2015

united federation of teachers • retired teachers chapter

INTRODUCTION

It is always a pleasure to experience the creativity, insights and talents of our re-tired members, and this latest collection of poems and writings provides plenty to enjoy!

Being a union of educators, the United Federation of Teachers knows how im-portant it is to embrace lifelong learning and engage in artistic expression for the pure joy of it. This annual publication highlights some gems displaying the breadth of intellectual and literary talents of some of our retirees attending classes in our Si Beagle Learning Centers. We at the UFT are quite proud of these members and the encouragement they receive through the union’s various retiree programs.

I am happy to note that this publication is now celebrating its 22nd anniversary as part of a Retired Teachers Chapter tradition reflecting the continuing interests and vitality of our retirees. The union takes great pride in the work of our retirees and expects this tradition to continue for years to come.

Congratulations!

Michael Mulgrew

President, UFT

Welcome to the 22nd volume of Reflections in Poetry and Prose. Reflections in Poetry and Prose is a yearly collection of published writings by UFT retirees enrolled in our UFTWF Retiree Programs Si Beagle Learning Center creative writing courses and retired UFT members across the country.

We are truly proud of Reflections in Poetry and Prose and of the fine work our retirees do.

Many wonderful, dedicated people helped produce this volume of Reflections in Poetry and Prose.

First, we must thank the many contributors, UFT retirees, many of whom participated in the creative writing classes at our centers, and also our learning center coordinators, outreach coordi-nators and instructors who nurture talent and encourage creative expression.

To our Communications Coordinator Lynn Lospenuso; to our Editorial Committee Genevieve Richards-Wright, Karen Millard, Gail Sternfeld and Carolyn Lambert-Givens; and to the UFT Graphics Department: A big thank you for a job well done.

We hope you enjoy reading Reflections in Poetry and Prose.

Tom Murphy Gerri Herskowitz RTC Chapter Leader Director, UFTWF Retiree Programs

TABLE OF CONTENTS

AUTHOR TITLE

Roberta Ann Afflitto .................. CRAZY LADY ................................................................Page 1Roberta Ann Afflitto .................... CRAZY LADY II .............................................................Page 2Ilene Bauer .................................. INHERITANCE .............................................................Page 3Ilene Bauer ................................ THE BOTTOM OF MY BAG ...........................................Page 4Elinor Baumbach ......................... EDEN ISLES, FLORIDA ....................................................Page 5Vivian Bergenthal ........................ CHANCE ENCOUNTER ................................................Page 6Marianne Bongolan ..................... ALEX, MY UNCLE ...........................................................Page 7Joan Bowen ................................. DEMANDING HAND ......................................................Page 8Yvonne Bruno............................. THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER ......................................Page 9Arthur Cajigas ............................. THE TRIP ........................................................................Page 10John Callier ................................. HOME ..............................................................................Page 12B. Lynn Carter ............................. SNOW AND FOG ...........................................................Page 13B. Lynn Carter ............................ WHEN WE WERE US .....................................................Page 15Susan Collender ........................... TWO YEARS AFTER SANDY ........................................Page 17Susan Collender ........................... I WISH I WAS TECH SAVVY ..........................................Page 18Lillian Colon ............................... A TRIP TO CUBA (JUNE TO JULY, 2014) ......................Page 19Sheila Conticello ......................... ENSCONCED .................................................................Page 21Sheila Conticello ......................... ESCAPE ............................................................................Page 22Charlotte H. Crawford ................. NOTES FOUND IN OLD NOTEBOOK .......................Page 23Charlotte H. Crawford ................. A RELATIVE INCIDENT ...............................................Page 24James Cunningham ...................... THE CABIN IN THE WOODS .......................................Page 25Bette Cyzner ............................... BIRTHDAY BALLOON ..................................................Page 26John DeSantis .............................. ashes to spies ......................................................................Page 27John DeSantis .............................. THE BEACH IN WINTER .............................................Page 28Kathleen Devlin........................... INTERIOR RUMMAGE EVENT ..................................Page 29Kathleen Devlin........................... MY GOOD FRIEND – AL ..............................................Page 30Debbi Dolan ................................ POD PEOPLE ..................................................................Page 31Lynn Easton ................................. A WISH IN SUMMER .....................................................Page 32Lynn Easton ................................. BEAUTY ..........................................................................Page 33Stanley Edelman .......................... SO A GIRL IN A RED BALL GOWN WALKS INTO A BODEGA… .........................................Page 34Deborah Eiseman ........................ THE WHEEL OF CHANCE ............................................Page 36 Angela Rosa Fontanez ................. DANCING WITH UNCLE LOUIE.................................Page 38 Angela Rosa Fontanez ................. ONE DAY AFTER ANOTHER .......................................Page 39Judy Fritsch ................................. HOWARD FRITSCH “GLADLY WOULD HE LEARN AND GLADLY TEACH” ..Page 40Judy Fritsch ................................. THE BEGINNING AND THE END ...............................Page 41Michael Gambale ......................... HAVE A NICE DAY? ........................................................Page 43Dianne Piankian Geiger ............... encounter ..........................................................................Page 44Dianne Piankian Geiger ............... nature walk ........................................................................Page 45Francoise Gewirtman ................... DELIVERANCE ..............................................................Page 46Francoise Gewirtman ................... THE JOURNEY ..............................................................Page 47

A. Giorgio ................................... A VISIT TO HEAVEN ......................................................Page 48Mel Glenn ................................... THE RUSSIAN GIRLS GO DANCING .........................Page 49Mel Glenn ................................... STANDING WATCH .......................................................Page 50Irving Greenfield ......................... AT THE FOOT OF BROADWAY ..................................Page 51Yvette Hains ................................ JOY IN MY HEART ........................................................Page 52 Eunice Harris .............................. DRIVERS .......................................................................Page 53Sharon Hawkins .......................... OLFACTORY SYSTEM ..................................................Page 54Sharon Hawkins .......................... MIND PHOTOS ..............................................................Page 55Lisa Holzkenner ........................... HIDDEN IDENTITIES IN TRANSITION A POEM FOR THE JEWS OF BELMONTE, PORTUGAL....Page 56Lucy Iscaro .................................. MY MOTHER’S VANITY ...............................................Page 59Ann Kaslow ................................. THE FIREWALKER ........................................................Page 60Joyce Kefalas ................................ THE MAN .......................................................................Page 62Jane Kelly .................................... A BROOKLYN MURDER CASE ...................................Page 63Theodore Krulik ......................... SOMEONE IN MIND .....................................................Page 65Robin Lampman ......................... DESERT SPRING ............................................................Page 67William Lemmon ........................ IS ANYONE OUT THERE? ............................................Page 68Martin H. Levinson ..................... HALCYON DAYS ...........................................................Page 69Martin H. Levinson ..................... NINTEEN FIFTY-SEVEN ...............................................Page 70Barbara Levitt .............................. ONE DAY AT THE BEACH ............................................Page 71Janet Lieberman ........................... DESTINY IN ABEYANCE ..............................................Page 72Jocelyne Lindor ........................... ODE TO AN OLD STUFFED CHAIR............................Page 73Jocelyne Lindor ........................... METAMORPHOSIS ........................................................Page 74Madeline Mandel ......................... A MOTHER’S PRAYER .................................................Page 75Susan Melot ................................. INTIMACY ......................................................................Page 76Susan Melot ................................. CIRCLING THROUGH .................................................Page 77Kathryn Mets .............................. MOUNTAIN LAKE .........................................................Page 78Kathryn Mets .............................. LIFE-TIMES AGO ............................................................Page 79Ted Mieszczanski ......................... SCHOOLYARD DREAMS ..............................................Page 80Teena Miller ................................ PUBLIC GARDENS ........................................................Page 82Teena Miller ................................ THE SMOOTH PATH.....................................................Page 83Constance Mitchell ...................... MISTEAK .........................................................................Page 84Daniel Moinester ......................... THE DOG WALKER .......................................................Page 87Daniel Moinester ......................... I DON’T WANT TO LET HER GO ...............................Page 88Carol Ann Nasta .......................... MY INHERITANCE .......................................................Page 89Selma Newman ........................... DOCTOR’S TIME ...........................................................Page 90Tasha Paley .................................. ONCE —TIGER .............................................................Page 91Tasha Paley .................................. I PICK MY TEETH WITH A SATIN PIN .......................Page 92Dorothy Prideaux ........................ a poem of farewell to two wonderful birds unless we stop climate change ............................................Page 93Dorothy Prideaux ........................ clutter clearance almost ......................................................Page 94Frances Rosenfeld ........................ FRIENDSHIP ...................................................................Page 95Nathaniel Rosenfeld .................... SACCO AND VANZETTI ...............................................Page 96Judith Karish Rycar ..................... MATHOM –HOUSE .......................................................Page 97Cassandra Smith........................... GAT E 73 DESTINATION: NEURO ICU ......................Page 98Roslyn Sokoloff ........................... AGELESS ..........................................................................Page 99

E. Mildred Speiser ........................ MORE SNOW ...............................................................Page 100E. Mildred Speiser ........................ DECEMBER ..................................................................Page 101Angelina Spero ............................ ITALIAN–AMERICAN CULTURE TRANPOSED .....Page 102Angelina Spero ............................ IN THE DENTIST’S CHAIR ........................................Page 103Florence Strauss ........................... A MOTHER’S WORDS OF PRAISE ............................Page 104Florence Strauss ........................... WAITING IN THE BLUE ROOM ................................Page 105Dotti Anita Taylor ........................ LADY IN A ROCKER ...................................................Page 106Dotti Anita Taylor ........................ GAMES ...........................................................................Page 107Gloria Taylor ................................ UNEXPRESSED GRATITUDE – MY AUNT HANNAH STORY .....................................Page 108Paula Thesing ............................... KALE ..............................................................................Page 110Rita Timmer ................................ BROOKLYN BRIDGE ..................................................Page 112Adrianne Toomer ......................... this time ..........................................................................Page 113Adrianne Toomer ......................... simply… ..........................................................................Page 114Wendy J. Trontz ........................... THE NUISANCE TREE ................................................Page 115Patricia Valles ............................... SWEET DAZE OF AUTUMN .......................................Page 117Raquel Vargas ............................. CONFETTI ...................................................................Page 118Raquel Vargas ............................. THIS CORNER ............................................................Page 119Marilyn Walker ............................ STEPPIN’ OUT ..............................................................Page 120Marilyn Walker ............................ SIMPLICITY ..................................................................Page 121Anna Wieland .............................. GOODBYE OUTPOST ................................................Page 122Sarah Williams-Harrigan .............. EPILOGUE (KRISTALLNACHT AND THE 16TH STREET BAPTIST CHURCH BOMBING .......Page 124Sarah Williams-Harrigan .............. THE ROAD NEXT TO THE BEACH ...........................Page 125Anita Zuckerberg ........................ FAITH ............................................................................Page 126Anita Zuckerberg ........................ SOULFUL BEAUTY ......................................................Page 127

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CRAZY LADYRoberta Ann Afflitto

Crazy bag lady sitting on the sidewalk. What could she teach us, if she would talk? Was her childhood a scary place? Was she told she didn’t have a pretty face? Did she have a husband who was abusive? Did her children grow to be elusive? Did she dream of becoming an engineer? Were there other ambitions killed by fear? Did she care for a sick mother who did nothing but moan? Does life overwhelm her; does she want to be left alone? Crazy bag lady, we pass her by. Sits in silence, she can no longer cry.

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CRAZY LADY IIRoberta Ann Afflitto

When you’re staring at me, I’m looking at you. How could you know what I’ve been through? I made many choices that were totally wrong. My life became a disharmonious song. On my own, early in my youth. Couldn’t distinguish lies from truth. I had a caring and trusting heart. Just wanted to be “normal,” get a little start. I gave birth to children that I couldn’t keep. Their cherub faces haunt me in sleep. I did training and programs, just kept trying. Nothing worked; G-d knows I’m not lying. Don’t you judge me, I accept my defeat. If you want, leave me a dollar for something to eat.

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INHERITANCEIlene Bauer

My mother didn’t cook too well Although she fed us fine. Her house was not immaculate, Much messier than mine.

She didn’t knit, crochet or quilt But she was great at sports; She swam and bowled and tennised Really well, by all reports.

And oh, could she dance up a storm! She crossword-puzzled, too. When things were good or bad for me, Somehow, she always knew.

She passed down many of her traits But no, I cannot dance And barely swim but I can bowl, Though rarely have the chance.

I do the crossword every day But like her, hate to cook. While she escaped in naps, I disappear inside a book.

We all have inclinations That our parents have bestowed, Though babies make us wonder What is waiting down the road?

We hope that they’ll inherit Just those qualities we’d pick But we have no way of knowing What will fade and what will stick.

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THE BOTTOM OF MY BAGIlene Bauer

At the bottom of my bag Are many things I should discard – Such a mound of crumpled tissues They’d be hard to disregard;

Some expired Metrocards and stubs From movies I have seen And a little bag of pretzels Given out at Halloween.

There’s a boarding pass from my last trip, A pen that has no ink And a business card from someone With a website name and link.

There are sticky, half-wrapped cough drops And receipt upon receipt; Add my make-up case and wallet And the contents are complete.

When my bag goes on my shoulder It will also hold my phone, Which provides an explanation Why to muscle aches I’m prone.

Still, I’ll clean it out tomorrow But I know what happens then – Just one crumpled tissue later And the pile begins again.

5

EDEN ISLES, FLORIDAElinor Baumbach

My parents went to Eden Isles To find their age of sun and shore. My father limped, My mother’s breath was short, But they showed us What life was all about! Yachts floating idly by, Three islands of incandescent blue Aged bodies, basking like Time-worn Buddha’s. In that luminous glow That seemed like wisdom. Flowers, flowers everywhere Red blossoms spilling over lawn Reflecting on sun-speckled sea.

They came to find their life And it was there, Just ahead. Moving swiftly toward That artfully beckoning road, Around the long final curve Of what the sun’s pale shimmer masked. They found their final darkness Under the snow-white light Where red passion flowers bravely glow.

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CHANCE ENCOUNTERVivian Bergenthal

how did a lazy summer morning filled with hum-drum errands turn into an adventure

just ask Nature

I hopped into my car with the usual lickety-split snappy shutting of my door

suddenly I stopped in my tracks

surprise filled my soul as a handsome stranger landed on my window sill perching himself quite assertively while peering in at me

I fell into a trance while contemplating his pure white exterior elegantly spread wings mélange of black and blue speckled dots strewn across his body

as he began to woo me by flapping his wings with his gaze firmly fixed on me staring into my eyes I remained frozen in time space

I would not dare surmise where this adventure was heading sitting glued to my seat with my head turned towards him I tried not to let any sense of protocol get in the way

he wouldn’t ask for my number would he that seemed too far off the charts to even contemplate

what did enter my mind however was the urgent need to snap a video of his sexy salutations

for all to witness

as I shifted my body

in anticipation of picking up my camera he seemed to shift his mood

my beautiful friend suddenly flapped his feathered wings to flit, fly

off into the distance with nary a good-bye to be heard nor a bit of a melody which one might expect I do believe.

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ALEX, MY UNCLEMarianne Bongolan

For as long as I remember, my mother’s younger brother, Alex, was the constant Christmas guest in our family in Budapest. He lived alone in another city in Hungary and traveled by train to visit us once a year. He was a bachelor and my mother felt responsible and obligated to invite and entertain him for the holidays. Although my mother had six other siblings, it seems there were no competing invitations for Alex. So as long as he lived, Alex became a temporary fixture with us, like the Christmas tree. He stayed with us during the Christmas week and on New Year’s Day took the train back home.

As kids, we were not very excited about his presence: he was aloof and passive; we had to share space, the meager food and cookies we had. I recall that even as a young man, he was unattached and a loner. We never saw or heard about a friend, male or female close to him. He seemed unin-terested in both grownups and children. Yet, my mother welcomed him and smacked us for mak-ing faces when he arrived.

In all his life Alex worked as a salesman in a government-run grocery store and as predictable as his visiting time, his presents were also predictable: a box of Christmas candy from the store he worked in, always the same brand.

We had no TV and I never saw him reading; he mostly sat in an armchair with blankets around his feet, just smiling, nibbling on the cookies and nodding when my father tried to involve him in any discussion about politics or history.

Alex lived a long life. He was in his 80’s when he died. I traveled with my mother to his place. It was the first time I saw his apartment, overlooking no place, just a decrepit parking lot and aban-doned railways beyond with no trains ever crossing them.

