Halcyon Days—Issue 19 Founder, Monique Berry | Hamilton On Canada
CONTRIBUTORS Bruce Levine 6 Our New Plan 7 A Rite of Passage Dante Gray 25 Shenandoah Emory D. Jones 14 Dew Dancing Gaiyle Connolly 10 Indian Sunflowers 11 Duality Ingrid Bruck 15 I’d Like a Little Fire 24 Halcyon Jerrice J. Baptiste 8 End of Day 9 Night 20 Each Day a River 21 Love Light John Dorroh 22 First Kiss of Autumn Nancy Lou Henderson 12 Life is Brief Nolo Segundo 4 Breathe Close to Me 5 An Aging Wife Sarah Fairbanks 16 The Lands Apart Stella Mazur Preda 13 A Brief Encounter 23 Prelude to Winter
Bruce Levine Pg 6, 7
Emory D. Jones Pg 14
Gaiyle Connolly Pg 10,11
Ingrid Bruck Pg 15, 24
Jerrice J. Baptiste Pg 8, 9, 20, 21
John Dorroh Pg 22
Nancy Lou Henderson Pg 12
Sarah Fairbanks Pg 16
Stella Mazur Preda Pg 13. 23
Cover peter chen/EyeEm; inside marinavorona—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
Special Notices Halcyon Days has one time rights. See website for subscription details. No photocopies allowed.
Contributor Bios Halcyon Days—Issue 19 Bruce Levine, a 2019 Pushcart Prize Poetry Nominee, has spent his life as a writer of fiction and poetry and as a music and theatre
professional. Over three hundred of his works are published in over twenty-five on-line journals including Ariel Chart, Friday Flash Fiction, Literary Yard; over thirty print books including Poetry Quarterly, Haiku Journal, Dual Coast Magazine, Tipton Poetry Journal, and his shows have been produced in New York and around the country. Six eBooks are available from Amazon.com. His work is dedicated to the loving memory of his late wife, Lydia Franklin. A native Manhattanite, Bruce lives in New York with his dog, Gabi. Visit him at www.brucelevine.com Dr. Emory D. Jones is a retired English teacher who has taught in high schools and various community colleges. He has four hundred and eight credits including publication in such journals as Voices International, The White Rock Review, Free Xpressions Magazine, The Storyteller, Modern Poetry Quarterly Review, Gravel, Pasques Petals, The Pink Chameleon, and Encore: Journal of the NFSPS. He is retired and lives in Iuka, Mississippi, with his wife, Glenda. He has two daughters and four grandchildren. Dante Gray is an English teacher currently working in Kyoto, Japan. They received their degree in English Literature and Language at Tennessee Technological University in 2019, and their work was published in the university’s literary journal, The Iris Review. Gaiyle Connolly, a poet and artist from Hamilton, Ontario, Canada, has numerous publications to her credit, some of them prizewinning. They appear in local and international periodicals and journals. Her collection of poetry, Lifelines, which she also illustrated, was published in 2015. Her background of several ethnicities, love of art and travel and devotion to social justice are reflected in her work. Her readership includes Canada, the United States, Mexico and India. She is Past President of the Tower Poetry Society in Hamilton and has been active in poetry groups in Mexico. She is at the moment 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 lives in Amish country in Pennsylvania USA across the street from an Amish farm, where work horses pull the plows and retired racehorses pull carriages. Since retiring, she dedicates herself to writing. Current work appears in Failed Haiku, Halcyon Days, Quatrain.Fish and Halibut. Poetry website: www.ingridbruck.com Jerrice J. Baptiste is a poet and author of eight books. She was the recipient of a residency for The Women’s Leadership Program at The Omega Institute, NY, 2019. She has been published in The Yale Review; Shambhala Times; Kosmos Journal; The Caribbean Writer; Breathe Free Press; The Lake Poetry Journal; The Tulane Review; Autism Parenting Magazine; So Spoke the Earth: Anthology of Women Writers of Haitian Descent and many others. She also facilitates creative writing workshops. Her poems and collaborative songwriting are on the Grammy award winning album Many Hands: Family Music for Haiti. Jerrice is the host of Women of Note on WKZE, 98.1 FM in Red Hook, NY where enjoys playing Jazz & world music for her international audience. Visit her at Guanabanabooks.com to learn more about her work. Whether John Dorroh taught any high school science is still being discussed. However, he managed to show up every morning for a couple of decades at 6:45 with at least three lesson plans and a thermos of robust Colombian. His poetry has appeared in about 75 journals, including Feral, North Dakota Quarterly, Blue Moon Literary & Art Review, Selcouth Station, and Os Pressan. He also writes short fiction and the occasional rant. Sarah Fairbanks is a bookkeeper by day and a writer by night. While her left brain enjoys maintaining accurate books, her right brain finds it imperative to create and think outside the box. She has been writing since she was a child. Her father was in the military and she has lived in numerous places, including England and Germany. Her sense of wanderlust continued into adulthood and she has explored Spain, parts of South America, and Serbia. In addition, she has traveled all over the United States. Sarah now lives in Western Massachusetts where she enjoys hiking and boating. She also continues another lifelong passion and creative outlet – dance. Stella Mazur Preda is a resident of Waterdown, Ontario, Canada. Having retired from elementary teaching in Toronto, she is 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. Stella has released four previous books, Butterfly Dreams (Serengeti Press, 2003); Witness, Anthology of Poetry (Serengeti Press, 2004), edited by John B. Lee; From Rainbow Bridge to Catnip Fields (Serengeti Press, 2007) The Fourth Dimension, (Serengeti Press, 2012). She is a current member of Tower Poetry Society in Hamilton, Ontario and The Ontario Poetry Society. Stella is currently working on her fifth book, Tapestry, based on the life of her aunt and written completely in poetic form.
