Oh, To Be Born in the Year of the Pig

Oh to be born in the Year of the Pig, the Pig

To be born in the Year of the Pig.

Was it Ode to Be Born in the Year of the Pig?

Never mind, the rhythm's fine 

And so is your luck

If you come forth 

In the year of the swine.

Chinese, in thrall to calendar ways

Want babies in this blessed year.

Those who show up will be

Prosperous, fat and hap-hap-pee.

But wait, birth in any year 

In the cycle of twelve, 

Whether pig, or horse or the other ten 

Calls for rewards

So why the hype? Because

This is the Golden Year of the Pig

That comes around once in 60. 

In Golden Years,

Bonus blessings shower newborns.

So all across the Asian land

Hopes and pregnancies

      are soaring

Three million more than normal

     are emerging

Strained hospitals are overrun

      with piglets, shall we say?

But they've got it wrong

All that glitters is not gold

Ah, now we're told

This pig year is earthen.

In fact, 

The last Gold Swine was '71; 

The next,  2031.

Why such a colossal blunder

In a land renowned for skills with numbers?

Pursuing higher numbers (of yuan) 

      trumped common sense

Suppliers of diapers, oils and baby food

Gilded the ordinary year of the pig

And triggered a flood of tiny tots.

Still reeling from the tarnished news,

New parents are not whooping 

      it up in birthing wards

The sudden baby boom

Will up the ante in years to come:

For seats at school, for jobs,

                 but have no fear

The Pig knows not of demographics

And superstition knows no bounds. 

Other reasons will be found;

Other years gilded soon.

Surprise, surprise

In a thoroughly secular state

They will bow down before golden mammals.

© Bill Sypher, 2013

Carvings of the animals of the Chinese Zodiac
on the ceiling of the gate to Kushida Shrine in Fukuoka
Photo by Jakob Hatun
from Wikimedia Commons

Thoughts on Mary's Mother

Where was Mary's mother

In all this birthing?

Was there only cousin Elizabeth,

Old and inexperienced,

To give comfort and advice?

Was there no Jewish mother

To make chicken soup,

Check how the baby lay,

As if she felt Jesus

Moving in the womb?

Was there gossip

In the neighborhood?

Did her mother

Want Mary and her bulging belly

Out of sight?

         In all this birthing.

         Where was Mary's mother?

© Peggy Latham, 2013

Detail of a pregnant Mary in a Provencal creche
Photo by Guillaume Piolle
from Wikimedia Commons

Forgotten Names

That reminds me of...

that film!

You know, 

the one we watched,

that black and white

French film we saw...

with the man who has brain cancer,

and there's that beautiful scene

with him lying down in the back of a taxi

driving to the hospital

and he passes all of the people

that show up over the course of the film.

There was a young man involved in gang violence,

a broken marriage,

a young kid's first day at school,

a married couple moving to a new city.

Each in their own black and white story,

all moving towards "the end."

© Scott Stark, 2013

Parisian taxi
Photo from Wikimedia Commons

Catch and Release

iron cuff eyes clinging to uniform

curtails weigh anchor on cruise line confusion.

confrontations of emotional upset commence once battleships sink.

ornamental gratitude decorates hungry hearts breathing

vitality suffocates in doberman demands.

Grass roots honesty spews forth from innocence,

strip lotus nectar from sticky cookie jar fists.

exhausted earth turned servant caves in to pastry cravings

contenders playing 18 questions

asked by kitten curiosity sequential numbers forgotten

as sunshine day dreamers wrap infant arms around poltergeist fathers.

plead Poseidon for safe return from salty coconut travels across the mango flavored ocean.

were i a dolphin, i would loose stranded sailors from deep sea grips

vengeance splits storm protected decks

were i a ship i would hold tight to the nails

hammer together the pieces of vessel i call family

i am instead a raging tidal wave come to crash upon splintered trust and unconditional love.

i am a treasure chest.

unleash your padlocked soul give charitably the wealth of your qi, your love, your fantasies...

please, captain, on this day... share with me

© Sarah Bordeau-Rigertink, 2013

The 'Great Western' riding a tidal wave
Painting by Joseph Walter
from Wikimedia Commons

Heritage

I am nothing to claim. 

