First Sentences, by Yvonne Fisher

She loved beginnings, always a fresh start.

She woke up with enthusiasm, a new day lay ahead of her.

She didn't yet know what was in store for her but she felt ready for anything.

She stumbled out of bed achy, cranky, hungover, and mad.

She woke up with nightmares trailing behind her, wrapping circles around her as the day began.

She woke up, looked around and didn't recognize anything.

She knew she was in trouble when she realized that she didn't know where she was.

She wandered around searching for something familiar.

She found herself in the desert wandering, parched and thirsty.

She woke up to a great cup of coffee.

She found herself in the middle of a dream.

She didn't know how she got there.

She was in the Bermuda Triangle swimming for her life.

She was on a great adventure and had no idea of what was about to occur.

She lived through many impossible things: earthquakes, volcanoes, floods, and now this.

She picked an apple off the tree and heard a deep and powerful voice call down to her.

She saw a snake in the garden looking at her with a demonic glare.

She spoke to the naked man next to her, the only one around, and he told her that she came from his rib.

She found herself in a kind of paradise and yet she felt a dread deep inside of her, and then it rained and rained for what seemed like 40 days and nights.

She felt like she was all women throughout time and history — all women lived inside of her.

She put on her makeup and wondered who she really was.

She had a sense of somebody standing behind her watching her.

She looked in the mirror and she didn't know whether to be happy or sad, scared or exhilarated.

She couldn't get a grasp on what was about to happen.

She found herself in the middle of a mysterious life.

She didn't know whose life she was living and yet somehow she moved forward.

She opened the door and entered a new room.

She fell in love like never before.

She fell into a hole and tumbled down, down, down.

She fell out of the airplane waiting for the parachute to open.

She wanted to live an extraordinary life.

She wanted to live a great adventure.

She wanted peace and calm more than anything else.

She wanted love in her life and she went after it.

She wanted it all and this is what happened.

She wanted a life filled with surprise and wonder.

She wondered what would happen if she went up those stairs, through that door, out that window, off that plane.

She knew that her life was about to begin.

She felt something coming in her direction and she opened to it.

She leapt off the roof onto the next roof like a bird.

She stood at the edge of the cliff and she bent her knees to jump.

She flew through the air with the greatest of ease.

She jumped off the cliff and didn't look down.

She opened her arms and spread her wings.

She appeared to actually be flying into space and then . . . .

Message in a Bottle: Narragansett in May, by Melissa Hamilton

Tucked in sand, neck glinting under evening sun,

I spot a green bottle, the color of an emerald frog.

Kneeling, I brush tiny grains, each falling away

like a clock ticking our moments on Earth.

A crab scurries across my foot, a seagull shakes her wing —

Inside I can see a note, folded twice over,

creased in specific care.

The bottle smells of seaweed, fearless dolphins

and places I’ve never been.

Poking a stick at the note, the sides scrape,

a gritty sound surprising louder than the waves.

I shake the bottle, the message recedes further

from my reach.

As more time passes, I’m more convinced,

what’s inside will change the World.

The sun eventually sets, over bottle and me,

moonlight undulating on an ebbing tide.

Giving up, I fling it back at the horizon, and the note falls out.

Slowly unfolding the creases, I see it says nothing,

yet its message tells me, “everything is here.”


The idea, to imagine a message in a bottle, was provided by Amy Bartell.... much gratitude!

She Painted, by Nancy Gabriel

Her art teacher said to paint a white egg on a white tablecloth, but she painted a polar bear in a blizzard instead.

Then, the Black Stallion took off at a gallop across the black lava sands, in Haiti, in profile, so just a dab left on her white brush was enough for the arc of his eye, in the first spot where black had dried on the paper.  It was nighttime, but cloudy, so fortunately she didn’t need to provide moon or stars.

Georgia O’Keeffe showed her how to fill the whole sheet of paper with a perfect morning glory.  Just a tiny bit of black paint was left on that brush, three dots for an ant who had always wondered whether there was nectar inside a morning glory and decided to find out this very day.

It had turned out to be such a bright day that the sun bleached slightly the saffron robe of the bowing monk as he placed floating marigolds in the newly polished brass bowl at the feet of his own, painted-not-real-gold, smiling Buddha.  The last drop on the tip of the blue paintbrush was enough for Buddha’s two dimples.

