Debbie Angelosanto
Bonita the rabbit leaped out of her hole into a field of emerald grass, heaven. The dew on the flowers sparkled like jewels in the morning sun. She felt its warmth on her soft, brown fur. She wished Rusty, her mate had joined her.
She hopped to some nearby greenery and nibbled.
While she munched, she noticed a flower she never had seen before.
It had bright, raspberry petals, and was adorned with a ring of tasty-looking yellow stalks coming out of a creamy center. It beckoned her with deliciousness. She jumped over. It smelled delightful!
She tasted. Mmm!
Her belly was full, so she found some shade. Soon she started to feel sleepy, she stared to dose.
…
Bonita opened her eyes. Things seemed smaller. Hmm? She looked around. How did she get this high up? She hopped up, and when she landed, she turned her ankle, Wait, she doesn’t have ankles! She looked down. Her paws were not paws anymore. She had feet, feet in human shoes that had been raised up by spikes. No wonder she didn’t see humans hop. She had hands too, and had something covering part of her, a short white dress, but she didn’t have fur anymore. She was a human! Oh no! She hoped she wouldn’t stay that way.
“Hey Baby, need any help?”
A human man approached her. He was older, heavy-set, with beady eyes, and a scruffy face. He looked at her from head to toe, and his eyes landed below her face. She looked down to where he was looking. Her chest, which was now quite robust.
“No, I am fine,” the former rabbit replied, buttoning up her blouse. She could talk, how did that happen?
“Would you like to join me for a drink doll?” he asked.
“But I don’t even know you,” Bonita replied.
He brushed her cheek with his fingers. It made her uncomfortable. She did not like being a human.
“Hey, I may be a bunny, but I am not a tramp!” she roared.
“Oh, a bunny, I like that.” He smirked. “What issue would I find you in baby? I have most of 'em."
It was then she saw her honey Rusty hopping by. He looked up at the man, his rabbit eyes glaring. He leaped over and bit the man’s ankle.
“Yow! Why you little rodent, I’ll kill you! He chased after him.
Bonita blocked him. “Leave him alone, for that matter leave me alone!”
She punched him in the face. Bonita picked up Rusty.
The man stood there massaging his face, befuddled by this beauty and her rabbit.
She gave Rusty a kiss on his head. He grinned a bunny smile.
She saw an effervescent wall made out of bubbles in many colors. Odd. She and her Rusty walked through it. . . . .
She awoke to find Rusty snoozing beside her. She was a rabbit again. Pheww!
Debbie Angelosanto
WAIT
It is just about over
A winter of snow and ice
A world, hard, and not very nice
COLD
Release is almost here
New buds are on the trees
Birds sing, flowers do sprout
WIND
A month of non-stop rain
Dampens days that drag out
But I shouldn’t complain about that
RAIN
Soon we will have the warmth of the sun
Brighter, fragrant, with colorful flowers
Release, like buds opening, freedom will be ours
SPRING
Paul Angelosanto
Once upon a midday dreary
While I laundered weak and weary
There came a knocking upon my front door
It was a pale mustached man, nothing more
A simple shabby salesman with an expansive forehead, nothing more
For sale he had a used raven
The man who stood below middle height
assured me the birds use was only slight
The bird’s appearance was not craven
But of what use was this bird to me in my washing today, tonight,
or any other day, or night?
For I am but a humble clothes washer by trade
If this is all the man had for sale, I bade him to get off from my door,
and to return nevermore
What could a launderer like me have need of a bird?
Oh, but he assured me it was no ordinary black bird
It made sounds unlike anything I had ever heard
Upon that the mustached man staked his word
He set forth to demonstrate what it could do
The slim man snapped his fingers with a wry click
The bird opened and snapped its beak with a dry click
Merely that and nothing more
It was nothing very special, it didn’t rhyme, or reason,
nor even say my wife’s name, Lenore
Shaking my head, I cast the piteous man
and his insipid bird that could utter no word,
from off my door
And returned to my washing, which I will
do forevermore
Paul Angelosanto
I sit at the base of the mountain. It’s not a difficult mountain to climb. You can hike it in about an hour. Still, it’s the one we enjoyed climbing together many times.
I sit at the base of the mountain. She always lead the climb up. She knew just the right pace and the best paths.
I sit at the base of the mountain. She’s gone. Now, I have to climb alone and I’m not sure which path to follow.
Sandy Bernstein
I look for you
The you I used to know
Where memories took root,
No longer
Are they anchored
On solid ground,
Now only tattered images
Of people and places
Are all that remain.
I try to wake those precious moments
To converse just a little
About how life used to be,
The way we were,
The people once important to us;
Now gone,
To remember them
And all we shared
Of the family we once knew.
