Everybody Dies.

Vicky died in a car crash 
Her long blond hair 
Instantly Titian 
Her freckled complexion 
Irreparably torn 
The rain drenched highway led to 
Freshman orientation but 
She missed her appointment. 

Lou Gehrigs claimed Ron 
Whose kind eyes cuddled 
Daughters, longing, and rocks 
In the end, our high school 
Running back required 
A wheelchair accessible van 
Packed with gadgets but 
That was before the feeding tube. 

Dad collapsed on the dance floor 
Swinging his Beloved 
From cuddle position 
He dipped then Timbered 
High cheekbones shattered into 
Shards on the polished, marble floor 
“Ob, what are you doing,” Mom cried. 
She did not mirror him. 

Row upon row of white headstones 
Cosmetically maintained 
Under a cerulean sky 
Withstand the Boreas wind 
We shoulder our caskets 
Release caged doves and 
Cling together as bagpipes 
Wail Amazing Grace. 

— Barbara Steinhauser 

- MH -

(Note: “…Always the 2nd. Sunday in May,” she was wont to say, “….always the 2nd. Sunday in May.”) - H.e.m/H’H.

she

was just a girl

‘splaying rubiauburn caracole

in dingy sunlight

as hungry danced ‘round

hungry for something

she was just a girl

a daughter-mother

born

to skill & scullery

as the others danced

merry into dingy sunlight

hungry for something

she

& jessedressy

she was just a girl

only

the strains of music assuaged,

like an unfamiliar bosom’s

familiar melody,

to the wireless

or of the paucitous street

marconi ‘n cheese

never cheesy enough

she was just a girl

whirls, & whirled

of pirates & barons

abandoned

like a vested, barren jessedressy

to

citizenbest

restive for something

beyond vacancy

& vacated friends,

now coveted

she was just a girl

before

me,

of violate pianokey smudge:

what size?  critisize,

home to eyes

streaked like windows

in her dingy sunlight

born to moaning,

when our cord was cut

she cried

plentimental

mother

is the necessity of invention

she was just a girl

two centenaries

rubiauburn caracole

too soon silvered

to bleach white

like marrowless bones

fed on resentaplenty…

wilting silk flowers

she

was just a girl

she was just a girl

                        H.e.m./H’H.

                        4.19.MMix 

                        (For F)

Babe in Arms

He lay in my arms heavy
asleep
his face begins to tense
a frown at the corners of his mouth
he’s being pulled back to this world
from his sweet dream place
fearfully he opens his eyes
he stares into mine
relief
his lids drop
his body goes limp

the power of momness

— Patty McBride Costanzo 

Fairy Dust

Silently, I tip-toe to touch

The soft angel-face I love so much

Each whispered kiss releases me

From the present into eternity

Then I so blessed as my child brings

His sleepy arms about me linked

Like softly folded gossamer wings.


Then lifted up, he enfolds my yearning

Scattering my illusions of need, burning…

Into Fairy Dust

With tight hug and wide-eyed trust

He offers me his simple truth

“I love you mom”

Oh precious gift, my lovely son.

— Helen Lewis 

To Me, You are Holy

Blessed be, 

           each of your wrinkles. 

For it was wisdom you earned 

         and shared 

that drove the canyons and carved those lines. 

Blessed be, 

           your hair,  

           grey, white or gone. 

For the sacrifice of time and patience 

           and love

changed them forever or drove them away.  

Blessed be, 

          the tar stains 

          on your lips and teeth and fingers. 

For they are the imprint of every cigarette you smoked 

          every two minutes 

          past when I should have been home.  

Blessed be, 

          your arthritis.  

It stands as testimony 

          to all the times you ran, jumped, tripped 

          to protect me.  

You are a sacred person, indeed, 

         for you chose your path 

to be my sanctuary.   

— Trisha J. Wooldridge 

Wedding Day

Bright Saturday in June

and there, for once, the whole of it

and, Lord, I have no camera.

Outside the church

a wedding party waits.

A Mass is still in progress.

Before the wedding can begin

ten men, in files of five,

must carry out the corpse.

— Donal Mahoney

The Prodigal

I’ve fed Old Tom

for many years

with never any thanks,

not one meow.

He arrives at night

with eyes ablaze.

I crack the door

and slide a tin

of Fancy Feast

across the deck

toward him 

like a puck.

He hunkers

on the railing till

I lock up.

Then he pounces.

