, oh I blushed, embarrassed and all. I couldn’t believe it.

There is always the need to be listened to, I know, but why the body must be there??

Maybe it’s a wrong feeling. I am shy, but I don’t mean that. I hate show business.

Myspace listens. who knows what will come next? I am a total chaos. a workaholic--- how do you say that, adicta al trabajo? The ego thing, I was there, in the museum, among artists disguised as artists and I didn’t even know what to wear. ha ha ha ha. Pathetic. I am too ambitious. I want everything, I mean, I want to be talented but my body shouldn’t appear. Can you understand anything I have said? oh, my!

Rory: Yes Yolanda I do understand you, absolutely. Apparently the ego that develops in many people troubles you. So let me move away from the arts briefly and ask, what about our global society that gives you the greatest concern or that you have the deepest passion for.

Yolanda: This society needs to love. This society is sooo selfish. I hate wars, obsessions, fanatics, madness, I need more intimacy,but I think the human beings are devilish inside. We are wrongly made, if created by someone or something. I am Christian, but hate religions. I hate madness, sadness. Once I was obsessed with someone, a boyfriend, Myspace helped me so much, I mean, writing here, yes ,I was finally listened to. Someone was there to read my poems or be critic with my ideas. I love arts, they are healing. And I love life, I think it’s wonderful to be alive, even if you are sick or in a war I learned that from my Grandparents, who lived the Spanish war.

They used to say, life is wonderful, wonderful, don’t be so sad! I don’t know if I answer your questions, just letting myself 1 4 the stolen poem winter issue

" if my work could be exhib the person, the artist, the show

I’d be delighted"

yol a n d a m ora go....fly... a little, but hey, I am here, in this world. I apparently look like self-centered, just in order to survive.

Rory: I love your country and have lasting memories from my experiences there. Have you been to the United States and if not is it your desire to do so. Also tell us of one of your favorite places that you have been and why it is so.

Yolanda: Oh, thank you. Yes, I love Spain too. And Madrid, nice sky, pure blue. I will go to the United States one day. To California... or Montana... or Seattle... or..... who knows! I have myspace friends there, very close to me, they are poets, he he. One day. Oh, i need money right now, ha ha. Yet i´m afraid of planes, but I´ve traveled a bit.Tunis, London, France, Portugal and every corner of Spain. I loved Paris, because I wanted to see the Bateau Lavoir, the place where Picasso painted Les Demoiselles d´Avignon.

I am always following the tracks of the artists I admire. I want to go to Austria, Russia. Oh, I want to visit Emily Dickinson’s house!!!!

Rory: Well I do certainly hope you come to visit Seattle one day. Quite beautiful it is here. On your Myspace profile it says Heidi's role playing. What is the significance of that.

me

bited without

"

and all that,

Yolanda: Oh, I’d love to travel to the States but the planes. Heidi is for Heidi Julavits, the "new" American author and role-playing is for her book which I love so much, "The effect of living backwards". I love her writing, her metaphors and her oceanic prose, like waves , like poetry. and she’s beautiful. So she will be more famous one day... ha ha ha. Role playing because I love to photograph and disguise myself a lot. In that book, the characters role-play as the good person, bad person, in a plane, all stereotypes---- say if I my English is ok, oh, my god!

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Rory: ha ha, Your doing just fine with your English.

"master" of the room, the people. We have a million of personalities inside of us don’t you think?

Yolanda: ...as an artist I have to role-play, in this interview as a poet or something. When I go for a walk I am the walker. In the museum where I worked for 3 years I disguised myself with the uniform and I role-played as the watcher, taking care of the paintings, I was the 1 6 the stolen poem winter issue

Rory: Well there are many facets to our being I would say, yes.

Yolanda: We are not only absolute good or bad. there’s a lot of nuances, we are all a little devilish inside.... he he.

yol a n d a m ora

"as an artist I have to

role-play,

in this interview as a poet or something.

