Honest Words
No intro. Just honest words.
— Table of Contents —
Chapter 1: Hungering for Honesty by Jamie Leigh Stevens
Chapter 2: The Poem I Wanted to Write by Joshua Walker
Chapter 3: Life is A Prayer by Puanani Lalakea
Chapter 4: Little Bright Eyes by Anzu Sully Jaeger
Chapter 5: Smaller for You by A.L.B.
Chapter 6: Truth by Cameron Lyric Cox
Chapter 7: Sleepyhead by Cora Dean
Chapter 8: Without A Universe to Carry by Brandi Lynn
Chapter 9: Simply Gravy by Tony Woodall
Chapter 10: Honestly by Samantha Moore
Chapter 11: My Heart Belongs to Them by Angelia Ross
Chapter 12: Expecting A Poetic Conclusion by Brandon Thorpe
Chapter 13: the lioness by Chloe Hall
Chapter 14: It Hurts Like Hell by Chris Boyatt
Chapter 15: They Told Me to Follow My Heart by Blair Correll
Chapter 16: Mosaic Muse by Sandi Keaton-Wilson
Chapter 17: Cancerous Cannibal by Kristen Reid
Chapter 18: Look Your Eyes Full by Stephanie Duncan
Chapter 19: Calendars of Script by George Fillingham
Chapter 20: A Parable for the Heart by Dane Osborne
Chapter 21: Rhinestone by Brandy Warren
Chapter 22: Down Into the Black by Jolene Rice
Chapter 23: The Widower’s Wife by Jeanmarie Hill
Chapter 24: Honest Love by Olivia Gilreath
Chapter 25: Confessions by Tanner Cooper-Risser
Chapter 26: I Am Buoyant by Rhonda Kendziorski
Chapter 27: little dithys by the dithyrambler
With artwork & photographs by Alice Burton, Stephen Phillips, Mal Okio, Jolene Rice, and Terry Malone.
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
Chapter 1:
Hungering for Honesty
by Jamie Leigh Stevens
UNSATISFIED
In my dream,
We sat across the table from each other
The kind of strangers you can only become
when you've known someone too well.
Our cordial exchanges
Stifling screams
And making a handshake of our heartbreak.
It's amazing how much politeness
Tastes like poison
When things remain unsaid too long,
I wanted to reach for your hand
But placed a napkin in my lap instead.
Hungering for honesty that wasn't on the menu
I sipped my water
and swallowed back the memories of
sweet wine and bitter tears.
Waking from this dream,
I realize setting a place for you
at my table
will only ever leave me starving.
⚘
I HATE THE DICTIONARY (WRECKAGE)
0.
When I was little, I used to read the dictionary.
Invited in by its soft brown leather binding
My mother’s initials etched into the page edges
It asked nothing of me –
No story to follow
No emotional expectations
I actually loved that it did not demand I invest in plots or protagonists,
No.
It offered peace and comfort in the rosary-like repetition
Of “This. Is.”
Book chapter and verse
it offered a lens for me to focus my view of the world.
I.
When I was 8,
The angelic A’s invited me to sit quietly
Allow the annals of language to preach the scripture for decoding
The Academics of Adult conversations.
After A,
The B’s brimmed, broiled, and bubbled over
And brought the biblical blunders from a child too bright for her big mouth
who was busted and bullied for it.
So I clutched the C’s with conviction
The chasm created between my curious mind and my
conventional
Childhood peers.
Convinced I was cuckoo, crazy even creepy,
because they couldn’t conceive the comfort
contained in my catechism of
“This is.”
II.
At 10
I dreaded the D’s would be dull
But they drove my defiance as I
Deep dove my depression
Denying the damage of a divorce decreed
that divided me from my Dad.
Denied effective or efficient explanation
I entered the E’s
Exhaling any expectations
of equilibrium ever after
I exclaimed a feudal
F-- THIS!
At 14 F
fueled my furious fixation on my fractured foundation.
I fumbled with feelings forming
Of being fundamentally fragile and flawed
Being female and fat were felonies, and
I Found no forgiveness in “This is.”
And The God in G was silent.
Good enough, was never good enough.
H held and housed me
I was hopeless, helpless, and even
Hospitalized for not being happy?
Happy?!
How??
This is … infuriating.
I was going insane.
Instability, inanity, insidious identity crises
Idling inside incoherent ideals of “if only.”
I was Jaded.
Felt jilted, even jinxed.
Justified in my joyless jitters,
I was JUST a kid.
III.
A lowercase kid.
I was Lost.
Learning how to live with the lot of
“This is.”
I leaned on Language to
Lift me and lead me.
And my letters led me back
To the initials etched in the dictionary’s page edges
M-K-M
Letters led me to a mother who loved me enough to listen.
My mom.
More than medicine
She was magic.
She took the tome from my hands and replaced it with paper and pen and said,
“Baby girl, this … this is what you make of it.”
Her love radically redefined the boundaries of
my limited language and revealed the beauty in simpler terms
such as “be” and “do.”
So for years I scribbled
And explored the intricate differences in
“human being” rather than “human doing”
She gave me permission
To leave “This is” for a moment
To help me understand what “this means.”
Because
As a nurse, she knew.
She knew too well exactly what “this is.”
IV.
For my mom
I re-read the dictionary as an adult
Seeking new strength in my static scripture
Needing to drown the noise
I picked up with N.
When no one and nothing
could numb the needles in her breathing
Night after
night after
night after
nurses and
new meds and …
O- God-
Only …
Pain …
And then … Quiet ...
For her I returned.
I returned to the dictionary
so doctors could not b-S
or hide secrets in semantics
or sequences of syllables stressing and straining my sanity.
“For God’s sake, SAY it!”
Te-
Terminal
… Time … Ticking … Trembling … You …
Uh… Unless … No … Until …
Unresponsive.
And Now … This is?
