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Cradling

11 October 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Andy Oram

I stand in a room without walls. Strips of hung paper from the
Past seventy years quiver from the joists.
In the center, a rough oak table is pressed by grinning friends and relations.
The table is scattered with treats
Carried from a scarred porcelain stove.

I feel the bundle’s warmth gradually intertwine with mine,
My forearm greets the churning of small legs,
And I accept them as my own.

Through the streaked pane of a solid double-hung window,
Recently bared of its weary paint,
I envision the eleven paces one year ago from the car to the house,
and my urgent grip on the papers embossed by a lawyer.
I race against the downpour with bent head and sole-squeals.

More precious than my grizzly head were these papers,
More worthy of a legacy than the leather shoes I dredged from the closing.
Arrived finally in my new home, raindrops from my coat still pommeling the pine floor,
I uncradled the packet to make sure nothing was smudged.

One is drawn to gaze at what one cradles.
I retrieve the child from some well-wisher,
Slip a palm beneath his head and become the whole universe of this unfamiliar creature,
Become a presence to the wide pupils that sweep me into their field of vision.

Now we share points on a simple harmonic scale,
The overtones traveling through my chest and arms and lips.
And the baby responds to my resonance.

Andy Oram is a writer and editor in the computer field. Print publications where his writings have appeared include The Economist, the Journal of Information Technology & Politics, and Vanguardia Dossier. He has lived in the Boston, Massachusetts area for almost 50 years.

Lines

9 October 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Christine Andersen

I don’t want to be the person
who colors outside the lines.

I want to be the one who lifts them from the page

scallops and twists and folds

until there is a butterfly
perched on my outstretched palm.

Be the one who blows the parting kiss.

Christine Andersen is a retired dyslexia specialist who hikes daily through the CT woods with her hounds. The changing New England seasons inspire her poems. Publications include Comstock, Octillo, American Writers and Awakenings Reviews, Glimpse, Dash, Months to Years and upcoming in Glassworks and Evening Street Press.

Never Too Late

8 October 2022 / Editor

Nonfiction by Nick Wynne

I had no experience with fatherhood, nor did I have the kind of experience with my father that would have helped me to be a better one. My father was an alcoholic, and I and all my siblings bore the brunt of that. He could be kind, but he could also be harsh and emotionally abusive. Despite his shortcomings, he and my mother made sure that we grew up with strong moral values and work ethic. Although we went through periods of severe economic stress as a family, they sacrificed to ensure that we were fed, clothed, and loved. Tragically, as a family we didn’t articulate our love for each other until after his death. It was there, but we didn’t express it.

I must confess I never really understood my father until I was in my mid-30s. Only then did I understand that he was a brilliant man who could have been anything he wanted to with an education but was forced to leave school in the third grade and work to support his mother and family. We, his own family, were five in number, and he worked hard to support us despite knowing that every job he took involved hard labor and minimum wages. Nevertheless, he persisted. It is no wonder that he took to drink to relieve his frustrations at not being able to provide more. Hard to understand, but understandable.

I do know that I never told my father I loved him until he was on his death bed. My brother Joe and I were in his room where he was in a coma. Joe left for some reason, and I was there alone with him. He briefly opened his eyes and looked at me. I felt compelled to tell him face-to-face, “I never told you this, you old sonofabitch, but I love you.” He blinked his eyes, smiled a little smile, closed his eyes, and died.

Nick Wynne is a retired educator and published author. He is a native of McRae, Georgia but lives in Rockledge, Florida. His latest book is Cousin Bob: The World War II Experiences of Robert Morris Warren, DSC. His website is www.nickwynnebooks.com.

Pain Management

6 October 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Carol L. Gloor

A generic woman smiles
from the poster in the exam room,
her body wired with red nerves.
Mine’s the one running
down the right leg,
the one that’s caught fire.
A plastic spine stands
at attention on the shelf,
bristling with vertebrae.
The white coat points
to the bottom two,
this is where I will
insert the needle,
with very small risk
of spinal fluid release
or paralysis.
While I sign the release
I have no time to read
he’s still talking.

Carol L. Gloor has been writing poetry since she was sixteen. Her work has been published in many journals, most recently in Abandoned Mine. Her poetry chapbook, “Assisted Living,” was published by Finishing Line Press in 2013, and her full-length poetry collection, “Falling Back,” was published by WordPoetry in 2018.

