Cantos 2025 Issue

Cantos: A Literary and Arts Journal

EDITOR

John J. Han

ASSOCIATE EDITORS

Terrie Jacks Michael Shoemaker

ASSISTANT EDITOR

Dylan Chastain

EDITORIAL CONSULTANTS

Ben Gaa C. Clark Triplett

COVER ART

COVER DESIGN WEBMASTERS

Carol Sue Horstman+ Joel Lindsey Jenna Gulick Lauryn Pyatt

Cantos, an annual journal published by Missouri Baptist University, welcomes submissions from poets, writers, and visual artists. We accept previously unpublished poems, short fiction, novel excerpts, short plays, and nonfiction. Please submit your work as a Microsoft Word attachment via email to the editor, John J. Han, at john.han@mobap.edu. For previously unpublished artwork, including haiga (illustrated haiku), send your submission as an email attachment to the editor. Use the subject line format: “Cantos [Year]: Your Name” (e.g., Cantos 2026: Ben Smith). We do not accept Google Drive files or hard-copy submissions; any hard copies received will be recycled. Along with your submission, include a 100-word author bio written in the third person, using complete sentences and beginning with your name. For more detailed submission guidelines, see the final two pages of this issue. Below are the reading period and target publication date:

Reading Period

January 1-February 15

Target Publication Date

March 15

Cantos does not accept simultaneous submissions or reprints. Our review process takes approximately two weeks, with earlier submissions receiving priority consideration. Multiple submissions within a single reading period are now allowed. The editorial team evaluates all submissions for suitability, content, organization, structure, clarity, style, mechanics, and grammar. We do not consider works that include profanity or foul language. There is no monetary compensation for contributors, but those residing in the continental United States receive one complimentary copy of the issue in which their work appears. Copyright reverts to authors and artists upon publication. The views expressed in Cantos are those of the authors and do not necessarily represent those of Missouri Baptist University.

BOOKS FOR REVIEW: 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) 3922311.

ISSN 2327-3526 (print)

ISSN 2327-3534 (online)

Volume 31 2025

https://www.mobap.edu/about-mbu/publications/cantos/

River Haiku”

At the Manor House, Half Day’s Train from London” Tobi Alfier

Rupa Anand

St. Michael’s, Berlin” and other poems

Coleman Canoe” and other poems

Fragments of Life” and other poems

Gleaming Gates of Stingray City”

James S. McCormick

Colleen S. Harris

Sonnet Mondal

Douglas J. Lanzo

Joanne M. Clarkson

Beware the Setting of the Sun” and other poems Thomas Smith

Phoenix in Flames” and other poems

Inspiration from a Spider” and other poems

MarthaMaggie Miller

Beth Mims 75 Two poems Miranda Wyatt

Home from the Hospital” and other poems

Annmarie Ragukonis 79

Young Galaxy” and other poems

James Croal Jackson

Jey

92 Two poems Emily Arnold-Fernández

93 Two poems Ann Howells

95 “Leaning In” Heather Hallberg Yanda

Visual Art

Michael Shoemaker

97 Plum Blossom Explosion

98 Quaking Aspens

99 Farmhouse - Jerome, Idaho

Donald Horstman

100 Our First Snow

Michael Moreth

101 Advantageous

102 Bountiful

103 Clairvoyant

Michael C. Roberts

104-111 Light of the Morning Sun I Light of the Morning Sun VIII

Christopher Woods

112 By the Creek

113 Songs of Angels

114 The White Rocker

Terrie Jacks

115 Heron’s Reflection

Prose

117 Two short stories

Inna V. Lyon

122 American Medley (a short story) James Fowler

124 The Longest Day of the Year (a short story) T. R. Healy

128 The Gambler’s Dance: A Romance (a play) Jacob Meyer

136 A Strange (K)Night: Comedy (a play) Isabella Queen

143 Book Review: John Zheng

G Emil Reutter’ s On the Other Side of Goodbye

147 Book Review: The Art of Inclusion, edited by John Zheng Lavin, Perry, and Eleanor Wilner

150 Book Review: C. Clark Triplett

Juliet Hinton’s The Mercies of Perry County

154 Book Review: C. D. Albin’ s Axe, Fire, Mule C. Clark Triplett

161 Book Review: Jianqing Zheng’ s Just Looking Jerome Berglund

164 Nagasaki and Unzen: The Settings of Shusaku Endo’ s John

179 Notes on Contributors

189 Submission Guidelines

J. Han Silence (a photo essay)

Poetry

見るところ花にあらずと云ふことなし, 思ふところ月にあらずと云ふことなし.

Miru tokoro hana ni arazu to iu koto nashi, omou tokoro tsuki ni arazu to iu koto nashi.

There is nothing you can see that is not a flower; there is nothing you can think that is not the moon.

Matsuo Bashō (1644-94), a Japanese poet and the most famous master of haiku

BOB MCHEFFEY

“

Disappearance” and Other Poems

Disappearance

Lemon-flavored breath

The unquiet nostalgia

Of creaking wooden bridges

Newsprint smudges on dewy fingers

Dial-tuned static

Graffitied water towers

And dangling rusty ladders

Earthen cellars heavy with air

What dream of Prometheus has brought Me back to this empty place?

What is this fire I cannot touch?

Robins’ nests fallen into the snow

The burn of cinnamon

A fraying ball of yarn

Rolling into farther rooms

Sun-faded sketches

Rutted tire tracks filled with rainwater

Slippered footprints

On cold, cold floors

Whoever I might have chosen to be I am here now

Echoes of ignored blood

Requiring my return

Obligating me to linger

Among these trailing whispers

invisible she she wonders is she firefly or cigarette ash? flower or weed?

is she the first bite of sorrow? the aftertaste of sleep?

she can feel the universe expanding and herself getting smaller. ocean waves die before reaching her toes.

the trees in her forest can ’t seem to hear her but the harsh cries of ravens sound like her name (she always turns to face their black eyes).

this poem does not tell her story. (this poem does not tell her story the way she wants it to.)

how can a poem tell the truth of an invisible she?

Pledge

I hate to dust. It feels like I am disturbing, dishonoring

The dead who I do not even know, The dead who have lingered in unvisited rooms

Blown around the living world

With no authority, autonomy. If this is to be their resting place, Their forgotten bits settled Among other star detritus, Then who am I, With a dampened cloth, To believe I should remove them

For the sake of some briefly shiny wood?

I will not participate in this. This is my pledge.

Let the dead rest.

My wife, however, Just thinks this is an excuse To not do chores.

Regret

Whitened fingers caressing The vagueness of memory

Teeth and lips and tongue

Trying to entice escaped air

Back into the body

Saddened eyes

Watching receding waves

Succumb to the immensity of ocean

Realizing that yesterdays stretch Beyond what the horizon knows Forever and forever

And accepting that the turning of the earth

Gets us no closer

That pain Is beautiful

JULIE STEINBECK

The Bird Poems

The Bird Poems are inspired, obviously, by the various feathered critters I have seen in backyards, from front porches, or over the I-64 westbound bridge over the Missouri River. But, less obviously, these poems are inspired by my love of family and closeness with friends. My grandmother took care to feed and name the birds that visited her back porch. My parents built bluebird houses and conditioned them to human closeness. My brothers share pictures, videos, and stories about their backyard visitors. My friends keep (and farm) their chickens in an effort to live a simpler, independent life. For the record, hummingbirds are my favorite.

I. Bluebirds trained to visit at the ding of a dinner bell Mealworm time! The yard’s new sentinels. (Thanks, Pavlov.)

II. Over the river, Black vultures watch cars, Soaring lazy spirals, Sunning dark wings.

III. A grey cardinal nibbles seed, Indignant feathers blustered By October snow.

IV. The Fulton farm has a small roaming flock Of chickens. They stalk, Gang-clucking, Little raptor eyes suspicious, Rooster-spurs bone-whiteThey do not forget They were once dinosaurs. But should they remember too much, Even velociraptors can become dumplings.

V. Dogs rush out one July morning While the flower garden buzzes. I scoop up a hummingbird, Wasp wings on my palm, Mulch stuck to her breast.

I pluck.

She chides me for her missing feather And rockets to the trees in a huff. That afternoon, she knows me. She is back next year.

JACK GRANATH

“The Myth of Human Nature” and Other Poems

The Myth of Human Nature

Someone made a pet out of a beaver, Which gathered up a bunch of sundry items, Dragged them through the house, and dammed the hallway. Philosophers are fond of telling us That there is no such thing as human nature.

If one of them, a beaver in the wild Or even one named Bucky in the suburbs, Could carve some time out of its busy schedule To share its views, it would no doubt conclude That beaver nature, too, is some old myth.

Treasure Chest

We’ve heard the odd idea that the fall Of man- and womankind was “fortunate,” Rewards of knowledge counting more than weather, Sleep, sweets, nice view, and all the other pleasures That pre-lapse gardens flowed and overflowed with. So we whistle in the widespread dark.

Fortuna with her cornucopia (She must have left her abacus at home) May disagree, but who are we to tell Pandora, crouching by her pretty box, That playtime well, dear, couldn’t it wait for later?

The storyteller pries apart the ancient boards bats and butterflies

Surprised by Applause

All the world’s a curtain coming down on actors who were not informed of much and scurried through their make-believe of days, one word at a time and touch by touch.

JC ALFIER

Two Poems

Upstate Autumn

Headstones on a hill children once dug for Mohawk arrows. The moon seams a hard glare over the dark clearing. But it won’t offer the light a woman needs to read engravings. This ground will never give up its vanished names, like the manifests of phantom ships no lighthouse ever swept. Her son is home dressing for the annual dance. His curtain’s open. He traces an owl flaring into darkness, like a woman waving once from an unlit window.

October Chosen

My wife glares in through my bay window.

She’s been a shade these dozen autumns.

She will appear again. But she will never speak.

In a tributary of moonglow a bird breaks the glass.

My daughter says starlings don’t fly at night.

KEVIN BROWNE

“

Bike Path” and Other Poems

Bike Path

Even with my hiking boots I slide on the tilting wooden bridge, wet from yesterday’s rain, while overhead a pair of sandhill cranes sound off. The creek moves serenely past the willows and the fallen trees that seek to impede its progress, with an open woodland on the other side hosting its lively birdsong and unseen life among the reeds and grasses, and I can see all the changes that the seasons bring to the path and the creek and woodland, from greens to golds and browns and then white and back to green, and clear water to ice and back again. I have the trail to myself today, as is often the case, a mountain bike path but I like to walk it because it follows the creek and is quiet and I see deer, ducks, and sometimes dead field mice and I wonder why they are dead on the trail, not squished by fat tires just expired out in the open, and the next day they are gone.

Family Life

At the beach there are five Canada goose families with week-old goslings living in a small area. This leads to nearly constant conflict with the three single males lurking on the periphery, as the attached males are required to launch aggressive defenses to fend off the wannabe usurpers. After each defense, as they rejoin their families the males lay their beaks and long elegant necks flat against the water and paddle back. I wonder about the cortisol levels fluctuating in the gander brain. Nearby six turkey vultures sit patiently watching on a house gable. Their wisdom is deeper than mine. One family is already down to a single offspring.

clouds gather over the lake a swarm of midges

Transit

On one of the numerous mountain bike trails in the local county park I come across a modest shrine hanging from the branch of a tree. There are no words of explanation, just a set of two handmade ceramic crosses, a personal offering of remembrance and sorrow. A friend says a biker died on the trail not long ago.

late summer drizzle dampens the bird song ripe elderberries

TODD SUKANY

“

From Another Time” and Other Poems

From Another Time

Grandpa’s clock ticks in his sitting room and, today, echoes between my ears.

A half-century has circled the hours on a face. Resting below, the old German tube radio with shortwave, still, and off limits, lights up his doily-covered dresser.

So Named “…his name was called JESUS, which was so named of the angel before he was conceived in the womb.” Luke 2:22

In the days before girls were troop leaders for the Boy Scouts of America, compass skills were vital. Passed down through generations, magnetic north was common sense as well.

A painted-red capital N directed the steps of advanced Webelos who followed the point though ancient forest paths were no longer clearly marked.

To the Tune: I Left My Love

The moon peeks out behind clouds. Shadows dart across the path in the woods.

Whistle Stop Bridge creaks under the weight of my gait. The toe of my shoe catches an ancient plank, popped away from its nails. Frisco Trail draws blood.

For My Sake

“And Jesus said unto them, Come ye after me….” Mark 1:17

Step out of the boat for the last time, so to speak. Drop the knots, the hopes, the puzzlement. Place one foot in front of the other through dust, pebbles, open skies, and palaces. Leave everything you hold dear. Accept the challenge of catching another variety of stinky fish.

What I Knew Before Email Reviews

Before the internet and covid, I walked into a bait shop, searched through shelves filled with goods and goodies, selected my favorites, and meandered toward a cashier, human of course, male or female, where pleasantries were exchanged about my family and shared acquaintances, and my purchase would fill a paper sack decorated with the same emblem as the storefront, and I’d start whistling my way home. I would never dream of being asked to post my pleasant experience of $4.17 with future generations of the world.

On a Mid-Afternoon Walk

Before I see the murder, I hear the harsh cawing, like shameless beasts circling a midnight snack. As I progress, parallel to the confabulation, like Sgt. Schultz, I see nothing to crow about.

JOHN ZHENG

Mindscape

Pablo Picasso’ s Reading at a Table

The dim backdrop of the room highlights the young woman whose face shines in the soft light of the orange lamp. What’s she reading? A romance novel that makes her dream or a poem that urges her to “Gather ye rosebuds while ye may”? She’s absorbed in the fragrance of reading which even attracts the tableside plant to lower its buds to peek. The flowery crown on her head adds a touch of beauty, and her smile is a starling singing and springing in dark trees. Maybe it’s her time to sail into the sky to trawl a netful of stars.

gallery walk view after view in silent steps

The Third Eye

Salvador Dalí’ s The Persistence of Memory

Time ticks into cheese melting into shapes of visual memories dangling or lying in perpetual motion between real and surreal

Night Street

Camille Pissarro’ s Boulevard Montmartre by Night

Pedestrians in twos and threes walk like shadows on the right-hand pavement that reflects the orange light of stores, crowds of people wait outside restaurants and cafés on the left-hand pavement, and colorful shop windows shine against buildings and trees dimming into dark lines or clusters. Cars and carriages park along the boulevard, and lampposts vibrate in a row like white skull dancers. Dissolved by evening rain, colors of the bustling street confuse the eyes that look for a feeling expressed in these brushstrokes

Yard Notes

spring rain

off and on through the week

urges the lawn to glint green

~ summer break

my son flies paper planes in the backyard one glissades over the fence

~ the low fence between neighbor and me a hurdle for their dog’ s joyful jump ~

snowmelt sunlight strings off the eaves into a chain curtain ~

stargazing

fireflies blinking in the backyard draw my attention

~ when the mower suddenly pops a skittish squirrel scoots to the nearby elm

Remembering Mom

the pear tree

planted by mom seventy years ago blooms again each petal a shine of her smile

~ Mother’s Day

memory blooms in a bed of daylilies in mom’ s side yard

~ years after mom died daylilies still bloom in the yard

~ missing mom a bundle of daylilies placed before her stone

KAEDENCE HOLYCROSS

Two Poems

Private Love

Oh, to be held.

To be touched with such grace,

To be wrapped in the arms of peace and cradled by love itself.

To be the one and only choice but the one chosen at will,

To find love in open arms by the one you’ve made your home.

To reach for something that’s almost quite certainly there,

To know you’ve reached what others only wished for.

To have eyes that see through pain and the tear stains you hide,

To have a hand to hold that’s not empty or cold.

To be in love, so deeply in love that the world seems to bend at the story.

To be so lost in the moment that the future pauses for memories,

To have safety and feel loved.

Oh, to be held.

To see it shatter across the mirror,

To play villain and hero.

To see closing doors and wonder who it was meant for,

To be trapped in the arms of fear.

To be swallowed by the thoughts of what’s to come next,

To see and hear it all and wish for nothing more,

To have it reach for you while you cry on the floor.

To flinch at every movement and be given odd looks, Why should you be flinching

When this is how love looks.

Honesty and Truth

I was told to be honest, to tell the truth. But honesty and truth are not the same.

I was told, “You can’t pour from an empty cup, but you can’t give up; you can ’t leave empty-handed.”

I was told to care what people think, and to see what they see but what if they don’t see anything in me?

I was told to listen to the adult, to be the bigger person but why was I given the responsibility?

I’m a soldier in a non-existent war, a soldier in my mind, protecting a little girl that everyone chose to leave.

Everyone chose to lie.

You see, honesty and truth always have something to hide.

MATTHEW BRENNAN

Two Poems

A Marriage Sonnet for Bev, on the occasion of our 30th anniversary

How quickly years have passed and yet I question Nothing, knowing how deep our common ground

Descends, delving past ruts and into rifts. When newly one, we skimmed the grassy surface, Picnicking at state parks, their rustic inns And skinny single beds our primal scenes. But soon, we sunk roots deep in our own yard And watched fall turn our poplars gold as rings.

Although they thrived, we had to weather storms. One winter after midnight, straight-line winds Crashed upper branches, broke off shoots, and shook The earth we anchored in. Still, new leaves burst Forth and the green top grew, the dirt beneath Embedding old entangled roots like pearls.

Heedless in Burling Library for Hullabaloo (2005-2024)

When something loved a long time dies We realize the fact of its mere matter Means a miracle occurred, made bone And fur or bark and leaf, although We learn the lesson late. It’s like The fall I hunkered under the first floor.

Its steady traffic streamed, its coffee house Sold steaming cups of joe to hordes, While underneath I hid inside a carrel Behind high shelves that blinded me to all But books and half-cooked thoughts that no one else Could care about. The walls were cinder blocks, The only sound insectile buzzing from Fluorescent tubes above my head. No window Let in light. The natural world blurred

Until the term was done. Then the first snow Frosted the walk from Burling’s stone facade, And suddenly I saw what I had missed The scraggly sycamores bereft of leaves, The distant, dying sun now hiding under Clouds, like an old sick cat that’s gone to sleep.

DIANE WEBSTER

“

Lake Magic” and Other Poems

Lake Magic

The lake plays magician with tips of the sticks poking out from its surface.

What lies below sun-glittering ripples sparkling around twigs in sleight-of-hand currents?

The tree breathes through the snorkel canopy; a bush giggles as fish tickle among its limbs; disembodied snag rolls… now-you-see-me now-you-don’t.

The lake never reveals its magic secret even when the fishing line flashes a momentary aura.

Tombstone Silent

Stilts abandoned by walkers and sunk into mud … six pairs of pylons wade the lake.

Whether walkers leapt into waters to swim away or sank to mingle with the silt swirling on the bottom; whether pylons shrugged off the pier so they could stand beneath no other shadow but their own shivering in ripples around each pole; whether builders of across the water grew bored with their dream failed in six pylons standing tombstone silent as lake waters lap against the shore in finger to lips shsh … shsh … shsh …

Dusk Surface

The pier stands on top of itself in the lake’s mirror surface as the sun sets between trees silhouetted in sunshine shrinking upon the lake like curling up in sleep as dusk darkens the land. The sky pretends a night light with afterglow day until stars twinkle in the sky, on the lake in double domain.

KEN HADA

We’ve seen the dawn before. Some look away or down without a thought but some hold the gaze or maybe the gaze holds us that faintest light cracking night, right before our very eyes, keeping us humble enough to know what we do not know, but esteemed enough to claim our space under the sun aroused and infused fulfilling the mandates of flesh and blood refusing the algorithms that blind and bind us, take us by the hand and lead us to artifice, the easy resistant-less way humans devolve.

Not me!

I’d rather die like a grasshopper in November, clinging to a blade of grass, numb in frost-bitten wind, crisp, under kindled stars.

Refusing

JOHN GREY

Two Poems

Progress of a Kind

In northern New Hampshire, beyond the White Mountains, in crusty November air, I saw fences crumbling, fields overgrown with weed and tall shapeless grass, dilapidated farmhouses and sagging-roofed barns turning to the seed of wood and metal and glass.

The forest was reclaiming this miscarried farm, maples, firs, alders, evicting the orchards, the grain crops, the lingering stench of cow patties. Wildflowers sprouted in the remnants of gardens. Vines wrapped around an abandoned tractor.

The truth is that sometimes man gets it wrong. Then nature steps in and does it right.

The Woods

The woods were deep and wide and far enough.

They were yours and they were mine.

They climbed the hills, made it up a third of the mountain and travelled south until they stopped… just like that. Just like we did.

They were green summer thick and white winter sparse. They were playgrounds for boys and field guides for men.

They’re still there though wounded in parts by new housing.

Twenty dwellings an estate called Forest Hills.

Many are the reasons we could never live in one of those.

BEN GAA

Haiku and Senryu

pond shadows the snout of an old snapper growing wild the neighbor’s backyard bunnies

knowing exactly which one it is garden squirrel nobody’s business the neighbor’ s circular saw no response to this call mom ’s last voicemail

BRYAN RICKERT

Haiku

light snow from behind the old oak a pileated’s peek-a-boo

above the geese the criss-cross of contrails

winter sun a squirrel peers out from behind its tail

butterfly garden a moth working the night shift

soft landing a deadhead crumples in the finch’s grip

LORI BECHRER

Haiku

summer ripens along a field road blackberries

cool August day the groundskeeper prunes a yew

skittering with the wind mantis hatchlings blue heron his graceful steps through the muck

country road drag racing a crop duster

RANDY BROOKS

“funeral procession” and Other Poems

funeral procession now who will update the family tree?

football positioned for Charlie Brown to kick father never shows up

estranged son at least he left her with a love of cats

family turns to me at the open grave the bees know I’m a speaker for the dead

CHRISTINA CHIN

Two Haiga

JOSHUA ST. CLAIRE

River Haiku

was and not quite yet the Susquehanna spitting rain last light the Susquehanna pours his fire into the Chesapeake striking the world in twain stars of the Susquehanna first lightning all the trickles of the Susquehanna

Susquehanna fog the river is only in my head only blue when reflecting the dusk the Susquehanna the slow rise of the Susquehanna to the moon mayflies

TOBI ALFIER

At the Manor House, Half Day’s Train from London

Cold stone floors and cold tile walls. We stand by the stove and plan what to do that will take us onto the earth and into the sun.

Berries are woven along the rusted fence line. Along the way we find platter-sized mushrooms, planted rows of radishes, carrots and beets, and pastel eggs with yolks of marigold from the chickens we run through the grasses to catch. We hear the tinkling of laughter, realize it’ s us,

rescued from the stern kitchen and the cook within. Flowered limbs break forth beauty to line tables and windowsills in rooms we’ll never see,

so we tuck what we find behind our ears, smell the orange blossoms in orchards too far for us to walk, fill pails as the mounting sun

warms our bones, finally relaxing shoulders from their tightened places close to our ears, our toes kicking up the smell of fresh grass.

