Poem: The Verdict
Poem: Song for the Final Day
Story: Symphonic Sanctuary
Slam Poem: Yukon's Cherry Coke Phobia Experiment
Slam Poem: 13 Steps to Successfully Kidnap Someone
Group Poem: Melting Into Beauty
Screenplay: The Junebugs' Night Out
THE VERDICT
Your hands are clean
Not because you walked ten miles
Until the air escaped you and wouldn’t return
You tried so hard to make it there that
Heaven fell even further from you
You can find rest in green pastures
Spotless and holy, free to taste the grass and plant it inside
The moon is close enough to touch
Early autumn air sings to you and brings peace to your soul,
Untouched and unsurpassed
You used to be dirty
Every fiber you submerged in the darkness
It was sugar and molasses on your tongue
But it was bitter inside of you, and it
Swelled up to your head, strangled you, tore you away
You fell before the judge, the evidence clear
Filth and shame accompanied you, waiting patiently
Your sentence was poison and you put it to your lips
But the One on whom you smeared your mud
Drank your bitter and stole your poison
He carries your aimless affliction,
Stands clean, and smiles wide as light clothes you
Undeserved purity washes your hands and feet
From stains of iniquity. Joy lifts up an abandoned heart
How sweet it is to be made whole again
SONG FOR THE FINAL DAY
Even the meadowlarks stop their flying and singing,
Returning to their redbird nests
The tree withers and decomposes to dust
So shall I, so will I
Even the trains stop pushing on their tracks
The coal turns quiet, at rest on a railroad grave
Grass sprouts up where rust blankets polluted
So shall I, but will you?
Even hair falls from your scalp
Your bones will weaken, and your mind
Will grow tired– loved souls forgotten in torn photographs
Your body shall rest, but will you?
The sun you see will no longer give you its light
The ground you stand on will give way to the dark
These four walls will crumble
And so will these cherry hands and cherished limbs
Yet even I will abide in Life by the hand of the Eternal
Flying in worship, miles high
Over the death of all death
So shall I, but will you?
SYMPHONIC SANCTUARY
Have you ever wondered about all that could be accomplished by a single breath?
When we’re born, our first breath proves that we’re alive. The words we choose to say with our precious lungs can heal or hurt. Each breath we take keeps us alive, whether we sleep, sing, or love. But some day, our lungs will grow tired, and we will die. We can’t fight the fact that our breaths are limited. What will we do with them?
That night, I was going to carefully push a few of mine through twisted tubes of brass. My fingers leapt upon the valves, knowing exactly where to go next with each passing note. My lips were pursed tightly around the warm brim of the mouthpiece. Bright stage lights drew beads of sweat from my forehead and beams of reflecting light from my trumpet. My eyes darted from the sheet music in front of me to the elegantly dressed conductor and back again. His baton danced gently on the blackness behind him. Hundreds of watching faces could be vaguely seen in the dark beyond the stage. An orchestra surrounded me with a sonorous, sad song. Tubas and cellos sent vibrations to my chest, complemented nicely by the vibrato of flutes and violins. A few measures of rest allowed me to enjoy it for a moment.
Measure 158. 2, 3, 4. 159. Measure 163 was close now. I took the trumpet from my lips, rejuvenated them, and brought my trumpet back up to prepare to play. 161. 162. I stood from my seat as a great breath filled my lungs.
Thunderous yet delicate notes flowed boldly from my instrument. At first, I was surprised to hear such clarity and beauty coming from my own body, but I kept on. The rest of the orchestra backed away and made stunningly quiet room for my instrument. Hundreds of eyes were on me. Another big breath; tighter lips for a high note. Cues from the expectant conductor. His face began to shine, a grin subtly appearing. Loads of pressure lifted from my feet. A cool breeze washed over me; where did it come from?
My solo continued. An accidental was missed; I hoped nobody noticed. After the sixteenth-note run, another high note, and another run, my solo was over, and I sat. Monstrous, heavy applause filled the room and landed on me as a sense of lightheadedness almost drew me away. Orchestral music swelled again as the piece went on. I felt my face begin to warm as my trumpet briskly returned to my lips. Cheers from the audience still echoed throughout my mind.
The many things that a breath could do.
…
The silence of the empty green room disturbed me. So, I began to hum my favorite section of one of the movements showcased in the performance to myself as I packed up my things for the evening. Just then, the second chair trumpet player approached me and gave me a friendly nudge on the shoulder.
