Affinity CoLab Presents Sense of Self

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ART WORK Self-Portrait Series and Lyrics / Miguel Lopez / pg. 4-9 Self-Portrait Series / Bonnie Paige Powell / pg. 14-17 Self-Portrait / Patty Kline-Capaldo / pg. 26 Sense of Self Through Birds / Margaret Willowsilk / pg. 34-39

POETRY And the Day Came / S.L. Morrison / pg. 10

Sense of Self / Frederick W. Feldman / pg. 12-13 Poetry by Dan Erdman / pg. 18-22 Poetry and Sense of Selfie Collage by Katy Comber / 23-25 I forgot / Patty Kline-Capaldo / pg. 27 Poetry by Rae Theodore / pg. 28-29 Poetry by Debbie Carrier / pg. 30-33 Poetry by Leah Holleran / pg. 40-43 Looking for Somebody / Rose Feldman / pg. 46-4

Short Story/Memoir My First Kiss / Abby Cohen / pg. 11 The Wildernight and She Loved Him / Tia Manon / pg. 44-45 FORTY-FIVE MINUTES / Patricia D’Innocenzo / pg. 48

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Self-Portrait Series by Miguel Lopez

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Self-Portrait Series by Miguel Lopez

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Self-Portrait Series by Miguel Lopez

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PTSD I did not wake up feeling like this was going to be the end/ The thought of killing myself/ I must admit I contemplated everyday/however, I gave you no signs/ no reasons to doubt my words all the time I said I was “fine”/ on the outside you could see me smile/ I’m a friendly person/ loving life/ popping bottles in the club/but only a few can see I’m drinking myself to death because my soul has been taken by depression/ call me a coward/ yes, I took “the easy way out”/ but you could never understand all the pain that was eating me inside/ I deployed not once, not twice, but more than 3 times/ just imagine all the suffering I had to endure/ all the funerals I have gone to/ I still see the faces of my brothers laying on the sand/ screaming SGT save me/ please don’t let me die/ As their heartbeats stopped before I could reply/ Not everyone falls during combat/ some are victims of the aftermath/ PTSD it’s no joke man/ this shit got me all fucked up/ wearing a Kevlar to go to sleep/ imagine that?/ and then have to face my nightmares, though usually it’s the same one/ the enemy walking in and blowing me up or stabbing me while I’m asleep/ the fear will never go away/I’m so scared bro, of hurting my loved ones/ aggression, anxiety and depression have devoured my insides/ my sense of smell is no longer functional/ all I can smell is burning dead bodies/ I smell it all the time, at home, at the office/ while I’m driving the constant paranoia of IEDs hidden under the trash/ The image of my battle buddy being blown up by one/ It's not easy walking in my shoes/ until one day you do/ it’s not possible to comprehend all the horrors we go through/ just picture a child trying to kill you because of his ideals/ or a mother being raped and there's nothing you can do/ my heart can't take it anymore/ I'm immune to suffering/ my eyes are shut to reality/ tell me, where did we go wrong?/ help me understand because I can't do it on my own/ all the medals hanging on my chest are constant reminder of what I must face/ these awful dreams following every step I take/ I wish the pills could make me feel better/ just for one day forget about the past/ but it’s hard man/ 24 hours is never enough/ when 22 you are fighting inner demons with the idea of suicide/ 22 is bigger than my age/ 22 is the number of brave souls we lose everyday/ and I wonder, if when I turn 22, I'll be another veteran who commits suicide from all the pain, too/ CRYING ALONE I was born a few weeks late/ in the year of our Lord 1981/ on Valentine’s Day/ my skin color was purple, not light pink/ one more day inside momma’s belly, I would’ve died/ for lack of oxygen/ had the doctor not intervened/ since a child I had been surrounded by death/ First was my caretaker when parents migrated to the U. S of A/ I was just a fucking child/ didn’t know how to handle losing someone dear at such an early age/ I still remember it vividly/ damn/ in my brain this just happened yesterday/ she hugged me, kissed me, told me “te amo, be a good kid!” / sent me off to school/ laid in my bed and died less than 2 minutes after I left/ I sat on a corner/ crying all alone/ blaming God for taking her/ she never did anything wrong/ I stopped attending church because I believed no more/ cursing at the Lord/ all religions, the priest and my soul/ I still find myself crying alone/ why death has to follow me where ever I go?/ I was 13 when I met with my parents in New York/ happy for the first time after so long/ in the same timeframe my favorite cousin died in a hospital bed/ and yet/ he wasn’t even an adult/ My best friend got shot/ my step father/ who was more like a father died on vacation/ but there’s a lot of mystery about that/ one of my closest Soldiers died in a car crash/ another one just over-dosed and countless more have committed suicide/

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So I’m here/ opening my soul to you/ fuck the STIGMA/ seek help/ just like I’m going to do/ so close to losing everything I hold dear in my life/ so close to pulling the trigger and saying good-bye/ and just like pac/ “I once contemplated suicide, but when I held that 9, all I could see was my momma’s eyes”/ all I could see were the tears falling free from my children’s eyes/ I refuse to go down without a fight / I’m not making the number 22 from veterans who commits suicide /Remember Everyone Deployed/ and those who stay behind mourning the heroes we lost because of this war/ #iWontFall2PTSD Dimming lights No lie/ I don’t wanna see the sunrise/ I don’t want to know what is like to walk in your shoes/to be falsely accused/ and pretend that everything it’s all good/ when inside/ your light is dimming/ vanishing like the sunset/ although/ you’re screaming for help/ in silence/ no one hears you/ nobody gives a shit/ smiles they throw your way/ a fake handshake/ a dab/ or perhaps/ a tap on the shoulder like that signifies they feel your pain/ However/ I doubt they could ever understand the hatred I see in their eyes/ the condescending tone when they say hello/ but fuck it/ c’est la vie/ such is life/ asi es la vida/ crazy/ it’s my roller coaster with no straight path/ the heroin in the needle that took my Soldier’s life/ the 40% proof, reason for so many Vets to die in car crash/ the PTSD that comes to life/ at the worst moment & time/ c’est juste fou/ this shit is crazy/ worse than a rash caused by fiberglass/And despite the dimming lights/ my eyes can still see through the darkest nights/ the struggle, the suffering, the pain/ the many nights alone in your room to your head you held that gun/ and although my life is dimming/ after my death/ there will be no more dimming lights/ for my soul will rise through the clouds/ and when you’re feeling down, about to end it all/ gaze up upon the sky and you’ll realize that the worst dimming light/ will be the one of the loved ones left behind 1 Minute And although/ the BBQ is lit/the first shot of whiskey/ I’d raise to the sky/ as I say your name/ remembering the life you lived/ it’s been quite a few years since that tragic day/ many summers have gone and come/ nonetheless/ I remember it vividly/ for in my head/ it just happened yesterday/ I talk to the lord from time to time/ and often ask him/ or her/ I don’t know what thee identify as/ all I know is the greater energy above the clouds/ has yet to provide an answer to the question I asked/ in thy response all I hear is silence/ a loud dark silence that sends shivers through my fragile body/ and in that silence/ I finally realized my question has been answered/ for in that silence is when we remember what can’t be forgotten/ so take 1 minute and silence the world/ to give thanks/ to the Fallen Warriors/ my brothers and sisters in arms/ the ones who made the ultimate sacrifice/ and have no doubts/ because we all gave some/ but i shit you not/ they gave all!

