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J. D. Nelson Gerald So Kelley Jean White Janet Butler Linda Benninghoff

Doug Draime Üzeyir Lokman ÇAYCI Aurora Antonovic EP Allan

Michael Lee Johnson Joanna M.Weston Thomas D. Reynolds Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal

  

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flax!  foxy read'r by J. D. Nelson flaw / and crocus, tanner n' that fox, redder / flash! say thank you to the bus driver, or don't say it. say have a good one, or don't. I'm OK.     nice work tonight by J. D. Nelson the jazz cracks like lightning thunder sky-war all is illuminated for a neon blue/white second & then the CRASH & rumble of Thor, somewhere.     Long enough for my coffee to get cold by J. D. Nelson My eggs are runny & my coffee is cold, dear.  I sat there for a few moments before repeating myself. My eggs are runny & my coffee is cold, dear.  Again, no response.  That's when I realized I was all alone.  I had cooked the eggs & brewed the coffee myself.  How long had I been sitting there?     Careful w/ that Clipboard, Dr. Whittington! by J. D. Nelson Prayer is good & fine like wholesome oatmeal. Loops come swooping down & now we can try the radio again. I'm emptying the containers of yogurt you sent me. I'm standing alone, asleep in my diamond boots. I'm glowing like a phantom snowflake, waiting for the beasts to begin bleeding. The radio is cutting in & out.     Day 128—fantastic speech by J. D. Nelson not 100% yet I'm a big ol' tarantula I'm the sun-baked earth machinery frightens me impossibly synchronized reality -- a horrible dream, somehow I'll design a time machine     Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       Seedlings by Gerald So I've lived alone so long, my trees grow arms and legs. In fallen leaves I hear their steps, and in the wind their breath.     Stars by Gerald So I only see them Tuesdays around 4 A.M., trying to catch the trash truck.     Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       Ice & Fire by Kelley Jean White just a brush fire, so I could go along stand at the edge watching men move, beat at weeds and smoking leaves a couple watched as well, thin, old, worn clothes but upright bearings:  I interested them.  after the hoses were rolled my father and I watched the black plot on their island smoke; they spoke to us, or rather to him, and we found ourselves in their little home for tea.  it was an ice house at the water’s edge.  we entered from the gravel drive into the structure’s center, a alcove of black iron spiraling up and down. up was the bedroom and windowless bath. as I took the downward stair he pushed a button–a skeleton tall as me leaped from the wall dancing.  another button, a monkey tipped at tattered hat, Punch clacked metal jaws, a dummy’s eyes clicked open the smile froze on rusted screws.  I was entranced.  a day of brushfire revelation.  I never saw them again.  once a picture in the paper, what I remember a visit by the Dalai Lama.  I would not have been surprised if they greeted angels or shook the flame of life itself     I choose a dream by Kelley Jean White When I peel a copper penny off the trolley track and the sky comes unbuttoned.  I have cloud earrings, I wave my arms like Nezha and charioted locusts spring to my heels.  I am become famine and oh my full body floats over the fields of burned wheat.  I.  I am the dark cloud. I am become the shadow.  Metal bands twist like eels screaming in my dark heaven.  Then I bow my head to thunder and give hot rain again.  I go home clean.  The lightning taste of metal in my mouth.     I did not see you surviving by Kelley Jean White your weakness strength the brave line you drew black around your eyes each morning the strength of waiting of keeping love against a fist of falling again and again willing to leap for love into arms that would not reach to catch you mother whose children failed to respect you wife whose husband made your love an ugly foolish thing scholar who forgot to read healer who held me when I refused to be held   Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page         Passages by Janet Butler Spirit fleshed born captive in life in times that shape the silhouette of thought in turn molding flesh to a here-and-now that, free as it momentarily seems, photographs, precisely, moments fixed, moments pinioned in winds that whirl the universe spirit formed to flesh and thus to death passage to what, perhaps, may be or not.     wow! by Janet Butler thin skim trim it thought lean, dense rolled in and on itself nuggets hard, against the filmy stuff of life that splatter a smatter of shades and tinge the ubiquitous with tints that wow! the startled mind to thickened sense life     birth II by Janet Butler a bud grows. a constellation of cells, an aching life-to-be drifts in harmonies precise, pre-ordained, in the belly of life. clusters grope and feed and slowly show in sprouts that blossom and push their dainty shoots through moist, dark caverns to drop in fruit to life.     looking back by Janet Butler We think we know it— that we live in minutes, hours, days, that pass and blaze and leave, even the mediocre ones, a shadow on the soul but, cleansed of pain and loneliness, begins, then, the necessary reconstruction the filtering, the distillation, until the pain that cut and scarred remains a quiet memory and, on looking back, seems hardly marred, now, by regret.     winter blues by Janet Butler days chill to autumn and a false abundance gleams on leaves brushed by the delicate breath of death. skies frost to arctic blues and bleaker hues of black and white tint melancholy days and waiting winter nights     Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       Other Voices by Linda Benninghoff I know now The dead talk to us. And I wonder Why the stones have been here so long, And words seem to fall Into water to be washed again Or turn into stories. It is the kind of November day I can walk for miles in, See the sky as a vista Of the entire universe. Cloud is layered upon cloud, Like in Mesa cliff dwellers’ houses, As if space could go on forever. Does it go on forever? Or does it stop abruptly Like a blank unnamed wall. "Why should life stop?" You seemed to say One day when we were walking Through this park The leaves auburn, red, yellow. Yet you propped your head up On pillows two years later And wheezed with every sentence. Still those words turn into stories And I grasp this sky Without being able to understand Why I am standing beneath it, Still talking to the dead.   Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page         Ivy  by Doug Draime Eventually when the dark green ivy dies out,    the sun shrouded by the dense smog of doom, they will find us beneath the dead plants living vigorously, our eyes full of mysterious light     I Was Told As I Was Sleeping In Mexico by Doug Draime There was light from the setting sun over my left shoulder dancing on my bare sunburned body. The tav set was muted on the news coverage of the war and my body started twitching like some kind of violent seizure. It lasted for several minutes, until the tav was turned off and my body abruptly fell into the soft, deep breathing of a sleeping, contented baby boy.     Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       Go Now...Come Back Later by Üzeyir Lokman ÇAYCI Do not stay in front of my troubles And rattle my private feelings Hereafter, do not touch my ideas Do not revive my memories Leave me to myself Go now... Come back later!   Me, I depend on my loneliness... I do not let other people trample My love so easily Leave me to myself Go now... Come back later!   Me, I am accustomed to the sky's irony It is of no importance That I am discovered in my sleep... I climb my trees myself I water my flowers myself Leave me to myself Go now... Come back later!   Do not stay in front of my troubles And rattle my private feelings Hereafter, do not touch my ideas Do not revive my memories Leave me to myself Go now... Come back later! French free verse translated into English free verse by Joneve McCormick—2006 Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page         Tribute by Aurora Antonovic he coaxed Italian from my lips my face’s shape pressed to form the words now, at his funeral, I deliver the eulogy with perfect diction   Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page         Under the Aeolian Sky by EP Allan The winds blow black water           miniscule countries of slick white ice                            their jagged mapless boarders jostling welding              into ice dunes upon the lake’s scalloped & driftwooded laced edge The silent trees                           huddle in themselves their rough aged ebon bark ringing the still sleeping spring sap                  The snow pushes over the abandoned cicle bearded slide         & glacés the lonely sagging seats of sea-saws & swings               & discarded bent beer cans with perfect unanimity                 The boarded windows which once served snow cones                     & chocolates & saw dust hotdogs rattle             in January’s death knife winds                      & wait for sweaty pudged 6 year old fingers to push a crumpled george                               or abe up to the counter’s splintered lip     & squeak in the approved tit-mouse manner “a StrawBerry Slushy please” & under this Aeolian sky one granddaddy long legged man encased in thermal blue black rubber pull over boots & worsted wool knit trimmings broods from black UV sun-proof glasses ringed with white rheumy frost                       upon summer’s desolation                   & laughs his thin high c laugh riding the winds between the abandoned July beach trappings & out into                 the empty blue beyond     Leavings of the Previously Departed by EP Allan There is something so forlorn about looking for apartments                         entering those square box rooms with someone else’s greasy pace marks                   darkening the carpet                 the yellow stench of nicotine smearing amber tears down the depressed plywood walls                         the exhaust fan above the unwashed stove        lumped with grease and fuzzy grey dust It’s all there in the silent empty rooms                        the spirits of departed tenants lingering               the ghosts of their desperate calculations                     the TV lulling their stupefied minds asleep                      the stench of old socks the stale sloshing bottoms of beer cans constant end to end cigarettes clogging their lungs a pasty cancerous black & the heavy aroma from hastily fried oil dinners              sawed through by the persistent drip drip         drip                  of carelessly closed bathtub taps plunking                through their insomniac nights 1 silver plop                   at a time punctuating the furtive scurry of roaches     Nichole's Creek by EP Allan Walking                  my nervous footsteps quickly tapping the way my death leads           under a snowy canopy of temple cherry blossoms flaring over an exhausted brown wall                    I realize I’m not here in this time slipped moment                not even seeing the onrushing cement truck of spring but I’m still                    buried in Wisconsin remembering the dark cedars planted in toy soldier rows reaching silent aromatic green fingers into such a pale sky the bleached blue is almost but not quiet grey                              artesian water welling out of a pipe driven into moss black rock an icy dark pool framed by light amber cedar leaves fading into a heavy bracken the bent              dented tin cup dangling from the pulpy wet stump of a root the way the water tasted never           anywhere in the wild spinning globe                             has water tasted that alive or the way the light refracted into a ghostly infinity off the curious still birches                   & if you listened you could hear their white sylvan breath                        as the wind tugged their branches awake     Guilt by EP Allan Me a high school student still fresh on the manic roads driving a blue sieve so rusted one could watch the asphalt slipping black below                      How that day has remained its summer cloud dotted sky the dark emerald elms towering in opulate Arabian arches the sudden grey bullet loping out from the bristled hedges my brakes biting shrill & that unique bone                                & metal scrunch of tissues snapping blood the car shuddering still as if it were revolted by impact & deed the four paws reflected in the rear view mirror frantically trying to escape the riveting sear disappearing over manicured phosphated lawns For one hour I circled fruitlessly searching yard after dead catless yard visions of newspaper clippings swarming up my mind “Veterinarian’s Son Hits Cats To Give Father More Business” finally to return back to the clinic only to be greeted by my deed sprawled upon the stainless steel operating table                                  4 white laundry line ropes splaying its 4 thin grey legs in a crucifix                      its jaw gaped open in a fractured Frankenstein horror “Oh my gawd that’s the cat I hit”           “Not so loud Rozo            the owners are in my waiting room”                          For over 2 hours I watched my father wire those thin bird bones                            back in place sweat trickling silver beads down his balk skin head the language a constant blue stream                   blood droplets spurting bullets as the metal drill bit bored a hole                      for a cage to hold what was left of its mouth in place long enough                       for tissues & bone to do their reconstructive programming nature intended sans day dreaming high school drivers But that was just the start for 3 months it would be me who would clean the shredded blood & urine soaked newspaper from out the merciless aluminum cage bottom me who would have to feed it milk formula from a black rubber ball eye dropper me who would have to watch it grow trustful                          & actually welcome my presence as if I were the administrating angel of head scratches & mercy                              & not the inquisitor who placed it in its wire mask          & of course the triple digit fee dug from out the woman’s shiny black purse paid not is assaugance but in a slathering of guilt & finally my father’s new greeting as I returned home         “Well what did you hit for me today”     Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       A Poem Of The Night by Michael Lee Johnson a poem is a thought of  flowers near frost, dangling stiff bitten by the vampire of late fall, hanging desolate near dusk from a pot on a patio porch- with a yellow bulb light beaming conspicuously outward over chilled yellow green glazed grass. While my cat Nikki hunches over a coffee, table, toasty & warm, nose pressed super glue to the window on guard for passing birds, cars- utility vans with large bubble eyes.     If You Find No Poem by Michael Lee Johnson If you find no poem on your doorstep in the morning, no paper, no knock on your door, & your life is poorly edited but no broken dashes or injured meter & you don't wear white dresses late in life embroidered with violet flowers on the collar; nor do you have burials daily across main street, & no one whispers in your ear, Emily Dickinson— you feel alone— but not reclusive- the sand lady still sleeping in your eyes— wiping your tears away— if you find no poem on your doorstep— you know you're not from New England.     She by Michael Lee Johnson Somewhere she has lost her shadow. and now she stands still with nowhere to go.     Moon Sleep by Michael Lee Johnson I stick my hand out toward the sea roll out my palm I offer a plank, a trail for you. Follow out into the water & the salty stars. When you stretch out & give your heart to the final moment to the glass night sky, draw me in sketch my face on the edge of the moon— sad & lonely over ages of moon sleep.     Boat In A Pond by Michael Lee Johnson Boat in a pond abandoned without oars tied to a steel post floats on top of an artist palette, rocks sideways with wind, edges slightly west, the sun sets.     Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       Cemetery by Joanna M. Weston the dead lie orderly graved and flowered blanketed green genteel my singing bones wild in springtime twist, impervious to raised heads     Static Art by Joanna M. Weston A bus passes in the desert without noting my outstretched hand Its full load of passengers wave from windows toss laughter to the wind leave me holding an unused ticket two candy wrappers and a suitcase beside wheel-ruts that lead nowhere     Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       My Father On His Way to School by Thomas D. Reynolds Dirt road winds through Ozark hills, No more than a rock-strewn mule path. The backfire of a chugging Studebaker Startles a scraggly band of banty hens Just as rusted sunlight breaks above The blackened hulk of an abandoned cabin. A line of padding feet stretches beyond the bend, Threading past the jagged stones and black snake Looped and pressed into the red clay earth, Preserved in the act of slithering from the bogs, Stunned by the rubber of loaded sawmill trucks. My father bends down while the others disappear, Staring into the misty but still fierce obsidian eyes, Detecting the indomitable anger and feral brutality One needs to survive among these mountain crags, Threading from shelter into the malevolent air Through barren trees empty as skeletons, Up until that last second cursing the gray sky.     Return to Poetry Return to Top of  Page       A Good Day at Ninety by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal At bedside she smiled, but did not say anything. Her eyes spoke volumes, just like her smile. It was a good day.  I sensed no fear. I heard she used to think someone was trying to harm her, some wicked voice. She was not eating at all when she first came in. She's eating more now and drinking fluids. No longer combative, and smiling, at ninety years of age. I don't think I'll ever make it that far.  She has fifty years on me.  I bid her so long and leave.     At My Best by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal I'm at my best when I'm sleeping. I don't have to do anything. I'm at my best when I'm dreaming. In dreams I can do anything. In a deep sleep I could be there instead of here in this tiny cubicle, this open coffin.     Good & Bad by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal Made-up by my mind, I hear two voices, one good & one bad. The good one tells me jokes and good things. It makes me feel well. The bad voice brings me to the brink of death. I search for razors. Before I know it, I have cut myself. The good voice just laughs. It says, don't worry, the blood is holy. Drink from it. This is God's blood. The bad voice laughs too. It asks for my life and my soul.     Fight by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal for A I should just keep quiet. I don't like to fight. Someone always wants to fight. Someone has to bring the knife and worse their hateful words. It is best to keep quiet and not let those who like to fight, fight.

