Sudden Song
2024-2025
Digital Edition
Neither do men pour new wine into old wineskins.
If they do, the skins will burst, the wine will run out
and the wineskins will be ruined.
No, they pour new wine into new wineskins,
and both are preserved.
Matthew 9:17, NIV
I waited patiently for the Lord;
he turned to me and heard my cry.
He put a new song in my mouth,
a hymn of praise to our God.
Many will see and fear the Lord
and put their trust in him.
Psalm 40:1, 3, NIV
Letter from the Editor
As a child, I spent a part of most afternoons quietly in my room while my little siblings napped. I liked to play my favorite CDs—often piano hymns—and, while I was supposed to be doing homework, I would often spend the time acting out made-up scenarios. Those solo afternoons ended up being a regular oasis for me, giving me time to refresh my imagination through reading or daydreaming and keeping me from imploding.
As our editorial team was talking about what we wanted the purpose and theme for this year’s issue to be, a lot of ideas came up. Since it was the 40th anniversary of the Wineskin, we wanted it to be connected to our history and to bring back some traditional elements of the original publications. We flipped through old issues of the Wineskin from George Fox College, delighting in the old fonts and prints. We took turns reading aloud lines from the old poems, tasting them to see how they would work for a title. We settled on the phrase “sudden song,” taken from a poem found in the third issue of the Wineskin, from 1986. The poet, David Nevue, had written many poems featured in the Wineskin at that time and was also an editor for a couple of years. We liked the various ways the phrase could be interpreted, and thought it would be a neat homage to the people who had helped get the Wineskin off the ground.
When we announced our theme at our kickoff event, I explained the meaning of “Sudden Song.” Afterwards, one of my friends asked me, “The guy who wrote the poem—do you know if he’s a pianist? The name sounds familiar. I think I remember playing a piano piece by him.”
Intrigued, when I went home that night, I looked up his name and found that the pianist Nevue and the poet Nevue were one and the same. I looked through his albums and, to my surprise, I knew one of them! Adoration: Solo Piano Hymns had been one of my favorite CDs to listen to on repeat during my quiet afternoons. It had been years since I had heard it; I’d forgotten all about it.
I emailed Mr. Nevue the next morning to tell him we were using a line from his poem as our title. He has been gracious enough to correspond with me a little bit since then, and I’m excited to bring him back into a publication of the Wineskin. A couple of the older issues of the Wineskin ended with an interview and we are excited to bring back that tradition.
The meaning behind this issue's theme grew from how we initially intended. By the grace of God, Mr. Nevue has moved from poetry to music, and shares songs of beautiful melodies and meanings with the rest of us. Through his efforts and the efforts of others throughout the past 40 years, the Wineskin continues to give members of our George Fox community a chance to share their art with others. We hope it inspires you to keep pursuing truth, goodness, and beauty, knowing a sudden song might be just around the corner.
Soli deo gloria,
Clara Lind
Editor-in-Chief
Implosion (for Solo Piano)
David Nevue
Originally published in the Wineskin, Spring 1985
ff
POUND! POUND! POUND!
Rake those black and
White jewels
Into the mind-pit
Hungrily-
Swallow hard
To calm a belly-ache
Soon comes a sudden song,
Thrown up through fingertips.
pound,
and again pound, and on...
until soon
smooth and soft
and song.
pp
Saying Good Morning
Keira West
The trees leak out their daily sap
Dew resting upon the leaves
“Good morning” they say
The church of morning
Begins its liturgy
Sipping coffee
Brushing teeth
Simple prayers to God
The ceremonial dressing
In respect to weather
Layering fabric
Tying shoelaces
Simple prayers to God
The temple of a bed frame
Majesty of pillows and sheets
Sitting up
Stretching out
Simple prayers to God
The sun begins its usual lap
Rays reaching out to yawn
“Good morning” they say
To God
To me
And I say it back
1/1, OR
Aidan Arthur
Sleeping branches chatter in the new year;
why isn’t it in spring?