Someone with a watch calls time. We take our treasures back toward the house, fill up our pails along the way back

rosemary, long-stemmed cherries, whatever can be found on the shortest distance back as we surprise a flock of birds in the reeds.

We find our shoes by the pond, button back up, display our bounty on long tables for the cook. She always gets much praise, we get none.

But we got free for a moment. Whispered words drift to me through the jasmine tucked into my hair, a kind thank ye for the work

we didn’t know we’d done. We thought we’d escaped, but with our keen and youthful eyes we’d brought back gifts of everything that caught our light.

RUPA ANAND

Two Haiga

MARK J. MITCHELL

“Memory Box” and Other Poems

Memory Box

(Sonnet variation after Christina Rossetti)

His slides are tightly packed, each yellow box is dated. One carousel’s packed. It’s full of transparent time. He’s already pulled out his old screen, dull silver, unlocked its base. He aims the light beam and unblocks its path, shifting a dying plant. He won’t drink, he tells himself, shuffling one box like a poker chip. He will sit alone all night. The first picture clicks. Fills the screen with faces he’d forgotten he’d once known A girl. His brief wife. Kept all his letters. Next drop. Some park. Two dogs. When he met her. The dogs weren’t his. She left, saying: “Don’t call me. Don’t look. I’m not cruel. You’ re mean. ”

A Woman Whose Eyes Were Her Wealth

An anti-hero, repeating himself, tells a sad story of one woman’ s eyes. They hid her sorrow behind outlawed wealth.

He crossed her path slyly, through guile, through stealth. What did you expect? He tries not to lie. He’s an anti-hero. He must respect himself and her. He was unready for her spells though those eyes looked like sharpened knives. Her hidden sorrow shined. He heard a wealth of tales about her. All sad. He still felt something for her. He hopes she never dies. He’s a hero anti-death. For himself, ending was fine. Her truth deserved a shelf for the world to keep, for others to try Not hidden with sorrow, endowed with wealth.

She ran off. Stealing the last things he felt, Hiding it in beauty, with no real lies. Left him anti-heroic. By himself, hoarding his sorrow, her unlawful wealth.

The Theater Dream

In the theater dream you dance much better than in waking life. It’s always a late rehearsal. You remember lines but the words are sometimes foreign and don’t make sense. You feel but don’t see, someone watching.

The first line comes from the night watch in Danish with music. They dance a sandy soft shoe. You sense your entrance, the way you feel life in actors speaking the wrong words for ghost plays. Typical rehearsal.

Someone coughs, stops your rehearsal. Start again, a voice from beyond lights. Watch your timing. The song’s not about words. Guard your feet and keep the dance happy. Remember this is art, not life. So speak clearly. Give lines their sense.

Quiet as a pale ghost light, other actors sense your fear, but it’s just one rehearsal. The play won’t open until your short life is ready. You glance down at your old watch which rightly disappears. A dancer smashes it, smiling, speaking no words.

In the dark, theater echoes. Foreign words bounce off the light booth. A sense of panic rises and the silly dance reaches its end. Now it’s dress rehearsal and you know your sister will watch you fail, reminding you of her cruel life.

And now, you tap and speak. It’s not real life, not even art. It’s a play built of sets and words. The union prop-master hands you a new watch. Try to translate joy into lines, make sense of your character. This is the last rehearsal before opening. You have to master the dance

as if you could dance. Your feet fail but words come back to life. You feel all your senses. Forget rehearsal. Forget who’s watching.

MICHAEL SHOEMAKER

“Belongingness” and Other Poems

Belongingness

When our eyes meet sheer innocence magnificence tenderness fearless finds.

When our hands narrow lifting wings of a sparrow, warm fingers interlace, embrace bliss.

When our lives entwine thrilled hearts and minds flourish and fly.

(cherita)

four-wing saltbush

apothecary of Southwest sand dunes poultice for ant bites

part of alkaline solution to remove pericarp of maize for hominy, tortillas, and tamales

Night is falling… and I gladly bow in tandem.

The whip-poor-will call rings, sails and then succumbs to burgeoning orange, auburn, grey cast over worn-out fields pocked in dusk.

The air is wrapped in wool-sweater weariness.

Dust-devils rise, fall and sweep, bowling leaves along the lane.

My will slips with a sigh into the loose fingers of loving dreaminess with one foot lolling off the swing into never ever land.

All in a Box

Topiary is the horticultural practice of training perennial plants by clipping the foliage and twigs of trees, shrubs and subshrubs to develop and maintain clearly defined shapes whether geometric or fanciful. Wikipedia

From my resort to the asphalt parking lot there are, count them: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven carefully cultured, severely shaved, subshrubs as square as Amazon boxes forming security, predictability and manageability in this orbic world.

From surrounding Zion’s oval living room there are, count them: twenty-one peaks or high places from which comes a choral eruption or revolt in Gregorian chant only partially dampened by the Virgin River’s translucent spring sloughed off snow now running wild.

Twenty-one messengers singing, Seven boxed-up shrubs. I like the odds.

And yet...there are boxed-shaped cars, checking off boxes at a doctor’s visit, bento boxes, cubicles and offices shaped like boxes, cajas con forma de mochilas, cajas de plástico para leche, box shaped paid reserved parking structures, opera boxes, luxury boxes or suites at sporting events, treadmills where the only safe place to put your feet is in a box, voting in boxes to fill in boxes, eating out of Kentucky Fried Chicken boxes, gift boxes, turning back in Red Box movies, urban condo boxes and even eco-friendly raised garden boxes. No wonder that slow travel is the fastest-growing travel trend in 2024. I read it somewhere in a lit-up electronic box.

Twenty-one to seven. It seems we should be winning a little bit more.

JANE BLANCHARD

Ante Meridiem

Crows circle in a worried fuss this morning as we stroll; the noise just ahead of us distracts me from our goal.

Once closer I look up to see a matriarchal hawk; she perches in a tall pine tree, so we both pause to gawk.

Upon another branch you spot an offspring of this bird; though crows are cawing quite a lot, we hardly say a word.

A second red-tailed juvenile flies back without ado; we stand and stare a little while, then move beyond this view.

We are delighted to have seen a mother train her young; how great to witness life so green now summer is well sprung.

JAMES SCANNELL MCCORMICK

“

St. Michael’s, Berlin” and Other Poems

St. Michael’s, Berlin

Before its portal the city split. The West Meant threat: master, pitilessly rich; and slave, Unthinking; and want; and war. Cornered, it pressed To the Wall. Its war-wounds gaped and festered nave

Caved-in and scarred narthex. And so they’ve stayed For fifty years, rebuke and warning. Drawn, I slow my bike. You let me: balanced in shade Beside the transept, you wait, consider lawn,

Unworn cobbles. Where a bombed and hollow Rose-window and flaking mosaics hang overhead, We meet. You’ll turn, start for home. I follow To live in a world where truths might be unsaid.

Sonata for a Rescue Dog

To late July’s hazy waning, you doze always in shade, Always in breath of a breeze and yet your paws Flick and flinch: You’re still on the run, Avery. Below

Your brows’ perfect white circles, a scar shows that once On the streets, a girl’s never off that this house, Any house, might be The Big House. Well, survival isn’t

For the dainty: You scale a metal bar stool, perch On its turning seat to eye the room, or flop Nose first, legs a-dangle on a sofa’s arm, better to

Watch the door. Nor have you any ear for music: Your mistress may twiddle at Mozart, but you know how She ought to use her hands, as she now stoops,

Cradles your curious face to croon Sweetheart, though not even An hour ago you punched out the bedroom window screen Again and then contentedly disemboweled yet another plush toy squirrel:

Sweetheart! And thwock thwock thwock, your tail thrums the floor, Eddies your shed fur to give away a homey truth: That you could get used to this life. You could.

The Washington Township Cemetery at Schoolhouse Beach Washington Island, Wisconsin

…gulls go round the stoven timbers Where the morning stars sing out together… Lowell

You’ll think of how the prophet swore that stones Would shout, but these are nearly wordless: a line With a name father, first, then mother and dates, To speak for tongues now stilled to dirt, to grit

Of jaw and tooth. You’ll look beyond the rows, Their stodgy, trudging plots, to the bluff in snow Of yarrow, raspberry blossom. Below, a wreck’ s Orphaned bowsprit has outworn both shoreline slick,

Shifty and last century; its bilges map Lakebed in tidy plats that sturgeon lip And nuzzle for worms. You’ll reckon a churchless yard As fit as any for you someday to guard

For you to ooze up from forgotten sod To spread, like egg-white in water, before a brood Of double-dared grandchildren’s grandchildren set To spook your grave. You’ll smile: Why not a fright,

A jolt to write love on their heirloom hearts?

For now, though: To gulls’ rowdy counterpoint (part A madness, part a joy) the sideways, gray Stars of the Crab scuttle the horizon; day

Claims you kin in land, in mind, and you’re bloodTied, you’re penned in lines that will be reread, Rewritten, where voices by choice or force kept down, Or yet unraised, will hear in yours their own.

COLLEEN S. HARRIS

“

Coleman Canoe” and Other Poems

Coleman Canoe

Awkward with the oars, spinning broadside into stone, smacking mosquitos and breaking

the fisherman’s quiet my first time out alone in Dad’s Coleman the color of overripe tomatoes. Older

than I am by a decade, scarred by rapids, reeking of too many summers spent in the weeds

of the Sound. A cooler of beer as ballast and a waterproof radio sending Mellencamp

echoing off the sky. I could almost love this, sunburn and spiders and all. The canoe tips over

like a dog anxious for kind hands upon its belly. I hold the beer can and cigarettes above my head.

For a moment, I am my father, gripping my vices, muttering wry curses, empty threats

to the canoe resting belly-up gleaming like laughter on the shore. Waterlogged,

heavy, I trudge toward it, shaking my head. Capsizing was his favorite part.

Looking Back: Fire Island

I remember how we tucked our socks into our pants to thwart thirsty ticks, and even the hot dogs dripped with sweat before they hit the grill, broiling under a sun that scorched our freckles raw. The zinc paste you slathered to safeguard our noses never quite washed off we left white prints on the pails and shovels we used to dig our way to China.

The year the hurricane came, you and Dad stood at our backs, in easy reach as we stood and watched the whip-wind sea. The last summer. We should have known by the way the water yanked at our ankles, the way the sand sucked us in until we could no longer see or feel our feet. The ocean held us close, taking a memory the way the sea does, tasting us whole for the last time.

A Walk at Dawn

The mist clings to the fine hair on my arms, I enjoy the chill that causes my shiver: proof of life, a simple affirmation like the green shoot that can tell which way is up. I can see my breath as it leaves my lungs, joins the shroud over the ground. The fog condenses. I hold out my hand like a petal to catch the rain.

SONNET MONDAL

“Fragments of Life” and Other Poems

Fragments of Life

The musical instruments in the wooden cabinet are still alive.

Their accompanying sounds when mother used to sit with her harmonium have not escaped the walls of this house.

The air isn’t mute. Every night it walks barefoot to my loneliness with her songs and notes and makes me gather my fragments to bury them without pain.

I turn into stone in my sleep and wake up to create more fragments.

My Mother’s Village

If you visit my mother’s village there is nothing much to see. There is a banyan older than my great-grandfather’s thoughts, a few houses older than a few cities, a temple older than my mother and boundless rice fields larger than the dreams of the farmers there. There is nothing much to see for me either. I feel I have grown older than my maternal house. Still if you wish to visit it get to some rooftop on a rainy day, listen to the rain whispering to leaves and see how a village swings between two jungles. There is nothing much in it just that triviality seems dearer to life here a feather swayed by the wind.

The Bridge at Midnight

The city bridge has survived another day. Its throbbing iron rails, the shops nearby and the traffic do not fit it anymore tonight.

A few signposts and streetlamps imbibe the ambient literature like babies in a womb unaware of their own existence.

As the roads stretch to sleep, a horse cart trots over the bridge carrying the confessions of the day.

Grandpa’s Veranda

Grandpa used to sit on a protrusion of the veranda in our old house. He used to nod subtly to acquaintances walking by ploughing time looking from across the road.

I remember him from his last days, mostly lying on the bed he had slept on for more than six decades.

These days I often sit in the new open balcony of our house. A few people wave at me. A few smile and some just walk by.

I will be sitting here till they remain just like Grandpa still sits in his veranda in the eyes of those who have seen him there

an unavoidable view of places we inhabit, an inconsolable coffin much before we depart.

DOUGLAS J. LANZO

Gleaming Gates of Stingray City

Based on an excursion with my twin sons to Stingray City, Grand Cayman Islands

Pixie dust…fairies enchanted sea sprays, tiptoeing white sands where strange creatures play…

Ballet beneath us pirouetting eyes, billowing skate wings on currents that rise onto a sandbar jeweled by turquoise hues faceting sting rays in clear seas, infused, with children’s laughter sparkling sun, amused, by playful touches of stingrays, bemused, as they are fed squid clenched by tiny hands, vacuum-sucked by mouths in releasing strands…

A kingdom mid-sea where magic does reign as, spellbound by skates, we enter their domain.

ALICE KINGORE

Two Poems

Drowning in Thoughts

I’m afraid of sinking below ocean waves

Swallowing sea salt scrapes the back of my throat

As I sink after my failed attempt to float

Going down, down to underwater caves

I’m afraid of disappointing those I love

My saltwater stomach empties and coils tight

Like a snake ready to spring and bite

Then spitting venom, afraid they’ll disapprove

I worry life will become too hard to cope

The thought makes my head buzz like static from

An old television, heartbeat starts to drum

I’m afraid of drowning in the words I share

And yet I plunge into the depths in the hope

That I will find my greatest treasure there

Wardrobe Fire

My closet caught on fire

Now I don’t buy anything unless I love it

Each thread that curled and burned away

Was a part of me that didn’t serve me anymore

Moths had eaten away at old beliefs

And the fire destroyed the last of the costumes

Now I fill my wardrobe with color

And clothes that fit me just right

JOANNE M. CLARKSON

“Tear of Reverence” and Other Poems

Tear of Reverence

My friend mourns the smallest beasts. What I sweep away as a dead fly she sees as a relic of wind, worthy of worship. I bury what the tomcat hunted overnight in unmarked duff under the holly tree. She sets a small tower of white stones, dampens the dry leaves with a tear of reverence. I give no thought to moths my footsteps might crush coming and going beneath lamplight. She lights a candle to their pollen. She believes the mole devouring the bulbs in my garden is engaged in holy work. Because of her I set no traps or poison. Because of her I let the mouse under the sink go with only a warning, one it will never honor, my heart a shade less indifferent as I watch its tail disappear beneath hollyhocks without disturbing a single web.

Magnified

I gaze into a world made greater by a single bead of lingering rain. Living lens making evergreens greener. Calling robins to come closer. It quivers so I can see the wind.

I wait for the droplet to let go, beckoned by the gravity of stones. Yet it clings and I see into veins of leaves like the backs of beloved hands.

At the edge of its crystal skin I discover a nursery of rainbows. And understand the magnificence of tears as if empathy is born through the eyes of yesterday’s rain.

Winter into Spring

Once when the wind blew from the west, sword fern became wings. I knew from their motion: reverent, resilient. And once a rhododendron in the heart of the forest, bloomed when rain was coldest. So delicate a bee appeared or the imagination of a snowflake. Have you heard a tulip hum, or a crocus make the sound of a frog? This is how I learned to survive. This is how I learned to love: knowing two notes can make a whole language. Look, three robins are flying among a thousand clouds.

Gull Scar

There must be a legend to explain the small red dot on the bill of a seagull. Saint or pirate? This cloudfeathered shorebird perches on the railing outside my window when I see it for the first time, drawing my attention past the forecast in its wings. I have heard gulls mourning at the shoreline for years. Noticed them only as a common glide over water. Now the mark they bear haunts me. Summer berry stowed for long winter, just out of reach.

Yes, there is science to this scarlet. Dutch researcher Niko Tinbergen earned a Nobel for revealing that newly hatched chicks instinctively peck this spot demanding to be fed. No one taught them. They knew this kiss from a common wound made vivid over time. For me, it isn’t hunger that amazes. Rather the in-bred vision of color. How the newly born know to touch the crimson of horizons to save the long gray days of their lives.

AUDREY WANG

“

Serenity” and Other Poems

Serenity

the waves on Montego Bay washed away the faded memories of us [our names, parallel, written on the sand] salt air filled my lungs [and yours too?] each gentle crash of a tide is the ocean’s rhythm, steady and tranquil. I pressed my bare feet into the sand and waited, waited until I heard you calling my name from heaven.

Wonder

The boy, 7 years old, stands beneath the pitch-black sky dotted with stars, pondering, lost in the grandeur of the universe.

He tracks the stars that move and wander, Planets rotating, for nights and nights

Now he’s 14 and in his wonder, he asks himself Who pulls the strings of these celestial giants, Mingling with the vastness of the cosmos?

Silent Symphony of the Earth, a Steadfast Promise

When we press our ears to the ground, we sense God whispering upwards through layers of rock and soil, into our yearning hearts, You’re safe here, breathe easy

A trusty foundation, enduring unwavering in the quiet murmur of the natural world. As we stretch our bodies out upon the grass, feet in the air, the cool wind weaves us through our spirits and we begin to unravel the unspoken beauty, piece by piece, we listen To the ocean waves lapping against the sand smooth and slow, To crackling fires breathing in bursts of blaze and sound, To rustling leaves dancing with the moonlight’s tender song, To the bubbling pond as copper-colored fishes learn the way of the current.

In the end, as we recline beneath the stars, listening to the constellations sprinkled across the black canvas that call our names from far, far away, we recognize that serenity dwells in the world’s rhythmic ebb and flow; Here, amidst the ordinary, there is extraordinary bliss Listen. Listen to the silent symphony of the earth.

TERRIE JACKS

Two Haiga and “The Impediment”

The Impediment

Squirrel squirrel at the birdfeeder to the birds, you ’re The Impeder

A cardinal divebombs at full speed still you eat don’t recede

Squirrel squirrel hanging by your toes, gobbling seed a comic sideshow

Careful now birds are swarming mass attack Birds are Storming

Squirrel squirrel on the ground still gobbling seeds you had downed

Yum Yum eat them up

THOMAS SMITH

“

Beware the Setting of the Sun” and Other Poems

Beware the Setting of the Sun

Beware the setting sun, beware the night, The stars above, perhaps the moon can see The ones are left who understand their plight,

Nowhere are lights that equally are bright As day, before the nighttime traveler’s freed, Beware the setting sun, beware the night,

Inside the darkness, creatures roam from spite, Wisdom would encourage all to flee, The ones are left who understand their plight

Prepare yourself for your upcoming fight, Far too late for you to make your plea

Beware the setting sun, beware the night,

You pray that darkness still will give you sight In fact this matters naught to enemies The ones are left who understand their plight

Whatever happens, it will be alright, Life or death, whichever it will be, Beware the setting sun, beware the night, The ones are left who understand their plight.

The Violinist

You play beautifully. I enjoy listening to you. The visitor had just sat down. He had his violin in hand, held proudly. It was hard to play sitting. His worn black case was open. Someone passing might put something in. Appreciation, sympathy, or embarrassment.

The visitor was a first. No one ever had bothered to sit with him. He was flattered by the attention. Flattered by the appreciation. He was afraid of being robbed. He had so little to take.

He was afraid of friendship. He had not had a friend for a long time. He spent most of his time sitting there. Same place, day on day. Watching faces. Imagining where they were going, what they might be saying.

At night he had his place waiting. They looked after each other. Still, he slept with one eye watching his violin, beside him, with a blanket wrapped around both of them. His violin his cherished companion. It sang to his touch.

The visitor was wearing a long coat over a tuxedo. He also had a violin case that he opened and asked, May I play with you? You choose the piece. The violinist thought for a moment and asked if the visitor knew Sonata for Two Violins.

The visitor’s face filled with delight that the fellow beside him knew Prokofiev’ s composition. They tuned their instruments then began to play. The first movement’s abstract quality. The Allegro with all urgency, rhythm, and violence.

Their sound filled the space and carried through the streets. People drawn by the music began forming an audience for the two rare talents who played so perfectly that should not have been achievable in decades of practice.

The man in the tuxedo stopped playing. I have to go. He put his violin into its case. Let me ask my friends if you might come perform with us. He walked down the street and around the corner to a door labelled Orchestra Entrance.

He told the maestro about the virtuoso, his bowing, his expression. The maestro asked to hear the man play. After the matinee he walked back looking for the man. He had gone, taking with him his old violin and his unique gift.

No one knew his name or where he might be. The man in the tuxedo came before and after every matinee for a month. Once a month for a year. The street violinist and his music never returned.

The Sandman

The sandman comes and says go to sleep I am double deaf and the raucous cicadas drown him out

The bus cannot not get past the frowning oak trees who shiver in mountain air and protest they were there first

The starship’s captain offers to assist but I want to do it all myself and make it through eight dimensions before I lose track of the equations

Off the coast inside the reef nurse sharks and stingrays beg for food from anyone who walks in the Alley They have lost their way

Over one hundred steps down to the lake Chilly in the cavern snowing up top I push through muddy cracks searching for cave flowers in bloom

The giant red-headed centipede stomps across the ground leaves a trail of stung and half eaten prey and terrifies the rest of us

I rest at neutral buoyancy watch the orca forage deep in the ocean wonder what it thinks it will find in the ocean’s twilight zone

The desert is motionless The saguaro holds up its arms surrenders to every gunfighter and tourist in hopes of surviving

We watch the virga over the plains sublimate before it reaches the earth Dramatic sunset front range the backdrop Do the prairie dogs notice?

I know you can balance an egg on the head of a nail when you stand at the center of the equator Who else knows and who else cares

The sandman comes again and says go to sleep but his call is overwhelmed by mysteries and contradictions by questions unanswerable

The cat just sat and that was that

MARTHAMAGGIE MILLER

“Phoenix

in Flames” and Other Poems

Phoenix in Flames

Fiery flight lights up the dark night as the Phoenix bursts into flames. Triumphant screams boldly proclaim the breadth of immortal delight.

Raining embers as flight alights wings flex slowly in ecstasy. Silhouetted majestically the phoenix just disintegrates. Heated air cools and dissipates as from ash rises a baby.

Mending My Soul

Walking into the foggy mist

The moisture layering my skin

Following a narrow path twist

Feeling enclosed by forest kin

The moisture layering my skin

Greeting me like a dear old friend

Feeling enclosed by forest kin

Protected, my soul on the mend

Greeting me like a dear old friend

Animist rewards me with peace

Protected, my soul on the mend

Kissing away tears from my cheeks

Animist rewards me with peace

Following a narrow path twist

Kissing away tears from my cheeks

Walking into the foggy mist

Prophesy

The evening sky is burning. Flames rising higher than sight, octopus arms stretching, reaching for celestial rights, wreathed in nebulous purple smoke, tattooed in fluid charcoal symbols. Mother Nature’s convoke to witness the prophesy abysmal, a stunningly vivid visual prediction of the earth’s pending immolation.

Photo taken by the poet. Aerial Immolation.