Sometimes I get a spark or a laugh
In recognition
When a name rings a bell
Or something stirs within
Your failing mind,
But only for a moment
Before you slip into
No man’s land again
And ask me the same questions,
An endless loop
Feels like insanity
As the conversation
Gets as tired as I am.
I know you’re in there somewhere,
Knocking about in a fog
In your own little world.
There are good days and bad
And all I can do is sit with you;
Be patient
Be kind
Because in the end
All that remains
Is the beating heart
Of memories lost.
Sandy Bernstein
“This editing process is driving me crazy,” I yelled at no one. It felt like I’d been editing for years. . . actually it had only been a few weeks. I was working on a novella and the editor said it was too long. It was more novel length and I needed to get it down another four thousand words if I was to submit it.
My fantasy story was bordering on thirty thousand words, instead of twenty, where the publication cut it off. I could either add and turn it into a novel or subtract and work with what I already had. It seemed easier to subtract at this point. I could always add to it later. I was good at adding more words than necessary. A writer’s bane of existence. It’s my creation and I can always rewrite. No one knows what writers go through to please an editor or to submit to a publication in order to get published. No one. Except another writer.
Okay, I dug in for the long haul after reading the last section where a modern - day princess (some would say it’s me) asks the genie lantern to grant a wish. She, Arabella, says, “I want a redo of my life. I want to. . .”
“Be precise,” says the male voice echoing from the lantern as smoke swirls in the air above the princess’s head.
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t waste your words. Say exactly what you mean.”
“Hmm” She thought, trying to focus. I guess I could take the same advice.
Got it, she thought and said, “I wish to have less responsibility. I want to edit myself, oh I mean edit my life.” She hoped that was right. Or was it too many words? The wrong words? Ug!
The genie said he’d honor her words in the best way he could. So that was it, the princess saw her responsibilities disappear one by one. She was happy. She no longer stressed out about all her engagements of state. Her hectic schedule was reduced, no more meetings with boring dignitaries, no more charity events, and no more balls. Although she did like the balls and meeting all kinds of handsome men and dancing. But no, all that came to an end. At first, she was happy then she was bored. Nothing to do. Hmm. . . what now, she pondered.
And as I wrote or rather edited, I too saw my words disappear. Good. My novel is becoming a novella and soon it will become a short story. I kept going. Editing is easy, I thought, until I looked down at my feet and didn’t see them.
“What?” How can that be? My ankles were starting to fade. What have I done? I looked at my computer screen and saw I only had three pages left of my story. It was editing itself out of existence. And so was I.
That’s what happens when you listen to others tell you how to write.
Beatrice Fernando
I have mastered the rocky hill to the top
The thick mist hides the depth I have traveled
Far on the horizon, the sun hovers over a hill
I take refuge in a mountain cave
Postured on a flat rock, hands on my lap,
I focus on my thoughts
A warm breeze cuddles me with its purity
Sounds of creatures and insects reach my ears
Ants crawl over my legs
Mosquitoes circle with a warning of sting
I take a deep breath and close my eyes
Without expectations, giving in to nature
As my breath deepens, weaving thoughts vanish
My mind a standstill in front of a radiant realm
Purple, gold, and yellow veils draw me in
As the universe opens its doors
I float through magical colors
Where words, numbers, shapes, and images fly by,
An enchanted world appears with a harmonious hum of “OM”
The earth whispers, and blissful energy expands my aura
A golden light wraps me with a warmth of love
My senses tremble, my mind awakes
See what’s beyond my naked eyes and grasp the unknown
I recognize the beauty and the ugly in this world and beyond
Sheila Foley
Painting on the porch
Makes me want to take a torch
To every piece that I've created
That wasn't consecrated or divinely inspirated
By natural light
Artificiality
is not my specialty*
I crave the sun and shadowy
Forms that shape reality
To spark my insight
*pronounced with 5 syllables
Spesh she al it tee
Sheila Foley
Eileen Hugo
gossamer ribbons in pastel shades
pale sky blue is mine
pink yellow green hang fluttering
The May Pole Song on my lips I sing out
the beauty of the words as if a girl again
wrap my words and ribbon around the pole
covering pink yellow and green
into rainbow memories
Eileen Hugo
Our long dirt road is pebbled
with quarry discards
and wrapped in yellow topped weeds.
Full moon transforms us into full shadows.
We walk deeper, find the worn path
that snakes between shapes of granite.
On the sharp edge of the pit
we hold hands and stare at the
wavering light on black water
We are lovers there, hidden in the darkness
a bit afraid, a bit aroused, voices quiet
quieter than the sound of our sighs.