Learning Situation

There may, especially in times 
of civil int’resting unrest,
be hid ‘midst heroes – who’d solve crimes,
believing weaker folks’ good best –
badged rogues who’d stop at no excess –
to savagery against suspects,
karate-chop pat-downs, regress;
on courage, honor, cast their hex,
leave victims sexually tortured.

Idealists who took a stand,
Once let out of this devil’s-orchard,
must face their love, although unmanned.
Their love is beauty, nothing less,
who knows to love where courage grows
but now finds love a harrowed mess –
distrait, stand-offish.  Why?  Who knows?

One may have suffered worse groin pains
in downhill bike falls, but – it’s strange –
this ache won’t go away.  The change
will bring unbid but oft’ his brains
all addled vivid bright recall
of dingy green precinct back room,
his hands upon the chilly wall,
his legs spread wide in civic gloom.


We’d cellmates been in protest time –
while I too had attacked a pig,
foolhardy vainglory for rhyme
it was – hardly a thing as big
as bravery.  (Though like outrage
they’d dealt me, small discomfort lingers –
my first night free did much assuage.
I’m just glad they spared my fingers.)

They’d thrown him howling through the door:
“Strike, coward scum, and from behind –
thus justice mock since law’s no more
where peacekeepers have lost their mind!”
He ceased his anguished hoarse harangue
and climbed onto the upper bunk.
Our cell door slid closed with a clang
as back into my bed I sunk.

His thrashings kept waking me up
for long into ceaseless glare.
I gave him water in a cup,
he fin’ly slept without nightmare.
Then after quiet hours went by
wherein he didn’t even snore
I guess he must have heard me sigh
for, leaping to the iron floor
he said his name, stuck out his hand.
I shook it, told him “Call me Jack.”
He taught up at the college, planned
This lecture for when he got back:

“When any revolution’s inchoate
if it’s at all, such autocratic lock
the Powers have on ev’ry human fate
the chance that dissidence with fight will mock
the pomp of armed enforcers isn’t great.
Few act upon disgust that many feel.
But character, integrity will rate
with some despite the odds, which are surreal.
Then luckily the losers themselves find
In what we call a learning situation:
What ruthless motherfuckers do them bind
Is matter for the wonder’s contemplation.”

I said that would his students well
Forearm.  He thanked me.  We discussed
specific treatment, what befell
us both since brought in on this bust,
and which side in particular –
they differed ‘tween the both of us –
received insult testicular.
He then reflected – with a cuss:

“It seems this adds another facet
to passions positive as well – 
how tell my girl now in tacit
accents exactly what a hell
her country is, what fiends its cops,
what force ensures wage-slave docility,
what gratis ache that hardly stops
our bliss infects and my virility – 
No! – she must be carefully shunned.
A note with disengagement ring
will say, ‘Sweetheart, love’s moribund.
You’re not to blame, though, that’s the thing.
You know you take it personal
when griefs hit folks that aren’t their fault.
But now the ghetto I’ll home call
while you continue to exalt
delight – but new guy overjoy –
for I this shaman must consult
to help your mad ex-lover-boy
again in ecstasy exult….’ –
I’ll not write that, just disappear.
To flee’s the better part of valor.
Of missing history buff she’ll hear,
I’ll spare her any further pallor.”   

The Honesty

The Chander Gare ( one kind of roof opened van)  with eleven young men has just stopped. The place is crowded. Many vehicles from the opposite side come and stop here for Sometimes . Different kinds of shops are busy with their customers. Some children are uttering different words to attract the customers to sell their handicrafts, fruits and foods. Among them a boy with unbrushed hair but innocent and with deep eyes of near about eleven comes to Chander Gare to sell bananas. His two hands are full with fresh and big bananas. He says:

– Sir, please buy my bananas. These are fresh and testy. These are also medicine free.
One of the eleven young gentlemen says
– How do you know all these things. Have you eaten any of them?
The boy is laughing half with two lips and says with sweet sound
-Sir, these bananas are from my banana tree.
Who knows well about these more than me?
You can take without any confusion.
-Who will give guarantee about your story?

