Poetry
A Year Ticking Past
By Anna McDonald
My phone holds a digital stopwatch.
Typically unutilized,
the digits framed by a white ring glow brightly against a dark, smoky screen.
They stay at zero, never once changing.
A year ago, in January, the stopwatch started counting.
A pointless exercise, a fun game to play.
How long could the numbers flick up before they reached their limit?
Would I forget to stop them?
I decided to pause it in a month.
Yet, I did not click the button once the month was over,
or after two months, or even three.
The numbers counted as
I hugged one of my best friends for the first time.
They climbed higher as I attended my first formal,
flicking up as my brother graduated from college,
and as he told me he was going to propose to his girlfriend.
100 smiles, 100 tears,
2,160 hours passed, and the stopwatch kept counting.
The numbers flicked up as my brother’s now-fiancée said yes,
as the summer sun kissed the earth for three more months,
as my family celebrated our last beach trip with my big brother,
as I took my permit test, failed, and took it again.
The digits increased while I taught 78 kids at VBS,
while I cried and left my youth group,
while I met and lost friends and companions,
while I was asked to be a bridesmaid in my brother's wedding,
and while we celebrated our last Christmas as a family of only six.
Seven more months, 5,088 more hours, and the stopwatch kept counting.
The numbers have ticked up steadily for more than a year now: 9,523 hours in total.
I planned to stop it last night.
As my finger neared the pause symbol, however, I pulled it back.
It was a pointless exercise, a fun game to play, so why did I feel water filling my eyes?
The stopwatch’s face stared back at me, the numbers speedily increasing.
How could I let a whole year of moments, all counted so diligently, stop now?
I thought, laughed, and clicked the power button on the side of my phone decidedly.
One more year, then I will stop it.
The Shadow of Empathy
By Lauren Danielson
Something has been stalking me lately –
all through the neighborhood, the city, the streets.
Wearily, my aching feet carry me,
while my heart drums a wary beat.
Sometimes I get far enough away
to catch my breath, but it always
comes back.
Sometimes snarling, sometimes whimpering.
Regardless, it commands my attention.
I have seen it in brief glimpses –
the dark matted fur, the watery, wild eyes,
the maw dripping with hunger,
and paws padding with a solemn limp.
My mother spoke of it like a sin,
warning me of the beast as
she wore her sheepskin.
A recurring nightmare cast
with the monsters of
a family’s communal past.
I have seen it in brief glimpses –
in the spectral silhouette of windows I pass
and the broken shards of their glass.
I see it in the reflection of my mother’s eyes
and the tears shed when she cries.
I do not fear this beast
for its claws, or fangs,
or its fear-striking form,
nor the howls and growls
that haunt me through the
city streets and dreamless sleep.
I do not fear this beast
for what it is,
but rather, what I would do
if it finally caught up to me.
If I were to look into its eyes,
standing before me –
face-to-face.
Equal-to-equal.
My instinct is to help it.
It is a creature of
flesh and blood, like me.
I know it is starving by the
row of ribs racked by bated breath.
If I feed it, then it lives.
If I name it, then it is real.
If I give it a home,
then it will never leave.
If I were to know the beast
for who it truly was,
I fear I will finally know
we are starving for the same thing.
True Nature
Victoria Grumelot
A
bunny
caught between the
deadly jaws of a snake.
Earnestly trying to escape,
flailing about as her kicks send
grass flying. The way of nature is a
harsh one. The bunny will never get to
investigate another new smell. She will never get to
jostle through a meadow. She will never birth her own
kits. As she realizes this is the end, she stills. She gives another her
life.
Marked up by the playfulness of a dog, a snake
needles her way through the freshly grown spring grass.
Over a stick, under an old log. Through her soreness,
pushing on, looking for her first meal after the long,
quiet winter. A briar brushes her broken scales,
reaping pain throughout her long, slender body.
Sanctity is soon reached when she spots a fluffy
tail. A light-brown bunny sits and chews on grass,
unaware until the snake makes her move and strikes.
Victorious we call the snake, and victim the bunny, but do they speak?
Where else could these two forces have met?
X-ing between species, becoming one.
Yielding to each other, they reach
zenith.