Becoming an Eagle

Wings will liberate my spirit from its earthly tether, freeing me to fly.

Metamorphosis refit I shiver under feathers. Wings will liberate my spirit.

Ruffling my feathers I sigh as the jealous wind steals my body from its earthly tether.

Ecstasy conquers fear as gravity gives up the fight, freeing me to fly.

BETH MIMS

“Inspiration from a Spider” and Other Poems

Inspiration from a Spider

Your iridescent masterpiece greets me at my front door.

Artfully strung between porch posts, laden with jewels of morning dew, evidence of a long night of work. Your talented legs moved in and out, in and out as they deftly created the giant doily that now decorates my home. Any artisan would be proud of your handiwork. Such precision. Such perseverance. I weep when the brisk breeze rips a hole in your intricate pattern. You, though, quietly begin again. In and out, in and out. Such precision. Such perseverance.

The Gloaming

Like a goose-down comforter the gloaming drapes around me, brushing the sky with pastel watercolors that slowly seep into the horizon. The purr of chickens and the melancholy cry of the owl serenade as silence deepens in the gathering darkness calling me to calm, calling me to rest, calling me to God.

Wrapped in Grace

Just a tot but she stood as a queen, her blanket wrapped around with a regal train. Her security. Guarded from the terrors of this world by its very presence. She breathes in deeply as she faces the world’s strangeness. She holds it tight and marches forward.

No blanket, but I stand here chosen, wrapped in grace that flows to cover my soul. My security. Guarded from the terrors of this life by His very presence. I breathe out prayer as I face the world’s strangeness. He holds me tight, and I march forward.

Resurrection

Fingers of light pull back the shroud of darkness. Colors dance through gray, lingering only a moment before the soft pallet of dawn is enveloped by morning.

MIRANDA WYATT

Two Poems

My People Exist in This World

Every time someone mentions my favorite movie on social media, there is so much love for it in the comments.

My people exist in this world. I download the Social Security Administration baby name data every spring and search for names from obscure fandoms. The numbers have risen.

My people exist in this world. I took a political quiz on a whim and got matched with a third party. Even though they won ’t win, I noticed that 41,756 voted for them last election.

My people exist in this world. I read the 1-star reviews of the novel I didn’t finish and found other people who also thought the characters were unlikeable.

My people exist in this world. Among the pretty but superficial paintings on the gallery wall was a poignant one that made me stop and think.

My people exist in this world. A girl is hunting insects at recess instead of playing kickball with her classmates or joining her friends on the playground.

My people exist in this world.

Another light flicks on at 2:48 a.m., another artist driven by new ideas while her audience sleeps in oblivion.

My people exist in this world.

I Missed out on Dogs

I missed out on dogs.

They spent a decade dancing, making art, starring in shows, chasing the sheep, tracking the bears, sniffing out evidence, guarding their humans, and rescuing the lost for the price of a treat or a toy. Eyes for the blind, ears for the deaf, companions for children, bright eyes and wagging tails to assuage all unease.

I spent the decade disliking them for licking me too fervently or nearly knocking me to the ground with enthusiasm or almost biting when I touched the bone they chewed.

It wasn ’t until I was twelve and had to spend the weekend in a house with a Samoyed that I realized they weren ’t so bad.

Tell me about your dog, what’ s their name?

Show me the thousands of photos of dopey expressions and mellow midday naps. I don’t want to miss out on dogs again.

ANNMARIE RAGUKONIS

“

Home from the Hospital” and Other Poems

Home from the Hospital

She’s home from the hospital again her longest stay ever Frail limbs, mere twigs of bone carry her frame.

Upon her head grows a field of Queen Anne’s Lace

From her robe pocket, she plucks a comb “Do up my hair?”

The comb glides uneasily fine, tangled strands float to the floor

Gentle palms pat appreciation that she’s ready for anxious visitors

Her marble eyes smile revealing no sense of discomfort

Chatter below masks her true self and draws her toward them

She descends the stairs as though a toddler first one foot, then the other Yet, her pace is mature, rhythmic, determined, and royal

Pausing to gather strength she breathes a single, deep breath

Then nods and fastens her arm in his, a monarch approaching her throne

He guides her into her seat like Geppetto resting his marionette

Her skeletal form melts as it meets cushion but her face welcomes and enfolds all

She’s home from the hospital again maybe her last time back

Though confined to death’s vestibule all around, life beckons her

First Thoughts of Gratitude

There are no wars here. Window-watching reveals a drab and dreary day yet I spot birds strolling on the muddy grass hunting, no doubt, for that elusive worm. I, on the other hand, am searching for bits of hope to feed my ungratefulness to fill my desire to appreciate. There are no wars here.

A Sentence of Books

Dear Mrs. Lindbergh,

Where the sidewalk ends, may I have this dance? Until I say goodbye, you’ll always have Tara. This is our story, the year of magical thinking. A river runs through it traveling light, here and now wild, out of the ordinary. Okay, let’s try it again after you ask Mr. Bear. Every day deserves a chance!

Much love, Mr. Reed Bookmore

JAMES CROAL JACKSON

“

Young Galaxy” and Other Poems

Young Galaxy

I stand in line a phone zombie for the Young Galaxy concert in Los Feliz. You turn around

to greet me, tell me you’re here to see Mr. Hands the opener and I zipper up this cool night not knowing what to say, a treefrog hiding on his branch. You continue conversation through my warped loneliness, and bring me inside to the mouth of the stage where we stand in awed silence. Burrowed in the electronic tones and purple, flickering lights, a new universe unfurling before us, and you stay through it all, no longer a stranger.

Anonymity

You bend to pick up and throw away an empty water bottle on the ground so no one steps on it and slips an act of kindness should have no face the wall should be its only witness

For Chris

We were brothers before roommates. We dreamed in film to film our dreams out west we never worked. My dream died. You just died with your dream, where you dreamed our apartment already haunted by our dreams.

DEBBIE STRANGE

Four Haiga

JEY LEY

Two Poems

Sonnet-Shaped (punk verse)

“But not every thought is naturally sonnet-shaped.”

R.A. Briggs, Aesthetics for Birds Interview, December 12, 2014

Not all life is sonnet-shaped, But every person is born a poem.

It ’s when we forget this we hate, Ourselves and others, For hate is the opposite of poetry.

I was born a poem but not a sonnet,

Not that well-bred well-groomed, Esquire of verse;

I was born a freeform,

That anarchic inclement-weather, Punk of verse,

Whose misunderstanding builds, Stanza after stanza,

Until someone inevitably blurts, “This isn’t poetry!”

But I assure you: I was born a poem.

The Man in the Dunes

The man lived in the dunes, dug them deeper, and made them home.

He tended his dunes like a zen garden: sun-bleached driftwood for furniture; the finest seashells for plates; and other fruits of the beach as needed all handpicked, beautifully arranged. It wasn’t enough for him.

He asked the seagulls to stop calling because they disturbed his peace; and asked the crabs to stop visiting, because their little feet messed up his sand floor, which he kept perfectly raked. Slowly, the man began to turn

on himself. Ever mindful of the breaths he took; never satisfied with his own steps, or how he walked around his perfect home. Always raking the sand.

It was no surprise to him that he collapsed one day. But as he got ready to tidy up after his fall, a woman stood at the top of the dunes. From her crown, long ferny hair drifted down her body. A sea angel. She freed her forehead, which was handsomely marked with the character for SEA.

The man stared at the calligraphy until her brow faded into waves laving the shore. He sidled up the dunes and watched the woman reenter the sea,

leaving its front door wide open. The man understood he may never meet her again, may never find love again, but her message was clear:

He can leave the dunes whenever he wished; he was not stuck there; he could try to find her. At least, try. He had nothing to lose but the dunes which is to say, he had nothing to lose. The man left his sandy hermitage, made his way into the deep, and one arm over the other, one foot over the other, swam.

GILBERT CASTAÑEDA

Two Poems

Imprints

The last magnolia petal falls slowly to the ground where I take my final steps imprints on wet earth The petal, my sole become one

The Apricot Tree (Free Verse)

When I went to the backyard you stood there like a watchman with outstretched arms welcoming me. Comforting me.

Your branches undulated periodically when the sea breeze rushed by, motioning me to come closer as if to say:

Yo te cuido, mijito.*

So regal did you stand there in the corner of the yard that when the same breeze rustled your verdant leaves, activating your voice all the other trees stood motionless and silent.

On the first mild spring day, you awoke. The sun’s rays filled your veins with auxin. A few days later tiny pink flowers dotted your barren bark.

At the apex of your bloom, the inflorescence was so dense, it blocked out the sapphire sky.

* The translation: I take care of you, my son.

JEFFREY WARZECHA

Two Poems

Backyard Thanksgiving

Some fox or coyote, maybe fisher cat has caught one of the neighborhood turkeys. What’s left: scattered feathers, guts, small bones coracoid, ischium being groomed by ants and flies gorging on the corpse. With beetles, crows, they share the carrion in my yard, dandelion, fescue as side dishes for grasshoppers and aphids, on this manicured grass table, set for them by some unknown host.

Lost in Chatfield Hollow

By the cyclops of night we navigate, keeping alternate eyes closed to keep adjusting the dark a kind of camp-sight comb for the remnants of felled trees that parallel-form Hurricane Bob-cleanup paths. But we are meandering, enervated by dark panic. In the field before us, several doe lick the cyclops’ light from the big bluestem, white as their tails, fluid as dew.

In their startle-scatter they nudge loose four inflorescence that nearly form an arrow when they settle. We construe it as a guide to find our campsite, an indication we are the sole things lost: even the weeds, the moonlight know their paths to take them toward sleep.

T. RODRIGUEZ

Two Poems

Covid Church

I will not shake your hand

When a fist bump will suffice

Drinking fountain I’ll pass

Hold a hymnbook between us?

No thanks

But I will sing harmony to your song

Connecting your heart to mine

Losing the Fight

I miss the you that fought with me

The tug-of-war

Never giving an inch

Mutual understanding, elusive

Weighty burdens and Harsh truths laid bare

Until a truce

Relief

A hard-won compromise

To the depths of our souls I know you

But now there is no fight

Only deafening silence

I see beneath your hurt

The one that smothers your light

Preventing you from trying

Struggle replaced with apathy

Hiding from truth

There is no relief

Only anguished surrender

To the depths of my soul

I miss the you I know you are I miss the you that fought with me

BISSHIE

Haiku

mouldy blueberries his DNA infiltrates her broken skin the pebble I kick off the mountain path Avalanche

C3PO can’t translate this… frost bitten rose buds

EMILY ARNOLD-FERNÁNDEZ

Two Poems

Hoping my sister didn’t make her flight

Muan Airport Arrivals Hall, 29th December 20241

They say no one knows if the cat is alive. Until it’s opened, the box cannot become a coffin. I sit, my nails too heavy for my fingers. I am waiting to hear a name. Soon I will not be, not me, not as I was before. The airport staff build yellow boxes for us, cubicles the color of gazania, of autumn. I wait to hear if I am alive. My gut is certain already: The coming winter will be endless. My heart rumbles. Hope is a purr I don’t feel under my hand.

Suddenly a fox (not a sestina, but plays one on TV)

Suddenly a fox, playful runs past pauses dances, then looks to see if we noticed.

Suddenly a fox pauses, notices dancing. To her, it looks like playing. She runs past seeing.

We can’t see her now the fox. We can’t see her dancing. We pray she’ll pass, pause again.

1 https://www.nytimes.com/live/2024/12/28/world/south-korea-plane-crash/at-the-airports-arrivals-hall-anagonizing-wait-for-news?smid=url-share

ANN HOWELLS

Two Poems

Yin and Yang

Brother, older by two minutes, views the universe as a shoebox, within a larger shoebox, within an even larger shoebox. He is quite delighted with this explanation and believes it firmly. Brother is the dominant twin everyone says so outgoing, quick, voluble, energetic. Stars, he says, are simply holes punched in the lid, as we punch holes in lids to allow air for captured turtles, skinks, and garter snakes. Brother imagines a giant child carries this shoebox under his arm, takes it to school for Show and Tell.

I, second born, introspective, docile, inclined to daydream, simply ponder what would happen in the classroom, and, indeed, in the shoebox, were that lid removed and stars became pair after pair of immense eyes staring down.

Sara – age 6

Black-eye and band-aids, everything heals, and too much is happening to miss a minute. Scraped skin, blistered heel, knees pumping this tiny woman-to-be covered with bug bites and bruises wears scars like gold stars. Small traumas forgotten in the glory of it all.

Look Grandma, watch me cartwheel. Watch me backflip. Watch me climb, dive, leap, soar! Watch me pick myself up. Watch me do it again. Perfect this time. Springy of spine. Strong of bone. Sturdy of muscle. This is age six. This is invincible.

This is if boys can do it so can I. This is her life. This is I double dog dare you, laughing, skipping griddle-hot walkways, skin glistening with summer, eyes filled with stars, infinite childhood a red carpet rolled out just for her.

HEATHER HALLBERG YANDA

Leaning In

The door shuffles shut: all of Main Street’s bold sounds cease. I enter the sanctuary where all the corners of silence unfold completely. It’s in these solitary moments when so much comes clear: how these doors cannot stop anger, our world so riven with war. When I lean into the altar I find, at last, the work I’ve been given to do: to teach the doubtful; to carry others’ burdens or help to release them; to listen to the most frightening stories or help create a necessary calm.

I feel it just now with great certainty: God is silently leaning into me.

Visual Art

“There are many accidents that are nothing but accidents and forget it. But there are some that were brought about only because you are the person you are... you have the wherewithal, intelligence, and energy to recognize it and do something with it.”

Helen Frankenthaler (1928-2011), an American abstract expressionist painter

MICHAEL SHOEMAKER

Plum Blossom Explosion

Quaking Aspens

Farmhouse - Jerome, Idaho

Donald W. Horstman

Our First Snow

MICHAEL MORETH

Advantageous

Bountiful

Clairvoyant

MICHAEL C. ROBERTS

Light of the Morning Sun I

Light of the Morning Sun II

Light of the Morning Sun III

Light of the Morning Sun IV

Light of the Morning Sun V

Light of the Morning Sun VI

Light of the Morning Sun VII

Light of the Morning Sun VIII

CHRISTOPHER WOODS

By the Creek

Songs of Angels

The White Rocker

TERRIE JACKS

Heron’s Reflection

Prose

“In my younger days, I was trying to write sophisticated prose and fantastic stories.”

Haruki Murakami (b. 1949), the author of international bestselling novels like Norwegian Wood (1987), The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle (1994-95), and Kafka on the Shore (2002)

INNA V. LYON

Mink

Two Stories

Oh, how I dreamed of a fur coat! Sable, mink, chinchilla, rabbit, or even some nice-looking faux fur any fur. All I wanted was to feel that supple softness under my hand, admire the fur of a once-living animal glistening in the sun, bury my nose in a large, raised collar, and inhale the faint smell of tanned leather. And, of course, catch the envious glances of passers-by in our modest factory district. “There she goes, that one, in a fur coat.”

To tell the truth, living in Russia requires a fur coat. Russian winters are ruthless, especially in my city on the coast of the Azov Sea, where the salty wind doubles the cold. You bundle up in sweaters, scarves, hats, and gloves beneath your coat before you leave the warmth of the house. Your kid looks like a frozen caterpillar in a winter jumpsuit. You load your bundle of joy on a sled and drag it to daycare or school. After dropping your kid and the sled at the destination, you hurry to the bus stop where you will be waiting for the slow-paced public transportation, doing a little dance to stay warm. A fur coat would be handy for the next 55 minutes of waiting.

Aside from the practical, there’s prestige. A woman with a fur coat is like a man with a gold chain. It doesn’t matter if you have an empty fridge at home and cockroaches in the kitchen sink. Your coat indicates that, despite all the budget holes, you have scraped together enough rubles to buy a treasure for yourself an escape from the doomed reality of poverty. Or else dirty money got you those precious possessions. There is always a little mystery behind someone’s wealth and fur coat.

But your luck could always run out if you walked into a dark alley or dimly lit apartment entrance where drunken robbers were waiting. Then your precious coat would change owners.

In Siberia, the winter lasts for six months with ten feet of snow and an air temperature of -50 Celsius. In my student years there, I had only a green and white checkered coat made of wool, a fake fur collar, and a fake leather belt the envy of every leprechaun. But no one laughed because we all looked the same. We were a bunch of clowns in crazy patterned clothes from Russian manufacturers. Only wealthy local students and teachers had fur coats due to years of severe cold weather and higher northern salaries.

After college, I returned to my coastal city with a month-old son, a husband who served in the army, and a useless diploma that couldn’t get me a job. The Soviet Union fell apart, and Russian people faced perestroika, the worst economic downfall in history. I swept the streets, sold tea at the market, baked cakes, and babysat rich people’s kids.

My fur dream was as far away as Hawaii or the Ivory Coast.

Six years later, divorced and bitter, I found a job as a cook that paid 2,000 rubles a month. The cheapest rabbit coat cost 150,000. You do the math: How many years without buying food and groceries would it take me to get my dream outfit? As a single mother, I got a small room in a hostel, where my son and I lived for the next five years.

Working weekdays at the restaurant and serving weddings on the weekends, I made a better living than selling tea. I bought a used piano for my son and a sheepskin coat for me, two steps above my leprechaun student winter wear.

Life went on. The fur coat didn’t happen. But something almost as unbelievable did we moved to America. To a state where no one wears a winter coat even in the coldest weather. Why? You only need a sweater to run from the front door to your car.

Life was different there, without fur coats. The ability to travel first class around the world was considered wealthy. Inconspicuous $400 Lululemon leggings were called fashion. Vacations to Europe or Hawaii fell into the luxury category. The most expensive currency was time.

Fitting into a new society and mastering the language became my new priorities, and I forgot about my furry dream.

I only recently remembered my now-faded desire while reading The Chronicles of Narnia with a closet full of fur coats as a tunnel to an imaginary world.

My real world was filled with magic and wonder, too. The land of opportunities offered freedom, choices, opinions, education, connections, and community. I filled my days with sports, classes, friends, service, and various hobbies, from crafts to painting, photography, yoga. I got a bachelor’s degree in accounting, found a good job, opened a jewelry business on the side, and became an author.

My shopping preferences came from Ross and Walmart, and my winter wardrobe consisted of short jackets for easy driving and walking outside.

After ten years of living in America, I adjusted to a new lifestyle and surroundings. Life turned out to be pretty good without a luxury wardrobe.

My Russian family obtained a better financial situation as well, and my mom got me a present. For my 45th birthday, she bought and sent me my first genuine mink coat. I opened the package and gasped in awe. Everything I once dreamed of dark brown fur sparkling in the sun, a high, cozy collar, wide sleeves, one big button at the neck, and small metal fasteners inside the lapel.

I thanked my mother over the phone. I didn’t tell her about my disappointment of not getting Russian books or any traditional birthday sweets but a heavy and costly out-of-style outfit.

I never wear it.

Where would I? To work, where half of the company are vegetarians and healthy lifestyle promoters? Many have pets and inspect every tube of hand-lotion for the “Not tested on animals” label. Showing up to work in a fur coat in Russia would be a subject for rumors and jealousy for a week. In America, it would mean losing respect from half of my friends.

I couldn’t wear that coat to the theater or cinema either. The concept of a coat room is absent in many establishments, and I lacked the guts to put several thousand dollars of fur coat folded under my seat on the dirty floor.

We fly to warm countries for vacations, so the fur coat automatically falls off the packing list.

And PETA activists, protesting for the animal rights movement, wouldn’t hesitate to spray paint the unfortunate foreigners wearing furs.

In short, a fur coat happened when I no longer needed it.

So, it hangs in my closet my expensive winter comfort in a white plastic bag with a zipper. Heavy. Real. A bit smelly. Once coveted. Now lost to time.

We Are All Passengers on the Titanic

The tremendous drama of the Titanic’s sinking to the bottom of the Atlantic never gets old. April 15, 2024, marks the 112th anniversary of the Titanic tragedy. Her story was told and retold, admired, cursed, contorted, inflated, and sold so many times that it cast into shadow any other wrecks in the history of sea navigation.

With sorrow, trepidation, and unwaning curiosity, we read books and watch movies and plays because we all know how it ends. Life is at stake, and death is imminent. The everlasting question, “What would I do?” comes to mind and hangs in the air unanswered.

Fourteen years before the Titanic’ s maiden voyage, a struggling author, Morgan Robertson, wrote and published a book about a luxurious Atlantic liner that hit an iceberg and sank in the ocean on a cold April night. Robertson named her liner Titan and her book Futility. Call it a prediction, author’s premonition, or bad luck, but the imaginary steamer was also remarkably similar to the future “unsinkable” Titanic by tonnage, length, number of passengers carried, and even the lack of lifeboats. Titanic’ s maiden voyage met the same end as the unfortunate Titan from the book.

Had the White Star Line designers’ crew read Robertson’s book?

Titanic’ s first passengers called the ship a “floating hotel,” a “luxurious resort,” and even a “small town.” It had everything: outstanding decor and services, an impeccable menu, and well-trained crew and stewards. Everything, except enough lifeboats. Over the years, many speculations have circulated about why the ship did not have enough lifeboats. Among those was the White Star Line’s policy of “putting profit before people” to outshine other liners with luxury and open decks that didn’t have enough space for extra lifeboats.

Another bold statement from the White Star Line’s engineers proclaimed, “Titanic was its own lifeboat; therefore unsinkable.” Sixteen major watertight compartments should’ve sealed off the hull if punctured, but six of them damaged by the iceberg proved the engineers’ calculations wrong.

Among other barren excuses why the lifeboats were sent off half-empty were a shortage of time, a not-so-well-trained crew getting everyone into lifeboats, the listing of the ship, which would result in the lifeboats possibly hitting the hull while lowered, and many panicky passengers. Take your pick from the reasons listed above, but out of 2,240 people who sailed on Titanic’ s maiden voyage, only 706 survived. Why not more? Why didn’t the nearby SS Californian hurry to the rescue?

Captain Stanley Lord of the SS Californian, forever vilified as the captain of the “Ship Who Watched Titanic Sink,” claimed it was due to shutting down his ship for the night. Captain Lord testified that they didn’t see the Titanic’s rockets and, therefore, there was no need to contact the vessel via Morse lamp. Despite the night shift telling him something was wrong with the nearby Titanic, Captain Lord went to bed and slept until 5:40 am when the morning shift reported a distress call.

There are many mysteries behind the SS Californian’ s lack of response. Encyclopedia Titanica states, “One remains the biggest unanswered question in the immortal saga of tragedy a suspicious lack of Californian’ s logs that mysteriously disappeared between the night of the disaster and Californian’ s arrival in Boston. Some have suggested it was thrown overboard.”

