Halcyon fall 2014 by Halcyon Magazine

FALL 2014

Halcyon

Halcyon - Fall 2014

Contact Info http://halcyonmagazine.blogspot.ca monique.editor@gmail.com 1-905-549-3981

Special Notices Halcyon has one time rights. See website for subscription details. No photocopies allowed. Cover and this pageÂŠ Elenathewise | Photoxpress.com

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FROM THE FOUNDER It’s a season for celebrating! Not only is the landscape alive with color, but I am alive. My internal world looks more colorful and brighter. You see, I am a cancer survivor. I passed through a hot emotional valley during the summer. Fearful shadows followed my waking thoughts and dreams. I thought I would never have to deal with the effects of cancer. But fortunately it was caught in time. After I heard, “You are cancer free,” I could sit back, relax, and enjoy the autumn months. Special thanks goes to a few people. First, to Trevor Kensey for giving me permission to publish the recipe and food photo on page p11. Second, to Sara Etgen-Baker for recommending the first recipe to grace the magazine. That’s it for now. Keep thinking halcyon thoughts!

Halcyon Magazine, Founding Editor monique.editor@gmail.com

Top: © Springfield Gallery | DollarPhotoClub. Above © Elenathewise | Photoxpress.com

MONIQUE BERRY is the founder of Halcyon, Perspectives, Praise Writers, Twisted Endings, and Christian Perspectives. She has published stories and poems in Quills, Personal Journaling, The Sitter’s Companion, Searching for Answers Anthology, and Rock Bottom Journal. Monique is working on her first novel and is pursuing a career in photography. Halcyon - Fall 2014

A Call to Autumn By Jean Marie Cole Birds have flown their summer skies, gone south. Deciduous trees are no longer lush green. Cool crisp air turns cold to paint leaves loose. A call to autumn brings out a brush of color. Watching trees painted dry radiant gold, and ochre, And air brushes paint sandy orange and red vermilion. Cold winds shake them to fly, dancing in the wind. More brilliant colors twirl, twist descending down A radiant patchwork blanket of color abounds. Limbs are yielding forth bare branches’ nakedness. Leaves crunch and crackle broken under foot. All has been slowly prepared for winter’s deep sleep. © Andrzej Tokarski | Photoxpress.com

The Glistening By Paul R. Davis Dawn arrives as a golden horse feasting in dew-laden meadows, padding through waking skies. The sun pivots, careens through sighing stars. Night puts on its slippers to walk distant planets. Humble streets are slanted, gleam as polished gems, the grass is rich with diadems. Ever higher, the dawn is an ensemble of gleeful birds, a blazing herd of deer gorging on the unripe apples of August. This day has birthed beneath a blue that is too blue to be merely blue, a heaven beyond touch, an eternity beyond grasp and knowledge. © Pascal Huot | DollarPhotoClub

PAUL R. DAVIS lives in Central New York State with his wife, parrots and cats. Now retired, he enjoys operating model trains, philately, gardening, and preparing meals with his wife. His work has been published in Latitudes, Comstock Review, Comrades, Hot Metal Press, Georgian Blue Poetry Anthology, The Externalist, Centrifugal Eye, The Good Men Project, PoetryRepairs and others. He believes in a simple poetic philosophy: to wit, the joy of expression, the necessity of communication. Contact Paul at 19suomi48@gmail.com | paulrdavis.com | Twitter: freddiesdaddy Halcyon - Fall 2014 | 4

Under the Overpass By A. J. Huffman Dark water stands calm, shows no reflection of the tumultuous traffic above. Autumnal sun finds a resting place that does not refract garish glowing of amplified metal. The echoes of ringing cell phones do not reverberate into containmentâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s instant migraine. There is just quiet, unhurried flowing, a natural tendency to go against the grain.

ÂŠ David Solodar | Photoxpress.com

Halcyon - Fall 2014

Fall Fair in the 30s By Norma West Linder Pumpkins big as a heifer’s rump turkeys in the straw in a squawking row Charlie’s hog won best in show and his onions took third place Effie’s shortcake beat them all but her pickles lost to Grace A harvest rich in memories blue skies and a china doll Mom helped me sew a dress for her red polka dots on voile I won a bright blue ribbon one special day that Fall

Scarlet Woman By Norma West Linder Bold Autumn lifts her russet colored skirt Flaunts her bright petticoats of orange and red Sashays through woodlands in her golden shoes Wearing a crimson wreath around her head She turns to liquid honey old Sol’s rays Invites the wanton breeze to tease her dress And only too aware of shorter days Clasps Indian Summer in a fierce caress

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Remembrance Day: Unbuttoned By Debbie Okun Hill She collects red poppies in a blue bowl by her bed. In a frosted jar, more memories like buttons off flannel gowns her four children napped in or the brass closures from her husbandâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s uniform returned blood-stained empty-sleeved following the war. The Depression taught her to save, to cling to clutter to hold those frayed threads autumn leaves, a fleeting flutter. Today in long term care she releases warâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s grip skin frail like cheese cloth a former seamstress fabric sheets wrinkled rolled around her ankles pin prick of needles in her diabetic arms and all those buttons scattered on her bed as she rocks up and down like a treadle on a sewing machine. Her patchwork quilt repaired holding her together.

