Sweet Adelaide

Ken Kistler

Sweet Adelaide

Grandmother A. had always been a plain woman.

Her gaze steady, able and implacable even as that

young girl who stared back through  the scattered

memory of those who knew her then – Plain, solid

“not one to rattle anybody’s cage” Uncle Ed said, yet

in the back of the chapel there sat a white haired gent

bent, back aching on the hard, hard pew, and remembered 

in the midst of the droning secular service – remembered the

splendor of that harvest,  and Adelaide’s skin, luminous, satin

velvet under his trembling farm-roughed fingers – mystic skin

gathering each cloud of his storm troubled mind sweeping it all

away on the stiff breeze cooling them lying together in splendor

Oh that harvest, of the splendor long ago – as Adelaide blossomed 

in his heart as no other ever would or did. 
On the service droned to its end. 

Her grandchildren safe-grown, scurry-filed past –a parade of condescending ignorance – Smirking at the dozing bent gent, sated smile, mouth open, head flung back, arms opened.

And finally. Alone, in the emptied chapel he rose, walked to her coffin, held the edge of the smooth wood –  under hands gentled with age and bent in open reverence to his forever secret Adelaide 

He, un-named, unclaimed lover of his Adie. Keeper of their stupendous scattered harvest splendor. 
His luminous Adie, only  now rippling his title in the dancing dust of memory sunbeams. 
Her voice now, 

clear as then, 

releasing 

their secret 

smile

swirling
on the moving breeze, her hair lifting, tousled again as she lay on 
satin-smooth-as-her-skin 

back on that harvest plain – 
Sweet Adelaide chuckling now, at the young fertile farmer 

above her time and time again moving,  moving,  moving 
where her earnest husband could find neither time nor place

Finally -trilling on the moving breeze, clear as a songbird, his rightful title,
In their rightful time. 
Now.

Grandfather. 

~

The Sunday Whirl

Pirouettes of Pain

Tammy Sue

Pirouettes of Pain

Ah. 
We search for the cloudy moments’ shield in the glare of 
the too bright skies of yesterday. As the parade begins still

through our resolute commitment to contain the yet

un-forgotten memory-spills.

Ah. 
Those pirouettes of pain painting our miserable past – tiny 
children, marching, damp-hand–in-clutched-hand through

the flutter-flotsam of one after another, poor parental decision

crying, calling, falling one into another – until 
We

neglected as tossed dominoes

tumbling in the stains of then

stumble finally into the future of 
now 

~

The Sunday Whirl

For the lil time travelers

photo of "Lil Mama" by Fame Ketover 

grand-nephews Janson Enrique & Grayson Robert 

For the lil time travelers ....

I shall be one 

of your Ancient

Ones - wise relic

of time past and

you twin travelers

shall catapult past

into a future of un-

imagined possibility

in which you shall 

walk in comfort and

complete familiarity

a smile on each face

my name an echo in

the wind caressing 

your cheeks - 

pushing ever so 

gently - with love

behind you always -

the whisper of the

wind at your back 

Sweet Sugar Sunday

Lynn Greyling

Sweet Sugar Sunday

She was nibbling at her toast on Sunday

morning when they started to speak, eyes

lingering on each other. Mother began to

mix brown sugar into oatmeal, but the thing

about brown sugar is it tends to be just about

as subtle a cover for oats, breakfast of horses,

as are lingered looks a cover for hints of 

brown-molasses-sugar-night-sounds.  

Sounds that sweet and smooth drifted like 

powder, floating on 

pale blue light

late last night under

her doorway - From their passion to her palate

to the core of her soul – tasted on her tongue 

This Sunday morning as she ate her toasty

break-fast: Spooned-served-love on the side 

smiling parents on a sweet-sugar-Sunday-sigh

Bubby’s Kristallnacht Cup

Bubby’s Kristallnacht Cup*

Bubby had a glass tea cup
that she would take down
from its high shelf once in
a very long while and hold
to the golden light at sunset
Sparkling crystal only one
with a saucer so thin it felt
weightless in my small hand
that crisp November evening
when she called to me and
her special voice warm with
a faraway language waved
me to her side – and tears
shining in her eyes showed
me how to hold the cup so
it caught all the light shining
we stood silently side by side
at her window – I a small child
with trembling heart holding
her single secreted souvenier
Until with hair shimmering
silver she straightened her
shoulders and with a proud
tremble in her voice began –
“Let me tell you “kinder” of a night
when they came to break the glass..”

Years tumbled as they will and one

day clearing out her things I found

on the self same shelf her tea cup

and reached on tiptoe my belly big

with child -and listened as it slipped

– a small smash – a tiny shatter – and

as I began to cry – cleaning sparkling

slivers – I saw a fragment Woolworth

label and realized that nothing had

survived that time except the love,

the knowledge and the legacy, to be

retold so as she would say

“it should never be forgotten”

I locked her door and at Tiffany’s

I found a fluted cup of cut crystal

Only one? the saleswoman asked

One will be enough

I answered – One will be enough …

Unwrapped it on a high bookshelf

where it catches the light and waits

to tell its story to the child that will

bear her name

~

*written in honor of Kristallnacht Memorial 11/9-11/10

this poem is not autobiographical although I feel deeply

that, but for some toss of the dice, it could have been...

Black Knight

George Hodan

Black Knight

At the crossroads where the crocus meets the
rose that has no thorns
At the crossroad where the birds part for the golden
owl with feathered horns
I shall meet you in the mud where the sun will never shine
In the blackened night around us I will take you there as mine
At the crossroads where you crawl on belly desperate to decide
I shall rise in fervor swirling - scissor to your thread - your lover Suicide

On the other side of the razor

Lynn Greyling

On the other side of the razor

Occam  suggested

Look for the simple

and so she breathed

in desperate incantation

See the shine in the mud

the roses rise o'er thorns

See birds soar above carrion

focused fervor in eyes of fright

Oh Occam! - help me see in this dark night

See benevolent wisdom in stare of the owl

Help me believe still in the crocus prowl

pulsing warm and gay under the frozen crust

Hold this thread of life I bore I must, I must

until I weave a tapestry from times remembered

waving bannered in this cold deadened night

here at the pain-paned window spectred sight

This crossroads as light leeches toward the dust

Hold, see and from this single fraying thread

Weave, weave, yes,  from fraying thread  I must  

Breathing with

him above the

whir life cheapened

beep of machines  where

breath once easy flowed

easy, oh how easy flowed 

to his future golden glowed

Breathe, Breathe, through

this vile, vicious night

See slip of hand accident  

not suicide - not suicide  

Never this complication

would Occam so decide

This child's now unlined brow 

sleeps, simply sleeps until first

first brightening light

waiting - to awaken - to Auroras call

laughing then - a simple solution to this all

laughing then - a simple solution to this all

~





The Sunday Whirl