Poetry and a Zither Noris Binet
The Seed
I invite you to go
on a journey tonight
from where
you will never
return
Would you let the wall,
imprisoning your heart
disintegrate
like a paper cloth
under water
or a seed in the ground?
For a moment
close your eyes
to the world of form
and allow yourself
to not have memories
nor images
nor ideas, concepts
or believes,
and descend
like a seed in the ground
into full darkness
or as the caterpillar
is enrapture
into its cocoon
and becomes
stillness itself!
In this unknown place
let the hidden mysteries
reveal themselves,
in this unexplored
dimension,
be one with the
unknowable,
be fully alert in this, now,
be the presence that
permeates through
life and death,
and, just as the caterpillar
metamorphoses
inside its cocoon,
so do you --
when you are
only the moment,
only the presence,
only the seed.
***
Poems Janet Wentworth
JUST A MINUTE
minutes like pennies
add up
a day, a week, a month
a life time fortune
just a minute
to send that email
life time to live with it
just a minute
to say I do
a lifetime to live
with him or her
just a minute
to conceive a child
a life time to live
with him or her
just a minute
to write this
dumb poem!
***
STEALING TIME
how to live longer
what the scientists
attempt to define
turtles live the longest
they have a shell
turtles can hide
when life is hell
turtles move slow
because they know
fast won’t last.
***
SOCKS
warm socks
curled up in my
drawer
cold today
I think I will
wear them
Thanksgiving
and Christmas
you were gone
you died
in March
left me alone
only Bruce
to tell our
story
our children
and grand children
generations to come
thanks for the socks
cold today
I think I will
wear them
clouded years
dementia overcast
with childhood memories
your heart
reached out to me
only sister
warm socks
cold today
I think I will wear them
I miss you!
***
First Date Joan Shepherd
***
Poems Beverly Koepplin
WHIMSY FOR CREAM
I sang “He’s leaving on that midnight train to Georgia”
No, I BELTED out “Said he’s going back to a simpler place in time”
So perfectly my soul soared with the music to the heavens
And crashed through the sound barrier in my little house.
And Cream, curled in sleep, twitched her ears
And her paws ran through the air with the greatest of ease,
Perhaps to catch a flying trapeze?
Perhaps clapping for an encore, to shout brava to me,
Surely surprised there was such an extraordinarily gifted singer in the house?
Perhaps to make a flying leap for those wooden steps to board
That midnight train to Georgia before it pulled out and left her behind
With this crazy lady who did not know that she was supposed to
Quietly go about her business and let the cat sleep in peace and quiet?
***
THE BEATING OF THE DRUMS
The small and mighty and constant drums roll on.
Do you hear the drums, sister?
That is the beat of your blood
And those drums beat in my blood, too.
We share that blood, we hear the same drums.
Do you hear those drums, nephews?
They are the cadence of your footsteps as you patrol the streets,
They are the rhythm of the music in your club.
Those drums are the drums from your mother’s blood
And so we share that blood, we hear the same drums.
Do you hear those drums, sons of my nephew?
They are the metronome when your fingers touch the keys.
The pounding of the ball across the court, the whapping of the bat against the ball.
Those drums are from your father’s blood, your grandmother’s blood,
and so we share that blood; we hear the same drums.
You can deny that blood, you can defy it, you can run away
but those drums will always be there
at every rite and ceremony in your life, keeping time.
And those drums will always march you home
for home is in the blood where the drums beat.
Do you hear those drums? I do.
***
TEMPTATION
Oh, you shouldn’t.
I’d like to think you can’t, but you do.
You tempt me!
You, you with the ring
darting about me like a moth to the flame.
You tempt me!
You are restless.
The fabled seven-year itch rides you
like a thirsty leech.
I am lonely and I am hungry
For a body next to mine in the night.
You tempt me!
You, you should go away
and stay away, even if I beckon you near.
You tempt me!
(If a tree falls in the forest, and there’s no one to hear it, does it make a sound?
If a married man makes love to another woman
And no one else knows but them, does that make it a sin?)
YOU TEMPT ME!
***
I HAD A DREAM
I had a dream
After I met you and before we went out
That you asked me
“What do you want in a man?”
And that I said…
“Someone who is nice and honest and funny
And who dances like the devil and makes love like an angel –
Or is it the other way around?”
Well….
You were nice, you were funny, and I thought you were honest.
Well…
You made love like an angel (who had once been a devil).
But…
We never danced.
