Issue 2

August 2020

Oscar Luparia - Looking for a landfall

Drifting Sands, Issue 2, August 2020

Reading the works of contributors during this challenging but rewarding time

has been an honor and vastly-enriching experience. So many thank yous go out

to all who submitted! Thank you for sharing the fruits-of-your-labor with us.

Thank you for adding a little color to the world.

Please, everyone, enjoy the read.

With blessings,

Richard Grahn, Drifting Sands Founder & General Manager

1

A Rose by Any Other Name*

Terri L. French

Sioux Falls, South Dakota USA

I point my cell-phone at the blue, five-petaled flower and click. Campanula Americana,

commonly known as American Bell. Choosing the save option I add the photo with

identification to my “library.” I’ve accumulated quite a collection since downloading the app

Plantsnap to my phone. There’s a similar app to identify birds by their songs.

Seems we have an inherent need to label things. Maybe it makes us feel smart, superior. But,

how often is the app wrong, causing me to believe a flower or bird is something other than

what it is? How many times have I spread that misinformation? “Did you know that is the

song of the Benwick wren?” Most people take my word for it, but every once in a while I get

called out. “No, actually you’re misinformed. It’s a Carolina wren.”

Perhaps it doesn't matter and I should simply enjoy nature and its creatures for what they are,

a blessing.

summer shower

a full rainbow

on the beetle’s back

*Romeo & Juliet, Act II, Scene II

2

Blowin’ in the Wind

Jo Balistreri

Waukesha, WI USA

 

He welcomed us to the moon of the beaver*, nudging our imaginations from the minute he

walked into the room. A Native American from the Mesabi Range, he stood in front of a

roaring fire and asked us to empty our minds and follow the sound of his cedar flute. In the

quiet, strange yet familiar vibrations brought us back to the land and a time we had perhaps

known only in the womb.

Bamboo clacked and reeds swished in an atmosphere of dreaming. The sound of water, a fish

leaping? It was easy to envision soughing ponderosa pines or a soaring red-tail hawk in the

sliver-blue space of sky that had opened within. We shuddered with the cry of raven, the

haunting howl of coyote.

When the rhythm of our day unraveled into the rhythm of night, when fire-cast shadows

loomed large, the last song began with the singer’s silken thread, interwoven by our threads

until woof and weft created one multi-colored song. When we finished, the music we had

made together filled the room. It rang in our ears even as we were leaving.

the sumac’s flame

roadside shadows deepen

in a swirl of light snow

*The Ojibwe people’s name for November moon.

3

After Sleep

Keith Polette

El Paso, Texas, USA

I’ve hiked before dawn into the mountains for the first time in months, feeling like a bear after

a long hibernation, my feet unsteady on this narrow path. My breath comes in out in chuffs,

louder than I’d like, and it startles a handful of deer, causing them to skirt by me like shadow

dancers entering a distant stage. The sun begins to crest the mountain, it’s blazing edge like

something in a Blake painting. I stop and bend down to tie my shoe. The wind has begun to

stir and tosses a brown leaf next to my foot. I start to brush it away, but instead study it for a

moment and chuckle when I notice that both of us are curling at the edges.

falling leaves

the curled shavings

of a carpenter’s plane

4

Renascence

Kristen Lindquist

Camden, ME USA

 

Among the many spring ephemerals that dapple the forest floor before the leaves unfurl, the

bloodroot is appealing in its simplicity: each white-petaled flower arises on its own stalk,

cloaked by a single, embracing leaf. The petals open wide in sunlight, greet the day by

revealing their bright yellow stamens.

vernal pool

clusters of frog eggs

mingle with clouds

To understand its name, you have to dig up the flower. Its rhizome oozes a reddish sap with

which you can make a red dye. These rhizomes spread year after year to form colonies of

bloodroot plants. Ants also help by dispersing seeds.

princess pine

the small beautiful things

we step on

A friend grows a cultivated variety of double-flowered bloodroot that is especially

breathtaking, as if waterlilies had bloomed in the bare earth. She invites me over every spring

to see them, understanding how the pure-white beauty of these flowers amid April’s leaf litter

and mud brings me an easy, necessary joy.

spring snow

what did I do to deserve

this life

5

On Springdale Lane

Jo Balistreri

Waukesha, WI USA

Gramma and I sit on the front porch, our legs supporting the different sized bowls of our laps.

Heaps of peas nap in their glossy shells, fresh and green from the garden. With the colander

between us, we sieve words, talk quietly or not at all. The sky hangs hot and limp stretched

like a sheet on the line. It’s July, our skirts bunched up to our knees. Cicada choruses lull us

almost to sleep, their constant buzz a backdrop for daydreams.

When the gray coupe drives up, the unshelled peas spill from our lap onto the porch. We walk,

half run as Dad opens the door to help my mother. She turns back the blanket to the face of

my new brother. Scrunched and wrinkled, he looks like a shriveled pea. My parents make a

fuss over me, then walk ahead with the baby.

summer drought

she dowses

for words

finds

only cracked acorns

6

No goodbye

Ian Overton

Belfast, United Kingdom

He waived goodbye to the hotel guests and walked California. Making friends with the fresh

air, he recollected the talk of tomorrow’s tequila sunrise and contemplated shimmering

horizons.

homeless wanderer

found the eagles drinking wine

such a lovely place

7

Shadow

Jacob Salzer

Vancouver, Washington USA

There are only a few ways he could have entered my apartment. He could have slipped in

through the back door when it was open, briefly. He could have crawled his way through

openings in the floor, behind cabinets where power cords disappear into the void. But no. I

think this guy took the ultimate route, on a secret mission to paradise. He held his breath,

then swam in the dark, through intricate pipes in the walls and finally emerged from the toilet

into the bright lights of my bathroom, gasping for breath. He then dried himself off with my

towel, grabbed some leftover crumbs of cereal on the kitchen counter, then sat back and

relaxed under my couch as he listened to me play guitar. A free concert. With front row seats.

Now he has disappeared once again, this time beneath the oven, out of sight, like a secret

agent. Like 007.

cracks

in the old brick wall

sound of wind

8

Myth of the Body

Kat Lehmann

Guilford, Connecticut, USA 

To feel the subtle surprise each day peering at the world from behind eyes. To be a finite

container harboring what is limitless. To be alien on a planetary sojourn. To feel the mind is

somehow uncontained by the space between cupped hands. To one day diffuse as something

incorporeal. To become the very atmosphere. To slip into the boundless evermore.

wilderness

of the measureless seas

I imagine

a home for nameless creatures

and this old hopeful heart

9

January 26

Michael Dylan Welch

Sammamish, Washington

At the start of World War II, when my dad was about twelve, he was evacuated from the south

coast of England, to Winchester. A few years later, he was called up for military service and

registered as a conscientious objector. He was told to do either hospital or farm work. Dad got

a good job in the accounts office for a hospital in the city of Portsmouth. However, after a

short time, he was told that the job was too cushy for a conscientious objector. Then he took

up farm work in Cambridge, and was put in charge of fruit-picking gangs for Chivers Jams.

