Issue 3
Contributors
- Aaron Hampton – Haiku Poetry
- Joel Schroeder – Poetry
- Edwin Vasquez – Photography
- Heidi Anne | Nienna
We are not the first to stand under these stars or look up at the blue day-sky masking them. We are not the first to stand on the foothills of this mountain. There was a time before our time. There will be a time after our time.
“Time”
by Aaron Hampton
Wind eroding stone
Becoming fine grains of sand
Settling in dunes
“Veins”
by Aaron Hampton
Canyons filled with snow
They hold the frozen life-blood
Of the valley floor
Aaron Hampton
I’m a hotel clerk and I write in a few blogs. I’m an avid fan of the outdoors, good coffee, craft beer, and experiences that make for good stories. I’m a man with a lot of thoughts, and I’m not entirely sure how to convey them all.
Check out more of his writing at Caffeine and Confusion https://caffeineandconfusionajh.blogspot.com/2019/01/the-best-part-of-waking-up.html
Beat, Beat
by Joel Schroeder
beat, beat.
beat, beat.
heart filling, mind willing, soul stilling
b e a t b e a t .
b e a t b e a t .
i can smell you in the flowers
mountain towers
rain showers.
b e a t b e a t .
b e a t b e a t .
eyes are straining
lips complaining
teeth impaling
b e a t b e a t .
b e a t b e a t .
breath giving up
life teeming, sup
upon the food so filling, fat and marrow, straight or narrow, let it go down, let it simmer, muscles failing, fatness thinner, strongest trees yet now are splinters, summer runs down into
winter
b e a t b e a t .
b e a t b e a t .
call
out toward the atmosphere, fear no one will hear wait
just wait
until
b e a t b e a t .
b e a t b e a t .
what was it tha’ worried you so, responding despondently, friends will be foes and
think
drink
sink
inevitable, time will show
time won’t slow
hearts will go
back where they started
to dust
b e a t b e a t .
b e a t b e a t .
you won’t be there when you die. cry, cry, but you won’t be there when you die
such is life, such is strife, moaning, flowing, flower, knife,
and there it is, that despondence, apathetic, always promise never do, don’t, click, bang, chaos
breaking metre, hands and feet are
unapologetic
ly
gang
ly
tangling up
a beautiful bow of chaos wrapping up the present vain-glor-y, open up and see
vapor
paper
flames lick higher
mire
muck
stuck stuck stuck stuck stuck stuck stuck
b e a t b e a t .
b e a t b e a t .
burst
through the dust of garden floor, leafs of others’ rotting gore, dire, gimbling in the wabe, undergoing groaning strain and seep
see the corporeal unprinted stories, leaping lifeless through our poe’try, leaps and bounds resounding nouns heaping upheaving receiving resound, uproarious, glorious, under the shroud a man a husk a duskless day burning down to numbed phalanges, phalanx, phoenix, up rebounding
resounding joy
it’s a boy
life, oh child, you will know
b e a t b e a t .
b e a t b e a t .
utterless, brotherless, silently betrothed to lifeless lover who wriggles and moans
upstanding or base? soul and face he wish es he could have done bet ter but no
one
cares
like a fish looking upward to the sky it had seen
through water, the potter encased in his clay
wishes are granted, no look, gifts recanted
refused on a basis of pride and fair play
he’ll break through this husk at the end of the day
only. he’d. known. that. it. all. ends. today.
b e a t b e a t .
b e a t b e a t .
tonight, as the straightjacket wrapped ‘round his heart
is tightened to bleeding and screaming and
hush
the silence will ravish his fraim like a storm, his limbs listlessly lying by torso now torn, the deafing madness of morals, his thorn, has stripped his integrity, his mask has been shorn
the jackals! the jackals! those heathens, he scorns, he hates them, he knows, he’s sure that he’s more
than them
but why
does it
asphyx
iate
his soul?
b e a t b e a t .
b e a t b e a t .
