Take me out to the Ball Game
By Sheryl Winters
“How long have you been dating him?” Riley asked over the bad organ music playing in the background. He glanced at his best friend, Katherine, “Kit-Kat” Johnson. She had been his best friend for most of his life. He vividly recalled the first time he saw her at the tender age of six. He had been outside, playing with a baseball and glove when a moving truck pulled up to the empty house next door. He tossed the ball to her, she caught it. They were best friends from that moment on.
Right now she was waving to the first baseman, a Jackson someone. He could only presume by their many smiles that they were dating. They couldn’t have been seeing each other long, Kit-Kat hadn’t mentioned him in any of their phone calls or text messages while he was away on business. Riley had heard of relationships moving too fast. But still, wouldn’t he have noticed if she had fallen for someone new?
“I met him just after you left. He knows where my heart belongs.” Kit-Kat shrugged.
She always played her cards close to her chest. She was nervous today, fiddling with her long chestnut hair, dragging it into a ponytail, before throwing on her favorite baseball hat, emblazoned with the words Got Baseball on it. She slipped on her darkest sunglasses, the ones that hid her beautiful blue eyes.
“Headache?” Riley asked.
“Yeah but I think almost gone.”
He leaned over and began massaging her shoulders. Her sigh of relief, was instantaneous. “Why are we watching him play again?”
“Are you not having fun, I thought you liked ball games?” There it was again, the slight twitch to her shoulders, “Why the third degree Riles?”
“Just curious,” He withdrew his hands and placed them in the pockets of his jacket.
She always called him Riles as in "he riles me up, makes me angry, ticks me off; Rile’s, as in best friend, but never lover." This was the first time she’d ever dated a baseball player. She’d gone through lawyers, doctors and that strange mathematician.
Riley stretched out his long legs, taking up the bench below him. The blonde seated next to his feet gave him a pointed look, then a longer one, as she took in his lean frame, blonde hair and blue eyes.
Riley was used to the appraising glances of the women around him and he always shrugged them off. It was clear to everyone who ever met him where Riley’s heart belonged, to Kit-Kat. This trip, more than any other, had taught him that--the car accident, the one he still hadn’t told her about, the slick ice, the slide of the car, landing in the ditch; the long cold night trying to keep warm until help came. Images that flashed through his head as he thought he was dying. Her smile, her laughter, the way her fingers curved around a bottle of beer. The look of mischievousness in her eyes when she won a game of pool.
“You hungry?”
“Well yes, but I thought maybe we’d get something afterwards. We could go to that restaurant you like, the Greek one. The one you always want to go to.” She was rambling, Kit-Kat never rambled. She was always short and to the point. A cheer went up and people began to mill around between innings. The first ball player was waving to Kit-Kat and Riley had a moment of panic. He needed to get out of here before her boyfriend decided to stroll up the bleachers and kiss her.
“I’ll get us hotdogs, be right back.” He got up, ignoring her hand on his jacket. He hated it when people pressed against him, making him feel claustrophobic. But it was either deal with all the people wandering around or watch some player make the moves on the girl he loved.
He wandered around for a while before purchasing two hot dogs, extra mustard on his and plain ketchup for her. The two sodas were next, one Diet Pepsi, extra cold, and one Coke, hold the diet.
He was almost back to her when he noticed the commotion. A large TV camera was filming her reaction. He watched in horror as her boyfriend, bent on one knee, held something out to her.
The hotdogs fell to the ground and the sodas followed. He had waited too long, she belonged to another. He turned and left the stadium, pushing through the crowds, ignoring the muffled curses and dirty looks.
“Riley wait, you have it all wrong.”
He made it to the heavy metal doors before her hand touched his sleeve. It was her "please" that made him turn.
“Just wait... It's not what you think. Riley, please. This was a set up for you. Jackson’s just a friend. I wanted to surprise you, but you left for food and when you didn’t come back...” She pulled on his arm and pointed, forcing him to look at the overhead screen where three words flashed. Marry me Riley.
“You were all I could think about when you were gone. Don’t you know Riley? It’s always been you...,” she whispered. She stood there, ball cap and glasses off. Looking stunningly beautiful in plain jeans and faded flannel shirt. Her hair escaping from her ponytail.
“Riley, will you marry me?” Katherine's smile was tremulous and her hands shook as she gave him the box. Inside was the baseball he tossed to her the first time they met.
Riley couldn’t help it. He had to pick Katherine up and swing her around, baseball and all. “Yes!”
The roaring crowd faded to silence as they kissed.
- - -
Sheryl Winters lives in a small town in Alaska where she enjoys fishing, four wheeling and sunshine.
Thursday, January 31, 2013
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
1/30/13
In Retrospect Always
By A.J. Huffman
He said he loved her
as his fingers fell from hers.
In retrospect only.
His final promise whispered
as she watched him.
Eyes dropped from her gaze.
Right hand fumbling behind,
trying to find the escape --
the passage from this temporary world
into what he hoped would be forever.
Finality: A closed door.
Its whispered click
a last breath for a stark body
with eyes dried, longing for the pain
of familiar cliché.
Yet in truth, there was no absence.
No inkling for death.
Just foul life lingering: Unwanted.
And complete in her repugnance.
She longed to be his Juliet.
But no, she was not
that flawed. She held no excess.
Held nothing to conflict the desire.
No counter to bring blessed fear,
that blind guide to welcomed death.
No. No Juliet she.
She was more a feeling.
One feeling. For one man.
Alone
and standing at the end.
Watching her end-
less beginning.
- - -
A.J. Huffman is a poet and freelance writer in Daytona Beach, Florida. She has previously published six collections of poetry all available on Amazon.com. She has also published her work in numerous national and international literary journals. Most recently, she has accepted the position as editor for four online poetry journals for Kind of a Hurricane Press ( www.kindofahurricanepress.com ). Find more about A.J. Huffman, including additional information and links to her work at http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100000191382454 and https://twitter.com/#!/poetess222.
By A.J. Huffman
He said he loved her
as his fingers fell from hers.
In retrospect only.
His final promise whispered
as she watched him.
Eyes dropped from her gaze.
Right hand fumbling behind,
trying to find the escape --
the passage from this temporary world
into what he hoped would be forever.
Finality: A closed door.
Its whispered click
a last breath for a stark body
with eyes dried, longing for the pain
of familiar cliché.
Yet in truth, there was no absence.
No inkling for death.
Just foul life lingering: Unwanted.
And complete in her repugnance.
She longed to be his Juliet.
But no, she was not
that flawed. She held no excess.
Held nothing to conflict the desire.
No counter to bring blessed fear,
that blind guide to welcomed death.
No. No Juliet she.
She was more a feeling.
One feeling. For one man.
Alone
and standing at the end.
Watching her end-
less beginning.
- - -
A.J. Huffman is a poet and freelance writer in Daytona Beach, Florida. She has previously published six collections of poetry all available on Amazon.com. She has also published her work in numerous national and international literary journals. Most recently, she has accepted the position as editor for four online poetry journals for Kind of a Hurricane Press ( www.kindofahurricanepress.com ). Find more about A.J. Huffman, including additional information and links to her work at http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100000191382454 and https://twitter.com/#!/poetess222.
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
1/29/13
The DJ
By Jerry Guarino
October 23rd, 1976 (New Brunswick, NJ) - Tony finished his set at WRSU around 7pm. He would grab a quick dinner, then head over to the dorm for his gig as DJ to their party. Playing for college dances was better than being on the air; you don’t have much interaction when you’re alone in the radio booth. Here he could see coeds dancing and if he was lucky pick up a date.
“Are you the DJ?” said the house manager as he extended his hand.
“Hi, yes, I’m Tony, from the radio station. Good to meet you.”
“You too. I’m George. You can set up on that small stage; we use the dining area for dancing.”
“OK, George. We’re going to start around 8?”
“8 is good Tony. The music will signal people to come down from their rooms. But you’re going until midnight, right?”
“Yes, usually, unless the crowd disappears.”
Most of the sororities and fraternities would be partying tonight, especially after the football team won. Tony knew everyone would be in a good mood. After setting up his equipment, records and speakers, he ran a sound test and found a comfortable stool. By 8 o’clock he was setting the mood with music from the early 70s. Sly and the Family Stone, The Hollies, Elton John and Three Dog Night. Just hits.
A brunette with frayed, bell-bottom jeans and a tie-dyed shirt came over to him. “You’re gonna play some Clapton, aren’t ya?”
“Derek and the Dominos or Cream?” said Tony.
“Do you have Layla?”
“You got it next.”
The girl smiled and skipped away as residents started to fill the room. It was a coed dorm, not part of the Greek system, so this was pleasant company, not the drunken frat boys around the corner. Within an hour, the dance floor was filled; beers were everywhere and the usual pairing off had begun.
“Wow. 9 o’clock and we already have couples leaving for the rooms upstairs. This might be an early night,” Tony said to himself. Then he saw her, a cheerleader still in uniform with some friends coming through the kitchen. He knew her name, Karen, but she didn’t know him. Back then all the guys knew the cheerleaders by name, even though they never met.
Tony knew what he had to do. K.C. and the Sunshine Band, Earth, Wind and Fire and The Doobie Brothers. Dance music will get her on the floor. As Get Down Tonight started, Tony pushed the volume up until it ended all normal conversations. Sure enough, Karen and her friends started to dance.
“Hmm. Her boyfriend’s not here. All the cheerleaders had boyfriends, maybe a lineman from the team. But they were probably partying at the football frat; surely Karen would be there if she wanted to be. Maybe he’ll show up here or she’ll leave.” Tony would just have to wait and see.
A coed came over to him with some chicken wings and French fries. She was pretty enough, but Tony was otherwise occupied. “You must be getting hungry; I made you a plate.”
