WINK: Writers in the Know – WinkWriters.com | Are YOU in it?
Art, Humor, Poetry, and the Pleasures of a Writer’s Life
WINK: Writers in the Know – WinkWriters.com | Are YOU in it?
SPONSORS
Art, Humor, Poetry, and the Pleasures of a Writer’s Life
WINK: Writers in the Know – WinkWriters.com | Are YOU in it?
Publisher/Executive Editor Nadia Giordana—Cloud 9 Publishing iinadia@msn.com In her other life, Nadia is a community TV producer and host/co-host on several shows. Among them: Generations, It’s a Woman’s World, Women of the World, QC Cooks, and That’s Odd at fb.me/thatsoddtv. Her primary website is WhereWomenTalk.com.
Dir. of Sponsorships and Advertising Chuck Kasun—cekasun@gmail.com Chuck’s past lives include: investment banker, stockbroker, VP marketing, money manager, options trader, and sales manager. He also enjoys lunar photography, road trips and bicycle riding.
Short Story Editor Lynn Garthwaite—Blue Spectrum Books Lynn has another life too. She is the owner of Blue Spectrum Books at BlueSpectrumBooks.com, and the founder of the non-profit Books on Wings. She authored the Dirkle Smat children’s book series and also Our States Have Crazy Shapes. When she’s not busy with these other things, she co-hosts with Nadia on That’s Odd TV show.
Quality Editor/Proofreader William (Kerry) Parsons Kerry is the latest addition to our staff and we are lucky to have him. He and his red pencil will make sure we have all our i’s dotted and our t’s crossed. Kerry was a regular contributor to our previous magazines, Poetry in Motion and Mississippi Crow.
Copyright @ 2017 Cloud 9 Publishing, ISSN pending. No portion of this magazine may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form—electronic, mechanical or other means without prior consent of the publisher and/or of the authors of the individual works. All rights revert to authors upon publication.
We occasionally have openings for content editors, proofreaders, and other volunteer/apprentice positions as the need arises. Check with us if you have an interest.
Contributing Writers and Artists Alphabetical by first name: c.e. kasun—Dayton, Minnesota Cole W. Williams—Newport, Minnesota John Grey—Johnston, Rhode Island/Australia Kiki Stamatiou—Kalamazoo, Michigan Kyle Hemmings—Westfield, New Jersey Linda Crate—Meadville, Pennsylvania Lynn Garthwaite—Bloomington, Minnesota Mary Deal—Phoenix, Arizona Michael Rossberg—South St. Paul, Minnesota Myrna D. Badgerow—Houma, Louisiana Nadia Giordana—Dayton, Minnesota Shawn Nacona Stroud—Springfield, Ohio Sue Midlock—Joliet, Illinois Wendy Brown-Baez—Columbia Heights, Minnesota William (Kerry) Parsons—Fort Worth, Texas Front Cover Art: Summit and Mamacita—Eugenia Loli, our featured artist. She grew up in Greece, but has also lived in Germany and UK. These days she lives in California. She originally worked in the technology sector, but left that impersonal world behind in order to build new, exciting worlds via her art. Her collages, with the help of the title, often include a teasing, visual narrative, as if they’re a still frame of a surreal movie. The viewers are invited to make up the movie’s plot in their mind. The best way to contact her with questions, commissions, or licensing is via email: eugenia17@gmail.com.
“We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master.” —Ernest Hemingway 1 Art, Humor, Poetry, and the Pleasures of a Writer’s Life
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Becoming Your Characters FROM THE EDITOR We’re sure you’ll enjoy this debut issue of WINK: Writers in the Know. We are delighted with the creative writings, photography and artwork we received from dozens of talented people who contributed to the making of it. Issue 2 is nearly filled and new material is already being slotted for issue 3. We expect to publish 3 to 4 issues per year and our average response time is about 30 days but can be as long as 90. Our release dates vary; please refer to the website for current “next Issue” target dates. We recommend you read the guidelines prior to each submission as our requirements often change without notice. You’ll have a better feel for us if you read at least one issue and become familiar with our style before submitting. Once we have chosen your material, we’ll notify you in which issue/s you are scheduled to appear. We fit material into our pages as artfully as possible and occasionally need to move items up or hold them back an issue. We do not sell subscriptions. Rather, each print issue is available individually at our website, WinkWriters.com. Go to the Issues tab to buy copies. --Nadia Giordana, Editor, Publisher
Several authors have asked why their characters did things they (the author) didn’t understand. Each time, I had to smile with approval. What I find is that you may know your character well, intellectually, as you have outlined in a character sketch or other notes. However, in order to understand the moves your character makes, you must become that character. In dialogue especially, stand in front of a mirror and talk to yourself. Be the character talking to you. Notice the facial expressions and physical gestures. Include those in your descriptions. When you feel you are that character, you will understand why they suddenly do something in the story that you hadn't expected. When you are the character, you will cut loose from any restrictive thinking. This will help you to move the plot faster and in more meaningful ways. In other words, you as the character – what would you do in the situation you have set up? Being the character, what you would do to cut loose and respond to a situation in a totally off the wall manner? Or maybe a subdued manner. See where this is going? When you are the character, you understand everything that character does. It frees your thinking to take your story in unexpected directions. An added plus is that you can and should become any and all of your characters. Once you get in the habit of seeing your story this way, your writing ability and expression is freed up. You won't see your characters as if in a state of unexpected flux. You won’t see your characters as people other than yourself. You will see and understand their motives and moves – and they will makes those moves – as totally normal to their personalities.
