The Patriot:
Inspired Minds Volume 4
Spring 2021
Mission Statement Through The Patriot: Inspired Minds Literary & Arts Feature, we hope to enlighten the community to the endless capabilities of the minds roaming the UT Tyler campus of today and of tomorrow. This magazine connects each individual voice to that of its brothers and sisters in the arts. It boldly states, “We Are Here and no longer will we hide in the shadows.” Join us as we cast the light on writers, artists, playwrights, musicians, and many more. Here to illuminate your work.
Letter from the Editor Dear Readers, As another semester comes to a close, I am elated to share the fourth volume of Inspired Minds with all of you. For this volume, we wanted to portray a theme that we felt would be essential for everyone during this trifling time – healing and rejuvenation. As you’ll come to see, many of the pieces in this volume are centered around this theme. I feel that this unintentional coincidence really speaks to what we need right now: a time to heal. We have all felt the immense weight of the year, and I feel that this volume captures the relief felt after a time of anguish. As always, our team has put so much love and effort into this volume, and we hope it provides a sense of relief as this school year comes to a close. We thank our students, alumni, and faculty for their tireless dedication to sharing their works with us. Every semester, I have been absolutely blown away with the wonderful work the magazine has received, and this year is no exception. May you all continue to remain inspired.
Sincerely, Autumn VanBuskirk Chief Editor
Table of Contents Tender Tempest – Kaleigh Davis Love Easy – Mischel Moranville-Fry My Performance – Kimberly Lopez The Pillow – Mischel Moranville-Fry Identity – Dakota Moulton The Relentless Wind – Jolene Taylor In Each Stroke – Mischel Moranville-Fry Eric – Kaleigh Davis Happiness – Dakota Moulton Mind Versus Body – Kimberly Lopez Dandelion – Dakota Moulton
Volume 4, Spring 2021 Chief Editor – Autumn VanBuskirk Associate Editor – Monica Cruise Illustrator – Dove Lott Social Media Manager – Ary Rosario Contact Us! patriotinspiredminds.com For submissions: tpimsubmissions@gmail.com For general inquiries: tpiminspiredminds@gmail.com Instagram: uttyler_inspiredminds Twitter: UTT_PIM
Tender Tempest By Kaleigh Davis Quieten, tempest, there’s no need to howl, Your shout makes the mighty oak cower. Its leaves atremble, it gives a bow, As do we for we know your great power. Softly, dear wind, sing your lullaby, Still the earth and calm the seas, Dance in the limbs and sweep through the sky, Rest us blanketed by your breeze. Lay gently a kiss on my waiting cheek, Let me laze in your comfort and sway. Have mercy on us, humble and meek, And carry our burdens away. Calloused and weary, we worn souls implore, Bring us peace in the midst of this war.
Love Easy By Mischel Moranville-Fry Just keep it easy. Keep it calm, don’t rock the boat. Talk about the trivial things - the things that don’t matter, the things that will make her laugh or smile. Tell her jokes. Tell her about school. Tell her half-truths only because Truth is too heavy for her, too intense, too real. Say things are fine, they’re great. Say you tried a new recipe today. Say you are a terrible cook, and don’t argue when she says you’re perfect, perfect. Say you loved the doll she sent you for your birthday, say you keep it on your bed. Say you’re happy at school, love your teachers, love the subjects. Say you’re doing your best, force the smile. It’s just for as long as the phone call, anyway. Whatever you do, don’t go any deeper. Don’t let the anxiety, the fear, or the real problems reach her. Don’t talk family, don’t talk politics, don’t ask her to try to see the other side of things. Don’t argue, don’t have an opinion. Don’t be too happy, don’t be angry, don’t be too sad. Most of all, don’t ever be depressed. Don’t confide in her, don’t put that pressure there. Don’t tell her no, only speak in maybe’s and we’ll-see’s. Pull the mask on a little tighter, it’s only for as long as the phone call anyway. Don’t share secrets, and don’t ask for comfort. Please, please don’t ever cry. Love her easy. Love her gently. Swallow those heavy feelings, speak
only in cloud-words and nonsense. Let her keep her glass castle and crystal skies, try to see them. Watch her from behind your invisible walls and give in to her perceptions, placating. See yourself, the glass daughter, play her character, act her story. Don’t shatter her illusions. You’re the perfect, beautiful princess in that glass tower, smiling a glass smile, and it’s okay. Remember, this is the price of a mother.
My Performance By Kimberly Lopez This is my cue. I dance around creating smiles galore. I jump, I sway—all in command. Another puppet has been presented. I hold my breath and count to ten, I must look pretty and thin. Don’t forget the curve on your pale lips. Stand tall and ignore your tired soles. I feel everyone’s stare. Am I pretty enough? Is this okay? My body slowly fails to stay upright. The smiles begin to fade into concern. I fail, I gasp—all on my own. Another puppet shot down. Please, someone close the curtains.
