Dream states, meditation, closing your eyes – all darkness. The child in the womb, the stars, the vast universe – all in darkness. Seeds planted in the ground – in darkness. Darkness is the breeding ground for all life. Who taught you to fear it? — social media wisdom
In this month’s issue, Patricia Doyne urges us to drop-kick 2020 to the curb. As she mentions in her second piece, illness and death from the global pandemic, along with ruptures caused by underlying social inequities, played a large role in the past year.
Dan Raphael starts his meditative pieces with ordinary life – weather, food, hikes, the calendar – and goes deeper through steady thought. Ferris Jones’ poems convey the fluid nature of many of our childhood memories and the different ways our mind can perceive time and space.
Norman J. Olson reflects on decades of his own personal history, following many Americans of his generation from the ‘farm to the city to the suburbs.’
Mahbub and John Culp both turn to nature to find reminders of renewal. Butterflies in early spring and a lemon tree in winter suggest to Mahbub that he can, as John Culp affirms, find strength through letting go and accepting the natural passage of seasons.
Mark Young’s poems speak to us of delicate moments, little interruptions, while Hongri Yuan’s writing, translated from Mandarin into English by Manu Mangattu, celebrates instances of spiritual transcendence.
We invite you to reach for moments of that nature as you read this month’s issue, and we hope that you find grace and inspiration even in these global circumstances.
The five of us in her first period American Government class were not particularly worried at first. After all, she was a total flower girl hippie, the young white woman icon of that day in 1968, and we knew she liked to smoke a bit. Sometimes we could smell it on her clothes or in her hair. We all loved her in our own ways. We all knew she loved us and wanted the best for us. She came prepared each day to make sure we had everything we needed to excel in her class and to ace our college entrance exams. She didn’t just teach us the basic elements of American Government, she taught us the background and history and atmosphere of it all. She was unlike any teacher we had ever had and our bonds with her and hers with us, although never verbally expressed, were strong.
So, on this day, it was just not right that she was not standing in her usual place at the door when we arrived. Things felt tilted and out of balance as we took our usual seats in the portable classroom. Maybe she was just held up in traffic or had overslept, we reasoned with each other. In the beginnings of her lateness, we didn’t entertain any other options.
We sat there just waiting, not speaking as five minutes passed and too quickly became ten. And even at that mark of time, in our know- everything- overconfident youthfulness we remained certain in our assumptions about her not being on time. After all, we were the “smart” kids, the “gifted” students who had been specifically chosen to be in Miss P’s accelerated college prep twelfth grade class at our Oakland, California high school. This was no small accomplishment in our white flight neighborhood where being deemed as smart or gifted was a designation bestowed on students at our school less and less.
While old yearbooks would reveal that almost half of the student body had been inducted into the National Honor Society, and two-thirds were enrolled in special college preparatory classes, this year, only the five of us out of twelve hundred students at our now mixed-race school, had “tested” smart enough to be placed in Miss P’s and other such courses. We had been hastily assembled in the principal’s office at the beginning of our senior year and without looking directly at us, he mumbled to us that we had “fallen” into the “genius” category on our intelligence testing from the year before and would be taking “special” courses designed for “high achievers” like us. It all seemed fairly messy and felt as if we had been notified at the last minute, and unwillingly.
We were an interesting group, to say the least. There were the Japanese twins, tall and angular Steve and Mark Tanuki; red-haired and introverted white girl Adelaide Morrison; blond and overly muscular football star Jimmy Fargo; and me, the talkative sandy-haired Black girl. Sometimes there were four of us who wondered why and how Jimmy got into the class, but we didn’t dwell on it.
Soon enough, the ten minutes became fifteen, the universal cutoff for waiting for a teacher. For some reason, we didn’t budge. We didn’t even look at each other. We knew something unsaid. The tilt became more pronounced as we struggled to remain patient. We knew things did not feel exactly right this day, the discomfort prompting nervous chatter.
“She will be here soon,” Steve said.
“Yes, any minute,” I said.
Adelaide began pacing the floor in the back of the classroom.
“Will you please stop that walking, Adelaide?” Jimmy said a little too loudly, making us all look over at him. “Your footsteps are driving me…”
Before he could finish his sentence, Miss P burst through the door, all shawls and straight middle-parted long brown hair, red-faced, sweaty and looking a bit crazed. In her right hand was set of Volkswagen bus keys.
