THE CITY OF LIGHT—PARIS AGAIN—NOVEMBER 2015

Now we are a tear in the shape of a person—

a tear that screams.

Or maybe we are a blood-drop who is a person—

blood that wails

and walks or rather stumbles

upon our planet formed

to be a blood-drop, a teardrop,

and the entire planet is screaming.

The planet and we, made for one another,

are pain moving upon pain.

The planet floats, reels

upon a foundation

that is not a noble elephant,

a patiently pleasant turtle,

or the dependable shoulders of Atlas.

The planet floats, reels

upon perhaps sounder foundation—

whole horror.

Now we know that there are Believers

who adore horror.

Those Believers may rejoice

when joy is destroyed,

supposedly convinced

that the only purity is pollution,

cruelty the sole permissible cult,

death the one true faith.

So the soul, like the Earth,

attains the purity of worshipped pollution.

Terror thus may compose reality,

and a screaming tear, a drop that is a person,

will not be heard.

Who among gods in the depths of height

can concoct help, healing, wellness?

Has hope been conceived yet,

a mirror in the void to answer

our own agonized shining?

And yet, despite terror, we do shine at times,

a shape, a drop trained by love,

that survives by shining

for the sake of shining.

The curve of a tear may be defined therefore

as a smile, a smiling blood-drop.

Are we brave enough to re-invent fun

as wellness inconceivable

by its well-trained killers?

Is killing the same as believing?

Somewhere, Someone has conceived of purity

that is fun, which is not pollution.

“Those Believers want to destroy

the things worth living for—

food, wine, friends.” 

© Stephen Margulies, 2017

Christmas Illumination Champs-Elysées, Paris
Photo by Didier Boy de la Tour;
Koert Vermeulen principal lighting designer & Marcos Vinals Bassols artistic director
from Wikimedia Commons

Christmas in My Heart

for Scott Coskie, a talented theater director who 

loved Christmas and everything Disney

Defying December winds

one blustery day,

we happily strung Christmas lights

across your front yard.

Dressed in Disney ornaments

your tree, glistening through the window

as inside, tinseled shelves of snowy cotton

set a stage for village life.

Within my mind, there still exists

a dancing Pinocchio,

the gift your heart couldn't help but crave

one Christmas long ago.

Watercolor memories,

abstracted and blurred,

melding Christmas past into Christmas present,

alive and aglow,

bringing you back each year 

as angelic characters fill my ears

and Christmas comes to my heart!

© Shelly Sitzer, 2017

Pinocchio and Cantinflas marionettes
at the National Puppet Museum
in Huamantla, Tlaxcala, Mexico
by Alejandro Linares Garcia
from Wikimedia Commons

Understanding Fiction

A two-year-old calls out “Ring, Ring!” and hands us

a play phone, and we take it and say “Hello.”

We carry on a full conversation

if need be, and chances are we need to,

smiles and all. 

                         Does it matter if the child

doesn’t follow all that we say? We could

speak of Charlie Parker and Dave Brubeck

or pray for our long-dead Uncle Hutchins,

so long as the illusion is strong.

Chances are the child plays another game

while you talk, stacking bright rings on a peg,

perhaps, or painting her nails with a toothbrush

and the dog’s water bowl.  

                                            When she grows up,

she’ll not remember much more than the phone.

Uncle Hutchins remains just a name

on a list in the family Bible,

and the giants of jazz are just as dead

as he to this child who recalls nothing

but the faded pink phone we held, our voice,

our presence. 

           It’s a time of worthy deceit,

don’t you think? And this poem a parable

that says fiction can carry a good truth,

and  that we who write know the lessons

of irony better than most; we can conjoin

the two ends of this lie about a phone

into something strong enough to outlast

this moment and carry her on somewhere

we don’t now know, but which, if we are lucky,

we’ll live to write about some day.

            © David Black, 2017

Corbin Fleming, brother of 2011 March of Dimes National Ambassador
Lauren Fleming, plays with United States President Barack Obama's telephone
during his family's visit to the Oval Office on 7 February 2012.
Photo by Pete Souza, posted to White House Flickr Account.
From Wikimedia Commons 

Pegasus Dream

A wild Pegasus grazes

next to Star B Stables in Virginia,

ready to spread his lacy wings

and rise above the weepy clouds.

But the preverbal horse

relies on the words of a fickle poet

to make him fly.

If only there were just a Pegasus problem,

an idle poet could solve it.

If only there was just one lie,

a word could make it right —

to awake the dreamer,

to raise the dead.

The brilliance of words brings confusion —

they were mighty, now they are useless.

A peek at a stranger’s grocery list

tells me more than a hundred poems.

