The Brevity of Oneness

I’ve been thinking a lot about the connection, and disconnection of our bodies and spirits. This poem further explores this thought; writing this poem really expanded my mind past the bounds of societal constraints on human anatomy, and into the realm of spiritual curiosity in relation to my earth-standing self.

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The Brevity of Oneness

by Regan Smith

• • •

I know that my soul is separate
from my body,
for there are times where my body continues
to move, continues to breathe

but my soul is three steps removed,
overlooking this body
from a bird’s eye view.

It controls this drone of
legs and arms and eyes
moving it’s gaze from
left to right,
to smile at a stranger,
and the footing’s next step

but my feelings are
locked and sprouted within this soul,
detached
from the bones and muscles.

I wonder if my body
and soul will every marry,
for they’ve been separate for
quite some time,
allowing the brevity of oneness,
for the duration of a dance,
for my mother’s embrace,
for the exhilarating
jump from plane high–
temporarily united
as we soar through air,
falling through clouds,
occupying the space
that’s only meant for
the amakihi,
the white-tailed tropicbird,
the golden plover.

My body gets bathed,
but my soul can still hold shame.

My spirit can be filled,
and overflowing,
yet the peach figure I see,
is in languish with night
still ringing around her eyes.

And I know that my body,
will fall to the earth,
decompose and wrap itself with
the roots,

but my soul will soar,
for it has shed its weight,
and reunited with the
totality of eternity.

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Photography by Farrah Emami.

End Still

I wrote this poem late last year, during a time where the hurt from family health issues weighed heavy on my heart. It was birthed out of the need to process, pen to paper, the hurt but recognizing that beauty still survives and thrives around us. That sometimes the best healing is staying in stillness. The photo that Farrah paired together brought me to tears. It reminded me of this once again - that everything is temporary, but the bird’s song still sings.

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End Still

By Regan Smith

• • •

The fall birds congregate in the trees,
greatly outnumbering the barely-shaken leaves.

Their rainstick roar
reminds me that everything is temporary,
nothing is fixed—
and that observing holds a special freedom.

The air is so beautiful here.

Stay still, saturate,
and hear their song.

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Photography by Farrah Emami.

That Consistent Question

Writing without rules or constraints from even punctuation, this way of the pen offers a clear channel from mind to paper, without any hinderances. This stream of consciousness uncovers my vocation.

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That Consistent Question

By Regan Smith

• • •

I pose the question that I’ve asked my mirror reflection for the past decade am I happy with what I have become when I was sixteen I whispered in the night that I wouldn’t make my twenty-first birthday due to the death of my own hand whether that was an overdose of substance or overdose of the absence of food or the overdose of dark thoughts causing my own undoing but I am standing here strong and tall learning each day to love the bones and body I was born into knowing that I was created for a purpose with this moment held sacred and close to my heart and I can say with confidence that I’m happy with what I have become a life alive with breathing lungs that lose breath from laughter with arms that hold those I love and a voice that declares freedom and breakthrough and words that I can share with another sixteen year old girl that whispers to herself in the night

Past & Present Pull

A very recent and honest poem for you, dear reader.

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Past & Present Pull

by Regan Smith

• • •

I’ve been feeling off balance lately, 
pieces of my mind scattered across the long ago. 

My summer skin warmed by the afternoon sun, 
beneath a butternut tree, 
it’s beautiful in this place I call home, 
though I’m trying to recollect parts of my mind; 
some subconsciously fastened to the past, 
where I try to pull and pry them back into 
the present’s possession. 

But I know
I must let my hands lay limp; 
grow into this new scene; 
I don’t need to have my whole 
life together in a moment, 
not every word needs to be
perfectly placed; sometimes
life looks like a string of stuttered words. 

I share compassion for others, 
but find that I rarely give myself
breathing room or space, 
that I crave control; 
but that’s not what will 
bring me to totality. 

Stress fractures have shown a 
break in my foundation
from placing too much weight on 
myself and myself alone, 
mixing today’s fruit with yesterday’s, 
spoiling it all. 

But I will begin again, 
starting a new season with 
no ties to yesteryear, 
beginning with a prayer
beneath this butternut tree.

Equinox

A short and sweet poem by Mark J. Mitchell pours out feelings of familiarity. It swells in my mind, allowing me to look out towards the horizon and reflect on how I spend my days, hours, minutes.

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Equinox

By Mark J. Mitchell

• • •

Nostalgia rains across split light.
Days drop to one side or the other
like rivers divided by a ridge.

Evening hovers beyond the gate.
It will finally arrive once
you’ve spent blinding hours looking west.

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Mark J. Mitchell’s latest novel, The Magic War is published by Loose Leaves Publishing. He studied writing at UC Santa Cruz under Raymond Carver and George Hitchcock. His work has appeared in the several anthologies and hundreds of periodicals. Three of his chapbooks— Three Visitors, Lent, 1999, and Artifacts and Relics—and the novel, Knight Prisoner are available. He lives with his wife, the activist Joan Juster and makes a living pointing out pretty things in San Francisco.

Photography by Farrah Emami.

Voices

I wanted to try my hand at some digital illustration and experiment with free verse. This poem is inspired by what manifests in my mind, a mess of beauty, darkness, and ultimately the light that brings contrast. It’s as though thoughts and experiences evaporate, condensing to clouds and expel rain in the form of dripping ink. This piece is titled, Voices.

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Voices

by Regan Smith