Author: Alexis Chambers

The Cheerful Reflections of Winter
Kristin Towe

The snow is whispering secrets
as it veils our lands and towns
and all who venture out in it
return with pleasures found

In front of my cottage is a friend
I fashioned out of snow
we while away the days together
we revel in the cold

What a wonder winter is
as we romp through merry valleys
what a joy to frolic in snow,
to dilly and to dally

From the peaks of highest mountains,
though frigid and sometimes frightful
I see the people down below
and all is so delightful.

And, oh, the magic of winter,
it sticks to gloves and scarves
and warmth pours from the fireplace
and spreads into our hearts.

This season seems to always live
its joys always tarry
and once the snow melts again
the magic still we carry.

Thank You
Leah-Joy Smith

Proverbs 31:26-30
She opens her mouth with wisdom,
and the teaching of kindness is on her tongue.
She looks well to the ways of her household
and does not eat the bread of idleness.
Her children rise up and call her blessed;
her husband also, and he praises her:
“Many women have done excellently,
but you surpass them all.”
Charm is deceitful, and beauty is vain,
but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised.

Your biceps built from tending
Babies could out-last Captain America.
The crows-feet around your hazel eyes
Gather when Miah calls you “Gran-Merry.”
Burn scars on your forearms
Show how many times you made Buddy cinnamon rolls.
Your waist length, curly grey hair
Tickles my nose with every good night hug.

Stirring potato soup,
You ladle out love.
Pouring me a cup of Maxwell House,
You know I like two sugars.
Reading library books aloud,
You taught me to stay awake.

The work truck sounds like a hit-and-miss engine,
But you showed me how to drive a straight-shift.
I can taste Ivory soap when I smell it,
But now my words come out slower.
My strong will, stubborn tongue frustrated you,
But you never called the game
And threw your hands up like a referee.

Sweet Nairobi
Arnold Mutuse

Abortion is a crime

Everything in life takes its time Hilda
My close friend since grade one.
You were cool girl, smart, and well behaved.
Everyone was popping eyes up on you.
Winners will be winners,
And you were happy about it.
Your beauty never out-smarted you,
But spread all over Nairobi streets.
On front page of Kenya-standards,
There you were.
A rumor of your side-line smile,
And gorgeous dimples were the daily talk.
Everywhere you passed was all whispers.

Your beauty changed you.
As soon as you joined grade seven
Everyone treated you like a model.
You played cards with anyone you met.
You did what you wanted
And hated anyone who advised you.
I and your mom were there for you.
Hilda, you ignored us to enjoy life
You forgot our tradition.
But you were not lucky, you got ball,
Rushed everywhere to get rid of it.
Time is precious, but you became cheap.
We told you to chill and you said we were daydreaming.
To use protection, wasn’t real.
To start family planning, it’s hectic.
The last option I remember, t’was to get saved,
And you claimed it’s too early, maybe later.
We joined high school and remained the same.
You crushed with every guy you met,
Just like a dustbin of trash to rich and poor,
Yes… ATM machine, every card was welcome.

I even remember when you invited me to your wedding, Hilda.
You told me, you are grown up, and you got a husband.
Like your best friend, you insisted that I should show up.
You got a good job, salary, and it’d be a wonderful party.
Like a friend, I arrived early.
T’was a nice party full of joy, and presents.
Happy faces and sweet sideline smiles,
T’was your wedding day.
Now five years are over and you do not have a kid.
Every day quarrels from your husband,
and his relatives say, “we want a baby.”
No happiness anymore, you have gone to witch-doctors,
Church for prayers, and all in vain.
Doctor said your uterus is turned off,
And you got the virus.
You wish you knew,
But, don’t cry Hilda.
There is still a chance to live, Hilda.
Eat well, take pills daily, and do exercise.
The sweetness of marriage is a baby,
And if you start flashing, you will cry later.
“Abortion is a crime.”

Sod
Renee Emerson

Mostly I am trying to keep it all alive.
Moving the sprinklers strategically,
their arms arched over the yard,
artificial rain and rainbow, curling
water into withered patches.

Sod plunked down in a jigsaw
grid, grafted to our land,
new growth, beautiful and soft
for the kids to run on
this summer. Once we only had clover
flowers budding open,
their powdered heads
crowned with bees.

The yard was white with wings;
we never got stung. We ran
with abandon through
the lesser dangers of our lives.

Redemption
after T.S. Eliot
Angie O’Neal

 

instead of ground

feel the stirring,

the turning away.

 

see a fox in the park dart into

a forest of ashes.

 

these days the things deepest

down are always disappearing

like spindrift—

wilderness,

acts of devotion,

 

as the angler waits on the shore,

apprentice to the slow dance of

nature

its long withholding—

its sudden flourish.

 

follow and take the way of the river

through the city,

indeterminate on

tributaries of absence.

 

go missing and apostrophize

on ancient waters, cast a line

like a pair of gills, filaments

sifting the current for air.

 

watch the kayak upturned,

floating ahead like a promise,

breath shallow as a

bluegill out of water

 

wingbeats quickening in

a flight of tree swallows

approaching a silver sky.

