Not Raining, Pouring

I was not yet

am not

yet will be

infinite in the ocean

tethered by my infinity

to the sand

tethered to red rock

my broken back strewn across

my face

pointed to myself

sewn across last nights sky

last night

alluding to myself.

poured into the ocean

anchored by infinity

to my inconjurable self.

tethered to the sand

bloodied bruised and waiting.

Will

I may not believe in God

But I do believe in saviors

And I very much believe that you are mine.

You came into my life

Not like a wounded animal on my doorstep

Begging for me to save it,

But like a bird flying down from the sky

With an offering of peace.


No, in our story, I was the wounded animal,

And you were the one who saved me.

I fell down at the doorstep of your heart

Looking for a friend who could heal me,

Who could be there for me,

And you opened the door wide and

let

me

in.


And not only did you welcome me with open arms,

You shaped me.

You made me the person that I am, and

Although that person is far from perfect

– Very far, in fact –

He is better because of you.

You

are the one who keeps me holding on

You

are the one who gives me my courage

You

are the one who keeps the light inside of me,

The light that may sometimes flicker

But refuses to go out.


I pour out so much of my heart into you

And yet the amount of me I give

Never seems to be too much,

It’s always just the right amount,

As much as I want to give

And as much as you want to receive.


Whenever I am with you,

Sitting next to you

or

across from you

or

just anywhere

in the same room as you,

I feel at home –

Because for me, my home

Is wherever I am with you.


It’s something I can’t explain,

Can’t put into words,

But being with you

Is the best medicine

I’ve ever taken.

So I guess what I’m trying to say

Is that this is my incredibly cliche,

incredibly cheesy,

incredibly roundabout

way of saying

I love you,

I really love you,

and thank you so much

for everything

you have done.


Cameron Carter is a 9th-grade writer, artist, and amateur musician at Ruth Asawa School of the Arts in the Creative Writing department. He is passionate about using poetry and other forms of art to express himself and raise his voice. Through activities like writing, drawing, playing guitar and drums, and singing (or often doing metal screams), he pushes himself forward to achieve his goals and make himself known for who he truly is. 

There is No Happiness Here

There is no happiness here.

Mosquitos circle overhead like vultures.

Pain is here, with an eternal depression mixed in with a fear not dissimilar to a mouse in a cat cafe.

No familiar rules, just brand new cultures.

There in the earlier there but not the currant now, I wouldn’t and couldn’t get cold rain

as it was always hot, dousing us in a burning mental pain

God this sucks very much

Every night without noise, with every step, I must shush.

While I wallow in absolute disgust,

At these terrible terrifying tears leading too what feels like a spoonful of hell,

I’m forced into amounts of manual labor so crushing that it feels like I’m underfoot an elephant in a parade,

as I’m reminded of the issues my back suffers,

while it’s only made worse by the labor that the elephants crush me with.

In that unpleasant umber weald, where the vulturous mosquitoes play around with the little happiness that’s left

With trees growing larger like the broken promises as they say that they will make my life easier,

The trees growing under the warm wet skies, soaking the failed dreams of a treehouse.

Kind people!

Pure nature,

I live in Chamanzar.

In my bright motherland,

I play and laugh.

People are kind

No denials.

He walks with a smile,

He always laughs.

Sparkling eyes,

Kind words.

They are sincere, honest,

Really kind people.

Ilhomova Mohichehra is a student of the 8th “K” grade of the 13th school, Zarafshan city, Navoi region.

The Mouth that Roars

Just the sound of his voice,
Awakens memories of fingernails on a blackboard,
Of  tires  screeching  outside at midnight,
Of  coarse sandpaper on raw wood,
Of babies crying and crying and crying,
Of a neighbor weed-eating at 3 am!
It’s an audible recording 
	from a medieval torture chamber.
Without even considering the stupidity
	And malevolence of the words:
	     Point guns at Liz Cheney,
		Paint Kamala with “low i.q.,”
		Shoot at him
			through the dishonest media,
		Vow revenge on all who disagree,
		Proclaim “rigged” 
			even before the votes are counted!

How can the most immoral man
		In the universe
			Get a single vote?
	

Cities Breathe in Abandonment

Wet woods suppressed mind,

bodies of moss chat towards the fog.

