OhDoYa, How ’bout It?

  OhDoYa, a green bull shark, en route from Cairns to Forres, crossed my kayaking path to Scotland yesterday. We chatted once we got past all that sly dawg “How-’bout-it?” nonsense. He bragged of how he almost fished his way into yacht ownership last week. That is, until its ravenous Cap’n gulped OhDo’s sauteed-garlic-King-Crab-and-rib-eye bait, ripped free of the trap line, and sped away. Ah! The stuff I learn and characters I meet while travelling in my wilderness! It’s worth every strained back and neck muscle, slivered butt cheek, paddling blister, tear-stained other cheeks, and cold, wet hand–the latter of…

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After A While – Veronica A. Shoffstall

After A While After a while you learn the subtle difference between holding a hand and chaining a soul and you learn that love doesn’t mean leaning and company doesn’t always mean security. And you begin to learn that kisses aren’t contracts and presents aren’t promises and you begin to accept your defeats with your head up and your eyes ahead with the grace of woman, not the grief of a child and you learn to build all your roads on today because tomorrow’s ground is too uncertain for plans and futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight….

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Morning Song – Sylvia Plath

love set you going like a fat gold watch. the midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry took its place among the elements.   our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. new statue. in a drafty museum, your nakedness shadows our safety, we stand round blankly as walls.   i’m no more your mother than the cloud that distils a mirror to reflect its own slow effacement at the wind’s hand.   all night your moth-breath flickers among the flat pink roses. i wake to listen; a far sea moves in my ear.   one cry, and i stumble from…

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The Cycle Continues – Lidwina Bautista

  I see her — a small, brown woman pushing a baby carriage behind a white woman; sadness envelopes my heart, weep I say will my weeping free her or console her? I see their passive faces wanting to disappear and hide their faces educated women, forced to flee the poverty and bleak future at home.   I wonder what she is thinking fear of people laughing and feeling sorry for her JUST A NANNY, a maid, must comply to her master’s wishes/commands or be sent back to her past from which she is trying to run away.   Hush,…

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Heirloom Hocked – Sheryl L. Nelms

  I always gathered spring greens with Gram   down by Mission Creek   we would climb those steep banks picking dock dandelion lamb’s quarter sheep sorrel poke weed and nettles   using knowledge handed down from mother to daughter from England and Ireland   now with Gram dead and a mother who got too sophisticated become uncertain can’t quite remember   how many times do I boil the poke and was it the leaves or the berries?   Sheryl L. Nelms.

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