The Art of Words - 2025
The Art of Words exhibition in the City Gallery, which is in the lobby of the Augusta Richmond County Municipal Building located at 535 Telfair St. Augusta, GA 30901, from March 6 – May 1, 2025 with a walk-and-talk reception on Friday, March 28th from 11:00 a.m. – 1:00 p.m.
Find out more about this showcase by clicking here!
Below you will find our local visual artist’s works alongside their corresponding local writer’s works. Our writers were inspired to create one-of-a-kind works for this exhibition as a collaborative showcase of talents. This event was created in partnership between the Greater Augusta Arts Council and the Augusta Literary Society.
Click the image link below to shop these amazing works of literary and visual artworks!
The Threshing Floor
I don’t believe in Man who is almighty
So there’s no use in praying for me
I’ve survived rock-bottom before
I’m the Maker of my own Threshing Floor
You might believe redemption I need
No grain without chaff, sin sprouted from good deed
I’m the chaff that in the wind is swirling away
Unquenchable fire awaits me on Judgment Day
I’d rather spend live enjoying my youth
Then kneeling at Man’s feet inspired by Ruth
You may believe you and I will be Judged
I’ll choose wild & free over chaste & untouched
I’ll make peace with my inner storm
Cosmic karma will prevent me from harm
Indoctrination might want to break my spine
I’ll believe what I want and decide what’s Divine
Written by: Evy Dacnkers
And all that remains,
In the edges,
The depths,
There is love!
It began slowly and blossomed,
Like a delicate water lily,
Over serene waters,
Washed alabaster.
Now, all-encompassing devotion,
Flowing like a fountain,
Purified in safe-keeping,
Treated with utmost gentleness,
Brought faithfully to the surface.
Strength lies within the nexus,
Where challenge meets fragility,
And humanity meets tenderness,
This, dear love, is how my heart endures.
Written by: E.J. Batiste
— For O.
Who am I? What am I?
All I know is that I am not the same as before. I was once a piece of admiration, a specimen for nature’s dissection, something that crawled on the ground while others towered above me like skyscrapers. Then, I became an object of beauty, adorned with colors, soaring through the air among the stars. I had once been trapped in a shell, afraid to reveal myself, but when I finally emerged, I felt the thrill of my own beauty, even as it stung the hearts of my naysayers. Out of the chrysalis and into the water, I thought I had found myself, but the water above felt like another shell, enclosing me while everything else swam past. I longed to break free, to stop letting life pass me by. All I needed was a small crack, just enough to reach the water, to join the rest—even if I was just another number in a vast sea. But I could never escape my past, the tail of fear that followed me everywhere. It kept me from growing the feet I needed to move forward. I needed a hand to grip, a step toward spiritual growth, so I could grow my sea legs, leap from the water, and be seen again.
Out of the ocean and moving downstream, I wanted to be noticed, to be part of something. But once I was seen, I felt lost. Others scrutinized everything about me—how I walked, talked, dressed, loved, even the way I styled my heirs. I cared too much. I changed my shape, my sound, my being, just to fit into a race I never truly belonged to. And in doing so, I felt shallow, like the thin layers of the egg and chrysalis before. I hated myself for it. I lost myself trying to be seen. So, I returned to the sea, to where I had once hidden. But this time, I came back stronger,
wiser from experience. In the ocean, among the others, I finally saw myself again. Still, I questioned where I fit, what box I needed to check to be noticed. I changed the way I spoke, the words I used—just to be heard. It lifted me out of the ocean, into the light I sought. Shining meant I was finally seen, finally heard, finally appreciated. Shining meant I had emerged from the depths of uncertainty, that I had achieved growth without doubt clouding me. But was the shine worth it? Was it worth the change, the loss of identity, losing my true self? No—because something always comes to dim that light. And once you no longer shine for them, are you still their object of admiration? No. You are cast back into the ocean from which you came.
Out of the shine of life and into the death of the ocean, I realized I was only a fraction of my former self. That self was gone, dead even. All that remained was a shell, a hardened monument to my past. Yet, from the cracks of that shell, I emerged. The true representation of everything that shaped me. The bitter roots grounding me in my experiences. The colors I wear, even through death. The thorns on my side, warning off harm. The branches stretching out, connecting to the friends and family who nurtured me along the way. And at the top—the fruit of my labor, the petals of my knowledge, the nectar of my self-love. Who am I? What am I? I am me, and I love who I am.
