4 of a Kind  Lucille

                                                                                 ELEMENTS

Maybe it's the copper in me, or the zinc

that's recognized the copper/zinc in you

or

whatever the element is that pushes past words

and all the usual palaver of meeting

to make a new starting place

in our long history of recognition and joy.

When I have regrets,

you make the world possible again.

No one can 

describe the Flute

You play,

except by leaping up

and dancing.

                             BE LOVING

Be Loving

when you talk to yourself.

Who do you think is listening?

Who do you think is talking?

                        ALL THAT MATTERS

Each morning

the sun rises early

to see that everything is okay,

touching all the bases,

that the day may begin

with some light upon

all that matters.

            THE MOON, IN HER WISDOM

The Moon

goes around stuffing her purse

with secrets.

She has the wisdom

to shine only a soft light

so as not to frighten

those who have come

for confession.

Lucille's Bio can be seen by clicking AUTHOR'S BIOGRAPHIES on the side panel.

Passenger  Michael James

Two views from a car window showing the advantages of being a passenger

PERSPECTIVE 

A belt of ragged, grey cloud floats along the mountain's flank 

separated from the low ceiling above. 

It catches in trees which appear to tear at it and slow its drift. 

But I know from seeing them once up close, 

That the trees aren't moving. 

They stand, like eternal truths,

as clouds flow round them.

TRIUMPH

Drawn up to the light at a hectic intersection,

l, passenger, hear the buzz just before I see  

a bright yellow gas tank slide into place next to me, 

Close, between the lanes of cars.

Perched snugly on the saddle, 

Right up to the sloping hump where 

tank meets leather, 

pink and white tights

cover the bold buns, the audacious curves 

of an olympic gymnast. 

The youthful arch of her back 

Allows her an aggressive racing stance

so that her eyes rest level 

with the top of the small windshield.

The rider turns to face me 

As I express my admiration. 

"Bounding buns on a bike," 

I murmur through the open window. 

The whites of her eyes, wide with amusement, 

shine out of the helmet that covers her swarthy face, 

and she smiles towards me then drops her left foot 

on the gear shift lever and revs through the intersection.

Michael's Bio (and his bike) may be viewed by clicking WRITER'S BIOGRAPHIES  at the side panel.

Robyn Raven

The young boy climbed the last flight of stairs to the attic in the house where he had lived for the past year. The occupant heard his footsteps and greeted him with words in a strange language, but words that he understood.

        He had been a toddler in the car with his parents when they were killed in a horrific crash. The fire fighter who pulled him from the burning wreckage saved his life. There was nothing to identify the child except for a bracelet on the child's wrist engraved with the words, "One of the forest".  

For several years the child lived in an orphanage. The administrator, a kind woman, named him Francis, after the saint, as he was very gentle, had special connections to the birds and animals, and seemingly possessed knowledge and a wisdom well beyond his years.  News of this orphan boy, now six years old, spread.  A man whom the locals called "The Hermit" lived several miles away in a remote area close to a forest and when he learned of the lad's circumstance came to visit Francis and decided he would adopt him and raise him as his own.  He would provide food, a good home, and teach him how to be a citizen of the world with knowledge that no others had. 

Francis was amazed when they arrived at the hermit's home.  It was four stories, each with its own separate roofline, like a Scandinavian stave church.  The rooms on each story had casement windows which opened to the rolling landscape and forest beyond.  The house was encircled with split log fences that enclosed a large pasture with sheep, goats, several llamas and other small animals, all grazing together.   On entering the house the hermit said..."well, Francis, this is your home now.  My name is Merlin and I want you to be yourself here.  I will show you things you never dreamed of, and teach you the art of magic for the human good.  You will want for nothing, and we shall learn from each other, as we both have been given special gifts."

