Amy Souza – SPARK

Angi Lewis and Amy Souza

Amy Souza — Tue, 12 Mar 2024 20:17:14 +0000

Amy Souza
Inspiration piece

Sky Lines
By Angi Lewis
Response

1.
I sometimes imagine
the birds leaving tracks
in the sky, a network
of crisscrossed lines
marking their flight
through such a vast, blank space.

2.
In the pale November light
in a sky feathered with clouds
you stretched your arms wide
and flew
and I am left wondering
where you have gotten to.

3.
It’s the age old question-
what happens when we die?

4.
Maybe I’m going at this all wrong
trying to imagine you in a form
you’re no longer in.

My friend says her dad, long gone
speaks to her in pennies left behind
(her mother in dimes).

I see you,
Dad, in birds
hawks on fence posts
eagles circling.

5.
Which sky lines are yours?

6.
Behind my ribs
there is a nest
of bones, of flesh
there your love rests.

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Rachel Lahn and Stefanie A. Shilling

Amy Souza — Tue, 12 Mar 2024 19:43:55 +0000

Rachel Lahn
Mixed media with beach glass on wood
Response

In Her Head
By Stefanie A. Shilling
Inspiration piece

on the back wall
between her left ear and her right ear
she positioned the couch

then the ottoman smack dab in the middle
right behind her nasal cavity

on the right side of the couch
she set up an end table
with trinkets, a book and a glass of water

on the left side of the couch
a tall floor lamp

and on the couch itself
a blue-gray wool blanket
draped across her lap

she sat on her couch
and looked out of the two large windows

the blinds blinked
open and closed
open and closed

and sometimes
they stayed closed for hours

the view varied a little bit
but the comfort she felt on her couch
remained the same

and so she stayed there

day after day after day
night after night after night

until the blinds stopped working
and the light
no longer filled the room

cobwebs stretched from lamp to table
trinkets now blanketed in dust
the book left open halfway
water long since evaporated from her glass

and the blue-gray wool blanket
draped across the couch
now nothing more than a moth’s haven

KJ Hannah Greenberg and Jonathan Ottke

Amy Souza — Sun, 10 Mar 2024 21:13:11 +0000

Jonathan Ottke
Inspiration piece

Acorns’ Circumflexes
By KJ Hannah Greenberg
Response

Nature’s diacritics often are expressed using fallen leaves, scattered seeds,
Detritus that was once proximate, sloughed bark. Heed these prominences!
Inter alia, life’s not meant for ratcheting up records. Rather, we’re tasked to
Protect planet, creatures, green allies, forge ahead kindly, humbly, graciously
Whether we’re windward or leeward of material accomplishments. Relying on
Interoception never disappoints. Nonexistence self-care endures as insalubrious.
In addition, it’s perspicuous that merely observing self-reflections in carryings-on
Causes short-sightedness. We ought to, instead, festoon like bees, rebuild the world.
Let’s not pass time inured to hate, spillage, spoilage, similarly, elects’ greenwashing.
Air, water, land entreat, by way of diminutive enunciations, that we engender amends.

Julie Christensen and Kathleen Finn Jordan

Amy Souza — Wed, 13 Dec 2023 21:04:42 +0000

Julie Christensen
Response

Haunting Landscape
By Kathleen Finn Jordan
Inspiration piece

Laid out, sprawling and dotted, once choked with trees

The spits left after the logging

…..punctuate the melancholic presence with a scream

Space everywhere and the rumble of the sea against the wall

…..drums and throbs with the haunted themes of this landscape and these people

I long for the solitude it breathes and the silence that is its own treasure

Only the birds talk and the people listen

Silent and always thinking dark

Everything dark and secrets live here

Ancient secrets and those found in modern and postmodern crannies

Haunting landscape that etches rivers in my soul.

Aberystwyth

Betty Nichols and Amy Moffitt

Amy Souza — Fri, 02 Jun 2023 02:23:58 +0000

Betty Nichols
Response

Middle
By Amy Moffitt
Inspiration piece

They don’t mention the lists…
the fluttering, cluttering memorials
to obligations and dreams,
the false hope of control…
they don’t say you’ll be chasing and chasing
and will never catch up.

They don’t say how your body
…..starts to shift
………. starts to s l i d e,
and how many mindless movements
become nervous tightrope walks,
how the wolf is always at the door
and its name is Pain.

They also neglect the role of Regret
(pain’s howling sister),
whose teeth gnaw and nibble,
and clack and crack
at the edges of consciousness
daily.

So, unprepared,
we dance with distraction.
Some favor addiction,
others favor contraction.
We withdraw from ourselves,

and get lost in blind action
so the grief
doesn’t hurt
quite so much.

