For many members of the Deaf community, the event was an opportunity to catch up with old friends, immerse themselves in a welcoming Deaf-friendly environment full of signing people, and a chance to just have fun without having to worry about whether they would be excluded from anything or not have access to information.
It was part of my weekly routine. I would walk into the loud local coffee shop downtown and write for an hour or so after work before going home. It was the only way I would be sure that I got some writing in, and the only other opportunity where I could relax while eavesdropping on people.
The lingering moisture that gathered in the air has always done that to me. Perhaps a bit of the past was carefully mixed in along with the misty fog too.
Two thousand and two miles and seven states in twenty-nine hours. My sister and I drove that distance in a small Hyundai Sonata from Tennessee to California. We celebrated as he passed state lines, posed in front of state signs, and nearly killed each other in the last eight hours before we made it to California.
You once resided
in the heart of the goddess
of fruitful abundance.
A house nestled
in-between
the thinning orchards
that bore life.
Poetry for the 21st Century is an experimental project which aims to produce visual poetry inspired by real adventures from all over the world. These pieces of prose may take place in or around nature, but the mission remains the same. Tell stories that cross multiple mediums to help cultivate more passion for poetry.
Bright lights flashing and bouncing around a dark room. Crowds of people singing and swaying to the sounds of what The Guardian calls “an unorthodox marriage of…
The first family road trip, that I can remember, happened sometime around the age of eight or nine. I was handed a Kodak disposable camera and…
The four of us stared down at the black sludge bubbling up from the short blades of green grass that had been blocked off with black…
I glanced over at the odometer and watched the digitally scribed numbers on my dash grow as I crept forward through the California desert. Death Valley’s…
