Pavane for the Dusk

As I take my walk at dusk, a piano
sonata winds its way through my thoughts
The way the sun throws its beams on the ever changing world
has brought memories long buried
in the attic of my consciousness to the surface

A splash of nostalgia on the
flower-bed of my mind and memories burst
through like sunflowers growing out of the soil of my thoughts
I see the sunlight embracing the world in good-bye 

How odd that a certain way the sun brings out shadows
while drenching everything else in a molten bitter honey glow
can make me want to sigh while hope grows in my heart
The two emotions blend together in a dessert of salt and smiles

 Will you play a pavane for me just one more time at dusk?
If I see your face glowing in the dying sunlight,
Your smile will reassure me that dusk is not a time for dying

nor a time for sighing

Ophelia Leong is a wife and mother who loves to write. Her work has been published in Mothers Always Write, Allegro Poetry, and Assisi: An Online Journal of Arts and Letters. She is currently working on her first novel. Check out her blog here:ophelialeong.blogspot.com. 

Bones

Bones. 

Dated with everything;

from shades and bruises and love;

the dull ends fit together

like

             sidewalk cracks

             and fingertips

     and heartbeats

and create staircases up

rows and rows of emotion

like cathedrals in

dark designs of

     curved hangers.

And inside,

     you are close. 

Bones is part of a series of poems by Shannon Waite. Read the full collection here. 

Shannon Waite is a writer who has earned her bachelor’s degree from Oakland University in English and Teaching English as a Second Language.  She also earned her certification in secondary education.  She currently teaches high school reading in Detroit, Michigan.  Her writing has been published in various publications of Oakland University’s Swallow the Moon, as well as some anthology publications from Grey Wolf Publishing.

Lips

Lips.

History collects closely,

in bouts of sweet pouts,

and holds magnetic sources.

  Rosy, cream petals

  Turned inside out

  keep quiet

    and close. 

lines leave sentences and

punctuation

like

stories leave memories and

ends. 

      Forget the whispers,

    and hold onto the love.

It is louder. 

Lips is part of a series of poems by Shannon Waite. Read the full collection here. 


Shannon Waite is a writer who has earned her bachelor’s degree from Oakland University in English and Teaching English as a Second Language.  She also earned her certification in secondary education.  She currently teaches high school reading in Detroit, Michigan.  Her writing has been published in various publications of Oakland University’s Swallow the Moon, as well as some anthology publications from Grey Wolf Publishing.

To Coalesce

          In the angled shadows from the shed, we went rogue as we lay in the grass.  Chipped paint from the white wood panels surrounded us like the white bone pieces you find when you are broken from summer love affairs.  We took no notice of them though while we tangled ourselves up.

          Six months ago, if you would have asked me where I pictured myself in the future, I would have told you that “I won’t be in the future.”  I was going to be on the fringes and the outskirts of the future.  No directions were ever going to lead me there because I wouldn’t let them.  I folded and tucked my map into a pocket that I never reached for.

The man with soybean arms

He is the cool air that tickles leaves off of their branches when they’ve made their grand transformation. His arms are like shelled soybeans – lean, unwrinkled skin that bulges out where the muscles coil underneath. He doesn’t do CrossFit; he just lifts walruses above his head, a hundred reps a day. That’s how he gets his edamame arms.

I wrote him a letter and sent it to him on a wave of bubblegum breath. “I want to learn how you train blind elephant seals to swim through the clouds,” I said. Two days later, his response: “I’d be more than happy to show you, but have you even seen my elephant seal?” he asked.

Exploration of Me

Skin the color of 

Chocolate-caramel mixed 

Enough to envy

Heart so enormous

Yet still not enough room for 

The love of myself

My crown harvesting

So many sporadic thoughts 

Uncontrollable

This is nothing more 

than the exploration of

the essence of me

Karrin Thompson is a first year student at Seton Hill pursuing studies in English Literature and Secondary Education. She is from Washington, DC. She loves reading and writing short stories and poems.

Some Simple Steps to Maintaining Your Youth

Start where you are and pluck the fruits of your world:

a pencil, a paper napkin, and a tube of chapstick.

Your pencil is your sword.

Slash across the paper napkin and step through the jagged, fluttery edges.

Make sure you turn around and stick those edges together with the chapstick.

Now draw a line along your flimsy brown ground

until you come upon a house you drew when you were five.

Wiggly, semi-square walls, triangular roof,

exactly two windows with exactly four windowpanes,

and a rectangular front door with a circle doorknob.

Reach out your hand.

Bills, ramen noodle nights, and not enough sleep split your skin apart

until your hands are chapped and raw.

Pluck an apple from the tree next to the house.

The juices are sweet like summer days and sticky like kindergarten.

Pour the juices into the cracks on your hands.

Eventually they will scar over,

and you can pick off a scab the shape of your first crush.

Let it flutter to the spiky brown grass

where the bulbous bumblebees that hum around your head

will softly nibble on it and make it into a bittersweet honey.

Now take your pencil and draw a hammock between the two broccoli apples trees.

You can nap for a while until the insurance company calls,

splashing responsibility across your paper napkin world

until it is crumpled and soggy.

Pay the bill and go to work so you can afford to pay the bill.

But make sure to get take out for dinner every once in a while

so you always have a nice stack of paper napkins.

Harley Smith lives in North Dakota with her husband, baby daughter, and parakeet. You can often find her either working in her garden or writing up a storm. Either way, something grows.

Welcome to Hushaby Gemini. We are a new online literary journal that publishes biannually. Currently, we are accepting submissions for our June issue. Everyone has a story inside of them, and we would love to hear yours. Share your words, and help make the world a little brighter.