Voices Inside My Head

VOICES INSIDE MY HEAD PAINTINGS BY TAD SMITH FEATURING POETRY & AUGMENTED REALITY

VOICES INSIDE MY HEAD PAINTINGS BY TAD SMITH FEATURING POETRY & AUGMENTED REALITY

E DIT E D BY

Tad Smith, Lisa Morales, Larry Bourland

PU B LIS H E D BY

Tad Smith

VOICES INSIDE MY HEAD Copyright © 2025 by Tad Smith All Rights Reserved No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

For information, please visit tadsmith.art Copyright Pending Case: 1-14633129001 Without in any way limiting the publisher’s exclusive rights under copyright law, any use of this publication to train generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited.

Cover and interior design by Tad Smith and Lisa Morales

Introduction In the realm of human experience, creativity is the spark that sets our souls ablaze. This anthology is a labor of love, born from the convergence of artistic visions and the unwavering dedication to the world of art.

Within these pages, the boundaries of reality are pushed and pulled, as the genius of artist Tad Smith merges with the poetic voices of visionaries.

Together, they have crafted transcendental portraits that embody the chaotic beauty of creativity.

This collective masterpiece is an ode to the driving force of human expression, which resides within each of us.

It is a testament to our innate desire to create, to inspire, and to be inspired.

As you delve into this world of augmented reality, where art and poetry blend at the crossroads of innovation, remember that creativity is the thread that weaves us together.

This book is dedicated to those who have ever dared to dream, to create, and to inspire. May it ignite a spark within you, and may you join us on this extraordinary journey into the future of art.

My deepest gratitude to Tad Smith for the profound inspiration and opportunity to contribute to this enriching project, I am forever indebted to you for the experience.

Your friend, Larry Bourland

One More Time ~Dolores T. Mazurkewicz

I just want one more adventure One more joie de vivre Nothing very serious, Just something light, easy and free.

Just one more excitement For an aging siren’s thrill Oh! Just one more time Then I will have my fill.

Inside of me, there is a world.

Vast and dark, with life unfurled.

A place that’s mine.

Where I can rule.

Where I can thrive, And I can bloom.

Where no one can up-end my earth.

Or choose my path, Or deem my worth.

For only I exist in there, And only I know what I bear.

But…they don’t seem to get this.

They don’t seem to care.

They want to see what’s inside me,

Theirs

They think that it is theirs…

They think that I’m not worthy, They think that I can’t know What’s best for me, And what’s within, Or which way I should grow.

They’re trying to get inside me, They don’t know that I’m aware.

I’m protecting what I know is mine, But they REALLY think it’s theirs. ~Robert Freeman

Tangle This idyllic horrid island can be a harbor or a haven— But a prison, just as well.

We chum the sharks that circle us, Our hands bloody with the recipe of our own solitude.

So you can wither there in the martyrdom of righteous individuality, And make your final futile stand— Or else dare the braver path: Conjure John Donne’s ghost to guide you overwater To the wider continent, The living flesh of the promised land.

Because, listen: In the tangle of unlike minds In the medley of human hearts In the multithroated chorus of tongues, visions, wisdoms, dreams— Communions can arise.

Hand can reach for hand.

Weave webs tough as sinew, crafted to cradle us In our marvelous variety: Us, with all our flaws and virtues, Our comrade species, Our nurturing earth, Our better and our fallen angels— If only we choose to see and grasp each nearest golden strand. ~Lawrence Blair Goral

Lovers Water me in truth and watch me bloom: I need your teeth to whittle testaments out of our whispered temptations until I am lost in your pillow-talk philosophies.

Come closer and recite your ethics from the alter between my thighs.

I want your words to ravish me, Sentiments dripping with curiosity, Prayers heavy and generous with abundance.

I have lived and loved many lifetimes Without ever peeling back these layers for another. ~Spenser Snarr

Anyone is someone when clarity dictates.

Someone is anyone in incognito.

Any one is individualized.

Any one of you may be someone.

I knew someone who ended up as anyone to me in time.

I knew an anyone who became someone to me.

I knew someone who became an anyone to somebody else.

Do you know someone who could be some other one?

Do you see that we are

anyone

collectively, everyone.

