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Penumbra Online
Fall 2024
DIRT
Table of Contents
***Pieces marked with three asterisks have been chosen as staff favorites.
Art
***The Bounties of Summer
Within the Stillness, Among the Sacred
Cloudy Heights
Sibling Meeting
Dirt Castles (Road Cut)
Hope
Halfway
Wolf Shadow in Dirt
Proud
Poetry
***June Drop
The Cycle of Holy Nitrite
Mud on Their Faces, Pride in Our Hearts
From the Dirt We Rise
The wolf that cried mother
After the Unveiling
Virtue of Dirt
Vermillion, OH
Planting Instructions
Galatea
Growth, Death
Moleology
My love was buried
Ring o' Roses
Just
Dirt
LIFE IN THE GRAVEYARDS
Under it All
Bones of Pittsburgh
Murder at Low Tide
Lazarus Immortal
Hybrid
Bison Wallowing
***Chanterelle goblins
Fiction
***The Slaughter of Wild Boars
Non-Fiction
***What I Wouldn't Do
The Destroyer
Within the Stillness, Among the Sacred
by Jake Been
Medium: Acrylic on Canvas
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***June Drop
by Tayler Harrison
In my childhood backyard, there stood
a peach tree growing from a patch of
earth, boxed in by fading brick pathing.
We never cultivated it—never tended to
the soil it sat in except to pluck the weeds
that sprouted unsightly—but still it grew.
Our mother warned us to never eat
from the tree, never touch the forbidden
fruit growing within our own sheltered garden—
Even though the inviting shades of yellow,
orange, red tempted me, I never picked one,
never partook in what I was warned away from.
I just watched the peaches fall, spilling their
guts on the dirt, as if hopelessly offering their
nutrients back to the tree in our place.
After the Unveiling
by Louis Faber
I threw the first shovel
of dirt on your wooden coffin.
I expected you to protest
the sullying of the polished wood,
or to call out for your mother,
or introduce us to your
long dead husband,
but all we heard
was the thunk and chunk
of the clayey earth
dancing off the cover,
while you maintained silence.
Virtue of Dirt
*after George Herbert’s “Virtue”
by Skye Rozario Steinhagen
Sweet earth so rich, and dark, and soft,
The border of the grass and tree;
The flowers sing thy pow’r aloft
So thou might be.
Sweet clumps of soil, who, clotted cold,
Guard precious roots and stone debris;
All living things alive have told
That thou must be.
Sweet packed and sodden, muddy pile,
Beasts and insects dwell in thee;
I too wish I might sit awhile
In all thou be.
Of all sweet, crumbly, trodden things
Thou fills me with profoundest peace;
For, we return to thee the life thou brings,
And thou shan’t cease.
Halfway
by Stephanie Paterson
Medium: Photography
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***The Slaughter of Wild Boars
by Kayla Degala-Paraiso
Well, what pretty day!
Human sits on cabin stoop, favorite papers sits on legs. Human luh-huh-hoooves these papers. Just sits an’ stares at papers, all day. Me sits in tall grasses, smell pretty flowers. Try eats flowers, me did, once — looks so pretty, smells so pretty, me wants to taste — but no sees bee on flower. Accident! Bee stings me tongue! Oo-wee! An’ me swallows! Poor bee, just wants to smell flowers! Never eats flowers again, me says.
Me thinks of poor bee, when strange occurrence!
Beyond grasses, wild boar emerges from forest! Looks like me, she does! Thin fur, though. An’ skinny. Maybe her human forgets to feed.
She sits at edge of forest. Looks at Human; it distracted. Me trots through grasses to wild boar. Never-oh-never did me see another wild boar!
“Who you? Where from?” Me hopes she understands me!
“Who am I? I beg your pardon, but who are you?,” she snorts, “I’ve never seen another boaress outside of our tribe!”
Funny sound. “Tribe?”
“Oh, dear, you really are…” she wiggles snout at me, must smell something funny, “unrefined, aren’t you. Well, I come from the Tribe of Brown-Bellied Boaresses, led by Grandmother Althea the Strong. We migrated from the south and have been living in this forest for two moons. We await the local eligibles, as the Great Season is nearly upon us, but the men have yet to find us. Godforsaken flowers must be masking our scent. Have any proper men passed through?”
