Life is not a countdown

by Alison Woodhouse

Despite everything, has the hopping crow’s back ever been as shiny blue black and the wild wisteria clambering the branches of the oak and cedar ever been so fragrant?  And despite everything, have the children ever swarmed so undeterred by the gathering clouds on their parent’s brows, who scroll their phones, checked into the ocean floor scuttling in search of pearls that are no more? Despite everything, has the cherry blossom ever risen in such a great cloud of effervescence and aren’t the nano techs cleaning our coral and cancers even as we protest the robot baristas and while they siphon our rain for the bottomless data centres, didn’t we all screen save the super bloom in Death Valley, exhaling a breath we hadn’t known we were holding? One thing does not always have to mean another. Our clocks are set to tick tick boom but despite everything here we are again, amongst the bluebonnets, watching the soft green curlicues unfurling.

Five Haiku
by Thomas R. Thomas

morning sun
slips into the window
glasses clear the fog

-----

her quiet sleep
an ode to peace
I slip by

-----

the pot needs stirring
music from the record player
drifts into the kitchen

-----

my book folds open
this story sings to me
swim in the revery

-----

quiet night alone
together with my love
video light glows

A Tribute to My VW Golf

by Ammanda Selethia Moore

New rims and tires made my sleek red VW Golf look like its more upgraded version, the GTI. Guys would comment “Nice ride” when I filled her up with gas. Sometimes people tried to race me. Maybe it was the color, a bright candy-apple red, or the new rims. 

The car, my workhorse, transported me to all of my adjunct faculty jobs at the local (and not so local) community colleges where I worked. It was an upgrade from the beaten down VW Jetta my dad had purchased for me, and it was the first car I’d ever paid for myself.

The backseat had been broken in one night up on Skyline as my former boyfriend and I overlooked the Corona city lights. We even fell asleep after cuddling bundled up in a warm blanket. Even the sweetness of it was ruined as I rushed home to my parents who yelled at me for breaking curfew.

My trunk was messy, between teacher’s editions of textbooks, ungraded student essays, white board markers and other writing utensils, extra pairs of shoes in case my feet hurt, empty lunch pails, two pairs of dance shoes, a change of clothes, and extra jackets. It exemplified my life as a freeway flier. I worked part-time at three, sometimes four community colleges around the Inland Empire. My little VW was more than a commuter’s vehicle, it was my second home.

It was also a ticket magnet. Cops were drawn to the bright red color, which made my driving errors all the more noticeable. I was gifted two tickets within the same year, one as I made an illegal u-turn on the way to dance class on the night of my competition audition, the other as I applied makeup on the freeway on the way to a first date out in Los Angeles. 

I had just moved out of my parents’ home, and I filled my life and car with work, dance, and dates. I visited my parents’ church infrequently, on holidays, special occasions, or when I was pressured to go. I would sit in my car in the parking lot as long as I could until I knew the service would be starting. I was always thankful when I could leave the service at the altar call and head to my car, zooming off to the restaurant my parents picked for lunch after.

My car took me to so many places I’d always wanted to go in those first few years of freedom from the church.

What happens next? 

An existence of perpetual surprise.

by Brett Ramseyer

On March 4th I figured that I clicked into my skis for the last time. The late crust snowpack receded like an ocean wave off the strand into the heat of false spring.  I stayed in the shadowed corners of the meadows, brown straws of last season’s grass protruding through in a widening stubble.  On the final climbs of some south facing slopes, I high kneed over large patches of brown duff to reach the northside descent.  

Then full daytime sun cooked into the sixties.  Snow fog hung over the ice patches until they all disappeared. Skunks started to spray, porcupines lumbered, and I pulled a tick off the dog. The yellow spears of daffodil foliage pierced the hillside waiting for enough sun to turn them green, snowdrops crested the hill, and I began the crocus hunt. 

The clocks sprang forward and the sunset walks started after dinner and lingered past eight o’clock.  My nose tested the air for wild onion. I shagged a bucket of golf balls in the front yard in a stiff breeze, dreaming of summer obsessions. 

But seasons, especially springtime in Michigan, are rarely straight forward. Fits. Starts. Stops. Backtracks. Blizzards. 

This winter produced good cross-country skiing despite entire snowpacks arriving and disappearing a total of four times this season.  The most likely final snowstorm (but who knows) hit us before the Ides of March on past St. Patrick’s Day and today I was lucky enough to enjoy one more of those great ski treks.

A fresh cold inch filled yesterday’s sticky tracks where the warm ground melted things from below. But the new snow and nighttime teens made today a smooth ride from start to finish. I hit every trail of the year. Each gliding stride sparked joy. All the legacy trails now connect with seven new trails cut since September, the two newest cut just this March. 

I felt the accomplishment of “having built” Ridges – Hike & Ski Tours accompanied with wonder, envisioning more to come. I count my fortune to experience so many days amid the trees I love like an irrational number, each one a unique experience without the possibility of replication. When I meld what is old with what is new there sounds an alarm in my soul that wakes me every day, excited to see, shape, feel what happens next. 

High School Blues

By Clark Zlotchew

When is she going to come?

  Here I am, walking back and forth between Winfield and Bartholdi since school let out, and it’s starting to get dark. Of course, it’s been getting dark earlier; it’s October, and the bitter smell of burning leaves makes me want to gag. The leaves on the trees in the park across the street are turning red, brown and yellow, but not all of them. I wonder why I usually like the Fall, but now it makes me feel strange, like everything’s hanging by a thread and about to crash down. I’m glad there are still some green leaves left, because it’ll be dinnertime pretty soon, and I’ll have to go in and maybe miss her, and the green leaves will turn brown…

  Helen's not here but I keep seeing her, in my mind's eye, in my heart's eye.  I see her because I want to see her, because I like seeing her, looking at her...  If I keep seeing her strong enough, she'll be here, she'll come.  She'll feel that I'm looking at her, that I want her to come, and she'll understand, and she'll come. After all, I told her I’d wait for her right here. And she nodded and said, Okay. So she should be here soon.