Each and everyone may be someone uniquely.

The racist thinks anyone can be no one.

Anyone may never become no one.

No one would never exist as anyone.

Anyone is everyone. ~Burton E. Baldwin

His His body, Slightly forward leaning, In the mirror, staring At the topography of memories Etched in lines crisscrossing and folding, Like quantum probability functions – Unseen until observed.

His eyes, Once white humors, Now reddened rumors of forgotten strains, Ignored and accumulated into chronic pains.

His mind Wanders...

“Am I lost?” He wonders A thought interrupts, “Not all who wonder are last.”

And at that intrusion, he laughs.

He asks, “Are my thoughts my own?

Can I think ex nihilo, Or is all I hear The voice of a social hive continuo?”

His smile Pursed lines attenuating the faded scars on his cheek, He leaned in closer, Squeezing out a pimple only he would probably see.

And to see with his eyes was indeed quite a thing, One cloudy and squinty, One large with dilation – Witnesses of mindlessness And engrossing elation.

Inevitably, like antiquity, The answers become lost He finds in that losing, his self Worth the cost While steadfast Still, the questions are cast.

Of existence and entanglement, present, future, and past Resolute, perhaps, Maybe just moving on, This existential thinking ought not to take too long.

For he came to terms With the bullshit that there is; With what he can’t control, At least his experience is his.

No one can take it away But to share it, he desires, With someone, anyone, who can say How the next Now will transpire Again looking in the mirror Newfound clarity in his gaze.

Into this world, Into this day, His steps choreographed with grace, Will dance with the dark and with the light Occasionally stumbling into that which seems right.

These thoughts he tends to take with him Unaware of his hair in the sink Leaving this sacred place of his Seeking adventure, and just one more drink.

~Nathan Van Arsdale

neEye toHeaven Where is it you’re looking when you’re looking for heaven, Is it the coffee shop where you met them?

The faces in the trees, Places you haven’t been?

A studio apartment in another city, Where nobody knows you, not even you?

When both eyes are on the TV screen, Are you looking at it then?

Driving in the early morning light, A dead fawn, Spots still white against the tawny brown.

She has one eye to heaven too, don’t you see it?

Glassy and stained, The both of you looking on, Haven’t you thought that someone’s eye to heaven, Might be looking at you? ~Vincent L.K. Corvus

Because I miss your hands, as delicate and shy and difficult to touch as quick fish that glide glittering like dreams in their other world, and miss them, still, so much, my slippery, absence, my bright twin, I have begun, praying that my hands be made again and made of water

He

that need not clutch to hold, nor hold to know. ~William Pitt Root

(Leveling)

I’II probably see you, and probably soon I’ll probably kiss you, alone in my room.

But if I don’t see you, and if I don’t kiss you,

Us

then know that I miss you,

(Room for Two)

alone in my room. ~Tom Chilton

It came to me in a dream, where you weren’t really you and I wasn’t really me.

You signed your life away to that job, and moved us halfway across the world to a city where concrete swallows the sky.

And maybe we would’ve bought a house together in a place that was not my home living in shadows cast by cravings unmet.

Our subconscious unveiling what life would’ve been, if we rode waves rather than mountains.

Now we get to see a labyrinth of divergent lives unfold.

One where your nose isn’t quite your nose and my eyes are a little further apart and I can’t tell if you’re crying, or if it’s just a wisp of hair.

One where we no longer recognize ourselves.

Jolting awake and faced with the life we chose relief floods our system, it was only a nightmare... in the dance of choices unmade.

Where we never could have become ourselves if we hadn’t loved each other first.

Our lost love leaving us to be found. ~Ken Miller

Ok then, look into my eyesI’ll tell you what I see, but remember, it might not be what you want to hear…

Hmmmm?!?

Disguising your body language has been an art.

Never showing emotion whenever weakness is implied or expected.

However, your moments of weakness, as love touches your heart the walls of your emotions collapse inward.

YET, yet, your vulnerability is beautiful, fragile overpowering the physical. Your unguarded love is childlike in motion.

You just give, give in to your must needs and desires. BUT you give even more unselfishly to the target of those needs and desires. It outshines your physical beauty.

Your hand reaching out from your soul offers the essence of your spirit. Your hand, your heart offers, never takes.

