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Alyssa Ferguson
Alyssa Ferguson

441 Followers

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ILLUMINATION

·2 days ago

Samson in Mahaneh-Dan

(Excerpt from The Philistines, a work in progress) The woman bore a son, and named him Samson. The boy grew, and the Lord blessed him. The spirit of the Lord began to stir him in Mahaneh-dan, between Zorah and Eshtaol. (The Holy Bible, NRSV. Judges 13:24–25) In Zorah, a Danite…

Samson

3 min read

Samson in Mahaneh-Dan
Samson in Mahaneh-Dan
Samson

3 min read


Published in

Prism & Pen

·May 10

A Meditation on the LGBTQ+ Backlash, a Glimpse of Better Times Ahead

How we are, where we are — There is a tide in the affairs of men, Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune; Omitted, all the voyage of their life Is bound in shallows and in miseries. …

Transgender Rights

10 min read

A Meditation on the LGBTQ+ Backlash, a Glimpse of Better Times Ahead
A Meditation on the LGBTQ+ Backlash, a Glimpse of Better Times Ahead
Transgender Rights

10 min read


Mar 15

Jean-Jacques

My colleague, Jean-Jacques, had ideas of reform. He tempted me — we went to have a coffee at a restaurant in Tours, one of those delightful little restaurants of France, where you sit outdoors, in open view of any chance, and free to openly decry the failings of the…

Poetry

2 min read

Jean-Jacques
Jean-Jacques
Poetry

2 min read


Published in

Prism & Pen

·Jan 19

My Happy Transgender Coming-Out Story

It ends well. But it starts long ago. — When I was a little girl I knew I was a little girl. But that’s like saying I knew the sky is orange. No one knows the sky is orange, because the sky is by definition blue — except in places like Chicago along the lakefront at night, but that’s…

Transgender

4 min read

My Happy Transgender Coming-Out Story
My Happy Transgender Coming-Out Story
Transgender

4 min read


Jan 13

The Wakeful Bear

a whimsical sonnet

Poetry

1 min read

The Wakeful Bear
The Wakeful Bear
Poetry

1 min read


Jan 8

Saffron: a shaggy dog story

Saffron is a precious substance, but easy to obtain. Buy some crocus bulbs. Plant them. Watch them grow. Harvest the saffron. Now your menu is replete with exotic esculents. But the cost of harvest — how severe it is! Its cost is measured in tedium: For you must comb…

Poetry

3 min read

Saffron: a shaggy dog story
Saffron: a shaggy dog story
Poetry

3 min read


Dec 17, 2022

Death by Fog

In the Faroe Islands  a farmer may commonly die  while minding sheep.

Poetry

1 min read

Death by Fog
Death by Fog
Poetry

1 min read


Published in

Prism & Pen

·Nov 25, 2022

Thanksgiving 2022 from a Trans Woman’s Perspective

A poem of listening — I get so tired, listening to the voices, the words, so many times — Maybe if you were not quite so weird, quite so queer — and so many times we explain, and so many times are unheard. But I hear I am exhausted, and my sisters and brothers are so very tired. Maybe if we went into hiding, like we did when the world was more sensible, when girls were girls and men were men. . .

Transgender

1 min read

Thanksgiving 2022 from a Trans Woman’s Perspective
Thanksgiving 2022 from a Trans Woman’s Perspective
Transgender

1 min read


Aug 9, 2022

Study no. 4: Pedagogy

A study on Abel Carlevaro’s Microestudio 6 Each of your efforts, each symptom, each bit of yours written more wittily, wakes in me yearnings, wakes meaning, makes every bit richly felt, even when all I feel, I miss, are feelings of holding you, scolding you, molding you. . . Holding me, folding me. . . What we touch, did touch, what wasted. . . What calls, beckons? — quickens? A beacon. What calls? Humor, hoping, recalling. What calls? Calming, shaping, distilling. What hurts? Losing, giving, releasing. What hopes? Leaving, giving, receiving your love. I am always with you. Always you are with me. Enough for today.

Poetry

1 min read

Study no. 4 — Pedagogy
Study no. 4 — Pedagogy
Poetry

1 min read


Aug 7, 2022

The Cicada

I met a cicada the other day. It was sitting on the wall of my garage. Cicadas aren’t seen in my neighborhood — It is not the sort of weather for them here. I looked in its eyes, and was taken back To forgotten bits of memory: of heat, Of the warm evenings of childhood in the east, Of days in the shade, and the sweat of night, And cicada skins all clinging to the trees. But back in myself, in my cold northwest, Inscrutable eyes looking back at me, I was glad to be away, to have escaped.

Poetry

1 min read

The Cicada
The Cicada
Poetry

1 min read

Alyssa Ferguson

Alyssa Ferguson

441 Followers

Born and raised in a literary household, I write to clarify my own questions.

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