Caring Conversations

By: Bekah Turney

We came upon a pair of peacocks,

Poking noses into dirt near the road.

We drive in puzzling awe.

A couple happy herons extend their necks

Amidst cowering cattle,

Pure snow, stoic angels

Against the tattered brown and black of cows

And vibrant green fur of rain kissed earth.

Road curving endlessly,

Lips pressed to our coffee lids,

Talking of revelries and

Philosophical life resolutions.

Like the treacherous loose blacktop

Beneath barreling wheels

Of beauty we penetrate.

Beautiful Resentment

By: Bekah Turney

1.Phantom, walking up my street, come take my breasts. /Cup the void of your palms into gaps filling my reassurance. /Anticipation of empty disappointment. /Cradle the gateway close to my heart. /Touch my skin and enter in. /Swift as the breeze your mist swirling in winter, the coldest of nights. /Smoke screens, blurred lights and repeated melodies. /I’m the Dickinson to the tale of your ghostly passing.

2.Thoughts, lemon drops and candy- /You cut with a knife of lustful insanity. /I suckle your shell, sweet and uncanny. /Melting on my tongue, drips fall into my throat /And your center seeps through, bitter resentment. /Sour pools bleed from your core and shock me into distance, /Lands far From where your vibrant taste once drew me near.

3. “Meet me on Sunset and Granada.” /I forced music into my ears. Lacing shoes, ready to walk for miles. /”I will be there.” / Feet meticulously carry, not too quick, not too slow- /Warmth of sun beaming into my chest, /As elusive darkness wraps my body down dark streets where passion spreads like fire. /Shadowed figure not far, drawn by street lamps. /Sun once in my chest, now illuminating my existence in the night, /Treading flames with every step. /White teeth glistening behind lips soon to take in my embrace. /No days have passed, /And the melting heat of your eager passion blankets my reckoning.

4. Hungry fingers pressed against keys, songs of beautiful resentment- /Can you hear me? /Summer spits beads of sweat down my forehead. /You come back to turn off the thermostat, as babes soon return to misery. /Nestled in a corner of our home where shadows eat the day, fail to hide light sneaking into streams, /On hands that search desperately for grey amongst black and white. /Your silhouette drifts out the back for another puff of cigarette.

5. We drive, window cold, pressed on my cheek. /We sit together, but repelled apart like Backwards magnets. /Obligation drifts us to where family makes light of scattered infidelities. /Children, all of us, with lines on our weathered and pressured grins, /Carrying our tired wheels into hopeful destinations- /Like grasping at unprecedented prizes in machines with mischievous claws. /”This is a great band!” you say, shouting validation to my gaping heart, /Absorbing all the pain of your constant confliction. /Lyric cries through forceful song, “these feelings won’t go away, they be knocking me sideways..” /As my body clings to the barrier between me and fresh air. /Distasteful resemblance, I repeat the note, /And hold captive words where I relate, /But only hope, with your schooled art of song, can hear.

Morning Dew

By: Bekah Turney

I dance around in playful turning tides. / You drip off petals, like early morning dew, as the sun warms the earth. / The wheel spins, grasping tight what force cannot refuse. / It’s time for you to go- / You fall to kiss the outstretched necks of grass. / Sliding down its blade, slick, / Cutting through like truth. / It’s time for you to go- / Turning rhythms dance in tune with cycle’s song, / Soaking in the crumbled soil, / Planting seeds of your own and in turn helping them to grow.

Image by: wall

Blue Bird

By: Bekah Turney

Sharp chills. Cheeks a crimson pink. I walk to the door, break from the chill and pool into the prickling warm. Dead bird in the doorstep, cold, hard. I scoop you in my trembling palms and feel your yearn for heat from inside. You dreamed, waited in longing, and then you slowly faded away. We walk together to the oak tree and I place you in its protruding roots, cradling you in as its own. I lay you on the side to reflect into the lake. We talk, and I tell you of how special you were- that you must have surely been. Goodbye sweet freedom of your pale blue wings. You fly now into the lines of the tree.

Image by: Lavery ART


Wrapped in darkness

I sit,

Painted into the night.

Fragments of air so thick

I can taste the stars

That break what shadows hide.

Isolated depths between

Land and sky,

Bleeds hot of its illusionary tales.

It seems cold and mischievous.

Twinkles of light in the sky

That tickle the fantasy of

A warm kindled fire.

Bursts of light that

Turn to flame-

Swift smiles of a lying face.

I dig into your trenches of


Where you burn and

That of me,

Sweet, hungry embers,

Are not far.

Like how you lied with me in

Torture of your pain.

Torment of your touch that crept

Over the top of my naked waist,

Skin soft, and calloused palms that grazed.

