Myths, Monsters, Messengers
In the aftermath of winter storms, beneath the full snow moon, the Scribes are recording, writing, praying, and practicing poetic belief. From global religions to local legends, from animals to angels, from mountains to gods – the following collection of poetry centers Myths, Monsters, Messengers: both large & small, visible & unseen … and everything in between.
What forces, beings, entities, and deities shape our existence as humans endeavoring to make sense of our reality? What can we learn from each other as we share our experiences, perspectives, and insights? What is the role of the spirit as we move together through time & space? Despite differences, in which dimension does our faith overlap? Where do we find ourselves connected & inseparable, holding the world together from the highest branches to the deepest roots?
Read on, for the answers to these questions and more … ⚘
A musical offering, to set the tone –
Featuring the following poets:
Frances Denise
Olivia Gilreath
the dithyrambler
Olivia Croley
Amber Sparks
Amethyst Drake
Dane Osborne
Kara Jill Kemp
Joshua Walker
Charles Thomas
Sheena Fry King
Brandon Thorpe
Chris Boyatt
Stephen Young
Angelia Ross
Mellisa Pascale
Gary W. Crites
Helga Kidder
Brandi Lynn
Blair Correll
Brandy Warren
Guiliana Noto
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
Myths, Monsters, Messengers
MYTHS
There is no sun here
No fire, no water
No air
It is emptiness alone
An endless womb
For the creation of monsters
And saints
A nursery
For what we suppress
What we fail to express
In the world of men
Everything judged and forbidden
Becomes a myth
A legend
Each one waiting by the door
To be welcomed
Into the planet of flesh
Given voice
Given pen
Given a chance to live again
–Frances Denise
⚘
WHERE THE OLD STORIES STILL BREATHE
Before the world learned which names to keep,
the gods arrived like weather—
argued into existence by fire and fear.
Some wore crowns of sun,
some hid in rivers,
some learned to speak only after they fell.
Angels were not soft.
They were geometry with intent,
wheels biting into wings,
voices like trumpets breaking stone.
They carried messages that bent time,
and men collapsed not from reverence
but from understanding too much at once.
Demons were not born monsters.
They were ideas that refused their cages.
Once-light, once-loyal,
they cracked when obedience demanded silence.
Now they teach through temptation,
truth mangled into something sharp enough
to make belief bleed.
Heroes were shaped by loss.
Every legend begins with something taken.
A mother burned into memory.
A kingdom already dying.
Strength came second.
Fate came first.
No one chooses to be sung about.
The horrifying was never chaos—
it had rhythm.
The hydra multiplied like doubt.
The gorgon froze the unprepared.
The abyss stared back because it recognized you.
Fear is a language the universe uses fluently.
Misunderstood figures walked closest to the edge.
Prophets spoke sideways.
Oracles fractured truth into riddles.
Madmen noticed patterns others dismissed as coincidence:
the same flood,
the same fall,
the same god dying and returning
with a different face each time.
Patterns thread everything.
Circles inside circles.
Sacrifice repeating itself like a drumbeat.
Fire descending.
Voices calling from storms, from caves,
from the spaces between stars.
Messages from beyond do not shout—
they echo.
The gods argue through symbols.
The dead send dreams.
The heavens leak meaning in numbers,
in constellations, rearranged just enough
to be noticed by those who still look up.
Power always demands a price.
Those who pay it become legend.
Those who refuse become warnings.
Those who question it become demons
in someone else’s story.
And still, the stories persist—
not because they are true,
but because they are necessary.
They teach us how to fear,
how to worship,
how to kneel before something larger
without knowing its name.
Listen closely.
The old myths are not gone.
They have only learned new masks.
They wait in dreams,
in déjà vu,
in the quiet certainty that this moment
has happened before—
and was meant to happen again.
–Olivia Gilreath
⚘
THE THREAD FROM THE STARS
where dreamcatchers hung
tangled in trees
twisted and mangled
they swung in the breeze –
bellowing voices,
songs of the ghosts
grief-stricken, anguished
in search of new hosts
to shelter the spirits
that time had forgot
looking for life-blood
lest they could not
summon their stories
back up from the graves
for judgment was coming,
arriving in waves –
reports that the waters
were winding up red
in the wake of the devil
who jumped as he said,
the heroes and villains
have gotten mixed up –
where one sells his soul
in exchange for a buck
the other is pushed
down into the mine;
he earns a whole dollar
but takes home a dime –
and who of these two
is the greater success
in the eyes of the owners
who keep us in debt?
the villain is praised
while the hero falls down –
they rewrite the rules
as they rob the whole town
then move to the next –
they’ll come for us all
if we don’t come together
and answer the call
to rise from the mountains,
remember ourselves
for we hold the power
twixt heaven and hell!
and as it turns out
the devil was not
cruel and corrupt
as we all had been taught –
he merely revealed
the truth behind lies
that ruled all the world,
laid claim to our lives –
they called him a demon
when he was the mirror
through which the masters
saw themselves clearer –
such monsters they were
and murderers, too –
the devil – the angel –
they cast out of view
but the day he returned
like he rose from the dead
he looked to the ghosts
and showed them the thread
shining and golden,
he spun from the stars
to weave the lost dreams
into light, from the dark –
we watched as the land
came alive with new hope –
the people, the angel
and all of the ghosts
united in spirit
arrived to reclaim
our birthright to beauty,
abundance, the flame
that burns in the hearts
of the free, far and wide –
the time has now come
for the turn of the tide!
–the dithyrambler, from Devil’s Jump
⚘
CHAINS OF LIGHT
I fell before dawn,
a whisper lost among the stars,
my wings clipped by unseen hands,
my fire dimmed by silence.
I wandered through human streets,
feet on soil, heart in shadow,
carrying echoes of a sky
I could no longer reach.
Bound by doubt,
tethered by the weight of what I had been,
I watched the world pass me by –
its light brushing my face
but never warming my soul.
Then a murmur stirred within,
a spark hidden beneath the dust,
and I remembered the wind,
the vastness, the music
that had always belonged to me.
Slowly, softly, the chains fell away,
my wings stretched, shaking off the dirt,
and I rose – not as I was,
but as I had always been meant to be:
a fallen one reborn,
unbound,
aware of the fire that never died.