The Pillow By Mischel Moranville-Fry Such a useless pillow, you are. A weathered old woman, discolored and frowning with age, a worn sponge wilted from years of aged tears, disfigured and encumbered from desperate embraces. Though your stuffing, I own, has softened with age. Aesop’s true tragedy, the loss of your goose down, with such gentle ways evoking just as magical nighttime fantasies, deep and undisturbed through dependable familiarity. If histories were your stuffing, you’d make a pillow still. Yet your presence persists, this weakness withstanding. What needed memories you bring of her; though useless to rest, I realize that age wears, too, upon my mind, the memories spilling from between the seams, and that those few left behind in the wilted, mellowed case, worn out by years of loving reflection, are truly filling.
Identity By Dakota Moulton Phantom touches of hands on my skin. Nightmares at night of others' sins. Lost my innocence, and lost in gin; lost my soul, lost my grin; lost my sanity, don’t know when;WhoI wear many masks, a new one each day; A new person I meet, a new person I play; What should I wear? What should I say? Smoosh me down and mold me like clay; I’ll be what they want till I decay;AmIdentity crushed
and then spliced, Kill me once, kill me twiceI’m the one who’ll pay the price. Pick a god, roll the dice.I?
The Relentless Wind By Jolene Taylor It is nothing new, the wind. It comes every summer and spring and winter and fall. Instead of bringing a cleansing rain, the clouds bring the wind. It blows dirt through the tight crevices of the windows and doors, it wrenches the still-green leaves off the trees, and it topples the rocking chair off the porch. But it cannot blow away the loneliness. You would think it could do at least that. We moved to this dry desert of a land a very long fifteen years ago in the heat of August. We sorted through our belongings and decided to keep many things we didn’t need, including the boat. Perhaps it was the memories of our fun times together that compelled us to drag it the 1,500 miles across the country. I loved that boat. The thought of shooting across the wake on the kneeboard over the pristine waters of Alder Lake, the children glancing placidly back while their father did his best to give me a good ride made me long for that feeling of freedom. We laughed on the water. The mom who never cussed would taunt her rolling-eyed kids. “Look at those floating dam logs.” Rolling eyes. “Jump into the dam water!” There was freedom in the boat.
There was no freedom in the desert. There was no water. The boat sat languidly under its tarp, letting the scorpions scurry along her belly and the black widow spiders take up residence in her bow. Her new owners would have quite the job getting her back to her former glorious self. That’s how I felt. The only house available for us to move into was a rundown place with no central heat or air. The house hadn’t seen inhabitants for three years. The owners spent a week cleaning then handed us the keys. My husband stayed in Washington for a month, finishing up the paperwork on the house I had falsely assumed we would grow old in. The four kids and I unloaded the U-Haul, maneuvered the boat to its resting place beside the house, divvied up the rooms, and killed our first five scorpions. The oldest son picked the room with the only window unit. It wasn’t the biggest room, but it didn’t have the door to the garage nor the door to the backyard nor the first-floor bathroom, so it was probably the best room in the house. He said it was fine. The oldest daughter got the room with the dusty, used queen bed and the door to the garage, but it was better than sharing bunk beds with her baby sister. The other son got the room that used to be the sunroom. There was no air conditioner or heater in that room, but he didn’t have to share with his brother, so that was a win for him.
The youngest daughter got the room off the kitchen with the bathroom. I killed some scorpions, swept out some spider webs, and claimed the upstairs master bedroom with the creaky steps and the awkward door leading to the roof and backyard. We were home. “When can we go home?” the children pleaded incessantly. “This is our home now,” the mom answered despondently. We did have some fun times that first year. Well, maybe that’s an overstatement. We had some times that made us smile. During a dust storm, my parents discovered a goat in their well house. They advertised for the owner, but no one claimed her, so they offered her to us. The kids happily took her in and named her Molly. My husband brought home a disabled German shepherd puppy we named Echo, and she and the goat became fast friends. There were rickety stairs that led up to the door to the master bedroom. The roof slanted down to the landing at the top of the stairs, and we often came home to the dog and the goat greeting us from their perch on the roof of the front porch. We laughed at what hillbillies we had become. It’s strange and quite sad that I cannot remember any truly happy times that first year. I remember taking walks down the road, talking to the curious cows that came up to the fence. I remember time spent together. But I don’t remember laughing. I cried a lot. I missed the water and the
green and the flowers and the ability to sleep without thinking every twitch or tickle was a scorpion on my skin. My best friend died the day before Thanksgiving, but my responsibilities as a teacher precluded my ability to attend her funeral. However, in February, for my birthday, my husband suggested a plane ticket to Washington. “We can afford one ticket, and I think you should go,” he offered. “You could see your friends. You could go to the ocean.” “If you buy the ticket, make it one way.” We made a decision. It would cost too much. The kids still needed a mom. We found a little cottage in town after that first year. We remodeled and worked together to turn the tiny place into a cozy home. It worked. We could walk to school and to my brother’s house, and we could walk with friends around the block in the evenings. We learned we could buy ten acres of pastureland for ten thousand dollars, so we bought land. We walked the property many times before determining the best spot. We collaborated on the floor plan and watched our dream home take shape. Everyone got his or her own room, except the parents. That would happen when the last kid moved out. We built horse pens and a chicken coop, planted a few trees, and coaxed some grass to grow in the yard.
