EKPHRASIS 2020
“The Art of the Quilt”
In loving memory of Susan DeWardt who inspired us all
The word ekphrasis, or ecphrasis, comes from the Greek for the description of a work of art produced as a rhetorical exercise, often used in the adjectival form ekphrastic. It is a vivid, often dramatic, verbal description of a visual work of art, either real or imagined.
Ekphrasis is produced annually by the Steamboat Art Museum, 807 Lincoln Ave., Steamboat Springs, CO 80487. No portion of the contents may be reproduced in any manner without the written permission of the publisher. All rights reserved.
EKPHRASIS 2020 The Art of the Quilt Lyla Baker – Based on Marmalade’s First Snow ................................................................2 Sandy Conlon – One For the Dogs .......................................................................................3 Harriet Freiberger – Based on Quilt by Helen Sherrod, Circa 1950s ..................................4 John Grassby – Self-eulogy by a Minor King in Present Day Ireland ..................................5 Kathleen Guler – Time Shutters .............................................................................................7 Tessie Martinez Herrasti – Legacy ........................................................................................9 Johannah Hildebrand – Home ................................................................................................11 Duane J. Koukol – A Country Blues Song “Sally at the Door” ............................................13 Jennie Lay – A Flowing Response ........................................................................................14 Dagny McKinley – Sunshine and Shadows ...........................................................................15 Dagny McKinley – And A Time to Dance .............................................................................17 Sandra Molen – Shelter ..........................................................................................................19 Tai Nass – A Revolution .........................................................................................................20 Cesare Rosati – The Other Side .............................................................................................22 Cesare Rostati – The Challenge .............................................................................................23 Ann Ross – When Life Gives You Scraps, Make a Quilt .......................................................25 Melissa VanArsdale – Goat Rodeo .......................................................................................27 Wendy Watson – A Cat’s Eye View: A Year in Paradise .....................................................30
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“Marmalade’s First Snow” by David Taylor
By Lyla Baker – Youth Entry The barn door creaks as it is nudged open, and A cat, small and ginger though she seems, Steps out with a glittering and tense air of curiosityGlances, left and right Stretches out a tentative paw, and brushes the snow With a gentle caress, And the snow huffs as it is drawn away again, Her whiskers bristling and thinking of the contrast between this and the hearth in the sitting room In the house nudged against the hillside not far off She glances back at the window behind her As the white dust drifting down from the sky comes to greet the glass The cold air pressing in upon it Like an old friend, wrapping its long And nature-made arms around the wood of the barn, Wet yet light with the absence of responsibility, save of a sole purpose of beauty. Then she turns back to face the outside once more, Hazel eyes reflecting the brightness of the hidden sun glancing upon the snowfield And then down at the small ledge from which she was to jump If she desired to face the morning With all the courage of a feisty and yet careful feline wanting To learn more of this new and exciting entity. Shifting so that her other paw was facing the snow now, She slowly lowered it to the ground And touched it again- her small imprint lasting this time The warmth of it still present In the crisp air of the winter morning. Perhaps a quiet spring would make the best of it, melting this stuff And if only she could have those same powers, so she could Hold it off until next year once more, so that she may visit The field mice and be tickled by the green blades of summer grass! But alas spring was unto itself, and she resigned with quick jump over the wooden ledge And into the frigid depths of the snow below Wait. A few seconds, in which she wonders what to make of the cold yet albeit refreshing feeling Spreading now through her toes And then hops off, sprightly, in the air of a new and fantastic wonderland of winter.
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“Hot Diggity Dogs” by Jackie Grimaldi & Madeleine Vail
One for the Dogs By Sandy Conlon I snuggled up with a dozen dogs or more but couldn’t be sure of the number, maybe half of that in butterflies and one bright red cardinal preening. The marvel was how warm it felt while they too rested watchful and waiting eager to play fetch or frolic in the snow. Alas, they, like mine of yesterday, were stuck in quiet repose their coarse and silken coats in cloth transformed still waiting for someone to call their name. Come! Spot, Mavis, Punto, and Rover Millie, Bruno, Cephus, and Clover Call each dog from all the world over. Still they lingered, finely stitched and woven into quilted space, among the leaves, butterflies, and others like themselves who no longer longed for human touch or heard someone call their name. Yet I dream of spirit dogs and see my own, who will not again understand the purist joy of chase and play or sit near by at the close of day. Softly I pull the cover over me, marvel at the magic of needle & thread and revel in the present warmth of distant dogs everywhere.
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Quilt by Helen Sherrod-circa 1950s
By Harriet Freiberger Needles, thread, and human hands, but there is more - something that defines a need to understand a lifetime that we come to know as who and what we are. Thrown headfirst into the whirlwind of our senses, we reach for soothing quiet and calm, a pattern that will satisfy bold cravings as our bodies grow into a thriving wholeness, definitive in the passage of becoming. We reach for touch and feel - and find a teasing taste - amazing possibility of becoming. Then, as growth empowers more connections, explore to see a pattern form complexity emerging - stitches bound within a border defining there a hoped-for clarifying moment’s stillness: and it is done.
