Journal

Holding Her Lamp, I, too,
Reveal Heart-Truth

–with gratitude to Eva Dűrrenfeld

A chance encounter. Curiously
turning pages, suddenly shaking,
‌           caught and pulled
through a worm-hole. Like lightening,
ineffable recognition struck my heart:
Not bitter enough tastes the almond.

A small-town high-school teacher,
unmarried, childless, grave unknown,
left behind an Aladdin’s lamp: her slim volume
languished for years on my shelf,
until, during dusting, accidentally
‌          knocked over, it fell

open. Her genie woke, dislodged
the stone of doubt, invited me
to descend into the secret
chamber, pluck and bring back
through her “Rents in the Air”
golden plums and moon-touched pears.

 

Garden of Remembrance

“If it is allowed…,” her voice trailed off.
“Of course,” my eyes moist,
I sounded firmer than I intended.
My sister took her tablet, touched the screen,
showed pictures of the Rhone valley: a hummock,
crowned by a small limestone chapel,
the magnificent view from its attached cemetery,
and a plaque, surrounded by blossoms,
reading “Jardin de Souvenir.”
“There, I’d like my ashes spread.
So you all can come and visit me
whenever you want.”
I nodded, waited for more. But nothing
else was to come.

Of course, I wanted to attend her funeral.
But my brother-in-law, after taking care of house guests
for many months, followed the example she had set
many years ago after the burial of our mother;
my sister left us, her siblings, in the restaurant, to be
with just her own family. Now her husband and sons
forewent a gathering, cherished her remains
in utter intimacy.

In response, on the same day, but on the other end
of the world, we offered our own last service:
we robbed the red rose of all its petals,
stripped the evening primrose of its golden gowns,
and one-by-one picked borage’s blue stars.
Then, in the fallow part of the garden, in the brilliant morning light,
singing “Fly away,..” we tendered our treasure to the wind…

In Memory of Mr. Mo

He, who could never be hurried
across a threshold, would rush towards me,
purring loudly, whenever I returned.

One night, injured, he dragged himself
through the cat door into the garage,
called us out of our sleep.

I cradled him on the drive to the vet.
Again and again we tried, but nothing
could undo the paralysis.

Slowed down, he still commanded
two serviceable legs, continued to contest
the puppy’s encroachments into his space.

After years, his muscles withered,
his fur turned shaggy,
his appetite waned.

When the servant of release arrived,
he sat up, looked her straight in the eye,
as if greeting an angel.

Then he snuggled into my arm,
consented to be gently eased
from here to there.

Brigitte Goetze lives in Western Oregon. A retired biologist and angora goat farmer, she now divides her time between writing and fiber works. She finds inspiration for both endeavors in nature as well as the stories and patterns handed down from generation to generation, eavesdropping into the never-ending conversation between the biological and spiritual dimensions of life. Her words have been published by Calyx, Oregon Humanities and in anthologies. Her website can be found at: brigittegoetzewriter.com.

walking alone

–Salmon River at Three Rocks

greet   this   place   aloud   hello   tender   hello   is   doorway
to   prayer   is   doorway  to   song   move   through   winged
trill   waterfall   trickle   gravel   crunch   suddenly   startle
you   might   be   seen   someone   might   come   upon   you
strange   person   hand   recklessly   on   breastbone   as   luxury
fits   in   the   world   emerge   from   domestic   rainforest
to   ocean-mouthed   riverbed   palm   sand’s   tidal   indents
until   shape   of   coast   one   more   line   on   your   body
aren’t   vapors   whirling   above   your   own   mind   all   around
patterned   &   dancing   right   there   your   anemone   heart
clenching   when   provoked   even   by   gentle   curious   touch
here   shell   you   outgrew   &   there   you’re   honed   beach-log
smooth   by   turmoil   throw   yourself   on   the   fire   miracle
you   barely   smolder   arrive  to   where   you   chuckle
silly   you   thinking   yourself   stranger   that   earnest   hello

Ash Good is a queer, non-binary & non-monogamous poet, designer, curator, editor, artist and activist. They are co-founding editor at First Matter Press (a 501c3 nonprofit), curator of Bloom open mic and a reader for Frontier Poetry magazine. Ash is the author of four collections of poetry and their work most recently appears in Not Very Quiet, The Timberline Review and Rise Up Review. They live in Portland, Oregon. www.ashgood.com