ÂŠ Vera Kuttelvaserova | DollarPhotoClub

Halcyon - Fall 2014

The Cellar By Debbie Richard Wide, wooden shelves line three walls as I step barefoot onto the cool cement floor of the cellar – half hidden, half concealed by the earth’s recess, a welcome retreat on a sultry day. A swift glance takes in mason jars, old bottles, and blue-green glass insulators lining the shelves. A single bulb with a long string, suspended from the ceiling is the only glimmer of light in this shelter. Quart jars of bright red tomato juice, corn, pickles, and the Half-runner green beans are arranged in neat rows. Jellies, jams, and preserves are in smaller jars. Bushels of potatoes are piled high in wooden bins, the earth-scent still fresh upon them – sprinkled with a white powder-like substance called lime, used to preserve them from rotting through the winter. Slabs of bacon and cured hams hang suspended from the tall ceiling in the storage room, built above the cellar, another hideaway. Meat, potatoes, vegetables. all a body needs to survive another cold winter, carefully prepared and preserved – a way of sustaining life in these hills.

DEBBIE RICHARD is a member of South Carolina Writers’ Workshop and West Virginia Writers, Inc. She is the recipient of an Honorable Mention in the 2010 Joyful! Poetry Contest, and her poems have appeared in Grab-a-Nickel, Holler, Two-Lane Livin’ Magazine, The Shine Journal, WestWard Quarterly, and The Storyteller. Her first book, a chapbook of poetry entitled “Resiliency,” was published in November 2012 by Finishing Line Press of Georgetown, Kentucky. Debbie’s memoir, “Hills of Home,” about growing up in Appalachia, in the hills of West Virginia, was released May 2014 by eLectio Publishing of Little Elm, TX. Visit her website at www.debbierichard.com for contact information. © magdal3na | DollarPhotoClub

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What Not to Wear By Day Merrill September, I regret to inform you you’ve let yourself go! Blowsy and overblown, you give tentative May pause, And blushing June bridles at what you’ve allowed yourself to become. Hot, hot, hot July doesn’t care, nor does fulsome August (though both pity you). Your garden’s betwixt and between, equinoxal– unseemly for one season and not quite the next. Cut back, cut back! You are done with that greening and growing. Spring’s promises have been fulfilled and more, so give it up. It’s time now to fall back and keep mum. But out there in the fields– ah, that’s where you can shine and glow. Dare to wear purple rich as Lady Astor, thy golden rod the staff to prop yourself up. Go red! Blaze into the light that underpaints the scudding clouds. Break out the wine and drain the dregs of summer, tossing the glass casually over your shoulder into the fire. There is juice in you yet, old gal. You are Sarah and Elizabeth, and can mother autumn, bringing forth October, a late-in-life child whose cries proclaim that crones have much to give. Crown the year’s growth with a final blast before dowager November, stern and brown announces she’ll hold sway ‘til the advent of grey December bids us hope and pray. © Igor Normann | DollarPhotoClub

Autumn By Douglas Polk The landscape acre after acre, different shades of yellow, brown and gray, colors to warm the heart, or make it ache, soft and mute, the colors of memory, speak to me of cozy kitchens, the smell of baking bread, trees gray, empty of leaf, lonely sentinels standing guard, watching and waiting, the autumn colors fade away, beneath the winter snow.

DOUGLAS POLK is a poet living in the wilds

of central Nebraska with his wife and two boys, two dogs and four cats. He was nominated for pushcart awards in 2012, 2013. © Giuseppe Parisi | Photoxpress.com

Halcyon - Fall 2014

Harvesting Pecans

by Sara Etgen-Baker While harvesting pecans in her family’s pecan orchard, the narrator encounters the old man who tells her about the secret lives of trees. “Come, Eileen!” The old man yelled from the other side of the pecan orchard. “Come, warm your hands by the fire and bring those pecans you’ve harvested.” “Is it that time already?” Eileen lifted her flour sack over her right shoulder. “Are you sure? It can’t be!” Not wanting the day to end, she meandered her way through her family’s pecan orchard and watched the trees as they swayed to and fro in autumn’s music; their dry, brittle leaves kissed Eileen’s face as they danced their way to the ground in front of her. “Stay, please stay.” The old trees beckoned her. “The fall air is crisp and delicious on our limbs. Play with us a little longer. Listen to our magic whisperings, for we have secrets to tell you.” “What secrets?” Eileen closed her eyes and listened, but she heard nothing. Hmm. She tugged on her earlobe and listened again. Must be the trees rustling in the wind. Eileen dropped her flour sack and looked around; the trees that once wore their bright green sundresses now wore their jackets of brown, gold, and crimson. Spills of afternoon sunlight filtered their way through the trees; so Eileen lifted her face toward the sky and let the sun’s warm rays warm her cheeks and nose. Above her a gaggle of geese honked goodbye as they journeyed south for the winter. She inhaled the earthy smell of the moist earth and continued on, delighting in the sound of twigs snapping and leaves crunching under her feet. Squirrels chattered amongst themselves, for they were also hard at work harvesting their own pecans for the winter months ahead. Eileen caught a whiff of the Halcyon - Fall 2014 | 10

