Halcyon
Halcyon - Winter 2015
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Halcyon Magazine Winter 2015 Inside... 4 Lorna Pominville Freshly Fallen Snow Canadian Winter 5 Joan McNerney Winter Watch 6 Teresa Karlinski Was It Magic? 8 John Grey A Serious Mountain 10 Changming Yuan Seasonal Attachment 11 Ben Coon Forged Traditions 12 Sara Etgen-Baker Another Toy Story 14 Heath Brougher What Befalls Us 15 Norma West Linder Early Morning in the Park 16 Paul R. Davis Piano In The Snow 17 Donna M. Davis The Beautiful Voices
A Word from the Founder The end of the year has arrived, and so has the final issue of Halcyon—but only as it relates to seasons. In 2016 the peaceful, uplifting content will continue. The name will still include Halcyon but will be expanded. I already have a logo ready. Visit the website on December 27, 2105 for details about the next publication: Halcyon Days. The following new contributors made the final edition: Ben Coon, Changming Yuan, and Heath Brougher. Thank you for sharing your talent. I hope to see more of your work in subsequent issues. And thank you to the readers who spend your precious time browsing the pages of the magazine. Finally, thank you for spending time with me. I have enjoyed putting this magazine together for your reading pleasure. Keep writing and keep sending your submissions.
Monique Berry Founding Editor
Front cover and inside page Š Chorazin | 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.
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Freshly Fallen Snow By Lorna Pominville freshly fallen snow is beautiful unsullied by footsteps or paw prints a blanket so fresh and white clinging to tree branches piled high on rooftops freshly fallen snow is beautiful drifts carve pristine landscapes hillsides meld into gullies unsullied by footsteps or paw prints shrubs now perfect, round mounds fence posts sport tall pointed hats a blanket so fresh and white
Canadian Winter By Lorna Pominville An icy nip is in the air Flakes land in my hair. Winds are blowing Snow begins to fall I sigh as I walk Through the deserted street I feel like a kid again The feeling can’t be beat. I stick out my tongue To catch a fresh flake. I dance, I twirl, I flop And a snow angel I make.
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Lorna Pominville is a r etir ed nur se living in Sar nia, Ontar io and attends the wr iting gr oup, WIT (Wr iter s in Tr ansition). 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 - Winter 2015 |
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Winter Watch By Joan McNerney Tangled…one ragged leaf clings to the bough. Stopping to see the shape of a snowflake. Winter storm warning… headlights beam at noon. Came home just in time for the first dizzy dance of December flurries. More amazing than redwood forests... your ice blue eyes.
Simmering soup fills my kitchen with aromas. All day my windows chatter like nervous teeth. Crystals spin together in joyful pirouette…a cool ballet. © liz_spb DollarPhotoClub
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.
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Was It Magic?
© Twilight Dragon | DollarPhotoClub
by Teresa Karlinski
A
door creaked and slammed. Thud. Gabby stirred. She knew the time was near. Curbing her enthusiasm wasn’t easy; she tingled with anticipation. Patience. Patience. How much longer must I wait? Another door banged, again not the one she hoped. Heavy footsteps thumped across the ceiling. Muffled voices hummed like bees: different pitches of laughter, one over the other. A soft, breathless voice she didn’t recognize. Was it new? She’d been predisposed to oblivion all year, except now in December. A chair scraped overhead. Rapid, light and carefree footfalls reverberated from near to far and back again. Lots of clamber on the stairs followed. Enthusiastic voices drew closer. Yes, yes. She’s coming. She’s coming. “Gamma. I wanna help.” “We’ll see. You wait here, Elsa. Don’t move.” The petite, silver -haired woman unlocked the storage door in the basement and shuffled in sideways to avoid a mishmash of boxes piled in neat rows. The passageway narrow, she shambled to the back of the space toward the intended target beneath the stairs. She’s coming. She’s coming. At-last. At-last! Kathleen dragged an oblong box bound shut with an old belt. Scrape. Scratch. The cardboard container, heaved upright almost as tall as she, rasped along the cement floor. Elsa watched bouncing in place, hands clasped tight. Kathleen flicked off the light and pushed the box on its back again. “Come, child. Back upstairs we go.”