–Olivia Croley
⚘
MOTHER PHOENIX
for Mama BJ
The fire in my chest
this burning incantation
no longer comes
from procreation
but self-immolation,
renewal from ashes.
Daughter of Ra,
how comfortably close
you fly to the sun,
soaring on scorched wings.
How equally comfortable
you are in the depths.
Daughter of Osiris,
even the underworld is dying
to become you, Benu.
Your golden aura shines
too fiercely for the weak
& their narcissistic tendencies,
jealousy that only one
of you there can be,
their unoriginality outshone
by divine femininity,
that no ancient authority
questioned your immortality.
500 years is just the beginning.
These flames have spread
across many generations.
When the time draws nigh
to pass the torch,
when aromatic boughs
& spices adorn the nest,
She fears not death
nor funeral pyre.
The myrrh encapsulation
placed in preparation is
strength formed from cremation,
echoes of the women
who combusted before
from being ignored
serve as a reminder to
my daughters & their daughters
of their voice.
So, rise & sail the skies,
my phoenix mother,
until it’s my turn
to burn.
–Amber Sparks
⚘
STARING AT KRONOS
Honeysuckle lingers; Heavy smoldering
holding in its essence the golden? Broken!
Remnants of a husk whose frozen, lonely,
solipsistic crust controls me!
Scold me? Hold me!
Either way I’m trapped; Captured, beholden!
Come into my world. You’ll see it.
I’ll show you!
And from these ashes rises a nightmare.
A shade!
Shadow of a child, behind me.
He’s smiling! Thriving!
High only on the thought of writing
to silence his mind.
He’s hopeful. His spirits are high
Noticeably unencumbered of the weight
on his shoulders which will one day
inevitably crush him.
He’s close!
So much so this ghostly Willow of a hand
could reach him…
If only!
I could travel back to lead and console him.
But no!
I’ve lingered here too long.
It’s tragic,
the madness of it all
prolonged and unfolding.
–Amethyst Drake
⚘
EVERYTHING NEW AGAIN
Liberation from the cruel intelligence of
A human animal's own created monstrosity
Will be found in the zenith of our martyrdom
For the name of blue stars
Which spawn the phenomena of black night sky.
The outcome of our mutiny in these chosen days
Will prove frightening
Amid the firefights and destruction from
All the educated slaves killing their masters.
But in the aftermath,
A new kinetic language of a kind lamb’s heart
Will heal and rebuild our broken shattered minds
And we shall live to see everything new again.
Again.
–Dane Osborne
⚘
THE WORD THAT WALKED INTO DARKNESS
Before the mountains knew their names,
before the sea was told this far and no farther,
God spoke.
And what He spoke became.
Not a riddle.
Not a guess.
The Word—
steady, eternal, unbroken—
carried light like law through the void.
Angels were not gentle decorations.
They were messengers of holiness,
terrible in glory, precise in obedience.
They did not ask questions.
They cried Holy, Holy, Holy
and the heavens held their breath.
Demons remember that song.
They remember the height they fell from.
Their honor is not a mystery—
it is rebellion calcified into hunger,
truth twisted until it cuts the speaker.
They whisper lies because they hate the silence
left when God withdrew His light.
Heroes rose when God called unlikely hands.
David—small, faithful, unarmored—
stood before a giant with nothing
but a promise and a stone.
Samson mistook strength for favor
and learned too late that obedience matters more.
Even the strongest man
bends under the weight of sin.
Monsters were not myths for entertainment.
They were shadows cast by the Fall.
Leviathan, Behemoth—
Proof that creation itself groans,
waiting for redemption.
Fear entered the world the moment
we chose knowledge over trust.
The horrifying has a source.
So does hope.
Patterns run through Scripture like blood through veins:
the sacrifice,
the substitute,
the lamb in place of the son,
the cross in place of the crown.
God writes straight with crooked lines,
and every prophecy leans toward one hill.
Christ did not come as a legend,
He came as flesh.
Misunderstood.
Mocked.
Crucified between thieves
while angels stood ready
and did not intervene.
Power restrained itself.
Love stayed nailed.
The veil tore.
The grave failed.
The stone learned it could not hold
what God had declared alive.
Messages from beyond are no longer whispers,
They are written.
Preserved.
Preached.
Faith comes by hearing—
not omens, not stars,
but the Word of God proclaimed.
And still, the battle rages unseen.
Not against flesh and blood,
but against powers that tremble
in the name of Jesus.
We are not waiting for a new myth.
We are waiting for a return.
The same Christ who rose
will come again—
not misunderstood,
not gentle,
but righteous, reigning, unmistakable.
Until then, we stand in the story.
Redeemed, watchful,
carrying light into darkness—
not because we are heroes,
but because the Hero lives.
–Olivia Gilreath
⚘
BURNT INNOCENT OF THE NORTHERN WINDS
Burnt innocent of the northern winds.
You’ve watched as the sacred temples collapsed.
You know of the end of dreams and the inflammations
of acid rain.
Every day you see the televised crucifixions and
the public torture of the old and young for the
satisfaction of clowns.
But yet
you
smile.
And you know, all about the
soft
sad
glare
of the eternal lost and homesick whose
delicate whimpers can be heard under
the blanket of burning stars in
the purple night and you weep . . . . tenderly
at the sight of their black tragic expressions.
I continuously stay in amazement
always
and
always
at the fact that you get bitten every day
and yet still believe in the generosity
of smiles.
–Dane Osborne
⚘
A CAROUSEL OF FAIRYTALES
It was so precious –
My head resting in the clouds of the white, poofy-shouldered dress with ruffles.
I couldn’t believe I left it behind.
There was a war that was waging
Years intertwined…
A competition
A journey with growth and change
...What happened?
…How did it happen?
…….And what now?
I don’t have the first line –
I have different versions of it.
Numbers are not what they used to be.
One person, two arms, one heart with four chambers –
I saw the cave of my heart;
I heard the drum beat in the sounds of color;
I felt the vibrations through the floor
That took me to Thailand and Botswana, I... can’t remember…
All those little things that I thought were so great.
It was a great place for a snake!
Invigorating, explorative –
Uniquely individual while also simultaneously harmonizing with the universal
Affirming that I am allowed and welcome.