I think you probably don’t dance anyway –
You wiggle on the ground like a snake.
***
Left Behind Meta Strauss
Remember the days before television when folks listened to the radio for entertainment? Maybe you’re too young to have heard shows like Fibber Magee and Molly, The Life of Riley or The Shadow.
This evening, imagine it’s time for your favorite, The Daily Adventures of Flo and Gabe. Flo and Gabe are a middle aged couple typical of the couples you know in your neighborhood today.
ANNOUNCER: (rustling sound effect) This morning Gabe, still in his pajamas, is rummaging around his and Flo’s bedroom. He holds a large sock in his hand.
GABE: Ummmmmmm! What is this?
ANNOUNCER : Gabe looks puzzled and seems to be looking for something else. He rummages through the bed covers and tosses pillows here and there.
Noises of running water and the clatter of dishware tell us that someone is in the kitchen. (Running water / Dishware clatter – Then the sound suddenly stops.)
Gabe turns quickly and drops the sock on to a pile of soiled clothing and rushes into the bathroom. We hear the click of the lock in the door and then the sound of an electric shaver. (Buzzing sound effect) We see Flo as she enters from the kitchen wiping her hands on a towel. She, too, wears nightwear. She goes to the bathroom door, twists the knob and finds it locked. (Door knock sound effect)
FLO: Hurry up, Gabe! I need to get in the bathroom. We can’t be late for work.
GABE: I’m gonna be out in a few minutes, Flo. I need my privacy.
FLO: Since when do you need your privacy to shave?
GABE: Since this morning.
FLO: Well, hurry up.
GABE: I’ll come out when I’m good and ready.
FLO: Gabe, I need to get ready, too. What’s taking you so long? (pause ) Are you sick?
GABE: Nope, not sick. Just thinking. The question is, what have you been thinking about lately?
FLO: What kind of question is that? I’ve been thinking ‘bout lots of things. Don’t I always?
GABE: Yep. You’re the thinker in this family. That’s for sure.
FLO: What in the world has come over you? Might as well get it off your chest before we both spend our day thinking about what you’re thinking about that seems to be about whatever you think I’ve been thinking about.
GABE: I admit it, Flo. I didn’t even have a hint about your secret.
FLO: (pause) I can’t think of even one secret I have, so, it’s for sure a secret. Even from myself. (Flo knocks again) Come out now! If you don’t, we both will be docked for being late.
GABE: Okay. I’m out. (pause) Where’s breakfast?
FLO: It’s in the kitchen cabinet. Where it always is.
GABE: No, I mean the oatmeal. Like you always fix every morning, with cinnamon and raisins.
FLO: (stiffly) Oh. That breakfast. I was busy cleaning up the mess you left last night and then couldn’t get in the bathroom because you have the door locked so you could have your privacy to think about some imaginary secret. That meant I couldn’t make your special oatmeal.
GABE: Now, see here, Flo. It’s the first time I can ever remember missing breakfast together in all the years we’ve been married.
FLO: Yes. It’s also the first time I couldn’t join you in the bathroom to get ready because you had the door locked.
GABE: I can’t eat oatmeal today anyway. I’m too upset about you and your secret.
FLO: Just for the record, Gabe, there’s not any secret. Not one! How can I keep a secret when we’re both together all the time?
GABE: Maybe something in your life has changed and you decided you don’t want to cook breakfast for me. And, just maybe you’re tired of being the thinker in the family.
FLO: I never said that.
GABE: I might as well tell you that that this morning I found the evidence in our bedroom.
FLO: And, what evidence was that?
GABE: You should know since you’re the one who left it there for me to find.
FLO: Gabe, this is the most peculiar conversation we’ve had since we’ve been married.
GABE: I agree. I’m waiting for you to tell me about what I found.
FLO: I don’t know what you found so how can I tell you about it?
GABE: If you think about it, like you usually do, being the family thinker and all, you’re sure to remember how something that doesn’t belong might have been left in the pile of sheets, not on purpose, but accidentally.
FLO: I’ll ask one last time. What are you talking about? What got left in the sheets?
GABE: This! That’s what was left.
FLO: (pause) Why that’s nothing but an old sock.
GABE: Yes it is! And it’s not mine. And, it’s too big for you. Plus it’s a man’s.
FLO: Hmmmm. (pause) So it is.
GABE: Go ahead and tell me, what is this strange man’s sock doing in our sheets? I need to know before I go crazy.
FLO: Let me see.…. Well, it is a very large sock. And (pause) ahhhh, just one.
