Portland Winter Pantoum

Portland winter sun streams through leafless branches
Tabby on alert for birds, bugs and neighbor cat
Birdbath barely thaws
Waxwing tackles winterberry bush

Tabby on alert for birds, bugs and neighbor cat

Fingers strum guitar; songs penned
Waxwing tackles winterberry bush
Poetry and prose pondered daily

Fingers strum guitar; songs penned

Birdbath barely thaws
Poetry and prose pondered daily
Portland winter sun streams through leafless branches

-Liz Johnston

A Poem by Liz Johnston

Below

I don’t want you to suffer any longer
I don’t want you to agonize over the loss
I don’t want you to think you didn’t do your best
I don’t want you to think it was your fault
I don’t want you to remain in the depth any longer
I don’t want you to forget how to live
How to love
How to impact
How to carry on
You once did
You once embraced
You once lived
The impact was too much
The reason to carry on slipped away
The embrace, ah the embrace
The embrace of friendship of family of life
The way back from below and up is difficult on a good day
On a bad day horrific
On a normal – normal! – day slightly bearable
And the sun will shine
And you will feel its warmth
And the birds will sing
And you will hear their song
And a friend will extend a hand
And you will be comforted
And you will
Because you choose
Above over below

Two Poems by LAW Fraser

The Train

Toot -- we leave Picton

surrounded by a placid bay and palm trees.

Clank -- rock around the bend

gray skeletal tree trunks

line the beach beside our car

Squeak--Squawk

around the curve, verdant hills with

tree hedge wind breaks.

Clank--Clunk

sheep run from the tracks

their young close behind.

Squeak--Squawk

back to the beach where turquoise green

surf breaks upon black sands.

Clank--Clunk

across wide gravel river beds with

Maori names that run into the sea.

Squeak--Squawk

a village appears with a history of

violence, now tranquil by the road.

Clank--Clunk

through a dark tunnel running

under a tall hill.

Squeak--Squawk

fur seals basking on rocks, or

swimming in a seaweed surf.

Clank--Squawk--Screech

We have arrived in Christchurch after its quake

a city in rebuild mode.

 

 

Channel Crossing

Upon finding the book of practical princesses

And pathetic princes,

We sailed off across the Cook Straight.

Two oceans meeting in this not always calm sea,

we see no storms today.

The South Island’s sun-streaked banks

with dark green tops peak above the fog.

No cities or signs of life do we see upon these sandy spots.

Soon we’ll dock and seek the sun that shines upon the bay,

and try to spy the many sheep we are told

that graze upon this place.

Practical princesses carry their own bags and

search for the perfect sorbet,

While pathetic princes follow in their wake

through the dust raised by their feet.

 

LAW Fraser

Saturday
South Island
New Zealand

 

Two Poems by Ron Smith

Snow
 
You feel the cold dry powder
snowflakes tickle lashes in the
coffee-dark morning out the yard
down a hill to pick up the newspapers

Snowflakes tickle lashes in

your imagination inflamed with
down a hill to pick up the newspapers
atypical, real snowstorm – wind

your imagination inflamed with

you feel the cold – confident
atypical, real snowstorm
your business will compel you to shed a scarf, a hat

you feel the cold – confident

coffee-dark morning out the yard
business will compel you to shed a scarf, a hat
you feel the cold dry powder

--Ron Smith

 

Where Bloom the Lilacs

 

But a lad of ten or so

I was called from play with others like me

At some gully or other junction of filth and remoteness

Favored by males of nine to twelve years

Summoned by the police whistle the folks used to call their

Kids home

 

Lilac mist enveloped me

I ran toward the inexorable siren

Away from what and who I truly loved

To those I was condemned to love

Too-tweet, too-tweet the whistle echoed

Parting the lilac mist that tasted of grape

Not the grape of the vine but pop sickly grape

What could it be? Too early for dinner

 

Home, I found the folks unclasped, united:

“Go wash up and return,” said they

when I had and did

they repeated a speech I had heard the day before:

“You must learn to share us now with another much smaller

than you (Mom had been away for a couple of days)

you have a brother, ‘Brad’ we’ll call him.”

 

“Be proud     be joyful     open your heart

do you want to see him?”