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Sakura  Natasha Brown Cock Up  William Gladys My grandfather's war   Saskia van der Linden Fifteen Love  Will Orr-Ewing

The Jacket  Rob Plath A Moment of Your Time, Sir?  Peter Inson The Town Square  Quentin Poulsen.

 

 

 

 

Sakura                                              

by Natasha Brown

                                                      
   
hey called him `The Doctor`, yet he was not within the medical profession and had earned the nickname simply because he had the sort of manner that the villagers associated with those in medicine.

The Doctor was a repairer of all things clockwork and a general belief had circulated a while about the suburb that he had the ability to fix things simply by looking at them.  He was one of the temperate, good-natured, individuals who seem to be able to get along with the most abrasive of characters and was always willing to lend a hand when it was needed.  He also had a secret.

At least, that was the general consensus of all those that knew him well.  How did such a belief originate?  Simply because, despite the fact that our community is a small one, no one quite knew where The Doctor lived, or where he went between two and four o’clock each afternoon.  For a while everyone believed that he was moonlighting for another company and keeping the activity quiet because he loved his job in the clock shop and wished to keep it.

This belief was shattered when the local gossip Harriet `happened` to ask The Doctor if he was pursing another profession.

“Clockwork is my life, Miss Jeens, and boring as it might seem to one such as you, it is all I will ever want in life.”  

With such a clear negative, the rumour of another job had faded and soon the whispers turned to the possibility of a significant other.  The Doctor was, after all, handsome, had a secure future and, supposedly, was heir to an impressive fortune.

Yet after a month of snooping into The Doctor’s every habit, Harriet proclaimed, “The man leads too disorganised a life for a woman to of had any hand in it.”  And that was the end to that particular rumour.  Eventually it became clear that no clear solution was to be found and when even the esteemed Harriet Jeens gave up in her pursuit of The Doctor’s secret, the matter seemed to have been laid to rest.

Two years after the faded interest in The Doctor I was taken into his employ as an apprentice.  Watching him work was fascinating, and I found sometimes that despite my knowledge of the intricate workings of clocks and their mechanics I was still at a loss as to how The Doctor managed to fix certain problems.  He would always smile in his gentle, relaxed, manner and setting a parental hand to my head he would inform me, “One day you too will learn how to do these things, Jacob, but first you must learn to let go your preconceptions and look at the world with a fresh eye.”  It was one of the many little bits of sage, yet oddly oblique, pieces of advice that he gave me during my first year with him and it stuck in my mind simply because of the odd sadness that had been in his voice as he had said it.

The mystery of The Doctor’s accommodation was quickly solved when I found a raggedy blanket and a pillow in one of the recesses near the basement of the building and I was so saddened at the discovery that I failed to pass it on into the hands of the gossips.  The mystery of where The Doctor went for two hours each and every day was not so easily solved, for my shift lasted only until one, thus I had no need to be in the shop past that hour and thus I could not `accidentally` stumble across the solution.

In the end it was The Doctor himself that gave me the first clue.  I recall that it was a Sunday afternoon and that, as was usual, the line of jobs had faded completely and that The Doctor was using the time, as was his custom, to balance the accounts for the week.  A chorus of different chimes had announced the hour and The Doctor had glanced up to the clocks before he, enquiring, “I could do with stretching my legs, Jacob, would you care to accompany me?”  It was more than a little unusual for The Doctor to leave the shop before two and I will admit to being a little curious as to what was so important that it merited such a change in his routine.

“Don’t worry, lad, we’re just stepping down into the basement for a few moments,” The Doctor had remarked upon noticing my change in expression.  I had felt a little more myself at that and I had gladly followed the Doctor down into the basement.

Always before that day, that particular area of the shop had been out of bounds, The Doctor claiming that what lay below was `unimportant` to the job in hand.  Thus, as my feet set onto flat ground, my breath was all but taken away by the splendour of what lay in front of my eyes.  For in every space of the tiny basement was a little clockwork trinket, constructed of the finest gold and painted with kaleidoscope of colours.

“These toys are my hobby, Jacob, built with my own two hands and filled with the emotion that I feel the strongest at the time.”

Standing onto the tips of his toes he pulled a little clockwork bird from the ceiling and pressed it into my hands before informing me, “This bird was built the day that I met you, lad, and thus he is filled with happiness.”

