Call of the Sea - Ellie Portner

The sea calls to me

It has wrapped me in

Invisible strands

To hold me close

It tells me I have returned

And we must be together

The sea brings me waves

One after the other to seduce me

It calls the sun to warm its waters

That I may bathe in comfort

At sunrise and sunset

It paints its surface

So that I will never

Leave its shores

But wait patiently each day

To praise its creations

The sea lures me

With soaring Pelicans

Nesting Ospreys

And small birds hunting prey

In freshly moistened sand

Along its shores

I am a victim of its persuasion

I am found in the pleasures

Of living on its shore

I am a child of water

     ***

Summer Job - John Field

Mid-July. Red blister in the sky  

hotter than a prairie fire and it’s not even

afternoon yet. By eleven-thirty I’m so

dehydrated I’d lean toward the sun

if somebody watered me.

This should be quite enough

to tell you why I’d love to take my ease

and leisure in the coolness of shadows

with a little shiver in them----drain a snow

cone in less than five seconds,

twelve ounces of ice cold Pepsi

in a single gulp, even a sip of warm water

from a hose would help,

make the morning seem

a little kinder----instead of cascading

its incendiary wrath down on me

until I feel like I’m buried alive in Pompeii,

No longer human, almost nothing,

just a machine

as I weed row after row of onions,

tomatoes and beans----don’t stop,

don’t rest, don’t eat because my boss,

the greatest power in the universe,

is watching me. That’s why my hands

are a network of scratches and scars

the color of charred bacon

and not good at healing

as they obsessively yank

ugly green aliens out of the earth.

Why did I take this job?

Pampered kids my age----thirteen,

are supposed to be protected

by child labor laws

or if unemployed stay cool at the pool.

Next summer I’ll work in a cave.
              

Later that afternoon

a pair of tiny horns sprout

out of a shiny bald spot

on my boss’s head

which is larger than Beethoven’s

and oh yes of course let’s not forget

the horrid little smile

that falls off his face

when he catches me taking a break

ten minutes before quitting time.

“Field, you lazy good-for-nothing,

what am I paying you big bucks for?

Get off your dead ass and back to work.”

Big bucks?

On payday I have no need for a wallet.

Seventy years have passed

since my encounter with that devil,

but I will never forget

the moment his eyes

well-schooled in the art of scowling  

and precisely the color of smoke

glared a look straight through me

which implied

that if I didn’t shape up

he’d skin me alive.

         ***

A Letter of Gratitude ... - Lucille Hamilton

Thank you for hanging in there.

It means a lot to me,

even though there are times

when I think you're a bit skatty

and maybe not quite reliable,

not sure who's really in charge here

nor where That Thought came from.

For example: 

what did you do with my car keys last Thursday ?

or what about balancing my check book ?

that sort of thing.

In the long run, though,

you've been a comfort.  

When needed,

you've entertained me 

with your peculiar take

on things, and

you've grown in depth with age.

williwaws no longer disturb you.

I hold our relationship in love, 

respect and awe.

Looking forward 

to the next astonishment you will offer,

your grateful friend,

Lucille.

A Wonderful Legacy: The Sonoma Writers Alliance

When a member of the Sonoma Writers Alliance notified me that I was next in line to join the group, I wasn’t sure whether or not to do so, not really knowing much about them even having forgotten that I signed up. So, on my first visit I felt a little apprehensive. Would I like their writings, would they like mine? Almost all of them were older than me but  this surprise also made me feel comfortable because like an exquisite wine that grows better through the years, I love meeting and engaging with the inherited wisdom gained through aging.

When I read my first piece I was re-comforted and even felt nurtured by how the group held and responded to my words. The match grew even stronger as I heard each one read their contribution feeling inspired, challenged and embraced by their words. Each with his or her unique style and orientation, whether poetry, prose, memoir or fiction took me to many different places both inwardly and afar. At the end of the two hours I was thrilled, humbled and gratified, and felt so lucky. I went home to reflect on this multidimensional creative process. I felt that I had plugged into a 500- volt source of creative energy.

A couple days later, when I received an email about the theme for the following week, The Great Whale, this came as a wonderful confirmation that joining the group was right for me. Having dreamt a few months earlier of a magnificent, giant whale so vivid and alive for me that I was compelled to draw its picture, I now felt I could try to capture this creature in prose. This felt synchronistic and I took it as a sign to move forward in this new direction.

