Still Life 2019

Still Life 2019

Still Life 2019

The community arts journal of the SVSU Center for Community Writing, the Saginaw Community Writing Center, and the Bay Community Writing Center

www.svsu.edu/ccw/ www.saginawcommunitywc.weebly.com www.baycommunitywc.weebly.com

Saginaw Valley State University 7400 Bay Road University Center, MI 48710 www.svsu.edu

Still Life is produced by the staff of the Saginaw Valley State University (SVSU) Writing Center and students in the SVSU Art Department, and it is published by the SVSU Graphics Center. It features creative writing from residents of Saginaw and Bay counties, the counties in which the Saginaw Community Writing Center and Bay Community Writing Center reside, as well as work by out-county residents who visit our community writing centers. All submissions are considered for publication.

Staff members of Still Life are excluded from receiving any awards.

Still Life was originally funded by a Dow Professor Award offered though SVSU’s Center for Academic Innovation. The magazine is now generously funded by Dr. Debasish Mridha of Saginaw, Michigan.

Still Life is produced using Adobe InDesign. This issue features the Adobe Caslon Pro font.

Cover Art: “Scatter Brain” by Nicole Vogelpohl.

SVSU is committed to providing work and learning opportunities without regard to age, color, disability, gender identity, genetic information, height, marital status, national origin, race, religion, sex (including pregnancy), sexual orientation, veteran status, weight, or on any other basis protected by state, federal, or other applicable law, and to achieving its objectives in compliance with applicable federal, state, and local laws and regulations that prohibit discrimination.

Copyright 2020, Still Life.

All subsequent publishing rights are returned to the artist.

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Staff

Editorial Staff

Layout

Matthew Chappel Joshua Cianek Natalie Delemeester Emma Kirsch Elissa Lovell Grace Macomber Hannah Mose Caroline Sawatzki Imari Tetu

Hannah Mose

Printing

SVSU Graphics Center

Editors

Christopher Giroux Hideki Kihata Helen Raica-Klotz

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Table of Contents

Editors’ Note 7 “long & low,” Denise Hill 9 “Harvested Beauty,” Austin Bauer 10 “Who Knew,” Shawne Mellios 11 “Strong,” Kaitie Houthoofd 12 “Pinhole Self-Portrait,” Ben Quinno 13 “The Secret of Apples,” Don Popielarz 14 “Old Man at the Gas Station,” Taylor Tucker 15 “Spring First,” Susan Griffith 16 “Mannequins,” Stuart Barbier 17 “Behind the Mask,” Julie Debats 18 “You Don’t Get to See,” Joshua Gillard 19 “At the Big House,” Chris Lucka 20 “Generational Deficiency,” Nala Warren 21 “The Light beyond the Stars,” Dustin R. Dehne 22 “The Mallard and the Monarch,” Ed Oberski 23 “Spam Folder,” Bruce Gunther 24 “The Spot,” Ben Quinno 25 “Science + Religion = Mind/Matter,” Charlotte Howald 26 “Our Eternal Love (Or Some Thoughts I Had on Our Anniversary),” Jared Morningstar 27 “Sunshine,” Brenna Dean 28 “CEASE FIRE,” Pearl Thomas 29 “To the Boy Who Rejected Me… Because I’m Black,” Jocelynn Fair 30 “Bottom of the Fifth,” Danielle Cecil 31 “A Song for the Deaf,” Rosemary Kavanagh 32 “All-American,” Matthew Sauer 34 “The Magical Trees,” Grace Biber 35 “Folders in My Memories,” Selena Land 36 “Internal Discomfort,” Danielle Cecil 38 “In the Shadow of an Unmarked Grave in Scotland,” Karen Lulich Horwath 39 “Lovesickness,” Cbxtn the Fig 41 “After the Earache,” Eric P. Nisula 42 “Aging,” Peggy Conlin 43 “Clinch[ed],” Elizabeth Terry 44 “Ask Me,” Hope Baybeck 45 “My Microphone,” Lorenzo Russey 46 “Arrhythmia,” Tristan Harman 47 “The Day I Lost the Seventh Game of the World Series,” Doug Baldwin 48 “Sheer (Shorn),” Elizabeth Terry 50 “Summer and Winter,” Hannah Biber 51 “Hey Mom, Shorty’s Here!,” Suzanne Pearce 52 “The Dancing Man,” Mark Brenner 53 “Similar to Yesterday,” Fadk Aloqayly 55 “Love Letter to the Lord,” Ruth A. Pittman 56 “6 a.m. on a Saturday Morning,” Kirsten Hellebuyck 57 5

“Sweet Pea’s Song,” Elizabeth Shorkey 58 “Finding Phoenix,” Serena M. Pittman 60 “One Last Cursory Glance,” Logan LaBrake 61 “tilting,” Kelli Fitzpatrick 62 “Under Pressure,” Imari Tetu 63 “Her Favorite,” Marjorie Talaga 64 “The Curriculum to Make It to Successful Adulthood,” Quinn Nichols 65 “Retiknell,” Logan LaBrake 66 “To Live,” Caroline Helmstadt 67 “Wooly Mammoth Drinks on the Future,” Brad Yurgens 68 “Boricua-Blanquita Blues (Ode to Abuelito),” Lauren Wells 69 “Northerner Plays with Fire in Water,” Suzanne Sunshower 71 “Rainy Morning Scene in a Beveled Sidelight: elegy for Angelika’s dad,” Deda Kavanagh 72 “Transcend,” Nicole Vogelpohl 73 About Our Contributors 74 About Our Writing Centers 82 About Our Benefactor 82 Acknowledgments 83

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Editors’ Note Welcome to the 2019 issue of the community arts journal Still Life!

The majority of the photographs in this issue of Still Life were created using pinhole cameras, photographic devices that are particularly unique: these cameras lack a lens and can, in fact, be made out of anything. (One of our photographers used an Altoids tin!) Consider, too, that pinhole images, as Jon Grepstad has written, “have nearly infinite depth of field.” The poems in this collection are very much like pinhole photography. The poems are metaphorically made out of anything and everything, and they provide us with a nearly infinite depth of field. Yes, pinhole images may be darker and blurrier than other photographs, but they continue to help us see and make sense of the world around us. Most importantly, their creation—like the writing of poetry— requires patience, diligence, innovation, insight, and a focus.

For these literary insights and poetic focus, we remain ever thankful to the many writers who generously share their words with us. The 2019 issue of Still Life remains our biggest collection yet, and we remain proud that we can continue to provide a venue for artists in our community to share their ideas.

We are also proud to congratulate our various winners: Suzanne Sunshower, who won top prizes in the Adult (Age 19+) category, and Matthew Sauer, who was the winner of the Young Adult category (Age 13–18).

We are excited, too, to announce a change to Still Life: we are expanding. With the next issue, we will be accepting poems from folks who live in Bay, Saginaw, and Midland counties. Residents who live outside of these counties can also submit—they just need to visit one of our community writing centers.

Don’t forget we offer various events and services through our umbrella organization, the SVSU Center for Community Writing. To learn about these offerings, view our submission guidelines, or enjoy past issues of Still Life, visit www.svsu.edu/ccw. And as always, keep writing.

Christopher Giroux Assistant Director, SVSU Writing Center Co-Director, SVSU Center for Community Writing Associate Professor, SVSU English Department Hideki Kihata Professor and Chair, SVSU Art Department Helen Raica-Klotz Director, SVSU Writing Center Co-Director, SVSU Center for Community Writing

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long & low Denise Hill the lake freighter’s horn sounds as it courses downriver cool damp predawn air carries its bellowing call across town while we sleep hauling in cargo sand & stone gravel & coal one long blast, one short the bulker’s horn sounds again echoing through our dreams vacant hulls waiting to be filled rock floating on water

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Harvested Beauty Austin Bauer She grew up softly like a rose, bouncing gently up and down against the wind.

She was raised carefully out of obscurity into what everyone wanted her to be —pretty, but not beautiful; fragrant, but not adorned.

How ironic— harvested beauty fades much faster than beauty left alone.

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Who Knew Shawne Mellios The drama that repeats.

The secrets that we keep, questions, questions?

When you bare your soul it’s certainly related to gossip, When your thoughts roam the street.

Long-standing romance you promised, tone of my Thoughts to repeat.

Drama can always be controlled, like Bob Seger’s “The Winding Road.”

Life’s lessons and patterns do not have to repeat.

All the above are like your footsteps, constant pattering, in an Insidious on-going beat.