“Your solo in Movement Three was amazing tonight,” she told me, “as always. But I can’t believe you forgot the B—”
“Yes, yes, the B natural,” I interrupted. “I played a B flat by accident, I know. I was hoping nobody could tell.”
“In a professional orchestra? Yeah, right,” she quipped, her arms crossed. “What a mediocre mistake.” The muscles of my shoulders began to tense up.
Suddenly, she began to laugh and nudged me again. “I’m just playing with you, Chester,” she said, alleviating my sudden self-conscious nerves. “You were great. Seriously. The audience was clapping in the middle of the movement – again.”
I stood up and stretched my arms over my head. “Yeah, I’m kind of the best around here, aren’t I?” I sarcastically replied with confidence. Her eyebrows furrowed.
“Hey, don’t push it,” she warned. We both laughed cordially. I straightened myself and fixed my hair, hoping she didn’t see or smell the sweat that had gathered in my underarms. The suit jacket was no longer there to hide it.
“The section is going out later tonight,” she informed me. “Are you coming?” I nodded without hesitation, even though a night at home seemed more appealing to me at the moment.
“Cool, see you then.” She searched my face for a moment, then turned away and left.
The room returned to a state of empty silence. I had just closed my trumpet’s case when the door suddenly flew open.
“Chester. Chester!” The voice was familiar and urgent. I turned and immediately rose to my feet.
“Abel?” I asked in disbelief. “What are you doing here? How did you get backstage?”
“We don’t have time,” he replied, his voice low. His dirty blonde hair had grown since I’d last seen him. He was dressed improperly for the concert hall: an old t-shirt and blue jeans. He came quickly towards me and placed his hand on my left shoulder, panting as if he had been running. His eyes were dark and filled with worry. My heart dropped to my stomach. This was a friend, an old friend. We had parted ways long ago when I joined the orchestra, and he went to seminary school. We had shared many memories together and could even remember the numbers of each other’s license plates during high school. But I had never seen Abel quite like this.
“What’s going on?” I asked cautiously.
“Chester, you’re going to have to listen to me,” he replied softly. “Are you listening?”
I nodded. The paleness of his face frightened me.
“I hoped I would never have to tell you this,” Abel said. “But we have to get to the hospital now. Your mother isn’t doing well. It’s time.”
…
Abel gave me a ride to the hospital that night. That’s something a pastor would do. He was going to be a pastor, wasn’t he? Maybe I was practice for him. Driving someone to the hospital to help them say goodbye to a dying relative. Typical of a religious man handing out acts of courtesy. The radio was low. He was silent. It was a good move. It gave me space to try to make it all seem real as I watched the many lights of the city pass by. I felt much too small in his passenger seat, like I was an orphan already.
Cancer was killing her. It started off as a small tumor formed from breast tissue many months ago. Then, it began to grow and spread, which made the hospital her home and chemotherapy her job. She fought against it for three years, almost. I had busied myself since then with my greatest passion, the trumpet; playing gigs, auditioning for as many ensembles as I could, or doing just about anything that was asked of me to help cover the costs of her treatment. It worked for a while. Over time, I became well-known among young trumpet players in the industry and made first chair in the Seattle Philharmonic Orchestra. To everyone else, I was fighting for a dream. But I was really fighting for my mother. Yet it was a battle that would ultimately be lost.
The hospital was cold and white. My fingertips trembled against my sides as Abel led me down the hallway to her room. In every room, the lights were bright enough to give you a headache; yet this place was darker than anywhere else I had been. Abel held the door to her room open for me as my legs carried me slowly inside, terrified.
The room was filled with death. It was quiet like death, smelled like death, overtaken by it. It breathed down my neck and taunted me. There was nothing left for me to do. Nothing could stop it, even if I wept and clung to my mother’s waist like a little boy, begging her not to leave. It was too strong for her, even against her witty remarks, thick skin, and strong soul.
Her thin, emaciated body lay helplessly in a hospital bed that was too large for her. She used to be so strong. Now the cancer was defeating her, moment by moment. It made me angry. It scared me. Her eyes were closed, but her chest slightly arose with a shallow breath. I approached her bedside and covered my mouth with my hand, trying to keep the overflow of my emotion from staining her sheets.
“Mom?”
Her eyes slowly opened. After a moment, they finally found me. Her face had been pale and full of exhaustion, but when our eyes met, hers slightly brightened as a bit of color splashed back onto her face. A slight, weakened smile. She was glad to see me. After seeing a fragment of life return to her, I felt a flicker of hope. But soon enough, reality came back to crush me. There was no real hope left. Soon, my mother would be dead.
