Cantos 2018 by Missouri Baptist University

Cantos

A Literary and Arts Journal Missouri Baptist University 2018

CONTENTS Poetry 4 5 7 9 12 13 15 17 19 20

“Escaping the River’s Banks” and “Dividing the Walls” Ozark Haiku “Not Really an Elegy” and other poems “Dance Fever” and other poems “Old Poets Hope They Will Never Die” and other poems “Hospital Antics” and other poems “Breaking Free” and other poems “A Song” and other poems Life in Stages: Some of My Favorite Things “icy wind” and other poems

Harding Stedler Ben Moeller-Gaa Emma Kirksey Faye Adams Mary Kennan Herbert Nancy LaChance Billy J. Adams Pat Durmon Paula Nunning Donald W. Horstman

24-38 FEATURED POET: Terrie Jacks 39 40 42 45 48 54 56 58 61 63 67

“Toads” and other poems “Window Weights” and other poems “Reflections” and other poems “Never Lose Faith” and other poems “The Ant and the Grasshopper” and other poems “Make Us Forget” and other poems “Epilogue for William Carlos Williams” and other poems “Mom Talks Turkey” and other poems “Expectations before Marriage” and other poems “the wind” and other haiga Haiku Pilgrimage to Tokyo, Japan: Photos and Haiku

Dale Ernst Patricia A. Laster James Maxfield Raymond Kirk James Fowler Marcel Toussaint✝ John McPherson Shirley Blackwell Barbara Goerdel Carol Sue Horstman John J. Han

Excerpts from Sharecropper’s Daughter “Cotton Patch” and “Losing Mother Twice” “My Daddy’s Friend” and “Miss Susie” Dublin Assurance My Last Lecture Wisdom for Generations Twenty-First Century Multimodal Tutoring Not Just One Chance to Master: Standards-Based Grading in an ELA Classroom The Shepherd of the Hills: The Novel and the Movie

Faye Adams Billy J. Adams Jo A. Baldwin Rusty Rogers Matthew C. Easter Hannah Brauer David Harman Cristin Sattler

Prose 76 82 87 92 95 100 103 106 110

Krista Tyson

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On Writing Creatively 114 117 122

The Poetry of Ted Kooser and the Confrontation of Diminishment Speculations Three-Liners for Amusement and Reflection: The Rise of Entertainment Haiku in English

Visual Art by Coral Christopher 10 “The Swoop before the Soar” 14 “Sunday Reflections” 44 “Light of My Path” 53 “Cause and Effect” 57 “Hope Resting” 60 “Boss Mare” 62 “The Hedge” Visual Art by John J. Han 6 “Spring Greetings” 8 “A Tree House” 16 “Raindrops” 18 “Countless” 19 “Spring Buds” 41 “An Alien” 47 “Mary and Baby Jesus” 74 “The Julian Alps” 81 “Distant View of Mount Fuji” 86 “Deepening Autumn” 94 “Serenity” 99 “Angry E.T.” 102 “Still Bright” 105 “Frozen Bubbles” 112 “After Three Days” 132 “Longing”

133

Notes on Contributors

139

Submission Guidelines

Phillip Howerton John Zheng John J. Han

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“Personality is everything in art and poetry.” —Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749-1832) “The purpose of literature is to turn blood into ink.” ―T.S. Eliot (1888-1965) “The most complicated skill is to be simple.” ―Dejan Stojanovic (b. 1959)

Poetry

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Two Poems Harding Stedler Escaping the River’s Banks

Dividing the Walls

They’re gone. Since I was here last, they up and sprouted legs and wandered off, maybe to an island in the middle of the river. I came to write today, but there is no place to sit and the air is full of images that I can neither capture nor record.

The walls are filled with lacquered oils at the Starving Artist Cafe. On days I eat there, I want to buy the walls to take home with me and divide.

What’s with those migrant tables that have abandoned me in August, that no longer need my company, that no longer need me to record their voices? Will they remember me from miles downstream when winter calls?

I see the clown in full regalia for the headquarters of the local arts council, one to greet visitors with as they part the foyer walls when they make entry. I recognize in shadowbox the century-old violin that needs to hang above the entrance to the performing arts center in our town. The collage of bones I’d like to display in the waiting room of Dr. Ripplesword’s office so patients can be entertained by skeletal tarsal sounds. The abandoned barn in disrepair and in need of paint is a framed piece I will offer the local superintendent because the barn once stood where the school now stands. I dream of bringing our town alive with art and letting it speak to all who pass. I dream that all who do will feast on imaginations of folks who will never grow old.

Ozark Haiku Ben Moeller-Gaa late summer night the pace of stars and satellites

all day rain the weight of trees in my bones

farm pond— the way the heron fills it

morning fog the suddenness of deer

shifting embers the glow of everyone breathing

the singer’s mandolin— each and every curve of this country road

autumn chill a rustle of leaves in my chest

in and out of the rusted shed moonshine

one fox now two… moonlit path

dusk the old gate sags into its shadow

winter oak my mind also stripped bare

bend in the river roots drinking up the dawn

evening heat the rise and fall of the fiddle bow

one tree then the rest of them autumn wind

the moth returning to the window evening rain

picking up after the storm… frog songs

rising through the coal train’s clatter cicadas

the night has gone dry whisky moon

morning drizzle the way they sway in the pine bagworms high noon the hawk’s wing missing feathers

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Publication credits: “last summer night”: Cantos 2017 “farm pond —”: Cattails April 2017 “shifting embers: The Heron’s Nest XIX:1 (2017) “autumn chill”: Shamrock 36 (2017) “one fox”: World Haiku Review Winter 2017 “winter oak”: World Haiku Review Winter 2017 “evening heat”: hedgerow 101 (2017) “the moth”: hedgerow 101 (2017) “rising through”: The New English Verse (Cyberwit, 2017), edited by Suzie Palmer “morning drizzle”: The New English Verse (Cyberwit, 2017), edited by Suzie Palmer “high noon”: Cattails September 2016 “all day rain”: Modern Haiku 47.3 (2016) “morning fog”: Acorn 37 (2016) “the singer’s mandolin—“: Modern Haiku 47.2 (2016) “in and out”: Cattails May 2016 “dusk”: Cattails May 2016 (2016) “bend in the river”: December 27.1 (2016) “one tree”: The Heron’s Nest XVIII:1 (2016) “picking up” (stand-alone hokku): Under the Basho 2015 “the night”: Chrysanthemum 18 (2015)

John J. Han, “Spring Greetings” (Jackson, MS)

“Not Really an Elegy” and Other Poems Emma Kirksey

Not Really an Elegy

a teacher once told me

I stubbed my toe today outside the place he used to work

all poetry is about Death and at the boiled down core of all the words Death sits, bright-eyed, universally recognized as the Surest Thing

watching his window I tried to press the throb away but it didn’t help I had to walk like that

for years i thought i housed Death in a room fully furnished by the words and i took the seat of an interrogator, the walls postered with unanswered questions i thought i began to understand Death’s twisted mind and bright, bright eyes gathering understanding, wisdom, maybe, prepping myself for the possibility of someday becoming a Witness or a Hand to Hold in these Trying Times to say I’m sorry and he’s in a better place and blah blah blah and know But i was wrong.

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so America was a rebellious pastor’s kid (or the one thing she should have kept) i get it. she snubbed her nose at her parent’s royal hands, got some tattoos in hard ink— brave signatures scrawled across her collarbone, her side, her forehead, even. she stapled herself with piercings and just kept gaining— first a row in her ear, then a stud in her bellybutton, blimey, even her tongue. she claimed each one. she dyed the tips of her hair atomic blue, tossed the fierce color in the wind so her parents could see. she couldn’t back out, i guess, couldn’t accept advise when she was too far gone. but why, America, you pastor’s kid, did you have to lose all connection? Why turn to coffee when you had honey-soaked tea? Why not keep your parents’ notion of no-gap bathroom stalls?

John J. Han, “A Tree House” (Manchester, MO)

â&#x20AC;&#x153;Dance Feverâ&#x20AC;? and Other Poems Faye Adams

Dance Fever

Elastic Families

(Villanelle) We dance to strains of music for the thrill for when musicians play we feel the beat. Great music is a balm for every ill. Sometimes we dance until we feel the chill and cringe because of numbness in our feet. We dance to strains of music for the thrill. Three times a week we hoof a practice drill. We must prepare for soon we shall compete. Great music is a balm for every ill. Our mated moves require a heap of skill, to master them makes us appear elite. We dance to strains of music for the thrill. Our perfect form could garner us a frill at Silver Games; to win the Gold is sweet. Great music is a balm for every ill. Our troupe performs the dance without a spill we bring our medals home clutched like a treat. We dance to strains of music for the thrill. Great music is a balm for every ill.

In this wonky day and time, this favored temperate clime dares suggest wisdom's course espouse prevalent societal force.* Family tree boundaries, stretched by current modes like an old elastic band, accept new branches hung precariously on the old sturdy trunk. Old Limbs, newly bushed with leaves, bear prefixes with measuring sounds; third, adopted, step, half or followed by modifiers; in-law, live-in, significant other. Partners and lovers tied on with slippery ribbons, names entered in a ledger, yet not with permanent ink. Disjointed families, add-ons, and second family births leave our children wondering to whom they belong. *Adulterated quote from Susan Elizabeth George, A Traitor to Memory (Bantam, 2001), p. 87.

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Waltzing in the Great Room (An Ekphrastic poem)

I Love a Rainy Night The beat of the old song sets our feet to tapping out the rhythm.

“When you have the option to sit it out or dance, I hope you dance.”

Whether it’s Shift Work, Back Track, or Stray Cat Strut, the dance fever hits when the music sounds. In rows of four, or five, we move in tandem; first left, then right, our feet performing a symphony of sound, our bodies a ballet of movement, our minds dancing on the high wire.

Pairs of lovers, dancing into forever on the sands of a moonlit beach, brought words of the song winging into my heart. My feet picked up notes wafting against eardrums transferring sensory response to torso and limbs as I joined them on the sand. Painting: “Dance Me to the End of Love,” by Jack Vertriano, Portland Gallery, London.

Coral Christopher, “The Swoop before the Soar”

I Still Can’t Jitterbug We plugged the jukebox nonstop, early 50’s soft rock or jitterbug. That open-air dance floor shook with a beat, steady and loud. My body rode the waves, nerved through skin and bone, blood pulsing hot with desire, but too shy to try. Friends and cousins heated the floor in dancing frenzy, on feet programmed by memory, fueled by rhythm. I burned with envy. Cousin Verna said, “I’ll teach you.” Later, she cried, “I give up. You’ll never learn.” 40 years later, my dancing soul still yearned, as the line-dance craze swept the country, border to border, and beyond. Braver, stronger, more confident, I plunged headlong, and proved her wrong. I line-dance to Cowboy Charleston, Jitterbug Boogie, and Slappin’ Leather, but I still can’t jitterbug.

I Believe God Invented Dancing Know why I think this way? Go watch the tall grass sway and the faint flutter of leaves responding to summer breeze. Catch robin’s “bob and run,” searching for wiggle worm, or dolphins’ graceful glide, with his companion beside. Trace a monarch’s pirouette, before it comes to rest still clinging to its ruff. Even stars of the night shimmy and bounce in my sight; there’s no earthly reason why, in abandon, should not I throw caution to the wind, cut myself loose, twirl and spin, raise my arms in ardent praise, for glorious dance-filled days!

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“Old Poets Hope They Will Never Die” and Other Poems Mary Kennan Herbert

Old Poets Hope They Will Never Die Their only hope is the dance of words, shards of memory, torn pictures, drawings from third grade, a note written to mom: I am sorry. There you have it, language is our sole tool we must use and write into our soul. Affix a stamp or send it into the ether, we must not worry. They’re waiting for my dancing words, no? Or a quick sketch with a prized pencil— something to keep, or to send to those we love.

Spring Is a Fickle Lady Self-centered as we are, in our happy land of humanity with icing on our cake— snow has returned again, our unloved star, our notoriety, smothering daffodils while we sleep, even when we're awake! Spring then races out of sight tonight. The wind echoes her as she trills, “Relax, it’s just a dream— ignore that stake.”

Tales of Missouri Wildlife Fishing in the Mississippi my brother hopes for turtles heading south, or bass and monster gar. I opt for the sleepy nearby slough. Bream might take my minnow and the fat earthworms in our car. Dug up this morning in our yard, they occupy my thoughts even now. I ignore the water moccasin coiled near my toes, but hold on, no imminent attack by serpent— it simply wants to swim away to a more interesting destination.

“Hospital Antics” and Other Poems Nancy LaChance Hospital Antics (Haibun) I ate lunch in the hospital cafeteria the day my great grandson Scott was due to be born. He took his slow time and waited another day to make his appearance. constant influx some leave with to-go meals some sit at tables Granddaughter lay in her labor room bed. She could not get up. She could not even eat real food; she was offered popsicles or Jell-O. Both she disdained. my lunch choice cordon blue loaded baked potato eaten on the sly I was the labor coach for fourteen hours. When April, her mother, arrived, I was free to leave. After I ate the supper April brought me, I slipped out the door. McDonald’s burger fries on the side, soda too drive-through feast

Not the Cleanest House on the Block When the kids were little tykes, I did vacuuming at least once a week and dusting more often than that. Sad to say, life got in the way caring for mom and writing hours each day. Now the vacuum seldom moves dust is inches thick If any cleaning gets done, my husband wants to know, “Who’s coming to visit?”

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Water Ballet

In 1740

Sun glistens on the Meramec where canoes float on August days tree lined banks, the audience, watch the performers’ synchronized paddles lift in and out of placid water.

Unlikely place for a rice field in South Carolina back-breaking work sloshing in soupy mud planting, replanting, weeding slaves pressed into service due to the drudgery the thriving plantation held the world’s odious record— leading rice producer for two hundred years

Coral Christopher, “Sunday Reflections”

“Breaking Free” and Other Poems Billy J. Adams

Breaking Free

Christmas Surprise

Once I flew among the stars. Sometimes almost touching them, but gravity pulled me down, and stapled me to earth’s crust.

He stared out the window at the trees at the edge of his yard. Bare tree limbs stretched like black lightning bolts toward a pewter sky.

With my feet firmly attached, I gaze with envy as an eagle and a hawk soar free in the sky. At night, I watch an owl gliding through the forest on silent, downy wings. I gaze at the stars, winking silently, and long to break free from my prison and soar in the heavens, free at last.

It was Christmas eve. Still no snow. His small face mirrored his disappointment. Christmas vacation would be over and he wouldn’t be able to go tubing down the big hill with his friends. He woke to bright sunlight streaming into his bedroom window. Christmas morning! He jumped out of bed and ran to the window. The whole world was covered with a pristine white blanket. Stillness hung in the air. In the center of his view was his old wagon piled with gifts? Out of the largest box with a red bow peered two small faces. Kittens from the neighbor’s cat that he held in his arms a month ago and marveled at the miracle of new life. Perhaps there is a God after all.

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Cool Cat With his hair slicked back, his lithe body glides across the room. A picture of confidence, if he makes a mistake, he pretends that was the plan all along. His name is “Slick Willie” He’s a cool cat and he really is a cat.

Dance of the Trees Their spidery brown limbs sway in a slow waltz to the soft morning breeze. In the interior of the forest, a solitary tree begins to sway, gently at first, then rapidly. An invisible hand moves through the woodland, spurring individual trees into wild gyrations. The mood passes and they resume their sedate dance.

John J. Han, “Raindrops” (Mascoutah, IL)

“A Song” and Other Poems Pat Durmon

A Song The mistletoe with its brittle leaves. Fragileness curled around its bony spine. A spine of such intricate detail. In my palm lay bits and pieces of Christmas, now falling apart. Apart from a cardinal singing, I am alone. I watch the redbird through the window trilling his song. A song, a hint of hope. I took it. Mine now.

Heartbreak Dream Last night I was a kid again in North Little Rock, wandering around in an empty lot unrestricted by fences. A hot sun overhead watched like an umpire. My big brother, regal at bat. Younger siblings, clustered, cheering off and on. I wallowed in my unbroken family— Mama and Daddy laughing, toddlers building a bird nest on the ground. Me, smiling as a kid again in North Little Rock, under the care of the happiest sun ever to shine, never to shine like that again.

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Baptism Last Sunday, when I could think, the pastor said, You belong to Jesus now. Felt right as rain during a drought. I want my meanness gone. Now I stand in water with the pastor. He asks the question. Yes. Stretching his hand toward heaven, he speaks, “. . . in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.” My mind dwells on drowning, drowning, drowning. Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes, hold my nose, and do the back-bend of surrender.

John J. Han, “Countless” (Kirkwood, MO)

Life in Stages: Some of My Favorite Things Paula Nunning My T.S. Eliot Slowly, slithering Black ice with green eyes staring Ponders his new prey. The Harvest The chill in the air The brilliant fire of color Fall has settled in. Winter in Maine Biting wind on cheeks Froth capping the waves of ice The lighthouse stands watch. 60 Keys Ivory in tune Black in sharps and flats with time Long live my music!

John J. Han, â&#x20AC;&#x153;Spring Budsâ&#x20AC;? (Manchester, MO)

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“icy wind” and Other Poems Donald W. Horstman

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Featured Poet _____________________________________________________________________________________

Terrie Jacks

Terrie Jacks graduated from the University of Missouri with a B.S. in Education. She has taught school, substituted, and currently volunteers as an Oasis Tutor. She has lived in several different states and spent several years in England. When her two sons were young, she made up stories to entertain them. Now her grandchildren give her inspiration for stores and poems. Her poems have been published in Cantos, Fireflies’ Light, Oasis Journal, Spare Mule, Grist, Cattails, Failed Haiku: A Journal of English Senryu, and Galaxy of Verse. Some of her stories have appeared in The Right Words and Flash. For several years, she illustrated Korean folktales retold by John Han that were published in the Korean-American Journal. She continues to illustrate her poems and sometimes enters them in local art exhibits.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ (In her own words) Why do I write? Well, because I do. I have been asked if I have always liked to write. I’m not sure I’ve always liked to write stories, but I have written hundreds of letters. Living far from family it was an inexpensive form of communication with Mom, Grandmother, Aunt, Mother-in-law, and friends.

When my children came along, I told them stories. I was often asked if I was writing them down. Slowly I began to do that. An illness gave me time to reflect on the humorous side of being ill. Maybe it was a side effect of the medication. That was the beginning of my poetry writing. Shel Silverstein’s poetry books were a favorite of my children. At times, I read his work, and then I would sit down to write. He is great inspiration for me. My poems nag at me. A phrase will catch my attention, then beg to become a verse. It will repeat over and over until pen and paper must be found. I use spiral notebooks to scribble my verses, sometimes rewriting them many times. Then they are put on the computer for the final finishing touches. Sometimes it comes to me without labor; other times the poem takes hours of work. Yet, the mind is wonderful: I can put an idea in, let it root around, and before I know it, a verse is created. I have no secret for writing poems; I say give it a try. Have fun with it, get your emotions out. Writing is a great tool; you will be surprised at what you can do. Recently I have been working with some people at Lafayette Industries* in Manchester, Missouri, helping them to write poems. There are 6-8 poets who meet with me once a month. We write about holidays, sports, animals, pets, and family. Sometimes it is a three-line verse, and other times it rambles on forever. I am always impressed with what they produce. The following are two examples of poems from the workshop: ghosts are white and spooky they say boo! —By Casey

Alison Blue Her hair is too She wears a shoe Without a clue Alison Blue —By Alison *Lafayette Industries is a work center for adults with developmental disabilities and Missouri’s largest full-time employer of these adults. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ (Published works) cattails—Haiku snow cover wrapped in a quilt watching Olympic skiers (May 2014)

petals on the wind spring prom (Jan. 2015)

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March the many colors of spring wheat (May 2015)

jogger passes me on the path again (April 2017)

fireflies— the light before dawn burns steady (Sept. 2015)

the car stuck in neutral my mind shifts (April 2018)

humid day (even the) dove’s call is sluggish (Jan. 2016)

downsizing the woman struggles with excess (April 2018)

the distance between raindrops and splashing (May 2016)

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stillness before the children dawn (Sept. 2016)

________________________________ cattails—Senryu billboard: dentures $99 cheap choppers (Jan. 2015) appointments desk— a senior moment forgetting my age (Jan. 2016) Pilates session . . . stretching also my resolve (Jan. 2016) travel cup lids circling the globe one sip at a time (Jan. 2016)

cattails—Tanka artist supplies overwhelm my worktable everything needed waiting for the day I’m overcome by desire (May 2015—an editor’s choice) your hand resting on my arm is tender— the butterfly that sips nectar from a blossom (Sept. 2015) bedtime an owl prompts memories of childhood a 9 o’clock whistle once made my head nod (Jan. 2016) phone silent family and friends busy on the porch a breeze stirs the wind chimes (April 2017)

birch limbs— long thin fingers of an ancient hand, wrinkled and pale, lured by the sun (Oct. 2017)

________________________________ Failed Haiku shadows in dark corners unseen connections (Vol. 2, Issue 13, Dec. 1, 2016) road trip souvenirs, pictures, memories bug spats (Vol. 2, Issue 13, Dec. 1, 2016) winter the rush to slip and slide (Vol. 2, Issue 14, Jan. 1, 2017) senior center a man plays solitaire (Vol. 2, Issue 17, April 1, 2017) old school pen won’t write no refills (Vol. 2, Issue 18, May 1, 2017) new school computer doesn’t work power outage (Vol. 2, Issue 18, May 1, 2017) mowing the lawn a hit and miss proposition (Vol. 2, Issue 18, May 1, 2017) out of the blue a feather drops (Vol. 2, Issue 19, June 1, 2017)

my love of coffee runs hot and cold (Vol. 2, Issue 19, June 1, 2017) on the edge of the road, a possum playing possum (Vol. 2, Issue 19, June 1, 2017) rain a new map forms on the window (Vol. 2, Issue 19, June 1, 2017) delete, delete, delete senior moments (Vol. 2, Issue 20, Aug. 1, 2017) too late to dream the alarm rings (Vol. 2, Issue 20, Aug. 1, 2017) sound of distant thunder drum solo (Vol. 2, Issue 20, Aug. 1, 2017) winter walk homes and I exhale warmth (Vol. 2, Issue 21, Sept. 1, 2017) spring repair oiling the hinge on the door my joints screech (Vol. 2, Issue 21, Sept. 1, 2017) small dog out for a walk little squirt (Vol. 2, Issue 22, Oct. 1, 2017) rummaging through hashtags for illumination (Vol. 2, Issue 22, Oct. 1, 2017)

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merry-go-round the ups and downs of some circles

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my purse the world of lost (Vol. 2, Issue 23, Nov. 1, 2017)

across the wheat fields lengthening shadows waltz (Sept. 29, 2017)

her southern drawl s-o-o sl-o-o-w my ears have trouble keeping up (Vol. 2, Issue 23, Nov. 1, 2017)

letters tied with a ribbon precious moments (Oct. 6, 2017)

cooking school chefs outside reviewing how to smoke (Vol. 2, Issue 24, Dec. 1, 2017) Grandmaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Thanksgiving a feast to remember wine to forget (Vol. 2, Issue 24, Dec. 1, 2017)

Asahi Shimbun

precious moments the morning hoot of an owl (Nov. 3, 2017) Thanksgiving the sound of family snoring (Dec. 1, 2017)

________________________________ Oasis Journal 2012 laundry exercise laundry basket overflows top bend and stretch do a little hop fold five things put them away dance a little bit add a little sway hang that shirt match some socks fold the towels laundry rocks skip to my Lou heal and toe empty basket is the goal.

_______________________________ Oasis Journal 2014 My Shadow Dances I do not dance. I move about a veteran of my age. But my shadow does. It dances on the wall. I do wish it would behave. It dips and stretches, bends and twirls, stands tall upon its toes, gives a skip, then a swirl, ouch! a backward dip, at the end it hops, leaps and spins, then gives an elegant bow. I do not applaud for watching it makes me I yearn to dance once more tired. Why doesn’t it behave? Yet envious I wish I could dance like the shadow on the wall.

________________________________ Oasis Journal 2015 Nature’s Magic It’s winter. Melancholy has found me. It’s come for another visit reminds me you’re gone. I don’t need a reminder. The empty house is enough. I need a distraction. I dress warm, go outside, take a walk,

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find an undisturbed path in the park.

Ahead I see a shelter, a shelter with two wooden benches made from cedar logs sawed in half. The backs and legs are branches of various thicknesses. The roof is held up by rough logs, some still have their shaggy bark. This wooden retreat reminds me of you. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a comforting place to rest. Slumbering plants surround me, a bird sings, a squirrel scampers by. On occasion other people take the path. One couple seems to be getting acquainted, they stop, converse with me, then move on. He takes her hand. The hush returns. Another couple appears, walking apart except for conversation. They travel along the path checking out the winter sights. Avoiding the shelter. A third couple absorbed with each other, kiss, hold hands and drift away. I release a long sigh. I miss you. The tranquility is soothing. I sit awhile longer breathing in the crisp air. The sun begins to disappear. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s time to leave. Heading home I smile, content. Nature weaved its magic. * Sometimes I Wish . . . Into myself and turned away nothing I do is important today except for the dog no one cares, no way. No one asks or wants to know am I alive, how does it go? They all have their lives,

which is how it should be, but sometimes, I wish they’d think of me. I often phone, say “Hello.” they tell me, “Busy, they’ve got to go.” When I visit I sit alone making me feel I should have stayed home. People tell me their children care phoning, visiting, always aware, sharing a meal or taking a trip. Sounds like fun, where did I slip? Then I remember that old proverb about a son and his wifehow Mom becomes unimportant in his life. Was I that way to the Moms in my life? when they were alone and I was a wife. But I’m a daughter and not a son and now I’m alone, a party of one. So into myself and turned away nothing I do is important today, except for the dog no one cares, no way. They all have their lives, which is how it should be, but sometimes, I wish they’d think of me. * Exercise Time Bend and stretch touch your toes stand up tall wiggle your nose Flex your arms count to four take a walk flex some more Sit right down march in place marching low is no disgrace Tap your toes then your heels clap your hands give a little squeal

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Stand back up behind your chair dance a bit waltz a square Now it’s time stand tippy-toes hold the chair don’t fall on your nose Okay now sit back down stretch a bit smile don’t frown Clap and shout Hip-hip-hooray we’re all done for today

________________________________ Oasis Journal 2016 remembered and glorified yesteryear when things were simpler bread was a nickel pickles in a barrel a bucket of beer black and white movies green hornet the model-t the dust bowl the depression Lindbergh’s kidnapping polio epidemics two world wars rationing the simple life now remembered and glorified wasn’t that simple when lived * The White Marker The white marker bears your name

glares at me when I visit a painful reminder of my sorrow Glancing around the other white markers bear names of women who have died you are surrounded by women I wonder, does that make you happy? then I think it’s a good thing I’m not the jealous type for if I were and you weren’t already dead you would be * Picnic Party Picnic party Come one Come all I came The bees came The ants came The flies came The rain came Everyone else stayed home

________________________________ Oasis Journal 2017 The Old Tire Swing In the middle of the yard a tall tree with a swing an old tire swing. A swing where I swung, when I was small and young. Many an hour of the day

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I whiled away in that old tire swing. Then I became a friend to a boy, who seemed to enjoy making me spin. So I’d spin, he’d grin and many hours of the day we whiled away spinning that old tire swing. I grew up, left for school, came home holidays, as a rule. Then in a moment my life changed, was rearranged. Upset and confused, I spent many hours of the day crying in that old tire swing. A few years passed Re-met my spinning guy. He smiled in such a way that my heart did a ballet and on our special day we declared our love while standing by the old tire swing. My life has moved on, both parents and husband are gone. I have a small family of my own and my young daughter, Joan, in the shade of the tree spends many hours of the day whiling away in that old tire swing. * Coming to a Kitchen near You News flash! The new monster movie The Refrigerator is a warning. Be prepared. Watching it may change you forever. It’s the story of a young girl making an innocent purchase of a new refrigerator that turned into a fight for her life.

Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s unnerving this horror in the kitchen. Come see. Learn the warning signs. Could your refrigerator be the same? For your own protection you mustnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t miss this movie. See The Refrigerator, the tale of how a fridge Re-ate-her. Coming to a theatre or kitchen near you. ____________________________________________________________________________

(Unpublished works) Redawning Yesterday the sun rose it was called dawn today the sun rose again the sun is redawning. * The Humdrums My hair has the humdrums; dull, dry, drab, dreary, same old hairstyle. it needs a boost, a hint of tint. Do you like orange? * slide the slippery slide so ice encased, sends sliders zipping down its slick slope-weee! *

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The Lobby Off to the lobby to sit in my space to stare out the window at the image of my face. To gather my thoughts take time to unwind share a word with myself as thoughts pass through my mind. All in a chair that others pass by as they travel to and fro and often say "Hi!" * ice storm home bound icy, slippery caution on the roads stay home, don’t go, it’s closed anyway * my water exercise class in water exercise one couple arrives late always that’s okay instructor is late always that’s all right, too Sarge takes over a one and a two over the years many students repeat class remedial learners small groups form latest gossip discussed Chinwaggers United

follow our leader no one does the same thing confusion reigns lifeguard on duty struts around the pool checks the clock foam weights and noodles together and apart hard-core workout run in place jumping-jacks, ski, rocking horse twenty minutes more time to stretch arms widespread, inhale, exhale we’ve done it Yeah! * Ice Jam The river’s not flowing Ice Jam ahead, if I were the Titanic ice I would dread. “Yikes! Frozen river!” The barge driver said, “Break out your ice picks! Ice Jam ahead.” A pickin’ ‘n breakin’ frozen river into chunks. Ice Jam ahead. Chop-chop-plunk-plunk. Ice Jam ahead no longer the cry since its breakup it’s Ice Jam - bye-bye. *

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Faded Memories With the passage of time family photos haphazardly glued in an album become faded memories of a bygone era, when things were different: hair, cars, clothes Yet, the same: family gatherings, playing in the yard, holding a new baby. Strangers stare back at me, family members unknown. Do they wish to be remembered? as they vanish into oblivion in these fading photos. I make up names. Nobody is alive to tell me different. The people in the photos donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t seem to mind. Their smiles remain the same maybe, just maybe, a bit more obscure.

Three Poems Dale Ernst TOADS These toads seem real hopping about—yet is it just the mist playing tricks, so to speak, so to see—who knows? These tricks of the morning, these tricks of the morning. When I reach out my hand and think I have one in my grasp … it’s not there. These toads that disappear with the morning mist.

MARCH STUDY OF APRICOT Clear blue sky Buds starting to show March wind Buds starting to show Apricot tree swaying With March wind Apricot tree swaying With the wind Buds against clear blue sky

CHILL IN THE AIR

Budding apricot Silhouetted against clear blue sky Sways with the wind

This morning there’s a Chill in the air and a touch Of frost on the ground. Autumn leaving and winter Soon to take its place. I put some music on— A certain line or phrase, And even after all these years— In the heart, does one loved Ever leave?

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“Window Weights” and Other Poems Patricia A. Laster

Window Weights

Fears

In our Depression-era house, the ropes attached to window weights rotted, sending them thudding to their graves inside wooden frames.

In seventy years … you get to know a thing or two. –– Ted Koozer

Forever after, we propped those windows open with painted lengths of quarter-round that stood firm against the windows’ weight.

To a child, the sound of a burglar at the window? Only vines of ivy romancing the screens. Ghostly shadows on window shades? Mere sketches by the moon beyond the mulberry tree. The Mackinaw-ed hunchback sleeping on the table by the door? Line-dried clothes waiting to be sprinkled and rolled for ironing. A mouse skittering across the linoleum late at night? It really was a mouse.

(Haiku) two-leaf sprouted acorn in the eponymous plant for Palm Sunday

* No Stopping It! (Cinquain) Empty rolling plastic bag gets run over by an auto, but keeps on rolling… rolling.

* Pointillism —à la Li Po One petunia bloom, two pansies, three demure oxalis, many holly, California Moon Vine berries, early jonquils inside (forced) and blooming in the yard––points delightful during winter’s gloom. Add redbirds, robins, thrashers, jays. Now all our palette needs is snow.

John J. Han, “An Alien” (Creve Coeur, MO)

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“Reflections” and Other Poems James Maxfield Reflections A small, decorated evergreen stands in a clearing, an embankment shallow along a highway interchange, staying darkness . . . December’s dusk-gray clouds; red ribbons, bows, bits of tinsel blown awry by winds of winter, where unseen hands had fashioned hanging angels, red ribbons, bows . . . bits of tinsel . . . branches glisten with their random harvest. This twilight reflection: red-ribbons, bows, bits of tinsel blowing brightly in the bare solstice sun— at once unremarkable, queer, but beautiful . . . red ribbons, bows, bits of tinsel (shifting seasons—green grass or drifting snow) appeared each Christmas—then were gone . . . that tree, now gone . . . afternoon sunsets glow— your spare, desolate evergreen stands . . . still . . . *

Something Left Unsaid There is something left unsaid behind the smiles, impressions lingering with each backward glance and fading by slow decay into etchings that depict a landscape full, its derelict images—an imperfect memory in dust, sepia tones, textures of landscapes full of derelict artifacts that blend and bind together an ancient history . . . where derelict landscapes infill the crevices in these scraggy pitches toward a summit; upwind an irresolution

descries this derelict landscape blurred, rendered in grayscale—a still-life look along an escarpment, wending its way skyward to a cloud, to a calm— what’s unsaid is all that’s left. *

Curious Captive Most often I only catch a glimpse, an image embedded within a flaming granite fragment hurling through the universe, passing by but once. Sometimes I step right over one, stumbling among the rocks along The Sea of Tranquility, or tripping into the bowels of a cave. But ever so rarely when I least suspect I find a poem, a shadow, crouching in a half-lit corridor— I scoop it up… put it in my pocket. *

When the Willows Turn to Gold We rise in the fall ‘long the byway road and run to catch the waning sun—then shine November, when the willows turn to gold. Traveling fast when the ways are narrowed, where the serpentine rows of grape meet vine, we rise in the fall. Long the byway road

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winds about the hills and pastures fallowed, the fruit of the fields lies fallen as wine— November when the willows turn to gold we reap a certain view of what was sowed— Ohio near the shore, New York still to mine, we rise in the fall ‘long the byway road, where dank fouling meadows toward winter hold a grayed hawk perching on a lofty climb… November when the willows turn to gold, then the wistful willows in the wind unfold and sparkle fewer than the scattered pine— November’s when the willows turn to gold and rise in our fall ‘long the byway road.

Coral Christopher, “Light of My Path”

“Never Lose Faith” and Other Poems Raymond Kirk

Never Lose Faith

Out of My Hands

I believe in more than something a higher power than me I believe that eternity is life beyond the breeze.

Some things are all illusion and so it was with this I had tried to understand and never got my wish.

I pray that all those mountains aren’t meant for me to climb only to find when I reach they are just other side.

Moans, groans, aches, and pains turnpikes of runaround I wanted to go up and away but constantly pushed down.

Never lose faith in where you started never lose faith in where you’ll end never lose faith in your tomorrow never lose your faith again.

Back and forth in agony I finally asked for help divine intervention was called to save me from myself

I studied to gain knowledge and earn more self-esteem reached for the opportunities that were once only dreams.

The number I dialed was busy I could not believe my ears the one time I tested fate no answer for my worst fears

I hunted for the landmarks sought clues at every turn never gave up on the passion to practice what I’d learned.

I would have dialed again but was running out of gas on fumes and aggravation all I could do was laugh

Never lose faith in where you started never lose faith in where you’ll end never lose faith in your tomorrow never lose your faith again.

Survival is what mattered regardless of how I fell the car of insanity I drove had no set of wheels

I know the time ran too fast my time has come to leave I encourage your embrace of love and faith with me.

I reached out for conclusion and found a simple key every answer I had wanted was locked up, inside of me.

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Slow Recovery It seems to be about you all about you, how long you waited how slow I was to reopen hazed eyes and shake off that drug that slept me through my reconstruction. Still all about you my bones will heal I am concerned about my mental status how I will cope with a list of honey do that honey canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t finish. Still all about you or is it my mind telling me to stop treating you like the queen, allow my body to heal and regain the throne to the kingdom of me. No, that wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t happen, it is still all about you.

Tightly Wound The ball of string on the floor is still waiting on the cat, that old and lazy cat that sometimes forgets to purr. He does remember dinner time and knows my lap is comfortable, until I have to reach for the remote. The spring project is in the garage still waiting on the missing part that I have not yet unpacked. The postman was a day late and I pretty much lost interest, my chair is more comfortable, until it is time to feed the cat. It is safe to assume life is dreary while waiting for epiphany. Look at the floor, garage, and mirror, each tells you to unleash the beast of the daily burden. It all depends on the strings and the will to untie them.

What You Do Not See I have hidden it a long time since the time of walking aisles shoved it underneath a coat of well-polished worked-up smiles I preferred you didn’t know how my emotions quickly drowned and how bad I wanted happiness not this destructive world of down. What you do not see is, it never was your fault what you do not see is, because of your loving heart. I can’t continue to hurt you you have suffered me long enough I can only give my dark side that will never resemble true love I won’t ask you to leave me better if I up and disappear clear the air of all the grief before it turns into despair What you do not see is, it never was your fault what you do not see is, because of your loving heart. Dream for me in color my show has found an end I only hope you can forgive and one day be my friend.

John J. Han, “Mary and Baby Jesus” (Seoul, Korea)

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“The Ant and the Grasshopper” and Other Poems James Fowler The Ant and the Grasshopper On the eve of harvest an ant and its comrades were finishing rooms in their mound for all the grain to be gleaned from the nearby fields. These rooms were cleverly made waterproof and easy to defend against invaders. As they were laboring, a grasshopper, a dab hand at fiddling, bounded up. “Greetings, busy cousins,” the fellow hailed. The ants glanced warily at this newcomer who’d arrived with the summer, which he’d spent merrily music making and loafing. “I see,” he continued, “you expect rich bounty.” Turning a great eye fieldward, he added, “I concur.” “But sir,” our ant replied, “you seem to have made no provision for winter.” “Oh, that,” the fellow smirked. “There are ways around it.” (The ants were of a view this was a jolly fool who’d soon come shivering for charity. Oh well, the butterfly and its spots.) “By way of illustration,” the hopper chirped, “let me play you a harvest song called Hither Come.” With that, he started scraping loudly a tune that carried abroad on the breezes and made a fearful rumble in the ant stomachs. “Stop!” they wanted to cry,

but just then noticed what resembled storm clouds brewing on all horizons. But these clouds chittered and whirred and chirred, then dove and landed, feasting on the fields. “Villain!” our ant charged. “To the early locust go the spoils,” he replied, flying to join his troop; “We’ll leave a few scraps.” The ants made to attack, but once in the field they found the ravagers had alit for southern climes. All the ant tribe could do was gather the leavings and hope for a merciful winter. *

The Bear and the Bees A honey-hungry bear came upon a hive in a tree trunk. “Mine, all mine,” he smacked, gashing this treasure open. It didn’t matter how angry the bees grew over his raid. They couldn’t sting him through his thick fur, and any jabs to his snout were a fair price for the heavenly honey buffet. After all, bees just didn’t count, not only lacking bearhood, but any language beyond a buzz. Having licked his fill, Mr. Bruin ambled to a nearby brook. Seeing himself in the surface, he noticed a swelling on each side of his snout, a honeycomb shape. “Stupid bees,” he grumbled. “What do they take me for, a Home, Sweet Home needlepoint?”

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With this brand, though, he had a tough time ever afterward taking hives by surprise, as if facing some early-alert system. He scratched his head, unable to figure the bees had spoken. *

The Cat and the Dog A dog and cat decided to have a race to determine which would be the house pet because whenever inside together they quarreled and their annoyed human shoved both outside. They agreed to run to the end of the block and back at noon the next day because the cat said it would be busy all morning washing and sunning itself in the window. At the appointed time they crouched at the starting line (a hose across the sidewalk) and bounded forward. The dog soon pulled ahead, having the longer stride, but as it reached the turning point it suddenly veered off course, unable to stop itself from chasing the mailman who’d just appeared. The cat, who noticed such things from its perch, had timed the race to take advantage of this clockwork lure. Winning by a length, it now spent its days staring out the window at the dog, who barked its resentment until their human told it to shut up and go to its doghouse. *

The Fox and the Jerboa A fox came across a strange creature sighing to itself. “Why so sad, friend?” he asked. “Do you recognize me?” the other replied. “In all honesty, I don’t,” the fox confessed. “Just so,” the big-footed rodent harrumphed.

“The closest most can guess is that I must be the mouse’s Australian cousin. You, on the other hand, are commonly known: Reynard, the much-storied fox.” Bushy-tail flushed with some pride at his renown. “I am he, though it chafes me sometimes to be known only for cleverness and sour grapes. I do have other qualities.” “You at least enjoy fabled status. As a jerboa, I must jump about at the margins, and endure gawkers with their ‘Look at that kangaroo rat.’” Reynard thought, If you want to be storied, I can make you my latest dupe. “Friend jerboa,” this sly one proposed, “there is a stream in those woods yonder that no animal has managed to leap across. With those fine legs of yours the feat should be easy enough. What fame awaits.” So they set out, the jerboa hopping ahead, until the fox suddenly pounced. As it happened, his weight sprung a trap, and the two of them were lifted high in a net, through whose web the jerboa wriggled free. “I say, friend,” the fox ventured, “could you nibble these ropes and release me?” “I think not,” the jerboa answered, “now I’m the legendary one that got away.” “Oh well,” Reynard consoled himself, “he probably tasted gamey anyway.” *

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The Turtle and the Ducks A timid turtle found its water hole drying up. At first it hunkered in the mud and hoped for rain, but none came, not a drop. He knew if the drought continued all the water would disappear, and the mud bake hard and cracked. At his slow pace, a quest to find another hole might take days, weeks. Fretting over his plight one hot afternoon, he was interrupted by two ducks who’d alighted for a drink. “My, my,” the first clucked, “this hole has gone dry since last year.” “Yes,” the second said, “dry for miles around.” “Oh dear,” gasped the turtle, “how shall I ever walk my way out of it?” The friendly ducks conferred, then said, “We’re headed for some lovely marshes, and might take you with us, though you’d have to be most discreet and tight-lipped.” The plan was this: they would clutch a stick between them, from which he would hang by his beaky mouth as they flew straightway where water was. Normally Mr. Turtle would never have gone for such a dire, all-fire crazy scheme, but in his desperation he agreed. So between them they chose a stout stick, and almost before he knew it out turtle was winging high, high above. His fear vied with his fascination, for this bird’s-eye view was quite new, a revelation one might say. At length they passed over a town, and boys below pointed and laughed, tossing jokes and insults skyward in hopes of making the turtle reply, so splat on the ground like roadkill. But he was more prudent than that,

and clung more tightly than ever. In fact, the idea of becoming turtle stew strewn on the earth scared him so he bore down harder, harder, harder, until his sharp beak snapped the stick and down, down, down he flew, only able to cower in his shell for the final, shattering impact. As luck or the turtle god would have it, though, he landed with a splash in the pool of an abandoned mine. Limited sunlight aside, he came to find his new digs to his liking, having to share them with nothing that clawed or bit, just a few salamanders that tickled when scrambling.

Coral Christopher, â&#x20AC;&#x153;Cause and Effectâ&#x20AC;?

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â&#x20AC;&#x153;Make Us Forgetâ&#x20AC;? and Other Poems Marcel Toussaint

Make Us Forget Our father, make us forget The disagreements we have with others, And may others ignore ours. We can because we are free, Free in a land to be ourselves, letâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s rejoice. The sun shines over the mountains reaching the prairies, The river sings over the pebbles to reach oceans and the seas. High in the sky the birds chant melodies, soar joyful, The stallion runs in the fields, the sheep gather friendly. Oh father, make us celebrate the glory of living, Spend our time helping the needy with their quest To find the place with comfort, to lead their children To better themselves for a better life as citizens. Oh father, you made this world for all of us With its spacious land, its resources, its forests, A land where the hearts of our people are with love For all of mankind, to be all together, for all times.

* Other Side of Time Once our memories travel to the other side of time we rejoin into a dance orchestrated by eternity with no regrets, with new joys for we are then all equal, bare of the burdens of pretense, relieved of the forged glitter extinguished once we pass the line. The music starts, the dance never ends.

You Never Come Out As You Were You never come out From the Army As you were. You come out dismantled. You reassemble your mind And scramble thoughts The best you can, On your own, if you can. You face the real world From a different perspective. Surprisingly, You do not belong In it anymore. It will not let you Back in it just yet. For you have changed. You will have To readjust To normalcy. When inâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;the Army Owns you entirely. When outâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;the Army Abandons you. After tampering with your life, It offers repairs For the disruptions, the illogic It has created. Buddy, you are on your own To fend for yourself In the daily life That has evolved since you left. Early in the Army days You were considered a misfit. Today in civilian life, You are again a misfit.

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“Epilogue for William Carlos Williams” and Other Poems John McPherson

Epilogue for William Carlos Williams The little red wheelbarrow sits in the rain, dimpled, beginning to rot. The sodden white chickens lie all around, crushed and crumpled by the hail-stones.

Cedars in the Rain (A Terza Rima Sonnet) Duty calls from warmth into blowing rain that soaks and swells the cedar boughs and stings against my face. I mind my steps in vain slipping on soggy muddy clay that clings to my booted-feet as I go about my daily tasks. A mournful song it sings, the wind, as it rails the cedars. I shout, inwardly, my displeasure at the scene. Snow would hide this ugliness, I’ve no doubt and cover all with a shroud—b soft, serene. A thought I keep in mind as on I strain to finish up, but once inside I glean new sense of wonder as I watch the line of cedars brace against the salt-less brine.

Co-Existence The lion kills and eats because of ancient laws that still remain within its brain. It kills from hunger not the urge to somehow purge: to rid the earth of zebra birth. The zebra on the other hand does what it can to save its breed by using speed.

Coral Christopher, â&#x20AC;&#x153;Hope Restingâ&#x20AC;?

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“Mom Talks Turkey” and Other Poems Shirley Blackwell Mom Talks Turkey Tom Turkey seemed, to me, Goliath-sized; at four years old, I feared that tyrant bird. He pecked bare toes and kept me terrorized. My mom said, “Child, you’d better mark my word, you cannot run from bullies. Here’s the trick: don’t back down‒prove them to be absurd.” I took my mom’s advice, and found a stick, set it by the door, where Tom stood guard. At our next face-off, I got in first lick. I chased that fowl all over our back yard. Bullies are just weaklings dressed in lies. To keep from being victim, strike back hard. The trick’s to find which stick will best chastise— like Truth, which strips the coward’s thin disguise.

* Love Call Gray-feathered clouds enshroud the early morning. Across the tasseled grass and fading dew drifts a wounded voice, “whoo-HOO-oo-oo,” a haunting birdsong, wistful, low, and yearning. Mourning doves‒forever mates‒ I wait to hear the partnered call from splintered fence or crumbling wall, distant willow, garden gate. No still silhouette consoles my view. Silence meets the lone refrain. “whoo-HOO-oo-oo” intoned again, Oh-WHERE-my love, are you? In the tongue of doves, love is a word much spoken, fidelity a vow that’s kept lifelong; but for the faithful creature, there is a final song: the one who’s left behind will croon, Forsaken. Broken.

* Cranes at Twilight, Dancing Silhouetted cranes, in paired perfection, stand backlit in the lakeshoreâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s silver sheen, stretch out bills to touch in shared reflection, pose like dancers, settle feathers, preen. Mirrored in the waterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s windless shimmer, twinned birds now seem balanced by two more. The quartet frames a patch of sunset glimmer that floats between like polished ballroom floor. Each spread-winged arabesque, each shift of stance, each angled joint, each wingshake in the space, each curve of neck, each head bowed in the dance, creates kaleidoscopes of cosmic grace. *

Upon Reflection Desert dwellers, always searching for water or shady arbor, let their imaginations flow in liquid i m a g e, just as we did, seeing village lights beneath a rising moon. Driving into Deming from north or west or east, ============================================= we spied the town a-twinkle by 20 miles, at least, like houseboats floating mirrored on a shimmering lagoon. e, g a r We denied the vision was a relic of mi preferring to pretend we sailed toward safe, familiar harbor. *

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If Winter Comes The busy days of summer now are gone, along with island tourists, who in droves mosquito-like, buzzed over and upon the Sanctuary’s creeks and salty coves. September starts the southward trek of migratory birds, those pinioned swarms who fly in echelons, with slender necks outstretched toward the beckoning tropics’ warmth. The avian fall exodus is at its height, in October’s rustling, russet sheen, as feathered Moseses guide winging flocks in flight to promised lands of grain and grass and green. Come November, just a hardy few are still lingering to visit and to talk, and share with me these days that turn to chill. Soon, they'll journey with a larger flock. Hollow reeds grow desiccant and fade to dun and dull, then clatter in the breeze. Even though we know what lies ahead, we live these days and do not fear the freeze. We trust that in the grasses’ cyclic turn from summer green, to autumn gold, to straw, the wheel of nature’s seasons will be done, and once again, in spring, shall come the thaw.

Coral Christopher, “Boss Mare”

“Expectations Before Marriage” and Other Poems Barbara Goerdel

Expectations Before Marriage (Quatrain) He said he was a Texan somewhat male chauvinistic. I said I wasn’t but somewhat feministic. He said his ancestors were German somewhat stubborn. I said I wasn’t but very independent. He said he was an elder mostly conservative. I said I was mostly liberal almost always right. He promised to make me happy not all the time. I promised not to nag most of the time. He had a degree in engineering and was very logical. I said I was artistic and somewhat irrational. He said he could see us bumping heads, making up loving each other, on that we did agree.

Not Football Again! (Marianne Sonnet Variation) Football season has started gung-ho. My husband’s face reflects a shining glow because the Cowboys are going to play. He anticipates the game like a boy watching his favorite team on Sunday. In the leather recliner, he will lay. To say the least, he is a loyal fan even when they miss an important play. Television was invented for man so he will watch all the football he can. He will always be my favorite guy, pretending to be in “Jerry World” land. As he watches the big flat screen TV, the best thing to do is just let him be. Shopping at the mall is my cup of tea.

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Ageless Message

Marital Spat

(Tercet)

(free verse)

My age is now considered senior as decades soar, almost a year with every breath.

“Do not let the sun go down on your anger.” —Ephesians 4:26b

My heart rate is slower than my legs carrying me across the path. My eyes can no longer see fine print.

We had a “disagreement” all right. He looked me sternly in the eye his face showed no compassion and his words were harsh.

Does anyone want to hear my message? Does anyone have time to listen to my childhood memories? You will not find words of wisdom on the web written in abbreviations or with slang and trendy words. You will find my song in the birds, my reason in the cool breeze and a promise from my husband.

“I know you’re mad at me. You have until bedtime to get over it.” He went into the study. Hate eased the sting of my defeat. My eyes shot darts at his back. I could feel an imaginary slap to his face. He would be shocked to hear my silent names for him—shocked I knew some. I love this man. He has a lot of good qualities concentrate on those. Bedtime is getting closer.

Coral Christopher, “The Hedge”

“the wind” and Other Haiga Carol Sue Horstman

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Haiku Pilgrimage to Tokyo, Japan: Photos and Haiku John J. Han

Since 2007, except for one year, I have had the pleasure of visiting Japan to attend the annual John Steinbeck conference, which is organized by the John Steinbeck Society of Japan. The organization meets in Tokyo and other cities—such as Hiroshima, Kyoto, Sapporo, and Shizuoka—in alternate years. Before or after the conference, I spend a day for literary tourism before flying to South Korea, where my mother and siblings live. Similar to China and South Korea, Japan cherishes its own cultural heritage, preserving literary sites across the country. Statues of famous writers and poets are easily noticeable, their residences are restored and open to the public, and numerus tanka and haiku rocks dot the land. Those who visit Japan get the impression, without fail, that literary art is held in high esteem in society. It also reflects Japan’s unique approach to modernity: the pursuit of science and technology without undermining its own cultural traditions. As a poet particularly interested in Japanese verse forms, I had long wished to visit locations connected to haiku giants, such as Matsuo Basho (1644-94), Yosa Buson (1716-84), Kobayashi Issa (I763-1827), and Masaoka Shiki (1867-1902). Finally, in 2007, I began to explore some of those sites. Although the conference locations and my tight schedules prevented me from making systematic trip plans, I still had the pleasure of seeing important haiku sites with my own eyes. Every literary destination filled me with an overwhelming sense of awe, I took pictures voraciously, and I returned to the United States with some notes for my own poetry. Below are eleven haiku I composed after visiting some haiku sites in Tokyo; the poems are presented alongside the photos I took during those visits. Most of the places are located along the Sumida River (隅田川, Sumida-gawa), which flows north to south in central Tokyo. General background information precedes the photos and haiku.