Photo by Ronaldo de Oliveira on Unsplash

Bridging

5 October 2022 / Editor

Nonfiction by Kate Marshall

“So many of my patients love the bridge,” the new bone doctor says, readjusting his lowriding mask.

“All well and good, but I’m really not a bridge person.” We’ve just talked about bone-enhancing medications after and I’ve brought up how if I succumb, I might not be eligible for certain dental procedures should the need arise.

The doctor tells me about other options; self-administered daily shots, twice-a-year infusions, and a once-a-month new-improved coated esophagus burner.

I nod and stare at a series of anatomical charts of urogenital and skeletal systems, predominately male, anchored to the off-white walls, while the doctor types into his web portal. I don’t say that copays for the shots and infusions could run 50 grand a year with insurance.

“Hmmmmmm. We wouldn’t want you to fall and break a hip.”

“No, we wouldn’t want that.” I think of my aunt who’d fractured a hip after being knocked over by a neighbor’s Irish Setter after a bird club meeting. Aunt’s final bedridden years bemoaning life’s unfair burdens and cursing the neighbor and her horrible red dogs before her lungs gave out in the middle of a particularly dark night.

“Let’s take another peek at your results.” He readjusts his mask while he studies my longitudinal DEXA scans, which peg me as having the bone mineralization strength of an eighty-five-year-old woman despite my being twenty years younger.

As I wait for further wisdom or elaboration, I slide back that day in Nepal. My Ph.D. reward trek that included a four-week stint in a Buddhist monastery. On that day the wind was up, the river wide and the canyon walls high. The slated wooden footbridge swayed over the water. Most of our group had decided to cross upstream beyond the canyon. Three of us hefty Americans and a Nepali guide elected to walk the bridge. We ignored the sign in Nepali, English and French, forbidding more than two at a time on the bridge at the same time. I followed the marathon runner, and my pot-smoking friend, Big Jake from Fraser, Colorado who lumbered across with the help of some black market weed he’d secured in Kathmandu. From the far side, he and the runner waved, shouting encouragement.

If they could do it, I certainly could. I was prepared for the wind-sway and could fight the urge to look down. Don’t slip, don’t fall, eyes on the prize. Don’t look down. Don’t look down. One step at a time. As the bridge shook, I brought in every self-help cliché until I came to a section where loose and missing boards had opened a one-meter gap. Was that what Big Jake was trying to convey with all his shouting? I looked back at the guide who watched silently from the start side.

Just do it, the marathon runner yelled. Three feet is nothing. You can’t give up now. Give up? I was at least fifty percent in, and I wasn’t even sure that turning back was a safer option. Up the creek without a paddle. I spat out Buddhist mantras like I was on a timed game show. May all beings have safety including me and be spared suffering and come to equanimity, especially the equanimity part.

The doctor looks up from his computer screen. “If it was my mother or sister, I would definitely recommend medication. Life in a rehab center is not pretty.”

Forward or back. A plunge seems inevitable.

I scratch my cheek through my KN95. “Do you have a sister?” I know I’m playing gotcha. But what else can a woman do when she’s up against a “Good Doctor” and “Doogie Howser” combo?

“I’ll think about it,” I say, after he blushes, shakes his head, “no” and admits he’s an only child.

But I know when I leave, I’ll do my best to move beyond charts and pills. I’ll practice ass-falling without hands until I rewire my instincts. I’ll spend an hour a week one-foot balancing on a yoga block, while repeating the same damn Buddhist mantras that helped me over the chasm in Nepal where in the end I backtracked to the place where I started, joining the upstream group, where we cold-water forged the river, abandoning poor Jake and the runner to finish off the last of the pot.

Kate Marshall is a freelance writer living in Boulder, Colorado. She has been published in 50GS, Iowa Writes: The Daily Palette, The Selkie, The Ravensperch and The Chalice.

Mysteries

3 October 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Rebecca Ward

Mysteries of bewilderment
trace night into darkness,
light casts reflection on keys
melody mirrors our souls:
entangled notes in creative freedom.

