Grand Lake Review

Volume 5, 2001-2002

Contents

Photo #1: Roger McDermott, Donald Carlson, and Humphrey Gill Standing in front of the Eiffel Tower

Pat McDermott

Featured Author:

Cathryn Essinger

The Bridge

I.

Odd how it changes nothing

the wooden bridge

with its canopy of maples

the filigree of weeds

beside the ditch

the muddy path the cattle use

when they come to drink...

no clues

except the woman herself

the body

hidden among the brush

but now, even the little Angus calf

eyeing me from the hedge

spooks too easily when I stop

to look into the water

Odd how it changes everything

II.

What dark flower bloomed here,

what promise led anyone

down this path, black orchid

red rose

how does consciousness separate

itself from the body?

does the body drop

like a blossom,

float like a leaf

upon the water,

or does it fall,

with all of life's weight

condensed

into this moment

She fell into his hand

the way a camellia fills your palm.

And she must have known

this is the moment:

Julia

I said I wasn't going to look,

but like everyone else, I did.

I stood at the bridge where they

found her body, drove past the house.

Some darkness wanted me to know,

and the taste of it still rusts in my mouth

I listened to all of the stories,

even the ones I knew were lies,

and I think about that moment

when she knew, how her hand must

have fallen upon anything within reach--

vases, lamps, even the kitchen kettle

thrown across the room, and I listened

when Mary told about the blood,

and how they found the baby under the bed

where he had cried himself to a whimper.

And I look at the space between our houses-

it's just a short walk across the fields--

and I remember the stubble of the cornfield

and the wind pushing hard against the pines.

Him

I thought my heart would never be still

and yet today I walk like any other man

I say "Hello, Good morning,"

and when the waitress bends too low

across the table, I look aside,

the way any good man should.

When she brings my coffee, I say,

"Thank you," and I look past her hands,

the delicate wrists, the painted nails.

I wipe the water from the glass

and watch it reform, and wipe it again,

pooling the liquid around my fingers.

When John comes to the door,

the waitress smiles, a pretty smile,

and brings him a menu.

When he burns himself

with the black coffee, I watch

his mouth and envy him the pain.

Tonight I will lie down beside my wife.

Soon even she will know. I cannot think

about how she will try to understand.

I think instead about the gun

in the barn ... tomorrow I will get it out.

It will be the easiest thing I have ever done.

Fault

Would anyone believe me

if I said it was not

all my fault?

That she had no right to say yes,

and yes, and yes

and then no?

No. The blood bloomed

in the water until

the whole pail turned pink.

Finally, they name her

and we say her name again and again

trying to make it familiar.

It seems important to say it aloud,

To imagine a life for her . . .

She puts the baby down for a nap,

Then steals a moment just for herself.

She picks the ruffled blouse, slides

The sleeves down over her shoulders,

combs her hair, letting it fall looser

than it has all day, and now the shoes,

a bit small for her feet perhaps,

but they make her feel tall and pretty.

Marilyn

I was canning applesauce...

the kitchen was a mess behind me-

jars and lids, and the ricer

with its pummel dripping at the sink,

and my big butcher knife,

right there in plain sight.

I don't know why I did it,

but when he came to the door,

my thumb went down on the latch.

something about him standing there

car in the driveway, engine off,

like he expected to come in.

When he asked to use the phone,

I thought about my messy kitchen,

and told him I would make the call

When they told me later, told me

about Letta, I couldn't think

about it  .  .  . 1 just sat down

at the window for the longest time

and watched the sparrows

come and go at the feeder.

I remember how my youngest used

to watch the blackbirds gather

along the wires and sometimes

he would ask, "Mama, Mama,

Is that the bird that calls my name?"

Odd, where children get such things

But, it's true. If you listen carefully,

or sometimes not at all, if you just let

the sound creep up on you,

you can hear something like a name

in the sound of their voices,

something whistled, high and far away.

Robert

That dog, he just stood at the end of his lead,

and barked all day. Mary even went over once

to see if there was something wrong with him.

She knocked on the door, but no one answered.

I guess it was too late even then  . . .  who knew?

I spent the day on the tractor, tilling beans,

didn't see the police cars until late

in the afternoon. Never heard them, just

saw the lights sparkling beyond that hill.

Then my nephew came ripping up the drive,

raising dust. He just walked in our back door

grabbed the phone and said,

"I have to make a call; I'll explain later.

That's how I heard--listening to him

call the story in to the local newspaper.

She seemed nice enough, but the man,

he was never there much. I guess

someone finally put the dog back in the barn.

The sheriff stopped by a couple of times,

kept asking me the same questions

until I got annoyed with him.

He said it's kind of like farming,

You just keep plowing the same ground

until something comes up.

The Photographer

I can usually tell from the way people

are acting how bad it is.

If the sheriff meets me at the scene,

and no one is talking much ... I know.

I just try to shoot everything--360 around

the body, especially the face.

Someone just pulls back the sheet

and I shoot the whole roll.

I keep clicking until the coroner says,

"That's enough now,"

because you never know what

you're going to see in a photo..

the flowers on the floor, the bedspread,

the hands, the bruises.

Color doesn't bother me much--

it's just like watching a movie,

but the black and whites  .  .  .  sometimes

they make me jittery, especially

when I'm alone in the darkroom

and the prints are drying on the line.

But sometimes I get it just right

and the pictures fell the story

and then people look at you

like you're made of magic,

and that's what makes me

do it again.

Laura

My boyfriend, he took the pictures

He said he would let me look,

but I knew he wouldn't.

I'm glad he didn't. Gee-zee,

if I saw something like that,

they would have to drug me

and put me under for a month.

Sometimes I can't stand to look

at his camera. I know, it's just

a film, just pictures, but

when I think about everything

that it remembers  .  .  .  the things

that people do to one another,

it's as if it has a memory, a voice

that can wake you up at night.

Sometimes he just gets up

from a sound sleep, pulls on

his jeans and walks out the door

like he was going to take a leak

in the backyard or something.

He does that sometimes, says he

doesn't want to wake me up flushing

the toilet, but when he doesn't come

right back, I know he heard the pager.

I heard on the news that they found

that lady in pieces, but he didn't say

anything about it, and I sure didn't ask.

The Coroner

Sometimes when I push the button,

turn on the tape, I don't recognize

my own voice. "Caucasian female  .  .  .

mid 30's, head and torso, height and weight

undetermined," the tape a steady patter

of information, a record of what my hands

are doing, and what the body wants to say

about the crime. The distance in my voice is

not unkind, but not a tone I use on any other

occasion. This is not the way I would talk to

an acquaintance or even a stranger in the hall.

"Obvious bruising along the temporal lobe,

lateral impressions on both sides of the trachea."

The discoloration about her mouth, her lips, are

now only evidence, still it is a conversation.

I ask, "How did this happen? And she says,

I was young; I didn't know. I opened the door.

I didn't think that he would hurt me."

The Profiler--a found poem

[from The Troy Daily News, "Profile of a Killer, an interview of Dr. Ronald Holmes, by Rachelle Ramsey, October, 1996]

"'The first thing I do is look

at the pictures to figure out

what is wrong, what doesn't fit."'

"'Was the body moved? Are the hands tied?

Are there prevalent wounds? .  .  .

The pictures hold the fantasy."'

I put myself in the role of the killer

and try to determine what he might

be thinking and feeling, and then

I pretend that I am the victim.

Sometimes I assume the position

in which the victim was found

sometimes I find myself crying out

saying the things that I think

the victim might have said.

White men tend to connect sexual

violence and sexual gratification.

"Nonwhites don't seem to do that."

When using knives, single men tend

to kill women by slitting their throats.

Women attack other women in the heart.

If a body is dumped, the murderer

is someone from the area. If the body

is dismembered the murderer is single

in his thirties and not well educated

Possibly the killer's mother died

right before he started killing.

Mary

I wish I had been the one

to find the baby instead

of those little girls.

Sometimes I still think about it

when I come in the back door,

see Bob's tools hanging there,

or when I use that big butcher

knife, put my hand along

the blade to steady it

the sound it makes

when it hits the board

always takes me back a bit

Billy

The last time I held her,

her wrist was so limp

in my hand that I could feel

how the joint was made.

It hung down like a jonquil

almost like it was meant

to fall that way.

It changed everything,

even the past ... someone

grabbed hold of time

and tugged on it so hard

that the past wrinkled up

like a bedsheet,

all ridges and swells,

and the present

compressed into a hurt

And all I can remember

is her saying, yes

and yes and yes

and now nothing.

The Knife

It's the cutting edge

that we remember

the tip of the crime,

the way the steel tapers,

a gleam, a sparkle,

then nothing,

but it is the spine,

the length of the blade,

the handle,

the hand on the handle

that gives it authority.

The edge is innocence,

the only crime,

proximity.

Memory

PHOTO #2: St. Paul's Cathedral in London

Pat McDermott

PHOTO #3: Notre Dame in Paris

Pat McDermott

Featured Author:

William Fabrycki

The Visit Home

In her picnic basket,

She carries the wind,

Taking it from place to place

Between breezes, gusts and storms.

The moon sleeps

In the curve of her pocket.

She is the wilderness

Of wild violets, toadstools

And new tree branches.

The sky, the sun and the rain

Have all courted her.

Once, long ago, when swords

Were unsheathed in her name,

She turned away in disgust,

Knowing her honor was blemished.

As she runs across the fields

Toward me, the long grass sings

Under her footsteps.

I wait near a country fence,

Remembering when my small feet

Hunted this ground for new paths.

I hear her breathing

When she gets close. Tonight,

I will sleep peacefully with her

In the old farmhouse of my father.

It is my visit.

The Blind Man

Shuttered in dark glasses, he passes

through tilted days and solitary nights,

a keeping so fixed the constant admits no choice

Even as he wrestles the blackness down onto

its shoulders and pins it to the mat,

a silent oppression still persists,

not out of authority or delight,

but by its own incessant existence.

Handicap dashed its smudged equation

on his unborn eyes, a sentence passed

without shame nor right, delivering him

as a knickknack clutching a white cane,

a bruised statue set on an outworn mantel.