Me shakes head. No understands most sounds of strange wild boar — eh, boaress — but not want to sound — er, unrefined, cos me wild boaress too, really! She tosses head over shoulder.
“Well, then. I know we are of...different kin, but perhaps you’d be interested in joining my tribe? It does seem awfully lonely here, and you should know that humans are not to be trusted,” she snarls at Human.
“A-ha! No, Human good! Human friend. Me can’t go off to Boaresses, this home,” me waves hoof at flowers, at cabin, at bees. She swats tail, says suit yourself, an’ trots back to forest. Me trots back to Human, eat time, oh-ho!
Human an’ me, we sits on cushy seat in cabin. More papers on Human legs. Human hoof on me head, oh-ho, me likes the scritchy-scratch right there. Always knows where scritchy-scratches, Human does. Me looks at Human: soft fur, only on head, little on face, but no on ears; little snout, big eyes; lo-ho-hooong, skinny body, like worm, but lo-ho-hooong legs! And smells strange. Only smell me knows since me remembers.
Me thinks of Brown-Bellied Boaress. Different smell. Smell like me.
Human looks at me, now; me thinks it knows me sad, cos it stops scritchy-scrathes. Maybe it understands —
“Me likes Human, Human me home, but Boaresses — Boaresses like me,” me hopes Human understands. But Human just makes sing-song sounds, trots away on hind-legs. Trots back soon, me bowl in its hooves. Oh-ho, Human thinks me hungry! Ah, Human, so gentle an’ kind an’ strange. Human never understands, but me never mad at Human.
Still sad but me eats crinchy-crunchy carrots.
Oh-ho, rainy day! Tall grasses wishy-wet. Human stays inside; Human never likes rainy day. But me? Me luh-huh-hooooves! Me slides through mud! O-ho, me cries with glee! Me slides at forest-edge.
Many muds in eyes, me no sees the wild boar trots near — ah-ha, me smells wild boar.
Smells like horror, like death. Me snorts loud, try to gets smells out of snout! Shakes mud off me face, looks at wild boar — not Brown-Bellied Boaress, no-ho. Big, smelly boar! Big boar ugly, ugly, ugly with rocky skin, bumpy an’ rough, all cuts an’ blood! What strange! What scary! What smeh-he-helly! Big boar eyes shines at me. He runs, hooves stomp stomp stomp, mud sprays behind. Swollen sack between hind-legs swings — me never sees! Me worries! Spins an’ looks for Human but Human in cabin — too late to runs back — what do, what do, what do — an’ he stops, three hooves away. Breathes hard. Big boar snout open, shows teeth — an’ two lo-ho-hong, scary, pointy teeth, outside snout!
“Well, well, well,” big boar grunts, “what do we have here? Little boaress, so far away from the tribe? Were you waiting for me?” Big boar grins, all teeth, so ugly. Big boar kicks hind-legs, an’ me sees sack swings.
Me backs away slow. “Me sorry, me sorry...eh-he, big boar seeks Brown-Bellied Boaresses? Boaresses in forest, me lives here with just Human, no Boaresses here.”
Big boar no likes me sound. Throws head back, an’ bellows. Bellows! So loud, me sticks ears in mud. Birdies flies out trees in forest.
“Oh, are you one of those pets, the kind they feed and slaughter for meat,” he spits on me snout. Me frozen. “You stupid creature, you’re nothing but a pathetic pig! How dare you wear our skin and allow a human to tame you,” he bellows. Kicks mud at me. Me try to scoots away but mud oh-so-slippery, me slides an’ falls —
So fast — big boar shoves snout in between me hind-legs, he sniffs an’ blows smelly breath. Spits in me face: blood an’ mud drippy-drops down me snout.
“Pathetic. You even smell like a farmed pig. I don’t even want to fuck you.”
Me trembles in mud. Me hopes he leaves, never ever comes back.
He stares me, eyes shines. “There is a wolfpack moving into the forest from the east. The Boaress tribe will migrate out, and we’ll follow them. Once the wolves are here, they’ll find you…and we can’t have the wolves seeing such a weak, pathetic excuse for a boar and assuming that all boars are like you, or else they’ll be trouble for us,” he swishes tail as he thinks, “you better join the tribe. Ah, but if you join the tribe, your human might come searching for you…”
Me no moves from mud — oh-so-scared.