—Mary Deal
2 Art, Humor, Poetry, and the Pleasures of a Writer’s Life
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STORY AS MEDICINE I declared myself a writer when I wrote stories in elementary school but there were many years of no writing at all. I lived in a busy commune for ten years where privacy for self-reflection was simply not available. Eventually the group broke up and I had to re-invent myself. Determined to sharpen my writing skills, I attended a continuing ed writing class in my hometown. Writing down the flood of memories was both stimulating and cathartic. In 1994, I moved to Santa Fe, New Mexico to be with Michael, who was charming, gregarious, and funny, but with intense mood swings. Sometimes he couldn’t get out of bed for days at a time, sometimes he couldn’t sleep for days at a time. After I demanded that he see a doctor, he was diagnosed as bipolar. Marcia Stark, renowned astrologer, invited me to join her women’s poetry group and I also began attending Write Action, a writing support group, weekly. These groups provided a creative outlet to express my sense of foreboding under the increasing pressure of Michael’s illness. Besides writing poetry in both groups, I was working on a novel and a memoir. We shared support, feed-back and encouragement. After Michael’s death in 2002, a burst of creative energy swept through me as I focused on my identity as a poet. Our women’s poetry group named ourselves Word Dancers and decided to hold our first public reading during Día de los Muertos to honor those we had lost, incorporating ritual, dramatic gesture and costume. I wanted to share a poem about Michael but I felt too emotional to read it from a piece of paper. I needed the
audience to embrace me, so I memorized it. The connection was so electrifying and gratifying that I decided to memorize all of my poetry. I became a performance poet and traveled to the East Coast and West Coast, created personas and rituals for my work, bringing along costumes and props, and released a spoken word CD. Several poems were published. I was energized, inspired, and finally doing what I loved to do. Michael’s death was an initiation, but it did not prepare me for the shocking death of my son three years later. In the summer of 2005, while I was visiting Minneapolis, my youngest son committed suicide. It felt as though the rug was pulled out from under me; my life totally shattered. I could not write because anger strangled my voice. I returned to Santa Fe and eventually re-joined my writing groups. I figured that even though I could not write, I could show up and listen. Once the pen was in my hand, however, it was natural to put it to paper. Like riding a bicycle, because I had made writing a habit and a practice, it came back. When I moved to Minneapolis, I hoped to re-create my life as a writer. I felt strongly that writing should be accessible to those who may not think of themselves as writers but who have a story to tell. I began by volunteering to lead writing workshops at Cornerstone and The Aliveness Project, human service non-profits. Eventually I won a grant to take writing workshops into twelve human service and arts organizations and became a regular volunteer provider at Pathways: a healing center. But the workshop that I really wanted to teach was Writing Thru Grief as a way to quicken my own healing. It is a risk to step into writing that can stir up intense emotions and I am not a therapist—I am a writer who loves words and stories. The technique I use is to access
A first-line indent is the most common way to signal the start of a new paragraph. The other common way is with space between paragraphs. First-line indents and space between paragraphs have the same relationship as belts and suspenders. You only need one to get the job done. –practicaltypography.com
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WINK: Writers in the Know – WinkWriters.com | Are YOU in it? inner guidance through spontaneous free writing. But if the group feels bonded, others will reach out, offering Kleenex, consolation, and comfort. I have had the privilege of leading this workshop several times and each time it was transformative. I learned that if you want to lead a grief writing workshop, it is essential to write with the group and share your writing so that everyone feels you are equally invested. At the same time, it is imperative to be a leader and not someone that the group has to take care of. This requires allowing emotions to flow while remaining in control and aware of the group dynamic. If you have unresolved grief, it may be necessary to undergo your own counseling before you lead a group. When deep emotions arise, it is up to you to determine when it is time to be silent, when it is time to move on, and when it is time to read something uplifting. Always be prepared! I used ritual as a container for the over-powering emotions that writing can bring to the surface. We began by each of us lighting a candle and naming who or what we are grieving. Rather than focus on the grief itself, I focused on the way it impacts us: what traits we may have inherited, what gifts or blessings or new insight we gained, how we have changed, how we are transformed. I spoke about death as an initiation, as a liminal space where we encounter the in-between: we can feel disoriented, extrasensitive, and deeply intuitive. We always ended by thanking ourselves, blowing out our candles as we named our blessings or strengths. In an interview in Radiance Magazine, Clarissa Pinkoles Estes said: “In this tradition a story is ‘holy,’ and it is used as medicine. The story is not told to lift you up, to make you feel better, or to entertain you, although all those things can be true. The story is meant to take the spirit into a descent to find something that is lost or missing and to bring it back to consciousness again.” This is a perfect description of writing through grief, to descend into darkness in order to find secret blessings and bring them consciously into our lives. I named my workshop Story as Medicine. It was the medicine I needed and the medicine that would help me heal.