I recall that looking at the tiny thing I could almost feel the contentment that had been in The Doctor’s heart as he built him and I that I had found find myself smiling, both because the emotion was strong enough to influence me a little, and also because I was proud to have been the inspiration for such artwork.  I did not let the bird go as I looked closer at some of the other creations in the basement and when the chime from above us announced that it was one, The Doctor informed me, “Take it with you, Jacob, for it is yours in all senses but one.”

For a week after that The Doctor did not talk to me, nor pay much attention to me at all and each night I came home wondering what it was that I had done wrong.  At the ending of the week, I brought the bird back to him and he had smiled a soft, pitying smile before informing me, “I can not now take it back, Jacob, for your love of it has tainted it and made it something other than what it used to be.”

I did not understand, then, what it was that he was trying to tell me, yet by the next week he was again himself and thus, the significance of the words lost, I halted in my search to understand them.  
I did not see the workshop in the basement for another month and by that time the magic of the space had faded enough that I lingered but a few moments.  By that point The Doctor’s health had been on a steady decline and the running of the business has been left almost completely in my hands.  Sometimes he would make suggestions or ask little favours of me, his voice muffled always by the thick layer of blankets that were wrapped about him.

The day that I returned to the basement was also a Sunday and I had just bade my farewells to our last customer of the day when he had called for me.

“What do you need, sir?”

“There is a little clockwork key on the table in the basement, Jacob, fetch it for me, would you.”

“Certainly.”

As I have already said, the basement felt, somehow, different and once I had found the key, I all but ran back up to my employer.  I recall that he ran his fingers lovingly over intricate details of the key before he passed it into my care,

“This is the key to my greatest masterpiece, Jacob, and into it I have placed the very heart of me.”

“I do not understand, sir.”

“I know and I am sorry that I must push this on you before you are ready, but time is running away with me.”

I was confused by his words, and as my fingers gripped a little tighter to the key, I had asked him,

“Is there anything else you need of me, sir?”

“I need you to move the grandfather clock that sits near the basement entrance; behind it you shall find a door and behind that you shall find the thing that this key fits.”

The grandfather clock in question was a mighty thing made of what appeared to be oak and I recall that I could not quiet believe myself capable of moving it on my own.  However, I had only to pull it a little before it became clear that the thing was little more than a façade, which had been attached to the wall on a set of well-oiled hinges.  The door behind had also been well tended and, despite its obvious age, it swung outwards with a relative ease.  Behind was what appeared, on first glance, to be a beautifully carved marble doll, dressed in the fabrics of a rich silken kimono.  At the small of her neck, behind the mass of her thick black hair, was a keyhole and, pulling her away from the wall, I had begun to wind her up.

It took at least two hours before I heard the soft click that announced that she was wound to her fullest potential and,  releasing my grip upon her key,  I stepped back out into the shop.  There was a faint whirring hum as her spring began to unwind and for a moment I believed that nothing would occur.  Then a faint light blossomed in the black of her eyes and one fine fingered hand lifted to brush her hair away from her shoulders.

“Who are you?” she enquired, her voice a whispered beauty that was human but for the faint rasp at the end of each of her words, the mechanical imperfection marring her perfection a little.

“Sakura, come here.”  The command was strong despite the evident fatigue in The Doctors voice and both the doll and I found ourselves unable to ignore him.  The doll curled herself up at the feet of her creator and The Doctor reached out to touch her lovely face before he told her, “I have spent my life building you, Sakura, have given over the chance for friends and family all so that I might make you as perfect as I can.

“Yet I have nothing left now inside of me but hate, shame and fatigue…emotions that would mar your perfection and make you ugly.

“Thus I have to let you go, my beautiful doll…thus I must hope, as my master before me, that my apprentice might give you what you so desire…”

“Will you also fade away, Daniel, as Orion before you?”

“I fear so, for all that I had I have put in you.”

“Then I will say goodbye, Daniel, and I would say also thank you, both for loving me and for trying to make me real,”  the doll remarked as she leaned forward to press a kiss to his forehead.

The Doctor smiled then and pulling her head to him he looked to me and said,

“Jacob, I must again apologise for making this burden yours so very soon after you have come into my world and yet with my life flickering out you are all the hope Sakura has.

“Thus I will tell you all that I can of her origins and of the want that drives her…drives us all in a way.

 “My master was a great clock smith and he loved his work so very dearly that his life passed him by without him truly realising.

“He reached his forties and realised, suddenly, that he had achieved nothing great or remarkable with his life.

“Wishing to do something before death claimed him, he travelled the world, learning all that he could of his trade in hopes of making himself the greatest of the greats.

“One evening he came into the company of my father who boasted to him that his son, myself, had the talent to make anything he could think of out of any material he named.

“My master was intrigued by the boast and took my father up on it.

“He asked that I make him a wife of the finest marble and in return he would teach me how to breathe a little life into my works…how to make mere mettle a little more simply by letting a piece of my emotions into everything I created.

“I made Sakura for him using his technique and for a while it was enough for him to have her there…to have me there also.

“But then Sakura asked him what it was to love, to laugh…to simply feel and suddenly his happiness was gone.

“For while his beloved wife was not happy he was not happy and so he began to implement all the things he had learned on his long journey…began to work into her as much of his love as he could.

“With each alteration Sakura grew stronger while my master grew weaker and eventually he began to fade.

“Before his end he passed to me the care of Sakura and for a while it was a responsibility I took very seriously.

“But then my mind began to wonder and I began to think of living my life a little…of making my own mark on the world.

“I learned a great deal from making the toys in the basement and I placed that knowledge into Sakura when there was opportunity.

“Each time she improved,  the temptation to spend longer on her became greater and once I had found you I could no longer resist.

“She is still not perfect and yet it is but a small effort now…I have spent my time writing as much down as I can of the knowledge you will need and I believe you shall do well.

“Look after her, Jacob, for she is both my legacy and the legacy of my master.”

His eyes had closed then and after a moment of laboured breath he was gone.

“What is your name?”  The doll enquired, the endless black of her eyes turning to regard my own.

“I am Jacob.”

She smiled then and I knew, somehow, that she would always be just a little bit beyond perfection…that behind the beauty and the innocence of her smile lurked a dark heart that fed upon the light of innocence.  Yet even knowing this to be the case I found myself returning that smile and wishing, with the very heart of me, to give what I could to keep it there upon her face.

Found that, despite myself, I had been snared, as The Doctor before me, into Sakura’s illusion.

 

                                                                                                        
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Cock Up                                    

by William Gladys 

Advertisement:  2 COCKERELS:  1 Lavender Pekin and 1 Belgian Barbu d’Uccle.  Telephone 01258-830521

ot far from their shared Earth in one of England's oldest woods, two dog foxes were in animated conversation.  “………moreover the roadwork will be starting soon, we have no choice but to move and quickly.”  “But I don’t see why we should go brother fox, our family have lived here longer than the trees that surround us, it’s so sad, and unfair!”   “Of course it’s sad and unfair, something you have been repeating for weeks now,” first fox replied, “but that’s life and we have to make the most of it.  We’ve agreed it’s vital we explore other living areas and put down new roots.   Now you go south, and I’ll follow a westward route and meet you back here in three days time.”  As he trudged south an indolent younger fox grumbled about his brother’s domineering attitude, and how much he missed the attention of his older sisters second and third fox who were killed only six months ago. 

In the distance the metallic thuds of heavy equipment and the stench of labouring men were getting closer day by day.  When they met three days later, the intrusive heavy machinery and men’s shouting was all around their old home.

“It was a waste of time,” said fourth fox,  “couldn’t find any place to my liking, and I’m starving.”  “Well after three days of searching that goes for me too, but I’ve found the perfect place.  Now be careful; there’s a man over there with a gun,” he nodded in the direction of a site hut, “so let’s get going before we’re seen, and keep low!” 

With first fox leading, they skirted many dangers on route.  Once they were spotted by some dogs on a farm but quickly outran them.  At a major road, he made an impetuous fourth fox wait for half an hour until it was safe to cross.  At a wide fast flowing river,  it took over an hour to persuade his foolhardy brother to take the plunge.  Eventually, they arrived at the edge of a forest of mixed deciduous trees.  At the insistence of first fox, they lay low observing the area for anything likely to cause harm.   Once it was safe, they padded silently to the interior of the wood and went to ground in an abandoned Earth.  As a despondent fourth fox fell asleep, his brother ventured out to hunt for food.  

On his return he woke his brother calling, “You can sleep all night once you’ve got this rabbit down you” adding, “I’ll keep a lookout while you’re resting.” As he bolted his food, an ungrateful fourth fox belched noisily and looked away, “Rabbit again, I’m bored with rabbit, rabbit this, rabbit that, I want something different, something different…” as his mumbling trailed off into a shallow and troubled sleep. 

The next day first fox returned from a mid morning hunt with a brown rat.  Tossing it towards his dozing brother, he said firmly “It’s time to eat, you’ll need all the strength you can muster for the journey ahead now that I’ve found something that will  benefit both of  us  for a long time.” 

Following a circuitous route, it took the brothers over two hours to reach Lilac House.  Concealed in the long grass at the edge of a field, first fox made a meticulous study of their surroundings.  “The farmhouse and outbuildings are to the left, no scent of dogs, that’s a bonus and three chicken coops to the right.  The hedge behind them will give us cover should we need it,” he whispered.  While his brother worked out the plan of attack, easily led, impetuous, lazy and not over bright fourth fox said nothing, and thought about the good times in the past. 

“Now this is what we do,” explained first fox.  “In the first and third coops  are our day to day rations,  White Leghorns and Sussex Light Buffs, pleasant flavours but both a bit on the stringy side, but today, we’ll give ourselves a well earned treat.  In the middle coop are two bantam delicacies, right.”   “ Alright, if you say so,” replied fourth fox with affected interest. 

On the door of the middle coop someone had fixed a small plaque which read:  Lavender Pekin— Confucius, Belgian Barbu d’uccle—Renée.