At the first rains of the year, the village children ran and rolled and sang, the tall drums with brown goatskin heads united the descending heavens and the rising earth; the whole world reverberated.  One shaman threw his head back as he danced, and his gold tooth took the final drop of paint from her previous brush.

By climbing up into the fully leafed oak, she was able to lose herself completely in the green mass.  With her eyes closed she painted a beetle, a warbler, an inchworm.  She realized she was hungry, and added sugar peas and broccoli.  She peeled the kiwi before she painted it, and after she’d taken a bite, meticulously dotted in the seeds by separating the fibers of the brown brush.  Sated, she fell asleep nestled in the green cloud, dreaming of red.

Note: The opening line was a writing suggestion I provided, based on an experience my sister Laura had in high school. So delightful to see how Nancy took it and made it entirely her own.

Zee

The Good Day, by Susan Lesser

Jim, the Painter, is perched on the front edge of my back porch. He is eating an orange and the sharp scent of the peel blends with the sharp glare of the morning sun. 

“Looks like a better day for painting today.” I state the obvious after a week of gloom and drizzle.

“Yes,”he agrees. “There is going to be a lot of accomplishment here today.” And he pops the last orange segment into his mouth.

I don’t know Jim, the Painter, very well and I am keeping the doors locked while he sands the shutters in the back yard. He identifies himself as Jim, the Painter, when he phones to see if he needs to pick up paint. I only know his last name because I saw it on the deposit check my husband wrote. The hat Jim, the Painter, always wears is shabby and the narrow brim flops down. I would not recognize him without his hat. But today Jim, the Painter, predicts, will be a day of a lot of accomplishment. I take his words as a blessing for the day. This will be a good day.

So far this has borne out well, although the time between Jim, the Painter’s words and right now can be measured in minutes.

To start — I left my puffy coat at home on the rack, a rash move, I thought, but I checked the thermometer and it read 62 degrees, so took the dare.

At South Hill School, I slowed down to the prescribed 15 mph and, sure enough, tucked into an obscured driveway was a police car. I feigned interest in a daffodil display nearby and glimpsed a large, pale forearm resting on the ledge of the open window, reminding me of the plump veal sausages on display in European butcher shops. They are good sausages. I turned the corner and continued down the hill on Aurora Street.

The young woman in the dark green car who ran the stop sign at the top of Clinton Street may or may not recognize that she, too, is having a good day. I hit my brakes hard and came to a full stop to avoid slamming into her car as she dashed in front of me. She appeared distraught and possibly angry, but I do hope she sent out a little “thank you” to the world at large, if not to me in particular.

Once down on the flats, the day continued to outdo itself. I arrived on time for my weekly writing group and the parking place directly in front of Zee’s Writing Studio was empty. Plainly my car was destined to occupy it. The mid-point meter-feeding task will be much simpler now. I even have quarters.

At this moment I am comfortable in a largish, yellowish chair at Zee’s, with arms that are just the right height for my elbows — another good thing. And I am wondering what the next installment will be in this promising day of accomplishment.

2 Poems, by Yvonne Fisher

How You Learn 

Haphazardly

By tripping over your own feet

By trial and error

By listening to a mentor

By listening to people

By listening to yourself

By listening

By looking around

By finally realizing

By having an awakening

An epiphany

An aha moment

Or else gradually

You learn gradually

Too late

After trying everything else first

Or by accident

Or sometimes

You don't even know

That you're learning

But you do

You still do

You learn

Tension

Never use the word SUDDENLY just to create tension — Billy Collins

Suddenly, I am sitting here

Trying not to cough

Not to focus on it when

Suddenly my foot itches

And my boots are too 

Hot for this warm day

I think suddenly

I should have worn other shoes and then

Suddenly I made an appointment 

With the hairdresser

To cut and color my hair

So I can suddenly look

Younger, better, crisper, smoother,

Hipper, cleaner, blonder

Like an aging Marilyn Monroe

Or some red streaks thrown in

For shock value or to create

Tension.

Suddenly, I realize that

I almost never like the way

My hair turns out

After I get it done.

I'm often disappointed.

Maybe my expectations

Are too high.

Way too high.

I'm feeling tension right now.

I'm feeling very tense.

I need to look good this weekend.

Suddenly, I realize

I hope the hairdresser

Doesn't fuck the whole thing up.

Thank you to the poets Joyce Sutphen and Billy Collins for providing these titles.

