A Yuletide Celebration

A LINNET'S WINGS SUPPLEMENT

THE LINNET'S WINGS YULE 2008

POETRY:

Russell Bittner John C. Mannone Martin Heavisides Sean Farraghar

ART: Lisa Marie Peaslee

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THE LINNET'S WINGS

YULE 2008

The Linnet's Wings

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The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.

The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.

The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, And the highwayman came riding— Riding—riding— The highwayman came riding, ...

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Frontispiece Gutt Paa Hvit Hest by Theodor Severin Kittelsen

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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, mail the publisher at thelinnetswings@gmail.com

Ordering Information: See our website: www.thelinnetswings.org

ISBN-13:978-1977809070 2008

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TABLE OF CONTENTS On the Morning of Christ's Nativity by John Milton

WHEN NATURE MATTERS The Language of Frost by Bill West 3 The King of Ireland's Son by Padraic Colum 4 Be Sure Your Sins by Nick Allen 22 Sweet Talk by Lauran Strait 24 Jack Pines by Neil Dyer 29 Narratives of New Netherland 1570—1970 by Sean Farragher 31 Sherri by Elsie O'Day 40 Dog Days of Christmas by Marie Shields 42 Christmas Morning by Martin Heavisides 44

This is the month, and this the happy morn, Wherein the Son of Heav'n's eternal King, Of wedded Maid, and Virgin Mother born, Our great redemption from above did bring; For so the holy sages once did sing, That he our deadly forfeit should release, And with his Father work us a perpetual peace.

SOMETHING MORE A Rasher of Poems for Snarky Children 49 Sleeping with the Monkfish by John C. Mannone 64 Christmas Present by Marie Shields 67 Neal Celebrates Christmas by Cheryl Chambers 71

CONTEMPORARY ART Tree Art by Lisa Marie Peaslee 2, 21

Auguste Reading to Her Daughter by Mary Cassatt

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CLASSIC ART Troll at the Karl Jo by Theodor Severin Kittelsen x Money by Rembrant, 1827 Illustration from:A boy in Eireann by Jack B Yeats 4 Lolotte (Head of a Woman in a Hat) by Amedeo Modigliani 18 Young Man and Prositiute by Edvard Munch 22 Street in Asgardstrand by Edvard Munch 40 Raging, Wotan, rides to the Rock by Arthur Rackham 52 Hendrickje sleeping by Rembrandt 54 Boy Bitten by a Lizard, Caravaggio ꞏ 1596 58 Head of a Dog, Edouard Manet 60 A Public Garden with People Walking in the Rain by Vincent van Gogh 63 Liten Men God by Theodor Severin Kittelsen 64

Dragon Fly. Portrait of Vera Repina, the Artist's Daughter by Ilya Repin

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EDITORS FOR THE ISSUE MANAGING Marie Fitzpatrick Yvette Managan EDITORS FOR REVIEW: Yvette Managan Ramon Collins WEB DATA AND SUBMISSIONS Peter Gilkes DESIGN Marie Fitzpatrick

Online for This Issue Zoetrope Virtual Studio References Illustration from by Jack B Years, RHA, used with permission from Longford County Library Source: "A Boy in Eireann" published by JM Dent and Sons Ltd., London.

Cover Image: Christmas Morning 1894, by Carl Larrson.

Source: Wiki Commons

PHOTOGRAPHY Ramon Collins Russell Bittner David Coyote ART Lisa Marie Peaslee OFFICES Surface: Publishing, Dromod, Co. Leitrim, Ireland Design, Dromod, Co Leitrim, Ireland

The Linnet's Wings Yule Supplement 2008

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Epigraph:

Spun Threads There's only beauty in the words That they use to compose plots.

They spin threads; Smouldering gold Plaited through skies that reflects A light to ease one in –

MLF

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“There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact.” ― Arthur Conan Doyle, The Boscombe Valley Mystery

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When Nature Matters

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Thus having prepared their buds against a sure winter the wise trees stand sleeping in the cold .

William Carlos Williams Tree Art by Lisa Marie Peaslee

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THE LANGUAGE 0F FROST by Bill West

"The Language of Frost" won our micro of the season competition for which Bill received an Amazon gift cert. The competition was judged by "The Linnet's Wings" editorial team and the voucher was sponsored

by Ramon Collins

He drifis across frozen fields to the house beside the tam ­­ watches her from the garden as she sits motionless at a Christmas table set for two, her plate untouched.

He strokes the window with phantom fingers and in the fractal language of frost he writes "love" on every pane. ©; 2008 ­ West

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The King of Ireland's Son (Fedelma, The Enchanter's Daughter)

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onnal was the name of the King who ruled over Ireland at that time. He had three sons, and, as the fir-trees grow, some crooked and some straight, one of them grew up so wild that in the end the King and the King's Councillor had to let him have his own way in everything. This youth was the King's eldest son and his mother had died before she could be a guide to him.

Now after the King and the King's Councillor left him to his own way the youth I'm telling you about did nothing but ride and hunt all day. Well, one morning he rode abroad- His hound at his heel, His hawk on his wrist; A brave steed to carry him whither he list, And the blue sky over him, and he rode on until he came to a turn in the road. There he saw a gray old man seated on a heap of stones playing a game of cards with himself. First he had one hand winning and then he had the other. Now he would say "That's my good right," and then he would say "Play and beat that, my gallant left." The King of Ireland's Son sat on his horse to watch the strange old man, and as he watched him he sang a song to himself- I put the fastenings on my boat For a year and for a day, And I went where the rowans grow, And where the moorhens lay; And I went over the stepping-stones And dipped my feet in the ford, And came at last to the Swineherd's house,- The Youth without a Sword.

A swallow sang upon his porch "Glu-ee, glu-ee, glu-ee," "The wonder of all wandering, The wonder of the sea;" A swallow soon to leave ground sang "Glu-ee, glu-ee, glu-ee."

"Prince," said the old fellow looking up at him, "if you can play a game as well as you can sing a song, I'd like if you would sit down beside me."

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"I can play any game," said the King of Ireland's Son. He fastened his horse to the branch of a tree and sat down on the heap of stones beside the old man.

"What shall we play for?" said the gray old fellow.

"Whatever you like," said the King of Ireland's Son. "If I win you must give me anything I ask, and if you win I shall give you anything you ask. Will you agree to that?"

"If it is agreeable to you it is agreeable to me," said the King of Ireland's Son. They played, and the King of Ireland's Son won the game. "Now what do you desire me to give, King's Son?" said the gray old fellow.

"I shan't ask you for anything," said the King of Ireland's Son, "for I think you haven't much to give."

"Never mind that," said the gray old fellow. "I mustn't break my promise, and so you must ask me for something."

"Very well," said the King's Son. "Then there's a field at the back of my father's Castle and I want to see it filled with cattle to-morrow morning. Can you do that for me?"

"I can," said the gray old fellow.

"Then I want fifty cows, each one white with a red ear, and a white calf going beside each cow."

"The cattle shall be as you wish."

"Well, when that's done I shall think the wager has been paid," said the King of Ireland's son. He mounted his horse, smiling at the foolish old man who played cards with himself and who thought he could bring together fifty white kine, each with a red ear, and a white calf by the side of each cow. He rode away His hound at his heel, His hawk on his wrist; A brave steed to carry him whither he list, And the green ground under him, and he thought no more of the gray old fellow.

But in the morning, when he was taking his horse out of the stable, he heard the grooms talking about a strange happening. Art, the King's Steward, had gone out and had found the field at the back of the Castle filled with cattle. There were fifty white red-eared kine there and each cow had a white calf at her side. The King had ordered Art, his Steward, to drive them away. The King of Ireland's Son watched Art and his men trying to do it. But no sooner were the strange cattle put out at one side of the

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field than they came back on the other. Then down came Maravaun, the King's Councillor. He declared they were enchanted cattle, and that no one on Ireland's ground could put them away. So in the seven-acre field the cattle stayed.

When the King of Ireland's Son saw what his companion of yesterday could do he rode straight to the glen to try if he could have another game with him. There at the turn of the road, on a heap of stones, the gray old fellow was sitting playing a game of cards, the right hand against the left. The King of Ireland's Son fastened his horse to the branch of a tree and dismounted.

"Did you find yesterday's wager settled?" said the gray old fellow.

"I did," said the King of Ireland's Son. "Then shall we have another game of cards on the same understanding?" said the gray old fellow.

"I agree, if you agree," said the King of Ireland's son. He sat under the bush beside him and they played again. The King of Ireland's Son won.

"What would you like me to do for you this time?" said the gray old fellow.

Now the King's Son had a step-mother, and she was often cross-tempered, and that very morning he and she had vexed each other. So he said, "Let a brown bear, holding a burning coal in his mouth, put Caintigern the Queen from her chair in the supper-room to-night."

"It shall be done," said the gray old fellow.

Then the King of Ireland's Son mounted his horse and rode away His hound at his heel, His hawk on his wrist; A brave steed to carry him whither he list, And the green ground under him, and he went back to the Castle. That night a brown bear, holding a burning coal in his mouth, came into the supper-room and stood between Caintigern the Queen and the chair that belonged to her. None of the servants could drive it away, and when Maravaun, the King's Councillor, came he said, "This is an enchanted creature also, and it is best for us to leave it alone." So the whole company went and left the brown bear in the supperroom seated 'in the Queen's chair.

11 The next morning when he wakened the King's Son said, "That was a wonderful thing that happened last night in the supper-room. I must go off and play a third game with the gray old fellow who sits on a heap of stones at the turn of the road." So, in the morning early he mounted and rode away His hound at his heel,

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His hawk on his wrist; A brave steed to carry him whither he list, And the green ground under him, and he rode on until he came to the turn in the road. Sure enough the old gray fellow was there. "So you've come to me again, King's Son," said he. "I have," said the King of Ireland's Son, "and I'll play a last game with you on the same understanding as before."

