tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-43722385901153398472024-03-06T12:59:31.734-07:00Writing In A Woman's VoiceBeate Sigriddaughterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06004863903299834654noreply@blogger.comBlogger2292125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4372238590115339847.post-49679702419600797972023-06-17T20:17:00.001-06:002023-06-17T20:18:32.741-06:00<p><span style="font-family: inherit;">More recent post can be found here: <a href="https://writinginawomansvoice2.blogspot.com/">https://writinginawomansvoice2.blogspot.com/</a></span></p><p><br /></p>Beate Sigriddaughterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06004863903299834654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4372238590115339847.post-42136710275799294712023-06-13T00:00:00.001-06:002023-06-13T00:00:00.135-06:00<p><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The Last Time I Saw You</span></span></p><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
by Shaun R. Pankoski<br />
<br />
<br />
was in front of a pancake house<br />
outside the Strip. The air was dirty dry,<br />
those boots hurt my feet, my sequined shirt<br />
looked garish in the mid-afternoon light.<br />
You called me a cab,<br />
walked me to the curb, pulled me close.<br />
<br />
In the crook of your neck I said<br />
“I love you,” plainly,<br />
in that same,<br />
matter-of-fact way I'd said goodbye<br />
a sad, sweet long ago.<br />
<br />
Yet, here we were again,<br />
leaving fragments and fibers of ourselves behind,<br />
the space between us just large enough<br />
for the exhale of one<br />
to be taken in by the other.<br />
<br />
When you replied,<br />
I tried to imagine not leaving,<br />
becoming indivisible,<br />
immovable in a swirling world.<br />
But like a scab,<br />
<br />
a tangle,<br />
a pulled tooth -<br />
thinking about the loss<br />
was more painful than the loss itself,<br />
and in the aftermath,<br />
relief.<br />
<br />
<br />
* * * * *<br />
<br />
Shaun R. Pankoski is a retired County worker living in Volcano on the Island of
Hawai'i with her cat, Kiko, and a bunch of coqui frogs. She held a Top
Secret clearance in the Air Force, was an artist's model for over twenty years
and was a founding member of a Modern Dance company in San Francisco. She is a
two time breast cancer survivor and makes a mean corn chowder.<br />
<br /></span>
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--></span>Beate Sigriddaughterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06004863903299834654noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4372238590115339847.post-87692583744788609062023-06-12T00:00:00.001-06:002023-06-12T00:00:00.142-06:00<p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="text-align: center;">Squeezed<br /></span><span style="text-align: center;"><br />by Tong Ge<br /><br /></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-hyphenate: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Saturday,
following a movie and some wine, my new boyfriend and I retired to bed. We have been dating for six months and have
never argued. Then he leans over and squeezes my breasts playfully. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-hyphenate: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Stop
it!” I shove him away roughly.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-hyphenate: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“What’s
wrong?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-hyphenate: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Never
do that, okay?” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-hyphenate: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> “I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-hyphenate: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I
turn away. “Look, I’m fine. You didn’t hurt me, not physically. I just…”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-hyphenate: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“I’m
listening.” He spoons me and presses a light kiss on my shoulder. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-hyphenate: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I
turn around. It’s time. I have never told anyone this story, not even my
mother. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-hyphenate: none; text-indent: .5in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-hyphenate: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As a
sophomore living in China, I fell in love for the first time. Love poems poured
from me like a water-spring gushing out of a fountainhead. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-hyphenate: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My
boyfriend, an art student, was the older brother of my girlfriend in high
school. When we first met three years earlier, I never dreamt that we would
date one day. You see, he was just too handsome for an average-looking girl
like me. Now, with a movie star face and an artist’s hands, he becomes an ideal
husband. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-hyphenate: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I
didn’t tell my practical, stable, unromantic parents about him. Dating would
take time and focus away from my academic studies, my mother claimed. But I was
not going to give up my Movie Star—not for my studies, not for anything.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-hyphenate: none; text-indent: .5in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-hyphenate: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Life
was perfect except for one thing. I had developed some small, painful lumps in
my breasts and armpits. I put up with the problem until I couldn’t anymore. I
had to seek medical attention. Movie Star dutifully accompanied me.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-hyphenate: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">When
we entered the hospital, a tall, slim woman with wavy hair walked elegantly
toward us. Movie Star and she exchanged a brief greeting. I was not introduced.
<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-hyphenate: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Who
is she?” I asked after she walked away.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-hyphenate: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“A
model in our school,” Movie Star said dismissively. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-hyphenate: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I
knew what he meant. Not just a model, but a nude model. He’d seen her naked and
sketched her long legs. Nude models were a new and stigmatized occupation at
the time. Old-fashioned Chinese called them whores and most of them had to keep
their occupation a secret. Those who were found out often were disowned by
their families.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-hyphenate: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Does
she have a boyfriend?” I asked.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-hyphenate: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Not
among the students.” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-hyphenate: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Because
of what she does for a living?” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-hyphenate: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Perhaps.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-hyphenate: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So,
even art students were not immune from deep-rooted traditions and public
opinion. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-hyphenate: none; text-indent: .5in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-hyphenate: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">When it was
my turn to go into the doctor’s office, Movie Star waited outside. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-hyphenate: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">After
learning about my problem, the doctor told me to unbutton my shirt. A pair of
claws gripped my beasts and squeezed. I knew right away it was not the right
way for a doctor to examine a patient, but if I screamed or said anything,
Movie Star could hear, and he might dump me. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-hyphenate: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I
should have screamed and slapped the doctor’s face anyway. I should have jumped
up and ran out of the room. But I couldn’t risk losing Movie Star. <i><o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-hyphenate: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I
tried to see the water-color sunset that Movie Star had painted earlier. The
lights and shadows danced in brilliant colors in the river, in the reflection
of the sky. My future could be as beautiful as the painting. I would not allow
anybody to take it away.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-hyphenate: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So,
in dead silence, I allowed this doctor his actions. I allowed those dirty hands
to squeeze and fondle my breasts—the breasts only my boyfriend had ever touched.
I clenched my teeth, enduring the pain and the shame.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-hyphenate: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">After
he was done with me, the doctor told me the lumps were harmless. I buttoned up
my shirt without making eye contact with him. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-hyphenate: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The
beautiful painting was gone. All I could see now was a dirty spot on the
canvas. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-hyphenate: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Why
had I come to the hospital in the first place? I had done it to myself when I
insisted on an examination, hadn’t I? Maybe God intended to punish me for not
only dating a boy but allowing him to touch my breasts. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-hyphenate: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As
long as I had Movie Star in my life, I told myself, I could endure anything.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-hyphenate: none; text-indent: .5in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-hyphenate: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A year went
by. One weekend, Movie Star left his book-bag in my dorm while he went out on
an errand. I knew he kept a journal. I soon found it in the bag. I only wanted
to know how deeply he still loved me. To my surprise, I found an entry about
him stealing an item from a local air force base. He didn’t say what the item
was, but it must have been very valuable or very useful for him to risk jail
time. Then, a line about me made my heart almost jump out of my throat:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-hyphenate: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Qian
would have never guessed if she were to come between me and what I want, I
would not hesitate to point a dagger at her heart.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-hyphenate: none; text-indent: .5in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-hyphenate: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The day I
broke up with Movie Star, I cried hard for my soap-bubble future—beautiful but
fragile; destined to burst. I cried for the compromise I had made for a man I
hardly knew. My imagined future was not the beautiful colors in the sky but
only a reflection of it—a delusion. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-hyphenate: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> Over the years, I have managed to
paint something on that soiled canvas, to cover the spot, to pretend it is not
there. But I know it will never go away. Thank God I was not raped. If I were,
I would have had to burn the entire canvas.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-hyphenate: none; text-indent: .5in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-hyphenate: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">When I
finish my story, my boyfriend gently brushes my tears away. “I’m so sorry.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-hyphenate: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“It was
a long time ago,” I say. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-hyphenate: none; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I
don’t tell him that sometimes the memory of that day comes back like a wave of
nausea and the suicidal thoughts have never left me, not even after I had
immigrated to Canada. But I couldn’t kill myself. My mother would never survive
my death. She would never know how her beloved daughter was once squeezed
between silence and a scream, between shame and dignity, between the ugly
present and a beautiful future. She would never know how she had saved my life,
and I, hers.<br /><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
* * * * *<br /><br /></span></p>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="EN-CA" style="background: white; color: #222222; line-height: 107%;">Born and raised in
China, Sherry Wong moved to Canada in 1988 to pursue her master’s
degree. Since 2012, she writes both under her real name and her pen name,
Tong Ge, and her works may be found in publications including </span><i><span style="background: white; color: #222222; line-height: 107%;">PRISM International,
Canadian Stories, Ricepaper, Academy of the Heart and Mind, FLOW magazine,
Vineyard Poetry Quarterly</span></i><span style="background: white; color: #222222; line-height: 107%;">, </span><span style="background: white; color: #222222; line-height: 107%;">渥水</span><span style="background: white; color: #222222; line-height: 107%;">, </span><span style="background: white; color: #222222; line-height: 107%;">远方的诗</span><span style="background: white; color: #222222; line-height: 107%;">, <i>Polyglot Magazine</i>. She has also received
three literary awards and is among the finalists for another five. </span><span style="background: white; line-height: 107%;">Her debut novel <i>The
House Filler</i> will </span><span style="background: white;">be published in Canada i</span><span style="background: white;">n October of
2023.</span></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p>Beate Sigriddaughterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06004863903299834654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4372238590115339847.post-18146605175734437352023-06-11T00:00:00.001-06:002023-06-11T00:00:00.141-06:00<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";">Night Travels<br />
<br />
</span></b><span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";">by Lynn Bechtel<br /><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">She calls every day, my younger sister. I don’t always answer. I
can’t reach the phone or my supper tray has just arrived or I’m too tired. Today
I answer.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">How are you? she begins. I can hear the worry in her voice. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Fine, I say, fine. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I want to say I’m not fine, this isn’t living, these endless
minutes in this bed, this room, this fog, but I don’t. She’s so far away.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The phone is small, a shiny orange wafer that gets lost in my hand.
