Joan Beebe (left) and fellow contributor Michael Robinson
I hear a sigh in the distance and suddenly
Realize it had come from me.
My dreams are of long ago when
Life was simpler and most days
Happiness surrounded me.
My sighs keep on and my dreams
Become a source of comfort.
I am whispering into the night
When there is no one to hear me.
I whisper my dreams into the darkness.
Loneliness
I am lonely and afraid —
My thoughts travel back to
A time of togetherness with
My birth family.
The house was always filled
With friends, relatives and neighbors.
Mom in the kitchen preparing supper and
Dad in his favorite stuffed chair smoking
His special pipe and listening to me play
The piano.
The days were filled with the warmth and
Love that one could always sense.
There never seemed that life had to
Rush by — life was just there.
My emotions are difficult with which to deal.
Though I have a small family of my own,
I long for those by-gone days of yesteryear.
Rise early and make your bed; scream that you’ve made your bed.
Eat a hearty breakfast in the dark. Outside, with possums. Inside, with Elwin.
Exercise while watching the horses run fast and free on the highway – oh, so very fast.
No alcohol on our lips but you may let it trickle down your nape or small or onto your feet.
Smoking is detrimental so don’t do it unless you look cool doing it wearing a chapeau of some kind or something somewhat flammable
Get outdoors. Ride in one of those miniature cars that go 4 MPH, for an hour. Call home and say “Please pick me up” and explain that you are 4 miles away in that direction, there.
Eat a light lunch based upon the idea of airiness and then fly to Spain and have a siesta with a matador.
Early to bed. If you dream of arcades, wonder why and laugh. If you don’t, wonder why and laugh.
Answer a phone call in your sleep. It’s Elwin. Tell him you love him very much, it is he who you love. Ask him over for breakfast in the morning. Early. Toast, sweet butter-oos.
VICTORY LAP
One year I celebrated my birthday with a coconut donut.
One of those big, fat, sloppy, heavy, oily ones that they
don’t make anymore. I miss them terribly. But I must admit,
I take great pride every time I outlive something wonderful
like a big fat donut. Or a flower. For example: the yellow
rose petals that covered you as you slept in the bathtub.
I had just turned 20.
SUNDAY SCHOOL
Perhaps when we asked our parents about eternity our parents pointed to something vague. They might have pointed to a tree. Or a plate of figs. Or they might have pointed to our real parents.
GGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGLASSES
We all laughed when Joseph came to school
one Monday morning wearing glasses.
We didn’t have to wear glasses,
so why did Joseph?
By recess, Joseph, generally gregarious,
was the laughing stock of the second grade,
what, with his glasses and all,
etc.
For those who still remember, we hope that
Joseph will forgives us. What we did was ghastly
and grotesque. Since that day, we have grown
and are now quite gorgeous in our glorious hearts.
This essay was completed in order to ascertain
the functionality of the G key on the typewriter.
C+
TRISTAN
Tristan chose to sit on a bench for his first book
in a simple and dignified pose with a salmon-colored frame.
Even though he looks at the camera in a formal fashion
over the years the creases in the book suggest the appearance
of a poet holding a long chain or hula hoop
Tristan is a poet of danger and fun. Time is imposing this judgment
upon him, and I thank time for that: a gift to a long ago Romanian
whose mirth was rumored to be obscure.
TRIUMPH
My feelings about you are different every time I think about you.
Just like my feelings about Dirty Harry, Chubby Checker, and Douglas
Sirk’s MAGNIFICENT OBSESSION.
Or almost any obsession available that is truly magnificent.
Two that come to mind right away: Chubby Checker, and Dirty Harry.
Ricky Garni grew up in Florida and Maine, was educated at Exeter and Duke, and has lived off and on in the Triangle since 1977. Over the years he has worked as a teacher, wine merchant, studio musician, composer and graphic designer. He began writing poetry in 1978.
Allison Grayhurst is a member of the League of Canadian Poets. Five times nominated for “Best of the Net”, 2015/2017/2018, she has over 1200 poems published in over 475 international journals and anthologies. She has 21 published books of poetry, six collections and six chapbooks. She lives in Toronto with her family. She is a vegan. She also sculpts, working with clay; www.allisongrayhurst.com
Pikey Peak base camp is a yak herding station. Our group of three trekkers from the US and staff of seven Nepalese were camped there in anticipation of climbing the mountain the next day. We were on our way to Basa village in eastern Nepal to begin work on a hydroelectric plant to provide the village of sixty-two homes with electricity.
A yak calf nuzzled Cathy, our agriculture expert, and me while we explored the campsite. After the kitchen was established and the tents set up, Ram, our cook, signaled lunch was ready. It was early afternoon. While we sated ourselves on roti (bread), dal bhat (rice with lentils), and dudh chiyaa (milk tea), I asked our sirdar (chief guide) Ganesh whether we could hike up to the summit today rather than wait until morning. It was a cloudy day, but there wasn’t anything else to do except read and play with our little yak friend. I didn’t want to hang around camp all afternoon.