White skin and dark hair;

I can’t call myself anything. 

I envy those who have heritage, 

rich and proud, 

black brown and loud. 

Me, I come from a history of nothingness: 

my father born Jewish, 

my mother born Caucasian 

(the word for the occasion 

when they don’t have anything to say 

except you’re white). 

White like ghosts 

you're taught to be afraid of. 

White like cotton 

slaves were forced to pick. 

Had my mother too been Jewish, 

at least I could have possessed that as what I am. 

Yes, I know from where my ancestors came, 

and I have to laugh to this day 

that some people say 

I am privileged to be this color. 

And to those I say, fuck no! 

‘Cause I have to risk skin cancer to 

look as healthy as you,

and I have to wear makeup that clogs my pores 

to make me look alive, not dead. 

And when people speak of the color of snow, 

let’s not forget dirt is brown, 

and in it is where things grow. 

You may read this 

and call it self-hate. 

But my intention’s not that. 

This is just a message 

to which some of us relate.

© Suzanne Saxon, 2013

White and Brown
Photo by Tony Russell

A Hand to Hold

A nurse named Jeffrey who smelled of cigarettes, the one who wrapped his arms around me and tucked my face into his stubbly neck as the spike of lidocaine entered my spine, the one who peered nervously into my eyes after the shot of ephedrine jerked me back to consciousness, the one who moved in and out of view as doctors barked and rushed, as I felt the jumbling and tugging of my organs and saw my blood-washed baby girl rising out of me, spinning out and shivering...

That nurse Jeffrey winked at me as I emerged from drug-induced amnesia squeezing his hand. He said, "Everything goes better if you have a hand to hold, right?" Then all the doctors lost their straight faces, laugh lines appeared above their masks, and the room got warmer at my expense. I'll never know just what I did, but now I consciously ask for a hand and I have never been denied. 

© Laura Seale, 2013

Hold My Hand
Photo by Elizabeth Ann Colette
from Wikimedia Commons

Pieces of My Soul

carelessly strewn about

life’s sticky kitchen floor

unwanted

unrecognizable

moments of distant glory

forgotten triumphs

hollow victories

paragraphs and chapters

of once-read pulp fiction

mismatched socks and dirty underwear

not very neatly folded away

into endless bottom drawers

haunting relics 

stacked in barely lit crawl spaces

and cobwebby corners of the psyche

refuse of the soul

shattered and scattered

pieces of then

nervously awaiting

some gentle caretaker’s

healing broom

© Bill Vollrath, 2013

Pulp fiction cover
from Wikimedia commons

I-88

The long shadows of winter,

of bright, white birches;

their gnarled and arthritic fingers stroke the sky,

reaching for a sun that barely rises before it sets.

Other trees, gray and patient, stand waiting. 

Their gentle sway suggests no hurry.

They trust that new buds will come soon.

But the white birches have an anxious gleam.

Creeks are frozen into miniature glaciers –

rocks and fallen limbs scattered in silence,

like the limbs of drowning men.

In another season, the precocious creeks 

are kinetic in the still woods.

In another season, they are renewal,

carrying the tired and broken bits of these mountains away.

But even the creeks are silent.

Only the white birches refuse to accept the patience of winter.

Only the white birches reach for the coming spring.

© Jeff DeBellis, 2013

Birches in Winter
Photo by Axel Kristinsson
from Wikimedia Commons

I Sing the Body Politic; A Sestina for Election Day

I am discovering with trepidation

that no age is old enough to learn about

the fragility of the human body.

