late bloom rose, by Rob Sullivan

late bloom rose

alongside of past-due mates

dry leaves, brittle stems

all their part to play

some days in the sun

gentle rain begins

on the rose

the leaves


the stems

and my aching bones


NOTE: Rob wrote this poem on Thursday morning, September 26, 2019, just before our writing workshop began. Inspiration came from the rose growing on the bush at the corner of E. Buffalo Street and N. Cayuga Street .... the DeWitt Mall Rose Bush.

Give the Gift of Touch, by Barbara Cartwright

As a child, I believed my future self was hiding in my hand. I’d pore over other people’s writing, looking for who I might be in backward slants and forward scrawls, in carefully printed letters and in decorative script. In the flourishing tails of g’s and j’s and p’s and ‘y’s. And in the ever so exotic epsilon e. Now that, I thought, was truly me. Though I couldn’t make a whole self out of just one letter. And where exactly was the future me in all the rest?

Do we have a choice in how we’ll write? Or even who we’ll be? Or are we born with our hands already knowing how they’ll write, with a history of our ancestor’s script residing in our loops and lines, like a parallel DNA? Sometimes I’ll look at my writing and say: My capital G is just like my Dad’s. And that zippy bit of pen and ink where you have to guess the word from the company it keeps, that’s so like Grandpa Bill.

I cannot see my mother in my hand. I have tried too hard too long not to be like her to let her into what I write. And her letters were — let us just say they were dramatic and unique, just like she was. Her i’s wore wide open circles over top, and her t’s had protracted crossbars, extending left to right.

Still, I look longingly at her hand each time I read a recipe she’s written out. Strange how out of mere ingredients like flour and salt, Tbsps and 1/4 cups, a person can come to life, so real, it would take nothing to reach over and give the gift of touch.

Clouds / You Seem to be You, by Zee Zahava

I read these two poems on Saturday, April 27, 2019, as part of the Tompkins County Public Library Readathon fundraising event.

Clouds

you say
it's a cumulus zoo up there

look!
you point
and the car swerves a bit

steady
(I whisper to myself)

do you see that?
you urge
eager to share your discovery

so I swivel my head
follow your pointing finger
all the way to . . .

what is it?
I ask

(I see a cloud
one of many
I am not yet pulled in)

don't you see it?

you want me to find it on my own

you are my guide
but still you want
to leave room for my imagination

alas, my imagination falters

I see amorphous fluffs of white moving along
I'm not good at this game
I give up so quickly

it's a pig's head
you exclaim
a pig's head
on an elephant's body
and the elephant's tail
looks exactly like an alligator

and there's a bear
you continue
up on its hind legs
getting ready to swallow the
alligator/elephant/pig

don't you see it?
— you’re excited now —

oh, oh here comes a lion!
surely you see the lion!

right
I say
sure, the lion
I see that

we both pretend I'm telling the truth
that I can see with your eyes

I do see the lake
I assure you
resting the back of my right hand
on the passenger-side window

that's good
you say
the lake
yes
that is the lake



You Seem to be You

you seem to be you and I seem to be me —
but who knows?
is it possible we are apple seeds in the same sweet apple?
or hats perched atop mannequins in a shop window
in oooh-lala-Paris?
and if we are hats
then I want to have a wide brim with a floppy purple flower
(a peony?) 
hanging down the right side
and you can be whatever kind of hat you want to be
I am not feeling especially bossy today

but I will say this
if it turns out you are not you
and I am not me
and we are neither apple seeds
nor bird feathers
nor pine trees . . .
if you are not you and I am not me
and we are two different people
who don't yet know each other

then my biggest wish
is for us to meet one day
and recognize some unmistakable spark
to be drawn together by a bright light
or a pleasant smell
or a strong vibration
or a single musical note
it could be anything
as long as we connect again
(or would it be considered the first time?)

because
what other reason would there be
to get up in the morning



Note: I offer profound thanks to Terrence Keenan for his poem "A Sweetness Appears and Prevails." His opening lines ("The reason we bother/ to get up in the morning") and the phrase toward the end ("You seem to be you/ and I seem to be me") led me into my poem

The Elephant Vanishes / The Declutter Meditation, by Stacey Murphy

Stacey Murphy read these two poems on Saturday, April 27, 2019, as part of the Tompkins County Public Library Readathon fundraising event.


The Elephant Vanishes

I meditate on the removal of obstacles
and the Universe appears —
a great golden elephant
in a green, wooded glade
carefully picking logs off the path before me
moving them aside gently:
hesitation, gangly and thorny;
lack, hollow and brittle;
distraction, thick and heavy.
With one look over her shoulder and a playful flip
of her tail the elephant
winks and she vanishes.
It is up to me to move forward.



The Declutter Meditation
 
On the inhale, I breathe in an open shoe rack
On the exhale, I remove an unhelpful thought

On the inhale, I make space on a shelf
On the exhale, I place an old habit in the trash bag

On the inhale, I smell gentle lemony cleaners
On the exhale, the old tattered blanket goes to the animal shelter

On the inhale is space and potential
On the exhale comes limitless creation

the contortionist and the poet / go to unexpected places, by Ian M. Shapiro

Ian M. Shapiro read these two poems on Saturday, April 27, 2019, as part of the Tompkins County Public Library Readathon fundraising event.

the contortionist and the poet

a contortionist
and a poet met
in the early evening
on an overnight train
from dallas to el paso

they shared a
non-sleeping cabin
initially not speaking
the contortionist reading and
the poet looking out the window

but time passed and
one thing led to another and
they introduced themselves
and seemed intrigued
by each other's work

what must it be like
to go out before crowds
and twist your body
into so many shapes?
asked the poet

the contortionist said
well, i keep looking for
new shapes and sometimes
i get weary of
the old ones

but what i found, in time,
is that it's not the
extreme contortions
that interest people
it's the subtle ones

it's the small deviations
from what typically is
and not only does it
interest people more
it's of more interest to me

i seek less to impress people
than to connect with them
less to show the impossible
than to show what might
well be possible

and then the contortionist
straightened up and asked
what is it like to write?
what excites you as a poet?
what makes it worthwhile?

the poet looked out the window
and said maybe it's similar
i less frequently seek to
try and twist new sentences
and new combinations of words

and i rather seek to describe
the world as it is and
also to describe the
world as it could be
in small excursions from what is

and then the two women
became reflective and
thought of their exchange
and as time went by
they both took out food

and they shared sandwiches
hot drinks and sweets
as the train traveled
on into the night from
dallas to el paso




go to unexpected places

go to unexpected places
go to the most unexpected places
go up to dark attics
and then go to the outer edges
of the dark attics, above the eaves
and open old boxes you left there

go to unexpected places
go up mountains to caves
go inside the caves
and then come back and sit
at the entrances of the caves
and look out, and look in

go to unexpected places
look for unexpected places
go to empty houses
and see what was left there
and even better, even more
see what was felt there

go to unexpected places
go to flat rooftops, especially
if their access doors are locked
find a way round to get up there
and then stand up on the parapet
go up there and look right out

go to unexpected places
go to a balcony high above the city
and pitch a tent late at night
and sleep there and wake there
and see the city from there
and let the city see you

go to unexpected places
look for and find unexpected places
go to the most unexpected places
and look out, and look in
find the most unexpected places
and let unexpected places find you

As The Crow Flies / Dance Your Heart Out, by Heather Boob

Heather Boob read these two poems on Saturday, April 27, 2019, as part of the Tompkins County Public Library Readathon fundraising event.


