Still Life 2021

Still Life 2021

Still Life 2021

A Community Arts Journal of the Great Lakes Bay Region www.stilllifejournal.weebly.com

Saginaw Valley State University 7400 Bay Road University Center, MI 48710 www.svsu.edu

Still Life is produced by students and staff of Saginaw Valley State University (SVSU), and it is published by the SVSU Graphics Center. It features creative writing from residents of Saginaw, Bay, and Midland Counties, the counties primarily served by the SVSU Community Writing Center. The work of out-county residents who visited our community writing centers was also considered for publication. Staff members are excluded from receiving any awards.

Still Life was originally funded by a Dow Professor Award offered through SVSU’s Center for Academic Innovation. The magazine is now generously funded by Dr. Debasish Mridha of Saginaw, Michigan.

Still Life is produced using InDesign. This issue feature the Adobe Caslon Pro font.

Cover Art: “Beauty Awakens” by Lynnette Thomas.

SVSU is committed to providing work and learning opportunities without regard to age, color, disability, gender identity, genetic information, height, marital status, national origin, race, religion, sex (including pregnancy), sexual orientation, veteran status, weight, or on any other basis protected by state, federal, or other applicable law, and to achieving its objectives in compliance with applicable federal, state, and local laws and regulations that prohibit discrimination.

Copyright 2022, Still Life.

All subsequent publishing rights are returned to the artist.

Staff

Editorial Staff Elizabeth Kennedy Hannah Mose Brianna Vanderstelt Layout Hannah Mose

Printing SVSU Graphics Center Managing Editors Christopher Giroux Hideki Kihata Helen Raica-Klotz

Table of Contents Editors’ Note 9 “Sketches from 6th Street,” Deda Kavanagh 11 “Biting Your Nails by Moonlight,” Sarah J. Koliboski 12 “I Want, I Did,” Madolyn Glocksine 14 “From Above,” Lynnette Thomas 15 “Her Demons,” Unmun Kaur 16 “Saving Katie,” Marjorie Talaga 17 “Life Lines,” Matthew Sauer 19 “Empty Lakes,” Denise Hill 20 “Spoliating Swap for Sonnet 18,” Rachel Diehl 21 “Don’t Be Afraid to Smile,” Anthony Gaskin 22 “Beauty Is the Thought of Things Unseen,” Ja’Niya Howard 23 “On the Shore of the Weekend,” Susan Griffith 24 “Memere,” Caroline Helmstadt 25 “The Pretty Girl Weeps,” Louis Thompson 26 “Isolation,” Emily Bess 27 “The Colors of the Forest,” Abigail Grifka 28 “Refried,” Gabriel Schall 29 “La Doncella,” Rosemary Kavanagh 31 “Bathed,” Todd Stockmeyer 33 “Lady Lily,” Elizabeth Dione Terry 34 “Stage Fright,” Kalinah Dunn 35 “Fighting for Light,” Grace Biber 37 “A Last Resort in Middle America,” Parker Budzinski 38 “Obliteracy,” Josh Jordan 39 “Death during Covid-19,” Karen Lulich Horwath 40 “I Am a Supernova,” Peter Schrier 42 “Looking Glass,” Alexis Beauchamp 44 “Replaced Beauty,” Shaun Pugsley 46 “Stop. They Feel the Pain.,” Zainab Alowaisheer 48 “Divorce,” Kellen Ross 49 “Be Still, Listen,” Betty J. Van Ochten 50 “Not Good for Your Heart,” Lily Miller 51 “Visiting Home,” Matt Chappel 52 “Hardware,” Jeanne Blum Lesinski 53 “Update,” Danicia Armstrong 54 “Irony,” Nathaniel Watson 56 “Always to Happiness,” Erik Wolfgang Byron 57 “Old Windows,” Austin Bauer 59 “A September Night on the Overpass,” Gina Killingbeck 60 “Incomplete List,” Phillip Hanson 61

“Water-Soluble Dreams,” Imari Cheyne Tetu 63 “From Whence You Came,” Nathan Grocholski 64 “In Praise of Orange Streetlights,” Josh Crummer 66 “Where I Belong,” Lydia Schneider 67 “Negative Emotions,” Devin K. Butler 68 “Noah’s Ark,” Noah Birnbaum 69 “Surprise!,” Jean Marie Learman 71 “The Polish Jester,” Alexander J. Altergott 72 “Elephantine Guilt,” Stuart Barbier 73 “The Way I Saw You,” Alexandre Morrison 74 “Lady Scrubs,” Chris Lucka 75 “Reflections,” Abigail Hare 76 “Deux Croquis le Long de la Seine,” Alexander Verdoni 77 “Waiting for Winter,” Bruce Gunther 78 “The Life in the Winds,” Shayla Bond 79 “Hammock,” Selena Carranza 80 “Leorn,” Jenna Schaufele 81 “Another Mystery,” Don Popielarz 82 “Four Haikus,” Eric P. Nisula 83 “Memoirs of a Traveler,” Taylor Hart 84 “Peony Power,” Elizabeth Dione Terry 86 “The Polarity of Our Anatomy,” Serena Ahmad 87 “The Big Gender Reveal,” Jared Morningstar 89 “Safe at Home,” Mandy Brown 90 “Contractions,” Ansley Dauenhauer 91 “My Closet Is a Reliquary,” Donny Winter 92 “Ink,” Taylor Tucker 93 “i still can’t pass your house without looking for your car in the driveway,” Katy Haas 94 “Tipping Time,” Alexander J. Altergott 95 About Our Contributors 96 Acknowledgments 106 About Our Benefactor 107

Editors’ Note Welcome to the 2021—and the fifth—issue of the award-winning Still Life!

Since we first began working together in 2017, Still Life has been a laborintensive process, one intensified given our decision to provide tailored feedback to every writer who submitted a poem. It’s easy to focus on just that task, but like many of the photos in this issue that are multiple exposures and overlays, we know the importance of second looks. That said, the work of Still Life over these five years is also characterized by many moments of joy.

Sometimes that joy comes from receiving a poem in our mailbox, knowing that we may be the first people in the world to read those lines. Sometimes it’s just knowing individuals—whether former contributors or those new to the publication—have entrusted us with their insights into love, loss, the pandemic, or the myriad other topics that grace these pages.

Sometimes it’s knowing Still Life marks a poet or visual artist’s publishing debut. Sometimes it’s the pleasure of sharing the journal with visiting authors and artists—and then watching them rub their hands on the cover and hearing them exclaim, “This is such a rich publication.” Sometimes it’s an email from someone whose work didn’t get into the journal thanking the staff for the feedback provided on their writing.

And the joy continues: Sometimes, it’s stepping back and realizing this publication has been a learning opportunity for SVSU students. Sometimes it’s another first-place award from the American Scholastic Press Association.

(If you are keeping track, we are three for three and waiting to hear about the 2020 issue.) And sometimes, as is the case again this year, we are featuring the work of more contributors than ever before.

And always, always, always, it is a joy to know that all of this occurs in this place we call home.

For these many joys, and those provided by our readers, benefactor, and community supporters, we remain grateful and humbled.

And on another joyous note, we offer congratulations to our winners: Matt Chappel, who received top prize in the Adult (Age 19+) category, and Serena Ahmad, who received top prize in the Young Adult (Age 13–18) category. We also offer congratulations to Ansley Dauenhauer, one of the winners of the 2020 Marshall M. Fredericks S-O-S Writing Contest.

Hideki Kihata Professor, SVSU Art Department

Helen Raica-Klotz Lecturer, SVSU English Department

Christopher Giroux Professor, SVSU English Department Still Life 2021

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Sketches from 6th Street Deda Kavanagh chilly spring recycling the shawl collar sweater out the sliding door to night–– little dipper at a raised hand Bay City’s ghost woman waves not looking down the block the new guy curses loud–– as two dogs bolt crabapple touching fire maple: crimson blush first warm day–– walking by in stocking feet holding her roller blades black lab pulls a family toward–– Carroll Park squirrels knotted golden hair... she wheels out the trash in a maxi dress warning siren wails...

I slip outside and find myself a monarch

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Biting Your Nails by Moonlight Sarah J. Koliboski Mouth full of fingernails Their nutritional value is dubious, at best, But the therapeutic release of such self-inflicted minor mutilations is really top-notch— People would pay good money for that shit— And so, anxiety gnaws at your fingertips Like hungry rats foraging by moonlight: Rats hungry for your delicious dermis Rats hungry for your delicious trash Rats hungry for redemption And validation And recognition And all the material rewards One acquires as the natural result of a life well lived: The car you get for always being on time The home stereo system given to those that maintain a tastefully landscaped lawn and garden The house you build by using coupons and saving receipts And performing all scheduled routine vehicle maintenance And weather-proofing your home And never using plastic straws And never cheating on your taxes And never cheating on your wife And having 2.5 kids And having 2.5 cars And having a bumper sticker on your car that says: “My OTHER car... also has this stupid F**king bumper sticker on it!”

I should make those— People would pay good money for that shit— Mouth full of broken molars Mouth full of fumbled apologies Mouth full of existential dread Leave your cuticles alone 12

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Keep your fingers away from your face Keep your rats well fed Or they may devour your 2.5 children on some lean, lonely night When the icy moonlight reveals nothing but paper And they’re tired of the taste of fingernails.

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I Want, I Did Madolyn Glocksine I don’t want to see the world; I want to feel the world.

I want to sit by the shore while the cool breeze lifts my hair and presses its fingertips into my arms.

I want to squish the sand in my hands and watch it rain back down to where it came.

