Poems for the Winter Solstice Issue
Photo: Todd cover
I ASK THE FLOWERS
By Robin Atkins
I ask the flowers
about new beginnings.
And the crocus says
be strong like me.
Push your way
through the dark to the light.
And the cherry blossom says
be soft like me.
Let your gentle weaknesses
tremble in the rain.
And the tulip says
be a begging bowl like me.
Hold your heart open
to the gift of the mornings warmth.
And the daffodil says
be a trumpet like me.
Sing out your loveliness
for the joy of those around you.
And the rose bud says
be patient like me.
Feel the pulse of the sun.
Your time to bloom is near.
***
First Laugh
By Charles Fishman
In traditional Navajo culture, the child is viewed as the ultimate
gift and a celebration is held in its honor when the baby first laughs.
She cradles her child, this Navajo mother,
and you can tell he is loved. His peacefulness
runs deepyou can see the tendrils of it
as they wind around his bones. Listen.
The sound of his sleeping is like the whispering
of the sea under a soft moon in summer.
She cradles her child and keeps him safe
see how her arms, her hands, embrace him.
This is a rest that augurs beautiful growing,
the way a seeds slumber in the earth
prophecies the tree.
For she will blanket him with prayers and kisses,
with hummed melodies and the music
of her voice. And she will be the midday sun
to him. Come, let us wait for his first laugh.
***
Origins
by Dana Gerringer
under separate skies
walking down the same dark hall
flowers by the window
behind the closed doors
days of this
you remind me of names I haven't heard in a while
images that smile away the fog
and i want to call out to a you I seem to know
though we've never really spoken
when you're around
my shoulders fall and my breath rolls
your voice is familiar that way
do you believe that this is our first time around,
third time learning,
how many do you remember
My guess was you were probably in one of mine
Maybe a sister or a mother or a friend
the never forgotten kind
then the irony in the circle of windows
we would pull from our pockets our origins
mine was a rock before the earth
yours were boots never meant to walk upon it
and a clock that beats the heart of your angel
on the two opposite arms of time
is where the hands are held to the heart
the sun does rise here
into two skies, for two lives
on two opposite arms of this city
but we both hold our hands to our heart
and from dark hallways are reminded
of names not heard in a while
***
Photo: Susan shadow at the church
***
Waiting For A New
Turn Signal Switch
By Marjorie Power
Tishku moves through hills
a few miles from here. I cant see her
but a moment ago I didnt
see the hills, either. Fog,
lifting, caught my eye.
A phone rings and the girl
who answers calls him sweetie.
When she hangs up, a passing car salesman
becomes sweetie; now, someone she dials
in the parts department.
The view outside clears.
Tishku must be breathing hard,
climbing fast. Thereher dress
shows, the dark green one
embroidered with gold.
The girl dressed in the color of
sticker shock says shes sorry
my car is taking all morning,
she could get one of the guys
to drop me at the mall.
Suddenly Tishku is at my shoulder.
I cant see her, but the smell
of damp September earth
has come inside, this close.
Go hear her story, she whispers.
Approaching the counter I find:
I dont mind waiting here.
And a stranger truth: I like
what youve done to your fingernails.
It must be hard to paint stars.
From Tishku, After She Created Men, Lone Willow Press, 1996
***
"Helianthus
annuus"
By David Mayfield
Where have they all
gone.?
The trees in blues and greens.
Used to capture the
sun.
Now the world has me jaded,
and my eyes go blind.
and
the shade rolls down
and the doves glide by.
.Dropping their
ivory feathers one by one.
And sleep comes so easily, with you
.
Standing as the moonlight waxes the sun.
Banking left through
the clouds
Gazing lightly, into space
The circle drops down and
the light dims
.And the horizon is only a reminder.
All
that's left is that picture of you
Standing next to me.
Eagles
soaring, oceans swirling
Eyes interlaced, brought together by the
sun
.Seems to test the strength of time.
But nothing can
compare, to the sunflowers in your hair.
And nothing can compare,
to the sunflowers in your hair.
***
Coastal Access
By Matt
Meko
Being young was
important to me
Fitting in was important to me
Living fast was
important to my ego
Noise
Business
Compromise
Process
BIG
gave me identity
My body clearly states "No" and I
finally listen
(I forget that I'm organic until something grows on
me and it won't wash off)
I have coastal access now
Straight
through
I'm more than I thought I was
Suddenly old
Surprisingly
simpler
***
A Father and Two Sons
By Charles Fishman
What is a father, and what is love?
Maybe it is the going out of the self
that certain men can do
when they put their children first
when they attend to the needs
of the little ones: the soul fed
with experience, as when this father
sails a striped beach towel
over his tiny sons head
over that two-year-old nakedness
closing them in to a holy space
only they can share:
under this floating pavilion,
a safe universe is born.