Merlin had a secret.  On his usual walk in the woods six months earlier, he heard a raven calling to him in a human voice, not the usual barking sound of these birds.  He followed the sound and came across a female raven that had been caught in a poacher's snare.  It was very unusual that it had been trapped in this way, as ravens are very suspicious and wary creatures, but this snare had been cleverly concealed in the undergrowth and the poacher had dropped a shiny object next to the snare that drew the raven close.  A wire had torqued around her left foot and almost severed it.

The raven could not stand and lay on the ground on her side, with terror in her eyes, but when Merlin approached she breathed "help me".  Her life force was ebbing so the bird must have been there for some time.  Slowly Merlin released the wire, and lifted the beautiful bird on to his cloak, wrapped her in it and carried her home. On inspection the raven's left foot had been severed and he carefully detached the foot and laid it in preservatives.  He then called upon his powers to heal her.  He concocted a brew of herbs and made a poultice to apply to the damaged leg without the foot. All the while he spoke to her in an unusual language that became a communion with each other.  He brought her grubs, snails, even eggs from his hens, which she hastily consumed. He had amazing carpentry skills, and crafted a cradle device that she could rest in and elevate her body until she gained enough strength to stand on the one good leg. Day by day she improved and they developed a strange dialogue wherein they shared stories of other worlds. Merlin saw that she would live and he took it upon himself to make her fully functional as a raven once more.   He named her Nike, after the winged goddess of victory.

Merlin had another secret.  Not only was he a mystic, but he had working knowledge of a 3-D printer that could be programmed to fabricate three-dimensional objects.  There were already successes in the medical field not only with the production of internal organ parts but other objects as well. One story of his house contained a clean room, laboratory, computers and a 3-D printer. He knew it was his destiny to create a new foot for Nike, one that would be more than a prosthetic device, but a fully functional raven's foot. 

When Francis came to live with them he bonded immediately with Nike, and communicated in the same almost-but-not-really language that Merlin and she spoke. Francis had the task of helping Nike with the more mundane tasks of personal grooming and she developed soft crooning vocals when he stroked her glossy feathers. Francis already had a sixth-sense that Merlin would somehow mend Nike's foot.  Merlin showed him how he would fabricate a new foot for her; Francis was excited to be part of the plan.  The computer model of the foot had been designed, and now it was time to execute the program.  It had been a challenge to replicate a fully-articulated foot that would grow on to a leg but all was in place and the project was completed in four days.  Because of Francis' special connection to Nike he was the one to soothe the raven and gently tell her that when she woke from the anesthetic she would have a new foot and live up to her name.  He also told her that he would be the one to tend to her recovery.

Nike was waiting in her top floor attic room when Francis climbed the stairs that day.  When he opened the door, she said, "I was the one who told Merlin of your plight and that he should bring you here. You and Merlin have given me my life, just as Merlin has given you yours.  We will be connected as a triad forever more."  She hopped off her cradle on two legs, waddled over to Francis, spread magnificent wings, and flew out the open window.

March 2014

To view Robyn's biography click on AUTHOR'S BIOGRAPHIES in side panel.

Joan devil

She knew she had a chance to win that would erase her horrible mistake but also might get some severe punishment. Not surprisingly, her hands were shaking with nerves on edge ever since she made the deal with the devil. Rosalie had the heaven and hell lectures since early childhood and they usually guided her behavior. But that one time, she just went ahead without the lectures going through her head. 

“Three chances”, the devil had told her.” They may be something you want or something you would choose to avoid.” She had agreed to it since she felt guilty and frustrated and had no other recourse. 

The date was purposely set by the devil on Easter Sunday. He could take a human form at times and had made arrangements for a small stage set near the hill where the early morning sunrise service for the Lutherans would be held. As daylight began, one could see that the rains had turned the rolling hills near Petaluma a nice green, thick yellow mustard plants covered the spaces between vines in nearby vineyards, while many daffodils were blooming adjacent to the chairs set up for the service.  Those arriving at the site hardly noticed the small stage with three red curtains set vertically across the stage. Maybe it was to be part of the service, some thought. 

