Bubbles gather around her toes.
Her skin is turning a scarlet rose
and shriveling like cranberries
left in the sun to dry.

In solitude of bathing pleasures
she always takes the time to measure
herself with who she thinks
that she should be.

Thighs are too wide and stomach large
from too much sugar, fat, and carbs.
Here’s where the first step should be
to recovering from mediocrity.

Then the inner flaws come to mind.
Be more generous and kind.
Be more organized and self disciplined.
The list goes on and on.

Her ritual is so familiar,
this self-deprecating drivel.
It’s bawled into the faucet
like her daily morning song.

This goes on for quite some time
until the cooling water’s chill brings her to her mind
and humid beads of clinging sweat
glisten the parts of her body not wet.

She stands and reaches for soap and a cloth,
and lathers until it gets sudsy and soft.
Then she scrubs herself clean, as if to get
rid of her feelings of self regret.

Then rinses off as if to say
her troubles are all washed away.
She steps out of the bathtub
and drips on the carpet like rain.

Wrapped up in a warm bath towel,
she reaches back into the water
to pull the plug and watch the distorted
reflection of herself swirl down the drain.
 
 

Sitting at the kitchen table
staring at my empty paper.
Words are churning in my head,
as the deadline day draws closer.

Then from crevices in the flooring
a foggy vapor seeped through, forming
the figure of a woman I had
never seen before.

She was wrapped in handmade linens.
A scarf and hat provided trimmings.
Her gnarled hands held a book
and beckoned me to take a look.

But petrified, I could not move a muscle.
So with all the strength that she could muster
the old lady shuffled her way to sit by me
and asked for a cup of my hot herbal tea.

Less scared now, and greatly intrigued
I handed her the cup of tea
while she opened her book and began a story
about her younger days of glory.

She spoke with great precision
Mesmerized, I sat and listened
to stories of this woman’s life
full of love, triumph, and strife.

When the final page was turned
she looked at my tear-filled eyes that burned
and thanked me for treating her so well
to sit and listen for a spell.

Then, as quickly as she had come in,
my visitor was gone again.
I was left alone to write
down all the thing I’d heard that night.
 
 

Your words tumble down
like the leaves did yesterday
shrouding barren ground

Adding Fall’s color
to the bleakness of dying
Autumn’s illusions

Red leaves of great sin
cloaking winters purity
of white drifted snow

snow that brings forth peace
Insulating nature’s spring
against wind’s cold grip

You are the cold wind
grasping at me in winter
robbing me of my spring.

Spring’s splendor and life
my spring, green and rosy
with pristine blossoms

delicate blossoms
infusing sweet scents tousled
in springs gentle breeze

Floating on spring’s full
promise of summer’s still nights
laced with stars, sweet light.

Your winter’s heart robs
me of my star light leaving
winter’s darkened night.

Summer struggles with
fall, as I struggle with you
Autumn’s illusions

Fall no longer filled
with your sweet vibrant colors
but dead falling leaves.
Leaves that no longer
provides protection for trees
leaving them barren

skeletons of brown
wiry branches against
the darkening sky.

I will bud again
like winter’s skeleton trees
blooming in the spring.

The Battle raged inside, piercing my soul
with unseen wounds in the darkness.
I smile at the darkness that
once frightened and consumed me.
I stare into it that familiar darkness,
and I no longer feel bound in its power.
I am free.  It holds no power, no gilded sword
of pain, terror; only memory of fire.
Fire that changed the topography of my soul,
leaving its indelible mark of rebuilt peace.
Peace brought forth by a battle weary soul
forever changed into more
than it was before.

I only knew you old with hands worn
by time and work on the farm
that you sold before I was born.
I remember your gardens lush
and full with seasons harvest yet undone.
The tender care you paid to your plants,
the gleam of pride in your eyes
extended beyond and I felt it.
I remember that Christmas,
the gift I received was not store bought
but made of wood and work and time
your time, your hands.  A crib for my doll.
The white paint chipped, faded, and still was the crib,
but I held on saving the memory,
in the gift, to hold in my hands.
Time has moved on and gone is the crib
You are gone now too, as is the checker board
garage door painted over by the next tenant
replacing you as your garden died after the harvest.
 
 

Three times a night it woke you.   During the day, you were becoming quite proficient at pushing it out of your consciousness, ignoring its nagging presence.   But the night was different.  When you relaxed your vigilance at night, it floated easily to the surface, screaming  into your conscious mind, jarring you wide awake.  Your exhaustion is becoming critical.   If only you could get one good night’s sleep, you could think more clearly.   Maybe you could find a solution, then.  But that seems out of the question.   Night after sleepless night piles one upon the other crushing you in deep, deep tiredness.

Slowly, you drag yourself out of bed when the alarm signals the end of your nightly struggle.  Hoping the shower will perform a miracle and render you alert, you head for the bathroom down the hall.  Staggering with fatigue, you run into your little sister.

“Watch it, you big jerk,” she complains.

“Out of my way, nerd breath,” you croak as you push her farther into the wall.

“Ma-a-a-M-a-a, James just shoved me into the wall,” she whines loudly.

Ma sticks her head out of her bedroom door.  “James, must you always be the bully?”  she snipes and disappears back into the room.

Anger is a great stimulant.  Fueled by it, you push your bratty sister out of the way and claim the bathroom as your territory.  You hear her screams of protest through the locked bedroom door, and you even ignore the your mother’s pounding when she comes to the rescue of her baby daughter.  Slowly, you untie the string on your pajama bottoms and let them slide off your hips onto the floor.   Reaching in, you turn on the shower faucet and test the water temperature.  Better opt for a cooler shower, you decide.   Just before you step into the shower, you look up and catch a glimpse of your face in the mirror.   Shocked by the sight of your own face, you stop and stare back at yourself.  Puffy eyes stare, laden with a fear so deep that its depths can’t be plumbed.   Can this really be me? you question yourself.  Somehow the familiarity of your features seems all wrong.   After what you have been through, your appearance should be altered, too.  Yet, you look just as you always have, except more tired.   Forcing yourself, you look deeply into your fearful eyes. It’s hard to look yourself in the eye.  For one terrible moment the force of the truth hits you fully and you can barely stand under its weight.  Nausea rises in your throat, and you swallow hard.  Calling upon every fiber of strength, once again, you force it out of your consciousness, turn, and step into the shower.

The water sluices in sheets over your body.  It’s so cold, you begin to shiver and must will yourself to stand under its stream.   Your mind pushes back the fog and you think more clearly.  You make a decision.  Finally.  Today must be the day for action.   Today you have to take a stand.  You begin to build a plan in your mind fitting one idea upon another as you used to build Lego towers.  Hope surges through you.

Wrapping a towel around your waist, you rush through the mundane chore of brushing your teeth.  The only time doubt floats through the periphery of your mind occurs when once again you catch your own eye in the mirror. Would this work?  Perhaps you are just fooling yourself.  Yet, you know that to survive, you must try.

With a new purpose, you dress in jeans and a T-shirt.  Your clothes are chosen with care.   They must be ordinary so as not to draw attention to yourself.  Also, they must be disposable.   You choose an ordinary Old Navy “summer of 2001" shirt.  There must be 100's of them in this town.  Your jeans have no unusual, distinguishing marks.  So far, so good.  You grab another more distinctive shirt, a  new pair of jeans,  and shove them into your backpack.  Hopefully, these will be something that people will remember easily in case they are asked later to describe what you are wearing today.

Knowing that your stomach will rebel at the sight of food, you gallop down the stairs and are nearly out the door when you hear your mother’s voice calling your name.  You pause deciding whether to acknowledge her, when she rounds the corner in the hall and demands.

“Just where are you going without breakfast?”

“Aw, Mom.  I have to get to school early for study table.  This afternoon we’re having a chemistry test and you know I have to do well.  I’ll never get the scholarship if I fail this class.”

“That’s the very reason you need some breakfast, young man”

“Sorry Mom, I just have to go,”  and you bound down the front steps and jump into your car.  You hear her warning cries as you slam it into gear and back out the driveway.

A cold sweat breaks out as you review the plan in your mind.  What if it doesn’t work? How will you save yourself?  Taking care not to speed (a ticket is the last thing you need today), you head for the on-ramp for I-15.  The ride to American Falls seems endless and several times, you slow down, fully intending to stop the plan and head for school.  But, you realize that your options are running out.  Though you are cruising at the 75 miles an hour speed limit, fear and fatigue easily catch you.  Your judgment becomes more and more questionable.

