Author: Alexis Chambers

Child Yet
Fabrice Poussin

They say you must play a part
upon the burning boards of a life
far above days to never really be.

It is an act performed by amateurs
until the final curtain call
in the dark corners of forgotten hopes.

Glaring at costumes worn by a fall
faded within the fibers of another time
the shape of a marionette becomes a statue.

The sketch of a being spirals in its prison
hesitating between a swing and a slide
on the playground of an apocalyptic eve.

This thespian bows under the boos
for his limbs refuse to grow
as he yet laughs and pirouettes away.

Gesture for a forgetting realm
penniless fool on a barren stage
his audience leaves in disbelief.

He is the man who neglected to become
a shadow of the giant awaiting backstage
alone like a child among aging generals.

Quail Hunting
Jay Chambers

When I was a boy
My father,
Ever the outdoorsman
Introduced me to the hunt

Quail were our prize
And setters our means
To the end
Of a hot quail supper

I remember that cold day
When, dogs in tow
We set out to find
One single covey

We never found it
But what we did find
Was the priceless bond
Of a father and son

A few years pass
And we found that covey
That was the last time
Ole’ Rowdy went out
What a time we had
Me and dad

I’m older now
And so is dad
But this morning
We went out again
The dogs were new
And a little unsure
Nevertheless
What a time we had
Me and dad.

The Sound of Music
Madison Hunt

The hills are not alive. Rather they are
remnants against sunken valleys like blood
following a carried corpse.

With a sound, a child is born. A gurgle,
whisper, crash will signify its death.
No matter how many years are tallied
between the dates, silence is not
remembered.

She speaks of music and sings
without sound.

Toi, toi, toi.

Velvet falls and sweeps the proscenium
like a downpour in the desert.

Cold Breeze
Jay Chambers

The high breeze
Blew across the hills
Like a chilling aspiration
Of the breath of God

It hits me
Like a hard slap on
My cheek

The effect is
Spell-binding
I am transmuted
By the alchemist of memory
From a man
To a boy again
My mind filling
With sweet memories
Of Christmases long past

It snowed one Christmas
My fingers were cold
The wind was blowing
As the snow took its leisure
In blissful descent
To the anticipatory ground

Cold breezes are more than
Fond memories
As their daggers once pierced
My mourners suit

My tremors awakened me
As the wind struck
Piercing the hardened armor
Of the heat-dried blue sweater
Filling me with chills
Instead of memories

Contemplation
Fabrice Poussin

Daring adventurers run upstairs in ecstasy
the mountain of their shiny futures to be climbed
with no worries of bruised little egos
dresses torn, and vermillion scratches.

They race to a room full of games, colors and music
elbow to elbow, boy to boy, girls closer to the one who stands
conversations galore erupt of adventures and memories
for these people barely ten springs into this world.

But she sits her head poised on a thoughtful palm
legs crossed in the theater of a scene she once rehearsed
her pulse too remembers when she giggled with
angels now young ladies in the making.

Ankles beating the long skirts, fists making their way
into a darkness they know well backstage
in a place where they can be anyone for a moment
and she sees them disappear into an imagined mist.

They vanish as they grow into another chrysalis
never to be scolded again, free from the womb
wrinkles cry in a mixture of joy and distress
little years gone, she stays in her recollections.

Michal
Madison Hunt

“As the ark of the Lord came into the city of David, Michal the daughter of Saul looked out of the window and saw King David leaping and dancing before the Lord, and she despised him in her heart.”
II Samuel 6:16

I.
My father disapproved of dancing.
I learned this when I was twelve,
my feet pattering on polished limestone,
a pulsing rhythm
like the music I had heard since childhood.
The drums, I learned in the years to come,
symbolized war.
Death. Warning. Prayers of victory.

None of that mattered to me then,
only the strength of the young man holding my hand.
Again! Spin me again!
My brother, already a warrior,
already admired by women of Gibeah,
takes my hands and we twirl.
Wheat of the same stalk, weightless in the wind.
Of all women in the palace, I admired him most.

My feet touch the ground again
and I see almost fear in his eyes.
Defeating countless enemies in fields of battle,
his most powerful enemy ruled over our home.
We were caught. I was ashamed.

Our father lifted his hand, signaling the end to our dance,
asserting rule under his roof.
Though he had never struck me,
I felt a sting against my sun darkened cheek.
In that moment, I almost wish he had.
Kings do not dance.
Weak men allow women to lead them astray.
Such men do not deserve a kingdom.
I watched my brother’s back turn
against my father, as it would remain for years to come.

II.
I look at you dancing before the Lord.
Something akin to hatred whirls within me
mimicking your movements in the street.

How glorious you are, exposing
indecency for all to see.

How can you dance when my brother cannot?
Kings do not dance.
You? You wish to make music to the Lord?
Oh, the drums. The victory drums allow
only death to ring in my ears.

In Which We Recall the Willow’s Song
Kristin Towe

Hushed tiptoes, winter’s soundbox broken—snowfall
this is what we awoke to, and your cranberry lips turned pale
and the trees went off, smoking guns
except for the willow, willow, willow

which was engorged
the only tree refusing to snap, to smoke,
to assault your untainted ears

and you turned to me and whispered
Desdemona is dead.

so, your raven hair, masochistic ribbon
I weaved between the branches
lips flickering out, simmering coals

Ash of winter: alabaster shards spattered on your canvas tongue
this is the last taste you will remember, a promise spat into the snow
quickly, raven wings descend, icicles poised like fangs,
to feed upon your blood rose crown

and the willow, willow, willow.

First Loves
Fabrice Poussin

For a half a bag of caramels
and a first date to true love
will you be my every day Valentine?

When you are eight years-old
no one tells you to sign your name
if you are the shy boy on the block.
First love.

Second love.
At eleven, what is one to do
edging to be a teenager
wearing your name on his chest?

Guys can be handsome too
not you! she said, hurrying out.

So what if you cheat on your tests
no longer a little girl
two years behind already
teachers say nothing for your looks
you sure know how to move
a name again etching to a heart.
Third love.

Fourth love.
So grown up, so powerful,
too old for a half bag of caramels
perfect for a story of puerile years
dignified as a lady of dreams
a woman to scar a soul forever.

I Woke Up Tired One Morning
David Thompson

I woke up tired this morning
My nightly slumber insufficient
Eyes bleary, body weary
I contemplate my newfound state.
A nearby mirror reflects my face
Bluish bags and drowsy brows
I smile; hope to light my face up;
It’s just as tired as I am.
There is an aching in my bones
Not caused by any injury
My muscles are sore too, though I
Haven’t worked out in six months.

I cast my thoughts across time’s seas
Call to mind my younger self
A buzzing ball of boundless joy
Energy seeping from every pore
Laughing, running, imagining
Worlds into existence by the hour
His cheeks are flushed, his mouth agape
Channeling strength I no longer have
A sparkle in his eye that’s now long dead
A memory of my youth to dwell upon.

My thoughts return; I shake my head
And wince until the pain subsides
One more reminder that I’m old
That the boy who once was me is gone
But I will always envy him
Daring to hope, to live, to dream
When he fell, he got up quickly
If only because he was closer to the ground.

Autumn Evening
Morgan Maxwell

Parchment hills are dipped in ink
Moon rise, sun sink
Village windows all aglow
Human lives begin to slow

Shadows like molasses flow
Leaves fall, winds blow
Street lamps rest upon the brink
Night time falls within a blink