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“Passage at Knowth” by Denise Labadie
Self-eulogy by a minor king in present day Ireland, prior to arrival of the first Celtic tribes. Circa 5,000 BC. By John Grassby I am the all-knowing, all-powerful King Knowth, the mightiest of the mighty. None dared challenge me or my realm during all the days of my celebrated rule. Based on the wisest, most complete code of human conduct ever conceived, the legacy of my reign shall endure as a shining example of what can be accomplished when mind aligns with leadership of the Gods with whom I, alone among all kings, spoke daily. This is the final day of my glorious life and the day of my interment in my burial mound here in Boynth Valley, in a land close to the retreating Great Ice, to which the world’s most robust, most resourceful, most resilient people have always been drawn and have lived and thrived. The world will sadly witness my passing, but will also rejoice in the passing on of my legacy to the world. Eventually, inevitably, my legacy will be deemed no longer relevant, no longer in harmony with the prevailing beliefs and practices of the day, unable to keep pace with the actions and passions of the times. It will be said that history has overtaken the wisdom of the past, making it no longer wise, an anachronism of minimal value. But my legacy is not so vain as to speak of all things for all men for all times. Instead, it is limited to how best to rule, given man’s seemingly ever predictable vagaries and caprices: Concerning conflicts within the realm for which the king is the ultimate arbiter, know that man is seldom angry for the reasons given, or even at the one against whom his ire appears to be directed. Unearth the angry party’s real reasons—his own fears, errors, stupidity, among 5
others—then identify the real party at blame—often the angry party himself—and most conflict self-resolves. Require all in the realm, starting with the king, to take responsibility and be held accountable for their words and actions. Competition strengthens, but inspire cooperation equally as it achieves more for the realm and its people than unchecked rivalries. To survive trying times, to effect all manner of healing for all within the realm, including the king; to put life’s nonsense into context; to discredit and oust tyrants, nothing is more valuable or more powerful than humor and ribald laughter. Anything is possible. Every sunrise brings unlimited new options, perspectives, ways to start anew. Most major change occurs quickly, irreversibly, with little warning. To reach the inner tomb, my burial mound has a narrow and arduous passageway making it difficult for any other than the one for whom it is intended to reach final respite in the innermost chamber. Other burial mounds preceded mine, but these belonged to lesser kings than I whose reigns reflected their internal faults and soon fell to pointless bickering and self-destruction. I endeavored to learn from and not repeat such mistakes and believe I succeeded. But, without the luxury of perspective, certainty is elusive. Not knowing in this lifetime the ultimate outcomes—for better for worse—of our cherished endeavors is one of life’s cruelties, or, maybe one of its blessings. Years hence, if these words are remembered, the worth of my thinking may by then be known and judged accordingly. If judgment is unfavorable, I seek only acknowledgement that I caused more good than harm and did the best I could with what I had at the time. Men will always require kings, or leaders by other names. In closing, then, I dare to personally advise such future leaders: Rule with absolute integrity, your single most important and powerful attribute, but also the one most quickly and easily compromised. Never permit individual shortcomings—every man, every king, has them—to be reflected in your public policies. When you err—an eventual certainty—admit it and make amends. Accept that even your very best will seldom be good enough. Acknowledge that even great heroes, including thee and me, have feet of clay. Beware of amassing too much power—the greater the power the greater the likelihood of corruption. Leadership is all-consuming and exhausting making constant personal replenishment vital. And now, present and future kings, the time is nigh for me to enter and travel through my private passageway to the next dimension. Until we meet again in the unknown and limitless future to build more towers in the sky and bring yet more enlightened rule to our realms, Godspeed.
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“Passage at Knowth” by Denise Labadie
Time Shudders By Kathleen Guler Silence. Darkness. Only a hint of dull light at the far end. I drift along the gallery of cool, flat stones in the soft, damp air, from one end of the passageway to the other, back and forth, a continuous loop. Set below the rough walls, the ashes still rest. Mine, as well as those of the others. “Daughter?” My mother’s disembodied words vibrate within the chamber’s stillness. I sense her voice rather than hear it. “Yes, it is I.” “Why do you keep coming back here?” Her tone edges on accusation. “Why have you never left?” I counter. She is quiet for a while. I feel the energy of the universe quiver. Soon it will begin to quicken in me. I cannot stay long. She knows this. “You are going back to him, again, aren’t you?” Her alarm pulses in the stones. “Yes, I am.” “How can you do this? Each time you end up exhausted, broken, beaten. Have you no pride?” “I must, Mother.” “Why?” There is a sigh of anguish in her words. “He is the other half of my soul. Together we accomplish more than when apart. Much more. And of much more importance, exhausting as it may be.”
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The stones throb, smelling of the earth from which they were dug. “You are your own soul, Daughter. He is his own soul as well. You are strong. You don’t need him. You have lived in so many times and places—and gained such wisdom. Except where he is concerned.” I am quiet for a time. She asks, “How do you know he will be there, that he will take you back again?” “It has been decided, Mother. You know how this happens. I will find him. He will find me.” “And he will take you down with him. Again.” “Like Father did you? But you were never courageous enough to go back to him. He is the other half of your soul, waiting for you, out there, somewhere. But you deny him. Won’t believe it. Because it is difficult, no matter the reward.” Again the silence. I sense a moment of her shock, her disappointment. The disappointment is in herself, and I know, once more, she will not try. She was queen once. Too afraid to lose, to hurt. Outside, rain has begun. The quickening grows more powerful. “I must go.” She says, “I don’t understand why you always stop here before taking on your next life.” “It is only for the times that I share with him that I stop here. There are many lives between. That is when I rest. Lesser lives. Easier lives, such as they are.” I don’t say how I much miss him, need him, but she probably knows anyway. He and I are not royalty, not famed, like she was. The importance of what we do is subtle and underlies what matters. I don’t know what we will face in this next life, and we may never know the consequences. Sometimes—most times—it is the tiniest moment that brings forth a momentous change. “But why here?” she asks. “Because you are here, Mother.” No response. Either she doesn’t understand that I miss her, too, or she refuses to believe that as well. Her presence fades, slips through the cracks between the stones. She has gone back to huddle amongst her ashes. I sigh and begin a final loop through the passageway. Don’t need hands to feel the cool walls and ceiling of stones. Don’t need eyes to see the subdued, clouded light as it creeps through the slit at the end of the passage. Don’t need ears to hear the rain outside. Or the voices of the ancestors who call. I have been here uncountable times. Doesn’t matter how many. My ashes stay here, undisturbed after thousands of years. In the important times, the difficult times, it is my starting place. My continuance place. And now, the universe, the gods, the spirits of the ancestors, whatever they may be called, indicate it is time. And so I launch, flinging, racing, rip-roaring like a comet, an asteroid, a sonic boom. The rush of wind, the sting of cold. Released once more from the place of reckoning, the decision made, I crash, invade, meld into the warm, damp miniscule beginnings of life inside another mother’s womb, ready to grow, to seek, to toil. To love. I feel time shudder, and I am alive once more.
