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| R. Alex Dombro, xxx |
New Moon
The dream never varied: gravel crunched under Ray’s boots and the wind had chapped his lips until they burned. He kept his eye on the full moon. It was so low in the sky it seemed tangled in the trees; blue against black. He was sure the path would eventually meet the highway then he’d flag someone down and get help for Mike. The blood on his forehead was tacky, the throbbing accelerating along with his pulse. Ray stumbled and the rocks cut his knees and palms. He forced himself back up, putting one foot in front of the other. Then he saw headlights cutting across the trees as a car passed in the distance. He broke into a run, but immediately, as it always did, the world fell out from under him, leaving him alone in the abyss.
Wide awake now Ray buried his face
in the pillow, as his heart gradually slowed.
After nine years, the reality of that horrible night had bled inexorably
into the kaleidoscope of the dream. Had
there actually been a car on the road that night? Probably not, reason told him, but he
couldn’t be sure. The accuracy of the details
were hardly relevant now. His mind believed
it to be true and so returned him again and again to that moment when he had utterly
failed his friend, collapsing just twenty yards from the road. It didn’t matter how many therapists tried to
reassure him, the guilt remained.
The dream came more often after they
set an execution date for Denton,
and this was the fifth date in nine years.
The prosecutor had warned Ray not to get his hopes up. Constitutional issues were still at play,
inadequate counsel, mental competency, but he swore the defense was playing
their final cards. It would happen soon.
“I still want to be there,” Ray
said.
“You have every right to be but—“the
prosecutor hesitated.
“But?” Ray asked into the phone.
“There’s no such thing as
closure. Consider what it is you’re
after. There’s no telling what Denton will say once he’s
strapped to the gurney.”
“I don’t care what he says, so long
as he’s killed immediately after he says it.”
“Be prepared.”
“For what?”
“The aftermath—it could stir
everything up again, you might be depressed, have insomnia, or nightmares.”
“Too late,” he whispered.
Mike
and Ray had been drinking out in the barrens.
Just a couple of underage kids enjoying the thrill of sipping on beers
they’d talked an affable stranger into buying for them. Ray had been lying on his back in the bed of Mike’s
truck staring at the moon through the trees, when Denton and the other two had walked up.
A month later the phone rang again. The prosecutor got right to the point, “They
vacated Denton’s
stay, be at Ellis next Wednesday at 4.”
Denton had clearly been in charge that night. “Hey guys, what’s up?” Ray had heard Mike say and had sat up startled,
sure they had been busted, but as soon as he had caught his first look at Denton he knew they were
in much worse trouble.
Currently in Texas, they staged executions at 6 p.m.
because officials had gotten tired of being woken up in the middle of the night
to keep the wheels of justice lubricated.
Ray made it to the prison with plenty of time to spare. He parked and came in a side gate to avoid
the media and any protestors.
Mike
had sensed something off too. They exchanged a look, offered the strangers beer
which they accepted. “So what are you
guys doing all the way out here without a car?”
Mike asked. The three guys
glanced around at each other, and Denton
had started to smirk.
“We
thought we’d just take yours.” That had
been when Denton
pulled the knife out of his back pocket.
The prosecutor was already in the waiting
room the prison officials had reserved for the victims’ witnesses when Ray
arrived. A coffee pot sat in the corner,
next to a vending machine, and a TV was mounted on the wall in the other
corner. Mike’s father and brother were
already there, talking quietly. They
nodded at him as he walked in, like veterans acknowledging the final push in a
long campaign.
“Breaking news in the Denton case: the 10th Circuit of Appeals has
issued a stay,” the anchor managed before a prison official burst in and
announced the same.
“Wait,” the prosecutor said, “Don’t
go anywhere yet, these things can be vacated quickly.”
For the next hour and a half Ray
paced. He didn’t speak to other men. He was alive, his friend was not. There was nothing left to say.
Finally a guard opened the door,
“It’s a go folks, follow me this way, please.”
“See,” the prosecutor said, “What
did I tell you?”
Ray tried to ignore his smirk, it
reminded him too much of Denton’s.
“Look
I’ll give you a ride wherever you want to go, but no way you’re taking my truck,”
Mike had said. He’d worked all last
summer hauling sod and manicuring lawns to buy it.
“Oh yeah?” Denton had raised the knife, the moonlight glinted
off the blade.
Ray brushed past the prosecutor and
followed the guard down the corridor and into the witness area adjoining the
death chamber. Years ago, after the
first execution date had been announced the prosecutor had explained the set-up. There were three separate rooms for the
witnesses, one for the victims’ relatives, one for the condemned man’s
supporters, and one for the independent media observers. They wouldn’t have to mingle with anyone. Ray was the first inside the small concrete
room and took a seat in the last folding chair in the front row. Before him was the viewing window, on the
other side of the glass the shade was drawn, but light bled in around the
edges.
