He Waited for the Carriage and Took Aim

The ship has run aground
and the ghosts
are getting off,
looking for home
and the peel of the welcoming bell.
Hollows and trails
are left in the black sand
by immigrant mothers,
moon-faced children and
men who would work for little,
and be remembered for nothing
until they fought
in the Great War.

           It’s quiet on the front
           but for the echoes
           of Princip’s gunshot.

           It’s chaos on the front
           except for the bodies
           of the dead.

So we used the broad shoulders
of the survivors
to build the Great Society;
a chance for everyone,
a place for everything,     
an answer to every question,
a woman for every man,
a father for every child,
a god for every faith,
until we asked
the sons of the settlers,
the next pioneers,
the young men,
to fight for it all again.

           Where do we start
           when there are so many
           who want it all?

           Flip a coin. Do you want
           to die in the jungle, the snow,
           or on a road into hell?

They came home
strong, proud, and in command.
They came home
on the same ships and planes
that brought home the dead,
came back with the same dreams
they had stored away
when they left,
and with our thanks fading
in the distance
like the voices of their friends,
they started a new life.
But at night
shades crept out of the darkness
stealing their breath and their sleep.
At night, the bedroom
became the jungle,
neighbors became faceless devils
with guns pointed at their heart,
and the world hadn’t changed
despite the sacrifice.

           South seas countries
           we knew nothing about
           at war with each other.

           Why should we care?
           Why should we go?
           Why should we die?

The ghosts are going home,
tired of waiting
for us to wake up.
Their grandsons
and great granddaughters
keep up the fighting,
in caves and in deserts,
in speeches and in classrooms,
in elections and
at gravesides.
Gunshots fired
almost a century ago
have led us to countries
choosing up sides
for a playground game
that doesn’t end with Mom
calling us home for supper.
Gunshots meant to secure
one country’s freedom
have left us all shackled
to a sinking ship
and the ghosts
of the past
are tired of being ignored.

-- Christopher Hivner

After Words

On the eastern prairie hills
After the grasses turn yellow
After the hay is cut in contoured rows
And the brown earth stands
In round patches
After the church is closed for the week
And its white walls bake in the sun
After the weighted heads of grain
Are stored in the tall steel silos to dry
Under the snow
After the dogs are fed and the horses
Closed in
After the stiff sheets are folded
After the juncos have finished in the bushes
After the flies stop
After the forest goes gray
After talk ends
And Venus appears
There is only silence on the fields
And the tricks of night air, tiny movements
Shadows of fences
Then I think of you.

-- Emily Strauss

The Writing Cycle

When your conscious and unconscious selves
Meet, how will they recognize each other, like
Two species of warblers with slightly different
Wing bars, black or yellow, how do they know
They are of the same emberizidae family?

The art is to become one, the discursive side
Critical like humming mosquitoes, and the writing
Breaking through until you feel the good like
The stillness of a mesa top as you lie on a ridge
Between two cliffs, facing sixty miles of gorges.

The continuum from dry to wet must meet someday
The wild words must eventually sit quietly on paper
Visible, stationary, unvarying, framed in white
Space, the black marks clear as hieroglyphs.

In a museum hangs a large cream page with pale
Words in white letters scattered around the perimeter
Gathered off a favorite list by a writer who wanted
To show the movement of sound. Once you finish

Writing, the still hand belies the agony of creativity
Like pumpkin seeds hiding in dried petals of squash
Blossoms discarded on a path when spring warms
To summer. The cycle is complete when

Your angry notebooks become fine antique type
On handmade paper, or windblown scraps for birds’
Nests or the lined burrows of field mice and frost like
Pencil leads coats the dry twigs in sinuous shapes.

Wholeness is the present divining last fall’s tangled
Mat of leaves and watching the returning chickadees,
When you know the pictures will reach through your
Fingers and write themselves down your arm.

It is good to see someone read your words
And nod slowly.

-- Emily Strauss

Before the Fall

I spotted my grandfather
As I drove down the block.
He was standing in front of his house,
Preparing to remove a tree stump
From the ground.
A storm had felled the young pine
A few weeks earlier,
And the sight
Of the gnarled thing
In his manicured yard
Had driven him to distraction.

As I pulled to the curb,
I watched my grandfather
Use a shovel
To loosen the exposed roots.
He then planted the blade
In the earth,
Gripped the splintering wood
In his hands,
And lowered his body
Toward the ground
For leverage.
He straightened his legs
And heaved with arms
That had held me
Almost too tight
Since I’d been born.
The stump failed to budge.

I turned the car off,
But remained behind the wheel,
Loathe to break
His concentration or posture.
He tried to lift
The tangle of roots again,
But succeeded only
In rocking the mass.

