The Night Without a Weapon

by Carolyn Adams

I turn out the light, turn

a shoulder to the darkness,

and wonder what will come.

A beast, a man,

a woman, a vehicle, a building?

And who will be driving?

Who, turning the page?

Silent air flows over the bed,

soft rain taps a finger

on the window.

A clock ticks

in another room.

Appliances hum on

and off in the kitchen.

I rehearse the day,

count errors, try to remember

the happy remark

of a friend, their loving touch,

the angle of the sun

in the late afternoon.

Tomorrow’s planes

stretch to all the angles

of the room, and I

drift. Awake at 10pm,

1am, 3am, I fluff the pillow,

adjust the cover, close my

eyes. And then it’s daylight.

Nothing happened. Nothing

came for me. Nothing

taught me a new lesson

in a fun-house classroom,

with a soft-eyed mammal

for a teacher.

* * * * *

Carolyn Adams’ poetry and art have appeared in Beatnik Cowboy, Willawaw Journal, Glass Mountain, San Pedro River Review, and Common Ground Review, among others. She has been nominated for a Pushcart prize, as well as for Best of the Net, and was a finalist for 2013 Poet Laureate of the city of Houston, TX. She is currently an associate editor for Mojave River Review. Having relocated from Houston, she now lives in Beaverton, OR. 

The Shoe Dream

by Carolyn Adams

Aunt Betty tells me shoe stores make her angry. 

She hates the brittle sheen

of the leathers and plastics

just visible under the split lids

of the colored paper boxes.

Lifting each shoe, she has me

put them under the seats,

on shelves where they don’t go,

in the wrong boxes.

The air is heavy

with the stink of chemicals

and preservatives,

cheap perfume and sweat.

Customers wander in

and out of the store,

taking hammers to the broad

windows, prying up the check-out

stand, scattering

the store’s profits.

Aunt Betty throws her car keys

on the kitchen table.

Kicks off the pumps Uncle Ed

bought her the day before the night

he left.

* * * * *

Carolyn Adams’ poetry and art have appeared in Beatnik Cowboy, Willawaw Journal, Glass Mountain, San Pedro River Review, and Common Ground Review, among others. She has been nominated for a Pushcart prize, as well as for Best of the Net, and was a finalist for 2013 Poet Laureate of the city of Houston, TX. She is currently an associate editor for Mojave River Review. Having relocated from Houston, she now lives in Beaverton, OR. 

Review of An Apple In Her Hand

New Anthology of Women’s Writing From Codhill Press Wins Praise

An Apple In Her Hand, an anthology of stories, poems and memoir just released by New York’s Codhill Press, has garnered praise for its truth-telling by women writers on a wide-range of themes, including remembrance, aging, visibility, bearing witness and joy. 

Best-selling author Carol Goodman (Lake of Dead Languages; The Widow’s House) lauds the “penetrating gaze” of the members of The Hudson Valley Women’s Writing Group whose works fill its pages:  “What a delight to read these women as they make magic out of the ordinary,” says Goodman, describing how the authors “turn[] apples into witches (“The Kitchen Witch,” Kit Goldpaugh) and housewives at Loehmann’s into Greek goddesses (“I Met My Mother’s Body at Loehmann’s,” Jan Zlotnik Schmidt); evoke the lost worlds of trolleys (“My Real Mother,” Colleen Geraghty) and Homeric Greece (“Speckled Egg,” Tana Miller); call forth the elemental forces of geysers (“Yellowstone Hot Springs,” Eileen Howard) and the faithful mating habits of bald eagles (“Love Nest,” Mary K O’Melveny); and celebrate the stubborn resistance of staying alive  (“Death’s Door,” Kappa Waugh). ”

The anthology, crafted in bits and pieces of diverse artistry that are profound, humorous and elegant, is the work of  seven writers “of a certain age” speaking out boldly against a culture that often renders such women’s voices irrelevant or invisible. The writing group’s members include teachers and academics, a lawyer, a social worker and a psychiatric nurse. Some are retired; others still work; all are activists, artists and volunteers. This “memorable collection of stories, poems and truth,” says poet and teacher Esther Cohen, is “honest, serious, seasoned and articulate” and “will make their readers happy.” 

These writings by “wisdom women” cover a wide range of topics, all focused on “bear[ing] witness to the power of knowing,” notes Kate Hymes, poet and Director of New York’s Walkill Valley Writers. The authors do so “even when it might have been easier to remain ignorant, or, as some might say innocent.” You will find yourself turning again and again to these articulate voices and smiling broadly at the magic contained and the knowledge imparted on every page of An Apple In Her Hand. (Available from Codhill Press – www.codhill.com).


