Gerry Stewart:

My Critic

has lost all patience for poetry.

Rummaging in dusty corners,

clearing the shelves

with no appreciation for image or rhyme.

I bribe him through the first half

with raisins and sugar-free biscuits,

struggle to be a poet for one afternoon.

We skip out on writers I’d relish

to sit on the toilet floor,

flipping through Peepo eighteen times.

My turn in the spotlight

and his antics distract, amuse

more than my poems

a whirlwind of energy.

Poetry and a one-year old

make bad company.

* * * * *

Gerry Stewart is a poet, creative writing tutor and editor currently living in Finland with her young family. Her collection Post-Holiday Blues was published by Flambard Press, UK. She blogs about writing at http://thistlewren.blogspot.fi/.

He Seemed So Nice…

by Joan Leotta

Joy,
such joy.

Met a young man, through work,

could have been a second son of mine.

"Friended" him on Facebook.

Followed his story

of everyday triumphs;

best was his tale of

finding "love of his life."

Followed their story—

his telling charmed me—

so much love.

Then his beloved sent

a note revealing

that seeming son,

was in the thrall of drugs.

Betrayal had

framed his every action.

She was never "the beloved."

Words of love were illusions

spilled out into the ether.

Theft, cheating, abuse, had

daily slashed the shell

of their lives, shredded

the fabric of his many

sad small lies.

He was no son of mine

in truth or spirit,

yet, this loss

of who I thought he was

tears at me.

Sadness, anger

Such anger.

Pink Viagra

by Kathleen Murphey

Pink Viagra
For HSDD (hypoactive sexual desire disorder)—
Didn’t you know?
For women who don’t have more than three to four
sexually satisfying events (SSEs) a month.

Is lack of Libido in women sexual dysfunction
or pharmaceutical hype?

What if women just aren’t as interested in sex?
What if their partners just aren’t skillful at sex?
What if Porn has made their partners lazy and crass?
And what if they just need a crash course in sexual technique?

Yes, girls and boys, female pleasure takes more than a grope and a poke.
There is some skill involved, don’t you know?
And novelty too might be nice—
a different position,
What about dual masturbation—
where she can watch him and then he can watch her?
Or what about sex toys for girls and boys?
or an attempt at the G-Spot instead of the Clit—
does he even know the difference,
or where he might find them?
Does she?
What’s female ejaculation?
Do either of them know?

Pink Viagra
(flibanserin)
to be marketed as Addyi
(pronounced add-ee)
a drug approved with REMSs
(Risk Evaluation and Mitigation Strategies)
which means it’s a risky drug—
to be taken daily—not just before—
like the little blue pill.
that mixes badly with many common drugs women take,
that causes syncope or sudden loss of consciousness
and doesn’t raise SSEs levels very much.

So Pink Viagra?
Perhaps what we need is a simple
Feminization of Sex.

* * * * *

Kathleen Murphey is an associate professor of English at Community College of Philadelphia.  Recently, she has been writing fiction (both short stories and poetry) on women’s and social justice issues.  To learn more about her work, see www.kathleenmurphey.com. 

Viagra Surprise

by Kathleen Murphey

They fell in love—

desire, lust, passion.

They couldn’t get enough.

Then children and life—

they grew older and love deepened—

but in his forties, he became uneven.

Though he wanted to, sometimes he couldn’t.

They settled into a happy rhythm—

a more platonic stage of their relationship.

Years went by,

and they were fine.

Then, one day, he comes home with a little blue pill.

He wants it again—like when they first met.

She’s taken off guard—

conflicting emotions warring inside.

When he couldn’t, they didn’t.

She didn’t because he couldn’t.

Sexually neutered is how she felt—

unless she attended to herself.

Now, he can, so they can.

What an ass of a man—

such a self-absorbed man!

Her anger surprised him—

took him off guard.

Slowly, he realized the wrong he had done—

by seeing her sexuality only through his.

They came at it again—

better warned and better matched—

to handle the Viagra Surprise.

* * * * *

Kathleen Murphey is an associate professor of English at Community College of Philadelphia.  Recently, she has been writing fiction (both short stories and poetry) on women’s and social justice issues.  To learn more about her work, see www.kathleenmurphey.com. 