<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Where are you? I ask.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">At work. Lunch break. Cheese and crackers today. She showed me her
office once, on a long-ago trip. I remember stairs and a window looking out at
a street full of rooftops.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I got my hair cut today, I say. Everyone says it looks nice. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The phone is so hard to hold; I grip it tightly and my hand spasms.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">She’s talking now, a flow of words, one sentence then another, static
smothering the sounds. I hear “home” “office” “photographs” “Tashi.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";">She says “Tashi” again and I can feel </span><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";">the<span style="color: black;">
lean feline body, smooth fur, the vibration of a purr.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Is Tashi OK? I ask. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I think so, she says. Your neighbors took her in when you first
got sick. Remember? <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But you said something about Tashi, just now.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I found a photo, Peter with Tashi on his shoulder.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As she speaks, I remember the day I took that picture, Peter, my
love, bent to his desk, Tashi perched, both turning to look at me as I raised
the camera, quickly snapped husband, cat, late afternoon light slanting into
the room.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And I remember our house with its low ceilings, winding
staircases, and long sloping hallways, the view of the garden out the studio
window, the apple tree spilling fruit, the honey locust tree and freshly mown
lawn, husband and cat walking down the path toward me. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I wake sometimes in the night and my bed is in the studio at the
top of that house and I can see the garden under a full moon, the shadow of the
honey locust tree, smell the cut grass, hear Peter’s footsteps. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I keep this to myself. I told her once about my night travels.
Dreams, she said. Delirium. And I said yes, you’re right, but I know it’s real,
know that I leave this room, these walls, and my bed takes flight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> <br /><br /></span></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">* * * * *</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background: white; color: black;">Lynn Bechtel
is a writer, editor, gardener, reader, knitter, and novice meditator. She lives
in western Massachusetts where she writes essays and short stories and the
occasional poem. Her work has been published in journals including <i>Entropy,
The Sunlight Press, </i>and <i>The Berkshire Review </i>and in
the anthology <i>grief becomes you.</i></span><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></span></p>Beate Sigriddaughterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06004863903299834654noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4372238590115339847.post-17002426963123682482023-06-10T00:00:00.001-06:002023-06-10T00:00:00.127-06:00<p><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Evening walk</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #222222;">by Mary Wescott Riser<br />
<br />
<br />
the trees make a cave<br />
cool and shimmering with energy<br />
at dusk<br />
buttercups float in the shade<br />
vibrating with color<br />
the immense pulse of life<br />
surrounds us<br />
whether we notice or not<br />
<br />
<br />
* * * * *<br />
</span><br />
<span style="color: #474747;">Mary Wescott Riser worked in Virginia independent
schools for 30 years, most recently as Head of School at James River Day
School, a K-8 day co-ed day school in Lynchburg, Virginia, where she served as
Head for ten years. Mary received her B.A. in English and Philosophy from
Georgetown University and her M.F.A. in Poetry from the University of
Oregon. She writes the education blog “What’s Best For the Children?”
www.maryriser.org. Mary and her husband, George, live in Covesville, Virginia
and have two adult children.</span></span><span style="color: #474747;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--></span>Beate Sigriddaughterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06004863903299834654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4372238590115339847.post-38837734612451875952023-06-09T00:00:00.001-06:002023-06-09T00:00:00.132-06:00<p><span style="font-family: inherit;">A<span style="color: #222222;"> letter from Virginia to
New Mexico</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #222222;">
by </span><span style="color: #474747;">Mary
Wescott Riser</span><span style="color: #222222;"><br />
<br />
<br />
the dogwoods are in bloom<br />
and soon your high desert<br />
cactus will show her bold color<br />
and you, fierce friend, will run<br />
and dance, so free, alone,<br />
consumed by joy<br />
<br />
my heart is comforted to know<br />
you are in your writer's room<br />
making space for every woman's <br />
song. I long to walk with you<br />
through piney woods<br />
to sun-warmed stones and blue<br />
</span><br />
<br />
* * * * *<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #474747;">Mary Wescott Riser worked in Virginia independent
schools for 30 years, most recently as Head of School at James River Day
School, a K-8 day co-ed day school in Lynchburg, Virginia, where she served as
Head for ten years. Mary received her B.A. in English and Philosophy from
Georgetown University and her M.F.A. in Poetry from the University of Oregon.
She writes the education blog “What’s Best For the Children?”