eat
retreat
from these moral quandaries
your heart is still beating, but your soul’s on its knees
begging you please, please, please, please, please, please, please
i want to know pleasure. i need some release
so ease
tease
appease
pleasure unhindered and limitless greed, feast with your features, scatter your seed
copulate
populate
fill up the earth
with hatred and love and sorrow and mirth
remembrance, alzheimers, balance and guts
utopia, dopamine, children, and lust
and gardens and houses and cities and trees
and butter and honey and candy and leeks
and hunger and pover’ty, kindness and meekness
and better and better and better it be
and better and better and better it be
it can work.
it can work.
it can work.
it can .
click
bang
again and again
revolving, devolving, revolution revolts
depraved, misbehaved, stubborn insolent goats
hacking each other to pieces it seems
that a hideous nightmare has been birthed from this dream
a garden
a pardon
a promise
a stone
but what’s in-between
does anyone know
b e a t b e a t .
b e a t b e a t .
look here
eat here
isn’t it great
the food is stupendous
that movie was great
i can’t wait for the next one and then
another and then
another and then
and weeks pass and months pass and years pass and then
what’s after then
what’s after then
is it next week, next summer, next love-wed-chil-dren
meaning is when
meaning is when
it’s my truth it’s your truth it’s our truth it’s not
not anything anyone anythought but
why do you think that you have the time
for stupid debates, composition of rhyme
building of kingdoms, of name, fame, and pride
the children have died
the children have died
look at this horrible, heartwrenching, bloodthirsty thing
that’s happening three thousand miles away
how morbid
how evil
how awful
how sad
isn’t it nice how anything bad
doesn’t happen right here, in the u s of a
where we can be gay
straight or bipolar or anxious or stressed
addicted, committed, acquitted, on meth
the land of the free and the home of the brave
surely our nation never shall cave
isn’t it awful
and isn’t it neat
how this thing and this thing and this thing repeat
around in a circle, an orbit of thoughts
distracting us all from inevitable loss
of family of fortune of morals of all
we value and cherish but look!
they’re hitting a ball
and one point
and two points
and what point
are you
trying
to get
a cross
with
b e a t b e a t .
b e a t b e a t .
each again
the cycle and then
the corporeal heart can take so much garbage
the cycle it goes, the lifeline it flows, and each time around the effort is found
but a little more each time is needed, quite so,
and time will not shut up, stop shouting, won’t stow
away the desire to give up this dance
of chance
forgotten glance
redeeming gleam and glint of gold
is tarnished, unvarnished, in silos of mold
the last real mystery
in this age of discovery
is if you can keep
yourself distracted
with vain information
or projects
or morals
or guilt
for long enough
that your gluttonous heart
can remaining beating
long enough
to die
of old
age
b e a t b e a t .
b e a t b e a t .
there’s something inside reminding us why
not an answer, but merely “why?”
why life
why me
why earth
why “why”
look at it, taste it, decipher it, find
restore it, reform it, regain it, retry
refine it, define it, align it, abide
there
stop glancing, romancing what’s dead
you cadaver-loving freak
b e a t b e a t .
b e a t b e a t .
there’s a why
there’s a why
and the question’s inside
get it out there in the open, decide
respond to despondence, react to repose
there’s order
an answer
it’s out there
i swear
look at it
listen
heart beat
bones swing
musc les
tense breath
gasp nose
twitch eye
op en
mouth taste
stomach hunger
what is under
what is under
what is under
the fabric
of it
all
the mad aimless rushing, the meaningless questions, the distractions, reactions,
the pride and the guilt
here at the base of existence we find
you
and
me
and
YHWH
and
beat
beat
beat
beat
Edwin Vasquez
A prolific, multifaceted artist, who has developed a unique visual language, Edwin Vasquez, offers the Antelope Valley a breath of fresh air with his photography and vibrant mixed-media work. Using mostly recycled materials (including toys, wood panels and chains), Vasquez is able to communicate his ideas, inspirations and frustrations. Vasquez’s work is fearless in its social commentary, using rich forms and colors to provoke passionate responses to his ideas around the environment, waste and human nature. Also, he is a photojournalist, published author, and videographer.