When I go for a walk

I am the walker"

Rory: Yolanda this is quite an intriguing conversation and I could continue on indefinitely, but we do still have your poem also to present. I want to thank you for being such a gracious guest, spending time with me and sharing your thoughts . I wish you only the best in all that you do.

2007, after a nervous breakdown. It’s about living on edge, for good or for bad, push ourselves to the limits, living, absorbing life, we must be bold and strong.

Love and I wish you the best too!!!

Yolanda: Thank you so much!! It’s been an interesting conversation. My poem, written in the stolen poem winter issue 1 7

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missing

Me echó mal de ojo- trimestre De larga duración.

Red cardboard Voodoo sexy doll I waste my blonde hair In bad pillows.

The Persian carpet All reds and greens, Wrong retozar allí.

I cut in hexagons the carpet, The mirror recorded all.

I was so old.

En el fotomatón, en las fotos

Perdí mi dinero.

I used her digicam to recover my soul.

He was gone. He left me alone With the photographs. He left me Alone. He did voodoo With my long lost white hairI am missing. Dead, dear, how i miss you(i need you, sister) Hexagonal pieces of textures, wool And dust into the open box 1 8 the stolen poem winter issue

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girl Open box Hexes! Self-centered lizard: Who are these people walking to the sea?

Humans. (i am a human too) He sent me hexes long-term From so far away So many no-ones In hexagonal coffins, or minimal buildingsThe mapboard, reds and greens, he´s here!

(And he comes, how he comes!)

Smash the boxes Or for courier To my dear sister. the stolen poem winter issue 1 9

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i dreamt i I dreamt i was Heidi jayWho wrote this book- so serious? i. i am not that lugubrious i never met bonnie parker she met bonnie parker, you are a genius, dear.

I am funny, gipsy, blonde, that girl.

I am more than 30 years old I am immature i am not immature Strong ego— I hide under the table after Mean, bad, ugly review— I crunch it´s so cold.

The table is square. Out of a root Of birch tree. I am Russian.

The Persian carpet- oh, i make my Own bread, to sell— I dreamt about my past suffering Strong obsession—i couldn´t breathe Breath now. Cold, scary breeze now.

I go out from under the table.

We are married.

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was heidi jay

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And i dreamt, i dreamt About all books, my whole life, Maybe i was dying. I am dying.

Lying, always lies. Can you roleplay A hijacking, Jackie the slut?

And she loves my Books- now.

And she is infatuated with me.

I am trying to get pregnant.

That Russian lady threw the Tea cup to mona lisa Against the protecting glass.

To the gas chamber!

Off with her head!

I´m alice.

Alice out of the table.

I am big. Tall. Blonde and Marilyn.

Are you roleplaying edith or lorina?

Are you ada or ardor?

Are you Katherine Patterson?

Or bonnie dead?

I am not dead, my dear, We are married.

I sell bread and books Second hand bookshot I photoshop books.

That is my life in the cold weather.

Elm trees. And the graveyard.

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Waters. Green, turquoise bathroom My muses evergreen every time I concoct them.

Happiest— I read Bonnie´s love letters I read her poems I roleplay Bonnie Parker I drink pot tea I am healthy— There is a strike but i make more bread I´ll be arrested and shot Rat-tat-tat.

But i don´t have a car.

I don´t have my baby Locked in the car with this heat.

Self-hatred, angst-ridden, table-ridden Happiest— Happiest—i am pregnant of my second girl Aunt, aunt, she looks so much like you.

Turquoise house.

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Sandals, Japanese socks My big toe separate from neighboring I try to befriend my neighbours: Sad, cold, won´t say a word to me.

Pot tea. To paint the house again.

To take care of the baby and the farm.

To take care, dust off the shelves Books, books, books.

Go to the zoo. There is no zoo.

There is nothing in the northern state Near the arctic dark We make our own bread.

We are writers.