“Alright, you pig. Either you eat your human and join the tribe —” me gasps! “— or my brethren and I will kill you both. You best decide quickly: I’ll return with my brothers at sun-down.” He bellows an’ charges off through trees.
Wicked, wicked big boar! Me rolls on back an’ wails. Me stands ground an’ fights, then boars outnumber. Human an’ me die. But me eats Human an’ joins tribe, how lives with self? Human gives food! Human gives scritchy-scratches! Me curls up next to Human every night! Human, me tribe. What horrible mess!
Day leaves. Night almost here. Me finally in cabin, watches Human play naked in water. Such gentle creature, Human. Gentler than bees. Me no eats Human, me thinks. Human, me — we solves problem, an’ no eats necessary. Me snorts with conviction.
“Human, trouble comes,” me says. Human turns an’ shows teeth, gives scritchy-scratches.
Sundown. Me looks out window, squints at forest. Ah-ha, oh no, boars comes! Me sees many shiny eyes cuts through tall grasses. Me hears hooves. Me runs at Human.
“Human, Human! Trouble comes now! Needs go, we do, needs go fast,” me rams head into skinny Human legs. Me waves snout at window.
Human trots, peers out window, an’ — oh-ho! Human sees big, smelly, scary boars! Human understands, an’ grips head hairs with hooves. Me runs to back door — ah-ha! Human no follows! Human goes in small room! Why in small room, Human? Needs go! Human comes out with long, shiny, silvery tube — Human, no beats big, smelly, scary boars with tube! Human runs to door an’ points long tube at boars. Boars runs! Fast! Me yells at Human, begs Human, but Human just stands an’ points, looks through end of tube. Oh-ho, Human an’ me, we dies today, cos Human too gentle an’ dumb an’ no understands me an’ —
Sudden bang!
Tube explodes, big spark, smoke everywhere! Me sees big, red spurt from Human’s face — Human slaps hooves over eye an’ falls to ground — big thud!
Human long, skinny body wiggles, an’ squeals oh-so loud, an’ me smells death — ah-ha, sticky-icky hot blood gushes from eye, all over Human hooves! Me panics, no knows what do! Me runs to clearing, sees boars so close, sees cuts an’ blood on skins, sees sacks between hind-legs swings.
“Ah-ha, big boars, stop! Human so hurts! Needs help, no fight!” me shouts an’ begs an’ pleads but boars keeps comin’ so me turns an’ sprints back to Human, ah-ha, poor gentle Human, still cries an’ screams, an’ me runs fast to Human, an’ me knows Human no sees me cos eye bleeds, but Human hears me comin’, oh-ho, yes, Human, me comes for you, me saves you, an’ Human an’ me escapes, me promises, an’ finds new home where Human reads papers all day an’ me smells new flowers, Human rolls across ground, cos Human hears me hooves, oh-ho, me so close — ah-ha, Human, why tube again, what do, why points tube again, Human hurts again, ee-hee, Human, wait, me almost there, me almost — bang.
***
The Destroyer
by Rachel Turney
I was sitting outside last week when I heard something shifting in the lavender. I lowered myself below the violet plumes to the base of the plants. Looking back at me were two wide eyes. The little vole froze then slowly retreated to its hole along the concrete. It eats the flowers off of our
perennials. I watch it destroy the garden. Big saucer eyes wearily glowering at me all the while. Later that week, when my husband catches the baby bunnies in the garden, I make a great show of scaring them away. But the vole and I know that it is the destroyer.
Sibling Meeting
by Joshua Colon
Medium: Photography
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The Cycle of Holy Nitrite
by Marcio Maragol
Dirt feeds on the nitrite of dead souls
We feed on its renewed bountiful soul in turn.
We nourish it, it nourishes us;
Dirt links us to Earth’s embrace.
My spirit strengthens my voracious offspring, jutting with a capricious bloom.
New life breathes from a bedded graveyard,
Sown fields paint a renewed reverent reverie.
Each bloom a newfound beauty never to be experienced again.
Expansive acres brim a blazing bullion from my blood and toil,
The cycle of death and renewal sing another verse
The sacred ceremony of cycles,
Available to Dirt priests in their stained sacramental overalls.
A continuation resonates from the echoes of Earth’s Bridge
A slowly rising crescendo in a tapestry of green,
Feeding on the nitrite of the past souls,
Vermillion, OH
by A. J. Frantz
Vermillion, OH
sleeps by the mouth of its sister river
whose clay banks shine vibrant red-orange
like the sun in an ash-blanketed sky.