“Oh, thanks” he said to the cute girl in a red Danskin and corduroy pants. As she walked away, she turned to smile at Tony. He gave her a wave and a more genuine smile, then his attention returned to Karen. But he didn’t see her.
“Damn.” Tony scanned the dance floor. “What if she stepped out? I should have talked to her.” Before long, it was 11:00pm and the crowd was thinning out, couples off for the night and singles leaving, only about 30 people left now. He lowered the volume of the music and made an announcement.
“You’ve been a great audience tonight. We’re going to wrap it up in about ten minutes.” Some mild disappointment from the crowd, so he decided to end the night with some power songs. Boogie Wonderland by Earth Wind and Fire, That’s the Way I Like It by KC and the Sunshine Band and Play That Funky Music White Boy by Wild Cherry. He turned the music up.
“Excuse me.” A lyrical voice called him, accompanied by a hand on his shoulder. He looked up and saw Karen. Suddenly his whole night was back in synch. She was smiling. “I love these songs. Too bad you have to stop.”
“I can stay a little longer. My name’s Tony.”
“I’m Karen.”
“Nice to meet you Karen. So you came right from the game?”
“Yeah, my girlfriends took me out to dinner for my birthday, then brought me here.”
Tony had a clue. “She should be with her boyfriend on her birthday. Maybe she broke up with him.”
“Well, happy birthday. Tell you what. I’ll play as long as you like.” Tony thought that was a smooth line.
“Oh, thank you” Karen said and gave him a little hug. She walked back to the dance floor with her friends. Tony watched her dance for the next hour. That cheerleading uniform was more than he could resist. He just hoped she would stick around after and talk to him. His head in the clouds, it was midnight before he realized.
“Well, that’s it folks. You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here. Well, unless you live here.” Tony tried to make a joke, but it bombed. He started packing up the equipment. Karen walked over to him.
“Thank you so much. I was feeling a little down tonight. Will you be here long?”
Tony was hoping for the best. “No, I just have to secure this in that closet. The techs will bring it back to the station tomorrow. Do you need a ride home?”
“That would be nice” and she smiled. Tony wasn’t expecting this, but recovered quickly.
“I’ll take you. Just give me ten minutes.”
“OK. I’ll tell my friends goodbye.”
“Wow. She’s leaving her friends to be with me. I must have played the right notes tonight.”
Karen: I wish he would ask me to his apartment instead of taking me home.
Tony: What do I say?
Karen: I wish he would say something, anything.
“So, you made my night a little brighter too, Karen. I didn’t expect a pretty cheerleader to even notice me.”
Karen slid over to Tony’s side and held his hand. “You’re not so bad looking yourself. Did you think dating a cheerleader was out of your league?”
Tony’s life quickly passed through his brain. “She said dating a cheerleader!” It’s a dream come true, unless she is already with a player from the football team. It’s worse than having an affair. If he found out, he could punish you on a regular basis. You couldn’t just disappear, especially once they got your class schedule and address. Worse yet, he had 60 or 70 teammates you could run into, literally!
“Tell you the truth. No, I never considered it a possibility.” Tony hoped Karen would give him one more sign to proceed. At the stop sign in front of her dorm, she leaned over and kissed him. “My roommate went home for the weekend. Aren’t you going to come in?” and she closed the door and ran to the door.
- - -
Jerry Guarino’s short stories have been published by dozens of magazines in the United States, Canada, Australia and Great Britain. His latest book, "50 Italian Pastries", is available on amazon.com and as a kindle ebook. Please visit his website at http://cafestories.net
By Jerry Guarino
October 23rd, 1976 (New Brunswick, NJ) - Tony finished his set at WRSU around 7pm. He would grab a quick dinner, then head over to the dorm for his gig as DJ to their party. Playing for college dances was better than being on the air; you don’t have much interaction when you’re alone in the radio booth. Here he could see coeds dancing and if he was lucky pick up a date.
“Are you the DJ?” said the house manager as he extended his hand.
“Hi, yes, I’m Tony, from the radio station. Good to meet you.”
“You too. I’m George. You can set up on that small stage; we use the dining area for dancing.”
“OK, George. We’re going to start around 8?”
“8 is good Tony. The music will signal people to come down from their rooms. But you’re going until midnight, right?”
“Yes, usually, unless the crowd disappears.”
Most of the sororities and fraternities would be partying tonight, especially after the football team won. Tony knew everyone would be in a good mood. After setting up his equipment, records and speakers, he ran a sound test and found a comfortable stool. By 8 o’clock he was setting the mood with music from the early 70s. Sly and the Family Stone, The Hollies, Elton John and Three Dog Night. Just hits.
A brunette with frayed, bell-bottom jeans and a tie-dyed shirt came over to him. “You’re gonna play some Clapton, aren’t ya?”
“Derek and the Dominos or Cream?” said Tony.
“Do you have Layla?”
“You got it next.”
The girl smiled and skipped away as residents started to fill the room. It was a coed dorm, not part of the Greek system, so this was pleasant company, not the drunken frat boys around the corner. Within an hour, the dance floor was filled; beers were everywhere and the usual pairing off had begun.
“Wow. 9 o’clock and we already have couples leaving for the rooms upstairs. This might be an early night,” Tony said to himself. Then he saw her, a cheerleader still in uniform with some friends coming through the kitchen. He knew her name, Karen, but she didn’t know him. Back then all the guys knew the cheerleaders by name, even though they never met.
Tony knew what he had to do. K.C. and the Sunshine Band, Earth, Wind and Fire and The Doobie Brothers. Dance music will get her on the floor. As Get Down Tonight started, Tony pushed the volume up until it ended all normal conversations. Sure enough, Karen and her friends started to dance.
“Hmm. Her boyfriend’s not here. All the cheerleaders had boyfriends, maybe a lineman from the team. But they were probably partying at the football frat; surely Karen would be there if she wanted to be. Maybe he’ll show up here or she’ll leave.” Tony would just have to wait and see.
A coed came over to him with some chicken wings and French fries. She was pretty enough, but Tony was otherwise occupied. “You must be getting hungry; I made you a plate.”
“Oh, thanks” he said to the cute girl in a red Danskin and corduroy pants. As she walked away, she turned to smile at Tony. He gave her a wave and a more genuine smile, then his attention returned to Karen. But he didn’t see her.
“Damn.” Tony scanned the dance floor. “What if she stepped out? I should have talked to her.” Before long, it was 11:00pm and the crowd was thinning out, couples off for the night and singles leaving, only about 30 people left now. He lowered the volume of the music and made an announcement.
“You’ve been a great audience tonight. We’re going to wrap it up in about ten minutes.” Some mild disappointment from the crowd, so he decided to end the night with some power songs. Boogie Wonderland by Earth Wind and Fire, That’s the Way I Like It by KC and the Sunshine Band and Play That Funky Music White Boy by Wild Cherry. He turned the music up.
“Excuse me.” A lyrical voice called him, accompanied by a hand on his shoulder. He looked up and saw Karen. Suddenly his whole night was back in synch. She was smiling. “I love these songs. Too bad you have to stop.”
“I can stay a little longer. My name’s Tony.”
“I’m Karen.”
“Nice to meet you Karen. So you came right from the game?”
“Yeah, my girlfriends took me out to dinner for my birthday, then brought me here.”
Tony had a clue. “She should be with her boyfriend on her birthday. Maybe she broke up with him.”
“Well, happy birthday. Tell you what. I’ll play as long as you like.” Tony thought that was a smooth line.
“Oh, thank you” Karen said and gave him a little hug. She walked back to the dance floor with her friends. Tony watched her dance for the next hour. That cheerleading uniform was more than he could resist. He just hoped she would stick around after and talk to him. His head in the clouds, it was midnight before he realized.
“Well, that’s it folks. You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here. Well, unless you live here.” Tony tried to make a joke, but it bombed. He started packing up the equipment. Karen walked over to him.
“Thank you so much. I was feeling a little down tonight. Will you be here long?”
Tony was hoping for the best. “No, I just have to secure this in that closet. The techs will bring it back to the station tomorrow. Do you need a ride home?”
“That would be nice” and she smiled. Tony wasn’t expecting this, but recovered quickly.
“I’ll take you. Just give me ten minutes.”
“OK. I’ll tell my friends goodbye.”
“Wow. She’s leaving her friends to be with me. I must have played the right notes tonight.”
Karen was quiet on their ride back to her dorm, but you could sense the conversation between them, going on in their heads.
Tony: I wish we were heading to my apartment instead of her dorm.Karen: I wish he would ask me to his apartment instead of taking me home.
Tony: What do I say?
Karen: I wish he would say something, anything.
“So, you made my night a little brighter too, Karen. I didn’t expect a pretty cheerleader to even notice me.”
Karen slid over to Tony’s side and held his hand. “You’re not so bad looking yourself. Did you think dating a cheerleader was out of your league?”
Tony’s life quickly passed through his brain. “She said dating a cheerleader!” It’s a dream come true, unless she is already with a player from the football team. It’s worse than having an affair. If he found out, he could punish you on a regular basis. You couldn’t just disappear, especially once they got your class schedule and address. Worse yet, he had 60 or 70 teammates you could run into, literally!
“Tell you the truth. No, I never considered it a possibility.” Tony hoped Karen would give him one more sign to proceed. At the stop sign in front of her dorm, she leaned over and kissed him. “My roommate went home for the weekend. Aren’t you going to come in?” and she closed the door and ran to the door.
That was the sign. Tony parked quickly and ran to catch up with her. They made love for the next hours, aided by some champagne she just happened to have in her fridge. Low lights and soft music from her stereo intensified the mood. Tony gave her a massage while he recovered, hoping the night would never end.