“Just
give him the keys, man.” Ray had
said. Mike had put his hand in his
pocket, but left it there. Ray had
thought he might try to fight so he gripped the neck of his beer bottle ready
to swing, but Denton
moved faster and stabbed the knife into Mike’s belly. Mike screamed. The next few moments passed in a blur of
blows, grunts, and scuffling. One of the
other guys jumped on Ray’s back and knocked him down. A rock tore across his
scalp. A beer bottle shattered with a sickening crunch and Mike groaned. The guy on top of Ray punched him twice in
the back and then rolled him over. Out
of the corner of his eye he could see Denton
standing over Mike. Denton wiped the blade of the knife on his
pants and walked over to Ray. He
crouched down and stared. Denton’s pupils were pin
pricks. Ray wondered if the blade would
feel hot or cold going in.
An unseen hand raised the blinds and
there was Denton
before them, strapped to the gurney. The
main IV line and the back-up had already been inserted into his arms. The warden read prescribed ritual off a sheet
of paper. Ray watched Denton’s eyes move. First they landed on the middle room, the one
reserved for media, next they lingered on the room to his left, where his
witnesses were, and finally he glanced briefly to his right, at the room where Ray
sat.
Ray stared right back at him, but
knew that all Denton
was seeing was his own reflection. Ray
had learned a lot about the minutiae of the execution chamber over the last
nine years. In an effort to protect the
privacy of all involved the prison had installed one way glass in each
visitor’s space. It prevented witnesses
from looking into the other rooms, but it also kept the condemned from having a
last look at his family or seeing the hatred in the eyes of those who desired
him dead. It was a frustrating Catch-22
for all involved.
“Do you have a final
statement?” The warden asked. In the silence all Ray could hear was air
rattling through the ventilation system.
“Yes sir, I’m sorry for the pain
I’ve caused Michael Solomon’s family, but if it hadn’t been for the drugs, it
never would have happened. To my lawyers,
thank you for all your help, and please give my love to my family and
friends.” His head fell back against the
gurney, “That’s all warden, I’m ready.”
Ray glanced over and saw Mike’s father and brother
shift in their seats.
“What about me?” Ray asked already halfway to his feet.
The prosecutor put a hand on his
shoulder and pushed him down. His look
said I-told-you-so. Denton’s half-wrung apology was worthless.
On the other side of the glass the
warden nodded. Denton’s right hand was clenched. After a long moment Ray could see his back arch,
then he coughed, and his hand relaxed.
An official approached with a stethoscope and held it to Denton’s chest. Then he checked the neck for a pulse. He nodded and the warden’s eyes returned to
the document in his hand and he finished reading the script. The unseen hand lowered the shade as quickly
as it had risen. Ray glanced at his
watch. It had taken eight minutes.
The door banged open and a guard
appeared, “This way folks.”
Ray was led out into a clear but
brisk night. The prosecutor had to walk
quickly to catch up to him. “You’re
staying in town tonight, right? You want
to get something to eat?”
“No, I didn’t reserve a room. I’m going to drive back tonight.”
“Ray,” the prosecutor put a
concerned hand on his shoulder. “Take
care of yourself son, and let me know if there is anything else I can do.”
“I wish you had gotten death for the
other two.”
“Yeah well, such are the flaws of
plea bargaining, but it’ll be 15 years before you have to worry about a parole
hearing.”
Ray walked to his car, pulled out
his keys and stopped. He took a deep
breath and looked up.
The moon was full and low in the sky. With his free hand he reached up and traced
the raised scar just above his hairline.
The moon still appeared to be trapped
in the tree branches, but Ray knew by the time he made it home, it would have
risen high in the night sky.
~ Shawna Mayer
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Green Enchantment
Enter this enchanted place, ye who dare,
Find surcease from your burden of care.
Green place, green peace, green growing things.
White birches, white rocks, white water.
Water sounds, bird songs, insect buzz.
Whispers of wind in grass and leaves,
Ripples of water over rocks,
Splash of frogs frolicking in fronds
Of splendid water plants.
Flickers in shade and sunlight,
Flash of finches flitting to nests.
Nestled in birch branches.
Flowers and leaves flinging about
Bursts of burnished color.
White water against white rocks, white birches …
Green growing things, green peace,
In this green place.
Enter this enchanted place, ye who dare,
Find surcease from your burden of care.
Enter this enchanted place, ye who dare,
Find surcease from your burden of care.
Green place, green peace, green growing things.
White birches, white rocks, white water.
Water sounds, bird songs, insect buzz.
Whispers of wind in grass and leaves,
Ripples of water over rocks,
Splash of frogs frolicking in fronds
Of splendid water plants.
Flickers in shade and sunlight,
Flash of finches flitting to nests.
Nestled in birch branches.
Flowers and leaves flinging about
Bursts of burnished color.
White water against white rocks, white birches …
Green growing things, green peace,
In this green place.
Enter this enchanted place, ye who dare,
Find surcease from your burden of care.
~ Vicki Bamman
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| Gates, xxx |
Warm Blanket Blues
Would I spend the end of my days at work?
Would I spend the last moments online?
Watching Mike & Molly? Eating fries?
Listening to how it's all going to end,
get worse, get poor, get fat, get dead?
I fear that we want to feel fear everyday
no more of this the-only-fear-is-fearing-fear nonsense.
It’s almost weekly, pull the blanket off at 7:30 a.m.
in the middle of snowstorm-January, full lights fear.