Pegasus glimpses the leafy forest,

the steep road to a grassy field,

lusts after the weepy clouds.

But the pathetic horse cannot wing his way

without the words of the fickle poet.

On the wooden porch stands

an abandoned broken rocker.

Pegasus and poet left

to wring out a few more lines

from memories of the leafy forest,

the steep road to a grassy field,

the weepy clouds.

The sunken, colorless eyes of Pegasus —

the defeat sprang from euphoria.

© Helen Kanevsky, 2017

Four Muses and Pegasus on Parnassus
Painting by Caesar van Everdingen, c. 1650
The Hague, The Netherlands
from Wikimedia Commons

How to Lie to Your Mother

Talk about your cats. You’re worried

the calico is getting too thin, but she

won’t eat any of the food you bought,

not even the organic one. Mention

you’re redecorating your bedroom.

You don’t have a favorite color

at the moment, so you picked blue.

You’ve spray-painted some wall hangings

and you found this paisley print sheet

at Thrift USA. You’re going to make

curtains. Everything is blue.

Say you can’t wait to visit her.

Insist on a trip to IKEA. It’s so close

and you need shelves. You don’t want 

your new roommate to think 

you’re a slob. Dodge the question 

about group therapy. Ask her 

about her health. She always

has a lot to say about it.

Try to remember which medications

have changed. There’s a list

in her purse, but still, someone should

know what she’s taking. Dad doesn’t.

Has it been thirty minutes yet?

You can’t talk for less or she’ll feel 

shut out. Ask about the animals

at the shelter. Are there any new kittens?

Try to stay focused on the details

when she describes them. Make it

into a game. See how much 

you remember later. Check the clock 

again. Wait for her to lose 

her train of thought. Pretend 

you’ve just realized what time it is. 

Tell her you need to get ready for work. 

Say I love you. Say goodbye. 

             Ellie White, 2016

(First published by The Academy of American Poets, 2016)

Young woman posed with a telephone, circa 1915
from the Library of Congress's Prints & Photographs division
via Wikimedia Commons

Sideways

Coming in that way, folks don't even hardly notice.

A glance, and they never knew you were lookin';

a board game, they never knew they had it comin';

a poem, and you just keep on chopping that onion.

Don't picture the black words on the white page 

or worry what they're gonna think.

Just listen to those words in your head, and get ‘em on out.

Don't label drawing "official, career, capital ‘A’ artist" work

And don't even mention the 

"this is what makes me tick" little ‘a’ artist passion 

when they ask you who you are.

Just keep on goin' to the swim meets 

and slapping down that home-cooked chicken on the table, 

all the while slipping in the making 

without your brain even knowing.

Sorta like that first base runner stealing second.

Out of your head, in the zone,

just get on out a step or two 

and start running for all you’re worth.

Afore you know it, 

you're slidin' on in.

You and that second baseman 'll never know what hit 'ya.

© Rie Harris, 2017

Sliding baseball player at a St. Louis Terriers game, 1914/1915
Photo by Russell Froelich
from Wikimedia Commons

From Whom Did I Spring?

Her mother was a slave, her father the master

She was beautiful and vain

She loved life and enjoyed it all

She lived till 100 years

She gave me time and love and stories

She told the time by the way the sun hit the window ledge

And she knew the Bible better than the theologians

How proud and beautiful was she

Her daughter was my grandmother

Who was my “mother” because Mom had to work

She fed us the special foods and ironed my starched dresses

She combed my hair and gave me extra nickels

She scolded me and helped us to grow

She raised siblings and children and grands and foster children

She helped me with my children

And she ironed with love and care

She was a quiet woman

Who gave love always

She lived to 89 and left quietly

How special and loved was she

Her daughter, my mother, had a rough life

She worked hard to provide a roof and food

She was a fighter, young and old,

And encouraged us to move forward

She gave us the time she could

And made us strong and able

She still is part of our lives

A great great grandmother but doesn’t look the part

She is called grandmommie and Gee Gee

She loves being with them, and playing too

How young and vivacious is she who is loved

The women in my family were and are strong

Working hard and raising families

They have left imprints on all of us, young and old

They are queens because their ancestry said it was so

I can be proud of my heritage

Because they were and are Black Beauties

Thank you Lucinda, Nana, and Cinda for the strength and beauty

You are queens, one and all!

          © Hilda Ward, 2017

Nzinga Mbandi, Queen of Ndongo and Matamba
Taken from Nzinga Mbandi: Queen of Ndongo and Matamba from the UNESCO series
on women in African history. Illustrations by Pat Mason
from Wikimedia Commons