It takes two, baby

Many thanks to the editors of both Human/Kind Journal and Sonic Boom Journal, who recently published segments of my Sally and Rodrigo vignettes.

I dreamed up these two characters some years ago. At the time, I eagerly jotted down ideas about them. I knew they both like sitting on their attic floor and smoking and that they had a habit of turning off all the lights and pretending they weren't home. I didn't, however, know where to go from there. Then this spring I suggested to my quarantined writing students that they look for inspiration in the fauna in their neighborhoods. I'd seen a mallard pair splashing in a rain puddle across the street and suddenly I knew what the next steps were for Sally and Rodrigo.

You'll find "La Celebración" on page 32 of Sonic Boom. "El Vuelo" is Human/Kind's December 3, 2020 post.

A Teenager's Guide to Feminism

I'm so proud to have a poem in A Teenager's Guide to Feminism, a new anthology from Pear Shaped Press. 

Many thanks to the editors for putting together this powerful collection of  essays, letters and poems. 

To read more about the book, click here. 

The Poetry Box LIVE!

 I'm looking forward to reading and listening!

Some Good News

 Thank you to Shawn Aveningo Sanders and Robert Sanders of The Poetry Box for this honor!

For links to these poems or to check out all the offerings at The Poetry Box, you can click here.

Hope is a thing with feathers...*

         

or wrinkles

                        

                or threads

           

                                                                                 or bold letters  –                                  

                                                                            

                     hope stands tall

                            

or waves,

               

                           flaps and folds

                                                    

then squares its shoulders

                                               and winks,

                                                                                                         

                                                             

                                                hope fills its lungs with love,

sets sail

                                         flies like veined wings

                                                                                                                                and seeds.

* Apologies to Emily Dickinson

Imagine All the People

If art nurtures empathy, maybe we should all be creating stories and poems and paintings all the time. 

Here's a Halloween story that was published a while back by Imitation Fruit Literary Journal. 

In this piece, I write from the points of view of two people who are very different from me: The Japanese widow of a music icon and her son. I was inspired by Yoko Ono, but the main character here is fictional. In my imagination, I created a link between me and a woman I’ll never meet, a connection that feels as real as the sidewalks and curbs and trees that run along my street.

For Annamarie

Here's a poem I wrote for my best friend from sixth grade. Many thanks to Randal A. Burd, Jr. for publishing this piece in the August 11, 2020 issue of Sparks of Calliope: A Journal of Poetic Observations.

Dear Writers: Puppies and Kittens!

A relaxing presence: Lucy the cat
with me in 1974.

Dear Writers,

Puppies! Kittens!

Now that we're home all the time, the comings and goings in the neighborhood take on more significance.

On my pandemic walks, I go bananas when I see our neighbors' pets. The sight of a pair of big goofy paws makes me giddy, giving me a moment of relief from my anxieties. This spring, my son and daughter and I saw the sweetest gray kitten in a neighbor's yard. We were so happy, we stood there on the sidewalk and marveled at its long ears and cloud of fur for several minutes, just like we used to relish visiting the elephants swaying and chomping on hay at the zoo. About a week later we saw signs on some telephone poles for a lost kitten named Pico Buggs. The photo showed gray fur and a pair of long ears. 

No! 

We felt like we'd lost our own beloved pet. Happily, about a month later we saw Pico (now with the lanky legs of a tween) back in our neighbor's yard. Hooray! 

Up and down our emotions go, depending on what's happening around us. On the last weekend in August, we were in our backyard reading and snacking on tortilla chips when we heard the blaring horns of hundreds of counter-protesters, which sounded like an army bearing down on Portland's city center.

Puppies and kittens. Puppies and kittens. We need benign forces in our lives right now. I hope the prompt below brings you some sense of comfort or even pleasure. It may seem elusive, but joy is still around, sunning itself in a neighbor's yard or maybe bounding through your memories and imaginations. Perhaps we can make it come alive through our writing.

Writing Idea

Don't touch that newspaper! Let's turn our thoughts to more pleasant things for a minute.

You might start your writing with something soft and warm and see where it goes. Maybe it will bring you a sense of calm to write about a former pet; or a heartwarming moment with a friend; or a particularly happy, relaxing gathering or trip or dream. 

Some of you have lost beloved pets in the last year, so you might also use your writing to honor them and your grief.