I long for the sun to cup my face with its warm hands and hug me.

I want to play a glissando over the water and dance in the rain as it meets back up with its friends.

I want to recklessly roll down big hills And feel a hearty laugh in my stomach And hear my heavy breathing Serving as a reminder that I will be alive long enough To have the opportunity to turn “I want’s” into “I did’s.”

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From Above Lynnette Thomas

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Her Demons Unmun Kaur She was 5 when she wanted to be a dancer She was 9 when she wanted to be a fashion designer She was 10 when she wanted to marry a prince She was 11 when she wanted to be skinny She was 12 when she tried to adorn her wrists and die She was 13 when she wanted to be loved And lastly, she was 14 when she realized the only person that could ever love her unconditionally was herself She stayed in a dark room locked away from the rest of the world so they couldn’t see her demons She tried so hard to hide them away from everyone But when she was alone, they came out to play They tortured her Took her deepest fears and brought them to the surface They fed off the power she gave them The fear and sadness were nothing compared to the shame she would feel if she told anyone In the end, the only ones that understood her were her demons So she soon let them take her over Her life Her mind Her body Her tongue She was in a never-ending hell In the end, the only person she had to blame was herself.

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Saving Katie Marjorie Talaga Sit here, she said, pointing to one side of the hot-air floor register She always told me what to do, being older and all Three sisters, two years apart, me in the middle Our new coloring books beside us, crayons Jumbled together in a wooden cigar box Smelling of our father The register our special place to color Winter our favorite time when The warm air blew our hair up Sorting came next, like colors together, Lined-up wax soldiers waiting To be called into service Baby sister Katie wobbled in On her one-year-old legs Eyes drawn to the rainbow Grabbed what she could in her pudgy fist Ruined the careful sort and perfect lines Laughed in delight Sister jumped up, pushed Katie away Stumbled on the grate’s edge Causing a slight movement What’s this? Something new to investigate Pushed, pulled the heavy grille until it slid off Knelt and peered into darkness Katie squeezed between us Plopped down, teetered back and forth Inched closer to the furnace throat

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At once the large hand appeared Plucked Katie straight up and away Our ever-vigilant father the rescuer His rough voice shouted orders His finger directed us To get away and go over there He disappeared with Katie Came back alone with screwdriver and wire Swift and sure he fastened the iron cover back in place We gathered up the coloring books And sorted out the scattered crayons Big sister got to pick her favorite first

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Life Lines Matthew Sauer Is a life still a life with creativity in the corner, when sticky notes only show missed deadlines for competitions, half-finished compositions haphazardly scattered and abandoned; is a life still a life when it’s meant for making do with what I have: a pen and a pad, knowing poetry pushed from an inkling of inspiration is often wasted when I’d rather get wasted; is a life still a life when it’s interrupted with the generational longing of the itchy lung, with getting cigs at the corner store that doesn’t card, with dreams dissipating in my carbon-coated soul with knowing I wanna die before I get to grow old; is a life still a life when it burns and stings and accentuates your wrinkled face, outlines the dark circles dimming those bright eyes; is a life still a life when it needs a lifeline?

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Empty Lakes Denise Hill We prayed it stop So much rain Tittabawassee River rose into our home First squishing into the carpet then sofa & chairs The lowest kitchen shelf cereal & Bisquick submerged Rising higher spilling into the backed-up sink shorting the toaster & microwave It took days to recede We cleaned & rebuilt figured better how to store what mattered Until that next summer rain came Lake waters rose behind dam walls long before proved structurally unsound But fines don’t make fixes When those walls broke there was no slow motion only one giant sweeping surge of water taking it all to where water goes after it destroys whatever you thought you still had leaves you standing an empty lake

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Spoliating Swap for Sonnet 18 Rachel Diehl Should I compare you to a winter’s day?

You are more beastly and more desperate.

Rough winds do shake the snowy clouds so gray, And victims’ pleas lack all too short debate.

Sometime too cold the wind of Hades blows, And often is his cold corruption hid.

And every care to pray’r in your hands froze; your nature’s never changing. Case closed, you’ll win.

But thy eternal mem’ry shall not fade, You’ll lose possession of the girls you ownest; You shall not brag we wandered in your shade, When in these weary lines to time you grow’st: So long as girls can breathe and words flow free, So long lives this, and this gives death to thee.

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Don’t Be Afraid to Smile Anthony Gaskin

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Beauty Is the Thought of Things Unseen Ja’Niya Howard I wrote your name in the sand, but the wind blew it away.

My legs sought your endless bliss in the water, but they were soon stained from the bloody sea.

I felt for your touch on my body, but it was taken underneath the crashing waves.

You wouldn’t tell me what’s wrong, so I assumed that I was the one to blame.

But you cannot keep doing this to me or, rather, I cannot keep doing this to myself.

Whose fault is it truly?

Yours for putting out the flame or mine for reigniting it, knowing the wick is nearly burnt out?

My heart dreads the idea of beating, knowing that you are cheating and I am left fleeing every feeling, and no matter how hard my mind is resisting, my smile keeps disappearing.

My heart was expecting you to arrive, but when the doorbell rang, I had stopped weeping and my self-worth stood waiting.

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On the Shore of the Weekend Susan Griffith In a swirling sea of impending decisions, pounding demands, impossible choices, wavering stands, breakers riddled with crusty saucepans, spattered mirrors, greasy faucets, scummy sinks pelt and sting and fling you, overwhelmed undertowed bleary-eyed spent, onto a solid shore.

Crawl up the incline.

Spit out the sand.

Shake off the water.

Look up.

All remains to be done, yes, But Not Tonight.

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Memere Caroline Helmstadt I remember Hearing her stories When I was young.

But then, I didn’t really understand them.

Now I can see How she toiled through snow When she was just a child— Snow that must have been waist high In the bleak wilderness Of Maine; Frigid cold nipping hands.

That same child Who struck shovel Into the dirt And loaded barrels Upon barrels Of potatoes.

How different this world is From the one in which she grew— I can never relate such labor of my youth.

Funny, How these lives overlap In this space of history.

Her brown eyes Reflect a lifetime, Stretching across vast spaces And seeing much.

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The Pretty Girl Weeps Louis Thompson As towns are steamrolled by corporations, as children starve and box for scraps.

The pretty girl weeps as stars are covered by the billowing smoke, as mothers stay awake at night, waiting for their dead sons to come home.

The pretty girl weeps; her cries hold no power, but she bawls her eyes out anyway.

The pretty girl weeps as we riot over nothing, as people are buried where they will see no sun.

The pretty girl weeps, but the tears have dried up.

Her cries are dulling; her puffy face stays buried in her hands, The woman has stopped weeping.

Her eyes are ugly, but her face is as beautiful as ever.

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Isolation Emily Bess

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The Colors of the Forest Abigail Grifka I scamper up a tree and sit on a branch at the top.

I stare out into my environment, realizing just how much changed during the winter.

The wind blows about, rustling the needles of fervent green trees as they extend towards the sky that is a pale shade of periwinkle.

The lemonade sun beats down, as mandarin orange mosses, cucumber-colored ferns, and brick-red berries lie on the dirt, the color of a log that a raccoon could make its living space.

Winter white daisies, vibrant plum petunias, and everything in between sprout up from the firm soil, the bright ball of energy beaming down on them.

I am in awe at the change that surrounds me.

When dirty snow covered the ground, repulsive grey metals and black ores littered the forest.

All the greys and blacks have magically vanished, as if the humans had decided that they had wronged us.

I hear no excruciatingly loud noises; I see no signs of human life.

Only the autotrophs and animals like me exist, as we surround planet Earth.

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Refried Gabriel Schall I’m driving by the old Mexican buffet.

It’s been vacant for a few years, but I’m trying to remember: a green carpet that cracks under your feet due to old age and chip crumbs woven into its knots from kids begging for the buffet just to pile their plates with chips and crush them with S-Light sneakers that they just had to have, one lone patron slurping up refried beans, refried too many times, wishing she could afford something better, but not knowing what better tastes like, retracing her steps from her parents’ kitchen floor to crusty green carpet, wondering how she got here, and the part-time staff made up of middle-aged wives and money-hungry teens that loved to empty cans with unwashed fingers and washed-out faces; nine forty-five plus benefits, an all-you-can-eat buffet with enchiladas on Wednesdays, but they still brought paper bags.

I still miss this place; I miss lemon-lime sodas and plates full of chips crashing on the carpet that I swear used to be brown.

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It’s as though it rusted away, like our own little Statue of Liberty, but if the French cut costs, and stopped serving enchiladas on Wednesdays.

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La Doncella Rosemary Kavanagh The museum was dark Burnt umber and Payne’s grey But the dark was a cocoon for me Woven in yellow ochre.

It resembled quietude And consolation— Like the cave Where her soul was curled Brushstrokes were furled Five hundred years ago.

Oh, if she only knew another girl The same age Way out in the vast space of time Envied her tribe’s conservation.

Hundreds of braids adorned her head, Detail in ivory Like patience woven with a black thread.

Tears were dropped For powers that be, Perhaps by her mother humming taqui As her tiny Inca fingers Played a tinya of proud pain As the salt lay in the walls, On her hair, in her sandals at the end of her crossed legs.

Oh, look at the fingernails of Raw umber They look like mine.

Her leather suit!

Sewn by hand with Inca needles Found in the sand So advanced for that time?

You froze to death As a sacrifice, Cacoa leaves to numb the pain.

You were so legitimate to me In your leathered skin And long eyelashes— Still Life 2021

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Glass case Open up And let me in!

