Halcyon summer 2015

Halcyon

Halcyon - Summer 2015

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Halcyon Magazine Summer 2015 Table of Contents Monique Berry 3 A Word From the Founder Bruce McRae 4 Words Without Jason Constantine Ford 6 A Bird Above the World Maria S. Picone 7 Photo Donna M. Davis 8 Owasco Lake Park 8 Dream House 9 The Shore of my Youth Debbie Richard 10 Unrestrained 11 Grandmother’s Vines Sara Etgen-Baker 12 A Child’s Solution, A Mother’s Lesson Robert Lampros 15 Love Scenes II Bobbi Sinha-Morey 16 Summer Hymn 16 Rainbow Ridge Richard King Perkins II 17 Cascade of Radiance Lorna Pominville 18 The Beach 19 The Storm Tracey Levine 20 It’s Time To Be Something Joan McNerney 22 July 23 SeaScape at Sunrise 23 SeaScape at Sunset © sattriani | DollarPhotoClub

Halcyon Magazine ISSN: 2291-0255 Frequency: Quar ter ly Publisher|Designer: Monique Ber r y

Contact Info http://halcyonmagazine.blogspot.ca Twitter: @1websurfer monique.editor@gmail.com

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Special Notices Halcyon has one time rights.

See website for subscription details.

No photocopies allowed.

A Word From the Founder Welcome to summer 2015!

I am honored to welcome two new contributors into the Halcyon family: Maria S. Picone and Tracey Levine. Mar ia submitted the first photo, and Tr acey teaches creative writing and film courses. I appreciate your literary talent and encourage you to send more of your creative inspiration for the next issue.

A few weeks ago, Periscope—a new app for smartphones and iPad’s—appeared on iOS. It “lets you broadcast live video to the world. Going live will instantly notify your followers who can join, comment and send you hearts in real time.” Oh, how I wish I were at some of the stunning locations shown in the magazine! By the way, if you’d like to follow me, search for @PeriTraveler on Periscope or Twitter. The locations aren’t as glorious as the photos found inside, but one needs to find beauty wherever they are, right?

Finally, do you like Halcyon’s new look? If so, comment on the website or send me an email. That’s it for now. Until next time, keep cool, stay safe and enjoy the read.

Monique Berry Founder | Editor | Writer

MONIQUE BERRY is the founder of Halcyon, Perspectives, and Twisted Endings and is launching a new magazine in September 2015. She has published stories and poems in Quills, Personal Journaling, The Sitter’s Companion, Searching for Answers Anthology, and Rock Bottom Journal. Monique is pursuing a career in photography and is working on her first novel The Dream Machine.

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Words Without

By Bruce McRae What the forest said to the ocean.

What the heron cried out to the bee.

The red angel confiding in the dove – words without the saying of words, all of which have gone unrecorded…

Lying here, the hours made waste.

Eavesdropping on late summer, truths spoken in high sibilance and über-utterance of low mumbles, the farmer mowing his sun-burnt hay, paired raptors spiraling overhead, their Jurassic cawing chilling.

But what do the deer speak of in their gentle ruminations?

And the green things under a drought-blue sky?

Listening hard for the poetry of longing.

Hearing the waves slip ashore, time making its speech to the greater disinterest.

A song in the upper registers.

A wish unspoken.

What do the deer speak of In their gentle ruminations?

Pushcart nominee Bruce McRae is a Canadian musician with over 900 poems published around the world.

His first book, ‘The So-Called Sonnets’, is available via Silenced Press. To see and hear more poems go to ‘BruceMcRaePoetry’ on YouTube.

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A Bird Above the World

by Jason Constantine Ford It passes through the air of summer heat With a vast array of colors complete Ranging from blue, red, yellow and green.

No eyes can count the flaps from each wing As its’ swift movements are strokes that bring It closer to the touch of clouds serene.

Within the atmosphere where it flies, It is freed from the gaze of human eyes As it is reaching a range of mountains tall.

From great heights above the mortal world, A single bird’s vision is now unfurled As other forms of life are becoming small.

