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Hard Fall Sought By Evander Jennings I stepped out until the morning song and wondered on with dewy feet, the path before me. Mind matched the shrewd play of clouds and grey ever locked like Sisyphus in their morning duel. As quickly as I'd gone, you followed, watching tenderly the tears I planted; ripe seeds from my eyes to the soil. Until it returned finally, to the form that had given it a name. To me, you came and sat in silence; Breathing the peace between each thought. I need a love like this. I need a love who makes me forget the taste of honey. The sacred dance of teeth and bones left lingering, the indentation of sweet fingertips to supple plenty. I need a love like this. I need a love that reminds me of the crunching play of leaves, and the energy of the flame that consumes them. I need a love that makes me forget the smoldering touch of flame. When cupping their heart, the ridged bellows of the earth envy to burn so steadily and so strongly.. I need a love that teaches Hephaestus a thing or two about warmth. I need a love like this. I need a love that makes me forget the taste of breath. That sucks the wind from lungs to knees, and in their bruised buckling makes me beg to a god I don't believe in. I need a love that as it flickers from seconds to minutes to hours I willingly trap myself; wholly succumbing my limbs to the sweet swirls of incense that made Mary weep. I need a love that catches me transfixed, by the light that catches within orbs coveted by the masses. I need a love like this. I need a love that bends, yielding like river reeds when the soul yearns for rapture. I need a love that makes me beg for more time. I need a love that makes me forget that time forged its name on my body when I was born. I need a love that lingers, even when the body fades, One that does not vanish with distance, but hums beneath the skin, Ever-present, ever-calling. I need a love who empties all words from my form. I need a love like this. I need a love as strong as the arrow that pierced Patroclus, begging to be known. Stronger than Achilles cries upon those tombs of stone. I need a love as strong as thunder rolling and as gentle as the droplets kissing my window when I need sleep. Stronger still than the wrecking of Jupiter at its core. To reprimand soil and the desire to be buried within. I need a love that's hard fall sought. As many do As I have But never losing pace when in tune with you. I need a love like this. Author Biography
Evander is an aspiring polymath with a love for the world, new experiences, and the strange living things that make it worth exploring. People say they never know what he's up to next, whether it's breaking world records for donated socks, running down Mt. Fuji in the black of night, or responding to natural disasters with a smile and a box full of food. He spends most of his free time traveling, photographing, and roller skating his way through the chaos of it all. Check out his Instagram @throughthetorii for a peek at his work.
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Hearth of Hennessey By Evander Jennings I love a dead man And his decayed way of showing it Belief is buried there in blinded eyes; cloudy from years of sleep deprivation and sleepless oxygen tanks. At times, I recall him, He in his foolish begging to fill the hole he himself was digging. I love a dead man. One foot in the grave and already earning second place. Breath is a precious little price to pay for cheap cigarettes. Excuses are like intentions, told by hearth of Hennessy. Teaching in his own way more on how to give away that thing that knocks around your ribcage. The softest sigh we’ll ever hear is the weight when time laughs. If I could store memories inside a bottle I'd rid the world of glass. I love a dead man. Precise fingerprints robust and rosy A gift to his pride and spat shiny by Locette SF, which makes you what you are. A tethered firmament to the man-made nests etched into my hard scratch of spine. Prometheus smirked at my first step toward the door Bitter quitter, I wont argue for the bone I love a dead man and the scarred hands of your father’s, father’s, father; and the flags they had tucked away after we buried them. Tell me once more of your unbridled jealousy for the good things taken by invisible enemies. why it cost every soul in our line. Each family spat out of the next like Hamlet stuck in limbo. Burn that stage to the ground Dead Man. Sing your maladies away. Like a car ride home from a funeral. If I were a better man, I’d tell you-- Orion isn’t coming home. If prayers could wipe bitterness clean, I’d cup my hands to drink- -without the rot. No cane. No shame. Crisp intelligence. So, Tell me, Dead Man once more what keeps you afraid? by this hearth of Hennessy This time may be different. Author Biography
Evander is an aspiring polymath with a love for the world, new experiences, and the strange living things that make it worth exploring. People say they never know what he's up to next, whether it's breaking world records for donated socks, running down Mt. Fuji in the black of night, or responding to natural disasters with a smile and a box full of food. He spends most of his free time traveling, photographing, and roller skating his way through the chaos of it all. Check out his Instagram @throughthetorii for a peek at his work. Eventide By Emily Bailey Pebbles laced with foam Ocean turned to stone Shades of smoke and bone Fill the air And oh The night did break The light did shake And fade away Silent was the meeting place In the misty night’s embrace Cirrus breath and whiskey fire Vanquish virtue with desire Cold wind lays all bare No more foul or fair Fears as firm as air Washed away And oh A hand did shake A voice did quake And fade away Lines erased from ashen sand Blending water, words and land Waves like promises we make Both have beauty, both will break And oh The light did break The night did shake And fade, and fade away Morning pours o’er rocky shores Hands of light peel back the dawn Daylight bleeds and secrets dry Dormant, dreaming of the night Author Biography
