Tag: moments

Posted in dreams, poetry

The Drive Home

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

The Drive Home Windows down in the summertime and my hair is raping my face, stuck to my tinted Chapstick, catching streaks of light as it rages in freedom’s right. Old school Greenday comes on the radio. I listen to the guitar chords, the strumming, ascertaining whether or not I can play it. Am I good enough? I think about how the volume is so loud I’d never be able to hold a conversation in the car, realize maybe I don’t want to, that I like this, just me, my blushed cheeks and dreams of becoming a rock star. —Leanne Rebecca

Soak up the sunshine. My only advice for the moment.

Love,

Leanne

Posted in art, poetry

Accomplishment

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Accomplishment That those days that suffocated like sitting in a locked car with the windows up, 100 degrees pouring in through the scorch of inescapable rays, heat escalating, air stagnant, poisonous— That those moments lost to numbness as she sobbed in that car, nowhere to drive no one to call no feelings left to drip down her cheeks, trapped in a tomb still living— That those fears of never finding a reason to get out of the car, a reason to breathe anything but stale air, to drink anything but salt riddled tears— have passed without consequence, memories relegated to notebooks and dusty poems, means more than any award she’d ever earned— the accomplishment of learning to live again. —Leanne Rebecca

Posted in cheesy, poetry

Hopeless Romantic

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Hopeless Romantic I imagine tripping during a hike, falling into his arms as he helps me find my feet again. He lingers with letting me go, staring through my rustled bangs beyond my blue eyes, him losing balance, falling together.

We all have our cheesy moments.

Goodnight my friends!

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

A Hug

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

A Hug I microwaved a mug of tea and cuddled with it on the couch, pulling my knees up, hugging their substance like I would a pillow or a lover. I needed to feel the proximity of tangibility, something to hold to funnel irrationalities into a moment of quiet— holding a mug of hot tea, holding the pieces of me together one knee at a time.

Sometimes all you need is a hug.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Split

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Split She twisted the earbuds as if turning a key, locking a barrier into place, the separation of outward space and privacy. Music silenced the sounds of elsewhere, shutting out external influence, forcing reflection, introspection on where —who— she wanted to be. She listened to the beats of yesterday with an unfamiliar curiosity, lyrics forgotten, apathetic to digest them again, past desires dissected into fragments of memories sputtering like a radio tuned one channel off. Static. She looked at the other people swarming with headphones glued to their thoughts, blind drones mimicking one another, deaf to sounds outside the brooding melodies, forgetting to free their ears for a few moments and listen to nothing.

I’m a different person today than I was a year ago. I was a different person a year ago than I was two years before that. I’m a stranger to the person I was in high school. Do you ever think about the evolution of your own identity? I certainly do and I wonder if anyone else notices the same changes that I do. I’d like to think they’re changes for the better.

I wish you a top-notch weekend full of yummy food and pumpkin ale. Hey, it’s autumn now.

–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

Something Else

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Something Else The cheese in my guacamole. The distraction of a fragment, if only for a second, a moment of heaven— a Something Else. I covet that nonsensical anything else that washes the brain, that gifts reprieve from thinking about you. I didn’t want cheese in my guacamole. They should have indicated it on the menu.

It’s the little things.

Posted in art, Music, poetry, writing

To Listen

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

To Listen I skipped every other song, brushing aside the lyrics scribed in MP3s, at my ear’s whim to dismiss whichever ones I wanted. I was walking outside, so I needed beats, the kind compounded with stimulants, adrenaline, to spark my shoes to rebound off the concrete as if springing from a trampoline— I was trying to get a workout after all. I turned the corner onto my street, readying my hands to pause the music, to wipe my sweat and recede back into my house, subjected to an atmospheric beige, a poetically devoid space, a television two napping parents and a microwave. I reached the door, but I couldn’t go in, stopped, as if someone had grabbed my shoulders and yanked them backwards, pleading with my instincts to yield. I sat down on the porch swing, sinking into the darkness of pause, listening more intently to the words rapped in my headphones, and for a moment, I let the stillness rest, let my sweat dry on its own, and waited until the song reached its end before I went inside.

‘I hear your music and I’m listening. Thank you for sharing a part of your soul in your art.’ That’s what I’d say if I could tell anyone who has ever written a song how much I appreciate their work and their passion.

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Roads

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Roads

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Inside Out

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Inside Out

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Storytelling

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Storytelling

Posted in art, Guest post, poetry, writing

Endless Remembering by Lori Ortbals

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

Endless RememberingI know today’s guest poet well. She’s my mother and happens to be the most selfless person I’ve ever met. Let this poem be a reminder that love abounds in multiple forms: the love for yourself, the love for a partner, the love for a friend, the love for a parent, the love for a sibling, the love for a daughter, and the love for a memory glistened in tears of bittersweet heartache. Today as you eat your candy hearts, don’t forget to also love the one beating inside your chest.

Becky PictureMy mom, Lori Ortbals, founded the Missouri Chapter of the Children’s Heart Foundation in 2010 in memory of daughter Rebecca Lyn. Becky died of a congenital heart defect at 16 months old. Lori started the chapter with the hope that no other parent would have to feel the loss of burying their child from a CHD. All funds raised go directly towards research to develop new technologies and techniques to save lives like Becky’s.

When she’s not volunteering at a fundraising event or running board meetings, my mom enjoys spending time with our family, cherishing every moment to its fullest potential. She’s an avid reader, moviegoer, and superhero.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Popcorn

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

popcorn

Posted in art, Music, poetry, writing

Tomorrow

Posted on by SHE'S IN PRISON

TomorrowSometimes when I need a little help in the inspiration department I ask my friends to recommend a song, and then I write whatever comes to mind as I listen to the vibe and the lyrics. “White Daisy Passing” by Rocky Votolato taunted my somber side but ultimately stimulated that crazy thing I like to call “hope.” It’s an emotion that’s easy to lose yet easy to find again with a little bravery. Anyway, give the song a listen and check back again next Sunday for my regular series–poetry inspired by music on my playlist!!

What is your favorite song right now? Send me an email at shesinprison@gmail.com or leave a comment below and I might choose your selection to inspire my next poem!