LONG STORY SHORT
a Women Writer's' Showcase
LATE AUGUST, 1944
by Julie McGuire
(for Myron and Jean, my grandparents)
Slightly faded, yellowed, the photograph
rested in your breast-pocket then as you
fought at Metz and Bastogne, carrying
your new bride close to your heart, frightened
that you may not return from the battle.
She smiles, her tears for another time.
I want to whisper to my grandparents
through passing of time to that Summer day –
he will not die young in a foreign land,
he will return to be a hero to
a son and daughter, their children’s children.
You will birth a professor who will birth
a poet, who holds the well-loved photo
and sees the Sculptor shaping your future.
Julie McGuire is a full-time office manager
for a law firm in Washington, D.C. She is
currently attending George Mason University
as a extended studies student, focusing on
Creative Writing. She writes poetry,
fiction and narrative non-fiction and is
currently working on her first novel.
She lives in Virginia with her husband
and two sons. JHM
SOUR GRAPES
© By Gloria Pimentel
Sweet Margrit
watched the grapes spoiled
the color of mold.
Wisdom bit its tongue while
frigid chills summoned reality.
Shriveled with pain, surgery
quite recent, she sat, same spot
looked at the grapes each morning,
motionless face, lifeless eyes misty.
Plate was pushed away
sunny side up disdained;
eyes brimming with tears,
she knows he won’t be back.
Eggs give life.
She is barren.
He up and left the morning
her wounds allowed her homeward.
A womb dead like her plants
an empty house and silence.
He wanted a child, cookie cutters,
Easter eggs and grapes.
Read about Gloria on our Editors page
MAPPING THE HAND
Margo Roby
Blue streams meander from spiny ridges
through rounded hillocks
run out in threadlike tributaries
then hide in folds
creased like lizard skin,
desert dunes whorled and shadowy,
caravan routes that fade
into trackless wastes
then disappear
like Livingston
whose map
only Stanley could read.
Currently, I reside with my husband,
in Jakarta, Indonesia. Although from
the U.S., we have lived here thirteen years. When I am not writing, I teach
English Literature at the High School of the Jakarta International School,
a school developed for the expatriate community. My writing credits include
poetry in Lunarosity, WORM, and Pebble
Lake Review, as well as several articles
about Native American Plains Indians in the
South-west Anthropological Review.
DIRTY TRAIL OF TEARS
by Linda Barnett-Johnson
Misery fills her eyes,
Leaving the doctors office.
Tears make a dirty trail,
Through thick make-up.
Blocked Tubes
Endometriosis
Infertile
Overwhelming pain,
She screams injustice,
Massages her barren tummy,
Questioning - Why?
Hollow
Painful
Worried
Will her husband love her?
Will he seek another
For children to fill the
Quiet house with laughter?
Unfulfilled
Disappointed
Worthless
She packs away the clothes,
Her babies would have worn.
Caressing each lovingly,
Tears stain each one.
Heartache
Grief
Anger
Empty words
Empty feelings
Empty arms
Read about Linda on
our Editor's page.
STORIES NEVER TOLD
By Mary Tevebaugh
Her stories neglected or never told
Entombed in dust, dirt and mold
Read not at all or by just a few
Stories of courage, change, nothing new
Tales of a silent, constant plight
Only brief lines on history’s shelves
Responsibility to others and their selves
Your daughters must still bravely claim their rights
Last year I retired from the Salish
Kootenai College after13 years
I spend time with my six children
and seven grandchildren. Writing
and watercolor painting are my
retirement jobs. I am also a member
of the Libby Fine Art Group and a
member of the Libby Area Technical
Advisor Board, which provides input
to the EPA on the Libby Superfund
Asbestos Cleanup. I received my
Bachelor’s degree with honors
from the University of Montana.
DREAMER
by Tina Portelli
Morning Dreamer
Awakened in lace
With remnants of pleasure
A scent that is tempting
My soul
Daytime Dreamer
Dangerous game
No time for lust
Stay awake, stay awake
Nighttime Dreamer
Asleep in dreams
As remnants of pleasure dwell
Bring me back to that place
Where sleeping is safe
Awakened Dreamer
Time for sunlight
Dark empty past
Better dreams
To dream
At last
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 newfound passion of writing to that practice, meditation gave me a clear and open mind. No
MY BLACK LEATHER JACKET
by Paul Kloppenborg
My first cool garment creaked with newness
Smelt like the interior of a hired car
I was a cross between the Gestapo and Sid Vicious
Swaggering along streets like some feral superstar
This suit of armor molded to all my moves
Saw people step out of the way
Nobody was going to mess with Mad Max
I had zippers, chains, studs - every cliche
Every revolt needs a uniform
This ‘wild one’ was a clash of styles
Adolescent paranoia can extend the obvious
To a lizard king wearing ripped Levis.
Perhaps I was some stubborn and dirty punk
Pretending to be half alive
Striding in polished and reflective dark skin
Covering my torn T-shirt with dead animal hide
Yes, I remember those days of S and M,
Well, to be honest, there was no real buckle n’ bash
But still, there’s no future to one quite so young
As a kid pogo-slamming to Johnny Rotten or the Clash
Paul Kloppenborg works as a librarian in Melbourne, Australia. He is widely published in both print and electronic journals. His first anthology (along with 6 other international poets) was published by Two Dog Press in 1998. A second anthology was published by Funky Dog Press, Detroit in 1999. Paul’s first chapbook, “Poetic Confectionery,” (2002) is available from the Canadian Published CNV. He is ListServ Administrator of The Muse.