And yet among all the sawed-off trees

of human hardship--those broken bodies

left for dead rot--there is a poorer soul,

the sad thalidomide head and torso

enduring its place, for a stump

cannot move itself.

A besetting smaller burden, his sightlessness

is merely dark stain across his path;

prologues are probed by arms and footsteps

and epilogues bridge in memory's wake.

Solutions answer should sudden measure error,

being of hands and feet to catch at that

and make what's met an invited guest

even as he turns an insidious corner.

Freedom cracks in through his skin

without leaving a wound. Fear lays away,

this blind man needs no mirror to begin.

Planting Catnip Seeds

On a summer day that the mercury

Nails to a saffron yellow sun,

I bend over my garden to plant catnip seeds,

Thinking how perfect hot days are for gardening,

When dizziness crowds me

And takes my eyesight with a slap of white light

Like the juice of lightning scrubs away one's senses.

Then the universe seems to twist,

As it would to scratch an impatient moment from its back,

And the sun builds a bride's oven of heat around me.

I sit down on the grass at the garden's edge,

The tiny seeds safe under my fingers in one hand,

The trowel scooping sunlight in the other.

The sun might be kinder to me

If I were once more a slippery wet child

Sitting in my backyard, plastic pool,

But now, a heavy trampling comes upon middle age

And the words I form to complain,

Linger in a mouth that is afraid.

I am no longer brave, no longer decorated

With medals. They tarnish in yesterday's drawer

And this 'heat, this heat that pins the rabbit

In its hole, this heat anchors me

To the ground like a lawn statue

And squeezes the sweat dry on my skin.

Above my head, a carnival of bees buzz

Their sweet verses for the honey harvest

And I think of a cool harbor,

Once forty-years-ago, when I was a soldier boy,

Far from 'home, in Yokosuka,

Where the jellyfish were gathering,

Thousands of them floating in Sbinto water,

Like transparent baby umbrellas.

At dusk, the tide had carried them

Back to the blue heart of the open sea.

But years later, they too would linger,

They in deep cold water, letting go, helpless.

Just now I sense I'm being watched.

A rustling of leaves pulls my eyes

To the tomato plants. From under the branches,

Bent almost to the dirt by their red moons,

My old tomcat comes toward me, his fur the color

Of root beer and dust. I hold out the seeds

To him, comforted by his presence.

He moves through the garden's green shadows

And the heat seems to part in his path.

I muse that this heat, no mouse nor bird,

Would not make way for a cat, and yet,

It is as if be has dug up some cool air

From a secret place and has dragged it to me.

Sliding a rub along my leg, he adds a head bump,

Deliberately greedy of me, which I like,

And then paces, making a point, and doubles back

On his footsteps, making--I think--the same point,

As if to say, "Why are you sitting there?"

And, "Plant catnip!"

I stand up in the alcove of my own blue heart,

The sky, where sometime soon, I will glide

Just below the clouds and taste

The silky wine of gentle rain

And hug myself with blanket arms in snow.

Slowly now, I bend down and dig small holes

For seeds that will need to be watered.

Rescuing Shakespeare

I lie on damp park grass

waiting for you. Soon,

your bare summer legs,

tanned in slim shorts. And actors

rescuing Shakespeare in the park.

I watch small birds

and very large airplanes,

that look very small,

fly away in all directions

under gray smudged clouds,

making ready for night.

People out for a stroll coach

each other about dilemmas

and etiquette.

A woman's voice sounds as uneasy

as a finger might be

on a trigger.

The weather is hot,

but her tone is shivering.

Her companion's words

are black, impenetrable, quick

like a slap in the face.

Pieces of glass drop

with stings onto the sidewalk

and he walks away.

Tears skin her cheeks,

the broken inner strengths

pale her skin, a deep knife's work

is only partly done.

Later, the moon plunges

into the park and we meet

along a lighted pathway.

Our whispers are tonight's roots

taking hold, our bodies are the stems

for new thoughts, our tongues

draw each other out as we walk,

softly shackled together by our arms,

toward the stage where the actors

have-begun the play.

Why, Robert Frost?

Darkness crawls on long arms and legs

across the Ohio countryside, its oversized

black coat unbuttoned. The lake

in the center of the wooded landscape

is still: forgotten until morning

is its preference for the white froth

of coupling with the wind. Though slowly,

the wood's activities fade away

to a fugitive silence disguised as peace.

Not fooled by this, the wood mice dive

into the underbrush, knowing the quiet

is a warning just before the bone crack

of the owl's beak. A raised arm drops

and nature unleashes its iron blade

in the dark skull of the slaughterhouse.

A rabbit screams. A predator halves its catch.

From my rowboat, I listen

to sharp notes flung out in all directions.

The moans of the half-dead rise like black ghosts.

I row, splashing the oars,

splashing the oars, and then the summer air turns

to confetti with the heavy blast of a shotgun.

Man is in the woods. I imagine him

swinging a flood lamp from a fist,

his mind on sport, his trigger finger a muscle.

So much is suddenly beyond nature's reflex.

The sharp-toothed predators must be hunched

down now, hiding with the animals

they were just hunting. There is a picture

in my eyes of the man's boots

crushing the thicket

as he searches for something to shoot.

Unlike the wood's animals, man kills,

but he does not eat--he kills for trophies.

I stop rowing and drift, pondering it all.

And then, for no reason that I can tell you,

I look up and see a nightbird

flying toward the woods

and I sense that I am watching

the persistence of gentleness

in a world scarlet with wreckage.

Drawing Class

The life drawing model tilts her head up

In an odd way,

Standing on her tiptoes

As if she were mostly under water,

Like a statue of eternal stone

Below the old Aegean Sea,

Her nose barely breaking the surface to breathe.

Around me, the owl-eyed students draw her figure,

Centered in black contours of charcoal bloodlines.

I alone in the class have yet to draw.

Straddled on the wooden horse, I study her,

Marveling at how the creamy color

Of her skin is polished by the morning sunlight.

Without moving her head, she looks at me,

Squaring her eyes,

And she seems more animal-like,

But there is also the look about her

Of an animal who fears humans.

The drawers sight in on her like hunters

I want to gather up all the drawings

And give them to her, but then I imagine her

Draped in silk chiffon and wearing gold bracelets.

And I begin to draw.

Real-igion

A snarling, night wind snap-lashed its

cat-o'-nine-tails,

flogging the soldier boy

when he pitched his rifle into the black

snow-coffin with all those others

and their owners.

War empty, he fled to the old church

where no one else ever came

(the peasants hid high in the hills away from

his kind and the pastor had left for the city

crawled under the third pew back,

huddlingintight

chest and cheek to the cold floor,

joining only the merciful peace slipping in.

Next thing, warm sun bathed him through

broken windows.

One lid flicked open, a cautious fare-thee-well

then the other,

sleepy gaze edging along rows of pew legs

standing stout, a forest of safety

in the blessed silence.

How was he to know they had night marched

to the next ridge?--couldn't know until

KABOOMABOOMBOOM-BOOM

they shelled the church (for whatever reason)

and he just tuckedintighter

refusing

ever

to be part of the killing again,

even as he heard the beams thundering down.

The Obloquial Men

Darkness brings about new accommodations

for quarreling lovers

or heroes who have lost their bearings,

but not for the obloquial men

who wait, stranded

in the closed eye of time,

on park benches across the street

from the Salvation Army mission.

At eight o'clock, they stand up,

as though cued by a nod

that only they can see

from the park's bronze Civil War soldier

and run, with wobbling frankness,

to get inside the mission

and claim one of the twenty-five beds

for the night.

The men smell like dead grass

and cheap wine as they move along

the counter where I volunteer,

handing out small towels

and used bars of soap.

I tell them, "Keep moving along, fellas,

in a fatherly tone that wishes

love had made us all a better bed.

But this is earth.

And these men and I are much the same.

We sleep alone,

I in a two-roomer above a Walgreen's,

they here in the mission.

Our wives are dead or gone,

our children have married, moved away.

We are the renegade Jews, the fake Christians,

who carry our grace in small, paper bags

that go soggy in the rain.

We chase spells and miracles.

By now I think of my place

in the universe, so to encourage myself,

I say, "Well, heaven's

a different story altogether."

Then the last man steps up to the counter

He swats twice across his dark brown face

at a fly and says, "Heaven's not the place

for you or me just yet, brother."

He lays four garlic bulbs

from his coat pocket on the counter.

"Here, put these around your bed

at night so Death can't get you."

I want to believe in his magic,

but I don't. so the best I can do

is tell him a not quite truthful, "Thanks."

He seems to read my thoughts when he says,

"On the island where I was born,

folks like to believe that a good spirit

lives inside a garlic bulb.

Now, maybe that's so, maybe not.

Still, life is believing."

He picks up a towel and soap bar.

"Anyhow, garlic comes from the earth

where we have our feet planted."

As he walks off toward the dormitory,

I check to see if anyone is watching me.

And I put one garlic bulb in my pocket.

Aqua Flight

She cannot dance like a dolphin

at play, nor break the blue luster

like a fish nibbling,

yet she'll arch high above the board

splitting sunbeams

and I swear with a hushed whistle

I saw her hang free performing some

baffling magic,

but wouldn't you know

just as quick,

quicker than the flick of my eyelid,

she's twirl-turning

to catch us breathless

before tucking into a precision

up

side

downing

and then she's gone--gone straight as

a plumb line,

cutting into water

ringed by a cement griddle where splashes

fry to invisibility

and applause welcomes her

up from the silence.

Awakening At Three In The Morning

I am spellbound by the endless white fall

that covers the farmland

outside our bedroom window.

And then, behind me, I hear

a perfect breathing coming close

and your body, a safe door thrown open,

slips into mine

with the smooth motion of slow water.

You smell of leather and horses

and the swift air from yesterday evening

when we rode the stallion and mare

head-on to the wind.

Now your fingers scout my shoulders.

We hold each other, standing

very still, in a seamless silence.

I kiss your mouth, making my offer,

and you kiss me back, seeding love.

We move gently together,

our hands wrapped in each other's skins.