He tied his horse to the branch and sat down on the heap of stones. They played. The King of Ireland's Son lost the game. Immediately the gray old fellow threw the cards down on the stones and a wind came up and carried them away. Standing up he was terribly tall.

"King's Son," said he, "I am your father's enemy and I have done him an injury.

And to the Queen who is your father's wife I have done an injury too. You have lost the game and now you must take the penalty I put upon you. You must find out my dwelling-place and take three hairs out of my beard within a year and a day, or else lose your head."

With that he took the King of Ireland's Son by the shoulders and lifted him on his horse, turning the horse in the direction of the King's Castle. The King's Son rode on His hound at his heel, His hawk on his wrist; A brave steed to carry him whither he list, And the blue sky over him.

That evening the King noticed that his son was greatly troubled. And when he lay down to sleep everyone in the Castle heard his groans and his moans. The next day he told his father the story from beginning to end. The King sent for Maravaun his Councillor and asked him if he knew who the Enchanter was and where his son would be likely to find him.

"From what he said," said Maravaun, "we may guess who he is. He is the Enchanter of the Black Back-Lands and his dwelling-place is hard to find. Nevertheless your son must seek for him and take the three hairs out of his beard or else lose his head.

For if the heir to your kingdom does not honorably pay his forfeit, the ground of Ireland won't give crops and the cattle won't give milk." "And," said the Councillor, "as a year is little for his search, he should start off at once, although I'm bound to say, that I don't know what direction he should go in."

The next day the King's Son said good-by to his father and his foster-brothers and started off on his journey. His step-mother would not give him her blessing on account

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of his having brought in the brown bear that turned her from her chair in the supper-room. Nor would she let him have the good horse he always rode. Instead the Prince was given a horse that was lame in a leg and short in the tail.

And neither hawk nor hound went with him this time.

All day the King's Son was going, traveling through wood and waste until the coming on of night. The little fluttering birds were going from the bush tops, from tuft to tuft, and to the briar-roots, going to rest; but if they were, he was not, till the night came on, blind and dark. Then the King's Son ate his bread and meat, put his satchel under his head and lay down to take his rest on the edge of a great waste.

In the morning he mounted his horse and rode on. And as he went across the waste he saw an extraordinary sight--everywhere were the bodies of dead creatures--a cock, a wren, a mouse, a weasel, a fox, a badger, a raven--all the birds and beasts that the King's Son had ever known. He went on, but he saw no living creature before him. And then, at the end of the waste he came upon two living creatures struggling. One was an eagle and the other was an eel. And the eel had twisted itself round the eagle, and the eagle had covered her eyes with the black films of death.

The King's Son jumped off his horse and cut the eel in two with a sharp stroke of his sword.

The eagle drew the films from her eyes and looked full at the King's Son. "I am Laheen the Eagle," she said, "and I will pay you for this service, Son of King Connal. Know that there has been a battle of the creatures--a battle to decide which of the creatures will make laws for a year. All were killed except the eel and myself, and if you had not come I would have been killed and the eel would have made the laws. I am Laheen the Eagle and always I will be your friend. And now you must tell me how I can serve you."

"You can serve me," said the King's Son, "by showing me how I may come to the dominion of the Enchanter of the Black Back-Lands."

"I am the only creature who can show you, King's Son. And if I were not old now I would carry you there on my back. But I can tell you how you can get there. Ride forward for a day, first with the sun before you and then with the sun at your back, until you come to the shore of a lake. Stay there until you see three swans flying down.

They are the three daughters of the Enchanter of the Black Back-Lands. Mark the one who carries a green scarf in her mouth. She is the youngest daughter and the one who can help you. When the swans come to the ground they will transform themselves into maidens and bathe in the lake. Two will come out, put on their swanskins and transform themselves and fly away. But you must hide the swanskin that belongs to the youngest maiden. She will search and search and when she cannot find it she will cry out, 'I would do anything in the world for the creature who would find my swanskin for me.' Give the swanskin to her then, and tell her that the only thing she can do for you is to show you the way to her father's dominion. She will do that, and so you will come to the House of the Enchanter of the Black Back-Lands. And now farewell to you, Son of King Connal."

Laheen the Eagle spread out her wings and flew away, and the King's Son journeyed on, first with the sun before him and then with the sun at his back, until he came to the shore of a wide lake. He turned his horse away, rested himself on the ground, and as soon as the clear day came he began to watch for the three swans.

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111 They came, they flew down, and when they touched the ground they transformed themselves into three maidens and went to bathe in the lake. The one who carried the green scarf left her swanskin under a bush. The King's Son took it and hid it in a hollow tree.

Two of the maidens soon came out of the water, put on their swanskins and flew away as swans. The younger maiden stayed for a while in the lake. Then she came out and began to search for her swanskin. She searched and searched, and at last the King's Son heard her say, "I would do anything in the world for the creature who would find my swanskin for me." Then he came from where he was hiding and gave her the swanskin. "I am the Son of the King of Ireland," he said, "and I want you to show me the way to your father's dominion."

"I would prefer to do anything else for you," said the maiden. "I do not want anything else," said the King of Ireland's Son. "If I show you how to get there will you be content?"

"I shall be content."

"You must never let my father know that I showed you the way. And he must not know when you come that you are the King of Ireland's Son." "I will not tell him you showed me the way and I will not let him know who I am."

Now that she had the swanskin she was able to transform herself. She whistled and a blue falcon came down and perched on a tree. "That falcon is my own bird," said she. "Follow where it flies and you will come to my father's house. And now good-by to you. You will be in danger, but I will try to help you. Fedelma is my name." She rose up as a swan and flew away.

The blue falcon went flying from bush to bush and from rock to rock. The night came, but in the morning the blue falcon was seen again. The King's Son followed, and at last he saw a house before him. He went in, and there, seated on a chair of gold was the man who seemed so tall when he threw down the cards upon the heap of stones.

The Enchanter did not recognize the King's Son without his hawk and his hound and the fine clothes he used to wear. He asked who he was and the King's Son said he was a youth who had just finished an apprenticeship to a wizard. "And," said he, "I have

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heard that you have three fair daughters, and I came to strive to gain one of them for a wife."

"In that case," said the Enchanter of the Black Back-Lands, "you will have to do three tasks for me. If you are able to do them I will give you one of my three daughters in marriage. If you fail to do any one of them you will lose your head. Are you willing to make the trial?"

"I am willing," said the King of Ireland's Son. "Then I shall give you your first task to-morrow. It is unlucky that you came to-day. In this country we eat a meal only once a week, and we have had our meal this morning."

"It is all the same to me," said the King's Son, "I can do without food or drink for a month without any hardship."

"I suppose you can do without sleep too?" said the Enchanter of the Black Back-Lands.

"Easily," said the King of Ireland's Son. "That is good. Come outside now, and I'll show you your bed." He took the King's Son outside and showed him a dry narrow water-tank at the gable end of the house. "There is where you are to sleep" said the Enchanter.

"Tuck yourself into it now and be ready for your first task at the rising of the sun."

The King of Ireland's Son went into the little tank. He was uncomfortable there you may be sure. But in the middle of the night Fedelma came and brought him into a fine room where he ate and then slept until the sun was about to rise in the morning. She called him and he went outside and laid himself down in the water-tank.

As soon as the sun rose the Enchanter of the Black Back-Lands came out of the house and stood beside the water-tank. "Come now," said he, "and I will show you the first task you have to perform." He took him to where a herd of goats was grazing. Away from the goats was a fawn with white feet and little bright horns. The fawn saw them, bounded into the air, and raced away to the wood as quickly as any arrow that a man ever shot from a bow.

"That is Whitefoot the Fawn," said the Enchanter of the Black Back-Lands. "She grazes with my goats but none of my gillies can bring her into my goat-house. Here is your first task--run down Whitefoot the Fawn and bring her with my goats into the goat-shelter this evening." When he said that the Enchanter of the Black Back-Lands went away laughing to himself.

"Good-by, my life," said the King of Ireland's Son, "I might as well try to catch an eagle on the wing as to run down the deer that has gone out of sight already." He sat down on the ground and his despair was great. Then his name was called and he saw Fedelma coming towards him. She looked at him as though she were in dread, and said, "What task has my father set you?" He told her and then she smiled. "I was in dread it would be a more terrible task," she said. "This one is easy. I can help you to catch Whitefoot the Fawn. But first eat what I have brought you."

She put down bread and meat and wine, and they sat down and he ate and drank. "I thought he might set you this task," she said, "and so I brought you something from my father's store of enchanted things. Here are the Shoes of Swiftness. With these on your feet you can run down Whitefoot the Fawn. But you must catch her before she has gone very far away. Remember that she must be brought in when the goats are going into their shelter at sunset. You will have to walk back for all the time you must keep hold of her silver horns. Hasten now. Run her down with the

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Shoes of Swiftness and then lay hold of her horns. Above all things Whitefoot dreads the loss of her silver horns."

He thanked Fedelma. He put on the Shoes of Swiftness and went into the wood.

Now he could go as the eagle flies. He found Whitefoot the Fawn drinking at the Raven's pool.

When she saw him she went from thicket to thicket. The Shoes of Swiftness were hardly any use to him in these shut-in places. At last he beat her from the last thicket. It was the hour of noon-tide then. There was a clear plain before them and with the Shoes of Swiftness he ran her down. There were tears in the Fawn's eyes and he knew she was troubled with the dread of losing her silver horns.

He kept his hands on the horns and they went back over miles of plain and pasture, bog and wood. The hours were going quicker than they were going. When 'he came within the domain of the Enchanter of the Black Back-Lands he saw the goats going quickly before him. They were hurrying from their pastures to the goat-shelter, one stopping, maybe, to bite the top of a hedge and another giving this one a blow with her horns to hurry her on. "By your silver horns, we must go faster," said the King of Ireland's Son to the Fawn. They went more quickly then.

