Creation is My Refuge
Creation is My Refuge. This artistic mantra became a collection of poetry that celebrates the joy, freedom, and clarity found in the act of creation—inspired by the artwork of Georgia-based painter, Mari Chan.
The Scribes were asked to respond to four original pieces by Mari, immersing themselves in her world of color & emotion, finding visual inspiration in her creations. Some of the poems were written in response to an individual painting; some consider the impact of her artwork as a whole. Still others are confessional expressions of honesty that reveal how creativity—be it through painting, poetry, or another medium entirely—is a safe space for each of us to explore our experiences, capture our feelings (however fleeting), and carry out conversations with our own souls.
Below are the four artworks by Mari with a bit of background on each piece, followed by a Q&A with the artist in which she discusses her painting journey, sources of inspiration, art as therapy, and more. Her insight into the healing power of art is profound, and the proof is in the poetry. Here, we revel in the haven of creation, where free expression allows us to better understand ourselves and share our hearts with others, discovering connection in creativity.
Featuring the following poets:
Angelika Shelley
Jade Foster
Charles Thomas
Frances Denise
Brandy Warren
Bobbie Jean Foster
Rhonda Kendziorski
Joshua Walker
Jadyn Fields
Dane Osborne
the dithyrambler
Melissa Lauricella Bergstrom
warbling treefrog
Chloe Hall
Jim Buzzard
Brandon Thorpe
Angelia Ross
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
CREATION IS
MY REFUGE
Artist Spotlight: Mari Chan
When Her Distress Became Mine
I was told distressing news about someone and grew concerned for them. Even after offering encouragement, I still felt heavy, so decided to paint it out.
Rest
Rose from my Papa's funeral. He was a great father figure to me.
Sister, A Prayer Answered
My little sis. I prayed for her when I found out my mother was pregnant. We didn't know the gender, but I wanted a baby sis. She's my little lotus.
Untitled
Work stressed me out. There were a lot of customers who were rude, angry, throwing out false accusations, and just crazy! I felt overwhelmed after so many days and needed to vent via art.
—Meet Mari—
Artist Spotlight
Q&A with Mari Chan
Georgia-based artist Mari Chan discusses her painting journey, sources of inspiration, art as therapy, and more!
–––
—Question 1: How long have you been painting? How did your painting journey begin?
I officially started painting in January 2025. I had tried acrylics a couple of times back in 2023, but I didn’t stick with it. Later, I began working for Terracotta as a moderator, mostly in the watercolor classes, and I kept telling myself that one day I would give painting another try.
For a while, I procrastinated because I felt intimidated by the idea of starting something new after having invested most of my life in music. Eventually, though, I decided I wasn’t going to let fear stop me anymore.
Then I had a dream. In the dream, I saw a flashing image of the earth cracked across the middle, with tears falling from it. At the time, I had recently found out that my Papa was very ill and might not have much longer to live. It felt like my world was falling apart.
When I woke up, I felt an immediate urge to paint what I had seen. I had no experience with watercolor yet, but I went for it anyway. And that is how my painting journey began.
—Question 2: What inspires you to create?
I draw inspiration from almost anything: a pair of abandoned shoes on the sidewalk, a child dancing, a bird flying by. Most times it is something ordinary. Ordinary things are worth paying attention to.
More than anything, I am inspired by emotion. Whether the feeling is joyful, painful, loving or overwhelming devastation, I am moved by moments that hold meaning.
But I also believe art is more than inspiration. I create even when I do not feel inspired, because art is essential to my life. It is expression, but it is also discipline. It is something I return to again and again, not only because I feel moved, but because creating feels necessary.
—Question 3: Who are your most prominent artistic influences?
Since I am still new to the visual arts world, I would not say I have any set artistic influences yet. I have definitely been inspired by current artists that I’ve worked with through my job, but I am discovering my own visual voice and having a blast. Having been in the artistic world for a long time through music, I understand the importance of developing a voice that feels true to me.
—Question 4: Describe the role that art & creativity occupy in your life.
It pretty much takes most of my time, aside from reading, haha!
—Question 5: You mentioned releasing stress & honoring loved ones as major themes in the paintings displayed here. Do these themes re-appear in other paintings of yours? What other themes do you tend to explore in your work?