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Strong Kaitie Houthoofd I look around me And all I see is mayhem I see all the black ravens Screaming in my face Ordering me around Pushing me down Placing the bars That are all too high to touch Making me do stuff that’s all too much I can’t deal with them I don’t know how they don’t see the notches How they don’t see the blotches But I never stop going I never stop adding To the plate That’s threatening to tip With every little bit I’m trying to keep it level But it’s like playing with the devil Constantly burning And turning the tables Constantly feeling like I’m not gonna be able To keep it all steady To keep it all going I’m close to giving in Close to letting go Of the overfilled plate I carry in my arms Every day Every hour Every minute Every second I’m still going strong

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Pinhole Self-Portrait Ben Quinno

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The Secret of Apples Don Popielarz There is a secret in this universe that is known only to a few wild men and to peaceful honey bees.

Every being every soul every creature has its own calendar.

There is no uniformity of time.

No uniformity of place.

No uniformity of perception.

No uniformity of growth.

So if you have the fortune to walk with apple trees know that there will be an apple not having the patience to wait who will mature too fast grow too large add too much weight until it breaks its tether falls from its branch and lands in the high grass below.

There it will be found by the honey bees and the wild men who will share its sweetest nectar.

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Old Man at the Gas Station Taylor Tucker Out of a nice new van comes a wrinkled old man still soft around the edges, not yet crusting over and he sees my dog, an old man himself with a toddler’s baby brain, jet black turned to speckled grey, spirit untouched.

Grandpa unknown appraises the dog through snappy eyes.

“He’s ten years old, right?” he asks me.

“I had one too.”

He’s exactly right, and no one ever is.

He talks of life on a river, another black dog with webbed feet swimming every month of the year (except for January, of course)— what a grand friend.

Then he climbs back into the van where grey sunken bones hunch, waiting.

How happy am I not to be going, I think as I cluck to my dog, who returns to my side.

We watch the van’s squishy tires roll away, out from under this yellow shell that shines bright overhead, bright like bioluminescence against dark blue algae dotted with pearlescent marbles dulled by the glow.

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Spring First Susan Griffith Cleaning windows, anticipating morning cups of tea overlooking sweet woodruff, bee balm, lavender.

Ah, but first …

Dandelions!

Curse the scourging invader!

Battle the stubborn taproot!

Death to the scurrilous marauders!

Dandelions!

Rub flowers under your chin, see if you like butter.

Blow a halo of white, make a wish.

Greet a crop of greens, harvest for your health.

Dandelions!

Resolute soldiers resisting all charges against them?

Resilient flowers fueling flights of fancy?

Remarkable foodstuff renowned for vital properties?

Windows clean.

Tea at the ready.

Perspective gained.

Welcome

priest’s crown, Irish daisy, monk’s head,

telltime, blowball, lion’s tooth Dandelions!

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Mannequins Stuart Barbier The aisles loomed ahead, flanked by mannequins participating in our conspiracy of denial, the clerk fussing with the racks of suits behind them.

We came upon that section of the store as if by accident.

The mannequins weren’t looking at us, weren’t imploring us to discuss the probable outcome of late stage 3 lung cancer; Instead: Oh look—suits are on sale.

The hangers scraped along the racks, crying confide, damn it!

Grab a hold of her, because—What about this one?

Too old looking. Try a more subtle stripe.

This? That.

It had built-in elastic to respond to my waistline’s trick of having caught up to my age and its obvious intention of surpassing it.

Trying it on, I stood before my mother, my face burning slightly, sweating with the effort of not thinking.

A pronouncement of It fits well followed her quick casing.

The mannequins continued staring at the floor while she paid.

We left, talking about what she’ll fix for dinner.

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Behind the Mask Julie Debats Everyone has a mask.

They just need it for a special task.

I wear the mask on those dingy discolored days.

Those days I feel alone.

Those days I feel sorrow.

Those days where I must lie to the ones I love.

While beneath the plastic artificial Barbie smile lies the truth.

The scars and goop are squished underneath the beauty of the smooth exterior.

Receiving no soft luscious air to breathe.

Causing me to wear the flawless mask daily.

Forcing me to forget my natural inviting scent.

Cursing me to forget who I am.

I was unaware of the harmful radiation produced by the mask.

Until I started to question not only who I am, But who I want to be in the dysfunctional beehive known as society.

Then one day I snapped out of my own facade.

Stripping away the vile veil from my unique face.

Allowing me to grow and allowing me to let others in.

Releasing a strong-hearted person from within.

A person who possesses the bright beauty of a white rose with the wit of its sharp thorns.

Revealing the wonders of genuine love for friends, family, and most importantly myself.

Making me happy like a child devouring creamy chocolate cake for the first time.

Enjoying every sensation life has to offer instead of hiding behind an everyday crowd.

I’m finally real.

I’m finally honest.

I’m finally me.

And this was all behind the mask.

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You Don’t Get to See Joshua Gillard

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At the Big House Chris Lucka Like bees inside a sun-sized sunflower at “the Big House,” Michigan’s stadium, maize-colored shirts throb— 107,000 spectators strong!

In the simulated seed-head, officials, coaches, media gather on the groomed, green grass painted with white stripes.

Maize-and-blue players swarm the field, a-buzz with energy, flying from their hive.

Directed by cheerleaders, revved by the band, a thunder of voices belt out “Hail to the Victors!” The crowd signals approval, creating a flutter among the yellow-petal sections.

The player-bees toil together—running, passing, blocking, pushing, grunting, heaving, working to bring home a victory.

When the final whistle blows, like petals of the sunflower stripped by the coming cool, the maize people-petals disappear and wait to be replanted another day.

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Generational Deficiency Nala Warren Vibrant children full of vitality Peace on their minds They dream of putting out fires and curing cancer Turned to children who think they can’t be seen without the latest iPhone Who know every word that usually gets censored Whose only goals are to get the most followers and likes Insomniacs who focus on which filter looks the best Barely keeping their heads above the water Lungs collapsing The air getting thinner and thinner Their salt-filled tears leave streaks in their concealer Stained lips shattered with doubt Parents relax under the glistening sun with their kids for hours on end Watching them play and laugh Without a worry in mind Turned to ignorant parents Who don’t know that their kids are out all night High off of fabricated love Drunk from their animosity Electronics don’t keep them in Now one too many people find the hostility in life Struggling to survive in a world That’s gone down in flames

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The Light beyond the Stars Dustin R. Dehne There is a light beyond the stars A place where Love & hope coincide, And all things bright & beautiful Go safely and hide.

A place where time does not pressure, And mighty mountains grow Covered in trees like the greenest treasure.

Snow gently caps the tops of these gentle giants As the star behind them spreads color & light That exceeds any explanation of science.

A show of wonder streaming from the skies That shower to the farthest forever regions Of this place where light never dies, And the stars, ah... the stars Sparkle like translucent fireflies.

Where the adventuring never ends And you can do whatever your heart commands, As you reunite with family and friends Finding each other once again.

Where your wildest dreams dance and grow Flowing through like the song of a wren With the smallest whisper heard.

Earth’s Guardians fly above And the best kinds of emotions within are stirred.

Feeling like a kid again, as you see the Grand Protector’s face In this realm of the purest Love & light beyond the stars, A so closely faraway place.

Where there is a never-ending sunrise Sparkling all over, like all of the stars of space…

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The Mallard and the Monarch Ed Oberski The mallard as it takes to the skies Displays a speed that can often surprise Through strength of wing and sleek design It reaches its goal in minimal time With straight line path it cuts through air A singular focus, from here to there But when the frail monarch makes its flight It presents a very different sight Where even just the slightest breeze Can move it from its course with ease And yet whatever goal it seeks Whether mate or meal or milkweed leaf It may not attain what is first perceived But still somehow its goal’s achieved So in our world, the breeze is life With its constant motion, change is rife Though headwinds cause me to lament Great new paths they can present Is my journey more skill or luck? ‌ Am I more butterfly or duck?

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Spam Folder Bruce Gunther The double-click mimics peeling back the tin can’s lid, unveiling not a gelatinous poor man’s pâté, but artery-hardening messages left silently, invisibly, by cyber snake-oil salespeople who line up as if in front of an abandoned house peddling their wares to no one.

Cheap life insurance, sure-fire cures for insomnia, pills to hone my sex life, and a way to shrink my gut that has nothing to do with a ham and pork concoction about to explode with sodium nitrites.

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The Spot Ben Quinno

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Science + Religion = Mind/Matter Charlotte Howald I told myself, “Science is the question, Religion is used to fill the holes for the answers We don’t quite yet know.”

But I am a Poet.

I am a Romantic.