Finally, you reach your destination: Massacre Rocks State Park.  You turn onto the service road and drive slowly along it.  Luck is with you.  There is no one in the campground and the visitor’s center is closed.  Speeding up a little, you race to the edge of the cliffs that frame the Snake River.  Braking to a stop, you look around, once more checking for the presence of others.    Regret washes over you, and you rest your head on the steering wheel and sob.  Now, with no other plan in mind, you slowly get out of the car and walk to the trunk.  Fumbling with shaking hands, you shove the keys into the lock and turn it, releasing the trunk lid.  As it slowly rises, you look around once again, and this time check to see if you or the car are visible from the freeway.   Reassured that there are no witnesses, you force yourself to look into the trunk.

The body of your chemistry teacher lies in the fetal position.  A definite odor is beginning to come off the body.

“Sorry, Mr. Johnson.   I’m really sorry.  I just have to pass Chemistry.”

The body barely makes a splash in the turbulent Snakes’ waters.  Efficiently, you change clothes planning to stop at the garbage cans in front of the visitor’s center.  As you drive away, you remind yourself that you promised the Chemistry substitute teacher you will come in early this morning to help with some of the students at the study table.  Smiling, you accelerate.
 

Webs of spider,
Bombs of Gamma,
Hammer of Thor,
Four of fantastic,
Doom, Doom, bow before Doom
Venom, Carnage, maniacal laughter of Goblin Green,
Smash, bash, leave Hulk alone,
Slash, frenzy, Berserker attack,
Team of men and women of X,
Shield flying, flag waving, man with the A,
Excelsior, great father of the Marvel,
the Man, the myth, the legend,
Stan, oh , Stan may Gods bless you,
little kids laughter, joy of adults,
Bring us more, we can’t get enough,
We will always read, we will always buy,
Thanks for the good times,
Thanks for the bad, We will never forget.

I slide back behind the dumpster drawing my gun.  I pop the clip out, checking the sulfur and brimstone bullets inside.  The gun holds eleven in the clip and one in the chamber.  All I need is one shot.  It has to be a headshot, though, and I'm still new at this.

I make sure the dagger that was given to me by that strange old man is still in place with the bootstrap. I feel my body begin to tense up, and my breathing slow down.  I know what is to come.  My head begins to throb.  I ready myself, slowing my breathing even more.  God, the stench of this place is horrible.  It smells like a mixture of death and waste. I can feel the fear coming off of me like a wave.  I hope it doesn’t smell it, or my cover will be blown.

I tuck and roll into the small space in the alley the creature is occupying while raising the gun.  Its head raises, blood dripping from its mouth, I fire the shot missing its head by mere inches, hitting one of its wings.  There is a puff of feathers as the bullet passes right through it.  The smell of sulfur begins to envelop the air.  I cough, my eyes burning a little, I’m still not used to the smell of the bullets.  It let out a horrifying burst of sound as it stood, claws forming where human-like hands were.

Darkness envelops me chilling my soul,
The shadows creep in, stealing light,
I wait for the fear to take over,
Lying in bed, pulling soft covers closer.

It approaches, I can sense it,
The covers, soft and warm, pull to my face,
My knees draw up, pulling into a ball,
Why does it make me feel this way?

My eyes so heavy, close so tight,
It comes, stronger and faster than before,
Taking over, nothing else matters,
Heart pounding, lungs about to burst.

Slowing down, taking over, can’t stop it,
Growing darker, darker, everything disappearing,
No, please, no more, can’t prevent it,
It all comes again tomorrow night.

Tick, tock, tick, tock, seconds go by,
Clock seems to slow,
It is the witching hour,
True witching hour three o’clock.

Clock seems to slow,
Blazing pyres light,
true witching hour three o’clock,
Laughing, Joyous, dancing, come and play.

Blazing pyres begin to grow,
Have no fear its time to play,
Laughing, Joyous, sexual dancing, come, play,
Do not feel alone come join us, come join.
 

Iron shoes crunched rocks in a dirt road. Feathery white clouds slid by the two travelers. The creak of a leather saddle and twang of oiled spurs interrupted the autumn afternoon silence. Bekarra stopped. His nostrils flared and his eyes began to dart in all directions. Velaguard drew his long sword.

“What is it you sense, old horse?” Bekarra whinnied. A light breeze rustled the browning sage grass and small shrubs that encompassed Velaguard. The shuffle of boot steps and clang of armor could be heard, but from which direction Velaguard could not tell. Ahead lay the Bright Wood.

Local lore alleged the forest was haunted. Velaguard knew fables like these were told to misbehaving children and to help thieves earn their wages. He made a warding sign then dismounted. With a thud an arrow with ebony and ruby fletching sunk into the mossy earth by his boot. From the brambles tumbled a ramshackle crew dressed in leather and steel armor. Depicted on their chests was a red and black fox head.

“Elgareth.”

“How touching you still remember me after all these years.” Elgareth stepped through the rag-tag warriors and removed his cowl. His dusty blonde hair was tied back by a simple, leather headband.

“Leave. I do not want to be forced to kill any of you.”

“Kill us? What has happened to the Velaguard I knew at the academy?”

“A wise man once told me: People change.”

“Well put, cavalier. You should have joined me, Velaguard.”

“No. You should have never left the academy. Do not get in my way.”

“Lay down your sword, Velaguard, you are out numbered.”

Velaguard sighed. “You leave me no choice.” He raised his sword into the air and tapped into the cosmo’s essence. The air crackled, then hummed as bolts of blue energy entwined themselves about the blade and enveloped Velaguard in a bubble of blue light. Azure beams, like tendrils, shot out.  The soldier’s faces became pale contortions as their chests were punctured. As their hearts exploded, blood spurted forth and stained the ground. Velaguard released the power and sank to one knee. Pin needles danced all over his body and his mouth was dry. Velaguard rose. The mangled, wooden forms of the dead warriors surrounded Elgareth. His white knuckled grip held a long sword. It gleamed with a virgin polish from tip to pommel. Watery, green eyes met Velaguard’s.

Velaguard parried Elgareth’s loose swings and plunged his dark steel into Elgareth’s belly. He twisted the blade and removed it. Elgareth’s guts spilled from the ragged gash. His eyes bulged as he dropped his sword and clutched at his exposed entrails.

“Forgive me?”

“Halen’s heart will release my dishonor. The orb, cavalier.” Elgareth slumped into Velaguard’s shoulder as he fell to the ground.

“Rest in the red abyss, my friend.” Velaguard closed Elgareth’s glazed eyes and wiped his sword on the dead man’s cloak.

Velaguard watched throughout the night as hungry, red-orange flames devoured the pyres and bodies who lay to rest.

As we bumped along
In a pick-up without shocks
Cardboard boxes flattened and piled high
Held in by wood slats
And a motley crew of ropes and plastic strings
Tied by my grandpa’s steady but gnarled hands
Dirt and exhaustion settled upon us
My grandpa would sing
His songs made no sense
And annoyed my grandmother
Who would tell him:
Shut-up Richard
Songs about bumblebees
And life’s imitation of them
Songs to pass the time
Till we came home
To watch his soap opera
Or end the day’s run
And rest for the next day’s
Which always started
After his wife had two cups of coffee he had prepared
But we never worked on weekends
My grandpa still sings
Retired from cardboard collecting
His songs are heard throughout
The memories I grew up with.
 

Buzz
The sun rises
The shutter of flesh-colored night
Is pulled back
By tiny, reluctant sinews
Red ravines are scrubbed with minty dentifrice
Their alabaster hills
Transformed from yellow-gray
To white again
Bacterial breath is slain
While breakfast waits
Cowering in the kitchen
Its greasy aroma wanders into my nostrils
And tickles my taste buds to harvest
The sticky saliva
Stomach roars
Waking the toddler-giant
Who knows nothing
Of these morning rituals
Except to have his turn
In the bathroom
And a bottle of milk
He regretfully did not finish
As he fell fast asleep
With shooting stars across his irises
The stellar grandeur behind his eyelids
That makes the dreams
Only the young can dream
Things we
Take for granted
As we leave our childhood memories behind
Like leaves scattered by the wind.
 

I awake with a start
my throat felt like sandpaper

making my way to then kitchen
I stumble in the dark and fall

when I look up I see a man in front of me
my throat is full with my heart

I try to run but I’m held firmly in place with fear

“Who are you?”
he is silent
his gaze pierces me
a chill fills my body then is gone

he begins to laugh
it seems to bounce back and forth within my brain

his laugh louder, he begins to dim
now gone
nothing remains but the fading echo of his laugh

sitting in the dark
Ben Harper playing quietly on the CD player
the walls are decorated with memories
a windy trip to the Washington coast
--Chandler too scared of the water
overcrowded shelves tell secret stories
one small lamp brightens a corner
holding at bay the approaching darkness

time passes in silent meditation
while the next day sneaks in uninvited
sunlight peeks from behind the blinds
forcing darkness into seclusion
my eyes close with the weight of the world

As I stepped outside, I seemed to enter into another world.  This world was peaceful.  The new snow looked perfect It had not yet been disturbed by human contact.  In its unblemished state, the snow seemed to ask for respect.  I looked around the quiet rural street.  No one was around.  I wasn’t really expecting anyone, but you never know.

