Essay from Norman Olson

From Halifax to Kelmscott and Beyond

by:  Norman J. Olson

 

on May 30, 2016, Mary and I walked to the bus stop on a chilly morning…  we caught the 74 bus to the 46th Street light rail station in Minneapolis and from there it is five minutes on the train to the Airport…  we got on our 9 a.m. flight to LGA with no problem…  Mary ran into a friend on the plane and so we rode the bus together into Manhattan…  it was a hot day and since we got off a few blocks away from our actual stop, we had our first opportunity to haul our carryon suitcases around by hand…

we took the downtown subway to Columbus Circle and walked to our Holiday Inn on 57th Street…  after a rest and a cool down in the hotel, we contacted a friend of mine who lives in Manhattan and he came to the hotel where we met in the lobby…  it was really good to have a chance to talk and so we walked looking for a dinner spot, no shortage of those in Manhattan…  and settled on a little hole in the wall Cuban joint that seemed quiet and like a perfect place to talk…  so we had no sooner made our orders and got down to serious conversation when the Cuban band showed up…  they set up in about five minutes, turned their amps all the way to 10 and since conversation had become impossible, we ate up and left…

when I told him the story, my brother said that musicians seldom see their music as “background to conversation”  and I think he may be on to something there…  lol…  anyway, we finished the evening with a great conversation sitting by an outdoor fountain…  lovely ambiance, good conversation, a warm/cooling breeze and the towers of Manhattan all around…

the next morning, we walked to McDonalds for coffee and soda and then had a great hotdog for breakfast at the Columbus Circle entrance to Central Park…  then with a few stops to sketch passers by, we walked across the park to the Metropolitan Museum of Art…  I went to see my favorite old European paintings and then we spent some time looking at the Egyptian art…  I love those amazingly intricate patterns of wings etc. painted in lovely watercolor touches all those years ago in the desert of Egypt…  of the European paintings, my favorite is Oedipus and the Sphinx by Gustave Moreau…  it is kind of odd and probably not a “great” painting but, it is to me an interesting one and one of the few pieces which that very strange painter actually finished…  I love the red handled spear…  well, I  cannot explain this art stuff very well, I am afraid…

as the afternoon was wearing on, we took a bus downtown from in front of the museum and made it back to our hotel, collected our bags and headed for the pier…  I chose this hotel because it was sort of cheap (for NYC) and only about six blocks from the pier…  at the pier, we boarded the Princess Cruise Lines Pacific Princess…  a smallish cruise ship that holds some 650 passengers…  and of course, headed for the buffet…  at 8 p.m., the ship left the dock and we sailed down along the edge of Manhattan…  it was truly a spectacular sight with the sun setting behind Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty…  and a cool breeze freshening as we sailed out under the Verrazano Narrows Bridge…

after a cool but pleasant day at sea, we arrived in Halifax…  we walked through the port area of Halifax which is nicely fixed up with restaurants, a local marketplace and even a busker playing fiddle tunes for the tourists…  from the dock area, we walked up the hill maybe half a mile to the lovely public garden…  we walked around the garden and sat enjoying the wonderful fresh air and the warmth of the sun when it came through the clouds and the glorious flower beds…  I know almost nothing about flowers, but agree that they are very pretty to look at and so we feasted out eyes…

then after a stop for sodas and coffee, we made our leisurely way back down the hill to the ship…  it was a lovely day of walking in Halifax with great views out over the harbor… then we were five days at sea heading for Reykjavik, Iceland…  it was chilly outside with high temps in the lower 50s, but we were prepared and so I enjoyed a brisk walk of two miles every morning on the walking track at the top of the ship…  it was really nice seeing the gray ocean spread out to the horizon and buffeted by the wind which was pretty strong considering the ship’s motion added to the actual wind which was blowing a little bit…  the sea was calm and on the way out of Halifax, we saw many humpback whales and dolphins…  once we passed the grand banks, we saw little sea life…  we spent the days mostly bundled up on deck five reading and drawing…  it was great to be out in the ridiculously fresh air, hearing the waves crash on the side of the ship…  we found sheltered spots on deck out of the wind and it was glorious…  then after a day in the fresh air working on a drawing to go in to a lovely dinner with some very cool and interesting people who invited us to join their table…  after dinner we would go to the show in the theater, turn our clocks ahead one hour and sleep like babies “cradled in the arms of the sea…”

