Clara
by Mindy Aber Barad
Her old friend,
fiery chariot
blazed its way across the holy sky
warmed her Western shoulders
before it hastened behind the Hebron hills.
The Matriarchs smiled over her
slow motion dance through the rooms,
her sparkling table and home.
Peace of Sabbath upon her.
She lit the candles - blessed her family
and lay down.
eternally.
distant figure beckons:
Come, mother, I miss you,
Murdered eldest son of beloved past
No, you are not dreaming.
He reaches out his long arm
Yes, I am tired, she consents,
carries her off on swift horseback to
their eternal rest behind the Hebron hills.
Just as she had arrived
So long ago,
Ripe, upon that same flaring beast.
The patriarch drove the flocks ahead of them.
Harnessed the golden chariot.
Together they ushered in
The New Jewish Age
Golden Age of Hebron.
Clara: the Sara of her beloved
her Abraham now in mourning
ancient eyes search
for the cloud on which his castles grew
keeper of the keys
feeder of small fauna
night scope for his dreams.
Regal ruler of hearth
in her slow dance
through her rooms
with full vista of our follies.
We remember
she laughed and teased us all
into growing up.
Mindy says: I have spent most of my life
in Israel, and my work has appeared locally
and in such literary magazines as Current
Accounts.
The Poet
By Deborah Coulter-Harris
I have heard the scalpel
of the black eyed poet
slashing her slippery dreams.
A fair duel between steel and wind.
I have read the history
of this ghost hunter
dueling with ditches, teachers and the sea.
With one finger on her poetry
and one hand on her knee
she offered the beat of her lance
to life's sacrificial dance.
I heard the final shot was delayed.
Some prayed.
She performed her penance in other ways.
Dr. Deborah Coulter-Harris left the CIA last summer where she served as a Middle East Political analyst. She now teaches in the English Departments at the University of Toledo and Owens College in Ohio. drdcharris@aol.com
Apache Summer
By Joy St.John Johnson
Miles and kilometers stretched before and behind
In summer reservation heat on unmarked blacktop
Or gravel. Our collaboration melted distance.
An Apache sun baked our progress across the plain
Into a blanched perfection too dry to form sweat drops.
Sunsets watched as we sat outside our tent.
The heat of the past day fired the evening sky into faience.
Under stars the tumbleweeds rustled as we made love --
No time for concern for consequence.
There was nothing but now; Now nothing's left.
Joy St.John Johnson was born in 1962 in Tallahassee, Florida. She has lived in the South, North Dakota, London, and Saudi Arabia. She has worked as an educator, travel agent, sales clerk, research physicist, and technical writer. Although she has no high school degree, she does have four college degrees: French, Math, and two in Physics. She lives in Huntsville, Alabama, and has done so since about 1977.
http://home.earthlink.net/~joystjohn/personalindex.html