Emily is allergic to spare time, and can usually be found teaching English, rehearsing for a play, dancing, or listening to live music somewhere around Nagoya. She writes poems when inspiration strikes her, or when she has some sort or grievance. SAD By Grace There’s smoke on the mountain. And by smoke, I don’t mean fire. I mean the haze of a cold rain in late fall. Obscuring. Creeping toward that seasonal death. Green and orange coexist. And those ever-green things stand all the taller at the slow decay and hibernation of the friends around them. As if carrying the weight of their presence to hide their absence. As if stretching to fill the hole. And those sharp bare points that once held leaves shiver in the wind, creaking and scratching at passersby for warmth. There’s smoke on the mountain. And by smoke, I mean the evidence of late-night bonfires as the collective humanity huddles around, also feeling the cold. Spices and warm water supplement fire in the quest to feel an internal summer warmth. We draw closer to drown out the howling emptiness mirrored inside as out. The winds rise, but the smoke clings to your face and hair. No amount of long baths could fully hide red eyes. There’s smoke on the mountain. And by smoke, I mean the dew on frosted faces, and the snow not yet released through closed lashes. By smoke, I mean the small clouds of breath blown, visible for only a moment and then disappearing into nothingness. I mean the illusion of permanency surrounding us. There’s smoke on the mountain that the cold sun can’t lift. Author Biography
Grace is a writer from Gifu. She studied theatre and broadcast in university and comes from a musical family. She is an amateur artist of many forms and only in it for the love of creation. Her blog is more of a vault of thoughts than anything for display - so she asks you to be nice as you peruse and take whatever fits for you! Of Two Wonders By Grace I am a garden, luxurious and decadent. My terraces attract sweetly, and my depths offer cool repose. People and beasts come from near and far to savor my fruits, to smell the sweet aromas and marvel my many colors. A rare and radiant being am I. He is a lighthouse, sturdy, practical, and alone. His light extends to safe passageways and warns of danger. He guides the many around him. People draw in close and are redirected. As I attract and invite, he deters and leads away, his light revolving endlessly, like clockwork. But in each rotation, I feel his gaze. The light he throws reaches me, like clockwork. In the middle of the second hour he visits, lingering before slipping past. Soft and gentle, I bathe in it. Growing and blooming at its touch. Our eyes converse from afar. I watch his tower, admiring the beauty in the form. Admiring the grace in the function. The stoic lines that bear him, an ethereal being, trapped, not burning but beaming with altruistic benevolence. My flowers turn towards him. At half-past the second hour. Harsh seas surround him, but still he bears on. The salt whipping fiercely, settling in his corners. My roots struggle to break free – to carry me to him. To bring me closer to his light. I know I could not come close, could not cross those raging waters. The earth itself trembles in the ferocity. I would wilt and wither before feeling his embrace. There are no deep oceans around me and in turning toward me, his purpose too would be shattered. No more than an empty display, an illumination for the pleasure of children. The grand importance taken from him. Those sailors he once served lost and dashed against unseen cliffs and shores. We cannot be together. So this impossible love and wonder must be kept to the second hour, both constant and fleeting. Until the earth tumbles into the sea. Until the end of all things green. For I am a garden and he is a lighthouse. Author Biography
Grace is a writer from Gifu. She studied theatre and broadcast in university and comes from a musical family. She is an amateur artist of many forms and only in it for the love of creation. Her blog is more of a vault of thoughts than anything for display - so she asks you to be nice as you peruse and take whatever fits for you! An Ode to Kinkazan By Emily Voorhis O castle, Sentinel. Watching over all you can see How can I help but to meet your many eyes Your eaves are as wings Grates as nostrils The open windows of your keep a panopticon Across your long and sturdy back, stooped with age burdened by my gaze A horn of crosshatched steel protrudes The radio tower spires are spackled with electric light Witness to my clumsy first steps of new life Unflinching even now Surely, you emit peace in waves You take in my worries Certainly, they seem to fly to you To you who have died so many deaths yet ascended naught but hundreds of meters All of my thanks Author Biography
