FF3 - March 2018

Founder’s Favourites Issue 3-March 2018 Alyssa Trivett Ann Christine Tabaka Daginne Aignend Dave Benson David Smith Debbie Richard Elizabeth Spencer Spragins Ingrid Bruck Jonathan Ferrini Judith Pendergrass Peter Hoheisel Ronnie Hess Sravani Singampalli

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Ronnie Hess Autumn Light Daginne Aignend Inheritance Alyssa Trivett Dentist, 9:30am Jonathan Ferrini Garlic Boy Michael T. Smith Love-Lorn Face Ann Christine Tabaka Perpetual Lovers Ingrid Bruck Lost & Found Debbie Richard For Now Judith Pendergrass Photo Peter Hoheisel Conspiracy of Joy The Grasshopper in the Grass Elizabeth Spencer Spragins Holding Hands Sravani Singampalli Green Bond Dave Benson Sprung Love Symphony Judith Pendergrass Photo

Monique Berry Founder

Ronnie Hess Pg 3

Daginne Aignend Pg 4

Alyssa Trivett Pg 5

Jonathan Ferrini Pg 7

Michael T. Smith Pg 8

Ann Christine Tabaka Pg 9

Ingrid Bruck Pg 10

Debbie Richard Pg 11

Judith Pendergrass Pg 11, 15

Elizabeth S. Spragins Pg 13

Sravani Singampalli Pg 14

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Autumn Light

By Ronnie Hess The sun’s golden threads its silver sequins, a wanton bride dancing across a hardwood floor.

Waves of broken stars, phosphorescent sand.

The Big and Little Dippers, beggars above our heads.

c RefusedMind—Pixabay.com

Ronnie Hess is a journalist, essayist and poet living in Madison, WI. She is the author of two culinary travel guides (Eat Smart in France and Eat Smart in Portugal, both from Ginkgo Press, Madison, WI) and three poetry chapbooks (Whole Cloth; Ribbon of Sand; A Woman in Vegetable). Her essays have been heard on Wisconsin Life (Wisconsin Public Radio); two of her essays have been awarded Hal Prizes (Peninsula Press, Door County) for non-fiction. The first one, The Red Shoes, was awarded first prize in short non-fiction by the Council for Wisconsin Writers in 2016. www.ronniehess.com Founder’s Favourites | March 2018—Issue 3 | 3

Inheritance

By Dagienne Aignend His radiant smile brings a light into the local cafeteria when he serves his costumers coffee and sandwiches.

Twinkling eyes, just like the old McCaffee.

He stood behind the till years ago at Caffee & Mac's Lunchroom.

While I thank him for bringing me my espresso, the thought crossed my mind that friendliness is a blessed inheritance.

c PixelBliss—stock.adobe.com

Daginne Aignend is a pseudonym for the Dutch writer, poetess, photographic artist Inge Wesdijk. She likes hard rock music, fantasy books, is a vegetarian who loves her animals. She's the Poetry Editor of Whispers and has been published in many poetry journals, magazines and anthologies, in the 'Tears' Anthology of the NY Literary Magazine to name one. She has a fun project website www.daginne.com Founder’s Favourites | March 2018—Issue 3 | 4

Dentist, 9:30AM

by Alyssa Trivett They used cinnamon toothpaste, as I followed the directive of “Open! Open!”

I'm waiting for toothbrushes to be thrown at me, or for the chair to collapse and circus-toss me across and into another cubicle.

We hear talk shows blaring about how to handle children with behavioral problems, and he makes talk of "You floss everyday, you're a smart girl, you are."

There are no pliers on my mouth, but they took twice as many x-rays as promised, as I sat with a lead vest and recited lines to myself, you know—minor edits.

c rthnwagner—pixabay.com

Alyssa Trivett is a wandering soul from the Midwest. When not working two jobs, she listens to music while chirping down coffee and scrawling lines on the back of gas station receipts. Her work has recently appeared at VerseWrights, In Between Hangovers, The Squawk Back, and in the first print issue of Ramingo's Porch.

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c napatcha—stock.adobe.com

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Garlic Boy

By Jonathan Ferrini

T

he screams and cries are loudest at night and aggravate the inmates who encourage the predators and fantasize about the fate of the prey. It isn’t long before “Om Mani Padme Hum” resonates throughout the cell block and peace replaces terror. It’s my final night after being incarcerated at Corcoran State prison for five years.

