The Heart of the Matter
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter 1: Death I Fear Not by Angelia Ross
Chapter 2: To My Angel by Olivia Baker
Chapter 3: The Mirror by Allison Baker
Chapter 4: Respect to the Queen by Cari Lynne King
Chapter 5: Castle Stairs by Mantis Osiris
Chapter 6: Down From A Mountain by Brandon Thorpe
Chapter 7: The Conscious Universe by Dane Osborne
Chapter 8: The Lion & The Swan by Frances Denise
Chapter 9: You Are My Rhyme by Miriam Calleja
Chapter 10: Old Moons by Cathy Socarras Ferrell
Chapter 11: Icarus by Amber Sparks
Chapter 12: Destruction by Cheyanne Leonardo
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
DEATH I FEAR NOT
Chapter 1: Poems by Angelia Ross
SHADOWS OF THE HEART
When there are shadows of the heart,
The shadows will come a-creepin’
Then ye’ll start a-weepin’
From rejection and fear,
In a world so unclear.
And those who claim to be thy friend
Have no comfort to lend
In thy hour of need
For thou art only a tool
In satisfying their greed.
When there are shadows of the heart,
The shadows will rip it apart,
For the knowledge that love is in vain
Fuels thy never-ending pain
And causes rivers to flow from thine eyes,
Which were blinded by love.
But love is always blind, is it not?
Ye ask as ye lie on a cold cot.
When there are shadows of the heart,
The shadows will come a-creepin’
While ye are a-sleepin’
Forcing thy mind into chaotic disarray,
And thine eye to see only gray.
Gone is all hope of relief
As thy soul drowns in a sea of grief,
And thy voice of tormenting fears
Falls only on deaf ears.
⚘
PASSAGE OF LIFE
Crickets chirp lazily
In deep places,
Hidden away from the dew.
And katydids yell at Katie
For whatever it was she did,
And fall – fall is felt everywhere.
Summer has gone by in a blur,
But not before fifteen
Acquaintances and an equine friend
Left this world,
Making one stop and ponder
On life and death.
But death – death I fear not,
For I am ready to journey
Into the next world
Where those who have gone on before
Stand ready to greet me
With outstretched arms.
TO MY ANGEL
Chapter 2: A poem by Olivia Baker, with an introduction by Allison Baker
I am sending you this on behalf of my sister.
She is the true definition of a warrior.
She has been drug through the pits of Hell
And came out on the other side an incredibly beautiful soul.
She has fought some of the hardest battles
A person could in this world, and still refuses to let her light be dimmed.
As a mother myself, I could not imagine or begin to think of life without my child.
Even though some days are extremely hard to look at her knowing the pain she has endured,
I also look at her as a hero in my eyes.
She must continue this life without this sweet child standing next to her
And for her to be able to do that alone,
I know there is nothing in this world that could take her down.
She is my sister
She is my best friend
To My Angel:
There’s so much I’d like to say to you
I’m not sure where to start
So I guess I’ll just start telling you
Everything inside my heart
You were my first child
You made me a mom
Even though your mommy
Didn’t get to bring you home
I think about you often
I wonder who you’d be
What you would look like
Would it have been like me
I think about your eyes
What color would they be
I dream about your smile and laugh
I bet they’re precious as can be
I wish I could have met you
And held you just one time
I wish I could have kissed your nose
And held your hand in mine
To count your tiny fingers
And your tiny little toes
The pain I feel from losing you
I hope nobody knows
As I sit and think of you
I try not to cry
But before I got to say, “Hello”
I had to say, “Goodbye”
You’ll always be my angel
My baby you will be
As you sit in heaven
And save a place for me
So, Darling, I will dry my tears
When I think of you, I’ll smile
This goodbye is not forever
Just a little while
Love, Mommy
08/23/2024
THE MIRROR
Chapter 3: A Poem by Allison Baker
I still don't know how
To look in the mirror
And like what I see
Nobody else does this
It's always been just me
This girl they call beautiful
Has held me back from life
If only they knew
Behind closed doors
She sits and cries
Maybe one day I can look in the mirror
And truly love the person I see
Not nitpick every flaw, every curve, every fine line
That I'm sure the world’s already seen
RESPECT TO THE QUEEN
Chapter 4: Poems by Cari Lynne King
DESCENT
Snap
It’s a distraction
Holding my attention
Look away from the devastation
Snap
What a cute bracelet
But it isn’t jewelry
It’s not even pretty
You have no idea how ugly it is
Snap
Don’t go down that path
You’ve come so far
You can’t look back now
You’ll be trapped again
Snap
You’re supposed to be happy
But you’re fat
You’re a freak
Grow a backbone
You’re too meek
You have no future
It’s all bleak
Close your mouth
You shouldn’t speak
Sit back down
You’re just weak
Snap
–From Ink-Stained Memoirs
⚘
WATCH THIS!