In her left hand was an 18-inch-long metal pipe.
“Guys and girls, get your things!” She said breathlessly, a small bit of spittle spray escaping her thin, dry lips. “We are going on a field trip!”
Without a second thought, we gathered our bags and books and followed her down the hall and out to her VW bus, haphazardly parked right in front of our classroom building. Somehow, she had driven past the gated and fenced teacher’s parking lot and through the school grounds to pick us up. We were so excited to be doing something out of the ordinary with our freewheeling teacher and going on what we thought was a field trip, it would only seem out of character when we looked back.
We happily piled into the VW.
“Don’t worry,” Miss P said. “I will have you all back by the 3:05 bell.”
Off we went. Miss P’s VW bus allowed us a comfortable and scenic ride. The 580 freeway took us through town and then on to other cities along the way. We talked, laughed and pointed out familiar landmarks as they passed. I even showed everyone the exit my family took to get to my grandmother’s house in Richmond. By the time we passed that landmark, everything else was new territory to all of us except Miss P and Jimmy, both of whom seemed to know much more about places further north from Oakland.
Soon we reached the San Rafael bridge. It would be the first time I; the twins or Adelaide had crossed it and we paid attention to every bump and window view. After a little more than an hour of driving, we finally reached our destination, Point Reyes National Seashore.
We all disembarked from the VW bus, looking at each other quizzically. Was this some kind of nature lesson? And if so, what did it have to do with American Government? Her keys secured into her macrame shoulder bag, lead pipe in her right hand, Miss P turned to look back at us briefly and began swiftly walking toward an incline. We could clearly see the plateau near the top. Like sheep, we followed her. We climbed along with her and didn’t say a word until we reached the grassy top.
The view of the ocean was magnificent. It took what little breath we had left away and then its stunning beauty gave it back to us full force. The waves were calm and dancing against the shore like ballerinas in a choreographed line. It was a special place. We knew we were here for a significant reason.
“Come and sit with me,” Miss P. said. Her brown hair was glinting in the sun, pushed back the slight breeze with rhythmic timing. Her face was drained of color. Her eyes seemed vacant.
“He hit him with the pipe,” she said as she held it up to the sunlight.
“That pipe?” I asked.
“Yes.”
We all really looked at the pipe then. There was a red stain on one end we had not noticed before.
“Where, when?” Steve and Mark asked in unison.
Below, even though we could no longer see them from where we sat, we knew the waves were silently breaking against the rocks. Surely, they would soften and cleanse everything we were about to hear.
“At the club last night.” Miss P had her head in her hands and began to moan as she rocked back and forth. We instinctively drew closer and surrounded her. We didn’t know yet what had happened, but we did know it was hurting Miss P and that she needed us. We didn’t know what to say to her, so we just closed in on her so she could feel us there. After a while she raised her head and looked at each of us. Her eyes were filled with tears. Her voice was weak and thready when she spoke.
“His name is Lamont. He is the love of my life. That man hit him with the pipe. He said to me white girl why are you with that spook? He said I have been watching you come in here with him. Then he hit him with the pipe and dropped it where Lamont fell. He said you won’t be with him again bitch.
I don’t know why I picked it up. I don’t remember much except leaving the hospital this morning.”
She looked up at the sky. She let go of the pipe and let it settle in the deep grass.
“Well, how is Lamont?” I asked.
Miss P just looked at me and dropped her head. Then she walked slowly to the edge of the plateau. We followed. I grabbed her hand. Jimmy took her other hand. The rest joined hands and we just stood there together looking at the waves kiss the shore. They were gray and silty now.
Now we knew why she had brought us here. Of all the people she could have chosen for this moment when she needed someone the most, she had chosen us.
And as we stood there, afraid and worried for a man we had never even met, we felt Miss P’s palatable love for Lamont. Although in different ways, and for different reasons, on that day we all felt the ugliness, bigotry, tragedy and horrid meaning of what had been done to him.
We heard the roar before we saw it. The waves had become all foam and fierceness. They hit the rocks below with such force the plateau seemed to move backward.
When the spray hit us as we stood there together, we all knew Lamont was gone.
“Well, I said I would have you back by the 3:05 bell,” Miss P said as she disengaged from our hands.
