Alicia Mathias

REVELATION

i stand upon the bridge of the Erie Canal, gazing into its half—frozen creek, where sunrise softens, through early morning fog, while i wade through this mist, adrift; wondering if i am dead, and just don't know it— where i hear many voices of ghosts that float around me; dustings of snow, kicked up by howling winds, carried in by a cold front; i blow on my naked hands, trying to warm them up, and i was just thinking, that i would give almost anything, to have you back, walking beside me, again; my arm around your waist, and your hand, warm-cupped inside my back jeans pocket; the air between us flickering— with endless kisses, yet to come

Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal

High Five

I walk out 

of my car

and a guy

in a

bike rides by

with his

outstretched hand 

looking

for a high 

five. I 

acquiesce,

giving

the stranger

a high

five, and I 

go on

about my

day. I 

remember 

his smile,

as he rode 

his bike.

The prankster 

in me

of old would

have pulled

my hand right

before

the high five.

I would

have been the

one that 

was smiling.

Go Back in Time

I wish I could 

go back in time

to eat at the 

places I used

to like to eat.

Places that no

longer exist,

where my dad and

mom used to take

us on Fridays.

Peeking Panda,

Mario’s Pizza,

both places were off

Hacienda.

The Original 

Barbecue and

The Sockyard, both 

on Vermont. It

is not the same

anymore. I 

wish I could go

back in time and

speak to my dad

and my brother,

tell them about

new places I

found, places they 

might enjoy. I 

remember the

Downtown deli

Europa.

I have not found

a sandwich place

better than that.

I wish I could

go back in time.

I wish I could

go to China

Palace Buffet,

Taste of Texas,

La Fiesta, Suns,

Danny’s Kosher

Pickle, and The

Seafood Bay.

Speak Now

Speak and let the cities 

lay out your words, across plains,

into the mouth of babes.

Speak to the flies on walls.

Let your voice reach them.

Speak now for eternity waits.

Let the cities remember you.

Cities burn with desires.

Cities come and cities go.

Cities spill the secret you never told.

Their mind reading is legendary.

All cities are inhabited by ghosts.

In open fields, speak your truth.

The living will listen.

They will harvest each word.

They will dream and feed 

on flames and laugh as

they swallow the sun.

When it is all over

the bright-eyed sun will laugh back.

Jackie Chou

Misheard Lyrics

I remember dreaming

of raspberry rain,

before realizing

Prince wasn't singing about floats,

marching bands, cheerleaders,

as in a parade,

but a six-dollar beret.

I remember thinking

that Air Supply had sung 

"Even the non-stop airline,"

instead of “Even the nights are better,”

and didn't know 

where the song went after that.

In The Troggs’ hit

"I feel it in my fingers, I feel it in my toes" 

sounded like "I see it on my windows,

I see it on my doors"

before the age of googling 

cleared up my confusion.

Joe Grieco

GRAYEYARD BOYS

 

We used to meet at Johnny’s All Night Coffee Shop

Get there after graveyard shift for java, and just talk

The food was cheap as desert dirt and tasted just as bad

But the coffee drawn in endless cups, the best we ever had

            Now the doors are boarded up, the neon lights are busted up

            Weeds grow high as countertops, and it’s dry as dust in the coffee cups

Always plenty of free parking at Johnny’s Coffee Shop

The waitresses were flirty girls who dated jerks and cops

You never told me what went down when you gave the blonde a ride

Her trailer out by county line. You liked your ladies double-wide.

