Vantage Point Spring 2023 Edition

Vantage Point Spring 2023

Vantage Point

Spring 2023 Edition

Leadership

Elke Coenders- Editor-in-Chief

Shelby Cundiff- Editor-in-Chief

Mary Gonzalez- Editor-in-Chief

Lyric Hyde- Treasurer

Editing Team

Madeleine Arganbright

Srija Badireddi

Conley Combs

Morgan Dawson

Payton French

Sasha Haunz

Amanda Houston

Sarah Kirtland

Sarah Matthews

Claire Melvin

Jenna Nicodemus

Abigail Rollins

Adrien Trainor

Writers Anonymous

Elke Coenders

Tony Correa

Taylor Garrett

Lyric Hyde

Abigail Rollins

Shae Wilson

Elena Wiltgen

An Zainetdinova

T a b l e o f C o n t e n t s

My Summer Delivering Flowers- Elena Wiltgen

Valdis' Sonnet- Anonymous

Avian Dreams- Abigail Rollins

Love me like That- Shae Wilson

Nude Ascending a Staircase- Elke Coenders

A Writer's Night- Elena Wiltgen

Lamont- Shae Wilson

Defiance- Abigail Rollins

What comes of spring- Elena Wiltgen

Black Woman Angry- Shae Wilson

Equal to a Woman- An Zainetdinova

Hatred is Earned, Not Given- Lyric Hyde (they/them)

Await Me, My Youth- Anonymous

Sourire- Elena Wiltgen

OJ Simpson- Shae Wilson

The Peace- Abigail Rollins

Heart of Gold- Taylor Garrett

The Woman- Elke Coenders

Morning Sky- Abigail Rollins

Isla- Anonymous

Sincerely, Ian- Elena Wiltgen

The Extinction of Women- Shae Wilson

A Promise- Abigail Rollins

Transplanted- Elena Wiltgen

Religion- Tony Correa

A Joke- Lyric Hyde (they/them)

Mr. Earthman- Elke Coenders

Do You Love- Shae Wilson

Cannot- Abigail Rollins

Whispers of Heaven- Taylor Garrett

The Crystal Knight- Anonymous

I Walked to the Park and- Shae Wilson

Empty Shells- Abigail Rollins

My Summer Delivering Flowers- Elena Wiltgen

She looks so peaceful, I thought, staring down at the cadaver with my arms full of flowers. The buzz of the air conditioner lifted through the air, dulling the other quiet sounds of the funeral home and keeping the air a brisk 60 degrees despite the Arkansas summer heat.

“Oh perfect, you can just put those there,” the funeral director said in the inviting and solemn way only those who have spent years comforting grieving people can. She gestured to the space next to the coffin that hadn’t been filled yet, finishing the line of funeral wreaths that had been sent. Other delivery drivers had already arrived and dropped off the $300 florals that someone had called to send I checked the nametag on the wreath Phyllis. Someone states away had gotten the call, text, email, Facebook update, something, and sought out the obituary. Maybe it was at 2 a.m., after a day of work avoiding thinking about Phyllis and what she meant to them. Maybe it was just another call on the list for the day. They put in the call and ordered flowers that were sent in lieu of visiting. In my case, they decided on gardenias and gladiolus and a simple white banner that read “To Phyllis. The best receptionist for over 50 years. ”

I was spending my summer working at a local chain flower shop, just before my junior year of college. I had only gotten the gig because a family friend was the manager and had already hired my brother the year before. He was a part-time driver and spent his days taking flowers up and down the highway, navigating a fifteen-passenger van full of roses and chrysanthemums through small neighborhoods. He was a former boy scout and spent one month out of the year removed from civilization at scout camp, cooking up chili for hordes of twelveyear-old boys. This left a driver-sized opening which I was able to easily sidle into, fresh off a semester away at college spent learning about Toni Morrison and French Gastronomy.

