Why I’m obsessed with falling into a wormhole

 

“I still want to fall in a wormhole.” – Me

 

Thanks for being curious, dad.

Advertisements

I’m from a black dot on a white canvas searching for rainbows

This is a multimodal piece I produced for my class in Culture, Media, and Education. I like fusing media and genres (written/spoken poetry, painting, digital video). Suites me quite well.

I am from long strokes of acrylic bent on canvas sky
from blotches of black and blue mixed with white and reds
I am from the taste of colors long forbidden
Soul food, Black Foot, Irish-American.

I am from somewhere vague like shadows at noon
from Negro seeds planted in the fields on hot southern days
from an east coast milk truck named “Conley” for short.
I am from somewhere whose love managed to give me life.

I am from hard fights and harder hugs
from bedrooms of imagination
filled with stories of magic carpets and gospel songs.
I am from the house on 8th street where herbs grew in gardens instead of mangos.

I am from my mother’s eye
Watching and waiting
from her spirit longing to be free
from the rainbow shirt that covered her belly with me inside.

I am from my father’s hands lost
in the strokes of oily painted white mountains,
from the heart he held to stop the attack,
from hardened pale fingers
I touched that were unfamiliar.
From the shadow that moved curtains
when it was over.

I am from an amalgamation of memories
from a black dot on a white canvas searching for rainbows.

#culture #media #education #multimodality

Where I’m From

(Source)

After reading Where I’m From by George Ella Lyon, I chose a line that resonated with me the most and then created my own poem.

From Lyon:

From the finger my grandfather lost
to the auger,
the eye my father shut to keep his sight.

My father was an artist. I witnessed him take his last breath on 12/17/08 at 9:40 p.m. In the spirit of mourning my father’s death, this is what I came up with:

I am from my father’s hands lost
in the strokes of oily painted white mountains,
from the heart he held to stop the attack,
from hardened pale fingers
I touched that were unfamiliar.
From the shadow that moved curtains
when it was over.

#personal #narrative #creativity #education