in Reykjavik, we paid $30 each for one of the hop on hop off buses…  so we rode the bus all around and saw the sights of the city…  it was a lot of fun because the tour guide was a sweet young man who said it was his first day on the job and kept yawning because he had been too nervous to sleep the night before…  he kept getting lost in his script…  but he was such a jolly and pleasant kid that it was super fun…  the bus was not heavily used, so on some of the legs, we were on alone with the guide and the driver…  and we had a rollicking good time joking and laughing…  as we went by the shopping center the driver stopped at a cross walk to let and elderly lady cross…  when she got right in front of the bus she turned and gave us the finger…  we all thought that was so funny that we almost split from laughing…  especially because all of the Icelanders that we actually met were lovely and friendly, if a bit stand offish at first…

the second port was Isafjordur, Iceland…  this is a small town of a few thousand people situated on a fjord with mountains streaked with snow all around…  on shore, we found a small tour operated by a local farmer that took us around to some scenic spots, including a gorgeous waterfall coming down from the mountainside…  we had scenic overlooks of the fjord and drove to the next fjord where I made a snowball out of mountain snow…  he then took us to a small town for a look around and then to his farm where he showed us the nests of the eider ducks in his fields…  when these ducks make a nest, they lay their eggs in eider down and when the chicks are old enough the nests are abandoned…  the farmers collect and sell the eider down from the abandoned nests which is very valuable…  we saw a nest with four little chicks cuddled very cozily into their eider down…

it was a cool, fresh, sunny day…  the landscape was covered with wild flowers and flowering weeds and very pretty with lots of big spectacularly yellow dandelions…  and of course the deep blue water of the fjords with the towering snow streaked cliffs rising from the sea…

the next stop was Akureyri, Iceland, a city of 18,000, so considerably larger than Isafjordur…

here we decided to walk so did a walking tour around the town which included a climb up the mountain to see the gorgeous botanical gardens and the views overlooking the fjord…  after a lovely hike around the town and through a wooded, park area down the hillside, we still had some time before we had to go back to the ship so we stopped and used the last of our kroner to buy a very strange but delicious hot dog from an outdoor stand…  there was a bus stopped near where we were sitting so we asked the driver how long it took her to make a complete circle back and forth around the town…  she said 25 minutes, and since we had that much time we got on the bus (which was free) and had a ride through the residential areas all around the town and got to see people going about their business in Iceland which was kind of cool…  the town was clean and neat and everybody we saw seemed affluent…  children seemed nicely dressed and cared for and although there were apartment blocks there were lots of private houses looking not much different from those in Minnesota…

after Iceland, we had a day at sea (more drawing on deck)…  then we arrived at Orkney Island which is part of Scotland…  on shore there we found a nice inexpensive bus tour that took us to see the local sights…  before we left on the tour, we walked around the town…  they were having some kind of commemoration at the local church for animals killed in wars and five or six horse owners had their horses on the church lawn for the people to pet and admire…  the horses were big browns and blacks with glossy coats and their manes were braided (except for one very pretty little Shetland pony who had one long braid in her bushy mane)…  they were lovely animals, with sleek powerful looking muscles and heavy hooves, and it was fun to talk to the horse owners about their horses…

on the tour we went to the small town of Stromness were we walked and looked at the old buildings looking out on the little harbor and then had lunch at a picnic table in the sun…  there was a chilly breeze off the harbor and we could see a large boat that looked like a ferry of some kind and smaller boats in the harbor in front of us…  then we went to a prehistoric archaeological dig… called Skara Brae…  which is an excavation of a stone village that was originally built around 3100 BC…  from the size of the houses, I would guess that the people were fairly small and it was interesting to try and picture those little people working hard to pile these stones in careful rows to make walls to keep them warm and safe in that cold northern place…  how hard their lives must have been… but I am sure that, like us, they had their joys to mitigate their hardships and sorrows…  and probably lived rich lives fishing and tending their farms…

