by Scott Owens
Two doves,
or one,
and a spot on my window
ride the winded wire,
one, spreading its wings
from time to time
to stay on top,
the other, absolute
in its ideal sense
of balance,
needing no wings,
and going nowhere.
By Joseph Milosch
The decal of a woman is on the red prophylactic machine in a Chula Vista bar. Across its front someone has peeled her away until she appears to have a head wound, partially encased by her undulating hair. The precise manner someone took to cut away this decal has produced a sculptured look.
The wound point is at her hairline. It widens, pear shaped, and leaks over her face. Red ink is blood that follows the curve of her lip. Blood falls in drops from her chin. Gathering into a stream flows across her breast, drapes off the tip of her nipple. The even line indicates the carver has practiced. Raising my hand, I cover her with my arm’s shadow, and listen to the silence in this shade less place where light puts the dark image of a man on the floor and wall behind him. What metal absorbs my blood heat in this hour when the air holds the human odor?
What lightless fragment follows me as I move in the community of these men? They are cruel because they have the power to be, and they go bald from the middle out showing the starkness of their core. They fear their own emotions, and can’t piss in the company of other men. They destroy the objects of their passions, and carry the motionless current of this woman’s breasts on the edge of their Buck knives.
I think of my hometown in Michigan. I think of community picnics, the farm women walking without escort, walking with voices as cool as man dug lakes, and the grass sprung back in their silhouettes. There, men sat in maple shade drinking liquor less punch, talking of wives, children, whose son had the high hard one. While in the fields iron teeth wait to rip the hard and callous soil, and wheat sleeps with its hands over its many eyes, and dreams of the combine’s slow rotation.
Now men enter this room. One looks at her from the corner of his eyes as he spits in the urinal, as he says, “Making room for one more.” Another enters, and looks at her from the corner of his eyes, “You guys better hurry, and I got to piss like a race horse!” As I leave a third enters. He looks at her from the corner of his eyes. Four men fascinated by a mutilated decal are captivated as if she is alive, electric with fragrance, excited in her high heels, her lace dress, and her savage beauty firm in the slope of her back. I know she is alive because no one has added to her defacement.
Leaving this bar, I walk to my truck and lean against its bed. The sun slides behind the top layer of fog. The sun becomes an opaque cup with a blood red rim. She comes to me with her black eyes, her painted smile.
If I could tell her more than it is not violence that drops my heart like a sand bag on top of curb and gutter. It is the men who say, “No harm was meant.” If I could tell her more than once at work a dozer hand re-cut a finished slope. I got in his face. “It is only dirt,” he said. This is not dirt, I yelled, this is the earth. I am not a cook. You’re not a cook. What we build lasts more than twenty four hours.
If I could tell her more than this, tell her I envision the cost of being a woman: to have your body become day in and day out, the receptacle for so much need, so much ill-rigged, hitched up, dangerously poised lust. She would turn her head revealing her scar, exposing a round earring, and we would listen to the wind that lifts her silken curls into the air.
Word count 650
by Martha Christina
Free of cage
and owner,
returned
to the multitude,
a parrot might
articulate
what the others
had only thought:
how good to be
one of a flock.
Blogged with the Flock Browser
by Dretta Grace White
And if the stars fail us
What becomes us then
My darling ones
What becomes us now
A song
A psalm
The unfolding line
A rhyme
Tales of sorrow so swiftly said
The heart beats once
Twice
Or none
What becomes us
My darling ones
What keeps us here
by Kippy Stewart
Under moonlights magic
Cricket songs sound long
of summers passing too swiftly,
towards Octobers Fall.
When snowflakes pile in winter,
‘ll dream dreams of summertime
Within the rhythm of Crickets lullaby….
by Howie Good
Because day by day I am less real
Because the cemetery half-listens
Because the mirror mutters too
Because stranded here for now
Because the sky is everyone’s
Because though poorly patched in places
and attracted to the form of a mountain
Because like an accidental gunshot
Because she says it isn’t raining
Because later it might
by Paul Hostovsky
The way out
isn’t under or
over or around
or even through.
It’s with. With is
the only way out.
In fact, out isn’t
the way out either.
Out is a misnomer.
by Neal Whitman
mist settles on
the soft harbor
surf sounding gentle
ship horn and seal bark
in rain on shore under fog
we know they are there
four buoys below
no one on shore but gulls
by Joseph Milosch
What we know
about the mocking bird
is next to nothing.
Some say the bird mimics
everything it hears: a chainsaw,
a Jeep wrenching an iron post,
the squeaking of a wooden gate.
Some say the bird mimics
only the animals it hears:
a feral cat, calling out its young,
a singer on the radio, and from
her room, a woman moaning
in the early morning rain.