GABE: Yeah! One. A big one.
FLO: Gabe, maybe you suspect there was a man in our bed, other than you. You can’t think there would ever be anyone else.
GABE: Then tell me…how many stories can you invent to explain this sock?
FLO: Gabe, don’t make me tell you. You can figure out the mystery yourself. Smell the sock.
GABE: It smells like some kind of chemical. You’re saying he’s in the chemical business?
FLO: For heaven’s sake, Gabe. That’s furniture polish. This is the sock I use to dust with when I clean the house. It’s one of Marsha’s husband’s old size 13 socks…. really a giant one. It fits over my hand just perfect for the job.
GABE: (sniffs again and laughs) Oh my God! Flo. What a relief. I thought maybe I’d lost you. I’d laugh my head off if I wasn’t so embarrassed for not figuring this out myself.
FLO: Yep. You should be. If you ever find something you think was left behind, like a big old sock, please don’t lock yourself in the bathroom. Just ask me outright.
GABE: But, my dear Flo, I have to tell you what I was thinking about in the bathroom. It’s this…..I love you and no matter what happens, I will always love you. I can’t be the thinker you are, but I’m here for you until the end of our days and you surely know that. No one can love you like I love you.
FLO: Oh, Gabe. Those are the most beautiful and sweetest words I’ve heard in a very long time. (sound of a kiss)
GABE: Yeah. I learned a good lesson this morning. No bathroom locking, no matter what I find.
FLO: Come on now, love of my life, we have just about enough time to eat some instant oatmeal together before we’re late.
ANNOUNCER: Well folks, thanks for tuning in to a day in the life of our favorite couple. We look forward to meeting with you next week for another episode of The Daily Adventures of Flo and Gabe.
***
On Aging Helen Rowntree
CHANGE
Change came when I wasn’t watching.
Simple became intricate, complicated, confusing.
incomprehensible, impossible.
Necessary became dispensable, forgettable.
Change came when I wasn’t listening,
Soothing melodies and poetic lyrics
turned dissonant, loud, angry,
sung by screechers and shouters
who answer to letters not names.
Change came one day when my pen ran dry.
Handwriting became Word, Email, Twitter and Facebook,
Speaking became texting,
Messages traveling thousands of miles
without stamps, through the air, via the clouds.
Change came without my noticing.
Twinge became ache, ache became pain,
In a bone, in a joint,
In a muscle I didn’t even know was there.
Change appeared when I wasn’t looking,
Abundantly brown, turned gray, white, sparse.
Taut and smooth now sagging, furrowed, loose.
Clear and distinct, became blurred, faint, obtuse.
Change came one day when I went out walking.
Light, fast and steady, has become slow, wobbly, heavy.
Around the corner is now far away.
Canes and walkers, my constant companions, are here to stay.
Change keeps accelerating as I begin disappearing.
I hope change keeps appearing, for a few more years.
THE LAST CHAPTER
It’s been a long time since Old Age crept up behind me,
since she began nudging me down this darkening path.
Her quiet voice whispers soothingly:
“It’s all right. Don’t be afraid.
The last chapter is always the best.”
Proceeding with faltering steps,
I hear crunching sounds under my feet,
They are the sounds of dried memories,
of faded loves, past joys, retreating sadness.
It’s all right. Don’t be afraid.
Trees are never as eloquent
As when they turn red and gold,
as they shed their leaves in a last hurrah.
And shortened days bring early stars,
lighting up the skies of tomorrow.
When the sun departs behind brown hills,
it leaves a glorious trail of yellows, pinks and lilacs.
The last chapter is yet to be written,
So words must be carefully chosen,
punctuation, precise and true.
At the end of this path, I’ll find a gossamer door,
a soft opening between the Here and the There.
When the last twilight dissolves into night,
Wrap me in the nebula of beginning again.
***
A Public Phone Call Dave Lewis
There has been a good deal of outrage about governments monitoring phone calls. However few people seem to worry about their phone calls made in the most public circumstances. One that I heard, wishing it were not happening, made me wonder how concerned people really were about their privacy.
Last week, I was waiting to renew my driver’s license at the Division of Motor Vehicles, a young lady in the next chair made a call which I am reconstructing to the best of my recollection.
“ Chuck, this is Patty. Where ever have you been. I have left messages and texts. Are you Ok? Are you still in Philadelphia?
***
“I have been taking care of little FIFI for over a week now and the first few days she was nervous and seemed to miss you. Now she sleeps with me and is adjusted to my schedule.”
