Book Review: ‘Hands of Years’ by Riley Bounds

In his debut poetry chapbook Hands of Years, Riley Bounds starts with the waste buried “at the tale end of the earth” and slowly works his way through a harrowing path, one that is never easy but gravitates unsteadily towards the light of Christ. In the first few poems, Riley describes a world marked by death—one where “strays” die alone in a universe consisting of the broken pieces of harsh reality. He then moves across the brokenness to shatter our beacons of earthly comforts—the apologist, the angel, mother, father, rainbows, even dogs. As he sifts through the glass shards and ashes, one hope awaits in the peripheral. The poem “Doxology.” is a turning point, a return to a childlike state and to the foundations of faith, building anew out of the wreckage. The result is a relief; the last poems “Dusk Hymn.” and “Prayer.” are a final release into the light of day after wandering in darkness. The book begins and ends with a “pirouette:” from the meaningless and bleak dance of particles, to smiling individuals (“innumerable as the dust”) engaged in a cosmic dance with the Creator. By the end, the “atoms” of mortality are shed, and the speaker finally finds what he is looking for, in the first word of the final poem: hope—the hope for “netted souls, refracting each other’s given light” to become meaningful beings through the act of singing praise. The lost beacons are fulfilled in Christ Himself—“He smiles for me, the smile my father never could and the smile my mother never gave me”—leaving both speaker and reader with a sense of restoration and healing.

A few of my favorites from this collection are “Canticle.,” “Cass.,” “Mother.,” and “Father.,” though each piece holds memorable lines and imagery that I anticipate readers will return to over and over.

Hands of Years is a short but powerful and honest exploration for hope in a broken life— a quest for God when He seems absent. This book will speak deeply to those searching for hope as well as those going through the struggles that sometimes come with faith. I find Riley Bounds’ ability to carry such weight in few words impressive, and I look forward to reading more of his work in the future. I highly recommend it.

Poem: The baby wakes me up again

The baby wakes me up again (by Veronica McDonald)

Sleep swirls around me like Disney
Pocahontas leaves leaving a wake of colored
wind chilled delicious and sweet. It fills my
nostrils in crisp clean sweeps making my
head swim with fanatical desire. Nothing so
sweet so taken for granted so out of reach
of these tired body bones, it floats and flies
streaming along in the peripheral of my eyes
that burn like fire like lust like insatiable
crave. My head knows. My head knows
better. Knows there’s more to life than
clothes than food than (even though He
doesn’t say it) sleep, and my Father knows I
want need these things. He knows what
sleep will taste like when I get it. He knows
the way my mouth will explode with the
flavor of praise the way it will pour out like a
torrent when that dew drop of sleep water
touches my tongue, the nectar so rare so
sweet so precious so gratefully received.

Photo Credit: “Trilby” by Tony Johannot (Public Domain)

Poem: Desire (that girl I once knew)

Desire (that girl I once knew)
(by Veronica McDonald)

Desire’s changed.
She used to be sort of sexy
like sweet-smelling trash
with heroin-chic cheekbones
and pouty cigarette lips.
A loud laugh often played on those lips
muddled like it was underwater
under the wave of noise that came in
an unending hum.
Her purple, anorexic fingers
poured Kamikazes and tequila shots
down my throat in bursts of fire
that woke that Thing living inside of me
like she’d smacked it with a hard slap
of glitter and nail polish.
And that Thing would move
into my hands, making them
pull on the man smiling at me
grabbing his hair, his belt loops
pulling on his hips.
And my ears would fill with music—
not sweet, but hard, tribal
banging in time with the pounding
in my chest.
My nose would fill with the stench
of scotch, smoke, sweat, him
my eyes catching muted lights
glimmering against hot skin.
Seeing her now
the Thing stirs, anticipating her familiar smack
but she’s different, so changed I didn’t
recognize her at first.
Her smile’s big and warm wriggling with
nicotine gum.
The long glittering nails are missing from
hands that remind me of Grandma’s—
soft, tissuey, reaching for everything
as if it were fragile and precious.
She is light— light as air, light as
a breeze, as a violin song playing
for the sky.
Arms outstretched she reaches for Him
eyes only on Him
and it’s all for Him
only Him.
Without looking, she strokes
the Thing inside of me with the tip
of her finger and suddenly
I want Him, too
because everything around Him
is crisp and clear and fresh as a spring
Because He’s pure
Because He’s truth
Because He’s home.