We walked back to the VW bus. We rode back full of our own thoughts about what had happened. Everyone was sad. Miss P was silent. I was angry. So, so angry.
We reached the school at 3:00 and stepped out of the VW bus. Miss P hugged and kissed us all.
When the 3:05 bell rang out with a screeching finality, we watched as Miss P turned from us and walked slowly away, climbing into and starting up the VW.
And with what would be her final wave to us, and ours to her, we watched wordlessly as Miss Pennwender drove away.
Pushcart Prize nominee Sheryl J. Bize-Boutte is an Oakland multidisciplinary writer whose autobiographical and fictional short story collections, along with her lyrical and stunning poetry, artfully succeed in getting across deeper meanings about the politics of race and economics without breaking out of the narrative. Her writing has been variously described as “rich in vivid imagery,” “incredible,” and “great contributions to literature.” Her first novel, “Betrayal on the Bayou,” was published in June 2020 and a poetry collection she has written with her daughter Dr. Angela M. Boutte, titled “No Poetry No Peace,” was published in August 2020. She is also a popular literary reader, presenter, storyteller, curator and emcee for local events.
i understood early. life is strange for anybody. i didn’t realize my nursery school companions didn’t comprehend. i watched the coffee table walk on its four limbs. i stared at its stability. not a single dip of my father’s beer had overflowed. while it roamed, its supremacy overcame me. Intelligence to each stride. he appreciated where he was going. i craved to be that way.
it’s conscious. everything. nothing ever dies. it becomes foodstuff for the universe. dinner is prompt. we should embrace. treat well. my world, heavier than most. what did i know? i was five years old. what was real? mommy carried me, settled me. the world turned. i could perceive now. it was as absolute as that.
sweet boy
don’t weep. we won’t surrender you on this dilapidated dance floor. we will reconstruct it into a sky that will not squirm. its guardian will be of your crop. we will be the spirits that will yield blood for your tranquility. our minds will accept this pandemic and sections will disappear. nobody will realize how great they should have remained. a parachute will break your loss. go on, little one, conceive those daydreams. the earth cluttered with our remains will attend over you. no mischief will appear to you.
we will draw up arms and overthrow the pagan vampire that is autocracy. its assault will be but fables, flying before the years develop. the hijacker will expire in shackles, millions will lament, rifles will blow, capitals will ignite. airborne joy will torrent the invasion.
i will stand my history in your palms, be delicate with the mass, golden stars will be on your screens. read the message, behold the ground, envelop the tombstones. the karats are the weight, controlled by the painting of your forthcoming. i will stare on to you and your triumph, sweet boy. we will not let you, nor will we dig the tunnels.
past lives
my judgement opens from space. islands inhabit this elegant territory. true, as if planted by god’s palm. it’s rests nowhere else. lives and eye’s, roamed here for centuries. expired here. bones are in divine locations, not discovered. rafts of bamboo carried these waters. sculptures of the heroic warrior’s in the star’s highway at night. they understood time.
i’ve been there. reached from the sky and set on the water. an elegant craft. wealth. but when? i recognize i fell through the crystal water. taken part with the roads of the sand. the moon generates arrangements sustained beyond many deaths. was I one of them?
Most years January doesn’t have to do much—its reputation’s enough, every day
in the 30s, rain with 20 mile wind from whatever direction you’re walking;
sometimes the rain polymers branches, cars and streets in cold hard transparency,
soaked soil and juggernaut wind bringing down trees and lines, increasing the darkness
that should be diminishing: the suns been up for hours but January wont let it out,
Jan doesn’t look at us at all, knows what we’re waiting for, so becomes 2 weeks longer— February won’t mind, having been the shortest all its life knows what complaining brings,
its only reward an extra day every 4 years like a gold star that won’t stick to its forehead, February’s that long car ride, soon as it begins we’re asking is it March yet.
March marches, mars the god of war showing off its new but familiar uniforms
this month of sideways rain, month of flowers teased into blossoming then frosted brown
by northern winds tromping the calendar line claiming winter’s over
March has no idea how April got here or who let it in, April so caught
in its fashionable reflection. intoxicated by its own promise,
it seldom looks outside—why are you complaining, it’s April—
put on your shorts, dust off your bike and celebrate your way to a terrible cold.