Over time, my grief transformed itself into acceptance. After years of writing, questioning, counseling, playing with grandkids, and seeking out ways to connect to spiritual and literary communities, I have experienced deep joy. One workshop led to another and I now teach in schools, libraries, yoga studios, prisons, spiritual and healing centers, and cafes. Once again I am doing what I love to do: connecting with others through stories. Resources: Here are some of the poems and prompts I have used: POEMS: Trying to Raise the Dead by Dorianne Laux Self-portrait by David Whyte Nothing Gold Can Stay by Robert Frost Horses by Kate Dicamillo Dirge Without Music by Edna St. Vincent Millay For What Binds Us by Jane Hirschfield She said by Daniel Forest In Heaven It is Always Autumn by Elizabeth Spires I’m going to Start Living Like a Mystic by Edward Hirsch Sweetness by Stephen Dunn In the Kirkegaard, December by Athena Kildegaard Praise what comes by Jeanne Lohman I will not live an unlived life by Dawna Markova Lying in Wait for Happiness by Yehuda Amichai Grief Comes with a Ladder by Richard Solly Grief by Wendy Brown-Baez PROMPTS: What I lost and what I was able to keep: first memory what I love about you what I inherited from you writing a letter to you: what I never got to say What I can’t take back: regret What part of me did I lose? What did I gain? good memories, difficult memories the last words you said to me what I yearn for Blessings and gift: what gives me strength I’m going to start living….. How did grief change me
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How am I rebirthed the blessing in the difficulty
Book Resources: The Art of Losing: Poems of Grief and Healing edited by Kevin Young, Bloomsbury Beloved on the Earth: 150 Poems of Grief and Gratitude edited by Jim Perlman, Deborah Cooper, Mara Hart and Pamela Mittlefehldt, Holy Cow! Press The Wind Blows, the Ice Breaks: Poems of Loss and Renewal by Minnesota Poets edited by Ted Bowman and Elizabeth Bourque Johnson, Nodin Press The Wild Edges of Sorrow, Rituals of Renewal and the Sacred Work of Grief by Francis Weller, North Atlantic Books Wendy Brown-Báez is a writer, teacher, performance poet and inspirational speaker. She is the creator of Writing Circles for Healing and Cultivating Resiliency Thru Writing workshops. Wendy is the author of the poetry books Ceremonies of the Spirit and transparencies of light and has published poetry and prose in numerous literary journals and anthologies, such as The Litchfield Review, Lavandería, Mizna, Mississippi Review, Minnetonka Review, Poets & Writers Magazine, The Chrysalis Reader, Wising Up Press, The Feminine Collective and Talking Writing. Wendy was awarded McKnight and MN State Arts Board grants to teach writing in non-profits. She has guided victims of domestic violence, homeless youth, incarcerated writers, HIV+ clients, heart patients, cancer survivors, care-takers and the grieving to tell their stories. This piece is excerpted and partially revised from her manuscript Writer with a Backpack. www.wendybrownbaez.com
—WENDY BROWN-BÁEZ
Grandpappy’s Cows (A study in dialect) Grammy and Grandpappy had fifteen youngins o’ their own, so I had a mess o’ cousins. Most of the boys looked the same, with straggly dirty blonde hair and mean squinty eyes. We girls was better. We looked different from one another by our hair color and sizes of our bosoms. Grandpappy moved lots of us to a run-down trailer park near the railroad tracks. Him and Grammy lived in a doublewide next to the meadow ‘cause they kept a milk cow. As neighbors moved out, more of our kin moved in. No matter the trailers was abandoned ‘cause they was old, we was a family that stuck together. Pretty soon our kin took over every useable trailer in that danged weedinfested field. The poor folk thought we was rich. Everyone who visited asked to go see the rest of them empty trailers. I sneaked and seen ‘em already and they was empty, except for some mattresses the hobos left behind. When I asked why my uncles always brought their girlfriends around to inspect those old trailers when they went out on dates, Grandpappy said, “They just want to bless our new home.” Then he’d slap his knee and bellow till his eyes watered and he started to coughin’. He never let me go see with the other people and got downright nasty when I tried. “You stay put, li’l girlie,” he said. “There’s time enough to learn about life.” My daddy was a jack-of-all-trades and him and Grandpappy joined some of them trailers so’s you could walk from one to another without goin’ outside. When friends come over for some honky-tonkin’, those old trailers would rock and once the rotted tires exploded on one of ‘em. Effie May was my closest cousin. She was older ‘n me. The boys said she was built like a cow. Sometimes when they headed off to them trailers, they said they was gonna go milk the cows. Like it was a dirty joke or somethin’. Effie
5 Art, Humor, Poetry, and the Pleasures of a Writer’s Life
WINK: Writers in the Know – WinkWriters.com | Are YOU in it? May hung out with the boys a lot. She said they was her kissin’ cousins. One day, Effie May whispered to me, “They calm my yearnins, ya’ know?” I didn’t know. I saw her and cousin Wilma Lou, who my momma told me to stay away from, go in and out of them abandoned trailers on the other side of the park with a bunch of boys time and again. Effie May was awful smart, said she knew how to be of service to folks. She always had money. But me? I didn’t want to be nobody’s servant. Me and my momma was close. I was blonde-headed like the rest of my kin, but my hair picked up some of my momma’s red. I liked her the most, better ’n Effie May, ‘cause Momma explained things to me. As we kids was growin’ up, I guess Grandpappy thought he still had to feed the whole brood. One day after Grammy gave away the old cow that dried up, he come home with another. “I’m tired of sittin’ around all day shaking the cream to the top of that jar just to make butter,” Grammy said. “Well, we cain’t afford the store-bought stuff yet neither,” Grandpappy said. Johnny Jeb was one cousin always up to no good. He used to squeeze the cow’s udder so we could drink when we got thirsty while we was playin’. He’d squirt us just to be mean. We was lucky Grandpappy never knowed what the soggy stains was on our clothes and why leaves stuck in our hair 'cause sometimes after getting pushed in, we swam in the creek with our clothes on and he couldn’t tell the difference. “You grandkids are dirtier ’n my own ever was,” he would say. “And to think you live better off today.” Some of my aunts and uncles took a broom to their kids for coming home dirty. My momma just smiled and poured water into the old tin tub, throwed me a bar of Grammy’s lye soap, and said, “You soak good now, Darlin’.”
