Tuesday, September 17, 2013

Angels, by Maureen Owens


Angels 1

Perhaps, it is a natural passage at this age,
but I find divine relief in my arrival.
“It’s not mine” and “so what?”
have joined with “what’s the worst?” and “oh well.”
How sublime is letting go when
“I wish the best for you” is genuine.
It’s like stepping over a threshold
or through a gate, and the angels
on the other side are smiling
and directing you to a comfortable chair.


Angels 2

Of all the details imparted into the minds of schoolchildren, I think the one that has served me best is that we all have guardian angels. Who wouldn’t embrace the notion of an invisible guardian who never leaves my side, whose sole job is to just be with me? In first grade, Sister Mary Edna said we could always talk to them . . . at any time. They were always ready and waiting to hear from only us; I was an angel's one and only assignment. I so embraced this partnership that I would sit on only half of my chair, because I worried how tired she must have been from standing (or hovering) always behind me, straining to see what I was doing from over my shoulder.

It’s funny how so much in life does circle back. In time, I forgot about my angel and went about life, pretty much angel-less. Now here I am, fifty years later, again talking to my angels. (Yes, now I believe I have more than one.) I have no idea what is real or not; my beliefs are shaped by what I hope, and guardian angels seem like a really fine idea.

My spirituality is so simple — if it seems good, it’s very possible. Metaphysics, mediumship, energywork, law of attraction, prayer — it’s all part of who I am, but what it all really boils down to (for me) is this:

Be good
Be genuine
Be grateful
Be kind

Whisper good night to your angels, and
fall asleep with love in your heart.

Sunday, September 15, 2013

A Tale of Two Women/ A Tale of Two Places, by Vivian Relta


There is a place where the magic 
the mystery 
and the harmony of the world
rest on the shoulders of women

in this place 
she is the translator between worlds 
the translator between words

she wears feathers and fur 
seashells and flowers
silver and gold 
opals and pearls

she inhales the sacred smoke 
while standing firmly 
planted on the earth
balanced 
on one foot


In the other place 
we know all too well
the magic 
the mysteries 
have been replaced with 
her body 
as object and subject 
by others

she wears not the natural things from the earth 
but the ideas 
the images 
the desires 
of man-made designs 
of beauty

she teeters now on 3 inch, 5 inch stalks
trying to keep her balance 
on an aching planet 

Friday, September 13, 2013

Let Me Manage Something Simple, by Yvette Rubio


Let me manage something simple:
A piece of toast.
A cup of tea.

Let me manage something simple:
Reseeded morning glories
Along the fence.

Let me manage something simple:
Put a stamp on the envelope.
Open the mailbox.

Let me manage something simple:
Clean his empty coffee cup.
Fold his handkerchief.

Let me manage something simple:
Turn off the lights.
Lock the door.

Let me manage something simple:
Plant the garlic.
Wait for winter.


(With thanks to the poet Molly Peacock who used this opening phrase in a different way.)

Wednesday, September 11, 2013

8 Moments of My Drive to Work on Thursday, by Amy Bartell


Its 6:30 a.m. and at the stop sign, waiting to turn left out of the apartment complex, I am behind a rusty silver Chevy Cavalier, with a New York State license plate taped in the back window. The car appears to be driving itself, I can't see anyone in there, but their lights are on, and there's a bumper sticker that reads "My other car is a Chocobo." I was intrigued. As soon as I got to work, I looked it up and here's what the bumper sticker could have said: "My other car is an intelligent, friendly, large and normally flightless fantasy bird, that often assists heroes and can be ridden like horses." Designed for a video game, and according to Wikipedia, "Most often they can be caught in the wild and ridden without fear of random encounters, escaping after the player dismounts." This is a lot to think about when behind an apparently driverless car — was that what they meant by player dismount? And what about that taped license plate, is that the result of a random encounter? When I left my home last winter and made my way to this apartment high on a hill, did I enter a virtual world? Am I perched among friendly flightless birds?

Heading north, I pass a sign that posts the speed limit at 55 mph. I do this at 65 mph because I have decided this is ok.

As I near Exit 13 which is for Phoenix, I recall that twice in the six years I have commuted to Oswego, I have gotten to that exact spot when I slammed into a thick white blanket of lake effect snow. The kind of blanket you can't see through, no way to tell up from down, no trees, shadows or lights, nothing any further ahead than the dashboard, the back seat is the end of the world, like being swallowed up in the cotton at the top of the aspirin bottle. To be in a whiteout is to lose dimension. I can tell you that if you open your door a crack you can follow the line painted on the edge of the road, one hand on the wheel, the other on the door, your head about an inch off the ground -  and if you crawl up the ramp and to the right, you'll find a Valero gas station. I have pulled into that parking lot both times, glad to have arrived anywhere. Once, I ventured into the store, where other stranded people were similarly disoriented,  huddled by the racks of gum and newspapers, contemplating another snow brush. The guy behind the counter greeted us like we were long lost friends arriving at a pre-arranged winter gathering. He was an eager, jovial host, who hadn't had this much company or sold this much gum in a long time. My guess is that things aren't usually this busy at the Phoenix Valero gas station. But, there we were, a random assortment of travelers, shuffling around in our snow-bound vigil, looking nervously out at what we could barely see, doing our best at chit chat, anxious declarations of where we were expected to be at that moment. Knowing we were supposed to be somewhere else, but not wanting to hurt our host's feelings, he was seeming to take our eagerness to leave personally. I imagine that everyone was thinking the same thing — I could take my chances out there on the road, or stay here and eat Ho Hos and read the Swap Sheet. Again. Knowing that our host would probably suggest a sing-a-long, or serve those rotisserie hot dogs that had been cooking in the glass case since the night before, cut up like hors d'oeuvres and skewered on the toothpicks from aisle 2, I headed back out into the storm.