I would not say that releasing stress and honoring loved ones are themes that appear in all of my paintings. Most of the time, I am not painting from a place of stress or pain. I am often painting from a place of joy, peace, or contentment.
I also do not always think in terms of specific themes when I choose what to paint. A lot of the time, I am simply responding to a feeling, a moment, or something that moves me.
One theme that may be present in much of my work, though, is freedom. I love the freedom that painting gives me — the freedom to express, to feel, to process, and to create without needing everything to be perfect or fully explained.
Even in more somber pieces, that sense of freedom can still be there. In the rose painting inspired by my Papa, there was sadness and a desire to honor him after losing him. But there was also comfort in knowing that he is free now. That feeling brought me peace, and I think that became part of the painting too.
—Question 6: You’ve identified the healing power of art as one of your motivations for creating and encouraging others to create. Can you talk more about creativity as a vehicle for healing?
Creativity can be a powerful vehicle for healing because art allows people to express what they may not be able to put into words. In many forms, art has been shown to support emotional and mental well-being, and I think it is a shame that it has taken so long for that to be widely acknowledged. It can also help improve neurological and motor skills.
Art can help people process trauma, grief, PTSD, and overwhelming emotions in a way that feels safe and personal. Sometimes a painting, a song, a poem, or even a simple creative act can hold feelings that are too heavy or complicated to explain to a therapist.
I also believe art can help people reconnect with themselves. It can bring comfort, release, memory, and even moments of peace. Whether someone is creating through images, music, movement, or words, creativity gives people a way to heal, remember, and feel seen.
—Question 7: What advice would you give to someone who has always wanted to paint (or practice another form of art) but doesn’t know where to start?
My advice, as simple as it may sound, is to just start. A lot of times, we keep ourselves from trying something new because we are afraid of being bad at it, or we feel like we are not ready. But the truth is, outside of natural talent, everyone has to be bad at something before they become good at it/become skillful. You have to try, maybe suck, try again, improve little by little, and then get better.
And sometimes, what we think is “bad” may actually be beautiful or meaningful to someone else. You have to give yourself permission to not be good at something in order to become good at it. As for feeling ready… Ready is not a feeling; ready is discipline. It is deciding that even if you do not have all the skill, the best materials, or the perfect teacher, you are still going to begin because you want to grow. So yes. Just start.
—Question 8: What are your goals as an artist?
My goal as an artist is to work in the therapeutic arts, not necessarily as an art therapist, but as someone who helps people understand how art can be therapeutic.
I want to show others how creativity can support healing, expression, and emotional processing. More than anything, I hope to give people tools they can use on their own, so art becomes something they can turn to for comfort, reflection, and release.
—Question 9: What are some of your other interests and hobbies outside of painting?
Outside of painting, my main hobby is reading. I especially love reading danmei, or Chinese boys’ love novels. Other than that, I would say both of these take up most of my creative time. They are the two things I return to most often, and they both give me a way to connect with emotion, storytelling, and imagination.
—Question 10: How can we keep up with your art and follow your creative journey?
You can follow my creative journey on Instagram at @themarichan or on TikTok at @the.mari.chan. I share my artwork, creative process, and the ongoing adventures of learning and growing as an artist.
Creation is My Refuge
CATCH AND RELEASE
Inspired by Mari Chan’s “Untitled”
This morning as I rise
the darkness of dreams
still nibbles at my feet
so I cast a line of charcoal
across the still pure surface
A shadow takes the bait
emerging into form
splashing and spreading
before erupting into more
knocking down a house and tree
I drop to my knees and
pray for the fallen
through tears of purple
that drop into soft yellow yolks
spreading from eggs now broken
Still the sun climbs with ease
and the white breath of life
weaves through it all
gently reminding me I can
create to find peace
–Angelika Shelley
⚘
Not so long ago, there was a time when
Words poured from my heart
Heavy and heaving
Alive and breathing
Beating loudly for all to hear.
It hurt, sometimes, to let it bleed onto paper.
Give it freedom to seep deeper into
The hands of those who needed it.
But it hurt more to deny it a way out,
To block it from a path of escape,
A path of light and fresh air.
Suddenly, there was pain like no other.
The pain persisted. Eagerly.
Hungrily tearing at whatever scraps it could find,
A harvest left over from a previous season.