He saw the Enchanter of the Black Back-Lands waiting at the goat-house, now counting the goats that came along and now looking at the sun. When he saw the King of Ireland's Son coming with his capture he was so angry that he struck an old fullbearded goat that had stopped to rub itself. The goat reared up and struck him with his horns. "Well," said the Enchanter of the Black Back-Lands, "you have performed your first task, I see. You are a greater enchanter than I thought you were. Whitefoot the Fawn can go in with my goats. Go back now to your own sleeping-place. To-morrow I'll come to you early and give you your second task."

The King of Ireland's Son went back and into the dry water-tank. He was tired with his day's journey after Whitefoot the Fawn. It was his hope that Fedelma would come to him and give him shelter for that night.

IV Until the white moon rose above the trees; until the hounds went out hunting for themselves; until the foxes came down and hid in the hedges, waiting for the cocks and hens to stir out at the first light--so long did the King of Ireland's Son stay huddled in the dry water-tank.

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By that time he was stiff and sore and hungry. He saw a great white owl flying towards the tank. The owl perched on the edge and stared at the King's Son. "Have you a message for me?" he asked. The owl shrugged with its wings three times. He thought that meant a message. He got out of the tank and prepared to follow the owl. It flew slowly and near the ground, so he was able to follow it along a path through the wood.

The King's Son thought the owl was bringing him to a place where Fedelma was, and that he would get food there, and shelter for the rest of the night. And sure enough the owl flew to a little house in the wood. The King's Son looked through the window and he saw a room lighted with candles and a table with plates and dishes and cups, with bread and meat and wine. And he saw at the fire a young woman spinning at a spinning wheel, and her back was towards him, and her hair was the same as Fedelma's. Then he lifted the latch of the door and went very joyfully into the little house.

But when the young woman at the spinning wheel turned round he saw that she was not Fedelma at ail. She had a little mouth, a long and a hooked nose, and her eyes looked cross-ways at a person. The thread she was spinning she bit with her long teeth, and she said, "You are welcome here, Prince."

"And who are you?" said the King of Ireland's Son. "Aefa is my name," said she, "I am the eldest and the wisest daughter of the Enchanter of the Black Back-lands. My father is preparing a task for you," said she, "and it will be a terrible task, and there will be no one to help you with it, so you will lose your head surely. And what I would advise you to do is to escape out of this country at once."

"And how can I escape?" said the King of Ireland's Son, "There's only one way to escape," said she, "and that is for you to take the Slight Red Steed that my father has secured under nine locks. That steed is the only creature that can bring you to your own country. I,rill show you how to get it and then I will ride to your home with you."

"And why should you do that?" said the King of Ireland's Son. "Because I would marry you," said Aefa.

"But," said he, "if I live at all Fedelma is the one I will marry."

No sooner did he say the words than Aefa screamed out, "Seize him, my cat-o'-the-mountain. Seize him and hold him." Then the cat-o'-the-mountain that was under the table sprang across the room and fixed himself on his shoulder. He ran out of the house. All the time he was running the cat-o'-the-mountain was trying to tear his eyes out. He made his way through woods and thickets, and mighty glad he was when he saw the tank at the gable-end of the house. The cat-'o-the-mountain dropped from his back then. He got into the tank and waited and waited. No message came from Fedelma. He was a long time there, stiff and sore and hungry, before the sun rose and the Enchanter of the Black Back-Lands came out of the house.

V I hope you had a good night's rest," said the Enchanter of the Black Back-Lands, when he came to where the

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King of Ireland's Son was crouched, just at the rising of the sun. "I had indeed," said the King's Son. "And I suppose you feel fit for another task," said the Enchanter of the Black Back-Lands. "More fit than ever in my life before," said the King of Ireland's Son. The Enchanter of the Black Back-Lands took him past the goat-house and to where there was an open shelter for his bee-hives. "I want this shelter thatched," said he, "and I want to have it thatched with the feathers of birds. Go," said he, "and get enough feathers of wild birds and come back and thatch the bee-hive shelter for me, and let it be done before the set of sun." He gave the King's Son arrows and a bow and a bag to put the feathers in, and advised him to search the moor for birds. Then he went back to the house.

The King of Ireland's Son ran to the moor and watched for birds to fly across. At last one came. He shot at it with an arrow but did not bring it down. He hunted the moor ail over but found no other bird. He hoped that he would see Fedelma before his head was taken off.

Then he heard his name called and he saw Fedelma coming towards him. She looked at him as before with dread in tier eyes and asked him what task her father had set him. "A terrible task," he said, and he told her what it was. Fedelma laughed. "I was in dread he would give you another task," she said. "I can help you with this one. Sit down now and eat and drink from what I have brought you."

He sat down and ate and drank and he felt hopeful seeing Fedelma beside him.

When he had eaten Fedelma said, "My blue falcon will gather the birds and pull the feathers off for you. Still, unless you gather them quickly there is danger, for the roof must be thatched with feathers at the set of sun." She whistled and her blue falcon came.

He followed it across the moor. The blue falcon flew up in the air and gave a bird-call.

Birds gathered and she swooped amongst them pulling feathers off their backs and out of their wings. Soon there was a heap of feathers on the ground--pigeons' feathers and pie's feathers, crane's and crow's, blackbird's and starling's. The King of Ireland's Son quickly gathered them into his bag. The falcon flew to another place and gave her bird-call again.

The birds gathered, and she went amongst them, plucking their feathers. The King's Son gathered them and the blue falcon flew to another place. Over and over again the blue falcon called to the birds and plucked out their feathers, and over and over again the King's Son gathered them into his bag. When he thought he had feathers enough to thatch the roof he ran back to the shelter. He began the thatching, binding the feathers down with little willow rods. He had just finished when the sun went down. The old Enchanter came up and when he saw what the King's Son had done he was greatly

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surprised. "You surely learned from the wizard you were apprenticed to," said he.. "But to-morrow I will try you with another task. Go now and sleep in the place where you were last night." The King's Son, glad that the head was still on his shoulders, went and lay down in the water-tank.

VI Until the white moon went out in the sky; until the Secret People began to whisper in the woods--so long did the King of Ireland's Son remain in the dry water-tank that night.

And then, when it was neither dark nor light, he saw a crane flying towards him. It lighted on the edge of the tank. "Have you a message for me?" said the King of Ireland's Son. The crane tapped three times with its beak. Then the King's Son got out of the tank and prepared to follow the bird-messenger.

This was the way the crane went. It would fly a little way and then light on the ground until the Prince came up to it. Then it would fly again. Over marshes and across little streams the crane led him. And all the time the King of Ireland's Son thought he was being brought to the place where Fedelma was--to the place where he would get food and where he could rest until just before the sun rose.

They went on and on till they came to an old tower. The crane lighted upon it. The King's Son saw there was an iron door in the tower and he pulled a chain until it opened. Then he saw a little room lighted with candles, and he saw a young woman looking at herself in the glass. Her back was towards him and her hair was the same as Fedelma's.

But when the young woman turned round he saw she was not Fedelma. She was little, and she had a face that was brown and tight like a nut. She made herself very friendly to the King of Ireland's Son and went to him and took his hands and smiled into his face.

"You are welcome here," said she.

"Who are you?" he asked. "I am Gilveen," said she, "the second and the most loving of the three daughters of the Enchanter of the Black Back-Lands." She stroked his face and his hands when she spoke to him.

"And why did you send for me?"

"Because I know what great trouble you are in. My father is preparing a task for you, and it will he a terrible one. You will never be able to carry it out."

"And what should you advise me to do, King's daughter?"

"Let me help you. In this tower," said she, "there are the wisest books in the world. We'll surely find in one of them a way for you to get from this country. And then I'll go back with you to your own land."

"Why would you do that?" asked the King of Ire-land's Son. "Because I wish to be your wife," Gilveen said.

"But," said he, "if I live at all Fedelma is the one I'll marry."

When he said that Gilveen drew her lips together and her chin became like a horn. Then she whistled through

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her teeth, and instantly everything in the room began to attack the King's Son. The looking glass on the wall flung itself at him and hit him on the back of the head. The leg of the table gave him a terrible blow at the back of the knees. He saw the two candles hopping across the floor to burn his legs. He ran out of the room, and when he got to the door it swung around and gave him a blow that flung him away from the tower. The crane that was waiting on the tower flew down, its neck and beak outstretched, and gave him a blow on the back.

So the King of Ireland's Son went back over the marshes and across the little streams, and he was glad when he saw the gable-end of the house again. He went into the tank. He knew that he had not long to wait before the sun would rise and the Enchanter of the Black Back-Lands would come to him and give him the third and the most difficult of the three tasks. And he thought that Fedelma was surely shut away from him and that she would not be able to help him that day.

VII At the rising of the sun the Enchanter of the Black Back-Lands came to where the King of Ireland's Son was huddled and said, "I am now going to set you the third and last task. Rise up now and come with me."

The King's Son came out of the water-tank and followed the Enchanter. They went to where there was a well. The King's Son looked down and he could not see the bottom, so deep the well was. "At the bottom," said the Enchanter "is the Ring of Youth. You must get it and bring it to me, or else you must lose your head at the setting of that sun." That was all he said. He turned then and went away.

The King's Son looked into the well and he saw no way of getting down its deep smooth sides. He walked back towards the Castle. On his way he met Fedelma, and she looked at him with deep dread in her eyes. "What task did my father set you today?" said she. "He bids me go down into a well," said the King's Son. "A well!" said Fedelma, and she became all dread. "I have to take the Ring of Youth from the bottom and bring it to him," said the King's Son. "Oh," said Fedelma,'"he has set you the task I dreaded."

