Halcyon days 2016 issue 2

Halcyon Days - 2016 Issue 2

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Halcyon Days Issue 2 - 2016 INSIDE 4

Olive Taillefer Berry

12

That Long Afternoon

Fireflies Stir Memories of Glengarry Childhood

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13

Monique Berry

6, 7 Donal Mahoney

14

Daylily Summer Snow

Barbara Ruth

15

Ingrid Bruck

16

Susan P. Blevins

17

Gregg Dotoli

18

19

Robert Beveridge

Carolyn Yorke Celebration of Love Woodland Wandering

Matthew Bartlett Haiku

11

Ion Corcos Like Yellow Suns By the Sea

Haiku

10

Richard King Perkins II Bedewed Canticle

The Birds

10

Douglas Steele Airport Terminal Service Dog

Hover Song

9

Douglas Polk The Night Heavens Vows

Dreaming at the Lake of Stories

9

Heath Brougher Looking Allowance

Haiku

8

Joan McNerney

Steven Tutino Silent Movement

Appreciate Calling Down the Stars

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

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

Special Notices Halcyon Days has one time rights.

See website for subscription details.

No photocopies allowed.

Cover, inside page Š Bob Palosaari Š magdal3na - Stock.adobe.com

Halcyon Days - 2016 Issue 2 | 2

A Word from the Founder I am always grateful for the new contributors in each issue. But this one has special meaning for me because one of the new contributors is my mother— Olive Taillefer Berry. A few months ago, I found her article that the Glengarry News published in August 2001. Her childhood memories of chasing fireflies dripped with halcyon-type senses and visuals. I had to include this “perfect fit” in my magazine.

However, I had a problem. She entered her rest on September 13, 2001. There was no way to get her permission. So I approached my father to get his approval and contacted the Glengarry News publisher to ensure I wasn't infringing on any copyright laws. After getting the green light from both parties, I am overjoyed to reprint her childhood memories.

Wishing you and your loved ones a peaceful summer filled with halcyon days.

Monique Berry Founding Editor

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Fireflies Stir Memories of Glengarry Childhood

by Olive Taillefer Berry

Š Nelson Lehner - stock.adobe.com

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I

remember looking out my bedroom window just before bedtime. In the blue light, I could see the sparks of the fireflies in the bushes below. Occasionally, one prolonged its flash in an arc creating a miniature comet.

A large moth fluttered briefly by the window. Fireflies and moths always remind me of my childhood summers.

Through research, I found out that there are many species of fireflies in the temperate and tropical regions of the world.

Fireflies or “mouches a feu” as we call them in French, were numerous in Glengarry county especially near the wonderful place where our family lived. The place was called “the island” and not too far from our backyard was a body of water call “the pond.” It provided us with swimming, fishing and boating during the summer months and a large skating rink in winter months.

The island was also an ideal place for approximately a dozen bilingual, unusually friendly neighbours, who shared the opportunity to witness wondrous displays of firefly dances.

They started flying and swinging their lanterns early in the night so that we eager children would have a chance to chase them. Sometimes there were so many that the field would glitter and twinkle with tiny lights.

I would like to believe that I am not alone in my nostalgia for fireflies. There is magic in hot, humid summer nights when all these little critters come out.

I remember vividly the whole family being summoned by our dad to the back porch on a starry moonless night where he sat in the same old chair, after a hard day’s work, watching over the vast field beyond the flower and vegetable gardens, sparkling with fireflies.

As we rushed out the back door, he cried out, “Look, look out yonder everyone! Look at the field and down by the pond; see all the fireflies, they’re dancin’ to the music of the crickets, katydids and, once in a while, even bullfrogs joined in!” He explained to us that they always wait for the opal eye of the moon to close and then, they come out with their lanterns to light the way for their “queen” to start the party. Dad also related to us that the fireflies sometimes climbed the rainbow and brought back bits of stars to decorate the field for the summer reunions.

The “queen” was clad in pale green gossamer with wings edged in cream, gold and red velvet. She always had a little trouble with her large wings being too long, often bumping into things in the dark and needing all the help she could get from her lantern-bearing subjects. Eventually, they’d all get together for

their dances. The “queen,” of course, was a very large luna moth that clung to the maple tree in our front yard until daylight.

The fields almost seemed to vibrate with thousands upon thousands of wee lights that twinkled like tiny stars.

I knew they were the same as the ones we had chased through the hollyhocks after supper.

A few minutes later, my brothers and I dashed through the field and caught many prisoners with the butterfly net. We then transferred the fireflies into glass aerated covered jars where they still glowed of green gold like neon lights near our bed. We sat there for quite a while, observing these awesome beetles in utter amazement. Then, dad ordered us to let them go and, once more, down to the back door we went. Our captives sailed away to join the others and soon we could not distinguish them from the multitudes.