I make excuses to use myths as magic For the sake of the softer-sounding syllables.

A part of me still believes in the princess in that tower and, I’m sure if you look hard enough, You can find Santa Claus: A sad man in a cave making toys For the children he’ll never have.

We praise Leonardo and Galileo for being ahead of their time but—

Time has caught up.

No longer do we clasp our hands Raise them high above our heads and Pray for their works of the century.

The wealthy men meet fists of repugnance On the streets built by the ancestors of those knuckles Bared. Brick by brick to the brink.

Those hands laid the future of continents signing one Hancock after another.

Kiss the maker of Mercury, And sing to Saturn.

Our world is ending from the search of life forms not yet proven existed.

Our very own bodies may not be as solid as we hope.

We’re immortal in the sense of now, But come one misfortune and we’ll drive the path to hell, And all sinners follow after.

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Our Eternal Love (Or Some Thoughts I Had on Our Anniversary) Jared Morningstar

When I say our love is eternal, I mean it.

There is no asterisk: it’s no empty promise, or a metaphor for “until death do us part.”

It’s a love that will live beyond my dying breath, and yours.

Because our children see the way I smile at you, and the way yours makes me feel.

They see how we laugh together: over the way I can’t carry a tune, and the way Super Mom reacts to an encounter with eight-legged Kryptonite dangling from the ceiling.

They know how you support my loves of five-suit decks of playing cards, Santa Claus, and two-hour road trips just for pizza, even if you don’t understand them.

And they know I’m always up for a trip with them to the toy store or Dairy Queen when you need a well-deserved nap.

They know we’re always there for each other when one of us needs to cry, and that we don’t throw stones, figurative or literal, when we disagree.

That these times made our love stronger, long after the honeymoon was over.

They’ll remember this love when it’s their turn to fall for another, and like genes, they’ll pass it on: a love with a heart that will beat long after ours have stopped.

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Sunshine Brenna Dean There are days I believe there is nothing to fear.

Days when I think I could just stay outside all afternoon in the sun with my favorite dress on and not have a single worry.

I could feel the sun wash a tired haze of warmth over me, each breeze calm enough that I never feel cold And watch intently as the birds sit in the pines that block the houses and cars from my line of sight, as I walk with my hands extended out, reaching only for more warmth in the air, then close my eyes and sway with the sparrows in the trees.

But those moments are fleeting, cut off by the sound of trucks violently bouncing as they drive over potholes and cracked, crumbling concrete.

Cut off by the sound of my neighbor two houses down screaming at their dog before chucking it outside for the rest of the day only for it to pace along the fence and scratch at the back door when it’s thirsty.

And the air gets a little colder each time I open my eyes, each time my hands slam into a gust of wind and pull me out of my daydreams.

And every time the sun sets on those days I know it will be weeks before I can feel this way again, before my fears are forced into the shadows of my yard and for a few moments, all there is is sunshine.

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CEASE FIRE Pearl Thomas DEDICATED TO THE PEOPLE Cease? Would you destroy me to disdain?

Could you follow me along? Latitude? Longitude?

I am not inquiring about aforementioned veins!?

Life knows best: The Constitution is a forever friend.

Christopher Columbus is alive and well.

Cease fire! Hold your ammunition by your line.

Now, do not target the bull’s eye yet. I’m not through.

Look around you: Do you see the infiltration?

Journey far? To go where no man hath gone.

Yea, you are a Cadet.

The opposition tells me, “They asked for it. (A facade),” Whereas allies shout, “They are going to kill us all.”

What do I say? Mutiny. Humility.

Space and country: Decision-making concerns us; Beckoning is seeking a hero.

I cannot stop shooting now because You did not cease fire?! CEASE!!!!!!

You cannot postpone plots of unmanned zones.

Borderlines, equate, join forces, or be gone.

Souls come and go. Spirit remains.

Souls die. Every good man defies nature.

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To the Boy Who Rejected Me… Because I’m Black Jocelynn Fair

To the boy who rejected me…

Because I’m Black My sun-kissed mocha dream of melanin and soul are too sweet for you The ability to speak up for myself in the face of opposition is too bold for the saltines on your plate The confidence I have built from the ashes of a childhood burned at the corner of redneck and racist is too strong for your cowardly presence to ever break Now I’ll correct you…

I do not exist to upset the bigots living in your family tree I exist to nourish, to break down walls, to impact those around me I am not pretty for a Black girl I am beautiful, period My unapologetic, unwavering voice is too intimidating for you to call yours My liberal pride in the ancestors before me is appalling to the conservatives in your childhood home The knowledge I have acquired from twenty years of backhanded comments about my very existence is too powerful for your uncloaked Klansmen, I mean cousins Let’s be clear…

I am not to be hidden in the bedroom I am a charmer of parents, articulate with edges smooth and shoulders held high I became another mark in your little book, you became another reason to write a poem You found shame in admiring me, I found shame in believing you were more

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Bottom of the Fifth Danielle Cecil

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A Song for the Deaf Rosemary Kavanagh Spirits sang when they were born, Bonnie Irish babies whose wealthy mother came from the south Now the black and white photo is silent for those who cannot hear, Yet I heard a prayer evolving from the red lipstick on her mouth.

I sing to you my little brother, you will suffer from leukemia even though your fight is painfully long.

I sing to you my little sister, your independent power will transfer before your husband’s gone Although Parkinson’s Disease will rob him young.

Robins still sing of warmth on their backs to the morning sun.

I sing to you dear little sister Your husband prefers the truck-face maid and will divorce you.

Oh but you get the farmhouse with sixty sheep bah bah bah-ing, though you cannot hear them now.

Your son will steal from your heart But your daughter will make it shine.

I sing to you dear little sister, my best friend always A policy adviser on the Senate floor, keeping peace among the politicians, Your kindness will hold your daughters up, both suffering from mental illness.

I sing to you dear sister for the things our daddy did!

I sing to you dear older brother, so far away from me, your house is blessed yet your wandering sons ignore their German mother.

I sing to you dear older brother A hunter and fisherman you’ll be, childless for the children, your dogs will be in cages.

The pain you suffer is extreme and yet you still can laugh.

I sing to you my dear older brother, brother of brothers— Your son will be harshly judged from a needle in his arm, wasn’t it enough when our daddy twisted yours?

I sing to you dear older sister, your only son has quite become, A pleasant man indeed, once like our brother’s son though you left him for a new lifeless life, I think she 32

lives around the corner.

I sing to you dear older sister, who prays to God each day, and Whose son has run away, his cry was loud beneath the shroud of a darkened California sky, your other son has autism and I still must ask God why.

I sing to you dear oldest sister, my mother always, one daughter an alcoholic like her Aunt Roby the other one with the shadow of a brain tumor Wasn’t it enough what our daddy did to you?

I sing to you dear self, you will lose your Irish family, your children from divorce, you will commit the letter A, and let it take its course.

Your kidneys diseased, your liver retired, your heart not pumping fair And yet I say this truthfully, I sing to you dear life!

Thank you for my father!

Thank you for the genetic song.

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All-American Matthew Sauer

For every weak day

I’m spending broke,

it’s from being told I could pick any number from 9 to 5 only.

I’m holding on to this six-digit ticket to drown out our stomachs,

groaning like the fading floorboards

on this “Magnificent Mile!”

I’m hearing my oldest

dream of law school,

as the hands of my youngest

tighten my necktie,

while the middle child

with rope and neck tied

works overtime while underpaid ‘til he’s blue in the collar.

I’m growin’ out

of these Roarin’ Twenties,

my Hoover flags hoisted

for this “Windy City”

‘til it blows me away, my welcome overstayed, I’m All-American today.

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The Magical Trees Grace Biber As I look out into the forest, I see leaves, And as far as the eye can see, there are trees.

The only thing you can see is the vegetation of the dense forest.

As I look upon the swaying trees, I wonder how these trees flourished.

I wonder how these large plants know How to sway and how to grow.

I wonder as I feel the cool breeze, I wonder who planted these wondrous trees.

And if I found the person I would say, How do you get these trees to sway?

And I hope their answer is something simple, Maybe some sort of magical symbol.

And if I find this person who planted the trees, I will ask them about the magical seeds.

And if they say they don’t know, I will probably just go.

Go to the trees of the forest that I love, And I’ll ponder the magical dove.

The dove that sits on the trees day and night, The dove that never leaves and never takes flight.

And if the dove flies away, I wonder if the trees will still sway.

And if the trees do not sway, I will never go to the forest any day.

For what makes these trees so magical Is the swaying that makes your bad day not so tragical.

