Free

The king was kidnapped from his bed last night
as he was sleeping safe and sound.
His captors gagged his mouth and tied his limbs,
ensuring he was tightly bound.

And then they blinded the awakened king,
a fold was placed upon his eyes,
whence he was whisked away into the dark
before the sun had thought to rise.

The king, unable to cry out or see,
was merely left to feel and hear.
The king imagined his fate, his heart
was moved to dread and filled with fear.

His captors took him to the grassland planes
and stripped and beat the naked king.
They robbed the king of his entire person,
they even stole his signet ring.

From there they tied him to a budding oak
and left him there to surely die.
With blindfold still upon his sightless eyes,
the woeful man began to cry.

There, in the wind, he heard a distant sound
while tied against that infant tree.
If only he had sight, could take his fold
and once again begin to see.
But it was the sound of feral horses –
galloping-galloping-galloping free.

Ephemeral

I am just a boy

(and maybe I will always be one).

Damn this feeling,

this boy inside me,

this man behind the curtain,

calling the shots,

paying for milkshakes,

sipping gin.

I go to work

wishing I were a boy.

When I was a boy, I wished

to be a man.

I understand, now, why childhood

was better. I never clocked in

to the swing sets, was never taxed

for climbing to the tops of trees.

When I was held

at gunpoint

at the age of ten,

I became a man.

When my grandfather died

in my twenties,

I was once again a boy.

When I lived alone

for the first time in my life,

I was neither.

I was nothing.

I was wishing

to be anything.

These days,

I’m only a boy

when I drink tea,

a very grown-up drink.

And when I drink (not tea),

it is because I am

a man.

New Planks

Everything changes. Nothing remains.

Seasons change, they start and stop

and every new season is a bit different

from the one it was a year before. Last year,

Spring baked a picture of dried, red brick

onto my forehead, the reminiscence

of a thing called legacy, and my one-sixteenth

of forgotten Cherokee. This year,

Spring came wearing its off-brand Winter coat

of clouds which hung a few feet

above the tallest trees.

Every seven years, our taste buds

replace themselves with new ones.

Not even our favorite flavors stay

the same. In fact, by the time you are

an adult, all the cells within you

from your childhood will have died

and new ones will take their place.

You are a walking paradox, a vessel once

belonged to another person, Theseus.

That “you” you think you remember

is dead, and not even the illusions

of memory can bring back that person

you once were.

Don’t be sad. You wanted this, remember?

To grow up, and be big. There’s no sense

in wishing to go back to your childhood.

Fully grown oaks don’t wish to be

saplings again, I think. I don’t know.

I can tell you this, I’m glad I have

new taste buds. Lucky Charms are good and all,

but I like tomatoes now.

Samuel Spencer grew up in Africa until he was 18 years old. He moved to America to study English at John Brown University and is currently studying at Lindenwood University, pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing. His poems explore different topics such as location, purpose, and identity.