Category: art

Posted in art, poetry, writing

I’m Not

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

I’m Not I believe in pretending for the sake of functioning, the persona of silence— what people see when they look at me. In the superficial light of artifice I believe in the beauty of my body, the posture of fitted sweaters and long necklaces draped across my collar bone in nonchalance, of tight pants and knee-high boots— the attitude of asking for jealousy. I believe in daytime smokey eyes because it means I can’t let myself cry. There’s strength in my beliefs when make-believe becomes truth. But not today. Today I lied and they all believed me.

Another week has come and gone. Today is the only day that matters. What will you make of it?

Happy Saturday!

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Should

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Should The TV signal died. I spend the next twenty minutes pressing a button off and on to spark a response. Off and on because there should be stimulus. I should do what I can to expel the silence of a blue screen and error message because I can’t be here in the quiet should be moving in some direction mind should be engaged in something, can’t waste this time on doing nothing. I press the button off and on, squatting in front of a box, expecting a different result and the damn receiver won’t listen to me. I’m here, trying, but it’s not enough. It’s never enough. I should try again.

Last week was rough. Here’s a hint…don’t catch stomach bugs. Luckily, I like to think of Sundays as the day to start anew. I survived Hell and now is my opportunity to bounce back. Good thing the TV lost its signal, because now I can say I started the new week with a poem.

There’s still time to accomplish something wonderful before Monday rolls around, folks. It’s up to you to figure out what it’s going to be.

Love,

Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Unfurl

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Unfurl She felt scared to let go, bound up in crossed arms as if encased in a plaster cast while the bruises healed. It hurt when he touched her, hurt more when she liked it, wanting to unwrap her arms, uncoil the wire from her wrists and open her chest to feel the sun and the wind and the rain against her skin, unprotected and unfurled in trust. But she hugged her elbows tighter, scared to let go, binding her palms so she wouldn’t push this one away.

I can’t explain why it’s my favorite word. It’s something to do with how romantic it sounds and all the connotations it holds, both good and bad. It’s animalistic and peaceful. It’s simple and loaded with meaning. It’s perfect. Say it and listen to it’s beauty: unfurl. What’s your favorite word?

Today was certainly a Monday. Unfurl a little tonight.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, creative writing, poetry

Mischievous You

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Mischievous You I wanted to shut it all out, the thoughts of boys, the obsessing over the way I look for the boys, the glances into my future life with a boy, the frustrations of never finding the right boy, that the right boys don’t find me. Shut it out, so I could stop obsessing over what I was eating, to see the now, to love the now, to know I’m worth it. I set out to stop thinking, shut off feelings for a minute, just a couple of minutes for me, playing hide and go seek with freedom to breathe without racing heartbeats and blush in my cheeks, to guarantee tears wouldn’t find me for those two minutes of pause. I thought I could do it, distract desire, to trick the thoughts to get lost by turning up the volume so loud in my car that I couldn’t hear them anymore. But you snuck through, mischievous you.

Time has felt irrelevant for the past few days. Cheers to 2015 and the end to another weekend. Good night, my friends.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Grocery Store

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Grocery Store I lived alone for three months in a new city, didn’t know a soul. Every day I’d walk a mile to the grocery store, spend twenty minutes deciding which vegan cookie to buy and walk back. Sometimes it was Starbucks or the farmer’s market in Studio City. Or drive to Santa Monica to buy my cookie at a bakery and drive back to what I called home. Once it was a restaurant and I walked three miles in the smog to get there. I never cried in those three months. It’s only now, years later, when I go to the grocery store alone that the sadness shows. Maybe it’s the guilt of all those cookies piled up on my thighs, the leftovers of a time not quite forgotten or maybe it’s that I didn’t expect the loneliness to last.

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Anything

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Anything Driving in a car and it's raining. I touch all the buttons on the radio anything but talking only commercials, radio shows, white noise of Saturday mornings when you didn't quite force the body to sleep long enough. We're going to walk the mall, anything to leave the house and stir the blood, to move the mind out of the place where thinking's bad too much, too fast that it sounds like static.

I’ve eaten nothing but cookies for the past five days. That’s what happens when you make them on Christmas Eve and double the recipe because your mom told you to and end up with a full box of leftovers because you made too many cookies. I think I’ll go for a run today.

I wanted to post this poem yesterday. I’d set my intention the night before: I will write a poem on Saturday morning. But somehow I slept in and before I knew it I was out of the house, starting my day, and I’d forgotten about poetry completely. It’s a rare occurrence–me forgetting about poetry–but I’d like to think there’s some meaning behind it.

Happy Sunday!

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Exchanged Digits

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Exchanged Digits At the very least I felt seen. Out of everyone at Whole foods he wanted to hear my voice, to uncover the mysteries of the girl in the off-white blouse and ripped skinny jeans. For a sliver of our timelines we aligned, syncing over groceries, drifting askew just days later, a dinner of hello and goodbye, departing the other’s eye like two cars turning opposite directions at a stop light. At the very least he’d honked at me, acknowledged my skyline, allowed my existence.