No eyes can count the flaps from each wing... to the touch of clouds serene.

Jason Constantine Ford is fr om Per th in Austr alia, and wor ks as an employee at a book shop. He has over ninety publications of poetry and fiction in various poetry and literary magazines, ezines and journals from around the world such as the Cortland Reivew, the Criterion: an International Journal in English, the Muse: an International Journal of Poetry, Bewildering Stories, and Poetry Magazine. The major influences on his style of poetry are William Blake, Edgar Alan Poe and Gerard Manley Hopkins. Jason’s main influences for short stories are Bram Stroker and Phillip K. Dick. For correspondence, contact Jason at jasonconstantinford@gmail.com.

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Maria S. Picone is a wr iter , painter , and photogr apher living in Boulder , Color ado. She studies fiction wr iting at Goddar d College. Maria loves to volunteer and travel, most recently having done both in a rural village in Cambodia. Her website is mariaspicone.com, or you can follow her on Twitter @mspicone. Š Maria S. Picone | Taken on the Bondi to Coogee Beach walking paths in Sydney, Australia.

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Owasco Lake Park (Summer 1956)

By Donna M. Davis Checkered cloths riffled off picnic table slats and charcoal grills sizzled to life.

Families rode the carousel with pastel horses and natty frogs in bright red vests.

Couples crossed the rocky bridge to a record studio, where acapella singers crooned show tunes.

Silver swings seemed loftier than pines.

Girls and boys flew away on them.

Daring aerialists with muscled arms sailed them through the azure sky.

One crew cut man with sunburned skin, pushed his swing to dangerous heights, wrapped a three-sixty round the upper post and smoothly wound it back again.

I still remember it all, how it felt to be a child, the sand pails on the beach, the seagulls on the pier, the rotund grandmothers with rubber-flowered caps transformed by the soothing water, nimbly bobbing up and down. on that summer afternoon so long ago.

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Dream House (Sanibel Island)

By Donna M. Davis Sand swallows the imaginary steps that lead to the screen door.

Wind chimes clink against the worn wooden frame painted white by salty air.

Inside a desk swims in paper, a fountain pen waits for random words to flow in cursive whorls, for the chambers of a conch to whisper songs of crashing waves.

I’ll spend my summer walking on the shore, watch ocean sunsets with their molten fires melting on the shell-strewn beach, the eternal osprey flying past an unwary, startled sandpiper. © wilhei | Pixabay.com

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The Shore of My Youth

By Donna M. Davis I thought I could do anything; told my uncle I knew how to row, even though I never had before.

I untethered his boat from the dock, pulled on the oars and set out on my own.

It was like a scene from a movie, where a boy was gliding his boat on the cinematic river.

A serene light shone in his eyes.

Geese propelled their grey bodies around him, wings lofting them above the ash trees.

I drifted along on summer’s zephyr.

Neighbors’ piers passed by with lake houses, lawn chairs, and contented old men perched on redwood porches.

Then the boat ran away, turned in circles, heading toward the rough pilings.

My uncle retrieved me with his outboard, a mile downstream, saying sheer pluck had got me there, and not my rowing.

Earlier, before I’d left the dock, he’d proudly snapped a shot of me waving goodbye, face full of delight and expectation, whose eyes would never leave that shore behind.

Donna M. Davis is a centr al New Yor k poet and for mer English teacher . For many year s, she has owned and oper ated a business specializing in book design and resume writing. Her poetry has been published in Red River Review, Ilya’s Honey, Halcyon Magazine, Oddball Magazine, The Milo Review, The Centrifugal Eye, Comstock Review, Poetpourri, the Altadena Review, and others.

Additional poems are forthcoming in Gingerbread House and Poecology magazines. She was a special merit winner in one of Comstock Review’s national awards contests. She recently published a chapbook entitled Several Ways to Look at the Stars. © ewirz | Pixabay.com

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Unrestrained

By Debbie Richard A fishing pier was in the distance with a gazebo at the far end.

