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My words were born of survival. I woke to them. I ran to them. They healed me. They needed me and I needed them. 

And so, an accidental writer... 

She Wasn't Like The Rest

She wasn’t like the rest. 

Flowers didn’t grow in her hair like the others. 

So she plucked her own from time to time and placed them in her wild hair. 

“Spores not seeds,” they all whispered behind their hands. 

Of difference.  

Of the way she grew her roots in the horizon. 

Of the way she lived and loved. 

Low light. So she made her own. 

Plenty of water. Though she thought she’d drown. 

What was it that kept her evergreen eyes so bright? 


-Jaime Lara Shannon Kurowski 

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This work she had to do

She had to do alone

Her ground unstable and disturbed by, “No longer…”

She had to let herself sink into the quicksand

Collapse with the weight of words that no longer served her

She had to hold her breath and stay calm and sit still


For limits. Barriers. Walls. Unavailability. 

Her childhood. Her patterns. Her love stories. 

She had to let them separate from her cells. 

Sift through the tiny rocks and shells so small

they can no longer be recognized. 

Strip them from her mind into naked and vulnerable.

To emerge first. 

For this was the way out. Up. 

Without a host.

Without weight.


Suffocating, they had no choice but to release their grip one by one. 


First to rise through the tiny grains were:




















Not Enough


Lone Wolf

The wild lone wolf desires nothing. 

He has it all, tucked in the trees. 

Wind on his face when he runs free.  

The ground beneath his feet firm. 

A deep rumbling from his chest. 

Claiming females under a full moon. 

Alpha strength unmatched. 

Hunting his prey.

Fresh water at the foot of the mountain. 

He wants for nothing but his freedom.


She watches him from the window. 

For domesticating a wild beast is to cage.

So she dare not invite him in. 

Only to ride on his back through the wild wind. 

Feast on his prey. 

Be claimed under the full moon. 

Instincts pulsing.pulling hair. 

Silhouette of her arched back howling against moonlight. 


Only to be gently placed back on her porch before dawn. 

Where she can write of their adventures.  

Swirl words on wood in attempt to write him down.  

Keep him somehow. 

As he once again retreats to the trees.  


And he watches her from the woods.

And brings her berries and places them by her screened door.

For taming her wild desire for more is to cage.

He dares never to invite her in.

Only to give her rides on his back in the wild wind.  

Feast on her skin. 

Claimed only by nature.


-Jaime Lara Shannon

These words given to her through speech or spirit

That she allowed to stay for far too long.  

Rising with them the shame 

of allowing them to stay at all. 

“I am not enough,” leaving last. 

Clinging to her leg like a child. 

The heaviest one. 

She sat with it for a while.

A staring contest

Through years of limitations


And when she finally blinked

It was gone.  


Once released she felt her freedom rise like helium. 

Lifting her up though the broken rocks and shells 

finally seen as one

Creating beautiful beaches to rest upon. 

Finally emerging into light

Gasping for breath 

Solid ground beneath her body. 

She was free. 

Stripped down. 


Skin  raw  from  her  rising. 

Splashing in the surf.

She was free. 


And when she returned to the trees

She dressed herself in lovely. 

Placed beauty in her hair.

While sensuality slipped off her shoulder.

Slipped strength upon her feet. 

Looked down at the solid ground.

And finally stepped into Herself. 

-Jaime Lara Shannon Kurowski


Buried Alive

Every time she allowed the words to feel true 

Sprinkles of soil would crumble down from the sky onto her head.



C r um bl e


C rum b le


Cr u mbl e


Layer by layer, little by little her belief in these words accumulated until she became motionless. 


Face down and covering her head as the dirt continued to fall like rain. 


Now covered in earth, curled up and holding her breath. 


She could still hear the crumbling of dirt above her as one hears prayers and goodbyes drop on a casket.


She could feel the footsteps packing and pacing over her until the ground became hardened.


 Dry and lifeless. A small patch of clay forming above her surrounded by a field of green grass. 


As the sun baked her body into the clay, she became one with the seeds. 

Without water. 

Without sunlight. 


Until one day. 

Rage began to root and form tendrils from her fingertips. 

She began to rock and loosen the grip surrounding her. 

She arched her back as if to stand and layers upon layers of earth lifted above her. 

She did this until a tiny crack zigzagged it’s way upward like lightning. 


There in a field of grass.

A tiny patch of clay. 


With a tiny crack. 


The days to follow brought heavy rain. 

Water dripped down through the clay landing on her arched and aging back. 







The days to follow brought magnificent sunlight. 

Warmth filled spaces that she didn’t even know existed. 


And what happened next was a miracle. 

A tiny sprout sprung from her spine. 

Rebirth from water and light. 


And she grew and she grew and she grew 


Until a tiny green stem poked from the red clay in the grassy field.


And she grew and she grew and she grew 


Until a rare and beautiful wildflower stood tall.


Until one day. 

A little girl came and spotted this rare and beautiful flower. 

And she wanted to place it in her hair. 

So she tugged. And she pulled. And she heaved this rare and beautiful flower until the clay began to crumble. 

And when this rare and beautiful flower finally emerged from the earth 

so did a woman. 

A woman who spent all those years listening to the earth and could no longer hear the words that buried her any longer. Dirt no longer fell from the sky. 


And she hugged the little girl and picked her up and spun her around! 


And the woman warned the girl not to listen to the dirt that falls from the sky. 

-Jaime Lara Shannon

Edge of a Memory

I stood at the edge of a memory 

Fearless and full of fear

Not sure if I should jump

Daring myself to dangle from it’s pain

Toes inch back deciding not to jump 


Instead I dove

Into it’s wasted space 

Tousled through tears and doubt

Banging against jagged walls of shame

Echos of embarrassment from every direction


Falling falling falling falling falling falling 


Through time. 

To the girl on the other end of the memory. 

Curled up and crying. 

To lift her chin. 

To stand her up.

To dance naked in the living room to the beat of her blood. 

Arms flickering above her head like flames

Hips hot 

Swaying and swirling 


And when I knew she would keep dancing, I could return to its edge. 

Elbows on the table. 

Hands tucked under my chin. 

Grin of satisfaction. 

And watch her dance at the edge of a memory. 


-Jaime Lara Shannon 

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