By Barbara Weatherby

I am the rose in the desert,
withered for lack of  rain.

I am the shadow in the dark 
that yearns to be noticed. 

I am the heart longing to love,
drowning in lost dreams.

I am the waning ember of a flame 
that once brightened the night.

I am hope almost extinguished
due to paths leading nowhere.

I am the worn and weary traveler
who feels the burden of the years.

I am the dark cloud searching
for a rose to bless with rain.

Barbara Weatherby lived most of her life as a shy introvert and always had difficulty communicating with others. It was only when she and her husband and moved to the Ozarks of Arkansas that her life changed. She became so enchanted with the beauty of nature surrounding her that she wanted to express her feelings. She decided if she could not verbalize them, she would write. She then discovered that sharing her poetry was a pathway to connecting with people.

By LaDeana Mullinix

Not even a fourth of possible- that’s all
your arm and you will get without it- 
Forty degrees of forward.

Think of playing ball with the bat 
held level with your belly; 
Think of desperately knowing the answer
and waving your hand flush with your desk;
Think of combing the sides of your hair
only;
Think of cueing the cornets
with your baton not even
beyond the music stand.

But the scapula, like the wing of Gabriel,
glides along the ribs,  its glenoid fossa
cradling the humeral head, coaxing it outward.  
Then sublimely
the scapula swivels,  and bestows upon
the arm, the hand, the woman, the man
the wondrous gift of reach –  out and up.

Up to dunk the ball 
or whack it out of the park,
Up to toss tinsel on your Christmas tree,
Up to wave to your fella or your gal,

Up to comfort your child
or make a new one,

Up to somersault,
Up to dance hallelujah to your lord.

Be aware –  master the magic of the scapula- 
Be guided by the angel’s generosity: 
out then up.
Reaching up before reaching out
restrains your range, pinches your potential.

Reach out. then up 
and you might reach past 
what you thought possible.

LaDeana Mullinix is a Quaker, a retired occupational therapist, a native Kansan, a Master Gardener and a Master Naturalist. Her poetry and essays have been published in Friends Journal and Slant. Her poetry has been published in one anthology, and two were recently accepted in a forthcoming anthology featuring Ozarks poets, from the University of Arkansas Press.

By Emily Kocurek

She told me that she sat with him  
At the dining table.
They had bought some pills,
Had made a pact long ago.

Just one more day.
But you will never be ready.
Just one more day.
I’ll call the boys.

You’re smart; you’ll sort out the finances.
You’ll figure things out for yourself.
I have to go now. I cannot do this 
Any longer. Don’t touch the bottle.

She told me that she called a friend 
To stay the night with her.
She didn’t want to be alone
When he was finally gone. 

I can’t tell her what he’s done,
And even now she doesn’t know.
Though she sends me a gift
On my birthday every year.

I dried her eyes.
I could only thank her for sharing.
I went home and stroked my son’s hair,
Pressed my face to his cheek tightly.

Emily Kocurek, M.D., is an Assistant Professor in the Division of Pulmonary and Critical Care Medicine, Department of Internal Medicine. She divides her time at UAMS among her research projects, clinical duties in the medical intensive care unit and pulmonary clinic, and being an associate program director for the internal medicine residency. She is a Little Rock native.

By Rachel Armes

My mind is noise today.

My daughter went 
on her first school trip.
I wrote my number in her shirt 
and keep thinking of her lost 
and asking for help,
for people to read the tag.

My mind is noise today.

A building collapsed
hundreds of miles away.
The news article mentioned
small fingers reaching for help
in the early morning dawn
near the beach.

My mind is noise today.

I think of the girl
who was stolen when
I was five and she was six.
Almost in my backyard.
Blonde hair, blue eyes, 
ballpark. Gone.

My mind is noise today.               

I think of how I lost track
of my daughter at the park
and how she was so lucky
to have not disappeared
when she ducked into the tunnel 
as my back was briefly turned.

My mind is noise today.
At five, my daughter can’t swim. 
She slipped underwater
at the pool, and I jumped in.
Split second, little fingers
reaching for air.
I pulled her out. She’s fine.

My mind is noise today.
My mind is noise today.
My mind is noise today.

Rachel Armes is a grant writer with the UAMS Institute for Digital Health & Innovation. She graduated summa cum laude from UALR with a degree in Professional and Technical Writing. She is thankful for the role writing plays in both her professional and personal life. Apart from writing, she enjoys reading, gardening, singing, and spending time with her two favorite people: her daughter, Isabelle, and her boyfriend, Jack. Rachel has been writing poetry for 20 years.

­

By Laura Trigg

The summer was hot enough
that earthworms in my neighborhood
unfortunate enough to crawl
out of the grass onto the sidewalk
fried into curled bits of brown string.

The room was cold enough
that my sister and I sat
wrapped in blankets
in punishing straight chairs
on opposite sides of a hospital bed
watching gaps widen between beats
on his heart monitor.

The hospital was quiet enough
that we heard his irregular breathing
and purposeful steps of night nurses
tending to those expected to see
the first flecks of another day.

We spoke to each other
in silent sister speech,
aware that time was flowing
toward the audible words of others:
He is in a better place, or
You are in our thoughts and prayers.

As the heart monitor tracing became flat,
my sister’s mouth made the shape
without the sound of a siren.

Laura Trigg is a retired rheumatologist living in Little Rock with her husband and their dog. A writer since childhood, she has had poems published in Maumelle Magazine, Encore, and Delta Poetry Review.