I pulled my beanie down over my ears and stepped off the porch.  The snow crunched under my feet.  I knelt down and scooped a handful of snow into my hand.  The snow was very light, and it seemed as though I wasn’t holding anything at all.  I lifted my hand to my mouth and took a small bite of the snow.  The snow melted in my mouth, but felt cool as it made its way down my throat.  I stood up and took in my surroundings.  The streetlights reflecting off the snow created an almost surreal atmosphere.

I began walking, not really concerned about where I would end up.  On nights like that I really don’t care much about anything, except about the fact that I am alive to enjoy them.  As I continued my walk, the smell of chimney smoke mixed perfectly with the cold winter air.  Not too strong, but just strong enough to let you know that it’s there.  Off in the distance I heard a dog bark, and the gentle sound of traffic fading into the night.

Chill wind of fall cools my blood
Sundown went black and the stars appeared
opaque sparkle blinds me
I cry in fear

Sundown went black and the stars appeared
Carrying demons in their path
I cry in fear
as they tug on my soul

Carrying demons in their path
eyes pierce, and I bleed
as they tug on my soul
I wait quietly and say no
 

My friend, with a soul of insight, and a gift for touch
has often been my dearest confidante.
Many occasion over gin and tonic at a local pub we would
distribute the week’s tribulations and gossip that erupts so frequently
in our dim cloister of friends and acquaintances.
Two weeks ago he gave me an old sofa, gold and lame in print,
Arcs and curves that belong to an era of decadence past.
The fainting sofa was perfect, perfect for those moments of hasty
passion between lovers and the occasional swoon caused by too much emotion.
 

I was not ready to write my poem, because it was overheard at my desk, “This fax was to be sent by the end of business yesterday.” And now it’s a stormy-cold Thursday afternoon with three hours of chaos-theory left. The wind was hollering wearily after such a grave disappointment of executive authority, all uncanny and scaly in its own disguise of human Halloween making, suffering from poor customer-service relations. While he still wanted another pot of coffee, the phone wouldn’t stop like a quarter-horse on the track for the first time in four weeks, and human resources had to have a memo that men could no longer spew the word penis during smoke breaks. “Now where did I put that fax?” I had four cups myself and was excusing myself to the restroom while waiting for the corporate paradigm to shift and become more resource based rather than bowel-movement oriented. The rest of the day was whirl-winding around those who seem better prepared or more able to handle caffeine, pressure, stress and long incongruent run-on sentences that junior V.P.s always write, like bad clichés and mixed metaphors and fourteen-year-old girls in training bras, and secretaries with unsent faxes.

You are standing in front of a medium sized pool containing about 160 people. You are dressed lightly in a T-shirt that bears the emblem of your trade: an equal armed red cross. Your sleeves are rolled up to your shoulders. You wear a pair of sunglasses and swimming trunks. A visor sits atop your head, again bearing an emblazoned red cross. Your teeth hold a black whistle on a black lanyard, which you chew occasionally, mostly out of boredom. Finally, a bright orange polyurethane tube with the word, “GUARD” in black uppercase letters, rests across your midsection and under your arms.

The sun is hot on your back – a dry, burning sensation that is sometimes interrupted by clouds obscuring the sun, or the random, misguided splash of a patron in front of you. The heat is constant and seems to move about you in undulating waves. Although it recedes for a second, you know it will return when the wind stills.

There are many swimmers in the pool in front of you. You see various races and hear at least three languages. It is unfortunate that you can only speak English and realize that this may present a problem. As you visually scan the pool, you get freeze-frame images of people and actions in your mind, an effect of the brain produced by the speed at which your eyes are moving.

You are looking for the tell-tale signs of drowning – the slow, unskilled swimming of a small child, or the panic in the face of an adult who has either tired too quickly, or is in pain enough to incapacitate his or her ability to swim to the deck. It usually always happens the same way – the swimmer ceases any horizontal movement in the water, replacing it with ineffective treading of their arms and legs.

Generally, most swimmers will hesitate to ask for help, continuing to tread water until there is no horizontal movement and they have exhausted themselves. This is the point where a distressed swimmer becomes and active drowning victim.

Active drowning is typified by quick movements of the arms and legs in a continual effort to retake the surface; indeed, the victim my bob up and down several times before going underneath the water. However, this is not always true – some victims never show signs of flailing arms and legs, especially children.

Always cautious of this, you rescan the pool. The heat is well into the upper 90s and that makes you nervous. Not only is the heat more taxing on you, it also takes a toll on your swimmers. They become careless, either acting without thinking or being more daring.

You continue to scan the pool and then it happens – you see two girls in the middle of the pool, each struggling against and with each other – both beginning to drown.

You feel adrenaline in your blood as your vision narrows. Like looking through a tunnel, you are only aware of the situation of the girls and their peril. You are no longer thinking, as your instinct and training take over – you jump, while a long shrill blast escapes your whistle, alerting other guards that you are making a rescue.

The next few seconds are a blur. You hit the water, but don’t feel it. Before you realize it, both girls are draped across the rescue tube, sputtering and coughing. You swim them to the side and carefully help them onto the deck.

“Are you okay?” you ask both girls.

They mutely nod their heads, their eyes still wide with the dawning realization of their former peril.

“I can't swim very well, and when Lisa,” she nods her head at her friend, “started grabbing me I couldn’t stay up,” she mumbles behind a swelling trickle of tears.

Both girls are shocked and scared, each about seven years.

You climb onto the deck. For the first time you are aware of your own emotions and state – you feel slightly nauseous, and you notice your hand trembling. You let out a deep breath. Then you begin to assess the girls’ conditions. They are frightened and in need of reassurance.

“Don’t worry girls, that’s why I’m here,” you say.

You are about to blow two whistle blasts to summon the acting manager, but she is already there, consoling the girls.

“Excellent jump,” she says. “Why don’t you put on a dry shirt and then come back out.”

“All right, I’ll hurry,” you respond.

You look at your watch. You sigh a little, but you can’t help feeling a bit proud of yourself. Then you smile, thinking, "Seven-and-a-half hours to go and 85 more days in the season.”
 

Wrangell, Alaska, June 27th, 1994

There is no one here for miles, it seems, except me.  As I look up at the sky I wonder if the interminable rain will begin again, falling on this too-small island that seems to wrap itself around one’s body.  It makes me shiver.  This island, this bloated, dull gray place with the clouds billowing overhead, seems to laugh at me, inviting me to attempt to go somewhere when one can reach the end of it in two hours by car.

I am at the beach, if that is what you can call it.  Small pebbles of various shades of gray and other muted colors crunch beneath my feet as I walk along.  I stop and bend down to examine a stone.  I scrutinize it. Is it worthy enough to go into my back pack as a future reminder of my time here in this place of visible shadows trying to be colors?  One stone gleams shiny dull yellow, slick from the moisture in the air.  I imagine it might be a crystal of some sort.  Picking it up I move along in silent awareness of the mass of energy swirling over my head.

I look up.  I see great big thunderous puffs of white-like stuff.  These are thunderclouds, overbearing tufts of this sky, straining with all of their pregnant weight to spill their birth waters upon me.  Am I being blessed by this spectacle?

The ground is cool and moist as I sit down and begin to pick through the various rocks and pebbles searching for some sort of treasure that will entrust me the secrets of the land here, or perhaps the lands where they came from.  Maybe they could speak to me of the ocean, in which they have been continually bathed.

I close my eyes and randomly pick up another one.  Sitting there, with my eyes tightly closed as if in prayer, I wait in my solitude.  A distant rumbling like God rolling some rocks together in the palm of his hand breaks into my silence.  I sense the droplets beginning to form.  Can I see them behind my eyes, still sealed against the certain onslaught that will soon prevail?  My breath is coming out warmer and warmer through my slightly cracked lips.

A sharp cool drop hits my shoulder and my eyes fly open.  Looking up at the angry sky, the clouds, dark and threatening, encompass all I see.  The rain falls faster now, finally I have begun to think of shelter.  There at the far end of the beach, is a small park, empty of all signs of life.  I grab my back pack and quickly make my way towards it.

Sitting under the shelter, the rain pounding on the roof, I peer out at the vacant beach.  I take out a book, soggy with mildew from the extreme moisture of the climate and begin to read.  The rain could stop shortly or go on for hours.  There is no guarantee I can leave the shelter anytime soon.

Finally the ponderous clouds have loosened enough of their burden for the time being.  I know they have more to give, they always do, but for now, I pack up my book and jump off the table under the shelter.  The sun, hidden by one cloud, seems to be trying to wander out into the world again.  As I begin walking I count how many days before I can escape the confinements of the small island and return to the larger world.  July, August, maybe a couple of months, if I can make it that long.