Rosalie was there early but chose a chair in the Lutheran section to wait. She was not sure when the devil would appear nor what he would look like. How could she make sure he really was the devil if he looked like an ordinary man, which he said he would be? The discomfort in her stomach increased by the minute. Did she bring any Tums? People began arriving, ministers were conversing, something about communion and handling the crowd. She was distracted watching when there was a tap on her shoulder.

 
“I think you are sitting in the wrong seat,” a good-looking rather short man said softly in her ear. Startled, she looked at his smiling face and he winked. “Come!” He took her arm and they started walking toward the little stage. Some people watched them leave but thought it must be part of the program. 

On the wooden stage, which was actually only about 5 inches high, were the three curtains, each one on individual stands placed about three feet apart. 

“You can choose any one of the three first. You must decide if you want to keep that message or take you chances on one of the others.  Are you ready? You will either be absolved of the terrible thing you did and go over to the Lutherans for a Christian blessing or take your punishment as noted behind two of the curtains.

Rosalie chose #3 quickly. She was too anxious to drag this out. The devil pulled up the curtain and a printed message said: You must leave this country, take a different persona, pay all expenses and fend for yourself.  Wherever you go, I will visit you once a month. Before you leave, you will have plastic surgery making some vertical scars in a design on your cheeks that make up will not cover. How you earn money is your problem. 

That was pretty bad, she thought, but what could be worse? I still have a 50/50 chance for something better. But what if that was the “good” one? At least I would be alive and not face criminal charges. 

“Come now,” said the devil. “I haven’t got all day. Is this your choice or do we go on?”

Rosalie was so nervous already and she didn’t really trust the devil man. She wondered if he still had his power in this transformation.

Almost without thinking, she blurted out, “I’ll take #1.”

Her heart pounded as he moved to #1, paused and grinned at her. “Are you sure? You could still change your mind.”

“Yes, just do it. I can’t take much more of this.”

“You made the deal,” he said taunting her, enjoying her anxiety. “OK, it’s # 1” and pulled the curtain. 

The message behind this curtain said, You will now be…but Rosalie couldn’t read the rest because tears blurred her vision and it was in smaller print.  She rubbed her eyes.

“Do you want me to read it to you?” asked the devil man.  He was blocking her view of  #1 message but more than that, she wondered if she was going crazy because his dignified suit had turned red. 

“What…” both the devil and Rosalie said together, both of them surprised at what was happening to him.

“Oh, shit be damned, curses on all of you, this isn’t fair, you stupid mortals making a heaven and hell. Just look over there, those believers in a God they have never seen. And right here is the devil himself. What do people want, an image of a man to guide and forgive them or a real person who has the facility to change appearance?  God damn it” and now he was shouting. “Even I am subject to rules.  Why couldn’t I stay a man a little longer?” He added as he felt a tail emerging.” 

Rosalie couldn’t believe what she was hearing and seeing. She thought it ironic that the devil would think his situation was unfair, he who challenges and gives temptations to all, but most of all, his change in appearance. His head was the last to change from the red torso, legs and tail.

“Well, at least I fooled you,” he laughed with glee. “You were such an easy target. After that kid ran into the street in front of your car, he fell and you thought you ran over him. If you had stopped, you would have seen that he just kept still and was safe under the car with wheels moving on either side of him. You hesitated, saw his still body lying there and thought maybe he was dead. That was a horrible mistake to keep driving and not checking.  And that’s when I decided to punish you myself.”

Now it was Rosalie’s turn. “You horrible, despicable, creature to enjoy tormenting people. Go to hell, that’s where you belong. I hope you never are able to tempt people in your human form again. Curses on you! I hate you! You are disgusting! Get out of my sight.” 