Then there was a knock on the door, a pounding! Karen looked at him, threw on her robe and went to look out the security hole to see who was there. Tony’s heart and imagination were racing to what could be an ignominious finish of a glorious night. He could make out some muffled sound from the door.
“Oh.” She turned to Tony. “It’s only my roommate; she forgot her house key.”- - -
Jerry Guarino’s short stories have been published by dozens of magazines in the United States, Canada, Australia and Great Britain. His latest book, "50 Italian Pastries", is available on amazon.com and as a kindle ebook. Please visit his website at http://cafestories.net
Monday, January 28, 2013
1/28/13
=A Little Fun
By Ross Leese
I'm a little preoccupied tonight
sat at this machine with nothing
but a single beautiful
girl on my pretty
mind--
there is no roar from the sky
to shake me from
her
there are no desperate cries
in the deepest pits of hell
fit to stir
me--
all I can think about is why
I'm always falling in love
with all the wrong girls
at all the wrong
times
when everybody else seems
to make it look so much
easier
than
this
as the rain continues to fall
as another ex-hero
dies
as the peacock
struts--
as she passes through my
mind again and
again
and
again
- - -
By Ross Leese
I'm a little preoccupied tonight
sat at this machine with nothing
but a single beautiful
girl on my pretty
mind--
there is no roar from the sky
to shake me from
her
there are no desperate cries
in the deepest pits of hell
fit to stir
me--
all I can think about is why
I'm always falling in love
with all the wrong girls
at all the wrong
times
when everybody else seems
to make it look so much
easier
than
this
as the rain continues to fall
as another ex-hero
dies
as the peacock
struts--
as she passes through my
mind again and
again
and
again
- - -
Sunday, January 27, 2013
1/27/13
RESIGNING AS YOUR MUSE
By Jennifer Donnell
I am resigning as your muse.
No two weeks notice, no recommendation
for my next employer needed.
I have writhed when I wanted to dance.
For you, I tattooed a bull’s eye on my spine.
I have wanted, I have waited,
I have entertained you better than the others before me,
more than the next to come.
I have told you all my secrets,
invented secrets just to tell you.
When your ear was off limits,
I whispered my truth to the most willing stars,
knowing that the dust of the cosmos is ripe within the root of you,
long denied as something you no longer need.
Your belly is rich with butterflies,
yet you capture them when you see me
and pin their wings to the tread of your shoe.
How is this not a lie?
I walk across the unrecorded landscape of your life,
staring as the vixen, or the girl the next door,
or the eighty year old woman you’ll pass in the grocery store
and pretend you never knew.
Therefore, I am resigning as your muse.
I am flipping the pyramid, you are no longer at the top.
I was never meant to be your back up plan,
your slow day at work,
your just in case,
your maybe or never.
I was supposed to be your cat call,
the spring in your step,
your goodnight fantasy-
not the cream in the coffee you never drunk,
or the painting on the cover of the book you never wrote.
Not the door you didn’t open.
I have rewritten the love story I imagined, when first I saw you.
In this version, I abruptly turn around before our eyes meet.
I run through the grass and grime, despite my shiny red high heels.
You never shake my hand or wonder who I am-
and I walk away without regret.
- - -
Jennifer Donnell is a poet and writer from Southern California. She is published in an assortment of anthologies, magazines, and journals- including, "Bohemia", "A Few Lines Magazine", and "Gorge".
By Jennifer Donnell
I am resigning as your muse.
No two weeks notice, no recommendation
for my next employer needed.
I have writhed when I wanted to dance.
For you, I tattooed a bull’s eye on my spine.
I have wanted, I have waited,
I have entertained you better than the others before me,
more than the next to come.
I have told you all my secrets,
invented secrets just to tell you.
When your ear was off limits,
I whispered my truth to the most willing stars,
knowing that the dust of the cosmos is ripe within the root of you,
long denied as something you no longer need.
Your belly is rich with butterflies,
yet you capture them when you see me
and pin their wings to the tread of your shoe.
How is this not a lie?
I walk across the unrecorded landscape of your life,
staring as the vixen, or the girl the next door,
or the eighty year old woman you’ll pass in the grocery store
and pretend you never knew.
Therefore, I am resigning as your muse.
I am flipping the pyramid, you are no longer at the top.
I was never meant to be your back up plan,
your slow day at work,
your just in case,
your maybe or never.
I was supposed to be your cat call,
the spring in your step,
your goodnight fantasy-
not the cream in the coffee you never drunk,
or the painting on the cover of the book you never wrote.
Not the door you didn’t open.
I have rewritten the love story I imagined, when first I saw you.
In this version, I abruptly turn around before our eyes meet.
I run through the grass and grime, despite my shiny red high heels.
You never shake my hand or wonder who I am-
and I walk away without regret.
- - -
Jennifer Donnell is a poet and writer from Southern California. She is published in an assortment of anthologies, magazines, and journals- including, "Bohemia", "A Few Lines Magazine", and "Gorge".
Saturday, January 26, 2013
1/26/13
Tugboat
By L.P. Stribling
Be a tugboat for me, please
And pull me into you,
Pull me out of this yucky stuff,
And take me back into the blue,
Get me out of these gusty winds,
To where it’s not so bad,
Be a tugboat for me, would you, dear,
Pull me far away from sad,
Haul me out of this boggy gloom,
Drag me back into the sun,
Pull me out of this moat, with your tugboat rope,
Help me sail back into fun,
Murky water, hurricanes, sea storms,
And the lot,
I need a hefty lift from a tugboat, swift,
And my baby’s all I’ve got,
True is true, and where the water’s blue,
I know you’re there with me,
But without that luck, I’m a sitting duck,
And need your boat to pull me free,
To tug me into calmer waters,
Only once is not enough,
I need a boat that’s prepped to tug,
Anytime the ocean’s rough,
So be a tugboat for me, please,
Haul me back into the blue,
The only waters I want to sail,
Are the ones I sail with you.
- - -
L.P. Stribling is originally from Albuquerque, New Mexico and has been writing poetry and fiction since 2008. He is a lover of words and seizes any chance he can to dance with them. He lives with his wife in Olympia, WA.
By L.P. Stribling
Be a tugboat for me, please
And pull me into you,
Pull me out of this yucky stuff,
And take me back into the blue,
Get me out of these gusty winds,
To where it’s not so bad,
Be a tugboat for me, would you, dear,
Pull me far away from sad,
Haul me out of this boggy gloom,
Drag me back into the sun,
Pull me out of this moat, with your tugboat rope,
Help me sail back into fun,
Murky water, hurricanes, sea storms,
And the lot,
I need a hefty lift from a tugboat, swift,
And my baby’s all I’ve got,
True is true, and where the water’s blue,
I know you’re there with me,
But without that luck, I’m a sitting duck,
And need your boat to pull me free,
To tug me into calmer waters,
Only once is not enough,
I need a boat that’s prepped to tug,
Anytime the ocean’s rough,
So be a tugboat for me, please,
Haul me back into the blue,
The only waters I want to sail,
Are the ones I sail with you.
- - -
L.P. Stribling is originally from Albuquerque, New Mexico and has been writing poetry and fiction since 2008. He is a lover of words and seizes any chance he can to dance with them. He lives with his wife in Olympia, WA.
Friday, January 25, 2013
1/25/13
Haiku
By Katya Amchentseva
Sharing summer fruits
while pretending they were ripe
tastes sour as first love
- - -
Katya Amchentseva is a multidisciplinary artist originating from Kazakhstan. She currently lives and works in New York City.
By Katya Amchentseva
Sharing summer fruits
while pretending they were ripe
tastes sour as first love
- - -
Katya Amchentseva is a multidisciplinary artist originating from Kazakhstan. She currently lives and works in New York City.
Thursday, January 24, 2013
1/24/13
Wishful Dreaming
By Wendy L. Schmidt
These dreams keep me from falling off the peak of desire, a hazardous cliff I've been teetering on since I first set eyes on him.
Every night I soar to the place we meet and touch his beautiful face and strong hands then gently push him onto a soft blanket of mist. Our two bodies fit together, perfectly. Our words are few, but longing lips do all the talking. And when we are finished, laying spent in each others arms, I whisper, "My beloved, I must go." He grasped my wrist and pulls me back to warmth in his curved taut, torso. "Stay with me until the morning," he pleads, knowing it is not possible. The gesture means everything to me. We nestle together for another moment until he drifts. I listen for the rhythmic sound of sleep. Then, brush his face with my fingertips hoping I'll remember the feel of it when I awaken.
Light enters and I am jolted back to cold reality. But I can still feel the stir of sexual satisfaction and a small, exciting charge running through my fingers and toes. Too quickly the images fade and I am left with the painful yearning of unrequited love.
The man I'll never know lives in the daylight and passes by without a note of recognition. When he walks by, I won't speak or see or breath because all of my energy is depleted keeping my heart from breaking in two. It is as if we live in different countries and don't speak the same language. See me, love me, want me, my soul cries out. It is futile and agonizingly obvious he is not interested.
So, I eagerly wait for darkness to come. Then, I close my eyes and find him calling to me with outstretched arms, asking me to stay one more moment.
Dreams are a lonely lover's delight and deliverance.
- - -
Wendy Schmidt is a native of Wisconsin. She has been writing short stories and poetry for the last ten years. Pieces have been published in Daily Flash 2012, Three Line Poetry, Tainted Tea, Fear and Trembling,Verse Wisconsin, One Million Stories and Twisted Dreams, Taste Like Pennies Anthology, Haunted Object Anthology.
By Wendy L. Schmidt
These dreams keep me from falling off the peak of desire, a hazardous cliff I've been teetering on since I first set eyes on him.