The big mystery, as far as I was concerned, was how fireflies produced light! These beetles produce a substance called luciferin in the presence of the enzyme luciferase to produce a truly very cold light. The light-producing cells at the rear of the abdomen act as a signal to females on or near the ground. They often appear to flash in rhythm—males first and females a few seconds later. Sometimes the fireflies flashed in unison.

With so many twinkling lights spread out before us, it was easy to recognize patterns and synchronizations that even included the stars overhead. The ancients who named these creature “fireflies” believed they actually rose from fires and ascended into the sky.

I suppose it’s good to know these bits of trivia but I have always liked my dad’s stories best. I had no reason to doubt his tall-tales as it seemed as plausible to believe that the lights of fireflies produced no heat.

I also remember catching a last glimpse of “the queen” drifting by to warn her subjects that daylight soon would come and it was time to end the celebration.

Then it was time for me to say goodbye and, since my bedroom window faced that part of “the pond” which was lined with cattails and the field of long grass, I could still hear the elfin chorus of the crickets, katydids and bullfrogs, as I did many nights before, I took one last glimpse at the fading, slightly glittering field.

I fell asleep enchanted after thanking The Almighty, Creator of all these delightful wonders.

OLIVE TAILLEFER BERRY was born in Alexandria, ON and lived her remaining years in Brantford, ON where she raised three children.

This article was originally published August 8, 2001 in The Glengarry News. See editorial for founder’s note.

Haiku

By Monique Berry rushing waterfall endless source of energy mom loves her children

© Monique Berry | Albion Falls, Hamilton, ON

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MONIQUE BERRY is the founder of Halcyon Days. 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.

Daylily

by Donal Mahoney Blooming for one day a lily welcomes the sun.

Bumblebees drop in.

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Summer Snow

by Donal Mahoney A row of lilacs covered with a summer snow.

Ten white butterflies.

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DONAL MAHONEY has had work published in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa. You can read some of his work at http://eyeonlifemag.com/the-poetry-locksmith/donal-mahoney-poet.html.

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Sunflowers

By Donal Mahoney No one has to teach a field of sunflowers how to worship.

Before dawn in high summer their necks are bent in silent prayer like monks.

But as the sun comes up sunflowers rise as well.

At noon they adore the sun the way monks in pews adore the Host at elevation.

Listen and you may hear sunflowers sing Alleluia!

Š carasdesign - stock.adobe.com

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Dreaming at the Lake of Stories

By Barbara Ruth Lake of Stories feels the tuning of the bagpipes quivers for the read.

BARBARA RUTH writes at the convergence of magic and grit, Potowatomee and Jewish, fat and yogi, disabled and neurodivergent.

She writes autobiographical fiction, lesbian feminist theory and memoir, and is a poet laureate of Fabled Asp. She is 69 and lives in San Jose, CA. She is the featured photographer for the June 2016 issue of Snapdragon: A Journal of Art & Healing.

Š adrenalinapura - stock.adobe.com

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© Hummingbird Art - stock.adobe.com © alinamd - stock.adobe.com

The Birds

Hover Song

By Ingrid Bruck

By Susan P. Blevins

Hummingbird flies sharp – off at an angle, vertical, straight, he stops, perches and signals a red warning, twists his head side to in search for intruders.

Backwards he flies and hovers there, here and gone is the nature of things.

Here and gone is the nature of things.

Zip to the pink fuchsia that hangs in a pot, zap to drink nectar with a tongue as long as a straw.

He sips the presence of now in the flowers, then flies backwards, hovers and savors there.

The birds sit on the high wire doing their balancing trick like so many crotchets and quavers on a stave Grackles cackling their complaints to the scarlet evening sky, they preen, they meditate on their day and they wait for darkness to fall so they can sleep until dawn.

Life seems so simple for them, at least to my eyes.

They forage, they quarrel and strut, and declare their supremacy over all

He sips the presence of now in the flowers, then flies backwards, hovers and savors there.

And then they sleep I, on the other hand, watch them and fret about my day, my scant productivity, the meaning of life.

I think, therefore I am.

They just are.

INGRID BRUCK is wild flower gardener and nature poet. She lives in rural Amish country in Pennsylvania, a landscape that inhabits and inspires much of her writing. Some of her current work has appeared in Yellow Chair Review, Three Line Poetry and Leaves of Ink.

