Category: art

Posted in art, Music, poetry, writing

Speechless

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Speechless My wit atrophies into a freshly erased chalkboard, smeared with dust, remnants of brain activity dragged into a blur. I listen to what you say but cannot speak in return. I taste the chalk of words caked in my closed mouth, too dry to write them with sound. By the time I find a pen to transcribe my silence, you’ve left. I hit repeat on the same song 9 times while working on this post last night. Every play hit me harder than the last, a compounding obsession culminated in the fact that I’m talking about it right now. Maybe it means something and maybe it doesn’t. All I know is that today is Friday.

Sometimes I talk about the days of the week because I don’t know what else to say but most of the time I talk about the days of the week because their existence seems just as important as anything else. Wow, it’s Friday. Find a song you love and listen to it 9 times in a row.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, creative writing, poetry, writing

Sprint

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Sprint They gave me a clipboard and a shot of authority, power chased with adrenaline, to prove to ride. People asked me questions, these followers that consumed my words like salty snacks. Handshakes locked congratulations into the day that disappeared, the nibbles of a midmorning munched into crumbs of memories by the afternoon, a déjà vu of fleeting confidence. Maybe someone will remember my face despite the finish line.

This wasn’t the poem I set out to write last night, but it didn’t matter. It’s always ok to let flow take liberties and even though my intention wasn’t quite satisfied, I accepted that my initial concept was a title for another day.

Break your own rules. Happy Monday. 

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, creative writing, poem, poetry, writing

Steeped Too Long

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Steeped Too Long I let him bathe in my brain until his tea leaves turned bitter, an after taste like ash wrinkling my face into a raisin. The boy that had infused my blood with caffeine, awakening desire in flavors erected through heat now revolted my palate, a reversal of obsession ended in one final sip. I don’t want this anymore.

Have a great weekend, friends. Listen to your hearts and when all else fails, write about it.

–Leanne Rebecca

 

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Intertwined

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Intertwined Cobblestones connected in definite pattern like the traditions of a family— making pancakes every Sunday morning. Buckled seams and cracked impressions shout from the street— the tensions of being too close to the people that you love. Without the foundation of bricks supporting Main Street’s travelers the town would crumble. The road’s imperfections, though rocky, holds the community together. The sarcasm of a father, the impatience of a mother, or the tantrums of a child cannot break the cement that binds them. Did you notice that my name isn’t the only signature on this poem? I’m proud to share ownership of this piece with my mom. It was a collaboration not without frustration. We’re different writers. I like sentences. She likes stand alone images. I like verbs. She likes describing words. But somehow it worked and in the end I think we both learned something. Thanks mom, for sharing your wisdom and treating us all to your poetic beauty.

Smile, it’s Tuesday.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

The Way Those Jeans

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

The Way Those Jeans They buttoned, a victory of at least getting into their confines, even though I had to jump and wiggle to manipulate the dimensions, even though I reinvented their intended silhouette, even though I challenged the fabric to stretch beyond its comfort zone, even though the mannequin wore them higher across the middle, and even though I refused to leave the safety of the dressing room, I loved the way those jeans fit. Find the confidence in yourself to feel sexy. The struggle is real in all of us. Tell someone you love that they’re beautiful today.

Have a merry Sunday, friends!

–Leanne Rebecca

 

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Pause

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Pause I expected I’d hear silence, as if the meditation of a moment would quiet the Muzak of being people. I listened to the space between breaths and heard the clutter of coffee shop conversation, the footsteps of that boy in the backwards cap when he walked by, the scooting of a chair. I heard my thoughts, a raucous of angst amassed in pictures and imagined flashbacks, a confused slide show of my participation in this room dotted with strangers. I listened for a second and heard the screams of my closed mouth. I don’t often distinguish between my poems that are based on real experience or straight up fiction. However, I feel compelled to admit that this one is utterly non-fiction. I treated myself to a tea at this great coffee shop that’s quickly becoming my go-to place for a cup-o-joe, and the next thing I knew I’d written this poem.

Cheers to Picasso’s in good ol’ St. Charles and cheers to Wednesdays.

–Leanne Rebecca

 

 

Posted in art, poetry, writing

From Generation

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

From Generation What would his mother say, him leaving the table without excusing himself as if we didn’t exist, as if we hadn’t driven here together as if he’d rather be watching TV than exchanging words with people he once said he loves? His back staggered our conversation like a child screaming in obstinance to social responsibility, deafening fits interrupting the ease of good company like spilled coffee on white pants, regretable combinations. She wouldn’t say a thing.Sunday morning coffee is one of my favorite things. It’s the poetry of a survived Saturday night. It’s the pause of appreciation for the privilege of indulgence. Most of all, it’s just delicious. I hope you were enjoying a cup of coffee while reading this. After all, poetry and coffee are bred to coexist. Cheers to the week ahead!

–Leanne Rebecca

 

Posted in art, Music, poetry, writing

Visibility

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Visibility Someone must have seen me sitting there, spitting cherry seeds into a plastic baggie, shoes off, cross legged, and glistening in the thickness of St. Louis humidity. I laid down on the quilt protecting my clothes from grass stains and pulled a book from my purse. I estimated I could read about a chapter before the next band started their set. I tuned out the cacophony of intoxicated friends, the thousands of couples and families and besties camped out on the lawn of the amphitheater. I muted their chatter as if dialing down the volume in my car, driving my attention anywhere I wanted, sneaking peaks at the sky over the rim of my book, not caring how many people didn’t see me lying there, alone at a concert at peace with my own ego, so nonchalant in my solitude, that the issue of visibility floated away with every lyric and every movement and every heartbeat of freedom screamed from the silence of no one beside me.