The flower shop was small; only about 8 people worked there and most of them were only part-time. I spent my days listening to podcasts, audiobooks, music, and taking the flowers where they were meant to go. The average was around twelve deliveries a day. That’s about one an hour with the exception of my very first day, where I had twenty-six and managed to get them all to where they were meant to go. What surprised me most about the job wasn’t that I was getting paid good money to listen to audiobooks or that most funeral homes will have two entrances with one just for deliveries. It was how invisible I was while still being present for some of the most important days of these people’s lives.

Take Phyllis, for example. She had lived a long life. Eighty-seven trips around the sun, each filled with details that will be lost to time and fallible memory. She was memorialized in the words of the speaker at her funeral, in the minds and hearts of her loved ones, and all the while I was also affected by her life, even after she had passed. Phyllis would never know I was there that day. And neither would most of the other people there. To them, I was about as important as the flies that would drift in as the doors opened and shut. They wouldn’t remember my name, or whether I had spilled some of the water from the vase on the carpet in front of the casket. If anything they would remember that I was polite, Southern, and that the flowers were lovely.

If you had asked any of the guests to pick me out of a lineup of ten girls with blonde braids and a pair of clear glasses, there would be no chance other than luck that they could. And yet sometimes they did. They looked me in the eye and said thank you and held the door as I left. Sometimes, after I sent pictures of my home deliveries, they would text back with exclamation points and use my name, saying thank you and telling me how beautiful they were.

I find I like being remembered. When two friends of mine who aren’t necessarily friends both text me after seeing each other as if to say “Look, I remember! Look at how we are all connected!” or the intentionality of using my name in a sentence as if with every repetition of my name the ties that bind us get a little stronger. I am not forgotten in the moments I am alone, though sometimes it may feel that way. I wonder if Phyllis knows she is not forgotten.

And the thing is, after all of this after watching people celebrate birth and mourn death and live to see landmarks like weddings and house-buying I still feel like I'm six. Picking flowers in my mother’s garden and mutilating her daffodils in an attempt to make a bouquet for her to keep in the kitchen, to give it cheer. Because that’s what flowers do. They make the world a little more beautiful for a short while and we take that deal despite knowing they’ll be gone one day because it’s better than the alternative: a world wherein no one takes the time to bring a little more life into the spaces we inhabit.

My girlfriend leaves me flowers in my dorm and always chooses the ones that will last the longest (carnations) or will be safest for my roommate’s cat (tulips). I always think of the grocery store worker that filled the bucket of water that they were sitting in when she chose them. The worker needed to scrub the bucket with antifungal before filling it with just enough water to hold it down. To pick the pollen from the stamen of the lilies so they wouldn’t stain the white petals around them. All for a beautiful girl to walk in and pluck them from the buckets, wrapping the dripping stems in newspaper and bringing them home to me, thinking that they will bring a smile to my face.

I love reflecting the love I feel onto the spaces I inhabit. I fill my walls with pictures of loved ones, notes, and mementos in order to remember that even when I get nervous and the world feels big, I have so much love around me. I see my love reflected back in a lot of ways. I feel the ways that I have crept into others’ worlds and how precious the pockets that I inhabit and grow in are. We make these decisions to decorate our spaces that will brighten them because that’s what we always want: a little more life in a room, especially at a funeral.

Valdis' Sonnet- Anonymous

I was a god once, but I called her love divine. I was a god once, and I carried that along a straight back

And bore it beautifully–every wild thought and ocean breath and Ivory pillar like the column of her neck–upheld beneath parthenons,

Etched with blood my old stories and old ways, the old ways I Loved, and lost, and loved again. I was the fabled witch

And the burning king and the lost princess and the monster

Underfoot, trapped in time and memory that only I remembered. “Does love steal away godhood,” I tried to ask her.

“Mortal love for a mortal heart,” was her soft reply. And, oh, please come home, beloved, come home, Kiss my brow, and with your fingers oil my hair–

One last moment of glowing, pulsing mortality. I was a god once–give it back.

Avian Dreams- Abigail Rollins

I often want to be a bird.

Live my life to sing and be free, Not have to utter a word.

Sometimes when I look at the sea I imagine myself with wings, Nothing but ocean around me.

Into the breeze she swings

A feathery, graceful creature

High in the air she sings…

Now let the world try to teach her How to follow its simple rules

Now let society reach her!