Breathe Close to Me By Nolo Segundo Breathe close to me, Let not your head droop Nor your face grimace In fierce grief, for when I must leave, all will not Leave with me, I promise. The memoires we made Together will sit safely Inside your mind’s nest. I’ll leave the photos too— I can’t take them with me, So you’ll have the proof We were young once, Both pretty and foolish, Drawn together like Two bees put in a jar, Buzzing around each other Until their disparate sound Becomes a kind of music. The photos and memories Can take you back to all The places we loved in Italy and France and that Windblown prehistoric Southern beach where Our hearts first linked In tandem as flesh merged And the monk-like sun set Slowly, silently o’er that Endless and holy ocean. Yet they lie, those photos And remembrances of our Youth and middle years, For no canvas or brain Can seize our love, the Living thing it is, unseen But tangible as a hand, Vulnerable yet enduring Past anger, illness and Even death, because time Cannot diminish this Being born between us.
Natalya—stock.adobe.com
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An Aging Wife By Nolo Segundo I look at her and I can see A woman approaching slowly The land of old age, her Night-black hair invaded by Lonely grey strands, stragglers Of an approaching army, a Relentless force built over Sixty years, stealing bits of her Beauty, loosening her skin, Lightening her bones.
I now can easily see the old woman She will become, and while I miss her Light-stepping, insouciant youth Which pulled both body and heart, At last I can hear love’s secret sound As she draws my soul ever closer….
Erin Cadigan—stock.adobe.com
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Our New Plan By Bruce Levine A new life New dreams revealed Old dreams fulfilled Plans drawn on silver linings Of clouds painted in pastel shades Time moving forward At its own momentum Shaping reality in a promised land Sharing new moments Walking hand in hand And days lasting forever A future written in the stars Etched in the sky On the jet stream of time Tomorrow and forever Living our new plan
371865 — pixabay.com
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A Rite of Passage by Bruce Levine A gray, eerie day On the cusp of the seasonal change No longer night, yet not quite morn The leaves of the trees hold a strange darkness Not quite black and yet not quite green Poised and holding their breath Ready for the day and almost ready for death As the calendar ticks down and fall grows near Soon the autumnal colors will spread And the leaves will wither Nature’s bounty, a prelude to the end of another year And the sun rises like a band of orange A line of light filtering through the clouds Creating the horizon Hidden by the trees until the transformation A new day comes into view Like the birth of the sun from the womb of the clouds The leaves shimmer in the wind And patterns fill the sky on a blue background A rite of passage from night into day fulfilled
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End of Day By Jerrice J. Baptiste She retires her sky blue apron on the red hook left of her stove. She washes hands with lavender soap dries them on taupe colored towel. Cinnamon ginger tea simmers a ceramic cup is filled She inhales scented steam rising— panacea held between hands.
Max Voiko—stock.adobe.com
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Night By Jerrice J. Baptiste Stars flicker into the night sky. Wind drifts scent of blossoms and hissing of leaves. Gentle thumps of ripe fruit onto soil. A mountain lullaby. We tuck ourselves in.