#1-#7. Matsuo Basho sites along the Sumida River, Tokyo__________________________ The Sumida River frequently appears in Japanese haiku. Kobayashi Issa composed more than fifty haiku set in the river, including the following: watching the whiteness of summer kimonos... Sumida River (trans. David G. Lanoue) cats’ love calls— between them flows Sumida River (trans. David G. Lanoue) In his first journal, The Records of a Weather-Exposed Skeleton,1 Matsuo Basho explains why he has decided to leave his hermitage along the Sumida River for a pilgrimage outside Edo (today’s Tokyo): Following the example of the ancient priest2 who is said to have travelled thousands of miles caring naught for his provisions and attaining the state of sheer ecstasy under the

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pure beams of the moon, I left my broken house on the River Sumida in the August of the first year of Jyōkyō among the wails of the autumn wind. (p. 51) Later, in The Narrow Road to the Deep North,3 his more widely known travelogue, Basho explains how he, stricken with wanderlust again, decided to leave his hut by the Sumida River: It was only towards the end of last autumn that I returned from rambling along the coast. I barely had time to sweep the cobwebs from my broken house on the River Sumida before the New Year, but no sooner had the spring mist begun to rise over the field than I wanted to be on the road again to cross the barrier-gate of Shirakawa in due time. (p. 97) The photos below were taken at or near Basho Memorial Hall.4

#1.

Sumida River Basho’s statue gazes at flowing water

#2.

Basho pond a few goldfish swim making no sound

#3.

stone Basho he watches a butterfly dance without motion

#4.

Basho paperboard with my face in the hole, I say chee-zu

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#5.

Basho shrine at the travelerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s approach flags flutter

#6.

a long pilgrimage to Bashoâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hut a fake front

#7. Bas ho haiku path

Basho haiku path strolling down the alley amid the city din

#8. Statue of Matsuo Basho, Minami-Senju Station, Arakawa-ku, Tokyo_______________

facing north… Basho leaves behind sounds of car horns

The statue of Basho stands approximately 8.7 km (5.4 miles) north of Basho Memorial Hall and immediately west of Minami-Senju Station (南千住駅 Minami-Senju-eki, “South Senju Station”). Walking for ten minutes to the east will take one to the Sumida River, which flows to southern Tokyo, eventually to Tokyo Bay. The statue turns toward the north—the direction Basho was facing on his trip to the interior in the seventeenth century. At the beginning of The Narrow Road to the Deep North, Basho expresses mixed emotions as he says farewell to his friends at Senju: he is happy to be on the road again, yet leaving them behind breaks his heart: The faint shadow of Mount Fuji and the cherry blossoms of Ueno and Yanaka were bidding me a last farewell. My friends had got together the night before, and they all came with me on the boat to keep me company for the first few miles. When we got off the boat at Senju, however, the thought of the three thousand miles before me suddenly filled my heart, and neither the houses of the town nor the faces of my friends could be seen by my tearful eyes except as a vision. The passing spring, Birds mourn, Fishes weep With tearful eyes. With this poem to commemorate my departure, I walked forth on my journey, but lingering thoughts made my steps heavy. My friends stood in a line and waved good-bye as long as they could see my back. (pp. 98-99)

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#9-10. Hermitage of Masaoka Shiki in the neighborhood of Negishi near Uguisudani Station, Tokyo_________________________________________________________________ Although he died at the young age of thirty-five, Masaoka Shiki is considered an important figure in the development of Japanese poetry. He coined the word haiku (俳句), which had been called hokku.5 An innovator of the tanka and haiku forms, he was fond of baseball, which was new to Japan in his time; some of his tanka and haiku deal with baseball. A frequent visitor to Shiki’s small hermitage was Natsume Soseki (夏目漱石, 1867-1916), one of the most important modern novelists in Japan.

#9.

Shiki home the small yard filled with sunlight

#10.

Shiki’s tomb a drizzle moistens his name little by little

#11. Museum of Haiku Literature, 3-28-10 Hyakunin-cho, Shinjuku-ku, Tokyo_________ Located 2.7 km (1.7 miles) north of Shinjuku Station, the Museum of Haiku Literature (俳句文学館) is worth visiting for those interested in the evolution of haiku in and outside Japan. The museum collects haiku-related materials—such as English-language haiku books and journals—from around the world. A meeting place for various haiku groups, the museum regularly offers haiku contests and seminars.

haiku museum… curious if it holds my books6

Notes 1

Included in Matsuo Bashō, The Narrow Road to the Deep North and Other Travel Sketches. Trans. Nobuyuki Yuasa; Penguin Books, 1966. 2

Kuang-wên, a Chinese priest of the Nansung dynasty (1127-1279). —Translator’s note.

Included in Matsuo Bashō, The Narrow Road to the Deep North and Other Travel Sketches. Trans. Nobuyuki Yuasa; Penguin Books, 1966. 3

Postal address: 1-6-3 Tokiwa, Koto-ku, Tokyo. Website in Japanese: https://www.kcf.or.jp/basho/.

The “starting verse” of an aristocratic collaborative linked poem, renga, or of its popular offshoot, renku (haikai no renga). 5

For those who are curious, I did not find any of my books in the museum. My impression was that the museum would be happy to receive donated copies but did not seem to have enough space to hold all the books it receives anyway. It was a pleasure to see many issues of English haiku journals, such as Frogpond and Modern Haiku.

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John J. Han, “The Julian Alps” (Slovenia)

Prose

_________________________________________________________________

“See to it…that your style flows along smoothly, pleasingly, and sonorously, and that your words are the proper ones, meaningful and well placed, expressive of your intention in setting them down and of what you wish to say, without any intricacy or obscurity.” ―Miguel de Cervantes, Don Quixote, Part 1, Prologue (trans. Samuel Putnam) “When I read Shakespeare I am struck with wonder that such trivial people should muse and thunder in such lovely language.” ―D.H. Lawrence (1885-1930) “In a month [The Grapes of Wrath] will be off the [bestseller] list and in six moths I’ll be forgotten.” —John Steinbeck (1902-68) “The Postmodernists’ tyranny wears people down by boredom and semi-literate prose.” ―Christopher Hitchens (1949-2011)

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Excerpts from Sharecropper’s Daughter, a Memoir Faye Adams

Home Remedy “Shoot. There you go again,” my brother said. “She can’t help it, Elman. Leave her alone. She’s miserable,” I said. “She’s making me more miserable.” Whether we had been hit with measles, chicken pox, mumps, or any other childhood disease, our sister, Patsy, always seemed to be ”harder hit” than Elman or I. The three of us lay on the front porch, on quilt pallets. The porch was built high off the ground, which made it a convenient place for us to empty the contents of our aching stomachs. We had been up-chucking long enough to become weak and listless. “Mother will be back soon,” I said. “She says she knows how to stop this.” “She better hurry.” Patsy had stopped talking an hour ago. She lay on the quilt, holding her stomach and moaning. Soon, we heard Mother in the kitchen, building a fire in the cook-stove. “She’s back,” I said. After Mother had the fire going, she put water in a pan and set it on the stove to heat. She scrubbed sassafras roots in cold water to remove the dirt. The stripped bark was then boiled to produce sassafras tea. After the tea cooled to room temperature, she brought it to us in cups. Here’s the story in verse: Home Remedy Banished to the front porch brother, sister and I lay, dispirited, on quilt pallets, with knees drawn up to meet our chins, spewing forth to the ground the meager contents of our aching stomachs. Mom called it Summer Complaint. She took her third arm, the garden hoe, into the woods. The bark, scrubbed and boiled, imparted a brew so bitter we choked and sputtered but drank, at her command, with faces skewed, lips puckered. Not the worst of Mother’s home remedies brewed

in her country kitchen, but close. The beneficial part of the incident is that we survived. One of us, or all three, could easily have died of dehydration. We lived 20 miles from the nearest doctor, and our only mode of transportation was by team and wagon. Mother had limited resources available to her in any given situation. We had milk from a cow for beverage, meat for the table from animals raised on the farm, and eggs from our henhouse. The eggs were voluntarily laid into straw nests by the hens which Mother raised and cared for daily. Vegetables were raised in the garden Mother planted and weeded. Every vegetable she cooked had to be gathered, washed, and prepared by hand, and cooked on a wood stove. All summer, and through the autumn, the excess had to be canned for winter. It was a humongous amount of work for her, and we kids were not yet old enough to be of significant help. Residual snatches of memory from childhood affect our reactions to life circumstances. Most of the time, we are unaware of the causes of our unconscious reactions to what is happening around us. I have a negative reaction to repetitive noise and/or movement. I’ve traced the cause back to a childhood experience. Every year, along with the joy of warmer weather in spring, came the knowledge that soon we would be enjoying fresh fruits and vegetables from Mother’s garden, and the bounty of wild edibles growing along fencerows, or in the woods around us. Mother had pulled the first carrots of the season and brought them to the house. She washed them in a pan of water and scraped their outer skin off with her all-purpose kitchen knife. My brother, sister and I sat on the front porch steps, watching the cleaning and scraping process in anticipation of the sweet taste of our favorite raw vegetable. Alas, it was not to be. I have an immediate flashback: Her brother, E. J. Massey, came walking up just as she finished removing the outer skins of the tiny edibles. Our mouths watered as we watched Uncle E. J. wade into those carrots. As he chomped away, he mumbled through a mouthful. “Oh, this hits the spot, Novella.” “Yes,” Mother said. “These are the first carrots out of our garden.” I knew that Mother was hinting to her brother that we hadn’t yet had any carrots. He continued, undeterred, to eat every carrot. We were constrained by politeness not to eat until our guest was satisfied. We had been taught that adults eat first. It was a long walk from Uncle E J’s house to our house. He was probably hot, tired, and hungry by the time he arrived at our place. He may have thought that we had plenty of carrots left in the garden to pull. We knew that these were the only carrots mature enough to be pulled from the ground on this particular day. We would be waiting a couple more days for carrots. Uncle E. J.’s method of consumption made the entire process even more painful. The part of the scene which unconsciously affected me ever afterward was the fact that he chewed very fast, in a staccato, open-mouthed fashion which burned into my brain, never to leave. To this day, it is nerve-wracking for me to dine with anyone who is a “fast cruncher.” It destroys the entire dining experience for me. Immediately, I long to either reach for ear-plugs or to simply get up and leave the room. There were other times when we were unavoidably denied longed-for sustenance. One of Dad’s sows, a mean old female pig, often assuaged her hunger and thirst at our expense. Spilled Milk Our only source of water, the spring lay to the west, downhill from the house.

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Its flow gurgled up to form a creek which snaked through a field toward the barn. Cold spring water firmed butter, and chilled milk, kept dry in tin buckets, sealed and dropped underwater daily. Our old sow would root, nose under the fence, and head on a straight path to the spring. Mother hated that sow. It took hours for the milky, muddy water to run clear. No milk or butter for supper, no fresh water to drink. We wished for the milk to curdle in her stomach.

Grandma’s House “Outside, all of you. Go! I’ve got packing to do,” Mother said. “I can’t think straight, with you kids squabbling under my feet.” We scooted, banging the front door as we went. The three of us sat on the top step of the front porch, our elbows resting on our knees. “Where are we going?” Patsy always wanted to know what, where, when, and why. At age three, she pestered us with questions. Elman, at six, soon to be seven, seemed to know all the answers. “To Grandma Massey’s.” “Why are we taking our clothes?” “We’re going to stay.” “All of us?” “No,” he said. “Just us kids. Mom and Dad are going to the bottoms.”1 Patsy’s bottom lip shot forward when she was unhappy. “I want to go with them.” “Oh, you’d rather work than play? They’re going to pick cotton.” “I wouldn’t have to pick. I’m too little for that.” “That’s what you think. No one is allowed in the cotton patch, except to work.” “You don’t know that.” There went that lip. As the middle child, I usually assumed the role of peacemaker. “We’ll be better off at Grandma’s. Even if we didn’t have to pick cotton, we’d be out in the hot sun all day long. There’s no shade trees in a cotton patch. We’d burn to a crisp.” Dad came walking up the hill toward the house. “You kids ready to go? The horses are hitched.” Mother came out the front door, carrying a box packed with our clothes. “Lavelle, our things are packed and ready. I brought the boxes to the front room.”

Great-grandma Laura Massey Great-grandpa Henry Massey

Thomas Chesley Massey and Mary Magdalene Pratt Massey on their wedding day

Grandma Massey, taken after she was the mother of seven children and after she had lost her husband to tuberculosis

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Dad went into the house to get the first load. We ran to the wagon and climbed up into the back. Mother placed our box of clothes on the wagon bed, folded a quilt and placed it beside the box. She climbed onto the wagon seat in front and waited for Dad. After loading more boxes in the back, Dad stepped onto the wheel and on up to the driver’s side of the wagon seat. He picked up the reins, lifted and slapped down once onto the horses’ rumps, clicking out the side of his mouth twice. “Ho, Pat. Mike, get up.” Immediately, we were on our way, the iron wheels of the wagon bouncing roughly over the rocky dirt road. I watched the horses’ rumps move in rhythm as they pulled the load, tails switching to brush away pesky flies, heads bobbing up and down with each step. I wondered if they ever felt sad or angry because of the work they had to do. I thought probably not, since most of their time was spent standing around with nothing to do but munch grass. I wondered if they got on each other’s nerves like people do when they spend too much time together. Sometimes, I would watch them in the barn lot, nipping at one another. Pat was usually the one doing the biting. She seemed determined to provoke Mike just to get a spat going. He must have liked her a lot, as he never seemed to get too rough with her. Mother was ever on the alert for problems. “You kids sit on the quilt. It makes a softer seat then the wagon bed, and it’ll help keep you clean until we get to your grandma’s house.” Elman and I sat on the quilt, folding our legs under us for further cushion. Patsy stood on her knees, holding to the sideboards of the wagon. “You’d better sit down,” Elman warned Patsy. “The first time we hit a big rock, you’ll fall.” “You’re not my boss.” “All right. But don’t blame me when you get dirty.” “You kids stop fussing,” Dad said. “You don’t want me to stop this wagon.” “Who’s gonna feed old pup?” Elman wanted to know. “And the chickens and pigs? Or milk the cow?” “That’s already been arranged,” Mother said. “Clifford Nichols is taking care of things while we’re gone.” Harve and Ella Nichols were our nearest neighbors. Their house sat back in the woods, a mile or so east of our place. Their son, Clifford, still lived at home with his parents. He came by our place often, on horseback. They were good neighbors, always ready to help if needed. Harve had built a high chair for Mother before Elman was born. It still sat in the corner of our kitchen. Patsy, at three, had just graduated to a regular chair, but still took her meals standing on her knees, her feet sticking through the slats, and out the back of her chair. As Pat and Mike pulled our wagon east toward Grandma’s house, I pictured Clifford tying his horse to our fence, entering our barn-lot with his milk bucket, opening the corn crib, and proceeding to take care of the animals, morning and evening, while we were gone. I enjoyed walking into that fantasy world, and even placed myself in it, walking through the routine with him, feeding the pigs and chickens while he milked the cow. I remember thinking how handsome Clifford appeared as he sat in a shiny leather saddle on his horse. We rode horses too, but always bareback, as we owned nothing as expensive as a saddle. Grandma Massey’s place offered two special treats for us. Before Grandpa became ill with tuberculosis, he had allowed the Arkansas State Rangers to build a lookout tower on his land. The deal he offered, and the state agreed to, was land to build the tower, if they would build a small cabin beside it, ownership of tower and cabin to remain in his name, Chesley William Massey, should the state no longer need to use it. It was a great place for us to play. The second attraction was a cherry tree in Grandma’s orchard. At home, we had apple, peach, plum, and pear trees, but no cherry tree. What a treat it was for us to climb that tree when the cherries were ripe, and pop those sweet red globes into our mouths. Our red-stained fingers and chins proved to be dead giveaways, however, and usually gained the sneaky thief a scolding. It didn’t stop us from

checking the tree often for ripening fruit, even though we understood that Grandma wanted to use the cherries for pies. Grandma’s House Our team, Pat and Mike, pulled the wagon over rough ground. When the iron wheel rolled over a stone, we bounced around. On the way to Grandma’s house, our hearts lifted with anticipation. A happy day loomed ahead, filled with freedom from examination. Peals of laughter among parents visiting with each other, far too busy to watch everything we could discover. Aunts, uncles and cousins filled up Grandma’s kitchen, food for our bellies, playful lambs, and baby kittens. A small house, bursting with love and uncommon harmony, holds sweet memories of where we learned the value of family.

Note 1

The flatlands of Arkansas were several miles south of where we lived in the edge of the Ozarks, approximately 20 miles northeast of Pocahontas, near the town of Dalton. Whenever we referred to the flatlands where cotton was grown, we called them “the bottoms.”

John J. Han, “Distant View of Mount Fuji” (Shizuoka Prefecture, Japan)

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Two Memoirs Billy J. Adams

Cotton Patch I was born in 1932, the year most people called “the worst year of the Great Depression.” I was the firstborn of seven children. I cannot recall my early years but as far back as I can remember the depression remained in my family. There was always too many of us for the available resources. From the time I was ten until adulthood, I remember being hungry most of the time. The place of my birth was at my grandmother’s house. It was the custom for daughters to go to their mother’s home to give birth. As far as I know, a doctor did not attend my birth. I had to file for a birth certificate when I entered the military at age nineteen. None of my brothers or sisters were born in a hospital. My grandfather’s house was on a small farm located in a community called Center Hill in Arkansas. The farm was on the eastern edge of a ridge of hills called Crowley’s Ridge that separated the Mississippi and Black River valleys. The nearest town was about three miles east, located at the edge of the hill country and lowlands of the river. At that time Paragould was both a railhead and a farm town. I can remember the steam locomotives that ran through the town. At harvest time we could hear, or rather feel, the one-cylinder diesel engine that powered the cotton gin. When I was about ten, my father took me there and let me look at the engine. It seemed to me that it was twenty feet tall. I mentioned the engine to someone recently and they told me that it was still there and they ran it on special occasions. In the other direction there was a saw-mill, powered by a wood burning steam engine. We could hear the steam whistle three times a day, six days a week. My father was a contractor. He owned trucks and hauled gravel and dirt for road building and concrete mixing. That was before the large concrete trucks existed. Concrete was mixed with machines located on the jobsite. Men hauled the mixed concrete to forms with wheelbarrows. I also remember seeing horse- and mule-drawn wagons hauling the mixed concrete from the mixer to the forms. Shortly before World War II, the business took a downturn. In early 1943 it became impossible to buy the items to keep even one truck running. Tires, gasoline and spare parts were rationed. New vehicles were not being manufactured. All the car and truck factories were converted to the war effort. My father had one old truck left but not much building was going on. He decided to start farming in 1943. My grandfather and two uncles had moved to a small town, Hayti Mo, to start a business building truck beds for the local farmers. That move left my grandparent’s farm vacant, so we moved there in the summer of 1943 and started farming. The farm consisted of a house and forty acres, but not all was suitable for the crops we grew. We were “sharecroppers,” we planted and harvested the crop and the owner of the land shared in the proceeds. We grew cotton and corn. Our grandparents were paid one-third of the cotton crop and onefourth of the corn crop. This was our first house that had electricity. By today’s standards, the wiring was primitive. There was one circuit with one bare bulb in each room and no receptacles. We owned only one appliance, an AM radio, so the lack of receptacles did not cause a problem. My mother washed all our clothes by hand with soap that we made from fat and lye when we slaughtered hogs in the fall. There was no plumbing in the house. We got all our water from a well that has a pulley and bucket system that we used to “draw” the water. Baths were not a daily occurrence. My mother was like the other women of her time. She worked long hours taking care of her family. She had a badly deformed foot from a bout with polio when she was a child. I never noticed the handicap when I was young, but as an adult I always marveled at how she had managed to take care of a family that eventually grew to seven children. She was a stern disciplinarian. If we disobeyed or talked

back, she was quick to meet out punishment with a “switch” (a small branch from a tree) that she made us get for her. It did not matter what size we picked, she was able to make her point with whatever we brought. I learned that I could run faster than she and tried running away and climbing a tree. She waited until I came down to eat and out came the “switch.” I never tried that again. We were not very successful farmers. We did all the plowing and tilling with one pair of horses and a lot of broken-down farm implements. I was the only sibling old enough to do very much to help. We lived on my grandfather’s farm until the winter of 1946. Center Hill Baptist Church was my mother’s “home church” which her mother attended all the time that she lived there. My grandmother’s parents donated the land for the church and cemetery. My mother either went with us or sent us by ourselves. At that time, my father took no part in church activities. About the only memory I have of Center Hill is that in 1946 they were on the verge of a “split.” A number of the church members were dissatisfied with something and were planning to leave and start a new church. That summer, a tornado went through the community and demolished the church. The only other damage that I remember is that our outhouse was turned over. The church members got back together and rebuilt the church and the “split” came many years later. My parents, three of my brothers and my grandparents are buried in Center Hill cemetery, along with many of my ancestors whom I never knew. In the winter of 1946, my father took a job with a local contractor, driving a truck. The contractor also owned three farms southwest of where we lived. He lived in one of the three houses and rented the other two. Part of the deal was that we would live in one of the houses and operate one of the farms as sharecroppers. We moved there in January 1947. I was fourteen and had learned to do most of the tasks on a small farm, including “shoeing” horses. The house we moved into had been vacant for some time and was a huge step backwards for us. It featured broken windows without screens. Electricity didn’t reach that far. We heated part of the house with a wood-burning stove. My mother also cooked on a wood-burning stove. The house was located on a gravel lane that was so primitive that it could only be navigated by horse-drawn wagons or large trucks. It was on a steep hill with the farmland in a valley behind the house. The nearest church was located at the end of the gravel road that our lane was attached to. It was a denomination that did not believe in having musical instruments. It was way back in what we called the “piney woods” with an appropriate name, Pine Knot Church. The members were local farmers and most of them would have been perfect models for the now famous picture of a farmer with his wife holding a hayfork. Their beliefs and religious practices reflected their harsh life. What I remember about the church is when the song leader would lead the congregational singing he would first blow into a pitch pipe. His singing voice sounded exactly like the pitch pipe. The farmland had lain fallow for many years and was overgrown with small bushes or young trees. My father called them “sprouts.” My first task was to chop them down and pile them up. We burned most of them; some we just piled at the edge of the field. My younger brother, who was about 10, helped with making the piles and burning. Every day after school, we went to the field and worked until dark. We planted cotton in the field. I have never understood why the weather conditions (hot weather with warm nights) required to grow cotton is the same for crabgrass. We had to “chop” the cotton with hoes. That process consisted of thinning the cotton and digging out the crabgrass, normally taller than the cotton plants. When we finished with our crops we were allowed to work for other farmers. They paid us one dollar per day for ten hours work. One day, we visited my grandparents in Hayti, Missouri, where they had moved some years before. One of my aunts suggested that I stay with them and “chop” cotton for local farmers. The pay was double and the sandy soil was loose and easy to work. An added bonus was that for some reason, no crabgrass. My parents allowed me two weeks away from our farm to earn some extra money for school clothes. The next morning, we all went out to a local farm to work in the cotton fields. These fields were huge. I don’t have any idea how many acres but I couldn’t see across the field we worked in. There were

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about ten people in our group. The foreman assigned us to one side of a field and another group, comprised of black people, to an area starting about the center of the field. When it was time for lunch, we spread a quilt on the ground and made sandwiches to eat. The other group did the same. In a little while, a small gray-haired black man with the other group began singing. My exposure to music was what we could get on the old battery-powered AM radio and the off key singing at the local church. But this skinny black man had real talent with one of those “big” voices and could sing anything. During the time I was there, he did just that. He sang black folk songs, religious classics, and Broadway show songs. Some that I remember were “Old Man River,” “Bless This House,” “Holy City,” and “The Lord’s Prayer.” Had I met this man and not heard him perform, I would not have known about his talent. I never approached him or spoke to him, but he made a profound impression on my life. As I grew up I began to realize how difficult it is, just by looking at someone, to know what potential they might have. I have worked with young people for many years and I am continually surprised at what they achieve in life. I have learned that we must invest blindly in our youth and hope that some of them will possess the skills, wisdom and integrity to be the next generation of world leaders. That was many years ago, but I still look back and marvel at the influence that encounter in the cotton patch had on my life. I remember many years later asking my aunt, who was there, if she remembered the incident. I was surprised to learn that she did not.

Losing Mother Twice “She has a fever this morning,” the nurse commented to me as I entered Novella’s room. Novella was my wife’s mother of 93. It was Sunday, the day before Memorial Day. A few weeks before, she had had difficulty walking, and we rushed her to the hospital from her apartment, where she still lived alone. At the hospital, they discovered that she was suffering from a urinary tract infection, mild congestive heart failure, and her electrolytes were unbalanced. She stayed in the hospital for about a week before her doctor sent her to a nursing facility for physical therapy. He had ordered six to eight weeks of therapy, but in only three weeks, she was a lot stronger and we were planning to send her to her daughter Linda’s house on Wednesday. We were hoping she could eventually return to her apartment, because that's what she wanted most. “What do you think is causing the fever?” I asked the nurse. “Her lungs sound bad, could be a cold.” She answered. “I’ll keep watching and see what happens. If she doesn’t improve we will need to send her back to the hospital.” My usual practice was to visit Novella in the morning for an hour or two. Faye would get her work done and visit her later in the morning. I had planned to go to church after today’s visit, but decided to stay with her until Faye came in. We had placed her in Hillcrest Nursing Care in De Soto so that we could be with her every day. Our daughters both live in De Soto, and they took turns visiting her in the evenings. I called Faye and brought her up to date. She came to the nursing home about eleven. Novella was slowly getting worse. I left and went home. About 1 p.m., I went out on the rear deck and I noticed a bird on the ground next to the stone wall bordering the back flowerbed. The bird wasn’t moving and I assumed that it was dead. I walked over and picked it up. I was surprised when it moved around in my hand. I carried it inside and checked its wings and legs. I didn’t find anything broken. The bird seemed uninjured. Our cat, William, came over to sniff the bird. It pecked him on the nose. I carried the bird back outside and placed it on the wall of the flowerbed. It didn’t move around or attempt to get away from me, just sat there. Back inside, I watched it through a window as I walked by. Several times during the next two hours, I stopped and watched it through the window. The bird would look back at me but it never moved. I could see that it was an adult, but couldn’t figure out why it could not or would not fly.