I whisper a sigh as my head cools, Stuck in a whirlpool that ever winds down, Trying to use these thousand tools

That have prevented others from breakdown, Wishing my spirit could burst for the sky

But I only exist to watch myself drown.

I often wish to sing instead of cry, Feel myself weightless (not heavy with hardship), Launch myself higher than cruel words could fly.

Just as I feel like I’m losing my grip, I’d leap off the ground and ascend to the clouds, Leave pain behind for a heavenly trip!

Love me like That- Shae Wilson

I will forever envy my brother for the way you call him “ son ”

Because you seem to call me nothing. That doesn’t mean I’m going to be the one

To apologize to you for just being Born a woman. Yet, for some Reason, I still find myself wanting You to call me “ son ”

Only in that way that you say it to him. It’s not about being a boy

It’s the way you make him sound like he is your limb How it seems you could not exist if he were destroyed That you hold him in your soul and under you skin I want you to see me like that, like your pride and joy I need you to love me like thatlove me the way you love him

I feel you forget I am part of you too

Forget that I have your face, that I have your hands That I learned to walk by doing what you do But I am not you because I’m not a man? I know you ’ re going to misconstrue

This whole poem and you won't understand You don’t know how to.

I don’t think it would bother

Me so much if you didn’t make It clear that I am the other

That he came straight

From you and though he is my brother

He can just take

All of you, all of his father

But not me, because I am only a daughter.

Nude Ascending a Staircase- Elke Coenders

She is bare with soft skin, a beam of incandescence frothing down the stairs into your limbs carefree, naked of conscience.

She’s just how you want her: drunk on you, her legs around your waist but with each descent, her body loses its slur and makes its way down in haste.

You hide behind plastic passion to conceal the lewd, still, you want your money ’ s worth so she ought to keep the mood. She better purr and whinny as you fasten on her girth.

But her rouged face grows tense and she tosses glances behind her back you growl hungry words that don’t make sense a friendly threat to keep her on track.

Her toes now curl into carpet her jaw grows rigid, her forehead wrinkles your arms are no longer her target she turns from you, throwing back your singles.

Her feet spring up from the step and the curtains close on the show. Up the stairs, her body schleps with heavy toe upon toe.

She guards her swinging body now rushing for the next floor, her legs clench with every bound. She grabs the knob on the back door.

Her skin falls under callous light no longer so ready to welcome you. Her motions fast, pale, vanish from your sight. The flightless bird just flew.

A Writer's Night- Elena Wiltgen

I find words quite difficult and often beyond reach; Despite my best efforts I’ve lost all figures of speech. The pronouns the adverbs the adjectives the nouns all seem to desert me when my pen ’ s around.

And so it seems my words will stay in my head

To jangle and jostle as I climb into bed.

For at night when I lay on my side as I sleep My words leak out from my head and onto the sheets.

No pen to be found the words flit away, thoughts running and racing to greet the break of day. I wake and see my words have once more leapt from me Leaving me alone without a verse And with empty sheets.

Lamont- Shae Wilson

I stand in the street with no shoes on Boys took em

All I had to give.

This is where I learn to stop carrying things on me Like a condom Or consequence. And here you are, wrapped in your pink blanket Mama takes it.

Now we both know to keep our pockets empty And how to survive when we ’ re cold.

I stand in on the sidewalk with my brother’s Hand tangled in mine. my father yells at my mama To come pick our asses up. We watch her make it to the end of the street Before turning around.

You will never have to feel this Because your mama doesn’t know where I live.

I stand in the hall with my boys We ain’t even graduated yet And half us got a bitch ass baby mama Hollerin’ bout some child support. How i'm supposed to make that 60 bucks When my hands are full of you And how i’m supposed to be a thug With your hand wrapped round my thumb?

I stand in the designated drop spot

Waiting for your mama to hand you off.

This every weekend thing ain't gonna work

It's why you cry so hard.

But I will teach you

How to self soothe

Same way my father taught me

Lay you down on my bed

Between two pillows And leave for work.