Verified.
Wuh … Wait! Please?
This is so wrong.
V.
At 33 years old,
I discovered that I hate the dictionary.
When your world is warped by why?
Why her? Why now?
It offers nothing but X-rays and Yelling
And then what?
Xylophones and Zebras
to make sense of or distract from the horror of what “This is.”
It’s contents are inadequate
And do not prepare you for the damage that comes
When words are welded together into the wrecking ball of a diagnosis
And you must content yourself with a hollow amen to “This is …?”
This: Cancer …
This: loss …
This is … wreckage.
VI.
Wreckage: 1. (noun) Remains or fragments of something that has been wrecked.
Last month I packed away my mother’s dictionary.
Her obituary folded neatly behind its soft brown leather cover.
In the two years since her passing
all the dictionary has taught me is that
sometimes there simply aren’t words enough to describe
the wreckage of losing a loved one.
And I find now that
- more than words -
Life is truly defined by
the people
and the moments
that leave us speechless
Amen.
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
Chapter 2:
The Poem I Wanted to Write
by Joshua Walker, The Last Bard
FRIDAY NIGHT, CHICKASHA, 2001
Joey pulls up in his hunter-green Firebird,
Ozzy singing See You on the Other Side,
and Dad's already yelling from the house,
No drinking! Don't stay out too late!
And whatever you do, don't get arrested!
I'm in the passenger seat before he finishes.
We've got an emergency.
We need tacos.
Not tomorrow. Not in twenty minutes.
Now. The kind of hunger that makes two boys
believe the entire town is holding them hostage
until somebody hands them a paper sack
and seventeen packets of hot sauce.
Joey hits the gas.
Ozzy hits the chorus.
Chickasha disappears behind us
at a speed that would impress absolutely no one
who hadn't grown up there.
At Taco Bell we find Tom the Bomb
demonstrating his new speakers
to anyone within three counties.
We pay our respects.
There are rules to Friday nights,
and a man with new speakers deserves an audience.
Chelsea wanders over, holding a soda.
Try this.
I take a swig.
Jesus, Chelsea! That's straight whiskey!
She laughs.
Sweetie, you've got to stop flirting with me,
I tell her. No matter how much you give me,
I'm not going home with you.
She punches my arm.
You wish. I'd break you like a toothpick.
Everybody laughs.
Tom turns up the bass.
Somebody says we ought to get going.
Going where?
Doesn't matter.
We climb back into the Firebird
and circle the same four streets,
past the gas station, past the bank,
past the place where everybody gathers
to decide there's somewhere better to be.
We make another lap.
Then another.
We are young enough to believe
the next corner might contain
the greatest thing that ever happened to us,
and impatient enough to miss it
if it takes too long.
Joey turns up Ozzy.
We have nowhere to go
and absolutely no time to waste.
At the next red light, a Corvette pulls alongside us.
The driver revs his engine.
Joey looks at me.
I look at Joey.
Aw, hell no.
I dig through the console,
find Mötley Crüe, cue up track two.
Dr. Feelgood.
The opening hits.
Joey revs the Firebird.
The Corvette answers.
This is no longer about getting somewhere.
This is about Chickasha, Oklahoma,
the honor of two boys with taco sauce
still drying on their fingers,
and a hunter-green Pontiac
that has absolutely no business
challenging a Corvette.
We might lose.
Hell, we probably will.
But not tonight.
Not in our town.
The light stays red.
Joey leans forward.
I brace my feet against the floor.
The light—
I come through the front door.
Mom's standing in the hallway.
It's two in the morning!
Where the hell have you been?
⚘
GIVE THE PEOPLE WHAT THEY WANT
They told me to write what hurts,
so I opened the wound.
Not that wound.
Something cleaner.
Something we can put
between advertisements.
Give the people what they want.
They want honesty
with the serial numbers filed off.
Rage that remembers its manners.
Rebellion that arrives
before the submission deadline
and fits the theme.
Bleed,
but use the house style.
Confess,
but nothing that makes
the editors uncomfortable.
Burn the system down,
but please tag the system
when you post it.
Give the people what they want.
So I learned the market.
I learned which grief was fashionable,
which sins photographed well,
which dead poets were safe
to imitate.
I learned originality means
sounding exactly different enough.
I learned the scene loves danger
once danger has
a contributor bio.
And every time
I wrote something they loved,
I hated it
a little more.
Every time I wrote something
I loved,
someone explained
why nobody would want it.
Give the people what they want.
Fine.
Here is the corpse
of the poem I wanted to write.
I dressed it for you.
Cut its hair.
Covered the bruises.
Removed the teeth.
It will not bite.
It will not embarrass anyone
at the launch party.
It knows when to clap.
It knows who matters.
It knows better
than to ask why.
Give the people what they want.
They wanted my voice.
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
Chapter 3:
Life is A Prayer
by Puanani Lalakea
THE TRUTH IS
what makes a human
want to hold words hostage,
to bind them into rigidly defined sounds
spoken exclusively
by other humans?
last night I walked
outside the lines
dictated by human words
the moon beamed
as wispy clouds tickled her face
she sang her fullness
into my soul
the night air accompanied her
softly
cradling the melody
a rhythm that matched
the drumbeat of my heart
a nearby palm tree swished delight
raising her fronds
waving whispered joy
into a dreaming world
standing at my side
my dog perked up her ears
a shiver of understanding
filled her
crown to tail and all four corners of her body
the Truth is
all of creation speaks.
the Truth is
words are not the sole purview of humans
our inability to translate
words spoken by other than human beings
is our loss
yet somehow we expect
the rest of creation
to pay
the Truth is
their words
fill the gaping holes
left in a story
restricted to the use
of human sanctioned words
⚘
NOT FOR SALE
Not for sale
NOT FOR SALE
This girl is not for sale.