Rain kisses the window,
stories echo in musician’s fingers.
Sorrow-filled notes exude love, joy
full interludes escape into night.

Mirror captures moment, memories.
Wilderness of creativity
spins in random caution,
as unknowns shadow our thoughts,
our beautiful music.

Rebecca Ward is an adventurous, free-spirited woman. She is a full time member of the Mississippi Air National Guard. Writing poetry while immersed in music has once again found a home in her free time. This is her first published poem.

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To Thoreau

1 October 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Robert McParland

In your steps this day I look
Over this field, this flower spray
On sand I walk out toward the beach
Taking shells up with my hand
Here you stood that fateful June
Under this lighthouse, rhythmic sea
Like us you walked not knowing where
An ocean wave on light would turn
I see you now, standing here
Desolate, barefoot, on the shore
Your sad eyes scan the lonely sea
Remembering her, how they went down
Like a love sonnet in the waves
A sandbar claims the roughened tide
These summers now, journal in hand
My love too seems to have foundered on
Some waves that wash up toward a beach
Wood-creak crash, how we collapsed
The water broke upon our cries
Like you I walk in thought absorbed
Like water in sand between my toes.

Robert McParland teaches college English, writes songs, and has published several books on American culture and literary history.

Jacaranda

29 September 2022 / Editor

Nonfiction by Alice Lowe

A stroll through Old Town on a quest for yard art yields a 7-foot-long bronzed hummingbird rain chain to hang in the corner of our porch. Returning to the car with our treasure, my spouse and I stroll up Juan Street under canopies of lavender blossoms, floating off trees, carpeting lawns and sidewalks, lighting gently on my hair and shoulders like a soft, sweet-smelling snowfall.

Each spring we’re stunned anew by the blooming of the jacarandas, their purple flowers feathering the sky, blanketing the ground below. They flourish in Southern California from April to June and in Australia during corresponding spring months. While both we and the Aussies like to claim them as our birthright, jacarandas are native to South America. The name, from the Guarani language, means “fragrant.” They represent wisdom and wealth, and if a flower drops on your head it means good fortune. Lucky me!

Gorgeous specimens abound in our San Diego neighborhood, but one tree on this Old Town jaunt brings me to a wide-eyed, gape-mouthed standstill. Tall and full, perfectly shaped, it towers over an unassuming ‘50s-era duplex. A VW bug parked in the driveway underscores the tree’s magnificence, emphasizing that it isn’t the purview of the privileged. The next day I’m still thinking about that tree—I have to see it again. “That one!” I say as we drive down the hill. My husband takes pictures of me surrounded by a cloud of lavender.

Gail, the protagonist in an Alice Munro story, travels from Toronto to Brisbane, Australia, where she’s astonished by the wildlife and landscape, the galah birds—rose-breasted cockatoos—and the blossoming trees: “The flowers are a color that she could not have imagined on trees before—a shade of silvery blue, or silvery purple, so delicate and beautiful that you would think it would shock everything into quietness.” A local tells her they’re called “Jack Randa.”

I lived for several years on a street bordered by alternating palm trees and jacarandas, one in front of my house. The fallen blossoms surrounded the tree in wide circles, and I would scoop piles of them into a basket that I’d place on my dining table, refreshing them regularly until the last blooms had fallen. Not everyone was a fan. “They’re so messy,” a neighbor complained, raking them off his manicured lawn. My housemate considered them a menace. “Goddamn purple flowers; they’re ruining my paint job.” Are you kidding? Get a car cover, I said. Park somewhere else.

That silvery blue-purple or purple-blue evokes the bluebells that Leonard Bast wades through in the movie adaptation of Howards End. They’re what I see when I imagine myself similarly ankle deep in fields of jacaranda blooms. I have a pot of lavender lobelia that stands in for them on the deck just outside my window. And a purple chenille bathrobe, it’s soft nubby texture a reminder in winter months of the treat in store for me come Spring.

Alice Lowe writes about life, literature, food and family in San Diego CA. Recent work has been published in Big City Lit, FEED, Borrowed Solace, Drunk Monkeys, Midway, Eclectica, and Dorothy Parker’s Ashes. She’s been cited twice in Best American Essays Notables. Read her work at www.aliceloweblogs.wordpress.com.