The cardboard container, heaved upright almost as tall as she, rasped along the cement floor. Grasping the loose end of the belt, similar to a lolling tongue, she lugged the carton like a wagon without wheels, the awkward handle in the middle. At-last. At-last. Gabby hugged herself tighter and smaller. She had no memory of being yanked and bounced across the floor in bursts like this before. This journey was making her seasick and she faded in and out of awareness. I can’t wait for the grating noise to stop. Can’t wait to be alive again. “Gamma, you gots a tree in that box?” “Yes, Precious. Mine’s in a box and we’ve been friends a long time.” “Friends with a box?” “No-no. The tree and I are old friends.” Kathleen wrest the box backwards, one step at a time, up the long wood staircase. “I push,” the wisp of a girl said. The box jerked to the next step and bopped her in the face. “Ow.” She lost her balance,
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outstretched hands breaking her fall. Face crumpled, tears the size of diamonds slid to her chin, but she did not cry. Chin aquiver, Kathleen wrenched the box upright and booted down the stairs. “Precious. Grandma’s so sorry. Are you alright?” Stooping over the child, she caressed the tears away. Elsa patted her nose and forehead after the one-two smack. “I okay. Not bleeding?” “Not bleeding. Come here, we both need a hug. Wait for me at the top of the stairs.” Sweaty and breathless, Kathleen struggled to the first landing. Four more stairs to the main floor. The girl sat at the top hands clasped in her lap. “Almost there. Grandma’s going to sit too in a minute.” Elsa scrambled out of the way. “Heave-ho.” They both giggled. She hauled the carton up to the pristine ceramic floor, lifted Elsa’s chin with an arthritic finger and gazed into twin-poolsof-chocolate eyes. A swift kiss on the red nose, she tugged and unfastened the belt. The flaps sprang open, the squashed branches unfurled thrusting towards freedom. Ta-da-a. At-last. At-last. “Grandma needs a drink. What about my Precious?” “Water please.” Elsa shadowed her into the kitchen where scents of oranges and cinnamon enveloped the space. “Good idea. I’ll have some too. Come sit for a couple minutes.” “That box too big for you, Gamma. Why Daddy not help? Thank you. I thirsty.” “He always does, but he’s busy in the hospital with Mommy and the baby.” She pulled out a chair and tapped it. “He has no time. Have you picked a name for your brother?” Elsa scrunched her face. “No. I said I want a sister. Maybe I not keep it if I don’t like him.” Kathleen turned away and suppressed a smile. The girl was a thinker alright. “I can’t wait to show you my special tree.” “But it’s not real.” “Sit tight and watch. First we join these trunk parts, pop the biggest one into the stand, then the next biggest and finally, the smallest on top.” At-last. At-last. Oh Christmas tree, oh Christmas tree… That’s me, Gabby. “That’s not a Christmas tree, Gamma.” The child raised a pudgy hand to her round face and giggled into the five-year-old palm. “Not like my tree—and no nice smell.” “Elsa, this is my old friend, Gabby Green. Gabby, meet our clever Elsa.” Gabby waited and waited to shake out her branches, to stretch and stretch. Hurry-hurry-hurry. I’ve been cramped for so long. I want to spread out wide and free. “My tree is like an upside down umbrella. Watch.” With infinite care, Kathleen opened and drew the branches downward and out, separating each one by one. “Doesn’t she look like a real tree now? See the teeny white lights inside?” “Too skinny.” Watch it, short human. No name calling. Wait till I’m trimmed and bejeweled. You’ll see. “Does she talk?” “Sometimes—to special children if they pay close attention. Can you tell how good she feels? Do you see her smile? Elsa, twirled chestnut hair around a finger, bent her head to her shoulder and studied the tree. “Not yet.” Kathleen pursed her lips, tapping a finger to them. “You’re right. She’s naked and cold. Want to help me dress her? Look at