January’s so old and tired;
like make-believe. The holidays
are easy ways to break the winter silence,
postponing life again. I know it’s different
in the south, where nothing dies,
or farther down, where death is life
and Christmas just before July,
but let me cry.
My mind is jumping stiles again:
I want to be a singer in a never-famous band
or have a hand in someone’s revolution.
I want to set the wheels of time in motion
and halt them.
Whisper, yell, plead and demand
say “by my own hand
I am avenged.” I want to send
a ripple through the tapestry of being—
or maybe just a quiet life at home.
A thousand chances to be someone;
can’t I crack a page in just one other book?
(Read 12:17 AM)
My resolution never to resolve:
to hang in heavy air, notes become sound
in deadened ears stopped with a million songs—
Don’t sing along.
My Resolution
Mary Grace Curran
People are rivers—we stay the same
by always changing. We close
our eyes for a minute and our ends
split, our edges curl into the future.
We’re fools to think we make the
water rise, fools to think we don’t.
The oaks are all naked in the yard.
Their boughs don’t beg for warmth—
they know no answer will come,
they bow to that winter herald, death.
Oh Dawn, abduct me from the night.
Take my coat, my song, my breath,
burn the strings that hold me hostage.
When I beg, be my answer, my light.
The birds have no wish but to fly—
My resolution is to be like them.
Isn’t it all new? River hue, sparrow tune,
fog spilling down the hills like milk,
sun shaking head when earth says come,
sun crying soft, just a little more time.
Train Ride to Thessaloniki | Brooks Lampe
A Poem In Early Spring
Lauryn Stanfield
I sit outside
The birds are chirping
The love-songs of the air.
And I sit here
Watching
Pondering
How beautiful the world is
When the sun finally returns.
Handwritten
Claire Ahlem
I am only so much myself as I can see
And hold, though very little beyond is known
To be solid, that is, the spiritual mish-mash
I only find in my pen, because words seem
To lose not meaning, but me when rewritten—
Merged into margins set regular, even
Among odd syllabic words and definitions
I’m certain I invented in my sleep,
Because rarely do the words I want exist
In what I have read before today.
A Portrait of the Young Man as an Artist
Aleks Morales
He poses, leaning
against the sooty window
of his cramped studio,
his watercolor hair combed back
in waves, his right hand propping a brush
clenched between his frowning teeth
like a charred cigar
smoldering with potential,
casting crosshatched shadow
onto his chin, stippled
with stubble. In his left hand
he holds his offering plate of oil paints,
and his threadbare canvas coat is
spattered with haphazard
stains from a hundred unfinished ideas.
Under graphite eyebrows,
shining acrylic eyes spy out
at you, the poet, wondering
if your iamb-coated lips
would look better in maroon
or burgundy.
What I wouldn’t give to be Paul McCartney. Instead, I have the luck of being Paul Jonson. Yes, my parents had the audacity to name me after the songwriter. And in spite of myself, I only wish the resemblance went further than name alone.
Story goes some actor once challenged Paul—McCartney, of course—to write a song about whatever random idea the actor had. McCartney accepted. You’d think he would’ve given up when the actor told him to write a song about Pablo Picasso’s last words. This wasn’t some familiar topic like a love song that McCartney had already written dozens of. He was challenged to write something new, out of the blue.
And of course, like the lucky jerk he is, in a matter of minutes McCartney had already written his latest song, “Picasso’s Last Words.” He won the challenge. And once and for all he proved that he could write any song as quickly as the rest of us could listen to it.
And meanwhile I can’t even write at all.
Don’t get me wrong. I’ve tried writing like that dozens of times. Long story short, my bandmates are still waiting for my masterpiece. It doesn’t matter what prompt I pick, what muse I pray to. At the end of each day, I have no Eleanor Rigbys or Blackbirds to show for my troubles. Just lots and lots of crumpled up pages torn from my yellow legal pad. When I showed up to Rex’s garage with no lyrics in hand the other day, he said to me with a sigh, “You keep promising tomorrow will be the day, and the day never comes.”