Marinas and tract homes sit where
a nation once thrived within
its lush bed of trees.
Today the river is a murky thing,
clogged with suspended silt.
These waters never run copper-red,
except for the Earth’s ferrous tears
as the valley mourns her brothers
and sisters displaced west.
Galatea
by Andrea Wagner
I’ve made you up.
With clumsy hands, I felt out the curvatures of your body, ones I created out of abstract
visions—imaginary lines. Your skin, your sounds,
I created them.
A heavy pound of clay, I spun you round, smoothed out the edges.
A heavy heel, fingers pressing in,
Suffocating.
My image, my image,
I did delight in my image,
Gorgeous girl of my dreams.
I scrape off the clay from my fingers,
Pieces of you down the drain;
Though I suppose you were never there at all.
Chanterelle goblins
by L. S. Classe
Medium: Ink on Paper
It is in my Slavic blood to tumble into darkling woods
thrash through thicket
comb loamy roots for chanterelles and
pull them up by the root
with a soft and meaty thuc
Here’s how you know the true ones:
a whorl of gills that trace all the way down, oh yes
caved-in caps and
flesh that pales beneath the skin
The goblins know me well;
they are born of need and trickery, as am I
And so we have a deal—
For every false chanterelle I find
I chide and scold them
you must do better than that!
Motherly scorn is all that devious creatures truly need
to be good
and give up their precious, pearly earth flesh.
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Murder at Low Tide
by Schuyler Becker
Oh brassy hand
covered in sand
where were you
last ocean’s night
Skin a pacific blue
Nailbeds white
like seashells;
How many
clocks might prove
these palms
gold anew?
Let these salt lines
reveal the killer
who’d choose
fickle waters
for your tomb.
Bones of Pittsburgh
by Ruth Rouff
The docent at the Carnegie Museum
told us she was 91. “A dinosaur
among dinosaurs,” she laughed.
She knew a lot about the displays,
which ones were real and which
were casts, where the T-Rex was
found and how. She was glad to
be of use to visitors. Satisfying
curiosity made her lively.
When I was a kid, I read In the Days
of the Dinosaurs and wanted to
dig up the creatures. I never did,
but my biologist cousin, who I was
visiting, opined that the occupation
isn’t so glamorous. She was probably
right: years spent scraping the dirt
of ages off bones would have been
too physical. The knees already
creaking, I’d have been crippled
by now.
So my new goal is simply to be of
use ‘til I’m ancient, like the feisty
old docent. Alive in the waves of
visitors, knowledgeable among
the bones.
***The Bounties of Summer
by Jake Been
Medium: Oil on Canvas
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***What I Wouldn’t Do
by Angela Townsend
I wake up with the heels of my hands rough. I tell myself they must have been doing something I wouldn’t do. They have befriended asphalt in the interest of a handstand. They have kneaded maraschinos into stollen for all the hungry cousins. They have established contact with bark and soil, and high-fived their ancestors on the barefoot walk home.
This is a better explanation than my inability to remember lotion. I have inherited my grandfather’s skin, parched as a Saltine. He was diligent about petrolatum, dabbing his palms and sleeping in white gloves that made him look like Mickey Mouse. But I forget, and I dream.
I do not make a practice of telling people what I wouldn’t do. I prefer they know how much I would do. I wouldn’t use the word “camp” as a verb. I wouldn’t trust my insulin pump to keep my glucose civilized on a hike. I wouldn’t blame you if you called me prissy and precise and prescribed dirt and carbohydrates. I wouldn’t be able to stick with that program.
I would watch with you ‘til morning when you are numb. I would respond to your terse SOS with cavalry paragraphs. I would do hand-to-hand combat with language until it surrenders a lantern. I would not know what to do with a lasagna pan. I would summon superstrata of syntax to spill what I overheard the seraphs say about you.
I know where I am soft. I cocoon behind a keyboard. My autoimmune issues invite their in-laws and attorneys to play Twister and Battleship in my belly. A congregation of compulsions holds a hymn-sing in my rafters. I would not know how to unravel the lanyard between my body and my brain. I need to be safe, and I want to feel safe, and they are not the same.
But there is some bravery left in these hands, free though they are of soil and flour. I would shimmy to the last leaf of a lunatic limb to tell you of your majesty. I have scars from unrequited rhapsodies. I am not afraid to acquire more. I attempt world records of reassurance. I kiss bruises with open parentheses.