after a quick look through the manor house of Skail which is nearby, we went on to see the ring of Brodgar, a Stonehenge like circle of huge stones stuck upright in the ground…  making a huge circle on an isthmus between two lakes… it is amazing to see these huge stones, to feel the smooth gray stone warm in the sun and wonder why those Neolithic people went to all this work to build these monuments… there are many theories but nobody knows for sure… we then went on to see the smaller Ring of Stennes which may be the oldest of the stone circles in Britain and may date back to the same time as the founding of Skara Brae…

the driver let those of us on the tour who were on the ship off at the end of the pier so we had a nice half mile walk back to the ship past the industrial and undeveloped areas of the port…

the next day we were in Dundee, Scotland…  we walked to the tourist office in the center of town and they gave us a map with a nice walking tour of the town which we did…  the highlight for me was a visit to their small and somewhat provincial art museum which had a magnificent Dante G. Rossetti painting of Dante’s Dream…  I have been studying Rossetti and the Pre-Raphaelites for years and it is always a treat for me to see these paintings which are often found in out of the way museums in the UK and elsewhere…  often museums which cannot afford a Matisse or a Jackson Pollock, so exhibit their Rossetti…  after an hour or so of just feasting my eyes on this painting, we left and walked to the Jute factory…  it was kind of sad really to see this monument to a business, the business of jute weaving, which used to be a big industry in Dundee but today is all done in India…   like in Minneapolis, we have a similar museum dedicated to the history of the flour milling industry in Minnesota…  I don’t know where flour is milled these days, but it is not in Minneapolis…  it is like they are saying with these museums, “our city used to have great important work to do and this is how we did it” implying that whatever we are doing now is pretty much thumb twiddling…

at a museum dedicated to the explorers Shackleton and Scott, we saw the old ship Discovery, a polar exploration vessel from the early 1900s, a full rigged ship with steam power supplement…  from childhood I have been fascinated by sailing ships and it was fun to imagine what a thrill it would have been for me at age ten or so to have actually stood on the deck of one of these ships and looked up at the rigging…  imagine climbing out on one of those spars with nothing for support but a foot rope and the ship rolling wildly in stormy seas…  yikes…  I was glad to get back to the calm decks and dining rooms of the Pacific Princess…  still there is something about those huge old wind driven machines that stirs me…

by the time we left Dundee, sailing south to Dover, it had warmed up a bit so we enjoyed our last sea day sitting on deck not quit bundled in every garment we owned…  then we were in Dover and the cruise was over…  we took a cab from the ship to the bus station and the bus to London Victoria Coach Station where we got another coach for Swindon at the edge of the Cotswold area of England… the British coaches are very cheap if booked in advance…  we arrived at Swindon bus station in the rain but a friendly person helped us figure out which bus to take to our hotel and so we made it dragging our bags with only a minimum of soakage…  our plan had been to rent a car in Swindon but when I saw the traffic in Swindon, I realized that my days of renting a car and navigating the roundabouts from the wrong side of the road are done…  I did that many years ago with no problem with a car full of kids!!  but I decided that driving, even in the rural areas would be too nerve wracking so we re-planned the visit by finding a bus to our hotel in the village of Lechlade…  the hotel in Lechlade hooked us up with a local guy, an old retired guy with impressive mutton chops, who sometimes drove people around in his car for a cheap rate and so the first day we had him drive us to Buscot Manor about three miles from Lechlade…

Buscot Manor is an old house that has some murals by the Pre-Raphaelite painter Edward Burne-Jones…  this series of four maybe 8×4 foot paintings with smaller panels between them is based on the story of sleeping beauty and was installed in the late 1800s…  Mr. Burne-Jones was staying with his friend William Morris at the time in nearby Kelmscott and walked across the fields to work on the small panels between the main paintings…  I have wanted to make the trip to see these in the original for years and was really impressed…  in site, in the room, altogether, they are just ravishingly beautiful…  if you like that sort of thing…  which I do…  I could write a lot more about the experience of seeing these lovely pictures and my thoughts on them, on the age and ideals they embody and on 19th century art in general, but I have said much of that elsewhere and this is already 5 pages long…  the curator seemed surprised that I spent over an hour looking at the art in that room and then came back later, after our walk around the grounds to look some more…

