Search results for Friday from the journal

Friday From the Journal – The Wordsmith

Today we have a double treat for you! First, the poem the poem that placed second in the Fine Lines Poetry Contest: THE WORDSMITH With pen in hand I slide to the other side, Where fireflies shatter twilight’s veil, Pine needles crinkle on the path, Moonbeams whisper a melody, Chanting waves enthrall, Rushing winds caress, Stars glisten above, Blood tingles as I drink from the Fountain of Words   – Marion Young Now – join us in this interview with the author Marion Young “Hello, this is Zoe at KPSK Radio. Today we’re talking with Marion Young, a local poet who scooped up second prize.” Creek. Creek. The faux-leather chair cracked as I sat next to my talk show host. “Howdy.” “Congrats are in order for your poem, The Wordsmith,” she said. “I’m honored to receive this award,” I said. “Now that we’ve got the chit-chat done with.” Zoe’s ebony eyes looked through me. “Would you mind answering a question?” “Ask away.” “What’s the word on The Wordsmith?” asked Zoe. “It’s like when sewing machines keep on humming.” “You wrote about a factory making T-shirts?” “It’s like when a blue whale sings with all her heart.” “You wrote about how whales turn each other on?” “It’s looking into a mirror as it cracks from side to side.” “If I read your poem, I’ll get seven years bad luck?” “No, no, listen. It’s zip, zap, zoom.” “What?” “Zaps of lightning seize every molecule from your toes to your nose.” “Are you saying I’ll get electrified if I read it?” “You haven’t read it.” “Well.” I handed her my poem. “With pen in hand . . . caress . . . blood tingles . . . words.” “What do you feel?” I asked. “Nice.” Those black eyes zeroed into me. “Very nice.” “Any more questions?” “If you could sum up your style, what would you say?” “Droplets dripping from the light.” She whispered, “But where do they go?” “They splinter the darkness.” Slowly Zoe nodded. “Your words . . .” “My words?” “Could you,” she swallowed. “Come see me again?” “Anytime.” “How about greeting the morning sun with me?” I drew in a quick breath. “Before or after you’ve poured me a second cup?” “After.” “I’d love to.” To be continued . . . The End Author Bio:  Marion Young was raised in Michigan, has lived in Colorado and Nebraska. She resides in Texas. She married an amazing man at nineteen, raised a darling daughter, and looks forward to bringing color to their lives for years to come. Marion enjoyed teaching students with special needs for twenty years. She taught students with multiple impairments for seven, then students with blindness and...

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Friday From the Journal – Frozen Like a Statue

Today we bring you the Third Place Winner in the Fine Fines Poetry Contest   Frozen like a Statue   My teeth chatter against each other, like a beaver gnaws on wood. I’m frozen from my toes to the tips of my auburn hair, frostbitten to the very depths of my soul battered by icy, bitter wind, as Christ of the Deep withstands currents and growth of marine life within its matter. Icicles have formed on my eyelashes, the only part of me not swaddled like a babe, unshielded from the ruthless air, as statues in open-air bear the brutal weather that sears their foundations, and cracks the stone.   My scarf whisks away from my neck, yearning to break free, to soar o’er the jagged, snowy mountain, like Christ, held captive by shifting sands and anchored by barnacles. Tugging on my scarf, protecting my face, I choke on the arctic bite of the air, the bitterness cuts through my cracked lips like saltwater on a wound, then dig my poles into the freshly packed snow.   For a moment they are trapped; and I am frozen like a statue, Christ of the Deep trapped in the murky depths of silt, yet instead of awaiting my doom, I grasp the poles like Christ reaching for the heavens, I extinguish the cold soaked marble of my snow-sculptured figure. Launching my gelid skis towards the distant lodge, I carve ribbons into the icy snow, like Michelangelo, setting free the angel in the marble. By Anne James Author Bio: Anne James works as a research lab technician in the department of Medical Microbiology and Immunology at Creighton University. She completed her B.S. in biology and French at Creighton. In her free time, Anne enjoys writing poetry, playing the trombone, knitting, and scuba diving.   Share...

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Friday From the Journal – Concert

Friday From the Journal – Concert

Dear Friends, In the month of January we will bring you poets and poetry from the Fine Lines Journal. This piece was created by a student who enjoys reading and writing in her spare time. We hope you enjoy her art: Concert i am the pulsing at a concert when everyone screams and the noise rises into the ceiling and the vibrations thrum in the clouds i am the crowd clapping and jumping in unison to the song that plays every night on the radio three or four times that everyone says they hate i am the soft moment of silence in between songs when the crowd is holding their breath and no one cares about: work, school, parents, pain, blood i am the moment of fear before the encore when each soul worries that maybe there won’t be an encore this time and i am the sigh of relief and excited shriek a moment later when the bassline to one of their oldies thrums through the stadium i am the rush in the car when you roll the windows down and your mom snaps at you for not hearing her remind you of the “real world” i am the slow downslide of remembering all the things you forgot when they were right there and i am the push of adrenaline when you hear one of their songs and you feel it all over again and your throat feels newly raw from screaming  – Selena Dobles-Kunkel   Share...

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Fridays from the Journal — Road Trips

Fridays from the Journal — Road Trips

  This essay from Becky Breed is all about summer (which is not that far off.)  Breed is  a veteran poet and essayist.  She co-writes a weekly blog www.writeincommunity.com that provides inspiration and encouragement for writers of all levels and interests.  Want to check out the current edition of Fine Lines?  Follow this link.       Share...

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