Posted in art, creative writing, poetry, writing

The Key to My Heart

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The Key to My Heart It’s tied around my neck with a leather string, fastened against my chest, guarded by proximity, touching the beat, monitoring its safety. I fear its future keeper, of relinquishing trust to the wrong person, them breaking into my world and destroying what little I own. I tuck the key under my shirt, wondering who will find it.

Today didn’t feel like Thursday, whatever that means. Enjoy your nights my friends.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Moved

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Moved I wonder if music gets inside other people’s souls like it does mine, if it resonates as deeply, shifts their feelings, affects their physicality. I breathe vibrations of melody into my whole being, evoking memories and sentiments, implanting dreams and fantasies, living lyrics in imagined movies, crying at all the right places, gullible to the director’s verse. I become addicted to the story, listening on repeat, exhausting my ears, singing as I lose perspective on what’s real, living the performance, inventing nuances, dancing to drums, heart jolted by bass, the undercurrent that holds it all together, rounding out sound with breath. I hum the harmony, part of the choir, the life behind the necessities, so engaged in every element of the piece that I forget I’m sitting in the cafeteria at work, chewing.

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Emotional Creature

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Emotional Creature There's nothing wrong with me. I'm swallowed by feeling, the realness of feeling, feelings not wrong, just deep, deeper than yours, extreme manifested in shakes, holding my stomach. There's nothing wrong with me. I stand in front of the toilet weigh the pain, it hurts no matter what, hurts more than you could know. I'll never say, just hold my stomach in silence. There's nothing wrong with me. I curl my knees in, shoulder crammed to the floor pools beneath my face drowning in feeling. I feel. I live. I feel. There's nothing wrong with me.

I’m currently obsessed with “Out of the Woods”on Taylor Swift’s new album and that is the most important news I have to share. Sing with me.

Have a splendid Wednesday, friends.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Guest Post: Philip Dodd

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Philip Dodd - Bright Side of the Sun

Philip Dodd - The Witch of Endor

About the Author:

Philip Dodd PortraitPhilip Dodd was born in 1952, lives in Liverpool, England, has a degree in English literature from Newcastle University, and has been writing songs, stories and poems since he was twelve. He has had poems published in his local newspapers and in The Dawntreader, a quarterly poetry magazine, published by Indigo Dreams Publishing. His book, Angel War, was published in April, 2013, and is available as a paperback and as an E-book. Reviews of it can be read on Amazon and Goodreads.

Find more from Philip Dodd on his blog. 

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Posted in art, poetry, writing

The Search

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The Search It was a bad match, he and I, the clash of sarcasms the platitude of the air between the unmerged points of view and the stubbornness to see into the other, trusting the existential suggestions of the stomach— duck under the table and run. Square one— the loss of faith in star alignment and the relief to escape the confinement of public image, rather be singing in the car than crossing and uncrossing legs in a restaurant, excusing myself to the bathroom— seething at the necessity of first dates, playing a game of would you rather be doing fill in the blank anything than continue the conversation with this someone that said I was beautiful.

Who knows what makes two people compatible. What is it about someone that ignites the spark and electrifies our desires? It’s breathtaking when that happens, but equally as profound is the absence of that spark, when just getting through dinner feels like crawling on hands and knees through the mud.

Have a wonderful Saturday my friends!

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Under the Influence

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Under the Influence I wept her poems from my eyes ink mixing with freckles wandering the hollows of emotion sewn in the simplicity of her voice. I read them again cross legged as still as silence steeping tea turned bitter. Nothing made sense anymore the eruption of water the knots in my shoulders the unmoving air the last page of a masterpiece, finished, the anticipation of change the waking up the next morning in the same position I fell asleep.

This poem came out of nowhere. I was taking a walk, imagining stories in my head, and it just hit me in the face.

One of my friends lent me Ararat by Louise Gluck last week and I think it changed my life. Everything looks the same from the outside–same job, same breakfast foods–but something’s different, even if I can’t articulate exactly what that means.

I don’t usually publish poems at night. Sweet dreams and thanks for reading.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, Guest post, poetry, writing

Guest Post: The Village Thinker

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Guest Post by The Village Thinker

About the Author:

A a young Ghanaian student-poet, Nana Arhin Tsiwah know in poetry circles as “The Village Thinker” uses livid words to tell tales of old, of history and tradition.

More from The Village Thinker…

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Submit a guest post!

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Break Away

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Break Away I don’t feel like crafting poetry, meticulously measuring every word to fit in some designed form, throwing away perfectly good ones because they aren’t rhythmic or specific or innovative enough. Poetry is too complicated, simultaneously too efficient, leaving out half the story, forgetting that the clutter between the words is part of the song too, the stumbles and mistakes, the version before the rewrite, the decisions regretted just as worthy. I have too much to say to limit the emotion to single images. I’m overwhelmed and I don’t know where to start, so I’ll write it all, all the dismay of this one day shared in unabridged confession:

My biggest challenge in my writing is clutter. I use too many words and too many fillers, or at least I used to. I’ve worked on refining my verse quite a bit, but it’s exhausting! Hell, sometimes I want to overuse adverbs and let my rant run free, no matter how inarticulate the finished product.

Lately I’ve been writing in stream of consciousness form. I don’t judge. I don’t edit. I don’t stop. I just write. This piece was the first. I didn’t change a word.

Happy Saturday!

–Leanne Rebecca