these decorations. Some of these have been in the family for almost a hundred years. Others I bought when your mother was small.” “Daddy don’t let me do dectorating. He says I too little and break somefing.” “I have a special surprise for you. Nutcrackers—they’re like wooden soldiers—made to last. Poke your finger in the loop and hang them on any branch you like. Watch me.” Kathleen flicked an errant tear as Elsa’s face glowed. Intent on her task, the tip of her pink tongue peeked out a corner of her cherubic mouth. Plump fingers poked into the loop and reached towards the nearest branch. A blush of colour in her cheeks, she stood back to admire her handiwork, hand clutched to her chest. “Don’t be afraid to push them farther so they don’t fall off. Well done. Here’s another.” Elsa didn’t drop one. A half-dozen soldiers later, her narrow shoulders slumped. Absorbed in unwrapping and laying out the decorations, her grandmother handed her a glass bulb. Smash! “I sorry, Gamma.” Elsa’s lips wobbled; solitaire-size tears streaked blazing cheeks. “Precious, it’s okay. Come sit.” “It was a accident.” “I know.” Brushing coffee-brown wisps aside, she raised watery eyes. “You mad now?” “Never. I need a hug, don’t you?” Kathleen wiped the angel face with a tissue. Elsa giggled and climbed up on her lap. Arms around her granddaughter, chin resting on the cherished head, Kathleen rocked them both. The ornaments brought back a rush of memories, especially the first Christmas after her husband’s passing. She recalled happy ones too of her children around the tree caroling; Christmases at home with her brother, their parents, and the ancient trinkets and baubles for trimming the tree; popcorn garlands; gingerbread men, and candy canes. “Each year, as I take out and put the decorations away I remember your mom, no bigger than you are now. One Christmas I dropped and broke her favorite ornament, a glass angel.” “Her cry?” “No. I did. She said we’d buy another one.” “Did you?” “Yes. It wasn’t easy finding another one exactly like the broken one. We were lucky and I bought two. Mine’s near the top—there.” “Mommy’s angel on my tree—I tired, Gamma.” “You worked hard. I’m almost finished. Rest on the sofa while I plug in the lights.” “Gamma. Look. Gabby happy. She wave to me.” Elsa pointed as if this weren’t unusual. “She bootiful and shiny.” Her grandmother smiled and considered the tree yet not seeing it. “That’s my Gabby.” She glanced over her shoulder to find Elsa’s head lolling and snoring like a kitten. “Thank you Gabby Green for backing up my story.” She stuffed tissue used for wrapping trinkets back in the boxes and stacked them. The lights on the tree twinkled and flickered off for a beat, then flashed on again, brighter. Mouth agape, Kathleen straightened, eyes twice their normal size. What was that? Oh yes, the magic of Christmas at work. Gabby sparkled and smiled. Branches stretched out, she shimmied till the glass balls tinkled like tiny bells. Free at last after a long year squished in a box, and happy as any real live Christmas tree.
Teresa Karlinski lives with her cats Dickens and Lady Gaga in Ontar io, Canada. She is a gr andmother and a student of life with a passion for cooking. Although retired, she’s annoyed with the overwhelming collection of unread books awaiting her attention. Daily life consists of writing, reading, and blogging. Her stories have appeared in various anthologies, Time and Place Magazine, and Retirement and Good Living. Contact Teresa at teresakarlinski@gmail.com. Halcyon - Winter 2015
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A Serious Mountain By John Grey Ignore the snow that temporarily laces its lower reaches and the entrenched ice cone of its higher altitude. Forget the clouds that muff its rocky ears or the brilliant sun that rests on its shimmering ledges. Conversation is what those lofty peaks are clamoring for, long and soft and slow, with a boy at the window, in warm flannels, big eyes pressed against glass. Now's the time to cock his head back, imagine as if speaking, expecting nothing in return but a willingness to listen, a silence greater than his own.
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John Grey is an Austr alian poet, US r esident. Recently published in New Plains Review, Big Muddy and Sanskr it with work upcoming in South Carolina Review, Gargoyle, Mudfish and Louisiana Literature.
