Poetry by Susie Donnelly

What the Mirror Does Not Show
by Susie Donnelly

I am a purple sharpie,
one shade in the sky
just before the green flash.
                                                             I am a single car garage
                                                             with no automatic
                                                             door opener.
                                                             
I am spooled
white thread wound tight,
waiting to mend.

                                                              I am a wooden clothes-pin

                                                              forgotten and grayed,
                                                              hanging useless
                                                              on the backyard line.
I am steaming
black coffee,
rich and acidic,
needing to cool.
                                                              I am a deck of cards,
                                                              worn with bent corners
                                                              and missing the king of hearts.
I am a foreign coin,
valued only in exotic places
with cobblestone streets
and mysterious words.
                                                              I am homemade cornbread
                                                              easily prepared but
                                                              grainy on the palate.
I am a forgotten crystal rosary,
coiled in a corner
of the bottom drawer.
                                                              I am a vine maple leaf
                                                              in chilly October,
                                                              clinging to the limb,
                                                              destined to fall.
I am the sounds
of three a.m.,
hushed, whispered
but always present.

   I am a shadow
   of yesterday’s child;
   a seed of tomorrow’s hope.

About the author: 

Susie Donnelly lives in SE Portland with her husband and their Goldendoodle. She has written poetry off and on (mostly off) for years.

Creative Nonfiction & Poetry by Judith Armatta

On Binaries

by Judith Armatta

He criticized my wearing black. Widow's weeds, he said, and I was only 22. No one close had died except my grandpa. I didn't see it that way. I could hide in black, be almost invisible. Hide an imperfect body. Black moods, not so much. 

At night, blackness revealed the stars’ sparkle, while cloaking wildness trying to live among us, also evil sneaking up.

Black was marshmallows too long in the fire. The bottom of a forgotten pan gone dry on the stove. It was berries in August with vanilla ice cream. And it was my friend’s perfect judo kick.

A Black Maria arriving in early morning brought terror to enemies of the state who disappeared.

My post op face turned black and scared the dentist and all the waiting patients.

Black for funerals, white for weddings and first communions. Chinese tradition requires white for mourning. I wore a black dress at my wedding. White whispered from underneath.

We contrast black with white and pronounce one bad, one good, stuck in binary thought. Black skin, white skin. Where does brown fit? Where beauty? Is not skin deep.

I had three cats, two white, one black. They were not binaries. They were complexities. A gray cat adopted us. The three others were prejudiced. They did not like him.

Black is the absence of . . . red, yellow, green, blue. Black absorbs.

After living eons in the light, we will all disappear into a black hole. Which could be another universe. Or nothing.

Chasing Words

by Judith Armatta

I used to put them in a jar
Uncommon words
Jimjams
Jiggery pokery
Crepuscular
Common and lovely words
Dusk
Courage
Star rain

Just now I went to take them out
Dusty, ignored for years
I shook out words
And a dead fly
More words
And a dead bee
I kept the bee

Snollygoster
Lycanthrope
Dysgenic


Solitude
Death
Joy


They fall out
Or I pull them out with tweezers
Until they all lay scattered on my desk

Is this where they’ve been hiding
As the white page looks at me
Empty
As my mind?


A jar of words
To make a story
Or a life

About the Author: 

Judith Armatta is a lawyer, journalist, and human-rights advocate who monitored the trial of Slobodan Milošević on behalf of the Coalition for International Justice. For over two decades, she has worked to increase awareness of and response to violence against women and children. Armatta currently consults and writes on international humanitarian, human rights, and U.S. Criminal Justice issues. Armatta’s book, Twilight of Impunity: the War Crimes Trial of Slobodan Milošević, was published in 2010 by Duke University Press. http://www.juditharmatta.com/

A Gesture

Here's a small, personal story: It was 2016, and we were in a vegetarian café in Eugene, Oregon, where my son was working on his M.A. in Journalism. He was telling us (his dad and me) how he felt about a controversial issue. I was so moved by the eloquence of his hand gestures - and how they mirrored the depths of his heart and mind - that I took this photo while I was listening to him.

Here's another story, one of worldwide significance: In 1970, West Germany's Chancellor Willy Brandt set a wreath on a memorial for Warsaw ghetto victims. And then, instead of making a speech, he knelt on the steps and bowed his head.

"I looked into the depths of German history, and, under the weight of the millions of those who were murdered, I simply did what men must do when words fail," he wrote in his memoir.*

What gestures - large or small - do you notice around you? A flip of hair. A pat on the head. A furtive exit. What do those actions have to say? Maybe they're the starting place for greater understanding. They could also be the springboard for a story or poem.




*Tyler Marshall, October 9, 1992, "Willy Brandt, Post WWII German Statesman, Dies," Los Angeles Times.

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.  

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.