The night after we buried Grandpa, Beck and I,
just girls then, slept in Grandma’s bed.
He woke us early, looking at us sternly.
“Where’s my wife?” he asked, surprised to find us there.
Sleeping in the camper, we told him, and he disappeared
leaving just that tiny scent of dread that always lingers
after commerce with the dead.
“What’s a ghost?” I remember asking, when he was still alive.
“A ghost is just someone,” he said, “who doesn’t know he’s dead.”
I wondered then if I were dead, and how I’d know.
Would anybody tell me?  It’s hard to say-
I forgot to mention it to him that day.

How many nights have we sat in this room, together in the angry dark
watching our thoughts roil on the unlit wall?
How many times have we cried, how many tears
have dropped into the tissued deep?
There’s something unremembered, some shred of time
that haunts us from its shallow grave.

Without turning I see your face, composed and grave
in memory light as this place is dark.
Red digits glow proves there is no such thing as time
while between us, wide as the world, grows a wall
and all around me yawns a moat too deep
to be filled by tears.

Can you, who walk on water, walk on tears?
I’ve shed enough to etch the stone above my grave.
and where they run they’ve cut their message deep:
The sun makes only shadows, light is dark.
No gleam, no glint, no glimmer can penetrate this wall
that marks the boundary and the end of time.

What are ghosts but people locked in time,
their sorrows frozen like their tears?
And if time’s frozen here within my wall,
can outside be any other than the grave?
The Universe entire then is dark
and like my wounds the pit I fill is deep.

Were unremembered phantoms buried deep
perhaps their cries would fade with time.
But mine are always screaming in the dark.
I can’t escape their howling, or their tears.
So, I would resurrect them from the grave
and cast their tortured images on the wall.

If there is life beyond that wall
a force whose ardor ran so deep
that living, it might penetrate this grave
and by the power of it’s breath could shed their tears
and rest for once, unfrightened in the dark.
Your hand’s in mine, and wall at once is time.
Ocean wide and deep with flowing tears
Warm and grave you hold me, and in your arms the light dispels the dark.
 

One light was still on in the apartment. The bedroom. Clark sighed as he pulled up next to the fourplex. That meant Lois was still up. Probably feeding the baby. He hated coming home this late and so did she. What time was it anyway? The clock on the car radio answered him. 1:23 a.m. Clark swore under his breath. Could he help it if Perry always scheduled him as night reporter?

Clark turned the key. The lock seemed to scream as he tried to muffle the obvious sign of his homecoming with his hands. It was all in vain. “Clark, is that you?”

Duh, Clark thought, rolling his eyes. Who else has a key? He loosened his tie and tripped over a toy left in the middle of the living room. “Geez, what does she do all day?” Clark muttered. As usual, the apartment wasn’t exactly Martha Stewart perfect. It didn’t take super vision to see that Lois must have been doing bills today. Papers were strewn all over the desk and littered the floor.

Since the baby had come last June, Lois had been in a state of denial – no, a state of refusal. Refusing to be the homemaker. Refusing that motherhood was a full-time job. Refusing that she hadn’t turned into her mother.

Wanting to take care of the baby full-time, she had quit her job at the Planet. The only injustice Lois fought now was debt. It was a battle the young couple was losing quickly. Clark was trying to finish his degree at Metropolis State University. Two more years and they would be able to have the house of their dreams, the car of their dreams, and the life of their dreams. Two more years.

Clark sighed as he saw the sink full of dishes. He started for the kitchen, but stopped mid-step. Screw it, he thought. I’m sure it’s not easy being a mom, but she could have at least done the dishes.

In the bedroom, Lois was feeding the baby. Six-month-old Lana Kent grunted as Clark flopped onto the bed. “There’s Daddy,” Lois said. Lana turned and acknowledged Clark’s presence, but turned back to what she had been doing. She didn’t care. She was busy.

“Rough day, honey?” Lois asked.

“You have no idea.” The look on Lois’ face said that she did. “Oh yeah. You worked there, too. Anyway, I don’t know if I can do it any more.”

Lois raised her eyebrows. Clark never could read her. “I mean, I’m not really going to quit. We would die.” Clark had thought about quitting before, but there was no way he could. No matter how many times he had rationalized just walking out of that damned news office, Clark could never bring himself to do it. Fact was, at a little more than nine bucks an hour and full benefits, Clark was trapped. And they were willing to allow him time off for class. The final bar fit in place and the door to the prison of life slammed shut. It was official. He was now a grownup.

Lana’s squeal brought Clark’s mind back to the bedroom. Lana saw her father and gave The Smile. The Smile was enough to melt ice. Hell, The Smile could even warm Lex Luthor’s heart. She was one of the things that made the struggle worth it.

“Come to Dad.” Clark reached for his daughter. She smiled The Smile again. Only this one split her face in half.

Lois smiled, too. She looked tired; strands of her raven hair were matted to her forehead and blotches of the ever-raging vomit war stained her shirt. Lana had a knack for barfing just after you had taken away the burp rag. Lois’ body went limp as she studied her husband and daughter playing.

“I’m sorry you had a rough day. I really do appreciate what you do for us. You know that don’t you?” Clark bobbed his head in acknowledgment. His eyes were dull and his mouth a thin line. “I do, honey,” Lois pleaded. Clark looked at her with empty eyes. Her hand reached out and took his. “I love you.”

He loved her too. It didn’t matter that the dishes were forming a new Metropolis on the counter or that the front room was a minefield of baby toys. He loved her because she was strong. He loved her because she was attentive. He loved her because she was Lois. Lois was the super hero that saved him every night from the debilitating life-Kryptonite that had seized him so suddenly. Lois was his super strength. Lois was beautiful.

“Thanks,” Clark whispered. “I love you, too. And I couldn’t ask for a better mother for my child.” He looked into her dark, endless eyes and let them take control of his exhaustion. Their brilliance obliterated the mind-numbing tiredness overtaking his body..

“Our child,” Lois said with a half smile. Lois grabbed Clark’s neck and pulled him close to her. “This looks like a job for me,” she whispered.

Lana was temporarily forgotten as the two embraced. Her lips melted into his as the perils of life was defeated and the day was … saved. They would be all right. Bills would get paid, school would be finished and their love would be able to leap tall  . . .  well, you get the idea.

Super hero, philosophy
Working, studying, parenting  . . .  immersed.
In my mind, I’ve always been Superman –
Able to leap tall buildings in a single bound,
Stop a bullet,
Manage another life in the public’s eye.
Doubt is my Kryptonite.
Can I really do it all?
Kryptonite strikes my heart.
I can’t do it all.
Lois Lane is by my side.
She whispers, “You will catch me.”
I am faster than a speeding bullet.
I am more powerful than a locomotive.
I will leap tall buildings in a single bound.
For her.
 

There was a small man who didn’t talk named Christopher. He lived in his own world, a world he seemed unable, or unwilling to leave, it was peaceful there. Why go into the world where everyone else dwelled. The people there were difficult and often confusing, the outside world was filled with loud noises, confusion and displeasing clutter. He knew there were people in this world, that loved and cared for him, but his inner world was to alluring for the outside to compete with. He would sit fascinated by the way the light played off the panes of glass, in the sunroom's southern facing windows. The dust motes dancing in the breeze stirred by the ceiling fan in the living room. The air cool on his cheeks, that were still wet with water from the dog dish, where he had just taken a sip.

Maybe one day he would leave this place in his mind. Already he was being drawn form it, the therapists trying to lure him with their siren songs of praise and an extra ten minutes of play. His parents are anxious to hear his sweet voice do more than babble incoherently, to have him acknowledge them as more than the people who do his bidding. He doesn’t ignore them completely all the time, just when his world is more interesting and comforting. Some times he notices them watching him, trying to fathom his secrets.

Maybe one day he will share the secrets he keeps, the secret of why drinking from the dog dish is much more satisfying then getting a cold bottle of water from the refrigerator, or why that piece of string can be played with and looked at endlessly.

It amused them once, this bag of tricks.
Look I can make the rabbit disappear;
now I’ll bring him back.
Now I’ll do the white ball, now the red.
The wizards’ hat with the stars ,
is under Christopher’s bed with the dust bunnies.
The magic capes now a skirt, tie around
Sophia’s small waist,
silver less shiny, black ribbon fraying.
Magic came in a box from Amazon.com.
Soon there will be no Santa Claus.

