Some Word Play

Circle of Life
    by Linda Fraser

 Thread, string, yarn, warp
        Fabric of Life.

Jump, run, bend, twist
        Life in motion.

Twitch, tap, scratch, yawn
        Motion at rest.

Sunset, stars, moo, silence
        Rest at night.

Dream, renew, heal, awake
        Night of life.

Two Short Pieces by Ron Smith

Viewpoint

Announcer on radio: It’s 10:06 a.m. on a Tuesday. Welcome to NPR. I’m Cody Blanchard. It’s time for Viewpoint! Today we’re fortunate to have with us a pioneer in computer-dating technology, founder and CEO of oneandonly.com, Wes Bacham. Good morning, Wes. How are you?

WB – Not so good Cody, not so good.

CB – Really? What’s the matter?

WB – My wife made a frightful row at breakfast. I was supposed to pay the last water bill and forgot. The city sent a terse note threatening to shut us off.

CB – I hear you’re a very busy man. Surely an oversight like that is excusable.

WB – You’d think so. She says it’s become a “pattern of behavior” with me. She called me “disoriented.”

CB – That’s too bad, Wes. But I had hoped you could tell us about the valuable service you are providing for singles who are sure they’re “ready” but haven’t found the right…

WB – Victim?

CB  - Victi, ha ha, victim, that’s funny. Seriously, what advancements have been made in the field of computer-dating?

WB – Okay, forget – all – you – thought – you – knew – about… (At this time Cody’s guest, Wes, answers his ringing cell phone. Worry spreading over his features, he says little; only occasional grunts and nods of understanding. He hangs up.)

WB – That was the nurse at my daughter Mary’s middle school. She has a toothache and can’t remain there. Sorry to blow the interview. I gotta run. Rain check?

CB – Of course. Go then. I hope it’s nothing serious. Thankfully, “Lasso Louis” is here, waiting in the green room. He’s going to tell us how he steered his drive-in restaurant at 8200 Slausen Boulevard from bacon burgers to veggie burgers, from onion rings to zucchini bread. He’d do some rope tricks but this is radio. But first a word from Jenkins LLC, manufacturers of sustainable gas grills, compost bins and kid and pet-friendly lawn care products.

--Ron Smith

 

Coincidence

Recently while waiting for a bus, I spied a withered news dealer with no customers killing time behind his counter, reading a Field and Stream magazine. Although employed distributing print, his reading skills were marginal. He poured long over each page and was moving his lips. I’m no “pro” but if someone is moving their lips slowly, I can make out what they are reading.

“Nell – had – loaded – the – station – wagon – but – forgot – to pack – the – Gor-Tex – lined – all – weather – boots – I – had – bought – for – her. I – had – made – a – special – trip – to – the – Outdoor – Store…” the man struggled to read, finally turning a page. My jaw dropped open. He was reading a story I had written, titled “Journey to Lonerock”; a personal memoir of a trip my late wife, Nell, and I had made to eastern Oregon The royalty had been such a pittance, I had forgotten the tale. Sometimes Field and Stream doesn’t have enough stories about hunting and fishing so they flesh the magazine out with “hack” fiction.

As he became aware I was watching him closely, I gasped audibly and sneezed. “God bless you,” the dealer said, looking up for the first time.

“Thank you,” I replied sincerely.

--Ron Smith

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.