Poetry

Your Harvest Has Been Delayed 

By Sydney Fowler 

“Your harvest has been delayed,”
It spoke. The only person around to hear was Higgs.
“You have been permitted more time to live a just
and fulfilling life for research before your harvest
returns.” Then It disappeared, returning to Its own kind.
Higgs stood in the now empty mall, wondering if more people

were left behind. But he could see no more people.
Higgs was quiet for a moment, processing what he was told with delayed
concern. He had just finished his lunch break when a one of a kind
silence swept through the large building, and he was alone. Higgs
wasn’t quite sure he knew what exactly a “harvest”
was. Maybe they could just

ask. Who would he even ask, when just
about everyone was gone. Higgs began to worry. Without people,
who would do all the jobs? Who would harvest
the crops in the field? Who would run the trains, so they weren’t delayed?
Who would restock shelves and run cash registers? Well, Higgs
could do that part. His job normally was to be kind

to customers and ring up groceries. But how do you be kind
with no one around? He began to hope just
one more person was still here. It will be quite lonely, Higgs
thought, if he was not able to find more people
to share his confusion. He should try to find someone. With little delay,
he began to walk around and observe the stillness the harvest

left behind. Belongings scattered the ground. It seemed that harvesting
everyone’s shoe was unimportant as Higgs stumbled on a sneaker. The kind
that lights up when you stomp your foot. It took a moment, a delay
in the shoe’s sensor, before it twinkled to life. Higgs remembered he had just
seen the girl that was wearing it a few minutes ago. No other people
were found after almost an hour of searching and Higgs

was losing hope. Staring at a faceless mannequin in a display window, Higgs
. . . (harvest)
. . . (people)
. . . (kind)
. . . (just)
. . . (delayed)

. . . (Higgs) . . . (delayed)
. . . (harvest) . . . (just)
. . . (people) . . . (kind) . . .

Sarah’s Voice

By Judith Hughes

Grey, almost dusk.
No echoed footsteps or thumping heart
No easy breathing laying close.
A loud bang.
Shaking weathered cedar tiles,
Stopping a loping bear’s trek,
Shattering a walker’s evening stretch.
No muzzled sound.
A whisper of smoke.
A rifle laying right of foot.
A fear, an angst too hot to touch.
A sun setting.
The golden band, the clear blue sky,
The tear that daddy didn’t cry.
A faded rose who cannot speak…
Loud enough to be heard.

https://2025.bailysbeads.org/sarahs-voice/

Marshmallows

By Sydney Fowler 

A sugar high wrapped
into a cylindrical bundle.
Small enough to sweeten
hot chocolate.
Big enough to glue
a s’more with its melt.
In between pieces of rice cereal
and molded into a sticky bar.
Dumped into the bowl of a six-year-old
begging for a snack after kindergarten.
Unsubstantial, but satisfying on the taste buds.
Fueled a sugar addiction
that will take years to reverse.
Warmed over a fire,
but never long enough
to create a crispy casing of burn.
Grabbed by tiny fingers digging
for the last one lost in trail mix.
Tossed into the air
and caught ungracefully
by an open mouth.
Sealed tightly into a plastic bag
with a chip clip for another day.

Growing Pains

By Sydney Fowler 

Do you remember losing your baby teeth?
With floss tied around bone,
yanked out of place.
Sharp pain then a dulling buzz
clouding over your thoughts.
Dental pliers latching on,
putting pressure in your drugged mouth
as a root pops out of place.
Something you can feel deeper in your skull.
Bleeding gums and a tongue wiggling
into a fresh opening in search of another ivory tooth
pushing through underneath.

https://2025.bailysbeads.org/growing-pains/

Carrion Bouquet

By Maddie Cincala 

1.

Some days I just want to sink into the ground; 
let the dirt embrace me in the darkness 
and welcome me home. I’ll breathe in  
its earthy fragrance and give up my body. 
I’ll take my last breath and embrace  
a silence that only nature can provide. 
My rotting skin will give birth  
to a bounty of life as I surrender 
to the insects and inflorescence, 
slowly eating me away. 
My muscles will atrophy, 
relaxing tense tendons and letting 
ligaments leave the bones as 
the years of tension release into the earth. 
My bones will be scaffolding  
to fledgling roots to cling to 
as they bore through my carcass, 
embracing me at my core. 
My body, decomposing, 
will finally have a purpose. 


2. 

I want to give myself to a new life, 
repaying the debt of my existence. 
I want the dandelions to sprout  
from my lungs; the very ones 
that blew away wishes on 
the puffball seeds of a weed 
I always thought was so beautiful. 
I want the daisies to sprout 
from my hands; the very ones 
that plucked away delicate petals 
in hopes of fledgling love.  
I want the snapdragons to sprout 
from my eyes, the very ones  
whose fire has been long extinguished. 
I want the wildflowers to sprout 
from the remainder of my body, 
feeding the flowers too often overlooked. 
I want to become a carrion bouquet, 
to turn myself into something beautiful.

Benediction

By Sydney Fowler 

Staleness collects in the air,
heated by late morning sun
through stained glass windows.
The pastor cracks an innocent joke.
The sanctuary echos with empty chuckles.

Rough wine carpet lines the pew,
scratching bare legs under a Sunday dress.
The program lists the hymns for the day.
Pencil scribbles count past lines
and doodles attempt to cure boredom.

“Let us bow our heads and pray.”
Hands fumble together,
eyes snap shut tight enough for white
to swirl on the back of eyelids,
pretending to be angels.

A suffocating silence fogs
thoughts trying to reach Him.
Safe prayers of forgiveness,
protection, and guidance warp
into taboo questions of conviction,
insecurity, and doubt.
Muttering whispers send a jolt
through nerves, until the source
is revealed to be a wrinkling, balding man.

Churning emotions retreat
and leave behind a sickening emptiness.
“Amen.”
A piano that ends the service begins to play.
Amen.

https://2025.bailysbeads.org/benediction/