As The Crow Flies

If I could draw a map of my heart
it would need to be topographical
so that you could lay your hands on it —
like braille —
to feel my existence,
to empathize with the contours of my  experience,
and the inclines and rolling valleys
(upon which I have ridden)
representing my relief.

One day when I’m wise and the lines on my face
reflect the journey of my heart,
I hope that the crow who has made his footprints
at the corners of my eyes,
will come to rest on my shoulder —
as he will learn, that even
the shortest distance to fly
would not be fast enough
to get from here to there —
from every joyful smile to the next.



Dance Your Heart Out

The room was so hot that
the walls were sweating.
The floor was sweating.
A direct effect of the energy exuded
by a band called The Nightsweats.
When you really start to let go
your knees will sway.
Your pelvis will shake.
Your inner Elvis will show himself.
I dance alone
in an empty room
to let go.
I dance, surrounded by
strangers.
Sweating.
We harvest heated energy.
How efficient.

My Mother's Lipstick, by Sue Crowley

Sue Crowley read this poem on Saturday, April 27, 2019, as part of the Tompkins County Public Library Readathon fundraising event.

 
My mother's lipstick, a deep shade of red, sat on her dressing table the morning after she died, the first thing I saw when I walked into her room.

My mind was already on what to take from her closet, what to bury her in, but that little pink tube arrested those thoughts, as did the odor, distinctly her own, that clung to her empty clothes.

I picked up the lipstick, looked in the mirror she had looked in every morning for decades, and colored my lips bright red.

Carefully, so carefully, gliding the cream across that delicate skin, thinking all the while: This is the last kiss.

Then I went to the closet and buried my face in an old sweater thinking: This is the last hug.

Numbered, by Susanna Drbal

Susanna Drbal read this story on Saturday, April 27, 2019, as part of the Tompkins County Public Library Readathon fundraising event.


Your days are numbered. Patty heard the man on the TV say that to another man. Both of them wore cowboy hats and neither of them had shaved for a few days. Patty rubbed her cheek, thinking of the kisses she got from her father every night when he tucked her into bed.

Patty knew days were numbered—she’d seen them on the calendar that hung in the kitchen next to the telephone. The calendar had pictures of cats wearing different, funny outfits. Right now the cat wore a cowboy hat and leather chaps. There was a number circled on the calendar, in red ink. Patty had watched her mother count on her fingers, with her lips moving, and then circle it. Patty didn’t know why.

Patty knew her numbers, or some of them anyway, and since Monica had taught them to her, Patty saw numbers everywhere. They were on tags inside her shirts and underpants, on the buttons on the telephone, around the dial on the TV, on the clock that ticked and chimed. Patty saw numbers outside too, on street signs, on a wooden board nailed to the front of the house, and on the back of the station wagon. 1-2-3-4-5-6-7, Patty said to herself, over and over. Sometimes she counted on her fingers, 1-2-3-4-5-6-7. She counted her fingers, but she didn’t count her thumbs. It didn’t seem right.

So Patty knew about numbers, she knew about calendars, and tonight she was allowed to watch channel 5, so when she heard the grizzly man say, ‘Your days are numbered,’ Patty knew exactly what he meant. But she didn’t know why he had to seem so angry about it.

When the commercial came on, the one where there was a little man on a little boat in a toilet bowl, the clock started chiming. 1-2-3-4-5-6-7 and then another one. Patty didn’t raise her head up from her teddy bears and their tea party on the living room floor—she didn’t want her father to notice that it was bedtime. Patty wanted to see what happened after 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-and then one more.

But her father folded up his newspaper and her mother called from the other room that it was time for bed. Time for forty winks, she said, and Patty knew that was a number and that it was a big one, but she didn’t know how to get to forty and she couldn’t wink once, let alone 2-3-4-5-6-7 times plus one more.

Patty scooped up her teddy bears and her father scooped her up and said, one-two-button my shoe, and Patty wondered about shoes with buttons and then she wondered about shoes with zippers. She liked riding in her father’s arms and then he plopped her down on her bed and he helped her into her nightgown. The nightgown was blue and had darker blue flowers and squiggly lines all over it. Patty wasn’t sure if the squiggly lines were 6’s or something else entirely. Sometimes they looked like whales leaping out of the water.

Patty brushed her teeth and watched her father’s face in the mirror. He stood behind her, in the doorway, looking down the hallway at the TV. Patty could hear a pinging sound from the TV and horses neighing and people yelling. She couldn’t tell what they were saying, but her father watched and rubbed his chin where it was whiskery and grey.

Patty lay down in bed and her father pulled the covers up under her chin. She held her favorite teddy in her right arm and chewed on his left ear. The fur was starting to get thin and matted. Patty’s father sat next to her on the bed and read to her. His legs reached all the way to the bottom of the bed and his toes pointed right at the ceiling.

Patty didn’t listen to the story, not really. She knew it by heart. There was a barnyard with pigs and cows and sheep, and they were fed oats and slop and hay, and the farmer cleaned their pens and planted seeds and the animals ate a lot and ran around and played, and they tried to find a hole in the fence. They found a hole, but by then they decided they’d rather stay in the barnyard.

At the end of the story, the pigs and the cows and the sheep are lying in bed, with straw pulled up to their chins, and the stars twinkle overhead. One sheep looks at the stars and can’t sleep, and she starts to count, 1-2-3-4-5-6-7, and before you know it, she is asleep.

How We Learn, by Yvonne Fisher

Yvonne Fisher read this poem on Saturday, April 27, 2019, as part of the Tompkins County Public Library Readathon fundraising event.

Haphazardly, we learn
By tripping over our own feet
By trial and error, mistake after mistake
By listening to a mentor, a teacher
By listening to people
By listening
By looking around
We learn by finally realizing
By having an awakening, an epiphany
An aha moment
Or else gradually
We learn gradually
Too late
After trying everything else first
By crawling on our hands and knees
Bloody and broken, searching
By questioning everything, everything
By climbing toward the stars
Looking up, looking up
Sometimes we learn by giving in
By surrendering
Or by accident
Or sometimes we don’t even know
That we’re learning
But we do
We still do
We learn

Saying Goodbye to that Old Desk, by Jim Mazza

Jim Mazza read this piece on Saturday, April 27, 2019, as part of the Tompkins County Public Library Readathon fundraising event.


We sent my childhood desk to the dump this week.

It was not an especially nice piece of furniture — just a small, wooden, two-drawer, rectangular desk — drawers on the right and a place for your legs and feet on the left.