Every night I soar to the place we meet and touch his beautiful face and strong hands then gently push him onto a soft blanket of mist. Our two bodies fit together, perfectly. Our words are few, but longing lips do all the talking. And when we are finished, laying spent in each others arms, I whisper, "My beloved, I must go." He grasped my wrist and pulls me back to warmth in his curved taut, torso. "Stay with me until the morning," he pleads, knowing it is not possible. The gesture means everything to me. We nestle together for another moment until he drifts. I listen for the rhythmic sound of sleep. Then, brush his face with my fingertips hoping I'll remember the feel of it when I awaken.
Light enters and I am jolted back to cold reality. But I can still feel the stir of sexual satisfaction and a small, exciting charge running through my fingers and toes. Too quickly the images fade and I am left with the painful yearning of unrequited love.
The man I'll never know lives in the daylight and passes by without a note of recognition. When he walks by, I won't speak or see or breath because all of my energy is depleted keeping my heart from breaking in two. It is as if we live in different countries and don't speak the same language. See me, love me, want me, my soul cries out. It is futile and agonizingly obvious he is not interested.
So, I eagerly wait for darkness to come. Then, I close my eyes and find him calling to me with outstretched arms, asking me to stay one more moment.
Dreams are a lonely lover's delight and deliverance.
- - -
Wendy Schmidt is a native of Wisconsin. She has been writing short stories and poetry for the last ten years. Pieces have been published in Daily Flash 2012, Three Line Poetry, Tainted Tea, Fear and Trembling,Verse Wisconsin, One Million Stories and Twisted Dreams, Taste Like Pennies Anthology, Haunted Object Anthology.
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
1/23/13
Mashed Potatoes and Marinara Sauce
By Jerry Guarino
They say opposites attract. Well, not in all situations. Sometimes people from diverse backgrounds are attracted to each other, only to find their differences lead to incompatibility. It’s like foods. Mashed potatoes and marinara sauce are great ingredients, but together they just don’t mix.
Kelly Johnson grew up in the Midwest on a farm. Yes, she was a farmer’s daughter, but she left that life behind for college in Boston. Kelly and some of her girlfriends were in the North End for lunch one Saturday.
“Oh Kelly, you have to try the pizza here, like nothing you ever had in Wisconsin” said her best friend Angela.
“I’m ready. We have the good cheese, just not the sauce. I guess the sauce makes all the difference” Kelly replied. The young waiter walked toward their table as the foursome looked up.
“Just like men” said Angela. The girls giggled.
"Posso aiutarvi belle signore. May I help you beautiful ladies?”
They all noticed Kelly locked on to the waiter’s eyes. Angela smiled and whispered to Susan. “I think Kelly just fell in love.”
“My friends tell me we have to try the pizza,” said Kelly. “What do you think?”
“Very good choice. We won ‘Best in Boston’ the last three years,” said Vincent.
“Well, then bring us the best one you have and a bottle of Chianti. And what is your name?”
“My name is Vincent. I’ll be back with your drinks presto, shortly.”
Susan and Angela answered together. “Thanks Vincent” and then looked at Kelly.
“What?” as she gave them a look.
“We saw you looking at him. No one like that in the heartland?”
Susan walked over to the jukebox and made a choice. The song filled the air. “When the moon hits your eye, like a big pizza pie, that’s Amore.” The girls laughed while pointing to Kelly.
“All right. Let’s not get carried away. I think he’s nice, that’s all.”
“Yeah, nice. We know what that means.” The girls kidded Kelly for the next half hour as they ate. Eventually, they let her off the hook. “OK, Kelly we know you’re only discovering something they didn’t have back home, a genuine Italian boy.”
“Be nice or I’ll marry him just to spite you. And you’ll have bridesmaid dresses that look like that.” She pointed to the green, white and red Italian flag in the corner next to a soccer team picture.
Vincent put the check on the table, smiling at Kelly, and thanked them for their business. “una splendida giornata, Have a wonderful day.”
Kelly took the check, insisting she pay for everyone. “You opened my eyes to wonderful Italian food. Let me pay this time.” There was no argument from her friends, college students living on a budget. They didn’t even notice when Kelly wrote her name and phone number on the bill.
That night Vincent called Kelly. She suggested a night at the Faneuil Hall Marketplace across from the North End. They quickly got acquainted, this town boy and the preppy coed from the heartland. By the end of the night, they were walking hand in hand and talking about their next date.
Unknown to her friends, Kelly started seeing Vincent on weekends after he got off from work. She knew they were an odd couple, but it was a nice diversion from the grind of papers and lecture halls, something to get through sophomore year with. She had time to find a suitable husband next year. For now, she just wanted to have fun. It had been months of meeting him in Boston when Vincent arranged an alternative place for dinner.
He met Kelly at the Harvard Square red line stop. They walked past the Harvard Coop and the famous newsstand. “Where are we going?” she said.
“I know a place on Dunster Street, around the corner. You’ll like it.” They walked up to a large yellow house with a crest and signet ring surrounding a nettle.
“This isn’t a restaurant Vincent. It’s some sort of Frat house.” Kelly was puzzled.
“Actually, it’s a coed final club. This is where I live.” Vincent saw Kelly’s face change from confusion to adoration.
“You go to Harvard? You never told me you went to Harvard.”
“Well, I wanted to make sure you liked me for the right reasons, not because my family owned a restaurant in Boston.”
It wasn’t until the wedding after graduation that Vincent found out her family owned the company that supplied pizza dough to his parent’s restaurant.
“Oops,” Kelly said to Vincent when he found out.
They lived happily ever after.
- - -
Jerry Guarino’s short stories have been published by dozens of magazines in the United States, Canada, Australia and Great Britain. His latest book, "50 Italian Pastries", is available on amazon.com and as a kindle ebook. Please visit his website at http://cafestories.net
By Jerry Guarino
They say opposites attract. Well, not in all situations. Sometimes people from diverse backgrounds are attracted to each other, only to find their differences lead to incompatibility. It’s like foods. Mashed potatoes and marinara sauce are great ingredients, but together they just don’t mix.
Kelly Johnson grew up in the Midwest on a farm. Yes, she was a farmer’s daughter, but she left that life behind for college in Boston. Kelly and some of her girlfriends were in the North End for lunch one Saturday.
“Oh Kelly, you have to try the pizza here, like nothing you ever had in Wisconsin” said her best friend Angela.
“I’m ready. We have the good cheese, just not the sauce. I guess the sauce makes all the difference” Kelly replied. The young waiter walked toward their table as the foursome looked up.
“Just like men” said Angela. The girls giggled.
"Posso aiutarvi belle signore. May I help you beautiful ladies?”
They all noticed Kelly locked on to the waiter’s eyes. Angela smiled and whispered to Susan. “I think Kelly just fell in love.”
“My friends tell me we have to try the pizza,” said Kelly. “What do you think?”
“Very good choice. We won ‘Best in Boston’ the last three years,” said Vincent.
“Well, then bring us the best one you have and a bottle of Chianti. And what is your name?”
“My name is Vincent. I’ll be back with your drinks presto, shortly.”
Susan and Angela answered together. “Thanks Vincent” and then looked at Kelly.
“What?” as she gave them a look.
“We saw you looking at him. No one like that in the heartland?”
Susan walked over to the jukebox and made a choice. The song filled the air. “When the moon hits your eye, like a big pizza pie, that’s Amore.” The girls laughed while pointing to Kelly.
“All right. Let’s not get carried away. I think he’s nice, that’s all.”
“Yeah, nice. We know what that means.” The girls kidded Kelly for the next half hour as they ate. Eventually, they let her off the hook. “OK, Kelly we know you’re only discovering something they didn’t have back home, a genuine Italian boy.”
“Be nice or I’ll marry him just to spite you. And you’ll have bridesmaid dresses that look like that.” She pointed to the green, white and red Italian flag in the corner next to a soccer team picture.
Vincent put the check on the table, smiling at Kelly, and thanked them for their business. “una splendida giornata, Have a wonderful day.”
Kelly took the check, insisting she pay for everyone. “You opened my eyes to wonderful Italian food. Let me pay this time.” There was no argument from her friends, college students living on a budget. They didn’t even notice when Kelly wrote her name and phone number on the bill.
That night Vincent called Kelly. She suggested a night at the Faneuil Hall Marketplace across from the North End. They quickly got acquainted, this town boy and the preppy coed from the heartland. By the end of the night, they were walking hand in hand and talking about their next date.
Unknown to her friends, Kelly started seeing Vincent on weekends after he got off from work. She knew they were an odd couple, but it was a nice diversion from the grind of papers and lecture halls, something to get through sophomore year with. She had time to find a suitable husband next year. For now, she just wanted to have fun. It had been months of meeting him in Boston when Vincent arranged an alternative place for dinner.
He met Kelly at the Harvard Square red line stop. They walked past the Harvard Coop and the famous newsstand. “Where are we going?” she said.
“I know a place on Dunster Street, around the corner. You’ll like it.” They walked up to a large yellow house with a crest and signet ring surrounding a nettle.
“This isn’t a restaurant Vincent. It’s some sort of Frat house.” Kelly was puzzled.
“Actually, it’s a coed final club. This is where I live.” Vincent saw Kelly’s face change from confusion to adoration.
“You go to Harvard? You never told me you went to Harvard.”
“Well, I wanted to make sure you liked me for the right reasons, not because my family owned a restaurant in Boston.”
It wasn’t until the wedding after graduation that Vincent found out her family owned the company that supplied pizza dough to his parent’s restaurant.
“Oops,” Kelly said to Vincent when he found out.
They lived happily ever after.
