She saw the world through a camera lens
And that's just how it was
With filters and Glares from strangers
Who didn't feel the sun
She took photos of the rain
And dewdrops on the grass
Of smiling warm faces
And things that were just crass
She dreamt of her pictures
Under bylines and over books
Her documents of others
Filled with stills that could speak words
She took pictures of her girl
Who was black and blue in depth
Who wanted to be colored
But her filter shown red
She captured her in pain
And in her rare bright smiles
She told her that things
"Just take a while"
She made portfolios and scrapbooks
Of their adventures and their muse
She never knew that her girl would take her life
At a quarter after two
She cried and cried weeks to days
Until the tears just stopped
When she took a photo of the rain
And felt her sadness drop
It shattered all around the floor
And she fumbled with the keys
She printed all the pictures
And posted them with ease
She scattered them around the town
Then fell down to rest
For she could feel a burden being
Lifted off her chest
she went to the school
Of the boy who had hurt her
And her girl
She stood up
She told them
"Has she finally done enough?
She ripped her skin with blades
And fasted for days.
She lit skin on fire
Just because you are liars.
Look at this picture
Do you see her
Look mister
She was beautiful
Yet you made her feel
Like she was void of zeal
You're the ones who told her what to do
And she took her own life
Just like you told her to do.
Are you happy now!
Or are you feeling blue
Are you regretting what you told her to do!"
And with a single crack
Of a baseball bat
she took a picture
Of there bodies cracked shells
As she plumbed them to hell
She saw that red filter
And she felt the pain inside
She could feel herself laugh
Mania arise
The she took one final shot
A picture with the the two
Then killed herself to rise anew
And she got her picture under bylines
And became famous for her art
For everyone loves the artist
Who kills for their art.

Scrapbooking

My favorite hobby has always been scrapbooking
It's such a creative activity to do
For pictures and poems, I'm always looking
Forever scanning magazines through and through

I look for pictures of people and places
Some happy, some excited, some tired, some sad
I try to find real emotional traces
And whatever I like, to my scrapbooks I add

Over the years many books I have made
Scrapbooks of poetry old and new
Old web sites and online pictures I raid
Some of my scrapbooks are happy, some blue

Certainly, on this hobby you can say I'm hooked
There's nothing like it to keep me involved
No one would believe how hard I have looked
For rhymes and riddles that will never be resolved

I started this past time at our church
Each Wednesday all the ladies would look
Each one in her chair quietly perched
Consumed with finding the perfect hook

Everyone knows that you  must create ideas
Inspiring and intriguing to reel in a person
Someone who will cast off all their fears
And stop to read your poem for a life lesson

I love scrapbooking, it's so rewarding
It brings childhood memories back to me
School days when with friends consorting
Times that were so happy and carefree

Often I reread through my many books
Books I've created  by myself
Sometimes I find things that I've overlooked
Words that reveal how I once felt

Poems about family and friends so dear
Poems about God's creatures so lovely
Poems about Nature, Seasons, and Fears
Poems about things you can't buy with money

I'm planning on leaving my scrapbooks all
To my kids and grandkids after I'm done
When this life with its troubles are just a sad pall
And all they have left is the legacy I've begun

I never had many pictures or prose
Left me by parents or other relations
That's why I suppose I strive to compose
Scrapbooks to leave to younger generations

I want them to always remember me as
The Grandma that loved them so
I hope they realize that I had pizzazz
Even though I can't leave them much dough

The things that are important in life
Aren't always the things that are seen
When you live through all the sorrow and strife
You'll understand just what I mean

A love of poetry is what I will leave
For my children and grandchildren too
For what is a life and to what will you cleave
If great poetry is missing from you

By Julia Shaw
May 2020

They met on rainy days
  when the air was thick,
laden with the
   scent of old musky
     scrapbook memoirs
           & salt tears' reminisces

I used to believe in love
at first sight

I'd always trusted that fate
would bring me to that boy
that I would fall in love with
and one day I thought I had found him

I was with my friends at school
we were talking about the upcoming dance
I was going to wear pink
my best friend Tegwyn was wearing ocean blue
and my other best friend Lily was wearing red

Two boys came up to us
we had no idea who they were
when they were near and we realized
that they were headed in our direction
we rated them
the brunette was an 8.5/10
and the taller brunette was an 8.5/10
as well
us three thought they were the cutest things in the world.