SO, shed that victim’s skin like that of the lowly crawling snake. Embrace life. Breathe freely.

Cleanse the palate of the imagination of your self and soul.

The Mystic has spoken – Leave me now….

Recorded live at Radio Free Durango

Mystic ~Larry D. Bourland

So…. the victim has sought the Mystic for advice, have you?

you ~Monica DiBiasio

You came here With your doubts and histories Trailing behind you on Sheets of freezing rain.

Slapping pavement, Shaping stones inside Shallow pockets Worried and wretched.

You came here Arms open and heart buried Beneath quilts sewn from scraps of every dress she made You Both warm and cool Against skin dry and stretched.

You came here Abandoned by delights Stranded in the swirling Cacophony Of all the words you never Uttered Backward and forward Upon this Long Lost Road.

Inspired by Sandra Cisneros’ memoir “A House of My Own’’ and her poem “Jarceria Shop’’* from her book ‘’Woman Without Shame: Poems’’

In my dream I move to Mexico Become your gardener Living al reves, upside down* As you say I’d trim back the armor of bougainvillea vines Covering your windows and doorways their draping floral displays of vivid pink, purple, and red Lining your courtyard walls Where I would bring the fresh cut nopales to your breakfast table I’d adorn your home with yellow and orange marigolds Tended from seed, cut daily from your dooryard Filled with the hum of bees buzzing among finely scented flowers I’d gather chamomile blossoms and harvest golden honey to Gild your evening tea I would take the rinds from your mango-candied lips to Sweeten the compost that Nourishes the sacred soil of your gardens

they (A Gardener’s Love Poem to Sandra) ~Brandi Blaisdell

together

let’s hide in the dream world sunlight on our faces darkness at our backs in love with madness sane with insanity blinking away the sadness happily swimming in our own tears ~Nicole Lawhon

Her ~Klara Goldman

her mind still wanders about what it means to love she loved you like rainbows and lollipops and wind… holding on like the summer’s warmth to this autumn’s end and still her eyes glisten in the sun knowing she’s won she loved so purely but she knows she must become the person she was searching for the person she had found Oh to be loved by you the words don’t compound but her voice now louder more tears left behind her words have no business trying to describe the feeling of heartbreak, we all know the kind

Himself

what does it mean to be himself images portrayed on the edge of a shelf why is it he can’t recall past faces he knew smiling bright with the world in view performance on theme self narratives glean that’s who he wants people to see versions perversion nobody knows self care contort to the times perfect your rhymes deliver them with flair where is the youth who only knew truth in frame likely too busy seeking fame to understand life’s game the hair lacks discipline where is that warrior within that soldier who committed war sins abusive the lines form at his eyes is that the years that’s gone by troubled thoughts endlessly small battle scars war wounds clue who life’s reflections are grey specks in the hair aged by the thoughts he cannot air eyes speaking through souls perfect view mortalities gravity worn life’s aches within what lies have cost beneath the skin take more time to live find a way to forgive let your body give as the hours drift never once did he preference life’s suggestions perhaps that’s why he’s remembered by so many imperfections ~Anthony Tran Beadle

Beholder I can sense your presence, Your perception, your essence

I can feel your gaze, something of praise All these eyes slowly becoming a haze I observe from my place, watching you trace All the lines that make up my face Here we are, growing older, asking ourselves, wondering Is it I who is truly the beholder? ~ Isabelle Grant

everyone (In a Nutshell)

Our bodies are tools.

What is a tool?

Something we use to accomplish a task.

But our bodies are not equipped to accomplish all tasks.

So we use our brains for designing, and our hands to craft a new tool to accomplish the task at hand.

With our newly discovered ability to transcend the previous limitations of our bodies, the demand arises to create more tools.

With the tools we created and our new depth of knowledge, we manufacture machinery that can produce massive quantities of tools at an inhuman rate.

We find niche functions for new tools, and the cycle continues until humanity reaches its peak level of production and convenience.

We are then left with a chunk of lime green plastic that serves the sole purpose of cutting a hard boiled egg into even slices.

And absolutely nothing else. ~Kylie Sheen

Longing I’m headed off to la la land where things don’t always go as planned.