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Folders in My Memories Selena Land My eyes are pencils, becoming dull every once in a while, closing, sharpening for hours at a time, opening only to be used down to the eraser again.

The white-board is a beeping gray heart monitor, clear tubes giving me endless notes to take down.

Students, from young to old, some, like me, can’t believe that school started this early, older ones shocked that school never ended.

My teacher, someone younger than me in age, ancient in wisdom, learns from me as I learn from him.

His eyes are sunken, tired of endless days of teaching, wanting to rest, but afraid that he will rest forever.

The desks, hard brown chairs, lined in classrooms, as well as far down hallways, allow only two to learn at a time.

The parents constantly remind us that it isn’t about us learning; it’s about the teachers surviving.

Every drop of blood taken from them a quiz.

Every surgery a test.

Every procedure they give a challenge of not just can they overcome it but can we?

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Folders in my memories are filled to the brim with papers, ready to remind me, just in case I ever forget what I learned in school.

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Internal Discomfort Danielle Cecil

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In the Shadow of an Unmarked Grave in Scotland Karen Lulich Horwath

I am more than my skin allows: I am ancestors who move inside my cells, electron memories of times past when ancient Celts built stone-walled forts, now covered with mold and moss, to hold enemy ships at bay.

And this skin I wear over bone and blood is but the kilt of Scottish grandfathers who once buried a child on a hill outside their home, a child who would never huddle in the coal-fed ship that carried them across the ocean to a land promising a stronger roof than the burning thatched hut lit by Britain’s fury.

My skin holds tendon and sinew intact as I stand on holy clan ground two thousand miles from home, cloaked in grey mist, waterproof hood pulled tight.

I have never before touched this land, yet I know this coal-black sea, this high bricked sea-wall, this copse of trees bowing low under the weight of north winds, protecting a small unmarked grave and the stones that shroud it still.

The story of these stones, carried on the backs of my clansmen, live on in the cells of my mitochondria, deeper in me than a memory, deeper in me than any archeological excavation could ever unearth.

Next to this grave time hovers, the silence so still even ghosts can speak.

And when I breathe, my very presence here stirs their sighs, 39

and grandfather, grandfather, grandfather tells me welcome home.

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Lovesickness Cbxtn the Fig Scream into space and grasp toward home, that sapphire flicker among pearls— a shattered necklace—those distant planets— grapple that cold iron arm, you crazed astronaut, clutch for touch, breathe deep, that icy awe, floating through those stars and cry—rigid suite ascending down and acquiesce to die amid the cosmic jewels and black breadth by suffocation or dehydration (whichever comes first)— radiant love, nausea enveloping limbs—timeless, weightless prisoner of silent expanding beauty; golden rainbow gas clouds, pink butterfly nebulae and spiral galaxies, molten bodies forging worlds, chemical titans, elliptical chase and push, the pull of infinite sunsets and numberless moons drifting deeper into the eyes of dispassionate angels—isolated, grieving in bliss, entering the darkest spheres of heaven.

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After the Earache Eric P. Nisula The doctor said if you swim stop your ear.

I put wax in my ear and tentatively entered the water, swimming the breaststroke at first, then easing onto my back, reaching behind my ear, rowing myself, finally turning to try the crawl, feeling the water seep in a little, heedless, letting go, diving, now sporting like a porpoise.

Then felt I like Caruso, dying of cancer, but nevertheless trying a few notes and shouting to his wife with joy, “I can sing again!� until the blood flooded his throat.

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Aging Peggy Conlin On a warm spring day

I take a walk through my neighborhood

Tiny yellow-green leaves sprout from the earth

Scarlet tulips lean toward the sun An elderly couple walks toward me

Their faces and hands have deep wrinkles

Their hair is thin

Their backs are no longer straight

Their pace is uneven and slow I complain to myself

I don’t like growing old.

It is now autumn and the days are getting cooler

Again I take a walk through my neighborhood

The leaves are now scarlet

They fall to the earth and wither An elderly couple walks toward me

Their faces and hands have deep wrinkles

Their hair is thin

Their backs are no longer straight

Their pace is uneven and slow I have just been diagnosed with cancer.

I am jealous

of their many years

growing old together.

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Clinch[ed] Elizabeth Terry

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Ask Me Hope Baybeck Ask me why my mouth is sewn shut, eyes filled with fire, with beauty, with rage.

We walk in sad blue alleyways, the sound of the wind snapping like the crack of a whip or the manicured hand of a woman hitting the soft surface of smooth skin.

We hide among the trees and endless seas of people, running from the echoes in our chest that ring so loudly we’re afraid others can hear them.

We speak only when spoken to and breathe as we’re told to, chained to the hands which provide, guided only by a skewed idea of right and wrong.

We walk through the backstreets of fuzzy memories, a building pressure in our lungs that makes it hard to dream, our faces falling like raindrops during lazy spring mornings, mourning the loss of what could have been, what should have been, beautiful.

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My Microphone Lorenzo Russey When I speak to it, it’s listening, but it can’t respond.

It’s always there for me whenever I need to get my feelings out of my head and into the world. It has no heart, but I feel like I give it life when I put my soul into it. It was the first one I ever bought, and I still use it til this day. I bought it from a friend of mine; he was done with it, but I was just getting started with it. So it’s like they say, “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.”

And I treat it as a treasure because it has so much value to me, on a more emotional level. It has heard things from me that I’ve never told anyone else. I feel like it changed my life so much for the better because it gave me a way to express myself in a more positive way.

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Arrhythmia Tristan Harman The glass is dusty.

It always is, no matter how polished it might seem.

The dust is almost an intrinsic property.

It’s dim now outside, and growing darker every day.

Too soon, it will be winter, then spring, then summer yet again.

You’ve seen this sad scene play out so many times now; what does it matter one time more or one less?

Outside, the pool you set up for the warmer days has collapsed in on itself.

Orange pine needles are already trekking down to earth, losing themselves amongst knee-high grasses.

Vines smother a fence you never bothered to take down, and two oaks have sprouted.

They won’t make it through the winter.

You’re already halfway to a haunted house, you suppose, with everything overgrown and all.

Cobwebs make up the corners of your rooms, and most of the lights flicker when you turn them on.

Maybe more than halfway.

You close the shutters, shudder, and step away.

You should get moving. It gets the blood pumping, and one heartbeat is all the time in the world today.

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The Day I Lost the Seventh Game of the World Series Doug Baldwin

I was ten years old, pitching in the last game of the World Series, facing the New York Yankees, bottom of the ninth, working on a no-hitter, bouncing the tennis ball off the back of the house, the kitchen wall— Grace was doing the dishes— I was looking in for the sign when the back door flew open and Grace marched down the steps with authority across the infield to the pitching mound.

I thought my manager had come to talk to her young pitcher about the dangerous hitter waiting on deck.

I was not aware how angry Grace was that the tennis ball had been bang, bang, banging against the siding on our house.

I cocked my head wondering why my manager had any doubts about my pitching skills, so I smiled at my mother, when In slow motion Grace hit me across the face so hard my glasses broke in half and fell in pieces to the pitching mound.

I remember my slow-motion tears watching the manager stride forcefully back to the kitchen dugout, her judgment and sentencing complete.

Years later, I can’t quite trust my wife, my teammates, managers, 48

myself And I wonder how my character might have been different, stronger, more self-assured had I finished that no-hitter and won the seventh and final game of the 1955 World Series.

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Sheer (Shorn) Elizabeth Terry

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Summer and Winter Hannah Biber It’s a sunny day by the bay to play, a bright summer day.

I go to the bay one day to lay on the burning sand And I wonder why is summer hot and winter So cold?

I wonder and wonder all day long.

I say to my mom the bay today is hot And the bay in the winter is cold.

I want the answer I say on the sunny day!

On the next day I go to the bay to play on the summer sunny day again.

I say I wondered all night I wondered All day I need to know the answer on the bay today.

I feel the sand again and again I don’t feel the difference.

I go to bed when my mom comes home.

Again and again I go to the bay. The last day of summer I grab more sand Today the sand is different? The sand last year would still be hot but the sand today is cool. I told my mom the sand is cold My mom said that’s weird last year… Mom, I know.

Mom, if I find the person that knows, I’ll ask.

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Hey Mom, Shorty’s Here!

Suzanne Pearce Generous hands pass Cherries, peaches, plums, apples.

Farm truck long ago.

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The Dancing Man Mark Brenner You were dancing alone all around campus not caring if anyone was watching with a boombox resting on your shoulder like a shepherd carrying a lamb head bopping up and down on your solid frame sometimes singing lyrics Because I’m bad, I’m bad come on big fingers snapping, swinging hair, and smiles.

