Saturday, July 31, 2010
Submission Twenty-One
"People Supporting People gives me hope and inspiration." ~ Western Washington Student
Submission Nineteen
Hope ... "Time, quiet, it's inevitable, just give it some time, o, and a little bit of the blues. Embrace whatever is bogging you down and roll with it."
Even John Lee Hooker had bills to pay
Sometimes, on the second day back,
wherever home is, after a trip back east,
or west, forlorn tall legs eking their way
through Labrador grass. It is moonlight,
in this town, the sunglasses our neighborhood
hoodlums hide behind spark, crack, and burst,
sending dark shards back into our favorite hiding
place. I suppose the expectancy, no, the collapsing,
shivering sideways hope must always meet terribly,
terrifically with the glass in the window
which will never unlock. The quickening salamanders,
the berry bushes suddenly spring to life,
but we can hardly wait for August,
September, October, November,
December, redone, touched up
like an old painting
someone’s mother has forgotten in the attic,
All these years.
And in a tiny flurry of light,
As if a giant had breathed forcefully
On an old dusty bookshelf,
We are reminded of distinction,
Of the distinction, the difference
Between halfway sound
And eternal breath.
The mollusks snap right off the ships,
We wish you were here, the dog
Starts barking at just the right time.
Written and Submitted by Omar Tanamly
Even John Lee Hooker had bills to pay
Sometimes, on the second day back,
wherever home is, after a trip back east,
or west, forlorn tall legs eking their way
through Labrador grass. It is moonlight,
in this town, the sunglasses our neighborhood
hoodlums hide behind spark, crack, and burst,
sending dark shards back into our favorite hiding
place. I suppose the expectancy, no, the collapsing,
shivering sideways hope must always meet terribly,
terrifically with the glass in the window
which will never unlock. The quickening salamanders,
the berry bushes suddenly spring to life,
but we can hardly wait for August,
September, October, November,
December, redone, touched up
like an old painting
someone’s mother has forgotten in the attic,
All these years.
And in a tiny flurry of light,
As if a giant had breathed forcefully
On an old dusty bookshelf,
We are reminded of distinction,
Of the distinction, the difference
Between halfway sound
And eternal breath.
The mollusks snap right off the ships,
We wish you were here, the dog
Starts barking at just the right time.
Written and Submitted by Omar Tanamly
Submission Seventeen
"Kitten's give me hope, along with other small fuzy things." ~Western Washington Student
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Submission Sixteen
Models: Jeff & Josephine
"True love gives me hope." ~Western Washington University Student
This thing called love. It seems to keep moving forward. Even just the search for true love seems to be motivational. While this was originally submitted by a WWU student it came up many more times in my search of what brings people hope. The common sentiments that people expressed to me was, "Love takes so many forms. Without the love that people have given me and that I have been able to give my life would have been a lot different and not as happy and fulfilling." So with that being said maybe it is time to let go and let love because apparently it is a very moving potent force.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Hope for the Hopeless
This is my theme song for my project.
Hope for the Hopeless by A Fine Frenzy
Stitch in your knitted brow
And you don't know how
You're gonna get it out
Crushed under heavy chest
Tryna? catch your breath
But it always beats you by a step
All right now
Making the best of it
Playing the hand you get
Well you're not alone in this
There's hope for the hopeless
There's hope for the hopeless
There's hope
Cold in a summer breeze
Yeah you're shivering
On your bended knee
Still when you're heart is sore
And the heavens pour
Like a willow bending in the storm
You'll make it
Running against the wind
Playing the cards you get
Something is bound to give
There's hope for the hopeless
There's hope for the hopeless
There's hope there's hope there's hope
There's hope
Submission Fifteen
the gift of non-invisibility
I have a friend who constantly
finds herself in a position
to nurse the wounds inflicted
by time upon the living soul.
she does not do this without frailty
and wonders why the sky cries
continually into her fractured cup.
it is her gift, I say.
as for mine, what good is
the soul of un-read verse?
how does a heart that bleeds
invisible ink bring about healing?
time is my gift, each dawn
a pretty wrapping, I say,
as i scribble my name
into the colors of the sunrise,
without apology or timidity,
because I (have to) believe
that somewhere, someone
is waiting for my poem;
somewhere, there’s
a reader who needs
to hear what I need to write;
someone who can decipher
my pain, my joy, where I cannot,
and take it into the folds of her abrasions,
using my blood and tears to heal her.
in, this way, giving of the self,
no one is invisible;
it is all I have to give.