She sat still and breathed in the intoxicating smell of the smoldering wood as it snapped and crackled. The fire’s orange and red flames twisted and twirled casting a light onto the old man’s wrinkled face. rich aroma of wood smoke and followed its wispy grey, silver clouds until she came upon the old man sitting on a tree stump warming his hands by the campfire. Eileen put her flour sack on the ground, inched her way toward him, and eased down onto the stump next to him. She sat still and breathed in the intoxicating smell of the smoldering wood as it snapped and crackled. The fire’s orange and red flames twisted and twirled casting a light onto the old man’s wrinkled face. Just like the trees in the orchard, he, too, was in the autumn of his life; and Eileen knew she didn’t have many more seasons with him. (Continued on page 11)

Pumpkin Pecan Cranberry Upside Down Cake Recommended by Sara Etgen-Baker Enjoy a slice of this fall favorite with a steeping cup of hot coffee or hot tea. Close your eyes, breathe in fall’s aroma, relax, and reflect.

Ingredients: 8 ounces (16 tablespoons) unsalted butter 1 ½ cups all-purpose flour 2 cups cranberries 1 ½ teaspoons baking powder 1 cup firmly packed brown sugar 1 cup sugar 4 ounces coarsely chopped pecans 1 ½ teaspoons baking powder 2 large eggs 1 teaspoon cinnamon 1 cup pumpkin puree ¼ teaspoon salt 6 tablespoons vegetable oil Photo and recipe © Trevor Kensey at sisboomblog.com

Method: Preheat oven to 350 .̊ Line the bottom of a nine-inch square pan with parchment paper. Melt the butter in a small saucepan over medium heat. Add the brown sugar and whisk until smooth. Pour the brown sugar mixture into the bottom of the cake pan. In a medium bowl combine the cranberries and pecans. Place them in the pan over the brown sugar mixture. In a large bowl, whisk together the eggs, pumpkin puree, and oil. Sift together the flour mixture into the pumpkin mixture. Carefully spread the batter over the cranberry pecan topping. Bake 35-40 minutes or until a toothpick inserted in the middle comes clean. Cool on a wire rack for 10 minutes. Place a large plate over the top of the cake. Invert the cake and plate together. Remove the pan and carefully peel off the parchment paper.

“Have you ever listened to the trees as they sway in the wind?” The old man’s raspy voice broke the silence. “They have secrets to tell.” “What secrets?” Eileen turned toward the old man and looked him straight in the eyes. “Do you remember when I chopped down the tree that I’m sitting on?” The old man stirred the fire with a stick. “Yes, I do. You told me that, although a tree doesn’t speak, I could understand its life by reading its rings.” The old man got up and leaned over the stump he’d been sitting on. “What does this tree tell you?” Eileen stood next to the old man and pointed to the scar on the tree’s bark. “This scar appeared on the bark the year there was a fire in the orchard. These four narrow rings after the scar meant there was a four-year drought. The narrower, uneven rings show slow growth because the neighboring trees crowded this tree and took more than their share of water and sunshine.” Eileen moved her fingers toward the stump’s five outer rings. “And these wider and evenly spaced out rings tell me that during those five years the tree was happy because it got lots of sunshine and rain.” “Ah, I see you did remember the wisdom I shared with you.” The old man’s face lit up. “Come. Let’s take our hearts for a

walk through the orchard and listen to the musings of the old trees.” The old man placed Eileen’s hand in his and led her down a winding path through a canopy of trees and stopped at an area where the crowns of the old trees met the sky. “Ah, this spot will do.” He leaned over, brushed the leaves off to one side, and squatted on the ground facing one of the old trees. “Sit here next to me.” The old man patted the ground. “Now close your eyes, Eileen; take several deep breaths; and focus on the wind stirring through the treetops.” Eileen’s breaths deepened, and she sat motionless—suddenly aware of the autumn breeze caressing her body and stirring the leaves around her. The old man leaned toward Eileen, softened his voice, and said, “The trees are silent teachers; but if you listen with your heart, they will change your life. Here is what the trees will tell you. You don’t choose your parents, your family, your genes, your birthplace, or even your century. So, like the trees, you must learn to grow where you’re planted; accept the things you can’t change; and thrive when and where you are.” (Continued on page 12) Halcyon - Fall 2014