The words stopped. And they didn’t return.
I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
To put pen to paper once more, to lift
My eyes to the sun and understand that there was anything left.
It hurt to pull that string. And so it remained.
I realized that the reason I stopped writing in the
First place was because it made me uncomfortable.
Forced me to feel.
Forced me to deal with things I didn’t want to acknowledge.
The syllables themselves were trapped, and they fought each other, tooth and nail, for release.
It occurred to me, long after the well had dried up, that maybe I had it all wrong.
Maybe my pain was another’s solace.
Maybe my vice was another’s grace.
Maybe I had what it takes
To produce a home from nothing other than
ink and coffee stains.
The bottle shattered. The words spilled forth.
The drought was no more.
Safety and refuge had been reached, at long last!
Life had returned, and with it, a voice
speaking ever softly.
“I’m on my way. Hold a place for me.”
–Jade Foster
⚘
EKPHRASTIC POEM: UNTITLED
After Mari Chan’s “Untitled”
Moon and stars i give you — yours —
and cells cooperate or not, yet secrets
known of color wheels turned and turning
not remaining, always making something
new.
Eyes and ears of selfsame twins may be,
and unidentified they see not you nor me
for we are under the sea where rocks
crush to pressure bound.
Windows open students learn
not to repeat their parents’ lies of various
skin to despise, and competition’s binary
no longer to perform.
Leaves blended, splendid a meal
as sparrow and finch perching bright,
our sun behind her daughter clouds
repaired.
–Charles Thomas
⚘
WATERCOLOR
Inspired by Mari Chan’s “Rest”
I shed my petals in watercolor
It makes only a faint sound
When the pieces hit the ground
The breeze carries life
Along, along, along
While scenes replay before my eyes
In slow motion
How did it all go so wrong?
–Frances Denise
⚘
PLACE—OR BEYOND
Washed up, left by a flooded, receding creek,
lying on a sandbar, a rotting goat.
Its sweet smell reminds me of another place:
Sandbars near an overflow bridge where in soft sun
I shared an egg sandwich with, read Curious George to,
watched him, my baby boy, kick the creek water.
To name the rotting smell sweet defies reason.
Yet often a smell, fair or foul, reminds me of place,
and I smile, in mind return there again, to feel as I felt then,
and there again and again to share, to teach, to watch.
But, is it place, or is it beyond?
For it happens within, the return a rising up, a bliss of effervescence,
a soul magic of momentary self-detection and recognition of unity,
for in the return no boundaries of space or time or person.
–Brandy Warren
⚘
WINGS; TOO OLD FOR THE PERFORMANCE OF YOUTH
“A dancer dies twice, once when they stop dancing—the first is the more painful." –Martha Graham
My feet glide across the floor
My body moving to the rhythm of the slow, steady pound of my heart beating
My arms open wide, up and down to give life
to the melody of my soul
I look behind me and see the past—
A reflection of a young girl whose wings are white
One who is dancing freely, blocking out the sound of the world around her
She does not care what happens on the other side of the door of reality,
only about the next routine she learns
The last one is to the song of letting go
The only thing I heard was the years going by,
going so fast I can't hold on to stop them
I desperately cling to my youth—
It's never coming back, no matter how hard I cry
No matter how many steps I remember to the dance of my childhood
I am forced off stage and told I need to grow up
They look at me with pity for the circumstances of which I'm a victim to
I look behind me again, and see my wings
Patches of feathers missing, bones peeking through
from the lack of the choreography of a kid
who just wanted to continue living
And for the first time in my life—
I die
–Bobbie Jean Foster
⚘
UNSPOKEN
There are things unsaid between us
Should we keep them all inside
Letting the past fade away
Content with each new day
Or should we say all the things
Giving emotions wings
And what would that mean
In the past, cycles repeated
Where does that leave us
Should we keep the words cocooned away
Probably the safest choice
Or dare to give the feelings a voice
It’s risky and unsure
Neither knowing how much they can endure
Do we draw back the curtain
Revealing words unspoken
Some people say all the things
Giving no thought to the significance
With no regard for truth
Only seeking to serve their purpose
But that’s not us, not you, nor I
We think, and think, and think, and feel
Saying nothing that isn’t real
To us words have meaning
So, should we say all the things
Or just see what the future brings
Do we lay bare of the bones of possibility
Or put potential to rest with finality
–Rhonda Kendziorski
⚘
ALL THE WAYS LIFE BURNS INSIDE US
I was born on a Friday with an inferno stitched into my soul,
a fire that has never learned the meaning of enough.
