Tuesday, March 25, 2014

2 Short Pieces, by Melissa Hamilton


Wolf’s To Do List (scratched in dirt with long wild nails)

1. “Fetch” onions, garlic, carrots, celery, vinegar and dill
2. “Fetch” wood
3. Boil water
4. Sniff out pigs
5. Huff and Puff
6. Snarf pork soup and pickled pigs feet
7. Lay on side and lick chops

(Note: “fetch” is in quotations because Wolf wants to be clear this is only an expression, he’s not a dog!)



If, Then Dragon

If I lived in a Fairy Tale,
I’d never get a parking ticket —
Meter Maids would turn to stone.

Arriving home, this banquet would await, stirred in cauldrons —
roses blooming on the table, grown with lilies in the moat.

My cat wouldn’t shed, mail would only be love notes,
these socks would never get wet, and I’d sing in perfect pitch.

If I lived in a Fairy Tale, every kiss would melt into "happily ever after,"
we’d never argue or leave cold spaghetti in the dish drain.

But, I live off the page — where bills pile on the desk, my nose leaks,
I drop the pie upside down and dust rolls like tumbleweeds.

Where is Cinderella?  Where is my Prince?  
Here is the Dragon, please take him out to pee . . .

Friday, March 21, 2014

Joy Ride 1968, by Laura LaRosa


It’s after midnight and we are cruising down Union Turnpike in Julie Grasso’s family car. It’s a metallic pea colored 1959 Cadillac, the one with the cylindrical rear lights that make the car look like a space ship. There are eight of us: me, Julie, Phyllis, Pierre, Jesper, Eddie, Yusef, and Siler. It’s early spring, we are high and bored.
Phyllis is not high; she is the only one who doesn’t do drugs. Phyllis is like our mother, and she is especially watchful over Julie as she is her cousin and a few years younger. Julie is under five feet and needs to look through the steering wheel in order to see. Because of this she is having trouble driving this boat, space ship, of a car.
As we drive down the turnpike we pass mostly closed stores, but the bagel store is open all night. You can buy a dozen bagels for a buck. Fresh hot bagels, soft and fragrant. The bagel store has an orange neon sign that says “HOT BAGELS” in letters that have little flames escaping from them. Julie pulls over as we clamor for, “Hot Bagels! Hot Bagels!” Inside, the windows are steamy and it is brightly lit. Too bright for most of us-we are stoned after all, and most sensory input feels like overload.
Scrabbling in our pockets for change, we hand over coins to Siler and Yusef and we watch from inside our vegetable colored vibrating machine as they make their way into the hall of intense steamy light. They emerge with two large brown grocery bags full of assorted bagels and as Julie pulls away from the curb, nearly hitting a hydrant, we less than hurtle again into the night.
Being small and high, Julie has little depth perception. She also has no speed perception as we seem to be moving at less than twenty miles per hour. Pierre tells Julie she needs to speed up. I don’t know why; there are no other cars around at the moment. It’s not like we have to keep up with the traffic.
We sort through the bags, and the car takes on the smell of onion and garlic. Julie tries to find something on the radio and Pierre keeps yelling from the back seat, which seems like it is yards from the front seat, to pay attention to the road. Pierre appears to be the only one paying attention at all. More than once I have forgotten we are in a moving car and not just hanging out parked somewhere.
The heat from the bags of bagels has steamed up the windows. “Put the windows down!” As we press the buttons and the windows go down they make a strange whooshing sound. I find this funny. I begin to laugh. So does Julie and Jesper. We continue laughing as Julie pulls alongside Saint John’s University, not stopping just moving in slow motion. There are some freaks hanging around the steps of the school and Jesper throws them some bagels as we ooze past. More laughter. We see some collegiate looking kids further on and throw more bagels, although now we are throwing the bagels at them rather than to them. We are spaceship aliens and they are under bagel attack. We run out of pedestrians and bagels and it gets quiet in the car as The Doors play on the radio. Julie makes a left turn and we bump over the corner. She is heading toward the city now.
“Let’s go to Chinatown!!” and so our Caddy wobbles its way toward the Manhattan Bridge. It’s peaceful and few cars are on the road with us. Julie takes up two lanes, but it’s cool, I feel completely safe. We see the bridge coming up in the distance. It’s warm in the car, the windows are back up, and we lay against one another in the backseat. I’m looking at Jesper’s shoulders; he is wedged between Julie and Phyllis who are both small, but Jesper is six foot five, all elbows and knees. He is white blonde and snow-white skinned. He is from Denmark and his head touches the roof. Pierre is also very tall, six seven. He is not wiry like Jes. His body is bear solid and he takes up a lot of room here in the back. Most of the time I’m sitting on his lap to make room for everyone else. I don’t mind at all; Pierre’s arms are around my body and we all sway in the back to the music, and because of Julie’s driving.
We take the outer roadway on the bridge. It is really like being in space. Hanging over the water far below, it’s like we are hovering over the Earth.
“JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!” Pierre topples me to the floor as he reaches over Julie’s head to grab the steering wheel. We were about to hit the short iron railing, the only thing between us and the river. Julie ducks under Pierre’s arms to change the radio station, I pull my leg out from under the driver’s seat, grumbling about the pain, Siler and Yusef and Eddie all say “Wow” as Jesper, wide eyed, turns toward us in the back saying “Far Out”.
Phyllis is yelling at Julie as Pierre continues to drive from the back seat off the bridge and into Chinatown. “Let’s go to Wong Loh’s!” Pierre pulls over and parks, and we all climb out, stomachs rumbling, talking about what we’re going to eat.
“It’s a good thing we didn’t go over that railing,” Julie says, “my father doesn’t know I took the car. He would kill me.”

