Silence and Thunder

By Alexandria Somirs

In silence and thought,

thunder rumbles slowly

over landscapes halfway over

and halfway below what’s under.

Height is but a relative thing,…

somewhere just before lightning strikes

and right before the rain sets in,

hidden inside from ourselves

is a silence closer than our one’s self.


Photo By Alexandria Somirs

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By Hannah Little

Oh for fuck’s sake. I made this cup of tea three hours ago. I genuinely thought I’d drank it. But I haven’t. It’s stone cold. How annoying. I do this all the time. I bet other people do too. I should tweet about it. And people can reply and say “heh, that happens to me all the time!” Yeah, I’ll tweet that.

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Sonder

By Alexandria Somirs

“I sat and waited
For this moment to be elated,
But by and by I pondered
And as my ego deflated
I took in the sonder
And unzipped my sleeve
And put their heart on my wrist
While I took my key
And locked their vivid tea
With my nameless kiss.”


‘Sonder’ = (n) the realization that each passerby has a life as vivid and complex as your own.

Photo by Alexandria Somirs


The Bohemian Rhapsody of a bike

By Callum Dawson

It’s hard to remember the past, drowning in mud and monstrous memories, but I will try my best.  Some stories need to be told at any cost, and some costs have stories leaking from their patch repairs.  The album Queen: Greatest Hits was playing in the workshop where I was born.  I think that must have been where my love affair with the operatic rock band first started.  Freddie Mercury always knew how to turn the gears within me.  My wheels spin to his sweet, piercing voice:

“Bicycle, bicycle, I want to ride my bicycle…”

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Cold Love

By Katelynne Davis Shimkus

in the fridge of winter
those barren plains your favorite walking-grounds
cane of veinless wood
monocle clamped to your eye, melting in a perpetual tear
I followed you, though I was supposed to hibernate
warmed myself by your cigar
left footprints in the white ocean – you walked on water
and I, in faith, followed
Wreathed in ice, I fell like a snowflake
and let the sun catch me
shining a halo
Those wintry nights when the moon looked in the snow like a mirror

When the spring came, I rushed down with the thaw
But proud you like Zarathustra
retreated to the top of the mountain to your cave
I cried April showers
lay mayflowers on your memory
sat in the mud to let the sun bake me dry
At first I smelt the fields into gold
and fashioned a thousand perfect idols
but all their zeal and veal could not satisfy me
So with Shiva’s power I destroyed
with the cosmic dance red yellow orange flames out of a blue core sky
I brought the fire to your door, to flush you out like a fox
But the firs stood firm, burned up gray
like grave markers
So I wait – for the first prickle of cold mustache and warm lips
The silent precipitation of cenezea perfecto ash from gray sky
I have been up late, waiting for you
I want to see you before my blood freezes


Photo by Katelynne Davis

 

I’m already yours

By Nick Bottesini
It’s weird.  The first time you kissed me my heart skipped a beat
literally, not poetically
it’s like you woke me from feeling numb
But I’ve been so dumb and down and dim
with whims and little control to be found
I’ve said “I love you” a fair few times
I’ve failed to feel it through and through
This feeling.
This feeling is not the butterflies you feel.
This feeling is not reeling out of control, floating
I am for once the anchor and you are my kite
and for once I don’t feel falling
For once I feel flight
or perhaps more accurately, just a slight upward tug
I feel like a rock
but no longer frozen
no longer lacking spirit
This is not a poem.
This is an epiphany.
Instead of playing the eagle
I find more joy in looking up at you as you fly so carefully balanced on air
You’re the bird and I’m the bug or the beagle
and I’ll forever chase and be chased by you
I’ll erase all but you in my heart
so you can stay there with our Lord
and feel my pumping embrace for you both to live
cease your running chase
I’m already yours.

 Photo by Alexandria Somirs

The God of the Forest sermon

By Callum Dawson

The Biblical texts are 1 Kings 19 and Matthew 3

Hello everyone, my name is Callum, most of you either know me or know of me.  Today I wish to preach about the connection between God and the wilderness.  I study at the theology faculty of KU Leuven and currently I’m working on a thesis about the great Spanish mystic and poet St. John of the Cross. I suppose you could say that these themes of poetry and mysticism have inspired my following sermon.

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One Day

By April Capili

February will become an ordinary month
Released like the years odds and ends
Youths faded marbles browning cards dogeared books
Fed finally to unmarked bags and the freeing fire
Its days will pass undistinguished
All indifferent faces in the crowd
All lukewarm like life
Then the mind will wander no more
And knowing only the present
Will quit questioning itself
Where is she
Wouldn’t she love that word
Perhaps she still remembers when
February will become an ordinary month
Forgetfulness slips into freedom then


Photo by Alexandria Somirs