If your writing ends up taking you to a dark place with claws and fangs (Tygre, tygre burning bright!), go for it. The act of creating is a positive thing.

Louisa, Elizabeth and Consuelo Sing

 

Many thanks to the editors of Wordpeace: a literary journal to promote peace and justice for publishing my lyric essay "Lousia, Elizabeth and Consuelo Sing," an homage to Louisa May Alcott, Elizabeth Gaskell, Consuelo Velázquez, and blueberries.

I wrote this piece during a heat wave a few years ago. Since then, I have, in fact, planted blueberries in my parking strip. 

You can click here to read the essay.

Justice for All – Fiction by Ron Smith

Enjoy Ron Smith's story, a fictional piece that manages to be both surreal and all-too-real.

Modern Crime and Punishment – from The Idler’s Sketchbook

by Ron Smith

 

Against counsel, the convict, N. O'day, insists on taking the stand in his defense. He is called to testify in a box beside the judge. Except for the soft clearing of throats and titter of paper, the courtroom is quiet, all eyes fixed on the accused as he moves slowly toward the bench in leg-irons, an armed policeman at his side.

     O' day is a large, clumsily made man. His feet misaligned, in attire from the charity bin, when, with many grunts and much shuffling, he is finally seated beside and slightly below the judge, The Hon. Bob Ostrow. State and National flags drooping above like flaccid wind-socks, the bailiff performs his brief, solemn interrogation:

      "Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you, God?" he asks, his open right hand raised.

     "I do," O' day answers, his stubby, cupped hand raised also.

     "Prosecutor, please begin," says the judge, initiating this phase of the trial.

     The prosecuting attorney, Jeremy Scott, sleek and well-dressed with close-cropped, salt and pepper hair, faces the convict, folds his arms, pivots slightly on his heels and, for effect, says nothing, believing himself to be not just a lawyer but a performer.

     The accused faces him but fixes his glassy stare above the prosecutor, above the spectators, toward a clock high on the far wall, above the courtroom entrance, seeing nothing.

     Tension nearly unbearable, the attorney unfolds his arms and raises his outstretched hands as in worship or unctuous greeting.

     "Mr. O' day, you have sworn your innocence many times," the skilled counselor begins, "and say you were nowhere near Tina Bachman's apartment at the time she was strangled and, like discarded flowers, abandoned, lifeless, on the sofa. Is this so?"

     "Trampoline," says the convict, so softly and huskily that only the prosecutor hears.

     Not missing a beat, but unsure where this loose cannon ball might lead, Jeremy Scott, hungry for limelight and oratory, pretends he has not heard.

     "And when you were certain she was dead, took her keys and drove away. DID YOU TAKE A HUMAN LIFE FOR A CHEVY BLAZER? Answer me, answer the court." Jeremy pounds his fist decisively into his palm and waits.

     This time O' day comes alive and says "trampoline" with such force that all hear, that the plaster on the wall quivers. The sign-language interpreter is thrown off rhythm and takes a sip of water. Even the sketch artist is flummoxed.

     Unwilling to act as though anything is amiss, the prosecutor resumes:

     "Trampoline you say?" says the lawyer, now a comrade, a fellow-conspirator, eager to hear a good story. "Trampoline, my dear Mr.O'day. Just trampoline? Not merry-go-round? Monkey bars? No pinatas or colorfully painted beach umbrellas? Just 'trampoline'?"

     He presses his palms with good humor, like they are sharing a joke. "Really?"

     "Trampoline!" repeats O' day, loud and guttural as a caged bear.

     In a cheap tan suit, the court-appointed defense, Smith or Brown I think, sprints to his feet.

     "I object," he begins testily. "This is absurd. It's incompetent, irrelevant and immaterial! Where is the 'esteemed' Jeremy Scott taking us today?"

     Perhaps the judge is not paying attention or worse, is drowsy and sees nothing extraordinary about O' day's present testimony. Regardless, to demonstrate he is engaged and in charge, declares, "Objection sustained! Prosecutor, please get to the point," and taps his gavel. "Silence in the courtroom."

     "Do you have anything further to say in your defense?" Scott asks O' day, no longer friendly, a district attorney again.

     "Trampoline, I say," says O' day, "trampoline, damn you."