To listen to the fear and anger and stress
of 2 billion people day in, day out is exhausting.
Where's our Sunday? Where's my Sunday,
curled up next to you. Warm and calm and sleepy.
Vegetable soup simmering in the next room.
Your hand petting my arm, laughing at the funny song
our two year old sings. My blanket of love
wrapped warmly around us protecting me
and you and her from all the negatively fearful energy
that poses the real threat, taking away our Sunday rest,
leaving us vulnerable to all this stress.
~ Lindsey Buis
“I wish for you Tranquility and Laughter.”
Would I spend the end of my days at work?
Would I spend the last moments online?
Watching Mike & Molly? Eating fries?
Listening to how it's all going to end,
get worse, get poor, get fat, get dead?
I fear that we want to feel fear everyday
no more of this the-only-fear-is-fearing-fear nonsense.
It’s almost weekly, pull the blanket off at 7:30 a.m.
in the middle of snowstorm-January, full lights fear.
To listen to the fear and anger and stress
of 2 billion people day in, day out is exhausting.
Where's our Sunday? Where's my Sunday,
curled up next to you. Warm and calm and sleepy.
Vegetable soup simmering in the next room.
Your hand petting my arm, laughing at the funny song
our two year old sings. My blanket of love
wrapped warmly around us protecting me
and you and her from all the negatively fearful energy
that poses the real threat, taking away our Sunday rest,
leaving us vulnerable to all this stress.
~ Lindsey Buis
“I wish for you Tranquility and Laughter.”
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| Smith, xxx |
That Big Red Barn at
Miller's Farm
janie lynn and me summer of eighty-three
had us a spot down by the old red barn
there at the miller place . . . she and me in
mama’s buick cruising the country without
a care in the world. that summer I’d gone by
the miller farm every time jeff and I went
fishing the creek down that country lane, just
a country mile off the county highway
there in the midst of those ancient majestic
elms and oaks and a sycamore or two—
used to be a row of hedges, osage
orange trees, but they cut that down a few
years back—that summer, though, I recall those
bluegills dancing in cicada breeze, summer
trees and the smell of cottonwoods floating
down, their seeds like lazy snow along the water
and we thinking heaven must be just down
that country lane, maybe somehow inside
the miller’s big red barn, beside the hay roll,
and that summer, janie lynn my angel . . .
~ David M Pitchford
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| Cindy, xxx |
Cycles
How did it start,
that first spark of life
in that first cell?
How did it know
to expand, divide
into myriad forms?
Into this season’s
ruby apples,
pumpkins rotund,
orange as the harvest
moon about to rise
over this cornstalk
bundle, sashed
in the center,
graceful gypsy
arms swaying
in the breeze,
preparing to dance?
In a field we can’t see, live cells embedded in soil and stubble tingle,
quiver, a tuning fork
preparing to mark
the next cycle’s pitch.
How did it start,
that first spark of life
in that first cell?
How did it know
to expand, divide
into myriad forms?
Into this season’s
ruby apples,
pumpkins rotund,
orange as the harvest
moon about to rise
over this cornstalk
bundle, sashed
in the center,
graceful gypsy
arms swaying
in the breeze,
preparing to dance?
In a field we can’t see, live cells embedded in soil and stubble tingle,
quiver, a tuning fork
preparing to mark
the next cycle’s pitch.
~ Pat Martin
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| Becker, Eye of the Beholder |
Perception
Life is a winged thing.
Fragile—fleeting—flies by—
a beautiful accessory to the self.
After life, still the being lifted by the color of its cavern.
Wings are like doors—opening and closing—
moving us in and out of our small worlds
and enormous lives.
Life is a winged thing.
Fragile—fleeting—flies by—
a beautiful accessory to the self.
After life, still the being lifted by the color of its cavern.
Wings are like doors—opening and closing—
moving us in and out of our small worlds
and enormous lives.
Though still only ornament—and instrumentation.
Doors reveal sunlight. Play with the moon.
Protect what’s inside.
Allow entrance to exploration.
Enable one to stay or to leave.
Life is a winged thing.
Fragile—fleeting—flies by—
a beautiful accessory to the self.
After life, still the being lifted
by the color of its cavern.
Doors reveal sunlight. Play with the moon.
Protect what’s inside.
Allow entrance to exploration.
Enable one to stay or to leave.
Life is a winged thing.
Fragile—fleeting—flies by—
a beautiful accessory to the self.
After life, still the being lifted
by the color of its cavern.
~Anita Stienstra
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Instruments
of Peace
Ancient Roman arches
summoned pilgrims.
Francis vowed, “From
darkness, only the light.”
All’s left behind. In poverty I’m given
an Indulgentia for Christian plight.
From her table, Chiara
fed the poor.
Poverty, the privilege
she now owned.
When warriors’ threat
knocked on the convent door,
Clare mirrored to them
the God that she enthroned.
Women joined Clare’s
virtuous, austere ways.
She knew to heal body,
spirit, and mind.
until the Pope declared
Clare’s rule, in kind.
From shadows, past
patterned arch you trod.
In light we stand, each
as a gift from God.
~
Pam Miller