Sippizine - Volume 2: Next Step

A creative literary frolic along the Massachusetts South Coast

Volume 2: Next Step

Poetry by: Krista Allen Anne-Marie Grillo John Heavey Heather Heath Reed Lorene Sweeney Visual Art by: Krista Allen Heather Heath Reed Gavin Santos Judith W. Rosbe

Prose by: Meredith Eilertsen L.L. G. Amanda Lawrence Alanna Nelson

ISSUE 2: NEXT STEP OCTOBER 2023 CONTENTS SIPPIZINE SCOOPS

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NEXT STEPS - PHOTOGRAPHY BY KRISTA ALLEN

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FIVE FALL HAIKUS - POETRY BY JOHN HEAVEY

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MOM’S ELEGY - PROSE BY MEREDITH EILERTSEN

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40 - PROSE BY AMANDA LAWRENCE

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PHOTOGRAPHY BY HEATHER HEATH REED

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POETRY BY HEATHER HEATH REED Giffords Pond Nature’s Way Walk in the Woods

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NEXT STEPS - CARTOON BY GAVIN SANTOS COPICUT RESERVE

- POETRY BY ANNE-MARIE GRILLO

UNTITLED NOVEL IN PROGRESS EXERPT - PROSE BY L.L.G. TRAPPED - POETRY BY LORENE SWEENEY

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- PROSE BY ALANNA NELSON OUTNUMBERED - POETRY BY KRISTA ALLEN

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ARTIST BIOGRAPHIES

Sippizine is a project of

Thanks the Marion Cultural Council, a local agency, which is funded by the Massachusetts Cultural Council, a state agency.

Cover image: Montauk Daisies - Judith W. Rosbe

Sippizine Scoops Sparked by my belief in creative community, Sippizine shines light on the writers around us. Why not bring our Massachusetts South Coast neighbors together over the fire of their stories and poems?

Maybe you’re already energized by poetry and writing groups or spoken word events. Or maybe not. Let readers and writers join in the warm glow of of imagination, words and viewpoints.

Creative pops radiated from Sippizine’s first issue.

Eleven creatives took their light and imagination to fire up the second issue’s theme, “Next Step.” You’ll find cartoon, photography, poetry and prose interpretations. .

Enjoy the energy in these pages. Then, I encourage you to take the next step. You can: Sign up for a winter writer’s prompt session Share Sippizine with friends and family Send a tip to help cover expenses Submit to the next issue of Sippizine.

Join t he fun!

Sign up for winter writer sessions at: https://bit.ly/SZ-Winter-Write

Sh tal e’s a l kin g a ready nex bou t to ne? the

Issue 3: Running Spring 2024 Submissions open February 10 to March 8, 2024

Let’s gather the sparks, follow the glow and see where it goes.

Alanna Nelson Editor

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Massachusetts South Coast creatives can submit: prose (under 1,000 words) poetry visual contributions.

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Photography by Krista Allen

SIPPIZINE, VOL.2

Poetry by John Heavey Five Fall haikus Squirrely hustle hoard, Crackle, crunch, acorn harvest ‘gainst winter’s hard dearth.

Harvest moon whitewash: midnight owl easy hunting. heron harbor mirrored.

Cricket chorus ebbs to scattered solo chirpings— wolf winter lurks Harbor thins of boats-fallen leaves—browning mosaic.

The retreat within.

Leaf blower’s revenge— brownredorange tornado, autumn housekeeping.

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Prose by Meredith Eilertsen Mom: Heart too big

M y mom loved so many people so fully. Probably top of that list was Wolfie and poppy. I had it on my list to finally write thank you notes for poppy’s baby shower but I didn’t get to it. “Missy moo you have to send out thank you cards!” So I’ll write everyone a quick one now. Sorry mommy. When I put Wolfie to bed he asks for stories, I tell him stories about the people he loves in simple tones with happy and silly light and filled with love and being cozy. All things I learned from my Mom. Because maybe the whole story is too big for him right now.

So that’s briefly what I’m going to do today, maybe you remember her differently but this is how I’m choosing to look back for now - so I’m - we are able to begin to move forward.

All her stories about her childhood were filled with laughter remembering her parents laughing in the kitchen, with my aunts making lots of food and her brother, Bill, and Cindy and Major.

That was her anchor and from there - from her family- she was able to go out in the world and make a million best friends. Thank you Bill for being her big brother. She looked so fondly back at her time on orchard road. It’s there she was able to meet the first group of girls who she loved so dearly, thank you for showing her what true friendship was and how to be a sister. and the other half of her soul Danny. For whatever souls are made or yours are the same. (Wink) wuthering heights.