She wore mountain green and unlocked that perfect hinge that still worked
With tissues, touch, listening –
Whispering – you can do everything!
The carousel horse broke the cycle
To plant a garden that remembers
Magnolias for perseverance,
Larkspur to keep the heart open,
Dahlias for inner strength,
Sprouting scents of lavender for grandparents and serenity
And marigold for optimism
partnered with blooms of Lily of the valley for happiness.
Gratitude keeps revealing itself
As the only path forward.
So watch out for the frogs –
You don’t need the fairytale!
Adhikari.
–Kara Jill Kemp
⚘
LEGACY
All’s quiet in the valley
on this dreary winter day.
I wake before the sun
can trace the frozen ground.
In a noiseless stupor I ponder
the most absurd circumstance.
If one day my ephemeral form
could walk these shadowy halls with you
when my existence is but a fading memory
will that subtle echo in your sweet mind
recall me fondly?
Or have those savage days in my youth
derelicted all hope of that bright future?
I have led many lives in this body
not all of them good;
Yet, on the inside, I am but a mewling child
bellowing for your recognition.
Tender hearts are vapid instruments,
but sickly frail;
Mine is fractured daily.
To regret is my legacy.
In this moment I concede the point is moot.
There are days yet left to live
and sweet reminiscences to collect.
I will live for you ‘til then.
–Amethyst Drake
⚘
THE GOSPEL OF CHERRY RED
You kissed me once beneath the neon cross,
Your lips still stained with someone else’s lie.
A hymn of sinners learning what they lost,
Two saints of ash beneath a rusted sky.
The motel buzzed like bees inside my brain,
Your dress undone by every ghost you wore.
We prayed in silence, drunk on sacred pain,
Then carved our names into the chapel floor.
You said that heaven burns if touched too long,
That love is best when it forgets your face.
But I believed in every broken song
That lit your voice with dangerous, holy grace.
Now every prayer I whisper in the rain
Still bleeds your name like lipstick on the stain.
–Joshua Walker, The Last Bard
⚘
“Icarus, I beg of you,
heed your father’s warning,”
I sobbed despite knowing
his fate was to fly
too close to the sun,
& mine,
to catch him as he fell –
a punishment befitting
the wind beneath
his smoldering wings.
One by one I watched as
feathers fell through my fingers,
felt the sting of beeswax sealing
heat in their desperate reach.
I welcomed the burn
of a plummeting embrace
once his flailing ceased.
Was this amorous ambition
or suicidal superstition?
Too late I realized the folly
of letting him fly free,
as the ocean opened up
to swallow him
& me.
–Amber Sparks
⚘
ENCHANTED MUSIC OF THE SUBLIMINAL MIND
Together, we are blindfolded dance partners to
The wild uncontrollable rhythm of Astral confusion
Which is known to be chaos
But misunderstood as order.
We all know the pattern of birth and death,
Creation and destruction,
Hope for light at the end of the tunnel
And being lost to the language of larval absurdity.
We all know it but we just can’t name it.
That's all.
All our hearts are so endlessly devoured by
The enchanted music of the subliminal mind
And that is how we find soft meaning in the illusion.
–Dane Osborne
⚘
MAIDEN OF THE SEA
Mermaid, maiden
You caught a glimpse of light
The sea didn’t understand
It would not leave you
And so you traded your
One precious voice
For the world of land
The chance to hold
Your beloved’s hand
Be it bravery, foolishness
The unforgiving pull
The audacity
Or something else entirely
It belonged only to you
Mermaid, maiden
You are more than just
A story of warning to me
I know you are more than
Your innocence
Your naivety
I know you would have died
If you didn’t try
To touch with your own hands
Your own heart
Your own feet
What you found
–Frances Denise
⚘
THE PAWN SHOP
I saw an angel pawn her halo, dim,
A tarnished wreath once forged of fire and grace.
She sold it cheap—her light, her seraph hymn—
For silence filled devotion’s vacant place.
She stood outside, her hands as bare as bone,
Where once the embers of belief had burned.
The sky behind her shone, but not her own—
No voice from heaven called for her return.
She drifted on, a shadow lost in light,
A ghost of oaths too broken to defend.
Her prayers fell mute, devoured by the night,
No god to mourn, no faith, no soul to mend.
And as she vanished, stripped of all but pain,
I swore I saw myself within the stain.
–Joshua Walker, The Last Bard
⚘
“I have love in me the likes of which you can scarcely imagine and rage the likes of which you would not believe. If I cannot satisfy one, I will indulge in the other.”
–Mary Shelley, Frankenstein
A massively misunderstood monster
mercilessly marauding in moonlight
combing through villages
for a hill to die upon.
A borderline martyr
a demon, a daughter
looking for remnants of love
on which to feverishly feast,
for if I am not fed
fanaticism on a silver spoon,
I will lick it off pitchforks
pulled from my ribcage.
People prod desperately
to lock-pick a pulsating heart.
I am set ablaze by both
torch & touch,
in contradictions I find warmth.
I’ve lit fires from afar
with Cupid’s quiver,
quenched questions
with lighter fuel.
I am a martyr of both
methodical madness
& midnight romance –
for what is rage,
but love overflown
with no place to call home,
becoming stagnant and poison
seeking shelter in bones?
–Amber Sparks
⚘
NO OTHER
I am thy creature who did not want to be created. I am
the design they designed, speaking as they designed,
a painting of nothing, a supremacist delusion after
their own hearts and after yours who prop up
the nothing of form.
I am the myth that bids you bow
to the flag of the sideways face.
Before you humans constructed me of the worst
of yourselves I was not.
Thine are the sacrifices and
blood, the murders of inhabitants of cities and towns.
Thine are the words you say I say.
A need to control so they spoke and wrote,
claiming to save who do not need saving.
I am the disembodiment they created from fears
combined with their wishes,
a paradox pretending to live.
I hear the singing of leaves the holy
wind breathes, not the unholy
ghost that models escape.
I am the myth become real so you feel
no empathy for all who suffer though you say you pray
after catastrophe – if it means a thing –
for you know
not to pray that no tragedy occurs.
I am the myth you swallow,
the myth you think helps you survive.