“Yesterday… all my troubles were all here to stay,” Danny sang from the drumkit. “Oh, every day is yesterday.”
I no longer had the will to say I’ve nearly had a breakthrough, that I’m on the verge of greatness. That just wasn’t true. I finally saw that. Some people aren’t cut out to be Paul McCartney. Some people are just Paul Jonson. Or at least I am.
“We can keep playing Beatles covers all day long if that’ll make you happy,” Danny said when I stayed quiet. “I think I’ve got a pretty good rendition of ‘Yesterday’ cooking up.”
“Maybe we should just quit,” I muttered.
“Paul, listen—” Rex began.
“No, if I’m such a disappointment, then there’s not much point of us being here, is there? If we can’t be great, we might as well do something else.”
“Paul, you can’t blame yourself that you’re not McCartney. He lives and breathes music. He can create songs like they’re nothing because songs are all that occupy his head. No one expects you can be the same as him.”
“But I should be! That’s why my parents named me after him, so I could grow up to be just like the great McCartney. And every day I get up early and try my hand at writing a song before work, and I try again every night from dinner until I fall asleep at my desk. I’ve been trying to live and breathe music too, and I just can’t do it.”
“You can be like Elvis,” Danny offered. “There’s always a path even for the musically illiterate.”
“You have to look and sound like a Greek god to pull off what Elvis did,” I grumbled. “For ordinary people like us, only talent counts. And we just don’t have it.”
“Excuse you!” Danny exploded. “I’m a mighty fine drummer, thank you very much. If you’re looking for a problem with this band, look at yourself!”
“Exactly,” I said. “That’s why I quit.”
“Paul—” Rex began, with a glare at Danny.
“It’s okay, Rex. Not everyone can be a genius. I’m learning to accept that.”
“Not everyone has to be a genius to succeed,” Rex argued.
“Is that sort of success even worthwhile?”
I didn’t stay to wait for an answer.
Walking the several blocks back to my apartment, I tried to think about something else. But what else was there to think about? There was nothing even remotely interesting going on with my day job at Walmart. I had no social life outside of my band. All my life was invested in music, and as it turned out, it had been a bad investment. I had nothing to show for the many hours of effort.
I got home, reheated some leftover meatloaf for dinner, and sat down to eat. All I could think about the whole time was that this was somehow Rex and Danny’s fault. How could I ever succeed with such negative influences in my life? Danny just outright made fun of me. He never offered any help. And Rex, with all his good intentions, was even more infuriating. He could be as nice as he liked, but without ever having empathy, what was the use? I was alone, stranded in a world devoid of talent or inspiration. My only escape was to simply give up. If you can’t win the game, then get out of it before you’ve bet every chip.
Absentmindedly, I put my dishes away and then trudged into my bedroom. I stared at the little brown wooden desk in the corner, with the big yellow legal pad and G2 pen sitting on it waiting for me, beckoning to me. But I resisted the call. There was no point picking up that pen if I couldn’t use it to write anything worth singing.
Is that what Rex and Danny had known all along? That I had nothing to sing about? That when your life is dedicated to music at the expense of all else, you don’t even know enough about life to write about it? I tried, and I tried, and I tried to write, if not about myself, then about someone else, like McCartney wrote about Picasso. But it never worked. Every time I tried to write, I searched inside myself, and found no words. Unlike McCartney, I just had nothing to say.
I lay in bed, willing myself to go to sleep. What else was there for me to do? I had no other hobbies. I sat there, motionless, too upset to go to sleep, but too defeated to find anything else to do. So I did nothing, even thought nothing, and finally into my empty mind wafted a new idea. What if I embraced my enemy? There was only one topic I had avoided writing about: McCartney himself. I had never dared to describe how much I hated living in his massive shadow. About how jealous I was. But maybe there was something there. Maybe everyone could empathize with the agony of not being a genius, of not being able to measure up to that other person. Maybe if I put that out there into words, people would finally feel some release. Some release like what I wanted, freedom from my namesake.