The ripple of ribs flowing under the oar

of a collarbone. Heart underneath, beating

lopsided. Like a bird with a fractured wing.

What does it matter that I live in a swing

state when I can barely discern a nation? 

My myopic mind’s eye... a system’s beating

pulse appears inconsequential to a bout

of arrythmia in my own red or-

gan. Does a vote cast extend my own body?

But I fill out my ballot. Sing the body

politic. Watch the neighbor woman’s child swing

her legs under the chair outside the booth. Or

maybe she was dancing the demarcation

between body;(s) and body;(pl). A quote about

choices ("Life is the sum of"- Camus)  beating

in my mind, I see her pink clad feet beating

Choice’s shroud one day; the weight of a body

reduced to moment.  Life's meaning now about

pen on paper. Four more years of her swinging

from this self definition; the duration

of plural breath. We are drowning in infor-

mation, but starved in knowledge. Stumbling left or

right hoping to choose wisely. Daily beating

down wisdom’s door in the itching temptation

to choose well. Make us proud of our one body.

To not be the one standing in the swinging

Door of truth forgetting what it’s all about.

Is it all about me;(s)? Or is it about

me;(pl)? Do I belong to myself? Any more

confusion and my profile might simply wing

into blue like asphalt lines off of beating

heat. Then I shall no longer be named body.

Just anybody. Call me Population.

And yet, something about the still-strong beating

carotid thrills. Or maybe it’s your body  

adjacent, winging me to denotation.  

     © Sarah Fletcher, 2013

Voting in the United States
Photo by Tom Arthur
from Wikimedia Commons

Love on a Stone Wall

What is it about this stone wall

That so inspires the public baring 

Of your private souls?

This sharing, Jeremiah,

Of your forever love for Karly

With the next stranger to stop by?

Will the mountains towering above this wall

Bow down in awe, KS, of

Your forever and ever adoration?

Or the morning mist that 

Lingers sleepily

In the lush valley below

Delay one second longer

Because you, Lilly Wheeler,

Were here?

Will the sun burning its way

Through the morning clouds

Turn down its flame,

Stunned by the beauty 

Of the turquoise flower

You drafted on these rocks?

And the hawks that circle above,

Gracefully hunting their breakfast,

Will they shield their talons

Out of respect for your love

That is maybe not forever, though true enough?

What do the hungry birds care for your truth?

And Carla, why bother to engrave your love for Tre

Only to return the next month with Alex?

Such is the permanence of love on a stone wall.

Even you, who in despair

Declare yourself a “bonehead.”

Why must you share your pain with random passers-by?

Can you not see

Before you at this moment

The loveliness of the stone wall,

The majesty of the towering mountains,

The delicacy of the rising mist,

The power of the burning sun,

The grace of the circling hawks?

And is all this not enough

To make you stand in humble silence?

© Carolyn Brumbaugh, 2013

Graffiti wall at Venice Beach
Photo from Wikimedia Commons

Raspberry Wine

The day will come,

There'll come a time...

When we shall taste raspberry wine,

I'll pour a drink from the carafe

As we turn to share a secret laugh.

Someday will come when you are mine

And we will sip raspberry wine.

Into the fireplace our eyes will gaze,

Reminiscing life's tangled maze.

Though some will say that we're too old,

Our hearts will never become cold.

We'll be like petals falling down in May,

Drifting through each and every day.

Each time you brush aside my hair.

My face will be forever fair.

And life will be more than divine

As we sip raspberry wine.

And I will drink from your goblet,

And you, my love, will drink from mine.

© Shelly Sitzer, 2013

Raspberry port
Photo by Jon Sullivan of PD Photo. org
from Wikimedia Commons

Ode to the Mango

Oh, ecstasy of taste!

The sublime succulent

honey sweetness of

your sun kissed flesh

melts in my mouth,

while your fluid essence

drips down my chin,

fingers, and hands.

