This Poem Will Refuse to Confess by Emily Regier
“This Poem Will Refuse to Confess” by Emily Regier That I have been drinking far too much wine for years probably. What are the guidelines? Never mind. They keep changing and I keep staying the same. So I have been thinking, if this lawyer thing doesn’t work out I am going to buy a vineyard, with rows and rows of sensational vines— Ripe black fruit, intensely structured, strong on the nose. That full...
Bipolar Girls on a Manic High Are My Addiction by Stephanie Heit
“Bipolar Girls on a Manic High Are My Addiction” by Stephanie Heit look for the bipolar girls sexy if you can get them manic god-like confidence and unlimited energy till they hum rubbing on streetpoles pure libido oozing out crotches a slippery invitation those bipolar chicks will surprise you stripping off clothes without an invitation not even caring what your name is just that you are fuck ready bipolar...
Persephone by Elizabeth Moller
“Persephone” by Elizabeth Moller “I thought how unpleasant it is to be locked out; and I thought how it is worse, perhaps, to be locked in.” – Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own We are on the road to recovery. No more shock therapy, no more round-the-clock supervision, no more being surrounded by other crazies who got pulled naked and homeless off the streets and wrested into...
Woman Finds Her Face by Lois Marie Harrod
“Woman Finds Her Face” by Lois Marie Harrod when she unfolds the tablecloth and then the stains of her bones, scapula, radius, pelvis, and she realizes she has been thinking about sorrow again. How she doubles it around herself, belly and back. What she can’t change, punctures circling forehead and scalp. It’s cold outside, ice sheets the gouge down by the river, 30-degree drop into hardness, her swollen...
Agoraphobia by Susan Austin
“Agoraphobia” by Susan Austin Don’t paint summer the color of blue flax then the color of goldeneye, paint two broad black strokes a river dammed at the end of the porch, a rhomboid tilted by the tenacious lure of dandelions, and if there must be a figure, paint the figure a triangle woman with childish arms, her hair a chaos of wildflowers, the whole of summer falling through her hands. ...
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