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A Note from the Artist: My painting career started not too long ago, about three years ago, Summer of 2018, to be precise.

However, I’ve sketched and drew since childhood. I never had a calling for painting, that is until life was the lowest for me, both in my military and personal life. For me it was a scapegoat to not lose my mind with everything that was going on.

I didn’t have a voice, as an artist, then. You could say I was all over the place, painting animals to landscape and cityscape to portraiture, etc. The one thing that seems to be present in all of these creations, was how my mental health was incorporated into each piece of work. It’s how I felt my world was crumbling into pieces and through these paintings I felt I was screaming for help, constantly.

Life in the military was not easy, to say the least. It kept me away from my family while making another family. I struggled and still do with mental health and a less than functional body. I’ve lost many close friends either through Suicide or at combat. Many of us struggle with PTSD and will continue.

Painting it’s that one aspect in life that helps me cope with it all. My use of colors - or lack of - while painting portraitures or military inspired paintings lets you merge into my world. It lets you think beyond the work itself by taking you deeper into what I’ve been through. I call it my “Mental Balance”.

Mental Balance through painting it’s my way of letting you know that it’s ok to feel pain, but you have to let it go. Remember but continue moving on. Cherishing each day and do that one thing that always brought light into your life and everything else will fall into place… eventually.

-~ You'll never achieve your dreams if they don't become goals.~ Miguel López Visual Artist https://www.facebook.com/artbylopez Follow on Instagram: @artbylopz

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And the Day Came

By S.L. Morrison And the day came When even the stars were fading, when all I needed most to know was that I hadn’t been forgotten.

And that somedays only the rain can understand why we all fall down And the day came when I’d lost my spirit and I’d lost myself, Until I discovered that I could be born again, long after my birth.

When I lost my childhood.

And my soul seemed immune to my healing.

And even the church seemed to abandon me.

Until I discovered that what I once thought was water turned out to be fire.

And that day finally came when I could no longer afford to surrender.

And when I could not find the sun, I could run to where the night would take me.

And, ultimately, the day arrived when I knew that I could leave my sadness here.

For there were many ways to be brave.

And inside me dwells an Everest.

S.L. Morrison created stories since before she even learned to write. She started and edited her school newspaper, The Viking Express. Since then, Morrison completed her first novel and is currently working on her second. Morrison also writes short stories, poetry and essays, but for the last twenty years she has focused on flash fiction. Two of her flash fiction pieces were published by Affinity CoLab. Morrison is the founder of the center for creativity, Yew Tree Studio.

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My First Kiss

By Abby Cohen My first kiss. Well when I was 16, sweet 16 and never been kissed, at overnight camp, a boy Eric was interested in me. Since I had always been a shy little bookworm this was terribly exciting. I have to say, even before I knew something was missing or what that something was, I felt like an imposter.

We’d been having a conversation expressing a mutual fondness for the music of Tom Lehrer, who wrote political satire and novelty songs in the 50’s and 60’s.

We went from there to books both of us readers of fantasy and science fiction (I am such a nerd, it’s true.) But he leapt to the conclusion that I’m a fan of Tolkien, which I wasn’t and I’m not. No Lord of the Rings for me or Game of Thrones, etc. Sorry. Just not that into what they’re calling high fantasy these days. We tangented off from there into discussion of musical comedies which I love, but again he leapt to an erroneous conclusion, that I’m a fan of Gilbert and Sullivan. Again not so much. And based on this, he declared me perfect.

Oh dear. From the outset, at least part of his interest in me was based on three facts, only one of which was true. Really a classic case of attraction fogging up the lenses. Or as Harlan Ellison said, “Love ain’t nothing but sex misspelled.” Not that Eric and I ever had sex. I did mention sweet and innocent and never been kissed. We did a fair amount of kissing and after a bit, making out.

Fondling. I have to admit, I did enjoy being fondled. But while that first kiss on my 16th birthday was sweet, I always felt like kissing Eric lacked something.

There were no fireworks. No heat, no anything from a romance novel. It wasn’t till about six months later that I finally figured out my feeling for girls, the significance of those feelings that I never until that bright light bulb moment midway through my junior year-only then did I finally use the word crush to apply to all those feelings. And the fact that I always felt something was missing from Eric’s kissing ability took on a whole new level of significance.

He was a sweet nerdy boy and it was a sweet summer romance. I probably learned more of what to look for in a partner from him than I ever have from a lot of the women I’ve dated. I will say, the fact that for such a geeky boy, he had a surprisingly nice build, which I did not care about even a little bit, probably should have told me something about my sexuality I just wasn’t ready to hear.

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.'”

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Sense of Self Frederick W. Feldman You are at the dentist and look at the fish swimming in their tank, leaning in to watch them paddle up and down, captivated—maybe like that unforgettable painting by Matisse.

The fish dissipate into flakes and particles, and the bubble pump waves the hydrophytes.

You catch the vector, reflected on the glass, of your own face, holding within it the water, the bubbles, the shining scales, the ichthyosiform Monad holding together other people’s opinions, other people’s thoughts, imbricated in gaze, your indivisible light a skein.

Now look at you, deaf, dumb, and blind amidst the ringing bells on your island of self, staring at your own face in the mirror, drawing a self-portrait and filling it with blue and red watercolors, entranced by your own bulbous eyes and blank face as if, in youth, you’ve just discovered a world entire of itself, like Narcissus plastered to his pool, other people’s opinions, other people’s thoughts foaming over your bluffs, your damned old “universe” tossing and turning, expecting to tell you where to go.

