Lessons from an Uneducated Master

by Evie Groch


An immigrant with broken English
stitching his way to tailoring mastery
cutting on and out bias
to pattern a life in America.

Education not bookish, diploma
not earned, certificate not awarded,
but possessing such undeniable smarts
that others held him in reverential awe.

With an algebraic work problem
I’d run to him, translate the poser,
get the answer in a second,
but not the how.
That’s your job, he said. Now
you can start with the end in mind.

Free 5^th grade violin lessons
I feared to take.
No need to fear he reassured.
Always try; you’re not signing
up for life. I heeded and later
joined the orchestra, played
through the end of high school.

Dad, can you teach me how to drive?
I asked at fourteen, too young for a permit.
In his ’51 Chevy with a grey repair patch
he ignited my love for cars and driving.
Going down the street too slowly,
others honking at my crawl,
he’d say, Just ignore the honking.
Focus on your control.

When I mentor administrative
students today, his words slide
in my ear. I hear myself advising
them as he once advised me.
When the door’s ajar is when
you enter, even if you’re not ready.
For when you think you’re ready,
the door may not be open.
They always remember this when
they come back to visit and thank
me for his advice, make me smile,
and elate us both.


* * * * *

"Lessons from an Uneducated Master" was previously published by Kosmos Journal – Spring Gallery of Poets 3-17-22

Evie Groch, Ed.D. is a Field Supervisor/Mentor for new administrators in Graduate Schools of Education.  Her opinion pieces, humor, poems, short stories, recipes, word challenges, and other articles have been widely published in The New York Times, The San Francisco Chronicle, The Contra Costa Times, The Journal, Games Magazine, and many online venues. Many of her poems are in published anthologies. Her short stories, poems, and memoir pieces have won her recognition and awards. Her travelogues have been published online with Grand Circle Travel. The themes of travel, language, immigration, and justice are special for her.

 

All Contingencies Accounted For

by Evie Groch


One door slam, then another.
One door shut, another locked.
A third signed with ‘No Admittance.’
Rude and crude and unforgiving,
yet we managed to alter the building’s
structure and interior design.

First we widened the threshold
to accommodate one toe to keep the door ajar.
Then a shattering of the transparent ceiling.
Next, an office, not a cubicle, in which
we too wear the pants,
and dresses if we want.
Then a conference table
with room for us.

Finally, in case they don’t
give us a seat at the table,
we always carry a folding one
in the trunks of our cars.
Excuses a thing of the past.


* * * * *

Evie Groch, Ed.D. is a Field Supervisor/Mentor for new administrators in Graduate Schools of Education.  Her opinion pieces, humor, poems, short stories, recipes, word challenges, and other articles have been widely published in The New York Times, The San Francisco Chronicle, The Contra Costa Times, The Journal, Games Magazine, and many online venues. Many of her poems are in published anthologies. Her short stories, poems, and memoir pieces have won her recognition and awards. Her travelogues have been published online with Grand Circle Travel. The themes of travel, language, immigration, and justice are special for her.

 

The Hymns We Used to Sing

by Claire Matturro

We were civilized as we walked.
The food we’d taken with us, mostly
Cheese, bread, and dried meats, we shared.
There was water, and as we moved along,
Some of the children sang
Hymns and patriotic songs.
No one complained. We were kind to each other.
Then the food ran out, the water gone.
We had to look toward creeks and rivers
Where sometimes dead bodies floated,
Foul and smelling of rot. We were
filthy. We itched, and our breath stank.
We pulled away from each
Other, suspicions grew. And there I was,
Alone, my husband having died in
The first rush toward fighting, the line
Between bravery and foolishness as
Scant as the things left us
To live on. My belly round with a child
I might not live to deliver, and above us
Still the planes and bombs.
My grandmother’s voice rises above the cry
Of the children who do not sing anymore.
“Do not be afraid,” she whispers and I
Think of how I had wanted her with me
When I push this child inside me
Out into the world. Now I wonder
If it would be better to lie deep in dirt
With her, dead to the stink, the pain,
The shrill whistles of the mortars.

As I rest on the side of the road,
My worn-down shoes in tatters,
An old man stops in front of me.
I tense to run—or to fight, fingering
The kitchen knife inside my fraying coat.
He reaches into his pocket and
Pulls out a candy bar. Handing it to me,
He says “Don’t chew it. It’s the last one.
Chocolate and mint, a bit of cream.
Let it melt slow upon your tongue
Like the hymns, we used to sing.”