- - -
Jerry Guarino’s short stories have been published by dozens of magazines in the United States, Canada, Australia and Great Britain. His latest book, "50 Italian Pastries", is available on amazon.com and as a kindle ebook. Please visit his website at http://cafestories.net
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
1/22/13
Well,
By Lauren Erath
Well,
My feet asked my fuzziest socks to stay
In their drawer tonight,
Because of their irksome itch,
And that pair of plotters not only agreed,
But alerted those fiends of flip flops
To starve every slipper and sneaker
So no sole could survive the trip
To your chilly apartment complex.
Now my toes are troubled,
Since they’re wet and its winter,
So, until my toes unfreeze,
For caution, not comfort,
We should cuddle.
- - -
By Lauren Erath
Well,
My feet asked my fuzziest socks to stay
In their drawer tonight,
Because of their irksome itch,
And that pair of plotters not only agreed,
But alerted those fiends of flip flops
To starve every slipper and sneaker
So no sole could survive the trip
To your chilly apartment complex.
Now my toes are troubled,
Since they’re wet and its winter,
So, until my toes unfreeze,
For caution, not comfort,
We should cuddle.
- - -
Monday, January 21, 2013
1/21/13
Angels Bearing Armor
By A.J. Huffman
In my dream you come to love me.
Beautiful in your winged glory,
all welcome smiles and light.
And I reach out to touch you.
Forbidden, my hands deadly
weapons to your fragile state.
Yet you do not back away.
Feeling my fingers numb
against the smooth silver
of your breast plate, I knew:
I was saved.
- - -
A.J. Huffman is a poet and freelance writer in Daytona Beach, Florida. She has previously published six collections of poetry all available on Amazon.com. She has also published her work in numerous national and international literary journals. Most recently, she has accepted the position as editor for four online poetry journals for Kind of a Hurricane Press ( www.kindofahurricanepress.com ). Find more about A.J. Huffman, including additional information and links to her work at http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100000191382454 and https://twitter.com/#!/poetess222.
By A.J. Huffman
In my dream you come to love me.
Beautiful in your winged glory,
all welcome smiles and light.
And I reach out to touch you.
Forbidden, my hands deadly
weapons to your fragile state.
Yet you do not back away.
Feeling my fingers numb
against the smooth silver
of your breast plate, I knew:
I was saved.
- - -
A.J. Huffman is a poet and freelance writer in Daytona Beach, Florida. She has previously published six collections of poetry all available on Amazon.com. She has also published her work in numerous national and international literary journals. Most recently, she has accepted the position as editor for four online poetry journals for Kind of a Hurricane Press ( www.kindofahurricanepress.com ). Find more about A.J. Huffman, including additional information and links to her work at http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100000191382454 and https://twitter.com/#!/poetess222.
Sunday, January 20, 2013
1/20/13
Attention Costs
By Tiffany Christina Lewis
All this attention
But loneliness sets
One is a good friend and the others want more
But what is that going to cost my freedom
Do I really want to be free
What will that cost my ego
I can think of so many things I want to do
In a house full of people thinking about you
But where are you
Sorry for the no car business but I’m in a financial problem
What does that even mean
What will that cost my need for attention
I have naughty thoughts even though I don’t know the size
Haven’t seen much more than your face and hands
These thoughts come at any and all times
What will that cost my celibacy
I want some attention but I can't even explain
What do I really want and am I insane
Just read my mind so we can get it over with
- - -
Tiffany has been writing since her adolescence. Her passion for writing took a backseat to a career in Education as well as her personal education. She is determined to start her career as a writer. Tiffany has taken a vow to never publish her own work because she feels that there is nothing better than having another person love her work and want to say that they published it first.
By Tiffany Christina Lewis
All this attention
But loneliness sets
One is a good friend and the others want more
But what is that going to cost my freedom
Do I really want to be free
What will that cost my ego
I can think of so many things I want to do
In a house full of people thinking about you
But where are you
Sorry for the no car business but I’m in a financial problem
What does that even mean
What will that cost my need for attention
I have naughty thoughts even though I don’t know the size
Haven’t seen much more than your face and hands
These thoughts come at any and all times
What will that cost my celibacy
I want some attention but I can't even explain
What do I really want and am I insane
Just read my mind so we can get it over with
- - -
Tiffany has been writing since her adolescence. Her passion for writing took a backseat to a career in Education as well as her personal education. She is determined to start her career as a writer. Tiffany has taken a vow to never publish her own work because she feels that there is nothing better than having another person love her work and want to say that they published it first.
Saturday, January 19, 2013
1/19/13
Devil's Kisses, Angel Beds
By Lyndon Seitz
You know the twists my tongue will take
The angel feints, the devil’s fake
In the mind of a wayward romance
Crashing, Jumping, Dodging, Loving, Laughing, Breathing
And the ways we move, your kiss, it leads.
A tangled dress, a trail behind
I’ll take the trail, despite I’m blind
On a road to a peril, a chance
Halos, Darkness, Angel Kisses, Devil’s Beds And
We will dance, you see, and pause, rewind.
I know the twists your tongue will take
The devil feints, the angel’s fake
Of the heart of a beaten romance
Beating, Meeting, Crying, Kneeling, Facing, Running
To the time of chaos, void of God.
I feel as though we dance in step
A tune to break, instead of keep
So perhaps I can stop tapping my feet,
At least for a little while.
Please, cease the music.
- - -
Lyndon Seitz is a poet from Massachusetts who has been writing for several years now. He enjoys writing, thinking, thinking about writing, writing about thinking, and thinking about writing about thinking.
By Lyndon Seitz
You know the twists my tongue will take
The angel feints, the devil’s fake
In the mind of a wayward romance
Crashing, Jumping, Dodging, Loving, Laughing, Breathing
And the ways we move, your kiss, it leads.
A tangled dress, a trail behind
I’ll take the trail, despite I’m blind
On a road to a peril, a chance
Halos, Darkness, Angel Kisses, Devil’s Beds And
We will dance, you see, and pause, rewind.
I know the twists your tongue will take
The devil feints, the angel’s fake
Of the heart of a beaten romance
Beating, Meeting, Crying, Kneeling, Facing, Running
To the time of chaos, void of God.
I feel as though we dance in step
A tune to break, instead of keep
So perhaps I can stop tapping my feet,
At least for a little while.
Please, cease the music.
- - -
Lyndon Seitz is a poet from Massachusetts who has been writing for several years now. He enjoys writing, thinking, thinking about writing, writing about thinking, and thinking about writing about thinking.
Friday, January 18, 2013
1/18/13
On The Ocean
By Jamie Scott
At night, when the day dips
into darkness,
I go to the ocean
and think of
you
my memory searches
for the look on your face
and the way goodbye
sounded on your
lips
you sailed into an
endless dream
and I still don’t know
where your feet
have been
and on the horizon
where the water sways
I hope one day
I’ll see your
face.
- - -
Jamie Scott recently graduated from the University of Melbourne with a BA in Creative Writing. She's a part-time film projectionist who spends more time writing than working. She has work upcoming in The Eunoia Review.
By Jamie Scott
At night, when the day dips
into darkness,
I go to the ocean
and think of
you
my memory searches
for the look on your face
and the way goodbye
sounded on your
lips
you sailed into an
endless dream
and I still don’t know
where your feet
have been
and on the horizon
where the water sways
I hope one day
I’ll see your
face.
- - -
Jamie Scott recently graduated from the University of Melbourne with a BA in Creative Writing. She's a part-time film projectionist who spends more time writing than working. She has work upcoming in The Eunoia Review.
Thursday, January 17, 2013
1/17/13
Sweeter
By Susan Sweetland Garay
- -
On some nights
all things feel like
they have been
done before.
Tonight, if you listen closely
you can hear the night sky
breaking apart
as all young and beautiful
things do.
The apples
on the tree
taste sweeter
this year.
I know you have waited patiently
but that does not speed
my coming. I hear in my head
on the nights that I am quiet.
I cannot keep on like this.
The world is upside down.
I think he’s building a sandcastle
He says to me slyly
of our cat jumping
maniacally at the wall.
I smile, but do not feel it
too quick to anger,
out of control
and ever changing.
I comfort myself with minutia,
lists and a false sense of control.
You can curse
the weather man
but you cannot
change his
predicting.
- - -
Born and raised in Portland Oregon, Susan received a Bachelor’s degree in English Literature from Brigham Young University, spent some years in the Ohio Appalachians and currently lives in the Willamette Valley with her husband and cat where she works in the vineyard industry. Her love for books also inspired her to learn the art of book binding which continues to be an enjoyable past time. She self-published a book of poems and photographs, Gifts from the sky, in 2012.
By Susan Sweetland Garay
- -
On some nights
all things feel like
they have been
done before.
Tonight, if you listen closely
you can hear the night sky
breaking apart
as all young and beautiful
things do.
The apples
on the tree
taste sweeter
this year.
I know you have waited patiently
but that does not speed
my coming. I hear in my head
on the nights that I am quiet.
I cannot keep on like this.
The world is upside down.
I think he’s building a sandcastle
He says to me slyly
of our cat jumping
maniacally at the wall.
I smile, but do not feel it
too quick to anger,
out of control
and ever changing.
I comfort myself with minutia,
lists and a false sense of control.
You can curse
the weather man
but you cannot
change his
predicting.
- - -
Born and raised in Portland Oregon, Susan received a Bachelor’s degree in English Literature from Brigham Young University, spent some years in the Ohio Appalachians and currently lives in the Willamette Valley with her husband and cat where she works in the vineyard industry. Her love for books also inspired her to learn the art of book binding which continues to be an enjoyable past time. She self-published a book of poems and photographs, Gifts from the sky, in 2012.