When really our grief needs the touch
of attention.

Move through the middle, love,
there’s nowhere else to be.
Move through the middle,
and come dance with me,

to the click and the crack
of our knees and our backs
as we weather this fading
let us not just stand waiting for death…

take my hand, and together,
take a deep breath.

Eve Hyde and Amy Souza

Amy Souza — Fri, 02 Jun 2023 01:34:05 +0000

Eve Hyde
Response

Time and Its Kin
By Amy Souza
Inspiration piece

High noon, no shadow: How you know when a duel begins

A street lamp at midnight: How you know you’re still here

Once someone asked why I liked to play board games

They might as well question my brown eyes; I had no answer

When nature feels too removed, I ask the internet for reminders

But I say hello to dandelions and baby ducks when I pass

Surprised to see them every Spring

Dale Leffler and Jonathan Ottke

Amy Souza — Thu, 01 Jun 2023 00:43:38 +0000

Jonathan Ottke
“Matteo”
Inspiration piece

Mateo Muchacho Words
By Dale Leffler
Response

He waits for you like a lover
attentively sad on the couch.
His eyes convey his longing,
loneliness, as his shoulders slouch.

Never sure how long you’ll be gone
never sure when you’ll return
missing you all the while
it’s your presence that he yearns.

Knows not the meaning of time
only the hollow of your absence.
Lying near where you always sat
comforted by your body’s scent.

He hears the ripple of rubber tires
a car pulls up the drive
ears attentive for door-lock clicks
and it’s you who arrive.

Now his face becomes a smile
delight returns to puppy-dog eyes.
Snipped tail whips in staccato beats
you’ve come home, his inamorato prize.

Marcela Kogan and Jennifer Fendya

Amy Souza — Wed, 31 May 2023 23:59:18 +0000

Jennifer Fendya
Inspiration piece

Footsteps
By Marcela Kogan
Response

I spend most of my days alone peering out people’s legs from the wrought-iron window of my daylight basement room. The room, which faces the sidewalk of Q Street in Dupont Circle, Washington D.C., smells musty and the floor is uneven. My closet consists of a rod stretching across two walls outside my room, blocking the downstairs entrance of this 3-floor Victorian brownstone that I share with three roommates, all college graduates like me.

I wasn’t always a recluse. I often visited the National Gallery of Art, hiked in national park trails, gone to rock concerts, and eaten at ethnic restaurants. But then I got laid off from my job as a newsletter writer for a low-income housing organization. After browsing through the newspaper want ads for months to no avail, I gave up.

I could not see a future for myself.

I stopped meeting friends for happy hour, cancelled my gym membership. Looking out the window became my favorite pastime. I saw people’s legs and imaged what they looked like, where they were going. I told myself stories about their life.

This morning, for instance, is typical of most. I am slouched on my bed (can’t fit a chair in the room) facing the window and hear two people talking in quiet, intimate tones, finishing each other’s sentences. They sauntered by my window wearing sneakers and loafers. Maybe they’re discussing the weather or sharing their plans for the day. Maybe she is an illustrator and he a writer, and they are out on a morning stroll before settling down to collaborate on a book project.

Will I ever share my life with someone? I look away from the window.

Next, a clip clopping sound outside my window catches my attention and the legs of a woman striding by with pumps comes into view. I imagine she is a professional—a partner at a law firm or CEO of a corporation—with a wedge haircut, skirt suit and button-down shirt. Maybe she is hurrying to catch the metro so she can get to work on time for an important meeting.

I remember colleagues congratulating me on my presentations during staff meetings. Was I competent or did I just fake it?

The room is quiet. I lower my cup of coffee to the floor and put on Joni Mitchell’s album, Court, and Spark in the record player. The needle skates across the surface of the record slipping out of the grooves. I affixed a penny to the needle as an anchor to ground the needle to the vinyl.

A little girl clutching a doll under her arm appears by the window, galloping to keep up with the pace of the adult holding her hand. She is wearing shorts and a Mickey Mouse t-shirt and carrying a backpack. She looks up at the adult, her eyes squinting from the sun, and says something. Maybe she is asking if she could watch tv when she gets home from school or have a play date.

But the person cuts her off. “Hurry or we’ll be late for school.”

The little girl looks down, her small world now smaller, and walks faster to keep up, her legs a blur.

My heart sinks at her careless response, and I feel helpless to change anything.

“Gag me with a spoon,” says a girl, followed by chuckles others, possibly teenagers. A rush of feet in a wild stampede parade by my window, multiple legs stumbling over each other, ankles twisting. They must be schoolgirls, I imagine them with long hair in ponytails, ripped jeans, and short skirts.

