Tributaries: Spring 2022

"The Earth and I"

Anna Phillips

 

---

I just want to look at the sky

I want to feel the earth’s energy

Caress my body

My mind
 

I want my cottage

On the seaside

Or the forest
 

The clean safe air

Filling my lungs

We are one.

"Candy Store" 

Emmett Francis

 

---

As children,

We’re given lollipops,

A rainbow spiral of sugary joy.

Licking away the colors,

We compare tongue shades of:

Blue, red, purple, green.

Lick, lick, lick,

Until you reach the stick.

Earth is my favorite flavor

A massive round pop

Orbiting the sun.

It’s sweet and has savory gifts to nature:

Oceans, forests, mountain ranges,

An array of flavors.

Lick, lick, lick,

Until you reach the stick.

Sometimes at the core of the treat,

There’s an extra glob of chocolate.

I suppose some people got curious

To see if our planet has any too.

Lick after lick,

A black oily substance spouted out.

That flavor is new,

And tastier,

Called fossil fuels.

It’s in everything!

But the flavor spilled into the other colors,

Leaving our tongues black Instead of a rainbow.

Oceans transformed from sweet to sour,

Forests of thick chocolate are now gone,

Mountains that had pop rocks now just have rubble.

Lick, lick, lick,

Until you reach the stick.

What do we do when

We get to Earth’s stick?

"The Other Side"

Afrodita Aguilar

---

Drowning in still air, you're around and

It feels like I'm more alone when you're around

Surface skimming and empty smiles

I'm drowning in such mediocracy—

is this what it's like to be stable?

I don't like the taste of milk, so I

Chose you in some illusioned fantasy

That you were not milk, but liquor.

I want the love that burns going down

My throat.

Erratic and madly in love, what has become

Of who I was, what I was.

Drowning in still air, staring blankly

At some fixated light ahead of me

Why do I lust for a drink in places of sin?

I want the love that burns going down- no chaser

Sometimes your voice rings like hell,

Sometimes my face swells with ales

Am I drowning in my comfort?

Am I drowning in my sanity?

This person reflecting in the looking glass—

Is an imposter.

Imposter, imposter, imposter

My yells echo in the chamber of my heart

Who I was, whom I am-on the other side of the looking glass

"The Empty House on Clebourne Avenue"

Tucker Trivette

 

Two smiling boys and a perfect family

What a beautiful sight on Clebourne Avenue

Beautiful trees soak in the bright sunlight

Such peace lives on Clebourne Avenue

Friends and family gather to make memories forever cherished

Oh, how I miss Clebourne Avenue

Smiles fade, and distress begins to rise

Oh, the shouts from Clebourne Avenue

A man walks out on his children and leaves his wife

It is a sad night on Clebourne Avenue

Single mother and hardships to bear; she keeps her head held high

There is strength on Clebourne Avenue

Shouts of joy from a pool party welcome the new season

There is a new man on Clebourne Avenue

Treating him as a jungle gym and begging for his tomorrow return

New hope flows through Clebourne Avenue

Passion and bliss fill the air as two lovers begin to intertwine

Such euphoria lives on Clebourne Avenue

Police sirens pierce the air like his hands in a heated dispute

It is a difficult night on Clebourne Avenue

A baby is carried in a blue blanket up the stairs

There is a new life on Clebourne Avenue

Redemption reigns as the church choir sing

Hallelujah for Clebourne Avenue

The children grow in height and knowledge

There is a maturity within Clebourne Avenue

The snake slithers in with his temptatious grin

It is a silent night on Clebourne Avenue

A mistress postures herself in his bed

Such a disastrous night on Clebourne Avenue

Heated fights as the secrets grow

There is fear on Clebourne Avenue

She hangs on by a thread for her three’s happiness

There is misery on Clebourne Avenue

Smiling faces and bruised up arms

All hope is lost on Clebourne Avenue

Lost in numbness, she finally removes herself

He is all alone on Clebourne Avenue

She runs for shelter as the authorities come through

Such safety from Clebourne Avenue

The neighbors begin their whispers

There is now an empty house on Clebourne Avenue.

"Grandmother's Home"

Savannah Price

 

 

There is something indescribable

About the warm air of Grandmother’s home.

If I could have bottled the feeling, the aroma,

The bottle would surely be prescribable.

 

That feeling. That lovely,

pleasant feeling. Oh, what

I would give to spend one

more summer morning there.