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“Sally at the Window” By David M. Taylor
Legacy By Tessie Martinez Herrasti Her memory was fading in me, and yet I missed her at every moment. I felt robbed of time, of her presence. This is maybe why I escaped, why Mexico felt so haunting, so difficult to set foot in. Has it been twelve years already? I can’t seem to remember, I have been gone from my country for so long in the pursuit of happiness, freedom, and opportunity. Today I was finally back. What a turbulent journey to return to this surreal kingdom, with its old smell of chocolate and pepitas covering my nostrils, impregnating my senses with memories long buried. I feel an epic and melancholic atmosphere of nostalgia surrounding me. The feelings of my gente, my place. For a long time, I was a European version of myself. I believed that I didn’t deserve my Aztec blood because of my white skin. I assumed I wasn’t Mexican enough to speak Tlaloc’s name or to invoke the Coatlicue. My world was that of ancient narratives, I kept convincing myself that I was unworthy of my ancestors, unworthy of my own belonging. Today is a warm day, sunny and beautiful, the perfect weather, not too cold, not too hot. I am ready to see my brothers again and hold them so tight to prove to them that I never left. Instead, I bought a ticket to Quetzálan, the misty town with the paved stone paths and the bridge of niebla where I once loved someone with passion.
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Upon arriving here, I developed a somewhat sour sensation in my mouth. A combination of chipotle and dried pineapples. I was loved here once, however, I neglected it, tossed it away into the very same flames of mist that covered long hours of lovemaking at the waterfalls. I sat once more on the steps of the old plaza and I admired the people as they went by. Them, simple people, unweary, enjoying their lives, and occupations. Me, on the other hand, incomplete, full of doubt, and alone. I sat there for hours contemplating the colors of that old town. The Papantla dancers were there once again, flying around the high pole kissing the sky, filled by the sound of the wooden flute that carried the message of rain and fertility. Some people stared at me with my small hat and my red dress, my bare legs, and white skin. I could read their faces, to them, I was a foreigner, an outsider. How could they know I had been raised by this land. Rocked to sleep by the poems of Xavier Villaurrutia and the boleros of my great grandfather singing to the moon during his long bohemian nights in Tamaulipas. Nobody knew me here, nobody ever thought that I was actually from this country. My Mexico is filled with an epiphany of magic and humanity, a mystical thought covered by the joy of living, the simplicity of honoring what you have, and the gratitude of being able to enjoy it day by day. At least that is what my mother used to say. I miss her, my gordita, my angel of corn and flowers with the sweetest smell of an intoxicating evening surrounded by stars. I walked back to the small posada where I would spend the night. On my way there, I found a house. A beautiful beige residency with square windows and wooden french doors that framed the entrance. The floor consisted of a variety of tonalities, cream, pink, and soft violet. It was a stunning composition of geometrical shapes and shadows. The house seemed abandoned, nothing inside, no furniture, no one around. I got closer to the door and peeked inside, the oddest jolt of energy came rushing inside my heart. Speechless, I was glued to the glass, watching, motionless. On the other side was a figure, a woman. I couldn’t believe my eyes. There she was, my beautiful gordita, my mother, peering back at me. She left a long time ago to have a party with my ancestors and yet there she was, on the opposite side of the glass. Memories rushed by and I suddenly remembered saying that I would come back here one day, buy a small house in this enchanting town. Maybe a place where I could write and bask in the beauty of nature, joining the caves to be reborn as a member of my own culture. I guess this is where my journey truly begins.
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“Welcome Home� by David Taylor
Home By Johannah Hildebrand hold me back against the raging winds of my youth a race to find where Waldo was be quick
collard greens and pork chops black-eyeds and jiffy bread hot from the oven, always on Sunday
and on Cinderella days we plunged our hands in little fingers scrubbing rubbing cleaning
at night I Love Lucy Let us see what that Walker Texas Ranger has done this time
sparkling mirrors and forts of pillows, purple and soft making dark comforting caves and us
her smile her diamond rings the earrings we gave her and her perfectly curled hair she was
TV on summer days Wheel of Fortune, Price is Right, As the World Turns we play Lotto
peach soap and always a sprite on the night stand. and sometimes we ate Viennas from the can
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first day of school and she picked us up in the red car, the blue car, the white car the first days
we drank and we laughed and suddenly we were more grown than we thought we ever could be
Avon Christmas shopping S&S for dinner Salisbury steak- eat it in a fish bowl
sitting on that porch on the swing, and the little blue house wrapped up and a warm quilt
we went to her house at Christmas time and a bottle of Whiskey KFC dinner and a lot of pie pie on the counter and pie to take home with us her voice as she comes in the door each time
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so now looking back on tiny life lesson grown large and steadfast in my mind I miss her and when sometimes I feel like I am losing touch her voice through the phone and her words save me
“Sally at the Window” by David Taylor
A Country Blues Song – “Sally at the Door” By Duane J. Koukol Sally with the Red dress Sally with the Red dress on Well Honey Take my picture Like I have never Been here before As she looked Through the glass Old memories you see “That was once our front door!” Well Daddy was a preacher Who moved across the Line He said he heard A voice one night Say-in’ “Can’t you hear Them cryin?” So he packed-up My Momm-a You my Momm-a and me 13
And we went across That River That River of time But like my Daddy before me I still have sand On my living room floor I still remember The words he told me “Well can’t you hear The cities at your back Door?” Well Honey Take my picture Like I have never Been here before Well Honey Take my picture Like I have never Been – here – Before
“Ellen’s Pick” by David Taylor A Flowing Response (From Our Changing Climate to David’s Melting Icicle) By Jennie Lay Ice never lies. In the bits, trapped bubbles whisper ancient secrets from this bitter Earth. Listen carefully, and you’ll hear the rangy stories. Sweet mysteries from Viking explorers and ambitious insults from industrial smokestacks. Together, they rise in a hum of pop, crackle and whoosh. In the rolling bergs, 10,000 years of fossilized snowflakes and coalsoaked air churn up earth and rock and Mother Nature’s most impressive architecture. Opacity and clarity. Fluidity and brittleness. All the textures. Infinite sparkle. Eyes on the vast ice sheet drop a mortal to tears. Greenland unveils the beauty and the beast. Frozen water locks in time and every imaginable hue of grue – that ill-defined umami of colors that floats somewhere between green and blue. Plus all the shades of gray. The ice won’t fib. There is too much water in it now. Crystals melt, rushing from the depths, releasing gasses that will plague us. In equatorial places like Bangladesh and Kiribati, they already do. Unleashed from the ice, water gives life, and takes it away. Rubies glitter from the gneiss. A polar bear roams the horizon. Whales rise gently to remind us of their reign. Fires rage. Derechos flatten. Typhoons flood. Drought transforms jungle to desert. Fate lies bare naked in the ice. Her fragility is our truth.