www.maryriser.org. Mary and her husband, George, live in Covesville, Virginia
and have two adult children.</span></span><span style="color: #474747; font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--></span>Beate Sigriddaughterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06004863903299834654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4372238590115339847.post-3833226100856627642023-06-08T00:00:00.001-06:002023-06-08T00:00:00.136-06:00<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;">A Quiet Night</span></b><span style="color: #222222;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;"> </span><span style="color: #222222;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;">by Susan Isla Tepper</span><span style="color: black;"> </span><span style="color: #222222;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;"> </span><span style="color: #222222;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;"> </span><span style="color: #222222;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;">Naturally years later</span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;">you’d show up</span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;">during the full moon—</span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;">just as I’m dozing</span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;">into dreams, curled </span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;">on the rubber sleep pad</span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;">each night rolled out and</span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;">pushed into the low tight prow</span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;">of Isabelle, humble
trawler.</span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;"> </span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;">Bedtime everything puts to
order:</span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;">Spiders sucked in the
dust-buster,</span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;">Isabelle tied up anchored</span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;">sur la Seine</span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;">tucked in beside a larger
sleeker vessel.</span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;">Safety in numbers.</span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;"> </span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;">A quiet night—</span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;">water slapping the hull; that’s
all.</span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;"> </span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;">‘Til a ping of pearls</span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;">pearls washing through sleep</span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;">And I’ve wakened; listening</span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;">to this, delicate</span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;">intermittent by sheer seconds</span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;">hitting the round window in the
batten door. </span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;"> </span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;">Brushing away what seems a
web </span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;">woven along my jaw</span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;">I wriggle out,</span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;">stand, look through the window</span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;">Unprepared.</span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;"> </span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;">It’s you— all right; there</span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;">in the open stern</span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;">the balmy—</span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;"> </span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;">sporting those silly</span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;">psychedelic-blue shades </span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;">that I remember, somehow;</span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;">you tossing pebbles</span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;">from the trucked-in sand.</span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;"> </span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;">O glorious Paris riverside</span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;">resplendent summer season!</span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;"> </span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;">The glasses smashed to your
face</span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;">seem to vibrate colors</span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;">over you, the water, the deck</span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;">Picking up frequencies.</span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;">Like mine— like how you found
me</span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;"> </span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;">here, under a light post beamed</span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;">high over this water</span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;">this boat</span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;">where we spent</span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;">a stretch of languid
nights. </span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><i><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;">Please do come out</span></i><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;"> your voice implores.</span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;">Wobbly, slightly drunk, loud.</span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;">I cannot make a move.</span><span style="color: #333333;"><br />
</span><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; color: black; padding: 0in;">I hardly recall your tone.</span><span style="color: #222222;"><br />
</span><br />
<br />
* * * * *<br />
<br />
<span style="background: white; color: #222222;">"A Quiet Night" was previously
published in <i>The Galway Review.</i><br />
<br />
Susan Isla Tepper is the author of eleven published books of fiction and
poetry, and three stage plays. Her play <i>The Crooked Heart</i> premiered
as a staged-reading at Irish Repertory Theatre on October 25, 2022. Tepper
has received numerous awards and honors including 19 Pushcart Prize
Nominations, a Pulitzer Nomination for the book version of <i>The Crooked Heart</i>,
a winner in the Francis Ford Coppola Novel Contest (2003), and more. Two
new novels are forthcoming. Tepper was recently made a Brand Ambassador for <i>The
Galway Review</i>, out of Ireland. </span><a href="http://www.susantepper.com/" target="_blank"><span style="background: white; color: #1155cc;">www.susantepper.com</span></a></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /></span>
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>Beate Sigriddaughterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06004863903299834654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4372238590115339847.post-14381497381546769012023-06-07T00:00:00.006-06:002023-06-07T00:03:40.767-06:00<p> <b><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The Only Reason the Audience Finds the <br /></span></span></b><b style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"> Erotic Poet's Work So Uncomfortable </span></b></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="line-height: 107%;"> </span></b><span style="line-height: 107%;">by CLS Sandoval<br />
<br />
<b> </b></span><b><span style="line-height: 107%;"><br />
</span></b><span style="line-height: 107%;">is because she thought of
all of our fantasies </span><span style="line-height: 107%;"><br />
</span><span style="line-height: 107%;">before we did—<br />
<br />
that and the twelve-year-old boy<br />
sitting in the second row,<br />
<br />
wide-eyed. </span><span style="line-height: 107%;"><br />
</span><span style="line-height: 107%;"> </span><span style="line-height: 107%;"><br />
</span><i><span style="line-height: 107%;">(for poet Alexis Rhone
Fancher) <br />
</span></i><span style="line-height: 107%;"><br />
</span><span style="line-height: 107%;"><br />
* * * * *<br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 107%;">"</span><span style="line-height: 107%;">The Only Reason the Audience Finds the Erotic Poet's Work So
Uncomfortable" was first published in </span><i><span style="line-height: 107%;">weirderary</span></i><span style="line-height: 107%;"> </span><span style="background: white;">in 2016.</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span><br />
CLS Sandoval, PhD (she/her)<b> </b>is a pushcart nominated writer and
communication professor with accolades in film, academia, and creative writing
who speaks, signs, acts, publishes, sings, performs, writes, paints, teaches
and rarely relaxes. She has presented over 50 times at communication
conferences, published 15 academic articles, two academic books, three
full-length literary collections: <i>God Bless Paul</i>, <i>Soup
Stories: A Reconstructed Memoir</i>, and <i>Writing Our Love Story</i>,
and three chapbooks: <i>The Way We Were</i>, <i>Tumbleweed: Against
All Odds</i>, and <i>The Villain Wore a Hero’s Face</i>. She is
raising her daughter and dog with her husband in Alhambra,
CA. <b> </b></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--></span>Beate Sigriddaughterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06004863903299834654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4372238590115339847.post-58703429877304706112023-06-06T00:00:00.001-06:002023-06-06T00:00:00.137-06:00<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Unsheltered, or News of the Broken World<br />
<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>by </span><span style="line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Emily
Patterson<br />
</span><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><br />
</span><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><br />
</span><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">arrives
on our front porch in the image of</span><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><br />
</span><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">a woman,
pregnant, body and clothes aglow</span><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><br />
</span><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><br />
</span><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">against
the maternity center blasted by bombs,</span><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><br />
</span><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">her child
sheltered by her body, her body</span><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><br />
</span><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><br />
</span><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">unsheltered,
her world a shell, shelled.</span><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><br />
</span><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><br />
</span><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">My own
daughter wakes up fevered, vomits</span><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><br />
</span><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">milk and
mucus beneath the kitchen table,</span><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><br />
</span><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><br />
</span><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">and so I
keep her home, keep her close,</span><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><br />
</span><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">sick and
safe as she sleeps outside my body,</span><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><br />
</span><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><br />
</span><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">inside
these unbruised walls. Hours later,</span><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><br />
</span><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><br />
</span><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">awake and
alight at the window, we watch</span><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><br />
</span><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">the
stillness of our neighbors’ houses,</span><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><br />
</span><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><br />
</span><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">clustered
and intact; weak sunlight in a sky</span><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><br />
</span><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">absent of
any threat—this earth untouched</span><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><br />
</span><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><br />
</span><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">by ashes
and audacious enough to bloom.<br />
<br />
<br />
* * * * *<br />
<br />
</span></span><span style="line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Emily Patterson is
the author of <i>So Much Tending Remains </i>(Kelsay Books, 2022), a
collection of poems chronicling the first year of motherhood. Her second
chapbook, <i>To Bend and Braid,</i> is forthcoming this summer. Emily
received her B.A. in English from Ohio Wesleyan University, where she was
awarded the Marie Drennan Prize for Poetry, and her M.A. in Education from The
Ohio State University. Her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and is
published or forthcoming in <i>Rust + Moth, SWWIM, Mom Egg Review, Whale
Road Review,</i> and elsewhere. <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /></span>
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--></span><span style="line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>Beate Sigriddaughterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06004863903299834654noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4372238590115339847.post-78018513694826074482023-06-05T00:00:00.001-06:002023-06-05T00:00:00.137-06:00<p><span style="font-family: inherit;">A TUMULTUOUS LOVER</span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;">
by Emily Black<br />
<br />
<br />
Late afternoon sunlight casts sparkles <br />
on lapping waters of Newnan’s Lake <br />
as they roll toward shore amidst thick <br />
wedge-shaped trunks of tall cypress trees<br />
that stand in shallows of this vast lake <br />
close to my Florida home.<br />
<br />
From lake and woods, birds sweetly call <br />
and bestow peace on this setting. Small,<br />
rhythmic waves of tannic-colored water <br />
sing a song I remember from my youth.<br />
A blue heron, classic in stature, so still <br />
he doesn’t seem real, stands patiently <br />
<br />
in shallow water to wait for his evening meal.<br />
There are many alligators that live in this lake,<br />
but none are to be seen as the sun declines <br />
toward a watery horizon. Perhaps they know <br />
a hurricane is soon to make landfall and its path <br />
may pass through here. <br />
<br />
Maybe they’ve already filled their bellies <br />
and retreated to their reedy flats and mud <br />
burrows for safety, just like the local folks<br />
have gassed-up their cars and hastened to stores <br />
to shop for candles, batteries, ice, bread, milk <br />
and gallon bottles of water. <br />
<br />
I still see Mother Nature as my goddess <br />
and accept that her moods are changeable. <br />
No placid lover is she, but her glory, my <br />
deepest love, always surrounds me though <br />
sometimes it is tumultuous, a love that tosses <br />
me around and reminds me I am mortal.<br />
<br />
<br />
* * * * *<br />
<br />
<span class="il"><span style="background: white; color: #222222;">Emily</span></span><span style="background: white; color: #222222;"> <span class="il">Black</span>, the second woman to graduate in Civil
Engineering from the University of Florida, enjoyed a long engineering career.