Ladies, gentlemen
and all others around
I demand your eyes
and undivided attention
Behold as a woman
rises to her power
Be amazed
when she doesn’t back down
I’m reclaiming my voice
I’m causing a scene
You don’t want to miss this
Give respect to the queen
⚘
SURPRISE ATTACK
Anger burns red hot
on the lips of a woman scorned
A curse upon your soul
flies effortlessly from her mouth
With careful consideration
to balance your lack thereof
She spins a spell so subtle
slowly suffocating you
until you choke on your words
The years have been long
and the love has been short
Etch your name in paper
and let the lightning set it all aflame
CASTLE STAIRS
Chapter 5: A Song by Mantis Osiris
Lyrics:
You will find her within romantic reach on the Castle Stairs
With a woven stare of pleasant dreams that brought you there
And inside you’ll find a concubine with her makeup smeared
He has beat her down, in his too-tight crown
She has shed some tears
Well they found him as an old man, saying
“Damn things they just ain’t what they used to be, no”
“It never should have been like this”
Justified through bitterness
“Man she was pretty in that scenery”
“Not nearly perfect, but near enough for me”
You will find that as your essence fades, your anger fits
You will find that as your soul recedes, you handle it
Is it heaven or a prison that you’ve stumbled to?
Maybe die up there and hope your prayer has made it through
When they wrote him it read,
“It’s less what it is than it is just what you make of it”
“It never should have been like this,”
Justified through bitterness
Man, things they just ain’t what they used to be, no…
He was reported to be insane
Be insane
She was reported to be insane…
DOWN FROM A MOUNTAIN
Chapter 6: Poems by Brandon Thorpe
GUILTY BILL, OR MARYLAND
When he gets home, he pours the fire
out of his boots.
The kid is playing with his kitchen set,
his mother wants to know what’s left.
He’s got a bridge, he’s got a phone
he’s got himself a face
and he’s kept enough money
to go buy himself a date.
“It was a sunny cloudless day” he said “but
a single cold raindrop fell from the blue sky
and landed on me”
“You must have felt special” she replied
Everything is orange inside the house
we saw in technicolor.
He picked dried grease from the
long black hairs of his arm.
If she never knew
what would be the harm?
Later in the year he took his family to
Maryland, where we saw his mom, dad
and siblings again.
He lived there when they first met,
and he thought about how long
that had really been,
how long he’d loved her,
the first time they kissed
but he remembered what he did
and those memories turned to shit.
He thought it’d undo things if he
finally confessed
but it just spoiled things for her too,
The whole thing played out stinking, rotten
and crude. From that moment on they
broke in two, became cold,
confrontational, distant and rude.
We went bowling a few more times,
they had dinner with their friends
but I never saw them touching
and we never went to Maryland again.
⚘
WHAT’S LEFT?
It’s always less than we expect,
so we check our transactions and retrace our steps.
A drink at the gas station,
toys for kids, we agree it’s a mistake that we can’t make again.
We borrow some money from family and friends
and count down the days till we get paid again.
Sometimes it lines up and there’s a little bit left
There are movies and antique malls
abandoned houses and mini-golf
the ocean, storms
dead malls
swimming pools
dogs cats, trees grass
and everything else in our giant shared past
My only wish is that it all could last.
But the money goes quickly, and time spins on.
We’re losing that too, but it’s slow
and calm.
You can’t see it moving, but when you get there
your nose will hang lower
they’ll be gray in your hair.
You’ll fidget and ache, but won’t even care
you’ve done so damn much and you’re finally there
staring down from a mountain
at everyone else.
THE CONSCIOUS UNIVERSE
Chapter 7: Poems by Dane Osborne
A MUSE AND A MEMORY
Your sun-kissed face softly touched by spring morning
takes me back to these green fields of an
abandoned dream where my eyes first gave birth
to the names of secret flowers
and here:
Nobody cries
⚘
EIGHT WHITE CIRCLES
There exist eight white circles
Which emerge out of nowhere to disrupt a black void
And each of those eight white circles are (in fact)
Doorways to different alternate dimensions.
Each dimension has it's own population who
Have their own language and worship their own
Separate Wizard Man who owns and operates
Whichever particular dimension in question.
I see these eight white circles every time
I ever close my eyes.
(simple yet complicated act of synesthesia)
⚘
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 am swallowed up alive by the endless tide.