“Of course I do,” I replied, receptive,

willingness unlimited I was in a mood to go along with anything

baseball season was coming     I needed a new mitt

without funds where else cold I turn?

“Of course I want to see him!”

the lilacs grew stronger

 

They bowed to me with their treasure

A crimson, sleepy human form with hands in the air

I was overtaken by the cloying essence of lilacs and violets

“Awesome,” I said, already restless

weary of the portentous tone of the moment

“Here,” Mom said, “hold your little brother”

too late to refuse, I did not want to hold a baby

 

No heavier than the cat it grasped my hand with knowing fingers

I was sure I had never been like him

Skin, if you could call it that was composed of a non-living vinylite matter

Glossy with a slick film of petroleum jelly

Fragrant of powders, wipes, puffs and mothering

He seemed to struggle gently against his airless wrapping

 

The lilacs, violets and petroleum jelly were suffocating

“I’ll have someone to go fishing with some day,” I said

trying to match the sentimentality in the air

I handed the bundle back

 

--Ron Smith

 

 

 

 

  

Two Poems by Liz

Soft g by Liz Johnston

Traveling the world to unearth mysteries and murder
Devious plans to overthrow a government or a lover
Solo trips unearthing her own lost loves
The author professes to write of life and loss intertwined with deception
Beckons down the cold cobblestone committing to memory the storefronts
Details daily costumes of the natives
Dangles ideas for the next character in a trilogy, as a fourth is birthed
Protagonist older than her years through losses of her own
The author searching for answers of her own
Of a recent tragedy, of mysteries to remain buried
Fodder for a fifth perhaps?
Separating fact from fiction blending too closely
Too effortlessly
Too much
Let’s settle with a soft g

 

 

Spinning by Liz Johnston

 
Spinning with the ferocity of a world in turmoil
Whirling in top-like fashion
Twisting and turning and shouting
Pushing and shoving to the front of the line, any line
Angling to get the right deal
Maneuvering an unexpected career move
Contemplating the next decade
A decade of discovery, of adventure
And stopping.
Stopping to cease all movement but for awhile
Sleeping to rejuvenate and repair
Settling into quiet thoughtful meditation
Stepping lightly through the warm summer grass
Skipping to the beat of your happy heart
Singing in deadlock traffic
Smelling the summer rain nurturing the earth
Swirling in a poofy ballroom dress
Rustling in the golden fall leaves
Padding quietly across the cool wood floor at 2 a.m.
And stopping.
 

A Pantoum by Liz Johnston and Bonnie Ridley Kraft

Sylvia’s Pantoum*

The city begged to be captured in meanderings.
I had hoped to make amends.
She would write.
She did not utter a sound.

I had hoped to make amends.

Apparently the message was locked in a drawer.
She did not utter a sound,
But the pain did not easily shake off.

Apparently the message was locked in a drawer.

She would paint a picture of her own future.
But the pain did not easily shake off.
She left her notebook and pen alone.

She would paint a picture of her own future.

She would write.
She left her notebook and pen alone.
The city begged to be captured in meanderings.

This pantoum was taken from the literary musings of dear friend and author, Bonnie Ridley Kraft, with her heartfelt permission  --Liz Johnston

* in summary a pantoum is a series of repeated lines.

The First Installment of Howard's Radio Play

The Intruders

Welcome to the adventures of Max and Lena Manus, brought to you by The Radio Comic Book Club of America.

 Episode One

 
Max Manus woke abruptly from a deep sleep when a fleeting dream alerted him to the possibility of  imminent danger. Instantly awake, he realized at once that something was different, he felt it throughout his entire body. His nightshirt was wet with sweat, his heart racing, his hair standing on end. He was vibrating with energy. He could even see better in the darkened bedroom. He sat up on his side of the bed, noting his wife Lena stirring a little over on her side, but apparently still asleep. He remained still for a moment, listening for any unusual sounds, but detected nothing other than the familiar hum of their modest Southeast Portland bungalow.

Then he felt the urge to pee. Casting aside the covers, he kicked his right leg onto the floor, then brought the one with the bad knee over the edge and down to his waiting slippers.  But then, standing next to the bed, not too steadily at first, but then better, he heard a faint and unfamiliar sound.  It came from the front of the house, down the hall, the front door. Or was it just an echo from that dream? He tensed, listened hard with his good ear, then heard the faint sound again, then once more, only a little louder. Then the front door opened and someone entered the living room. Then another.