 

      Soon it is time for Smith or Brown, the defender, to cross-examine and wage a rebuttal. "Now Mr. O' day," he begins, "recall the evening Mr. Scott just spoke of. Were you anywhere near Tina Bachman's apartment?"

     "Trampoline," says the unfortunate man. "Trampoline."

 

      O' day is escorted back to the prisoner's dock. Trousers flapping at his ankles, Mr. Smith or Brown returns to his desk. Across the aisle sits the dapper prosecutor, arms folded, beaming with confidence. Judge Ostrow instructs the jury, sends them into isolation and declares a break.

  

     Soon after the break the bailiff informs the judge that the jury has a verdict. A brief confinement is rarely good news for the defendant.

     "Jury, have you reached a verdict?" the judge asks gravely when they have returned.

     "Yes, Your Honor, we have," the jury foreman answers. "We find The Defendant, N. O' day, guilty of murder in the first degree and guilty of grand theft, auto."

     "Order! Order in the court. Be seated. Please remand the defendant back to his cell to await sentencing," the judge orders.

     Two uniformed police accost O' day.

     "Back to jail for you," one whispers as they handcuff him, refit his leg restraints and lead him clumsily toward a door at the rear of the courtroom. As they reach the exit, O' day turns abruptly back toward the gallery and shouts: "Trampoline, you motherfuckers!" One of the cops swats him and he is guided roughly out of the room.

  

     Weeks pass and N. O' day is sentenced to a minimum of thirty years in the penitentiary. When the 'gag order' on the jury is lifted, jurors are besieged for interviews. "How DID they reach such a hasty verdict?"

     In a televised interview by Fatenews Service, the former juror's sentiments are best articulated by juror Martha Rose, a commercial property manager.

     "We could tell O' day had an uneasy conscience," she begins, "his fixation on a single idea, monomania, really. I'm no expert but I have read psychology. For example, his obsessive repetition of the word 'tambourine' was a strong indication of guilt for me.

     "I think the word was ‘trampoline,’" the Fatenews reporter interjects politely.

     "My point remains unaltered," says Martha.

About the author: Ron Smith has been playing drums and been in bands for as long as he can remember. His attempts at songwriting led to prose. He loves reading fiction, history and biography and specializes in writing short fiction. His favorite book is Thomas Mann's Buddenbrooks. He shares a Woodstock cottage with several houseplants. 

Two Hybrid Pieces by Hariana Chilstrom

As a creative writing teacher, I've had the privilege of meeting so many incredibly talented writers who use their craft and heart and experience to express themselves. It's my great pleasure to use this platform to introduce (or, in some cases, re-introduce) these artists to you.

Below are two hybrid pieces (part poetry, part prose) by Hariana Chilstrom. Enjoy!

On the morning of the 18^th of May

by Hariana Chilstrom

 

I awoke looking out at the night rain’s residue, tenuous drops hanging from the balcony outside my bedroom. A longing for an old lover--or a hope for a new one--was all I could think of. I put out a little spiritual SOS:

 

Come walk with me

In the rain

That falls

Into each of our lives.

Forty Years Ago Today, May 18, 1980

by Hariana Chilstrom

I was opening the heavy doors of the Insect Zoo on that Sunday morning, hoping the new ant colony we’d installed was still in it’s enclosure—the previous colony had escaped and invaded the tiny building, much to the distress of most of the other six and eight-legged animals. The doors creaked and wobbled ominously, reminding me the tiny building was wearing out.

A rumbling, like a distant sonic boom, made me turn around to face the lion exhibit to the north, across the pathway from my little shack.

Then the sky blew up.

A racing gray denseness, a dark cumulous expansion, like Jiffy Pop on steroids, was puffing into the sky beyond Portland’s West Hills. In minutes it spread across the spring sky like a million years of dust being shaken from a giant’s sheepskin.                                                                                

I stood there, stunned. This was like nothing I’d experienced in my 33 years. Not even news reports of seismic activity over the past week had prepared me for this. Later, I’d remember a lithograph of Krakatoa in an old National Geographic.

I ran into the Insect Zoo, grabbed the wall phone and called my boss. “Can you see the sky?”

“Slow down. What’s happening? No, I can’t see much from my office.”

“Come down. I think there’s a big fire or something. I can see a huge cloud of dark smoke.”

“What! Alright, I’m coming down,” he snorted. Ever the skeptic, he knew I rarely overreacted, even by his Spartan standards. He came running down the hill like an agitated preying mantis, flapping his long arms like he was going to take flight.