I’ve been on that pier several times before, walked out to the very end, where there was nothing on the horizon but sea and sky – an awesome sight. If I’d climbed up

on the rail at the end of the pier, which is shaped like the bow of a ship, threw my arms out in sweet abandon, tilted my head back, letting the sea breeze whip my hair, perhaps I’d feel like Rose on that unsinkable ship.

Contact Debbie...

Email: poet@debbierichard.com Website: www.debbierichard.com Author page on FB: (Debbie Richard, Author) https://www.facebook.com/#!/debbierichard.hillsofhome

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If I’d … tilted my head back, letting the sea breeze whip my hair, perhaps I’d feel like Rose on that unsinkable ship.

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Grandmother’s Vines

By Debbie Richard It was still daylight on those end-of-summer evenings when we, as children, were put to bed early, though it was still light outside and grandmother was in her garden, working.

The cow milked, the chickens fed, and the supper dishes washed and put away.

Now, at day’s end, she turns to her garden, a place of quietude, where alone, in tranquility she plucks the legumes, the rest of her day complete.

All that remains – the pungent smell of bean vines.

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Debbie Richard is a member of South Car olina 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.

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A Child’s Solution, A Mother’s Lesson

by Sara Etgen-Baker Summer is always hot and humid in Texas. So what is the best way to escape the relentless Texas heat? Read? Ride a bicycle? Dip in a nearby swimming pool? In this story the narrator’s seemingly simple solution turns awry. orth Texas summers are always hot, humid, and quite dry. But in the summer of 1959, scorching sunlight and intense heat ignited one of the worst droughts on record.

The sidewalks sizzled and roasted my bare feet, and the July heat permeated the already parched ground in front of our home leaving huge cracks and crevices. The grassy lawns—yellow and burnt—smelled like bales of hay that had been sitting in the summer fields too long.

N

Next, mother tied one of her delicate handkerchiefs around my wrist and told me, “Be careful with this. Inside it is 25 cents so you can stop along the way and get something to drink.”

We couldn’t afford air conditioning so mother always opened the windows wide—even though the air outside was motionless.

As the day progressed the stagnant, oppressive, and suffocating heat singed the air in our tiny two-bedroom home. I often spent my summer days quietly sitting by the open windows reading a book, and—despite the motionless air—smelling the sweet odor of mother’s honeysuckle vines.

She calmly turned and closed the screen door behind her. Even though my ego was bruised, I had to save face. I felt I now had no other way but to hop aboard my bike. So, I rode my it to a nearby park, camped under a huge shade tree, cried, and listened to the locusts’ soothing summertime lullaby. When I awoke, I smelt the handkerchief; it smelled like my mother. I knew I had to go home.

Occasionally, I escaped outdoors riding my Schwinn bike up and down the neighborhood streets pedaling at white heat speed until I could feel bursts of warm air blowing across my face and shoulders. When I stopped, though, I could both feel and see the heat waves rising around me—baking my bones and roasting the rubber tires.

As I pedaled home I wondered what I should say and do if mother, in fact, would let me back home. I parked my bike removing the suitcase and sack lunch then gingerly opened the screen door. As I entered the living room, mother momentarily looked up from her crossword puzzle and said, “Glad you’re home.”

I was tempted to ride my bike to the city pool and jumping into the cool water. But I stopped. For I knew better than to go without asking my mother. So, I pedaled home as fast as I could and offered my seemingly simple solution to the summer heat.

I returned to my bedroom, unpacked my suitcase, and then ventured back to the living room where I sat next to mother on the couch. She hugged me in silence, smiled, and kissed me on the forehead. Thankfully, my mother was not prone to indignation, guilt, or “I told you so.” Running away is not the solution for disappointment, frustration, and anger—a life lesson lovingly taught without ever saying a word.

“It’s soooo hot, Mama! May I go swimming today?”

“No, sweetie, you may not. It’s too expensive to go swimming.”