***
“Of course I had seen her at your place but she didn’t really know me.”
***
“No problem, she is fine but you... you were planning to be away for only two days. I had to get more food for her and get her a few toys so she wouldn’t chew the table legs. I hadn’t been around dogs before.”
***
“No, I like her all right but what has delayed you?
***;
“You are in St. Louis? I thought you were going to Philadelphia. Why did you stop off in St. Louis?”
***
“ Oh yes, I remember that is where you went to high school but you never talked about going back for a visit. What is the occasion?”
***
“ Your high school sweetheart just filed for divorce? You had to console her? Surely she’s a big girl now and you have been out of St. Louis for what …12 years. You are a CPA for God’s sake not a counselor.”
***
“You got engaged! You plan to marry her as soon as the divorce is final? We have been going together for five years and sleeping together for four years, eleven months and twenty-eight days. You never mentioned ‘Engagement’ to me! “
***
“Oh, I see. It is all OK by you because you have never forgotten her. What is her name?”
***
“You’d rather not say because she values her privacy! What about the hickey you made on my neck? Do you think that doesn’t infringe on MY privacy? What about the nude pictures of me that you took and sent to your friends? How long do you think it took for someone at work to run across them? You respect privacy my foot! “
***
“ FAVORS! You want to ask some favors? Sounds like you haven’t lost any audacity. “
***
“So you want me to return the ring you gave me and keep FIFI because your new fiancé is allergic to dogs? Well, as far as the ring is concerned: FORGET IT! We both know it isn’t a real diamond or actually gold.”
***
“Why do I think that!? I asked a jeweler when it turned my finger green, that’s how I know. You can look for it beneath the Golden Gate Bridge.“
***
“ Well, as for FIFI, I am glad to trade HER for YOU. FIFI is smarter than you, has better manners, doesn’t smell bad and doesn’t pee on the bathroom floor. And she is better in bed! All your stuff will be in a storage locker. I’ll mail you a key at your work address after you send me a check to cover the rent.”
***
“You have taken a new job in St. Louis? Well so what, figure out how to get the mail forwarded. And don’t bother to call or text me, I am setting my phone up to block your contacts. Adios hombre!”
The lady seemed not in the least perturbed as she fiddled with her Smart Phone and began a game of solitaire.
The DMV clerk finally called my number.
***
Three Poems Noris Binet
A Gift
I brought a gift for you!
It is a diamond
from the sky,
never seen before
It is luminous
like the brightest star,
it is almost within reach
of your hand,
it illuminates the dark
Tonight
I brought a gift
for you
The diamond
in your heart!
***
Luminous like the stars.
The inner chamber of my heart
it is like yours
filled up with a light of its own
that can see in the dark.
It can be activated
if you want
when you sit and look inwardly
it perforates the sky.
Then the inner chamber
of your heart
becomes luminous like the stars,
emanating its own light.
***
Beauty to Shine
Pulling out weeds I found the tiniest
four-petalled purple flower!
So tiny, it broke my heart wide open with tenderness
Her innocence was so available
that even the weeds made a space
amongst themselves to let her grow
just for this life to live
and its beauty to shine!
***
Pepin Joan Brady
There are no pictures of my great-grandfather.
He feared the camera would steal his soul, except
for the wedding tintype my great-grandmother
wanted so much, of them standing together against
a pastoral painted screen, she, almost sixteen, in
a borrowed white dress, he, stiffly suited, older
by ten years, black hair wild about his face, and
his eyes, the eyes that saw spirits, momentarily
blinded by a flash of light.
I saw it once before it was misplaced by someone,
long gone before me.
There are still fragments mentioned.
He was born mixed blood of French and Anishinnaabe
(Chippewa is a white name), a child divided between
two minds. one of worlds’ measured order, the other
of circles, circles of the sun, circles of the moon,
circles of the human heart, and which was which?
Mother? Father?
He must have told her back in the beginning, back
when they still loved each other, and she did love
him, the way an abandoned Irish orphan, raised by
nuns, can love the first feel of freedom, and flesh
and discovery of unimagined possibility.
The Anishinaabe say we possess two souls, one that
travels in shadows and dreams, and one that stays
deep inside the human heart, and if either is ever
lost, it leaves behind an emptiness, unendurable,
except when filled by wandering spirits who come
to warm themselves, then leave, without explanation,
and from the beginning there were spirits who came to
him and became him speaking an ancient language that
knew the cries of animals and of the earth and of
the wind.