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Bathed Todd Stockmeyer A crack, and a little stream of light breaks through and it erodes the dark as water Like truth it won’t be silenced into the night Dispelling all that’s hidden The wrongs of all that’s right Like water, there is life in it And the fissure grows It cannot resist, it is innate Now moving and dispersing The granite gives And I am dripping down

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Lady Lily Elizabeth Dione Terry

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Stage Fright Kalinah Dunn Everywhere I walked had eggshells and my light feet never cracked them.

The grace I kept, as I pirouetted onto each one, a poised ballet.

A secret kept within my raised arms; elegance, nothing more.

Until I saw him in the audience, only him.

A part of me wanted to make him proud, though what I did was only important as long as I gave him what he wanted.

The eggshells began to crack as my steps got heavier.

Each time I couldn’t maintain the choreography, his face turned redder and his seat got closer.

The lights got brighter and the stage got smaller.

I tried to dance on; it didn’t work.

He only wanted one thing and I couldn’t do it right.

My arms came down and everything started to spill out.

Then, suddenly, I didn’t care about the eggshells under my feet.

That’s when the audience appeared, and he was on stage with me, trying to catch the falling pieces, Still Life 2021

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to keep his web of lies tangled, but the audience listened and watched the tears stream down my face Lights down, spotlight on him.

Frozen.

Mortified.

The eggshells disappeared.

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Fighting for Light Grace Biber I walk through the inky black night, Trying to find the light, The light at the end of the tunnel; It seems like it’s disappearing slowly through a funnel, Yet I press on, towards the light.

Though it is a very tedious fight, I won’t give up; I won’t give in.

Because although the dark is looming, The light is all-consuming.

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A Last Resort in Middle America Parker Budzinski Bay City, I want to love you, but you don’t love me.

You don’t love; when I reach my arms out to embrace you, all I get is a scream.

Your dreary gray fences preventing access to days long gone by; the “no trespassing” almost encourages intrusion.

Your churches have closed.

Yet you sit and watch them, not to be honored, but to be stared at: watching, mourning, as the rot sets in, but sitting, completely devoid of motion, effort.

It hurts me.

You hurt me.

Just dust yourself off, take the handout, and run.

Run longer than you think your weak legs can carry you.

Because “it’s too loud,” “it’s always been this way,” “it attracts criminals,” “this doesn’t belong here,” “they don’t belong here” should never mean the end of days.

One day, tens of thousands will decrease to one.

What the hell will you do then?

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Obliteracy Josh Jordan however delicately set or spoken, from here on, your words are laminated; you will not say exactly what you mean. because of the manner language leaves you, your talk is translation on a slant. it’s like you’re standing on a chain-link fence shoe toes poking through two wire metal squares, your upper half leaning slightly forward for balance over the neighbor’s yard where you cannot get maggie to look. but even if she did she’d never say how tall you appear to her there, how odd your sounds come across, how indistinct you can sometimes make her feel.

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Death during Covid-19 Karen Lulich Horwath 1. You race across the state, speeding in silence, thoughts loud and scattered—images flashing like sirens around you, ticketing you for all the things you didn’t say, could never say to your dad because, before the leukemia stole his vigor, his voice was like thunder, his criticism like lightning—always striking the same place over and over until the emotion you should have felt was burned away and the space between you chasmed into a discussion of your college loans, all you should have been and still weren’t, your relationship reduced to a fractal, a fraying rope hostaging your backs to each other.

2. But none of this matters in the end, and when you get that call, the world stops anyway, and you drive without thinking, and you press the accelerator faster, and you check the Maps app every five minutes to see if you have saved enough time for goodbye.

3. You see only his face, gaunt, grey, his closed sunken eyes; you can’t see the tubes, the jungle of wires tethering him to the end of life; you can’t see the IV drip bag, the nurses covered like cloistered nuns checking his heart monitor, its yawping beep reduced to a thin, tinny sound, like raindrops pinging far away.

Your step-mother, a nurse, has forced her way past the hospital quarantine zone wearing an N95 mask and latex gloves.

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She drapes herself in the ICU hazmat shroud and takes his hand.

4. You and your sister made it in time.

Time to cry, to scream I love you, Dad, Time to sit together in his house across town, Time to bow your heads low over your screens, and watch your dad die on Facetime.

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I Am a Supernova Peter Schrier As the grass clamps onto my feet, my body mistily spaghettifies toward the sky, Stretching the calcium in my bones out through space, past Neptune, My head pulled toward the farthest location in the universe.

While minerals and other particles of space matter orbit around me, I can feel a drum beating within my body.

Clouds of plasma spray paint themselves around my gravitational pull With the larger asteroids and meteorites revolving around my head.

Light refracts through the veil of dust and gas swarming around me, Shining visions of Senegalese mountain ranges.

Objects compress around my body.

I can see for millions of light years.

My friends and family cheer me on from Earth’s surface As rocks warp from the heat of friction.

Just as cracks melt shut, spears of lava blast out from my ears, My legs wobble as I struggle to stand.

Bullets explode past my ankles back down on my home planet.

As gravity overtakes my slowly pumping blood, The rocks implode into my head And my brain expands and smashes through my skull.

I whisper measures of music to the nearest galaxy— The notes from my harmonica orbiting around this dying star.

My memories scatter across the universe— They plant themselves into the soil of asteroids and planets, Pollinating the surface and birthing ecosystems.

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My head now wanders through space, And my body rests back on a plain of Earth grass.

When wild animals feed upon me, they appreciate the skin that I have created for them.

Deer return my offerings of gold and silver In an attempt to please their one true creator.

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Looking Glass Alexis Beauchamp It seems odd, at least to me, how desensitized as a society we have come to be.

The advent of media that promotes sociability— We are encouraged to participate, all is revealed: Strengths, inadequacies, delights, dislikes, triggers, motivations, deepest desires, how we want to be seen, our need to be admired.

And for what? To gain fleeting publicity?

To increase our appeal and acceptability?

Our psyche spills out through the keyboard.

The inner dialogue refuses to be ignored.

Our ego is stroked by a mouse’s click.

The dopamine rushes as our brain gets its fix.

We voluntarily relinquish all forms of privacy in pursuit of this?

Behind closed doors the cameras still roll when you are driving, working, shopping, even out for a stroll, constantly recorded, monitored, and surveilled, every blink, every breath, each minute detail, making our thoughts, feelings, experiences, our whole lives a display.

The computer asked, and I have got so much to say!

Why do they need all this intel?

So they can get their affiliates product to sell?

To find out who if any choose to resist? To discover how to make us believe in what they insist?

Deeper still. The guise is our safety.

We are threatened. Don’t you know?

There are terrorists and crazies!

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They prey on the very insecurities they feed.

There is always a threat, only seen through a screen.

Truthfully, the truth seems a bit hazy.

All the behind-the-scenes treasure troves of data banks, controlled by the same people that direct and own the weapons and tanks.

The listening ears of the speakers that own and manipulate the banks.

We do not know anything about them.

The very entities and companies that witness every aspect of our lives are kept behind shadows or even disguised.

They can see and we cannot.

The truth is getting clearer.

We are subjects in front of a one-way mirror.

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Replaced Beauty Shaun Pugsley In a distant field I see the flowers Roses, tulips, sunflowers Red, orange, and yellow Glowing like a flame But smoldering and Unable to consume the city In a bustling city Grey buildings surround me I look up at the sky No bright stars are shining, They probably feel replaced By streetlamps and lights On a windowsill sit some flowers Their plastic smell stuns me Just a thick plastic rod Surrounded by cheap cloth Picking it up, I felt its rigid stem And cold, metal leaves It’s not pretty enough to be a flower The dullness of the city is tiring I have to leave and Go somewhere secluded To find a field of flowers So that I can see The vibrant colors and Smell their sweet aroma Away from the city Back in the flower fields That span for miles More flowers glow Even more colors Blue, pink, and violet And I run forward 46

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I lie down and look up To see the stars shining while I’m surrounded by the flowers That look like flames I become engulfed in the beauty Of everything that nature has made

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Stop. They Feel the Pain.

Zainab Alowaisheer

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Divorce Kellen Ross No one ever told me a divorce would be so bad that it turns pretty people into ugly monsters, such as my mother who used to treat me with respect; now she wants me to respect her.

The days leading up to the divorce were like a dreamy nightmare.

When they yelled, I cried.

When they fought, I flinched.

When they left, I stayed.

The divorce was like an earthquake in California, where I had to pick which side of the fault line I wanted to stand on.

Did I want to go with superficial love or with actual love?

The court was a downpour of emotions, emotions from my mom, rhetoric that worked on a judge.

She misused basic words like abuse just so she could have custody of two kids that she barely thought about that summer.

I learned that divorces create criminals.

They create greed.

They create selfishness.

They create mistrust.

Instead of creating better parents, they create better property owners.

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Be Still, Listen Betty J. Van Ochten The path wound between tall cedars, skirted the river bank,

then paused in a cul-de-sac.

There, a carved plaque gave, not just a description

of what could be seen, but instructions: Close eyes, open ears,

listen to the music of the forest.

And I heard woodwinds, distant drum roll of river,

cello moan of swaying branch,

fife tweet of birds

sandpaper rustle of leaves— in ever-changing, never-ending concert.

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Not Good for Your Heart Lily Miller Your body is a drive-thru frozen in a constant stream of never-ending and relentless customers.

You have searched the line, hands infected with salt, practicing your spiel, for someone who’s never coming.

Your eyes are grease puddles spilling over and out, burning your face, but you get the mop and clean them up yourself; they leave a residue that sits dormant in the grout until you spill again.

