Things I Would Have Given . . .

Things I Would Have Given My Mother Had She But Asked:

 by Sharmagne Leland-St.John

A piece of my liberal mind.

5 more minutes of my time,

the night she called at 3 am

from Halls Lake, WA to L.A.,

drunk, slobbering down the phone,

a repetitious sobbing,

tongue thick with Canadian whiskey

and a cacophony of "I love you!"

I told her to call back

when she was sober,

so I'd know she meant it,

then put the receiver down

and returned to my lover's arms

I would have given her

the framed watercolour of the roses

in the blue and white pitcher

resting on a white Victorian lace doily,

The one I painted for her Christmas gift,

after I got to know her,

and decided I actually liked her.

The painting I knew

she had no worldly need for

on Thanksgiving eve

the night the phone call came

from an incoherent brother

on his birthday.

Did his stunned words not make sense,

or did I just not want to believe

I was hearing him correctly?

Could not fathom that she could be gone.

just when I had come to cherish her.

I would have given her

My father's love

if it were mine to give.

My brother's honesty

if there were such a thing

My sister's non-judgmental side

If she had one.

Her father's gold pinky ring

in my safe keeping.

The black velvet scarf

with the French silk ribbon-embroidery.

Tiny roses with cultured pearls

on their stems.

I sewed stitch for stitch

with deft and slender hand.

My treasured first edition copy

Of Green Mansions.

A favourite from her own youth

during the war years

when she herself

was a young girl growing.

A senior at Hollywood High

winning Chamber of Commerce awards

for her own fanciful writing.

The gaudy flowered dress

She admired

bought at The Pleasure Dome

on the Sunset Strip

when I was a Hippie,

a motherless child,

reinventing my own self

to erase her DNA

from my cells, my bones, my ovum,

and from the strands of

bleached blonde hair

worn down to my waist

with baby's breath intertwined

i would give her 24 hours of my own life

just to tell her the things

that have gone unsaid.

For Rosebud

 (1922-1998)

~ Previously published on Quill & Parchment

THE WEIGHT OF THE SWIMMER

photoart: ralph murre

THE WEIGHT OF THE SWIMMER

by Ronald Baatz

 Just a few weeks ago the woods were different.

     Because of snow they were almost impossible

 to enter without snowshoes on.  Now there is

     so much green that the sky at sunrise is strictly

 a vainglorious yellow.  It’s June, and already

     I look forward to summer falling to its knees,

 dying in wind that has nothing worth mentioning

     except the cold.  As with the endless

 sentences I speak internally, I wish the green

     would perish and once again there would be

 a quiet starkness.  Life is everywhere,

     crowding, pushing, killing, eating, multiplying.

 In the city there are the throngs of people.

     In the country it is the green, the incalculable

 wealth of leaves of every shape, accruing,

     curving, stretching.  Even the wall, down

 at the dam, is covered with ivy

.     Swimming there this morning, we talked

 about a recent drowning.

      It seems that when the ivy is grabbed,

 it almost always breaks from

      the weight of the swimmer. 

~ first published by Tideline Press

The Shape of Longing

artwork: ralph murre

The Shape of Longing 

by Jeanie Tomasko

it wants to be a bird with two wrong wings

it wants to be

     uneven, it yearns

to be hollow

a little place to put your wadded prayers

the shape of longing stops you

every time is something you know that you know

is gnarled and winter

                             and white as January

the shape of this is white

                              is the voice that comes

from your small right rib

from the place that makes the wind and salt

                              if there is

a place only light has been,

                              there

it is, returning to you

                              undiminished, overdue

it is not mendable, this, your almost,

your leaden, your irregular

rowboat, small skiff, bent wing

this, your perfect translation of homesickness, of swimming

                               under

your lonely, your only, your umbra

your longest scar, your certain,

your silent, your first

       frost

singular and sternal, it is

                               the shape

of all you asked for, you and your simple

                               mad, breathless heart

~ previously published in Sharp as Want (Little Eagle Press)

Sleep

artwork: ralph murre

Sleep                  

by Ed Werstein

taps me on the shoulder
and says she wants

to take me to bed.

