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.