Shawnelle Alley [Shawnelle@theAlleys.us]

It wasn’t a dream, but it repeated

Then

Blurred together like finger-paint memories
Cement gray floors of confinement, tears fall
Where chunks are missing, though time crawls forward
Hugging splotchy white cinderblock walls
Rays of anticipation peek through rotting windows
Their musty lover growing moldy black specs
Clinging, like little sisters to their solid love

Because dog collar necklaces leave choking bruises
Insecure small hands fumble to release secure anxiety
If blood promises are truth dripping off tiny finger tips
Then open space is the prize of dark secrets kept
Where understanding is deeper than dirt, or a basement
You can tell me anything, because we shared everything

Grimy cold feet tiptoe bare, past creaky boards
Climbing the ladder of hope called, “This is but a dream”
Maybe locks click free with rusty nails, or birthday wishes
Gobbled up early, and so be it if cake snacks heal fear
On the other side of deadbolt locks, and streaked cheeks
Or whispered promises of more pain if we tell stories

So we sing and rock

Repeatedly

Killing sleepy-time monsters for years to come
When nightmares plagued girls with fading steps
And demon tethers, strangling breath
They punch the lock to tear down the door, setting free what should be
Putting hate in solitary confinement, watching it grow moldy
Blurring the lines of what could have been with who they’ve become
Finger painters, filling in chunks with love on open space
Like rays of hope in shadowy places

by Jackie Byers

There is a certain shape in me
That dreads the sea,
so I go down to the shore.
Once more I stride the grit
study the wind tossed foam
taste cold salt sea spray
And try
To drive the demon away.

He retreats a bit
But lurks beneath
The awe of boundless beauty
The thrill of perfect power
Purifying
Peace instilling
But never still.
Potential for disaster
Life unbridled, rampant, raging.
A wet blue heaven wrapped around earth
Nourishing teeming life
Gnawing at the granite edges
beginning and ending of all.

Words

by Christine Janak

A violent hurricane of words
Shook the house.

They seeped through the cracks in the ceiling
And crawled under the doors.

They slithered up the staircase
And bled through the walls.

Thousands of fire-red ants
Seared pinholes into my flesh.

Words were thrown
Like crumpled tissues into a waste-bin.

I sat on my bedroom floor
With my knees crushed against my chest
As truth gobbled me up like a Sunday feast.

Christine Janak

A violent hurricane of words
Shook the house.

They seeped through the cracks in the ceiling
And crawled under the doors.

They slithered up the staircase
And bled through the walls.

Thousands of fire-red ants
Seared pinholes into my flesh.

Words were thrown
Like crumpled tissues into a waste-bin.

I sat on my bedroom floor
With my knees crushed against my chest

As truth gobbled me up like a Sunday feast.

Mary Anne Radmacher

Write to make
sense of life experiences.
Write to learn
as much as you can
from all the challenges and the joys.
Write because words and ideas are fascinating.
Write because exploring concepts is play.
Write to synthesize these explorations
and make them practical.
Write to become the best version of yourself.
In the process of seeking empowerment . . .
empower others,
write to inspire,
motivate, comfort,
facilitate, discover,
communicate.
In this scratching,
this making marks,
encourage others
to make their own mark.

Mary Bannister

Fallen needles soften passage into the forest.

Precise footsteps beckon her to him,
Like a portrait of symmetry in motion.
A kaleidoscope discloses awe-inspiring beauty,
As sunlight freckles tease fluttery fronds,
And stillborn dew splashes spongy mounded moss.
The green velvet becomes denser
With miniature outdoor terrariums,
Everywhere you look.
A grand opening welcomes a multiplicity of fauna,
Bustling about in the spectacle of day,
Urgently amassing essential ingredients,
For survival and sanctuary.

And in the distance a soothing sound-
A babbling brook,
An incessant talker,
Trekking with his daytime comrade-
The dogged sun,
Laughing with his pal-
The luminous moon,
An egotistical lover who can’t keep,
His vanity in check,
As time and time again he returns,
To glean his wondrous reflection,
In the crystal, clear, midnight waters.