All is wrapped up in aluminum foil, warm and preserved for the next customer to take one bite of chemical you and throw the rest into an overfilled trashcan right outside.

Reach for the bag tingling with regret and packet ketchup infused with far too much sodium that stains the front of your clothes, and falls to cracked cement to be hit relentlessly with an entrance door that people always seem to exit from Leaving you with dirty packaging, salty skin, greasy tears, and a helluva lot left of your spiel, not good for your heart.

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Visiting Home Matt Chappel I see Dad standing over the kitchen sink, up to his wrists in lukewarm obscurity, working hard with his thumb to chip away yesterday’s hardened smear of apple filling from his plate. There is an abrasion forming on one hand from all that scrubbing, tender and pink, where a callous used to be.

He tries to hide the hurt from me behind a leaky tap of conversation—the sudden shifts in weather, the vernal time change that has made his eyes so tired. But I see it, in the browning water of the evening, where the thankless work of living has worn him thin and raw as his dishrag, nothing to show for all the effort but fumbling fingers and a set of slouching, half-moon shoulders, the shadow of his seasons drawing quietly over him.

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Hardware Jeanne Blum Lesinski A trio of older men, two gray, one bald, looks up as we approach the counter. The phone rings and on the left hello, parts department. What can I do for ya today. We’re there to hand over a pair of lawn tractor mower blades for sharpening and to buy a backup pair to use now. Guys, he wants an electric repair. Do we still do that? No, not if he didn’t buy it here. Tell him he’ll have to go online and contact the maker. I’m tagging along in part for the nostalgia of a hardware that repairs and has parts in bins so if you only want a single screw or washer, you can buy just that. Hello, you still there? We can’t fix that here… call… Our guy finds blades on the stock shelves and puts them on the counter in front of us. Covered in what seems to be the thick green paint of up north cabins, they don’t look sharp enough to cut a single blade of grass. Don’t go at ‘em all angry. Be polite first. Then if you hafta, be an ass. You know that old saying, you can catch more flies with honey… When we ask, we learn these blades are covered with a protective coating that’ll come off after a couple minutes of resistance. They’ll soon be as sharp as razors.

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Update Danicia Armstrong Retroactive inference happens when new information interferes with the memory of the old information.

Could it be like being afraid that everything you know today could somehow disintegrate tomorrow?

Or is it like trying to grab on to something that is no longer in reach?

Maybe it’s seeing it and reaching for it, but it seems like it gets further away.

It’s leaving you with your head tilted like wait a minute, where are you going?

Wait, it’s more like okay you were here yesterday, now you’re somewhere else.

Retroactive inference happens because updates occur and everything old is trendy again.

It’s got to somehow make the markets while you’re comfortable in your homes making babies.

It needs to become updated or reused for the new generation.

This is why when anything changes, it causes resistance.

It is not familiar and the unknown now becomes waves of uncertainty.

Retroactive inference is like battling the difference between a banana and a plantain.

It’s like fraternal twins, same age but different in everything.

Before rushing towards anything new, why hasn’t anyone mentioned the process of unlearning?

Unlearning requires lots of patience, and just as learning requires implementation and action, I need to realize things are different. We all fall short sometimes. It’s tough.

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reunions not that we had many, before you grow old and become addicted to quick food.

It’s old school until it’s transformed into new school.

What about the new school?

With the virtual classrooms, online schooling, it’s different from everything that used to be.

Or maybe that was just me without the resources and concentration space?

Retroactive interference is switching out what you knew for something new, until you miss it like your favorite pair of old sneakers.

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Irony Nathaniel Watson Freshly cut lawn grass Lets out a distress signal It smells pretty sweet

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Always to Happiness Erik Wolfgang Byron Give peace a chance I tell myself I wonder if it would be easier To cast aside my dreams and ambitions and just Rest and be in love Be in love with myself And the stars With the water bearer and the twin fish With the bushes of pink roses And blue hydrangea With those who enter my life With peace in hand A fire raged before It consumed me and Drove me to be someone else Someone that I did not recognize.

It burnt through my identity And like wildlife facing a burning forest I fled to people that wanted to hurt me Now, laying in the garden I watch the sun set as I write And I wonder if life’s beauty comes Not from owning or ambition, Not from jealousy or rage, Not from possession or competing, But from the wash of pink and purple That the light reflects at dusk Surrounded by plants now that, Unpoisoned by possession or ambition, Do no harm, but rather follow their Own path—always seemingly Leading to happiness Beautiful and impactful

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I think that life is meant to be free It is meant to be full and fun To live is to be free To be dead is to rot under the roots of a poisoned tree

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Old Windows Austin Bauer The contractor told us we need to replace the windows, but I have to say, I like the white veil of fog and the thousands of tiny, shiny droplets.

I love the way that precious vapor hugs and adores the light like a parent holds a child, knowing soon they’ll grow up and only visit on the weekends.

Sometimes I wish there were old windows in me.

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A September Night on the Overpass Gina Killingbeck My feet dangle over the edge of the overpass, Moving to the beat of the music in my headphones.

The cold Michigan September air Nips at my nose and ears while The seemingly perfect movie scene Plays out in the eyes of a bystander.

Knowing no one is here to save me, I close my eyes and think about the good times, As my sense of reality slips through my fingers And falls to the ground.

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Incomplete List Phillip Hanson 1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

9.

10.

11.

12.

13.

14.

15.

16.

17.

18.

19.

20.

21.

22.

23.

24.

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not until you’re next on my list ceasing to fear the end of the list fearing the end of the list How long have I allowed it to be on my list? meditate until it is no longer on your list add “relax” to list finish list proofread list order list What’s on your list? select the most important items on the list write down new things that occur to you quickly, so you don’t forget to put them on the list Reality TV is watching others complete their lists notice how once you decide to complete an item on your list another item on the list interrupts and jumps the queue do the item on the list that is in closest proximity do the most important items on the list don’t add all the little things to the list as it would take too long to complete the list don’t lose the list find ways to make it easier to complete the list What would it all be like without a list? each item on the list has an associated and attached list, i.e., sub-lists go back to the list being in the nice position of having a short list some items on the list cannot be done without first achieving other items (some potentially not listed)

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25. sometimes you can add an item (an “automatic” that is normally done by you— and not on the list) to your list so you can feel like you’ve accomplished something 26. Will my list live on without me?

27. certain situations may trigger memories of items on or portions of the list 28. Am I just a list?

29. items on the list may or may not carry over to the next day 30. Can you finish the list on time?

31. I had so many items on the list that I didn’t notice 32. it was on my list, but I didn’t mention it 33. messes are a type of list 34. automatic lists are rarely appreciated until left undone 35. teach others to complete their own lists 36. help others who are not able to complete their own lists without help 37. I forgot something on the list 38. I can’t remember something that I should have put on the list 39. some people can afford to pay others to complete items on their list 40. If it’s on your list, I can take it off my list

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Water-Soluble Dreams Imari Cheyne Tetu I am walking the hot white sands, stepping carefully around the little runs of the waves, holding tightly to my water-soluble dreams.

Somewhere here along the seashore is fulfillment. I haven’t found it yet.

The salt spray streams toward my feet, and I leap away. I can’t let the water touch my dreams.

Listen! Between the waves, the breeze, the gulls, I hear… I cannot tell what. I must get closer.

Surely if I hold my dreams high enough, they will not feel the mist. I angle closer, the damp sand cooling beneath my feet.

The waves gather for another rush, and this time I do not step away. The water is cold, but alive.

My arms, clutching tightly to their sacred burden, now raised far above my head, are aching, burning with a heat that resists the fresh coolness I feel through the lapping waves. I can go no farther as I am. I must let go, or turn back. Do I turn back to the shore to wander the scorching sands, forever carrying my burden? Or do I press on? A moment only, then— I lower my arms, letting my dreams slip through my fingers, watching them dissolve in the waves that embrace me.

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From Whence You Came Nathan Grocholski Plywood ruptured in the frame of the boat Water starts to seep in through the cracks The wrath of the river comes to us Because of sloth, stupidity and arrogance But mistakes aside Judgement errors shuffled away What do you want to do to save the day?

Observe the flood Take notice of the puddle But plug the bleeding Or jump ship You can only cry for help so many times Before you drown Sometimes there’s another ship nearby But most of the time you’re on your own Stranded You may find an island You may find land But every time you do, you hop back into those murky depths Without a life preserver Without a flare Without a radio Only the rowboat, some food and water, and a rotting oar What is your course?

What is your destination?

Do you even know?

Or are you venturing out into the open?

Hoping to find something different?

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You can only travel so many miles Before you have to turn back From whence you came

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In Praise of Orange Streetlights Josh Crummer God damn you bright LEDs, you yee-yee highbeams tattling on our esca-lined roads, ripping darkness off the waists of every leaf and twig like a jealous lover, smothering our sweet suffering after a twelve-hour shift, a hook-up’s tense apartment, a game night gone way too late.

Don’t you know twilight, that fickle mistress pledging adventure half-undressed, is best draped in orange; these faux-solar rays are sterile and joyless as a hospital room?

An ocean away, Baltic cities sleep as gentle snowfall coats every concrete high-rise, sky aglow as a pregnant womb.

Last year I saw four old men roaming the riverfront at ten pm, iPhones out, seeking Pikachu, laughing like children as they returned to the murk.

Even tipsy teenagers sprawled shotgun, vomit urge tossing their creaky boats onto a sandbar, focus on orange streetlights strobing in and out their window— shards of flame chasing them from Friday’s bonfire to bed, black pavement fading in mile by mile like a slow burn, an uncertain dream, a rebirth.