In fact you might say plans be damned and though the waves are blown and tossed and some might say we’re lovers crossed.

I know that when I need you, near I surely won’t have things to fear Your arms will wrap around me tight and if I try with all my might, I can feel them e’en across the miles And yet and still and all the while I clutch at dreams And gather round me Pages worn And memories torn Did we e’er connect this way?

I do not, cannot, will not say my heart and yours are ever crossed by stars by time by chances lost ~Marty McCambridge

him ~Robert Freeman

He woke up and his soul was empty.

He had no desires, Was void of resentment.

A fragile imposter portraying contentment.

Keeping cool, While the battle within keeps him so restless.

Relentless.

Living life as if he’s breathless.

He tries to keep up but can’t get over all the fences.

Defenseless.

He was unarmed within the trenches.

He tried to make it out but got shot down by ill intentions.

As he walks through the streets, Shuffling his feet…

His only escape within the people that he meets.

He’s unique.

Though he’s battered and broken.

Missing one too many pieces and collecting pieces hoping.

Maybe one day he’ll find, What he hoped he would find.

Every step that he takes is just a step towards goodbye.

He’s only ever been him, But he’s been him too many times.

It’s close to the end, and he’s not showing any signs.

beautiful (Somebody Tell Me I’m Pretty)

~Marilyn Kroeker

All these hip chick influencers show up on my phone.

Their nasal voice and perky boobs, I cannot condone.

I should do more yoga, have more sex, ride my bike.

Just do me a favor and quit saying “like”.

They tell me I should work out more, drink less wine and breathe.

Sometimes I do put down my phone and just freaking leave.

I have had a full life, made mistakes, had some success.

I will not be influenced by that twenty something mess.

If this stuff depresses you, I don’t have much pity.

I’m sixty three, somebody tell me I’m pretty!

Cutesy little sorority chick now runs my town.

She tells me I would be more fun if I would turn it down.

Oh, no, I won’t turn it down, in fact I’ll turn it up.

In fact, I might not answer you when you ask “S’up?”

I am not a resident of her cyber city.

I’m sixty three, somebody tell me I’m pretty!

Happy Birthday to you, [what?] Happy Birthday to you![No!] Oh, my God. Is that a cake? Could there be something more?

I grab my phone and check the date. Oh crap, I’m sixty four.

someone ~Spenser Snarr

I do not wish you well.

Which is something I always forget Until your ghost appears And my teeth meet tightly Behind a sarcastic smile.

I pretend not to care, But really I’m just waiting, Biding time until my forgetful nature Erases you from my mind Altogether.

Ours

What’s the big idea?

Who’s got it and how can we follow it?

More than just on the internet, Let us go, and weave our own web, Rather than shackled to a Babylonian dread, Instead, sometime before you’re dead, Commit to something, That makes you excited to get out of bed, Awake and aware, There’s not a moment to spare, For it’s time that we share, Be kind and be fair, Collaborative creation, Sacrifice of expectations, Adaptive innovation, Seconds, minutes, hours, days, Weeks, fortnights, months, seasons, phase, It’s time we change our ways, Before California and Florida are under waves, We’ve got to keep in mind, The next 7 Generations stays, In this same place, Too much trash, Too many treasures, Which is really just trash but shinier and “better”, But we play a role in the weather, So let us remember, Our endless endeavours, Simple is clever, If we work together, We really can make it better, This time, This place, This community,

~Jeffrey Hamner

For it is ours.

I

You are you. & I am I. But I am me & me are we.

But we are not what we seem to be.

We’ve been here since infinity.

A diff’rent concoction a unique mixture made of stardust the spores of human life.

If I could only, break through the barrier remember my past life & the lessons I’ve learned through lifetime upon lifetime And remember... who I truly am. ~ Kay Simpson

The muddy throat of shoreline disappears under a tongue of wave. I shrug off low-slung heels, dip the curved brow of my toes into a tingle of salt, hands wavering like a kiss that misses a cheek, vague gaze.

Everything comes back in another formtanager, lupine, thunder— on this western shore in November, I dangle my shoes, find your likeness in midday sun.