The tiny plastic mirror above my combination metal sink and toilet reflects the transformation of a slightly built eighteen year old into a formidable man with prison tattoos. The tattoo on my forearm reads, “El Chico de Ajo” which translates into “Garlic Boy”.

Soon after my incarceration, I visited the prison library and randomly selected “The Teachings of Buddha”. Reading it removed the hatred and vengeance consuming me. I wrote to the Buddhist publisher and thanked them for transforming my life and was forwarded additional Buddhist publications. The transformation I found in Buddhism spread throughout the cell block and I became a revered Buddhism counselor to the hardest of criminals and their jailers.

Its daybreak and the Warden escorts me to the bus which will take me home. The only possession I took is my copy of “The Teachings of Buddha.” He hands me a pencil drawing of a family of spiders nestled in their web. The drawing is titled “Peace and Gratitude” and the Warden tells me “Charlie” meditated and gave it to me as a gift. I tell him to sell it and buy Buddhist publications for the library.

Gilroy California is a farming community known for growing garlic. Our family lived in a trailer home located downwind from a garlic processing plant and gave my family the permanent stench of garlic. There are two social classes of Latino’s who live and work in Gilroy: wealthy landowners tracing their lineage to Spanish land grants and migrant farm workers harvesting their crops. My parents are migrants paying the wealthy land owner rent and a percentage of their crop sales. I’m an only child, and was a lonely, quiet, studious kid with dreams of attending college to study agricultural science and one day owning our own farm. My garlic stench made me an outcast teased and bullied with the exception of Andalina, a quiet, studious girl, exchanging loving glances with me in school. Andalina’s parents own a beautiful ranch home on hundreds of acres. A relationship was never possible given our economic differences. I received a postcard from Andalina in prison telling me she graduated from college and was attending graduate school. I was proud of her but too embarrassed to write back and tell her I earned my GED in prison.

My parents often sent me to the only minimarket/gas station in our neighborhood to buy groceries and I welcomed the errand because they included money for a “Slurpee”. The owner of the minimarket is Ernesto. He was once a struggling immigrant but saved to open the new minimarket/gas station.

He’s considered a “Coconut” by Latino’s and prefers to go by “Ernie”. Ernesto was politically ambitious and a “law and order” businessman with aspirations of running for mayor. His

minimarket/gas station has no competition for miles and he charges monopoly prices.

I entered the minimarket and dashed for the Slurpee machine. I poured a tall Slurpee and grabbed the groceries. As I approached Ernesto to pay, a Latino gang entered the store which was empty except for me and Ernesto. One gang member stood guard at the entrance. Sensing trouble, I hurried to complete the transaction and get out of the store. The leader of the gang passed me and smelled my garlic stench placing his arm around me saying, “You’re my garlic boy”. His grip was firm and he approached the counter with me in tow. He held a gun to Ernesto’s head demanding money. Ernesto opened the register and handed over the money begging, “Please don’t kill me!” The gunman turned to me and said, “You stink man!” He hit me on the back of the head with the butt of the gun. I fell unconscious.

I regained consciousness to find Ernesto standing over me.

My arms and feet were bound and I was being photographed by the local newspaper. Ernesto assumed I was a gang member and used the robbery as a photo opportunity for his mayoral run. Ernesto planted the pistol dropped by the thief in my pants. I was arrested and charged with armed robbery. The Public Defender ignored my plea of “wrong place, wrong time”, and pressured me to accept a plea deal. I was sentenced to prison and Ernesto was elected mayor.

The bus ride home feels like a prison cell as it crawls up Interstate 5 surrounded by Central Valley farms. I’m anxious and clutch the “Teachings of Buddha”. We pass a billboard reading: Next Services 8 miles.

Ernie’s Minimarket and Gas Station The billboard reignites hatred and vengeance towards Ernesto but I hold the book close to my heart and chant, “Om Mani Padme Hum” which calms me. I’ll get off the bus at Ernesto’s minimarket and buy a bottle of champagne to celebrate our family reunion and treat myself to a Slurpee which I dreamed about in prison.