She began writing poetry recently and is published in numerous journals. Her
first poetry book, <i>The Lemon Light of Morning</i>, was published by Bambaz
press in 2022. Her second book is scheduled for publication in 2023. <span class="il">Emily</span> wears Fire Engine Red Lipstick.</span><br /></span>
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]-->Beate Sigriddaughterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06004863903299834654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4372238590115339847.post-41395370241528476702023-06-04T00:00:00.001-06:002023-06-04T00:00:00.133-06:00<p> </p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><a name="_Hlk113741490"></a><a name="_Hlk123844890"></a><a name="_Hlk106132054"></a><a name="_Hlk67761680"></a><a name="_Hlk67856807"></a><a name="_Hlk77870864"></a><a name="_Hlk57578386"></a><a name="_Hlk535777632"></a><a name="_Hlk9021815"></a><a name="_Hlk14121230"></a><a name="_Hlk14199258"></a><a name="_Hlk21803565"></a><a name="_Hlk29488763"></a><a name="_Hlk37104330"></a><a name="_Hlk510343756"></a><a name="_Hlk515344167"></a><a name="_Hlk517823260"></a><a name="_Hlk520406233"></a><a name="_Hlk523093024"></a><a name="_Hlk528092762"></a><a name="_Hlk530596270"></a><a name="_Hlk47296443"></a><a name="_Hlk47384624"></a><a name="_Hlk55067095"></a><a name="_Hlk93341505"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk55067095;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk47384624;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk47296443;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk530596270;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk528092762;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk523093024;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk520406233;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk517823260;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk515344167;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk510343756;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk37104330;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk29488763;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk21803565;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk14199258;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk14121230;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk9021815;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk535777632;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk57578386;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk77870864;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk67856807;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk67761680;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk106132054;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk123844890;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk113741490;"><span style="background: white; color: #222222;">This
month, an additional </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></a><a href="http://writinginawomansvoice.blogspot.com/2018/01/the-moon-prize-moon-prize-91-is-awarded.html"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk93341505;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk55067095;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk47384624;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk47296443;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk530596270;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk528092762;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk523093024;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk520406233;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk517823260;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk515344167;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk510343756;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk37104330;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk29488763;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk21803565;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk14199258;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk14121230;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk9021815;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk535777632;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk57578386;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk77870864;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk67856807;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk67761680;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk106132054;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk123844890;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk113741490;"><span style="background: white; color: black; mso-color-alt: windowtext;">Moon Prize</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk93341505;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk55067095;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk47384624;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk47296443;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk530596270;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk528092762;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk523093024;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk520406233;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk517823260;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk515344167;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk510343756;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk37104330;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk29488763;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk21803565;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk14199258;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk14121230;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk9021815;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk535777632;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk57578386;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk77870864;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk67856807;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk67761680;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk106132054;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk123844890;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk113741490;"></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></a><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk93341505;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk55067095;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk47384624;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk47296443;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk530596270;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk528092762;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk523093024;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk520406233;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk517823260;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk515344167;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk510343756;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk37104330;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk29488763;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk21803565;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk14199258;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk14121230;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk9021815;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk535777632;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk57578386;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk77870864;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk67856807;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk67761680;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk106132054;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk123844890;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk113741490;"><span style="background: white; color: #222222;">,
the 114th, goes to</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk106132054;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk123844890;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk113741490;"><span style="background: white; color: #222222;">
Nina Heiser's intense poem "</span></span></span></span><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk106132054;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk123844890;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk113741490;"><span style="color: #222222; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">memories thick as mud</span><span style="background: white; color: #222222;">." <br />
</span></span></span></span><a name="_Hlk105853566"></a><a name="_Hlk112108758"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk105853566;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk113741490;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk123844890;"><b><br />
<br />
</b></span></span></span></a><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk123844890;"></span><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk113741490;"></span><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk105853566;"></span><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk112108758;"></span><span lang="EN-AU" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">memories thick as mud<br />
<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>by Nina Heiser<br />
<br />
<br />
and then some<br />
lips red as a licked red candy skin<br />
pale as the morning moon<br />
eyes dark as glittered sunshine she<br />
was the altar of his doom she came<br />
in the hours the world goes hiding<br />
where secrets of the heart unfurl she<br />
was his vision his hope his harbor<br />
she was not his girl<br />
her eyes glared like glaze ice<br />
on black roads like a crow’s wing<br />
in a colorless sky her eyes<br />
found his still as frozen-over water<br />
when you are dead she whispered<br />
there will be nothing in that moment<br />
she saw the fear in him the trepidation and she<br />
walked away leaving him alone knowing<br />
he watched as she grew small and smaller and<br />
smaller until the world took her from him<br />
and everything became shadow<br />
after the black flies had their<br />
turn at her she learned to squat<br />
and to like the stretch of picking<br />
in the early morning summer sun<br />
not the white-hot sun she had always<br />
known in the land where colors flowed<br />
like silken robes inside the stench of<br />
poverty and putrid waste where noises<br />
throbbed in pandemonium where he<br />
the photographer from a different world had<br />
zeroed in without a flinch at the inner<br />
harmonium of beauty’s spheres<br />
she was a red-blooded woman in a<br />
black-and-white world in an immobile<br />
time not marked by clocks trapped inside<br />
a crystal-blue cocoon under pricking stars shining and<br />
brittle as an infinity of tiny glass shards sprinkling<br />
down like sugar on ginger like snowflakes on ice like<br />
the guilt of old secrets on newborn joy<br />
shhh she said don’t speak don’t<br />
break the bond silence has forged<br />
between us don’t jinx the spell under<br />
which we labor don’t call bad magic<br />
<br />
<br />
* * * * *<br />
<br />
Nina Heiser is a poet, writer and retired journalist currently living in
central Florida and<br />
Western New York. Her work has appeared in <i>Tuck Magazine, Cadence, the
Florida<br />
State Poets Association Anthology, Vociferous Press anthology Screaming from
the<br />
Silence, Embark Literary Journal</i>, and <i>Gargoyle Magazine</i>. Her poetry
and photographs<br />
</span><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">have been
featured in Pendemics Journal and Of Poets & Poetry.<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p>Beate Sigriddaughterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06004863903299834654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4372238590115339847.post-13598481981417357702023-06-03T00:00:00.001-06:002023-06-03T00:00:00.239-06:00<p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a name="_Hlk93341505"><span style="background: white; color: #222222;">This
month's </span></a><a href="http://writinginawomansvoice.blogspot.com/2018/01/the-moon-prize-moon-prize-91-is-awarded.html"><span style="background: white; color: black; mso-color-alt: windowtext;">Moon Prize</span></a><span style="background: white; color: #222222;">,
the 113th, goes to</span><span style="background: white; color: #222222;">
Donna Dallas's stunning story "Habitat."</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a name="_Hlk105853566"></a><a name="_Hlk112108758"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk105853566;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk113741490;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk123844890;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></span></a><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk123844890;"></span><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk113741490;"></span><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk105853566;"></span><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk112108758;"></span><b><span style="border: none; color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">HABITAT<br />
<br />
</span></b><span style="border: none; color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">by Donna Dallas<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--></span><span style="border: none; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 0in 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="border: none; color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">She
rides with her pack of wolves on black Harley's. Yellow unkempt hair under a
bowl-shaped helmet, flowing over solid shoulders and apple breasts. Her
stained-glass makeup covers up days of reckless riding. A blue flame to match
her blue eyeshadow. She burns, her heat cannot be contained and that is why she
rides. Animal girl, slicked in leather passed down through heavy mileage. A
long line of followers wait to share her bike. She can’t have a man without
breaking him and when he’s broke, she rides alone.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 0in 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="border: none; color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">She
smokes cigarettes through her cherry lips with her leather legs spread apart
and her beer resting in between. She pees out there in the wilderness, eyes
like ripe blueberries, scanning her terrain. She has a tattoo of Jesus Christ
on her right arm. Jesus guides her when she fixes her bike. Jesus flexes and
stretches on her arm when she works her tools on the bikes’ engine. She knows
how to work every part. Her daddy was a biker and she’s traveled more miles
than a monarch butterfly.</span><span style="border: none; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 0in 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="border: none; color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Daddy
raised her on the back of his bike and when she could see over the clutch, he
put her on her own. When he died, she sat with him in Washington’s Crossing. She
took his place and took his bike. He taught her to move free, a leather panther
treading the wild gravel, new leader of the pack. Ode to daddy, never let
civilization cut her wheels and contain her habitat.</span><span style="border: none; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 0in 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="border: none; color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">She
won’t stay put for very long. The voices of her people carry over the asphalt
of Interstate 66. Her band grows bigger. Laden with leather and worn denim,
their primal urge to ride. Animal lust courses through their blood and their
scent spreads across the camp like heat out of a furnace. They roll around the
devil’s fire, growling through the crackling red flames. Their skins are one
and they believe there is no other life truer than theirs.</span><span style="border: none; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 0in 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="border: none; color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Her
thoughts wander along the black veins of smoke, drifting lazily into the moons’
belly. She recalls a small house in a town she left back east. The man with the
crisp clothes and the honey bronzed skin. The one who softened her body to
suede. Tamed girl, silly from long kisses that slowed her down and down and
melded her into an orb of blue heat. No makeup needed, no leather, just skin
wrapped in the scent of his body.</span><span style="border: none; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 0in 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="border: none; color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">She
left one morning before the sun rose, before the bronze god awoke. She heard
the roar of the motorcycles, the chanting engines. The walls became too close
and the bed too soft for her. Daddy’s breath floated along the carbon monoxide.