Cry ~Lisa C. Taylor

(Yearning)

found wondering the streets of the mind late at night searching for something that cannot be found strolling aimlessly through what can only be described as a maze a labyrinth of strung out reflections from past decisions staring in retrospection to string together some connection probing to find where I’ve gone mentally an identity only seen through vulnerabilities transparency in the tight avenues of late-night reminiscing I’m reminded of a lesson learned on the streets you cannot find something that was never lost just look within and you’ll see what was never lost ~Marshall Magnuson

Self

What is there to write that is not already written into your reflection?

Built into the statue of your form?

The thin-skin of your eyelids shatters stars against lazing pupils, shattered stars become little dreams against the backdrop built

from a collage you pasted together in some distant corner of your soul.

This is you!

The things you push away, push down, suffocate, refuse to look at or for, There is no running,

Stardust experiencing stardust in the form of you,

Find solace in what you are,

And all for you.

a million years and a million things come together,

First time,

a project.

second time,

Red earth,

Adrift around the world again.

ocean tides, animal in the garden chewing sticky fermenting fruits beneath the canopy, All of this?

It’s you. ~Vincent L.K. Corvus

Taurus ~ Alex Vick

Sunbeams carve up clouds of dirt The hazy sparkle shines diamonds off hoof and horn There’s peace before thunderstorms A clarity before violence Rusted chain clangs and slams iron gate shut

My mind can be a penned up wretch A land shark that would surely die if it stopped encircling its confines Slogging trenches of cactus needles, smoke, and self loathing Blood and dust colors my thinking Spaghetti Western red Duel the imposter, paisley clad Hang the doubt high noon Stand off pearl handles blazing Scalp my John Wayne hero complex Burn my whips, chains, fences, leathers and spurs I’ll be my own huckleberry Become as delicate, as resilient as wildflowers reclaiming a corpse Allow the dust to make way for sweet grasses and pastel hues Make meadows out of BULL FIGHTS

You caught me in a full moon’s gaze, like a star splattered stream, trinkling Her milk into the lips of the Ocean’s wave I wait with my left eye waning and aching for the taste of the monsoon season to dress The wet sandstone of my kiss

(lips)

~Zoey D. Yazzie

I look at

you ~Ryley Hubbard

I look at you Making eye contact With darkness and light Fixing contrast To your photon memories.

I look at you, Your compassion running deeper than shame.

You bleed the night From what once was A foregone vein, Tracing the pathways That always stare back.

I look at you Beaming reflections You so wish to become, Ensnared by a world This side of the mirror.

Arterial hope not lost At the heart of your matter Your mind meeting Smooth surfaces Where illusion is shattered.

I look at you The way shadows grace the past The way yearning seeks heat The way desire needs to burn.

I look at you Through the nights of your mind, Contained by its glass And shone under its moon.

I look at you, and I know you, How you trust this light to fade So it may make room For the dawn of your days.

Maker, keeper, beholder, I look at you

I look at you, Inches of dust Gathered from many dusks You sat watching For waning light To look back at you.

And I see you.

Artist

About the

Tad Smith

Since the very first crayon he ate, Tad’s passion for the fine arts was evident. His creativity and artistic vision shine through in every facet of his life.

As fine artist, abstract creator, graphic designer, gallery owner, curator, and collaborator, he continually explores and expands the definition of art.

Tad’s mission is to create a bridge that connects his art and audience in a simplified, soulful way.

Through his paintings, designs, augmented reality, and community collaborations, he consistently challenges the notion of “What is Art?” With each new idea, he pushes boundaries and provokes thought in a distinctive manner. He’s already creating his next project, stay tuned to see what emerges!

Muse

Meet the

I would like to extend my heartfelt gratitude to Larry D. Bourland, the driving force behind my inspiration for “Voices Inside My Head.” From the very first moment I began to share my vision for this project, Larry emerged as my muse. His genuine enthusiasm, unwavering support, and remarkable talent for organizing and rallying the poets were crucial in bringing this show to life. Larry, I truly appreciate everything you’ve done, and I will always be grateful to you…my friend, my muse.