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Circa 1930s quilt – creator unknown
Sunshine & Shadows By Dagny McKinley The bloodstain spread through the quilt, like a cloud gathering before a storm. Pa wrapped the quilt tightly around his wife. “She’ll get cold,” he said. “But Pa, she’s dead. She cain’t feel nothing no more.” “Shush, child. You don’t know how much of her spirit is hangin’ on. Tell her a story while I get things fixed up.” “What kind of story?” “Don’t matter. One of the ones she taught you. She’d like that.” Eleanor couldn’t look at Ma as she sat next to her and recited the story of Mother Holle. Took Pa the better part of an hour to get the horses calmed and the wagon righted. He cursed and swore he’d kill that moose if he ever saw it again. Damn moose charged the horses, spooking them, causing the wagon to tip. Berry, broke loose and accidentally trampled Ma after she got thrown to the ground. If they didn’t need the horses so bad, Pa would’ve shot him right there. When he was ready, he tucked Ma into the hay in the back of the wagon. “You sit up here.” Eleanor didn’t want to sit in her mother’s place but no one said no to Pa. When they got home, Pa told Eleanor to send her brothers and sisters to the neighbor’s house. They were only too happy to go, since Sunday was chore day. The youngest, May, looked at her sister. “Something bad happened.” “Go on.” Pa and I have a few things to finish.” Her sister didn’t move. “I said, go on, now.”
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May scampered out the door. Once they were off, Pa lifted his wife out of the wagon and carried her tenderly to the house. He lay Wilma’s body on the braided rug near the fireplace. “Get your mother’s church dress.” When Eleanor returned with the brown homespun wool dress, her father set it on a chair, then handed her the quilt her mother had wrapped around her shoulders earlier that day for the drive to the saddlery. “Take that to the river. Rinse it out good then scrub it if you need to.” “Yes, sir.” She knew Pa would’ve buried her Ma in the quilt, she loved it so, but they didn’t have money to buy another one. Winter was going to be long and cold. Eleanor held the quilt to her heart as she carried it to the river. Her mother’s scent was woven into the fabric; flour and lard, pine from firewood and her one luxury, rose scented soap. At the river, she spread out the quilt so Eleanor could see every square. Ma used Pa’s old red flannel shirt for the center of half the squares. She said the center was the heart and Pa was her heart. The other half came from the lavender dress she wore the first time he came calling. Her Ma once explained the pattern, “On every square there is dark and light, sunshine and shadows. Just like life.” Eleanor fingered the brown strip with blue flowers. That was her Aunt Dotty’s dress. “After your Pa proposed, my sisters brought over their scraps of old clothes. We stitched this quilt so I would always have them with me. Someday I will give you the quilt so I will always be with you.” Eleanor knelt at the bank of the river, submerging the blanket, watching the blood float away, carried to places unknown. Her hands numbed from the cold. She wished she could lie in the water, let her heart go numb, too. She could barely bend her fingers to wring out the blanket. As she trudged back to the house, she heard the sounds of a shovel hitting dirt up where her baby brother was buried. She let Pa go about his business. Knew he needed to take care of the hurt in his own way. Filling the washtub with water, she warmed it over the fire, then put the quilt in, lathering it with soap and ammonia. She worked the quilt with her hands until there was nothing left of the stain. She rinsed the blanket then took it outside to hang on the line. As she fastened the quilt with clothespins a cloud passed over the sun causing her to shiver. They wouldn’t have the warmth of their mother tonight. Eleanor waited in the shadows for the cloud to pass and the sun to return.
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“Wildflower Ballet” by David Taylor
And A Time to Dance By Dagny McKinley 1911 – Rifle, Colorado “Make sure you have a clean shot. There’s no need to make it suffer,” said Sam “Pop” Perry. Charlotte raised her gun, looking into the bear’s eyes, which were wide with fear. “See, Pop, she’s nothing but a sissy.” Charlotte’s older sister, Marjorie, stepped up and sighted the bear with her own gun. A shot rang out. The bear dropped to the ground. Shallow breaths replaced grunting. Resignation replaced fear. “That’s my girl,” said Charlotte’s father, clapping her on the back. Charlotte watched the pain fade from the bear’s eyes as the life went out of her. “I won’t do it again.” She looked to her father, tears running down her face. “That bear would kill you without a second thought.” “I won’t kill another animal.” “What’s the matter with you?” Sam Perry turned away from Charlotte to Marjorie. “Help me gut it.” They skinned and gutted the bear as the sun set behind the mountains. Charlotte’s friend Portia reached for her hand, squeezing it in sympathy as they tended to their horses. On the ride back to camp, Charlotte’s lagged behind the group, feeling like an outcast. Their guide, Blaze, wasted no time cooking the bear meat with potatoes and beans. “Help yourselves,” he said. As they did, he offered his version of a prayer. “For any food, we must be thankful. Thankful for those who brought us this meat and thankful for the bear who gave her life so that we might live.” “You done good, Charlotte,” said her brother, Bobby, trying to lighten the mood. Charlotte pushed her food around her plate Sensing her sister’s defeat and going in for her own kill, Marjorie cleared her throat. “You know, I saw the strangest thing when I went to fetch water yesterday.”