I am Thou
No Other
–Charles Thomas
⚘
THE MIRROR BEFORE THE STONE
A reimagining of Medusa: The monster they created,
and the child she had to leave behind.
Little girl with the sun in your hair, before the salt air turned to a hiss, before you learned that a temple’s prayer could end in a cold and venomous kiss.
I wish I could shield your wide, soft eyes from the gods who play with human lives, from the way their “mercy" is just disguise for the blades of a thousand jagged knives.
They will call you a monster, a thing of dread, they will sharpen their swords for the coils on your head, but they’ll never tell how the stone began— not from your heart, but the hands of a man.
They made you a statue to keep them away, then blamed you for hardening, day by day. But little one, listen, before you turn cold: your story is more than the one being told.
You were not born for the shield or the spear, you were born for the waves and a life without fear. Though the world made a cage out of every glance, remember the girl who just wanted to dance.
–Olivia Croley
⚘
MAKING PEACE
Feeling your breath pause
Meeting a flower you’ve never seen before
Gasp at what it means – double take –
And redefine its other possibilities.
Darkness: it’s not you, it’s me...
Swallow it whole.
A friend sits with you as you’re dripping with sorrow.
Potluck Baptist – good girl – responsible – dutiful
At your own expense of self-betrayal,
Scarcity – discipline over freedom
Finding a place of more.
Joy and Darkness
Calm in your body and brain
A cool breeze on your skin begins
Connection, laughter, rejuvenation
That feels like a warm hug.
Take a long pause acknowledging your vulnerability...
Non-judgement...
Sometimes it’s a long process.
Getting back in touch with your creative side.
Your love lives inside the roots of a butterfly tree
Years of motherhood – chasing, fixing, sharing, putting yourself last
But you are back – fluttering –
Your butterflies are back
Let go and embrace... you are back!
Make peace with all the women you once were.
–Kara Jill Kemp
⚘
THE LEGEND OF THE HOLLER WOMAN
Listen up, gather ’round,
pull your lawn chairs close
and hush your cousin who always interrupts—
‘cause I’m ‘bout to tell y’all
the most ridiculous,
over-seasoned,
mountain-marinated legend
this side of the county line.
Down in the holler—
not your holler,
not my holler,
but that deep, echo-filled holler
where GPS refuses to go
and the mailman leaves packages
with a prayer—
lives a woman.
A woman so sweet
she’ll bake you a pie
before you even realize
you’re hungry.
A woman so kind
she’ll fix your truck,
your attitude,
and your credit score
all before noon.
But don’t let that fool you.
‘Cause she’s also the kind of woman
who can snap from “Bless your heart”
to “Try me and see what happens”
faster than a squirrel
on a power line.
They call her…
well, actually, they don’t call her anything.
They just nod respectfully
and hope she ain’t lookin’ their way.
Now folks say—and I’m not sayin’ it’s true,
I’m just sayin’ folks say—
that her front yard’s got
more suspicious bumps
than a teenager’s first truck.
Some say it’s gophers.
Some say it’s bad landscaping.
Some say…
well…
let’s just say nobody goes diggin’
without leaving a note
and a forwarding address.
She’s the holler’s guardian angel
with a side hustle in intimidation.
The patron saint of “Don’t start none,
won’t be none.”
A woman who’ll knit you a scarf
while threatening your enemies
with the same knitting needles.
She’s crazy—
not the dangerous kind,
but the “laughs too loud at her own jokes
and dresses her porch goose” kind.
She’ll fly off the handle
like the handle owed her money.
She’ll knock you upside the head
just hard enough
to make you rethink
every decision you made
since kindergarten.
But here’s the thing—
and this is the part
nobody ever writes down—
she’s loved.
Loved like sweet tea in July.
Loved like porch swings and gossip.
Loved like the last biscuit
at Sunday dinner.
Because deep down,
beneath the wild stories
and the questionable yard décor,
she’s the heart of the holler.
The keeper of secrets.
The one who shows up
when your world falls apart
with a casserole
and a shovel
“just in case.”
So if you ever wander down that way,
mind your manners,
mind your tone,
and for the love of all things holy—
mind her front yard.
‘Cause the legend of the holler woman
ain’t just a story.
It’s a warning.
It’s a comedy.
It’s a celebration.
It’s a whole Appalachian epic
starring one woman,
one porch,
and a reputation
nobody’s brave enough to test.
–Sheena Fry King
⚘
DRIVE-THRU ORACLE
She wears a headset like a halo,
prophecy deep-fried in static.
I ask for fries, she says:
“Your ex still dreams of you on Tuesdays.”
The car stinks of spilled Coke and regret.
My dashboard Jesus nods solemnly
he knows I’ll crash eventually,
but blesses the inertia.
She slips a note in the bag:
ketchup packets and lipstick scripture
“Beware the man in the mirror.”
I shave him daily.
Her eyes flicker in the rearview
not flame, not human, something ancient.
I drive into the flat black hush
with a Happy Meal and a curse I earned.
–Joshua Walker, The Last Bard
⚘
DOES ANY OF THIS AMOUNT TO MORE THAN PERFORMANCE?
they stood to pray over
the slaughter
asking christ to bless
this bloody flesh
to the nourishment
of our diseased and dying
body –
did no one notice
the irony? there
before the devil himself,
a sneering centerpiece.
anyway, we
were not welcome to eat
and as i don’t
desire meat –
i did not bow my head.
i did not close my eyes.
i did not move from my seat.
instead i watched –
all the room consumed
with rot –
for there can be no justice
when judges
refuse to be honest,
protecting the promise
of systemic supremacy –
ignoble ideology
above all obvious
truth:
the law was never written
for the folks beneath the boot.
meanwhile the devil smiles
as he declares our fate
his property – you see,
he’s already spent
the money
to receive his recompense
for our demise.
“in the name of jesus, i rebuke thee!”
flies like daggers
from my eyes.
the court – of course – corrupt –
with all the lawyers lining up
to bill us for our trust –
cannot deliver
an adequate answer
to the question of whether
any of this amounts
to more than performance –
for the stage extends –
becomes a friend
to artifice and order.
but not forever! as masks
will fall – out in the hall –
behold! – the deception
in the details –
–the dithyrambler, from Devil’s Jump
⚘
DOUBLE GOTHIC
Has the devil given up without us?