Then she said, "You will lose your life if the Ring of Youth is not taken out of the well. And if you lose yours I shall lose my life too. There is one way to get down the sides of the well. You must kill me. Take my bones and make them as steps while you go down the sides. Then, when you have taken the Ring of Youth out of the

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water, put my bones as they were before, and put the Ring above my heart. I shall be alive again. But you must be careful that you leave every bone as it was."

The King's Son fell into a deeper dread than Fedelma when he heard what she said. "This can never be," he cried. "It must be," said she, "and by all your vows and promises I command that you do it. Kill me now and do as I have bidden you. If it be done I shall live. If it be not done you will lose your life and I will never regain mine."

He killed her. He took the bones as she had bidden him, and he made steps down the sides of the well. He searched at the bottom, and he found the Ring of Youth. He brought the bones together again. Down on his knees he went, and his heart did not beat nor did his breath come or go until he had fixed them in their places. Over the heart he placed the Ring. Life came back to Fedelma.

"You have done well," she said. "One thing only is not in its place--the joint of my little finger." She held up her hand and he saw that her little finger was bent.

"I have helped you in everything," said Fedelma, "and in the last task I could not have helped you if you had not been true to me when Aefa and Gilveen brought you to them. Now the three tasks are done, and you can ask my father for one of his daughters in marriage. When you bring him the Ring of Youth he will ask you to make a choice.

I pray that the one chosen will be myself."

"None other will I have but you, Fedelma, love of my heart," said the King of Ireland's Son. VIII The King of Ireland's Son went into the house before the setting of the sun. The Enchanter of the Black BackLands was seated on his chair of gold. "Have you brought me the Ring of Youth?" he asked.

"I have brought it," said the King's Son. "Give it to me then," said the Enchanter.

"I will not," said the King's Son, "until you give what you promised me at the end of my tasks--one of your three daughters for my wife."

The Enchanter brought him to a closed door. "My three daughters are within that room," said he. "Put your hand through the hole in the door, and the one whose hand you hold when I open it--it is she you will have to marry."

Then wasn't the mind of the King's Son greatly troubled? If he held the hand of Aefa or Gilveen he would lose his love Fedelma. He stood without putting out his hand. "Put your hand through the hole of the door or go away from my house altogether," said the Enchanter of the Black Back-Lands.

The King of Ireland's Son ventured to put his hand through the hole in the door. The hands of the maidens inside were all held in a bunch. But no sooner did he touch them than he found that one had a broken finger. This he knew was Fedelma's hand, and this was the hand he held.

"You may open the door now," said he to the Enchanter. He opened the door and the King of Ireland's Son

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Art: Lolotte (Head of a Woman in a Hat) by Amedeo Modigliani

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drew Fedelma to him. "This is the maiden I choose," said he, "and now give her her dowry."

"The dowry that should go with me," said Fedelma, "is the Slight Red Steed."

"What dowry do you want with her, young man?" said the Enchanter.

"No other dowry but the Slight Red Steed."

"Go round to the stable then and get it. And I hope no well-trained wizard like you will come this way again."

"No well-trained wizard am I, but the King of Ire-land's Son. And I have found your dwelling-place within a year and a day. And now I pluck the three hairs out of your heard, Enchanter of the Black Back-Lands."

The beard of the Enchanter bristled like spikes on a hedgehog, and the balls of his eyes stuck out of his head.

The King's Son plucked the three hairs of his beard before he could lift a hand or say a word. "Mount the Slight Red Steed and be off, the two of you," said the Enchanter.

The King of Ireland's Son and Fedelma mounted the Slight Red Steed and rode off, and the Enchanter of the Black Back-Lands, and his two daughters, Aefa and Gilveen, in a rage watched them ride away.

IX They crossed the River of the Ox, and went over the Mountain of the Fox and were in the Glen of the Badger before the sun rose. And there, at the foot of the Hill of Horns, they found an old man gathering dew from the grass.

"Could you tell us where we might find the Little Sage of the Mountain?" Fedelma asked the old man.

"I am the Little Sage of the Mountain," said he, "and what is it you want of me?"

"To betroth us for marriage," said Fedelma.

"I will do that. Come to my house, the pair of you. And as you are both young and better able to walk than I am it would be fitting to let me ride on your horse."

The King's Son and Fedelma got off and the Little Sage of the Mountain got on the Slight Red Steed. They took the path that went round the Hill of Horns. And at the other side of the hill they found a hut thatched with one great wing of a bird. The Little Sage got off the Slight Red Steed. "Now," said he, "you're both young, and I'm an old man and it would be fitting for you to do my day's work before you call upon me to do anything for you.

Now would you," said he to the King of Ireland's Son, "take this spade in your hand and go into the garden and dig my potatoes for me? And would you," said he to Fedelma, "sit down at the quern-stone and grind the wheat for me?"

The King of Ireland's Son went into the garden and Fedelma sat at the quernstone that was just outside the door; he dug and she ground while the Little Sage sat at the fire looking into a big book. And when Fedelma and the King's Son were tired with their labor he gave them a drink of buttermilk.

She made cakes out of the wheat she had ground and the King's Son washed the potatoes and the Little Sage boiled them and so they made their supper. Then the Little Sage of the Mountain melted lead and made two rings; and one ring he gave to Fedelma to give to the King's Son and one he gave to the King's Son to give to Fedelma. And when the rings were given he said, "You are betrothed for your marriage now."

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They stayed with the Little Sage of the Mountain that night, and when the sun rose they left the house that was thatched with the great wing of a bird and they turned towards the Meadow of Brightness and the Wood of Shadows that were between them and the King of Ireland's domain. They rode on the Slight Red Steed, and the Little Sage of the Mountain went with them a part of the way. He seemed downcast and when they asked him the reason he said, "I see dividing ways and far journeys for you both."

"But how can that be," said the King's Son, "when, in a little while we will win to my father's domain?" "It may be I am wrong," said the Little Sage, "and if I am not, remember that devotion brings together dividing ways and that high hearts win to the end of every journey." He bade them good-by then, and turned back to his hut that was thatched with the great wing of a bird.

They rode across the Meadow of Brightness and Fedelma's blue falcon sailed above them. "Yonder is a field of white flowers," said she, "and while we are crossing it you must tell me a story."

"I know by heart," said the King's Son, "only the stories that Maravaun, my father's Councillor, has put into the book he is composing--the book that is called 'The Breastplate of Instruction.'"

"Then," said Fedelma, "tell me a story from 'The Breastplate of Instruction,' while we are crossing this field of white flowers."

"I will tell you the first story that is in it," said the King's Son. Then while they were crossing the field of white flowers the King's Son told Fedelma the story of the Ass and the Seal ###

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TreeArt Art:byLisa Peaslee Tree LisaMarie Marie Peaslee

SHORT BIO: Born Patrick Collumb, in Longford, in Co. Longford, in Ireland, poet, editor, children’s writer, folklorist and playwright Padraic Colum was the oldest of eight siblings. At 17, he took a job as a clerk for the Irish Railway Clearing House and began to write seriously; he had joined the Irish Republican Army and the Gaelic League and taken the name Padraic Colum by the time he was 20. Living in Dublin during the Celtic Revival and a member of both the National Theatre Society and the Abbey Theatre, he met and became close friends with writers James Joyce, W.B. Yeats, Lady Gregory, and George Russell. With James Stephens and Thomas MacDonagh, Colum founded the Irish Review.

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Be Sure Your Sins by Nick Allen

Matthew stared across his desk and wondered what on earth this wretched­looking woman could want with a solicitor.

"Thank you for seeing me, sir.

I have something I need you to do, but don't have any money to pay you with yet."

Matthew shifted in his seat.

"Well, I'm afraid, Miss­­?"

"Peach, but just call me Lilly."

"Lilly. We can't really proceed on such a basis. Perhaps I could suggest­­" "Just give me five minutes to explain, sir, then if you still want me to, I'll go."

Matthew paused, then moved a blank sheet of paper onto his desk and picked up his pen.

Lilly needed no further cues.

"I'll be honest with you sir, I'm on the game. Done it for twenty—odd years now and, being frank, me looks are going now and the punters are getting thin on the ground. I do have one or two regulars who . . ."

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Matthew cleared his throat and checked his watch "Anyway," continued Lilly, "last night I thought I'd hit the jackpot. It was snowin' hard and I was freezing, gettin' ready to call it a night when this politician picks me up in a big white car. Rolls it was."

"Politician?" Matthew could hardly keep the incredulity from his voice.

"He's called Trevor Dodd. I saw him on 'Question Time' last year. And Jeremy Vine on Radio Two says­­ " "Miss Peach, please."

Now what I'm gonna tell you now might make you blush, but I have to be straight. I charge £10 for it straight, £15 if they don't use a condom. So he gives me the £10 but, afterwards he laughs and tells me he took the condom off before going in. I go mad and demand the fiver he owes me. He tells me not to be so bleedin' stupid, and says I should be grateful that he did me."

"Now, Miss Peach, these are serious allegations that could get you in very deep water. Mr Dodd is a well­respected public figure, who is happily married."

Lilly smiles, and for the first time, Matthew sees what a pretty woman she could be. She pulls a bundle of tissues wrapped in cling film from her bag.

"I wiped myself afterwards."

Now it's Matthew's turn to smile.

"How does £500,000 sound Miss Peach? I can't see any trouble getting at least that. Oh, and don't worry about my costs. With your permission, I'll just ask for his car." ### 2008 - Allen

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SWEET TALK by Lauran Strait Such a wasted morning afler Brad's idiotic email. How was she supposed to concentrate?

Non­stop Christmas tunes polluted the air, and hideous strands of plastic garland doused in tacky, multi­ colored lights clung like skinny shrouds against every store window.

I'm so sorry, Katie­poo. Forgive me?

Kate grimaced. Was there no escape from this madness?