Larry D. Bourland

Durango Poet, US Navy Combat Veteran, victim of the California Public University System and author of “Laughing At The Scars”, a collection of poems written in the last century. His love of poetry began in 1965 when he discovered Walt Whitman was the preeminent poetic rule breaker of his day. His influences include: C.Bukowski, W.P. Root, L. Ferlinghetti, R. Brautigan et al …

Poets

Meet the

Burton E. Baldwin

Mr. Baldwin has taught eleven grade levels in the Ignacio School District which serves the Southern Ute Reservation and its outlying areas for over thirty-six years.

He has also coached two sports and mentored six student teachers during his tenure. Burton is the 1991 recipient of the Governor’s Award for Excellence in Education, the Colorado Commissioner of Education Conservation Award, the Boettcher Foundation Teacher Recognition Award, and has been a three time recipient of both the Southern Ute Teacher Award and Mason’s Teacher of the Year Award.

Anthony Tran Beadle

From Cedar Rapids, Iowa, Anthony Tran Beadle (39) served in the Iowa Army National Guard for ten years. Having served in Iraq 2005-06, and Afghanistan 2010-11 his poetry expresses struggles with dealing with the aftermath of his service to his country. Anthony Tran Beadle gravitates to verse style poetry as it helps him gather his thoughts in the morning. He has a son, and currently resides in Cortez Colorado, which he now calls his hometown.

Tom Chilton

Brandi Blaisdell

I am a gardener, poet, and photographer, though not always in that order, living near Durango. And I like to think I’m funny, or at least mildly amusing. I am a survivor of things and usually write about my experience of those things. I care about the Earth and the beings on it, including us humans even on our bad days. I’m interested in conversations about change, science, and making stuff. As an introvert I feel that socializing is a bit like the drain in the deep end of the pool. Oh, my irrational fear is of drains.

Currently, I’m working on being a good enough human.

Life has been quite an adventure! Now in my mid-70s, I can look back on years spent rock climbing, backcountry Jeeping, scuba diving, sailing, firefighting and making solo trips swimming up remote rainforest rivers in Central America. To this add decades of designing and installing natural history exhibits in visitor centers all over the country.

These life experiences are the colorful threads I use to weave short stories and poetry. This poem was written for my wonderful wife 50 years ago. She likes it. Maybe you will too.

Vincent L.K. Corvus

Monica DiBiasio

Vincent L.K Corvus is a queer poet currently based in southwestern Colorado. They draw on their experiences with queerness, mental illness, the experience of growing up in the rural south and life in general and explore those themes within their work. They never expected poetry to be such a large part of their life, but have found a love for writing it and the community and people that surround it. When they aren’t writing poetry, they enjoy playing Dungeons and Dragons, collecting typewriters, drawing, listening to music, cooking, 19701990’s animation and film, and more recently watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

Born and bred in Tulsa, Oklahoma, Monica has been writing since elementary school. She then discovered theatre, and at 20 toured the US with a repertory company from Texas. Before landing in Durango she was owner of the Complex Hollywood, the largest performing arts venue in Hollywood, where she facilitated the performances of over 1000 plays during her 10 years there. Currently, Monica is the Artistic Managing Director of the theater at the Durango Arts Center. Monica is looking forward to creating new and exciting theatre and continuing to write! Thank you to Tad for this wonderful opportunity.

Klara Goldman

Robert Freeman

Robert Freeman has a filter in his brain, where through, the discoveries from his journeys into the vastness of his mindspace get aggressively shoved and manipulated into more earthlier shapes for the digestion of those caught in the pathway of his inevitably verbose trajectory of external expression. He also likes gummy bears.

Lawrence Blair Goral

Durangan of 5 years, originally from Reston, Virginia, in the DC Suburbs. She found Fort Lewis College on the interwebs where she completed a degree in Geology and is very glad that master spider of the webs pointed her in this direction as she now considers Durango home. She is continually inspired by the rich artistic and musical culture of Durango. Catch her at the Starlight Lounge improvising at music open mic on her violin, or virtually any dance floor in town, or in the Deli of DNF Co-op, her wonderful place of work.

Isabelle Grant

I’ve been writing since elementary school, but I’ve done a lot of other things along the way.

I’ve been a zookeeper, a bookkeeper, a waiter, a construction worker.

I spent 16 months traveling around the world. I tried college, but it didn’t quite fit.