They spend their lives teaching us to bank the flames,
to settle for warm hands instead of burning hearts,
because not everyone can live the life they imagine.
Perhaps that’s true.
But I have never survived by extinguishing myself.
Creation was never a hobby.
It was oxygen.
The only language the fire has ever spoken.
Every one of us is handed the same impossible choice:
to decorate the cage we built from fear,
or splinter the lock and fly toward a sun
that may melt us before we ever touch it.
I have always preferred falling in honest fire
to growing old in borrowed comfort.
I was born on a Friday,
but no calendar has ever explained me.
I was born with failing eyes,
yet they have never measured what I could see.
No ruler has found the depth of a soul.
No ledger has calculated a life.
When I am gone,
I will not ask to be remembered for what I owned,
what I earned,
or what I obeyed.
Remember me, if you must,
as someone who carried the fire without apology,
who fed it words instead of excuses,
and left enough flame behind
that another soul might find its way through the dark.
–Joshua Walker, The Last Bard
⚘
MAYBE THIS, MAYBE THAT
I used to get carsick every time I went around a certain curve in the carved away mountains that led to the Pentecostal church I grew up in. I thought that the demons were exorcising themselves before the pastor could get them first. I dropped them off on the side of the road before church and picked them up on the way back through. I used to think that it was the devil cutting me some slack. I wondered if God was asleep somewhere in space, sat on a star and dreaming of sin. Maybe He was running late to Sunday service. Maybe He would show up for the potluck afterwards.
Now that I’m old enough to recognize religion, I wonder if any of it is real. My dad is a pastor, and I call him Pastor Dad when we’re at church. I hide my tattoos, but my nose ring and dyed hair still display my act of defiance. I love Pastor Dad but my heart sinks when his sermons speak upon things that I do and things that I think. Isn’t that what they’re supposed to do, though? I think that God doesn’t stand behind the pulpit. I think He could be the homeless man who stands on the corner beside the Speedway. Maybe if I give Him $5 I’ll get into heaven. Maybe I could bring Him fish that’s raw and bread that’s unleavened.
I got a tattoo of an angel and hid it from Pastor Dad until he found out from my brother. He confronted me on the same curve where I picked my demons up and stopped dumping them back out. What good would religion do if sin wasn’t involved? My faith may dissolve and I may light the altar in my mind on fire until it is nothing but ash. Maybe that counts as a prayer. Maybe I should ask God next time I’m at Speedway.
–Jadyn Fields
⚘
THE EARTH
Every morning I wake beneath your feet
and pretend not to notice
how carelessly you walk across my heart.
I have swallowed your wars,
drunk your smoke,
hidden your dead inside my quiet places,
yet I still answer every spring
with wildflowers.
When the sun scorches your fields,
I gather clouds in my hands.
When your children hunger,
I split open my body
and call it harvest.
I have never asked you for monuments.
Never begged for gratitude.
Love has always been enough reason to give.
Still, I hear you dreaming of other worlds.
You build your rockets,
measure distant stars,
and speak of better planets
as though I were yesterday’s promise,
something to be traded
when a brighter future arrives.
Yet every atom in your bones
was borrowed from mine.
The first breath you ever drew
was mine.
The last will be mine too.
So before you chase another sky,
learn the shape of the one
already wrapped around you.
Hold this blue world
the way you would hold
the only photograph of your mother.
Not because I am perfect,
but because I have loved you
through every fire
you have mistaken for progress.
–Joshua Walker, The Last Bard
⚘
CITIZENS OF THE SPECTACLE
A lost child of the spectacle,
A mind lost forever by means of electricity
And the entity of musical sonic violence
Enforced by the most virulent of human feelings.
Information and energy become one
Through dogmatic romance and atomic fire.
A lost child of the spectacle does not see what's there
But still sees everything by means
Of Words and Images
Used to induce euphoria by
Corrupting the understanding of Day And Night
And the real patterns of light and shade
That are meant to be understood
In order so the one becomes many
And then all the many becomes one again.