It was purchased when I was ten and my father said I could paint it any color I wanted, so I chose sunshine yellow — which for unexplainable reasons — seemed better than my favorite color, fire-engine red.

I was proud of my bright-yellow desk.

Later, in my teen years, the yellow was covered with a mahogany stain, which looked a bit more mature, I suppose.

My childhood desk held what all desks hold: scissors, a stapler, pens and pencils, and pads of paper — lined and unlined.

This is the desk where I spent endless hours drawing floor plans for houses that I imagined living in someday.  This is the desk that held my first electric typewriter — a powder blue and white portable, manufactured by Brother.

It was the place I sat to write my first love letter and it was the desk where I kept the first love letter written to me.

That was many years ago.  More recently, the desk had been relegated to our basement — being sort of ugly and a bit too small for practical use by an adult.

It sat there, in a dark corner surrounded and covered by many other discarded bits and pieces of the past thirty years.  So, when it came to our recent basement clean-out, the desk wasn’t the only item on the “to-be-tossed list.”

There was the 1950s-era cookie jar, covered with raised ceramic flowers — also yellow — but a dingy yellow pretending to be gold or mustard or, perhaps, butterscotch… a wedding gift to my parents, later handed down to me for my first apartment.

There were bottles of beer left over from an open house 15 years ago.

There were two decades of Utne Readers — the first ever printed — that Nancy had been saving.  (We decided to keep the first two years and selected covers of others.)

There were old lamps with broken shades; glass vases covered in heavy, opaque dust; decaying plastic planter boxes and more.

None of these objects added to the junk heap brought back fond memories — or really any memories at all.

But under this mountain of non-treasures, these throw-aways, stood my tiny desk — forlorn but resolute. In fact, I was sure the desk was looking out at me from beneath the piles and saying, “After all we’ve been through, how could you?”

I closed my eyes and opened them again as the desk was lifted onto the truck, destined for the dump.  As it reached the tailgate, I caught my breath.

For underneath the mahogany stain, in places that had chipped away, I could not only see the 50-year-old bright-yellow paint but the memories of my childhood, too.

See This Photo, by Summer Killian

Summer Killian read this piece on Saturday, April 27, 2019, as part of the Tompkins County Public Library Readathon fundraising event.

See this photo of me in the kitchen with Teo. It is our first night home from the hospital, the third night of his life. I don’t know what I am warming up in the microwave, can’t remember what I ended up eating. In my face, see the softness, but the new edge, too. This is the face of somebody’s mama. See the pride: I grew him. I pushed him out. See the way he belongs. See the way the wrap I’m using to carry him is tied all wrong, though I practiced and practiced with a stuffed bunny while still pregnant. See how I don’t know it. See how I look like I know what I’m doing. See the way you just can’t know what’s to come. See me standing in the kitchen on Albany Street, believing I can fathom what it means to really love somebody.

The Hypnotist, by Marty Waters

Marty Blue Waters read this piece on Saturday, April 27, 2019, as part of the Tompkins County Public Library Readathon fundraising event.

 
I was sitting at my desk in my 5th grade classroom, minding my own business, staring at the world outside my window, when an announcement came over the loudspeaker from the principal. “Everyone please convene in the auditorium now for a surprise event.”

We all walked silently to our assigned seats.

Our principal introduced a man who was going to present a special show for us and he said “we should all pay careful attention because things might not be quite what we think they are!” A big man strode up onto the stage. He was dressed like a magician, with a phony mustache, a cape, and a lopsided top hat.

He called out for four volunteers. My hand was the first one up. We marched up to the stage and sat on the chair we were motioned toward. I was on the far end so I could study what happend to the first three victims with an eagle eye. Mustache Man stared at each volunteer for quite a while, mumbling words I couldn’t hear. In turn, each slumped forward in their chair and seemed to be in a trance. When Mustache Man snapped his fingers, each jumped up and went back to the audience.

I was pondering what the trick was supposed to be when Mustache Man zoomed in on me. I didn’t like his eyes and one side of his fake mustache was starting to fall off. I kind of snorted a laugh and stared right back at him, narrowing my gaze. Then I realized I was supposed to be a part of some joke, so I pretended to fall into a coma, like the others had, and dramatically draped myself across my seat. Mustache Man snapped his fingers sharply and curtly motioned for me to return to the audience.

He went on to a new act making things disappear, or something like that. I was bored to tears.

Then Mustache Man started telling a story about a cat and a dog who met a donkey and a rooster on the road to Wichita. Whenever he said the word cat, Vonda jumped up and purred “meow, meow, meow.” Whenever he said the word dog, Tommy stood up and shouted “arf arf arf arf arf.” And whenever he said the word donkey, Dennis rose up and bellowed “hee-haw, hee-haw.” They were all visibly confused and embarrassed by their sudden impulses, but each time they heard Mustache Man mention their animal in the telling of his story, they shouted out again.

It was rather obvious whenever he said the word rooster nothing happened. Even so, the story was a huge hit and all the animals got wild applause and cheers.

Oh Good Grief! I was supposed to have been the rooster, if I had been able to understand what Mustache Man tried to plant inside my head. Oh well.

At the end, as Mustache Man was about to take his bows, I fiercely felt it was my moral duty to make sure the rooster didn’t get completely left out of the show. I jumped up and crowed at the top of my lungs, “Cock-a-doodle-doo!”

There was a stunned silence in the auditorium and I realized, once again, I had made my very important point at exactly the wrong moment. Something I had a tendency to do, unfortunately.

I slunk back down into my chair, hoping nobody would ever mention this day to me ever again. Fat chance of that.

Maybe I Should / Second Sight, by Peaches Gillette

Peaches Gillette read these two poems on Saturday, April 27, 2019, as part of the Tompkins County Public Library Readathon fundraising event.


Maybe I Should

Maybe I should move away to some remote place
where the trees stand ceremoniously tall
and the sun is forever setting.
 
There
I will embrace the quiet of my inner world —
speak no words — have no voice —
I will just listen,
Tenderly listen
to the whispers of all those who have suffered —
Those who still want to tell and retell their stories through the movement of the wind,
through the falling of the rain,
through the understanding
that we whose souls ache through time
will be forever one.

Maybe I should take all the metal I've collected over all these years
and get back to building the rocket ship I dreamed of building long ago.

I would take off,
fade into the pitch-blue of the night sky
throw kisses to my old friend the moon
and sketch along the contour of the universe
fueled by an urge to find home.

Maybe I should count backwards each time I have a birthday
and get younger and younger
with each breath I take.
This undoing of my aging self
will not be about any regret of growing older -
it will be about meeting my child-self again -
revisit the time I left behind
and linger, playfully,
in the details of days gone by.

Maybe I should go back into the dream I had last night and try to find my mother;
she sounded sad.
She wanted me to come and be with her,
but her voice trailed off into silence
before she could tell me where she was.



Second Sight

Sometimes I see more clearly with my second sight.

It is the sight that originates in the soul,
finds its way into the heart,
and spiritually crystallizes what I see in the world, and in others.

