Affinity CoLab Presents: The Power of Three

AFFINITY COLAB PRESENTS

ISSUE 6

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ART WORK Walk the Wire/Taylor Bielecki/6 You Can Check Out, But You Can Never Leave/Taylor Bielecki/14 We Haven’t Had That Spirit Here Since 1969/Taylor Bielecki/16 Empty Cornfield, Woods Institute/Surya Kelly Meier/20 Virgin Chaos/Surya Kelly Meier/21 One Lady/Bird/Surya Kelly Meier/24 Trine/Rose DeLone/27 Down in Dragontown/Taylor Bielecki/30 Why Do The Good Times Never Last?/Taylor Bielecki/34

POETRY Three Suns/Frederick W. Feldman/5 Child in a Tinderbox/Dan Erdman/7 The Head and the Heart and the Soul Make Three/Debbie Carrier/10 "Omne Trium Perfectum”/Francesca Rose Taveras/11 Delete/Katy Comber/12 The Beings in My Mind/Krystle N. Adams/15 You know I’m bored when I dye my hair again this season/Surya Kelly Meier/20 We sit before Yizhak Elyashiv’s Blue Landscape #7/Surya Kelly Meier/22-23 Trine/Rose DeLone/26

Short Story/Memoir 3AM/Carolyn Fair/8 Dear Two Lost Guys with a Ladder/Pat D’Inncenzo/9 Three Sides, Three Angles/Katy Comber/13 JULIE’S TUESDAYS/Mandi Rush/17-19 The Power of Three/Abby Cohen/25 Beyond/Teri Anderson/28-29 The Power of Three/Karen Izzi/31-33

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Three Suns

By Frederick W. Feldman Sun one tongue flaked with fire a molten discus laughing with sulfur with as many arms as the centipede has legs gleefully grasping planets in its shining fingers and pulling them to its sparkling mouth a surface inhabited by men and women who walk amidst the walls of flame draping around sanguine souls like curtains. laughing screaming impassive Sun two globe of ice turning imperceptibly inscrutably against the pale blue walls of space the perpetual snowstorm swirling in the cold winds swelling from the diamond star’s exhalations and light light reflecting from each snowflake in the blizzard whipping across the bow of any spacecraft drifting through the galactic tundra the spy gymnasium metal doors she is encased in ice on the wing of the ship should any captain visit in his dreams he will perhaps remember his school days Sun three An eye closed in sleep that sees in a dream of waking glued to those apparitions crawling before it and unable to look away or shut its lid covering everything before it in a thick coat of night streaming from its ink-soaked gaze streaming from its socket night the planet beneath looks up at the dark sphere covering its surface with empty black light causing the edges of things to glow in strange neon the people to cover themselves from head to toe

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Walk the Wire Pencil Illustration by Taylor Bielecki

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3AM Carolyn Fair 3:00 AM There’s a stillness that happens just before sleep where dreams and darkness meet, when the lights on the street that shine bright are cut by the curtains into soft glow and shadow. Waking and sleeping like a pendulum sweeping across in the box of the grandfather clock that stands in the hall and tolls out three times to tell you the hour.

And now in the silence, huddled under covers you listen for shadows that wander at night.

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Dear Two Lost Guys with a Ladder, A few years have passed since that hot July Saturday morning when you rescued me. You were circling around, looking for a street, when I flagged you down, angels sent to save me from my own folly.

I had been distracted when I left the house. As soon as the door clicked shut I realized I didn’t have my keys. I had been to the Farmer’s Market so my car was unlocked. Using the garage door opener I went to the connecting door to the house.

Locked. My brother and his family were visiting relatives in Maryland. My nearest cousin was vacationing in Canada.

I knew the door to my stair-less deck was open. Extending over my walk-out basement it was more than ten feet from the ground. To reach it I needed a ladder taller than my seven foot one. None of my neighbors were around. Where was everyone that day? I contemplated dragging Maria and George’s table over but that wouldn’t give me enough height.

Desperate, I crossed the street, ready to beg anyone for help. Oddly, there was a wooden ladder in the grass along the sidewalk. I picked it up and carried it to my backyard. I have a terrible fear of heights. The ladder was none too stable. I tried one last nearby friend. “Just come hold the ladder for me.” He agreed.

