The bad news is we’re already in WW3.
The good news is we’re already in WW3.
The bad news is bad because we’re in WW3.
The good news is good because it isn’t as bad as (or worse than) WW2 (yet) for most of us.
Dale Barrigar Williams
The garden has grown
over and become
a sanctuary-of-sorts for all kinds
of stray cats, birds, possums, and other
explosions of indigenous life and
the porch is broken
the shutters just fall
and no more time is to be had
for trifles like these, at all
but there’s a recyclable paper bag
containing donuts once
snagged in a weed tree.
And upon it
“Someone” you will
never forget
has written in
(before trailing off
and going away)
magic marker
calligraphy:
“Dear Sir,
you kissed my feet the last time
I saw you and it made
your hair
fall
around my walking
for a very long time.
But I am OK
this way
out and about again
on my own
yet I thought I
just wanted you
to know
and oh
my hand is steadier now –
and
I used to want you,
I really did, you know”
Dale Barrigar Williams
(This week we are pleased to present work by one of America’s under-appreciated writers and academics, Dale Williams Barrigar, who is also the Co-Editor of this site. He has wonderful twin daughters and a damn fine pack of Dogs, too.)
(Image provided by DWB)
Cabin blizzard on Halloween
visiting Alaska
in the evening
every single flake
that falls
memory of you
as
October branches
scratch
at cabin window
sleeping gone
grizzly bears somewhere
near here
but I’m not fearful
Mr. Sasquatch
but what am I trying so hard
swooning
for
as
the last stripe
of red sunlight
now falls down
around old autumn
apple tree
shadows
crooked trunk
tree branches
turbulent truculent
dreams of another world
in only half sleep
all night long
next morning
November
One
there is an
alone woodpecker
in sudden sunlight red and gray
and his feathers too
are red and gray
as his drummings
on the tree they
sound
like rock and roll…
Dale Williams Barrigar
It was kindergarten.
The creepy guy on lunch duty
pulled my teeth out with a wrench.
They fell out in a clump
of enamel and gum.
Still, I felt convinced
they wouldn’t notice.
I lost my teeth again –
the four front ones on top.
They remained in my mouth
with Scotch tape, held down.
My teeth are so loose
they protrude at all angles;
My lips have parted,
forever alone.
It’s weird. In dreams
I’ll be endlessly falling,
my throat slit,
a child’s voice calling,
but I only wake up scared–
delirious and delusional–
when my fangs are not bared
and able to reflect the moon.
*Dreams of lost teeth commonly symbolize feelings of insecurity, loss, or transformation.
I have always been interested in the concept of dream interpretation, yet I am always going
back and forth between believing and not believing the accuracy of a real-life translation.
However, I have been dreaming about losing my teeth for as long as I can remember. Starting
in elementary school and continuing into the present day, I have had the lingering fear that I will
one day soon be without my teeth.
The hard thing about this constant worry is that I am afraid I will never be able to rid my mind of
it. Teeth are so often the focus of my dreams that I spend my waking hours thinking of them too.
Unfortunately, this leads to more of the same dreams. I cannot stop the cycle.
It is for no other reason than my recurring dreams that I wrote this poem. On some level, I think I
expected it to be a form of catharsis. In this aspect, I believe I have failed. I have simply
confirmed how much time I spend thinking about my teeth. I am perpetuating the cycle.
Jordan Eve Morral
(Image is of the author)
(Ed note: As promised we present the return of F.S. Blake–The Eds.)
Summer makes tougher
the proper care and feeding
of new solitude
HOA pool day
our neighbors see naked truths
we have paid our dues
F.S. Blake
(Due to the writer’s military service, the image of USS Turner Joy, Sinclair Inlet, Puget Sound)
We know clouds are water vapor,
but we’re still amazed they float.
We know trees are turned to paper,
but how, we’ll never know.
So many little things,
make so little sense.
But since they are ordinary,
questions make us sound dense.
We may be too easily transfixed–
insane and dull and dumb–
but we see the world with wonder,
seeking all of its wisdom.
We are wise fools.
The “wise fool”:
An oxymoron that, like the rest,
is contradictory but makes perfect sense.
Jordan Eve Morral
(Image is of the author)
It’s the trees that make me cry
more than anything.
The hemlock stands strong
with its twigs of green and cones
until the last moment
when snow hides the earth
and deer eat the branches bare.
The red cedar stands alone
in fields long abandoned.
Slow but steady it grows
Only to be chopped for chests and posts.
The blue spruce lives long,
valued for its beauty,
but outgrows its friends
well after they are gone.
The red pine feeds mice and birds of song,
but, in eating the seeds,
these creatures devour descendents.
The catalpa with its beans
would seem exempt from my sorrow,
but it too has flowers that quickly fade.
The syrup maple is kind with abundance,
and thus has its sweet sap stolen
before it ever has a taste of itself.
The reason, my friend, these wood entities
bring such strife and pain
is because of the human struggle they endure.
Mankind inflicts the destruction,
and suffers the denouement.
(Image is of the author)
Haikus by F.S. Blake
(Ed. note–F.S. Blake is a recipient of the Bronze Star, which is a hell of a good thing to be known for. He also writes poetry, and it is our pleasure to present a pair of Haikus written by Mr. Blake. He will be appearing again with more, soon–The Eds.)
Our dog on warm days
runs with pure joy, back and forth,
she gets double treats.
Buzzing mosquito
stumbles over the porch light
still drawn to warmth gone
(Image of a brave cherry tree in February)
This evening, there was a road crew
in the streets of a colonial town.
They blocked traffic and began work at dusk.
The sunset against the faded red bricks
made the scene–and the big-bellied crew–
look like guests at a late-day garden party.
It appeared that one man ran the excavator
while the rest looked on,
the audience of an outdoor theater performance.
Their mundanity and at-odds presence
made me want to cry
and become one of them.
Never did laboring over asphalt and drains
seem so appealing–just a step down from the divine.
More than anything, it was the unspoken comfort,
the unrecognized camaraderie,
that made these humans glorious,
made them creatures I wanted to embody.
Or maybe it’s just that I forget I am perceived
and felt seen by them.
in her pyjamas
out in all weathers
hardly the way to go is it
whatever she was she isn’t that now
look at her
if ever hair needed cutting
there’s hair could do with it
seems all it takes is promise of bad weather
she’s ready for the hills
almost paces
animal like
old as she is
you have to tell her
naughty-night-to-be-out-in
the look she gives you then
none like it
and I’ve been given looks you wouldn’t believe
or maybe you would
come to think of it
(Image by Leila)
Saragun Springs 