Mnemonic

artwork: ralph murre

Mnemonic

by Wilda W. Morris

            Beginning with a line and a half from Li-Young Lee*

I was cold once. So my father took off his blue sweater.

He wrapped me in it.

I slid my short arms into the long sleeves.

Father leaned down and buttoned each button.

I was five years old

and the sweater had five buttons.

“Carry me,” I begged. “I’m tired.” Father picked me up.

As my arms flew around his neck, the sleeves flapped like blue wings.

Now I was warm

but Father was cold.

He carried me seven blocks and was worn out

when he climbed the steps to our door.

This is how I remember it.

But when I was five I was never wrapped

in a warm sweater with buttons down the front.

And I had no father.

~ first published in After Hours

WITH THE WINDOW OPEN

photoart: sharon auberle

WITH THE WINDOW OPEN

by Ronald Baatz

With the window open

you can hear piano music

softly coming from the house

like bread thrown to birds.

The night is calm, except for

some bright thunder that

accompanies the falling leaves.

Part of the mountain ash tree

is dead, though the music she plays

may turn it into firewood.

I could hide in the dark

of the barn, to rip the

skin from my thumbs.

The place is no longer used,

but then neither is the north star.

The situation surprises me,

as does a dream.

My blood has turned to ashes,

caught in a woman’s long hair

like confetti or dried

and broken leaves.

~ first published in Shenandoah (1974)

Return Trip

artwork: ralph murre

Return Trip

by Peggy Trojan

                                                                                                          

Coming back always went fast.

We fell asleep on the rear seat

in happy tangle, and were home

before we wished it.

My father carried us 

to our beds, my younger

brothers limp and soft,

easily moved.

I was too old

for such attention,

and feigning sleep

I’m sure he knew.

He picked me up,

all dangling legs and arms,

my face in his shoulder

of tobacco and wool,

trudged up the stairs.

By hall light,

he put me down gently,

took off my shoes,

covered me up, clothes and all.

Then, tip toed out,

leaving the door ajar.

~ first published in Wisconsin People and Ideas  

DAD'S LUNCH BOX

artwork: ralph murre

DAD’S LUNCH BOX

by Donna Hilbert

Dad climbs down

the telephone pole,

stretches out under a pepper tree,

opens his lunch box:

black metal,

substantial like a vault,

or a government building

in a Balkan country.

Under its dome

wire arms hold

a Thermos of coffee.

On the bottom floor,

Vienna sausages on a bed

of mayonnaise, white bread.

For dessert, butterscotch

cream-center cookies.

Dad unwraps a sandwich, eats.

He pours coffee into the cup

his Thermos lid makes,

dips a cookie, watches it bloat,

then holds his lips to the rim,

slips the sweet bits

into his mouth.

I like to think

he savors pleasure

before he stands the box on one end,

touches a forefinger to his tongue,

his damp fingertip

gleaning crumbs

to feed the sparrows who wait

in slender leaves.

Then, one foot

over the other,

he climbs the pole again.

~ first published in PEARL

Dredging

artwork: ralph murre

Dredging

by Richard Purinton

A laden scow slides in sloppy chop,

Pushed by a red tug.
Its black, smoking stack
Mirrors the propeller’s spin.

Muck and rock, hard pan bottom,
Crane swing, one scoop at a time.
Scow to truck, scow to truck, truck to dump site,

Muck trucked to landfill.

Rolling, snorting through intersections,

Horns blatting, diesels braking,
Dopplers released from the far sides of hills.

Then, engines rumble idly as the

Slippery spoils slide and stones scrape

From steel box to the waiting pit below.

A dirty earth jello.

Now night. Scow light.
The same red tug pushes
An empty scow away,
Engine loafing, not huffing.

Second shift will dig, dredge, tow,

Truck and dump.

Dig, dredge, tow, truck and dump.

 ~ previously published in Poem, Prose & Image (Island Bayou Press)

Quick Step

photoart: ralph murre

Quick Step

by Barbara Cranford

Come with me, my old familiar love,

to that long, resounding bridge

over the singing stream

and remember when we tripped

lightly, skipping sprightly

with Amaryllis in the spring.

As once in another life

in another place and time––

we two the same yet not the same,

as no leaf on any tree is the same

yet not the same, as last year’s growth

or next year’s yield––we will step slowly

around this autumnal glade.

We will be forgiven

our forgotten dreams

and all our broken promises

as our stately minuet

slips into two-step,

double-time and rag.

~ first appeared in Pegasus

The chickens were cackling . . .

photo: robert lee haycock

by Robert Lee Haycock

The chickens were cackling

Over some off-color joke

About a man running around

With his head chopped off

I didn't get the punchline

~ first published in Medusa’s Kitchen