I went out front to wait in the garage out of the sun. That’s when I saw you, stopped at the intersection. I yelled, waved my arms and ran to you. There was a shiny aluminum ladder in your pickup. Miraculously you were lost and I could help. We traded. Using your far safer ladder one of you climbed up to my deck, went through the kitchen and opened my front door. I offered you Gatorade because of the heat.

You declined and headed off, directions in hand.

I took the wooden ladder back to its original spot. I still don’t know who owned it, but I have spare keys in several places.

Your rescued damsel in distress, Pat

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The Head and the Heart and the Soul Make Three

By Debbie Carrier If I am some thing; one thing, the thinking thing, the brain thing, the soft matter, software, soft machine, fleshly body with a thinking thing.

Then If I am one heart; a true heart, a real love, a beating machine that connects me to my thinking thing.

And If I am a soulman; soul love, soul spirit and all that can hear it say “that girl, she got a souled out soul”. “she got soul, but she ain’t no soldier.”

Then, I bet that I AM Three things and all of those things; the Head, the Heart, and Soul make three Connect me to the Universal things, that make the world sing “Pour a little Sugar on it, Honey.”

So If I AM black and white and the all together.

If I AM sunshine, moonlight and sweet wine, in the valley of the unwind Then It’s truly time for us to dance together; And see how three parts The Head the Soul and the flaming Heart Connect the revolving dots to chart a new life Into the Forever.

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"Omne Trium Perfectum"

By Francesca Rose Taveras They say everything comes in threes.

That every set of three is perfect and complete.

Earth is the third planet from the sun, you see.

Lithium, a chemical used to treat mental disease.

Used to put the mind at ease, has the atomic number of three.

Three is powerful, it is whole.

In the Christian doctrines the TRINITY symbolizes three essences in one soul.

We have three dimensions: past, present, and future.

Three primary colors: red, yellow, and blue.

The rule of three in fairy tales is said to be solely for our memory.

The power of three is endless, it is magical!

Out of all of these examples that hold the power of three, the most powerful, that stays true to me.

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Delete

By Katy Comber That mental backspace button? use it. click four times: Y then T then A then K click, click, click, click erase me.

Scoop me out from your hippocampus— dim my light, block out my rays, chip away at the teeth within my smile for you until my grin turns ghastly.

Make me a ghost. But. Don’t let me haunt you.

I love the smell of sage.

Use three-day-old cooked broccoli instead; wave those limp little trees around your bookshelves— Your oven. Your bed.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Watch me disappear.

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Three Sides, Three Angles

by Katy Comber

Jeremiah observed Claire’s hyperbolic soliloquy. Their beautiful audience of one nodded and aww’d in all the right places. He gnawed his tongue, restraining from contradicting the woman he wanted to marry. Wanted to marry. This idiotic recital on repeat for eternity. Realization stabbed at his side.

Claire’s romantic spinning: Met in a pizza shop... power went out! Generator failed! Sharing the last pie... Over candlelight! flitted over Sydney. Sydney’s focus drifted. Jeremiah. They first met in diapers. At a wading pool. A giggle roiled inside her. Her friend’s obvious discomfort. His fiancee—oblivious. No one can read him like I can. An awakening she’d long resisted, a pang in her chest.

Claire felt the words sour on her tongue as Sydney’s sparkling gaze connected with Jeremiah. His subtle eye roll. Her wink. Twinges of confirmation ignited in her brain.

You, foolish Claire, cannot compete.

Silence simmered over three churning minds.

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You Can Check Out, But You Can Never Leave Oil on Canvas by Taylor Bielecki

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The Beings in My Mind

By Krystle N. Adams The two men in my mind, are interesting I find.

They speak no words, they leave no mark, I do not call them, They simply spark.

The problem lies, they’re kept inside my thoughts and hide where I can find their eyes.

So how do I escape the burning flame of two men in my mind who bear no shame?

Who live and play and love and lust who in my mind I cannot trust? oh look there’s three a woman too what on earth am I to do? she looks and laughs Tells paragraphs of what and why things cannot be as if I didn’t already see.

She mocks me, this number three.

So three reign in my head I confess with minor dread but comes relief when in bed.