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
1/16/13
Of a Woman
By J S Eaton
- - -
I'm an independent author. I have self-published two books, and am close to publishing a third. The books are part of an ongoing series called Aeonith. I have a website for these books and the world they are about www.Aeonith.com
By J S Eaton
The name of a woman
says to me
all the wonderful things
that she can be
A mother, a daughter
a lover, a friend
who stands by your side
to whatever end
In the sight of a woman
does heaven unfold
Her curves tell a beauty
of ecstasy untold
Her shape enraptures
My heartbeat grows fast
Her form is perfection
Forever will last
The smell of a woman
is a beautiful morn
Her delicate beauty
in natural form
Her scent is a blessing
as a cool summer rain
Her fragrance inviting
but never in vain
The touch of a woman
is a wonderful thing
She makes my soul smile
My heart starts to sing
When her hand is in mine
None else do I need
Ne'er let her go
Is all I do plead
The voice of a woman
is music sublime
Hypnotic, erotic
Without form or time
She extolls her virtue
with every word
I listen enthralled
Every syllable heard
The kiss of a woman
is ecstasy pure
warm and inviting
bold yet demure
Her soft lips do speak
of the love in her soul
Pure and unsullied
Her passion extolled
The love of a woman
means everything
our lives are for naught
if her heart does not sing
Love her and cherish
each day that you live
For the love of a woman
whose heart she doth give
- - -
I'm an independent author. I have self-published two books, and am close to publishing a third. The books are part of an ongoing series called Aeonith. I have a website for these books and the world they are about www.Aeonith.com
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
1/15/13
Forget Me Not
By Smita Anand Sriwastav
forget me not
when the lonely moon
flirts halfheartedly with
fleeting veils of tempest,
revealing the stark truth of
your haunting solitude,
forget me not
when spooned with
the emptiness of night breeze,
scented in nostalgia
you search in
moonlight's false promises
of tenderness,
for cuddling warmth.
forget me not
when darkness weeps
your sentiment's brine on
the sleeves of sublime pillows,
punctuated in muted sobs
of the wailing night
of insomnia.
forget me not
when scarlet syllables of
gulmohur's exuberance,
pepper the quietude of
a midsummer afternoon,
and you yearn to lie
on this petal-bed,
listening to someone
read poetry for you.
forget me not
on sultry evening when,
the chortling waves' ebb and rise
fails to quieten
the rigmarole of thoughts
churning within
grey matter and soul's marrow.
forget me not
when the glass of soda,
sweats alone on the table,
and the cheese omelet goes stale
uneaten on the kitchen slab
unable to beckon
the appetite of anorexia.
forget me not
when sepia moments within
old moth-eaten albums,
whisper of 'had-been' from
the attic of cluttered indifference,
to let memories limp out
and let you relive
that long lost past...
- - -
I am an M.B.B.S. doctor with a passion for poetry and literature. I have always expressed my innermost thoughts and sentiments through the medium of poetry. A feeling of inner tranquility and bliss captures my soul whenever I pen my verse. Nature has been the most inspiring force in molding the shape of my writings. I have published two books and have published poems in journals like the Rusty Nail, eFiction India, Pyrokinection, Jellyfish Whispers and Contemporary Literary Review India and one of my poems was published in a book called ‘Inspired by Tagore’ published by Sampad and British Council. I have written poetry all my life and aim to do so forever.
By Smita Anand Sriwastav
forget me not
when the lonely moon
flirts halfheartedly with
fleeting veils of tempest,
revealing the stark truth of
your haunting solitude,
forget me not
when spooned with
the emptiness of night breeze,
scented in nostalgia
you search in
moonlight's false promises
of tenderness,
for cuddling warmth.
forget me not
when darkness weeps
your sentiment's brine on
the sleeves of sublime pillows,
punctuated in muted sobs
of the wailing night
of insomnia.
forget me not
when scarlet syllables of
gulmohur's exuberance,
pepper the quietude of
a midsummer afternoon,
and you yearn to lie
on this petal-bed,
listening to someone
read poetry for you.
forget me not
on sultry evening when,
the chortling waves' ebb and rise
fails to quieten
the rigmarole of thoughts
churning within
grey matter and soul's marrow.
forget me not
when the glass of soda,
sweats alone on the table,
and the cheese omelet goes stale
uneaten on the kitchen slab
unable to beckon
the appetite of anorexia.
forget me not
when sepia moments within
old moth-eaten albums,
whisper of 'had-been' from
the attic of cluttered indifference,
to let memories limp out
and let you relive
that long lost past...
- - -
I am an M.B.B.S. doctor with a passion for poetry and literature. I have always expressed my innermost thoughts and sentiments through the medium of poetry. A feeling of inner tranquility and bliss captures my soul whenever I pen my verse. Nature has been the most inspiring force in molding the shape of my writings. I have published two books and have published poems in journals like the Rusty Nail, eFiction India, Pyrokinection, Jellyfish Whispers and Contemporary Literary Review India and one of my poems was published in a book called ‘Inspired by Tagore’ published by Sampad and British Council. I have written poetry all my life and aim to do so forever.
Monday, January 14, 2013
1/14/13
Sun and Moon
By Rosemarie Ann Spracklin
She stares starry-eyed at the kingdom that will surely come,
In need of her king to come up like the sun.
Aware of powerful prayer so she leaps to ask,
Swears if there’s chemistry she’ll keep it in a flask.
She’d outlast ‘til the last drop tapped out of the battle
Because all she needed was a playmate to help build a sandcastle,
Although with a masonry foundation of bricks
Promising happiness until the last second ticks,
A genie’s gem at his wish.
All she needed was his engine switch
To start transitioning into anything that he imagined
With the first kiss on her lips
“I know you are tired of these typical guys,
So let us book this flight, so we can get fly.”
Startled in awe, paused, then replied, “To front is to lie,
You’re a hell of a guy, how’d heaven fall from the sky?”
Canvas of a trapped woman approached by this handsome man
Riding on carpe diems’ carpet ride of trust and loyalty,
He tells her “Here grab my hand for this very rare chance,
Please don’t overlook this love formed in opportunity.”
With no hesitation, she grabs his hands for a dance to turn her “cants” into “cans”
And broke through all of her “damn this” dams with full faith like a ram,
Her master plan in her hands to advance her circumstance.
Then on, day by day chose to play love in football stance.
She’d get hit hard but come up stronger from the blows
Tough love mentored with an uncensored approach
To render the fender benders when her assurance was broke.
Got pass her past exes with scribbling X’s and O’s.
He entered into her defense to depend on him like oxygen and H2O.
Commended her with hope to help mend her to grow like a rose.
He was her kept groomed secret in a room of rumors.
Her keeper for life that she should’ve met sooner
Because of his humor, her smile is much cuter.
Because of his light, she shines, lunar.
- - -
Culturally sound, born in Japan, baptized in the Phillipines, raised in Virginia Beach, and went to college in Virginia, South Carolina, and Maryland, thusfar. I am a poet enthused by language and art, creative writing and painting is a passion, reciting and sharing my works brings both myself and the pieces alive. I consider myself a gypsy spiritualist and free falling romantic, madly in love with life.
By Rosemarie Ann Spracklin
She stares starry-eyed at the kingdom that will surely come,
In need of her king to come up like the sun.
Aware of powerful prayer so she leaps to ask,
Swears if there’s chemistry she’ll keep it in a flask.
She’d outlast ‘til the last drop tapped out of the battle
Because all she needed was a playmate to help build a sandcastle,
Although with a masonry foundation of bricks
Promising happiness until the last second ticks,
A genie’s gem at his wish.
All she needed was his engine switch
To start transitioning into anything that he imagined
With the first kiss on her lips
“I know you are tired of these typical guys,
So let us book this flight, so we can get fly.”
Startled in awe, paused, then replied, “To front is to lie,
You’re a hell of a guy, how’d heaven fall from the sky?”
Canvas of a trapped woman approached by this handsome man
Riding on carpe diems’ carpet ride of trust and loyalty,
He tells her “Here grab my hand for this very rare chance,
Please don’t overlook this love formed in opportunity.”
With no hesitation, she grabs his hands for a dance to turn her “cants” into “cans”
And broke through all of her “damn this” dams with full faith like a ram,
Her master plan in her hands to advance her circumstance.
Then on, day by day chose to play love in football stance.
She’d get hit hard but come up stronger from the blows
Tough love mentored with an uncensored approach
To render the fender benders when her assurance was broke.
Got pass her past exes with scribbling X’s and O’s.
He entered into her defense to depend on him like oxygen and H2O.
Commended her with hope to help mend her to grow like a rose.
He was her kept groomed secret in a room of rumors.
Her keeper for life that she should’ve met sooner
Because of his humor, her smile is much cuter.
Because of his light, she shines, lunar.
- - -
Culturally sound, born in Japan, baptized in the Phillipines, raised in Virginia Beach, and went to college in Virginia, South Carolina, and Maryland, thusfar. I am a poet enthused by language and art, creative writing and painting is a passion, reciting and sharing my works brings both myself and the pieces alive. I consider myself a gypsy spiritualist and free falling romantic, madly in love with life.
Sunday, January 13, 2013
1/13/13
Sentimental Old Soldier
By Kathy Warnes
“The pleasure of love lasts only a moment.
“The pleasure of love lasts only a moment.
The pleasure of love lasts only a moment,
I gave up everything for ungrateful Sylvia,
- - -
Kathy Warnes writes historical fiction and non-fiction.
By Kathy Warnes
The stack of pages in his own life calendar and the pages his family contributed had kept Amee hovering at the shadowy edges of Larry’s thoughts, but now that Helen had died and his children were grown and busy with their own lives, Amee had gotten bolder. No longer an uncertain guest, she came to visit Larry every night now, sitting so seductively close to him on the arm of his recliner that he could smell the elusive violet scent that had saturated the soft cloths that she used to wipe the sweat from his forehead in those days she had nursed him back to health in her home in war ravaged Belgium.