I tell her I'm just

going to finish

this chapter and then
I'll join her and

she'll get what she's after.

Sleep is impatient

keeps poking me
insisting I pay her

some attention.

I think she is jealous

of my books.

Sleep slips a mickey

into my herbal tea

and has her way with me.

I wake at three and realize

she's left me again.

She's thrown my book

on the floor

and hasn't even bothered

to turn out the light.

~ first published on Your Daily Poem

It Happens in This Latitude

photo: ralph murre

It Happens in This Latitude

by Susan Elbe

Here a loose chain of hills fences in

our eccentricity, a penance

of blood deeper than ground water.

Born inside this geography,

held by stubborn faith, we plough

and plant great fields of corn,

believing the soul of the diligent

shall be made fat. But sometimes

after storm the air turns green,

pale as katydid wings,

and a legerdemain of light pulls us

shimmering from this land’s rough sleeve.

Our solitary blood rises up,

tribal at the core. We drink the light

like we drink our whiskey—neat

and burning all the way down.

We husk the silky-haired corn, dance

on good black earth, our souls

filled with the dumb luck of summer

until the light begins to close

back on itself and something in us

wants winter. One by one,

we slip over the hills to mewl

in the body's dark shelter once more.

~ first published in The Laurel Review

Ham and cheese on rye

photoart: ralph murre

Ham and cheese on rye
by Gary C. Busha

I am an old man sitting on a sagging dock,
fishing in the rain, with not a fish in miles:
it is a perfect night for fishing.

Droplets run down my glasses, blurring my vision,
but there’s nothing to see beyond the circle of light
from the dock, anyway.

I know they’re out there, lurking in the weeds,
hiding in shadows, waiting until hunger brings them out,
forcing them to react without thinking, making them
bite against their will.

Like them, I feel the gnaw of hunger working. Like them
I try to hold off, stay put, keep from being like all the rest.
But time wins out, wears down the will,
and I reach inside my coat for a ham and cheese on rye.



~ previously published in The Writer's Almanac

photoart: sharon auberle

INTRODUCTION TO GARDENING

by Cathryn Cofell

I know dead when I see it.

Bile-colored leaves,

decomposing stalks.

I know about dredging

these small corpses

from the earth,

the heft of gathering remorse

in gloved hands.

A noticeable weight, yes,

but not so heavy considering

this loss was born

from these same neglectful hands. 

And yes, it was neglect,

those luxuriant black-sky days

when downpour seemed so certain,

those lolling humid days

when reading or sleep

were more important chores.

I know perennials,

they come back.

Like old boyfriends or lies.

Unwilling to be contained, popping

up when you least expect them.

Growing is what they do, even here

in this godforsaken place

I call a garden, a yard, a home. 

Yes, I know dead when I see it.

~ first published in the Comstock Review

Aerial Painting

artwork: ralph murre

Aerial Painting

by Jan Oskar Hansen

The painting in the hall, of an old bi-plane flying

across a blue sky, was different this morning.

It had landed by a waterfall and the pilot stood

leaning against the plane’s fuselage slowly

smoking a cigarette, eyes closed, enjoying every

moment, every inhale of scented tobacco.

I looked at the painting again; the sky was dark,

there was lightning in the air, the pilot had flown to

the front and collided with a barrage balloon.

The plane was broken as if thrown to the ground by

a spoilt boy who had wanted a fire-engine for his

birthday, and now only the blue sky prevails.

~ first published in The Writing Forum

Everything You Ever Wanted

digital art: sharon auberle

Everything You Ever Wanted

by Christine Swanberg

One day you may wake up to find

you have everything you need.

What, then, is

 this stirring inside you?

Perhaps, like the Dalai Lama,

your soul is gathering forces

for its next incarnation,

or maybe the urge to refine

right here,

right now,

manifests on this good planet.

Could be you are part

of a windy current

flying above the jet streams to nirvana,

or another current

has simply sent you skating

past a sociological dream

into a post-consumer world.