First fox continued, “At the bottom on the right side is a loose board,” he pointed to the spot.  “You pry it open; I’ll climb inside and then make a gap for you to follow.  You take Confucius the ‘blue’one, and leave Renée to me.  Once we’ve got them don’t hang about, make a fast exit.  OK?”  “ Don’t fuss so, I know what to do,” sighed fourth fox, “I’ll be right behind you.” 

Getting in and out was easy, and first fox returned quickly to the forest’s edge, but not so his brother, who perhaps overcome by his mouth watering comments or the sweet smell of Confucius, we will never really know, began to devour his prize immediately. 

First fox witnessed it all. 

As the sickening sound of a single shot rang out, fourth fox lay dead.

In the forest, first fox waited tearfully until it was safe to come forward.  Then, discarding the carcass of Renée, he went forward and gathered up the lifeless body of his brother and carried it back to their new found home where it was buried beneath a budding sapling beech.  

 

 

                                                                                                        
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My grandfather's war          

by Saskia van der Linden 

                                                                         

hey were such great fun, those days.  He was in the prime of his life and having a hell of a time.

The Germans couldn’t stop him, either.  He’d jumped off the train when they sent him to work in the German factories, as they did with all the healthy young men in Holland (who weren’t Jewish).

For a whole night he had to hide in a river, because soldiers were patrolling the woods.  He saw a man turn grey in just that night.

Such fun!

The next day, he managed to escape through the woods.  After many hours he arrived back home, but even there and then he wasn’t safe.  A healthy young man who’d refused to “do his duty” as the nazis saw it, risked the bullet.

Such fun!

For the duration of the war, he had to dress up as a woman.  “And quite a pretty one at that!”  He claimed he got lots of whistles from German soldiers whenever he went cycling with his young wife.

Such fun!

Soon, there was a shortage of bike tyres which made cycling quite hard to do.  These German soldiers would comment on his strong legs (What a healthy young woman!) and smile at him.  He’d wink back and they’d come chasing after him, at which point he’d double his speed.  My grandmother would be stiff with nerves by then, so he’d have to pull her along.

Such fun!

It was the type of story we children would ask to be told over and over “again!”

It wasn’t until I got much older that I heard my grandmother’s story about the war.  By then, my grandfather had started to add a few more details to his.

Take the cycling, for instance.  They didn’t just cycle for fun or to exercise.  They cycled because they were on desperate food hunts every day.

As for the German factories, it was as much a risk to stay on the train as to jump off it, as the men who were sent there often didn’t return, having died from exhaustion.  (I’d also learned by then what had happened to the Jewish part of the population.) "And what about that man who’d turned grey in one night, grampy?" "Well," he sighed heavily as at last he taught us the truth— that man was... himself.

—from the novel Stockholm Syndrome © 2006 by Saskia van der Linden

 

 

                                                                                                        
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 Fifteen Love                          

by Will Orr-Ewing 

y father phoned recently.  We spoke harmless generalities about my job and about my marriage.  Just before he hung up, he asked me—as if it was the most casual suggestion he could think of—whether I fancied a game of tennis.  I didn’t know what to say.  He was eighty-one years old.  We hardly ever spoke, let alone socialised.  I tried to remember the last time we had played, about thirty years beforehand.

***

Dad was a magnificent tennis player.  He had this terrific, youthful energy on court.  "A ball’s never dead," was his motto and he’d say it after dashing or diving for a return.  He was consistent and steady too.  "Dependable—on court and off", as my grandmother said.

In Dad’s eyes, tennis had a sort of moral force.  "All life’s virtues can be learnt on court, Charlie," he said, "fair-play, self-discipline, and—above all else, Charlie— doggedness.  The wise man is a 'Steady Eddy.'  Exactly the same in life."  He said this softly and paternally, with a smile; he was never hectoring.

We had our own court back then.  Our house was called The Stables—a grand, reassuring building with the only tennis court in the village.  I can’t recall him losing even one set on that court.  He played every Sunday morning with a rotation of men who lived nearby.  I sat swinging my legs under a rusty chair, keeping score and fetching any balls that were hit out.  "Ach, too good Hilt…"  Dad’s opponents would say, or they looked over to me shrugging, "your father’s too steady, Charlie."  It all confirmed what he often repeated:  constancy and doggedness—these were the paths to success.

Dad worked in London during the week; he joined my mother and me at the weekend.  He spent much of it tending to the court, nurturing it so that it had the feel of an arena.  And he infused the game itself with such contagious, boyish enthusiasm that I got a tingle of butterflies just setting foot on it.  "It’s confirmed," he’d announce, "Hilt versus Hilt has been put on Number 1 Court this afternoon. Darl,"  he’d call to the kitchen, "we’re on Number 1 Court!" (If we were placed on Centre Court, then a bow to any attending Royals was duly expected.)  During our games, he gave an excited running commentary:  "First blood, Hilt Senior", he’d chirp, or "great shot from young Charlie Hilt.  What a talent this lad is."

We played all the time; he said he preferred it with me.  My mother watched too back then.  If I won a point, she’d laugh and say things like, "Ooh, he may beat you one day, Darl" or "Careful you don’t tire the old man out Charlie!"  In summer, she’d bring out a jug of water (when it had been drunk, Dad would call "Time"); and in the winter, she’d scuttle inside before the last game to prepare tea.  Every time, Dad beat me comfortably.  "You know what they say", he’d remind on each occasion, "the hardest person to beat is your father".

But as I grew older, I slowly got better.  One winter—"off-season", Dad called it—I helped him shape a practice wall.  We painted a face on him, and hands, and legs; Dad drew scores above each one to make them targets.  "You always wanted a brother, Charlie", Dad laughed when he was finished.  We decided to call him Ned.  I spent long afternoons playing against Ned, deep into the purplish-blue dusk until his features became murky and the ball—arching in parabolas between us—no more than a ghost among shadows.  I was exhilarated by the idea of improvement—that sense of the human body as instinctive, capable of being enhanced.  When it came, puberty seemed almost a confirmation of the same process.

I was improving against Dad too.  Around that time, I won my first game:  "Damn," he chuckled, after my drop-shot eluded him, "you’ll lose your inheritance with shots like that."  And the weekend before I went to boarding school—at 13 years old—I won two games:  "Just four more games, Charlie," he said, evidently proud, "I’m watching my back."  At school, I dreamt of our court—waiting lushly for me behind the barn.  But every time I came home, Dad continued to beat me.

***

I suppose life at home began to change around Christmas that year.  I remember it snowing so much that the court, which winked in the snow like a lunar lake, became unplayable.  Then Dad caught a cold so we couldn’t visit my grandparents as we usually did.  It was strange to see him quiet and restful, with a rug on his knees.  I missed his customary running commentary that normally made Christmas so exciting.  Maybe my mother missed it too; she didn’t seem capable of filling the strangely deafening silence.  Mealtimes were especially difficult.  The somnolence of that large house was unsettling.  Every scratch of my head, every clearing of my throat was made to seem mannered—as if I were being watched, or even filmed.

One day, just after New Year, my mother stumbled awkwardly into the quiet of my room.

"What’s wrong?" I asked, loudly.

She came over to where I was sitting and looked me straight in the face.  Her breath was heavy with alcohol.  She gave me a sad look, then reached out and clasped my biceps.  "You’re getting so big and strong," she said.  In the car on the way back to school, Dad was silent and preoccupied.

***

When summer came, there seemed to be a return to normal.  As usual, Dad took the first two weeks off work and we played tennis throughout.  I had managed to play at school, and our games were even closer now.  My mother was right:  I was taller and stronger, and my shots had more power as a result.  But Dad’s constancy continued to triumph.

After those first two weeks, Dad was there again on Monday morning.  "Just having another week off, Charlie," he said.  "Beats playing with Ned, I hope", he added as an afterthought.  Dad left on Sunday night but he returned late on Tuesday; I remember him lumbering downstairs in his dressing-gown.

"Have you got another migraine Dad?" I asked.  He was watching television.

"No, Charlie," he said, not looking at me, "just going to be spending some time down here for a bit.  That’s all."

Dad stayed for the whole summer.  However, as the weeks passed, our games somehow lost their fun.  Dad seemed to have grown bored of the procedure; we played in near-silence.  And my mother had stopped watching too; I brought a jug of water out for Dad.  But most of all, the games had acquired an unpleasant intensity.  It seemed as though Dad wanted to win even more.  If I won a game or two, he’d curse at himself, "you’re so lazy, Jeremy!"  And when he won the set, as he still always did, he’d beam with relief.  "Thanks for that Charlie," he’d say, "still holding you, aren’t I?"

As I said, my mother didn’t watch, but she began to be more and more interested in the result.  The summer before, even after watching every point, she would look, giggling, at Dad and ask: "So who won Darl?"  Now she waited in the kitchen and shot the question at me:  "Did you beat him?"  She praised my build more regularly, always in earshot of Dad.  "You’re going to be such a success," she once whispered at supper.  I hated myself for thinking it but by the end of the summer I couldn’t wait to go back to school.  A few days before I was due to, Dad came into my room and challenged me to a game.  I declined, pleading revision.

"Come on Charlie," he said, "we haven’t played for almost a week."

The afternoon was cold and dusky; perhaps it was the first day of winter.  Again, we conducted ourselves in near-silence.  The week’s break—our longest all summer—allowed me to approach the game afresh.  I started well:  I began to win points, and then games.  1-0, 2-0, 3-0.  Dad’s intensity roused itself; he seemed to have lost his balance between restiveness and consistency, and charged red-faced around the court.  By the third game, sweat dripped from his dusty blonde hair and coursed down his forehead; he bent over after one point to wheeze:  "you’re so lazy, Jeremy…"

But when I went 4-0 up, something began to distract me.  I looked over the net at Dad.  His paunch had grown over the summer and the effect on top of his thin, wiry legs made him look oddly effeminate.  The veins in his legs were bursting and varicose, each one well-defined like a tapeworm sucking him of his energy.  The sight was distressing.  I didn’t want him to lose his enthusiasm; I thought that maybe, if I let him win, the procedure—the fun—might start again.  My mother might come and watch again.  So I threw the game.