Through college and her early teaching years she always looked so happy in pictures. So free.

Spending time in the keys and enjoying becoming more of herself. More Cath more Mash.

Thank you for helping her grow to become a woman and showing what it’s like to have fun roommates.

Then she moved to Marion. Where she met even more amazing women who helped her grow into becoming my mom. Thank you for every beach day at Planting Island, sharing snacks and drinks and guest chairs and the village you created. Your love and support helped her take care of her two girls while becoming independent.

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Becca and mom and I got to have a few years of just us. Playing house, being roommates.

Taking dance breaks and being silly together. Just girls- no one to tell us what to do. Those were special times and I’m forever grateful for them. Thank you Becca for sharing mom with me.

Becca boo got something so special to have time with her in CT. I’d call and she’d say she’s picking up Becca with a juice box and snacks from practice. So excited she could take care of her. Becca, she’s always been so proud of you. From your accomplishments to how pretty you are but mostly your heart. Thank you for being the easy daughter. Thank you for being cozy with mommy when I couldn’t. thank you for showing her grace when I had roughness.

Of course Becca and I didn’t make it that easy. The three of us really didn’t like when people told us what to do so you can only imagine getting me to school on time or dealing with our boyfriends. I mean look the two of us are with two guys named Alex! My poor mom. But isn’t that something I’m so grateful for. She leaves us with knowing we have our dad in mass. We have Danny and now we both have two families with both Alexs that love us. Thank you for leaving us after we found them.

Yesterday Meagan, my cousin, said my mom taught her how to grieve. Smiling and laughing with tears streaming down her face. I think that’s what I want to leave you all with. That we will all teach each other. Wolfie and poppy have names that are beautiful and grew on my mom. But they are both things that in a way could bring out a darkness.

A wolf is beautiful but treat it bad and it will destroy you. A poppy seed distilled in a certain way can destroy you. Don’t let today destroy you. Don’t let your love for my mom destroy you but let it lift you up. And let each other life you up. Today is too big of a story for Wolfie but it’s too big of a story for anyone. That’s why we’re all here- together. It’s too big so we carry it together.

So keep reaching out to Danny, see if he needs any snacks. Bring Becca a juice box and a cozy hug. Go outside and play with your dogs. Travel with your friends to the beach and bring your guest chair- you never know who you might meet. Stop everything and put on jamming oldies for a dance break. And don’t forget you’re not alone. We’re here together today and tomorrow as we share her stories big or small- together.

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Prose by Amanda Lawrenceext 40

T hey say: “Life begins at forty.”

Whoever they are, I suppose I have them to thank for all the little successes I’d totted up so happily in my career fizzling to nothing outside the slick brick buildings where I’ve spent my preborn days.

Such youthfulness suggested I was supposed to be having the time of my life.

Instead, I buried a partner and had to watch the tear-stained cheeks of my child grow into manhood without a father. For those wondering, that’s torture. If I had to do it again, I’d rather be electrocuted. At least then, the voltage jolts coursing through my body would alleviate the pain faster. Being burned alive along one’s nerves couldn’t possibly hurt worse than the slow agony of grief on your baby’s now-bearded face.

I was supposed to be the envy of my peers after publishing articles and receiving invitations to speak at that school library journal’s leadership conferences. And when my picture showed up in that distinguished children’s literature magazine, everybody must’ve thought I was having a real whirl learning how to host story times and book clubs.

“Look what can happen in your career,” they’d say. “A librarian in some out-of-the-way area south of Boston, so poor she can’t afford to pay attention, gets the bright idea to Snapchat The Odyssey as an English assignment and ends up maneuvering librarianship like her own private boat.”

Only, I wasn’t maneuvering anything, including myself.

I just shuffled from my apartment to work and PTO meetings back to my apartment to work like some numb city bus. I suppose I should’ve been excited, like many of my former classmates, but I couldn’t make myself react. Instead, I felt empty and dark, like the eye of a hurricane amidst perpetual chaos.

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I guess one of the problems was I wasn’t truly alive for any of it, according to them. Still, my gratitude for my career accomplishments is immense; even when an umbrella of grief shrouded them, my hard work earned them just the same.

In November, my life begins for real if their saying is to be believed.

Ordinarily, I would be nervous about these next steps. However, having just celebrated my eighteenth anniversary of motherhood, I find myself amazed. Resilience has me thinking of future pursuits and new opportunities.

Focusing on forty lets me forget my present worries. Wisdom and cynicism persist, but that’s life as an old soul in a new world.

I’ve learned many things while waiting for my real human experience to kick in.