Or perhaps it is the same father
with his elder son, a 5- or 6-year-old,
at the blurred edge of the Atlantic.
Courage must be taught
and caution: a backward flop
into the foam-tipped waves
a dive through the shallow chop
no safety net but the unspoken:
I am here and I will not let you drown.
This father stands on his hands
in the sea brine, unlikely gift of fearlessness
and balance, and both sons hear what the sea
whispers: I will not let you swim into your life
without direction.
***
Guarding Mother
By Esther Altshul Helfgott
I will
guard her
against
all harm
I will
watch her
until
my eyes run
dry.
I will
swab
her mouth
with a
saliva stick.
I will
hold
her hands
until
warmth
comes.
I will watch
her
breathing
until
it
stops.
Even then,
I will watch.
originally published in Spindrift 1996
***
WINTER SOLSTICE
By Susan Terris
1. Baba
In the cellar, on a rusted lawn chair
beside the water heater, I find
our Baba. Wearing black lace-ups
with cubed heels, a dress with
handsewn buttonholes identical except
where her waist makes one grin,
she stares at me until hectic spots stain
cheeks. Light penetrates high,
fly-specked windows and illuminates
hairnet spider-webbing
her forehead below folds of
pale sheitel. Around her: detritus
of decades. Our cellar is for things
which have no use. First we stockpile
them at the stairs. Then by the door.
At last, below, they molder on shelves
or atop the child-sized workbench:
flower pots, old Lincoln Logs, last years
cancelled checks. Eyes passing over
all, aware of heat and drip of
water heater, I stare again at Baba.
What are you doing in the cellar? I ask.
Rolling socks, she tells me. Like most
bubbes I stay at home and roll socks.
Now her cheeks deepen. Or sometimes,
at night, I roll in sweet-scented hay...
Baba, its dark and damp,
I tell her. You dont belong down here.
She smiles, layers one thick-fingered hand
over the other. But I do, my Dumpling,
she replies slowly, because upstairs
in your fine house, I forget to
roll and cant remember my name.
2. Mother
Poised before her scale, Mother arbiter
of family myths weighs truth against
fabrication. But it never happened,
she insists, balancing her perceptions,
discarding mine. Baba
was Grampa Jacks mothers mother,
dead before you were born.
StilI, I insist, she was
there, sitting in the dark dressed in
worsted. With hands like mine
and a long face. She spoke to me.
Mother, unwilling to pardon unreality,
adjusts her blindfold, recalibrates,
scoffs at me. Then its
her photograph you remember.
Just a picture. We used to store it in
the cellar wedged between
our furnace and the hot water heater.
3. Self
Shuffle, step, shuffle, step. Down in
the cellar I am tapping out all the bright
things that Mother and everyone tell me
are not true. Shuffle, scuff, turn.
Look at me. Then look again.
My cane, my hat both are props,
for I am not yet Baba, not yet my mother.
Still, upstairs, I cant practice on
satin-finish floors because Ill scar them.
So, between furnace and water heater,
using the workbench as barre,
I dance.
I dance against time, against rage. Days
are short now.
Baba danced in Szumsk,
Im sure, but never here. Looking on,
she finds me as disconcerting as my house:
strong-hipped, grown woman in black
skivvies, socks, and TeleTones tapping
into gathering darkness. Why? she asks.
Because, I answer, eyeing squared hands.
Shuffle, flap. Shuffle-hop, toe.
Because as winter comes, I, too, need
time shuffle, roll to contemplate
sweet-scented hay.
***
Driving Home From Mother's House
By Esther Altshul Helfgott
As I drove through the bower
of old oak trees
scanning 68th and 20th avenues northeast
I was scared by the moon.
It was so low in the sky that night
I thought it would smack me in the face.
I tried to turn the wipers on,
but strands of hair white as paste
covered the window like thick rain.
A woman's mouth stretched open
in a silent scream. Bent fingers clawed
until they reached my chest.
Some nights I lose my way home.
originally published first
in the Psychoanalytic Psychotherapy Review, Vol.4, No.3,
Vancouver, B.C., 1993; reprinted in Switched on Gutenberg, Issue 2,
1996; reprinted in PoetsWest Literary Journal, Vol. 2, No. 1,
Spring 1999.
***
Photo: Todd's house
***
To the Unknown Father
By Charles Fishman
Every man on Earth today can trace
his Y chromosome to one male who lived
about 190,000 years ago.
AP Report
You were not quite human,
unknown father, but you were strong
and lucky. Though you could not imagine
the future, you were born to influence it.
The why of things held no interest for you,
yet you left your mark: these microscopic threads
that tie you to Earths billions.
You must have known hungers we no longer
have names for, all the vocabulary you would ever need
written in the cells of your body . . . You, who
could not know greed or pride, envy or depression,
could feel beauty lift you on her broken wing.