"I think you let me off there, Charlie," he panted, as we walked back to the house, "I didn’t think I could do it at four-love down.  But hey…a ball’s never dead, huh." 

My mother was waiting in the kitchen.  "6-4, Judy," Dad said on his way past, "I was four-love down at one point."  He went upstairs for a bath.  My mother glared at me.

"Close, wasn’t it?" I said, with a smiling shrug.

"Oh why can’t you just beat him," she clipped, briskly.

***

I was only at school for the first two weeks of term before my mother came to fetch me.  For once, I found myself at the centre of classroom gossip:

"Is it true your Dad can’t afford the school fees, Hilt?"

My mother drove me to London, explaining on the way that we’d lost The Stables.  Dad was at the London flat.  "We’ll get the house back in no time, Charlie," he said, "don’t worry."

 

They didn’t play tennis at my new school but there was a leisure club nearby that had an old court.  I had a few hours coaching a week; by then, it was one of the only things my parents agreed on.  Tennis was different there:  the clay surface had none of that lushness of the court at home or the dozen grass courts at boarding school.  Marco, the coach, was different as well.  He described himself as 'a grafter'; he played the small provincial tournaments for cash.

"There are hard people and there are soft people in this world, Charlie.  Which one are you?" he said in our first lesson, "tennis is not a game; it is a sport.  You have, have to be ruthless."  And his favourite motto: "Love doesn’t score at tennis."

He taught me what he called his “tricks of the trade.”  "If you’re losing, Charlie, slow the game down.  Do your laces up.  Have a drink.  Fucking disrupt them," he never smiled, "and if you’re winning, you have, have to be ruthless.  Rush up to the net when they’re serving.  Get in their face."  Marco’s enthusiasm and unremitting commentary reminded me of our games at The Stables.  This filled me with resolution, and I challenged Dad to a game.

Dad had only played intermittently in the months since the summer holidays.  His friends still invited him to play—at Queens, Hurlingham, the Vanderbilt—but he slowly began to refuse them.  It was too embarrassing, for both parties.  As he shuffled onto the court that day, sliding a little on the clay, he looked me in the eye.  It was the first time he had done so for months, and I noticed the crows’ feet that had recently gathered around his eyes.

"Hardly Number 1 Court is it Charlie?" he said with a smile.  I didn’t reply; Marco’s voice resounded in my head:  "have to be ruthless."  Dad said something else but it was drowned out by the traffic.

Dad struggled on the clay.  Balls tend to skid off the surface more and if they hit one of the plastic lines, they shoot off at an angle.  But his hands were shaky besides, and his steadiness had left him.  He charged around the court, wheezing and sweating after the first few points.  I employed Marco’s tactics—rushing to the net on his serve or tying my shoelaces languidly if he was about to win a game.  I drop-shot the old man or placed high lobs over his head.  The more I did this, the more he raged but he did it silently, inwardly.   It showed itself through his veins which swelled to bursting.  A few games in, he stretched for a ball and slipped, tearing his knee on the surface.  As he clambered to his feet, puffing, the clay mixed angrily with his blood.  It looked like a bullet wound.  This slowed him further, and from then he dragged his leg as if it were lame.  The hesitation from last summer was absent now; I narrowed my eyes and felt nothing.  And even when I won—won my first set—I felt nothing but a slow, dull satisfaction.

Dad looked at me, red in the face. "Another set, Charlie.  C’mon; that was close."

But the next set was even easier.  As the light faded, and the street lamps that ran up one side of the court dimly made themselves more visible, the lines on the court—already obscured partially by the clay—became even muddier.

"Nope,"  I called, as one of his shots fell a foot behind the base-line.

"What?  Charlie!" he said, almost a yelp, "did you see it alright?  Let’s take a let…"  He looked at me with his tiny eyes, red like a rat’s.  Their restlessness had blurred to small puddles.

"No Dad, it was out."

 That was the last time I played him.  Once, it would have made him proud.  He might have ruffled my hair with a cheerful "well done,"  might have told people in his office the next day.  But that November afternoon, he didn’t even shake my hand.

When we got home, my mother didn’t have to ask who won.  The blood from Dad’s knee had hardened to a black-red scab and he was puce with sweat.  She looked up from her cup of tea with the trace of a smile.  Dad looked at her for a long time, shaking his head.

"Well?" he said, "are you happy now?" and he walked out of the kitchen.  I’m sure I heard him wince as he lumbered forward, towards the bathroom.  And my mother heard it too, I think.  After gazing at me blankly for a few seconds, she got up with resolve, poured another cup of tea and took both cups out of the kitchen, scurrying forward after Dad, towards the bathroom.

***

Dad died a few weeks after he phoned, on the morning of our match.  I’d just booked a court at Queen’s when Mum called with the news.  He had suffered a heart attack changing into his whites.  The first thing I did was to open a new can of tennis balls.  I pressed my nose inside and smelt the crisp, untainted lushness.  And, just for a moment, it gave me that same tingle of butterflies that I had felt all those years ago, standing in the middle of Dad’s court at The Stables.

 

 

                                                                                                         
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The Jacket                                                                   

by Rob Plath 

                                                                      

nce when I was ten years-old and my family and I were in a pizza parlor, I was intrigued by a long-haired kid wearing a leather jacket in July.  The kid was about sixteen.  He was in a booth with a pretty girl dark haired girl.  He had his feet across the seat and was joking and eating a triangle of pizza.  While we ate our pie, my father told me that the kid was a nut, that only derelicts wore leather jackets in the summertime.  When we left they were still in the booth laughing and drinking their Cokes.

That autumn I tried out for a football team, a league outside of school.  At the first meeting they had us exercise to see who was tough enough to stay.  Two of my friends tried out too.  All three of us were asked to come back the following week.  We just needed money to join, plus uniforms and equipment.

My two friends’ fathers were excited for them and took them to the store for the equipment.  They wrote checks for the league fee and the uniforms.  Things were different at my house.  My father didn’t want me to join.  He said that it was a waste of his money, that it’d cause aggravation because I’d need rides to practice and games.  He said that I didn’t need a league in order to play sports.  He said that I had a football that I should just play in the yard or the street.  I begged my mother to try to convince him but the answer remained no.  I was jealous when I saw my two friends with their shoulder pads and helmets and mouthpieces and jerseys with their last names on the back .

Later that week my father gave my mother money to get me this imitation black leather jacket at the local department store.  It was $29.99.  A cheaper deal and less of a hassle.  After that, I wore that black jacket everyday through the middle school halls, throughout the entire football season, then outside its walls and then well into summer

 

 

                                                                                                        
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A Moment of Your Time, Sir?          
Traffic Congestion Confronted

by Peter Inson

hey had warned him about the traffic two weeks before at the office.

“Go by train, Hugo—rush hour’s worse than anything you see around here.”

The radio was fuzzy and he leaned over and tried to reach it.  Before he could finish, the brake lights in front blinked and went out.  The car in front slid forward, perhaps thirty feet, and its lights glared again, daring him to get any nearer.  Hugo struggled with the hand brake and moved up into the gap.

Ahead of him the road began to curve to the left.  Hugo was sitting in the slow lane and could see the lay-by.  Why, he wondered, would anyone park there?  Had they broken down or had they given up hope of reaching a destination?  He calculated that it would take ten minutes to reach the white van and the white minibus parked just beyond it, tilted off the pavement like an early morning drunk.  Then he noticed a policeman get out of the van and walk round to the minibus; perhaps there had been an accident.

He reached out again for the handbrake and Terry Wogan spoke to him, warm, relaxed, reassuring, off the planet slightly.  To the side a huge articulated lorry blared out, then coughed fumes which rose up between Hugo and the car in front and the Irishman’s punch-line was lost.  For a moment he thought there was some movement ahead but he was mistaken.  He tried to relax and followed the line of shops, houses and filth, back from the lay-by to the house on his left, not thirty feet away.

He looked at the house, conscious that he was peering out at another world—the decorated stone over the porch, the cream lintels over the windows and the remains of a path, once decorated with bright tiles which led up to the front door.  He could not see the roof, but he doubted whether it was any different from the flat sheets of grey slates that covered the houses further ahead.  He could see the bricks and the mortar of the walls that looked back at him as they must have looked back at millions of vehicles over the years.  He wondered what the house made of it all—he had seen his grandparents’ curled photographs of similar houses with proper front gardens and a milkman’s horse pulled up outside.  Would the house see his car and not him and would it have to look through the same grimy filter that he could see covering everything out there.

The same invisible grey filter covered the wreck of a car parked in what had once been a garden.  He smiled to himself; the car had obviously been there for years yet seemed at ease with itself, unlike the more recent models stuck out on the road, like hounds eager to follow their prey but held back, leashed tight.

And then the car in front had inched forward and he was moving again.  He changed up into second gear and watched the vans in the lay-by getting nearer.  A policeman stepped out into the road and waved to him.  What on earth did he want him for?  Hugo pulled over and the car that had been following him accelerated ahead then braked as the line of cars eased itself into position again and stopped solid.  The line settled, still eager still to move ahead, to seek again its quarry.

“Would you mind getting out of the car, please sir?”  Hugo got out.

“What’s the matter?”  The officer was about his age, late thirties.  He led him round to another officer at the back.  Two figures in white coats sat behind a table, opposite the door.  They looked up as if they had been waiting for him.  One of them glared accusingly at a watch, twisting an arm, suddenly, to turn the dial out from under the starched white sleeve.  They were quite young, younger than him; the woman was slightly built and had dark hair; the man had a neatly trimmed beard and cropped hair.  He stroked his beard self-consciously, as if to impress Hugo with a certain gravitas, then waved him to the chair.  Hugo looked over his shoulder, a little uncomfortable; the police officer was standing next to the door, looking back at him.