Right there by an electric fireplace, awe­struck mannequin children stared at a fake Christmas tree and dozens of holiday­wrapped boxes. Plastic mom and dad held hands and smiled at their pretend kids.

What a crock. Things like this existed for one reason only ­­ to trick and trap people into feeling things they'd regret.

Can we kiss and make up? No games this time. I promise.

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Kate passed the plastic family, beckoned by a jewelry display of overpriced baubles. Twisting her own wedding ring, she stared at trinkets scattered over mounds of crushed velvet. She turned away. It would take much more than outward beauty to seduce her this time.

"May I help you?" a pimply­faced boy said.

"Huh?" Kate jumped. How had she gotten to this place?

Never mind. She was here now. Might as well make the best of things. She studied a sign above the boy. "I'll have one of your 'Ever­Faithful­Chocolate­Chocolate­Chip' cookies."

"Sorry. We're out of those." The teenager's perky smile looked glued on. "Why not try something else, maybe 'Sinfully­Seductive­Spice’? You’ll love it. I promise."

"What kind of game you playing with me?"

"No games."

"Liar! You never tell the truth." A flush raced across her cheeks and down her neck. Even her fists felt hot.

"I have no idea what you're talking about. I don't even know you. We're strangers."

I recognized my soul-mate the instant we met. I‘ve always loved you.

"Ri-i-i-ght. You tell me what you think I want to hear when you think I need to hear it. But when I

Art: The Birds in the want you to make good on your promises, you become unavailable. 1 hate you!" Kate raised a box Air, PS: MLF

of cookie wrappers above her head.

Art: Man in Flight, "Put that down.“ He sounded cocky, confident, controlling.

Following Lear, PS: MLF, Page 14

Give me one more chance, Katie-poo?

"Okay." Kate leapt the counter and slammed the box into the boy's face.

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"Shit, my nose, you broke it!"

"Just like the promises you broke. Just like my heart.“ Kate scooped up a handful of cookies.

Enough sweet talk. Pimply-faced-boy was right; time to try something new. ### © 2008 - Strait

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"To­tschin­shu is condemned to death.

How can he drink tea with the Executioner?"

Japanese Proverb.

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'Jack Pines' droop with humps of snow now dropping patchy shadows upon the avenue: four o’clock and the bluing edges of the day are ragged with emergent stars an insufficient sun, a threadbare sun low and vanishing behind the breezy coolish clack of naked apple trees; we take a coffee in the corner of the church basement. slush from our sodden shoes puddling beneath the table, your woolen tie is knotted like a stone below your chin: the night is arriving like a speciesl. and I feel the aggregation of half a hundred Christmases upon my back. may I say it. an evolution fiom embryo In paraclete; the altar is red with the bloodl of Poinsettias and crisp with light; you ask me if I remember when and yes I do; we will sing and pray and button tight our coats while walking home in the steamy winter dark; we are vulgar people. our mum: am of broken teeth and bread.

Neil Dyer ­ 2008

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Narratives of New Netherland 1570—1970

by Sean Farragher " I am the viridian swell and the vermilitm tempest. I am surly beast and have will to rectify murder: my death and other happenstance makes for ironu with miniatures painted without sight in a golden locket never opened and not lost memories of those centuries before whatever instant diseased and bent with pock marked face to how anger stalls without any pleasure or even the protest of strangled fowl.

You can watch my stance without eyes and make me move without legs as I am only flood and tempest unbounded my schemes ser down as blasphemed physic and truth."

John Colman (1585­1664)

Preface Prose Poem based on Robert Juet and Sources drawn from the history and environ of New Netherland including that magical land of Human Beings between Ackinsack and Great River in Pavonia.

Personas and Documents As essential contradiction Edward Wyman, John Colman, Ska Nee, Lord Simon Colman Seymour, sons and daughters and many others speak unfettered as to the layers that time construed from and within the years 1970 to 1570 with reversed spinning globes and fool jugglers with blessed twisted hands. Every voice is luminous: layers of character without particular history struck bells to reach the last comma dividing centuries and millennia.

Chronology was old song without intervals just as we cease to breathe - while habitual schemes dry in our mouths when water lost cannot be had to make red water piss against brown leaves or some beginning reconstruct so we may leap that terrifying wall of birth afier death without obvious conceit drowned too young when spars broken and all the fine gobs driven to starve. Such my daily speech as folly writ as it could last until perdition waxed our skull with vermin.

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8 May 1607, Tuesday

General Description of That Part of the World Called New Netherland.

Sometime in my country at the outward part of river wild flowers so fragrant I stand still not knowing what I am meeting; so many and rich the birds I can scarcely go through them for their whistling.

Light can hardly be discerned where they fly; the fox chases them like fowl: Their notes salute the ears of travelers with harmonious discord, and in every pond and brook, green silken frogs warble their un'tuned tunes to hear a part in this music.

----November 2, 1585-1621 John Colman Swims the Great River Divide now Called Hudson.

Before New Netherland When I was a child, I felt murder.

There was blood on the stones that leaked through the streets into a great flood.

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I felt waves and I wanted to die and fail.

Mother murdered as l wept.

Vermilion clouds treasured me.

The dagger did not cut my head clean.

The heavens opened to protect my life.

My Lord Jesus saved my opinion and directed the colors of the winds from ancient space to keep my breath whole as I fell down to the rough gray stones by my homely street.

In my lights Viridian sunset open my doors.

I could not let my life fall down and become one of those awkward strangers hanging about the shore and muddy streets for an axe that struck off the head of my mother as she watched the vermillion waters of the great river quit.

It was a fever. Mother had died five years past in Delft. She was ample vision here as the shadows of her red sand colored eyes loomed on the horizon so 1 conjured.

Savages covered me.

I saw the face of murder.

I remember how he was struck down by a rock. He would die laughing and I would live.

I did not drown. Stuck to the slime caught in the muddy noose I was buried in the earth when l was shaken by furious storm that blew through my spread hands as I held back the surge as only light

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that is earth green and salmon red can contain on the edge of the bush that borders Great River on the East.

That city will be born there.

It will strike us dead.

I live in all my past escapes as a future specter ready to roll my calm, damp body white with death, and my red eyes alive when I am resurrected in 1970.

Day Two The tempest struck; the rocks moved.

They shift as I spin and I wished for a brief second that the rocks of littoral of this flooded river drove out all the sea demons and bring us back home safe.

I know when I drink how anyone is safe if they do wish their own end before they are struck with shot, or the axmen or the executioner shows fate to the end may you wish other oaths to keep you safe at least until your teeth are gone.

If I had died, how would I have watched Ska Nee give birth? She had entered before my enlistments,

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Great River had swallowed up and I would never join the circle where wise men talked with their hands and hearts more than words.

I understood it all; every flood drowns the man who swims the passage from the isle across to the tall red stones shimmer as antimony.

My leg heal.

My arms stretch from the sails behind to the ones in front.

I get stronger.

She who heals stirs at my back and Ioins with her fat rubbed hands and catches my shiver.

She works my legs and sacred parts.

She makes me move as she breaks me out of death.

When my flesh blackens and I with fever shriek to other savage gods my denial and then yes, I do accept.

Curses shift underneath the river of hands.

The rain pounds my head slows my stroke.

Caught by the cold water I made me tight when the mist rose from the fire.

Fish will be boiled. I entered the brook and soon it was hot and the heat slowed breath.

The woman moved her breasts to my mouth slowly and holding my jaw, she feeds me that white blue broth.

I am eager. She knows that I cannot exist with civil people.

I get stronger every day.

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Red rolling fire branded clouds before sunrise drift against the back of my hands take them into my lives but I did not hurt.

I made it to the broken rocks and lifted my sore shoulders up to drape my body on red moss.

One small beetle wore his half shell turned over and drifted I realized and found the brown rocks rose above the stumps of a forest of drowned trees.

I rushed the shore. I couldn't stop.

Waves pushed at my head. I left Bristol.

I left the skin of streets. I left my older first wife wondering if she would jump up when she heard my steps up the path close to the smoke house where we cured the bacon her father fattened.

Stones were thrown. The wake of the ripples caught my hands and I was frozen in the water -------Follows missing pages to the tale kept by his descendant Simon Colman and published in London in 1767

Narratives of New Netherland

The Rage and Dreams of John Colman On 11 April 1611, the yacht Restless caught the flood and leaving Bristol moorage, my eyesfixed to the rolls and sway of the hot coals of the morning sky that wept black and gray ascolor stripped became the texture of a terrified dream recalled. I knew it my every day a breathdiminished. Every night I stopped to dream the terror of my mother's murder. I saw widestartled eyes descend from his killing hand to the lever axe and with

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one downward stroke myown fate as witness. My sister would almost drown in the blood as she nursed from tit and spit back red froth.

Mother dragged to the ground by Murder who had gone mad became the template for the wooden ships I would fashion as I lived every day thereafter. I would never forget that deathly face. Mother and Murderer became the same scream. His mouth and eyes stretched from past to present. Terror would become the maps of my discovered land as I forgetting their coordinates became thoroughly trapped by that need to right the wrong that made lust mayhem an anthem for my child eyes and voice.

Now, I am long past that day, a man with eager arms and back strong in the lifting of the sky and the mocking of God. I cry as in the murderers hall, as now, when I face my own last breathing, everything became black to mold with green and yellow peals as putrefaction crept through my throat to make my dreams scream again as they hit by that calamity become the foretaste of terror made and unmade as oath taken for revenge.

Now, back on the docks as we uncoiled the last of the loops that kept us moored to this final place, I stepped up to the clouds and found myself by magic ten leagues above the deck of this ship. I could see myself from that deck as I floated both high into that heat and drawn down I fluttered into the limp, cold decay of my own grave.

As I spoke softly to my feeling my bones stretched my legs to discover by their recoil the magic source that unmakes life as we curse dying we assume before our time.

