Halcyon Days - 2019 Issue 15
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Halcyon Days—Issue 15, 2019 Founder | Monique Berry | Hamilton On Canada Contributors Mary Bone 4 Wild Mare 5 Saudade 17 Night Lights Stella Mazur Preda 6 In the Shadow of Summer 7 The Coven Andrei Fendley 8 The Changes of the Forest R. Gerry Fabian 9 Permanent Marker Gaiyle J. Connolly 10 Contrast 11.....Cottage Haiku 11 Cottage Haiku James Swafford 12 El Malpais, New Mexico Emily Bilman 13 Triassic Gifts Phil Huffy 14 October 15 In November Ingrid Bruck 16 Texas Storm 22 Late Fall Evening Robert Funderburk 18 Beyond Seasons Mary Gaylord 19 Orchestra of Leaves Sharon Frame Gay 20 The Seasons Steven Tutino 23 Autumn
Emily Bilman Pg 13
Gaiyle J. Connolly Pg 10, 11
Ingrid Bruck Pg 16, 22
James Swafford Pg 12
Mary Bone Pg 4, 5, 17
Phil Huffy Pg 14, 15
Robert Funderburk Pg 18
Sharon Frame Gay Pg 20
Stella Mazur Preda Pg 6, 7
Cover | Bereta—stock.adobe.com
Halcyon Days Magazine ISSN: 2291-0255 Frequency: Quarterly Publisher | Designer: Monique Berry
Contact Info http://halcyondaysmagazine.blogspot.ca Twitter: @1websurfer monique.editor@gmail.com
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Special Notices Halcyon Days has one time rights. See website for subscription details. No photocopies allowed.
Contributor Bios Andrei Fendley is a student in engineering. He writes poetry in his spare time especially about nature. He began writing poetry when he began his college career.
Emily Bilman teaches poetry in Geneva, CH. Her dissertation, The Psychodynamics of Poetry: Poetic Virtuality and Oedipal Sublimation
in the Poetry of T.S. Eliot and Paul Valéry was published by Lambert Academic in 2010 and Modern Ekphrasis in 2013 by Peter Lang. Her poetry books, A Woman By A Well (2015), Resilience (2015), and The Threshold of Broken Waters (2018) were published by Troubador, UK. Poems were published in The London Magazine, Poetry Salzburg Review, Offshoots, San Antonio Review, Expanded Field, Hunger Mountain, Poetics Research, etc. She blogs on http://www.emiliebilman.wix.com/emily-bilman
Gaiyle J. Connolly, a poet and artist from Hamilton, Ontario, Canada, has numerous publications to her credit, some of them prize-
winning. They appear in local and international periodicals and journals. Her collection of poetry, Lifelines, which she also illustrated, was published in 2015. She is Past President of the Tower Poetry Society in Hamilton and has been active in poetry groups in Mexico. She is working on her second book of poetry for which once again she will provide illustrations. As a change of pace, she is trying her hand at short story writing inspired by her childhood years spent in rural Quebec.
Ingrid Bruck writes poetry, grows wildflowers and makes jam. Finding Stella Maris, her debut chapbook, was released this year.
Her poem, Flying, was nominated for 2019 Best of the Net. Current work appears in Otata, Failed Haiku, Halcyon Days, Red Fez, Communicator’s League and Leaves of Ink. Poetry website: www.ingridbruck.com
James Swafford has recently begun writing poetry after retiring from a long career teaching literature at Ithaca College in New York. Born in Kansas, he is now a permanent resident of Canada, living in Toronto.
Mary Bone has been writing poetry and short stories since the age of twelve. Her poems have been published at Oklahoma Today Magazine, Vita Brevis Press, Family Friend Poems, Literary Librarian, Spillwords, Literary Yard, Best Poetry Website and other places. Mary enjoys drawing and painting in her spare time.
Mary Gaylord is a librarian in Indiana who seeks to uplift readers through poetry. Her poetry has recently been published in Castabout Literature.
Phil Huffy had a long career doing something else. Now he writes early and often at his kitchen table in upstate NY. His work has been frequently published, with pieces recently accepted by The Lyric, Schuykill Valley Journal, Gravel and Fourth & Sycamore.