Defiance- Abigail Rollins

The rain falls, but it doesn’t pour; The wind blows, but it doesn’t howl; The piano plays, but it doesn’t ring The clouds weep, but they do not mourn.

I shout in defiance to the sky, I glare at its gray melancholy; I sit back and listen to the pattering tears I mourn, but I do not weep.

What comes of spring- Elena Wiltgen

And what do you think? I ask the first bloom of spring. It peeks its tender head from behind the blanket of snow.

Shall we wait through the snowmelt and see what else turns up?

The bud turns itself downward to shake out its leaves. The sun warms its petals and opens the bloom, The powdery drift stark white against forget-me-not blues.

I think I’d like to stay just for a bit

Let’s see what will come of spring.

Black Woman Angry- Shae Wilson

Feels like angry in my veins

Under any and every circumstance, i am burning like Coal. it is simmering right in my chest, Killing me slowly.

And yet i will not

Put it out because Without it

I am only “black woman. ”

Equal to a Woman- An Zainetdinova

With the concretes of our gaze trails meeting, I see the way your pupils slide on my cheeks. When my hands squeeze the Fresh dough’s heart that is beating, The corner of my mind catches the look you give me. In your eyes, I become equal to a woman.

I become complete.

I am holding your hand, my fingertips mapping a palm of yours, I am scared of the darkness, but most of all, I am afraid that I would want to walk into the delusion, to become equal to the woman— the Greatest human that our shared God created on Earth Just to fall in your arms for crumbs of love.

It is a feeling that is not destined for me. It belongs To the greatest thing our beloved God created in the universe, It belongs to a woman.

Hatred is Earned, Not Given- Lyric Hyde (they/them)

To bare teeth and claw is not evil, The poison of pokeberries not malice, But a desire to remain unconsumed. It is the ultimate love

To the self,

To the injured,

To the downtrodden.

Teeth only taste blood with reason.

I will grow a garden of venom.

The veined, piercing stare of doll’s eyes; Hemlock, the death of philosophers; Wolfsbane hanging her head in quiet contemplation; Belladonna’s sweet vengeance; Croton hiding her twisted leaves in the dark.

I’ll pluck and press their flowers, Juice and dry their berries

And grind their roots to powder.

I’ll tuck them away in an oak box And hide them in the cupboard

Beneath the sink, under the Widow

And next to the ginger, mint and Earl Grey.

The box is locked, and left unlabelled.

So I’ll bare my teeth softly, And you drink down the cup.

Await Me, My Youth- Anonymous

The scraped skin on my knees, the sticking fabric, It’s red like blood and smells like blood,

But these are grass stains

From when I tumbled down a hill at twelve–

Atop cannon fire and bullet clippings

And old, dislodged horse shoes

And nails that pierced the skin of saints–

From when I tumbled down a hill into a valley

That smelled of saltwater and a thousand lives.

When I was a child, I lived a thousand lives, And I counted them up, my stars in a jar;

I live but one now, far from shore,

Away from the thousand that wrote me,

But if I could, I’d gather them up,

All messy, caught in my skirts, And sit with them again

And drink a rich wine

And tarry a little longer

With my scraped knees.

Sourire- Elena Wiltgen

Words cannot capture it. And yet I’ll still try

To write how it feels when the light catches her eye.

Golden brown melts to honey and her lashes fan down

To meet the crinkles of the corner as she begins to grin now.

The freckle on her cheek lifts to greet her eyelid with a kiss,

Pushed up by the subtle movement of her lips.

Her mouth curves with the contours of her cheekbones and nose

And her dimples peek out as her smile unfurls into a complete tableau.

The coils of her hair frame the piece perfectly, An image of art itself looking back at me.

OJ Simpson- Shae Wilson

Is living under the stairs.

Mama, I swear

That man is hiding under there!

And when I was doing laundry, he looked me square

In the eyes! Oh my god- the way the hair

Stood up on the back of my neck!

Mama! Why don’t you care?

Just because he didn’t scare

You doesn’t mean he’s not there

Hiding under the stairs!

Go on, mama, go check.

The Peace- Abigail Rollins

Silence.

It’s the key to many things.