* * * * *

“The Hymns We Used to Sing” was previously published in Topical Poems, April 24, 2022
The Hymns We Used to Sing - Topical Poetry

Claire Matturro is a former lawyer and college teacher, author of eight novels, including four published by HarperCollins. Her poetry has appeared in Kissing Dynamite, New Verse News, One Art, Muddy River Poetry Review, Topical Poetry, and is forthcoming in The Tiger Moth. She is an associated editor at The Southern Literary Review.

The Generous Stranger       

by Claire Matturro     
           
 
Carried on the back of a generous stranger,
an old woman takes only what she can
hold in her bare hands as they cross
a shaking plank of wood placed over
the rubble of what was once
a concrete bridge. Cold river washes over
the feet of the generous stranger, but
he is steady. In the hard wind
which smells of burnt plastic and gunpowder,
the woman clutches the photo of her son who died.
On the bent fourth finger of her left hand,
her mother’s wedding ring rests
on top of her own as she hopes
to sell them both for food if they make it
to Poland. Behind her and the generous stranger,
her daughter sludges along, holding a
small stool for her mother to rest upon.
Wrapped in head scarf and coat but shivering
still, the daughter also carries their cat
in a soft canvas sack slung over her shoulder.
The animal is strangely quiet as if she fears
her howls might bring the cruel whistle of
more Russian missiles. Behind them all, 
Irpin, Ukraine burns into ruin and wreckage.
The generous stranger, breathing heavily
from the weight of the old woman, steps
over a dropped shoe and keeps walking.


* * * * *

"The Generous Stranger" was previously published in Topical Poetry, March 27, 2022.
The Generous Stranger - Topical Poetry

Claire Matturro is a former lawyer and college teacher, author of eight novels, including four published by HarperCollins. Her poetry has appeared in Kissing Dynamite, New Verse News, One Art, Muddy River Poetry Review, Topical Poetry, and is forthcoming in The Tiger Moth. She is an associated editor at The Southern Literary Review.

Keep in Touch

by Michele Rule

 
Don't
drift too far,
your little rowboat caught in the current
straying ever away from me.
Too distant
for me to reach out
and touch the rough boards.
I worry
about frightful storms,
holes wormed through the keel,
making it all the way to sea,
forever lost to me.
Keep in touch
I say as you wave and 
float 
away.
 

* * * * *

Michele Rule is a disabled poet from Kelowna BC. She is especially interested in the topics of chronic illness, relationships and nature. Michele is published in OYEDrum, Five Minute Lit, Pocket Lint, WordCityLit, the anthologies Spring Peepers and Poets for Ukraine and others. Her first chapbook is Around the World in Fifteen Haiku. She lives with a sleepy dog, two cats and a fantastic partner and thinks about her flock of children every day.

 

Seeking Something Sweet
                           After Salvador Dali, Still Life - Fish in Red Bowl 1923–24*

by Laura Ann Reed


She wakes from a dream, pads downstairs seeking
something cool and sweet. Chilled cantaloupe cubes
would do. Better still, peach-flavored frozen yogurt.
Instead she finds a crimson bowl that holds a dead fish
whose open eye is fixed on her. Outside the window
a crescent moon looms close. It seems to watch
her every move. Unnerved, she peers at the floor,
discovers it’s covered by a shallow sea of green that laps
at her ankle bones. As she looks in disbelief, tiny waves
recede back to the breakfast nook, then surge toward her
higher than before. Now they reach her knees, her thighs.
Now her nightie’s soaked. Damn moon. Damn tides.
All she wanted was some frozen yogurt flecked
with peach. She’d eat the fish, but what good’s a fish
that’s so fish-like it might as well be painted by Dali.
Art—inedible, useless as feet on a snake.


* * * * *

"Seeking Something Sweet" was originally published in Ekphrastic Review. Here is a link to the artwork: https://www.wikiart.org/en/salvador-dali/still-life-fish-with-red-bowl-1924

Laura Ann Reed received a dual BA in French/Comparative Literature from the University of California, Berkeley, and subsequently completed Master’s Degree Programs in the Performing Arts and Psychology. She was a dancer in the San Francisco Bay Area prior to assuming the role of Leadership Development Trainer at the San Francisco headquarters of the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency. She and her husband now reside in western Washington. Her work has been anthologized in How To Love the World: Poems of Gratitude and Hope, and has appeared or is forthcoming in MacQueen’s Quinterly, The Ekphrastic Review, and Willawaw, among other journals.