“Mr. Watson?”  It was not really a question—the woman had a slip of paper in front of her on the table, trapped under her left hand.  Hugo nodded automatically and the pen in the woman’s right hand came to life and made a mark on the paper.

Perhaps it was the way the pen moved automatically once he had confirmed his name that caused Hugo to stand again.

“Now, just what is this all about?”  He turned to the policeman.

“Nothing to worry about sir, just the Department for Transport—you know—Driving Surveillance Unit.”

“Driving Surveillance Unit?”

“The doctor will explain.”

“Doctors?”  He turned back to the table and looked at the two white-clad figures.

The woman spoke.

“I’m Dr. Williams, a physician, and Dr. Brewer here is a psychiatrist.”  She watched the puzzlement on Hugo’s face, then continued; surely, everyone knew about these new units around London.

“You have been observed driving along this bit of road every morning this week, alone.”

“Not against the law is it?”

“Well, not exactly.”

“So, why am I in here?”

“You’ve received the information and reminders from the DVLA, surely.”  By the end of the utterance, the words formed a question and then an accusation and Hugo sensed that he was without some simple piece of information.

“Every licence holder received one.”

“Did they?”  This was obviously some sort of questionnaire and he wished that they had sent it by post.

The woman picked up something in his voice, something northern or provincial.

“You realise that your continuing to use this road like this could count against you?”  Her voice rose at the end of the sentence and he knew that, this time, she was asking a question and preparing him for something.  He recalled something but said nothing.

“You do realise that this could cost you your licence.”  This time it was a reprimand; how could he have been so careless?

“You must be joking.”

 “No, Mr. Watson.”  The other doctor, Dr. Brewer, the psychiatrist, was speaking now.  “Public health professionals have been studying drivers and we have realised that people who drive frequently in these conditions must be monitored, for the sake of their health.”  The doctor nodded towards the door before continuing.  “The DVLA has established that for three miles along this bit of road rush hour traffic moves at less than walking pace.  To travel ten miles in any direction at this time of day a bicycle would be the quickest option.”

There was something about this man that Hugo recognised—the voice of a missionary, unvarying and indifferent to its audience.  The doctor’s eyes flickered with a touch of something extra, some sort of enthusiasm Hugo thought.

“Do you have any particular reason for driving along here every day?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why do you choose to use a car, alone, every day during the rush hour?”

“To get to work.”

“But why by car and why alone?”

“How else?  What if it rains?  What if I have papers to carry?”

Hugo pulled himself up to his feet.  “Look here, I don’t have to sit here and answer your questions.” 

Behind him the police officer stirred in the doorway and from outside there came the restrained sound of the traffic that still blocked the main road.

“But you do, Mr. Watson.”  The woman reached into a brief case and drew out a large form.  She unfolded it on the table in between herself and her colleague who said nothing but just watched Hugo as if he were the subject of some scientific observation.  For a moment Hugo was sufficiently interested to sit again.

“Do you know what this is, Mr. Watson?”  Hugo shook his head, not so much because he did not know what the form was, but because he was slowly trying to detach himself from this whole business.  The woman hardly troubled herself with his response before starting again.  “It’s a preliminary form—under the Mental Health Act.  You realise that anyone found not to be of sound mind is not permitted to drive.”

 

 

                                                                                                      
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The Town Square                          

 by Quentin Poulsen

ally had come up to Brighton Heights to visit her friend Liz.  It was past dark outside as they sat in the living room sipping their tea.

"So your Harry's out with the boys again, is he?" she said, helping herself to a slice of shortbread.

"Straight from the footy to the bar, as always," Liz confirmed with a morose shake of the head.  "I expect he'll be stumbling in through the door at four or five this mornin, 'boozed up to the eyeballs."

"Men!"  Sally delivered the ultimate curse.  "Who needs 'em?  They're all sexist pigs when it comes down to it.  Best thing I ever did was stay single."

"I dare say you're right, Sally."  Liz stirred the lemon in her tea.

"Course I am.  No one to cook or clean for.  No one planted on the sofa watching footy all afternoon.  No one comin' 'ome at all hours with a belly full of grog.  No one to shout or clout me when he feels the need to impose his manhood.  I do pity you married women, Liz.   Freedom is what I've got."

Liz sipped her tea and eyed her guest thoughtfully.  "Yes, but you were keen on that fitness instructor down at Tommy's Gym at one time, weren't you, dear?" 

"Steve Sherman?!"  Sally shrieked, aghast.  "Gawd, no.  He was going out with half the women in the town.  Damned if I was to be one of the flock!  All I said was he was rather attractive, in a brutish sort of way.  And so he was. But like all attractive men he let it go to his head.  Oh, no.  It didn't take me long to figure him out."

"Nevertheless, you didn't miss a class in nearly six months.  Even declined an invitation to your cousin's wedding, as I recall.  I've never known you to be so regular."

Sally blinked across at her host, as though astounded by her inability to grasp the obvious.

 "I was on a program, dear.  You know how expensive they are.  I didn't fork out all that money just to go and spend my time at relatives' wedding ceremonies."

Liz refilled her friend's cup and assumed a caring tone.  "Far be it from me to judge, Sally, but I dare say you could use a man.  There are still a few good ones out there if you look hard enough."

"Good ones?"  Sally rolled her eyes.  "Are you out of your mind?  Where?  Down at the local, I s'pose, wobbling their great hairy bellies as they strut back and forth between the bar and the dart board!  No thank you very kindly!"

Sally laughed with affected relief, as one who has peered over the precipice and stepped away just in time.  She of the superior wisdom; the lone visionary among the blind.  They had been friends for many long years.  It was important to her that Liz understood she had been happier on her own all that time, and that the presence of a man in her life could only have served as some unwanted burden.

"Well," said Liz, pondering the question at hand, "Tracy seems to be happy enough with Adam.  Fancy landing a lawyer, lucky girl!  And I hear they're set to tie the knot next year."

"You ARE out of your mind!" cried Sally, laughing harder still.  "Happy?  That's not what she told me.  Adam's down the pub every other night.  And you know what these rugger-types are like when they've been on the booze.  Winds up in a brawl more often than not.  Why, just the other day I saw him with a black eye." 

"Oh dear." Liz slumped in her seat.  "I wondered how he'd got that.  I had no idea."

"Men at their primeval lowest," said Sally with a toss of her head.  "Reduced to savage beasts by a few jugs of ale.  Sometimes I think that's their natural state, you know.  The world would be better off without 'em." 

Liz nodded in capitulation.  She offered her guest another piece of shortbread, which was gratefully accepted.

"Yes, you always were the sensible one, Sally.  While the rest of us were falling prey to the hunks, the smooth-talkers, the muscle-bound jocks, allowing ourselves to be deceived by their good looks and charm, you alone stood firm in resistance, keeping them at bay; your defenses never breached; your walls impenetrable.  You have been an example to the rest of us.  If only we'd had the good sense to follow."

Sally leaned across and put an arm around her friend. "Come now," she said consolingly.  "You weren't to know he would turn out this way.  Harry was as good a specimen as you could hope to find in this world.  I remember it well.  But like all those of the male persuasion he was given to weaknesses which would inevitably lead to his decline.  Oh, I've seen it time and again.  A woman's hopes, so pure and vain, dashed to pieces on the rocks of male vice" 

That evening, after her guest had departed, Liz prepared for bed.  It would be another few hours before Harry came crashing in to wake her with his raucous, clumsy antics.  She gazed in the mirror as she removed her make-up.  The lines beneath her eyes seemed more pronounced than ever.  Undeniably then, her youth was slipping away.  Sometimes now she looked almost middle-aged.  That waistline had to come in as well.  It was all such a struggle; an increasingly uphill battle with Father Time that she was destined to lose.

'Ah, well,' she thought, 'it's the same for us all.  But how many women have to put up with a man like Harry?  That's the real tragedy of my life.'  She stood gazing in the mirror, pondering her fate a few minutes more.  'Still, I dare say it could be worse.  He doesn't beat me or chase other women, like some a them do.  He earns a good wage, and he's still a better looker than most.  If it weren't for the drinking... I suppose that's my lot; a woman's lot. I've just got to accept it.'   With that she turned off the lights, climbed into bed and sighed deeply, comforted by the dull satisfaction of the aggrieved.

Early next morning, in a third floor downtown studio apartment, another woman stood staring at herself in the mirror.  But for Sally there was no thought of 'giving in' to the ageing process.  She saturated her lines with cream and tightened her corset to a point from which she could hardly breathe.  There was, nonetheless, that familiar pang of unhappiness inside her; a sense of unfolding disaster.  The house was deadly silent.

'How lucky I am to be on my own,' she thought to herself as she did up her hair.  'But, oh, these lines!'

She went for breakfast at an outdoor cafe and tried to read the paper.  The noise of the traffic served to distract her, however, and she was unable to absorb the news.  A good book was what she needed.  She resolved to visit the library.

Her old schoolmate James Monk was behind the front desk when she entered.  He looked up from his computer and smiled serenely.

"Top of the morning, Sally.  How are things at the boutique?"  It was his standard, predictable greeting; the same question every time.

"Sales are steady as always, thank you, James," she replied in her customary manner.  "Any good books to recommend this month?"

James raised his eyebrows thoughtfully.  He seemed born for the position.  Slim, balding and bespectacled, he wore a plain silk waistcoat over his blue cotton shirt.  His face remained smooth and unblemished by time.  It was a face never seen at the bars and clubs of the town.  Neither a sportsman nor an adventurer, James was an only child whose father had died when he was young.  And now, at age thirty-four, he still lived with his mother.  This last was a subject of much hilarity among Sally and her friends.  The 'Town Square,' they called him.  The mere sight of him now was enough to remind her of the wrinkles emerging around her eyes.

"There's an interesting book just out by Lord Davenport," he told her with unbridled enthusiasm.  "All about Turkey—from the ancient Hatti and Hittite civilizations to the arrival of the Islamized Turkmen from Central Asia and the fall of Constantinople.  There is a particularly enthralling chapter devoted to the controversies of Iconoclasm within the Byzantine Empire."