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Where I Belong Lydia Schneider The fury in my heart reaches its final limit; the memories pierce through my flesh and bones.

Crimson red oozes out and covers my lifeless body; the depths of hell await my presence.

The man himself greets me at the rusted gates and choirs of fallen angels sing in despair, their harmonies drowned out by the thunderous, out-of-tune trumpets.

Muffled screams echo around me; decaying bodies burn up in flames and turn to ashes.

This fiery pit of agony warms my ambivalent heart; I reassure myself that this is where I belong, that I am welcome and understood here, that my humdrum and dejected existence stood no chance in paradise.

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Negative Emotions Devin K. Butler

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Noah’s Ark Noah Birnbaum My name is Noah.

I’m not as perfect as Noah was, I’m nothing like the man that we see in the beginning of Genesis.

He was a preacher of righteousness, blameless among the people of his time.

He did what God told him to do.

I can only dream of owning those titles.

I’ve never built anything, let alone a ship 450 feet long.

I’m never going to be the prophet God looks at and says, “I am going to put an end to all people... but I will establish my covenant with you.”

I am more like how we last see him in Genesis, an embarrassment.

I am gossiped about much like Noah was when his son Ham found him naked in a tent.

But I do have loyal friends, like Noah’s other two sons, Shem and Japheth, who took it upon themselves to cover Noah while Ham laughed at him.

My friends keep me afloat in this world where I am an outcast for my beliefs just like Noah was mocked for his ark.

I am building my faith for when the flood hits, while people stand around in disbelief calling me names for my righteous acts.

I stick up for what I believe, I teach grace and truth, and I serve selflessly.

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And in the end I will float over the world, resting calmly beneath that one rainbow, as I reflect on a life well lived.

I can stand next to Noah and say I did what God told me to do.

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Surprise!

Jean Marie Learman Open your eyes.

Look to the skies.

Let hope arrive!

Leave your sighs and all your whys.

Your truth applies.

Come, claim your prize.

A dream never dies.

It’s not oversized.

Just be advised: Dreams can come in disguise.

So improvise.

Perhaps revise.

Invest in supplies.

Exercise.

Be advised, guys.

Don’t compromise.

Never chastise.

Don’t count your tries.

You see, I recognize and realize and I surmise, Your dream can survive.

Surprise!

Open your eyes.

Arise!

Come claim your prize….

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The Polish Jester Alexander J. Altergott

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Elephantine Guilt Stuart Barbier I feel bad for the elephants sacrificed on the altar of greed, their rotting mass sporting bloody stumps of once majestic tusks.

And guilty.

The dimensional glow of ivory is like no other: moonlight trapped just beyond reach below the surface, the translucence highlighting the waves of graining.

Perfect for delicate carvings of Chinese scholars among drooping trees whiling away the time in panels on the sides of a keepsake box.

Perfect for miniature portraits painted in a way that gives the sitter’s skin a lifelike luminescence under the thin layers of watercolors applied with a single-haired brush.

Not so perfect for the elephant.

Yet I keep these items, hoping my remembering their origin assuages the guilt, sort of like the cannibal before dinner.

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The Way I Saw You Alexandre Morrison swirling.

You were swirling: surrounded by mist, blazing in red and black, taking me back to the room where our doomed futures screamed and howled like wolves to be shot and hung on the walls.

Just like this scene of you and me first finding ourselves in each other’s calloused fingers, a quiet moment in Pompeii before the paint dried.

It had cracked and in its seams, a new beauty arose like Venus being born in glorious hues, only to make us suffer and scream.

I’d explain the meaning of the muse I used just for it to be lost on you.

Even though your intentions were clear, you’re still the girl: wrapped in red, trapped under smoke, too brief to reach, forever left there swirling.

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Lady Scrubs Chris Lucka She dances from the grocery store swinging her hips, her booty in her peachy-coral pants.

Her flowery-topped full bosom jiggles, jostles to the silent beat.

In each hand she carries a carton of cold premium ice cream— strawberry and caramel cashew.

Between headphone receivers her kinky-curly blonde hair sways and tumbles down her back.

With extended arms, hands full of defrosting cartons and a final swish of her tush she folds into her Dodge Charger.

She doesn’t immediately start up even on this hot, sunny day but be-bops, head bobbing, likely awaiting the song’s ending.

Suddenly the engine roars, tires squeal as Lady Scrubs shoots away.

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Reflections Abigail Hare

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Deux Croquis le Long de la Seine Alexander Verdoni I. Broken glass and light-dappled water— Austin tapes his aquarelle paper and laughs at the second line of this stanza.

Let’s be serious artists now, like the painters along la Seine, honing our sights to the color-spangled sun and the wind-rippled grass.

“You know how grandpas make sounds?” he whistles as I struggle for the perfect word. This is a poem and this is serious—don’t laugh.

Okay, you can laugh—we’re at the Saginaw River.

II. Broken glass and light-dappled water— (Austin etches a budding masterpiece) A lone goose swims against another word for wind and the church bells chime hours of late bleached sun, that cloudless chill, fluorescently bright, cool light cold steel, a black bridge rusts over the river, rich with ghosts— Just beyond the bank, the junkyard.

“Here it is so far”; his charcoaled hands, my outlined face struggling for the perfect word.

“Look, a seagull!” I say, pointing at the bird— “Look, a blade of grass!”

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Waiting for Winter Bruce Gunther All that remains is the robin’s nest clinging to barren branches.

The skeletons of French lilacs rest for the long journey toward spring.

Leaden skies are paired with stillness.

We, too, hunker down as winter trudges in on heavy, loud boots, idling at this junction of rest and potential rebirth.

The yard cleared of the maple’s autumn suit; brittle leaves clatter like playing cards over the pavement.

The potential of the days ahead: snowbound, wind with sharpened teeth, the futile spin of tires, tread lodged in wet snow.

Present, too, this resolve to live on nature’s terms—to unfold within this powerful silence.

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The Life in the Winds Shayla Bond I remember when you took your last breath.

I saw your chest deflate as the final winds, which had carried you in life, left your body.

I remember the way my fear fell to fury as I imagined the way your soul had dissipated into nothingness.

I couldn’t bear to feel the silence after a symphony of strength had ended in a tragic decrescendo.

My own smile felt malicious as I fought to keep fragments of you tethered to what had once been.

But I also remember your laugh, your own body dancing in time with the melody of your joy, how in those moments when you would forget to breathe, those winds had taken to me and gifted me with that same song.

And finally, I remember it isn’t just me who holds you here.

I see you in the way my father sometimes dances with no music to guide him, the way my sister calls out of the blue to say she loves me, the way my brother hugs me when I need it most, the way I hear your laughter in my own and walk knowing a lifetime of strength lives in my bones.

I remember you are everywhere.

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Hammock Selena Carranza imagine imagine swaying back and forth

back and forth the hard rope leaving pain in its wake feel the soft wind gently caress first your face

and then quickly move to the skin that’s

been left unscathed a mess of arms and legs not knowing where one begins and the other ends hear the trees playing their tune frantically waving their branches to grasp the attention

of the tangled bodies below

their leaves cry out words only

trees will understand look up look up and see the sky

with its roaring darkness

not one star dares to shine

through swaying back and forth they go as they grasp at each other to keep warm

the wind biting harder with each go and yet they stay for they know leaving will mean no longer being a mess of arms and legs

to just be in the presence of another

yearning for their every

thought sometimes words don’t do justice actions speak louder than any word that has

been spoken into existence what do their actions speak as one grabs the other’s face with the force

you would a child

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Leorn Jenna Schaufele

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Another Mystery Don Popielarz Although separated by five hundred years, St. Ignatius quotes Mary Oliver in his Spiritual Exercises for Daily Life.

The Poet instructs that our most basic and important work is to be astonished by the beauty in and around us.

The Saint instructs his adherents to pray the poem, to hold tightly all of God’s gifts and more importantly to learn when to let them go, to let God reveal himself to you, to let you reveal yourself to God. Stand still, they both admonish, stand still and be astonished, to rejoice in creation— that is how we live forever.

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Four Haikus Eric P. Nisula I. Night of Thunder Thunder’s bumpy voice thrown far across the night sky— sleep comes easily.

II. Twilight The pale sky darkens with each glance. I don’t know why I am so happy.

III. Driving Home from Church on Palm Sunday Dark sky, wind blusters.

Bach’s notes fill the car. In back our small daughter sleeps.

IV. Friendship Working late at night.

Cat sleeps peacefully nearby.

I am not alone.

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Memoirs of a Traveler Taylor Hart In the calm of the river sat the great white vessel, Floating amidst all the other boats lined alongside it.

I grew terrified of falling into the dark water, The drop from the land to boat was perilous for a six-year-old.

When I didn’t find the courage to board the ship, A smiling face was there to take my hand and guide me safely on, For her kindness surpassed all my fear.

She and her friends had been on the boat dozens of times, making it look easy, And this had been one of my few trips, Without my father’s arms to carry me aboard.

The dusk of the evening was approaching, And the sky was painted with strokes of orange and pink, With swirling clouds of white wisping around with the cool breeze from the river.

I found her sitting on the edge of the boat, Her foot dipped over into the water, a glass of wine in her hand.

I wished to sit next to her, as her smile pleaded for me to do, But I grew afraid again, cowering in my stance, Too much so to take my seat with her.

She had to reassure me she wouldn’t let anything happen, That her hands would hold me and I couldn’t possibly fall into the shimmering water.

I closed my eyes as she hoisted me up.