Grandpappy couldn’t figure out why the cow didn’t give much milk. He was attached to Bossie, his latest cow, and instead of getting rid of her, he brung home another. Johnny Jeb loved that. He taught cousin Bobby Zeke to squirt and they had milk fights in the meadow. When the rest of us got to laughin’, we all learned to squirt. Grandpa got a third cow just so’s he could get enough milk together for all our families every day. Anyway, between the three, they kept the weeds down real good. But it stunk some and the boys was put to scrapin’ up the cowpies and tossin’ ‘em into an empty field. Us girls stayed away from them dung fights. Later on, when I started thinkin’ about boys, I looked in the mirror to see what they was awinkin’ at. My bosoms finally growed like Effie May’s. My kin said I wasn’t bad looking and my hair always shined like sunlight. “Why’d you s’pose that is?” I asked my momma one day. “Musta’ been all that fresh cream you got in your hair when you was a kid,” she said. I never knew she knowed. I have a right smart image of my momma now that I know she let us kids enjoy the fun we had back then. I looked at her real hard ‘cause I admired her more all of a sudden. Her brassy hair was so shiny. My daddy said I matured real nice. He always paced around lookin’ at me like I was the chunk of gold that was gonna make him rich or somethin’. I wondered if him and Momma would let me go honky-tonkin’. Effie May said she could tell me how to take care of my yearnins.
—Mary Deal Mary is the author of several books, among them, Write it Right – Tips for Authors: The Big Book. She also has taught writing in the past, and this story is one she used when teaching dialect. “Whomever we write about, the dialect must be correct.”
6 Art, Humor, Poetry, and the Pleasures of a Writer’s Life
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River Boners I sent a query letter for one of my short stories to a magazine. Of course, I included the names of my novels in my brief Bio. The editor actually called all the way to Hawaii (where I lived at the time) and thanked me for the best typo she'd ever seen! A couple years ago, I began taking nutritional supplements that have done wonders for my health. Even my fingernails, which normally never grew but flaked instead, now extend a quarter inch past my fingertips. It's a great sign that the nutritionals help in many ways. However, my long fingernails now interfere with being able to use the keyboard at warp speed. I press a key with the fingertip, or the side of my fingertip, but the nail depresses the key next to it. As a result, I had to scrutinize my work for typos that never happened before. I’ve kept my nails shorter since then because of that one error in particular that I’ve probably made more than once. Notice that on the keyboard, the letters e and r are next to each other. When I pressed the e I also accidentally typed the r with my new fingernail. The editor called to say that when typing the name of my novel, River Bones, I inadvertently created a typo and wrote River Boners. So, how have your typos embarrassed you? — Mary Deal
Breakthrough: Deconstructing the Maze By Lynn Garthwaite When I graduated from college I took a job that brought in a regular paycheck but I dreamed of making a living as a writer. My passion was screenwriting. It was my dream to write a story and have it play on the big screen in theaters, with beautiful people showing up for red carpet premieres and recognition on Oscar night. But I didn’t just dream, I pursued that vision seriously. I attended several screenwriting workshops, read the right books about the genre and the specific formatting, studied the scripts of successful movies and television shows, joined other aspiring screenwriters in a writers group, and spent my evenings and weekends writing scripts. Over the course of several years I wrote seven screenplays, diligently registering each one with the Writer’s Guild and then sending them to agents who advertised that they were looking for new material. During this time I had no interest in other genres. I was so sure that I was going to make my mark as a screenwriter that I became a bit of a writing snob. Don’t pester me with questions about writing books or magazine articles – it was the film world for me dahling. I did get a couple of nibbles about my scripts, but the industry proved to be too tough of a nut for me to crack. My rejection file grew and my optimism shrank. By the time I finally hit full-on discouragement levels I had two young boys to raise and a mortgage on a new house. Having hit the proverbial wall, I set my dreams aside for a while, fully intending to get back to them when my energy and passion returned. Fast forward 5 years and I finally felt the pull to get serious about writing again. But a strange thing had happened on the way to this stage of my life. I discovered that I had a
7 Art, Humor, Poetry, and the Pleasures of a Writer’s Life
WINK: Writers in the Know – WinkWriters.com | Are YOU in it? gigantic dollop of love for children’s literature. By then I was working in a school library and had grown to treasure the conversations I had with children who were curious about books. I was excited for the young learners who discovered stories that made them want to rush back to the bookshelves for more.