Love, sex, offspring, old agewhat could these
mean for you, who lived but left only seed?
The Y that connects us still was not even a whisper
in your mind.
***
'Holding the Son'
By
David Mayfield
Are you cognizant of
the hours we spent?
My sundry eyes are pointed high at the
sky
Remembering.Time...
Do you realize what my life
means?
It's more important than your books and history
Stellified
by those words
Pages turn and are forgotten
Sometimes.like
me.
Only highs and lows elevate your head up high
But it's
the flatline that you miss as the pages fly by
Day to day we dream
of what will be
Of course, the anger in your voice washes those
away
Christmas comes and goes
Presents lie unopened
in the trash
People, of your own blood, run from the lighted
tree
And you always forget who put the star on top
Its a little
angel holding the sun
And She cries every time the light burns
out.(and it burned out 20 years ago)
***
Angelness
By Kevin Taylor
How do angels die, you ask.
Well, just as they are born, in fact.
And how might that be, you inquire.
They're born of kinfolk who've expired.
Does that mean that they're us, you press.
Quite so. We've each our angelness.
***
Fast Lane III
by Kara L.C. Jones
Death happens everyday
but that doesnt make it
any less surprising.
You can move in the
fast lane if you want
but it all still just adds up
to the number of days
since this one died
or that one died.
And today, as with the
11th of each month, it is
another month since
my son died.
Six months and I
still do yoga each day
with my feet, shoulder
width apart, his little
foot prints, purple ink
on white paper, sitting
on the floor between
my feet. Its like I need
his ink feet between
my real feet or the yoga
doesnt count.
Its crazy. I know it is.
But that little ritual
keeps me sane when
the phone rings and its
a salesman asking
if wed like to have
a free 8x10 taken
of our baby or when
I open the mailbox
and find my subscription
to AMERICAN BABY is
still arriving, faithful as ever
with a sense of timing
that always
sucks the breath from me.
The fast lane
doesnt exist for me.
They are all slow days of
toe-ing one pebble
after another
till suddenly
one day
6 months later
I look up and a whole
mountain has been moved.
***
SNOWFLAKE
By Susan Terris
Frost stencils windows.
In bed, boy on a sheepskin
burrows into darkness
as a woman kneels by his side.
Outside, boots creak snow,
and the sound of whistling
wraps night with bright ribbons
that ripple the air until
a dog-pack barks
and makes them fade.
I'll miss you, the woman says,
smelling sweet-hot boy-hair
and breath near her face.
Yes... the boy answers, as
his lashes butterfly her cheeks,
but I have our snowflakes.
Although she can't see them,
she knows they are there,
drifts of
odd, impossible colors
spanning walls and ceiling,
folded, folded, pinked with
shears into zig-zag labyrinths
neither child nor woman
could have dreamed.
When I look at them,
the boy says, even when
there's no whistling
and no dogs bark, I am
a snowflake and I can fly.
***
Tao
By Kevin Taylor
Draw
a circle.
Draw a line,
through its middle,
in your mind. Within that
circle, on that line, draw yet
another circle there, just as the 1st;
you choose the size and where upon the line
it falls. And in the spaces left unclaimed, on either
side, if there is room, draw yet another circle there. And
others still until the line is full. This string of worlds, sized large
or small or mixed, is ready now. The secret of the Tao is
held within. The universe, the path you choose; the
distance 'round each world alone, when added
to the others, is equal to the measure of the
first. You drew the circle. Drew the
line. Drew the others. Chose
their size. The secret
of the Tao is held
within. Infinity.
Defined.
***
Photo: Susan's second shadow
***
Bring Me the Sunset in a Cup
By Esther Altshul Helfgott
I want the moon
to help me with my day
not just stay up there
when it's dark
and I'm alone with myself
wondering.
If Emily Dickinson can
ask for the sunset in a cup -
as she did in her 128th poem -
and it can be given to her -
or not - why, then, Mother,
should I not ask for the moon?
***
WITHOUT WORDS
By Robin Atkins
Above me, a cathedral of Madronas,
their bent trunks arching over the road,
their lacy branches meeting in the center,
catch the suns light,
where taller, straighter Cedars
do not steal it away.
Driving slowly through this natural tunnel,
I find myself recalling last night,
lying stiffly beside the man of my dreams,
awake with self pity that for weeks
he hasnt told me he loves me.
Under their majestic arch,
the Madronas are giving me their lesson.
No need for sadness, they say.
Bend your trunk to find the light.
I bend, and at once many memories
come rushing into my mind
little things like how he
paper towels the stove after
frying his eggs, brings home
a rusty penny for my artwork,
pays for our dinner on the town.
The Madronas are whispering,
I have found the light.
And the sunshine smiles love
into my heart, without words.
***
The Quintessential Observation
By Hawk
Damn!
***