My eyes explore the composition and the delicateness of their perfect form.
My darling granddaughters -
their bodies young and free in this old world.

I gaze at their sweet lips forming words in whispered tones.
I listen to the secrets that only exist in the world of girls.
They dance for me -
another secret.

Their young bodies are hopeful and strong
like the beginning of a new day.

They watch me
making sure I don't look away.

You see Grandma Peach? We know how to do a split.

Their observant and socially curious eyes take- in and repeat all the latest dance moves.
They are exquisite visions of life in one of its greatest states -
moving,
energized,
growing-
pulsating spectacles of loveliness.

They are visions of grace
becoming a part of who I need to be.

I watch,
I cannot take my eyes off them.

I feel tears
rising from the deepest place of my love for them -
rising like a swelling body of water,
baptizing them
and carrying them to Holy lands within my very being.

They ask, Why are you crying Grandma Peach?

I say because you are so beautiful,
like the beauty of the sun
and sometimes so much beauty makes me cry.

They look deep into my eyes.
We share one of those special moments
in which we see one another
as clearly as one see the heavens.

Their dancing goes on.
I continue to watch
with both my first
and my second sight

Short Poems in Response to Phrases from the Work of Mary Oliver, by Rob Sullivan

Rob Sullivan read this piece on Saturday, April 27, 2019, as part of the Tompkins County Public Library Readathon fundraising event.


once the eyes are opened
the world never appears
without its juice and spark
the everyday becomes singular
==

set in stone?
all will crumble to dust
all will change form
over and over
maybe we know what we know,
all the rest
hearsay, conjecture, guess
eternity is one
of endless possibilities
who am i to say?
who am i?
who?
==

don't we all love
a good mystery?
myriad opinions
live together nicely
coexistence is plausible.
oh, dogma
you'll find that under philosophy.
no, i don't think
it's filed under non-fiction.
==

if one sees litter
strewn about the thoroughfare
it would behoove one
to pick it up
leaving the path
a bit more tidy.
if one experiences
wails of distress
from a dying mother (earth)
one should be prepared
to work for her salvation
and leave this planet
a bit more
alive and well
==

sacred vow
lifelong commitment
sacrament, most holy
yet divorce comes
nearly every time
for all,
save poets
willing to give all
in return for the great
big, beautiful world

Hands of a Gardener, Susan Lesser

Susan Lesser read this piece on Saturday, April 27, 2019, as part of the Tompkins County Public Library Readathon fundraising event.


I hold my hands in front of me and sigh. I have the hands of a gardener. The reason I do is because is I have an alarmingly large garden, a series of gardens really. There is the peony row, the perennial garden, the vegetable garden, the herb garden, the raspberry patch, and  the red and white garden down at the end of the lawn which isn’t really only red and white. Closer to the house you will find a couple of sincere hydrangeas and irises under the dining room window, azaleas and Lenten roses stand in front of the kitchen windows. Behind the garden shed is a secret garden that is so secret nothing is planted there, but we need to pull the weeds between the paving stones anyway. I could go on.

As soon as the ground thaws in the early spring, I am down on my hands and knees, digging in the muck, moving the Hidcote Lavender to the back of the herb garden and the common thyme to the front, pushing the shrunken pea pellets into the ground that is still splashed with lingering spots of snow, and removing last year’s canes from the raspberry patch.

I start out with gloves, gardeners’ gloves with thick bits where the designers think I might need some protection. I put the gloves on, honest I do, but very soon something happens and the gloves come off. I will find them later, soaked with rain, under a rhubarb plant. I want to pull out the early weeds, the dandelions and the invasive Michaelmas daisies with my bare hands. I want to wiggle my fingers into the mud to find the roots, to follow them and tug them out. My tiny lettuce seeds, like pepper from a shaker, need a warm hand to pull the earth over them and tuck them in. No gloves. Throughout the gardening season, it is easy to see my hands are the hands of a gardener, testimony to my hours in company with living growing things.

My fingernails are ragged and require repeated vigorous scrubbing, and much clipping. There are scratches where I tangled with a climbing rose in an attempt to prune it back. Roses are at once one of the loveliest and most vicious of garden denizens. There is a pinkish rash on my right palm from a misguided attempt to pull a rogue stinging nettle that was camping next to a Plantain Lily. Some days my knuckles are swollen from gripping the orange-handled trowel so tightly for so long. And totally yucky are the occasional gluey remains of a squashed slug, accidentally sacrificed as I weeded out the lettuce row. Slug residue does not wash off as easily as I might think; it will require scrubbing with the sturdy brush I keep under the sink. I am no fan of the garden slug, neither its name nor habit. However, when in my probing of the welcoming earth, I come upon a common garden earthworm, I am careful to treat him gently and move him to a soft spot of turned soil, out of reach of my trowel.

There is a story in my hands, not the sort a palm reader might tell, but a story just the same. It is a story of seasons and growing things and touching the earth we live on, live in.

==

NOTE: This piece appeared, in a slightly different version, in the journal GreenPrints, No. 117, Spring 2019

Watch Pocket, by Tina Wright

Tina Wright read this memory-piece on Saturday, April 27, 2019, as part of the Tompkins County Public Library Readathon fundraising event.


Some blue jeans have a little pocket on the top of the right front pocket and when I told someone in the family, younger generation, that it was a watch pocket for a pocket watch they said, I wondered what those were for (…good for loose change too.) I got thinking about pocket watches when a kid at work the other night talking about batteries in his wristwatch laughed when I told him I used to have wind-up watches and he gave me that you are a dinosaur look.

My first pocket watch said Little Ben on its face beneath a cracked plastic cover (smashed when picking stones). The Big Ben version was the alarm clock in my parent’s bedroom—with the big butterfly wind-up key—and when my sister and I heard it ringing in the morning from our bedroom down the hall, we pretended we were sleeping and waited for dad to pound on our door and say wake up, time to milk the cows.

I loved my Little Ben in its watch pocket, the brass back reflected the sun and felt cool and sweet in my hand. I set its time by the daily fire whistle five minutes to one that blew in the village of Moravia. Sometimes when we heard the siren in our hayfields miles away, we knew we were late for lunch.

One day we heard the daily whistle around the usual time and it kept blowing for many minutes letting the volunteer firefighters know that a fire had rudely started at a very inconvenient time, just when the daily whistle sounded. So it blew and blew to say hey Moravia this is a real fire!

The Formula for a Forever Life, by Barbara Anger

Barbara Anger read this poem on Saturday, April 27, 2019, as part of the Tompkins County Public Library Readathon fundraising event.


First thing in the morning
Awake to gratitude.

Squint if it’s a gray day.
You may feel the sun
   Inside
   You.

Feel the vibrations of
   A prayer
   On your lips.

Feel the air on your naked body,
Put on something comfortable to wear.
Don’t mind
    The old stains
    Down the front of your shirt.
    The frayed cuffs of your pants
    Or the tear along the seam.
Please just let your elbow scrape through that hole.

Put on your old shoes
    That hold the shape of your arch
    Inside the definition of each toe.