I type one hundred words a minute. I would like everyone to memorize the poems hidden under utility bills and sesame seeds. I would like everyone to know they are worth more than prose.
I have constellations of scars on my fingertips from all the blood tests. They touch down on the keyboard. They dispatch comets with wagging tails, impatient to leak that your story ends well.
I always write back. There is strong WiFi in my pupa. I would not cross my arms. If I ever loved you, I would not wash my hands. I would find ways to feed you even under cover of dreams.
Under it All
by Lori Levy
It’s mud we need.
Knees on the ground,
we squeeze and scoop and shape it.
Mud we need, cool and thick,
up to our ankles. Bare feet
among roots and stones.
Mud to track our world,
splattering as we go . . . Reckless
we race to smear it on others,
soiling what’s clean.
Feeling better than, smarter than—
a little water, a little earth
clenched in our fists.
LIFE IN THE GRAVEYARDS
by Jessica Khailo
So often, I’m searching for life in the graveyards. Maybe some ladybugs crawling over mountains of marble and metal plaques on their way to finding each other. A concrete angel gazes down at a jumping spider, crawling her ladder to heaven, whispering in her bended ear secrets he heard from his sensitive feet of rumblings below—the vibrations through his belly, the earthquakes we cause with our shaking and breaking to pieces. Our ladders go down. They go home.
The fields are full of brightly colored polyester and plastic flowers. Bees buzz toward their centers and quickly move on to the next, still hungry for the sweetness of lilies and roses. If we can’t be a frog or a serpent, those eternal flowers will starve us all eventually. They get to stay young, though soiled and faded. They get to stay young, but you didn’t. I can’t see who you are now or know what strange bodies are molding the odd, collapsing, shape of your new form. As if we could ever keep from becoming, one way or another. Is this what it feels like, immortality?
Dirt
by Noah Soltau
I wake up and scrape myself
Out from under god’s fingernails
Taste death in my mouth and feel
The great shift and spiral of becoming
Bashō watches cicadas in the garden
As my father sets a yellow jacket nest on fire
With gasoline and a hoot
The tomatoes and cucumbers rot on the vine
This and every summer a gardener
Not equal to the task
But in the other room small sounds
An awakening a quickening a need
That I can tend to attune to attend to
Hope
by Stephanie Paterson
Medium: Photography
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Mud on Their Faces, Pride in Our Hearts
by Manuel Alonzo Jr.
You’ve got mud on your face, you big disgrace,
But I see the strength, the grit, the grace.
Early mornings, before the sun’s golden embrace,
Blue-collar heroes, ready for the race.
The farmer, hands calloused and worn,
Tends the fields from early morn.
Silt and loam beneath his nails,
Feeding the world, through storms and hails.
The construction worker, high on the beam,
Building our cities, brick by dream.
Chalk and sand, dust in her lungs,
Creating the future, with every roof hung.
The nurse, on feet that never rest,
Sweat and toil, giving his best.
Scrubs soaked through, exhaustion’s trace,
Caring for others, in every place.
The mechanic, grease under her nails,
Fixing our cars, through heat and gales.
Oil and grime, like war paint on her face,
Keeping us moving, at a steady pace.
The landscaper, with peat and mud,
Shaping the earth, where flowers bud.
With his hands in the soil, like an artist’s brush,
Crafting beauty, with a gentle hush.
The custodian, mop in hand,
Cleaning our messes, across the land.
Grime on her shirt, pride in her stride,
Making our spaces, a place to reside.
These are the heroes, unsung and true,
Covered in dirt, but noble through and through.
Mud on their faces, but not a disgrace,
For in their labor, we find our place.
Dirt as life, dirt as death,
In every breath, they savor the soil’s breath.
Grime that clings, the stains that stay,
Badges of honor, worn day by day.
They’ll die dirty, but with pride intact,
For every speck of dirt, a story packed.
Ingesting the soil, the dust, the grime,
Their legacy etched, through the sands of time.
To the workers, whose hands shape our lives,
In the mud and the muck, they come alive.
With every stain, a story to tell,
Of hard work, of honor, of doing well.
For in the dust and grime, their legacies sown,
Through toil and sweat, their honor is shown.
