Author: fpoussin

“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.

Hidden in a cleft
Jared Linebach

Swirling wind, swelling waves
The storm is fierce tonight
Debris from all directions
Causing fear and fright

Roaring thunder, pounding rain
From which there’s no evasion
The blackened sky overwhelms
Only the wise seek a guardian

Finding calm, feeling secure
Hidden in this cleft
Onward the storm rages
Caring not who is left

Steadfast hope, enduring faith
These will see me through
The storm is no match
For the guardian will pursue

Unending love, unfailing promise
The guardian is quite deft
So, I will be found
Hidden in this cleft

For the Little Girl Inside You
Leah-Joy Smith

When your tongue tastes the dirt of failure,
do you swallow rocks of fear?

When you’re told to quit, it’s just a hobby,
do you trade in your tools for a blazer?

When you smack the Great-Wall-of-Worry,
do you pull out grappling hooks or step away?

When he doesn’t write you back,
does anyone’s heart hear your tears?

When Skinny says you’re too much,
do you still have coffee with her?

When the semester is almost over,
the dryer quits again,
another bill is in the mailbox,
do you want to fill the tank and see it all in the rearview?

When your words are passed by like flowers in a median,
do your petals pull together, away from the sun?

When you feel like a lion without a pack,
do you keep company with Little Debbie and Rory Gilmore?

When you drop the eggs, lose your job,
do you point the boxing gloves at yourself?

When bitterness asks you to hold his hand,
leave him with the check.

Dinner on the Grounds of Heaven
Marcia Bost

Do not grieve for me, my children,
Like heathen who have no hope.
I have a mansion in the celestial city now.
The fountain that waters it is Love,
And the Son never sets.

I am a child again hopping and skipping
And bringing reports of butterflies
To doting aunts and uncles under the spreading shade —
Dinner on the grounds of heaven.
Uncle Will is there with chewing gum in his pockets
And Aunt May has brought her famous apple pie.
Uncle Clarence who died before I was born
Has swung me high above his head.
There’s Mama smiling more than ever on earth
And Pop-paw loving her again.
All my brothers and sisters whose lives
Were measured in hours are here —
And Grandma who died when Mama was two;
Even my stillborn son is showing me around.
When you come, my children —
And I pray you”ll come —
Mine will be the second face you see.

All things have passed.
But not this joy;
It shall not pass.
Thief time has had his hands broken.
Grieve not for me.
This is the place for which
I’ve been homesick
All my life.

 

(In memory of Julia Layman Inzer—what she would say to me now.)

Dancing Summer’s Dance
Kristin Towe

There is an empty field
with nothing but a tree
which underneath I sit and sigh
and breathe the summer breeze.

A canopy of leaves
a shelter from the sun
so when the rain comes falling
no damage to me is done

Beautiful are the branches
that hold me as I climb
to the very treetop
and gaze out at the skies.

It is a tree of life
and I am just a branch
clinging to the trunk
dancing summer’s dance.

Catching Places
Renee Emerson

A firstborn, my daughter memorizes this battle—
a black mud dauber caught by the hind leg
in a spider web that once softened
the corner outside of her window. The spider
has tenderly pasted three egg sacks
in the web above the raucous, a sun, moon,
earth suspended. The spider waits,
which spiders are good at doing, I say,
and the dauber whirls, rests, opens wide
her mandibles. She’ll tire out,
I tell her, hand on her shoulder,
and I can’t help but recall the times I have
tired out, played the game wrong,
had web on one leg then another.
Can anything pull itself free?
The world is full of catching places,
and I am happy in mine, gathering
from the earth to wall
my home. The spider hangs above me,
just far enough, and patiently.

Beyond the Horizon
Fabrice Poussin

There is a dark spot on the horizon, growing,
hungry, surrounded by a collapsing hue of blue,
cataract in the sky, while the eye of the unknown,
on the other side, its vision blurry to blind.

The lone observer of stars and setting suns trapped,
as if an arrow unable to slow, jettisoned with the
power of a dying light, on a final journey to oblivion,
mesmerized by the horizontal abyss, he falls.

Swimming a fast crawl between parallel lines of walls,
impalpable solids, bright as the power of many suns,
he cannot escape in this vertiginous endeavor,
prisoner of will and want, excited by the ultimate fear.

But the dark spot is no closer with eons passing,
the alchemist of his self is a plaything in the hands of
a mystery larger, and certainty a constant ignorance;
his fate is sealed, to remain a traveler to a destination too far.

A Blustery Day
Kristen Towe

There is a force–invisible
that dances through the air
it tiptoes over blades of grass
and flings far out my hair

There is a force as sweet as fall
before it fades away
and in this force we place our hopes
and fears for all our days

There is a force surrounding me
as I wander my ponderous path
and it is the force that picks me up
and carefully puts me back down

And as the days depress me
as days are wont to do
I feel the force surrounding me,
the old becoming new