Thursday, February 9, 2023

The People of the Other Village

 




A world of thanks to the participants of my January Zoom class for sharing their writings, which were inspired by Thomas Lux's poem "The People of the Other Village." 

One prompt, five people. 

After teaching creative writing for 25 years, it still amazes me how a group of writers can take an idea and beautifully run with it in such different directions.

 

  

Susan Donnelly

The People of the Other Village

 

They hand out sweet smelling lilacs in January;

dance exotic sambas, pressing their bare feet

into drifted snow, leaving prints

that look like the face of God –

or at least the face of some non-judgmental god

who smiles gently at everyone –

the beggar, the thief, the lost and the found.

 

Dawn breaks a little earlier in the land of Them;

it illuminates hills and plains;

golden dustings of faith gather in gutters

and near the corners of widely opened eyes.

There is always some reason to rise –

a rainbow, a hungry neighbor,

a mewing calico kitten, a day like any other day,

dishes to wash in warm water,

bills to pay, floors to sweep, footsteps to follow.

These people of the other village quilt blankets

from scraps of worn work shirts, fabric softened

by sweat and washing and love -

the stitches are tiny heartbeats. No one is too old

for a comforter pieced by caring hands.

 

These people of the other village, they know

not “special."  All is now.  All is here.

These people of the other village live inside us.

They are the mirror of our better selves.

 

Susan Donnelly, a retired teacher, writes poems, walks her dog, paddles her red canoe, grows tomatoes, and breathes deeply; all practical skills in the autumn of one's life.  She lives in Portland with her husband and labradoodle, Cocoluna. 

 

*

 


Linda Ann Fraser

White Rabbit Bookstore

 

Small coffee/tea bookstore

Quiet, like a library

Bookcases line walls

and are placed at angles

among shelves of gifts

and journals.

A café in the front.

 

The soft clink of cups on saucers

as some come for breakfast.

A young man's fingers lightly

click on a laptop keyboard 

as he drinks black coffee 

while working on his project.

 

Some older ladies eat sticky

pastry and drink their tea while

quietly discussing their latest

poetry find.

 

A woman chooses some books

and is heard saying as

she leaves, “Preppy Snobs”

as she runs out

banging the door shut.

 

 

  

Linda Ann Fraser

Feuds

 

The Hatfields and McCoys

The Irish and the English

How do these feuds begin?

 

If you read history, it is usually

someone wanting to grasp more

than his share.

Property, horses, pigs, land,

could be anything.

 

Yet, like Romeo and Juliet,

you find not just bloody conflict

but juicy love stories.

 

A couple who sees beyond the

petty grievances of old debts

and short-sighted anger.

 

The lovers look up at the 

moon and embrace.

The moon looks down on them

and all with equanimity.

 

Linda Ann Fraser’s interest in poetry and writing began as a high school senior in Ellensburg, Washington. Early marriage and raising three girls took a toll on writing but creativity thrived as she sewed for her daughters. After the girls grew up, sewing merged into cloth art dolls and drawing. She thought the dolls needed stories. When grandchildren wanted family stories, she found Linda Ferguson’s writing class. 

 

 

 *

 

Hariana Chilstrom

The Other Humans 

 

The other humans

Those big people upstairs

Those people who shouted and slammed doors

who seemed, at such times,

to forget we existed—

 

We the four offspring

We the basement dwellers

We the trouble makers--

since that was all we seemed to be—

since their complaints and castigations were constant

since we hardly knew them otherwise—

 

We, in defense

We in defiance

We in desperation

 

Became whisperers

Became liars

Became sneaks

who created what we could

from creatures falling into basement rooms

from leftover party drinks and food untended

from chocolates and cold cream and turpentine.

 

And the house we shared

became a battlefield

of our evasions to their volleys of anger:

            Where the hell have you been?

            Why did you embarrass us like that?

            What makes you think you’re so smart?

 

And our bedrooms

became bomb shelters, muffling shouts beneath pillows and blanket forts

became hidey-holes, stashing food against the night’s locked kitchen door

became secret shelters, hiding fallen creatures and precious things prone to theft.

 

And we learned

that only big people

were allowed anger and blame

were allowed to take what they wanted

were allowed to breach boundaries most parents respected.

 

And we, in defense, created secret worlds

And we, in defiance, tore down their secrets

And we, in desperation, began to tell our secrets.

 

  

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.

 

 

 *

 

Ron Smith

I Loved to Learn Freedom, Early

improv, Zoom, 1/21/2023

                                                                                        

The eight-a.m. buzzer buzzed, we scrambled for our desks,

All lined up in rows, east to west.

Of grade-school I recall blackboards and erasers,

And our liberty-loving teacher, 'Sadie' Kaser.

She hadn't carried a gun, or fought overseas,

But Miss Kaser, pedagogue of grade-three,

Hated Communism, dictators and tyranny.

"They are enslaved, but we are free,"

Declared 'Sadie' Kaser, pedagogue of grade-three.

She opened a small red book upon her desk,

Then quizzed us what we'd eaten, and if we'd gotten rest.

"What did you have for breakfast?" she asked Candace Sutter.

"Why, teacher, I had waffles, hot-cakes, syrup, and butter."

"Ah, Candace," said Miss Kaser, "such a mistake,

You should have had fruit juice and corn flakes."

Now, soon, maybe by ten, you'll be drowsy,

With attention wandering, and penmanship lousy."

She placed a mark against Candace, in the red book,

And resumed her interrogation with a sour look.

"What time last night did you retire?" she asked a boy named Ken.

"You know, Dad's a nightly preacher, so I was up until ten."

Said 'Sadie' with a frown, "You're Up Too Late!"

And gave Ken a demerit, with decision, with haste.

"Now, people, let's go watch a film in another room,

Line up single file, no talking, or gum chewed.

They are enslaved, but we are free,"

Declared 'Sadie' Kaser, pedagogue of grade-three.   RGS 

 

  

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 numerous musical instruments and hundreds of books, vinyl records, and CDs.

 

 

*

 

Linda Ferguson

Dancing with Myself

 

They

are dressed in skirts

 – purple skirts –

how strange!

How can they work?

Or do they?

Maybe they have servants –

or slaves!

 

Here, we wear pants

in sensible earth shades.

We chop and haul. We plant

seeds and grow new trees. We

think of everything.

 

And how do those other

people spend their days?

Dancing, of all things!

See how their skirts

twirl about their knees.

Not at all like me, who

gets the muck shoveled

and the porridge bubbling

while they go like this:

 

Forward, forward, round and round, hands up, cupping clouds, sway, sway, sway.

 

Very pretty

pretty easy

easy enough

for me to try

and still have time

to toss the slops

sweep the floor

shake the rugs –

 

but

 

first, a bit of color

might be nice –

not purple (purple

is too much) –

but a little blue

could be alright

(if no one here sees?)

I could wrap

some cloth around my hips

like this, and then take a step

and another –

 

oh –

 

swish, swish –

 

my skirt is a bird

with wings dipped

in exotic ink

 

Is this how the other people feel?

 

Hush, hush,

perish the thought!

Everyone knows

they are nothing

like us, and your

porridge on the stove

is about to burn.

 

 

 *Copyright for each piece belongs to the authors.