Tag: art

Teaser – “Unhoused Yearning for Home” Anthology

The call for submissions is coming up soon…

I am working with Candice Louisa Dequin to co-edit this anthology, and it will be published by Prolific Pulse Press.

UNHOUSED – Yearning for Home shines a light on: Migration, asylum-seeking, illegal-and-legal-immigration, and other factors resulting in being without a home, national-identity, country, or security net. Whether you have immigrated and found yourself isolated and unable to fit into your adopted country’s identity, or lost status in a country you identify with, been out-of-status, living-below-the-radar, a Dreamer or undocumented, or forced to flee your homeland because of discrimination, war or other destabilizing forces, this is your opportunity to share your experiences on the hardships and often invisible struggles so many endure.

Prolific Pulse Press’s background in publishing social justice anthologies, continues with ‘Unhoused – Yearning for Home’ – an anthology of poetry and flash-writing on the current epidemic of unhoused, homeless, stateless, and country-less people and how this lack of safety affects generations. We seek to highlight the writer’s resilience and determination to survive and thrive whilst sharing their truth and experience(s).

‘Unhoused – Yearning for Home’ will be edited by Carrie Yang and Candice Louisa Daquin. Carrie Yang works in the Homelessness and Employment services in Australia and is herself an immigrant. Candice Daquin is also an immigrant, currently in America, and has worked in crisis centers in the US/Europe and Canada. Their combined professional experience, alongside having produced over twenty anthologies, is the pulse behind this project. The editors are fortunate enough to work with Lisa Tomey-Zonneveld, Manager of Prolific Pulse Press LLC. Given Prolific Pulse Press’s history of publishing exceptional anthologies, including Cadence (finalist in the American Writing Awards), Social Justice Inks, Dear Heart, and Heartbeats, our goal is to be a powerful platform for erased voices on this neglected and often inaccurately understood subject.

‘Unhoused – Yearning for Home,’ doesn’t seek to become mired in politics, but rather through the lens of human experience, help others comprehend the unique social and physical challenges surrounding this kind of limbo. Poetry and creative writing is an ideal vessel for this and we welcome all forms of poetry, flash-fiction and accompanying artwork. ‘Unhoused – Yearning for Home’ is scheduled to be published in early 2026.

Daily Overcomer

I know
I am locked out of heaven
fallen like the angels
My hiding place
a weathered house
by the meadow

Loneliness is the cold moon
in February
Frostbitten, my heart
pounding to keep warm
Anxiety is the sound
trapped deep inside
in shallow breaths

I need
a way out of
this daily attack

The texture of the canvas
pains my over-chewed fingers
The smell of the oil paint
calls me to create
Perhaps
there are wild flowers hidden
in the white and grey meadow
Maybe another pot of hot tea
I will find the anchor of my heartbeat

I know
I can bring the world
to my humble home
through my imagination
and the paintbrushes
Perhaps
I will reinstate heaven
to my heart’s desire

Queen of The Night

“She will meet you in ten minutes. Would you like a tea, coffee or water?” The girl asked.

“Water will be good, thanks.” He replied.

“Sparkling or still?”

“Tap water will be fine, thanks.”

He got up from the nubuck leather couch and walked towards the loft style gallery area. All the walls were filled with tasteful paintings except a space at the far corner, hung an empty frame, it looked a bit out of place. 

“Your tap water is over there by the couch, but she is ready to see you now, if you are ready?” The girl approached him.

“Ah sure sure. After you.” 

He was led to a small but functionable meeting room decorated with neutral toned modern furniture. It had a view of the Wooloomooloo Finger Wharf. He was left there to admire the view. There were cyclists and joggers. He was a little bit surprised to see them exercising in mid-morning. He turned around to the sound of the door being opened. Her hourglass body was hugged by a black knee length A-line dress, her siren red stilettos made an undeniable statement.  

“Apologies for running late. I hope you got a chance to look at the gallery.” She turned around to close the door. He had a full view of her back. A metal zipper ran full length of the dress, leading his eyes to her toned and well-defined calf muscles. 

To him, she looked like a queen of the night, mysterious and arousing. He quickly interrupted his own thought by thinking about the sweaty cyclist and joggers he saw earlier on. 

“OK, I am all yours.” She walked back to him.

“You what?” He couldn’t be sure what he heard.

“I am all yours. No interruptions.” She said again and sat down while gesturing him to do the same.