I’ve watched you for days,

noting the color changes 

of your skin: 

from hues of green

to yellows, golds, and then

faint pink maiden’s blush

takes on deeper embarrassed

shades of red,

while your hard interior

begins to yield to soft caresses.

Then, I know it is time.

You are mine to take

when I see the first fruit fly

explore and inhale

your fruity aroma.

© Diane Harner, 2013

Mangga gedong gincu
Photo by W. A. Djatmiko
on Wikimedia Commons

Seven Adults Cheering on a Friday Afternoon in Israel

A kitten was dying on the hot sidewalk. 

She was grey and very soft. 

My friend and I were fair-skinned and female

Wandering an unfamiliar town 

Called Tsfat.

But 

This kitten. 

We dropped our purses and watched her drink 

Water from our bottle cap. 

The rabbi was old and very grey

Walking home on this almost-Sabbath

Sharp-quick steps on the stone 

But 

This kitten. 

All three of us watch her, our heads in a circle. 

Her ribs expand against her skin 

And collapse. The women are many 

And covered and grocery-laden

Prayer calls calling them home

But 

This kitten. 

Seven of us now in desperation 

Whisper sweet to her coaxingly. 

This little cat. A little life going too soon. 

Only a cat. Only a life going too soon. 

 And why, when wars and money and oil and honor 

Beleaguer us do we care about this soft, grey thing. 

Heat bears down and time ticks out 

But I’m not about to go away. 

The rabbi stands immoveable 

And the women stand transfixed. 

And the cat stands up

And walks.  

© Emily Brown, 2013

Kitten in Sibi Mali
Photo by Guaka
from Wikimedia Commons

A Vision of Ganesha in Green Not Always Just Virginia

I don’t want to be a man anymore

I want to be a silvery freak

A grayish freak, a bluish freak

A dancing freak made of silvery stuff

Not quite a man, not quite a man

But an elephant man with prehensile nose

And long, long loopy flopping arms

And jigging legs that enlace the air

And a nose that taps the dappled air

And eyes that unpeel the tender air

And skin that swings through the mighty air

And toes that graze the grassy air.

From a sordid bus, I saw such a man.

On a dew-intense hillside, he did his turn.

Upside down and right side up,

He swung his skin through the shadow and light

And his thick toes grazed the airy grass

And he swung his skin through the mighty air.

Loosely, elegantly, he sang in my head:

“The poor aren’t good

The poor aren’t bad

The poor aren’t smart

The poor aren’t dumb

The poor aren’t dirt

The poor aren’t god

The poor aren’t wrong

The poor aren’t right--

They’re just the poor,

Like you and me

They’re just the poor

Like you and me.”

© Stephen Margulies, 2013

Art by Stephen Margulies

The Weaver

Filaments of red and black

pulled by small, quick fingers -

this is the way my mother did it,

building a pattern

piece by woven piece.

A blanket for the back

of a tired horse,

or a tired child -

on a long Winter walk to Santa Fe -

is now an area rug

in a coffee shop

in Carson City.

© Scott Stark, 2013

19th century Navajo blanket
downloaded from "Indian Blankets and Their Makers"
by George Wharton James (1914)
from Wikimedia Images

Technology

    The gadget in my hand is a dear friend.

With it I can text and call anyone at almost anytime anywhere.
I can take and send pictures in a flash. I can check emails or
surf the web. I can listen to music or watch a movie or read a
book. I can buy and sell things. I can poke anyone.

    The gadget in my hand is a dread foe.

With it on my ear, my brain imbues the waves and mutates. In
my hand as I drive, I take a difficult and challenging task and
double the complexity, turning the vehicle into a menace. I can
ignore my wife, my parents, my kids, my friends by hunting and
pecking all the day long.

Screens, screens, screens, screens, screens, screens!

     The gadget in my hand is a sticky magnet.

