Author: Alexis Chambers

Upon the Walls of the Cosmos
Fabrice Poussin

A flame in a gentle breeze she oscillates above the sea
writing volumes of moments known and those to be
gliding softly upon the crest of the luminous waters.

Tapping the sun with a delicate finger extended to heaven
she awakens the elements to the tale she must carve
with a nonchalant wrist made for a new born babe’s comfort.

Another step forward beneath the undulating silken dress
waves of a voice she does not yet dare to raise above the flow
the curves of a light ankle trace vowels on the changing floor.

Contemplating a darker star in the great expanse above
she slowly freezes for but a moment tilting her head in a smile
she barely opens those blues to tell the stories hidden beneath the oceans.

Arms joined upon a fluttering life, wings bright as a butterfly’s
she levitates into infinity confounded into the thin ether
to vanish into the glow, her chapter done unto walls of the cosmos.

The Heather Girl
Alexis Wright

Her eyes are suns, and her ears
A flower each.  But her mouth,
She has trouble finding it.
Lost in a sea of voices
She has none, nor does she
Desire to be heard above the noise.
She paints herself heather
For it is a quiet color,
One that doesn’t speak unless
Spoken to.  But she dances,
Oh she dances, as if silence
Is her most favorite song.
Eyes ablaze and rosy lips spread wide
She reaches for joy, tip-toed, as if plucking
Stars from the sky.  Perhaps,
It is not another voice
That the world so desperately needs
But a smile soft, sweet, and powerful,
Like rain on a summer day.

That Old House
Jay Chambers

Rusting doors,
Rotting floors,
Discolored siding,
And a sagging roof.

The appearance betrays,
The significance of,
That old house.

The old house,
Was home to so many,
It birthed many children,
And memories as well.

I remember the Christmas,
Where the first great-grand,
Made her debut,
Dressed in red,
Tiny and beautiful,
We all took turns,
Cradling her in our arms.

One of my earliest memories of that old house,
Is of a party,
With a large coconut cake,
And a large Fortieth Birthday Candle.
I ate many meals there,
Breakfast, lunch and supper,
All prepared with love,
By my Granny’s aged hands.

She’s gone now,
And the house sits alone,
Empty of everything,
Except memories and,
Rusting doors,
Rotting floors,
Discolored siding,
And a sagging roof.

The One You Love
Whitney-Faith Smith

1.

I, in a bed lying 
and waiting,
in sickness propped up
as if I thought 
He was coming
to give me help

in the healing, to raise
from imperfection what could 
be made whole by Him. In this room,
the sun’s rays slip from view.

Darkness chased light.
Night has slithered 
within me.

2.

Black, can’t move, 
hard stone against my back,
suffocating, blind,
the smell of myrrh.
Breathe, breathe, breathe.
“Come out!”

Immediately my swaddled  
feet strike the dirt.
No sight to guide me.
As if the rope of the
high priest were around 
my waist, out of death I am 
drawn. 

“Take off the grave clothes 
and let him go.” 
Warm hands touch me;
light. 
Tomb behind me 
I see the Son.

Scorched-Earth Policy
Kristin Towe

I remember the night we almost broke-in-two:
               outside my window all the world burned orange
               and mama had her hands lifted to the heavens
               and with a mouthful of ashes, she cried out “fire!”

That was after the wineglass was emptied:
               a tiny crystal relic from a thirty-year marriage
               a rescued artifact, never before needed to be used,
               the word “bride” traced in the white of fresh ash.

However, it was before I found the fork:
               near the fire pit, lit by the sun, Poseidon’s trident
               rusty, sticking up rod-straight out of a pile of dirt
               the American flag, marking the conquest of the universe.

                                                              What I saw from my window was a man
                                                                             who was not afraid to burn.

Everything afterwards looked like this:
              Persephone, with hair like fiery ribbons lit with sin,
              reached out to Hades, and he took her in his dead arms
              and the fire-pit smothered out, and my window darkened

                                                              And nothing was orange anymore.

Mama, mama, what compelled daddy to think he could eat the world?
               and why, when we had plastic, did he choose silver?
               and did he burn it first to swallow quicker?
               and why was his glass empty by the door,
               while yours sat full and bleeding on the table?