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And when we give each other Christmas gifts in His name, let us remember that He has given us the sun and the moon and the stars, and the earth with its forests and mountains and oceans--and all that lives and move upon them. Sigrid Undset
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Seasonal Attachment By Changming Yuan All the snowy clouds have set Off on their way to heaven Except this dark one still busy Dropping its biting wet burden Like transparent anchors Down to the hell of earth Myriads of icy wires In thin and long bundles As if to angle a fossil fish
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Changming Yuan, 8-time Pushcart nominee and author of Chansons of a Chinaman (2009) and Landscaping (2013), grew up in rural China,holds a PhD in English, and currently tutors in Vancouver, where he co-edits Poetry Pacific with Allen Qing Yuan and operates PP Press. Most recently interviewed by [PANK] and World Poetry (cfro100.5fm), Yuan has poetry appearing in Asia Literary Review Best Canadian Poetry, BestNewPoemsOnline, London Magazine, Threepenny Review and 869 other literary journals/anthologies across 29 countries. Halcyon - Winter 2015 |
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Forged Traditions By Ben Coon © Frank Hafemann | DollarPhotoClub
It was early, so much so that the darkness of pre-dawn still clung to him as a drenched blanket. It was the odd meridian between the dim light projected by the translucence of the moon coupled with the bustle of the stars but still before the appearance of the purple and orange rays of the early morning sun. He almost wished for the cramped and ill-fitting woolen uniforms of the academy - in the face of such staunch cold. His time in Virginia caused him to forget how frigid his father’s home could be. The exposure to the bitter dry air stole the breath from his lungs; and he felt a similar occurrence happening below him, the sharp contractions of the mare shook him as she fought to take in the frozen air and to discharge it, without becoming any colder than necessary. And so they stood that way, for nearly half an hour. With his mare infrequently stabbing her hooves into the ground, as if she were checking to see if the barren ground were still beneath her. They waited, obediently, for the shine of the morning to provide them enough vision to follow the trail the man used to know by heart, a trail that he had traversed in worse conditions than this, a trail that he and his father had forged and reforged each winter - to reclaim it from the grips of the summer’s growth. A tradition that his father decided to uphold from his own father; so when the deep purple light yielded itself enough to guide the man, it cut him to the heart to see that the undergrowth had grown threefold more than he had ever seen before. All that truly remained of
the trail were the unevenly trod areas that had been beaten down by his father’s large stallion. At that, he tapped the ribs of the mare with his spurs; anticipating the direction, she jumped at a brisk trot: headed towards the meeting that he feared for so many weeks. Soon enough, he reached the cliff where he knew his father to be; a hill with sheer cliff facings that allowed a view of much of the family’s land. And as he drew closer, he saw that the sun was about to breach the horizon, casting its radiant oranges into the wispy clouds to the east. He turned his head to the due west and saw the saturation of darkness disappearing in the face of raw brilliance; waiting for him to redirect his attention to the west, the old man’s face was lit to a comforting peach hue, revealing his deeply creased smirk. His leathery appearance folded effortlessly into a well-worn set of crow's feet and aged dimples, uncasing his familiar smirk. “Good morning,” he happily sung to his child. At that moment the man’s nostrils were filled with the warm, robust scent of campfire coffee, and his skin was reinvigorated by the radiating orb of the sun, its glimmers bursting over the crest of the horizon; sending warm shivers through his bones, as he felt he was home. Moving to the warmth of the fire, his father handed him a steaming cup of coffee, its heat was magnified by the harsh cold, and he felt that he had scalded his tongue, but even this sense brought him back to the long days of work with his father.
Benjamin Kolwe Coon is eighteen year s old. He attends Petal High School in the city of Petal. Petal is a small community in southern Mississippi, just outside the city of Hattiesburg. Benjamin's heaviest literary influence is Cormac McCarthy, gaining most of his inspiration for the story's imagery and tone from McCarthy's work, All The Pretty Horses. He wishes to thank his English teacher, Bill Kirby, for helping shape and encourage his writing.