The Witch

by Debasree Banerjee

A witch, they said, a sly woman,

a woman of darkest fantasies,

a maiden with the darkest mind,

of blasphemy and  heresies.

Worshipping a pagan God,

an ancient winged god of evil.

When no one knew who that was,

all concurred that it was Devil.

The priest, the clergy and bishop,

farmers and the merchants’ guild,

the simpletons and the traders,

they agreed that her fate was sealed.

Tight jawed, biased and predisposed,

before the village, the inquisition sat.

“Let her burn at stake”, they said,

“for she’s a witch and we know that.”

“Didn’t we have the King’s son,

falling deeply in love with her?”

“She uses magic and ghastly spells,

to have beauty that doesn’t wither.”

“A fearsome snake to be crushed,

let’s all see justice being done.”

All nodded as someone said so,

all agreed to that, but for one.

A merchant he was, from faraway,

who travelled there every year,

with bales of cotton and yards of silk,

the only one that shed a tear.

He still remembered those days,

when the cold had made him ill.

He’d lain in her dainty lap,

while she nursed him with her skill.

He owed her his life, he knew;

Tremulously he said, “Lord forgive,”

He told his story, but they just asked,

“What herbs or potions did she give?”

He looked at her downcast glance,

and spoke up with all his will.

“It wasn’t potion, my Lord,” he said,

“I believe it was just a pill.”

“Look, ye all, did you listen?

She entices men from far and near,

and knows all that is to happen yet,

for she is none but the Devil’s seer.

“Speak ye evil woman, you speak,

if you have something to tell.”

“My herbs never harmed,” she said,

“they just made people get well.”

“And what about your porcelain skin,

and the lushness of your mane?”

“Is beauty a thing of shame?” she said,

“Punish all pretty maidens, then.”

“You speak louder than you should,

and dare challenge the inquisition.

Remember girl! Your life and death,

rests just on today’s decision.”

A half-smile played along her lips,

her eyes spoke louder than words.

They burnt with the fire of anger that cut,

 deeper wounds than many swords.

“I know that you shall let me burn,

even if today, I swear by God;

for didn’t I spurn the Bishop’s love,

and the proud Prince, my Lord?”

“To all ye folks that say today,

that I’m a witch, that should burn,

for saving you from sure deaths,

is that the reward that I earn?”

“You ask me of my parentage,

You ask me of my kith and kin;

My father was a troubadour,

I know not the land he lies in.”

“But I know this thing for sure,

the doctors let you bleed to death,

balancing humours, they do it; 

and yet hold all your good faith.”

In labour, your womenfolk die,

Aren’t they your own kin?”

Does the priest claim to absolve,

all the men folk of such a sin?”

“It’s all so good that I shall burn,

and would not require an epitaph.

But I shall keep on mocking you,

and you’ll always hear me laugh.

So, as much as her lover cried,

as much as they felt ashamed;

she burnt at stake, with a laugh,

no one knows if she was framed.

To this day, on moonless nights,

she still laughs, the villagers claim.

Some believe they’re too weak-hearted,

others say, they’re not to blame.

For no one knows her real name,

’coz she was the Witch of Salem;

but I just say she was a woman,

that no man could ever tame...

SIN

by Sheena Singh

What is Sin?

Or who defines what is right and what is wrong?

Being Humans we believe in the Law of Karma. We have been injected with the thought “You reap what you sow.”

In real life also, we come across many instances wherein we get to see people who engage in “bad deeds” get some sort of punishment in the same life. As Indians we believe in the strong power of “destiny.” When someone does something we do not approve of, instead of setting them right, we believe that “HE” will punish them for their misdeeds.

What really is right or wrong? Who defines what is or who is wrong? Is it the one who has all materialistic powers on this earth?

What we normally term as wrong include bribery, deception, lies and murdering someone. This also needs filtering. Bribery can alternately be termed as “customer service” or “marketing budget” which may be politically correct for some and wrong for others. Why is it wrong for that fewer section of masses? Are they foolish or naive in accusing marketing strategy as bribery? Or is it that their inner conscience doesn’t allow them to stoop to that level and accept favors?

