Helpmate

 

Have you ever wondered about

the attributes of a great help mate?

He’s the one who actually listens

            when she talks.

She hands him a hammer

            when they’re building shelves.

He bags the groceries

            while she pays the cashier.

He holds her tightly

            just because he knows her need for it.

She lets the silence hang

            while he puzzles out life’s newest challenge.

He calls home to let her know he’ll be late—

            he knows how she worries.

She doesn’t make a big fuss about

            the muddy footprints, or the toilet seat left up.

He hands her a drink as she walks in the door

            from extra hours at the office.

     And she thanks him for his thoughtfulness.

They snuggle on a regular basis,

            just because it feels so right and good.

Help Mate: Helping each other with no

        expectation of reciprocation.

            It’s done out of love.

                                                        -Evy Kristensen, Portland, Oregon

The Magnificence of it All

It is 21 degrees on the farm this morning.  

The back frosted black cows

 Stand in silence by the corral gate

Waiting for us 

To haul them a bale-de-jour.  

There is a mauve whisp of clouds 

Pinking the marsh, 

It's cattails frosted. 

All is still.  

You are here with me.

I hear your words lingering

In our brain.

We have said our morning prayer

The heat from the wood has set

A tone through the house

Warming us enough

To dress in the first wool of the year.

Let's collar the dog and go out into the day.

I'll show you around, though you've seen it all before.

But, today we'll point to the magnificence of it all

Together.

                                                                               -Ron Crete, Callaway, MN

A Lobelia Sky

Lobelia breaks my heart
with its beauty.
It is the color of hanging the wash
on the line
to the tune of morning’s hush,
the perfume of just-waking air
and the sibilant gossip of small birds.

The sun brushes my hair and shoulders
like an admiring mother
as I pin up the towels and cloths
to be made white
by its magic.

There is something sacred
in the walled garden of the wash,
the free pass that lets the housewife . . .
out of the house . . .
in the guise of work.

Oh what a wonderful ruse this is!
Revelment among the percale!!!
                                                             -Marcia Myers

A Place of Belonging

Everybody needs
a place to belong . . .

Where you are
more similar . . .
than dis . . .

I hang with
Poets in The Hood

They could rap,
but they don’t,
They could rock,
but they don’t.

They rhyme,
sublime,
They alliterate
and onomotopoea-ate

We look at life
through crystals
sparked by heart and soul

Ears pricked to
false steps
that need shouting down

Canaries in the coal mine
we’ve been called

But there are far worse things
than Poets
to have in your
neighborhood!
                                           -Marcia Myers

Musicale

Alone with my memories, I watch
and listen to Harry Connick, Jr.,
in concert, on public television,
rendering 40’s and 50’s tunes—my
nostalgia—along with his own songs.

Shades of Sinatra, Bennett, Dino,
wander through my consciousness.
Did those old guys perform with
five o’clock shadow gracing their faces?
Harry’s curly hair softens his face.

He wears a suit and tie, no holy
jeans, twists no contortions

While I hear those old tunes
the lump in my throat stays.

His finale—a New Orleans
jazz jam, lightens my heart.

                                            -Barbara Hamby, Portland, Oregon

Through the Glaze

Through the framed glaze,

False landscape.

Inside looking out.


Deceived bird;

You cannot enter

My glass house.

You cannot fly through

The reflection of your transparent

Sensual world.


I watch from inside,

Unsure your fate

Lying numbed and silent; dazed.

A twitch...

You fly away.

I open the window to cheer you on.

The breeze is cool,

Spruce scented.

We are free.

-Ron Crete, MN

The Secret Language

My grandfather thought the language
that tied him to the "old country"
was the vernacular of his oppression.

Our youthful tongues
accepted the offered English eagerly
without thinking to inquire about traditional speech.

Later I longed to be inside the mystery
of that language but it was not allowed.
Except for a few afternoons of coffee,
rye bread and secret lessons.

A few phrases were all I learned,
" How are you?" "I am fine!"
and a little song are all I remember.

His culture, translucent as smoke,
vanished over two generations
disappeared into the fire of assimilation
leaving its empty echoes in the back of my throat.

-Maralee Gerke
Oregon, USA

Recovering

Pushing and pulling.
Slamming from the inside,
"Please let us out!"
My body cries as I am drifting away,
Going, going, falling, falling, away, away.

My mind wants to race my heart.
Who will get to the finish line first?
My tongue will out-talk them all.

I have no control as of now.
My body wants to rest.
The rest of them want to wonder.

I drift away, O I drift away.
My mind leaves them all in dust,
In the dark he goes and smokes,
Puffs away his long day.

My heart goes and takes a bath,
She needed to soak away her ache.
My tongue finds a way to speak to the midnight owl,
She wants to spread the words of yesterday.

Just before the morning light,
All gather together and say goodnight.
They had a long night,
But well recovered to face the world tomorrow.
-Serena Theberge

Waiting on Morning

The fire is roaring
with a lush
wild energy
that plays on
every string in my body . . .