“Wow! You weren’t kidding! That’s incredible! It must be the mountain.” His tall frame bent over, hands on thighs, as he caught his breath. Then he glanced up at the sky, his mouth hanging open. He turned, and we looked at each other, two unprepared primates, watching the morning sky invaded by the Earth’s rage.

In that frozen moment, eye-to-eye, it seemed we jumped back into time, a time of many active volcanoes and Earth changes bewildering to the developing humans of 400,000 years ago. There was no clock time. There was only the moment of now.

It was a time when:

The Earth spoke to us

And we understood.

 

Senses merged—

Scents vibrating and

Colors ringing with sounds,

 

Everything sang.

Everything spoke.

Everything was alive.

 

We knew all the languages

Of air, water, rocks, plants and animals,

We shared life with everything.

 

We could smell changes,

Read the signs,

Respect the messages.

 

We knew that a smile cracking on

Mother’s dry, creased face,

Meant rain, and

Her breath, when it sang of wind and green,

Meant seeds and insects would

Fly into our hungry path.

 

We listened when

Plants warned, cajoled, and beckoned,

Murmuring scents of pine and sprouting herbs

Directing us to buried bulbs full of water, and

Whispering of dreams and poisons.

 

We were warned when

Dry grasses bowed down,

Singing scents of a big cat’s journey,

All yellow and hot—

Furred hunger stalking—us.

 

We watched ants dancing warnings

Of sand storms and listened to

Beetles standing on rocks,

Reciting stories of their tender young,

Asking us to leave a few

To take only what we needed.

 

We learned that even shadows,

Whispering low and soft,

Could tell us when to hunt for burrowing animals

And where to find water in dry holes.

 

We trembled when

Mother’s rumblings warned us to

Ask for guidance, to prepare,

Perhaps to leave her familiar lands 

Of fire and thunder.

 

It was a time

When we could not imagine

Forgetting our connection

With all that was.

And, as suddenly as it had come, the memory disappeared. A gritty gray dust began to drift onto the asphalt of the zoo, breaking our locked gazes. My boss shook his head, laughed too brightly. I turned away to spare him my still-entranced look. He called later to announce the closure of the nearly vacant zoo; volcanic dust was a danger to lungs and to even to creatures without them.

Postscript: We wore masks then for days, as the glassy ash coated everything, drifting into buildings and scratching windshields. The University of Oregon began a study of the health effects of the inescapable ash. Four years later ash was still trapped in the veins of rhododendron and other hard-leaved perennials.

About the author: Hariana Chilstrom is a science educator and visual artist who is passionate about pollinators and other (mostly spineless) creatures. She has written for the Pacific Horticulture Journal, several natural history associations, and the Seattle Aquarium. Many of her current creative non-fiction pieces have been spawned by experiences on city buses.

Dear Writers: Be a Bird

Need a pep talk to help you get creative? 

Here's a modified version of a message I recently sent to my writing students.



Dear Writers,

Are you frustrated?

Do you want to write - or even feel like you have to write, only you simply can't face a blank page today? 

Have no fear. The beginnings of a new piece might be closer than you think.

Do you keep a journal? 

Do you have a spiral notebook filled with pages of smudged ink and scrawling freewrites? 

How about a description of a dream on a dusty scrap of paper beside your bed?

Or what about a letter or this week's grocery list?

If so, then you may have the seeds of a story or poem or creative essay at your fingertips.

Go ahead. Enjoy a deep breath and get ready to riff, to play with the words you've already written.

Think small. Pretend you're a bird, pecking away at a word or a sentence or a character's name.

Playing with words is a lot like moving the furniture. Try a chair by the window instead of the wall. Turn your couch so it's on a diagonal. Put a plant on a table where it's more of a presence.

Boom! You have a fresh perspective and a new room.

The same could be said of your writing. Maybe you could flip through an old notebook and find 3 images or lines or paragraphs with potential. It might even be just one word that gets you going. Got tomatoes on your grocery list? What do they make you think of? Red? What does red bring to mind? A car, a carnation, a dress?

This is what I've been doing lately with my chapbook-in-progress. Last year I started scribbling any thought I had related to the color green, and now I have 42 pages of rough drafts that are begging me to come out and play. I figure that's plenty of material to keep me occupied for a long time.