And amidst this beauty,
A kiss is shared between her and him.
Not just any kiss,
For this is not just any place.
They have been transported
To a chamber of serenity
Where birds’ songs thankfully know,
No limit to jubilation and pleasure.
The kiss has been fueled by unspeakable splendor,
Christened with peace and appreciation,
Escalating and deepening the passion,
Between her and him.
A matchless kiss-

( This poem was written shortly after the death of my husband in June 2006.)

Linda Hayek

You are still big in my life, warm in my heart
not only because you loved me – completely
quirks and rough edges included
and fathered my daughters into adulthood

not only because you opened wide the doors of your heart
to share your family with me
and invited me to gaze through the windows of your faith
thus strengthening my own

not only because you embraced the adventures I concocted
sometimes called vacations – riding a bicycle for thousands of miles
across and around and beyond Nebraska -
you could smell a malt a mile away

and hiking the grand canyon for 22 miles down the north face
and up the south side
just to say we could, and we did
not only because you are still the “captain of the ski boat”

but because you are now bigger than life
for nine years I watched you live with cancer
intermittently seasoned with anger, indifference, hope, exhaustion, fear
acceptance, even gratitude and always with courage

I watched your strength wax and wane countless times during
the slow eviction of your soul, the twinkle in your eye the last
to give up the struggle and to be set free
finally released from the tired shell of your body

in the latter days you spent more and more time in a world I could not share
a land where green cookies sometimes appeared in your pocket
the tempo of our dance slowed, no longer rock and roll,
but gentle embrace assisting you from recliner to wheelchair

one last ride in the ‘ 56 Chevy,
a chocolate malt in the back seat shared from a cup with two straws
all too soon, suddenly it seemed
a tender parting, a peaceful crossing

and, now, your “being” etched in my heart
your spirit felt in campfires near our beaver lake
your presence big as I pedal the keystone trail
you are closer by far

until I, too, cross the great divide
will I know the way?
reborn to meet you again
kindred child of the resurrection

We will dance together once more
in the eternal ballroom of celebrations
no need to ask you to save one for me
the polka band will play forever

Elizabeth Baltaro

It was not as scary as we had imagined,
when we opened the metal crypt
that cradled our body, our cadaver.
The first thing I noticed were bright pink nails.
Without stories, clothing, hair, nor jewelry,
the meager remains of a lifetime
were painted on her fingers.

Nail polish, tattoos, or signs of treatments,
age and a brief cause of death -
these facts were surprisingly enough
to allow us this modern rite of passage.
So we claimed this body as our teacher,
probed its layers and examined its depths
an extraordinary and singular journey.

We were all fearful surgeon-infants,
stumbling in our movements,
not wanting to cut too deeply or tear.
Yet, our body waited day by day,
asymmetrically strewn in plastic case,
with head in a translucent bag,
as we got to know this person.

We learned more about this body
than any other we will ever know.
Deep images of this person continue
to churn in our minds.
These pictures make us wonder
about other bodies,
especially our own.

The various textures on a canvas,
heart muscles like tree branches
overlapping in a dense forest.
Fibrous white connective tissue,
spurning sponginess of lungs,
red fading into luminescent tendons,
sweeping in symphony to the bones.

We were filled with desire,
to examine new paths, to see everything,
visiting an untouched wilderness,
with curious formations, trails,
a more interesting variation
than any we had seen or imagined,
our own medical odyssey of learning and maturation.

Sometimes, I took a moment to recognize
we were a room full of humans
dissecting our own species
amidst automatic lights and dispensers,
loud conversations, laughter and electric saws,
shrouded in sharp scent -
indecipherable.

Yet, with my group and cadaver,
our work was lucid.
This master guide of differentiation,
the inside of the human body in death,
had brought me closer to our life force -
the force that once animated this person, and drives us all,
with renewing potential.