How can you say that art is helpful in the face of war-terror-death-and all the other darkness that humanity perpetrates on itself? Because that’s what it’s meant to do. It’s what it was created to do. It’s what we, artists, do. You bring tanks - we paint rainbows on your gunport. You bring bombs - we quilt blankets to line the concrete shelters with beauty. You try to silence us with violence - we write sonnets with your ugly words turning them into so many daisies in a field of weeds. Sometimes you pass laws in places like Texas and Arkansas -places that paint with your favorite color. But we know that red and blue can be mixed with light and become the pink and teal on a transgender flag. You use money as power and power as justification for the death you order onto those who oppose you. We painted those pictures. We wove that linen and paper. We invented the press that your money is dependent on. You can hold a gun to our temple - you can pull the trigger- you can watch the bullet take the spark that created beauty- but the art will live. Art is not a human It is humanity - It is not mortal but lives as cultural consciousness within us all. You can flail in impotent rage and call it “justifiable conflict” or “patriotism.” WE plant seeds of hope that flower into the vines which will topple all the monuments to your memory. War-terror-death-oppression-prejudice-YOU are momentary Art is the immortality of those you tried to silence.
Author
Beulah Vega
Beulah Vega
Beulah Vega is a writer, poet, and theatrical artist living and working in California’s Bay Area. Her poetry has been published in The Literary Nest, Sage Cigarettes, Walled Women, and Blood & Bourbon among others. Her first book of poetry 'A Saga for the Unrequited' will be published in August of 2021 by Fae Corp Publishing. She is still amazed when people refer to her as a writer, every time. To follow her lunacy (artistic and otherwise) find her on Facebook @BFVegaauthor and Instagram/Twitter @Byronwhoknew.
Minisonnets
I. A door held, locks before all enter. In due time I will get my turn. If I am silent and learn to turn raw brown skin white. learn to mimic learn to suffocate brown from my tongue. extinguish name, family, heritage. The door is not colorblind. II. The table would shatter before it could expand Accidentally Filled. That spot my one chance uprooted, tossed another brown weed cut. how do you hug your people so tight while accepting our stolen goods? while selling us lies? More chairs won’t fix the broken table. III. Smothering my dreams can’t set you free.
Properties of a Ceramic Doll
strong, pretty, expensive, frilly, long-lasting, brittle- Brittle? hairline fracture not caught before the kiln erupts into full seams of spidery weakness hiding below cracking glaze rosy cheeks. soft impact full break wait for an epoxy cure wait carefully wait gently for brittle was molded into her nature like her smile like the single tear frozen on a flawlessly flawed face. brittle always brittle especially when whole.
-for Nicholas Green inspired by the Children's Bell Tower more ancient than the granite the marine layer blown by cherry blossom scented winds reaches a reverential tendril to softly ring the Italian bells hung so far from home. Nicholas,can you hear them can you hear the bells singing your name? puka shells, abalone, bamboo and other ancestors murmur together a soft chorus in the gnarled limbs of the Monterey Cyprus Nicholas when they sing, can you hear the apologies from those who could not save you? A quail calls from the scrub the piercing cry of a mother seeking its young. Nicholas did you hear the grief from those that loved you those who still speak your name? A ground squirrel scuttles in dried pine needles knocking small pebbles into discordant notes until a solitary finch softly hushes all with it’s sweet hymn to the creeping cherry wind and pounding ocean tides. Nicholas, in the rhythmic Pacific, the rhythm of peace, can you hear heartbeats hear those you saved? The tall tower bell chimes calling the lost soothing the grieving reminding even the ancient marine layer to tread softly this is sacred ground Nicholas, as long as the cherry winds blow As long as the pacific tide flows the bells will continue to sing for you Nicholas, please tell us, you hear them.
Chrysanthemums Chrysanthemums bloom as all else falls giving hope to some that our world is not dying Large orange globes peer up, so like the October moon, lighting the fields of chaff being gleaned by ravens. Chrysanthemums lack the showy youth of the daffodil brashly pushing up through frozen ground to reclaim the land for flowers everywhere. They lack the heady scent of the mature summer rose as it calls to lovers on warm breezes pulling them together over it’s beauty. They do not glory in the slumber of the denuded oak as it stands tall and barren through the long winter showing its strength through it’s transparency. No, Chrysanthemums are an invitation to welcome endings. They are the hope inherent in desiccation, the peaceful promise of mortality. Their life is a brief moment of brilliant amber imprint on the memories of centuries, across a harvest sky. A fiery reminder that there is beauty in transitions. If tomorrow started without me. No flags would lower No mass gathering of strangers No dimming of the sky or sun No despair on any level that could shudder deep within the earth and shake any out of complacency. None of it. For I was never that important. In the vast emptiness of multi-versal space I am merely a billionth of the atoms, momentarily holding their breath before exploding again into stardust or sand. Most people will never know my name will never see my tears will never taste my famous macaroni and cheese. And though I was born without the longing to see another sunset or to live through the darkness for another sunrise - nevertheless - I will try and be here tomorrow. Because I know that in the billions of people on this Earth who will never know or care that I existed - at least one - will be devastated by my loss. And long ago I promised to never make you cry.
Remember when ghosts were old Victorian women striding down staircases, stopping for blurry photographs, or to run an icy finger down an unsuspecting spine? Remember when you could summon and banish by will with a planchette, some letters, a firm belief and a strong purpose? Remember when ghosts were souls and demons that had nothing to do with you or your life, merely phantasms of space/time? Remember before your own ghosts popped up on Facebook feeds and in Instagram stories? Stalking through your friend’s list as revenants stalk through graves? Remember when time was linear? When the past stayed in place before technology summoned wraiths from your personal nightmares? Do you remember when you knew that things would get better, because time would blur pain and erase memories? Do you wonder how it all went so wrong?
Remember when ghosts were old Victorian women striding down staircases, stopping for blurry photographs, or to run an icy finger down an unsuspecting spine? Remember when you could summon and banish by will with a planchette, some letters, a firm belief and a strong purpose? Remember when ghosts were souls and demons that had nothing to do with you or your life, merely phantasms of space/time? Remember before your own ghosts popped up on Facebook feeds and in Instagram stories? Stalking through your friend’s list as revenants stalk through graves? Remember when time was linear? When the past stayed in place before technology summoned wraiths from your personal nightmares? Do you remember when you knew that things would get better, because time would blur pain and erase memories? Do you wonder how it all went so wrong?
‘Autumn’, they told me. Beige, chocolate, rust, Think dark and spicy- -In the blandest way possible. But I am so much more than their narrow views of pigmentation. I am sangria and lapis crimson and shadow. I am iron and emerald longing for an azure sea under a cerulean sky. I dream under my own lemon and rose sun Of chartreuse and cobalt mermaids beckoning me home. My ancestors with their skin of alabaster and bronzite both translucently blinding under The daffodil sun gifted me Their onyx, and clementine hair And their obsidian/tiger’s eyes to look at the world with. So I could see their lands of Fern, Shamrock, Juniper, and Sage as they run through my veins creating mulberry blood And a multi-hued view Of this vivid world.