I was speechless and dumbfounded as she took my hand and escorted me out the front door placing my lunch sack and tiny suitcase in the rear saddlebags of my Schwinn bike. She hugged me and said, “Now call me when you get to Granny’s house. I love you.”

“But I want to go swimming; all the other kids are going swimming. Pleeease, Mama, please!”

“No!” insisted mother. “Don’t ask me again!”

I pouted, ran past her, and shouted, “Well, fine! I’m running away from home—to Granny’s house. I bet she’ll take me swimming.”

With that proclamation, I entered my bedroom and slammed the door—huge mistake. My mother had zero tolerance for back talking and door slamming. “What was I thinking?” I asked myself.

Surprisingly, mother didn’t immediately appear at my door. She eventually opened it brandishing a doll suitcase and a brown paper bag stating, “If you’re going to run away, you’ll need a suitcase. Let me help you pack a few things.”

With that mother opened my dresser drawers; grabbed a change of clothes and my pajamas; then gently closed the lid and said, “I’ve called your grandmother, and she’s expecting you. Oh, here’s a sack lunch with a peanut butter sandwich and bag of potato chips. Now, give me your wrist.”

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Sara Etgen-Baker has been retired five years and has also been published in Chicken Soup for the Soul: Reboot Your Life. Her manuscript, "The September Wind" took first prize in an international contest and was published in the anthology entitled Times They W ere A Changin' which highlights the stories of women who encountered or participated in the women's movement in the 60s and 70s.

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Love Scenes II

By Robert Lampros

Distance

Home

Two solid lines down the middle of the road. Two solid white lines, as far as the eye could see.

The stands were almost all filled at the ballpark. The vivid green seemed to shine amid the thousands of red and white hats and jerseys in the crowd. The only people on the field were the grounds crew and three umpires.

“Have you ever run this far?” he asked her.

“How far are we running?”

“Do you think we’re going to win today?” asked Lisa.

“Well, I don’t know. If we cross the bridge and come up along the river I’d say ten, twelve miles.”

“So about a half marathon?”

“I think we’ll win. We’ve got a great team this year,” said Roger. “If we don’t lose heart, we’ll win.”

The day was cloudy and a gentle breeze was moving through the stadium. “Look, even the highest rows are filling up now.”

“Yeah, just about.”

Roger looked up at the fans shuffling in to find their seats. He turned and asked her, “When you think about heaven, do you think of it as a place, like a giant castle in the sky, or is it more like a feeling, like joy or peace or love?”

“I ran the mile every year in high school,” she said.

“The one-mile?”

“Yep.” Roger shook his head.

“What?”

“Maybe we should just go fishing or something.”

“What? No way. We drove all the way out here, I’m rocking these wicked new running shoes… Let’s go.” Lisa quit stretching and hopped over to the right side of the shoulder. “Don’t feel bad when I’m back at the car and you’re still on the bridge trying to catch your breath.”

The car sat alone in the lot beside the lake, and they were on the roof looking up at the stars.

“Okay, don’t you feel bad when I’m at the river and you’re back at the one-mile mark.” He walked up and placed his left foot even with hers on the pavement.

They turned and looked each other in the eye.

“Ready.”

“Set.” “Go!”

Time The car sat alone in the lot beside the lake, and they were on the roof looking up at all the stars. “I couldn’t ever see it though,” he was saying. “I’d always look toward the north, but I never saw the star there.”

“Can you see it now?” she asked.

He glanced at the trees to the west of the lake, then over to the east where the road curved along the hillside. “There, right above the moon.”

A car rolled past them, making its way up the hill. “Why couldn’t you see it when you were a kid?”

Robert Lampros lives in St. Louis, Missour i. He earned a Bachelor's degree in English Literature from Washington University in St. Louis, and studied Christian Ministry at Liberty University. "Love Scenes II" is the second story he's published. The first part of the story, "Love Scenes," was printed in the 2015 spring edition of Halcyon.

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Summer Hymn

By Bobbi Sinha-Morey In her eyes is a garden with peonies, tinkling pagodas, round-arched bridges over still lakes.