With a deep breath, I got out of bed, sat at my desk, and began to write. Like never before, the words began to flow. I realized with a grin that I had finally discovered my creative block. And now that I was facing it, the floodgates were let loose. I could finally write. I could finally be a songwriter in my own right. In five minutes, the song was done. Not bad for Paul Jonson, I thought; in fact, even McCartney would be proud to have written the song that quickly. After that mental pat on the back, I read the lyrics over once and loved them. I couldn’t wait to see Rex and Danny’s faces when I showed up to our rehearsal after work the next day and with my own lyrics in hand.
With a smile on my face, I settled into my bed, and for the first time in many nights, I didn’t torment myself with all my failures. For the first time in a long time, I slept well.
In the morning, I started up with a sort of urgency. My eyes darted across the room, as I tried to remember what was so important. Finally, my eyes settled on the yellow legal pad. I shot out of bed, knowing I had to give that song one look over before I brought it to the band after work. I had to be sure that it really was as good as I had thought it was.
Standing at the desk, the legal pad in my hands, I scanned over it, once, twice, even three times. My heart sank as I realized it was terrible. The lyrics were childish, whiny, and extraordinarily petty. They weren’t a release, they were grating, like the screams of a petulant toddler. McCartney would be embarrassed to have these lyrics in his trash can. With a growl, I crumpled the paper up and tossed it aside.
I put on generic khaki pants and a collared shirt for work, and then I drove off to Walmart. For a day’s work in the sort of place where all us non-geniuses belong.
The Genius’s Shadow
Josh Hammingh
Hope
Aurora Magness
Hope came into my life like a warm spring shower.
It came over me in a rush of realization,
Like a bucket poured on me, and I welcomed it.
I bathed in the warmth, in the cold,
In the droplets running down my face, down my body,
I was drowning but cleansed of my filth
It spread over me and I succumbed to it,
Embracing it,
Spreading out my arms, spinning in ecstatic circles.
I breathed it in; it burned my lungs, but I savored the feeling.
I savored the rain,
The radiant light that shone over my scarred being.
It was a dangerous thing, hope.
It brought fear and too much confidence.
I didn’t know what to do with the newfound freedom.
My soul spilled through my pores in unrestrained waves,
Pouring through the world and I felt myself spread, thin,
To the edge of existence.
I was more than myself,
As if the world was at my feet.
Hope, a spring shower,
A confidence, a trust,
It raised me and broke me,
Fixed me and told me,
Told me how I could do anything.
I didn’t believe it, so it showed me.
I can.
Drenched
Shae Katagi
We loved the rain, darling
Oh, those dark heavy clouds
We’d wait, fingers crossed
For the rain to come down
When it did we would run
Bare feet on wet flowers
Shaking tree branches
For cold double showers
It rains often now
Just like we’d hoped
Pouring for hours
Til the whole world is soaked
Sometimes I forget
That we love the rain, darling
Now we glare at dark clouds
And find thunder alarming
Our socks are all wet
And my hands are cold
We used to dance in the rain
But we’re getting too old
It rains often now
Just like we’d hoped
Pouring for hours
Til the whole world is soaked
So let’s go out and run
Bare feet on wet flowers
Shaking tree branches
For cold double showers
We’ll learn to remember
And have it remain
That we really are, darling,
In love with the rain
A little me, and a little you.
Sydney Cortez
Darling, please do not fear
For I will make a little me
And I will make a little you
And I will immortalize us
In these words
Right here
right now.
And the little me
and the little you
will never have to cry,
never have to do,
and never have to say goodbye.
We will stay right here
a little pocket of time
just for us.