Janis Smits—stock.adobe.com
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Indian Sunflowers By Gaiyle Connolly On the overnight bus my eyes droop from lack of sleep. They adjust slowly to the sight and bright yellow delight of a field of sunflowers. I grow these golden beauties in pots one or two in contained space so they do not overrun. There they roam freely their expanse immense. Sunflower is the new oil of choice among food gurus for cooking or in salads; I feel compelled to use it too. Back home we are far removed from the scarcely paid sari-clad women who plant and harvest; their beauty and bright colours outclass the vibrant blooms.
dfikar—stock.adobe.com
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Duality By Gaiyle Connolly Autumn disappoints… Sun seeks shelter somewhere else. Heat hastens to find a new haven. Birds sadly bid au revoir. But gold chrysanthemums bloom. They prolong summer’s warmth and joy despite the frost.
leekris—stock.adobe.com
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Life is Brief By Nancy Lou Henderson Budding and growing in early Spring, shaping, then becoming colors of green. Rustling and holding tight, cooling, then shading in the sunlight. Changing and turning brown in the Fall, floating, then bouncing like a ball. Rolling and sailing in the wind, rising, then gliding once again. Twirling and dancing in the air, landing, then resting somewhere. Understanding and loving being a leaf, Accepting, then knowing life is brief.
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A Brief Encounter By Stella Mazur Preda last remnants of a tangerine sun drip through indigo skies darkness gallops on its ebony mare crystalline stars play peek-a-boo and a deep mist eclipses the gravel road horse’s hooves break the eerie silence pebbles like fireworks fly in their wake a solitary horseman tunnels through the dark flapping cloak whips the horse to a frenzy echoing hooves disappear muffled by the mist once again deafening stillness claims the night
ines—stock.adobe.com
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Dew Dancing (A French Sonnet) By Emory D. Jones Between the midnight and the dawn I sometimes step out on the lawn. Led by music of the spheres, I listen to their heavenly tone And swirl among my starry peers. The fecund night now comes to me We dance among the sultry pine And misty, lacy filigree, And we are softly intertwined. A summer morning, glistening dew Bediamonds all the grassy field And we are young with love anew. And as we pirouette and sway, We welcome the dawn of coming day.
Elena—stock.adobe.com
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I’d Like a Little Fire By Ingrid Bruck Hot. Gimme heat. Gimme fire in the fireplace Candlelight and flame Hot heat pressing darkness Daily crush and twist of paper Pile on twigs and bark Criss-cross smaller split logs Open the vent Strike the match Ignite paper, light candles Watch curling smoke float up the flue Gray tresses rippling like hair under water The first yellow flames flick lick Burn the kindling sticks Eager to sear to heartwood In the end Hot transforms Ember, ash, dust My glowing skin Does not fear fire’s end Luxuriating in hot hot hot Fire celebration alight in the grate (After: Rachel Zucker’s I’d Like a Little Flashlight)
Atelier Sommerland—stock.adobe.com
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The Lands Apart By Sarah Fairbanks
M
y world expands, suddenly financially able and untethered, my exploration is reignited after years of going nowhere. The planning phase complete, I shed my analytical mind and step on to the plane. As we fly lower, the water looms up at us, but the wheels meet the tarmac and another safe flight is in the books. The doors pop open, no jetway needed. I step out onto the stairs, the taste of adventure on my tongue, the sun shining upon my skin. We descend the stairs like movie stars or presidents and are directed towards customs. Usually sterile, laden with cold seriousness, Bermuda’s officials quickly glance at our documents within the homey wooden building where we are greeted by big smiles as lays are placed over our heads. Thrilled Bermuda boasts 70-degree weather in February, I am eager to hit the beaches. Arriving at the edge of the island, where land meets water, we travel down the roadway of pink sand. It begins to drizzle and moments later, the skies open. This does not deter my aunt and I and we continue walking, the only people in sight. Though the rain soaks our pants and dribbles down our faces, the air is warm. Amazed at the jagged rock formations that sit close to shore, framing the water, encasing the view like art, I barely register the heaviness of my jeans nor worry that my makeup has been washed away. Though eventually we drag ourselves from this aqua waterside, piling onto a bus, the locals stare at us as we drip our way down the