"Hey girls" said the shorter one
we were giddy and afraid and all just said "hi"

The taller boy made the move first
he went for my best friend Tegwyn

The shorter boy went for me
we soon found out that they were best friends too

I felt sorry for Lily
but she had said many times that she had no interest in boys
at least not yet
no matter how many times Tegwyn and I tried to convince her

Us four went on a double date
I knew my boy was for real
I didn't know about Tegwyn
I'd ask her later

After I met my boy
and that first date
I decided then to believe in love at first sight

He was amazing
he was so sweet
so caring
and he told me he loved me as much
as I loved him

We continued our relationship
from that grade 7 January
to the July after our first year of university

I stayed in love with that boy
for all that time
I never thought we'd separate

I had scrapbooks,
scrapbook after scrapbook in my room
with different themes

Our wedding
our baby girl
our baby boy
our honeymoon
our twins (if we had them, boy boy or girl boy or girl girl)
our retirement
our jobs
our vacations
our home

I had it all played out carefully
in my head and those scrapbooks of mine
he didn't know about those though
they were my secret

And one day in that July
he said he didn't love me anymore
that spark had disappeared a month or two earlier
he said he couldn't see me as beautiful anymore
he couldn't see my glow anymore
he couldn't see me anymore

But of course
he couldn't see my broken heart either

I had kept in touch with Tegwyn all these years
Lily had a boy to herself too
Tegwyn couldn't believe it
but I couldn't believe it more than she couldn't believe it

It was all so sudden
but of course, nothing lasts long

I visited your grave the other day, and it occurred to me that I couldn't tell you how I was doing.
I assumed you're doing fine, or at least I'd like to think so.
I couldn't bare to tell you that I've stopped believing in Heaven,
I couldn't bare to tell you that I've become the soil surrounding your casket.
I sat there in silence while my fingers went numb and I swear for a second
I could feel my soul sinking into the ground trying to shake you awake,
To tell you I need you. To tell you I haven't made progress. I'm killing everyone around me.
I wanted you to wake up for just ten minutes. I wanted to tell you everything I haven't been able to write nor say out loud.
I wanted to tell you that I'm okay and I wanted you to tuck my hair behind my ear
and melt these frozen tears off my cheeks and look me straight in the eyes to tell me that I'm not.
I wanted to sit there in your arms and scream,
Because every time I try screaming, I  fear that I'll awaken parts of me that are meant to stay unconscious.
But I've been meaning to think about myself for a second and-
I'VE BEEN SPENDING RESTLESS NIGHTS CLENCHING MY FISTS AROUND MY BEDSHEETS,
AND DIGGING MY FINGERNAILS INTO MY HANDS BECAUSE I'VE FOUND AN ADDICTION THAT I CANNOT TAME,
THE SIGHT OF BLOOD DOESN'T BOTHER ME THE WAY IT USED TO.
I'VE STARTED DOING THINGS TO FORGET.
I'VE STARTED LIGHTING PLANTS ON FIRE TO GET SOME SORT OF HIGH OUT OF LIVING.
I'VE STARTED BECOMING THE TYPE OF PERSON YOU TOLD ME NEVER TO BE.
MY PALMS ARE THE EYES OF HURRICANES AND DESTROY EVERYTHING THEY TOUCH,
WHY IS EVERYONE ACTING LIKE THEY NEVER SAW THE TREMBLING IN THE FIRST PLACE?
I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT SANITY IS AND I DON'T REMEMBER THE LAST TIME
MY HEAD WAS SILENT.
IT'S LONELY YOU KNOW, HAVING FIVE DIFFERENT PEOPLE TALK TO YOU AT ONCE IN BETWEEN YOUR EARS.
I MET SOMEONE THAT LIVES A BORDERLINE AWAY BUT STILL MANAGES TO SIT
ON MY PORCH AND WAIT FOR ME TO LET HIM IN.
I CAN'T STOP LEAVING DINNER TABLES WITHOUT PUSHING MY CHAIR IN FIRST,
I CAN'T STOP LEAVING PEOPLE WITHOUT SAYING GOODBYE.
I FEEL TOO FULL. I FEEL TO FULL OF FLAMES BURNING DOWN EVERY LAST CITY IN MY BODY,
I FEEL EMPTY. I FEEL LIKE IT'S SUNDAY MORNING AND I'VE POURED MY FATHER A BOWL OF CEREAL JUST TO FIND OUT WE'RE OUT OF MILK.
PLEASE DON'T HURT ME, I'M SORRY, I DIDN'T MEAN TO, PLEASE DON'T HUR-
I have a body made of one-hundred sheets of college ruled notebook paper that kids like me used to make scrapbooks out of.
I am a collection of bruises holding up photos of a Father's fist,
My hands were only made to hold those who feel empty when not holding a glass of wine.
Some days I am full of constant negativity and feel the need to rip grass out from the earth
and throw China cabinets to the floor to say that nothing stays pure forever.
I stopped thinking about myself for a second.
I sat at your grave and said nothing.
I was going to tell you all of this but I couldn't bare to tell you I stopped believing in Heaven.
The only time I ever saw you smile was on Sunday mornings.

