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Stories From the Edge of Blindness

In 2002, Retinitis Pigmentosa changed my life. This is my story of a slow approach to darkness.

Author

floweringink

I am a writer, going blind in Los Angeles. This blog is my story of a slow approach to darkness as I traverse through the rubble of urban life. It is what I see in the withering spaces of my remaining vision. It is humor and despair and darkness and light. It is what I witness as the world slowly disappears.

Better Than Starbucks

I have written and submitted very little this year, for obvious reasons, but it was amazing to have one of my poems accepted by Better Than Starbucks. They have published work from some of my favorite contemporary poets, and to have my words housed in their pages is a true gift. If you would like to read my poem, you can do so here. You should be directed to one of their free verse pages and will have to scroll down a bit to find my poem.

As it Should Be

The sun rises later every day as October unfolds itself into the imminence of winter.  I can’t help but watch all the ways in which the darkness stretches, how some kinds of darkness are elusive, others you can touch and feel deep inside you. But it is fleeting, and like the darkness, I am fleeting, uncertain, trapped beneath the weight of grief.  It is as it should be.  

On October 7, my father took his last breath. The sky was overcome with a clamor so quiet, my own breath felt like an intrusion. His death was a devastation wrapped so peacefully, so gently, in the hands of my sister and myself, as we comforted him through his final rite of passage.  I am aching but feel no regret.  I miss him but find myself smiling, laughing, remembering how lucky we were to be friends, to be father and daughter.  He taught me how to fall through the process of breaking, gave me poetry to cushion the fall and music as an elixir. 

 I welcome these darkening mornings, this looking glass into the bones of winter.  It is my time to remember, to realize that in the rhythm of my heart, my father lives.  I welcome the sadness, the reflection.  I miss him.  It is as it should be. 

Chantarelle’s Notebook

I have been absent, from here, from my life and my writing. For now, breathing is about the best I can do and poetry is the only thing I have to share.

I haven’t written or submitted much at all this year, so I am thrilled to have 2 poems in Chantarelle’s Notebook today. If you would like, you can read them here.

All I Have Right Now is Poetry

It has been a turbulent year. I haven’t done a lot of writing and almost no submitting, but I did have a few poems come out this month. Right now, it is all I have to share.

I already shared the poem in Orange Blossom Review, but if you would like to have another peek, you can do so here. My poem “Wax” appeared in Fresh Air Poetry, a new publication from the former editor of Amaryllis, Stephen Daniels. I also have a poem in this months Burning House Press that you can read here.

From the Quiet comes Poetry

Everything is so quiet and so very loud. Each step I take is labored, heavy and uncertain. I haven’t written much at all this year, or submitted or had much published, but today I opened my email to a lovely surprise. Issue 3 of Orange Blossom Review came out yesterday, and I am honored to have one of my poems in its virtual pages, amongst the work of so many talented writers. If you want to take a peek at the issue, you can so here.

Metaphors

” a lightening scorched scattering of scars”….just one of many exquisite lines in this poem from Angela!

Heart Breathings

over nearly half a century,
time had worn her threadbare,
a tapestry of thinning, loosened threads,
mindlessly and obsessively pulled

as was necessary, sometimes her suffering was sad enough to silence the songbirds,
and other times, her joy was a melody others couldn’t help but to join

by now, she is a well-worn weather map of shared existence,
a lightening scorched scattering of scars,
a thunderous rattle of broken bones,
some not quite set right

but the seasons continue to change,
and she still manages to make leaves from nothing,
stretching her tired limbs toward the sky and offering herself bare to the thickening light

how is it, she wonders,
that I’ve become a minstrel of metaphor?
she hates metaphors

does shade have a shadow?
what else do we allow time to hide in plain sight?
why can’t something just be what it is?

if time has…

View original post 38 more words

Hollywood Poems

“Lady Street Jesus” is the last of 3 poems that were originally published in The Furious Gazelle. If you haven’t yet checked out TFG, I highly recommend you do, and if submitting writing is your thing, definitely think about submitting to them.

If you would like to read all 3 of my poems in TFG, you can do so here. If you want to subscribe to my YouTube channel, you can do so here. And, please check out my website, designed so beautifully by my husband, Joe.

Flush – Recorded Poetry Series

My energy is pretty zapped right now, my thoughts consumed with what is happening to my father. I feel sad and emotional. I feel so grateful for all of the kindness I receive here, and for the amazing writing that I get to lose myself in. But, right now, I am not reading much and certainly not writing much. I feel like a stone, slowly sinking as everything goes dark. I will get through this. I will meet the challenges that face me.

In the meantime, I have the last two poems from The Furious Gazelle recorded and will share those. In advance, I am sorry to post and run.

Flush

Lurking behind the thin
stained metal of a bathroom stall,
brazen and breathing gravel,
she waits for an audience.
I open the door to a greeting
that crackles with delight,
but the smell of her misery 
crowds the room.
She steps elegantly from
behind the tin curtain and
bows to her reflection in the mirror.
Her hair is tangled and covered with despair.
She is searching for a song
that died with the starlets of Ragtime.
Lips that drip fire grasp at words
falling through blisters and cracks.
Her nose seeps with determination.
She smudges blood across her teeth
with a tremoring hand, burps,
and flushes herself down the toilet.

Had to Share

So I was perusing the most current issue of Visual Verse this morning and came across this brilliant piece written by my friend Basilike Papa, the author of the blog Silent Hour. Her writing always inspires me. She weaves words in a way that is so uniquely and beautifully hers; it is like magic.

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