Wednesday, March 19, 2014

A Winter Outing, by Sara Robbins


"I'm sorry," she said, "I was thinking about shoes."

They were driving towards Schuylerville to have a small outing: a trip to the Salvation Army store; a visit to a gallery where their friend Cecily's last mosaic was being shown; and then lunch at The Flowerpot, a new vegan eatery Daisy wanted to check out.

"Shoes?" he asked. Daisy was no fashionista. Her style was simple — she owned maybe nine pairs of shoes an assortment of winter boots, spring mud shoes, two pairs of black sneakers, three pairs of Crocs, and 1 pair of rugged hiking sandals. No high heels, nothing really sexy.

"Yeah, I've never bought a pair of used shoes."

"I have."

"I remember, after the fire, we found two pairs of boots for you at Sally A's."

"God, the fire," he said. "You know it's been two years since then — actually, wait, it's two years today, this very day."

"Weird," she said, and she touched his shoulder.

He looked over and smiled. "You."

She smiled. "You."

And they drove on. The roads were clear. Frozen snow, turning grey, lined the edges, but the forecast was clear. And cold, very cold. What a winter it had been and here at the end of February they both had cabin fever, hence this outing.

"I'm going to look for a new sweater," he said, "and some of those flannel-lined jeans."

"Good luck with that. Especially in your size." He was tall and thin. "Maybe that store on Water Street sells them new, " she said.

The store she spoke of was an old fashioned clothing store that reminded her of the 1950s. They sold a lot of outdoor wear and a fine selection of shoes for all seasons.

"Fat chance," he said. "All of the winter gear is gone now. I"ll bet they are selling cruise wear and spring dresses."

"I'll bet you a nickel they'll have a sale table with a pair of red-flannel-lined jeans in your size. Half price," she said.

"A nickel? You're on." And they both smiled.

Schuylerville was an attractive little town, not too far from Wittsfield. It sat at the bottom of a long lake and was famous for wineries along the lake's edges, and the Italian Fest held every summer. It had the best Salvation Army store and two fantastic junk stores — not antique stores — junk stores — which Daisy and Billy both preferred. 

But they'd promised each other to try to steer clear of both stores. They didn't need any more stuff in their house. If anything, they should whittle down what they did own. 

One place, the better one, was called Weeds. The owner was a very large older man who gave everyone who entered his store the stink eye. "You Break It, You Bought It" was written on a large sign over the cash register. This guy, his name was James Jamison the 3rd, sat morosely in an overstuffed purple armchair, holding a very large  fluffy orange cat in his lap. The cat had one blue and one yellow eye and it growled if anyone came too close to its owner — who also spoke in a low sort of growl. "Look But Don't Touch," was another sign, posted on the wall behind the pair, but Daisy felt that that applied to the cat.

The store took up two floors in an old building and unless he had surveillance cameras, the old man couldn't possibly see whether his customers actually touched the inventory — which of course they did.

Old tools, china, knickknacks, woolen blankets, pots and pans, books, magazines, flower pots, horrible paintings and prints — even a moldy Elvis on black velvet — lots of dirty stuff, some broken stuff. It went on and on and sometimes Daisy and Billy would want to go there just for the fun. They called it The Broken Down Museum and they'd always find at least one, if not three, things to buy. Of course everything was overpriced but neither of them felt up to the task of haggling with the grouchy old man.