We sell out our bodies, Youtube interviews and readings Sell out yourself, husband, my Bonnie, Edith, the sluttest of the three sisters.

I come from east Europe, I come from the light, The tables, the table, Alice´s table I muse, i roll out, Roll to him.

I´m going to write right away.

But i am nor Bonnie Parker.

Who wrote this damn book?

I was 29. I am a woman now.

Yolanda Mora ©2007 Más información: http://blogs.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=blog.view &friendId=202434494&blogId=539454461 #ixzz1 36VBbjEk

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I N M Y O WN WO RD S

John Rossi

I THINK

WHAT GIVES ME BLANKET VALIDITY IN THE arts world

is my lifelong pattern of …in a free creative way …without barriers. reacting to what is around me

This means I think

– without thinking about it much.

The stimuli trumping the too commonly restraintive brain in other words.

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Maybe this is why

‘barriers’

are a common theme in my visual work?

I just have never cared much to belabor activity – or maybe cared is not the word…maybe I’m just lazy and go the creative route of least resistance? While initially studying art history…often common threads on non-correlating works or artists caught my eye.

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j oh n rossi

Paul Klee seemed to sum up everything for me…

to make a long story short…his work was effortless in its execution and playfulness – while aesthetically being brilliant – almost every time.

Vermeer’s use of color and clarity and control…knowing when to stop …the richness and darkness – in one….subdued joy.

Carravaggio – the use of chiarascurro…Mondrian…compositional awareness…Lascaux…what you saw is what it is…no more – no less.

Overall body language translation… beauty of simplytranslating what we don’t instantly see – until it’s revealed…. that is the

Cezanne did this…and Van Gogh and Warhol….

Plus…

The use of red….

The use of surprise…

The use of obvious energy…

Or – as is over said today….just do it.

I was never on a mission – still am not… my list of creative artists I respect is long….

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John Rossi

BIO

b. Youngstown, Ohio USA June 1 5, 1 950 (it was snowing)

F ORM AL E DU CATI ON

The Ohio State University – Columbus fall 1 968 through spring 1 977.

Degrees included BA’s and BFA’s…I hung out until they kicked me out.

Concentration was studio arts but also art history, literature, sociology, etc.

There was no studio I didn’t have the key to.

Ohio University – Athens 1 978/1 980. MFA in multi-disciplined studio arts. I was a painting major – my two shows there were based around installation, printmaking and the written word.

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I had jobs since the age of 1 2 to pay for everything save a student loan or two…

Grad school thank god was free – plus they paid me to teach classes…! While an undergrad at OSU I primarily ran a Levi’s shop at an upscale mall in Columbus. I also became an accomplished waiter of tables and a bartender – both skills that paid off later in life.

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I founded the company ROSSI PASTA while deciding what to do after grad school

– which still is active – sans myself at rossipasta.com. I learned about real life while running the business from 1 981 until 2000 – and to my way of thinking easily earned an MBA, psych and culinary degrees – plus enormous stand-up comedy credits. At our peak we had 30 employees.

In 1 986 I married into two very small kids and then eventually fathered four more – no – there was no plan .

I enjoyed parenting immensely and though chaotic as you can imagine – it became an achievement/experience that highlights my life to this moment.

My youngest are now 1 6 and 1 7.

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The decade of the 2000’s was my ‘brutal’ period

… enough said. But we’ve all survived – except one.

She is highlighted in much of my recent work however – a spirit never dies. I work daily – as you’ll see if you follow me at MYSPACE –

I simply can’t stop my creative energies

…and see very little reason to…it sustains me. I look forward to a full gallery show at THE PARKERSBURG ART CENTER in May of 2011 – and also hope very much to create other formal showing relationships with the emergence of this site.

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You can – if you desire – read my life history (basically) at the MYSPACE blog – it scrolls back to May 2008 – sure – do a few a day – they are very short usually and encompass pretty much of the

gamut of an artist’s life that absolutely does… wing it – much comedy also.