It turned out I just loved to tell a story, and it didn’t have to be in one specific genre for me to feel successful. I managed to get published in the world of children’s literature and I love all of the perks that come along with it. When I go to schools as a visiting author, they don’t roll out a red carpet but the kids still make me feel like a rock star. When I speak to Rotary Clubs about my My outlook had completely changed. I thought about the states/shapes book I feel like I’m hobnobbing with people types of books that I liked to read in my early years, and who are as fascinated by quirky back-stories as I am. then I thought about the My message to other types of books that kids were writers and aspiring looking for in our school writers is to consider Lynn Garthwaite says that if you read her books and library, and I realized that everything. If you always want to turn any of them into a major motion picture, these kids were me! Just wanted to write a novel, give her a call. She is the owner of Blue Spectrum shorter. It was like holding up don't discount short Books and the founder of the non-profit Books on a mirror to my own early stories as your foot in the Wings. She authored the Dirkle Smat children’s book adventures with books. The door. If you imagined series and also Our States Have Crazy Shapes. stories that had intrigued me yourself as a contributor were the same types of to major magazines, start stories that captivated the building credits by kids I was helping. contributing to local newspapers. I tell the kids when I speak that writing is just I realized that I now wanted to write for children. like every other thing in life - the more you do it the better That was ten years ago. I have published four young you get. For aspiring writers, the road to becoming a mystery books in my Dirkle Smat Adventure series and just bestselling novelist might have a few detours that take you in the last year wrote two picture books on a “for-hire” through some pretty interesting places you may have basis. Not to get too stuck in one genre again, I researched never planned to visit. While working on my next book, I and wrote a non-fiction book for all ages to explain why find myself pulling out all of my old screenwriting helpour states have such crazy shapes. I am currently in the books and pondering the possibility of giving it another final stages of researching and writing another non-fiction shot. book - - - and I have a novel swimming around in my head.
—Lynn Garthwaite
What I discovered was that I had initially compartmentalized my writer’s dream so tightly that I made it much harder to accomplish anything. The cheese at the end of my maze turned out to be in a completely different place than I originally envisioned. My road to getting published had been hindered by so many selfcreated hurdles and blockades, that I couldn’t find my way to success, and it only made me doubtful of my abilities. I had constructed a maze that had only one solution – screenwriting – and every other avenue was blocked off.
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Word Flow In wet, miserable March, wind whisks paper to my door, from shopping lists to letters to signs announcing Flea Markets. I must confess when it comes to what blows into my realm, only money and words attract me. I've been drawn to a half rain-soaked school girl essay and a note once pinned to a door that read, "Back in five minutes. Make sure the cat doesn't escape." As much as I've written in my life, I've never once put down those words in that particular order. Nor have I been somewhere for just five minutes and felt the world ought to know about it. 1 don't have a cat. I've never had a cat. I'm allergic to those hairy haughty felines but the word "cat" doesn't make me break out. "Ellen, park on the side street" didn't do much for me but a note announcing the next meeting of the Neighborhood Betterment Society intrigued me no end. For a start, the date was in the past. More evidence that while meetings come and go, words are timeless. And second, 1 wasn't invited. Thus we come to the hidden agenda of words. In that plain simple proclamation is the inference that I have nothing to contribute to the betterment of the neighborhood. A sly look wouldn't tell me that. Nor would a whisper. Of course, the meeting notice may have been pinned and then blown free from my screen door and has spent the last two weeks or so blowing its way around the block and back again to where it started. That's another thing with words. There's always more than one possible truth to them. And that meeting, and my absence from it, still haunts. And, had I gone, I'd probably have been bored stiff. Words can heighten expectations
that will never be met. That's beyond the combined abilities of a bunch of regular people getting together and complaining about the noise at 127. By the way, today's treasure was the envelope from a missive sent to my new neighbor from the American Cheese Society, I've yet to shake hands with the man. But apparently we just met. —John Grey
The Lion's Den I dream a misty blue Around the crevices of my Eyes. Your candor does not exceed Any relic the past offered me; Nor does it bring comfort in Times of duress. All the winds blow against My face. I recall your lion's den Surrounding me with stale Air. For there in your mystic Eyes lurks a fierceness I cannot explain. Your aura is a dark purple. No light can break through. If only a song could turn The page, and lead me Back to myself. —Kiki Stamatiou
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Delivery
freed of hedging
It was best when I was still tethered to you, all weightless and bobbing as a balloon on its string frolics in the breeze. Drifting in my hollowness—helium brained, sustained in your womb’s atmosphere where nothing could puncture me without going through you first, there I floated protected until your grip slipped and the sky opened to receive me.
if there was an inter rupture would it be the same as being interrupted?