Tenderness fires us, rocks us,

we are blessed by the mystery of living cells

A Winter Day

In the backyard, two wrens flutter

near leafless branches.

Today is glass-cutting cold

My neighbor says the birds are confused

by the crazy weather. She thinks nature

is waving around loaded pistols.

This winter came like white speed

on the scut of a summer

that didn't change into fall. The cold

has clawed at my arms and jarred my words.

Sometimes I think I see people evaporate

from the sidewalk in the freezing air.

There seems to be no softening

of my place in these seasons,

nor in the seasons themselves,

as the softening of age comes over me.

New snow drifts past the window

in graceful swirls,

strangely more beautiful

than I thought,

on a landscape painted white

by a God I'm trying to know.

After dark, when the snow has stopped,

I cross the front yard,

a small creature walking on the rim of life,

and listen to the gentle flight

of my own breath,

as my boots kick up puffs of snow.

I look overhead at the gift of a big sky,

thankful that,

like new moons,

this night's children are born.

The Brotherhood

Our cold, gray bodyshells

Muddy-step a slow burlesque,

Step after step, dueling

Needles of November rain,

While union chiefs and

Company bosses huddle

Comfort-warm in a room

Plush with thickened egos

And I cannot tell one from

Another as with soft, pink

Fingers they strip our flesh.

Minnesota Woods

Deliberations let him down.

The silence in the woods was more frank.

There were no insects and no birds today.

No animal had yet to make its quick,

Elusive sound in the underbrush.

The air seemed to betray the trust

Of breathing. It was as though

Some phantom crop sprayer

Had gassed the place.

The man walked this path

Many times as a boy

And, later, on his summer visits home.

His father had told him to put his trust

In the woods, for it was a sanctuary

From a world where intellect

Solved very little. But now,

He was wary of the silence,

Indecipherable and blank,

Like the last page of a storybook,

Where nothing is concluded.

Turning back, certain

That he should get out of the woods,

He went around a curve and there,

On the path that had been deserted before,

Was a brown bear and her cub.

She looked twice as big as any bear

He'd ever seen in a zoo. He imagined

Her standing up on her hind legs,

Tall as dark rage. He wanted to run,

But doubted that running

Would add much time to his life.

Standing still seemed even worse.

With an odd tilt of her head, the bear

Studied the man as if she were calculating

His height and weight--what he was worth.

And then she roared, suddenly, very fast.

Her tongue reached straight out,

Like a terrible flaw in nature.

She surged toward him,

Her large head fixed on his helplessness,

on his bloody, shredded death,

While her tongue flailed her mouth.

The man tried to run, but only one foot moved,

Dragging sideways, fear crippled.

The bear slammed him down and hoisted

Him back up by her jaws, savaging his arm.

He dangled in a yellow light of pain.

Blackness glided over him,

The scar of shock.

Malevolence mapped his body,

Like the work of a harrow.

Sliding deeper into the blackness,

Almost complete, his pain gone,

A pleasant injection,

There was a bright sound, a blaze, but raw--

An explosion.

And a vague hope formed

That he might yet be safe,

If only the sound was a hunter's

Gunshot and not the sky's thunder.

The General's Lieutenant

The lieutenant carries the boy

Across the snow without the effort

A full-grown body should gather. He runs

Because behind him are the explosions.

Ahead is the General's retreating army.

The frayed cloth of defeat is everywhere:

Rolled-over wagons are shrouded

In their wind-stripped canvas;

Metal plates and bowls litter

The frozen white crust of earth

As if no one planned to eat again.

He believed in the General and in his words--

The words that authors would say

Were blazing and magical when they wrote

About them. He carried these words with him

Wherever he was sent. He was young then,

And touched by eternity. But now,

After looking into the crouching eyes

Of a hundred dead soldiers--soldiers

Who must have believed as he did--

Those words whip up around him

From this shattered frontier

Like angry giants and he runs, runs, runs.

Depths

Long into sleep, I glide upward

Slicing warm blue soundlessness,

Watching pink sun lay lace on ripples.

A current embraces, and I maunder,

Waiting for stillness.

A passing toadfish snickers when

Above the sun's lace spatters

Into squares of rope. The fisherman's

Shadow obliterates light. Still hoping,

I dive deeper into darkness.

Acknowledgments

These poems first appeared in the following publications: "The Visit Home," "Why," "Robert Frost?," Blue Unicorn; "Planting Catnip Seeds," Connecticut River Review; "Drawing Class," California Quarterly; "Real-igion," Prayers to Protest; "The Obloquial Men," Icon; "Aqua Flight," The Writer; "Minnesota Woods," Ariel XVIII; "The Brotherhood," Onionhead; "Depths," Green's Magazine.

PHOTO #4: Windsor Castle

Pat McDermott

PHOTO #5: The Tower of London

Pat McDermott

Featured Author:

Peg Dorsten

My Home

Constant it stands, juxtaposed among fields

dead from winter, awaiting the wet of growth.

Tall and white, like that of a cotton white shirt

pressed into pristine lines,

it views "the silos, these mountains of Ohio."

‘Neath roof of tin can the sliding of rain be heard

down its slope after it has played a tune

back to the song of thunder.

Clawed pink feet tickle the interior walls

as mice scatter dust in the wake of late night ramblings.

Black is the widow that lies wait in the basement,

too fat and large from daily harvests of plenty

to weave its own web.

Kittens have hugged its floor as they made their way

through the dark of not-yet-opened eyes and new born legs,

trusting in the embrace of its foundation.

Quote from: Robin Newhouse

Making mud pies . . .

I woke up today and said good morning.

I told you I loved you.

I was six and almost grown up.

I jumped out of bed ready for the day,

Excited to see what would be next.

Would it be making mud pies in the woods,

Or playing in the corn field?

I woke up today, stifled a yawn.

I didn’t say I love you.

I was twenty-nine and living a life of my own.

I crawled out of bed forcing myself in the shower.

Hesitant on what this day would bring.

Would it be a lecture from my boss,

Or a fight with my loved one?

I woke up today and said good morning.

I didn’t know to who.

I was thirty-five and making changes in my life.

I tenderly got out of bed and went to the window.

Searching, looking for something?

Would I see a woods full of thick trees,

Or a corn field that was planted in straight rows?

I woke up today and said good morning.

I told you I loved you.

I was only thirty-eight.

I jumped out of bed ready for the day,

Excited to see what would be next.

Would it be making mud pies in the woods,

Or playing in the corn field?

A Lullaby’s Cradle

So as a child is soothed by his father’s lullabies,

so shall you, as a child, know the music of God’s holiness.

Wrap yourself in His love.

Be still and listen.

Listen.

Listen to the ancient harp in the moonlight.

Listen to the twinkling chimes among the stars.

Listen to the flute as it glides on the tail of the moon.

Listen.

So as a child dances in the arms of her father,

so shall you, as a child, be cradled in God’s majesty.

Willingly give yourself over to His lead.

Be held by His gentle power and dance.

Dance.

Dance within a candle’s golden light.

Dance on the wings of angels.

Dance among the notes trailing in a breeze.

Dance.

So as a child crawls onto the lap if his father,

so shall you, as a child, sit in the warmth of the Lord.

Lay your head on the shoulder of His glory.

Rest your eyes and sleep.  Sleep.

Sleep in the joy of new life.

Sleep within the dreams of the drummer boy.

Sleep in the silence of the I am.

Sleep.

ugH!

I drove to work,

saw nothing on the way.

Dreaded each passing mile

that brought me to that place

where heads bend down in silence,

fingers clack on keyboards,

and papers shuffle from one file to another.

A Dickens’ Christmas scene played out in real life.

Quietly it came.

In the still of the darkness.

Prayers sent in desperation,

rode on each twinkle of light.

Everyone was blessed.

Not a soul was forgotten,

especially the boss.

Things began to change.

Lowered faces showed crooked grins.

Toes tapping to music,

beneath desks they were hid.

Papers were still shuffled.

Not everything can be fixed.

Morning Sun

A red-tailed hawk soaks up the morning sun

as it sits with talons wrapped around the ragged tree limb.

Farther on, a deer stands motionless at the edge of the woods,

head up...listening, smelling, checking on the familiar.

I am not so far away from the world of animals.

I go about my day with mental sameness.

But a moment happens...I listen...

My fingers once coiled around my life, managing, controlling...

until I take in lumps of air, sifting it through my lungs,

releasing the dense thoughts to the light.

It is then, I can see with clear eyes

what the hawk and deer already know.

One-on-One

I throw a bunch of

balls in the air.

I catch one and smile,

achievement is grand.

Another is snagged

right before it hits the ground.

I throw back my shoulders and grin.

Another is caught, then another,

and another.

My brow becomes furrowed

as one ball drops,

lost to the ground.

Sweat forms on my upper lip,

balls are thick in the air

as I snatch yet another.

Knees become weak,

concentration is lost.

Catch another, I think

"I must!"

Tumbling I fall,

rubber balls here and there.

When everything is still,

wide-eyed I see,

two rubber balls stuck to my toes.

Chagrined I feel, turning to my anger.

"Why God? Oh, why?"

Now God, smiles and winks,

with a chuckle hidden in His chest.

He leans to come close.

I wait to hear what He will say.

The silence seems forever.

I begin to wonder with a bit of dread

what words He will have for me.

As my tension eases from His soft gaze,

I begin to think how silly I must appear,

with hair like Medusa and limbs strewn about the floor.

Sheepishly I grin.

With loving hands He reaches out,

plucks a ball from atop my big toe.

"Don’t look at me," He announced,

"I said one, not a ton."

Quiet

breath I breathe,

until I can no more,

pushing, stumbling on

in labor to a life

of grind.

Halt.

No choice, but because

changes force the rest.

Battling the to do,

knowing it grows,

ever lengthening as sunlight in spring.

Halt.

Again, stop the doing.

Heart beat. Heart beat. Heart beat.

Stillness rises,

peaceful nothing,

simply,

being.

Creek Beds

I was cranky.

Wanting to shed this cloak,

I put your music on . . . 

melodies that flow as creek waters

over stones now dull from wear.

