Bryan's Poem and Reading

An Afternoon in Bed

The sunlight beams through  

its radiant glow glistens upon her face.

Venetian blinds 

create horizontal geography 

on the canvas that is her body. 

She does not wake

 or even stir.

You don’t dare disrupt this   

tranquil scene. 

This is how you always dreamt it would be.

You watch and study her dormant slumber

in amazement of how anything you ever

imagined could be this perfect.

But it is only for now. 

You think of a fleeting moment.  

 A lowering sun;

light turning to dark. 

 Night always giving way to morning (Oh how you loathe that). 

You will wake up;

she will be gone.

 A cold imprint on the pillow next to you

 becomes your last burning memory of her. 

This is how you always dreamt it would be.

Emily's poem, and reading coming soon

Sundays with Elma

"I've been old all day long,"
She hobbles out of her room.

A shirt where her pants
should be.

Changes and changes and changes
the channel
looking for crime on TV.

"I only smoke a few a day."
As she tosses her sixth pack."
Has the fish had dinner? You're making me fat."

A raspy,
hearty laugh.

I'll turn up the TV, please
let me brush your hair.

Don't fight your pills,
I'm sorry you are sad,
just giggle some more.

A kiss and a hug, I love you, too.
I'll introduce myself again tomorrow to you.

Ralph's poetry reading

Memorial for a Christmas Tree Farm

Some people will get you as early as November. Cut you at the stem and drag your dying body though a field. They put you in a machine that shakes you so violently your loose bristles fall off. They wrap you in string so tight you can barely breathe. A man carries you out to his red Silverado and his kids are so excited to see you.

When you finally pull into the driveway they cut at you again and unstrap you. You are propped up in this big metal can that has water inside. The kids throw wires on you and it tickles. They hang glass bulbs of every color onto you like jewelry.

You feel beautiful and don’t mind that your dying. One morning you find dozens of wrapped gifts under you and watch as the children’s eyes explode with innocent excitement. And you realize that your sacrifice was worth it.

--Ralph Farina

Poetry read by Lauren Krause

Imperious Gesture

Once I was a snowflake
a white clover
like thousands of shimmering novas
soft as the wind’s breath.
Creating a colorless haze
with a chill of that distant death.

Now I am a devil’s bit
a golden heather.
Like one constellation
lifeless as paper’s pulse.
Gaining momentum
with a sweet exultant smile.

-Lauren Krause

Katie's poem and reading video

The Incurable Optimist:
Michael J Fox’s Life with Parkinson’s


Right now, I’m feeling pretty good
don’t you worry about me.
If I let it affect everything,
it’s going to own everything.
I don’t deny it
or pretend it’s not there,
but if I don’t allow it to be bigger
than it is,
I can do everything else.

My body is an isometric exercise,
I’m always putting pressure against things.
Whatever I’m doing at any given time,
I’m also doing something else-
I’ve always got this thing going on.
I can’t always control my body
the way I want to, and I can’t control
when I feel good or when I don’t.
I can control how clear my mind is.
and I can control how willing I am to step up
to anything if somebody needs me.

One thing the Illness
has given me,
is a degree of death.
I have accepted that loss and it’s
helped me to realize there’s gonna
be that big loss.
I can now accept anything,
acceptance is the key to everything.
My happiness grows in direct proportion
to my acceptance.

I have to think of myself as a regular human being,
with an incurable optimistic illness

.

Poem by Katie, Bryan, and Brooke

A Cold Hearted Bitch with the
Eyes of a Loyal Husky Dying
to Steal my Soul in Columbus, OH

The smell of your neck is like shit and
I hate you. Your voice is like a rambling child
that won't shut the hell up. The touch of your
hand is acid to virgin flesh.

Your neck smells like an overflowing landfill,
birds won;t even feast from. Your voice is like tequila
and I'm too drunk to care. The touch of your hand is rock
like metal bars without an escape.

The touch of your hand is death I never saw it coming.
Your voice is like jagged razors, slicing at open wrists.
Your neck smells like shit and I hate you.

Arizona is Like the Articulation of a Hot Tempered Hyena

Arizona is Like the Articulation of a Hot Tempered Hyena

Your voice is like

A feather blowing in the cool nights breeze
Like Cotton candy on a hot August tease.
Is soft like the bottom of a baby bunny
Like toasted marshmellows and dripping honey.

Like dragon fingernails scraping across dirty scud
Like an elephant that has been parading around in the mud.
Like a lions roar.
Is a slimy snake slithering around after a war.

By: Brittany Long & Brittney Fraley