Second Home

I’ve been thinking about the connection between the mind, the body and ultimately its relation to our soul; I’m trying to make sense of their overlap, of the space that lives between them.

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Second Home

by Regan Smith

• • •

My mind has vacated, withdrawing up into the sky, to watch the world as a spectator; 
as the rain pours onto the earth below, I meditate in the heavy haze. 

Lungs lined with dew, skin saturated like petals in the morning; 
the bottom of my feet are met with sure footing by the absence, freedom found at this elevation. 

And as my body settles back with gravity, I steal a slice of this space, 
holding a reality that surpasses a daydream.

---

Photography is by Farrah Emami.

Perhaps Tomorrow

Perhaps Tomorrow is a poem with intentionality laced within its contents. The paired photograph portrays an ethereal nostalgia; I truly believe the power of poetry and photography can bring forth emotion in such a unique way. Join me in welcoming Lou to the Introspective Collective guest author community, with this stunning work.

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Perhaps Tomorrow

By Lou Faber

• • •

Perhaps
tomorrow will be the day
when on stepping
out of bed
I will step out
of my body.
I will go into
the garden and pick
a chrysanthemum,
two daylilies, two 
or three Echinacea,
and odd bits
of reed and green.
I will take my ikebana dish
and stare at it
imagine each flower
just so, or so, or so.
Only when they
sing in harmony
do I place them
into the dish,
and step back
into my body.
I hear the garden
mourn the missing
blooms as I
remember my faded
childhood and walk
off toward noon.

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Louis Faber is a poet and retired attorney and college literature teacher, residing in Rochester, New York and Coconut Creek, Florida.  His work has previously appeared in Exquisite Corpse, Rattle, Cold Mountain Review, Eureka Literary Magazine, among many others, and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.  His book of poetry, The Right to Depart, was published by Plain View Press. He blogs daily at https://anoldwriter.com.

Photography is by Farrah Emami.

Northern Lights Over Yellowknife

Adrian Slonaker uses imagery and diction in a way that evokes an intimate experience with nature, particularly the Aurora Borealis. Reading this poem has me eager to plan a high-latitude excursion to catch this poetry play out in person. Let’s welcome Adrian and this beautiful piece to the Introspective Collective community + collection.

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Northern Lights Over Yellowknife

by Adrian Slonaker

• • •

Dazzling, zigzagging zests
of pearly-soft seafoam green, gracing
the homecoming of starlit blue-blackness
after its estival escape,
vibrating through shivery September air
over the delicious undulating dances of
the Great Slave Lake flirting with
defiantly rough noses, teeth and fingers of rock,
the pride of the Canadian Shield,
and more poplars and birches and willows than could be counted
in a score of tortoise's lifetimes.

---

Zigzagging back and forth across the Canadian/US border, Adrian Slonaker works as a copywriter and copy editor and enjoys folk music, elderflower soda, spicy food challenges, wrestling and vintage suspense films. Adrian's work has been nominated for Best of the Net and has appeared in Pangolin Review, Aerodrome, and others.

Columbus

Ricky and I transitioned back to Ohio, two days ago, after living in Nashville for almost four years. We left with nothing but gratitude for Nashville, and it forever has a piece of our heart. Now in Columbus, my mind’s capacity is filled with the current day, this current joy. I’m so thankful for this place–my once called home, now called home again.

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Columbus

By Regan Smith

• • •

Columbus met me
with full yellow blooms
and weepy grey skies.

She was once my patient mother,
when I had first arrived,
and called her my home
six years ago.

She was gentle,
stroked my hair,
let me cry as I
healed from hurt,
and purely listened.

She watched me
get married,
taught me how
to steady my lifestyle,
and would sing me
lullabies in the thick
of the forest bed.

She let me leave,
sending me with
nothing but love.

During my absence,
I learned discipline,
firm teaching that
truth and love
should never be
untwined; rewarded
with strength and
responsibility.

And now,
four years later,
I cross state lines,
landing back in
my mother’s arms.

And while she’s
thankful I’m coming
home, she knows that
I’m not returning solely
as a daughter,
rather a mother myself.

I’ve fallen pregnant
with dreams and visions,
the beginning of a
lineage that will stretch
across the world;
and now I wait patiently
to give birth, saying
a prayer every morning,
preparing my mind
and my home.

And again, she’s gentle,
as I ask how to nurse and
nurture these newborn
dreams that will
come to fruition,
and take full form.

Moment Amassing

Lately, my mind had been clouded–both with wonderful ventures and stressful circumstances. I’m doing my best to hold both with intentionality, whether I’m neck deep in house-showing preparations or on top of San Francisco’s Bernal Heights.

Tomorrow, I know that these moments will pass. I’ll be left with the memory, a lesson, and a greater thankfulness for the day that is before me.

---

Moment Amassing

by Regan Smith

• • •

I collect memories,
facts, figures, songs–
storing them safely
in poetry.

I take the scene,
ambling in this atmospheric
slice of span,
and place my pen to paper
transcribing the moment,
to save my mind some space.

Self's Reflection

In light of the Morning Air, Morning Light book sale, I wanted to share a couple poems. These poems can be found on opposite ends of the collection. I often tell friends and readers that the story of redemption found within Morning Air, Morning Light wasn’t a one-time occurrence. I continuously go through cycles of the darkness of Nightfall, and the glory of the final chapter.

These poems reflect my struggle with self-acceptance. It’s not something that I have fully conquered, rather a healing process that gets better daily, with minor relapses. I’m still learning how to wholly and fully accept and love myself. I think I’ll be forever be a student to self-acceptance–digging into deeper and deeper levels of this self-love, seeing myself through the eyes of my Creator.

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At least once a day

Hypersensitive, 
with every mirror, 
I stand in front of myself, 
staring eye-to-eye, 
mind racing rapidly–
its prominence paralyzes my physical being.

Slumped over, sunken eyes, 
lips slightly open.

Seeing this face, it isn’t my own–
cheekbones pronounced, they lost their color– 
which echoes the void in my voice.  

Eyes embody the outline of my pupil; 
they don’t smile anymore. 

Hair on the floor, 
and collecting between my fingers– 
short, brittle nails, 
bitten to mask their cracks. 

Tiny arms, too wide, 
I don’t remember a realistic size. 

Wondering how the wood would frame my face, 
or what color velvet, would match this
pale skin, hollow mind.

• • •

Breathing Spell

I catch my visual echo.

My eyes slowly scan a tired,  
yet trying, face.  

The in-between. 

Midnight hair, daylight skin. 

A balance, 
tipping at the weight of emotion. 

 But feelings are fleeting, 
and right now does not last forever. 

I can force the proportion to lean into progression–
if I keep trying, 
identifying and extracting, 
an endless pursuit. 

A pinch of peach, returning to my cheeks.

I bridge between this duplicate of my being–
as foreign as an old photo. 

Resemblances begin to arise. 

I remember these eyes, 
lining of my face, 
fuller hair.

I am slowly slipping into my skin, 
rather than an onlooker’s third-party perspective. 

I rub my hands together, 
hearing the gentle friction
of palm-between-palm. 

My skin, my body, 
a temple.

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If you haven’t yet picked up your copy of Morning Air, Morning Light, it’s currently on sale for $10 w/ free shipping (and comes signed and with a Morning Air, Morning Light bookmark)! This sale ends 6/1 but you can order your copy here. If you’re local to Nashville, I’d love to hand-deliver!

If you have read Morning Air, Morning Light please leave a review on Amazon or Goodreads!