            Now her place is boarded up, her mailbox is busted up

            Weeds grow like a corn crop, and it’s dry as dirt in the coffee cups

Defiant like immortals, “Be Bold, Go Big” you’d say

We had jobs and cars and coffee: it’ll always be this way

The graveyard shift, blue collar boys at Johnny’s Coffee Shop

We talked and drank and flirted, we never slept, never stopped

            Wild oats have long been sown, what once was green has overgrown

            The graveyard boys asleep, alone

            Johnny’s Coffee Shop is gone

Robert Fleming

 

Shih-Fang Wang

Long Ago

 

I remember when we sat

Under the poinciana tree 

Its blooms were like fire 

When the breeze blew by 

The petals showered us 

 

We picked them up 

And pressed them between the pages 

Of our text books and when they dried 

We molded them into different shapes

Like butterflies or dancing girls

To adorn festive cards

To give to friends as gifts

 

Those days so far away

You have long been gone

I have not seen those poincianas 

For decades  

I wonder if they are still there 

In our school campus

Where together

We wove so many dreams

 

Dean Okamura

East L.A. Japanese American family

Unlike many Japanese American boys of
The Baby Boomer generation,

I did not have a Japanese middle name.
I did not go to Japanese school on Saturdays.
I did not go to a Buddhist temple on Sundays.
I did not go to Nisei Week or Obon festivals in the Summer.
I did not have many Japanese friends in elementary school.

My parents wanted me to be the best American student with
Little emphasis on our Japanese heritage.

I am a Baby Boomer boy.

We drove from East L.A. to Little Tokyo,
Making the trip about once a month.

I remember shopping at Japanese stores for my Bachan (Japanese Grandma).
She bought Japanese rice candy for me.
Bachan liked special sweet shops like Fugetsudo on First Street, where
They had special Manju (bean-filled) confections.

So, shopping and eating were the limits of my Japanese experience.

Even with many Little Tokyo Japanese restaurants,
Our family's favorite place was Far East Cafe.
A Chinese restaurant.
I still recall the noisy kitchen with swinging doors.
We sat in dark cherry colored wood booths.
The male servers were kitchen workers
Sporting big white cooking aprons.

The food came within a minute or two.
Wonderful aroma.
Family-sized portions.
White serving dishes plopped onto the middle of the table.

We always ordered Cha Shu BBQ pork,
Chow Mein noodles,
Pak Kai sweet-and-sour pork,
and Hom Yu ground pork and fish.

Only my dad ate Hom Yu.

Most of the Far East Cafe customers were Japanese.
They ordered the same dishes.

So, perhaps we were a normal Japanese family?

kiri no sato [1]

In Wakayama,
mountains sit and watch
as clouds wander.
They change shape,
cast their spell,
move with magic.

"kiri no sato"
is the Japanese name
of this "Village in the mist."
It becomes more,
whispering my name.

The mist flows like fine silk,
making mountains shimmer,
hiding and revealing
trees and flora.
The air is cool.
The breezes are quiet.
Stillness rests.

I can stare for the rest of my life,
and when I have become planted
in the mountains,
it all disappears,
leaving me to remember.

---

[1] Takahara, Wakayama, Japan (2015)

Petrouchka Alexieva

The Trees Will Not Remember

Photo credit : https://www.facebook.com/photo/?fbid=

3627968870756872&set=gm…

 

At the end of September,

the trees will not remember

the whispering song of the summer breeze,

the melodies of the nearby creeks,

the joyful dances of hard-working bees,

the crickets’ trills on the bloomy meadows

and the lullabies of the blueberry skies.

 

At the end of September

the memories will be erased

when the pinwheels of colored leaves

patch a quilt on the napping ground

and calm down the earth

for deep winter sleep.

 

At the end of September,

the birds will take away on their wings

all the memories leaving lonely nests

high on the naked branches above.

 

On the end, what is left

will be washed by the rain

reaching deep to the hidden roots.

But for now, the trees enjoy all of these.

 

Memories in Sepia Tones

Stepping back in the past,

my mom is looking at her old photograph:

she sits on the blossoming meadow

with elegant skirt spread in a circle,

holding bouquet of wild flowers.

 

Puffy clouds shower

a golden light from above.

A warm amber sunbeams dance on her face.

Mom glows in soft brown hues

-        timeless elegance captured her youth.

 

The old sepia photograph

transferred my mom to her precious time.

Nostalgic resonance

painted shadows in her eyes.

Holding her breath, mom said

“The youth is once. Remember that.”