Written by Specks Thompson
Waltz of the Celestial Dreamers
In a sea of cosmic hues so deep and dreams unbound by chains,
A single thread of hope and kitelike dreams extend,
Drifting high where stardust rains.
Carried by whispers of an endless sky where gravity holds no claim,
A childlike imagination fills the skies,
Sketching worlds of silver light, untamed.
Lost in the hush of celestial dreams, a dance begins to form,
Speckled with stars, a universe created,
Cradled in love amidst a cosmic storm.
Time dissolves in weightless flight where dreamers only dare,
The brave take on the dance of beauty,
Spinning through the silent air.
There are no rules where imagination drifts,
No end to wonder’s endless flight,
In the arms of stars, the dreamer lifts,
Dancing free into the night.
Written by Passionate Wesby
There is Power in HER Stillness
She sits, finally. For the first time in what feels like forever, the world ceases its relentless spin, not because it has stopped, but because she has. The chair beneath her feels foreign, as if her body has forgotten how to rest. Yet here she is, in this quiet place, letting the hum of the air weave itself around her like a comforting embrace.
A cluster of yellow roses catches her eye, their golden glow a soft beacon in the stillness. Their petals unfurl delicately, whispering truths of patience, resilience, and growth. Nearby, a yellow-bellied bird hovers, its wings stretched wide, frozen in midair as if held by an unseen hand. Suspended at eye level, the bird is both impossibly near and untouchable.
She closes her eyes, not out of weariness, but because it is the only way she can truly feel herself. In this moment, she has arrived, not to a place, but to herself.
The bird remains. Its quiet persistence draws her back, its presence as steady as her own. It becomes a mirror, reflecting the stillness she has long denied herself. She realizes, how often she has waited for permission, permission to exhale, to smile, to simply exist in her fullness.
Her face softens, though it bears the weight of newfound understanding. Freedom is not just in the flight of the bird; it is in the hovering, the deliberate stillness, the refusal to be rushed by the winds of the world. She feels the tightness within her begin to loosen, the threads of tension unraveling as her breaths deepen, as her spirit settles.
The bird does not leave. Its wings remain outstretched, a quiet reminder that stillness is not the absence of movement, but the presence of intention. The roses nod gently, as if in approval, their petals alive with the knowledge she is just beginning to grasp.
She doesn’t smile; not yet. But her face holds a quiet certainty, the kind that belongs to someone who has discovered that freedom isn’t something granted by the world’s mercy. It’s something claimed in her own stillness.
She has paused for herself. And in that pause, she has found her power.
Written by Ma’Chere Denise Tucker
Oracle and Aglais io discuss quantum mechanics
being is liquid, Butterfly, the same forward as back, it flows.
perched on the eyelid of Oracle—
who perpetually keeps one eye closed
& one open to watch all worlds,
Butterfly draws lazy circles with her antennae.
nevertheless, Oracle goes on, in her usual way,
we are partial silty perception— riverbeds that shift & waters slip
through our skin.
Butterfly fluffs her wings, disliking the heaviness of water. I’d rather alight
in a world absent rivers.
Oracle stifles her sigh. it’s rather impossible.
part of you
would still be here. you’ll see. keep one eye closed, look inward & outward at once—
you exist in both places. basic quantum mechanics: a particle seems
to disappear from a double potential well, despite
zero probability for tunneling outside.
Butterfly ponders for a moment, unsure
of how to disappear at will but glad tunneling isn’t required.
she was unaccustomed to anything but flight.
Oracle concedes, even for those inured to quantum oddities, such an effect
seems to be an order of magnitude weirder.
weirder, indeed, harumphs Butterfly, as she closes one eye
.
& Oracle, her lips never parting,
casts her orange-red-blue-green words into streams. her song ribbons
light waves and sound indistinguishable from Butterfly
whose wings are turning to mist.
Written by Nadine Ellsworth-Moran
Mistaking Magic
Just like a woman
to sense her strength
still question her power–
mistaking magic
with impulse, desire.
