Magic Fish — Painting and Poem
by George Asdel
(this poem has three possible endings)
He said when he was much younger
I had rescued him from a part of the
lake that was drying up,
that I had caught him with a net and
gently carried him to a section
of the valley with more water.
After the spring rains the filled lake
life returned to normal.
He said for my kindness he would
grant me one wish. I told him I didn’t
believe in magic fish, and I wished
he would just disappear ––and he did.
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grant me one wish. I told him
I would like to be a fish,
and we both swam away.
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grant me one wish. I told him he
had fish breath and I wished
he’d brush his teeth.
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Borrowed Dad's Car by Curt Hinkle
That creamy leather
And deep cut pile
We had it all
We rode in style
Two-tone paint
And shiny chrome
Big V-8
Stereo
Showin' off
I lost my hold
Mashed the gas
Way too bold
That Olds had wings
And when she took flight
We gained altitude
Like a demented kite
Tinted windshield
Padded dash
Highlight reel
We're gonna crash
Then something caught
We ceased to fly
A dozen times
The sky went by
That creamy leather
And deep cut pile
We had it all
We flew in style
What goes up
Must come down
Broken glass
That awful sound
Interludes by Elizabeth Buckner
When I am not writing:
I stand under a cosmic light show
at on a cold morning
watch air particles swirl and spin
in the cylindrical spotlight
of the flashlight beam
while i wait for the dogs
to check their messages
and create their responses
I sit in a low-back chair
on an autumn afternoon
in the center of an 11 acre pasture
empty except for one friendly horse
The dogs run in elliptical circles
in, out, around, return
and the horse ambles up to me
places his muzzle on my head
and breathes in the scent of my hair
I feed papers and magazines
to the wood-burning stove
watch patterns dance in the flames
savor the warmth in my bones
remember ancient times
and other incarnations
I sail on a sea of sleep
my dog-mates at my side
along for the ride
through my dreams
I communicate with the devas
of flora and fauna
as I create little altars
of stones, bones, shells
feathers, flowers and flames
on windowsills, desk tops
edges and ledges
fill every nook and cranny
with precious tchotchkes
for I see the sacred
on everything, everywhere--
road signs on my journey
I make lists of:
people to contact
appointments to make
chores to complete
flowers to purchase and plant
places to go
poems to write
I stand at the kitchen counter
11 feet long and 3 feet wide
intersected by a double sink
a grid of 41/2 inch square
cerulean blue tiles
defined by lines of white grout
a primordial sea, map of my world
and arrange, order, prepare, sort
as I ponder the miracle and mystery of life
when I am not writing. |
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Letter Ten to Roxie by Betty Finocchiaroß
Dear Roxie,
I woke up this morning with a smile on my face. You know what I was dreaming? How as kids, we used to say “I'm thinking!” And someone would shout, “Does it hurt?” Peals of laughter. You'd think we'd never heard that before. Like babes in the woods. The last of the innocents. Then came World War II.
The Second World War gave us the definite understanding of a world disrupted. A world where dreams die or at least get interrupted by someone's idea of Omnipotence. Like someone with the improbable name of Hitler. And I remember how subdued the world became in a city as big as New York. People spoke almost in whispers and our streets seemed less crowded, because do you remember, Roxie, how guys were being drafted at a clip pace? So it makes sense that I remember less humanity everywhere. People on the subways dozed off opening their eyes only to make sure they didn't go beyond the stop they had to get off. They seemed kinder, conscious of one another's presence so there was a sensitivity to feelings. Then the gold stars on little banners began appearing at windows to tell all who passed by that they had lost a son, a husband or a father on a distant shore. It was a time of bonding. Made us feel safer even as we prepared ourselves for enemy attacks anyway.
To prepare a Civil Defense Strategy, it was decided to have blackout drills which meant covering our windows at dusk with dark cloths over every window in the house. Not a chink of light could show from the streets where wardens kept watch. The wardens were volunteers who would roam the streets looking for violations. Roxie, I remember how frightened I would get when one of the wardens would shout “Cover That Window.” Here I was all of twelve years old, scared out of my wits to the point of being unable to sleep because I thought we would surely be bombed. I couldn't imagine the fear of kids in countries where bombs fell. The blackout drills were imposed from New York City to the Dakotas and the goal was for everyone to be ready for airstrikes. Do you remember how all over the city, street and traffic lights were masked and how electric billboards were totally put out? Any building with windows above the 15th floor were darkened for the duration of the war. New York Citywas definitely an electrical magnet for bombings.
You know Roxie, I believe that many times something good comes out of tragedy. My parents couldn't know that in 1928 a scientist from England would become a force in their lives that would save their only son in 1944. The scientist was Alexander Fleming and the boy, my nine year old brother, Sonny. My brother's appendix had ruptured and his doctor was able to locate some penicillin. You probably remember Dr. Gottesman. He knew that at the time it was being used only by the Armed Forces. With some finagling he would be able to get enough to save Sonny. The war was almost over and penicillin about to be given to hospitals for the general public. The day before the miracle of saving my brother - my mother always thought of it as a miracle -- I was taken out of school by my aunt Rose. I was actually on stage doing my Sarah Bernhardt imitation, (I always dreamed of becoming an actress), and my aunt Rose shows up. I knew immediately something was wrong and I was told to leave the Play. My aunt told me that my mother had asked her to get me from school because my brother was dying. “Your brother is dying!” That's exactly how she said it! I cried all the way to the hospital.
I really don't know where time has gone. Life goes on or gets in the way. I've intended to call you, but something new takes up my time and you can bet your boots that it revolves around fJohn. So there goes the phone call to you. But writing is what I really enjoy. It makes me put my thinking cap on and besides, it relaxes me. My days with John are roller-coaster rides. I think I spend half of my life getting him to do the mundane things we all do, you know, like washing our faces in the morning. He's very quiet so I rarely know where he's at, even if he's in the next room. He's kind of stopped reading, (I don't think he assimilates well anymore.) But he loves to look at old picture albums. This brilliant mind going down the tubes. Honestly Kid, If I think about it too much, I think I'll go mad.
So how come I woke this morning with a smile on my face? I heard no laughing except from the ghosts of my childhood, and we didn't even recognize one another. For we are no longer those babes in the woods. No longer the innocents. We have traveled too far, met one too many obstacles, exchanged moments of grief for a grain of peace. Yet, we can say that we are happy because along the way we taught ourselves to grab onto the shirttail of happiness, and not let go. And that is what has defined us.
You'll hear from me again, Roxie. I'm trying to catch up on my reading. It helps me get away from my real life and sometimes I think that's what I need. Escape – from what's real and what's not.
Love you Kid,
Betty
Timing by Connie Shepard
While on my morning
dog and nature walk
I watched the ducks,
geese and other water fowl
swim about in what’s left
of the lake.
Misty, my dog,
Drew my attention
To the dry lake bed below.
There upon a blanket
lay a man and woman
looking back at us.
It led me to question:
was I too late or too early
to observe any action?
We hurried on.
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