Sunday, November 26, 2017

Not from here, but now


By Grace Keeler
I cannot define my origin with the name of a city, or a town. I am not “from” Winchester, Virginia. I am from the earth, my roots running deep down into the soil. I have sprung from a unique collection of experiences that is growing every second of every day. I am born anew continuously, therefore I am from now. This very second, I am different than I was, different than who I will be. I come from every tear I have shed, every bout of laughter to dance upon my lips. Each individual memory I possess has contributed to the person I am in this moment.

My home isn’t a single place, and it certainly isn't another person. I am my home, I am from within myself. The taste of hot chocolate on my tongue after sledding, the sound my pen makes when it scratches upon a page, these are the moments I am derived from. Tomorrow, the experiences from which I have originated will grow, however slowly. I know that I am my own place of origin, when I free myself from thoughts and focus on just being. I am the very essence of myself, unwaveringly Grace.

It’s hard to comprehend that every second we have spent on this earth means something, because we are then overwhelmed by the fear that we are wasting these moments. We are terrified of the concept that we can find a home in ourselves, because we have grown dependent on others for reassurance of worth. I have learned that even though finding a real home within oneself is difficult, it is a leap you have to take in order to fully discover who you are. I will not be confined to the address on my return stamps, or the place of birth on my Birth Certificate, because I am so much more. I am not from a city, a state, a country, a continent, a planet, any of that. I am from myself, evolving on my own within my body, mind, and soul.

Wednesday, November 15, 2017

I Am From

By Luke Campbell

I am from

the dog that stared too long
into the sun and bit the apple from the rotten branch, on a tree, in someone else's
neck of the woods, a thousand seasons away.

I am from

A broken chain in a room,
lost in the middle of a day in space
Waiting for a moon to escape on.

And

I am from

the vibrations of echoes in the chambers of dying heart,
casted out from the lies of an honest man's last beg.

I am from

the star's last goodbye to her
universe at the end of the day,
and at that end of the day
when you pull away my skin
I'm from the dark,
lost in the haze
of our vindictive hate.

Wednesday, November 8, 2017

The Outstretched Hand

By Chip Newcome

1.


It begins soft and slight,
a rhythmic tap, tap, tap.
Insistent and incessant,
it becomes white noise, unnoticed,
a forgotten fan in a child’s room
at night helping her fall asleep.


Until


2.


the tapping is answered;
the one who answers
disappears, and a hole
opens, an emptiness
never again filled.  
Grief follows.


Then,


3.


without warning, white noise becomes noticeable.
Tapping ceases and is replaced with a deep silence
extending into the recesses of space and time.
Waves ripple the fabric of our universe.
Silence is filled with wails of mourning.


And the tapping is replaced
by a powerful


4.


knocking.  A deep, hollow sound.
echoing through eternity;
No longer white noise, it brings fear and pain,
an expectation, not of everyday life,
but of life every day, It is its equal, an
opposing force.


It is

5.


night to morning
ignorance to education
old to young
fire to water
war to peace
Heaven to Hell
life to death


It continues; the door cracks and
with a deep thud, closes.
A mourning silence, and, once again,
knocking resumes.


Once heard,


6.


it is ever present,
never again to be white noise;
a hollow sound that haunts humanity
until we pass through the door,

walking into the outstretched hand.