I am not ready to write my poem, for it is such a bleak day. A black cat has crossed my path and my basement leaks. The ship of fools sails without me its captain, falling apart at the seams. The short bus rolls by, it was just made in jest. The leaves on my trees are yellow not red, no fire no passion. There is no life here, in the upstairs house with its crooked plumbing and hidden room, the stupid dog next door is barking at the wind, while her nemesis howls like a wolf, baying at a big silver moon, it will be a full one tonight, no time for tricks that delight, and frighten the delicious young ones, their calves so round and full, skimmed by hems of their super hero capes. Why such loud engines on pickup trucks rumbling, smoke trailing from tailpipes, no emission laws here. The philandering wife won’t have to be worried , she’ll hear him coming a mile off, with the riffle rack full. The debaucher will have time to to hitch his wranglers up over his narrow behind, and pull on his boots, before he hauls his ass down the rickety back stairs. Love in the afternoon, the pages of the book turn, the television showing Lady and the Tramp again. The red room ablaze at five o’clock, throbbing with feelings of pain and regret now, water under the bridge, your bridge and mine. Like a monster rising out of the river, surfacing as we observed, no one but us, by the murky brown water, where we spent our time, time doing  nothing and plenty of it. Time passing slowly, like so many grains of sand rushing through the small pin sized hole in the hourglass, sand on our backs as we lie here awaiting the fate that is destined, like a fly caught in a web, no escape or rest for the weary or the wicked.

Water bubbling
The gold fish swims in circles
Neptune his center
The rainbow plant above
Hot pink rocks she choose below
Both need fresh water
The blue water helps fertilizer sun
Fertilizer sun
Filtered sun of course
The goldfish flakes
She forgets sometimes I know
All I do is swim
We are so bored here
The top of the piano?
Just for the winter
Ah yes this is it
Sunlight filtered by the sheers
On the big glass window
More company here
Birdsnest fern, Boston fern, sun
Dust, pictures, candles
Vibrations, she plays
The Macaroni Cha Cha
At least no singing
 

Every year a miracle happens to our world. Amazing colors appear. Vivid reds, browns, oranges and even dark greens invade our neighborhoods. Even the mountains become blanketed in the beautiful colors. A certain sensation floats along the breeze, signaling the coming season. The air starts to cool and rains start to fall. Autumn invades the year. Whenever I feel that cooling breeze against my skin and smell that unmistakable odor, my heart begins to soar.

As the colors begin to appear, the trees begin to release the changing leaves to float on the quiet breeze and land gently on the green lawns. The trees begin to look bare, like strange gray souls reaching desperately for the overcast sky. Every year I would help my grandpa rake up that colorful blanket spread out over his lawn. I was a short child and the tall handle of the rake would undoubtedly trip me up. I would take hold awkwardly and begin my chore. With each stroke of the rake, I would reveal a bright green patch of color underneath. The scent of the leaves reminded me of the fresh earth revitalizing itself. That familiar scent would assist in building the excitement within me. I strained my little arms pulling that huge garden implement. With every swipe of the rake my anticipation grew. I worked and strained my small muscles. Sweat began to form on my brow. After what seemed like hours of hard intense work, the huge piles of leaves formed.

My grandpa rested himself on the wide front porch. I restrained myself enough to join him for just a moment. The large piles were calling for me. Wiping the moisture from my brow, I readied myself. I looked at my grandfather questioningly and he grinned slightly, then nodded his head slowly. Taking a running start I leaped and flew through the air. Time stood sill for a moment. Slow motion took over. I felt the cool air touch my cheeks and saw the blur of the colors come towards me. I was truly free.

My landing in the large colorful pile was cushioned by hundreds of brown, orange and red leaves. I laid in that pile for a while feeling the soft bed underneath. Every movement I made would cause a crackle as I crushed a paper dry leaf underneath me. The tiny prickles of the leaves poked through my sweater causing only extreme happiness. The overwhelming odor of the fallen leaves fueled my excitement. I rolled myself out of the pile and readied myself for another run.

I ran and jumped a dozen times that afternoon, each time re-experiencing the freedom and joy just as intense as the time before. Now when I walk past a yard with piles of colorful leaves, I get the urge to run, fly through the air and land in the beautiful colors.

Two young lovers
Holding tightly to each other
Saying farewell
Promising to join again.
An ocean separates them
While two hearts unite them.
A seething fire
Burning flesh.
Overwhelming pain
Overwhelming loss.

Shame now keeps two hearts apart.

Years pass by
New loves enter lives
Little ones come to be
Family trees.
Time soon takes its toll
And even more limbs grow.

Life now keeps two hearts apart.

Losing loves to age and time
Grasping to memories.
A new light soon shines
Upon the aged lovers.
They meet again
Over laughter and tears.
After a journey of life
The two reunite.

Love now keeps two hearts together.
 

Birthday parties are a very serious matter to six year old children. Those hours leading up to such a party are very intense. They are full of suspense and fear. And a child left unattended can be dangerous before a party. David Johnson is a dangerous child, waiting for a birthday party. The party is for Summer, a pretty, popular girl in his class. The party is starting at three in the afternoon, right now it is two.

In the living room, on the green shag carpet there, David is sitting in front of the television. He is wearing ripped jeans and a dirty shirt. His legs are moving around in sporadic motions. David’s hands are in his lap, his fingers are lacing and unlacing. They make tight knots with each other and then fall apart. This process has been going on for ten minutes and is interrupted by a warm yell from the kitchen.

“David, have you gotten your new clothes on yet?”

“I don’t want to wear those clothes mom, they look stupid.”

“You are not wearing your play clothes to the birthday party. Either you put on your new clothes or I’ll take you naked!”

Presented with these options, David considers his wardrobe and replies.

“I want to wear my jeans, mom!”

To which Mrs. Johnson replies in no uncertain terms.  “David, the party is going to start in less then one hour. If you wish to go to that party, I suggest you put on your new clothes. Those jeans look awful and come hell or high water, I will not have you wear them to that party! Do you understand me, mister?”

For which David can only reply in meek, humbled tones. “I want to wear my jeans.”

David cannot play with his fingers any more. There is no toy that will entertain him, no video game that is still interesting. There are no friends who will hide from him, or throw balls at him either. There is only the suspense of the biggest social event of his life. The excitement is growing in David. Finally it reaches a point where he feels like he might pass out. Then David notices something in front of him. A paperclip.

David picks up the paperclip and is bending it into animal shapes. Letting him forget the birthday party. Three minutes pass, and the paperclip stops occupying him.  Just like the video games and the toys, the paperclip is now dull. David is looking around the living room. He is searching for some way to use the paperclip.

His eyes have stopped on something. It is the electrical outlet. David is thinking about how important the outlet is to the television, Nintendo, and VCR. David assumes it is a good thing. Maybe, David is thinking, it would make him happy to be plugged into it. David is quickly straightening out the paperclip while he walks over to the outlet. Now he is on his knees, holding the blunt end of the paperclip one centimeter from the socket. He has taken his arm back, and with one strong gesture, plunges the paperclip into the outlet.

Needless to say, David missed the birthday party. He spent his afternoon in a hospital. After that, David was never the same. He went back to school, eventually graduating from high school. For the most part he had a normal life, except for one reoccurring problem. David could no longer use electrical outlets. He was simply too afraid. This was something he could usually avoid dealing with. But one day David fell in love with a woman named Donna. After dating for a year, the young couple decided to move in together.

“David, you have to do it sometime.”

“No, Donna. You just don’t understand. I can’t”

“David this is silly: you are a grown man. Just walk over there and do it. It will only take you a few seconds and you’re done.”

David and Donna had just started unpacking in there first apartment. They were unpacking the kitchen appliances. Donna is now insisting David plug in the toaster.

“Donna, I can’t do it. That’s all there is to it.”

“I am going to count to three. If you don’t do it by then, I will leave you. One.”

“Donna, I can’t. Please try and be...”

“Two.”

“Please, it’s impossible!”

“Three.”

There is a long pause. David feels very scared: scared of plugging in the toaster, scared that Donna will actually leave him. His palms are sweaty, his heart is pounding.

“David, how can I expect you to take care of me for the rest of my life? How can I depend on you when you can’t even plug in a toaster? Goodbye David. I’m leaving you.”

She is walking out the door, David is staring at her with his bottom lip shivering. He is yelling at the sound of the door slamming, but it is too late.

“Donna, please, I just can’t! I can’t use electrical outlets.”

I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t stop anything
Jacob crawling unattended
I can see Jacob crawling in a driveway
People leave for work in their big wheel sedans

Children crawling, unattended
I saw everything I never wanted, too
People leave for work in their big wheel sedans
I can see cars pass by

I saw everything I never wanted, too
Neighbors fighting, kids playing
I can see cars pass by
Our windows are so fresh and so clean

Big brother pouring milk into my eye, stabbing back with number two.  Not lifting fragile brown trash bags.  Premature friend screaming ‘too-do’.  Dad yelling with a thick black belt.  Old collapsible table with tears in fake leather.  Lukewarm applesauce and hot electric shock.  Blonde girl crying on the phone.  Poor grades, sweaty palms.  Sour smells like blood and vinegar to prove it.  Ennui for fresh snow and failed ambition.  Darkly lit rooms and wasting time.  Standing straight, sucking it in, and backing down.  Scrubbing caked on shit with steel wool, raw hands holding minimum wage.  Shaking hands firmly.  I do not like them.  Dull throb, stinky clothes, stinky her in dawning failure.
 