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I sit in the pews amongst the sea, the sense of self comprising other people’s opinions, other people’s thoughts, waiting to imbibe the elements, the bread and wine; for the crowd is untruth, the body collective, and to receive a mind, a body, a sense of self is to become like everybody else, for a life is everywhere on the plane or field, and only one habits obscure this stricken frame, virtual, in salivation, in water, in blood, looking to stand a moment on top of the salted foam of unmemory, beheld in the eye of God.

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Self-Portrait Series by Bonnie Paige Powell

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Self-Portrait Series by Bonnie Paige Powell

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Self-Portrait Series by Bonnie Paige Powell

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A Note from the Artist: Am an I an artist because I see differently? There are many ways to see myself. My self portraits are proof. Sometimes in the inquiry process we can find it hard to grasp what it would be like to live a different life. Pondering and questioning I think are part and parcel to the reason behind why I paint and on the subject of my self portraits: it becomes critical. There are aspects of what I see in the mirror looking back at me, but there’s so much more. I envision if I changed an aspect of myself, I dare to dream what it means to be a beloved queen or an older and wiser woman… My self portraiture has become a painting exploration of myself now and who I could be and who I wish to become. Whether it comes to fruition isn't necessarily the goal when I am painting. Along the way I learn about myself. To quote a favorite childhood book of mine, "theres more, much, much more" -Bonnie Powell Follow on Instagram: @bonnie.paige.powell

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One Rock At A Time

By Dan Erdman Moses was a scientistnot the bespectacled, white lab coat and test tube type, but the scraggly-haired, sandaled, field geologist kind who enjoyed traversing sand dunes with large slabs of slate in his arms and hauling them up a granitic mountain.

And I get it.

But that thing about the Red Sea, which really made him famous, well, I just don’t know...

I made a career understanding how water can, essentially, flow uphillconfined bedrock aquifers, differential head pressure, fracture flow, artesian conditions, and the like; but the parting of a surface water body under atmospheric pressure… well, it just isn’t natural.

So, before I retire, I think I may take my collection of Neanderthal bones and carefully cement them into some pre-Cambrian rocks, and scatter my collection of Paleozoic trilobite fossils among the sea shells on the Jersey shore, just to test the younger scientists, and see if they attempt to rewrite the stories of evolution and the geologic time table.

Then, I will visit with Moses at whatever retirement community he has moved into, and I will bring along a jug of wine, and we will drink and talk about all the fun we had re-arranging the earth one rock at a time.

And, if he wants me to tell him how to make fresh water flow freely from a hole in the ground, I will, if he shares with me the secrets of the Red Sea.

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Woodchuck In The Penthouse

By Dan Erdman I shot a woodchuck once, upon a time when I was young, because I couldin a distant wide open meadow that I strolled with my .22.

Had I a shotgun, he would have exploded into pieces- a feast for fox and vulture, but with the .22 he imploded and was sucked into the barrel of my rifle before I could even lower it from my shoulder.

Now, there’s a woodchuck in my penthouse, gnaws on the wooden frame of my bed at night; probably hid in a box of old clothes when I moved in.

I leave pizza crust in a bowl on the floor in the hall only to finds his notes there in the morning- demands for fresh carrots, arugula, and broccoli.

The woodchuck in my penthouse chews a wooden leg off every chair in the kitchen, shreds the bottom of towels hanging low to the floor, and fouls the rug in the living room.

I have never seen him here for certain, but sometimes, as I doze in my recliner, I hear his high whistle beneath and awake to see something scurry fast from under the recliner to behind the couch.

I often leave the door ajar at night, and hope he will sneak out, take the back stairs or the elevator to ground level and find his way to the park across town to live happily ever after. But in the morning, I find the door shut and a note by the sillcabbage, apples, and new kitchen chairs.

I asked an exterminator to trap him and to free the woodchuck in some far away meadow.

But the exterminator told me it would be cheaper and easier to just poison him here, or lure him with strawberries to the balcony and kick him from the 22 nd floor… No.

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THE HYDROLOGIST

By Dan Erdman I heard Mrs. Rosaldi, our neighbor, tell my Grandmother that she was going away all summer and so she had hired a lawn care company to take care of the yard and garden. She was very worried though, she said, that the workers may be Puerto Ricans or gypsies speaking god-knowswhat languages to her roses. And so the child wrote: Cool, calm, and clammy, drool drips slow and deliberate from a corner of my mouthand the Ladies of the Most Delicate Plant Society scorn me in righteous horror.

But I have come only to help, I tell them, as I have heard about the droughtit has been hot and dry for weeks; it will be hotter and dryer tomorrow.

And, if it remains this hot and dry, I tell them, their most delicate prized plants will certainly wilt and die; the sun will steal the moisture and the flowers will witherand then, oh how the Ladies of Most Delicate Plant Society will cry.

But scorned, I shall now wait for the Ladies of the Most Delicate Plant Society to plead: “Who here in this drought-stricken land can help save our precious garden?”

Then they will ask me to dribble and drool on their dying prized delicate plants, and they will humbly beg for my pardon.

Decades later, I revisited the old neighborhood, which they now call “Little Asia”, and I stood on the sidewalk looking through Mrs. Rosaldi’s wrought iron fence and spoke with a Mr. Liu, who now lives there, and I told him that the garden looked just as impeccable as I remembered from my childhood. He told me he taught environmental science at the local community college, and I told him that I became a consulting hydrogeologist. And, as the conversation of our common interests evolved, we spoke of the many countries I’ve worked in throughout my career and that I was presently overseeing an in-situ bioremediation program of chlorinated solvent contamination in groundwater, which he genuinely found intriguing. Mr. Liu’s wife stepped out the front door as we chatted about these things, and he introduced me to her as a “fellow scientist” and someone who had long ago lived next door. And in response to her somewhat curious and skeptical look, he proceeded to further tell her my story, I guess, in what I think was Korean or maybe Chinese. And after some seemingly argumentative discussion between the two of them, she turned to me with a polite but concerned expression and said “Oh, a hydroologist… a gypsy boy” as she picked up her watering can and walked off toward the roses.

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Cans of WD-40

By Dan Erdman A man can’t possibly need more than one large can of WD-40 in a lifetime.

