Michael Crowley

December 2001 | back-issues, poetry

[b]I Once Knew a Woman[/b]

I once knew a woman as sharp
as a spike, (or is it a tack?)
and as hard as nails,
who thought she could fly
and blazed like a meteor
-no that’s not right-
sparkled like those sparklers
that are so hard to light.
I studied her body,
would read it like a book.
She had moveable parts and
parts that stood still
as the wind in the trees
with places to kiss
and down on her arms.
And this was a time when
women had hair and were sharp
as a tack or that razor blade
you always played with
and always got cut
and the blood would be much
darker than the red you imagine.

I remember liking that woman
like the force of the tide.
We would walk around
in the city at night
or go for a ride and you
could smoke then and it was
great to walk and smoke and make words,
blow rings at the neon lights.
I once knew a woman
a shout in the street,
or a sound that makes you
suddenly turn and check
over your shoulder
for what ever might be there,
but never is,
but you’re left with a little
unnamable fear.
I once knew a woman like that.

[b]The Lord Said[/b]

It was easier before
there were so many of them.
You could keep tabs,
help out a Roman or Greek,
check in with the Chosen.
They’d slice up their sheep,
roll some rocks around
and scream at the sky.
I’d give them green pastures and sleep.

But now it’s totally out of control.
Who can keep up?
I mean there’s what’s left
of the birds of the air
and lilies of the field
to consider.
And if I turn my back
to intervene in Andromeda,
they set out to slaughter
one another
and send me the souls
of their children
as if I had room in my heart
or any tears left.

[b]Remembrance Day (U.K.)[/b]

I don’t remember much.
The way the sunlight played
on red brick walls
with painted white window frames.
The dry mouth and search
for another cigarette,
the studied garden, the goldenrod,
the purple dead men’s fingers,
the whistling howl of winter wind.

It’s not much is it?
Your hair, your eyes,
your scent have sunk
into a miasma of leaf mold
and rotting shapes.
Of war I know nothing,
bodies on TV, Friday night Teach-Ins.
We’d drive high to the protest.

Now is all there is –
floating time told
by the phases of the moon,
blown like smoke exhaled
or like a leaf falls
and is lost in the crowd,
a sea of fallen leaves.

by Michael Crowley (c)2001
([email]miklcrowly [at] hotmail [dot] com[/email])

Joni Hendry

December 2001 | back-issues, poetry

[b]Hallucination[/b]

Dawn’s resurrecting fire
extends fingers of light,
embracing my hollow room with its grace.

Even though I’m roused by your kiss
at the rivers dark I pause.
The hunger for your touch rises with the gloom,
raw disconnected lament.

No one hears wistful sighs
as night shadows seep into cracks
of the remote, black womb of earth.

I give the wind silver tokens,
highlighting dust particles that burn
in marble chambers of my heart,
removing traces of untold passion.

Hallucination, the simplicity of your presence,
a scent on satin sheets,
imagined moments the rising sun exhausts.

[b]Summer’s demise[/b]

A calm settles over me as I stroll
through once vibrant woods.
Frost now clings to spindled fingers,
their jewels of amber and gold
ride the air like ghosts,
blending with withered blooms,
their spirits spent.

Twilight, ends smile of day.
Blood-red streaks
trace across gray sky
Beads of moonlight gather crystals reflection.
Brilliance of increscent star
teases shivering green.
The chill of the crisp breeze
seeps through me,
I shudder.

Listening to trees that groan like deformed men,
each waiting for the blanket of warmth
and dreaming of the day when they dress
in warm sunshine once more.

[b]Captive Waltz[/b]

I mourn
as unborn spirits of spring
toss restlessly in crystals wombs
I wait for the spin
at the wheel of seasons.

Gone are flowers,
debutantes in frilly ball gowns
lifting faces that charm honey bees: now eunuchs.

I tremble at the silence
of frigid landscape,
winter’s white mask,
screen of life.

The swirl of amber leaves
waltz a tired green dance,
a chilled murmur
echoes through naked trees.

New beginnings shiver
singing “Auld Lang Syne”
into the bleak hours
of winter’s piercing embrace.

by Joni Hendry (c)2001
([email]caddis11 [at] hotmail [dot] com[/email])

[b]Editor’s Note:[/b] “Captive Waltz” first appeared in Rising Star; “Summer’s demise” first appeared in Beginnings.

A Death in White

December 2001 | back-issues, poetry

a short story by Joni Hendry
(caddis11 [at] hotmail [dot] com)

I rub the sleep from my eyes and wish I could laze in bed all day long. I snuggle deeper into my covers, but the sun keeps spilling through my window, bright and warm on my face. From down stairs I can hear the fireplace hissing and my mother in the kitchen fixing breakfast. It’s Sunday morning.

Misty, the family poodle, jumps on my bed and starts licking my face urging me out of bed. He wakes me up this way every morning since I got him as a puppy. A birthday present I received when I was six. At the age of seven he still acts like a puppy sometimes. I finally get up and go downstairs. Misty traipses behind me, tail wagging, barking to be let out. I can smell the pancakes and hear the sizzle of bacon frying.

I let Misty out and stand in the doorway, watching big fluffy flakes of snow falling, transforming the yard into an imaginary place as if someone had turned a snow-globe upside down. From here I can hear my father in the garage, sharpening his axe, the screeching sound of metal on metal. Today is the day we get our Christmas tree. As a family we decided, no taller than five feet and a tree with short needles. They last longer, my Mom says. After breakfast, we bundle up and dash into the yard letting the big flakes melt on our tongues. We laugh as the snow clings to warm cheeks and tickles our eyelashes. Mom and Dad urge me to hurry before the snow gets too high to walk in. We hike a mile from the edge of town, deeper into the thick woods, searching for the right tree.

In an open meadow we decide to make snow angels. All three of us, plopping down on the soft mattress of white, fanning our limbs, jumping up, our bottoms are wet and the outlines of angels quickly fill in. I shake the wet snow off my yellow jacket and see the tree we should bring home. Its arms full with bright green needles and the top branch perfectly straight. We all agree this is the one to take home. Dad removes the cover from the ax. The sharpened ax makes good time. The tree falls with a creak and a whoosh; the sap dripping off the edge of the trunk. Carefully we wrap the tree in a tarp for the trip home.

Uncomfortable being out so long in the cold, Misty yaps urgently at Dad’s feet, wanting to go home. Dad trips over him and falls flat on his face. Embarrassed, he jumps up and grumpily exclaims its time to go.

Arriving home, Mom mixes sugar water to prolong the tree’s life. Dad props the tree into a stand. Mom prepares hot chocolate with colored marshmallows floating on top. Silent Night serenades us from a record as we place ornaments. Carefully the tinsel is put on, and an angel is placed on top. We stand back and admire our work. The tree is stunning to look at with all its holiday clothes on, but something happened inside me.

I’ll never forget that year, that tree, as I put the final touches, the frail heirloom angel, on my aluminum Christmas tree. Glowing on metallic needles the image of that long ago day returns. I turn away and walk to the window. The snow is still falling. In my mind, I see the tree again, standing tall and green and hear the whacking sound of my father’s ax, and the sap weeping into the snow.