Kristi Conley
Purple Moose
Inspiration Piece

Haiku on a Purple Moose Head
Lisa Eldridge
Response

I.

Big Purple Moose Head

You are more than just your head

But that’s all I see.

II.

Why are you purple?

I have so many questions.

Are you a real moose?

III.

Where is your body?

Did something happen to it?

Where’s the rest of you?

IV.

Well, Purple Moose Head,

You don’t share your wisdom, but

Your smirk speaks volumes.

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Sandy Coleman

Response

Charisse Cecil

Inspiration

Farewell, stairwell

I’m ready.

I’m standing in these slotted
shadows, leaning against this
cinderblock wall that is coated in countless layers
of paint vainly attempting to cover generations
of ubiquitous crew tags and psychedelic
profanity.

Under this metal staircase, where I used to huddle
with my girls, harmonize to hip hop soul
pop rhythm & blues slow jams and practice
lyrical freestyles in an impermeable cipher
that the boys could not enter unprepared
for verbal battle.

The light shone through the slats and created
stripes across my loose-leaf paper,
shining on my algebra homework
brightly enough for T. to copy my answers
while I crushed on him so hard
that I didn’t mind doing all the work.

Tucked  inside that acute angle under the stairs
with T., I tasted my first kiss – a heady blend
of heat, his sour apple Jolly Rancher
and my pink lemonade Bubble Yum
that made all those late nights of memorizing
theorems and formulas worth every
missed must-see TV show and girly conference call.

Whenever I hear the crunch of broken glass
and discarded Newport filters underfoot,
I remember the night L. forced me to my knees
under those stairs and pressed my face
against his open fly, when he was supposed to be watching
me while my mom went around the corner for groceries.

Under this stairwell, I learned one source of my power
that will take me beyond this stairwell and these shadowy halls.
The power is in my mouth –
to recite rules or rhymes,
to sing songs or wail battle cries,
to give ardent pleasure or exact excruciating pain.

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.

Charisse Cecil
Inspiration piece

Amy Moffitt
Response

Choose
(for Charisse)

Every day is a decision.

Tonight, the crickets sing in the bushes,
and I choose to remember you:
dreadlocks flowing and bright face,
smile beaming and that glow you had
even when anxiety tightened
the corners of your shining eyes.

Every day.

Every day since you passed on
I choose to feel, and choose to mourn.
You left before autumn started giving the leaves
back their true, vibrant colors.
You saw past my surface, down deep
where dark and vibrant colors bloom.

I choose to miss you.

Charisse, sometimes I feel like
my whole life has been me bloodying my hands
trying to tear down walls that won’t budge.
You walked through a door in the wall,
a door I’d never noticed,
and showed me the blue sky I’d ignored.

Everyday, I have a decision:
Do I see the blue sky,
0r the brick wall?
Do I choose faith, or fear?
Do I believe in what you showed me,
or do I run away again, and hide?

Every day,
despite myself,
I choose
again
to believe you.

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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.