SUSAN P. BLEVINS was born in England, lived 26 years in Italy, and has now resided in the USA for the past 24 years, first in Taos, NM, and currently in Houston, TX. While living in Rome she had a weekly column in an international newspaper, writing restaurant reviews and food articles primarily, though not exclusively. Since living in the USA she has written pieces on gardens and gardening for N. American and European publications, and she is now writing stories of her life and travels and gaining traction in various literary publications. She loves reading, writing, cats, classical music, and stimulating conversation.

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Haiku

By Gregg Dotoli dawn spawns smoky fog brackish herring deep sense tidal reverse beneath warm salt air

GREGG DOTOLI has studied English at Seton Hall University and Computer Programming at NYU. He is a White Hat Hacker and works , keeping organizations safe. His first love is the Arts and he enjoys the rich culture of NYC. Gregg has been published in many international periodicals, zines and anthologies. Š leva80 - stock.adobe.com

Haiku

By Matthew Bartlett Springtime puddles run When feet pretend to be like Hippopotamus!

Š klaupinter39 - stock.adobe.com

MATTHEW BARTLETT lives in the Mountain Laurel state. He began writing Poetry around the age of 12 due to his admiration for Jim Morrison. He read every book Jim read, and took every drug he took, wanting to be just like him; but he would soon turn his attention to the Metaphysical Poets, especially John Donne; as well as a vast majority of French Poets. His biggest influences now, however, are Hart Crane and Ezra Pound. He believes fixed meter is not necessary but every aspiring poet should understand it, so for years it was all he wrote. This has enabled him the ability to use free and blank verse in more spontaneous ways. He rarely submits. He writes to write, and it has divinely inspired him and destroyed him.. It's like love in that way.

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Calling Down the Stars

By Robert Beveridge Bonfires burn on the river tonight flames leap for blackness the bonfire-lighters sit in a bar away from the river worn oak stools carry their weight as they’ve done for years.

One, a woman, drains her glass.

“The stars were calm tonight.”

Two boys sit, watch the flames from a nearby dock pink and oak burn in their pupils knotholes send stars to arc down to the blackness of water: these boys, too will light the bonfires some years from now

Appreciate

By Robert Beveridge The things you do for me are small, ineffable: a squeezed hand, a laugh, the high bell chorus of your voice. We stretch in the darkness, aspire to the light switch, the sixty-watt bulb reflected in the ocean of your eyes.

© DragonImages - stock.adobe.com

© SnapswireSanps - pixabay.com

ROBERT BEVERIDGE makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry just outside Cleveland, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Guide to Kulchur, Third Wednesday, and Three Drops from a Cauldron, among others.

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That Long Afternoon

By Joan McNerney The air became heavy wiping willows along skyline.

Blue jays sped to bushes startled by thunder.

Rain drops linger on face

cascading arms falling from fingers.

Lying on lips now precious cool.

We listen to rain caress marigolds.

Circles of water spreading wider wider

laden with moist smells of summer.

Rain walks over side streets, pelting metal roofs in slippery symphonies.

We hide under cover our bodies as damp

as silver willows.

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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.

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Ruggiero Scardigno

Looking

By Heath Brougher There is Something beautiful That has made all of this— It’s just sometimes You’ve got to bleed a little To see the beauty.

© caloco - stock.adobe.com

Allowance

By Heath Brougher Pulse flows And rivers Run rampntly when Life Is allowed.

The wings flap Often when Life Is allowed.

The heart beats Often when Life is allowed To happen.

© Ruggiero Scardigno -

© Macmous | Pixababy.com

HEATH BROUGHER is the poetry editor of Five 2 One Magazine. He has published two pamphlets titled "A Drought of Ichor" and "2" (Green Panda Press). His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Yellow Chair Review, Chiron Review, SLAB, Main Street Rag, Riprap, Folate Oak, Scarlet Leaf Review, eFiction India, Of/with, and elsewhere.

Halcyon Days - 2016 Issue 2

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The Night Heavens

by Douglas Polk prairie skies vast and monotonous during daylight hours at night intimidating starts beyond numbers unseen under city lights acknowledge our insignificance make us question our existence questions asked by lonely pioneers adrift in the night.

Š Unsplash - Pixabay.com

Vows

by Douglas Polk A love begot and not made pure the motion uncontrollable the good with the bad more a journey than a life condition shared in the hope of a future beyond the wrinkles and the canes everlasting much more than a fairy tale.

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DOUGLAS POLK is a poet living in the wilds of central Nebraska with his wife and two boys, two dogs and four cats. Polk has had over 800 poems published in hundreds of publications.