The door to the hall from the living room was closed, so he was able to rush unseen from the bedroom into the kitchen before whoever out there had time to get their bearings. But even in his scramble he could not help but noticed that his bad knee now seemed OK, for the first time in many years not bothering him at all.

Standing in the kitchen at the open knife drawer, thinking fast about his options, Max was suddenly confident that he could handle whatever threat he would encountered; he would protect his sleeping wife, defend his home, expel the intruders, even fight for his life if he had to, even if it came to killing them, both of them. He was overcome with a sense of invincibility, a feeling he had never had before. But then he paused. His glasses were still on the dresser in the bed room. “Well, I'll just have to do the best I can, won't I,” he thought. But on the other hand, he really didn't seem that worried. He could see just fine, in fact, better than ever.

Quickly surveying the neat row of blades he carefully took out his 9-inch boning knife, reflexively testing its sharp edge and narrow point.

As he was closing the drawer, a dim wavering light streaming under the door from the dining room and a creaking floor board informed him that someone was treading lightly toward the kitchen and would come through the swinging door in about three seconds. He quickly positioned himself behind the door, his right shoulder firm against it's backside. He held the boning knife tightly in his right hand. When the foot step sounded on the threshold he shoved against the door with all his weight, slamming it full speed into the intruder, knocking him back onto the edge of the dining table with a dull crack in his lower spine. The man let out a single moan of anguish and dropped to his knees, a mix of surprise and terror on his shadowed face. Then he collapsed to the floor, dropping his lit flash light as he went down.
 

When Max sped into the room the intruder reached out with both arms in an attempt to entangle Max's legs.  Max easily jumped aside, then flung himself forward and plunged the knife  into the man's thigh, feeling the sharp point dig deep into the oak floor beneath. The man screamed, roiling in pain.

But at that very same moment the grotesquely large head of the other intruder appeared around the half-open hall door. Max looked up into his barely visible hooded face. Then a giant of a man edged into the room holding a pistol and advanced cautiously toward Max. The big man glanced at his helpless partner lying half under the table, blood gathering under his quivering leg, paused a short moment, then stepped forward aiming his gun directly at Max's head.   

To be continued.

Howard Schneider

November 15, 2013

Ben's Poem, "IN PRIVAT"

IN PRIVAT by Bennett Campbell Ferguson

To my dear adventuring paramour

And my sensational partner in crime

I write to tell you I loved you.

Cool logic warns, “Away you fly!”

But there is hazier, quieter voice inside

Though I would never let it overwhelm.

For me?  I’ll take the sleek embrace

Of new days, new people free and here.

But I still want you to know

I loved you

In green tunnels, morning trains, blue worlds

Rife with our names.

I cannot pretend to not be bitter or sad

On my Christmas doorstep, those feelings linger

But telling both of you I loved you?

I see the star-me rise

Because I love

And light becomes me

The Grace of "Grief"

Grief by Liz Johnston

Coal-black, water-well cavernous grief.

Dark, cold to the bone, limitless, never-ending.

Grief of grainy gristly separation, never to be reunited.
Never to gently touch or sweetly smell in the same way grief.
Shackled by the encompassing handcuffs of unrelenting grief.
Abruptly locked away in deafening solitary confinement.
Basic hopeful rights of pumpkin orange touch, yellow laughter, and ruby-rich enduring love.
A steel-blue life sentence of hard-edged grief.
The grumbly man in the moon but a sliver.
A sliver of white, crystalline hope,
Of quiet regenerating renewal.

Old Haunts

Sadie by Ron Smith

Ah, Halloween…does any grownup remember the thrill of anticipation all day long? Especially if the holiday fell on a school night and you were corralled in an over-warm classroom as Miss Kaser (Sadie) droned on about the deplorable living conditions in Czechoslovakia after the “big” war.

           "2:35,” I thought to myself, glancing at the clock above the classroom door, “twenty-five more minutes…”

“What then, Ronald, is the capitol of Czechoslovakia?” She was looking right at me; everyone was. I felt myself redden. “Uh…Budapest,” I ventured, unsure.