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“Don’t,” warned Charlotte. “How exactly would you describe it, sis?” Charlotte jumped up, spilling her food. “You want me to say it? Is it so important to you that Pop hates me and loves only you?” “What are you two blathering about?” demanded Sam as he rubbed the tip of his mustache. “What Marjorie found so fascinating yesterday was me kissing Portia,” declared Charlotte. Portia didn’t dare look up. Bobby glanced at the two women. He couldn’t save his sister. “Shut your mouth,” roared Sam Hank slid away from the fire into the night. Sam rubbed his temples. “I love her.” Charlotte whispered staring into the fire. Sam looked his daughter over. “When we return home you will have one week to pack your belongings. I will not tolerate someone like you living under my roof. Charlotte’s cheeks burned with shame. “You are dismissed.” Portia followed Charlotte to an open meadow surrounded by aspens and filled with wildflowers, their brightness drained by the night. Hummingbirds darted from flower to flower, seeking nectar. “Remember at Smith College? We believed we could be anyone? Do anything? I want to feel that way always. You’re doing it, Portia, but me… What’s my future? Kicked out of my own home?” “What do you want your future to be? “I don’t know. I want to make a difference.” Portia pulled Charlotte down next to her linking her fingers through her friend’s. “You can.” “Do you really believe that?” asked Charlotte. “I believe in you.” “Why?” “Dance with me.” Portia stood and took off her clothes, the moonlight illuminating her skin. She danced to her own rhythm, without shame, unafraid. “You dance like a nymph, a fairy, a falling star.” “Dance with me.” Charlotte hesitated. She felt her father’s disgust deep inside. “Let go, Charlotte. Be who you want to be.” Charlotte stood, letting her arms rise above her, as she leapt, twirled, swayed and shivered. Her accompaniment was the wind, the yipping of coyotes in the distance. As she moved, the world fell away. Portia reached for her, covered her face with soft kisses. “Portia, I want to open a camp for girls in the mountains where they can dance and act and be whatever they want.” “If you can dream it, you can do it.” “We can do it. What do you say?” The moon slid below the horizon, stars faced above as morning spread over the meadow lighting aspen, columbine, mountain bluebells and sunflowers. A hummingbird hovered, watching Charlotte and Portia dance until they became one, until their bodies glowed in the light of a new day as night’s shadows disappeared.
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“Beneath My Wings” by David Taylor
Shelter … By Sandra Molen She left the nest and she soared. But soon she flew too close to the sun and found herself aflame. Hurt, free falling and alone. Ever searching for something beyond her reach. Where to go, what to do, who to trust? Not knowing. The end is near. Lost. Tired of searching, finding no hope, no help. Despair. Falling through the darkness. Entering the end. Falling, falling into … the place she once called home. Home was there. Always there. Waiting to catch her, just in case. Back under the comforting wings of home. Relief. Safety. Respite. Sheltered beneath the wings. He will cover you with feathers; you will find SHELTER beneath his wings. ~ Psalm 91:4
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“Sunset on Inishmore� by Denise Labadie
A Revolution By Tai Nass Let me tell you a story about a revolution. The revolution brought me here to this cell. When they shoved me into my new home of rock and blood and excrement it was not my own but now my blood stains these monoliths of entrapment. I have taken each brick apart one by one in my mind and contemplated my pristine country, The Land of Lakes and Volcanoes. In the vista from my window I can almost make out the view of Isla Ometepe over the vast waters of Lake Nicaragua. Instead of despair, I am rapturous, proud to be a Sandinista. Like all revolutions, thoughts turn to whispers, whispers to plans and plans transform into action. Those actions change paradigms. All revolutions or risings as I call them now, are massive transformations. A shift was happening, and my people, the Nicaraguenses, were rising. This shift comes from a deep place in human existence where consciousness is awakened into the light of knowing. Knowing that we, all creatures on this planet and beyond, have a right to be here with hope and dignity as livelihood. When hope is taken away, the human senses come alive to search for it. And that is what happened. As I watched my people starve and languish in sickness, I put one hand on my loved ones for solace and one fist in the 20
air. I turned to look at my people and there were constellations of fists in the air, like the ones that flicker out my cell window. A family of our own people had stolen our humanity. A dynasty of Somozan men took the rights of my parents and their parents and their parents before them. These men that robbed us of dignity and peace did so for ego. Egos so large that they blindly destroyed the sacred that birthed them, nurtured them and gave them air to savor. Mama Nicaragua disintegrated under their wake and many died. These monsters decided politics and money was the ideal to stand for and Mama Nicaragua was no longer peaceful. She was pregnant with anger. When the earthquake cracked a chasm in our Land of Lakes and Volcanoes it shook us awake to see how dishonorable our existence had become. And when they diverted the supplies that were meant to save us in the agony, they sent it to their friends. I said to my people this is the last injustice we will endure and I kept one fist raised in the air and the other grabbed for a gun. One by one we rose, children, mothers, grandmothers, warriors, grasped their machetes, their babies and they fought. Somehow in the starvation and exhaustion we found a new place of energy inside, a purpose built in freedom. When they took me, my giant gaze looked down on a Somoza and he cowered. I failed, but our mission did not and I see it in the defeated demeanor of my captors. So, contemplation and silence have brought me back to rest. The hatred has turned to understanding. You see, we are all here to care for our families. We are all here to feel the profound love that having the blood of our ancestors, and those that come after, give. It is sacred and runs deep into the roots of our countries. Do not forget it and when you are lost, it will ground you. The womb of Mama Nicaragua has nurtured me in a cocoon and now I have metamorphosed. Near my window, stabilized by the cool rocks, I ground myself, lift my arms and fly.
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“Sally at the Window” by David M. Taylor
The Other Side By Cesare Rosati “She’s here again,” shouted his wife. Dan Foster stepped out of their bedroom straightening his tie and walked to look out their front window. From their second floor apartment, they had a clear view of the shoe shop across the street. “Yep,” he said, “that’s her.” “What do you think she stares at so intently every day?” “You got me. You know how those people are?” Alice turned to her husband and said, “There’s no need to be so rude, Daniel.” “Why don’t they just stay on their side of town?” Alice loved her husband dearly, but his attitude toward the less fortunate was grating. He had been born into money, unlike her family which had earned their good fortune. “If they did,” she replied, emphasizing the ‘they,’ who would tend to…she’d almost said ‘your needs’…but concluded with, “the needs of our side?” Dan grunted, but made no reply. The morning and afternoon ritual stops at the shop continued for another two weeks. Then one day, at the end of the day, when the woman was on her way home, Alice noted that she stopped, as usual, but this time she went in. Ten minutes later, she stepped out wearing both a huge smile and a pair of striking red shoes. It was then that Alice noted that the woman had always been barefoot, and realized that she’d been stopping at the shop each morning and afternoon to see that the shoes she wanted were still there. Having finally saved up enough money, today she’d gone in and purchased them.