And in the beginning she believed with him in
his voices of vanished worlds, for to her, Ireland
was a harsh distant word, and nuns knew nothing of
animals or the wind
The Anishinaabe tell a story of how a coyote, once,
fell in love with a star...but because a star
can never leave the sky, the coyote had to climb to
the top of a mountain so they could grab hold of
each other and soar together high up into the
heavens, where forever they could dance circling
the earth in an endless night.
But the coyote, being a thing of flesh and blood,
grew tired and numb and logged for sleep, and for
the sun, and, finally, it had to beg the star to stop
awhile, but the star couldn’t because it was star,
and so the coyote decided to let go and fall back
to earth, alone.
And I have heard it said that people can stop
loving for the same reasons they began.
New Orleans, St Paul, San Francisco...in the cities
the spirits, they stayed with him, holding him safe
against sadness, but never her, until their son died
and times grew hard and she railed against him
demanding a silence of voices that refused to know
her, and with whisky there came silence ,and an illusion
of finding each other again...but then the space inside
him filled with such a darkness the silence became
all of him, and, even without whisky, there were no
spirits.
They say that when the coyote fell to earth it
lost its first life but found a second that it
lived less foolishly than before.
My great-grandmother remarried an Irish horse-collar
maker who drank as full a measure as her first husband
but, afterwards, would simply sing himself to sleep,
and that was enough,
And no one ever asks about the star.
When my great-grandfather is remembered, always he
is remembered for leaving.
It is supposed he died an alcoholic’s death, anonymous
in a Sacramento hotel room.
It is supposed but no on knows, and it is said that
spirits of the dead wander forever in the circling
winds looking for their own lost world, and it is said
that blood runs thin through silence, dissolving time,
dissolving memory, dissolving connection.
And always I have wondered about the star.
And when I look at our family album picture of
my great-grandmother with her horse-collar maker,
I feel their silences echoing inside me, and I
know I almost understand the language of animals,
and I know I am uncomfortable around cameras, and
I know my own sadness always softens whenever I
***
Summer Saliva Steve Bakalyar
I’m a little sad tonight. It is September 22nd, the last day of Summer. The last day of the season of fluid delights: cold beer, chardonnay, pino noir—and saliva. Yes, saliva is, for me, a quintessential summer fluid. I know, it seemingly has nothing to do with the seasons, being produced 24/7 all year long. Day in and day out, about a liter a day.
That’s a lot of saliva, but it’s needed for its many jobs. It is a super lubricant—allowing eating and speaking. Those two things employ its gross, macroscopic character, the fact that it is slippery. But it is on the microscopic, the molecular, scale where it is also a heavy hitter. For example, it contains enzymes.
If memory serves, it was in seventh grade that I had my first intellectual encounter with saliva, learning about the enzyme amylase that breaks down some starches, causing digestion to commence even before food reaches the stomach.
Later in my schooling I learned saliva’s role in establishing the phenomenon of classical conditioning. You know, Pavlov and his dogs.
But I digress. I say again, for me, saliva is a summer fluid. Because summer is a time to be outdoors, a time for baseball, a time for travel.
When I was a kid, hanging out on the street with the rest of the guys,
we spat,a display of maturity,
especially when between the teeth,
less volume, but a more sophisticated sound.
The trick was to do it without spit dribbling down your chin.
it appears to me to be an emotionless, purely physiological act.
Perhaps on a level of psychic significance equal to grabbing their crotch.
spit with feeling.
I was vacationing in the countryside of Slovakia,
and through a mix-up at the car rental agency
found myself in a Mercedes
with its iconic hood ornament
As I drove slowly by her humble house
she eyed me from the porch
then hurled a gob toward that three-pointed star,
clearly thick with contempt.
But contempt for whom?
Perhaps she’d been raped by soldiers
of the Third Reich.
Hard to relate to us
when you have a paltry pension
Many Slovaks took to Communism,
peasants, people of the land.
I like this woman
giving me the bird
in liquid form.
May free speech—and associated oral expressions—
thrive amongst the Slovaks
***
A Damnable Convenience Michael James
I am the big wind, I scatter all before,
Blow dust into the neighbor’s eye,
Skid leaves under his door.
The noise I make when I blow full force,
Will deafen some, too bad of course.
Gardeners love the work I do,
And if old folks grumble,
I’ll blow them too.
My din fills ears, fumes sear the nose,
With those who use me, anything goes.
