writing life creative

2014-02-20 18.58.46

‘The world is a possibility if only you’ll discover it.’

My 20-month old is surprisingly gentle with my books. On any given ...
Thank you

Handwriting Thank You

After nearly 12 years, she still sends me lovely notes on paper. ...

Don’t fall in love with the first line, it will break your heart

The other day I discussed writing with a group of high school ...
photo credit: Shawn Bueche

What’s In Your Journal?

A former student of mine, shared with me that her mother would ...
etchings

365 Days of Writing

Whether you write for publication, piecing together a living, word by word ...
proxy

Beautiful Distractions in 21st Century Learning (video)

“Beautiful Distractions in 21st Century Learning” When we think of potential distractions ...

writings

By Chance

2015-08-27 21.41.16

If you stand still under full moon, let light settle on your shoulders, hold your lovers hand, listen to the crickets, the tender leaves, the streetlight hum; you will notice summer turning over, the crisp air, like thread laced between your fingers.

Sunset #820

2015-08-20 21.12.01

The trees, cut out, stilts and blooming shadows
against the sky, sunset dressed in the thorns
of the day, tangled pale lines, lavender
and gray, dissolve aches and pains, a naked
and bright moon. In this slow and graceful change,
the sky is enough light sliver and blue.

-dce

Splinters and Chalk Lines

We stand here at this door, old wood, new stain,
shine like eyes, sky, or glass, this frame, a well
worn arch, reveals some kind of wonderful,

rippling inside, along floorboard,
with applause and cheer in crumbs, dust, and small
objects children use to imagine, build,

or chew on. This narrow one way in, door
open and out we spill onto the porch,
into the front yard, where neon chalk lines

map-like messages, remind us to draw,
write, or speak kind words, scribble life beet
and blue, smear and stick, even in the rain.

Five

If not for black coffee,
for perk and boil,
for morning,
breath the color of guilt,
for long days,
and few words,
I might stay
in this glance,
sun spill and griddle,
five
more minutes
before rush
and blister, before
their small voices
enter the room.

-dce

lifeandwrite

Purge

I walk down this street between the raindrops,
one suitcase drawn along my hem. The last
few years drag as wheels along wet gravel.
Time and space, left at the curb,
masking as puddles, messy pools of us.

On Pitch and Severing

Untitled

This is a familiar tune of unrest, a sprawling ink, extended like arms, like grieving, like these awkward days, like the angry stir of seasons, a broadening toll. Yet another body draped in some bitter fashion, from a tree, along the concrete, face down, forward, or forever still in uncertain circumstances, under certain stance, the unmistakable silence of death.

There are moments when I have to just stop, remember to breathe, sit at the edge of this life, in the blue black dark, lean in to the sliver of gray moon and listen to the pitch of pain boiling over, bursting from the seams of these worn and splitting pavements, these broken walks, these bitter days, and gather up what little bit of rolling light there is colored in the corner of my eyes with the rest of the tears.

(Morning) Do

Walk upright, leave the heavy lift
for your hands and round shoulders;
they can bear the weight, a callous or two.
Ease into the sunrise, a yellow thread,
a button undone; a mind adrift with bright song.

‘Before I Die…’

New Orleans, LA, just outside the Contemporary Art Center…

Candy Chang’s TED talk

Eve and Uncertainty

2015-03-16 19.47.31

When in doubt, peel away winter,
that awkward harmony and distance
from the curling world, where days
lack space to tell our truths, dark and gleaming.

By now there are few secrets. Our tongues,
no place for regret or quarrel. Change
finds us turning into sunset,
sheer peach stretched across the sky,
light licking every blue wound.

-dce

Under traces of snow and boot tread, love.

2015-02-21 12.23.54

Waiting, Writing a Storm

The sky for days, open with this clear gray cold, an emotional cloak that slides down any gaping snap or sleeve, soft turn or tear, the skin exposed and vulnerable. It reminds me of the headlines that walk and ticker, write worry and wrinkled brow, like the sky unraveling, silver and wind.

I sit at the end of the day, my shoulders slow and sore, resting against the cool pale wall of my room, follow the narrow light along the snow, thin like chalk line, or patience. I reflect on the hate and clutter of the day, the months, the years, watch it pile as these winter storms, white thick and persistent. I sit and wait, with tongue completely still, while words and the world seem restless.

Birdsong

“Mom, I used to be a bird; now I’m a kid.”

We dream a day when he will build his way
out of the blur, hold the words in his hands
and fumble through them like wishes. When the tears
will lessen and carry his song, a bright
buoyant cloud thunder, a bend of color
in the sun. He is singing if you listen.

We slowed down to hear his tune, to fidget
with insecurity, these awkward notes
that sound like waves of purple and gold. We
hold on to ourselves, on to him like calm,
walk like stray footprints, shadow and accord.

-dce

Faith and Leaf Fall

2014-10-19 11.29.04

There is only so much we can do about the clusters of clouds, the colors of uncertainty, the bare trees in daybreak, crowded swirls of steel gray and blue. We can long for reassurance, the sky peeling open, peach and pale moon. When doubt sounds like winter and wind gust, a moist leaf in mourning lingers in daylight; a reminder faith is not scared of the dark.

“As my sufferings mounted I soon realized that there were two ways in which I could respond to my situation—either to react with bitterness or seek to transform the suffering into a creative force…” –Martin Luther King Jr.