It was 4:22 in the afternoon.
He had gotten out of work late
Because his boss decided to wait
Until the last minute to drop an atom
Bomb of files on his desk to be sorted.
His fingers burned from the cuts
Like residual radiation.
His coffee mug, emptied
Except for the last few, chilled
Drops, rested on his lap.
He hadn't been able to make
It to the public bus stop in time
So he jumped aboard the nearest
Subway train, found a seat in the
Middle of the next to last car,
And eyed his route on the
Map like a pinball in a machine.

For the first thirty minutes,
He stared intently at his mug,
Studying the smudges around the
Opening where his lips had been
Pressed into like a soft kiss.
It took him back to a time when
Kisses were like currency between
Him and his ex-lover, and each
Were more than generous.
Just as he began to imagine
The way her silk bra felt on his
Fingertips, a foul odor passed by the
Tip of his nose without saying excuse me.
His eyes searched the car until they
Fell upon the teenager sitting just six
Seats down, a white cylinder fitted between
Her fingers like a pencil tucked behind the ear.
"Excuse me, miss. You're not allowed
To smoke here."
His hand waved absently in front
Of his face in an attempt to
Dissipate the smell while her hand
Waved absently in his direction
In an attempt to dissipate his presence.
"I already know this."
His brow furrowed as he
Watched her take another hit,
Blowing the smoke out her nose.
"Then put it out, please."
She lifted her eyes from the novel
Clutched in her other hand
Before replying.
"I don't think I will."
If it had been any other day,
At any other time,
He would have
Dropped the
Subject.
But his mind was
Warped with toxic fumes,
And his vision was cloudy,
His legs were shaking.
He slid down the conjoined seats
Until he was only three spaces
Away from her annoyed posture.
"Now listen, dear. This is a subway,
A form of public transportation,
Not a coffee shop where you can
Just flick your ashes onto every
Available surface.
There are families aboard
This car, families who shouldn't
Be forced to inhale your second-hand smoke."
He took a deep breath, eyeing her expression.
She flipped a page and continued reading,
The cigarette hanging from her lips
Like a diver poised to jump.
"Excuse me, miss, but.."
Just as he had begun speaking,
She tossed her book on the empty
Seat beside her and leaned forward,
Resting her elbows on her knees
As she gazed intently at him.
"I don't imagine you're one of
Those self-righteous types who
Boss people around on principle,
So I'm going to explain this to you."
She held up her cigarette in front
Of her face, forcing him to look,
Despite his stunned expression.
She pointed to the padded,
White area where the
Imprint of her lips resided.
"You see this? I call this happiness.
This is every boy I ever kissed,
Every apology I didn't mean,
Every argument I won,
Every smile that ever
Stretched across my face."
She pointed to the dark,
Crumbled substance at the end.
"This is what I call misery.
This is every heart I ever broke,
Every dollar I ever stole,
Every cut I ever
Inflicted on
Myself."
She held
The cigarette
Loosely in her
Fingers as she spoke.
"If you notice, as I smoke it,
The misery goes up on smoke,
And the happiness remains."
She tossed it across the car.
"Some people have scrapbooks
Where they keep their memories
So they can refer to them as
Often as they please.
Some people go to therapy
To hash out every feeling they
Refuse to deal with. But I
Live with my memories,
And I carry them with
Me, but when the
Miserable ones
Seem to overtake
The happy ones. I simply
Smoke them away. So if you
Are so insistent on taking away
My cigarettes, then I suggest you
Burn every scrapbook and pencil
And pill bottle you can find,
Because this is my escape."
She leaned back in her
Seat, staring authoritatively.
His lips parted several times before
He reached into his pocket and removed
An orange bottle with a white cap.
He twisted the top off and
Poured a single pill
Into his empty hand.
"The yellow side is
Every girl I fell in love with
Every vacation I ever took
Every baseball game I
Ever watched.
The red side
Is every girl
Who broke my heart.
Every day I see my boss.
And every evening I
Sit alone in the dark."
He tucked the pill back
Into the bottle like he was
Putting a child to sleep.
She eyed him curiously,
Watching as he fondled
The bottle in his hand.
"This is my escape."
His eyes lifted,
Meeting hers.
"I'll trade you."
Pursed lips met
With indecision
Until she pulled
Her pack of cigarettes
From her leather purse
And tossed them on his lap.
"We're all dying slowly anyway."