I finally ended up in a grown-up job in environmental consulting, where I was a senior technical editor for 20 years. After my escape from corporate America, my wife and I eventually landed in Bayfield, Colorado, where I continue, between hikes and home improvements, to pursue my fantasy of becoming a passably successful novelist.

Isabelle Grant is an emerging artist who began her education in the arts at the University of Montana and is now studying Studio Art at Fort Lewis College in Durango, Colorado. She has explored the use of many mediums and uses the basis of her education to expand her creative practices. Currently, the main focus of her work is paintings that represent her personal grappling with concepts of impermanence.

Isabelle has begun writing as another way to explore avenues of self-expression. She hopes to combine her interests in visual and literary art to create layered meanings in her future work.

Jeffrey Hamner

Ryley Hubbard

A Colorado born mountain man, transplanted to Durango, from the suburbs of Denver. The Parker Plains on the front range is where this young man learned to romp and roam. Climbing trees and learning life lessons through skateboarding and exploring nature as well as the urban environments. Today Hamner loves to teach, travel, and be creative. He has two lovely fourlegged family members including a mini, mighty, perma-puppy named Sadie, and a young mare with dark hair named Kangaroobie! Together they reside in a sacred valley and continue to live the dream!

I was born on the Great Plains, but now call the Rockies home, nestled in a mountainous highdesert landscape. History and understanding are woven into the stories that surround us.

Through journalism, songwriting, and poetry, I’ve enjoyed exploring the humor and heart found in unsung perspectives.

Over the years, I’ve navigated between sincerity and satire, discovering solace in the process of putting words to our lives the chaos, the beauty, and the unfolding stories. I hope you, dear reader, find comfort in these words as well. May they become part of your own story.

Marilyn Kroeker

Nicole Lawhon

Nicole Lawhon won her first poetry contest in the 2nd Grade and has continued to consistently write. For the last 14 years, she has been putting paint on canvas. Somewhere along this creative journey, the two talents merged. Throughout the painting process, she writes poetry and plays with words. The painting and the poem become one unique expression of color and words - one creation.

Marshall Magnuson

Marshall Magnuson is a young man from the northwest of New Mexico. He has always been a curious and adventurous soul. He began journaling to remember his past experiences, and after 5 years he began to dive into poetry in 2023. Ever since, he was hooked on poetry and hasn’t gone back. His goal is to put out a poetry collection within the next years, exploring different mediums and communication of narratives. All his writing is a reflection on emotions and his experience of “becoming” into the world as a young adult in the 21st Century. He is currently living in France pursuing his MSc in Creative Business and Social Innovation.

Meet the

Poets

Marilyn Kroeker, a devoted Mancos resident, has been instrumental in showcasing local art. Her gallery, Raven House, has highlighted area artists for 16 years. A multifaceted artist herself, Marilyn focuses on pottery, painting, copper work, music, and songwriting. She’s performed with bands Flashback and Quarter Moon, and sung the national anthem at Burro Fest.

Kroeker helped establish the Creative District and contributed to The Brand Memorial public art piece, demonstrating her dedication to Mancos’ vibrant arts community.

Dolores T. Mazurkewicz

Dolores T. Mazurkewicz was born and raised in Brooklyn, New York. She is a graduate of Hunter College and Rutgers University. She moved to Durango, Colorado in 1980 and has been writing poems and short stories since the 1960s and has written, recorded, and performed numerous original songs beginning in the 1970s to the present time. She has also acted in local theater productions, and recently became involved with the poetry reading group in Durango. Dolores is honored to be involved with this current creative project.

Poets

Meet the

Marty McCambridge

Marty McCambridge is a versatile stage performer who has starred in numerous plays, including “The Miracle Worker,” “Oliver,” “Once Upon a Mattress,” and many more. She worked on the independent film “In the House of Paper Flowers,” directed

by Anita George, for which she received a Best Narration Award.

McCambridge also wrote and performed her one-woman show, “The Nordic Princess Explains It All.” Currently, she performs with The Mad Hatters Jazz Band. Despite her busy schedule, she carves out time every Wednesday to meet with a writer’s group, and is incredibly grateful for this opportunity to share her poetry.