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Airport Terminal Service Dog

By Douglas Steele Another airport terminal Feeling scattered in my day Many close but none seeing me Every and one speeding miles ahead in their life Trying to play by the rules of the game All of us spent, washed out, done I sigh I wish I was a therapy dog 10 minutes with me Your stress will plummet Ah to wag wag (pet me) Lick lick (I taste your perfume) Pant pant (hard work this) And sit sit (look how good I am) Ah to get loving 360 degrees Without moving a paw Aw, I wish I wuz a therapy dog My vest saying hug me if you dare (you’ll never be the same) And when your salty teardrop of relief Falls on my face I know My job is done I board my destination plane savoring A fresh 10 minute memory and warm heart As service canine and owner wander The terminal searching for Awwing smiling reaching Wanting needing touching Releasing renewing People As they speed through their day

© Monika Wisniewska - stock.adobe.com

DOUG STEELE is a lifetime Wisconsin resident. His prose and free verse have been featured in numerous print and on-line publications including The Literary Nest, Maudlin House Magazine, Gambling the Isle, Straylight Literary Magazine, The Courtship of Winds, and Sediments Literary Arts Journal. He is a media personality, broadcaster, member of the Pauquette Wordcrafters, Academy of American Poets, and the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets. Doug’s recent Chapbook “Rivers, Streams, and Dreams” was released in December 2015.

His work can be seen at www.douglassteelepoetry.com.

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Bedewed Canticle

by Richard King Perkins II Evening of cool mist soft-focus vista locusts thrum softly in an untended field a willow slowly pendulates offering shadowy glimpses of architecture lily of the valley sifted by breeze the erosion of light. —furthering lore, the darkening sky births a moon the still air a bedewed canticle in suspension inaudible uplifted by fog a doe flicks her ears intending good passage conducting an homage of song.

Š mbongo - stock.adobe.com

RICHARD KING PERKINS II is a state-sponsored advocate for residents in long-term care facilities. He lives in Crystal Lake, IL, USA with his wife, Vickie and daughter, Sage. Richard is a three-time Pushcart nominee and a Best of the Net nominee whose work has appeared in more than a thousand publications.

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Like Yellow Suns

By Ion Corcos Lemons hang in the dusk; they do not know how long they will stay on the branch. Š Subbotina Anna - stock.adobe.com

by the sea

By Ion Corcos luggage drags over cobblestones to a white room blue doors open to night, cool air, a quiet taverna

ION CORCOS has been published in Axolotl, Bitterzoet, Every Writer and Ishaan Literary Review. He is a Pushcart Prize nominee. Ion is currently travelling indefinitely with his partner, Lisa. He is also working on his first poetry collection, Like Clouds, and a chapbook inspired by Greece. Ion’s website is www.ioncorcos.wordpress.com.

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Celebration of Love

By Carolyn Yorke Your touch is warm rain caressing my face on a spring softened day.

Love waves wash over me with a tide of feeling Flowers fragranced by splashes of love’s dew mix with the mellow smell of musky forest floors.

Like perfumed boughs of evergreen caring As feelings arouse within me that no pen could begin to describe.

I am one, now, with you.

There is no beginning, no end; only one flowing unison.

Sun, moon – night, day mingle together on moonbeams of desire.

Soft summer breezes blow gently in harmony with echoing knowing.

“I will love you always – for we have become one with the whole universe” © kichigin19- stock.adobe.com

Woodland Wandering

By Carolyn Yorke Like the wind the red deer flew, as deeper in the woods I drew to gather flowers for my hair – blue violets and mayflowers fair.

In the trees the bluebirds sang, and through the woods their voices rang to blend in with the bubbling brook, where I’ve often wandered with a book – to read and dream throughout the day, chasing worldly cares away.

When at last the waning light warned me of the invading night, home I returned to rest – and then, dreamed I was in the woods again.

© lassedesignen - stock.adobe.com

CAROLYN YORKE was born in Queens County, Nova Scotia. She has a background in teaching. Carolyn began creative writing in her teens and over the years has accumulated a tote full of stories and poems that she has written. However, other than the occasional poem appearing in school and college yearbooks, she has not seriously attempted to be published until recently. Carolyn is now retired and lives with her husband in Halifax.

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Silent Movement

By Steven Tutino The voyage out is a descent into ferns, small lawns, rivers, lakes and a garden where everything is silent yet full of movement and light; all is golden and green underneath a pale blue sky and a breeze that sways everywhere on this mid-June day, where I am happy to have taken the time to reflect

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STEVEN TUTINO is currently an undergraduate at Concordia University in Honours English Literature with an additional major in Theology.

His poetry has appeared in Concordia University’s Journal of Interdisciplinary Studies in Sexuality, The Paragon Journal and Halcyon Days. His artwork has appeared in Word in the World, The Paragon Journal,The Minetta Review, Beautiful Minds Magazine and GFT Press: Ground Fresh Thursday. Steven currently resides in Montreal, Quebec.

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