Teenagers

by Pat Mora

One day they disappear
into their rooms.
Doors and lips shut
and we become strangers
in our own home.

I pace the hall, hear whispers,
a code I knew but can't remember,
mouthed by mouths I taught to speak.

Years later the door opens.
I see faces I once held,
open as sunflowers in my hands. I see
familiar skin now stretched on long bodies
that move past me
glowing almost like pearls.

Happy Thanksgiving

http://youtu.be/AmXfWqaJevg

Quote of the Day

"The pilgrims made seven times more graves than huts... nevertheless, set aside a day of thanksgiving."

- H. W. Westermayer

Quote of the Day

He who has injured thee was either stronger or weaker than thee. If weaker, spare him; if stronger, spare thyself. 

- Cicero

The Cat in Iraq

by Renton

She came to me skittish, wild.
The way you’re meant to be,
Surrounded by cruelty.
I did not blame her.
I would do the same.

A pregnant cat, a happy distraction
Some sort of normal thing
Calico and innocent.

The kittens in her belly said feed me.

And I did.

She crept with careful eye,
body held low to the dirt,
snagged a bite,
and carried it just far enough away.

She liked the MREs
the beef stew, the chicken breast, the barbeque pork,
But she did not like canned sardines.
I do not blame her.
I would do the same.

She came around again and again
finally deciding that I was no threat
That this big man wasn’t so bad.

I was afraid to touch her as the docs warned us
Iraqi animals were carriers of flesh-eating disease.
I donned a plastic glove and was the first to pet
This wild creature who may be

The one true heart and mind that America
Had won over.

After a while I forgot the glove and enjoyed
The tactile softness of short fur,
Flesh-eating bacteria be dammed.

Her belly swole for weeks
And she disappeared for some days
Until her kittens were safely birthed
In the shallow of a rusted desk
In the ruins that lined the road behind us.

She came around again slim
With afterbirth still matted to her hind legs
She was back again, but not quite as often
She came to eat and for attention
But there was nursing to be done.

One day she crept up with a kitten in her mouth
She dropped it at my foot and stared up at me
She expected something, but there was nothing I could do
The young black and white kitten was dead
It’s eyes not yet opened.

It looked like some shriveled old wise thing
Completely still, mouth puckered
Small body curled and limp.

She let me take the baby without a fight
She knew, but seemed unaffected.

She fetched me a gift,
A lesson,
among the worried nights
Shot nerves from poorly aimed mortar rounds:

Everything dies
the evil, the innocent
Her baby and
me

I thought I should say a prayer and bury
This poor little thing
But I did for it what will be done for me

I laid it in the burn can amongst the ash
And said I’m sorry.

Tomato Pies, 25 Cents

by Grace Cavalieri

Tomato pies are what we called them, those days,
before Pizza came in,
at my Grandmother's restaurant,
in Trenton New Jersey.
My grandfather is rolling meatballs
in the back. He studied to be a priest in Sicily but
saved his sister Maggie from marrying a bad guy
by coming to America.
Uncle Joey is rolling dough and spooning sauce.
Uncle Joey, is always scrubbed clean,
sobered up, in a white starched shirt, after
cops delivered him home just hours before.
The waitresses are helping
themselves to handfuls of cash out of the drawer,
playing the numbers with Moon Mullin
and Shad, sent in from Broad Street. 1942,
tomato pies with cheese, 25 cents.
With anchovies, large, 50 cents.
A whole dinner is 60 cents (before 6 pm).
How the soldiers, bussed in from Fort Dix,
would stand outside all the way down Warren Street,
waiting for this new taste treat,
young guys in uniform,
lined up and laughing, learning Italian,
before being shipped out to fight the last great war.

My son calls me while I'm in line at the Stop & Shop

by Kathe L. Palka

and I freeze, transporting tea from the cart
 to the conveyer belt, mind racing to places
 he might need me, as I answer my cell.
 But he's not calling for rescue from the scene
 of an accident, a highway wreck or more
 natural disaster, rather calling, as if I were
 only in the next room. Home early
 from school, he's wondering what's
 for dinner and after being told, asks if I might
 make mashed potatoes instead of rice.
 I sigh a little yes, slightly annoyed at his
 casualness, but glad to be able to heed the call,
 reminded, I'm the one who thinks of this
 accessibility as a way to keep the world
 at bay, able now to respond anywhere,
 yet burdened by availability.
 Born into this expanding, more connected
 universe, he can't imagine why anyone
 would want to be out of reach, my child who
 wears new technology like a second skin
 and for whom the whole world
 is an easy touch away and should be.

Indian Summer

The Santa Anas blew through this past weekend. For those of you not from So Cal, the Santa Ana winds come just about every fall. The wind blows across the Mojave desert and brings warm dry wind to the coastal cities. It feels as if it is summer's last farewell and I love it.

A perfect excuse to break out the kiddie pool one last time!

 

 

 

 

X

by Wendell Berry

Whatever is foreseen in joy
 Must be lived out from day to day.
 Vision held open in the dark
 By our ten thousand days of work.
 Harvest will fill the barn; for that
 The hand must ache, the face must sweat.

 And yet no leaf or grain is filled
 By work of ours; the field is tilled
 And left to grace. That we may reap,
 Great work is done while we're asleep.

 When we work well, a Sabbath mood
 Rests on our day, and finds it good.