I was once a womanizer.
Women were things of beauty,
and I was put on earth to make them happy.
But then Sam came,
and I changed.

On a transcontinental flight to San Francisco
Sam found me, alone in my seat.
I was taken by her beauty and sex appeal.
When she sat next to me I thought
she may be the one I’d been waiting for.

We talked and laughed.
about movies and books and adventures.
Everything was going so well.
The more we talked,
the more perfect she seemed,
and the more interested I was.

Confessing our fallen relationships,
and expressing our loneliness, we grew together.
I admitted my attraction to her,
and she admitted hers for me.
But then Sam revealed that she was no she at all,
but rather a man.

I was stunned and repulsed
that I had been attracted to a man. I should have known.
The broad shoulders, the heavy, yet flawless makeup,
the long muscular legs, and her voice.
The voice that I thought had so much
substance and character, belonged to a man.

Since that day,
I am no longer a womanizer.
I am always on a look out for those
San Franciscan women,
because you never know which one
has more in common with you than you thought.
And I owe it all to Sam.

Silver sparkling glitter, half dried out, in an almost empty container.
Fake silver eyelashes, once worn, and now has no remaining adhesive.
Austin Power teeth, retainer type of device to turn your pearly whites,
into bucked teeth with plaque infested yellow gums.
A white mesh tutu with several small tears in it, hangs in my closet,
along with pair of white angel wings with silver glitter lining.
Things I will never use again.
But I cannot make myself throw away.
They are the perfect recipe for embarrassment.
All part of last year’s Halloween costume,
The Tooth Fairy with bad teeth.

“Tell me Wesley, what kind of stories have you heard about this forest? My family has not lived here long and I can’t say that I have heard all that much about the forest,” said Grace.

“That’s because no one likes to talk about it,” said Wesley.

“Come on. Out with it. If I am going in there to look for my sister, I want to know what I am going up against.” Then in a childish sarcastic tone, “Tell me, are there witches and goblins?”

“No. This is not some fairy tale story, Gracie. There are real threats. There are wild animals like bears, lions and boars. Then there are the squirrels. They’ll,” Grace interrupts him.

“Squirrels? Are you joking? You really think that people are going to be frightened by squirrels? What do they do, hold you up for all your peanuts?” asked Grace, thoroughly disgusted by the idea of mad rodents.

“If you would let me finish I’ll tell you. No, nobody on this earth is afraid of one squirrel. But when they get together and form a group they can do a great deal of damage if they attack when they are hungry. I don’t know if it is true, that is only what I have heard.”

“Carnivorous squirrels?  Don’t be stupid, Wesley. Squirrels eat nuts and pine cones. They don’t eat meat, let alone human meat,” said Grace.

“The myth says that one year there was a horrible frost that prevented any type of nut to grow at all. The squirrels got hungry. One day in late autumn, a man was walking through the forest, and happened to have a peanut. He fed it to a squirrel, but in the excitement, it bit the man’s finger. It tasted blood, human blood. Soon, a whole army of squirrel would  hunt down a traveler, only to dine on the exquisite taste of human flesh. Over the years these squirrels have supposedly adapted. Now they have longer and sharper teeth and claws that allow them to tear away the flesh with ease.” Grace rolled her eyes, letting Wesley know she didn’t believe him.
 

Sergei couldn’t ever get that night out of his mind. It was the dead of winter at his family home in the Zaporozhkan steppe of the Ukraine.  He remembered his father saying that it was a three-dog-night.  That is a night when it is so cold that you need three dogs to sleep on your bed to keep you warm.  The wind blew around the house with the ferocity of a pack of wolves attacking their prey.  It sounded as if the whole pack was howling outside Sergei’s window.  Sergei was only twelve, a young and impressionable child.  He had heard stories about the rusalki that would drag a man to his death in the depths of a pond, and the tales of Baba Yaga, the witch who ate small children that trespassed in her haunted woods.  These tales scared him, but it was nothing like the fear that he felt when the wind blew and the storms of winter beat down upon the little cabin that was his family’s home.  He was a strong boy with long brown hair that liked to hunt and ride his steppe’s pony, Cherepakha.  Outside the window, he saw the snow whistling by horizontally.  The winds would swirl around and plaster more and more snow to his window.  Before long, he could no longer see out because of the thick layer of white that was stuck there.  The small tallow candles in his room did very little to ease his fear of the wicked things that might lurk in the dark.

A sharp thud startled Sergei from his thoughts of monsters and brought forth a new wave of fear.  Was something coming to eat him?  The sound came from just outside his window.  He pulled the hides on his bed up over his head, afraid to look.  After a few seconds where nothing happened, he looked around his room again.  Nothing.  He got up and quickly pulled on his clothes.  Breaches, a tunic, and boots would have to do.  He also grabbed his fox fur hat and threw it on just in case he went outside.  He looked around the room for something to defend himself with but found nothing.  He opened the door to his room and entered the main chamber of his house.  The room was dark, so he picked up one of the candles from his bed stand and lit it from the already burning one there.  The room he saw before him had shadows everywhere and he jumped at every flicker that the candle cast in the corners.  His parents, somehow, were fast asleep in the other room.  He searched the shadows for something to use as a weapon.  He spotted his father’s sword hanging over the mantle.  That would do, he thought.  He reached for it, but stopped.  He wasn’t supposed to play with his father’s sword.  He had a wooden one that he trained with, but this was a real sword.  A Cossack sabre from the wars.  He had heard many stories about his father’s valor in battle against many foes and was afraid of offending his father by touching it.  He hadn’t earned the right to wield such a blade yet.  He hoped he would soon, though.

Thump.  Another sound steeled Sergei’s resolve and he reached up and grabbed the well-cared-for sabre from its scabbard.  It sang as it came free of its housing.  The scrape of steel was somewhat reassuring to the young boy for some reason.  He gripped the worn handle with both hands and felt better.  He felt safe and powerful with it in his hands.  It was then that he had a thought.  He knew what he had to do.  He was going to find the monster and slay it.  He wasn’t sure what was making the sounds, but it was definitely outside.

He went to the door and grabbed his father’s bear fur cloak from the peg where it hung and wrapped it around himself, making sure that his sword arm was free to swing.  Sergei touched the latch of the door preparing to open it.

“What could be out there?” he thought.  Was it some beast that would claw out his innards and wear him like this bear fur?  Could it be men trying to break in?  Was it Baba Yaga coming to eat him?  Sergei shook the thoughts from his head and prepared to meet them all.

He opened the latch and was almost knocked down by the door.  It slammed open from the force of the wind.  His candle blew out and he was in darkness.  Snow swirled around and stung Sergei’s face.  He squinted his steel-blue eyes out into the night.  He dropped the now useless candle and grabbed the door.  He pulled with all his might to shut it behind him.  The darkness seemed to envelope him.  It enfolded him in its terrible arms.  The wind screamed with the voices of a thousand dead souls.  Sergei’s heart pounded, but he could hear nothing but the wind.  Beads of sweat popped forth on his brow only to be frozen solid by the cold.  He turned to his right and headed toward his window.  He held his free hand up to block the snow from his eyes.  A dim light was still coming from his window and he could make out a shape huddled there on the far side.  It looked like it was trying to peer in through the snow plastered there.  It swayed and staggered like a drunk trying to keep his balance.

“Get away from here!”  Sergei yelled at the top of his lungs, but it was no use in the wind.  He could barely hear himself.  The creature by the window did not move, save sway a little more in its drunkenness.  Sergei took a step toward it.  It didn’t seem to notice him.  He took another step and held forth the sabre in a menacing manner.  No reaction.

“I’ll run you through!”  Sergei’s voice was little more than a squeak, but at least he had given the thing fair warning.  He took another step to no effect.  He then steadied his hand and stabbed forth with the sabre.  It met no resistance at all.  Sergei’s eyes went wide.  He had driven the blade into the center of the beast, but could feel no substance there.

“A ghost,”  he thought.  “It must be a ghost come to suck out my soul with my breath.”  He stabbed again.  The foul demon wouldn’t take him without a fight.  Again the sabre sliced nothing but air.  He couldn’t harm the creature.  Fear overtook Sergei and he ran back to the door.  He flung it open and rushed right into the arms of his father who was standing at the door.

“Papa, there is a demon outside come to suck out my soul!”  Sergei was shaking with fear.

“Really,” said his father.  He hugged the boy to him and tried to calm him.