Emily Voorhis is someone who writes in Gifu Prefecture. She enjoys reading fantasy novels, traveling, and spending time with good friends. She is delving anew into this whole ‘writing thing,’ and appreciates your support. Til you Make it By Grace Where to start? I’m the shit – there’s too much amazing about me. People stare when I walk by. I’m stunning – they can’t look away. Mirrors turn like flowers. Narcissus looks my way. I’m the shit – from my hands come miracles. Midas calls me golden child. Bars to zero when they try to fight it. No one can beat me. The words I type drip honey – I’m the queen. What can I say? I’m the shit – flutes and ceilings shatter when I speak. Silver voice and holy. I lead sirens from the seas – Eris silent when I sing. Favorite of the Muses, I inspire, rewriter of fates and dreams. I’m the shit – outside and in. Beautiful and kind and wild. Hope bringer, fear easer, lover and friend. Protector night and day. I am confidence. I love myself. I’m the shit. What more can I say? Author Biography
Grace is a writer from Gifu. She studied theatre and broadcast in university and comes from a musical family. She is an amateur artist of many forms and only in it for the love of creation. Her blog is more of a vault of thoughts than anything for display - so she asks you to be nice as you peruse and take whatever fits for you! Fossilized By Emily Voorhis What if the dust settled? What if the caves dried? The stalactites and stalagmites held still, silent graves without their never-ending dripping? Your arm, arrested in motion, before it can touch mine. What if, for only one moment, things Just Stopped? Consider the fossils, yet undiscovered, deep under the earth. Entombed in a blanket of soil. Dormant and concealed by an envelope of so many rocks. What of the cicada shell, shed and left behind? If the insect returned to its old skin, it may yet fit. But if the moment ended. If the world commenced its nauseating churning, motion would tear the carcass. The inescapable squirming, shifting, skittering, shivering, twitching, constricting, grinding, gasping, pulsating endemic to life itself proves pulverizing. Shreds remain. Only by inaction is a memory preserved. So how can we allow the cicada its homecoming? How can our ears suffer the drooling, tedious drum of cavernous life? Or bear to witness those who greedily foist ancient bones into the present sun? And so, angel, your arm must never again touch mine. Lest you make a liveliness of the haunted house i have sealed around us. Author Biography
Emily Voorhis is someone who writes in Gifu Prefecture. She enjoys reading fantasy novels, traveling, and spending time with good friends. She is delving anew into this whole ‘writing thing,’ and appreciates your support. Invasive Species By Emily Voorhis If girlhood is a garden, I have grown in as a weed. Rangy and unkempt from the time I was a seed. Stand tall and keep your blossoms sleek, that’s what we were decreed. Only upon the fragrant will animals seek to feed. You preened and pruned and practiced, but these things I did not heed. Bucks and colts and farmers brayed beauty’s not where I’ll succeed. These barbs tore at the petals I then thought I didn’t need. Met rabbits, deer, and those who didn’t mind me as a reed. Still, later, sought to bloom anew in order to proceed. Shy flowers gather ‘round me, but you’re always in the lead. Author Biography
Emily Voorhis is someone who writes in Gifu Prefecture. She enjoys reading fantasy novels, traveling, and spending time with good friends. She is delving anew into this whole ‘writing thing,’ and appreciates your support. Train Bridge By Lindsay Lamp Oh lover, you remind me of roadkill In the small town where I settled down There were these train tracks Bridge smacked on top and wooden Tradition taught us how to act – Duck behind the low wall, Wait, And in the breath before that black Iron snake bolted through the gap Like a lightning strike You burst up quicker, so the wind Would whip against you with wild cracks Screams streaming from throats like flags That’s what I imagined love to be, darling Electric. But it’s more like – When I walked those steel balance beams Dividing the grass like a great seam, Only wrinkle a raccoon carcass Desiccated by time and daylight Black leather skin cracked open in Eyelets, white bone staring out Fur burgeoning in clumps Like how dandelions grow. I stood over it imagining The little raccoon pup still plump with milk Swelling into a black mask bandit with Thin, pick-pocket fingers And then it got hit by a train. That howling beast never slowed down Impact not even an afterthought and Fear whipped through me like a sharp wind Coming off a train Oh lover, part of spending a life together Means dying at the end And sometimes I look at you And you are the future, Tearing down the track towards me But more often than that– And I wish it weren’t true, You look more like a racoon. Author Biography
Lindsay Lamp (she/her) is a poet, editor, and full-time educator living in rural Gifu prefecture in Japan. Originally from Missouri, she received her BA in Psychology and a graduate certificate in Positive Psychology. While she makes a wonderful living teaching, she finds both community and purpose in literature. Her work has been published in Ink Nest Magazine and Hare's Paw Literary Journal. She is the founder of Last Book Unburned, which hosts monthly poetry readings in Nagoya. |
Featured WorkThis page features work submitted by writers and poets who have attended Last Book Unburned events. We are always accepting submissions of pieces authored by event participants! You can submit through the contact form or reach out directly through LINE. Archives
May 2026
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