Photo credit: “Woman Holding a Glass” by Paul Gavarni (Public Domain)

Poem: Dorm Music

Dorm Music (by Veronica McDonald)

I like music, but I don’t like music, at least, not the way he likes music
where he doesn’t just buy a CD or a few song mp3s but goes
and discovers the vinyl in garage sales and in that record dive alive
with dust and incense choking your lungs in gray gusts
and not just one record (as I call it) but all the records of all the albums
that paint the character of his soul like the graffiti album-art on his walls
plastered like markers, like badges, like signposts
telling me, telling everyone, that he not only likes this music, guy
he is it, he lives it, the music is in him, in his body, racing through his mind
like electricity sparking between his neurons
and flying out his fingers holding that paper cigarette
and in his hips like I’m one jive turkey

and he tells me that no one talks like that anymore
and looks at me with eyes that dare me, DARE me to tell him
what bands I like, what singer-songwriters I like, what albums I own
that only those who like the music would know about
and which ones, exactly, do I have pasted on my wall?—
like paint, like permanence, that can one day be covered up
but never forgotten, never erased because that music lives in your soul, man
breathes in what you were and spits out the you
you always wanted to be, and always knew you were deep down
because the music gets it
and he can’t live without it, can’t exist without it
it is part of him in a deep down place that cannot be touched
and if I name something too tame, too shallow, too Pop, too something-not-worthy
it’ll be that band, that music, that defines my core to him
defines my status, my socio-intelligence, my cool-cat strut or stray from real depth

but I don’t fall for the trap (at least not all the way)
and I tell him I don’t much like the Beatles
mostly because everyone else does
and because Charlie Manson did —
called them prophets, the locusts of Revelation
(men faces, women’s hair, the sound of many wings like guitar strings, etc.) —
and because I don’t much like John Lennon
mostly because he loved Aleister Crowley (Do what thou wilt)
and I love Jesus (Do unto others)
and I wasn’t alive in the sixties
so I guess there may have been some
culture coolness
or righteousness
or brotherhood
of the time that I just don’t get and won’t ever get

and he looks at me with eyes glazed in music-glow
and says, who the hell cares about the Beatles?
and I say, I think a lot of people do, I guess
at least, I still hear their songs on the radio
and he puts the cigarette out in a Keystone can
and says, who the hell listens to the radio anymore?
and I can’t answer him, but I’m glad that the subject’s finally changed
and he’s forgotten, or doesn’t know, that I don’t much like music
at least not the way he likes music
and that I’m trying, just trying, to let go
and let the music that’s in me run out
like old bathwater, tepid, dirty
so that I can be clean again, pure again
without his smoke under my skin
without his music-baggage drumming hard
like Ringo on my heart.

Photo credit: “Fifth Angel and locusts” from the British Library (Public Domain).

Poem: Nerd

Nerd (by Veronica McDonald)

Timmy wore the word “NERD” on him
thick and stinking like bilge water
like being smart and following the rules
(the ones teachers policed like lawmen)
was a bad thing, a bad smell, like Timmy’s warm
Waldorf salad breath.
He wanted a friend but couldn’t find one
in the forest of baby-joy as he picked through the trees
with an ax that had a steel handle marked by hard FACT
‘cuz the kids scatter at his noise like willow-o-the-wisps
blinking and disappearing in the corners
of his squinting eyes.
He has black lettuce stuck between his front teeth
when he tells a girl in his class about the scientific
impossibility of Santa Claus, and of his bringing toys to every
child in the world and that even if reindeer could fly
the physics of it all was just ludicrous. Think of the speed
in which he would have to travel, and even with the time-zone changes
his body would not physically be able to withstand the speed.
And the girl looks at him and nods and feels a revolted pity
as he fidgets with nervous fingers through the magic dust
on his desk, peering into his electron microscope.
She tells him there’s food in his teeth and Timmy turns red
dark red, redder than the girl thought possible
redder than Santa’s hat, and she comes to the horrifying
realization that it was all said to impress her.
Mrs. Sanders creeps up behind them and grabs Timmy’s shoulder
(like she owns his intelligence and all that comes with it)
and tells him to go back to his microscope
while she chuckles in her mind at the thought
that one day Timmy will be CEO of the world
and the rest of the kids who teased and ignored him
and called him “lettuce-teeth-Tim”
will regret that they did not also conduct a scientific investigation
into the impossibility of Santa Claus
and that she, Mrs. Sanders, alone could revel in the inevitability
of Timmy’s future success and her small but vital role in it all.
Timmy obeys because he must, and goes back to his microscope
but in the corner of his eye he watches
as the girl drifts away like mist
and floats out of the classroom window —
open just a crack for the possibility of a breeze —
away into the sky behind a cloud
to meet the hidden Sun.