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If you are ever in the Marietta, OH area of our country – my studio is at:

1 04 Front Street Marietta, OH 45750 Directly adjacent to the Lafayette Hotel at the mouth of The Ohio and Muskingum Rivers Hours are by appointment but I’m there most of the time….Marietta is a quaint little town.

Best to you…April One - 201 0

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leeza coleman

leeza coleman All I want to say to ID myself is that I'm a New York City native who is a vegan.

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Hell Hole

From bright sunlight she stumbled and tumbled deep, deep, deep into the old well Abandoned for years, rumor had it that it was the entryway to Hell One minute, she had been alive, heard birds, felt the sun’s heat and talked to friends Was she dead, was a fall into a cold, dark hole indeed the way life ends?

Her big brother was schizophrenic ~ as a child she’d been afraid of him His conversation made no sense and his personality had grown dim She heard him have conversations with individuals she could not see Her fear became hysteria that she would one day be the same as he Could this be what had happened to her on this ordinary sunbright day?

Did DNA step in, as she long feared, and steal her sanity away?

She was overcome by a pure manic thrill of dark anticipation Her head thrown back she laughed wildly as she entered Satan’s ghastly nation No one would ever find her body - and it is interesting to ponder If she died and went to Hell, or madness took her first ~ I shall long wonder Leeza Coleman, 09/201 0

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ms.art

poem 44 thethstolen e sto lenwinter poeissue m winter issue

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th e s totl ehneps oetmolwie n tn e r ip sso u eem winter issue

ms.art

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m a tt g o u l d

m a tt g ou l d

is currently bunkered in on the other side of a mountain in Western North Carolina,U.S.A. He has been delving into the verse for over 20 years, enduring rapture and the rule of a ruined kingdom ever since. He has not read his work to a public forum for ten years, citing ritual and not needing the validation otherwise for his reason. His new book "The Fire Is Breathing On Me" will be available Oct. 29, 201 0...it is his 4th chap. He can be reached via The Luxman Empire on that myspace gig or through Beasley Barrenton at dogonachainpress@yahoo.com-

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who I am

"it was you" they said well I doan nah who they are or who they were or whom they will ever be but it was me and it is me so that will have to be all this ever means-

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ahard wellonkept in the early cold

m a tt g o u l d

with very little to say peer out see one of the cats crossing the road there is enough of it all today suggests to stay up here awhile away from the scampering beasts under a brass sky whittling the season to a blunt end only the litany survives the cock will still crow broom doan move nah stone the wind serves a gesture of the coming conditions I push out a stiff chest then I slightly give in but not so much as to shiver only going back in to put on some sleeves there is a solidarity of sorts an appreciation for the shrewd iron will beating existence into a horny hush50 the stolen poem winter issue

getting our bones tattoed at the boardwalk between the dry creek and the high rise

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everybody wants their own rock-n-roll a ship in the bottle up on the shelf a shoe shine machine under the table look at me doan I look the part everything is tight its so hard to breathe I chew on my teeth and sweat at the knees there are pictures of me in another city up against another wall with a bummed cigarette and tired open eyes singing the songs for pretty things to decide do I look good in black and white or spread out in color with all the dirty others point out to the shore there it is to discover the virgins never were a rite of passage beyond being born come crying into this world full of heart and pain jes to get us a name for the fight we give-

Mat Gould is set to release his fourth chapbook "The Fire is Breathing On Me". the stolen poem winter issue 51

word . m i n d Nac8 debajo de la luna negra, buscando la v8a hac8a la luz de amistades eternales, de mentes brillantes que podrian iluminar las tareas de la vida mas importante que solomente ganar dinero, entre ejemplos de la belleza de la alma, paisanos en la inundaci:n de las posibilidades invisibles, pescadores de las nubes de los tama9os incredibles, pero que se pueden ver en el cielo, por cierto, creaci:nes del tiempo, como las bromas de la historia de seu9os.