Son of a Farmer

The farm is not completely gone,
even if the bricks deny it,
and the sidewalks pave over
the feel of heavy shoes on deep soil.
Subways, factories,
sure they’re the ultimate naysayers,
and the busy airport
would have me believe
there’s only coasts and cities.
But there’s always my fingernails,
the country dirt beneath
that refuses to come clean,
like those death pills
spies secrete somewhere on their bodies.
If the noise, the smoke, get to be too much,
take one of these
and cows report to their stalls for milking,
and fields of yellow corn
two-step with the wind.
Even twenty skyscraper flights up,
I’m only the merest daydream away
from a September’s worth of silos,
bursting with gold dust grain.
The cube is a barn with the door wide open.
The in-tray is a tin mailbox
The company can work me
to the calcium deposits
in my elbows and my knees
but that won’t stop me
taking a moment here and there
to lie back in that porcelain tub,
watch, through skylight,
ravens preening on a high oak bough.
Yes, there’s a report to file
but there’s also eggs to be collected.
And for every backstabber on the job,
there’s a dozen snakes curled up in the woodpile.
Even the red scars of the leather belt stay with me.
The bar, the restaurant, my gorgeous lover,
can’t completely heal the welts.
And the decent raise, the bonus, are much too late
to pay my father’s bankers,
to soothe his anger, mollify his defeat.
So much movement in the city
but nothing can budge him from that last day,
a man with nothing left but grief to farm,
a “Sold” sign jabbed into his chest,
a whole life’s belongings
crumbling beneath the auctioneer’s hammer.
No, the farm is not completely gone
even if new ownership takes over.
The farm is not completely gone
even if it only has this city to show for it.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident of Providence RI , recently published in Penumbra, Poetry Salzburg Review and Hollins Critic. Latest books, Leaves On Pages, and Memory Outside The Head, are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Lana Turner and Held.

How We Say Goodbye

–for Susan Whearat

Your voice on the phone
is quick with love and reckoning.
I close the office door
to enter your world.

Your voice fills my small office
with the scent of flowers.
You tell me you are writing notes
for your memorial,

trying to remember words to a song
we heard not so long ago:
whereas hope seems small sometimes….
I find the rest for you:

and peaceful words the work
of my remaining days.
You tell me you are not in pain.
Your daughter is with you.

When you say goodbye,
I set my phone gently on the table,
my hands dusted with rose pollen,
my body flushed with sweet perfume.

Notes:
Italicized lines are from Kim Stafford’s poem “Be It Therefore Resolved,” commissioned in 2011 by The Congressional Chorus (Washington DC), set to music by Joan Szymko. Susan and I heard this piece together performed by Aurora Chorus in December 2014. Susan died from ovarian cancer on January 31, 2016 at age 76. She was a teacher and a poet, a parent and a grandparent. Kim Stafford’s poem and the memory of Aurora’s performance gave her great peace of mind in her last days.

Suzy Harris is a retired attorney who lives in Portland, OR. Her work has appeared most recently in Timberline Review.

Gone for Good

My sister has gone crazy
again. It is a place she goes
alone. When she is out there
she tries to stay in touch but she goes
so far out of range what she hears
from us is muffled by the distance.
And then she just gets confused.

When she leaves, no one knows she’s going
not even she knows she’s going,
so her doors are wide open and
her phone is ringing and her cats
and dogs are hungry are crying.

There are people who try to help
her find her way home, but the routes
are unmarked, are dark and dangerous
if you’re traveling alone–which
she always is.

And no one can be sure that she even
wants to come back–because in the static
of the distance she seems to be saying
she knows. She knows this place. And she can see
and hear us clearly. Is that what she’s saying?
We can’t be sure. It’s so far from here and
we have never been.

The first time she went she was so young. That
was ages ago and it was treacherous
trying to find her way back alone. But over
the years she’s grown accustomed to the journey.
Strange as it seems to us, she feels it is
important to go. She keeps going a
little further each time and even when
she finds her way back, she leaves something
of herself there. We worry that soon
more of her will be there than here.

When she is back here she doesn’t talk
about that place with us. She keeps it
private. She is protective. She doesn’t
want to share it. So we look away. By
then we’re happy to have her home. But
we know she’ll be going back. We know
someday she’ll be gone for good.

Because You Can’t Wait
for the Way To Say It

all winter the deer bedded
at the bottom of the hill where
the creek runs, their cold skies
laced with bare branches

suddenly green reached out
to the tips of every tree
and now grasses in the field are lit
with spring

and there’s so much more to say

how sweet that first hyacinth
up from the heaving leaf-meal
behind the wood pile

Robin Havenick is a retired community college literature teacher who writes for Street Roots in Portland, Oregon and whose writings have also appeared in Creative Nonfiction, Tahoma Literary Review, and Oregon Poetry Association’s Verseweavers.