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Expectations

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Expectations I wrote them in the silence of intolerance, unfair assumptions of a girl too concerned and consumed by the future that she couldn’t live up to her own expectations dictated in passive aggression to the people that care now.

Be kind to yourself.

It’s been a week since I posted a poem on here and I’ve been worried about it. I’m in a state of transition right now, trying to figure out what my future has in store. I’ve been asking a lot of questions lately, mostly boiling down to “what do I want in this life.” And though I can’t answer it in this moment, and though I’ve struggled with writing as a result, I know I need to take my own advice and be kind to myself. If all I have is today, I’m damn well going to grant myself a break and a hug and a smile (and peanut butter).

Be kind to yourself.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, Music, poetry, writing

Party Trick

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Party Trick It was the way he played the guitar, his eyes closing, savoring the notes like peanut butter cups, pleasure singing in his fingertips licked to perfection in the bliss of the moment. I noticed how she’d stare, as intoxicated with his passion as he was with that instrument, a recognizable love that softened both their faces, she watching his pleasure in equal measure. She appreciated his elemental connection, accepted his attention diverted to his potential, chasing what could be, the greater than, the something more that guided his dedication. He loved that guitar, an infatuation that trumped her presence, his undeniable glory that blinded her from accepting that maybe she deserved someone who’d let her sing along. I’ve been thinking about love lately–if you couldn’t tell from most of the poems decorating the past several months on here–and in thinking about love I’ve been thinking about the “one.” Who is that person that we fall for and why? Why do we rarely end up with the person we grew up describing as our ideal partner? Why does unrequited love exist? You’d think if you feel that strong of a pull towards someone that they’d feel it back. It’s chemistry, right? Pure biology. But for whatever reason, it doesn’t always work that way, but maybe, just maybe, there’s a reason.

This poem goes out to my friend Cameron.

Have a great weekend!

–Leanne Rebecca

 

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Privilege

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Privilege I licked my spoon in the pleasure of indulgence, treating my mom to a couple glasses of wine and two chocolate desserts, both split in commitment to forgetting about men. I ordered another glass and she laughed at my hesitance. This is what life’s for, she said, she said, a woman that owned one dress growing up, a dress her sister had sewn her.

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Stance

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Stance It’s the stance of someone beaten. I don’t need to know the origin of your bruises or why you hunch your shoulders to deflect eye contact. I hear it in your silence and see it in your hiding, buried beneath pretend apathy, the lies of a fight too fresh to pass the lump in both our throats. I’m not asking you to speak, but beg you to believe we can look west together, comrades of pasts not yet set. We’ve got time to face each other when the sun bleaches the marks on your heart. Writing has been a struggle lately. I spent at least a week and a half incapable of finishing a single poem. I’d start them, sometimes even reaching the second to last line, and then shut my notebook. But this one just happened. I didn’t fight for it or resent it halfway through. It was organic and soothing and I think I know why. I’ve been focusing on me lately, focusing on what I’m feeling and holding on to negativity like a magnet. This poem was a break from that. It’s about someone else and I’m super relieved that something inside me compelled me to reach outside my own brain for inspiration.

Have a great week!

–Leanne Rebecca

 

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Tragedy

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Tragedy Morning traffic dictated a lethargic pace. I tailgated the car in front of me as if burning grill marks on his bumper would increase the speed of moving, could decrease my anxiety— would I make it to work on time? I veered onto the exit ramp at the first opportunity, crossing a bit of the solid white, zipping around the line stopped on the highway, the other 9-5ers blinking at their windshields, sleepwalkers guzzling coffee and eating granola bars. The ramp was clear, a straight shot of open road to fly without impasse in the freedom of ignoring speed suggestions. I noticed something to my right before I hit the intersection: a dead deer, frozen and whole like a stuffed replica. I looked away to my left. Three black trash bags lined the shoulder.Sometimes routine can blind us from what’s happening around us, good or bad. Don’t forget to open your eyes. Write a poem about it if you can.

Happy Thursday!

–Leanne Rebecca

 

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Mood

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Mood I told her how I’d wanted to write, could feel the excess of emotion on the cusp of brimming over the side of my too full ink jar. I knew that if I tried to cap it that black would leak out and stain my table with unfiltered tears, a mess of thoughts spilled without coherency. I knew that bottling doesn’t work, that if I don’t direct my fears and bruises into lines then my ink jar will shatter, exploding debris all over my face. But I don’t feel like writing, I told her, I don’t want to face those energies. She grabbed my shoulders and pulled me in, That’s your poem, she caressed, that the exasperation of a day stole the words right out of you.

Posted in art, Guest post, poetry, writing

Guest Post: Laura Ortbals

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

I have a fear of becomming stagnant my body atrophies and my life fades away I need to keep moving but I am terrified of where that might take me.

This one is by one of the most amazing women I know: my sister. She posted this poem as a facebook status, but I couldn’t simply let it die as soon as our news feeds updated. She captured an emotion I’m sure we all share in some capacity and that kind of resonance deserves recognition.

Happy Saturday!

–Leanne Rebecca