Photo credit: “Child Leaning on His Elbow” by Paul Helleu (Public Domain)

Poem: i am

i am (by Veronica McDonald)

i am meat
wrapped in baby doll plastic
laid down on the slab.
i name me “Jane”
paint bright red lipstick on my lips.
Don’t stop there.
Why be so predictable?
i draw the lipstick down
the curve of my chin
onto my chest
draw a large bleeding heart
between breasts that are too small
so i label them “MUSCLE.”
The plastic almost feels like skin
it bounces back under my fingers —
too perfect — so i scratch it
then cover the marks
in “Soft Honey” foundation.
i get bored
so i name me “Fred.”
i spell it “FREED” in bold black letters
stitched into my abdomen
with a broken needle.
i cut off my long brown hair and glue it
under my nose, like a mustache.
i leave the lipstick.
It makes Fred unique
a creature rarely seen.
i pierce his body
with transgressions;
a few earrings first
then a tongue cheek nipple throat-ring.
The beauty and uniqueness are almost
complete.
He looks feminine —
whatever that means —
so i name him “Jane.”
i give her red contacts
to match the lips under her mustache
bleach what’s left of her hair
until the smell burns
and the hair has lost all
naturalness —
whatever that means.
This is my body
it was made in my image
it reflects
nothing
deeper than existence
it is my birthright
my machine.
The meat inside begins to rot
the juice leaks from somewhere
onto the slab.
i polish the skin
spray it with $500 perfume
maybe it’s Chanel
maybe it’s made from the sweat
of starving children—
i don’t care.
Eat drink for tomorrow we die.
i’m so beautiful i could cry.
so i do.
brown-red tears pour down my cheeks
and i can hardly smell it
anymore

Photo credit: “Smarra” by Tony Johannot (Public Domain)

Poem: stay awake

stay awake (by Veronica McDonald)

a new day
a new hour
Where am I
stay awake
the Lord says to stay awake
my mind wanders, dreaming
floats over where I don’t live
anymore
stay awake
TV books and nooks
full of cobwebs
where I once sat to dream
where spiders made their nests
on and over me
“she sits and dreams
sits and dreams
her insides brew with want and envy
wants to touch the world
but she can’t feel it”
Where is it
Does everyone live in it but me
everyone lives in it but me
I’ll sit and dream with no hope
worlds both inside and outside of me
I can’t get at them either way
not if I tear my skin or reach out my arms
asking the world to rescue me
no one hears, they’re not there
the spiders say I’m ok
and carry me back to the corner
they say
“go to back to sleep, keep dreaming
keep dreaming, so we can make our nests”
but the Lord says stay awake
stay awake stay awake

Photo credit: “Thick Spider’s Web” by Lancelot Speed (Public Domain).

Short Story (Fiction): Damascus

Damascus

by Veronica McDonald

I once had a dog named Damascus. I don’t know for sure why Dad named him Damascus. I especially didn’t know when I was a five-year-old, squawking kid who was constantly picking his nose and sometimes eating what he finds (you can’t trust what that kid knows, trust me). But now that I’m older and all and educated by some standard—at least thirteen years more educated than that pathetic kid—I would guess that Dad named him Damascus on account of his “road to Damascus” experience. Dad’s experience, not the dog’s.

I guess Dad was some kind of brilliant atheist once, before he fell for my pure-as-vanilla Christian mother and had some kind of religious “awakening;” Some radical, open-your-blind-eyes kind of thing. Except when he explained it to me, it didn’t sound all that radical. Not like the way it happened to Paul the Apostle, where a blinding light of God Almighty tells you point-blank He exists and, now that you know…you know…go do something important with that information. Naw, not at all like that. The way he tells it, he fell head over heels for this Christian girl, even though he thought all Christians were dumb. And when he took her out to dinner he had a whole spiel ready about how the cosmos were all there is and ever was and ever would be. But she looked so calm, so happy, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. And while his guard was down, she said something to him so simple—too simple really—that I didn’t believe it when he told me. Continue reading “Short Story (Fiction): Damascus” →