 

The Memory of Love is Short

 

Photo credit: Public domain files at Picasa / Flickr

 

One night stand.

The memory of love is shor

- only until the morning.

The miracle is over.

I understand.

 

And then, a crazy run

starts the day on these

crowded intersections

loaded with dreams,

full of illusions…

 

The sparkle is already gone,

melted in the morning noise.

I don’t like to keep you involved.

… Better, remembering nothing.

The memory of love is short.

 

We both understand

the cohort of one night stand.

 

Marsha Grieco

 

Hedy Habra

Hokusai’s The Great Wave  

                        in wake of Fukushima, 2011

 

It is said Hokusai never intended to represent

a tsunami, but an okinami, a wave of the open sea,

erect, foam curling up its claw-crested fingers

over stunned boatmen surfing in reverence.

 

And I wonder what made that captive wave leap

out, release the dormant creature locked in

for centuries in shades of Prussian blue,

its delicate swirls spewing muddy torrents

 

over Fukushima’s shores, erasing in black ink

all shapes ever drawn, engraved or breathing,

its voracious appetite growing in silence, its heart

melting blackness into the heart of nuclear reactors.

 

What made it erupt like a maddened volcano

famished for blood, steel teeth crushing tiles, wood,

metal, belching in a roar engulfing homes, cars,

boats, buses, men, women, children, newborn,

 

unborn, all swept like broken twigs and fallen leaves,

carrying seeds that will not grow for seasons to come.

The wave of the open sea now speaks in tongues,

each curve, a threat, its filigree lines and blue hues

 

seem steeped in lethal pigments. In the print’s empty

spaces, spirits hold their breath, dotted droplets

filled with suffocated, inaudible voices, whisper:

 

Remember me, I no longer have this beautiful skin.

Remember the light that came out of my eyes.

Remember my story never to be told.

Remember my smile, my hands, my dreams.

Hokusai, your okinami has lost its innocence.

 

First published in Sunrise from Blue Thunder Japan Anthology

From Under Brushstrokes (Press 53 2015)

 

 

The Memory of Unspoken Words

                        After Siren by Frédéric Clément

 

She has landed on the deck of an abandoned wreck, fails to remember how she swallowed the fiery ball that pulled her like a tidal wave into the stillness of a metallic sky steeped in lavender where angry clouds hover around the drowning sun suffused with coral. Her pillow is a melted cloud filled with birds that forgot how to fly and now swim in a pool that overflows the deck, washing the souls of dead sailors from every leak and corner. She presses on her eyelids to find a different ending to their story, sees her body glow with scales and the fish in the pool grow wings. She knows every drop of water will vanish at dawn, erasing with black ink her luminous shape, alive only in the formless night, and the rainbow will soon shine over a boat with discarded bags heavy with the stained memory of unspoken words and broken planks. 

 

First published by Pirene’s Fountain

From Under Brushstrokes (Press 53 2015)

 

 

Once Upon a Time, an Olive Tree

  

My elders were chopped down and burned,

their roots too deep to uproot, their veins spread,

 

shoots spoke in tongues, mapping the field,

an invisible presence throbbing under the earth,

 

thirsting for each raindrop, remembering every bird’s

trill and nest, the air redolent with blossoms,

 

the smell of grilled skewers, baking stones,

freshly roasted coffee, feet stomping the earth

 

with joy, a rhythm of life inscribed in every pore.

Will children ever know how much I miss their branches’

 

lacy shadow woven with stories and wisdom?

 

First published by Pirene’s Fountain

From The Taste of the Earth (Press 53 2019)

Lynn White

With Open Eyes

I have my eyes open now

and I can see the sky 

framed

by debris,

by rocks,

by wire,

by dereliction.

Framed 

by sharpness and

impenetrable barriers.

I want to see it clear,

like I remember

when my eyes were closed

clear and unblemished

creamy white

and pink and blue.

I want want to see it

framed by trees,

I want to see

the rocks become

flowers 

again.