There was a red streak moving quickly away from the little stage, Rosalie was shouting and crying with her words. The commotion caused some heads turning from their service, still not knowing what was going on. If anyone saw the devil in his authentic devil’s attire, running down the hill, his figure getting smaller and smaller, they were not aware of the significance.

 A group of five men and woman, with strong melodic Lutheran voices, began to sing,

“Oh Happy Day”.  

Yes, Rosalie thought, Oh Happy Day and started humming as she walked across the grass toward the Lutherans. 

2014

To view Joan's Bio click AUTHOR'S BIOGRAPHIES in side panel

Meta Mysterious

Since that night I’ve questioned myself many, many times.  Did I really witness what I thought I witnessed, or was it something my mind fabricated because I was tired to the point of exhaustion?

After three days in the Santa Fe area visiting Native American pueblos and places like Nambe’, Galisteo, Cerrillos and Madrid my physic senses were overloaded with visions of past peoples who once lived in this area. Colorful, sensual art was everywhere.  Spices used in the local food saturated my body. When native rhythms and melodies were not actually playing, they were filtering through my mind.

After a longer stay in Old Town Albuquerque than planned, visiting galleries and the museum, my friend and I headed to Flagstaff where we had hotel reservations. Our intention was to spend two days there at the Navajo Festival of Arts and Culture, tour the Grand Canyon and then drive home to Sonoma stopping one night along the way.

The drive across the desert was deceiving.  We thought we were making good time but according to our navigating device we were not even close to Flagstaff and it was midnight.  When we left Gallup we topped off our gas tank knowing we were heading into desolate territory.  We had no idea just how desolate until it was too late.

The sky was clear and filled with more stars than I had even seen before.  The Milky Way appeared like a solid mass and looked, well, milky. The highway disappeared into complete blackness in front of the headlight beams.  Somewhere around the New Mexico-Arizona border our clock stopped.  All we could get on the radio was a Native American station that played drum and flute music with an announcer who spoke in a native language. We decided it was Navajo or Hopi since we were near that reservation.

We weren’t sure when we stopped seeing highway signs but we knew we were lost, had made a wrong turn somewhere.  We had already switched the driving job back and forth and both of us were afraid to drive further without getting some sleep.  We pulled off the road at what looked like the gate to a ranch thinking that would be the safest decision under the circumstances.  We locked the doors, put our seats in a reclining position and fell asleep.

Bright flashing lights and a loud whizzing noise awakened us.  “Oh my God!  What is that?” We said, almost in unison.  We sat up and scanned the horizon.  Whatever it was appeared to be at least a football field away.  We’d heard about UFOs in this part of the US but didn’t believe any of the reports thinking the people who saw such things were nuts.  

We held on to each other in fear.  Did it see our car or us?  It didn’t seem to be coming closer so we just watched in silence.  The object was enormous, the size of a large airplane and was definitely flying or hovering.  It seemed too big to be a helicopter but swung through the air like one.  It circled around the prairie and disappeared into the brush.  There were numbers of lights that flashed on and off like in a Morris code sequence. A cloud of fog or something that looked like fog surrounded us. It was so thick we lost vision for a few minutes. The noise quit, replaced by silence and then a subtle grumble like a crowd of people talking. 

Something was going on in the middle of nowhere about a hundred yards from us and whoever or whatever didn’t know we were there. We watched and waited not moving or making a sound, afraid for our lives.  After fifteen minutes or so our curiosity overtook our terror and we decided to get closer. We crawled across the sand, hiding behind cactus and brush along the fence line until we were parallel with what looked like an old fashioned campfire.  After the flashing lights and flying object, this was even stranger.  We looked at each other communicating in signs.  

Finding a crevice under the fence, we struggled, nudging our bodies inside and continued our mission to get closer to the action.