The Universe Started in a Kitchen
Warm bread, cold coffee, basil rain
a medium rare minute
my autobiographical menu
dreams with food around but i can’t get any
Boil before you mash
wash but don’t peel
3 minutes per side
don’t measure, weigh
follow the pilot light
A kitchen off the grid
different sizes of spatulas, flippers, wood & metal spoons
3 knives
great grandma’s cast iron pan
this fork grew an extra tine
Eating steak without utensils
my molars aren’t what they used to be
Red means go, when it’s a tomato
someone tall & thin as a cornstalk
7 bees swim in an artichoke flower
some crops don’t want to be eaten
the only thing that grows in my kitchen is the stack of dishes and pots to wash
a stove you can take to any room, any where
Times my stomach rumbles for no reason
if i’m eating, it’s mealtime
wish the fridge and fruit bowl could refill themselves
so when I put a bed in here, i might never leave
Under Cloud Cover
a mani-permeable membrane
four way street, traffic circle sprouting sinuous
combination window mirror camera and screen
as if I’m one
sometimes particle, sometimes wave
for the tiniest increment timeless
one blade in miles of grasses
between breaths, among heartbeats
my roots go everywhere
no reason to taste me
don’t know what I’ve been holding back til I let it go
like that sleepless, walletless hitchhike across the country
how long it took to convince myself I could sleep now
or the second trail day in Nepal, got lost,
take 20 steps, catch my breath, take 20 steps, sit or lean
resilience recovery resignation reignite
in my current flame of mind
in several keys, several languages, not all of them
voiced or heard, no harmony without absence
muscle rippling bone, pushing while pulling away
how hugs become subcutaneous
each pore can breathe, each hair
can transmit and receive
sun slices through clouds
won’t let my hands touch its light
more motion than heat
places where clouds are illegal but not hard to get a little
places the sun shines through the earth ‘round midnight
Of the Land
How are my territories divided: the physical, the emotional,
the only borders are my clothes, cat scans looking for
quick passage, hidden benefits, mazes of intestines and nerves
the river going through me can be dammed or polluted upstream
Weather grants no suffrage but always provides consequence
seasonal conundrums, the powers of habit and accumulation
but not what I was saving for which comes when
there’s no longer room or company
How to find a balance point with so many fingers on the scales
the momentum of intent, the inertia of comfort, inherent randomness
when supply demands, an idea made flesh, knowing when to shrink
or vanish, a door locked before i could learn the combination
What lets in wind but not light, a skull so tight not even
whispers can get through, an untranslatable past
becoming smithereens of the future, as it takes a thousand arms
to keep all of a life’s moments aloft, a fluid index,
when what seems chaos are the many ways to tell the same story
as plots cross-breed, as characters become their speeches,
costumes gleaned from the effluvia of closets
When we ran on all fours and kept gaining weight
so nothing could carry us away, earning the choice
to stay out of the rain, be close to a fire
what often happens around now, at this age,
what remains a mystery since no one’s seen it before
the country trying to grow inside me must be cut our or dispelled
Born Under a Vague Sign
particular matter vague concerns open seasoning
we need wind to mask the freeway noise
windows to keep out what the wind is carrying
how far this dust has come, a slow migration.
local rebels, taking a chance—you don’t know where that wind’s been
when the wind and rain boycott us, meteorological distancing
the masked sky diffusing the sun
adjusting the dimmer for 12-14 hours of equal gray
every time the electricity hiccups all the clocks turn to midnight or noon
shadows growing from the streets and yards
smoke trees street trees family trees triage
when the windows go blank
when there’s nothing beyond my yard
since the sky’s so vacant the thunder must be manmade, ground pounding
pits and spumes of dust as if slow rain but no rain—
earth burps soil yeast foundations too unsettled to not squirm
can we just jump from 6 o’clock to 9, from downtown to road free
rotate this valley 90 degrees to change its relation to everything
the rain’s never lost cause it doesn’t care where it’s going
clouds throwing off water like we do cigarette butts and burger wrappers
as if we wait til sunrise to start and stop soon as dark reaches our ankles
as a compass is not a clock of space, gps is just numbers
and you know how stable they are, how easily 8 becomes three,
take the 1 from 10, when it’s easier to count the commas than the places
even temperature speaks multiple languages and never asks us
for a reference or limit, skin wants its own arithmetic
add, divide or multiply, things get so confuddled
even gravity’s misoriented, light slows to get a better look
after decades of steady friction blood escapes, nerves stop receiving
and only transmit, wirelessly, enough pain or joy at times
to reach a satellite and either bounce or tread
into the emotional vacuum, the place so many causes and effects
hide each other. as if the sun is all we got, as if the moon is content
Born and raised in Calgary, Tyler grew up with the care of his loving single mother, Grace. Having to raise the wheelchair-bound Tyler for over fourteen years was difficult for Grace, who had two jobs-teaching and factory work. Despite the challenge, she gave her son the best of love and care. Since birth, Grace made it a number one priority to be there for her son, regardless of how busy she was with her job.