At about 3 p.m., I decided to take it to the nursing home and show it to Faye. I picked it up. It didn’t attempt to get away. I put it in a small box and drove to the nursing home. Faye also held in her hand and showed it to her mother. Novella and her roommate, Helen, both exclaimed over the bird, and marveled that it was so tame. They were delighted that I had brought it in for them to see. “What kind of bird is it?” asked Helen. “I don’t know,” Faye said. (Later, Faye looked it up in our North American Bird book and found that it was an Eastern Phoebe. We’ve had one building a nest on our front porch every year since we moved to De Soto nine years ago. Her nest is so near the front door, you can watch her sit on the nest through the glass in the door.) Faye said, “Be sure to get a picture of it before you let it go.” “OK,” I answered. Faye walked out of the room with me. “Mother got up without help and she fell twice,” she said. “She has aggravated a rib that had been broken and was healing. She’s in real pain again, and is breathing shallow. I'm worried. She's been getting worse all day.”

Our little Eastern Phoebe I drove back home and put the bird back on the flowerbed wall. Then I remembered the picture. I went inside, got the camera and walked back outside. When I approached the bird with the camera in my hand, it started to hop along the flowerbed wall. I took several pictures. When it reached the end of the wall, it stopped and looked back at me as I snapped another picture. To my surprise, it took off and flew easily to a plastic compost bin about 20 feet away. I had been thinking that it was too young to fly, that it had possibly fallen out of its nest. It landed and sat there a few seconds, looked back at me, took off again and flew into a nearby tree. As it flew, God spoke to me. I heard the words, “That bird is Novella; I will make her whole again and she will fly away.” I stood there trying to absorb what had just occurred, when He spoke again, “Go inside and answer the phone.” I went inside, put the camera on the breakfast table, and the telephone began ringing. It was Faye. “You have to come back up here, now. We have to take Mom to the hospital. She’s running a temperature of a hundred and one degrees.”

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At the hospital, they discovered that she had double pneumonia. They treated her for it until Thursday and sent her home with Linda. The doctor had said that he could “get her over the pneumonia, and she will recover.” I wondered, how did that fit into what God had told me was going to happen? Her other daughter, Pat, flew in from Wyoming to help Linda care for her. She seemed to be doing better, so Faye and I attended a writer’s conference in Little Rock, Arkansas, with instructions to call us if Novella got worse. We returned on Monday, June 8. Novella seemed about the same. On Wednesday or Thursday, June 10 or 11, the visiting nurse told Pat and Linda that Novella’s bodily functions were shutting down. She passed away a week later, on Wednesday, June 17. My mother passed away 26 years ago, and Novella became my substitute mother. She never said anything on the subject, but, with her, it was just part of her nature to fill the void in my life. Novella had three sisters who had major strokes and lingered, suffering for several years at home or in nursing homes. I had prayed that God would not allow that fate for Novella. I believe God answered that prayer and used the bird to reveal his decision to me. That revelation made her passing less painful for me. At her funeral in Arkansas, the minister used the expression “She’s flying away into heaven” three times in his sermon. I talked with him afterward, telling him about the little Eastern Phoebe's visit. He answered that he had not planned to say that and didn’t know why he had used that phrase three times in his sermon. When God gives you a message, he always confirms. Usually, you can expect that He will confirm his message three times. I have experienced this many times in my life. All you need do is believe and keep your mind open to Him. In his foreknowledge, He had been preparing for years to give me that message. The picture on the previous page was snapped just as the bird looked at me before flying away.

John J. Han, “Deepening Autumn” (Manchester, MO)

Two Memoirs Jo A. Baldwin My Daddy’s Friend It was a hazy summer afternoon. I was in the backyard riding my stick horse when I heard my grandmother’s voice. Mama Leda was walking to and fro on the back porch, wringing her hands and fussing at someone who wasn’t there. It was my stepmother, Mama Geri. Mama Leda was calling Mama Geri out of her name: nappy-headed black heifer, silly fool, and low-down dog. She had said to me more than once that she liked my stepmother more than my mother, Mama Jesse, but it didn’t seem like it that day. Mama Leda was “high yellow” and could almost pass for white. She had long brown straight and what they call “white folks’ hair,” which explains why she said Mama Geri was nappy-headed. Her hair was short and wouldn’t grow long but would creep out a certain length and stop. Mama Geri was just the opposite of my mother, who could almost sit on her hair because it was so long. Mama Jesse’s hair was even longer than Mama Leda’s, but because my mother was dark skinned with a chocolate complexion, Mama Leda still felt superior. She ascribed to the old saying, “If you’re white, you’re right. If you’re brown, stick around. If you’re black, get back.” My mother had a gorgeous figure unlike Mama Leda who had a basketball size tumor in her stomach that made her look nine months’ pregnant all the time and ruined her shape. Still Mama Leda thought she was better than both her daughters-in-law because she was Daddy Sam’s mother. He had the reputation for being the handsomest man in the community, black or white, and was better looking than a pretty woman, almost too pretty to be a man. Mama Leda believed everything Daddy Sam told her about his ex-wife, my mother, and his second wife, my stepmother. Daddy told Mama Leda that Mama Jesse was cold and didn’t like to make love, which is why their marriage only lasted about three years, long enough for her to have me and my brother who was a year younger. When I was grown, Daddy admitted that he would hit my mother and make her cry but he said one day she bit his breast, spitting his nipple on the floor, and that’s when he realized he had to divorce her. I later found out he paid her back and Mama Leda helped him by taking my brother and me away from her. Mama Jesse had left us with Daddy Curtis and Mama Leda to visit on the farm for a few days, but when she went back to pick us up the high sheriff was in the yard and wouldn’t let her take us. The weeks she was away Daddy Sam had filed divorce papers, and a kangaroo court deemed her an unfit mother, giving Daddy Sam sole custody of us. So, my mother was forced to leave us behind and try to go on with her life without us. Mama Leda and Daddy Curtis raised my brother and me, and we were with them for about fourteen years. Anyway, Daddy married Mama Geri, and they had two daughters. Their marriage was volatile, too, mainly because Daddy Sam had two children—a boy and a girl—by another woman he didn’t marry who was a childhood sweetheart, and she and Mama Geri had daughters by Daddy Sam the same age. What was different about Mama Geri was she fought dirty. She would throw a bucket of ice water on Daddy when he was in bed asleep or hit him with a chair when his back was turned or put something in his food that would make him sick. It appears that something or another had happened that day, making Mama Leda furious. Mama Geri and Daddy Sam lived in Nashville, about a two-hour drive from the cotton farm in Covington. Daddy Curtis, Mama Leda, Uncle Creeter (whose name was Horace), my brother, and I all lived in the house Daddy Curtis was born and raised in on their property because his older two sisters and brother died young. Aunt Eula Ray’s husband killed her when she was twenty-three and their two-year-

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old daughter on the same day with some rat poison he put in some liver cheese and gave them to eat because she told him she was going back home because she didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want to be married to him anymore.

Two pictures of the authorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mother and a picture of Daddy Sam

Uncle Elcan supposedly swallowed a tack when he was eight, which killed him, and Aunt Pearl died when she was ten from an illness Mama Leda couldn’t remember. Daddy’s other brother, Uncle Boots (his real name was Robert), lived in town with his wife who had a master’s degree, something that was practically unheard of back then because she was black. Despite Mama Leda’s glaring flaws, however, she was a natural storyteller and shared several family secrets with me. She told me one time when Daddy Curtis was courting her that he took her to the graveyard one night in the wagon and because she wouldn’t do what he wanted, he proposed to her, although she didn’t tell me what “it” was. She did marry him and he brought her to his parents’ house where they all lived together until his father, whose name was Thomas Henry Plum Butler John Norman Clark Ferrar Sanford, died in 1948 and his mother, Laura Elcans Sanford, seven years later. Mama Leda often filled me in on family secrets whenever she was worried about something or angry with Daddy Curtis for being a lady’s man. It seemed talking made her feel better. Evidently the scene on the back porch was from a phone call she had just gotten from Daddy Sam telling her that Mama Geri had put some fly bait in his coffee and he was in the hospital. Mama Leda was livid, telling Mama Geri’s invisible body that Daddy Sam couldn’t help himself because of all he had been through. I stopped her in midsentence, saying, “What’s wrong, Mama Leda,” but had to ask her three times before she paid me any attention. “That crazy girl hurt Sam, and I could wring her neck.” She went in the house and plopped down in Daddy Curtis’ chair where he read the Commercial Appeal newspaper every day except Sunday. I came inside and sat at her feet to hear her explanation. Even though Daddy Sam had a sister, Katie Louise, who was a light-skinned, straight-haired tomboy, Mama Leda was partial to Daddy probably because he was so good-looking. As a young girl, I even noticed that I came from a family where the men folks look better than the women. Daddy Curtis looked better than Mama Leda. Every one of my great uncles was handsome. Even Creeter, Daddy Curtis’s retarded brother, was cute with milk-white skin and blue eyes; I thought my younger brother looked better than me. Mama Leda had stopped crying and was ready to explain why Daddy should be excused for whatever he did. She began by saying, “Your Daddy was a medic in the Army. He said he was sent overseas to Korea to fight in a conflict that was really a full-fledged war. He said it was a scary place because the Korean people were very intelligent and hard to fight because nobody knew what they would do next. He said the only thing that saved him was his friends and looking out for each other.” “His best friend was a man named Clement they called Smiley because he was jolly and always wore a smile on his face. They did things together like play cards, dominoes, and shoot dice for fun. Whenever they could, they would go into town and mingle with the people. Your Daddy said he had a girlfriend but Smiley didn’t. She was Korean and they had two children together, girls only a year apart. He said Korea was a strange place he loved and hated at the same time. He said most of the time he was confused and his stomach stayed upset. I think he started having stomach trouble from drinking early. When he was nine years old, I found out he was slipping down to Papa Plum’s whiskey still in the back field on a regular basis. It’s no telling how long he had been doing that and messing up his stomach. Then that silly heifer laced his coffee with fly bait and he’s in the hospital right now. She had no business doing that. What happened to him in Korea tells it all. He was almost gunned down one day. “He told me one morning he had to go on body detail. That’s when he went out on the field to pick up the wounded to take to the hospital and the dead to burn up or ship home. Smiley wasn’t around, so he teamed up with some other guys to do the job. “As usual, the sun was hot and flies were swarming. He said he hated those days and dreaded the look of death and the stench of human decay. He saw many bodies, some without limbs, without a chest, all resting in counterfeit peace. There was one body missing a head, so he and his team went looking for it. When your daddy saw his friend smiling up at him, he took out to running. His army buddies had to go catch him, because seeing Smiley’s head made him go berserk and lose his head.”

90 Cantos: A Literary and Arts Journal

Miss Susie The Mississippi Delta has an unknown celebrity on Highway 82. In a trailer on the side of the road lives a petite lady I finally met after years of driving past her house on my way to and from work at Valley. Her trailer home sits beneath two tall oak trees and is surrounded by hedges, beauty bushes, and cornfields. Recently a huge silo was built down the road from her trailer that has lots of activity. Several trucks can be seen parked on the side of the silo. On the ground anchored in a slab of concrete is a heavyduty swing adjacent to her steps that she said a white man made for her. As far back as 2004, I would pass by her home twice a day and would see her sitting on her swing with her arm stretched over the back watching the traffic go by. I had been telling myself I need to stop and speak to her and try to get to know her but never did. For months, I blew my horn and she would wave. Then one summer day in the early afternoon I decided to stop. The sun was hot but not smoldering. When I drove up in my truck, she was sitting on the swing, rocking gently back and forth. I got out and she calmly looked at me and smiled, nodding her head. I introduced myself, explaining to her that I teach at Valley and that I pass by her house every time I go to and from work. She said she recognized me and offered me a seat beside her on the swing. I didn’t hesitate to sit with her because the swing was made with two-by-fours that were bolted together and hanging on a heavy chain, making the swing strong. She was wearing a duster—which is a short house dress—that was clean, although old grease stains remained that detergent couldn’t wash out, and a hair net covered what hair she had left because I could tell by her deep cowlicks that she was balding. I looked closely at her. She was brown-skinned and had deep wrinkles in her neck, chest, and underneath her arms that I noticed because her duster didn’t have any sleeves, but her face was rather smooth except that she had a huge mole protruding under her right eye near her nose. She had a few brown teeth scattered in her mouth that matched her complexion, which let me know she might either dip snuff or chew tobacco. She told me her whole name. She said she was a widow and had been for a long time. She said she was the mother of only one son who was dead, too, but that she had a host of nieces and nephews who visited her so she wasn’t lonely. A cardinal would occasionally fly by as if eavesdropping on our conversation. She told me where she went to church. I told her I was a pastor myself and about my congregation in Kosciusko. That’s when she did something that surprised me. She wanted me, a total stranger and someone she had just met, to go inside her house. She said she wanted to show me something. So, we got up. I reached to grab her arm to help her, but she stopped me dead in my tracks. She said, “That’s all right, Honey. I don’t need help. I’m ninety-three years old and still stay by myself. I cook my own food, wash my own clothes, and dress myself. All I need is for somebody to take me to the store, take me to pay my bills, and take me to church. Everything else I can do by myself. I sweep my own yard and water my own flowers. And, for all these years, the Lord’s been good to me.” Needless to say, I kept my hands to myself and watched her hold onto the rail to climb the wooden steps. She was slow and rickety, but we got inside. Upon entering, I saw that the kitchen was visible from the living room and that her bedroom and bath were on the right. It was clean and cool inside because of the window air conditioner. She offered me a seat. I sat in an antique straight back chair that had a ruffled green cushion and was impressed with her setup, her independence and comfort, thinking that she had to have used the outhouse and draw water from a well in the yard because I did growing up. She proceeded to hand me an eight-by-ten picture in a dollar store frame that featured two tall skinny trees, one that stood upright and the other that was broken and bent at the top making a perfectly shaped cross, with a cloudy blue sky in the background. It was truly amazing, but what she told me about how the cross was made was even more fascinating. She began, “Back in 2001, a storm came traveling. It was a tornado with raging wind and heavy rain. Right here on this spot my first trailer stood. That day I was asleep in my bed because it was night.

Miss Susie’s cross All of a sudden, I heard something that sounded like a train. The rain was pouring down and the wind blew the roof off the whole trailer except my bedroom where I was. Water was all on the floor and covered up everything except me in the bed. The water rose but stopped and didn’t cover me up. “When I figured out what was happening, I started to pray. I said, ‘Lord, I’m in your hands. Lord, have mercy on me.’ The next thing I knew some white folks in a boat was coming to rescue me. They looked around at all the damage that was done and couldn’t believe I wasn’t hurt. A few days later, somebody saw the trees and took this picture. I ended up putting this trailer on the same spot because I know the Lord will take care of me, and I’ve been here ever since.” All I could do was hang on her every word, remembering the cross and the crucifixion and how Jesus was “the hanging Word” who Miss Susie knew and I do too. What’s more, Miss Susie is “still kicking” and I still stop and visit with her on a regular basis. She prayed for me and ministered to me during the period when my mother was low sick before she died in 2013. Miss Susie’s birthday is the 4th of June, and I’ve remembered her with “paper” presents— meaning money—throughout the years. She is a walking testimony of what Psalm 92 says about certain people: “They [believers] will be fruitful in their old age, vital and green.” Miss Susie is ninety-nine now and told me just the other day that she believes God will let her see 100. I sure hope so, because Miss Susie is really something!

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Dublin Assurance Rusty Rogers Well, I just moved into Dublin from the West Country—Ennis, actually. I’d found a new job in the big city, let a small flat a couple of miles from the city center, and was feeling pretty good about myself. The first evening in my new neighborhood, having gotten somewhat settled into my place, I thought I’d walk about a bit, find the shops and hopefully a few eating spots. Always a good idea to locate the essential establishments, you know. After wandering awhile—spotted a promising diner— “The Tilted Pelican”—I saw a sign that caught my eye. “Terry Moran, Assurance Consultant” was written on the window of a shop between a fish and chips and a tattoo parlor: “Tim’s Tattoos—Artistic and Painless (mostly).” Not an impressive front, I thought, but with a new start in a new place, it couldn’t hurt to pop in and get a wee bit of advice along the assurance line. So I stepped inside and a little bell over the door tinkled. Immediately a young man came bustling down the short hall from the back of the shop. He was a nice enough looking fellow, I suppose, neatly dressed, big smile on his face, but something unsettling about the eyes reminded me of a faith healer I’d seen on the telly about a year ago. “How may I help you?” he asked. “Are you Mr. Moran?” I asked. “I am,” he said, “but how did you know my name?” “Well, it’s on your front window.” “You can’t believe everything you read, you know,” he said, serious as Father Murphy. “But didn’t you tell the sign man what to put there?” “I did,” he said, “but I only ever see it from inside and written backward, so I’ll just have to take your word for it.” The conversation seemed off to a rather dodgy start, but I didn’t want to make a hasty judgment. “The sign also says you’re an assurance consultant,” I said. “I am,” he said proudly, and his smile got even broader. “Well, seeing as I’m new in town, with a new job and a new place, I’m after getting sound advice on insurance.” “You need it,” he fired back. “Now wait a minute,” I said. “You don’t even know my name, or where I live, or what my job might be. How can you say for certain I need insurance?” “Intuition,” he says. “Soon as I saw you come in the door, my opinion was formed.” “Sure, I’ve got nothing against intuition myself, but it doesn’t seem a very sound basis for making such a judgment.” “Ah, but it is then.” He sounded supremely confident. “Don’t misunderstand. I’m not talking about unreliable emotional intuition. I mean ‘business’ intuition, the ability, gained through many years of experience dealing with thousands of people, many different situations, different financial considerations, etc., to analyze a new client like yourself with lightning speed and unerring accuracy.” “Well, that sounds reasonable, I guess.” I confess I wasn’t fully convinced. “How long have you been doing this?” “Six months,” he says—doesn’t bat an eye. “Six months!” says myself. “You’re daft. You talk about years of experience, and you’re dealing assurance only six months.” “Sure, but you’re after forgetting the other essential element for successful assurance work— imagination.” He was unperturbed by my doubts. “What does imagination have to do with you claiming to have years of experience when you’ve barely begun?”

“Easy,” says he. “I just imagine all those years of experience, and I’ve got them. Saves years of actual time, puts me way ahead of others in this line, and gives me the basis for the excellent advice I’ve already been able to give you.” “Whacky Paddy,” I’m thinking to myself. “I may be dealing with a genuine nutter.” But there was something hypnotic about talking with the fellow. “I don’t believe I’m into buying your line of reasoning. It’s not giving me much confidence.” “Of course I’m not giving you confidence. It’s not my job to give you confidence. If you had confidence you wouldn’t think you’d ever lose your job, or have an auto smash, or get robbed, and so you wouldn’t want assurance, and then where would I be? What about my wife? My children? “You’ve got a wife and kids? “I don’t, then—but if I did have, t’would be terrible for them.” My head was spinning like my brain had broken. “No, what I mean is you’re not making me feel secure about you handling my assurance.” Putting it mildly, I thought. “Well, I’m sorry about that,” he says. “But because of my business intuition and years of imagined experience, I am the company’s senior agent, the best we’ve got.” “I don’t wish to appear rude or ungrateful,” I say, “But I’d feel more secure about the soundness of your advice and insurance business if I could speak to the chief officer of your company.” “I’m not offended at all.” He never stopped smiling. “I’ll just check in his office. Give me five minutes.” “I’ll give you a quarter of an hour,” says myself. In a few minutes he sticks his head out of a door down the hall. “Come on in,” he says. I stepped in the door to find Terry Moran sitting behind a desk with a name plate on it that said “Terrence Moran.” “I wished to speak with your CEO,” I say. “That would be myself, then,” he says, still smiling. “You’re the senior salesman AND the CEO?” “Efficiency, lad,” he didn’t bat an eye. “I started the company and felt it should have an upper echelon for public consumption. Once we had a CEO, we immediately became an established firm. As senior agent, I was clearly the most qualified to fill the position—so I appointed myself. No need to hire someone else.” I was becoming uneasy. Terry’s perverse reasoning was beginning to make bizarre sense. “But if you do both jobs, what good does it do me to talk to you about what I’ve already talked to you about?” “Lots of good,” he says. “I keep a close eye on myself. If I’m slipping up a bit in my salesmanship, I’m on me in a flash. The requirements of the two different positions give me a good deal of objectivity.” “I’m rather leery there, Mr. Moran,” I say. “There doesn’t seem to be much distance between them.” He leaned back in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head and smiled condescendingly at my ignorance. “No worries, my good man. You’d be surprised how far it is from the front door back to this office.” Then he leans forward, suddenly very businesslike. “Now, about the assurance you clearly need. Let’s begin with auto coverage, shall we?” “I don’t need that, do I then? I don’t own a car.” “That’s no obstacle at all,” he says. “My experience, imagination, and intuition all convince me and therefore yourself that you will possess a vehicle in the future, and so you’ll be prepared ahead of time for that eventuality.” Well, what can I say? I knew full well that I was after making a right fool of myself, but he had worn me down. I bought insurance against robbery, loss of employment, and an auto I didn’t possess. The premiums seemed pretty dear, but Moran assured me they might come down— sometime. When all the papers were signed—he was the office clerk as well—he shook my hand heartily. “Come along to the Pelican with me. I’m closing the office for the rest of the day to celebrate.” “Sure, and I appreciate the invitation, but what are you celebrating, may I ask?”

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“My first sale,” he says, shaking my hand again. “Six months is a long time. And I can assure you of the fine service only my initial client will receive.” You may well imagine I feared that I had been serviced pretty thoroughly already. But the feeling passed rather quickly, washed away by all the food and drink my new friend Terry let me buy ourselves at The Tilted Pelican.

“Serenity” (Hidaka, Saitama Prefecture, Japan)

My Last Lecture1 Matthew C. Easter My mission from President R. Alton Lacey is to deliver my “last lecture.” He asked me to imagine I’m giving my last lecture ever and then present this to you in chapel today. So I started thinking, “What would I say in that last lecture?” Well, if I’m giving my last lecture, I must be at the end of my life. So I tried to imagine myself sharing what I’d say before my death. This led me to reflect on my life up to this point. I have spent some time looking back on my life story. I’m imagining myself now at the end of my life, looking back on my life story. And, let me tell you, I’ve determined that my life story is pretty boring. I have a pretty boring life story. Let me tell you about it (and try to stay awake). From as early as I can remember, I was a dork. I was really nothing special. I grew up in the suburbs. I went to school, went to church, had a few girlfriends, and played baseball, soccer, and hockey. I graduated from high school (Oakville—for those of you interested). I was just a regular suburban kid. I was just a guy. Nothing special. Nothing unique. Nothing about me stood out. I was even one of five kids, so I always kind of got lost in a crowd. I never had a “thing.” You know, everyone needs to have their “thing.” That’s the guy with the beard. That’s the smart girl. That’s the guy with the funny socks. That’s the singer. That’s the hipster. That’s the jock. And so on. Everyone has their thing. And this idea of “everyone having their thing” plays into what we’re told from our earliest experiences in elementary school. From our earliest days, we are told, “Find your thing and be awesome at being you.” Or, usually, this comes out as “You are the author of your own life story.” You are the author of your own life story. You have one beautiful, unique life, and it is your job to write the best story you can with your life. So that’s what I tried to do. I knew I didn’t have that “thing,” but I still tried to find my “thing” that made me special. I tried to be the author of my own life story. But, of course, the question is, “What story shall I tell?” Should I be the athlete? I tried that for a while. I tried to be the cool hockey player. Sure, I was pretty good at hockey, but there was always a group of guys better than I was. And I was still just a dork. Should I be the funny fat guy? I tried that for a while. But my best friend was funnier—and fatter—than I was. Should I be the band roadie? I tried that for a while. My friends (remember that fat guy I mentioned?) started a band, and I was their “transportation engineer.” What this means is I drove my dad’s minivan and took their sound equipment to the concerts. And there were three concerts. The band was terrible. So I was the roadie for a bad garage band … and this rightly lasted for a month. Should I be the guy with the girlfriend? I tried that for a while. In fact, I dated one girl for two years at the end of high school and throughout my first year of college. We tried the whole long distance relationship thing. The students at my college knew me as the guy with the committed girlfriend back home. My life story was that I was going to marry this girl. We were going to have a white picket fence, a golden retriever dog, and 2.5 children, and we would live happily ever after. Well, that didn’t work out, either. I won’t get into details, but let’s just say that my girlfriend dumped me for a different guy (who must have been writing a more interesting life story). This was particularly tough. I had invested so much of my life story in the relationship with my girlfriend, and now that was gone. I was back to being a dork. Just a guy. Nothing special. No life story that anyone cared about. As I said, I tried a number of different ways to have my “thing” that made me unique. That thing that made me special. I suppose the closest I got to having a “thing” was my story as the “smart kid.” I tried writing a story with my life where I was the smart kid in the narrative. And this almost worked. But I discovered that even my smart kid narrative was boring. I got all A’s from 3rd grade until I graduated from high school. (I’m still mad about the B I got in college.) But it’s not like many people knew that. I didn’t make t-shirts with my report cards on them or anything. My sophomore year in high school, I attended the Missouri Scholars Academy, which is a three-week academic program at Mizzou reserved

