weekly muse...
volume 2, issue 1 | 2023-01-13
poetry
another winter
white snow settles on trees like years cling to our lives pale red apples shrivel on stems unpicked possibilities another winter comes to us still here among the living
-- from homebound
snowfall in the valley
white bird falling with white snow dry branch clings to both a man throws his dog a snowball in the snow tail wagging nose not knowing where to go
-- from along the way
peace on earth
white dove melts above the earth raining feathers of peace hands reach up like thirsty trees in this hour of need
-- from everything rhymes
rapture
-- for elizabeth bishop, please come flying i am the eager tail of a kite tracing her scribbles in the sky i cannot read the word she writes it is enough for me to fly behind her windy heights
-- from lives of the poets
dog at dusk
splayed on the lawn he watches the field for night to come creeping out at him again another day -- from another day
short stories
sideview mirror
-- coming next…
-- from signs & wonders
lucy (losing the light)
…continued
“Lucy!” Candace squealed. “I thought you were off today?”
“I’m just here to pick up my check.” I was in a hurry.
“I’ve got it right here.” She reached behind the counter under the cash register. “This is yours too.” She handed a manila folder to me. “He left it this morning.”
“Who?” I thought it was something from my father, for school.
“The distinguished gentleman…your friend.”
I gave a clueless shrug.
“You know.” She groaned at my slowness. “The famous photographer.”
“Oh, him.” My pulse leapt. I grabbed it nonchalantly from her hand. “Thanks. Gotta go.”
He had printed on the envelope in meticulous hand, ‘To Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.’ I opened it as soon as I got to my car.
I gasped in disbelief at what I saw. There were seven photos, eight by ten, in black-and-white, perfectly developed and enlarged. Candace with her pinup girl smile. Mrs. Nance, the goddess librarian blessing her patrons. Darryl, lording over his fields, sharing his bounty with all. Mr. Alex, the prince of grief. Father Richard, mayor of the heavenly city. And Keryl, queen of the deep.
They were perfect—the framing, the composition, the contrast, the theme.
“I did this.” My voice stuck in my throat. “They’re beautiful.”
‘But there was no film!’ I pondered silently. ‘How can this be?’
Then, I saw the last picture. It was of me. A profile, with a shadow, almost a silhouette. I knew where it was, the library. He must have used the skylight to get this effect. He caught the right side of my face, with my twisted smile. I recalled the exact moment. There I was, a tall skinny girl in her tube top and jeans, with the burden of a massive tome clutched under her arm. She had a strength in her slender frame I had not seen before. Her stance was bold, her jaw set firm with an inner desire. This was a girl to step forward, not fall back. I stared at the photo, Camera Lucida, in shades of gray, circa 2001, two-dimensional sculpture traced in light, on silver nitrate and white paper base. His work was still better than mine. I had so far to go.
The old Neon took me to the library, sitting numb behind the wheel. I kept looking at the photos spread out on the passenger seat as I rode along. When the car stopped, my hand reached back and blindly gripped the ponderous book like a robotic claw. The pincers slid the rectangular object into the drop box slot and released its hold. A rumbling, hollow sound clunked deep inside as the Occupational Outlook Handbook dropped to the bowels of the bin and came to rest. I put the car in gear and drove away, staring at the picture of a girl with the sun in her eyes.
-- from summer’s end -- coming next: "mē (silent symphony)"
microfiction | a history of the world
…continued
suffrage (women’s rights)
When the sun comes up over the lake, riding on the surface like a shiny rail, it almost enters me, filling my breast with breath from within.
I wish I could sit a while longer and watch its steady lift, up and away (even though it is coming closer, moving overhead). But I have beds to make.
These ladies can sure be messy, some of them. You’d think they were men. Even if they get me the right to vote, I’ll still have to clean up their trash.
Cracker crumbs all over the floor. And those crazy hats! Still, it wouldn’t be so bad. To have a say. To pick my own tasks. Go on sisters. Sing one for me.
-- to be continued…
-- from a history of the world