As I lifted up, my dreams froze as tar does oak. My body as circular cask unraveled into its steel rings and palsied steps.

As I did every night I again live the theater of my mother's murder. The troll used an axe. He cut her skull into twin parts and a smaller third while I gathered in her wake watched her fall as the blood ran down her arms. As she screamed quickly stilled, her blank face death before death caught the rings of my eyes, I was no more after that motion of iron into bone. I walked backward down the close docks towards the marsh where flowers could be gathered.

There I made my mother a wreath and bringing it to her bed, as she kept to it in death, the colors of the violence raped by her dishonor, so they said, kept still the muddy waters that would in my dream bring me to my downing.

We are forty-two men in the company of rats and our own pestilence. Many will suffer that perdition of death on this journey to the East. Does this dream signify that we will fail to know the pathways to riches and the east?

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Short Bio: Sean Farragher, Life long writer of poetry and fiction,

As I write down this speak I count three silver coins and one bronze piece. They were my inheritance. They became with melancholy my breed of knowing. I forget it all as I am covered with the dank sweat of drink and the heat of. I live inside that mask of my mother. I was nine when murdered by demons or as most say a human beast without mouth or teeth. He was flame that fire she said that burns from the inside. I will strip the heat from life. I will keep it out of reach. I will preserve the madness so it can be released as quiet dust or ashes from the dead.

In this year of our Lord, 16| l, I chart our following winds and tack easy through the Restless sales as this yacht points West by South West towards the end of the rocks and the beginning of the sun. Here now, as we gather in our hope, at that space above that last cloud the English land falls away into the shoals. So many rivers have no bottoms.

So many last words before we murder our self on this great adventure. Perhaps now, I can forget the dream. Every calm night I suffer its recoil. My father gathers wood for a fire. Mother speaks her Dutch tongue cursing the night in her drunken fervor. As I watch her kiss strange hands and opening her eyes, she leaps the fires. Suddenly, caught, this man, this demon strikes her skull with an axe. She bleeds that face that murder caught. I cannot forget his scowl. He is a leper of words. His meanings forget themselves and he escapes into the back farms of Bristol and is heard no more.

As I watch the sea rise up in a storm that would cost us on this first night two of our crew, I wrote down what I heard when I dreamed or did I dream.

I sleep in the crease of her tawny skin. Her hair is thick with fat covering its base to show the strength of her neck. She breathes and slowly I can smell the ocean as the flood rises against those antimony cliffs that stagger down the river towards the bay. Every heron mocks my shadow as they peek at my path. My legs stronger every hour I rise faster up the short cliff and standing inside out looking out over the island where wild beasts keep company with the natives of this place. I am of this place. I cannot leave. I will die here. There is no ocean lefi to cross. I saw it disappear in that dark dream bred from my mouth when I sucked at that tea she made from some unknown hemp that they gathered as flowers.

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Tempest Every storm has no eyes.

How can I see past honorable journals crafted from memory and distances we shift when melancholy stuff us stopping as desire leaves.

We age even as we young raise up our hard arms and waving our instrument strut to keep the passion as some past stupor falls down into its own pail to denature as fetid stools beguile the beasts and mock the insects again rides the other stair well I am a stranger to myself. I did not drown. I caught the skin of the rocks and cut, my hand burned I lifted my heart up and pounded Ska Nee as she opened her wings and flew like that crow captured from the fantasy and let down into a book where the chronology of ship and being are charted for some noble restoration of the wood. Can we plow our lives back into that life work where as stretching our bowels we find that our aches are not changed by rich rooms to fornicate as we quit again those maids with empty skulls that breed death and pestilence as we speak ourselves to murder that which has no name but the black spots and yellow eyes that freeze the jaw into its death and prize.

Any private place can rise up out of waves or born fi'om a lance drive up the back door and make certain we can do this all again swimming from disturbed thunder to bare brook and standing there naked we repeat again in some sexless birth. I do not lie.

TLW/39

Sherri by Elsie O'Day

Art:Street in Asgardstrand by Edvard Munch

She could neither move nor speak. But those forget­me­not blue eyes, locked on mine, spoke her pain and fear more piercingly than a scream. Her heart raced, the frantic beating visible from anywhere in the room. Her room.

She had selected the delicate pansy wallpaper over a year ago and we had laughed together, having such fun choosing the filmy white curtains and eyelet lace comforter. Sofi lamps that were never turned at? lighted the room now and the stainless steel hospital bed looked so alien in this feminine place. I had hidden the red biohazard container out of sight days ago. My rocker, pulled close to her bed, made no sound and I held her hand through the side rails of the bed.

Renal failure had dropped her gently into a deep coma days ago, a blessed reprieve from relentless pain, and it seemed death would be kind and deal tenderly with this daughter who had suffered such agony. It took two years for the ravaging cancer to defeat her. But all through radiation, TLW/40

chemotherapy, cesium implants, a portacath in her chest to protect collapsing blood vessels, nephrostomy tubes and foley bags when her kidneys failed, her courage had remained high and true. I will not die! But from 120 pounds of vibrant young womanhood, she went to, now, less than 60 pounds of skin drawn over a fragile skeleton. I had used a draw sheet to move her the last few weeks, but even that didn‘t muffle the grating crepitus of fragile, calcium depleted bones.

Tonight, body­wracking seizures wrenched her out of the cradling depths of near—death coma to unwilling consciousness; powerless to move or speak except once, a pleading half articulated “Mom.” Soul sick, I broke our tacit promise that she would die at home, and called the ambulance. During the twenty­ minute ride, I battered the gates of Heaven itself, imploring, demanding, “Oh, please! Oh, please! Not this, not this, not this!” A litany of anguish for a beloved daughter.

In the Emergency Room, surrounded by the ringed curtains, nurses, and her doctor, I spoke firmly, “You may not separate us!” I stood beside the narrow white table, under the brilliant, impersonal, all­ seeing lights, holding her in my arms. A double shot of Dilantin had slowed the seizures enough so that I could slip my fingers through the soft short hair that had managed to grow back, and croon to her the lullabies from her childhood. I felt her relax against me, her eyes losing the terror and smiling her love into mine for my comfort. Beloved, there is no comfort.

Twin match­flares in her eyes and cyanotic blue fingers, and my terse command, “Suction! Now! She is choking!”

For so long I held her closely, molding her unresponsive body to mine, refusing to leave her. But at last I allowed myself to be led away, turning at the last moment to plead with her doctor, “Please. . .the nephrostomy tubes. . . .”

He understood at once, and replied compassionately, “I won’t hurt her. I promise.”

There is a rent in the fabric of my universe . . . Sherri­shaped.

Elsie 0' Day 2008

TLW/41

Dog Days of Christmas by Marie Shields I'm frozen at the kitchen door unable to bring my breath past the electric knot of fear at the back of my throat. Deirdre and her college roommate have arrived with the biggest dog I've ever seen. Now, Deirdre is a big girl, but the dog stands well past her waist and looks like a giant mutant wolf.

Last night my husband informed me that my new step—daughter would be bringing her puppy with her. I'm not overly fond of animals. Actually, I'm underly fond of animals. For six months I've been trying to learn compromise, which means neither of us gets what we want. Adjustment is hard.

My sister arrived yesterday and will also be staying with us this week. My husband likes her about as much as I like dogs. Happy holidays. Deirdre unsnaps TLW/42

the dog's leash. He bounds across the living room, narrowly missing the Christmas tree and crashing into the coffee table. Sis leaps across the room and catches my favorite blown glass vase before it hits the deck.

Apparently, the dog thinks Sis is playing with him. He spins, barks and jumps up. His front paws land on her chest. She stumbles backward holding the vase like a shield. My husband grabs the dog's collar.

The hair on its back stands up, and it bares its fangs and growls.

Sis reaches for me. I pull her into the doorway and grab the vase. I grip the rim ready to use it as a weapon.

"Da­a­a­d ­­ you scared him." Deidre kneels beside the dog and puts her arms around his neck. He continues a low growl. "There, there, puppykins. Nobody is going to hurt Whiskey­poo.“ She runs her fingers through the dog's thick coat. Whiskey­poo lies down, head on his paws, and whimpers. He closes his eyes and looks as if he might take a snooze.

"Well, old Whiskey­poo seems to have settled down," I say.

"His name is not Whiskey­poo. It's Whiskey," she says.

"That's a nice name," I smile at Deidre and take a tentative step into the living room.

Sis plops down on the sofa. “What kind of a dog is he?"

"The pound said he's probably a rottweiler / Irish wolfliound mix."

"He's only six months old," the friend volunteers. "Just imagine what he'll be like when he grows up."

Just imagine . . . xxx

TLW/43

Christmas Morning by Martin Heavisides Breakfast >lox on seven grain bread unlocks all its flavours on contact with tastebuds Marysia's cake>pineapple cranberries and raisins say interesting things to each other in the mouth eating from breakfast tray> brought to us by Ula from Brussels>city of terpsichore and rain seat of the court of European Union drumming on breakfast tray>to life on the radio cool view through the window>grey sky sun­silvered the deep green plant on the ledge has a name but neither of us know what it is

TLW/44

Last night vigilia at Zosia’s ear soup and seven varieties of fish placki dessert>chocolate passed 'round from Belgium nation of endorphin and intricate black iron gold foil on the Parliament>Paris has that too Toronto>city of jazz and iced windows 20 fine singers at a benefit one night some from Vancouver>some North Ontario some distant Halifax and points yet more east Tonight we entertain>in the morning spice turkey (some spice has settled fi'om when it was flown impermeated the bird as it thawed) more salt and pepper>rosemary>basil for moistness we bake it at first upside down Lot of lore in turkey cooking some may well be factual our birds turn out well though if they had a vote themselves they might well disagree The fat birds clumped on a denuded bush outside and below our balcony are safe>unless a cat is prowling too much work to strip the copious feathers two little bites is all they'd yield and they’re gone treat to the eye bobbing on thin twining branches as noon approaches>sun ablaze overhead

Martin Heavisides­2OO5 (“Placki" is pronounced in English as if written "Platski") (Art: Cook With Food, Frans Snyders Date: c.1630)

TLW/45

“Clouds come floating into my life, no longer to carry rain or usher storm, but to add color to my sunset sky.”