I knew the summit of Pikey Peak was at 14,000 feet and base camp was 10,000 feet. The summit was a two hour hike and scramble above, according to Ganesh. We could easily hike up and be back before dinner time. Cathy was feeling nauseous and feared she was getting altitude sickness.
The expedition started with the drive from Katmandu at 5,000 feet to Jiri village (6,250 feet). We’d crossed several high passes in a week of trekking but our sleeping altitude gain was only 4,000 feet. Basa village was three hiking days ahead of us.
Kathy opted to stay in camp and play cards with Hamid, Nirman, and Buddhi. Mike, our chief electrical engineer, Ganesh, and I headed up the mountain side.
We picked our way through the woods above our campsite. A couple hundred yards up Ganesh pointed out a rocky trail. Clumps of dense vegetation made the trail difficult to see, except when it broke out into a rocky clearing.
Mike was obviously affected by the altitude and was making very slow progress. I signaled that I was going on ahead. After fifteen minutes I looked back and saw Mike sitting on a boulder. Ganesh and I waved to each other. The next time I looked down they were out of sight.
I felt strong and was moving well. To make the adventure more fun I started scrambling up and jumping from boulder to boulder. But clouds were beginning to roll in, so I picked up the pace. Just below the summit there was a series of stone steps. Beyond the last rock-step was a rounded green hump with an arch of prayer flags — the summit!
Pikey Summit
Wind was whipping the prayer flags crazily on their poles. The view of the vast Himalayas from Kanchenjunga and Makalu east to the Everest Massif dead ahead and Annapurna in the distant west was awesome.
I hiked by myself every day for short distances along the trail from Jiri to Pikey, but other members of our crew were usually within shouting distance. This was my first moment of complete solitude.
After just a few minutes clouds enveloped the summit. Visibility was reduced to about ten feet. I hadn’t taken a photo of the vista, but I did take a shot of the prayer flags as proof I was there.
The wind was picking up. I assumed Mike and Ganesh had returned to base camp. It is unwise to be on an exposed summit during a storm. I spent a few more minutes sitting in meditation, then hoisted my pack to head downhill.
I walked back in the direction I thought I had come up. But the stone steps just below the crest of the summit had vanished. I tried different directions, but I could not find the stone steps.
What the hell! I was feeling fit and strong. It would be fun to break my own trail down the mountain. I started bushwhacking my way down.
The trail we’d taken from our last campsite at the Ngar Gompa (Buddhist monastery) tracked around the side of Pikey Peak to our campsite. So, whether I went down the same route I came up or another shouldn’t matter, because I had to run into that trail on my way down. Then, I’d follow the main trail back to our campsite. I had a compass in my backpack, but hadn’t taken a compass reading. No worries, the main trail was somewhere below me.
Hiking to the summit my attention was focused on the terrain immediately in front of me. I had not even noted which side of the mountain the Sun was on. I couldn’t see the Sun now anyway, because the fog was impenetrable.
Nepalese sirdars are the most extraordinary people I’ve known. They are almost super-human in strength and endurance, sweet tempered, patient, and devoted to the well-being of their clients. And Ganesh was the best. But Ganesh wasn’t with me now.
I ran into a thick patch of scrub pine. I bushwhacked straight through. I had to move from tree to tree, hanging on to branches or trunks, because the raw mountainside was so steep. The trees ended above a rocky cliff edge. Without rope I couldn’t down climb the rock face. I worked my way along the ledge and came to a frozen waterfall. Water was trickling under several inches of ice on smooth rock for about ten feet. The outcrop leveled off into a forest of rhododendron trees.
I slid down the icy rock landing hard but unhurt. Turning an ankle would seriously end the enjoyment of this little adventure.
I bushwhacked my way through rhododendrons; hit another rocky outcropping, which I climbed down. Here, every inch of ground was covered with tea plants and ankle- grabbing vegetation. It was like walking in deep mud. I worked my way to the edge of the vegetation back into the rhododendron forest.
The detour forced me to veer off a straight-line to intersect the trail. I grasped tree limbs for purchase to keep my balance as I struggled down the mountainside.
There was nothing to be worried about; more than two hours before sun down. I had two granola bars in my pack for snacks. I didn’t have any cold weather clothes or a sleeping bag with me. The hike up and back to camp was only supposed to take three hours, two up and one down. I had expected to be back in camp well before dinner time.
The fog was still very dense. Eventually I found myself among tall spruce and pine trees. I knew that the tall trees were just above the trail and hooray! There it was – the trail. Our campsite should be up the trail to my left.