When in season, he picked fruit for the royal household in London. I remember my dad

saying, with a gleam in his eye, how he used to pick strawberries for King George and Queen

Elizabeth—and that he saved the best strawberries for himself.

on the anniversary

of his death

strawberries and cream

10

The Connoisseur

Kala Ramesh

Pune

As a kid, I loved adding moustaches and beards to faces in newspapers ... I didn't discriminate

between the sexes.

But after a year or two I got tired of giving the same features to every face, and so my next

hobby began—observing men with fancy hairstyles. Those were the days without smartphones

to take a quick pic, so my mind acted like blotting paper!

Never thought I would become the portrait painter I am now—People say I paint faces with

beards and moustaches better than most. I don't tell them I've practised from the day I was in

the cradle!

when did I stop

being adventurous .?

the ganga

still plays hide and seek

with the himalayas

drifting sands …

the autumn breeze

coddles

the night sky

with its million stars

11

Mixing

Colleen M. Farrelly

Palmetto Bay, Florida USA 

The morning sun peaks through half-closed basement drapes as if checking for my pulse. I

crashed here last night and the several nights before that; it’s homier hauling out on this

couch beneath an American flag than dealing with my dorm. I sleep beside half-drunk beers,

shared swapping stories of one desert or another, of buddies who’d have been buddies had

they come home. My bookbag blends into the back corner housing other go-bags and standard

issue boots. I bite off half a granola bar on my way out.

Repackaging

a broken label—

hiding what’s inside

There’s not much sand or snow or underbrush outside—just sidewalks crammed with co-eds

clad in sweaters and cell phones, half-dozing as they cross another quad. A few stubborn

leaves cling to a maple branch outside my chemistry lab. I linger a bit, hoping to slide in late.

Class starts as it always does—with the list of those killed since 9/11.

Reagents

bubbling over

my worlds colliding

 

Note: Memories from my transition to college life (Marquette University, 2004).

12

It Happened So Fast

Alexis Rotella

Arnold, Maryland USA

I arrive wearing threadbare pajamas. I notice a small hole in the orange robe of the monk who

greets me with a bow and an apology. Someone made a mistake. It’s Mercury retrograde, after

all. They were supposed to summon another Alexis, not me. But it’s too late now. The body I

left behind cannot be revived. No sense grieving. What’s done is done. To compensate they’ll

put my name on a waiting list and when the right parties are making love, they'll send my soul

to the appropriate womb.

in the bardo no curlicues

13

Surfing the spin foam

Mark Meyer

Mercer Island, Washington USA

I wish I could figure out why the world is so out of whack — wave after wave. Has Mercury

gone retrograde again? No, Mercury's always going retrograde. This time it's truly different; I

can feel the subsonic clash of the chthonic tides through my shinbones. Something like

geo-hydro-thermodynamics meets chaos theory meets epidemiology. Are the magnetic poles

shifting? Could this be sunspots, comets, or another harmonic convergence, an alien invasion?

Kind of reminds me of the Velikovsky and Alvin Toffler I read long ago.

moving the mountains…

the ineffable force

of human folly

Hell, I used to think equilibrium would count for something other than a second rate transient

state of mind/matter. Stability comes less and less blowing hot and cold. Damn fickle bipolar

equilibrium! We're such a wee bubble in the grand scheme of things, always getting perturbed

in the wake of the divine turbines, tilting and precessing our way in a wobbly vertiginous orbit

that I never can get the hang of.

the lotus opens

as an elephant dies

I view the half-moon

14

Heavenly Bodies

Chris Bullock

Victoria, British Columbia, Canada

Sun streams through the windows of this downtown elementary school library. Standing in

the middle of a circle of seated mothers and children, I waggle my bum like Rags the

disobedient dog, and flutter my fingers to represent a twinkling star. Then I encourage the

mums to make their fingers into spider legs ascending their children’s arms as we recite the

story of the incy-wincy spider climbing up the waterspout.

The mothers and children are here for “Parent-Child Mother Goose,” a program designed to

teach young parents how to bond with their babies and toddlers through rhymes and songs.

My co-teacher is Sylvia, a woman in her twenties; she’s experienced in leading these sessions,

but this is my first.

I trained in the Mother Goose program to help young parents. But I also wanted to learn to

express my playful side, and so I’m happy to be able to act silly in a room where everyone is at

least thirty years younger than I am.

When the mothers repeat the “Stars” chant after us, though, unexpected tears well up:

“Where are the stars? There, there!” (Mother points to the sky.)

“Where are the stars? There, there!” (Mother points to baby’s eyes.)

“Where is my star? Right here!“ ( Mother hugs baby.)

The delight these mothers take in their children provokes in me a deep pain about the loving

attention I missed in my own childhood.

empty rainspout

a star glimmers

in the lake’s dark waters

15

Muejaza

Lew Watts

Chicago, Illinois USA

It is late April—soon it will be too hot to work. I am with two other geologists, measuring deep

gouges into the bedrock-floor of a wide wadi. These striations, some over ten feet deep and

extending for miles, formed at the base of a glacier that ground its way across Oman some

three hundred million years ago. There is no shade.

where desert meets sky

a white-thobed bedouin

walks on water

16

The Gap

Matthew Caretti

Mercersburg, PA, USA

I see the back of my soul

walking away. Without

a place or a name, the “I”

becomes timeless. Mind

full of nonsense.

after the wind the mountain

To undo evolution

a revolution in reverse.

Un-redefining each moment.

The breath a wedge

prying open the Real

in reality.

taking hold each shaft of light

17

Deep Sky

Simon Hanson

Launceston, Tasmania Australia

Fortunate we were to spend those years in The Red Center. One crystalline night walking

under its desert sky we found ourselves wondering about origins, talking of primordial

things—flesh made of stardust, histories aglow in our genes. We pondered without claiming to

know, the conundrum of matter and mind, marvelled over galaxies, arriving at the

question—could the cosmos be alive? Over a rise we came, an expanse lay before us—a shallow

lake after recent rains. And within this body of water, on the brink of tremor, the dark depths

of space strewn with silver.

atomic pulse

the fathomless abyss

in a grain of sand

18

A topography of memories

prose: Joanna Delalande

senryū/haiku: Oscar Luparia

A bouquet of sunflowers in my hand, summer fruits in my wicker bag . . . Coming back from

the neighborhood market, as always on the same road, I just want to savor this warm July

morning: now that the earth smells so good after the rain and the greenery is even more vivid

with moisture.