Rabindranath Tagore, Stray Birds

TLW/46

Something More

TLW/47

Hickory, dickory, dockThe mouse ran up the clock, The clock struck one, Hickory, dickory, dock, Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, Hickory, dickory, dock, The Bluebird flew up the clock, The clock struck two, And scared bird flew, Hickory, dickory, dock, Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, says the giant clock, The Poor Ant , Hickory, dickory, dock.

The ant crawled up the clock, The clock struck three, She hurt her knee, Hickory, dickory, dockTick tock, tick tock, tick tock, Oh....A Squirrel... , Hickory, dickory, dock,A squirrel climbed up the clock, The clock struck four, She fell to the floor, Hickory, dickory, dock, Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock says the giant clock , Hmm.. A Buzzing Bee, Hickory, dickory, dock, A bee buzzed at the clock, The clock struck five, She flew to her hive, Hickory, dickory, dock, Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, An old Mr. Frog.... Hello Mr. Frog , Hickory, dickory, dock, A frog jumped on the clock, The clock struck six, He lost his sticks, Hickory, dickory, dock, Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, says the giant clock , A cute Hare..awwww , Hickory, dickory, dock, A hare hopped on the clock, The clock struck seven, Oh! Goodness heavens, Hickory, dickory, dock,Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, Ahhh.. Now it is a L L LLion... Grrrr...ohhh h h hello Mr. Lion , Hickory, dickory, dock, A lion walked up the clock, The clock struck eight, He ran out the gate, Hickory, dickory, dock, Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, says the giant clock, Now was the turn of Piggy Mom & her cute piglets, but the piglets were sleepy, Hickory, dickory, dock, Piggy slept near the clock, The clock struck nine, Piglets started to whine, Hickory, dickory, dock, Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, A Monkey , Hickory, dickory, dock, A monkey climbed up the clock, The clock struck ten, He was scared again!, Hickory, dickory, dock, Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, says the giant clock , A dog, Hickory, dickory, dock, A dog barked at the clock, The clock struck eleven, He was gone in a second, Hickory, dickory, dock, Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, Ahhh, There is a huge Hippo at the door.. What will he do? , Hickory, dickory, dock, A hippo went up the clock, The clock struck twelve, It it... it... didn't go well, Hickory, dickory, dock,Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, says the broken clock, Hickory, dickory, dockThe mouse ran up the clock, The clock struck one, Hickory, dickory, dock, Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, Hickory, dickory, dock, The Bluebird flew up the clock, The clock struck two, And scared bird flew, Hickory, dickory, dock, Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, says the giant clock, The Poor Ant , Hickory, dickory, dock. The ant crawled up the clock, The clock struck three, She hurt her knee, Hickory, dickory, dockTick tock, tick tock, tick tock, Oh....A Squirrel... , Hickory, dickory, dock,A squirrel climbed up the clock, The clock struck four, She fell to the floor, Hickory, dickory, dock, Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock says the giant clock , Hmm.. A Buzzing Bee, Hickory, dickory, dock, A bee buzzed at the clock, The clock struck five, She flew to her hive, Hickory, dickory, dock, Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, An old Mr. Frog.... Hello Mr. Frog , Hickory, dickory, dock, A frog jumped on the clock, The clock struck six, He lost his sticks, Hickory, dickory, dock, Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, says the giant clock , A cute Hare..awwww , Hickory, dickory, dock, A hare hopped on the clock, The clock struck seven, Oh! Goodness heavens, Hickory, dickory, dock,Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, Ahhh.. Now it is a L L LLion... Grrrr...ohhh h h hello Mr. Lion , Hickory, dickory, dock, A lion walked up the clock, The clock struck eight, He ran out the gate, Hickory, dickory, dock, Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, says the giant clock, Now was the turn of Piggy Mom & her cute piglets, but the piglets were sleepy, Hickory, dickory, dock, Piggy slept near the clock, The clock struck nine, Piglets started to whine, Hickory, dickory, dock, Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, A Monkey , Hickory, dickory, dock, A monkey climbed up the clock, The clock struck ten, He was scared again!, Hickory, dickory, dock, Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, says the giant clock , A dog, Hickory, dickory, dock, A dog barked at the clock, The clock struck eleven, He was gone in a second, Hickory, dickory, dock, Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, Ahhh, There is a huge Hippo at the door.. What will he do? , Hickory, dickory, dock, A hippo went up the clock, The clock struck twelve, It it... it... didn't go well, Hickory, dickory, dock,Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, says the broken clock, Hickory, dickory, dockThe mouse ran up the clock, The clock struck one, Hickory, dickory, dock, Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, Hickory, TLW/48

dickory, dock, The Bluebird flew up the clock, The clock struck two, And scared bird flew, Hickory, dickory, dock, Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, says the giant clock, The Poor Ant , Hickory, dickory, dock. The ant crawled up the clock, The clock struck three, She hurt her knee, Hickory, dickory, dockTick tock, tick tock, tick tock, Oh....A Squirrel... , Hickory, dickory, dock,A squirrel climbed up the clock, The clock struck four, She fell to the floor, Hickory, dickory, dock, Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock says the giant clock , Hmm.. A Buzzing Bee, Hickory, dickory, dock, A bee buzzed at the clock, The clock struck five, She flew to her hive, Hickory, dickory, dock, Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, An old Mr. Frog.... Hello Mr. Frog , Hickory, dickory, dock, A frog jumped on the clock, The clock struck six, He lost his sticks, Hickory, dickory, dock, Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, says the giant clock , A cute Hare..awwww , Hickory, dickory, dock, A hare hopped on the clock, The clock struck seven, Oh! Goodness heavens, Hickory, dickory, dock,Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, Ahhh.. Now it is a L L LLion... Grrrr...ohhh h h hello Mr. Lion , Hickory, dickory, dock, A lion walked up the clock, The clock struck eight, He ran out the gate, Hickory, dickory, dock, Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, says the giant clock, Now was the turn of Piggy Mom & her cute piglets, but the piglets were sleepy, Hickory, dickory, dock, Piggy slept near the clock, The clock struck nine, Piglets started to whine, Hickory, dickory, dock, Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, A Monkey , Hickory, dickory, dock, A monkey climbed up the clock, The clock struck ten, He was scared again!, Hickory, dickory, dock, Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, says the giant clock , A dog, Hickory, dickory, dock, A dog barked at the clock, The clock struck eleven, He was gone in a second, Hickory, dickory, dock, Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, Ahhh, There is a huge Hippo at the door.. What will he do? , Hickory, dickory, dock, A hippo went up the clock, The clock struck twelve, It it... it... didn't go well, Hickory, dickory, dock,Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, says the broken clock, Hickory, dickory, dockThe mouse ran up the clock, The clock struck one, Hickory, dickory, dock, Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, Hickory, dickory, dock, The Bluebird flew up the clock, The clock struck two, And scared bird flew, Hickory, dickory, dock, Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, says the giant clock, The Poor Ant , Hickory, dickory, dock. The ant crawled up the clock, The clock struck three, She hurt her knee, Hickory, dickory, dockTick tock, tick tock, tick tock, Oh....A Squirrel... , Hickory, dickory, dock,A squirrel climbed up the clock, The clock struck four, She fell to the floor, Hickory, dickory, dock, Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock says the giant clock , Hmm.. A Buzzing Bee, Hickory, dickory, dock, A bee buzzed at the clock, The clock struck five, She flew to her hive, Hickory, dickory, dock, Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, An old Mr. Frog.... Hello Mr. Frog , Hickory, dickory, dock, A frog jumped on the clock, The clock struck six, He lost his sticks, Hickory, dickory, dock, Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, says the giant clock , A cute Hare..awwww , Hickory, dickory, dock, A hare hopped on the clock, The clock struck seven, Oh! Goodness heavens, Hickory, dickory, dock,Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, Ahhh.. Now it is a L L LLion... Grrrr...ohhh h h hello Mr. Lion , Hickory, dickory, dock, A lion walked up the clock, The clock struck eight, He ran out the gate, Hickory, dickory, dock, Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, says the giant clock, Now was the turn of Piggy Mom & her cute piglets, but the piglets were sleepy, Hickory, dickory, dock, Piggy slept near the clock, The clock struck nine, Piglets started to whine, Hickory, dickory, dock, Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, A Monkey , Hickory, dickory, dock, A monkey climbed up the clock, The clock struck ten, He was scared again!, Hickory, dickory, dock, Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, says the giant clock , A dog, Hickory, dickory, dock, A dog barked at the clock, The clock struck eleven, He was gone in a second, Hickory, dickory, dock, Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, Ahhh, There is a huge Hippo at the door.. What will he do? , Hickory, dickory, dock, A hippo went up the clock, The clock struck twelve, It it... it... didn't go well, Hickory, dickory, dock,Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, says the broken clock

A Rasher of Poems for Snarky Children by Russell Bittner Habeas Corpus

Habeas Corpus he‘s our man; If we can't have him nobody can.

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Little Miss Muffet Little Miss Muffet sat hard on her duff so it wouldn't be ferried away.

Along came a stranger who cried out "No danger!" to which she protested "Parlez!"

“I‘ve just come to visit and couldn't resist it when I saw you sitting that way. " "Then tell me your purpose that I might subvert it,“ said prodigy's young protégée.

"But Miss, I'm no misfit ­ now come, have a biscuit as I‘ve got a some pretties today.“ “This duff ain't no manger, and I ain’t no babe, sir, so get thee and thy myrrh away!"

"You're tough, little Muffet, and likely enough to lay waste to my little buffet."

