Our Movment

Being in touch
Grounded well rounded
Running up the walls Much

Tic tac scratch sounded
Flowing through the scene
Grounded well rounded

Flying through the air rolling on green
Launch to a vault tagging both hands
Flowing through the scene

Slowing to balance across the high bands
Scrapping pavement to speed
Launching to vault tagging both hands

Sprinting jump, dash, to lead
Creating suspicion
Scraping pavement to speed

Movement with description
Being in touch
Creating suspicion
Running up the walls much.

Loren C.

L

The beauty is every where, much of a cure
beauty like lines on a canvas art
every curve freckle and dimple so pure
lashes like lines leading to the heart

I instill the features, the hook at the edge of her mouth
feeling like the streaked lines of rain
following boarders and edges north and south
pounding not like butterflies but war drums to the silent vein

the warm morning light casts soft shadows
eyes like stain glass windows with movement
apparent movement but much to clouded to see in
Im outside like a need with held, never spent

Every look and expression so troubled but clean
to hold and comfort is like a warm winters dream.

Loren C.

With In

The lion is pounding at my door
his main wisping in the violent wind
the violent cat eats all in store
killing and slaughtering helpless kin

the blood of the family runs dry
mixed with the mud and mangled fur
the enormous lion turns to cry
sitting in the majestic plains under the stars lure

the rolling winds sweep the gold of the grass
tuffing rugged lines across his spine
the creature bolts to flee the night and pass
running as the wind in an untouched line

he sets with what little was left of the sun
because he knows this lion will always be on the run.

Loren C.

Tiny Imperfections

Warped from the weight of paint, and hands, and plaster
colors, vibrant, swim across its length:
an ocean sunset
an arc of flame
a tired, twilight storm.

And here--the end is tightly wrapped in bandages of glue
cracked and faded, so the paint shines through.

Who can say how many others have held this,
how many walls came alive when hands, laughing,
pushed this slender stick aside to drown their brush
in these hazy, shining, creamy hues?
And who knows how many masks, façades, first breathed
with this plaster coating their lungs, caking their cheeks?

Perhaps these tiny imperfections--
bubbles on the surface--
are a fingerprint.

Perhaps my hands are echoing another's,
retracing their steps.

Like stars, I see the afterimages
(preserved in paint, and hands, and plaster)
of life in this room, and on this stage;
the colors have come from somewhere.

-Madeline S.

(The imagery assignment. Based on the stir stick that inhabits the lower shelf of the DVD cart.)

He lies there silently, alone on the desk
Ever ready to awake, yet content to stay at rest

His eyes lay shut gently,
not closed tight for protection,
just enough that he can sleep

Grout and sediments collect
at the corners of his eyes
from years without opening

But he looks unbothered
by the grey pools of muck
covering his face

He has no ears on the sides
where they should be
But this does not make him unhuman,
He simply does not need them

On his right cheek
a pool of flesh color
seems to flow from bottom to top
as if he is slowly coming back to life

And so we wait,
but still he lays silently,
alone on the desk

~Brad C

A Terzanelle for You

I’m sorry if I wasn’t clear
This is what I meant to say
There’s someone who will love you dear

You’ve done wrong but it’s ok
So have I but now I’m new
This is what I meant to say

The perfect ones they are not few
They don’t exist we’ve all done wrong
So have I but now I’m new

Now I’m new I’ll sing a song
Unlike the perfect ones
They don’t exist we’ve all done wrong

Which father would send their son
With a message to save your soul
Unlike the perfect ones

There’s one who will make you full
I’m sorry if I wasn’t clear
With a message to save your soul
There’s someone who will love you dear

Beth Van Wie

Two-Face

Putting on the mask, I gain a different face
Exploring the world through new perceptions.
Developing my character at an unfamiliar pace
Original personality hiding within my concentration
Buried beneath the new emotions.

My pink rosy cheeks transform a palish gray,
Wrinkles now visible under my eyes,
The soft wind causes my frail mustache to sway,
But my ancient appearance seems wise
and my fragile image is expressed through my motions

Taking off the mask, I reveal my former self,
Free from my imitation of another personality,
Regaining the appearances of my former self.
Again feeling young and mighty,
but forgetting who I originally was momentarily.

Later I become stressed and put the mask back on,
Releasing me from my own prison,
Wishing to avoid my problems for eons.
Realizing stress is inevitable again my old self is reawakened,
But I discover this transition can be used effectively.

-Jeff Harris