Unexpectedly, after a few steps, a gentle breeze starts blowing and makes my flowers dance

like in the past, in the far-off landscape of “that” village . . .

time machine—

thoughts and white clouds

travel together

That’s how I find myself looking again at the map of my memories: the sandy path, sparkling

sunbeams through the leaves of the poplars, thatched roofs everywhere, fields of wheat with

poppies and cornflowers swaying in the golden light, the magic forest and its irresistible

call . . . And that house, surrounded by four chestnut trees, a small bench in front of it to rest

and contemplate the sky, the ancient wishing well in the garden that kept the mysteries of the

world. It was the place where I and my little friends found the seasonal treasures offered by

nature, where we talked about our “secrets”, sitting on branches of an apple tree. I still

remember that taste of freshly picked gooseberries in my mouth, that sweet juice on my

hands . . .

midsummer night

the moon and my dreams

down the well

As thousands of other stories have ended, today that garden no longer exists. I’ll never visit it

again, but my sentimental journey is able to repeat itself as long as I live. I belong to that

19

place, independently of time and space: an inner garden where I love to linger every time it

wakes up in my soul.

in the shade of a tree . . .

caressing its leaves,

blessing its roots

20

Shortly Before Starting College

Catherine Altimari

Powder Springs, Georgia USA

We sit on the edge of the picnic table, with our feet on the bench, looking out at the

lake—absent its sparkle from the afternoon sun—as the day wanes into evening. We sit

here—my dad and I—without saying a word.

train rattles

through the intersection

my bags in the trunk

21

Uncaged

Kala Ramesh

Pune, India

bringing my thoughts back to the present

I've been at this game for the last hour

swaying between yesteryears and tomorrow

the mind sneaks its muddy paws

one foot behind and one foot forward

faster than light or sound

covering great distances

indescribable is the word

that describes this machine

sitting smugly within the body

where is this mind

and how does it function

even great yogis and seers couldn't fathom it

and still, the power it wields over my emotions

Predawn

cloudburst …

wave patterns

and raindrops

woven in sand

become the ocean

22

Back Again

Dan Hardison

Wilmington, North Carolina, USA

Cataract surgery is common and routine nowadays, but I had an additional problem. Both

corneas had to be repaired through surgery also. So here I was being prepped for my third eye

surgery in five months with the prospect of one more to go.

The prep nurse was going over the procedure when the anesthesiologist arrived to introduce

herself, “Oh, I remember you. I put you to sleep for your first surgery. It looks like I’ll be doing

it again.” Later it occurred to me that it had been five months and many other patients since

our paths last crossed. So what was so memorable about the first surgery that she still

remembered me?

traveling

a familiar road . . .

forget-me-nots  

23

Sheltered in place

Tom Painting

Atlanta, Georgia USA

I keep coming back to this: A small cabin on a remote bay in the Thousand Islands. An

eleven-year old boy on a fishing trip with his father. The boy stands on the shore. An

aluminum rowboat nudges the dock. Up the short rise the boy hears the creak of a screen

door. His father steps onto the porch, holding two fishing poles and a tackle box, a lit cigarette

between his lips. In a very few years a laundromat will open at the far end of the bay, dumping

enough phosphate-laced wastewater to ruin the fishing for a generation. The unfiltered

Camels will eventually kill his father. And while many things come to no good, this carefree

childhood memory remains pristine and perfect.

case sensitive

my thoughts secure

in The Cloud

24

Nightmare at the Gas Pump

Michael H. Lester

Los Angeles, California USA

My car has been sitting idle for four months. I start it once a week to keep the battery charged

and the fluids circulating, rolling it forward and back a few feet each time to rotate the tires.

The dirt, dust, tree sap, and bird droppings lay thick on the surface of the car. Finally, I decide

to wash it, purchasing all the necessary materials, except soap, on Amazon, despite the several

negative ratings that warn me off every product they sell. I thought I would use dish soap, but

as I prepare to roll up my sleeves and scrub, I learn it isn’t good for the paint. I do not want to

wait until next weekend to wash the car, so I use dish soap anyway.

like a wormhole

a shortcut through the alley

saves time

but when I get a flat tire

I deflate like a balloon

We have several doctor’s appointments coming up and we need gas in the car. I wait until

dark, around 9:30 PM, to go the gas station and fill the tank. Sure, the UV rays of the sun are

already gone and the virus is suspended in mid-air at just about nose level waiting for an

unsuspecting high-risk individual to take a deep breath, but there should be fewer customers

on a Sunday night and therefore, less virus. So goes my reasoning, anyway.

keeping a low profile

I take furtive glances

left and right

like a cat burglar

scaling the mansion wall

Armed with face mask, rubber gloves, hand sanitizer, disinfectant spray, and disinfectant

wipes, I arrive at the gas station, slink out of my car, survey the landscape (all concrete and

25

steel), and make my move. I spray everything before I touch it, insert my American Express

card, which the gas pump rejects several times, drop the card in a baggie, and insert my Chase

Visa card, which the gas pump accepts, grab the pump and begin filling the tank, keeping my

eye on the number of gallons, as the wheels roll relentlessly around on the face of the gas

pump. While I pump, a maskless gas station attendant suddenly appears within a few feet of

me, and with a guilty grin pours a green liquid into the tray that holds the windshield-wiper

solution. There is nothing I can do about the infectious intrusion but gape open-mouthed

behind my mask, and she is gone in an instant. It is much like waking up from a nightmare

and finding it is real.

an incident

I had hoped to avoid

occurs anyway

my only recourse…

write the tanka prose

26

Searching for Never Never Land

Pris Campbell

Lake Worth, Florida USA

Sometimes he gets as far as the front door, aging face last seen at 30, before I realize that I’m

dreaming. He was never my perfect lover, except in bed, that same bed that held me in his

spidery web until cruelty split his lips. Until other women were blatantly edged into the space

we shared.

Yet, occasionally, he pays me these creepy visits, I feel, from some deep psychic manifestation

within his soul sending its vapors out in these nighttime searches.

I believe he seeks immortality through the eyes of the ones he’s convinced still long for him. A

memory shared with others, perhaps. A comment on his gifts in bed. Perhaps a clay molding

of his torso, penis intact and erect.

He travels nameless on my sidewalk. Anonymous in my poems.

another branch

lost from the weeping willow

my shredded pictures

27

Darkness

Pris Campbell

Lake Worth, Florida USA

Flowers and signs mound higher just past the intersection not far away. A pink dress flew

through the air after the chevy screeched past. A partial license scribbled by witnesses. The car

was silver, the witnesses say. Found in his own wreckage a few miles down, his back seat held

a child’s bike with a bow on it and a smashed birthday cake.

a falling sun

lights up my window

cries soften

from the man next door

lamenting his lost love

28

The Comeback

Barbara Tate

Winchester, Tennessee USA

He sits in the dark on the third of six steps that lead to the dock where an old yacht floats in

her berth. "So this is what happens to broken down old tennis pros," he says to a curious feral

cat that perches itself on the second step. The old pro rubs aching knees with gnarly arthritic

hands. The past three nights the yacht’s tarped dinghy has given up it's privacy and let him

crawl into her dark musty innards. Neither sunrise or sunset nor the sun of high noon ever

brightens the musky darkness but it's a place to sleep.

