Category: writing

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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Under the Radar

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Under the Radar I felt the warning signs welling up like the early symptoms of a head cold— easily ignored. I swallowed the thoughts with each sip of vodka soda which dwindled as the toasts wrapped. To the Bride and Groom. They cut the cake and had a dance and everyone smiled and some cried as I kept quiet, afraid to speak and erupt with cynicism on this happy occasion, finding respite in the bathroom stall until sickness poured from my eyes, my sickness—my eternal loneliness soiling the love infested air of a wedding celebration. I ducked outside so no one would see the despair blur my eyeliner like a watercolor painting. I watched the guests raise glasses through the window, kicking off their shoes, shamelessly indulging in the contagion of glee, the pairs of them, hand in hand with their own brides and grooms of yesterdays and tomorrows while I wept in the darkness of a night’s sky. They hadn’t seen me leave, who would? I wasn’t tied to that innate buddy system of plus ones, relegated unintentionally invisible, forgotten amidst kisses and slow dances, biding my time until the glowing couple skipped into their getaway car and I shuffled back to mine, tired. Thanks for sticking with me. Life’s a journey and sometimes it gets busy, which is why I feel utterly lucky to have this magical thing called writing that lets me dance my way through it without rules. Have a fantastic Monday!

–Leanne Rebecca

 

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Adaptable

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Adaptable We ran in the rain even though our shoes squished and hindered, pounds of excess burden laced around soggy feet as if trudging miniature water tanks below the ankles, trapping our freedom to move with agility, with ease. We could have called it quits, huddled under a tree until the torrent dissolved into a drizzle, could have cowered in our car, prissy as teacup dogs afraid to get their paws wet. But we ran, laughing as makeup stung our eyes, rendered blind, black dripping into our vision and pooling below in raccoon masks. Sure our pace slowed as our intention adapted— just keep moving— but it didn’t matter, just like it doesn’t matter that I had to eat a different kind of cereal this morning, choice robbed by an empty box. We crossed the finish line together. I don’t feel like this poem belongs to me. It belongs to my mom and my friends. It belongs to you and your struggles. We’re all in this thing called life, living parallel to one another, at times crisscrossing paths as we do our best to navigate the turns. I implore you, don’t lose sight of where you’re headed. Sometimes eating something new for breakfast can be a welcome change. The key is to recognize the opportunity to seize the deliciousness of the moment.

–Leanne Rebecca

 

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Too Much

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Too Much They call it Pain Tolerance, measured in a threshold determined by the wearer, a number of fingers you can withstand before two hands shortfall the scale, a 10 spectrum limit that fails to consider all the categories of this feeling’s complexity. Am I at a 9 because I’m still breathing? There’s a numbness beyond comprehension that confuses the brink of my endurance, as if the ache resides in negative space. an inverted sensation, the vast white surrounding the ink blotches that could explain this intoxication. I changed the last word of this poem at least 6 times, and with each revision, I found new meaning inside my own lines. I implore you to take away your own interpretation. Sure, I wrote the poem, but the meaning is not absolute. What it means to you is just as significant as the reason I wrote it. I write poetry for me, but you read it for you. We’re equals in this process.

Happy Monday!!

–Leanne Rebecca

 

Posted in art, Music, poetry, writing

Dissonance

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Dissonance It’s sexy- the tension in his voice that infuses each note with dichotomy— masterful but not easeful, as if he’s lamenting inner conflict in gravel-laden imperfection. I’m drawn to the impurity lacing his words like a birth mark—unique to him, a signature interrupting the underlying smoothness of his skin. It turns me on, the dissonance of his poetry, the fluidity of his screaming, the crying of his passion. I listen again, falling into imagination’s cloud— who is the boy that owns that voice, that aches his story on the radio?

I’ve been on a Ghost Town kick lately. I first discovered the band about a year ago, listened a little, but for whatever reason wasn’t hooked. However a few weeks ago one of my friends made me a playlist with their song “Acid” on it. It’s a track I admittedly repeat over and over again as I’m driving. You could call me obsessed. The vocals draw me in almost like junk food. I just want more!! It got me thinking, what is it about certain songs or certain voices that attract different ears? For me, it’s the grit, the pain behind the sound. I’d always rather listen to something messy that throws emotion in your face than something perfected with stereotypical beauty. We all have our own preferences though, and mine certainly change with the seasons.

Happy Saturday!

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Are You Ready?

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Are You Ready? She asked the question in the earnestness of choice, offering me an out despite the unspoken plea traced in the words hiding behind the weight of decision, my decision to box up my heart --my needs, my fears, my selfishness— and store it on a shelf, collecting dust and waiting. She explained: you can’t expect anything back, must act without being asked, that’s what it takes, effort, your effort. I nodded, a yes flying from my lips in auto response like an out-of-office email, true and direct, but impersonal, shallow. She glared into my irises like a lie detector assessing genuine intention. But she didn’t say anything. Did she not see the waver in my thought which screamed in every blink breaking our locked eye contact? She didn’t say anything, reiterating her faith in me, her compassion to see beyond my flaws, the reason why my mother is the most selfless person I know. I reach down my throat and pluck out my feelings. This isn’t about me, I think, but if there’s one reward to this choice it’s becoming more like my mother, my selfish caveat tainting her altruistic purity.

This one’s a bit different. But I wouldn’t be a poet if I didn’t play, right? Thanks for stopping by and as always, have a happy Wednesday!

–Leanne Rebecca