He brought himself fully erect,
Hands on hips.
Then his arms went limp.
He wiped the sweat
From his brow
And bowed his back.
I realized with some alarm
That he intended
To make another attempt.

I clambered from the car
And slammed the door.
He looked up.
A falsely cheerful greeting
Caught in my throat.
He didn’t speak,
But the grey clouding
His blue eyes
And the set
Of his bared teeth
Said it all.
“This hurts worse
Than anything ever has before
And ever will again.”  

-- Megan McDonald

Catcalls

Once upon a time,
They called for her:
Cats in black Cameros,
Cruising by slow;
Wolves on worksites,
Gripping hammers
In calloused fists;
Men who held her youth
And innocence
In some hard regard.

Nowadays,
The only cat who calls
Is her hungry, insistent kitten;
The wolves who whistle
Are coyotes,
Skulking among the ewes
In the dusk pasture.
The squawks of Stellar’s jays
Are a constant reminder:
She is no longer young,
And has long ago left
Strolling the city’s streets.

--Megan McDonald

Neighborhood Gossip

There is a foreboding that this might be the end
Sit next to the bed and watch
The moonlight cast a strange liquid light like pure paper
It is her flickering soul

Hear the water dripping from the faucet
Mixed with the very last breath of a dying man

The perfumed gardens are not bothered by bees
Busy bees
Who poke and prod and try to turn flowers into weeds
Muckraking and mulch create a vomit smell that stirs the soul.

The neighbors
My bickering neighbors who gossip and form the attitude of strangers

Enchanted forest hosts with delight
Hey!
The echo yells back
Rounding out the high pitch tones inside the metal canister

One way conversations are the norm these days
And I like it

-- William Nunez​

THAT DISTINCT WHISTLE

The distinct whistle-how Dad rounded his lips
To make the sound that was an attention getter
A real grabber which meant it was time for:

                                        Homework
                                        Supper
                                        Come inside
                                        I want to talk to you

I hated that whistle when I was a kid
My friends would tease and the neighborhood knew
I had to fall in line
And march to family drum

How distinct was the whistle?
It went like something like this:

“                    “

As the years pass and the park is no longer there
I would kill to hear that whistle again
Memories are all that is left and now I am alone
No longer distinct/no longer at home

-- William Nunez ​

Pilots of the Dawn

We were pilots of the dawn, launched
from our mother's womb screaming,
flying higher than we ever dreamt.

We sought to navigate the sky
and make the sun our prisoner.
It was just a sinkhole in the path

of everything we had to do.
Now, many decades later,  
we've done everything we can

and glide like gulls, aimlessly.
One by one, our planes plummet
back to Earth without a warning  

while the rest of us are slowly
running out of fuel.
There's nothing we can do.

We flew for years to get things done  
and now it's time to tally up our score
but that's not part of our assignment.

-- Donal Mahoney

Some Kind of Deist

The body perfectly overlaps the soul.
They are like nectar in an adobe bowl.

So when she lays you down to sleep
Pray for her taste for you to keep,

Ignore all those you ought not have,
& kill the dog that counts such sheep.

-- J. T. Whitehead ​

Burn

It’s a singular silence, meaning my own
awareness of berries, grandfathers’ jackets,
first ladies, quotes & postage is there.
Once it was the pound of a character
putting it down, but now it’s just ground out,
each letter fallen into place like a dark, sweet flake
when the burning is over.

There was a package of cloves & a thin, tight joint
in a grandfather’s coat, light gray, in the pockets.
He took them out & said it was a tale,
told by an idiot.    We lit.    We left
when the burning was over.
We drove, without drink, without want,
without false idle thoughts about God,
God of Beethoven, deaf,
God of castrated Abelard.
He said, “Hell was a tale, told by an idiot,
when the burning was over.”

He’ll often smile like a man without shame.
There’s talk of England, Europe, the coast.
At most a lame faint desire
we know, sitting, smoking, reading verse,
the talk remains the same & unrealistic.
His cares are not restricted.
There are rhythms.    There are words.

& one can do worse than to write this of us:
the silence is mine, I claim it, & wait
for the letters to fall into place
like the dark sweet flakes from the smokes
that you took from your grandfather’s coat.

-- J. T. Whitehead ​

O tormented Puritan --

drives & urges swim in
your spirit,
    like minnows
through an open net
    in Worldly oceans
you can’t regret,
    & won’t forget,
        yet fret . . .

-- J. T. Whitehead ​

Paradise Found

You have a choice, Abner.
You can drop your anchor
in the foaming sea
and stand on deck

until you die
and then fall overboard
for eternity.
But that's not me.

