THE LAST CHAPTER

by Helen Rowntree

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,

 then 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, lilacs and pinks. 

The last chapter is yet to be written,

So words must be carefully chosen

and 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,

Oh, please! Wrap me in the nebula of beginning again. 

2013

Helen Rowntree—Born in San Francisco.  Lived in El Salvador and Chicago.  Returned to California in 1986. Her life has been so varied she has lived at least eight lives.  Began writing for pleasure in 1993 and hopes to complete her memoir in this lifetime.

THE SNAKE AND THE STONE

BY MICHAEL JAMES

                As a child, I believed a snake to be by each stone,

though in truth I noticed

                                              countless stones, few snakes.

During the fearful years,

I thought there was always something unpleasant

lurking around the bend.

But as I grew up and rounded many happy corners,

I noticed nothing harmful waiting especially for me:

many rocks but few serpents.

As a man, I can now  understand

why some people see by so many boulders,

an occasional tapered tail

slithering down a small hole.

For me, there are either too many stones

                                or too few snakes behind them

                                to worry much.

Oh, Grandma !

by Joan Shepherd

“Your Grandma has died”, mother said as I came up the stairs from my bedroom. She had   an expression on her face that I had never seen before. Grandma was an old bedridden woman needing to be fed pureed food and diapered for the past couple of years at our house. I had never seen a dead person before, especially in our back bedroom. I looked at her pale, frail body, touched her hand for a test. There was no reaction. Grandma was dead. 

Grandma had no voice, she hadn’t spoken in a long time. No more stories to tell about her eleven children or winning ribbons at the fair or  how a mouse ran up her dress when in the tabernacle for a service.  She simply caught it in her skirt and held it until the service was over. 

Instead of speaking she tapped her gold wedding band on the metal side rail of her hospital bed. Tap…tap...tap…some sort of communication in her own Morse code. Tap…tap…tap, until the constant repetition so bothered my mother, she removed the ring. Now Grandma wasn’t tapping anymore. Nor was she wringing the sheet with her gnarled fragile fingers. Grandma was dead.

“Do I have to go to school today?” No, but like Grandma, I couldn’t say the words to tell my girlfriend why I was staying home, that Grandma was dead. There was too much happening and I didn’t want to miss anything.

The stretcher like cart squeezed through the narrow hall and came back with Grandma making a lump under the sheet covering her. Grandma was dead. 

I had seen enough. My emotions were fragile and I was embarrassed with beginning tears. I went into the bathroom and cried. 

Mayacamas Poetry Retreat

October, 2013

Joan Shepherd - When Joan was in a Salt Lake City high school, a story she wrote for her English class was selected to be included in a booklet.  After retiring from several careers, she spent more time writing and creating  art. She is writing to have her English teacher give her an "A" again and select a piece for another booklet now, 60 years later.

A SONOMA TAIL

BY ROBYN MAKARUK

When we arrived at the shelter

For the fourth time

They said 'the sanitizer is on the wall'

Before we walked into the kitten room.

There was a family there with two children

Oohing and aahing over the little jumping things

All over the room

The two kids glommed on to a 'tortie'

And signed on to adoption

While we looked around

A tiny black 'monkey' ran down from a perch near the ceiling

Climbed up the pants of my husband

Jumped on his head and then down to his shoulder 

Closed his eyes, and purred his tiny heart out.

We looked at each other, 

Relieved that he'd chosen us

So we left with instructions

To make him an "indoor kitty"

Oh boy.....we tried, how we did try!

Simon was a feral kitten

Brought to the shelter with three of his litter mates

His mother Zoe, captured later with her fifth kitten

Became the consummate foster mother who nursed

Not only her own but many orphans who arrived.

She was the Queen of Pets Lifeline

And greeted all who came

Until a Sailor arrived who'd lost his long-time companion

Who adopted lovely Zoe to sail the seas with him.

This small creature, Simon

Gave us a bounty of joy and love

That cannot be expressed in words

While my husband lay in the last days of his life

This tiny sweet angel kept benevolent vigil close by.

Time moved on, my Simon stayed close

And when I moved house

He did not take this well

Still loving, purring but seemingly unsettled

One day in June he jumped fence

And here's the rest of the tale

When we couldn't reconnect

The flyers went out stating

He was neutered and chipped but wary of all

A beloved kitty more than 11 years old

I'd gladly pay a handsome reward

But no sightings revealed where he was or had gone.

He was a cat that had broken the mold

I felt that he’d found a new home

As my intuition told

Always in my thoughts

He was forefront on my mind last week

A phone message last Friday night

Left a message that Simon was brought to a vet

And the microchip showed I was the owner

Did I want to connect?

Tossing and turning all night, 

I plucked up courage, rang the number given

A sure voice answered

'Hello, I was expecting your call

My name is Gigi, and I live at Village Green.

I've been here just less than one year,

I named him Puffin, 

Others here call him Tuxedo, he's been here for a while

You say he's been missing for more than two and a half years?

I'm glad to know his real name, Simon.

For weeks he slept in the ivy outside my front door

Drank the water and ate the food I left

But he would never come close.

At night I'd watch the possum and raccoon who sat at the fence

But he was never bothered by them or they by him.

Yesterday he came

Allowed me to stroke him, crate him and get him to a vet

Who estimated his age as about 8 to 10 years

I'm astounded to know

He is almost fourteen!

