You once told me,
quite defeated—
“I look at rocks.”
Human history started by a single grain.

Face flushed, I retreat
into myself—
turtle without its shell
A single grain seeps through weathered scales.

Near misses and stars mingle
ignore the signs; it would be too easy
to be happy
with a single grain.

Count rings of a tree,
lines on a face
tell a time we’re too afraid of—
wasting a single grain.

A spark, a continuous flame
flickers and wavers and hovers-
doesn’t extinguish an unfed hunger
for a single grain.

Business casual covers,
mortgages bind,
losing sight of a tiny,
single grain.

I will tell you someday,
quite proudly—
“I look at rocks.”
and marvel at every single grain.

Glenna Lynne Schubert

Ascend the stairs, trembling-
quietly.
Follow the cues in silent obedience.
You’ve never believed,
So why now?

Dimly lit wrinkles
show every earned line.
Wallpaper soaked with smoke
and secrets.
Is it time?

Sweaty palms, skeptical-
hopeful.
A curtain of beads clink in calling.
We can tempt fate
But can we change it?

A long life
some vague list of common attributes,
of your rights and
wrongs, decide:
What happens next?

Signs, stars, chances-
they will all align
in your favor,
of course.
Is this how it works?

Pay the price;
more than you thought.
But hey, it’s a bargain
to know the future.
Do we really know anything?

Glenna Lynne Schubert

I.

You are my near miss
-a cruel joke penned by Mr. Allen
leaving more questions than answers.

II.

A walk in the shadows
does nothing to conceal
a dream within a dream
we regress, in the end, all of us.

III.

Pointed toes and straight arms
poised for perfection
years of bloodied soles
wince with each phantom step.

IV.

Melodies without a hook
is that why we are stuck?
seen a hundred times
in the darkest parts of Instinct.

Glenna Lynne Schubert

Even before the blast
the Blow hit hard
a tidal wave of expected pain
leaves only silence
with sore bones
and broken capillaries
the pigment bleeds
like ink through ash and flesh
time passes in
discoloration
first black then purple then yellow
a Change of seasons
leaves a forever reminder
a soft spot under hard cement
the sky has never looked so blue.

Glenna Lynne Schubert

They call us Millennials
and screenagers
not pioneers
or visionaries.

They say that we’re fickle
and vain
not wishful
or meticulous.

They cry us restless
and wasteful
not ambitious
or quick-witted.

They know we did not create the steam engine
or the cotton gin
but we are constantly moving
connecting; Growing.

They use iPods, Flip Cams,
and YouTube and Facebook
children of the baby boomers
we are blasting through.

They understand we’ve seen war
and disaster and death and divorce
like those before us
aren’t we all the same in the end?

They neglect to notice we’re whimsical for a white picket fence
and 2.5 children
who we will one day look
with shaking heads.

Glenna Lynne Schubert

Etched gold gemstone
circle green aquamarine
solid hand band
covered finger lingers.

Raven haired glare
open mic light
parted lipped quip
spotlight stage aged.

Crowd silence violent
cracked clinked drink
smile drawn yawn
Final year fear.

Glenna Lynne Schubert

To sing like a nightingale,
sultry and sweet,
I’d give every chord in my throat,
every step from my feet

Soleless and slowly,
I would weep,
as the strums of my guitar,
make my Father believe

In rhythm and chances,
encounters and beats,
melodic notes to accompany,
my everyday feats

Each note would spread,
out from within me,
ankles to toes to elbows to nose,
body set free

Every nerve, every tendon,
tingling with heat,
throughout my entirety,
a starfish laid across a beach

If I had a choice, I’d raise up my voice,
decibels beyond defeat,
echoing from ear to ear,
raising bodies from seats

To sing like a nightingale,
sultry and sweet,
I’d give every second,
until again we could meet.

Glenna Lynne Schubert