You’ve got mud on your face, but wear it with pride,
For in your labor, our dreams reside.
The wolf that cried mother
By Isobel Burke
when i was a girl i was
dirty feet and scraped knuckles.
i was born in winter chill
when the ground is hard, spent
every waking moment waiting
for the thaw
to dig my nails into the soil.
i was raised in the woods
despite the rain and never once
considered there might be
a bigger threat than
me.
girls should have clean hands
and be afraid of beasts that creep
through trees, prowling after
dark. girls should never stray far
from home.
when i was a girl i was
sharp teeth and barbed tongue.
i was raised to know better
than to speak so freely, learned
to move my limbs like a
marionette.
i learned to fear the beasts
in the woods with dark eyes
and dirty paws.
when i met a man
in the woods and i called him
a wolf.
girls should have soft words
and be afraid of wolves that lurk
in the woods, starving for fresh
blood. girls should never try to
fight back.
when my mother was a girl
freckles stuck to her face like
mud and her matted jacobean hair
caught in branches so she
cut it off.
she was born in warmth
and thought the sun never set
until the day he plucked it
from the sky
and my mother learned
to be afraid.
girls should have mothers
and never fend for themselves,
but not every glass that breaks
can be replaced and often
cracks run deep.
when i was a girl i was
dirty paws and bloody teeth.
i was born in winter chill,
smallest of the litter, so i
learned to fend for myself.
when i met a man in the woods
i mistook him for a wolf so i
ate him whole
and when i tasted my mother’s
flesh on his tongue i understood
her for the first time and
wept at the moon.
Bison Wallowing
by Terri Michels
Medium: Photography
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Dust
Bath
Dry dirt
Wallowing
Rolling side to side
Cooling off, deter biting flies
Shedding of winter coat or showing male dominance
Playing, forming group cohesion
Spring, summer or fall
Wallowing
Bison
Bath
Joy
Cloudy Heights
by Joshua Colon
Medium: Photography
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Planting Instructions
by A. J. Frantz
I wish I could be deadheaded like a flower.
Cut off the parts that no longer help me grow,
the wilted and decayed, conserving energy
for those thin stalks and new leaves.
Place me in sun-graced soil
and watch me bloom
on a fragrant spring day
when the world is born again.
Growth, Death
by Andrea Wagner
I had to bury you:
You useless lump, agonizing,
Reliving the same day.
My hands stain from the digging,
But if I didn’t dig deep enough,
Your limbs would peek through.
I covered your mouth with my hand,
Though light never left your eyes,
As if it was never there at all.
I had to bury you:
You, who eats at my vitality,
A hungry thing, a dying thing.
I spread dirt like ash,
Kneel prayers for your departure,
Squeeze anguish back like bile.
Don’t come back.
If you love me, don’t come back
Unless hope unfurls its tiny-fisted blossom.
From the Dirt We Rise
by Manuel Alonzo Jr.
As a kid, surgeries at Shriners were my norm,
With liquor spewing from his breath, my father would inform,
Reading box scores from the Giants, his voice a slur,
In those moments, baseball dreams would stir.
Two older brothers, twins on the field,
I’d watch their games, my heart unsealed.
Infield dirt swirling in the San Francisco wind,
Dreaming of the day I’d join in.
The scent of wet dirt before the game,
Turns to a funk, never quite the same.
Sliding headfirst, tasting the earth,
In those gritty moments, I found my worth.
Each failure, a lesson, each stumble, a chance,
To pick myself up, to join the dance.
The dirt on my uniform, stains that remain,
Are badges of honor, marks of the pain.
The play at the plate, dust in the air,
Waiting for the call, hearts laid bare.
The umpire’s hand, raised high, then down,
“Out!” he declares, my dreams momentarily drown.
But in that dust, as it settles and clears,
I find my resolve, I conquer my fears.
To rise again, to evolve and grow,
For in every setback, new strengths show.
The lessons learned on the baseball field,
Helped me navigate challenges, my fate sealed.
Integrated into public school, I stood tall,
Dusting myself off after every fall.
For those who get up, who never relent,
Are given new chances, time well spent.
In baseball, as in life, the game goes on,
With each new inning, a new dawn.
So embrace the dirt, let it tell your tale,
Of battles fought, of times you did not fail.
For in the dust and grime, true stories are spun,
In baseball, as in life, the journey’s never done.