Words poured over us like
a resin mold
and we will stay like the
insects from the dinosaur time
trapped in their amber cells.
Forever as we are.
No, no, no why do you shake
your head?
Why do you cry?
“Life is not meant to be paused,”
you say as you take
my hand in yours.
“The insects are not trapped, they are entombed
forever in their final state
dead from their preserver.
We are not meant to stand still forever.
We are meant to cry,
meant to die,
and meant to say goodbye.
It is what makes us value our time.
So do not make a little me
and do not make a little you
and let us be
just here
just now.”
Saltwater is Louder Than You Think
Sarah Frey
The sea is louder here
Recall the way the silence used to haunt—
The membranes of your soul’s corners
Waves create a symphony
Cry out to the world
Or swear to make it stop
Time only stands at the breaking of hands
Hands—
Find mine in this dark refuge
Hide away from the world
Touch its edge, we are safe
Meet me here after dusk.
Hand in hand, blanket of night
Mouths sprayed with salt and laughter
The waves can keep a secret
Sudden song is the crash of the infinite—
Your voice will be swallowed in its grasp.
Vulnerability: Permission to say it
Whisper or scream, you can tell me here,
And only here
Press down notes on slick hands
Evidence is left out to sea.
Unpeeled humanity—carried in waves
Run from the world, we are safe in its roots
The Burn
Matthew Reamy
Originally written as a song
I’ve been a few times since the burn
Watched the hills rebound with life
Watched the green replace the brown
And I replant what I can
Douglas-fir and madrone
Someday we’ll call this home again
And I can see the green door
And my feet can feel the floors
I can smell the bracken ferns
This is joy and I want to share
This is peace and I want to share
This is hope and I want to share
This is me I want to share
Now it’s just God-forsaken toothpicks
Standing two hundred feet tall
What am I beneath them all
This land will never be
For my children what it was for me
It’s a warm world we’re giving them
And I don’t begrudge the sun
The heat from its rays
And I don’t begrudge the world the blaze
Come on let’s go for a swim
It’s best to jump right in
The water’s clear and cold
Come on let’s go for a swim
It’s best to jump right in
Don’t you mind the cold
Spend a day out flingin’ flies
Draw the trout out where he lies
Catch a crawdad on a string
Set your feet close on a rock
Close your eyes and face the sun
Let the wind blow through your hair
This is peace and I want to share
This is joy and I want to share
This is hope and I want to share
This is me and I want to share
Leslie Hotel | Austyn Deal
Paralysis and a Very Big Lizard
Paul Friesen
No one tells you how scary it is when you can’t move your hands. Your brain tells them to move, but they simply don’t respond. You begin to wonder: Is this it? Am I dying? Am I going to heaven? However, you seem to be distinctly alive for the time being, so your thoughts shift: Will my hands ever move again? I rather like my hands. They’re good for playing piano and making art. You aren’t entirely sure what you’d do without functioning hands, but you don’t get hung up on that thought. You assume they will start working again. At some point. Maybe minutes, maybe hours. Your hands are supposed to move after all, they always have, but this is unprecedented. Never before have your hands disobeyed when you tried to make a fist or wiggle your fingers.
You’ve stayed fully conscious, or at least you think so. You did just see a dinosaur in the trees above you. That or a very big lizard. Do big lizards live in Miami? And do they climb trees? Are there dinosaurs in heaven? How about big lizards?
Your phone buzzes in the grass, leaning against your shoulder. It fell from your grip as you used Siri to desperately call for help. And you only resorted to Siri after your fingers no longer worked well enough to text or dial.
All you can do is enjoy the brilliant sky, visible through the canopy above you. You inspect the branch where the giant lizard had been minutes prior. That couldn’t have been real, right? What sort of lizards even get that big? Could it have been an iguana? Is that what an iguana looks like?
