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We are proud to present the 110th issue of the Chimes and the talented writers and photographers featured in the magazine!

This year, the magazine is available in PDF format on the site for added convenience.

Lucas Durand

I feel Your presence in the Wind.
The soft caress, the gentle chill,
The comfort that, though I have sinned,
You still shall use me as You will.

The Wind prompts life out of the dead.
The inanimate stirs in praise
As trees solemnly bow their heads
And their arms towards the heavens raise.

The Wind holds power unbridled
And moves as both a breeze and storm.
A “hallowed” idol, hollow, idle,
Cannot rouse even its own form.

The Wind makes not its visage known:
Its invisible attributes
Are felt instead ‘neath the sky’s dome
And reveal what it constitutes.

Its touch dances across my skin
And, at my lowest, in my soul.
For You, O God, devised the Wind
To remind me, in You, I’m whole.

I feel Your presence in the Wind.
A gust raises my eyes to You.
It’s my comfort, though I have sinned,
That to Your servant You keep true.

Fabrice Poussin

Natalie Tankersley

Writers are born,
shaking, squealing, and struggling to describe the world
they’ve been thrust into, sitting
on their grandfather’s knee, babbling, bumbling, and bouncing as stories pile up
in their heads, collecting
dust before they learn to
turn thoughts into ink

Writers are created,
whispering, waiting, and wondering about the things that
live in their heads, emerging
from the depths of nights alone, escaping, envying, and editing
their thoughts until
their hearts bleed, spilling
aching and raw onto
a blank page

Writers are forged,
hunching, hallucinating, and haunting over their desk with
hands on keyboards, begging
the words to come,
dragging, demanding, and daring writer’s block to stand
in their way, knocking
the walls to their creative
wellspring down

Anna Thomas

my love for you is in persistent retrograde
the candle is being lit – the wick won’t ignite
the river is flowing yet never forms a cascade

removing the mask – never revealing the masquerade
the key is in the door – the lock is still tight
my love for you is in persistent retrograde

stepping out into the sun – still in the shade
the moon comes out – the sky isn’t bright
the river is flowing yet never forms a cascade

erasing the words – the lines never fade
the stars shine – the day still isn’t night
my love for you is in persistent retrograde

getting off the path – somehow never strayed
turning left – still heading right
the river is flowing yet never forms a cascade

fighting for your love to find out it was a game of charade
looking forward but keep on losing sight
my love for you is in persistent retrograde
the river is flowing yet never forms a cascade