Proud
by Cori Matusow
Medium: Photography
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Lazarus Immortal
by Schuyler Becker
I dig myself
every dawn
Life was never
but never to be
Air fills my lungs
Dirt lines my palms
To look in the
and say
And I rise again
up from the earth
and toll between
said to be easy
futile
to speak
to speak for me
eyes of another
I can suffer too
with my ounce of hope
Just
by Zoe Davis
Just
call me Azrael
I am assuming you are concerned as to how you got here?
If I may confide with you a minute
I do not wish to waste your time
so am I.
I will tell you a secret.
Underneath it all
dirt.
It binds us all. See,
from it I plucked you
into it I laid you down
a handful of it
my legacy, birthed.
The same fear, I note
reflecting in your eyes
they are no longer eyes but gates to the cosmos
resided in my own
once, when I was fair
and not so grim.
I have been told that a smile is welcome.
Does this suit?
I am just bone
just as you were
just as you are
infinite.
Let me take you away from the Earth.
Let it become so small beneath you.
Soar, as I once did.
I will remain
here, I will sieve your hair though ancient hands
watch you crumble into stars
remind me
of a beautiful mistake.
My love was buried
by Liz Jakimow
My love was traded for ashes,
spread on the river, next to
his parents’ memorial, where we had
swapped stories and sadness,
never knowing he was next.
My love was ground into dust,
reduced to a cloud of memories,
each one alone inconsequential,
but en masse caught the light
like a sign from heaven,
making me smile and making me cry.
My love was buried in dirt,
deep at the bottom of the river floor,
nibbled by fish and covered in sediment,
encased in a wooden turtle, signed with
words that never said enough.
One life ended, one heart drowned.
My love was planted in earth,
Where nothing is wasted, only changed.
Bodies may die, but love does not.
It sends down roots deep into the heart,
and emerges from darkness, ripened
and ready for transformation.
Wolf Shadow in Dirt
by Terry Brinkman
Medium: Acrylic on recycled board
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Moleology
by Di Slaney
*Talpa Europaea begins excavation work at Manor Farm, Bilsthorpe
She’s hired me to do this job
and when I say I’ll do something,
it gets done. Look at all these knobs,
how much I’ve dug so far, singing
my happy song of mole at work,
I am a mole and I’m living
in a hole, never shirking,
always working, shovelbusybusy
leafdrop through to buds, my quirks
of conformation clawflatwhizzy
buckets pushing pushing topsoil,
worms, roots, all of it, upup out. Is he
really capable of careful toil?
I heard him ask her, I hear so many
things through this dirt. I won’t spoil
what I uncover for her, antennae
on my nosetailbelly vibrofeel
the things before I hit them, pennies,
pots, beads, bones, arrowheads, wheel
bolts, brooches, stones with carvings, stones
without, amber, jet, silver, even gold. I won’t steal
or eat this stuff – what good is it to mole who owns
the siltwarmheart of earth? All my horizons layer
before me, I need nothing more than cones
of loam and wigglebugs to feed my prayers,
build up stocks for frosttimes in my nest.
I don’t question when or why – my payer
has the burden of the past to carry, stressed
by a hunger for before exceeding any appetite
for worms. She’s never called me pest,
never trapgassmoked me into flight,
kept me here to use my skills to best effect
and I admire her for that, she had to fight
him not to frighten me away. I can detect
much more than fragments in the ground.
From feet above I know who will protect
and who destroys, it ripples overthrough me like a sound,
something bleak that stains the brown beyond the rift
of objects waiting to be found, these mounds
of rubbish spewing back to light, a mole’s recycled gifts.
*At an archaeological dig in Denmark in 2015, moles helped uncover pottery and other items. Archaeologist Jesper Hjermind called the technique "moleology", which had the significant benefit of not damaging the historical mounds in bringing finds to the surface.
Ring o’ Roses
by Zoe Davis
Poppies slick a pavement scar
acne pushed through concrete skin
revenants to sway again.
Old Meadows remembered as road names
each lamppost drooping gravestone
graffitied with hands of uncunning worth.
I’d rather see this fight you: root strong seething to headbutt daylight and scream
I am here still breathing
still beating gasping petal breaths.
The feet of cars
the wheels of people
will soon pulp the universe
winner snatching the greenbelt
we all know
they never truly fought for.
Dirt Castles (Road Cut)
by John Laue
Medium: Photography
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