While Captain Stanley Lord dismissed eight rockets fired into the air, the captain of the Carpathia, Arthur H. Rostron, spent a sleepless night sailing toward Titanic and preparing his ship for a rescue mission. With 27 years of sea experience, it was only his third month as captain and his first real test. The Carpathia headed to Gibraltar, but upon receiving the CQD and SOS distress calls from the Titanic, the ship immediately turned around and sailed full speed in the opposite direction. The resting shift of stokers was awakened to shovel coal. The electricity and hot water were turned off on the ship, sending every ounce of steam to the engine room. With the limited speed of 14 knots, Carpathia made 17 knots, hurrying to the rescue. Captain Rostron gave orders to prepare for the rescue operation from readying gangways to catering food, arranging medical stations, and gathering 3,000 blankets for survivors. It turned out they needed only 706 of them.

At the beginning of the last century, the Marconi International Marine Communication Company issued a call for distress at sea, transmitted in Morse code as CQD (CQ Distress). A few years later, in 1905, the International Radiotelegraphic Convention adopted another Morse code distress signal of three dots, three lines, three dots (… __ __ __ …) called SOS. The witness of three wireless operators from three different ships determined the fate of the Titanic.

On April 15, 1912, long past midnight, wireless operator Harold Cottam was getting ready for bed on board of Carpathia in his tiny wireless cabin over the Second Class Smoking room. He left one headphone in his ear when he heard the CQD code being transmitted. Half-dressed, Cottam rushed the message to First Officer Dean, and both hurried to Captain Rostron’s cabin, who immediately turned the ship around and went north. Cottam stayed up the whole night at the key, receiving weak messages from Titanic.

“Get your boats ready…”

“Sinking head down…”

“Engine room is getting flooded…”

“When can you arrive?”

“Come as quickly as possible, old man; the engine room is filling up to the boilers.”

Silence.

On the other hand, wireless operator Evans from Californian took offense at Titanic’s earlier message. “Shut up. Shut up. I’m busy,” said Titanic operator Jack Phillips, who was working overtime sending passengers’ telegrams. The Californian shut down the ship’s wireless, and Evans left for bed at 11:30 pm; Titanic struck the iceberg ten minutes later. How would the Titanic’ s survival story differ if the Californian, drifting only ten miles away, received the distress call on time? Who knows. But Evans awoke at 4:30 am when the Titanic was long gone at the bottom of the ocean, and people had frozen to death in below-freezing water.

At the same time, on board the RMS Titanic, radio operator Jack Phillips and junior wireless operator Harold Bride alternated between distress calls CQD and SOS, pleading for help to anyone who would listen. They stayed at their post, sending messages until the last minute possible when they received the relief order from Captain Smith, followed by the blood-chilling phrase, “Every man for himself.”

Both Titanic’ s operators carried out their duties to the end. Phillips perished in the sinking. Bride survived by jumping into the last collapsible B boat and standing

knee-high in the frigid water for over two hours. After being saved by the Carpathia, he offered his help as operator to Cottam in transmitting the list of the surviving passengers to New York. Walter Lord, the author of the book A Night to Remember, wrote the following about the Titanic’ s operator, “...Harold Bride’s story somehow stands out. He was a trained observer, meticulously accurate, and stayed on board to the last.” Bride also contributed to many memoirs about Titanic and Walter Lord’s book.

In anticipation of the Carpathia arriving in New York, the world was united in grief, just to be divided later as blame flew across continents during the American and British inquiries.

Titanic’ s tragedy ended the Gilded Age for the rich and privileged when undeniable statistics showed that a higher percentage of surviving passengers came from First Class, some from Second Class, and a meager number from Third Class. Division by class affected survivors during the evacuation to the boats. On Carpathia, the class division continued as Captain Rostron, in preparation for the survivors, gave orders to set up first-aid stations in each dining salon according to class. Walter Lord wrote in his book, “Put the Hungarian doctor in charge of Third Class…the Italian doctor in Second…and ship surgeon, Dr. McGhee himself in First.” Upon arrival in New York, families, embassies, and government representatives met the rich that evening and took them to dine at the Ritz-Carlton. At the same time, the poor immigrants stayed on the ship, relying on funds organized by Margaret Brown (known as unsinkable Molly Brown) to help those who lost everything. The outraged public opinion raised questions and shamed the class distinctions and how the passengers were distributed in the lifeboats according to their class.

The Titanic tragedy also prompted considerable changes and new regulations for the navy and cruise lines: mandatory “lifeboats for all,” new distress call SOS, a radio room operating 24 hours with an operator on duty, intense crew training for loading lifeboats, standardization of distress flares and rockets regardless of company, vessel, nation, or time of year, and more.

Walter Lord’s book A Night to Remember, published in 1955, raised public attention and interest in the Titanic, never to lose it again. In his book, he wrote, “Probably nothing will ever equal the Titanic for the number of unanswered questions she left behind.”

We can speculate and assume whose fault it was, how, and why, but we will never know all the truth and facts of the tragedy. When the last Titanic passenger, Millvina Dean, died in 2009, the final page of the ship story could be turned. Yet, we hunger ever more to peek on board the doomed vessel and explore the life stories that have been told or kept as a secret.

The tragic story still fascinates us today. As the Irish philosopher Jack Foster said, “We are all passengers on the Titanic. ” And we keep her story alive when we talk about the Titanic, remember her and the thousands of lives affected.

Research Articles & Resources

1. Encyclopedia Titanica, “SS Californian”

2. Walter Lord. A Night to Remember

3. “SS Carpathia.” Wikipedia

4. Violet Jessop. Titanic Survivor

5. Johnny Worthen. In the Wake of Captain Lord

JAMES FOWLER

American Medley

The McCutcheon-Fairchild House, located at the intersection of Barrow and Mill Streets in Somerset, is by common consent the most iconic residence in town, even though nobody has resided there for years. A patchwork assortment of neo-Gothic, Queen Anne, Second Empire, and Seaside Cottage elements, it exerts a mongrel charm through the practically felicitous assemblage of quirks and freaks. Its most consistent feature, irregularity, keeps the eye roving among projections, gables, constantly varied rooflines, balconies (faux and actual), diverse window shapes, and ornamental potpourri.

J. P. McCutcheon, the wicker-furniture magnate, had the house built for his wife in 1876-77. Both spouses kept coming up with new ideas during construction, which the architect obligingly incorporated, adjusting his fee and the total price accordingly. When complete, the structure was three stories high, its main entrance aligned with the street corner, the whole roughly shaped like a generous slice of wedding cake. Of course, the wraparound porch was graced with the finest examples of J. P. McCutcheon workmanship.

As husband and wife had come to marriage fairly late, both being in their early thirties, they immediately set about producing a clan to populate the house’s ample space. Within six years they had six offspring, even without the advantage of two-forone birth. Like their parents, the McCutcheon children were energetic and industrious, though mainly in service to play. At times you could see their arms extended frantically from the third-floor dormer windows as they pretended to be prisoners of an evil enchanter. But their favorite place in the house was under the high porch, a domain all their own.

Here they staged elaborate fantasies based on such classics as Rex Drake, Boy Hero of the Rockies. Once, when playing Treasure Island, they borrowed their mother’ s jewelry box without asking. The grilled servants had rather a disagreeable day of it. Repentant, the children bought them thoughtful notions out of their own treasure.

The whole house, though, with its odd nooks, twisting corridors, and main split staircase, was ideal for games of all sorts. Neighbors themselves were split over the bursts of child noise tumbling from open windows and doors. Some found it an expression of creaturely joy, others a plain nuisance. But what else could one expect from the inhabitants of such a higgledy-piggledy pile?

By the time McCutcheon senior passed into his heavenly mansion, the children were all grown and out of the house. His widow found sole caretaking too much for her, so she sold the place and moved in with her oldest married daughter. This was in 1905.

The new owner, Thomas Fairchild, came from a family that had made its fortune in gypsum, train oil, and buggies. Wanting to put his own stamp on things, he added a turret clad in pink granite and capped with an onion dome in scalloped shingles. This was to balance the squat tower with mansard roof in the original design. He also added a conservatory at the back for his wife. The McCutcheons had included up-to-date conveniences such as indoor plumbing, gas lighting, and a telephone. Fairchild in turn

had the house wired for electricity, and left improvements in landscaping to his greenthumbed Mrs.

To the relief of certain neighbors, the Fairchilds, despite their name, had no progeny. Instead, they opened their house to friends, business associates, and civic organizations. An invitation to a Fairchild dinner party was much coveted: the menu worthy of the Waldorf Astoria, the table crowned with a stunning centerpiece of exotic blooms from Margery’s greenhouse. Crystal sparkled beneath an electric chandelier, which also illumined the Tiffany fanlights (themselves crowned by the splendid Dives and Lazarus panel in stained glass on the stair landing). Somehow the hosts made everything feel opulent but not excessive.

Margery outlived Thomas by seven years, passing in 1942. She left the house to a private orphanage run by a Miss Simmons. Elderly neighbors who recalled the McCutcheon brood felt a kind of domestic karma at work. Now there were up to fifteen children at a time on the grounds. There might have been even more if a sympathetic town council had not intervened. At any rate, things went on so until Miss Simmons suddenly died of heart congestion while sitting in a wicker rocker on the porch. Her assistants lacked the necessary fund-raising touch, and the children were transferred to a public facility.

The house lay in legal limbo for a few years until someone thought to consult Margery Fairchild’s will. It stipulated that in case of the orphanage’s closure, the property was to pass to a local artist collective. So from 1951 to 1962, the house provided studio and gallery space to painters, potters, and sculptors. The matte-finish vessels created here became the group’s signature production and remain collectibles to this day.

A developer next acquired the real estate and with some zoning allowances turned it into a commercial venture. Over the next fifty-odd years it housed various combinations of businesses. For instance, according to tax records, in 1974 a dance academy and stenography school occupied the first floor, a dentist’s and chiropractor’ s offices the second, while an astrologer, nail technician, and seller of all things macramé huddled on the third. The only major change at this period (besides the reconfiguring of inside walls) was the addition of a parking lot along one side of the house to accommodate the clientele.

Recently the developer’s son has put the property up for sale. Neighbors would prefer that someone turn the place into a heritage B&B. Something else is emerging from the woodwork though. A McCutcheon descendant rich from the video gaming business is reportedly closing on the purchase. Word is he’s hired a preservationist to undo the commercial modifications. He and his wife, along with their birth, adoptive, and foster children, will be reclaiming the house for family life. Plans for the porch include wicker. The kids are already bickering over who gets to bunk in the turret.

T. R. HEALY

The Longest Day of the Year

Sackett set down his coffee mug and looked over at his Irish water spaniel.

“Did you hear what that man on the radio said, boy?”

Clancy stared at him, his tongue lolling out of the left side of his mouth. Already it was nearly eighty degrees this morning.

“Today is the longest day of the year.”

He picked up the mug and took another swallow of the strong African blend coffee.

“I suppose that means I should get a lot more done today than I usually do.”

He smiled, thinking that was unlikely, and walked over to his desk to begin work on another bomb. Quickly he cut a milk straw in half then plugged one of the ends with a drop of hot glue. He waited a few minutes for the glue to dry then filled the straw with glitter and plugged the other end with more glue.

Again he smiled, recalling the explosion of glitter that happened yesterday when he pulled apart both ends of the straw. Everyone in the classroom burst out laughing they were so surprised.

A licensed emergency medical technician, Sackett worked for the American Red Cross. One of his duties was to visit elementary schools in and around the city and make the students aware of the basic concepts of first aid. He taught up to four classes a week, driving his wheezing Karmann Ghia from one end of town to another. Almost from the beginning, on the advice of Willard, another EMT, he prepared glitter bombs to explode before he started a class because it was a sure way of garnering the attention of the students.

“If you don’t get them to listen to you right away,” Willard claimed, “ you ’ll never get their attention.”

Sackett knew from earlier experiences in classrooms that was absolutely the case. Willard carried an airhorn with him, so did two other instructors, which they blared before they started their classes. That was much too disruptive for Sackett, so, as an alternative, he came up with the idea of glitter bombs. So far, for the most part, the bombs had worked, and the students listened to the information he had to impart. He didn’t know if they understood everything he tried to convey to them, but they were attentive for most of the hour.

Today he was scheduled to teach a class at a parochial school on the north side of town and one at a charter school on the east side. The parochial students seemed much more interested in learning about first aid, especially the steps involved in performing the “kiss of life” feature of cardiopulmonary resuscitation, than the charter students who were pretty indifferent as if convinced they were being taught techniques they would never be required to perform. But, curiously, when he began to discuss the treatment of poisonous snake bites, they became engaged and asked one question after another. He

was surprised by their interest, and when one of the students asked if he had ever been bitten by a venomous snake, he could not keep from telling them he had even though it was not true.

“Did the bite hurt a lot?” someone asked.

“It hurt like blazes.”

“Did you see the snake before it struck you?”

“If I had, I wouldn’t have got bitten.”

“What kind of snake was it?”

“A diamondback.”

“Where were you bit?”

He held up his left hand. “Just below my thumb.”

“Do you have a scar?”

“Only in my memory.”

“In the movies someone who’s been bitten always tries to suck out the venom. Is that what you did?”

He grinned. “That’s the movies. That’s not reality.”

“So, what did you do?”

“I know it’s hard to do because you’re in such a frantic state of mind, but you must try to stay calm. You don’t want to run around like a chicken with its head cut off because that’ll just circulate the venom faster through your bloodstream.”

“What about applying a tourniquet?”

“Not a good idea,” he said. “The best thing you can do is cover the bite with a clean dry dressing and seek medical attention.”

“And if none is available?”

“Say your prayers.”

After he finished at the charter school, Sackett drove to a Lebanese food cart he often frequented and bought a Fresca and a falafel wrap and ate his lunch in his car which he parked behind the cart. As he sat there, he recalled some of the other fabrications he had concocted during some of his classes. Just the other week, he claimed a vagrant stabbed him with a pocketknife and described in vivid detail how he treated the laceration. And the week before that, he went through all the steps he employed in dealing with a sucking chest wound he treated while serving as an Army medic in Afghanistan. Though he supposed he should regret the lies he told, he didn’t at all because telling them helped him keep the attention of his students. Without them, he was afraid many in his classes would scarcely pay any attention to what he had to say.

Only once had he been caught telling one of his lies, and that was by a former Army medic who had served in the war. He began to ask him specific questions about his time overseas, and eventually Sackett had to tell another lie and admit he was just relaying a story he heard from a friend who served in Afghanistan.

“You made it seem as if you were that soldier,” the former medic said suspiciously.

“If I did, I didn’t mean to.”

“You have to be careful about taking credit for things you didn’t do.”

Seemingly, he nodded in agreement, though he knew he wouldn’t change his approach. It kept students interested and that was really all that mattered.

One day a week, sometimes two if he wasn’t too busy, Sackett served as a volunteer at the Rapid Response Unit, a program established by the City Council to assist troubled people living on the street. Designed as an alternative to involving the police, two-person teams of mental health professionals and EMTs were dispatched to deal with people in crisis.

“How’s it going today?” Rachel, one of the early volunteers in the program, greeted Sackett when he entered the RRU office which occupied what was for a long time a sporting goods store.

“All right, I guess,” he answered, “considering what day it is.”

Her eyes crinkled. “What day is it, Clayton?”

“The longest day of the year.”

“Is that so?”

“That’s what I heard on the radio this morning, and it’s barely half over.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re here because Loud Lucy is at it again and we need to settle her down before someone calls the police.”

“She on Prospect Street?”

Rachel nodded. “Where else?”

Lucy was a vagrant who, when she had too much wine to drink, often paraded up and down Prospect Street, with pigeon feathers in her flaming red hair, banging a spoon against an empty soup can and screaming at the top of her voice. Almost always, she claimed to be a Native American and demanded to return to the reservation, but she wasn ’t anymore an Indian than Sackett or Rachel. He suspected, just as he did in his classes, she lied to gain attention.

“Do you hear her?” Rachel asked almost as soon as Sackett turned onto Prospect Street.

“It’s hard not to hear her.”

A minute later, following a panel truck through a busy intersection, they spotted her in front of an out-of-business bicycle repair shop. She was headed in their direction, banging the spoon in time with her footsteps. At once, Sackett pulled over to the curb, and he and Rachel got out of his sports car and walked toward her with their hands raised in greeting.

“Hello, Lucy,” Rachel said softly. “Do you remember me?”

Lucy glared at her intensely. “I don’t.”

“Of course you do. I gave you some chocolates the other day.”

“Oh, yeah, I remember. They were good.”

Rachel, smiling, dug into her purse for a mint and handed it to her, and Lucy tucked the spoon under her right arm and took the mint with a slight grin.

The troubled woman didn’t appear to be injured, so Sackett stayed back and let Rachel speak with her for a few minutes. She was a very compassionate and understanding person who was able to calm many of the disturbed people she encountered on the street with her soothing manner. Sackett always enjoyed working with her because she just had a knack for getting others to listen to her. Then, just about

the time when Lucy had relaxed enough to let Rachel take the spoon and soup can from her, a police cruiser pulled up behind Sackett’ s car.

“Dang,” he groaned, suspecting the officers would likely take Lucy into custody for disturbing the peace.

And so they did, scarcely paying any attention to Rachel’s protests. Hardly anyone on the police force supported the RRU, regarded the program at best as a nuisance, and believed it was interfering with their job to ensure public safety.

“Someone like Lucy doesn’t belong behind bars,” Rachel insisted as she watched the police cruiser pull away from the curb.

“You’d think they’d realize that.” “You would, wouldn’t you, but all they care about is getting people like her off the street.”

They responded to two more calls that afternoon, somehow managing to avoid any interference from the police, then returned to the office where they shared what little was left in the bottle of Jamesons that Rachel kept in a drawer in her desk. They weren ’t there more than a few minutes then left and headed off to their apartments.

*

It had been a long day, all right, Sackett thought, as Clancy greeted him at the door. He was so tired he felt like going straight to bed but he knew it was too early. It wasn ’t even dark outside. For dinner, all he did was heat up a can of corn chowder and butter a stale scone, which he devoured in a couple of minutes, then he went for a walk around the block with Clancy. When he returned to his apartment, he started to walk over to the couch but knew he shouldn’t because he was sure he would fall fast asleep. So, instead, he sat down at his desk to assemble another bomb.

Before he started, though, he took out a greeting card from the box of cards he kept in the bottom drawer of his desk. It was blue and almost the size of one of his hands. He opened it and, in red letters, printed one message: “Back Off.” Then, meticulously, he made a pouch to paste inside the card, filled it with glitter, and set the card inside an envelope he then addressed to the Police Commissioner. He doubted if it would do any good, but it seemed a fitting way to end such a long day.

JACOB MEYER

The Gambler’s Dance: A Romance

Cast of Characters

Dr. Stephen: A 60 or so-year-old professor. Head of St. Mark’ s. Bernard Stanton: An average teenage student, a humble and gentle young man. Tom Fisk: Best friend of Bernard, and his complete opposite. Scrappy but not malevolent.

Eliza Huxley: Love interest of Bernard, polite and raised formally. Also kind, but fiery at times.

Place

St. Mark’ s School for Boys

Time

February, 1969

Act I Scene 1

Setting: The office of Dr. Stephen fine wood paneling all about the room, as well as a portrait of an older man, perhaps the founder of the school. The walls are lined with bookshelves, certificates, and awards.

At Rise: Dr. Stephen paces back and forth as Bernard pleads with him, standing at a fixed point, just off-stage center.

DR. STEPHEN (annoyed.)

NO. I won’t have it, I simply won’t. This is an all-boys school for goodness’ sake. We shall not have a dance!

BERNARD (pleading.)

But you must understand sir, the beginning of a new semester is such a rigorous time for us, a dance to help take our minds off of .

DR. STEPHEN

That’s exactly the point, dear boy! Taking your minds off your studies? That’s the point of an all-boys school, you know. You need not fill your minds with fanciful dreams of romance just as a new semester begins! The time for love is during the summer, or perhaps Christmas leave, which, mind you, you just had. You live, work, and play at this institution to keep you from being distracted by the opposite sex. Next thing you know,

there will be a line of boys a mile long outside my door with papers requesting leave from campus!

BERNARD

But .

DR. STEPHEN

No but’s! There will be no but’s now and certainly none on the eve you have proposed this dance. Oh, what day was it again?

BERNARD (quietly.)

February the fourteenth.

DR. STEPHEN (slowly at first, before exploding in anger.)

Ah, yes. There shall be no dances at St. Marks on the night of… FEBRUARY THE FOURTEENTH?! HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND, BOY? YOU WOULD HAVE A DANCE AT THIS SCHOOL ON VALENTINE’S DAY?!

(Enter TOM through the office door)

TOM (to BERNARD, ignoring DR. STEPHEN.)

So, how’ s it going, Bernie? Got the old fossil to crack? Are we going to have a dance or what?

BERNARD (To TOM, dejected.)

Why don’t you ask him yourself?

TOM (now noticing DR. STEPHEN, jumping back in surprise)

Gosh, Doc! You can ’t sneak up on a guy like that when he’ s talking to his best buddy!

DR. STEPHEN (exasperated.)

Of course, Mr. Fisk. How silly of me to intrude on the two of you in my own office. By all means, act like I’m not here.

TOM (oblivious.)

Now that’ s more like it. So anyway Bern, I wanna hear it right from the mastermind himself. What did the old man say to your idea?

DR. STEPHEN (stepping between the boys, facing TOM.)

It’ s a no, you dolt. Mr. Stanton here seems to think that Valentine’ s Day is the most auspicious time to host a dance where young men will be led astray by young ladies this institution hardly knows!

TOM (putting his arm around Dr. Stephen’ s shoulder.)

Well I mean yeah, it’ s an all-boy’ s school. Of course, this institution isn’t familiar with any girls. If it was, I think you’d have bigger problems on your hands, pal.

DR. STEPHEN (annoyed, again.)

Enough of this nonsense.

(Shaking himself free of TOM’ s arm.)

There hasn’t been, nor will there be a dance at St. Mark’ s. Especially not on Valentine’ s Day.

TOM (to BERNARD)

Well, there you go! See Bernie? Now you won ’t have to work on another plan to get Eliza’ s attention .

DR. STEPHEN

Eliza? Eliza Huxley? Ha! You two must be joking! (looking between BERNARD and TOM.)

You aren ’t. You really aren ’t.

You know her?

BERNARD (in disbelief.)

DR. STEPHEN (incredulously.)

Why of course I know her. She’s the daughter of my next door neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Huxley. Young Ms. Huxley is quite the spitfire, from what I’ve seen. I’ ve observed her reject many a young man on the front porch of their home. I tend to my garden every weekend, and one cannot help but take notice of the way she sends those boys packing!

TOM (now with an arm around BERNARD, confidently.)

This prize buck wouldn’t be denied by Eliza, Dr. Stephen. I can assure you of that! You see, these two are in love.

DR. STEPHEN

In love? Mr. Stanton and Ms. Huxley, in love? Surely you cannot be serious, Mr. Fisk. Why, If I were a gambling man, I’d place a great deal of money against their chances of a single date!

TOM (mischievously.)

Oh, would you?

Tom, what are you doing?

BERNARD (Suspicious.)

TOM

Let’ s say you were a gambling man. (looking Dr. Stephen up and down)

A poor gambling man. How about a risk-free wager? One not involving cash, but of opportunity.

