Willawaw Journal Winter 2018 Issue 5

Frost

In a deep chill of anger
you and I turn back to back
to stumble down diverging paths.
We plod through dogged days,
slipping and drifting into wintry gloom.

Huddled behind the frosted glass, I chip
at frozen rime to make a hole;
and in that dime of brighter light
I spy you on the other side,
scraping ice away, eye to eye.

Linda Knowlton Appel  migrated across the country and found her home in Oregon where she is a member of Chrysalis, a critique group for emerging women writers. Life evolves, and, as she enjoys retirement, she hopes that her poetry will help her to recognize and consider the existential questions of life. 

A Man and His Map

~inspired by Man Studying a Map by Clem Starck

Clem,
I have my own picture
of a man happily studying a map.
It is my father,
he holds his glasses in his hand
off to the side
and puts his left eye
right down to the paper.
like zooming in with a magnifying glass
but he just uses his eye.
It is a Thomas Brothers Map,
not a treasure or old world map,
not a map of the wilderness,
but a block by block, page by page book
of Southern California streets and freeways.
No crackling fire, no tobacco
nor couch in the picture,
just a wooden chair and table
and a window for light.
He is finding his way across town,
checking the on-ramps and off-ramps
of the LA freeways.  Useful knowledge,

just in case.

For Frank Babcock, writing has always been his vocation. He takes after his father who was a studious fellow and loved maps. Frank lives in Corvallis, Oregon, and is a retired middle school teacher and owner of Mary’s Peak Bamboo.

Refuse

Coming Home

The door opens with an inhale of air
I bring cold in with my parka.
Here, the smell of warm rolls
no longer wafts from the kitchen.

The yellow countertop
greets me like sunshine.
I painted it for you
when your eyesight was failing.

Three cups rest in the dish rack,
a tattered dragonfly is pinned
on a bulletin board. A cracked mug
holds gathered bird feathers.

From its hook your apron, imprinted
with butterflies and songbirds,
trimmed in red rickrack,
cheerfully beckons.

I pull it over my head, wrap
the apron strings twice around my waist
and tie a bow in front. I find
your flour sifter in the third drawer.

From the high cupboard
I bring down flour and salt
and recall your recipe—first
dissolve yeast in lukewarm water.

With my fingers I mix in flour
then I knead and knead.
When the rolls are still oven-warm
I tear one open, cover my nose
and mouth and breathe in your scent.

Pastiche

–after Joan Meiers and Kelly Terwilliger

Once in an archipelago finning from island to island
off the grid, far removed from cine-movies, my brother
and I flipped birds flitting swift-flowing channels
beside dolphins bucking breakers like seahorses.

My father called, watch out, be careful of fish bones
blue as the Aegean! Here sharks lurk
an angry shade of gray. So I held my breath
and we reconnoitered under the mimesis of waves

silvering like starfish. No one stays underwater long.
As we rode fast water, ferrying from dry island to island
in a drumbeat of sunlight, water-waders pink as shrimp
surged above us trailing their pipe-stems, dripping salt

and hooting. The crown of our nearest island was fiery,
jeweled with a skirt of palm trees. Two boys rode by,
on a bareback zebu, clutching it by hump and horn,
and laughing. We wanted to follow but the ground shook

and the air trembled. Coconuts thudded black sand.
We counted to three—the mountain erupted, raining
fishhooks in sudden sunset. There was no name for our terror.
We scrambled back into folding water and trembled.

Galaxies gyred above us in spilled-milk sky.
The sea sighed and we slept floating, dreaming dreams
we had learned by heart. We practiced being alive—
never knowing the gist of snow or magnetic green fire.

Dale Champlin, graphic designer, illustrator, and copywriter, now devotes most of her time to writing poetry. She is currently working on two collections, Leda, and Feathers, a series of monochords about birds. Champlin is the editor of the Oregon Poetry Association’s 2017 Verseweavers and board member of the OPA. She is also current director of Conversations With Writers. Champlin’s work has been or will be published in Social Justice Poetry, VoiceCatcher, and Mojave River Press among others.

Yeva Chisholm is a collage artist and poet from the Willamette Valley, recently relocated to Santa Fe, New Mexico, where she is devoting her time to learning the art of belly dance, expressing herself on a visceral, body level. In her collage and poetry, she is constantly inspired by nature and human interaction. 

Salt III:  Breathe

The first time we smell the air we wail and cry.
— King Lear

For a long time afterwards
I’d catch myself holding
my breath. That is to say
stop myself
from inhaling the air
now filled with war’s afterbirth: blood / dust / & salt.
‌                In primary school, we learned that
humans inhale oxygen & exhale
carbon dioxide — waste.
The air, then, must be filled
with the dead’s last breath.

Last night, I dreamt that I was
a dying fish caught
in the dregs of the Benue River.
On its banks, bony men
with oil skin packed salt mixed
with saliva onto their wounds
then howled. The air, thick
& grief-stricken,
wormed its way to where I lay.
Waste.

.chisaraokwu. is an American Nigerian poet & healthcare futurist.  A lover of fantasy fiction and mythology, she splits her time between the US and southern Italy.