My encounters through the birth canal of youth taught me stuff I wouldn’t have discovered otherwise. And even when the information surprised me or soured my stomach, I never let on, just pretended that’s how things always were and I already knew it.

Now that I’m on the precipice of whatever comes next, I want to see as much as possible. I’ll stop and look so hard I never forget it—at least until I’m six feet under, buried beneath the stack of novels I’ll write once my real life has begun.

Until then, I fight to silence the anxiety buzzing in my belly like a beehive whenever that nefarious voice surreptitiously whispers, “What if you peaked in the utero of your 30s?”

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Photography by Heather Heath Reedxt

SIPPIZINE, VOL.2

Poetry by Heather Heath Reedxt GIFFORDS POND

Like steam rising off Gifford’s Pond after a hard frost so the spirit rises in me….

Up from the watery depths where muskrat and turtle burrow into weedy muck, to sleep in murky shadows….

Fallen leaves crimson and gold float atop the water like confetti While spears of thin, misty smoke shoot skyward, filtering morning light, Lead me through the haze to raise my eyes and watch the geese fly in flawless formation.

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Poetry by Heather Heath Reedxt NATURE’S WAY

Tropical winds roar up the coast gathering strength as they thunder upriver, across the fields, to wrap themselves among branches of linden and elm, pruning out bare limbs and spraying autumn leaves in chaos to the ground.

In the flowerbeds, the winds whip through withered blooms deadheading zinnias and marigolds, while the last of the dahlias hang their magenta heads in resignation.

In the orchard felled apples feed the deer.

Wild turkeys scavenge the remains.

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Poetry by Heather Heath Reed WALK IN THE WOODS

The path is carpeted in bronze and golden fallen leaves and russet pine needles.

The air is heady with the smell of composting foliage and muck from a muddy vernal pool.

All is quiet. No birds to serenade me, no scurrying squirrels, no breeze to stir the changing leaves into song.

It is where I am meant to be at this moment, alone with swaying pines, towering tupelo, and hollies speckled in red berries.

Content, appreciating the lingering autumn sun, the filtered light casting shadows across my padded footsteps.

I remember nature walks in autumn with my toddler, collecting twigs, leaves, acorns, and moss, how the sun turned her red hair as copper as a new penny.

Back home, we made a miniature garden in a glass bowl and sipped cocoa with melting marshmallows.

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Comic by Gavin Santos

SIPPIZINE, VOL.2

Poetry by Anne-Marie Grillo COPICUT RESERVE

Sunday morning visitors to this storied forest refuge, we set out in communal silence along Shockley Trail seemingly embraced yet guardedly watched by those who walked these paths long before us In this season of abscission, layers of pine needles cushion thickly-rooted paths, softening and silencing our boot treads Groves of White Pine and Oak stretch skyward in austere inspiration as wayward branches arc groundward in deferential nods Indigenous plantings still thrive in the understory of shade trees along Meadowhawk Trail blackberries and pepper bush sassafras, witch hazel, and cucumber root With its ancestral stone walls and scenic cart-path, Miller Lane alternately broadens and constrains our stride as we map our way from Soggy Bottom to the Ed Shed and its corner-post messaging of Dream, Hope, Success

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Protected within a grove of Beech trees, their branches windblown into playful dance, the Witness Tree bows with its burdened legacy Its blighted spirit exorcised by the rooted sustenance and shielding canopy of its wary guardians as verdant monochromes of filtered light bleach away the bestial ills of man’s darkest constructs Like the witness tree, we too tap into the sustaining strength of Copicut’s soul-restoring reserve.

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Prose by L.L. G. UNTITLED NOVEL IN PROGRESS EXCERPT

My dearest Raoul, Every day panic grips my chest, constricting each breath. I try to fight it with distractions as I dump the dark roast espresso beans in the grinder you gave me and stab the button with my finger. It whirls loudly to life, obliterating everything inside.

The smell of fresh-ground coffee floods my nostrils.

“Don’t think about it; don’t think about it,” I chant like a prayer between gasps of air. I’d rather be face down in a pile of crushed Percocets, but I gave all that up for Him. I know you don’t want to hear about that. Don’t worry. He’s nowhere to be seen. It’s almost like I dreamt Him up, but He’s real. And I can’t rely on my feelings anymore; they lie across the board like chess pieces.

In my weakness, I go about the mourning, pouring coffee grounds into a filter. This is the first day of the rest of my life, just like yesterday. I drum my fingers on the tabletop as I watch the clock. The minutes tick by like hours.

It takes an eternity to make a cup of coffee.