A Royal Crypt
Fabrice Poussin

She rests peacefully at the foot of twins
pillars of oak, pine and other trusted allies
a temple erected to the memory of a life
silent, under eternal blossoms, asleep.

Nature bursts with the life she bravely gave
emblem to the sacrifices as a giant is felled
dark pupils dream still of those gentle hours
ashes feed colossus reaching on high.

In her own infinite cathedral, immobile at last
warmed by the blinding colors of windows
made of a kaleidoscopic stain-glass of leaves
broken limbs, quick sprouts and seasons.

The visitor takes a respectful stroll through thorns
under cover of the everlasting expanse
closing into the intimate communion
he belongs as does she to this eternal home.

Selah
Jay Chambers

Selah,
What a mysterious word
Its function,
Is lost to the sands of time

It comes at the end
Of a line of tension
But can also be
A sigh of sweet relief

It can be the dividing place
Between waters that roar and are troubled
And streams that make glad the city of God.

It is a time
Where we go from
Lying awake on our bed
To sweet, God-given rest.

Selah can also be
The stillness found
In the eye of the great hurricane
That destroys all in its wake.

It can be found
In what time we find
In the midst of our toil
And our tears

Reflection so sweet
It makes glad our soul
With waters found
Flowing from streams above
Selah.

Stranger on the Waves of Time
Chase Rogers

Wave after wave

Time washes up on the shore of our own mortality
It takes with it whatever is light enough to be carried
What has weight to us remains
Family, and genuine friends have their feet planted with you
You pretend you’re immortal with your recklessness and your one track mind
Your clouded thoughts attract the ripples within the water, barreling one by one
All feel balanced until the waves of time take your legs from beneath you
Your time on the shore is short

Pushing and pulling

We are thrown against the currents of our own humanity
Emotional barrages meet us at full force with each whitewash embrace
How could they do this to me? Who can I turn to? I am alone.
Thoughts of negativity encourage the waves to switch strategies and attack from all angles
Your legs promote fatigue to your brain as the currents become too much
Hope flees you as the waves overtake your soul with each pounding crash
Your will to live is sinking

A stranger on the waves

The relentless attack of time is far too much for any mortal to handle.
Alone that is.
A book speaks of the story of a man who calmed a storm with his words
His doubting disciple reached him by walking to him on the water
The waves of time cry out his name till he silences them so that you may reach him
Leave the shore of your own mortality
Calm the waves that remind you that your time on the shore is short

Ocean is the end game

Wave after wave
Pushing and pulling
The belief that the water would get the better of our footing one day
The stranger on the waves calmed my own storm
I’m still on the shore, with just the waves that brush against my legs
When I meet my own mortality, I will not be carried out by the waves
I will be a disciple without doubt and sprint across the water to embrace him
To embrace the one who’s been waiting for me
The waves call out his name till he silences them for me to cross
The crashes resound, “Jesus”

“We are all Thieves”
Renee Emerson

we are all thieves; we have taken the scriptures in words, and know nothing of them ourselves.” –Margaret Fell

A gospel in the crook
of my arm.

Psalm tucked in my sleeve,
I’ve lifted

windows and broken
latches for Esther, Ruth, Jeremiah.

A long coat to cover
the epistles.

Book of Wisdom beneath the tongue.
Leviticus behind the ear.

Cut open my shoes
for Revelation and Jude.

Tucked in my bra:
a minor prophet.

The words of Jesus glint red
up from the bottom of
my purse, tag-clipped off
with my teeth.

No one will miss this
prophecy.

No one will miss this
lament.

“If someone had been there to record it”
Whitney-Faith Smith

If someone had been there to record it
they would have gotten quite the scene.
The dinning hall, wooden beams holding up a cathedral-like
ceiling, sun prancing in through 
the double-door sized windows,
reflecting off of the sugary floors. 

There was a lull,
no little camper-boys begging for another apple blossom
no tribe chants with clapping and stomping 
no chairs scraping against the wooden floors
no more chores to be done.

Alternative music was filling the hall, 
she chose to dance. 
In her khaki pants and pony tail
she began spinning and jumping, 
pulling me in to join her mirth. 
She called it interpretive dancing
waving her arms like ribbons in a breeze,
sliding to the floor to strike a dramatic pose. 
We added our laughter to the music. 
I miss my friend.