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The old man reached over and picked up Eileen’s right hand and placed it on the ground by the tree’s trunk. Have you ever looked closely just below the ground under the tree’s trunk?” “Well, no, I haven’t.” Eileen opened her eyes and glanced around as if looking for answers. “Why should I?” “Sometime you should take a peek, for just below the ground you’d see that which is invisible is the source of visible. Although the tree’s roots are invisible, they are there. These roots grow deep and give the tree stability to stand tall and reach for the light. Trees instinctively know this, so in the early stages of their lives they put far more effort into their root growth. Like the trees, you, too, should first attend to your inner growth before you get top-heavy with non-essentials and ornamentation.” Just then the wind shifted direction, grabbed the trees’ limbs, and tossed them wildly from side to side. Both Eileen and the old man glanced up and looked at the startled birds as they shot from the trees’ branches. “Have you ever noticed,” the old man crossed his legs, “trees stand firm against strong winds, driving rains, and the changing of seasons? Now that I think about it,” he rubbed his chin, “their strength comes from their struggles. Because of their struggles, trees develop something called stress wood. Stress wood strengthens a tree and improves the quality of its life.” The old man cleared his throat and finished his thought. “Like the trees you’ll most certainly encounter resistance and change. “But don’t let these hardships and struggles stunt your growth. Instead, use them to strengthen you and improve the quality of your life. Do you understand?” “Yes, I think so.” Eileen nodded her head. The old man heaved a sigh of relief then became silent; while waiting for him to speak, Eileen watched the sun drop below the tree tops—its rays shining through the last few hanging leaves, illuminating the auburn, yellow, and orange veins that ran through them. “My, my,” the old man shattered the silence. “Where was I?” He turned away and gathered his thoughts. “Oh, now I remember….Pecan trees don’t come from apple seeds. Seems obvious, doesn’t it?” He chuckled. “Yes, I guess so. But,” Eileen shrugged her shoulders, “what does that have to do with me? I’m neither a pecan nor an apple tree.” The old man snickered again. “Ah, you’re right, Eileen. But what the trees tell me is that they don’t waste time trying to be something they’re not. And neither should you. Be only who you are. The other thing is that, well, uh….trees don’t apologize for growing new leaves and branches. Nor do they intentionally stay small in an effort to appear humble. So, like the trees, don’t be afraid to grow. You don’t do yourself any favors by shrinking, holding back, or hiding your gifts. Does that make sense to you?” “Sure it does. Thanks.” Eileen pulled her jacket’s hood over her head and wrapped her arms around her body. “Looks like you’re feeling a wee bit chilled.” The old man shivered and pulled his jacket closer to his body. “Indeed, the air has turned crisp, and it’ll be dark soon. We probably should head back.” The old man stood up and pulled Eileen up. “There’s no need to hurry, though.” As they ambled their way back through the orchard, the old man paused and looked around. “Do you realize that a tree never hurries? It’s as if every movement is in keeping with its strengths and abilities. So, never hurry. Instead, come to know your own strengths and abilities. Then you’ll feel confident and won’t need to hurry or strain.” Halcyon - Fall 2014 | 12

Eileen and the old man made their way back to the campfire where they sat down next to each other and soaked in the warmth and comfort of the open campfire. The old man closed his eyes savoring the moment. “Walking through the orchard sometimes exhausts me,” he opened his eyes. “But I need to come here from time to time. Just being here gives me such peace.” “Me, too.” Eileen placed her arm around the old man’s shoulders and hugged him. “I cherish you old man and relish moments like these that we spend together here in the orchard.” The old man opened his eyes and focused on the distant tree line. “Throughout the many seasons, I’ve observed the trees in this orchard transform themselves. By December these trees will be naked; they’ll huddle together like football players on the sidelines of a frozen field; their arms and hands will shudder and cry in the strong, dry, cold air. In April, donning their fragile new umbrellas, they will welcome the water as it drips off their tender leaves onto the ground below. But by June, they will stand strong and full proudly reaching their limbs up toward the clouds.” He turned and faced Eileen. “I’ve come to understand that the trees readily accept the passing of their seasons and don’t resist the inevitable, for they understand that the passing of each season is part of a grander plan.” “Why are you telling me this, old man?” Eileen wrinkled her forehead and bit the inside of her cheek. The old man kissed her softly on the cheek. “Because, Eileen, I don’t have many seasons left.” “I know.” Eileen sniffed back the tears. “But who will share the wisdom of the orchard with me when you’re gone?” “That’s why I walked you through the orchard today and shared the secrets I’ve learned from listening to the trees. Take comfort in the fact that my spirit will remain here with you amongst the trees. And whenever you need guidance, take a walk alone through the shafts of light and the fragrant breezes. Be still and open your heart. Listen to the trees and learn from the secrets they whisper on the rustling wind.” The old man snuffed out the fire; the afternoon melted into dusk; and the whispering leaves all but hushed. Eileen and the old man embraced one another and watched as the sky above them turned to a light, dusky purple littered with tiny silver stars. And all about them was still, shadowy, and sweet.

SARA ETGEN-BAKER retired three years

ago and began fulfilling her life-long dream of writing memoirs, short stories, and personal narratives. Her manuscripts have won several contests and have been published in anthologies, Halcyon Magazine, Page & Spine Magazine, The Storyteller Magazine and at womensmemoirs.com. Her manuscript “Intangible Ingredients,” received Honorable Mention in the 2013 Euple Riney Memorial Award. You may visit Sara at her blog at http://saraetgenbaker.blogspot.com.

