When paintbrush meets canvas
& art is not displayed,
when pen meets parchment
& poem is not written,
while I type as Google underlines
my misspelled words in dark red,
it’s time to drop flowers
into the bottom of the tea,
time to accept it will never be clear-beautiful.
It feels rather strange; I feel a new sense of privilege
to be able to hit “backspace.”
Tonight, I will
starve my similes to savor the
taste of your lyrics. Tell me now,
will you do the same?
Shine it.
Shine it for the world to see.
Shine it for the sailors stuck at sea.
Shine it for the all-nighters pulled by students who are stuck at a C.
Call me with your gold light,
sing me your soft hue,
hear your soft fabric
of a fresh garden and torched wood.
May you be blessed by kaleidoscopic gods. Your
flowers crescendoing from the bow of winter’s violin,
& your rivers keep rushing in purple hazy brushstrokes.
You are of the sea, are of the sky, are of the sun
& really, it could only ever be beautiful,
because you know it all
you’ve been through it all
and it’s not very funny how quick it ends.
& we are sitting now still stone & silent and we’ll keep
doing this again & again & again until we bring out our
ever-fleeting energy to share like a kid.
& through the strength of our minds,
we will stretch our hands outward,
& touch the stars with our spark—
This is a piece of found poetry. Each line comes from a piece written by another member of the 2024 collaborative.