Poetry

Marianne Worthington

Strings
The Unclouded Day

Rita Quillen

Winter Aubade From The Mad Farmer’s Wife
Poet’s Pantoum

Brooke Drinnon

At the Downtown
Passengers of the Clinch—A History
Sisters in Spring

Larry Thacker

Shuddering

Joshua Dodson

Winter Bridge
Untitled

Debora Short

An Orchestra’s Score-less Page

Nicole Golden

Mountains


Nicole Golden

 Mountains

‘There’s something in that mountain,’
Claims my uncle, sitting on the living room piano bench.
‘Yes, there’s something in that mountain,’
The words repeat in my mind,
Some presence waiting, watching from its greenery filled den.
It is felt, rocking on that old porch
In those old chairs where my grandparents sat,
Great-grandparents sat, looking back into those hills,
‘Til they could look no more.

I stand, hands on the railing, watching also,
Staring out from the porch of the now empty house
Into the woods beyond.
The wind blows through
Caressing my face and I know it’s true
As strongly as I know the cold on my fingertips.
There’s a soul to these hills
Its backdrop painted with the sweat of generations, 

Coal dust, rocky soil,
Covering hands,
And faces,
And whole bodies.
They are the palettes for the reverberations
That color this place.

But as my eyes continue to peer
Into the darkness of the hills
I feel a chill,
And a wave of unsettling knowledge washes my calm away.
As I stare out they stare back,
Sharp eyes piercing mine through the distance,
And I find that blood covers those bodies as well,
Tears and Blood to rip a heart asunder.
I step away from the railing and I know now what they mean,
That yes,
There’s something in those mountains.