When my brain feels overwhelmed by our current situation, I don't say I'll edit my chapbook today. I say I'll chip away at one line, one poem. That's a tiny goal I can meet, and when I can actually meet a goal, I can get some momentum - and endorphins - going.

Maybe I jazz up a verb (say saunter into a room, not walk). Maybe I add more detail. Maybe find a synonym that sounds less predictable.

Here's an example. In one of my older poems, I've imagined what happened the night of my birth. Taking another look at that piece recently, I decided it needed stronger imagery.

I originally said that when my dad first held me he was wearing a cranberry-colored cardigan. I played with that line for a few days until I hit on this:The poem now says my dad reached out for me with a brush of whiskers and a wool sleeve.

I like the new wording because it has alliteration (that rolling rhythm of whiskers and wool - yum!) and also the sensory imagery. I was born in the middle of the night, so my dad would have been a little scratchy...unless he insisted on shaving before driving my mom to the hospital. Also, the new line combines description and action. My dad isn't simply wearing a cardigan. He's reaching for me. A powerful moment, indeed, that expresses how he felt about meeting me.

I think the change makes the poem richer in another way, too. Without coming out and saying so, the whiskers and the scratchy sweater imply that my relationship with my dad wasn't perfect, which is true. Not because he wasn't a wonderful human (he was amazing), but simply because he was wonderfully human, just as we all are. How cool is that - all that information in just one line, and I came to it just by fumbling around.

Yes, writing is a way to communicate. But playing with words, discovering new ways to say something, is also fun - something I bet you could use right now.

Remember, think small. Who knows? Maybe it will help your pandemic writing practice - and your sanity - thrive.

Be - Poetry by Susan Donnelly, Linda Burk & Cameron Bennetts

Inspired by Melanie Green's pre-pandemic poem, "Be Wildflower,"* here are three calming and contemplative pieces for our time by Susan Donnelly, Linda Burk and Cameron Bennetts.



Prevail
by Susan Donnelly


Be quilting thread,
stitch together
fragments not born
as one.

Be the puzzle
corner piece,
anchor promise and progress
on multiple paths.

Be the Great Horned Owl
cut dark times
with sharp eyes
and silent wings.

Be a rainbow,
rare, capricious,
reigning riches and beauty
on stormy days.

Be the unlabeled
bottle of home brew,
strong, heady,
and a little odd tasting.

Be moss on the north side
of shading sycamores,
cling softly
to the bark of life.

Be sun behind clouds,
shine softly, steadily
when no one
notices.

Be food
for the famished,
fill bellies and brains
bloated by fear.

Be content,
now is what
you are.





To Be
by Linda Burk


Be frog: Waiting, waiting patiently for the right fly

Be fox: Listening, listening for the sound which brings food for her young

Be eagle: Gliding, gliding. Watching for opportunity and seeing the world

Be bee: Working, working with others for the good of the hive

Be hummingbird: Flitting, flitting. A symbiotic relationship with the flowers

Be deer: Bounding, bounding for the joy of it

Be cat: Lolling, lolling. Relaxing and absorbing the sun

Be me: practice waiting, listening, gliding, working, flitting, bounding, and lolling





Elemental
by Cameron Bennetts


Be Still
Ferment alone, reconcile.
Settle, mellow,
Sweet nectar

Be Hearth
Tend a log, just turned,
To flame.
Dreaming embers below.

Be Earth
Roots, rocks, treasure
Below sprouts unfurling
Seeding immortal



*Melanie Green's magical poem also appears in her book A Long, Wide Stretch of Calm, which is available from The Poetry Box.

Keep Breathing - Poetry by Liz Samuels

My writing students continue to astound me with their creative range. In her poem "Braids," Liz Samuels skillfully weaves sounds, words, and meaning. Who knew you could get so much mileage out of alliteration?