 

let it slip away like time

between your fingers,

an epiphany breaking open on

the waves—oars like empty arms

reaching out to touch the sea.

Payne’s Grey
Hannah Cauthen

Payne’s Grey is often used in painting to create soft shadows. Being a blue-grey, it is not as harsh as black, and therefore creates beautiful contrast without drowning the work in darkness.

His soul was like dark navy; not quite blue, not yet black—something un-definable, like his sadness. I didn’t know where it came from or how long it had been there, but I did know that it sometimes settled into his features in the middle of conversations and flowed out of his fingers when they brushed my skin.

But this soul I’ve stumbled upon (or that’s stumbled upon me) is different. While it is also un-definable, it is not out of uncertainty, but chosen unreasonableness. When exposed to nature or great beauty, it is a calm, deep forest green. When it laughs, the color grows brighter, but always remains serene. When frustrated or angered it turns bold orange—the literal color of fire. It fades to a pale blue when looking at me—the color of his eyes. In this blue is a strange mixture of peace, determination, admiration, and apprehension. Even through all of these colors (and many more I am still discovering) is the underlying tone of dark navy. Instead of being sad, though, this brings great contrast to his multi-colored anomaly of a soul. The slight darkness keeps it from being overwhelmingly bright; it is the perfect Payne’s Grey.

My Home
Sydney Holmes

Darkness
It’s where I was formed
My whole life, trapped in a cave
I am blind
I cannot walk without stumbling
Falling
Retreating, further and further into the cave

Is there a way out?
I had heard rumors of those who left the safety of the cave
Those are just tales
Aren’t they?

I continue to live my life as I have known
Rocks, Bugs, sticks, scrapes, fear
The tools and ways of life
More numerous than the souls who use them
I love the Darkness
It’s my life, my home

Wait, what’s this?
There’s a small light.
Over there.
Curious
I soon find myself blinded by the light
A light I never knew existed

I still cannot see
I cannot walk without stumbling
Falling
Drawn out by the light
How is this different than the cave?

Slowly I begin to see clearly
Shapes begin to form
A man appears on top of a hill
Standing
Waiting with open arms

Is he waiting for me?
I am drawn to him
I find myself at his feet
Tears fall from my face as he speaks to me
“Welcome home son”
Finally, I found my home

“Life is a rotation”
Chad Cawthon

Life is a rotation.
So what do we rotate around?
Either this world or a world above,
Heaven or this hollow ground.

The sun, the moon, and the stars,
Or is it the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost?
What do we worship?
Who do we love the most?

Nothing is new under the sun,
At least that’s what the Bible says.
And the man that inspired the Bible
Is perfect in all his ways.

So why do we worship this sacred ground?
Do we think it’s getting us to heaven?
It will only keep you bound,
But God will make you leaven.

So whom will you run to?
God or this earth?
A piece of ground
Or a God that will show you your worth?

Journeys Within Journeys
Marcia Bost

I set myself a task
To wile away the hours:
Look deeply at the landscape
Through which I speed.

Two towering trees
Darkly frame a power line –
A parenthesis.

Only an English teacher would
Naturally punctuate nature –
When did I get lost?

A glooming cloud
Like meringue whipped into peaks,
Overwhelms the land.

Chattahoochee Bridge, long and narrow,
As dangerous as those
Building in my mind –
What if I am swept away
By ideas?

Dead, white bones, a corpse,
A cut over grove of trees –
Their headstone Walmart.

Not another journey!
I’d rather have the covers
Pulled over my head –
Why have I split my world in half?

A smudged square of moon,
A child’s drawing rejected
Crumpled by inky clouds.

Tell me again,
Why am I climbing this mountain
With the freight of others’ expectations?

Bradford pears, unplanted,
Along a broad boulevard,
Blooming sideways.

Wahoo, Sargent, Banning –
Lights waiting in windows
For someone else –
How many miles to home?

Queen Anne’s lace:
Elegant weed draped carelessly
On the road’s shoulders.

There’s just me;
The burning stars, tiger bright,
With radiance of vanished galaxies;
The clash of Beethoven’s Ninth;
And the overwhelming necessity of staying
Between the yellow lines
Guiding me home.

Jacob
Angie O’Neal

“i held an atlas in my lap
ran my fingers across the whole world
and whispered
where does it hurt?” –Warsan Shire

 

I try to pray when the northern winds persist,

refuse to relent to the mewling cries on marshlands

frost-thick.

 

Silence falling on deaf ears

asleep on stone pillows.

 

The nadir of a setting sun sole unit of measurement

in this country,

 

its monarchies of ice.

 

“I will bring you back to this land.”

 

Apostasy like walking in water fully clothed,

unnatural as childbirth,

remote as a Lapland fell.

 

I hear the children on the path flanked

by

cloudberries,

amber pale as the

hull of an ark.

 

Here, where soon the sun-torched rim of day

will set open into night, this edge of earth

pulsing electric with light—

 

kingdoms boundless as the breezes blown

through mountain ash, heather purpling in

brooms that sweep the moorlands wild

 

with harebells; even the melancholy thistle

on roadside verges will come

to save us,

 

after this mile of winter before dawn.