And, yes,
GIRL
And no,
I do not accept
the story that casts girls
as small, naïve, and dismissible
This girl is curious, courageous and exuberantly joyful
YES.
THIS GIRL.
IS.
NOT.
FOR.
SALE.
This girl is not a commodity
This girl refuses to be shackled
by a system designed to capture attention and turn it into profit
This girl does not define success
by the amount of money you can hoard
nor by the level of power you have over others
This girl is not for sale
And . . .
while we’re at it, let me add
This girl does not buy what you are selling
This girl cherishes her alms bowl
and delights in the stories people offer
Look, her bowl is overflowing,
stone soup stories
nothing and everything all at once
a banquet of abundance
enough to feed every soul
creating connections that feed every belly
This girl commits to prayer
Not sanctimonious-head bowed-on your knees-vending machine god-dogma defined prayer
No
This girl knows
life is a prayer
a promise to revel in the full experience of being
ALIVE
⚘
WISDOM
incomplete story
dandelion knows the truth
miracle not weed
DANDELIONS
Artwork by Alice Burton
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
Chapter 4:
Little Bright Eyes
by Anzu Sully Jaeger
LITTLE BRIGHT EYES
Little Bright Eyes, my mother says,
As I frolic through fields of millions of dandelions.
The blooms dance above my head,
Tickle my nose and flutter around my eyes.
At midnight, the fireflies light up the night.
“Not like Little Bright Eyes” my mother retorts.
The world is mine, I take it by storm.
But my mother says “Be careful, Little Bright Eyes.”
Oh but mother, don't you see?
Adventure is waiting on me.
A siren’s call that beckons me to roam…
But mother,
Little Bright Eyes will always make it home.
Love and laughter await and memories will be sewn.
But my mother's eyes hide a secret.
A whispered warning, a tired cynicism.
Mother, what is that red dripping from your lips?
I guess you probably ate too many berries from the garden.
⚘
POMEGRANATE
Air sweet with ambrosia,
Her muzzle chewing the red chunks.
Mother, what is this fruit?
Its crimson hue covers your face.
I ask and you say our family was born of sin,
And returns to sinfulness. A burden I too must bear.
So Little Bright Eyes must become strong.
But what does it mean to be strong?
Everything is twisted. And everything is wrong.
Mother, why is it a pomegranate?
Are you resentful of my father for creating me?
Do you hate God because he made bearing me painful?
Was I just a result of failed love and pain?
I don't resent you, I just don't understand.
How do I take such sin into my own hands?
Your warnings cut through me like a knife.
And for the first time in my life, seeing you there.
I have a pain my small body cannot take,
And for the first time – I cry.
In the Garden of Eden, where the pomegranate bloomed,
I found the seeds of my own family’s story, and the weight of my own.
⚘
BLACK DOG
When I was a pup, you said you loved me.
You placed your warm hand upon my head.
To be loved is to be changed.
Gashes in my flesh, no more yelping.
Just silence.
Sorry to bleed on you, master,
For it is just my rabid instincts.
So why is it cold now?
Why are your icy hands enclosing around my neck?
Your eyes are angry, but I don’t mind.
This is just all part of being loved.
Right?
⚘
TRUST
“Don’t bite the hand that feeds you,” the human said to the black dog, his own voice a threatening, yet condescending snarl.
The black dog tilts his head and responds, “Well, how do I trust that same hand not to poison me?”
The human’s smile faltered for only a moment. He couldn't face the dog as he pulled a vial of cyanide out of the pockets of his worn jeans.
The dog stepped forward and the human’s silence rang through his ears.
Or perhaps it was the pulsing of his blood.
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
Chapter 5:
Smaller for You
by A.L.B.
SMALLER FOR YOU
As a little girl
You were the first person I'd run to
Now that I'm grown
You're the first person I hide from.
I'd do my best, try so hard
So you would be proud
Instead, I was so stupid
And always let you down.
I made honor roll
Even skipped a few grades
But that alone wasn't enough
You would still scream my name.
I thought if I did my best
Carried all the weight
Thought if I was funny
The pain would just go away.
But little did I know
It had only just begun
Drugs became my best friend
Then came a lot more fun.
I found “friends" in people
Who were never mine
Put myself in bad places
Just to feel “fine."
That little girl
Is filled with hidden fears
When she looks in the mirror
It's your voice she hears.
She believed every bitter judgement
You decided that she was
She remembers feeling small and stupid
Every time you would cuss.
Life gave her a harsh reality check
She had to grow up fast
Listening closely to footsteps
To know if peace would last.
Now she's all grown up
Has children of her own
And unlike her mother,
The seeds of pain will not be sown.
Hers will know someone
To stand by their side
To brush their hair, call them pretty
And paint their nails at night.
So she'll take all that hurt
And swallow it up like so
If it means they'll never feel it
Anywhere they go.
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
Chapter 6:
Truth
by Cameron Lyric Cox
TRUTH
When I was young I learned the truth:
That honesty is meaningless without charisma to sell it.
All of life is a popularity contest that I will never win.
Just like the teachers in school believed the poisoned lies of
Cheerleaders and football stars
And just like my mother took my sister's word over mine
Despite the bruises proving her a liar
The abuse was never the problem.
The fault was mine for speaking of it and ruining the vibe.
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
Chapter 7:
Sleepyhead
by Cora Dean
SLEEPYHEAD
It’s Rationality against insanity
inside my mind.
Mechanical roars and rhythmic thumping form sleepless nights.
My body shows battle scars
from hostility and strife.
I look down at my hands;
I’m holding the knife?
I know one thing;
I believe something else.
Your words have become the artillery shells.
I’m waiting for that explosion that I know is going to come.
I suddenly see the nuclear bomb everywhere, in everything, at once.
They tell me that’s called a trauma response.
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
Chapter 8:
Without A Universe to Carry
by Brandi Lynn
WITHOUT A UNIVERSE TO CARRY
The terror isn't that the mountain will collapse; the terror is the deafening, unscripted quiet that comes right after.