no count-downs for birthday parties
no arm wrestles, no jump shots
no go-cart donuts
not even a snowball

where did we go?

blond hair
up to my shoulders
surrounded by jewels
some empty-paned picture frame
couple sprouts beneath a pine
saying "monkeys" for Grammy's kodak
red clay on your feet
pink frosting in your teeth
me, sheathed in my favorite shirt
"I'm the big sister!"
with a butterfly depicting
what I've yet to become

how wrong have we gone?

well, I'll be twenty
once spring rolls around
and brother
you're not far behind
I can't tell time
to change its mind
but I promise you
it won't be changing mine
from the photographs, scrapbooks
I'll forever feel your laughter
just like goosebumps
the brail I'm reading into
let's gaze past glares
straight through white sunbeams
spiking your brown eyes
twice as deep as mine
the truest shades
on the face of the earth
to this very
foggy day
this mirror, this moment snagged
before shutters snap
and capture us, splatter us
on matte paper, or cell screens
with brown hair
up to your shoulders

way to go, little brother
but I'm still keeping that tee
because the only thing
I've always been proud to be
is your big sister

Vultures breathe like dragons,
old chalky smoke dissipating into the two story windows.
They silently stalk the curvature of the walls
each step freeing grimy steam,
the constant chugging of a train.
Can’t keep their scarves under control
weaving like salmon up stream,
their stiletto heels making no sound
washed out by typing and keyboard sighs.

Apotheosis (Latin): to become god,
each word in these shelves claim emperor status,
fiction novels start their own scrapbooks
encyclopaedias reach the 5th floor
committing literary suicide.
Don’t keep books open
the words will float away.
Letters will do anything to escape their pages.

History on hierarchy
exploiting the 19th century microfilm
making a hierarchy in the history section,
jamming the 20 cent printers with advertisements.
Riots silently blossom,
hidden in broken globes
from Ecuador to Kenya.
They are uprising
burning the library down.

He is who you want to see at the airport,
half asleep, pastel sweatshirt half zipped.
Half length shorts ending just above the knees.
Eyes matching the green and blue abstract swirls
patterned into the carpet to hide passenger sick-up.

The background to travelling japanese circus photos,
they’ll look back in their scrapbooks,
past the ponies on the baggage carousel,
see him waiting for the delayed international arrival.

Stiff legs tread quietly down grey hallways,
stringing a stickered suitcase along moving walkways,
thoughts caught between continents, in escalator’s teeth.

Tiptoeing over the hot coffee spilled like oil,
the taste of morning breath clinging to the back of the throat,
chalky as chilled ashes, abandoned and unswallowed.

When the taxis are cold and the day’s been worn out,
before it’s even begun; patchy fabric stretched over toes
rubbing thin on the inside of your shoes,
he’ll circle your head like a daisy crown.

To hold the tiny scars on his broad shoulders,
traces blemishes like a mine sweeper,
would be like orange juice at 40 000 ft.
Intimate in a way only TSA agents know how to be,
looking for explosives behind the ribcage, to the left.

There's lots of books out there on marriage
But one thing is a must
Your marriage will just crash and burn
If it is not based on trust

Ma and Pa were married now
for 40 years or so
When asked what made it last long
dad said mom knows how to....

keep a house and run the kids
she finds the deals out at the malls
and when the day is done and dusted
mom is good rubbing my....

back, dad he likes his hunting
going fishing and his truck
mom, likes to make up scrapbooks
and mom also likes to....

work the church bazar each month
she is always baking food
while mom is working for the church
dad is running around...

driving us kids everywhere
he likes to takes us to the lake
we fish for bass and afterwards
he pulls out his large .....

*** of bills, so we can buy pop
still in bottles made of glass
he always buys one more for mom
to take and stick it in her....

fridge, they always say I love you
before they go to bed
and then after they say goodnight
mom gives daddy...

a good night kiss. (what did you think?)