The old man and the cat watch heat lightning flash over the bay. Draining the last swallow of

Jack, turning the bottle up he lets the last drop drip on his tongue. "You know, cat, I'm too old

for this. She treats me like a kid. Here I'm 68 years old and she chases me off, tells me not to

come home till I have an attitude adjustment. Go figure. And what attitude am I supposed to

adjust, anyway? What about you, cat? You ever have lady problems? Course not. Silly

question. You'd just move on. Well, I'm too old for that. Chasing days are over. Maybe

tomorrow she'll let me go home."

sunday silence

yesterday's story only

a memory

29

Journal Entry #42

Hemapriya Chellappan

Pune, India

I'm flying in circles around a tall castle. I clench my Nimbus 2000 in one hand as I try to catch

the flying key in the other. At first, I'm confident and cool, but then I'm an autumn leaf

quivering in the wind, until I realise I'm flying. "Oh God, what if I fall and break a leg?" As I

am chased into the approaching vortex, a voice interrupts, urging me to wake up.

black hole scent of a snuffed candle

30

The Other Way Wind

Barbara Tate

Winchester, Tennessee USA 

I walk out of the dream, a cat with seven lives left, on a mission to gather strings and strands

of a troubled year. It's not easy living in the shadows, searching shallows, wind is blowing the

other way twisting my hair.

I hide inside myself, caught not tamed, floating outside the pull of gravity on a mission with

no path. Old age owns my life, winter colder than last year creeps into bones and won't let go.

The glow that touched my cheeks is gone and there is nowhere I have to be.

bedtime story

wearing dark colors

to match the mood

four months ago

a different world

31

Sanguis Christi

David Grayson

Alameda, California USA

The communion lines are empty now and the parishioners are settling back into the pews. A

Eucharistic Minister returns to the altar with a chalice. He pauses, gazes upward, and lifts it to

his lips.

gulping

cheap Merlot

hunger moon

32

Welcome to the Neighborhood

Bryan Rickert

Belleville, Illinois USA

“I’m celebrating! Give me a little something nicer than the usual.”

“Sure thing Dave. What are we celebrating?” I ask, sliding him a drink.

“I finally did it. I moved out of the old neighborhood into a nicer place. With my military

benefits and state trooper pension, I can retire into something nicer. Even though the inside

needs a bit of work. The fridge is shot. It could use new siding and I’ll need to get a

lawnmower by week’s end.”

“The fridge. You’ll get a new one of those right away. Gotta keep the beer cold.”

“No. The mower and the siding first. I’ll rough it for a while without the fridge.”

“Surely the siding can wait, Dave!”

“Let me clue you into something, young man,” Dave tells me, “My home has to look nice on

the outside. I’m a black man. It doesn’t matter what the other houses look like. If mine looks

bad, you know what they will say. Here they come, moving in, ruining the neighborhood.”

trick-or-treat

the neighbor kids

wearing sheets

33

The Future of Memory

Prose: Gary Lee Joyner

Tanka: Marjorie Buettner

I saw my collection of memories and plans mixed together haphazardly on a shelf that was

attached just below the ceiling coving. I climbed a small stepladder and leaned up to randomly

lick an assortment of them. Their sweetness had faded. Some were now acidic and bitter. The

one at the farthest end was completely tasteless.

at night

those memories you left

become palpable

small moths beating

their wings at the screen

34

Seventh Anniversary

Colleen M. Farrelly

Palmetto Bay, Florida USA

"Use two hands—not one, not like the gangsters on the screen," I laugh. I slip my hand around

your wiry waist to steady your hands caressing the pistol. You shoot straight, and the avatar

disappears into pink mist. You swivel around, caught in my arms, and catching me in yours.

two algorithms

dancing through data

my computer

searching

for memories of you

35

Splash

Marilyn Humbert

Berowra Heights, New South Wales Australia

North Central Victoria. The lava sun is centre-point in the azure sky. Flies cling to exposed

skin, there’s not a breath of wind to dislodge them. We gather hats and towels, put on thongs

and bathers and head to the muddy irrigation channel running along the farm boundary.

we swim

our broad river

bank to reedy bank

embroidering

afternoon ripples

36

Fume of Sighs

Zane Parks

Cape Coral, Florida USA

1967. I don’t know why. He offers. I accept. But the pot is too much for me. Now, I’m on the

floor leaning against one wall. They're whispering together up against another. He is urging

her to his bedroom. She demurs. Back and forth. Maybe she’s trying to spare my feelings. We

were lovers. Not so long ago. She wouldn’t have told him, though. Eventually, they take me

home. To her best friend. To my wife.

Motown

riot-torn and up in smoke

the heat

37

Still Life in Winter

Joan Prefontaine

Cottonwood, Arizona USA

“I only read great poets like W.H. Auden,” she remarks, waving her hand in the air as if to bat

away a pesky fly, when I mention that I occasionally write poetry. She turns to gaze out her

kitchen window at the snow-encrusted yard, where nothing will bloom for months, while I

suddenly picture Basho in 1682, after his hut burned down, traveling alone to Yamura, in low

spirits, to stay with a friend, stopping along the way to watch the moon rise.

the long wait

in silence

tulip bulbs

38

Rachel

oni Tomiwa

Osogbo

The last time we spoke, she asked if I had a girlfriend and I thought we had won. Rachel had

been fighting her demons alone until I offered her help. She had two people inside of her; one

was art and love, the other was pain. And pain was stronger than the resolve to live; to love.

When I learned she was gone, I didn't ask how it happened. I knew that it was murder. She

had finally killed her. I would never see her again.

cold blast . . .

unable to track

a sparrow's flight

39

Nobody Home

John Budan

Newberg, Oregon USA

The Camellia Festival is his favorite time of the year. I’m greeted at his garden by rays of sun

filtering through sunflowers and bouncing off Zou Zou the cat. As usual, the door is left open

for me so I search the house but he is not at home. I don’t check the basement.

tied to rafters

the frayed rope

he left behind

40

Show and Tell

Kat Lehmann

Guilford, Connecticut USA

My daughter explains the life story of each stuffed animal. I lift a cat puppet and slip my hand

inside. She shakes her head and says, “She doesn’t like that. How would you like it if someone

did that to you?”

sea change

the rising levels

of compassion

 

 

 

41

Arid Hope

Frank J. Tassone

Montebello, New York, USA

An endless drought. The reservoir continues to dry out. Wheat and barley fields, once so full

of promise, have whilted for want of water. Like everything else.

We watch the medicine woman stirring her pot over a fire. She adds dash of some

foul-smelling herb, chants a litany in a language none of us understand. We watch in silence.

She is our last hope.

If she fails, we all must abandon our village, our home for generations untold. Not all of us

will survive such a journey.

She finishes her chants, stirs her bubbling pot one last time.

No one says anything for a long time. Finally, our headman musters up the courage we all

lack.

“Well?”

Her cerulean eyes meet his. One breath, then another. At last, she smiles, points up.

gathering clouds

the crescending woosh

of sudden wind

these tender mercies

upon which we depend

42

Swing a Cat

Johannes S. H. Bjerg

Denmark

- WAAAAAAAAUUUUUUIIIIIIII!

