by Unknown
On the shore of native land,
Find the chest at rise of dawn.
Does a carton hold such ills
From a creature bent on harm?
Or some memories’ small thrills
Like a treasure full of charm?
In a corner cast in shade
Stands victrola under sheet.
Handle crank and sound is made,
Needle scratches out a beat.
Strauss’ waltz in three four time
Swirls around her waiting ears,
Takes her back on music’s rhyme
To those gentle ballroom years.
Dancing ‘round across the plank,
Swirls she in dust like a cloud,
Stops before box, label blank,
Thinks a bit, then muses ‘loud,
“What could be the treasure here?
There’s no word to answer me
On the outside so austere,
So I open now to see.”
With a tug inside she peeks,
Treasure hunt has just begun.
She knows not what gem she seeks,
Looks at items one by one.
First is mug all paper wrapped,
Gifted on her wedding day.
Then, a plate that’s stained and cracked,
Heirloom from her Grammy May.
Deeper still she digs into
Treasures dear and so much more,
Sighs as each comes to her view,
Thinks, “Tis pleasure, not a chore.”
Hair of silver gray a-shine
In the bulb’s strong yellow light,
Face of aging soft skin line,
Eyes a sparkle, wise and bright,
On she goes until the end,
Fingers gently each enfold
Like an old and dearest friend
Full of stories yet untold.
Calls her husband up the stairs,
“Are you done with hunting, dear?
Kettle’s whistled, tea brew airs
Fill the kitchen, strong and clear.”
“Coming,” she calls, “with my prize.”
Waltz is done, victrola still,
Record back into sleeve lies.
Down the stairs she steps with thrill.
Into waiting arms she glides,
Old-time true love to embrace,
Shows him treasure in hand rides,
Long-forgotten crystal vase.
To the kitchen where tea brews
They both stroll with smiling face,
Pour their tea and spice cake choose,
Put a rose in that old vase.
“Single rose for you, my wife,”
He croons softly in her ear.
“Ah,” she says, “you are my life,”
Sniffs the rose and hugs him near.
A.C. Cargill blogs about tea, writes poetry about tea, drinks tea, and enjoys time with her hubby who also drinks tea. She has written a variety of items, including user guides and marketing materials, and finally decided to do some writing that was a bit more fun. Thus the poetry!
Visit A.C. at her Website: Tea Time with A.C. Cargill
or on FaceBook
DANCE
Rosalind Croucher
No one would wear a party hat
and dance with me.
I was the only fool who would admit it.
Celebrate it.
Saw the fools we are
when we half-smile
and pretend control.
In this life
These musical chairs
No one to spin and flail with me.
Even just
for this one dance.
Rosalind Croucher went to school some places, worked some places and wrote some stuff. Lists mostly. Loves writing a good list. She is currently compiling, charting, cross-referencing, graphing and tabulating a list of books she'd like to write. It's very pretty. She currently lives and works in Toronto.
Visit Rosalind at FaceBook
or Tweet with her @RMCroucher
FINDING CALM
Sheila Jeffries
Storm squeaks inside me like a corkscrew,
vortex crying to vortex
through the seas.
She is huge and sweeping trouble,
twisting the pines like tea towels
until they creak.
The colour of thunder in my heart
has guilty silhouettes
of needs.
The crumbling of the light, an accusation,
embosses my footsteps
on the leaves.
I feel the folded oak bud sleeping,
the twig's vibration and the stippled shouts
of trees
cry storm and crazy-crack the sky,
swap spirals, pirouette
and meet.
Our hair flares out for miles across the sun,
beaded with hailstones, burrs
and thistle seeds.
We snake together, storm and I,
she sucks the anger from my bones.
My eyes search deep,
find calm in her heart, in a crack
of the cork oak's bark, the red
of a ladybird asleep.
Sheila Jeffries is the author of 12 children's books under the names Sheila Haigh and Sheila Chapman. Now writing as Sheila Jeffries, she has just published SOLOMON'S TALE, and is working on an adult 3 book saga. She lives in Somerset UK.
Visit Sheila at her Website
or at her Amazon Author Page
MURMUR
Mike Slater
Who said we knew
Or thought about it even?
Should one suggest
Our mind perfect pure reason?
Is that the sport
A parlance of the vulgar?
Nothing to cure
The curse that we are under?
Should we prevail
Supplant despair, our Sister?
And draw pure air
Behold our own elixir?
A million souls
Lost searching for the latter
Religious thoughts
Collide and veil pure matter
But nature speaks
The sun and stars do murmur
Though one not hear
The Truth still travels further
Michael C. Slater loves words. It all started in grade school with vocabulary tests. Sometimes, it was augmented by having to copy the dictionary when 'in trouble' and even more words were learned. Currently, Michael tries to capture emotions he sees on display with words instead of a camera.