When the sky is a dull shade of blue with Pastel shades of red on the horizon that Reflect into the ripples of a green lake

Silence ties it all together. When the moan of engines rumbling by Over the living earth as they all go Somewhere

And lives and people pass you by like The white seeds of so many dandelions Silence is what brings it all together.

People don’t understand that Silence is behind it all in The midst of everything that sings and hums, And moans or groans, for Sound is simply movement and Silence is stillness And the world would be better, more peaceful, if It all was covered in a veil of silence.

Heart of Gold- Taylor Garrett

suck it in, zip it up, whatever it takes to make you look thin. strap on the heels, shape up the legs, and don’t let them know that you hear all their slander and your heart may not heal. “pretty hurts, love. perfection is key.” the thinner the better, the tanner the prettier. what you ’ re given doesn’t cut it. be the change that you see all over your Instagram feed. green leaves, energy teas, always counting calories. if it has flavor, you know you’ll regret it later. the weight scale will keep you honest, the treadmill will keep you disciplined.

“ a moment on the lips, forever on the hips.” the measuring tape will know what you ate. everybody judges what they can see. they don’t know the beauty that lies within. the heart of gold, the kindest soul, the kind of beauty that never sags and isn’t fleeting. “true beauty is timeless” a clock that doesn’t expire, a tan that doesn’t fade, a hair that never sees a silver-lined day. the girl with the heart of gold can own the eyes of every room.

The Woman- Elke Coenders

Tempt not a desperate man. That was what I wanted to say. But instead, I sat there, speechless on the nylon barstool of a hotel bar, as a beautiful woman perched herself a couple of seats down from me. She was barely wearing anything. A lacy shirt that revealed her lower back, a short, leather skirt that seemed to give its best but failing effort to conceal her Dietrich thighs. I downed the liquor in my glass, not even tasting it. I knew it was wrong she… was wrong. But, what if?

She never even glanced in my direction but I could feel the energy heaving off of her. A faint recollection began to break through my subconscious. She was quite literally the woman of my dreams. Last night, I remembered this tall, ethereal red-headed woman. It was a night to remember. It was fate. It had to be. I tried to gather the nerve to talk to her.

Why wasn’t she looking at me? Not even a glance? She wanted me. Maybe it was the wedding ring. That must have been it. I ran my fingers through my speckled hair.

I loved my wife. This wasn’t betrayal. She’d do the same thing if it was a young man sitting there, longing for her. She would understand. We both missed being longed for. This was my chance. In a few more years, I’d be ripe enough to discard into a nursing home.

I had already heard whisperings of: “Sir, when do you think you might like to retire?” They were children. In diapers when I was at the height of my career. Yet they spoke to me as if I needed a diaper. They told me I was angry. I was not. I simply was not ready for them to tell me my life was over. Their lives had barely even begun.

But this woman. She understood me. She knew who I was. I was more alive then than any of the pipsqueaks telling me I was too old to draft contracts and negotiate deals and play golf. I was more alive than my wife, than my new “boss,” than my daughter, than my daughter’s little toddler brats.

Maybe the only person in the world who was more alive than me was the woman. The woman, with her curls tinged with gold flowing down her valleyed back. The woman, with her knee-high black-suede boots, which I recognized came from Bloomingdale’s (my wife bought a pair for herself and our daughter for her 30th birthday -- you ’ re finally a real adult now, she said, as if it was something to celebrate). The woman with the fishnet stockings, which had the potential to be slutty, had she not worn them so royally. The woman, who held herself with such class, as if she was running teatime for the Daughters of the American Revolution, but crossed her legs and lifted her chest, as if she was posing for the cover of a Playboy that would hide under the beds of billions of teenaged boys and middle-aged men. The woman, who for the first time since appearing in my line of sight, glanced at me.

There was a tenderness in her eyes that threw me, a sort of love, a familiarity that I had not felt in so long. I was sure she’d have the cold eyes of some unreachable myth. But no, she had grey circles beneath her eyes, sinking crescents. Was it tiring to be so beautiful?

