Thursday, September 26, 2019

Wild Moon -- Poetry by Deborah Lee




















Here's a poem by Deborah Lee that embraces the darkness of fall. To fully relish its rhythm, you might try reading it aloud.



Wild moon

       Brightsobright

       Backlighting massive evergreens, silent sentinels of the dark.

Aged hills watch, wise to our foolish ways
as we slowly devastate the earth.

The man in the moon laughs.

Someone howls.

Wings flap.

Blood oozes.

Wild, wild moon.

A stray Tom Waits lyric faintly wafts, "...never felt so alive or alone."

So goes the night.


About the author: Deborah Lee loves to sing, plays the guitar, and enjoys writing essays, songs, and memoir.  

Tuesday, September 3, 2019

Song for a Young Daughter



It's my daughter's birthday today! Here's a poem I wrote for her some time ago:



Song for a Young Daughter  
                                               (after Benjamin Péret)



Oh, my wild bird with the scarlet plume
my pirate strutting across the lawn                      
my grasshopper spitting on my palm
my paprika-scented lily floating in the pond,     
my bruised tune
my scowling moon                     
my da Vinci smile darkening on cue,
my carpenter pounding at a random hour
my spider’s eye
my parrot's bite
my labyrinth of love’s wings
my clinging monkey   
in the jungle where mosquitoes sing—
let me hold your hand
one minute more,
let me pull you close in my long arms.
For you I will learn to bake bread full of fruit,
for you I will knit sweaters
that cannot keep you warm.



"Song for a Young Daughter" was published in Sum Literary Journal.


Chasing Rabbits





Many thanks to the editors of Cloudbank for including my poem "Chasing Rabbits" in their latest issue! Since there was a printing error in the published version, I'm sharing the poem below. 

To read intriguing work by Andrea Hollander, Richard Jones, Paulann Petersen and many other poets and prose writers, you can purchase Cloudbank by clicking here.



Chasing Rabbits



1.

I chase a rabbit through the long wet grass.



For a moment I come so close I can almost feel

a breath of fur on my fingertips –



and then it springs again, and I’m after it,

my heart a fist pounding against

the door of my ribs.

  

2.

Oh, I have been bored for so long –



and now, finally,



this excitement.

  

3.

All year long I made toast

and washed dishes and watched steam rising from rooftops.

I sat on the faded couch and considered painting the peach wall white –

white like snow under a low winter sun –            



could its dim glow touch

the shadow inside?



I opened my purse and counted coins:



four dollars and fifty-three cents

in quarters, nickels and dimes –

enough to ride the train downtown,



but not enough to come home again.

  

4.

I don’t know the rabbit’s name.

Would it get my jokes?

Would it natter about carrots

and soccer fields and sunshine?

Are its dreams spiked with pitchfork tines?


5.

I don’t know if I’m good.

I don’t know if I’m awful.



Is there anything I’m not

scared of?



How many cruel bones

do I carry in my left

foot alone?

  

6.

Will the scars of my self-absorption

eventually cement each joint?



In a court of law, is a heart

steeped in ignorance

a solid defense?



And why chase rabbits?

(Is it worth analysis?)

  

7.

But oh, motion –



 8.

And oh, sweet teeth and tongue –



 9.

The taste of this moment –

a bliss multiplied

by none.


"Chasing Rabbits" was published in Cloudbank 13: Journal of Contemporary Writing.

No Problem -- Fiction by Ron Smith





There's an art to ignoring the elephant in the room. In this short story by Ron Smith, the characters do their best to pretend not to see what's right in front of them.




No Problem

By Ron Smith




If only Nell hadn’t answered the phone. We were expecting the Wolfowitzes, a nice couple from up the street, for dinner and cards. We had met them last summer at a neighborhood barbeque.


Alina Wolfowitz worked in the same building as my wife, and her husband Norm and I were Seahawk fans. They were fun.


I had the afternoon off and, sipping coffee in the kitchen with Nell, was about to cut the grass.


The phone rang. I’m superstitious about answering when expecting company.


“Don’t answer it,” I said, too late.


“Hello?” said Nell.


I tried to decipher the conversation by observing Nell’s “oohs, ahhs, um-hmmms,” the wan smiles and tightly pursed lips that alter her face when she is in conflict.


“Well, I don’t know,” she said. “Yes, yess… I suppose we could, yeah, no problem. Bring him over.”


The call ended.


“What?” I asked, my eyes widening.


“Not such a big deal,” she began. “That was Milly Campbell. She and Shep have a ski trip planned and the pet sitter cancelled at the last minute. I said we’d keep Leon for the weekend.”


Leon, the Campbells’ pet, is not a cat, dog or bird but an elephant, not full grown but no baby any more either.


“But Nell, we’re having company,” I protested. “It’ll be crowded. Why didn’t you refuse?”


“I wanted to,” Nell replied, “but Milly sounded desperate.”


“Why not the Smiths?” I asked. “They’re much closer to the Campbells than us.”


“I don’t know,” she said. “They’re busy or something.”


Before the company arrived, Nell, in the kitchen, busily stuffed peppers for dinner. Shep Campbell rang the doorbell. Leon, the elephant, stood behind him in the yard on a rope leash. Pulling and shoving, Shep and I barely got him through the front door. We led him to a spot where his head and trunk were in the dining room and his rear in the parlor. Shep tethered the rope and spread hay on the carpet.


“I sure appreciate you taking Leon on such short notice. I owe you one,” said Shep.


“No problem,” I replied, trying to sound like I meant it. Smells of the zoo overpowered the stuffed peppers baking in the kitchen.




When our guests arrived, I took their coats and sat them in the parlor.


“May I get either of you a drink?” I asked.


Side by side on the sofa, they stared at the beast but said nothing. Alina Wolfowitz assumed a jaunty, make-the-best-of-anything pose and Norm sneezed twice, perhaps beset by allergies.


“May I get either of you a drink?” I repeated. They both asked for bourbon. Doubles. While I mixed the drinks, Leon’s trunk, remarkably agile from the dining room, explored the air near Alina’s knees and skirt. She drew closer to her husband, crossed her ankles and complimented an ornate, gold leaf mirror on the opposite wall.


“Thank you,” I said. “It belonged to Nell’s folks.” I handed them their drinks and excused myself to check on Nell in the kitchen.


The stuffed peppers were delicious. Alina begged Nell to share the recipe. Norm and I discussed the Trail Blazer’s chances in the playoffs. We both agreed that Oklahoma point guard Russell Westbrook would be hard to restrain. As though he were defending the Blazers, Leon made a shrill trumpet typical of an elephant, sending bits of straw everywhere. Alina Wolfowitz smiled bravely but said nothing.


It’s lucky the card game after dinner was at the dining room table in proximity to the front of the elephant. During the third match, Leon did what such a creature must do, sooner or later. Eyes burned and noses curled. The smell nearly unbearable, with trowels and garbage bags, Norm and I silently cleaned up the mishap.


We resumed the game, spoke of gardens, football, homeless people and television but never once mentioned the elephant in the room. The Wolfowitzes excused themselves, maybe a bit early, but who can blame them? It was pretty crowded.


“What a day,” said Nell with a sigh. “Let’s call it quits. We can tidy up tomorrow.” We switched off lights and headed for bed.




About the author: Ron Smith has been playing drums and has 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.