R. Gerry Fabian is a retired English instructor. He has been publishing poetry since 1972 in various poetry magazines. His web page
is https://rgerryfabian.wordpress.com. He is the editor of Raw Dog Press https://rawdogpress.wordpress.com and has published two books of his published poems, Parallels and Coming Out Of The Atlantic.. His novels, Memphis Masquerade, Getting Lucky (The Story) and Seventh Sense. They are available at all ebook publishers including Amazon, Apple Books and Barnes and Noble.
Robert Funderburk was born by coal oil lamplight in a tin-roofed farmhouse near Liberty, MS. He is an LSU graduate (1965), and a
SSgt USAFR (1965-1971). He has had 16 poems accepted by literary magazines, 5 published thus far. One short story accepted by Blue Moon Literary and Art Review. He lives with his wife, Barbara, on 50 acres of river wilderness in Olive Branch, LA.
Sharon Frame Gay grew up a child of the highway, playing by the side of the road. Her work has been internationally published in
anthologies and literary magazines, including Chicken Soup For The Soul, Typehouse, Fiction on the Web, Lowestoft Chronicle, Thrice Fiction, Crannog, Saddlebag Dispatches and others. Her work has won prizes at Women on Writing, Rope and Wire Magazine, The Writing District and Owl Hollow Press. She has been nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize. More information can be found on Amazon @ https:// www.amazon.com/-/e/B01HN5AGXK Facebook: Sharon Frame Gay-Writer. Twitter: sharonframegay
Stella Mazur Preda is a resident of Waterdown, Ontario, Canada and is the owner and publisher of Serengeti Press, a small press
publishing company, located in the Hamilton area. Since its opening in 2003, Serengeti Press has published 43 Canadian books. Serengeti Press is now temporarily on hiatus. Stella Mazur Preda has been published in numerous Canadian anthologies and some US, most notably the purchase of her poem My Mother’s Kitchen by Penguin Books, New York. She is a current member of Tower Poetry Society in Hamilton, Ontario and The Ontario Poetry Society.
Steven Tutino is currently a graduate student at Concordia University in the process of completing an M.A. in Theological Studies.
He obtained a double major from Concordia as well in Honours English Literature and Theological Studies 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, GFT Press: Ground Fresh Thursday, Michael Jacobson's The New-Post Literate, The Omnicult, November Bees: Journal of art and literature, Inside the Bell Jar, and Hour After Happy Hour Review. Steven currently resides in Montreal, Quebec. Halcyon Days - 2019 Issue 15
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Wild Mare
By Mary Bone A wild mare galloped along, his long mane was flowing in the breeze. Autumn leaves rustled around him. The surroundings were a picturesque backdrop as the sun went down.
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Saudade
By Mary Bone The love that remains peaceful thoughts in the twilight nostalgic feelings
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The Coven
by Stella Mazur Preda a hallowed sanctum in a secluded wood a gathering of the poets’ coven incantations of poetics herald the arrival of the Autumnal Equinox we rejoice in the celestial changes taste fruits of the autumn harvest elicit pleasures of the Muse with offerings of literary delights a Hunter’s Moon will soon follow define halcyon days of Indian summer an unrelenting euphoria too soon obliterated by the winter solstice dina—stock.adobe.com
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In the Shadow of Summer by Stella Mazur Preda
succulent berries bushes now bare plums and crisp apples take center stage cornstalks resplendent in golden silk welcome the harvest season monarch butterflies swarm prepare for migration chainsaws echo across fields trees felled branches stripped logs sized in preparation for winter warmth in the kitchen preserves are bottled delicacies of summer sweeten bitter winter days
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The Changes of the Forest By Andrei Fendley
I once saw the tree beautifully green But today it is the color of a bean I saw a squirrel obtain its nuts While the villagers warm their huts I saw a squad of geese flying south Each honking gleefully by mouth A leaf on the ground Tells us of fall is coming around A forest once so bright Turns golden while the air gives a chilly bite
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Permanent Marker R. Gerry Fabian
Morning breaks slowly like a spaniel stalking a plump cottontail. An aroma of coffee creeps up the stairs. The thud of the paper on the porch confirms the hour. You reach over and intertwine your fingers in mine. My tongue slides across my dry lips reliving the cherry gloss kisses that cause my heart to beat with effulgence some twenty years later.