My real life husband that I wed Holds and caresses my tender head When he says “I love you” It’s divine, the three beings vanish from my mind.

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We Haven’t Had That Spirit Here Since 1969 Oil on Canvas by Taylor Bielecki

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JULIE’S TUESDAYS

By Mandi Rush It is Tuesday.

On Tuesday’s Julie returns to work after having four consecutive days off. Her son was at school Monday and Friday. Saturdays are for him and Sundays for all three of them. On Tuesday’s, Julie walks into the restaurant in high spirits and ready for the day ahead.

She walks up to her first table with a bounce and a soft smile.

Hi how are you?

Julie's "Hi" is elongated in a way that wouldn't warrant an exclamation, as it never really ends, rather the "I" runs softly into the how, still giving the effect of a pause, yet instead of silence, sound.

Like Chanting Aum, the initiation of the sound begins by the initiation of breath at the low belly, deep in the hollow of the hip. The breath travels up as sound will travel out. The chant begins in the back of the throat. The sound emitted from the middle of the mouth mirrors the inflated middle of the body as breath continues to fill. And as you would feel peak fullness of breath reach the throat, the expiration of sound, the last whisper of breath that had just filled your lungs, is finally felt at the lips. The product is a deep, smooth, Aum that causes you to pay attention and feel renewed simultaneously.

This is how Julie says, Hi how are you?

Her greeting sounds the easiest at 9am Tuesday morning.

At 9:43 the air begins to settle and the reality of this mundane universe encapsulating her existence takes weight as each finger coils around a coffee cup, each slap of a sneaker on a slate floor resonating the plea for spare change.

And then Julie's mood begins to sour slightly. Gossip begins to be thrown, the latest political outrage, the request of a "Would you get some?" of an ingredient we don't currently have, and never had in the past (though you insist we did) becomes ridiculous. Julie is reminded she does this work because she must or else she wouldn't be able to spend as much time with her son.

Julie was once an early education teacher. Those years let her observe what wonders a consistent, positive, parental figure can have in a young person's life; a parent who teaches him or her to self-examine, practice empathy, and encourage autonomy while 17 of 37

loving fiercely. Julie isn't willing to risk getting her soul's work wrong. She takes her duty as a mother very seriously.

You could say that her and Rebecca could relate. No, not your high school classmate, Rebecca, the one with a societally sensible profession with kids and a home in a development somewhere in suburbia. No, Rebecca, Isaac's wife from The Old Testament. After years unsuccessfully trying to bear a child, this Rebecca had very nearly resigned, going so far to insist Abraham sleep with another (which he did, but that is another story of human existence). At forty-two, the unfathomable came upon Rebecca and she carried a child to term with successful delivery. Nothing else ever mattered again.

Critically diverging in the extramarital permissions, Julie, likewise, became a mother at forty-two. She knew she was pregnant when a drag from a cigarette caused her to vomit. Julie had been smoking since she first stepped into a back of house in her teens, so when that familiar drag induced unfamiliar vomit, no test was needed to confirm what she knew in her bones and gut. Julie and her sweet husband were to have a son; and they both knew this child was precious.

Waitressing really can be great money with a flexible schedule. For those who value noncommittal freedom it is quite the good gig if you work at the right place. You're never making enough to not worry, but you're making enough right now to live with some comfort. So even though she knows what you ordered is actually what you ordered, and not what you are insisting you think you ordered, she'll smile, and get what you wanted all along working right away.

When she comes back to the kitchen, her eye will give an exaggerated twitch, and her hair may appear a bit more frazzled than before, but a subtle smirk will almost always accompany the exasperation.

If it's just slow enough, you'll want to hang back with her. You'll be treated with a story and Julie's stories are your favorite treat. The woman has a gift for timing. Stick around for stories of her youth skipping high school to attend Dead tours, her favorite trips (both cross-country and across the astral plane). Stick around to hear stories of Julie growing up as the youngest and only girl out of five and how she tried on various faiths like shoes she would outgrow quickly. Stick around for stories of her son, of how she met and married her husband, of how she has dealt with loss, grief, and the pantheon of human emotions. All of these stories are worth Table 19 waiting an extra minute or two for their coffee refill.