I read once that the Danish

are the happiest people in the world.

They live in a dark climate

eclipsed by winter.

They ride bicycles

and eat lots of ice-cream,

have less sex and suicide

than the Swedes.

They have less divorce, violence,

use of guns, anti-depressants, locks,

and religion than we do.

They have higher taxes,

and socialized medicine,

They are not gobbling up the earth

or each other.

One day they woke up

to find

                        they have everything

that they ever wanted.

~ first published in SOUNDINGS

Island Living (RE / VERSE Post # 100 !)

photo: ralph murre

Island Living

 by Alan Catlin

There are certain

real disadvantages

to living on the Island

It doesn't pay

to be ill here

or to need any

kind of constant

medical attention

I spoke to a lady

on the ferry once

                                    about how it worked

out for her

Her husband had

Alzheimer's though

she never worried

about him taking

the dog out for

his daily walk

She knew that

the dog would

always bring her

husband back

~ first published in Edgz

A Shift of Emphasis

photo: ralph murre

A Shift of Emphasis

by Mary Jo Balistreri

I

With dawn’s arrival, the desert landscape stretches,

its hot breath stifling as a closed attic. The cacti

in their wisdom have already licked the moisture

from the night. Wind whistles hot and hoarse,

while time hangs thirsty in the sky. A dark speck

hovers in the high washed air, watches and waits.

The desert, alive with light, sighs in silence.

II

The IV pole stands alone, arms lifted

as if in prayer, life-giving like the saguaro.

Light jumps and gutters, glints off hard metal

edges, brushes the sterile room in Arizona umber.

I sit here beside you, my mind lost among

the burnt sienna canyons, caught in the burrs

and brambles of fear, dizzy with the sheer drop

should I step too close to the edge.

Your strangled breath startles both of us.

You wake, washed blue eyes confused. I touch

your cheek, run my hand over your seamed

and tired face. You cross your hands over your heart.

III

The chrysalis jumps in the palm of my hand,

a tiny heart beating life in its brown shell.

Outside the window, a leaf lifts in the breeze.

Dreams lap behind your closed lids. I see your mouth

move, bend down close to hear you say,

How beautiful, your mother. Blue wonder smiles

across your face. You are a young man in love

and time stands still.

~ first published in Healing Muse

A TRUCK STOP IN NORTH DAKOTA

artwork: ralph murre

A TRUCK STOP IN NORTH DAKOTA
by Ray Foreman

driving through North Dakota to Seattle,
Baker left the interstate around 7:30,
drove into a town and found a motel.
night driving burned his eyes.
this was farm and ranch country,
little traffic after dinner
except for eighteen wheelers.

a small one counter diner one rarely saw
on highways saturated with Burger King's,
McDonald's and Wendy's.

"can I still get something to eat?"

she looked at him, Eloise occasionally
had problems with late night truckers.

"anything I can make on the grill.
the beef stew's been around all day."

"choose something you think I'd like."
no one ordered like that,
she could have served leftover
10 day old ground beef, old eggs,
questionable chili.

Baker, who gave New Age workshops,
told participants that living in fear
or uncertainty, even if they were right at times,
was a shrunken way to live.
he taught that trusting people and
enjoying the surprises it offered made
living an adventure rather than a retreat.

"Eloise, Ellie," she said. "let me make you
a cheese omelet, I know the eggs are fresh."

"Jacob."

Ellie placed the plate decorated with
a sprig of  fresh parsley, a slice of tomato,
and a fresh cup of coffee in front of Jacob.
"do you mind if I sit here with my coffee?"

"I'd like that very much."

Ellie turned out the lights and locked
the door at eight thirty.
"it's pretty much a farm and ranch hand
bar, I don't think you'd like it.
I have some Gordon's and a bottle
of orange juice I bought yesterday."

Ellie was more surprised than Jacob.
they had a few drinks and talked until two.
just talk.
Jacob knew when pressure and expectations
are minimized or removed,
people often reveal themselves.