 

Basking in the sun,

With Grandmother nearby, handing

Out strawberries in sugar spun.

She was understanding, undemanding,

Silently slipping snacks to anyone.

“Watch me, watch me, as I run!”

Oh yes, very well done, darling.

 

That feeling. That lovely,

pleasant feeling. Oh, what

I would give to spend one

more fall afternoon there.

 

The limbs of that darkening Tree

Invite the grandchildren into its arms.

From the kitchen, she offers sweat tea

To those who have come into harm’s

Way, slipping off a branch come free.

 

“Help! Oh, my leg, it bleeds, it burns!”

Oh no, let me bandage that knee.

 

That feeling. That lovely,

pleasant feeling. Oh, what

I would give to spend one

more winter night there.

 

The children lay upon the floor,

Blankets and pillows and smiles and hair.

Their bedtime, they much ignore;

Grandmother does not care.

For late-night snacks they explore.

“He got two! That’s not fair!”

Both of you, take two more.

 

There is something indescribable

About the warm air of Grandmother’s home.

A feeling so strong and undeniable

From its effect, you can never roam.

"Premature Fears"

Danielle Hardy

---

Afraid to be misunderstood before communication--

Shall I describe my mind in this explanation?

 

An occurrence of premature fears,

I feel the onslaught of tears.

My mind works against me,

A struggle you will never see.

 

I listen to the classics--

Bach, Beethoven, Mozart

As fears corrode me like acids

Rightfully tearing me apart.

 

I know that I can’t write;

I know that I could never explain in full.

My mind is like a maze that I can’t get through;

I keep opening doors that never lead to anywhere.

I keep stuffing my thoughts into drawers I’ll never look into.

 

The truth is: I hate the hustle-bustle of life,

The god-awful noise of everyday.

I try to avoid it with loud music,

But the music causes my brain to vibrate.

 

My mind is on fire right now;

My eyes are bleeding;

My heart is bursting,

Not in a good way.

I’m having a heart attack--

Cardiac arrest, arresting my heart

Squeezing until there is nothing left

Nothing left to give, nothing left to take.

 

How can anyone look inside me?

How can anyone see the tumultuous sea of emotions inside me?

I wish someone could see.

I certainly wish I didn’t always feel so built up--

So overwhelmed by my own mind and emotions.

 

I wish I could turn it off;

I wish I could relax;

I wish I could chill out;

I wish I didn’t feel this way so many of the times;

I wish that I could feel normal for once;

I wish I didn’t have writer’s block all the time;

 

I wish I could get my feelings out;

I wish I didn’t bottle everything up all the time.

I have a lot of wishes that coincide with my fears.

I fear that you will hate what you see,

That you will ignore it until I am dead.

I am going to die from the earthquake shattering my mind.

I will die from this quenching of my heart.

I feel this in my very soul.

 

The cello does not soothe me;

It only makes me sadder.

I can not take a break from these feelings inside.

I wish I could talk to you about it.

I wish I could let the tears run down my face right now.

In this moment,

I am taught like a wire, so tight I can’t breathe.

 

I can’t breathe.

Oh my God, I can’t breathe.

Please, push the air into my lungs before I die.

Please, help me discover the madness I keep inside.

The madness has never left me;

I only ignore it to get through the day.

I just feel like the woman in “The Yellow Wallpaper.”

I feel like J. Alfred Prufrock.

I feel frazzled and disarrayed.

 

I feel bundled and messed up--

Sincerely messed up.

A friend called me crazy yesterday,

But I guess he was right.

“Some people never go crazy, what truly horrible lives they must lead.”

At least Bukowski will always get me.

 

So, why do I still think these thoughts?

I can not ignore them all the time,

But I do to get through the day.

How else would I make it through mindless 8 hour shifts?

How else would I make it through class

And tutoring appointments

And student teaching?

I feel dizzy with it right now.

I feel like I should be passed out on the ground.

 

I feel like I need a drink,

But I don’t like to drink.

I miss Bukowski,

And I hate the chaos.

WHY WOULD ANYONE WISH FOR THE CHAOS?

Bipolar or just crazy?

Depressed or just crazy?

Anxiety or just crazy?

 

Crazy.

 

That’s what you would all call me if you felt what I felt.

I am what I am.

I have never been more honest in my life.

If you felt what I felt, you would go crazy.

If you felt what I felt, you would sob until your heart gave out.

 

I go through all this at the expense of my own despair.