Braids
by Liz Samuels



Brushing brunette braids

of the barefoot bride

in the Bassilica of St.Benedict



Bending backwards in my B-Cup brassiere,

burgundy blouse

and baggy bottoms



A “bum” with a beer belly

Black and blue bruise on his butt

Blows bubbles



Big belly breath



Blocked borders

Battle of the Bulge

Big Bertha

Buried bones in Bergen Belsen



Blatantly biased

British Broadcasting,

Barclay's Bank borrows billions



Big belly breath



Bible's burning bush

Betty Boop in black and white

Barbara Bush in baby blue



Backyard Bird Shop,

Best Buy

in Boston

Baobao's bark beneath

Breech birth in Benin



Big belly breath



The Berkeley Barb

Birch branches

Buzzing bees



Beach blankets and beach balls

Beanie babies and building blocks

Baby bibs and barking beagles



Bouncing on beanbags

Baby Baluga, Baa Baa Black Sheep

and Billy Boy blaring



Breathe



BB King and Bugles

Blues and Booze

By the bougainvillea



Beet Borscht

Bread and Butter

Bangers and Bratwurst



Bunches of broccoli

Beef broth, bacon bits

Barbecued burgers



Baking Brown Betty

Buckling my belt.

Bracing for a blizzard



Big belly breath



Braided bark of the Baobao

Braided bread, braided belts, braided baskets

Beaded braids of the brunette bride



Breathe Big

Night Walk - Creative Nonfiction by Deborah Lee

                                                                         

                            

Tired of circling the same old streets? Let Deborah Lee take you a tour of her neighborhood.




Night Walk
by Deborah Lee 





Dusk.



The traffic lights turn from green to red on a silent street.

Houses with strings of white or multi-colored lights strike a whimsical mood.

A flag whips against its pole, the clanks louder than normal on this quiet boulevard.



"Oh!" I exclaim, as a bike comes silently from behind. "Sorry," as he pedals on by.



People peeking out from an upper window in a lighted room, a kitchen window in a house, an upstairs apartment.



Some keeping the front curtains open in their gently-lit house as they sit watching the rare sight of a pedestrian passing.



During recent sunny times, more hopscotch games than ever etched on the sidewalks, the chalk remaining for days and days.



Dark now.

Porch lights on.

A crooked mailbox.

A late lawnmower one street over. 

"Happy Birthday!" rings out in multiple voices from a distant house.

Another chalked etching on a sidewalk: "Welcome Home Dad."

A night breeze picks up.

A bamboo wind chime clanks its woody beats.

A Dutch Colonial so brightly lit with spans of large white lights, ala New Orleans. 

At a corner of the house's front yard, the large candytuft rosette emits its own bright white to the surrounding dimness.

A young woman on her phone, the two of us walking parallel across each other's respective sidewalk, her voice echoing words indistinguishable.

A plastic bag scuds and waves back and forth across the street, a beautiful sight just like the man in that movie said. 

Is it because the breeze is gentle and soft and lovely?



The crunch of a pinecone under my foot.

The sweet scent of daphne caresses my nostrils in a whiff.

Night-blooming tulips will be bursting with color tomorrow, yes?



There is a large white dot in the sky.

Is it Venus, Polaris? Couldn't be Arcturus!

Orion's belt is to its left.



Home now, little solar lanterns lighting up the patio with color, our own string of whimsical.

The neighbor's TV is on, actors' voices in low blurry volume. 

The air grows chilly.



Inside the house, I feel the night's rhythms around me still.

Comfort Food - Memoir by L.A.W. Fraser

L.A.W. Fraser's fragrant memory of two gardens takes us to a world of seeds and loam...and a surprise sprouting from the compost bin.


Favorite Gardens
by L.A.W. Fraser   


            Two gardens stand out in my mind. First is the one my dad created when I was a child; it was down the slope from our house on Fox Island. He plowed it with a gentle, old white Clydesdale by the name of Nellie. Above the garden, was an artisan well. After the ground was all plowed and tilled, Dad had me walk behind him to help press the seeds he was sowing down into the sandy loam. The garden area was surrounded by evergreens and madrone trees and I remember the smell of pine and warm soil with a hint of chicken manure mixed with salty seaweed from the bay. We grew beans, peas, carrots, corn, radishes, onions, pumpkins (which is what dad called squash or any pumpkin-like plant), and strawberries. The garden may have held other vegetables but I don’t remember what they might have been. Dad also helped me create my own garden, a smaller version next to his. I planted radishes, peas and nasturtiums.

            When the radishes and green onions were thumb sized, dad would pull them and eat them with lunch putting out two tablespoons, one with vinegar and one with salt. He would dip his radish or onion into the vinegar then dip it into the salt. He savored every sour bite.


