"Trillium", 2023, Acrylic on Canvas. / Anna Britton
The trillium flower is slow to bloom, taking 5-9 years on average, but are stunningly beautiful and unique once mature. However, they tend to be very sensitive and are easily damaged. The trillium plant is hermaphroditic, having both male and female elements, and is a symbol of bisexuality in Mexican LGBT spaces. There is always the chance for euphoria and blossoming, even when there are so many in our society that seek to cut you down. Many of us in LGBT spaces are slow to bloom after having our childhoods cut short by bullying, violence, and oppression, only to discover ourselves in our 20s, 30s, 40s, and older.
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The Silent Quill
Up on a silent hill —
ready to write.
Ready to read.
Ready to kill.
Pushing boulders uphill,
my fears, my tears
haven’t been wiped away in years.
Only when my silence speaks
do I see the need
to pick up my pen
and stab the paper again.
There’s no quiver at the thought
of an ink blot’s bleed —
not compared to the open wounds
beyond my skin, I see.
Nefariously,
you probably think me solitary,
scary,
maybe even a grumpy human being.
But no.
This silent quill,
up atop this silent hill,
is ready to write out the feels —
making it hard for you to swallow
your sugar-coated pills.
My quill reminds me to feel something real,
inside the skin that covers
the darkest parts of me —
parts that can’t be stolen,
beaten,
twisted,
or mistreated so easily.
Feasibly,
I see the damage being wrought
by politicians’ greed
to be number one,
instead of truly helping those in need.
Breaking creeds.
My pen is a sword —
cutting into unwritten sores,
peering deeper into these rumors of wars.
And from what I’ve seen?
It’s the same damn thing:
a classic case
of “A Repeated History.”
“America The Great” —
a worldwide embassy of misery.
No.
This silent quill,
up on this silent hill,
won’t heel,
won’t stop,
won’t bend to appeal
to those below the base
of this place I call home.
People don’t even speak anymore —
articulating words
like chatbot drones.
So this silent quill,
up atop this silent hill,
will keep alive
the history of words —
spelled properly,
rightfully atoned.
A sip of cranberry juice,
a moment to breathe
before getting a little stoned.
I spilled tea about a mofo
who disrespected me,
unwarranted.
So I sent back
their expired lifetime warranty.
Now they’ve wisely
become a part of my following.
See, this silent quill,
up on this silent hill,
is boldly, unapologetically
becoming —
more than a murmur,
more than trembling ellipses.
My silent quill
turned up the volume
atop this silent hill:
a phoenix,
rising from the ink pool of life
that ceased death in its pursuit of penned peace.
— Impact Poet, Ms. JuruDaWise
“This one was painting out on the river. Made me feel connected with nature.” Instagram: @wankispankis
Your Death, Rehearsed
I rehearsed your death —
did you know?
First, it was now and
then, slowly became
weekly and then
nightly.
Not that I wanted
you to die —
We both knew
you would.
No, I rehearsed
your death
so I wouldn’t come
apart at the seams,
so I wouldn’t
bring shame to you,
to me. It helped,
I think.
Oh, I still hurt,
I still cry
but softly. And when
you breathed your last
as I held your hand,
softly stroked your arm,
I could barely form
the words, let alone
force sound out of my tear-
constricted throat
It’s over. And then
we all cried, held each other.
None of us could find,
or define, the hole
that suddenly engulfed
us, the hole
that gave dimension
to our loss
the hole
drilled through our hearts.
— Lenora Rain-Lee Good
This poem first appeared in the September 2023 newsletter of A Sacred Passing, a place to receive death and dying education: https://asacredpassing.org. It is currently published in Saying Goodbye to Thomas by Lenora Rain-Lee Good, a chapbook of poems on the loss of my elder brother of choice, Thomas Hubbard. I had the honor to be one of his primary caregivers during the last months of his life as he died from ALS. The chapbook is available from your favorite bookseller, and ALL royalties/proceeds will be divided equally between the ALS Association and End of Life Washington (Death With Dignity).
“This piece is mainly about the ups and downs of life. You'll have your good days and your bad days. It's what you choose to make of them.”
Instagram: @wankispankis
Self harm
We say “I love you”
So many arguments later
I always wondered
If it were true
Neither one of us
Could break through
The wall of misery
I kept between
Choking
Heaving
Fantasizing
Crying
Who are we
That I can lie to you
To me
Without shame
I’d be with you
Without consequence
But this brutal self
Still has an ego
— Jamie Knight (she/her)
Oil. Oil.
The Earth is in pain.
It whispers, Stop! Stop!
But governments don’t listen,
they only chant:
Oil. Oil. More oil.
This is
the beginning of the end.
We say we create weapons
to save humans.
But instead we start wars,
ravage forests, lose our humanity,
and oil becomes a drug
to feed our addictions.
We destroy the land
in the name of protection,
still screaming
Oil. Oil. And more oil.
The Earth is begging for mercy:
Stop sucking my blood!
But governments can’t hear —
they live in a black world,
unwilling to see the colors
and heed the pleas
of the Earth.
She is waiting for someone
to come from the darkness
into the light to rescue what remains of her.
I ask myself, can we change the world?
Can we change ourselves?
Will we save the Earth?
— Lamar Safi
Gaza Strip, Diaspora
This poem originally appeared on WANN: wearenotnumbers.org, where emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights.
EDITOR’S NOTE: Every month, we publish Palestinian poetry to help combat Israel’s attempts to erase Palestine’s contributions to history and the arts.
carnegieendowment.org/sada/2024/02/vanishing-ink-palestinian-culture-under-threat-in-gaza