I pray for the man who wrote this music,

who opened his heart to you,

letting your truths speak through him,

so that I may hear

your silken gold.

Your thoughts trickle over my sharpened edges,

they soften with each note that plays.

Peacefully the water moves along,

sifting out the heaviness of anger,

to move freely along the earth’s bones.

Shoestrings

Waddling around in my own dirt piles,

forgetting that the common things,

when joined, make up a lifetime.

The PJ’s with the feet in them,

and the noise they made on the linoleum;

riding the bus home from school

with the blended aroma of wet snow,

rubber boots and heater wafting up from the floor boards;

lopsided snowmen dressed in their best finery,

pulled from a stored box of winter leftovers from years gone by--

mismatched, with a hole here and there;

walking through wooded rooms,

noticing star dust that glided to earth from days previous

found evergreen shelves to rest upon;

strolls along corn fields aged by summer,

over a vacant sandy creek bed flawed by the hoof prints of deer;

times sitting in the quiet hush of a baby’s dreams;

of knowing how our lives are tied to the land

like a string braided through the eyelets of a shoe,

never knowing where one ends and another begins.

. . . bathworks . . .

Checks need to be written,

sidewalks need to be shoveled,

dirty dishes sit on the counter,

lunch needs to be cooked,

the parakeet is screeching,

a phone call needs to be made,

but all I really want to do is take a hot bath.

A voice speaks to me there, in that quiet warmth,

or sometimes I read in what

used to be a porcelain kingdom, now

only molded plastic that I can never get really clean.

Too many dirty feet that found the

earth to wear in place of tennis shoes

have stepped there, in that tub.

It is this place, that I remember,

to just live,

let the world float by,

bubbles and all,

and when I’m finally

wrinkled and pruny,

those checks that need to be written,

the sidewalks that need to be shoveled,

and everything else that I think HAS to be done,

goes right down the drain.

Because, the only thing I really need to do

at this very moment is to simply . . . be.

Settling of Snow

In the sleek silence that fills me,

I am deaf.

It was this first time, the deep quiet,

that scared me.

Like a rodent, I paced along the walls

of my mind, no end to the maze.

Frenzy then settled in snow drifts

forming still ocean waves.

It was there, that place, I could stay,

no past, no future,

only the beat of my heart,

the rhythmic rise and fall

of snow settling.

Interruptions

It’s a cute little vehicle, blue,

sporty, two doors, four people could fit,

two more easily.

It takes me to a place I don’t want to be,

to making a living,

to taking responsibility,

to a job that pays the bills.

It is me, alone, that drives to work.

Me, and a thousand voices echoing

off the upholstery,

sliding down tinted windows,

muted sounds pushing me in this direction

to a life like a million others.

Daily I make this trip as before.

Life’s hiccup, I think, but who

can drink the water backwards,

ending the insistent repeating?

Drudging onward I go,

driving . . .

driving . . .

driving . . .

Picking up an unwanted traveler,

a bolt in my new tire,

quickly it’s fixed, a plug in its place.

A semi tosses a stone at my

bug-splotched windshield

leaving a baseball print behind.

Then, late at night, a cow darkened by its

own fur and the night, greets me on our crossed paths.

Another bolt, and another plug is put in.

Windshield is finally fixed, only to see a piece

of heaven fall upon it . . . a dead limb from a tall oak.

I think this is it . . . these series of events, until . . .

yet another detour.

Naked is my tire, no hub cap to cover its baldness.

New direction . . .?

Barn thoughts . . .

The word comes to me from many facets of

my daily interactions, the transferring of an

idea from one to another, like when I’m the

reader and suddenly stop to let the writer’s

words form droplets of truth cascading

into sentences which move me to a different

realm beyond time and space, giving me new

meaning, an awareness, an agreement.

Or from a movie, dialogue that pushes me to think,

to analyze, tripping me into another angle,

another loft to build tunnels into my brain of straw.

The Commute

Driving along, heading home from

a stressful day at work.

I settle in to watch the scenes from

my own movie pass across my windshield.

It’s a forty-minute drive

no matter how I cut it.

There is always a driver in front

that sees no rush to this world,

or a horse-and-buggy

that clops along the modern road.

It’s like a western suddenly

being spliced in a feature film.

The camera pans across the horizon,

and the moon knows it’s the big scene.

The sun reflects violet on the clouds,

which are the moon’s backdrop.

The sky . . . these elements . . . want to get it right.

At most, they have 10 minutes

to create and sustain this moment,

until like a single breath it is gone.

The moon rests in the heavens

like a coin suspended in the slot

of a piggy bank made of purple clouds.

This is pure love at its beginning,

at its creation . . .

at thought  . . .

Taken for a Ride

My pen is still before the page,

mighty are my thoughts as they prance

like a 1,000 pound beast puffed up

with show in an arena.

Try as I might, these ideas which are

unwilling to be reined in, cantor royally,

amid the mountains and valleys existing along

the horizon of my mind. Jauntily they twitch

their tails as they watch me spirited,

ready to take a horse on a ride.

I choose a magnificent creature,

a Pulitzer this will be,

with flowing mane, graceful withers

that mark the transition

between neck and back,

and a line that Thoreau could not have

written on his best day. Astride on the saddle

with the creak of leather in my ears, and the

smell of horse in my nose, I can see them snicker

as I’m tossed onto the seat of my Levi’s.

Getting up I dust off, then twitch my own

tail, all cute and teasing in front of their grins,

because I know I will ride.

The Hunt

My nose scrunched up from the acrid odor of the smoke that filled the bar. One has to get used to it when living in the rural setting. Lots of farmers here. And factory workers. Not many go to college. A few. Some just leave. Some return and some don’t. I did.

The small town choked me when I was younger. I wanted the city. The pulsating excitement of lights, the thriving life blood that dwells on its streets, in its shops and in its businesses. It took me two years after high school and falling asleep on the toilet of the insurance company I worked for before I decided to get off the tightrope of a small town. Until then, I drank to fit in, to laugh a lot and hide from the black hole lying in my chest. Insecurity. Looks. Intelligence. Emotions. Then, I drank because it was just easier. Tears would constrict in my throat until I couldn’t breathe. Even at birthday parties, mine especially. Am I good enough? I never could put words to that when I was younger. With literacy comes the ability to verbalize the turmoil lying just below the surface of things. I chose to gaze at the demon that tore up my insides as if the intestines were its only dinner in months. Most adults however, add more layers to keep it hidden. Never seeking what would truly make themselves happy. So instead, they marry someone for how they look beside them versus marrying for love. They pile on the styled clothing, thick makeup and the thick ooze of faux sincerity. None of them would even come close to what you call class or sophistication. They wrap themselves in the pretension of being human with a conscience.

The worst of it is that I’m one of them. At times I possess an understanding. And just like the occasional flip of a heartbeat that knowledge is lost in the tangle of neurons in my brain. Arrogant? Occasionally, yes. At times, I think I have the faculties of Einstein along with the humility of Lincoln.

I always talk in extremes.

An exaggeration? Maybe.

Somehow I found my way through the education years, got a grip on the drinking, and finally met someone I could spend the rest of my life with, bear his children and live happily ever after in a house with the white picket fence and a dog sleeping on the front porch. Then, of course, the nightmare ended. Reality suddenly coughed in my face. He drank, wanted to spend the rest of his life beating me up, live in an apartment with no yard, the kid was already a tricycle motor and there were two wild mutts that never stopped barking.

"Hey Maggie, can I get you a drink?"

Startled by the interruption, I turned and saw this blue-eyed very German looking farmer who was the owner of the question that was asked a little too loudly in my ear. I could feel the wet spittle on my lobe. I fought the urge to wipe it off.

"Sure," I replied after examining the beer bottle I had resting on the counter. "Nothing but foam anyway."

This guy wouldn’t weigh more than 140 pounds soaking wet. At least he was good for a beer. My friend and I call him Lips. When you look at him, that’s the first thing you see. The thought of ever being kissed by those lips was beyond anything I could deal with. There was another strange thing about him. He always wore his shirt unbuttoned, about two buttons too many unbuttoned. I wanted to fasten him up just like I would a three year old kid for church on Sunday.

"I haven’t seen you out in a while," the lips said.

"I’ve been around. Just not at the places you were at."

"So where have you been?"

"Out," I said, not wanting to elaborate. He didn’t need to know that I was working like a dog to get my bachelor’s degree. In this crowd, no one wanted a person to succeed. That was how they could feel good about themselves, everyone else was right along side with them sloshing around in the manure.

"Pretty Boy is here," Lori announced over the music.

"You’re kidding? Where?"

"Look over at the far end of the bar."

"Yep, that’s his muscle shirt," I replied. "Do you think he owns any other kind?"

"I doubt it," she said.

"It’s really pathetic when we recognize the regulars."

"Does that make ‘us’ regulars?"

"No!" I said a little too forcefully.

At some point while Lori and I were talking, Lips had wondered off, which was part of the plan--act like you were deeply engrossed in a conversation, then sooner or later they got the message. It usually worked. Being aloof is what the dating books call it. And we were good at it. But, we never were quite sure if a single again woman should possess this quality or not. Mostly we didn’t give it a thought. We couldn’t any more. We read all the relationship books we could after our respective official breakups. Lori’s divorce and my calling off the wedding one month before the ceremony. Five years down the drain for me and God knows how long for Lori. Long enough, I guess, to have three kids. What book has the answers any way. To me it’s all your own choice. It’s called free will. Every one has it and every one exercises it whether they choose to consciously.

"Should we scope out the crowd?" Lori said through the smoke, which seemed to part like the Red Sea.

"Yea, might as well," I answered back before the wall of smoke came crashing back in on itself. "I can’t stand sitting any more. If we’re not going to dance then walking’s the next best thing."

"It’s almost 11. A few more people came in."

"Any cute guys?"

"There’s one," she said a little too nonchalantly.

"Okay, lets go check it out."