There just aren’t those many rusty bolts, fishing reels, or other metallic do-hickeys in need of a dose of the lubricant in one’s lifetime.

Why then do I possess five, maybe six or seven, cans of WD-40, some in closets, one or two in the garage, one rolling around in the trunk of the car?

All partially emptied, some cans so rusty they could use a good shot of WD-40 to clean them up, some missing caps and at least one without that push button nozzle on the top of the can.

I don’t know how many friends I really have.

I do know that there is a handful who I have been meaning to call for quite a while.

You know, just to ask them what condition they’ve been in the last few years.

You been fishing? Get that creaky joint in your knee fixed yet?

You been rolling around in the trunk of your car lately?

You still alive?

I could invite them over for a barbequejust the living ones, of course.

I have this rusty old grill that needs fixing first, though.

There’s probably enough WD-40 left in the can on the shelf in the garage to get the rusted bolts on the grill loose so I can replace that broken leg.

I could empty all the WD-40 from all the cans I can find into one mason jar, just to have it all together in one place and then throw away the cans.

And I could have all those old friends over for a barbeque also, all of them at one time.

But, I probably won’t do either.

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Olives

By Dan Erdman On the third early morning away at a beach house, alone on the balcony with a warm and quiet mug of coffee, while the two young grandchildren remained asleep inside, I allowed myself to honestly list and prioritize the things in life that had brought me the most substantial pleasures.

Among the firsts scribbled onto my list: fishing, sex, good alcohol, and the rising sun playing with the rising steam from the coffee mug then in my hand.

Grandchildren, I thought, should rank in the top one hundred, and I loved them even then for certain.

But I could not rank them then, at that age or with their wicked behavior for those three long tortuous days, above the peace of a new sunrise from the ocean, that long-ago weekend girlfriend whose name I can’t remember, a striped bass on the line, a glass of single malt scotch around a campfire, the anesthesia they give you before a colonoscopy, or olives.

Ah, olives!

Now, at my age, I know that the ranking of pleasures will continue to change with time, maturity, and/or senility, as will the ability to enjoy those things deemed that day at the beach house to be my life’s most substantial pleasures; and I know that the grandchildren will eventually rise toward the top of the chart.

But I always have, probably always will, rank in the top ten the taste of a good honest olive.

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.

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Sonnet Attempt from a Distracted Mind

By Katy Comber It still churns in my mind. Sometimes. The ghost of you and Home and that salty sweet, “Why?” Peppered yolk runs. Easy eggs miss the toast.

I nibble, swallow, throat dry, but still try to rearrange that sloppy compartment of you: magnets, coupons, dust, and Joker card with its corner bent, lives free of rent in my mind. Hazed mental state. “You broke her.”

I found it. Cracked. Wrong time. The old wristwatch.

There’s a whistling, a forgotten Kettle.

Mind shifts, local report: Sighting! Sasquatch!

I worry about long hair in nettle.

I shake my head. Press delete. Look to light.

Wonder—if I need to say, I’m alright.

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That Poetry Thing

By Katy Comber You ask if I still do that Poetry Thing.

I hear the question within the question: “Do you still do that Poetry Thing [about me/am I still fresh/is that time cut, preserved echoes clipped into verse all for me]?”

I nod. Keep the Thing to myself.

Keep it all to myself: How the last poem I will ever write, when my bones are close to dust and life and pen are agony to grip and grasp— how it won’t have a trace of you.

How the vowels will be round and lovely; consonants constant, steadfast, support.

How semicolons and ampersands will abound (not an m dash or parentheses in sight).

How the lines will fill me up, hold me, & let me burrow deep into that rich language you were too poor to digest.

How years from now, I won’t remember you when Dylan’s Highlands play. Or around that tang of dill sharp against fat salmon, dark chocolate and almond, Malbec and Macbeth.

But you might think of me.

And wonder: If my laugh has altered.

If my eyes still yearn, And. If I’m still doing That Poetry Thing.

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“Sense of Selfie” A B&W Series by Katy Comber

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.

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Self-Portrait by Patty Kline-Capaldo

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I Forgot

By Patty Kline-Capaldo I forgot the girl who loved to climb trees who didn’t cry over scraped knees The girl who’d race the boys and not let them win I forgot the child who ran wild and barefoot and free Who sang loud laughed strong fought hard She loved openly fiercely foolishly I forgot she was “bossy” proud smart So smart I forgot: I am she.

Patty Kline-Capaldo, co-founder of Creative Light Factory nonprofit writers’ room in Spring City, PA, is a writer, artist, and certified creativity coach. Her passion is supporting and inspiring writers and visual artists to fulfill their creative dreams. Patty’s work has been published in: Affinity CoLab Presents: People, Characters, & Portraits (2020 Issue I); Wabi-Sabi: Celebrating Simple Beauty (Stahl/Biebuyck, 2019); Let’s Rant! Challenges, Tempests, and Petty Annoyances (Stahl/Biebuyck, 2018); The Muse, The Inspirations of Our Lives (Stahl/Biebuyck, 2017); The Life Unexpected, An Anthology of Stories and Poems (Lucky Stars Publishing, 2016); Slants of Light, Stories and Poems From the Women’s Writing Circle (Women’s Writing Circle, 2013).

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Blue

By Rae Theodore Today the sky is denim and cotton

blue

I am blue denim and tee and blue, too

I am always blue Only moved to write about

gray

blue

Then I remember Maggie Nelson beat me to the punch

One more reason to be I suppose

blue,

What about you?

Are you cobalt at heart?

A sailor’s knot?

Cerulean in mood or thought?

Have you ever felt as indigo as the sky?

Like something and at the same time?

nothing

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Chains

By Rae Theodore Do you remember when we hid from each other in our houses?

Every house was an island.

We made ourselves islands, too.

A chain of islands is an archipelago.

What do you call a chain of people?

My wife and I hold hands in the city to show we are a power couple.

I held my son on my shoulders so he could touch the sun.

Rae Theodore is the author of My Mother Says Drums Are for Boys: True Stories for Gender Rebels and Leaving Normal: Adventures in Gender. Her stories and poems have appeared in numerous publications, including Our Happy Hours: LGBT Voices from the Gay Bars, Bureau of Complaint and Barren Magazine. Rae is the winner of the 2020 Joan Ramseyer Memorial Poetry Contest and past president of the Greater Philadelphia Chapter of the Women’s National Book Association. She serves on the board of Creative Light Factory, a nonprofit in southeastern Pennsylvania that supports writers, and lives with her wife, kids and cats in Royersford.

