My Dreams

Dominique Rispoli is a bright spirit. She writes to us from Wilmington, Delaware, where the yellow spring bedstraw and white clover bloom. I'd highly recommend reading her work on Hello Poetry. I'm honored to share her words on this site, with this piece titled, My Dreams. 

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My Dreams

by dominique rispoli

You only visit me in my dreams
Soft, the outline of you hazy
Whispers and shadows
We waltz around each other
Twirling, you hold me close
Ornate designs on the walls
And a sparkling crystal floor
The scene shifts and we are in a meadow
you put a flower behind my ear and grab my hand
Pulling me close and planting a kiss on my forehead
Suddenly, the world melts away and I am awoken
I am left with only a feeling
An echo of you
And as my memory of us together fades
I start my day with a murmur of your presence surrounding me
And holding me

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Dominique is a 21 year old poet & vintage clothing shop owner. When she is not writing she is either eating pasta, watching too many old movies, or dreaming of Disney World.

She currently resides in Wilmington, Delaware, with her words accessible through her Instagram, The Little Dove poems. 

Unveiling

Joni Bonney is a dear friend of mine. We connect weekly over muggy cups of tea and read excerpts of books aloud to one another. She is my counterpart in co-hosting Poetry Nights, and we are currently planning another for July. She truly emulates the heart of Christ in every fashion; she's always reminding me to be mindful, for gratitude abounds when mindfulness is held. These virtues are laced into her writing and linger in my mind for days. 

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Unveiling

by joni bonney

Existence, experience and the need to feel.

Interlaced progression

Underneath my calm state of being.

I see myself as a memory
Dancing in the fine lines that show across my cheeks.

I see myself hidden in the evergreen
Invisible to what I could previously see.

Brushed up gently to everything that could be.

Instinctively melting into you.

Soft conversation and slow-paced walks
Stirring connectedness.

Whispers and hair brushed delicately to the side of my shoulder.

I can breathe easy
I inhale the breath you have exhaled.

Out of nothing, I am created once more.
Fostered by love.

Focused on a time and a place

I exist in the moments between rain storms.
Slowly, I allow my face to soak.

I lift my arms and finally live in all corners of myself.
Drawn in, graciously, no part withheld.

Undergoing a change in speed, but not in direction.

Deconstructing habitual motions.
Extending my exposure.

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Joni Bonney's goal is to spread love and to emphasize the beautiful things that we miss most of the time in this life.

She grew up on the East Coast and is now living and growing in Nashville, Tennessee, and always planning trips to places around the country. She walks forward as a wanderer through this lovely journey called life and hope to grasp all she can. 

Joni is the author of Songs of Her, and her work can be found through her site, Lovely Wanderer. 

White Stag

Photo by Joanna Lampa

I met Jane when she began dating her now husband, Jeremy. We laughed together in the parking lot, while our partners were inside practicing rock music; on their show days, we'd sell their merch, counting bills and tallying sales. She was there for me when Ricky was hospitalized, and drove with us when we visited Nashville for the first time–this gift of a friend. We've written poetry and painted together. Her writing is always such a delight to read for it's always honest and real.

She holds a floodlight personality, soul bursting in yellow blooms. 

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White Stag

by jane claudio

What a wild story this is
That cancer that came to destroy me
But instead has gifted me with something
Irreplaceable, Irreversible

I should have been shattered
So why do I feel myself becoming invincible?

My hair has been washed down the drain
My breasts are in the garbage behind the hospital
Next to a half-finished ranch salad

Twenty-five pounds of my body have melted off
Eight months of my life have come and gone while I was sleeping
So yes, I do find it strange that I am feeling so powerful

It’s because I saw with my own eyes what we all are asking for

I saw proof that God is kind
And that if I fall, someone will catch me
If I was an empty well, people would still gather
Not to take, but to give

I saw with my eyes
The white stag that we all stubbornly hope for
What we muster up the strength to believe in
Unconditional Love

Now that I have fallen farther than I thought possible
And never hit the ground
I cannot return to being who I was before
I have seen too much

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Photo by Joanna Lampa

Jane Claudio is a future cancer survivor in Nashville, Tennessee. She uses writing as a cure for loneliness and a magnifying glass for the beauty we experience every day. She is also shares her words through songwriting, with her work being accessible at www.nightbirde.com. 

Jane also has a GoFundMe account, #seejanewin. 

Vulnerable

a p r i l   28

My mouth lays mute due to my marinating mind. I make myself a muggy glass of Yellow Pau d’Arco tea with a dollop of Tupelo honey. I flip through my journal as my lavender and basil plant begin to soak in the morning’s maturation, and translate the past month’s journal entries to the digital screen. 

They illustrate the transition and unsteadiness that has taken grasp. Transition through a new job title, though a promotion, has been stretching me in aspects of time and mental capacity. Unsteadiness through members of my family being scattered across the states, and the fear of loss of connection that rises within me. With Ricky’s family, we’ve been trying to alternate months to see his mother, who recently fell ill at the start of this year, and visit to support his father—who is now her primary caretaker. 