Life is about
to begin,
again;
with a bright
new day.

Across the bay
the sky opens up,
shy, hesitant
but resolute.

Clouds hold still;
there's a celstial awe
in the air . . .
as I wait
with an open heart
on morning
to whisper in
a good day.

-Kurt Kristensen

Letter Listing Reasons

There are reasons I love
the fence-climbing rose,
the night-blooming jasmine

you planted beside the front
porch, their scents
emerging in the spring air.

I know I should love
the dark green speedwell,
tiny white watercress,
flat mudwort exposed
on sand bars, in summer
low tides, wapato, yellow

water-flag that scatters hard
mahogany seeds in late
fall, small flowered forget-

me-nots transplanted by the pier,
purple loosestrife, heavy-
headed nodding beggarticks,

bog trefoil, pennyroyal, toad-
rush, cow parsnip, the brief
pink nookta rose of early

May. But enough, these too
are reasons I love your domestic rose, your night-
blooming jasmine settled
by the porch, their scents
gracing the still evening air.

-David FilerPortland, Oregon

The Eternal

How contentedly thou forage on
through paths of trees ungiven
to find a place where noise is gone
a place beside the river
And none shall seek and none will find
what passes through thy lifted mind
great revelations, so to aspired
by all the wise ones throughout time
From thou, they flow to root's connect
and then disperse to waters teeming
much greater, much without defect
to thy capricious, gentle being
And though the eons do descend
thou ashes flung to ripening sky
forever whisper, round the bend
eternity grows in woods nearby
-Amanda Hiland
Sherwood, Oregon

The Happy Place

Mornings delight is present with the laughter of children.

Streets are full with the pitter-patter of little feet
that are out and about.
Each home with a gift on this street! Many seeds with many sprouts!
Laughter and joy fill the air allowing the child in you to cheer again.
Little hearts pound with excitement from all
that is complete and
genuine.

Streets are full with the sounds of our own innocence,
many screams with many shouts.
Little lives engaged with the will
to thrive on this street, not one
with a glimpse of doubt.

"The Happy Place" is what I see,
a place of comfort that carries us back
to where we've already been.

"The Happy Place" holds many things!
The warmest images are portrayed by the innocence of a child's smile.
"The Happy Place" holds many memories.
The face of authenticity is what this child's smile brings.

"The Happy Place" is our gifts in the world
from a most precious child.
Genuine smiles that at once give this world
some truth with our most
pure honesty!

-Anne Rice

Broken

by Rachelle Arlin Credo

Dreamlike silence shrouds my sullen world
With loneliness keeping me company
A feeling of dejection creeps inside me
As a moment of mourning shares the tearful reality

I find myself in solitude
in the vast expanse of immense emptiness
Queries overflowing, wailing and wondering
for things still left unspoken

All the things turn out to be
bleary, bleak and dreary
As tears trickle tenderly
Knowing failure has come my way

http://zyphe.blogspot.com

Rage

by Sheryl Joy P. Olaño

Peace…now flickers
Almost an exile
As a ruthless blare
Of spectrum red blinds me

My blood
Stirs restless,
A sea of wailing hunger,
Pulsing hate

I'm nearly stripped of reason
Gentleness is mauled
Stuffed with heaps of
Unshed, hardened tears

Words now come, cropped and quick
Sharp as knife glimmering cold
In smooth threat of
Steel and stealth

Lava surfaces on my brim
I can no longer fight it.

The Quilt

I was scouring through my old closet the other day
when I found the patchwork quilt Granny once gave me.
It looked soiled with a tinge of orange and yellow
and a portion's torn out just a little down below.

The black triangle that served as axis to the rest
had turned to grey with a whitish crest.
It was surrounded with greens and soft earth tones.
Quite a hard mix, it seemed overblown.

The colors on the left are quite a delight,
an array of pastels all stark and bright.
The patterns vary from yellows and blues.
What a slew of exclusion and excellent hues!

The orange swatch made all the overt difference.
It was so dark and vivid, it gleams with luminescence.
While the block at the right stars in beaming pride
with all the reds and pinks sewn in gleeful vibe.