Nienna
Heidi Anne is a writer of tiny poems on Instagram under the pen name Nienna. You can find her on Instagram @niennawrites
We find arrowheads and pass them on to our children, finding them because we’re looking for signs that the world is porous, its walls only a veil between Now and Then, finding them because our hunger for eternity is born with us into this space, feeding us the idea that is itself the hunger for a world of being outside of time, and passing these artifacts on to our children to share this desire, this revelation, this link that escapes our enclosed world, and passing them on so that our door to a future we trust but cannot see is somehow jammed open like a mouth full of noise and hope that it is the noise of ecstasy, resurrection, relief and identification with all these permanent energies – the plain joy of being expressed – through the mother, father, daughter, son, seed, tree, sea tides that surge in every seashell big enough to put to our ear.
Issue 2
Contributors
- Lesley Yadon – Poetry
- Edwin Vasquez – Poetry
- Aaron Hampton – Haiku Poetry
- Triman Rice – Fiction
It’s the pause as you feel your laughter welling up. You’ve seen the smile. You’ve allowed the synapse to snap and the neurochemicals begin to speak with the noise of joy. Without knowing that it was you. Without knowing that the smile was a mirror and the synapse has been asking its question, tucked inside of time in a koala pocket, a marsupial emotion tugging at a pull string to get your attention and make its way out into the light.
“When you let go”
by Lesley Yadon
We both fought for the marriage
and when you let go
fireworks red, green, orange rent the sky
snatching me into another dimension
the landscape gross and grotesque
me a malformed blob.
Until I find myself in a meadow of flowers
growing higher than our knees where,
without warning,
I take root.
Fierce root.
Stretching taller, luscious leaves sprouting
Unrecognizable
to you-
until you catch my gaze
and spark a memory from before. . .
We didn’t want to remember
when our souls agreed
to kindly cause this pain
Fireworks are still flaring
but you are the only one still watching
I am too busy growing.
Lesley is a poet, healer, mother, and flower worshiper who finds inspiration where her deeply experienced emotions and nature intersect. She has lived in Lancaster for the last 11 years.
RAVEN
by Edwin Vasquez
Soar high,
Chase the endless blue sky,
Spread your onyx color wings,
And glide with the gentle breeze,
Over those distant hills covered with purple and orange poppy fields.
In winter mornings of black and grey,
When the clouds are push by the strong Santa Ana winds,
And the tumble weeds roam without direction,
Your wings spans as a Stealth drone,
You mighty Raven fly over Lancaster
Though the desert over the majestic yucca,
And gentle Joshua tree.
Edwin Vasquez
A prolific, multifaceted artist, who has developed a unique visual language, Edwin Vasquez, offers the Antelope Valley a breath of fresh air with his photography and vibrant mixed-media work. Using mostly recycled materials (including toys, wood panels and chains), Vasquez is able to communicate his ideas, inspirations and frustrations. Vasquez’s work is fearless in its social commentary, using rich forms and colors to provoke passionate responses to his ideas around the environment, waste and human nature. Also, he is a photojournalist, published author, and videographer.
Edwin Vasquez, born in Quetzaltenango, Guatemala in 1964.
“Church”
by Aaron Hampton
Desert heat cleanses
Insects sing their holy hymns
With sagebrush incense
“Love”
by Aaron Hampton
A pale, moonlit night
The sweet scent of wildflowers
Embracing shadows
Aaron Hampton
I’m a hotel clerk and I write in a few blogs. I’m an avid fan of the outdoors, good coffee, craft beer, and experiences that make for good stories. I’m a man with a lot of thoughts, and I’m not entirely sure how to convey them all.
It’s the precise instant you begin to see that matter and spirit are less like kissing cousins and more like the tea bag and the tea, a solution made by dissolution, the solid dissolved into the fluid until they are both the same. All there is: spirit matter.
“How Much to Tell”
By Triman Rice
He didn’t need to be robotic in the red box of his second job. But he chose to be. Robotically, Steve stocked shelves and used his scanner gun like an extension of himself. He spoke when spoken to. Smiled when smiled at. Showed up on time. Didn’t take days off. Saved all his energy for talking with his co-workers in the break room. And never talked about himself.
His red polo and khakis outfit was like a more like costume than a uniform -because he was a different person when he put it on. The analogy that seemed to fit best was Iron Man. After thinking on the question for a few hours one day, Steve decided that the Tony Stark/Iron Man comparison was more apt than, say, a Peter Parker/Spider-Man analogy or Bruce Wayne/Batman.