The soft thrum of waves hit the side of the boat now, a scene of equanimity.

I found myself relaxed after sitting in between her legs, Bobbing along like a fishing lure waiting.

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had done in the years previous.

Then I found myself transported around the world, And could picture the pyramids of Giza and the Eiffel Tower across the river, Considering she was the most fascinating storyteller of all time.

I wanted to be just like her growing up, The woman with enchanting stories to tell, with an immeasurable kindness.

I realized, though, that could never be.

She couldn’t be duplicated, I couldn’t become the spitting image of her, Because she was one of a kind.

She taught me a lot through her stories on the water, How to treat people with kindness and keep my mind open to opportunities.

She wandered often, wanting to see what the world offered.

Even in her old age now, She embraces me with the warmest hugs and kindest thoughts, And I’ll always remember her for who she was, The ambitious traveler that offered me her hand to overcome my greatest fears And help me view life through the lens of benevolence.

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Peony Power Elizabeth Dione Terry

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The Polarity of Our Anatomy Serena Ahmad My mouth is a desert rolling with tumbleweeds, punishing me now, for pouring my secrets out to you, a lover turned stranger whose woes I once quieted with hushed whispers and smudged lipstick on shirt collars.

Your mouth is a lyre that smoothly hums melodies as my eyelids flutter drowsily.

You drug me with your sweet lullaby, but even Nightfall cannot conceal the way your syrupy notes, dipped in sugar-coated deceit, always turn sordid and sour.

My eyes are such traitors!

They deserve an exile like Circe, tears still pushing at their almond corners, yet never cleansing me of the dust devil clawing at my throat.

Your eyes are dewdrops from dawn, gleaming with keen mischief, often mistaken for Sincerity.

But you do not know Growth; You have never shaken hands with Loyalty.

So now my legs are glass, plastered with neon caution tape marked Fragile, aching to go on walks with you again, even though my betrayed feet would scorch with each step on this red-hot wasteland.

Your legs are here in this ballroom but they do not dance.

Instead, they are crossed on your throne—a chair painted so golden they must have used ichor straight

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the same ichor you would bleed if I honed insults to wound you the way you wounded me.

My hair is a tapestry—each inked thread glows by the light of Helios, but my skin sunburns in this dust bowl.

I long for my silk strands to muss as they did each time you ran your fingers through them.

Your hair is a tornado—a spiraling, gorgeous mess.

But it no longer makes me feel pink inside; each time I gaze, I choke on furious currents whirling through my desert once more— an eternal reminder of who you were before you drained me.

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The Big Gender Reveal Jared Morningstar The only gender revealed at an event featuring clichéd pink and blue fireworks that give easily amused attendees a Great Value Fourth of July celebration (and possibly a housefire or bodily harm) isn’t that of the unborn child, but of those who chose to the throw the party: they’re simple-minded individuals who follow trends, thrive on senseless destruction, and love loud things that go BOOM, regardless of the body parts they’re born with.

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Safe at Home Mandy Brown

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Contractions Ansley Dauenhauer Modernizations ease.

Vibrancy fades.

Paint peels.

People leave.

Cities contract.

A skeleton remains.

Priorities shift.

Communities matter.

Interest ignites.

Homes restore.

Jobs return.

The skeleton grows.

People explore.

Restaurants establish.

Apartments abound.

Schools improve.

Enthusiasm crackles.

A body reborn.

Virus strikes.

People sicken.

Stores shutter.

Restaurants close.

Cities silence.

The body stills.

Pounds drop.

Pains ensue.

Contractions compress.

Circles close.

Fear controls.

The body holds.

Hope interrupts.

Resilience abounds.

Computers connect.

Innovation rules.

The strong persist.

The body glows.

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My Closet Is a Reliquary Donny Winter for Ace Lundon The closet door has fallen from its track and sits, leaned against the dented drywall like a discarded portcullis too weathered to keep me—

behind box-stack skyscrapers, yellowed wallpaper peels and the crayon mural still robs floral print of its optic illusion like a political graffiti with elementary verve—

the shelves still dip under

collections of unread religious texts and the bloated plastic drawers refuse to budge from their cheap, retail compartments as each paper-filled basin brims—

the air is linen-stale and the glued constellations above still keep this room lit while the tired July sun slips beneath the tree line, lengthening each shadow across the brown shag carpet—

these years later, I keep the closet door off its track because it’s powerless, a prison made museum, a memorialized womb left open since I left for college after a second birth—

now, my closet has lost its echo and each stored memory maps a misshapen journey, so let these paper roadways return to nature, become overgrown, because this cluttered closet is a reliquary

a room for storage, unable to

keep me

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Ink Taylor Tucker Her inked skin has darkened in the California sun, yet her bright eyes still shine just as true blue as mine.

2,500 miles mark the gap between our lives but we can hike this dry mountain ridge with our footsteps perfectly synced.

And her daughter’s tiny, trusting hand fits comfortably in mine as her longhaired son jabbers on about spears and tribes.

It’s been years, and soon I’ll be gone again, but blood is blood.

By the wild Pacific, on this sunny, summer Sunday, we have all the time there is.

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i still can’t pass your house without looking for your car in the driveway Katy Haas

it’s mid-August and we sit on his front porch, beer can cold between my bare knees. he says something about knowing one’s worth and because i can’t meet his eyes i look for my worth in the weeds growing up from the gutter and come up empty-handed, sweatypalmed. all summer is creaky bedframes, the lullaby hum of a/c units hugged in windows, streetlamps casting shadows through the blinds and across my face like a mask. all summer i straddle the liminal space between bedrooms, frozen in doorways without remembering if i’m arriving or leaving. worth is a word that writhes in my mouth like a secret i struggle to swallow, that conjures saliva and turns my teeth soft. i know i won’t find it in the sweat-drenched strands of his hair or under the warmth of his tongue but i still search there anyway. i know the screen door slamming was worth sneaking out the back into the still air of an abandoned city at night. the black cat crossing the street is the last time i saw it before i sat small and soft-bellied beside him, brushing mosquitos and malaise from the tangles beneath my baseball cap. but i keep thinking maybe i’ll find it months from now, finally able to meet my own eyes in the mirror when i’m washing my hands clean of everything i’m currently clinging to, no longer trying to break my body down to be absorbed into someone else’s bone marrow, no longer believing i can find meaning between other people’s molars, in the center of their mattresses, in the mass that swells in my lungs each time he kisses me good-bye.

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Tipping Time Alexander J. Altergott

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About Our Contributors Serena Ahmad is a first-year neuroscience major at the University of Illinois at Chicago. Although her student life focuses primarily on acid titration labs and biology papers, her English and Honors College courses enable her to continue writing. She is humbled to be featured in this year’s issue of Still Life and is immensely grateful for the encouragement from her high school teachers at Saginaw Arts and Sciences Academy in Saginaw, Michigan, as well as that of her friends and family.

Zainab Alowaisheer is a Saginaw Valley State University senior majoring in graphic design, minoring in art, and planning to graduate in December 2021. She is deeply concerned about many community issues, especially that of violence against children. Her photo in this issue was created to show the pain, fear, and negative feelings linked to this violence and its effect on children now and in the future.

Alexander J. Altergott is a sophomore majoring in art at Saginaw Valley State University. He plans to graduate in 2024. His pieces in this issue were taken in Bay City, Michigan, as a set of photo collages titled Urban Distortion.

They are loosely inspired by the title sequence and transitions used in Monty Python’s Flying Circus.

Bios make Danicia Armstrong nervous. She says it’s like asking her to simplify her existence. That said, she notes she is a little too hard on herself. She’s loving, a nerd, and very compassionate. She can pretty much draw anything with patience and loves her family. Her interests are in graphic design, art, and photography, and her education involves art communications at the Saginaw Career Complex, Delta College, art books, and YouTube.

Stuart Barbier lives in Bay City, Michigan, and teaches rhetoric/composition and literature at Delta College. When not teaching or doing all that teaching requires, he enjoys working on his 129-year-old house, both inside and out.

He feels that maintaining an appropriate balance of physical and mental work within the complexities of these activities, let alone life, would be difficult without the welcome respite of poetry, whether his own or others’.

Austin Bauer is a poet from Bay City, Michigan. He is passionate about creating community around poetry where writers can share their work with one another. He is happily married and is enjoying life as a dad of two.

Alexis Beauchamp is a free thinker, with an adventurous spirit and a young heart. She loves all things natural, beautiful, mysterious, and wild. Her various 96

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interests keep her stimulated and curious about the world around us. Inspired by nature and sociological concepts, she is in the process of expanding her knowledge and developing her crafts of interest.

Emily Bess is a senior at Saginaw Valley State University majoring in graphic design and minoring in art with a focus in photography. Her photo series Behind These Windows showcased various fears and concerns she and her classmates had during the pandemic. Her photo included here was composed to show how she felt when COVID-19 first hit in March 2020. Emily plans to graduate in December 2021 and is currently a graphic designer at a local multi-specialty health clinic.

Grace Biber lives in Saginaw, Michigan, and is a freshman at Valley Lutheran High School. This is the third consecutive year she has been featured in Still Life. She enjoys reading and doing plays. She hopes to become a dermatologist and a writer on the side.

Noah Birnbaum is a senior who attends Saginaw Arts and Sciences Academy in Saginaw, Michigan. He is considering attending Saginaw Valley State University after high school in hopes of becoming a pastoral minister. He enjoys playing and watching sports of all kinds, and spending time with his family.