Visit Michael at FaceBook
or Tweet with him @MikeCSlater
FOSTERING HUMANITY MANIFESTO
Paulissa Kipp
Leonard Cohen observes that “everything has a crack, that’s how the light gets in”.
We soak up the rays, tell time and mark the seasons with the sun and grow with the help of the sun. We turn our faces to the sun, always seeking the good, the beautiful and the happiness we believe is found there.
Yet the pursuit of happiness and warmth of the sun often causes those who are the most vulnerable to be overlooked. Darkness brings fear, anxiety, monsters under the bed and cold truths we might rather avoid. It is easy to see the light, yet darkness has value as well. There we find the lost and lonely who are always left behind. The homeless, the veteran, the mentally disabled, those with depression or any one of us on a given day who need a kind word, a gentle touch, a smile and understanding.
Instead, many of us look away as though by not laying eyes on humanity and need, it will not exist. Yet vulnerability and the need for love always exists and neither ignorance nor apathy will change that. The only thing that changes darkness and neglect is love. You don’t have to love someone romantically to practice love. The challenge is this: Do not cause harm. Give the benefit of the doubt. We do not inhabit another’s mind so we will never know the full story at any given
time. Simple recognition of that fact will go a long way toward fostering humanity.
I have been asked many times what fostering humanity means so I will attempt to share my vision here:
1- No one is insignificant. Never brush aside anyone as insignificant. Who knows what they can teach us?
2- "Treat the other man's faith gently; it is all he has to believe with. His mind was created for his own thoughts, not yours or mine." ~ Henry S. Haskins
Whether a person is a believer in a higher power or not, do not tear at the fabric of another’s belief system to feed your ego. We all come to faith (by that I do not necessarily mean religion) in our own ways and our own time. Who is to say that the person who walks silently along a brook doesn’t feel moved by a spirit? Allow each person to engage in his or her own belief system. At the end of the day, it matters most whether or not a person is kind.
3- Choose love. It is easy to be negative, to think that others have it in for us and to think the worst.
4- Protect the vulnerable. Don’t assume that someone else will be your backbone.
5- Listen to others. The most basic human need is someone to tell our story to. It matters.
6- Make your points without personal attacks. Weak people attack others instead of clearly and civilly stating disagreements and trying to find common ground. When common ground can’t be found, wish your “opponent” well.
7- Find beauty in everyone. Everyone has it. If it isn’t apparent, that means that you haven’t waited long enough. Everyone has humanity to be laid thread by golden thread and woven into a tapestry of joyful existence.
8- Add joy where you can. Kindness costs nothing.
9- Label no one. Labels negate worth.
We are all magnificent; we are all capable of love, hope, kindness and beauty manifested. You have more to offer than you could ever imagine and the universe is waiting.
I leave you with this:
Let me assure you that you are loved. You were wonderfully created, and made to be someone special. You are ever changing but in every phase you are a perfect master piece. You are beautiful, you are wonderful, and you cannot fail. You were not made for that. You were made to be a beautiful human becoming, not a beggar. You were made to be a warrior, not a doormat. YOU ARE A WARRIOR! Stand tall. Know that you are more than you ever imagined. Know you are worthy of every blessing. Know you are loved more than you ever imagined.
Foster Humanity.
Paulissa Kipp uses her experience as an observer of life to document her world - the beautiful, the curious and the overlooked. Her works have been featured in The Journey: Women’s Writing From the Heart, The PlusOne Collection, How We See It and numerous other publications.
Visit Paulissa at her Website
or at her Google + Page
COLE’S NOTES
Melanie Robertson-King
Cole pulled the heavy, oak door closed behind him.
Pausing, he looked up at the low hanging, gunmetal grey clouds gathering over the Castlegate. A storm was imminent. An icy blast of wind sent the dried autumn leaves on the sidewalk swirling into the air. It wasn't yet the middle of October but the weather had been unseasonably cold this fall. The hot, dry summer was now a fading memory.
He blew into his hands to warm them before putting the hood up on the fleece he wore under his worn, brown leather bomber jacket, and zipped his coat up. Afterwards, he shoved his hands into his front jeans pockets and jogged down the steps.
The damp wind from the North Sea hit him like he had walked into a granite wall, when Cole turned onto Union Street from Bon Accord Crescent. The tall buildings concentrated the gale, making it hard for him to walk. The air felt and smelled of rain and he hoped it would hold off until he reached Starbucks. In an effort to beat the rapidly approaching inclement weather, Cole quickened his pace.
A few steps short of his destination, the skies opened and the deluge began. When he reached the sheltered entranceway, Cole yanked his wet hood down and shook his jacket, sending out a spray of water droplets.
Joining the queue lined up in front of the counter, he shifted nervously while he waited his turn. Sweat gathered around his collar and it wasn’t just because it was warm inside the coffee shop. The narrow corridor created by shelving units holding bags of coffee—ground and beans, mugs and travel cups, made him feel claustrophobic. At least the stools by the window were still available. He always sat there—the same seat every day—the one at the end on the right. He hoped the people ahead of him wouldn’t take them.
