Poetry

Lost Friends

Being a part of Path with Art for so long
People coming and going
Some staying, like me
Friends
Many, many friends
But what about those friends who drift away?
Remember Eric?
Where is Eric?
Blind
A nice guy
Young
A gentleman
Where is Owen?
A professional dumpster diver
I loved learning
about that underground culture from him
He narrated the first ever podcast
created by Path with Art students
I ask JJ
“I’ve reached out to him with no luck. I haven’t heard from him in more than a year.”
How is Adam?
Now married
Busy, busy, busy
I am sure
Where is Sol?
Canada?
How is Andrew doing?
San Francisco Giants fan
Bay Area aficionado
Where is Ruanda?
She is dead
For months I did not know
I ask Holly one day about her
Holly shares the sad, bad news
We never did go to the Seattle Aquarium
Made plans
Interrupted by life — and death
Cancer took her
I discover this poem by her

Worthless.
I know the feeling in worthlessness.
And find it hard to describe because
I’ve swum in the sea of worthlessness.

Thank God someone has been documenting this
The lives of ordinary people
Often forgotten and neglected

Poetry

Unfinished Objects

Title: Flower Center — This is an example of an unfinished object that I have in my collection. I experimented with fluorite beads and copper wire to make a flower center. I still need to create the petals. The numerous unfinished objects in my room inspired me to write a poem.
Flower Center

This is an example of an unfinished object that I have in my collection. I experimented with fluorite beads and copper wire to make a flower center. I still need to create the petals. The numerous unfinished objects in my room inspired me to write a poem.

The following poem captures a moment in my life when I felt a great deal of confusion. This confusion spilled over into my artwork. I created collages and doodles that lacked focus. I had trouble finishing my projects.

Unfinished Objects
by Tara

Royal blue scraps of felt, periwinkle blue Strips of ribbon,
Meandering trails of tiny triangular mirrors…
Alyssa loses the composition, trapped In tangled emotion.

She mourns the connection, tossed like a needle Into the ocean.
Her thought’s thread, thin like hair, snaps and disappears.
She loses her motivation, caught in tangled emotion.

Royal blue scraps of felt, periwinkle blue Strips of ribbon
Tumble to the ground as she tries to explain what Went wrong in tears,
While playing with the thread of an unfinished object,
From a collection vast as the ocean.

The boxes spill and flood over in slow motion.
The beads vibrate on the floor, their sound waves Are caught in the shattering of mirrors.
Alyssa loses some unformed objects, trapped in swirling emotion.

Royal blue scraps of felt, periwinkle blue Strips of ribbon
Swirl back together in piles, their ripples disappear.
She kneels and gathers them together In a wave of devotion

And picks them up one by one.
Then slowly, the clutter clears
And loses it’s currents of emotion.

She rethreads her needle, pulling through her fears
Then drops the needle again. The eye disappears
In royal blue scraps of felt, periwinkle blue Strips of ribbon.
She loses her composure again, trapped in tangles Of emotion.

Poetry

Artist

Title: Striped Pattern — I drew the artwork with pens and markers, then photographed it with an app on my phone. I then manipulated and layered the image in Photoshop to create the end result. I like playing with patterns in Photoshop because it offers me an opportunity to practice mindfulness skills.
I drew the artwork, titled Striped Pattern, with pens and markers, then photographed it with an app on my phone. I then manipulated and layered the image in Photoshop to create the end result. I like playing with patterns in Photoshop because it offers me an opportunity to practice mindfulness skills.

I tried to write this piece as a longer blog post, but I had a hard time emotionally processing the act of writing. I decided that a poem would be the right medium for the material because it conveys its message more efficiently.

Artist
by Tara

I am a bipolar-type, too-rapid cycler.
I am a schizotypal schizoaffective.
I am a bipolar.
I’m a borderline — give me Paxil.
I’m a goddess — lay me down.
Tie me up.
I must be a murderer.
I have bipolar disorder.
I experience depression.
I am an artist.

Poetry

for our poet


She said to us
I need a nudge
Without a push
I just won’t budge

Call it a block
To write my words
More like a rock
Perch for some birds

Toss me a theme
Float me a boat
If it’s a dream
I’ll help it float

Pen to a page
Fingers on keys
It’s just a stage
Leaves off of trees

Look in my eyes
Knock on my door
I’m here! Ever wise…
Up off the floor!

~ Bill Kirlin-Hackett, PAB (Program Advisory Board)

Poetry

The Last House Dinner

Endings and beginnings can be bittersweet times of reflection. In this moment I’m pondering both; I recently moved out of the intentional community house I’ve lived in for the past five years. One of my favorite parts of living in our community was house dinner. Every Tuesday, we would gather to share a meal with the housemates, ranging from 5-10 people (you’d be surprised how many people you can fit in a 5 bedroom house!). I wrote this poem a couple weeks ago, in honor of our last house dinner. It’s filled with sweet and delicious memories from my time living with beloved community.

The Last House Dinner
by Bex Lipps

Family is who gathers at your table 
Breaking fresh baked bread
Filling each bowl to the brim before 
Holding hands for the ritual
……HOORAY!

Many meals over many years
We weekly circled round this table
Sharing the pulp of our hearts,
The labor of our hands
Cooking for each other is a love language
And we are fluent

With raucous cackling
We laugh at ourselves and our own absurdity
Was it even house dinner if your abs don’t ache?
Laughter is our medicine,
The doses plentiful and strong 

Oh, drench me in hollyhock
And feed me to the hungry queers 
Devour me with a side of roasted vegetables 
Drizzled with balsamic memories 
I will feed you homemade cookies
Until your soul is fully satisfied
If you promise to remember 
This feeling of home

Say it with me
One last time:
Mischief managed