As the day wears on and business picks up, the stories abruptly end and Julie will inevitably get a bit more frantic. You'll be asked often to take iced teas to tables and refill drinks. Don't run her food, you want to leave that to her, but drop off waters and menus before she sees you haven't. If you can beat her to a dessert order and a check, she'll love you forever. Eventually, the day will slow and tables will get handed 18 of 37

over to the closers. You'll have a bit of lunch together and she'll pick up a treat for her son.

Before he started school, Little Erik did that bit himself. Every Tuesday, both he and his father, Big Erik, came in tandem to deliver their matriarch home. The little one would hide behind the clear pastry case, thinking his mother didn't already see him, and "surprise" her. After his reveal, he would say Hola! with a big smile and wave to Oscar and Jimmy in the kitchen, which was kindly returned, and then Little Erik would pick out his own treat (often skillfully guided by his mother). Julie would then give a truly earnest thank you to everyone she spent her Tuesday with and walk out of the front doors with her world entire, smiling as she came.

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You know I’m bored when I dye my hair again this season

By Surya Kelly Meier Teal, ethereal – colored this head with sea-dreams.

You wash ashore, full my hair, movingspeaking like the autumn trees shook loose, from doldrums: the bark of maples suddenly blue honey spilled, hands coalescing.

Empty Cornfield, Woods Institute Photography by Surya Kelly Meier

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Virgin Chaos Collage By Surya Kelly Meier

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We sit before Yizhak Elyashiv’s Blue Landscape #7

By Surya Kelly Meier I feel like I’m staring into Old Jerusalem.

I feel like I’m staring into blue stainless light.

This is the airy gem hidden within the Church of the Covenant a few blocks from Copley Square in Boston.

Here, there is a temple, or here, will be a church.

3 figures, 3 windows, 3 shadows: a star, a cross, all holograms.

There are 36 inky points in eternity, leaking, and there are 36 perfect blue holes in time.

There is a beggar pleading with 3 wise men, or the Holy Family is visited by 3 kings.

No one can say whether you cower in the dust of this millennial street, or sit beside me on the 3-sundial bench, here in the Gallery NAGA. 2 people [Jews] walk in wearing heather grey and black.

Every painting here is blue, like them, like you and me.

In the afterglow of the world, we join these 2 in blue landscape.

Not 3, not 2, not 1 dimension lives here.

Remember this: every place where God is, is a church.

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I’m saying, every place that is, lives by God, is a church, temple, monument and altar to these 3: God, the Holy Spirit, and you.

§

Your shadow [body] waves, and grows smaller every day.

I was a Jew in a past life, and I can’t forget the frame of the mirror I made to hold your name behind a holy family where nothing is written, wanting to be one of them.

Wanting to be you.

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One Lady/Bird Collage By Surya Kelly Meier

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The Power of Three

By Abby Cohen When you think about it, three is a magic number. Not just the three witches in Macbeth-although they are pretty cool. But the simple three legged stool or an easel.

It won’t stand up on two legs. But add in a third and you have something. A stable object that can be sat on or stood upon or used as a small table. An easel from which great art may spring or just a surface where someone could vent their anger by going all Jackson Pollock with tubes of paint splattering everywhere. Sklaboom! Paint explosion. Twine three pieces of rope together and you have something exponentially stronger than that one piece of rope times three. It really is magic. It follows some rule or other, but really, it’s magic. I would rather think things are magic than math and physics. But that’s just me I guess. I just like the idea of magic.

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Trine

By Rose DeLone

I catch a glimpse of dirt road deer.

Enamored by their lack of fear.

Deterred not at all by camera lens.

As if we all are lifetime friends.

All three look me in the eye, Behind them spans a yawning sky.

I click and point with steady hand.

My captured moment forever grand.

Then strolling past, they form a line.

Farewell, my friendly dirt road trine.

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Trine Photography by Rose DeLone

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Beyond

By Teri Anderson On October 30th, Sarah and her mum completed their usual routine. Sarah came home from college, went to the local cafe, and picked up some flowers at the nearby shop. The flowers were always irises and always had a red ribbon to tie them together.

