Symbolic Scribbles Series Sunday Edition [13 April 2025]
An ongoing poetic conversation chain with SylviA 🌞 KalinA and Jeremy Nathan Marks
'Symbolic Scribbles Series' rekindles that magic, creating a space for poetic symbolic 'scribbles' where meaning hides in metaphors and symbols, waiting to be discovered. Each poem builds upon the last, like a literary game of telephone, where interpretations can twist and turn in unexpected ways.
To join the letter chain, send your symbolic scribble to the most recent featured poem by emailing noxartlab@gmail.com or messaging
S y l v i A 🌞 K a l i n A
New series will be released 3 times a week so subscribe to stay connected! We look forward to building a publication that transcends distance and bridges it with fun and inspiring poetic scribbles.
Sincere thanks for reading!
Sunday Editions will be an ongoing poetic conversations with
S y l v i A 🌞 K a l i n A and Jeremy Marks
We hope you enjoy this series and invite you to participate in the weekly series publication chain.
Last Sunday’s Edition can be found HERE
We start back today with S y l v i A 🌞 K a l i n A
art by John Guiseppi, The Florida Sandhill Crane
Sandhill Trumpet Solo —
S y l v i A 🌞 K a l i n A
Granite teeth smile, razors piercing sky as we descend This still silent city, haunting long shadows stretching wide Over cold voiceless memories under watchful gaze of sun. Cellophane cattle clamour, rattling, grotesque imitation, Hungry, multiplying—choking fields and veined waterways Desperate, now, to graze the unconquered curated bounty. Fingers clutch etched names in reverence, escaping to find Mortal respite, discarding the hollow ancient weight of Ancestral wisdom. We release our memorial stones, among The permanence they crave, migrational stories of life, wilder Scriptures, weighted reminders among unnatural monuments, Synchronizing our unison trumpet call, fragile truce consequence, Severance from land’s true orchestra. They curate stillness of manicured denial, vibrant chaos That sustains, polishing stones while the living world bleeds, Skewed ethical visions blurring with no prescription, Leopold’s Land lost in the grasping for fleeting peace. Our voices call Not for remembrance etched in stone, but for a reverence for The breathing whole. Observe this hunger at the threshold, the Vacuous semblances of life you have wrought in gates around Your manufactured peace built on lies, a crumbling dam against the Rising tide of your leavings. Hear our unified piercing call, a Truer truth, a lament for the severed connection, a warning echoing Across Curated Plains: the land remembers all you cast aside. The wind whispers through the markers, carrying seeds of Breath-born tales. —sylvia ©2025 SylviA 🌞 KalinA
[The Reply]
image by Jeremy Nathan Marks
Alewife —
A bridge was built to move freight across the swift moving current. Steel was cooked to make it look like the sun requires a mirror. The sky does not visibly age (father takes his ease). The river, between footings and spans, also seems as young as in the time of the alewife, when what land there was, was as dumb as Job. A bridge was built to make freight the current moving swift. And in a square on the other side of a rotary with full view of the blinking tower, geese and egrets drop feathers without a further thought. Spines dampen first, then the barbules. The river tells the sky it can ignore (not that it should) this steel toy, built of a child who never knew the alewife. A river built itself but in the shadow of what. Night alone (the sky again). Actually, it’s as Bishop said: ‘the water seemed suspended above the rounded gray and blue-gray stones.’* Yet, rocks have no feet, so how does the land carve water into ribbons, rivulets like Merrimack and Mystic. Or, mother, are we not each of us part of some giant fish where stones and water run between scales, seeking either mouth or tail. ©2025 Jeremy Nathan Marks *The line quoted is from ‘At the Fishhouses’ by Elizabeth Bishop
 | A guest post by
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I love this journey you two are going on together. It is entertaining, educational, expressive, elegant, and eloquent. One Love.
Egrets, storks the Everglades water of life, carrying alewives fish tales taller than one stilt leg up erector sets steel mills red dye rust running down steams to color scales green speared by bills bobbing down economic ways through the glades hour glass turned brown upside down drought strikes agin penniless fish fry to become archaic remains but rise the storks bills will bring bundles of joy. Try a smoke stack emitted damper —flu relief, a small pill away; but years more to pay for bundles believed to be new year’s old days left behind in by way s gone beyond Merrimack’s River stones gouge days .