For three thousand epochs, I kept my shoulders wedge-locked into the fault lines, terrified that a single inch of slack would spill the oceans into the dark.
Hyper-vigilance became my entire geography. I genuinely believed that if I stopped counting the rain, the earth would simply unspool into grey dust. Stepping back now feels like dropping off the lip of a cliff into a space where gravity hasn't been invented yet. My mind is frantic, clawing for a fire to put out, a drought to patch, some small, dying thing to rescue just to justify the room I take up.
What if they look at the dry timber, look at the static sky, and realize I was the one who let go? What if I look at myself without a universe to carry and find nothing underneath the armor?
Every layer of sediment inside me is vibrating, begging me to dive back into the flood—to trade another century of bone-deep labor just to avoid the guilt of letting them fail. The urge to fix it is an addiction.
And yet, I am crossing my arms and taking a step back into the shadows.
Let the weather go unmapped. Let the soil figure out how to exist without my permission. I am allowed to be a mountain that does nothing but sit cold in the dark. For the first time since the ground cooled, my survival matters more than their bloom.
QUEST FOR TRUTH
Photo by Stephen Phillips
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
Chapter 9:
Simply Gravy
by Tony Woodall
SIMPLY GRAVY
Responding to Disappointment, Again?
You're not falling behind.
You have simply reached one
of many turning points on your journey
where weariness sets in...
Where permanent self-judgement
causes most people to stop.
But you haven't stopped, paused maybe...
You are simply taking a lonely inner breath.
Resting your hope.
This is where your perseverance...
your hard damn refusal to stay in self-judgement
sets you up for extraordinary success.
But, most won't notice THIS kind of success.
For this kind of success was not made at a finish line.
This kind of success did not culminate
with public celebrations...
in the eyes of others.
This extraordinary success is found in my shadows
and must be noticed and celebrated by me, alone.
I have to love me enough to be my first supporter.
Sometimes my only supporter.
Other notice, other applause is simply gravy.
And don't forget...
other opportunities to notice your perseverance will come.
No judgment. Only remembrance of past times that you
remembered that inner weariness needs to be heard...
and celebrated for its hard work.
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
Chapter 10:
Honestly
by Samantha Moore
HONESTLY
Healing didn’t feel good.
It wasn’t pretty.
There were no bubble baths,
no new skincare routine,
no soft rebirth.
It was brutal.
Harsh.
Slow.
It felt like a hell
I couldn’t pray my way out of.
I was beaten.
Battered.
Broken down to whatever was left of me.
Healing took more
than my will.
It took clawing my way out
with blood beneath my nails,
only to fall back in
and start again.
And again.
More times than I’ll ever admit.
But somehow,
the woman who had to bleed
to become whole,
It was worth every drop.
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
Chapter 11:
My Heart Belongs to Them
by Angelia Ross
DEAR SISTER
It's true that we didn't get along
When we were growing up.
And you may never know
How proud I was of you.
Your tongue was always
Sharp as a knife's blade.
Your strength was never quiet,
But loud for all the world to hear.
And you didn't take
Crap off of anyone.
Especially, our knot-headed brother.
I was always the bookworm,
While you were the tomboy.
You were also pretty, witty and smart.
And during your lifetime
You have worn many different hats.
From working in a grocery-deli,
To being able to operate
Every piece of machinery
In a factory that made tents
And clothes for the US Armed forces.
However, in your youth
You were so good at math
That you could have been an accountant,
But then school wasn't
Your cup of tea.
Neither of our lives has been easy,
But that road prepared us
For the lives we have now.
It especially prepared you
For the adventure of being
A foster parent in your early fifties.
Yes, dear sister, I am
Very proud of you,
And some day I hope
To be able to tell you so.
For my sister
Anita Ross Spradlin
⚘
UNAMUSED GRANNY
It's morning.
The same as any other.
Me and Granny
Are eating breakfast.
She's in her living room recliner.
I'm at the kitchen table.
As best as I can recall,
We're eating oatmeal,
The quick-cooking kind
And drinking milk.
Of course a portion
Of my milk goes into my oatmeal,
Enough to make it soupy—yum,
Anyway we're talking
As we we're eating.
I had just shoveled in my last bit,
And was about to swallow
A big gulp of milk
When Granny said the funniest thing.
I cracked up before I could swallow
And milk shot out of both
my nose and mouth,
But mainly out of my nose—ouch.
It stung and burned.
I was a mess.
The table was an even worse mess.
And the look on Granny's face
Said she was not amused.
Too bad I can't remember
What it was she said
That I thought was so funny.
And it was a good thing
I wasn't about to swallow oatmeal.
Just imagine that coming
Out of your nose.
Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!
⚘
MY MOTEL IS FULL
The walls of my motel
Are nearly bursting
At the seams
With stuff and critters.
But in my heart
There is always
Room for one more.
I always tell people
My motel is full,
Which it truly is,
But my heart isn't,
And that, my friends,
Is where the dilemma lies.
Just one look at their
Sweet little furry faces
And my heart
Belongs to them.
Yes, my motel is falling
Down around our ears,
But do you think
The furballs care.
No, not one iota.
As long as it shelters them,
From the biting
Cold of winter,
The wind and rain,
They couldn’t care less.
As long as there's
Plenty of food
And lots of lovings,
They are happy
And content.
PORTRAIT OF A PANTHER
Photo by Mal Okio
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
Chapter 12:
Expecting A Poetic Conclusion
by Brandon Thorpe
WILD RABBITS
My husky, Lola, killed a baby rabbit
with her paws while on
a walk.
I never realized how delicate they
were until I raised one from near birth.
The heartbeat
felt like a soap bubble vibrating
on a spider web,
and it would drink milk from a syringe
with a fragile robin’s egg skull that
felt like it would crumble
with as little force.