“No. Susan, you weren’t watching the clock…maybe you can tell us.”

“Of course Miss Kaser. Prague,” answered the always prepared, smirking Susan Painter. Czechoslovakia was a big deal for Miss Kaser because she and her old-maid roommate, Miss Mary Majors had toured Eastern Europe right after the war; just before the so-called “Iron Curtain” clamped on those small, ravaged nations whose misfortune was to border the Soviet Union. Miss Kaser emerged from the experience a rabid anti-communist and political conservative.

It is regrettable that more government “hands-off,” free-market philosophy didn’t infuse her classroom. She was a tyrant and she-ogre of the first stripe. One moment she would be calmly discussing something with a pupil at her desk, when suddenly the luckless student would be “spread-eagle” over the desk. Under a series of blows to the flanks, the child resembled a tiny, half-swallowed lizard in the jaws of a garden snake. One of her favorite disciplinary tactics was to compel her victim to navigate around the classroom, outside the square of students’ desks. When the accused passed Miss Kaser at the head of the class, she whacked them with her paddle, her eyes gleaming. She once made a girl wear a paper hat all afternoon for refusing to eat peanut butter at lunch.

What made her so mean? “I am Sadie Kaser,” she introduced herself on the first day of class. Please call me Miss Kaser.” She paused and then added somewhat enigmatically, “I was called Sara as a girl.”

Did Sara, the girl, dream of an exciting evening past as she slumbered beside a wilting corsage after the prom? Her gown draped carelessly over a chair? Was her bedside drawer stuffed with letters from admirers, some upperclassmen? It all passed her by in a way beyond the scope of this narrative to analyze. Now she was fiftyish, hardening, a wearer of cardigan sweaters and sensible shoes. A thick salt and pepper braid clustered close to her head.

“Miss Majors and I are not passing out any more candy and junk tonight,” she stated, switching from Czechoslovakia. “We won’t be home. We’re going to a party at the Campbell Center, which is the teachers’ union. This is our rebellion against the commercialization of Halloween. All those sweets aren’t good for children.”

She was hot now; “on a roll” as they say. “Last Halloween, Miss Majors and I passed out some lovely red apples from our own tree.” She continued, “Firmer, sweeter apples you never tasted. We were so happy and proud we could share them with the children in the neighborhood.” She paused for effect. “Next morning, as we left for work, we noticed most of the apples had been pitched on the walks and curbs and had been so punished.” “Punished” being her favorite word. She worked it into discourse three or four times a day.

The three o’clock buzzer sounded; class was over. She couldn’t touch us and we were out of there.

 

A Poem and Photograph by Tetyana B.

 First Day Of School

The girl with asters
in vibrant colors,
held like a torch.
In a new dress,
in shiny black shoes
and short white socks,
with a mountain of
                a backpack,
she is standing tall
on her home's porch.

Tears in her parents' eyes
cause a puzzled look in hers.
The first day of school
reels in vivid images of times
from a memory pool,
harbored in their own
            heart and head,
and brings the anticipation
            of the unknown
to the long days ahead.

-Tetyana B.

A Poem by Liz Johnston

Inside

Writing to get inside.

Inside the grief,

Inside the panic, and

Inside the joy.

Writing in short paragraphs,

Single words, and

Individual technique.

Simply.

Open

To unexpressed joy

Untapped creativity

Unearthed story lines

Unimagined beauty

Uncomplicated structure

Untouched emotions

 

-Liz Johnston

New Writing by LAW Fraser

The Box

By LAW Fraser

The brown corrugated box sat in the corner of the room. The top caved in from sixteen years of storage in the damp basement with other boxes of similar nature stacked on top of it. What its contents are, we will discover when we open it. It might contain books on English history, mysteries, poetry or English comedy. Small snippets of poems torn or cut from magazines and newspapers are often found between pages of the books found within these boxes. Did their owner really love poetry this much?

This box has set in the same corner for days now, waiting to have its tattered flaps opened. It’s begging to be explored. The search of an unknown life whose story may be hidden between the pages of one of the many tomes packed inside. So many boxes placed in the basement for so many years. It is hard to open this last box, so beat up from being put on the bottom of the stack. But, I will have to open it eventually and add its history to the rest; that last bit of knowledge of a life well read.