After five hundred years or so,
I always rise again so I may
rediscover passion I use to invent my own fire.
Chrysalis in practice through the occurrence
of time and pressure.
Does this mesmerize you? Want more?
After the phenomena of Life and Death is finished,
All those innocent children who return
to the paradise of the unborn will beg
for the mercy of those who did not make the trip.
AND THEY SHALL GET IT!!
⚘
THE HAPPY TRUTH OF THE MACHINE
The Happy Truth known by the shiny red talking machine
shall be understood only by the blessed chosen
who escape beyond our everyday prison of Space and Time.
He who talks sullen days and sleeps torched nights inside Space and Time
may never learn The Happy Truth Of The Machine.
If you transform a conscious animal into a creature of love instead of hate?
He will thank you but he can still bite you without any thought.
To see the natural mechanism of its behavior is your sign of awakening
and the bizarre waves of synchronicity which follow be only signals
that emit from the talking machine.
He who translates the signals escapes our prison of space and time
and he does not heed the shallow caution of other conscious animals.
A message from the sky to be erased with fire and remembered forever.
⚘
EPIPHANY NUMBER ZERO
The crimson jokester will dance
above the musical mob
and show them how hard rain
will clutch the yellow sky with silent ease.
A daydream that plays war with the concrete eye.
⚘
MERCY FROM SPACE ABOVE
Humanity shall receive kindhearted justice from the aliens.
But there will be no persuading the sacred masses of screaming people
Until they see those gray entities from outer space heal the sick and raise the dead.
The truth gave by the original vision of love always in front of us
but never seen.
⚘
THOUGHT FOR THE DAY #1
I think agony is a human creation from human beings who are lost inside of a box together and they have no idea they are lost inside a box. Where humans are flawed by nature....the struggle of agony is the seen ripple effect of human flaws.
Human beings have no idea who they are OR where they are really at OR what this place is. AND WE ARE in no position to ever figure out 100% where we are at.
Always expect there to be problems and complications as a direct result.
⚘
THOUGHT FOR THE DAY #2
This life is like a test where everybody has to struggle between trauma and hope. Hope is not always certain, sadly enough. But hope is the most important survival trait any person can have.
It comes off to me that the attitude you have and the ability to be mentally strong enough in order to comprehend and understand the nature of what you are struggling with and thus manipulate the back and forth struggle into a direction which is beneficial for you. Of course you'll still have trauma along the way because that's the name of the game. But you have to be at least smart enough to know how to adapt and maneuver around the effects of trauma. AND THEN you experience the aspect of hope......Even if the hope turns out to be complete stupid bullshit? It still has a very serious way of making life feel good and enjoyable AT LEAST if only good enough to the point where you actually don't want to commit suicide.
There are also parts of life which can be JUST FUCKING BEAUTIFUL and it is good to enjoy and absorb those parts for what they are.
The struggle between hope and trauma is always bubbling beneath the surface at all times.
The struggle between HOPE and TRAUMA is the dynamic which controls all of human existence.
Every human is destined for that back and forth struggle.
How you handle yourself in this struggle basically determines your relationship with god. It determines your whole place within the scheme of the conscious universe.
THE LION & THE SWAN
Chapter 8: Poems by Frances Denise
LION
I’d tell you that dragons exist
But you wouldn’t believe me
So I keep such things to myself
My solitude affords me space to wonder
How different the world would be
If lions had wings
If the fire in their lungs could go further
Spread faster, maybe
And there’s something about flight
That is endlessly captivating
The combination may just spark something in the hearts of many
The remembrance that
Our voice is sacred
That we live at the mercy of what we are unable to contain
Perhaps
We could remember more often
That we are more than our senses
And that gratitude
Is what keeps us golden
⚘
SWAN
Someone once told me that swans
Belong to the Queen of England
And I thought:
What a peculiar thing –
Royalty
A story chosen first by one
Or by the many?
What is the appeal?
Elegance? Glamor?
Ceremony?
My eyebrows burrow at the
Senseless ownership of grand and trivial things
Is it so harmless
To play pretend?
To put on
A temporary show of permanence
Passed down a generation
For assumed infinity
To appease the fears of mortals
To justify the possession of what was never for the taking
The graceful creatures do not lend their participation
In any of the illusions
We consent to
YOU ARE MY RHYME
Chapter 9: Poems by Miriam Calleja
THE BODY
PRAYS
FOR BEAUTY BUT REMAINS A SHIPWRECK
Title after a line by Michael Wasson
I don’t know how to pray
how to be on my hands and knees and go inside
for where is god if not there
inside each one of us and outside where there is
nothing?
and from nothing we fight through our mother’s
body and then inside our own we expand
and contract,
never the right size for the room we’re in
and then nothing starts beating
and for years and decades we try to find another
beating nothing to rest a moment with.