By Robert Adam Heifetz

When the night is young, the moon will never fall
or sunrise into day
and for a moment, my thoughts are whole
yet rarely do they stay

Dreams meander the stage, like swans negotiate a sinuous stream
the daylight glistening on their napes and coverts
then lost to the pitter-patter of broken thoughts

And where have they gone, my setting sun, 
now that your light has gone?
To hear their music, and to dance its waltz!
I am lulled like a seaman to the rocks and cliffs

There I sit, as one day bleeds into another
until the dew is draped, iridescent, by the sun’s rising curtain 
And I am reborn in so many ways

Hushed, a morning greets no anvil chorus 
And through the beats of silence, an audience pickets
like old habits bickering into the night
Again, to our mountains we shall return!

Daylight, erstwhile, sirens its own tune of possibility

Now here lies my mind, benumbed,
instrument without a frequency to coalesce

Into a nature’s cenotaph, so too for all that is bright
I cry for a shadow that never was
Lost, forgotten,
what could be

And in my reflection drip a million lonesome tears,
Filling the pits of a once fruitful garden

They race, as they fall for no one but themselves,
The knowledge of what was,
splattering seeds of opportunity.

Robert Heifetz, D.O., is a second year Family Medicine Resident at UAMS-West in Fort Smith, Arkansas. His creative writing was developed long before entering Medical School. He grew up in a creative household: his father a mathematician and aspiring painter, his mother with a formal music composition background. They both encouraged his creative pursuits from an early age and he is very grateful for this.

By Paula Martin

I want to know one of your secrets
what you dream about at night
who it is you would die for
what you still want from this life

if the beauty of a poem
sometimes makes it hard to breathe
if you ache for the chance
for the truth to set you free

if, like me, all you’ve wanted
was for love to come and stay—
something real to hold onto
and wings to fly away

Paula Martin is a writer living in Little Rock, Arkansas. 

By Jessiela Roberts

Please hold my hands, she said.
Is this it? Is this where I am going to die?
I am so exhausted.
I watched as they rolled her onto our unit; she was frail and tired.
Cyanosis had enveloped her frame.
We had used all the conservative treatment options available but continued to decline. 
With capacity intact, she elected to forgo aggressive interventions.
She had fought many health battles before and shared that if time was short, she didn’t want to spend it connected to machines withering away, especially if hope of survival hinged on a chance and a prayer.

Can my family visit me?
Her eyes were burdened with fear, as tears carved tracks along her dry cheeks,
Chest rising rapidly, racing towards the inevitable,
Air thick with desperation, as hope evaporated with each hungry breath,
Death lingered at the door like a bailiff waiting to issue a summons.
Hold my hands please.

I am scared she said, I don’t want to die alone.
I held her hands in that second, gloves to flesh, finger interlocked.
I gently cupped her cheeks and stroked her hair, while reciting the 23rd Psalm and a prayer.
A calm fell over her continence while the meds took effect.
The plastic between us felt cold and sterile but it was necessary.
The nurse entered and we assisted with her personal care before video calling her family to offer words of comfort and let them say a final good bye.

An overwhelming sense of helplessness filled my heart in that moment.
My presence, prayers and comfort meds were the only support I could give her, yet it still didn’t feel like enough. 
It was no substitute for the love and care of her family.
I wish I could bend time, and undo the events leading up to that day.

In the end, it didn’t matter that she was a good person who had spent her life doing right by her friends and family.
The COVID-19 pandemic had pushed pause on all her plans.
I watch over the next few days as she slowly slipped from this earth, 
I held her hands with each exam to let her know that I was there and I cared.
I spoke to her when words felt useless and prayed for her release.
She reminded me that healing is often just being present and offering the gift of a caring hand.
Looking back, I think holding her hands was as therapeutic for me as it was her. 
She rid me of the distress I felt of not being able to fix all the madness in the world.
She allow me to accept the chaos and pause to be present between the intersection of life and death.

Jessiela Roberts, M.D., is a Family Medicine Specialist in Fort Smith, AR. She is a graduate of Trinity School of Medicine. This piece is the distillation of her spoken word poetry in response to her experience as a physician in the COVID-19 pandemic.

By Emory Jones

My roots sink deeper than I know.

The generations marked
With lichen-crusted characters
In chiseled stone fade out of sight.

My tendrils driving deep,
Holding heritage
I stretch for sun.

Deep within
The Mother of us all,
I tap my source;
Remembered foliage
Generates my dream
Of leaves.

My roots sink deeper than I know.

Emory Jones hails from Iuka, Mississipi, United States, and is a retired English teacher. His work has been featured in many publications including Voices International, The White Rock Review, Writer’s Digest, Smokey Blue Literary and Arts Magazine, The Light Ekphrastic, Old Red Kimono, American Poetry, Deep South Magazine, Modern Poetry Quarterly Review, Gravel, and Encore: Journal of the NFSPS. Emory lives with his wife, Glenda. They have two daughters and four grandchildren.

By Christopher Fettes

I think about you often,
My former teacher.
You died while I was
In graduate school.

I read updates about your
Condition when I should
Have been writing essays
For my spring classes

A year before you passed,
Which was days before I graduated.
I remember sitting on your couch,
Discussing my poetry and goals.

You might have been my advisor then,
So long has it been since I thought of that.
I wanted to reach out when 
I learned you were sick,

But I never did. I think about
That failure, too.
You frustrated your students,
But you charmed me –

You were kinder and funnier 
Than others would have said.
I think about you, and those
Who die of diseases

We don’t yet understand
On days like this
When I received a shot
For a new virus,

And yet we have no answers 
For so many diseases.
If any word echoes across
Time and this world and whatever

Comes after it, I hope
Somehow you hear me
And know I think of you,
Especially when I write.

Chris Fettes teaches the College of Public Health Writing Workshop and is poetry section chief for Medicine and Meaning. His work has been published in Slant, Nude Bruce Review, and prior issues of Medicine and Meaning.