just a few quick words about the paintings…  I love how Burne-Jones painted the draperies, the shadows, the fall of light and how these paintings are poems in tone and the lovely color is only the icing on the cake…  I think that this kind of artwork, where the medium makes images which do the work of what?  conveying meaning?  I’m not sure, but whatever it is that art does is done by the images which are made by the oil paint…  in a work in the contemporary aesthetic, the work of the painting is done by the medium or more accurately by the object which is made of the medium and even if there are images it is the object that matters…  paint on a surface, as my teachers used to say over and over and over, back in the 1960s…   but then, maybe this is all wrong…  i really do not understand art very well at all anymore…  i used to think i had it figured out…  lol  now i do what i love and i love what i do…  why not???

okay enough with the art talk… gibberish…  we walked around the huge park of the manor, some of which is plantings of huge old trees and untrimmed English style gardens and also looked at the lovely flowers in the formal walled garden…  by the time we made it back to the manor house, it was pouring rain and it was cool to be in that vast opulent old house with the rain pounding down outside and the high windows letting in a washed blue light in which the oil paintings just glowed like jewels…

the next day, we took the bus to Cirencester with a stop in the tiny village of Fairford to see the stained glass windows in the old church which dated from the 1400s…  the old church glowed with light from the lovely if somewhat faded windows…  and a musician was practicing on the keyboard which filled the space with lovely old Bach music…  (the vast pipe organ was being refurbished…) the ride to and from Cirencester  made me double glad that I did not rent a car as the roads were very narrow even outside of the towns and outside the towns cars went fast on roads that often did not have room for cars to meet but rather a place to pull over until the oncoming car had passed…  Cirencester is a much larger city than Lechlade or Fairford and we enjoyed walking around the town, looking at some flower market stalls and watching the people window shop…  we looked around the old yellow stone church and had a lovely dinner in one of the pubs…  while we were in the pub it started to pour rain and it was kind of a fun ride back to Lechlade in the bus with the rain pouring down…  it felt like we were in a submarine roaring through the walls of water down that narrow narrow road with on coming traffic missing us by inches…  and green brushy hedges right at the side of the traffic lanes with an occasional glimpse through the leaves to the rolling green hills, fields and woods beyond…

the next day we spent the day down the road from Lechlade at Kelmscott…  I will not go into the history of Kelmscott, the role it played in the life of Dante Rossetti and how he painted some of his strangest and most beautiful pictures there…  pictures of his good friend’s wife with whom he was having an affair with the consent of the friend in the early 1870s when they spent months living together there…  but, I encourage anyone who is interested to read the history, or more importantly look at the art…  Kelmscott sits about a quarter mile from the Thames river which is about 30 feet across there and regularly floods the fields (which are called water meadows) and every few years, floods the manor house as well…  it is a lovely old stone house, a large farmhouse really more than an actual manor house…  and it was great for me to walk those rooms and get a feel for the place and its history… I have read so much about the place… and it was cool to actually be there, thinking about what those Victorian artists felt and did…  I found myself contemplating the briefness of both art and life (Longfellow was dead wrong on that score)…  amid the flower gardens and the ripe and abundant nature of rural England in summer…  we were tired from walking and so spent the last hour before our ride came back sitting in the Gazebo, sketching and reading…  with the flowers everywhere, the scent of roses and the beautiful old house sitting there before us in sunlight and shade, comfortable in its old stones…  it felt very relaxing and right to be there….

I know that this Victorian and Pre-Raphaelite art is not to everyone’s taste and I am not sure why I dig it so much, but I do…  different strokes for different folks, as we used to say…

the next day, the old guy gave us a ride into Swindon…  it was Sunday so the bus to Lechlade did not run…  we caught a bus back to Victoria Coach Station and from there made a connection to Birmingham…  a long way around, but the coach was like $100 cheaper than the more direct train…  and the long coach rides were like a tour of rural England…  we saw lots of fields and woodlots and lots of sheep…  the landscape reminded me somewhat of Central Wisconsin around Baldwin where I lived as a child…  I think the landscape looks kind of similar, but the climate is a bit cooler there…

