Stars could fade, darkness
like nothing, this world without
you as my heart light.
© Ali Grimshaw 2019
THE SOUL BOX PROJECT is a national community art project calling for the making of one hand-folded paper box to represent every person killed or injured by gunfire in the U.S. since 2014. Hundreds of thousands of these Boxes will be displayed together in massive art installations to reveal the staggering number of gunfire victims.
If you are near Portland, Oregon you can fold boxes on the second Wednesdays of the month from 4 – 6:30 pm at the THE CENTER FOR SPIRITUAL WELLBEING, 7100 SW HAMPTON ST SUITE 126 PORTLAND, OR 97223
Find out more at SoulBoxProject.org
“The point is, art never stopped a war and never got anybody a job. That was never its function. Art cannot change events. But it can change people… because people are changed by art – enriched, ennobled, encouraged – they then act in a way that may affect the course of events… by the way they vote, they behave, the way they think.” – Leonard Bernstein
If you brought poetry to your exhale
how would you breathe?
If you brought poetry to your cooking
how would it taste?
If you brought poetry to your singing
how would it sound?
If we brought poetry to the conversation
what would we hear?
Would we notice the moan of wind outside our arguments
that the water from the pipes is at a trickle, our absent neighbors
don’t stand in the front yard anymore, weeds thrive
overtaking the edible garden, while last year’s birdhouse
remains empty? A muffled fear
like cotton balls in our ears.
If I lived poetry
could I see the heart
underneath your skin?
© Alicia Grimshaw 2018
“Poetry, whether the writing itself is explicitly political or not, always seeks a better way to respond, to think, to live.” – E. Ce Miller, writer, journalist
Sharing this great quote from Moorezart
Wrap yourself in the miracle of this sunrise.
Cry for even one life that is not yet free
unable to see the sun.
A stranger arrives at the bus stop.
“How’s your morning going?”
Look into his eyes, instead of away
as he answers.
Ask him if he saw the sunrise.
sharp and sticky abound.
Potentially murderous voices shoot out
yet ricochet off the innocent assemblage
surrounded by love, like bubble wrap.
A deadly collection of letters,
bouncing back to their owners.
While the souls remain
cloaked in truth,
“Those words aren’t us.”
No need for bulletproof vests to repel them.
Let them decay on the street
the street cleaner will dispose of them
before morning light.
© Ali Grimshaw