There's lots of books out there on marriage
But one thing is a must
Your marriage will just crash and burn
If it is not based on trust

My poetry's really meant as decoration
For the days of life that we get rationed;
My lines for scrapbooks, wrapped around vases;
Words embroidered utilitarian places.

My words antimacassars for things nearby;
Some dangling sentences passing by,
Upon the latest quilt or jewelry box;
Or purse, or duffle, or coffee mug.

Please use my poems as flourishes and frills,
To substitute for things sans time to feel;
Shabby chic poetry, for every need:
Then there's always something to read.

Little sparrows show off their agility,
dancing up and down violin necks.
Pecking staccato notes out of the air.
Making tea and dropping ceramics
behaving clumsily and babbling nonsense
even after they've been told
sit down and be quiet.

Imitation ducks sit squat,
quiet, muddy, decoying
singing water stains,
spitting curses from their bills.
Pulling bed sheets up to their chins,
nesting between the covers.
Very anonymous in their colours,
not a deviation among them.

Cold wax and dry glue
flake off creases and folds.
These lovely imitations,
cuckoo plaster cast knuckles
snowflaking to the ground,
useless with fine motor skills.
Peeling off like dead leaves,
parasitic nest components.

All my fingernails are different lengths,
evolving finches’ beaks
on isolated islands
With scratches on the vinyl of my thumb,
sand beneath my cuticles,
scrapbooks between my fingerprints.
Piano keys team up in groups of two,
sharing sharps and flats.


Filed and polished,
pink budgies dispose of portfolios apathetically,
slamming filing cabinets shut.
Cuttle bones rattling,
mirrors cracking.
Irritable thighs complaining,
they hunker with bad posture,
frowning on their perch.
Squat salient warbles
clamoring sharply down corridors
over whistling loudspeakers.

Poster orioles elbow aside crowds,
bright bones flashing
neon signs
keratin streaked or spotted
for biological attention.
Weaponry painted exciting colours,
friendly hues and enthusiastic tints.
Lies dressed in curiosity,
attracting intrigue.

My heron neck in the air
searches for information,
explanation, observation.
Greedy for projections,
living in the tree tops,
reflected in shop windows,
my skinny anisodactyl talons
for walking on mud,
wading through marsh,
boggy water.

My hands are geese
jabbering back and forth
across my chest.
its very distracting
to have these conversations
going on between palms,
arguing the best way to fold paper cranes,
whether chocolate pudding
should be stirred clockwise or counter.

Take a gander at the world you don't touch because your fingers are too flightly

“I’m still in awe of words” (in life, as in poetry, timing is everything)

objects, humans, surprise and interrupt our
daily modalities, knocking us, yo! to the ground,
we, pounding it, for the word void appears,
the frustration of incapacity incarcerating,
accompanied by the loudest silenced scream,
of no poetry available, try again later!

in life, as in poetry, timing is everything

we walkabout, thinking of the scheduled eventualities, or
the dates calendar-circled, though some questioned marked,
in pencil inserted, will I be a mother, find me a husband,
a human grander grandee, fit to be with me a noble progenitor
of more than our generation, watching the sidewalk cracks for an
inkling of when, on or about such and such an alteration,
a seam undone,
a stumbling, seeing a realization as we fall, hands extending,
a notice of arrival,
all needing reconnoitering, commemorating, a poem prepared,
but none to no avail

in life, as in poetry, timing is everything

so we are in awe of words, so necessary, everybody knows,
the awe in awesome, a description for the pixels encapsulates
in I-phone photos,
the where and the why of when, I was grinning like a stupid fool,
the inability to deliver precisely when required the covering of
an appropriate description, your words, use your words, will
fail you spectacularly and so we remain awed, realizing

in life, as in poetry, timing is everything

but awesomely awesome word worlds, near and dear, held forever
in scrapbooks, the literary overlay of the treasures of everyday life,
are the still life of our longevity contextual, the celebratory,
the unexpected losses, largest to smallest, in size order,
kept fresh when you flip through those poems in dusty binders,
in oversized sewing boxes, yellowing in concert with our eyes,
graying with follicles of past pluperfect,
recalling not just the when’s, but the more important,  now, the
wherefore and whereupon, the words marking the conjunctions,
recoding the recorded synapses firing sequentially, brain to fingers, the ah so of the poetry of lifetimes

“I’m still in awe of words” (in life, as in poetry, timing is everything)

<>

Saturday
September
21st
2019

I keep a private Scrapbook
You won't see on my shelf;
Stuffed with trivia from my life,
Known to no one but myself.