The bus stops in front of the minimarket. I enter and recognize Ernesto behind the counter. I pour a Slurpee and select a bottle of champagne. I approach the register and ask Ernesto, “Remember me?” to which he replies, “No. You all look alike!” The doors to the minimarket swing open and in the store mirror behind Ernesto, I see the “shark like” stare of a “meth head” quickly approaching the register determined to rob and likely kill Ernesto. I alone will determine if Ernesto lives or dies. I turn to the meth head rolling up my shirt sleeves revealing prison “tats” criminals recognize while giving him my “prison eye stare down.” I hold the bottle of champagne like a baton. The meth head stops dead in his tracks saying, “It’s cool man. No hassle from me!” He backs his way out of the store and runs to his car speeding away. Ernesto knew he “dodged a bullet” and holds out his hand to shake saying, “Thank you. How can I repay you?” I hand him my copy of “The Teachings of Buddha”. I walk out of the store to my family reunion sipping the Slurpee like expensive cognac.

Jonathan Ferrini is a published author who resides in San Diego. He received his MFA in motion picture and television production from UCLA. Founder’s Favourites | March 2018—Issue 3 | 7

Love-Lorn Face

By Michael T. Smith The lovelorn face makes its own weather cold Exhaling cirrus clouds of misty sighs That float around the topsy-turvy world Like a bog at Michaelmas by in by And the monsoon to leak from out her eyne Lids close at quarter–moon in lover’s pine And the thunderous cries shake this poor keg Like timorous Atlas on a broken leg Come morning as the sinus pressures change Sniffles blow a shaky Borean wind From out nostrils to the hardened grange As cold as when a coatless Lear grinned For the forecast with a climate heading Is like th’ lover in a Monkey’s Wedding.

c Ralph—Pixabay.com

Michael T. Smith is an Assistant Professor of the Polytechnic Institute at Purdue University, where he received his PhD in English. He teaches cross-disciplinary courses that blend humanities with other areas. He has published over 30 poems in the last year in over 10 different journals (including Bitterzoet, Visitant, Tau Poetry Journal, Eunoia Review, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Bitchin Kitsch, and Taj Mahal Poetry Journal among others). He also has critical work recently published in Symbolism and Cinematic.

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Perpetual Lovers

By Ann Christine Tabaka Ocean surf, endlessly stroking the shore, caressing her with soft foam.

Bestowing treasures from faraway seas, gems of colorful shells and driftwood art.

Ancient lovers, locking in an eternal embrace.

Salty kisses deep and sweet.

Carried into the depths of passion with violent crashing waves.

Surging tides wash over her desires.

An amaranthine romance.

An eduring story of lust and love, forever entrancing mankind.

c neshom—pixabay.com

Ann Christine Tabaka is a nominee for the 2017 Pushcart Prize in Poetry. She lives in Delaware, USA. She is a published poet and artist. She loves gardening and cooking. Chris lives with her husband and two cats. Her most recent credits are Page & Spine, The Paragon Journal, The Literary Hatchet, The Stray Branch, Trigger Fish Critical Review, Foliate Oak Review, Bindweed Magazine, The Metaworker, Raven Cage Ezine, RavensPerch, Anapest Journal, Mused, Apricity Magazine, Longshot Island, The Write Launch, The Stray Branch, Scryptic Magazine Ann Arbor Review.

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Lost & Found

By Ingrid Bruck He chained his bike to a tree when he left for war but never came back, his parents left it where it was waiting for their son.

A century later, the bicycle flies like an angel reaching skyward for its rider, carried upwards in the arms of the old oak that cradles parts of the bicycle inside its bark.

Just so the shining silver, a revelation inside a split log, a lost hatchet revealed.

Someone set it on the ground and lost it, it was found claimed by vegetation, then found again by an amazed woodcutter.

© loreanto-Stockadobe.com

Ingrid Bruck writes nature inspired poetry, makes jam and grows wildflowers. She’s a retired library director living in the Pennsylvania Amish country that inhabits her writing. Recent works appear in Unbroken, Halcyon Days, Nature Writing, Entropy, Leaves of Ink, Poetry Breakfast and The Song Is. Poetry website: ingridbruck.com Founder’s Favourites | March 2018—Issue 3 | 10

For Now

By Debbie Richard The bills are poured out across the kitchen table like a deck of cards.

The calculator is quiet now, the only sound is the steady tapping of a pencil. The half cup of coffee has gotten cold, as I agonize over where the money will come from. What choice do I have? I’ve mulled it over in my mind a hundred times or more.

I take down my straw hat from the brown peg on the wall, and slip my feet into the black boots by the door. Sloshing through the mud to the barn, pail in hand, I hear Cherry’s bawl, protesting the hour; I’m late this morning. For now, I’ll take pleasure in the quiet – just before the children come bounding down the stairs – their smiles as bright as the sun which peeks through the barn door; No worry on their young brows.

