“Alzheimer’s” by Maggie Hall


I watch her white shirt
sway against the corpse-drapes
shriveled on the wall, wrinkled
like waves under her eroded eyes –
her repetition was a lion,
teeth dug and dragged her
limbs back and forth:
her body a puppet,
her mind a worn-out toy –
But I should be grateful
that her legs are not yet stiff
pale hospital sheets
and her heart still drips
rain through its gutters
even though soon
her mind will be ironed –
her thoughts flattened
like a flower pressed
into a memory book.


Maggie Hall a new poet who derives her inspiration from the ordinary world and emotions around her.

“The Lost Ladies of Clifden” by James Barr


It was growing late on a wet, stormy night in Ireland and the innkeeper was worried. Three American women were overdue for their visit. He was right to be concerned.

With phone in hand, he considered calling the Automobile Association to begin a search. But exactly where were they?

Ireland has over 3,000 miles of national roads and another 8,000+ miles of regional roads. That doesn’t even take into account all the local roads that probably lead to someone’s sheep ranch. So these women could be almost anywhere.

Driving a rental car in Ireland as an American driver is tricky at best. Everything is reversed. For starters, you’re driving on the “other” side of the road. That’s challenging enough. But to make things harder, you’re seated in what we’re used to calling the passenger seat and steering from there. But there’s more. Most rental cars didn’t have automatic transmissions. Therefore, you had to shift gears with your left hand and use your left foot to work the clutch. These unfortunate women were doing it at night and during a storm so violent, their full speed wipers weren’t nearly speedy enough.

There are areas of Ireland that get rained on 225 days a year. That doesn’t leave many bright, sunny days. So it’s not surprising that Ireland has analyzed all that rain and come up with “11 Levels of Irish Rain.” They range between “Grand Soft and Dry” to “Bucketing,” and that’s only Number 7. Moving all the way up to Number 11, we come to “Hammering.” That pretty much describes what these three lost ladies were dealing with when they left the Dublin Airport for Clifden.

The next morning, I was pleased to see that the rain had subsided and was only “Raining Stair Rods,” Number 6 on the scale. This was still big, fat rain, but we were moving in the right direction. Entering the breakfast room, I was also pleased to see three women, all “Of a certain age,” enjoying their Irish breakfast. As the innkeeper walked by, I asked him, “Are those the three missing women?”

 “Yes, they are,” he replied.

 “So when did they arrive and what happened to them?”

“They arrived quite late,” he said. Then went on to explain that neither of them had ever driven a shift car, and all three were bad with directions. So using American ingenuity, they hatched a plan. Lady 1 would steer the car. Lady 2, seated in the passenger seat, would work the clutch. And when she did, she’d call out “Clutch!” This was the driver’s signal to shift the gear. Lady 3, seated in the back with map in hand, called out directions.

Later that morning, these three sprightly women headed off to a knitting workshop. But the rain was now down to Number 2, “Spitting Out,” the sun was playing peek-a-boo with the clouds and peace once again settled softly upon the green Irish countryside.


Jim is a semi-retired ad agency creative director. He enjoyed this trip to Ireland, where he and his wife drove on the correct side of the road much of the time. He’s convinced that leprechauns are in charge of all roadside directional signs.

“Pantry” by Maggie Hall


Hope is eating right out of the jar,
knowing that the peanut butter
may be heavy as it coats your throat.


Maggie Hall is a new poet who derives her inspiration from the ordinary world and emotions around her.

“Still Wrapped” by Ariel “Punchy One” Quatman


Ribboned at the wrists
by rue and sulk. Dressed
in dust, lacey cobwebs.
Since
your shaped waned,
it’s been squinting ventures
in the dark.

Now the sun undresses at the window,
shining as a bench-pressed chest.
It’s gold finders gesturing a
runner across my outline-
the closest amount of action
I’ll get from touch.


Ariel admits she’s a moody girl. When she’s not drawing or sighing, she writes to bring form out of the pandemonium in her.

“Ghosts” by A. Keith Kelly


The house beyond the one we bought had stood
Empty countless years before we moved there
To that spot along the ridge, where the wood
Crept close and smelled always of molded leaves.

The road from our place to it drained downhill
Near a mile before the asphalt gave way
To twin dirt paths that held a memory still
Of the passage of feet and an old truck.

Left derelict in the taller grass just
Beyond the last bend in the now dirt road,
That same truck defeated by time and rust
Squatted like a steel and rubber tombstone.

Rising twisted and bony above it
With limbs sprawled skyward, grasping and gaunt,
Stood a skeletal tree, like a spirit
Of the wood from a time before humans.

A few branches gripped the skins of brown leaves,
But most jabbed stark and angry at the sky,
Like a stubborn old man who prays or grieves
The loss of a daughter taken too soon.

Silkworm nests woven thick and cloudy grey,
Clustered throughout the tree, caught between limbs
Like ghosts that, their haunting done, chose to stay
As markers of those who had long since left.

We too no longer live on that old lane,
But some ghosts, like the silkworm shrouded trees
Or the ache of a memory’s deep pain,
Cannot be so easily exorcized.


A. Keith Kelly grew up on the Crow Indian Reservation in Montana and worked for years as a fly-fishing and bird hunting guide before entering academia. He is now a professor of English literature and writing living on a tiny farm outside of Atlanta, Georgia.