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“Welcome Home” By David M. Taylor
The Challenge By Cesare Rosati It’s funny, the things you remember when you let your mind wander. The day before you left you were watching me fulfil my obligation after losing the bet we’d made following my comment about the quilt you’d been working on for nearly two years. I said I was tired of you cutting up all my old shirts for it. Shirts I was saving for when I worked on my car or in the yard. When I said that I thought you were never going to finish the damn thing anyway, you stormed out of the room and didn’t speak to me for hours. After you finally cooled down, you said, “I’m going to finish my quilt by next week. And, if I do, you’ll have to make me a pizza from scratch.” She’d never made a quilt before, and I’d been promising to make her a pizza from scratch, which, I’d also never done before. It sounded like a fair challenge so I accepted. Besides, I’d been watching her sitting on our porch swing, sewing pieces of cloth together after dinner for well over a year, and making very little progress. There was no way she was going to finish it in a week. When I got home from work the day following her challenge, I noticed that two more of my work shirts were missing. Three days later, when I drove up to the house, she was sitting on our porch swing, wrapped in her quilt. I couldn’t believe it. After parking the car in the garage, I walked into the kitchen, got a beer out of the fridge, walked out to the porch, and sat at the small table opposite the swing. I’ll never forget the smile on her face as she pulled the quilt tightly around her. I’d hardly finished my first sip of beer when she said, “I want it with sausage and pepperoni.”
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Two days later, I was in the kitchen staring at my computer’s screen following the instructions on how to make pizza dough. You walked past several times, not saying anything, but having difficulty keeping a smile off your face. I persevered and was surprised to see the dough rise as it was supposed to. Two hours later, it was ready to use and I squished it down into a circular pizza pan. After spreading cheese on it, I placed cooked sausage and pepperoni on top and slipped it in the oven. I paced back and forth in front of the stove, peeking in through the glass front, for over fifteen minutes until the instructions said it should be done. When I pulled it out, to my surprise, it was well cooked and smelled great. You were seated on the porch swing wrapped in your quilt when I opened the door and presented my pizza for inspection. I held it out to you and you lifted up the edge to check the bottom before admitting that I’d done it, and we were even. We ate on the swing. We were nearly finished eating when her cell phone rang. She put it to her ear and as I watched, her face went pale. “What’s wrong?” I asked. “It’s my mother’s care facility. They said she’s taken a turn for the worse and it’s likely she won’t make it through the night. I’ve got to go.” I watched her throw off the quilt and rush to her car. The care home was over two hundred miles away. It would take her five hours to get there. She said she’d call the next day to let me know how her mother was doing. The next morning I was sitting at the porch table, opposite the swing, when my phone rang. I answered immediately, assuming it was her. A man’s voice on the other end of the line said, “This is officer Williams. Are you Mr. Grant?” My throat began to constrict before he’d uttered the next phrase, “I’m afraid I have some bad news.” The officer proceeded to explain that a truck had lost control, crossed the median, and smashed into her car head on. “She died immediately. Without suffering,” he added, as an afterthought. I dropped the phone and stared across the porch at the quilt draped over the swing as my tears began to flow.
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“Hats and Patches” by Susan Jane Jones
“When life gives you scraps, make a quilt” By Ann Ross Grab your hat and get your coat leave your worries on the doorstep! I love hats the variety is like a parade. There is nothing today that can be like an Easter hat parade. Or, put on your old grey bonnet with the blue ribbons on it! Those visions of happiness showing period hats of a joy adventure are gone! I’m sad however I can and do remember. A hat is a talk character as it sits on top of your head. Let’s take a talk /walk with artist Susan Jane Jones. Where would you go, wearing hat # 1 shown at top in the quilter/ designer picture? Close your eyes let your mind go into the years before 1950. Hat wearing for Sunday church of course, a greeting of friends was the best place to show off a new hat! Look best for a day of adventure to the city. Where today could you find a real situation to shine wearing hat # 1? Allow your thoughts to flash change that picture hat into one from your memory. As hats appear they provide a place and time. Perhaps a new way to look at an old memory. Allow your mind to wander into fantasy pictures. Can you provide a vision character wearing #1 hat for identification. Looks like a wearer could be a school teacher, or a secretary interviewing for a job. Maybe a new mother pushing a stroller showing her newborn. A hat was a first look perhaps more so than a face. I’m sad “it’s over my friends, that romance era is gone!“ . It wasn’t until the mid 19 hundreds that a head covering was not a requirement in secular churches on Sunday. Your photo memories will be vastly different gazing at the same hat photo quilt. I love hats, how could one not love hats? The artist picture hat suggest time, place and a given personality trait of the wearer. Looking into an imaginary mirror, a magical trip, what do you see wearing #!? Where are you going, how do you feel wearing that hat on your head looking back at you? A drift in times past ? A rise or
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fall into when, where of a past adventure. A hat trip using the quilter artist hats, I dare say fun visions will appear. Hats of the past are smashed with an adventure personality. The four hatstyles are wrapped in a brown red quilt frame covering suggesting comfort, harmony and peace regardless of the memory. Number one hat with embroidered feathers will be the first to pull you into a memory lane. This hat may pull you to places you have never been in picturesque show type classic style hat of past.? Perhaps you see yourself proclaiming, “hello, world, it’s me.” Each hat can then erupt to tell your story to you. A where, what, who, when occasion. Viewing releases a flurry of mind images, funny or maybe sad ! The classic hat would be perfect for an afternoon wedding, a lecture, high tea or a devilishly style for a dinner, dance evening. Feather embroidering produces a formal or sassy hat depending on how you tilt your hat. Peering out from under a tiled brim, could satisfy a curiosity! Who was there? Sometimes a boring lecture is a mind drift of curiosity searching the hat wearers. Feather flowers adds a splash of color. Is this hat truly you! Smile, dance and play, let feathers float where they may play. # 2 hat on the left picture side is an announcement hat. I’m here! It is a suffragette’s hat requesting a voting privilege. It speaks volumes! Go back a 100 years. Women will not be second class citizens. We count! Interesting how men allowed black man, a voting privilege before women. A cry heard was, “ If we are good enough to have your baby, we are good enough to vote”. We will march and protest until you hear us. A hat with the visor brim points to the future. We