Those eyes drew me in, as they dissected me. I felt myself gravitating toward her. A surge of energy. I was alive. I rested my hand on that thigh. My fingers pushed ever so slightly up under the edge of her skirt.

She gently laid her hand atop mine. I looked up at her. She bit her lip and blinked quickly a few times. She squeezed my hand and blinked some more, with her camel’s eyelashes. “Let’s get you to your room, ” she said.

She wanted me? I slid off the stool, putting my arm around her. She wanted me. She held me as we walked out of the bar.

I found myself in the elevator. For a moment, panic fluttered in my chest. Did she leave? Another warm squeeze of my hand. She wanted me. The gravity of the elevator threatened to topple my legs. My face felt pink as I clutched the railing. She couldn’t see me like this. I was alive.

She held me closer. A ding, as the doors opened. Putting forth a stretch of my virility, I freed myself from her wanting grip and gestured as if to say ladies first. She rubbed my shoulder, sensually. “You know, I’d really like to keep my eye on you. ” She walked me out of the elevator, taking the corners decisively, elegantly. The woman really did remind me of my wife. She wanted me.

We stood in front of Door 673. Everything I had done brought me to this moment. The moment where the woman wanted me me in her room, with her, because she saw me. She saw that I was alive. I brushed the hair from her face.

She crossed her arms. “Well? Are you going to open the door?” But this was her room. I held out my hand for the key. “Really?” She lost some of that smoothness in her face. She was looking more and more like my wife. “I knew you’d lose your key. Lucky for you, I got a spare. ” She pulled the card from her boot. It was how my wife carried her cash.

What was this? Some sick test? Had I failed? No she wanted me. And I wanted her. I leaned her against the door as I pressed my lips to hers it was vodka, I tasted and I felt her breathe in. And then she breathed out, pushing me away, blowing me away. “No, Dad, not again.”

I shook my head. She… she wanted me. “I’m drunk.” My voice sounded different than I had thought.

Her sigh frosted against my skin. “No, you ’ re not. I had the bartender water down your drink. Now, come on, let’s go inside.” She ran the key through the knob and pulled me into my airconditioned, carpet-smelling room. “Get in bed, we have an early day tomorrow.”

The test tomorrow. What was the point? Everybody forgets. No cure. Everybody forgets me. I got into bed. It felt cool and soft against my back. She came to tower over me, pulling the cloudy blankets up to my chin. Nobody wants me. She perched herself on the edge and I felt the weight of the bed shift and my weight shift towards her. She leaned down until I could see into her melting eyes and kissed my forehead with sigh-stained lips. She wanted me.

Morning Sky- Abigail Rollins

The sky

Is half a pearl

The white is so complete

The clouds are perfectly still

It’s as if I live inside an oyster

And I

See a light ray

On the white horizon

A thin ring of primrose yellow

Seals us inside the orb of nothingness

And I

Wonder if we ’ re

All living in the sea

Without anyone knowing it

Perhaps we ’ re all just living in circles.

My dreams

Echo inside

My preoccupied mind

Spinning in circles like a storm

Like a hurricane waiting to break shore

Sending

Joy or terror

Through my beating heart like

Steady wings of good or bad news

Or streams of electric gladness, sadness, Until I forget them.

And I can go back to

The sky that many call gloomy…

But I think I’ve never seen something so Beautiful.

Isla- Anonymous

Hungry for the widowed sky

Who lost the sea to the shore, His hands edge the lily-tie Which binds him to the moor.

A blue cradle of sunlight, A glass of honeyed white wine, A red glint of metal slight, The smell of damp, splintered pine.

Too well I recall her face, Hands rough but small in his own. Merriment of ageless chase In laughter of her alone.

But to the Road he lost her, Away beyond the black deep, To shadowed climbs, dreams that were, And the call of wakeful sleep.

And the brown-eyed she Was the summer, and the snow-thaw, and the stars.

Sincerely, Ian- Elena Wiltgen

The loss of him means I must carry our memories alone.