I go through all of this, so you don’t have to.

I go through all this because you couldn’t handle it.

I go through all this to feel sane one day out of the year.

 

This is not a panic attack;

This is not an anxiety attack;

This is not a mental breakdown.

This is just an overflowing of my emotions.

The bottle is filled,

And I can’t put the cap back on.

 

I’m foaming at the mouth;

I’m splitting at the seams.

The metaphorical balloon has burst;

It can not be put together again.

 

I am going to be sick.

I feel like I will be sick from the onslaught of emotion.

I wish you could see my struggle;

I wish you could see my mind.

 

I am hurting.

I am dying inside.

 

But alas, my premature fears overtake me.

I am once again sitting in silence while the war rages on inside.

"Darkness"

Karla Hernandez

 

Lying on the ground, I felt your presence

An aura that made everything okay 

Your hand so strong and lovingly as you lifted me up

Your comforting arms so light yet reassuring 

Your lips spread memorable words to mine 

Our foreheads touching to show compassion 

Common and relative memories flood our mind  

If at all possible our souls connected 

Millions of stars pass away and here we still are 

You lifted me up to the stars I was blind too 

Allowing me to see the beauty in your eyes that are cast downward 

The stars imprisoned in your gaze

Down to earth you fell, leaving me in total darkness

"I Never Saw This Coming"

Alexis Dewey

 

I never saw this coming.  Six months ago seems like a lifetime to some people, but it’s different for me. I thought I had put all the pieces back together. Then, one day, the vase shattered all over again.  I suppose that’s what happens when you try to glue yourself back together alone.  You end up breaking again.  It’s inevitable. 

            One day I was fine, and the next day I was having flashbacks.  It’s the worst kind of déjà vu; I was just reliving it all in my mind.  Every emotion came flooding back, and I started having dreams and vivid memories, and I wondered what was causing them. I see his face and replay our last conversation in my head. I see that smile of his that shined brighter than those Georgia stars in summer.  I can hear his laugh in the distance, hoping it’s him.  When I think I see him in public, my heart starts racing. But, then I get closer and realize it’s just another red head.  The last time I saw him is a time I will never forget.

I was running to make sure everyone was okay, while my mind was running in a different direction.  I remember it was pouring rain that day.  I could not differentiate the rain from my tears; they were traveling at the same speed.  My body was numb, and it was getting harder to form words. I simply couldn’t speak without sobbing.  The air was thick, and the thunder was rumbling almost as loud as my heart.  However, it was time to be the bearer of bad news and to be a comfort for others.  I felt like I was living in a nightmare, and I couldn’t wake up.  He didn’t wake up.

            My life starts to feel like I am a kid again, when I used to hold my breath when we drove through a seemingly never-ending tunnel.  It takes over my mind like it once did months ago.  I cannot make it stop, but a part of me doesn’t want it to stop.  It hurts, but I do not want to lose those memories, no matter how much they hurt.  It kills me on some days to think about it or to hear his name.  Although the pain is deep and still building, I don’t want it to end.  I do not necessarily want to feel the pain, but I also do not want to stop seeing his face.  I have his picture on my wall because I’m scared that I’ll one day forget what that bright, smiling face looked like.  I even have a work schedule from the last week we worked together stuck in my Bible, just so I can see our names together.  I just don’t have the heart to get rid of it.  I even remember how he waved. He was so quiet, but he left such a loud mark on us. 

            So, I think I’ll keep the memories.  I’ll cherish what he taught me, and I tell people about his kindness and love for Jesus.  He pushed me to spread love and joy everywhere I go.  I will decide that I have the opportunity every day to show the same love and kindness that he showed. I never thought I would see someone hurting, and then lose them like that.  I never thought I would meet a friend, and, two months later, grieve their passing.  Except, it has been six months at this point, and I am still grieving.  It’s a weird concept to grieve the death of someone for longer than I ever knew them on Earth.  I’m grateful for knowing people who are so special, that you don’t have to know them for very long to miss them when they’re gone.   I wish I could see him smile one more time.  I suppose one day I will.  However, until the day Jesus comes back, I will wake up every day grateful for the people in my life. I never saw this coming.   

"A Walk"

Paola Gonzalez

 

when there is no perceived distinction and an attempt to walk in a straight line, human tendency is to walk in circles.