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My heart is now a meteor

By Debbie Carrier My heart is now a Meteor Launched into the volition of a nights sky Like a rainbow painted across a sunset desert, after rain Wearing tube socks It’s departure unannounced It’s freedom banner waving, in its sailing It jetties across the blowing clouds The starlit backdrop The even angel voices say It’s a miracle.

I can never repay her for what she did.

For now, this heart’s on fire Stirring up the dust No ordinary Bo-stone No ordinary earth element Heated in the fires Of perfection Of keeping it between the lines Of balance On a high beam Like Evel Knievel soaring high above the Grand Canyon on his super speedy motorbike Flat out flying Like a meteor in perpetual orbit Around a glowing summer moon Fall will come and dust out the corners Winter will eventually return with snow so Deep and high; and lonely And miles apart I’ll wish I’ll wish As angel voices say I cannot repay her, for what she did.

She was selfless.

She taught me to remember to be selfless.

And I can never repay her!

She single-handedly fixed the dent in me with spit and shine: and washed away the rust All with a laugh And glowing eyes and a love for God so deep It made me Cry. And my heart is a meteor; not your average bolide Soaring through the night Unannounced.

Like Evel Knievel soaring high above the Grand Canyon on his super speedy Motorbike!

Flat out flying!

And I can never repay her!

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Marbles

By Debbie Carrier Marbles Multicolored marbles in the night sky Planets tumbling Wishing she could be mine cause all her colors wet with the skin of time Are divine Mysterious and glowing Shining star that I can’t tie ( down) Cause she needs to rise and ride The night sky Like a marble Remember love says there are many in the sea and as fate would have it Many memories Of those caught and those cast away Never really leaving Only spinning Like marbles Heaven’s curse heavens cure Potentialities in the blender Of amour And someday maybe A walk a hand a stroll a glance I’d take the chance But marbles Like planets in the sky So many shapes and sizes So be wise First there were 13, then only 9 And then 100 discoveries So many fish in the sea 153.

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Chapter and Verse

By Debbie Carrier I’m crazy; cause I wonder what your fingers feel like Your fingertips The soft parts of your palm Your lifelines and your creases that are verses and curves And somehow strangely I am included in a bit of The story And I wonder if I was meant to touch them to hold your hand to have fingertips graze Become delighted In the ethereal Accidental, purposeful, bump Of an index or a thumb.

I’m romantic!

I’d put flowers into them.

Breath between the 2nd and the third.

Draw music From the space between the lines they create.

I wonder how they feel when they caress the guitar strings like, she! is a woman !

What does she draw out As she carefully moves about Her instrument?

I am crazy; because it makes me feel like a child again Youthful innocence I wasn’t innocent long!

But, I return To the place of surrender Of tree climbing Of scaling heights Of hitting notes When I think about How warm your palm is.

And I begin to dream Of Palm reading!

I know there are seasons Always changing.

I don’t know if there will ever come a day But I kinda hope And believe For change.

A new start A good start That might include fingers Touching.

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I am soft like the clam in a shell whose Shell Had been closed tight for Too long.

Is it wrong to dream of the ocean?

It’s waves of love Surrounding.

It’s energy Taming.

It’s mermaid coming alive.

The sirens song That comes soft Gentle Tender Delicate.

I am crazy, cause I wonder what your fingertips feel like Reading me Page by page Chapter and verse Connecting freckles What can she draw out, Connecting freckles?

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.

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Sense of Self Through Birds Series by Margaret Willowsilk

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Sense of Self Through Birds Series by Margaret Willowsilk

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Sense of Self Through Birds Series by Margaret Willowsilk

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Sense of Self Through Birds Series by Margaret Willowsilk

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Sense of Self Through Birds Series by Margaret Willowsilk

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A Note from the Artist: I am a shamanic practitioner who stumbled upon art in 2010. Here is the story of how I started painting. During my training at The Four Winds shaman school, I received a soul retrieval session from one of my teachers. During the session, she brought me back a "gift" from the lower world, my subconscious. It was an energetic Chinese brush painting brush. She asked if it meant anything to me. As I had never painted or drawn before in my life, I was curious about this gift. I visited a local bookstore, bought a painting kit, and I am presenting to you what followed. I submitted five images, although there are many to choose from. Birds are symbolic of and have many fine qualities that can support us along our journey. We are guided to specific birds when they have something to offer us as we focus on our personal healing and strive to "know thyself.”

Websites :www.willowsilkgallery.com & www.willowsilk.com Facebook: margaret.welsh.18 LinkedIn: https://linkedin.com/in/willowsilk Twitter: margaret@willowsilk Instagram: @willowsilk

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Schedule of Obscure Wishes

By Leah Holleran Each morning I hang from the roof All pointed toes and knobbly knuckles Insisting that my spine stretch Inch by inch Into fulfilling the wish That I could grow tall enough To have my feet on the ground and my head in the clouds.

I wish to be the rain Morphing eternal, non-stalgic and scabulous Making pavement smell like summer So I roll in the grass To absorb the earth and sprout daffodils from my femur, clover from my clavical So I too can spring eternal.

I brush my teeth with torn pages of the dictionary so I can spit words of wisdom and eat pages of holy texts so the spirit will flow through me when I fall asleep I tape one eyelid open left one night right the next and I tie my hair to the sides near my ears 40 of 55

in case I finally grow eyes in the back of my head.

Then each morning I do it all again.

Hope.

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In the Dark

By Leah Holleran By moonlight Walk our shadow selves The ones we hide away The ones we pretend are not there Though they are always here Carrying eternal night on their backs Telling us, though we don’t listen, Not to be afraid.

They are eyeless But sense everything through their skin: The moonlight, like little pinpricks of Gentle silver And the orb of the moon overhead Changing its dress in slow motion And always pulling.

Our shadow selves celebrate the pull.

They dance.

They cry out in freedom, or for freedom We cannot tell which For we are never listening.

Some of them are afraid, and lonely.

Some of them are angry, and lonely.

Some of them are proud, and careless.

And lonely.

All of them are us And sometimes When I glance up at the moon Dressed in full I think I catch Out of the corner of my eye A flit of shadow And when it touches me I feel Pinpricks of silver on my skin And I can see forever.

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but what is the past, really?

By Leah Holleran Time sticks to me like clothes of honey So that naked is only a memory.