He was poor and the only interesting things we found were a collection of maps: maps of the world, capitals, towns, villages, geographical maps and the likes. It still makes me sad that Alex never ventured beyond the box he created and locked himself in.

Sometime later my mother learned that Alex left his savings — a nice sum at the time — to my mother as well as his share of the land from his father.

Then suddenly the other siblings emerged….

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DEMANDING HANDJoan Bowen

Human it is, possessing head, torso, arms, legs and, yes, hands; palms up

Yet it appears to be one massive hand held outstretched

Commanding, demanding, feeling entitled; “Give me, give me what you’ve got!”

“Got a nickel, a dime, a dollar? It’s mine! Give me what you’ve got!”

The hand grows larger with every “Here you are, take it.”

The hand grabs, squeezes, crushes and diminishes its donors.

“That’s all? No more?”

“Thank you,” does not come from an empty demanding hand, or is it a heart?

It is not a mouth.

It gestures, holds, grasps, chokes.

If the hand offends, why not cut it off?

Can I, should I will I? No!

I must extend my own within reason and fill the hand that fails to see

Though I may seem meek;

One which solely takes cannot command

Instead that soul stands pitifully weak!

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THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMERYvonne Bruno

Autumn season has arrived Bringing changes all around Frosty winds bring early chills To homes and gardens everywhere

Warm boots, sweaters and scarves Help humans survive the wind and cold While in my garden summer plants and blooms Succumb to the kiss of autumn winds

All but one solitary creamy colored rose It stands alone, stalwart and upright Day after day it braves the weather Deserted by all it companions

Each morning I rush to my window I smile. A friendship has developed Surprised how it lingers on from day to day But I know soon it won’t be there

I admire its strength and resilience Its soft creamy fragile petals Tinged at the top with red Beautiful, delicate, and yet so strong

They flutter slightly in the wind Clinging cuplike to the parent plant In Mother Nature’s classroom Lessons are taught of strength in adversity

One day its beauty will fade But its lessons are indelible

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THE TRIPArthur Cajigas

He thought: Where are we going? It’s Sunday and that means we go someplace, or see someone. Will it be Aunt Julia? There is always food at her house. Uncle Paul is good for a gift of a dollar for each of us. There is Uncle Tony. He always buys us ice cream. Where are we going? It doesn’t matter, we are going someplace or to visit somebody. Oh great! It must be somebody important because Pop is checking everything himself. Mom would usually check our clothing, but she was in the hospital now having the baby.

I watched Pop and learned from his actions. His actions told me what he was going to do next. He was not good with words. He would look at people carefully.

I once asked him, “Why do you look so carefully at people?”

He replied quickly, “You never know when they can leave you flat.”

“For a four year old you ask a lot of questions.” He was angry about something. It wasn’t good to be around him. Today he was just real moody, and he had been this way ever since Mom went into the hospital. A serious mood for this length of time was new to him.

Another way of understanding him was to watch what he wore. His work clothes were different from his Sunday clothes. The brown suit meant happy visiting day clothes. The blue and gray suits were for serious day events, like the day he picked up his beer license. Today he picked out his dark blue suit. He will look like a very important person on his way to meet another very important man. This day was going to be very serious for everyone.

Pop made his first announcement for the day “Everybody get dressed up. We are going out.” It was like a fire drill. We all knew our posts and what clothing to put on for the ‘Going Out’ occasion.

Pop took us on a ride to another part of the Bronx. He took us to a white building that had parking in the back. He found a spot in the parking lot. “We are here!” These words brought us back to reality. We were all looking to find out what was the next event was going to be. Pop gath-ered us close to him. We were told the rules again.

“This place is like a church. The rules are the same: no running, no hitting, no yelling, and of course no games. This place isn’t a church, but everyone is dressed up like they are going to church. Do you understand?

We all agreed that we understood. As we waited, the room started to fill with friends and aunts and uncles that we hadn’t seen in a long time. Then I noticed that my father was talking to his brother, Tomas. It was common practice among my uncles to get together and talk about busi-ness. I thought that this was one of those times. The room was filling up with more people and for some reason I was getting scared. I moved across the room. I heard one of the relatives say, “Didn’t they tell him?”

At that moment there was an announcement made, “Will the Valencia family please sit in the first row.” Then I saw Mom. She was in a special bed at the front of the room. Other women and men went up to the bed to make sure she was comfortable. They sang songs to make her

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feel better. Others told her what a good person she is and how much they loved her. Just like the church service. Then Pop crossed the room and took me aside and told me.

“You are going with Aunt Julia. Don’t give her any trouble.”

“What about Mom?”

“We are taking her to heaven.”

12

HOMEJohn Callier

Home is where the heart is. Make it pleasant and sweet. Place a protective barrier around the inner core. Allow your invisible spirit to engulf all around you. Remove the outside forces that distract from your destiny. Stand firm in the belief that those who came before you are with you always. Approach life with courage, strength, endurance, kindness and love GOD WILL BLESS YOU!

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SNOW AND FOGB. Lynn Carter

It’s probably because of what happened to Reggie. That’s probably why whenever I conjure up memories of my childhood on the block, they never feature snow. My childhood memories are almost never set in the winter. Somehow most memories I have of frolicking in the snow have all been shrouded in fog.

Looking back on those days now, I have to admit that my crowd always did things to the ex-treme. We got the most out of those whirlwind childhood days, those spring days, those autumn days but mostly those summer days; the days when your friends were your family and we func-tioned as one.

I love the memories of summer. In the summer, there was stickball. If you could roof the ball you got to launch your old sneakers up and over the telephone wires, a testament to your status. My sneakers stayed firmly on my feet.

At Orchard Beach we all swam out to the buoys. It was 30 feet of water in high tide. It was sim-ply required. You did it whether or not you could swim. I was not much of a swimmer, but despite the admonishments from Chino, the lifeguard, I’d tread water, doggie-paddle along or turn on my back and float when I was winded. One way or another I’d make it. I was part of the crowd!

The autumn was football season, two-hand touch, sewer to sewer down the middle of the street. Only, we did it on roller skates. I have to admit that my skating skills were also not quite up to par, but I persevered.

In the spring, we flew kites. Only, our kites had double edged razor blades attached to their tails. They’d soar up and over the buildings, above roofs. They flew past our boundaries, invading the turfs of neighboring blocks, where they did battle. Zigging and dodging, dipping and slashing, un-til one of the soaring combatants was cut down. The descending kite was a prize to be claimed by the victor. Actually, my mother never let me handle the bladed kites, so I generally cheered from the sidelines.

But the winter days, the days with snow, they are foggy in my mind. And I think, now, it’s be-cause of what happened to Reggie. If I force myself, I can vaguely recall snowball fights and snow drifts that towered over my head. And I do remember the time that the “big kids” picked up a Volkswagen placed it on the sidewalk and covered it with snow. We played on that mound of snow for days. The owner reported it stolen. He didn’t discover the truth until the thaw. And now that I’m thinking about it, I recall how we would barrel down the steep Freeman Street hill on make-shift cardboard sleds, nearly mowing down all those unsuspecting subway commuters as they made their way up the hill after work.

These are the easy memories I have of winter and snow. These are the images that I welcome, that I allow to gently emerge from my catalog of recollections. But the thing with Reggie was so random and haunting that I had to wrap it in mist, fold it neatly and put it away in the back of my mind. Now it’s just lurking there somewhere, like fog.

I didn’t witness it first-hand. I wasn’t there. Mercifully, all I saw was the frozen scarlet stain left

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behind on the fresh white snow. And on some ridiculous level it was mesmerizing, the contrast, the pattern, the smooth magenta lines and spikes, like a large red snowflake against the stark white canvas. I recall we all stood staring at it. No one spoke. We just stared until some adult came along and shoveled it up, like a wounded animal, and took it away.

I think now that the retelling of what happened was worse than the actual event. In reality, it must have been uncomplicated, quick…and final. Reggie was not doing anything reckless. He wasn’t haphazardly treading water in the middle of the ocean. He wasn’t engaging in cut throat games or kamikaze sledding down the Freeman Street hill. He simply emerged from his house smiling, stood on his front porch, waved at the kids that were romping on the Volkswagen mound, took one step, his last step, slipped and fell, his head hitting the brick staircase, hard, as he descended.

It became the subject of urban legend on my block. Everyone who saw it; saw it differently. It grew more gruesome with each retelling. He flew four feet into the air, they said. His head im-ploded and erupted, they said. Blood spewed from his mouth, his eyes bulged from his head, his arms and legs were bent at impossible angles. Once planted, these images grew exponentially in my mind. For a while they tortured my dreams before I was able to wrap them in fog and put them away.

All I really understood, at the time, was that Reggie was one of us and then he was gone…gone, never to return. His legacy, a somber stain in the snow. The image of his face having long since slipped from memory. And snow never looked the same.

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WHEN WE WERE USB. Lynn Carter

It was summer It is always summer when I conjure those days the days before the “pronouncement” before the words were spoken the days when we were “us”

When we were “us”…

We…played hard in the heat of the day rumbled, tumbled around the sidewalk spilled off the curb into the street. Its soft black tar warm receptive under the sun’s rays

We…played by our own rules had our own games Orlando, Carol, Hector, Edwin… Maria, Cassie, Chicky, Ben… Lester, Margie, Juanchi, Gwen… DeeDee, Karlzee, Tony, Lynn…

We…were “us” undefined undenominational clear, colorless rudimental rainbow

We…explored our world creating it as we went ventured through the labyrinth winding back alleys of Vyse Avenue

We…conquered rocky empty lots made them our gardens overgrown with weeds our beautiful flowers hid treasures for the finding

We…bravely confronted the evil witch the dark castle across the street vanquished her with powerful magic water shot from hydrants trajectory well guided through hollowed-out soda cans

We…recklessly invaded backyards mapped out pathways gathered the spoils of our exploits

We…fearlessly rode our bikes past the boundaries of our own territory relishing that danger, that intrigues …It was a glorious time…and

We…were “us”

Then…the “pronouncement” was made They made it on TV on the news The man said the words right out loud He…stood and drew a scarlet line around the borders of our domain. He…pointed to the jagged encasement the bloody red line pronounced it… “ghetto.” My…phone ringing off the hook It was DeeDee It was Carol It was Orlando It was Gwen It was all of “us”

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We…were confused What did it mean?

We…looked it up Then…

We…were upset embarrassed…ashamed Things looked different Didn’t feel the same…had changed

A slithering serpent our eyes wide open Alleys now dark dangerous foreboding Empty lots now replete with broken glass the smell of death weeds concealing alley cats decaying in the underbrush

And… Suddenly there were colors Differences white…fair Jewish…Italian blonde…blue eyed Irish…Cuban brown…tan Puerto Rican…Portuguese

They… loudly declared, “We are not colored!”

I…had been colored …a negro, …was okay with it

I…now, embrace my Blackness “I am Black!”

We…clung to new identities awkwardly uneasily

We…grew upWe…grew apartWe…grew distant

…Still at our very coreWe…had “us”

“the foundation”

Those of “us” who survived Who did not return from Nam in a box or……fall slave to the needle still bear the imprint of “us” Time passes… We…waver We…wander from the ‘garden’ We…go out into the world that has defined “us” We…go out to learn their rules …how to play them …how to circumvent them …how to break them Some of “us” embrace them take part in making them Some of “us” don’t… Some of “us” can’t…

We…circle that shiny caldron covet its fragrant bubbly content Some of “us: melt easily into that pot

Some of “us” wish only …to smoke it.

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TWO YEARS AFTER SANDYSusan Collender

Candlelit commemorative walk, Two years after Sandy,

Blue Ribbons on new Boardwalk,** Two years after Sandy,

Rebuilding, repairing community, Two years after Sandy,

Remembering Long Beach unity, Two years after Sandy, Replanting new trees, Two years after Sandy,

Beautifying City by the Sea Two years after Sandy.

No hospital in place, Two years after Sandy,

Barrier Island a safer space, Two years after Sandy,

Much work has been done, Two years after Sandy,

Work remains to be done, Two years after Sandy.

** “The blue ribbons will symbolize our struggle through the storm, the recovery process and most importantly the journey for those still not back in their homes,” according to the City of Long Beach.

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I WISH I WERE TECH SAVVYSusan Collender

I wish I were tech savvy in 21st century technology, Speeding up the decipher

The fast-changing terminology. Apps, Apple, Reuter, Google maps, USB port, iPods, iPads, not a snap.

I grew up with typewriters, records, LP’s, No personal computers, CD’s or DVD’s.

Today’s generation Uses computers with ease

Creates websites Seems like a breeze.

The tech-savvy generation Keeps me up-to-date

Learning the new technology

Never too late.

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A TRIP TO CUBA (JUNE TO JULY, 2014)Lillian Colon

Cuba on my mindStrolling the eternal silence of forgetfulness, Wandering recklessly, dissociated with bareheaded chest, I proceed, while dimming lights fade in alcoves of remembrance.

My baggage is ready. It’s a short distance between Puerto Rico and Cuba. Wonder what I will find on the sister island. Will I stumble upon unknowns? Probably. There are doubts, uneasiness, challenges, as well as tangibles, all bundled-up in my luggage. Suddenly, a bolero (certainly com-ing from my neighbors) sneaks through colloidal particles scattered in the air and caresses my ears. Through impulse, you could see me dancing to the rhythm, in the company of Mr. Absent, a “mesmerizing, surreal trance”… No doubt, I will bask at the Bolero Festival in Havana. Mean-while, question marks, parenthesis, and ellipsis clog my throat, I hold my breath, and the imme-diacy of such journey hastens the cadence of my pulse. The blood in my veins, thick as lava, cas-cades into the abyss of uncertainty. Oh well… it’s another trip, one more crossing, it just feels so different… be serene! Stay tranquil! Unchain your melodic thoughts; allow them to experience unbounded liberties across the depths of consciousness, set them free. For my own sake, I intend to redeem some of the veiled realities about Cuba, facts that have been obscured by the influences of troubadours, preachers, storytellers, and historians.

Observations and Thoughts (in Havana)Many people live in the here and now as they fear opening old wounds acquired in the past.

It is hard to see whole families begging on the street for anything that could help to alleviate their misery.

At night, quite a few neighbors sit at the edge of sidewalks. From their bleachers they watch a parade of routines, monotony, the walking salesman, the musician, the artisan and celebrate this procession until they die from boredom.

People who trust themselves are better prepared to overcome the harshness of daily life than those who do not recognize their own capabilities.

Education exalts, but it also creates social castes.

Economic and social inequities halt progress, promote pessimism, distrust, enmity, and can lead to conflict amongst neighbors and nations.

Nationalism introduces our love for country, despite the contradictions between reality and idealism.

Narrative (on the way from Havana to Santiago de Cuba)The Wanderer

Burdened by an abundantly dense sack of min-series in his back, a shriveled up wanderer car-ried on, expecting to find in his mansard: agony exhaling from his pots and a frayed hammock waiting to embrace his skin-lace bones, so that the essence of life would disappear in the turbu-lence of possibilities.

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A peasant’s monolog“What can life possibly offer…? All harvest are baskets full of withered hopes, stripped of sub-

stance, and fruit with alien destiny, while the pieces of my forced labor slowly melt through my seat-drenched hands. As the sun fades into the horizon, I return to a home kissed and caressed by uncertainty. My space, adorned by murals from the seventies, maintains its umbilical cord still attached to the past, just as I do. A past full of remembrances that permeated the struggle against tyrants and foreigners whose dictatorial mindsets intended to process the riches produced by Cu-ban soil. The insurmountable valor of the peoples’ revolution triumphed; the native guerrillas and commanders’ efforts prevailed in repealing those who attempted to stain the soul of the land. The fumes of victory still billow in the atmosphere, a synonym of social justice, of liberty, of a more equitable distribution of wealth, of an interactive type of government shared by those who gov-ern and those who are governed. Yet, the reality is that some decades later the situation of those in poverty, our situation, remains unchanged. The leaders, the powerful, through their legal loopholes and agencies decide which part of the population is worthy of the kind of education they receive; they exercise discriminating control via management of health, housing, food, work, cultural, man-ufacturing, and sports programs to name a few. What is there left to do by those of us disenfran-chised in the absence of voice and a vote? We continue to loosely hang by a thread as we adhere to the chronic struggle for survival… left to teeter as we ride on the backs of fictitious wooden-sticks for horses while building dreams on sandcastles with roofs made of lottery tickets.