to my surprise I found Birmingham to be an nice clean modern city…  we went to the art museum the next day in a light rain and enjoyed looking at a lot more Pre-Raphaelite art…  I was absolutely blown away by a very large (like eight by twelve foot) watercolor by (again) Burne-Jones…

well, this is getting way too long but that afternoon, we took the bus back to London Victoria, walked to Hyde Park Corner and caught a Piccadilly Line train Hounslow right near Heathrow were we stayed for one night…  had a great Pakistani dinner for two pounds fifty, a free breakfast the next morning and caught the tube for Heathrow…   then 8 hours over the North Atlantic to Detroit and two hours back to MSP…  where we arrived home Tuesday evening…

exhausted…

Short story from Sheryl Bize-Boutte

THE DRESS   

By

Sheryl J. Bize Boutte

 

By the mid 1960’s my parents had four school-aged daughters to support and a fifth change-of –life daughter on the way. Birthday and Christmas gifts often supplemented outgrown or worn out school clothes along with the begged for doll, bike or skates.  Sometimes we got something special; something homemade, handed down or handed over that always brought a unique and precious feel to the celebration.

It was in this tradition on Christmas Day in 1966, while the color wheel changed the aluminum tree from blue to green to red and back again, my mother handed me a gold- ribboned box.  Inside was a simple frock; a multi-colored, multi-flowered shirtwaist dress with a wide belt and full skirt.  A gently worn hand-me-down from one of my mother’s wealthy acquaintances, the bottom of the hem hit just below my knobby knees and fit my unfinished 15-year-old body to a “T.” Even though it was a spring dress, I could not wait to wear it to school.  My fingers were already turning the front doorknob, as my mother’s voice admonished, “Girl, don’t you know it is JANUARY? You are going to catch pneumonia in that thin little dress!” But I was halfway down the street and about to round the corner on my usual path to my freshman year in high school before she could finish her second sentence. My inaugural wearing of this dress would also be the day a 17-year old boy would look out of his window from the 3rd house on the right and see me for the first time.

I knew I probably wore that dress much too often, but I had never had anything like it. It had the power to make my teenage self feel like a big gown up lady and became the favorite in my sparse wardrobe.  It also made that boy wait for me to pass his house each day and then fall into step behind me.  Stealthy and silent, he walked behind me for the five blocks to school for the rest of the school year. A bookworm and a loner, totally inside my own head as I made my way, I never thought to look back.

On a late summer day, after almost a year of following me after I rounded the corner, the forces emanating from that dress with me in it, would give that boy the courage to ring my doorbell and introduce himself.  “Hi, I’m Anthony from around the corner. Does the girl with the flowery dress live here?” he asked my sister who answered the door.  With her usual eye roll she answered, “ You must be looking for Sheryl.  She is always wearing that old-timey dress.”  She called to me to come to the door and from that day forward the boy from around the corner became my boyfriend and soon after that, my fiancé.

On a beautiful spring day in 1971, we married in the living room of my family home with only our parents, my grandmother and a few friends in attendance.  Still waiflike at age nineteen, my wedding dress was an elegant non-flowery peach chiffon and silk, the perfect compliment to my new husband’s ruffled peach shirt and coordinating bowtie. Our reception consisted of post-wedding photos taken in my parent’s park-like backyard, while our few guests dined on crust-less tuna and chicken salad sandwiches cut into little squares accompanied by Mum’s extra dry champagne.

Settling into married life was automatic for us and as though it was always meant to be.  I finished college and my husband was at my graduation along with my parents.  Soon after I began my career with the government while my husband continued his climb in the building industry and finished his degree.  During this time, the dress became so faded the flowers were barely visible, and so threadbare it was no longer wearable. Tearfully, I threw it away.

As the years passed, my husband would often come home on my birthday, our anniversary or Christmas with a ribbon-tied box containing an exquisite dress, suit or even shoes, from a small boutique he claimed as his territory for his gifts to me.  Once he presented me with a beautiful white suit and when I asked what the occasion was, he replied, “Because its Tuesday.” He always chose the correct size and only stopped the practice when his boutique of choice went out of business.  But of all the wonderful articles of clothing he purchased, the dress, or anything like it, was never among them.

