On a Hot Afternoon in Jerusalem

detail: historic illustration: artist unknown

On a Hot Afternoon in Jerusalem

by Stephen Anderson

The sun-parched face of an old Arab

crowned with a kaffiyeh,

his nicotine-stained fingers clutching

a smoking Galloise,

peers directly at the

photographer.

Is this a survivor of untold losses,

of so many blood-curdling mourning wails

of Arab women,

this very same man who sips black coffee

sugared to taste from a demitasse,

a sweet companion to his cigarette,

a sure soothing balm for desperate souls

in such toxic, war-torn environments,

here during a sweltering afternoon in the

calmer, narrow lanes of a Jerusalem souk

where Arabic words dance between

walls, then flee, muted, into the open air?

Does he dream too – that Allah

will some day

silence

gunfire forever?

~ previously published in The Silent Tango of Dreams

THE ART OF GRIEVING

photoart: sharon auberle

THE ART OF GRIEVING

by Linda Back McKay

By now you have had a lot of practice. No art or science is perfect and that is why the art of grieving is practiced by all. This class is mandatory for matriculation into the next life, which may or may not contain grieving. Either way, you take your chances. When presented with the chance to choose nothing else, drop to your knees and lower yourself to the floor. Prostrate, let the tongues of anger and cooling sorrow wash over you in morning sunlight. After you are tired of being on the floor, pick yourself up again. Wash your hands in the bathroom sink with a strong soap that foams, you will notice, like malted milk. Above all, do not think about grieving or it will take hold of your thought and squeeze harder than you can bear. Take to clouds instead. Clouds like these, that swim above the aqua sea, skirting daytime and night time, content with their chameleon lives, neither coming nor going. Take yourself on a little journey to someplace small because big is impossible right now. Save big for when you are stronger. In your small place, watch for the smallest of things – a thimble, a fluff of dust wafting across the desk. The old quill pen that you can now imagine scratching a message to home, please await my return. Your humble servant,  

~ first published in The Wind Blows, The Ice Breaks (Nodin Press)

WOMAN ON THE ROCKS

digital art: ralph murre

WOMAN ON THE ROCKS

by John L. Campbell

A cool Caribbean breeze sweeps white sand across the veranda

at a villa overlooking the rugged rocks bordering the Atlantic.

On my left, a purple profile of Puerto Rico cowers under clouds,

and north, the tiny island of Culebra floats like a gray battle ship.

From my perch on the isle of Vieques I sip hot coffee and watch

a woman fish from a rock the size and shape of Moby Dick.

She's lean, muscular and wiry like a sprinter, a soccer player,

a tall, willowy Olympian in short-shorts, long legs and naked feet.

A tattoo of a purple-blue dragon peeks from her undershirt,

white against her tan skin shimmering as she twirls

a fishing line like a lasso glistening in the sun, a cowgirl,

arms akimbo, trying to cut the lead stallion from the herd.

She tosses the line and it sails up and out like a snake in flight,

the weight, then the bait, kiss the turquoise surf and sink deep.

She taps a cigarette from a pack, cups her hand and lights up

with the skill of a seaman on deck with the wind in her face.

Her smoke drifts upward, I inhale her breath, its tobacco aroma.

Who are you woman, where do you live, with whom do you sleep?

Perhaps we could meet between cinco y siete behind the stacks

in the library, or in a booth behind palms at Fat Jack’s Café?

Motionless, she watches the water, a bucket her only companion.

I want to climb down to those rocks, ask what she's using for bait,

ask what fish she’s caught, would she welcome a man's company?

                   

~ first published in Free Verse

The Space Between Us

The Space Between Us

by Mary Jo Balistreri

In a land where stone takes one breath

every thousand years, I watch my father sleep.

Rivers of his body rise and fall,

skin map-thin at 93, arteries bottle-necked, narrowed.

Heat sears day, dims distant sand dunes to mirage.

His eyelids twitch, a leg muscle contracts.

He awakens with a start—perhaps currents

strange and powerful burrow

through his memory’s alchemy and pass

between us, this landscape that throbs

with ancient rhythms and ancestral pulses.

Half asleep, he shuffles to the door, brushes my arm

aside and steps into the sun. He whistles and waits.

A quail in elaborate topknot and desert fatigues

struts from under the orange tree.