For the Last Few Days, by Barbara Cartwright

For the last few days

on and off

the Eastern Phoebe

by our house

has been collecting bits of this and that

mere strands really

piling them at the base

of the site

she (I presume, for where is he?) 

has chosen as the foundation

for her nest.

The family seat. 

I am not quite sure

but it seems she can’t decide

between a spot by the front door

or one round the side. 

And all this indecision has me worried.

Because it makes me ask:

What if she’s like me?

All fidgety? Perplexed? 

Unable to remember which nest is which and which is best?

Just what’s her game, I want to know. 

In case there’s meaning there. 

For me.

Supposedly, I am old.

And in a position to observe.

The old me knows Nature

doesn’t play the game.

She’s got no plan.

Doesn’t second guess.

She’s pure energy, you see.

All verrrrrrrb.

And I admire Nature for her power and beauty.

For her ability to build up and tear asunder in the same breath.

I am in awe of her in-ex-plic-a-bility. 

Never. The. Less.

When I was young

I painted a face on the sun,

the wind with a scowl,

the moon half asleep.

I believed when streams babbled they were trying to tell me something.

That when bears yawned, they were bored out of their minds. 

I feared snakes because of their ability to think evil thoughts (and act upon them). 

And I longed to be more like the fox: always looking for an easy way in. 

And out.

To me, the cat looked down.

The dog looked up.

And my caged canary, poor little thing, sang solely for my pleasure.

But the years have taught me much.

And I have learned that Nature has no face. 

No personality. 

No good moods or bad. 

She’s nothing like me.

Still, I hope my little Phoebe has a plan. 

But if she does not, nor should I. 

It’s certainly worth a try.

For My Father, by Gabrielle Vehar

They say the art of losing isn’t hard to master

     but losing my father has been hard as hell for me

There is the dust of the dead

     my father has returned to dust

And the thought of no one listening —

I like that least of all

    for even though I believe my father is not,

          cannot be listening anymore,

     I like it so little that I wear his ring and his watch

          whose loud ticking reminds me

          that he is still with me

Because even what was beyond us was recast in our image...

So we could pass into safety

     my father is, even now, beyond me,

     but I am recast in his image,

     as he ensures that I pass into safety

          and grace

With thanks to the following poets for providing short phrases that are woven among my own words:

Elizabeth Bishop, Gary Short, Philip Schultz, Lisel Mueller

    

Two Ghosts, by Stacey Murphy

When two ghosts come from different pasts to inhabit the same house, do they even see each other?

Does one of them wander through the rooms, watching the light, wondering how she got here when it is clearly not the space she was meant for?  Does she get annoyed at finding the kitchen fan on every time she gets out of the shower, when it had been off when she got in, clicking it to “off” again, just like yesterday, and the day before, and the day before?

Does the other ghost ignore the stacks of paper, the dishes, and the grime on the windows, but clean the gutters four times a year?  Did he die by drowning in that last lifetime, in a building that flooded, no means of escape, the water reaching over his head, nostrils raised, condemning him to fear moisture forever and ever, always safeguarding, no nose plugs or plumbers, just keep the gutters clean and the water won’t get in through the walls?

Does she examine each sunbeam, looking for the warm corner to hide?  Is she that sort of ghost — the kind that rides on the dust particles instead of shadows? She strokes the fur of the cat stretched out beside the window, telling it, “You are just like me, except you really think you belong here.  You believe this is really yours.”

Like many ghosts, is he attached to broken old things, like the desk with the drawers whose fronts have fallen off?  Will he become angry when the humans in the house take the pink ruler out of the drawer with no front on it and forget to put it back?  And when the humans replace the desk, will he think the new one is for him, or continue to float around the dining room looking for the ruler, bewildered by the change?

How long will she examine the scrubby, scraggly juniper tree by the front door, thinking it would be much nicer if it were gone and instead there was a pergola arching over the space, with trumpet vines or honeysuckle growing over it, and a nice window over that to let more light in, but the siding is worn and why don’t these people take care of this place better?  And perhaps it’s too exhausting, too much, and maybe she will vent her frustration by moving the other ghost’s calculator or leaving water pooling at the base of the kitchen sink faucet.

How long can two beings drift past each other, and when they do really see each other, will they be astonished?  Annoyed?  Relieved?  Or will they finally drift away?