Other times hands jammed into jacket eyes cast downward walking alone.

No music on those days.

You wore the same sweatpants and t-shirt day after day.

The nice guys from your dorm were dizzy from your stink, so they taught you about personal hygiene when they threw you in the shower and made you use soap and shampoo while you kicked and yelled like an unrepentant sinner would at baptismal waters.

Every year you danced for the school’s talent show you practiced for hours then the big day came and we wondered what pray tell we’d see this year.

You began with eyes closed, meditating on the moves then the music began and your feet danced truth to the beat, beat, beat while some of us joked and laughed quietly in the shadows made us see you and ourselves.

You didn’t see me make a paper airplane from the program and pretend like I was going to throw it onstage for laughs. The good girl stopped me, but you should know. I’m sorry.

Anyway, as the music came to an end outstretched arms, head tilted back, bravery.

Hear you’re working at McDonald’s now; paying off thousands of dollars of student loans on minimum wage can’t be easy.

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Grease popping on your hands blisters growing the size of a large marble, even though life gives those blisters I hope you’re still dancing, man.

Don’t care what others think like you did once before; close your eyes, feel the rhythm and dance, dance, dance.

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Similar to Yesterday Fadk Aloqayly

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Love Letter to the Lord Ruth A. Pittman Dear Lord, I wish to thank you, that you do all things perfect.

With the sun’s rising and its setting, and with the seasons taking their turn, in perfect order.

The night sky with the beautiful stars, moon, and planets‌ How awesome that you are the creator of all.

The universe does not hold, nor do the heavens have, enough words to declare your glory.

You do all things beyond well, perfect.

Perfect, in the past, the present, and the coming future.

Perfect on the earth and in the heavenlies.

I could never completely describe your beauty and grace.

From your daughter with love, Ruth

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6 a.m. on a Saturday Morning Kirsten Hellebuyck we’d unwrap the little town.

I’d hoard the houses, he’d hack the hotels.

We’d become millionaires in minutes drooling over property we couldn’t pronounce.

When it came time to trade, he’d turn into the wheelbarrow collecting bargains and grasping for my money to which I’d become the hat, top it off with a sly remark.

His cannon would fire names: cheater. loser.

Go directly to jail. Do not pass GO. Do not collect $200, he’d sneer.

My bark back would scare the horse to its hind legs and he’d launch his battleship into service.

Houses flew in the air, a hotel sideswiping my ear.

He’d whip the cards, the corners nipping my knees.

I’d plunge an iron through the air hitting him between the eyes.

He’d snatch colored bills from the bank and I’d punt his piece off the board.

I quit.

He’d kick the box and tell me to clean it up, crybaby.

I’d curl on the couch, slipping the thimble in my pocket, and I’d ask which cartoons we should watch.

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Sweet Pea’s Song Elizabeth Shorkey My song is sepia glazed, grandma’s old eyes framed in flower crowns, chords filtered through sunflower stalks and coffee grounds, sopranos deposited in bank accounts for safekeeping, to gather up premature interest. I only ask that the shareholders steep the looseleaf pages of sheet music in boiling hyperbole before pressing the ink to oozing wounds.

Listen how this song resonates in chests—drips down upturned faces, clings to sweet pea petals, and cheers for the Detroit Reds. Don’t just watch from the windowsill, bright snow-light streaming against petite, pleated faces, eyes filling with water, loosening soil to swirl in their pools, stem twisting a flower-patterned quilt, the branches tearing the scenery to shreds.

Sing my song with yarrow breath, perennial precipitation and lilting tone.

That’s what the lonely aster flower sings tonight, hanging limply connected to a clothesline of parched florets. Hibernating hydrangeas watch the seasons die out through the frosted glass window, popcorn ceiling hanging askew above the trumpeting angel’s Brugmansia.

But lily pads like to lie, like how they ascend from the bottoms of lakes, not falling from tall trees to settle in layers on lotus dew like the lyrics of my song, waterlogged pages spread, papyrus pulp.

My song is hard to sing but sits in your bones once you do decide to trill along with my sweet-budding melody. Sage and lavender hold fast to the aches of hollow marrow. Ground-up rosary residue leaves sticky red trails of rose-scented sentiments—poised peony prayers there for the picking.

My grandma’s voice carries over the meadows, Sweet Pea, are you ready yet? She knows my song without hearing it, without seeing me, without seeing 58

pink sweet pea petals perforating Mexican Cempaspuchitlafterlife bridges, chasms for spirits and lyrics to fill.

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Finding Phoenix Serena M. Pittman When you’ve missed out, done been passed over, when They handed out the Color of Delight.

You will find your full juice Deep in the has-been trash heap of life’s pranks.

Down Down In the absence of light Down in the dust.

Down in the mildew.

In that empty, rusty place of a cold chill with a view.

You will find that percolating place of revival, of Re-Birth.

Where the souls of those who came before Also walked between conformity’s walls.

Where their trapped words are at this very moment peeling the paint off from the inside.

Rise up!

I command you, Rise.

It’s from these ashes, your once-lost now-found words will Fly Free.

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One Last Cursory Glance Logan LaBrake

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tilting Kelli Fitzpatrick I never expected to see them while driving through flat farm fields of pasture dressed in drabbest March moss-brown that makes red barns pop out fresh from the earth like fruit I never expected the motion of vast arms through pale sky like sculpture loosed in light to turn vigil over snow-tamped furrows and waking sons of soil

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Under Pressure Imari Tetu Once, I was liquid fire, the molten core of a fragile blue gem spinning through time. Ripples and currents pushed me upward; pressure began to form and still me. In places, I pressed through the surface, feeling the soft, damp fingers of the earth touch my face.

No longer liquid, but solid, I felt the gentle embrace of light, not so strong as the heat that once was.

Do you know what it means to be iron ore? I have become potential. Tried in the furnaces of life, melted down and poured out again, I am left to cool. Slag, if I fail the test, a heap of metal on the face of an unforgiving earth. But this may not be my fate, for iron that endures the fire become steel. Unyielding, unbreaking, I am worthy of sun and wind and ice. I cannot be shaken or destroyed.

I have become strong, and I stand.

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Her Favorite Marjorie Talaga I’m Teddy, The one she cuddled with Kissed with Hugged and said she would Love forever.

I spy, The front window my accomplice The dresser a shield I peer around.

I stare Through glass and wonder why One of the tall ones is Kissing her.

Oh, to cry.

Only seconds, A last look, a door slam, no car In sight.

Between two pillows I am stationed, her bed my home Since she was two And I was new.

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The Curriculum to Make It to Successful Adulthood Quinn Nichols

The things you learn from birth to young adulthood are things you never forget.

You learn crucial skills in K–12 like the much-needed motor skills of stacking chairs on desks at the end of the day.

Stacking chairs on desks turns into practicing stacking desks to block out a shooter, another motor skill needed for survival.

You learn to communicate through group work, team sports, and other projects.

You learn to not communicate your issues and concerns until you are willing to let things get worse before they get better.

You learn how to deal with bullies, especially those with power in the administrative offices.

At the graduation ceremony in your high school gym or football field, you feel relief wash over you, knowing you’ll never need these skills again.

You walk to your first class on campus that fall and suddenly realize you need all those skills to survive to see your professional life.

You learn inside and outside of education that your uniform is not for your comfort; it is for your restraint.

You must accept backhanded compliments and unnerving comments with an eager-to-please smile.

You need this diploma and paycheck more than you’d like to slap the man so hard he’ll never speak like that again.

You learn there are four steps on making it to a successful adulthood: 1. Keep your head down.

2. Say these words.

3. Keep them happy.

4. Stay quiet until they feel you’re ready to move on.

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Retiknell Logan LaBrake

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To Live Caroline Helmstadt There upon the ground lay Diminutive a box; Strong but gentle hands eased Open the flaps— Coaxing the swallow To breathe a new breath And sing.

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Wooly Mammoth Drinks on the Future Brad Yurgens “You cannot cross the same stream twice.”

–Heraclitus “Freshwater availability on oceanic islands is an underappreciated, but important, driver of vertebrate mortality.”

–Russell W. Graham et al., “Timing and Causes of Mid-Holocene Mammoth Extinction on St. Paul Island, Alaska” Time’s arc filters our hoof-drawn moon and sun circles, for nature’s orbits.

Our ponds grow short, but I still feel a drying wetness.

Orange and blue cover the summer world with a memory, from winter’s taste.