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“But it’s dark in the empty building; I know she’ll be lonely; plus she’s probably scared and won’t be able to sleep without me.” “She’ll be fine, Sweetie. Don’t you worry now.” Mother by Sara Etgen-Baker patted me on top of my head. “Scurry off to bed, but remember to put on your flannel pajamas; your room will get mighty cold once that Texas Norther comes through town.” In the midst of winter, the narrator’s father validates “Yes, Mama.” I slid off the couch and glanced back with the her childhood emotions and teaches her an important most woe-be-gotten look I could muster. Unshaken, mother lesson about letting go. returned to her reading, and I knew better than to plead my case any further. But when the chilling Texas Norther winds began rattling our “Mama, Mama! I can’t find Tiny.” I tugged on mother’s house, I awoke; reached for the comfort of my Tiny Tears doll; and apron. “I think she’s lost.” discovered that she wasn’t with me. I slipped into my heavy robe “Did you look in your closet?” Mother peeked around the and furry slippers and glanced out my bedroom window. Snow— corner of her magazine. “Sometimes you leave her there.” soft as sleep—had begun falling. Convinced that Tiny was “Yes, Mama. I looked.” I pulled myself up onto the couch, probably freezing in the cold, empty school building, I was sat next to my mother, and leaned my head on her shoulder. “She desperate to rescue her. wasn’t there.” So, I stumbled through the darkness into my parent’s “Well, did you look under your bed?” bedroom. “Daddy! “Yes, Mama, I did. She’s nowhere to be found!” Daddy!” I whispered into my father’s ear with childlike urgency and pulled on his pajama sleeve. “Do you remember when you last saw her?” Father turned over in bed and moaned. “What’s wrong, “At school; I took her to school with me and…and….” My Sweetie Pie?” He sat up on the edge of the bed, fumbled for his heart sank to my toes. glasses, and flipped on the bedside lamp. “I must’ve left her there. We’ve got to go and get her. She “It’s Tiny, Daddy. I miss Tiny. It’s cold outside; she’s lonely misses me, Mama. Hurry! Please!” can’t sleep.” He pulled me onto his lap. “You’ve got to help me “But Sweetie, school’s closed till after the Christmas holidays; find her and make sure she’s warm and okay. Please, Daddy, there’s just no way we can get her.” please.”
Another Toy Story
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“Well, just where is she?” “She’s at school, Daddy, and….” Before he could refuse, I took a deep breath and continued. “I took her to school for our Christmas party, and I think I left her there. She misses me; I know she does. She’s scared and cold; plus she doesn’t have her coat, and she won’t be able to sleep, and…and…we’ve got to find her.” Then huge, salty tears cascaded down my cheeks. “There, there.” He grabbed his handkerchief from his bedside table and dabbed the tears off my face. “I tell you what.” He rubbed his chin and thought for a moment. “We’ll just drive over to your school and check on her and make sure she’s okay.” “Yay, Daddy!” I squealed and jumped out of his lap. “I love you, Daddy!” Father wrapped me in a blanket, carried me outside through the blowing snow, and placed me in the front seat of his creaky old ’51 pickup truck. He pumped the gas pedal several times until the truck’s frozen engine groaned to life. Father backed out of the drive and inched his way down the city’s abandoned streets. As he drove through town, I wiped the frost off the truck’s window and peered outside. Snow was swirling and spinning around us making me feel as if we were driving through a tipped-over snow globe. I watched father as he cautiously approached my school’s parking lot, eased his truck adjacent to my classroom window, stopped, and rolled down the window. “I see her, Sweetie.” He turned toward me and patted me on the shoulder. “She’s okay. Her eyes are shut and she’s sleeping.” “I can’t see her daddy. Are you sure?” “Yes, but let’s double check.” Then father backed the bed of his truck up next to the building. He lifted me out of the seat, stood me up in the bed of his truck, grabbed a flashlight from his toolbox, and cast a stream of light into the cold darkness. “Can you see her now?” I squinted my eyes. “Yes, Daddy! I see her. She’s sleeping and she’s okay!” “See, Sweetie, Tiny’s warm and safe inside so she doesn’t need her coat. And lots of other toys are with her. So you see, even though Tiny misses you, she won’t be lonely. She and the other toys are together, and they’ll take care of each other.” He kissed the snowflakes from my hair. “Even though you miss Tiny, you won’t be lonely either because your mother and I will be with you and take care of you. You understand, Sweetie?” “Yes, Daddy. I think so.” Then he reached over to me, wrapped me his arms, and hugged me. I was content somehow with Tiny’s temporary absence from my life. So on the way home, I snuggled next to him, and the truck’s rhythmic creaking lulled me to sleep. But this sweet childhood memory forever changed me. At some level I understood my father’s tender attentiveness and took comfort in it. But it wasn’t until some years later that I realized that the most enduring gift I received that holiday was my father’s sensitivity, compassion, and respect. When I woke him in the middle of a blustery winter night, he could’ve simply dismissed my childhood emotions as insignificant and sent me back to bed. But instead of being dismissive, he chose to be empathetic and attentive. He patiently acknowledged my emotions and selflessly addressed my fears and shed light on them. That moment was powerful, for my father validated the worthiness of my emotions and in so doing he not only taught me to trust my emotions and embrace them but also how to cope with them.