—Shawn Nacona Stroud This poem previously appeared in Issue # 48 of Down Dirty Word.
because you shattered so many things inside of me i don't know if i'll ever get them all sewn back together some wounds supersede even scars, and always remain as salt; you burn in my memories how many hours slip away out of the hour glass as i remain in this place of you and i? go now, goblin king, here in this place there is only room for one of us i will remain— too many hours, too many days wasted in that place of you & i now it's only me, and i will not weep; for i am freed of your hedging. —Linda M. Crate
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THE KEEPERS OF WATER Page 94, Braiding Sweetgrass, written by Robin Wall Kimmerer details, Among the Potawatomi people, women are the Keepers of Water. We carry the sacred water to ceremonies and act on its behalf. “Women have a natural bond with water, because we are both life bearers,” my sister said. “We carry our babies in internal ponds and they come forth into the world on a wave of water. It is our responsibility to safeguard the water for all our relations.” Being a good mother includes the care-taking of water. I held this nugget of wisdom in the periphery of consciousness until it resurfaced once again while I was doing journalistic coverage of Water Action Day at the Minnesota State Capital for Friends of the Mississippi River. A photographer and I were rushing to make crosswalk signals and squeezing in entryways trying to capture and follow two energetic grandmothers that were hustling to meet their city representative at the appointment time of 1:00pm. They knew exactly where they were going and I could barely walk fast enough to keep up. I certainly couldn’t write fast enough to catch everything they were saying— masterfully dancing through one water controversy and topic to another whilst shouting back verbiage to me like: This is Minnesota, come on! I looked to the photographer Anna Botz and mouthed the word, “Wow!” In a single-file trail we climbed the steps and turned the corner of the third floor of a marble-tombed government building where two women suddenly became ten—hi’s and hello’s and greetings of acknowledgement ensued--all women, and all involved in water action in some facet or another. Kimmerer's chapter became real life before my eyes.
A cacophony of blue fluttering scarves, water citizen pins and backpacks led the way through the maze of dark and quiet offices. Constant chatter and excitement over what they would say to him when they finally got his ear erupted into a scene with secretaries looking out over their cubicles as the storm approached. This group was so large, men in suits had to stand back and let them pass. I loved every second of disruption to order and civility they brought with them. When they stood at his door he emerged with raised eyebrows, “Looks like we are going to need a bigger room.” I soon would watch as each woman took the floor to explain why protecting Minnesota lakes and rivers is so important to them, asking him if he has children, asking him what his legacy will be to those kids. Laughing and winking with him when they said they intended to put him in the hot seat. Later I would leave that conference room and think back on all the days and years that I was doing something else; waiting a table at lunch, dropping a child at daycare or hustling to a lecture hall and I marveled at the thought that at every same instance, these women were probably here in this room--speaking on my behalf and the behalf of my kid's health and future. Some of them had been doing this for decades, I asked them. (How they weren't beyond disappointed with some backwards movement is beyond me and speaks to their blood-written role to stand their ground.) While it is nice to think that the legacy of clean air and water is being upheld by our grandmothers, the truth is they can't do it alone. They need help. And that isn't a dramatic cry for sympathy, it is a literal sentence. They need help.
All Water Keepers.
What I learned on Water Action Day is this: it is not within the wheelhouse of skills for our representatives to know what we the people always want, and probably impossible to stay abreast on every topic. They rely on the people to show up and tell them, educate them, lead the way. It doesn't have to be a rally or a protest either. You can mobilize a group of community and either invite your rep to show up to a community discussion on water or, go knock his/her door down. The key is to keep showing up. We all can be the Keepers of Water.
And how determined they were to fulfill their duty.
—Cole W. Williams
13 Art, Humor, Poetry, and the Pleasures of a Writer’s Life
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The Weight of Words Words used to have weight. you dreamt, pondered, philosophized then etched your words into eternity on stone, with stone, let it be known: These are my words! Heavy. Words too heavy to throw more than a couple meters from your own feet. Words used to be cherished. calligraphy in hand, slow pronouncement, acclaim for the perfect word for that subtle emotion, does this language possess it, search the world over: That perfect word! More than bread. One signed their name in blood. ~ A chic memo came about, bouncing off the geometric points of shoulder pads and women in the workplace, 1980’s an alley-oop into the technological generation, facsimile and the Bbbbrrrrrriing! of space-aged typewriters and telephones. Words started to move fast, we grew hasty with words. can we condense that? jealous of Morse code and cutting corners for the monster of time, we craved to slash more words palm pilot, secretary, post-it: Words started to run along the ground. Inspired by the Wright Brothers, words began to fly. A magician, the devil, comes along unfolding hands and throws the world’s words into the atmosphere, whalla! words have lost all weight, when one can call upon the beasts of the world from their fingertips: A mother and daughter share a uterus, the philosophy of Mengzi in three minutes, you won’t believe who Gene Wilder’s daughter is, in search of a parallel universe?