"I'll see you in the morning for breakfast,"
Jacob said, and drove back to his motel.

 at breakfast, Ellie's facial expression was
fresh, even vibrant.
"cooked cereal if you have some," Jacob said.
"you look rested although we did stay up late."

"I haven't talked so much to anyone,
at one time, not even to myself,
not for twenty years.
heck, who's there to talk to here,
truckers, cowboys and farm hands.
you're a smart man, tell me why I stay
here and die by the day?"

"the reason anyone stays put is because
it's safe. they know what they have and
afraid of what they can't see in front of them.
you have one life, either it's an adventure
and an experience, or it's a cage
and you're looking out between the bars.
you're settling and not saying the words.
figure out what you're doing here
and why.
face it, it may be right for you which
is something only you know."

Jacob left after breakfast.
occasionally he receives a letter from Ellie
who still lives in North Dakota and
still runs the diner.

~ first published in Clark Street Review

ON THE MEANING OF

photoart: sharon auberle

ON THE MEANING OF

by Linda Back Mckay

This is what life does.

It wakes you in the morning

before the morning

glories open and gives you

the sound of your mother’s voice.

Life spreads itself across

the ceiling to make you think

you are penned in, but that

is just another gift. Life takes

what you thought you couldn’t live

without and gives you a heron instead.

And a dragonfly, stitching its way

through the milkweed. Life contains all

of your tears in a vessel

shaped like hands in prayer.

Life is shape, sight, sound, bone.

It whispers and sings and holds

you and you almost never feel it.

You push your way from phase to phase.

You are a horse with blinders.

You think you are pulling, but you

are being driven.

While going about your solitary life,

one hoof in front of the other,

real life is turning the stars,

like mirrors, in your direction.

~ first published in Verse Wisconsin

When asked

artwork: ralph murre

When asked

 by Albert De Genova

Tell us something about your saxophone…

Well, it’s been with me a long long time–

It is the back beat in my bones

swaggering through nights of smoke and moan

a brassy whore of musk and wine.

I’ll tell you somethin’ ‘bout my saxophone.

A voodoo spell of chants and stones,

it’s filled with grindin’-n-blues-in’ and rhyme.

And more,        it knows the crying in my bones

knows the unanswered echo of a telephone

has traveled the roads of lies and crimes.

Let me tell you ‘bout my saxophone.

Sometimes it has a mind of its own

its reedy voice don’t sound like mine,

yet it’s always ringing through my bones.

In my hands it feels like home

a curious marriage of wind and time.

I’ll tell you ‘bout my saxophone

it is the singing in my bones.

~ previously published in Back Beat, second edition (Fractal Edge Press)

Backyard Pond, Brocaded Carp

Backyard Pond, Brocaded Carp 

by Lisa J. Cihlar

My daily yard and garden tour.  I carry fish pellets to the pond.  My largest gold and black koi has died.  The local raccoon got others by feeling behind rocks and in crevasses with paws that look like tiny desiccated human hands.  He didn’t get this one.  I know because there are no half-eaten fish parts scattered in the grass.  This fish just died, old age, some fish disease that I can’t fathom. 

It floats on the surface now, half-sheltered by a water-lily leaf, almost mistaken for a flower-bud.  I scoop the body up in my hand, feel the roll of maggots under scales.  I recoil, send it back into the water and the dozen living carp of many colors come to feast on the larvae, a free-floating meteor shower.

Grant Park Jazz Gala

dragonflies swirl up, over

improvisation

~ first published in Frogpond Journal

Bennie

artwork: ralph murre

Bennie

by Don Schaeffer

Just earning a living;

I look at his hair, thin

but he owns it.

When I see how he tries to part it

my heart opens.

There is a rim of something moist

and the grease has

spread to his shirt.

I decide I can forgive him for that.

I suppose he will go home

sometime where it's dark and

solitary. He will

wash and run

his hand over his scalp and

put those precious pants

over a chair, sink onto some kind of bed

and close his eyes.

~ previously published in Tryst