She looks fierce fights
the words inside her mouth
which threaten to spill
a spell. Is she green
with inexperience? Innovation?
Her ancestors weigh on her
with obligation.
Written by Anna Harris-Parker
The Content
The corner of the rug, slightly upturned, began the conversation about content. Tripping over my edge, the contents of my bag flew in the air like a badly rehearsed scene from a mediocre RomCom, leaving me on the floor surrounded by random items I had been hoarding like a chipmunk in my purse cheeks. I sat for a moment, looking over the items on the floor, wondering why in the world I’d saved these scraps of my life.
I can’t say I’m ill-content with how the month has transpired or my life, but I found on the floor, a ticket stub from the Post Exchange given to me by a man attempting to sell kitchen knives. The ticket made me the proud owner of a cheap screen cleaner for my cellular device. Sighing deeply, I pulled myself from the temporary pity party, and the dull pain in my backside from the tumble, getting to my feet. A slow gathering of the items on the floor was brought to my desk, which in itself is covered with random scraps of research and the innards of an old church book of music composition. An idea strikes as I began an assembly of the items on my desk.
The book, opened, the contents of the spine displayed for an open-heart dissection. Pieces of ragged fabric remain from a book created in 1913 for church composer E.L. Ashford, a woman who wrote My Task. A smile forms at the corner of my lips knowing, one hundred and twelve years later, she shall again become relevant. Well, at least to me, and a few others who gaze upon the work.
A small chuck of black wax is left over from the seals I made on invitations to my party. I melt the last chunk, pouring it on a scrap of gauze, pressing into the wax with my seal. Bits of thread are used to stitch down a postage stamp over a circle of the map, while the needle and thread used from the last quilting project permanently affix in the inner contents of the book to the outer. It needs a pop of color. The cover of the book was red, and pieces of the spine were added, bringing the outside in.
I look at it.
I have no idea what I have made.
I like E.L., sit at my instrument, composing in words as she formerly composed in notes. The heart, the soul, the mood of life, I encapsulate in words, binding them into pages for others to read, feel and enjoy. Yet the joy in the process can leave the composer, less than content. The words matter. My words matter. The compositions matter because this ain’t no solo act; it requires teamwork. My team works with me to ensure the beauty of my words still reaches open hearts, or even hearts which may be closed, can potentially be opened.
In the end, it gives us what we want, simply to be content.
Written by Olivia Gaines
Song of Promises
We walked to the dam
with our fingers woven
together like a promise.
When we reach the
bars you told me…
Love is what will bind us.
Like this lock upon a gate,
it will be what defines us.
Your words held truth
but I found something
missing from your song.
Now I stand before the
same dam holding a key.
Because love isn’t love
unless it sets us free.
Written by Jamal Robinson
Sanctuary
She wears the wind in her hair, a nest of truth, coiled and defiant, every strand whispering secrets of a lineage unbroken by chains. Her profile cuts the air clean, a silhouette kissed by resilience. Her lashes fall like velvet curtains, closing the stage of the waking world. The noise fades to whispers, the weight slips away, and she sinks into the quiet of herself.
Her shoulders lower, heavy yet free, anchoring her like a ship to still waters.
The tides of her breath grow calm, pulling her inward, here, the air is warm and golden, carrying the scent of forgotten summers. And the songs of a thousand sunrises. The sky stretches endlessly, her dreams weaving constellations, that guide her through the vastness.
There are no walls here, only open fields and flowing rivers, each bend a sanctuary, each ripple a whisper of her name.
The ground is soft beneath her feet, and the horizon bends to her will, stretching only as far as she desires. In this place, she is everything—the architect, the wanderer, the sovereign of serenity. Her burdens scatter like shadows at dawn, and what remains is her essence, whole, untethered, alive.
The world cannot reach her here. This is her creation, her haven,
A realm where time is hers to command, where silence is her ally.
This is peace—not soft, not silent—but a roaring calm, the kind you find after a storm has wept its fury into the earth. In the stillness of her gaze, you hear the hum of a thousand battles, and still, she stands.
And that is why they call her sanctuary.
Written by GLOW MAFIA