By the water, a blue and pink caftan wrapped about her like silken wings, she hears the voice of summer rising like a hymn so freely given, petals of apple blossoms a silent ballet in the wind. The glint of sun on her face, and on the orchids, delicate as a young bird's tongue. Her heart, woken by the advent of sunset, created by light; a waft of signature butterflies in the air.

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Rainbow Ridge

By Bobbi Sinha-Morey Spirited from her sleep, she spreads her arms like placid wings, the morning air outside her open window all awash with her imaginary angels.

So rapt in the quiet of her bed, gazing up at the blue lace in heaven's heights, her mind in purest play, the scent of clean linen still present from the other day. Her soul ascends once more in a sovereign floating of joy, her heart in its bloom.

There is no pool at dawn that deepens her face like this does. The sun's fields, her room spilling over in summer's gold. She holds it close to her dreams on Rainbow Ridge.

Bobbi Sinha-Morey is a poet living in the peaceful city of Brookings, Oregon. Her poetry can be seen in places such as Orbis, Pirene's Fountain, Plainsongs, Open Window Review, and others. Bobbi’s books of poetry are available at Amazon.com © taitai6769 | DollarPhotoClub and www.writewordsinc.com. You can visit her website at http://bobbisinhamorey.wordpress.com.

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Cascade of Radiance

By Richard King Perkins II Light descends— the last sunset its edges plumed out like a tree-of-heaven veins of saffron blend with stillness staghorn coral builds, climbing water to sky an orange coal hanging in deepest blue with moonrise all else subsides.

Richard King Perkins II is a state-sponsored advocate for residents in long-term care facilities. He lives in Crystal Lake, IL with his wife, Vickie and daughter, Sage. He is a three-time Pushcart nominee and a Best of the Net nominee whose work has appeared in more than a thousand publications. In a six-year period, his poems have appeared in The Louisiana Review, Bluestem, Emrys Journal, Sierra Nevada Review, Roanoke Review, The Red Cedar Review and Crannog. He has poems forthcoming in The William and Mary Review, Sugar House Review, Old Red Kimono and Milkfist. He was a recent finalist in The Rash Awards, Sharkpack Alchemy, Writer’s Digest and Bacopa Literary Review poetry contests. © Juhku | DollarPhotoClub.com

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Beaches

By Lorna Pominville Strolling along the sandy beach, sand sifts between my toes.

Oh how I love summer.

Bright sun kisses rosy cheeks, light breeze tosses my hair.

Oh how I love summer.

Lake Huron meets clear blue sky, waves undulate and shimmer.

Oh how I love summer.

Surfboarders bobbing on the waves deftly dodge sailboats and swimmers.

Oh how they love summer.

Children squeal with delight as they splash in shallow water.

Oh how they love summer.

Families erect tall sand castles.

Teenagers work on their tans.

Oh how they love summer.

Lucky we are to have fine beaches, they rival those anywhere in the land.

Oh how we all love summer.

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The Storm

By Lorna Pominville Surf whipped into frothy lace by gale force winds, shimmer in the noonday sun.

Waves crash onto seawalls sending spray high into the air.

Boaters return to shore, their outing cut short by the threatening storm.

Mothers round up their children, pack up the family vans, head for home.

They remember the havoc of the great 1973 storm, when mighty lake Huron unleashed her wrath.

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.

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It’s Time To Be Something

By Tracey Levine

O

n the drive to Enchanted Rock, the neutral colors of the land beneath the electric midday sky washed me from the car window. I quickly took everything in, even the cacti coming up from the ground amidst the tiny dots of man-ridden horses like staccato notes stabbing through at just the right time.

We parked and headed straight for the largest singular rock in the world, climbing over smaller boulders, leaping over mini-gorges that dropped into nothingness. My untreaded sneakers didn’t help me as I began to climb. My enthusiastic friend wasn’t doing much better. He pointed to the real rock shaped like a malformed meatball against that Texan sky the color of forever. When we really focused on it we saw the line of people climbing like a shimmering mythological rope.

