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Fairy TulipsThey tell you not to look, but I look because I will not be blinded to the little shards of magic hidden inside of tulips #Fairies #Tulips #Flowers #Pretty #Fantasty
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Blue Blue Bye-byeYou wake up with lint on your lashes and the 10 a.m. sun spotlighting your pores. I catch myself counting your whiteheads—not with disgust but affection. Like little eggs scattered across your cheeks and chin, they will hatch once you rest. Sleep, fledgling, sleep, and may Sunday pass with the sweetness of a lullaby. We spent the evening roosting like pigeons on clay tile come winter: we the 'bores.' Though squab may squabble, they mate for life; one bird for every bird. And though the anatomy of a feather is really the same from ave to ave, human nature demands that the mind and heart wander the skies for novel thrills. Then call my nose a bill and my feet talons for I am winged and hollow-boned and the lover of one, content in cooing and building a nest of twigs and yarn. I never wanted a collection of suitors desperate to fly the coop unheard. I wanted you, my song. I wanted you, the future of my flock. #Poetry #CreativeWriting #LovePoem #Monogamy #Relationships The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
CozyA hand bound and constructed hardcover book with sewn fabric pages and embroidered accents. Laser print transfers depicting memories from my teenage youth into adulthood. #Zine #Cozy #BookArt #SamiCronk #LaserTransfers #Embroidery #HandboundBook
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Tiny Creatures#Painting #TinyPaintings #TinyCreatures #SusanJamison #Miniatures #AnimalArt #Lamb #Snake #Lizard #Frog
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Once the Singing StartsBy Jessica Reidy QuailBellMagazine.com I feel a song falling into the bathtub through the holes in the shower head, holes in the atmosphere, the black hungry holes in blackness that turn everything into inside-out spaghetti. I wonder about their appetites whistling through. Space calls out. I don't know what it wants. I can't be an astronaut. I'm not ______. I'd answer, but I'd just be yelling out the white window of my apartment disturbing people below going out, going in. Yelling at stones on fire, unheard amidst the din of gas and gravity. Gas builds in their ice throats, welling up. They cry out because someday they will implode. They've seen it all. They've seen it through their pulsing sobbing. Other stars are cracked in half, open. Once the swelling starts, the singing starts, and their lungs out-grow their other parts. Soon, they'll all be holes. #Poem #Poetry #CreativeWriting #Singing
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End of September#EndOfSeptember #MusicVideo #Direction #LaskoAndKestler
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The Playlist SeriesMemories are fickle things. Some we remember clear as day, others are shrouded in fog. But there is still a distinct feeling in these cloudy memories that we can recognize and contemplate on. These prints were inspired by those feelings that exist only vaguely in my past. #Screenprint #Print #KevinVQDam #PlaylistSeries # Memories
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Mists and Snow#Photography #ChristaDickson #Snow #Fashion #MistsAndSnow
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They Yanked Out Percy Shelley's HeartBy Amelia Parkison Edelman QuailBellMagazine.com When the poet perished, Like Cowper’s each, alone in a boating accident, his body was brought cobalt and cold and odd-mottled to the beach, where they burned it for fear of silent and barnacle-bred disease. While dead Shelley’s chest gave birth to a sunset he opened like an oyster, tugged with flames like hooks like stares. There was his heart—a strange juicy jewel being freed from its cage, a reticent bird, a herring whose net has relinquished this small nautical gleam like a wound. Then someone rushed in, weirdly eager to pluck the precious vegetable from its bone-church. They shied from the bonfire, wet gleam in hand, to put that bloody, naked mouse in the hand of Shelley’s wife. She must have kept it, mustn’t she? A scummy soap-dish occupant, or the jellied contents of a screw-top jar, reflecting the lid’s checkers in red and white. I’m sure that high-necked, apocalyptic Mary Shelley wasn’t squeamish—she, Frankenstein’s young mother, could have kept much worse than a jelly-jar heart. Quite the prize, this percussive beast deprived of drum and burn and home. Mary must have rested assured that she possessed the best essence of Percy’s Romantic temperament, now cold and rubbery, congealed like day-old food. Perhaps her dramatic example, its blood-filled physicality, is one to be followed. Should we give up our ashes? Toss toes and breasts of beloveds, lend their eyelashes to the wind? Instead we could keep their hearts, stacked like shells on the mantelpiece, like books or boxes or framed photos. These jelly-jar hearts, winking gluttons and glowing, for us to take down on holidays and dust off like good china, like sugared peaches, to hold their jeweled fire to the light and admire. In the writer's words: "I'm a writer/editor/ghostwriter from NYC. I was recently selected for the Emerging Writers Workshop at the Center for Book Arts, and my work has appeared in/on a motley assortment of publications, including Qu.ee/r Magazine, So To Speak Journal, The Arts Politic Magazine, First Time Magazine, xoJane, Elephant Journal, NPR, MindBodyGreen, Thought Catalog, MTV Act, and others." #Poem #Poetry #CreativeWriting #AmeliaParkisonEdelman #PercyShelley #MaryShelley
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The Prince and the Pauper#Illustration #HannahGrubbs #PrinceAndPauper #FrogPrince #Frogs #AnimalIllustration
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