The air tightened up and she could not breathe any longer unless it was along
the wind from her bike in motion. She knew if she stayed, she would lose her
freedom, that’s what daddy told her. Never let them tame you. So, she keeps
moving, on the bike, with her pack.</span><span style="border: none; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 0in 0in;"><span style="border: none; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
* * * * *<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 0in 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="border: none; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">Donna Dallas has appeared
in a plethora of journals, most recently <i>The Opiate, Beatnik Cowboy, Tribes,
Horror Sleaze Trash</i> and <i>Fevers of the Mind</i>. She is the author of <i>Death
Sisters</i>, her legacy novel, published by Alien Buddha Press. Her first
chapbook, <i>Smoke and Mirrors</i>, launched in 2022 with New York Quarterly.
Donna serves on the editorial team of NYQ. </span><span style="border: none;"><a href="mailto:donnaanndallas@gmail.com"><span style="color: #0563c1;">donnaanndallas@gmail.com</span></a></span><span style="border: none; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 0in 0in;"><span style="border: none; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">@DonnaDallas15<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white; color: #222222;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></span></p>Beate Sigriddaughterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06004863903299834654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4372238590115339847.post-71651101289407237402023-06-02T00:00:00.002-06:002023-06-07T09:12:30.481-06:00<p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a name="_Toc86483753"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 115%;"><b>Wet was the
Light<br /></b></span></a> from a line by Pablo Neruda</span></p><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
by Millicent Borges Accardi<br />
<br />
<br />
Wet was the light as we saw it <b><br />
</b>through a threadbare lens<br />
of what we call time or that period<br />
of waiting between what will happen<br />
next and what we regret having happened,<br />
the hard-bad opposite of a world hunch or an omen,<br />
the silent-low sense of doom to come,<br />
a spirit arising in the country we<br />
call home, the desire for isolation,<br />
desperately to be different, the<br />
unexplored nonsense of late.<br />
This is the air in the pastel room when we<br />
are enclosed and locked up by<br />
an intense wondering and fear<br />
of comfort fear of letting our guard<br />
down and forgetting to protect ourselves<br />
from nearly everything we can imagine,<br />
even the scrape of skin upon<br />
our hands, the whispered hello<br />
of a neighbor or a child playing in the creek<br />
below the yard where there are dirt<br />
banks instead of lawn. We are who<br />
we choose to become, are becoming<br />
or perhaps we mean we are who we<br />
are sentenced to be, a corona crown<br />
of in the if and now and meant for always <br />
that time is a path to follow, as we near the <br />
day of the year when June rises<br />
her longest glance of a day and tells us<br />
it is all right to enter. <br />
<br />
<br />
* * * * *<br />
<br />
"Wet was the Light" is from Millicent Borges Accardi's collection <i>Quarantine
Highway </i>(Flowersong Press, 2022)<br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">Millicent Borges Accardi, a
Portuguese-American writer has four poetry collections including <i>Only More
So </i>(Salmon Poetry Ireland). Among her awards are fellowships from the
National Endowment for the Arts, California Arts Council, CantoMundo,
Fulbright, Foundation for Contemporary Arts NYC (Covid grant), Creative
Capacity, Fundação Luso-Americana, and Barbara Deming Foundation, “Money
for Women.” She holds degrees in writing from CSULB and USC and currently lives
in the hippie-arts community of Topanga, CA where she curates Kale Soup for the
Soul and co-curates the Poets & Writers sponsored Loose Lips poetry readings. </span><br /></span>
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--></span>Beate Sigriddaughterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06004863903299834654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4372238590115339847.post-38576031613576425482023-06-01T00:00:00.005-06:002023-06-07T09:17:37.199-06:00<p> </p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a name="_Toc86483750"><b><span lang="EN">Green was the Silence</span></b></a><b><span lang="EN"><br />
</span></b></span><span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> from a line by Pablo
Neruda <br />
<br />
by <span style="background: white; color: black;">Millicent Borges Accardi<br />
</span><br />
<br />
It changes meaning like water,<br />
as a living being, like unfettered civility, <br />
a sunny breezeful summer ahead.<br />
The start of June, it is altogether<br />
stifling, and as if things would never be straight<br />
again we feel as if we had promised to be<br />
dark and mortal, soon, like strangers<br />
from the past we promised to be each other’s<br />
solid memory. We have shortness of breath<br />
and a pounding inside the lungs.<br />
We cannot remember a time when we were able<br />
to sleep before when we were former and usual <br />
vivid beings who existed in the city of Los Angeles,<br />
drifting through rivers of errands and emeralds,<br />
as if nothing had happened. We are <br />
lost now. As if we had been careless. Dropped out.<br />
Like music not written down but whistled and hummed<br />
and played under strange circumstances.<br />
Like a stranger with a guitar at a party. <br />
It is nearly June, near the longest day of the year, <br />
as Jordan comments in <i>The Great Gatsby</i>,
a seasonal marker <br />
complete with a sign that says, “We’re done now.” <br />
And we are together and alone and about to <br />
get reckless and cruel, but yet this time it will<br />
be different. This year, belonging to the entangled<br />
world that has been ripped apart.<br />
We are limited by so many things since<br />
the quarantine, absolute touch and hunger<br />
and it all goes to show us that nothing <br />
is visible or at hand anymore. <br />
We are a perfect example of ration<br />
and virtue, essentially savage and, yet—in a new sense—<br />
we are blindly controllable. We feel alternately<br />
safe and in danger, every moment altered,<br />
with no telling which statement above is truer.<br />
We are reckless-absolute and sexual-reasonable<br />
full of home-shocked martyrdom and wary of being <br />
present for what is about to come. We pretend<br />
to be on holiday and take <br />
out the board games, self-full of pride and fear,<br />
notching achievements with false pride:<br />
your charm, my conflict—our 24 hour conversations<br />
lack a richness of reality,<br />
embodied with a generous sadness.<br />
<br />
<br />
* * * * *<br />
<br />
"Green was the Silence" is from Millicent Borges Accardi's collection
<i>Quarantine Highway </i>(Flowersong Press, 2022)<br />
<br />
<span style="background: white; color: black;">Millicent Borges Accardi, a
Portuguese-American writer has four poetry collections including <i>Only More
So </i>(Salmon Poetry Ireland). Among her awards are fellowships from the
National Endowment for the Arts, California Arts Council, CantoMundo,
Fulbright, Foundation for Contemporary Arts NYC (Covid grant), Creative
Capacity, Fundação Luso-Americana, and Barbara Deming Foundation, “Money
for Women.” She holds degrees in writing from CSULB and USC and currently lives
in the hippie-arts community of Topanga, CA where she curates Kale Soup for the
Soul and co-curates the Poets & Writers sponsored Loose Lips poetry
readings. </span><br />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /></span>
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>Beate Sigriddaughterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06004863903299834654noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4372238590115339847.post-5559867151816293222023-06-01T00:00:00.004-06:002023-06-07T09:12:51.699-06:00<p> </p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a name="_Toc86483750"><b><span lang="EN">Green was the Silence</span></b></a><b><span lang="EN"><br />
</span></b></span><span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> From a line by Pablo
Neruda <br />
<br />
by <span style="background: white; color: black;">Millicent Borges Accardi<br />
</span><br />
<br />
It changes meaning like water,<br />
as a living being, like unfettered civility, <br />
a sunny breezeful summer ahead.<br />
The start of June, it is altogether<br />
stifling, and as if things would never be straight<br />
again we feel as if we had promised to be<br />
dark and mortal, soon, like strangers<br />
from the past we promised to be each other’s<br />
solid memory. We have shortness of breath<br />
and a pounding inside the lungs.<br />
We cannot remember a time when we were able<br />
to sleep before when we were former and usual <br />