Your left arm lays outstretched in the soft grass. The other sits on your chest. It has no motion nor life of its own, but follows the rise and fall of your chest. It’s not an even rhythm, but you’re breathing, at least. That’s a good thing. Maybe you’re not dying.
A gentle voice calls out to you, inquiring about your wellbeing. Her familiar cadence is a long-awaited song. As you relay the events of the last few minutes, you’re gradually surrounded by caring friends, raising your feet, cooling your forehead with a damp towel, refilling your water. Paramedics arrive. You opt not to tell them about the very big lizard. They’ll be called again in a few hours when you collapse to the ground for a second time. But that’s what they’re there for. That’s their job. Your vitals are fine. You’re going to be fine. Your breathing is steadier now. The paramedics are gone and you are just surrounded by friends. One of them offers you a popsicle. As you reach up to grab it, the iguana off in the distance disappears into the tall grass.
Found Family, sans Trope
Claire Ahlem
I would not consider family sudden unless
It was—built and developed and still sudden—
Not by birth, pains of labor, and entrances into
A place in this world; more by discovery
And happenstance meetings of bodied souls.
By all suddenness—parents and brothers to come by
No means of my own—not that sisters were any
Means of mine either; they emerged and stayed
All through their welcome, which is not over
Yet, now, or ever, if I have nothing to do with it.
Seven sisters were not my story but one—sudden—
I found and held—hold—her words in my heart
And my purse as a fourth tattoo, mine alone,
Free and retraceable only to lives embraced
Tenfold into one another—sudden and solid.
Cloudless Days to Days Succeed
Brayden Tibbetts
The Sun pulls all things upward.
Seeds sat comfortably in the
soil; damp, cold, inert;
they were satisfied with death.
Then the Sun came up,
drawing out the unwilling trees,
forcing forests from the dirt
and life up from the stones.
The sunflowered stars in the silent night sky
soak up my sleep into sweetness
and sweep the roots from under my feet.
Weightless flying and unfixed falling;
Phecda pulls the hopeless hope up from the desire for damp, cold death.
Dawn casts warm and weightless lavender colors across the open roads.
Her light glints in every creature’s dark eyes.
Some say the sunset signifies death,
and the sunrise, rebirth.
But the Sun sows his seeds into the sky,
consummating his love with the night.
Life is there—in the beautiful black of space—waiting one day to die, to be born, to be held—
The cold hands of Dawn
slowly and silently pull the light of the stars
brighter from the horizon.
Dawn is our death.
Our death, our Life.
Imperial Sun | Natalie Green
Holy Ibid
Rylie Wood
Reflection on Saint Ignatius
Bethany Cook
Can
the little things
be spiritual consolations?
Must
an ‘inner movement’
be inexplicable?
If
such a thing
fills one with
love
for God...
Alone in a large room,
scumbling ultramarine
on waiting canvas,
John Denver poetry
weaving a tapestry
with acoustic twine—
the Lord gives me a consolation.
The Eyes to See
Lauryn Stanfield
Maybe we should stop saying
“all shall be well.”
Because maybe all is well now,
We just need the eyes to see it.
Maybe all is well
When the professor is playing his guitar in his office
And dear friends stop by,
Happy about waves through the window,
And the taste of childhood snacks
And dear friends lingering
For the sake of lingering.
Maybe amidst the chaos and pain and strife and waiting,
All is, indeed, well—
We just need the eyes to see.
Resonant Rumblings
Natalie Green
In a vacuum
Gasping
Clawing at air
There’s nothing there
Alone in a crowd
Suffocating
Pulse spiking tenfold
Its consoling hold
Cold fingers on soaked brow strewn
Palms reflect the imprint of moons
Joining stars of moles
Automaton lost all control
Countless steps
One. Two. Three.
One. Two. Three.
