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August 2011 Issue

Recent Blog Entries

                                 Fall 2011 Issue

 

Page 1

 

"Mugwort" (painting) ....................................................................................................................... Rachael Bridge

"My Chained Faith" (poetry) ........................................................................................................... Sonnet Mondal 

"Chaos" (photography) ................................................................................................................... Eleanor Leonne Bennett

"The Landlord" (poetry) .................................................................................................................. Donal Mahoney  

"Your Bed" (illustration) .................................................................................................................. Stephanie Hays

"Thoughts of Winter" (poetry) ........................................................................................................ James Piatt

"Ill Mother and Child" (photography) .............................................................................................. Eleanor Leonne Bennett  

"Customer of Vendors" (poetry) ..................................................................................................... Donal Mohoney

"Waiting to Reach" (photography) ................................................................................................. Eleanor Leonne Bennett

"Spice Mines" (fiction) .................................................................................................................... Salvatore Buttaci

"Hookers on Archer Avenue" (poetry) ............................................................................................ Michael Lee Johnson

"Tina" (painting) ............................................................................................................................. Rachael Bridge

"Dissolution of Maya" (music & film) .............................................................................................. S!dDhArtH j. MeHta 

"Leaves in December" (poetry) ...................................................................................................... Michael Lee Johnson

"Burl" (illustration) .......................................................................................................................... Aly Kat  

"Etiquette in the Dark" (poetry) ...................................................................................................... Ricky Garni 

 

Page 2

 

"Boyhood Dreams" (illustration) .................................................................................................. Stephanie Hays

"Husband and Wife on Hassocks Eating Sausage (poetry) .......................................................... Donal Mahoney 

"Outside My Window" (poetry) .................................................................................................... John Grochalski

"Revolution Web" (graphic design) ............................................................................................. S!dDhArtH j. MeHta

"Can This Marriage Be Saved?" (poetry) .................................................................................... Ricky Garni 

"Jacqueline du Pre" (painting) ..................................................................................................... Shoshana Kertesz   

"Southern Summer Winds" (poetry) ............................................................................................ Sonnet Mondal

"Selkie" (illustration) ...................................................................................................................... Aly Kat  

"Bluewater" (screenplay) .............................................................................................................. Christopher Woods

"Martial Law" (graphic design) ..................................................................................................... S!dDhArtH j. MeHta  

"Divinity" (fiction) .......................................................................................................................... Stephanie Hays 

"Failure to Get" (fiction) ................................................................................................................ Kim Farleigh 

 

 

Mugwort

 

 

My Chained Faith

 

The far-flung whistle of the colliery

and of the Calcutta-mail

calls me every day after dinner.

 

The train’s shrill echo and

rhythmic melody of wheels

form a sublime image of

the girl out of my dreams,

waving and smiling;

screaming and crying;

standing and waiting

just for me amidst gasses,

trees and hedges that wave

in solitude and hope.

 

 The curvature of the lopsided land

plays hide and seek along with

the clouds and moon blurring realism.

 

My belief is incurable and so is

the facade of pleasure that I show

while I follow compellingly,

the whistle of the colliery.

 

My faith lies in the train,

in the wilderness and

the vaporous figure of my love

while my whims are chained

with famine and society

that may identify me as a mad

once I leave my job and run

into the hazy backwoods.

 

 

Chaos

 

 

 

 

The Landlord

 

When finally at 80 Sammy died

Polly gave me from the pantry packets
of dry noodle soup that Sammy
to the end drank down as supper.
Tureens of it, with swallows
from the pint I'd smuggle in, kept
Sammy blinking at the light
the final weeks. I lived below them
at the time and needed more than soup.
But in the parlor where they laid him out
we sat on high-back chairs amid the flowers
and marveled at how straight our Sammy lay.
Who prepared him must have brought 
his gnomic back, twice at least,
full force across a knee.
 
 
 
 

Your Bed

 

 

 

Thoughts of Winter

              

               Thoughts of winter arrived yesterday,
               Fall faded and no longer still:
               The rains of winter have come to stay.

               Barren vestiges of white and gray
               Winds arriving cold and shrill:
               Thoughts of winter arrived yesterday.

               Warm thoughts have gone away
               Flowing into a tiny frozen rill:
               The rains of winter have come to stay.

               The low-lying sun now has no sway
               Winter appeared with no frill:
               Thoughts of winter arrived yesterday.

