To the Lighthouse by Kim Hamilton
“To the Lighthouse” by Kim Hamilton I saw her lighthouse once, off St. Ives’ shore, a whitewash slip to sunrays sideways glint, a dozen canvases like sails raised on sand— Sunday painters working with the wind. But we ate pilchers from a rolled back tin, salty oils running through our hands like the turn of light, the flash that never will be caught, and never quite repeats. ____________________ Share...
Her Poem, the Oak Tree by Tammi Truax
“Her Poem, the Oak Tree” by Tammi Truax I have carried this poem for centuries. In the end I shall bury it under an oak tree still in the prime of life, assuming life shall attend that symbolic celebration, and that I remember to bring a trowel. Incarnation I The many oak trees in my childhood yard were my playmates. I had no grandfathers, but those big daddies stood sentinel over me daily. I played in their...
What Woolf Dares Us to Write by Lauren Rusk
“What Woolf Dares Us to Write” by Lauren Rusk The Inspiration of Orlando(1) When in her diary Virginia Woolf describes herself as “writing against the current,”(2) she refers to the force of expectations, those of writers and critics—many of them her friends—who belong to the masculine literary establishment. Woolf braved this current because she wanted her work to be valued and widely read. But then if so,...
Celebrate for Anais Nin by Nancy Shiffrin
“Celebrate for Anais Nin” by Nancy Shiffrin in the hills I learn the design the lizard outside my door has different markings each year the same tissue flame terrorizes brush strips ravines cleanses the small animal population I mourn quail and rabbits I’ve fed fire part of the plan the wild cells baffling your armor aspects of the scheme stain them adjust the lens see how they multiply jewels blossoming in...
Anna’s Hut at Komarovo by Trina Gaynon
“Anna’s Hut at Komarovo” by Trina Gaynon Snow melting on the roof and damp from Pike Lake bring chunks of plaster down on our heads, a small matter with Vivaldi on the phonograph and the room filled with cigarette smoke and poets who drop their new work on the table before me. Memorization no longer necessary, reciting is out of style. When I’m alone, pine trees drift into the room, driven by winds of the...
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.
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