“Millennial Morning Paper” by Caitlin Chismark


Stuck somewhere between 5 and 7 am
And we’re all lying in bed
Alone
Scrolling
You’re all laying in bed
Alone
Scrolling
Double tapping on an image on someone
You’ve woken up to
Once
Or for a few long months
And it’s all the same
A publicly compiled list of old lovers
Lingering
Virtually
I’m thinking about you now, too


Caitlin is a Chicago native with a newfound passion for written word. She spent time during the pandemic to learn more about the events industry through obtaining a Digital Event Certification and writing through self-reflection. She recently visited Utah to recharge and hopes to visit more national parks for inspiration.

“A Response to ‘Clair de Lune'” by Gabriella McClellan


Sometimes I dance on the moon.
I’ve heard it somewhere.
The sky is a door.
Silver tears are a familiar soft melody. I am held by arms.
Churning in my soul there is a memory. I knew it, I know it.
Patient steps and then a twirl.
Little girl looks at Pleiades. Can she swim to them?
A gentle leap into the dark. Something reaches out to catch.
Sometimes I dance on the moon.


Gabriella McClellan is poet based in Greensboro, North Carolina. At age eighteen, Gabriella has been writing poetry for eleven years. She furthered her education of poetry by attending Duke University’s Young Writer’s Camp. Gabriella lives and works on a small farm where she derives much of her writing inspiration from.

“The El, The Loop, Late” by Jonathan Wike


And cold. Doors chime at State
and Lake. The hours of thought. All
lines proceed. Entrances. Passages. Flames
lick at sidewalk names. Silver,
the moon is rounding. Words
and air are ice. A woman slim
in furs arrives. A man like an omega.
Image of the fog. Painted
panthers, panting. Shadows long
to lie in. A clock above an archway.
The Loop. The El. Later.
And cold.


Originally from North Carolina, Jonathan Wike now lives in Nashville where he practices law and teaches English. His poems have appeared in the Hampden-Sydney Poetry Review and Blue Unicorn.

“His Ticket to Ride” by Suzanne Eaton


He knew it was his last get-together.  I do not know how he knew, but there was a finality about his words and a far-away look in his eyes that I’d never seen before—stillness, acceptance, voices calling from far off. 

The house was filled with chaos, family teasing, laughter, kids discovering toys, adults catching up with each other, teenagers gathering in the center of the room to compare notes on how the world was shaping up. The open floorplan allowed all to see into the kitchen where the food was being prepared and the women fussed over each dish—setting up for a grand meal. 

He was just sitting there, somber, taking it all in.  I watched him for a while, puzzled by the spectacle of aging. Wrinkled, sagging, blotchy skin, huge veins on his arms.  His friendly but droopy face—extended stomach and feeble hands. His piercing blue eyes that looked like deep pools today. His children, grand-children and great-grand-children filled the space–sucked the oxygen out of the room.  Everything was moving too fast for him. 

He peered over his reading glasses and spoke directly to me.  “Don’t forget,” he said, “don’t ever forget that you have a wonderful family.”  “Yes, we do,” I responded, as I proceeded to make small talk about the kids and some of the hair-brained ideas they had come up with lately.  He laughed a bit, then looked off in the distance at nothing that I could see.   

What I would have given to capture his knowledge and wisdom and spread it across his full room of posterity.  What better people we would all be for it. He was a beautiful man. I loved having him as a grandfather.  He always made me feel special.  He owned a landscaping nursery and brought me flowers from time to time,  none quite as beautiful as the begonia on the morning of my fifth birthday.  It was captivating and it happened to be picture day, so I took it to school and insisted that I hold the flower in the picture.  I felt like it would keep him closer to me somehow. 

When I saw him next, he lay on beautifully tucked silk with his well-worn hands folded across his stomach.  Despite his well-lived life,  the air in the funeral parlor ached with longing and grief. I flashed on him sitting in the big green chair amid the family free-for-all just last weekend. I was never so sure that he knew his time was nigh. 

I remembered Corrie Ten Boom and her father’s words about death. “Corrie, when do I give you your train ticket?  “Right before I get on the train,” she answered.

Could it be that death is like that?  Somehow, we get our ticket right before we board, and we are momentarily prepared for our passing.

I took comfort knowing that he was ready, even though we were not.  I thought of a million questions to ask him.  So much knowledge and history gone.  I wished for one more of his warm hugs. The finality of it all was stark, overwhelming, and surreal.  I found the kindergarten picture and put it up against a small vase on the mantle for a while. 


Suzanne S. Eaton is an author and marketing consultant. She has written many corporate stories and magazines. She authored the book “Chinese Herbs,” reprinted by Harmony Press seven times. In her early days of writing, she was the first woman to get a feature article in Off Road Magazine and has been published in various magazines and anthologies. Most recently, Down in the Dirt Magazine, Writer Shed Stories and Seaborne Magazine have selected her work for publication.
https://www.facebook.com/zan.eaton.5
Twitter: @SuzanneSEaton7
Instagram: eaton9191

“In the Light of Common Day” by Paulette Callen

The old barn sags with memories
of horses.
                        A skeleton key hangs
in the gloom — what needed
opening is lost.
                        Cracked and dull
a harness clings to horsehairs
like an old woman clings
to mementos of a useful life.

Displacing horses —
descendants of Model T
left stains in forever
dark circles on the
cement floor.
                        Listen!
All that is gone
is here. Dust
in streams of light.


Paulette Callen has returned to her home state of South Dakota in retirement, after 30+ years in New York City. Varying degrees of culture shock in both directions — but always, the place she returned to has been made home by a dog.