-Guarantee? Guarantee has no guaranty but look at my eyes.  These eyes do not misguide you. My mother does not teach me to tell a lie.
If I tell you lie my trees will die and Nature will take revenge.
– You are more mature than your age.
-I don’t understand what you are saying.
– What is the price of your banana?
-8 taka per piece, but one pair is 15 taka.
– ok. Give us 11 pieces.
– Sir, that will be difficult for me to calculate.
– We are eleven and we need eleven pieces.

Don’t worry. I shall give you 8 taka per piece. Give us the best eleven pieces.
– Here you are, Sir.
-Thank you. Take your money.

The Chander Gare starts to move very fastly.
The boy counts the money. It is one hundred taka. He is in a fix. He wants to return the excess money but the Chander Gare is out of his sight. He is thinking what to do. He shares the incident with his friend, Alex. Alex says
-Jon, you have nothing to do. You are not responsible. Keep the excess money to you.

Jon says
– I do not agree with you. I want to return the excess  money.
– It is impossible. But I have another idea.
Jon asks Alex
– What is it? Please tell me.
– You can give the excess money to a beggar. I think it will be better.
Jon says with high voice
– I have got an idea.
Alex comes to him and asks

– What is it?
-I have to go. Time is very short.
– Where do you want to go?
– I want to go to the next and final stoppage. I think I shall get him there.
– That will be impossible.
-Pray for me.
Jon starts his journey by a bus.  All the vehicles stop in the next stoppage.  This place is border area between two countries. People of two countries come and go from here. So they have to stay for some formalities of the offices. After maintaining the formalities they can cross the border.

Jon reaches the place but it is too late.  He sees the eleven young men but they are far away. They have just crossed the border. They are walking. 
Jon says with high sound,
-Sir, please take your money. I am here only to return your money. I do not want to take your money.
The eleven stars shine brightly. One of them looks back. He becomes surprise to see Alex.  He stops for a while and says
– You have come here to back money. We are happy to see you here. We praise your honesty. We do not want to take money from a boy like you. We are pleased upon you.

-I have come here to back your money. Please take your money. I don’t want to take excess money. My mother has taught me not to taka extra money from any customer.
-We have not enough time to come back and you can not cross the border. So keep the money.
-No, I don’t. I am very poor but not beggar. I need money but I do not need money of others. Please forgive me.
-We have no option.
Alex collects a stone. He  binds the money with the stone and throws the stone to the eleven young men. The stone crosses the boundary and it floats in the air of honesty.
Alex sees the stone where he see the face of his mother.

• Trigger warning, sexual assault

We Love You, Molly Devereaux

1

Molly softly shut the door to her bedroom, in pursuit of elusive but precious privacy. She didn’t like her stepbrothers just barging in on her. Butch was mostly okay, but the other one was — dangerous. Mostly he was just ignorant, and plainly didn’t know how to live with civilized folks. She plopped down on her bed, took out her yearbook and glanced through the photos of fellow students from her sophomore class last year. So immersed was she in her reverie that she didn’t hear the knob turn and the door open silently. She didn’t see the shadow fall across her prone form and she didn’t understand what was happening, as she was seized from behind by strong, brutal hands. Her dress was forced up her body and she was soon naked from the waist down; then her assailant penetrated her. She opened he mouth to scream in pain, but rough hands clamped around her lips to silence her.

. . . . .

When Sergeant Mike Dudley glanced out into the waiting room of the police station, at first he didn’t spot the child. But then, there she was, standing quietly before the window. Dudley frowned, looked beyond the girl and sought out an adult who must be accompanying her. There was no one. He peered over the small ledge abutting the window.

“Can I help you, miss?” he asked.

She spoke right up. “I have been raped,” she said.

Dudley frowned more deeply, then he went to the door and invited the girl to enter. “Follow me,” he said, and she fell into his wake. He took her to an interview room, sat her down, and then introduced himself. “What’s your name?” he asked softly. She gave it to him. “How old are you, Molly?” he asked next.

