The Show Tell Project

For Seymour's Fat Lady

Tag: verse

When She Waves

by fyarlgiles

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For Hellos and

goodbyes

my hands are

brittle sticks

stiffened by the forceful elements

raised up as if ready to punish the space

between us

with a strike.

unable to grasp–

They are unable —

to feel

to hold

Affection slides off of them.

and

sharing is lost.

Whether coming

or going

they wag.

wag.

wag.

Hi There.

 Hi there,

whoever you are.

“Her Wave” by Angie Hoover Hillhouse

Artwork: Shadows by Bird Heart

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The Silenced Wound

by fyarlgiles

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A scar

is yesterday

It doesn’t stab through lonely bones

or bite at freckled wrists.

It only

sits–

flacid.

— The corpse of a memory

that I have

forgotten.

Callous and benign

 in a garden of  blooming nerves–

Trying hard to imitate

the rosy shades

of life being felt.

But still-

it does not fit

Still

it does not See

that

it is not the same

 and it

can never  be—

“The Scar” by Angie Hoover-Hillhouse

Artwork: The Rising Sun by Peter Campbell

The Way it Happened

by fyarlgiles

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Cold sands

rolling

over dents and dunes

silent as death

and

only my chilly lips between to feel them pass–

At once, light

and stiff- a densely packed strip of shoreline

 separating east from west.

spit from swallow

speak from sleep.

I recognize this place.

It is where pale

strands of life

rest

on my nose

exhausted after being pulled

and stretched

It is where fingers sag limp

from grasping the wind

too tightly.

And you cannot help me

because only I am here

with my voice

breaking against that relentless wind

that tells me

I can never know the truth

though it is buried somewhere near

“The Way It Happened” by Angie Hoover-Hillhouse

Artwork by Agnes Cecile 

The Gymnast

by fyarlgiles

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In the evening,

when her elbows grind into the gravel

beneath whirling toes

and plump, freckled cheeks,

she is alive

in the world with the rest of them.

She is the bringer of motion

of percussion—

of lightness and music–

she

is

everything.

But when the faint moonbeams recede,

she is a hardened lump of throbbing thighs

and raw skin–

stiffened scabs

and sleepy hands wrapped up in sheets

longing for the comfort of

adoring

eyes to tell her that

She Exists.

“The Gymnast” by Angie Hoover-Hillhouse

Artwork by Hugo Barros

This piece will be featured in an upcoming stage production called Cat-Fight, which explores  the complexities of womanhood!

Support Women in the Arts! Donate to CAT-FIGHT !

Rouge Illusion

by fyarlgiles

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with blurry fingers

and white shadows

she beckons me

to her

mirrored hall

of

—-  madness

————

–I won’t go

no, I won’t go–

but  you are always in my eyes

spinning shadows

into

fire

underneath your

bloody rose

“What it is to be Red” by Angie Hoover-Hillhouse

Artwork: Rouge Illusion by Elle Hanley 

Undead

by fyarlgiles

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buried in fever

buried in pain

dragging her feet through the mud

—–in the rain

her toes digging slowly

hands shrouded in shame

while the hum of

humanity

dulls in her veins

–flesh peeling

flesh crying

flesh tired and stiff

and a still-beating heart

black and hungry

for death

Undead by Angie Hoover- Hillhouse

Artwork: Smoke by Jumpstick

Our God is an Awesome God

by fyarlgiles

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The bodies have been thrown,

face down,

in the dusty, amber mud.

Their boneless chests

and  pale, pearl bellies

 hang

like dying vines

over silent hills–

with

arms outstretched

in praise of a master

both dead

and alive

in the heartless sky

“For Him” by Angie Hoover-Hillhouse

Artwork: “The Hills” by Patty Maher

http://society6.com/PattyMaher/The-Hills-owB_Print

The Mean Scars of Summer

by fyarlgiles

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 our bruised and battered sky

weeps–

 suspended

in scars

from the passionate strikes of 

a relentless summer heat.

She

is all that remains of a day

too cruel to be unseen.

“Marked” by Angie Hoover-Hillhouse

Artwork: “Brain Ticket” by Richard Vergez

http://society6.com/RichardVergez/Brain-Ticket_Print

Pleasantly Objectified

by fyarlgiles

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 You see

her apricot shoulders

dressed with auburn wisps

that —drift—- drift

like feathers into the clouds above.

Hovering over your

hungry stares,

 delighted,

she parts her plum, puckered lips

to free a stirring sigh

that breaks your body

and blurs your mind.

She

is the most heavenly dessert

you will never

taste.

“The Voyeurs” by Angie Hoover-Hillhouse

Artwork by Alicia Ortiz

http://society6.com/aliciaortiz/Understands_Print

The Grim

by fyarlgiles

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A necrotized

claw has sprouted from the

neck of my favorite lace gown.

At first, it was a pool

of strawberry syrup

as bright and red

as a freshly skinned knee–

And then,

under the hanging tangerine fog of a Sunday afternoon,

it melted upward

into a

nagging,

sickled flower

of bloodless quiet

anticipating its reflection

in me.

“The Grim” by Angie Hoover-Hillhouse

Artwork by Sarah Cruce

http://www.society6.com/sarahcruce