LONG STORY SHORT
a Magazine for Writers
May, 2004
POEM OF THE MONTH



My Mother's Legs

By Andrena Zawinski

This poem was published in her chap book titled, “GREATEST HITS 1991-2001”



"This is the journey of the body, its hesitant footsteps
as it walks back into its own flesh. I close my own
eyes so I can see better where we are going."
from "Hands" by Margaret Atwood

My mother's legs appeared to me
again today. This time in a pivot,
her toe pointed in a brown pump,
calf taut, the way
I first saw it tighten
when she pulled herself up
by my father's shoulders,
under the porch light
when she thought I wasn't looking,
to kiss him on the cheek.
Her legs appeared again
to me. There was a stage.
It was backlit, draped with velvet,
the way she told it, with a banner that read:
Miss Legs of Mercy Hospital,
the honor of bed pans, dated
magazines, the job
as a nurse's aide.
I thought, of course,
they danced.
I saw my mother's legs again,
under the dance hall ball, a flicker
of lights skipping whitewashed walls,
in a marathon
where she jitterbugged
a sawdusted floor
at a Moose or the Polish Falcons, with men
sporting vacant stares who let her
lean into the breadth of their chests
and doze for a trophy.
I saw them, they appeared again,
this time switched and welted
by bad boys in Central Park where she walked
alone at dusk seeking the solace of trees.
"Mean," she said, rubbing the ghost
of their pain from her legs,
some hooligans she never forgot
in stories she repeated to me
about the dangers living away
from home, even escaping her own
father's belt at her legs.
One time I saw them, her legs,
so pink, she on reddened knees
scrubbing the worn kitchen tiles.
Baby doll legs, I thought then watching
when she looked up, tossed
the brush back into the soapy pail, a slosh
of suds splashing up at us
as she pulled me into the plush of her
young belly, the soft sweet of her small
breasts, and whispered to me, "Now don't you
run your roller skates across my clean floor."
And how we giggled then
because she knew I would.
The last time I saw my mother's legs,
they were splayed out from under her.
I could not rub away the cold and pale
and deadly still. I put some slippers
on her feet.
This is the life she made
for me to walk into.
This is the way
it works now. I end up
on my knees,
on the damp ground offering
a flurry of mums to an altar of earth
where she was placed. I look into the palms
of my soiled hands, turn my eyes
from the sunblotched sky,
and say,
Oh, my dead mother,
of what use now
those legs?




Andrena Zawinski, originally from Pittsburgh,
PA, lives and teaches in Oakland, CA. Her work
has appeared online at Adirondak Review,
ForPoetry, PoetryMagazine.com (where she is
Feature Editor) and elsewhere. In print
publications include Slipstream, Rattle,
Quarterly West, with work forthcoming in
Heliotrope and Many Mountains Moving. Her
full collection, Traveling in Reflected Light, is
from Pig Iron Press. Her chapbook, Zawinski's Greatest Hits, is from Pudding House. 
Contact Andrena.



It is love
Ram Mehta


I heard love is a feeling,
An emotion, a commitment,
One can feel, can’t explain
To me it’s as simple as this.

When my mommy makes
Tea for my tired daddy,
My mommy takes a sip
Before giving it to daddy.

I think she makes sure,
The taste of the tea is o.k.
Then daddy offers her
A sip from the cup too



Ram had been a professor and Head,
Department of English In India   for 30 years.
After his retirement in 1994, his time splits
between India  and  North America. He has
traveled Europe extensively.  He is a
life member of the World Congress of Poets
His poems entered the semi-finalist in the
contests held by   International Society of
Poets, MD, USA and was awarded
International Poet of Merit Silver Bowl and a
medallion in August, at Washington, DC, USA.   
His poems are published  in Tintota (Australia),
Indolink (India)   Kavitanjali, Poetry Magazine
(NY), Sonatapub ,Conspire, Map of Austin Poetry, Turbula, Poetry.com, Lovepoetry, Betterkarma
(USA),  Electric   Acorn(Ireland), Niederngasse
(Italy), Niagara Poetry project, Another   Totonto Quarterly Canada),The Indite circle (NZ),  Poetry world  (Zambia), and Anthology of World
Congress of Poets. His eight poems are
translated   into Spanish and accepted to be published shortly in Anthology of Abrace,
Uruguay. Contact Ram.



THE FIX

By Patricia Wellingham-Jones



Every night, just before bed,
he stood in front of the open
freezer door, dug his tablespoon—
several times—deep into one
of the three gallons of ice cream.
Blueberry, mocha almond fudge,
cherry cheesecake, bubblegum,
he didn’t care. He dipped
and swallowed, a smile twitching
his smooth rounded face.