Finally we could see a circle of people sitting around some kind of light.  Their bodies were covered in robes.  It was easy to see some were dressed in Native American feathered headdresses with beads and silver shining over their robes.  The others were bald and their skin seemed transparent. It almost glowed. They had eyes, noses and mouths in the right places but they were not human.  The group seemed to be conversing by transmitting signals and sounds.  We watched in awe because this surreal group was, without doubt, conveying information, feelings and thoughts.  

That was our last memory of what we now refer to as the great meeting because the next thing we remember was waking up in our car in front of the ranch gate the next morning.  Each of us waited while we adjusted to our surroundings before speaking.  I hesitated mentioning my weird dream to my friend until she began crying and through tears told me about hers.  We compared perceptions and we knew our experience was real, not identical dreams.

We retraced our journey through the underbrush and back to the hole under the fence.  It was there.  We crawled through and walked to the site of the campfire gathering.  Nothing.  There was nothing, no indication of the night’s affair.  That is until we found my scarf hanging from a cactus plant, the one I had wrapped around my shoulders for warmth the night before.  We had evidence.  Evidence we had been there.

When we told this story to our friends they laughed at us and accused us of drinking too many Margaritas or of making up the story to get attention.  So, as I tell you this, please know it is true.  I can only speculate what the great meeting meant, but I know, am positive as I have ever been about anything, that I witnessed something rare and remarkable.

Meta’s Bio can be found by clicking Author’s Biographies on side panel.

Jean Eat

        “Does he eat to live or live to eat,” I quipped. I felt quite clever—a thirteen year old daughter sizing up her dad and his values. 

Food was my father’s raison d’etre. His entry into the house brought a stream of Honolulu delicacies— bags of pig’s feet, malasadas, lomi lomi salmon, ti leaves with duck eggs covered in sticky rice. The abundance suited his temperament. Corny jokes, hearty voice, expansive, big. Not obese, but full enough so that mom called him Fatso, Fat Daddy-O, Fat Fat.  

The names bounced off him and some of them landed on me—not very funny—because when you add Nya to my name, you are adding the word ‘pig’, and the family started calling me Jean Nya or Fat Jean. These names, along with cartons of ice cream, packs of candy bars, and nightly feasts, doomed me to a lifetime of food issues. My brother boycotted our restaurant gatherings rather than undergo the embarrassment of witnessing dad shovel food into a mouth kept open while he talked. 

I hated working the cash register in the family grocery store with its uniform canned goods, trays of animal flesh, a cash register jangling against a bland décor.

As my parents got older, mom tried to cut back when she heard talk about cholesterol. She steamed and broiled instead of frying. She scolded and fretted, “Stop buying all that junk. I’m sick of all this fat!” But dad was incorrigible, and as Hawaii became more cosmopolitan, he experimented with Samoan, Korean, and Vietnamese 

cuisines. 

After I moved to California, I’d return home to visit and noticed his hair turning grey; he slept more, the skin on his sleek, oily face looked paler. He still ate with gusto, but maybe not quite so much.

One day Mom called. Dad was in the hospital. I flew back home. The doctor said he was fine. He’d collapsed earlier, but no problem, two more days and he’d be out. 

      We surrounded his bed. My brother looked older and tired. Was there grey in his hair, too? He was married now and his wife and four children made the room look small. My mom sat quiet, scared. Her eyes pinned dad down, willing him to be well.

Dad pointed to a newspaper ad about DK Seafood Restaurant. “Look,” he said, “A special! A whole lobster, ten dollars apiece. Only thing,” he added wistfully, “no take out.” 

We relaxed, how bad could it be? Good ole dad, still thinking of food. 

That night we all drove down to DK’s. We gorged on lobster, told the manager about our sick dad, how he was pining for a lobster. He ended up giving us two. We picked up some rolls, cold slaw, french fries, and drove back to the hospital. We burst into his room with our bags of food and saw dad look up, surprise on his face. 

“Hey Fat Daddy-O, look what we brought—eat, eat!”

Jean’s Bio can be found by clicking Author’s Biographies on side panel.