“I stabbed it with your sword, but you need magic to kill it.”  Sergei panted from his exertions in the wind.  He dropped the sword and clutched his father.  His father was warm, but Sergei was still in fear of the demon.

“Let’s go see your monster.”  Sergei’s father picked up the sabre and stepped out the door into the night.

“No, Papa.  You mustn’t.  It is unkillable.”  His father strode out, heedless of the warning.  He turned out of Sergei’s view and disappeared.  Tears leapt to Sergei’s eyes at the thought that he would never see his father again.  He sniffed and was on the verge of crying when his father reappeared with a small bush in his hand.  The roots were covered in fresh dirt and all the leaves had been blown off.

“What’s that?”  Sergei looked at his father, shocked to see him alive.

“It seems that this bush was uprooted by the wind and was tossed against the house.  I don’t think it will bother you anymore.”  Sergei’s father tossed the bush back outside, patted him on the head, and went back to bed carrying the sword with him.

Sergei was both relieved and embarrassed that he was scared by a mere bush.  His thoughts of what it could have been were what had gotten him into this predicament in the first place.  Never again would he be scared by sounds.  From then on, he would do his utmost to find a logical reason for it or ignore it completely.
 

I go there for company when I’m feeling down
It’s nice because they feed me
They don’t mind because they enjoy people
With their large amounts of yelling and cursing

It’s nice because they feed me
They are very gracious hosts
With large amounts of yelling and cursing
But that is half the fun

They are very gracious hosts
Four people live there have many people over
But that is half of the fun
All of us crammed together in pleasant misery

Outside I sit on the cold street
while people pass by dressed in black.
Everyone’s waiting for music
but, it never starts on time.
Here it doesn’t matter if I have money
because I’m rich with friends.

I came here for fun, for friends,
and for conversations of the street.
I’m asked for spare change, money
for the show.  Their hands are black
with hair dye.  I ask for the time.
It’s 8:30.  7:00 was the time for the music.

With an hour and a half passed the music
would soon begin.  Talking to friends
who own the house.  Next time
they won’t have us wait in the street.
The band arrives in a black
van, desperate for money.

At the door she takes the money.
Two green bills is the price for the music.
She marks my hand with black.
I ask about other friends.
I know some live in the street.
Some have had a hard time.

Setting up equipment for the show time.
Setting up merchandise for food money.
It’s rock that comes form the street.
They shake the room with their music.
I go and dance with my friends.
We bump some but no one gets blue or black.

The sun goes down and the black
night enhances my good time.
I meet new people.  I see old friends.
I go buy a soda with the little money
I have left.  I can still hear the music
as I go to the store across the street.

My black wallet is lighter due to no money
But, next time when I hear the music
I meet more friends to talk to on the street.

Barely in the range of peripheral
An image blinks into existence
If only for a moment
Then again. Then again
Taunting me. Egging me on
Telling on me to myself
Until I do the best thing

Why are we built the way we are?
The gob blob of goop housed in bone
And put on a pedestal.
Being aware, but knowing it wont last.
Doesn’t seem fair.  Must be
Some flaw in the system or else why would
We keep crashing.  Maybe we’ll fix it.
 

Sweet smell wafts through the kitchen
As she gingerly lifts the raisin-filled cookies
From the pan.  Her favorite.  I study her clothes-
Navy polyester pants clinging to thin legs,
A blue, oversized button-up shirt,
Shiny black grandma shoes,
Her feet never without them.
Unsteady hands line the hot cookies neatly, row by row.

Curious eyes watch each movement; study the
Heaping, golden-brown cookies.  She glances down at me,
Pats my curly head with arthritis-shaped hands.  Those hands
Search for the coolest cookie.
Smiling, she gives the first one to me.

Water Balloons

Colored particles stuck to damp grass
Melting sun beating down
Shiny sun screen faces
Squeal with delight
Exploding balloons create
Spikes of wet hair,
Sheer enjoyment.

Winter is coming.
Colored leaves fall to the ground
To touch the cold earth.

The wind blows softly
Through uncut barley stalks left
On edges of fields.

I catch green glimpses
In fields that still remember
When summer was here.

Children gather fruit
From Grandmother’s orchard while their
Mothers stay inside.

Little white faces
With rosy cheeks peer out from
Hooded winter coats.

Warm smells of home-cooked
Meals invite visitors to
Stay a while longer.

The crisp autumn air
Engulfs each evening as long
Walks become shorter.

Now sweaters are worn
And warm boots; no more sandals
Buckled to bare feet.

Comforters replace
Summer quilts on children’s beds
As nights turn chilly.

Shadows reach across
Valleys earlier as nights
Infringe upon days.

Stark, naked branches
Are gray against the dark green
Background of pine trees.

I exit my house
And faint chimney smoke whispers
Winter is coming.
 

I have been so troubled. I am trouble. Am I in trouble? Yes, I got her in trouble. The trouble is me. I have problems.
I have heard these often. I thought these often too.

You are stupid. Don’t you understand? Look closely at those whores; you will be one of them.

And swiftly he moves towards me, a moment, a second and he is here. His hands, the giant hands embracing my neck, and then just a little tighter, then really tight. The breath is gone. The thoughts are absent. I am, but not quite. I am and than I think that I will not be. I see nothing and I do not feel. I am a doll a puppet in his hands. I have no humanity. I am stupid. Thoughtless. This, his hands, arms body, my silence are my fault. I earned it, I deserved it. Take me because you made me, me.

Smeared mascara and tears, smeared face. So many. And they trickle, they trickle and fall on the floor. I remember, I know you, I remember those hands, the eyes, fierce, the mind. He embraces me, quickly. “I am so proud of you. Just look at yourself, so beautiful.” And stupid, don’t forget stupid. My space has been breached my mind has been taken. It is taken once again. He speaks fast. Many words come and flow. I don’t remember them. I don’t want to remember.

I am free now. Now I am free. But freedom is a cage of memories and fear. I have feared him and so I fear you now. I have run from him and now I am running from me, my mind, but not really mine. Still his, still.

I am fee. I fought for my freedom and I won. I am free. So I might be a whore. I might be stupid and lame and crying. Afraid I am, alone but free. Freedom.

I am going to forget that it ever took place. I am going to fail to remember...

At the beginning it was so real, I felt the hands; I hated them. Then it became less and less apparent. The nightmares ceased to come every night. Sometimes they did and awake I would plead to myself to forget, to let it lay. Now, just now and then they come and chase me.

So long is ten years. I am an intelligent woman now. I do not believe in determinism. I do not have faith. God is gone. And I am abandoned to myself. I can go, and I can come. I can come and I can go, if I wish. But where? What do I do?

Fragments, just before a kiss. That waiting period. Just after rain. When everything is quiet, when I get to think. Those fragments are ones which count. That’s how I remember it, a fragment at a time.

I was happy, and I loved him so. I would marry him when I grew up. And it would be me and my beloved. He would tell me stories just before I fell asleep. They would make me cry, and he comforted me as I curled up in his armpit.

Then later when I was older. “Go to sleep” he would say. “Enough. Stop it. I can give you a real reason to cry. “He shouted. “Fine, you asked for it.” He made a fist and it lowered on me. The thrust made me stop. And then another, just to be sure that I am quiet. It was my hip, my leg. It was not me. He didn’t really hurt me, it was just my leg.

D.H. Lawrence says, “We have curious ideas of ourselves. We think of ourselves as bodies with a spirit in it, or a body with a mind in it. Why should I look at my hand as it so cleverly writes these words, and it is nothing compared with the mind that....”

I look at my arm. I touched my toes. I am afraid to let them rest. They are strong, my limbs, my heart, my mind. Me.

Yesterday I have hidden in a small shoebox full of old photographs,
I would have stayed there immobile, afraid, but I was saved by the moon and the sun
So, I had to, I wanted to, I crawled out,
Today I did.
First it was my toes, the big toe
Then the pips of my fingers,
Nails that were chewed in a moment of fright,
Top of my head and so slowly, slower than morning that faded away,
Then it was my eyes
They wondered out into the room full of dust
and the sun an afternoon’s delight
My neck followed by shoulders and calves
which, crawled and winded with its small unshaven hair upright
My mouth then, my thin upper lip and then lower
And as they did they said, “Oh”
Remembering the room from few days ago,
Than in the midst of the evening glare,
my breasts, my stomach, my thighs wound up exposed and frail.
Shivering, scared, and numb my body lay
First it was the toes which stirred, the big toe that examined the floor.
And as my fingertips scratched with those claws
The eyes noticed the day that has been forlorn,
The evening even was gone,
the night invade the night,
And so all parts afraid in panic and fright jumped up, froze,
and than they were gone.
Alone I have hidden, in a small shoebox full of old photographs.