I had raised both orphaned
mice and kittens like this, and I had to
use the mouse tools for the
impossibly small baby rabbit.
Strange that it
grew into a frantic gangley
creature with twitching satellite
ears that cowered in the corner
as you filled its food.
I thought it could be tamed
where it had known me its whole
life, but it was wild and frightened.
All sources said it was best
to release them, which I did
into a patch of woods behind our
house where I had seen others around.
I woke to find scraps of it being
chewed on by stray cats,
eaten besides the
feet and some fur, which I kept
out of guilt.
I don’t know how to feel
about saving something
my actions later killed.
When Lola crushed the little one
she dug it free, rolled out
of the brush under the weight of
both paws. The head was flattened
before I noticed what she found
A flap of stomach skin had peeled
back, and I could see a quick
pulse still beating between
the viscera, so pushed a knife
through the back of the neck
to ensure a merciful death.
I’ve put off writing about it,
even in my journals,
expecting a poetic conclusion
to reveal itself, but there is no lesson,
it’s just upsetting.
I don’t like seeing things about
rabbits now, but keep a little
cast iron statue of one as a form
of penance, so I’ll never stop feeling
bad about either of them,
and grip the line
like a life depends on it
when dragging the dogs out.
⚘
PERSIMMONS
The sky is violent white
blotting out the sun
and my skin is doused in
cold, whatever isn’t covered
and burns bright red
hiding in a coat like a
little portable home
Today you could see the
clouds moving fast
my son says
it’s from hurricane Isaias
and we laid on the trampoline
and watched them
speeding across the
sky while a wild wind
ripped dead leaves
from the trees in
a swirl, and the leaves
snowed down.
The green shrinks
and every day you
can see a little further
through the trees,
their bare branches
crossing the sky in Xs
and triangles of light
and the crisp leaves
break like a fortune
cookie under foot.
Every step sizzles.
The stray cats sleep
in a big furry pile on the
porch, and the
persimmons have all
dropped.
⚘
MOTHER TERESA
The lady at the smoke shop says Jesus don't judge,
then sold me my Kratom
for 20 bucks.
Said in the end the church would invert
Christians would be doing the Devil's
work.
Sat with Tommy's Mom,
we visited his grave
she said she felt the spirit enter her
when she had Cancer, was supposed to die,
needed a bone marrow transplant
“but it will probably kill you too.”
She was told,
so she refused.
And the priest predicted
“Teresa, you’ll die two deaths”
but she held her breath.
Now it's gone, every drop
I was in jail with Tommy when he found out
she was fighting, only time I saw him crying.
Helpless inside, while your mama dies.
Even though she lived, that preacher was
right.
When Tommy died, that was the second time.
She said it felt like electricity, warmth
In the heart &
she touched a friend who fell
over with the energy.
Swears it on his grave.
Maybe there is something.
What if we see him again? For real!
What if heaven's real?
Send word.
Your brother, Tony the MMA fighter, it's got
him on the ropes, trying to find a way to cope.
It's the fight of his life, what if HE died?
We need you back
Mama says, it's real, the evil too, she's seen
where a baby was killed, the mother pushing
a nail file into the fontanelle
a darkness that shakes the bed,
gets in your head. She got away.
Won't even drive by that place.
We passed a blunt, told funny stories about Tom
and all the people we knew,
all the things we’d done.
I try to remind myself
I'm this pitiful limited creature
experiencing a narrow slice
of reality.
Things only end cause we’re trapped in the
3rd dimension
where time plays like
a film, with a beginning and an end.
You're trapped tracking across the
runtime, wherever you happen to be
but all the happy things are still happening
In 4D
But, you know
as you drape your spine
over a pillow at night,
you want the things back
and hope they're still
out there.
I think they are.
I feel it in
my heart.
Rest in peace, Tom.
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
Chapter 13:
the lioness
by Chloe Hall
THE LIONESS
our fingers never touched
our paths never crossed
fate keeping us from intertwining
yet her memory remains
every brush stroke
every small detail i add to the chaos
every skewed self portrait
i find myself relating to a woman i never knew
a woman i so long to know
only one picture
encapsulated in one frame
to prove that she really existed one time before i
the most beautiful piece of art my eyes have devoured
years, almost decades, of her watching me from across the room
encouraging me, yelling to me to keep creating, to keep expressing, to leave something of permanence so the world
may keep trying to understand the complexities of my mind even when i’m long gone
maybe they would understand better than i ever did.
i mourn for a woman i never knew and never will
i find myself wondering how much of her lingers in me, if maybe i resemble her deep within my bones
i pray that part of her does
but i also pray fate doesn’t corrupt me the way it did her
i live my life every day hoping to make up for the time she didn’t have
i live my life every day ensuring her daughter’s memory lives on
although it’s no easy task to represent the dead whose few memories i grasp on to, clawing at every small detail out of fear that they will slip away
so, i waste no time
i never miss a chance to put my brain down on paper
if only i could hold theirs in the palms my hands just once
and maybe then i would understand
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
Chapter 14:
It Hurts Like Hell
by Chris Boyatt
IT HURTS LIKE HELL
every day this pain
hurts like hell
my heart hurts like hell
my head hurts like hell
missing you
hurts like hell
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
Chapter 15:
They Told Me to Follow My Heart
by Blair Correll
WHAT KIND OF GOD?
They come from a
good family, she said
in the self same voice
that declared the girl
decapitated in a car crash
did not, in fact, go to the
right church and without
saying it outright with her
pious lips what she meant
was that poor baby was in Hell
with the other two dead kids.