An overture, resounding plea
One foot after another
Keeping the mask
Not letting it slip
... Until I trip
Then I am falling
Knees meet pavement
Pain sings through veins
Another chorus joins the refrain
Growth
Brooklyn Chillemi
Before you lived with me, I’d walk around with a banana like this one every day. Since I didn’t have time to make a proper breakfast, the plan was to eat it between my classes... But after about twelve hours, eventually, I would return with the same banana, slightly more bruised than the day before. Every week I’d repeat the process.
Now, I force myself to eat it, since I know I need to use the peel to wipe the scaling off your paddle-shaped leaves.
On the day I brought you home — home? — you hardly fit in my Ford Focus, so I have no idea how I will take you across the country once the school year ends. For now, you sit patiently, all the while knowing you could end up in the dumpster you stretch to see outside the window. Your impermanence makes my stomach hurt. (Maybe the banana will help. I’ll take a bite.)
When I called my parents to tell them about you, they wondered aloud why I continue to collect oddities I will only have to move back across the country later. Their college years are behind them, so perhaps they’ve forgotten the purpose of a poorly-watered houseplant in a university apartment window. I know it is likely you will not make it back home. Still, you say, “I’m here and grateful,” and also whisper, “I won’t be here forever.”
You’re mine to steward, yet never mine to begin with, and will not be mine later.
I don’t want to disengage from the pain of recognizing impermanence at the risk of losing the accompanying gratitude, but I’m finding it tremendously difficult right now. It is the same with everyone else on earth — peers, friends, even family. Everyone is so much more important to me because I know it could always be my last time seeing them, yet stewarding relationships simultaneously feels so much more difficult because I know eventually (and perhaps even soon) they could forget I ever existed.
I am hoping you also know what this feels like. You, too, were made to be shaken. Did you know that sets you apart from other plants? Wherever your species started was significantly windier than my apartment, so to ensure that your main stems are as sturdy as they should be, every once in a while, you must be shaken to help stimulate growth.
Is it the same for me? Are you as frightened as I am? But if I don’t shake you, your centermost stems will become brittle, and eventually, you won’t be able to stand at all.
I’m sorry. I’m finished eating my banana. Let me wipe the grime from your leaves.
Advice From An Aspiring Anarchist
Shae Katagi
Break clocks on purpose—on principle
|
Break clocks on purpose—on principle |
|
Time only ticks for the wage slave
| Time only ticks for the wage slave
Arrange wet hair on the shower wall till
|
Arrange wet hair on the shower wall till |
Sunrise, Water Lilies, or another Monet
|
Sunrise, Water Lilies, or another Monet |
Flowers can’t bloom if you’re looking
|
Flowers can’t bloom if you’re looking |
So go through gardens with eyes closed
|
So go through gardens with eyes closed |
Burn journal entries and paint with the ash
|
Burn journal entries and paint with the ash |
Irises, Starry Night, or another Van Gogh
|
Irises, Starry Night, or another Van Gogh |
Leave dust on photographs and furniture
|
Leave dust on photographs and furniture |
Dog-ear your books and break their spines
|
Dog-ear your books and break their spines |
Scribble bad words on your homework
|
Scribble bad words on your homework |
And never let poetry rhyme
armageddon medley
Aleks Morales
The world could have ended a dozen different ways. Some thought it would be the Second Bubonic Plague, others thought a loose cannon prime minister with nuclear codes. I personally expected it to be the asteroid. But while we were all worried about defusing international tensions, quarantining a zombie outbreak, fighting off the newly thawed dinosaurs, and making negotiations with Martian ambassadors, the beavers made their move. They cut off our water supplies, gnawed through the supports on our skyscrapers, made strategic stock trades that undermined our economy. By the time we noticed, we were already dammed.