Tonight I’m curled up on the couch with two small dogs. The rise and fall of their breathing brings me peace. Occasionally I hear the horses rattle their feeders, and, when the wind takes a brief hiatus, the chickens softly clucking as they bed down for the night. Our house has been devoid of children for almost three years. “Hey! How are you? When are you coming home?” “Hi, Mom. We’re really busy. Maybe spring break. Maybe Thanksgiving.” We’ve lived here fifteen years. We’ve accumulated things and animals. The house has been filled with the aroma of fresh-baked bread and cookies and Thanksgiving turkeys and Christmas hams, yet rarely with the happy voices of a family reunited. Maybe that time will come. Until then, I listen to the wind.
In Each Stroke By Mischel Moranville-Fry Do not make an artist’s brush to be a ruler binding nor mistake the beauty in formed lines forever winding, for each curve and jagged edge foretells the markings where such passion dwells within a canvas, not a model frame that like any other comes with stretch and mark the same, but each a woven history hidden beneath each layer to recall that unique stroke that shows above them all.
Eric By Kaleigh Davis In Nanny’s chair rocked Eric, a forty-year old man, Like a child, he sat for hours holding his mother’s hand. He mostly hummed ‘cause when he spoke his words weren’t understood, For Eric was forever stuck in an endless childhood. At birth his fate was known, his enemy a cord, Despite his mother’s fervent prayers that seemed to be ignored. All was known on this day that he was given life, Never would he have a child, nor would he have a wife. He loved all, and all loved him, but his pain was without block, Until the day he was called back home; on the door came a knock. Through Nanny’s door we heard her weep, Until she finally fell asleep. She dreamt her son danced in the sky, Through welling eyes, she wondered why no tears did he cry. He walked without stumble and spoke without slur, No suffering, no pain, but joy where they were.
His life had not ended, only just begun, He slipped away, arose by grace, like the set and rise of the sun. And so it is when loved ones part and darkness hides the way, It takes the eyes of faith to see that somewhere it is day.
Happiness By Dakota Moulton I looked for happiness in the couch and in the hall; I looked in books, in notes, in indecipherable scrawl; I tore up the floor, ripped down the walls; in Spring and summer; in Winter and Fall; On the clearest of days, in the worst of squalls; Oh where, oh where, had my happiness gone? I looked in bushes, pots, and the tallest of trees; I looked in the back of my closet and in the bottom of my tea; I dug in the dirt; I searched in the sea; I went through the garbage,
dug through debris; It was then I realized it was hiding from me. Cupboards and corners, bookshelves and beds; I checked in the attic and out in the shed; large or small, a throw pillow or thread; no sign I found, nor hide or hair or head; But I could not chase it if it had fled. I gave up looking then, I will admit; Instead, I found other things in which to commit; I studied my passions, and practiced my wit; Things I disliked
I learned to quit; I made new friends, learned to knit; And before I knew, no longer did I think of it. Only then, when from desperation I was free, Happiness came, and filled me with glee; No longer did it hide; No longer did it flee; For I could not chase happiness, it had to find me.
Mind Versus Body By Kimberly Lopez My body is a mess. My body is like the melting ice cube that’s been kicked under the counter. My body is like the disappointment a child feels when they drop their favorite ice cream treat. My body is like a car that is being too stubborn to start up its engine for the morning drive. My body is disappointing. My body remains in bed up until 3 in the afternoon with no motivation to get up. My body distances itself from anything social to simply keep its nervous system at peace. My body refuses to take a seat in the driver's side of the car because of the imagined fear. My body is all I have. My body pumps blood to keep me alive. My body heals itself because it remains strong. My body rises against toxic substances.
My body is a fighter. My body has battle scars. My body has imperfections. My body has meaning. My body is a beautiful mess.
Dandelion By Dakota Moulton You are a dandelion, my dear, Bright as the sun, and tough enough to crush concrete; You grow both in flawless lawns and in worn down wastelands, but as long as there is light, hope, you shall blossom. You are a dandelion, my dear, and some may call you a weed; they will destroy you, mock you, they will call you disgraceful words, words not true, filled with disgustbut know they only hate you for they themselves are filled with hate. You are a dandelion, my dear; and Know that for those that despise you, many will love you; Children who know your petals mean spring, and adults who are filled with nostalgia,
of days of old spent in the sun, before being now consumed. You are a dandelion, my dear; and people may pluck you, blowing you into pieces to make their own wishes come true; But know that even as you are scattered to the wind, you will grow again, more beautiful than before, and together once more. You are a dandelion, my dear; and some will grind you underfoot; not purposefully- but from carelessness; Your stem may be bent, your petals may fall, crumble, and your leaves may be stripped, but know you will heal, and one day stand tall again; You are a dandelion, my dear; and know,
just know, you are stronger than you will ever learn, more beautiful than you will ever see, and more loved than you could ever realize, and as long as you exist, so shall I, filled with pride to stand by your side; and the knowledge that you will grow again, and again, and again, and Again.