Today, in front of me, the specters of thousands of broken spirited beings parade, still hold-ing their flags up high. They acclaim the Revolution; they proudly and intensely clap their hands, while the living dead, holding on to their existence, dream about living (or leaving?). We revere being free in our own land, we yearn for the disappearance of the Rationing Binders, the dissolu-tion of the Revolution Defense Committees as well as any other practice that restricts our spiri-tual, our artistic development and all initiatives born to incite progress.”

Deep in thought, in gargled soliloquy, I say, “If I were to speak out I would be traitor to my homeland, self-condemned to suicide.”

The end:Now, I realize that Cuba is an island blessed with fertile lands and abundant natural resources,

among others: sugar cane, tobacco, beautiful bays, petroleum, minerals and small hydroelectric plants. The present government exploits all natural resources, distributes its wealth and controls civilian liberties just as many other communist nations do. From my point of view, most Cubans are cautious, self-contained, honest, respectful, laborious, well-educated, skillful, brave, proud and determined people, even though there will always be some exceptions.

I would only be willing to return to this island if I were to openly breathe better winds of jus-tice, equality and freedom.

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ENSCONCEDSheila Conticello

The chair is simply there Not much used for rocking A wooden magnet for weary limbs In a corner of my living room

Ensconced thereon The world revolves around me Small wooden folding table to my left Bears daily planner, folder bulging – “To Be Filed”

Lamp table on my right Has room enough for coffee cup, calculator, crochet hooks, TV remote control Yarn basket, radio, telephone Arms length to my right TV, electric fire logs A corpse length from my feet

Command Center From where I’m free To rule my mini-kingdom Make future plans, read mail, pay bills Eat meals upon laptop tray Doze during TV shows Create a crocheted afghan Read a book, write a poem Comfort and efficiency From my niche divine

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ESCAPESheila Conticello

It’s all pale blues today Sun diamonds on the Hudson September as it ought to be Brisk breezes, sweater cool

Backward seated on Metro-North Watch railroad signposts slip behind Rush from city to country air To cottage, woodlands way up North

Track clack, I lean back Tensions ease, dreams begin En route to destination Last weekend of the summer

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NOTES FOUND IN OLD NOTEBOOKCharlotte Crawford

The Single Present Imperative = A Diamond

I’m speaking to you in the style the white mining management employs as a means of controlling the black miners in the bowels of South Africa. The language is Fanoikola,* a pidgin of the Black natives in the particular region. It is spoken to you alone, used entirely underground in the Single Present Imperative Tense. Time is not acknowledged.

You hear, you listen you respond to my words but only internally for there is no answer, no exchange just obedience in following what you hear.

So hear, but do not think on what has entered your mind For you are not dismayed nor saddened.

*Fanoikola – most likely misinterpreted/misspelled by author and, of course, mispronounced.

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A RELATIVE INCIDENTCharlotte Crawford

You see the knife was held loose in his hand and I saw my severed life glisten at its sharp tip It’s strange that right then I didn’t think of pain or death but of my father! shiny long thin knife in hand skillfully slicing roasted flesh of the thanked meal that satisfied our needs helped sustain our lives.

I thought maybe this desperate man needs what I have to maintain his life so then, I offered freely “Here, take it with my grace for you.”

He looked at me as though he saw a sacrifice I made then turned away! I whispered to his retreating back “Thank you.”

I’m not sure he heard Since he never paused in his quick shuffle So I pulled my stolen coat around me and slowly limped away.

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THE CABIN IN THE WOODSJames Cunningham

Come take my hand and walk with me down the rocky country roads, roads winding through thick woods like snakes surrounded on each side by towering trees whose mighty tops intertwine to form a canopy of majestic green. Trek gingerly and gracefully, watching stick and stone, bramble and bush, breathe in Nature’s cool, refreshing breeze.

Hold me close as we cross over broken-down bridges weak and wobbly like old men. Listen to the music of the stream below bellowing to us. The rhythmic sound of rushing water rolling endlessly. Look closely at the clearing to the north of the tall oaks; there the log cabin serenely sits proudly at water’s edge welcoming us like an old friend.

Let’s begin our summer dance – fly our kites high into the sky, catch fire-flies in jelly jars, swing from the old tire tied to the tree, swim all day in the sun-glistened lake, sit and sing by the night fire under the full moon. Make memoires of fun-filled days of love and laughter, memories to hold onto as we get old, memories of youth and happiness when life was gold.

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BIRTHDAY BALLOONBette Cyzner

Youthful celebrant’s ephemeral delight, Rainbow-hued sphere, puffed as a perigee moon, Iridescent pinks and shimmering silver Festive greeting ornately etched in graceful script. Icarus-like, vainly attempting to scale the heavens, With sporadic tugs at its glittering, tightly held cord, Helium-intoxicated bounces of thwarted escapes. Gravity-defying party favor, flashing glints of light.

Twenty-Four Hours Later

Abandoned in the gutter, earth-bound and forgotten, Deflating like the melting remains of an ice cream cake. Brilliant colors paled by filthy rainwater, Grit-smeared letters blurred as memories of sparkling yesterdays, Once gleaming tether torn and opaque with mud, About to be crushed by the wheel of a speeding car, Driven by an indifferent and uncaring motorist. Birthday balloon To the jaded and insensitive, disposable luminescence.

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ashes to spiesJohn DeSantis

black leaves dried and burned burnished on the brow a frown revealing a sign a contradiction

a symbol of entropy the final wearing down of all creation

shadows shorten with the lengthening of days

and we hold fast to the fast and cling to the prayer if not the alms-giving

we prepare for the feast waiting for betrayal

the spies will signal the start of that great work that will make sense of suffering

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THE BEACH IN WINTERJohn DeSantis

A seagull’s wing dips pointily into the icy air, Seashells languish in the stiffened sand, The echo of last summer’s children’s voices still resounds through the eerie quiet of the wind. Soft waves push on toward shore and crest and cusp and cap into a frozen ice sculpture. The bitterness of winter’s season Freezes time: The beach is beckoning me To contemplate the icy movement of its frozen crests And enter into its eternal cold.

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INTERIOR RUMMAGE EVENTKathleen Devlin

Sitting daily in silence Breathing Thinking Waiting

Picking ideas both old and new Choosing some Discarding gently Losing negativity

Judging results Emptiness Satisfaction Success

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MY GOOD FRIEND – ALKathleen Devlin

Gathered ‘round the freshly dug hole A last Goodbye to Al – good friend Some poems read, a short prayer, Simple – though the loss is deep The silver urn – his ashes – stands before us What do they now signify?

This friend – kind, energetic, risk-taker Hard worker, honest, great family man Enterprising, genuine, so much more Spending time with him – rewarding Conversations filled with opinions Suggestions, wise advice – ended now

Friends such as these – rare gifts Given us for a reason Complementing our individuality Bonding in a way deeper than blood Spirits effortlessly entwined Signifying – not ashes but immortality

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POD PEOPLEDebbi Dolan

Nancy swung into the sky blue Honda Civic with her mom at the wheel. Mom turned into her favorite talk show program as Nancy plugged her pods into her ears. Mom pulled out of the driveway and began to weave her way to the strip mall where they planned to pamper themselves with manicures and pedicures. There was a delay at the red light which had turned green, and mom got extremely irritated, and leaned into the horn angrily.

“MOVE IT, YOU MORON!” Mom shouted. “I wish people would take their driving more seriously.” She took another swig of coffee. “Speaking of morons, what do you think of that caller? Nancy, would you please take those pods out of your ears when we are riding together? I do not appreciate feeling like I’m your chauffeur.”

“Yes Mom,” Nancy replied with a barely audible sigh as she put her iPhone back into her purse.

They approached a crowded intersection and a pedestrian crossed against the light without looking, pods in his ears, gaze fixed downward at his device.

“Another imbecile crossing the street without any awareness of where he is! I hope you have the good sense to unplug yourself when you’re out in the street.”

Nancy is silent. They arrive at the mall and get out of the car.

“Let’s get a move on, I don’t want us to be late!” Mom took a quick glance at her watch as they made rapid strides to the nail salon.

“Mom, when we were in the car I found a Groupon for us that they can scan when we get inside.” Mom rushes ahead and swings open the door.

Nancy and her mother get their nails done, return to the parking lot and search for their car.

“OMG! Our car has been towed! I thought this lot was for the whole strip mall, but apparently not! How are we going to get the car?” Mom turned to her daughter pleadingly.

“Don’t worry Mom, I’ll find out where the towing company is and get us a cab.” Nancy calmly walked over to the Tow Away Zone sign and found the address of the towing company, then called a taxi.

“Nancy, I guess not everyone who uses electronic devices are peas in the same pod. I’m glad I raised a sweet pea!” She gave Nancy a broad smile and an appreciative squeeze.

“Thanks Mom.” Nancy beamed back at her mother.

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A WISH IN SUMMERLynn Easton

The Queen Anne’s lace is blooming. Along the garbage strewn city streets… Amongst the discarded trash of drivers… Fed by the soils of animals.

The blossoms rise tall and elegant on their sturdy stems… Dancing and bowing gracefully with the summer breeze.

I would like to see those perfectly faceted white Elizabethan circles growing just that very way… In my garden. I have tried to no avail. They much prefer to be free of fussing.

Nature mocks us, amused by our arrogance.

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BEAUTYLynn Easton

Beauty can break your heart. The crystal river rushes over stones, through walls of granite. Insects drone on a summer evening. The newborn adds his hungry cries to life. Unblemished snow stretches to the horizon, startling and iridescent against the blueness of sky. Sunrise brings garish neon to the window and there is the need to rise… To see that edge of day…glowing and singular.

The shutter of eye snaps the picture and sears the mind. Beauty touches us then, inside, where the sweet pain of its disappearing Can break your heart.

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SO A GIRL IN A RED BALL GOWN WALKS INTO A BODEGA...Stanley Edelman

On stiletto heels and figure tight red gown Carman walks into Pablo’s Bodega with a mission; it’s a Friday night. Carman is beautiful and she knows it; with the facial planes of a model and a show stopper figure that men always turned to ogle and daydream about.

“Hola Carman, my son Jamie and I were just saying how we haven’t seen much of you the past few weeks. But the wait was worth it, you look beautiful.”

Carman smiled and reminded him that she was away at college and that was why she wasn’t around that much. She also thought to herself, “You dirty old man, I know what you are thinking and what you would really like to do, but I also know that now you are harmless.”

Carman walked to the back of the store swaying slightly, enough to stir Pablo up. She knew exactly what she was doing and was enjoying every minute of it.

Pablo followed her like a little puppy and as Carman turned to face Pablo she also leaned in so that her face was just inches from his. He reminded Carman that she was like family, having grown up with his own children, Jamie and Esmeralda.

“I always thought that Jamie and you were a real couple, even from the time you were kids.”

She smiled even as she remembered the years when she was a shy, pencil thin little girl and how Pablo was always offering her and her friends some special candy treats in the back of the store. Carman learned early on that there was no free candy. Her memory was of his groping her and his own children in the same way. Carman upped the ante as she grew up, and candy was no longer the price for the back of the store, as the curves of a woman overcame the sticklike figure of a child. Later on she concluded that there must be a special place in hell for the Pabloes of the world, those men who abused and took advantage of young children, including their own.

As youngsters, Esmeralda, Pablo’s daughter, and she were always in the same class at school and best friends. They shared the secret of what happened in the back of the Bodega; and over time all of the experiences and secrets that young girls shared while growing up. Carman and Esmeralda eventually talked about Pablo. While they weren’t exactly therapy sessions they were able to talk about their shared experiences and they got to the point of where they could say these things out loud, freeing themselves of some of the guilt they initially had about their “free candy” experienc-es. Both Carman and Esmeralda often thought of Jamie and what he endured with them, but they could never bring themselves to bring him into their conversations.

Carman, leaning into Pablo’s face, in her trademark breathy whisper said:

“Pablo I need a real favor from you tonight.”

Pablo’s mind started to race, actually it shifted into overdrive, and even though Christmas was six months away images of sugarplum fairies and an early Christmas present for him took over his mind.

“Hey,” he thought to himself, “maybe I’m old, but I’m not dead.”

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Pablo began to blink at a quick pace and looking into Carman’s glowing green eyes said:

“Whatever you need I’m here to help you.”

“Well you know that my school has its big holiday party tonight and I need a partner to hold me tight and dance with me until the sun comes up.”

Pablo sighed and brought himself back to the reality of the present. Daydreams were fun and he knew that he had just experienced a really great one. “Unfortunately,” he thought, “it’s not like the old days when the kids were young and I had the chance to do whatever I wanted to do.”

Pablo shifted gears and said,

“OK, I’m sure that Jamie would be happy to go with you and spend a night out dancing with such a beautiful young woman.”

Carman’s reply:

“Actually it’s not Jamie, its Esmeralda who I would like for my date tonight!”

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THE WHEEL OF CHANCEDeborah Eiseman

Her daily ritual, the moment of truth; her catalogue of the assaults the years had made upon her face and body. She examined herself in a magnifying mirror like a scientist studies a specimen. Her fingers went to her throat, massaging the soft skin, a fruitless effort to iron the wattle marring her neck. She pressed cold compresses onto the half-moons underscoring her eyes but they stubbornly reappeared to taunt her. Each line engraved into her forehead, the parentheses bracketing her mouth, the thinning of her once bountiful hair.

She opened the drawer of her vanity and took out her mascara. Methodically she coated each eyelash, painted them into tiny black spikes. The company guaranteed its mascara would enhance, lengthen and adds volume. She carefully outlined her lips; her lip-gloss added a youthful moist gleam.

Control-top pantyhose gave a lift to her front and rear. She shrugged into an unforgiving dress made from a mix of polyester and Spandex, congratulating herself for the fifteen pounds she’d taken off with a liquid diet and pills. She slipped on her strappy heels ignoring the twinge of a callous developing on the side of her pinky toe. A scarf is tied around her neck hiding the telltale signs of age. Her hair is newly highlighted, nails a fluorescent orange.

She hadn’t planned to be single again. She looked at her king-sized bed; only one half of it unmade, and felt the burn of resentment. The other occupant deserted to sleep in a younger bed. It was horrible to be living a cliché.

* * *

She’d been pressured to go to a dating club, ten minutes to find a soul mate; a game of musical chairs. The face of a stranger, a life story rehearsed and edited a plunge into intimacy, change part-ners at the buzzer, repeat performance, and romance on an assembly line.

“Five years for me. How long has it been for you?”

Buzz.

“What’s your sign?”

Buzz.

“Took me to the cleaners.”

Buzz.

“I give a great foot massage.”

Buzz.

“Hoping for someone younger.”

Scraps of conversation, ten minutes of discontent, disillusion and disappointment, a carousel of men and women drinking from the same cup of loneliness. She returns to an unwelcoming

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silence, a brimming glass of Merlot, and a microwaved Lean Cuisine. She reaches for the telephone, shakes her head and drops it back on its cradle. Mentally slaps her hand away from the dialing pad.

In defeat she wipes off her make-up, applies her face cream with Retinol, folds back the covers on her side of the bed and swallows a sleep-aid for a dreamless sleep.

Another night, another round of ten-minute encounters, she sits stiff in defensive posture, stretches her lips into a smile, her eye contact intense to show friendly interest. She’s ready, re-hearsed, obligated to perform well in her role.

The buzzer sounds. She smiles in vengeful satisfaction. There is a God as her husband takes the seat.

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DANCING WITH UNCLE LOUIEAngela Rosa Fontanez

Memories.

Often triggered by more than one of my senses. Smell, touch, sound. Sometimes more than one at one time. Like the mixture of King Pine Oil Cleaner and Beacon Floor Wax that took me right back to Saturdays in the 50s. My mom, sis and I relaxing from a day of cleaning or finishing our chores just in time before Uncle Louie came over for dinner and he and dad talked about sports throughout, but then it was my time with uncle Louie when we would dance! His large frame belied his graceful movements as we glided on freshly waxed floors with such grace and ease that it appeared as if we were floating. Just me and lissome Uncle Louie.

Sometimes it’s the music that takes me back to my Saturdays dancing with Uncle Louie when he would make me fuss and fuss until he relented and agreed to dance with me and took my hand and lifted me onto his feet and I floated with him across the shiny waxed floor. Even today when my husband pulls me towards him on the dance floor, if they are playing the right kind of music, his touch will take me right back to being that little girl in pigtails dancing with her Uncle Louie.

