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Eliza Bell

Beginning to Live

By Amelia Barr

Once I thought that I was wise

I sought all the answers to life

Ages swept past my speeding clock

But I sat at my desk in strife

“Oh how my back aches with pain!”

I’d cry as I bent over books

Nose fully buried in Plato and Descartes

Scanning for truth in the nooks

300 pages for an ounce of clarity

I’d leap from my seat with joy

But that only happened every once in a while

With the work I did employ

But outside laid a world I had yet to taste

Untouched by my paper cut hands

The books I held were made from the trees

That sprouted in those foreign lands

I missed that the words were written in the skies

In the veins of the waxy leaves

Scrawled into the currents of bountiful rivers

That flow without seeking to please

As I finally stepped away from my desk

And out to the sun beamed air

My feet touched the grass of the hallowed ground

And alas, the truth was there

I realized my mistake, that my meaning was lost

Among words that had little to give

It was not the written guide to life that was true

But it was my beginning to live

Photo by Eliza Bell
Photo by Eliza Bell


By McKaine Layne

The fighting has ended,

But no one has one.

You are left with half of a heart

And the other half is with him.

The man who stole it from you is the one you trusted most.

The one who told you he loved you

The one who said he cared more than anyone.

He ran away as far as he could.

Making sure that you would not come after him or your heart.

You are left half of the person you were.

Now you have next to nothing and nowhere to turn.

You are hurt and broken beyond repair.

With nothing and no one left to pick your pieces off the ground

There is no one to build you back to what you were, 

Because the man has half your heart and the other half is on the floor.

You have to be strong for yourself,

Which is impossible because you are scattered from place to place.

You are broken and hurting lying in your floor,

With no will to stand up and fight,

Because when you do it will only be half-heartedly.

God’s Grasp

By Ella Green

What do I know about this life anyway?

What does anyone know about this life?

All humanity

Is floundering, flailing flesh,

Bosoms bulging with unrest,

Nonstop scavenging and desperate searching for answers,

None of which satisfy our quaking quest.

Will anything ever quench the thirsty impulse of endless seeking,

Seeking to understand what cannot be understood,

Seeking to comprehend what is beyond our mind’s ability to comprehend,

The restless longing in human hearts to know what’s around the bend?

Tired tears dripping,

Clumsy feet tripping,

Hearts of sin weeping,

From behind, chaos creeping,

Pouncing on lives in violent attack,

In merciless, relentless wrecking wrath.

How will humankind survive the pestering plague of sin’s maniacal mace?

What is there to save us from falling into the painful, deadly trap,

The enemy’s morbid metal clasp?

God’s powerful grasp

That forever holds us fast.

Photo by Eliza Bell

The Creation of the World

By Ella Green

From the Golden Temple of the Heavens

God spoke the cathedral of the world

Into existence,

Whispering into the dark emptiness of the universe not yet created,

Speaking beauty and life

Into ex nihilo, black nothingness.

Out of nothing

Came everything.

All life,

All existence,

All beauty

Finds its inception 

At the Lord’s lips.

Green grew,

Sea sprouted,

Animals came to life, birds flew,

And mountains mounted 

Themselves in the earth glazed with the beautiful dew of life 

Formed by His Hands.

And after the quiet stillness

Of the universe holding its breath,

God breathed Life and Light

Into the hearts of  humanity,

Beginning the beautiful bond of amity

Between the Creator and His Creation.

Through the dark emptiness

Now made whole and full in His Light

Echoed the resounding words from His Mouth,

“It is good.”


By Ella Green

Memories are magic,

Joyful ones bring laughter and smiles,

And poignant ones bring tears and crying.

Some feel like a murky blur,

While others feel as pure and lucid as yesterday’s occurrences.

They open the door to the time-traveling machine

Which we step into,

Going back to the past,

Taking a bite out of the ripe fruit of remembering and sipping its sweet juice of reminiscing, 

Perhaps to the trees you used to make into a home with neighborhood friends,

To the never-ending games of hide and seek,

To the mud pies and sand castles,

The time capsules you buried in your small backyard,

The waxing of Autumn leaves,

The hikes and walks and bike rides and playdates and tea parties

That brought joy so ecstatic

Or perhaps going back

To the diagnosis that was so tragic,

The long separation of loved ones that broke your heart,

The devastating loss that seemed to leave a gaping hole in your soul.

But memories are a gift,

They are a part of us,

Part of who we are.

Remembering and reminiscing 

In the beauty of what your past holds

And how far you’ve come since then on the road of life

Is beautiful. 

It is good.

Photo by Eliza bell

Crazy Dream

By Ella Green

I recline in a wooden rocking chair,

Swaying in rhythmic back and forth motion

On the hill of the moon,

My rocking in sync with the dancing stars,

And my tired body is lulled to sleep in a soothing lullaby

Sung by the star’s lovely voices.


Suddenly I rock too far,

And one of the curved wood pieces gets caught in a deep crater,

Making the chair dip and tip precariously,

And then I slide off the moon’s milky surface in the rocking chair—




I fall, 

My eyes fluttering open and closed

Like a loose screen door at the mercy of a storm,

In and out of strange, confused sleep, 

Plummeting into the dark obscurity,

Stuck in the ceaseless stretch of speckled space—

Until suddenly,

My body is shook wide awake

As my rocking chair reconstructs into a rocket ship,

Shooting me back down to earth

Where I find myself not rocking on the moon,

But resting in my bed,

The moon’s pale lips leaking into my room its white-watered kiss

And my crazed, restless mind locked in dazed dreamy


The Life and Death of Flowers

By Ella Green

I wonder,

How does a flower feel when it knows

The time has come for it to die?

It has thrived beautifully for some time

Lifting its smiling, petal-filled head to the sunshine

Then, the petals fall and wither

The flower’s smile turns to a frown, 

And its tears fall as the leaves drop to the ground

Its bright, lovely colors

Fade to brown come the frost of winter

Shriveled petals replacing

The once smooth, soft petals

Its once strong stem

Becomes weak and bends itself over,

The weight of death so heavy on it

I delighted in my flowers

And told them I loved them each day

How I wish they could stay,

Live forever,

But I know they can’t.

It’s sad to see my flowers die

“I love you all,” I whisper as I say goodbye.

Photo by Eliza Bell
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