The Lawrence House is pleased to announce the launch of their Literary Blog Uproar. Uproar invites writers of all genres to submit their work written in consideration of our monthly theme. Once per month the moderators will select three to four of the best submissions and publish them here. See “About Us” for submission criteria.
Photo by Lois Nantais
Crossroads a cold morning in a cold room cigarette smoke blooms as i stir my instant coffee leafing through the tempest memorizing passages to regurgitate as required one last test before I leave driving to your london residence hoping you’ll be there the highways snowed and slushy farm fields silent under snowy shrouds black trees
Somewhere along the way we lost it That connection to our roots To a time when civilization and mother were in cahoots When plants were friends that healed us Our brothers and sisters thrived When Gaia made certain The circle would stay alive Somehow we forgot this Death and famine plague our earth This disease
Oh, in fair Corona where we lay this scene with many bleak views of the obscene state of being of mind of (ill)repair something is there Where knowledge remains begging to be re-kindled re-jigged re-purposed as it is re-aligned to meet learning outcomes with OER materials fully digital for ease of access as long as
The Hair Exhibit at Auschwitz That Doesn’t Allow Photographs These shafts dead piled behind glass straight, wavy blackish, brownish wheat coloured scarecrow braid This silky earth sticks to surface of ballooning outrage shuttered recollections of follicles, the ones scissored from becoming.
FRIGHT The swirls at the foot of the bed have returned. I dread the blanket of sleep. Male, always male, they invade my room masquerading as shadow puppets on the front wall with the incoming streetlight. Rabbit-eared and whispering they congregate in secret burrows. Who to trust. Who to believe. A Roman Catholic priest, a
Fall: to Become the Silence (in the passing of Ruth Bader Ginsburg) November has threatened to enter the room. We fear exposure with our necks. Boardrooms do not grow pretty words; flat, polished business shoes suffocate us right at the stem. Leaves tremble: mouthing, wordless, they curl into coloured deaths. Outside, the wind has picked
breakage early morning avenues reveal the fragile- before they hide away to their shadows and bleak shelters- the tourette lady screams out good morning to the cripples and the homeless, i can not meet her eyes ignoring her and them into non existence i count the concrete cracks and look away, deaf to her braying-
Fear of Drowning our relationship has never been fluid I remember the first time, I screamed to the point of embarrassment and others screamed back in static echoes over time. Now when you touch me, nausea coats me with blue fear while panic attacks begin their drum roll. It’s the depth I can’t quite comprehend,
the monkeys in the wallpaper are oddly silent slipping among shadows of jungle palms in the night as we sleep unaware under our canopied beds and bed becomes forest floor under leaf canopy and the forest softly creeps into the dusky space as we sleep unaware under our canopied beds dream of dawn and a
Fear could be a monster under your bed A scary movie Stuck in your head Fear could be trying something new The one opportunity That’s only up to you Fear could be no money in the account Bills to pay, mouths to feed But no dollar amount Fear could be not wanting to be alone
Setting Up A Classroom During A Pandemic Perhaps I’ll wipe down some textbooks, hardcover ones like Bones, Dog Man, Diary of A Wimpy Kid the ones kids read over and over, the ones they will protest being put in quarantine jail before someone else can read it again. Cleanliness, distance and time. Spacing between desks.
Essential Work What work is mine? Offering my full cornucopia, cut from leg of sacrificial lamb? Allowing my rounded fruit to be cupped squeezed, peeled bruising concealed? Resurrecting the ole iron lung, its dependable clatter, the work of being essential noise for those needing reminders of the sweetness of breathing on our own without effort.
From Pyre to Ash: A Teacher’s Duty I’m sorry but I can’t write a poem about going back to school. My pandemic mind is a closet with twenty years of chaos. Unkempt as it is, everything will fall. My job is to hoard piles of artifacts – the art of facts: the tests, markers and
Perceived through hazel eyes. Felt with every beat of your bleeding heart. Lessons taught with every bloom to closing chapter, turning petals in between. Checkpoints of soul’s journey. Insight mirroring truths for evolving essence. A flock of birds feathered with love, change, growth, gratitude. A travel holding you hostage, no direction or destination until you
shattered no one looks at her as she walks to school uniformed, books clutched to her chest passing cars, pedestrians see past her through her she is unremarkable she is scenery. each step to her destination an effort not to turn and run sheer force of will her only glue to hold together her plain
fledge each first day of school we stood beside you waiting for the yellow bus to take you there. we knew you would return our ache temporary. no more busses stop here today we stand beside your car packed with everything that is you this place no longer serves your dreams we each whisper unspoken
A is for Apple Anomalies i) He surprises her with bruised apple poised center stage on her classroom desk hopes the forbidden fruit ferments stirs his classmates into hysterics. Mirror, mirror, in his hand! This university student with gelled raven hair. His mischievous grin, gold-tipped and wide like an unzipped backpack when he sees her.