Sara Etgen-Baker has been r etir ed five year s 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 Were A Changin' which highlights the stories of women who encountered or participated in the women's movement in the 60s and 70s. Halcyon - Winter 2015
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“Christmas is doing
a little something extra for someone.” ~ Charles Schulz ”
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What Befalls Us By Heath Brougher The grass is now wearing A cold white blanket of snow. Every single individual snowflake That has fallen from the pinkish Winter sky Now coats the vast landscape. It’s magnificence sparkles Acre after glimmering acre.
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Heath Brougher lives in Yor k, PA and attended Temple Univer sity. When he is not wr iting he helps with the char ity Paws Soup Kitchen which gives out free dog/cat food to low income families with pets. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Y ellow Chair Review, Of/with, Mobius, Main Street Rag, *82 Review, Epigraph, Maudlin House, Foliate Oak, MiPOesias, Van Gogh's Ear, Third Wednesday, Gloom Cupboard, Lotus-eater Magazine, Fowl Feathered Review, Diverse Voices Quarterly, BlazeVOX, A New Ulster, Inscape, and elsewhere. Halcyon - Winter 2015 |
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Early Morning in the Park By Norma West Linder Child’s footprints in the snow imprints that cannot last footprints that leave long streaks behind present becoming past Indentations shadowed blue footprints that seem to say life is a grand adventure follow me—come this way but children move on flying feet and senior’s steps are slow still those could be my footprints made but a dream ago © tpsdave | Pixabay.com
Norma West Linder is a member of The Wr iter s’ Union of Canada, and WITS (Writers International Through Sarnia). Author of 5 novels, 12 collections of poetry, memoir of Manitoulin Island, two children’s books, biography of Pauline McGibbon, and short stories, published internationally and aired over CBC. For 24 years she taught English at Lambton College. Linder wrote a column for The Observer for seven years. Her latest poetry collection, Two Paths through the Seasons, with mate James Deahl, was published in Israel.
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Piano in the Snow By Paul Davis
I imagined a tuxedoed man in front of footlights, a girl in a frilly dress at recital, lovers playing their duet, widow stroking the keys.
I never thought I’d see one. In a frozen field, no notes rang out, no fingers arched over silent keys, shivering, memories flurrying to clouds. I imagined a tuxedoed man in front of footlights, a girl in a frilly dress at recital, lovers playing their duet, widow stroking the keys. It waits for the junkman, or maybe an errant antique collector. What animal will investigate and sniff the cold wood? Next day, it had disappeared. I still wondered where the warmth of memories resided, where all the players sat now. Music is in the furniture of the heart.
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Paul R. Davis lives in Centr al New Yor k State with his wife, par r ots 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. Halcyon - Winter 2015 |
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The Beautiful Voices By Donna M. Davis Outside the cathedral, the avenue is draped with cushions of snow that gleam in candlelight. Stained glass windows reflect winged archangels on the pavement where we walk. The choir sings, W hen I am weary and I can’t sleep, I count my blessings instead of sheep. Childhood’s lidded eyes reopen to pillows propped under tired heads, to holidays past and prayers at night, while the beautiful voices carry us home.
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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. Halcyon - Winter 2015
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Halcyon
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