The tin’s a mouse,

you see,

and suddenly

it’s time to eat.

— Donal Mahoney

Taxi Driver

I remember the train

and the cab that I caught,

the train because of the meal that I had,

too many plates, the tiniest portions,

the cab because of the driver I had.

I could see in the mirror his eye

soar to the side of its socket,

a hummingbird there

ready to flutter into his skull.

From station to town,

that hummingbird flew

as I kept listening

to its master extol

the town’s lone hotel.

— Donal Mahoney

Ted

The grains of sand between us

Made a pearl

We made that pearl into a ring

A ring that binds us together

Like twine

Barbed wire

A simple understanding

— Damian Lanahan-Kalish

Everybody's Hungry

Some days 

Like today 

Everybody’s hungry

Everyone keeps saying to each other

“I can’t believe I’m still hungry”

“Didn’t I just eat?”

Everywhere I go people are still hungry 

They can’t seem to get enough to eat

Some days

Like yesterday

People go about their day-to-day lives with a look of raw hunger on their faces

They can’t get enough food to feel satisfied

And on those days

Like yesterday

I feel happy

I feel happy that we’ve found something to bind us together

— Damian Lanahan-Kalish

to neglect

he sat alone in the cold mornings quietyet to be troubledwith the trials of the day.
his face, as worn as the ripples on a lakehe sat while life taxied the lake before him
perhaps he sat in reflection of a life that did not spare himfrom its trials
it seems he still had yet to make peace with this world as he warmed the cold bench alone
-I was drawn to his complacency-
his gaze fixed upon the young in hurried laughter and in the blessed ignorance of youth as he watched and smiled.
-I was drawn to his joy- young lovers eagerly occupied the bench nearest his wooed in fervor'd caresses a benefit only to them his gaze, now rendered despondent 
-I was drawn to his heartache-
he now fixed upon a man who scolded children whom played too close to the lake
tutored well, the old man solemnly nodded in approval. -I was drawn to his regret-he sat alone, in reverie while the bench nearest his replaced the lovers in fervor,now warned passive as two aged lovers held hand in hand.
the lake fell silentthe air--still a lonely mistress fed eager pigeons
he raised his hand to shield tears that seemingly startled his view
he fumbled with his neckerchief to rescue the felled tears -I was drawn to his sadness-
the old man, trodden'd with memories of his years in ignorance of youth and love--of loss and regret,   accompanied him as he sat alone.
I wondered of all this now when I learned today of his departure from this world.
maybe then, he had no one left to sit with him.
I too, sit alonein the cold morning's quiet
I sit, where he sat.having only to mind my tea my mug--still steaming warmed my hands.
I wondered if he would have also enjoyed a cup.

- Sandy Marie 

I Love The Girl

I love the girl

Although she has no hands

We paint ourselves like elephants

And dance inside our skin

I tried to cry

Inside the movie theatre

But my hands just got bloody

And my popcorn washed away

I love the girl

Although I can’t see

She wears perfume

And I can’t drink water

Se we pretend we’re rattle snakes

Who have run out of mice

The first time I saw you

I thought you where my wife

- Damian Lanahan-Kalish

Brandy

You will drink me, on rocks, one last time

friend. Enjoy it; the sad burn, the heat swell,

the numb threads of nothing. The biting chill of ice-

bergs hitting broken lips and like you, waiting

to change.

But, you don’t change.

Tonight, you will thirst my poison into your blood,

pray to liquid spirits behind a dirty windshield,

run into a small car containing: a wife, a son, a daughter.

Don’t worry, you    

            alone

                           will be safe.

- Christina McClure 

I Never Thought I'd Miss

the patient earth, strawberry fields, undisturbed
quiet in every shade of green, tasting the smell of fresh cut

grass, the mud pools of childhood, the empty river that
once hummed along lonely roads and flower heads.

A clear night sky made for whoever is looking, just in that
moment, stars that blink away the dark,

and those mornings on ice that meddle with affairs
of warm sheets and flesh, the frost that bites

cold feet in a hot shower.