As the weeks turned into months I entered into the most creative writing of my life. I had written many essays, poems, volumes of my dreams and had even published, but this was different. I now had an ongoing dialog with a group that was curious and interested in my writings, inspiring me to go deeper, helping me to focus and encouraging the development of my stories more completely as I tried to honestly answer some of their questions. Before I realized it I had written a very important part of my life’s spiritual evolution and realizations. Some 13,000 words in eighteen separate essays would never have been put to paper had it not been for the group’s ongoing dialogue.

Over time I began to realize the marvelous legacy of the group. Two of the founders have been in the group for 21 years, and with others who have joined and left have formed a container wherein creative expression has been maintained and the fire has continued to burn well into the sunset of life for these writers and thinkers. What a great model for human kind to realize that all the way to the end there is something that we can share, strive for and pass on to others.

Some time sitting with the group I think of how many people that could benefit from this amazing beauty. Like entering a sacred garden full of diverse flowers, each one in its own way carries a particular aroma that enchants the senses. How many students could benefit by simply sitting with this group and allowing each flower to take them into the realm of the imagination. I am sure that every one would leave inspired and supported to express what is alive in each one’s own heart. I imagine mature people experiencing an awakening of their own histories, as they listen to the stories and ideas, having their hearts touched by the many places and dimensions that this group has traveled.

The Sonoma Writers Alliance has created a sanctuary, a place where many souls have found their lives enriched. The creative process fulfills one of the most   profound activities of the human endeavor, the capacity to create and recreate life with all its dramas and all its blessings.

When we are able to build a safe container for manifesting the force of spirit, for the unknown to become known, where mere words turn into a life nourishing substance, we are in communion with something greater than ourselves. Everyone in the group leaves a legacy of a life time of work, experience, and fulfillment that enriches everyone else.  I wish everyone in Sonoma could be made aware of this wonderful legacy, to sense the beauty, and see the courage and devotion for maintaining the creative expression throughout the long years of life.

One of the most important aspects that his group exercises profoundly well for me is the art of listening. Listening is the doorway for true communication. Listening well is where presence dwells and by which we can truly give each other our most precious gift, the gift of our full attention! Where every one is respected and honored is where love abides.

I am grateful that life has granted me this opportunity, and I hope that many more people will come to deeply enjoy this amazing gift by either listening to the writing of others or by reading what they themselves have written. Either way, it is absolutely worth it!

                                      ***

Long Summer Day - Beverly Koepplin

Long hot day, the night has come

Burning sun sets, coolness rises

Arid earth breathes, small creatures stretch,

Heavy air lifts, the moon has come.

Let us dance, the night has come

Warmed muscles glide, tiny breezes kiss

Night jasmine unfurls, fireflies fly

Evening birds sing, the moon has come.

Let us sleep, the night has come

Passion ebbs, spent limbs untangle

Minds melt, skin smooths

Sleep calls, the moon has come.

                  

                        ***

Downsizing - Joan Brady

The letter they sent said that they were sorry,

but they started before we ever received it.

It said that their decision to reduce the work force

  had been painful.

They started with the Public Relations Man.

But they started before we ever received it.

The Public Relations Man reminded us of Fred Astaire

They started with the Public Relations Man.

The Director brought him a check and a cardboard box.

The Public Relations Man reminded us of Fred Astaire.

Always he insisted that the company send Christmas Cards.

The director brought him a check and a cardboard box.

The letter said staff reductions would only amount to 4%.

Always he insisted that the company send Christmas Cards.

We used to laugh at Fred Astaire and his Christmas Cards.

The letter said staff reductions would only amount to 4%.

It said that 4% equaled 2,600 full-time equivalents.

We used to laugh at Fred Astaire and his Christmas Cards.

Always the Public Relations Man would try to be polite.

It said that 4% equaled 2,600 full-time equivalents.

When given his check and his box, he said “thank you”.

Always, the Public Relations Man would try to be polite.

It said they knew that full-time equivalents were people.

When given his check and his box, he said, “thank you”.

It said they would try to be as compassionate as possible.

It said they knew that full-time equivalents were people.

The Director watched him while he packed his things.

It said they would try to be as compassionate as possible.

When he finished, Security escorted him out of the building.