He pointed to the real rock shaped like a malformed meatball against that Texan sky the color of forever. When we really focused on it we saw the line of people climbing like a shimmering mythological rope.

When we started to climb the real rock, the man-made steps depressed me. I’d thought as we drove across the state, feeling the heat skitter into the car and leave just as quickly as it came, as we slowed and then accelerated, that I could deal with this peace I’d found with my friend who happily drove letting me be the passenger, both of us content, for a very long time. I’d thought we’d just look at the rock but when I actually looked at it, looked up at the top from the bottom, feeling the shadows of large birds of prey circling but pleasantly leaving the small and momentary reprieve from the sun that their bodies offered us, I wanted to make it to the top.

My friend went on ahead when it became clear that I was hesitant, laughing at the fact that I usually experienced things like I did at museums, looking on from a short distance in a safe and controlled space. I climbed, and it seemed that the rope I had seen had thinned as if the many people who had been climbing must have disintegrated by the time I got there, but my perception must have been skewed. There were babies primitively strapped to the backs of some adults, and the steep crooked stairs weren’t easy to climb, but I climbed.

As I continued, the sky stretched out until it had no end. There weren’t any clouds and this clarity was humbling, it’s perfection overwhelming but it was a warm sky that day. I eventually found myself walking on a tilt and I momentarily thought that I needed to change my mind about everything, that I might have been wrong but I blamed the altitude for this confusion. My friend who was higher than I repeatedly waved his arms in an X over his head. I shook my head and decided to rest on a nearby rock the shape of a couch. I fell into it and then the sky had vertigo. I wanted to forgive and be forgiven for everything.

The rest of the climb became easier because I’d been doing it for a while. When I got to the top and we sat there, dehydrated and dusty, but only feeling that dust like gentle, caressing hands, we saw our planet. I put my hand on my friend’s shoulder and he put his on mine. I closed my eyes and wished, It was the first time that you weren’t there although I thought of you, and any heaviness you left rose out of me and went painlessly into that sky. When I opened them, my friend and I got up and we looked down, knowing that we were seeing something entirely new.

Tracey Levine gr ew up in northeast Philadelphia and teaches creative writing and film courses at Arcadia University where she coordinates the creative writing concentration for undergraduates. She earned a BFA in screenwriting from University of the Arts, an MA in English from Arcadia University, and a MFA in fiction from Syracuse University. She has worked on many documentary projects for WHYY and her creative writing work has appeared in Verbal Seduction, Metropolis VoxPop, A Manner of Being, Literary Mothers, The Literary Yard, and The Philadelphia City Paper.

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July

By Joan McNerney This sun is a giant beach ball and we can play all day.

Waters creep over my feet.

Should I stand shivering or go swim?

Loose my footprint?

Waters creep over my feet.

Should I stand shivering or go swim? Lose my footprint?

Off I run, falling over myself, a mug of salty cider. This wave an insecure bed. Seaweed pillow. Carried by moon to an abyss.

The floor of my sea mansion is not tidy. I shall have sponges for lunch. Ride with seahorses perhaps.

On the far shore, my lover smiles, kiss of surf.

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SeaScape at Sunrise

By Joan McNerney Let's dive in ocean hiss swish riding with bluewhales, bluewaves.

Brush of foam and windy ripples sunbeams chasing quicksilver fish.

Floating through our shining world fragrant clouds, feathery clouds.

We weave one arm after another wearing bracelets of salt pearl.

SeaScape at Sunset

By Joan McNerney My mind is an ocean where swimmers, surfers, sun worshippers cavort.

Long salty hair held between their teeth.

Flourishing wild flowered gowns …streams of silk waves of taffeta splashy lace.

They sail through my watery face combing my eyes whispering in my ears.

Alone, under a pointillist sky.

Gulls flying around me.

Black waters touched by moon of vague prophecy.

Joan McNerney’s poetr y has been included in numer ous liter ar y 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. © Unsplash | Pixabay.com

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Halcyon Keep cool and have a safe summer.

Monique Berry, Founder

©

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