I want to go back to

where the birds are singing

breaking up the sky with flight.

Does it still exist, this place?

I don’t think so.

Will it ever exist again?

I must believe so.

First published Typescript, 2019

I Remember My Father

I remember my father.

Remember being carried high 

on his shoulders when

he was walking into town.

I remember that I was scared.

I had never been carried

on shoulders before.

Was there a bus strike

or no money for the fare?

That I don’t remember.

I remember my father

sitting in a chair, a passenger

on a bus or tram,

as I collected his fare

and gave him a ticket.

He drove trams once

and then later he cleaned them.

I remember my father.

Remember sitting on his knee

looking at Rupert Bear books.

I knew the stories by heart

so people thought I could read

and were very impressed.

But I could only remember.

I remember my father.

I don’t need photographs

to jog my memory,

which is just as well

since there are none,

None of him whole, anyway, 

just one of his legs

in loose grey trousers,

sitting by me as I planted seeds

in my first garden.

First published in Pilcrow and Dagger, November 2015

Do You Remember

Do you remember when

the future stretched endlessly ahead,

when the older looked forward 

to a contented retirement

and the younger

to all the joys of life and living.

Now the mists are down

swamping everyone 

in a gloomy miasma

and the future is closing in

moving closer and closer,

a cell-like structure

of mutating cells.

First published in Lion and Lilac, spring 2022

Abel Salas

I am grateful for the rain

for the clouds that have

crept forth from the

mountains of memory

and stone like the

smoldering and

steam encrusted

talons of rebirth

and the end of

sorrows that

whisper with

ghostly

cries

I am grateful for rain

and the rivers that

bring the soil and

the life that is now

seeping upward

to the stars

Matt McGee

HAVE A GOOD YESTERDAY

 

I don’t know if anyone else knew

the significance of the date when April 8^th

rolled around, but I figured some calendar feature

or another would remind everyone of the day that

the body of a famous young man was found in a small

attic in Seattle thirty years ago, or four years later when

the body of an aging punk rocker who’d covered her

nipples with electric tape was found on the floor

of a remote section of Connecticut woods.

 

I figured social media would be flooded

with memories and melancholy pencil sketches;

but not a single mention of either one, not a line of

‘I was here when I heard’ kind of memory. Instead,

everyone is talking about where they were today

when the moon eclipsed the sun, which also

comes around just about as often as

genuine, sincere rock stars.

 

And I don’t pretend to speak for anyone

but I think if they were around to see this

they’d probably nod and approve at coming

in silent second to a natural wonder, and gladly

let Bonnie Tyler do the heavy lifting for once.

 

Fee Thomas

They were doing that thing. That thing I believe only Minnesotans do: whispering just loud enough so the person outside of the conversation can hear you. It’s undoubtedly passive aggressive, which irks me to no end. But I couldn’t afford to be rattled just then, I needed to focus on getting the hell out of there! Whispering…ugh! My head! It was so loud in my head! “She’s still not stable…” “Needs twenty - four hour care..” “The likelihood of her living a normal life…” Then I heard a chair slide hurriedly across the the shiny sterile floor.  My father’s voice now. “Give us our daughter, we are taking her home.”  “Now.” Absolute silence filled the air like a grenade was held in my father’s hand and he was seconds from pulling the pin. I couldn’t breathe. I was disappearing even though I was trying my hardest to stay present, I was leaving myself and this torturous moment. The angels were calling my name. Telling me to come rest with them. Not to worry about what was happening here. The reality of what was happening here is that the doctor wanted to institutionalize me. He thought I was too far gone to be helped. That I had lost the war I had tried to fight with some type of valor. Now they were saying I was a lost cause. My dad’s voice startled me back to reality “Get my daughter’s stuff, we are taking her out of this place!” I watched through the tears in my eyes as nurses and CNA’s scattered to ready my discharge orders. As we waited for the elevators, me still crying, my dad said, “ Look at me” I could barely see him through my tears and now swollen eyes, “you are not a lost cause.” “We are not sending you away. We are not giving up on you.” I felt like a wounded little bird crawled up in the palm of my daddy’s giant hand. My wings too wet to fly.

