ISSUE 8: ad infinitum

ISSUE EIGHT

toadinfinity infinitum JANUARY 2025

contents page 02

contents page

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editor's note

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my minerals ; his flowers by paris whitehead

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so are the days of our lives by carolyn martin

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ink barrel by tammy nguyen

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from the other side by prince marlo d. montadas

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aqueous related by christie chandler stahl

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without myth or fable by les bernstein

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memory by muneeb ilyas

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the leap and the ditch by marcelo moreira

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alone without you by millie percival

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life to death by jose ernesto gonzalez sardina

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contributors list

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ISSUE 8: AD INFINITUM

editor's note dearest friends, readers and writers alike— we are beyond excited to present the eighth issue of poetically! unbounded and unrestricted, the theme “AD INFINITUM” (to infinity), echoes the expansive perspectives of our 10 contributors. from the vast horizons we chase, the boundless questions we ponder and the limitless possibilities that ignite our imaginations through the wistful and wayward cycles of life, this collection examines infinity in the most poignant and thought provoking of ways, with evocative interpretations spanning the spectrum of the cosmos and its farthest reaches. the poetically team and i are incredibly proud to present this remarkable issue and we hope you find as much joy and inspiration in reading it as we did in bringing it to life! with endless heart and immeasurable gratitude,

— d . d a w n

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my minerals ; his flowers paris whitehead

my granddad joked that i will never be gone because of the titanium i’ll leave in my coffin: two rods, several inches long, plus the screws affixed to each notch in my spine. we didn’t embalm granddad and i dream of being compressed, folded into the veins and ripples of earth until my body collapses into dust, something to be sifted along a coastline my titanium tapped for nourishment. after cremation, in my country, the rules around metal remains are ambiguous they could be buried in a plot of land squeezed between daughters who were doted on by scalpels or kissed with morphine while my granddad’s little finger bones feed calcium into seedlings and thick white hair sprouts up through the dirt. but these days our titanium is sent abroad to a metal recycling plant in the netherlands so i could finally take my OE smelted down into a piece of an aeroplane, or a divot on a skyscraper or a scalpel but more often an implant to be cleaned and laid on a table and tucked in against a new curl of spine screwed shut, with the lights turned out again.

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so are the days of our lives carolyn martin

if, for every grain of sand, ten thousand stars fiddle foot around the universe, consider an hourglass sifting trillions of galaxies through indefinite eternity. that is, unless fate forgets a flip. then, futures dissolve, pasts freeze, presents grieve in narrow-necked nothingness. the sand clock in still life with a skull begins to peel and gleeful death races to raise another monument in the nearest necropolis.

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ink barrel tammy nguyen

and so it begins with thoughts and pain a nd memories bleeding onto the page f rom shaking hands desperately h olding onto a knife-tipped pen b lood and tears and ink m ixing into one as words p our onto the page f aster than the hands can write m oremoremore m ore emotions, more pain, m ore memories m ore p ouring out of your bloodstream In cursive font, o ne thought at a time, o ne word at a time b leeding, bleeding onto the paper u ntil you can bleed no more a nd then there's silence a nd so it ends w ith an ink barrel full of blood a nd stories and memories s taining the page red w ith hurt and pain and words f rom a body, f rom a mind too tired t o write another word, t o put another memory o nto the overcrowded pages t o rest, t o just lay there i nk stains, blood stains a nd all untilu ntil her demons come to say hi anda nd so it begins with blood and ink o n paper and06

from the other side prince marlo d. montadas

when one reaches the zenith of their life, they also sink into the depths of their youth. w e do not hold on lucidly to our own flesh, but we miserably beg to the bodies of our memory. w e cling to the coldness but cannot embrace their warmth. w e turn a blind eye to their alive yet grieved eyes. w e look vacantly at their dead but at ease eyes. n ow, only through the objects within the house they resituate, and through the lingering regrets within the self, they insinuate.

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aqueous related christie chandler stahl

i am water to the moon, pulled by gravity to my fullest expression when closest to love. i am shaken by altercations and sea risings. i am the illumined path in the seascape. When the moon mirrors the sun’s light, i expand past the shoreline, wet hair the color of loamy earth, burgeoning gray strands of squirrel fur. with my touch, sparks of a campfire sizzle, the smell of toasted marshmallows. i am ravenous, a seagull squawks scavenging for scraps. my old stories drift like sand shifting along the embankment. i slow and recede, sentiment to low tide’s sediment. i am the fish and algae that swim through me, the smell of mackerel and pickle brine. i am a growing layer of stratum, veins thickening, rippled flesh thinning, a reflection of the waning moonlight, small as a fingernail in the vast storied universe. i am water to limestone, limestone to water, moonwater.

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without myth or fable les bernstein

made of straw and sticks the outwardly ordinary details that make up a life huddle around the thieving nature of time as part of this undiminishable journey it comes to pass but never comes to stay we must return our stardust yet the holy moment of now glimmers with bright certainty that the living hearth of consciousness is more than chemistry and chance 09

memory muneeb ilyas

i woke up like a befitting end, pieces sworn together, clumsy, cold, and wet, under somber and feather, a minute yet to each, t he dust wants to sleep again each night drifting apart under the sheets watching the sun hold me up in a casket that follows all the signs the day complete, in an alternate dream, m y ego offers a dazzling shade the neem tree across my front, its roots bleed in red against my heart - sylvan and flawed the sky resides and runs, its courses of motion in teal, and then blind - running still, constituting a morning again, with winds in charge of intimacy, what a measure of life’s passing 10

the leap and the ditch marcelo moreira

it's the crooked lines that make it right a t the end of the time, the choices made by each one of us b etween truth and illusion b etween light and darkness t he flow of life t he ascent of the soul t he awakening of the being i t is in fraternal embraces and sincere words that we say goodbye u nder the emotional tears of a supreme, serene, limpid farewell s ome, out there, lost in the dark night of the old world o thers, here, full in the sublime dawn before paradise.

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alone without you millie percival

in every sunrise i see you and here is where i must remain. time will wander a long infinite path one that I stand before a record of existence. of where I wait. past unmoving eyes, to stare into that emotionless abyss. it is here where the white sun stands above withholding warmth from reaching my bark. illuminating the landscape; somewhat stark. to withstand this world alone, holding firm, stripped of protection grounded to the earth. as you watch, you see a silent tree one with a lifespan of eternity.

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life to death jose ernesto gonzalez sardina

we lived in a single breath it settled deep in our hearts like a cloud it carried warmth it carried dreams drawn over seasons by a brush of starlight that spread through naked tears and painted our love in heaven’s pearly white. we lived in shackles which we accepted as rings from the one that rules all, you’re cruel Love grinding the heart for every drop of blood wearing its thin skin like a night-veil that may hide you from prying eyes and from the death that follows your scent. you’re a thief just like the warm sun that has given you life latching on to my skin and squeezing me dry of tears, leaving behind salt to be buried in wounds that can no longer close. we lived and let live, but death was never a lifetime away she saw our birth, she gave us each one of her eyes to recognize the colors that painted our fate, she gave us her skin to keep the soul warm to keep it safe from the harsh winds of life, she was there when we died eager to learn of the lives we had lived.

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contributors list ISSUE EIGHT: AD INFINITUM christie chandler stahl paris whitehead millie percival jose ernesto gonzalez sardina muneeb ilyas carolyn martin prince marlo d. montadas les bernstein tammy nguyen marcelo moreira

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wordsmiths,

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inclined. poetically

inclined.

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ISSUE 08: AD INFINITUM

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