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for the top 330 high school students in the state. But I was just one of a crowd there. I was the valedictorian at Oakville High School. But, even then, we had eight or nine valedictorians the year I graduated. (We didn’t have weighted grades back then.) And I definitely wasn’t the smartest of the valedictorians. So, even in my best shot at writing my own unique life story, I failed. I can’t even remember how many other valedictorians there were with me. I went to college, graduated summa cum laude with degrees in accounting and biblical studies, and was named the outstanding senior scholar in my fields. Maybe this smart guy life story thing was going to work out for me. But then I went to graduate school at Duke University, where I quickly met 100 other people just like I was, and another 100 smarter than I was. I was just one person lost in a crowd again. Just a guy. Nothing special. Boring life story. It was in this first year of graduate school that I started to realize something about this theory of “writing your own life story.” I had been taught since elementary school that “I am the author of my own life story.” I tried to be that author and write a compelling story that people would care about and which would give me meaning in life. But, no matter how I tried to write my story, my story was always so boring. I was not unique. I was nothing special. My life story was boring. Then, it struck me: if you look at the big picture, if you look at the full life story of anyone who has ever lived, all of our life stories are actually pretty boring. It wasn’t just me, it was everyone: we all have boring life stories. Think about it. No matter how anyone writes their story, everyone’s story ends exactly the same way. The life stories of Babe Ruth, Leonardo da Vinci, Benjamin Franklin, and Albert Einstein all end the same way, don’t they? The last chapter in their stories—and in the life stories of every human being—is … death. Sure, we all have different characters in our life stories. We have different plots, different conflicts, different protagonists, different settings, and so on. But the conclusion to all of our stories is the same: death. It doesn’t matter how you write your story; it is going to end the same as everyone else’s. And my life story—no matter how beautifully I write it—will end like everyone else’s. So here’s the secret that we all know but no one talks about: We are authors of our own life stories, but we are all terrible authors! None of us are creative. All of our stories end the same way. None of us are special. It doesn’t matter if the first 70 chapters of my life are different than everyone else’s; chapter 71 of my life story is going to end in death like the rest of the stories out there. My story isn’t unique. Sure, we are the authors of our own life stories, but we are just really bad at it. When I realized that I’m a terrible author of my own boring life story, I found freedom. I stopped trying to write my own life story. I stopped trying to be unique. I stopped trying to be special. I stopped trying to “find myself.” After all, even if I found myself, would the myself I found be worth finding? My story is just like everyone else’s life story. Yadda yadda yadda death. I’m not original. But knowing this is the first step to freedom. You see, there is a unique story that has been told. Of every life story ever written, there is only one that concludes differently than the rest. There is only one story that ends in eternal life rather than death. And this, of course, is the life story of Jesus. Jesus’ life story seemed pretty boring for the first thirty or so years of his life. Sure, he arrived in a remarkable way. He was born to a virgin, visited by shepherds who saw angels, threatened to be killed by the king, showered with gifts from magi, and ran away to Egypt. Okay, his life story starts out really interesting. But, after that, it must have been pretty boring. In all of the Bible, we have only one short story from Jesus’ childhood. This is the story in Luke’s Gospel where his parents forgot him at the Temple. Other than that, it appears that he had a normal first-century Jewish boy’s childhood. The Gospels in the New Testament don’t feel the need to tell anything about his life story as a child, a teenager, or a twenty-something. Jesus lived in a small town, probably helping his dad in his construction business. He likely had a few animals. He played with his friends. From the outsider’s perspective, Jesus’ life story would have looked just like everyone else’s. But, right around thirty years old or so, everything changed. Over the course of just a couple of years or so, Jesus gathered a group of twelve disciples, and then a larger crowd with them. He healed the sick, cast out demons, and performed other miracles. He taught like one having authority and told short stories that cut right to the heart of our

issues. He challenged the religious authorities, who eventually decided to kill him. And that’s what they did. One of Jesus’ twelve disciples betrayed him, and the Romans crucified Jesus. Place yourself in the shoes of a first-century onlooker. Suddenly, Jesus’ life story starts to look like everyone else’s boring stories again. Sure, he had a remarkable birth and an action-packed few years at the end of his life, but otherwise he was just a guy like everyone else. He had a normal childhood. He was crucified like a common criminal (don’t forget that, on the day he was crucified, there were two others crucified next to him). Crucifixion was not unusual. Anyone who looked at Jesus on the cross would have thought, “There’s another criminal who stood in the way of Rome. Glad I’m not that guy.” It looks like Jesus’ story ends like everyone else’s. On the day of his death, Jesus’ life story looks like another boring story that we’ve read already. You’re born, you live, and you die. Boring. But then something happened. Early Sunday morning, a group of women come to Jesus’ tomb only to find it empty. Mary asks someone she believes to be the gardener where Jesus was only to discover that this was Jesus she was talking to. Now, that’s something unexpected! Suddenly Jesus’ life story looks completely different from everyone else’s. The last chapter of everyone’s life story is death, but Jesus writes a new story. In Jesus we meet a life story that ends differently. The last chapter of Jesus’ story isn’t death but life after death. So, in Jesus, we see a new story with a new conclusion. Whereas every other human story has been one that concludes assuredly in death, Jesus’ life story is one of being faithful to God even in the face of death, and which concludes assuredly in life after death. Jesus tells a unique story with his life. Here’s the amazing thing about Jesus’ life story: Jesus invites you to abandon your efforts at writing your own life story and join his story instead! You’re a terrible life story author just like I am, but Jesus is inviting us to abandon our stories to live his instead. The Apostle Paul came to this realization too. In a letter he wrote to the church in Philippi, Paul tells us his life story. It’s in Philippians 3: If anyone else thinks he has reason for confidence in the flesh, I have more: 5 circumcised on the eighth day, of the people of Israel, of the tribe of Benjamin, a Hebrew of Hebrews; as to the law, a Pharisee; 6 as to zeal, a persecutor of the church; as to righteousness under the law, blameless. (Phil. 3:4b-6 ESV) You see it here? Paul is giving us his life story. He was writing a pretty good one. He followed all of the right rules. He was from the right family. He had the right education. He was so hardcore about his beliefs that he was persecuting those who disagreed with him. He goes as far to say that he was “blameless” according to the righteousness under the law. Paul was writing his life story, and he was pretty happy with it. But look at what he says next: 7

But whatever gain I had, I counted as loss for the sake of Christ. 8 Indeed, I count everything as loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord. For his sake I have suffered the loss of all things and count them as rubbish, in order that I may gain Christ. (Phil. 3:7-8 ESV) In other words, Paul gives up trying to write his life story. He says, “You know, all of that stuff that I was trying to do to write my own life story, that’s all worthless.” In fact, the word that Paul uses is “rubbish.” Or at least that’s how the translation on the screen puts it. The Greek word here is stronger—more like “crap.” Paul considers his previous efforts at writing his own life story as “crap” in comparison to knowing Christ. At first glance, I wonder, “Paul, you had so much going for you. Why would you call your efforts at writing your own life story ‘crap’? You were doing a lot of good things. You had a lot going for you.” So why does Paul give up his own life story? He tells us: 9

and be found in him, not having a righteousness of my own that comes from the law, but that which comes through faith in Christ, the righteousness from God that depends on

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faith—10 that I may know him and the power of his resurrection, and may share his sufferings, becoming like him in his death, 11 that by any means possible I may attain the resurrection from the dead. (Phil. 3:9-11) You see it? Paul has discovered in Jesus a new life story with a new conclusion. Paul wants to trade his story for Jesus’ story. Look at it again: “that I may know him and the power of his resurrection, and may share his sufferings, becoming like him in his death” (italics mine). And why does he do this? He does it in hopes of sharing in the new conclusion of this new story: “that by any means possible I may attain the resurrection from the dead” (italics mine). Paul discovered a new life story with a new conclusion. Everyone’s life stories end in death, but not Jesus’. Jesus’ life story ends in life, so Paul traded his story for Jesus’. Trading life stories isn’t just about the future. It has implications for our lives now. It means giving up your efforts at writing your own life story now. It means you stop trying to find your significance or your worth in anything other than what Jesus has done on your behalf. And this is radically counter-cultural. The culture will tell you to be yourself, to be unique, to be the best you that you can be. But this is not the Gospel. Jesus Christ is not asking you to be the best you that you can be, but rather to stop trying altogether. Because—here’s what a lot of people don’t understand—it doesn’t matter what life story you write, because it will end just like everyone else’s. Every life story that we write on our own ends in death. Nothing you can do is going to separate you from the masses. Your story is going to end the same as everyone else’s. We are all in a prison, and the warden’s name is death. You can be the best inmate you can be, but you aren’t getting out of this prison by yourself. The Gospel calls us to stop trying to write our own life stories, and let Jesus to do the work instead. I’m anticipating some pushback, so let me speak to two potential objections. First, I imagine some of you might be thinking, “He just told me to stop trying at life, and that nothing I do matters. He told me that who I am doesn’t matter. Why should I do anything then?” Here’s my answer: when I tell you to stop trying to write your own life story, I’m not saying that who you are is unimportant. I’m not saying that how you live is unimportant. Instead, I’m urging you to stop trying to find significance in the story that you write. Instead, find your significance, your identity, and your hope in what Jesus has done on your behalf. When you get that sorted, then you can live your life with a new-found freedom. When you find your significance in Jesus, then you can be the best athlete, scholar, or musician you can be— precisely because you are freed of the pressure of believing that your abilities in these areas is what makes you worthwhile. You know that if you don’t get the grade you hoped for, your worth is still found in the Son of God who died for you. You know that if you hit below the Mendoza line for a season, your worth is still found in Jesus, not your success. You know that if you don’t get the lead part in the musical you hoped for, your worth is still found in the love God has for you. So, I’m not telling you to stop trying at life. Instead, I’m telling you to stop trying to find your identity, value, or hope in a story you write. Second, others of you might be thinking, “Dr. Easter, isn’t this just your newest version of your ‘thing’? Are you just trying to be the ‘religious guy’ now? The hockey player thing, the funny fat guy thing, the band roadie thing, and the smart guy thing didn’t work out for you, so now you’re just doing the ‘religious guy’ thing.” Good question. Here’s my answer: this isn’t my thing. It isn’t about my faith. It’s about the faithfulness of Jesus. If this were about my faith, then you’re right: my faith would be me trying to write my own life story again, just a baptized version of it. But the Gospel is not that I muster up enough faith from within myself to make God happy with me. No, the Gospel is about the faithfulness of Jesus, who loved us and gave his life for us. It’s not about my faith—it’s about the faithfulness of Jesus. I learned this from a New Testament scholar named Richard Hays. (He, incidentally, was my teacher at Duke and why I went to Duke in the first place.) Hays writes, “We have gotten ‘off message’ and therefore lost our way in a culture that tells us many other stories about who we are and where our hope lies. In both the evangelical and the liberal wings of Protestantism, there is too much emphasis on individual faith-experience and not enough grounding of our theological discourse in the story of Jesus

Christ” (Hays, lii). It other words, we focus too much on our own life stories and not enough on the life story of Jesus. So, here I am. My imagination takes me to the end of my life. I reflect back on my life story. What story do I want to tell with my life? Well, I’ve determined to give up trying to write my story. I’m trading my life story for Jesus’ story. I’m counting my life story as loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord. I’m placing all of my eggs in Jesus’ basket. I’m giving all of my identity, all of my worth, all of my significance, all of my life story to Jesus, so that I may know him and the power of his resurrection, and share in his story—his sufferings, his death—that by any means possible I may attain the resurrection from the dead. I’m trading my life story for Jesus’ story, which turns out to be a really good trade. Because he’s a much better author than I am.

Note 1

This chapel message was delivered at Missouri Baptist University on 3 Oct. 2017.

Work Cited Hays, Richard B. The Faith of Jesus Christ: The Narrative Substructure of Galatians 3:1-4:11. 2nd ed. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2002.

John J. Han, “Angry E.T.” (Manchester, MO)

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Wisdom for Generations Hannah Brauer

My childhood home was situated in the rugged forest. My family and I lived in a rural area, so access to main roads, convenience stores, and neighbors was limited. In fact, we had only one neighbor, my grandfather. His home was located further into the woods, one half-mile away from mine. When I was very young, my parents decided to move to be closer to my grandfather in his final years. During this time, I spent many days with my grandfather. He’d often babysit me while my parents made trips to the nearest town to run errands. In recollection, there is one day that stands out in my mind. When my mom dropped me off at my grandfather’s, the weather was beautiful. I remember the clear blue skies and warm, soothing breeze which forecasted a lovely spring day. The weather boosted my excitement, as I was prepared to embark on my favorite activity—exploring the woods with Grandpa. Standing on the porch, I waved goodbye to my mother as she drove away in our minivan. “C’mon in!” Grandpa shouted from the other side of the porch’s screen door. Turning around to face the door, I twisted the doorknob and pulled hard because the hinges were rusty. I followed the smell of cooking to the kitchen where I found Grandpa standing over the stove. “What’ll you have to eat today, sonny?” he asked. “The usual, Grandpa,” I said with a smile. He always asked me this question, as if we were dining at a fancy restaurant instead of his old, homey kitchen. “Good, because these grilled cheese sandwiches are done! Pour us some lemonade, will you? The pitcher’s in the fridge.” I served the lemonade while he served the sandwiches and, together, we sat at the table, folded our hands, and thanked the Lord for our bountiful feast. Having offered our thanks, we dug in to our lunch, a favorite that we both shared. As we ate, we discussed anything and everything: my performance at school this week, his solitaire games, the players on our favorite professional baseball team. Just as we finished our sandwiches, thunder boomed over the roof of the house. Startled, Grandpa looked at me, “My goodness, that was loud.” Another boom of thunder sounded. “Run over to the window, sonny, and check it out for us.” Peering out of the window above the sink, standing on my tiptoes, I announced, “Grandpa, it’s pouring outside! What’ll we do?” “Let’s play some checkers and see if we can’t wait this storm out.” We played three rounds before it finally stopped thundering. I glanced over at the clock and saw that we still had an hour before my mom returned to bring me home. “I can’t believe it stormed today, Grandpa. I really wanted to see that pond you were telling me about last weekend.” With a twinkle in his eye, Grandpa said, “The pond is too far away to see today, but I have another idea. Put on your shoes and grab an umbrella from the coat closet, just in case.” Intrigued, I did as he said and met him at the back door. “Ready?” Grandpa looked down at me, and I nodded up at him in response. We headed out into the woods that lined his backyard, being wary of large mud puddles. Grandpa was silent as he walked, observing the nature around him. Young and impatient, I could not see the beauty that enraptured him, and I curiously asked when he would reveal his idea. “Soon, sonny. When we reach the top of that hill over there, I’ll clue you in.” Then, he returned to his silence. Only partially satisfied, I, too, hushed and ambled along the path next to him. Once we reached the crest of the hill, I asked, “What’s your idea, Grandpa?” Looking around, I could not find anything of interest, nothing out of the ordinary. Trees bordered either side of the dirt path,

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and the undergrowth lay flat, having been trampled by the pouring rain. “What did you want to show me?” Breathing in, Grandpa instructed, “Take a deep breath, sonny. Tell me what you smell.” I filled my lungs to capacity, eager to do as he requested. “I smell wet soil, a fresh breeze,” I paused, “Like the woods have been washed clean.” “Yes, good,” he replied. “Now, take a careful look around and tell me what you see.” Growing restless, I dictated to him my earlier observation, that everything looked the same as usual. “Ah, you are not looking closely enough,” he inferred. “See there, that leaf on the oak tree? See the raindrops hanging from its underside? Watch as they fall to the leaf below.” Patiently, I waited for the raindrops to fall, and observed as the process began again, with the raindrop wiggling, squirming its way down the tree to the forest floor. I shared this with my grandfather, who confirmed my observation. “Yes, those raindrops will contribute to the groundwater, providing nourishment to all the plants in the woods. Let’s see if you can do even better. Listen carefully and tell me what you hear.” Following his instruction again, I closed my eyes and listened. “I hear rustling, like leaves are moving, and I hear birds chirping.” “Very good, sonny. Open your eyes, and look to the undergrowth to your left, beneath the taller oak.” I did as he said, and saw the wild undergrowth moving, as if alive. As if sensing my gaze, a squirrel popped into sight, staring at me. Nose twitching, he watched me for a moment, then scampered up the trunk of the tree. “Your ears led you to that little fella. Now, look up above you. High up in the branches, you will find the songbird you heard.” Sure enough, I spotted the bird easily, its red feathers standing out against the green foliage of the tree. “I see it, Grandpa! It’s a Cardinal!” Grandpa responded, “Yes, good eye! Do you see yet why I brought you here? Even when the world appears to be at its most ordinary,” he stated, “You can always be amazed, sonny.” As he said this, the leftover clouds parted, and a rainbow appeared, arching through the sky and touching down beyond the woods. Grandpa chuckled and gazed straight up at the colorful sky, “It seems as if someone agrees with me. The world is full of beautiful wonders; you just have to be willing to look.” * Grandpa passed away shortly thereafter. Despite my grief, I remember feeling comforted with my memories of him and of the fun times we had shared, like that day we went exploring after the thunderstorm. Some days, I went without thinking of Grandpa at all. Other times, the memory of him would be so prevalent in my mind, it was as if I could feel his presence. In the years to come, I would learn to appreciate those times in which he felt very near, gently guiding me through any hardship life threw my way. I felt his pride at my high school graduation. I remembered his comforting words when I was laid off from my first post-graduate job. I felt his joy at my wedding, and when my daughter was born. There is one day I remember in particular. My daughter was quite young, not yet old enough to leave the house without her stuffed bear, Jonathan. She loved to explore nature, a passion she inherited from her father. On this summer day, I took her and Jonathan for a picnic lunch in our neighborhood park. We brought along grilled cheese sandwiches and lemonade—and pickles, her favorite. Together, my daughter and I enjoyed our lunch in a secluded tree grove in the park. As soon as we finished our sandwiches, storm clouds rolled in and the sky grew dark. She looked at me in alarm, for she was terribly afraid of thunderstorms. “Oh no! Daddy, what should we do?” Packing the picnic basket, I grabbed Jonathan and shouted over the thunder, “Run to the car! Let’s wait it out.” We were caught by only a few raindrops before we climbed inside the safety of the car, but many more followed. For the next forty minutes, as the storm crashed around us, I kept her mind

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occupied by talking about anything and everything: her best friend in the neighborhood, my favorite children’s storybook, our favorite movie. The more we conversed, the more she forgot about the storm. Pretty soon, the pouring rain ceased, and the thunderclouds dissipated, leaving trails of fluffy, grey clouds. “Look at that,” I said to her. “The storm’s blown over. Want to go exploring?” She looked up at me, eyes sparkling. “Sure!” We exited the car with Jonathan, headed for the well-worn path to the tree grove. On the way there, she grumbled and complained. She was concerned about getting mud on her new shoes. “Well, look up ahead. There’s a sight that’s worth the walk.” I pointed with my finger to a spot in the sky where the clouds had thinned, revealing the first rays of sunshine after the storm. A rainbow illuminated the light grey clouds, arching across the sky and down behind the tree grove. “I see it, Daddy! A rainbow!” My daughter hopped up and down in excitement, grinning from ear to ear. I glanced down at her, admiring her exuberance. I turned my gaze back toward the colorful spectacle up above, smiling softly, nostalgically. “There’s a world of wonders just waiting to be explored out there,” I said to her. “We just have to be willing to look.”

John J. Han, “Still Bright” (Robertsville, MO)

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Twenty-First Century Multimodal Tutoring David Harman Writing centers have had to evolve since their inception due to the vast changes in technology and the curriculum this technology helped develop. From typewriters and laptops, to online writing centers, the pedagogy behind tutoring in the academic community has reflected the “New Historicist” paradigm in order to remain relevant. Moving into the twenty-first century, writing centers and trained tutors have the chance to help the next generations of students develop literacy that has become multimodal; students not only have to worry about how to read and write, but also how to utilize technology in a plethora of ways that were not possible only two decades ago. I believe that the premise behind that latter section of our text, The St. Martin’s Sourcebook for Writing Tutors, is correct in its assertion that the academic community must move towards writing centers that provide multimodal tutoring in 21st century literacy. This literacy is varied and complex; including reading, writing, and speaking alongside technological literacy that uses many software programs to encompass multiple senses and interpretations. Christina Murphy and Lory Hawkes, authors of “The Future of Multiliteracy Centers in the EWorld: An Exploration of Cultural Narratives and Cultural Transformation,” discuss the transformation of contemporary writing centers, and their importance at the forefront of twenty-first century academia. According to these two authors, writing centers have moved from focusing “on the values and mechanisms of the print culture of the 20th century to multiliteracy centers in the 21st century . . . [a shift] that will prove to be transformative for Writing Centers and professionals who staff them” (Murphy 362). Helping teach multiliteracy utilizing the various technological formats available at colleges and universities today can be paired with many educational pedagogies to further enhance student learning. Howard Gardner, developmental psychologist and Professor of Cognition and Education at Harvard University, set forth his Multiple Intelligence Theory in 1983 with the publication Frames of Mind: The Theory of Multiple Intelligences. According to this theory, individuals have eight intelligences that allow for information processing and learning (linguistic, spatial, interpersonal, etc.). Current educational curriculum has been influenced by the development of easily navigable and available technology. These tools allow students to show their teachers their knowledge in a variety of formats. No longer are students only required to listen to a lecture, read a book, take a test, or write a paper. Teachers now require students to create PowerPoint presentations, videos, songs, and speeches, among other forms of presentations using many other technologies to present their knowledge. This allows learners to use intelligences outside of the linguistic and logical-mathematical that has been regularly relied upon to show others their knowledge. Technology and Multiple Intelligences are touched upon in higher education, and writing centers and their staffs must evolve to help students with the twenty-first century multimodal curriculum. David Sheridan, author of “Words, Images, Sounds: Writing Centers as Multiliteracy Centers,” states that for writing centers and tutors to help students going forward, they must “move away from models that see the written word as the exclusive or even privileged mode of communication,” instead moving towards a theory and practice that “engage[s] composers in conversations about all media components.” Writing centers and tutors do this by thinking of the words rhetoric and literacy as ever evolving and changing in their meaning. Academics must not simply think of these words as they have been portrayed in the past; the spoken and written word are no longer appropriate definitions. In the twenty-first century, these words must encompass visual and technical aspects as curriculum and communication techniques utilize digital formats that are at the fingertips of anyone with a computer or smartphone (Sheridan 337). As consumers of these multimodal compositions, students must now make meaning from various forms of electronic media, as well as composing with them as well. It is imperative that writing centers train their tutors to help students in twenty-first century multiliteracy.

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Technological Pedagogical Content Knowledge, which will hereto be referred to as TPACK, is a new area of educational theory that expounds upon a special kind of knowledge needed for today’s students and teachers. To be effective mediators of knowledge, both teachers and tutors must develop new kinds of understanding, knowledge, and skills that allow them to transform technology into cognitive tools. Punya Mishra, Professor of Educational Technology at Michigan State University, states in his article “The 7 Trans-Disciplinary Habits of Mind: Extending the TPACK Framework Towards 21st Century Learning” that there are three specific types of knowledge that the 21st century educators must have: content, pedagogical, and technological. This framework involves utilizing trans-disciplinary knowledge i.e. knowledge that even as it emerges from disciplinary practices transcends them, is key to helping learners to think in a creative and flexible manner. Trans-disciplinary knowledge helps students move beyond looking for one “correct” solution, towards a more realistic approach that integrates many forms of knowledge, solutions, viewpoints, or perspectives. (Mishra 2011) This trans-disciplinary knowledge is critical thinking involving technology. This allows individuals to learn, create, and teach in ways that encompass a variety of senses and can be used to scaffold lessons for each individual student depending upon his or her strengths, weaknesses, and prior knowledge. As the title of Mishra’s article states, there are seven interdisciplinary cognitive tools that help individuals conceptualize content across subject areas: perceiving, patterning, abstracting, embodied thinking, modeling, deep/transformational play, and synthesizing. Writing centers, if they are to remain on the cusp on technological advancements and tutoring pedagogy, need to train their staff in these trans-disciplinary knowledge areas in order to teach multiliteracy. According to Mishra, perception involves both observing and imaging (Mishra 25). Writing center tutors, unless working in purely OWL territory, observe their tutees regularly. Imaging is the aspect of perception that will require guided practice, and Jackie McKinney, author of “New Media Matters: Tutoring in the Late Age of Print,” states, “Many academic conference presentations are not paper essays read to the audience but arguments presented with powerpoint slideshows, videos, animations, and print or digital posters, suggesting that may academic writers . . . are no longer choosing paper essays” (McKinney 349). The same can be said for curriculum in secondary schools and beyond; research papers are no longer the default assignments. Patterning, Mishra’s second concept, involves the identification of repetition or various forms in something that seems arbitrary (Mishra 25). This is essential for anyone who wishes to be a proficient reader and writer, thus Writing centers must train their staff to be proficient in patterning. The third aspect, abstracting, is a key component of education and the tutoring process. Being able to break down a single idea of process and show a person how or why it works in a logical way is what tutors and writing centers are available for. This is extremely important for multiliteracy and technology; writing centers must be able to show students how to utilize PowerPoint or write a sentence in a logical, step-by-step manner that will improve both their literacy and rhetoric while also utilizing technology properly. Modeling, the next concept of TPACK, is essential for OWLs as well as tutoring; providing students with proper examples of sentence structure and MLA or APA helps to produce better readers and writers. Deep/Transformational Play is key to tutoring students in literacy and rhetoric; it is pertinent to show students how they can “play” with sentences regarding grammar and syntax in order to create a more powerful and meaningful argument. The final aspect, synthesizing, combines the multiple ways of knowing (in this case literacy and rhetoric) into a multimodal teaching and learning experience that will lead students into the next century. Writing centers and tutors must develop a practice that “interacts with the present situation to open up [both tutors and students] to future growth experiences. By bringing together the previous six habits of mind, synthesis allows for the development of deeper connections between subject matters. Thus, these ways of thinking, and the examples that go with each, are not completely independent of each other” (Mishra 26).

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Writing centers must utilize the “New Historicist” approach to tutoring and education, alongside that of TPAK pedagogy, to create proper twenty-first century citizens who can think critically and who can compose and understand multimodal media, literacy, and rhetoric.

Works Cited McKinney, Jackie Grutsch. “New Media Matters: Tutoring in the Late Age of Print.” The St. Martin’s Sourcebook for Writing Tutors, edited by Christina Murphy and Steve Sherwood, Bedford/St. Martins, 2011, 344-360. Mishra, Punya et al. “The 7 Trans-Disciplinary Habits of Mind: Extending the TPACK Framework Towards 21st Century Learning.” Educational Technology, March-April 2011, 22-28. Murphy, Christina and Lory Hawkes. “The Future of Multiliteracy Centers in the E-World: An Exploration of Cultural Narratives and Cultural Transformation.” The St. Martin’s Sourcebook for Writing Tutors, edited by Christina Murphy and Steve Sherwood, Bedford/St. Martins, 2011, 361-374. Sheridan, David. “Words, Images, Sounds: Writing Centers as Multiliteracy Centers.” The St. Martin’s Sourcebook for Writing Tutors, edited by Christina Murphy and Steve Sherwood, Bedford/St. Martins, 2011, 334-343.