My tiny kitchen smells amazing when I close my eyes and focus on it.

I’m hungry, but the thought of food agitates the acid bubbling in my belly. Instead, I fill a wide-rimmed mug to the brim and sip the scalding hot brew while thinking of you.

Everything I swallow has a sour taste now. It's been acrid like that for ages. A spoonful of sugar helps the bitterness go down. I sip again, and instantly, the caffeine kicks in. It courses through my bloodstream as I sit back and enjoy the fix. It’s a religious experience that brings tears to my eyes.

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I’m alive, but I shouldn’t be. Housed and no longer homeless. Sober, mostly, for over a year now. I still need the coffee, though. It’s like a security blanket drug I’m not ready to kick yet.

Everything else is all because of Him. He saved me from the slavery of sin. But I’m itchy, twitchy, and tired in this skin.

“Sobriety is so good for you,” says the codependent folks still living with their parents. I roll my eyes on the inside. I’d much rather be high whenever I’m around them. Boring, basic vanilla villains who think struggle means waiting in line for lattes and being late for their weekly manicures.

That wasn’t very nice; they’re only trying to help. Forgive me, as I must confess, I’m easily annoyed without the assistance of opioids.

“Don’t think about it; don’t think about it,” repeats my brain. But it’s impossible not to think about it. I’m sober, after all. The drugs were what quieted my mind long enough to forget.

Now, memories of the past surround me like smoke. I can’t look away, and it causes me to choke. The past haunts me like a ghost. And you, my dear Raoul, you haunt me the most.

I want to relapse, to crawl back into the blissful numbness of oxycodone and acetaminophen, but I can’t, and I’ll explain why if you give me a chance. I understand if you’re not interested. It’s just that making amends is the next step I’m meant to achieve.

Please, let me sincerely apologize for the pain I’ve caused.

Your friend forever, Mildred Magdalene Marques

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Poetry by Lorene Sweeney TRAPPED

A hard red crustacean that crawls on the sand It’s tasted so good it supports fishing fleets Lured into traps attached to long ropes steamed in a pot then savored in bisque But long tethered traps endanger right whales Getting caught in those ropes now threatens the few.

So, here’s your decision as you order your meal do you think of your palate or the life of a whale?

Will you change your order to boycott the bisque then order clam chowder or local quahogs?

Will those placing traps for catching their prey select the equipment that doesn’t snag whales?

Or, will we be counting another lost species while diners still order crustaceans in bisque?

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Prose by Alanna Nelson SAIL AWAY

“Let’s bring down the main,” I called from the wheel as we sailed into Hog Island Channel.

Whip cream waves met the current’s momentum, swirling and slapping again the sides of the sloop. What a sail it had been! Bird Island faded behind us and the Railroad Bridge hovered ahead. Those rushed, harried moments preparing to leave and to provision seemed like another world. We arrived in good time. Slack would begin at 2:26. At approximately six knots, it would take about an hour to traverse the seven miles of the Cape Cod Canal.

I started the engine, keeping the throttle low as Tamanina turned to the wind. Maira reduced the jib, brought the main to center and handed me the halyard before popping open the block.

Sail ties draped around her neck, she jumped on deck, waiting for the wind to meet us head on. Two years after our last cruise together, we were still in tune with each other. Slowly, I let off the halyard as Maira grabbed the luff, flaking the mainsail.

With the sail securely tied, I turned Tamanina eastward. Giant osprey nests, like rooftop balconies, topped channel markers. Waves began to evanesce, but ripples ricocheted off the breakwater, echoes of vessels gone by. Maira sat on the deck, studying the inlets and curves of Onset Bay. Warm southwest winds swept away my lingering guilt about leaving Adam. A weekend away from everyday responsibilities and pleasures wasn’t unreasonable, right? He’s 14 months old. Rafik knows the ropes. Everything would be fine - will be fine - inshallah.

My brain conjured images and scents of Adam’s bubbly cheeks and curly dark locks that melted my heart. His chubby little feet were just beginning to toddle around the house, jubilant accomplishment twinkling in his brown eyes. Another phase of motherhood was beginning.

One thing was for sure: it was time for me to get away. It was time for Rafik to be the primary caretaker for more than just a couple of hours. Rafik had good intentions, but whether he was uncertain, unconfident or just not willing to take the lead, he needed to step up. I gave birth, I took time off of work, I juggled the responsibilities and I gave up simple pleasures for the joy and duty of parenthood.

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As the resentment swelled, it took a moment to pull it back. We chose to do this together and it’s changed our lives. Hamdallah, Adam is healthy, we have family nearby and we both enjoy our jobs. It’s just a time of transition.