Go out into the air
    With a twirl
    Find a spot
To stick your fingers
    In the rich darkness
    Of the soil.
Let the grains of dirt and sand
    Run
    Through your fingers.
Feel its moisture.

Then remember
You collected milkweed seeds.
Find them on the top shelf
    Of your cupboard.
For a moment
    Feel the silky
    White feathers
Still attached to the seeds

Grab a trowel
Dig deep and wide
Enough for each seed
To sprout
Upward and out
Reaching the sun
Till at the waning of summer
It calls to the monarchs,
“Here I am.
Come find me.
I will help you live forever.”

Typewriters, Sue Norvell

Sue Norvell read this piece on Saturday, April 27, 2019, as part of the Tompkins County Public Library Readathon fundraising event.


Ah, the typewriter. Really, a brute of a machine. They were heavy to carry.

They required strong hands and fingers to depress the keys smartly enough to make that oh-so-satisfying [snap]  as the metal arm swung up and out to print the letter 't', [clack]  as the ‘h’ hits the paper,
then [...tap, WHING!] as the letter ‘e’ ends the line.
The bell dings, saying, “whiz the carriage back, begin anew."
[Whizzzz, clunk.     Clack snapa tap tap  snapa tap tap…]

Your fingertips are cupped by the metal ridges running ‘round the keys.
They fit each other: the letter B and the left index finger, [snap]
the S and the right ring finger, [snap]
reach up for an I,
down for an X, [tap,tap]
then stretch with the thumb for the space bar —

(double space at the end of a sentence, please!)
[whunk   whunk]

Remember how the the shift keys worked? No auto capitalization here!

Depress the key, the carriage rises, [bump]
capital B hurries to begin a new complete thought [snap]
The carriage drops again for the lower case ‘e’ [thud, snap] and you’re off:

[Bump snap thud  snap snap tap-a tap,  clack tap-a-tap snap ….  whunk whunk]

You say your prose is fading? The poem’s vanishing? Or worse, never making it to the page at all?
The ribbon needs replacing!
Now, of course, the stains and odors on your fingers need vigorous cleaning,
or your work will be smudged.

“How many carbon copies did you say?”
One mistake, many layers.
[Crinkle, rub, rub,  crinkle, rub, crinkle, rub…. mutter, mutter... cuss, cuss, cuss]

Whew.
Finished.
Roll the paten, free the paper
sign it:   “Henry…”
address the envelope,
fold the letter........ lick lick lick.  [STAMP]

DONE!

But now remember, typewriters did not lend themselves to impulsiveness
nor did they limit characters available
for either reasoned, rational thoughts
or nasty, rauchy rants

The effort required insisted on intention, allowed for more reflection.
Perhaps this machine’s finest hours were in the rash letters left unshared,
the insults never sent

Lets us consider this blessing: there was no “send” button.

The Elephant Vanishes, by Stacey Murphy

I meditate on the removal of obstacles
and the Universe appears —
a great golden elephant
in a green, wooded glade
carefully picking logs off the path before me
moving them aside gently:
hesitation, gangly and thorny;
lack, hollow and brittle;
distraction, thick and heavy.
With one look over her shoulder and a playful flip
of her tail the elephant
winks and she vanishes.
It is up to me to move forward.

Full Upright and Locked, by Jim Mazza

There is a moment when ...
you have buckled in, placed your tray table into the full upright and locked position, and listened to the safety message about exit doors and unlikely events (such as a water landing), how to inflate your life vest by pulling on the tab after you exit the aircraft or by blowing into the small red valve (should the life vest fail to inflate) and how the little beacon light will illuminate automatically.

There is a moment when ...
the captain says over the loudspeaker "We are #3 for take off" and "Flight attendants please be seated" and we are reminded to keep the window shades up during take-off and landing.

There is a moment when ...
the child in the row behind you has stopped kicking your seat and the guy next to you has finished his dripping hot-sausage-and-pepper-and-onion submarine sandwich brought onto the plane in his carry-on, and the arm rests are lowered.

There is a moment when ...
the plane moves toward the runway and waits, and then moves forward again and waits, and then, finally, makes a turn onto the runway to wait again.

There is a moment when ...
sitting at the end of the runway it seems everyone, for a split second, has stopped talking — although the baby in Row 29 is still crying.

There is a moment when ...
in the near silence the plane is perfectly still but its power and throbbing desire to hurtle down the runway is obvious and all around you.

There is a moment when ...
there is absolute peace as you realize that the adventure is afoot and there will be memories and photos and writing-filled travel journals.

There is a moment when ...
the pilot releases the brake, the engines roar and the plane speeds down the runway — and it is a moment of light-headed happiness and full-on joy!

Warm Recollections of my Father, Prompted by Mary Oliver’s line “It was a long time ago that…,” by Saskya van Nouhuys

It was a long time ago that my grandmother died. My father was a teenager. Soon after that he went to boarding school which must have been lonely, though he wouldn’t admit to being lonely. He takes pride in his solitude. After leaving he didn't live with his father again until much later, when I was five years old. While we lived in my grandfather’s house I woke up early to sit, watching him do his morning yoga. 

It was a long time ago that my father, in a fit of rebellion, dropped out of graduate school at Columbia and moved back to California to teach writing at Stanford University. He lived a beatnik life, met my mother, and played an unstructured croquet game that lasted days and spread over the front and back yards of a whole neighborhood.

It was a long time ago that my father taught me how to ride a bike at the park. After losing interest in guiding me awkwardly as I tried to balance he retreated to the tennis court with his friend. Between shots they yelled pointers and made encouraging gestures. Gradually I figured out how to ride on my own.

It was a long time ago that we had a yard with a lawn that my father mowed. In one corner was a navel orange tree that seemed magical because the oranges from it had no seeds. It became even more magical after my father explained that since it had no seeds it must be the only one, and there would never be another, because trees grew from seeds.

It was a long time ago that my father made scrambled eggs that were too spicy for the family breakfast on Saturday mornings, and then went off to play tennis with my mother, and then came back and made espresso with her, and then worked in the garden while listening first to the baseball game and then later, in the afternoon, to the opera, on the transistor radio that he carried from spot to spot in the yard as he worked.

It was a long time ago that my father and I painted rainbow stripes in the tiny downstairs bathroom of the house I grew up in. When we finished it was entirely striped, all four walls, the door, the floor, and the ceiling.

It was a long time ago that I sat on the stairs eavesdropping on the adults in the living room where they gathered every Tuesday night to discuss their dreams in “dream group.”  One morning my father told me he would fall asleep on his side with his arm up. Then when his arm fell down he would wake up and remember the dream he was having at that moment. He explained that it was a way to remember dreams you otherwise wouldn’t know about. I tried it that night and many after, but failed. I still try it now and then.

It was a long time ago that I helped my father build a darkroom in the garage. Then he taught me how to use it, and I had a quiet refuge where I could go as a teen and in the dim red light expose images on to photographic paper, bathe the paper in a sequence of trays of chemicals, and watch as the image took form, and fixed.