Tyler always did well in school. He wasn’t the dull type. His intelligence attracted his classmates to him, even though he was fun to be with only once in a blue moon. His peers, both boys and girls in his class, liked him. But he felt incomplete since he was in a wheelchair. His unhappy mood drove people away. But this attracted the attention of his class teacher; he would do his very best to instill in him what he deserved-happiness. However, this would be short-lived as home for Tyler meant being attended to by his mom but pushed aside by his neighbors. His mom’s efforts to make him fit in with everyone didn’t work. As Tyler grew older, his confidence and natural exuberance dwindled when he realized he wasn’t able to do what able-bodied juveniles were doing. This affected his relationship with his peers, especially the female ones. But someone, who, from childhood, had always accepted Tyler the way he had been, was…Thomas.
It was during his senior years at Calgary Secondary School Tyler saw the need to fall in love…with the opposite sex. Although Thomas would prove useful to him in a way, his predicament wouldn’t help matters! Tyler looked forward to the time in his life when the right woman would love him for who he is, accept his physical predicament, be in a serious relationship with him and possibly walk down the aisle with him. But the more Tyler searched for her, the more she kept eluding him!
Love: Long Lost But Now Found…The Background
From one girl to the other, Paul had experienced sexual pleasure for years by taking advantage of a whole host of women. Paul walked away from any consequences or relationships and ended up unharmed because of his influence! ‘Identifying’ with women at the tender age of twelve, Paul had been in fruitless relationships with twelve ladies before he met Tania at twenty one; Maureen, Cynthia, Antonia, Linda, Danielle, Katherine, Edwina, Knowles, Twain, Sharon and Faith. He had a free ride with them until he met Tania…
Tania was the only girl with whom Paul had an actual relationship. It was after three years of enduring the pains he inflicted that Tania called it quits with him. Paul looked forward to talking with Andrew, his good friend of seven years, about his fall-out Tania. But Paul was in for a big surprise…a surprise that would bring about this: “Love: Long Lost but now found!”
I have never professed to know much, although what I do know,
is there’s a distance between want and need, the road is treacherous, plagued with storms in time cause your ambition to rust and your ego to bleed, your hunger doesn’t entitle you admission, to take part in the soul feast, believing no one’s pain is greater than your own, you’ve paid your dues now fate owes you, but you’ve defaulted on the loan.
Your want is always a desire, for the image reflected in a selfish mirror, you’re damned to keep counting blessings, coming up short, then feeling cheated, out of what was never yours. Still you ask why your prayers go unanswered, self indulgent wishes are ignored, worshiping the two dollar Talisman, bought at the thrift store, it has exhausted any cosmic goodwill it never had before, turns out to be just another poor choice, as a last resort. if a line between right and wrong ever existed, you snorted it long ago, and conscience you considered an encumbrance, was shed in liability’s shadow.
I’ve lived in the underbelly of a deplorable existence, the reward for addiction and a troubled mind, been to places where Jesus was afraid to visit, acting on some drug’s bad advice, I learned the less I wanted, the more I understood what it is I need, it rains diamonds on Neptune, and there’s blue sunsets on Mars, but what do I know,
A Vow
I wonder what you're doing
now it's 2 AM and I can't
sleep I've rumpled the sheets
with worry the shape of me
and you are you dreaming
now it's 2 AM of the day past
or days distantly hurts that stayed
with you are you sweating
or motionless are you breathing
through your nose or mouth
would you know if I were with you
would you sense me
the way a cat feels
a presence from another world
I'll put a pot of coffee on the stove
and wear my one piece pajamas
and walk on the wooden floors
maybe look out the windows
at the different views
and the lights staccato
watch the sky lightening
the appearance of the trees
and tomorrow
