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

Poetry

Ode to My Mom

Ode to My Mom
Mother’s Day, May 10, 2020
By Holly Jacobson

You were not a Kool-Aid mom.
No grape jelly. No white bread.
Ugly peanut butter, ugly brown apple butter.
I was a lunch room outcast.
And now I know.
You were right.

Peaches.
Hanging like a sunset, a mosquito aquarium
Heavy orchard air.
And those bushels. We filled them heavy,
sneaking bites.
Sweet juice running down my chin, spilling on my flower printed dress.
Better than that was waiting at home.
Taking turns on the hand cranked ice cream maker.
I was always given the first few cranks.
The burden heavier with each turn.
Then “the men” took over.

And at the end, I could lick the paddle.
Summer days at the farm.
Where the daily anxiety of my eyes melted into pure joy.
The ritual of it all.

All my happiest childhood memories are food memories.
That was always our time together.
The drive in for rootbeer floats.
There is no substitute for a frosted mug.
You, barely out of high school.
Should have been recently groomed at the Sorority like your parents planned.
But no, you were with me, my dimpled hand holding the baby frosted mug.
Our time tasted sweet.

CHERRY LIMEADE!!!!
Let’s not go back to school.
This was a trip to the drugstore.
Grilled cheese and a cherry limeade for me.
You – a patty melt and a coke.
Oh how I love a counter lunch.
With a box of Russel Stover Turtles to go.
Just you and me.
Happy with our secret.

I think Doctor Sam was downtown.
Every check-up seemed to end at Kaiser’s ice cream parlor.
It was a true parlor.
Tile floors.
Tinned ceilings, tall as trees.

A few fans at the top whirling rhythm.
And a requisite screen door that creaked, jingled, and slammed.
Every time, you ordered pistachio.
Seemed exotic for Oklahoma City in the late 1960s
I must have ordered peach.
Always afraid to stray from the glory of summer.
Always afraid.

Poetry

Growing

Samuel Corales is a teaching artist from New York City. After earning his BFA, Samuel moved to Tacoma.
Samuel Corales is a teaching artist from New York City. After earning his BFA, Samuel moved to Tacoma.

“As a writer, I look to expand my range. Poetry has always been challenging and I was excited to start the Spoken Word class through PWA. The teaching artist, Samuel, had a way to aid your writing that I haven’t experienced before. This was the result.”
— Michelle M.

In times good and bad,
In this life I’ve had
I’ve learned fast
The double edged sword of nothing lasts.
I’ve learned love is easy and trust is hard.
So I’m no longer looking for the one to love but to trust without guard.
I’ve learned too that some try to malign and destroy what they don’t understand,
They push and shove.

You made bad life choices,
Your violence and anger boisterous.
I made sacrifices,
Did the right thing.
Your anger intensifies.
All the lies, welts, and bruises constituted love from you.
Still, I rose. Stood tall and in time grew
Into my own.
Found the light far from home.
My existence justified.

Finally I look back.
I see your lack
And forgive you.
Let me say it again.
I forgive you.
And with those words the shackles of consequences fell, enlightening me.
With heartfelt forgiveness, I set us free.
Now I hear home calling to me.
Time for my life to begin.

Step inside my mind
That never unwinds.
Questions abound.
Answers sought and
Sometimes found.
Who, what, where, when, how, and why, Truths and lies.
It’s not an interrogation
It’s a liberation, man.

Light enshrouded by darkness,
Truth and knowledge starkest
Under the naked light of justice.
It’s here I shine,
A life of substance.
In the silence of my minds ruminations,
Truths and lies just another confirmation
That here, in the light of truth I belong,
The true essence of the Devine.

Solid oak floors well worn
From footfalls pacing night to morn.
All you see
Is the exterior
Instead of me.
Plan and drab. Sturdy and strong. Won’t fall down.
And look, no crown.
But your blind if that’s all you see
You’re not the superior.

What truly matters lies within.
Deep oceans to swim.
Forests wild and untamed,
But a paradox living
among settled plains.
In the expanse of silence and light I stand,
In splendors grand.
My complexities rest upon hills unadorned
And Celtic lochs.

I started life with a weak foundation.
My solace found in education.
Love given like a glass half empty.
Had to rely on myself,
A lone entity.
So I wrapped myself in the comfort of words and learned their power.
I no longer cower.
I made strong what was weak and used my creativity to speak,
And freed myself.