Citizens of the spectacle can't ever see this
For what it is.....they were never meant to.
–Dane Osborne
⚘
“Following darkness like a dream”
–Puck, A Midsummer Night’s Dream
Where oak once stood—two-hundred years by stream,
and I became—that is to say, I played
a fairy without wings; old idle theme
taught foolishness—and in this school I stayed
and later learned: a Dionysian dance
could shapeshift into many raucous forms
if I could coax my mind into a trance—
throw up my hands—in praise, new worlds are born.
I feel the movement breaking ancient ground.
These cracks upon the earth are shaped like fate.
From heart to feet, I carry in the sound
with steps that mark the end and not too late—
to see the moon—then me, within the beam
I fly—following darkness like a dream.
–the dithyrambler, from Midsummer Sonnets on The Sonnet Sisters
⚘
NIGHTSHADE EROTICA
She sits cross-legged on tilled soil,
her twelve-year-old fingers
rubbing the smooth, fine-haired leaf of a plant,
it enclosing her in its sun-warmed, mature arms.
Her fingers to her nose, inhaling its acrid scent,
a hum of delight in her chest,
she clasps its ripe fruit,
brings it to her teeth slurping its true acid tang,
its hot juices and tiny seeds tracing down her chin
dripping rivulets of red down her arm
and into the fertile Earth.
–Brandy Warren
⚘
AMBITION
Admirable as smooth cool pools may be,
glazed gray like stone –
*
Keep them.
How many have drowned below such ordered oceans?
*
To those who mistake the blue blaze I hold for a weapon:
I will not make an enemy of Ambition,
refusing to surrender the sweet heat that roils ‘neath my heart
once entombed like Etna
melting all that is measured
tamping down the tepid
feeding all that is wild
with a unquenchable searing red
as it rolls forth, never to be put away.
*
To those who confuse hunger with hedonism:
I will not take arms against all that pulses under my skin
with wanting
and making
and moving
and shaping.
Do not listen when They tell you
your demands ring shrill and shallow, are short-lived.
Turn.
Take to the tower
yank the bell
over and over and over until your arms ache
and your muscles catch fire
do not cease, until (even when?)
the sound of your pealing cracks the confines
throttles the rocks
tosses hurricanes through the air like dervishes
teases the trees into talking,
giving up their secrets like sap, all the more sweet for the freeze.
Go on. Howl.
*
Do not relent when they leave,
Those who would let you believe
that to long is to fail
to have faith in those whose hearts don’t beat is to divorce reality
Oh – don’t!
Enter into matrimony with the goddesses that beckon you
take my world: no devils lurk here,
only fleshy fruit ready to slake the thirst you have for truth
in this Eden.
Loosen the bolts on the doors of your senses
gorge yourself on the spit-roasted words
you speak through sticky lips,
feasting on all you were warned was Forbidden,
and swim deeply in the sea of We,
Light to be.
*
Copper keys twist in the lock
a noseful of metal
blood on the tongue
fingers clammy, curling
my Self lurks like a hunter
a loaded gun
ready
to crack with life.
–Melissa Lauricella Bergstrom
⚘
“To each word a warbling note”
–Titania, A Midsummer Night’s Dream
The lake this early shivers like a beast,
its dark coat ripples, caught in mountains’ net,
cool breath grips silent oaks, till in the east
strange spells are summoned from a starlit depth.
The sky this hour unfurls in a rush,
enlightened coils spill like ink on page,
truth tumbles ruddy-orange, till the blush
of dawn transforms the beast — so ends an age.
What versed confession lifts earth’s curse by day?
What fluid, captured spirit moves the skies?
A tree frog’s late-night singing finds a jay,
and to each word a warbling note replies.
Meant meetings between souls make pretty art,
but till then, coffee wakes this gremlin’s heart.
–warbling treefrog, from Midsummer Sonnets on The Sonnet Sisters
⚘
DON’T UNDERSTAND THE SKY
There exists a kind celestial mathematical language
Beneath the surface of the acid rain and
Those loud explosive noises which interrupt the night and
All these people who hate each other so much
Because they talk so different from each other.
There is Chaos and Confusion to always
Be found at any given time
But also exists invisible angels with four heads
And four wings
And over a hundred blinking eyes
Surrounded by bright white burning flames
And of A Living Spirit
Who do not originate from this material realm
Who successfully use the miracle of telepathy
In order to prevent our mass destruction
At the most crucial moments.