I forget, what this was all about, there are my own memories, but our ponds grow short, evaporate into murk I cannot dredge with my trunk.

The mud is steady though, and soft on my back. It isn’t all bad; the mud tickles where it can.

The generations, I have told myself, in tired heavings while flapping my head towards the sea, are not to blame. The sea and his waves shortened and dragged the woken shore themselves.

The generations, I have told myself, they did not know.

How should they have, in their summers?

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Boricua-Blanquita Blues (Ode to Abuelito) Lauren Wells My Abuelito is young.

A white button-up clings, pants pressed, to his skin.

He’s fifteen, un asicalao, and wailin’ on— Is that Mariachi?—no, Elvis— no, can you hear the Drifters?

Two-stepping some bebita bonita con flores for cheeks, hips pivoting & 1, 2, 3 swayin’, whispers colliding in the warm moonlight from the New Jersey alleys to bonfire beach burnin’— he just keeps on singin’.

My mouth is moving.

Trying to keep up, bearing wrong notes, talkin’ along, tongue cascading over the words that it knows, maybe loves.

Rapid fire burn— replace English con las palabras Españolas, las palabras de los foreign home teeth, de familiar torn family feelings, de broken, melt-filled bellies, y moanin’, groanin’ corazones.

Y my tone-deaf cries y his soul-searching songs cannot be anything but sounds on the Caribbean, roaring, crashing waves on white shores.

Bawlin’, he made it to the new shore & now he’s Nueva Yores American, pero la cultura de su Boricua Mami, & he can only Cha cha cha between crushing compromisos.

He is the rough hood mixed Spanish-English medley, howlin’ out like God is gone, Motown gospel growl, deeper than un amor por rebelion, Then a sudden high note that sends him flyin’ towards War-stained eyes y jungle skies unseen.

Y all that is left of our memories is 69

just his street singin’.

Passed down into this—my—Bolero Blood.

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Northerner Plays with Fire in Water Suzanne Sunshower Rubes hitchhike into an unknown world: peacocks strutting it down from Detroit. Young and stupidly giddy, we’re just positive

Mardi Gras can’t zydeco without us.

Having made good time through Mississippi, we wash off sweat and road grit under weeping trees in a sleepy bayou.

Two bayou-boy passersby park and watch me naively wade into warm murk.

They ogle brown leg with wide grins, one saying sure as shit there’s gators in there, laughing as I backward-slog, tripping and catching myself as I go.

Slow-girl-slow, he warns. Too late.

I can already see an arched reptilian brow leering at my sweet youth; pointy choppers hungrily smacking, as the scruffier bayou-boy grabs me up from the muck, licks his lips, moans: Damn, little girl, you sho’ do clean up good.

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Rainy Morning Scene in a Beveled Sidelight

elegy for Angelika’s dad Deda Kavanagh

When a yellow finch settles to sip opals resting on tiny twigs in the crabapple tree, I think of you.

Your dad has‌ no, I think you call him, Father.

For his stature, his strength and symmetry.

Now, and for a while, you, his daughter, will be important as is the small yellow bird, continuing. Perching, waiting.

Watching, feeding, chattering with her mate, of, What is needed?

Next.

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Transcend Nicole Vogelpohl

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About Our Contributors

Fadk Aloqayly is a junior at Saginaw Valley State University majoring in graphic design. Her minors are general business and art. Her photographs were created by using a 4”x5” pinhole camera. She is planning to graduate in December 2020.

Doug Baldwin is a retired special education teacher. He worked for thirty years at Millet Learning Center in Saginaw, Michigan, teaching blind children to navigate.

After retirement, Dr. Baldwin began to write about the evolution of consciousness. He has published four books and has an Amazon Author Page. His newest book, Knights for the Blind in the Battle against Darkness: Helen Keller, is due out next summer. His poem “The Day I Lost the Seventh Game of the World Series” is about a bad moment that his mother and he experienced. However, he stresses that Grace was a loving, wonderful mother who gets a bad rap in this vignette for losing her temper one humid summer day years ago.

Stuart Barbier lives in Bay City, Michigan, and teaches rhetoric and composition at Delta College. When not teaching or doing all that teaching requires, he enjoys working on his 127-year-old house, both inside and out. He feels that maintaining an appropriate balance of physical and mental work within the complexities of these activities, let alone life, would be difficult without the welcome respite of poetry, whether his own or others’.

Austin Bauer is a poet from Bay City, Michigan. He is passionate about creating community around poetry where writers can share their work with each other. He is happily married and is enjoying life as a new dad.

Hope Baybeck is currently a senior enrolled in Saginaw Arts and Sciences Academy in the English Language Arts concentration. When she is not procrastinating over deadlines, she can be found at home listening to music and writing poems, hanging out with friends, or having an existential crisis. Throughout her short and strenuous career in writing, she has explored the topic of existence as she strives to find her place in the universe.

Grace Biber is a seventh grader at Holy Cross Lutheran School in Saginaw, Michigan. She loves to read, write, and act. She played Jane Banks in a production of Mary Poppins and Zazu in The Lion King. She plays volleyball and is a spelling bee champion. When Grace grows up, she wants to be a lawyer, actor, or writer.

Hannah Biber is in third grade at Holy Cross Lutheran School in Saginaw, Michigan.

Her favorite sport is gymnastics. She will be starting cheerleading later this year. She was a chorus member in The Lion King, and her favorite subject in school is math.

When Hannah grows up, she wants to be an art teacher, a marine biologist, or a writer.

Mark Brenner teaches 6th–8th grade English Language Arts at Holy Cross Lutheran School in Saginaw, Michigan. He received a B.A. from Concordia University (in Ann Arbor, Michigan) and an M.A.T. from Saginaw Valley State University. When not coaching soccer or directing musicals, Mark enjoys spending time with his wife, sons, and a miniature dachshund named Schatzie.

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Cbxtn the Fig works and lives in Saginaw, Michigan. He is a musician and playwright.

His current project, Temple of Wonder, is set to premiere in the summer of 2020. He can be contacted at zyxonian@gmail.com.

Danielle Cecil is a senior at Saginaw Valley State University pursuing a B.F.A. in photography. Her photographs are created using a 4”x5” view camera. She is planning to graduate in December 2019. She is from Farmington Hills, Michigan.

Paint, glass, and clay are usually the materials that Peggy Conlin uses when she is expressing her creativity. She is an art teacher who taught in public schools in New York and Michigan. At Saginaw Valley State University, she was an adjunct faculty member who taught visual art to future elementary teachers. Words are seldom used

by Peggy in her creative expression. However, the words in her poem are deeply meaningful to her.

Brenna Dean is a high school senior at Saginaw Arts and Sciences Academy. She enjoys writing short stories and poetry, as well as analyzing movies in her film class.

In addition, when she’s not busy with school work, Brenna likes to relax with her two dogs, read a book, or play euchre with her family.

Julie Debats is from Bay City, Michigan, and is studying to be an elementary teacher.

She always wanted to be a teacher because, growing up, she struggled academically as a result of a severe astigmatism, which wasn’t noticed until she was in the second grade.

Once she caught up, she excelled academically, winning awards from middle school to college—all thanks to one teacher who went above and beyond, making Julie feel like she could do anything. Julie is going into teaching because she wants to help students learn and to believe in themselves like this one teacher did for her.

Dustin R. Dehne was born in Saginaw, Michigan, and has lived there his entire life (25 years). He graduated summa cum laude from Saginaw Valley State University in December 2018 with a bachelor of arts degree, majoring in professional and technical writing and minoring in creative writing. Dustin works for Wildfire Credit Union as an eServices Representative, which is a career that is in line with his field of study.

Outside of writing creatively for fun, Dustin enjoys playing the guitar, music, hockey, traveling, camping and hiking, and being with family and friends.

Jocelynn Fair grew up in Au Gres, Michigan, a small community an hour north of Saginaw, but is now an Essexville resident. A third-year public administration major with a Black studies minor at Saginaw Valley State University, Jocelynn plans to work in the non-profit sector before moving into public policy after obtaining a bachelor’s degree. Jocelynn has been using poetry as a medium for healing and encouraging authentic expression since elementary school. Jocelynn, who prefers the pronouns they, them, and theirs, works for Underground Railroad and is president of the Sexuality and Gender Spectrum Alliance.

Kelli Fitzpatrick is an author and English teacher from Michigan. Her Star Trek story “The Sunwalkers” is published in Strange New Worlds 2016 from Simon and Schuster, and her fiction and poetry have appeared in Flash Fiction Online, KYSO 75

Flash, and Dunes Review. Her essays on science fiction media are in print from ATB Publishing and Sequart, and online at StarTrek.com and Women at Warp. She runs a creative writing group for teens and enjoys serving on the board of the Saginaw Bay Writing Project. More can be found about her at KelliFitzpatrick.com and @KelliFitzWrites.