It was a long time ago that my beloved cat died, the one who was born in our yard and slept with me every night. My father said tenderly, with tears in his eyes that I knew, even then, were for me, not the cat, “Mewer died.”

Our Daughter’s Best Birthday Present Ever, by Rebecca Dolch

When Lydia turned three, her best friend Beth took a rubber band and cut it, making one longer piece. She wrapped scotch tape around each end and put it into a small box wrapped with birthday paper. When Lydia opened it, she turned to her 4-year-old bestie and said: “Bethy! I love it! A jump rope for my dolly.” They understood each other then. They are still best friends 35 years later.

Buttons Are Such Small Things, by Susan Annah Currie

We found a black, two-hole button on the car floorboard. It was a bit dirty and had a single black thread through one of the holes. What did it fall off of? Does one of us have a blouse or sweater with a missing button? Should I go through the closet and look for everything that has black buttons to be sure each button is secure and not missing? Or does it belong to a friend who, even now, is looking at a black sweater missing the bottom button and wondering what happened to it? Come to think of it, most things have zippers now — or Velcro. I wonder if the story of the discovery of Velcro is true? Was someone trying to get prickly, sticking burrs off a coat and suddenly had a eureka moment? "I will make Velcro to fasten coats and shoes and pants!" I imagine a cowboy getting off his horse back at the ranch, the sleeves of his coat covered in burrs like cockle burrs or sweet gum balls. Did he abandon buttons altogether? They are such small things.

All the Ways I will Not Be Perfect Today, by Yvette Rubio

All the ways I will not be perfect today:


I'll sweep the floor and leave the pile for later.

I'll make tea and leave the soggy tea leaves in the pot until tomorrow.

I'll have hundreds of judgmental thoughts about everyone else's life.

I won't file the pile of bills on my desk.

I'll inevitably say something that will annoy someone I love.

I'll cut the avocado horizontally, an imperfection my older son pointed out to me this Christmas.

I'll not pluck the white eyebrow hair that sticks straight out.

I won't work on family history research.

I'll watch too much on Netflix.

I'll read half of what I intended of the books I checked out from the library.

I won't recycle as much as I should.

I won't compost at all.

Goodbye Little Heart, by Jayne Demakos

It was a small earring, the first gift from a boyfriend.1995.
A unique, little pewter heart with three little freshwater pearls hanging from the bottom.
It fell from the dresser a few months ago
my mother’s dresser — so broad.
It can hold so much stuff, too much stuff;
this little heart with a broken clasp.
Where do these things go, these little objects?
Without a trace, in no crack or wedge
this little heart, these little white pearls wandering around in the universe.
I always think, “you are not lost, you are somewhere.”
And so I do the small work of letting go, a practice for the big ones.
“Goodbye little heart.”
"Goodbye three little pearls taken from the sea."
"You had to say goodbye once, too, didn’t you.”
“Goodbye last little dusty thread to said boyfriend.”
“Perhaps this is goodbye.”

Childhood Memory of Something Small, by Saskya van Nouhuys

I am a child. I am at the beach. I am lying on a towel waiting to get warm again so I can go back into the waves. I play idly with smooth bits of glass and dried sea weed. Then, restless, I scan the people around me, looking for some entertainment. I focus on a tiny blue-black spot on my mother’s right thigh. I ask her what it is. She explains that when she was a child she sat on a pencil. It punctured her skin and the tip broke off inside her, and it has been there ever since. I marvel at the absurd notion that my mother was once a child.

The Dead Poet’s Voice, by Heather Boob

Your voice let loose,
and then came
bellowing
through mine
the words
formulating from your
heart
constructed through your
pen
making their way onto my
page
a Paramount to my earthly time

I read them aloud
over and over again.
How many times did you?
And did you ever receive the answers
to all of the questions?
Or, did you settle into the
not Knowing?

You have sung the songs of nature
bringing to life its mystery
with word
your hymnals of prayer
creating a joyful noise
in the mourning heart
offering solace to a busy mind
bringing peace to
Rest-lessness

Tell me
I want to know
Did you ever go back and
read aloud your heart
on the page?
And did the words offer you
the same comfort?
And were you ever able to embrace
the Unknown?

And now that you’re gone --
did you receive all of
the answers to the questions
on your journey through
to death?
And were your words
There
to welcome you
Home?

2 Sound Memories, by Mary Jane Richmond

The sound of the bell my mother used to call us in a bit past dusk. It called us out from under the streetlight’s draw to moths and other delicious delights for swooping bats. It pulled us up from the curb where we let the darkness blanket us, forgetting that we belonged anywhere but in that moment — part of the wind and sky. The bell draws me from a dream where I’ve gone so far from home that I don’t remember who I am.

I hear the bell and I’m on my feet. A sleepwalker first, then runner, speeding toward the familiar sound as the dark, so friendly a moment before, threatens to catch me, to overtake me, to keep me. 

The bell calls me home — back to my mother and brothers and sisters. Back to the other dream of myself.


===


The sound of my horse neighing joyfully from the barn. He reminds me that I am needed. He reminds me that I care for him. He reminds me that there is always a safe place to cry on his shoulder with my arms wrapped tightly around his thick crested neck.

His call reminds me of long summer days lying together under trees in the pasture. My head on his round belly as wind rushes in and out of him causing my head to rise and fall in a comforting rock that only a horse can provide. His neighs call me to bareback rides through fields and streams. Alone and in charge —I’m so small on my broad strong pony. He lets me guide him until he doesn’t want to. He goes where he desires until he decides it’s time to stop, abruptly throwing me out onto his neck, and head-first to the ground. All for his delight in trying a bright green patch of new spring grass.

I call back to him. I neigh, “I’m coming. I’m on my way. I haven’t forgotten you my friend.” I neigh like someone whose best friend is a stubborn black and white pony.

Sound Poems, by Rob Sullivan

morning puja
chai tea at three
monks in monastery
droning sound
swirling around
brass bowl
into silence and stillness



hare, hare
hare krishna
sing the names
sing the names of the lord
sing the names of the lord and be free



gregorian chants
words of matthew, mark,
luke and john
(not for pope gregory the first)
but for your ears
your heart
your soul



paul winter consorted
with the hoi polloi
each winter solstice
within st. john the divine
like clockwork
clock with huge hands
hearts— ever open



covenant love bible church
( love, brother, love)
sinners— all fall short
saints— redeemed through lamb's blood
scott ross, ronnie spector, larry norman
same sunday service in '72
too cool for school
just right for church



sound the alarm
drop everything
run
run
run as though
your life
depended on it



listen to the sunrise
passed the mundane
day to day
listen to the sound
a day makes
warming night's  cold feet



if you sound willing
a posse will appear
ready to marshal forces

if you appear ready
cookie will rustle
up some coffee and grub

if you act your part
from the start
look real smart
be quick, then depart

this earthly plane.
your song'll be sung
on boot hill— all the same



sound of one hand
clapping
seemed less than
what we hoped for
on our world tour:
temples, ashrams,
synagogues, churches,
katmandu to timbuktu

2 Sound Pieces, by Jim Mazza

A List of Favorite Sounds


    •    An E-flat-seventh chord
    •    Church bells at noon along the seashore
    •    Waves lapping at the dock
    •    A songbird at sunrise in January
    •    Singing all the songs of Bye, Bye Birdie — straight through
    •    My father's voice, saying farewell: "Take 'er easy, Jim"
    •    Fred Astaire's tap shoes in a syncopated rhythm
    •    The late-summer evening song of crickets and cicadas
    •    The gurgle of the creek outside our bedroom window
    •    Leon Redbone in a near-final concert, singing, When I Take My Sugar to Tea!
    •    The roar of jet engines just before takeoff




Oh, To Be a Dancer!