John J. Han, “Frozen Bubbles” (Manchester, MO)

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Not Just One Chance to Master: Standards-Based Grading in an ELA Classroom Cristin Sattler Like many new teachers, I treaded water in the first years. My goal was to stay alive and not drown in grading, planning, and organizing. But when I hit the four-year mark, I began to question how and what I was grading. I vividly remember sitting down with my high school building principal and telling him, “I just don’t know how to best reflect what a student does or doesn’t know using the gradebook. I mean, what does a 76% on the ACT III Romeo and Juliet test tell me or them?” He didn’t answer me; he just smiled and wrote down two names on a scrap piece of paper: Robert Marzano and Ken O’Connor. Apparently my concerns were questions many educators and researchers faced when dealing with assessment and grading. Years have passed since the initial “questioning” and after a little digging and research I decided that I wasn’t crazy. I am not the only one who questions why my gradebook doesn’t really tell me, my students, and their parents much of anything. The solution to my problem seemed to be some version of Standards-Based Grading (SBG). In a pure standards-based approach, grade levels don’t exist per se. Students progress through levels of skill and knowledge per subject. They would be in a “class” that would be appropriate for the skill level in that subject area (Marzano, 2010). I wanted to implement some of the concepts of SBG so my classwork and assessments revolved around the clearly aligned objectives for the units. Ideally, my gradebook would reflect student performance in regards to the set objectives. For me, this made sense because this type of grading allowed students opportunities to continue to grow and develop in their learning and for them to be active participants in their learning process. After browsing the internet and reading some books, I decided I wanted to utilize this grading system, but I didn’t know how or where to even start. Here are a few concerns I had to work out as I envisioned Standards-Based grading in my ELA classroom: ● ● ● ● ● ●

My electronic gradebook was set up for points-based grading and not skills-based. I would need student tracking sheets for the skills that were being assessed. Parents and students were not familiar with Standards-Based grading. I had to have multiple versions of assessments available for retakes. I had to be willing to take any late work (no zeros in the gradebook). How does a secondary ELA teacher who has over 150 students to track, assess over 30 standards and offer retakes and no zeros in the gradebook?

Where I Started I decided this was a lot to handle right out of the gate because I didn’t really have a grip on what I was doing. I solved this by trying SBG with one class and with a unit with which I felt comfortable. Ultimately I chose my freshman Pre-AP course and the Romeo and Juliet unit since it breaks nicely into five acts and specific skills can be tracked over the course of the play. Students would take a test after each act and each question would be aligned with the skill it was assessing. Each test consisted of 10 constructed response questions and each question was worth 4 points, so students received a 4, 3, 2, or 1 per question, depending on their answers. I marked the number by each test question. When students received their tests back, there wasn’t an overall, holistic score. Students tracked their progress on each question for each test indicating what score they received on each skill. This helped them to visualize what skill they needed to work on and what skills they needed to retest. If and when students were ready to retest a skill, they would retest only the skills they wanted to “master” and on a similar question regarding the same skill.

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Tackling the Gradebook and Tracking Sheets The easiest way I found to illustrate students’ standard knowledge, using the gradebook mandated by the district, was to make a separate test assignment per question. So one test had ten entries in the gradebook—each out of four points. Once I graded each question from the test, I passed it back for the students to track on a personal sheet that listed each question, the skill it assessed, the points possible, and the points they received. At the bottom of the tracking sheet, they wrote the skills they needed to practice or have retaught to them prior to the retake or next act’s test. The students I tried this with indicated they liked to see individual questions and skills proficiency because it became easier for them to understand what they did and did not know, though individual question scores and not holistic test scores were sometimes overwhelming for some students. For example, one student said, “I liked the way that tests were graded because it graded you on individual concepts, not just the entire test. I feel like the way that things were graded was more fair in a sense that you got rewarded for the things you knew (good grade) for the things you know & it was more brought to your attention when you did not know something as well (bad grade).” And for some students they preferred to see their grades holistically: “I was so-so about the questions based grading. I loved how it was very easy to see what I need to learn more and what I can work on for the future, but I did not like how I could not see my actual test grade on the portal.” I could have expected or anticipated this reaction since this student, like many others, were used to seeing a percentage. We all needed to make a mental shift when it came to assessing what we know and don't know. The process of “converting” students, parents, and teachers to understanding how SBG can work was the next step. Helping Both Parents and Students Understand SBG At first I struggled with SBG in general. I was honest with students and parents saying I wanted to try a new way of grading. At the beginning of the school year during open house, I spent the ten minutes I had with each section explaining how the gradebook would look and what I was doing. I expressed that a holistic test grade—that we are all used to—doesn’t really tell me or their child anything other than a percentage on an overall test. I wanted the parents to know that both the students and I needed to know exactly what skills they mastered or needed to work on, and SBG would be the first step to helping their awareness. This format did not allow for enough time to fully explain SBG, so I also provided parents with a handout and followed up with frequent communication via email to help keep parents informed of test dates, retakes, and grades. Often if I sent out an email stating I was entering “Test 2” into the gradebook, and its test numbers range from Test 11-Test 20, parents and students both knew the ten entries were the ten questions for that second test. Communication seemed to be the key to success. As I was learning, I kept the parents and students informed of any changes, or I made clarifications as necessary. Multiple Assessments and No Zeros Having multiple versions—different questions that still align to the standard being assessed—of tests for the unit wasn’t as hard or cumbersome as one would think. When I explained this to parents, one even questioned. “Isn’t this type of learning and grading going to be more work for you?” And at first thought, I guess this would seem to be a huge turn off or deterrent for many teachers wanting to try this type of grading style. Honestly, I kept asking myself the same question to keep my focus while planning and writing assessments for the unit: “What skills do they need to know for this unit?” I wrote the assessment before I taught the act. That way I knew exactly what skills I needed to make sure to teach and reteach. This thinking made writing the retakes easier, too. I would simply replace each question with a similar one that assessed the same skill. Not every student took advantage of my retake policy, but those who did were grateful: “I liked the way that tests were graded because it graded you on individual concepts, not just the entire test. I feel like the way that things were graded was more fair in a sense that

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you got rewarded for the things you knew (good grade) for the things you know & it was more brought to your attention when you did not know something as well (bad grade).” I adapted a “no zeros policy” from Ken O’Connor’s A Repair Kit for Grading: 15 Fixes for Broken Grades. O’Connor’s suggestion is “don’t include zeros in grade determination when evidence is missing or as a punishment; use alternatives, such as reassessing to determine real achievement, or use ‘I’ for Incomplete or Insufficient Evidence.” I found this concept had to be honored if I truly wanted an accurate assessment of what the student did and did not know. This was especially true about zeros that were the result of students not turning work in. And really, what does a “zero” tell me about what students know? Nothing. It shows me they didn’t turn something in. It really cannot indicate the level of proficiency on a skill. O’Connor also indicates that zeros only provide problems: “Zeros give a numerical value to something that has never been assessed, and therefore has no basis in reality; they can have counterproductive effects on student motivation; they involve inappropriate mathematics” (O’Connor, 2011). Allowing students, within a timely manner, to submit work allows their grade to be a better reflection of their knowledge. I made my deadlines quarters. I also required students to make up missing assignments before they were able to retest, and this was helpful in getting students to complete work that would help them study for the assessments. There isn’t a perfect way to do this really. In the end, I didn’t give too much homework that was actually graded. This cut down on grading, but I still assigned homework for students to have the skills practice they needed in preparation for the skills assessments. So Many Skills, So Many Students, So Little Me Was this hard? Not really. I tried this out on something manageable: a unit. I outlined what objectives or skills I needed to teach with this specific unit and assess in each chapter. I had to have multiple tests readily available for students to retest, but in the end I had a solid understanding of how well each student understood the specific skills in the unit. I took a unit that was manageable for this year; for next year I can formulate tests and tracking sheets for the next set of skills. Overall, the most difficult part was helping the parents and students to understand the gradebook. Because the district I work for doesn’t use Standards-Based Grading, our gradebooks were still points-based, and I had to convert students’ test question grades to a number/percentage after all. So, was it worth it then, you may be asking? I knew and students knew exactly what they did and didn’t understand after testing. They knew what specifically to study and became responsible for tracking their progress and success. And in the end, that’s all I really wanted. I wanted their feedback, too, so I asked them to tell me their thoughts on the process, grading, and retakes. Overall, the majority of the students felt they had a better understanding of skills-based grading: “I loved this Unit because with test retakes you could truly understand the book instead of being left behind.” I think those who struggled with the unit—the skills themselves—even found the way grading was implemented illustrated a better picture of their understanding: “It was a hard unit for me but the option to retest was good for me. It didn't help that we had so many grades, yet it did help that we had so many grades.” See Figure 1 for an example tracking sheet. So Now What? My goal is to continue using a form of SBG in my classroom. For now, this style of grading provides my students, their parents, and me with valuable and relevant information that allows us to see what skills are known and what skills need to be retaught. Until district gradebooks and report cards allow a truer depiction of SBG, I can utilize Excel or Google Forms to track my students by standard and provide my students with the skills and standards being taught in the form of a tracker they may keep for studying purposes. After all, this is really all I wanted: for students to have a better understanding of what they are being taught and assessed over, and how well they know this. Ken O’Connor addresses that one way to “fix the gradebook” is to get students involved in their grading: “Grades are broken when students

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do not understand how their grades have been determined, and when they have been excluded from assessment, record keeping, and communication” (O’Connor, 2011). The steps teachers can take towards helping students become more involved will make teaching easier; it’s going to be a process and it’s going to take time, but I know students are the ones who will come out of this process with the biggest reward: understanding what they have learned and know. Figure 1: Question #

Skill Assessed

Comprehension-Parallel and Juxtaposition Fig. LanguageAllusions-Analysis ComprehensionCharacter Motivation Analogies and Metaphor Oxymoron-Analysis Author’s Purpose/Theme Double Meanings and Analysis Identifying/ Extended Metaphor Irony-Literary Focus Character MotivationComprehension

2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

Points Received

Points Possible

Divide Points Received by Points Possible. Percentage = 90-100 = Mastered 80-89 = Proficient 70-79 = Average 60-69 = Basic 0-59 = Below Basic

4 4 4 4 4 4 4 4 4 4

Works Cited Marzano, Robert J. Formative Assessment & Standards-based Grading. Bloomington, IN: Marzano Research Laboratory, 2010. O'Connor, Ken. A Repair Kit for Grading: 15 Fixes for Broken Grades. Boston: Pearson, 2011.

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The Shepherd of the Hills: Comparing Wright’s Novel with Its Movie Version Krista Tyson Books have been made into movies for years. Many people would argue that books should not be made into movies because the information given in a book could not be accurately represented within a film. It is inevitable that the director of the movie would not have the same interpretations as the fans and that things will need to be cut out to avoid an unnecessarily long film. Others would argue that movies bring the characters and the world of the book to life and give a visual to the audience; they would also argue that it gives the ones who do not read a chance to see the story. The Shepherd of the Hills, Harold Bell Wright’s novel published in 1907, made him the bestselling American author of the time. Wright spent some time in the Ozark Mountains because his doctor had prescribed him to spend more time outdoors for health. Wright wrote the novel based on the people whom he met in the mountains. Not only was the novel what established Harold Bell Wright as a best-selling author, but it has since been made into a four different films in the years 1919, 1928, 1941, and 1964; the 1941 version, which stars John Wayne, is the most popular one. It has become famous, especially for those who live in Missouri. The story is beloved by Branson natives and even those in the surrounding areas because it depicts one of the beloved sites in Missouri. There are some similarities and differences between the story in the novel and the story in the 1941 film. Wright’s novel is a story about a small town, Mutton Hollow, located in the Ozark Mountains in Branson, Missouri. It follows a man named Daniel Howitt. After arriving in Mutton Hollow, he meets the town folk who are all connected in ways that the reader is initially unaware of. The main characters in this story are one big family and are related in some way to one another. Howitt becomes good friends with Grant Matthews (Old Matt), the father of the girl whom Howitt’s son impregnated and abandoned. This is not known by either of the men at the beginning of their friendship. Howitt’s son is known as “Mad Howard,” who earns that name when he returns to Mutton Hollow to rectify things with Old Matt’s daughter, only to find out that she died giving birth to their son, Pete Howard. This sends him into a tailspin, causing him to practically lose his mind. Old Matt, described as a big man in size and impression, lives his life embittered by the abandonment of his daughter and swears he will kill “Mad Howard.” This novel contains people who come with their own set of baggage and problems; however, Daniel Howitt comes to this area with perspective and a sound ideology. He brings reason to the people of this small town and reminds them of what is important in life. For example, Old Matt’s son, Grant Matthews Jr. (Young Matt), is madly in love with Sammy Lane, a young woman looking for a suitor. Sammy is being pursued by a few men, one of whom is Ollie Stewart, a rich young man. Ollie proposes to her, and, although she does not even like him, she plans to accept his proposal because he is rich. However, Howitt convinces her otherwise, reminding her that that money is not everything. Howitt becomes known as “The Shepherd” because he teaches townspeople what truly matters in life and guides them in the right direction. Similar to the novel, the 1941 film version of The Shepherd of the Hills—directed by Henry Hathaway—begins with the appearance of a stranger, Daniel Howitt (Harry Carry). He has come to Mutton Hollow to escape his crowded city life in Chicago, Illinois, and to spend some time in nature. The film focuses on the family drama that occurs between the townsfolk and the man who comes to this town. The characters are shown to be connected in different ways about which the characters and the audience are unaware. The film focuses on the vendetta Young Matt (John Wayne) has against Daniel Howitt, who becomes good friends with his wife, Sammy Lane. At the beginning of the movie, Young Matt and Sammy are already married. “Mad Howard” is not present within the film, as he is in the past and the focus is placed on the present when Howitt comes to Mutton Hollow and decides to stay after Sammy convinces him to buy land. Howitt becomes good friends with many of the people in town, including Old

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Matt (James Barton). Old Matt is shown to be a somewhat foolish man always nagged by his wife, Aunt Mollie. Much of the film revolves around Young Matt’s struggle with his anger towards the man who wronged his mother. This film then shows how he learns to overcome that bitterness through his love for Sammy Lane. The fact that Young Matt and Sammy are already married in the film does take away from the way Howitt positively impacts Sammy’s life in the book. In the movie, “Mad Howard” returns to find that Old Matt’s daughter has died while giving birth to Pete. Because he is so suicidal due to his bad feelings about abandoning the woman he actually loved, he gets caught in the gunfire, probably on purpose, as he had tried to commit suicide before. This is a very important part to add the film because it gives the audience the important backstory for Howitt’s character and explains why he is so distraught over his son’s death and had guilty feelings of not being close with him before he died. This would also give the audience insights into why Howitt feels the need to help others: he missed out on an opportunity to make a difference in someone’s life, like he should have in his son’s life. Old Matt and Aunt Mollie are two characters who are not portrayed accurately within the film. In the book, Old Matt is highly respected and loved in the community of Mutton Hollow. He and his wife, Aunt Mollie, are a couple whose relationship is admired; she is a loving and kind woman who is also respected by her husband and the town. However, in the film, he is described as a foolish and annoyed old man constantly nagged by his wife. The movie does these two characters a disservice and injustice. The Shepherd of the Hills is based on real people with real stories. It is an unique story which Harold Bell Wright writes as, somewhat, a memory of his time in the Ozark Mountains. The 1941 film is an interesting, drama-filled movie that is very engaging; however, the story and some of the characters are not represented sufficiently because some are omitted and others are changed. Some of the thoughts and reasoning behind the characters’ actions are unclear, as the viewer does not have much background information on the story. Most movies will omit some scenes from the film so that it will not be too long, but some of the events omitted in the 1941 movie version are essential to the story. Books are a much more complex story with more detail than movies, so creating a movie based on a book comes with its own set of challenges. A movie could never represent the inner thoughts of a character nor is an actor always able to capture the essence of the character as well as both could be conveyed in a book. In the case of The Shepherd of the Hills, the perspective and the characters are particularly difficult to display in a film. The novel is very heavy with description and explanation of the characters and events, and that is something that a film cannot contain.

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John J. Han, “After Three Days” (Seoul, Korea)

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On Writing Creatively

“The difference between literature and journalism is that journalism is unreadable and literature is not read.” ―Oscar Wilde (1854-90) “The greatest artists almost never conform to the rules of their art set down by those who do not practice it.” —Charles Angoff (1902-79) “Serious literature does not exist to make life easy but to complicate it.” ―Witold Gombrowicz (1904-69)

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The Poetry of Ted Kooser and the Confrontation of Diminishment Phillip Howerton In “The Oven Bird,” Robert Frost suggests that a central duty of a poet is to contemplate “what to make of a diminished thing” (119-120). This is a sobering, unsettling task, and one that readers might not immediately connect to the poetry of Ted Kooser when charmed by his wit and metaphor. Yet Kooser certainly does not shrink from the existential duty prescribed by Frost, for in numerous poems Kooser confronts human diminishment and the inevitable loss of all that separates life from death—whether it be reduced physical or mental powers, the loss of love, or the loss of identity—and he does not attempt to counter this diminishment with platitudes or with an arbitrary system of thought or belief. Of the 62 poems in Kooser’s Pulitzer-Prize winning collection, Delights and Shadows, more than half directly react to forms of human diminishment. Some of Kooser’s people are trapped in weakened bodies. For example, the protagonist in “Tattoo” has lost physical strength and has become only a mouthpiece for his worn stories. “New Cap” describes a man so physically shrunken that it seems that he may blow away in the wind. “At the Cancer Clinic” presents a character that, although defiant in spirit, inhabits an enfeebled body. Other poems explore how humans impair their potential. “Walking on Tiptoe” suggests that humans have been reduced by responsibility and guilt, and “In the Hall of Bones” observes that we have reduced ourselves by brooding over our existence. In “Pegboard” we have diminished ourselves by turning from artistic and spiritual pursuits to the more artificial. Some of the folks in this collection experience mitigated control of the world. For example, “Gyroscope” reminds us of our inability to control our increasingly complex lives. In “Zenith” readers are shown a woman who, due to age and position in life, can do nothing to affect the events of world war. In “Creamed Corn” people are reduced by stereotypes. The veteran in “The Veteran in a New Field” is diminished, or at least disturbed, by his wartime experiences. Other characters are shown struggling with reduced relationships, such as those in “After Years,” “Garage Sale,” and “Tectonics.” Even though Kooser recognizes and identifies numerous aspects of diminishment, he refuses to invest in platitudes or philosophical rationalization or to offer consistently convenient and comforting escapes. In “The ‘Unseriousness’ of Robert Frost: Nitchie’s Critique in Retrospect,” Thomas Duddy argues that Frost was a better poet for not having, as did Eliot and Yeats, a fixed system of beliefs and values that guided and restricted his responses to life. Duddy argues that “[t]o understand Frost at his best, you need not be anything other than a human being coming to terms with fundamental forms of experience, interaction, and realization” (71), and he adds that “Frost’s strength lies precisely in his refusal to opt for the assurances of either inherited or invented frameworks of meaning. His strength lies in . . . responding to life as it befalls him unpredictably, often uncontrollably, sometimes unaccountably” (73). These observations aptly apply to Ted Kooser, for to understand Kooser at his best, we need only to be humans trying to come to terms with our existence, and one of his strengths is that he responds “to life as it befalls him unpredictably, often uncontrollably, sometimes unaccountably.” In Kooser’s poetry, people much like ourselves confront and react to the pleasures and pains of life. We recognize we are connected to these others by the reality (as noted by E.B. White in “Death of a Pig”) that we are all sufferers in a suffering world, and that we are all responding day by day and experience by experience to the conundrum of our existence. That is, we exist, we are mortal, and we must try to answer Kierkegaard’s question of “But what do we do?” Sometimes we, and the people in Kooser’s poetry, grasp one another’s hands, laugh together, seek out meaningful work or brood on our shadows. In “Tattoo” and “Pearl” we tell stories, in “Skater” we pause to note our minor triumphs, in “The Old People” we accept and embrace loss, in “A Winter Morning” we struggle to be “one small blue ring of flame” in “the starry cold” of the universe (42), in “Screech Owl” we welcome a “small hope / from the center of darkness” (73), in “Home Medical Dictionary” we try to apply knowledge to ease

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suffering, in “A Box of Pastels” we engage art to cast color and light into the shadows, and at other times, as in “Old Lilacs,” we simply wish to “stand among” the flowers and breathe (64). Two remarkable examples of Kooser’s reactions to diminishment are the poems “That Was I” and “A Spiral Notebook.” In “That was I,” the speaker, who describes himself as an elderly man with rounded shoulders and a dripping nose and who loiters in lonely places, is a somewhat omnipresent speaker representing such men. This speaker becomes the voice for this group by noting “that was I” who readers observed wandering alone in a horseshoe pitching pit, on a mini-golf course, or in a cemetery (71-72). In the first stanza, this speaker finds both delights and shadows, for he reports that as he sat “in a confetti of yellow light and falling leaves,” he was reminded of his mortality when he noticed that the rows of shrunken horseshoe pits with their rusty stakes, grown over with grass, were like old graves . . . . (71) Yet he turned his mind from such dark thoughts and instead “looked / with hope to a grapevine draped over a fence in a neighboring yard” (71). Here, in the games people play, such as horseshoes and, in the next stanza, mini-golf, this speaker observes and responds to the reality of the larger game of dying and living. In the second stanza of this poem, our speaker visits an abandoned mini-golf course and realizes that, even in this “abbreviated world,” humans cannot control their lives (71). In the closing stanza, the speaker mentions that others have observed him down on one knee in a cemetery, and he believes that the reader assumes that he trying to read a name on a tombstone and pitying himself, but he reports that he was pursuing a much different purpose: Instead I had found in its perfect web a handsome black and yellow spider pumping its legs to try to shake my footing as if I were a gift, an enormous moth that it could snare and eat. Yes, that was I. (72) Once again, after presenting realities of diminishment, Kooser refuses to bow to a system of thought or offer ready-made comfort, and offers ambivalence instead. The actions of the spider might reflect human beings’ egocentric beliefs about reward systems. The spider, struggling with all her Lilliputian power to reel in a giant moth of a man, might seem to be humorous and outrageous, but her actions may not be any more absurd than humans’ belief that they somehow deserve the extravagant rewards of earthly happiness or eternal bliss. In a second reading, the inability of the spider to “shake the footing” of the narrator could reflect the inability of death to eradicate the essence of the individual self. In other words, the likelihood that the life force within each of us will end with the death of our bodies is here suggested to be as unlikely as the spider overpowering the speaker in this poem. In “A Spiral Notebook,” Kooser notes that life, like a five-subject notebook, seems to have been meant for serious work, but when we have been diminished by age and may no longer care to pursue five subjects, it is no longer our duty to juggle all those responsibilities. Instead we should stand in a drugstore and hang on to one subject a little too long, like this notebook you weigh in your hands, passing your fingers over its surfaces as if it were some kind of wonder. (74) In this poem the speaker attempts to hang on, and even hang on too long, to not go gentle into that good night, and the speaker also attempts to become more aware of the existence of the physical, even if it is a

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common notebook, and to recognize the wonder and implications of its existence, namely, that there is something in him, in us, that is metaphysical. This moment in the poem is evocative of Henry David Thoreau’s moment of transcendental sublimity following his descent from Mt. Katahdin in Maine. Having been shaken by the rugged and hostile nature he found on the peaks of Mt. Katahdin, Thoreau wrote, “I stand in awe of my body, this matter to which I am bound has become so strange to me . . . . What is this Titan that has possession of me? Talk of mysteries!—Think of our life in nature, —daily to be shown matter, to come in contact with it,—rocks, trees, wind on our cheeks!” (646). Like Thoreau, Kooser’s narrator ponders his essence in relation to the physical world surrounding him and to the physical body binding him. Wendell Berry, in the essay “A Poem of Difficult Hope,” defines the essential purpose of protest as “preserving qualities in one’s own heart and spirit that would be destroyed by acquiescence” (62). In this sense, Ted Kooser’s poetry is a form of protest because in it he resists the reduction of humans by confronting and challenging this diminishment. In an age in which a human life is made almost mathematically irrelevant by such forces as economic collapse, mass killings, decades of war, and the dehumanizing side effects of technology, Kooser’s poetry reaffirms the value and integrity of human experience and prompts us to consider what to make of a diminished thing.

Works Cited Berry, Wendell. “A Poem of Difficult Hope.” What Are People For? New York: North Point Press, 1996. 58-63. Duddy, Thomas. “The ‘Unseriousness’ of Robert Frost: Nitchie’s Critique in Retrospect.” The Robert Frost Review. Fall 2011. N21. 64-78. Frost, Robert. “The Oven Bird.” The Poetry of Robert Frost. Ed. Edward Connery Latham. New York: Henry Holt, 1975. 119-120. Kooser, Ted. “A Spiral Notebook.” Delights and Shadows. Port Townsend, WA: Copper Canyon Press, 2004. 74. _______. “Old Lilacs.” Delights and Shadows. Port Townsend, WA: Copper Canyon Press, 2004. 64. _______. “Screech Owl.” Delights and Shadows. Port Townsend, WA: Copper Canyon Press, 2004. 73. _______. “That Was I.” Delights and Shadows. Port Townsend, WA: Copper Canyon Press, 2004. 71-72. Thoreau, Henry David. The Maine Woods. New York: The Library of America, 1985. 593-822.

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Speculations John Zheng 1 “Show; don’t tell” has been a clichéd yet still important rede in poetry writing. To show, bite a sour grape to gain experience for writing. 2 Poetry writing is a road of “Do it yourself” and “Keep going.” It is also a road of “Know thyself” and “Nothing is too much.” 3 William Carlos Williams said that, in poetry, there should be “no ideas but in things.” Wallace Stevens believed that ideas could become a kind of abstract beauty in poetry. Poetry is ideas in things. 4 Chan in Chinese, dhyana in Sanskrit, and Zen in Japanese all mean meditation. To meditate is unpretentious. In poetry, if one’s unpretentious, good poems may be produced. 5 Poetry is not aspiration but concentration on daily life; poetry writing is not explanation but experience, just as chan is not preaching but meditation. 6 The rising and setting of the moon is monotonous; so is our ordinary life. A poet’s job is to find something not monotonous or ordinary from this monotonous cycle. That is creation. 7 Poetry doesn’t teach but points, like an alarm clock that wakes us up so that we can open our eyes to be aware. 8 Don’t preach in poetry; preaching uses only words. 9 Isn’t the goal of poetry writing to realize the relationship of oneself to the universe, to affirm the unity and harmony of all things, and to be one in a simple word? Chuang Tzu, an ancient Chinese philosopher, said that “[t]he ten thousand things and I are one.” 10 Poetry involves epiphanies of personal experiences. In “In the Waiting Room,” we experience what Bishop experienced. Do we also hear that “Oh” in our life? 11 There is no way. There isn’t going to be any way. There has never been a way. That is the way, a way in poetry writing. So, one should act with a “way” and without a “way,” as said by Lao Tzu. 12 Take poetry writing lightly and you fly; otherwise, you drag like a snail with a cathedral of shell.