DR. STEPHEN (raising an eyebrow.)

You have my attention, Mr. Fisk, although I daresay I can see the smoke coming from your ears by the way those gears in your head are turning.

TOM

I bet you that Bernard here, (shaking BERNARD with both hands)

Can convince Eliza to go with him to a Valentine’s Day dance within three days. If he is successful, you host the dance. Right here, at St. Mark’s. And every boy gets to bring a date.

DR. STEPHEN (crossing his arms.)

That’s an awfully hefty price to pay if I lose, Mr. Fisk. What do I win when I am found to be the victor?

TOM (shrugging.) Silence.

DR. STEPHEN (curious.) Silence?

TOM (pacing now.)

No annoyances from now until I graduate. No disruptions in the halls during quiet hours, no fights on school grounds. And no dealing cigarettes at luncheon. I will become such a model student, you ’ll have to put me on one of those pamphlets you send out to prospective students.

DR. STEPHEN (in shock.)

You’re the one behind all that, Mr. Fisk?

TOM (scared now.)

Uh… no…?

DR. STEPHEN (suspiciously.)

Fine, it’ s a bet. But mark my words, boys. You’ re in over your heads with wooing Ms. Eliza. At this rate, Ms. Eliza has turned down nearly every boy in town, save for Mr. Stanton, because he hasn’t dared try. When he crashes and burns, which I fully expect him to, I will hold you to your word, Mr. Fisk.

TOM (gaining confidence.)

I certainly hope you ’ re ready to mix some punch and hang balloons in the gymnasium, Doc. Oh, and make sure those balloons are in the shapes of hearts, will you? It’ll be a nice touch.

END SCENE

Act I Scene II

Setting: ELIZA’ s street, in front of ELIZA’ s house. The sidewalk is a variable minefield of ice and clumps of snow.

At Rise: BERNARD and TOM are walking down the sidewalk, dodging the worst bits of the weather.

BERNARD (upset.)

You’ ve gotta be kidding me with this, Tom. This is social suicide! After this Eliza is going to tell everyone in town that I’m just another screw-up and I’ll be done for!

TOM (reassuring.)

Would you stop whining? You’ ve liked this girl since I met you, and I don’t think you ’ll stop liking her even if she does reject you. Besides, go big or go home, right?

BERNARD (moaning.)

I don’t suppose ‘go home’ is still on the table, is it?

TOM (clapping BERNARD on the back.)

No it’s not, because we’re here. Go get ‘em, tiger.

BERNARD (stumbling up the steps to ELIZA’ s front door.)

Let’s just pray she isn’t home.

TOM (chuckling.)

Oh, she is.

BERNARD (turning to face TOM, nervous.) How can you be so sure?

TOM (pointing to a window beside ELIZA’ s front door, where the curtain is parted slightly, revealing ELIZA peeking through, watching the boys.)

BERNARD (hissing.)

This is ridiculous, Tom! I can’t do this! (BERNARD begins to step away, but TOM rushes him.)

TOM

Yes, you can. Now go up there and . (ELIZA opens the door.)

Bernard? Is that you?

ELIZA

BERNARD (stuttering.)

Oh, uh-um y-yes ma ’ am I mean, Eliza.

ELIZA (stifling laughter.)

I’ve known you, how long? I didn’t realize I was “ ma ’ am ” to you.

BERNARD (wringing his hands.)

Oh, right, right.

(Awkward pause. Hold for no less than 3 seconds, almost like someone forgot their line.)

So…. Eliza… I wanted to ask you something.

ELIZA (lighting up.)

Ask me something? Sure! (Seemingly noticing TOM for the first time.) I see you brought him with you.

TOM (indignant.)

Well of course he did, I’m his best friend and wingman. (Nudges BERNARD)

ELIZA (confused.) Wingman? Whatever for?

BERNARD

Um…. (clears throat.)

ELIZA

Oh, I see. Sure we can talk, but he can take a hike. (ELIZA points at TOM.)

TOM (feigning offense)

Oh Eliza! I’m hurt! Very well! I shall depart! But know this I hear the church bells already!

(TOM exits dramatically, humming Here Comes the Bride.)

I really don’t like him.

ELIZA (crossing her arms.)

BERNARD (defensive.)

Hey now, he’s all I’ve got. For a while, he was my only friend when I had no one else. Sure, he’s a little rough around the edges, but no one is perfect.

ELIZA (slightly hurt.)

Only friend? What about me? I’ve known you since you and yours moved in.

BERNARD

I know, but… (waving off the subject.)

BERNARD (cont.)

No matter, Ms. Huxley, I wanted to ask you something.

ELIZA (bashful.)

Yes, Mr. Stanton?

BERNARD (mustering the courage.)

Would you go to a dance with me at St. Mark’s?

ELIZA (shocked.)

A dance? With you? I-I suppose!

BERNARD (now equally as surprised.) Really?

ELIZA (regaining herself.)

Yes but on one condition.

BERNARD (triumph faltering.) Condition?

(Curtains close and the stage goes dark.)

END ACT ONE

ISABELLA QUEEN

A Strange (K)Knight: Comedy

Character List:

WILFRED: Middle-aged man.

IMMEM: Innkeeper in her thirties.

SIR EGRED: Young man who considers himself a knight and is wearing a full suit of beat-up plate armor, including a helmet that fully covers his face, and a hip-length red cape.

LADY ASHERTON: Young lady who is Sir Egred’s girlfriend.

SCENE 1

(Inside of a cozy-looking medieval-fantasy-like inn of moderate size. There are a few wooden tables with stools around them. There is also a counter central to the stage. Windows show it being dark outside. There is a door on stage left. IMMEM is standing behind the counter and is setting wooden mugs onto a shelf with a few mugs already on it. WILFRED is sitting on a stool in front of the counter. WILFRED takes a drink from a mug then sets it down on the counter.)

WILFRED:

(turns to IMMEM)

Did you hear about Sir Egred’s latest quest?

IMMEM:

(glances at WILFRED while putting another mug on shelf)

That self-appointed knight who’s always going off on some dangerous adventure?

(WILFRED nods)

(IMMEM finishes with mug and turns fully to WILFRED.)

Well last I heard, he was still recovering from trying to take on that group of bandits. Heard he was more injured than any of the bandits… IMMEM cont.:

(sighs)

What’s he up to this time?

WILFRED:

You remember those posters that have been up for weeks about the supposed gold-eyed monsters in the forest right outside town? Oh, what’s it call aha! The Infes Forest!

IMMEM:

(a bit surprised)

Egred’s going to try to slay those beasts? He’s either chasing fairytales or something that’s going to get him killed.

WILFRED:

I mean, he hasn’t died yet!…Somehow.

IMMEM:

I suppose you have a point… He’s gone on crazier adventures than this. (sighs)

I don’t ever know what’s going through that man’s head.

(Stage left door is slammed open by SIR EGRED.)

(WILFRED and IMMEM turn to look at SIR EGRED.)

(SIR EGRED enters through door. Door shuts on its own behind SIR EGRED.)

(WILFRED and IMMEM look incredulous. WILFRED and IMMEM watch as SIR EGRED clomps his way over to the counter and sits down two stools to the left of WILFRED.)

WILFRED: (surprised)

Why, just the knight I was talking about! (to SIR EGRED)

Say, did you find any beasts out there in the Infes Forest?

SIR EGRED:

(looks at WILFRED and pauses for a moment)

Yes. There was this… thing… with golden eyes… and giant antlers… it looks like the darkness itself…

(WILFRED’s eyes widen.)

WILFRED: (enthusiastically)

Hey, that’s sort of like the description from those posters so it was real! Did you kill it?

SIR EGRED: (appalled)

Oh goodness no! That thing would’ve annihilated me! I let it get away.

IMMEN: (incredulous)

You, Sir Egred, backing down on a challenge?! Have you finally come to your senses?!

SIR EGRED: (chuckles nervously)

I mean, I think this thing was kind of scarier than what I usually am up against, right?

WILFRED:

I don’t know… was it really that terrifying? You’ve tried to take on a giant before well, you wanted to steal back something from him I think I don’t know, I wasn’t there anyways, I would’ve thought a giant was more terrifying than a weird shadow creature! I heard the giant nearly flattened you!

SIR EGRED:

I mean, the giant was scary too! But uh… this time I decided not to take my chances.

IMMEM:

Well, I’ll be! You really are starting to learn your lesson! I never thought I’d see the day Sir Egred gave up on a dangerous quest! (pause) (in realization)

Oh, you’re probably hungry, aren’t you?

SIR EGRED: (waves hand dismissively) No, I just ate a bit ago!

IMMEM: Where?

SIR EGRED:

Uhh… in the woods.

IMMEM: (shakes head)

Never mind. That seems like something you would do, from what I’ve heard.

(SIR EGRED chuckles.) Say, then what brought you here at this time of night?

SIR EGRED: (eagerly)

Oh, yeah, I was hoping there’d be a room available for me to stay in? (IMMEM looks confused)

IMMEM:

I thought that you lived not too far from here? At your parents’ house?

SIR EGRED: I do! I just thought… (sounding a bit uncertain) It might be nice to stay somewhere else for the night?

WILFRED:

Hah! I get that! I used to come here all the time when my wife would get angry at me… (saddens, looks away)

(WILFRED picks up mug and drinks from it.)

IMMEM:

(IMMEM bends down under counter and grabs a book. IMMEM sets book on counter then flips through the pages, stopping about halfway through.)

Well, Sir Egred, there are a couple rooms available for tonight. Price is twenty gebions.

(SIR EGRED opens a medium-sized leather pouch tied at his waist and starts digging through it. A few seconds later, he pulls out a handful of assorted coins and sets them on the counter.)

SIR EGRED:

Um… is this enough?

(WILFRED curiously looks at coin pile.)

IMMEM:

(IMMEM looks between the coin pile and SIR EGRED a few times in disbelief.)

(aside)

Does he really not know how to count?

(to SIR EGRED)

Uh, no, this is actually just a bit short. It’s roughly sixteen and a half gebions.

(SIR EGRED slumps.)

Uh, but if you have something of value, I can possibly trade for that to make up the rest of the price?

(SIR EGRED straightens.)

(SIR EGRED opens up his pouch again and digs through it for a moment. He then shuts it and his shoulders slump. He perks up again then unclasps his cape and takes it off. SIR EGRED leans toward IMMEM and gives the cape to IMMEM.)

(IMMEM holds cape and looks down at it.)

SIR EGRED:

Will this wor

WILFRED:

(WILFRED looks at SIR EGRED.)

My goodness! You’ve got a hole right through the back of your armor! And your shirt too!

(IMMEM turns to look at SIR EGRED.)

(SIR EGRED turns so his back is facing away from WILFRED.) How did that happen?!

(IMMEN starts walking around left side of counter towards

SIR EGRED.)

SIR EGRED:

Uh… It um. Um. Happened a while ago?

(IMMEM is now a few feet from SIR EGRED.)

IMMEM:

(concerned)

Egred, there’s some sort of magical damage left over from whatever made this injury. The way the skin is fused together here, it looks like you already used a healing potion a healer ought to check that everything’s aligned properly before you drink the potion and it fuses everything together incorrectly, next time! But there’s some kind of magical infection or something here, the skin around this scar is pitch black.

SIR EGRED:

(SIR EGRED gets up from stool and starts backing away from the counter, hands held out placatingly.)

It’s no problem, guys it’s already been handled. The darkened skin is just a side effect of the magic that used to be there. Anyways, innkeeper, will the cape work as payment for

(Door is slammed open by LADY ASHERTON. LADY ASHERTON rushes over to SIR EGRED.)

(SIR EGRED spins around to face LADY ASHERTON.)

(IMMEM and WILFRED turn to the duo.)

LADY ASHERTON: (angry)

Eggy! What has taken you so long! You said you’d be back from your adventure by yesterday! And yet I find you here at this low-rate inn!

(IMMEM scowls)

The crystal necklace I gave you has a locating spell on it! So don’t think about cheating on me!

SIR EGRED: (confused)

I… I wasn’t?

LADY ASHERTON:

(looks at IMMEM and WILFRED in turn)

Hmm. I suppose there aren’t any pretty girls here, and you’ve been here for some time. Fine, I’ll believe you, if you can look me in the eyes and promise to never do it again.

SIR EGRED

(SIR EGRED looks straight at LADY ASHERTON) I

LADY ASHERTON: (scoffs)

Without the helmet on, you fool.

(looks toward ground)

I um… I can’t really do that.

SIR EGRED:

LADY ASHERTON: (screeching) What! You cheater!

(LADY ASHERTON stomps forward to SIR EGRED and grabs him by the crystal necklace, yanking it downward and choking SIR EGRED a bit. LADY ASHERTON grabs SIR EGRED’s helmet and pulls it off before he is able to stop her.

LADY ASHERTON throws the helmet on the ground. LADY ASHERTON looks at SIR EGRED’s face)

Aaaaahhhh!

(shrieking)

(LADY ASHERTON lets go of the crystal necklace and stumbles backwards) (freaking out)

You’re not my Eggy! He has blonde hair not black his teeth aren’t so dreadful and oh, what have you done to his glorious blue eye! (starts bawling)

Oh, you’ve killed him, you monster! My Eggy is gone! Lost forever! (LADY ASHERTON faints.)

WILFRED: (confused)

Uhhhh… so what exactly is going on here?

SIR EGRED: (looks back at WILFRED and IMMEM) (panickily)

Uh uh nothing! I’ll I’ll just be leaving!

(SIR EGRED sprints to the door and throws it open, exiting stage left. Door shuts itself behind him.)

(IMMEM starts walking towards LADY ASHERTON.)

WILFRED: (musing)

Golden eyes, eh? Something tells me that Sir Egred learned his lesson to not mess with dangerous things the hard way.

IMMEM:

(checking on LADY ASHERTON.)

This… this has been quite the night, hasn’t it? A monster pretending to be a knight, and a lady comes and insults my establishment and faints.

WILFRED:

Heh. Night. A knight. You know, you could say it’s been one strange knight.

CURTAIN

JOHN ZHENG

Book Review:

G Emil Reutter. On the Other Side of Goodbye. Alien Buddha Press, 2025. ISBN: 9798300959593. 93 pages.

It is no exaggeration that G Emil Reutter is an admirable editor who, alongside his wife and coeditor Diane Sahms, provides a literary haven for numerous writers in North of Oxford. He is also a prolific writer who has published twenty books of poetry and fiction. On January 2, 2025, Reutter released his new book, On the Other Side of Goodbye, a hybrid collection of poetry, flashes, and stories. This collection offers peculiar views of nature and human nature that boggle the mind. “Repose,” the first poem in the book, shows the other side of an empty church. Its bells sound like a calling that “lingers in thick summer air” for a different view of antithesis: the churchyard where “Muffled voices rise from ancient resting places” to “encircle the empty church.” Then the auditory “muffled voices” shift to a visual image of prevailing loneliness from one thing to another, or from a human object to a natural one: “Stained-glass weeps of / loneliness, drip, drip on skeletons / of black-eyed susans. ” The weeping stained glass and the dried flowers deepen the emptiness of the church. The view of the churchyard continues, enhancing the decadent atmosphere with more descriptions of deterioration over time:

Spalling yard’s encircling wall hangs in air as stones tilt, fall much as headstones toppled.

The poet then imagines the toppled headstones as “blank faces” that “stare into sun. ” His observation is vivid. A peregrine falcon slices the air and an owl barks at the second falcon. The sounds of birds work effectively in contrast with the emptiness of the church, thus establishing an impressive visual and auditory effect for aesthetic

appreciation of an air of melancholy. The concluding lines are shocking with a sparrow’ s “songless carcass” juxtaposed with the black headstone marked “free at last.” For humans and birds, death is a state of eternal rest in complete emptiness.

The image of birds appears in the next poem “Prey Escape,” which shows a joyful yard view from observation at dusk: Sparrows on the ground dance with a pigeon named Juncos while a domestic cat stalks a cardinal by the feeder. Reutter gives more details about the cat. It wears a white coat mottled with black, brown, and orange patches. When the cat pounces and misses the cardinal, all the birds “scatter for the night.” However, the yard view continues when the cat returns to the yard in the morning to resume its hunting game. It “hops / up, hides on garage window ledge behind / Camellias where songbirds hang out every day.” Unexpectedly, a woman comes to the yard and “scatters food,” so sparrows and the pigeon “return to camellias / eye up feast on ground.” She functions as an intruder whose appearance smashes the cat’s dream of catching birds. The paradox is that the cat, which scares birds to scatter and escape, also escapes when a human appears in the yard:

Woman opens house door, scatters food, as cat jumps down flees yard.

The use of the word “scatter” shows an interesting antithesis. Birds scatter to escape from the cat and the woman scatters food to attract their return. This yard view becomes more vivid with a funny moment in stanza three. The squirrel that “pokes out of a bed of leaves” at dusk in stanza one returns to the yard too:

Squirrel runs up walkway, grabs a cookie, twirls it secures it in mouth, runs down the walkway out of the yard.

The squirrel’s grabbing a cookie works effectively in contrast to the cat that misses the catch and must escape. This squirrel seems to steal the spotlight, and its grab and run offers a shock of surprise or an unexpected perception that vivifies the poem. Many poems in On the Other Side of Goodbye are anecdotes of observations. “A Visit to the City” is about birdwatching. On a day of “visiting the watch shop,” the speaker notices a bird rarely seen in the city. It has “a wing span of at least six feet.” Because it is rare and because two more appear, the birdwatcher takes a few pictures and sees them “swoop and ascend to the rear of the homes.” The watching lasts for over an hour until the birds fly away. The birdwatcher waits for their return “over the next two days,” but they never do. This observation gives the watcher a chance to imagine that rare birds, like humans living in the suburbs,

become bored with suburbia and just for a few hours paid visit upon the city, sought the excitement of the city and when finished flew back home.

Birdwatching switches to bird-hearing in “Morning Songs and Whistles,” which is about the joy of hearing a morning birdsong in magnolia. Reutter uses the apostrophe to establish an immediacy when the speaker whispers the endearment to the nameless bird whose song heralds the coming of spring:

Dreary winter just before sunrise and there you are in magnolia announcing your arrival and the coming of an early spring.

This poem reveals a feeling nurtured by the magical birdsong, an eagerness to see daffodils and hyacinths “push through garden dirt” and “buds of magnolia blossoms begin to open.” This whistling bird also appears in “Performance,” a flash about the joy of seeing and hearing a cardinal perched in the painter’s bush by the alleyway.

Another birdwatching poem is “Peace Valley” which presents an old woman standing on the bridge and using binoculars to see a small bird staring patiently at the water. There is another birdwatcher who strikes a talk that the bird is a kingfisher. Interestingly, both watchers seem to become part of the landscape in the eyes of the speaker who embraces nature through detailed observation, as shown in stanza 2:

Patient bird stares at water as heads of turtles slide upward. Their green stripes muddled, soiled eyes peer above tread water in search of meals. White tail deer stands in current of creek, an unseen predator lurks on bank.

The kingfisher’s patience is rewarded when it “spikes water, ascends, drums minnow against branch, breaks bones, swallows it whole.” In the fourth stanza, the speaker’ s observation switches to the old woman on the bridge. This time she sees a shaggy, longlegged bird with a dagger-like bill and blue body “loitering in shallow water.” Her birdwatching is rewarded when the bird gives a “Sudden strike, carp in bill / swallowed whole.” Then, the observation shifts to another view of birdwatching in stanza 5:

A kettle of bulky, broad winged hawks drift in currents, eyeing ground below. Each drop to the tree line, squirrels, rabbits and mice scatter.

To the speaker, creatures in Peace Valley are the “permanent / inhabitants who feed upon one another,” the food chain that maintains the ecological balance in nature. In the last stanza, the speaker mentions humans who “walk the trails, canoe the south / end of the lake, all taking in the serenity / of Peace Valley.” In a sense, this poem is a travelogue that depicts an idyllic landscape in natural simplicity to present the coexistence of all creatures in nature.

However, On the Other Side of Goodbye is not a collection of poems and stories only about nature. It also presents moments of the human world to show its many-

sidedness. “In the Overnight” is a poem about a dark cityscape. Reutter uses a parallel structure in four stanzas, each beginning with “It is in the overnight” to emphasize the dark happenings at night. The first city view is an unpleasant nightscape of an alley, above which lingers a dull yellow streetlight that attracts moths to dart around it. This nightscape is like a scene described in T. S. Eliot’s Prufrock poem. It is the time for Nocturnals ”rodents, flies, and humans” who dumpster dive for food because food which is like the “discarded treasures” to them. The tone conveyed in “discarded treasures” sounds sarcastic, but we hear a sigh of sympathy when the speaker says, “It is not a place an animal willfully comes, but simply out of necessity.”

The next stanza shows a crime scene. Criminals “idle in parked cars, hang in / darkened doorways, wait for the drunks” to come out of bars, “wobble down the sidewalk” or “sit cars,” and knock the drunks down, rub them and run. They are predators, and their actions are felonious. Then the crime scene switches to a night view of predation in the park in the third stanza. A red fox “chases a rabbit into its burrow, claws its way in, drags the rabbit out for a meal.” An owl “glides high above a roost of crows … spots the weakest on the edge, swoops in, talons penetrate.” An opossum “locates a mouse, makes haste consumes, looks for another.” Unlike the crime scene in stanza two, the predation in stanza three visualizes a biological interaction of animals that predate or prey. However, whether they are actions out of necessity or illegal or biological predations, they all happen in the thick darkness of night often invisible to human eyes.

Reutter is a retired railroad police officer. “3:30 a.m.” may refer to an experience at night shift. It records a moment of noise:

Train swooshes, rumbles along track, engineman sounds horn as metal rails screech to their own song. Car after car passes over Newtown Junction to Cheltenham onward on the Trenton Subdivision.

“Walking Isabella” and “Watching Logan” are poems about the quality time spent with grandkids, and “Traveling” is a funny poem about missing the wife who is on a four-day trip. Without her at home, the house falls so quiet the speaker decides to “fold the wash, do the dishes, rake the leaves, water the plants,” but that only intensifies his missing because all these chores “don’t deaden the quiet.”

On the Other Side of Goodbye is a joy to read. Some poems and flashes work like calls and responses to complement each other. A reader can jump between two genres to get a taste of reading. However, this reviewer skips the stories, thinking they deserve better eyes.

JOHN ZHENG

Book Review:

John Lavin, Aaren Perry, and Eleanor Wilner, eds. The Art of Inclusion: The Story of Larry Robin and Moonstone. Moonstone Press, 2024. ISBN: 978-1-963912-18-0. $30.00.