I should have been a dancer.  Sure, I sing a little and play the piano with some flare, but buried in this short, roundish physique is the soul of Astaire, Kelly, the Nicholas Brothers, Sammy Davis Jr., and Gregory Hines.

Graceful movements, the staccato of taps against a wooden floor, the swoosh-swoosh-swoosh of a sand dance: these images and sounds call to me, fill my thoughts, my ears.

Some people hear voices in their heads.  I hear a time-step.

My Aunt Rosie had been an Arthur Murray dancer — and she taught me, as a young child, several basic steps: a foxtrot, a waltz, the Charleston, and the Jitterbug.  I loved the feeling of my body freely moving along the floor, the sound of my shoes as they took each new step.

But dancing, in the eyes of my father, was not something boys were to do. (Traditional and outdated views of masculinity often pervaded his opinions.) Football, soccer, golf: these things were okay. There were no dance lessons for me.

Not until college — when I took a jazz-dance class in an old, dusty, downtown theatre — did I have the chance to start again.  I attended classes from time to time in my early twenties and even a tap class later on, but somehow the rest of life took over — school, work, relationships — so I never really pursued this great love.

Yet, I still have a dancer inside of me. I cannot walk down the street or up a set of stairs without hearing —and feeling — what my feet might be doing . . . if they only had the chance.

More than once I've caught myself strolling down a sidewalk and adding in a rough cadence between my steps.  Usually, this is just in my head but sometimes I find myself literally dancing down the street.  Inevitably, someone coming from the other direction is startled by this seemingly crazy behavior — and yet it always results in a big smile.

Having recovered from three hip-replacement surgeries and one seriously-broken leg over the last 25 years, it may seem odd that I should have dancing constantly in my head.  But I simply cannot escape it — the sound, the rhythm, the joy of a swaying body and the tap-tap-tapping of my feet.

What To Do on a Bummed Out Sort of Day, by Susan Lesser

Susan Lesser had to miss the writing circle today (Thursday, January 24). She wrote from home, instead. This is what she came up with. Chances are you will find items on this list that relate to YOU, too!



1. Get up!! Just try it.

2. Breathe, however you can. Even a yawn might count at this point.

3. Get up now, if you haven’t already done it.

4. Wash your face anyway.

5. Brush your teeth anyway.

6. Don”t get dressed yet unless you are planning to put on that new blue cashmere sweater that you have been waiting, waiting, waiting for a chance to wear. But if you have anything you can’t wait to wear, you are not having a genuine, certified Bummed Out Day, so think it over.

7. Make some coffee, or some tea, or some cocoa. Drink it sitting down somewhere comfy, maybe with pillows. Don’t do anything else, just sit there and and sip.

8. Maybe you’d like a shower now, maybe not. Honestly, it’s up to you.

9. Get dressed anyway.

10. Be thankful — for something, anything at all. Maybe because you found some clean underwear even though you didn’t do the laundry yesterday. “Even though” is a good place to start with thankfulness. It seems something is likely to come to mind no matter what. For example — even though the weather is crappy and gray and drizzly and way too cold, we have not had an earthquake this morning. Even though the rosemary plant you were trying to over-winter is decidedly dead, the valiant hibiscus is moderately cheerful and has set a few new buds.

11. Breathe, maybe ten deep breaths, if that’s not too many.

12. Skip the temptation to beat yourself up for not doing that laundry yesterday, not writing those emails, failing to stick to that diet, not going to the health club like you really did mean to before you started poking aimlessly around Facebook for most of the afternoon.

13. Look out the window. See the birds at the feeder, jostling back and forth, perching on the overgrown bush in back, the chickadees, the jays, the raucous crows, and always the cardinals. The red of the cardinals is the richest red of winter, except maybe for the two scarlet amaryllis now blooming in the dining room.

14. Take a break from yourself. Of course you are not the perfect you that you invented some long time ago and continue to shine and polish and make impossible promises to. Remind yourself that’s OK. Forgive yourself for pretending you should take to the dance floor with Perfection as your only partner, Perfection who knows all the dance steps—the Tango, the Samba, the Merengue and the Texas 2-Step. So what if you only know how to slow dance to long-forgotten Ray Coniff tunes and how to do the Bunny Hop. Dance the dance you love.

15. Breathe. Maybe you’d like to sit cross-legged on the floor with your eyes closed. Or not. Just breathe.

16. Do something brave, like trying on the pajamas you bought in Philly more than two weeks ago — in a size Medium. They have been languishing in the bottom of the closet ever since because you can’t stick to any diet, and haven’t lost a single pound, and you will be embarrassed all by yourself if they are too, too, small. Hey! One set is just a wee bit too small, one is a wee bit too big, and one is just perfect. OK!

17. Forgive yourself for pajama cowardice.

18. Listen. Listen to the rat-a-tat-tat of the melting snow as it thrums on the roof outside the window. To the breath of the necessary furnace whispering heat into the room. To the little cat, Eloise, as she runs back and forth through the hall and into the bedroom in frenzied glee. To the silence of the pen on paper except for the staccato beat that comes with the dot of an “i” or the period at the finish of a sentence. To the clock from Provence that calls out the hour with a satisfying baritone ring and then repeats its message thirty seconds later with a second tally of the hours, just in case you still need to know.

19. Breathe, maybe light a candle, maybe not. It is folly to make rules if they are not necessary.

20. Be thankful, just because.

Writers Respond to the Inquiry Cards

Many years ago I bought a deck of cards called “Inquiry Cards,” created by Sylvia Nibley. Since then, from time to time, I’ve put the cards out on a table for writers to choose a question and write a response. That’s what happened this past week, in three different writing circles; done as a 5-minute warm-up at the start of each session. Here are responses from some of the writers. Perhaps you will want to ask yourself one or more of these same questions (or come up with your own) and see what thoughts rise to the surface.


What Can I Let Go Of?
— Blue Waters

Truth be told, I could walk away from every possession I have. Wave good-bye and start down a new path without much ado. But meanwhile, I still enjoy a lot of kooky collections. Like 11 wrist watches; my lava lamp plus 6 Himalayan salt lamps; my 1,000+ CDs, neatly organized into 10 large leather cases; 15 gorgeous designer empty shoe boxes just waiting to hold some special collection in a very neat fashion; and how can I not mention my 4 gargoyles sitting atop my bookshelves? There is still time to enjoy these treasures, so I salute them all daily and have a good laugh.