I look north in the direction from which she would have to come.  Just in case.  Oh! Yeah! There she is! Wow! That's her coming down the street a block away!  I feel a tickling sensation in my stomach… No, damn it!  It isn't her, after all. But she will be here, I know it, I feel it. 

My folks are calling me from the window to come in for supper. What’s taking her so long? One last look around before I go in. The sun is slowly sinking behind the far end of Columbia Park, filtering gold rays through the trees.  Beautiful, but kind of sad. I don’t know why.   A light mist has been creeping up from the Hudson River; now it's beginning to thicken.  It's like a low-lying cloud, a white blanket over everything.  Can't see more than a block away, and the trees in the park look like ghosts.  I hear the mournful lament of foghorns coming from the river.  I never noticed how sad the foghorns sounded.  Sounds like they're moaning, like they're dying.  Funny how it almost sounds like they're calling Helen’s name.

Life in a Bowl
by Peggy Minckler 

Slips through fingers 
Allusive
The yolk
That binds us
Yields to pressure

Yet.
Impervious
To change
Remains.

Life

Even broken
By hardship
Strives 

Forbearing
The whisk

That stirs
Rearranging
That 
Which should be
Will always. Be

Life
The miracle
Our destiny

Melodious Pears
by Judy Long

We were waiting for four kids to come to 
my backyard to play kick the can.
As a child of 10, I was a tree climber,
and the yard next to 
my family home was full of fruit trees.
The closest was a pears. I could 
Smell them and feel the juice skimming
My chin as I bit into one of them.
The apple and plum trees were 
nice but the pear was perfect and
close.  And they were ready to pick.
They had a rosy hue on their skins.
This tree was an obsession.  I knew the
family next door wouldn’t be home.
They got home around 5 and it was now
1:30.  I turned to Jimmy and told him 
I’d see him in a minute. I ran out our drive
and up the drive next door.  “What are you 
doing over there,” he said. “Here come
the kids so we can play ball.”  “I will
in a minute,”  I said.  And up the 
tree I went. I had dreams about 
climbing this tree.  I was on the
first set of branches but couldn’t
reach any pears yet.  Just one 
more or two more feet.  I picked
five pears and threw them into
my yard.  My friends were talking 
about something but grabbed 
The pears. “Hurry down,” one of the
kids said.  “And fast.”  I got down
quickly and heard something like
a door closing.  The next thing
I saw was a cop looking up at me.
I wanted to ask, “Where did you
come from?”  “Howdy,” he said
“What are you doing in this tree? 
Is this your yard?”  “No,” I said
“I live over there was just climbing
This tree for pears,” I said covering 
My face. “ Let’s see your face,”
he said.  “You  are the smallest of
your friends and the bravest,”
he said. “But brave people need
to do the nice brave things like
not taking pears that don’t belong
to you.  Right guys,” They nodded.
At this moment my mom and sister 
came outside.  I knew it. My sister
was always trouble for me.  “Hello,
I’m Mrs. Long,” my mom said.  “And this is 
The watchdog of the family.” “I have 
To leave,” he said. “But I’ll be back
Around 6.  Let the kids stay outdoors
 and play. It’s good for them.”  To me
he said,  “Be careful. Put the pears into 
a bag.  We can bring them to the
neighbors around 6, and think about
what your neighbors have to say
about this.  Nice to meet you Mrs. Long.
Nice to meet you.  And you, too, Sandy.”
We were given more pears by the neighbor
And I was given a broom to sweep 
The walk and porch for a week.

Poem 

by Ann Hackman

How many things can a group of larks be?
A rarity of larks
a loser of larks
a Sandusky of larks
a linguist of larks
a luxury of larks
a lyric of larks
a lasso of larks
a symphony of larks
a monsoon of larks
a brook of larks
a loss of larks
a rondo of larks
a ridicule of larks
a reunion of larks
a song of larks.

My Summer Camp

in the middle of Saskatchewan

by Joys Chow

not a lakefront setting
no arts and crafts
nor canoe-paddling.

of course, like every teenage girl
I wanted to go to summer camp.

my family, 
newly immigrated to the New World,
would not understand:
why pay when you can eat and sleep at home!

For my family,
with pennies earned from stacking cans,
shovelling snow and babysitting,
I added to the coffer.

Instead,
the summer I turned 16
I found myself
on the Canadian Prairies.
I’ve indentured myself at $16 a day
to the Canadian Armed Forces
for Basic Military Training

Barracks instead of cabins
a rifle instead of a tennis racquet,
taking it apart, cleaning it,
and putting back together
instead of arts and crafts.

I learned to march in formation,
read maps, and set a compass;
and shoot a target at a 100 yard.

instead of
innocent songs around the campfire
we had irreverent ditties to march to:
Hitler had only got one ball...
and so on.

Still, I was content
with the facsimile -
bunking with girls my age,
learning with other teenagers,
being patriotic to my adopted country.

Until one day,
while waiting for orders 
to “FALL IN!”
I noticed,
while others were taking a smoking break,
I’d look for a shady spot to stand in
lean against a wall,
rest while I could.

It had became second nature
as a good soldier
wait for orders from our superiors
no questions, no discussions.

At that moment,
I understood the change in me.
I decided
never again!
even if they’d pay for my university education,
never again!
to wait for orders,
no questions, no discussions

I’ve decided
never again!
I want to think for myself.

Early Sunday Morning by Stuart Vance