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writings and art from the Nov. 2012 reading, click on the words "Older
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Writers and Watercolorists
Springfield Poets and Writers and Sangamon Watercolor Society
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Abstract, Colleen Ferratier |
The Day the Sky Fell
They stood
like silver sentries
against the bright
September sky
helpless to stop
the deadly darts that
pierced
their girded ribs.
The
sky
fell.
People fled the fire
a wretched, gaping hell
and leapt
like wingless angels
in
vain escape,
Made manikins of
flesh
buried in
a patchwork
mound of glass
And died—
Now two empty spaces
mar the skyline.
We clutch our
security
like a cardboard
shield
and long for that safe haven
we once believed in
Before the sentries
exploded
and the sky fell.
Sandra Kuizin McKenna
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The Birth of Time in Color, Debbie Megginson |
Painting Short Story
A sharp cry of fury pierces
the quiet atmosphere of the public housing complex. Neighbors from almost a
block away can hear incoherent statements of rage and disgust. However, they
seldom hear the sounds of violence. One would have to linger just outside the
door to get an inkling of the bloody noses, busted lips, ripped shirts, pulled
hair, bruised skin, or reddening flesh punctuated with shouts of “I don’t hate
you; I hate your action” or” you’re going to end up just like your father
rotting in cell.” Even “say you’re sorry, say you’re sorry or else” or “If you
got it so bad why don’t you call DCF and have them take you away.”
Though the
statements varied and the violence was different it always ended the same. The
young boy locked in his little room watching the world spinning on without him.
No books, no games, no hint of fun allowed, or the ire of the matriarch would
be incited and more violence would ensue. Only homework, bible, and sleep were
allowed. Some days dark moments of despair would creep in. The little boy would
eye the electric socket with curiosity and desperation. Thinking that all it
would take is a butter knife. Jab that in there and this would be over.
Sometimes he would grab the
blanket, crumpling it together till it formed a hill then trace the strange
pathways around the cover like his index finger was a car, or imagine his route
of escape from this silent prison. Other times he would lie on his back still
as death only breathing. In and out, in and out over and over again till his
body felt as though it was moving with the tides of an unseen ocean. On rare
occasion if only for a minute or two he could almost feel his body recede and
his consciousness float up and away. What a strange thing for an eleven year
old to experience.
At night in order to fall asleep he would imagine
himself with his favorite fictional heroes, saving the world, and being part of
their family, accepted and loved. After an hour or so of strange heroic and
familial fantasy the boy would slip into the safest place he knew. Daring to
dream, reality would fold in upon itself. Spheres of varying color, overlapping
and blending would float through his unconscious world. Space dust and
sparkling stars urging him on into the strange void. Even the blinking
explosions of dying star sucking greedily at his ethereal essence seamed a
sweet relief from the daily nightmares of life.
In
the midst of this mosaic wonder there was a perfect peace. He could softly
surrender the darkest moments of the day. Bubbles of light would gently cradle
him in their warm and wet reassurances. He could almost believe this was
heaven. There were no loud or sudden movements of fury, there were no bruises
or busted lips, only the sweetest freedom.
Waking,
that world of wonder would retreat into the clotted corners of his already
anxious mind. Until, their comfort and wonder became only impressions, which
were eventually swallowed by the day. A day that would be spent pissing in a
plastic cup or just draining himself on the vomit green carpet to avoid being
yelled at or beaten for leaving his room.
From
the window, he watched his peers play unhindered by the dark shadows that
seemed to linger in every corner of his home. Sometimes he envied them, other
times he found himself furious with them, laughing gleefully at the
thunderstorms which interrupted their play time. Still when sleep released him
to his playful peace there was just enough joy to sustain him, just enough
happiness to get him through the day till the dreams would come again. Then
again, inching ever closer to maturity, then to freedom of his flesh from the
maternal bondage, then freedom of his mind much much later in life.
Now
with the ease of an old friend he visits those wonders each night; sometimes
waking in tears of gratitude and pain other nights waking with a sense of
reinvigoration and determination. Each day a blank canvas to paint a better
world upon, and each night a brighter adventure then the one before.
Joshua Amos Graff
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Job Conger and Artist Mike Delaney |
So this will be the way we go:
We go to anywhere I know.
I know because my eager heart
has told me so!
My sister is my friend; it's true.
It's true that life is all so new,
so new, and there is oh so much
My sister is my friend; it's true.
It's true that life is all so new,
so new, and there is oh so much
for us to see and do!
We'll take the road less traveled by.
By serendipity we shall fly.
We'll take the road less traveled by.
By serendipity we shall fly.
Shall fly so sweetly, fleetly, as we wander far
and nigh!
What will Fate choose for us years hence?
Years hence may temper young confidence.
Young confidence shuns grownups' fussy diligence.
And we shall dream, wandering free,
free, clownish, cavorting, seekers 'til we . . .
'til we turn ten or maybe, let's say, seventy-three!
What will Fate choose for us years hence?
Years hence may temper young confidence.
Young confidence shuns grownups' fussy diligence.
And we shall dream, wandering free,
free, clownish, cavorting, seekers 'til we . . .
'til we turn ten or maybe, let's say, seventy-three!
Job Conger
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The Conductors, Kate Worman-Becker |
Driving Through the Darkness
eloquence … stimulates all
the rest … Emerson
Driving
through the darkness alone
evening waited for your words to fill it
like the
parched night waited for wetness to scatter
the
lights of the city onto everything—
puddles,
pavement, metal, window-glass, signs.
I’m
hearing echoes of phrases. Impressions of things said
a cadence, a statement that repeats in my head
loosing
myself in the charge of street- and tail-light—
pulsing
fragments that stir the ember city.
Clear now
of clouds, the moon—
that
perfect silver pond of elements—
pulls my
eyes up to the sky.
I don’t
want to stop looking at it.
Though
the road begs for my attention,
it hangs
in my black eyes. It connects straight to my heart.
But I must
drive on through the darkness alone.
Alone at certain
times the streets at night are straighter and longer,
lonelier,
and yet a place of strange contentment.
In your
car, you are like the Sadhu in his cave
a wise and
a mad man with an emergency brake for staff
cup
holder for water vessel, dash for alter
moonlight
and fluorescent for ash.
But any
vehicle is just a bed in motion—
a place
to position your thoughts and head—
always
trying to understand how you got there again
where
you’re going and how fast you can get back
to work
or idleness in the end.
We are all
vessels spread out in the hollow of night
dreaming
unaccompanied, birthing by oneself, dying on our own.
Without looking
honestly through the dark
without
feelings to fuel or connections to make—we are only corpses.
Do not
deny the Bast that sits by your side.
Grab a
portion of the moon and put it in your pocket
to pull out
when the light is low.
Prod those
stubborn genes when they resist.
Your illuminating
words can, and do, move the night.
Anita Stienstra
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