I adorn myself with memories now, a child playing dress-up with a box full of moments, wearing them like grandmother’s pearls.

I have been advised that the moments of my life are all around me, always, falling like rain So I play pretend that I can keep them each tucked away on their own in a jewelry box instead of colliding with my skin and disappearing into the deluge, or mixing with the honey of time.

Leah Holleran (she/her) is a fiction and poetry writer, and an avid lover of all types of storytelling.

As a professional performer, she has written and toured new shows across the U.S. and abroad, and works as a freelance teaching artist. She is the co-founder of a local writing group, and of traveling puppet company Wandering Theatre (https://thedragonandthewanderer.com/) with her husband Aaron Roberge. She identifies as a queer atheist Jew who loves circus aerials and D&D and Irish coffee and adventure. Her writing can be found at Second Chance Lit, OC87 Recovery Diaries, and on Twitter @LeahHolleran and Instagram @leah_holler.

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A Wildernight

By Tia Manon It was the time when the night awoke and the dawn slept. The roots of plants were above ground and the oceans became the sky. She called it her Wildernight. This would be a first. She’d been expecting something. But this? This could not be imagined. She stood still and watched the roots as they bent and weaved and grew, stretching towards the sky ocean, reaching. What a wonder it was. As the thought of birds came to mind, a whale crashed through the sky ocean and its fins became wings and it soared down, no up towards the climbing roots. Flying just to the edge, careful not to touch, the whale twisted up, no down back towards the ocean sky. The magnificence made her heart roar and her ears sing.

Her senses came alive with the death of the life that she once knew. There were no words. Her mouth had drifted off into the thick of the roots. Her eyes tried to follow but they were swept up in the wave of the whale’s sky trail. There she saw. This wasn’t just any sight. It was See-ing. And her ears sung louder.

Her heart soared and bowed. What is this? Her mind was asking this question while her soul was comprehending that she had come apart and took the world with her and yet the death felt like the life she had been longing for. It was glorious. And she could, in the tail of the whale See! Life. Death. And together they frolicked like sisters carrying a secret.

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She Loved Him

By Tia Manon She loved him more than life itself. She would do anything for him. She had enough faith and love to get them both to heaven she thought. But he had weaknesses. She knew of them.

Compensated for them. Excused them. He was perfect in his weakness. It was in his weakness that she found strength. She knew his plight. It was her own. She laundered day and night. He hauled goods. The wages were always only just enough, but they managed.

Getting by was the way of life. But he had weaknesses. The role of the dice drew him in like a moth to the flame. She knew that draw for she had finally forsaken it and left it behind. She knew the way out and was determined to love him out of the draw. But it was the love that she didn’t understand. For love of the draw isn’t the same as love of a man; but it is love just the same. She couldn’t see that neither of them loved themselves. But they loved nonetheless.

She remained strong in his weakness and when his weakness almost killed him, she prayed, kept the faith and nursed him to health.

And finally he saw the error of his ways. He became the model husband. Working hard, loving as hard as he knew how.

She loved enough for them both and never once considered that he wasn’t any stronger. She never considered that his weakness was still much stronger; that his love for the weakness was stronger than his love for her.

And as fairy-mares go, the betrayal came. Blindsided, bulldozed, faith shattering.

Shattered.

Tia Manon is a freelance criminologist and online blogger who writes under the pen name, Tsuhai Nzinga. In 2018, she graduated from Immaculata University with a Bachelor’s degree in Criminology and published her debut book, Tsuhai Nzinga f.k.a. Tia: The Memoir of a Black Girl. In addition, she hosts a blog titled In Rogue. Manon specializes in researching and writing about subjects related to the field of criminology from perspectives ranging from historical to current events. Recently, Manon has begun her “journey to wholeness” and uses writing as part of that process. Personal life events inspire much of her writing which also features poetry. https://tsuhainzinga.wordpress.com/

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Looking for Somebody

By Rose Feldman I wasn’t looking for somebody but if I was looking for somebody I’d be looking for somebody I can fight with.

Somebody I can nap with.

Somebody I can make plans with and cancel plans with to stay in and hide with.

I’d be looking for somebody I can drive with for long expanses holding hands.

But more than anything I’d be looking for somebody I can fight with.

I’m good at going along to get along.

I’m so damn good at getting along.

I’m good at going when the going is easy.

And I can fight fair but most people don’t so I’d be looking for someone who does.

I’d be looking for someone who will fight, somebody who has conviction, some gumption, a backbone.

But one that will bend and soften but never break, never agree to something he doesn’t agree to.

I’d be looking for somebody with a strong back and strong arms so he could pick me up and turn me around and set me down.

I’d be looking for somebody who will sit with me in the sun or in the rain and smile at me, read to me, dance with me.

I’d be looking for fun but fun is easy to find.

And I’ve had enough fun that’s come undone to know that if I was looking, and I wasn’t looking, I’d be looking for somebody I can fight with.

A man who would fight so honestly so compassionately that the fibers that are frayed in my heart or his get sewn together with cross-stitched words and sticky feelings so that when the fight is over there’s another layer of soft fabric wrapping around us like the sheets in the bed we make love in …after we fight.

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I wasn’t looking for somebody But if I was looking for somebody I might not look very far But you’re so far And your memory so close I can feel your skin and your breathe And the damaged parts of your heart Or my heart That I’ll fight to repair Because that’s the only fight I’m looking to fight…

If I found someone I can fight with.

Rose Feldman is an equine professional in Chester County. This is her first contribution to Affinity CoLab Presents.

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FORTY-FIVE MINUTES Patricia D’Innocenzo “You are in Trappe ambulance going to Paoli hospital.”

“Next time I’ll give you a bigger donation.”

“Ah, part of the family.”

“What time is it?”

“10:30,” answers EMT #2. “Do you have a mask?”

“It is in my coat pocket.”

“Your coat is in the car. Is there someone we can contact for you?”

“Yes, in my bag. My phone, ICE is my brother Tom.” “She was disoriented when we got to her but she is coming around,” he tells Tom. “Ask him if Cheryl is working?”

Yes, he nods.

Traumatic amnesia is a thief. It has stolen forty-five minutes of my life. I want to scream, “It is mine.

Give it back. You can’t have it.” I may never get it back. But who has it? How could it all disappear?