The Dunkin' Donuts in Fulton is now featuring lemonade donuts. The urgent, flashing neon sign told me so, making this seem much more like an emergency than the debut of a baked good. Lemonade donuts — this brings to mind a troublesome contradiction in states of matter: liquids and solids. But, then I remember that there are coffee tables, 
so . . . 

Somewhere near a VFW that has a tank in the front yard, I pass a sign that says "The 10 commandments are not multiple choice." Ok, then what are they? Short answer? Fill in the blank? Multiple choice brings to mind #2 pencils, which brings to mind the Dixon Ticonderoga brand and the multiple choice test rule-of-thumb which is to go with your first guess. I am sure they intended for the 10 commandments to be more specific than that, a little more on point than "go with your gut." Whoever they are. The people who spoke in those inviting sentences that begin with "Thou shall…" or "Thou shall not…" Who uses that language, I mean once you get off the Mayflower? Which brings to mind square buckle shoes. My mind is hopelessly lost in the tragedy of Pilgrims, when I realize I can't recall a single commandment — except "to thine own self be true." But wait, that's Shakespeare. I guess I would fill in the bubble for D) all of the above, which is always my first guess.

The sign in front of the Believer's Chapel in Fulton states in all capital letters (which would be yelling on email): "JESUS DIES FOR YOUR SINS." Right below that in much more civilized upper and lower case type: "Rummage Sale This Saturday, 9-4. " As if one was the inevitable result of the other. Jesus died for you, so to make up for it, used clothing will be available. Is a rummage sale a form of atonement?

I pass a yellow diamond-shaped road sign and on it a single directional arrow splits into several points at the top. Each arrow head going in a different direction or turning back on itself in a loop. It's the sign version of Medusa. And I said out loud as if to offer the sign some consolation, "Yeah, I hear you, I can't figure it out either."

At 7:30 I arrived at work — theoretically the beginning of my day, but it's really the midpoint of that paragraph I called Thursday.

Wednesday, September 4, 2013

The Family Museum, by Melissa Hamilton


Welcome!  Please feel free to browse through each room.  On the left you will find a pamphlet, a guided tour of our family's history.  At this museum we encourage interaction with the exhibits, but be prepared, anything you touch will be entered into and experienced fully.  For example, if you pick up a toaster from Aunt Pat's kitchen, suddenly you'll find yourself a piece of 1950's Freihofer Bread, and will feel quite warm and crisp around the edges.  We once lost a boy for a few hours to that washboard in the corner, he was so tickled by the experience, he wouldn't come out until we used extra soap.

My favorite room is the animals, we've saved every stuffed critter and doll loved by family members through the centuries.  If you hug one of these, your vision will shift behind button eyes and you'll see our great-great-great grandfather laughing and feel the very emotion this animal felt.  Don't worry, there are no dolls on display that sport unfortunate haircuts (their emotions would be uncomfortable to be privy to).

If you take the elevator to the ground floor, there is a movie running on the hour.  It shows the life of one handkerchief in the family (this is worth seeing!)  from her creation in 1819 and the different pockets she traveled in and dressers she folded into.  Generations are shown carrying her through colds, courtships, weddings and funerals.  Not a film appropriate for the squeamish or before visiting the cafe. 

To get a feel for the origins of our family in a complete way, you may board a replica of the Mayflower in the parking lot.  Through a simulated rocky ride, months of crossing the Atlantic can be experienced in less than ten minutes.  We land in Virginia, go through some wars, famine and prosperity and take you right back to the parking lot in time for lunch.

A gift shop is near the cafĂ© where you may purchase souvenirs and postcards of our favorite stuffed animals, toasters and handkerchiefs.  Please enjoy your visit, and be sure to return to 2013!

Monday, September 2, 2013

Ten Things Considered, by Barbara Cartwright


Ten Things We All Say Without Thinking...

What a sunny day.

I didn’t sleep a wink.

Oh what a beautiful morning.

The grass is growing like a weed.

When’s the best time to see the fall colors?

This bench is rock hard.

That fabric is soft as silk.

Oh my God: the water’s freezing!

And as an added plus, the property includes a babbling brook.

Let’s go watch the sunset together.


Ten Things We Might Think Without Saying...

The sun can do us in but she is the mother of all things living.

Why do unwelcome anxieties and regrets rob us of the sleep of dreams?

Can no one invent a device that can capture the burnished glow of the sun’s rays on water at dawn?

What secrets live in the foothills of tall grass?

Is it possible to live without the enlightened sadness of autumn’s transit across time?

Have you ever noticed the way rocks push back at you without warning?

Can any one of us read the autobiography of each and every silk worm, written invisibly along each and every thread?

I believe cold water doesn’t have a name for it’s true nature.

Scientists refuse to say but poets insist we concede the insensitivity of rushing water. The way it pushes, tumbles, co-opts and swallows everything in its path, never even looking back to second guess itself. 

The evening sky calls out to us: “If you hurry, you can come along.”