Trabaj7 en el Cuerpo de Paz, depues de la asascinaci:n de dictador Trujillo en la Republica Dominicana, y con el gran campi:n de la gente de la tierra, Pancho Botello, en las fincas de Arizona y California, y en las calles de Nueve York con Gloria Cruz Fontanez para la salud de la gente de la China y del Puerto Rico, y se v8 las paredes de Madrid en un ano cuando, cerca de la univers8dad, se aparecen la palabra "libertad!"

El Arte. ?Que es? Espejo de la vida en las fronteras de percepci:n del artista.

Presidente del Concilio de Asuntos Mundiales, Seattle, Washington, USA 1 985-1 988.

Presidente de la Compania Onadime Fabrica de Software Seattle, Washington, USA 1 995-present En el espiritu de la carta suya: ?es bastante profesional? ...es que, ?se puede ser profesional, el arte? ?Segun a las reglas y expectaci:nes de quien?

---quizas, Goya. Si Goya. Para mi. si. Las reglas y expectaci:nes de Goya, si necec8tan algas....

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made up memories, from a good time with friends Lupe Restaurant, Avenue of The Americas and Watts, NYC, Aug 2009 -for Jack and Gloria

Broken English dreamers in the Caravan of Syllables Trucking to the far side of a paragraph, to the epitaph of domineering impositions, to the end of conformity feigning freedom, and on on on con las palabras de pajaros

Making canciones to the Sun -lleno de la esperanza de bailar en la musica del tiempo,

entre nubes y viento-

With fascination a melody from the tuba of desire Thump thump thumping down the Grand Concourse,

Con violinas que cantan del sabor de aguacates, de las brisas de la isla, del agua de azules brillantes, de la pobresa de la gente y las almas lleno de amistad.

Ay Ay ay ay, cantas no llores, on Avenue A, or el Clint:n.

Bajo de la Houston, habia un mundo distinto, ayer , ayer , Egos and ids, beauty and hunger , mixed like the music of time‌

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Carlos CaamiĂąa GarcĂ­a

(M a d ri d , S p a i n , 1 9 6 7 ). d i p l om a d o e n G e og ra fĂ­a e H i stori a e n l a U n i ve rsi d a d Com p l u te n se d e M a d ri d .

I l u stra d or d e i d e a s. p re ci os a con ve n i r.

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mystic lady I am 40, live in North Yorkshire Uk with my husband of many years and 3 gorgeous boys.I love to write poetry & paint for friends & family.Self taught artist and published poet. I believe in acheiving WORLD PEACE,preserving nature, recycling everything! and abolishing global poverty. I sponsor children in the third world and respect all races religions faiths and cultures.Have been In the jewellery trade for many many years. Art, poetry ,religion ,literature,nature are just a few of my hobbies.

Read more: http://www.myspace.com/allthingsmystical#ixzz1 33McuFOI

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You th

& b e a u ty

Youth beauty and determination Shall inherit the earth whilst Bitterness wisdom and regrets shall inherit the graves The little girl She was shunned, Misunderstood An outcome of something That had lost its purpose, So she was neglected, Rejected Ignored, Pushed aside Undervalued

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m y s ti c l a d y

It was as though She wasn’t there They didn’t care.

When no one was looking She was thrown away Cast aside, like a piece of chess How unblessed, Oh but she crawled back slowly But surely Cunning little” she devil” Vengeful Resentful She climbed faster Further Reaching up to the daylight She survived And laughed longest Laughed loudest.

Memories of yesterday Become the Ghosts stories of today.

Desperate

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Oh it’s an opportunity For your youth and originality, When nothing else seems so worthy sell yourself artistically Its limelight and a glitter ball Hear the applause Oh theres nothing to substitute the ovations So loose yourself, abuse yourself, Amuse yourself, prostitute yourself, become someone else for a while Its entertainment, Nothing more Hear the cheers and the roars And stand for your ovations, Appreciations Don’t forget to bow, Your Like the phoenix now To Rise and then only to fall Because He lost control.

m y s ti c l a d y

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ written & copyrighted by Mystic Lady October 201 0

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sta cy l we l ch / tri xy

Diversity is a strong tool to gain any bold intellect.