"No junking today," Daisy said, as they parked a few doors down from Weeds.

"Probably not," Billy said, and he pulled a joint from his pocket. Daisy smiled. Weeds was especially fun to peruse when stoned.

"You're bad," she said. The street was empty so she took the joint and lit it. "One hit," she said, as she held in the smoke.

"That's all it takes," Billy replied, in the same fashion. 

She pulled two pieces of spearmint gum from her purse, and they were off.

At the Salvo, Billy found two sweaters — a black wool one for himself and a lovely green cotton sweater for Daisy, which she actually liked. Then he looked at boots where he found nothing; then he headed for the long racks of men's pants. 

Daisy headed for the housewares. She couldn't help it. After a lifetime of working in kitchens she still craved more stuff. Now she told herself she was looking for Gillian and Stephen, who were setting up their own kitchen. She found a lot of Pyrex — bowls, baking pans, custard cups, a decent medium-sized cast iron frying pan, and what looked like a brand new rolling pin, heavier than her own. She would love to get it for herself. Owning two rolling pins was practical, she thought. Sometimes she and Billy would cook together, and this way he could roll out empanadas while she made a chocolate pecan pie. Maybe they would do that later, she mused.

She looked around and saw her man across the store. He was going down the pants rack, checking every damn pair. She smiled. How lucky can a girl get, she thought — a slightly stoned reverie.

She saw a young mother and daughter walk by, heading for the children's clothing section. "You get over here now," the mother yelled to a bigger boy, running across the store.

Daisy's reverie ended and she walked over to Billy. "Any luck?" she asked. Billy held up a pair of pants, very faded jeans with a red flannel lining, in his size. The knees were shot but they could easily be patched.

"I know! I'm the luckiest man on earth!"

And they laughed for a long time while people in the store stared at them.

Monday, March 17, 2014

This is Why I Write, by Susan Lesser


I write because a blank sheet of paper is daring me to make a mark on it.

Because I found my pen, the one with the purple ink. Later it will appear garish and the phrase "purple prose" will roll around in my head, stuck like the Oscar Meyer wiener song sometimes is. The pen will go out with the garbage. I will write with one from State Farm Insurance.

Because I love words. I love tossing them around on the page until they are windblown and frowzy with my impatient breath.



I write because I can't sing, or play the harmonica, or conduct an orchestra. Words on the page are the notes and melodies, the tympani and horns of my life.

Because I am afraid of writing. I do not trust that this time, today, I will put words on the page that matter to me, that reach for some truth, that show a moment.



I write because when I don't for a while — say weeks or months — I am lost. The roads and pathways, once well-marked with painted signposts to direct me, have faded from my life's map. I am bogged down on unmarked detours. A GPS for daily living would be good. I'd settle for a simple compass with a true north needle. It takes a long time to find my way back.

Because, even though my husband only remarks I am happier when I am writing, I know he means I am less critical and less likely to nag him for forgetting to pick up the cat food like he promised.



I write because as a child I was truly taught to be "seen and not heard." 

Because as a young woman I was never to contradict any man. Keep the peace. Don't rock the boat. Shh! But in my sky-blue bedroom I could fly on outstretched wings crafted of paper and pencil — a flock of words soaring and swooping, carrying me along.

Because once when I said I thought I would write something about times at our family summer cottage, my mother said, "Don't you dare!" I asked why and she replied, "Nothing ever happened here." Although I have yet to write that story, I am not so sure she was right.

Because it is a chance to sit down and sometimes that is all I need, an excuse to sit down.

Because I am vain enough to think my words are worth it. 

Because I love grammar and diagramming sentences and the look of words dancing across the page.



I write because I can hide in my little study with the door closed and type on my computer (even though I have yet to find a word processing app I truly love) and if anyone knocks on the door, or worse yet opens the door, and says, "Do you know where the green-handled trowel is?" I can say, "I can't think about it now. I'm writing."

Because I am no different than the cave dwellers who were compelled to scratch out accounts of their lives on the walls. By the way, just why do we think it was men who did this? Weren't they all out running around with spears trying to fell mastodons and stopping off for skittles and beer at the local pub? It was the women who sheltered the children in the caves, who kept the fires lit. And, I will submit, it was the women at home who etched out the figures and glyphs we can still see today. Home decorating 101, Neolithic wallpaper.



I write because I even like making grocery lists with all the abbreviations that have evolved after decades of scratching them out. I like the records they hold. When I find one from some weeks ago in a jacket pocket. I can say, "Oh, yes. That was when I made the Clementine Torte for Sarah's birthday.

