Voices in a Thousand Directions

(Foreward) Hey, Commaful, long time no see with a regular piece of mine! :) This one is a bit unusual as this post is not one poem, but a collection of nine short poems that I wrote for an English project in the middle of June.

These poems are about many things (and I will let them speak for themselves), but the English course revolved around Indigenous comic books. We looked at many topics, from the way comic books are created, police brutality against Indigenous women, Indigenous sci-fi, the ownership of one's story, and the upsides and downsides of empathy.

With the exception of the final poem (where I did some slight revisions), all ten of these poems are in the format that I originally wrote them in. I hope that they all compliment each other, and thank you for reading! Let me know if you have any questions about anything here! <3

Empathy I

Is a portrait a mirror for the artist alone?

Is a portrait a mirror for the artist alone? Or does the spectator melt like ink

Is a portrait a mirror for the artist alone? Or does the spectator melt like ink into impossible shapes and colours,

Is a portrait a mirror for the artist alone? Or does the spectator melt like ink into impossible shapes and colours, where reflection lets a new season sprout?

Seasons are sequential -

Seasons are sequential - but memories of summer bloom against time,

Seasons are sequential - but memories of summer bloom against time, where past, present, future

Seasons are sequential - but memories of summer bloom against time, where past, present, future all grow like sapphire sunflowers.

Connections

What happens when history shatters into

What happens when history shatters into a thousand stories in a cracked narrative?

The stories - billions of hopes, heartaches,

The stories - billions of hopes, heartaches, injustices, and ideals - intersect voices that dissolve

The stories - billions of hopes, heartaches, injustices, and ideals - intersect voices that dissolve the thin monolith into a cross-stitch of chronicles,

The stories - billions of hopes, heartaches, injustices, and ideals - intersect voices that dissolve the thin monolith into a cross-stitch of chronicles, yesterdays and tomorrows in a billion directions.

Transformation

Darkness should be freeform like invisible art;

Darkness should be freeform like invisible art; here, the shadow shines its gaze and fist

Darkness should be freeform like invisible art; here, the shadow shines its gaze and fist to silence centuries into a sinkhole of blood

Darkness should be freeform like invisible art; here, the shadow shines its gaze and fist to silence centuries into a sinkhole of blood that floods them into silhouettes.

Yet, they are their own portraits,

Yet, they are their own portraits, never dormant in doldrums

Yet, they are their own portraits, never dormant in doldrums but igniting the shapes of sunshine

like invisible art.

Empathy II

Is one’s face a mask that covers

Is one’s face a mask that covers the world, folding in a font of smiles?

Suddenly, the smiles wrap around

Suddenly, the smiles wrap around the freckles of clouds on the skin of the sky,

Suddenly, the smiles wrap around the freckles of clouds on the skin of the sky, patterns of pigments that melt from memories.

Yet, the wind whistles its own wishes into

Yet, the wind whistles its own wishes into one’s dreams, too.

Revelation

As I step into the broken crevices of my heart,

As I step into the broken crevices of my heart, the fears flow and blossom into beliefs

As I step into the broken crevices of my heart, the fears flow and blossom into beliefs as if arteries spat daggers into dreams.

Yet, death does not dance to my footsteps of fire.

Yet, death does not dance to my footsteps of fire. The heartbeats paradiddle a promise of colours -

Yet, death does not dance to my footsteps of fire. The heartbeats paradiddle a promise of colours - the colour of hope, the colour of me.

Reconciliation

When a river hushes its rush of reflections,

When a river hushes its rush of reflections, the stars stop spiralling in a blur of slurred lines.

When a river hushes its rush of reflections, the stars stop spiralling in a blur of slurred lines. The water sparkles and glistens (like glass), listens.

Forgiveness flows, trickles from tears

Forgiveness flows, trickles from tears in a mirror of memories into the voice

Forgiveness flows, trickles from tears in a mirror of memories into the voice of your river where tomorrow blossoms.

Tomorrow

Truth is the taste of timeless sunrises -

Truth is the taste of timeless sunrises - yet, their stories were always there,

Truth is the taste of timeless sunrises - yet, their stories were always there, inked in incandescent lines once invisible

Truth is the taste of timeless sunrises - yet, their stories were always there, inked in incandescent lines once invisible to you, but never to them.

The lines weave through blood, bravery,

The lines weave through blood, bravery, and air - where promises may whisk

The lines weave through blood, bravery, and air - where promises may whisk a seascape of interlaced hearts

The lines weave through blood, bravery, and air - where promises may whisk a seascape of interlaced hearts or slump into yesterday.

Revival

Starlight flutters like a firebird,

Starlight flutters like a firebird, aspiring to be a firefly enlaced with

Starlight flutters like a firebird, aspiring to be a firefly enlaced with butterfly wings that swing to the sway

Starlight flutters like a firebird, aspiring to be a firefly enlaced with butterfly wings that swing to the sway of swirling worlds.

Yet, when humanity harmonizes

Yet, when humanity harmonizes its hands with a thousand worlds,

Yet, when humanity harmonizes its hands with a thousand worlds, will the firebird photosynthesize

Yet, when humanity harmonizes its hands with a thousand worlds, will the firebird photosynthesize into the fingertips of fate?

Borders

Lines tightrope and brushstroke - between

Lines tightrope and brushstroke - between colours, cultures, balance, borders - like a foreword

Lines tightrope and brushstroke - between colours, cultures, balance, borders - like a foreword to a thousand limitless lives.

Yet, the lines swell into shapes like clamshells,

Yet, the lines swell into shapes like clamshells, where each panel of their portrait is a pearl

Yet, the lines swell into shapes like clamshells, where each panel of their portrait is a pearl of hushed ocean eyes, never knowing

Farewell.