Both living in so many remarkably different places and eight years of College were golden Stacy was born in Clinton, MO, on additions.

June 25th 1 973. Although she A week after she obtained now lives on the outskirts of Doctorate in Law, a severe wreck Kansas City, she has lived in many her almost States and Cities therein: took her life. She had a 1 7 percent chance to Llano, Texas live, and even less to be in the San Antonio, Texas condition she Denver, Colorado currently is in. She suffered 7 brain Miami, Florida bleeds, Huntington, West Virginia skeletal fractures, spinal fluid leak, Springfield, MO broken Windsor, MO neck, re-broken collar bone, left Hallsville. MO lower back Air Force Base, Illinois broken, pelvis broken and vagina.

Army, Kansas Warrensburg, MO Stacy is a Mother of two children, The specifics are many more Hailey including Renae Welch, age 11 and Cody Women Abuse Shelter Dean Hawken, age 1 6. Suffering issues such as back including moderate Scoliosis, AVN, Kienboch’s, Stacy still excels in living the life given to her.

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stacy l. welch trixy Perceptions change upon greeting death, and Stacy has chosen to focus on Writing and Art rather than Law which is deadly in and of itself. the stolen poem winter issue 73

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Sandals and Sands Sandals mimicking a shoulder

cross freely foreign sands to the Bays of Spain.

Exes, exes, exes, exes,

hexes – all fucking hexes.

Let me touch your flaked tongue with cold fingertips, warmed

in the exfoliated white waters washing over our high hips.

Exes, exes, exes, exes,

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hexes – all fucking hexes.

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For our Pink flaming Fairies – they are our boxes opened,

continuously donating skulls

and six sea dollars for a pence.

Exes, exes, exes, exes,

hexes – all fucking hexes.

Dried within the cobwebs we are truly our hexes

and no one really Victors.

Copyright 2010 Trixy Stacy L. Welch, J.D.

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poem 82 thethstolen e sto lenwinter poeissue m winter issue

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Our Children we would rather play hide and seek with our Cucumber/Porcupine looking dildo dongs to find by their Easter Baskets after The Amen, than see the real nipples of their Mothers’ Beauty that nursed them into this Pornographic World with Subliminal Vaginal Cues dancing and dancing into Oscar’s lid in Sesame Street Alphabets, the titties they will be suppressed under for life.

Father, don’t you think i looks like your dickey doo erect cleaning the toilet paper from Mommies Ass? Yes, I caught you faggot ­ not for liking poo but for the fear you have taught me in being Honest, the World is a World you cannot hide forever or I will learn stupidly how to be your testicles hiding underneath the Clouds of Historical Hooch.

Copyright 2010 Trixy/Stacy L. Welch, J.D.

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Stone

I live Pain wearing its’ fickle Constant Chalk Shadows.

Daily Masks Never have an End in confined configurations.

Why’d you Want More?

What left do I Have to Give?

My Grave will be Our Shadow, the Permanent Post Mask.

My Constant Shadow is Yours’!

No, you can’t throw it away!

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Copyright 201 0 Trixy

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The Black Pearl The Black Pearl....

Your saliva drips down my window Screen Screaming to be caught – just catch me, not in new plastic Disney tea cups, collapsible glass.

The Porcelains from England will soothingly roll me around in your aromatic green recipe writ in Ancient Japanese scrolls where we began.

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The Consumptionists begin quenching thirsts for tomorrow laden with white leaves of Black Pearl between Our teeth.

A Forever was always Impossible, if an Always has been a preference in the inevitably insane Conception of Time the Plausibility of a Yesterday.

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yolanda mora hallow

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wen pictures

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