 

 

let me tell you countless nature facts did you know about crypto’s environmental impacts?

let me cuff your cheeks with my hands so gentle

I'll tell you how I love your face, something that I can’t replace

  

let me tell you about how I think I’m going to die.

or I’ll recite a list of names for my future cat

you can watch me cry

  

let me listen to you talk about electricity tell me about your interests and your latest internship be always my tranquility 

I want to overload your face with soft kisses I want to hear your voice, it’s softer than mine and look into your eyes until you get nervous,  and you awkwardly compare me to sweet wine I think, nothing should divert us.

  

let me lead you on a walk to see some cool trees don’t freak out, they’re just bees!

it’s spring and branches are full of color, song, and green

you too can make colors out of grey with ease

  

can I run my hands through your hair?

sorry, I hope you don’t care 

  

you get shy when I lean in

I love it when I’m close to you I think you do too though you never tell me; not even how you’ve been  so I don’t know do you disagree?

 

 

I can tell you all my secrets on the floor, do you feel rapport? you don’t have to tell me yours.

but let me get lost inside your brown eyes, I don’t mind detours  I can’t wait anymore can we explore?

"M Poem"

Emmett Francis

 

Mirages of nearby past manifest all around

Miracles–I muse?

My mates, my mimeses, my magnificoes

Meandering about, a flutter in my heart!

Maybe we’ll meet, maybe we’ll have a nice chat

Might their faces from afar be my mates up close?

Muster the courage to keep looking…

My dear heart slumps!

Monet paintings they may be

Magnificent from afar, macabre when near

"What Life Can Become"

Savannah Price

 

 

“Don’t nobody want to work anymore!” The old woman declared, stirring the boil-and-mix packaged macaroni and cheese as if she were a witch, the veteran bowl was her cauldron, and the potion she brewed would somehow fix all the lazy people in the world.

Her husband sat at the old wooden table that her mother had passed down to her, and he mumbled an mmph as he indolently read the headlines on the local newspaper. She understood the man’s low grunt to be his agreement, which riled her up even more, though he had not been listening at all.

“I just don’t know what we will do when there ain’t nobody to do the menial jobs in life! Well, I’ll tell you one thing,” she started, and her husband knew she would not stop at only disclosing one thing, but he still held a glimmer of hope. “I don’t work for Walmart! I can’t believe the amount of people this society has fooled into bein’ their own cashiers. I was there today, ya know, and had to wait in line for thirty minutes just be checked out!” She stirred the macaroni so violently that several pieces of the processed pasta flew onto the counter. “When they start sendin’ me a paycheck, I’ll start checkin’ myself out.”

She finally decided that she had beat the macaroni enough and moved onto the boiling potatoes on the stove. She preferred instant potatoes, but her husband had convinced her that “real women didn’t rely on no box to make mashed potatoes”—at least his mama didn’t before they dumped her into a nursing home.

She pulled the pot off the eye and strained the water out of the potatoes before dumping them into a bowl and taking to beating them with a hand masher. Her husband had grown bored with the newspaper, and now stared blankly at the grandfather clock across the room. After years of practice, he was able to tune out his wife’s voice and focus exclusively on the to-and-fro of the brass pendulum.

“And don’t get me started on gas prices!” She spoke in gusts now as the exercise of mashing the potatoes was too great for her body that was only used to the stationary nature of her menial life. “I reckon the good Lord will be here mighty soon with the way the world is now…” Her voice trailed off as if this idea was a scary thought for her indeed, and it should have been as she believed more in the practices and the entitlement of religion than she did in the actual thing.

“Is tha food done?” Her husband spoke blandly, interrupting her from her worries.

“Naw, I still gotta microwave them their hotdogs,” she rubbed the edge of her forehead with the inside of her wrist before gesturing to several pink hotdogs laid across a paper plate. “Would you nuke ‘em for me?” She asked, resuming her aggression upon the potatoes in front of her. Her husband huffed out a breath.

“I work all day, and come home to nuke my own hotdogs?” Despite his anger, he groaned his way out of the chair and shuffled over to the plate of hotdogs. After shoving them into the microwave and setting the time, he poured himself a glass of sweet tea and sat back down in his spot to enjoy the entertainment of the clock.

Just as the old woman finished mixing the milk and mayonnaise into the mashed potatoes, the microwave beeped. She set each of the dishes onto the table in front of her husband before glancing up to catch his glance at the clock.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you keep a starin’ at that dern clock just a ‘waiting for it to be your time to head on home to Glory,” she laughed at herself as if this was a highly unlikely possibility, but her husband was quite surprised the woman had been smart enough to guess it.