took to the streets protesting and egg throwing when police tried to stop our march. Suffragettes wore large colorful with ribbon streamers easy for visuality. We are woman, not to be overlooked. We are women and we will get the right to vote. The 19th amendment was passed 100 years ago in 1920. The picture hat at bottom of the quilt is a gigantic picture. It is a design that enjoys flash and show. A joie de vivre hat with a seductive wide brim a tantalizing fashion vogue of the year 1933? Fashion writers loved this hat as they could let loose with description. It was a time when women and men needed to forget the great depression and get happy and productive. This is a glorious glamour hat with a sassy wide brim hiding a come hither look. An elegant cover for a quick kiss. A winning smash at the Kentucky derby! The significant winning place would be a festive cocktail party of New York’s finest fashion conscious rich! The hat that captured my imagination is # 4. My mother could have been the model. This 1920s cloche hat pulled over her ears to keep out the fierce winter wind that blows over an open Iowa corn field was a memory buster. As we both searched for winter hat , she told stories of college days. Rouged knees, rolled up hose, patent leather shoes to dance the Charleston. Mother driving off a mountain at camp ground site is hilarious as we make a mad dash to stop the car. I am happy to have many family memory tales.
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“A Hundred Years, 2014” by Jackie Grimaldi and Madeleine Vail (Detail of goat, which is similar to David Taylor’s little “S’Tinker”)
Goat Rodeo By Melissa VanArsdale “SNAP!” “Dagnabbit!” One of my strings broke while tuning my violin. I have a packet of synthetic strings, but I prefer the warm, rich sound of my catgut strings like Pops used to make for me from sheep. As Pops would say, “nothin goes to waste on the journey of life, or death.” I think he added that death part to justify slaughtering sheep. I remove all the strings to replace when I hear “tap, tap, tap.” I’m excited, because I know it’s my parents, who traveled to New York City to attend my recital. I open the door to invite them in to my dorm. Dad’s sundrenched face is as tough as leather. He’s wearing new stiff blue jeans and brown corduroy blazer. “Doesn’t your dad look nice?” said mom It probably took a lot of convincing on my mom’s part to get him into a blazer. “Mom cleans up well too, right?” said dad. Probably the only complement she’s gotten from him in a long time. Mom’s skin is soft and slightly kissed by the sun with a few fine lines. Her salt and pepper hair is swept up into a pony tail and she’s wearing a navy t-length dress with flats. Dad wraps his arms around both my mom and I, tucking my nose into his shirt and I smell the rich soil from home. For a brief moment I’m no longer in the city. Mom hands me a small box wrapped in yellow cloth quilting scraps. “A gift from Pops.” said dad I wish Pops traveled with my parents, but he never forgave me for all the years he spent teaching me how to play the fiddle only to have me call it a violin and move to the big city. “Go ahead, open it. Looks like you could use it.” said Dad I opened the box.
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“Pops made you some strings for your fiddle. These are special strings. They come from Tinker.” said dad Mom glares at him “Now why’d you gone tell her that?” knowing her question was more of a statement. “What? When?” I said. “I’m sorry honey. Tinker was getting old. She ate up all my quilting glue and pissed on my scraps. The stench nearly killed us.” Suddenly mom’s eyes widen when she realized that wasn’t the right choice of words to use. Tinker was my pet goat I got when I was six. Pops used to say she burst into this world like I did. Tinker had to be surgically removed because she was breeched. Pops named her Tinker when she was caught ransacking through our home. Tinker and I bonded immediately. I cradled her in mom’s quilts and bottle fed her while listening to Bach to sooth her to sleep, just like mom did for me when I was colicky. Mom found an old cassette player at a rummage sale. It came with a tape: Bach Lullabies. Mom was feeling helpless trying to calm me prior to discovering it. I often screamed and became rigid. Even Pops tried playing his fiddle… I only wailed louder. Mom pressed play and I calmed down. Bach played 24/7. Dad kept splicing the tape that would tangle when the batteries were low. Soon the tape was spliced down to bits and pieces of classical tidbits, only Cello Suite no. 1 in G Major, Prélude remained intact. Pops gave me a fiddle on my seventh birthday. Every afternoon we’d sit on the porch with him teaching me fiddle duos. As much as I enjoyed Pops’ company, I looked forward to him leaving so I could switch from screeching fiddle to soothing classical violin. I would leap from rock to rock playing violin with Tinker bounding closely behind me. One afternoon, Pops returned after leaving something at our home. I don’t even recall what it was. “What in God’s name are you playing on your fiddle.” Pops shouted. Pops took me by surprise that I stopped short leaping to the next rock then Tinker butted me so hard that I fell to the ground, landing on my violin. “Crack!” The neck broke off. Only the strings kept it dangling together. I laid gasping from the blow. Pops walked over to pick up the fiddle then frowned at me. He never said a word. He just got back into his pickup. Pops returned a few days later, mended fiddle in hand and said it’s time to learn a new fiddle medley. We played it repeatedly. No words, just music. Pops and I played less together, only weekends. I made up excuses about after schoolwork at the library. It had a large selection of classical albums. I’d wear headphones to drown myself in its splendor. I applied to Juilliard School in New York City. Images of city lights interested me more than the Milky Way. And I longed to be in crowds of people instead of a herd of sheep. One afternoon, Pops handed me a letter. “This is addressed to you.” said Pops I opened it and it was an invite to play before Juilliard faculty. “Time to work out the kinks of our fiddle medley.” said Pops “No Pops, this is a prestigious school. I need to play the violin now.” “If the school can’t accept the fiddle than it ain’t no school worth attending.” Pops asserted
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I finished stringing my instrument with Tinker-guts. Then my parents and I walk to the auditorium where we split up at the entrance so they can find seating reserved for families of graduates. One-by-one, students performed their final pieces. The auditorium was silent during every performance followed by polite applause. Finally, my turn. I walk out to sit in the lone chair set center stage. I scan the audience looking for my parents. And I gasp, Pops is seated between them. My eyes well up with tears, causing the lights to sparkle like the Milky Way. I play Bach Cello Suite no. 1 in G major, Prélude on violin. The audience is silent during the performance then politely applaud. I bow my head in thanks, then I lean toward the mic to announce “I will now play for you something from home. I hope y’all enjoy this.” I stand up and start tapping my foot, then I begin to dance while playing Fiddle Medley, just as Pops taught me. I’m back in the country bounding from rock to rock with Tinker and feel a gentle country breeze. Before I reach the conclusion, I hear clapping. I look out at the crowd to see the audience standing, swaying and clapping to the beat. I see Pops grinning and I’ve never felt more at home.