I own the air of little towns,
Darling in fact of gardening clowns,
The “Mow and Blow” boys of backyard fame,
Who cannot give my work a name,
All love me, wear me, come what may,
Will hope to use me every day.
If you don’t like me, go complain,
You won’t get far, I’m not to blame.
It’s you stuck far back in the past,
When silence was a thing to last.
Look not for it here or anywhere,
In backyards, out beneath the star.
Not now, for here there’s no one cares,
What row I make, what ugly stares
From old man Giles who hides his ears,
And keeps the dust from off his cars.
Oh how they fly, those Autumn leaves,
Urged up and onward in my breeze,
To escape the dry, hot wind below
Bright reds and yellows--all my show!
***
Merlin's Apprentice Robyn Makaruk
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 in a strange language.
It had been six years since as a toddler, he was pulled from the wreckage of his parents' burning vehicle after it had been hit head on by a drunk driver. There was nothing to identify the child except for a bracelet on his 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 possessed knowledge and a wisdom well beyond his years. News of this orphan boy 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, decided to adopt him and raise him as his own.
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 by split log fences enclosing a large pasture with sheep, goats, 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-like voice, not the normal gronking sound of these birds. He followed the sound and came across a female 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 it that drew the raven close. A wire had torqued around her left foot which on first glance appeared to have 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 she 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 knew that Merlin would somehow mend Nike's foot and when he showed him how he would fabricate a new foot for her he was excited to be part of the plan. The computer model was designed. 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.
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 three will be connected forever." She hopped off her cradle on two legs, waddled over to Francis, spread magnificent wings, and flew out the open window.
***
My Taproot, Downhill Skier John Field
Or broken in my life because I made it so
My tap root stretches all the way back to Iowa
And the haunted house at the end of our block
With it doors kicked in and its eyes poked out
Then buries the tip of its guilty tail
Deep in the heart of the Midwest’s bible belt,
The source of my lingering protestant guilt,
Not to mention the permanent home
Of my second childhood
Which I sometimes mistake for nostalgia’s wall
I can just make out the barbed-wire top of
But never scale. Home, I dream of going home,
Lawns overtopped with trees
That wear their leaves like good-luck charms,
It’s always winter by the clock,
Streets barbarous with ice, nose frozen
As I shovel out my snowed-in driveway
Then suddenly it’s summer’s annual disaster,
A brutal muggy August drought.
Listen! Everything is dry and still—so still
You can hear cars rusting in junkyards,
Clouds drifting overhead,
Puffs of wind granting dust-motes
Permission to live—then wake up and tell myself
The changing seasons played on me
When I was a boy—and decide
That I want I want I want
My hometown exactly where it is:
Three thousand miles away from me.
***
DOWNHILL SKIER
From a mile away
He looks like a black crumb
Defacing a white tablecloth.
Above him a wreath
Of blood-red clouds,
Perhaps an omen.
Below him
A vertical drop so steep
It falls away
To depths invisible.
This is not your average mountain:
It’s a setting our skier is eager to barter
The rest of his life for—the chance
To win or lose everything
In a second or two.
As near a thing as we have to a hero,
He’s fabulous and lost
In a fever of chaotic dimensions,
Aware of the fact
That his safety
Is in excellent health
Anyplace else but here
(And doesn’t care)
The instant he surrenders
His fate to gravity
In a mystical kind
Of thundering ecstasy
And blasts the breath out of the air
As he plunges straight down
His immaculate heaven
Of seamless snow
Stranger than death
And soft as wool,
His romantic and shining grace
A silk-tight blur
Against the slope
As he weaves in and out
Of tremendous trees
Which specialize
In manufacturing ghosts,
Anticipating anything other
Than a close encounter
Of the worst kind
With the cutting edge
Of a snow-capped boulder,
And just like that
He’s instant wreckage
Beyond restoration forever.
Years later
Whenever friends drop by
To say hello
They know dismemberment,
Like sex, is intimate,
And never stare
At the tucked-in cuff
Where his foot used to be.
***
Some Short & Sassy Poems Lucille Hamilton
HISTORIC MOVES
It’s not like the astronaut’s wife
whose husband comes home and says,
“Honey, start packing;
I’ve been assigned to Mars.”
No, not quite the same,
but think of the Pilgrim’s wife who’s told to pack up
because he’s decided to move
from the comforts of London
to a place where the people are red,
don’t speak English,
don’t wear much,
and play running games in the forest.