vivid beings who existed in the city of Los Angeles,<br />
drifting through rivers of errands and emeralds,<br />
as if nothing had happened. We are <br />
lost now. As if we had been careless. Dropped out.<br />
Like music not written down but whistled and hummed<br />
and played under strange circumstances.<br />
Like a stranger with a guitar at a party. <br />
It is nearly June, near the longest day of the year, <br />
as Jordan comments in <i>The Great Gatsby</i>,
a seasonal marker <br />
complete with a sign that says, “We’re done now.” <br />
And we are together and alone and about to <br />
get reckless and cruel, but yet this time it will<br />
be different. This year, belonging to the entangled<br />
world that has been ripped apart.<br />
We are limited by so many things since<br />
the quarantine, absolute touch and hunger<br />
and it all goes to show us that nothing <br />
is visible or at hand anymore. <br />
We are a perfect example of ration<br />
and virtue, essentially savage and, yet—in a new sense—<br />
we are blindly controllable. We feel alternately<br />
safe and in danger, every moment altered,<br />
with no telling which statement above is truer.<br />
We are reckless-absolute and sexual-reasonable<br />
full of home-shocked martyrdom and wary of being <br />
present for what is about to come. We pretend<br />
to be on holiday and take <br />
out the board games, self-full of pride and fear,<br />
notching achievements with false pride:<br />
your charm, my conflict—our 24 hour conversations<br />
lack a richness of reality,<br />
embodied with a generous sadness.<br />
<br />
<br />
* * * * *<br />
<br />
"Green was the Silence" is from Millicent Borges Accardi's collection
<i>Quarantine Highway </i>(Flowersong Press, 2022)<br />
<br />
<span style="background: white; color: black;">Millicent Borges Accardi, a
Portuguese-American writer has four poetry collections including <i>Only More
So </i>(Salmon Poetry Ireland). Among her awards are fellowships from the
National Endowment for the Arts, California Arts Council, CantoMundo,
Fulbright, Foundation for Contemporary Arts NYC (Covid grant), Creative
Capacity, Fundação Luso-Americana, and Barbara Deming Foundation, “Money
for Women.” She holds degrees in writing from CSULB and USC and currently lives
in the hippie-arts community of Topanga, CA where she curates Kale Soup for the
Soul and co-curates the Poets & Writers sponsored Loose Lips poetry
readings. </span><br />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /></span>
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>Beate Sigriddaughterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06004863903299834654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4372238590115339847.post-44843556908388368392023-05-31T00:00:00.001-06:002023-05-31T00:00:00.135-06:00<p><b><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Losing the Fog</span></span></b></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;">by Cynthia Bernard<br />
<br />
<br />
The Pacific inhales overnight,<br />
then, shortly before dawn, begins <br />
crooning her love to the hills nearby.<br />
<br />
Her fog-song caresses the beach,<br />
sashays up the hillside,<br />
tucking in between houses,<br />
weaving through bushes, around trees,<br />
seeping down to greet the gophers,<br />
gliding up to tango with the crows.<br />
<br />
It’s a relationship renewed each morning,<br />
fertile and productive—<br />
nurturing coastal redwoods, who would not survive <br />
without the moisture they sip from each morning’s mist,<br />
and salmon, who swim streams<br />
kept alive by fog-drip.<br />
<br />
She’s begun to develop shortness of breath, <br />
fog barely making it beyond the bottom of the hill—<br />
and there’s no inhaler we can offer her, <br />
no chemotherapy that will cool things down,<br />
no radiation that will stop the spread.<br />
<br />
We can’t advise her to quit smoking, either;<br />
we’re the ones who feed the flames.<br />
<br />
Less fog… even less fog…<br />
The hillside weeps dried leaves, dead branches, <br />
as his beloved’s song fades away.<br />
<br />
<br />
* * * * *<br />
<br />
"Losing the Fog" was previously published in <i>Heimat Review</i>,
January 2023.<br />
<br />
Cynthia Bernard is a woman in her late sixties who is finding her voice as a
poet after many decades of silence. A long-time classroom teacher and a
spiritual mentor, she lives and writes on a hill overlooking the ocean, about
20 miles south of San Francisco. </span><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><br />
</span></span><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--></span>Beate Sigriddaughterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06004863903299834654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4372238590115339847.post-73925939449639371412023-05-30T00:00:00.001-06:002023-05-30T00:00:00.135-06:00<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">In
Case of Emergency<br />
<br />
</span></b><span lang="EN-GB">by </span><span style="color: #222222;">Lesley Warren<br />
</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span lang="EN-GB"><br />
</span><span lang="EN-GB"><br />
<span style="color: #333333;">WARNING: do not attempt alone.<br />
What to do in instances<br />
of sudden loss of love:<br />
determine source of apathy.<br />
Quickly remove pride and spite.<br />
If in doubt, consult bystanders.<br />
Loosen tongue.<br />
In cases of suspicion,<br />
check for foreign bodies.<br />
Measure impetus levels.<br />
If good, attempt resuscitation.<br />
If none found, proceed to next step.<br />
Carefully remove attachments.<br />
Assess the damage.<br />
Continue to breathe.<br />
Remove all visual stimuli<br />
from the immediate vicinity.<br />
Lock doors, initiate Playlist 1.<br />
Exceed recommended listening volume.<br />
Apply ice (creamed) copiously to the affected area.<br />
Stop blaming self.<br />
Repeat as necessary.<br />
DO NOT, under any circumstances,<br />
re-enter burning building.<br />
Important:<br />
put on your mask<br />
before facing others.<br />
<br />
<br />
* * * * *<br />
<br />
</span></span></span><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Lesley
Warren lives for language. Born to Filipino and Welsh parents, she now works as
a translator in Frankfurt, Germany. Her poetry and prose, which often encompass
themes of identity, mental health and "otherness", have appeared in
multiple online and print journals and anthologies, including those of the
Frankfurt Creative Writing Group. <br /></span>
</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br />
</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p>Beate Sigriddaughterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06004863903299834654noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4372238590115339847.post-2388917507127588312023-05-29T00:00:00.001-06:002023-05-29T00:00:00.133-06:00<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Tau
Herculids<br />
<br />
</b>by
<span style="background: white; color: black;">Christen Lee<br />
</span><br />
<br />
Astronomers predicted the Tau Herculids meteor shower<br />
to be an all-or-nothing event,<br />
a once-in-a lifetime sighting that could light up the sky <br />
with as many as 1,000 meteors per hour.<br />
It was Memorial Day.<br />
The kids and I waited until the sun sank low in the west,<br />
imagining how the night would dazzle like never before.<br />
We watched the dusk bleed orange into violet,<br />
stretch long shadows across the wide lawn until full dark.<br />
At ten o’clock, pajamaed and yawning,<br />
we ventured outdoors<br />
walked hand in hand under a<br />
charcoal canvas of black.<br />
We craned our necks, allowing our eyes to adjust as distant dots<br />
of white, faint yellow began to glow.<br />
Look! Look! At the hundreds of pulsing points pulling our eyes <br />
east then west,<br />
south until the trees blocked our view<br />
then north, buttressed by peaked rows of homes.<br />
And while not a single meteor grazed our line of view,<br />
the marvel of the cosmos filled us<br />
poured over into excited gestures<br />
as we pointed, guessing the names and ages of stars<br />
so many million light years away.<br />
And in that hour, the dark receded from our eyes <br />
illuminated by the hope of the unknown.<br />
Finally overcome by sleep, we carried ourselves inside,<br />
our heads falling heavy with so much light and time.<br />
They said it would be an all-or-nothing event<br />
and they weren’t wrong.<br />
Huddled together under that canopy of unyielding light,<br />
we had it all.<br />
<br />
<br />
* * * * *<br />
<br />
<span style="background: white; color: black;">Christen Lee is a family nurse
practitioner in Cleveland, Ohio. Her writing has been featured in the Literary
Cleveland’s <i>Voices from the Edge Anthology</i>, <i>Rue Scribe</i>, <i>The
Write Launch, Aurora, Humans of the World Blog</i>, <i>Sad Girls Club</i>, <i>2022
New Generation Beats Anthology</i>, <i>Wingless Dreamer</i> and is
forthcoming in <i>The Voices of Real 7 Compilation</i>.</span><br /></span>