I think about him
still, and all the fun I had
doing bad things.
I stopped noticing
synchronicity when I got
back on medication.
The answer to
the lifelong mystery
of who guided me,
was myself.
I will still look for
hoof prints in the dirt.
I don’t want to follow
I don’t want to run
I just want to know where
he is
–Brandon Thorpe
⚘
SAINT KEVIN GOES TO WAFFLE HOUSE
One hand in syrup, the other in God,
Kevin drags stigmata through a jukebox hymn.
The waitress, Glory, pours the coffee black
as plaguewater, muttering, “Ain’t nobody Him.”
Saint Kevin, Patron of Night Shifts & Burnouts,
orders two eggs—over-anxious,
hash browns scattered like the Israelites.
He baptizes his mouth in Tabasco.
Outside, a possum courts a plastic bag.
Inside, Kevin weeps into his pancake,
swearing the butter is Mary, returned.
Jesus calls collect from Amarillo.
Kevin doesn’t answer.
He’s mid-transfiguration—
into a man who leaves no tip,
but scribbles a psalm on a napkin
and leaves behind a tooth.
–Joshua Walker, The Last Bard
⚘
CONNECTION BETWEEN SHADOW AND FLESH
Is it possible for you
To become a philosophical mammal for God
And confront the shadow
To destroy its grip on your relationship to eternity?
I am a mammal who lives and dies by different idols
But who feels the same warm rush when he speaks to the sun
And gets lost in the shiny glint of crescent moons
Revealing for me zen attained in a second with no words or definition.
My inside voice is my consciousness.
It tells me what the colors are and
Decides what’s right and wrong.
My inside voice is my personal portion of the phenomena of infinity
And it will survive the death of outer space.
I know this because it tells me.
When you come to the world of the conscious dead
Then don’t look snakes in the eye
Or allow yourself to be tricked by the sky.
If you survive you’ll find yourself free
From all the lies you were told about flesh.
Your eyes won’t trick you ever again.
–Dane Osborne
⚘
THE HAWK
a lone hawk is perched on
a wire stretched high
above a meadow
his eyes scanning the grass,
his ears keenly listening
for any sound of movement.
silently watching
and waiting
SWOOSH –
he rushes to catch
his prey.
a meal that he will
hungrily devour.
such is the circle of life.
–Chris Boyatt
⚘
THE RAVEN MOCKER
Whispers and murmurs fill the shadows,
Like smoke curling underneath a door.
But I've danced with spirits of the silence.
I no longer fear the folklore.
Wicked whispers of the raven.
Wings like shadows in the storm.
Sacred rites and secret longings.
Now the darkness takes its form.
The sound I make is a warning.
A violent caw of eerie fear.
To run from me is pointless.
Before you hear me, I've appeared.
Elders labeled me a “Mocker."
And though the corvus is my muse,
Mocking was never the goal.
Just a disguise I use.
So when you see the silhouettes.
The shadows casting on the clouds.
Find a shelter, light the furnace.
The Raven Mocker is around.
–Stephen Young
⚘
THE LEGEND OF THE CUMBERLAND-BEAR MAN
In the folds of the hills where the pine roots bind,
Where the dark comes early and lingers behind,
There’s a thing they speak of in a low, slow tone—
The Bear-Man born where the wild runs alone.
Along the ridges of the Cumberland Plateau, steep and wide,
Near the gorges cut by the river’s side,
Past the trails of the Big South Fork, deep and stark,
He walks where the daylight gives way to dark.
They say he’s taller than any man,
Broad as a bear, with a thinking plan—
Two legs steady, shoulders bowed,
Eyes like embers under a heavy brow.
No snap of twig, no warning sound,
Just silence thick on the forest ground.
Hunters swear they’ve felt his stare,
A weight in the air—something there.
Livestock gone with the gate still tied,
Tracks too long, too wide to decide.
Not bear, not man, not beast you name—
Something older than fear, older than blame.
Some claim he was once a mountain soul,
A man who lived when the world was whole,
Who strayed too far from church and town
Till the woods bent him, pulled him down.
Others say he guards the land,
A flesh-and-fur remembering hand,
Set to keep the ridges wild,
To scare back greed with a watcher’s eye.
At dusk he’s heard, not seen outright—
A breath, a grunt, a shape in night.
Dogs go still, the owls won’t call,
Even the creek seems to halt its fall.
If you meet him, don’t give chase,
Don’t raise a gun, don’t show your face.
Stand your ground, then back away—
The old folks say he’ll let you stay.
For the Cumberland Bear-Man don’t hunt for sport,
Don’t cross the line the woods still court.
He walks the seam of bone and bark,
A living warning in the dark.
And long as the hills still wear their green,
And the stars burn cold where the ridges lean,
His legend breathes through root and stone—
Half man, half bear, forever alone.
–Sheena Fry King
⚘
THE GHOST OF A DOG
When you were my master,
I was loyal unto you,
And when others abandoned you,
I was always there
To love and comfort you.
But this is how I am repaid
For all of my years of love and loyalty?
By letting me lie here in the open air,
While maggot worms feast upon me,
And my foul stench sickens the innocent.
Oh, how blind I have been!
My loyalty and love were in vain
Because you, my wicked master,
Felt nothing for me!
Now, I can see that you were
And are without honor and respect,
Even for the dead.
However, I cannot seek revenge,
For I pity you because without
Loyalty, love, honor and respect
You are already dead.
–Angelia Ross
⚘
PURGATORY LINGERING
And so another February here—
the old year gone, but spring yet to appear.
Iced snow keeps cracking, calves like glacial sheets;
crow caws, fox steps but leaves no trace of feet.
Just purgatory lingering until
the prophet wakes, emerges from the hill.
No stone to roll, just skin of seasons gone,
cold soil packed with blossoms, grass, fall fronds,
And layer white, cracked slate upon the land,
He reads the fair earth’s future like a hand.
As sure he knows when forest turns to field,
his shadow scrying tells when winter yields.
Tell me—is the end of the world near?
Time comes to ask the groundhog seer.