By Dawn DiBartolo, CA
I have a friend who constantly
finds herself in a position
to nurse the wounds inflicted
by time upon the living soul.
she does not do this without frailty
and wonders why the sky cries
continually into her fractured cup.
it is her gift, I say.
as for mine, what good is
the soul of un-read verse?
how does a heart that bleeds
invisible ink bring about healing?
time is my gift, each dawn
a pretty wrapping, I say,
as i scribble my name
into the colors of the sunrise,
without apology or timidity,
because I (have to) believe
that somewhere, someone
is waiting for my poem;
somewhere, there’s
a reader who needs
to hear what I need to write;
someone who can decipher
my pain, my joy, where I cannot,
and take it into the folds of her abrasions,
using my blood and tears to heal her.
in, this way, giving of the self,
no one is invisible;
it is all I have to give.
By Dawn DiBartolo, CA
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Submission Thirteen
Rainbows -- A beautiful song by Tippy the Vegan/Introspective Mess
I live by the light at the end of a tunnel because no matter how dim it seems, it has shown through in the past, so I know it is there. A long while ago I realized how beautiful darkness can be, how haunting. And also how dangerous. The most beautiful creatures in the world are deadly, after all. After experiencing a mind-numbing depression that left me in constant pain for months on end, I came to appreciate this new found love for hope and all things that seemed so cheesy are far away. Then, the light at the end of a tunnel transitioned into a love of rainbows. The idea that no matter how dark a day, the world gives you a beautiful view of refracted light to gaze upon - whether it's seen internally or otherwise. ~Tippy the Vegan/Introspective Mess, CA
I live by the light at the end of a tunnel because no matter how dim it seems, it has shown through in the past, so I know it is there. A long while ago I realized how beautiful darkness can be, how haunting. And also how dangerous. The most beautiful creatures in the world are deadly, after all. After experiencing a mind-numbing depression that left me in constant pain for months on end, I came to appreciate this new found love for hope and all things that seemed so cheesy are far away. Then, the light at the end of a tunnel transitioned into a love of rainbows. The idea that no matter how dark a day, the world gives you a beautiful view of refracted light to gaze upon - whether it's seen internally or otherwise. ~Tippy the Vegan/Introspective Mess, CA
Submission Twelve
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Donald Carver on Hope & Heritage "what is it that makes us feel hopeless?...maybe a seemingly insurmountable task....a loneliness or separation?....a doubting of our self or fear of failure...and in turn, what can make us feel motivated or inspired?....beating the odds?... succeeding in spite of hardship?... being a part of something bigger than our self maybe.....when my life seems to get difficult, or things i take for granted inexplicably fail, or i have issues that get me down, i think of my great great aunt.............. phoebe left home in vermilon , ohio and crossed the great plains in a wagon in 1852... the arduous journey was chronicled in later life in her book "a pioneers search for an ideal home"....all manner of hardship was endured....attacks... death on the trail...hunger and thirst... 6 months!....parts unknown!...unsettled!....but they made it!..by sheer will...determination ...faith..... phoebe and holden went on to found the town of lynden in 1871.... she was called the "mother of lynden" not only because she named the town but also because , in the absence of a doctor, she delivered dozens of babies there... holden and phoebe started the first postal service... opera house...church ...school.... phoebe had 5 children of her own, one of which was born on the oregon trail (yes she was pregnant when she left home!), and she fostered 11 more children...... she was a common woman...a pioneer...but a history maker ,and a history teller....a possessor of spirit...and a giver of hope....her inspirational life will soon be commemorated by the renound sculptuist william mc dermitt, and serve as a constant reminder of the pioneer spirit and the determination and drive of the people who settled the northwest"
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Submission Eleven
"What gives me hope? Moments that put all else at a standstill." ~Robyn Bateman
Pleasures of Fruit, Sleep, and Summer
On an August afternoon,
my pudge-puckered hands
reached for dark, oval plums
that drooped from a tree outside.
The plums had bruised slowly
over time, as twisting branches
pressed up against the wood
slats of the house.