Lillian Gardella

It’s a cacophony. Casual, formal, athletic, professional, and leisure, all living semi-harmoniously in the small space in a mixture of warm and cold. Formal clothes have tended to move further to the rear when we moved to Alaska. They aren’t required much these days. There was a time when the cleaned and bagged dresses hanging in the back were routinely worn for balls, ceremonies, or graduations thrown by the U.S. Air Force. It was a time when glitter and glam weren’t required to conform to snow and ice, and the favored satin-navy strapless tiered gown could be worn without a sweater or boots, while you carry in the accompanying heels to the gown after your boots could safely be removed indoors. That beautiful gown is the most expensive piece here in price, though not in sentimentality. Such honor and emotion are reserved for a pale pink, sheer lace gown, significantly cheaper in price, though not value, worn only once. That gown, all the way in the back, was worn when two lives were promised to each other in a small backyard ceremony in Washington D.C. That beauty arrived the day before the ceremony, causing anxiety, stress, and the sheer hope that she would fit properly. Thankfully she did.
Leisurely clothing has taken center stage, where professional attire had been worn for so long, while work was made remote with the global shift that happened during COVID. Blazers, tops, and dress pants, all neatly hung, slowly move further and further back toward formal wear while sweatshirts and leggings creep to the center. Those dress pants still occasionally make their way out for the required meetings. Everyone is hoping and praying they still fit, despite the lack of elasticity and generous allowances leggings provide. Shelves were put in at one point to help with space and organization, but that was clearly decided in a moment of pure organizational optimism. This is the one area of the house that image, presentation, design, and functionality do not matter. The one place where freedom and relaxation are able to just be. Oh, once in a blue moon a wild hair sprouts or spring-cleaning hits, and a purge takes place, Generally, we are able to just be ourselves, a beautiful blend of style and function. The colors pretty much coincide, gray, black, brown, green, and some blue. It was not the green and blue of summer, but the green and blue of
late fall; muted, musty, subdued. Bright color does not live here. There are a few pieces, but they are rarely chosen and usually succumb to the annual purge; off to try out another location hoping to be chosen from the herd. Doors were removed due to their confining nature, allowing light and air to move freely. Sometimes, shoes come to settle for a visit, usually the summer sandals, though they are pulled from their winter slumber in January for a brief time. Among them a pair of blue braided sandals that were accidentally stolen from Target many years ago. It was a casual stroll through those isles with a toddler and infant. However, is there such a thing as a casual stroll with a toddler and infant? We were looking among the clothes and shoes for new additions to our then home in Maryland and using the stroller as a shopping cart. There was a forgotten pair of strappy deep blue summer flats at checkout, buried in the hidden cave under the baby seat. They weren’t discovered for several days, until the stroller was unfolded for another use, much to the embarrassment of the lady. The error was made right, but every time those sandals came out, it was a funny reminder of how they came to be here.
Boots and tennis shoes never stop in. They are out and about throughout the year and even multiple times a day, maintaining their residence in the arctic entry. Some of the heartier boots find a summer home under the stairs. That space is similar to ours, though far less used and terribly dark with an incredible variety of objects. Under-the-stairs, there is hosted memorabilia, tents, suitcases, Christmas items and even “the cone of shame” for our furry friend. It is a dangerous place, under-the-stairs. One can easily be smothered under a box or sleeping bag, notable to see daylight for months, or possibly years. Apparently, there is a goblin-type creature, related to the dryer goblin, that steals gloves and mittens, though only one of each pair. No one has ever seen the goblin, yet it must be there. Same with the dryer goblin and socks. How else to explain the mystery of only one glove? Winter arriving opens under-the-stairs to which everything is pulled out, tried on, sorted and passed along if necessary. It is a seasonal life in under-the-stairs.
Heels are the extended stayers, becoming dusty and decrepit on their high shelf. Only two pairs remain, one classic black and one strappy gold, though they haven’t been taken down in years. Alaska holds a different standard for footwear. A dress and boots are perfectly acceptable; ladies choose Xtratufs for their wedding day to pair with their dress. The years in Alaska have had their influence, and Birkenstocks or flats are chosen more often for occasions where heels used to be standard.
It’s an exciting place to be, our home. There is a steady stream of new that comes, intermixed with the classic go-tos. We are a lucky bunch, clean and loved and often shared with a few other members of the household that can’t find what they are desiring in their own cacophonies. We go about with them for a bit until eventually, hopefully, we make our way back to our original home.

Fabrice Poussin

Lucas Durand

“Steep your steps ever in Light
And shun the umbral grasp of Night.”

These words often our mothers say
To children, lest they disobey.
For Light holds the Darkness at bay
And proudly heralds coming Day.
Where It reigns, the Void holds no sway.
Steep your steps ever in Light.

As such, when I must walk alone
I stride within the Sunshine shone
By lamps aflame o’er cobblestone.
Though their glow gutters with gusts blown,
They guard against Dark’s threats unknown
And shun the umbral grasp of Night.

And yet the darkened places call.
Though Night has naught, it offers all.
While I am not the shadows’ thrall,
Within my soul I feel it crawl:
The thirst to yield and Lightless fall.
Steep your steps ever in Light.

“Perhaps in twilight, you would rise.”
So the Night says, and so it lies.
For dusk no true compromise
And, once conquered by Nighttime, dies.
Heed not its whimpered, whispered cries
And shun the umbral grasp of Night.

When Dawn awakens, brilliant, bright,
And burns away our ev’ry plight
Firm faith shall turn to sunlit sight.
Until that Day sets all aright,
Resist the Dark with all your might.
Steep your steps ever in Light
And shun the umbral grasp of Night.

Caroline Lewis

When flowers fade into the fall,
Death’s heavy shadow is cast—
If green things end in gloom this way,
Then surely Gold is past.

We look at tree or flow’r or self
And see how fast they fade,
But that gold is just an echo
Of the Gold that was not made.

Though leaf subsides to leaf to dust,
Through dust, new tree is born;
And dawn goes down to day and night,
But night gives way to morn.

Though Eden sank deep down to grief,
His flowers He doth raise—
The Son turns shining face on us,
Green struck by golden rays.

We grow up to the sky, green trees,
Like trees we fall again,
And through that death is Life anew,
Love’s somber crucifixion.

Green was made by Gold, for Gold,
And surely not in vain,
Though Eden’s green soon turneth dull,
Despite dust, Gold remains.

Nothing green can stay, it’s true,
But green by Gold begins;
Though nature’s colors all shall pass,
Tis Gold that never ends.

Anna Roberts

I screamed when I got tagged
in the front yard of the funeral home
because I couldn’t when I saw
my grandmother’s body in that casket,
stiff and gaunt.

I chased some other kids,
my cream, butterfly-print dress
rippling in the breeze as I ran
farther from the funeral home
and the dark rooms inside it.