Relativity
An Enigma
by Mary D. Sanford
There are no journals left to tell us what was wrong
No hints given,
No answers to the practice test forthcoming.
This is not Hangman and we your eager students.
There are no clues here to help us win this game
It's Jeopardy! and There Are No Winners!
Sorry, folks. No champagne bubbles, no Lawrence Welk
You go on home now, and drive real safe.
It is a long goodbye
a goodbye, perhaps, that will never be over.
They say you were one for drama--the shock value king
Too tough--you never had remorse
Your anger was a shiny badge
You polished spit shined, fingering the filigree,
The battle scars of long forgotten wars, and you, the stoic veteran,
Savoring your wounds.
And I am angry too, my brother, as much for what you did
As what you left unsaid
I'm mad and I refuse to play!
I paid my dues--and then some,
tattoos sound the cry.
There are no debtors left to call, no snarling dogs
Demanding restitution.
Did anger make you whole or give you hope?
I do not, do not, DO NOT understand.
For you I wish you peace among the fields, a laying down of weapons,
A letting go of wars.
Midnight
Midnight
has crept into my room
I lowered the curtains
to shut it out
But midnight
has its charming ways
knowing how to make me invite
Now we inhabit both
the time and the space
shyly I look to the other side
with nothing to say
Maybe I want a word
out of midnight
of the things he has seen
of the others
into whose rooms he has been
As always
midnight keeps quiet
wordless we spend the night
until the first morning light
Silver Creek
by Hilary McRee Flanery
I took a
walk,
to the
creek.
Its silver
silence
I did
seek.
Its shoulders
wrapped
in winter
white,
A stole
of snow
from left
to right.
And in
between,
the sparkling
ice,
Babbling,
glistening,
streams
entice...
Us all
to hear
its silver,
sounds
In silver
silence
God
abounds.
Night's Illumination
by Ava Chante de l'Esprit
...one way ticket on from this pouch to the next,
just a matter of moments and the fugue is done,
hand it in,
surrender,
hope my pieces of action and intent add up in a many hued small box
of strivings and successes laced with ribbons shiny and faded twine
in humble divine,
hand it all in as is deemed time
and sit in quiet repose
grateful
in the staggering beauty of night's illumination...
This Quest For
by Arlene Ang
hors d'ouvres to placate 97 guests is unappetizing
as the dinner squabbles of relatives who have
planed to town for the wedding. Is seafood still
politically correct, I wonder? He refuses to be
implicated in my decisions. A salad platter of
noxious mushrooms begins to look good. We might as well
elope, he sighs. It's the best idea he's had
so far. Our parents will never live it up. We
start packing for Bahamas, excited as ten-year-olds.
This Relative Ache
by Chris Patterson
I would throw pebbles at your
window to get you to come
down for one kiss tonight.
This desire pulls me like the
wobbly wheel of an adolescent's
go-kart, always careening to the left.
Your proximity is what's relative
to the rise and fall of this
desirous state,
ruling with an iron fist,
a revolution would be
needed to overthrow.
There are words whispered just
before a kiss, that should remain
rare and precious,
sparkling in the afternoon
light that suddenly reveals
a well of depth and
the intricacies of lace.
There is nowhere for it but
in the gallery,
hanging there
for the admiration and contemplation
that is the beauty of the moment,
relative only to itself.
In Memory of Me
by Deidre Abrahamsson
I am ashamed of my body.
Every flaw, every scar,
every imperfection,
I magnify when I am out
in the world.
Alone in my room
it is different.
I am happy and pretty
and I dance and twirl
in front of the mirror
and when I am tired
I curl up like a cat
in my bed
and purr myself to sleep.
It is different outside,
in the streets, in school,
in the everyday world.
An unfounded paranoia
seeps in and I hear
people’s thoughts,
bracing myself
for imaginary criticism.
My body feels heavy,
it is alien to me.
I want to cry out
This is not me!
No.
Instead of shouting
from the rooftops
I withdraw and hide
in the closets of my mind.
I long to be proud
like the Queens
from whom I descend.
My ancestors were warriors.
They had to fight to endure.
Through endless births
and miscarriages,
running the farm,
looking after the sheep and cows,
working in the fields,
masking their womanliness behind
long dresses of heavy cloth,
struggling to keep the family
together, despite death and famine
and evictions and depression and
fairies and drunken husbands.
No I am not like them.
At least this week I am not.
My body is a burden to me
and I poison it with drink
and nicotine and sex and scars.
And I bottle up my words inside.
But one day it will be my turn.
Someday I will be so shaken up
that my voice will explode.
And I too will wear wellingtons
and traipse across the back roads
from Moylough to Kiltimagh to
Loughrea to Gowna and Malin Head,
laughing at the fairies that I meet on the way.
Look for me on the roads.
Listen for my voice.