The bird calls back but stops, sociable only at a distance.

Dad knows not to move. In a few minutes,

she takes her nine offspring

in the opposite direction, legs spinning

like pinwheels. He watches until they’re gone,

the way he used to watch me.

Later, he strolls among other affections—oleander,

bougainvillea.  His fingers brush the vine of flowers,

and I remember his gentle touch as he lingers

by blooms of deepest pink.

            We rode on the Aerial Bridge. He held me tight

            against his chest, patted my back, soothed my cries.

            It will be okay he said over and over as we rose

            higher and higher.

Memory jolts like an alarm as he leans toward
the cacti, the spiny seeds of bursage.
He lifts his head to the sun, my panic spiraling.

Like the fresh smell of creosote after a rain,

love’s brief moment stuns.

I take his hand as we walk toward the house,

inhale the fragrance of Here. Now.

Breath that takes me forward, breath

that will take him home.  

~ first published in Mobius

THE DAWN COMES UP . . .

collage: daniel abdal-hayy  moore

THE DAWN COMES UP A VERY PLANETARIUM BLUE

 by Daniel Abdal-Hayy Moore

The dawn comes up a very planetarium blue

red tinged at the lower edge

little birds are untucking their heads and shaking their

sleepy brains awake

cockroaches are running for cover

somewhere a murderer is nervously washing his

      knife looking over his shoulder

somewhere lovers are turning in each other’s arms

hating the day

somewhere a Bodhissatva is looking at

nothingness from nothingness’ standpoint

through slitted eyes and smiling

A ship is sinking coffee cups rolling on the floor

a deer is licking her doe awake long black tongue

my own eyes are burning from being awake too

     long

my heart is brimming with the circling

       lariat of this song

trying to not try to let the song lines

         come through

as the sky now is a more

uniform whitish wash of blue

~ previously published in Millennial Prognostications

   (The Ecstatic Exchange)

photoart: ralph murre

Haunting

by Jude Genereaux

It could have been the wind

batten’ed ‘round the house

the brass chimes maniacally

clanging against the timbers

waking me in the hours

those wee small hours, I used to sleep;

it could have been the silent moon’s

furtive sliding through my window

branding it’s lament on your empty pillow,

knowing what haunts the little hours

                                              is you.

                        ~ first published in the Museletter

WOMANLESS TUESDAY

artwork: ralph murre

WOMANLESS TUESDAY

by Ronald Baatz

He mentioned seeing his

former lover on the street.

He said that she had appeared ruined

by time, by life's wretchedness.

He said that he had been shocked

when he looked into her eyes.

Other than this he didn't mention anyone else

in the letter, which was strange.

He was not the kind of person

who avoided heartfelt gossip.

I put the letter down on the table, but

when a breeze started playing with it

I stuck it in my shirt pocket.

It was the kind of beautiful day when

voices carried,

lovers married.

I wanted to write back immediately,

while my thoughts were still fresh.

A couple of pens and paper

were on the table.

I could smell the scented geranium

in my window.

I started my letter by saying

something about his old lover

apparently still leading the wild life,

then continued on to other matters,

my pen skating along in

a conversational tone.

I told him that there were small birds

making a fuss in the maple.

That there was a cat

sitting in the tall grass,

watching clouds turn into

flocks of doves.

That it was a Tuesday

and for me it was a

womanless

Tuesday.

~ first published in Yellow Silk

Insomnia

Insomnia

by Constance Vogel Adamkiewicz

Eyes squeezed shut, you watch a mangled newsreel of your life.  

The floor rumbles.  Something has unearthed the earth,

a great exhalation as if the whole world has breathed out.

The dog pricks up her ears, paces the bare floors,

her nails a metronome - click-click, click-click,

from twelve to two o’clock, when the bear 

of darkness crawls from its cave.

Drowsy, you plod to the porch,

where the dog has led you.

She stands, a statue peering out.

In the stillness you expect something 

to blast across the lawn - a coyote

with a bloody rabbit in its jaws, a burglar

with your jewelry in his burlap bag, or worse. 

Wide awake till dawn you rock in the wicker chair 

watching the black holes between the hostas and ferns.  

You can deal with a coyote or burglar, but not with your life.