With that the conversation ended and the fine art of scoping the crowd began. Both of us have mutually perfected the skill of the proper way to walk the full perimeter of the bar and still appear to be fully engrossed in a lively conversation and having a great time even though you felt you could be any one of about 90% of these kids’ parent. The other 10% were older single agains or never have beens that were trying to fill up their emptiness with loud music and legal over the counter medication--alcohol. The walk begins with one of us leading. Usually me. That is, until I would get fed up with Lori’s lack of initiative and literally throw her into the lion’s den without any remorse. My justification was that a woman has to know how to walk a room and feel like she is the only female worth talking to. Lori could do this, she just felt more comfortable being the follower so it took some direct urging. The conversation came in second only to the first and foremost, which was finding a man. That was the primal force. Scoping the crowd appeared as a natural outcome from the interesting discussion we pretended to have as we walked the full length of the bar. A slight tilt of the head in laughter with a quick scan to the right at the same time. It was easy.

Tonight we told each other though, in our denial, that we were just going to have fun and not worry about meeting a guy. When I finally made it home after a very long night, I felt like cow dung. As I stood in the shower watching the puff of smoke drift away from my hair after I had dipped my head under the water stream, I realized that I just couldn’t do it any more. I didn’t want to. The pain of coming home alone again was just too much. Along with the fact that Lori and I were both using our friendship. More specifically we trampled on it like a cow path at milking time. Our fake stimulating conversations we had when we went out, trailed after us like one of those red Flyer wagons we played with as children. We were too busy thinking about a guy when we pulled it. It snuck up on us, skinned the back of our heels. We both knew this on some level, probably under all the neediness. We walked around the bars with bloody ankles from the wagon banging into us the whole time. Everyone in the bar saw it but us.

Now maybe, I’ll throw all my college text books in it and push the blessed thing. I’ll be the only thirty-five year old on campus with a bright red Flyer wagon.

Well, who am I kidding anyway?

I’m already the only thirty-five year old on campus.

Mirrored Waters

Wooden planks rock her knee caps as she crawls along a corn bin. A shelf sitting low to the floor seems to appear instantly through the haze of bee wings and dust. Burlap meets her finger tips as she peers into a small room behind the coarse veil. She is coerced by the stark thickness of midnight into this secret room. A mountain of velvet sleeps. The black and white fur is mottled with bumps jutting from the skin. Obligingly, she gently strokes the goat’s neck. Its head turns in a motion resembling the slow arthritic meanderings of the aged. The eyes, though, are brown. Youthful. They try to speak to her though the language is different. As if in understanding, she follows its search to a pile of rags that cradle a young boy hostage by its threads. His skin is chestnut. While lying cuddled in the animal’s warmth, the boy meets the young woman’s gaze.

Cramped, she stands then surveys this child’s world. Straw litters the floor and is broken by the many lumps of sleeping goats. None move while their dreams flit across closed eyelids. Turning, she faces a man whose eyes of sorrow match those of the little boy. The woman knows he is the father. He is dressed like the boy.

She is drawn to his sadness. Tentatively her arms reach out to embrace this man. Through a hole in his shirt, her fingers touch the bareness of his skin. There are scars on his back. Tears slide down her cheeks, slowly at first, then stronger as the outlet opens wider.

The sobs rake her body, though like dry heaves, no tears have fallen. Sorrow dresses her pale in its morning light. A "dream hangover" she will call it. She lies in bed a little longer this time. This was a tough one.

Lilly is unaware that we watch, seeing her struggle. It is in our state of awareness that we are able to assist. If only our love would listen. Lilly is a doer like an antelope that is swift to travel. She does not understand the ways of a soul. But she will learn. She is young for her spirit age, and learns fast when there are directions, examples. Now, she must learn by the soul--must follow the path according to whom she is being--whom she wants to be. There is no destination, only the course of her being to guide her. There is no ending in life, just the beginning and the path of being. That is all. Lilly has yet to know this fully. Consciously. That is why we are here, those of us whom travel in the light of spirit.

There is a slight rustle of noise as Lilly stirs and nudges us from our soul thoughts. She is beautiful. But as soul guardians that is what we would see. We would remain blind to all but love. For that is what we all are. Nothing less. Nothing more. Simplicity. People of the world try to make life complicated. But life is simplicity within the simplistic. Is it not so for a life to be lived by a single-cell organism as well as the more complex?

Lilly’s sheets, which normally she would relish the softness that gently lapped at her body, were now binding and limiting. Though apparently comforted, Lilly twisted them tighter securing the expiring warmth inside her curled limbs. The heaviness of the soul’s journey still clung in the air like specks of floating dust illuminated by a stream of light. The crease near her brow deepened by the dream marked the days of worry. Her mind roped its way back to the boy and the man left behind in the dream. She wondered who he was. When they had touched, it was so familiar, welcoming almost, like the bond between two people who have spent a lifetime together. But yet, he remained a stranger. Allen came to her mind. But no, it wasn’t his chocolate skin. The eyes and the mouth were different, too.

We followed Lilly’s fingers tracing the outline of her lips. The light that formed and molded to her movement left a wisp of lucid purple within her spirit body. Then shifting closer to the side of the bed, she saw her image in the mirror. Lilly stared at the outline of her lips until the only things she saw were the creases and lines as her eyes traveled the exterior. Focusing on the contour, she compared her lips to those in the dream.

Lilly’s voice, cracking slightly from the early hour, muttered her thoughts out to the room, "They were familiar. Big. Full."

Haltingly, her examination moved upward to see the blue then the yellow of her irises. Further back, the colors blended to that of a spring leaf.

"The eyes were dark brown," Lilly continued. "It was the sorrow that made them that way. They matched the boy’s. It was as if they were one and the same."

"What was it that made them so familiar?"

"What would cause so much sorrow?"

"How could a person hold so much pain?"

Lilly’s thoughts came and went like a young sparrow pecking at its own reflection in a planter whose surface imitated that of a mirror. Causing no harm to the bird vision, the young sparrow would return, caught in a battle of its own making.

Today, Lilly has chosen to wear the dress we picked out for her. We are pleased by this. It was a present to her when she turned 33. It was difficult for us to get her into the store. Between her not liking to shop and lack of money budgeted for such frivolous items. But with both of us working together, we were able to impress on her the desire. Lilly picked out the one dress we had specifically made for her. It was easy to plant into the designer’s dream state the purple and golden yellow pansies. We knew the light in the colors would draw Lilly to it.

As the day progressed, we intermittently guided Lilly’s thoughts back to the dream. We knew remembering was difficult for her. However, the preparation was needed. Lilly was creating a new experience for herself. One in which belonged a higher state of being. One where fear and mistrust did not belong. She chose this. But in the choosing, a person must shed that which is no longer needed. The dream was our way to help Lilly through this process. And, later in the day we were able to help her begin the work on her journey.

It was in the photographer’s light that gave an added blush to the warmth of the late afternoon. Insects stirred out of hiding places as the silent trespasser walked by the corn field. A bee, mistaking the pansy on Lilly’s dress for a real version, flew away disgruntled by the ruse. The momentum of the day always slowed at this hour. Everything wore a luminescence about it. Her grandmother, had she been alive, would have told her that this is the kind of light in which a person can really see things--even those things they hide in the cellar.

"I can almost feel you here Grandma," Lilly whispered to no one in particular as she headed for the secluded pond. "And, I bet you are."

We chuckled at that. Lilly was quick to learn indeed! We knew Lilly’s grandmother as one of the loving spirits assisting in this transformation.

In ritual, Lilly made her way to a large rock positioned next to the water’s edge. As she sat ruminating in the silence, the dream hangover returned. The sorrow and images flashed before her like the clouds, gaudy and awkward in their movements began to stumble across in the reflection of the water’s surface. It was there when she saw the eyes in the dream. They were her own now darkened by the color of the pond water. For a moment she was still until the sorrow and anguish came rolling outward, and like a newborn calf being cleaned by its mother she wobbled on the rock with each wave of emotion.

Lilly’s lack of understanding of the dream unraveled itself once she realized the black man represented herself. The little boy was also Lilly as a child. That is why she was so drawn to them. When Lilly embraced the man in the dream, we knew that it was only a matter of time until she would consciously choose to embrace her past.

Choking again through the tears and excess phlegm, Lilly remembered a perfect autumn day that turned into something quite different . . . the hands that grabbed at her breast, and the penetration of the rape.

The straw padding the wooden floor acted as a manger for the woman and the young boy she cradled in her arms. His skin is chestnut. His eyes . . . dark brown.

DRAWING #1

Brian Scott Hinshaw

DRAWING #2

Brian Scott Hinshaw

DRAWING #3

Brian Scott Hinshaw

Scott Minar

Winter Poem

I am owned

by this

moment, the sky's

breath, a wave

of air that feels

like chalk

dust against my cheek

I lean into

the black rail

and follow.

The sky all around

Is dark,

the stars obscured

by thinning

clouds. At night, the eye

becomes

precise and lit.

It opens

wide and breathes

The State of Miracles

Like someone kneading

cigarette,

you crush a danish into your eye

and we laugh ourselves breathless

in the kitchenette, the afternoons

a dimension

of our loneliness. Years from now

you will break your father's

heart, the boy clinging

to blood after the camps

and his scraped childhood

all of it immeasurable as the writing

on his arm. You try to translate

from the skin and lose the way,

but it leads back to him,

the family rushed to Colorado-

Denver far away from Dachau

as he could imagine.

Something happens to your face

before you leave, in that same kitchen

dead eyes staring back

or more like a numbness

deep inside--where a furnace used to burn,

powder and ash

But this is Ohio and we are deep

within the state of miracles,

The eyes I remember

are still burning: that time in the classroom

white phosphorous like a small sun

the hottest light I've ever seen.

The Language

German, you say, cannot be spoken

anymore. It's the language

of ashes in the mouth, yesterdays flat

as a stiff collar, of things

best left unsaid, unremembered.

German is the tongue of childhood,

youth itself, the mother tongue

and thus tainted

with night sighs,

a calendar in the attic

(releasing that smell)

in German, you were schooled

shouted at, told when to leave

yourself, what dress to wear,

how much movement costs. Thus it is your

German. Thus you leave it alone,

But a voice arrives in the new language

How the moment captures

you!  You can't go on

without returning. So you darken

like a winter flower,

brace yourself, and far away

your whole body fills

with wind.  Life itself rises and sets

then it is spoken.

