Poets Davis, Faulkner and Fonner
Photo by Agnieszka Kukawska
Keeping Broken Things
by Megan Davis
Memories are kept in the library of her mind,
scattered by time, recklessness, carelessness.
It is hard at times for the librarian to pick up all those loose pages,
she has so many pages of memories.
The librarian, with her thick, broken glasses,
must pick up pages again.
This time the pages are a bit wet,
from tears shed by her handler.
Each page is hung up on a line,
with a clothes pen, with delicate care.
A memory of learning how to crochet a pot holder with her grandmother,
another page of times Gram scolded her for running in the house.
The librarian remains slow and careful,
so these scattered pages remain intact.
Memories of huddling over plans to make her prom dress,
of picking out the fabric at the store,
Of trying it on to make adjustments,
Grandma making sure it was a respectable dress.
A wet page hung up with faded writing,
an older memory,
fogged by time,
she remembers hugging her Gram tightly,
not wanting to go home.
This library holds many memories,
of a special woman in the handler’s life.
Great care is always done by the librarian,
but some pages fade with time.
Here is a newer page,
not yet faded with time,
Grandma at her courthouse wedding,
to see her granddaughter get married.
She was there with her disposable camera,
flash after flash to document the moment.
Another new page,
still wet but very much intact.
She brought her son to meet his great grandma,
he also called her “Gram.”
The librarian hangs up this last memory to dry,
taking a break,
as she knows she will have to pick them up again.
2060
by Amber Faulkner
Held captive for a century,
deprived of sustenance,
lacking interaction and familiarity
There he stands,
unshaven and mangled,
thin and frail
Confusion branded into his scruffy appearance
Forced to adapt to a world unsuitable for life
Abandoned by the human population
Parking lots,
littered with vehicles that no longer run
Supermarkets,
long ago emptied by loiters
No bodies
No movement
No sound
Gut-wrenching silence,
aside from the persistent growling coming from his stomach
Only source of light is coming from the sun,
soon to fall
Fear of the unknown
Enemies hiding in the shadows
Appearing to be clones of who he once was
Torture that will never come to an end
Not until he comes to one realization
He detached himself from the world he once knew,
by pushing away the ones he loved,
sentenced to a life of solitude
“What’s the point?”
By A.E. Fonner
What’s the point?
You turn the corner
And find yourself falling
Down the same stairs.
They never heal,
Those self-inflicted wounds.
What’s the point?
You wake up and look;
In the mirror, that same face
Stares back at you.
It never changes,
The reflection that you see.
What’s the point?
You think of tomorrow;
But the same worries
Gnaw at you incessantly.
They never leave you,
Those anxious feelings.
What’s the point?
You think of God
And wonder again
“Is he really there?”
Often, you don’t know,
When your mind is torn.
What’s the point?
Looking always inside yourself,
You create a stagnant pool
Where life ends and death begins.
Open up and let your spirit flow
That through the years your life will grow.
And that’s the point, you surely know.
“Created Equal”
by Albert Fonner
Declared on parchment in letters grand;
In boldest strokes of a steady hand;
A proclamation of God’s own plan;
A call for men to take a stand.
Such words provide us inspiration;
Sung in chorus to hearts’ elation;
Etched into our own foundation;
Prophetic words of a fledgling nation.
BUT
For black men held in servitude, the native men who’d be subdued,
The foreign men in multitude, the poorest held in turpitude,
The meaning of the words were skewed by those who, their own creed, refused.
“Created Equal,” the words proclaim on paper written in passion’s flame.
A perfect truth from God ordained, as filtered through the human grain;
And man, imperfect in his way, corrupts the truth and goes astray.
So, when it’s all been done and said, from man’s approach, I really dread,
The only “equal” is when we’re dead?