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ONE DAY AFTER ANOTHERAngela Rosa Fontanez

I knew he was floating. But the solitary mallard, appeared immobile sitting on the lake. An oc-casional breeze would stir the sleeping trees just enough to make them rustle their leaves, but ever careful not to wake from their afternoon nap, for it was a gentle wind cradling evening time… a magical time. My time… to unwind from my day of writing--or struggling to write--and enjoy the end of the day, was the most precious of moments.

As dusk began to settle in, I reluctantly went inside my cabin to prepare dinner, always hast-ily prepared and an intrusion from my preferred activities: meditating, writing, journaling, or just sitting on the porch where I sat taking in the cool night air, inhaling deeply, not wanting to release its deliciousness.

Dearest Journal,

Well its day 20 since mom passed away. It seems like I am settling into life without her. It seems like yesterday and a year at the same time. How can I be writing, breathing, doing anything, when my entire body feels as if it’s missing a vital part. Is it my heart, my soul? Can’t write anymore now….

Escaping the cabin to my awaiting quilt and rocking chair was always a respite. The sparrows soothed me, though they were not visible, their song was always comforting. I would close my eyes and the peace of the evening would settle within me.

It’s like mom who wasn’t always there physically, but I knew in my heart she was always with me, and I could just pick up the phone...

I breathed in the stillness of the night… stillness, like death, but more tranquil, more forgiving.

Had she forgiven me for not visiting more often…

“Good morning, Miss Angela,” my next door neighbor Sue hollered, fishing gear and dog in tow. I was startled. “Oh, wow, did I sleep out here all night again?” I shook myself awake.

“Come on, lady, I promised you a fishing lesson. Let’s go,” she said, without breaking her stride.

The sun was warming the air and I smiled, stretched, and got up. “Let me just wash up and make some coffee” I called out, as I scrambled out of my cocoon.

It was the start of day 21. Some days are better than others.

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HOWARD FRITSCH “GLADLY WOULD HE LEARN AND GLADLY TEACH”

Judy Fritsch

This quote from Chaucer is so apt to describe Howard. He always had a book that he was read-ing, the bigger and heavier the better. He rarely read fiction, but loved history and biographies about people, either historical figures or people from the entertainment world. The last book that he tackled was “The Bully Pulpit” by Doris Kearns Goodwin, a treatise on Teddy Roosevelt and the times in which he lived.

What always impressed me about Howard was his fantastic memory. He remembered every-thing he had ever read, and when he conducted his seminars at the Retired Teachers’ Union, he spoke without written notes. Sometimes he would mention something from a movie we had seen, and while I wouldn’t remember ever seeing that movie, he could quote lines and discuss scenes in detail.

He so enjoyed teaching his course at the union about “The Broadway Musical.” He refused to just sit back and show a movie; there had to be a purpose behind it and time to analyze the material. He would do his reading and research during the summer and with just a little review, remember it by January for the seminars he conducted on memorable movie actors. He loved at-tending classes and was known for his contributions to the discussions.

Many of the books he read were borrowed from our sweet little library in Poland, New York. Paula, the librarian we have known for over forty years, was able to reach out and obtain books from all over the country. She always said that she knew summer was here when we appeared at the library.

So, Howard, rest in peace and know that what you researched and what you taught were so ap-preciated by all those students who had the good fortune to be a member of your class. These were retired teachers who were there for the joy of learning, that wonderful quality that you embodied.

Gladly would you learn, and gladly teach.

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THE BEGINNING AND THE ENDJudy Fritsch

I really didn’t want to go to that stupid Bar Mitzvah. After all, I was almost seventeen; what was I going to do with a bunch of thirteen-year-olds? But my mother said that she had already sent in the acceptance for my parents and myself and it would be rude to cancel at the last moment. Besides, it was very nice that I had been invited at all and I shouldn’t insult Mrs. Cazes by not ac-cepting her kind invitation.

I knew the Bar Mitzvah boy and his family. We all lived in the same apartment building at 2608 Creston Avenue in the Bronx and I had occasionally been asked to babysit for him and his sister. My mother and aunt played Mah Jongg with his mother, aunt, and grandmother. So we were all invited to Lloyd’s Bar Mitzvah in June of 1955.

I finally agreed to go. I had a nice figure, slim and fairly developed, and I wore a new blue dress and high-heeled white shoes. My hair was thick and shiny and I had good skin. I left my eyeglasses at home; what was I going to see, after all?

So off we went on that Saturday night, my mother and father, my Aunt Frances and Uncle Morris, my 9-year-old sister Linda, walking the few blocks to the Senate Mansion Catering House across the street from Loew’s Paradise Theatre on the Grand Concourse and up to the second floor ballroom. The men were in their best dark suits, starched white short-sleeved shirts and bright bow ties, the women in new dresses, the seams of their nylon stockings ruler-straight, and high, but sensible heels on their open-toed summer shoes.

When we arrived, we were assigned our tables and the adults went one way, my sister to the little children’s place with the Cazes’ cousins, and me to the dreaded “Young-People’s Table.” I sat in the middle of a group of unoccupied seats with one empty seat to my right and two empty ones to my left. I didn’t know any of the other young people occupying the remaining seats who were talking among themselves and ignoring me except for a brief smile as I sat down and stared at the fruit cup in front of me.

Within a few minutes, two young men approached my table and took the empty seats on my left. They were both tall, with dark curly hair, wore black horn-rimmed glasses, and were dressed in obviously new suits and shoes. The one closest to me said “Hi” as he sat and began staring at his fruit cup. Soon he looked at me again and said, “Hello, my name is Howard, but everyone calls me Howie.” I mumbled, as manners dictated, “Pleased to meet you. My name is Judy.” (I never used my full name, Judith.) Gradually we began talking. And we talked. We talked through the entire dinner.

We danced, awkwardly, because of the difference in our heights; he was at least a full foot taller than my 5' 2½". We returned to the table and talked some more. He was four years older than I and had just been graduated from City College that month, and I told him that I had just finished my junior year at Evander Child’s High School in the Bronx. He asked if he could call me. Of course, I said yes, and gave him my telephone number. I was flattered that this tall, dark, older man would have any interest in me.

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Now I no longer recall what we talked about, only that we talked non-stop for the four hours’ duration of the party. And we continued to talk throughout our 57-year marriage until the last day of his life. What I miss most now are the conversations we had constantly and the information that we shared. The house is a silent and lonely place.

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HAVE A NICE DAY?Michael Gambale

I hate that expression quite STRONGLY You may question my motive wrongly To give something that costs you nothing Why be so small in the gifting? I’m told at 6 PM to “Have a nice day” I’m going to sleep at nine What are you giving me, anyway? Embrace your grandiose Give someone the most How about, “Have a nice week,” “Have a nice month” Clearly much better toasts And if you have such powers Don’t give mere hours “Have a nice year,” my dear Really, be the King, “Have a nice life!” That surely reduces much strife Better still; don’t stay in this moment of time Expand your mind to the sublime “Have a nice Eternity,” now you’re giving Infinity “Have a nice day,” Are you kidding me?

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encounterDiane Piankian Geiger

we laughed at the oddity of opening a can of sardines shared a pomegranate staining our fingertips and painting our mouths kissed in the lilac air of summer loved on a gold September night

a chance meeting in an upscale restaurant your handsome face lined thick hair silvered the caramel of your voice remains and your blue eyes still shine

we briefly embrace exchange numbers and marital standings then touch hands and lightly kiss

with unsteady steps and a stab of desire I fumble for my valet receipt and head for the garage

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nature walkDiane Piankian Geiger

they balance barefoot on sun warmed fieldstones skip pebbles across the stilled stream marvel at a beaver dam and laugh as red efts dart through paths of fallen leaves

the sky turns oriole orange as they gather spikey mosses and small feathery ferns for her garden then rest beside a cluster of white birch trees

stroking her moonbeam hair he kisses her bared shoulder and the hollow of her throat

they part at sunrise leaving footprints in the damp September grass

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DELIVERANCEFrancoise Gewirtzman

In occupied France during WWII A black cape of fear permeates all of us And our beloved, cherished & stoic country. Disrupted ties of friendship And trust vanished, Suspicion everywhere, hidden at night, Never to know what will happen next, Who will knock at our door? Somebody so dear arrested, Sent away forever, Anxious and menacing nights spreading, Life hanging in the darkness Could it be real or surreal? Somber silence everywhere, deserted streets, Frolicking children vanishing. But a fragile hope sustaining all of us, Deliverance finally will emerge and embrace Our heroic country! Could mankind strive relentlessly towards A perilous flame of wisdom To ignite & save our enlightenment!

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THE JOURNEYFrancoise Gewirtzman

At time of departure, Passengers with light, heavy suitcases Backpacks filled with toys & delicious snacks Children are munching, laughing, running around Waiting on long lines Like black swallows aligned on telephone poles. Finally my friend Meets us smiling, proud, eager, Fields of cotton greet us on the way Spreading like a blanket of snow. Tobacco fields, Their fading leaves swaying in the gentle breeze. Suddenly we reached her house Standing steadfast Stretching to embrace us For an endless adventure. What a discovery! Of calm, serenity, And pleasurable remembrance. Discourse, ideas, opinions Will be flowing like a deep and bouncing river As the sunset radiates Its fiery, crimson colors upon us.

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A VISIT TO HEAVENA. Giorgio

Every once in a while But once every year we visit heaven a wind from the heavens we visit our sisters swoops down upon us we visit our fathers and flies us to the skies mothers and brothers and our eyes grow larger we search the skies within a face full of laughter and joy for the beauty of the past and we all become children of God a past that never ends And we all become lovers But most of the time of the life we are given our holy search is put aside and we hug each other by mundane chores of our day as we share and the routines prevail the beauty of our souls. and often take charge as we plod along from task to task with our eyes cast on the ground

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THE RUSSIAN GIRLS GO DANCINGMel Glenn

On New Year’s Eve, the Russian girls go dancing, not to the city, but to the mega-clubs at Brighton Beach where vodka flows like the Volga, and spiked heels click on the lighted floor. They saved some hard-earned money from their retail jobs for one extravagant night out, which can cost more than a week’s wages. They mean to take full advantage of the music, dancing continuously until four in the morning. They don’t dance with men, though, but with their girlfriends, avoiding awkward conversations and unwanted familiarities that threaten to complicate the night. And in the early morning hours, they limp home, tired, but happy, thankful for the day off that postpones the next ka-ching of the register where one more angry customer waits to argue for his rightful 10% discount.

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STANDING WATCHMel Glenn

The guards at the Museum of Fine Arts reflect the unsmiling portraits looking down. In comfortable shoes, they stand stiff, occasionally directing people to the elevator, cafeteria or bathrooms, and telling ignorant patrons to turn off their cell phones. Stretching an arm now or then to prevent rigor mortis from setting in, they would dearly like to have conversations with Degas, or Cezanne, or especially Van Gogh, or join Monet or Manet for a lovely picnic by a lake in the French countryside. On their breaks, they make things-to-do lists for when their shift end and they must remember to pick up the dry cleaning. Break over, they go back to their assigned posts, hoping, perhaps, Velasquez might say a word, or Cassat would grace them with a wink. And when the museum closes, all portraits similarly wish they, too, could leave their frames and go back home, to stretch their limbs for the first time in centuries.

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AT THE FOOT OF BROADWAYIrving Greenfield

Newly minted, precisely cut grayish white stones are laid down

with meticulous care, the new replacing the old.

But the old cobble-stones had something that can’t be replaced,

a richness all their own, a dignity given by age.

One I remember had 1641 incised on it. It’s gone,

and with it a fragment of the past, a piece of history and present imagination,

a loss transcending change, like the quality of old wood richly stained,

a silent music no longer heard.

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JOY IN MY HEART Yvette Hains

Once there was joy in my heart, Where did it go? Did rage drive it away On a harsh, horrific day When tragedy had its way? Did fear make it hide, And it went on an endless ride, Leaving hollowness inside.

A heart that once was warm Resting in another’s arm, A heart that once found peace Gazing at falling leaves, A heart that once felt light And sweet sleep at night.

From time to time a glimpse again When laughing with a friend. When seeing a smiling face Standing in a different space. When taking time to share With someone sitting there.

Once there was joy in my heart Where did it go? Searching, searching This heart keeps searching…

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DRIVERSEunice Harris

Drivers, driving with no sense. How did that person get a license? Turning left, signaling last second, Try thinking ahead to beckon. Braking for nothing, A nervous right foot? Needing to keep put. Double parked, busy thoroughfare Causing traffic backup nightmare. Tailgating not welcome Bumper jumper, keep back. Weaving in and out, changing lanes, No signal, becoming a pain. Making quick decision, Moving over, avoid collision. Speeding “Cowboy” owns the road, Waiting accident – forebode. Crazy driver, driving crazily, Keep off the street Stay home, retreat. Drivers, driving me crazy!!

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OLFACTORY SYSTEMSharon Hawkins

Stench, smells, odors Fragrances, emulsions Roses, moss, cocky Putrid, raw, mildew

Rubber, rosemary, BBQ Vomit, peaches Lime, fried chicken, gasoline, Baby’s breath, coffee, farts

Pine cleaner, sausages, Old Spice The zoo, the beach, his hair Ginger, hospitals Housing project elevators and stairwells, Ben Gay

City streets after a summer rain…

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MIND PHOTOSSharon Hawkins

I saw this picture in my mind’s eye of Langston Hughes

Got me to thinking about Ella Fitzgerald singing the blues

The Harlem Renaissance poetry and scat was something that I like to call prehistoric rap

Langston’s poem about the rent got me thinking about it being heaven sent

Got me thinking about my mom and dad partying on Sugar Hill up in Harlem

Then got me thinking about the Harlem Renaissance and all those good times for that generation

Got me remembering my sister and I laughing at my mom and dad dancing the jitterbug on the living room rug

Cuttin’ the rug on a Sunday afternoon.

Then my sister and I would put on a 45 and Lindy till supper was ready

Got me thinking about me right now posting my senior metro card photo on Facebook

Talking about how I can go twice as far for half as much…or something like that

Then got me thinking about why I started this in the first place

Because of Langston Hughes’ poem about the rent

He said “Rent rent. Wish the money was Heaven sent. I say, Wish I may wish I might on the Di-recTV satellite.”

Got me thinking about the star that I was seeing from my window and was it actually a star or was it a satellite?

So...I said, wish I may wish I might on the DirecTV the satellite

But then I was pleased to see other twinkling things up there

So then I knew that it was the North Star that I was seeing

And the Little Dipper and other constellations were shining down on me

Not just Direct TV

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HIDDEN IDENTITIES IN TRANSITION A POEM FOR THE JEWS OF BELMONTE, PORTUGAL

Lisa Holzkenner

For 500 years and more, Jews have hidden in the antiquity of Belmonte, An authentic living miracle, From afar looking like a crown on top of a mountain. The labyrinth of the city, With its ancient steep maze of alleyways, Houses from a bygone era among the narrow streets, Colorful laundry-laden balconies, Flowers like gems bestowing Their beauty upon its surroundings, A hidden retreat to truly reckon with.

From their windows people gaze at the outside world, Reminiscing about the past and reflecting on the present. For a moment they are puzzled, Wondering if the change Before their eyes is illusion or reality, From a traumatic past to Rebuilding new lives.

In the midst of town a menorah stands proud and tall, A living testimony that Despite appalling atrocities and waves of tyranny, Coerced conversion and massacre, The Inquisition’s efforts to annihilate the Jews did not succeed.

Infused with an almost miraculous life force, they have survived The attempts to obliterate their culture and spirit. Through five fear-ridden centuries They maintained their tradition in hiding, And with courage and rigor clung to their heritage, Their passion for their roots remaining unextinguished.

With half-frozen tongues, copious tears in their eyes And sadness beyond words, in hiding Quietly to God they prayed, And with genetic memory Envisioned they were present at the Wailing Wall, Praying for freedom and triumph over evil, Breaking the chains enslaving their souls, Striving to regain their humanity. But devoured by fears of persecution

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They remained in hiding.

Today a renaissance is flowering in Belmonte. The perennial fear of being a Jew is slowly diminishing. Jews can now exercise their freedom of choice and Bear witness, give a voice to those who Perished in anguish, never having had a chance to be heard.

Dear Jews of Belmonte,

Today when you pray, whether in the synagogue or in your own heart, Let your prayers be loud and clear, Let your voices in unison vibrate and reach The ears and hearts of those around you. On your way home after synagogue As you stroll the streets, Fearlessly greet each other With the ancient and precious words, “Shabbat Shalom.”