“First, please,” the clerk called out.
Initially, he didn’t realize she meant him. He shuffled to the counter.
“Your usual, Cole?” she asked.
He nodded and looked down at his scruffy shoes. Jeannie was pretty and friendly and sometimes if she had a moment when she wiped off the counter at the window where he always sat, she spoke to him. He liked her but was painfully shy and didn’t have the bottle to say much in response, other than please, thank you and keep the change.
“You go get your place by the window and I’ll bring it over.”
Cole looked over his shoulder. Jeannie was right. Only one seat left in front of the window—his favorite one. “Th-thank you,” he mumbled as he walked away.
A few minutes later, Jeannie placed his steaming hot latte was in front of him. “Enjoy it, Cole,” she said, smiling.
Her big blue eyes sparkled like the sun on the North Sea. Her teeth were perfectly straight and white and she had a flawless complexion save for a single dark mole high on her cheekbone about an inch under her right eye. Cole thought it gave her an added air of mystery and glamour. He had heard her complain to co-workers and female customers about having it removed. He couldn’t bear it if she did. It was a part of her, something that made her unique. Her brown hair was long, but how long he didn’t know because she always pulled it back in a pony tail. If only he could work up the nerve to ask her out on a date, maybe she would wear it down. Cole tried to imagine what it would look like falling softly around her face and possibly past her shoulders. “Thank you,” he finally mumbled.
After Jeannie had left him to his latte, Cole pulled his grotty, black leather covered notebook out of his inside breast pocket and opened it to the page marked by a shabby, blue ribbon. He stared out onto the street and watched the people walk past—some with umbrellas, others sheltering under their briefcases or newspapers.
Next, Cole pulled out his Bic pens, red, black and blue, and lined them up evenly on the counter. He stared at them before finally choosing the blue one. Taking the cap off, he stuck it on the plug end and chewed on it momentarily before putting pen to paper. Soon the ink flowed. He worked furiously pausing briefly to sip his latte.
“What are you writing?” Jeannie asked while she cleared away plates, mugs, and napkins from the vacancies left from where customers had sat along the counter.
Cole slammed his notebook closed. No one could see what he’d been working on. That notebook was his personal property. Only he could read the words on those pages. “N-nothing,” he replied.
“You can tell me,” she said as she slid onto the stool next to him. “I won’t tell anyone.”
“No!” Cole exclaimed as he put the cap back on his pen and stuffed his belongings inside his jacket before he pushed his way past her and out the door.
***
It had been over a week since Cole had come in, making Jeannie worry. It was so out of character. She hoped he had gone off to visit family elsewhere, or worst case scenario was stuck in at home with a cold or the flu. Every time the door opened, she looked up expectantly hoping to see him in the entranceway and every time she was disappointed.
After closing one night when they were cleaning up, her co-worker, Rick, discovered something. “Jeannie, come here,” he called.
“What is it?”
“Doesn’t this belong to your ‘boyfriend’, Cole?” he held a notebook up in his hands. The pages were begi
nning to fall out.
“Give me that!” Jeannie reached out to grab it.
Rick lifted it higher. “He was a weirdo, you should know that more than the rest of us,” he taunted, waving the book in front of her just out of her reach.
“Give me that,” she yelled again and lunged at him. Dislodging the notebook, Jeannie scrambled for it the minute it hit the floor. “Now back off. What’s written in here is none of anyone’s business. I’ll drop it by Cole’s flat on my way home,” she said as she shoved the loose pages back inside it.
“And just how do you know where he lives?” he mocked.
“I’ll find out,” she snapped, stuffing the notebook into her apron pocket.
***
Later that afternoon while on break, Jeannie pulled the leather covered object out and turned it over carefully in her hands. The last time she’d seen Cole was the day he’d rushed out of the coffee shop panicked. That was the day she had asked him what he had been writing. But how did his notebook end up on the floor? She’d watched him put it in his pocket. It didn’t slip out that she recalled. She would have seen it or heard it hit the floor. And if that was the case, she would have chased after him right then to return it.
Jeannie wanted to open it and read the contents but as she told Rick, it was personal. But what harm would there be in just taking a look on the inside front cover or maybe even the flyleaf? With any luck, the information she needed to return it would be written there. She wouldn’t look any place else. If she was lucky enough to find his address, she would return the notebook at the end of her shift. If not, she would keep it in her large handbag until she saw Cole again.
After much deliberation, Jeannie opened the front cover. There was nothing to identify him. But there was a pen and ink sketch he’d done of her—hair down—and descriptive words about her surrounding it. Jeannie—kind, pretty, friendly were just a few of the words that registered. Now intrigued, she turned the page. She recognized some of the sketches as people who frequented the coffee shop and snickered at the words Cole had chosen to for them.