* * * * *

Submitted by Mary K O'Melveny

Here Take my Eggs

by Alethea Eason

My eggs are gossamer pearls still waiting in a nearby stream.

Under the veil, my eggs would have held round pools of liquid

with protein and definitive galaxies all their own.

I open myself and dream the infinite night.

I’ve been waiting because mist and wind’s home is the earth’s.

Gulls break over the crest.

They are moving, wings up with raucous cries.

My eggs float in this mystery, each still aware.

Each with their neutral shine. Each a copper penny

floating to the perilous depths.

Death’s at the door, and he’s dressed to kill.

He’s even brought the flowers I have been waiting for.

Here take my eggs. Each one that is left, and take dictation.

They all have stories of their journey. And maps of their history.

Marry my eggs as you would me in the dark grass,

with all the dangers of jungle growth. Find the pearly stream

hidden away and whisper your words there.

* * * * *

"Here Take My Eggs" was first published in Black Elephant.

Alethea Eason is the author of three novels, Hungry, Starved, and Heron's Path. Her poetry, short stories and essays have appeared in www.delsolreview.com, Lamplight Magazine, The Fictional Cafe, The Episcopal Cafe, the anthology The Kindness of Strangers, and ironsoap.com, among other journals, websites, and magazines. She was an educator in California and Chile, and has offered classes called Renew Your Muse dealing with intuitive, creative and spiritual expression, especially for those who feel art does not live inside of them. It does!

Doors

by Alethea Eason

I keep the door open
to listen to my mother's breathing.
The doors are slowly closing
in her mind. A spool of thread
unwinds between us from
the bedroom to the couch
where she sleeps, the aging arc
we ride upon made from the silence
where God loves to dwell.

We write in the prose
of another day lived on Earth, a bingo game
where little doors close one by one
over the numbers on the board.

Outside the sirens bleed
into the night as doors
of life and death open and close.
The doors of imagination
are weary and we repent
our ignorance and unnatural
innocence. I listen to my mother
sleeping and my heart
becomes a door.

* * * * *

Alethea Eason is the author of three novels, Hungry, Starved, and Heron's Path. Her poetry, short stories, and essays have appeared in www.delsolreview.com, Lamplight Magazine, The Fictional Cafe, The Episcopal Cafe, the anthology The Kindness of Strangers, and ironsoap.com, among other journals, websites, and magazines. She was an educator in California and Chile, and has offered classes called Renew Your Muse dealing with intuitive, creative and spiritual expression, especially for those who feel art does not live inside of them. It does!

Datura          

by Lisa Fields

When dusk curls close

pale trumpets

lift  

  faces 

      rimmed with lavender

stray

pollen crumbs 

cling to shimmering cheeks

I lean over

cupped petals

where bees

     work for their queen

Evening Datura

At dusk, scratching

beneath the South window—

Curve-billed thrasher

grasps

a wriggling moth

catching my shadow,

he flies away                                               

— vermilion eye flashing                  

on the open bloom

a moth lands,

silent

* * * * *

Lisa Fields lives in Southwestern New Mexico. Writing poetry expresses her desire to be immersed in a state of balance. Her inspiration comes from the joy of wild places and the challenge to live happily in the domesticated world. She is a contract writer for Quirine Ketterings, Professor of Nutrient Management in Agricultural Systems, Cornell University, Ithaca, NY. In her home state of NY, Lisa served the farming community as an Extension educator for 10 years, and then worked for 10 years as a self-employed advisor.

River Wading                                                         

by Lisa Fields

Standing tall,

cottonwoods

thread the sun

through high branches

to feed the flickering          

soft shades of green—

in their cloth of light                                       

feathers lift

and scatter

sweet notes

Reaching down,

roots

pull water into veins—

inviting us—                        

we slip into

the shallows

through gravel and slick silt—

wait for the cold to ease

In the river

moving slow and clear

braided melodies rise—

our blood suffused

in reflected light

sun-washed—

we leave cocoons of aging skin

unfolding our wings

* * * * *

Lisa Fields lives in Southwestern New Mexico. Writing poetry expresses her desire to be immersed in a state of balance. Her inspiration comes from the joy of wild places and the challenge to live happily in the domesticated world. She is a contract writer for Quirine Ketterings, Professor of Nutrient Management in Agricultural Systems, Cornell University, Ithaca, NY. In her home state of NY, Lisa served the farming community as an Extension educator for 10 years, and then worked for 10 years as a self-employed advisor.