I was getting a little hungry so I paused to eat one of the granola bars. I strode down the trail feeling bold and confident again. The little bit of anxiety that had started to creep in evaporated. Getting lost for a little while and making my own trail was another cool adventure in the Himalayas.
But something wasn’t right. There were footprints in this direction on the trail, but the trail was descending. I clearly remembered the trail to the campsite gradually ascending. Mike took altitude readings and remarked that we’d gained 200 meters when we reached Pikey base camp.
I followed the trail another thirty minutes before I was convinced I was going the wrong direction. Turning back the way I’d been hiking seemed logical. I should have gone right when I found the trail, instead of left.
I back-tracked for half hour running a hundred yards or so every few minutes. It was getting late in the afternoon. Sun down would be at six. I had at least an hour before dusk. Both of my headlamps were in my tent. Stupid! I didn’t want to be hiking after dark without a light and cold weather clothes. Anxiety crept in.
I jogged past the forested area where I’d found the trail. The fog was finally starting to clear. I could see fifty yards. Twenty minutes later the trail came to an abrupt end. A rock slide had wiped out a huge stretch of the trail.
Could I pick my way across the rock slide to gain the trail again? Loose rock on a steep incline would be too dangerous.
This made no sense! We didn’t see a trail wiped out by a rock slide on the hike from Ngar to Pikey. Where the hell was I?
Settle down. Don’t lose it. Turn around and go back. There must be another trail I’d missed in the fog. I backtracked on the run. I looked for caves in case I’d have to spend the night on the mountainside.
Just past the point where I’d found the trail, I noticed a break in the trees. Above the trail was a little clearing in the woods I hadn’t seen before. I found a broken down fence and remains of some straw bales. It was a yak feeding station. Yes! I remembered seeing it on the way to our campsite. Across the little pasture was another trail. And there was a Buddhi arrow!
Buddhi always drew a directional arrow whenever our trekking trail crossed another. This was a Buddhi arrow telling me this higher trail I’d missed was the right one.
Dusk was rapidly approaching. I alternated from jogging to speed hiking every couple hundred yards. I soon came to another trail intersection. Without hesitation I turned uphill. Another twenty minutes and I was back at the pasture where I’d started. Aargh! I had run and walked in a circle!
To calm myself I started chanting the Buddhist mantra: Om mani padme hum.
I followed the circular trail at a steady pace back to the crossing trail. This time I stopped and looked closely at the trail to the right. The fog was gone, but the Sun was down behind the mountain to the west. In the gathering dusk I could see recognizable boot prints. Yup, there was Hamid’s with the zigzag pattern.
Night settled on the mountain by the time I sighted lights at our campsite. I knew Ganesh and the crew would be worried, so I began yelling as I approached the camp. Ram poked his head out of the shelter he was using for the kitchen. He said Mike and Cathy were in their tents but the whole crew was up on the mountain looking for me.
I ran to the trail head and hollered up toward the summit of Pikey. After fifteen minutes of yelling and running I saw Ganesh waving his arm and whistling. Buddhi was higher up also waving and whistling.
Eventually we all gathered in the meal tent. Poor Hamid had hiked all the way to the top looking for me. Yet all the guys were in a good mood sharing rice and chang (beer) in the warmth of the tent.
Being alone and feeling lost on the mountain reminded me that we are social creatures. I enjoy hiking alone and other solitary activities. But I need community. Sharing the warmth of our meal tent with the guys, laughing about my execrable sense of direction, and passing around plates of dal bhat and cups of hot tea, this was good.
Ganesh gently poked fun at me for creating a new trail down the “wrong side” of the mountain. He joked that it would be named for me, but no one else would ever find it. He also complimented me for recognizing the tall trees were nearest the trail and for finding Hamid’s shoe print. “Jeff dhai (big brother) is becoming Nepali mountain man. He is learning to see.”
Risks shouldn’t be incurred stupidly, and age has diminished the thrill of adrenaline highs, but continuing to live life as an adventure has given me much in experience – experience of who I am out of my comfort zone and how strong my will to survive is. The willingness to dare carefully is the first step toward living adventurously. But you might need to get lost before you can be found.
Jeff Rasley is a “phlantrho-trek” organizer and writing coach. He is the author of 10 books, the most recent is ISLAND ADVENTURES; Disconnecting in the Caribbean and South Pacific
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) went to the crossroads and only found litter. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Horror Sleaze Trash, Fourth & Sycamore, Duane’s PoeTree, The Stray Branch and Red Eft Review. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (http://evildelights.blogspot.com)
Michael Robinson (right) and fellow contributor Joan Beebe
Sitting at the nurses station watching as time passes with no where to go. Sitting there watching as the nurses passes out medications to others then me. Pills after pills and blood pressure monitors inflating and deflating with a ding to tell them your pressure is high and then there’s more pills for that. Watching other patients crying and calling for their mothers as themselves are grandmothers and great grandmothers. Reaching in the air as if something is there for some. Quietly they sit hour after hour while trying to communicate to someone to touch someone to know that they are still a part of the world. Others, sit in their wheelchairs moving along the railing slowly they move down the hall. One foot in front of the other they too are watching as others with different physical limitations. Some have had strokes while others their bodies are just tired after a life of many years. In their 70s, 80s, and some as old as 100 years old. Looking not in the air they are moving towards something. Something that inspires them to keep going no matter what the outward conditions or the frailness of their bodies.