~ first published in Willow Review

Lilacs

digital collage: ralph murre

Lilacs

by Susan M. Firer

Before his doctor cut into his

7^th cervical disk,

like an old Swede’s goat he clumped

climbed the black garage roof next door

thump thump to throw

down on me the lightest, most

fragrant bunches of lilacs.  I lusted

for the lilacs, the drunk

lilacs, the purple flabellum,

spodumene, sumptuous benedictional lilacs,

the Nerudian excessive lilacs.

Neruda’s desk came to him from a wave

off Isla Negra.  “Matilde! Matilde!

My desk!  My desk!” he yelled,

spotting the wood in the ocean.

Together Matilde and Neruda

“went down to the beach and sat

on the sand, waiting for a wave

to wash up the wood….”

Neruda placed the wood ocean view

in front of a window and placed

a photo of young Whitman on it &

a photo of old Whitman on it.

How Whitman loved lilacs.  You can

smell lilacs when you read Whitman.

Breathing lilacs our house falls dark

around us, drops like night clothing

days’ faces.  Convalescent hearted

lilac pilgrims cannot stop breathing

the wet dark lilac nights.

Put a bed of lilacs down

and I will meet you.  We will not sleep.

Friends all over are falling.

There are so many ways to fall.

Lilacs offer their transfusions.

In the Houghton Mifflin New

College Edition of AMERICAN HERITAGE

DICTIONARY OF THE ENGLISH

LANGUAGE, on page 757 (like/limb),

they show photos of the perfectly-postured

lily & the very well-behaved lily

of the valley.  What about lilacs?  I write

the editors.  What about scratch & sniff lilacs?

All over late May, lilacs like burglars

surround outbuildings,

& houses, & hospitals, & bus stops.

(On your way to your morning

bus, if you stop to pick Gabriel’s lilacs,

you will miss your bus.)

Lilacs heal lovers’

quarrels, and I swear they floated

the ship from Singapore

anchored outside our Memorial

Day lake breakwater,

making the huge ship look

like a ghost ship,

floating on lilac water.  You

already know a lot about a girl

if you see her carrying a sprig of lilacs,

if she tucks a sprig in her hair,

if she bathes in an evening tub

full of lilacs and water.

Night commendatory lilacs brush

the windows with lavender stars

of fragrance.  Dirigibles

of lilacs cover us beautifully

as a garden’s bell cloche.

I raise my lilac scratched arms

for the mammogram lady.

She arranges my breasts on her

just spray cleaned plastic plate

like cut flowers.  I believe in evening

she might be giving a formal dinner.

So much is conjecture,

subjective, history.

In the Downer Theatre yellow-starred,

emerald-green-tiled ticket booth,

the ticket seller sits like a fortune

teller.  She has put a wavy-script sign

in her window.  It reads: HOLD ON

TO YOUR MONEY OR IT WILL BLOW AWAY.

It should read: LILACS ARE ALWAYS

LOVELY.  They sign pleasure (On our

dark, night living

room floor, he surrounds me with lilacs

& whispers, “Now you mustn’t move).

Tulips & pumpkins trip me.

I feel misplaced as poodles

in Lake Michigan.  Poodles in Lake Michigan!

My mother told me I was mailed to earth

in an envelope of lilacs,

there is not one reason to disbelieve her.

In lilac days, my mouth full

of ripe, yellow starfruit,

I swallow and listen to the already almost

lilium & tomatoes & delphiniums &

the always too brief flowering lilacs.

In the dark I sneak

out on the soft, moon shine yarrow-

yellow-caterpillar like seed softened

sidewalks.  I stand pelted by soft

green maple seed wings that helix fall

wind whip to earth.  (In sunlight

the children will split & wear

on their noses the same winged seeds.)

I stand in the ample

lilacs, the only flower with enough

fragrance to convert everyone

in the city to crime.

Dorothy visited the Emerald City.  Yearly

I surrender myself to the unrestrained

wash rabble lilacs,

the windy caravan of lilacs,

the narcoleptic steambath

invitation of lilacs.

                        ~ first published in The Iowa Review

Tai Chi in 4 Movements

digital manipulation (ralph murre) of garment embroidery (artist unknown)

Tai Chi in 4 Movements

by Jackie Langetieg

I.  The Beginning

The teacher wears black and white,

light in opposition to dark--the symbol

for yin and yang.  Unknowingly

over half the group does, too,

I don’t feel as fat as I dreaded.