Ornithologists say that
a mocking bird mimics
other birds, and that is
how it confuses predators.
My wife says she doesn’t care
what it mimics as long as it sings
its song in another neighborhood.
Perhaps, I respond, the mocking bird
was a raven in another life.
As punishment for steeling eggs
and eating the young of other birds,
it is condemned to live for an eternity
as a mockingbird. Forced to sing songs
of the smaller birds it terrorized, it flies
from tree to tree fleeing the bird it was.
This would explain this morning.
The night seemed to be waiting
for the sun to cross the Tropic
of Cancer. Mist seemed trapped
between being fog or drizzle
as I heard a mocking bird,
sobbing in the orange tree.
by Susan Dion
You’ve thrown those dark weary work shoes
before the old cottage’s entrance door. A summer ritual.
Deliberately discarded, the muddied, masculine footwear
conveys an image of carelessness. But these are dual sentries
whose sole mission is to halt any troublemakers,
thieves, attackers, or worse,
remaining on duty both day and night,
providing a silent security system to
protect the indoors from the outdoors
men’s size 12 D, left and right
women’s size 7 vacationing inside.
by Neal Whitman, Poetry Prof
Greek philosopher, Heraclitus (535 – 475 BCE) is famous for one of the most quoted statements in the history of Western Civilization: “No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it is not the same river and he is not the same man. ” I am not the first, and will not be the last, to apply this universal truth to his own work. When it comes to my bailiwick, poetry, I profess …
1. No one reads the same poem twice.
2. No two people read the same poem.
Last month I was re-reading a book of poems by Korean poet, Ko Un, Ten Thousand Lives. These poems were translated by Gary Gach – I bought it when I took his haiku workshop in 2008. Ko Un started this book in prison for his political opposition where he began writing a poem for each person he could remember and continued after his release.
Now consider that when I re-read the book three years after I first read the book, I was not reading the same book because I was no longer the same person. Reading this book anew, I was struck by one poem in particular, “Hundreds of Names.” In this poem, Ko Un remembers Kim Chong-hui, a poet who signed each of his poems with a new name. Ko Un wrote,
With every page written in his sharp jagged style,
the person who wrote changed,
so how could Kim Chong-hui be just one single person?
What I now take-away is that every poem I write is by a new poet. Thus, I also profess …
3. No two of my own poems are written by the same poet.
Now, here is what is neat for me. I re-read Gary’s inscription in my copy of his book:
“For Neal Whitman who has many lives of his own.”
Whether you read or write poetry, I hope you find what is new in the New Year.
by Neal Whitman, Poetry Prof
Last year, my seasonal haiku started with roving in a basket that would turn into a scarf. This morning I walked into town with it wound round my neck –– No! Not the roving. The scarf. What’s new this year? This haiku is inspired by my friend, Richard Platt, whose first novel, As One Devil to Another (Tyndale House Publishers), will be in the bookshops April 1 and already is previewed on Amazon.com. Will spare you the saga of pen to paper to press.
his first novel
in the bookstore window
present tense
by Michal Mahgerefteh
I wait for words to inscribe softly,
to direct the days to come. In this
waiting my throat is tight, unable
to voice a shade of worthy memory.
I reel in the house of flesh, listening
to the breathing of sleeping nature,
drink ’til drunk on pomegranate wine
and lean against the wordless night.
by Neal Whitman
Gypsy music in a dream
Attracts a lion to man and mandolin
Rousseau inspires the poet to capture
Contours of a ballad in crystalline color
It is a dark mysterious song
A distant murmur under the moon.
“Let me climb
On the mountain, mountain
Rumors of warm dawn
Come through the olive grove
And sing an anthem of absence.”
- Garcia Lorca
by Todd Walton
Israel Jacobs, born a Jew, and Margaret O’Hara, born and baptized a Catholic, were married in the spring of 1999. And despite their mothers, they lived quite happily until their only child, Felix, turned five. Then Christmas and Hanukkah loomed simultaneously as they always do, and the whole kettle of fish, gefilte and snapper, was set to boiling once more.
Israel’s mother, Rachel, a small, fiery woman with little tolerance for what she called those “gentile pagan idiocies” insisted that Israel give his son a real Jewish Hanukkah, not some watered down compromise. Margaret’s mother, Colleen, a tall, cheerful soul, didn’t mind a menorah on the mantel so long as it was appropriately dwarfed by a well-flocked Christmas tree, candy canes, and a “high quality manger scene,” preferably on the front lawn.