Shayla Bond currently attends Saginaw Arts and Sciences Academy in Saginaw, Michigan, as a senior in the English language arts program. Her writing is often inspired by friends, family, and whatever else she thinks might make a good piece. Shayla hopes to grow as an author as she continues to write both for fun and school.

Mandy Brown is a senior majoring in art and minoring in graphic design at Saginaw Valley State University. Her work in this issue was taken during the winter of 2021. The photo was taken when children were being schooled from home due to the pandemic and was inspired by the fact that everyone was stuck at home together. She plans to graduate in 2022.

Parker Budzinski is a writer from Bay City, Michigan. He is a junior at Saginaw Arts and Sciences Academy in the English language arts concentration, where he works tirelessly with his wonderful teachers and peers to ensure his work actually makes sense. When not writing, Parker enjoys sampling various coffee shops only to realize again and again that he prefers chai.

Devin K. Butler is a senior majoring in graphic design and minoring in fine arts photography at Saginaw Valley State University (SVSU). Taken in the Arbury photo studio at SVSU, his photo in this issue was intended to capture Still Life 2021

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and convey the concept of one’s negative emotions and thoughts, and was achieved by double-exposing two photos together. He plans to graduate in 2021 and pursue a career in user interface and user experience design, as well as fine art photography.

Erik Wolfgang Byron is a poet born in Saginaw, Michigan, with roots both in the state and in London, England. He received a bachelor’s degree in political science and history from Saginaw Valley State University. Most of his poems begin as lines written in his notebook during long walks within a city or within nature.

Selena Carranza is in her fourth year at Saginaw Valley State University, where she is pursuing a degree in secondary English education with minors in communication and theatre. She plans to work in public education (teaching English and theatre classes) and eventually become a professor. She loves writing and reading in her downtime.

Matt Chappel is a recent graduate of Saginaw Valley State University, where he majored in English literature and creative writing, and minored in sociology. Currently, he lives in Saginaw, Michigan, with his wife, and he juggles working as a handyman and substitute teacher. He finds time for writing in the early hours of the morning and hopes to make that practice a routine for the rest of his life.

Josh Crummer is a poet from Saginaw, Michigan. His work has recently appeared in print and digital media associated with Alien Buddha Press, Moonstone Arts Center, and Sky Island Journal, as well as other venues. He is actively seeking a home for his debut collection of poems.

Ansley Dauenhauer currently works with the international baccalaureate (IB) Program at Dow High School in Midland, Michigan, and has been a volunteer with Saginaw Valley State University’s Community Writing Center. An educator in many forms for thirty years, she is passionate about learning in all forms, particularly writing. Since moving to mid-Michigan, Ansley and her family regularly get an “urban fix” by visiting Detroit, and the city has prompted her interest in the birth, decline, and rebirth of cities.

Her poem in this issue was inspired by Mark Beltchenko’s Birthworks series that was part of a 2020 exhibit at the Marshall M. Fredericks Sculpture Museum.

Rachel Diehl is a student at Saginaw Valley State University. She is pursuing a bachelor’s degree in secondary education with a focus in English and minors in communication and theatre. She is excited to be a part of another Still Life publication; this marks her third appearance in the journal, and she can’t wait to write more poems.

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An 11th grade student at Saginaw Arts and Sciences Academy in Saginaw, Michigan, Kalinah Dunn is a student in the English language arts concentration. Kalinah’s writing is mostly inspired by relationship dynamics and how they affect the participating parties. In their free time, they enjoy listening to music and dancing without pause in their living room.

Anthony Gaskin is a senior majoring in graphic design and minoring in fine arts at Saginaw Valley State University (SVSU). His work in this issue of Still Life was taken in the SVSU photography studio and is part of a series involving unusual multiple exposures. The theme of the series was feelings/ emotions within, meaning that the feelings/emotions that one displays on the outside may not be the same as those displayed on the inside. He graduated in December 2021 and is planning a career in graphic design and its related fields.

Madolyn Glocksine is a first-year student at Saginaw Valley State University.

Even though she is majoring in the STEM field, she has always enjoyed the arts. You can find her singing, writing, or drawing in her free time.

Susan Griffith is a writer, educator, librarian, and activist. She reads children’s books voraciously and has done so for the past seven decades (i.e., her whole life). She looks to the work of Naomi Shihab Nye, Kristine O’Connell George, Betsy Franco, and James Stevenson for inspiration and technique. As a member of the Friends of Veterans Memorial Library, she works to build literacy and community in Mt. Pleasant, Michigan.

Abigail Grifka is a sophomore at Saginaw Arts and Sciences Academy in Saginaw, Michigan. Her concentration of choice in high school is English language arts because she loves to write and feels that it is a good way to express herself. When she’s not writing, Abigail likes to read books, play video games, and watch TV with her sister and mother.

Nathan Grocholski is a music composer and writer from Auburn, Michigan.

He graduated from Saginaw Valley State University with a bachelor’s degree in music and a minor in creative writing. Nathan intends to pursue a career in storytelling through any means possible, whether it be through composing music and original songs, or writing books and poems. He hopes that the art he creates is relatable and inspiring.

Bruce Gunther is a retired journalist and writer who lives in Bay City, Michigan. He’s a graduate of Central Michigan University. His poetry has appeared in Comstock Review, Still Life, Modern Haiku, Dunes Review, East by Northeast, and other publications.

Katy Haas is a poet and collage artist from Bay City, Michigan. Their work Still Life 2021

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can be found in Delicate Friend, Taco Bell Quarterly, perhappened, and Bone Milk from Gutslut Press, among other publications. You can find them on Instagram (@mouthshroom), on Twitter (@katyydidnt), or trying new vegan food around the Tri-Cities.

Phillip Hanson is a painter and digital artist based in Saginaw, Michigan.

He uses numerous digital and analog processes to arrive at his textural and spatial solutions. He actively exhibits his work throughout the United States and is featured in collections in China, England, the Netherlands, and the U.S. Currently, Phillip teaches foundations level art at Saginaw Valley State University.

Abigail Hare is a Saginaw Valley State University graduate as of May 2021, having earned a bachelor’s degree in graphic design and a minor in art. Her work in this issue was taken along Hospital Road in Saginaw, Michigan. The photo was inspired by the way bodies of water make almost perfect reflections of the environments around them.

Taylor Hart is a professional and technical writing major at Saginaw Valley State University. She also studies graphic design and works at the school’s Writing Center as a tutor for other students. She spends time writing various pieces in the fiction, poetry, and nonfiction genres, and has placed at the state level for poetry contests. She draws inspiration from personal stories and human relationships, and makes several connections to astronomy and history in her work.

Caroline Helmstadt is a senior at Saginaw Valley State University where she is majoring in English education, minoring in history education, and pursuing a social studies endorsement. Outside of academia, Caroline enjoys writing, spending time in nature, and sometimes simply just thinking. Caroline’s piece “Memere,” published in this issue, is dedicated to her grandmother, Alma Thompson.

Denise Hill is a teacher and editor.

Karen Lulich Horwath is a high school creative writing and literature teacher at Saginaw Arts and Sciences Academy in Saginaw, Michigan. She has an M.A. in creative nonfiction and composition, and memoir is her favorite genre. However, she dabbles in poetry on heightened occasions to find deeper meaning during challenging events. She is most at home when slaloming down ski slopes, hiking in the woods, planting flowers, and playing the piano.

Ja’Niya Howard is a 17-year-old senior at Saginaw Arts and Sciences Academy in Saginaw, Michigan, where her concentration is 3-dimensional art. She enjoys writing romanticized poetry and fictional thrillers. Aside from 100

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creative writing, Ja’Niya enjoys reading, fashion, and being involved with her community. She aspires to become a traveling interior designer and architect.

Josh Jordan is a poet and primary consumer from Midland, Michigan. He spends most of his energy turning food, water, and oxygen into language, adventure, and carbon dioxide. He loves the people of his swiftly tilting planet very dearly.

Unmun Kaur is from Saginaw, Michigan, and she is 15 years old. Her poetry primarily focuses on complex issues like depression, eating disorders, and anxiety. She started writing poetry after her grandparents died from COVID-19. She used it as a way to cope with the loss like many other people have. She found solace in expressing herself through paper and pen, and started writing every day, which eventually eased her grief.

Deda Kavanagh lives in Bay City, Michigan. Her poems have recently been published in Walloon Writers Review, Still Life 2020, and Visiting the Wind (The Haiku Society of America’s 2021 anthology).

Rosemary Kavanagh has had poetry and short stories published on the East Coast through The Hartford Courant and The Newport Daily News. She won “Best Letter of the Year” Award about the Twin Towers and “The Troubles” in Ireland, where she lived, wrote and painted, and exhibited her work for eight years. She has had her poetry previously published twice in Still Life.

Rosemary lives, writes, and paints in her studio in Bay City, Michigan.

Gina Killingbeck is a 17-year-old senior at Saginaw Arts and Sciences Academy in Saginaw, Michigan. Her writing is greatly influenced by her teachers, family, and friends. She loves listening to music and writing about her personal experiences. In her spare time, she likes to play Animal Crossing, hang out with her friends, and spend time with family.

Sarah J. Koliboski believes that words are alive and is grateful anytime they allow her to channel them into something resembling a coherent form. Poetry and short fiction are her primary focus, and she is preparing to finish a degree in rhetoric and professional writing and creative writing. A chimeric dabbler, she also pours herself into her visual art and music. As a transplant to Saginaw, Michigan, she is grateful to have stumbled into such a vibrant and inclusive creative community.

Jean Marie Learman spent her youth working on her parents’ farm in the Eastern Thumb of Michigan. Graduating from Michigan Tech as a civil engineer, she worked for ten years before switching careers to education.