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13 The steps to make tea are: boil water, put a pinch of green tea leaves in the cup, wait for the boiled water to cool a minute and then pour the water in the cup. You have to do it step by step. Like tea making, poetry writing needs a step-by-step practice to get the flavor. 14 If one doesn’t desire to read, poetry is words put together. If one does, poetry is no longer words put together. They are images for aesthetic pleasure. 15 Muriel Rukeyser’s poem “Myth”: Long afterward, Oedipus, old and blinded, walked the roads. He smelled a familiar smell. It was the Sphinx. Oedipus said, “I want to ask one question. Why didn’t I recognize my mother?” “You gave the wrong answer,” said the Sphinx. “But that was what made everything possible,” said Oedipus. “No,” she said. “When I asked, What walks on four legs in the morning, two at noon, and three in the evening, you answered, Man. You didn’t say anything about woman.” “When you say Man,” said Oedipus, “you include women too. Everyone knows that.” She said, “That’s what you think.” Rukeyser offers a witty update of the encounter between Oedipus and the Sphinx to point out the limitations of a male-centered perspective. My purpose of citing this poem is that to have readers understand your poem, you must first understand what you write. Otherwise, readers may say, “That’s what you think.” 16 I remember when I was studying at a boarding school, some mornings around six-thirty our principal, a wrinkle-faced, chain-smoking lady, would climb upstairs, walk into our bedroom and knock with a bamboo stick on our beds, quacking, “Get up, lazy bones” in English. I can still hear her voice in my mind’s ear decades later. In poetry writing, what we need is to create a voice, a voice unfamiliar and different from others. 17 Do as the Romans do. This is not right in poetry writing. If you do as the Romans do, you become a parrot, not a poet. All roads lead to Rome. This is also not right. Everyone should choose her or his way to walk to a new place. 18 Rose in a lover’s eyes is a symbol of love. Robert Burns recites that his love is a red, red rose. But Gertrude Stein wants to be reactionary against the conventional expression, so she says emphatically, “Rose is a rose is a rose is a rose.” “Rose is a rose” suggests that metaphor or simile sometimes may not really work better than a plain statement. Don’t repeat what other poets already said.

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19 Henry David Thoreau says, “Many men go fishing all of their lives without knowing that it is not fish they are after.” Many men writing poems all of their lives may not know it is not poems they are after. We become poets when we understand this. 20 To be romantic is not bad if you are true to your feelings. The importance is not to be sentimental. James Wright seems to be a poet who is a little romantic, but without much sentiment, in his The Branch Will Not Break. 21 Wallace Stevens asserts in “The Man with the Blue Guitar,” The man bent over his guitar, A shearsman of sorts. The day was green. They said, “You have a blue guitar, You do not play things as they are.” The man replied, “Things as they are Are changed upon a blue guitar....” Anyone who wants to be a poet needs to “play a blue guitar”—to write things differently as they are. So, be yourself and peculiar, and things will change upon things you play. 22 T.S. Eliot states that “Humankind / Cannot bear very much reality.” Life is suffering, as the Buddha says. It seems especially true that life is suffering to poets. Listen! John Berryman complains, “Life, friends, is boring.” Robert Lowell sighs, “The season’s ill.” Sylvia Plath exclaims, “Dying / Is an art, like everything else. / I do it exceptionally well.” Sexton tells, “the world’s pottage, the rat’s star.” 23 There is a Zen saying, “No snowflake falls in an inappropriate place.” Elizabeth Bishop asks, “Where should we be today?” Where should we be as poets in this world? Can we become snowflakes falling in an appropriate place? Can we become fish in the stream or passers-by on the riverbank? Where are we today? 24 Confucius says, “It does not matter how slowly you go as long as you do not stop.” It’s fine if you only scratch a few lines for nothing, but don’t stop. Day by day, you will scratch out a poem. 25 Lao Tzu says, “The way to do is to be.” To be a poet and the way to be is to write on. Lao Tzu also says, “To know that you do not know is the best. To pretend to know when you do not know is disease.” Write what you know. If you don’t know, don’t write. 26 Lao Tzu says, “Knowing others is wisdom, knowing yourself is enlightenment.” A poet needs to know himself first. Without knowing himself, he can’t know others; without knowing others, he can’t write.

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27 Chuang Tzu, an ancient Chinese philosopher, says, “The mind of a perfect man is like a mirror. It grasps nothing. It expects nothing. It reflects but does not hold. Therefore, the perfect man can act without effort.” Sometimes, a poet thinks that readers can understand him, can see what he holds in the mirror. He never puts himself in the reader’s position. That’s awful. A poet’s job is to construct a bridge, not a riddle. 28 A Chinese saying: “Seeing into nothingness—this is the true seeing, the eternal seeing.” Poets need to see into nothingness in the universe, the human relation to the universe. However, sometimes this nothingness comes from trivialness you have never noticed around you. In fact, the universe is not far away from you; it’s around you because you are part of it. 29 “Taste the tasteless” (Lao Tzu). That’s one of the ways to seek a poem. A non-poet sees nothing in a red wheelbarrow, but Williams saw something in it because he had the eyes of a poet. 30 Some progress in poetry writing means skin-sloughing like a snake. 31 A poem without images is a person groping in the dark. A good poem is like a human body. Imagery is the five senses, rhythm the heartbeat, and content the flesh. 32 Cover your emotions to show only your eyes. Then there’s a poem. 33 According to Taoism, yin is the female principle of receptivity or tranquility and yang is the male principle of creativity and activity. They are opposite in function, but they complement each other and rely on each other for coexistence, like the heaven and the earth. So, things that are opposites work for union. What one can do in poetry is to unite things in opposition and reveal their truth. The mutual transformation of yin and yang is the creative process of poetry and a way to understand. Berryman transformed himself successfully into Henry in The Dream Songs, but he failed to transform himself back. His inability to deal with his psychological conflicts resulted in his death. 34 A good poem is like a rapper who is able to make the audience dance and chant with him. 35 Sometimes the desire to write a poem comes out of a spontaneous delight, like a peacock unfurling his broad tail. 36 Poetry captures eternity in an instant to present the “frozen” effect of a clear picture. 37 Tu Fu has a poem about rejoicing in spring rain. Here is a couplet: “[rain] steals into night in wind / and moistens the crops without a sound.” In Chinese, this is often cited to mean the influence. 38 A poem without content is like Esperanto.

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39 Abstract ideas need to be conveyed through images, but the purpose of using images is to have a reader better understand an abstract idea. In Williams’ words, no ideas but in things. 40 Sometimes while a poem shows a poet’s skills, it also puzzles the reader. This is like after the fireworks blooming dazzlingly in the night sky, there appears a void of darkness. In other words, images, when put together in a poem, must convey a meaning. Otherwise, images are abstract objects. 41 A mirage is nature’s dream. It’s remote and hard to find. Sometimes poets pursue in poetry writing a sort of mirage, too. They try to find something remote and dreamy in poetry to distance us from the reality. 42 Robert Frost says that poetry is a momentary stay against confusion. So, when you have any confusion, go ahead and write a poem. That’s the best way to relieve yourself from confusion and to release yourself into a world of nothingness. 43 Chinese poetics: 1. 2.

Leap beyond the external appearance to reach the circle’s center. An image beyond imagery, a scene beyond scenery.

The first statement suggests that a poet should be able to get the essence by leaping beyond the limits of external description, to open up a meaning beyond flavor. In other words, what a poet should strive to achieve and a reader can receive is an image beyond imagery and a scene beyond scenery. Editor’s Note: This collection of sayings largely reflects the wisdom of ancient Chinese philosophy, which is characterized by an ironic and occasionally ambiguous tone. The reader will find in it an insight into the Asian way of perceiving reality.

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Three-Liners for Amusement and Reflection: The Rise of Entertainment Haiku in English1 John J. Han

The Increasing Popularity of Entertainment Haiku A dominant trend in North American haiku today is the ever-growing popularity of entertainment, or humor, haiku. Written mostly by non-haiku specialists, it arose approximately two decades ago. The reception of these haiku among mainstream haiku poets has been predominantly negative. In Haiku: A Poet’s Guide, a haiku primer published in 2003, Lee Gurga noted what he considered an undesirable trend in American haiku: the proliferation of junk haiku, the kind of poems that are haiku in name only. Gurga called them “pseudohaiku,” the American version of Japanese zappai (miscellaneous haiku) that have “no literary pretentions” (p. 58). According to Gurga, the authors of pseudohaiku “may choose to call them haiku, [but] they are merely versified ideas in haiku form, not poems of the haiku genre” (p. 58). Many other literary haiku poets seem to agree with him. Regardless of their open contempt, entertainment haiku have experienced a huge success in reaching the reading public. Many of them are nonsense poems but are still legitimate poetic forms in the same way limerick and light verse are. As a product of American culture, of which humor is an essential element, entertainment haiku do not warrant a re-reading which artistic haiku tend to do. Some of entertainment haiku sound somewhat similar to but are different from senryu—satiric haiku on human behavior that are now considered a form of literary haiku. Entertainment haiku cover a wide range of topics, not only human behavior but also science fiction, animals, and language. Whereas most literary haiku books are published by small presses, some entertainment haiku books are published by mainstream publishers, such as Simon & Schuster (Andrew Clements’ Dogku, 2007), Houghton Mifflin Harcourt (Bob Raczka’s Guyku: A Year of Haiku for Boys, 2010), Henry Holt and Co. (Lee Wardlaw’s Won Ton: A Cat Tale Told in Haiku, 2011), and Penguin (Beth Griffenhagen’s Haiku for the Single Girl, 2011). These books target general readers, not professional haiku poets, whose critical praise the publishers do not necessarily seek. It is also worth noting that daily newspapers, such as The New York Times and The Washington Post, publish readers’ haiku on their websites, thereby contributing to the popularization of entertainment haiku among the public. Types of entertainment haiku include, but are not limited to, computer haiku, scifi haiku (SciFiku), horror haiku, office haiku (workplace haiku), sports haiku, Christian haiku, marriage haiku, dream haiku, text summary haiku, language haiku (funny phrase haiku), and instructional haiku. These poems are popular outside the haiku establishment, which is centered on Modern Haiku, Frogpond, and other highly selective magazines. This paper aims to investigate eight representative types of contemporary entertainment haiku and the need for recognizing them as legitimate subgenres of haiku. Eight Types of Entertainment Haiku for Discussion Horror Haiku Similar to horror movies, horror haiku are written to scare and terrify the audience. According to Stephen King, people watch horror movies for multiple reasons: to show that they can dare watch them, to show that they are sane, and to “have fun.” Horror haiku fans have the same reasons for reading vampire, zombie, and other horror poems written in three lines. Ryan Mecum, a poet in Cincinnati, Ohio, is perhaps the pioneer, and best-known, horror haiku poet today. He has penned what Amazon.com calls “the adorably disgusting Horror Haiku series” whose titles include Zombie Haiku, Vampire Haiku, Werewolf Haiku, and Dawn of Zombie Haiku. Vampire Haiku (2009), which critic Kelly Melcher calls

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“[o]ne of the best books of 2009,” is a collection of linked haiku that tells the story of an Englishman named William Butten who becomes a vampire on the voyage to the New World. After an attractive female vampire, Katherine, bites his neck on the Mayflower, she disappears. The entire book is about his amorous pursuit of her that continues from 1620 to 2009, the year in which Mecum published the book Vampire Haiku. Important historical events, such as the Revolutionary War, the Civil War, the Great Depression, and the Vietnam War, serve as a nominal background to the book. What entertains the reader the most is the vampire’s lifestyle (or, one might say, deathstyle) William Butten—the book’s narrator— explains. Below are two haiku set in the American colonial era: It’s a harsh winter. Many die due to illness— or that’s what they think (p. 24) *

They give thanks to God for their squash, corn and livestock. I give thanks for them. (p. 25) Other poems in Vampire Haiku allude to historical or literary figures in a clever manner. A sequence of haiku concerns Emily Dickinson (1830-86), a nineteenth-century poet in Massachusetts. Three poems below come from the sequence: I messed with a girl, a poet named Emily, who called me Master. (p. 50) * She would always say that she couldn’t stop for death, so I stopped for her. (p. 52) * After I broke her, she turned her back on the world. Rarely left the house. (p. 53) Understanding these poems requires some knowledge of the nineteenth-century poet and her poetry: her reclusive isolation, her eccentric personality, her supposedly failed love relationship with someone she addresses as “Dear Master” in her letters, and her preoccupation with death and dying. By using literary allusions, and by comically claiming that Dickinson was a victim of a vampire, Mecum prevents his entertainment haiku from sounding merely fearsome. Office Haiku The next popular type of entertainment haiku is office haiku. Urbanization has inevitably resulted in office life, which is accompanied by both pleasant and unpleasant circumstances. Almost ten collections of office haiku have appeared during the last ten years. The earliest one is James Rogauskas’s

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Office Haiku: Poems Inspired by the Daily Grind, which came out in 2006. It compiles humorous three liners “informed by [the author’s] lifetime of work” (front flap). Various aspects of office work the author experienced through many years of employment provide an opportunity to share the poet’s thoughts with the reader: Mondays, personality conflicts, cafeteria food, maddening supervisors, among others. Compared with Mecum’s Vampire Haiku, Office Haiku is not always successful at conveying sly humor, partly because of its prosaic wording and partly because of awkward line breaks, but the book does contain its share of entertainment value. Three poems below exemplify the author’s wry sense of humor: Single occupant Bathroom is locked. Why knock? Door Didn’t lock itself. (p. 25) * More I learn about Coworkers, I find, the less We have in common. (p. 84) * Supervisor comes Around, vaguely muttering. And leaves the same way. (p. 85) Those who have experience working in an office can easily relate to these poems. By nature, bathroom humor tends to draw laughter—at least subdued or secret laughter—from the reader. Moreover, the first poem vividly portrays the annoyance with someone who knocks on a single-occupancy restroom either knowingly or unknowingly. The second poem is a reminder that working with individuals who have different personalities and values requires a deep, diaphragmatic breath. Finally, those who work under eccentric, self-absorbed supervisors will nod their heads in agreement when they read the third poem. It is even more amusing that those supervisors tend not to know what their supervisees whisper behind their backs. Christian Haiku When haiku, a Japanese poetic form mainly informed by Zen Buddhism, came to the Englishspeaking world, it was inevitable for it to encounter Christian faith. In recent years, a number of Englishlanguage Christian haiku have appeared. An early collection of Christian haiku is Episcopal Haiku, coauthored by Sarah Goodyear and Ed Weissman. While most Christian haiku tend to sound devout and hortatory, Episcopal Haiku is light-hearted in tone, as illustrated below. Ever notice how some priests gaze at your forehead, never in your eyes? (p. 34) * We sing the last hymn. The candles are extinguished. Okay to leave now? (p. 36)

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* The little ones ask questions that would confound a learned archbishop. (p. 44) Each of these poems is both incisive in its observation and sly in its wording. The first poem typifies those who feel anxious, shy, or self-conscious as they interact with people. (In an extreme case, the inability to make eye contact during social interactions can be a sign of social phobia, a subcategory of anxiety disorders.) Similar to the first poem, the second one addresses a situation many Christian readers can relate to. Some believers would rather stay in the sanctuary even after the end of a worship service; others may have been waiting for the service to end as soon as possible for whatever reason. The last poem shows that children are not as simplistic as adults assume in their thinking. Ethnic Haiku Considering that the United States is a country of multiple races and ethnicities, it is no wonder that some poets compose haiku that lovingly poke fun at their respective ethnic groups. Published in 1999, David Bader’s Haikus for Jews: For You, A Little Wisdom is one of the earliest collections of ethnic haiku. In his humorously penned Acknowledgments to the volume, Bader writes, “[The author is] grateful to his parents, who taught him brevity by constantly interrupting. The author accepts all blame for any mistakes. Complaints should be submitted in the traditional 5-7-5 format.” Some of the poems included in Bader’s collection may not be intelligible to non-Jews, but others are relatable to any reader. Below are three poems that have universal appeal: Proof Columbus was Jewish—kept telling the crew no running on deck. (p. 46) * Now that Koreans are “the New Jews,” the old Jews can leave for Boca. (p. 87) * Is one Nobel Prize so much to ask from a child after all I’ve done? (p. 108) Readers of all ethnic backgrounds can relate to the poem about the occasional need to keep children quiet. The second poem is a humorous allusion to the replacement of Jews by Korean immigrants in inner-city commercial districts and to the newly rich Jews’ flight to a popular resort area. The third poem deals humorously with the academic pressure Jewish children must endure at home.

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Animal Haiku The large number of pet lovers in America inevitably has resulted in the appearance of many haiku on animals. In 2007, Andrew Clements published his Dogku, a collection of affectionate haiku on our canine friends. Two poems are below: First food, then a bath. The food was a lot more fun. Still, it all feels good. (n.p.) * Morning brings children. Hugs, licks, barking, and laughing. Warmer than sunshine. (n.p.) These are heart-warming poems that treat dogs as companions, not as mere animals. Two years after the publication of Clements’s Dogku came out, my own book, Little Guy Haiku: Life with Bailey, a Maltese, came out. Whereas Clements uses a 5-7-5 syllabic pattern and targets young readers, Little Guy Haiku uses free style and targets readers of all ages. Two poems are below: Rolling over is A good sign, but Why must he hump me? (n.p.) * With no fear Bailey charges the enemy— A squirrel (n.p.) The first poem is about the small dog’s lack of respect for his owner and the ways in which the owner finds his behavior adorable. In the second poem, one realizes that a dog is a dog regardless of his or her size. It is amusing to notice that Bailey sometimes threatens big dogs without realizing his small size and that those dogs typically ignore his threats. Text Summary Haiku Another type of entertainment haiku summarizes a masterpiece in three lines. David Bader’s Haiku U. is a prime example. Subtitled From Aristotle to Zola, 100 Great Books in 17 Syllables, it sums up classical books—99 of them from Europe and the United States—in an amusing way. Below are three examples: St. Augustine, The Confessions This is just to say I screwed around. Forgive me. I enjoyed it so. (p. 12) *

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Mary Shelley, Frankenstein Strange and horrific— a doctor makes a Monster who is uninsured! (p. 48) * Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching The eternal Tao. To know it is not to know. What is it? Don’t ask. (p. 65) In three lines, the first poem sums up the main theme of Augustine’s spiritual autobiography: the sinfulness of human nature and the power of sin. The second poem describes the recklessness with which a mad scientist, Dr. Victor Frankenstein, creates a monster out of human corpses without considering the possible consequences of his actions. In the third haiku, the author succinctly explains the mysterious, paradoxical nature of the Tao (or Dao), a concept in early Chinese thought that defies clear definition. My own summary haiku series, published in the 2014/2015 issue of Kansas English under the title “Snapshots of Ancient Masterpieces: Haiku,” includes the following two poems about St. Augustine’s Confessions: stealing pears not because he is hungry but because he is naughty (p. 44) * pleasures of the flesh— Dear God, give me chastity but not yet (p. 44) Obviously, my poems are intended to both inform and to amuse the reader. The first one is about the inherent sinfulness of the human heart, and the second one reflects Augustine’s inner conflict—a conflict between desires to be holy and an unquenchable thirst for sexual pleasure. Meanwhile, The Gospel of Thomas in Haiku, authored by Thomas E. Uharriet, summarizes the non-canonical sayings gospel discovered near Nag Hammadi, Egypt, in 1945. Poem #53 of the book, introduced below, describes a conversation between Jesus and his disciples with a degree of humor: His disciples asked: Is there any benefit to circumcision? (n.p.) If circumcision had any real benefit, we’d be born that way. (n.p.) On the other hand, circumcision in spirit is profitable. (n.p.)

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Most poems in Uharriet’s haiku collection are intended to inform, not to amuse, readers. However, they do allow interested readers to grasp the main ideas of the Gospel of Thomas without having the burden of reading the entire text.2 Language Haiku The two remaining subgenres of entertainment haiku are my own inventions. The first one is language haiku, the type of haiku that identifies the amusing, absurd elements of some English expressions. Many native speakers of English seem to use those expressions without thinking twice. As a non-native speaker who initially learned English through rote memorization and structural, semantic analysis of English syntax, I find some of English expressions truly amusing. In 2009, I published a collection of language haiku, entitled Thunder Thighs: Haiku Musings on the English Language, and its sequel, entitled More Thunder Thighs: Haiku Musings on the English Language is forthcoming later this year. The following three haiku are taken from my 2009 collection: “thunder thighs” the best way to control weight? avoid thunderstorms (p. 1) * “Flea Market” there are no fleas— only butterflies (p. 1) * “Root Beer” it contains neither roots nor alcohol (p. 2) Each of my language haiku above begins with an amusing English expression which is enclosed within double quotation marks, and then two humorous lines related to the expression follow. Instructional Haiku The final subgenre of entertainment haiku is instructional (how-to) haiku, the kind of three-liners that provide information on how to do something. It is a haiku equivalent of the process analysis essay. Originally published in Kansas English (pp. 77-79) and reprinted in my poetry collection And Yet, And Yet— (2017), my own “Writing Haiku the Professional Way: Haiku on Haiku” begins with the following three liners. the word haiku is both singular and plural— if you know this you have made the first step toward learning the art of haiku

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haikus is not a word, as bisons, deers, and mooses are not most English-language haiku poets today write in free style using up to seventeen syllables, on average eleven syllables, in three lines but far more important than syllables is the haiku spirit—the mood unique to haiku use two images— a phrase and a fragment—for comparison, contrast, or association refer to nature or the season In form, each set of three lines above is separated from the next set of three lines, but the instructional narrative continues regardless of the blank space between the two stanzas. Ben Moeller-Gaa, my haiku critique partner, feels that this type of haiku is actually free verse, but I choose to call it an idiosyncratic form of humor haiku that happens to borrow a free verse technique. My rationale is that each stanza consists of exactly three lines, each stanza generally follows the popular haiku structure of short/long/short lines, each stanza contains up to—but never exceeds—seventeen syllables, the whole sequence is set in the present tense (as literary haiku are), and all of these rules are applied consistently throughout the sequence. The Legitimacy of Entertainment Haiku Many haiku purists dismiss or scorn entertainment haiku, which are typically written in 5-7-5 syllables. On the other hand, some haiku teachers, such as Jane Reichhold, embrace entertainment haiku as a new type of haiku. Reichhold cautions against some haiku groups’ tendency to isolate themselves based on the misguided conviction that only they know how to compose a haiku (p. 103). Regarding a “Spam” haiku website, which posted thousands of amusing haiku (or haiku-like three liners), she notes that those poems “introduced [haiku] to people who had never hear of [it]” and that “[m]any of these Spam haiku used wordplays, puns, and humor—a facet of haiku that is often overlooked by those who think of haiku as poetry or serious art form” (pp. 105-06). She is right in her positive view of entertainment haiku: there are different ways to write haiku, no one group should dictate the way to write haiku, and even literary haiku poets can learn some techniques from those who write humor haiku.

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In addition to their ability to arouse amusement and their acceptance by mainstream publishers, entertainment haiku can claim their place among poetic genres with their instrumental uses. By using straightforward, direct style, entertainment haiku make haiku an approachable, less intimating form of poetry for all readers. Unlike some esoteric poems in professional haiku magazines, they deliver a clear message while providing a delightful reading experience. Finally, they can be a useful educational tool for students, who learn the concept of syllable, the importance of ending a poem with a twist, and the fact that poetic materials can be found in all human situations. In 1798, William Wordsworth and Samuel Taylor Coleridge co-authored the first edition of Lyrical Ballads, which marks the beginning of the English Romantic movement in literature. The coauthors’ five-paragraph notes on the volume caution that the poems readers will read are different from traditional English poems in their use of “materials […] to be found in every subject which can interest the human mind” and in their efforts “to ascertain how far the language of conversation in the middle and lower classes of society is adapted to the purposes of poetic pleasure” (Wordsworth and Coleridge). Those who write humor haiku, and those who advocate their efforts, may well state along the same lines. The popularity of entertainment haiku shows that haiku writing cannot be rigidly codified, and poetic rules set by prominent practitioners are inevitably either challenged or ignored by those who assert their independence—as Wordsworth and Coleridge did more than two centuries ago.

Notes 1

This essay was presented at the annual meeting of the Mississippi Philological Association, Mississippi Valley State University, 10-11 February 2017, and then was included in my latest poetry collection, And Yet, And Yet—: Haiku and Other Poems (Cyberwit, 2017), pp. 130-148. 2

Text summary haiku can be a useful pedagogical tool in literature classes. Dr. Matthew Bardowell, Assistant Professor of English at Missouri Baptist University, assigns four reading responses per semester in his ENGL 203 World Literary Types class. In this assignment, students must analyze, in two paragraphs of prose, a theme or character from a single text. For the final reading response, which coincides with his class on Japanese haiku, he asks them to attempt three text summary haiku in lieu of their ordinary reading response. Dr. Bardowell also allows students to write three additional text summary haiku for extra credit. With his kind permission, I am introducing below the haiku assignment: Reading Response #4: Summary Haiku Instead of the typical assignment format, for the final installment of our reading responses you may write three haiku that summarize three texts we have read in the second half of the semester (after the mid-term exam). This will be challenging because it requires that you understand a central idea presented in the text and are able to convey it in a very terse poetic form. Your haiku may follow the form of three lines of 5-7-5 syllables, but do not be rigid with your syllable count. The most important aspect of this assignment is that you express a central idea of the text briefly and insightfully. In addition to your three haiku, I ask that you compose a brief explanation of why you think your haiku accurately summarize the text you have chosen. Dr. Bardowell tells me that this assignment has been hugely successful and that his students seem to truly enjoy it.