Leaves

by Christy Anna Jones

erhaps they are not leaves that rain from the sky like the first electric snow. Perhaps each leaf is a person. And in this season of dormancy, life calls each leaf, each spirit, home. It is not a dance then, it is a funeral, this final hopping and stepping and twirling each leaf performs like a pig-tailed little girl showing off her new Easter dress, pastel green with pink ruffles like tie-dyed eggs, as she swirls and twirls to her grandparents’ delight. Each leaf that falls, that dances to its death, is hurtling to its next journey. Their final dance as they twirl and spin much to the delight of their maker who welcomes them home with glee. Meanwhile the mother tree looks down at the leaf piles, her limbs bare and empty and cold. And she cries. Meanwhile the leaves continue to fall. Each spirit dancing, joyously twirling and spinning, some falling hand in hand as they waltz into the after-world reunited at last. They end up in heaps on the gravel driveway. My car will run over them, crunch, crunch, crunching their bones. My dogs will run and chase each other and jump in their piles, and amongst the spirit remains, they will stop to pee. Leaves and bugs and ants and pee and worms and cockroaches and caterpillars and elephants and last night's macaroni will all eventually merge into one. Little piles of left-over-life meeting death—composting to form anew. Meanwhile the tree stands there helpless. She can rattle her arms, but that speeds along death, and she drops more of her babies, unable to catch them. She watches the ants marching, the cars crunching, the dogs peeing. And she cries, her falling leaves like falling tears. She could cry forever, but she knows she must get busy growing new leaves. She mourns and hopes her next batch will

live longer. She hopes this each year. And some do last longer – she has held on to some even through the change of seasons. But they have already died—crispy and crunchy and dry and brittle— like over-cooked bacon. They don’t know how to let go. They hold on too long. And that makes her sad too. To see them decompose in her arms. Because neither of them could let go. Sometimes after leaves have dropped, their spirits float and fall, they are not ready to go home. They refuse to pass. They spin and spin and hurl themselves closer to the mother tree trying again – in vain – to hold on. “No one told us what to do! What do we do? No one told us it would feel like floating. We don't want to go!” So they stay, and they play, and they visit their tree, and they visit my car, and go for rides on my windshield. They play with the dogs — “No, you’re not peeing on me!” they tease, and tickle the puppy on the nose; puppy jumps up and snaps back at the leaves in play. Sometimes she catches a leaf and chews it up in her mouth victoriously. Her tail wags in glee. And the leaf is happy. And so is the tree. And the puppy. And me, I’m happy too.

CHRISTY ANNA JONES, a writer and poet, holds a

BA in Psychology from the University of Georgia. Christy lives in Western Texas with her husband, cat, two dogs, two donkeys and ten cows. She enjoys running and writing and is addicted to Belvita Cookies. Her work has appeared, or is forthcoming, in Halcyon Magazine, Emerge Literary Journal, and more. Visit Christy at christyannajones.com. Halcyon - Fall 2014

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Haiku

By Janice Canerdy

cool windy day leaves and memories swirl deep in the woods

late September sun melts frost by mid-morning battle of seasons

JANICE CANERDY is a retired high-school English teacher from Potts Camp, Mississippi. Her poems have appeared in The Lyric, The Southern Poetry

Association Anthology(s),Bitterroot, The Road Not Taken, The Mississippi Poetry Society Journal(s), Lucid Rhythms, Encore, Victorian Violet, Cyclamens and Swords, Parody, The Atomic Comic, The Artistic Muse, and Every Day Poems: A Poem a Day. She is inspired to write by life in general and her grandchildren in particular. Contact Janice at jlcanerdy@yahoo.com. Left © Cosmic | Photoxpress.com ; Top © Alexander Simkin | Photoxpress.com

Firefly Burning Orange By James Croal Jackson Ride winds swiftly weaving, untethered by crickets’ chirping, owls’ hoots, feet rustling in wet grass.

JAMES CROAL JACKSON hails from Clinton, Ohio. He is a film and creative writing graduate of Baldwin Wallace University. James dips his feet in many waters. His publication credits include Columbia College Literary Review, Enaegon, The Metric, and others. He currently lives in Los Angeles. Visit his website at jimjakk.com or follow him on twitter at jimjakk. Halcyon - Fall 2014 | 14

Blues By Carol Hamilton Look up through leaves and the sky is bluer. She always said it turned the moment we crossed the state line into New Mexico. I know it puts on a show in autumn, especially above orange and golden leaves. Nothing and everything has been washed out of it. I am purer than I ever am then, sucked into infinity.

ÂŠ Maksim Tselishchev | Photoxpress.com

CAROL HAMILTON has upcoming and recent publications in Louisiana Review, Tribeca Poetry Review, Boston Literary Review, Atlanta Review, San Pedro River Review, THE AUROREAN, U.S.1 WORKSHEET, COLERE, A NARROW FELLOW, LILLIPUT, BLUESTEM, FLINT HILLS REVIEW, HUBBUB, BLUE UNICORN, SOW'S EAR POETRY, GRAY SPARROW REVIEW and others. She has published 16 books, children's novels, legends and poetry. She is a former Poet Laureate of Oklahoma and has been nominated five times for a Pushcart Prize. A new volume of poetry is soon to be published: SUCH DEATHS. Visit www.carolhamilton.org or contact her at hamiltoncj@earthlink.net. Halcyon - Fall 2014

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prophecy in silver By Joseph Farina the first frost visible only on rooftops this early october’s morning conveys its silent silvery spell on all of us hearts beat in rhythm with the slowing earth blood coursing to lunar winds warms crimson as apples ready to harvest seeds sleeping dream their resurrection fixed in frozen wombs in polar hemispheres we gather adorn with sprigs of evergreen tables heavy with tubers and gourds together in ancient prayers light the first fires warding away the pending winter’s oblivion © panda_71 | DollarPhotoClub

JOSEPH A. FARINA is a practicing lawyer in Sarnia, On. He has been published in many journals in Canada, the USA and Europe. He is the author of two books of poetry, The Cancer Chronicles and Ghosts of Water St. Contact Joseph at jfarina@cogeco.ca.

