I am an Ambidextrous Painter, Scientist, Step-Mother, Lover of Lady’s & their Others. A Whore a Coward, Liar a Judas A Free-dome seeking Teacher of Our collective Futures Made to own Our GrandCestors spaces reinterpretation of Shape, Sound Frequency, re-speculating the birth of WE I am the Word & World created on a stage, page, tone or face Representing, & recreating a state of a Mind, for the race to BE Human. I am Preaching Precious Story’s Mirrors we’re constantly living up to reflecting on, Herstory’s. Infinite iNtelligence too deep to be Respected all to make rhyming come back like when the Last Poets just met When lazy Saturdays meant SMURPH’S Prince had not yet worn their bottomless pants I am UN-comforting white pages turned brilliant With beats on the backs of breakdowns An Ali of mental graphics Shakespeare of word gymnastics To art like butter to fat is No attempt, just doing I.t. ashe
Childhood… for some a gleeful, loving time. For others, endless trauma and despair.
Like childhood, a swing can be a reflection of pure joy, letting a child soar into the sky, believing they can sweep their hand through the fleecy, luminescent clouds. For some children, however, joy is overshadowed by anguish and pain. There is no lasting happiness, only the dark, dripping wet swing mimicking the suffering that marks their daily existence. The swing hangs still, a cold rain dripping despair onto the iron ground.
The joy has vanished like the child who, instead of transforming this scene into a gleeful moment, has been swallowed by the shadowy forest dominating the background.
CONTENT WARNING: This poem references domestic abuse, family trauma, suicide, and mental health, and may be triggering for some readers.
There’s so much about you that I’ll never know I inherited your bloodline and self-contempt Yet I have so little information on who you really were
I remember your gregarious moods, getting the rest of us to laugh uncontrollably I remember your jazz album collection, from Ella Fitzgerald to Buddy Rich I remember your immersion in wine culture, the small vineyard and air-conditioned cellar
But most of all I remember the terror, violence and humiliation You unleashed on your wife and two small daughters Time has given me perspective, but back then I despised you, hatred consuming the young body I inhabited
When Mom broke the news that your dead body had been found I cried tears for Mom, so in her sobbing, she wouldn’t feel alone But I was glad to see you go
Your memorial service embarrassed me, With your friends and colleagues gushing What a good man you were. I thanked them politely, thinking “If they only knew…”
1978, the year you gave up on life, was a long time ago And now my hazy memories feel incomplete There’s so much about you I’ll never know.
Written by Kristin
If you or someone you know is experiencing domestic abuse or suicidal ideation, please check out these resources:
“The Color of Freedom” by Michael J. O’Connell A Soldier’s Perspective on the American Revolution
Over us did break the April sun, warmth penetrating the depths of our cold, miserable existence.
Months have seemed to drift, no rush by like the great Father Time tossing sand into the gale.
The ache in me is still, having rationed our morning meal of biscuits, and, for a fortunate few, dried legumes.
My coat, in disrepair for lack of thread, my boots, endless miles have they tread until neither mind nor body could comprehend.
Wasn’t it just last year, or before when I felt this same shining orb upon my back while nesting the precious harvest into the warm Spring earth?
Time has erased these as well, as the keeper of all things has seen that it is only forward, where the sands still cling to the fragile glass that my mortality lay.
No matter, I keep my mind at ease. For it is more than I, or the thousands with me, for whom I lay down my existence.
And if I grow weak for the cause, or slip it from my mind as the lead surrounds me.
I turn towards that rising sun, and over its brightest hue, least I ever forget, shines the Red, the White, and the Blue.
Copyright 2022 Michael J. O’Connell
From the artist: “I wrote this original poem upon learning that my wife has ancestors who fought in the American Revolutionary war. Having been a soldier, I wanted to express my thoughts and feelings on the sacrifices that they made to give us our own nation and homeland.”
Michael O’Connell is a Path with Art Ambassador and Veteran Participant Artist
Pallet is a social purpose company on a mission to build equal opportunity access to housing and employment. Elevating the voices of people with lived experience with homelessness, recovery, and incarceration is integral to Pallet’s mission. In addition to telling the personal stories of their team and people living in Pallet shelter villages, they aim to raise the voices of system-impacted and marginalized persons everywhere.
We live in tent cities behind nylon walls, huddled in wool blankets in doorways of neglect. We live in secured high-rises casting shadows below, houses flooded with desire, homes gated in fear. We live with slumlords and in public housing too. We live alone in our minds, wandering along pathways edged by open chains.
We work for corporate greed, We dumpster dive for food, We work for non-profits to build a better world, We ask for spare change, sometimes shoot-up to heal a gaping wound. We are honest laborers, the shrunken middle class, We do not ask for handouts, but will reach for a helping hand.
We race upstairs chasing freedom and we lounge on city streets, We stand in long lines at food banks, waiting for leftovers we can’t afford, We walk in parks and shop behind gilded walls. Sometimes we steal in the night, while white collars take in the light to line their coffers gold.
Sometimes life feels darker than the backside of the moon; we watch her catch her breath as she rushes to soften the edges of what we call urban blight. Sometimes we feel the ecstasy of unity, especially on nights like tonight.
We are a city on shifting tectonic plates, frayed at the edges, clothed in attitudes of love and dismay. We are a city of others, separate and near. We are teachers and students alike, but webs twist around our minds, our lives, isolating us from those who look and think more different than we’d like.
We are all here, polarized by red and blue fear. We must break down the walls, Step out of the shadow of Them, Other, They. We must hold our sister’s gaze, grasp our brother’s hand. Link our minds to overcome judgments about what we think is right.
We are all here; the me in them. The drum beat of our city, the heartbeat of Seattle, the energy that makes our diversity vibrate with rhythm that unites.
Art Transforms 