“Sixteen and a half,” she said bleakly.

Dudley went on to ask Molly her address, telephone number (her family had no phone), her parents’ names, who else lived with her and her parents, and the garden salad variety of questions that the police asked everyone who passed through their portal. Finally, he got down to brass tacks. But for her brief answers, she was remarkably subdued.

“Who assaulted you, Molly?”

Molly looked down at her shoes. “I can’t tell you,” she replied quietly, peeping out of a well of shame and self-rebuke.

“Why can’t you tell?” Dudley inquired.

“Well, I want to know what would happen, if they got arrested. Would they have to go to jail? Can’t we discuss it like a ‘what if’?” She asked. Dudley blinked at her,  but relented, and gathered the speculative particulars of the incident. Gently, he extracted the 16-year-old’s horrific account of the ordeal. Had the rapist beaten her? No. Had he threatened her with harm? Not really. Had he overpowered her? Yes, he was very strong.

After conducting the interview for some little time, Sergeant Dudley excused himself to Molly to consult with the watch commander. He leaned in through the commander’s open door.

“Captain Davis,” said Dudley, “I’ve got a teen out here, a Molly Devereaux, said she was raped by someone she refuses to name.”

The commander regarded his Sergeant incuriously. “What does she want us to do about it?” he asked bluntly. “It’s already happened, can’t take it back. Besides, think of what pressing charges would do to whoever did it. Probably another randy teenager.” He shook his head dismissively. “In this state, they’re talking about introducing ‘sex education’ in high schools.” He chuckled. “Tell her to consider this her advanced placement.” Dudley didn’t smile, but stood there and stared at his superior. Davis went on thoughtfully, “I guess sixteen is old enough to get knocked up…”

“She said he used a rubber,” Dudley spoke up.

“And now she wants to claim rape?” asked the watch commander incredulously. “What did she do, help him slip it on?” He snorted  “She was complicit, you ask me.”

“So what do you want me to do? How should I handle it?”

“The parents, they got a phone?” the other man asked. Dudley shook his head no. The commander rolled his eyes. Still, Dudley stood there expectantly, waiting. “I tell you what, Mike,” said Davis. “Blow it off. Tell her to keep it under her hat, that she can get into serious trouble spreading lies. She only wants attention. But, that’s no reason to take it out on everyone else. How was she dressed?” he asked.  Mike shrugged. “It’s a mare’s nest; just sit on it, Mike.”

“No police report?”

“Hell no!”

Mike nodded and exited the watch commander’s office. Returning to the desk where he’d left Molly, he observed the teen earnestly watching him approach. She looked awfully small and vulnerable, he thought. Pretty young girl, no wonder she got raped. It’s asking a lot of a healthy young man to resist a normal temptation, he reflected, recounting his own youth.

“I talked to my captain, Molly,” began Mike. She looked up attentively, but peering closely, he could see she was trembling slightly. “And he said you should just try to forget about it.  The boy probably didn’t mean any harm. He didn’t actually hurt you, right?” He peered into her beautiful but troubled green eyes.

She took a great breath and released it. “No, sir,” she murmured softly. “He didn’t hurt me. But, I’m scared of him now. Now he can do it again, anytime he wants. That’s why I reported it,” she explained. “I was reading this book…”

“No, Molly, I don’t think he’ll ever do it again. Boys are like that, they experiment, take dares, act out, you know. He probably only wanted to show off for his friends.” He smiled kindly. Without another word, Molly climbed to her feet.

Mike stared at her as she walked away, buttoned her jacket, and swiftly departed the room. He heard her footsteps echo as she walked across the tile station floor and out the door.

“What,” thought Mike tiredly, “could I have done?” After a moment, his interest in the girl faded and he proceeded onto important police business: he had to monitor the Deale Street parking meters this afternoon, he remembered.