Flannel Shirts At Ten -Thirty

We used to talk about the future

Wearing flannel shirts with Marlboros stuffed in the pockets

Our exhaled breath crystalized by the Minnesota below zero air

Feet freezing because although our parents warned us

It was chosen to believe that Birkenstocks were all weather wear

Sure, we talked about the future

Never admitted, but all needing a moment to thaw

Back when the radio played bands

Whose hearts ached as much as our own

Waving our cigarettes against the ten-thirty sky

Before we had to be home at eleven o'clock

Emphasizing points regarding who'd we become

So much promise amid those discussions

All I can ask is, who are we now?

There is something called " the speed of dark."  I love that. There is a mechanism in space that holds up to four hundred suns- can you believe that?! Four HUNDRED suns! And these are the things that keep me around. The fact that these things happen. I feel a sense of sadness for people that lack the imagination of picturing four hundred suns gathered...anywhere. But I can picture it just fine. I remember vividly the day I learned how Buddhist Civil Rights leaders burned themselves alive based on the Spirit of Christ- that changed me forever. How could learning something like that not? It was much like when I learned how St. Peter begged to be crucified upside down because he felt unworthy to die in the manner of Christ. And then I spend a great deal of time (too much) thinking about the grandfather paradox. How would one travel through time without changing a single thing? And as you're sitting here reading this you're wondering what does one thing have anything to do with the other? The next time you think something is impossible I want you to remember the four hundred suns. The next time you think humanity is lost I want you to remember the Buddhist Civil Rights leaders. When you think nobility is dead think of St. Peter. And when the woulda, coulda, shouldas come to visit think about the grandfather paradox. It all happens and it's all linked. Just as it ought to be.

Lorelei Kay

                         

                        PAPER GENERATIONS

 My father said,

 “I need to fix the roof,”

 and, “Yes, I’ll help you write your poem.”

 

My mother said, 

“I need to wash the dishes,”

and, “Yes, I’ll make your wedding dress.”

 

My sister said,

“Parents are like wallpaper.

We hardly even notice them

 

while we’re growing up.

We take for granted they’re

 always there surrounding us.”

 

I asked my sister,

“How did Mom and Dad first meet?

How did he propose?  I never thought to ask.”

 

My sister said,

And where’d she live when he went

overseas?  I didn’t ask them, either.”

 

The chiming clock reminds me

I’ve become

the wallpaper

 

in this room of life,

laden with recollections

hanging loosely from the seams.

 

And I now hold layers of

dreams and schemes and memories—

if someone were just to ask.

Banning the Bean

 

Dashing home after third grade, I pushed aside

our heavy front door and ran inside hollering,

“Mom, I’m…” when the odor stopped me cold.

 

What in tarnation was that horrid smell?

Couldn’t be—not in our home—not coffee.

Our Mormon faith banned that brown bean.   

 

It reeked of revolting sin. Disobedience.

Dereliction. Disgraceful enough to separate

our family eternally in the heavens.

 

Mom hurriedly, apologetically, explained.

The brew was doctor’s orders. Prescribed

to hopefully curb her excruciating migraines.

 

I don’t recall that dank odor ever permeating

our home again, but I do recall Mom’s lifelong

struggle with her horrendous headaches.

 

Did guilt keep her from rebrewing the beans?

 

It’s been many years. Much has changed.

The aroma of my morning cup of freshly brewed

coffee wafts up, surrounding me with warmth

 

and filling me with memories. Thoughts drift

to Mom’s dilemma, and I envision how wondrous

it would be if she might now be reposing

 

on a cloud, at last headache-free, a radiant angel

presenting her on each breaking dawn with

the freshest mug of heavenly-scented coffee

 

in the universe, sweetened to perfection, laced

with starry-like swirls of cream gleaned from

the milky way—and to top it off, each golden

 

cup served completely, and eternally, guilt free.