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>Beate Sigriddaughterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06004863903299834654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4372238590115339847.post-55082276794439461282023-05-28T00:00:00.001-06:002023-05-28T00:00:00.135-06:00<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The
Clearcut<br />
<i><br />
</i>by Melanie Choukas-Bradley<br />
<br />
<b><br />
</b>Sitting in the clearcut on a mammoth
stump<br />
Waiting for moose<br />
<br />
Gumball-sized scat in piles the size of eagles’ nests <br />
Are flung across the cut, proof of presence<br />
The mountains are lost in a bank of white cloud<br />
<br />
While I wait for moose, small things come<br />
A hummingbird, buzzing past<br />
An orange fritillary nectaring in flat-topped goldenrod<br />
A lithe red squirrel, spruce cone in her mouth<br />
<br />
Although bleached-bone branches lie helter-skelter<br />
Across the sick yellow moss<br />
And some stumps in the disaster zone are three feet across<br />
<br />
All around me baby spruce and fir<br />
Do what babies do<br />
Spring into a broken world<br />
Limbs lifted, all hope, all luck <br />
<br />
<br />
* * * * *<br />
<br />
<span style="background: white; color: #222222;">Melanie Choukas-Bradley is a naturalist and
award-winning author of seven nature books, including </span><i><span style="color: #222222;">City
of Trees, A Year in Rock Creek Park, Finding Solace at Theodore Roosevelt
Island </span></i><span style="color: #222222;">and <i>The Joy of Forest Bathing. </i>She began
writing poetry during the pandemic and had the good fortune to discover <i>Writing
in a Woman’s Voice. </i>The site has featured several of her poems,
including “How to Silence a Woman,” and “If I have loved you,” both of which
won Moon Prizes. <span style="background: white;">Melanie's poetry has also
appeared in <i>The New Verse News</i>. </span>She is working on a nature memoir
about the Potomac Gorge. </span><i><br />
</i></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /></span>
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>Beate Sigriddaughterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06004863903299834654noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4372238590115339847.post-7993713146263229622023-05-27T00:00:00.001-06:002023-05-27T00:00:00.135-06:00<p> </p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Recycling<br />
<br />
</span></i></b><span style="font-family: inherit;">by
Melanie Choukas-Bradley<br />
<br />
<br />
It’s hot here in the mountains, hot all over the hemisphere<br />
London train tracks buckling, Sierra sequoias crackling<br />
And where it’s not burning it’s drowning <br />
<br />
I walk up the road and take the Short Circuit path <br />
Into the woods<br />
The road is lined with recycling bins<br />
<br />
Plastics, glass, papers and cardboard, all methodically sorted<br />
Such conscientious recyclers, fighting to rescue the planet <br />
I take the Short Circuit to the Pasture Path<br />
<br />
And down to the Diagonal<br />
I step off the Diagonal to do what most humans do indoors<br />
Into a world of spruce and fir and moss-draped earth<br />
<br />
Into a world of unconscious recycling<br />
Birch logs softening into deep decay<br />
Moose scats in piles the size of eagles’ nests drying in the sun<br />
<br />
Everything sinking down or rising up, rot and regeneration<br />
Circular resilience<br />
A world apart from rectangular bins <br />
<br />
<br />
* * * * *<br />
<br />
<span style="background: white; color: #222222;">Melanie Choukas-Bradley is a
naturalist and award-winning author of seven nature books, including </span><i><span style="color: #222222;">City of Trees, A Year in Rock Creek Park, Finding Solace
at Theodore Roosevelt Island </span></i><span style="color: #222222;">and <i>The
Joy of Forest Bathing. </i>She began writing poetry during the pandemic
and had the good fortune to discover <i>Writing in a Woman’s Voice. </i>The
site has featured several of her poems, including “How to Silence a Woman,” and
“If I have loved you,” both of which won Moon Prizes. <span style="background: white;">Melanie's poetry has also appeared in <i>The New Verse News</i>. </span>She
is working on a nature memoir about the Potomac Gorge. </span><i><br />
</i><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /></span>
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>Beate Sigriddaughterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06004863903299834654noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4372238590115339847.post-50287920258177927852023-05-26T00:00:00.001-06:002023-05-26T00:00:00.130-06:00<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Inhabited<br />
<br />
</b><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">by Laura Ann Reed<br />
</span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><br />
<br />
</b>And now, when I summon up<br />
that hamper in my parents’ room, <br />
<br />
what do I seek to resurrect if not <br />
the daydreams I inhabited <br />
<br />
in that shadowed space?<br />
I want them back—<br />
<br />
those idle thoughts<br />
of the duration I could stay <br />
<br />
safely hidden, and of how <br />
good the special silence there.<br />
<br />
Good too, those ripe,<br />
familiar smells of my <br />
<br />
parents—their underwear co-<br />
mingling without shouts or swearing.<br />
<br />
I want it back—that proximity<br />
to my mother’s closet, where <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
at least six shirtwaist dresses<br />
waited for me to steal among<br />
<br />
them and stow my longing between <br />
plaids and floral patterns. Then, <br />
<br />
like an afterthought—behind all <br />
those coats and crisp white blouses—<br />
<br />
that taffeta gown with its rainbow<br />
sheen I’d never seen her wear,<br />
<br />
its cool, deep folds holding the perfume<br />
of who she’d been before I knew her.<br />
<br />
<br />
* * * * *<br />
<br />
"Inhabited" was first published in <i>MacQueen's Quinterly</i> and is
part of Laura Ann Reed's collection <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Shadows-Thrown-Laura-Ann-Reed/dp/B0BQCJJYYH/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2EZAY3IKQMVA0&keywords=laura+ann+reed&qid=1684993312&sprefix=laura+ann+reed%2Caps%2C167&sr=8-1"><i>Shadows
Thrown</i></a><i> </i>(Sungold Editions, 2023) <br />
<br />
Laura Ann Reed, a San Francisco Bay Area native, taught modern dance and ballet
at the University of California, Berkeley before working as a leadership
development trainer at the San Francisco headquarters of the United States
Environmental Protection Agency. Her work has appeared in numerous journals and
anthologies in the United States, Canada, and Britain. She is the author of the
chapbook, <i>Shadows Thrown</i> (2023). Laura and her husband live in the
Pacific Northwest.<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /></span>
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>Beate Sigriddaughterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06004863903299834654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4372238590115339847.post-35984554201790161842023-05-25T00:00:00.002-06:002023-05-25T00:00:00.142-06:00<p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>No Cats<br /></b><i> after Robert Hayden</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">by Laura Ann Reed<br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
On Sunday mornings, my father tiptoes<br />
from the room where my mother sleeps<br />
curled into her womb’s secret of losses.<br />
He closes the door, careful not to let it creak.<br />
<br />
I follow him into the kitchen where<br />
he spreads old newspapers over the floor.<br />
Sets out tins of polish, a brush<br />
and flannel cloth. Picks up a shoe. Under<br />
his breath he whistles a tune he claims<br />
he listened to on the radio, as a boy—<br />
a happy song, he says. Perhaps <br />
it’s because he whistles off-key <br />
that it sounds sad.<br />
<br />
What do I know about the sadness<br />
in this house, the disappointments? <br />
The way sun refuses to stipple <br />
the walls? I look down at the daubs <br />
of red, yellow, blue, and green <br />
in the linoleum, playing a game: <br />
If I find a cat in the pattern, I can<br />
make a wish. But the daubs <br />
are haphazard, there is no pattern. <br />
Every week I look, but <br />
there are never any cats.<br />
<br />
<br />
* * * * *<br />
<br />
"No Cats" was first published in <i>Willawaw Journal</i> and is part
of Laura Ann Reed's collection <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Shadows-Thrown-Laura-Ann-Reed/dp/B0BQCJJYYH/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2EZAY3IKQMVA0&keywords=laura+ann+reed&qid=1684993312&sprefix=laura+ann+reed%2Caps%2C167&sr=8-1">Shadows Thrown</a> </i>(Sungold Editions, 2023) <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Laura Ann Reed, a San Francisco Bay Area native,
taught modern dance and ballet at the<br />
University of California, Berkeley before working as a leadership development
trainer at the San<br />
Francisco headquarters of the United States Environmental Protection Agency.