Then one rainy December day in 1976, during one of my shopping trips through the annual major department store Christmas wish book I saw it; a multi-flowered shirtwaist dress with a white background, a full skirt and a wide belt. It did not matter to me that Christmas was near and I was ordering a dress from the catalogue’s preview for spring, I had to have it and ordered it right away. When it arrived I was a bit disappointed to find that the fabric had an unworn stiffness to it and therefore not as soft as the original, the flowers were not as vibrant as they had appeared in the catalogue picture, and the belt was a skinnier version of its predecessor.  But after so many years of dress drought, I decided this dress and I would make a pact to stay together, even though we both knew the relationship would never be ideal.

My husband loved me in this dress even though I knew it for the poseur it was. And because he loved it, I wore it to work and out to dinner.  I wore to the movies and to the supermarket.   I wore it with a shawl in the spring and with boots and a jacket in the winter. I continued to wear it after our daughter was born in 1977 and was surprised, yet happy that after I punched an extra hole in the belt for just a bit more room, it continued to fit. I wore it through my daughter’s early school years and into her entry to junior high.  After she told me how much she liked it, I wore it even more. Still, through all of that, this dress could not convince me that it was the one.

Since I could never get enough of how happy it made my family, over time the dress and I had settled into an easy truce. I came to accept the fact that it could not help me to recapture the feelings I had when I wore the anointed original.  And it seemed to know that although it was not the dress, my family’s reactions would make it a most treasured piece in my by now, extensive and often talked about wardrobe.

Then one day, after 19 years of wear, I put the dress on and discovered I could no longer easily button it, and had run out of room for more belt holes. In defiance, I buttoned it and fastened the belt anyway, breaking a fingernail to the quick as I did so. The dress countered my orders for its cooperation with sharp and intense rib pain and taking away my ability to breathe.  We stood at loggerheads in the mirror for a few seconds before I gave in and feverishly began to free myself from its grip.  My disappearing waistline and the dress had finally conspired to betray me.  With mixed emotions I knew we would have to part ways.

Time went by and dresses with magic flowers and full skirts were often sought but not found. Over the years, I tried to replicate that special dress many times over, but it always ended in disappointment and eventual rejection; sometimes by me, but more often by the dress as the Body Mass Index continued its upward climb. Along the way, I happened upon beige and brown flowered silk shirtwaist and I bought it, but like the substitute garden scene dress I had previously outgrown, it was just not the same. I even tried other styles, and I felt I looked just fine, but I felt nothing extraordinary when they draped my frame and somehow that just continued to feel like a requirement.

From time to time, I would still pine for that original long-lost dress and the power it had to make a shy boy follow me to school, my daughter smile, and strangers stop to tell me how great I looked. Even though I was loved well, had a happy home and fulfilling work, I still wanted the all the dress had given me.

In 1995, our daughter went off to college and we became empty nesters. We moved on with life and the blessings of family and love continued as the years passed without the dress. Then on Christmas Day in 2010, my husband presented me with a golden box wrapped with a golden bow.  We had decided not to buy gifts that year, because we felt so blessed, so I was both surprised at the gift and annoyed that he had broken the pact. In the middle of a hot flash with lips pursed, I launched into my protest, “But I thought we weren’t going to…” I was stopped in mid-sentence when my smiling husband and daughter said in unison, “ Just open it!”  Their smiles grew wider and wider as I pushed through the tissue paper labeled “Zell’s Vintage” and opened the box.

Inside was a simple frock.

A multi-colored, multi-flowered shirtwaist dress with a wide belt and a full skirt.

The Dress was back for Christmas.

 

Copyright © 2012 by Sheryl J. Bize Boutte

 

This story was originally published by Harlequin Publications in their 2013 holiday story collection “A Kiss Under The Mistletoe” by Jennifer Basye Sander, and in my 2014 book, “A Dollar Five: Stories From a Baby Boomers Ongoing Journey” available at Amazon.com and other booksellers

 

https://www.amazon.com/Dollar-Five-Stories-Boomers-Ongoing/dp/149938310X/ref=sr_1_5?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=14

 

Poetry from John Patrick Robbins

Before You Go

Sometimes when it’s silent in the bar the memories come to me as  a flood .

Emotions I would rather bury and old ghosts at times I wish only to see again.

And alone with my demons I find no excuses but every reason .
So I simply press the gas pedal .