Then, they would drive twenty minutes to Albert Road Cemetery to place the bunch of flowers and a couple small stones that occupied the area on the gravestone. This was to signify that they had been there, and that Aunt Elaine was in their thoughts.

They would stand and look at the grave. Sarah and her mum would speak about how Elaine always spoke her mind and how she would never be caught without her infamous burgundy lipstick. Once they had finished talking, they would walk back to the car, go home, and light a candle in Elaine’s memory.

This day was different. When they walked up to the grave, they noticed a rather dark burgundy smudge on the grave. Sarah saw her mum get upset at the state of the grave and decided to go to the on-site bathroom for something to clean off the stone. She walked through the cemetery and got some tissues, normally used to dry your hands, and dampened them down a little.

She walked out of the little building and began to make her way back to the grave.

When she looked up, there were three deer. Two older and one younger. They came running up and stopped, about fifteen feet from where Sarah was standing. They looked at Sarah and didn’t move a muscle. This seemed to go on forever. Really, it was about 30 seconds. Then, like a flash, they were gone back the way they came. Sarah took a moment and walked back to her mum. As she crossed the path, a man approached. The name Gerald showed stitched on his left pocket.

“I’ve never in the twenty years I’ve worked here seen something like that.”

Sarah smiled and said, “Neither have I. I wonder what makes me so special.”

The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a photograph. In the photo was a bandstand, and behind the wooden structure, three deer stood on the hill. The man then said, “A hundred years ago, before there was a cemetery here, it was used as a park. I’ve heard that there is more to this land than the dead that now fill it. There have been strange sightings. But never the three deer. I wonder what it means.” He placed the photo back in his pocket and left.

Sarah didn’t know what it meant. She went back to her aunt’s grave. Her mum said, “You’ve been a while, are you okay?”

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“Yes, but three deer just ran right up to me, just over there and a caretaker walked up to me and said he hadn’t seen it before, and that the ground is haunted and he had an old photo of the same three deer."

Sarah’s mum told her to calm down. It was just a cemetery. They cleaned the smudge off the stone and began to walk back to the car.

Sarah's mum used the bathroom and Sarah waited outside. A woman came over and smiled at Sarah. Sarah noticed that the woman was wearing gardening gloves and a uniform. Sarah asked if she was a groundskeeper.

“Yes, I’m the one and only groundskeeper. Got the job last week after Gerald had a heart attack, whilst tending to one of the graves on the far side.”

Sarah didn’t know what to say. She let the woman get back to her job. When her mum came out, Sarah’s mind was a mess. She got in the car and drove through the gate. As they pulled onto the main road, Sarah noticed a man standing by the gate. He waved at her. It was the man with the photo. Sarah quickly looked in the other direction.

Sarah wondered why she was the only one to see the man. She wondered whether the smudge on the grave and the deer were the reason. Then, whilst sitting there, she looked at the dashboard of her mum’s car and noticed something strange about the date. It wasn't the 30th October. It was the 31st.

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Down in Dragontown Oil on Canvas by Taylor Bielecki

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The Power of Three Karen Izzi When my youngest brother, Michael, and his wife, Jenny, announced that they were expecting, my heart was filled to its brim with love, joy, and excitement. Of all people in the world to become parents, I knew these two would be exceptional parents.

Having gone though a lot to conceive, it was their special time! Our families came together to become one, as we learned that there were THREE. Yep, triplets. Three of everything. I made quilts, crocheted soft, little baby scarves, bought clothes, stuffed animals, and loads of pink. I stood by and cheered Jenny on, as she was ill throughout the entire pregnancy. "It will be so worth it,” I'd say, as I offered Reiki to her belly. Those babies were all girls. They say it takes a special man to create a girl. And well, Michael is that special, that he gets THREE. The girls were born at Lankenau Hospital on October 1st, 2013. They were a bit premature, as multiple births many times are. They each weighed 3 pounds.