- Can’t you go swing that cat elsewhere? The park, for instance.

- Not with all that sickness out there.

- No one will get close to you swinging that thing around.

- You never know, do you? You can’t be sure. There might be some militant terrorist animal

rights activist WITH A FACE MASK who’d attack me.

- I’m sure there’s a lot of militant terrorist animal rights activists out there, but you can easily

fight them off with that cat.

- Mh. Maybe you’re right. I’ll go to the park.

- You can’t.

- Why not?

- It’s closed.

- Why is it closed?

- The Corona virus, you know.

- I can beat that down.

- How?

- Using the cat, stupid.

- Oh, yea …

43

(Opens a newspaper from last year and closes it again. Counts the cigarette stumps in the

ashtray and checks the number against the winning lottery number in the paper).

- Darn! I could have won!

- Won what?

- The lottery on this day a year ago.

- Why didn’t you?

- I hadn’t smoked enough.

- That will teach you.

- Teach me what?

- To smoke more fags and never, NEVER, throw a butts away without having made a note of it

your little black book.

- My little black book? I don’t even have a little black book.

- You don’t? Well, you can get one for Christmas.

- But Christmas is half a year away.

- We can have one next Wednesday.

- One what?

- A Christmas. We can have a Christmas next Wednesday?

44

- Why not this Wednesday?

- I have a “swing a cat” class in the park.

Sometimes

the ocean full of ‘em

waves

45

Webs

Nancy Rullo

Brooklyn, New York USA

A filigree of snowy limbs surrounds the house. The fragility, the magical singular moment

holds the solitary captive inside its intricate embellishment. As dawn’s first light moves

silently over the hill to the east, kitchen clock ticks, wood stove crackles, hungry squirrels leap

across branches, phone rings, broken gutter drips the melting lace, and it runs down the glass

obscuring my view.

moving white thread

with Grandma Minnie tatting

around the pins, my small hands

46

Windows

Sean O'Connor

Tipperary, Ireland

As I arrive on the scene I immediately realise my father is having a stroke. He is seated in his

local pub where he had gone for help when he felt something was wrong. His left arm is limp.

A paramedic asks me to confirm that the left side of his face is drooped. He looks startled and

helpless and there is an atmosphere of unstated fear and concern among the bar's patrons.

Among his friends.

speeding ambulance

through its tinted windows

a waning moon

The following day I go to my fathers' house to gather some of his clothes to bring to the

hospital. There is a photograph on his bedroom wall of a boy on a cart pulled by a donkey.

There are two large milk churns on the vehicle. The boy, who is three years old, holds the reins

in his hands. He is in charge. That boy is me.

On the bedside locker there is a travel guide for Japan, the one he used when he visited us

there.

that night with my dad

his joyful discovery

the dance of fireflies

The stroke unit is always busy. As the days go by I recognise more and more staff. Cleaners,

caterers, physios, and nurses. I begin to know what shift is on. The patients too become

familiar. Many in wheelchairs, others with sticks or frames. One man seems always to sit in

his wheelchair beside a small window.

47

for weeks I greet him

the man who never speaks

he finally nods

Three weeks on there is a confused message on my phone from a paramedic in the back of an

ambulance. It seems they are transferring my father to a rehabilitation centre in the next

county. I arrive there late at night to find him bewildered and exhausted. He seems relieved to

see me. A nurse suggests that I bring him in something personal to put in his room to reassure

him.

His house is covered with posters of famous motorbikers. There are racing memorabilia

everywhere. He was a sidecar racing champion. I choose something I think might help and

bring it to the rehab unit. It is much calmer there than in the hospital and he is more settled.

for the time being

perched on the rehab window

my fathers' trophy

He sits on an elaborate bed which quietly hisses and puffs as it automatically adjusts to his

weight. Several staff come and go during my visit. Each time he introduces them to me saying,

‘this is my father.’

At the door of his room I turn and wave to him.

daffodils outside

on his hospital bed

my dad is crying

48

Traveling Lessons

Doris Lynch

Bloomington, Indiana USA

We travel, in essence, to become young fools again… Pico Iyer

My family and I arrive on the Osa Peninsula on the night bus from San Jose. At dawn, macaws

crimson the mangroves. After a day visiting Puerto Jiménez, we ride a shuttle to Parque

Nacional Corcovado. At sunset, spider monkeys swing from tree to tree, babies clutching their

mothers’ bellies. I hold my breath, expecting an infant to slam to the ground. Before the

monkeys all bed down safely, a downpour drives us to our cabin.

It rains and rains. We fall asleep to its patter, unable to welcome the Full Buck Moon. It’s the

fiftieth anniversary of the Apollo 11 landing, and I had wanted to share a celebratory toast

under the moon with my children.

I wake to a silence more total than any I’ve ever experienced. Leaving the flashlight under the

pillow, I quietly slip out to the porch. Since childhood, I’ve always enjoyed exploring in the

dark.

Taking baby steps, the hammock’s woven cotton brushes my arm. I stumble over my

daughter’s size eleven sneakers and come to a stop a safe distance from where the porch ends.

The moon clouds over. I can distinguish nothing in the blackness. As I breathe the fecund air,

a bat’s swish startles me. I jerk left, wobble, right myself. The bat disappears, then returns

with a loud whoosh. One side step and I enter air. As gravity pulls me, I think of all the body

parts I might break: wrist, elbow, femur, hip before landing with a thud. Inside, my

son-in-law’s flashlight switches on; his scan reveals nothing. Embarrassed by my recklessness,

I keep silent, and wallow in the jungle muck, testing knee rotation, hip. As I awkwardly roll

over, then stoop and stand, the clouds open to reveal a silver radiance.

rainy season hike

our guide teaches us

the art of falling

49

In Blue

Diana Webb

Leatherhead UK

The river flows between the town I inhabit and that of my daughter.

Kingfishers connect. This bright May morning she brings me cornflower seeds that will flower

in the hue of her father's eyes . I give her a pendant to wear.

tree of life

in lapis lazuli

weeping willow

50

The Vigil

Gavin Austin

Sydney, New South Wales, Australia

A tumour is taking you slowly. The monitor beside the bed keeps you hooked to reality, and us

at the ready. You drift in fitful sleep, eyelids fluttering; alien sounds escape your mouth. I try

to call you back to me.

The bed swallows you. Only your mottled blue feet, which had once roamed the world,

protrude from the covers. You used to mark my growth in increments on the kitchen

door-frame. Now I watch you shrinking, mark it with each visit.

Stirring, you battle to raise your head. A long low groan and you collapse back onto the

pillows. With red-rimmed eyes, I quarry my emotions; search for the courage you sought to

instil in me all those years ago.

new moon

a frangipani bloom

falls into night

51

Shortcut

Tom Staudt

Darlinghurst, New South Wales Australia

One year on a holiday in Austria my dad and I were hiking and collecting mushrooms,

chanterelles. Austria is famous for them, according to Dad.