Then came the day
his doctor’s scale didn’t lie,
the lecture poured forth.

Now he stands, all six feet four,
munchy-pains just as strong as before,
in front of the open freezer door.
He digs his yard sale tiny
demitasse spoon
deep into one half-gallon
of the week’s single chosen flavor.
Frozen low-fat yogurt brings
almost the same twitching smile
to his slim handsome face.









PLACE OF ABSOLUTION
By Joanna M. Weston



we confess to one another
over the privacy of coffee
with hands holding warmth
eyes shadowed as we lean forward

the past flowing over the table
surrounds and completes us
women who know that story
links us to everywoman

our voices meet
and there is only conversation
across the steam of coffee
the chatter of waitresses at the urn

the rush of cars on the street
this place of absolution
where strategies of pain slide from us
to be held in sunlight

on the ground of our sharing -
the compassion of women



FOR AUNT JANE
By Joanna M. Weston



her hat lies on the table
with glasses and purse



I trace her perfume on the stairs
notice a misplaced pen on the desk
but her poem has left
written itself into sunlight
dazzling the maples
outside the patio doors

I read her laughter into an afghan
tossed over the chesterfield
for mid-winter warmth
and reach for her hand



JOANNA M. WESTON, M.A., married, 3 sons, two cats. Is a full-time Writer of poetry, short-stories and reviews. Published internationally in journals and anthologies.  Has a middle-reader, 'The Willow Tree Girl'online and in print for ages 7-1, print edition now available:  ISBN 1-55352-073-4 http://www.islandnet.com/~weston/






 

GIRL SOAP

By Patricia Wellingham-Jones



My young friend gave her mother
and me a souvenir of our trip,
a slab of clear gelatin soap
with three white stars and purple
jelly cubes tossed in for the glow.
Its heavy scent billows from my bathroom
through the bedroom into the hall.

The mother and I shopped at the dollar store
and among other things we didn’t need
we picked up Pear’s Soap in its old-fashioned box
dating from a century ago and egg-shaped bars
in popsicle colors, their names begging
our teeth to chew on raspberry, lemon, lime,
blueberry, quince.

This mother of five boys and one late daughter
piles her soaps in a handmade bowl
in a corner of her bathroom of many hues.
I laugh at her strategy to keep the soap safe
from rough male hands. I tell the guys
they’re girl soaps with lots of perfume
and if the men use them, they’ll smell like women.

With horrified Yucks! the men head straight back
to their Ivory, Irish Spring and Lifebuoy.




Patricia Wellingham-Jones had poetry
published recently in San Gabriel Valley Poetry Quarterly, Möbius, Liberty Hill Poetry Review, The Green Tricycle, Rattlesnake Review, All Things
Girl and Brevities. She has several books
published and was featured in an online interview and poetry in Long Story Short, March 2004  www.LongStoryShort.us

PWJ Publishing

FEW WORDS
By David B. McCoy



Some evenings
  few words
     pass between us.

You may be
  reading the paper
     or a new book

And I may be
  planning a new lesson
     or writing a poem.

These are activities
  we could do
     in separate rooms

yet, the void
  created when
     we’re apart

is too distracting



David B. McCoy  is a Social Studies teacher
in a township school near Massillon, Ohio.
For nearly 25 years, David has run Spare
Change Press, which in recent years has
focused on publishing Solo Flyer, a four
page flyer featuring the work of one poet. 
David is the author of The Geometry of Blue:
Prose and Selected Poetry,  the Internet book,
Buffalo Time, and Ohio Wineries Guidebook. 
Purchasing information for these books can
be found at www.mccoy.shorturl.com. 
Contact David.


MORE POETRY


MY WIZARD KNOWS
by Tina Portelli


I have not traveled all this way with you for nothing
I know what I know to be true
Too bad you have to age
To find out what awaits

I’ve observed every action
Every move
Each good and poor judgment call
Witnessed your ego, your wounded soul
You are a survivor
The delusions were just that
A mulling waste
Overall, you did okay
Or better than just okay.

Learn from this old wizard
The crystal tells me so………

You will arrive
A writers life awaits
Abundance will find you
The home you dream will be as imagined
Adorned with pets and books

Fret not,
Dwell in love of family and friends
Blank pages will fill
With surprise from your pens

Tina says, "I am 54, single and live in Brooklyn,
NY.  I work in Manhattan as a full time office
manager.  My writing is a newly found passionate
hobby. I get my ideas from personal experiences
and the adventures of family and friends.  I have
never taken a writing class, but three years ago I
started practicing meditation.   I attribute my new-
found passion of writing to that practice, meditation
gave me a clear and open mind.  No better friend
than the soul of my pen." Contact Tina.