Often I return to that room just past the front door. It never seemed cold or strange then. I remember it being filled with the smells of an upcoming dinner, or with sounds of the sowing machine, cats screaming at each other, or a voice familiar and comfortable. Now it was dirty, the tables had empty glasses and bottles on it. In the middle there was a bowl of sour cherries. There were always objects, things that were unique to me then and even now they charmed my experienced eyes. There was dust everywhere, on the cupboards, table, chairs, plants, and curtains. The floor was made out of cement and was bare once, now it was covered with layers of carpets and rugs.

“Go ahead,” she said, “just do it.”

I stood motionless. Her body was stretched on the couch. The instrument in my hand shimmered, reflecting the sunlight that came through the window.

“Do it,” she insisted.

Hesitantly I leaned toward her, the shadow of my body covered her face. And then my fingertips gently touched her cheek at first and then the area around her eyes. The soft skin that lost its elasticity has yield to the pressure that I applied.

“Don’t worry, it won't hurt,” she tried to reassure me.

Just as I was beginning she laughed, giggled like a little girl.

And so I begun the procedure. My fingers isolated the little hair of her brows and I pulled steadily, hesitating only sometimes. Our faces were close to each other, as they have never been before. And we were both aware of the intimacy, the bit awkward closeness, which we have created with the pose. This was the first time I looked at her, the only time perhaps. I realized how little I know of her. I have always known her as my grandmother, but never as a woman, someone’s daughter or even a friend.

“Who was she?” I thought and I felt shame enclosing upon me.  “Why have I never asked.”

Finally my eyes rested on hers.  And here I froze. Her eyes were mine or were mine hers? The green and brown around the pupil, the shape that always made her a little sad, pointing downward on the outsides, and the lids prominent, now bathed in an ocean of folds, all of the characteristics were reminiscent of me.

“Are you done already?” she asked, wondering why I have stopped.

“No, I am just beginning grandma.”
 

In the middle of the night,
I fall.
Failing to cross a bridge
I give up.
Lungs can breath no longer.
Heart can pump no more blood.
Mountain scene of wind and snow.

Cold, tired, a bridge to cross.
Ill fated, a pale condition.
Am I awake?
Please let this be a dream.
Heart pounding, body gasping.
I lie alone.
In the middle of the night.

Billions far from sight.
Old light forming a picture.
Telling us a story.

Warms the planets face.
Beams of light giving us light.
Holding our demise.

Full of life and death.
Home to all inside its shroud.
Mystery for all time.

Mass of rage and furry.
Destroys comfort, security.
Cycle of life and nature.

Blowing, corrupting.
Leaves torn off swaying tree branches.
Dancing with the breeze.

Rain falling on leaves.
Thunder roars in the heavens.
Earth’s rolling cycles.

Children of a massive cloud.
Building up ready to burst.
Plummet to the earth.

One in a billion.
Falling on the frozen earth.
Collect on the ground.

Long snake in the earth.
Cutting and molding its form.
Sculpting the face of earth.

Still, peaceful picture.
Reflects the sun, moon, and stars.
Life in and around it.

Swaying in the breeze.
Holding strong into the earth.
Leaves falling on the ground.

Taking in the sun.
Breathing in, and breathing out.
Crucial part of life.

Symbol of our life.
Gift of our heart and soul.
Smiles of thanks warms us.

Mother making our home.
Miracle birth of our planet.
Shapes our mountains and planes.

A girl with much beauty,
can sometimes consume your life.
Listening to my blood filled heart,
which controls my mind.
Longing for a taste of culture,
believing my flesh and bone was unbreakable.

A titanic love believed unbreakable.
Her home and country of beauty,
brought me teachings of culture.
From this once dead body, she brought life.
Her touch and smell stimulated my electric mind.
Her words and idiosyncrasies ran blood to my heart.

I give credit to my heart,
which is strong, but believes it’s unbreakable.
Thinks it can control my mind,
but dwells on love, and beauty.
It clouds my thoughts, and takes over my life.
It longs for a breathe of a fresh new culture.

So many cultures,
waiting to pump blood to this heart.
Struggling to take hold of this life.
I fall on my unbreakable
soul, which has no need beauty,
and struggles to be one with my mind.

She walked around in my mind,
filling me with her culture.
Polluting reality with beauty,
and giving righteousness to my heart.
Her will and strength unbreakable.
Caring only to live her life.
 

 Jim opens the door holding Kristina’s hand.

“I had such a good time. Thanks,” Kristina tells Jim.

“Oh my god, Kristina!” Luke says in excitement, walking out of the kitchen to give her a hug.

“Luke, I haven’t seen you since, forever,” She says. “You look fabulous.” Her smile gets bigger and her face seems to shine.

“You two know each other?” Jim asks.

“Oh, yeah.” Luke turns to Jim. “I know her from grade school. We go way back. Remember when we used to play together on the playground.” Luke says, reverting his attention back to Kristina.

“You still remember that. Wow!” She says stunned.

Luke gets up and heads for the kitchen. “Hey do you all want some coffee? I have a pot made.”

“Yeah, sure.” Kristina yells to him. “You having any?” She asks pointing to Jim.

“No, I have an early morning tomorrow.” He tells her.

“Oh, that sucks,” She replies with a bummed look on her face.

The night goes on and the three talk about many things. Then Jim tells everyone good night and goes to sleep. Kristina decides to stay and talk to Luke for a while then go home.

Jim awakes to the sound of his clock beeping. He opens his eyes slightly, walks over to the alarm, and clicks it off. He yawns and rubs his eyes. Then he throws his robe on and drags his feet into the hallway. In the living room he sees Luke and Kristina. He points to Kristina, “Your still here?”

“Yeah, why? Is that a bad thing?” She asks with a bewildered look.

“Oh, uh, no. Not at all I just figured you’d be home by now, sleeping,” he says, thinking to himself what happened.

“The coffee kept us up all night I guess,” Luke tells Jim.

“So what did you guys do?” Jim asks.

“We talked,” Kristina replies.

Not knowing what else to say he decides to take a shower. He thinks about the incident over the day. As his thoughts grow deeper he gets nervous, scared, and angry. By the time he gets home his is pissed.

Opening the door Jim throws down his book and starts yelling at Luke, pointing his finger. His face is bright red.

“What the hell were you two doing all night?” Jim asks.

“We told you, talking and drinking coffee,” Luke replies.

“Yeah, right. I don’t buy that. How convenient, you two were up all night chatting. I wouldn’t be surprised if you two are ex-boyfriend and girlfriend and that you lied about the whole grade school thing.” Jim yells.

“You’re making assumptions that aren’t true. Kristina and I have been friends forever.  It’s just a coincidence you two went on a date together, and I’m your roommate,” Luke replies. “Obviously you don’t trust me enough as a friend,”

“Okay, what did you two talk about all night, hmmm?” Jim says picturing in his mind what really went on, thinking Luke is lying.

“About everything, we had to catch up on old times,” Luke tells him.

“Sure, I bet it involved tongues,” Jim says pointing his finger again and getting in Luke’s face this time.

“I don’t have to take this crap,” Luke says defensively. He clenches his fist and grabs his coat slamming the door on his way out. Jim, with tension building inside, hears the tires of Luke’s car screech as he pulls out of the parking lot.

A fire of red, heat, and ashes engulfs the horizon.
Down a valley a smoke haze.
The animals run in fright and
Pitch glows on the fir-cones.

Down valley a smoke haze.
People scampering around with adrenaline pumping
Pitch glows on the fir-cones
The smoke drowns their lungs.

People scampering around with adrenaline pumping
Trying to put out last nights fire.
The smoke drowns their lungs
While the heat melts their skin.

Trying to put out last nights fire
The people throw buckets of water.
While the heat melts their skin
They see the fire start to die down and eternally rest.

I knock on your hardened oak door
with your hair done up, wearing a skin tight red
dress you open the door batting your eyes
you invite me in. Very gently our hands touch,
and my knees begin to shake. My heart filled with passion.
I don’t want this night to end.

How often have we said that love will never end?
We leave the door
to love open, and it’s crushed by passion.
Our soul bleeds red
from a broken heart by a touch
of tainted love, and the tears fall from our eyes.

When I look at you I can see fear in your eyes.
Scared of the end.
Scared to touch
and be touched. Your love a closed door
your heart a darkened red
from past pain. So you hide love’s passion.

I can see the hidden passion
in your eyes.
Your red
heart beats wildly without end.
When will you open the door
to love? When will you feel love’s touch?

I wish I could heal love’s past touch,
but all I know is the passion
I feel for you. You open the door
with that look in your eyes,
and I make a wish that the night will never end.
How beautiful you look in red.

How my face turns red
when you touch
it, and ask for this love to never end.
When I can see the passion
in your eyes.
Have you finally opened up you heart’s door?

You paint me red with passion
with your touch, but with fear in your eyes
I know the end is here. So I close the door.