aisle, they adorned in winter hats and gloves. We ride the bus all over the island. The drivers tussling their passengers side to side as they speed around tight bends on narrow roads, solidifying my decision not to rent mopeds. Finding the old rail trail, we hop on it, grateful for its silence, devoid of the sounds and danger of speeding buses and zipping mopeds. Arriving at the top of a hill, I peek out between the leaves of a tree, which frame a lone rowboat sitting in the aqua water below, the sun glistening off its bow. We run into man-made structures, such as the ruins of an old church. The island having partially reclaimed bits of this space, as I bend down within the narthex, tilting my camera skyward, my lens inundated with blue. Thinking perhaps this is how worship is intended to be – open skied to the heavens, connected with nature. Bermuda bombards me daily with its fresh air, gentle breezes and picture-perfect views. It never ceasing to amaze me that around almost every turn, there is water. Though the island is physically cut off from the rest of the world, this induces no concerns, rather I embrace this adventure: A tropical paradise
with never before seen huge, mutant like foliage. The island peaceful, only the small city center bustling with noise, only the squawking chickens invading the quiet. Chickens that perhaps got here when the British controlled Bermuda or later, when Bermuda became a tourist destination and a stop for many cruise ships. Maybe Bermuda became their home when pirates landed, ravishing the island or when an explorer’s ship crashed upon its shores. Imbodying an explorer, I stand upon the deck of the high-speed ferry as it leaves New London in its wake. The shoreline of Block Island eventually pops into view and my excitement builds, knowing that “anything goes” on “Block”. The wind blows, the sun kisses my face, the air is filled with sun tan lotion and salt. Closing my eyes for a brief moment, images of dirty dingy bars are seen through beer saturated eyes, people dancing wildly and unencumbered. I hear laughter and loud happy voices floating from one rental home to the other. Wishing to fling myself upon the shore, I grasp the railing in order to halt this action, choosing patience. Soon enough the Jessica is pulling into port and we gather our things as the crew ties up. As soon as the green light is given, we scramble down the gangplank, spewing into the shore line town before slowly dispersing up various roads heading out of town. Arriving at base camp, barely putting our things down, the cold liquid rehydrates me as the beer can graces my lips. Time passes, one beer, then two. Eventually I pop some potato salad into my mouth, the creamy tang of mayo sliding over my tongue as it settles on my hips, while the intoxicating smell of burgers sizzling on the grill drifts over us as the day becomes night. And then, in an instant, my first morning on Block has arrived, people slow to rise. I eventually make it out for a walk along one of Block’s many meandering paths, enclosed by hedgerows, bobbing up and down its rolling hills. The sun beats down on me, the island offering minimal shade, yet as I crest a hill, the ocean spreads out before me and I forget my discomfort, overcome with awe. Grabbing our bikes, we head out after lunch, choosing exercise over tanning ourselves at the beach. Riding for miles we attempt to work off all the food we ate and beer that we drank. I push on in the heat, struggling up the hills, eager to coast down the other side, only to face another hill minutes later. Hours pass, peddling all over this quaint island, our own private playground, as we race towards the night. As the sun lowers in the sky, I shower in preparation for the evening of revelry that lies ahead, grateful for the cool water as it washes the sweat off my body. As the air cools off, I grab a thin sweater, a six pack of beer and head over to whomever is hosting that night, struck by the beauty of the island in the
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gentle light of dusk. Looking towards the shore, I gaze at the endless water, the sun dipping below the horizon, practically taking my breath with it. I blink my eyes like the shutter of a camera, attempting to freeze the image in my mind. Imaging myself a painter, back home drawing on this image, dashing bold colors upon my canvas, swirling in the subtle hues. Late night, I find myself on top of a hill, the bonfire blazing, music quietly in the background, beers handed out and the stars exploding overhead, so close, so much brighter than at home. Work and worries a distant memory, I am living in the moment, existing, being. It dawns on me that the physical distance which exists between the island and the mainland is symbolic, it signifying escape. A place to take off those work pumps, kick up my heels, and just breath in that salty ocean air.