What is gained, What is lost, by the transmission of Story Time? The weight of words is now none, and everyone, a poet. A master of fates, an identity in space, hypermobility, a meme a gif a simple bird song. If the sun was to brilliantly shine golden, borrowed from the November leaves and scintillating mist, would you borrow that too? —Cole W. Williams
This Morning, A Hundred Years Ago This morning was a hundred years ago, could I ever recall the sweet ‘scape of pine, linen and promise? But I gave birth to a hungry blackbird, like the small gray tuft of baby loon we saw in the misty morning water— nagging at its mother until fed, I too look back at my tracks and see new tread. Stacking throughout the day, worn out and withered by imminence, when we finally meet again you remind me of what I said, find her in your dreams tonight, this morning is dead. —Cole W. Williams
14 Art, Humor, Poetry, and the Pleasures of a Writer’s Life
WINK: Writers in the Know – WinkWriters.com | Are YOU in it? Lady Liberty; Welcome to our new nation Of I, me, and mine.
Gardens: the colors Of the rainbow embraced by Varied shades of green.
Books branch out from but One thought bearing enough seeds To sow a large grove.
Images by Michael Rossberg
Michael Rossberg 15 Art, Humor, Poetry, and the Pleasures of a Writer’s Life
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Shadowed Thoughts Lightning splits the night Thunder responds to the call A storm is now born She awakens with a need to write, a need to scribe her thoughts, a need to express her emotions. She listens to the world around her and her pen listens as well. It begins to quiver with its own need, its own want to spill ink. She searches for words. Her pen, however, already hears the words whispering and begins to scribe....
Colorful Koi by Sue Midlock
UNQUENCHABLE THIRST a dream collapses into unquenchable thirst and unanswered thoughts She often ponders the journeys of her life, those borne in the steps of slow-footed time and those caught in the quickly moving winds of uncertainty. Her dreams and her reality collided so many times. Unanswered questions and unexplained reasons seemed to rule her heart and still her soul. Then she heard a whisper of faith and felt an unquestionable belief in her strength. Could she? Would she? Yes, she could and would conquer the lost moments, those borne in the captivity of denial. She trusted again. She believed again. She dreamed again. And finally, she loved again. He guided her. He inspired her. He moved her heart and strengthened her spirit. He was her Savior and He listened to her plea! Time moves at its own pace once more.... and she moves with it, content and understanding that she must. And questions? There is no longer a need to know the answers for they are not yet ready to be answered. This, too, she now understands and she is blessed. unquenchable thirst fleeting thoughts of passing time a dream still survives
Oh shadowed thoughts, why do you haunt? Why do you come to me at your will? You enter my heart and beat with its rhythm And my soul... you simply touch and hold it sill. I acquiesce to your bidding and allow you to enter For I have no other choice. You leave for me your words to write And to speak in your voice. I know there is a need in me To release the thought of you. Is this why you come? Is this your reason? Must I see your truth in your honesty's view? I give you my pen and give you my soul As your words speak only to me. You ask that I share them with others For perhaps your thoughts there is a need to see. Her pen now stills and she begins to breathe again, the breath of creativity. But she does not seek creativity's praise. Instead, she gives all praise to the thoughts that guide her pen. She hears those thoughts whispering upon the wind as they bid farewell, and she looks upward, smiles, and softly says, 'Thank you, Lord, for your gift.' Thunder escaping Clouds weeping thoughts from Heaven Lightning splits the night
—Myrna Dupre Badgerow
—Myrna Dupre Badgerow
16 Art, Humor, Poetry, and the Pleasures of a Writer’s Life
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Imagination’s Spirit I am like the moon, rising within ripples of midnight, floating upon waves of deep blue anticipation. I am sky's temptation in crystalline dress and dreams that tease and cajole words to touch, caress and quench thirst in starlit fire. I am a familiar face and an unknown entity, a footstep left behind and one waiting to be taken. I am imagination's spirit, candid yet secretive, bold yet demure, painted in vibrancy and on blank canvas, singing poetry's music and exploring its silent pause. I am flawed and I am perfection, sipping slowly of creativity's wine, allowing myself to spill my truth into the ink of time, bathing in the glow of revelations found in words which tell my story. Sometimes shrouded in clouds, Sometimes bright and watching, Always open to new thoughts, New adventures... I am like the moon.... rising. —Myrna D. Badgerow
fumbling shadow once alive the matchstick girl fumbles her fingers, and is given no mercy for it; she has one job they tell her one job and she is failing— they see her tears, but they do not know or care to see her pain; forsaken by everyone she only has herself and her shadow like ink upon the snow but there is nowhere she can call home but her tragedy so she continues to singing though with every note her heart is further breaking— there is no happy ending, and no knight to save her and she has not strength enough to leave this place; trapped in dire straights she continues with the job that steals away a part of her soul because rent won't pay itself after all even if she can't eat she tells herself it's worth it to see the moon in the night sky. —Linda M. Crate Moon by c.e. kasun
17 Art, Humor, Poetry, and the Pleasures of a Writer’s Life
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A CLUE The maple tree imagines itself as Miss Scarlet from Clue. She'll be done in by coming winter in the forest with the wind and drop in temperature. But by then she won't be Miss Scarlet at all. It'll be Colonel Mustard fluttering in November winds. Or Professor Plum, a rush of deeper color before death. And by December, Miss Scarlet, the Colonel, the Professor, will be long forgotten. There'll be nothing but frosty, shivering, skeletal Mrs. White. I think I know the answer. It was Reverend Green in the world with the seasons. —John Grey
“You never have to change anything you got up in the middle of the night to write.” ―Saul Bellow 18 Art, Humor, Poetry, and the Pleasures of a Writer’s Life
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Designer Vanity
Mining First, I shovel words, crackling like churned earth. Forage deep for those riches buried in my depths. Then, sift out pronouns and adjectives as if grit from oil—perpetually clogging one’s ingenuity.