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The Heart Unfurled

27 September 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Karen Luke Jackson

for Juniper

Her skirt billows as she skips the graveled lane,
chases a squirrel across the lawn

and up a flaming maple, tumbles
into a hammock which swallows her curls,

swaddles her legs, this fawn-eyed child
with a page-boy cut who bubbles song.

Somehow her heart knows
that she, too, belongs here

with the redwing blackbird
whose call she returns,

with the wooly worm
she cheers across the road.

Karen Luke Jackson draws inspiration for her writing from oral history, nature, and clowning. Her poems have appeared in Ruminate, Broad River Review (Ron Rash Poetry Award), Ruminate, One, Atlanta Review, and Channel Magazine. The author of two poetry collections, Karen resides in the Blue Ridge Mountains. www.karenlukejackson.com

Voicemail

25 September 2022 / Editor

Nonfiction by Megan E. O’Laughlin

You can’t seem to do the things to help you feel better. You can’t keep food down, not with this feeling of something tied around your throat. You wake up in a cold sweat, a murder of crows in your head. You sigh when you send calls straight to voicemail; the number in the little red circle increases daily. You struggle to buy groceries, walk the dog, to drop the package off for the Amazon return. You can’t make that bottle of wine last longer than an hour. Your bad memories are now three-dimensional; they sit on the couch in the living room and eat all of your chips. You just can’t seem to do the things to help you feel better. You can’t even think of what those things are anymore.

Your friends and family notice. They say—are you okay? They seem worried, maybe even annoyed, and definitely tired. They all say it’s time to get some help; perhaps something can help, someone will tell you what to do, and then you’ll do it. If you get some help, they can feel some relief.

Something needs to change, but you aren’t sure what. You need to accept some things, but you aren’t sure how. So, you finally decide to do it. You type some words in the Google search bar: Therapists near my city. Therapists for depression. Therapists for anxiety. Therapists for grief. Therapy for I-don’t-know-what.

I probably received your message, but I rarely check my voicemail. Also, I don’t have any openings. And, I don’t take your insurance. Maybe your friend recommended me, your doctor gave you my name, or you liked my website. I’m that professional person with the education and approved license to do what you are finally ready to do: psychotherapy, some coping skills, process some childhood issues, psychological assessments, even medication management. We are psychiatrists, psychologists, clinical social workers, marriage and family therapists, or licensed counselors. You tried to figure out the difference between all these things, and it doesn’t make much sense. All the acronyms blur together: LICSW, PsyD, LMHC, not to mention the things we do, that we spend years and thousands of dollars on, the acronyms like DBT, CBT, ACT, EMDR. What are these things? You don’t know. You just need someone to call you back. There’s simply not enough of us to go around, especially now, especially since the pandemic, and we are burned out too. So, I’ll give you some referrals. Maybe they are full, too, and don’t call back either. Or you can go to that agency, where brand new therapists are overworked and underpaid, and yes, I used to work there too.

Maybe you come in after you waited for months. You will tell me all about your childhood three times a week. Or I will prescribe you three kinds of medication; only one is habit-forming, one causes terrible side effects, and one seems to help. Maybe I will teach you some coping skills, listen with care, and start and end our sessions on time. I might fall asleep, call you by the wrong name, or ask you the same questions every week, and you realize, wow, this therapist has a terrible memory. Maybe I’ll cry when you cry, and you feel seen. Or I’ll sit with a stone face, and when you ask me a question about myself, I’ll say, “why do you ask that question?” Maybe we’ll meet for years, months, or just a few times, but our time together will change your life. Perhaps you’ll meet with me and then decide to meet with someone else, and then they will help you change your life.

Please know it’s not your fault that it’s this complicated. Please know it’s not my fault either and yet here we are, in this system, that doesn’t work so well for any of us. It’s not perfect, but don’t give up after one call. Call again. Send an email. Show up, and then show up again. I will show up, too. In our perseverance, we might find the things to help you feel better.

Megan E. O’Laughlin is an emerging writer and MFA candidate at Ashland University. She writes about mental health, ghosts, and mythology. Megan works as a therapist specializing in mindfulness and trauma recovery. She lives on a peninsula by the sea in Washington state with her spouse, child, and two dogs.

The Bluebird Word