By
Debbie Angelosanto
Misty apparitions rise out of the fog
Crying out my name,
They wail in the creaking trees.
Will nothing ever will be the same?
Surrounded by them, trapped,
How do I leave? There’s no escape.
Cold spots linger around me, my face is slapped,
by an unseen, unforgiving hand.
Their faces distort in the gloom
Frozen in horror, forever in doom.
I don’t know who they were in life,
But they are here to claim mine.
Why? Had I offended them. I really do not know,
Fear grips me, is this how it ends for me?
Frigid air blows over the darkened marsh,
On what had been a warm summer night
But then … something wonderful happens
A glow rises up out of the horizon.
The warmth of sun blinds the evil spirits
As it rises to confront them, covering them.
The bitterness of the frozen air leaves,
Replaced by warmth and birdsong.
The dark spirits withdraw into
the distant shadows in the forest.
Someone is there, my guardian spirit
Protecting me, their love is what saved me.
The warmth of this being brings
The summer back to the marsh.
A familiar face appears before me,
I remember the radiant smile,
Of the loved one gone long ago,
But looking after me still.
By Debbie Angelosanto
By
Debbie Angelosanto
When the quarantine blues have got you down
Hold you head up high, and act like a clown
Remember, that in every tragedy that has arrived
Laughter has indeed made the people thrive.
The first world war lost many a soldier’s life
The Spanish flu caused loss and mortal strive
Yet, just when people felt shaken and beaten
They chuckled at the antics of Buster Keaton.
The Great Depression caused finances to crumble
Crimes and poverty caused much a rumble
but screwballs brought a smile to many a girl and boy
with Grant and Hepburn, Powell and Loy
Brutal inhuman acts caused hearts to bruise.
World War II fears were steadied and soothed
by laughing at a zany reel at a show
which featured Curly, Larry and Moe
Hearts were warmed in the Cold War
By the love of Lucy and Gleason didn’t bore.
Laugh-in, Jeannie, and MASH were a relief
from Vietnam horrors and all of the grief.
Today, comedy is on all our devices to fight our fears
Laughter IS the best medicine against the tears.
it was clear from the masks in Ancient Greece
The cure for tragedy is comedy and that’s my peace.
By
Paul Angelosanto
Someday I’ll write one of those truly great poems
For now, there is this poem, which isn’t true or great
It’s half a lie about how I die; die before I decay in every way
See, this isn’t very good, let alone great
It inspires me to be late to the poetry reading inside my soul
Do I get one-dollar bills if I slide up and down the poetry pole
on stage during the open mike poetry reading?
Why does Mike have to be open during the reading?
Open how?
Physically?
Mentally?
Sexually?
In the end it doesn’t matter, it’s still not a great poem
By
Paul Angelosanto
Darnell stared into the heat haze that hung over the blue water lapping onto the white sands. The rippling glare had an otherness that spooked him.
“It’s the most beautiful beach I’ve ever seen,” Soo said. Her thick black shades hid her wonderful eyes.
Darnell couldn’t tell if she was being sarcastic or not without seeing her eyes. Her voice never gave away a thing.
Darnell still didn’t know if Soo meant it or not when she told him that she loved him. How could he not know? How could Darnell love Soo back when he could hardly ever understand her?
Yet, he couldn’t think of any place he’d rather be than around her.
Did something just move within the heat haze? A shape that shouldn’t have been there? Was the afternoon heat bothering him? For a split second a dull pain throbbed behind his eye. Darnell looked away from the water, the water is just too bright. Look elsewhere. Soo filled out her black bikini rather nicely. Now that is a good sight.
“Do you see something in the heat haze?” Soo asked while raising herself up on her elbows.
“No. There’s nothing out there,” Darnell said. He kept his gaze on Soo.
By
Sandy Bernstein
Today, I wait
In quiet solitude
Contemplating the fine line
Between life and death.
I sit outside
In the sun reading,
Trying to forget
The difficult choice
Of saying goodbye,
The tearful finalization.
I find it hard to concentrate
As my eyes wonder from the page.
A mouse scurries in the grass,
Capturing my attention.
And then, as if on que
A dragonfly lands on the book,
Its wings fluttering;
A tiny living creature,
A thing of beauty
To behold.
But only for a moment.
A crow cries in the distance
Startling my sorrowful reverie
As I return to my story,
The sun beating down
Until I can no longer stand the heat.
I close my book
And go inside,
Into the cool air
To face a ticking clock,
The countdown of final moments,
To create a memory
With my fur baby.
Today I wait,
Tomorrow
I say goodbye.
For Tango 7/25/19
By Sheila Foley
By
Sandy Bernstein
"Do we have room for grandma?” Dawn asked her boyfriend, Steve while gazing around the small apartment they had just moved into. Both stood in the middle of the cramped living room.
Steve shrugged. He was tall and good looking with longish dark hair and deep blue eyes that could melt a glacier. His eyes widened at the cluttered mess. Boxes and plastic bins were everywhere and the furniture haphazardly placed against the walls. There was barely enough room to walk.
“I don’t know. We have the extra bedroom, but I’m not sure she’ll like the view. I mean, who wants to look out into a parking lot?” he sniffed, pulling items out of a large box and placing them on a nearby table.
“Right. But she doesn’t need much space,” Dawn chuckled, looking around. “I suppose she could occupy the spare bedroom. The space can double as an office. I plan on putting my new desk in there. And, I don’t think she’ll mind the view. After all, why would she care?”