I am all that is left

To remember our matching Converse

As the sign from the universe

That we were meant to be friends

I am all that is left

To sing our duet

with half the part sung in silence

One voice echoing through an empty room

I am all that is left

To feel his words before he spoke them

From a singular look;

The knowing that comes from decades together

I am all that is left

To tell his stories and describe his laugh

To hold his handprint on my heart

Knowing his two decades will stay with me

Until the end of mine

The Extinction of Women- Shae Wilson

I will bless you by leaving you to the elements

Let the sun love you

The way that son cannot

Let the wind touch you gently

Graze your new skin like a whisper

During a silent night

Let the animals gaze at you

And know not what you are

I will bless you by holding you in the bath

Baptizing you in case there is a god

Hope she was a mother too

So she might understand why I had to

Make sure the only thing to ever touch you

Would be me and warm water

So she might understand

What love has made me do

I will bless you by taking mugwort

To ensure that you never know

What it is to have your first cry

That you will never have to learn

What a hospital sounds like

What a man looks like

Or how it feels to be naked

In hands that do not belong to you

In this way I will love you

This way my mother did not think to have to.

A Promise- Abigail Rollins

Nature is poetry

Reaching out to grab you

Gently, slowly

With sharp silver branches

Nature is a promise

Waiting to envelop you

Warmly, softly

With lilies and rose petals

Nature is a message

Waiting to be read

Silently, lovingly

By noses, eyes, and ears

Nature is a reverie

Singing of its life

Sweetly, steadily

In sea and stone alike.

Transplanted- Elena Wiltgen

Roots lifted from Hazleton soil

Bits of earth clinging to barely grown tendrils

Vestiges remaining in the earth

Broken from the source

New clay soil in which to be replanted

A home found deep in the ground

Cool dirt creating space for uprootedness to settle

Arkansas heat making it difficult to thrive

Struggling blooms fight to the surface

Suffocating humidity wilts tender leaves

Storm clouds roll through the valley

Raindrops rejuvenate desiccated roots

A rainbow lights the sky

Promises to keep growing

Roots keep pushing down

Religion- Tony Correa

the tones, the melancholic hue of your eyes, and the sweet undertones of your smile.

you remind me of when you feel spring for the first time.

the delicate petals of our get-togethers and the esoteric sensation of our time.

a Religious experience, written in time told on the same verse and line.

folklore to the ears of others, our little piece of heaven.

“Sing me like a Bible hymn” hold the eucharist like… you did my heart

Our Holy Trinity delicate renaissance feelings;

oil-pastel-colored frescos of our rosary drawing our fingers through the silk pleasantly the coats of pink lemonade on your lips sweet,

“When I'm down on my knees, you're how I pray ” when i’m with you, you ’ re my crucifix til the thesis are written boarded on my bedroom door, you ’ re my religion

A Joke- Lyric Hyde (they.them)

Three Catholic girls knock.

A corporate goth, a collar-adorned witch, and a metal fetishist answer the door.

Perhaps, at some point in time, a meaning appears behind the joke.

“Hail Moloch, Dark One whose eyes are burning skyscrapers” says the goth, his nose powdered a brighter white than the rest of his face. Eyes wired-wide and golden, enthusiasm muted by the black lip liner of the weekend, he takes a pamphlet and places it in his paper shredder, painted with seals sworn in by red eyeliner pens.

“Hail Baba Yaga, Wild Woman whose house wanders,” says the witch, his clothes reeking the mimic of a skunk. Eyes tired and red, collar tightened against the pale tattooed neck, he takes a pamphlet and tears at it with canine teeth, iron shaped to fit a human jaw.

“Hail Christ, Cenobite Son whose cross binds us to pleasure,” says the fetishist, his veins bursting from bruised skin. Eyes crazed and sea-black, grimace turned smile by the twist of a screw, he takes a pamphlet and shoves it in his pants, where it is left to soak up blood and rust.

Three wise men of junkie habits, they appear again reincarnate. They seek the barn bed that bears witness to pleasures. Bird wings rot on nails, angelic stigmata born from religious cynics who find faith in their suffering.

Mr. Earthman- Elke Coenders

I parked my vehicle on your tin roof

My pit stop for gravity and company Always wanted to leave you some proof

Let you know you know the truth

Why do I come here when home is so near?