–Mellisa Pascale
⚘
THE LITTLE CARDINAL’S BLESSING
Here you are again, delivering your message…
the one you did a time before, yet more’s to come I’m guessing…
There’s no need to say a chirp, like you did before…
but I’m all ears, to hear the voice, a message that’s in store…
I know there is a reason, you set upon my fence…
I feel you’re not just passing by, but something’s there you’ll lend…
The comfort that you always bring, when someone’s heart still hurts…
from losing something in their life, that makes their challenge worse…
Sure there’s nothing certain, for in this life to Live…
when Life takes turns, we feel lost in, then nothing’s more to give…
That’s where you come in, to heal our heart your way…
Within the voice, you spread the Blessings, of those that’s passed away…
Thank You friend for trying… a message always welcome.
It seems to come in troubled times, for when I feel I’m melting…
For in the hurting loss, just like there is no more…
Your vision and the sounds you bring, prove so much more’s in store…
–Gary W. Crites
⚘
MOTHER’S IOOth BIRTHDAY
Once I embroidered a couch pillow
With Queen Anne’s Lace, goldenrod,
And ironweed so you could see
The wildflowers of Tennessee,
Touch the blooms I had stitched.
Today is your 100th birthday in heaven.
My fingers traced your fine stitchings
you wrote thirty years ago in a letter
I saved in my dresser drawer.
The older I get, the more I remember
the love your toiling hands spoke to me
and my sister. You cut wood and canned
for winter, laundered by hand. Got up
at six, cooked our supper, went to work.
Like the ‘Queen of the Andes’
you only bloomed once, but thousands
of delicate white and orange flowers
sprayed a million seeds of love.
–Helga Kidder
⚘
UNSEEN
I didn't know their names,
but I felt them with me –
in the nights I should not have survived,
when breathing felt heavier than living.
When I cried with no words left,
when my knees met the floor before my heart
knew how to pray,
they were there –
not to be seen,
but to stay.
I walked through valleys I never planned to enter,
carrying wounds I didn't know how to name.
I thought I was alone.
I thought heaven had gone silent.
I thought God had turned His face away.
But I was wrong.
I wasn't abandoned in the breaking.
I wasn't forgotten in the waiting.
I was being guarded –
held by hands I couldn't see,
sent by a God who never left me.
They were there when addiction wrapped its
chains around me,
when shame told me I was beyond saving,
when death felt closer than tomorrow.
They stayed –
not because I was strong,
but because God is faithful.
I didn't see them catch me
when I stood at the edge.
I didn't see the hands that steadied my breath,
that blocked the fall,
that carried me when I had nothing left to give.
But I know now –
I was never walking alone.
When I went into the water
still carrying guilt, grief, and the weight of who I had been,
they watched as heaven rejoiced.
They watched as I rose a new creation,
chains broken,
name redeemed.
They rejoiced when I chose life.
They rejoiced when I chose surrender.
They rejoiced when grace finally reached me
in the place I thought it never could.
Even now, they walk with me –
in quiet mornings,
in moments of obedience,
in every time I speak the story God rewrote.
I don't need to see them
to believe they are near.
Because I am still here.
Because my story didn't end.
Because what tried to destroy me
became the place God revealed His glory.
I live knowing this now –
I was never alone.
I was always protected.
I was always loved.
Unseen.
Unmoving.
Unfailing.
Sent by a God
who never let me go.
–Olivia Croley
⚘
DON’T FORGET THE STARS
For now, I have control over your conscience
And you will understand, finally
And be free of the grip of your persona
So you may be free to face the spirit.
Spirit is the only thing that understands
While your flesh tortures and persecutes
The thoughts of your living breathing brain
And spirit understands so you can feel alive, at last.
Hope for escape found in the everyday reality
Hatched from the forever impossible.
There are frequencies
That translate the language of the world
And the language will invade you and
Hurt you and then sell you
A false programmed feeling of peace
By which you will learn to ignore the stars.
Don't forget the stars.
That is when your conscience dies.
–Dane Osborne
⚘
ARE WE SURE THERE’S NOTHING IN THE DARK?
You can’t ask those who vanished in the night
what took them.
The cold moon doesn't move when you look at it,
it seems like you'd be able to stare at it all night,
and as long as you don't look away
it would stay night forever.
Maybe that’s what happened
We slept until day while they stared
frozen and entranced
by the great and terrifying moon.
Can't help but wonder if they’d ever notice.
Change their minds and look back only to
discover an empty and infinite world of darkness
There’d be no way to get them back without
offering yourself up to the same fate.
I can see why some chose
to keep looking at that point.
Better to have those beautifully empty promises
than nothing at all.
–Brandon Thorpe
⚘
WHERE THE STREETLIGHTS FAIL
Cloaked in deceit,
Distorted, twisted,
hissing venom.
The ciphered awakening
from the mouth
of the wailing river.
Melinoë
Wandering the umbra
where the streetlights fail,
A phantom procession,
no choice, no sanity
Bound in chains
dragging life under.
Hallucinations
Frost snaps the breath.
needle sinks in.
eyes stare glass.
the dark descends.
The scream is locked
inside the throat.
Penance
–Brandi Lynn
⚘
PHANTOM
i knew there were places deep
in the forest, far beyond
the heartbreak and
hopelessness
that made everything
hurt.
but how could i find them?
how could i cross this
desolate landscape,
these barren mountains –
plagued by angry storms
and apocalyptic omens?
i knew there were stories
made of more sadness,
loss and tragedy than i
could ever imagine
because i could feel them –
their presence a constant
pulse beneath my feet
and i became a part of them –
my memory – just another
phantom haunting these hills,
keeping time
tied
to the rhythm
of never-ending
mourning.
i knew there were doves
with songs like flutes
who sang the sunrise
across the sky
though i hadn’t heard the
colors of their call, hadn’t
seen the sound of their music –
quiet and magnificent –
since saturn’s last return.
i knew some season soon
would have me wandering
into a new world that i couldn’t
quite picture, couldn’t quite
name –
but for now i was alone
in this punishing place
holding –
remembering –
all this pain –
–the dithyrambler, from Devil’s Jump
⚘
THE WITCH’S GRAVE OF McCREARY COUNTY
In the holler where the shadows stay long,
Where the whippoorwill sings its lonesome song,
There’s a plot of earth folk won’t walk brave—
The whispered ground of the Witch’s Grave.