Peter Parker, in a way, was always Spider-Man. He could crawl up walls without his suit. The suit was just a mask he wore. But Stark, like Steve, was completely changed when he put on his suit.
He became not only outwardly robotic, but also changed in some deeper ways. Or, that’s how Steve saw it when he tried to justify this split-personality thing he had going on.
As Robot-Steve, there was no need to wave to people he vaguely recognized from his neighborhood when they happened to come in during his shift. He could maintain a pre-occupied stare as if he hadn’t seen them at all.
As Robot-Steve, the time spent in the red box was not time that he would have liked to be spending elsewhere. Robot-Steve understood the importance of work and had been programmed by regular-Steve to fear the black regions that would open up if his printing business closed.
It wasn’t just debt that marked the black regions. It was years of lost work and the forced-admission that, down to one job, scholarship-winning-English-major Steve, the one with the romantic aspirations and an impulsive streak, had ended up becoming Robot-Steve in the red polo.
*
Tired around the eyes, Steve took a deep breath and pushed back his shoulders. Then he decided to wade in and shake some hands.
Most of the party was in the back yard now. The sun had gone down and left a breeze behind. A group of people nearby stood with beers in hand. Two men and a woman.
“Hi, I’m Steve.”
“Hi, Steve,” the woman said, “I’m Elise and this is Jeremy and Steve.”
“Another Steve?” Steve said.
The second Steve said, “We’re everywhere, aren’t we?”
They all laughed a little and Jeremy took out his phone. The second Steve seemed interested in what Jeremy was doing, so Elise was left holding the bag.
“What do you do?” she asked.
“I run a print shop. T-shirts. Stickers. Posters. Things like that.”
“Does that keep you busy?”
“You could say that.”
This was the moment Steve had been dreading. Explaining to people what it’s like to run a business – even a small one – was always a chore.
But the real twinge in his nerves at this moment came from the fact that he had just taken on a second job. Steve was working at Target on nights and weekends as a way to keep his printing business open.
Elise was smiling a purely social smile and Steve found himself going blank. Should he explain that he was self-employed and that running a business always kept you busy, even when things were slow? Or should share the fact that he’d recently taken a second job to keep the doors of his business open?
Of course, Elise wasn’t asking for Steve’s life story. She was just making conversation.
So he wasn’t going to tell her about the run of Bugs Bunny shirts he’d printed up as a joke with the 90s rapping version of the rabbit, donning a backwards cap and throwing up a peace sign that was out of date even in 1991.
And he wasn’t going to tell her that this conversation seemed to him like stepping in dog shit when you’ve come home with an armload of groceries, you’ve locked the car and there is no where to set down the bags between here and the house. Stuck.
If he didn’t say that he worked at Target and then she saw him there one Sunday morning, she would think he was a liar.
It’s fine to leave things out, but if the things you leave out turn you into a liar, what are you supposed to do? Stuck.
Steve gave up on his inner dialogue and did what he should have done right away.
“What do you do, Elise?”
“Me. I’m in school but I work at Lucky’s.”
Lucky’s was a brew-pub in the industrial part of town.
Steve guessed that Elise was in her late twenties. She wore tight green pants and had a modish haircut. Maybe she was still a hipster. One of the last. An olive tint to her skin somehow made her look a bit younger than she probably actually was. She was what they call a millennial.
Just a two or three years older than Elise, Steve was not a millennial. No one would have pegged him as one. Not when he walked the aisles wearing his red polo shirt at his second job and not when he took orders for wedding invitations at his print shop.
When Steve asked about what Elise was studying she said she was only half-sure that she wanted to study biology.
“Well, it’s the degree that matters most,” he said. “Your major is only really important if you’re going to go to grad school – and even then it might not be important.”
“What do you mean?” she said.
The other Steve had wandered off with Jeremy for refills on beer. Elise looked at Steve now with a mixture of interest and annoyance.
“You know, people just want to see a degree on your resume. When you interview for a job, chances are it won’t be in biology anyway. It’ll be in whatever comes up.”
“I guess so.”
Elise was unconvinced. College for her, like so many people, represented the beginning of a career in a particular field. As an English major running a printing business and working at Target, Steve had let that view of college go. He wasn’t exactly a pragmatist by nature, but he was a person who wanted to see past his own bullshit. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn’t. He couldn’t tell if he was bullshitting now.