She taught math and science in the Saginaw public schools for twenty-five years before retiring several years ago. She continues her lifelong passion of Still Life 2021

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performing as a musician and songwriter in folk and Celtic bands throughout the Midwest.

Jeanne Blum Lesinski writes poetry, fiction, and nonfiction. Her recent work has appeared in Non-Binary Review, the Alphanumeric podcast, and F3LL. She was a finalist in The Ekphrastic Review Women Artists contest. Forthcoming work includes the fiction piece “Back of a Snake’s Head” in Midway Journal and the poem “World in Motion” in Plainsongs.

Chris Lucka, a poet from Standish, Michigan, was most recently published in Walloon Writers Review. As a longtime member of Mid Michigan Writers, she enjoyed (pre-COVID) planning and hosting with her fellow members an annual one-day workshop called Gateway to Writing. In addition to writing poetry, she works as a freelance editor. She has taken the Writer’s Digest poem-a-day challenge for November 2021 to inspire her writing and will work on it while wintering in Florida.

Lily Miller has been interested in poetry since she took a creative writing course in middle school, and it quickly evolved from a class to something far greater. Poetry became a way to express emotions when all else failed; Lily writes about her own personal experiences or those of others that she feels need to be shared with the world.

Jared Morningstar is a high school English teacher at the Saginaw Arts and Sciences Academy in Saginaw, Michigan. He writes poetry and short stories that reflect his interests and observations of the world around him.

Morningstar has written two collections of poetry and short fiction (American Fries and American Reality) and edited an international anthology of original student short fiction (Young Voices). He lives in Mount Pleasant, Michigan, with his wife and children.

Alexandre Morrison is a tenth grader at Saginaw Arts and Sciences Academy in Saginaw, Michigan. She started writing poetry in ninth grade, improving with the help of her classmates and teacher Mr. Jared Morningstar. Aside from writing, Alexandre’s hobbies are tennis, the trumpet, and reading. Art and literature are two great inspirations of hers. She is very honored to have been published in Still Life.

The Modern Library book of poetry became a sort of Bible to Eric P. Nisula when he was in grade school. He also began writing poetry at that time. In 1979, he joined the Saginaw Valley State University Music Department. In 1983, Dr. Nisula won first prize in the competition held by Poets of Now in St. Charles, Michigan. In 2004, his work was featured in The Rooftop Series published by Mayapple Press.

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Don Popielarz has degrees from St. Mary’s Cathedral High School (Saginaw, Michigan), the University of Michigan (Ann Arbor, Michigan), and Wayne State University’s Law School (Detroit, Michigan). He was a private practice attorney in Saginaw for forty years. Don is retired and lives a quiet, contemplative life along the southeastern shore of Lake Michigan. He is most happy to report that the authorities have dismissed all charges and warrants, and that the statutes of limitations have expired for all remaining transgressions.

Shaun Pugsley is a global studies student at Saginaw Arts and Sciences Academy in Saginaw, Michigan. He tends to spend most of his days inside, playing video games or listening to music. When he isn’t inside, he is either hanging out with friends or walking around Saginaw. What he has seen on these walks about the city have been put into his poem featured in this issue.

Kellen Ross is a 16-year-old junior at Saginaw Arts and Sciences Academy in Saginaw, Michigan. He spends most of his time alone in his room writing poems where his voice shines through. He prefers to be by himself when he is writing; however, he is always willing to listen to his fellow students and his devoted teacher.

Matthew Sauer is a 19-year-old writer from Saginaw, Michigan. He mainly specializes in poetry. Sauer has been previously published in the 2019 and 2020 issues of Still Life, as well as another Saginaw Valley State University (SVSU) publication, Writing@SVSU. A strong believer in the power of local art, Sauer hopes to continue working with the SVSU Writing Center in the future.

Gabriel Schall is a junior at Saginaw Arts and Sciences Academy in Saginaw, Michigan. He workshops creative writing with his devoted English teachers and peers, taking heavy inspiration from mundane sensory experiences and trying his best to evolve them into meaningful pieces. In his spare time, he likes to question the meaning of life and attempt to bring meaning into his own.

Jenna Schaufele is a senior at Saginaw Valley State University majoring in graphic design and minoring in art. “Leorn” is part of a series called Quirky Produce. Her piece in this issue was created by using the doubleexposure method while exploring the different shapes and textures of iconic fruits and vegetables. She will be graduating in the Winter 2022 semester.

Lydia Schneider lives in Saginaw, Michigan. She is an English language arts major at Saginaw Arts and Sciences Academy, where she is in the 10th grade.

She enjoys biking and reading in her spare time.

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Peter Schrier is a senior at two schools. You may know him from the time capsule he buried when he was eleven, containing six bottles of water, using his small amount of power to help the people living in the future Mad Maxdesert hellscape. If you talk to him, he may tell you about his favorite subject: spaghettification. This is the process of an object stretching out when being pulled by a black hole.

Todd Stockmeyer is in the 57th year of his race. He realizes he is a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes, so along the way he has written down a few thoughts, hopes, and poems. Maybe, he says, they will last a bit longer than he does. He lives on the original farmstead his great grandfather founded in 1879. Taking great joy in his wife, three children, and ten grandchildren, he relishes the slower months of farming when he can slouch on the couch and write in the winter, or lay in the hammock in August under the maple and chestnut.

Marjorie Talaga lives in Bay City, Michigan, where she has been writing prose and poetry since childhood. Much of her writing has been inspired by real-life stories and characters she’s encountered through the various and colorful jobs she has held: soda fountain waitress; cocktail waitress; special education teacher in a prison; yoga instructor; teacher of literacy, poetry, and English; census gatherer; director of job training programs; bookseller; and writer of newspaper articles. Marjorie’s poems, stories, and articles can be seen in college publications and in work-related magazines and articles.

Elizabeth Dione Terry is a senior at Saginaw Valley State University pursuing a B.F.A. in photography and B.A. in graphic design. She will graduate in May 2022 and is currently exploring M.F.A. programs. Her work included in this issue is from her series Form, Flora, & Femininity, which explores the use of digital double exposure in creating connections. More of her work can be found at Edtphotography.com.

Imari Cheyne Tetu is a second-year M.A. student in digital rhetoric and professional writing at Michigan State University. Her research interests lie along the intersections of user experience, accessibility, and technical communication. She is passionate about creating learning experiences that center on accessible design and are based in participation, exploration, and reflection. An occasional poet and an active outdoorswoman, Imari enjoys kayaking, bicycling, and practicing dressage.

Lynnette Thomas is a Saginaw Valley State University (SVSU) student majoring in art and minoring in general business. For her photos in this issue, the images of the models were taken in the photography studio in SVSU’s Arbury Fine Arts Building; the landscapes and plants in the models were taken on SVSU’s campus. She then used the image overlay technique to 104

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combine them. Lynnette plans to graduate in May 2022 and pursue a career as a professional photographer and business owner.

Louis Thompson is a junior at Saginaw Arts and Sciences Academy in Saginaw, Michigan, and has been writing ever since he was a kid. In his free time, he plays video games and makes music. He has two sisters and two brothers who inspire him to write and a family who supports him every step of the way.

Taylor Tucker received her bachelor’s degree in engineering mechanics and master’s degree in curriculum and instruction from the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign. She is the author of the children’s book Jenny Saves a Convertible. In addition to previous contributions to Still Life, she has published poetry in Talking River, Walloon Writers Review, and Ponder Review.

Betty J. (Slominski) Van Ochten, a native of Saginaw, Michigan, graduated from Saginaw High School and Bay City Junior College. For eight years, she was a reporter at The Saginaw News. After raising her family and holding other employment, she renewed her interest in poetry. She is a long-time member of River Junction Poets. Some of her poems have been published or won prizes.

Alexander Verdoni, also called “cbxtn the fig,” is a writer, musician, and theologian based in Saginaw, Michigan, but now residing in the Blue Ridge mountains of southwestern Virginia. His current projects include helping establish an oral histories archive for the Saginaw region, learning the secrets of beekeeping, and transcribing Christian scripture into philosophies of regenerative ecology.

Born in Midland, Michigan, and currently attending school in nearby Saginaw, Nathaniel Watson is specializing in math and science but developed an interest in writing in middle school. He is considering writing as a career, but is still unsure. His most notable writing accomplishment is receiving a Silver Key for a short piece in the 2021 Scholastic Art and Writing Awards.

Donny Winter is an LGBTQ+, two-time Pushcart Prize-nominated poet living in Saginaw, Michigan. He’s the author of two LGBTQ+-themed poetry collections released by Alien Buddha Press, Carbon Footprint (2020) and Feats of Alchemy (2021). He currently teaches creative writing at Delta College and composition at Saginaw Valley State University.

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Acknowledgments Thanks to the following for their support of Still Life: • • • • • • • • •

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The Public Libraries of Saginaw and the staff of Saginaw’s Butman-Fish Library The Bay County Library System and the staff of Bay City’s Wirt Public Library The Saginaw Community Foundation The Bay Area Community Foundation Dr. Debasish Mridha Dr. Deb Huntley Andy Bethune Ben Champagne The Saginaw Valley State University Graphics Center

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About Our Benefactor Dr. Debasish Mridha is an American physician, philosopher, and poet. A leader in the Saginaw, Michigan, community, he describes himself as “a seeker of the deepest truth that affects human destiny.” He is the author of the books Sweet Rhymes for Sweet Hearts, Verses of Happiness, and Verses of Peace.

We remain deeply grateful for his support.

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