Category: Uncategorized

Sebastian Callahan

-From the school of Bashо̄
Winter meets bonsai
burnt, broken, brown, samsara.
Bye Bodhidharma.

Sierra Withers

Thousands of lights flicker in the dark
The innocent run for them with glee
Some chase the bugs as they glide higher
Others get distracted by the howling
in the leaves and hoots in the trees
Sometimes one catches one of these lights
Foran instant it sits in the palm of their hand
It blinks with warmth and crawls around
Some hold on too tight

Alicyn Harris

Ashley Lasseter

Today, I sat at a table with the most sublime view.
The sky was ablaze with the most wonderful hue- And the tea that we shared tasted of berries- And we laughed as we passed each other cherries.
We roared as we conversed of dreams,
All with buoyant beams and the most alluring themes.
How redolent the scent of leather cologne;
How soft the exchanges of our touch- Oh, how the time indeed slipped by us unknown- But tonight, I sat at a table with the most sublime view,
A view full of life and of love,
And yet the grandest view
Was you.

Alicyn Harris

It is not her fault,
The way her feelings suffocate me
I drown in them,
But I know she is drowning too.
Walking on eggshells around her
So she doesn’t crack and spill
A single misstep and she would cry out
I was not perfect enough
Too messy
Too loud
Too thin
Too expensive
Her attempts to love me left me
Strangled, exhausted
And my heart hurts for her,
She doesn’t know any other way to love
I understand my mother,
But I cannot forgive her
Still, I keep going back
Because all I ever wanted was my mother’s love

Hayden Lanier

Rocking back and forth
in the white chair on my front porch,
I spot a little brown bird
trotting along in the green grass
without a care or a worry
in the whole wide world.

He does not fear.
He does not fret.
Anxiety is foreign to the little brown bird.
Not a single concern weighs him down.

He does not know where he will go
or where his meal will be found.
He simply hops along
in the green grass
knowing it will be provided for him.

He flitters through the sky,
sailing above the tops of the green trees,
singing a delightful whistle as he ascends
for all below to hear.

This little brown bird
knows nothing of the worldly worries that consume us.
The creature is joyful.
He is content.
For God cares even for this little brown bird.

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