After a gruelling day of searching and collecting we were hungry, thirsty, and tired. We

reached a fenced field and instead of walking around it, Dad suggested we jump the fence to

save time.

“Over here” he waved standing near a signpost, but I had already jumped the fence. “What did

the sign say?” I asked him as we started walking across the field. “Oh, something about water

holes,” he replied.

“Ok, we better watch out” I said laughing about the strange sign, he shrugged and we marched

on.

About halfway through, I felt the earth rumble. Dad looked at me and yelled, “run for god’s

sake run.” He was already running ahead of me when I saw a herd of bulls galloping towards

us.

I took off running for my life, past my dad who was pretty fast for his age.

When I reached the other side of the field I jumped the fence and turned around and saw my

dad, red-faced, almost to the fence, followed closely by one very angry bull.

I grabbed Dad by his backpack and pulled him over the fence. We both collapsed on the safe

side; the herd of bulls huffing and puffing on the other.

We looked at each other still panting when I saw the sign, DANGER Wild Bulls.

“Dad the sign didn’t say something about waterholes! It was a warning sign.” We looked at

each other and started laughing. “Damn that was close,” Dad stammered, still in shock.

52

We got up and checked each other for possible injuries and left.

Just before we reached the house Dad took my arm and said “not a word about the bulls to

your mother, understood?” I simply nodded and gave him a thumbs up.

Later that day my mum cooked for the whole family. An amazing feast with the chanterelles

we had collected earlier. I am pretty sure that Dad and I enjoyed the meal a little more than

everyone else.

provoking the beast

the torero lifts his sword

for the final blow

53

Battlefields

Gavin Austin

Sydney, New South Wales, Australia

As we walk to the mourning car my mother wrenches a red rosebud from the ragged bush

growing by the letterbox. She plunges it into the buttonhole of my navy suit. ‘Want you to look

nice, love,’ she murmurs.

We arrive at the chapel, like movie-stars at the Academy Awards. Women reach with

gloved-fingers, searching for tears rather than autographs. Inside the chapel, we take our

places at the front. I sit on the hard pew beside Mum as the celebrant nods, offering up a

respectfully sober smile.

I cannot tear my eyes from the casket in front of us. Irises and lilies pose as a badge of our love

for him. He never had much use for flowers. The nape of my neck twitches. He is somehow

watching me. The celebrant begins speaking. I wonder if my father really is inside the casket.

He must be much smaller now.

We step forward for our final goodbye before he will disappear forever. I hesitantly approach

the polished walnut husk of my father. From my lapel, I pluck it. A bayonet? An olive branch?

Carefully, I place the rose where I imagine his folded hands should be. At once I smell his

tobacco-breath. I freeze. His fist gnashes into the side of my nose. The salty taste of blood

percolates on the back of my tongue. I lick at the warm flow oozing from my left nostril and

split upper lip. I meet his stare.

blazing sun

on the baked savanna

the imperfect cub

cast from his pride

to perish in wilderness

54

Mo(u)rning Doves

Ray Rasmussen

Edmonton, Alberta, Canada

Awake in the early light, I slip from under the covers before the calico cat has squirmed out

from her place between Nancy and me. Soon will begin Triscuit’s mew-song announcing it’s

time for the morning meal. We’re retired, the cat, Nancy and me, and we enjoy the luxury of

getting up when we please. The little cat is our only timepiece.

Nancy is still curled into her dreams as I quietly open the balcony door and step into the

dawn’s golden lightshow. The night’s downpour remains as a light mist on meadow grasses.

The tall maples and beech trees stand ghost-like in fog beyond the meadow.

A pair of eastern phoebes streak out and back catching flies for their brood in a mud nest built

in the eaves. Downy woodpeckers are busy on the ash trees. They’re breakfasting on emerald

ash borer larvae, the spawn of emerald winged-beetles present in epidemic numbers. Several

of the damaged trees die and fall each year, a loss, yet providing us with next winter’s

firewood.

I prepare breakfast while considering whether the weather will be good for plying saw and axe

on one of the newly fallen trees. Nancy and I enjoy our breakfast of tea, homemade

marmalade and scones. She looks out the window and says, “Can you hear the mourning

doves?”

“Barely,” I reply, my head tilted, straining to hear their “woooo-oo-oo-oo” cooing. Unless a

window is open or I’m outside, I can no longer hear bird songs. It's but one loss that comes

with age.

For most of my life, I had thought the bird’s name was “Morning Dove.” But now I know

they’re named after the bird's soft, drawn-out calls that remind humans of laments.

Tourterelle triste is their name in French – sad turtledove.

55

But wouldn’t "Morning Dove" be more apt? In mating season, for me, their soft cooing is the

song of lovesick birds. I liken it to the soft purring of Triscuit when cuddled between Nancy

and me in the night.

Still, at my stage of life, the name “Mourning Dove” is also apt. Their plaintive calls do serve as

a lament – a reminder of age’s ceaseless abasements of my health and that of friends and

family.

Covid news –

dandelion seed heads

bent toward earth

tuna for lunch –

none for the cat who

laments her loss

birds whispering –

but poetry

singing clearly

56

summer dusk

Alegria Imperial

Always, a loon scours the river shore with me. We dip into indentations of footprints. Share

secrets we unravel: the scalloped lips of shells, the broken ribs of fish, the names we name

stones. We use no words. The loon thinks he sings, his song always a dirge. I sigh on endless

waves, my sighs fragile as peace. We count our regrets on fingers of evergreens, codes a river

will never understand. At sunset, the loon spreads its wings to scoop the sun. I let lose my hair

in strands to make a web. We wait.

summer dusk

a spider gnaws

at the sunset

LYNX XXVIII:1 February 2013

57

Burnt Sienna

Kanjini Devi

Aotearoa New Zealand

To beautify my special wall—a corner where I serve tea and entertain my dolls—I'm using all

twelve colours. Amma wants me to tidy up, and get ready for dinner.

I can hear heavy footsteps, Appa must be home! Proud of my art, I beam as he approaches

but he's yelling at me. I jump to my feet, kicking crayons and dolls into disarray.

Convinced I have committed no crime, I scamper around the house; climbing over chairs,

crawling under tables, and finally curling into a ball, beneath the master bed, safe from his

lashing belt, except for my little finger which feels the sting of his fury.

white clouds

gliding overhead

angel wings

58

Phantom Song

Ryan Jessup

King, North Carolina USA

at times in the night during the pandemic I am awakened by sounds in the house the sounds

of footsteps coming closer and then going farther away and this happens while everyone is

asleep and when I go to see what is making the noise I always find quiet rooms and darkness

and the only sound is my heart thumping like an old ghost a loner-friend I can never truly

know and when I go back to bed hoping to harbor sleep the footsteps start up again like some

wild ancient music rising and falling trying to follow me into my dreams

witching hour a black cat paces the street

59

Together Apart

Margaret Walker

Lincoln, Nebraska, USA

I don’t know them. It doesn’t matter. They are my neighbors. Maybe they live nearby—maybe

half a world away. Mr. Rogers didn’t care.