I'll swing my anchor
above my head
like a madman's lariat
and let it fly

above the clouds
and beyond the sun.
It will land, I swear,
in paradise

and take me with it.
Paradise is the only place
for curs like you and me.
So pull your anchor up

and swing it round
and let it go.
If you believe, you'll soar
along with me.

-- Donal Mahoney

The Widow Murphy Sets Her Cap

Mrs. Ryan keeps her cat inside at night
but lets it out at dawn to go anywhere it likes
while she's at work. Every day the cat

crosses the road to call on the Widow Murphy.
Mrs. Ryan doesn't know her cat calls on Mrs. Murphy
but she has told the widow twice her cat is on a diet:

a little kibble in the morning and a little water at night.
Nothing else. When the cat arrives at Mrs. Murphy's,
the widow lets him in and gives him warm milk

and a dollop of salmon on a porcelain saucer.
Afterward the cat takes a long nap on a Persian rug till
the widow lets him out in the afternoon

to cross the road and wait for Mrs. Ryan
to pull her Lincoln into the driveway.
Mrs. Ryan's husband, Paddy, now retired,

has never called on the Widow Murphy.
He doesn't know the widow's waiting.
Paddy likes his tea strong, his wife once said.

-- Donal Mahoney

Woman in the Day Room Crying

Lightning bolts in childhood
can scar the soul forever.
They're a satanic baptism
when the minister's your father,
mother, brother, sister,
anyone taller, screaming,
shooting flames from the sky
all day, all night.  

The years go by
but the scars remain.
The pale moonlight of age
makes them easier to see
and scratch until they burst
and bleed again,
another reason I wake up
at night screaming.

When the daylight comes,
I talk about the scars
when no one is around
to say shut up!
I draw the details in a mural
on the walls and ceilings so
everyone can see the storms
that never left a rainbow.

-- Donal Mahoney

A girl with god

is an oasis in stormy
weather hard to take your eyes off of, really
her body is a pirate's treasure
a song of songs
her eyes alone could lead the
way to peace
her voice is wind chimes
chasing away all apathy
her words purer than
any dreams i'll know
her love could light
up the night
making a man better
than he deserves to be
she smiles, and doors
open to
                    paradise

-- Erren Geraud Kelly

6-18-06

I’ve been here three days
I love my father and he loves me
I don’t care that he still tries to
Buy my love
Or that he tries to erase the past
As far as I’m concerned
It’s done
He still manages to get around
Though not as well as he used to
I am my father’s child
I am by his side right or wrong
I promised mama
I’d cook her a roast
But it will be late
She will understand
I didn’t go to church, either
God will understand

-- Erren Geraud Kelly

PLAYING CATCH WITH MY FATHER

my daddy said
baseball was america's only
great game and i agree
every night when i sleep
i talk with him as
we play a game of catch
somewhere, my father is
bragging to john coltrane
and st. peter
about the foundation he helped
lay down for the colorado rockies *
ballpark
and how it brought them
luck

-- Erren Geraud Kelly

* the colorado rockies made it to the world series in 2007

Feel Like Charlie Brown

sunday morning
and i'm on the ice
trying to keep my balance
i skate around trying to
maintain grace
a jazz piano opens its bloom
from the sound system
today is a stay in bed late morning
or walking around golden gate park
kind of morning
when the last of the fog has lifted
i attempt to write a figure 8
and land on my back
i laugh at myself
feeling like charlie brown
it feels like one of those mornings
when mom's gospel tinged singing
could be heard through the house
along with shouts of
GET UP, GET UP!
we had a choice of going to church
or going to church
one of us would end up
watching what we wanted on t.v.
another, with the sunday paper
reading about how much the saints
would lose by
or watch snoopy in the comics
do battle with the red baron
mon would get one of us
to zip up her dress
and we always found the magic
to make our good clothes fit
even when it seem like they couldn't
and as we left
smells from kitchen
told us what would be for dinner

-- Erren Geraud Kelly

To Think Of Fall

to think of fall
as the inevitable
inevitable fall final as
browns and oranges
finally trumpeting in the months
months trumpeting lengthy as
a lengthy kiss between us
between us a world
worlds born in our embrace
embracing our future world
we are born
embracing the future
future is ours, inevitable destiny
our inevitable destiny
you and i sitting on a porch
of a log cabin
i built for you
you were destined
to find my heart
a small life of brownish-orange
who fall and destiny
was inevitable

-- Erren Geraud Kelly

RUST MUSHROOMS

Rust is iron’s mushrooms
spreading across
abandoned metal
like fungus sprouting
in fallen tree grains
constantly gathering moisture
in miserly frenzy
before the drought
glimmers lake mirages
in dew-sipping memories.

--  Diane Webster