“The pleasure of love lasts only a moment,
The pain of love lasts a lifetime…”
“Stop Singing!” Larry shouted, pushing the Amee ghost off the arm of his recliner. “I refuse to let you sing that song to me.”
Snatches of the song drifted across the years, blown across ocean and time and space from Belgium to Larry’s home here in Benton, New York, beside the Clinton River and he was back in 1945 again. One day while Larry and Amee sat in two wooden rocking chairs in her Grandmere’s kitchen by the iron cook stove, he watched the sunlight slanting through the narrow kitchen window and admired the velvet sheen of Amee’s long brown-black hair. She had hummed a haunting song, a song that had resounded in his ears louder than the machine gun fire and artillery and screaming of war- a song that whenever he heard it still shook at the iron bars he had built around his heart and mind hard enough to bend them. He had asked her the name of the song and she had whispered low enough not to reach her Grandmere’s ears, Plaisir d’ Amour. The Pleasure of Love. She sang him the first few lines of the song:
“The pleasure of love lasts only a moment.
The pain of love lasts a lifetime.
I gave up everything for ungrateful Sylvia,
She is leaving me for another lover.
The pleasure of love lasts only a moment,
The pain of love lasts a lifetime.
He had reached out and touched her sun warmed brown-black hair and then, they had leaned into each other across their wooden rockers and shared a kiss.
Now in his present world, the one without Helen to buffer him, the Amee ghost had turned traitor. Now, instead of helping him forget, Amee, had challenged his forgetting. Larry knew he had to do something. Amee was getting close enough to make him remember. Confused and frightened, he decided to go for a walk in the park by the Clinton River. The Clinton River had been his friend since he and Mack had started fishing and swimming in it when they were both seven.
Larry walked along the sidewalk by the river. The rowing team from the high school practiced on the river every morning and he watched their oars dipping in and out of the water with their precise rhythms that reminded him of a windmill turning, a rhythm that comforted him. He would catch that rhythm, resume his patterned life and the memories would fade safely away into the past again and not even Amee would bring them back.
The World War II Memorial stood, an open black granite diary that he had not chosen to write in, a black death mountain against the green backdrop of the river. It seemed to him that instead of glinting golden on the letters the sunshine should be blood red like the blood of the American soldiers on the snows of Malmedy. He stared at the river, seeing the field of blood red snow rising out of the water, a misty, bloodstained memorial.
Mack’s name pounded him between the eyes like the German bullet had pounded his left arm. Slowly he extended his wounded arm that still twanged when the mists rolled in from the river. Inch by inch the fingers of his left hand moved toward Mack’s name. He caressed the letters like he used to caress ungrateful Sylvia. The letters felt warm to his touch the way Sylvia’s skin had warmed to his touch. A single tear splashed and spread on Mack’s full name – Matthew Allen Bryant.
Larry brushed off the tear, his eyes darting furtively around to make sure no one had seen it. The ridges of his fingers turned cold, like the cold ridges of snow in that field in Malmedy. Memories of Mack rushed through his mind as fast as he and Mack used to race their bikes up and down the dirt path by the Clinton River. There they were, two boys riding with no hands and shouting at each other. Mack’s red hair and freckles blazed against the backdrop of the green water and he wiggled his acrobatic ears at Larry when Larry got behind in the bicycle race.
Mack sat in front of Larry in school, because his last name started with B and Larry’s started with D. Mack knew that wiggling his ears made Larry laugh, so he wiggled them every chance he got. Larry had to stay after school and clean blackboards lots of times because he laughed so hard at Mack wiggling his ears.
Larry watched the story of Malmedy slide across the smooth marble surface of the monument, across endless names like he was watching the credits roll by after a movie or a televisions show. The story began against a backdrop of blinding white snow. He rode in a convoy of trucks. Battery B, 285th Field Artillery Observation Battalion near Malmedy in Belgium, fighting its way toward Germany. The soldier’s swayed and careened in time with the truck’s wheels when they rolled into a ditch or lurched across a dirt road crisscrossed by tank treads. Larry fell into the rhythm – an up and down, a sidewinder, snaky rollercoaster ride like the one he and Mack used to ride at the carnival in the summer.
“The Nazi tanks sure tore up the roads.” Larry glanced at the other soldiers. They sprawled around like limp bearded scarecrows, trying to find a comfortable position among the crows. Some of the soldiers coughed, but nobody talked. A few of them smoked, their breaths and cigarette smoke mingled in the air like white frost ghosts. Some of them adjusted their guns to a more comfortable position. Larry looked at Mack who sat statue straight and still and their eyes locked. Larry knew Mack was thinking about home. He was thinking about home, too, and about Sylvia. He had gotten the letter from Sylvia a week ago. Had she said anything to Mack in her letters to him? Did Mack know Sylvia had thrown him over for Sam Whitcomb?
“What general ordered this ride?” Larry asked.
Mack just grunted and closed his eyes.
Sam Whitcomb! He and Mack beat Sam up nearly once a week. Sylvia, pretty Sylvia with red hair the same shade as Mack’s only in pigtails had fascinated him all of the time they were growing up together. The last two years he had been home Sylvia had transformed into a beautiful young woman with long red curly hair, green eyes, long legs and a figure that rivaled Betty Grable’s pinup poster. Before he got shipped out, she had promised she’d wait for him. Her letter last week said that she was marrying that 4F Sam Whitcomb! Now, feeling the crackle of the letter in his pocket, now staring at Mack, somehow he knew that Mack knew.
Now was December 17, 1944, about 25 miles from Malmedy, and the Panzer tanks blazed gunfire and destroyed the lead trucks in Larry’s convoy. The convoy stopped and since the Americans couldn’t return the gunfire, they surrendered to the Germans. Larry remembered the shame that had shattered his pride as the Germans took him and his fellow Americans prisoner. Larry and Mack had been fighting side by side and they stumbled along together as the SS soldiers herded the American soldiers into a nearby field. The tank commander ordered the soldiers to kill the Americans and the SS soldiers opened fire with machine guns and pistols.
Pure adrenalin replaced the blood in Larry’s veins. “Hang on, Mack. We’ll get through this. You and me. We’ll get back home.”
Blood created a rapidly widening pool on the front of Mack’s jacket. It reminded Larry of the swimming hole in the Clinton River when the maple leaves fell in autumn and the water spread them out in a scarlet carpet. Mack drew in wheezing, sucking breaths. The blood flowed from the pool on his coat to the ground, making smaller puddles in the white snow.
Somewhere in the distance like two years ago when Larry took Sylvia to the park by the Clinton River and they sat on the bench, watching the moonlight play on the water, Larry felt the sting of the bullets. Somewhere in a dream when Sylvia had said yes she would marry him and they kissed each other in the moonlight by the river, Larry felt blood moving down his left arm. He heard a voice saying in English. “Can I help you?” He heard a mumbled reply and then a single shot. The voice drew nearer and asked the same question. “Can I help you?” This time there were no words, just a single shot.
Larry rolled over, trying to shield Mack with his body. “Play dead, Mack!”
Mack gasped like Old Methuselah, the catfish they had caught and put on the Clinton River bank to hit over the head before they put them in their creel. “Help me, Larry.”
Larry couldn’t get up to help Mack. He felt frozen fast to the snow, frozen as firmly in his fear as his tongue had stuck to the ice frozen on the pump handle in Larry’s backyard when Mack had dared him to touch it with this tongue. Larry felt someone standing over them. He heard a click and then the smell and sound of the bullets hitting Mack.
Somewhere Larry felt the sting of more bullets hitting his shoulder and leg. Larry curled up into a ball alongside Mack in the cold, embracing snow. He sat beside unworthy Sylvia on the park bench by the Clinton River. Sam Whitcomb swaggered over and sat between them, crowding Larry off the bench. Larry pushed his face into the snow waiting for the final bullet, even welcoming it. Under a bright blue June sky, he and Mack raced each other on their bikes to their swimming hole in the river. Sylvia chased them on foot, hollering for them to wait up.
Larry heard footsteps crunching in the snow.
“Stay down, Larry!” Mack seemed to whisper to him. “Stay down.”
Larry snuggled against Mack. When they were six, Larry’s dad had taken them winter camping and they had slept in the same sleeping bag. Larry had heard a coyote howling in the woods and he snuggled closed to Mack.
“Stay down, Larry,” Mack whispered.
That night, a new dusting of snow had fallen and they woke up the next morning with an extra blanket of snow covering their sleeping bag.
Larry never told Mack, but he and Sylvia used to make snow angels in her backyard when they were both eight. He would sneak over on a dark December night before Christmas because the snow came down fresh and fast just before Christmas. He lay beside her in the snow flopping his arms out to make bigger and better angel wings. She laughed at him and flopped her arms wider. He was young, only eight, but he kissed her on the cheek. Her cheeks were smooth and cool and red like a crisp apple. He felt something mysterious and magical about her and he kissed her other cheek. She tried to kiss his cheek, but she missed and kissed his nose. They both rolled over laughing and they had to make their snow angels all over again.
Sylvia lay in the snow next to him. “Make a snow angel, Larry,” she whispered.
Larry snuggled in the snow with Mack and Sylvia until long after dark. He listened but he couldn’t hear the coyote howling and he didn’t hear Sylvia whispering to him anymore. He just heard the wind blowing a slow, sad, song in the trees. He followed the wind song across the snow covered bodies.
Then he heard Mack’s voice. “Let’s go fishing, Larry.” Mack waited for him at the river and they were going to get Methuselah. Sylvia ran behind them, shouting for them to wait for her.
Larry staggered to his feet and walked toward the Clinton River. It seemed like he had been walking forever, but he walked for just a few hours until he saw a light. He walked toward the light that he saw flickering faintly in the distance.