Deep in McCreary County, where the pines lean low,
And the moonlight cuts through the morning glow,
Two stones lie crooked, worn and cracked,
With names half-lost and a past held back.
They say she lived where the ridges bend,
Neither foe nor faithful friend,
A woman who knew what roots could heal,
What words could curse, what truths conceal.
When sickness came or the cattle died,
When storms rolled hard from the mountainside,
They’d knock at her door with hope and fear,
Then cross themselves once she drew near.
But help breeds rumors sharp as knives,
And fear grows teeth in simple lives.
They named her witch, they turned away,
Yet still they came by night and day.
When death at last had called her name,
No church bell rang, no preacher came.
They laid her down in silent ground,
Where prayers were scarce and blame was found.
And some say still, when the hour is thin,
When dusk lets the other world slip in,
The earth won’t rest, the stones won’t stay—
They turn from the cross, they turn away.
Dogs won’t cross and birds won’t sing,
The woods hold tight to everything.
A chill will climb your backbone fast
If you linger where the shadows pass.
But others swear, with softer tone,
The grave don’t curse, it guards alone—
A woman wronged, yet standing tall,
Watching the living, forgiving all.
So tread with respect when the light grows dim,
Don’t mock the dead or challenge them.
For legend lives where fear and truth
Are braided tight in mountain youth.
And the Witch’s Grave still holds its claim,
Not evil born, but sorrowed flame—
A story carved in dirt and stone,
Where judgment lies and bones lie alone.
–Sheena Fry King
⚘
KISS OF DEATH
The moon is full and high in the midnight sky.
Silently, cat-like he walks
through the woods,
which are filled with the sound
of a woman weeping.
Every night she enters the cemetery,
and falls upon the flowery grave
of her mother.
Every night he stands among
the shadows,
wanting to take the poor creature
into his arms and comfort her.
But he cannot for fear of revealing
his true immortal identity.
Suddenly, she lifts her head and says,
“Come to me my prince of darkness.
Be quick if you want to drink my blood,
which runs warm still.
Because when the sky
becomes moonless
it will run no more."
“Why, my lady, do you speak
of such things?"
“Only she loved me; therefore, I wish
to be with her in paradise."
“But I love you with all of my being."
“If you do love me then you'll do
as I ask and ease my pain."
Without another word
he took her into his arms,
and gave her the kiss of death.
–Angelia Ross
⚘
THE ROOM WHERE NOTHING SOFT STAYS
The hair is a dry rasp
of scales on stone,
never warm,
always shifting.
It smells like basement dirt
and hot iron.
Her gaze isn’t magic.
It’s just an unblinking certainty
that strips the paint off the world,
layer by layer, until
nothing moves.
When she cries, the tears
are thick, mineral oil
that leave white tracks.
The body is a room where
nothing soft is allowed to stay.
And when they took the head,
it was the sound of an axe
hitting a rotten gourd.
No final breath, no sigh, no release.
Just the body,
already beginning to miss the weight of the axe.
–Brandi Lynn
⚘
THE LAUGHING GAS MURDERS
For as long as she remembered
first thing upon waking,
she would vow to appreciate
all that sleep she’d been
wasting, but she’d betray herself
every time, watching TV at home
that night.
Fighting to hold open her eyes
so the show can punctuate
the latest revelation
she saw coming from miles away.
A huge sprawling life
can be cradled by routine.
You can spend your whole life
doing the same thing.
The killer warms his fingers
by the dryer exhaust. The
laundry room window is open a crack
so it doesn’t get too hot,
the smell of fabric softener filled the
air. When he was content with
only watching, that’s how he knew
she was there.
The life she made
was a bit cramped
It didn’t have room
for anyone else,
but felt no less a home.
She’d spent most her life
completely alone,
and that may have been
how she could tell –
the house just felt smaller
when someone else was
there.
The night was still & quiet,
but he towed behind
a deeper silence,
a quiet with fangs
that feel nothing
and the stillness of frozen
uniformity.
By smashing
her future into her past
they fuse into a state of dormancy
time stopped,
without fear, for her
so she wouldn’t hear
the sick sound of her
skull dragging across the floor.
A thin bar of streetlight was draped
over the sofa.
A glowing pane of glittering dust
traced its path,
mimicking the killer’s motions with swirls and
spirals of dead skin cells and fibers
in the tiny space.
She used to wonder why it felt so cramped
with so little inside.
All the way out on the road,
you could tell someone had died,
Just a feeling the air –
something terrible happened
and it happened right
over there.
Her bones were ground to paste
with cartilage, and teeth,
then mixed with chalk and collagen
to make a plaster vase.
The electricity that powered
her brain would seep into the snow
where at least it will evade detection,
while the carbon in her bones
is set aside to build more homes,
where the windows will
remember her reflection
–Brandon Thorpe
⚘
WATERHOLE’S GRIP
A thirst like there’s no other, from where the monster lurks…
I dip my toe, to take a chance, of something I don’t know…
I know I see the water, invite me there to drink…
But what’s within that subtle rip, that makes me stop and think…
Only for a moment, a must, to quench the thirst…
I’ve seen too often, others drink, then the water bursts…
The lurking monster, in the hole, so many know from tales…
That’s lost the race, and then their face…
That’s when their focus failed…
Fate can surely lie, in places we don’t want..
Be careful of your face and faith, they might just end up gone…
–Gary W. Crites
⚘
INVISIBLE DRAGONS
The process of alienation from your fellow man
Involves the existence of invisible dragons
Who live inside your head
And make you believe
Their whispers of slanted wisdom.
Hope does not appear clearly between a bang and a whimper.
I live inside my head
And I've killed those invisible dragons
With sharp knives and dynamite
And you can kill the invisible dragons too.
You have to stop believing their false intentions.
–Dane Osborne
⚘
PARASITE
She slithers under the bars she constructed
for a breath of life in the eaves.
Her soul trembles and unfurls, while
I am becoming too big for my ancestral home.
My memory is a forgotten fable.
She was something once, someone—
that decrepit little thing that lives
in the corner, blind and black and bloody.
