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1. Markus Nechay.

Amidst the floral air of life’s oxygen, fauna mamma figure carries offspring in arm, like marsupial in pouch through the emerald forest of this place on earth,

illuminated by electric moonlight.

Bouncing down, he does trip and trod on tip toe, through musical rhythm and the assembled audience of everybody’s blues.

Like birds in the tree tops, teaching and learning to make ones way through the world, the sproutling does make his own waves this way and that, an explorer of the situation in one comic scene and others more serious in between.

He’s in with the in crowd now.

For however long.

One clear song.


2. Amanda Palmer


What I missed?

The artists who didn’t sell.

The feeling of a firm hand absent-mindedly squeezing my knee as I pass, barely aware of its own confidence.

The absence that makes it real.

The glass-crashing sound of a crowd gathered in a garden just for joy.

And

The sound of my own heart beating - that slowly - in time with the tide.

The loud rattle of the poet’s bones at the start of the second night of the night, staring at a billiard ball in his right hand, lit by the lamp above the stereo.

Seeing something so stunningly and casually beautiful that I lose my breath a few times in one night.

I missed barefoot on the hot brick.

Stunned; someone asking how I was, and listening to the answer with pure curiosity.

I missed piano in the morning.

I missed your arms around me, as normal as brushing teeth, as laundry drying, as sneezing at the sun, as sleep.

I missed eyes that do not ask, do not answer, do not fear, barely even see.

The eyes that simply say

Look no further

Like air to the drowning

We have simply been up here

all along.







3. Tennessee Williams, in Provincetown





Swan Song


But who shall say tonight

for all its drunkenness and passion

and the thick blinding heat

is not more real than all the cold tomorrows

you and I may ever have?


……..


Enjoying the silence


Campersand / Althing / sundry posts still coming

Deeply Deeply Basking with friends loves and family

Holler if you’re in Provincetown and have any advice

♥️♥️♥️



Xxx


happy summer

A

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Comments

Kaleigh

❤️❤️❤️

Anonymous

I'm up by ptown, what do you need?

Aimsel Ponti

❤️❤️❤️

Dahlia Graham

I taught Zo to skip rocks at the swimming hole yesterday. When hers skipped for the first time, her eyes lit up. Then she tried again and again. Sometimes getting it and sometimes not, reaching down through the current of the stream to pluck out the smoothest, most beautiful rocks, and willing to part with them to watch them hop across the water. Happy summer. Glad you are basking. Glad you found yourself. Glad that joy is taking the place of sadness more and more often. Glad to know you. We dropped books at the library yesterday and I smiled. Have a fab week. If you pass through North Truro, our friends Katie and Josiah (the one who was on the boat when his friend was swallowed and spit out by a whale) have a shop called Chequessett Chocolate.

Angel Rosen

Following your poem... AFTER A SILENCE Amanda takes my hand in the garden. I am grateful to be alongside wonder like this, finally having caught up. I didn't walk for five years. I didn't talk for twelve hours. For once, I have nothing to say, even with permission. My hands have done a hundred horrible things in the name of grief or revenge, my hands have held the faces of the dead, have waved goodbye to people whose leaving was unbeknownst to me, have cut into my own body. However, from this moment leaving the beach, my hands have done nothing else— Totally absolved. Amanda holds my hand and squeezes it twice, the grip certain, a small gesture in a grand I love you, I squeeze back. I think I learned to live like this. For these three minutes, our hands folded into heartbeat, one beat, two beats, one beat— I made total sense of my life. My heartbeat in my poet's hand, if there was a melody shared between us, I would hum along. All the surviving I had done was for this moment, and I think, at last, I forgive my hands. I think, at last, I can walk in any garden, away from any beach, and keep my heart in my hand for the sharing, knowing how beautiful all of this surviving will have been if in the end, I am loved. ❤️❤️❤️ I love everyone here.

Coila

♥️♥️♥️

And Steiner

My summer poem to myself (to share!). I have the right I have the right to say "No." and it be a complete sentence. I have the right to not explain myself. I have the right to change my mind at anytime for any reason. I have the right to protect myself and others as I see fit. I have the right to opt out of any feedback at anytime. I have the right to refuse to listen to or follow advice. I have the right to not have my life critiqued if I don't want it to be. I have a right to be supported and loved in ways that work for me. I have the right to support and love others in ways that work for them. I have the right to love myself and protect myself from shaming. I have the right to be angry at my abusers and hold them responsible for their actions. I have the right to tell you to go F yourself at anytime for any reason. I have the right to offer hugs to anyone at anytime for any reason.

Vicki Callanan

If we are sharing 🤣 *Where the Lost Ones Are* There are many places I cannot take you by hand, or with my words: into the many and varied silences the way a soul folds in on its own untelling, an absence so absolute that even the memory is gone. I cannot admit you to the way the soul departs gradually, and by degrees until the space left behind is sharp and inhospitable and the mother who cried in the dark takes a life with her bare hands before your eyes. I wish I could describe the nights that follow, then the empty face and grasping hands the way her fingers explore the softness of your own throat silently consistently suggesting. I cannot take you there, but what I can do is invite you into the spaces where the lost ones are, where they do not hide their terror or try to dull the agony of all their losing. They are here, with their faltering voices and their burned skin. they are here with eyes that saw it all, and can’t forget and can’t make do or make it smooth for all the others. will you come? and will you hold my hand, because I am frightened and the feelings are too big for me to hold.

Kristen W.

Gorgeous. Poetry frees us - lets the comet surrender its orbit from time to time.

Kristen W.

PS: Seriously thinking of that scene, featuring the ever-resilient Cynthia, in Rugrats now. 😅

Rae

The picture of the dolls on the beach gave me a flashback to summers at the lake as a kid. I had a "not Barbie" doll that tanned in the sun.