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Contrast
By Gaiyle J. Connolly Delicate Queen Anne’s Lace reigns out of place crowning common railway tracks. One sways the other is still. Though different in station both gleam compatible in linear design for their subjects to behold.
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Cottage Haiku
By Gaiyle J. Connolly In bed listening to rain on the old tin roof I’m a child again. c | schankz—stock.adobe.com
Cottage Haiku
By Gaiyle J. Connolly Til the old stove glows huddle under the blankets the wood sweet-smelling.
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El Malpaís, New Mexico By James Swafford
Conquistadors called it badland, maybe because it couldn’t be ranched or dug for gold, or maybe (though I doubt it) as a trick, like calling Iceland Iceland, to ward off those who would love it if they came. The great lava flows, layers on layers, the newest after three thousand years still black with the fire that birthed it: bad land for exploiting, good for thinking beyond frills and fripperies, for meditating the long slow cycles of earth, of fire and ice, the inexhaustible work of plants, the secret spaces of caves, the sweep of air and depth of sky, the motions of unseen lives that stir scrub juniper and Apache plume, all things great and small, unconquered and essential.
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Triassic Gifts
By Emily Bilman The warm water feels like baptism On my body as I immerse myself Into the weight of water charged With iron, copper, calcium, salt And fluoride, the mountain’s Triassic gifts that loosen and relax My muscles like striated mango-flesh. I exercise my legs, counting to ten – Twenty – thirty – forty – then, begin Swimming back and forth and back again Towards the long glass windows Disclosing a congregation of chamois. I, then, see the snow-capped slopes Through the large windows and a closer look Disclose huge pine cones trailing on the tall Tenebrous larches like the breasts of abundance. The next morning, a howling icy wind spiraled Hail and snow on the windows, swirling the snow From the rooftops, bending the tall pines.
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October
By Phil Huffy Again sweet summer has to go, her song is nearly through, as fall stands ready in the wings just waiting for his cue. This transformation we expect indeed, it’s bittersweet; we’ll watch in peace as leaves collect or cartwheel down the street.
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In November By Phil Huffy
The poet who would speak of fall and bid the other seasons wait may in her thoughts and voice recall fine vistas then to celebrate, for multitudes of forest views grow keener with each passing day and far off things her gaze pursues are offered in a bold array. Down by the pond below the hill near silver maples now undressed a doe may stand and drink her fill, enjoying there a moment’s rest, and through bare boughs descends a glow, direct and brilliant in its flight, revealing to the ground below a wave of golden autumn light. Such things the poet may advise to bring us to her special place and life seen through poetic eyes may well be worthy of our grace. Erin Cardigan—stock. adobe.com
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Texas Storm
By Ingrid Bruck lightning ignites fourth of July fireworks over prairie and highway, thunder rumples and roars in September light trails flicker from tree to tree in the sky forest ripples zip branch to branch and down a tree trunk bolts explode on rolling grasslands in the plains oil derrick skeletons indifferent keep pumping while overhead a foil net crackles, flows and surges to ground we’ve driven ten hours from Four Corners, four more to go to reach Dallas clouds open, torrents pour sheet lightning stretches for miles the windshield wipers work double time we slow down to keep control of the car a sports car zips by in a hurry, slips and spins out in front of us my husband yanks our car two lanes over we swerve and avoid a collision the other car settles catty-wampus and broadside we toddle past, take the slow way home and enjoy a vast light show
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Night Lights By Mary Bone
Morning stars above twinkle and glitter all around wonderful night lights.
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Beyond Seasons
by Robert Funderburk The leaves of autumn’s frosty winds, red and gold and rust, draw more beauty from death than sunlight and gentle rain on summer trees could ever offer.
And this solitary pilgrim, captured by autumn’s blaze of color, when he takes his final woodland walk, what then? He lifts from this tabernacle of of earthly shadow, this life of vapor and dust, to live beyond the stars and shine in the endless fields of Heaven.