2

“Get to bed, Molly; it’s near midnight,” said her mother Debra from the doorway of her daughter’s bedroom. Molly rolled her eyes impatiently, but rose from behind the deak, closed her textbook with a snap, and prepared to comply. “Come give us a kiss, babe,” said Mom. Molly walked into the living room and bussed her mother’s cheek.

“How ‘bout one for dad?” asked Don, her stepfather, sitting at the end of the dining room table, smoking a cigarette. Molly visibly hesitated for an instant, but once more, complied. Don patted her rump and Molly stiffened for an instant, then danced off to her bedroom, glad to be alone again.

. . . . .

At practice on Thursday afternoon, Lucy noticed that her best friend just wasn’t with it. In fact, the cheerleading coach upbraided her for inattention and lack of concentration. “This is the game of the season, ladies, and we want to do our seniors proud,” crowed Mrs. Buchanon. They went through their routine yet again.

Afterwards, in the girls’ gym dressing room, as they changed out of their costumes, Lucy asked her friend, “Mol. what’s eating you?”

Molly looked up from tying her laces and shrugged. “Dunno. Just not into it today, I guess.”

“Trouble with Bobby?” she asked with a  malicious twinkle.

Molly smiled wryly and shook her head. Bobby was the fullback on the football team and their best player. “My life is a mess,” she admitted, but Bobby is my rock. Nothing would count without him.” She could never let Lucy believe there was anything wrong between Molly and Bobby; she would grab him in a hot minute. Bobby was all Molly’s!

“Brothers?” inquired Lucy with an arched brow. “Again?

With a frown, Molly nodded. “Before Mom and Don got married, we only got together for like, dinners and stuff, but since the wedding they’re always in the way, you know?”

“Yeah,” agreed Lucy. “Butch is sort of a terror, but I think that Tod is pretty cute.” Molly froze, and took shallow breaths as Lucy went on about Tod’s sculpted arms and shoulders, from all the weightlifing he did.

“You wouldn’t think so, if you had to live with him,” she remarked, finishing tying her sneakers and springing to her feet. It felt good, just to talk about it, if only superficially. She couldn’t tell the whole truth, not even to Lucy.

. . . . .

At the football game that Friday night, Molly was clearly distracted, and it showed. The next morning, Mrs. Buchanon suspended her from the cheerleading squad for one game, unheard of discipline that the coach hoped would jolt her awake.

“You can’t take me off the squad, Mrs. B,” pled Molly, tears welling in her eyes. “Cheerleading is the only thing I have going for me right now,” she said, her voice breaking.

“Molly, I’ve got counseling to do right now; we’ll talk this afternoon,” and  she picked up a tote bag filled with files and left the office.

. . . . .

“They scrubbed you off the cheerleader squad?” exploded Bobby, wiping sweat from his brow. They were meeting at the practice field, where he was working out. “What kind of shit is that?”

“Mrs. B thinks my mind isn’t on my workouts,” she explained. “She suspended me for a game.” She shrugged helplessly. “She thinks maybe I’ve got too much on my mind.”

“Bogus,” snarled Bobby, then approached Molly and encased her in his strong fullback’s arms. She nested her head against his chest. “I mean, what could possibly be on that pretty mind of yours? You want, I can tell Coach to talk to her. He got her the job.”

She pulled back from his chest. “He did?” she asked, surprised.

“Yeah, they had a thing going, back in the day, and he recommended her,” replied the student athlete. And Coach was on the team with the Superintendant, like a thousand years ago. They go way back. That’s the only way you get anywhere,” he said ponderously, tipping up Molly’s chin with his finger. “It’s not what you know, but who you know,” he declared knowingly.

“But I don’t know anyone,” she lamented. My dad is the garbage man.”

Bobby chuckled and said, “You know me. And I take care of what is mine. You’ll be back on the squad by tomorrow, I guarantee it. By the way,” he said winsomely, “I love you, Molly Devereaux.” Molly gazed into the distance and frowned thoughtfully.

. . . . .