W
hisked from the small island off the Rhode Island coast, I am plopped into a plane. I look out the airplane’s window at the exact moment we leave mainland USA, shocked at my timing. The California coast diminishes with each passing second and then, for hours, the view beholds only water. Having never flown over the Pacific, always heading East across the Atlantic, this is unchartered territory. Landing on Kauai, it seems impossible that this is still the United States: we are in the middle of nowhere, five hours to mainland USA and six to Japan. Having never been so far from home, I find Kauai’s seclusion a bit daunting while also enchanted by its remoteness. The airport is tiny and we easily navigate our way through it, snagging our bright red convertible and dashing away from the airport. Making a quick stop within the “city” of Lihue where no tall buildings graze the skyline, no business center or financial district clutters its streets, no taxis honk their horns. Sticker shock abounds at the grocery store; though it makes perfect sense, what they do not make on the island, they have to spend money to import. Hopping back into our topless vehicle, we speed off to the resort on the lower west section of
the island, the sun beating down on us, the wind whipping our hair. Reaching our destination, the condos’ bright vibrant flowers explode in color and floral bouquet. From the lanai I catch a glimpse of the water, tasting the subtle hint of salt in the air as waves crash against the rocky shore. This ocean, no calm playground for kids, is formidable. Full of life with strong undertows, sharp drops and powerful waves. The next morning, I grab my backpack and sneak out of the condo before anyone wakes. Reaching the beach, I pull a towel out of my bag and sit down, the sand soft beneath me. The sun has just barely peeked over the horizon, only a few early surfers are sprinkled amongst the waves, the strength of the sun not yet unbearable. My trip comes at a time in my life when I am still struggling to reinvent myself: to figure out how to survive, single and alone. I quiet my mind, searching the universe for answers. Halfway around the world, the furthest I have ever been from home, I wait. I close my eyes, my palms turn upwards as they rest upon my knees and the breeze whispers, “you are all you need”. Its words healing me, strengthening me. I rise, a cloak of peace surrounding me as I walk back to the condo, the road skirting the edge of this remote and exotic island. My mind flips through my rolodex of travels, my trips to islands sticking out, encompassing so many of my loves: nature, water, adventure, seclusion and peace. As I pass a bird of prey, I memorize its unique shape, knowing these are not common back home. I ponder the uniqueness of each island I have visited while marveling as I deduce the one important thing they have in common. They not only represent a getaway as all vacations do, but also, they are quite literally separated from the mainland, surrounded by water. This physical distance assists my mind, which is obsessed with compartmentalizing, in fully engaging in exploration, escapism and rebirth. Days later I am blown east towards home, once again duty bound and responsible. Yet I am renewed. Nestled within the secret chambers of my heart, the aqua water of Bermuda, the rolling hills of Block Island and the exotic remoteness of Kauai forever lie, available to pull out and revisit whenever my heart desires.
Patryk Kosmider—stock.adobe.com
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Each Day A River By Jerrice J. Baptiste We bathe then sit on rocks, sunlight interchanges with shade as tree branches interlace. We dangle our feet near water’s edge. Children dive into the deep clear silvery water. They laugh & squeal, as clouds envelop yellow sun.
rdonar—stock.adobe.com
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Love Light By Jerrice J. Baptiste As trees wed to light bare shoulders soak up rays of a blissful noon. My gaze shifts hazily from pond, to reeds, towards the chorus of croaking frogs, as my skin and shadow become bronzed.
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First Kiss of Autumn By John Dorroh It’s about the light, how it alters its slant from the sun, warning the plants that changes are on the way, their auxins and photochemicals reacting with a similar innateness that carefree students and teachers feel in August when advertisements announce that it is time to go back to school. It makes everything lean to the left about 10 degrees, shadows beginning to grow a wee bit taller, a hint of what will happen in a month. It’s about how things begin to slow down, how the sun sinks below the jagged horizon a minute and 50 seconds earlier each day. I feel it in my chest, a change of pressure as this part of the world prepares itself for its winter bed. Today it is hot and sticky, a surge of caramel wind wafting up from the south. We are going to Lisa and Jeff’s pool at noon to enjoy another summer swim. Soon it will be unwise to jump into diamond waters, so we best enjoy it while we can.
Harald P Wichert—pixabay.com
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Prelude to Winter By Stella Mazur Preda Ravaged by winds and time, a tree stands forlorn and despondent, brutally stripped of its foliage. Beside it stands another, resplendent in its cloak of pure gold, knowing that soon, it too will stand naked until the snows of winter provide the warmth it seeks. Matic Štojs Lomovšek—stock.adobe.com
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Halcyon By Ingrid Bruck Peaceful words, many nature-inspired, hike submontane trails of Appalachia, pass verdant woods in the foothills where a kingfisher flits and fishes from riparian bank to bank. An islet with pink sand or shale shores, a waterfall named, Horsetail Falls. Sea turtles and plovers have littoral rights to some nesting beaches. Jersey’s Thunderdome (sports arena) in Tenton sounds halcyon but isn’t.
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Shenandoah By Dante Gray I washed my hands on a ledge overlooking Shenandoah valley. The river whispered in my ears, told tall tales of visitors kept near. Their eyes beheld—eternal— this view the best of their brief lives. All behind them mattered not. With them and the sky in embrace, they found gravity to the ground. Waterfalls crashed in calm cycles, empathetically apathetic in a quiet understanding of the fall.
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Keep Calm
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Think Halcyon
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