What Am I Hungry For?
— Edna Brown

Long dinner parties, ending in long musical jams with loving friends. Long talks, late into the night, without concern for the morning. Long hugs, soothing touches, from friends and family. Long nights, warm spoons, the two of us, in a cold room. Long walks, through the woods, with no worries about the time or ticks, with no destination. Long days, with no commitments, reading and napping on my favorite couch with my favorite blanket, coffee, books. Long weeks or months, spent on a beach, any beach, until I can take not one more bite of the delicious sun, sand, waves, and warm waters.

Where Is Movement Needed?
 — Heather Boob

In between the locked deadbolt
dust and rust have set.
A key has not entered this passage
in years.
Was it lost?
What has been left behind forgotten?
Hire a lock-pick!
Drill a hole!
Get inside!
Behind the door,
once opened,
treasure awaits you.

What Am I Ready For?
— Jamie Swinnerton

Something new, something so different, I am ready for a break, I am ready for security. I am ready to get in my car and go, just go. Buy a tent, be a nomad, toss my phone. Go. I am ready for peace, strong, energizing peace that comes with the confidence that I'm doing the right thing. I am ready to be selfish, to put myself first, to say "No, I won't do that for you.” And then not do it. I am ready to admit hard truths, but to the right people, at the right time, in the way that I want to. I am ready to admit that I'm not certain what I'm ready for.

What Am I Curious About?
— Jim Mazza

Early last year, when my brain had become too full, my mind too tired, and my patience too thin, I made a somewhat unexpected decision — to retire from my 60+ hour-per-week job and live a more gentle life. Now, some six months into my new "lifestyle," I am curious as to why I feel the need to fill up my days with endless activities, appointments, and to-do lists. Why can't I quietly enjoy my new-found time? What change must occur for me to go from always doing to simply being?

What Am I Deeply Grateful For?
— Marian Rogers

The moment
This morning
Quiet light
A trace of snow
No alarm
The dog flipping on his back
Stretching long against my body
His hind feet now by my face
Releasing a secret 
The dusk, dirt, and sweetness
Of outdoors

What Am I Learning?
— Nancy Osborn

That my writing is the shortcut to my unspoken dreams; that being curious keeps me going even though I know I'll never find all the answers I seek; that I need to let words tumble in my brain a bit before allowing them to spill onto paper; that I prefer unlined pages for my travel reflections — somehow that suits the unknowingness of being in an unfamiliar place; that I should allow the waves of life to follow their own tides; that I will probably never know the conclusion to the story of my life that I tell myself; that sometimes things just don't make sense; that being silent and just listening is sometimes the only solution; that sooner or later I will probably forget most of my memories, and perhaps I won't mind.

Where Is Movement Needed?
— Patti Witten

This question may be approached from points of the compass, the cardinal directions and their intervals — north-by-northwest, or just southeast. A southern approach is the sunniest but also may be humid and damp. This is because the earth tilts on its axis, although if the earth could speak for itself it might say “I am not tilted.” Who gets to decide these things? Nevertheless a northern approach is cold and stoic. It is patient and hoary and covered in fur that still smells like a slaughtered beast. That is, it all depends on where one is standing when asked the question.

What Needs To Change?
— Peggy Stevens

Everything — everything needs to change. It’s the 10+ year itch. Lying in bed, looking around, I have fallen out of love with my surroundings. At work, receiving my W-2 electronically, realizing this is the year to find a new job, to give up on the mindless, easiness of what I do. Pump up the blood again — work a little harder, feel good about it. Nothing happens without a little discomfort and that's okay. Let's see where this all goes. Pick one thing, anything, and change it, even if it's only an inch or a foot or yard.

What If I Weren't Afraid?
— Phoebe Jenson

If I weren’t afraid, I would not think that I would die soon or be an invalid. I would go wherever I wanted whenever I wanted, and it would never cross my mind that something bad could happen. I would tell bullies and people that annoyed me how I felt, but that could hurt their feelings. Fear has a function, to help me remember not to electrocute myself or drive fast in the snow.

What Am I In The Middle Of?
 — Rob Sullivan

some might say life
though I don’t intend
to live until 132
no, my wish is
to live until 89
yes, that’s my limit.

I would like to dance and sing
until the day I die
and go with a smile on my face
all debts paid
all encouragements given
all the better
for the living
of this life.

What Am I Learning?
— Saskya van Nouhuys

I am learning how to cook nice things in the Instant Pot pressure cooker. I am learning about my family. I found out that my brothers, both of them, who used to seem disconnected and passive, aren’t. I am learning to write, always. I am learning how to teach in an interactive “active learning” classroom — (it is exhausting). I am learning about jellyfish behavior.

What Do I Really Want?
— Susan Lesser

1. Predictably, health and happiness for all my nearest and dearest, and your nearest and dearest too, just because. I’m also including myself.

2. A cat or maybe two cats. Since Cleo died, nothing ever moves when I walk into the house after a trip to Wegmans to buy a few bagels for breakfast and a wee bit of brie for a before-dinner treat. The house plants never wave to me. The morning paper is sulking in the recycling bin, however it lacks the stamina to grumble out loud. I suppose the fridge does its best to purr, but I’m never fooled. Here’s the big problem —  nobody ever jumps on my lap the minute I sit down on the sofa and says with her gaze that she missed me — before she falls asleep, that is.

3. Changes, but not too much and not too many, maybe something I never thought of before, like a trip to Sicily, but now I’ve gone and thought of that, so it doesn’t count.

4. To write more. My husband says I’m easier to get along with when I have been writing. He could be right.

5. Now I need to throw in world peace. And the end of cruel officials holding positions of power. And for children to be reunited with their parents. And for the environment to be saved. And for the good guys to win. I know who they are.

6. I’m looking forward to some chocolate now.

What Is The Brave Action?
— Yvonne Fisher

I know what it is, the brave action. First, it is to show up, just to show up. To go on, just to go on, despite everything, despite all the bad stuff, the horrors, the despair, the dark days, the decline, the fear. Despite the fear: show up, go on, keep going, be present, attend to things, be attentive, take a risk, be helpful, spread love and kindness in all directions, show up, show up and then take a breath. Remember to breathe. Show up and breathe.

What Makes Me Smile?
— Zee Zahava

I’m thinking about the games we used to play, so long ago. My mother was a whiz at Nok-Hockey. Dad learned a few tricks with the yo-yo. My sister and I spent hours with our Slinky toy, with Mr. Potato Head, and with Etch-A-Sketch. I practiced twirling my hula hoop around my waist but I never learned any fancy moves or hula tricks. We played cards with Grandma — Go Fish, Old Maid, Rummy. When our cousins came over we played Shoots and Ladders or Candy Land; sometimes we played a card game called War. On Sunday nights it was Chinese checkers, those pretty marbles jumping out of the indentations on the tin board. And then it was time to watch “Bonanza.” Remembering these things makes me smile.