I’d like to know how to pray for this,
for the lips I carry inside in my blood
for the thirst, always the thirst.
Are you afraid?
I’m afraid too.
⚘
DEAR STARFISH POET
A response to a personal ad in The New York Review of Books with a line from Carla Bruni’s song
I, too, search for my exquisite corpse.
It won’t matter how many times you fragment:
everything you do is just a trauma response.
You’re right. It’s not merely postulation.
Quelqu’un m’a dit que tu m’aimais encore.
Dear aquatic asteroid, I eat and dream
in the sea, just like you. Perhaps you are
my rhyme, my enjambment; might we
meet in a stanza? Let’s make it oceanic.
⚘
BLESS
In Alabama, my friend waits at 4am for the wild turkeys to rouse.
She doesn’t really, but I imagine she waits for them in a bush.
Her legs aren’t ready for the fast run, a speed that the eye cannot compute.
They emerge from sleep early, too early, after staying up late
watching the crescent moon, for they, too, enjoy a good moon
even though they aren’t poets. At different speeds, yet at the same speed,
no one understands who is chasing whom, who is running at breakfast,
who is running away from it.
In Mexico, pigeons sit preening themselves on the Virgen de Guadalupe,
everything is slow in this hundred-degree wind as they start to make plans for later,
picking up yesterday’s tortillas laid out on the porch for Grackle, but they
are no second-hand birds; they go to mass every day; they bob their heads
just like turkeys. They sit on the Madonna, speak to her closely, and watch the dwindling crowds emerge. Some of them are spared. No one and nothing stops them from completing their digestion
right in her arms.
OLD MOONS
Chapter 10: Poems by Cathy Socarras Ferrell
TO THE MOON AND BACK
a cup of cocoa
softest cotton pants
Early-morning moon is up
past her bedtime
a question in the ebb dark
Would you still love me if I ____?
an answer
I will love
your bruises
the scrapes on your elbows
your words uttered in red haste
your plastic trophies
the last crumbs of your discarded dreams
your sleeping breaths
your glimmering eyes
every last tear you swallow.
Wrap one arm around your belly,
the other across your heart.
Mother your grief.
Hum softly, alone.
⚘
FEED YOUR LUNGS WHAT THEY CRAVE
florid sunrise
moments before sky
ripens low bruises coral and guava.
Sink your heels and the pit of your belly in
dew-pregnant loam.
Small waves leave licks of foam
on sand light-swelled
petrichor
deep languid pulls
air,
surf,
throat
brine back your skin
⚘
CLOUDLESS SULPHUR
northbound, southbound
drivers sit in the zone
or out of it
in the grassy median,
yellow wings flit
between two white blossoms,
close to the ground
my hands grip the grimy wheel
arc under palms
head turns butterfly,
down wet from cocoon
⚘
LOVE POEM TO MYSELF
after Adrienne Rich’s Twenty-One Love Poems: IX
Your mind today is a hive where tiny things thrash.
I want to still their wings, whisper over
their stumbling bodies.
They are angry,
the sun too bright. If I could,
I would shade your purple lids, quiet
the endless thrum. I’d reach
cool fingers down, wrap
the sting in golden thread,
knit liquid into amber. Nothing can unravel us
here, even ourselves.
ICARUS
Chapter 11: A Poem by Amber Sparks
“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.
DESTRUCTION
Chapter 12: A Poem by Cheyanne Leonardo
the living word is captured in the counter-
memorial – without a plaque telling us how
to feel, we must speak to the stone that holds
the heat of the past and allow an original
meaning to reveal itself in the mind of each
observer. mine will be different from yours
will be different from his will be different
from hers – and this is the proper way to
preserve the import of destruction. tell me,
what is this spiritual poverty? – in which
we spend our lives building shrines to the
ego that rewrites history – removes our
suffering in order to raise the relevance
of the sword and carve a single memory of glory
atop the people’s tomb. what i mean to say is
you cannot uproot breath and being by
closing the book – cannot make myth with
unmoving marble – cannot project
commandments from your own
misunderstanding. for the word is ALIVE,
shaping itself according to our beating
beast of a heart. we feel its presence
by virtue of its absence – though all
it would take is a look inside, behind
the collective of curious eyes –
to remember the missing piece and escape
the scarcity, expose the scar, examine the skin
healing itself, patching with precision
its aching, open wounds.
–From The Book of Abstractions
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘
With endless love & gratitude,