Ronald M. Ruble

Barriers

She looked like a Goddess

in the hot summer sun.

Her lemon yellow bikini

barely covering forbidden zones.

He wanted his hands

to be where hers were . . .

caressing the scented ointment

over her thighs.

He rested his head upon

his folded arms and

listened to his heart

pulse like waves

upon a battered shore.

He was fifteen;

she a freshly minted sixteen.

Friends since he was ten;

he white, she black.

The glint from her dark eyes

and sparkle from brilliant white teeth,

cascading over enticing lips,

was branded on his heart.

Quivers invaded his loins

and conquered his boyhood.

Trenching his arousal

into the sand beneath his towel,

he prayed she wouldn't

ask him to get up.

We have to be taught

to barricade and fortify;

establish obstacles which

keep us from exploring

who we could be;

our common connections.

Living life means

learning to leap hurdles

and embrace those on

the other side of the fence.

Boundaries should be

temporary hindrances;

not fortresses of a lifetime!

DOLDRUMS

DREAMS OBSCURED,

A LAMENTABLE DEPRESSION,

RAGGEDLY UNKEMPT,

A MELANCHOLY STATE OF MIND

Down in the dumps;

A dog-day.

The pits of Hades;

Abode of false riches,

Where only the hyena laughs.

A downright obsessive delusion;

A deplorable stupor.

Dazed and haggard,

We languish in the

Humdrum of our lives.

Flee, or perish!

EXAM DAY

From under a sweat-stained ball cap,

bill turned to the back,

his eyes throw daggers which

attempt to pierce mine.

Strained through long fine blond hair,

her eyes bark out the question,

"How could you be so demanding?"

The curls at the end of his lips,

forward lean and pencil at the ready,

suggests eagerness and preparedness.

Framed by auburn hair,

her stoic expression

bounces upward from paper to

proclaim, "Oh, what the hell!"

The sunlight of her smile,

the "Yes!" of her lips

I interpret as confidence, maybe luck.

Furrowed brow, pursed lips,

staccato finger rolls on polished surface;

grappling, a struggle taking place.

Animated sighs dance in slow-motion

punctuated by a cough, a sneeze,

hair grooming,

window peeping from inside out;

If s just not important,"

their bodies suggest.

He saunters to my desk and pushes the exam

into the white envelope;

twenty-eight minutes

remain in the exam period.

His eyes never make contact with mine.

The door closes after him

with authoritative insensitivity.

My eyes meet hers,

she sucks back a cocky smile

and throated giggle;

wireless messages for the

"He sure showed him," file.

Fifty-five minutes into the period,

pencil in mouth,

she adorns her body with jacket

and stuffed book bag,

before depositing her recall into the envelope.

The empty room

hammers space at me.

I click off the lights, pause,

click them on then off again.

Effortless, like turning off desire

turning on disinterest.

Drawing in a deep breath I

approach five students

lounging at the end of the hall.

They hush their dialogue

and mask frustration and guilt

with pasty plastic smiles.

Flight pushes them through the doorway

and into the stairwell.

Awkward laughter bounces off

bricks and concrete.

In the solitude of my office,

this experience

burdens me;

violates my curiosity,

keeps me from sneaking a peek

into the white envelope.

My zest for work...

diminished.

Honest Work

Like a well-oiled machine,

rhythmic and constant,

the shovel bites into the chunky pile,

lifts its load to the chute,

and coal rumbles into

the ebony bin below.

Leathery hands, cracked and callused

after hours of dancing with the oak handle,

direct the worn shovel back

to its pick-up place at the bottom of the pile

time and again until the dimpled metal

plates of the truck bed are

unobstructed and reflecting the noon sun.

Only then do the thick, rough-hewn hands

let go of the shovel to rub across

a coal blackened face framed

by unruly salt and pepper hair.

His eyebrows are like untrimmed hedge-rows.

Deep forehead lines and slashing crows feet

intersect the hills and valleys;

sprawling ravines etch

a wide dimpled grin.

"Feels good!" barks the gruff voice.

He rolls down the sleeves of his plaid jersey shirt;

tucks lose tails into his thread-bare bibs.

"Gets the old blood flowing." His laughter

bursts through tobacco-stained teeth and

tumbles over dust crusted lips.

His breath momentarily suspends in the

cold air, like miniature white clouds.

"People would freeze without me."

Powerful arms and thick body lift the polished chute

onto the truck; slam the tail-gate shut.

"Coal heats Ohio. Never run short of coal" He grins.

"Its honest work and I sleep good at night."

He points the faded red GMC truck

toward the highway, waves goodbye

from behind the steering wheel.

Jake is a fifty-three year old marvel.

able to shovel coal all day long at a dogged pace

and hardly break a sweat;

so all the stories go.

a hard worker doing a day's work and no less.

Little Things

The treetop rusting of leaves

which shatters the mid-day stillness

before the rush of a summer shower.

The green caterpillar supping from

the succulent leaf of the cabbage,

undetected by the hungry starling.

The miniature rainbow cast from the waterdrop

hanging frailly from the open lips of the

rusty pump sitting atop the old well.

The basso bravura of

the bullfrog at mating time,

echoing across the placid pond.

When crystal dew drops

lining the spider's web

filter the first rays of daylight.

The cool slippery goo

of the elastic night crawler

slithering through your fingers.

Watching the chipmunk groom its face

while perched precariously on hind legs

oblivious to intruders.

Mother Nature provides the gentle caress of your skin

that makes you shiver with delight in

anticipation of the prospect of something more.

On Thin Ice

Writers work with images.

One beautifully pastoral.

Another a crisp moment in time.

One richly textured with descriptors,

or pleasantly schemed in rhyme.

Another skeletal, delineated,

fragile and frail.

One shocks with shrill cries

or jabs with a mournful wail.

Image after image running free

like a dusty coliseum

swirling with debris.

You are as vulnerable as one who

stands on thin ice in the middle

of a large, deep pond.

Fearful of the groaning cry of ice

that forecasts danger ... maybe doom.

You may look down, between worn shoes,

into the face of a fish; rainbowed and

spectacular in it's prismic beauty.

You may blink and see blue sky,

cotton-ball clouds, butter-cup sun,

reflecting off the mirror surface-

crystalized images of perfection.

You may become startled by the stark

face staring up at you.

The eyes are albums of living,

lips worn thin by speech,

face drawn with the trials of time.

Aghast, you step back.

Rub the distortion from your eyes,

lean over and look down . . .

into the face of you!

Solitary

Birds frolic in the sun;

their chatter but a mime to me.

Trees move to a beat;

no rustle massages me.

A bumble bee floats errantly by;

its tiny engine does not speak to me.

The sprinkler dances a fast beat;

no cascading cadence cloaks me.

Ambulances pass by on the street;

no piercing pulses penetrate me.

Rains soak the outside;

there are no tinny timpani tunes for me.

A vacuum embraces my dilemma;

all I once had, now gone--

A satanic sarcophagus is this cell,

restraining my incarcerated remains.

With each jerk of the second hand,

monotonous days and nights drag on.

Silence measures my tolerance . . .

boredom, lack of self.

Sadistic sobs splash over me,

savaging solitary stillness.

Take Notice!

Trying always to be the big hero

may reveal your life to be a zero.

Leave your bravadoes at the house,

or people might see you as a louse.

If you feel you're often forgotten,

perhaps it's you who are rotten.

If you think the world owes you a living,

think again, chum, and start giving.

It is better to be perceived as a clown,

than to live each day with a dreadful frown.

It is better to help those with special needs,

than to brag to others about hollow deeds.

Rather than strive for that which you lust,

set a course for that which is just.

Rather than lurk in the shadows of night,

bask in the glow of bright sunlight

Share your skills, talents, and love;

guidance will come to you from above.

When day's end is marked by the setting sun,

know it was well lived and full of fan.

Ted Bunn

Daytona

Our daughter went to Daytona

for her semester rest.

Please don't go we begged of her,

for we know what is best.

Everyone will be there she said.

Alas, what could we say?

We gave her two hundred dollars,

and sent her on her way.

She packed two bikinis, some shorts

and some slacks, two blouses,

a beer op'ner and lots of six packs.

She went off in a Thunderbird

with a triumphant cry.

Nineteen is too young we said

as they went speeding by.

Our daughter went to Daytona

in an expectant mood.

Adventure was the goal she sought,

which wasn't very shrewd.

We saw her on the TV screen

with a collegiate guy.

They were dancing wildly about

And acting mighty high.

She joined the rioting and

ended up in jail.

She hit a police officer and

then wired home for bail.

Our daughter's home from Daytona,

but that's only part of the blow.

She was also somewhat pregnant

by a Princeton Romeo.

Daytona, Daytona  .  .  .  it's a lousy

figure of speech.

Daytona, Daytona  .  .  .

our grandchild's a son of the beach.

Lianne Spidel

Moving to Adams County

Beside the road the creek sped

over rocks, committed to the river,

as we drove into nightfall, absorbed

into darkness along with the trees

which meshed above us.

The land fell steep and unruly,

rumpling into hollows

and hills where the Burley hung

bronzing in open sheds

as we left behind the carved oak altar,

the linen napkins of Sundays.

Here the richness lay in tangled

plants, wild fruit and the chance

of snakes, and always

the river ahead, drawing us

even as we stopped short of it

a margin to honor, the edge

of the place we had chosen

and would come to cherish

as if nowhere else mattered,

and only then the knowledge

that we could not go at will,

that we would be scissored clean, free

to climb back to the other world,

the one we'd never find again.

The House on Logan's Lane

The neighbor children told ours

that someone had died in the house,

asked who had to sleep in that bedroom,

who had seen the ghost.

Someone had painted a room the purple

of iris, then walked the paint

across the floor. We papered over a tropical

seascape on the living room wall.

All spring the boys ran down the green

spine of ridge into the woods, their dog

close behind--the one later banished

for raiding the neighbor's chickens,

and sometime after the summer wind blew

through windows too high to see out, our lives

leaned into place. We put away our socks

in the drawers as if we would forever.