Everything was perfect. They were healthy and quickly admired as they lay incubated in the NICU (Newborn Intensive Care Unit) About a week later, we got a phone call that Maya had developed NIC (necrotizing enterocolitis) which is a common, but serious condition affecting premies. Her digestive system was slightly underdeveloped and now infected. At nine days old, she was moved to the NICU at DuPont Hospital for Children. Maya had intestinal surgery. We were able to visit only by appointment. I just sat and wept, as I prayed. Each of us reached out to family and friends and every prayer warrior that we know. Each day was long and intense. Each of us, in our family, as Maya's parents, as her grandparents, and as her aunt and uncle, faced it and reacted in different ways. We came together during this most difficult time. Seeing the newborn cut across her six inch wide body was the most difficult thing I have ever been through in my life. We had no idea, at that time, that Maya would then go on to suffer dangerously high fevers, MERSA, and one medical challenge after another.

Every time my phone rang, I paused, took a deep breath… Months of constant prayer and talking to God.

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The staff at DuPont was incredible. They had a great idea, early on, and insisted that Jenna and Eva be moved from Lankenau Hospital to DuPont be with Maya. Since Michael and Jenny were making several trips a day to feed and visit all of their girls, this was absolutely amazing, and I believe, life-changing for Maya and her sisters.

Immediately, Maya responded favorably to being with Jenna and Eva. For brief visits, Maya was able to lay entangled with her sisters, despite the many tubes and wires that filled the sterile room. If you want to talk about tears, ask me. As if that weren't enough trauma, as weeks went by, Maya's vocal cords were damaged, as a result of surgeries and tubes passing in/out. Have you ever watched a newborn cry and hear no sound. My heart broke. We stood by and were completely blown away by her strength and resilience. As an infant, doctors realized that she had hearing loss as well. After many appointments with specialists, Maya, received two cochlear implants. Guess what? Her voice is now carrying words that make terrific sentences. At age three, Maya, with an Aide, began taking a bus to the city to the Clarke School. I love watching her march on and off that bus, all by herself. Wow! She has a world of her own; teachers who adore her, friends of her own, and has become independent beyond belief. Her hugs and really tight squeezes make my life better.

The Alfred I. DuPont Hospital saved Maya's life. We have thousands of texts, videos, and moments of pure joy with the "Izzi Trips." They are five years old now. They are so beautiful and different from each other in many ways. Jenna and Eva have become watchful over Maya, and the bond between them is outstanding. We love watching them with their dog, Nico, play with their cousins and friends, act, make music, sing, and dance.

So, you are probably wondering why I am sharing this story now, five years later. Well, it has taken me this long to NOT CRY, every time I sit to write it. Maya has blossomed. Her heart shines though her smile. She is fearless and so full of love. She laughs, screams, and doesn't let anything stand in her way. She is a happy, smart, and amazing five year old.

Two weeks ago, my nieces performed in their very first dance recital. Not a big deal to many. But to me, it has enhanced my life. Jenny seemed concerned that Maya might 32 of 37

"chicken out" or "follow her own drum", or even leave the stage, because that is what Maya does sometimes- but guess what? She stood front and center, with a crew of dancers, and led the way. She knew every word, every step. The other girls watched her lead. She smiled the entire time and ran off the stage after a lengthy bow. Well, we can talk about MORE tears now!

As there are no words to describe this joy in watching them grow. It makes me proud and do joyous to be called Kiki when these three come running. God has blessed me with them. I am grateful. And, I am still joy-crying as I edit....

Maya, Eva, Jenna "The izzi Trips"

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Why Do The Good Times Never Last?

Oil on Canvas by Taylor Bielecki

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Contributors Teri Anderson creates work that looks into the idea of craft in art, textiles, installation and sculpture to create a linear or surreal environment which the audience have to inhabit. The work links to her heritage and how textiles were key in their family history including sample machinists and pattern cutters. Building on this Teri proposes an art practice which incorporates a craft based techniques into the art based discipline of installation. https://teriandersonsite.wordpress.com/ @tinyteri13 - instagram @teriandersonartist - Facebook Taylor Bielecki: “I am a walker in the city who is both fascinated and fearful of New York. In my paintings and drawings, I portray urban landscapes that I find myself gravitating toward in darkness.

I take inspiration from film noir and its specific scenes of suspense often shot in alleyways and deserted highways. Like a director editing the establishing shot, I choose each composition that places the viewer in a position of vulnerability.”