I long for what now seems like long careless days of high school and feel that the best is behind me.

The room is hot because I have no air conditioning. I crank the window open.

I hear the tap, tap, tap of a cane, and see someone wearing blue trousers and Oxford shoes shuffling by. Then a thump and the man plops on the ground. I freeze. Is he hurt? I should go out to help but I feel trapped in my room, afraid of going out.

Can someone else help? I jump to the window and crane my neck listening for footsteps but hear none.

The old man is now struggling to get up, panting. His face is contorted with pain.

My heart pounds against my chest. I bolt out of my room, run up the steps and open the door.

“Are you okay? Should I call an ambulance?”

The old man shakes his head and stretches out his arm so I can help him up. I hesitate at first: His hand looked withered, with age spots and brittle nails. But when I grab hold of him, his hand feels soft and warm, and I do not want to let it go.

“Thank you,” he whispered, gazing into my eyes.

His face looked scruffy, wrinkled, graying with wisps of white hair, but his eyes were bright, with a sparkling expression.

He wobbled past me and continued on his way.

I head back toward the house, but then turn around and survey the sidewalk. I see a couple walking arm in arm. A teenager riding on his skateboard. A mother pushing a stroller. A homeless person asking for money. An old man holding a little girl’s hand.

I feel a surge of excitement, of life unfolding before me.

A warm breeze brushes against my skin. It’s a perfect day for a walk.

Amy Souza and Cristal Brawley

Amy Souza — Wed, 31 May 2023 23:45:32 +0000

Amy Souza
Response

Listed Sh*t
By Cristal Brawley
Inspiration piece

A few months ago, I wrote down all the things that are wrong with me.

The notion came after a particularly hideous hot flash at 2 a.m., generally the time for such things as of late. This time, I’d awakened in a panic that I had a tooth ache, and I would soon
need seek dental help (with all the needles and drilling).

Cue hot flash cycle:

1. Overwhelming feeling of dread (20 seconds)
2. Rapid heartbeat (duration)
3. Fast-spreading waves of heat (2 minutes)
4. Sweat pools on head, neck, torso, and back of knees (2-5 minutes, depending on access
to folding bamboo hand fan)
5. Wondering when I would die (final stage, 1-5 minutes, depending on fatigue level)

For the final stage, I rolled over, turned on my phone, and opened the notes app to start the list, titled, “Shit that’s wrong with me.”

Hot flashes/panic attacks (3x per night, 10x per daylight hours)
Glaucoma
Psoriasis
Hearing loss
Raynaud’s Syndrome (right index finer)
Left hand, tendon pain
Knee pain
Wart on right hand
Hair loss, top of head
Dental issue

The list was overwhelming and scary. Surely, I would die soon. Cue second hot flash (2:15 a.m.). That same morning, three hot flashes later, I made an appointment with a dentist, and within 2
weeks, I had a shiny new permanent crown. As I write this, I notice that more than half of these things are fixed or no longer an issue. The others, I’ve been consistently managing with things like eye drops, exercise, and meditation. I’m 60 now. Shit happens. Take care of it.

Years ago, an old friend told me: The idea of things is usually worse than the reality of things. I keep that list as a reminder of that.

Here’s today’s list, titled, “Shit that’s awesome”:

I’m married to my best friend.
My family is curious and close.
Each day is a gift. Even the bad ones.
My body still works well.
Easy friendships are my most meaningful.
Music gives me goosebumps.
I work with some of the most genuine, loving, compassionate people I’ve ever met.
I truly love who I’ve become and where I’m headed.

Cristal Brawley and Amy Souza

Amy Souza — Wed, 31 May 2023 23:39:56 +0000

Cristal Brawley
Response

Home Not Home
By Amy Souza
Inspiration piece

A childhood surrounded by water
Mayflower offspring, Azorean pioneers
I didn’t belong (or did I?) to the city
Of cobblestone streets with
Widow’s walks topping every captain’s home
And a museum dedicated to the mammal
So cherished yet brutalized
There was always a line for donuts
Always a thin blue sky
One cousin owned a shop where I bought
My mother a present
The first with my own money
A miniature cast iron pan, fake antique
Embossed with a man’s silhouette
Maybe a pilgrim – he wore that crazy hat
She used it to hold spoons while she
Cooked from that day on
Until she couldn’t and forty years
Passed, easy as turning a page
When my sister packed the house and
Shipped me boxes and bags to sort through
She included every towel my mother ever owned
But not the pilgrim spoon rest
Its iron coating had faded
And it must have looked like junk
Because no one knew its worth
Except my mother and me