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Thanks to all the slam poets and friends who came out to Fletcher Free Library on a gorgeous Thursday night!
Final slam of the year is May 14! See you there!
Check out the photo gallery from past events! Click "Read More."
Check out the amazing work from all across the state! Let us know if you recognize any of the pieces or people. And show your friends and family! Congratulations, Writer of the Month Roland Downey (zeusfireair)!
Keep writing! We want to publish YOU in The Voice! AND record yourself giving a dramatic reading of your work! Or add photos! And remember to send photos, illustrations etc. for the Photo/Art Challenge to firstname.lastname@example.org!
Write about CLIMATE CHANGE and WIN CASH!
The Challenge: Use the power of YOUR words, images, audio and/or video to combat climate change and win big money! First place: $100 | Second place: $75 | Third place: $50 | Plus coupons, gifts and other fun stuff! DEADLINE EXTENDED TO TONIGHT AT MIDNIGHT -- FRIDAY, APRIL 17!
The Prompt: Climate: Using words, images, audio and/or video, respond to one of the three prompts below. Feel free to choose the medium or multi-media that work best for you to convey your message in the most powerful way you can. Respond to one of the three options below:
I thought the world was getting better.
When I was born I thought the world molded itself into the place it is.
The debates on racism and gay marriage where over in my mind.
I looked back on those conversations as history.
How they were a problem is still a mystery.
I laughed at how mean people had been,
Not accepting people in their own skin.
I was taught in school that we are not divided by
our sexual orientation or the things that we do.
Springtime is light,
and the longer days, and the sound of birds outside my window
reveling in the smooth breeze,
and landing on the apple branches.
The branches touch the sky, and I climb the branches
to feel the sun on my hands and face
I'd forgotten what the sun felt like on the back of my neck. It's good to remember.
Springtime is to forget
Rain falls in a clear, steady downpour that coats the world in grey. Water runs down the sidewalks and across the street as the bus splashes noisily through it. It's windows frame the faces of the passengers; they stare with little interest at the city outside. People scurry by, the less fortunate who have only their umbrellas to shelter them from the weather. The clock at the front of the bus reads 3:37 pm. I sigh, leaning my head against the window and feeling the cold of the glass as it presses against my cheek.
Seattle is used to this kind of weather. We see it often; the water turning our city into so many shades of grey and blue. We go about our business; progress doesn't stop for rain. We wake up, go out. We are fed facts each day, statistics and dates and names and then are forced to spit it back out again, prove that we know it. Society welcomes those who do this well, the news reporters feeding us stories of death in faraway places as we eat our breakfast cereal, and watch with eyes wide open. The models who put on the high heeled shoes and show us just how bad we look. Society pushes away those who don't have the vision to see the news; who can't fit into those shoes. It's a fact of life I know well.
Pulling my journal from my bag, I open it and write in bold, purposeful letters: January 15th, 2012. I watch the way the raindrops slide down the window, each one like a single tear. My pencil floats across the page, capturing the poetry of the rain.
He sits alone.
In the middle of the lunch room.
Just him, at the pink allergy table.
And God only knows,
there MUST be someone without peanut butter.
But both God and I know,
no one will sit with him.
He may be annoying,
I like steamed broccoli with garlic, and getting new shoes,
But hate fire alarms and popping balloons.
I like reading Harry Potter and visiting big amusement parks,
But hate really big cities, especially when they’re dark.
I like long fuzzy socks and dessert scented candles,
But hate dried clay on my hands and sand in my sandles.
I like traveling abroad and shopping for clothes,
I snuggle deep beneath my little moss blanket on my wooden bed deep inside of the hollow tree village. Mamma and Papa are amidst another heateed argument over the same old topic: humans. The citizens of Killarney betrayed us 50 years ago but my clan is so bitter it may as well have been 50 days ago! To be completely fair it was not the citizens of Killarney who betrayed us but their town leader, Mister Amos Flaherty who was cruel to us wee folk. Thats when everything changed for us.
Grammy sometimes tells me stories of how it used to be. She said that the folks would dance in the center of the town and we rode on their shoulders. The little children used to braid our hair. They treated us like one of their own. As she said, the people were in tears on the streets as we left. They loved us. She’d tell me stories whenever it rained, whenever I was ill or honestly whenever she could keep me in the tree for more than 10 minutes.
People are a lot like pencils
At some points, we just... break.
We always want to erase our mistakes
but after a while there isn’t any eraser to erase with.
Others shave us down,
trying to strip us down from the part
that matters the most.
But we can always be sharpened again.
Unless we get too short.
For most people Vermont is that pretty picture sitting on your mantelpiece, the chartreuse colored fields, leading up to British-racing-green mountains, with the clear blue skies overhead providing the perfect background for that round barn on top of a bluff.