The light belonged to a house. As he got closer, Larry saw that the house was really a single cottage with a small pin prick of light in the window. Focusing his eyes on the light in the window, he managed to stumble a few yards before he collapsed. When he opened his eyes, a girl was bathing his forehead with a warm cloth that smelled like violets and a much older woman bustled around the room talking in rapid French to the girl. The girl answered in equally rapid French without changing the rhythm of the cloth on his forehead.
Larry closed his eyes, soothed by the rhythm of the cloth, the smell of violets, and the musical lilting of the words.
He stayed at the Belgian cottage for the next two weeks while the girl- her name was Amee- nursed him back to health. Although Amee didn’t speak much English and Larry didn’t speak any French, they managed to talk to each other. They sat in her Grandmere’s kitchen for hours in the two wooden rocking chairs by the stove. Amee showed him faded tintype photos of a women who looked like her, mere, she called the woman. She showed him a picture of a stern looking man that she called pere. She made Larry understand that her mother and father had been killed fleeing the Germans on the way here to her Grandmere’s house.
Amee guided him to one of the wooden rockers beside the iron cooking stove in the kitchen, and she sat in the other rocker. They would sit for hours basking in the warm shafts of sunlight shining through the high, narrow kitchen window. He remembered one of the songs that his first grade teacher had taught them., Alouetta. He sang to her and she sang back to him.
She sang him the first few lines of the song, Plaisir d’ Amour.
“The pleasure of love lasts only a moment.
The pain of love lasts a lifetime.
I gave up everything for ungrateful Sylvia,
She is leaving me for another lover.
The pleasure of love lasts only a moment,
The pain of love lasts a lifetime.
Amee had told him the correct name of the song - Plaisir d’ Amour- but he always thought of it as Amee’s Song.
The final day they had leaned into each other across their wooden rockers and shared a kiss. The kiss turned his senses into a kaleidoscope of colors and emotions. It took some time for the knocking at the door and the sound of heavy boots clomping down the hall to shatter the kiss.
Then a voice made him jump out of the chair despite his wounded shoulder and arm and reach for a weapon he didn’t have. He recognized the voice that belonged to the soldier who walked up and down the field asking soldiers he had ordered massacred if he could help them.
Amee grabbed his arm. She tugged him out of the chair and helped him into a wide wooden cedar chest that stood under the window. She covered him with two thick wool blankets. As she closed the lid she said something that he knew meant “shut up” in English.
He heard the German soldier’s footsteps come into the kitchen. He half expected to hear the soldier ask, “Can I help you?’ This time the soldier stomped around the room calling, “American? American?”
Larry heard Amee say something to the soldier in French. The soldier answered her in German and stomped over to the chest where Larry was hidden. Larry held his breath and listened to the soldier breathing. Then he heard the soldier fire a pistol and felt a bullet tear into the blankets. The bullet lodged beside his ear.
Before the soldier could fire the pistol again, Larry heard the Amee say something to him that sounded like Schnapps. He knew that schnapps was a German kind of alcohol.
“Schnapse?” the soldier asked her.
“Schnapse,” Amee said. “Schnapse.”
Larry heard glasses clinking and then the sound of a chair scraping and Amee screaming. He tried to open the chest lid, but his arms wouldn’t move. He was back on the snowy field snuggled next to Mack and they were winter camping with his father and staying down from the coyote.
Suddenly Amee’s screams stopped and Larry heard more thuds and then her terrified sobbing, “No, no!” Then a single shot and the slamming of the door.
Somehow Larry finally climbed out of the chest. He carried Amee to her bed, the one where she had nursed him back to health and movement and he tenderly tucked the blankets around her chin. He imagined a blanket of snow softly covering her and a snow angel resting beside her. He kissed her cool cheek. He sang Plaisir d’Amour to remember her and then for the next fifty years he tried to forget her.
The pleasure of love lasts only a moment,
The pain of love lasts a lifetime
Somehow Larry stumbled out of Amee’s cottage and down the rutted, dirt country road. Somehow he found the American lines and by January 1945, Larry had reported to an Army Colonel that the SS had shot 84 Americans at Malmedy. The United States forces got the word that Germans were shooting POWs which made them more determined to hold the lines against the German advance until reinforcements came, and they held them. Soon the Allied armies cooperated to drive the Germans back to their original starting positions in the Battle of the Bulge.
Soon, the United States soldiers reached the field where the SS men had shot the American POWS. The field was buried under two feet of winter snow, but the medical corps used mine detectors to find the 84 bodies that had lain there since the day of the shootings. Larry’s stomach turned when he saw the distorted shapes of the American soldiers.
He couldn’t bear to look for Mack. Use the sleeping bag under the snow, Mack. Sleep warm and well.
The memories wouldn’t stop torturing Larry. “They were unarmed POWs,” he shouted as the armored columns of American soldiers rode by the bodies of their dead comrades. The soldiers shepherded columns of German POWS and both sides passed by the frozen bodies of the American soldiers.
“Shoot those Nazi murderers!” Larry shouted at his fellow soldiers, but none of the American soldiers shot the German POWs. Before he could personally shoot any of the German prisoners himself, Larry’s orders came and he moved on with the troops going to Germany.
Larry really meant to write to Amee’s Grandmere. He owed her and Amee his life after all, but once his feet touched American soil they raced away from Amee. Larry could have moved away from Benton, but he stayed there. He felt that in a way he was paying tribute to Mack by living in their home town. Mack’s parents told him that they had decided to leave Mack buried in Belgium and the Army buried him in the military cemetery at Henri Chappelle.
Larry’s footsteps took him to Helen Swanson’s doorstep in Benton often enough to court and marry her. Larry heard the news that a United States Military Tribunal had tried the SS men including Joachim Peiper for what they did at Malmedy while he was at the hospital with Helen waiting for their son Jason to be born. On July 11, 1946, the SS defendants were found guilty, but Larry was too busy rocking and burping Jason to give the news more than a passing “good for America.” That’s all the attention he could bear to give to the news.
The years with Helen and their three children – Jason, Andrew, and Jessica-and his job at Seneca Machinery kept Larry’s body, mind, and memory walking the same path for decades. Sometimes his footsteps would stray to Aimee, sometimes to Mack and only to Sylvia in his dreams, but then he always retraced his steps to the main paths of his life.
He heard that Sylvia had married Sam Whitcomb. He couldn’t help hearing snatches of information about her through the years, through Helen and then through the kids, because they played with Sylvia and Sam’s kids. Larry’s emotions were knotted as tight as Andrew used to tangle his fishing line, but he was still safe.
Mack was buried far away, and his memory hovered outside Larry’s life. Helen and his children had formed a protective cocoon around him allowing him to smile and say hello to Sylvia when they ran into each other around town. She became surface Sylvia so he could survive.
By now Jason had gone into the Army, (chip off the old block) Andrew into computer science and Jessica into television. He had retired from Seneca Machinery and he and Helen were talking about Florida in the winter and New York in the summer. Then after one winter in Florida, Helen had died in New York during the summer. The core of his protective cocoon was gone. He had to rely only on himself again.
Larry gently traced his fingers over Mack’s name on the war memorial. Then the voice that had haunted him all of these years spoke in his ear and she stood there in front of him.
Her voice and her words dissolved the years between them.
“Larry, thanks for staying with Mack,” Sylvia said.
Larry’s heart shone naked in his eyes.
“I couldn’t protect him, Sylvia. Snow on the sleeping bag.” I stayed down low, but I couldn’t protect him.”
“He died beside his best friend. You spared him a lonely death.”
“I couldn’t protect him and I couldn’t protect Amee.”
“You gave them years of guilt and memories. It’s time to move on, Larry,” she said.
“I’m grieving for my wife, Sylvia.”
“Grieve for her and the good life you had together and grieve for Mack and Amee and what you had with them, but then move on with your life.”
“I’ve lived a full life, Sylvia, no thanks to you and Sam Whitcomb.”
“Sam died five years ago. And even if he were still alive, that wouldn’t change the way you haven’t lived for a long time.”
“I’m okay, Sylvia.”
“You’re haunted, Larry. So am I. I’ve made my mistakes and tried to erase the memory of them just like you have. But now we both have to move forward.”
“Move where, Sylvia?”
“Move to where our hearts and memories take us.”
Larry continued tracing Mack’s name with the fingers of his left hand.
I gave up everything for ungrateful Sylvia,
She is leaving me for another lover.
The pleasure of love lasts only a moment,
The pain of love lasts a lifetime.
.
Larry touched Sylvia’s hair in the sunlight slanting off the war memorial, light from the same sun that had streamed light into a high narrow Belgian kitchen window onto Amee’s hair so long ago. He didn’t wipe away the tears that fell on Sylvia’s hair.
- - -
Kathy Warnes writes historical fiction and non-fiction.
Saturday, January 12, 2013
1/12/13
Broken
By Sharlana Kadin
All she ever dreamed of was to be your lover
She’ll never hear the word love
without feeling your heart beat in her soul
But after more than a year and three months
You threw it all away
You led her on just to let her go
Falling out of love is hard
But falling for betrayal is worse
You once told her told her to look in the mirror
and smile when she is feeling sad
But when looking there’s no smile
Just a broken heart
- - -
I'm a student at Hagerstown Community College and have had other poems published in literary magazines. I usually write free verse about love and loss because I can relate to it the most.
By Sharlana Kadin
All she ever dreamed of was to be your lover
She’ll never hear the word love
without feeling your heart beat in her soul
But after more than a year and three months
You threw it all away
You led her on just to let her go
Falling out of love is hard
But falling for betrayal is worse
You once told her told her to look in the mirror
and smile when she is feeling sad
But when looking there’s no smile
Just a broken heart
- - -
I'm a student at Hagerstown Community College and have had other poems published in literary magazines. I usually write free verse about love and loss because I can relate to it the most.