Joshua Gillard is a visual artist and writer pursuing a dual degree in art and literature at Saginaw Valley State University. He loves Japanese culture. His photograph was taken with a Nikon DSLR. He lives in and works out of Bay City, Michigan.

Susan Griffith is a writer, educator, librarian, and activist. She reads children’s books regularly and voraciously, and has done so for the past six-plus decades (i.e., her whole life). She looks to the work of Naomi Shihab Nye, Kristine O’Connell George, Betsy Franco, and James Stevenson for inspiration and technique. As a book discussion leader for Prime Time, a family literacy program, and as a member of the Friends of Veterans Memorial Library, she works to build literacy and community in Mt. Pleasant, Michigan.

Bruce Gunther is a former journalist and editor who’s now a full-time freelance writer.

He’s a graduate of Central Michigan University and lives in Bay City, Michigan, with his wife, Trish.

Tristan Harman started writing in his freshman year at Saginaw Arts and Sciences Academy, where he was inspired by his teacher Jared Morningstar. A younger writer, Tristan says his poems focus mainly on the divide between romanticism and realism.

Tristan currently intends to study biomedical engineering, though he has been quoted as saying “Don’t quote me on that” on numerous occasions.

Kirsten Hellebuyck works in marketing and communications at the Bay Area Community Foundation, where she loves sharing stories of the amazing work that individuals and nonprofits are doing in Michigan’s Bay County. She also serves on the board for Hell’s Half Mile Events, designs jewelry inspired by real women’s journeys in her business Delirious Blue Jewelry, and has recently become addicted to backpacking and hiking with her new husband. She believes it’s never too late to try something new and is always, always dreaming of what adventure will come next.

Caroline Helmstadt is a sophomore at Saginaw Valley State University where she is majoring in English education. With a passion for reading and writing, Caroline hopes to influence the next generation of writers when she graduates and pursues a career in teaching. Outside of school, Caroline enjoys spending time outdoors. Much of the inspiration for her creative writing stems from her time in nature where she recognizes the beauty of the wild and the metaphorical ideas that it shapes.

Denise Hill is an educator and an editor of NewPages.com. She collects Petoskey stones, stray dogs, and plastic bags, and tries never to miss a week without buying a Michigan Lotto ticket. She was born and raised in Michigan and loves the mitten state with its great lakes and craft beer.

Karen Lulich Horwath is currently a literature/linguistics and creative writing teacher at Saginaw Arts and Sciences Academy. She also teaches freshman composition at 76

Saginaw Valley State University and is the former Writing Center coordinator at Delta College. Although she has been writing since elementary school and has been awarded for her memoir essays, this is her first published poem. This first line of her poem is taken from Theodore Roethke’s Straw for the Fire: From the Notebooks of Theodore Roethke, 1943–63. Karen believes poetry is a doorway to unlocking memory of self and of transporting self into the world. She wishes all of her students a grand voyage of discovery as they continue to write and develop their craft.

Kaitie Houthoofd is seventeen years old and lives in Bay City, Michigan. She has one older brother and five younger sisters. When she was seven, her parents got divorced.

As she grew older, her responsibilities began to take their toll. Balancing school, chores, and her sisters began to weigh her down, and she became very depressed. She found a way to deal with it all: writing her feelings down and turning them into songs and poems. Now, she is happily engaged and is planning to attend college to help people who have mental disabilities.

Charlotte Howald is a senior at Saginaw Arts and Sciences Academy and has been a part of its English Language Arts concentration for seven years. During her time at school, she has achieved a plethora of awards, her proudest accomplishment being a national Silver Medal from the Scholastic Arts and Writing Competition. She is honored to be published in Still Life and plans to continue creative writing in her college career.

Deda Kavanagh is pleased to have connected with the Bay Community Writing Center and its newly founded Writer’s Group meeting at the Wirt Library in Bay City, Michigan. Her poems, recently and soon-to-be published, can be found in Still Life 2018 and Walloon Writers Review.

Rosemary Kavanagh is a writer and a painter. She explores different ways to display the painted word and the power it has in three-dimensional form. After writing her work, Rosemary paints her short stories, poetry, and essays on canvas and paper, using oils and watercolors and working in a large format; then based on historical patterns, she sews life-size dresses out of this work. Her writing was displayed at Studio 23 in her “Civil War Dress” in October and November 2019. Her poems and stories have been published in the Hartford Courant Newspaper in Connecticut and Rhode Island, winning a “Best Letter Writer of the Year” award about her life in Ireland. Her writing also appeared in Still Life 2018.

Logan LaBrake is a senior graphic design major and an art minor at Saginaw Valley State University. His photographs were taken with a 35mm pinhole camera constructed from an Altoids tin and a 4”x5”-view pinhole camera constructed from wood. A native of Saginaw, Michigan, Logan plans on graduating in May 2020. In his free time, Logan enjoys participating in theatre and filmmaking.

Selena Land is a senior at Saginaw Arts and Sciences Academy. When she is not joyously napping or procrastinating by watching Netflix, she can be found with her four siblings or one niece and two nephews. She plans to study psychology when she graduates but hopes to keep writing as a hobby. Her favorite genres in which to write are poetry and prose.

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Chris Lucka is a retired high school guidance counselor, who has been a member of the Mid Michigan Writers group for over thirty years. She was previously published in anthologies produced by Kirtland and Mid Michigan Community Colleges and is pleased to be featured in Still Life. She is an avid reader and enjoys tennis, swimming, and travelling. Chris currently resides in Standish, Michigan, and Brooksville, Florida, with her husband, Dave.

Shawne Mellios is a special education teacher. She specializes in emotional impairments, has an M.A.T. in special education, and currently teaches in Saginaw, Michigan. She enjoys reading, writing, teaching, and traveling. She obtained a B.A. in psychology from Oakland University in Auburn Hills, Michigan, and was inducted into its Hall of Honor for basketball in 2016.

Jared Morningstar is a high school English teacher and adjunct English professor. He is also an occasional writer who is so happy to have “Our Eternal Love” published so that the rest of the world can learn about his muse and the rock of his family.

Quinn Nichols is a disability rights advocate, LGBT activist, and theatre student at Saginaw Valley State University (SVSU). She has appeared as CB’s Sister in Passion Theatre’s Dog Sees God: Confessions of a Teenage Blockhead and stage managed Emilie La Marquise du Chatelet Defends Her Life Tonight at SVSU. She has advocated in person at protests and rallies as well as on social media. Quinn is currently working with the Center for American Progress on raising awareness about insulin prices and healthcare. This is Quinn’s first published piece of poetry, and she is excited to share it with the world.

The Modern Library book of poetry became a sort of Bible to Eric P. Nisula when he was in grade school. He also began writing poetry at that time. In 1979, he joined the Saginaw Valley State University Music Department. In 1983, Dr. Nisula won first prize in the competition held by Poets of Now in St. Charles, Michigan. In 2004, his work was featured in The Rooftop Series published by Mayapple Press.

Ed Oberski retired in mid-2018. In previous lives, he was the C.E.O. of Great Lakes Bay Michigan Works!, did a poor job as a trial lawyer, served in the U.S. Coast Guard, and grew up on a small farm. He and his wife, Celina, live in Saginaw Township, Michigan. Together they enjoy visiting their daughter and son-in-law in Toronto and their son in New Orleans. In retirement, Ed studies Buddhism, enjoys an occasional cigar, attempts to play pickleball, and draws on his all of his varied experience to help with his poetry.

Suzanne Pearce grew up in a small farming town in western Michigan. She attributes her love of people to her many friendships that originated in her hometown and her love of nature due to the town’s proximity to Lake Michigan, both topics in her haiku.

She currently resides in Saginaw, Michigan, with her husband. Time with family and friends fills up her days, in addition to art in any form, reading, and gardening.

Ruth A. Pittman is an eighty-five-year-old former tap dancer. A mother of three daughters and a grandmother of two incredible young women, Ruth is most proud of her beautiful family. She is a seamstress, gardener, voracious reader, and a member of the Thomas Township Adult Coloring Club. Ruth co-created a woman’s neighborhood 78

Bible study in the 1970s and continues to enjoy the fellowship of the women in her current study at Shield of Faith Ministries. “Love Letter to the Lord” was inspired by a writing prompt from one of her studies and “just flowed from [her] heart.”