As the book cover and title show, The Art of Inclusion is about the legendary story of Larry Robin, Moonstone Press’s publisher and Robin’s Bookstore’s owner. The editors initially imagined “a slim anthology of tributes to be offered at a celebration of Larry Robin and Moonstone on September 25, 2024.” But, after Larry offered them a chance to use his huge collection of event posters, programs, books, and art pieces in his Moonstone storeroom, they dug into Robin’s history, bookstore, and the founding of Moonstone with his wife Sandy. Their fruitful discovery, as they write in the introduction, turned into “a remarkable archive of the history and principles behind the creation of an evolving, enduring, entirely unique communal space of generosity Moonstone, in whose readings, programs, publications, so many have found their voice that has made such a difference to Philadelphia and to its writing community” (n. p.).

Thus, The Art of Inclusion turned out to be a volume of 286 pages that includes Robin’s memoir “What Makes Larry Run?”, the Moonstone timeline of important events and programs, numerous tributes from writers well-known or less known, photographs and posters reflecting the history of the bookstore and the Celebration of Black Writing, a small gathering of visual art of Larry Robin and his wife, appendix about details of the Celebration of Black Writing, Children’s Program, Reading Program, Hidden History, and Paul Robeson Festival, and Robin’s modest afterword.

It is not an overstatement to say that the importance of Robin’s Bookstore is just like that of Shakespeare and Company opened by Sylvia Beach in Paris in 1919 and City Lights Bookstore founded by Lawrence Ferlinghetti and Peter Martin in San Francisco in 1953. It is a beehive that has attracted numerous writers and readers. In his memoir

“What Makes Larry Run?”, Larry Robin says he was born in November 1942 in Philadelphia and his grandfather David Robin founded Robin’s Bookstore in 1936. The Moonstone timeline provides the bookstore’s history with some significant highlights about publications and events:

1964 Philadelphia District Attorney, James Crumlish, seeks injunction against Robin’s Bookstore to halt sale of Henry Miller’ s Tropic of Cancer.

1982 Herschel Baron starts the poetry series at Robin’s Bookstore.

1983 Larry and Sandy Robin create Moonstone as a non-profit to sponsor Sandy’s Moonstone Preschool and Larry’s Moonstone Arts readings, events and programs.

1984 The First Celebration of Black Writing.

One important part of the Moonstone Art Center is organizing events to celebrate Black history to inspire awareness of the past, like the annual Paul Robeson Festival, the Richard Wright week, John Brown’s 150th Anniversary of His Hanging, and celebrations or events on Frances Ellen Watkins Harper, Emancipation, Ida B. Wells, Harriet Jacobs, Margaret Fuller, the Underground Railroad in Philadelphia, Sonia Sanchez, etc.

The most notable event must be the Celebration of Black Writing, which received support from the City of Philadelphia with a grant to expand the program and from famous scholars and writers such as Charles L. Blockson, Houston A. Baker, and June Jordan. In 2000, this event went international with an effort to explore the relationship between the Harlem Renaissance and the Negritude Movement.

Till 2024, Moonstone Press published over 400 books. Such an impressive number for an individual press shows a staunch stance in the publishing industry, an enormous contribution to the cultural life of Philadelphia, and a selfless spirit in helping others through a writing community. No wonder Robin has become legendary with a deluge of tributes. Among all the writers who laud Larry Robin, Jeanne Sutton says Robin’s Moonstone Press is a touchstone, and Sean Lynch says Robin is the Lawrence Ferlinghetti of Philadelphia because “Robin’s contributions to the Philadelphia arts and literary community are unmatched and deserve recognition, and yet he is the last person to seek acclaim for his work” (143). As a beloved figure in the city, Robin holds a special place in Major Jackson’s heart: “Larry Robin remains among a small cohort of people whose values set me going on a life of open inquiry, pursuit of justice, a belief in peace, a high regard for humanity, the natural world, and the transformative powers of art, poetry, and love” (122).

The numerous tributes are poems, short essays, paragraphs, and recollections, written with honesty and heartfelt appreciation. The accumulation of these tributes conveys one voice that Moonstone is a touchstone and shows that its relationship with writers and readers is as inseparable as flesh attached tightly to bones. We learn more about Robin from these tributes. Amy Barone says in her poem “He Isn’t a Poet” that “Robin loves words, / brave writers, and truth tellers” and “gives us many platforms / to shine as poets.” As a haiku poet, I especially like this line from Barone’ s poem: “He sees haiku as the ‘essence of poetry’” (52).

Further, Robin’s love for brave writers and truth-tellers can be traced back to his memoir. Sonia Sanchez, a famous writer living in Philadelphia, and Dennis Brutus are

such brave figures admired by Robin, who says, “Sonia and Dennis hold a special place in my heart and psyche. They are what I would like to be, what a revolutionary should be. They are brilliant, artists of the highest order; they are compassionate and caring, always ready to help others; they are open minded, always searching for the truth; they are fearless, always willing to stand and be counted; and they are successful, able to choose their battles and come back to fight another day” (14).

It is interesting to notice that in a short interview by Robin in July 2024, Sonia Sanchez recognized his importance to the literary community of Philadelphia: “And I do know that you’ve done that hard work for a long time. So it’s about time that we do a celebration of you. That we say simply thank you, thank you, thank you for what you have given to a city Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. What you had, how you’ve kept literature alive in this city, how you’ve brought people together.... And I’m just so grateful, my dear brother, that I was there at the very beginning when you did things such as that. And I’m so happy that I’ve always been available when you have asked me to come out and say something and to keep the idea of lit alive, the literature alive, the literature that spoke to this country…” (37).

The publication of The Art of Inclusion is timely and necessary. It is important for archival research on the history of Robin’s Bookstore, for cultural research on the Moonstone Arts Center that aims to include writers of all races and organize events to raise awareness of the country’s past and present, and for literary research on the writing community established by Larry and Sandy Robin in Philadelphia. In short, what we can all learn from Larry Robin, as said by Julia Bouwsma, Maine’s Poet Laureate, is “the importance of literary community” (63). For Robin, the art of inclusion is establishing a literary community for all voices. It is great that Temple University’ s Urban Archives has acquired Moonstone archives, which will be a guide useful for historical research and possibly for a dissertation or an annotated bibliography of Robin’s Bookstore and the Moonstone Arts Center.

C.

CLARK TRIPLETT

Book Review:

Juliet Hinton. The Mercies of Perry County. Georgetown, KY: Finishing Line Press, 2024. ISBN: 979-8-88838-440-4. $17.99.

Juliet Hinton’s collection of poems offers an intimate glimpse into the land, people, and culture of Perry County, Mississippi. Through vivid imagery and raw metaphors, the poems capture both the grit and grace of Southern life, reflecting the poet’s journey through hardship and joy.

Ghosts of the past linger throughout these verses, telling tales of rivers that intrude upon homes and landscapes, and of relentless harvests where kudzu vines “[overtake] / any green that once was there” (5). These memories are populated by ungracious babysitters, wise Black spiritual mothers, a tearful plowman, and a sharptongued grandfather.

Yet, not all recollections are shadowed by darkness. Nostalgic reflections shine through scenes where the moon “chase[s] goblins and other critters away,” and childhood fantasies imagine transforming into “a string of corn silk / and [sliding] between the kernels or float / on a breeze to our neighbor’s field” (4).

The poet guides readers through the complexities of Southern life a landscape shaped by both haunting memories and the pursuit of redemption. Salvation is sought within the cement walls of Calvary Baptist Church, where “on those calico sultry nights / [...] / the church women / fanned themselves to keep / their precious Lord close / and the devil away” (11).

The vivid memory of supper on the church lawn lingers: “chicken and dumplings and a spread of desserts / […] /Jesus never tasted so good” (Ibid.). These images encapsulate a broader narrative of the white South, “praying away to Jesus” (Ibid.), while the unseen ghosts of Black lives hover nearby, awaiting acknowledgment as part of

God’s flock. “Unholy crosses” continued to burn in front of the homes of those who dared question the status quo.

Religious symbols are woven throughout Hinton’s poetry baptisms, God’ s imprint on nature, the inspiration of the Holy Spirit, churches, and serpents. While rooted in a typical Southern cultural setting, these sacred references also convey a longing to transcend life’s burdens and storms. Amid “all the broken places” (18), there remains a profound reverence for even the most ordinary aspects of life. The old, withered cow, described as “the mother / of herds,” cannot simply be discarded through a “cow burial” (Ibid.). Instead, she is elevated to “the dignity / and kindness she deserves” (Ibid.).

There is a lyrical elegance in Hinton’s descriptions of everyday life in Perry County:

Tiny stones by the catfish pond released the day’s heat, and the cows low calmly in the Bahia grass field, sun sinking out of sight, waiting for eyes to adjust. (20)

These lines capture a visual beauty and emotional solace found in seemingly mundane experiences. Even the most ordinary moments are imbued with mystery and wonder. The mention of Bahia grass a hardy perennial native to South America brought to Florida and the southeastern United States for pastureland and hay production underscores the region’s agricultural identity. Through Hinton’s depiction, the commonplace becomes captivating.

However, a darker emotional tone pervades many of the poems. The shadow of struggle and mourning hovers as Hinton poetically “[runs] through Perry County like a river of tears” (1). In the poem “Highway 98 Recounts the Pain of Perry County,” history and the future seem bound to a somber path:

The questions of the county travel on me hungering for different destinations but I go only one way. Perry County covers its curves with prickly pines and moans. (Ibid.)

Even ghosts, wandering down “tarred pathways,” confess their longing for love yet admit they don’t know how to find it (Ibid.). This haunting imagery evokes a sense of purgatory a place of waiting without solace or redemption. Despite painful memories that linger even beyond death (25), there are traces of hope amid life’s misery. Glimpses of mercy and consolation appear in the narrator’ s recollections of a Black spiritual mother who brought the sacred communion of “cooked white-fluffy biscuits,” comforted with gentle hands, hid money “in the slits of our boscage walls,” and protected them “from bees, fire ants, rabid dogs rushing / into our yard, and moonshined sharecroppers / looking for easy cash” (26).

This woman, called Co, possessed a remarkable ability to “see beyond the horizons of her eyes” (Ibid.). Described as “an iron-willed, resolute Black woman, / a guardian of tenderness,” Co’s calloused hands assured comfort and security (9). Her memory seems to open the gates of heaven:

I recalled this day in a dream where Co opened the doors to heaven with her shepherd-like spirit and I saw Jesus with her, not the anemic white Jesus but a dark-skinned Galilean standing right next to Co. (Ibid.)

The narrator, described as “one of those / lost babies in Egypt land” (Ibid.), finds salvation through Co’s love and tenderness. This luminous memory becomes a beacon of hope, offering redemption from a painful past.

The verse captures both tragedy and triumph in the humble life of this Southern woman. Despite enduring “heavy years of child-rearing, chopping / cotton, and stewing collard greens and turnips” (26), her spirit remains unblemished. Even nature honors her passing:

As soon as her body was lowered into the ground, the dust sung out as a flock of crows flew over her grave. (Ibid.)

This luminous scene encapsulates the enduring hope and redemption found amid hardship.

Hinton’s collection is both deeply personal and artistically nuanced. Readers will find it difficult to disengage from the emotional struggles of growing up in this land of “prickly pines / and moans” (1). Despite pervasive sadness, moments of lyrical beauty celebrate both the land and its resilient inhabitants.

The imaginative metaphors imbue darkness with meaning and depth. Even when “Eve’ s sons / and daughters” are deceived into “breaking / the commandment with the land” (13) symbolized by a poisonous serpent lurking in the red soil, hope persists:

With the spirit of hope, we will pick up the bronze serpent on a staff and hang it high above these pine trees and the land will be cured. (14)

This reference to the Rod of Asclepius, a symbol of healing and renewal, suggests restoration is possible but only after confronting and overcoming suffering. The imagery may also invoke the protoevangelium in Genesis 3:15.

Hinton offers readers a profound exploration of the human condition and humanity’s relationship with the land. She illustrates how the wild, untamed landscape can overpower human efforts to control it, turning inhabitants into victims. Conversely, when people “[break] /the commandments of the land” (13), they unleash destructive

forces that mar its beauty. Yet amidst this struggle, there are those dedicated to preserving what remains, attuned to the voices of trees, plants, and animals that refuse to be silenced.

In The Mercies of Perry County, Juliet Hinton crafts a poignant and lyrical tapestry capturing the duality of Southern life, the delicate balance between pain and beauty, despair and redemption. Through dramatic metaphors, vivid imagery, and reverent depictions of land and memory, she invites readers to witness the resilience of both people and nature. Her work stands as a tribute to Perry County and its ability to transform suffering into grace.

C. CLARK TRIPLETT

Retrospective Book Review:

C. D. Albin. Axe, Fire, Mule. Kirksville, MO: Golden Antelope Press, 2018.

ISBN: 978-1-936135-54-7. 88 pages, $15.95.

This collection of poems focuses on the people of the Ozarks and is authored by C.D. Albin, a senior faculty member in English at Missouri State University, West Plains. Albin is also the founder and editor of Elder Mountain: A Journal of Ozarks Studies, which features a wide range of Ozarks-related material, including poetry, articles, and stories contributed by scholars and writers from diverse academic fields.

Albin’s second book, Axe, Fire, Mule, follows his debut work Hard Toward Home, a collection of heartfelt stories featuring realistic characters that mirror his upbringing in the Ozarks. This new collection explores the struggles of individuals navigating life’s complexities in search of solace and peace. Albin skillfully paints a vivid portrait of life as a native of the Ozarks, capturing the essence of the region’s people and landscape.

The poems in Axe, Fire, Mule give voice to the diverse experiences of Ozark residents. The collection is divided into five sections: Ozark Dark, Marooned, Axe, Fire, Mule, Rose of Sharon, and Will and Testament. Each section delves into distinct themes, including the rugged beauty of the landscape, the intentions and actions of the people, and societal perspectives. The book also explores the complexities of diversity through the lens of a teacher and reflects on the observations of an octogenarian regarding tourism’s impact on the region.

This review explores the themes and metaphors woven throughout each section of the collection, examining how they interconnect to form overarching “master metaphors” about the people and landscape of the Ozarks. Albin’s writing is both precise and elegant, shaped by a lifelong experience of living and working in the region. With ancestral ties that run deep, his stories and poems reflect a genuine and respectful

portrayal of the Ozarks, capturing its authenticity through a thoughtful and realistic lens.

Ozark Dark portrays the region as a raw, primal wilderness, once described in The Wilderness Act of 1964 as “untrammeled / by man” (14; italics in original). It is filled with the “cacophonies / of coyotes” (2) and “dens of fox, bobcat, / and all else that instinct prompts” (4). Yet, this pristine land has been invaded by humans, whose presence has brought about the “lamentations of the Ozark dark” (2).

In their struggle for survival, people have attempted to tame the land. However, this endeavor has often narrowed their perspective, reducing it to “the hunter’s squinted eye, / its necessary gift for seeing / the world in the width of a crosshair” (4). Some inhabitants, burdened by the harsh demands of existence, are forced to sacrifice precious possessions just to get by. This is poignantly illustrated in the poem “Speck of Shine”:

Run a gun-and-pawn like the Pair-a-Dice and you’ll see most anything. This morning came a woman with her daughter, neither bigger than a whip. The daughter’s face was framed by bird’s nest hair her mama swept behind one ear, revealing a speck of shine in the lobe.

Pure gold, she swore. What’ll you give? The girl cupped her ear, hissed about a boy, a gift.

but the mother slapped away the protecting hand. Your sign says cash for gold. How much this? (8)

The Ozarks hold countless memories, some filled with loyalty and resilience, others marked by triumph, tragedy, cruelty, loss, and sacrifice. Echoes of lives long past linger, such as that of Radney, the horse thief: “They chased him through / awful country, all rocky / hollows and dried-up creek beds, / till he stopped beneath the tree / they hung him from” (6).

Even amid hardships, there are moments of nostalgia sparked by familiar objects, such as “a hitching post black / horse head facing west” (13). These memories evoke vivid, almost tangible recollections:

[…] I saw once again that familiar bobbing head fill the foreground, felt the jarring of boot heels

gouging soft loam. Astounding how firmly memory held that pounding pace, as if I had been riding for a lifetime. (13)

Ozark Dark captures the sharp edges of life in the region, highlighting both the struggles and the enduring efforts of its people to find meaning and strength amid life’ s challenges.

It is unclear whether Albin is subtly referring to Martin Heidegger’s concept of “thrownness” in the section entitled Marooned. In Being and Time, Heidegger’s concept of Geworfenheit describes the idea that humans are thrust into existence without a choice and are “thrown” into a particular time and place. The poems in this section explore the lives of people who are metaphorically “thrown” into their environment, the Ozarks. The narrative focuses on how individuals navigate and come to terms with the unique challenges and beauty of this specific landscape.

The section opens with a vivid image of a child staying on a bucking bronco, evoking both the resilience and the inevitable failures encountered in life:

recalling my first rides on my uncle’s back, an oval rug our arena as he spun on all fours, threatening

to throw me while I clung like a bug. Tennis shoes for spurs, I tumbled to the rug bunched in small hillocks like hoof-pawed

dirt. Those soft cushioned landings gave me no warning of the fat pony that would pin my leg against a fence post, or (16)

This passage illustrates a physical form of thrownness being literally cast to the ground during playful childhood experiences. The speaker’s initial soft landings fail to prepare him for more painful encounters, such as being pinned by a pony. This metaphor subtly reflects life’s unpredictability and the lessons learned through hardship.

Beyond physical thrownness, the poems delve into a broader acceptance of life’ s inherent conditions for those raised in the Ozarks. The natural environment, with its beauty and dangers, shapes their experiences and worldviews. One poem highlights the vigilance of parents safeguarding their children from wildlife hazards:

the spring-thin bear black, ambling on outsized paws clumsy as teenagers’ feet. (17)

Only after the bear is gone can children safely return to play on a backyard swing. Even in moments of recreation, the imagination of the children remains attuned to the omnipresent risks of life in the wilderness:

[a shadow] transforms, becomes a creature rising on hind legs. (Ibid.)

This imagery underscores how deeply ingrained the natural threats of the region are in the lives of its inhabitants. The poems in Marooned depict a community shaped by its environment, where resilience and acceptance coexist with constant awareness of the challenges posed by the natural world. The interplay between Heidegger’s philosophical notion of thrownness and the lived experience of being rooted in a specific place subtly underscores these narratives, whether intentionally referenced by Albin or not.

The theme of the section Axe, Fire, Mule centers on action and doing what must be done. In the farmlands, daily chores are essential; without consistent effort, survival becomes impossible in the face of drought, floods, and disease. From a young age, children are expected to contribute to the work, learning firsthand that such labor might “clear my head” (31). As they grow older, they come to understand that when “life has circled back / to this same field of stones” (Ibid.), the lessons of faithfulness to the land and family will prove invaluable.

The recognition of place and the relentless need for effort become essential for survival. Only those who live and toil on the land over time gain an intimate understanding of its hardships. These are the ones who “feel what drought / has brought to Ozark farms, where / hill men watch a glinty sky, / dread the early sere of fields” (33). They know the ever-present threat of conflagration during dry seasons when home becomes “hostage / to whim of wind,” and “wayward sparks” (34) threaten everything they’ve built.

Yet even in the face of such adversity, hard work has its rewards, symbolized by the restoration of an old fiddle. Music, once silenced, is coaxed back to life:

Its strings between fingers that could have been my grandfather’ s, I felt old rhythms frolic

in my blood, heard jig-bow’s hard stomp and manic pace, knew then Ozark soil would hold me too. (40)

But nothing is ever certain in the rugged Ozark country. At times, one receives nothing; other times, too much. The poem Axe, Fire, Mule illustrates this unpredictability:

Last summer the banks of my pond bore hoof scars where cattle lumbered down to stand hock-deep in drought dregs and drink. Now crops

rot beneath constant cloudspill while I watch brown water wash across land my grandfather cleared with axe, fire, mule. Heart raw,

I work hours in soaked boots, ask how water can be mock of God one day, print of his hand the next. Maybe old Noah

knew, but nothing’s sure for me except Julie and the kids need all that’s left of us here. We’ll stay, start over rain, shine. (43)

The land may be sacred, but only because some are willing to persevere and make it work despite every hardship.

Rose of Sharon, Tom Joad’s pregnant daughter in The Grapes of Wrath, symbolizes hope and resilience amid the harsh realities of Dust Bowl migration. The section entitled Rose of Sharon captures the spirit of human endurance the longing to find a place, a sense of belonging. Just as Steinbeck’s characters pour their “spent selves into the false dream of the / San Joaquin” (46), the poet-as-teacher reflects on his own role, questioning “what good, if any, my hand might do” (Ibid.) for the immigrants, the unemployed, and the abused. Lacking the expertise of a professional caregiver, he sometimes sees only an uncertain future for his students:

that the look which passed between Rose of Sharon and her mother at the end of the book was a woman’s blessing on the best thing her daughter would ever do. (Ibid.)

Often, all the teacher can offer is words fragile tools to lift his students. Immigrants struggle to master a language that often feels just out of reach:

First she tells me she writes every sentence in her own language,

to know she has said what she means to say, then worries it out again, (48)

Yet the words move too quickly, slipping away as if mocking her efforts. In the poem “Endgame, ” the teacher recalls a quiet girl “weeping, her left eye / bruised blacker than the coffee [he has] just poured” (52). She tells him she is leaving for good: “I won’t be in class anymore” (Ibid.; italics in original). As he struggles to find the right words, she turns and walks away. Later, when he searches for her, she is gone

leaving him with the unsettling awareness of “how / chancy the endgames of human embrace” (Ibid.).

Words often feel inadequate when confronted with human suffering whether in the face of a wounded student or a soldier returning from war. One wounded veteran writes in an essay, in stark detail, about “the bullets ripping her own shoulder” (56), a testimony so raw that it leaves the listener speechless. The teacher wonders, “what / words you, or even Papa (Hemingway), might compose / to make fit welcome for a soldier home” (Ibid.).

The final section, Will and Testament, features a single character, an old man named Cicero Jack, reflecting on his life in the Ozarks and the changes brought by tourists, developers, and city dwellers. In the poem “Cicero Jack, Farmer, Rues the Ruin of an Ozark River,” the long-time resident laments the intrusion of “beer-swilling weekenders down / from Springfield or St. Louis, / hell-bent to float a clear stream / where they swear litter laws don’t / apply and local accents / prove inbreeding” (60).

Even when one reckless fool attempts to relieve himself from the canoe only to capsize it along with his friends Cicero Jack’s concern is not for their misfortune but for the moccasins lurking in the water. Yet, his warnings go unheeded. Later, when he spots their empty canoe drifting downstream, it stirs an old memory of a rider thrown from his horse along Devil’s Backbone. “[A]nd old as I am, / I shinnied that bank praying / my body would muster strength / to rescue what I could” (Ibid.). But when he reaches the canoe, it is filled not with lost souls but with empties of Coors and Busch. Still, he listens for the “hyena giggles,” straining for some sign that they have survived. Cicero Jack is conflicted. He knows change is inevitable but admits, “I’m an old man with hardened ways, stubborn / beyond sense in the eyes of kin” (71). The Ozarks are more than a place to him; they are a part of his being woven with memories of cougars and coyotes, the hills and rivers, and the relics of the Osage that have been plundered. “I must / count myself kin to both tribes. / I have plundered precious things, / and beyond my final breath / I and mine will be plundered, / soil of my progeny turned / like the loam beneath the lake” (65).