And when you hear the triumphant shofar blowing Know that your people with open arms and tears of joy Are welcoming you into their midst. Let the gate of hope be opened wide, Once again with other nations you will shine.

Let the beacons of light - Sabbath and all the holidays - remind you That we are all children of Abraham. The Jews, like the rest of humanity, Have lived with the perpetual dream That all children of the world Will learn to respect and appreciate Their differences, Enriched by their diversity as brothers and sisters Celebrate the strength of what they have in common, Find peace and love as the foundation of justice, And bridge the distance between them.

Never again should any group of people Regardless of the color of their skin, Religion, race, age, gender or creed Suffer malevolence from their own kin.

May the hearts and minds of

All people around the globe Be filled with peace and harmony To serve as a guiding light for humankind. Together, with patience and perseverance,

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As brothers and sisters We will break the spiral of hatred, prejudice and ignorance, So that our way of life will always echo the precious words, Shalom, Salama, Peace.

Translations Menorah: Originally, a sacred candelabrum with seven branches used to light the Temple in Jerusa-lem. The menorah endures as a symbol of Divine light spreading throughout the world. In modern times, the menorah is used for the Jewish festival of Hanukkah (Festival of Light). It has eight branches and one central socket.

Shabbat Shalom: In Hebrew, meaning Peaceful Sabbath.

Shofar: A ram-horn trumpet used in Jewish religious ceremonies such as Rosh Hashanah (New Year) and Yom Kippur (Day of Atonement), signaling a spiritual awakening.

Shalom: In Hebrew, meaning Peace.

Salama: In Arabic, meaning Peace.

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MY MOTHER’S VANITYLucy Iscaro

She sat at the skirted table its surface powdery cluttered with bottles tubes and wands

She grasped a tiny jar fingers trembling pressed rosy cream into cheeks pinking the furrows

She brushed cottony hair sparse bristles spun a white cloud above pink scalp

She frowned only now aware of the mirror looked again puzzled white brows knit

She shook a rake like finger at the image the apparition the wraith

She cried In fear alarm confusion tremulous,

“Who is that?”

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THE FIREWALKERAnn Kaslow

When I conjure up the image of a firewalker, a 5'4½" Jewish woman living in New York City does not exactly come to mind. Rather, I think of a Native American adolescent male living somewhere where there are imposing rock formations or stretches of prairie and a lot of open sky, who has recently gone through a rite of passage into adulthood. But on Friday night back in March of 1984, there I was on West 34th Street in Manhattan about to walk across lit coals.

On that Friday, I went to work as usual. I was cognizant of the fact that the firewalk was sched-uled for that night, but strangely, I wasn’t very apprehensive about it. Was I in total denial or was I coping with my anxiety by keeping myself very busy? I really don’t know. Several times that day, I reminded myself that I was going to walk on fire that night, but the realization was more an objec-tive fact than an anxiety ridden thought.

By the time I got to the Manhattan Center that evening, I was excited but not what I would call afraid. I entered a large ballroom where several hundred people were gathered. The event was to be led by Tony Robbins, who was motivational speaker and neuro-linguistic programming (NLP) and hypo-therapy expert. I had been to previous lectures he had given in New York, City. At 6’5” tall and with a charismatic personality, he was a rather larger than life figure. Tony Robbins had done the firewalk himself several times and he had facilitated group firewalks on previous occasions.

Now you may be wondering why anyone in her right mind would voluntarily decide to walk on fire. I certainly wouldn’t blame you! This definitely was not a ritual in my culture. Actually, I personally did not know anyone who had ever done it. And to be doing the firewalk not in some bucolic, inspiring setting, but in mid-town Manhattan made the whole thing even more incongru-ous. Well, the reason I chose to do the firewalk was because it was presented as an opportunity (a rather dramatic one, I must admit) to confront fear, to break through limiting belief systems and therefore to be empowered to lead a fuller, more courageous, more expansive life.

As part of the group, I went through a three hour preparatory training session by the end of which I am certain; we were all in a semi hypnotic state. We then went outside and got on a line leading to the lit coals. Well, by this time, reality had kicked in and I was really getting scared. The closer I got to the coals, the more afraid I was becoming and the faster my heart was beating. But in spite of my fear, I stayed on that line until I finally reached the front position. As it turned out, Tony Robbins himself was right there. We smiled at each other and then he said to me “You can do it, babe. GO!” As I had been instructed to do in the training session, I shot my right arm up into the air, moved my eyes up and to the right and stepped onto the coals repeating to myself “cool moss, cool moss, cool moss” over and over again.

When seconds later I reached the end of the stretch of lit coals, staff members were there congratulating me and providing me with cool water for my feet, which unbelievably never even blistered. And then the most amazing thing happened. I experienced what I can only describe as “ecstasy.” I have no idea how long it lasted because I had completely lost my sense of time. But I knew that sensation, having experienced it once before in my life – minutes after my son was born. It was an amazing feeling!

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Thinking back to that night more than thirty years ago, I know that I did something quite extraordinary. I reached deep down inside myself and found strength and courage I did not know I had. Unfortunately, in the years that followed I did not consciously draw on that strength. Years at a time went by in which I didn’t even think about the firewalk. It’s as if I had earned a lot of money, put it in the bank and then when situations arose in which I could have used that money to enhance my life, I forgot I had it. Well, three decades later, that is finally about to change. I have now brought the firewalk front and center in my consciousness and I plan to keep it there. When I think of what I did, I feel really proud and empowered. In fact, I have been thinking of chang-ing my name. How does “Annie Firewalker – Sweetheart Warrior of Brooklyn” sound to you? It sounds really great to me!

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THE MANJoyce Kefalas

Secured tightly to a wall in a quaint Manhattan shop Enigmatically summoned to this picture Enlarged head Prominent facial features Reminded me of the statue – Rodan the Thinker But, with an African flair Rested elbow on one knee Enduring and introspective gaze Continually captivated by its calling Done deal…explanation in explainable “The Man” followed me home.

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A BROOKLYN MURDER CASEJane Kelly

I was a juror on a case in Brooklyn Criminal Court where a man was accused of killing his common law wife. She was found murdered sitting erect on the toilet seat. The coroner had de-termined that she was stabbed to death and that her death was immediate. There were no apparent signs of struggle. After three or four days of testimony, we were instructed by the judge to delib-erate. We were escorted from the courtroom and sequestered in a nearby small conference room with a policeman who guarded the door. If you had to go to the bathroom, he would escort you. As a jury member you were not allowed to leave the room without approval.

There were twelve people on the jury of diverse backgrounds and religions that reflected the populace of Brooklyn. The foreman, I discovered was the first juror chosen. He was a very refined man with a West Indian accent. By polling us, he discovered that except for one elderly man none of us had been on a murder case. Before we began discussing the evidence, the foreman suggested that we take an immediate vote by written ballot, assuming there were no objections. I thought this foreman was very smart. From my point of view, not unlike his, this seemed to be an open and shut case.

However, after tallying the ballots, 11-1 he said,

“Evidently there is one of us who feels the person is innocent. I think you should come forth and present your case.”

The elderly man turned out to be the only dissenter. Immediately, the rest of us pounced on him and began to question his position.

“How could you say this guy was not guilty?” We asked repeatedly. This bickering went on all morning.

My fellow jurors and I were becoming demonstratively upset.

“I need to get home.”

“We’ll be here all week.”

“Moron.”

“Some of us work.”

The man just would not budge. In the midst of this tirade, he said he had to go to the bath-room. The policeman came in and escorted him.

I took the opportunity to tell everyone,

“This is, perhaps the type of personality who will hold out. He’s in the driver’s seat, and the more your scream and yell, he will not change his position.”

So I continued, “Let’s try a different tactic – let’s try to ‘sweet talk him.’ Try to be nice even if it kills you.”

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When he came back, everybody was so sweet to him (I’ll call him Mr. Jones),

“Mr. Jones, maybe you have a point.”

We started to go over the evidence again, but this man would not budge. I saw people trying to repress their anger, but you could tell everyone was getting very annoyed. It was so obvious to me that the defendant was guilty.

Around 11:30 the guard came in and said, “I’m taking orders for lunch.” At that time, jurors got free and substantial lunches.

The requests for lunch were typical and as varied as those in the room, from knishes to Jamai-can patties. I stuck to my normal lunch fare of tuna fish and milk. But our obstinate colleague was the last to order and ordered enough to feed a small household: both pastrami and corned beef sandwiches, potato and macaroni salads on the side, two or three pickles, a Danish, a donut, and rounded it out with iced tea and coffee (lightly sweetened and light with milk). As if the rest of us weren’t annoyed enough with this guy, it took him what seemed like three lunch hours to finish his feast. At last when he was finished, he wiped his mouth with his napkin and folded it neatly on the table in front of him.

He then spoke for the first time, “You are all right. I think the guy is guilty.” Then it dawned on me, perhaps other jurors too, he wanted his free lunch! If he immediately said that he thought the guy was guilty, there would have been no lunch.

We were all ready to kill him. Rather than berate him, we thought better in case he changed his mind. At least, we would not end up eating dinner in that conference room, too.

After that, we told the guard that we had reached our decision. We were escorted into the courtroom, and the foreman gave the verdict. I thought it was interesting that after the foreman publicly related the jury’s decision, the lawyer for the defendant requested that each of us be polled individually. Of course, we were all a little nervous when it came to this man for we thought at the last minute he might back out. I had visions of him thinking, “What’s for dinner?” But he did say “guilty.”

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SOMEONE IN MINDTheodore Krulik

How can Lorraine pretend that nothing’s wrong? Laughing with her friends, raising her hand in class to answer questions, taking tests and getting the highest grades on them? I know all about the loan shark Fernando Eduard going after her father because of his gambling debts. I’ve seen Fer-nando’s face. Ugly black-eyed bastard.

Rain – that’s what she calls herself -- doesn’t want anyone to know. Her father’s hiding out someplace and nobody knows where. But Rain knows. She heard from her father, from Mehdi Hasranah. They even met once since he went on the run, on the bus going home from school. But they never talked. They didn’t have to. Rain and her father speak to each other through their minds.

She doesn’t know I know about that or about her father owing money to Fernando. She doesn’t know I can read minds too. She doesn’t know me at all. I won’t let her.

Social studies class. “Can anyone tell us,” Mrs. Lindsey says in her sharp voice, “why President Truman agreed to use the atomic bomb?”

Rain Hasranah raises her hand.

“Yes. Lorraine.”

“President Truman was told that an attack on Japan by the army would cost the lives of hun-dreds of thousands of our soldiers and take years to complete.”

I can feel the pride in Rain’s voice, in her breath, in her sense of self. She doesn’t have to get the answer from Mrs. Lindsey’s mind. I see it in the teacher’s mind, but I also see that Rain knows. I wish I could tell –

Who is that? comes Rain’s thought, seeking me out. Someone’s watching me. Thinking about me. A boy. Definitely. Someone here in class. Can’t tell who.

Can’t tell. Good. Almost caught me, Rain. I’m silent now. You won’t find me.

The bell rings. The students get up noisily and head for the door.

That was close! Her questions. She almost found me today. Almost. I’d like to tell her I know all about her. But I can’t. I have to keep it this way.

“Simon?” Rain says. “You’re in my English class seventh period, aren’t you?”

“Y-yes. I didn’t know you saw me.”

“Do you have last week’s writing assignment with you?”

“Sure. It’s in my notebook.”

“Could I borrow it? I’ll give it back in class.”

“Okay. Here.”

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“Thank you, Simon.”

I walk behind Simon to the next class. We have algebra together. I sit next to him, but he’s never talked to me. He doesn’t like Rain. Thinks she’s too smart. He’s imagining the face of Carol, a girl he’s known since sixth grade. Carol is his constant delight. His mind is filled with Carol.

That’s what true mind reading is, seeing things the way others do. When I’m inside people’s heads, I feel their joy, their anger, and their fear. I sense everything. When Rain is afraid, I feel her breathe faster. My own chest moves with her breathing.

Right now I’m there, in her head. Even though she’s on another floor, I can hear her thoughts. Why haven’t I heard from Dad? She’s thinking. Her mind is filled with his amiably smiling face. He’s not in the usual place anymore. Where is he?

Something’s changed and I’m afraid too. Afraid for Rain. You see, I know the answer to her question.

Fernando Eduard is a respected businessman with a large house. Everybody in town knows him. Since Rain’s father ran off, I’ve seen Fernando twice as I walked by his house. I’m locked onto his mind. I sense his thoughts even at a distance. He looks around all the time these days. He’s afraid of being caught.

Why’d that Indie guy try cutting me with his knife? Fernando wonders. He shoulda known better. I had to do it, dammit. No choice.

Fernando never gets his hands dirty. Except now. He’s scared.

I know where Rain’s father is buried.

I want to tell Rain. Tell her he’s safe. But I’d be lying. Could I pretend enough to fool her? Would she read the truth in my mind?

Better that I don’t let her know. I don’t ever want to see her hurt.

Besides, I like it in here.

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DESERT SPRINGRobin Lampman

Here on the desert spring is not a metaphor. It is not a symbol for anything. It is itself.

The morning moon lit up on both sides shines to shine and the birds sing not for me but just to sing.

Wild poppies do not give a wit whether they are weeds or flowers.

There is no word, no work of art, no virtual beauty to match the beauty of the snow-capped mountains.

Water running over rocks accidentally soothes my babbling brain while sun shines through me as if I were a leaf.

Here city sadness fades away. Time turns no pages and the terrible, terrifying not knowing of the real and present world is gone.

Unpainted clouds move across the morning, a million mornings no two clouds and no two mornings just the same.

Warm now in the desert day of spring I remember who I am. I am myself – not a symbol, not a metaphor for anything.

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IS ANYONE OUT THERE?William Lemmon

The desolate, pock marked, gray surface of the moon Looks like the aftermath of a nuclear war. Amidst this environment, a lone lunar explorer Gives a salutation to the universe, Body tilted backward, arms extended outward, Palms facing upward. A 2004 painting by astronaut-artist Alan Bean stretches the imagination Like a gigantic rubberband.

With feet implanted on the moon’s Rough, rocky, rolling surface This explorer ponders the possibility Of other life forms on distant planets. His mind is bombarded with ideas Like a rapid firing machine gun, Including humanoid life forms, strange creatures And unique plants of all varieties.

If I were in that lunar space suit, I would feel awe and Inspiration. My spirituality from earth would Be transferred to the moon. I would feel the oneness with my surroundings Like a Tibetan Monk.

Colonization of the moon would enhance Our search for other life forms. Life would be different, but challenging, Interesting and fulfilling. The search has begun. The question will be answered, “Is anyone out there?”

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HALCYON DAYSMartin H. Levinson

Fifty years ago I throw a pink Spalding rubber ball against the front stairs of a semi-detached two-story house facing Lefferts Avenue in the Flatbush section of Brooklyn where my friend Jonny Ross lives with a mother not very happy to have balls banging off the entrance steps to her house but not chasing us away from playing stoopball.

Her husband does the dirty work lecturing me on the sanctity of private property and the need to respect the wishes of your elders and all I can say is the rules of stoopball are simple, you throw the ball against the stairs and try to catch it on a fly or a bounce—catch it on a bounce you get five points, on a fly you get ten.

A pointer is a ball that hits the edge of a step and shoots back fast like a Russian rocket and if you catch it it’s worth a hundred points but drop the ball at any time and you’re out and your op-ponent takes over and you’re out if you throw the ball and miss the steps completely, a bonehead play that will really rattle Mrs. Ross, who doesn’t like “Spaldeens” slamming against her front door.

The winning score is a thousand points, but it can be anything agreed on and we love stoopball more than punchball, boxball, hit the penny, two-hand touch, Johnny-on-the-pony, flipping cards, box games, erector sets, maybe not as much as stickball but a guy gets tired of playing stickball every single day and you were a kid once too weren’t you Mr. Ross?

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NINETEEN FIFTY-SEVENMartin H. Levinson

Eleven years young, lost in the Prospect Park woods with my friend Alan Weberman, a beatnik who doesn’t play stickball or shoot water pistols but does a French beret, black turtleneck sweater, bongo-playing kind of thing.

Trying to find a way out of a five-hundred-eighty-five acre urban wilderness in the heart of deepest Brooklyn with no maps, canteens, food, or compass and cell phones not invented.

Far from Sol’s candy store and vanilla egg creams, chocolate Clark Bars, Drake’s pound cakes, cherry lime rickeys, and long salted pretzels in plastic see-through bins.

Far from the Patio Movie Theater with double features, cartoons, newsreels, and a goldfish pond in the lobby to throw pennies into.