Because I seldom take photographs. Unless it is a matter of record, like a 3rd birthday or a 30th anniversary. I simply cannot stick with the picture-taking approach. I always feel the camera has come between me and the moment, me and the story.

Because every so often, I find a piece I wrote last year, or maybe longer ago, written in my own hand and I read it. Although I have no recollection of writing it, I think it's not so bad!


I write because I promised myself I would.

I write because it is what I do and I like it!

Saturday, March 8, 2014

Some People, by Alice Petsche


some people
get around by
pink bears
so they can
fly away
from their hearts


Note: Alice Petsche is four years old. She creates poems and stories and songs all day long. This poem came to her in the bath today. She is the granddaughter of my dear friend Laura LaRosa and the daughter of Jackson Petsche and Caterina Fusca. 

Tuesday, March 4, 2014

Nana's Aprons, by Jackie Andrews


My grandmother always wore an apron while preparing meals,
to be taken off when sitting down to eat.

Aprons were washed, hung outside to dry, ironed, folded,
stacked in a drawer.

I loved watching her take an apron out of the drawer 
and in one continuous movement, shaking it out, 
putting it over her head, tying the back, smoothing the front.

Often I went into the drawer, arranging the pile of aprons
in the order of the colors and flowers I liked.  

She knew.

Monday, March 3, 2014

Between Zero and One, by Vivian Relta




Zero: infinite source, all things possible contained within it not yet manifest

Zero is the pause before action


I'm gonna count to three and you better

—  be in the house
— stop your crying
— clean up that mess
— come over here so I can give you something to cry about

At zero, your hand is poised to dispense judgment
ready to pull, slap or shove
Your mouth is already shaping the sound of a yell and words that would hurt

At zero, my fate is sealed

At one, you move towards me with tired eyes

Then two, you reach for me — there's no saving me now

And three, I fly across the room, landing on the floor

I am humiliated and scared

How could you?


Note: the title is a phrase taken from a short story by Mavis Gallant


Sunday, March 2, 2014

I'm Going to be the Type of Woman Who, by Peggy Stevens


I'm going to be the type of woman who:

Has thin arms and legs but a very round middle

Sits naked on a couch staring into the fire

Dresses in sequins, beads, scarves and head dresses

Shows my stockinged knees with a salacious grin while giving an "ok" sign

Stares hard into the camera with an intense look on my face

Refuses to be happy when I feel sad regardless of the artist's plea

Sings opera at the top of my lungs while propping up a coffin

Stops to smell the roses in a Siena garden

Has my photo taken in a long dress with a rifle in one hand and a fishing basket at my feet

Looks ridiculous on purpose because I feel like it

Holds my hands tragically aloft, pulls my mouth into a frown and furrows my brow

Stands in front of elephants who regard my hat with distain

Wears feathered hats with wide brims that make me look 
distinguished

Does tai chi in the snow

Plays cards with questionable men

Has pals that carry umbrellas and rucksacks

Peeks into windows of deserted houses

Sneezes with gusto then curses loudly

Dresses like a cat on Halloween

Climbs trees to see better the view

Does a high kick in a dress just because I can

Accosts my neighbors to offer unsolicited advice

Lounges deeply in Victorian rooms 

Laughs loudly during sad movies

Refuses to color coordinate

Chooses inappropriately and inconsistently

Wears brooches in weird places on t-shirts

Paints my toenails in bed while drinking coffee and reading a magazine

Drinks gin and tonic with kumquats and whole cloves

Talks and laughs too loudly, unapologetically 

Draws inspiration from bathrooms

Lays in the bathtub and pats my dog

Smokes cigarettes and drinks from teacups

Dyes my hair a horrible shade of red 

Gives money to strangers but not to my family

Breaks hearts and doesn't care

Lies when I should tell the truth and tells the truth when I should lie

Makes friends with dangerous people

Refuses to do the right thing, while insisting that others do

Confuses the subject and muddies the waters

Thinks too much

Likes Patti Smith

Wears cats on my head

Explains without apology

Swims like a mermaid

Kisses like the French while in France

Shares too much

Makes do with my lot

Prays to all false gods 

Snoops in ex-lovers' drawers

Refuses to own a toaster

Looks for signs of portent and omen

Enjoys hot flashes in cold weather

Has an alternate reality



Note: Inspiration for this list came from many sources — the author's imagination; a variety of visual images (mostly photographs); her sister-writers in the Saturday morning writing Circle.