Thomas Jefferson hasn’t yet sent back to the old country
that dead moose’s carcass
which probably would have made any sensible woman
say to her husband,
“Quite frankly, dear,
let’s give this move some second thought.”
***
SONOGRAM
I had a sonogram
to see if I had blood in my body going to me feet,
and
damned if it didn’t sound
like the 4th of July fireworks,
whoosh, pop, whoosh,
pop, pop,
It wasn’t like one of those astounding
displays of sight and sound
as they have in New York City’s harbor
to celebrate the birth of our country.
It was more like a small-town, low-budget affair
where there isn’t much excitement until the end
when all hell breaks loose,
so you get the best they can afford.
All in all, I was pretty satisfied,
once I stopped jumping each time a pop would go off.
I wasn’t in control of the volume,
all I was in control of was my response,
the sheer pleasure of hearing an essential sound,
a sign
of such vitality, sort of cheering me on.
***
ROMANCE IN THE YEAR 4,000
My guy’s a 4,000-year old alien,
he’s as spry as a goat on a spree.
He may look a bit odd to your eyes,
but he’s my very own trans-galactic hon-ee.
My bonnie’s abode is on the star Serius,
so it means when he wants to see me,
he takes the night wind from his front door
and spins across our galaxy’s vast sea.
The traffic out there is intense,
dodging meteors, asteroids and such,
but he’s really an artful dodger --
always good to have in a clutch.
When it comes to helium dating,
my guy’s most stellar at fusion,
believe me, and I have to tell you,
his flash is not an illusion.
(The earth shook!)
So when you look up into the night sky
what you see is no meteor shower,
what you are really seeing
are sparks from our galactic bower.
Here’s a toast: To your future and to ours,
may it be lovely and loving as can be.
Our home will always welcome you.
Our address? On Sirius,
yes,
seriously.
***
PRIVACY IS BECOMING A LOST ART
Some people have their various ideas
as to what the moon’s up to
when she goes behind a cloud.
Frankly, I think it’s none of their damn business.
***
Sketch for an Improbable Story: "Theseus and Minotaur" Michael Miley
This improbable story, which I may never write, is a tale of trauma, fragmentation of the self, and the painful creation of a unified identity. The trick will be to tell the story subjectively, not like I’m doing now, using a lazy omniscient narrator, so the reader doesn’t suspect the central fact until nearly the end: that Theseus Markides is a multiple personality; that his psyche is a maze, divided into separate, branching lifelines; that all the main characters in the story are him.
Now here’s the backstory: In his childhood, Theseus was beaten repeatedly by his drunken father, a jobless plumber who knew how to use a pipe; while his mother became streetwalker, just to make ends meet, so he’s now like a shattered window. Resilient and creative in his shattering—the broken panes, the shards of his abuse—he appears at first to have four personalities, though there may be more.
There’s Peter, who holds Theseus’s culture and is intelligent and refined. He loves theater and music, but is a bit of a snob, though he’s secretly attracted to whatever’s taboo.
There’s Bruno, who holds Theseus’s anger and aggression. He’s a dangerous thug and prowls around the streets at night, beating up punks he finds loitering in the panhandle of Golden Gate Park.
Then there’s Erika, who lives for public display. She’s a cross-dresser and works in a theater as a female impersonator. She loves to pretend she’s a woman who loves men, though she’s can’t stand the thought of them touching her. She just loves taunting them with the prospect of the forbidden. Only Erika suspects Bruno’s existence: in her mind’s eye, she’s continually undressing in front of him. She knows that he hates her, but it’s all part of the game of peek-a-boo, of hide-and-go-seek.
Then of course, there’s Theseus, who’s confused and depressed, depleted by his alter egos, who holds all the wounding and must solve all the puzzles. So he’s seeing a psychotherapist. She’s peculiar in that she likes to knit during their therapy sessions. The presence of the ball of yarn, the act of knitting, is a symbol of what she does: she weaves the garment of selfhood with the red yarn of love, working to recover his lost innocence, where his being was whole, prior to his abuse; then to grow a viable person within it, as in virgin soil. Her thread will guide Theseus out of his dark labyrinth and save him from the terrible Minotaur of self-destruction. It’s a modern rendering of an old Greek myth. As you might suspect, her name is Ariadne.
Now here’s the gist of the end of the story: His four alternate lives have gone their unmerry way. One dark night, in a cold November, in a drunken rage, while prowling about, Bruno kills a gangbanger in the Haight near the Panhandle and the gang sends a thug named Fritz out to get him. They’ve heard that Bruno’s quirky, that he’s been seen posing as a beefy girl in a small gay theater in the lower Castro. They’re fired up by homophobic rage.