Far from Jahn’s Ice Cream Parlor and the Kitchen Sink, a hodgepodge of ice cream, chocolate syrup, whipped cream, maraschino cherries, and a concatenation of other things that can serve up to six.

Far from the Empire Rollerdrome, Freddie Fitzsimmons Bowling Alley, Ebinger’s Bakery, Erasmus Hall High School, and Ebbets Field, home of the ‘55 world champs and ’57 world chumps who left Flatbush for LA.

Far from college, marriage, work, retirement, and a remote home in the country away from the racket, hubbub, and delights of inner-city childhood life.

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ONE DAY AT THE BEACHBarbara Levitt

Our saga began on a sunny beachy day Not a darkened cloud dared to threaten the sky The children were having a great time at play Protected by lifeguards perched bravely nearby

Some toddlers were shoveling sand into pails As swimmers and surfboards rode tumbling waves Sleek boats on the ocean were flaunting their sails Food purchased from vendors won customer’s raves

The long fisherman’s pier was each sportsman’s dream And catching prize specimens was everyone’s wish No set type of pole bait was viewed as extreme In order to snare a superlative fish.

Tucked away from the large hopeful line-casting crowd Were volley ballplayers tossing balls over nets Licensed dogs on the boardwalk, the city allowed So fond owners strolled with their leashed, loving pets

Blasting heat from above made the temperature boil And wide-topped umbrellas were opened for shade Beached bodies were smeared with slick suntan oil Resulting in tans which in future would fade

The day seemed so perfect, a joy all could treasure A wonderful place just to rest and relax But nature’s contempt for this innocent pleasure Was the ultimate, finalized, dangerous axe

The shoreline was facing a wet, raging torrent Of menacing water that flooded the sand A drumbeat of echoes increasing each moment As thunder and rain deafened ears of the land

Trumpets of lightning bolts trampled the scene Electrical concerts of sound filled the air A musical message no longer serene Warning all people it’s time to beware

What started out as a fun beach day Ended when everyone scampered away!

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DESTINY IN ABEYANCEJanet Lieberman

Beloved father, cherished husband My grandfather Isaiah, (anglicized “Harry”) Your passionate gaze reaches out across generations…

Idealistic lamplighter, thrust into turmoil Valiantly strives for decent life Delivering loved ones, this “promised land” Generous patriarch dares to yearn… Skilled tailor, charismatic speaker Esteemed union activist, defies poverty Peacemaker Isaiah dares to dream… Old country Russian-Jewish melodies Reverberate through tenement walls…

Days lengthen, dreams darken Malignant shadows abandon your brilliance Beautiful dreamer, death bed entreaty “remember” Adored lamplighter, we weep for your untimely end Light weeps in my eyes, throat tightens Sharing dreams, “I remember!”

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ODE TO AN OLD STUFFED CHAIRJocelyne Lindor

You greet me with soft open arms as a mother enfolds her child

lovingly in her bosom None too gently I plop down

on your padded lap where I can feel the lumps and ridges

of the springs sticking out like the ribs of a malnourished kid

You, my refuge, I curl into you whenever my body clamors for rest

You comfort me on my SAD days give me solace when I am drowning

in self pity help me focus when I am confused

and ponder some unanswerable enigma

In the middle of the night When Morpheus deserts me and

my bed no longer procures the restoring sleep I desire

I throw my legs over one stuffed arm while my head rests on your back

You are old and due for an overhaul Should I give you a makeover

I really do not want to you would lose your identity I fear, and deprive me of the

one last tangible memory of Marlene

my sister, my friend so brutally taken from me

on that dreadful November twenty when the grim reaper and his drunken acolyte

cut short her days among us

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METAMORPHOSISJocelyne Lindor

They met when she was sixteen And immediately she was smitten

He was so handsome tall and strong

His cool demeanor seduced her She wanted stability

In her unbalanced life, Calm to the agitated sea of her teen age world

One brooding look was all it took For her to be completely sold

So, like a child, starry eyed dreaming “happily ever after,”

trustingly put her hand in his, and naively gave her heart

But just like the cat slinking away after getting the cream,

or the chameleon slowly shifting color from pink professed love

to yellow jealousy, from blue tenderness to red anger,

slowly her eviscerated dream became total disillusion for oh cruel deception

her knight in shining armor, her hero, her prince charming

had morphed into a miserable toad, warts and all

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A MOTHER’S PRAYERMadeline Mandel

I stand by the darkened window, hoping my son soon to see. Why is he late? Is he safe? Where, oh where, can he be?

Not so long ago, his small hands were nestled securely in my own; But now that he’s reaching manhood, he is out late in the night all alone.

Fear holds my heart…sorrow trembles my brow; I sheltered him close…who will watch over him now?

I will pray, I say as I bow my sleepless head, That the hand of g-d and a mother’s love will guide him safely to his bed.

It’s not that I can’t accept that this precious child is almost a man, It’s just that it’s been my instinct to protect him when I can.

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INTIMACYSusan Melot

While all the other girls with mothers cozily collaborated on womanly things we spoke through our grand’s ready keys – You smiled at my Bach or Mozart, touched by my musical zeal. Had you thought: my daughter can do what I cannot! No, we didn’t talk and talk as mothers with daughters do. Something else we listened and listened as you changed records: in silence listening we formed a community of souls – On occasion, I accompanied you on shopping expeditions or record hunting where you indulged me with chocolate éclairs or Juniors’ ice cream sodas and you gave me all you could.

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CIRCLING THROUGHSusan Melot

Every day I perform the same chores inside my house and inside of time – I hear around me daily important events I feel the soothing lull inside my own activities. I would crochet inside times slow stupor – a kind of release from myself a melding within the soft fabric. Similar tasks from long ago, once, seemingly discrete and particular, now, appear to flow together. It almost seems like any age; myself, any age – One medieval moment I could be drawing water from a well – in yet another era I’m a girl enclosed, on purpose, within the home. From here on Earth we can glimpse way into the depth of space-time where the past still lives, expanding indefinitely

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MOUNTAIN LAKEKathyn Mets

When we were children we swam in a spring-fed mountain lake in 45° weather teeth chattering lips turning blue telling our mothers it wasn’t cold

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LIFE-TIMES AGOKathryn Mets

Before its many face-lifts Lincoln Center had everything until, with advanced technology Avery Fischer was able to donate large sums of money toward Avery Fischer Hall.

I preferred live. The energy emitted prior to a performance; the audience rushing in to be seated. The lights dimming........ After the performance, we’d go across the street to O’Neal’s Saloon: low key, low lights, quasi-European flavor; solid wooden tables, mellow ambience, pitcher of red wine, refilling our glasses a few times; brilliant conversations, thick gooey chili topped with onions and cheese. Large windows to look out of to see our favorite “ballerina” Rudolf Nureyev run to his limo.

Was it our youth?

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SCHOOLYARD DREAMSTed Mieszczanski

It took a long time to sit down and write this. Honestly, I’m not sure why I’m doing it. It takes a lot of gall to think you’ve got something worth listening to. Well here goes.

I came to the game a complete stranger. My family didn’t think much of sports. Life was about being serious. You had to study, work hard because someday that effort would save you from im-pending disaster. What disaster didn’t matter, another one was always coming.

Sometimes, on the weekends I would roam the streets, but no one ever seemed to be around. Then one day everything changed. For a shy immigrant kid it was a big step but I chanced it. I discovered America in a schoolyard. It was so much fairer inside the fence than outside of it. All you had to do was play by the rules and try your best. In return you were made fun of but still allowed to play. A place that gave you a chance, at last! I went from being a “greenhorn” to the kid who could pass the ball. I loved that place. The ball, the hoop, the place all came together to make something special. It wasn’t just a concrete yard it was the glue that attached us all. Sounds like heaven doesn’t it?

The best players would show up there on the weekends to do the things we only imagined in our afterschool games. The battles were epic. I watched and watched and slowly I learned how to, “Talk the talk and walk the walk!” But that still wasn’t the same as, “Havin’ game.” The schoolyard fed my imagination. I watched people dancing in the air on those courts. Art was being created, beauty being explained. It was spiritual and more important, it was shared. Here was a secret wait-ing to be discovered. The people out there were recreating themselves. This was as beautiful as any sunset and far more unpredictable.

The most exciting part of all this was flying. That’s right, flying! The players went up, up and stayed there. Take a big step, push off hard and try to soar! Turn, dip, pump, rise, but most impor-tant, hang, baby, hang!

Eventually I learned the secret from Sam, a black teenager five years older than me. Sam was cool. He was my size but seemed way bigger. A porkpie hat with a gangster lean, a fresh toothpick and a rolling step were Sam’s signature. His jumper was average, but the magic happened whenever he flowed to the hoop. Luckily he also had a soft spot for the weak, feebleminded and defenseless. He loved me from day one.

Sam could care less about the Laws of Gravity. He’d lift off, glide about four feet through the air, switch hands, float on and double pump effortlessly. I studied Sam’s moves jealously but I couldn’t get close. Fortunately I wasn’t observant enough to conclude that Sam was black and I wasn’t. I kept searching for another reason besides practice, practice, and practice. There had to be one be-cause I was already doing that.

It came, but very, very slowly. My answer was growing deep within. Its target was somewhere bigger.

Visualize! It demanded. See yourself moving! Spin, rise then FLY! This is who you are! This moment is yours. Run, leap, breathe, float, BE! God has given you this moment to define yourself. You’ve a new reason to draw a breath.

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Pretty poetic, huh? You realize by now we’re talking major obsession here? Nights become a director’s reel of moving bodies twisting, rising always finding a different path to the hoop. Rise baby! HANG! Sitting in the movies becomes reruns of, “Great Moves I Have Made, and Even Greater Ones I Want To Make!”

You think this is some kind of joke, some kind of rite of teenage passage? Maybe, maybe not. A few years pass and we’re playing ball in a neighborhood that doesn’t have a schoolyard. They have an, “athletic complex.” We win a few games and a guy from the other team comes over and sits down next to me. He introduces himself then asks, “How do you manage to stay up in the air after we’re on the way down?” My dream came true in a schoolyard. I learned to fly.

Thank you Sam.

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PUBLIC GARDENSTeena Miller

a place of colors, scents people walking, admiring hearts gladdening enjoying ravishing blooms a myriad of jewels spent leaves removed wild beauty perfected in neatly manicured rows perfume of roses in the air senses overtaken souls calmed best medicine I know

83

THE SMOOTH PATH Teena Miller

a paved circular path around the lake where I begin is where I end no twigs or trash to impede no bumps to trip comforting, familiar journey path cleaned every day a safe one

but oh those mountains effort on the uphill stumbling on rocks out of breath covered with sweat on a summer day

glistening rivers below blue jays screeching above a frightful grizzly passing me to pick blueberries by the lake excitement at every bend the unexpected and unknown

84

MISTEAKConstance Mitchell

….Excuse me, didn’t we go to college together? He said as they waited on line for a screening at a movie house.

….Yes, I believe that we did, way back when, she answered smiling.

….It must be forty years, he said.

….Not so loud, she cautioned.

….But you look the same, he assured her as they found their seats.

….He asked what she had been doing over the years.

….I’m retired but I manage to keep busier than before.

….Busy at what?

….Volunteering, courses, community theater.

The credits began to roll.

….He whispered, I don’t like talking during a film, do you?

….No, of course not.

Later, he walked with her to the bus stop.

….He complained that the film was awful. It was contrived, the dialogue stilted, the acting amateurish and the directing spotty.

….She said that it really wasn’t that bad. She thought that the acting was quite good in fact.

The bus came.

….He said, if you’re in the book, I’ll call you. Goodnight.

Two days later he rang her.

….I have passes for an eight o’clock screening tonight, if you’d like to go. I can’t get there until seven forty-five. Why don’t you get on line around seven so that we can get decent seats?

….Fine, she told him.

As he walked with her to the bus stop later, he mentioned a pending eviction from his East Village apartment. He had not received the notice of a rent increase and had continued paying as usual. Now he was being taken to court.

….What will happen if the court doesn’t find in your favor?

….Beats me. I don’t suppose that you have ever had such a problem?

….No, she assured him. I bought a brownstone some years ago.

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She took a fan from her purse.

….My, but it’s humid. I’ll be glad for the air conditioning tonight. I guess you will too?

….I don’t have air conditioning. A friend offered to give me a used one last summer but I didn’t take it.

….Why not? Even an old one is better than none at all.

….That may be, he said.

There was a long pause which she filled with a question.

….Have you been watching the Nature special on PBS this week?

….I don’t have a television set just now.

….How do manage without a TV?

….Remember the radio and books? He raised his eyebrows and his voice.

He called frequently in the following weeks. He would ask what she was preparing for dinner. She asked him how the eviction hearing went and if he had passed the music theory exam that he had worried so about. For although he did not have a piano, he had mentioned that he took lessons and practiced at a senior center near his house. During one of the calls, he invited himself to din-ner.

She watched from the parlor window as he walked down the street checking the house numbers along the way. It had rained very hard for most of the day and the air was heavy, the sky somber. He carried a large umbrella and wore the long sleeved white shirt, non-descript wash pants and white tennis shoes that he had worn at the screenings.

….come in. you’re right on time.

….What a day, he said handing her the umbrella.

He moved from room to room without being prompted. Chin thrust forward, eyes squinting. He read the book titles on the shelves and asked about the paintings on the walls. He sat in an over-sized chair for a moment surveying the room and then switched to a sofa.

….Can I get you a drink before dinner?

….A little early for me, he said.

Odd he should say that she thought. She smelled alcohol on his breath when he arrived.

….I’m having one.

….Then I’ll have one too.

She tried to make conversation. He paid little attention, looking up only occasionally from his plate.

She became aware of a clicking sound but couldn’t place it. Before long she realized his teeth were the source.

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….More salad? She coaxed.

….No, this is plenty. In fact, I can’t finish all the steak. Wrap it for me, will you?

….Of course. Coffee?

Neither spoke for a long time as they watched an old movie on television.

….Let me get you fresh coffee.

He handed her his cup.

….That was a pretty good film, he said standing.

….Yes, I thought so too. Don’t forget the steak and your umbrella.

She watched him grow smaller as he walked down the street with the umbrella protecting him from the down pour.

87

THE DOG WALKERDan Moinester

In Park Slope one dog owner stood out from all others. Short and stocky with unkempt hair, gray-ing at the temples, she had a bulbous nose, missing teeth and wore black combat boots along with a tattered coat, even in warm weather. The dog, graying around the snout, walked with that decidedly slow and unsteady gait of an aging life. What distinguished these two from other Park Slope pairs was not their appearance but the woman’s demeanor, not discernable until you neared her and her dog. As you approached she transformed from a mild mannered dog walker into a raging woman spewing every form of foul language, but not at you. It was her dog who was the recipient of these epithets. After you passed, her vitriol ended as suddenly as it had begun and she was transformed back into the placid dog walker waiting patiently for her dog to do its business. The first time I witnessed this I was taken aback by her sudden eruption. But, after numerous incidents, she became just an amusing sight on the landscape of Park Slope. Two encounters changed that.

The first one occurred when I discovered her walking her dog inside my neighbor’s garden. I had just stepped out of my house when I noticed my neighbor and her daughter sitting in their parlor window watching with trepidation as this woman promenaded with her dog through their carefully planted rows of impatiens, daisies and begonias. I decided to intervene. I crossed the street. She saw me approaching. I expected her to follow her typical pattern, begin cursing and yelling at her dog and then walk away. Instead she looked straight at me and as I neared hollered, “What are you looking at, baldy!?” I stopped cold, at first stunned that she even spoke to me. But I was more astonished by her acumen, her ability to generate the precise remark that would thwart my ap-proach. Pleased with how she had kept me at bay, she turned, took her dog out of the garden and walked quietly away.

I was now intrigued. She was not just some crazy person I passed on the street. She was capable of a sharp and clever tongue. I wondered what more lay beyond this clamorous exterior. I decided that the next time we passed I would engage her. I did not have long to wait for a few days later, on my way home from work, I spotted her and her dog. As I neared she began her usual diatribe, cursing her dog, planning to finish when I was a safe distance away. But this time I ignored the ranting, stopped in front of her, looked straight at her and in a calm voice said, “Hello. How are you?” It worked. She immediately stopped her cursing and returned my look. For a few seconds we stood, eyes locked, me with this pleasant grin, she with a curious look.

Then she replied, not in the way I imagined but with a retort proffered with mocking irony, “What are you, some kind of social worker?”

