Tag: writing

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, poetry, writing

Break Away

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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

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Holding On

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Holding On He didn’t remember gasping at 4am, suffocating on his own spit, drowning from the inside out, tinged the same gray-blue as his eyes squinting through water at the hospice nurse as she suctioned his airway. He woke the next day to a ring of his children around his bed, aged faces laced in silence, not knowing what to say to a man that watched his wife die two weeks earlier, a spectator from three feet away. Dad, it’s ok, they spoke up, words disappearing like wind, an obligatory breeze disregarding how close he’d come to letting go. He didn’t know why they’d come or why they were blinking tears, but they were sorry his throat hurt.

I’ve been MIA. I know it. You know it too and I owe you an explanation:

I’m currently editing a poetry book that has been a couple years in the making. It’s nearing the stage of “completion,” which I put in quotations because I’m not sure I will ever be able to say I’m 100% satisfied with my writing. Poetry is a process that takes time and evolves as we grow and change. Anyway, I’m throwing myself into the collection and sadly as a result, I’ve held my breath on here.

I’m sorry!

Posts might be sparse in the upcoming weeks as I work through the editing process and enter into the nightmare that is the publishing world. I promise I will never forget you and even in the silence, I hear you.

Thank you for your patience.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry

Back

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Back I whispered it when you turned your back, back to the party. I watched you throw back that shot and clench your teeth, head spinning, backwards stepping into the coffee table. I lean back into the wall, arms hugged to my solitude, holding what you didn’t hear against my stomach. You’re across the room now, back with the ones I’ll never be. Her smile. It’s too late to go back in time, for you to hear what I said, the words dispersed into fog, droplets of sentiment clouded by reticence, the rain that wouldn’t drop, stubborn background mist to wade between. I promise I said it. I’m sorry. Please come back to me.

Well, I’m back. For the first time since starting She’s in Prison I feel the need to say I’m sorry to all of you. I appreciate your support and I fear I let you down with my disappearance.

Life’s been a struggle. I recently started a new job and have been transitioning into that role. Also my grandma died a little over a week ago.

I’ve felt overwhelmed and honestly, I haven’t felt like writing. I’ve stared at the same blank page for two weeks. I couldn’t move my hand. Just stared.

But here I am. I’m trying and I thank you for listening.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Let Go

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Let Go I want him to squeeze me to the brim of can’t breathe, trapped beneath his muscles, saddled to his chest, counting his heartbeats. I remember how we fit, connected in embrace, synced in sentiment. Hold me and never let me go. I ache for the sensation, a single hug, a hunger settled in my tissues, a dull throb, a fever, a headache emanating from my neck and melting through the entirety of my body. He sits in my memory with a smirk, a smugness of dominance, distracting, waiting, not calling, holding me, his arms existentially holding me. Let go.

Almond butter creme filled dark chocolate #vegan #notsharing

That was my Monday. Bring it, Tuesday.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Split

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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

Freak

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Freak You don’t know about the paranoia nestled in my fingernails. I pick at my cuticles to get at it, peeling through to the blood vessels beneath. I haven’t heard from you in three days and the skin around my nails looks like an active volcano, lava crusting against cracked rock. I fear that you forgot me. I clench my fists in desperation, to quiet the obsession, the need to be needed. I concede to speak against your silence. My hands cramp in the waiting. I succumb to insecurity— the translucence of my ghost white complexion, that you don’t see enough of me to remember my presence. I rip at flesh with my teeth, the taste of blood staining my tongue. I measure my worth in your wants, a bad habit.

Posted in art, creative writing, poetry

Making Sense of It.

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Making Sense of It. A sheet divides the ramblings of my desires and the secrets beneath his ribs. I see the shadows of his hungers through the fabric, obscured intentions taunting when the light hits. Neither of us speak, playing the game, pursuing, hunting, manipulating. I only know what I feel.

This one may not be about what you think it is. Just consider it.

Have a great weekend!

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Tiny Brains

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Tiny Brains It was a Sunday night, the day before Labor Day. We laid on the ground outside of the bowling alley. She sat on the curb first. I mimicked her artistry, knees crumpling, muscles oozing like jelly, slinking to the ground in a glob until I’d surpassed sitting and settled on horizontal stargazing. We played out the therapy session, a cement couch counting the justifications— why I texted him, why she felt betrayed— we vomited honesty, beer-numbed confessions of hearts the size of our confusion, the hearts that led us to fall on our backs in a parking lot and brains too small to sit on a bench.

Katie, this one’s for you.

I’ve gathered from my Facebook newsfeed that Monday was rough. Too many hearts and brains are fighting. Thank God it’s Tuesday, folks. Call a truce, and then celebrate with pancakes.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Sensitivity

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Sensitivity The skin on my fingers is peeling, stressed by the newness of strings beneath. I misstep, stumbling in misjudgment, too far, a sour sound. The distraction cracks the exercise of muscle memory, fumbling through overthinking I know I said all the wrong things, deafened in the aftermath of mistakes, a ringing of dull notes and your silence. The calluses flake off my fingertips, daring raw flesh to try again. But it hurts.

My inner poet disappeared for a few days. She hasn’t been that quiet for that long in quite some time. She’d like to say hello again and thanks you for listening.

Have a great weekend my friends!

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Scouring Introspection

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Scouring Introspection It built up like dirty dishes— starting with a bowl and a spoon at breakfast ending with months of fungus coating every kitchen surface. One ignored doubt—an errant fork— spiraled into a collection of soiled utensils, pretending they didn’t exist, the most annoying part of washing dishes. The smell was the trigger, the bacteria of rotting confidence permeating beyond the kitchen, drawing attention to the neglect, the lack of attention the need to reflect— the introspection that only comes with plunging hands into soapy water and scrubbing.

I’ve been thinking lately, like really thinking and facing my inner self. I’ve been looking at her in the mirror and not just seeing her but talking to her, asking if she’s ok, asking what she wants and what she’s willing to do to get that. I let her speak and I listened, like really listened. She had a lot to say and I know she’s not done talking. So I promised her I’d give her more of my attention. I’m not just going to let her talk; I’m going to let her sing. 

Happy Tuesday!

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, poetry, writing

Over There

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Over there The chair begs for a story: a mischievous child sentenced to time-out, a mother resting, taking her shoes off, a lover staring from across the room. The invisible silhouettes haunt its house— the corner of the basement by the painting— a lonely space void of narrative. But maybe that is the story.

Every chair deserves a story. Cheers to Saturdays.

–Leanne Rebecca

Posted in art, Guest post, poetry, writing

Guest Post: Tokoni O. Uti

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17 by guest poet Tokoni O. Uti

About the author:

I grew up in Lagos, Nigeria and developed an interest in literature from an early age. I began writing when I was 10. I attended the International School of the University of Lagos and I’m  currently at Bowen University, Nigeria. I am a Novelist and poet and have  previously written poetry for the Huffington Post, Portsmouth Daily Times, Space Bar magazine, S magazine,Girslife.com, San Diego Free Press, Collective Lifestyle Media, Op-ed News, The Brooklyn Reader and Los Angeles Free Press.

Find more from Tokoni O. Uti on Beautiful Insanity.