Later, when nails tossed in the driveway

flattened twelve tires, when the phone rang

at midnight with farewell messages, even then

the house seemed more haven than prison.

Driving away, we hung a grapevine wreath

on the back of the moving van, watched

the bravado of flapping ribbons, wisps

of baby's breath escaping in the wind.

We left a tangle of bikes and outworn games,

purple footprints carpeted over, a ghost

or two, and sealed beneath sedate stripes,

wild whitecaps and a brazen sea.

Soap

The psychic mother who spreads

her Tarot cards behind beaded

curtains knows something

is rotten with her two sons,

the priest and the recovering

paraplegic, as well as with

her daughter whose husband's

twin brother is impersonating

him, planning to murder her.

In her consternation over them

she has run over the Monseignor,

causing his death.

The male leads are brooding

and dark, while, except

for the well-muscled token black

the beach boys are blond

with disheveled hair. One

of them has been killed

by the fake twin and buried

in the cement of a memorial

to lifeguards, but when someone

strikes it with a bottle

of champagne, it splits,

revealing a human hand.

There are also two wives,

one old, one young,

of a man once declared dead

who has returned in disguise

to sort things out.

The young wife has used

a voodoo charm to entice

the old wife to revert

to alcohol, causing danger

to the old wife's baby son,

fathered by her daughter's

husband. There's much more

to it, but that's about it

on any given day.

Elouise E. Postel

Intimidation

He frightened me as if I were a child listening,

seeing him tall as the sky, Terrible Truth beheld.

Even before, black-suited, he rounded the corner

we could sense his coming, knew he was there. The air knew,

stood still. The dog in the yard next door stopped at half-bark,

slunk under the porch.

He came. There seemed no fallen leaves

where he walked, the path clear. Something, too, about his smile:

white teeth, white as hot-hot suns of August slit across

his face as he lifted his hat, asked if the Missus is in.

Before I unfroze, mama came to the door.

In he swept--a Moses thundered from Sinai, but lacking

divine rage. Instead, from the parlor, his voice, silken,

siren-tongued, clothed in attitudes of innocence to

cloak the devious, to wreak his will upon those unaware.

Bridges To Cross

Your door shuts. What's to say is not to say

With silence set between a mother and

Her once-child; worlds unsaid, unreconciled

For all the talk that came too easily

To gloss the separation of the two.

I'll think of it while walking through our woods,

While pushing undergrowth aside to test

With venturing toe for firm footholds against

The stubble's rind, while easing back the briers

As we would push the brambles from our minds.

The path's still there to bridge the far-edge gulch,

Through woods where once I held your small child's fist

To keep you cautioned of the gully's risk

Below in hop-scotched, water-slippered stones:

Stones we would test again in search of paths

To circumvent emotions fogged as the

Woods' mist that hangs about the gorge, above

The rushing waters tumbling stone to stone

As angry words thrown past a calling back.

We try new crossings. Only now each builds

Her way from opposite sides, with yours to be

The surer hand to arch the center stone

In place. We bend the swinging larch, just so;

Our hands well-gripped upon an upper branch

So more than stinging slash of sprung-back limb

Or stem-stripped leaf is left within our grasp

For having reached, for having wanted to

Swing over to that one last centered stone;

To meet in clearings of the mind's deep mist.

Night Fears

What is it

that will not let this door

stay closed,

but creaks it open

in the night of the mind

and slides a sliver of dark yesterday

across my half-sleep?

Night fears coil,

slither

and twist;

clutch after doors

that forever open

where they are best left closed.

Tiananmen Revisited

Early morning. Fog sifts along the streets

and I am remembering another

street, another fog that was another

shroud of secrecy . . . for an old woman struggling

that day to smuggle hot green tea and rice

to her grandson on the vigil at Beijing's

place of cries.

Of what is this returning ghost

of 1976, '87, again '89?

Where will it happen again, where and when

without end--an old woman, who could be

my aunt or your grandmother, her yoke

of baskets swinging with every jostle

of the gathering mob, its wilding whirlpool

of raised fists, voices, devouring authority.

She dodges the Red Guards, the armed one,

snugs her forbidden load closer to her body;

tucks her caged nightingale deeper into

one basket, into the covering folds

of a napkin, to ride concealing

the rice. Still he sings his dissident heart--

Or am I caught up in this hurt, hearing

his birdsong in mockery:

Out of the mist, tanks roll. Bullets hiccup.

A soldier whacks his gun across the woman's

baskets. Rice spills. The stain of tea

mixes with the blood of a student fallen at

Democracy's feet. The caged bird falls quiet

his song of liberty hung in his throat.

On Reading Nadine Gordimer's 1991

Nobel Prize For Literature Acceptance Speech,

"On Writing"

In solitude

you come to this empty page

to spread before your inner eye

this knowing of

otherness outside of self--

when, no longer standing apart,

another's anguish becomes yours;

this knowing of

rainbows broken into myriad

bits, shattered into a kaleidoscope

of blood reds, blues, unspeakable yellows

all the shades of

human despair you would plait

with trembling words, dark into light,

into skeins of

the rebellious integrity

of the unbending spirit, its hope

within itself.

Words, how can we circumscribe

these lives, inhabit their dreams,

make straight provinces

of the mind? You say, "We are not through

with each other, Words, you and I."

PHOTO #6: A Streetlight in Paris

Pat McDermott

PHOTO #7: An Arch near Buckingham Palace

Pat McDermott

PHOTO #8: The Eiffel Tower

Pat McDermott

PHOTO #9: Big Ben

Pat McDermott

Keith Langdon

Origin

A fragrant trail meandered through sweet clover

behind the gangly fourteen-year-old.

With Zebco and battered tacklebox in hand,

he waded through the shin-high green

toward the bend in the creek

(he pronounced it "crick"),

where brilliant pumpkinseed, feisty bluegill,

and hook-swallowing yellowbellies

promised at least a distraction

on a warm summer afternoon.

Near the stand of trees it caught his eye -

A weathered post, chest-high,

scarred with rusty remnants of barbed wire and staples,

held aloft an earth-toned turtle.

Suspended in an alien world,

its prunish legs, sun-dried,

slowly paddled the unresisting air

as it futilely strained toward the scent of muddy water.

Like an infant lying on her milk-rounded belly,

it flailed helplessly, instinctively, almost mechanically,

as it labored to reach the unattainable.

The boy stared, briefly,

then heroically lifted the condemned hostage to freedom,

and watched it plod slowly toward the promise of new life.

A turtle on a fencepost . . .

For several minutes the boy theorized, imagined, calculated

supposed, and questioned the origin

of that which he had seen.

A turtle on a fencepost . . .

Then he yielded to the only obvious and undeniable fact --

knowing nothing else, he assured himself of this--

it was placed there by Someone's hand.

The Viewing

We shuffled slowly in her direction,

shaking the hand or softly touching the shoulder

of one last seen at crowded wedding reception

or distant summer reunion.

The heavy fragrance of a tapestry

of rich roses, clovish carnations, and fern fronds

tickled our noses

as we advanced on the polished grain

of the yawning casket.

She wept softly,

hugging an awkward well-wisher

who fed her carefully prepared condolences

that did little to appease her starving spirit.

Taking her hand, I spoke the words,

but my mind questioned the somber ritual,

wondered at the morbid display,

and criticized the extravagance

for one no longer there.

Then, once again recounting his last moments,

she tenderly stroked back his thinning hair,

adjusted the skewed eyeglasses,

and lovingly kissed the cold forehead--

And I understood.

Brayden's Recital

Bring down the lights.

Huddle before the claustrophobic stage,

and lower voices to a hush.

The curtain rises at the stroke of the wand,

and in monochromatic splendor--she appears!

Quiet gasps fill the room

as the dance begins - a cappella.

Supple limbs stroke the stage

with fluid twists and rapid pirouettes--

and the sound of silence surrounds the star

of silver screen

in her debut.

With naked heart in double time

she dances--breathless.

Finale--curtsy--curtain--

and the audience rises in tears.

Patti Spidel

Guidance

Kelli had breasts that hung like cheese

before the rest of us even knew

our bodies would

change,

swell,

take shape.

In third grade she opened Stuart Moore's eyes

by unsnapping her western shirt

because she was hot

and recess wasn't over.

By middle school she had boyfriends

that were older,

experienced,

demanding.

I remember the details she whispered

in high school study halls

and how she said she panicked

when there was blood on the sheets

the first time.

She could have been Christ

or John Lennon

or Sojourner Truth

the way we followed her,

drinking in every word she said

accepting with blind faith

the directions she gave.

We didn't see

where we were going.

I always heard the rhumba

At my grandmother's house;

everyone on Conn Road

heard the rhumba

pulsating the floor,

slipping through the windows.

My mother wasn't raised that way.

In high school,

she washed her skin

in Clorox

and wore high neck sweaters

to hide a farmer's tan,

proof that she stooped in fields

and swung a hoe

right beside my grandmother.

Thirty years later

my mother didn't care

for the yard gnomes

and the metallic ball perched

on a concrete pedestal.

She didn't like

the silk flowers in my grandmother's

hat or the lessons

mammaw taught us

over ice cream and kaluha.

She wanted the canned beans

and spiced apples.

She wanted the quilts

made from flour bags,

the crucifix, King James,

and a magnifying glass--

but the bleach had soaked through my mother,

dripped from her fingertips,

reached my grandmother,

and the rhumba was playing.

Honestly

Sometimes I can lie to myself

so well

that I almost forget

why I hate marble cake plates

and Lazy Boy recliners,

why trips to Tennessee aren't something

I want to win in a sweepstake

and houses with basements

aren't what I'm looking for,

but I don't think I've ever known a lie

that didn't fall apart sooner or later

and my mother is right;

the truth always wins out.

It happens when I look in the mirror

or listen in on other peoples' conversations

about family

and divorce

and years that were wasted.

Lessons in Color

"Don't be talking to those boys."

