Home by Kristen Ringman
“Home” by Kristen Ringman I don’t feel home anywhere after losing it, after the shipwreck. We move from place to place. It feels better to move. It reminds me of the sea. I wake each day with disappointment I pretend can be cured with coffee or friends, with your small lips nursing my breasts, the way you ask for “yogurt and granola” every morning, without fail. Every day, by mid-day, I fail myself—I give in...
Sculpture Under A Bridge by Debbie Hall
“Sculpture Under A Bridge” by Debbie Hall Buenos Aires, at a memorial for the “disappeared” during the military dictatorship, 1976-1983 Each figure climbs atop the other up from the dust and dark. They reach through cracks in the road to pull travelers out of...
Mooring the Boat to the Dock by Sarah Black
“Mooring the Boat to the Dock” by Sarah Black Anna Larina was the only audience to the final testament of her husband Nikolai Bukharin. Each morning after his death— Stalin let her live for the national asset of her beauty— she rose to recite her husband’s testimony. Through one decade in the Gulag and one in exile, through the birth of another man’s children, she held Nikolai’s heart in her mouth,...
Where I Am Standing by Marsha Pincus
“Where I Am Standing” by Marsha Pincus I am standing at the gates of Auschwitz peering up at the iron words Arbecht Mach Frei. I take my place among the school children and families of Europe in the ticket line. “Exhibits on your right, showers on your left,” the Polish tour guide says without a trace of irony. On the other side of the gate I am standing on a murderous Main Street in a genocidal Disneyland....
Untitled [When have you ever heard a silent crowd?] by Monika Cooper
“Untitled [When have you ever heard a silent crowd?]” by Monika Cooper When have you ever heard a silent crowd? Without a word, they watched their schoolhouse burn But one man must have turned his wide-brimmed hat Over and over slowly in his hands. They go home silent. I remember when I wanted to be Amish, like in books, Or Mennonite, like one I saw, my age, Pushing a stroller, in a pioneer dress. The future...
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
Recent From Waves
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seabed or ocean floor Sep 26, 2025