How can I describe it? I have never been in a car accident so dramatic. I have never been so badly injured. I have never spent time on a trauma ward or had staples in my head. I have never had a car totaled. A gauge of my family’s concern are multiple phone calls from my cousins. Mary and Karen call, asking how I am, evidence the family grapevine is working.

“Doing okay,” I say, surprised by their calls.

Karen is a nurse, help with the medical lingo is welcome.

My brother Michael calls from Colorado while he is at work. I blather on about the car. “I don’t care about the car. How are you?” “I am fine,” I say, still the big sister. The other words will not come out of my mouth: sore, scared, confused. I am floundering.

I have my most serious conversations with my cousin Donna. The nearest I have to a sister. We have been support for one another over the years. She has had more than her share of physical difficulties. A former Associate Dean, she knows I am in school, having helped me decide on a program. “Maybe you could write about it,” she suggests. “A poem or maybe a before and after.” I mention a few ideas. There is a jumble in my brain that will take time to sort. Time travel and black holes and meditation do not seem likely companions. I want to follow her advice but how do you write about a void, an expanse of nothingness? The American Heritage Dictionary, which anchors the bookshelf next to my desk, gives the following: Empty; containing no matter, unoccupied, devoid, null; and then this: A feeling or state of emptiness, loneliness or loss.

My space is not empty. It contains things I cannot recall, so there is loss. What was there? People were involved, there was certainly noise, an odor? I look up synonyms for the word void. None of 48 of 55

them seem to fit: blank, empty, clean, bare, hollow, vacant, forsaken. No, enacted behind a dark curtain is a play I was involved in. How can I buy a ticket? Is the cost far greater than I imagine?

The idea of a black hole suits me better. NASA describes a black hole as “A place in space where gravity pulls so much that even light cannot get out.” Sounds familiar. There is no light for me to see by. We use that scientific term as an explanation when we cannot account for something. I cannot tell you what happened. We view it as a vacuum, sucking time and experiences into we know not where.

In the book Extraterrestrial Avi Loeb says, “We also do not understand… What happens inside a black hole…” That is part of their appeal to us lay people. If the scientist do not know, we cannot be wrong. I do not know what happened inside my blank space. But Loeb also states, “Black holes can absorb information…” So they are not empty. They are containers consuming matter and doing what? No one is sure.

The infinity of space looms before me. My time has drifted into a cosmic maul. Planets, asteroids and space junk may be keeping it company. How puny my segment seems behind all of these. No more than a speck of dust, no one will ever notice it. There is no “Return to Sender” label. “Where does matter pulled into a black hole go?” asks Loeb.

That is my question too. Where did those occurrences go? Are they lost? Ephemeral moments that passed, not caring if I felt their loss. How can I miss something I do not know? I think I will recognize the memories if they surface. Maybe not. They could be so foreign I will not think they belong to me. I could be reliving a story I read or movie I watched, filtered to suit my circumstances.

Will they return unbidden, shocking my system and causing night terrors? How many screams and crunches will disturb my sleep? For how long? Right now I sleep fitfully, no nightmares, no dreams I remember.

Why do I care so much? What intrinsic impulse is driving me? I have the results: a smashed car and stapled head. I feel like a time traveler. One minute I was returning a shopping cart and the next I was in an ambulance. The clock on the Wegman’s tower showed 9:50 when I turned from the cart corral. My groceries were in the trunk. Lettuce, blackberries, leeks, red peppers, a cucumber, rotisserie chicken and barbecued pork filled the cart. After hosting Easter dinner, I did not want to think about cooking this weekend. Only graham crackers, Listerine and granola bars would be salvaged.

In The Time Traveler’s Wife by Audrey Niffenegger, Henry, the traveler, never knows when he will travel or where he will surface. My situation is smaller, neater. I have only one allotment to consider.

Yet, it too arrived on its own schedule. There was nothing in the blue skies and sunshine to serve as a warning. Each moment before was as ordinary as one can imagine.

I have read about time being compared to a river. Flowing past us we do not enter it so much as watch it. While two things can happen at the same time, they cannot physically occupy the same space. Time arranges itself to accommodate multiple occurrences. What else was going on at 9:54 AM on April 9, 2021? We speak of losing time. While we cannot misplace it, time moves whether or not we notice. Some say time does not exist, it is a human construct to order our lives. I am missing forty-five minutes. Is my life out of order? Has the balance in my hourglass shifted imperceptibly?

My age weighs heavily on me right now. I joke about being old, especially days when my knees creak.

Recovering, I wonder. With no comparable injuries in my life is my healing taking longer because I am sixty-seven. Driving has become a question of how far. Partly because of headaches from the sun and motion. The other part “the distance” stymies me. The accident took place two and a half miles from home. I am in no more danger visiting a friend than going around the block.

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People ask, “What happened?” Saying, "I don’t know." is hard. Feeling stupid, I offer the medical explanation: traumatic amnesia. To lift the reaction I joke about how what you see on television and in movies or read about in books when people hit their head and cannot remember is true. I have become part of a cliche. But it is not an easy answer. There is much to tell about my injuries, but I am tired of reciting the litany. I have a concussion, had a subdural hematoma, subarachnoid bleeding and three staples to close a laceration on the back of my head in addition to the amnesia. How they happened is an educated guess by the EMTs and the neurologist. They are forging the path backward from what they see: a bloody head and smashed car, a CT scan showing brain bleeds. I have no such compass.

“Don't pressure yourself,” I am told by the trauma doctors. “This is perfectly normal. You forget the lead up to the incident as well as the details of it. It may come back, it may not.”

I find little comfort in their assurances. With restrictions on reading, television and computer use, I wander around looking for something with no substance.

The image of purgatory stays with me. In Catholicism, purgatory is the stop between death and heaven. A way station of sorts, souls are cleansed before entering heaven. But the word has come to mean a low-grade difficulty where we cannot find an exit. There is a way out for me: acceptance of the amnesia. “Keep moving forward,” advises Saint Augustine. How when I feel unfinished business dangling at the edges.

Try meditating my personal physician advises. “You need to restore happiness to your heart.” My heart is not unhappy, my head is, but I understand. This may be a way to conquer my inherent anxiety. Here is the problem: the idea of emptying my mind holds no attraction. That space is already empty. I want to fill it.