Corner of Sand and Salt By A. J. Huffman Fall winds transform into eruptive undertow, leaves shore littered with crushed pieces of shells, seaweed and unidentifiable odds and ends, resurfaced bits left by ghosts of tourists past. Gulls descend, do their best impressions of garbage men, carry off the pieces to be recycled. The rest lay dormant until the next finger of tide creeps in to erase the remnants of regurgitated remains.

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Trek To The Train By Kathy Foye The moon shone bright on the newly fallen snow. I make my way to the train. The sound of my boots crunching as I go my mind sings out the refrain… “Hi ho! Hi ho! It’s off to work I go!” With one more quick look over my shoulder, I leave my home on the farm. This morning my folks somehow looked older still feel Mom’s touch on my arm. On the horizon, the sun starts to glow glorious hues gold and red, and rainbows appear in glistening snow, as I dwell on what’s ahead. My step quickens unintentionally to a rhythm in my feet these boots are marching quite naturally Left right, left right, hear the beat! In the early morn I take in the sight and make my way down the street; with heavy heart I must do what is right, my destiny soon to meet. The sound of the train echoes through the town things sound diff'rent in the snow. Biting ice crystals whirl a raw wind down; one more mile to the Depot. “Hi ho! Hi ho! It’s off to work I go!” I catch up with my friend with a grimace; we shift the packs on our backs, pull up our collars and quicken our pace; we're now in sight of the tracks. Through the bitter cold, silently walking; the time has come - we must act. No more to say, no more need for talking, we are enforcing our pact. “Hi ho! Hi ho! It’s off to work we go!” I smell the aroma of fresh baked bread as I pass the Bakery; the Diner and Barber Shoppe fill my head with so many memories. A lump in my throat about what I’m leaving; my home and my future wife. I will champion what I believe in though I may pay with my life. There’s no turning back from what must be done. For our country we will fight! Our family, freedom and our Nation we will defend what is right! “Hi ho! Hi ho! It’s off to WAR we go!” © celeste clochard | DollarPhotoClub

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Autumn Leaves By Lorna Pominville Aspen leaves fluttering like tethered butterflies soon lose their grip and float to the ground. I watch the little whirlwind skittering closer like a whirling dervish, collapsing on my patio in a heap of dried leaves. As gusts of cold wind bend the frail trees at their waists, they shiver in their nakedness and flail their arms to release the last stubborn leaves.

AUTUMN HAIKU this cold autumn rain makes voice low and husky rusted by the weather

ÂŠ Oleksandr Dibrova | Photoxpress.com

LORNA POMINVILLE is a retired nurse living in Sarnia, Ontario and attends the writing group, WIT (Writers in Transition).

While traveling to various parts of the world working as a cruise ship nurse, she wrote monthly travel articles for an on-line magazine for eighteen months. In 2011 she wrote and self published a book of short stories titled, "Alpha! Alpha! Alpha! Tales of a Cruise Ship Nurse." The recent publication of WIT's anthology, And a River Runs By It, contains two of Lorna's short stories about Sarnia. She also dabbles in poetry. Contact Lorna at lornapominville@hotmail.com. Halcyon - Fall 2014 | 18

Haiku By Joan McNerney Shy autumnal bird did you brush against the moon to get that pale down?

----What discus player threw a tangerine moon on top of Main Street?

JOAN MCNERNEY’S poetry has been included in numerous literary magazines such as Seven Circle Press, Dinner with the Muse, Blueline, Spectrum, three Bright Spring Press Anthologies and several Kind of A Hurricane Publications. She has been nominated three times for Best of the Net. Four of her books have been published by fine small literary presses. Contact Joan at poetryjoan@statetel.com. © 14ktgold | Photoxpress.com

Freefall By Cheryl Atkinson Dipped in earthtones and sunset hues, They leave their precarious perch To ride on the waves of the wind Spinning and twirling until Landing gently on the ground.

Halcyon - Fall 2014

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Windchimes By Janet McCann They carry from the neighbor’s On a crisp fall wind, Speaking their crystal syllables. Like the nuns’ in the convent Of my childhood, She said they spoke of angels. These nuns had patience, did not Snap rulers over knuckles, Discern the devil. They wore plain brown habits That swayed in the wind, Their clear voices mingling With the windchimes’ jingle. Calling each other’s names over the yard. Doing the same things every day, Happy in the gentle yoke of habit, Grateful for the food and for the fields, For the tinkling laughter of the wind. © Sue Colvil | Photoxpress.com

JANET MCCANN is an old Texas poet who has been teaching Creative Writing at Texas A&M since 1969. Most recent poetry book: THE CRONE AT THE CASINO, Lamar University Press, 2013. Contact Janet at j-mccann1@tamu.edu.