*
At the party, Elise had ended up giving Steve her number. He wasn’t sure if this meant the same thing that it used to mean, so he had to call a friend to ask.
“Well, what kind of vibe did she give you? Was she interested?”
“It’s hard to tell,” Steve said.
“Think about it.”
“She wasn’t really flirting or anything,” Steve said.
“Were you?”
“Was I flirting? I think most of the time I don’t know when I’m flirting. It just happens.”
“You’re giving me nothing to go on here, Steve. When a girl gives you her number, it can mean that she wants you to call, which is good. But it could just mean that she won’t mind if you text her sometime to let her know about a party or something, which is also good, because she thinks of you as safe, but safe is not as good as the first thing.”
“People give out their number to anyone these days, don’t they?” Steve said. “Maybe it doesn’t mean anything.”
“Give her a call and see what happens.”
He didn’t call. Then one Sunday morning Elise showed up at Target during one of his shifts. He saw her as she made her way toward the back of the store. She glanced around and looked right at Steve, then past him.
It was when his robot-gaze failed him and his mask dropped that she seemed to notice him, stopping in her tracks. There was moment where Elise stood there trying to place Steve in her memory. When she seemed to remember who he was, she smiled.
Rice lives in the Antelope Valley. He writes fiction and essays and walks dream streets in the desert.
Issue 1
Featured Artists:
- Heidi Anne | Nienna
- Andrea Young
- Edwin Vasquez
- Andrew Winn
Is this Neptune’s shanty, the song of the sea, chanted from such a distance the World Tree is just a faint smoke on the air, a color in the sky? There is a relic here, under our feet, and we can feel our cells dance to the tune it plays. And our feet stand on the cosmic rim. Beneath us the whole of the universe spins. Look down. Look down and you will know. Look down.
Heidi Anne is a writer of tiny poems on Instagram under the pen name Nienna. You can find her on Instagram @niennawrites
Andrea Young
Andrea Young (Andrea V) has created head waves when she began showcasing her unique take on visual art via graphic design and illustration around 2005. Andrea’s visual expressions on the female form delight and inspire sub culture and mainstream fans globally. Andrea has been an art professional and showing her art locally in the Los Angeles area and nationally for almost 20 years. Her art, modeling and photography have graced magazine pages and covers nationally and internationally.
After becoming very ill in 2017 Andrea has come back to visual arts to help her continue to heal by exploring “rebuilding and acceptance” as the main themes of her art. See more at AndreaVphoto.com
The Temptation of St. Anthony of the Desert
by Edwin Vasquez
Restless river zig-zagging like a poisonous desert snake
mirroring a non-existent, pale blueish color
from the grey hue of the restless sky.
On the right, in the forefront, St. Anthony stands in a catatonic state
behind a hollow tree trunk that resembles an empty cave where demons play,
his hand with painted nails holds the trunk — perhaps for dear life.
His forehead partially reflects the shadow from the twisted, carved cross,
accenting his sad and somber, melancholic face;
he resembles an animal in distress,
the saffron tunic replaced with a
tight costume – toxic green – accentuating his features,
yet he is not man nor woman,
he is animal, haunted by his own desires and demons.
The joke is on them:
the Bishop and King, the centaur and satyr, the jokers and demons;
they, in disgust, look away from him, who they want to scare —
he, who lost himself in the desert of his soul.
Edwin Vasquez
A prolific, multifaceted artist, who has developed a unique visual language, Edwin Vasquez, offers the Antelope Valley a breath of fresh air with his photography and vibrant mixed-media work. Using mostly recycled materials (including toys, wood panels and chains), Vasquez is able to communicate his ideas, inspirations and frustrations. Vasquez’s work is fearless in its social commentary, using rich forms and colors to provoke passionate responses to his ideas around the environment, waste and human nature. Also, he is a photojournalist, published author, and videographer.
Edwin Vasquez, born in Quetzaltenango, Guatemala in 1964.
Roots
by Andrew Winn
Here we are
at a coffee shop,
a circular table,
with two chairs seated around it.
Surrounded.