Drink until I collapse and pretend it’s all in a good time .
When that old truth long since left this party so long ago.

Nobody truly needs you .
And don’t believe you cannot be replaced .

As easily as a person changes a lightbulb.
And throws the old one away.

Never lie to yourself .
For I know this truth better than any other .

My story has come to its end and you as a reader will find another thats suits your mood all the same.

It was good for the moment .
Whispered lies, are lies all the same.

 

 

 

         A Difference Of Opinion

A beautiful woman is like blessing upon the eyes .
And times a curse upon the tortured soul.

A great conversation after she has long since left the room .
Perfume for thought and the fuel of want and distant stories .

I once had a friend tell me.

“You don’t respect women cause you write such terrible things about them”.

I was always amazed by a critics opinion of my words .

Let alone the opinion of someone I considered my friend .

I laughed and bled in thought my temper held in check .
For my words were like the razors edge and I could cut anyone to bits if I choose to easily .

” Sweetheart as long as you’re not the bitch I’m writing about why does it matter to you”?

“You can’t group all people together “.

I laughed .

“I didn’t believe I was my dear , I write my truths leave them bare I love women even the ones that left a scar “.

“Well you have a funny way of showing it “.

I didn’t reply and eventually I allowed her self righteous opinion of me to smolder .

We joked and as usual the past was soon buried with the dead conversations much like this one.

I could push every button at will much like a old typewriter .

If she didn’t care she wouldn’t be so damn quick to snap .

Well either that or she was secretly a lesbian like a old friend once said .

I loved women and nothing brought me more pleasure than firing up the ones I truly respected .

Guess that’s why I was still single.

Michael Robinson reviews Jamel Gross’ poetry collection A Knight Without His Lovers

 

Jamel’s poetry is new and refreshing, for he mixes older ideas with several new points of view on love. He has given much efforts and energy into the flow of each poem, which follows a unique pattern. Many of his poems are about the idea of finding and keeping love, and he has a rhythm to each line. Each word flows into the next, with each following a simple, yet unique flow. The themes of love bring expressed clarity to the experience of life, love, and death.

The imagery conveys the emotions of each poem along with themes that ignite one’s own imagination about love. His poems: “I Care 4 You”, “Untitled,” and “My Day Apart,” and “If I Should Lose You” are just a few of my favorites because of the stories they express. I had a hard time choosing these poems out of the collection because starting with ” I Care 4 You” and continuing with all of the following poems, Jamel’s poetry breaks the mold of grammar and still holds the reader’s attention. It’s a jewel worth keeping.

Jamel Gross’ A Knight Without His Lovers is available here. 

Poetry from Joan McNerney

 

Another Night

 

Once again waking

to flashing blue lights.

 

More guns,

more assault weapons,

more mass shootings,

more death.

 

Darkness pierced by sirens,

angry screams,

air spinning with smoke.

 

Blood on streets

slick and slippery.

 

My weary eyes want

to stay shut and

my lips pray for

long nights of silence.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“A” train

 

brassy blue

electric

bleeds upon rails.

 

blue, white flashes

leap forward.

they move, they move

constantly they move.

 

close your eyes

watch points

like stars

 

think now

how insignificant

you are

compared to train

speaking for itself

 

stars known

in no language

shooting

thru

tiger’s eyes

 

brain in

constant action

reaction

 

to what we do not know

plans of distant stars

galaxies floating by as

 

“A” train

silver worm

bursting through

big belly

of city

 

 

 

 

Eleventh Hour

 

Wrapped in darkness we can

no longer deceive ourselves.

Our smiling masks float away.

We snake here, there

from one side to another.

How many times do we rip off

blankets only to claw more on?

 

Listening to zzzzzz of traffic,

mumble of freight trains, fog horns.

Listening to wheezing,

feeling muscles throb.

How can we find comfort?

 

Say same word over and over

again again falling falling to sleep.

I will stop measuring what was lost.

I will become brave.

 

Let slumber come covering me.

Let my mouth droop, fingers tingle.

Wishing something cool…soft…sweet.

Now I will curl like a fetus

gathering into myself

hoping to awake new born.