His face turned red. He sat down and avoided eye contact before he gathered himself. “Oh, of course. I was surprised to get the call about this meeting. What I means is that I am flattered. You know I am only a start-up artist. I had my first exhibition and only sold one painting, to my grandfather.” He laughed a self-inflicted sarcastic laugh. 

“I was once a new kid on the block. It’s understandable that you don’t consider your first exhibition successful because you didn’t sell many paintings. The mission of my gallery is to give emerging artists a platform to showcase their work and get a start in this highly bias and competitive market. I saw a few of your paintings sent to me by my curator. She’s right, your work is fresh and unique. I want to purchase the one titled “The Forgotten” and display in my gallery. I hope you see the frame I chose for it. Say no if you don’t think the frame works.”

“Ah my God! I don’t know what to say. Thank you! Thank you! For giving me a chance, a head start. Oh my God. Is this happening?”

She let out a string of laughter. “Don’t thank me. You earned it. Your work is niche, and I love niche.” She looked into his moistened eyes, “get out of here before I change my mind. Leave your account detail before you leave so you’ll get paid. I evaluated the painting and had a price in mind. You can say no to the offer, but I think you’ll be happy with my offer.” She winked at him before he quickly exited the room in case his tears of joy fell.  

He left his account detail with the girl at the front desk. She processed a payment straight away and gave him a printout of the transaction record. He was stunned by the high price of his first legitimate sale.  

“She wants to take you out for dinner to discuss more business. Here are the available time slots, which one should I book you in?” The girl asked.

Dinner?!!! Didn’t mind the business bit. His primal instinct was giving him an erection, for some strange reason. Not strange, it’s her curves and the siren red stilettos. He picked a time slot that was the soonest. 

The Beautiful Sad Artist

She is
very beautiful
very talented
and very sad

She said
the sadness
gave her inspiration
to create
something beautiful

She made peace
with herself
through art

Vincent

This is the version of you
my unskilled hand could manage
I know you won’t mind
because you didn’t think
your name would be remembered
or your face would tell fascinating history

You painted every scar into beauty
I am one of the many
in awe of your creativity
and touched by your humility

Patch of Grass

Who does grass
more justice than him

We all casually think
they are green

Under Vincent’s brush
they are fireworks
hidden in plain shells

In vibrant hues
and starbursts
we are awestruck
by his aesthetic launch

The miracles of love

let’s look up to the sky
to count the miracles of love
before the meteor shower

how love made us

soared among the avalanche
swam in a whirlpool of clouds

poured out composition of
distinctive colour contrasts
from a desolate interior
created masterpieces that
transcend emotions and impact
with buzzing noises

smiled brightly in monochromatic suffering
wept deeply for the oppressed in our triumph

love is boundless
even the shooting stars are
no match for her

Poets

They are bloggers
tapping their life on two screens
from the initial collision
progressing to sleep deprived nights
filled with wonders and laughter

The courtship
fueled them with creativity
Great art works
splashed on a starlight canvas
with primal hues and mystic tones
sprayed with rusted shades
perfected with mastery final tints

When the exhausion set in
they lamented in clarinet and cello duet
until the sun came up on a new day
to conclude the burial

Greif lingered like autumn rain
until the sun peeked out to
strike a rainbow over the sky
sending out a sumliminal message of hope

Their love affair made them
painters and musicians
but foremost Poets

Intricacy

I am fascinated by the music box mechanism
behind the graceful spinning ballerina
is the precision joining forces of fragments
set of pins on a revolving cylinder
plucking the steel comb lamellae

I imagine
the care and maintenance of such
an original piece
requires the patience and skills of
an artisan watchmaker

I am in awe of
the complex and detailed effort
to make real of
a simple gasp of amazement

I come to the realisation
whenever a praise of beauty is heard
a life long devotion is behind it all

Tunnel Gallery

living in the gloomy dullness of life
I saw the piercing light
like the mobile phone notification flashing at night

walking through this unfamiliar tunnel
seeker of the illumination
stretch my arms to the walls
guiding my path in the pitch black

my fingers interpreting the rough fossils on the walls
they speak despair, torment, light and beauty
frame by frame these engraving paintings of art
I drench in all the emotions on offer
without sight
my kinesthetic fingers
reading them in wondrous

you are the light drawn me to the walk
your life I have experienced
in this tunnel of art
when I finally reach you
I will be undone, done and
completed!