Serena M. Pittman writes, “It started with a flyer offering a workshop to help me dust off and update my résumé. That’s how I found out about the Saginaw Community Writing Center’s [SCWC’s] Creative Writing Group. The first year I hardly wrote anything and was ecstatic if a single word came to mind. But the folks at the SCWC were so friendly and supportive I kept coming back. In the second year, the writing prompts would produce pictures and story ideas in my mind’s eye, but still few words.

The night Imari Tetu told me I was going to write a poem, I thought ‘yeah right, good luck getting anything out of me; I’m spent.’ How she managed to dig that poem out of me on that night remains a mystery. Words and stories are flowing a little more freely these days. I am grateful to you all. I have fun every single time on my journey to find phoenix.”

Don Popielarz was born in Saginaw, Michigan, and educated at Holy Rosary Elementary School, St. Mary’s Cathedral High School, the University of Michigan, and Wayne State University, and on South Fourteenth Street. Don is new to the world of poetry. He started writing poetry at age sixty-two, and he describes his work as one of a scribe. He only writes what he hears and observes. “The Secret of Apples” was written as an apology/explanation of Don’s not-so-well-chosen words directed to a writing colleague.

Ben Quinno is a senior at Saginaw Valley State University pursuing a bachelor of fine arts in ceramics. When he’s not working with clay, he enjoys experimenting with such other mediums as painting, printmaking, and pinhole photography. His photos are captured with a modified 35mm Cannon Rebel X using a hand-crafted pinhole lens.

He plans to graduate in December 2020.

Lorenzo Russey is a resident of Freeland, Michigan.

Matthew Sauer is a young poet and fiction writer from Saginaw, Michigan, and a senior at Saginaw Arts and Sciences Academy in the English Language Arts concentration. He has received numerous honors for his work, such as being a twotime Scholastic Art and Writing Awards Gold Key recipient, a three-time Michigan Youth Arts Festival attendee, and a finalist for the local River Junction Poetry Contest.

“All-American” is his second published piece.

Elizabeth Shorkey spent her first three years of high school attending Saginaw Arts and Sciences Academy before being accepted to Interlochen Arts Academy for her 2019–2020 senior year. Elizabeth loves to write and reads a great deal in her free time.

Originally from Chesaning, Michigan, Elizabeth spends much of her time in nearby Saginaw, attending workshops and community activities with friends and family.

Originally from Detroit, Michigan, Suzanne Sunshower is a writer/artist now living in mid-Michigan, where she enjoys the symphony of colors in autumn and the snowy chill of winter. “Northerner Plays with Fire in Water” describes an event from her last big trip of the 1970s, when she hitch-hiked south from Central Michigan University and meandered into uncharted territory. Thankfully, all went well on that crazy trip.

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However, she very wisely never did anything like that again.

Marjorie Talaga lives in Bay City, Michigan, where she has been writing prose and poetry since childhood. Much of her writing has been inspired by real-life stories and characters she’s encountered through the various and colorful jobs she has held: soda fountain waitress; cocktail waitress; special education teacher in a prison; yoga instructor; teacher of literacy, poetry and English; census gatherer; director of job training programs; bookseller; and writer of newspaper articles. Marjorie’s poems, stories, and articles can be seen in college publications and in work-related magazines and articles.

Elizabeth Terry is a senior at Saginaw Valley State University working towards her B.A. in art with minors in graphic design and creative writing. Her photographs are digital double exposures. She plans on graduating eventually. She is from Breckenridge, Michigan.

Imari Tetu is a senior in the professional and technical writing program at Saginaw Valley State University (SVSU). She has been an SVSU Writing Center tutor since February 2018. During her time with the Writing Center, Imari has served as a community writing center tutor and workshop leader, a mentor tutor, and a technical writer. She is also the president of SVSU’s Association of Professional and Technical Writers and a member of the Usability Research Team. She will receive her bachelor’s degree in May 2020 and plans to attend graduate school.

A resident of Saginaw, Michigan, Pearl Thomas tries to defy negatives as she lives by positives. Anybody can do it, she says, but sometimes you become acquainted with negativity. To avoid those who dwell in negativity is the best answer. She lives by faith with her own choices, enjoying life and following where it leads to good. Her fate loves her. She likewise loves her fate. It is no doubt going to be so rewarding because good leads to goodness. Pearl wonders where would she be without poetry, awards, grammar teachers, or artistic communities.

Taylor Tucker received her bachelor’s degree in engineering mechanics from the University of Illinois and is now pursuing her master’s through the school’s Digital Environments for Learning, Teaching, and Agency program. She is the author of an ongoing engineering blog, Taylor Made, for the university’s Department of Mechanical Science and Engineering, and she has previously had poetry published in Talking River and Walloon Writers Review.

Nicole Vogelpohl is a senior at Saginaw Valley State University pursuing a B.F.A. degree and majoring in photography. Her photographs are created using techniques like multiple exposure with a digital camera. She is planning to graduate in December 2020. She is from Saginaw, Michigan.

Nala Warren is a senior at Saginaw Arts and Sciences Academy and is enrolled in its English Language Arts concentration. She is involved in a number of extracurricular activities, including Multicultural Club, Environmental Club, and the Varsity Soccer team. She enjoys writing poems and prose, and listening to all sorts of music.

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Lauren Wells is a senior at Saginaw Arts and Sciences Academy and has been a part of its English Language Arts concentration for four years. Lauren has garnered several awards; she has won a National Silver medal from the Scholastic Arts and Writing Competition, as well as two honorable mentions, seven silver keys, and two gold keys.

Lauren is also proud of her publications in her school’s literary magazine Perspectives.

A poet and fiction writer, Lauren mainly finds influence from her strong cultural and political ties. In her free time, Lauren enjoys doing absolutely nothing.

Brad Yurgens is pursuing a second bachelor’s degree in creative writing at Saginaw Valley State University, where he also works as a professional math and physics tutor.

His first degree is a bachelor’s in mathematics from Michigan State University. He’s interested in teaching English and mathematics at the secondary level. He divides most of his time between reading, writing, and playing games with friends.

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About Our Writing Centers

The Diane Boehm Writing Center (www.svsu.edu/writingcenter) at Saginaw Valley State University (SVSU) was established in 1995. Its mission is to serve SVSU by raising the level of excellence in student writing at all levels and in all disciplines.

To achieve this goal, the Writing Center provides one-on-one tutorial sessions, workshops, and various resources for students to develop their skills as writers and critical thinkers within the academic community and the community at large.

The SVSU Center for Community Writing is dedicated to promoting writing for all residents living in Michigan’s Great Lakes Bay Region. The Center for Community Writing holds workshops, sponsors writing contests and poetry slams, and oversees the work of its two community writing centers.

The first of its kind in the state, the Saginaw Community Writing Center was established in October 2015. It is open the second and fourth Tuesday of the month from 4–8 p.m. at Butman-Fish Library in Saginaw. The Bay Community Writing Center opened its doors in Fall 2017. Operating out of Bay City’s Wirt Library, it is open the first and third Tuesday of the month from 4–8 p.m. For more information on these centers, call us at 989.964.2829, or visit www.svsu.edu/ccw/.

The staff members at the Saginaw and Bay Community Writing Centers provide community members with free feedback on any piece of writing—no appointments are necessary. Both centers coordinate creative writing groups and hold writing workshops as well.

About Our Benefactor

Dr. Debasish Mridha is an American physician, philosopher, and poet. A leader in the Saginaw, Michigan, community, he describes himself as “a seeker of the deepest truth that affects human destiny.” He is the author of the book Verses of Happiness.

We remain deeply grateful for his support.

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Acknowledgments

Thanks to the following for their ongoing support of Still Life, the Center for Community Writing at Saginaw Valley State University (SVSU), and the Bay and Saginaw Community Writing Centers: • The Saginaw Community Foundation • The Public Libraries of Saginaw and the staff of Saginaw’s Butman-Fish Library • The Bay Area Community Foundation • The Bay County Library System and the staff of Bay City’s Wirt Public Library • Dr. Debasish Mridha • Deb Huntley • Joshua Ode • Andy Bethune • Ben Champagne • The SVSU Graphics Center

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Want to read more?

Want to submit to Still Life?

Visit www.svsu.edu/ccw/stilllife to view past issues of Still Life and to learn about submission deadlines, submission guidelines, and other contests that the SVSU Center for Community Writing is sponsoring.

Want to support our work and help us create more writing opportunities in the region?

Visit www.svsu.edu/ccw, and click on the “Give to CWC� button. All gifts are taxdeductible.

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