So the fates converge on a second dark night. In mid December, Peter goes to a performance where Erika, the notorious female impersonator, performs the part of a hapless streetwalker. Peter attends the first act, then leaves, feeling sick, during intermission, only to black out in the theater hall. His subconscious knows he has to perform in the second act, so it’s Erika who surfaces and enters the dressing room.
While she’s getting dressed for her performance, with a blond wig, spike heels, and a slinky sequined dress, Fritz—our thug— sneaks into the theater through a backstage door. As the second act unfolds and Erika steps onstage in full regalia, Fritz is hiding in the wings, peeking out from behind a stage curtain.
Then the moment arrives: Erika is bending over to remove an ankle bracelet for one of her patrons, who is leering at her rump from a bed onstage. As Fritz aims his gun, Erika spies him out of the corner of her eye and from her cockeyed angle, flashes for a moment on the face of Bruno. She knows that Fritz has finally caught up with Bruno, so she pulls off one her shoes and flings it at Fritz.
The long spike heel hits Fritz in the eye. As the gun goes off, now slightly deflected, the bullet grazes Erika’s left shoulder, so she flings a second shoe at Fritz, striking him now in the forehead. Fritz goes down. Erika runs offstage. She flips into her Bruno persona and picking up a piece of pipe lying on the stage floor, pummels Fritz soundly, breaking his nose. Then Bruno tears off Erika’s wig, though still in the sequined dress, wraps himself in a stage coat, and runs out barefoot into the street in a panic.
Bruno is terrified. The gang is clearly on his trail. In an acute anxiety attack, he flips back into Erika, ducks into the pool room of a nearby bar, and while listening to the clink of billiard balls, drinks herself into near oblivion, plying free drinks from the bartender, who she knows. Then she staggers home and falls into bed. She’s so drunk she’s already forgetting everything that’s occurred as her head hits the pillow—except a soothing, almost romantic notion (which helps her fall asleep) that an elegant man named Peter, a big fan of hers, had gone to see her in her play.
When he wakes, he’s back to being Theseus. As he opens his eyes and looks around, he’s perplexed by the sequined dress and stage coat on the floor. Did he bring someone home from the bar last night? If so, where is she? He also notices that his feet are filthy and a bit cut up and that his left shoulder has been bleeding and hurts like hell. He stands for an hour in the shower, washing the red wound, then suddenly remembers his appointment with his therapist. He bandages the shoulder, dresses quickly, and calls a taxi. The next thing he knows, from his position on the couch, is that he’s telling his therapist of a recurring dream, accompanied by a sense of impending doom.
The dream is always the same. He’s attending some kind of Greek play. He suddenly finds himself onstage, wearing a woman’s makeup and dress, when a Minotaur emerges from the maze of backstage curtains. When the Minotaur tries to kill him, he attacks the horned beast and nearly kills him in turn. Then he staggers off to a bar where he gets drunk, rejects an offer by a streetwalker of indeterminate sex, and stumbles back home. In the middle of his dream, his shoulder begins to hurt like hell, just as it does now, as if the Minotaur has bitten him, after whispering a terrible secret in his ear, something he’s afraid to remember: his true name. But here comes the part that really frightens him: each time he dreams his dark dream, a woman in red emerges from a mirror, pulls out a gun, and shoots him through the heart. And then he wakes up.
Ariadne nods and sets down her knitting—which just happens to be a smock comprised of red yarn—then reaches for her notebook on the coffee table beside her.
Very interesting, she says, as she opens the notebook and clicks her ballpoint pen. Since everyone in the dream is an aspect of you, we now know something very important: there are at least four personas in you, maybe more. The question now is: which is the real you? The dreamer, or one of the people you’ve dreamed? Or someone else, someone whole, who has not yet appeared? As she scribbles in her notebook, he breaks down sobbing, hiding his face in his hands.
Just at that moment, the clock strikes four. The session is over. As Theseus weeps, feeling exposed, his personas now circling on a carousel in his head, Ariadne gets up, goes over to the couch, sits down beside them and takes them in her arms.
Sketch for an Improbable Story – Copyright © 2010, 2015 Michael Miley
***
EDITOR'S NOTE:
Some of these works have been published previously in this blog. Small differences may occur from changes to improve the reading presentation.
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