Higher truths come from higher dimensions
But we only know white lies
And that's why we don't understand the sky.
–Dane Osborne
⚘
00:00; MY CONSCIOUS IS A LANDMINE
Inspired by “Louder than Bombs”
The guilt wraps chains around my heart, and when
it is pulled tight my brain reacts like an explosion
Overthinking, replaying—
Words going at a hundred miles a second
Conversations never ending as I regret not saying
what I should've
Sound keeping my head pounding with a migraine,
one that never leaves no matter what I do
to make it stop
It never dims, it never quiets
It stays loud and unrelenting, I try to tune it all out
I pray and cry for the end that never seems to come
But when the hands finally align—
everything comes to a screeching halt
It all stops at once as the page turns over
and a blank one is staring back at me,
waiting for my thoughts to fill in the gaps
But I am not thinking anything at that moment, just silence
It's still stuffy, but I can breathe in a new day
A new day to grow and heal,
to say “I'm sorry,” to ask for an apology and forgive
I still dread what the day could bring,
but it's all at peace
Nothing quite reaches—
It's as if my mind isn't picking up the signal
The static is louder than bombs
–Bobbie Jean Foster
⚘
A POCKET SIZE ME
i wish i could give you a piece of me
a small tiny piece proving my existence
that you can carry around with you everywhere you go
maybe a lock of my hair
maybe the scent of my perfume or my sweater after a long day at work
maybe a small bit of my laugh when you need help feeling lighter
maybe a note with my words in my handwriting when you need uplifted
something permanent
more permanent than me
something that will remind you of my love and my life
because god knows i’m not good for sticking around
and god knows i could never fully give myself to anyone
–Chloe Hall
⚘
TO COVET
At this moment, I care not for stuff.
Except my boots—them old, stretched, tested.
Why strive after money and mansions,
after salacious satisfaction, satiate the self,
doubting the truth of a mirror and its snack of time’s hope?
Why gallivant the Earth,
searching for that doodad—or that one—before whom to kneel?
Why condemn life’s illusion to take flight—inward and outward—
in the reality of the cigarette, when that too burns, wafts and fades?
Only my boots do I covet,
them worn, soft and known.
In them I will walk and work,
till time flips his switch,
and my boots fall apart.
–Brandy Warren
⚘
CREATION
He painted figures walking by the sea—
like ghosts in grey, the darkest stood behind.
The difference caught between his life and me:
he called himself a doctor of the mind.
The clouds stood out amidst the royal blue
that stretched from highest edge to kiss the shore.
I watched the waves and quickly could conclude
how nothing new would lead to so much more.
The medicine of art lives in our hands.
We trace the healing shapes with eager eyes
and replicate abstractions of the lands
that hold our hearts and fears beneath the skies.
And in the end creation was the same
in every fractal spelling out the name.
–Jim Buzzard
⚘
THE GHOSTS OF YESTERDAY
I was free once.
At least I think I was.
I’ve lived beside the absence of meaning
for so long
I can no longer remember
whether it haunted me
or I invited it inside.
They promised
we would outgrow our chains.
Funny thing about chains.
Some rust.
Some become invisible.
Some learn the shape of our wrists
so well
we mistake them for skin.
People say there are no ghosts.
They’re wrong.
Ghosts are simply the names
we still answer to.
The child who thought love lasted forever.
The friend we failed.
The road we never took.
The apology rehearsed a thousand times
to an empty room.
Tell me those aren’t hauntings.
Tell me you’ve never awakened
to the sound of yesterday
walking across the floorboards.
There are bitter regrets
that still draw blood.
Electric kisses
that refuse to cool.
A million dead dreams
that somehow continue
to whisper,
“Tomorrow.”
And a thousand nightmares
that make dawn
feel less like sunrise
and more like forgiveness.
–Joshua Walker, The Last Bard
⚘
THE HEAT OF DISSOLUTION
Inspired by Mari Chan’s “Sister, A Prayer Answered”
The occluded
light
Wrapping around her face
in pinks and greens and golds
and orange
casting God-Rays
like a sunset cloud fire
glowing purple
from within
through the
thin skin around the ear
and tiny invisible hairs
that lock light
and send it back
to the eye
bright, with
radiation bouncing off
her face that made it here
from outer space.