⚘
MY HEART
It is hard to go back there in my mind
Underneath the nostalgia is a white lie
White in its clean cover up not in its size
Singing I’ll fly away by the creek in a dress
There is a togetherness in created horror
My sister says we are trauma bonded
Our voices an escape in the dead summer
They were crying again and I never knew why
Happy tears look sad and I wanted them done
But the girl was in the water with the old man
We were on the bank dotted with streaming sun
So there was time to wait and sing and watch
I protested by going away while standing still
In a few years a therapist will call it disassociation
But I was there in the song, God is in the music
I never saw him in the mouth of the preacher
As he sprinkled a blessing and submerged her
Nor when he shouted into the stuffy little church
The men who smiled at me in the parking lot
Were not the men frowning at me in the pews
And I never felt more lost than on the drive there
Nor more found and safe than the drive home
I cannot share these poems with my father
Though I know he knows and hates me for it
But they told me to follow my heart and so I am
⚘
STILL
These are not new ills
The emperor is just wearing new clothes
We still do not know who to trust
We still do not know what is real
It is the same song and dance
It is just different players and chords
Same great They to hate and revile
Masses dripping with slurs and psychopathy
Different families torn from their homes
Same cream floating to the top
Paying for the marble to create Lustitia
Different heads of state and companies
Same rape of a war in foreign lands
Different armless children starving and dying
Their phantom limbs reaching for justice
Same hidden God in the clouds
Same sin and Hell and Heaven
Just a different herd on their knees
The same poor getting poorer
A different man telling us what to do
The same fear, the same divide
And we scream for love, for tolerance
Knowing the road is hard and often dim
Still hoping, still waiting for change
Slow and impossible as it always is
We will wait here forever with our arms out
Ready to hold the world and love it forever
With the same heart in our mouths
And love in our fingertips to restitch the wound
From all of humankind’s perpetual difference
⚘
JUST YET
Now isn’t this odd
The precipice and I have met before
I once a child at the diving board
The crowd is watching waiting
I jump therefore I am
But I haven’t yet therefore I am not
I know how the story ends
I will jump and I am and I do
I will dance on the board
I will put on a show for the lifeguards
They will know me by my name
I am silly and fun and free
But I still haven’t jumped yet
I still haven’t jumped just yet
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
Chapter 16:
Mosaic Muse
by Sandi Keaton-Wilson
SIREN
Lit from behind by the last summer's sun, she arose from the water's edge, a hedge of sand bound her. Mist from crashing waves enhanced her face; her aura a halo around her. Whispered as a myth, kissed by imagination he found her. She froze as if posed by pondering. Her sea-glass eyes mesmerized and lies about her were disputed. Later refuted, a beam of light transported her far up and out of human sight...a vision sketched on the membrane of his eyes, he prayed it forever etched in remembrance finalized.
⚘
SCENARIO
Stuck somewhere between the law, the Lord and Lorecet, the method, the madness, the meth, she grimaces at the grime, the crimes of her own making. Always taking. Looking sixty at half that, not a single ounce of fat. Scabs and scars proof of the horror. Free was all she ever wanted to be. Hope no larger than the fingernail of a mostly missing moon, her only light, this fated eternal night.
⚘
HAIKUS
In these hills of home
Superstition/religion
Unite like kinfolk
–
August morning fog
Lifts like spirits leaving earth
Or a wedding veil
–
Tonight's sickly moon
Even the clouds are clotted
Not a good omen
–
National unrest
Hearts bleed along with bodies
Politics can kill
–
Our hearts are fist-sized
Mine's taken a beating
From the outside in
SOMETIMES, YOU’RE NOTHING BUT MEAT
Photo by Stephen Phillips
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
Chapter 17:
Cancerous Cannibal
by Kristen Reid
CANCEROUS CANNIBAL
I need to cut it out.
I need to purge.
But I don’t even have the proper words.
This cannibalistic living scourge—
I scream inside—
intestines swirling with something of bile-like
being.
What’s my meaning?
What is meant?
What does this desire of death represent?
Or is it simply a life spent
as if dying is not enough.
I need nothingness.
I need my ragged brain to disconnect.
Thoughts filled with cancer—
Thought maybe I’d have some chance or
fight left in me.
Soul, give me words!
I cry for someone to know
what I don’t even know.
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
Chapter 18:
Look Your Eyes Full
by Stephanie Duncan
THE END
On execution morning, she
donned her favorite blouse
circa 1995, the year she lost
her daughter. Her nails, red, like
slits on skin and the puddles
the ground slurped up that night.
The sky was hurt-your-eyes blue
and she felt electric and ready to
hurl this weight like a wet leather
jacket—to be rid of the sinking stink.
Hours couldn't get there fast
enough as she stared at its face.
“This time tomorrow, she will
be in…” Over is all she wanted.
As her necklace hung down
like a noose and microphones
kept closing the gap of words and
silence, she waited. Waited for
something she never knew she'd want:
the end of a breath, a celebrated
hate, to make someone leave the
planet. She laced her fingers with
no tissue between. She watched
the curtain with a black-birded fury,
ready for the dark and done.
She couldn't wait.
Honestly.
⚘
BY THE ROAD
A silver owl necklace drapes
down a young neck as the
eyes of the fowl swing back
back and forth squinting in the
sun. The earth is dry, she holds
her mammaw's hand as her left
tinkers with old jewelry
boxes. Everything is a
dollar and she wants it all.
Under the tent she waits as
a woman with tobacco in
her mouth goes on about
what
all
they have and how it's a better
deal than Walmarts. Don't
you want to
look
your
eyes
full?
The what-nots call to her from
little glossy lips and painted
faces that never look disappointed.
She keeps looking as mammaw
leads her closer to the hot car
with the belt buckle that always
pinches her leg but she doesn't
care because she has a new
change purse that matches the one
mammaw has for cigarettes with
the long black leather bottom. She
snaps it open-close-open-close
back to the car, happy with her
purchases even without
a dime to her name.
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
Chapter 19:
Calendars of Script
by George Fillingham
ROLLING ON PAPER
Street lamps drape the pavement with benediction.