“Molly, I love you; I love all my girls and I want to help you to be the best you can be. Cheerleading is the highest crest that a girl can reach, and I want you to appreciate the opportunity — and bear the responsibility — you hold as a student leader.” So said Mrs. Buchanon later that afternoon.

Molly stood in the girls’ athletic office, quietly sobbing. Mrs. Buchanon spoke again, in a kinder voice, “Tell me, Molly. I know something serious is bothering you.  Are you doing alright in your classes?” Molly nodded. “Then,” said Mrs B, “are you having problems outside of school?” Molly said nothing. “Talk to me girl,” she coaxed. And so she did.  Mrs. Buchanon was probably the only person she could trust. So Molly opened up. The last thing she said was that “he’s done it twice, so far. Once in my bedroom and once in his.” Mrs. Buchanon grew quiet as stone and pondered.

3

Molly lay flat on her stomach across her bed, reading the Maya Angelou book that she’d found in the school library. This new writer was really good. She paused suddenly in her reading and froze. Turning back a page, she read and read again. She had stopped breathing. Suddenly a weight fell heavily across her body and she shouted in alarm.

“What’re you screaming at?” asked Tod, grabbing her hands and playfully holding them behind her back. As she struggled, he laughed hoarsely. Into the room burst her stepfather Don, who made Tod release his stepsister at once.

“What the hell?” Don demanded.

Tod was still laughing. “We’re just roughhousing,” he explained, getting up off the bed and sauntering blithely out of the room.

Molly lay there shivering. “You alright, Mol,” he asked tentatively. But she wouldn’t speak and she wouldn’t look at him.

. . . . .

“Mom,” began Molly, catching her mother alone in the kitchen, “did you think about what I asked you?” Her mom was peeling carrots, holding them under the water, and then dropping them into a steaming kettle of water.

“I did, Molly,” she replied. “Don and I discussed it and he feels that putting a lock on your door would be a mistake.”

“But why?” she inquired, frustrated.

“He said that when he was growing up, he never had locks on his doors, and he just doesn’t think it’s a good idea. He thinks it would be — unfriendly.”

“But, he grew up with four brothers.”

Mom shook her head. “I’m sorry, Molly, I talked to your father like I told you I would, and he said no. And he’s the man of the house, so he’s the boss.”

“He’s not my real father,” she mumbled crossly.

“Molly Devereaux!” admonished her mother. “You know Don tries, and so do the boys. You just need to loosen up, let them love you. They do love you, you know!”

Molly could only shake her head. “Thanks for asking, Mom,” she said in defeat, and picked up a carrot and began peeling it.

4

“Molly,” said Mom, stepping boldly into her daughter’s bedroom. Molly jumped, then gulped some air. “What’s wrong with you?” asked her mother sharply. “You’re on pins and needles.”

“Nothing, why? You just surprised me is all.”

“Something’s going on,” accused Debra. “Mrs. Buchanon, your guidance counselor, called today. Molly thought for a moment. Mrs. Buchanon was also her cheerleading coach. “She said that your chemistry teacher told her that you’re failing her class.” Molly looked annoyed. “Science is your best subject, Molly, and now your bottoming out in a basic science course. You wanted to be a doctor.”

“You wanted me to be a doctor,” Molly corrected her.

Debra frowned. “And you’ll be bumped off the cheerleading team too, if you fail a course. And,” she added sternly, “there’ll be no more Bobby.”

At this, Molly’s eyes grew wide with alarm. “Not Bobby,” she fairly squealed. “He’s the only reason I can go on,” she cried. “He’s the most popular boy in the school and he’s the best football player, and he’s so gentle…”

“Maybe you’re seeing too much of that boy,” Debra suggested. You spend every weekend with him, when you need to be studying chemistry.”

“You don’t understand the pressures I’m under, Mom,” she said wretchedly, as tears welled up once again.

“Then explain them to me,” she said. Molly said nothing. “Well,” said Debra, I’m having a parents/teacher conference with your guidance counselor tomorrow.” Molly’s face fell. “I’ll ask her what to do,” said Mom.

