Writer in San Francisco, CA
Poetry Practice: create a list of words with a theme, pick a word of the day and write an impromptu poem. This practice is used to push the boundaries of a poem.
For today, I have chosen “biting”.
Have a word suggestion? Leave a comment below.
blustery skies swirl shaded clouds
closer and closer to a steely city.
biting the skin, a winter wind
wraps around a chilled frame.
dizzying steps toward home,
a shiver slides down the spine.
Poetry Practice: Pick a word for the day and write an impromptu poem. You can also create a list of words and write a poem for each. This practice is used to push the boundaries of a poem and force you to flex your writing skills.
For today, I have chosen the word “Evergreen”. Have a word suggestion for future poetry practices? Leave a comment below.
Tall, spiney
a twirl of ivy,
evergreen touching
frosted blue skies
a soft down of
snow below.
Since July 4th, Independence Day, I’ve lost a lot of motivation.
Juggling two internships, revising my novel, looking for freelance opportunities, and applying to jobs. And oh yeah, that’s right, keeping up with the Black Lives Matter protests. Add a thick layer of COVID-19 cases spiking across the nation, and in Utah, we are now ranking in the Top 30 places with COVID cases per day, lack of testing, and lose restrictions.
Bring it on.
I’ve focused on cutting back on social media and scheduling a lot of my Twitter, Facebook Page, and LinkedIn posts instead. Re-sharing, sharing again and sharing petitions, links to donations, and news supporting the BLM movement plus everything else I’m doing.
Now I’m stuck.
Stuck feeling like every day is a new struggle. A brand new day to see if I can keep it all together, keep hope, and truck along.
Now more than ever, I feel like change is possible. It can happen, but the tension, the debates, and the absolute absurdity in politicizing every issue this country is facing right now are hindering progress.
Why is wearing a masked political when there are data and facts, scientists and doctors, that give us real reasons to wear a mask?
Why is it increasingly us versus them?
Why is a fight for equality, BLM, perceived by some as anti-American?
That seems to me to go against what it means to be an American. Isn’t the whole point of America justice, liberty, and freedom for ALL? I’m sorry, am I wrong? I guess maybe not “ALL” just a select few, such as those who are NOT POC, who are NOT POOR, who are NOT RICH WHITE MALES.
I guess if we reduce people to numbers, “1% will die? Ok, that’s fine with me,” suddenly we don’t care?
1% of people dying in the U.S. from COVID is A LOT OF PEOPLE. Approximately a little over 3 Million.
We thought 9/11 was bad, what about COVID?
But maybe 3 Million people dead is not enough for some to care?
Oh, well, I guess if most of that 1% are minorities and poor, it doesn’t matter at all?
This is what I’m seeing; this is what I’m hearing.
We are in a war, a war against COVID, poverty, inequality, and corruption. A fight to the death, for our lives.
I don’t understand the tension, the divide.
We are falling apart when we should be united, fighting to protect our neighbors, our families, our friends, everyone.
-Alina
On a lighter note, if you’re still with me, here’s a link to a few of my latest Medium stories:
Poetry is a waste of time? I don’t think so
Yes, I support BLM and this is Why
Recommended blog post:
Why I’m Not Celebrating Independence Day this Year
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Downloadable Link of Audio: Debut Poetry Reading and Discussion May 28, 2020.m4a
This is a taste for what’s in store for my future Patrons!
In this Reading/Discussion:
Link to my Poetry Reading at the Utah Arts Festival June 2018: alinahappyhansenwriter.com
Link to CBE Poetry Reading: Patrons-Only Post or Blog Post Public-Access
I’d like to thank Central Book Exchange again for hosting this event and allowing me to read my poetry, Thank you so much! I hope you are all doing well and staying safe! I miss coming in and browsing for Poetry.
Poems I read from the set list:
Poem: blue jays flinting
blue jays flinting from tree to tree
Electric blue feathers, screeching at dusk and sunrise
everything’s dying, everything’s dead.
OREGON COAST 2019
California Turkey Vultures
Kings
Chinooks
Hatchery
Fin-clipped
12lb braid, Mitchelle reel
The hundreds of white-ghost bodies of half-dead jellyfish
Floating, drifting through the cold pacific water
The rush of waves against the beach, upturning broken shells,
The cream crest of the waves, folding over, clashing with each other
A discarded empty beer bottle nestled in the exposed roots of a tree
Lonely elders, spilling their lives, when provoked, to any stranger.
Anyone who shows an interest.
The slick black body of the eel that swam to shore, weaving in and out of the floating seaweed
Disappearing under the massive stone I stood on
My hands wet from pulling off seaweed tangled on the hook of my lure
The azure water changing color with the currents, low-tide-high-tide-my-tide
The gray-black ball of baitfish swimming near the surface of the water, ripples when they jump and swim close to the surface, chased below
Poem: Teeth To Ear (originally published on alinahappyhansenwriter.com)
Teeth to ear
words open and close
lips move, no sound
a gasp, escaped sentences
jump from teeth to ear
wide eyes to fists hitting flesh.
Wreck and Passenger
Nestled on a riverside
a minutes drive from the ocean
a sailboat heavy with age and time Erodes
sailless mast, a ribcage
day-in-day-out
I am passenger
in my dad’s vehicle
we are fishermen and campers, here, in this minuscule town on the Oregon coast
his vehicle purrs, its roundish body coffin-like, bubble windows close me up
in his submarine machine
we drive over the bridge
a slight incline
to decline
day-in-day-out
we drive back and forth
over the bridge
into town for McDonalds hamburgers, for lures, for breaks between fishing
I look at the sailboat wondering if it is an abandoned dream or once a living token of memories
I am passenger
the day we drive over
the bridge
(into or out of
town I cannot
remember)
my Dad booms-arm-out-finger-pointing
“Look! The sailboat sunk!”
and I look and
the sailboat
is sunk
into
the river, the mast at an angle, an arrow
pointing
down
from
the
sky
Dad talks, says, it’s unusual, “boats don’t just sink—someone got pissed off,” and
that makes sense but doesn’t
it also makes sense
that the water ate up the boat, or tried to, stuck in its throat
I am a passenger
and we drive over the bridge
day-in-day-out
my eyes linger on the boat’s crippled body, until
one day, we see ropes attached to mast-and-bone-and-wood,
a spider’s tight gossamer, webbed, and pulling
dragging the wreckage of this maybe-dream-maybe-token-of-memories
up out of the waters throat
I am passenger
in my father’s land-submarine dispirited for the resurrection of this wreck
a watery grave, even partial is better than crucifixion by time, a wooden corpse forced to rot
in view of all passerbys and passengers.
Thank you all for reading and listening to my words, my poems, it means everything to me. I deeply appreciate your time and consideration.
Stay safe and stay healthy!
Xoxo,
Alina
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