Let your mind be quiet, realising the beauty of the world,
and the immense, the boundless treasures that it holds in store.
All that you have within you, all that your heart desires,
all that your Nature so specially fits you for – that or the
counterpart of it waits embedded in the great Whole, for you.
It will surely come to you.
— Edward Carpenter, from his poem “The Lake of Beauty”
I wrote a poem about fall. It was inspired by the theme of Falling Leaves and by Mary Oliver’s poem “Song for Autumn” and here it is:
“Autumn Longing”
It is time for bed,
It is time for rest.
Everything strives south,
goes down,
lets loose.
We all have gone to seed
Planting our hopes for next year into their prepared beds
No more roses only the ripe hips now
Now the feast from the harvest
Now the felling, the falling, the cutting
of expectation
as we curl in tighter
as we dig in deeper
we hold tightly to ourselves
in the wake of the coming winter
we long to close our eyes
as the sun sets ever lower in the sky
by Pauline Gates, PwA PA and AMB
The leaves are so beautiful
in all their different
shades, shapes, and states
of growth, release, or decay.
Today I am thinking of the tree
That held that life in its existence,
nurtured it from before it was a small bud
carried nutrients to it so that it could survive
as it developed and grew
now the tree sends a signal
to each one
still connected
through that
nourishing network
to say, it is time, it is time to let go
the tree, feels, the moment
filled with fear or fascination as floating unfolds
It is time
It is time to let go
Neysa Peterson (she/her)
10-10-2022
I cannot sleep.
Then, I become exhausted and sleep too much.
I cannot function well.
Day is night, and night is day.
I live in opposite world.
Thyroid, lymphoma, testosterone, diabetes.
Exhaustion.
What else can go wrong?
What else will go wrong?
So damn tired.
This is living?
I learn that someone I admire has died.
Suicide.
I seem to be the last to know.
I live in a different world.
Am I alone?
I feel like an alien on a strange planet.
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| 200 Mercer, Seattle, WA, 98109 (across from Seattle Center) |
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by Melany Bell
| Please enjoy this poem and images on listening, begat from my very own mind in 2022. Thank you for listening… The images and poetry are by : ©MELANY BELL 2017-2022 all rights reserved |
Artist Statement:
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
by Kristin
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:
National Domestic Abuse Hotline: 800-799-7233
National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 800-273-8255
Crisis Connections (WA, King County): 866-427-4747
Art Transforms 