Again she had articulated exactly what would halt my approach. I turned and walked away. And, although even more fascinated, I understood that under this extreme exterior was someone who just wanted to be left alone.

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I DON’T WANT TO LET HER GODaniel Moinester

My granddaughter, four weeks new, Resting in my arms so comfortably.

I listen to the rhythm of her breathing. Her soft head reclining in my hand. Her warm body pressed against mine. I stare in disbelief at this miracle of life. I don’t want to let her go.

I hum soft sounds to let her know, She is secure right now with her grandfather. When she fusses, I stand and rock, As she returns to blissful sleep. I don’t want to let her go.

But wires are attached to her chest, Monitoring all her vitals. Beeping to alert the nurse, Of the danger that lurks within. I can’t let her go.

Two times they have opened her chest, To repair a malfunctioning valve. Two times the surgery has failed. As that god damn valve resists restoring. Please, don’t take her.

Enfolded, that sweet innocent, in my embrace. You’re still safe in Grandpa’s arms. But I know and fear what awaits you. I don’t ever want to let you go. I don’t ever want to let you go.

89

MY INHERITANCECarol Ann Nasta

The seed that burst into wildflower junk got a stranglehold.

Clutter is my company, my comfort, my compulsion, Oppressive, alive.

“Let life’s detritus Proliferate, go forth and destroy all spaces

or

corpses will fill them.”

90

DOCTOR’S TIMESelma Newman

When I would go to see the doctor no matter the appointment time or whether early, on time, or late I would always have to wait.

Once I came two hours late the receptionist wanted to know did I know my appointment time? I told her two hours prior to now furiously she said to me the doctor can’t wait for you I said that I wait two hours for him sometimes, when he is late her reply, it’s not that he’s on a coffee break, now you will really have to wait!

I sat down in the crowded waiting room people there smiled or frowned my way in a few minutes, resigned for the long stay I heard my name, the nurse had called me!

Into the examining room came the doctor he remarked to me, if you are unhappy here there are plenty of other doctors to see.” I think he had too many patients and had not any patience for me.

91

ONCE –TIGERTasha Paley

He stands there, like a carnival at midnight, closed down for repairs.

His sizzled face, unshaven, in the burning light.

This Once – Tiger who had shone emerald in the moonlight, who had regaled his lovers like lacey lightning,

Now sighs, his tongue hanging heavy, like a cow’s udder.

“Moldy Artichoke!” they taunt “Spineless Starfish!” “Worthless Worm Head!” “Stinky Fart Face”!”

He hikes his pants up, in self-defense, to cover his war torn butt,

Hands, a soggy wet mop, hanging, with fingers fungused,

He shuffles, the Thorazine Shuffle, in bedroom slippers, on the cement pavement,

Descending the subway steps to the mole hole where the homeless live.

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I PICK MY TEETH WITH A SATIN PINTasha Paley

I wear red

The Scarlet Flaming Dame

I capture men in the balls of my eyes,

I stuff them in the bulges of my bra.

I milk them dry, I slide so sly I slink across the room to fetch a cup of tea eyes follow me my sounds, click click, red heels upon the floor.

Swaying hips, smooth cherry stockings, red garter belt,

The Scarlet Flaming Dame

Subtly I spy them, I catch them, I eat them.

I pick my teeth with a satin pin.

I spit tobacco juice.

They groan, they jeer, I jest

Their eyes like slot machines watch the whirly twirly of my butt, my strutting butt.

I lift my chin I toss my head I sidle towards the door

While greedy lips and eyes and tongues and hanging parts cry “more!”

93

a poem of farewell to two wonderful birds unless we stop climate change

Dorothy Prideaux

rufous hummingbirds their habitat diminished still time to save them

beating wings thumb-sized bird beating heart swallows my words beating beauty into mystery and joy rusty rufous a little poetry machine

trumpeter swans horn blast a call that names its beauty still time to save them

grace flowing with elegance gathering their young sailing away sailing beauty into mystery and joy snowy trumpeter a grand poetry machine

94

clutter clearance almostDorothy Prideaux

my journals like old photos live in a brown box on the closet floor behind my shoes

glancing at my writings about myself I puzzle over the likeness a stranger’s sad sounds and songs

tendrils of uncertainty longing and loneliness no longer entangle my heart

still I look away embarrassed by the intensity of these emotions my throat constricts belly churns I pull the lid up and over leave them to sleep more this time in front of the shoes

tomorrow or maybe the day after I might try again to meet their gaze and toss them into a big black trash bag

but then again I might send them back to be with the shoes just a little while longer

95

FRIENDSHIPFrances Rosenfeld

Four years old

shy, nervous not wanting acknowledgment

Graduating nursery school walking in a procession tears flowing wet cheeks

Me, standing at the sideline watching this loveliness throwing her kisses

Not wanting to embarrass her walking away

Someone pulling at me cleaving the line

a small voice asks grandma, why did you leave?

Swooping her up in my arms smothering each other with kisses

Two proud people Grandmother/ Granddaughter

96

SACCO AND VANZETTINathaniel Rosenfeld

From the time I was seven Until I was eleven, I knew them or thought I knew them.

I knew nothing about them except, that they were heroes to my parents.

My mother and my father were devoted socialists. Each year on the anniversary of the trial of Sacco and Vanzetti, my parents spent a few minutes discussing their conviction.

I did not understand what they were discussing. I only knew that in my family Sacco and Vanzetti were regarded as “good guys.”

They had been put to death for defending the labor movement.

Today, I can “Google” them, research my parents’ heroes, saint or sinners too long gone.

97

MATHOM-HOUSEJudith Karish Rycar

Tolkein invented mathoms objects of no worth collected by hobbits passed from hand to hand as birthday gifts, finally coming to rest in mathom-houses, museums of worthless objects

like my house, sometimes, filled with detritus of others: a painting of the holy family with a unicorn, the carved image of a man hands carefully placed to remain chaste, small objects from china more tarnish than silver origin lost to time, a pair of candelabra bronze cherubs balance on marble bases holding a spray of arms for candles, tiny yellow woolen suit first worn by father, military hats from the war and a silken standard, sun disc of Japan

some are beloved, others tolerated, soon to be moved to a mathom-house for our times, otherwise known as Goodwill

98

GATE 73 DESTINATIION: NEURO ICUCassandra Smith

Walking dazed, dragging a red rolling suitcase Her favorite color – the color of blood Searching, shouting, superimposing, shocking surprises coming out of nowhere Running, recklessly – remembering a call received On my cell phone – in the beauty parlor under the dryer Car crash, confusion coloring common sense Buses leaving the Greyhound station without me Numbers, signs, all mixed up

Following a girl with purple hair and a diamond Nose ring reaching out for my hand – both of us climbing aboard the bus, me – the last one boarding right before it pulled off Looking out the window – seeing nothing Trying to read my Kindle stuck, staying stuck – on the same sentence My daughter in the ICU – picture painted, planted, playing Over and over in my head

Bits and pieces, fragments flying around blindly Like a bat hung upside down Car crash, concussion, bleeding behind the brain stem – will My bus crash too? Before I can reach her, hold her hand – tell her I’m there beside her – with her How long was the ride? Forever! Did a passenger sit beside me? I don’t know

Big black car waiting for me at the station-not a hearse speeding me to the ICU, my daughter- plugged up to machines beeping sounds, lines moving up and down on screens Her eyes opening for a minute, seeing me, smiling through her pain I can breathe again-heart no longer pounding furiously in my chest...

99

AGELESSRoslyn Sokoloff

It is very fashionable today to change many things about ourselves that we used to think were permanent. If you don’t like your face, you can look like someone else. Gender is no longer taken for granted. Somebody else can give birth to your genetic baby. And so on and so forth.

I have a challenge too. I very often find that I’m uncomfortable being strictly with my own age group. I think I get more stimulated with the sixty-niners (age group) then the eighty-niners (age group).

I discovered this about myself when I joined these two mah jongg groups – one the sixty-nin-ers, the other eighty-niners. With one foot planted in each game, my feet so far apart I hoped that I didn’t fall into that “in between age” that is always suffered by teen agers.

Luckily my bridge groups, writing groups, yoga and water aerobics, attract all ages. I am very happy with this diversity.

I think I’ll put out a questionnaire that will help people to find their true age. Birthdays should not define you!

100

MORE SNOWE. Mildred Speiser

earth bound

down feathers the ground

town sounds soften

white mounds heighten

drifts pile high

ice rifts rise

footfalls founder

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DECEMBERE. Mildred Speiser

Broadway forests flourish camouflage city streets

pungent pines line the way

green canopies wreathed in lights

sparkling skyscrapers white winter sky pink sunset glow

red poinsettias

December!

102

ITALIAN-AMERICAN CULTURE TRANSPOSEDAngelina Spero

Lights dimming on the charter bus repetitive raindrops against the windshield tic-toc of wipers in a metronome beat soon induce a drowsiness in me.

I’ll set aside, for now, recollection of today’s programs at the conference panels, professors: an intellectual smorgasbord of contemporary Italian-American culture.

I soon awaken to the strumming of strings from Sammy’s mandolin, as Tina takes to the aisle of the bus clapping her hands, swinging her hips her cheeks on fire in a lively polka, when un signore steps up leads her in a tantalizing tango reaching, bending, swaying his eyes in a seductive stare.

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IN THE DENTIST’S CHAIRAngelina Spero

Positioning themselves as in a performance he to my left, she to my right the dentist and his nurse. Sounds of clinking metal gushing water, muffled whispers feel of scraping on my tooth pushing, pulling, seeming like a forklift excavating an imbedded rock; my legs stretching, stiffening hands grasping the chair’s arm rests.

Please let it be over! more poking, pushing, pulling how many more times? and when?

Removing his mask, report from the dentist “Such an easy one, Angelina piece of cake” his nurse, patting my back: “good girl, Ang, and remember, not hot or cold to drink.”

As I leave, in bold letters, the sign “Ralph’s Italian Ices” confronts me from across the road; everyone licking the frosty confection for me to turn away – for another day.

104

A MOTHER’S WORDS OF PRAISEFlorence Strauss

I scored one hundred on all my tests I thought it would gladden your heart. My report card’s all A’s I star in class plays, Mama….tell me I’m smart.

I’ve tried not wearing my glasses. I can’t see if boys look at me. My nose seems less wide, My red hair is my pride, Mama….tell me I’m pretty.

I’m a very obedient daughter, I do everything that I should. I’ve stayed on the track, I don’t answer back. Mama….tell me I’m good.

105

WAITING IN THE BLUE ROOMFlorence Strauss

I’m waiting Sitting on the hard, blue plastic chair. I wait for my name to be called. There’s just me and the person behind the desk. I gave her my name when I got here, A half hour too early. She told me to have a seat. And so I sit here waiting. Waiting! Waiting! I stare at the blue-gray walls. The shade is too dark, I decide. Blue is the color of quiet, But this blue space disquiets me. I try to determine the area of the room By counting the ceiling tiles. I study the two framed paintings Blending in with the blue walls. One is a scene with a pale blue sea. Above it is darker blue mountains And the white tops of dwellings. Without life, it blends into the blue wall it hangs on. The other, a vase of flowers on a table. Dull and faded and blue. Have they too been waiting forever in that room And are now ready to be trashed? Finally I hear my name called. I follow the person leading me out of the blue room, Saying good-bye to the faded flowers and lifeless landscape. My waiting is not over. It is just beginning.

106

LADY IN A ROCKERDotti Anita Taylor

she sits upon her favorite rocker contemplating a long lived life every strand of white hair earned through moments of conquering challenges every wrinkle filled with knowledge acquired by maintaining an open mind to life every fold of her garment rests quietly over her body

her lips lay at attention but do not part her mind holds the key to wisdom her eyes speak to me make me sad and happy for they utter struggle and hardship yet strength and wonderment

she sits in a world of her own embraced by nature she wonders… she waits…

107

GAMESDotti Anita Taylor

Given the ability to communicate that ability is over-looked, resisted, ignored, touched lightly if at all only to pick up artillery or anything capable of destroying the very thing that is the centerpiece of life on earth – mankind

Lessons learned from film depictions of Cowboys and Indians, Bonnie and Clydes, playful shoot-em-up games of little boys and girls at holiday times when gifts spill over the realm of that which is delightful, fun, or joyful, are often destructive too

Little thought is given to the long-term effect of those early years filled with playful battle, strong desires for and protection of “mine,” excessive needs for being – finalist, first, foremost this or that, most powerful, controller, string-puller, “…est” in anything

Future, at any time, untangles situations by calling upon our “ready for life” young men and women, dressing them in green garb, equipping them with real toys of yesteryear, instructing them to go-get’em for whatever the cause, knowing the possibility of their never returning home

Games children play become real life events supposedly for the greater good

Games adults execute based on greed jeopardize the existence of mankind Effort-filled communication could be the peaceful key for disentanglement

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UNEXPRESSED GRATITUDE – MY AUNT HANNAH STORYGloria Taylor

Aunt Hannah was a family member I will always remember. She was ever so supportive of my father and his entire family when our more ‘WORTHY’ aunts and uncles who lived in close proximity did not seem to recognize us. She was one of ten children (including my father) of my paternal grandparents, an African father and an Irish mother.

She was of a fair complexion with pleasant countenance and always wore a smiling face. Her deep dimpled cheeks and bright hazel eyes added much attraction to her beautifully chiseled face. Aunt Hannah was the second wife of Manny Crooks a very wealthy farmer in the community who was many years her senior. They had a large family– ten children. Their huge, elaborate dwell-ing, one of the landmarks in the community was situated conspicuously on a mound off the main road that spans the chief towns of two parishes. Life for Aunt Hannah’s family was comfortable and they enjoyed good financial stability.

My father, of a lower income status, with a similarly large family was unable at times to provide adequately for his family as the small farm he depended on failed to be productive sufficiently to maintain the family’s needs. When those periods of financial drought occurred in my family, Aunt Hannah would always send us as frequently as possible provision from her farm and whatever else was needed to sustain us for days.

Aunt Hannah was a person who loved life. She was jovial yet a real disciplinarian who could separate fun time from serious diligent study periods. She was the life of her household and her home would often buzz with visitors and relatives. She loved music and would delight us and her children with music from her victrola and gramophone with records of popular songs, music from the movies and religious selections. She knew many modern dance steps of that age and would spritely select a child as partner or pull Manny from his chair to entertain us.

It was a pleasure to visit Aunt Hannah’s home or having her family visit us. The camaraderie and family bonding was astounding. Apart from being kind and generous she was very perceptive. She seemed to read our faces like a book and knew when something was not quite right. She would not blatantly ask questions but rather encourage us to keep striving for a better future. She was confident that things would change although at times those situations may even get worse before the change comes.

Her words seemed so prophetic for change did come for the worse. My father passed away when I was thirteen years of age and harder times did come but we never lost hope for Aunt Han-nah was supportive. As I turn back the curtains of time to those days, I remember Aunt Hannah sharing my mother’s grief and assisting in so many ways to create situations to satisfy our needs.

Her time of infectious laughter, hospitality and intense devotion came to an end with the pass-ing of her beloved Manny four years after my father. Soon after, the five adult children left the farm and home for the neon lights of the city, to further their education and to seek more lucra-tive employment. Although there were capable farm helpers who served them faithfully over the years, the vast property was too difficult a task for Aunt Hannah to manage. These adverse condi-tions, stress and manual labor to which Aunt Hannah was unaccustomed depleted her health.

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Regrettably, Aunt Hannah passed away after a short illness before I was able to show or express a tangible gratitude for her love, kindness and support.

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KALEPaula Thesing

A nutritionist told me I do not eat enough dark green leafy vegetables. I should eat a lot more. Especially kale. It has bazillion vitamins good for anything that might ail me.

“Everyone loves kale nowadays,” she told me. “It is incredibly popular. Recipes for kale can be found in magazines from Bon Appetit to Woman’s Day. If you want to be healthy eat kale.”

That’s great and I certainly want to be healthy. However, there is one little problem. Kale tastes awful. I sort of hesitate to say this because I will be greeted by protests about how great it is. The pro kale contingent is getting harder and harder to ignore.

I sat at a lovely outdoor restaurant and watched a dear friend consume an entire kale salad. She said she loved it. The waitress and I exchanged a look only the kale opposition can understand. Was this smart woman deluded by the kale conspirators out there who try to get us all to eat health-fully at any price?

No caffeine, no liquor, no fat or all fat. No flour, no sugar. Forget salt. In other words no any-thing with taste, so maybe if you go this route your taste buds get assimilated and out of sheer desperation start liking anything.