- Christina McClure 

- BOUNTY TANKA, REDUX -

Hunger for reading

dissimilar of homework

novitiate and

to his, “I’m thirsty” midnight;

reading, here begets hunger

Prompts…  and what to the

wonderous gastrome should appear

(and does!) but the seg-

fermented platter “obscene”

delight - mango, persimmon

plantain-like-bmanna

star fruit (doin’ carambola)

papaya, quince, hints

of apple in sinopome

kiwi to all ripe

read-y, this heady

bouquet…  uncommon lunch, brunch

munched like a picnic

sliced away, from vinegar

Drosophila Melanogaster

Like bounty, breadfruits

abundant to an ample

sea, fruits who labor

sweet and acrid repartee

dissuaded not for love’s glee 

Reading for hunger

this thirst enquenched by Poets

knowits; and like the

apricot grain salves, eager

eye to life’s light, T’berius.

H.e.m./H’H.

1.5.MMx.

ST

 Drawing by Terrianne U. Swift 

- EKPHRASCHINE -

doggerel versus
preposefilled words’ current
motion, a twitch of
the switch, crankayank, lever
everwhen whrrrs, the 3rd House

light, dark, semi-sweet
benderblender oiled nay un-
unctuous, geared… like new
wheels to a new wheel, spinning
weave-grinning tapastrys, like

chariotgods in
spoked perpetua, like to
turbopoes Powms, Pombs
revolvicos, round an’ ‘round
fuels of fire, on fire

yearn, burning, learning
as it goes and goes…like a
heartsongrespacyc,
or mistrals-succubater
doin’ bidding, mechano-

fittings some, on none…
Haroglyphs not not-unlike 
Moll of Flangers v.
the grommet bushings & bores’
piston right wingnuts unscrewed

Simple crankayank
thanks (if’n yer not doin’ yer
job, yer not doin’ yer
job), round an’ ‘round, enjambment
nay injambed, verse-obverse, Powm! 

3rd. House knock-out punch!
‘fore the margonom… Nary
litter box tools lathe
fashion’d doggerel biscuits
dig… toilets machines, too! 

H.e.m.(lines)/H.H.
11.6.MMix
(for ST) 

- AQUARIUM AGE -

Grottoed 

to the wall, 

fluorescence afloat

4 wide

2 high  

1 deep, an 

ichthyologism 

pouted 

angel smiles 

in & out 

of model caves, wile 

winding, threading 

faux drifting

forward & back fins, treading 

like diaphanous lingerie

with nowhere to go 

the smalls

hide

in tropical incarpceration 

from striped black mollies’ 

embattled spece 

& speckled zebras 

in checkered futures 

where none is welcomed 

save C.F. Muddypuppy, Jr. 

swabbing below O O O…

too bubbling unnaturally! 

eyes 

silverblue dart, 

in confine grouper aggress 

downturn at the mouth of hovel 

graveled & pretty pebbled 

this school for alienation 

childfish innocence gone 

of sweet, ingenue faces 

gone 

to 2 by 4 by 1 pool 

tropicalla 

not deep enough!

Vestibule 

“Jake” chirrups 

to his mirror 

& circus clips 

in grey-white plumearray 

& orange jole 

festooned canarycrown 

unfurled-furled 

talons & beak 

that just won’t speak 

but

a plaintive, training whistle 

in the day, night uncuttle 

hungry 

for more than scup seedlings!  

All

Whilst gaelic, loden lizards 

thankfully…scamper.  

H.e.m.IH.H. 

5.13.MMix. 

(For J.I.K.) 

Drawing by Terrianne U. Swift

To a Neighbor Back from War

First of all, your mind.

The chimes must stop,

the drums, the horns,

as well.  Finally, the long,

the wild parade

of mummers crazed

you must spade off

the way my Daddy,

years ago, 

when I was four,

on a bright St. Patrick’s Day,

turned the soil in Mother’s garden,

cursed the British

one more time

then drove his spade,

while Mommy screamed,

through the neck

of a garden snake.

— Donal Mahoney 

The Book Peddlers

The Book Peddlers
have lost interest
in publishing
Good Books
and instead
prefer to publish
Money.

But since Money
is very dull to read
The Good People
have stopped buying,

Which leaves
the Book Peddlers to lament;
There isn’t enough
money
to publish
Good Books

— Mickey Hager

The Leaves Fall Wet

The leaves fall wet, heavy and yellow
stacking on the ground with light applause.

It brings memories of
crunchy fall walks through the woods,
with crisp, damp air, misty on your skin.

The days are shorter and cooler each,
with frost around the corner

It is quiet
except when the wind
tips last night’s raindrops,
caught in cups
of up-turned leaves
and spills both,
drop and leaf,
to the quilted ground

— Mickey Hager