Whoever, wherever we are, we can share our stories. In those stories we can find connections.

In those stories our shared needs, sadness, tragedy and loves emerge and our differences

begin to fade. Kindness grows.

Acts of kindness, maybe anonymous or unexpected, maybe seemingly small, maybe from

complete strangers, are done by those who understand that we share this world.

They are the faint stirrings of hope in my soul that we may survive the hatred and rage that

threatens to destroy us.

long division…

the remainder

we have in common

60

Revelation

Anna Cates

Wilmington, Ohio USA

A pastor returned to a church he’d previously ministered at after an absence of several years.

He seemed older, huskier, and somehow, more Irish-looking. Something was decidedly

different about his nose, smaller, a pug nose. Rhinoplasty, I mused. A botched nose job! I

marveled at such an example of private insecurities. Why would a middle-age man, needing

to focus on spiritual things, have been so concerned about something so petty? His nose had

never been unsightly or unusual, neither in shape nor size. He’d moved to the deep south to

preach at another church. Did he offend someone and get beat-up, necessitating

reconstructive surgery? Was his congregation African American; maybe he was he trying to

be like Michael Jackson, turning somersaults, jumping through rings of fire to reach his

flock . . .

Weeks later, it finally occurred to me what might have happened: skin cancer surgery. Like

the ears that stick out from a John Deere hat, the nose can be a problem area for sun

exposure.

the skinny legs

of a praying mantis . . .

heat spell

61

Happenstance

Chris Bays

Beavercreek, Ohio USA

The Spanish for “to salt” is “salar”–an apt name for this restaurant with ceviche that is

suffused with Peruvian spices and ocean scent in every bite. Its staff is generous with tapas

and drinks filled to the brim. Even on this busy New Year’s Eve, they take time to joke with

each patron. They are the salt of the earth. My daughter lifts her water, and my wife and I

toast with an Inca Mule and a Peso Sour.

Months before on a Sunday evening, we wanted to dine at this upscale restaurant, but we

stayed home. What made us change our minds? I can’t recall. But when we saw the news on

T.V. the next morning— a yellow police tape blocking the street—we remained silent about a

path not taken. A mass shooting had occurred near this restaurant.

It only takes one young man raging against himself to fling fire against the world with an

automatic weapon.

Outside the window of festivities, snow falls erratically through the night. Inside, I toss a

pinch of salt over my shoulder in the hope to ward off evil.

fireworks …

another asteroid

hurls past earth

62

In Search of Space

Barbara A. Taylor

Mountain Top, New South Wales Australia

kookaburra calls

breakfasting with wallabies

before our ascent

Carrying bare essentials, our two-day hike begins with a leisurely ramble alongside tussock

grasses, waving meadows of wildflower blooms; through dwarfed snowgum woodlands; over

lichen logs, onwards, across icy streams; beautiful fresh running rivers, gurgling with life.

Unfortunately, Kay trips on stepping-stones, landing heavily on her bottom! Relief, she safely

holds onto her camera.

slippery rocks

sparkling cold waters

do not deter

At dusk, tired, shivering, we arrive at our resting place for the night – a weathered shepherd’s

hut – just in time to collect kindling. A large tarantula scarpers as we enter. Blowflies on the

rim of an opened baked beans can, and an army of determined ants, our greeting. Soon, hot

coffee and a roaring fire warms us. The trip to the dunny* is by torchlight through a

rock-patched pathway to a rusty, smelly tin shed. On opening the door a microbat brushes my

face. Heartbeats race . . . I check the timber seat carefully.

fingers crossed

no redbacks

no snakes

Gang-gang cockatoos noisily munch seeds in tall eucalypts outside the cracked, cobweb-laced

window of the cabin. Any sleep is disrupted. Next day we plod on to the wide rambling trail

that leads to the top of rugged Mount Kosciuszko, in the Australian Alps. Lenses at the ready,

63

we stop here and there, amazed to see the diversity of delicate flora: alpine buttercups, bright

billy buttons, snow daisies, and mounds of golden everlastings. Granite slopes are an artist’s

palette, each boulder sheltering some botanical gem.

metallic clouds

a sea horse floats

even closer

Our weather unpredictably changes. We have to make haste, lest we return in darkness.

Finally, exhausted, wearily unable to ignore painful blisters, we clamber up rocks to the

pinnacle. From here we observe vast vistas of snowcapped peaks and magenta valleys. Space.

Space. Our hard physical efforts are, indeed, well rewarded. My long-time ambition fulfilled!

Then, shortly on our descent from the viewing platform, we meet a group of fragile

cane-clinging seniors, scrambling out of a tourist minibus a few meters from that same scenic

lookout. Attired in fluffy slippers, they shuffle around the telescope, chatting, coughing and

sneezing. Half an hour later they pass us, waving out the bus windows, their wrinkled faces

filled with mirth and smug smiles of completion.

High Tea awaits…

our final descent in

freezing damp drizzle

*Dunny: an Australian outdoor toilet shed.

64

Jazz

Jahan Tyson

Sydney, New South Wales Australia

There’s no way to predict the weather. Sure, meteorologists apply algorithms and long term

trends to sensor data and real time analysis but so often it’s exceptions that make the rule of

prognostication. Those wild and random events. Weird extremes we assimilate into our

assessment in order to comprehend impossibilities.

He killed his wife. It was a moment of madness in an otherwise careful life of order and

ordinary routine. Maybe that had something to do with it. The desperate need to maintain

straight lines in a chaotic universe. Who knows?

The teenagers were left to raise each other. The older committed to the gentle care and

protection of the younger. That shattering taught him adaptability. Like surfers in wild

storms, he was determined to improvise. To teach his brother how to draw sweetness from

sorrow and fold himself into the difficulty of this world with creativity and empathy.

two gulls

the south wind

buffeting

65

Instead

Diana Webb

Leatherhead UK

Five years old, I am outside the Sadlers Wells Theatre in London, speaking to Dame Ninette

de Valois , the founder of the Sadlers Wells Ballet no less.

'Are you a dancer?' she asks me.

Tongue-tied in her presence I both nod and shake my head. But now I am a dancer, choosing

to dance with words.

percussion of raindrops

on the leaves

the moon

giving way

to birdsong

66

Time Out of Mind

Zane Parks

Cape Coral, Florida, USA

A while back he introduced me to someone as his son-in-law. He also spoke of some guy

smoking out on the deck. That someone was me. Now Dad doesn’t speak so much. He has

been losing language for some time. No crossword puzzles. No scrabble. He did love to lord it

over other players when he won. And he usually did win.

The doctor says it’s dementia. Confirming what we already know. Well, his mother got that

way too. In her nineties. She lost control of bodily function. Wore diapers. Dad’s not that far

gone.

