Author: Alexis Chambers

Ocean Fires
Kristin Towe

It was a year of flame
that ended in a day of ashes.
And you, oh fire of Moses,
are the One to blame.
And I, sea-weed drenched,
stood on my tiny vessel
in the expansive ocean,
with plans to sail away.

And now, when my heart
beat is steady, and now
when my laughter flows free
I can see that the fire and ocean
and the ash on my shipwrecked vessel
are proofs of your love for me.

The Roll Call
Madison Hunt

Before I walked to school for the first time,
I had only been called Lovey.
My daddy said it was because
I was the loveliest thing he’d ever seen
second to my mama
who was God’s present to the stars
and the daylilies in her garden.

                                    You look pretty, baby.
The soprano lilt to my mama’s voice
made me homesick before I took the first step
on my walk to school-learning.
She had flour on her chin
from the morning’s biscuits.
When she kissed my cheek, I was lulled by her warmth
and the smell of sizzled bacon grease.

Daddy went with me most of the way.
He started his work days before the days began,
but today was my day, he said.
His drawl made me believe that.
This was my day.
He passed the lunch that mama had fixed special
                                   You’re my little Lovey.
I held his words close as I opened the door.

I perched on a splintered chair
Waiting on someone, anyone
To notice me—
Me.

I had never experienced the stain of regret
Until I was duly noted and welcomed
By giggles and pudgy fingers pointing at me—
Me.

My hands flew to my flushed cheeks
Triggering stinging laughter.
I looked down at my dress—
Handmade, but like-new
How could they know?
My hands fell from my face
And not knowing where to look,
I turned my gaze to my palms—
white with flour.
                                   Loraine Adams?
                                   Loraine Adams!
The scent of bacon dissipated with the unfamiliar shrill
of my teacher’s voice and repeated declaration
Yes, ma’am—I confirmed.
That’s my name.
                                   Why, that’s a lovely name!
Yes, ma’am—I held back the want to correct her.
That’s my name.

Irremovable
Whitney-Faith Smith

Dishes, pranks, childrearing, flower
planting, cotton picking, letter writing.
All done by one set of hands,
wrinkled now, unable to hold a 
spade or even write a note without pain. 

But one thing remains 
faithful about her hands, the 
irremovable ring of gold 
fixed on her third finger.

It used to be thicker, her ring from 1940, 
with details of leaves engraved
upon it. Those have long since
vanished, scrubbed away by a
washboard, by peeling apples,
by holding hands.
 

Her engravings of love are now her 
memories of him,
walks down a dirt path, drives in his Chevy
car, a new kitchen dining room suit,
still prepared for supper. 

Her ring, like her skin, has been worn thin.
But never her love.
Faithfulness like a deep spring 
in the middle of a three month drought,
A woman of 96, who lost her husband
38 years ago,
yet continues to wear his love. 

“Nine months”
Chase Rogers

Nine months
I was loved before oxygen made its first voyage to my lungs
Emotions sporadic, thoughts ricochet
wall to wall
ear to ear
Her mind echoes the commotion

She lacks crucial knowledge, she would surpass all mothers

She was nineteen, life switched the plot
He took the form of stone next to her, concreted vows
Our family forms with the company of wedding bells

She sways me in her arms, a motherly cot
The crib , he spent an eternity assembling
I rarely enter
He pleads for a turn to become my bassinet
I remain in her cot, the swaying helps me sleep

She dreads and relishes the day she will have to put me down
Soon I will be an elusive toddler
She must be swift to seize her rambunctious offspring

My youth, encompassed with her compassion
I confused her caring for captivity
Foolish

Twenty-one years transpire
I reminisce the days of captivity

Occasional long distance calls
Rome to home
I still sense her kindness through the static

quick to lend an ear
even more to assist

mother
the one who surpasses all
I love you
these lines are just a reminder

Beachcomber
Madison Hunt

Amid the ebbing tide and speckled shore,

my restless feet and soul step out to play

and soon the eighth commandment disobey

as I have done so many times before.

Disrupting this oasis once again,

such eager fingers trophies do abate.

The rising thrill of treasure dissipates.

Then I return, a Glaucus among men.

 

A common thief, successfully seduced.

As first fruits of the sea entice the waves

to bring the morning harvest to the sand.

I marvel in littoral solitude

How God provides this manna, new each day

To be collected by unworthy hands.

Hiding Places
Hannah Cauthen

“A church turns into a crime scene”

a heading in a news article,

defines the state we are in;

the sacred has been robbed of

its sacredness, or

altogether discarded.

We are left to find it in other places:

The shack of a house, overgrown by

moss and vines and the meat

of the earth.

The little girl, book propped behind

the water fountain, not wasting

a second of her precious life.

The way the sun pierces through

a certain cloud to shine

through a certain tree and

set certain leaves ablaze,

the sacred, sacred way it does.

Ann Hasseltine Judson’s Letter to Her Parents in America
Renee Emerson

Your first grandchild was born in the rolling of a ship
at sea, and dead was given
to the sea, a water-creature of salt and darkness.

I gave myself to Burma
even more than Adoniram.
To the straw huts, and
children, cigars jutting from their mouths,
to the lepers, skin peeling like paper,
to women I doused in muddy water,
brought up again into a new life
that looked so much like the last.

Your second grandchild was born in the hut,
beneath the Buddhist statues, beside the slow flowing
river. He lived eight months, long enough
for me to believe something
in this life is lasting.

At the end, my hair shaven,
husband in prison, my third born
daughter sailing steadily toward
death, our North Star,

I still think it worthwhile
to speak the word of God
in a new tongue, though
it burns like holy fire.

september’s unabridged journal
Alayna Welker

Record hot temperatures,

the glistening of travelers’ brows—

while the pitter-patter of their feet

carry them toward destinations

unknown to me

  and maybe

      even to them, too.

 

I have often imagined life

in

           their

                                shoes.

built for weathered life

willingly on their toes,

and ready to be pushed

to limits beyond anything

that I know.

 

This only seems

                  to make

                    me wonder,

          what my shoes

             must say

         about

      me.

Roots of Paradise
Fabrice Poussin

The scent is familiar as the first breath of every dawn

it permeates the corridor to the king’s domain

a room warm with a most recent feast.

 

Years come rushing back in a single moment

musty smell of the ancient wooden cabinets

aroma of the meals of eternal Sundays.

 

But the soul is too small for many lifetimes

trinkets left over the rows of dusty shelves

journeys to lands close and far away.

 

The power is invincible of this undying past

pulling in the actors of so many performances

into this space where destinies were made.

 

The festivities continue in the memories of all

the air is thick with visitors and guests

where they find the roots of paradise.  

Song of a Traveling Preacher Woman
Renee Emerson

Jonah ran the other way,
but not Jareena Lee.

She stood in the pew to save
the preacher’s piety.

She let the sermon roll a river
off her tongue, a spirit wave;

she poured out the word of God
on every head to save.

If a stone can cry, why
not a woman, why
not a woman as immovable,
as indestructible, as stone?