With it, I can be followed as I wander my meandering path through
the city. As I troll the web, lingering on this or that, I can be
recorded. As I buy things, they take careful note of everything.

     The gadget in my hand is a high-story elevator.

With it, the public schools replete with tablets and smart-boards
launch classrooms into the twenty-first century. The tech gap
crushed and equal education for all. Maybe,  perhaps, I hope.

     The gadget in my hand is an open window.

With it, I can be scrutinized, analyzed, defined, invaded, dissected,
cored, correlated, and vivisected. With it, I am the body on the
slab in the cop show, carefully rendered to give answers.

Screens, screens, screens, screens, screens, screens!

     The gadget in my hand is a gas pump with a lighter.

With it, I can flare the greatest explosion and bonfire ever seen.
With this program and that, my creativity can know no bounds.
The knowledge at my fingertips is quite literally endless.

     The gadget in my hand is a soaked blanket.

With it, I can stare at episode after episode of old reruns. I can
play 'Doom' until dawn, shooting and maiming thousands of digital
people. I can watch bodies of all types writhe and contort.

Screens, screens, screens, screens, screens, screens!

The gadget in my hand is no yoyo, it’s not a rubber ball, and
                               ain’t no thimble.

The gadget in my hand is a boomerang,
                                                          whirling through the air,
                                   three centuries of engineering behind it.

You should be ready to duck…

© Byron Harris, 2013

Texting While at the Wheel
Photo by Oregon Dept. of Transportation
from Wikimedia Commons

Because

I ask myself why do I smile? …

Because I can

Because I have teeth

Because I have straight teeth

Because I want to

Because it feels good

Because people smile back

Because people need to see light in this world

Because I have love to share and compassion in my heart

Because I have a family and friends

I smile because people need to know it still exists

Because of every beginning and every end

Because I have food and clean water

Because of laughter and wonder

Because I haven’t been scarred enough not to

Because I can go to college

Because I can speak my opinion

Because I know sadness and pain just like everyone else—no one is truly alone

Because I’m not afraid to

Because I’m still here

Because I can walk

I smile because blue and yellow make green

Because I can speak without words

Because it encourages positive energy

Because I have two cats that love me

Because I have warm blankets to hold me

Because I have a mother and sister who are still here with me

Because I have hope for this world

Because there still is hope for this world

Because I have seen kindness from strangers

Because strangers become friends

Because I can read

I smile because I love myself—even my faults

Because my short comings turn into learning experiences

Because I can express myself

Because I have good eyesight

Because I can listen to music

Because I love Mother Nature and the beauty of her creations

Because humans are capable of loving and crying, of happiness and sadness

Because I have a bed to sleep in

Because I have a house to shelter me and a home to care for

Because I have clothes and shoes to keep me dry when it rains and warm when it snows

Because I have enough money to live

I smile because of mourning doves and morning dew on morning glories

Because it’s sunny outside

Because it’s raining like cats and dogs

Because I love to smile

Because of the comfort a hug brings

Because of friendship’s warm embrace

Because of wooden ships on salty seas

Because of laughter in a child’s eyes

Because hardships can be blessings in disguise

Because of the simple beauty of a snowflake

Because my life is mine to make

Because I can dance to the drum of my beating heart

Because of the yellow dandelions and meadow larks

Because I am here for a reason

Because I have heard love’s encouraging song

Because two rights might make a wrong

I smile because I am a Leader of Light, a Believer in Love, a Follower of Change, and a Dreamer of Peace

Because of the delicate dance of butterflies

Because of red stars, rainbows, and bow ties

Because there is truth in silence and in serving others

Because there is healing in sharing and understanding

Because of the pain that comes with learning life’s lessons

Because every season change and every sunny rain are one of the same

Because tears bring raindrops of forgiveness

Because without darkness there is no light

Because with knowledge comes understanding and change

Because I hope you will smile too

© Flora Lark Baily, 2013

Dancing butterflies
Photo by Tony Russell