. . .
Does the sea remember everything? I wonder.
Does she absorb everything? Does she keep it safe?
Virginia Woolf
. . .
“Lifting Waves” by Anonymous
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Even if you have never awakened
to find the room moon-suffused,
the odd shoe casting blue shadow,
windowpanes gridding the rug
in elongated mosaics, even if that
has not yet happened, and when,
on the rare chance, it does,
slide your legs from under covers,
pause, wait for your eyes to adjust
before you stand. Smooth the sheet.
Pull blankets over. Pat pillows down.
Listen. Now go. Something has called.
“Early” by Susan Roney-O’Brien
What does my writing mean to me: I write to understand, to celebrate, to have words make the dream real. I write to bring you in, to my open arms, through my skin, to stand unfettered with you.
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As a creative woman, my deepest need is: … to find somewhere to express myself and proudly attach the title of poet and writer to my name.
Laiba Abassi
“I Dreamt of Climbing” by Jennifer Lynne Roberts
To me, being part of the AROHO circle means: … that my voice will be heard, recorded, undeniable, and part of a larger story that cannot be silenced. It offers a place to learn from others and to lift up their voices as well, creating a community where women’s stories are not only told but valued. In this exchange, art and writing become more than expression; they become connection, affirmation, and legacy.
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While it is very early Spring
along the frozen edges of
Black Root River, an angler
of quite some age, sitting on
a large stone rock, having
found a dry spot free of
brown snow and mostly level,
picks through her fly box.
It’s an old banged up relic
(not too unlike her) but
still useful and from her 20s.
A gift from her grandpa
who fished this same river
from almost this same spot
a thousand times though
not this early a Spring.
…
Our old angler builds a fire next
to her rustic patched Army canvas
tent, & both look like worn-out
battle warriors. Yet the tent holds.
Too late in the day for fish, but
not so late to drink. She pulls on her flask
of Old Forester sucking a nice draw &
looks skyward. Sees a comet. Says to
the river that’s my sign, & tomorrow
I will fish for the trout, the brown ones.
…
Late in the dying night next to her drift boat
soft waves break against stacked rotted pallets
which she had laid down as a simple dock
about four years ago during a similar Spring.
…
Rod, reel, flies, vest, creel, thus armed
she wades. She waits in the dark, slow water,
watches for any signs of swirl, & sight of
a tail breaching. She loves trout. She loves their
freedom. She loves their nature. She loves them
so much for how long they have lived. She loves
them for how much more they know than her.
She lets them go in hopes they will survive
to bring more the next season when she returns.
Looking upstream, she wishes she were that loved.
“At Black Root River” by Sara Robinson
Do clear waters enhance our artistry? Can the act of creating clear the waters?