Letters to You (Just the Endings)
Alicia Smith
It was nice, but intimidating
To meet you
I really hope
You like me
Kindly,
Alicia
I get it, you don’t like me
Or my boundaries
Or my life
Please
I don’t want to take anything from you
That wasn’t already mine
Sincerely,
Alicia
If you say the ‘L’ word, I’ll say it back
You might can fill a hole
Heal a wound
Be a patch
Yours?
Alicia
You said I’m just like you
If that’s what you think, I won’t fight you
If it’s what it takes
To be appreciated
In your image, I’m elated
Love,
Alicia
You know,
I’m tired of not being known
I’m mad that no matter what
You can never give me hope
Of having what I never had
It’s cruel to dangle things like that
I’m sure MY mother wouldn’t think it’s a laugh
Good riddance,
Alicia
I’m sorry
I’m so silly
If I’m putting it lightly
You’ll never understand
I was raised for fighting
I love you, I do
I expect too much of you
You cannot be in debt
For what you never owed
I know we cannot start over
The story is much too old
This new brand of love
I’m ready to call our own
When you’re ready,
Alicia
The Recipe of Generations
By Breanna Bayne
We come from vegetable gardens,
from fine kitchens,
from homemade dishes.
My soul aches for these plates,
the luxury of nutrients
which were once so commonplace:
love, potassium, vitamin K.
Nurture your body, as well as your soul.
Remember your roots.
Wash your produce with care,
for bruises are imperfections
and you eat with your eyes first.
Cube with precision,
because uniform pieces are simply better
and are proof that you care for yourself
and the works that you create.
The beauty is in the details.
Season generously,
the way your grandmother intended.
Rosemary, oregano, thyme,
though not homegrown,
remind you of the care it takes
to raise something as your own,
to take it from seed to supper.
Roast fully.
Give yourself grace.
Darkened hearts, like potatoes,
do not soften quickly.
But do not rush the process.
Impatience often brings char and immaturity.
October 4 at 6 A.M.
By Ozzy Bolz
The insects outside are symphonic.
I conduct them through the wall, individual arthropods aching for attention.
For my critique, for my love, for my devotion, for me.
Saint Cecillia plucked them from the earth and placed them for me.
Their infinitesimal beings are godlike.
They are Apollo, lyre in hand, playing motifs that I alone can hear.
They are Piccioni, maliciously crafting melancholic melodies.
They are the insects outside my bedroom at 6 A.M.
I wish 6 A.M. could last forever.
On the Edge of Town
By Aisling Linnane
Rumors circled around the house on the edge of town.
The kids always swore it was haunted,
and the adults were never able to refute.
No one had touched the property for quite some time.
The grass and weeds were so overgrown
that the yard looked more like a jungle.
The wooden stairs groaned with each step,
and the porch swing hummed as the wind caught it.
The door was unlocked and the hinge squeaked as it opened.
The house was making its own song.
The hallway was adorned with pictures on the wall
of parents, two kids, and a baby.
One of the rooms had two beds and toys.
Another, one large bed and a cradle.
The stories were becoming discredited.
In the kitchen, old dishes hid in the cabinets
and schoolbooks were scattered across the table.
Nothing seemed to be moved from its final placement,
almost as if the family had never left.
But the dust had taken up ownership long ago.
Soon door hinges squeaked a goodbye,
the stairs groaned their farewells,
and the swing sang softly with the wind sending well wishes.
The song slowly faded out while trekking through the overgrowth,
eventually losing the song of the lone home on the edge of town.
Through Her Hands
By Mallory Hart
Through her gentle hands, I learnt to sew.
Tracing her intricate patterns
to bring something to life.
With the sharp point of a needle,
and soft strength of thread,
the pieces are folded together.
It was a labor of love.
In every stitch, a memory grows.
The patterns of a life well lived.
The lull humming of a machine
pulling the pieces through
reminds me of my childhood.
Through her gentle hands, I learnt to sew.
We formed pillows and blankets,
shirts and skirts,
but most importantly, we formed moments,
woven together in fabric and thread.
Her hands taught me the power
of quiet creation
of silence
and of strength.
So now when I create, she is with me
in those voiceless moments,
still guiding the fabric through my arms.
Sound of Us
By Evelina Khriswell
The ticking flows throughout my room
Above, below, between, it looms.
Into my ears toward my mind
It ticks in blood, in heart, in spine
I feel the silence disappear
With lonesome thoughts of you still near
What I forget, the clock reminds
The time we spent and love divine