Debbie Carrier is a Southern-born poet, who now resides in Malvern, PA. Northeastern PA has been her home for the past 10 years. She goes by the pen name 'Deep Blue River', and performs her spoken-word art at Steel City Coffee House in Phoenixville, PA in conjunction with Affinity CoLab open mic dates. She has previously been published in High School and College publications, and was recognized with a Third Place award, for a Short Story about her Grandmother, at The Dallas Women's Museum in Dallas, TX. Abby Cohen, “with the exception of my high school poetry, which should only be read with a bottle of pepto bismol and a session of Marx Brothers movies, I’ve been writing actively for four years– Primarily memoir, with occasional dabbles in fiction. Samples can be found on-line at Affinity Co-Lab or observed at Steel City Coffeehouse’s Thursday Open Mic or their Story Slam/Poetry Jam with Affinity CoLab on the 4th Sunday of every month. Occasionally, I also perform words by other people. To steal from Anne McCaffrey, ‘I wear glasses and i’m 4 feet 8. the rest is subject to change.'”

Alex Burns grew up near Leeds, England. He started writing poems in his teens, and wrote a few poems for his wife, Mary for birthdays or anniversaries. Since retiring to Albuquerque, he has devoted his love of language to describing the beautiful environment he has come to live in. He has also come to find much that he dislikes about what his adopted country is becoming, and our role in threatening the earth upon which we live. He recently self-published his first book of poems, English Impatient, and is working on a second, a book of children’s poems.

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Katy Comber co-founded Creative Light Factory nonprofit writers’ room, founded the website affinitycolabpresents.org, an online arts and lit magazine, and hosts a monthly Story Slam/Poetry Jam at Steel City Coffeehouse. Her works can be found in Dreamers Creative Writing; Studio B’s Wabi Sabi Anthology, Paragon Press’ Lagom Journal; Meat for Tea Literary Review, Affinity CoLab Presents, and an indie-published collection of poems now available on Amazon: 40 Portraits of a Family.

Pat D’Innocenzo is a photographer, writer, poet, and member of the Just Write Writers.

Rose DeLone is a photographer and writer and regular contributor to Affinity CoLab. Her most recent work includes the project, Everyone Should Have a Gay Son: A Pastor’s Journey by Rev. Dr. Jeri E. Williams.

Dan Erdman is currently working on publishing his first collection of poetry. He performs his poems at Steel City Coffeehouse in Phoenixville, PA and is a member of the Just Write Meet-Up. Carolyn Fair is a writer who resides in Berks County. She enjoys spending time with her husband, two children and her pug.

Karen Izzi is a Chester County, Pennsylvania native and has been making art and cooking since she was about six years old. She is a poet and journalist. Karen founded Conscious Creations Art Studio in 2015, on a mission to support and promote other artists and writers within the community. She is a member of the American Art Therapy Association and realizes that the power of art therapy and writing -changes everything. As a student of meditation and a teacher of Zentangle, her pen-topaper meditation, she encourages everyone to live to their fullest potential, every single day.

Surya Kelly Meier is a writer, artist, and dietitian from Belle Mead, New Jersey who received her BA in Creative Writing and Spanish from Susquehanna University. Her poetry has appeared in the university’s literary magazines including Transformations and Rivercraft. She has previously published a chapbook La Higuera, or, The Fig Tree in 2010, and is seeking publication for her second, Prelude to Sainthood. She is an active member of the Spoken Art from the Heart community of poets and yogis in the Delaware River Valley area.

Mandi Rush has spent the better part of the last decade working in the food service industry, traveling, and collecting various experiences to be expressed through poetry and stories. Outside of writing, Mandi can be found growing food for eating, indigo for dying, and flax for (eventual) wearing at Kneehigh farm. She is a current Chapter Leader for the Southeast PA Chapter of The National Young Farmer's Coalition and has been teaching Yoga in the area for the past four years.

Follow her on Instagram @maundering_mandolin if you care to be humored by vegetable puns and pontifications, as well as meet her cat, Lily.

Francesca Taveras is a 27 year old living in Berks County. Born in Manhattan, NY and raised in the Bronx. You can find her on FB as Francesca Rose and her Instagram is outlandish.af. Francesca has been on a personal journey of self love and healing and is currently confronting her fears. She has been a secret poet since high school and has never before publicly shared any of her written work.

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