Her work has<br />
appeared in numerous journals and anthologies in the United States, Canada, and
Britain. She is<br />
the author of the chapbook, <i>Shadows Thrown</i> (2023). Laura and her husband
live in the Pacific<br />
Northwest.</span><br />
<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]-->Beate Sigriddaughterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06004863903299834654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4372238590115339847.post-54975823855022193052023-05-24T00:00:00.001-06:002023-05-24T00:00:00.133-06:00<p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Water into Wine</span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;">
by Julia Fricke Robinson<br />
<br />
<br />
the Bible asks us to suspend reality<br />
have faith, believe in miracles,<br />
waters part, commandments come down from heaven<br />
a star leads to a virgin birth by a child bride<br />
a virgin can give birth because the angel Gabriel declared it so?<br />
<br />
this baby named Jesus born of this virgin named Mary<br />
goes to a wedding in Cana with his mother<br />
a grown man, past typical marrying age but unmarried<br />
followed by a group of similar young men<br />
what does that tell us?<br />
<br />
in the first recorded instance<br />
of helicopter parenting, the Mother Mary<br />
notices that the host is almost out of wine<br />
asks her nearby son Jesus to perform his first miracle<br />
to turn six jars of water into wine<br />
<br />
He sasses her, says, “Why me, woman?”<br />
then, compliant and respectful, he consents<br />
whether to distract his mother, who is always at his side<br />
or to impress friends and fellow party-goers<br />
with better wine; the act recorded as Biblical history<br />
<br />
Cana of Galilee, now known as Kafr Kanna (kafur Kanah, accent on 2<sup>nd</sup>
syllables)<br />
in the Northern triangle of Israel is<br />
89% Palestinian Muslim, 11% Jewish or Druze Christian<br />
residents speak different languages, worship different gods<br />
children educated in segregated schools<br />
<br />
Palestinian poverty and unemployment rampant<br />
tensions high, war always imminent, “a time bomb<br />
waiting to explode if Palestinians (the “others”)<br />
exceed 20%” warns Netanyahu, encourages<br />
Jewish women to have more children<br />
<br />
The “melting pot” model rejected<br />
this mosaic community with rigid, grout-like barriers<br />
intermarriage outlawed, inequality and discrimination enshrined <br />
awaits a new Gabriel to announce a new Savior<br />
a miracle of transmutation, water into wine<br />
<br />
<br />
* * * * *<br />
<br />
Julia Fricke Robinson, author of two memoirs, <i>All I Know </i>and <i>Between
the Desert and the Wetlands</i>, divides her time between visiting children and
grandchildren in Colorado, Indiana and New York and living, dancing and writing
in a community of artists, writers, performers, activists and otherwise
interesting people in beautiful Silver City, New Mexico, where the weather is
just about perfect.<br />
<br /></span>
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]-->Beate Sigriddaughterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06004863903299834654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4372238590115339847.post-51489008891048736192023-05-23T00:00:00.001-06:002023-05-23T00:00:00.130-06:00<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN">On Listening to Sade<br />
<br />
</span></b><span lang="EN">by </span><span lang="EN">Rebecca M. Ross<br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><br />
</span><br />
When she sings she is<br />
<br />
three in the morning<br />
smudged mascara, <br />
the haze of exhausted lovemaking <br />
as night wears off,<br />
unintended consequences of <br />
loneliness, desperation, passion<br />
<br />
She is Art Deco angles– <br />
gleaming beams <br />
of metallic permanence <br />
in the moonlit city,<br />
empty streets dotted with pools <br />
of buttery light,<br />
diluted traffic<br />
yolk-yellow cabs catching speeds unknown--<br />
<br />
She is sound breaking <br />
into hollow echoes of <br />
a secret bassline <br />
of footsteps on concrete, <br />
the seductive warmth <br />
of breath in saxophone <br />
under the cool vastness of <br />
an expansive night sky,<br />
the familiar click of key in lock, <br />
the sigh of a door swinging heavily on its hinges, <br />
the flip of a hall light switch, <br />
the subtle and strange isolation embracing an empty apartment.<br />
<span style="background: yellow; mso-highlight: yellow;"><br />
</span>She is anxiety and anticipation shimmering <br />
on the raised eyebrows of expectation--<br />
still in view yet further and further away as you chase her voice <br />
through bars and over chords, <br />
hopping over familiar choruses to reach her, <br />
hoping for a rest in the music so you can finally say<br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Brava.<br />
</i></span><span lang="EN"><br clear="all" style="page-break-before: always;" /><br />
* * * * *</span></span><span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
<br />
Rebecca M. Ross is originally from Brooklyn but currently lives, hikes, and
teaches in New York’s Hudson Valley. She has poetry forthcoming or published in
<i>The Voices Project, Live Nude Poems, The Metaworker, Last Leaves, Uppagus,
Streetcake Magazine, Whimsical Poet, The Westchester Review</i>, and others.
Rebecca’s terrible love for dad jokes and clever puns is the cause of much
grinning and groaning for those within earshot–and she’s not sorry.<br /></span>
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>Beate Sigriddaughterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06004863903299834654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4372238590115339847.post-70334304007663890282023-05-22T00:00:00.001-06:002023-05-22T00:00:00.140-06:00<p><i><span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">love songs & dusty
roads</span></span></i></p><span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">by Nina Heiser<br />
</span></span><span lang="EN-AU" style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
<br />
oh love do you remember <br />
days of rain<br />
by the river <br />
in the woodlands<br />
<br />
where we found <br />
laid out the bones of a moose<br />
in the muddy shallows <br />
of the beaver pond on Isabel’s trail <br />
<br />
in late summer <br />
when love splashed fresh and cold <br />
against a random tumble <br />
of granite boulders <br />
<br />
copper in the sunlight <br />
those pockets where we<br />
let ourselves be<br />
on the east branch<br />
<br />
of the river coursing <br />
through virgin forest<br />
in search of sea<br />
here we found <br />
<br />
shelter from long<br />
meanderings<br />
now the dust has settled<br />
because of you<br />
<br />
I stand outside <br />
to see the night <br />
until if the sky is clear<br />
a star appears <br />
<br />
I hear you tell me<br />
how you love me<br />
and sometimes <br />
I see it<br />
<br />
<br />
* * * * *<br />
<br />
Nina Heiser is a poet, writer and retired journalist currently living in
central Florida and<br />
Western New York. Her work has appeared in <i>Tuck Magazine, Cadence, the
Florida<br />
State Poets Association Anthology, Vociferous Press anthology Screaming from
the<br />
Silence, Embark Literary Journal</i>, and <i>Gargoyle Magazine</i>. Her poetry
and photographs<br />
have been featured in Pendemics Journal and Of Poets & Poetry.</span><br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--></span>Beate Sigriddaughterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06004863903299834654noreply@blogger.com0