Got nothing to fear where nothing’s too dear

If I could live with you beneath your sky

The stars should seem much more clear

Hey, Mr. Earthman

Won’t you light your fireplace and meet me face to face?

Hey, Mr. Earthman

Left my place in outer space for your race

I park my vehicle inside your garage and plant in your mind a cryptic montage

I pray to stay you betray in cliche when you say, “Take me away ”

Hey, Mr. Earthman

Won’t you ever know my name and know we are the same?

Hey, Mr. Earthman

It’s a shame I must lay claim to your brain

Hey, Mr. Earthman

Won’t you please give me a home inside your sweet unknown? Hey, Mr. Earthman

You don’t want to roam this stone all alone

Do You Love- Shae Wilson

Warm wind in the afternoon? Iced Coffee?

I kind of missed sweating which is crazy because you know how much I hate to sweat. I can’t help but miss things when they are gone. can’t help but love things when they are here. Like the smell of honeysuckles And the sound of bees getting all up in my business

The way my eyes take so long to adjust, but not long enough for me to finally buy some real sunglasses. Do you love it? The weeds growing back in. Looking for ones long enough to braid into a crown. Getting a sunburn on your scalp. I love it And you And your sunburnt scalp too.

Cannot- Abigail Rollins

What do you do when you cannot speak

Cannot think

Cannot breathe

Because you do not know how to feel

There are mountains

And there are valleys

But sometimes there’s just an in-between

A place where you cannot speak

Cannot think

Cannot breathe

A place where you do not know how to feel

And the sky is always gray

And there’s never a sunny day

When the world has turned away from you

And nothing makes sense anymore

They think you cannot speak

Cannot think

Cannot breathe

They think you do not know how to feel

Your life becomes a worthless toy

So they yell at you

They ignore you

They hurt you

They take away the light and expect you

Not to notice

Or not to feel

When all you can do is feel

And all you ’ re ever doing is feeling

The world around you

And the hurts And the joys And the light And the darkness

But they don’t understand

Will they ever understand?

Whispers of Heaven- Taylor Garrett

Clouds in the sky

So fluffy and white, Like pieces of cotton candy Floating in a vast sea of blue. One needs not wonder why The birds take glorious flight, The sun shines and everything’s dandy

But those lucky birds have not a clue.

I open my eyes and put up no fight for as far as I can see the darkness ensues. No one to hear my cries, I scream with all my might, Throw my hands up to God frantically Only I know the pain that subdues. I close my eyes once more, Your laughter feels warm around me. Your soft hands of caring, Your eyes full of adoration, Your words laced with love

Let me know That you will always love me from above.

The Sun shines even in the darkest of nights because your smile now lights up the sky. You are the brightest star, The sweetest peach, The most beautiful buttercup, And the warmest breeze. I look no further Than the happiest things, Because you are behind them.

The wind beneath your wings.

The Crystal Knight- Anonymous

I met the crystal knight On my way to the sea; ‘Tween shades I sat and looked, By and by he turned to me.

He was plucking flowers by a grave; Dusk-stroked stains across his brow, Meadow of snowdrops ‘neath each arm, With hushed breath, he spoke his vow.

And though for whom he would not say, One he tucked behind my ear; With petals pressed against my chest, Behind his way I trailed near.

But when we faced the craggy shore, I knew at last what I’d begun. Graves before us, graves behind us, No place for Death nor I to run.

And I fell, and I fell, and I fell.

I Walked to the Park and- Shae Wilson

I could smell honeysuckles again

The traffic was kind of slow, So when I walked along the bridge I could hear myself think. I check for broken windows in the vans Under the bridge

But there aren’t any.

Because I’m 18 now. I’m older now.

The little library doesn’t have any books in it I think about buying some Placing them in there one by one.

But then I’d cry when they’re untouched Three weeks from now.

They replaced the bench I had my first kiss on

And filled the sand pit With cement.

Good.

Empty Shells- Abigail Rollins

I’m empty inside

Like the shell of a peanut

Fragile and hollow

Breakable

Life carved out the life in me I have nothing more to say.