So I bought some kale and looked up some recipes for salad. The pictures were beautiful. “Massage with virgin olive oil, add balsamic vinegar and grate some Parmigiano Reggiano over it,” I read.

I massaged for five minutes. Nothing like an edible salad was emerging so I added salt. Five minutes more of the massage. It still tasted like weeds. Then another five minutes. My fingers were getting tired. I sprinkled it with some vinegar not balsamic, I was darned if I was going to rush out and buy new vinegar for a bunch of kale. I didn’t have Parmigiano either, but isn’t Romano ok? Plus a little bit more of a massage to assuage my inner critic. I tasted it. Oh dear, it was terrible.

My daughter told me I had purchased the wrong kale for salads. I needed kale from a Farmers Market.

My sister-in-law suggested I try baby kale.

At my local Farmers Market, I discovered there were many kinds of kale; curly, Russian, Sibe-rian, Tuscan, Lacinato or Dinosaur to the cognoscenti.

I didn’t see that baby kale through.

I’ve tried some of these. I steamed Tuscan, I sautéed Siberian. I’ve massaged all of them and I still say kale is awful. It tastes like rubberized spinach. Or the vegetable version of octopus. You can chew it forever and still have to choke it down.

My mom cooked kale with a couple of links of kielbasa or a nice hunk of ham. Cooked not steamed and particularly not massaged in a salad. She cooked it for hours and while edible and even sort of good it still took more than a bit of chewing to get it down.

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I’ll be darned if I am going to massage any vegetable for 15 minutes.

I will go back and Google more recipes in order to get all those nutrients. Or maybe I will just eat more spinach. Like Popeye told me too.

I really will.

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BROOKLYN BRIDGERita Timmer

One more exam! One more final oral exam! Just one more to obtain, finally, the desired teach-er’s certificate in the United States! This exam is nothing particular – some kind of abstraction. I have to be able to pass a conversation regarding school and education. The irony of it is that just before leaving the Soviet Union; I finished all the required steps necessary to become officially a college professor.

After miraculously passing long essays written in a recently learned (and still learning) new language, and passing many other following exams, it shouldn’t seem so hard for me. But it was so stressful! The uncertainty of this exam concerned me. How could I prepare myself for it? Could fourteen years as a college professor prepare me for the coming test in my new home? I had a feeling that all my life consisted of passing one test after another. Maybe it’s just because I am still trying to find my way?

While I was preparing for the upcoming exam, I decided to seek advice from my more experi-enced colleagues at A. Lincoln High School. I have to admit that many times in my life, when help was nowhere to be found, providence sent it my way. For that, I’m always thankful! So I asked one of our most respected department supervisors (math), what I should do to prepare myself for the coming exam. I remember us having a few conversations in his office prior to the exam, and dur-ing one of them he told me that I have to envision my current assignment in general as if I have to sell the Brooklyn Bridge! The comparison shocked me. But I knew now what I had to do.

On the day of my exam I wore a brooch that was given to me by my mother in my youth. Good fortune looked upon me, I passed! The next day, I entered, triumphantly, my mentor’s office, and declared, “I sold the Brooklyn Bridge!” All I got in return was a huge question mark in his eyes. How could he have forgotten? And I had to explain myself, “I passed the exam!” And added, “Thank you so much for your advice!” And then the wise man started laughing. All I had to do now is to join my colleague in a hearty laugh.

After twenty years of teaching in Brooklyn, now retired, it dawned on me that our life consists of one step after another while crossing symbolic bridges.

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this timeAdrianne Toomer

think some more smash things softly through your mind carefully take your time

talk some more tell him all you’ve thought about again just why you’re done

love him loudly down inside still walk away this time to stay

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simply…Adrianne Toomer

a single bird’s voice softly serenades rustling leaves vibrate the air passing through the silence not interrupting it

no talking people present with situations to ponder no solutions to find

just blessed peace while sitting in a straight backed padded chair in her backyard hemming a blue denim skirt

being warmed by the soothingly speechless sunshine

simply satisfying solitude

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THE NUISANCE TREEWendy J. Trontz

The weatherman said today’s temperature is ninety degrees but feels like one hundred and three.

After listening to the air conditioner’s drone for hours on end,

I decide to go outside and sit in my backyard.

I go and sit under and old apple tree,

I am surprised by how comfortable I feel.

The tree I sit under my gardener calls a nuisance tree.

Each summer he tells me,

“Cut it down, it never holds the fruit long enough to ripen,

You spend all summer picking up apples,

Cut it down and plant a nice shade tree.”

Every summer I tell him,

“Let it be.”

Four generations of my family have played and rested under the shelter of this tree,

Yet this tree asks nothing of me.

The rain waters it.

The sun nourishes it.

And every year it grows taller and taller reaching up into the sky.

As I sit relaxing,

Thump! Thump!

Two more apples hit the ground.

I guess it’s time for me to pick up all the apples that fell today.

Bang!

I hear the side door slam.

Running at full speed into the yard comes my three year old granddaughter Bella

“What you doing, Grammy?”

“I’m picking up all the apples that fell from the tree.”

“Can I help you, Grammy?”

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“Sure.”

As we pick up the apples,

I point out to my granddaughter the apples that fell from the tree because they got too big.

The ones that the squirrels took bites out of,

And when they had eaten their fill threw to the ground.

And the ones that the ants were busy snacking on.

My granddaughter was so happy picking up the apples with me.

When she was absolutely sure all the apples had been picked up,

She ran to the backyard swing and said,

“Grammy, put me on the swing, and push me up to the sky.”

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SWEET DAZE OF AUTUMNPatricia Valles

I had collected the kindling for the Autumn Equinox fire as we prepared for the celebration. In many earth religions this day is called Mabon, and going back to ancient times, it is and has been the festival of the bounty of the second harvest. It is also a time to seek balance in our lives as the wheel turns and honors the balance in nature. As the sun went down, the heavens presented a spectacular show and the dark night sky in the new moon phase, intensified the brightness of the stars. We added more seasoned cedar and pine to the fire, and watched in awe as we heard the first crackles that would soon turn to a bright blaze. Soon the flames began to dance wildly and all was still as the bonfire played center stage.

We placed the corn, fresh in its damp husks, on the grill as I washed and cut the cucumbers, tomatoes, kale and spinach that attested to our successful bounty. The light shone brightly on our garden as I picked some parsley, oregano and basil, rinsed it and tossed it into the huge bowl of freshly picked delights.

“The champagne is popped, let the festivities begin!” said my husband in exaggerated formality. The glasses clicked and we toasted this magical time, as I spooned out the salads and shucked the corn. Some olive oil and rice wine vinegar was the final touch, and we feasted on the gifts of the earth and libations sublime.

We spoke about how soon the maples would begin to turn and that would be the beginning of my favorite photographic time of the year. We would soon climb the hills and scenic venues to capture the robust reds, blazing oranges, sunburst yellows and mystical blends of colors too diverse to name.

As the last embers began to die, the cool winds blew upon us as we sat planning trips to pick apples and pumpkins for Thanksgiving pies. Free from the hot days of summer, we relished the breeze and soaked in the enchantment of the seasonal celebration that never ceased to amaze. With one last toast to Autumnal bliss we gave thanks to Mother Nature and welcomed the season.

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CONFETTIRaquel Vargas

So what if your long-time love relationship came to be confetti in the air someday ago?

So what if your inheritance of time and life has been invested and became non-profit some

time long past?

Nothing is completely lost...the fruits fallen from the trees even when they look rotten,

leave their seeds in the ground for trees to grow stronger and fruitful in wisdom-

as the heart does when it’s left with impressions of being alone, solitary, in blank, with no

feedback of what was given, unreturned;

So what if one day you gave it all you had in pursuance of that last effort for the love you felt

you had finally found, to dissolve back into the solitude of your imagination, in the dungeon of

your senses, the human desires of loving and wanting to be loved while bonding with you in the

freedom to love with the senses of the Spirit;

So what?

We gamble each day for a piece of bread to help us curve our hunger; for love to come again

and again and all you can offer now will be some forms of consolations,

for your heart was given to that love someday ago and became confetti in the air.

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THIS CORNERRaquel Vargas

I love this corner, this writer’s solitude, an invaded space of random thoughts of you and I.

A poem blooming in the windowsills of my imagination,

Aware of who is the One dictating them to me;

This passion has been a gift, depriving my nights and days of sleep,

Mesmerized by the images I am so blessed to perceive,

An enchanting world of lines in rhythm only with life’s intensity-

Condensed, undiluted until they’d emerge as a sun rising at dawn;

Inspiration is everything. The light that makes the sun yellow and bright. A bird that wakes up

early and sings a song as he flies sometimes to places of unknown final days.

I love this corner, this wide open Inspiration. A soul who sees through traveling to your room,

your house, your Spirit, your things touching all that it would reach, like shadow follows the

light from underneath.

Inspiration, the breathing lung essential to my poet’s existence.

A poet going to places like a bird might go-timeless in her flight like the love I give.

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STEPPIN’ OUTMarilyn Walker

When sometimes I walk down the street My footsteps have a hip-hop beat Sometimes Bill Robinson picks the sound My tapping feet make on the ground

When racing ‘cross a busy street A jazz-like rhythm guides my feet If dodging traffic to and fro My movements favor calypso

Running wildly down the block The foot-pattern leans toward hard rock When my feet move on hot sand They leap as in a ballet grand

The rhythms hard ascertain When strolling on a grassy plain The blades move between my toes As silent music they compose

Sometimes my feet don’t move at all So there’s no pattern to recall But when they reside in footwear snug My movement mimics jitterbug

Whichever shoes I daily choose Can change quick-step to slowed down blues Rhumba, Lindy, footloose movin’ Steppin’ out’s a time for groovin’

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SIMPLICITYMarilyn Walker

Less is more More or less Let’s put the theory To a test Keep writing tight Let readers muse Leave them impressed But less confused Don’t overwrite Or understate Give food for thought Don’t stuff the plate Concise is clever Complex Absurd Thus, I won’t write Another word

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GOODBYE OUTPOSTAnna Wieland

Heavenly lake house, Outpost, sweet escape Paradise vanished, you are no more Desolate you now stand by the Candlewood shore Like a shadow, abandoned, glorious past a memory Lovely seasons, vibrant Christmas in snowy winter, Thanksgiving dinners in fall with turkey and Roast beef their intoxicating aromas, lasting Fun-filled days in summer never ending and Everlasting colorful gardens, playful butterflies in spring Three generations harmoniously coexisting The old folks, my in-laws, my three active little girls with Me and my tireless Hubby loving it all Thanks Outpost, refuge, great escape

No more puzzles or music, no conversations No more fishing, kayaks, rides, story telling No more Easter hunting, or elegant dinners No noisy birthday parties, nor festivities The sweet aromas of delicacies, gone

Dried up tears no longer swell in my eyes The discarded worthless sea vessels, left to rot The landscape silently weeps The florid garden, overgrown, manicured lawns, forgotten Tall old pine tree, like a sentry, this Outpost guarded Robust pine, branches, needles, cones, trashed, guard no more

Weeping willow, fallen fortress, weep no more Lake water, no longer sweet and pure, with toxins your roots rotted Wicked Devil, the splendor is gone, fallen, slumber forever Chirping birds, playful butterflies, deer, raccoons, fish, Lovely creatures, once abundant, quiet landscape Harmonious symphony of yesteryears, now silent Remaining, shadows, like a canopy embracing The obscured, lonely, vast landscape For you Outpost I weep no more, just revisiting old memories Plates, dishes, silver, glasses, culinary artifacts holding visions Of wonderful past family gatherings, gone To the trash, donated for others to enjoy, all forever gone Absent are the souls whose tapestry this lost Outpost held Never to return, abandoned, unforgettable, Memorable Outpost, by Candlewood lake shore

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My time has come to say goodbye, to you go To be strong, sensible, to move on, not cry anymore For tomorrow is near, my journey does not end here

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EPILOGUE (KRISTALLNACHT AND THE 16TH STREET BAPTIST CHURCH BOMBING)

Sarah Williams-Harrigan

But there were some good Germans And Americans north and south Women and men, boys and girls, Who spoke up, Who hid the innocent, Who even took beatings and verbal abuse “Jew lovers”, “Nigger lovers” Good people Who did not take part in the brutality and cruelty Foisted on their fellow citizens, Good people Who were not afraid To show friendship, Who refused to follow along, Who died in cold rivers and dark pits. You were the ones who watched The parade of despair passing by And lowered your eyes You were the ones who did not go to the lynching party picnics Or buy the picture postcards of the strange fruit Hanging from the trees. You were the ones who offered A small smile, a crumb of bread,

An attic, a basement, a safe place to hide Your life lost in a Southern ditch. We remember your names Schindler, Wallenberg, Goodman, Chaney, Schwerner, And so many unnamed heroes and heroines. We will not forget There were some good people who did not hate And many who spoke up against evil.

Kristallnacht-night of broken glass, Nazi mobs stormed through town destroying Jewish shops 16th Street Baptist Church bombing-during the height of the Civil Rights Movement, there were many bombings of African-American churches and homes. This bombing killed 4 young girls Schindler and Wallenberg—two of the many people who helped hide and save Jews during the Holocaust Goodman, Chaney, Schwerner-three (two white and one black) young students who were killed because of their involvement in the Civil Rights Movement in the South Strange fruit- refers to the public display of tree lynching of African-Americans in a song by Billie Holliday

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THE ROAD NEXT TO THE BEACHSarah Williams-Harrigan

The road next to the beach is like a Mediterranean bazaar, with activity and color everywhere. Anything and everything is sold—for a good price. On one side of the road, young old women sell a tropical palette of fresh fruit—golden mangoes, orange yellow papayas, green limes, yellow bananas and red caju. On the other side, women who have lived on the island all of their lives—but who dream of one day leaving “for a better life,” sell a variety of homemade products from ginger beer and mavi to exquisitely embroidered lace and handmade objects d’art. On the sand, the smell of garlic and olive oil wafts through the air as women dressed in white cook to order freshly caught fish and sweet crabs, fried plantains, empanadas and the ubiquitous rice and beans. Peddlers pound the sand hawking all kinds of refrescoes (cold drinks), cerveza (beer), agua de coco (coconut water), limonada, ice cream and fruit drinks—bien fria (very cold). Long haired foreign-ers—who years ago had come to the island and fallen in love with the seemingly easy way of life, warm weather, blue skies and emerald waters sell handmade silver jewelry and seashell earrings. Music comes from everywhere—sun kissed children’s carefree laughter as they swim and frolic in the crystalline water; super large portable radios blasting a jukebox mix of salsa, meringue, reggae-ton and the top soul hits from the States; somewhere in the distance, a plaintive guitar strummed by a smooth ebony skinned jibaro who used to cut sugarcane in the fields cries a sad tune of amor. Rows and rows of bikini-clad sunbathers enjoy weather which is postcard and travel brochure per-fect all year round—except when it rains, rain that is an eclectic mix of fine mist, large drops and torrential monsoon-like showers. But no one seems to mind.

Jibaro- country peasant

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FAITHAnita Zuckerberg

I slept that fateful morning Not by choice but by necessity Later I was awakened

I opened my eyes And saw your diminutive face, hands, toes I weeped tears of relief and delight

You gazed at me as if to say, “Mission accomplished” Your eyes spoke, “I am glad you are my mother” I was pleased that it was you

Contentment filled my body – emotion overflowed Like a river bank after a heavy spring rain Never had I felt such love

You were tiny and sweet smelling A brown face and moist, black threads of hair My Indian princess Tiger Lily from Neverland

Far traveller and old soul Long in coming, across time Knowing much, forgetting all too soon

Your celestial paradise Beautiful dweller of heaven Recent arrival to earth

So I moved very slowly Held you so gently Spoke to you so softly

Because I knew my faith, my patience My hope that you would come to me Had been rewarded

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SOULFUL BEAUTYAnita Zuckerberg

She is adorned in a chic black dress Bejeweled neckline and delicate pearl earrings Dark cinnamon almond eyes reflecting love A flowing swan’s neck covered by Burnished hair in undulating curls Rosy angel-shaped lips in a warm smile Her pale pointed fingers ending in Polished nails with decorative colored flowers A subtle intoxicating fragrance emanating With each graceful step she takes Such beauty is unequalled But…true beauty is… Reflected in her soul

united federation of teachers • retired teachers chapter

A Union of Professionals

52 Broadway, New York, NY 10004 • www.uft.org • 212-777-7500