Unserious things worth loving
Shae Katagi
scrapes, slivers
vines that wither
day old anythings
watered down liquor
left-handed scissors
the spelling of queue
boards of advisory
Mother’s moth wing tattoo
lost buttons, white thread
the end of the world
jokes made in earnest
photos artfully blurred
dents in old couches
your lover’s old letters
the old man you envy
Sonia’s old sweater
rings that don’t fit
stories that aren’t true
poems that don’t end well
Agamemnon Removes His Boots
Brooks Lampe
What hot potato those boots
must have been! Who bent down to
undo the laces? Which intern stood there
to hand you a clean jacket before you
took the stage? It all happened so fast,
your feet on the carpet no going back,
feeling some resistance to the doors you left
so long ago now queasy to behold. You turn
to heaven, lay all on the gods—all except
your marriage affairs—and there
in the luggage the girl who sailed through,
self-aware and blazing, a storm whirling
through your foyer. Don’t get undressed, Ag!
Don’t get in the tub! No no no! Who gave you
that robe with three knife-holes?
Why are you so wound up? Who
so rapturously undoes themselves
like this? Did you want to die
in this font, to climb the pyre? Who can say
what you want on such a day as this? Shadows
stretch over the valley, each a mile long, a net
bending round the hills, heart caught
in its first beat.
Palomino Island | Austyn Deal
Carson Bride
Matthew Reamy
Originally written as a song
a week ago—to the day
we said how life would stretch away
Death and God were the least of our concerns
when i closed my eyes i knew
the sun was still up in the sky
but things have changed since then
and now its not so black and white
we spoke of marriage and arranged
our tidy lives to navigate
the twists and turns that we had heard
await us on the road ahead
then Fate took the fragile thread
of Life between his fingertips
and while we danced
Carson Bride despaired
and now we scrape and scrub
to rub the stain of his Death from our skin
and only now we have a care
where before we tore him limb from limb
in english class our freshman year
i watched him watch the open chair
then i saved it for a friend
because i didnt want him there
the teacher praised his Golden Lines
and we admired his Imagery
but on our faces nothing changed
and his wide eyes spoke Misery
we should have seen from the first
that its not okay and gossip hurts
but we his peers—his greatest fear
—became his guillotine
i know its tragic—but its true
that we pushed him to the edge
and im not blaming me or you
but we could have been his Friends
now its all over its the end
theres nothing for it but to remember
the kindness of his Heart
his Smile his laugh—his imagery
he just wanted to fit in
to have someone to talk to him
he was just a Boy
like your or me—with hopes and dreams
a week ago—to the day
we said how life would stretch away
Death and God were the least of our concerns
when i closed my eyes i knew
the sun was still up in the sky
but things have changed since then
and now its not so black and white
now we ask—is there a Heaven
is it true that God is loving
how could something like this happen
if its true that God is loving
Please God, ease this family’s suffering
Give them peace and your good blessing,
Let your Spirit dwell among them
Let them know their boy was loved
Jesus ease this Familys Suffering
give them Peace and your Good Blessing
let Your Spirit dwell among them
let them know their Boy was Loved
“Döden” by Janis Rozentāls
Natalie Green
Long Sleep
Approaches Mother of Sorrows
Eternal infant carried away
Janis Rozentāls, 1897 | Public Domain
In His Presence
Jocelyn Schindler
Darkness, cloudy sky misting black
with grey fuzz, crickets chirp, people
walk. But I’m frozen, sitting here
surrounded.
Vast empty expanse, trees so still
they could be frozen, a drop
of water on the table from rain that
only fell long enough for poetry.
I feel You in the absence, in the
potent still and stagnant, in the
silhouettes of night, the comfort
in the quiet.
I feel You here.
Meteorite
Brooks Lampe
The heart is nice in the way
it keeps unfolding
like entering a bowl you cannot see the bottom of
that threatens to swallow you up
but in reality holds you.
Laying on the couch in the cabin trying to sleep
I happen to look up: a shooting star.
So magnificent, tiny, quick. It’s strange
given how many ancients must have seen it
they don’t write more poems about them.
Perhaps they slept too well.
Night Flight | Austyn Deal
“So... if you love doing creative work, do it. Don’t stop. The desire to create is in our nature. God designed us for it.”