And then there is Ann. Her final resting place ties him to this land in ways no development ever could. “She gave / me sons, daughters, a bright span of days / full enough I never thought to voice / the word empty, nor plumb its meaning” (70). He longs for something more meaningful than material wealth and financial success, yet he recognizes that such things will likely dominate. Ultimately, he realizes that a person can leave behind no greater testament than their own lived experience the one true possession that remains solely theirs, carried with them to the grave.

Albin’ s Axe, Fire, Mule presents several major themes that shape the collection’ s portrayal of the Ozarks and its people. They highlight the hardships of Ozark life, from economic struggles to physical survival. The resilience of the people is central to Ozarks literature, showing their ability to endure despite losses and challenges. A key element in Ozarks literature, as a whole, is the importance of place or the land. The Ozarks are more than a setting; they are a living force that shapes the people who live there. This relationship between people and land is both harsh and sacred drought, floods, and rugged terrain make survival difficult, yet the land is deeply revered. Albin’s work explores the deep family and ancestral ties that bind individuals to their home. Figures like Cicero Jack lament modern intrusions but also recognize their place in history, tied to both the settlers and the Osage.

As previously discussed, the Marooned section seems to reflect Heidegger’ s concept of “thrownness,” where people are cast into their environment without choice. Their lives are shaped by circumstances beyond their control, but they must navigate and make sense of their place in the world. Many of the poems reflect what is lost, whether personal (Cicero Jack’s wife, Ann) or cultural (the Ozarks overtaken by tourism). Change is inevitable, but it is met with resistance and nostalgia. The Ozarks themselves are a place of contradiction, hardship, beauty, and endurance. The people who inhabit this space, whether they embrace it or struggle against it, are shaped by its rugged demands. The land does not simply serve as a setting but as a force that mirrors the resilience and tragedies of its people. Albin’s collection portrays this life of struggle in the Ozarks with clarity and compassion.

In Axe, Fire, Mule, C.D. Albin crafts a poetic narrative that captures the complexities of life in the Ozarks, blending vivid imagery, historical reflection, and deeply human struggles. His poems resonate with themes of resilience, hardship, and the unbreakable ties between people and the land. Through characters like Cicero Jack and the unnamed figures navigating life’s trials, Albin explores the tension between tradition and change, memory and loss.

Ultimately, the collection serves as both an ode to the Ozarks and a meditation on the forces that shape its people. Whether portraying the daily grind of farm life, the weight of generational history, or the quiet endurance of those who call this rugged terrain home, Albin’s poetry preserves the soul of the Ozarks with precision and grace. His work stands as a testament to the region’s enduring spirit, inviting readers to reflect on their own connections to place, memory, and identity.

JEROME BERGLUND

Book Review:

Jianqing Zheng. Just Looking: Haiku Sequences about the Mississippi Delta. Buttonhook Press, 2023. 64 pages. Digital. https://ojalart.com/category/buttonhook-press/

Thoughtful Framings of the Mississippi Delta in Just Looking

An artistic way of expression against abstraction must be haiku. The English language practitioner of haikai may have made monumental contributions to this genre with earnest visions to impact the intrinsic value and significance of the place we live in. For those yearning to arouse the evocative sentiments kindled by the oeuvres of Whitman, Frost, and Thoreau, perusing Jianqing Zheng’s collection of haiku sequences Just Looking will provide a refreshing departure from our industrial mindset to stimulate emotions and imagination, as shown in this haiku from “Impressions: Country Churches in the Mississippi Delta” :

off-road drive in the glow of sunset a lean-to church

Since relocating to the Mississippi Delta, Zheng has spent almost three decades of years exploring and documenting the land, detecting the fascinating connections, and articulating unexpected parallels with the place. His passion for the place becomes tangible in Just Looking. The following haiku from “Deltascapes” seems to serve as an appropriate foreshadowing descriptor:

deep south town shanties throbbing

in the chugging of the train

Zheng displays a comprehensive trove of haiku sequences, via sophisticated clusters of four to thirteen haiku, a majority in the traditional 3-line format but some in the two-line style, occasionally with helpful headnotes (“Clarksdale” and “Greenville”) to indicate the Delta locations. Each sequence is organized under an informative title, like “Music Tour down the River,” “Snapshots of Delta Shacks,” “Roadkill on Mississippi Highway 7 South,” “Birding in the Mississippi Delta,” and “Country y Churches in the Mississippi Delta.” Many incorporate or specify weather or seasonality and deliver insight into time and space. Paired with sporadic photographs of rustic buildings and landscapes, railway lines, antiquated storefronts, this book provides a sumptuous, enveloping sense of locale and country which all but transports the reader. It articulates the broad strokes and subtle vibrations of a singular, less sung setting. Moreover, Just Looking supplies countless noteworthy illustrations of associated moods and nuances. Zheng provides a perfect and imaginable canvas to demonstrate ideals of wabi, sabi, and karumi, the beauty in scarcity or absence, rust and ephemerality, lightness, spontaneity respectively, as shown in “Momentary Stay” :

harvest time a flight of songbirds pecking the stubble field

and in “Snapshots of Delta Shacks” :

delta spring the plywood shanty again covered with kudzu

and in this two-line haiku from “Pond” :

all night long a pondful of moonshine

Lovers of wildlife, flora and fauna of these bounteous places, and those interested in the lives and spirit of their indomitable, brave and admirable populations will find a source document here of the most vivid observations strikingly captured and memorably described. In so undertaking, the author lends invaluable aid toward reflecting the experiences with tones and sensorial input that a picture or video recording could never precisely replicate. Scrutinizing such glorious depictions can be a pleasure for those unfamiliar with the place and a chance to encounter and exalt in the unique splendors the Mississippi Delta offers, from the beauteous to the more austere, at times heartbreaking facets, as this view in “Delta Journal” shows:

autumn equinox a three-legged dog stands at the crossroads

Just Looking evinces the objectivity and journalistic temperament optimal for haiku, furnishing an impeccable sampling of vignettes and tableaus with those proverbial haiku moments for meditation. If you treasure the vistas, smells, je ne sais quoi of the Mississippi Delta and relish concrete or allegorical rhapsodies upon the subject matter of the Delta scenes, this is the collection of poetry you won’t want to miss. Hats off to the publisher at Buttonhook and the poet for esteeming accessibility over profit and permitting the public of all means and socioeconomic statuses to appreciate captivating contents at any time. It’s a highly moving and compelling privilege which does not disappoint, abounding with vibrant imagery and delicate implications, which holds up under multiple inspections and is equally enjoyable across the third readthrough as during the first:

evening stroll step by step into streetlights

JOHN J. HAN

Nagasaki and Unzen: The Settings of Shusaku Endo’s Silence (A Photo Essay)

Shusaku Endo’s historical novel Silence (1966, translated into English by William Johnston in 1969) is the author’s best-known work of fiction. Set in Nagasaki Prefecture, one of the seven administrative regions of Kyushu, Japan, it blends suspense with cinematic elements reminiscent of Graham Greene’ s The Power and the Glory (1940). Beyond its literary merits, Silence also serves as an important sociological document, offering insight into the persecution of Catholic Christians in early seventeenth-century Japan.

Christianity in Japan began in 1549 when St. Francis Xavier, along with fellow Jesuits Cosme de Torres and Juan Fernández, arrived in Kyushu. The new faith spread rapidly across the region, reaching as far as Kyoto and Edo (modern-day Tokyo).* By the early seventeenth century, an estimated 300,000 to 500,000 Japanese had converted to Catholicism. As in many mission fields, Christianity initially gained a strong following among the lower classes, who faced oppression from the ruling elite. However, some daimyos (local lords) also embraced the faith, leading to mass conversions within their domains.

Christianity brought trade opportunities with Europe, including access to advanced weaponry, which made it appealing in a Japan that had long been under China’s cultural influence. However, its spread began to wane after Toyotomi Hideyoshi issued a strict anti-Christian edict in 1587. Ten years later, 26 Christians six foreign missionaries and 20 Japanese converts were executed in the city of Nagasaki, becoming known as the 26 Martyrs of Japan.

After the Tokugawa shogunate was established in 1603, persecution intensified. Seeing Christianity as a threat to Japan’s traditional order, the Tokugawa government outlawed the faith, executing thousands of Japanese Christians and destroying churches. The suppression culminated in the Shimabara Rebellion (1637-1638), led primarily by persecuted Christians. In response, the shogunate brutally crushed the uprising, killing an estimated 37,000 people, many of them Christians.

Christianity remains a minority religion in Japan, with approximately one percent of the population identifying as Christian. Within this group, Catholics constitute the larger portion, reflecting the enduring legacy of Catholicism in the country. This influence is also evident in the presence of Catholic higher education institutions. Sophia University (上智大学, Jochi Daigaku) in Tokyo, a Catholic institution founded in 1913, is one of Japan’s most prestigious private universities. Another example is Seisen University (清泉女子大学), a Catholic women’s institution in Tokyo established in 1935 by the Handmaids of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. There are also several prominent Protestant universities in Japan, including Doshisha University ( 同志社大学) in Kyoto and Aoyama Gakuin University (青山学院大学) in Tokyo.

Shusaku Endo’ s Silence adapted into films in 1971 and 2016 is a powerful and thought-provoking novel that takes on a deeper significance when read within Japan’ s historical and cultural context. Written by a Japanese Catholic convert, the story

explores sociological and intercultural issues that only a native Japanese writer could fully articulate. I have long been intrigued by Japan’s complex relationship with Christianity not as a dominant faith but as an aspect of Western culture that has been selectively embraced. Notably, many Japanese couples choose to marry in Christian churches rather than Shinto shrines or Buddhist temples, despite Shinto and Buddhism being the country’s predominant religions.

In the summer of 2024, I visited Nagasaki Prefecture to learn more about Christianity in Japan and the settings of Endo’s novel. I spent four days in the city, one of which was dedicated to visiting the Unzen hot springs, where dozens of Japanese Catholics died for their beliefs. In the following pages, readers will see some photos I took during my trip.

* When Christianity arrived in Japan, many initially perceived it as a sect of Buddhism. However, over time, they came to recognize it as an entirely new religion, distinguished by its exclusive truth claims. This realization led to a series of cordial debates between Japan’s Zen Buddhists and European Christian missionaries. One such debate took place on October 20, 1551, between Jesuit missionary Cosme de Torres and a group of Zen Buddhists. The discussion was recorded by Juan Fernández, who was proficient in Japanese. Parts of these meeting minutes highlight the fundamental differences between Christian and Buddhist worldviews. The following excerpt appears in A History of Christianity in Asia, Africa, and Latin America, 1450–1990: A Documentary Sourcebook, co-edited by Klaus Koschorke, Frieder Ludwig, and Mariano Delgado (Eerdmans, 2007):

First many Zen-shu, priests and laypeople, came. We asked them what they were doing in order to become saints. They laughed and answered that there were no saints and therefore it was not necessary to seek out that path. For after the great Nothing had come into existence, it could do nothing but transform itself once again into Nothing.

We asked them many things in order to make it clear to them that there is a principle (principio) that gives all other things their beginning. […] This principle, they say, is neither good nor evil, knows neither pain nor bliss, neither lives nor dies: it is Nothingness.

We asked whether there is a difference between humans and animals. They answered that the two are alike in birth and death. But in one respect the animals are better; for they live their lives without worry, pangs of conscience or sadness; humans are different.

(quoted in English translation on page 23)

Top: The cover of the English translation of Silence (沈黙, Chinmoku) by Shusaku Endo, translated by William Johnston (1969; Tokyo and New York: Kodansha International, 1982).

Bottom: Shusaku Endo (遠藤 周作, 1923–1996) studied at Waseda University (Tokyo), Keio University (Tokyo), and the University of Lyon (France). In the photo, Endo is seated at the far left with other Japanese literati in 1954. Credit: Wikimedia, public domain.

Top: The dot marks Kyushu, Japan’s westernmost main island. Credit: Google Maps.

Bottom: The dot on the left marks the city of Nagasaki, while the dot to the right indicates Unzen-Amakusa National Park (雲仙天草国立公園, Unzen-Amakusa Kokuritsu Kōen), where dozens of Japanese Catholics were tortured to death in hot springs. As a coastal prefecture, Nagasaki became the primary gateway for Catholicism in Japan. Consequently, it once boasted the largest Christian population in the nation. Credit: Google Maps.

The Way to the City of Nagasaki

On the train between Hakata Station in Fukuoka and Takeo Onsen (武雄温泉, “Takeo Hot Springs”), where I was scheduled to transfer for Nagasaki, I passed villages and barley fields that reminded me of my native county in Korea. In Northeast Asia, barley is typically harvested in June, while rice, which is planted in the same fields, is harvested in September or October.

This is a typical view from Takeo Onsen to Nagasaki. During the 30-minute ride, our train passed through more than 25 tunnels. Some tunnels lasted only 10 to 15 seconds but still highlighted the region’s rugged terrain. Endo’s Silence is set in rural areas, especially in the mountainous regions, as illustrated by the passage from Chapter 2 (“Letter of Sebastian Rodrigues”) below:

From that time our life has become more or less as follows. At dead of night we offer Mass, just as they did in the catacombs; and then when morning comes we climb the mountain again and wait in hiding for any of the Christians who may want to visit us. Every day two of them bring to us our ration of food. We hear confessions, give instructions, teach them how to pray. During the day we keep the door of our tiny hut tightly closed and we refrain from making the slightest noise lest anyone passing outside may hear it. Needless to say, it is out of question to build a fire lest any trace of smoke be seen. And then, just in case…..foreseeing every contingency Mokichi and his friend have dug a kind of cave under the very floor of our hut. (59)

The City of Nagasaki

Nagasaki Seaside Park offers a view of the port that must have witnessed the arrival of Western civilization, including Christianity, since the mid-sixteenth century.

Left: The martyrdom site of 26 saints of Japan stands on a hill across the street from Nagasaki Station. On February 5, 1597, twenty Japanese, four Spanish, one Portuguese, and one Mexican were executed by crucifixion at this place.

Right: The 26 Martyrs Museum.

Top: A handwritten copy of Hideyoshi’s 1592 Christianity Prohibition Edict served as the legal basis for executing three Christians in Fukuoka, Kyushu.

Bottom: A painting of Gracia Hosokawa (1563–1600) and a sculpture of Paul Miki (1562–1597), both remembered as Japanese Catholic martyrs, are among the many artifacts displayed inside the 26 Martyrs Museum.

Left: This seventeenth-century Portuguese hat belonged to a missionary martyred in Japan.

Right: The display includes the following explanation: “Before the persecution, many Japanese warriors use[d] Christian motives (cross shape, etc.) to ornament their swords, considered a warrior’s pride.” Japanese samurai of the time were fascinated by Western culture, which they closely associated with Christianity.

St. Philip Church stands next to the 26 Martyrs Museum.

Left: Oura Cathedral (大浦天主堂) in the city of Nagasaki, built in 1864, commemorates the discovery of “Hidden Christians” (隠れキリシタン, kakure kirishitan) after the ban on Christianity was lifted in the mid-nineteenth century.

Right: A Catholic church stands adjacent to Oura Cathedral. Shinto shrines and Buddhist temples, which are prevalent in other Japanese cities, seemed rare in Nagasaki. During my five-hour stroll through the city, I encountered three Catholic churches but not a single Shinto or Buddhist place of worship.

The port city of Nagasaki is viewed from the summit of Mount Inasa (稲佐山). It takes five minutes for the cable car to reach the mountaintop.

A monument atop Mount Inasa commemorates 450 years of friendship between Japan and Portugal. The plaque at the base of the sculpture reads:

Kimono of 450 Years

This sculpture was donated to Nagasaki by the city of Lisbon, Portugal to commemorate the 450th anniversary of friendly relations between Japan and Portugal. It was unveiled on this spot in the presence of Portuguese President Mario Soares.

Sculptor: Pedro Ramos

October 1993

City

Nagasaki

The Way to Unzen Hot Springs

There are a couple of different ways to visit Unzen from Nagasaki City. I took a Ken-ei bus, which runs three times a day, from across Nagasaki Station. The bus left Nagasaki at 1:10 p.m. and arrived at Unzen at 2:51 p.m. after traveling 38 kilometers (23.6 miles) along the coastline, through rural towns, and past mountain villages.

The mountain path to Unzen. In the early seventeenth century, 33 Japanese Catholics were thrown into hot springs in Unzen for their faith. A sign along the Jigoku (Hell) path states that the Catholic converts were killed “during seven years from 1627 onwards.” However, the Unzen Tourist Association website explains that the killings happened between 1627 and 1631.* Endo’ s Silence mentions Unzen several times. In one of his letters, Christovao Ferreira, a Society of Jesus missionary from Portugal, writes:

The magistrate of Nagasaki, Takenaka Uneme, tried to make them [a group of European missionaries] apostatize and to ridicule our holy faith and its adherents, for he hoped in this way to destroy the courage of the faithful. But he quickly realized that words alone would never shake the resolution of these priests; so he was forced to adopt a different course of action; namely, immersion in the hell of boiling water at Unzen.

He gave orders that the five priests be brought to Unzen and tortured until such time as they should renounce their faith. But on no account were they to be put to death. [...] (21)

* Visit https://unzenonsen.unzen.org/e_ver/chinmoku/chinmoku2.html.

Unzen Hot Springs

The steam causes a strong sulfur smell, but it is tolerable for those who pass by. A sign board warns visitors not to touch the bubbling water due to its high temperature. A sign at the entrance of the Jigoku complex reads,

The area where the vents and hot springs are located is called “JIGOKU” or hell. The Unzen Hot Springs flourished as a Buddhist retreat when the Shingon sect established Daijoin-manmyouji Temple in 701 A.D. Old pictures show that the vents were more lively at that time than they are today. This kind of place was probably used as an example of the Buddhist idea of hell because of its rugged white sulphur deposits, endless columns of steam and rumbling noises.

Another interpretive sign.

Top: This cross commemorates the deaths of hundreds of Catholic saints in Nagasaki Prefecture.

Bottom: The boiling water closest to the cross, where the believers were likely put to death.

Other views of the steaming hot springs at Unzen.

Notes on Contributors

“Every few weeks she would shut herself up in her room, put on her scribbling suit, and ‘fall into a vortex’ as she expressed it, writing away at her novel with all her heart and soul, for till that was finished she could find no peace.”

Louisa May Alcott, Little Women (1868)

JC Alfier’s most recent book of poetry, The Shadow Field, was published by Louisiana Literature Press (2020). His poetry has appeared in Cantos, Faultline, New York Quarterly, Notre Dame Review, Penn Review, River Styx, and Vassar Review. Alfier is also an artist doing collage and double-exposure work after the style of Toshiko Okanoue, Francesca Woodman, Deborah Turbeville, and particularly Katrien De Blauwer.

Tobi Alfier’s work has appeared in Arkansas Review, The American Journal of Poetry, Cholla Needles, Gargoyle, James Dickey Review, KGB Bar Lit Mag, Louisiana Literature, Permafrost, Washington Square Review, and War, Literature and the Arts. She is co-editor of San Pedro River Review (www.bluehorsepress.com).

Rupa Anand is a spiritual seeker turned poet and an English Literature graduate from Lady Shri Ram College, New Delhi. Her work is regularly featured in national and international journals and anthologies. A Pushcart Prize and Touchstone Awardnominated poet, she chronicles her cancer journey via haikai poetry in her debut book To the Edgeless Sky and Back (July 2024). She lives in Delhi with her beloved cats and aspires to garden more, travel light, and tune in to birdsong more often.

Emily Arnold-Fernández is an immigrant from California who now resides in Scotland. In a previous life, she founded the global refugee human rights organization Asylum Access. Her recent poems appear or are forthcoming in Cordite, Aeos, Thirteen Bridges, and Poetry Super Highway. She tends to live on islands. (Instagram: @emilyarnoldfernandez).

Lori Becherer is an artist, poet and life-long resident of southern Illinois and is inspired by the simple beauty of rural America. She is a member of the Haiku Society of America, the Heartland Women’s Writers Guild, and the Mississippi Mud Daubers haiku group. Her haiku have been published in English-language haiku journals, including Modern Haiku, Presence, Acorn, Akitsu Quarterly, The Heron’ s Nest, Frogpond, cattails, and First Frost.

Jerome Berglund has published book reviews in Fireflies’ Light, Frogpond, Haiku Canada, Hooghly Review, The Mamba, North of Oxford, Setu, and Valley Voices. He also frequently exhibits poetry, short stories, plays, and fine art photography in print magazines, online journals, and anthologies.

Bisshie is the pen name of Patricia McGuire, who resides in Zürich, Switzerland. She serves as the managing editor of The Poetry Pea Podcast, Poetry Pea Journal, and Poetry Pea Press. These can be found on poetrypea.com and the Poetry Pea. Her work has appeared in Autumn Moon Journal, Frogpond, Bones, Presence, Akitsu Quarterly, Blithe Spirit, Chrysanthemum, Sonic Boom, Failed Haiku, Prune Juice, The Heron’s Nest, Fireflies Light, Cantos, Wales Haiku Journal, Modern Haiku, and The Poetry Pea Journal. McGuire was shortlisted for the Haiku Foundation Individual Poems Award in 2021 and is a Pushcart-nominated poet.

Jane Blanchard, based in Augusta, Georgia, has recent work in Boudin, Loch Raven Review, and Pulsebeat. Her forthcoming poetry collection, Furthermore, will be published by Kelsay Books.

Matthew Brennan has published seven books of poetry, including The End of the Road (Kelsay Books, 2023) and Snow in New York: New and Selected Poems (Lamar University Literary Press, 2021). His collection The House with the Mansard Roof (Backwaters Press, 2009) was a finalist for the Best Books of Indiana. He is also the author of four works of criticism, most recently The Colosseum Critical Introduction to Dana Gioia (Franciscan University Press, 2020). His poems and articles have appeared in Valley Voices, New York Times Book Review, Poetry Ireland Review, Georgia Review, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Southern Quarterly, and Commonweal. He has won the Thomas Merton Prize for Poetry of the Sacred. He retired from Indiana State University and now lives in Columbus, Ohio.

Dr. Randy Brooks is Professor of English Emeritus at Millikin University in Decatur, Illinois, where he teaches courses on haiku, tanka, and Japanese poetics. He and his wife, Shirley Brooks, are publishers of Brooks Books and co-editors of Mayfly haiku magazine. His most recent books include Walking the Fence: Selected Tanka and The Art of Reading and Writing Haiku: A Reader Response Approach.

Kevin Browne’s writing has appeared in MacQueen’s Quinterly, The Metaworker, Kelp Journal, Book of Matches, The Heron’s Nest, Frogpond, and numerous other publications. When not writing, he can often be found hiking the trails and attending blues concerts near his home in Wisconsin.