The Director watched him while he packed his things.

The letter told us that we are in “economic white water.”

When he finished, Security escorted him out of the building.

It said that, on Friday, all of us would be laid off.

The letter told us that we are in “economic white water.”

It said, there will only be a few job slots left available.

It said that on Friday, all of us would be laid off.

It said that on Monday, we could reapply for our jobs.

It said there will only be a few job slots available.

It said that they will decide who to hire back on Tuesday.

It said that, on Monday, we could reapply for out jobs.

Secretly, I called the Public relations Man to say goodbye.

It said they will decide who to hire back on Tuesday.

The Director told us, “working now is like

  being on a roller-coaster.”

Secretly, I called the Public Relations Man to say goodbye.

I called, but his telephone was disconnected.

The Director told us, “working now is like

  being on a roller-coaster.”

The Director says he “loves to ride

  in the front of roller-coasters”

I called, but his telephone was disconnected.

Always, whenever I ride roller-coasters, I vomit.

The director says he “loves to ride,

  in the front of roller-coasters.”

The letter they sent said that they were sorry.

It said that their decision to reduce the work force

  had been painful.

                                         ***

Blood Test - Robyn Makaruk

The fall down the cliff face was nothing compared
to being swept out to sea by the incoming tide,
her lifeless, broken body carried like a paper boat on the waves, the diaphanous dress wrapping her in a gentle, sensuous shroud. 

Time became irrelevant.
The sound of wings overhead were heard.
A cradle was lowered, not like one from her babyhood but one that lifted her body and transported it to a place where an aura of peace and healing surrounded her. 

A benevolent being came to her.
“Sweet thing, you’ve come back to us.
We will restore you,
and by a taste of your blood, give you life everlasting”. 

Her last memory was of the fragrance of magnolias, 

and the kiss, oh, the kiss,
before being transported into the next existence. 

        

***

Seismic - Dave Lewis

The Mayor and Police Chief of Santa Loopo were trying to make plans to minimize the impact of some disturbing news; a street-corner, soap-box orator had been collecting crowds all day as he excitedly warned of a divine message he had received.  The orator interpreted the message as a sure-fire omen of a pending earthquake.  

It is a good bet that anyone in Santa Loopo who was sober, literate and more than five years old had either experienced an earthquake or had heard about them from a friend, a neighbor, or a relative who had lived in Santa Loopo for a while.  Santa Loopo had never experienced a ‘quake that measured above “busted china” but all residents know that near-by towns had experienced busted utility mains, chimneys shaken down, bridges collapsed, and older buildings flattened.  The opinion of of residents varied about the cause of ‘quakes, varying between the complex lessons of  scientists to the awesome fantasies of the superstitious.  They all agreed that the extreme vibrations of an earthquake could spoil their plans of survival.  

Earthquakes can’t be predicted like weather events so an exact date of a ‘quake arrival is even greater guess-work than politics, or crime, or even a mix of politics and crime, or a mix of crime and politics.  That is why these so called divine revelations attracted attention. Since guesses always out-numbered actual ‘quakes by a huge margin, it isn’t impossible that some very small percentage might be  correct.  

No-one expected that a 'quake prediction would be as difficult for God as it was for a scientist.  The whole ‘quake triggering mechanism was a synergy of random natural occurrences about which God did less surveillance than state geologists and their network of monitoring mechanisms.  If God did have some unknown edge in guess-work, She was just as ignorant of fracking activity – a human-made ‘quake accelerator – as  interested scientists.  Fracking was a totally new accelerant to ‘quake-shakes, and it was so uncoordinated that God knew no more than governments.

As far as predicting damages, scientists had a vast lack of specific knowledge of the resonant vibration behavior of the structures man made and natural in any territory of earthquake disturbance.  There is no reason to believe that God’s knowledge of that data was complete either since lots of natural landmarks had been damaged in the past without an obvious purpose.  It is reasonable to expect that God knew the possibilities of structural damage from ‘quake excitation since Biblical folk-lore mentions the employment of fairly mild acoustic and percussive excitation  used by Israelites tromping about with trumpets  to bring down the walls of Jericho at God’s instruction. Both scientists and God recognize that ‘quake damage is not just brute force but most damaging are periodic forces that magnify the deflections of  structures when the excitation matches the structure’s resonant frequencies.