But why are they being framed as “egoistic” or “high headed”

If the person accepting bribe is committing a sin, why isn’t he/she getting punished? Does that mean it’s not at all sin? We just wait for the Universe to give a hint and punish him/her instead of cleaning the system. But who will clean the system when the system itself is pretending to be blind?

We were taught in our childhood not to lie else you go blind. But don’t we all lie once in a while in our continuous effort to keep a balance in many ways? Is that a sin? What if one lie is sweeter to be heard than a bitter truth? Are we being manipulative here?

Is deception a sin? Bluffing is also deception. The majority of the corporations and employers bluff. Are they deceiving the masses? Those who bluff are still very much a part of and at the top of many systems. Knowing that we follow their speech, admire their way of handling matters. Sometimes an entire nation runs on this very idea. How can it be a sin then?

Murdering someone is supposed to be the worst sin apparently. Anyone who murders another human is bound to be punished. They are jailed for an indefinite period. But aren’t they leading a peaceful life? They get bail to get married, to attend their special events as per their hold on the system. Murdering someone for self-defense is not a sin we are told.  

The question is who and what are the minimum parameters of defining Sin? How are these parameters set?  Are there any guidelines for punishment and time frame? Shall we continue for “HIM” to enter and punish the so called sinners as per our choice? Does the law of Karma even exist? Is it what we sow that we reap actually?

The fact is that we are bound by our own conscience. It is nothing but our self-worth that speaks up for us when something goes right or wrong. The stronger our belief in our own self-esteem and values, the more we raise concerns when something or someone does wrong as per those guidelines. We are nothing but mere conscience.

And regarding punishment, let’s stand by the nature’s law, let’s give time some time.

The second Moon Prize goes to Jan Haniff's story "The Seagull"—backdating to the full moon of October 15, 2016. Congratulations on a haunting story, Jan Haniff. Look for more Moon Prizes here on the May 2017 full moon and the day after.

THE SEAGULL

by Jan Haniff

I'm lying on the beach. It's February and it's freezing, but I don't care very much. Well I don't care at all, actually.

I had just enough sense of the weather to have dressed in jeans and a thick cable-knit jumper before leaving the house. It's the jumper of his I always wear when he goes away for any length of time. It has his scent on it and it makes me feel he's still here and has his arms around me. I don't remember putting it on - I suppose it was automatic. Its thickness shields my back from the stones underneath me, but I doubt I would feel them anyway. I feel nothing - just numb.

I draw on the cigarette and watch it glow in the half-light of morning. He'd left the packet lying casually on the bedside table and its mundaneness had screamed at me. I'd snatched up the packet, even though I'd not smoked for years, and brought it down here with me.

The waves crash onto the beach. It's a flat beach and the tide floods in quite fast, but I don't bother to check its progress.

He has gone.

A seagull dodges across my vision, gliding along in the air streams, taking it easy until an unexpected gust of wind comes along and blows it off its intended course.

Her name is Julia - my unexpected gust of wind. It seems she's been around for a while but I only became conscious of her about eight hours ago. He left two hours later.

Mike and Ria are coming to Sunday lunch. I suppose I should phone and cancel. ('Would you mind very much if you didn't come over today, only Richard called it quits on thirty-six years and I've a lot of Wedgwood I might want to take it out on.')

But I don't have any inclination to move from my stony bed. If only I could melt into the pebbles and become one of them, someone might pick me up and skim me out to sea. I could then spend the next hundred years trying to get back to the shore with each breaking wave. That would be something to work towards. Something to live for.

I came down to the beach because I'd tried everywhere else. I went into each room in the house but my thoughts followed me relentlessly like some malicious shadow. If only I could remove my brain and put it in a box, I could escape the absolute desolation and terror I know is waiting to invade once this numbness has worn off.

The seagull cries, piercing my thoughts like a dart, giving my mind a moment's respite.

It's freezing but it's not the cold that makes me shiver. I'm in shock. I should really have some caring first-aider putting a blanket around me and handing me a mug of sweet tea. Instead I smoke the cigarette, listen to the waves getting closer and the seagull who cruises around the sky.

I saw not sign of what was to come, and I suppose that's what shocked me more than anything. We'd spent most of our adult life together. I thought we knew each other inside out. Now it seems there was a side of him I never knew existed. He compartmentalized his life so there was no trace of her when he came home to me.