I know that I’m not alone. Every soul is facing some degree of adversary at this point, at every point. But I like to admit mine after I’ve pulled the gold from the circumstance, once the tough feelings are eased by a calmer current standing. Writing the heaviness off my chest fills me with a certain type of discomfort—staring filled pages, full of words depicting the frustration and turbulence that has carried into my home, my heart. 

But I’m learning that it’s necessary. 

This endeavor allows a written timeline of growth; for miracles are only miracles when the outcome is contrasted with what was once current. I’m finding that there’s a special vulnerability that’s held in the broken sentences, the words that don’t link up quite right. So below holds my current standing through the month’s journal entries: raw, brittle, honest. 

• • •

a p r i l   14

I picked up an old book today, 
and saw pen scratches in the margins. 

I recognized them;
that sloppy script was mine. 
They were poems penned by the book’s inspiration. 

Upon reading the interjections, 
I became jealous. 

I was so reckless with my writing,
writing for an audience of one—
and recently I’ve encountered some turbulence, 
causing an emptied-ink pen.

Write with vulnerability,
whispers the husband with the pure-gold heart, 
what if I can’t,
I say softly with tear stained cheeks.
 

• • •

a p r i l  22

Purple Pansies

Outside, 
across the incandescent sky, 
the boreal chickadee bird dips and ascends, 
a fluttering pattern with acute acceleration. 

Inside, 
a heartbroken husband, 
speaks softly to his wife; 
combing her hair behind her ear, 
gently kissing the top of her head, 
as the natural light shines, 
gently comforts, 
warming her skin. 

The mother who can see but not speak, 
feel but not move; 
but oh, 
how her son sings for her—
strumming until blisters burst. 

And her sister, 
places purple pansies in eyeshot, 
and plants a shephard’s hook outside the window—
dangling a glass cylinder;  
it’s filled with seeds for the round-bellied robins, 
the yellow-breasted chat, 
and the cuckoo with it’s black-bill. 

And though her head lays heavy, 
I hope her heart is heaping full—
for beauty is unfolding everywhere, 
even when things feel broken.

• • •

a p r i l   27

I’m not too sure of what I’m afraid of—
letting ink flow through flooding frustration. 

Maybe, I’m afraid that the words won’t come. 
Maybe, I’m afraid that the words will come but that they won’t hold weight. 
Maybe, I’m afraid that the weighty words will come, 
but that they become a burden rather than an encourager. 

honey sunset

I'm so honored to have Cheyenne be the first writer to share their words on Introspective Collective. I met her through a web of mutual poetry contacts online and connected instantly. Cheyenne is always pulling warmth and bliss into her writing, reminding me that there is beauty amongst every scene. I'm drawn to her dreamy diction she weaves into her poetry, the all-lowercase letters, and her golden heart. She's currently collecting donations for a raffle for The Rape Crisis Center; I'd encourage you to visit her site and donate if you feel drawn to do so. 

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honey sunset

by cheyenne raine

summer sun, fingertips curling
around the soft underbelly of clouds
that taste of cotton candy
and honey glazed pillows.
sometimes, i lie down in the grass
and the sun drips over my skin,
warmth. warmth. warmth.

what is yellow and tart?
my love for the open road,
where highway winds tangle
my hair and my laughter.
where rolled down windows
take the music on the radio
and my voice away (perhaps,
they go to a castle in the clouds).

i like thinking of the constellations,
summer sun faded in the afterglow of the dusk—
wait here, i whisper, let me gather the sky into my palms,
watch it spread and settle against my heartbeat.

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Cheyenne Raine is a creative in all aspects of the word–from writing, to crafts, projects, design and much more. She loves to drink tea and read/watch anything with horror and thrills. She's passionate about healing, chasing all things lovely and blissful and resides in San Antonio, Texas.

Her work (including two poetry books!) can be found on her Instagram and website. 

When My Heart Awakens

January 15, 2018

I woke this morning a little after 3 AM. I scrolled through photos, scripture, and sheep in attempts to resume my slumber. I felt a gentle tug to part from my bed and to begin writing, editing, learning. 

After scooping up my dachshund-min pin mix, I circled up our metal-spiral stairs. Much to my surprise, my lively eyes traced the trails of unbroken language, spoken to paper. I wrote until the morning was nursed into maturity. Here is a small passage, that I softly share with you, reader:

When My Heart Awakens

It’s exquisite. 
It’s unique. 

Obedience opens the doors to a productivity phenomenon,  
an all-awake and oh-so-alive euphoria. 

I was able to witness the darkness turn to light—
epitomized by these pages, 
this window pane. 

Outstretched shapes silhouetted the sky, 
the sun began to leisurely rise. 

The clouds are purple now, dusted with grey. 
A glow, growing richer, deeper, warmer. 

Beneath, 
the bare sky, 
screams its shine. 

I swell in spirit, 
as the fierce and fiery light anoints these pages. 

Apricot beams radiate into my art room, 
and moments later, 
entirely illuminates the ambience.