But the truth was, Israel and Margaret didn’t believe in celebrating either Hanukkah or Christmas. They belonged to a group called Beyond Dysfunctional Religions, and they wanted nothing to do with the rituals of their progenitors, whom they believed to be responsible for much of the world’s woes. However, they had never actually told their mothers of their conversion to this new spiritual course, and now, in the face of their child’s coming of age, as it were, the you-know-what was about to hit the fan.
Felix, an intelligent child caught in the cross-fire of adult madness, had invented his own holiday season mythology. Hanukkah and Christmas were obviously words for the same thing. Grandma Rachel said Hanukkah, Grandma Colleen said Christmas. This was not so unusual. After all, Grandma Rachel said “Oy vey” in situations where Grandma Colleen would say “Goodness me.” And they had slightly different accents. So what?”
In any case, when the calendar said December, Felix knew that he would be getting presents, that there would be a sudden super-abundance of chocolate in the house, and that people would speak incessantly about spinning the dreidel, a fat man named Santa, a reindeer with a red nose, a temple in Jerusalem, and a baby in a manger, whatever a manger was. Grandma Rachel said things lasted eight days, Grandma Colleen sang twelve. Mom and Dad became tense and irritable, and life went on.
But this year was different. This year Felix was no longer even remotely a baby. He was a child, a boy racing toward adulthood. And since Rachel and Colleen had long ago lost whatever power they had once possessed over Margaret and Israel, they were determined to exert their influence on Felix, their one and only grandchild.
On December 7, Pearl Harbor Day, Israel arrived home from his job at the Institute for Drip Agriculture, and found Margaret home early from her job at the Department of Water Resources, her sweet Irish eyes brimming with tears.
“What is it?” asked Israel, rushing to his wife’s side. “What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong is your mother,” said Margaret, looking at her dark and slender husband as if she’d never seen him before. “She’s kidnapped Felix and taken him Hanukkah shopping.”
“Without asking our permission?” said Israel, truly shocked. “She usually screams and rages first.”
“Not this time,” said Margaret, daubing her eyes with a red tartan handkerchief. “I went to pick him up at school and they said Rachel had already gotten him.”
“But how do you know she took him shopping?” asked Israel, pronouncing the ‘g’ at the end of ‘shopping’ as only the child of Yiddish speaking parents can.
“Just listen to the answering machine.”
Rachel’s message ran thusly. “Hello Israel. I could stand by no longer and watch you deprive Felix of his birthright. I am taking him shopping. And as we buy our Hanukkah gifts I will explain to him the truth, that Hanukkah is a celebration of the purification of the temple after the Romans…” Here her voice grew louder and more passionate, “…after those horrible Romans, who have all become Catholics as you know, forced us to profane our temple, just as you are profaning the temple of this poor child’s mind by allowing him to celebrate the birth of a fraud!”
“Unfortunately,” said Israel, shrugging, “she didn’t say where she was going shopping, or I’d go get him.”
“You know she only shops at places that sound Jewish,” said Margaret, glowering at Israel. “We never should have stayed so close to our mothers. We should have moved to St. Paul.”
“A good Catholic town,” quipped Israel.
“Very funny,” said Margaret, grabbing her purse. “You go to Weinstock’s, I’ll go to Loehman’s Plaza.”
Even as they dashed to their vehicles, Margaret to her electric car, Israel to his bicycle, Grandma Rachel was plying Felix with french fries and a milkshake at Max’s Opera Cafe. Felix paused thoughtfully between fries and said, “So then if Jesus was Jewish, why don’t you like him?”
“Like schmike,” said Rachel, shrugging. “It’s nothing personal. He may have been a very nice boy for all I know. Then again he may not even have existed. The point is, he wasn’t the messiah. Look at the mess he left behind. Would a messiah do that?”
Felix found it interesting that mess and messiah sounded quite similar, but he was more interested in his milkshake. Rachel went on about the miraculous cruse of oil that burned for eight days, and Felix was about to request another shake, when who should appear in her green and red Christmas finery, laden with red and green bags full of Christmas presents, but Grandma Colleen.
“Well what a coincidence,” said Colleen, bowing politely to Rachel before kissing Felix hello.
Rachel fixed Colleen with an icy stare. “Don’t tell me you eat here.”
“I’m a fool for their mini-reuben,” said Colleen, growing excited just thinking about the hot pastrami, the sauerkraut, the horseradish mustard burning the back of her tongue, bringing tears of joy to…
“We were just going,” said Rachel, standing up suddenly. “Come on, Felix.”
“We’re Hanukkah shopping,” said Felix, beaming at Grandma Colleen. “Because Jesus left a mess.”
“I beg your pardon?” said Colleen, her smile disappearing, her eyes narrowing. “He what?”
“But he wasn’t a messy guy,” explained Felix. “He was just…” Felix frowned. “…something.”