“Right. It doesn’t matter. She’s the one who insisted on being with us. No one else in the family wanted her. Hell, even your Dad said he’d had enough over the years.”
“I know,” Dawn sighed. “I’m the only one who got along with her.”
“Or put up with her,” Steve half joked. “By the way, when is she due to arrive?”
“Soon,” Dawn replied as she began moving things out of the way. Steve helped her with her grandmother’s rocking chair. They placed it by the picture window in living room across from the fireplace. It was the largest and nicest room in the place. “This is a pretty spot,” Dawn said, gazing out the window. “Being on the first floor has its perks. Grandma can sit and look out onto the front yard. There are lots of shrubs and flowers lining the walkway. It’s nice this time of year, everything is in bloom. And she’ll enjoy the birds.”
“Right.” Steve laughed. “The one thing she didn’t complain about.”
“Well, she did live on a busy street. I think she’ll be happy here.”
“I hope so. We don’t need to hear her bitch about how unhappy she is.” Steve added, moving a few boxes. “We just need to make room.”
“Right.” Dawn moaned, wondering if her grandmother was ever truly happy? No one could ever tell. She never smiled.
“Let’s move the couch against the wall,” Steve suggested. “And get everything out of the way. We don’t want to trip over things or give Bertha a reason to complain the moment she arrives. It wouldn’t be a good start.”
Dawn agreed and the two started moving the furniture into place along with the boxes. An hour later they had everything out of the way.
“Looks good,” Steve commented. “Almost ready for grandma Bertha.”
“I hope it meets with her approval.” Dawn said, sounding doubtful.
Steve flopped on the couch and Dawn did the same. After a short break he suggested they grab a late lunch before Bertha’s arrival.
Dawn agreed and went to get her things when the doorbell rang. “Oh crap,” she muttered. “It must be her. I was hoping for a little alone time with you first,” she said, moving toward the door.
“Ah, no such luck,” Steve frowned, jumping off the couch. “From now on it will be the three of us. Not exactly what I had planned,” he grumbled.
“I know. Sorry,” Dawn replied, unable to look her boyfriend in the eyes.
“I’ll get it,” he said, plastering a smile on his face. Dawn hung back, letting him deal with things. A moment later Steve returned holding a small box. “Special delivery,” he said. “Shall we open it?”
Dawn nodded as he placed it on the coffee table and opened it.
“Looks nice. Where do you want it?”
Dawn pointed to the mantle.
“If you’re sure?” he asked, taking the item from the box. He walked over to the fireplace across from the picture window and placed the silver urn on the mantle. “Looks good here.”
“It does. It’s a nice spot. Now, let’s go grab some grub and a couple of beers at the café down the street. I need a break and we’ll let grandma settle in.”
Steve laughed. “Hope she’ll be happy here,” he whispered, opening the door for Dawn.
“Oh, I’ll get my things,” she said, letting him go ahead of her. Dawn found her jacket and purse on the kitchen chair. Heading toward the door she spied movement in the corner by the window.
The rocking chair was moving on its own. Surprisingly, it wasn’t agitated. Rather it rocked gently as if in approval.
“Welcome to your new home, grandma.” She whispered. “I hope you’ll be happy. And us too, as long as you give us some privacy.” She smiled, closing the door behind her as the chair abruptly stopped moving.
By
Sheila Foley
By Sheila Foley
BY
Julianne Toomey-Kautz
The space between
soil and sea
Rough, rocky, rugged,
Stone of grey or white or tan or gold
sparkling with mica and quartz
rough as sandpaper
hard as granite
worn away
smoothed
by the relentless action
of the tides.
High water
Ebb tide
Pools left behind
to dry in the sun
Linking the two realms
of sea and land.
Soil, earth
Bushes with full leaves
heavy with red berries,
or with delicate pink- and white-petaled flowers
Deep blue-green of pines
rooted strong
Browning green of pine needles, fragrant
Soft and shifting underfoot
Then the sea
Blue or blue-green or grey
White with spume and spray
Waves lapping gently
or slamming hard
into the stolid stone
of the rugged coastline.
enduring, steadfast
between
sea and soil
Louisa May Alcott, “Little Women”
By
Julianne Toomey-Kautz
at Orchard House in Concord.
In the kitchen
a lighted hole, stone-lined,
delved deep into the earth,
water far below
— indoor plumbing, circa 1860s—
and a soapstone sink
purchased after a promise
to her mother
with monies from the “sinking fund”
intended to keep the family from sinking into abject poverty.
Faded mementoes
of lives well-lived,
a family affair
throughout the house.
In the dining room,
a portrait more grey than sepia
of the lost sister,
the angel in the house,
sits above her melodion,
a memorial of sorts;
In the living room,
images of the powerful parents
whose concepts charged a generation
rich in ideas
and ideals,
though not in money.
Who can put a value on concepts?
Faded writing on the marriage certificate
of the oldest sister
as she and her husband look on,
stern visages staring out from
black and white photographs.
Upstairs in the bedrooms,
images of the youngest sister,
the artistic one,
and her European husband and child
Portraits and photos of the author herself
caught at her writing desk
handwriting strong and bold and black
in her dominant hand
or cramped and spiky when writing with her other hand
because she could not stop.
Portraits of lives
whose echoes linger
in the drawings of owls
over the fireplace
displayed now behind plexi-glass;
or genius in the artists’ bedrooms
writings and drawings and needlework;
and the images behind the painted walls in the studio
made visible through the magic of modern imaging technologies.
The echoes of their vibrant lives
linger
in this house of memories.
watercolor by Sheila Foley