Breathe in responsibilities clasped

rooftops overthrown by land.

Numbers walled in by numbers.

Matter speaks silent.

Vines trail over my fingertips bridges.

Such a liar, so afraid,

not fond of regrets.

My years drift afloat

Marigolds outshined by damp willows.

I spoke the words I cried and viewed

tangy colors waving their fingers to crowds.

Where did they go? I ask the minutes,

left behind thick air to our shadows,

never front, focused on past.

Inverted mirrors don’t shatter the depths of blood.

Cracked rain, punctured windows.

I ask for one last direction,

whom shall lead my heart of desires to horizons,

not footsteps.

Stasis

They are wrong, those who say we dissolve in connection,
as if we have worn special clothes, handmade shoes,
paid for unneeded lessons, all to lose individuality.

Maybe it’s the separateness we crave, the remembrance
the song will end. We will be free to return where we laid
our wallets and purses, our IDs, keys, lives beyond

the dance floor we will never abandon for bed or bank.
The mouthing of words soothes more than the meaning:
how wonderful to regain the infant’s unmediated cry,

or, like a cat, live by instinct, not by choice, free
of the burden to make our lives what we desire,
irresponsible, for a moment, ourselves given, in total,

to a rhythm, a melody, a touch, a body, a god,
that has taken control and absolved us of sin.
We want only so much freedom. It’s too much to bear.

Some of us hold on too long. Others, too brief. As if touch
were a measure of our commitment to one other.
There is always a reluctance to betray the embrace.

That is why we rely on patterns but praise spontaneity.
Even the virtuoso dances sequences yet unrecognized.
We are like lovers trying to make memories,

looking forward to a future that is not yet
when we will look back at a past that no longer is,
discounting the present as a means.

Dreading silence, some of us never rest, as if motion
were truer than stillness. This is wrong.
So what does that leave us in our needs?

I say, the dance is in the emptiness, the quiet, the balance
that reminds us we are mortal. We always want more.
That frightens us. The staying of time is enough,

one step, held for itself, its own entrance, its own resolution,
unconnected to a before, or an after, yet unseparated.
It’s in the stasis where we find the dance.

No Dance Floor is Ever Empty

No dance floor is ever empty.
I see them, the ghosts of past dancers.
They left the touch
of each step, each turn, each embrace
pressed into the wood.
You can see them, too.

Look, in the corner, the couple falling in love.
Besides them, that pair already fallen out.
Here, to the side, the forlorn
who clutches a partner
like a fetish to ward off
an overwhelming loneliness.
Across the floor, the married one
who dances to return resigned to a spouse
who is content, functional, incomplete.

There are the comfortable,
those who know little
of sadness and suffering
and are perplexed
by those who do.
Even they leave bits
of thin souls
underfoot.

When you are on the floor,
give your attention to them, the ghosts.
You can feel them brush against you,
see their invisible shadows,
hear the softness of their voices.
It is they who fill the void between us.

Listen to me, my friend:
you, too, will be a ghost,
you, too, will leave a trace
of your dance. If you are blest,
someone will enter the dance floor,
someone born after you have died,
and will see what you have left.
They will know, at one time,
someone danced here
and gave what there was to give.

 
Leading

Leading is like writing a poem, isn’t it? The amateur constructs plans, sets milestones, identifies goals, chooses an end and steps backwards from there. I’m that, at times, with an idea of where things must go: a brilliant image or turn of phrase; a cleaver pattern or adornment; an intention to display my brilliance that will elicit a smile; a somewhere where I think the line of dance or of metaphor should end. When I try, I succeed, unfortunately. We all confuse what we desire with who we are. If I’m lucky, then I’m lost, a child in a dusk woods, the shadows, the trees, the calls; the music, the dance floor, the body of another. Some other thing, some other self, not me, as I think I am, but some part of me I cannot, will not, name, chooses me as its object. I follow. Could I say my life is really my own?
 
Richard Stimac has published a poetry book Bricolage (Spartan Press), two poetry chapbooks, and one flash fiction chapbook. In his work, Richard explores time and memory through the landscape and humanscape of the St. Louis region. His work is inspired by dancing Argentine tango.