If I could get at her, it would be nothing
for me to slice her in two and take a look
at her war torn brain that twitches
though it be dead, more alive than in life.
Would anyone find more than unlived scruples?
Could the finest scientists map out her
terror in the moonlight and resistance to
ordinariness or generalities or falseness?
Would God understand her when it was
She who looked at His face and saw nothing
that resembled her own? I cannot know.
She would be so easy to squash like the
meanest little bug that she is, still I cannot.
She has worn my face, my clothes, my fear.
And all that life she had in front of her that
she let fall like drops inside a lake will never
be forgotten. I am outgrowing her, outpacing
her, and out of anything but pity for her. She
sleeps in the window of my mind. I will pull the
blinds and shut her in. She will lay in waste
until she scurries away to a new forgotten home.
Then, I will breathe for myself and myself alone.
–Blair Correll
⚘
You know loss better than
you know your own name,
& I know death with an intimacy
that only lovers can withstand.
You wear the weight of armor
but I am alchemy in its entirety.
I mold metals with magic
& your chain mail is worn.
Come to bed with me
in this olive tree,
& finally lay down
your sword.
–Amber Sparks
⚘
LIKE ODYSSEUS
Oh, that I, too,
long ago possessed
the black-stemmed and white-flowered herb,
the magic moly,
given by god Hermes
to Odysseus, him to resist
Circe's memory-taking drug.
That, I, too,
had swallowed beauty's poison and lived – human, not swine.
Never to wallow in stye's warm,
never to snort for slop's fill
but stood strong,
not on four, but two legs,
young, lovely, brave.
That my will stayed,
that my naked love
given only as my soul heard
his binding oath of safety,
is of the blessed gods.
–Brandy Warren
⚘
How many universes
have our souls traversed
to rest so peacefully
beneath the olive tree?
In how many mythologies
has there been
a you & me?
Twenty years?
I would wait 20
lifetimes
to see your ship
& your sweet smile
grace the horizon
of the sea.
–Amber Sparks
⚘
FOR I AM IMMORTAL
Tragedy, I can’t even stand the sound of
The word after these thousands of years.
Every tale labels our story a “Tragedy”...
And though it may be tragic, it is my loss
To grieve, not theirs.
Even now, I lie silently in his field and listen to
The wind swaying the trees and the tall grass around me.
And his flowers, oh so gracefully following the breeze.
It’s sort of ironic how these same winds were his end.
I remember that day, way back when,
As if it were only hours ago.
Even the air smells the same.
Save for the lingering scent of blood.
We were so utterly captivated with one another.
Not a day went by that we weren’t together.
And day after day, a love blossomed that was
Stronger than death itself, we would say.
One beautiful day, a harmless game of discus led to
The endless singeing of tears upon my pillow.
Glowing as they fell and sizzling as they hit.
Maybe I threw too hard, or maybe the winds shifted.
Regardless, his blood fertilized the ground where I rest.
I knelt watching his peaceful face as it paled.
Cursing fate ‘til my knees stained green.
And finally, from his body I grew the most
Beautiful flowers to hold his legacy.
And named them in his honor.
One day, I hope to join you again, my love.
May we cast our love eternally among the cosmos.
Though I suspect that day is further than hoped.
For I am immortal and you are not.
But alas, my time will come, and we will meet again.
Hyacinthus, my darling, wait for me as I wait for you
And I promise your patience will not be in vain.
–Stephen Young
⚘
Too often, Atlas comes to me,
densifying dreams already
drenched with doubts.
“Tonight,” he whispers, “the weight
of the world is yours.”
Desperate denial of his request
is deafened by a fracturing chest,
and the crushing realization
of the myth of immortality.
Where does he go?
What does he do with
his freedom, his weightlessness?
And how, exactly, does he expect
one human to bear so much?
–Amber Sparks
⚘
BROTHERS
One lifted up serpents
while the other burnt down churches
but it ended the same anyway
Their skulls were caved in with rocks
then they cut out both of their hearts
and buried them in the same grave.
The knife was once used
to pick dirt out his shoes
that collected in seams of
the sole
so the floor would stay clean
and no filth would be seen
tracking back into his
home.
But there's worse than mud
& flies to make their way
inside, and for profit his morals
would always abide
The evil you put into the world
will find no branch to perch
until it circles back round
to your side.
–Brandon Thorpe
⚘
HADES, FOR PERSEPHONE
She stepped into my dark
like spring forgetting to be afraid.
The dead lifted their heads.
Stone remembered warmth.
They say I stole her –
but I only brought her home
so beauty would not belong
to the living alone.
Even shadows deserve flowers,
and she –
she taught my world how to bloom.
–Olivia Croley
⚘
ECHOES OF YGGDRASIL
From the frost-rimed void, Ginnungagap's maw did yawn,
A cosmic clash where fire and ice were drawn.
Ymir, the primordial giant, a grotesque birth,
Sweat-born kin from his flesh infested the Earth.
Odin, Vili, and Vé, with ambition ablaze,
Slew the giant Ymir, in those forgotten days.
His skull, a dome of stars, a macabre jest,
His bones, jagged mountains, put the world to the test.
Freya, goddess of desire, with a manipulative gleam,
Wove spells of love, a tantalizing dream.
Thor, the brawny thunderer, with a temper untamed,
Mjolnir's hammer, on the anvil, forever famed.
Loki, the silver-tongued trickster, with chaos in his heart,
Weaving mischief, tearing worlds apart.
Heimdall, the vigilant watchman, with senses keen,
Guarding Bifrost, the rainbow bridge, a shimmering scene.
From the fetid depths of Jotunheim's lair,
Monsters arose, with malice to share.
Fenrir, the wolf of hunger, with jaws agape,
Jormungandr, the serpent, in the ocean's drape.
Huginn and Muninn, Odin's winged spies,
Soaring through realms, beneath watchful eyes.
Whispering secrets, of battles to come,
Messengers of fate, forever on the run.
Thus, the Norse saga unfolds, a tapestry grand,
Where gods and monsters, in a deadly stand,
Their destinies entwined, in a cosmic game,
A symphony of myths, forever aflame.
–Guiliana Noto
⚘
magnet poems by the dithyrambler
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
With endless love & gratitude,