"Sounds fascinating, James.  Where can I find it?"

The librarian beamed with pleasure.  "I knew it would appeal to someone as cultured as yourself, Sally.  It's down on the third row, in the History section, of course."

As she started toward the aisle, James began to say something more, "Er, Sally..."

She paused and glanced over her shoulder. "Yes, James?"

"Well, I was wondering if...." he stammered, then broke off sheepishly.  "Oh, never mind.  The book's got a green cover."

Sally located the book, a large hardback brimming with glossy illustrations, and sat down at a table to browse through it.  But, as with the paper at the outdoor cafe, she soon found herself unable to concentrate.  Only, this time there was no traffic to distract her.  The library was as quiet as her apartment had been that dawn.  Something was playing on her mind.  Something Freudian perhaps?  She did not know.  A little more excitement was what she needed.  She resolved to go to a movie.

The film was a romantic tragedy and made her cry.  She got the full value of her money's worth.  If she hurried home, she would make it in time to see 'Claudia;' the obese African-American talk-show host
whose relentless condemnations of the male oppressor never failed to inject her with a gratifying boost of ire.

Stopping at a red light in the city center, she glanced up to see a sporty red convertible pulling up beside her.  It was Steve Sherman back in town!  Reclining leisurely in the driver's seat, he turned and winked at her, a lopsided grin on his big square jaw.

"Hello, Sally," he called.  "Still doin' your classes?"

"Er, no, not at present, Steve," she replied awkwardly.  "I've been a little busy."

"Oh, that's too bad.  I'm working here this summer.  Perhaps you'll come along in the future some time."

"Perhaps," she agreed.

Then the lights changed and he was off, tires squealing, blond hair flowing in the breeze.  Sally remained transfixed for a moment, even when the horns began tooting behind her.  The confidence of the man!  There was charm in that alone.  It bespoke a certain warrior-like spirit; the quality of a man who would find his way to the top.  She drove the rest of the way home in a dream.

That evening Jenny dropped by.  She had cancelled her trip to the coast and would instead be going on a ski holiday with her fiancé.  Evidently they were back together again.

"What about all that carry on last month, if you don't mind my asking?"  Sally inquired as she poured the tea.

"Oh, that's dead and buried," Jenny replied, a little more brightly than natural.  "He's over her now.  I s'pose he just had to get it out of his system."

Sally shook her head in wonder.  "Well, you are a forgiving soul, Jen.  I'm not sure I would have been so quick to put it behind me."

Jenny sprinkled sugar in her cup and rested a compassionate eye on her host.  "You're so demanding, Sally.  That's your problem.  You've more chance of spying a yeti than the perfect man."

"I've no doubt about it," replied Sally flatly.  "But is it so much to ask—fidelity, honesty, an ability to control his drinking?  That's all I want.  Nothing more.  But where in this wretched world am I going to find a man like that?"

"As a matter of fact, I happen to know of someone who fits that description entirely."  Jenny leaned forward with a mischievous smile.  "And what's more, this particular gentleman makes no secret of his interest in you."

Sally's heart pounded as she stared back at her.  Was it Steve Sherman she was referring to?  He of the wink and the lopsided grin?  Faithful he was not.  Honest—hardly likely.  And he was known to put away a few jugs on weekend nights to boot.  But of who else could her guest be speaking?

"James Monk, the librarian," Jenny leaned closer, her smile broadening, and patted her on the arm. "I bumped into him at the supermarket just this afternoon.  He couldn't stop talking about you."

Sally collapsed back into her seat, as though felled by a mortal blow.  The stammering Town Square?!  Was this some kind of sick joke?  A life with James Monk occurred to her as a direct path to old age.  She could already see herself as an elderly woman.  No mountains climbed nor exotic parts visited.  Oh, what a bore!  He was as a tame burro beside the wild mustang she had encountered at the traffic lights that morning.  Steve Sherman!  Ah, there was a distraction.  A reckless escapade through the carnival of life.  What did it matter the masks that he wore? I t was all part of the adventure.

She began collecting up the chinaware as her bemused guest looked on.  "Drink up, dear.  Let's go down to Tommy's.  I want to take out another membership."

 

 

                                                                                                        
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The Fall of a Hunter                 

by Dipita Kwa 

                                                                       

Conclusion 
                                                                                                                                                                          

fter his father’s death, he had inherited his grandfather’s one-roomed thatched hut and had resolved to make the most out of his freedom and space, not having to share a potentially happy life with a depressing woman for a wife and a team of noisy children.  He wondered why men like Tanga had not grown mad or died of heart failure with a wife who must be very nagging as all women are bound to be, and children who wouldn’t think twice before stealing pieces of smoked meat from a man’s barn.  He had warned them never to cross those hedges into his compound.

“I am very lucky to be free from all those worries,” he said, sighed and began washing his hands in the pot containing the crushed bones.  With the pot in his hands, he looked around the room.  It was then that he noticed Kuli. He picked up the washed bones and threw them outside.

“Have these, you greedy thing.  Can’t you stay away when somebody is eating?”

Kuli registered the harsh tone, read the look in his master’s eyes, and knew better than to sit around a moment longer.  Slowly he walked out of the room and sat himself under an almond tree in the front yard.

Jembe belched one more time, loosened and then retied his belt made from weaved sinews of cover crops.  He felt heavy and important.  For the past two years he has been noticing, with fascination and joy, the steady protrusion of his belly.  How he wanted it to grow more rotund so that all who saw him walk along the street in his coat of hide and baton of chimpanzee’s tibia, would surely know—with much reverence—that a hunter was a rich man!

He removed his once-white and greasy singlet from the bamboo rail.  After putting on the singlet and admiring his belly once again, he fetched his hunting thong from a nail on the wall behind his bed.  He picked up his spear and machete from behind the door—a position that the weapons occupied for security purpose; he trusted no one; he slept with his mind on his barn of meat and an open eye on his ready weapons.

Jembe closed the door firmly from inside and dragged the heavy bamboo bed to weight it with.  Satisfied that nobody could push open the door, he went to the end of the wall facing the backyard and shifted aside a crate containing hides of long-killed animals.  This revealed a square hole wide enough for him to crawl out through like a snake.  His shoulders brushed against the sides, and his spinal column scraped against the rough top as he forced himself out through the hole.  Once outside, he dusted himself hastily before pulling back the crate in place.

“Let’s go, Kuli,” he said “We must hurry before the sun gets too hot.”

Kuli did not budge from his position.

After moving a few steps, Jembe stopped and turned around.  Curiously, his gaze shifted first to the door and then to the dog.  The bones were still lying there, untouched.  And Kuli sat as though carved out of stone.

Jembe suddenly became suspicious.  “So you didn’t eat your food?”

Kuli did not look his way.

Since when has this dog learnt to disobey him?

What a terrible, ungrateful animal!

“Just sit there and wait for me,” he called out in a threatening voice as he raced to the hedge of flowers.  In a moment he was back with a long hard stem in his hand.

Whack!  Whack!  Whack!  The whip landed on the dog.

Kuli resisted the first three strokes administered on his back.  But when the fourth stroke caught his left ear, he uttered a sharp whine and whirled about in pain.

“I thought you are an iroko tree.”  Jembe was panting.  “You useless dog!  Stop staring at me with those evil eyes before I fall on you like hot charcoal,” he shouted.

Kuli quickly looked away.

The church bell was ringing as Jembe, grumbling seriously, started off down the road that ran from the outskirts of the village of Mukunda to the forest.  Kuli waited until he had advanced about twenty meters before he rose and followed.

The two went along.  The master hacked his way through the narrow path flanked with wet grass that brushed against his bare feet and shoulders.  They trekked for several miles, taking several bends and paths that took them deeper into the forest, away from the area they had hunted the day before.

“Today we are to attack this end of the forest,” Jembe informed his dog.  “We must sweep it clean before dark.  I had a good dream last night that told me there are many animals in this area.”  He smiled.  The thought of killing many animals always made his heart burn with delight.  He lived to hunt and eat.  “More meat every day” was the slogan he carried with him from dawn to dusk, through his sleep, to another dawn.

As they progressed still deeper into the forest without a single sign of an animal, Jembe gradually became annoyed and impatient.  He sneered at the birds singing and flying about from one branch to another.  Now he tiptoed cautiously towards a tree where a flock of clock birds had just perched and were cleaning each other’s feathers with their beaks.  He firmly bit his lower lip.  Before the birds knew he was around, he thought, they would all be flapping their broken wings for the last miserable time in his bag.

Quack!  He had accidentally stepped on a dry twig.  The breaking noise sold him out to the birds that all flew hastily off to another tree.

Kuli ran away to hide under the canopy of low trees, a safe distance away from his master.

Jembe banged his fist against his thigh.  He cursed and swore.

“If only I had not forgotten my catapult!” he said.  “Why was I even in a hurry to leave the house?  All those birds gone!”

To pre-empt another embarrassment, he broke a thick branch from a nearby tree and plucked off all the leaves and twigs.  If he had had a weapon like this at least, all the birds wouldn’t have gone free.

“Woof!” Kuli barked.

Jembe spun around only to face an antelope staring at him straight in the eyes.  He shook his head to clear an imaginary mist that was forming in his mind.

His spear!

Slowly, he moved his fingers to clutch his spear.  To his greatest disappointment, the only weapon his left hand could offer was the branch he had just broken.  He had dropped his tools before crawling after the birds.

“Woof.”  Kuli’s bark galvanized the antelope into a gallop for safety.

“Get it, Kuli,” Jembe cried desperately.  He snatched his weapons from the ground and swung himself into the thicket.

“Get it, Kuli.”

The dense undergrowth presented no obstacle at all.  With his strong, stout legs and arms, Jembe tore the shrubs and climbers.  He pushed aside branches and prowled forward with the speed of a hare.