This skin is not Prada, Gucci or Versace— it was purchased in purgatory at the Gap Outlet on the corner. Stitched tight in the flesh suit, I became a mirror gazer, a Snow Queen, how I’ve loathed that cast-back face.
Now shall I pan for imagery? This nugget is a simile, here a chunk of metaphor. Observe how dense they both are rising as they do to the very top of my mind when everything else simply sinks— the clinks of dying lines striking the bottom.
All day stealing into bathrooms to sneak weary peeks at my ravished portrait— watching age etch its many mars.
Their splendor is nearly blinding— glimmers that speak of wealth and greed and a need, always such a need for something other. I’ve struck gold—poem jazzing up my page like pyrite.
I did anything to be designer then— washing and washing to fade, desperately stitching on labels, and tearing twin holes in my newness. Never able to copy them properly, finally, only tatters remained, and every mirror mocked me— sticking out its tongue at my attempts.
At first the changes were subtle, a spot here, a pock there— the facial geography slowly shifted with time.
What a fool my reflection has been, always focused on what I lack— regardless we end up pressed together on the same second-hand rack. This poem previously appeared in Eunoia Review.
Featured Poet: Shawn Nacona Stroud 19 Art, Humor, Poetry, and the Pleasures of a Writer’s Life
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a Luke Hastings, Crime Scene Photographer short-short “I quit being afraid when my first venture failed and the sky didn’t fall down.” —Allen H. Neuharth, founder of USA Today “What exactly are you trying to hide from this jury, Mr. Hastings?” Luke withered under the onslaught from the prosecutor. What was this guy’s problem, anyway? He was after all his witness! The defense attorney stood. “Your honor, objection. Are you going to let him berate his own witness like this?” Justice Gustafson waved the guy down. Luke glanced at the guy in the robes. He looked like his dad: old (c’mon, 43!), but kind. The defense attorney sat back down, and the prosecutor leaned in even closer to him. “Mr. Hastings, I’ve got a question pending.” Luke tried to disappear into the witness chair and focused on how it creaked under his slight weight. (Dad was right—he really did need to quit smoking.) “What is it you don’t want this jury to know, young man? Why are you trying to slant everything in this defendant’s favor? Some connection we should know about? Huh?” Luke looked at the defendant—a kid no older than he was himself: 22. Luke cast his eyes toward the prosecutor. “Nothnothing, sir.” His voice cracked, like when he was a kid. He was soaked in sweat—his wool sportcoat, a hand-medown from his cousin, reeked. “I mean…” “What do you mean? Huh?” The big, burly man with the salt-and-pepper moustache pounded on the witness-box railing. “What?” “Jesus, mister,” he muttered. He sat up in the chair. He looked at the judge. The jury. The defense attorney. At the blow-ups of his crime-scene photographs he’d taken so meticulously, so carefully. He’d poured every ounce of his education, experience, and God-given talents into them. It
wasn’t enough. He stared at the defendant again. The guy’s blue eyes welled with tears, his face a mask of pleading. Why didn’t someone tell me about all this responsibility? I didn’t ask for any of this. Why won’t that kid stop staring at me? I never asked to hold his future in my lens. “Are you admitting, then, in this courtroom, in front of all these people, today, that you’re nothing but a hack shutterbug?” “No!” Luke jumped when Justice Gustafson slammed down his gavel. “Okay, enough,” the judge stated. Mr. salt-and-pepper threw up his hands. “I have no further questions for this so-called expert, your honor.” He returned to his table and sat with a huff. The defense attorney stood. “Mr. Hastings? Son?” Luke blinked at him and pushed himself up in the creaky wood seat. Memories of sitting at the kid’s table at Thanksgiving flashed across his brain. Luke looked all around the courtroom. Everyone was staring at him. People in the gallery snickered. He clenched and unclenched his fists several times. He’d promised himself he’d never let himself be laughed at again. He glanced at the defendant again and decided then and there he was going to stand behind his findings and honor what they said, whatever that was. “You’re doin’ fine, son,” the defense attorney told him. He walked over to Luke’s exhibits. “Just walk us through these blow-ups.” Luke sat up straight in the old wood chair and jerked it so it stopped creaking. He took a deep breath. “Sorry, sir. This is my first time testifying.” He hooked his finger under the knot of his tie. “I think everyone here’s guessed that, son.” The defense attorney circled back around to his table and put a hand on his young client’s shoulder. “Mr. Hastings, in your expert opinion, does the photographic evidence support my client’s claim of self-defense?” “Yes.” Luke glanced at the prosecutor and just let the guy glare back at him. “Please explain your answer.” Luke picked up the laser pointer. “In photograph #1 blown up here, the pattern of the scuff marks on the wood floor indicate…”
20 Art, Humor, Poetry, and the Pleasures of a Writer’s Life
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