A response to the Scrittura poetry prompt: moving expressions

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Image for post
image by author

how thirsty the rock
how dire the scrub
even the persistent sage withers
marrow desiccated
the world becomes a raisin
sit with empty palms
and wait
for the wound to stop weeping
for the crying sky

recalling my sharp
articulate youth
when I seemed to go faster than everything else
swimming where I shouldn’t swim
pushing the limits of chemical cocktails
designer-made mornings
splayed on musical tile
staring at the underside of a bathroom sink
broken glass on nightclub floors
trying so hard to stay beautiful
to live in the lap of life

…and it pets me I’m a good…


the making of a flash mob

a group of masked performers gather under the sky
a group of masked performers gather under the sky
Photo by Phobus Productions 2013

In 2013, I produced and directed a flash mob performance during our local summer Artown Festival. Eighteen performers, masked and costumed, unexpectedly gathered in the plaza for a chaotic dance that united three diverse tribes of characters. The entire project took more than a year to realize, cost several thousand dollars, and lasted about 10 minutes. For myself and everyone involved, that investment was well worth the effort. We delivered a sudden burst of grand beauty to the festival crowds gathered in Reno that day.

Two years earlier, I had completed my MFA (Master of Fine Arts) degree in performance…


A poem

Three circus performers in white float with umbrellas against a textured background of blue, green and purple.
Three circus performers in white float with umbrellas against a textured background of blue, green and purple.
image by author

People gliding
like holographic banshees
and no one had to wear masks
because it was a dream.

I had a little orange cat that followed me everywhere
gingerly avoiding the thorns
olfactory observance
the waft of flowers
traveling paints
an abundance of textiles
little pots of colored water
days like confetti
costume jewelry
a whirlwind of sparkly bits
time curls forward and pulls my hair with it
into evolving landscapes of snow and gray
mahogany adorned with frost.

When my heart
beats in the body of a hawk
soaring above the Western Lands
forgetting the pain of manifestation
leaving my skin behind
I’ll traverse the fractal bridge
by the ghosts of broken-wing birds
rising into warp speed undulation
ferried by a prehensile cosmic cetacean
a massive body that turns and flexes
navigating nebula
while I ride along
awash in the sublime.

Andrea Juillerat-Olvera 2021


a response poem to Wednesday’s prompt: routines

A path curving through a dry winter landscape shrouded in clouds and fog.
A path curving through a dry winter landscape shrouded in clouds and fog.
image by author

Gluey eyelashes recoil
I slog down the hall
it is a tactile navigation
infiltrating the shower
eager acquiescence to steam
baptismal for the eyes
a banquet of soaps
triumphant suds
I am saved.

Some happiness greets me in the form
of slow-cooked pinhead oats
spooned into a black porcelain bowl
drizzled honey
pad of butter
splash of milk
seduced by their provocative texture
a flocculent song on the tongue
but in the center of each note
a chewy bead
roll it around
then crush it between your teeth
and feel that satisfying internal snap.

Don’t go look out the window…


A poem

A fractal design of dark and light blues laid over a starry night sky.
A fractal design of dark and light blues laid over a starry night sky.
image by author

First
I’ll be a thousand butterflies
dressed in wing-powder pigments
diffusing
into a billion seconds of beauty
the nectar of lust
days in the sun
drinking flowers
conjoined in creation.

Two
reveals Nuit
her perfumed darkness
a prism of radiant threads
embroidered on infinite black velvet
supine at her lover’s side
diamonds born of their shared heart
needled into night’s sky
omnipresent currents merging.

I know it was worth the cost
to be the fat green caterpillar
and pale Luna moth
worshiping the moon to death
obsessed
by dark opal.

Awakening I’ve forgotten When did I enter this avatar? How…


Response Poem to “Wild Orange” by Karen L. Jones

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Image for post
image by author

Blood orange red
red eye
bloodshot at midnight
seething inside
would be lovers
shameless red
brazen as paint spilled on a wooden floor
beets boiled late at night
drained in a white porcelain sink
a fuchsia murder.

Red wears the Madame
conducting a symphony of sex and tongues
red knows how to press your buttons
red is the only color my husband likes
a cape of woven petals
velvet American beauties
it is hidden among browns on the robin’s breast
a thousand kisses peppered across the landscape.

Red is the hottest…

Andrea Juillerat-Olvera

Interpreter, Teacher, Artist.

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