The bills? I’ll think about that tomorrow.

c Judith Pendergrass, Rock, WV

c Cobanams—Pixabay.com

Debbie Richard is listed in the Directory of Poets & Writers as both a poet and creative nonfiction writer. Her poems have appeared in Torrid Literature Journal, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Scarlet Leaf Review, WestWard Quarterly, Halcyon, and others. A chapbook of poetry entitled “Resiliency,” was published in 2012 by Finishing Line Press. “Hills of Home,” a memoir about growing up in Appalachia, in the hills of West Virginia, was released in 2014 by eLectio Publishing. Visit her website at www.debbierichard.com Founder’s Favourites | March 2018—Issue 3 | 11

Conspiracy of Joy

By Peter Hoheisel Your laughter haunts, harries me, shakes my soul like a woman who snaps an old work shirt to dry in a March wind.

A brace to manhood, yet, like a deep, blue-black wave cresting to open air and sun, laughing air, singing sun, you thresh my serious soul.

Your laughter is springtime, our serious conspiracy of joy, our yes to children and work & the morning star is a tiny splash of silver against the ending night.

The Grasshopper in the Grass

By Peter Hoheisel There is a peace in the singing of the grasshopper in the grass.

There is a place for each of us, a time to sing in the grass, the peace, the place, and the time presses in.

Longing for them we will find what we strive for in our hearts.

c arimikronika—Pixabay.com

c StockSnap—Pixabay.com

Peter Hoheisel has published poems in national publications, such as The Nation, and many regional ones, a few of which are the Langdon Review, Grasslands Review, Nebo, and Iconoclast. As well as teaching Creative Writing, Literature and Composition, at Lon Morris College in Jacksonville, Texas, he was also chair of the department of Religion and Philosophy at that institution. Before he moved to Texas, he was awarded numerous grants to teach poetry in many schools through the Michigan Council for the Arts and in Tyler, Texas, under a grant from the Texas Commission for the Arts.

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Holding Hands

By Elizabeth Spencer Spragins tulip petals droop beneath the weight of water cupped in open palms feathered dandelion dust drifts away on breath of dreams ~Wiscasset, Maine

c M_A—stock.adobe.com

Elizabeth Spencer Spragins is a poet, writer, and editor who taught in North Carolina community colleges for more than a decade before returning to her home state of Virginia. Her tanka and bardic verse in the Celtic style have been published in England, Scotland, Canada, Indonesia, and the United States. Recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in the Lyric, Page & Spine, Blueline, Raintown Review, and Rockvale Review. Publication updates are available on her website:www.authorsden.com/elizabethspragins.

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Green

By Sravani Singampalli Green is my best friend The season of hopeful minds Fresh Moringa leaves.

c mroppx—stock.adobe.com

Bond

By Sravani Singampalli A yellow tulip Strong and unbreakable thread Heaven to our eyes.

c Engin_Akyurt—Pixabay.com

Sravani Singampalli is a published writer and poet from India. Her works have appeared in Scarlet Leaf Review, Night Garden Journal , Criterion journal, Setu bilingual journal, Whispers, The Thumb Print, The Blue Nib and many others. Her poems are also forthcoming in Leaves of Ink, Kitaab, Formercactus, Gone Lawn journal, Vox Poetica, The Pangolin Review, Treehouse arts and elsewhere. She is presently pursuing doctor of pharmacy at JNTU KAKINADA university in Andhra Pradesh,India.

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Sprung

By Dave Benson With cackling grackles and half-dackled apples, and cherries and nuts and pears, those trees how they spackle as spring melts their shackles and buds sproth forth unto air

c Judith Pendergrass, Rock, WV

Symphony

By Dave Benson Love

By Dave Benson

orchestral shower and fluted mating calls at timpani of dawn

I can’t bring you all that you want, so I bring you all I have with love

c Uki_71—pixabay.com

Dave Benson is from Baltimore, MD and Madison, WI. He writes poetry in English, Spanish and French, and tries to write poetry that is accessible to everyone. Recent poems have appeared in Locust Magazine, Yahara Prairie Lights, Halcyon Days, and Bramble. He enjoys reading at Mother Fool’s coffee house in Madison, and has read for the past two years at the Madison Winter Poetry Festival.

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Founder’s Favourites Issue 3-2018

Thanks for spending time with the writers.

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