The first I knew there was something wrong was last night when we were curled up on the sofa watching a late film. It was a comedy we both liked but after a while I realised I was the only one laughing. I sat up and looked at him. He took my hand and stared at it.

'I'm so sorry.'

'What for?' We hadn't argued.

'I have to go.'

'Go where?' Did he mean to bed or out for cigarettes (at that time of night?)?

'I'm leaving you.'

The words made no sense, no sense at all. I wonder why they didn't?  I mean, it's plain enough, isn't it, 'I'm leaving you,' but you don't really expect to hear it out of the blue after thirty-six years.

'I thought it best just to say it straight, get it over and done with,' he said.

"Over and done with."  How many times have those words come back to haunt me?  There were other words said of course - many - but those four stayed to chill my blood throughout the early hours of the morning.

The seagull has been joined by another. They fly in and out of each other's path like a couple of fighter jets.

If I had just let him go without a word, or kissed him and wished him luck, perhaps I could have lessened the pain. Instead I said, 'Why?'

And so the knife twisted.

She's young enough to give him the child we never had. Suddenly after thirty-six years he changes his mind about children. Isn't it a bit late in the day for such a major change of heart?  Too late for me at least. My body clock stopped ticking a while back. We were working through that together.

I knew I was getting older of course, but so was he. We'd accepted the ageing of our bodies because we'd aged together. We'd even grown to have similar facial features. When I look at my face in the mirror, I see his. Now I see hers as well, even though I've no idea what she looks like.

He used to joke, 'Who'd have me?  I'm far too old and out of condition.' I'd put my arms around him and whisper 'I would,' and we'd end up in bed or down on the beach, knowing so well how our bodies worked together.

I throw away the cigarette and the seagull flutters up the beach. The waves are getting closer. What will happen when the sea soaks through my boots and socks and starts crawling up the legs of my jeans?  How tempting will it be to lie here waiting for the next wave and the next until they cease to be waves and become a complete body of water, shifting and drawing over my head?

I've heard the last stages of drowning are supposed to be a pleasant experience. After the initial panic the struggling ceases and then comes a sort of high. I could go with that.

I move my eyes. The seagull is beach combing, searching for the little nuggets hidden under the sand, the odd small crab or stranded shellfish.

I know what happens. Friends begin with their support, but eventually I shall become a fifth wheel - awkward to seat at dinner so they will stop trying. Then there's the problem of dividing their loyalties. How will I be able to sit with them knowing the week before they had watched him playing happy families?

The gull is free-wheeling again, enjoying the ride on the wind. I allow my lip to rise in a small smile as I watch him. I imagine him calling 'wheeeee' as he is blown backwards across the sky on a roller coaster ride for seagulls.

At least there will be few legal complications. We never married. Well, we didn't plan to have children. I admit I flirted with the idea of having a family a few times, but deep down knew it would be a disaster. We both liked children, we just didn't want any of our own. Instead we both concentrated on our work and there seemed little point in getting married. I'd found my soul mate and nothing mattered but being together. We were happy. Really, we were.

After I've packed my brain in that box, perhaps I could throw my heart into the sea. Then I'd have nothing else to hurt and I could just live the rest of my life in blissful ignorance of any emotion I ever felt.

Except, even feeling as I do, I suspect I'd rather work through this pain than lose the memory of those precious years of happiness.

I watch the gull glide off towards the cliff. I wish I could get into that air stream and let the wind push me wherever it wants because I've lost my direction and I don't know where I'm going any more. I've lost him as severely as in any tragic accident.

I suppose I must ring Ria.

I sit up, my back now complaining where the stones have been digging in. The waves break so close the spray reaches me and wets my face. I would have been soaked by the next few waves.

The gull has gone. I can hear its distant cry on the other side of the cliff as I shuffle off in the opposite direction. I hope the beach over there has different things for him, interesting nuggets hidden beneath the sand. Even if that gull has to work hard to find them, turn up lots of pebbles, I'm sure they're there.

They have to be there.

* * * * *

"The Seagull" was first posted on Writing In A Woman's Voice on October 5, 2016.