Sent from the home she doesn't
remember, but dreams about.
Beamed out
from
her glowing green planet
where her creations try
to wake their creator
And when they go to sleep
they play sounds
Rain song for the girls
and white noise for boys
With alien light
shining in through
the hole in sky
where she left them
to go live a human life.
–Brandon Thorpe
⚘
HOWLING SISTER
Dear sister how I longed
For your arrival.
It felt like ages.
Then one stormy October night,
You came into the world,
Howling like the winds
Of a Tennessee tornado.
And when I was allowed
To get close to you,
I looked you over from head to toe,
While the adults looked on
With raised eyebrows
And puzzled expressions.
“Where is the volume button?" I asked.
The adults looked at each other
And burst out laughing.
“Babies don't have volume
Buttons, silly," Granny says.
“This one definitely should," I replied,
Causing everyone to crack up again.
However, after a few nights
Of you drowning out the chilly October winds,
Everyone began to agree
That you needed a volume button
So they could turn down your howling.
–Angelia Ross
⚘
STILL EXISTING
I thought I would disappear
without your arms teaching the world my shape.
I thought my heart would mistake your silence
for permission to stop.
Instead,
morning kept arriving.
The coffee still cooled.
The birds still argued outside my window.
My lungs, stubborn traitors,
kept filling with tomorrow.
Once I believed forever
was another word for you.
Now I wonder
if forever is only what we call
the promises we make
before life answers.
I don’t remember the exact sound
of your voice anymore.
That frightens me.
It also proves
I am still moving.
No, it isn’t okay.
Perhaps it never will be.
But somewhere between surviving
and becoming,
I learned that the heart
is far less fragile
than the stories it tells itself.
It still hurts when I breathe.
The miracle is
I keep breathing.
–Joshua Walker, The Last Bard
⚘
PERMISSION FROM THE RAIN
Inspired by Mari Chan’s “Rest”
I love days full of sunshine and busyness
Places to go and people to see
Exploring and doing all the things
But there’s a special rest a rainy day brings
Slowing things down a beat
Resting cozily inside
Sheltered from the storm
Listening to the rhythm of the rain
Losing all sense of haste
As though the rain grants permission
To relax, be still, and enjoy
Without guilt or fear of missing out
Washing away expectations of the day
Snuggling in a blanket nest
These are my favorite days to rest
–Rhonda Kendziorski
⚘
PRIMA DONNA SISTER
There she is—my beautiful sister,
With a white Shasta Daisy
In her braided, Auburn hair.
And her skin so brown
Beneath the summer sun.
Oh, how her blue eyes sparkle,
As she twirls around on her tippy toes,
Pretending to be a sugar plum fairy.
Yes, that is her dream today,
But tomorrow her heart will be set
On becoming a Prima Donna,
And of course she does.
–Angelia Ross
⚘
REFUGE
In my mind
I have large eyes
Like a silver sugar glider –
There is so much to take in.
I gather it all
With my tree-top vision
With my spread-out arms
Vacuum and wind, wide –
Like a night hunter’s silent wings
Open and bracing
Free,
With only a tinge of anxiety
For I have mastered how to work with the thorns
Do you feel my welcome?
Do you feel my hunger?
Would you read me a story that will move my insides?
Show me a view that makes me exclaim
“I am so happy for this life!”, despite…?
Give me heartbreak that leaves me present
With how brightly I hoped,
How wildly I loved
Lend my focus to triple digits, naked geometry
Spirals, synchronicity
So I remember daily
That we are not
A reckless accident
Kiss me with dreams we can both taste
Through me, birth light I can hold
With my two human hands
And tomorrow I’ll say
“I no longer need to understand”
I will know what I’ve always known:
No matter how far I’ve traveled
Home is not a forgotten language
We created this beautiful mess
And we rest in it.
–Frances Denise
Before you go,
read on to learn about our forthcoming poetry anthology
— Where the Old Stories Still Breathe —
created & published by the Dandelion Scribes!
Where the Old Stories Still Breathe
An Anthology of Poetry from the Heart of Appalachia
by the Dandelion Scribes
Click the arrows to scroll through the photos
& take a peek inside our brand-new book!