It's filled with words and actions,
Lies, cheats and thefts;
Nothing really serious,
But enough that I won't share.

Deeds I'm not proud of,
Words uttered to hurt;
Clippings from a checkered past
Sealed safely in my book.

There's some who'd like to read it,
Expose me for what it's worth;
They should proceed with caution,
They have their own Scrapbook.

Swiveling in my chair;
chivalry’s not so fair
when you aren’t here
to compare

the ducks in the pond,
where we used to ponder
temperatures on the other side,
and wonder

how much bread we needed,
and where they went in the winter
when wind was thick with frost;
how bitter

life seems now in my lazy chair,
lonesome feet limp on the ground,
with thoughts of your touch
spinning ‘round

my mind; consuming my time,
memories like scrapbooks
flipping from front to back,
with looks

that excite me years later,
as I dwell in my little chair
and you sleep under covers
we share

two thousand miles
away.

Hi! This is about music so scroll on if you don't care.
I'm working on my debut album, Drama Kween, and decided to share some of the mini songs that will be in between subject changes throughout the album. They'll have simple instrumentals later on, but for right now are acapella. Give 'em a listen?

To Me

it's on soundcloud.com/iguessimbaileymartin/to-me

lyrics:
"Sometimes I talk to myself, sometimes I sing to myself.
Sometimes I talk about talking and singing to myself,
sometimes I sing about singing and talking to myself.
Sometimes I talk and sing about talking and singing about singing and talking to myself (to myself)."

The Hippie Song

it's on soundcloud.com/iguessimbaileymartin/the-hippie-song

lyrics:
"No one says lice and no one says gay, but your modesty and life you better throw it away,
'cause in a world where the media
replaces scrapbooks
and hearts,
if you're livin' like a hippie they will tear you apart
if you're livin' like a hippie they will tear you apart
if I'm livin' like a hippie they will tear me apart
if I'm livin' like a hippie they will tear me apart
tear me apart
t-t-t-tear me apart!"

Goodbye

it's on soundcloud.com/iguessimbaileymartin/goodbye

lyrics:
"I'm so tired, I'm so tired.
Of feeling I have to cry.
I just wanna lay with you in my bedroom and watch the days go by.
But I'm so tired, tired of feeling shy.
And counting how many tears make up for a year.
Is this hello or goodbye?
Is this hello or goodbye?
I wanna know if this is the last time.
Is this hello or goodbye?
Well it's goodbye! Baby it's goodbye.
I was tired of the games and the pain and the lies so baby it's goodbye.
It's goodbye! Baby it's goodbye.
So I'm gonna rid you of my bedroom and get on with my life.
I'm so tired, I'm so tired.
Not gonna waste my time!
So I'm gonna rid you of my bedroom and get on with my life."

I tear pages out of other people's scrapbooks,
Pretend I had a normal, happy childhood,
Dance around reality till I fall over dizzy
And my hands shake with the weight of everything.
I spend my life spinning in circles;
I regress and repress and repeat.
I tear pages out of other people's scrapbooks.
I paste up a collage and I name it Me.

Looking through the scrapbooks of a past love
Is like walking through an art gallery alone,
Your sad, lonely footsteps breaking the taboo silence.
You look at different exhibits
And wonder if they are truly deep
Or just a simple combination of colors;
And in the search for something grander,
You begin to question yourself
And what kind of a person you are.
And at the end of your visit to the past
You are left feeling sad, small, and insignificant

we sink half an inch every year
"soon, we'll be up to our ears
in water"

not a creature of fury, just of habit
the moon pulls her to churning, to crashing.
hotter water temper tantrums
rush the brine into our basements
soaking scrapbooks in salt
until it crystallizes faces

and yet i cannot blame the marsh

for reclaiming what was never ours
and taking even what was as penance.
but i refuse to condemn us
for shaping shorelines into lives
because things are so much clearer
when they turn with the tides.
we’ll grow gills in time,

we have to.

the ones who stay on land
could never handle shifting sands
don’t know we cling onto the inlet
with white-knuckled hands.
they never grew from buried roots,
seeds are just flotsam in the sea
so they’ll call Frank O’Toole crazy
when he can’t bring himself to leave.