I love this little guy, and I'd like to keep him but

I know you're his owner

I have two indoor cats, would you like to come over

And meet all of us?"

Canceled my appointments, classes

Heart pounding, went the three blocks to see this

Sweetie who had given me so much

And there he was.....sitting on the path in the sun

I spoke to him and called him with my own voice

And slowly he came....and began purring

I'd like to think he may have remembered

How much he was missed but who really knows?

For now, Simon has two mothers

Gigi and me

We agreed that a Senior Simon

May not adapt to an indoor life

After being on the lam for over two years

What a life, what a testament to survival!

It is said that cats have nine lives

Simon must have lived at least that number

But for however many more there are to be lived

Gigi and I will give him security and love. 

                                              2013

               Robyn Makaruk - A native of New Zealand, Robyn has lived in California for over forty years. 

                                             Recently retired from a career as a real estate broker, she continues her passion for

                                             prose and poetry and plans a future of learning the playwright's craft.

                                         

The venue is a large building shaped like a gazebo

Spaced steel bars for walls and roof

Everything inside visible

Outside, at each corner, men stand with long poles

Inside stands a man

Dressed for a Safari

Boots, a revolver, jodhpurs, a coiled whip, a pith helmet

A low steel door springs open

A noise as loud as a gunshot marks its unlatching

Then back behind canvas, another gunshot noise

We think another door has opened

A large powerful Bengal tiger enters from a tunnel

It looks at the man and licks its lips

Pacing in full cat stealth it moves towards the man

The man pops his whip with sonic cracks

He herds the cat toward a round pedestal

The cat knows its place and sits on it snarling

Another gunshot noise releases another tiger

That tiger too is herded and seated

The pair look like two giant chessmen 

On the devil's board

Three more empty pedestals are soon filled

The last tiger is over 700 pounds - the largest

He regards the 150 pound man

As the 150 pound man would regard a cheeseburger

The 150 pound man prances around the ring

Showing off his whip to each tiger who snarls  

Brandishing sharp teeth and claws 

As long as the man's fingers 

The strutting man pretends he is superior to animals

Only his whip impresses the cats

They hate its noise

They hate the discipline 

Provided by the men with the poles

That can provide a stunning electrical jolt

The audience applauds the domination 

Of these powerful animals

Stolen as babies from a murdered tigress

Intimidated to behave unnaturally as fools

Treated in inhumane ways

To serve their master's need of wealth and goods

No man with a whip would face a tiger in its own bailiwick - 

The jungles and swamps of India and Bangladesh

There the tiger is supreme

But as men remove the jungles and swamps

So they can increase their wealth and population

The tigers decrease

Soon to disappear

The last to be seen - on pedestals

Snarling at a man with a whip

2013

                                                   33

The Hawker Hurricane was developed just prior to WW II, with introduction to service in late  1939. Though a less modern design than the famous Supermarine Spitfire, it required 2/3 the construction time and was more tolerant of battle damage. Over 14,500 Hurricanes were manufactured through the duration of the war.  Both fighters used the Rolls-Royce Merlin engines. Hurricanes were credited with about 55% of the air victories by British fighters. About a dozen hurricanes still exist.

           Michael James- Mined in England. There thrown on the wheel for impress of first hands.

           Turned and shaped in Berkeley.

           Fired and painted by students of Tamalpais district which he left in 1993. 

           Writes essays, stories, and poetry. 

ON MY BEDSIDE TABLE

          On my bedside stack of books 

          there is a small drawing 

          of the anatomy of the knee.

          It never ceases to astonish,

          this beautiful image of the ligaments, 

          the buffering of cartilage, 

          the protecting shield of the patella - 

          all conceived as an amazing construction for movement 

          a piston that supports

          your running, standing - 

          your leap for joy.

                                            2013

PATIENCE

          Patience is an arc of time 

          ill-defined in limitation. 

          The decision for its onset is an innocent one, 

          unaware of the demands for its endurance.

          "In the long run" is a common phrase 

          which bows down in honor when

          patience is considered.

          Patience can be an anvil 

          on which to break open the spirit to its core. 

          These are the days, day after day after day 

          when the small gifts loom large,

          when the heart bursts open with gratitude 

          for the tiniest atoms of blessings perceived.

                                                                               

                                                          2013

MY DELIGHT BUTTON'S BEEN ON

       My delight button's been on for years now: 

          I'm able to focus on the previously overlooked, 

          whittling down my responsibilities so that I can 

          make time to watch the finches 

          meet and chat around the bird feeder, 

          taking time to notice thoughts, to catch the glimpses

          of emotions 

          whatever happens when you have the time to let surface

          the communication between your own head 

          and observing heart.

                

                                                    2013

CONSIDERATION

          Where I live, I can enjoy some stars

          at night,

          not obscured by city light -

          a lovely grace to put me in perspective

          which my day's sunlit ego is ignorant of.

          A few miles away, we have an observatory.

          What a luxury, and isn't it just the right word

          for it!

          At night, we have more time;

          at night, we have the time to observe,

          while in the day's light and its demands,

          all we can do, at best,

          is

          see.

                                        2013

Lucille grew up in N.J., on the cliffs opposite NYC.  She wrote poems as a teenager. 

After graduating college, she worked in London, Rome, briefly living in Vienna before

returning to work as an R.N. in NYC.  Upon retirement, she moved to California and 

began writing with the Sonoma Writers Alliance.