            The second garden was the one my own family prepared at the back of our house in Virginia Beach. It wasn’t a large space, about 10’x10’ but Virginia had a long growing season that began in March and ended at the beginning of December. I could plant and harvest two times a year. We lived in a suburban area that had been bulldozed level, leaving the ground without any topsoil. We rented a rototiller and dug up the area, then heavily amended the soil with compost. We began our own compost bin and put grass clippings, weeds and other plant matter in it for mulch later. We planted green seedless grapes along one side while the compost bin was at the other end.

            We tried different crops until we found what grew best and in what order. The first crop would consist of tomatoes, cucumbers, squash, green peppers, beans, radishes, onions and lettuce. Just as the beans were ready to harvest, bean beetles would be eating the foliage like crazy. I would gather the beans, blanch them then freeze them. We would pull up the bean plants and pile grass clippings on top of them in our compost bin to create heat in order to kill the beetles. The tomatoes would bear fruit all summer and I would can a lot of them. We would go out at night to pick cut worms off the plants. After the soil rested from the bean harvest, we would plant peas. We would also reseed more lettuce, carrots and onions as needed. We always had an abundance of zucchini squash and of course, tomatoes. We tried corn but it took up too much space in comparison to its yield but found okra did well. The okra plants had glorious white flowers although the fruit is rather slimy when cooked so the only one who ever ate it was my husband.

            One year we didn’t have time to attend to the weeding and care for our plot. I was out looking for any still edible vegetables to harvest at the end of the season when I tripped over a huge watermelon. The melon vine was coming out of the compost bin and the watermelon was laying under all sorts of old pea vines and weeds. It was the sweetest, best watermelon I had ever eaten. I had tried to grow melons before but failed to get any fruit at all. It took nature, on her own, to grow the juiciest and largest one and our family took two days to eat all of it.

Purifying Wind

What an honor to have my lyric essay "No Place Like It" included in this new anthology published by Moon Shadow Sanctuary Press. Many thanks to editor d. ellis phelps!

You can order a copy by clicking here.

Dusk - Lyric Prose by Marie S. Bates

Photo courtesy of Marie S. Bates.* 

All quarantines are not created equally.

It's one thing to be sheltering in place in the U.S. in my comfortable middle class home and quite another to be in lockdown in Valencia, Spain in an apartment with a small balcony.

Thank you to Marie Bates for sharing her experience with us in this ultimately hopeful piece.





Dusk
by Marie S. Bates

  

On Tuesday evening, - Earth Day eve - I found myself dreaming of long walks in mossy forests, smelling wet soil, of standing beneath towering pines, and passing sparkling green ferns trembling under the weight of a recent rain shower. As I perched on an air conditioning fan box taking up half the standing room on our tiny balcony, I felt about as disconnected from anything Earth-y as one can. I stared out at the concrete apartment walls on each corner of our intersection and thought about the separate lives unfolding in those cubes stacked on top of one another. They remind me of the cardboard dioramas many of us made with our kids; a different scene arranged carefully with Elmer’s glue in each shoe box. An ant farm also comes to mind, its many chambers sandwiched between plastic walls, a transparent community for us all to goggle. Or they can also look like the stratified layers beneath the Earth’s surface, each layer comprised of something different but stuck together to function as a whole. It’s amazing what pops into your head when your life hits the pause button. I sighed deeply and tilted my head up to scan the cerulean sky at dusk. What a beautiful, clear evening. That’s when I saw the bats. BATS! I thought maybe they were swallows going in to roost or pigeons, but these were tiny and I heard them calling out to find their way as they searched for food. Swooping and flittering like tiny pieces of tumbling black paper on the breeze, they darted through the air, solo and in pairs. I heard their squeaks echoing and bouncing off the walls and over rooftops. Two of them dove so closely over my head I nearly ducked. It was surreal, and I loved every magical second. It gave me hope to see this evidence that our planet still has its wild places among us. I got lost in the moment and couldn’t say how long this went on but it was over much too soon. It was exhilarating to watch and part of me wanted to be up there with them. The weather is very mild and the skies are clear tonight, perhaps I’ll get to see them again at dusk. I’ll be looking up.

Photo courtesy of Marie S. Bates.

                              

  

*About the top photograph, Marie says, "There's a police helicopter flying over the rooftops. And that tower (Torres de Quart) at the end of the street was built in the 15th century. The pock marks were from cannon fire sustained in 1801 during the Napoleonic wars."