I also sit at the wall waiting and watching listening to the blood pressure monitor beep on my arm. swallowing pill after pill while thinking what makes me continue a sometimes difficult life. A life of suicidal thoughts that have long been forgot. A life with disappointments and turmoil and that too has been forgot. All that seems to be left is the wall at the nurses station. Still, there’s something unique about the wall. It as if nothing is taken for granted nothing is what it seems to be as patient after patient deal with their own reality of life. A life that has come to them sitting at the wall or walking with walkers or wheelchairs as the gasp the railings with one foot in foot of the other. Life has come to feel like it has a different meaning. Time seems to move moment by moment. Each moment is not taken for granted. Life is something to be continued as something to be understood not avoided. Avoided like I have done for 60 years sitting there looking into the air gasping at life.
Life now have meaning some kind of purpose sitting at the wall moving down the hall in the wheelchair or walker. God seems to be in the midst of it all. Seeing something that is not seen by the physical eye. The body isn’t the reality of life or the finality. There seems to be something that allows one to continue in this situation. Wearing briefs, being struck in a wheelchair for long hours of the day gasping at the air and calling for mother. Time seems to mean something to not be avoided. Death is near but somehow life seems to be more meaningful. There’s an understanding of life sitting at the wall. One does not complain about life unfairness only that they are in the wheel chair trying to stand and being told not too so for hour after hour with nothing to do but gasp at the air for something. Life has a different meaning sitting at the wall not being able to communicate the use to be no matter what it was good, bad, difficult, or tragic. to life that one does not seem to understand in their younger years of complaining about the unfairness of life. No voice can be heard from many of the patients, while other patients cry and mumble in an a useless attempt to communicate.
God what has been my purpose? I have to ask sitting at the wall. Finally, I feel that I understand life and there’s a feeling of resolve about it all. A resolve for the minutes that turned into hours and hours in days and days into months and finally into years. Before you know it you sitting at the wall at the nurses station crying calling for mother and wearing briefs and being feed by someone. Perhaps, it’s not age that have brought to this place. Maybe it was a mini stroke like the one I had. My ability to feed myself and clean myself returned; however, I have no promise that I too will have to sit and watch minutes turn into hours. Hoping and wishing for the clock to slow down unlike in my younger years when I wanted the day to end. Now sitting here I have all the time in the world and nothing to do but watch the nurses and other patients gasp at the air waiting for my turn to gasp at something that isn’t there.
I load webrat & machinist. This
newer work seems cheapened.
Has changed color to an impure
red. Had I been here, I would
have been stoned with insertive
knockers & small advertisements
that are called namako, or sea
mice. Networks are lacking. An
allergy may be the cause. The state
of the sewage disposal system is a
physical reminder of their strong
connection to the alcohol industry.
Magnetic resonance imaging is used
as the theme of the anime series.
trailed off on both sides of the market
Not through reproduction but by a
process of supplemental queries,
the House has signed off on
a $11.9 billion project to enable
a series of intellectual activities
based on “bricolage.” The hypo-
thesis is that they will function
as a playground in which scien-
tists can mull over their under-
standing of difficult subjects, taking
their attention away from another
bill providing a $106.5 billion pack-
age for war matériel that is already
earmarked for Senate approval.
Are you stressed and lethargic? Caught
inside a perfectly rectangular block?
Under no obligation to obey the laws
of ethics or morality? Born with no
innate or built-in mental content?
Seem to have a limited lifetime? Refer
to landscaping in ways that do not
require supplemental irrigation? Fill
the Incense Cup with rice chaff ash
& do not compact? Talk of crystal
chandeliers in a fundamentally diff-
erent way? Use an opposition such
as “nature/culture” as a tool while not
accepting it as philosophical truth?
If any response is positive, use the Phase One plan
Mark Young lives in a small town in North Queensland in Australia, & has been publishing poetry for almost sixty years. His most recent books are les échiquiers effrontés, a collection of surrealist visual poems laid out on chessboard grids, published by Luna Bisonte Prods, & The Word Factory: a miscellany, from gradient books of Finland. Due for publication are Residual sonnets from Ma Books, The Perfume of The Abyss from Moria Books, & an e-book, A Vicarious Life — the backing tracks, from otata.