By Arcassin Burnham

You fell too many times til you fell on your face,
Taking problems into your own hands,you need space,
I Don't know what this means for the human race,
But I'd give anything right now to see your face,

When you were younger, you had dreams that faded,
When you were younger,* you had things you loved,
When you were younger, *your friends moved away,
When you were younger, you had things to say,
theres a light here , a light there,
at the end of the tunnel,
now theres a light here , a light there,
at the end of the tunnel,
theres a light here , a light there,
at the end of the tunnel,
now theres a light here , a light there,
at the end of the tunnel,
fall in the rabbit hole,

The things that you've been through in your life was a phase,
you kept scrapbooks of everything just in case,
and even though to your parents you were a disgrace,
And i don't care,
cause I'd give anything right now to see your face,

When you were younger, you had dreams that faded,
When you were younger,* you had things you loved,
When you were younger, *your friends moved away,
When you were younger, you had things to say,
theres a light here , a light there,
at the end of the tunnel,
now theres a light here , a light there,
at the end of the tunnel,
theres a light here , a light there,
at the end of the tunnel,
now theres a light here , a light there,
at the end of the tunnel,
fall in the rabbit hole.

/

I swear they always want something brand new..
I swear they always want something brand new..
when it comes back around, what you gonna do?
I swear they always crave something brand new..
Why you try to come around pulling my card..
looking for a problem straight out the yard..
And i'm like why you gotta be brand new..
I swear they always gotta be brand new.

I have arms made of china that break whenever you let go
I am an alignment of stars that you seem to disregard for the moon
I hold ownership of waterfalls for eyes
I have a body made of one-hundred sheets of college ruled notebook paper that kids like me used to make scrapbooks out of
I am a collection of bruises holding up photos of a Father's fist,
My hands were only made to hold those who feel empty when not holding a glass of wine

We should be finished by next fall. Last autumn was a good time and I hear history repeats itself. Sleeping under trees, smoking Lucky Strikes and tending to our hobbies. Lackadaisically bent over antediluvian scrapbooks, I hear this winter's to melt into a flood. The ark is under way, we should be finished by next fall.

It was something in the calm drift of the clouds or the tick-tick of the water meter. There was us and then there was them. We were flushed, the world was bluffing. There was us:

Deep breath.

We were the lost children roaming 'round Cair Paravel; the boxed kit youth unboxing on a caravel watching hypnotic YouTube videos and firing fire out of firewood; that was when I fell. Beside the flames under cover of conversation of God and Hell and all the proper nouns that we fear so much. But fires burn out, so let's be civil. We should be finished by next fall.


But how can I be civil when I hope that your spit flies back in your face; that when you flick your wrist, your muscles tear because I've torn too. It's torn past the heart into my legs, immobile, and my arms, useless. These hands are cramped and shredded; scraps and pieces and bits, drill bits carving their way in. You carved your way in. They say an animal in a tailor-made niche is an animal in a found home. So carve away, carver, we should be finished by next fall.

To shine

   she lay before us the night sky in
somnolent waves dusted with
her own chimerical astrology
studded and dimpled with
compressed carbon and
     time made material
sweeping her hand across it
like Asteria hanging her mobile
over the cradle of civilization
nodding gently to Zorya
brilliantly conjoined twins spanning
the Slavic night sky
   dotting our lives with
multi-faceted tears of joy
like champagne held immobile
bubbles suspended in gold
at unions and births and
fading scrapbooks with worn edges
as a pulsating joy vibrated
   trembled
meanwhile
shared
   like the wind chime hung near
     though not next to
the one disturbed by the breeze
   a breeze that bends the path of raindrops
glistening toward new summer meadows
to kiss blades of grass with
a dusting of diamonds and
pearls floating on the wind like dandelion fluff
seeking a relative weight
and a landing spot
   with color
to call home
     with clarity
to rest easy
   a cut above
and
to grow
  to bloom
    to shimmer
      to sparkle

to shine

Don't take my picture
it will steal my soul.
But the snapshot is taken
despite what was said.
And up high on a shelf
it in mute witness stands
to the flow of life
in the household.
Or as others before it
it is tossed in a box
forever entombed
fleeting glimpses of light.
Albums and scrapbooks
adorn it with cheer
to be shown off to many
but few really care.
Trapped in wallets
it sits grimy and smeared
buddied up with George.
Living in fear of a camera
afraid it will take you away.
For our time here is short
as the shutter flies
Don't take my picture
it will steal your soul.