In Meditation for Finicky Skeptics, Dan Harris tries to explain me out of my conundrum. His tone is serious, but playful, leavened with self-deprecating humor. I am familiar with meditation. For years I spent my lunch hour in an empty office overlooking the street. For the last ten minutes I would simply watch the traffic. No other thoughts allowed. When I moved to a different office, I watched pine trees sway in the wind hoping for a glimpse of the white house behind them. Last summer I sat in the black wrought iron chair on my small porch in the late afternoon, catching the slight breeze, but just looking. I don’t listen to music or audiotapes when I walk, preferring to listen to nature. But do not force me to sit upright in a chair, spine straight, feet on the floor to meditate. Twelve years of Catholic school makes that seem like discipline.

My brain is like the proverbial hamster on a wheel. It does not like the emptiness. Latching onto any small piece it struggles to find a solution. The event plays over and over like the hundredth rerun of a television show. Sometimes it wins. None of this is working right now. There is already a vacancy. I am consumed by something nameless. My injuries require caution and rest. No intense exercise, no alcohol, no extended computer use, no emotional distress, counsels the trauma doctor. I am failing at that last one. There is no concern of lingering effects. Each concussion is different I am told. Five weeks, more or less, before I can resume walks in the park and the occasional glass of wine.

I continue to read Harris’ book looking for suggestions. I want to scream, “I have the unused space.

I want to fill it.” But in Chapter Four insight comes. The discussion is pattern noticing, the way your brain arranges events and keeps going back to them. I am a worrier. My sister-in-law Cheryl says I always need something to worry about. I come by it honestly. The oldest of three siblings and of twenty grandchildren in my generation, responsibility came early. As my next-in-line cousin Donna told me, “Everything was expected of you. Nothing was expected of me.” The joys of a large Italian family. My defense now is not only am I recovering from injuries, but I am being tested for small possibilities like brain cancer. (I am fine, thank you.) An echocardiogram is next on the list.

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Suddenly, my body protecting me is not so far-fetched. I can obsess only so much about a blank slate. The details of the accident could be recycled endlessly, brain torment only I can break. When my brother Tom took me to get my possessions and my rotting groceries out of my car I was most worried about my coat. Navy blue Italian twill, the little swing coat was my souvenir from Santa Fe. Nothing similar could be found at home. “Why did they take it off me?” I asked. “Pat, they had to see how badly you were hurt.” Oh. I had a head laceration. Head wounds bleed copiously. I knew that from my brother Michael’s tumble off his childhood ridable tractor years ago. Drenched in blood he was told by our mother not to come in the front door but to go around to the back. A small puncture wound had caused all the blood. My coat’s collar, shoulders and upper back were splattered.

We throw the food into the lot’s dumpster. My winter safety blanket, small container with a plastic bag, bungee cords and a rag join my scrapers in Tom’s truck. The map, pad of paper and spare cloth face masks from the glove compartment go into the tote bag I brought. Tom rips my EZ Pass from the windshield. We leave the license plate but take the key. The appraiser has yet to come.

I recalled that moment as I read about changing your pattern. I had washed the coat. The blood was gone. I would not be able to dismiss the details of the accident so quickly. Instead of frightening fragments I just had to make peace with absence. “Meditation does not require you to stop thinking,” asserts Harris. His co-author, Jeff Warren, says noting the pattern and then discarding it to return to the breath “is helpful to overthinkers, because it co-opts a bunch of your thinking bandwidth.”

Aha! So meditation and realizing where my mind goes, but eliminating it for just that small time period, could break the cycle. To this time all I have accomplished is telling myself, “Just breathe.”

It is a start. Instinctively I knew what else I needed. A regular church goer, I had been using livestreamed services. My intention to return after I was fully vaccinated had been waylaid by the accident. I knew I needed to physically return to Mass. Seats are reserved. Red ribbons close off pews. Blue tape identifies a seat. I took one and looked around. I recognized people I had seen every week. This was familiar, normal, welcoming.

The theme was the Good Shepard. The priest started the service with a reminder: God will always protect us. God will always rescue us. A direct hit to my fevered search for my missing minutes.

Three different people were telling me my body was working perfectly. Only I saw the error. Could I just accept this and move on?

I made one visit to my office to participate in a celebration for a co-worker who had passed a licensing exam. I talked to my friends. I picked up work I can do at home. I spent nearly an hour with the man I work for, going over the workload, prioritizing items. “Clients are concerned their retirement reports are delayed,” he explained. “Tell them the truth. Tell them I was in a car accident and have a concussion. I can only work a few hours a day.” I sat in my office for only a short time but the regularity of my trip was an important step. I felt normal.

My recovery period is expected to last two more weeks. I am inching my way back to the before life.

I can drive. I have a new car. I can work from home for an hour or two a day. Afternoon naps are a must. My beach trip is a casualty. “The beach will be there and so will you," my too wise nephew tells me. My tennis game will continue to gather rust and that new wine I purchased will have to wait. One more test result and I will be done. My neighbor tells me I am one of the strongest women she knows. I laugh. I am only doing what needs to be done.

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In the peace my mind and soul can find I come to this conclusion: Weep not for what you are missing: A speck of time lost in the swirl of your life.

A marker, of things before and after, Yet not so significant as birth or death.

Searching will not help.

You know not where to start, how to navigate.

You are blind and deaf, trying to put words to the unspeakable.

The intruder, a despoiler of the landscape, will fade.

Tomorrow and tomorrow, echoing into the past.

One day you will forget.

Patricia D’Innocenzo is the author of poems and non-fiction that have been published in several anthologies including Snowflakes and Ribbons and Autumn Magic. She is currently working on her first novel and a book of her poems accompanied by her own photographs. She has lived in the Phoenixville area for over twenty years.

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Dear Contributors, Thank you for making this issue so lovely and strong.

All My Love and Gratitude, Katy Comber Founder & Editor Affinity CoLab Presents

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Affinity CoLab's Poetry/Story Jam @Steel City Coffeehouse Share your story, poetry, favorite words in a supportive and safe open mic setting.

4 T H S U N D A Y S 2 P M T O 4 P M

2 0 3 B R I D G E S T R E E T P H O E N I X V I L L E , P A

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SO WHAT’S Next for AFfinitY CoLab Presents?

s R O T I D E T S GUE ANTED! W Appli cants to D wante evelo d p & C An af urate finit y CoL 2022 ab speci al iss ue!

Visit our website for more details:

affinitycolab.org

Well, That could be up to You! Email your ideas for a theme, Weekly Prompts to support the theme, and why you would like to develop, Curate, and Edit the next issue of Affinity CoLab Presents to hello@affinitycolab.org 55 of 55