An Exercise in Haiku By Debbie Okun Hill weeping willow bends autumn leaves tumble on grass morning aerobics

DEBBIE OKUN HILL is currently on tour with her first book of poetry: Tarnished Trophies (Black Moss Press). She is a member of the

League of Canadian Poets and a recipient of two Ontario Arts Council grants through the Writers’ Reserve Program. Visit Debbie’s website at www.okunhill.wordpress.com. Halcyon - Fall 2014 | 20

The Emerald in the Oaks By Irene Ferraro-Sives There is magic in the changing seasons, in the turning of autumn leaves, and in the love between a mother and daughter.

he web of stars seemed to shake in the stiff breeze. It was the tree branches framing the sky that made it seem so. The lattice-work of branches was moving in the wind, not the stars in the sky. If you looked nowhere but up, you might not know that. The diamond points of light bounced from one scantilyleafed limb to the other. They twinkled in fiery rainbows. The little child walked beneath the bustling trees, the raining stars. She walked in her slippers and fleecy robe as © Alonbou | Photoxpress.com bright orange leaves splattered the inky blackness. The wind rocked the autumn night, knocking down acorns and twigs, some stuck with foliage. She was alone in the night, but not for long. A voice found her in the darkness, and called her name. “Esther! Esther! What in the name of holiness are you doing out here? Come back to me, baby,” a woman’s voice called to the child. “I’m coming, Mommy.” She ran back to her mother who was standing in a cloak of light by her front steps. As Esther ran, the wind continued to swirl the trees and stars. A clattering shower of tree debris fell to the ground. One of the acorns that fell to earth was different from the others. It caught the fire of the stars with green flame of its own. Esther grabbed it in her hand and held it in her little fist as she returned to her relieved mother. “Esther, what were you doing out here?” “I was going for a walk, Mommy.” “We don’t go out for walks in the middle of the night, especially not in our nighties and slippers!” When Esther was tucked in bed, she opened her hand. The small object glittered in the halo of the nightlight. Esther pulled off the soft stem that had held this strange acorn to the oak. The small object now resembled the green stone Mommy sometimes wore on a chain around her neck. Esther knew it was called an emerald. She didn’t know that emeralds grew on oak trees, like an acorn, until now. Esther heard a whisper in the hushed darkness. “You heard me when I called you. You came outside and found me.” The acorn emerald was speaking to her, which was peculiar, as Mommy’s pendant, and stones in general, did not speak. “Who are you?” asked Esther. “Come outside. You will find me, if you look for me,” said the emerald. “I’ll come look for you when it’s day again,” said Esther.

As the child had learned, the rushing darkness turned to light. The rolling stars collided with the sun and scattered scarlet beacons over the sleepy rooftops. Mommy came in and touched Esther on the shoulder. Topaz sunbeams had danced through the girl’s window. Now, they were prancing on her bed. Esther opened her eyes. “It’s time to get up, sweetheart.” The wind had not ceased to cause the bronzed hues of nature to roll and tumble. Morning flashed across newly opened eyes. Before the daily routine established itself , Esther ventured outside. Her newly combed hair stood up in fright at the behest of every breeze. She opened her fist to reveal the emerald. She waited in the garden, which was withering in crimson glory. “I’m here now,” said Esther. A child emerged from the shadows of a dwindling hydrangea bush. She arrived while the busy day was still yawning. Esther knew she was the magic child of the acorn emerald. “You came because I called you to me,” said Esther, “ Look, I have the emerald acorn.” She held out the verdure stone to the little girl, who somewhat resembled Esther. “I knew you would come when I called, even if you found me in the wind, when it’s cold, or under the leaves. You are as bright as autumn, as sweet as a candy treat,” said the girl, who began to giggle. “I’m glad you like me. I like you, too,” said Esther. The child smiled with glowing pleasure. Then, with an impish glance at Esther, she snatched the emerald from Esther’s open palm, and ran away. She disappeared beyond the rioting garden and into the tumbling day. Esther was left looking at the space where the child had been. “Esther? Hurry, we don’t want to be late,” said her mother. “She left, Mommy. Do you think I will see her, again, “ asked Esther. “Who is this we’re talking about?” asked Esther’s mom. “I found an emerald growing in the trees. The wind blew it down with the acorns and leaves. It talked to me and I found a little girl in the bushes. She was here just now, but she’s gone. Will I see her, again?” asked Esther. Esther’s mother thought quietly. She turned her daughter’s words to look at them from all sides. Then, she began to speak.“I think you will see the little girl again when you are a grown woman. She will return on the wind-blown stars and you will cradle her in her arms. She will call you Mommy, just like you call me. I think you saw her future, your own little girl. I know this because you are my emerald, so she must be yours,” she said. Esther began to smile, too. “Someday, the wind will blow, and other acorns will fall down,” said Esther. “The acorns are my emeralds. I will hold them in my hands and they will shine, for me.”