Preorder now to get your copy in advance of our official book launch on August 15.
All preorders will ship out by August 10, and will also include a one-of-a-kind handmade poetry gift by the dithyrambler to thank you for your support! Preorders will close at the end of the day on August 9.
–––
Make plans now to join the Dandelion Scribes in Historic Rugby on August 15 for our official book launch!
Details below.
Mark your calendars and come celebrate with the Scribes! Our book launch will be hosted by Historic Rugby 8/15/26 at the Rebecca Johnson Theatre (located in the Visitor Center at 1331 Rugby Pkwy, Rugby, TN 37733). The event will begin at 7pm. We will present a poetry reading featuring the anthology contributors, offer refreshments, and have the very first copies of the book for sale! Donations to Historic Rugby will be accepted at the door.
This 400-page community anthology is full to the brim with original poetry by poets local to our area in eastern TN & KY. With 25 chapters, including:
1- The Hills Remember by Sheena Fry King
2- Nobody Knows Me Like I Do by Stephen Young
3- The Place of No Searching by Frances Denise
4- Metamorphosis by Jade Foster
5- Blossoming by Blair Correll
6- Creature Comforts by Kristen Reid
7- …And They Lived Happily Never After by Cari Lynne Wilson
8- This Past Year by Olivia Immitt
9- A Pattern Made Manifest by Kristian Obrusanszki
10- Ancient Alchemy by Amber Sparks
11- The Ouroboros is An Electric Eel by S.A. Phillips
12- Enchanted Music of the Subliminal Mind by Dane Osborne
13- happy plant by Nina
14- Seasons of the Mind by Olivia Gilreath
15- A Year in Appalachia as told by the Girl from Strawberry Plains by R. Clift
16- My Life As The World Fell Apart by Bobbie Jean
17- A Heroic Heart by Chris Boyatt
18- Pew Poems by Stephanie Duncan
19- Painful Bouts of Sobriety by Amethyst Drake
20- Radicals & Rye by Diona Marie Gwyn
21- Common Disasters and Other Ordinary Tragedies by Brandon Thorpe
22- Identity Crisis Solved by Cameron Lyric Cox
23- Awakening by Rhonda Kendziorski
24- Betrayal and Love by Angelia Ross
25- i exist in fragments by the dithyrambler
The anthology is named after the original poem “Where the Old Stories Still Breathe” by Olivia Gilreath. Cover photographs by Stephen Phillips. Curated & designed by Cheyanne Leonardo. Edited by Cheyanne Leonardo & Frances Denise.
THANK YOU TO OUR SPONSORS!
Our deepest gratitude goes out to the following folks & organizations whose contributions brought this book to life: Historic Rugby, Kara Kemp & The Bloom Stage, Sheena Fry King, Brandon Thorpe, Jimmy Barna of Big South Fork Brewing, Helga Kidder, Rhonda Kendziorski, Sharon Leonardo, Whitney Shirley, Madison Correll, Blair Correll, Lori Jones, Mellisa Pascale, Charles Thomas, & two Anonymous donors.
ANTHOLOGY BOOK TOUR!
We will be visiting various locations including public libraries and other venues in the eastern TN/KY area. Check out our events page to stay up-to-date, and come see us!
—
More about the new book:
With 25 locally-based contributors who call our hills home, Where the Old Stories Still Breathe is an anthology of poetry from the heart of Appalachia, capturing a range of lived experiences and narrated by the holler-folk themselves. Some of us were born and raised here. Some of us found our way here from other places. Either way, in this present moment, our lives are intertwined with the land itself, and our souls speak as part of the ever-evolving story taking shape in these ancient mountains.
Within these pages, we honor our history and the paths walked by our ancestors, all of whom led us here. And we record what will one day become history—keeping our spirits alive so that those who come after us will know from whence they came. Who we were. How we lived. Our faults & flaws, our beauty & brilliance, our struggles & losses, our triumphs & celebrations. What we got right. What we got wrong. How we survived the Appalachia we inherited, and what we wished to leave behind. These personal stories are more than poetry; they are myth—living & breathing, opening, rising, changing, and becoming.
In this book, we borrow from the past and look toward the beyond. This is the place where the old stories still breathe. Thank you for reading—and remembering—with us.