Whatever the reason why Grandma made it for me,
be it a legacy or a mere present for my birthday.
I would forever hold it close and shall never part
for this is how much she loved me, she gave me her heart.

http://zyphe.blogspot.com

Dregs

Last fire of winter, first fire of summer
Built with dregs of last pickup load of firewood
Smudge the room
With Datura, rosemary, lavender and mint
Throw a pinch of sand from Chaco Canyon
On the coals

When the flames are high
Gently lay the last notebook on the logs
Send prayers up with smoke

by Frank Vehafric

You

by Rachelle Arlin Credo

You are a silhouette, hazy and gray
But a vain creation of lover's memory
A fair illusive vision everywhere displace
With a shady luster away from my yearning embrace

You are a lamplight glimmering with surprise
A semblance of beauty that surpasses the skies
Endowed with charm in a form of airy grace
Embellishing the black immensities in a peculiar maze

You are an innocuous moonlight angel
With the loveliness exceptionally real
Across the cold and misty moonbeam
Where no twinge of conscience can deny in any theme

Oh, you're but a being matchless to compare
A creature so alluring, how I love to touch your hair
But alas! You glided away and faded out from my vision
And only the whispers of your heart beats in slumbrous fashion

In the nocturne rhythm of the night
Where my perception was deceived by my sight
I was swept by the waves of realization -
You are just a dream, a product of my imagination

http://zyphe.blogspot.com

Breath

Front door open, summer evenings
To catch a cool breeze
After the sun goes down

Every once in a while
The dogs bark and bristle
And we listen together
Then go back to what we were doing
My book, their naps

Two or three times a week
A slight whiff of skunk
On the night air

Each of us
Is carried on the breath of the world
Following the rise and fall
Of the mother’s breast
Skunks a part of it all, too
Making their rounds

Turning the wheel


by Frank Vehafric

Incubus

by Rachelle Arlin Credo

There's a sudden strange silence
Amid the busy whirl around me
Disclosing the scars of my innocence
From a dreadful yesterday

Shadows paint the spectacle
Of a vision that used to be enchanting
Catching me half a miracle
While a song consumes my thinking

Gradually I drifted into another reality
Like a wind from nowhere blown
Lost in a paradise of adversity
Only to find destiny on my own

http://zyphe.blogspot.com

Chimera

I can't tell my exact post with mere intuition
I am completely lost, uncertain of my destination
It all seems that I'm only running around
In an endless circle without a cutoff bound

I've been searching everywhere but I can't find
The threshold of the hub is way too far behind
I feel so lost in the midst of darkness
Where I'm left alone contending every sadness

All the way I strive in an incessant maze
But all I could find is a cloud of struggle's haze
I'm almost certain to give my hopes up and everything
When finally I see a ball of light shimmering

I trudge slowly to find out the spectrum's origin
Hoping to finally escape from the torment's scene
Rushing towards the source of hope that silently awaits
I was gob-smacked to find... Heaven's gates!

by Rachelle Arlin Credo
http://zyphe.blogspot.com

The Way of a Nightmare

i
tried to search
a meaning
for life
when
i didn't care
find
myself.
a
sojourn
without direction
a direction
without bearing
in countless walks
in endless circles,
picking
up the pieces
along the way
but never
patching them up
just collecting
nodding
existing
knowing
i've failed...

by Bryan Clayton

Still

Maybe I'm screwed up
Or maybe just a bit confused
About what's going on inside me
That I can't seem to muse

Maybe I'm surprised
Or maybe just not used to
But I know this brewing
Has something to do with you

I can't seem to forget you
No matter how I try
And the more I attempt to
The more that I backslide

Sometimes the feeling just hurts so bad
That all I can do is sit and sigh
And when the pain just seems so much
I can't stop myself from starting to cry

I know I can't do anything
To bring back our past
But still I wish that someday
We'll be one in heart at last

Now, I have to forget you
I have to go my way
I know I must move on
And keep the past at bay

But though we part our ways
and sorely say goodbye
I will and love you still
If I must keep it belied

by Rachelle Arlin Credo

Power

The first thing when I come home after work
I let the dogs out
And turn on my computer
To check e-mail messages
Having done that
I make a cup of coffee
Take it outside
Walk through my garden

Now, the datura is blooming
When I touch it, it leaves a distinctive smell on my fingers
Potent, almost toxic, peppery
It’s hard to describe

I keep going back to it
There’s power there

Some days it seems
That the world is vibrant with power
The plants, bees, hummingbirds, jays and air
Shimmer with it

This is the contrast
This is the discontinuity in our lives

We go from work to home
Home to chores
Chores to our beds
Our beds to work

At any moment
We can step outside
Outside of it
All of it

by Frank Vehafric

Torn

Pang vanquished all my emotions
Clutching my heart causing unbearable pain
Tearing my past behind desperation
Refusing to halt its wrath leaves me forsaken.

I struggled away from the sad reality
But I ended up distraught and desperate
As I wait for the old pomp to revive with victory
I was left in an ebbing crave's state.

With poignant memories casting a light of endless gloom
The incessant mourning eventually drives me insane
Only to break in a lonely ember's doom
I find myself cowering in so much pain.

by Rachelle Arlin Credo

Have I Missed Something?

I walk this little corner of land
And pretend I'm in another country
Because, you see, I've only stepped
Across the river into Mexico
For a short time
And drove a bit of Canada
One long night

I've never walked
Rod's sandy beaches
Nor sailed his oceans

I've not had as many loves
nor
Loved as many lovers as he

I was content with my one love
I only wish he were h ere now.

Norma E. Mizer