Joanna Suzanne Lee
viper
inspiration piece

Ray Sharp
response
La Grande Roue (The Ferris Wheel)

He gives the wheel a spin,
thoughts a billion miles away,
above the waltz of planets,

 
on the rim, far beyond the place
where there is no up or down,
dust glinting in thin light,

 
watching everything turn around
the shiny hub, spokes blurring,
his world gone slightly out of round,

elliptical, mesmerizing, hypnotically
imperfect. Hula Hooper. Belly Dancer.
Whirling Dervish. Doppler red hair.  

 
From him to the moon to her makes
a lovers triangle. Lust is a wave that shifts
toward red, the faster it spins away.

Wavy red hair turning for the train
colors the descending pitch of loneliness.
La Roue de Fortune. Roulette wheel.

Rouge ou noir, rien ne va plus.
Round and round and round they go,
and where they’ll stop, nobody knows.

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Ray Sharp
Dancers, Buenos Aires
inspiration piece

Joanna Suzanne Lee
response

the third minute

this poem
is not about love.
it is
a waking from dreams
where i walked alone.

it is
the song we should’ve danced
that first night
when i tore my words
from your heart-
walls

and you told me,
with your hands,
to leave.

this poem thinks
nothing
of your feelings, makes
no apologies.
it will not talk you down
from your lost ledges.

it is broken-toed
and steps awkwardly.

this poem
is about love.
the one you gave away
years ago
that left a hole
in the shape of my
tomorrow.

it is
the song we would’ve danced
if you’d thought
you’d known my steps, if
i’d believed
in your rhythm.

this poem
is an end
written on the first day
of our fall’s beginning.

it is one-legged
and goes listlessly.

i make no
apologies for the bruises
left behind in its footsteps;
we both know there is
no tomorrow written
with the signature of regret.

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NOTE: All of the art, writing, and music on this site belongs to the person who created it. Copying or republishing anything you see here without express and written permission from the author or artist is strictly prohibited.

untitled, charcoal & acrylic on canvas
Julia Latein-Kimmig
inspiration piece

…..

Girl’s Daydream in Cross-Section
Joanna Lee
response

All I wanted was a cat. Something both fluffy and self-reliant. But that needed me. Just a little. With big I-dare-you eyes in blue or green, and an arch to the spine I could emulate when I pranced barefoot in my underwear. I’d name her Sylvia or Lesbia or something else of that sort that’d sound cool and feminine and blur the delicate line between intellectual and geeky. Of course, to go with the cat I would need a cute little apartment with a big bay window to catch the morning sun and possibly a window seat with some worn but welcoming cushions for her to nap on. Something with high ceilings and creaky wood floors and a claw-footed tub; maybe even crown molding. I’d keep Christmas lights up in the kitchen all year round and hang big art on the walls. There’d be a fireplace where we could snuggle down with a good book when it snowed. She wouldn’t mind my singing to sad country songs after a prolonged happy hour, and I’d overlook the scratch marks on my second best overstuffed chair. There’d be a big bed with a canopy–not too frilly–just for the two of us, and lots of antique wooden furniture I’d shine up to look like new. It’d be part of an old stone-fronted home in an artsy district, with crooked brick sidewalks and a little plot of yard where I could tend morning glories in the spring and mums in the fall. She’d watch me from the porch while I putted, those blue-green eyes narrowed in skepticism, occasionally venturing out into the grass to chew on stray dandelions that would consequently make her sick. The place’d be walking distance from everything, and she’d peer through the window as I skipped off to get a coffee or go to yoga class, then settle into a patient ball of fur waiting for my return. Yet she could look after herself when I took those long weekend trips to the Outer Banks or to Paris, retreats to Fuji or southern Mexico when I’d miss her at least a little. She wouldn’t scold me about looking for steady work or complain if I didn’t cook dinner. And on those days when I couldn’t get out of bed or broke down crying for no apparent reason, I wouldn’t have to explain anything. She’d love Cheetos as much as I did, and we’d lounge by the hour feeding our mouths and our minds with junk food to the tune of one of those America’s Next Top Model marathons. When it’d rain, we’d sit together with our ears cocked, listening for the thunder; we wouldn’t be the types to be scared by lightning. I’d buy her a vintage-looking collar to go with my signature boho look. And on Wednesday nights when I’d have the girls over for an impromptu bellydance gig, we’d put new meaning into the word “hip,” and have the downstairs neighbors banging on the ceiling for us to cut out the noise. Watching her bat at a stray ribbon from one of the dancer’s scarves, I’d remember how to giggle. Seeing her languorous stretch beside the grate I might even be tempted to purr. Then, curled up under 600-count sheets with her steady hum beside me, I’d forget the meaning of heartache, and finally stop having dreams about the day my mother died. I’d wake up the next morning to cat-breath, and we’d begin it all again.

….

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Note: All of the art, writing, and music on this site belongs to the person who created it. Copying or republishing anything you see here without express and written permission from the author or artist is strictly prohibited.