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Orchestra of Leaves By Mary Gaylord Listen to how autumn trees sing each grove a band, with its own tune as leaves flutter with Fall winds each breeze, a composition each note, a different tone each song unique, a thousand leaves color harmony, full blown while skies may darken and lightening dance a thunder song drums in, yet each tree still plays its charming chord while earth, on axis spins every day, a new orchestra leaves and wind, swing-time, whilst nature, the conductor lifts high a leafy chime
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that she had baked and put in the freezer at the first hint of snow. She'd invite them all in and feed them, enjoying the By Sharon Frame Gay voices in her hallway, people in her kitchen. This year, it was different. The neighborhood had changed. Familiar families had moved away. Children had he seasons, they just go by," thought Marian as grown. People were transferred. Now all that was left she looked at her yard lined with leaves in were faces she didn't recognize. People from foreign brilliant oranges and reds. countries. India. China. Mexico. Not a one stopped in to "Now, how will I ever rake them up?" She sighed, then see how she was doing. If by chance she was sitting on walked back to her chair near the fireplace. her front porch, they scurried by with nary a wave. Marian was 85 years old and lived alone. Her elderly "I'll bet they've never even seen snow, much less know cat, Stewie, died last year. Marian was lonely without how to shovel it," she mused as the leaves hurled him, but at her age there was a chance that she might themselves to the ground. Yesterday when she walked to sicken and die. Her pet would have to find a new home the mailbox, there was a nip in the air. The sky looked without her. Just the thought made her sad. like snow. Every winter, the neighbors shoveled her sidewalk, a (Continued on page 21) wonderful time that Marian looked forward to each year. She scurried around making hot cider, brought out cookies
Seasons
"T
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Her son John lived far away in California. He tried to convince her to move closer, but she resisted. This was the home where she raised him, the house that weathered all the storms that come with marriage, a child, a lifetime. Why, right there on the wall was a tiny mark from the last time she had measured John. He was six feet tall. Eighteen years old. Now he shuffled along in his cardigan sweaters, balding head bowed as he walked. Had it been that many years since the wall had been painted? She shook her head, glanced away. That night the wind howled down the chimney. The house groaned, as though it were trembling with concern over the coming winter. Cold rain lashed at the windows, and boards creaked like voices from long ago. The next morning, there was frost on the windows, dusting the rooftops and the streets. Marian worried that the food she ordered from the local grocer might not be delivered today. There were only crusts left in a bag of bread in her pantry. She ate them with jam, and sat at the kitchen window, watching menacing clouds scud by. There was a knock on the door. Marian shuffled down the hall, asked "who's there?" "Your neighbor, Mira", said a voice in a lilting accent. Marian opened the door and gazed into the face of a woman she had seen countless times driving up and down the street. She had small children, Marian knew, tiny faces peering out the window as the car sped by. "Mrs. Curtis?" "Call me Marian". "Marian, then. I think I received some of your mail by accident." She held out several envelopes, placed them in Marian's hands. "Well, thank you very much. Might you come in for a while?" "Oh no, thank you. I have to go." Mira smiled and backed away, walked to the end of the porch, then stopped and looked back. "If you need anything, Marian", her voice hesitated. "Anything at all, please call on me." She rubbed her hands together, smiled nervously. "It's so cold today!" "Is it cold where you come from?" Mira glanced around shyly, pulled her scarf closer about her head. "No, it's warm where I used to live. This is all so different." Her voice trailed off, and she looked sad. "It seems like there's a lot of new folks around here," Marian said, shifted from one foot to another. "Yes, I suppose there is. Lots of new things to learn." Mira smiled again, took a step back, folded her hands in front of her. "Well, goodbye now." "Goodbye, Mira." That afternoon Marian had an idea. She brought out the cookbook, searched through the recipes, started baking. The house soon filled with the aroma of vanilla