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Works Cited Bader, David M. Haiku U.: From Aristotle to Zola, 100 Great Books in 17 Syllables. New York: Gotham Books, 2005. _______. Haikus for Jews: For You, A Little Wisdom. New York: Harmony Books, 1999. Clements, Andrew. Dogku. New York: Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers, 2007. Goodyear, Sarah, and Ed Weissman. Episcopal Haiku: The Church, Its Ways, and Its People, Seventeen Syllables as a Time. New York: Seabury Books, 2007. Gurga, Lee. Haiku: A Poet’s Guide. Lincoln, IL: Modern Haiku Press, 2003. Han, John J. Little Guy Haiku: Life with Bailey, a Maltese. Baltimore: PublishAmerica, 2009. _______. “Snapshots of Ancient Masterpieces: Haiku.” Kansas English 97.1 (2014/2015): 42-44. _______. “Writing Haiku the Professional Way: Haiku on Haiku.” Kansas English: The Journal of the Kansas Association of Teachers of English 97.1 (2014/2015): 77-79. Mecum, Ryan. Vampire Haiku. Cincinnati, OH: HOW Books, 2009. Moeller-Gaa, Ben. Personal interview. 14 Dec. 2016. Reichhold, Jane. Writing and Enjoying Haiku: A Hands-on Guide. Tokyo, Japan: Kodansha International, 2002. Rogauskas, James. Office Haiku: Poems Inspired by the Daily Grind. New York: Thomas Dunne Books/St. Martin’s Press, 2006. Uharriet, Thomas E. The Gospel of Thomas in Haiku: Sayings of Jesus, Recorded by Saint Thomas, Focused through Haiku: Inspirational Haiku of Ancient Wisdom for Enlightenment. CreateSpace, 2015. Wordsworth, William, and Samuel Taylor Coleridge. “Advertisement to Lyrical Ballads (1798).” http://www.english.upenn.edu/~mgamer/Etexts/lbprose.html#preface. Accessed 8 February 2017. For Further Reading Animals Brent, Christopher. Really Bad Dinosaur Haiku: The Cretaceous Period. The Really, Really Bad Dinosaur Haiku Series Book 1. Thesaurus Ink, LLC, 2016. Kindle Edition. Caswell, Deanna. Guess Who, Haiku. New York: Abrams Appleseed, 2016. Kindle Edition. Reibstein, Mark. Wabi Sabi. New York: Little, Brown and Company, 2008. Part fiction, part haiku, this is a children’s book about Wabi Sabi, a cat in Kyoto, Japan. Romeo, Sir Fluffy Snowball Angel Tiger Midnight. Cats Are for Chumps: Cat Poems for Your Crazy Cat Lady or Man. Cat Haiku & Picture Book 1. Kindle Edition, 2014. Wardlaw, Lee. Won Ton: A Cat Tale Told in Haiku. New York: Henry Holt and Co., 2011. _______. Won Ton and Chopstick: A Cat and Dog Tale Told in Haiku. New York: Henry Holt and Co., 2015. Children Ages 4-8, Boys, and Girls Griffenhagen, Beth. Haiku for the Single Girl. New York: Penguin, 2011. Raczka, Rob. Guyku: A Year of Haiku for Boys. New York: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2010. Venokur, Ross. Haiku! Gesundheit: An Illustrated Collection of Ridiculous Haiku Poetry. New York: Simon & Schuster Children's Publishing, 2001. Dream Petruschken Jon. Dream Haiku: Poems from Nights and Naps. Annie Books, 2013.

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Office De Angelis, Paula M. One Hundred Haikus for Modern Workplaces. Kindle Edition, 2014. Spicer, Katie. Workplace Haiku. Kindle Edition, 2012. Speculative (sf, fantasy, horror, magic realism, etc.) Caswell, Deanna. Boo! Haiku. New York: Harry N. Abrams, 2016. Michaels, Shannon. Another 101 Days of Horror: Haiku of the Living Dead (And Other Monsters…). Theresa DeMario, 2012. Kindle Edition, 2013. Contents: Chapter 1 Limericks, Chapter 2 Haiku, Chapter 3 Quatrains, and Chapter 4 American Cinquains. Stewart, A. F. Horror Haiku and Other Poems. lulu.com, 2016. Philosophical Davis, Joseph Eugene. I.M. Haiku. CreateSpace, 2014. Text summary Uharriet, Thomas E. The Haiku Gita: Inspirational Haiku of Ancient Wisdom for Enlightenment. CreateSpace, 2015. _______. The Haiku Tao Te Ching. CreateSpace, 2014. _______. Zen Haiku: Haiku Derived from the Zen Teachings of Huang Po on Mind Transmission. lulu.com, 2014. Therapeutic Deutsch, Sara. Remember to Float: Mystic Haiku from Paintings to Inspire and Heal. Kindle Edition, 2014.

John J. Han, “Longing” (Piran, Slovenia)

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Notes on Contributors

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“Whatever is produced in haste goes hastily to waste.” ―Saadi (1208-91) “He who does not know how to look back at where he came from will never get to his destination.” ―José Rizal (1861-96) “The answers you get from literature depend on the questions you pose.” ―Margaret Atwood (b. 1939)

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Billy J. Adams writes fiction, nonfiction, and poetry. He was ordained to the Gospel Ministry in 1971 and has served churches in Missouri for thirty years. He is currently serving as a chaplain for the Civil Air Patrol; the CAP chaplain service is part of the USAF chaplain service. His work has appeared in poetry journals, newspapers, and a book series by Guidepost. He has also published one book of poetry and nonfiction stories, Around the Mulberry Bush. Billy is a former president of the Missouri State Poetry Society (MSPS). Faye Adams is a freelance writer who has published three poetry chapbooks and five hardback books: one children’s book, a book of poetry, and three books of poetry and nonfiction. She also writes fiction and memoirs. Faye has won numerous awards for poetry, fiction, and nonfiction and has published in local newspapers and in magazines, poetry journals and anthologies. She has been named Senior Poet Laureate of Missouri twice, has helped conduct poetry workshops in classrooms and for writers groups, and serves as an Advisory Board Member of the Missouri State Poetry Society (MSPS). Faye served as co-editor of the MSPS Annual Anthology of Poetry and Nonfiction published by the De Soto chapter, On the Edge. Shirley Blackwell served successively on the Board of the New Mexico State Poetry Society from 2006 until 2018 as chair of the RGV Poets, chancellor, president, again as chancellor, and liaison to the National Federation of State Poetry Societies (NFSPS). Since 2014, she has been an NFSPS board member as chair of its annual College Undergraduate Poetry (CUP) Competition. She was NM Senior Poet Laureate for 2010. Her poems appear in more than a dozen anthologies or reviews and in two poetry collections of her own, titled Already There and Ditchbank Diaries: Haibuñera from the Land of Enchantment. Both were finalists in the New Mexico-Arizona Book Awards in 2012 and 2013, respectively. She lives about 25 miles south of Albuquerque, just outside the Village of Los Lunas, with her husband of 52 years. Jo A. Baldwin has a B.A. in English from the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee (UWM), an M.A. in Creative Writing from UWM, an M.A. in Speech Theatre from Marquette University in Milwaukee, a Ph.D. in English from UWM, and a Master of Divinity from United Theological Seminary in Dayton, Ohio. An Associate Professor of English and Director of the Writing Center at Mississippi Valley State in Itta Bena, she is the first to author a book on “Tuning,” Seven Signature Sermons by a Tuning Woman Preacher of the Gospel, which is a homiletics text published by Edwin Mellen. Her latest published book is Bible Verses Given to Me: A Memoir (Nashville: AMEC Sunday School Union). Hannah Brauer is a native St. Louisan who currently attends Eastern Kentucky University (EKU). Having completed one year of study at Missouri Baptist University, she is pursuing a degree in English Education. Hannah hopes to enroll in postgraduate studies after completing her bachelor’s degree at EKU. She enjoys music, reading, and writing; she has contributed a reader response essay to Dr. John Han’s Like the Wind, Like the Water: Korean Sijo (Cyberwit, 2016). Hannah also works at the Noel Studio for Academic Creativity, a student support center at EKU which strives to assist fellow students in their communications. Coral Christopher is the acting director of university communications for Missouri Baptist University. She also serves as editor for the University’s bi-annual magazine, MBU Magazine. Coral holds an M.A. in Strategic Communications and Leadership from Maryville University, with research interests in selfefficacy, mentorship, and women’s leadership development. She graduated from MBU summa cum laude with majors in public relations and communications studies. Coral previously worked with an advertising agency based in St. Louis. Pat Durmon is the author of Blind Curves (2007), Lights and Shadows in a Nursing Home (2013), Push Mountain Road (2015), and Women, Resilient Women (2018). Poems have been published in Rattle,

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Main Street Rag, Poetry East, Cyclamens and Blades, Between the Lines, Lucidity, and other journals. She is the recipient of the Sybil Nash Abrams Award (2007) and the Merit Award (2013), given by Poets Roundtable of Arkansas. Durmon is retired from mental health counseling and currently facilitates two groups: Searching for Light (support group) and Sisters Journey Group (spiritual growth group). She is a native Arkansan and lives in the Ozarks with her husband. She sees herself as lighter and more joyful after writing a poem. Matthew C. Easter is Assistant Professor of Bible at Missouri Baptist University, where he teaches courses on Greek, biblical studies, theology, and church history. He has published articles in a number of peer-reviewed journals, including New Testament Studies, Tyndale Bulletin, Great Commission Research Journal, and Currents in Biblical Research. He has presented papers at academic conferences in the USA, New Zealand, and Italy. His first book, Faith and the Faithfulness of Jesus in Hebrews, is published with Cambridge University Press. A native of St. Louis, he holds degrees from Southwest Baptist University (B.A.), Duke University Divinity School (M.Div.), and the University of Otago (Ph.D.). Dale Ernst is the author of four collections of poetry: Tribute to the Highway, Light Shining through an

Open Window, Slipping the Steel, and The Silver Cord, as well as being published in poetry journals, newspapers, and online formats. He has given poetry readings at the May Fine Arts Festival (Eureka Springs, AR), Harrison Library (Harrison, AR), Poets and Arts/Austin Historical Society (Austin, TX), and Southwestern Illinois College (Belleville, IL). He was also invited to read annually as part of the spring poetry program at Three Rivers College (Poplar Bluff, MO) and to read as the featured poet at Barnes & Noble Books and Borders Books. Dale is a longtime member of the Missouri State Poetry Society, serving as president for three years, as a board member for many years, and currently as the publicity director. He lives in West Plains, MO. James Fowler teaches literature at the University of Central Arkansas. His literary essays have appeared in ANQ, Children’s Literature, and The Classical Outlook; his personal essays in Southern Cultures, Cadillac Cicatrix, Quirk, and Under the Sun; his short stories in such journals as The Labletter, Anterior Review, Little Patuxent Review, Best Indie Lit New England, Line Zero, The Chariton Review, the Southern Review, Riding Light Review, and Elder Mountain; and his poems in such journals as Futures Trading Magazine, Aji Magazine, Cantos, Dash, Valley Voices, Sheila-Na-Gig, Common Ground Review, Angry Old Man Magazine, and Cave Region Review. Barbara Goerdel’s first poem was in 1965 when she wrote to a high school friend in Vietnam. Her second poem was a long time coming almost forty-five years later in 2010. Her poetry collections include four mini chapbooks: Characters in My Herb Garden, Christmas Journal, Divine Influence, and Harmony in My Head. Barbara was featured as a rising star for A Galaxy of Verse. She has served as director for the Poetry Society of Texas and currently serves as President for Poets of Tarrant County. John J. Han (Ph.D., University of Nebraska-Lincoln) is Professor of English & Creative Writing and Chair of the Humanities Division at Missouri Baptist University. He is the author, editor, co-editor, or translator of nineteen books, including Wise Blood: A Re-Consideration (Rodopi, 2011), The Final Crossing: Death and Dying in Literature (Peter Lang, 2015) and Worlds Gone Awry: Essays on Dystopian Fiction (McFarland, 2018). Han’s poems have also appeared in periodicals and anthologies worldwide, including Akitsu Quarterly, Failed Haiku, Frogpond, Kansas English, The Laurel Review, Modern Haiku, POMPA, The Red Moon Anthology of English-Language Haiku, Steinbeck Studies, Valley Voices, A Vast Sky: An Anthology of Contemporary World Haiku, and World Haiku Review. David Z. Harman received his B.A. in English Literature and Creative Writing from the University of Missouri-Columbia. He is currently a graduate student working on his M.A. in Middle School and

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Secondary English Education. He lives with his loving wife and daughter on their small homestead outside of St. Clair, Missouri. Aside from reading, writing, and teaching, he enjoys home brewing, winemaking, cooking, and weightlifting. Mary Kennan Herbert teaches literature and writing courses at Long Island University in Brooklyn, New York. She is originally from St. Louis, Missouri, the birthplace of many poets. Her poems have appeared in numerous literary and professional journals, including the Journal of Poetry Therapy, the Journal of Loss and Trauma, the Journal of Medical Humanities, the Journal of Religion and Health, the Journal of Religion, Spirituality & Aging, the Journal of Aging, Humanities and the Arts, the Journal of Social Work in End-of-Life & Palliative Care, the Healing Muse, the Yale Journal of Medical Humanities, Educational Gerontology, and JAMA, among many others. Carol Sue Horstman, a graduate of Washington University in St. Louis, is a sculptor, painter, filmmaker, photographer, poet, and illustrator. After teaching all of these subjects, as well as music, for forty years, she retired to become an independent artist pursuing sculpture sites in communities and gallery venues. Carol exhibits large steel sculptures in public parks and private collections and has constructed a 96pound book of milled steel that has garnered many awards; the pages turn, and the book is called My Mystery. Carol has been published as a newspaper cartoonist as well as in the NLAPW magazine. She is a member of the On the Edge poetry group in De Soto, Missouri, which she finds is friendly and supportive. Donald W. Horstman has been an artist for sixty-six years and an art educator for forty-seven years. He holds a bachelor’s degree in art education from Washington University in St. Louis and a master’s degree in media technology from Webster University in St. Louis. In addition to printmaking and poetry, Donald specializes in sculpture, film, photography, painting, ceramics, and drawing. He shares a studio with his wife Carol in their home on beautiful Lake Fond Du Lac located in Fenton, Missouri. Visit www.art4you.phanfare.com. Phillip Howerton is an associate professor of English at Missouri State University-West Plains. He holds a Ph.D. in American literature and in rhetoric and composition from the University of MissouriColumbia. His photographs, reviews, poems, and essays have appeared in various journals and reference books, such as American History through Literature, Elder Mountain, The Hurricane Review, The Journal of Kentucky Studies, Red Rock Review, River Oak Review, South Carolina Review, and Writers of the American Renaissance. He is the author of The History of Tree Roots (Golden Antelope Press, 2015), a collection of poems. Raymond Kirk is a pharmacist in Noel, Missouri. After retiring from the military, he continued his education and began his quest into his current profession at the University of Kansas. Shortly after graduation, he began his involvement with the music industry. His interest in poetry and song lyrics became a prolific undertaking. He is currently working toward publication of two separate series of books. Emma Kirksey is a senior at the University of Missouri-Columbia, where she studies English. She has been writing stories from an early age and has more recently taken to the succinct beauty of poetry. A selection of Emma’s poetry appeared in the 2017 edition of Cantos. In addition to reading and writing, Emma enjoys teaching ballet and exploring Columbia’s trails with her husband. Nancy LaChance is a retired teacher of English, Journalism, and Drama, a former adjunct instructor at Missouri Baptist University. She holds an undergraduate degree from Southeast Missouri State University and a master’s degree from Southern Illinois University-Edwardsville. She is a past president

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of the Missouri State Poetry Society and current president of Lebanon Poets Society. She likes to experiment with different poetic forms. After teaching public school music for 27 years, the writing bug bit Pat Laster. In the mid-eighties, she enrolled in a graduate class in Gifted Ed, “Writing Across the Curriculum,” which changed her life. She’s been schooled in “lucid” poetry, under the tutelage of Ted O. Badger, long-time editor and publisher of The Lucidity Journal. In haiku, she was also mentored by the late Robert Speiss, long-time editor of Modern Haiku. In 2013, she was appointed poetry editor for CALLIOPE: A Writers Workshop by Mail, published in Green Valley, AZ. A novel and a sequel were followed by a collection of short stories and long poems, Hiding Myself into Safety. All are available on Amazon. Blogs: pittypatter.blogspot.com— poetry and pittypatter-pittypatter.blogspot.com—prose. Her website is www.PatLaster.com. Her present project is a memoir, When I Had Another Name. John McPherson was born and raised near the small town of Bradford (White County), Arkansas. He graduated from the University of Arkansas at Little Rock with a BBA in 1974 while working full time with the USPS. After retiring from the USPS, working eight years as an income tax preparer for Jackson Hewitt, and volunteering eight years as a tax aide for AARP, he finally got serious about writing and submitting poetry. James Maxfield has taught English composition, creative writing, and other undergraduate English courses at a number of colleges and universities in Ohio. Jim is the author of A Year of the Haiku Journeying to Moonshadow (2014) and Essay Exam Composition: A Preparation and Review Course (DuMonde Education Group, forthcoming fall 2018). He is currently completing two books for publication: A History and Anthology of Folk-Rock Lyricism (a book all about the 1960s) and Poetry in Mind (a book of insights into the philosophy of writing poetry). Ben Moeller-Gaa is a haiku poet whose first full-length collection of poems, Wishbones, is forthcoming from Folded Word (2018). He is also the author of three haiku chapbooks, Fiddle in the Floorboards (Yavanika Press, 2018), the Pushcart-nominated Wasp Shadows (Folded Word, 2014), and Blowing on a Hot Soup Spoon (poor metaphor design, 2014). A native of Belleville, Illinois, he graduated from the Knox College Creative Writing Program, and his haiku, essays, and reviews have appeared in over forty journals worldwide, including Acorn, Frogpond, Modern Haiku, December, and World Haiku Review, as well as in several anthologies, including Haiku 21, A New Resonance 9, and Red Moon Press’s annual “Best of English Language Haiku.” You can find more on Ben online at www.benmoellergaa.com. Janice Witherspoon Neuleib, Ph.D., has been a professor at Illinois State University for most of her career. She was the founding director of the learning center and directed the writing programs for a decade. She has worked with many graduate students on their doctorates in writing and has published widely on writing theory and the teaching of writing. She currently edits the Illinois English Bulletin, the journal of the Illinois Association of Teachers of English, NCTE’s oldest affiliate. She teaches Bible as Literature and Religion and Cultures as well as undergraduate and graduate writing courses. Her dissertation on C. S. Lewis was among the first on this now famous Inkling. After receiving her Bachelor of Arts in Mass Communication with a minor in English from Maryville University and her Master of Arts in English from Saint Louis University, Paula Nunning taught at the college and university levels for the next fourteen years at several institutions, including Maryville University, Southern Illinois University-Edwardsville, University of Missouri-St. Louis, and Saint Louis Community College. Today she is pleased to be an Adjunct Professor of English at Missouri Baptist University. During her teaching career, she has been charged with teaching Business Writing, Developmental Writing, Composition I and II, Journalism, Writing Lab, and with creating her murder

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mystery course. An accomplished organist and keyboardist, she is writing an autobiographical book for instructors. Rusty Rogers received his B.A. from the University of Arkansas and his Ph.D. from Rice University. He has taught everything from English composition to World Literature and especially 18th and 19th century English novel at the University of Central Arkansas since before the turn of the century. He refuses to say which century. He has written numerous essays on such authors as Dickens, Austen, Trollope, Thackeray, Gaskell, and Perez-Reverte. He is also the writer of poetry and short stories, including two series of stories which have nothing in common except the author. Poems and stories have been published in journals such as the Chiron Review, Elder Mountain, Black Magnolias, Cave Region Review, Cantos, and the Publications of the Mississippi Philological Association. Cristin Sattler is an English Language Arts (ELA) teacher of eleven years in St. Charles County, Missouri. She has an M.A. in composition and a certificate in Teaching College Writing from the University of Missouri-Saint Louis. As a Teacher Consultant (TC) of the Gateway Writing Project, Cristin is involved in local groups that read and review texts, and in presenting these trends in teaching, reading, and writing to other teachers in the Saint Louis area. She hopes to continue her education and studies in assessment and gradebook design to improve the educational experiences of her future students. Harding Stedler graduated in 1976 with his Ph.D. from Florida State University with a major in English Education. He spent thirty-four years teaching writing classes under the umbrella of the English Department and retired from teaching at Shawnee State University in Portsmouth, Ohio, in 1995. Following retirement, he made Arkansas his retirement home. Stedler has published over 1,000 original poems in over 300 literary journals. Of the published number, the following poems received Pushcart nominations: “Six Dozen Flies to Make a Meal,” “Through Aromas of Bubbling Yeast,” and “Poems from the Deep.” At age twelve, Marcel Toussaint first published holiday cards he had designed. An award-winning writer, he has published poetry in dozens of anthologies. Toussaint has read his poetry on NPR and has been featured in major newspapers and magazines. He represented Saint Louis at the 2011 National Veteran’s Creative Arts Festival in Fayetteville, Arkansas, with a reading/performance of Shadow under the Bridge. The poem earned him a National Gold Medal. Remember Me Young, his first anthology, was published in 1997, and his autobiography, Poetry of a Lifetime, was published in 2009. Toussaint’s first novel, Terms of Interment, was published in 2011; further information can be found at www.nacgpress.com. Reflective Reflection, a collection of poems, will be published in the near future. (Marcel Toussaint passed away in St. Louis, MO, on 26 July 2018. —Editor) A native of Jacksonville, Florida, Krista Tyson came to Missouri Baptist University on a tennis scholarship, receiving her bachelor’s degree in English in May 2018. She plans to pursue her master’s degree in Education at MBU. John Zheng is editor of Sonia Sanchez’s Poetic Spirit through Haiku (Lexington Books, 2017), African American Haiku: Cultural Visions (UP of Mississippi, 2016), Conversations with Sterling Plumpp (UP of Mississippi, 2016), and The Other World of Richard Wright: Perspectives on His Haiku (UP of Mississippi, 2011). He teaches at Mississippi Valley State University, where he serves as editor for two literary and scholarly journals: Valley Voices: A Literary Review and Journal of Ethnic American Literature.

139 Cantos: A Literary and Arts Journal

Cantos: A Literary and Arts Journal Submission Guidelines Cantos, a journal published annually by Missouri Baptist University, welcomes submissions by writers and visual artists. Send previously unpublished poems, short fiction, excerpts from a novel in progress, and nonfiction as e-mail attachments (Microsoft Word format) to the editor, John J. Han, at john.han@mobap.edu by March 15. Send previously unpublished artwork, including haiga (illustrated haiku), as an e-mail attachment to the editor, John J. Han, at mbujournals@gmail.com by the same date. Write “Cantos [year]: your name” in the subject line. (For example, “Cantos 2018: Ben Moeller-Gaa”). We do not accept Google Drive files and do not accept hard-copy materials of any kind; upon arrival, hard copies will be recycled. Along with your work, submit a 50- to 150-word author bio written in third person. Our target publication date is July 15. Our review time is approximately one month; earlier submissions receive priority consideration. There is no monetary compensation for contributors. Those who are selected for publication receive one complimentary copy of the issue in which their work appears. The editorial team evaluates all submissions for suitability, content, organization, structure, clarity, style, mechanics, and grammar. We do not consider submissions that include profanity or foul language. Poetry: We welcome poems that pay attention to both form and content, that can appeal to a broad range of educated readers, and that are neither inexplicable nor simplistic. Poems should consist of 40 or fewer lines; limit up to five poems per submission. Indicate the form used in the poem parenthetically after the title. Prose: We value submissions written in lucid, precise, and concise style. Prose works that contain a number of grammatical and mechanical mistakes will not be considered. Place serial commas to separate all items in a list (as in “poetry, short fiction, and nonfiction”). Use curved quotes (curly quotes) for quotation marks and apostrophes: Opening quotation marks should look like 66 (“), closing quotation marks should look like 99 (”), opening apostrophes should look like 9 (’til), and apostrophes indicating the possessive case should look like 9 (Emily’s, not Emily's). Periods and commas are placed inside quotation marks (“It is very simple,” the goblin replied. “I can easily shrink my body and get inside the jar.”). Press the tab key once for the first line of a new paragraph, and leave two (not one, not three) spaces between sentences. We prefer MLA (Modern Language Association) style for citation. Fiction and nonfiction should be fewer than 2,000 words each. We consider up to three works from each author. Essays for the section “On Writing Creatively” (2,500-5,000 words each) are normally written by invitation. However, established writers and poets who wish to provide our readers with creative writing tips are welcome to contact the editor before submission. Visual Art: We consider single images, picture essays, and haiga. Single images should be titled, and images used in picture essays must be explained within the narrative. We prefer docx for drawings and jpeg for photos. Currently, we are not seeking cover images.

Cantos A Literary and Arts Journal EDITOR John J. Han ASSISTANT EDITORS Kelsey Keling Krista Tyson EDITORIAL ASSISTANTS Mary Ellen Fuquay Douglas T. Morris EDITORIAL CONSULTANTS Ben Moeller-Gaa C. Clark Triplett COVER ART COVER DESIGN Carol Sue Horstman Jenny Sinamon

TECHNICAL SUPPORT Coral Christopher

WEBMASTER Katlyn Moncada

Cantos: A Literary and Arts Journal is published every summer by the Department of English at Missouri Baptist University. Its goal is to provide creative writers and artists with a venue for self-expression and to cultivate aesthetic sensibility among scholars and students. The views expressed in this publication are those of the authors and do not necessarily represent those of Missouri Baptist University. Compensation for contributions is one copy of Cantos, and copyrights revert to authors and artists upon publication. SUBMISSIONS: Cantos welcomes submissions from the students, faculty, staff, alumni, and friends of Missouri Baptist University. Send previously unpublished poems, short fiction, excerpts from a novel in progress, and nonfiction as e-mail attachments (Microsoft Word format) to the editor, John J. Han, at john.han@mobap.edu by March 15. Send previously unpublished artwork, including haiga (illustrated haiku), as an email attachment to the editor, John J. Han, at hanjn7@gmail.com by the same date. For more details, read the submission guidelines on the last page of this issue. SUBSCRIPTIONS & BOOKS FOR REVIEW: Cantos subscriptions, renewals, address

changes, and books for review should be mailed to John J. Han, Editor of Cantos, Missouri Baptist University, One College Park Drive, St. Louis, MO 63141. Phone: (314) 392-2311/Fax: (314) 434-7596. Subscription rate for both individuals and institutions: $8 per issue purchased at MBU and $10 per mail-ordered issue. ISSN 2327-3526 (print) ISSN 2327-3534 (online) Volume 24â&#x20AC;&#x201D;2018 https://www.mobap.edu/about-mbu/publications/cantos/