Light cones like spilled ice cream, beg my repentance.
I pass through the sticky sorbet of my imagination.
That way madness lies.
The cold night lends white spines to the lamp light.
The whole of night glazes my inner skin.
My outer husk turns braille. The spirits finger
my dumb calligraphy.
I no longer care, let kingdom come. Oh God,
send down your dove winged, haloed he-she.
Send down an inkpot and a horse hair brush.
Let me roll around on paper.
Cover my empty parchment face with black words.
Give me calendars of script that I might sing
my elegies, my mortalities, while firemen
ignite my birthdays, watch me burn.
⚘
ANOTHER FIRECAT
“Later, the firecat closed his bright eyes
And slept.” –Wallace Stevens
After Mr. Steven’s firecat
had bristled in the way
of the clattering bucks
as they swerved
this way and that,
he slept.
He dreamed crisp leaves
in October sun. He twitched.
He arched his back.
He flexed his paws.
His claws replenishing
his flaming Self.
I saw him waking.
Dead leaves sparkled.
On my neighbor’s roof
he licked paws and claws
outside an attic window.
Yawning.
He could swallow everything.
⚘
ODE TO IMMACULATE MOUSE
“. . . if anything
God slays himself with every leaf that flies,
And hell is more than half of paradise.”
–Edwin Arlington Robinson
Cambridge was the culprit.
Their lab made the T cell stew.
They stirred and stirred and stirred the brew,
Observed the protocols: . . . Presto!
There was mouse!
Of course, there was.
Science follows method, rules.
Experiments aren’t run by fools.
Science questions mysteries,
Findings? Found!
But they destroyed the evidence
Before its furry infestation time.
Immaculate conception is a crime.
Natural selection must be right.
Science must trump providence.
But Life is tricky
In all sorts of ways,
Measured as it is in days.
Almost-life is trickier still,
Lord knows.
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
Chapter 20:
A Parable for the Heart
by Dane Osborne
LOVE BOMB
Rage becomes rain drops.
Love bomb set off by cold air
And no blind youth sobs.
This animal energy creates the warm days.
The birth of clear morning and the passing of cool night
Blankets the just and the cruel in the conjured
Spell of present space.
A parable for the heart
That shatters at the sight of
Dead birds.
⚘
A POEM FOR THE DARK AND BLOODY GROUND
Us mountain folk here
Be the only Christian white folk in america
To ever get a bomb dropped on us.
A calculated retaliation in response to our
Unstable but intelligent energy which be received
As righteous and protective blessing
From our fair judging God who exhales fire and brimstone.
Our heroes killed all them fancy rich folks
Who wouldn't pay us none
And then our heroes with their kind but rotted grins
Of God's loving charity
Who had eyes black with death that rides a pale horse
All die standing like men with deathless faith
In the heat of broad daylight
By the hands of those paid good money to erase them all from the capricious memory of unborn Tomorrows.
Those young ones today be all lost and scattered
In a real expensive electric fog
And just don't get these days how the passion of revolution
Be understood when life exchanges hands with death
For the name of principles older than these here hills.
These big talk mountains and evergreen touched valleys filled with ancient trees who speak
Shall cleanse itself of the flesh and blood
Which spoils and stains the soil.
They always have before.
⚘
CHILDHOOD MEMORY
My Father wore plaid lumberjack shirts
And trucker hats.
He would frighten everybody when he was
Out to kick ass and take names.
I remember the year before he died,
We had soup beans at my Mamaw's and there was
Locust sheddings all over her yard.
It reminded me of death but I should've
pondered instead of how Resurrection
Cannot be bought for cheap pennies.
I think of those long dead locusts every now and then.
I wonder if they see my father wherever he is.
⚘
FROM THE ASHES OF TIME AND PRESSURE
Let me tell you,
Whenever I forget my mind ain't real
My thoughts become atrophy and that's how
I'm swallowed up alive by the endless tide.
After five hundred years or so,
I always rise up again so I may
Rediscover passion I use to redeem my own fire.
Chrysalis in practice due to occurrence
Of time and pressure.
Does this mesmerize you? Do you want more?
After the phenomena of Life and Death is finished,
All those children who arrive back
To the paradise of the unborn will beg
For the mercy of those who did not make the the trip
AND THEY SHALL GET IT!!!!
⚘
THE FALCON-MEN AND THE QUEEN OF HEARTS
The queen of hearts
sheds her tears in a
small room with locked
doors guarded by
falcon-men
and their guns.
The door is made of steel
and the falcon-men shoot
bullets.
DOOR TO THE UPPER ROOM OF THE PALACE
Photo by Stephen Phillips
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
Chapter 21:
Rhinestone
by Brandy Warren
RHINESTONE
A wild, old thing,
she called herself voluptuous.
In window's reflections, she'd stop,
throw herself a delicious kiss.
She was in self love. So thought her sisters.
Modeling her beauty, her virtues, her warmth,
she'd drive her sisters batty.
One sister said to the other:
“She smells a bit oniony. "
Another sister said: “Her derriere's gelatinous."
Laughter erupted, them not wise enough
to sympathize.
They could not see her pride as pain.
Joy they took in dissing her,
ecstatic to eviscerate an image
of herself she cultivated,
it her inner buoy in an ocean
of choppy waters.
She saw what she had to see.
A rhinestone is a diamond set in gold
when the viewer's soul is crushed.
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
Chapter 22:
Down Into the Black
by Jolene Rice
DOWN INTO THE BLACK
Are my eyes open?
Everything is dark.
I move my eyes from side to side.
Close their lids;
up, down.
Nothing but black.
It’s calm this nothingness.
No fear
or anxiety.
Just darkness. All black.
The surface under my feet feels hard.
Brick, wood, concrete?
No textures
or sound.
Void of light.
Nothing.
Not even the ringing in my ears.
Just
the black.