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“The Sentry of Santorini” by David Taylor
A Cat’s Eye View: A Year in Paradise by The Sentry of Santorini Island By Wendy Watson Kalimera! Welcome to sunny Santorini, The Island of Thira Haunted by myths of the lost city of Akrotiri. Crowned with blue domes, the white-washed churches of Oia-Molars on the Black ridges of a volcano’s maw-Smile a toothy grin, Luring in Spring and summer Tourists Flossing between little shops, Picking at glitzy souvenirs, Savoring flaky spanakopita, Rinsing with anise-spiced ouzo, And winding down twisting trails Upon dainty-footed donkeys to the
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Gullet that swallowed Minoan civilization whole. Wharf-side of the sapphire sea, Embraced by the Cyclades, Fishermen mend nets and toss away bones, Snatched bits Worth nosing and nibbling By cats that snack, Crouched, ears flat, ignoring angry pelicans and seagulls, and then saunter to a nook for a morning bath To lick away the salty spray. In the gutters Ripped bags of trash Drip pungent glistening olive oil Onto the cobbles For pink tongues to lap. Excursion buses, Condemned like Sisyphus to Endlessly climb and wind through
Narrow passages, Squeal to a stop and Pause in exhaustion for the summit view Where laundry, billowing along rooftop clotheslines Dances, fading beneath the Mediterranean sun, and Itemizes family members-Widows’ ink-dark dresses, Brilliant bloomers and bras, Work shirts stained and worn, Bleached undershirts, Uniforms of school children, Babies’ bibs and onesies. Outside a kafenio Roasting coffee beans churn In a vast copper vat. Men, Twirling kompoloi--worry beads flicking endlessly Back-and-forth-Passionately play backgammon, Pouncing on tavli checkers to slide them to victory. Blue glass mataki eyes Dangling from windows and awnings Avert evil and bad luck. A fuzzy hand-woven flokati rug Draped over a balcony Hidden beneath magenta boughs of bougainvillea Beckons To be kneaded For a sunset nap.
-Horiatiki, cabbage salad spritzed with fresh lemon and balsamic vinegar -Dolmades, stuffed grape leaves -Avgolemono, chicken rice soup -Fasolakia, green beans stewed in tomato sauce -Saganaki, sizzling flaming feta cheese slices -Warm pita-wrapped souvlaki drizzled with tzatziki -Pastichio or moussaka, try them both! And retsina, aged in pine-pitch vessels, Splashed into short glasses-“Stin ygeia sas!” “Cheers!” Padded paws Stretch and scratch straw-seated chairs. Flowing tails Wend between legs. Whiskers Quiver, Asking, “Ekete kotopoulo?” “Do you have any chicken?” Hoping for calamari tentacles “Parakalo, if you please.” Dropped by dismayed diners. Opa! This is a cat’s kingdom. Golden green eyes blink lazily.
Late into the evening, Strings of light Glow like lava Meandering down railings. Laughter and the sprightly music of plucked bouzouki strings Spill from cozy tabernas Serving seven courses:
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Gatas puddle together-Fur blacker than the sands of Perissa Beach, Colorful calicos, Black and white tuxedos, Ginger or gray striped tabbies-Curl on windowsills and stoops Dotted with potted pink and red geraniums;
Sprawl across flagstones Trod by Romans, crusaders, pirates, revolutionaries, and soldiers; Pose, indifferent, on limestone ledges. Featured in postcards, calendars, paintings, On mugs, t-shirts, bags and screensavers, Proudly on display for visitors-The icons, Touted Hellenic national treasures, Languish like royalty. Ochi. No. Not really. A Greek Felis catus has only seven lives. Perhaps felines sacrificed two To survive the cataclysmic past of the caldera… Or to outlast the off-season. Once autumn crisps the air, the Sightseeing plague passes. Brooms, Wielded by unloving locals, Briskly brush the dust and Chase the meowing nuisances away. Heaving waves snarl and spit, Casting briny frost onto Portside docks Echoing with emptiness. Diners huddle inside long-necked woolen sweaters by the fire.
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The mousers must prowl as Glossy fur dulls, Stomachs shrivel and Ribs protrude. Hissing, howling fills the dark. Claws and teeth flash As neglected creatures Squabble over scraps. “Kalinikta—good night!” A foreigner with a wriggling, crooked finger beckons. “Psee-psee-psee, psee-pseepsee….” “Here kitty, kitty….” She sees the threatening hibernal plight, Buys sacks of pet kibble from the agora, and Leaves Dried tuna treats strewn on garden walls. Wary, A single leonine shadow tiptoes near, Presses nose and ears against the proffered hand, Purrs a whispered, “Efcharisto, Kyria. Efcharistopoli. To ektimo para poli.” “Thank you, Miss. Thank you so much. I appreciate you, very, very much.” Thus, the Aegean lion Survives winter in paradise.