By some welcoming mats and the chit-chat of chattering voices.
Like I said,
Surrounded.
By the workers of art
the busiest of bees
& all the things
of all
The light
reels in from behind
and from the left.
Surrounding.
It’s warm, like a blanket over the back.
A bucket in the corner ahead fills with dirty dishes
unaware the magazines on the shelf beneath it
sit, wait, wish,
if only its pages were being flipped.
the collections of life lived
to be continued,
caged words like caged birds
Should they share?
What could they share?
Why wouldn’t they share?
The door opens.
The front of the counter checkers between orange, white, silver, grey, reddish brown, and black tiles, and all the while
the register rings.
Or maybe it sings.
“This is a place
where I don’t
feel alone.
This is a place
where I feel
at home.”
Now
this particular table
is not particularly unique
in any particular way,
but it did as a matter of fact choose us without making any kind of
particular sound.
See, we were drawn in like a magnet is to steel,
why?
I can’t particularly explain,
but here we sit with
roots and oak stains and birthmarks and fingerprints.
Each particular table has its own particular ones, you know.
See, they declare its age but never will they ever say it aloud
and well this particular table happens to be, well,
particularly proud.
So we’re left to imagine the life experienced here.
The names of all the particular people it’s met,
the particular secrets it’s kept,
the words it’s heard that stole its breath.
The kind of moments we live
and all too easily forget.
Traced in the base of this particular table,
This is the present,
Sincerely yours.
In the sunshine
these may appear to be just tables and chairs but
they’re so much more…
the weight they carry is never truly relieved it’s safe to believe, I mean, they hold it all,
just like
these particular walls.
Now these particular walls,
they hold
the projectionist – a heart with a polaroid camera
capturing the perfect angle.
They keep
the magician on a voyage with an animated tripod & a painted tune
safe.
They play
the stories of our lives & how they intertwine
as if no one is watching.
And if there is a God,
And if God captured that light
I’d swear God did it just
right
Looking in,
through the windows,
you from behind your windows,
me from behind my windows,
these particular windows
they line the front of the shop.
They’re high, somewhat wide, and separated into individual panes as if though these particular windows they were made for this particular kind of day.
They rise above and stop where the roof begins, displaying all of us nomads safe within.
The different shapes and sizes and various disguises, I mean good Lord,
the windows’ wonderful surprises!
And when I turn to look outside
I see
familiar grounds filled with
dream works
& planetary disruption
organized chaos
& all the other lost souls
wandering along purgatory’s path
and whether we’re headed towards heaven or hell
I couldn’t tell
but I know deep within my heart we’re all angels who fell apart,
we’re all
one step
& a moment away
from taking flight.
And suddenly,
I see this place
my home
my roots
for the very first time
all over again
older than I remember
and I realize
through my eyes
despite my lives
this,
this is where it all begins
all over again
in this particular scene
filled with particular tables and particular chairs and particular windows
occupied by poets, dreamers, caring couples, solo yolo’s,
each of us are immersed in our own particular scene,
unaware of the particular extras in between
as the movie’s reel continually feeds a moving screen.
And it’s in this particular coffee shop
that feels particularly
like home,
on a white blank page
where a caged bird
& some caged words
don’t feel so
alone.
We want to speak forward to reach the world that will inherit our own and swallow it whole and, most likely, learn to forget us. We want to open up the shell of today and embrace a horizon larger than that of the moment. We want to grip the seed of cosmic time and whisper into the ear of eternity, the unchanging nautilus echo of the sea that pulses in all things and vibrates the cells in the enduring OM. We want to open up our world until it’s peeled back completely for revelation, however briefly, however fleeting the contact. We know instinctively that a flash of the numinous is enough.
But we feel an anxious pain in knowing that so little is so much and that this precise “little” stands at the center of our world and we can’t manage to reach even such a small thing because we live on a spinning wheel that is pressing us to the edges.
About RAVENSONG:
RAVENSONG is a publication facilitated by Sagebrush Cafe in Quartz Hill, California.
All the creative work appearing here was made by writers and artists in the Antelope Valley.
We’d like to give a big Thank You to the artists who have contributed to making this humble arts publication and to everyone who has taken the time to read and ponder these works and words.
Sagebrush Cafe 