IRENE FERRARO-SIVES was born in Brooklyn, NY. She currently lives in New Jersey with her husband. Irene has been writing since she was nine. Halcyon - Fall 2014

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The Farm Cat By Donna M. Davis The cat in her autumn suit of calico hides in the foxtails and confides to the night. She sings of spilled grain on plank barn floors and fat little mice who wear no colors. She sees pumpkins afloat on the round earth and swallows asleep in the eaves of the hayloft. At evening’s end in her private kingdom, she rests beneath the canary moon. Her eyes close on bird songs, fragile mouse whispers, and prayers for wide and silent wings. © mariesacha | DollarPhotoClub

The Comforting Pumpkin By Donna M. Davis Ribbed curves, longitudinal lines converge at its poles. Globe of harvest worlds, its continents carved into eyes and mouths, ragged smiles lit by votive candles. Stolen from porches. Rolled down streets. Broken into pieces. Inside out with fibrous underwear exposed. Fragments line curbsides, sunken heads, large bowls of empty. We say thank you and good night to the almighty gourd, wish it back to wholeness, a gazing ball of fields in fall time, tapping of fingers testing the hard skin, fat again with yellow flesh for soups, sauces, crenulated pastries, the winter arriving in festival and feast.

DONNA M. DAVIS is a former English teacher and current owner of a book design and resume service in Central New York. Her poetry has appeared in Comstock Review and its precursor Poetpourri, The Milo Review, The Centrifugal Eye, The Altadena Review, Latitudes, and others. Halcyon - Fall 2014 | 22

A.J. HUFFMAN (p5, 16) has published seven solo chapbooks and one joint chapbook through various small presses. Her eighth solo chapbook, Drippings from a Painted Mind, won the 2013 Two Wolves Chapbook Contest. She also has a full-length poetry collection scheduled for release in June 2005, titled, A Few Bullets Short of Home (mgv2>publishing). She is a Pushcart Prize nominee, and her poetry, fiction, and haiku have appeared in hundreds of national and international journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, Bone Orchard, EgoPHobia, Kritya, and Offerta Speciale, in which her work appeared in both English and Italian translation. She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press (ww.kindofahurricanepress.com). CHERYL ATKINSON (p19) lives in Mullins SC. She enjoys photography, reading and writing poetry on occasion. She is the proud aunt of eight great nieces and nephews (which includes two that married into the family) and is excitedly waiting to meet her first great niece.

DAY MERRILL (p9) is an American born writer who spent her youth and early working years in New England, teaching Language Arts for 8 years after majoring in English and Education. She then moved to New York City, living in and around the Big Apple for 20 years, working as a university administrator and career coach, the profession she continues to practice. She relocated to Canada in 1995 and resides in Collingwood, Ontario on the shores of Georgian Bay. While her first published poem appeared in her college literary magazine, Day set aside writing to pursue career and family, taking up the craft again at age 60. She is now working on several volumes of poetry, a first novel and a poetry-enhanced book on recovering from being fired. She shares her home with a husband, a rescue cat and dog and the occasional interloper from the wild. Contact Day at daymerrill@rogers.com. JEAN MARIE COLE (p4) has been called a poet over the years as she has a pensive for the written word. She has studied art, has had also had her poetry and art work in galleries, in London and the Sarnia Area. The art and poetry are often paired together for they complement each other with both having much the same colorful style with strong lines for tension. The poem’s rhythms have an uplifting beat and a strong visual sense that carry a person on a spiritual journey, communicating a faith for a new tomorrow and the potential for inner strength with new possibilities of reaching higher levels. Jean Marie’s visions and dreams come out showing a sense of self esteem, often with humor, that people see for themselves and want to have her work as a form of encouragement to not take our dear selves too seriously. KATHLEEN FOYE (p17) started married life as an Army wife. She went to Europe where her husband-to-be was stationed and they married in Switzerland. For the next three years, the Army was family and some of those friendships are still good today. Traveling Europe when possible and starting a family was all a huge adventure! As a past President of the American Legion Auxiliary, she is still patriotic and very proud of our military. *** Authors note: “Trek to the Train” was written in honor of my dad and father in law, as well as my husband. I was trying to imagine the mindset of the young men going off to war – the urgency and the pride – as well as the fear they must have felt, not knowing what they faced. NORMA WEST LINDER (p6) is Past President of the Sarnia Branch of the Canadian Authors Association, a member of The Writers’ Union of Canada, The Ontario Poetry Society, and Writers in Transition. Author of 5 novels, 12 collections of poetry, a memoir of Manitoulin Island, a children’s book, a biography of Pauline McGibbon, and numerous short stories, published internationally and aired over the CBC. For 24 years, she taught English at Lambton College in Sarnia. Linder wrote a weekly column for The Observer for seven years. Her latest publications are Adder’s-tongues, a poetry collection edited by James Deahl, and a collection of short stories, No Common Thread, released in August of 2013 from Hidden Brook Press. She has two daughters and a son. Halcyon - Fall 2014

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FALL 2014

Halcyon I hope life brings you many colorful snapshots this season! Thanks for reading the 2014 fall issue of Halcyon.

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