They each loaded up their plates with the food and ate in silence, all except for the steady ticking of the grandfather clock.

“I wonder what’ll be on TV later,” she finally said as she watched her husband nearing the end of his second plate. She knew he usually ambled away into the living room after his second fixin’ and remained in his large reclining chair until he shuffled off to bed around 9pm. He didn’t acknowledge her question, so she pressed on, “I hope there’s somethin’ on that home improvement channel! I been wanting to redo this here kitchen for years, ya know. I finally think I’m a gonna do it!”

He didn’t glance up at her, just fed himself another spoonful of the tasteless mashed potatoes. She picked at her own, wishing she had just made the boxed stuff because she much preferred the taste. After years of her saying she would improve or update things around the house, and never doing anything at all, the old man knew she was just talking to talk. He figured she just liked the sound of her own voice, but he didn’t much like the shrill she had to add at the end of every sentence.

“I think I’m gonna paint these here walls white! I think it’ll make everythin’ look nice and clean,” she gestured around at the cloudy yellow walls that had never changed, or even been cleaned, in the fifty years they had lived in the home. The husband thought, but didn’t say, that it would take a lot more than white paint to make the home feel clean. It was clear the woman was growing ansty with his lack of responses, so he figured he needed to put something in to keep her from getting too riled up.

“I reckon that’ll do the trick. What ‘bout the bedrooms?” He scooped up his last bite of macaroni and stretched as the old woman’s face lit up. When she began, he let her voice fade away as he listened closely for the clock’s ticking.

“I-I think the bedrooms would be beautiful in a…” She placed a finger on her chin while she thought as she had not considered the possibility of painting the bedrooms too. “Well, I’d say a nice red for the guest room and a romantic little blue for ours. What do ya say?” He nodded despite not having heard exactly what she said as he rubbed his belly while he now chewed on a toothpick.

“I reckon that’ll look nice,” he managed in between nibbles on the wood. He felt like they had this conversation every night for the entirety of his marriage, just about different things that he could not have cared less about. But, oh, after so many years, he learned he had to act like he cared in order to shut her up.

Now, as she daydreamed about her freshly painted rooms, he slipped away into his recliner to watch TV. The woman joined him soon after, taking to her seat on the large, empty sofa. She sat on the edge of the couch, as if it wasn’t her own and she wasn’t comfortable enough to relax into it.

The next morning, the old man got up early for work. When he had first married the old woman, she woke up with him and made him a nice breakfast. Now, she snored loudly in the bed, drool dangling on the side of mouth. He wrinkled his nose slightly in disgust before shuffling out of the room to get ready.

He worked all day while his wife did, well, he didn’t know what she did, but he knew that she wasn’t cooking supper or cleaning the house or painting the bedrooms. When he came through the door that afternoon, she was already getting started on something new to complain about. He sauntered past her, groaning his way into his seat at the table.

“I’ll tell you somethin’! These young people just don’t wanna work! I went down to the store to pick up some paint, for the rooms of course, and this young man was sitting outside just a beggin’ for money! Can ya believe it?” She was frying some bologna on the stove, and the man was disappointed that she had picked up some potato chips and loaf bread, both of which lay on the kitchen counter behind her. They had sandwiches most days of the week.

“I walked up to him, and I said, ‘Sir, there sits a HIRING sign just there in the window! What in the world you doin’ out here a beggin’ when you could be a workin’?’ And do you know what he said?!” She was more excited than he had seen her in a while. He didn’t say anything though, and he found pleasure in the anger his silence enticed. She sighed, but continued on nonetheless.

“He said ‘Then, lady, why don’t you go apply for the job if you want is so bad?’ I was so offended that I told the cashier inside that they had a homeless man outside just a beggin’ and harassin’ their customers for money!” She seemed pleased with herself, but the old man was quite amused with the homeless man’s insight. The woman had never truly worked a day in her life. He didn’t want to get her too riled up, now, so he went ahead and asked her a question.

“Did you pick up the paint?” He didn’t look up at her, but he could tell by her pause she hadn’t. He had partly hoped she had finally decided to commit herself to something, to solve one of her many complaints. But, he knew, she just liked to complain and continue to wallow in her complaints over and over and over. She droned on about something else now, but he was already gone.

He returned his attention to the newspaper and listened to the sound of the clock.