burntblue
Profile
i like photography because it makes me happy…. but my hands make better poems and textual adventures. So far.
i have a new and nifty blog: bookbird
“A writer cannot ‘just write’... a writer must look at the stars, read, and plant trees, and raise children. A writer can snorkel, climb mountains, work another job, make eggs and toast, and eat ‘em, and sing off key… a writer must do ‘window time’.”—Theodore Sturgeon
Groups
burntblue is a member of A Spiritual Walk, Abstracts from Nature, Buddha, Graphic Scratch, Haiku - The Art of Japanese Poetry, Imperfectly, Lesbian and Bi-Women's Art, Midnight Ramblers, Nirvana (Only 1 photographic art and 1 written work will be accepted per day ), Politics, Race, Sexuality and Culture, The Art of Pain, The Healing Journey, The L Word, The Red Writing Room, The Word Tree, Verses Dark and Voices of the Dark and the Deep.
Journal Entries
poem for pema - feature
Posted 6 days ago, 2 comments so far.
queer writers ahoy! Calls for submissions - various
Posted 5 months ago, 2 comments so far.
links for writers
Posted 7 months ago, 1 comment so far.
featured - marigold and under the bed
Posted 9 months ago, 1 comment so far.
help me buy some art?
Posted 9 months ago, 13 comments so far.
my addiction
Posted 9 months ago, 4 comments so far.
featured - my mother
Posted 10 months ago, 4 comments so far.
smoko - a monologue
This content is not visible because the safe filter is on.Art
Writing
the poets
we are on your threshold / our spilling guts in our hands / our bellies open / soft twisting intestines looped / around our crooked fingers
rain
swallowed whole by my own dark sorrow / swift disintegration / meaningless and old, and quiet
haiku
in that moment truth shines scarlet
poem for pema
your words are flowers underneath my skin / they bloom, and fade, and bloom again / thrown by old emotions, tumbled by guilt / i come again to your quiet inscriptions
frailty
She is a balloon ascending high, in rough winds / And he is her tether to the ground. / Tenuous. The tight string pulling.
my mother
This grief is a dark monkey clinging to my neck / His spider limbs swinging / His fingers are in my eyes again, tugging, tugging