“Jesus is the son of God,” said Colleen, taking Felix’s hand.
“And I’m the Pope,” said Rachel, grabbing Felix’s other hand and yanking him away from Colleen.
Outside Max’s, Colleen pulled Felix away from Rachel and ran with him through the parking lot toward her Mercedes. “You see, Felix,” she explained breathlessly, “your grandmother Rachel is confused. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”
“But why are we running?” asked Felix. “Grandma Rachel can’t keep up.”
“Because she…she could hurt you,” said Colleen, feeling herself about to cry. “She could…”
Felix put on the brakes. He was strong for a five year old. “Grandma Rachel would never in a million years hurt me,” he proclaimed with great certainty.
“Not intentionally,” said Colleen, “but…”
“But nothing,” said Rachel, catching up to them. “How dare you steal my grandson from me.”
“Because you’re ruining Christmas for him,” shouted Colleen, who was not usually a shouter.
“Christmas is a lie!” shrieked Rachel.
“Don’t fight. Please don’t fight,” said Felix, his little jaw trembling, his eyes filling with tears.
“Sweetie,” said Colleen, her heart breaking with compassion for the little lad.
“Bubalah,” said Rachel, her anger washed away by the plaintive voice of her grandson.
Israel arrived a moment later, pedalling hard. As he drew near, his son appeared to be granting absolution to each of his kneeling grandmothers.
In the living room that night, after they’d finished watching The Simpsons, Margaret and Israel asked Felix to recount the day’s adventure. Felix began, “Grandma Rachel came and got me and said I was a good Jewish boy, and then at Max’s Grandma Colleen said Grandma Rachel was confused and might hurt me because…because I was the son of God.” And then Felix began to weep.
Israel and Margaret called their Beyond Dysfunctional Religions support group leaders, Phil and Susan, and told them what was going on. Phil suggested that they come clean with their mothers, suffer the immediate turmoil, and proceed from there. Susan suggested they might want to think about moving far-away.
Israel stayed awake all that night, listening to old Bob Dylan albums and reading Buckminster Fuller. He checked on Felix every hour or so to make sure he wasn’t being troubled by nightmares. Margaret slept fitfully, dreaming that she was wearing a slinky black negligee and was about to make love on a huge bed in a cathedral with her husband dressed as a nun.
In the morning, after a brief strategy session, Israel called his mother, and Margaret called hers. An hour later, the four adults convened in Israel and Margaret’s living room. Colleen sat in a chair by the fireplace, her hands folded in her lap. Rachel stalked the room, refusing to sit. Margaret revealed, with great passion, that she felt her mother had never approved of Israel because he was born a Jew. Israel then made a similar revelation concerning his mother and her feelings about Margaret.
Colleen said this was nonsense and that she had great respect for the Jewish people, particularly Rogers and Hammerstein. Rachel admitted that Margaret was not her ideal daughter-in-law, but that if she would convert to Judaism, all would be forgiven. And then Israel and Margaret revealed their association with Beyond Dysfunctional Religions.
“You are lost to me,” said Rachel, looking at her son and slowly shaking her head. “To think that your father was a cantor, and his father a rabbi.”
“May the lord have mercy on your soul,” said Colleen, looking at her daughter and crossing herself.
“And what will you do with poor Felix?” asked Rachel. “Raise him with no God?”
“He is not poor, mother,” said Israel. “He is rich with our love.”
“Illusion,” said Rachel, bowing her head. “A child without tradition is a boat without a rudder.”
“Amen,” said Colleen, crossing herself again. “A child without God is a soul walking against a hurricane.”
“Well put,” said Rachel, smiling sadly at Colleen and sighing. “Those without faith shall wander unfulfilled forever.”
“Yes,” said Colleen, her eyes wet with tears. “And the unrepentant shall be a source of shame to the Almighty.”
“I couldn’t have said it better myself,” said Rachel, putting a sympathetic hand on Colleen’s shoulder.
And so, at last, the days of Hanukkah and Christmas came, and Israel and Margaret and Felix spent a week with several other families planting trees in a ravaged forest. And on New Year’s Day, Felix got a new bicycle with training wheels. And Grandma Colleen brought him a stocking full of chocolate angels and a red tartan sweater she’d found in the bargain bin at Eddie Bauer’s. And Grandma Rachel brought him a basket of chocolate pretzels and a jacket she’d found on sale at Levinsons. And then they all went to Max’s for some good eats.
Who knows what the future will bring for Felix? Who knows what spiritual course he will choose for himself when that time comes? We only know that Grandma Rachel and Grandma Colleen are friends now, good friends, united in their belief that their children are wrong.
fin
Todd Walton’s web site: UnderTheTableBooks