happiness. @weareknotrivals-blog - Tumblr Blog

Resources #artintheattic include: transformative justice texts, diversity: issues and solutions text, criminal pardons, violence against woman, Nellies Women Shelter info, violence against men, perpetrator restorative justice practices, midwifery and birthing options, completing taxes assistance, Native Child and Youth Services info, Her Braids info. ARTS BASED PROGRAMMING: Ballet Creole, ExpresARTE, Native Earth Performing Arts, various zines by community members, Mayworks festival, Children's Peace Theatre, + a few more --- if any of this is of interest to folks tag me and I'll send you them! #rawhideproject

#artintheattic #rawhideproject

Art in the Attic Launch! Theme: Community and Conflict #artintheattic #rawhideproject #thankyou

#artintheattic #rawhideproject #thankyou

Art in the Attic Launch! Themes: Community and Conflict #artintheattic #rawhideproject #grateful

#artintheattic #rawhideproject #grateful

a parchment dove

I watched the last passenger pigeon fill her bones with rolled parchment, lest her palms age and tear, her most precious thing. ____________________________________________________________________

I had watched her stay grounded, amidst the hunters and their hounds. I had watched her stray foxes from mans’ snapping tooth-chained claws. I had watched her carry for the loved ones of the lost, For wars, and for soldiers who had stopped believing in who they were. As her watcher I wondered, how much could fell a parchment dove. From afar, I watched her wait with a boy in a field; The rise of his chest on his fullest breath still hidden by the summers’ yield. He wrote who he hoped he’d be, if ever he got better, if ever he grew old. Until the message had been written, she would not leave his side. She told me sometimes, a thousand pictures cannot describe, one word.

Some days, she said, the tying of the script tied our limbs to their fate Holding hope would have us swallowing and stuffing the bones in our wings, in our hollow chests, for our watchers to find and bury us, as if fallen by a hunter’s shot.

I watched the boy wrap a scroll as thin as her strongest leg I watched her take flight from her roost, her narrow palms folding, As she climbed to the pine I was perched, she landed and she said This will be the last flight I take, please find me, and when you find me, let each word be read. Each in breath he takes, adds a day to my journey He is the one I am to return to, his message with. And it is here she plucked her spirits breath, I tucked her rock feather into my wing with the rest. I will fly until he falls, she said All he hopes for is to live.

melisse watson 2016

wall flower

I do not remember what it feels like to be a poet. or, to write a poem. or, to tell someone a true something, like that.

I do not remember when I forgot, or what inspired the loss, I just, woke up and then missed the sunset and then went back to bed and did not write a single thing down. except for those letters, to no one in particular, about the everything I had to remember before time passed and I forgot. I have a hard time hearing others’ speak, but a deep desire to be in space where people are speaking. to be a wall to the poems that can hollow bone a person. to be used as a canvas for someone else to lean up on, and for another to name them a wall flower, I want someone to grow on me, like that.

I want to be a surface I want to be a place people like to go to escape. and in that place I want to write a poem. I want to remember I want to wake up and be engulfed - intrigued by everything all at once. I want to be so overwhelmed by the time the sunset comes down that I want to cry, as if I were reimagining the possibilities and form I could take and ‘ocean’ was the most fitting one.

I choose to weep instead of drought, that feels good, that feels ok for now. I am learning brick walls do not hold well for mounting frames, or holding shelves for vases. If I cannot stretch a canvas, or hold a rose, I want to driftwood out to a new sea, exhausted. so exhausted, that I am inspired to go back to sleep.

melisse watson 2016

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desertwinds

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weareknotrivals-blog

The National Ballet School, Havana, Cuba

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When I was in the hospital I was roomed with a schizophrenic And she was the most gentle person I have ever met There was a boy with a long deep slit across his neck Who told very funny jokes A girl who never spoke a word Would draw the most beautiful pictures The boy who shook with anxiety Could hold the most intelligent conversations Even the girl who screamed in her sleep and picked at her skin Had a heart the size of the ocean We are not who you think we are