“Oh, Mom.”
Immediately, I collapsed to my knees at her bedside, weeping heavily onto her lap. I couldn’t stop. My entire body shook with every sob until it made me feel sick. Every muscle became weak as I confided in her for strength for the last time. After a while, my ribcage began to hurt, and the pain forced me to stop. I lifted my head from the sheets, attempting to draw in a breath, but it wouldn’t come. I began to hyperventilate.
“Chester.” A soft, hoarse whisper from the calming, vanilla-sweet voice of my mother. “Chester, it’s okay. Look at me.”
It seemed impossible to look into her dying eyes, but I did so. I wiped my face with my hand, my cheeks wet with hot tears.
“My son,” she said, “how was the concert? Your solo?”
I shook my head, amazed that she could say such a thing on her deathbed. “No, Mom,” I told her, offering a gentle smile. “Don’t you worry about me. I want to help you, Mom.”
“So there’s no need to tell me how it went, then,” she replied. “We all already know you did great, me and the nurses. It makes me so happy to hear you play. I’d love to hear it again.”
I didn’t want to think of anything to do with the orchestra or with my trumpet or with my solo. The sound of her voice was the only music I longed to hear, and the music was ending soon. I listened to it for as long as I could.
“How am I going to do it?” I asked with a shaking voice, the reality of the situation confronting me. “I can’t live without you, Mom. What do I even do? I can’t...”
Tears streamed down my face as my mother lifted her arm and took hold of my hand, using almost all of the strength she had left. “Chester, you’ll get along just fine,” she assured me, slurring her words. “You’re going to do something truly great. Just you wait and see.”
Her skin felt so fragile. I had held her hand many times before. I had memorized where the folds of her palm met mine and how her fingers had so carefully wrapped around my own little fingers. Now, my hand was almost twice the size of hers. I caressed it as something of great value, slipping away from me with each passing second. “I’m going to miss you so much,” I croaked, trying to smile as I held her hand close to my face. It was growing cold.
“I’ll miss you, too,” she said. “But I’m going to be somewhere that’s more fine, more beautiful than you could ever imagine, my son. Jesus is taking me home.”
Her statement made me angry. “No, Mom; this is your home,” I insisted. “Your home is with me. Please don’t go, Mom.”
“Mr. Wilder?”
I looked up. For the first time, I noticed a doctor standing over us on the other side of the hospital bed. I scanned my surroundings. Many cards and balloons with futile messages splashed on them such as “Get Well Soon” adorned her room. Abel stood with his arms crossed on the opposite wall. Trails of tears were painted down his cheeks, as well. He gazed at us with softness, with compassion.
“Mr. Wilder, it’s almost time,” the doctor said. Her straight black hair was pulled away from her face in a tight ponytail. She wore a mask. Was she sad? Indifferent? Was I just another shift?
“Are you ready?” she asked as if she was trying to hurry it along.
I turned back to my mother’s sunken-in face, blurry with tears. How could I ever be ready to let goodbye pass through my lips? How could I possibly say farewell to the woman who held me in her womb, cleaned up my messes, and raised me with her compassionate yet blunt love? The woman I always called and leaned on at my worst? Even now, she held me with a warm embrace in her eyes. How could this doctor expect me to say goodbye?
Abel walked towards me, knelt down, and placed a hand on my trembling shoulder. “Chester,” he said, implying that there was no time left. It was impossible to imagine.
“Love you, Chester,” she whispered. I could tell it had become painful to speak.
“Mom, I love you, too,” I asserted while raising my voice, making sure she heard it. Her eyes closed as paleness and a countenance of rest passed over her face. Terror gripped my chest as I realized my mother was slipping through my fingers and I was powerless to stop it. There had to be a way. This couldn’t happen. My mother couldn’t die.
“Mom, don’t go,” I sobbed, begging her with my hands wrapped around her ice-cold fingers. “I don’t want you to go. Please. You can’t leave me.”
My pleading had become low and desperate. I had lost all control, my sobs growing loud and ugly. A vanilla-sweet voice was no longer there to comfort me. I shut my eyes and refused to open them. I couldn’t bear the knowledge that a cold, defeated body lay where my mother once was. I couldn’t bear to look at the limp arms that had once held me, the blue lips that had kissed me, the frozen eyes that had loved her son until the end.
I refused to leave her side.