“You’ll be seventeen years old in three months and in a year you’ll be going off to college.”

“I don’t want to go to college anymore,” said Molly peevishly. “I want to drop out of school and get married.”

“Oh no you don’t,” snapped Debra. “That was my plan too, and look at me, scrubbing tight-fisted women’s filthy floors for $2 an hour. No, Molly Devereaux, I demand so much more for you, because you’re smart. Not like me.” Molly’s heart melted. “Don feels the same way about the boys; he doesn’t want them to grow up to be a garbage man like him! That’s why I’ve always been so hard on you. I will have more for you! We’ll talk again tomorrow night.” She paused in the doorway for a moment and murmured, “I love you, Molly.” Clutching her dish rag, she walked out of the bedroom.

Would the B tell Mom what had happened? What they had talked about was confidential; she couldn’t tell!

5

Debra appeared as if by magic at Molly’s door, before supper the next evening. She stood in the doorway for some time before Molly looked up from Maya Angelou. Molly jumped in surprise. “Mom,” she began, did you and the…Mrs. Buchanon talk?”

Debra said nothing, but entered the room and sat next to Molly on her bed. To Molly, this felt heavy. Then Debra spoke. “Molly,” she said, “I’m really disappointed in you.”

“Why, what do you mean?” she asked.

“Mrs. Buchanon told me what was happening with you and Bobby,” she replied.

“Mom,” she interrupted, “I wanted to tell you, but….”

“You didn’t think I could understand?” conjectured Debra.

“No, I knew you’d understand.”

“Molly, are we talking about the same thing?”

“You love Don,” said Molly. “And I know that he forces you to have sex with him at night, after you’ve both been drinking.”

Debra’s face grew dark as a thundercloud. “Stop it! Shut up! Don’t you dare talk about your father like that!”

Now Molly was confused. “But, I’ve heard it before,” she said plaintively. “IThe sounds, the voices, coming from your bedroom. I just thought that’s what married people did. People who loved each other. I’m sorry, but it doesn’t feel right to me.”

“We’re not talking about the same thing,” said Debra.

“Well, what did Mrs. B and you talk about, then?” asked Molly.

She told me she talked to you, and you confessed that you were trying to get yourself pregnant by Bobby, so he would drop out of school and miss college, to marry you and raise up some bastard.” Molly could  only stare at her mother, aghast. Debra went on, “You may decide you have no future, but that boy will amount to something. He’s signed a letter of intent to play football for an Ivy League college next fall, and we’ll be damned if we let you get away with it. Mrs. Buchanon also got a call from a Captain Davis, with the police department, and he said you filed a bogus rape charge against poor some unnamed student. He wanted to know if there was anything to it. She told him there wasn’t.”

“I filed the complaint after I read this book,” said Molly, holding up “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings.”

Debra huffed. “And there’ll be no more of this nonsense,” she said, seizing the book and confiscating it. “You’ll not get away with this, girl. There’s a penalty for lying!”

the sacrosanct sea (slow ghosts)

the old sea was wild and wavy, and the morning birds loquacious where the buildings ended, where infrastructures ceased and the sand and salt water began. but we didn’t go to the lighthouse north, only to the pier south. what a regret. what is that place like and is it still there? a big truck would go sometimes along the sand and somehow gather the seaweed. if I hold a shell for luck and providence and fortune, or just for aesthetic, the people laugh and snicker. such is the way. nothing can be done about it. but I would wash the shell in the waves lapping, and sometimes keep it. yea there was the world of buildings and roads and regular things in the millions inland. but, out there was the sea and horizon and moon and gulls,- a million feral things. cargo ships far and far seemingly slow,- like slow ghosts-traversing the horizon line. they looked rusted, red and brown and unappealing to most,- completely utilitarian and somehow altruistic. what does the life of a cargo ship mean after its days are done? do they bury it somewhere? does it become recycled, and thus reincarnated? do they ever have names like other vessels do? don’t they deserve a name? in the middle of two worlds on the sand you can see and sense both, the city and the sea,- their relationship that had been going on longer than any human one. 