Finding Our Voice

We are human, vulnerable. Let’s accept, connect with that truth, see it as a gift. Let’s make, do our best work, build whatever we can get our hands, hearts, and minds around.

pencil

“In order to add lasting, meaningful value, we must – eventually – find our own voice. We must actively search for our voice, and clear a path for it to emerge. It is uncovered, not manufactured. We may not even like what we discover at first, but by embracing it we will position ourselves to occupy the unique space for which we’re wired.” –Todd Henry, accidentalcreative.com

Sunset #1121

2014-11-21 16.25.52

 

To stand with you,
at the end of the day,
the air crisp and colored in.
The nest next door,
beyond bare branch
and red berries,
a box of secrets.
Our yesterday
covered in sunset,
the flutter of bird wing.

We simmer our worry,
our cold and damp,
a gold and yellow mute,
a rooftop glow,
where the snow
falls early, and sky pills
like raggedy sleeve.
We leave the words undone,
tangled in forgiveness,
sweet remnant sun.

 

-dce

Blue Gray Hush

Sunrise_10.7.2014

The cloud cover scribbled in the sky, holes
torn like mohair, signs of moths and autumn,
a gathering of the plums, rain, and cool.

The clean light, spare in the spotted window
pane, the sunrise bares routine: lunches, bags,
folded clothes, bright alarm, a kiss. Slow in

the small of morning, a blue gray hush, we
lie facing each other, a sallow moon
turning over inside the haze of day.

-dce

Orange Castle

When the sun falls, lint, like some strange glitter,
dusts the round of our shoulders, and settles
in the space between us, fills comfortable
silence with shadow, wind, and ginger,
bands our time together an orange ribbon.
You and I, a slow fold, dressed in sunset.

Ordinary Spaces

I want words to get into the ordinary, the writer to treat the ordinary with new eyes and wonder. That’s how I see creative writing. No detail is too small for invention. Write and sketch with words in wide open spaces, if you can—everyday. This is how we practice, how we work on our writings, on our books, on our lives.

Examples of word sketches pulled out of ordinary wonder…

Word Sketch 4.16.2014

Word Sketch 11.9.2013

Found Poem in the Kitchen Sink

Objects and Selves

I spent time standing in front of the door.

The lock, just beyond me, with marigold

splash, daybreak oozing between the narrow

lip and curve. I could see inside, the bare wood

covered in our years here, shine and scratch,

our comings and goings pressed into each plank.

We could walk away from this place

or stay and fill the bedrooms, listen for laughter,

their young voices along the tree-lined streets.

The eggshell walls temporary, the paintings and furniture

will color and shift. This key, like us, is turning, turning still.

This house, a new beginning, collecting objects and selves.

These beautiful lives, this careless fire

Dionne:

I originally penned this post in March of 2012. I would like to think that over two years later, these words would have less relevance, less pain, less immediacy. I suppose these words knew better – waited for me to remember, reflect, read them again.

And it seems no matter how much time turns, the fire still shines in all of our eyes. We can close our lids and pretend not to hear the click and pop, but we would be kidding ourselves. The smoke from the barrel, the smell of lifelessness, even from a distance, appears endless or at least the headlines, wail, and tears seem to write, cry themselves restless and closer still.

Originally posted on life and write:

The black and blurry headlines ache as ink bleeds over our eyes and ears. The latest headlines of injustice and tragedy offer little to grieving parents, family, and friends; but the stir from those printed or spoken words gather a memorial and speak for the silenced. These stories of innocent loss of life remind me that we are human. And as adults we were all once children.

When the headlines ache with the echos of gun shots, children lying still on the other end, I think of mothers and fathers that bleed from those dark holes, those empty black notes where a child once sang. Last week I heard gun shots far away in the deserts of Afghanistan; I heard gun shots silence the early morning in France, I heard gun shots in Florida, just south of my own children’s smiles. That pain both near and far sounded like life…

View original 134 more words

Sunset (Intermittent Storms)

2014-07-01 Sunset

On this night I write. It fits between thunder and lightning, between wishful and mourning. The dusty sky has a way of falling into the trees, open branches full of silver and orange. Just before the storm I find words in this muddled space. If I stay still long enough, they will find their way warm in my lap, charming the gray with spit shine and tears.

Author profile: Dionne Custer Edwards on the muse, museums and multidisciplinary learning

Last week I spoke with writer Hannah Stephenson about living and working our creative. She crafted our chat into a lovely profile featured in this week’s Columbus Alive.

Photo by Tim Johnson

Author profile: Dionne Custer Edwards on the muse, museums and multidisciplinary learning.

Even at rest, the power of words

When you’ve said what you’ve come to say (volumes of poignant memoir, poetry, and writing) and done what you’ve come to do, lift your tongue, your pen, rise… You rest.

 

2014-03-08 15.49.54

 

 

I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel. –Maya Angelou

Writing to Remember

Just put down on paper everything you can remember… -Anne Lamott

There is truth and fiction, and there are truths in fiction. However, sometimes your memory is less than sharp and so you pull from the soft fuzzy parts in your brain that imagine new truths. This is not permission to lie but encouragement to write about life the way that you remember or imagine. This is sometimes where fiction, the imaginary, the wondrous, looks to truths, tiny speckles of story, experience, happenings, moments, and strings them together like pearl drops, like the blurry beads of memory.

The greatest poetry…

 

…is revealing to the reader the beauty in something that was so simple you had taken it for granted. -Neil deGrasse Tyson

 

 

 

 

Neil deGrasse Tyson is an American astrophysicist, host of the Fox Channel’s Cosmos (can also be seen on the National Geographic Channel), and Director of the Hayden Planetarium at the Rose Center for Earth and Space. Find him on Twitter @neiltyson.

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 1,431 other followers