The few that I could reach
burst tart on my teeth, and dribbled
salmon pink juice
down my arms.
Behind the woodshed,
Jasper licked his golden jowls
patiently, eyeing the pulp
as it trickled through the cracks
of my palm. “Good Dog,” I’d said,
slurping bruised plum gut.
For an afternoon,
beneath the plum tree’s green-leafed shade,
we slept with bellies to soil;
me with mouth stained black and sweet,
and he with snout burrowed
close enough to dream of the soft-
ball body of a plum in his maw.
~Robyn Bateman
Pleasures of Fruit, Sleep, and Summer
On an August afternoon,
my pudge-puckered hands
reached for dark, oval plums
that drooped from a tree outside.
The plums had bruised slowly
over time, as twisting branches
pressed up against the wood
slats of the house.
The few that I could reach
burst tart on my teeth, and dribbled
salmon pink juice
down my arms.
Behind the woodshed,
Jasper licked his golden jowls
patiently, eyeing the pulp
as it trickled through the cracks
of my palm. “Good Dog,” I’d said,
slurping bruised plum gut.
For an afternoon,
beneath the plum tree’s green-leafed shade,
we slept with bellies to soil;
me with mouth stained black and sweet,
and he with snout burrowed
close enough to dream of the soft-
ball body of a plum in his maw.
~Robyn Bateman
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Monday, July 5, 2010
Submission Eight & Nine
"My future granddaughter, that is on the way gives me hope." ~Kay Dayss
"My Daughter, Alexia is my joy and inspiration, which keeps me moving forward. The fallowing poem is about her." ~Pam Green
Was it really what I heard?
A note to a word, lays suspended in my ear, which kindles the love running through my heart.
The changes that came from a gathering of words, binds me inside though I do not know why,
Was it really what I heard?
A stroll by the shore shall resolve this great bind, as I remember the note that changed to a word,
For the suspending sound still runs through my head as clear as the moment that is was said.
Was it really what I heard?
Having gathered my thoughts, I resolved to the love and let go of the bind that held me inside.
For the kindles of love grew stronger within for this word was repeated followed by a grin.
This was the day I heard her say “MAMA”!
"My Daughter, Alexia is my joy and inspiration, which keeps me moving forward. The fallowing poem is about her." ~Pam Green
Was it really what I heard?
A note to a word, lays suspended in my ear, which kindles the love running through my heart.
The changes that came from a gathering of words, binds me inside though I do not know why,
Was it really what I heard?
A stroll by the shore shall resolve this great bind, as I remember the note that changed to a word,
For the suspending sound still runs through my head as clear as the moment that is was said.
Was it really what I heard?
Having gathered my thoughts, I resolved to the love and let go of the bind that held me inside.
For the kindles of love grew stronger within for this word was repeated followed by a grin.
This was the day I heard her say “MAMA”!
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Submission Seven
"What offers me hope is the great mystery of existence, true love, selflessness, generosity, people coming together, the waves, the wind, and the mountains; all cycling through each other, transcending boundaries." ~Eric Schmitz
In The Morning
Wake up early in the morning
Stretch your back
Meditate for a moment
On the dreams you made last night
Go to someplace wild
Be relaxed
Listen to the wind
Feel the grass
See the horizon
Taste the ocean
Its briny waves crash over your feet
When its right: be a friend
When its night: be a lover
Never forget to first mend
Feelings which have torn
The Pilings from your harbor
Midnight Caldron
I feel the wheel turning
The spring of life burning
Green flames in a midnight caldron
Ingredients of west wind,
Earth and heart are mixed in
With hair of a missing loved one
I feel you soul in a bolt of lightning
The clouds have found you far to frightening
You slip down from the sky
Illuminating mountains
I hear the caldron bubbling
The spirits are fermenting
Sweet smells that were almost forgotten
My memories re-find me
In arms that help to heal
The breathe of a deep blue ocean
Release Defeat
I like to stay on beat
Feel my mother pulsing
Beneath my feet
Frozen is my apathy
Flaming is my truth
I’ll tell you what I mean
Time is never waiting
Talk is never telling
I like to walk a path
Skip on down to the creek
Release de-feet
I am the ancient one
I am the shining sun
I am my own guru
I am inside of you
~All Submitted/Created by Eric Schmitz
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