The Mayor and Police Chief weren’t fully aware of all the science involved with earthquakes but they were well aware of the danger of yelling ” FIRE!”  in a theater.  The orator’s freedom of speech wasn’t  as specifically limited yet by the Supreme Court but other methods were used to shut him up.  His divine observations could be just as dangerous to an excitable public as the FIRE warning.

With the ordinances at hand they were able to prevent him from his public tirades unless he got a permit that allowed addressing a crowd in an open, public venue. The major impact of that ordinance was a $100 license fee  – which the orator didn’t have.  The orator kept up with his rants about a ‘quake and briefly ended up in prison squelching his divine tirade.

The Police Chief ventured that the whole mess would be forgotten in a couple of weeks, especially since Donald Trump would be having a rally in town which would divert thinking unto another track.  Most of the people actually frightened by the ‘quake  lectures had only single track capability anyway.

The Mayor knew from experience that a number of ‘quake alarms would result for the Police Chief to check out. To keep these from continuing the ‘quake angst the Mayor told the Police Chief to make sure that the reporter of the Daily Plaza newspaper promptly listed each call and the findings of why it was considered erroneous.

These news bits were soon a national joke which helped to ease the ‘quake fear or smother it with humor.

Some examples:

1) COMPLAINT:  Sudden, loud rumbling noise in middle of night. 

INVESTIGATION;  A cat was sleeping on computer keyboard and had turned on music system amplifiers.  The cat started purring and mimicked earthquake acoustics.

2) COMPLAINT: A shaking motor home parked on the Plaza attracted the attention of a bar patron on his way home.

INVESTIGATION;  The bar patron not too steady on his feet and blew a .22 on a breathalyzer. Motorhome motion caused by newly-weds celebrating nuptials. Bar patron spent night in jail because he didn’t remember his home address. The next day he had forgotten the ‘quake incident but remembered his home address.

3) COMPLAINT:  A prolonged sound of breaking glass followed by a bright flash of light at culinary academy on Spain Street.

INVESTIGATION:  Truck for recycling pick-up, loaded three dumpsters full of empty wine bottles. When loading completed, the truck accidentally backed into floodlight pole.

After twenty or so news items like these, earthquake interest rapidly waned and anyway the Trump political rally had captured all of the town’s interest.  The orator of the divine message had been released from jail but he no longer attracted listeners. He moved on north to a casino parking lot where he warned of  gamblers’ conversion to salt pillars.  He was ignored except for being asked to pose for cell phone pictures.  By adding some chicken bone implants in his nose and ear lobes he attracted a horde of photo-seekers and became quite prosperous, also becoming a paid TV spokesman for medical marijuana.

The Mayor and the Police Chief forgot about earthquakes in Santa Loopo. The town had sold enough parade permits and parking permits for vehicles used for TV Satellite transmission  about the Trump rally, to pay-off the town budget deficit.

                                                 ***

Barking Dog - Lucille Hamilton

You can bark for all you want

but it won't scare off anything

I can see.

I think you know this, after all

these years of living here.

Is it that night's darkness doesn't show

you our property

the way the sunlight does, 

so in the darkness beyond

there might just be…..

something?

I am right, aren't I, in thinking

you're out there each night

defending our home, or turf

might be a better expression?

Whatever it is you are doing, 

please keep it short;

I'll have to deal with my nice neighbors –

in the morning.

                      ***

Triplets - Ellie Portner

REFLECTION

I grow older

In a small round mirror

That sits beside my bathroom sink

It counts the etches on my face

Reflects on sagging skin

And finds every fault

It tells me things I wish

I no longer cared to know

But once in a while

Beneath the reflection

I see a scarred brown sea turtle

Swimming contentedly

Through summer sea grasses

That bend with passing currents

                 ***

Sunflowers

When my breasts

Have fallen to my waist

And my clothes creep

Into folds of flesh

I will sit in the sun’s warmth

My hands at rest on my lap

I will watch insects flit

Between sunflowers

Full and bent

And listen to the earth

Whisper beneath their stems

              ***

THE MUSE

she is fickle

she does not meet commitments

nor give assurances

time for her has no boundaries

sometimes

she withdraws

and I am afraid

she will not return

I tempt her back

with whispered promises

I do not keep

I do not trust her

the one who shares my solitude

who comes to me

to fill the empty places

               ***