the snow and how it was then 

once we went to the far and far lands and it was November and I remember that the sky became full of heaviness and by the tall summit where the sumac lives and always stays red it suddenly began to snow. we stood for a bit and watched it fall being swept with a great force when it descended near the evergreens by a winter wind new that had been waiting and slumbering and ready and then strong as anything. one of my old friends is gone now but we had that moment and nothing will ever take it away. soon we also descended but slowly down the hill and went further into feral and beautiful and rugged rustic worlds, all like a mystical meadow meandering dream but in real life. 

the three square fields 

the three square fields, bordered in one side my other, private fields and then open public valley, unthreaded and mysterious,- one million branches and some crackle and sound in the wind like spirits talking. then the other end, secret paths and chaga mushroom on birch unknown, where past all that it turns up to a hill where everything can be seen. how the evergreens have grown and I remember the hidden low marsh where the buttercups grew out from the mud dazzling yellow like some bright enlightenment. 

the stories the leaves tell

the narrow path and beyond

the entry to the forest world was skinny, narrowly contrived by human and or nature. it was steady and level even if just five or seven feet wide. as the leaves at for the most part left the branches, it being November, a soul could see further than in say summer, where the verdant world seemed to hold more secrets and mysteries. but- nature being nature- the sparse-becoming places w/branches plain, seemed to hold against reason and logic another type of mystery. difficult to name but there above the lands- in air by the farmer’s loam at the purlieu, down ‘round the long autumnal and winter marsh, and in the middle of it all, saturated and thick about the thousands of trees that waited and only slightly wavered in the season’s Sunday afternoon wind, the leaves still affixed to trees perhaps speaking about their own story, yes, telling their own non-words, words. for how else could it all be? 

path travellers, and the autumnal songs of prayer and gratitude

the paths, sometimes going past a marsh where birds wait and watch, other times into valleys wonderfully strange and quiet, and way in the distance a sound of squirrel or something. the paths, and there is a series of smaller paths that lead to a long and straight one, thousands of leaves from early autumn blanketing the ground and the summer is over they say. in the distance again, an impossibly large group of birds begins to ascend from the ground of the forest. they are like a dream, like a vision, but real. this thing a sign of hope, completely auspicious and wondrous at once, like a classical music movement, a gift to see from God, a universal truth alive and agile. the path, where in parts old trees creak and sway, and what do they say? they talk perhaps about the winter waiting in the wings, the winter with its snow and wind, it’s newness and clarity, an old dreamer awakened again.

Brian Michael Barbeito is a Canadian poet, writer, and photographer. Work appears at Fiction International and The Notre Dame Review. The prose poem and landscape photography collection, Still Some Crazy Summer Wind Coming Through, is forthcoming from Dark Winter Press in the fall of 2024.

Snowflake Ballerinas

Silver ballerinas pirouetted down the clouds
Sliding down the spruce, fir and pine
Each an unique masterpiece 
Unbound by reason or rhyme 

The sky fell asleep 
Pining for its lover, the storm
The cold wind stole its essence 
Froze in spirit and form

Cloaked in a feathery parka
A busy throughfare lost its way
It skipped its daily itinerary to watch the ballerinas 
Romancing the meek sun ray

Silence grew a distinct hum
The wind stroked a sigh out of the cold
The pitter patter of the pointe shoes
Timeless loop spun around unable to secure its hold

At curtain call the ballerinas bowed their best
The show had come to an end
Another year another time
More hearts to be frozen around the bend

Candle

Games of chiaroscuro air
My open ended soaked sun beach
The divine judgement
Why we open up our own
Pandora's boxes 
Lying everywhere
In the name of love
Just falsifying money 
Stifles my inwards 
I just needed
A little candle soul
To sit beside
My honeycombed style
Before it's too late
We're shooting stars 
Lost revenues new avalanches
My archery of bows 
I just need one pinpointed
A single lotus petal
To smoothen out
Impurities of inward crevices
My fairy shiny letters