There is sensation at my feet.
Tingling.
Not fingers.
Not ants.
Smooth rolling.
Climbing?
Pulling?
Deeper into the black.
Can’t move.
Can’t struggle.
Can’t fight.
Being pulled?
Sinking?
Being consumed,
deeper into the black.
I can hear sound now.
It’s the beating of my heart,
inside my ears.
Fear has taken hold.
Where is this void taking me?
Why am I sinking?
Being pulled,
deeper into the black.
Lungs burning.
Can’t breathe.
Need to breathe.
Can’t move.
Need to run.
Need to hide.
Need to scream.
Sound gets lost
in the black.
Heart pounding!
Open mouth.
Blood coursing.
Flushed skin.
Is this fear?
Desperation of the unknown?
Terror of the past?
Darkness still consuming,
deeper into the black.
Run!
Hide!
Flee!
Move! Something! Anything!
Just move!
Anywhere but down,
deeper into the black.
Need light.
Need air.
Need space.
Need to move.
Body burns from lack of motion.
Need!
Need free from all the darkness,
inside the black.
Still pulling?
Still falling?
Feel the weight of nothingness,
deeper still
inside the black.
DOWN INTO THE BLACK
Artwork by Jolene Rice
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
Chapter 23:
The Widower’s Wife
by Jeanmarie Hill
THE WIDOWER’S WIFE
What I wonder tonight
as you curl your warm body
around mine,
is if I make you happy enough—
enough to stay
enough to try
enough to close your eyes
and not think of her
when you reach for me.
What I wonder tonight
as you curl your warm body
around mine,
as our breaths slowly synchronize
and become one,
is if I can accept
there will always be
three of us
seated at a table for two.
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
Chapter 24:
Honest Love
by Olivia Gilreath
HONEST LOVE
I do not love you in perfect ways,
with golden words or grand displays.
I love you quietly, true and deep,
in promises I mean to keep.
I love the days when skies are bright,
and you beside me feels just right.
But more than that, I love you still
when days are hard, and hearts are ill.
No masks, no games, no need to hide,
just open hands and truth inside.
I’ll tell you when I’m wrong or scared,
and trust that you will still be there.
For honest love is not a flame
that burns without a little rain.
It’s choosing you, through joy and pain,
then choosing you and you again.
So take my heart—not dressed in lies,
but just as it is, with open eyes.
If love is truth, then let it be
the truest part of you and me.
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
Chapter 25:
Confessions
by Tanner Cooper-Risser
SOMETIMES I WANT TO QUIT
Some
Times
I just
Want to quit
Everything that's near.
Not my life, but both of my jobs.
I would rather stay home and teach my kids about life.
I would teach them to enjoy the simple things in life and to respect all of our kin.
But, alas, I cannot do such a thing so instead I will enjoy my work and teach them to care for and respect all their kin, even so.
⚘
CONFESSIONS OF A FAMILY MINISTER
Some
Times
I don't
Want to go
To church where I work
I would rather stay home and rest
And then go outside and commune with all of my kin
Both human and non-human alike. That feels more like church sometimes, and yet I still go...
⚘
THE DRUMMING CHURCH
Pit
Pat
Pit pat
I hit the
Drums and make a beat.
All together now he exclaims
As I look around and witness our communal song.
This African Drumming circle in this art annex third space feels more like holy church.
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
Chapter 26:
I Am Buoyant
by Rhonda Kendziorski
BUOYANT
In the sea of life
I am buoyant
I am strong
I can handle it
Amidst rolling waves
And roaring wind
I will hold on
Let me help you
Just grab on
I won’t let go
I’ll be strong enough
for both of us
Let me help you
I can save you
The words bubble from my lips
As we sink into the abyss
⚘
SUMMER
As the sun sets on another summer
My heart is filled with memories
Of floating weightlessly on the water
Gazing at the blue sky and clouds above
Thinking about life, sorrow, and love
Sunrays soothing my soul
No place else to be
A break from the go go go
I’ll miss the days of summer
Longing for its warmth
Until time brings another
⚘
BECOMING
It feels too good
to be true
This connection
between me and you
Trying not to overthink it
Afraid the other shoe
has yet to drop
All I really know is
I don’t want this to stop
Without saying never
or forever
Exploring what we are
together
You stay you
and I’ll remain me
While possibly becoming
a beautiful We
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
Chapter 27:
little dithys
by the dithyrambler
i am body & blood
& bone & flesh.
i am movement.
i am rest.
i am speech, sound,
the soul of song.
i am right &
i am wrong.
i am all
and truth be told—
i am unborn
& i am old.
i am never
& always alive.
i am below.
i am the sky.
⚘
we lived along the borderlands
between away & near—
the clocks got stuck and time turned back
and portals opened here.
way back—when long lost relatives
split the tongues of crows—
we listened to the ancient birds
sing ballads no one knows:
the words, archaic melodies
to modern ear seem strange,
resounding at a frequency
that hits the holy range.
⚘
i am no pithy dithy
for i ramble & i rant,
recording little riddles
in rhymes that often slant:
i like to be ironic,
show off my cheeky tricks,
wonder whether time will ever
reveal my bait & switch—
and just in case it doesn’t
i’ll tell you here & now
within my words are magic spells
to make your mind allow
a total transformation
that desecrates the walls
you were taught to build around
the eye that sees it all!
when barriers are shattered
and borders are no more
you’ll find a fool in clownish clothes
outside the open door—
whose face is like a mirror—
you look in and see your own;
your heart will say it’s time to play
and walk each other home.
PORTRAIT OF THE DITHYRAMBLER
Photo by Terry Malone
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
With endless love & gratitude,
the Dandelion Scribes
P.S. — Don’t forget to check out our submissions page, where we post our open Calls for Submissions. There is currently one more open call for the month of October, with November prompts to be posted soon! Subscribe to receive announcements by email.
