*The collaborations with Debra Balchen, Grady Harp and James Needham have been previously published by Didi Menendez publications, GOSS183 Publishing Group.*

Above is my collaboration with artist/sculptor Debra Balchan which was displayed, along with Debra's sculpture of the girl, at Palette and Chisel Academy of Fine Arts. We addressed a law in Mozambique which stated that if a girl under the age of 13 was raped, all charges could be dropped if the rapist then (saving the face of the girl's family) marries the girl. Debra's piece, Sacrificial Lamb, is breathtaking. If you look closely, you will see the words of my poem, The Sheets, in the background.

THE SHEETS
by Laurie Kolp

The sheets are bleached white and ironed crisp
like you like them, no sign of blood or struggle
left behind. The way you threw me on the bed
that night, spread my arms and legs, I thought

we were making snow angels on pillows until
you stilled me with your stone eyes, quieted me
with fists of steel. I remember darkness, my lids
shut tight as if your ripping off my clothes might

end if I didn’t look, but I felt your fingernails dig
into my flesh, your knuckles bear into my thighs
and pull them apart, a wishbone, close to the edge
of snapping, but not quite. I made a wish in vain

as what once was pleasure self-imposed (when I
put my hand in my panties and rubbed, rubbed
until the rupture) became ugly and painful, what
you were doing to me not eager fingers anymore

but your maleness standing tall and firm just like
the bed post; so close, I felt your pulse, your sweaty
skin as you probed further in, faster, over and over
again, then left me lying naked in bloody stains.

My life is now devoted to you, sir… I hope you think
I’m a good wife. At twelve, it’s the only thing I know.

 
///

Grady Harp and I collaborated on this poem together. His part is italicized. Hector Milia provided artwork and audio.

OF THE SEA AND LEGENDS AND ECHOES
by Grady Harp and  Laurie Kolp   

Rise, rising from a seabed
through swirlings of foam and forks of light
from the distant sun that would dare breach
the dark of my kingdom. I, the mighty Neptune,
whipping my hippocampi to pull this chariot
away from rest, away from placid
undulating depths of my ocean throne
to answer a voice that ever escapes
my desires.

Anchor me in seaweed,
in tangles of sanguine hair.
Let Man-o-War squeeze all breath from me
with tentacles that won’t let go,
but don’t turn away
as if I’m nothing.
I struggle in currents,
circling plankton a wake
of wonderment.
Sea anemone bejewel the arms
I stream before your eyes,
but you fail to see
beyond the confines
of your throne
where you sit
alone.

Sirens sing, seduce shipsmen to their lair.
I rise to reach for their perfect swimming bodies
….call her Undine, Rusalka, but call her ….
I try.
A god should have control,
but the heart of man
so longingly clogged in my breast
begs for the solace and the passion
that fails to cut the veil
of myths and legends.

Wreckage of what could be,
your consideration the setting sun
I can’t swim fast enough to catch
or jump high enough to reach.
Must I bathe before your chariot,
intoxicate you with splashing
bubbles of champagne?

She in her beauty and radiance
fails to sense a thought,
a god whose longings sink back
through the darkening foam of the sea,
alone.

Fury propels me to coral reefs
where I think of loving you.
I rally dolphins,
swim from shore to shore
drawing hearts in waves,
but still, I’m nothing
when you fail to see
beyond the confines
of your throne
where you sit
forlorn.

I try.
A god should have control,
and yet without her song
her breast and seething beauty
a myth perhaps?
Longing, a god
alone.

"Poet on Fire" by artist Rebecca Venn @ http//rebeccavenn.com

Rebecca Venn Profile Poem
by Laurie Kolp

Noted: nudes on Sunday
morning sessions, live
models sketched in 25-
minute stretches, 25
pictures appearing
in my news feed
from all angles. Time
stands still as the model
stretches out on bed, arms
flung above the head, knees
bent. Scrolling down the page
a walk: the two of us on Sundays
after church while Mom keeps the kids.

//

Painted by James Needham @ http://www.jamesneedhamart.com/index.html

James lives in Australia and I live in Texas, so how did we collaborate? James painted my portrait from a picture, and I used paintings from his online gallery to inspire me to write a poem. Interpretation.

RESEMBLANCES 
by Laurie Kolp

Define the moment
you discover a seductress
sporting a light knit jumper
and burgundy boots,
sans pants,
waiting in your leather chair.

Captivate her attention with your usual flair,
uncensored flattery the key. Compliment
her raven hair shining beneath her blue beanie
like your mother’s hair shined
when she was alive.

In your mind, caress her silken skin
with oil-on-canvass brushstrokes,
fingers longing for a simple touch
just one more second to embrace her,
if only you had that chance.

Wonder why you’re not thinking
of art, but of familiarity,
a subtle trait
her sullen countenance,
a look that says she’s real,
living life on life’s terms--
hard knocks or not--
she’s resilient and strong,
but those sunken eyes 
wear such exhaustion… why?

Was it 11 blacked-out nights,
endless hours unaccounted for, whereabouts unknown
the trips to Vegas, strangers’ beds, county jails
or so they say in stories shared amongst drunk friends
knowing when you finally made it back
she’d hold you tight, then scold you
for worrying her so?

Was it the women you brought home, the lack
of discretion in places that you met,
your insatiable appetite she called debauchery
when she finally had enough and kicked you out?
Note an expression less than innocent,
complexities reflected in the way
she doesn’t smile, doesn’t seem to need you
but through her hopeless state,
you know she needs you

like your mother needed you, but you failed to see
desperation in the way she spoke of loneliness,
posture wilted, eyes grounded as if a sidewalk
mirage held her hostage, as all around the bilious sky
funereal moods spread like ashes rising
from the smoky realms of hell.     

Tell this woman she’s beautiful and loved,
that she’s everything your mother was
before she stepped off the roof               away from you,
parting the  clouds  as her soul flew high, a Phoenix.

Ask her where she’s been.

*Paintings: Ally, “Ally”, The Roof, 11 Green Bottles (2013)

Hello, it's Your Mother is available at Finishing Line Press
Upon the Blue Couch is available on AMAZON and BARNES & NOBLE