Plunge by Margaret Chula
“Plunge” by Margaret Chula The water felt neither warm nor cold as I sank into the sea after hitting my forehead against a borrowed surfboard. The blaze of sunlight on water brought me back to the surface—pulled out of the rip tide by strangers. During World War II, it was the job of school girls from Chiran to take care of kamikaze pilots— washing their laundry, sewing on buttons, and saying good-bye as the...
Singing at the End by Molly Scott
“Singing at the End” by Molly Scott How do we know when that is – the end? so we can put our boots on, so we can be sure our doors are open and all the chores are done, so we can feel the breath, the precious breath move through the bone house one more time ribboned with song. When the sound is right, the singer knows. It’s muscles, really, and intent, an exercise of tensing this, releasing that, a gesture –...
Cycle for Nembetsu Udori, Festival to Summon Ancestral Spirits by Judy Schavrien
“Cycle for Nembetsu Udori, Festival to Summon Ancestral Spirits” by Judy Schavrien Summer in Kyoto, Remembering Van Gogh Cicada(1) at Dawn From the full-throated throb you alight – sawing your single note. Noon: Remembering Van Gogh on Mt. Heiei Noon swelled to bursting. In the pine’s blue flame – one sudden cicada! Sunset Cicada, silent in a ray of sunset you weld to the branch. Night Cicada, with all your...
Lady Lazarus by Jacqueline Doyle
“Lady Lazarus” by Jacqueline Doyle For Sylvia Plath That was one pissed-off chick, you know what I’m saying? Sure you do. We’ve all been there, ready to eat men like air. Whirling in circles, spitting menace, lightning bolts shooting from extended fingertips as we point, “You! Yeah, you!” He’s not going to fuck with you no more, they’re not going to fuck with you no more....
In Memory Of by Peg Duthie
“In Memory Of” by Peg Duthie My aunt hanged herself, but her children told the press she’d overdosed on pills. It was in fact pills for the boyfriend of my then best friend. She had her own pills, and I never found out if they helped or healed her: I moved away. She stopped writing back. I pictured my letters chewed into spitwads. There were pills, too, for Mr. Popularity— a prince of my high school...
Art is my taste for freedom. I drown day and day until I pick up my paintbrush once again. So, somehow, I can tell myself that you’re not stuck in this room and that the canvas is the key.
Nina Salvadoré
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Seabed or ocean floor? What is the difference?
Submit Your Art & Writing to WAVES
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We meet each other in waves of light, waves of vision, waves of sound–a studio beyond boundaries.
Creative sisters, shoulder to shoulder, shore to shore.
This time, there is no setting our art aside. This time, there is no setting our art asunder. This is our time.
October 11 | expansion | noon to 3pm EST
December 6-7 | oneness | noon to noon EST | dip in and out throughout this twenty-four hour wave
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seabed or ocean floor Sep 26, 2025