Gilbert Castañeda is a native of Chula Vista, California, who currently resides in Salt Lake City, Utah. He holds a Bachelor of Arts in Biology from Boston University and a Master of Science in Toxicology from Michigan State University. A trained toxicologist and chemist, he works in public health toxicology. He is an oboist and woodwind doubler who has performed with symphony orchestras, operas, and pit orchestras for musicals in Las Vegas, Nevada. His interests include 1980s music, PC gaming, crocheting, knitting, and Yorkshire Terriers.

Christina Chin is a painter and haiku poet from Malaysia. She is a four-time recipient of the top 100 in the mDAC Summit Contests, exhibited at the Palo Alto Art Center, California. She has won 1st prize in the 34th Annual Cherry Blossom Sakura Festival 2020 Haiku Contest and 1st prize in the 8th Setouchi Matsuyama 2019 Photohaiku Contest. She has been published in numerous journals, multilingual journals, and anthologies, including Japan’s prestigious monthly Haikukai Magazine.

Joanne Clarkson’s sixth poetry collection, Hospice House, was released by MoonPath Press in 2023. Her previous volume, The Fates, won Bright Hill Press’s annual contest and was published in 2017. Her poems have appeared in journals such as Poetry Northwest, Nimrod, Poet Lore, Alaska Quarterly Review, and the American Journal of Nursing. Clarkson holds master’s degrees in English and Library Science and has taught and worked for many years as a professional librarian. After caring for her mother

through a long illness, she transitioned to a career as a hospice RN. Learn more at http://joanneclarkson.com.

James Fowler has published two poetry volumes The Pain Trader (Golden Antelope Press, 2020); Postcards from Home (Kelsay Books, 2024) and a collection of short stories, Field Trip (Cornerpost Press, 2022). His short fiction has appeared in such journals as Caesura, DASH, Cave Region Review, Aji Magazine, Jokes Review, Gambling the Aisle, and Elder Mountain.

Ben Gaa is your friendly neighborhood haiku poet and host of Haiku Talk on YouTube. He’s the author of two full-length collections of haiku & senryu, One Breath (Spartan Press 2020) and the Touchstone Award-winning Wishbones (Folded Word 2018), as well as three chapbooks, the Pushcart nominated Wasp Shadows (Folded Word 2014), Blowing on a Hot Soup Spoon (Poor Metaphor Design 2014), and Fiddle in the Floorboards (Yavanika Press 2018). With over 1,000 haiku and senryu published in journals and anthologies around the globe, he enjoys both giving and attending poetry readings, conducting haiku workshops, and being a part of the literary conversation. Learn more about Ben at www.Ben-Gaa.com.

Jack Granath is a librarian in Kansas. His poetry has appeared in Poetry East, Rattle, and North American Review, among other journals and magazines.

John Grey is an Australian poet and U.S. resident whose work has recently been published in New World Writing, City Brink, and Tenth Muse. His latest books, Subject Matters, Between Two Fires, and Covert, are available through Amazon. Upcoming work will appear in Hawaii Pacific Review, Amazing Stories, and River and South.

Ken Hada lives and writes in rural Pottawatomie County, Oklahoma. His latest book is Come Before Winter (Turning Plow Press, 2023). His Contour Feathers (Turning Plow Press, 2021) received the Oklahoma Book Award. Other awards include the Western Writers of America, the National Western Heritage Museum (“The Wrangler Award”), the South Central Modern Language Association, and the Oklahoma Center for the Book. Four of his poems have been featured on The Writer’s Almanac. Ken is a professor at East Central University, where he directs the annual Scissortail Creative Writing Festival, now in its twentieth year. For more information, visit https://kenhada.org/.

John J. Han, PhD, is Professor of English and Creative Writing and Associate Dean of the School of Humanities and Theology at Missouri Baptist University. He is the author, editor, co-editor, or translator of 35 books, including Certainty and Ambiguity in Global Mystery Fiction: Essays on the Moral Imagination (Bloomsbury Academic, 2024). Han has also published more than 2,500 poems in periodicals and anthologies, including Cave Region Review (featured poet of the year 2012), Failed Haiku, Frogpond, The Laurel Review, Modern Haiku, Simply Haiku (chosen as the world’ s sixth-finest English-language haiku poet for 2011), Valley Voices (Pushcart-nominated), Wales Haiku Journal (nominated for the Touchstone Award), and World Haiku Review.

Colleen S. Harris earned her MFA in Writing from Spalding University. A three-time Pushcart Prize nominee, her poetry collections include The Light Becomes Us (Main Street Rag, forthcoming), Babylon Songs (First Bite Press, forthcoming), These Terrible Sacraments (Bellowing Ark, 2010; Doubleback, 2019), The Kentucky Vein (Punkin House, 2011), God in My Throat: The Lilith Poems (Bellowing Ark, 2009), and chapbooks That Reckless Sound and Some Assembly Required (Pork Belly Press, 2014). She also co-edited Women Versed in Myth: Essays on Modern Women Poets (McFarland, 2016) and Women on Poetry: Writing, Revising, Publishing, and Teaching (McFarland, 2012).

T. R. Healy was born and raised in the Pacific Northwest, and his recent stories have appeared in Paloma and Sortes.

Kaedence Holycross is an undergraduate psychology major at Missouri Baptist University, where she serves as president of the Creative Writing Club. She finds comfort and passion in writing poetry and songs, a practice she began in middle school. At first, she wrote poetry as a personal coping mechanism, keeping her work private. Over time, she realized that many people could relate to her writings, so she started spreading her words.. In addition to writing, she enjoys reading, singing, exercising, and spending time with animals. Kaedence sometimes takes photographs and adds them to her writings or use them as inspiration.

Donald W. Horstman has been an artist for seventy years and an art educator for forty-nine 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.

Ann Howells edited Illya’ s Honey for nineteen years. Recent books: So Long As We Speak Their Names (Kelsay Books, 2019) and Painting the Pinwheel Sky (Assure Press, 2020). Chapbooks: Black Crow in Flight, Editor’ s Choice – Main Street Rag, 2007 and Softly Beating Wings, 2017 William D. Barney winner (Blackbead Books). Her work appears Plainsongs, Schuylkill Valley Journal, and I-70 Review, among others. Ann is a multiple Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee.

Terrie Jacks is the current president of the Missouri State Poetry Society. She began creating poems and stories for her grandchildren, and now writes and submits her work to contests and various publications. Her poems and stories have been featured in Cantos, Fireflies’ Light, Oasis Journal, Grist, cattails, Failed Haiku, Asahi Haikuist Network, The Best Black and White Haiga Blog, and Galaxy of Verse. Several of her stories have also appeared in The Right Word and Flash. Additionally, she illustrated folktales by John Han, which were published in the Korean-American Journal. This experience inspired her to enter her poems and artwork into art exhibits, and she also shares her work at open mic events.

James Croal Jackson is a Filipino American poet working in film production. His latest chapbook is A God You Believed In (Pinhole Poetry, 2023). His recent poems appear in ITERANT, Stirring, and Skipjack Review. He edits The Mantle Poetry from Nashville, Tennessee. [https://jamescroaljackson.com/]

Alice Kingore is a 25-year-old writer living in Salt Lake City, Utah. She enjoys writing poetry, short stories, and creative nonfiction. She often attends open-mic poetry readings in Salt Lake City to share her love of words. She got into poetry writing in community college and while running the Calaveras Station Literary Journal at California State University, Sacramento. This will be her first time getting her own poems published. Alice hopes to publish more of her poetry and other writing in the future. Some poets who are inspirations to her are Emily Dickinson, Mary Oliver, Billy Collins, and Andrea Gibson.

Douglas J. Lanzo is an award-winning author who has published 444 poems in 69 literary journals and 8 anthologies across the U.S., Canada, the Caribbean, England, Wales, Austria, Mauritius, India, Japan, and Australia. Doug’s debut novel, The Year of the Bear, was named Ames 2023 Best YA Book of the Year, while his second book, I Have Lived, garnered Best Novella of 2024 at the American Book Fest Awards. He and his wife, twin sons, cat, pufferfish, and hermit crabs reside in Chevy Chase, Maryland, and all but the pets enjoy nature, basketball, fishing, and snorkeling. His author website is www.douglaslanzo.com.

Jey Ley’s poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Chicago Quarterly Review, Magma Poetry, The Rialto, SAND, Tokyo Poetry Journal, VOLT, South Dakota Review, The Hollins Critic, Mantis, Lullwater Review, and other publications. Ley is a visual artist and emerging writer based in Gem City, Ohio. Instagram: @jeyleyjey.

Inna V. Lyon, a Russian bumpkin, was raised on a steady diet of cabbage and potatoes, along with the required reading of Chekhov and Dostoevsky. During the day, she works as an accountant, specializing in colorful aging reports and cute collection letters. At night, Lyon writes stories about life, miracles, and cats. A member of the League of Utah Writers - Infinite Monkeys, she currently serves as president of the Blue Quill chapter. An award-winning writer in various genres, Lyon writes in both English and Russian. She lives in Utah with her big, happy family.

James Scannell McCormick’s third book of poetry is First of Pisces (Kelsay Books). He lives and teaches college English in Rochester, Minnesota.

Bob McHeffey is a soon-to-be retired English teacher who has workshopped his writing with his high school students for the past 38 years. He challenges them with prompts and is challenged in return. His work has appeared in numerous publications, including Cantos in 2014 and 2015.

Jacob Meyer is a senior English student at Missouri Baptist University. After graduation, he plans to pursue a master’ s degree in English, followed by a PhD. English particularly creative writing has always been a passion of Jacob’ s. Jacob

discovered his love for creative writing when he published his first novel at seventeen and has continued to write and publish ever since. Inspired by his own professors, Jacob has decided to further his education to become a professor himself, with an emphasis on teaching creative writing. He hopes to inspire students to write and publish their own works through education at the college level.

MarthaMaggie Miller resides in Missouri. She holds a Bachelor of Arts degree and is a veteran working for the Army. Poetry serves as an outlet for emotions of all kinds, combining words with musical elements around shared experiences. She self-curated Heartfelt Snippets with Moments of Magic (2022) and has poems published in several anthologies, including Shadow of the Soul; The Endeavor: Maiden Voyage, Volume I, Smooth Sailing, Volume II, Stormy Weather, Volume III, and Making Waves, Volume IV; A Poetic Field Filled with Wildwood Flowers; Inscribed Reveries; Wheelsong 5; Carnival of Sins; and Shattered Reflections. Her work also appears in Cantos, Volume 30; Fireflies’ Light, issues 29/30; and Magique Publishing’s Joyfully Wondrous (November 2024) and Darkly Beautiful (January 2025).

Beth Mims is a wife, mother of two lovely young women, and a doting nana to five grandchildren. She enjoys teaching and encouraging others with God’s Word and believes in speaking with grace. Since retiring from a full-time career in education, she has worked to develop her writing craft while spending much time with her family. She lives in Florida, where she braves the summer heat for her flowers. Beth is a member of Word Weavers International, meets monthly with the Page 23 writing group, and has been published in A Time of Singing Poetry Journal. You can connect with her at www.gracespeak.blog/blog.

Mark J. Mitchell has been crafting poetry for 50 years. He is the author of five fulllength collections and six chapbooks, with Something to Be (Pski’s Porch Publishing) as his latest release. His novel, A Book of Lost Songs, is set to debut in spring 2025. Mark’ s work has appeared in numerous magazines, including The Comstock Review, J Journal, kayak, Blue Unicorn, Black Bough, and The Lyric. He has received nominations for a Best of the Web Award, The Best Spiritual Writing 2025, and a Pushcart Prize. Mark lives in San Francisco, cherishing baseball, Dante, Louis Aragon, and his wife, activist Joan Juster, while delighting in life’s beautiful details.

Sonnet Mondal is an Indian poet, editor, and author of An Afternoon in My Mind (Copper Coin, 2022) and nine other books of poetry. He has read as an invited poet at literary festivals in the USA, Macedonia, Ireland, Turkey, Nicaragua, Sri Lanka, France, Germany, Italy, Ukraine, Hungary, Madagascar, South Africa, and Slovakia. Mondal was one of the authors of the Silk Routes project of the International Writing Program (IWP) at the University of Iowa from 2014 to 2016 and was a Guest Writer in Residence at the Almaty Writing Residency in 2023.

Michael Moreth is a recovering Chicagoan living in the rural, micropolitan City of Sterling, the Paris of Northwest Illinois.

Isabella Queen, who lives in Missouri, is pursuing a bachelor’s degree in English alongside a psychology minor at Missouri Baptist University. Isabella hopes one day to

be an editor of other people’s stories or perhaps an author of stories of her own. She has always loved reading or watching a good story, and has enjoyed creating stories of her own throughout her life. Writing plays is not her area of expertise, but weirdly enough, writing rough outlines for Geometry Dash cube story animations has proven useful for something. Some of Isabella’s other hobbies include drawing, playing Minecraft, and watching too many videos of people playing Minecraft.

Annmarie Ragukonis is a former blogger who left roots in Pennsylvania and Indiana before retiring to Florida. She anxiously awaits the release of Variegated Views: Three Years of Sharing Joy and Spreading Sparkle, her first foray into the book publishing world. She enjoys experimenting with poetry and composing inspirational essays that encourage people to live joyfully. As a member of the First Look Book Club, she was chosen as an honorable mention winner in a “Write a DearReader” contest sponsored by Penguin Random House. One of her writings has also been published in the digital magazine Daily Inspired Life. Presently, she is cultivating a second collection of essays, poems, and photographs titled Forward Views.

Bryan Rickert, a former president of the Haiku Society of America (2023-2024), has been published in many fine journals. He was the editor of Failed Haiku Journal of Senryu (2022-2024) and edits The Living Senryu Anthology. Bryan has two books: Fish Kite (Cyberwit Publishing) and Dust and Stone, co-written with Peter Jastermsky (Velvet Dusk Publishing). His work was selected for inclusion in A New Resonance, Volume 12. He was also the recipient of the Touchstone Award for individual poems in 2023.

Michael C. Roberts is a mostly retired pediatric psychologist seeking creativity through photography. His film and digital photographs have appeared in The Canary, Burningword, The Alchemy Spoon, FERAL, Camas, Word’s Faire, and elsewhere. His book of photographs, Imaging the World with Plastic Cameras: Diana and Holga, is available on Amazon.com.

T. Rodriguez is a teacher and an advocate for those without a voice. Immigrant children, dogs, and half-dead plants on clearance at her grocery store are a few recipients of her efforts. While the rest of the world sleeps in the early hours of morning, she writes short stories and poetry, pretending that writing is the only thing happening in her life.

Joshua St. Claire, an accountant from a small town in Pennsylvania, works as a financial director for a non-profit. His haiku and related poetry have been widely published, including in Frogpond, Modern Haiku, Cantos, and Fireflies’ Light.

Michael Shoemaker is a poet, haikuist, writer, photographer, and editor from Magna, Utah, where he lives with his wife and son and enjoys looking out on the Great Salt Lake every day. He is the author of two poetry and photography collections, Rocky Mountain Reflections and Grasshoppers in the Field. His poetry has appeared in Boundless 2024: The Anthology of the Rio Grande Valley International Poetry Festival and Petals of

Haiku: An Anthology, a collection that became a #1 Amazon New Release. He is a threetime nominee for the 2025 Best of the Net Anthology awards.

Thomas Smith has written poetry since high school for a number of reasons, including encouraging his wife to marry him. He spent 18 years in academia specializing in Life Sciences, but COVID shifted his creative focus. His work spans free verse, rhymed poetry, haiku, tanka, and limericks, with publications in various literary journals. He lives in Austin, Texas, with his family.

Julie Steinbeck is a St. Louis-area native, wife to William, and mom to Maria and Joanie. She enjoys the English language, dogs, hot beverages, music, and new recipes. The rest of the time, she is the Director of First-Year Composition at Missouri Baptist University, where she teaches freshmen how to write and seniors how to parse sentences and finalize their capstone projects. She cannot be left unsupervised in a bookstore.

Debbie Strange (Canada) is a chronically ill short-form poet, artist, and photographer whose creative passions connect her more closely to the world, to others, and to herself. Thousands of her poems and artworks have appeared worldwide. Strange’s awardwinning haiku collection Random Blue Sparks was released by Snapshot Press in late 2024. Debbie recently received 1st Place in the Triveni Haiku Awards. Please visit her publication and awards archive for further information at https://debbiemstrange.blgspot.com/ and follow her on Twitter/X @Debbie_Strange and on Instagram @debbiemstrange.

Todd Sukany, a Pushcart nominee, lives in Pleasant Hope, Missouri, with his wife of over forty years. His work has appeared in Ancient Paths, Cantos, Cave Region Review, The Christian Century, Intégrité: A Faith and Learning Journal, and The Ekphrastic Review. Sukany is the author of Frisco Trail and Tales and the co-author, along with Raymond Kirk, of four poetry collections titled Book of Mirrors. A native of Michigan, Sukany stays busy running, playing music, loving three children, their spouses, seven grandchildren, caring for two rescued dogs, and four rescued cats.

C. Clark Triplett is Emeritus Dean of Graduate Studies and Professor of Psychology at Missouri Baptist University. He served as co-editor (with John Han) of The Final Crossing: Death and Dying in Literature (Peter Lang, 2015), a co-editor (with John Han and Ashley Anthony) of Worlds Gone Awry: Essays on Dystopian Fiction (McFarland, 2018), and a co-editor (with John Han and Matthew Bardowell) of Certainty and Ambiguity in Global Mystery Fiction: Essays on the Moral Imagination (Bloomsbury Academic, 2024). Triplett’ s poems have appeared in Cantos, Fireflies’ Light, and the Asahi Haikuist Network. He earned a BA from Southwest Baptist University, an MDiv from Covenant Theological Seminary, an MSEd from Southern Illinois University at Edwardsville, and a PhD from Saint Louis University.

Audrey Wang (she/her) is an avid writer from Shanghai, China. Her work has been recognized by Aster Lit and The Accendo Review, and she is an alumnus of the Iowa Young Writers’ Studio and the Kenyon Young Writers Workshop. She currently serves as deputy editor of her school’ s Atramento Literary Magazine that provides a

consistent outlet for student expression and publication. As a fan of Japanese figure skater Yuzuru Hanyu, Audrey strives to express herself artistically through poetry and prose in a similar fashion. You can find her on Instagram: @audreywang_wzy.

Jeffrey Warzecha, recipient of The Connecticut Review’s Leslie Leeds Poetry Prize, earned his MFA from Lesley University in Cambridge, MA. He currently lives in Rhode Island and teaches high school English.

Diane Webster’ s work has appeared in Old Red Kimono, North Dakota Quarterly, New English Review, Studio One, and other literary magazines. She had microchaps published by Origami Poetry Press in 2022, 2023, and 2024. One of Diane’ s poems was nominated for Best of the Net in 2022. Another poem was nominated for a 2025 Pushcart. Diane retired in 2022 after 40 years in the newspaper industry. She was a featured writer in Macrame Literary Journal, and WestWard Quarterly. Her website is www.dianewebster.com.

Christopher Woods is a writer and photographer who lives in Texas. His monologue show Twelve from Texas was performed in New York City by Equity Library Theatre. His poetry collection Maybe Birds Would Carry It Away was published by Kelsay Books. His photography can be viewed at https://christopherwoods.zenfolio.com/f861509283.

Miranda Wyatt holds an English degree from the University of Missouri-Kansas City. Her work has been published in Number One Magazine and North Dakota Quarterly. When she is not writing, Miranda can be found doing other creative activities, including singing, drawing, and painting.

Heather Hallberg Yanda teaches in the English Department at Alfred University, in the hills of upstate New York. After many years of sending poems out, some getting rejected and others, published in such journals as Barely South Review, Comstock Review, Tar River Poetry, and (forthcoming) in The Yale Journal of Medical Humanities; and in the midst of a world-wide pandemic, her first collection of poems, Late Summer’s Origami, was published by Ashland Poetry Press. She is looking for a publisher for her second collection, What the Stones Borrowed.

John Zheng is the author of The Dog Years of Reeducation (Madville, 2023) and A Way of Looking (Silverfish Review Press, 2021), editor of Conversations with Lenard D. Moore (University Press of Mississippi, 2024), and professor of English at Mississippi Valley State University.

Cantos: A Literary and Arts Journal Submission Guidelines

Cantos, an annual journal published by Missouri Baptist University, welcomes submissions from poets, writers, and visual artists. We accept previously unpublished poems, short fiction, novel excerpts, short plays, and nonfiction. Please send your work as a Microsoft Word attachment via email to the editor, John J. Han, at john.han@mobap.edu. For previously unpublished artwork, including haiga (illustrated haiku), send your submission as an email attachment to the editor. Use the subject line format: “Cantos [Year]: Your Name” (e.g., Cantos 2026: Ben Smith).

We do not accept Google Drive files or hard-copy submissions; any hard copies received will be recycled. Along with your submission, please include a 100-word author bio written in the third person and complete sentences, beginning with your name.

Cantos does not accept simultaneous submissions or reprints. Our review process takes approximately two weeks, with earlier submissions receiving priority consideration. Multiple submissions within a single reading period are not allowed. The editorial team evaluates all submissions for suitability, content, organization, structure, clarity, style, mechanics, and grammar. We do not consider works that include profanity or foul language. There is no monetary compensation for contributors, but those residing in the continental United States receive one complimentary copy of the issue in which their work appears. Copyright reverts to authors and artists upon publication. The views expressed in Cantos are those of the authors and do not necessarily represent those of Missouri Baptist University.

Below are the reading period and target publication date:

Reading Period

Target Publication Date

January 1-February 15 March 15

Poetry:

We welcome poems that balance form and content, appeal to a broad range of educated readers, and avoid extremes of obscurity or simplicity. Poems should be single-spaced and no more than 35 lines in length, with a maximum of seven poems per submission. If your poem follows a specific form, please indicate it parenthetically after the title.

Prose:

We value submissions that are lucid, precise, and concise in style. Prose works with multiple grammatical or mechanical errors will not be considered.

For formatting:

• Use the serial comma in lists (e.g., “poetry, short fiction, and nonfiction”).

• Use curved (curly) quotation marks and apostrophes. Opening quotation marks should resemble 66, and closing quotation marks should resemble 99. Opening apostrophes should resemble 9, and possessive apostrophes should also resemble 9.

• Place periods and commas inside quotation marks. (e.g., “It is very simple,” the goblin replied. “I can easily shrink my body and get inside the jar.”)

• Indent the first line of each new paragraph by pressing the tab key once.

• Use one space between sentences.

• We prefer MLA (Modern Language Association) style for citation.

Fiction and nonfiction pieces should be fewer than 2,000 words each. We consider up to three submissions per author.

Essays for the “On Writing Creatively” section (2,500–5,000 words) are typically by invitation. However, established writers and poets interested in sharing creative writing insights are welcome to contact the editor before submitting.

Visual Art:

We consider single images, picture essays, and haiga. Single images should be titled, and images in photo essays must be explained within the narrative. We prefer DOCX for drawings and JPEG for photos. At this time, we are not seeking cover images.