The warm-up is just camouflaged exercise,

but the sparkling day bribes me to enjoy it.

My hibernated muscles stretch stubbornly

I’m awkward--an elephant trying to be a jaguar.

II. The Form

My body tries to forget itself

return to the rhythm of nature.

I walk heavy, like a bear,

filled with bear power.

My chest is a box, my spine a string of pearls

connected to the universe.  I shift my weight

to the left foot, my right arm lifts on the kiss

of a breeze--weight

an anachronism of no weight.

Practice anything, she says in today’s farewell--

even if it’s wrong.  Next time you’ll have something

to correct. 

She didn’t check my form, touch my leg.

Am I already perfect?

Or has she deferred to the old bear instead--

left it to its lost causes.

III.  The Practice

I am in the barefoot dark--I step out cautiously

turning my right foot, stepping strongly on my left heel

settling into my balance.

I loosen my belly’s tension, turn my head,

pulling it past stiff neck muscles

rigid prisoners of my clenched jaw.

Just when foot is firm and body balanced--

the lean in to the wind thrilling as an untried lover--

a new direction is demanded.

Practice.  I don’t know where my balance

will meet my movement. Practice.

Start again in the familiar footfall,

turning,

leaning out,

feeling the sweet soul-kiss of new space made mine.

IV.  Animal Frolics

Resting deer, walking deer

press

fall back

turn

swing arm--not able to think like a deer

because I’m watching the teacher.

I close my eyes and become the deer,

drift through dark

                          rest

                                pull back

                                        listen for danger

                                                 press forward.

The pond wears its cool scent--

I walk on small boned hooves toward marsh grass,

ears up, tongue on the roof of my mouth,

jaw relaxed.

Each cool Tai Chi morning

of these storm-surrounded days remains perfect.

My garlic and brewers yeast discourage lazy mosquitoes.

Perhaps another night I’ll become a mosquito,

bite the deer, take her heart into my own,

and fly through the woods bending and pawing the earth.

~ first published by The Wisconsin Academy for Science, Arts, and Letters

POEM FOR THE DEPARTED

artwork: ralph murre

POEM FOR THE DEPARTED

by Michael Koehler

I want to write

a death poem,

for no one in particular.

I won’t say how you died.

And I can’t speak  for

the others left behind.

It’s almost certain

your death wasn’t fair,

was years too soon.

Unable to make a quilt

from your shirt, or braid your hair

into a vase of flowers,

or cast your dear face

in whitest porcelain

to hang on the wall,

please allow me these small words,

flower petals, really, no more,

for no other reason than

you know I need to write them.

~ previously published in Red Boots (Little Eagle Press)

Waste

photo: ralph murre

Waste

by Donna Hilbert

To change the water, I pluck

last week’s tulips from their vase,

but the turbans unhinge in my hands,

orange cups upend in the sink,

with underside bands

of stem-colored green revealed.

A still life subject, I think:

tulips in their disrepair.

My love is a painter. Daily I tell him,

paintings are everywhere

but poems, my dear, are rare.

I am not a painter,

so I drop the old petals into a sack

with over-ripe cheese, uneaten fruit

and down the back stairs I march

the whole tableau to the trash.

~ first published in Tears in the Fence

At a Jazz Bar in Denver . . .

photo: ralph murre

At a Jazz Bar in Denver with My Son

and His Friends, I Learn Something New

by Mary Jo Balistreri

I sit and listen in the midst

of my son’s crowd, speak

a bouncy banter.

We kill time

with the Simpsons before

David plays jazz.

In jeans and casual jackets,

we drink Coors,

check the wind-tossed sky,

the flash of lightning, hoping

in spite of the weather, a crowd

will pour through the door.

After a while, I hear a shift

of tone, a carefulness

I hadn’t noticed before.

In a conversation of augmented fifths

and ninths, the friends address me

in safe thirds. I listen more carefully.

Where is the cutting edge,

the forward motion? We converse

in C major, squarely metered.

I sit back stunned. The lack

of dissonance strikes a new chord.

When did Youth leave me and move on?

I adjust my position on the barstool,

lean into her absence, wonder

how I never saw her go.

                                   

~ first published in the San Pedro River Review