Memories that Wander

Recalling a melodious pitch,
or forms of movement, thus
Swarms of creatures the mind adventures,
the swooning of the thrush

And while I beckon hitherto
ineffable thoughts I ponder:
the motive of a person’s word and deed
when that one says, what’s wrong dear?

Further, have I not known
the brilliance of mind on earth
The one that makes me move in glory,
and relinquish undue search?

If not, I will declare
I must continue onward
And love that which is from above—
those objects and things we ponder

Memories that wander
stay of place in some sweet nexus
a taste of pondering eminence
a taste of Nature’s Sexes
And while I sit, I wait
for Heaven’s inspiration
to be greater than the vile amorous
to rejoice in my long sation

Memories that wander
stay of place in some sweet nexus.


Lance Gracy


Lance Heath Gracy is a retired infantry Marine, current graduate student, teacher, and tutor. He received his B.A. in philosophy from the University of the Incarnate Word, and has published there in the local literary arts journal. He is in pursuit of an M.A. in philosophy from the University of Texas-San Antonio. He has a passion for evangelizing truth through various means, but has an interest writing poetry in particular. He lives alone with his German Shepherd, named Dennis, and enjoys reading, studying, running, gardening, and time with fellows.

Lucid Lucy Lululy

She had plugged

The holes atop

Her head with hair

To keep the brains

From knowing there

Was more to life

Than dark and matted skull.

But if she’d once

Considered the cold

Bare fish tail strands

A-dangling exposed

To brushes, combs,

Hot water, wind,

Men’s clutch, she’d

Maybe not have shrieked

When all the hairs

Sunk down to sub-

Skull, crowded round

Her thoughts, coiled

Tight – for warmth –

And lit a fire; set in.

The smoke, an alabaster

Hue – burnt bone?

That smoggy ouster –

Shrouded baldened

Skin, and left

An airborne trail

Like bread crumbs

For the damned

Behind her head

Where all she went then on.

Rebecca White


Rebecca White is a journalist based in New York City. She is a frequent contributor to The New York Times. Her poetry is as of yet unpublished. Rebecca’s poems reflect both her personal experiences and the experiences of those who have shared their stories with her. Much of her work focuses on protest, pain, and power.




Another of my father’s dense metal hand tools


That he’d never find or use again

once we took them from the shed.


That caught the exact size of things

by reach, touch, sight —

not needing inches and eighths

or arid calculation.


That turned perfect circles without

even trying.


That had a not-so-well-oiled joint

twisting between two sharp points, important

only in how far one was from the other.


That my brother and I blunted

by spiking it into rocky dirt and tree trunks

while almost always missing the

tiny, half rotten backyard apples

we aimed to impale.


That, after an unmeasured arc,

stuck, for a moment, just above my knee.


Lee W. Potts


Lee W. Potts has an MA in creative writing from Temple University and is a former editor of the Painted Bride Quarterly. His work has appeared in The South Street Star, Gargoyle, The Sun, and The Painted Bride Quarterly. He lives just outside of Philadelphia.