I kiss the spliff as the neighbor
across the street stares out his porch windows.
He clasps his upper lip
with his left hand—
thumb and pointer finger
split like a horseshoe.
The difference in temperature
from outside and my porch
is hardly measurable.
The feathers in my jacket
fight to keep my body heat
captive beneath my MAS*H sweatshirt.
His porch must be a four-season
because he hovers over his desk
in a t-shirt with a cigarette
in his mouth.
Maybe he’s writing, or reading,
        doing homework or work work.
Whatever it may be,
it stirs a bit of jealousy in me.
I wish to be home, sitting
in the warmth of my four-season porch,
where many stories are saved.
Scrapbooks full of memories.

1.

Through the wall I hear you move,

feet padding across

the floor,

avoiding the toys left out of boxes.

You appear at my door

nightmare hair matted on your forehead.

My arms will hold you now as then,

when your soft fontanel throbbed

in those endless sterile

nights of pacing

and the creak of the old rocking chair.

2.

During daylight hours you look at me like I was made of stone,

As if I was permanent

like this island.

3.

Maybe you’ll remember these moments,

I can't say you will,

but I hope.

4.

All I know is we live and so

we die.

5.

Restaurants

old sofa

the pet
cat, dead.

Beach
breezy Autumn piers

rainy football matches Saturday & photographs

taped in scrapbooks

with dusty corners.

These I leave to you.

Sardonic savory armors against midnight shift,
Scrapbooks made from scrawny writings,
Wherein science is religion,
Some are hit and miss!!

Scowling, surely overcrowds happy intentions,
Noone mentions the fetal positions overthrow!!

Window peepers gaze between one another,
Serpent sermons drumline strong to song's of shipment sufferance,
Where thine utterance is grieved more than thou has ever felt!!!

More than the fall membrane beneathe your feet you shall blow!

Doth thou roll amongst forge stone?
Amongst the shows that made thou the mime thou art today../

A smile upon your cloak,
Yet thy finest of coats is in all disarray...

Perforaters try harshly to subdue our mother like peons,
Formulaic bringons,
Or turn one to sickened ones alike!!!!

Chasers of cognizant, bringers of fatality,
For doth thou chooseth to have life?

Coasting past nature's giants,
I muse about all they could tell me.
Their leaves holding the energy of
100 years' eclipses and smoldering summers.
The day the sun was silent.
Roots drinking up the essence of our ancestors.
The last handful of dirt, sprinkled mournfully.
Rough, weathered skin forever holding two names together.
A boy carving initials into her bark with a shaky hand.
The wisest creatures the world could offer,
Living scrapbooks.
Listen closely,
For the wind that shakes their arms in a waltz
Is not simply a whistle, but a secret.

Homemade movies of a childhood that never lasted
Seem to past by us when we weren't even aware of the time
We grew up and grew apart from each other’s company
The smiles we shined at one point have dimmed out. We ran out of time

Why did we have to grow up, to change for the worse
Time did us wrong and it feels like a never ending curse
All we can do is try to remember who we were before
Capture the memories that still roam around the living room floor

Scattered memories that cling on by the scrapbooks we created
Slowly turns into dust and with every day that passes it slowly fades
Pictures of us we hardly can remember become unknown
The warm friendship we use to have turned hard as stone

I close my eyes and it seems everything we had has washed away
I hold my breath to wish it back but we can’t bring back the good old days
We live in a world where time passes by and we don’t even see it go by
It goes on and on until the day we lose our memory and gently die

Peel of your skin
Open up your muscles
Crack open your bones to take a look inside
See the generations crawl backwards
Through the same mess
Abuse, dominance, fear
There are no new sorrows running in your veins
Your mother has felt it and so has your father
Stories and scrapbooks, old record players and blankets
They are passed down from parent to children
Tradition holds caskets full of antiques and poems for her children's children to read
To write them as well
In different bodies, new homes with younger skin patiently waiting to reveal their own lives
To their children

i know that sometimes i smell like cigarettes
and i’m a little bit depressed
that the only thing that reminds you of me
is that upside-down cross hanging from your rearview mirror
i know i spend most of my days looking in the mirror
watching my face change colors
with gritted teeth and rainbow tears
and listening to the radio
singing songs i don’t care to learn the words to
i know i make you feel hopeless
when i hide the razors and barron scrapbooks
when we thought we were so ******* cool
taking shots from an empty bottle
i know i’m not the most domestic
and you need a little faith to love me
but i can make you feel wanted