My father's voice was harsh

and stinging like green rhubarb;

it made my head hang. His eyes

sizzled across my skin,

and I fumbled with the straps

of my yellow swimsuit. Back

in the pool, the boys still smiled

unaware of my father's illness,

not feeling the contagious breath

or the eyes, exasperated, tired

searching out cream companions

for his daughter.

Karen Vincent

Night Tripping

A long way down the corridor of March,

When evening glitters in a silver stole

Of raindrops, and the furnace sighs its warmth,

I sit beside the radio and doze.

Soon, like a bead of mercury in the mist,

My mind rolls backward till it touches down

In Ireland where cool diamond morning is

Still buried in night's mine. Through Antrim Town

I wander, window-shopping with the moon.

He points out chocolates, sweaters, and antiques.

Beyond the town are banshee caves and blue-

Veined standing stones among the mountain peaks.

A pity there's so little time to roam

Until the morning zephyr blows me home.

Gwenda Wenning

Golden Girl

A butterfly flew down the path

You toddled after it, and laughed

Butterfly with gossamer wings

A golden girl exploring things.

A Puzzling Experience

Two men, dressed entirely in black are chasing me. I run frantically for a couple of miles, I have no idea who they are, or what they want of me. I shout, telling them they have mistaken me for someone else, but they don't believe me. I feel desperately alone. I have reached the center of a river bridge when one of them grabs me, we struggle wordlessly. I am no match for such strength. The second man says something to my captor. He leers at me and throws me over.

I scream as see the water below. Bracing myself I am determined to survive. Suddenly I am stopped above the water. Suspended in space I realize that I have fallen into the center of a giant wooden jigsaw puzzle. Sobbing, I heave a great sigh of relief. I am going to live. Looking up I can see no sign of my pursuers. . Taking a deep breath I rip out a piece of the puzzle, then a second one. Only one more piece and then I know that I will be free and can drop down into the river and swim to shore. As I remove that piece the other two fly back into place. I try several more times, and each time that I am almost free, back comes the other pieces. Soon I start to panic. I then try to take the puzzle apart much more quickly. As fast as I rip the pieces out, just as rapidly they return.

I see a small boat approaching and as it comes closer I start yelling loudly. "Help me, please do something to help me! Look up, please look up, I'm unable to get up or down."

Several of the boat's occupants look skyward. Their amazement immediately turns into peals of raucous laughter. The men shout loud comments and make peculiar gestures.

"What's so funny, haven't you seen a woman trapped in a jigsaw puzzle before?" I angrily retort.

The laughter becomes louder and one of the woman in the boat says. "Hey lady, do you know how funny you look sitting in a jigsaw puzzle?"

Angrily I reply. "Madam I am not doing this for any one's entertainment. Please help me to get down and I'll then explain my predicament when I am safely on shore."

Her reply is. "We'll try and contact someone. Though we have no idea whom that might be."

The boat continues on it's way up the river. All of the occupants are still laughing hysterically. I believe they think it is a huge joke or some weird advertising stunt. I, of course, continue trying to free myself, but to no avail.

After what seems to be an eternity a Coast Guard cutter arrived. Looking up all the sailors on deck start laughing, but the captain appears quite promptly and puts a stop to their nonsense.

He shouts to me. "Don't worry Ma'am we will have you down in no time at all. First we are going to throw a grappling hook up on each side of the puzzle, then slowly proceed to pull you down and somehow release you from your strange situation.

I close my eyes as the hooks are thrown up on either side of the puzzle. Very soon the puzzle and myself are safely on the deck of the rescue vessel. Again everyone starts laughing, but this time I spontaneously join in the merriment.

The captain smiles at me and gently says. "Ma'am, you are our first jigsaw puzzle rescue. This will indeed be unique in the history of Coast Guard annals. Now we will free you. I can't imagine how you became imprisoned by such an inanimate object." The crew starts taking the puzzle apart, but it always flips back into place. Frustrated, the captain suggests that as each individual piece is removed one of the sailors should immediately break it up and throws it overboard.

"This destruction of each piece, is the demise of my jigsaw prison. The captain's suggestion really solves my strange predicament. In a short time I am free."

Just as I start to thank my rescuers awake with a start 'Vho were those men in black I ponder."

PHOTO #10: British Parliament House

Pat McDermott

PHOTO #11: A View across the River Seine in Paris

Pat McDermott

Diane Dunn

The Indians

The old Indian stared down at me. Its beady eyes fastening me to my bed as it continued to glare. The ragged feather protruding from the back of its head and the fading features of a wrinkled face decorated with war paint were deceptive. I knew. I knew that as soon as night came that Indian would be joined by others. During the day they kept to their hideout beneath the old tree stump down by the water, but when night arrived and I could no longer keep my vigil, they would creep out and silently make their way toward the house and my open window. I tried to close and lock the window but the adults insisted it was too hot and we needed the fresh air. A lot of good they were. They had no idea of the danger. They'd talk and laugh on the porch making so much noise the Indians didn't even have to try very hard to be quiet. Although I had warned them, they didn't see the need for a lookout. In fact, they sat at the end of the porch farthest from me. They just didn't believe me when I described the horrible things the Indians wanted to do to us kids, how they would kidnap us and drag us down into the tree stump to be gone forever.

The Indians had been taunting us for years, their ancient chief boldly staring at us from the wall, but so far they had not succeeded in their despicable plot. There were times, though, when they had come awful close and I do mean awful. I remember one time when they made it all the way to my room, and I felt their cruel hands seize me by the legs. I screamed so loud that they disappeared with a chorus of low grunts. My parents came rushing into the room to see what was the matter. Of course, they didn't believe me. They explained one more time that the Indian chief was only an old coconut painted to look like an Indian. Right, like I was going to believe that! Then they told me to go back to sleep, as if I could! No way those Indians were going to catch me unaware again.

I knew why they wanted us, of course. We would have made good Indians. When we climb the boulders on the mountain behind our house, we are very quick and as silent as can be, not whining like some of our friends. We are also good at fishing. Last weekend, I caught six Sunnies and my sister caught five. My uncle helped me take the scales off and cook them. Boy, they tasted good. Yes, the Indians definitely needed our skill. But they weren't going to get it! I had my little brother's tomahawk under my pillow, just in case.

Tonight, the old Indian looked fiercer than ever. They must be getting desperate. I knew I didn't dare fall asleep. I had to protect my brother and sister, as well as myself. I stared out the window, trying to ignore the chief and to be alert for the rest of the tribe. The moon was shining on the lake. It was beautiful, but dangerous to the Indians. What were they thinking of, to plan a raid on a moonlit night? The frogs were singing their deep song and bats flew overhead. Crickets added their melody to the familiar lullaby and my eyes grew heavy. I fought sleep with all I had, but I was losing the battle. I looked the Indian chief in the eye once more, with what I hoped looked like defiance. Then, with a final prayer for safety, I surrendered to the night.

Copenhagen

"I'm going to Denmark," she announced, "I've met someone on the Internet and we're going to meet in Copenhagen." She stood in the foyer of our house with an airline ticket in her hand and suitcases at her feet. She'd had her hair restyled and wore a new suit. The glow on her face made her beautiful. Her expectant look begged a response. What could I say? What should I say? Who was this woman standing in front of me? I thought I had known her. Sure, I had expected her to change as the years passed. In fact, I had always celebrated the new developments in her personality, the new steps she took in becoming unique. But at this moment I was stupefied.

'Well, what do you think? Isn't this the greatest? Copenhagen! I've always been curious about Copenhagen and now I going to see it, explore it to my heart's content."

"So soon? When did you decide to do this? What about..."

"We just decided last night and we're so excited we started checking arrangements this morning. We got this super rate on our tickets so we decided to go for it. My flight is in two hours."

Two hours. Two hours and she'd be gone. I didn't even know for how long or with whom. Across the ocean. A world away. My baby.

Rain

Sara walked through the rain. There was no other way, to get to work. Her car had long since given up the ghost, and public transportation just didn't meet her needs. So she walked in the rain to work. At first it was just a slight drizzle, a mist that dampened her face while it dampened her already lagging spirit. Her hair lost its curl and her appearance became bedraggled. There was nothing she could do, so she walked on. Soon the intensity of the rain increased to a steady, drenching torrent, soaking her to the skin, plastering her hair, blouse, and skirt to her body; chilling her to the bone. She huddled into herself, trying to protect as best she could, but what good could she do against the onslaught? She walked to work. Her teeth chattered and tears mingled with the rain coursing down her face. It didn't matter, what did? A car sped by, spraying her with even more bitterly cold water, and mud. Why bother with work at all? But she kept walking. At the office, the security guard looked at her with pity. "Good Morning, Ms. Thomas. May I get an elevator for you?" She dredged up a thin smile from somewhere, and gave it to him. He was a good man. The elevator ride seemed endless. It was broken by too many stops, too many people pushing and shoving -- until they eyed her dripping form. Then they quietly found a spot as far away as possible. She shivered. Neither the heat of bodies enclosed in a small space, nor the current of warm air from the vent overhead seemed able to reach her. At the tenth floor, she exited and headed for her desk. Whispers stirred the air in the secretary pool like a cool breeze and she shuddered violently. She dropped her purse on her desk and, pulling a bag from her bottom drawer, headed for the rest room. She stared at the woman in the mirror, a stranger. She had a job to do, she reminded herself yet again, and attempted to bring some order to her appearance. There was nothing she could do, nothing at all, since her son had died.

Katie Dunn

A Young Woman Who Was Slightly Inattentive

A young woman who was slightly inattentive sat down to write a short story. Many young women attempt to write stories and are a tad inattentive. Therefore, this story is in no way new or original; but I shall continue to convey that the young woman sat down to write her short story and could not seem to get her mind focused. Again and again she considered all of the topics to write on, but since she could not, as previously mentioned, focus her mind and was slightly inattentive, she came to no conclusion, and did not decide on a topic. "It must be something that can be written quickly since it is already night and my time is running out," she declared. She was, of course, slightly inattentive and could not keep her mind focused. Again and again she considered the topic, but came, as you know, to no conclusion. The gift of decisiveness is fine and good. However this woman had been given no such gift. She needed to write a creative short story for class tomorrow. And for this reason, sat in