My son says it’s okay. He seems happy. Samuel Butler speaks of the low cunning of a potato. If

cunning, maybe then, a potato can be happy. But who among us would want to be a potato,

albeit a happy one?

he can’t tell you

the day, month, year

still there’s work to be done

the leaves beckon

a man and his rake

67

Bulletproof

Jahan Tyson

Sydney, New South Wales Australia

I lit the Christ candle, my atheist tears welling. Seeking comfort in foreign rituals, it was

surprising to learn she’d been raised Catholic. Her Byron Bay spirituality had to have had its

roots somewhere, I suppose.

Her addiction support counsellor came to the service as well as people who’d known her as

she floated between homeless shelters and short term stays.

I was the only one who spoke of the carefree years - of Kate’s boots with diaphanous dresses

and red lips on the dance floor back when we were young and invincible.

Their shocked eyes only deepened the loss.

peace rose petals

f

a

l

l

on sacred ground

a fragrant carpet

to nourish the earth

68

unanswered

Elisa Theriana

Bandung, Indonesia

Hey Mom, Grandma just said I have your dimples and Rosie has your eyes. So which one of us

was your favorite?

mother's pearls

my sister invokes

her birthright

69

Leaps

Janice Doppler

Easthampton, Massachusetts USA

Chuckie cries during almost every physical education class. His tears are enormous. We have

agreed that I will describe what is planned for class and he will select one activity. Today, he

chooses Alligator River in which students leap from one masking tape river bank to the other.

Students who miss the far bank are eaten by alligators and are out of the game until only the

winner remains.

The game starts with the river so narrow students could step across. Five classmates leap as

far as they are able. Chuckie lands in the river. I cannot let him fail on his first try. I exclaim,

“Oh no! An alligator bit you. Come here and I will bandage your foot.” I put a piece of masking

tape on his sneaker. All successfully make the second leap . . . except Chuckie who needs

another bandage. Without a word, the third round shifts to missing the far bank just a little.

Even the tiniest of alligator bites is bandaged. The game continues until the river is so wide

that everyone lands in the middle on every attempt and every foot is speckled with masking

tape. Chuckie does not cry today.

elimination games

erased from the menu

young teacher

70

Drifting Sands, Issue 2, August 2020 1

A Rose by Any Other Name* 2

Terri L. French

Sioux Falls, South Dakota USA 2

Blowin’ in the Wind 3

Jo Balistreri

Waukesha, WI USA 3

After Sleep 4

Keith Polette

El Paso, Texas, USA 4

Renascence 5

Kristen Lindquist

Camden, ME USA 5

On Springdale Lane 6

Jo Balistreri

Waukesha, WI USA 6

No goodbye 7

Ian Overton

Belfast, United Kingdom 7

Shadow 8

Jacob Salzer

Vancouver, Washington USA 8

Myth of the Body 9

Kat Lehmann

Guilford, Connecticut, USA 9

January 26 10

Michael Dylan Welch

Sammamish, Washington 10

The Connoisseur 11

Kala Ramesh

Pune 11

Mixing 12

Colleen M. Farrelly 12

Palmetto Bay, Florida USA 12

It Happened So Fast 13

Alexis Rotella

Arnold, Maryland USA 13

Surfing the spin foam 14

Mark Meyer

Mercer Island, Washington USA 14

Heavenly Bodies 15

71

Chris Bullock

Victoria, British Columbia, Canada 15

Muejaza 16

Lew Watts

Chicago, Illinois USA 16

The Gap 17

Matthew Caretti

Mercersburg, PA, USA 17

Deep Sky 17

Simon Hanson

Launceston, Tasmania Australia 18

A topography of memories 19

prose: Joanna Delalande

senryū/haiku: Oscar Luparia 19

Shortly Before Starting College 21

Catherine Altimari

Powder Springs, Georgia USA 21

Uncaged 22

Kala Ramesh

Pune, India 22

Back Again 23

Dan Hardison

Wilmington, North Carolina, USA 23

Sheltered in place 24

Tom Painting

Atlanta, Georgia USA 24

Nightmare at the Gas Pump 25

Michael H. Lester

Los Angeles, California USA 25

Searching for Never Never Land 27

Pris Campbell

Lake Worth, Florida USA 27

Darkness 28

Pris Campbell

Lake Worth, Florida USA 28

The Comeback 29

Barbara Tate

Winchester, Tennessee USA 29

Journal Entry #42 30

Hemapriya Chellappan

Pune, India 30

72

The Other Way Wind 31

Barbara Tate

Winchester, Tennessee USA 31

Sanguis Christi 32

David Grayson

Alameda, California USA 32

Welcome to the Neighborhood 33

Bryan Rickert

Belleville, Illinois USA 33

The Future of Memory 34

Prose: Gary Lee Joyner

Tanka: Marjorie Buettner 34

Seventh Anniversary 35

Colleen M. Farrelly

Palmetto Bay, Florida USA 35

Splash 36

Marilyn Humbert

Berowra Heights, New South Wales Australia 36

Fume of Sighs 37

Zane Parks

Cape Coral, Florida USA 37

Still Life in Winter 38

Joan Prefontaine

Cottonwood, Arizona USA 38

Rachel 39

oni Tomiwa

Osogbo 39

Nobody Home 40

John Budan

Newberg, Oregon USA 40

Show and Tell 41

Kat Lehmann

Guilford, Connecticut USA 41

Arid Hope 42

Frank J. Tassone

Montebello, New York, USA 42

Swing a Cat 43

Johannes S. H. Bjerg

Denmark 43

Webs 46

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Nancy Rullo

Brooklyn, New York USA 46

Windows 47

Sean O'Connor

Tipperary, Ireland 47

Traveling Lessons 49

Doris Lynch

Bloomington, Indiana USA 49

In Blue 50

Diana Webb

Leatherhead UK 50

The Vigil 51

Gavin Austin

Sydney, New South Wales, Australia 51

Shortcut 52

Tom Staudt

Darlinghurst, New South Wales Australia 52

Battlefields 54

Gavin Austin

Sydney, New South Wales, Australia 54

Mo(u)rning Doves 55

Ray Rasmussen

Edmonton, Alberta, Canada 55

summer dusk 57

Alegria Imperial 57

Burnt Sienna 58

Kanjini Devi

Aotearoa New Zealand 58

Phantom Song 59

Ryan Jessup

King, North Carolina USA 59

Together Apart 60

Margaret Walker

Lincoln, Nebraska, USA 60

Revelation 61

Anna Cates

Wilmington, Ohio USA 61

Happenstance 62

Chris Bays

Beavercreek, Ohio USA 62

In Search of Space 63

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Barbara A. Taylor

Mountain Top, New South Wales Australia 63

Jazz 65

Jahan Tyson

Sydney, New South Wales Australia 65

Instead 66

Diana Webb

Leatherhead UK 66

Time Out of Mind 67

Zane Parks

Cape Coral, Florida, USA 67

Bulletproof 68

Jahan Tyson

Sydney, New South Wales Australia 68

unanswered 69

Elisa Theriana

Bandung, Indonesia 69

Leaps 70

Janice Doppler

Easthampton, Massachusetts USA 70

75