Longing by Kelly Sauvage Moyer

Welcome!

Are you living with Lyme Disease? Do you feel dismissed by medical professionals, family and friends? Of course you do! Thank goodness we've found one another! This is a place for you to be seen and heard. This, my friend, is a space where you can connect with others as you journey through each challenge and triumph. This is a gallery for the sharing of your creative expressions. So, what are you waiting for? Send your poetry, prose and art to me at unfazedmoon@gmail.com.

baby by David Wiggins

∴ gridlock grip radios rage harsh horns blameless invisible hitchhiker riding shotgun with their baby’s spirochete-shaped toys no hoarder of keepsakes yet these toys remain unbidden, in the car’s confines navigation fogged voices speaking foreign lost in tongues unknown a throng of commuters thundering past a stampede of haste temperature spikes engine protesting overheating in defiance tires wearing thin tread fading fast inch by weary inch angry gestures fly as vehicles creep by their impatience palpable brakes fail a screeching wail sqreeeeeeee head-on collision a breath. a release a moment’s caress of this chaos a minor delay homeward bound. soon i’ll be on my way ∴ https://poetryandphoto.wordingway.com/?s=Spiro

The Pussy Whip by Kelly Sauvage Moyer

Once upon a time, in the very heart of the Village of Greenwich, there lived a performance artist, known for her vision, manifested in striking stage pictures and bold feminist statements. She would tell you that her art was not just her work; it was a calling, emerging out of her journey from small-town midwestern girl to tour de force, with periods of victim and survivor somewhere in between. Having lucked into a rent-controlled apartment in the ‘90s, she kept her needs modest so that she might enjoy every bit of serendipity that came her way. And, oh, did it ever. Learning early on that she could give herself a fuller life than “a good man” might, she relished in her freedom to travel the globe, staging performances, be they sanctioned or rogue, speaking her truth in a manner so memorable as to land her on the cover of many a magazine. Then, there came a time she found herself sidelined with mysterious symptoms that no doctor could diagnose. Thus, the hours that were once spent bene

Spiro Keats

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