Remember, Salena, I told myself, your choice is either accept this, or to turn it into an opportunity. How will I transform this challenge?

“What’s up with you?” Maira tilted her head, nose wrinkled as she took off her sunglasses. “You look like the weight of the world is on your back. Sit back and enjoy, let me have the wheel.”

I went below deck, grabbed us each a seltzer from the ice box, then settled down in the cockpit. A flock of terns dipped and dived over a school of peanut bunker heading toward Buzzards Bay. I wasn’t sure I wanted to share my challenge. Maira seemed happiest to keep their household and preschooler tightly under her thumb. That wasn’t me.

We’d raced 420s together in high school and she introduced me to Rafik. Maira came with me when I decided to buy Tamanina. Of course, the surveyor’s opinion was important, but she had the same gut feeling about the Cal-33 that I did. Maira and I were a tight team.

Sharing that swirling mix of emotion wasn’t something I wanted to do. At least, not until I found a strategy to resolve it. Or, maybe I should accept it.

Maira and I bantered about bedding, head lamps and the wind forecast. We took selfies with huge stratocumulus clouds overhead and the Bourne Bridge behind us.

As the Canal widened, we would need to switch the jib over to stay closer to the southern shore.

Instead, I furled the sail. We’d haul the sails out once we reached Cape Cod Bay. For now, this moment, my best friend, on Tamanina, the green shorelines and the days ahead were a gift to treasure.

Poetry by Krista Allen OUTNUMBERED

Something I love about Westport Wildlife outnumbers people Probably true everywhere But here it’s visible every day Two people driving in a truck Pass nine deer in the grass Six turkeys in a corn field Three ducks in the pond The seagulls, beach brats Sanderlings, slipper-shell pilferers Herons, solitary stalkers Flickers smacking heads against aluminum silos and gutters Woodchuck parkour, peeking over stone walls Fowl displays of autumn plumage, fine evening wear Coywolves howl to the Harvest Moon, many may be one At the Social Club, we feign spirited merriment The control we profess to maintain Counting cows, chickens, fieldstone, fields Legal ownership over animals and acreage No longer able to curb our own runaway impact

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Where will they go next?

The people The animals When all the space on Earth has been filled, used, abused, dismantled Up into delicate skyscrapers Down to subterranean cities Deep grottos Into orbit And finally beyond.

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Author/Artist Biographies Krista Allen

is an author & artist living in Westport, MA. @veganf

Meredith Eilertsen

Born in Wareham. Raised in Marion. Resides in Mattapoisett.

L.L.G.

L.L.G. is a writer and, hopefully, a future author.

Anne-Marie Grillo

Anne-Marie Grillo resides in Fall River and has been a member of The Poets' Table for the past six years.

John Heavey John Heavey has directed plays and musicals at the high school level for the past 45 years. For the past 29 years, John has been one of the drama directors at Tabor Academy where he has also been an English teacher and dorm parent. John has acted in numerous community theater productions at the Vokes Players in Wayland, MA. In the past four years at the MAC, John has appeared as George Bailey in “It’s a Wonderful Life," the minister in "The Best Christmas Pageant Ever," and various roles in "Be My Baby." During 2021, John staged a dramatic reading of “LZ Bravo: Letters Home from Vietnam” (a show he designed) in May at the bandstand in Marion. In August 2021, John directed “Cedar Beach, “one of two MAC shows to appear at Bicentennial Park.

Amanda Lawrence

is a children’s librarian and aspiring novelist. School Library Journal, the Massachusetts School Library Association, and The Horn Book feature her work.

Heather Heath Reed lives in Westport, MA, where she is retired and Heather Heath Reed a volunteer at her local library. Heather is an avid gardener and reader, loves long farm and beach walks, and dabbles in acrylic and watercolor painting. She's a member of the Westport Poetry Workshop and has published poems in Friends Journal, The Plough, Corona Chronicles, various newsletters, and the first issue of Sippizine.

Alanna Nelson

Editor and published of Sippizine, Alanna creates connections using words and fiber art. Check out her haikus on Instagram

Judith Westlund Rosbe is a retired lawyer. She is the author of six local history books about Marion, which were published by Arcadia Publishing Co. She was also a director of the Sippican Historical Society for 45 years and was its president for 15 years and its treasurer for five years.

Gavin Santos

Gavin Santos is a high school senior daydreaming about what to do next...

Lorene Sweeney

I love the natural environment and those who live in it. I frequently write poems, many of which I share with my poetry group .

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Whatever we read, we are part of the community of the story.

- Neil Gaiman

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