Poetry from Michael Robinson

Black Boy I

 

In the middle of the night,

Forgot all the bad in his life,

Walking into the moon’s light.

 

A soulful prayer,

At 3AM when all is quiet,

Living in the moon’s delight.

 

 

 

Black Boy II

 

If you knew the story,

If you felt the pain,

If you loved life,

You would understand,

A Black boy life.

 

 

Black Boy III

 

No more guns,

No more knives,

Nor more razor blades under the sleeve.

 

No more cocaine in the midnight hour,

No more sins in the dawn of day,

No more psych units.

 

No more lies,

No more pain,

No more tears.

 

Black Boy IV

 

My skin is dark, and my tone is light,

My eyes are bright, and my smile is warm,

My soul is full of God’s light,

Black Boy in the middle of the night.

 

 

Black Boy V

 

You crossed the seas looking for me,

Carrying me away,

Chaining me to the deck.

 

Look into my eyes,

Look at my back,

With the torn skin from the whip.

 

Another day of misery,

Keeps me company,

Prays touches my heart,

In the daily sun.

While picking cotton till dusk,

Deliver me from the whip,

I long to be free.

 

 

Black Boy VI

 

I walk into the morning sun,

My skin blackens from the noonday sun.

Mile after mile,

I walk while the tears fall to the ground,

I walk with bare feet,

With lashes on my back.

 

I walk to my freedom,

Crawling in the mud,

I kneel at the rock and Cry:

 

Save me from my captures,

Save me from my oppressors,

Save me from my sins.

 

 

Black Boy VII

 

Have you seen my mother?

She was wearing a red dress.

 

Have you seen my mother?

She was walking down the street.

 

Have you seen my mother?

She has my eyes.

 

Have you seen my mother?

She was heading to the Red-light district.

 

Have you seen my mother?

She was with that man.

 

Have you seen my mother?

She left me in the rain of my tears.

 

Michael Robinson (right) and fellow contributor Joan Beebe

Poetry from J.J. Campbell

WIN_20181010_14_25_23_Pro.jpg

————————————————————————————-

when you are defeated
there is no joy when
meeting a beautiful
woman when you
are defeated
when this universe
has broken you
when all the old
friends have moved
on and you can’t
remember how to
make new ones
please and thank
you only get you
so far
and being kind isn’t
exactly telling a
woman you just
thought what her
inner thighs would
smell like wrapped
around your face
and you can’t
exactly pass a
love note while
at the bank
that might just
give the wrong
impression
—————————————————————————-
a sigh of relief
the muse
asked me
the other
night what
size my
penis is
i told her
and she
let out a
sigh of
relief
that almost
makes me
think she
wants to
see it one
day
——————————————————————————
this kind of pleasure
a friend asks you
to describe the pain
i tell her to take a
hanger and stick it
in the electrical outlet
that shock you feel
pretend it’s constant
and it pulses at times
and then wrap your
head around the fact
that you like it
that it makes you
contort your body
and then touch yourself
at inappropriate times
she asks if i’m feeling
the pain now
i told her i was picturing
her naked, rubbing that
hanger against my neck
as she grinded down on
me
and as long as the pain
brings this kind of
pleasure
the world will be safe
from all of my potential
rage
—————————————————————————-
one of those nights
i listen to
your stories
of the crazy
men and
crazy nights
and can’t help
but wonder if
i will get lucky
enough
to have one
of those nights
for myself
————————————————————————-
admitting defeat
smooth black skin
and endless dreams
of what could have
been
those long legs
walked out of
my life years
ago and i’m
still trying to
win them back
i have a hard time
admitting defeat
you know, where
there’s a will,
there’s a way
while i’m still
breathing, i still
have a chance
insert your favorite
cliche here
most people understand
that’s called insanity
i know they are right
but it makes for a better
story to say they just
don’t understand
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know better. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at The Dope Fiend Daily, The Rye Whiskey Review, Otoliths, Horror Sleaze Trash and Cajun Mutt Press. His most recent chapbook, the taste of blood on christmas morning, was published by Analog Submission Press. You can find him most days waxing poetic on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (http://evildelights.blogspot.com)
—————————————————————————–
J.J. Campbell
51 Urban Ln.
Brookville, OH 45309-9277