THE GRAND SLAM
by Paul Kloppenborg
at the start of the match
Old Age serves a fault
Youth is on edge, prowling the baseline
ready to return a forehand winner.
Licorice & Musk sticks
Sherbert bombs & lollies.
Old Age looks tired and ragged
but Youth smashes back a very easy lob.
Sapplings and seedlings
Petals with nectar
Youth is fast, very determined
Excellent serve, cross court winner.
Great rally!
Nintendo & roller blades
DVDs and grazed knees
Old Age foot faults. Oh dear!
A delicate drop shot hits the net.
Could be a service break.
Wine and weekends
Driving lessons
And the very first time you kiss
Youth is serving and Wow!
Another ace down the line.
Youth-Thirty
Old Age-Love
TURTLE FUR
by Anna Mills
In a college gift shop years ago
I bought a winter hat with ear flaps -
A present to myself,
An island in the rush of paper after paper -
Soft, whimsical “turtle fur.”
In my yellow, bare room
From which I have finally removed your traces,
I cannot go to sleep in my wide bed,
Unless I put on the hat.
I feel like a black-eyed squirrel
On the brink of a jittery movement
Towards safety.
Anna Mills tutors writing at a community college in
San Francisco. She has written poetry and essays for
Lodestar Quarterly, SoapBoxGirls.com, Moxie Magazine,
and the anthology Escaping the Yellow Wallpaper from Haworth Press.
IN ARMENIA ON GENOCIDE
MEMORIAL DAY, 1992
by Julie McGuire
Proud men drink a toast to the fallen brave,
men, women, children lost to genocide,
whose voices cry, “remember!” from the grave.
Millions murdered, mutilated, enslaved,
for their history, and their culture, died.
Proud men drink a toast to the fallen brave.
On sloping hills and grape fields are engraved
the names of loved ones, futures hate denied.
Their voices cry, “remember!” from the grave.
Can I, foreigner, grasp what they gave
for their mountains, meadows and countryside.
Proud men drink a toast to the fallen brave.
So long ago, yet still they long to save
the tortured from death undignified,
whose voices cry, “remember!” from the grave.
Singing, dancing, remembering, flags waved
bearing witness to their country’s pride.
Proud men drink a toast to the fallen brave,
whose voices cry, “remember!” from the grave.
OUR POEM OF THE MONTH
THE GRAVEDIGGER
by Julie McGuire
My grandfather cherished the clubfoot
that at nineteen kept him from battle.
The bitter Winter cold mercifully numbed his heart, as
his mind traveled the world with poets and sages and
beautiful, scantily-clad young women.
How he loved his lame foot and
the distance he covered
as he systematically dug holes in the frozen ground
and dreamt of making love in the moonlight by
the banks of Lake Constance with
waves dancing at his feet.
Steadily, automatically he chopped
the frozen remains and placed them
neatly inside their final resting place
one by one, as he imagined
the taste of his mother’s Apple Strudel and
sipping warm coffee while
reading Goethe by the fire.
And then he damned his foot, cursing the
mind that no longer wandered and
cried out in agony as he brought his axe down,
catching the trusting eyes of
his dead brother.
Tenderly, icicle tears clinging to his beard,
my grandfather placed Wilhelm in his grave and
lay down beside him.
He closed his eyes, willing death
to come for him, too.
Julie McGuire is a full-time office manager for a law firm in
Washington, D.C. She is currently attending George Mason
University as a extended studies student, focusing on Creative
Writing. She writes poetry, fiction and narrative non-fiction
and is currently working on her first novel. She lives in
Virginia with her husband and two sons. JHM
Contact Julie.
M ORE POETRY
KNOCK WOOD
by Anna Mills
You find him puttering in the garage, still working at eighty-five
as if it were the most delightful thing.
There's a card I wrote when I was seven above his desk;
A scrap of a fall leaf hangs off it.
When I was eight, I made a silver boat in that garage.
I measured and watched the saw move through the wood like butter.
You find him in the mall, walking his thirty minutes
Where the pollen can't get to him.
He swings his arms in time and looks around with a half-smile.
Maybe he'll stop in at Radio Shack
or the 99 cent store - you never know.
He likes poems that rhyme,
Like his mother's books of sad, sweet couplets.
He reads aloud slowly, enthralled with the music.
Grandpa does not disdain pleasures:
He says, "I never met a restaurant I didn't like!"
Any dinner, be it rye krisp, oranges, lettuce and two slices of ham,
Comes out delicious.
It's the same with women;
He sees one or two across the parking lot and advises me,
"Big, skinny, it's all good!"
There's a clumsiness to his hands,
As he pats you on the back or musses your hair -
It's nothing but benevolence.
I learned from him to say,
"Knock wood,"
And hope for the best.
~~~~~~~
PATTERNS
by Margo Roby
Fish
nose to tail
in an endless round
splashing
leaping
diving
through the waves
of a china pattern
on a soup plate.
DEATH, MY FRIEND
© Julie A. Strickland
Death, you do not frighten me!
For you will take me home
To a far better place
Than this Earth that I now roam.
Death, despite what you may think,
I welcome your embrace!
My body has grown tired
Of this pain that I must face.
Death, you aren't my enemy,
Instead I call you friend!
Your caress comforts me
As my days draw to an end.
Death, you did not conquer me!
This battle I have won!
My earthly form has died;
Eternal life has begun!
Lord, please send your angels down
To hold me in their care.
Bless those I leave behind,
I ask silently in prayer.