He had forgotten of those numerous pits that a banana-producing company had dug during their land-prospecting and soil-evaluation activities.  It has been a long time and the holes were now covered with shrubs.  As he swerved to avoid colliding with a tree, he stepped on the carpet of grass and landed with all his weight into the nine-foot-deep hole.  He uttered a loud cry of pain and horror.  As he struggled to stand, he gulped down a few mouth-full of the rain water that had collected in the hole over the week.  His left tibia was fractured and his right arm dislocated at the shoulder.  He pulled himself to lean on the wall.  His entire skeletal system burned with an excruciating pain.

“Help—help— help—” he cried, tears streaming down his face.  The silence that greeted his call for aid made him to suddenly remember that it was Sunday and people didn’t go to their farms.  Only tappers did but usually very early in the morning and late in the evening.  Again he was in a hole in the middle of a forest a long distance away from the main road.

“Help!”  This time it was the cry of desperation.

* * *

 

“All through your life, Jembe, you have been burning in that consuming flame of a revolving-but-never evolving personal glory,” Tanga said.  He was sitting on the half-drum which served as Jembe’s table.  Jembe was lying on his bamboo bed with his left leg hanging upward by a rope tied to a rafter and his left hand fondling Kuli who was sitting beside the bed.

Tanga and his family had returned from church that afternoon and found Kuli lying on their doorstep.  As soon as Kuli saw him, he began whimpering and shaking its stub of a tail and moving towards the road to the farm.  After repeating this ritual twice or thrice, Tanga began to understand the sign.

“Something is wrong with Jembe,” he had said to his wife.

“Which Jembe?”

“Jembe, our neighbour, of course.  How many Jembes do you know?”

“What makes you think something is wrong with him?”

“Can’t you hear the dog’s message?  Kuli has come to look for help.”

Without wasting time, Tanga had rounded up two men to accompany him, with Kuli on the lead.

“If it wasn’t for your dog, the dog you treated worse than the mice that eat clothes and things, you would have died and rot in that hole.  You have grown up with that poisonous conception that your are the most successful man because you are a hunter; a man who fears nothing; a man who knows that he was born to be master forever; a man who dreams of nothing but of his superiority over all beings, and who only wakes up in the morning with the firm resolve to engrave his status by force in the hearts of those beings he considers inferior and over whom he must lord it; a man who sees no need to add anything to what he has met since you proclaim that all is well as long as it is well with you.  After all, you were born to be a consumer and not a producer.  And a consumer you must remain.  Now look at you!”

He stopped to scold down at the groaning hunter.  “Today that cold wind has caught up with your arrogance.  How do you feel now after eating a meal of huckleberry?”

Jembe only bit his lower lip and let the tears freely flow down his cheeks.

 

 

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Dee Rimbaud Robert L. Harrison Janet Butler

Nathan Combs Michael Marisi Ornstein

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No Longer Trapped in Toyland

Dee Rimbaud

 

 

 

Lovers Above the City

Dee Rimbaud

 

 

 

The True Color of Savage Dawn

Dee Rimbaud

 

 

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Light Design

Robert L. Harrison

 

 

 

Northwest

Robert L. Harrison

 

 

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Parrot

Janet Butler

 

 

Pastel Nude

Janet Butler

 

 

 

All That Jazz

Janet Butler

 

 

 

Drawing

Janet Butler

 

 

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Untitled

Nathan Combs

 

 

Untitled

Nathan Combs

 

 

 

Untitled

Nathan Combs

 

 

 

Untitled

Nathan Combs

 

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Buddha

Michael Marisi Ornstein

 

 

 

Eve

Michael Marisi Ornstein

 

 

 

Home	Michael Marisi Ornstein

 

 

 

Work

Michael Marisi Ornstein

 

 

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Photograph by Robert L. Harrison                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   The Cedarmere Poems The Home of William Cullen Bryant by Robert L. Harrison     Traces of the Poet His kindred spirit was seen in the early hours before the fingers of the sun could reach his soul. A dull light illuminated the windows as he passed and roamed his house without a sound, searching perhaps for an unfinished poem before the daybreak. The police rushed in and found nothing except one roll of missing toilet paper. The flush of the upstairs toilet gave them all a chill until the embarrassed rookie cop came out of the bathroom.     Changing Tides The Hempstead Harbor condos were creeping out and touched the banks where a thousand Poetic thoughts were born. Bryant’s house still stood out like a vanguard of past times held together by old wood once crafted by men not hungry for a quick buck. The front porch bricks felt the morning sun better then the plastic palaces downstream and the trees still touched the clouds in a place where imagination once roamed and the admission was free. .   The Pond Tonight Moon beams Carry with them The Poet’s dreams Onto Bryant’s Pond tonight. The wind Flows through them; Those bright silver spears Of light that reflect On still waters That give birth To new visions to men who never Had the sight. Moon beams Carry with them The Poet’s dreams Onto Bryant’s Pond tonight.     212th It was Bryant’s 212th birthday and the phone was silent, his doorbell never rang. But a few poets did come whispering his beloved prose into a cool wind that would scatter these words like invisible seeds replanting his gardens once more. Later, a birthday cake was shared by the few who knew even after all these years that; Poets were born to die but their words were always there if needed.     Elderfields The traffic on the boulevard rushed by Elderfields, not noticing its ancient wealth. For now the house paint peelings were tongue dry and the voices within stilled by time, no murmurs or whispers or children’s feet thumping down it’s stairs. For the rooms now are bloom clean without beds or tables or candles lit for the evening prayers. Now, only the sparrows jays and chickadees explore the untended garden, wandering about, wings at the ready, seeking the wonders of abandoned overgrown bushes that were once pruned by proud owners. Now the leaves whirl from a sudden gush of wind and the quiet takes over again shrouding the home like a temple once praised and forgot. .   The Planting of the Apple Tree (2007 Version) You all come, let us plant the apple tree; Cut the coupon straight, with the sharp scissors, Clean the smooth paper with a tissue; There gently lay the money and there Press the coupon onto the stack of green. Softly fold them both into a wallet: Yet made up of cow’s leather. Buds, pick up a six-pack later, For the breath of summer makes Every planter thirsty And gives the mind A shelter from a summer’s shower. When we buy the apple-tree; Tip not with loose coins but Bid the nursery man, good-day. Now dig the dirt with spade, With hole with blusters That will surly come And plant that damn tree As Bryant would have done. Say “Hocus Pocus” three times While crossing your hands; For young children love that And the planting Will be complete.     November Light The November light touches the pond with weak eyed rubbings from an indifferent sun. The strongest brightest rays will fade of course when the arc of sunshine is done. But the pond and surrounding turf will absorb this weak light and heal itself from the pelts of rain that were yesterday’s morning greeting.     Cutting the Christmas Tree The gray sky loomed over the plains as we cast no shadows over our thoughts. We walked in silence which is always better in sacred places and felt the bodies of the young trees that might suit our need. At last, the saw was used and the branches shook as its grip on the earth was cut away. Just then, from the bushes, a ring tail pheasant arose, Straight up; into the arms of the gray sky with a loud whir of wings. “Caaw-Cak, Caaw-Cak” the bird sounded out and broke the silence that was pledged between us. Carrying the tree out of the plains nothing was said, for what could be said after hearing the plains speak in a language much older than ours.     Silver Moon over the Hempstead Plains The turnpike never stopped with its rush hour cars and the sun was drooling with its last licks on the high rise buildings that overlook yesterday’s paradise. On the plains, I was cold as a winter’s promise viewing the dying of the day as the moon full as a fresh baked pizza loomed higher with its silver light. Now this emperor of the night covered the plains with its skirt stilling the birds, painting the scene with light that was as old as the earth could remember; with silver threads from a quieter time.     The Second Frost The second frost came and was seen by keen eyes just rubbed and ready. It hung on to the lower areas that was lipped by the tide and formed a mantle of cold winds breath on faded wild grass in the hollow spots. Even the geese came closer to the poet’s house afterwards as if it radiated heat and would protect them from the relentless harbor wind. The second frost vanished before the afternoon walk; no trace of its gleaming glory found just a memory that was flung out, and caught by a trespasser roaming nature’s garden.     Brush Fire The brush fire crackled on the nearby hills, making the radio announce that Bryant Avenue was closed. But I knew of a back way that crisscrossed between the dry cold woods, passing by parked police cars and led into his pebbled driveway. Later, I walked down where the fire was and saw frozen water hanging like angel’s hair on trees that must have cried out in their own way when the flames licked them. They looked beautiful in death as the early sun lit up their branches dropping cold tears into the hollow that would have no more woodland shadows.   False Spring Spring Grabbed its loving grip on Cedarmere's cold garden. A lady bug flew against the window, confused perhaps about the blue skies and the sun's warming rays. Outdoors the passing ducks splashed down for a winter’s bath and stayed to flop their wings again and again. Even Bryant would have been inspired to write some verse for old men cherish a touch of warm sun on a winter’s day and worship every warm degree like a kiss from a forgotten love.     The Knothole We cleaned up the knothole, Morley’s old study stacked with his books still ready for a read. His pipes were not sucked on for over fifty years, his typewriter still empty of paper, his reading habits, now boxed for the winter. Everything fit into two cars neat as one of his poems waiting for the last line.     Winter Hawk Out of the low earth hugging clouds he came a red tailed hawk outlined against a milky curtain. Making endless circles, gliding slowly, rising and falling on each breath of air. A master of the wind now surveying the terrain below with eyes that could see a squirrel’s tail or a robins nest, any movement That would cause Him to dive down with his talons ready. And those below him knew that death was just a grab away a flurry from the sky a swoop and rise that would end their memories of life’s bountiful offerings.     Cold Snap The cold air rushed down the harbor over the Roslyn Heights, touching the hills, the pond and the people. The front had moved in numbing the dreams of an early spring frosting the thoughts of outdoor strollers, cooling the temptations of afternoon lovers. Winter was a reality again with winds that would make you curl up inside.     Return to Contents Return to top of page