Gail Wawrzyniak
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Rain

7/6/2015

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Previously published in Yellow Medicine Review
The dreamt-of people are more numerous than us.  But take no space…
Tomas Transtromer

They gather around me,
shimmering the air,
recalling for me
the days and people past.

Mostly, when they remember,
it's simple;
strong brewed coffee,
lilacs in bloom,
just cut grass,
wet leaves in fall, or
thunder during a summer's morning storm.

Sometimes, though, it's more complicated,
because they have their own
dreamt-of people;
It's like looking into a mirror,
into another,
and again, again, again.

They recall for me those people
whose endings were retold in newspapers
tucked into Mom's hand-stitched leather purse,
the one she kept hidden in her closet
away from prying child eyes.

Or they recall for me those people
whose stories were placed in Grandma's scrapbook
where every misfortune that fell upon her small town
were gathered together in yellowed pages
bound with a delicate cord.

When it's like that,
to hide their sadness,
they laugh and drink in remembrance,
just like we do,
and clink their glasses
over my head.

I duck–
dream shards
raining upon me.

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Crazy Love

2/7/2015

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Previously Published in Haunted Waters Press


Crazy Love

Walking after midnight
with a man 
barely known,
it was a crazy love,

a Patsy Cline song 
played to life
in the well-worn
Gateway District.

Their chance encounter in 
the skid-row hotel hallway, 
and I became 
their records' scratch.

It was the late 50s,
and they did what was expected,
what was supposed to be right.
There was a single room

overlooking the train depot
and she tried to calm 
the baby through the rumble 
of the evening's Empire Builder.

But the Seagram's 7 sign flashed 
throughout the nights, and maybe
that pulsing whiskey light ruined her blood. 
It ran through a vein of thirst,

nearly under control
until it wasn't,
and then they just did 
whatever they could.

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Still Life Discussions

12/20/2013

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Previously published by Halfway Down the Stairs, 2010 

Still Life Discussions

Now in this stillness, the lines and angles are content.
It is a simple pleasure.
The wood floor, checkered blanket, woven rag rug,
and the formerly chatter-boxed windows
are silenced
as drawn shades stand guard
against accidental and dangerous musical breezes.

The glasses and plates, so young and lively,
have much to talk about now.  
These shapely ones are so different
from their house-mates, they discovered too late.

Windows thrown open, the plates, glasses, and floor,
in a frenzied night of passion and dance,
tried once to mingle.
But, oh, what disastrous results!

Floor boards, too stubborn or unable to bend.
Plates, so dimensional, scoffed at
being merely a line, and besides,
they too are stubborn
they would not be flexible,
not the way the floor needed them to be that night.

Inevitable shards, gashed wood,
and jagged fragments spoke volumes.
They should have known better.

So the plates and glasses no longer dance--
they can only talk among themselves,
while the windows remain shut, ashamed
for that one night's passion,
that one night's strong winds,
and that deafening noise.
These glasses, these plates,
they talk among themselves.

Paul Cezanne
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    Gail Wawrzyniak

    Regardless of the genre of art, the artist is sharing an emotion, a thought, a story.  I find the stories in others' art and use them to create my own. 

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