Ken Miller

Born in Gilbert, Arizona, Ken Miller earned a degree in Environmental Engineering from Arizona State University. In March 2024, she moved to Durango with her bearded dragon, Rocky. Ken has an adoration for nature and enjoys various outdoor activities, including rowing her boat down the river, climbing cracks in the desert, or foraging with friends in the forest.

She embraces every opportunity to connect with the environment and the Durango community.

William Pitt Root

William Pitt Root is a renowned American Poet, earning his BA at Univ. of Washington and an MFA at Univ. of North Carolina. He was the first poet laureate of Tucson, AZ (1997-2002). His honors include the Southern Review’s Guy Owen Prize and three Pushcart Prizes as well as a Stegner Fellowship at Stanford University and other fellowships from the Rockefeller Foundation, the Guggenheim Foundation, and the National Endowment for the Arts. The poetry editor for the literary journal Cutthroat, Root has taught at Hunter College, Michigan State, and the Univ. of Montana. He lives with his wife, poet Pamela Uschuk, near Durango, Colorado. A devotee of the Beat Generation and lifelong admirer of Lawrence Ferlinghetti.

He’s been referred to as “a poet who listens to the earth turn, listens to the trees grow, listens to the old snow sitting like a monk cross legged on the ground…”. His Dog’s name is “Mojo”.

Kylie Sheen

My path as a creative person has lead me in many different directions, one of them being writing snarky poetry that prioritizes a plot twist or witty punchline. Writing has become an integral part in connecting with my community and building new creative neural pathways in my mind.

Kay Simpson

Kay Simpson has been an artist all her life writing poetry, playing music and making art from a young age. She received her Bachelor’s in Ethnomusicology, or the study of world music, from MSU Denver. Currently, she is a post-baccalaureate student at Fort Lewis College in Durango, CO, completing a GIS Certificate, where she gets to merge her analytical and creative talents by making maps. Her hobbies include reading, hiking, camping, and yoga.

Nathan Van Arsdale

Nathan Van Arsdale, a renowned fine art photographer and classical singer, has been featured in many local and national publications and graced notable venues with his classical singing and vocal artistry - such as the White House, Carnegie Hall, Vienna’s Stadtsoper, and the Met. One of his joys is in discovering and sharing the synergy that exists between visual and auditory media. In his artistic endeavors, Nathan seeks to elicit connection with audiences, aiming to share inspiration by weaving together allusions of music, form, and the human condition, inviting viewers to transcend into the timeless and immersive realm of shifting perceptions.

Spenser Snarr

Spenser is a librarian and a poet. She lives and writes in Durango, Colorado.

Lisa C. Taylor

Lisa C. Taylor is the author of the forthcoming novel, The Shape of What Remains, three poetry collections and two short story collections. Her honors include the Hugo House New Fiction Award and Pushcart nominations in fiction and poetry. Her poetry collaboration with Irish writer Geraldine Mills, The Other Side of Longing received the Elizabeth Shanley Gerson Honor. Lisa holds an MFA in Creative Writing and she is the co-director of the Mesa Verde Writers Conference. Lisa has received writing residencies from Vermont Studio Center, Willowtail Springs, and Tyrone Guthrie Centre in Ireland. She teaches writing online for writers.com.

Zoey D. Yazzie

Alex Vick

Alex Vick is a Durango local and a driving force in the community.

Recently, Alex has found renewed inspiration in poetry through Word Honey, a series of poetry workshops presented by The Hive and the Durango Public Library. As Creative Director of The Hive, Alex believes that sharing creative moments with the community fosters awe, empowerment, and inspires us to create a better world through the arts. In Alex’s view, creation is an act of resistance.

photo credit Ri Gainey

Zoey D. Yazzie is a Diné Storyteller restoring the backroads of historical heartbreaks and hidden truths with her ability to weave a new realm of reality in a poetic trance of thought threaded and embedded with the generational gift of rekindling the spirit of a story. Zoey or Yaz is Tódích’iinii— Bitterwater, born for Áshįįhí— Salt, her maternal clan is Yé’ii Diné—Giant People, and her paternal clan is Nóóda’í Dine’é Táchi’nii--The Ute People of the Red Running Into Water. Yaz is originally from Black Mesa, Arizona raised in Many Farms, but she currently lives in Durango, Colorado.