               The dull yellow beams of the sun’s ray
               Now only a distant and faded thrill:
               The rains of winter have come to stay.

               Lonely cold memories do dismay
               In the two story house upon the hill:
               Thoughts of winter arrived yesterday,
               The rains of winter have come to stay.

 

 

Ill Mother and Child

 

 

 

Customer of Vendors

 
How many times have I said
I’m through teasing myself,
through pretending
I don’t enjoy
the wreath of a woman
warm around me.
How many times have I said
I’ll go out on the streets,
as I have in the past,
in cummerbund and sash,
top hat and cane,
a one-man parade
with bugle and drum,
seeking the sweetbreads
served there all day,
fresh off the brazier,
medium rare.
 
 
 

Waiting to Reach

 

 

 

 

Spice Mines

 

I met her on the last day of my trip to Mars. As mine-acquisitions manager, it was one of my jobs to

find new spice mine sites that could continue to make me and the other terrestrials in the firm

sweet-smelling rich.


At first I thought she was part of the group on Mars that manned the huge fire shells that kept us

safe. I was wrong. One day we ran into each other at the door of her work cell.


Have we met?” I asked.


At first she didn’t say a word. Then she smiled, held out a gloved hand, and we exchanged names:

Vince and Kate.


How does it look?” she asked. I let my eyes squint, a brow rise. “I mean the spice. ‘The spice of

life.’ Isn’t that what McCracken-Brown calls it?”


He sure does! As we say in the trade, ‘We’re here to land us a big one.’ ”


They’ll plant the spice on Earth?”


She looked so good to me. More spice in her than in the mines!


That might work,” I said. “Can’t say for sure until we try. Right now we need to make sure the

mine’s got spice, then we work to dig it out, and ship tons back home.”


Home,” said Kate. Her blue eyes brightened the way mine do when I think about home. “I miss it. I

hope one day to go back.”


Mars can be home if you stay a few years,” I said.


She laughed. “No, no. I signed up for three and that’ll be the end of it. The man I love’s waiting for

me in Augusta.”


I had come here to this red ball more times than I could have guessed. I liked it, but I missed the big

towns of Earth, the way the sun and the moon came in their due time, but as for love, no such luck.

 When Jane died of The Rabid-Dog Flu, I took one more vow; to stay free. So far it was working. I

kept busy. I did as I pleased. I had gone to some of the space orbs but found no spice, no

warmth, no chance I’d stay. Mars at least made me not think so much about losing Jane.


The day I left for Earth with good news about the new spice mine, I got the bad news Kate lost her

life in one of the fire balls her military people could not repel.


I thought of her man back in Maine, and of my Jane, how life is like a long trek where sharp stones

twist the steps we take so pain makes it hard for us to stay on our feet. But we keep moving. We tell

ourselves, that’s the way it is.


 

 

 

Hookers on Archer Avenue

 

Late evening, early morning,

I search the night for whores,

young, bloody with desire.

Night streets are silent streets

except for hookers and their Johns.

One wants the dart of groins

the other green eyes in dollar

sacred treasures-

snatch the wallet, a consecrated craft.

Both hit the streets quickly

satisfy needs quickly.

 

I’m an old buck now rich with memories

more than movement, still talk, take porn shots,

with a peeking eye, snoop around

department store corners,

and dumpy old alleyways.

My hair is gray, my teeth eroding,

thoughts toward prayer

A.M. Catholic Mass,

then off in early morning

to the mailbox, a lethargic walk,

I pick up my social security check-

comforts my needs.

 

Evening settles into bed time

with a western romance novel,

ambushes, excitement,

old transgressions stretch

and relax.

 

No desires, homage

to the day, to the night.

 

 

Tina

 

 

 

Dissolution of Maya

 

 

 

Leaves in December

 

Leaves, a few stragglers in

December, just before Christmas,

some nailed down crabby

to ground frost,

some crackled by the bite

of nasty wind tones.

 

Some saved from the matchstick

that failed to light.

Some saved from the rake

by a forgetful gardener.

 

For these few freedom dancers

left to struggle with the bitterness:

wind dancers

wind dancers

move your frigid

bodies shaking like icicles 

hovering but a jiffy in sky,

kind of sympathetic to the seasons,

reluctant to permanently go,

rustic, not much time more to play.

 

 

Burl

 

 

 

 

 

Etiquette in the Dark


I always capitalize the word “Nobody”
because I feel sorry for it and want it
to know that I consider it important
and worthy of respect.