Finger pressed upon the lips of my heart

To hush the sound of pain we

Both now share.

I see your light,

Distant and out of reach,

Yet still consuming the empty


Of a soul’s entrapment that which

Could not express.

Cold but wrapped in warm cloth.

I Walk The Streets Alone At Night

Poem by: Bekah Turney

I feel my teeth

Sturdy in my gums,

For decades they’ve sat.

Tonight they illuminate

With noise through tingles.

Glistening eyes and an urgent mind.

Walk down dark streets,

Hands tucked warm in my pockets.

Late at night I squabble

In solitude I find,

My feet carry alone,

And nothing has come to bite.

I carry a corn poker

In my right pocket.

First thing I could find,

Like I needed to use it at all.

I feel the repel of anything

That comes to detriment,

But also my abuse

Of knowledge’s leverage I hold

On these midnight squanders

Gains a peace of mind.

This town grows thin of safety,

But I push its limits

To find the sanity of hope

And what’s left of its humanity-

The meaning of all that lies behind.

I torment the thought,

Come find me-

But the street stretches long

With sorrow’s empty halls.

Halls I walk alone.

And I ponder what it is

I am searching for.

I provoke the un-provokable-

A force unmet by my hungry eyes.

Give me something to rally off of,

As I wander the streets at night.

They rest inside warm tucked away,

With nothing but another day

They tended.

And I, the one who has unmet agendas

Blames the duties of my day,

Again to others who have their own


I, the one who’s floating,

Much to give

But has been un-attended.


Photograph from:; by: Hannah Brookes Olsen.

Brown Berry Girl

“Beautiful brown berry girl.

She’s so beautiful.”

As I awoke each morn,

An expectation of excellence.

I dance, I eat and I grow plump.

Don’t tell me my beauty fades,

I never thought so.

Magic in my core

A yearning for a rift in the world

A difference to be made.

My confidence was built.

Smug and aware,

But with rich talent seeping through my

Screaming gut.

I am more-

Than the cheeks that were pinched,

The “round mound of sound,”

Though I much enjoyed hearing those words.

‘Twas the day grandma lie in the

Hospital bed,

Kidneys failing,

I stood, growing in width and height,

The one person that changed my life

Told me I’m not the most

Beautiful thing she had seen.

“You’re beautiful, but not the most.”

You saved me from a delusional fate.

You gave me peace

Showed me a shocking truth

And put me in tears.

That’s all I ever wanted.


It’s like we are back in the hot tub under the cold black sky, clouds that hover atop our exploding heads. Cold trickles of rain float down kissing our exposed skin. Crisp winter air like a new babe drifting into this new season, never stops growing. Energies wildly suckling at our grins in this inevitable flow, we shed, we become new, alive and full, endless cultivating love we share. I lay now, warm in my bed, secure and at home, and it reminds me of how the water wrapped us up like this blanket here, defying the cold that entraps this night air, inviting us three, in the water floating like fetuses in the womb. Pure, new and evolving. Friends, for now or forever, moments that are infinite.

Image by: Jessica Sharmin for Stocksy Inited

My Legacy

Men are my weakness.

I feel it in my deepest of my emotions

That I need you,

But no, I don’t.

So I sit and see,

See where I’ve been and why

That you seem to be my resolution

To who I am.

Comfort of the soft couch cushion

Lied beneath me as I lay

And fell asleep.

Music of your band that blared in

My ears and I rested like a baby wrapped in 100% cotton.

Because you’re my dad and I look

Up to who you are to shape my life.

Now I talk,

And talk is cheap,

To these men that I feel can heal me

Of the revelry that you faced,

As you stared straight at a life predicament

Of following your dreams

Or flourishing a family.

It’s okay, I never understood

As I was the third child.

But I felt the vibrant hand you wielded

As you strummed your guitar.

Sitting tapping rhythms to your drum,

Your hand spun the stories I wanted to hear,

Fingers that picked at emotions that

I always wanted to know,

Because honesty was what I wanted.

But now I look again,

And it’s at the heart’s impulsive whim.

And I wonder when it ends.

Music is in my bloodstream

And I don’t know where it ends.

It’s a sickness of emotion I can’t understand.

I hear your voice sing through

The chords of my throat,

Because it never reached heights that it wanted,

And now I feel responsible.

Conversations With Herself

I see her walking down the street,

Rambling on of how she has no shower now

That ‘he’ once let her use.

Carrying a metal rod I

Can only assume why

With this imagination,

That could be anything.

But that is not what matters

As I watch her walk in haste,

Down the street lit by the lamps,

So dim

And at her wits end.

Insane it seems

But I see freedom in her bones

As she breaks free

To a cycle she has yet to face.

Where will she go? I wonder.

And I envy the steps she takes.