and chocolate. Later, she walked to her mailbox with several letters, tossed them in and raised the flag for pick up. One week later, there was a knock on the door. When Marian opened it, six women stood on the porch, all with an envelope in her hand. "Come in, everyone" Marian smiled. She stepped aside as they entered the house. Her neighbors sat in the living room and visited for hours. Each one was new to the area, had no idea what to expect, and had a difficult time speaking English. Marian filled them in on the weather, the town, where to buy the best vegetables, the finest cuts of meats. They all had such a wonderful time that they decided to do it again the next week. And the next. One day, right before Christmas, Mira came down the walk with a basket on her arm. She smiled at Marian and asked "may I come in?" "Of course." "My cat had a litter in October. They have all found good homes. I have one kitten left." She pulled a small gray kitten out of the basket, set it on the floor. The cat looked up at Marian with green eyes, it's tiny face so cute that Marian just had to pick her up, hold it to her neck. "She's yours if you want her," grinned Mira. Marian hesitated, swallowed. She felt the cat's heartbeat against her chest, her hand cupped it's little head. "Oh honey, I would love to, but I can't. What if something happens to me? What would the kitty do then?" Mira touched Marian's arm gently. "I will promise you, my friend. No matter where we are - no matter where you go, or where I may move....I will always give your kitten a home with me, should you ever find that need." Marian cried, held the cat closer. "Yes! I would love her!" Now Marian sat with the kitten in her lap, looking out at her driveway. Neighbors had gathered with shovels and snow blowers, new faces outside her window, laughing and working in the freshly fallen snow. In the kitchen were the wives, warming the cider and arranging cookies on trays, speaking in so many beautiful accents. "Ah, the seasons, " Marian thought, "They just go by." Then she set the kitten down and walked into the kitchen to join her friends.
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Late Fall Evening By Ingrid Bruck
blackbirds land in bare trees the chirping brightens the leafless woods wind stirs the chimes falling rain freezes the sidewalk glazes slush coats weeds fireplace crackle sends blue smoke curls up the chimney I smell the wood smoke and follow it home
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Autumn
By Steven Tutino
I
n Autumn, I ponder with delight the thought of creamy maple syrup butter melted on toasted bread. A lick or two before the first bite. “What are you doing?” my sister askes in perplexity. “I like the taste of melted maple syrup butter,” I tell her. “Besides, its autumn.” I dream in colour and imagine walking through a forest of leaves with a dear friend, a lover, someone close to my heart. Autumn rain and tree branches devoid of colour, as the leaves, once so green, descend down to their new abode like Persephone going down to rule the underworld. Autumn is symbolic of meaning, filled with a sense of loss yet the realization that with loss comes great potential and eventual renewal. Autumn is about intimacy and solace and seeking pleasure in the warmth which comes from harvesting tomatoes and peppers and the love, its scent of cinnamon and pumpkin pie and all my old autumn loves. In Autumn, I say farewell to my grandmother’s garden and her once cherished fig tree now buried underneath the earth. She tells me the descent into the hardness of earth is the promise of fresh new growth. I remember walking through Indian summer one Friday afternoon after school and imagining an abundance of golden coins falling from the sky like a miracle God had sent into my grandmother’s house, her kitchen table like a display in a museum
showcasing the diversity and richness of Scilian culture: home-made sausage, stir-fried potatoes and onions, sliced red peppers and eggplants stored in bottles of fresh extra virgin olive oil, jars of oil cured olives, both black and green (even cured, the saltiness is sill there), blood oranges and the trippa and ricotta. And the basil is stored, made into pesto. The arancini overflow with mozzarella. I remember our extended family gathering together each year at my grandmother’s house, turning fifteen bushels of tomatoes into fresh tomato sauce, stored in jars, dispersed to neighbours and friends. “Do you think we should make the tomato sauce this year? I’m not feeling it anymore…” Each year she tells me the same thing. But then she just can’t help herself. We can’t help ourselves… There is something decadent about picking grapes from the vine tree in Indian summer, where the sun descends down like an intangible dream and fills the world with a golden amber so rich and pure like maple syrup. In autumn, the forgotten leaves of summer speak for themselves and in the rain, my thoughts and feelings are most sacred. In autumn, I wander lonely in my thoughts through golden fields of lost summer loves and wonder where my love went. There is something about autumn which enriches my consciousness and being. In Autumn, I take solace in opening up the Bible to any random page and finding comfort in the love which God sent. Walking through autumn together with you is no mere dream. I yearn for pumpkin spice and my warm winter scarf, because autumn is a reminder of the power of goodbye.
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