TLW/50

“You aren't a park ranger, and I‘m not deranged, sir, so no way should you stay, José!" ***** The gist of this story is nothing so boring as what may or not come to play at times when young girls, quite obsessed with their curls, think nothing except to obey ­ but rather, like Muffet, just tell them to stuff it when strangers uncomfortably stray, and disregard suitors who sail in on scooters while paving the way with 'Olé!'

TLW/51

Raging, Wotan, rides to the Rock by Arthur Rackham TLW/52

Four(teen)­letter Words Many are the words 1 know, but there's one I'm loath to use; warily, I've watched it grow well beyond its terrible twos.

No, it's not the word I choose if, in saying it, I blush euphemistically for "lose" what I urgently must flush.

Nor is it the one 1 slice when my brother makes me sick; we say 'Richard' when he's nice; when he's not, he's one real 'Rick.’

'Irue again for my big sis' when she's got an angry itch ­ hang­nail, zit or sloppy kiss, she becomes a brazen witch.

If I've caught you by surprise, wondering what it might be, piqued as punch and yet not wise, here's the lock to fit the key: fourteen letters in a word may seem frankly alien; yet the word's not so absurd... it's 'sesquipedalian!’

TLW/53

Hendrickje sleeping by Rembrandt

Nolens Volens My friend Nolens ­ just like me ­ goes to bed unwillingly.

Nolens thinks that sleep is rot; Mom, however, thinks it's not.

"What the heck," ­ I hear Nol say ­ "sleeping leads to tooth decay!"

Nolens has a point, I think; Mom, however, doesn't blink.

"Sleep's not right for guys like us ­ TLW/54

guys who spit and curse and cuss!"

Nol ­ it's clear ­ loves sacred texts; Mom politely genuflects.

Then, as I'm about to swear, I see Nolens grab his bear, hibernate, and take a chair high up where there's no there there.

Nolens‘s fingers, once asleep, leave off fleecing Bo Peep's sheep ­ wherein I discern the rub: Nol has fallen for the cub.

I next grumble fitfully as the clock strikes half past three, sinking me with each dull clink ­ Mom, however, doesn't shrink.

She, instead, has darker plans: "Afternoons," she countermands, "aren't ­ like mornings ­ made for naps; pillows take the place of laps."

Volens now unmasks my frown as Mom gently swings me down, sending me between the sheets into rapture that entreats me to ask for one more thing to divest of sleep its sting: that while sucking on my thumb, I can think of Nol as chum.

TLW/55

What Warmth Is There in One Old Tree?

What warmth is there in one old tree with room enough for me and thee to crawl inside and order tea and scones this red­nosed Monday?

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Much more, I‘d bet, than on the ground where snow and ice and dog­ abound, and boomers, in surround­sound, box our cars into next Tuesday.

If not a tree, let's find a lake and swap our tea and scones for cake, then ratchet up the flame to bake our "catch" on pie­skied Wednesday.

If not a lake, at least a pond of which your forebears once were fond before they slithered out to bond ­ less gills ­ one murky Thursday.

(A pond is but a toad's brass ring ­ theatrically, his chance to sing as well we might before we bring the curtain down on Friday.)

But if you'd rather hug the bank because the last time out you sank up to your knees in mud that stank of fish we caught on Saturday, then let's just light a little fire and make of toads and fish a pyre, and to our tree once more retire to sleep till Easter Sunday!

TLW/57

Hurly­Burly Hurly­Burly's one sly guy ­ wears his cap and gown awry; plots his pleasure (he ain't shy!) like a six­pack samurai.

Our man Hurly's quite a wit when he dares to err a bit; once he's packed and stowed his kit, Burly likes to kick some lit.

Poetry is Hurly's game ­ he thinks prose­artistes are lame; verse is how he shoots at fame (when and if he cares to aim).

Burly says that bland's just grand when he hides his maestro‘s hand orchestrating contraband for the sandbox and the sand.

Art: Boy Bitten by a Lizard, Caravaggio ꞏ 1596

Nothing bothers our man Burl' ­ least of all, a bad referral; neither boor nor cad nor churl wants to toy with this guy's girl.

Now that Burly‘s gone to bed ­ just like you, retired ­ schemes abound in his young head reamed in black and white. . .and red!

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TLW/59

Had a Dog, More Like a Sheep Art: Head of a Dog, Edouard Manet, Date: 1876; Paris, France , Style: Realism

1 had a dog, more like a sheep, and all that damned dog did was sleep.

'Bergen' was a drifter's choice of a name bereft of voice ­ voice is what she got from me every time I'd spring her free.

In the park, or almost there, Bergen barked a spare "Beware!"

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Bergen had a girl's grin: like her mistress‘s, for sin.

Everywhere my Bergen went, scents would beckon, doggie­sent.

Sugar­eyed and shaggy­tailed, like a whaling­boat, she sailed right into another's poop, leaving purposeless my scoop.

Bergen never jumped the gun; sleeping in was too much fun.

Why go out and shake a leg?

When you're Bergie, you can beg: "Take me to the land of treats!

'More I sleeps, the more I eats ."

(Bergen weren't no grammar hog, bibliophile or pedagogue.)

Bergen liked to play with pups, hanks of hair and empty cups.

Fleas would fly to her like gnats, after which, she'd fly to cats.

Now that Bergie's gone to waste, I recall how once she chased cats from limbs and sophistry down to dogs' philosophy.

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This Rain That Wears No Raincoat This rain that wears no raincoat and has no claim on me would just as soon I were the moon now floating out to sea.

This rain that scorns galoshes and rails at bonhomie would suffer ill repute to boot a hooligan like me.

This rain that thinks umbrellas and plastic hats are twee would find it hardly suitable that you now shelter me.

Art: A Public Garden with People Walking in the Rain,Vincent van Gogh, Date: 1886; Paris, France, Style: Post­Impressionism, Genre: genre painting, Media: chalk, paper

This rain that falls in buckets, then sets those buckets free to sail away, extempore, means not a whit to me.

This rain that washes windows and falls by clouds' decree, then reaches for a rainbow's hand has nothing over me.

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Artist: Theodor Severin Kittelsen

Sleeping with the Monkfish: The Execution (Based on a True Meal)

TLW/64

Line them up on the chopping block: Spring onion stripped defrocked Spicy pepper green deseeded Summer yellow squash that’s washed Fennel fresh both bulb and weed Bloody red tomato diced The guillotine falls fast and clean the garlic clove is cleaved its head rolls into oiled pan with others once bereaved They sleep in extra virgin oil olives laced cayenne When vital juices seen to bleed then simmer, stir, and blend Monkfish telling lobster lies drawn­and­quartered join the sizzling medley lemon­splashed with parsley­herb and thyme Tossed about the sauté surf with sea salt savor sprayed the seething stir is peppered yet then beached upon my plate

©­Mannone ­ 2008 TLW/65

TLW/66

Christmas Present by Marie Shields My sister­in­law has arrived with her three little darlings, all under the age of four, and that pompous proctologist she's married to. I'd suspect he wasn't the father if they didn't all look just like him. The baby is really his pitting image since she's as bald as he is. The other two actually have hair, lots of it, bright spiky red­orange hair. Wonder where that comes fi'om. We don‘t have any redheads.

It‘s going to be mayhem around here for awhile with all the cooing and ooing and ‘hasn't she gotten big' comments. I'll be saying it too, but when I do, I mean that those kids are fatter than ever.

1 holler at my wife that I‘m going to take the dogs for a walk and slip out the kitchen door.

Damn dogs. Usually they're pulling on the leash wanting to go another mile or so. Today they are dragging behind me as if I were abusing them. It's a thought. When life gives you lemons, kick the dog. Or something like that.

1 half drag, half walk them to the dog park where they refuse to play and just sit there staring moumfully at me.

Nobody here but me and them, guess they know where the action is. Afier an hour I give it up.

Now that we're headed for home they're in a hun'y. "Heel," I holler. "Heel, you mutts." They ignore me.

Well, at least I had enough foresight this year to stash a bottle of Seagram's 7 in the garage. I chug down a couple of good belts before I go inside to join in the holiday festivities.

"Hiya Proc. How's the butt business?" I laugh at my own witticism, but I'll bet he thinks I'm laughing at him struggling out of my recliner. Maybe I shouldn't have had that last belt.

"Merry Christmas, Richard. I have asked you more than a dozen times not to call me by that vulgar name," he says.

"Dick. My name's Dick. Think penis, Doc." His hands are ‘the tools of his trade‘ and he's very protective of them. 1 squeeze his hand as hard as I can when we shake. We stand toe to toe, eye to eye. Sort of. He's about a foot taller than me and got one hell of a grip for a fat guy.

1 shrug and let go first. "Where's my old lady?"

"Our wives are upstairs putting the finishing touches on Santa's surprises."

TLW/67

"Oh, yeah. How about the brats?"

"Our children are downstairs in the playroom."

"Think I'll check on everybody. Say hello, ya know. Make yourself at home, Doc." He hates being called Doc only a little less than he hates Proc.

The kids are all glued to the television watching a Powerpuff Girls Christmas special. Now, there's a mean bunch of girls. I watch long enough to guess that the three of them are going to use their superpowers to gang up on some other little girl and beat the crap out of her. They don't seem to scare the kids, but they scare me.

Halfway down the hall I can hear my wife and her twin sister arguing in that controlled tone they always use.

They might bicker a lot, but even Proc knows better than to try to get between them. They're tighter than Siamese. Only difference between them is, I got Lynn pregnant while we werestill in high school. Emily Rae went on to college and married a rich guy.

I stop in the bathroom and gargle some Listerine. My wife likes a good stiff drink as much as I do but pretends she never touches the stuff when any of her family is around.

"I have to insist you rewrap your children's presents,“ Emily Rae says. " If you want presents rewrapped, you're going to have to rewrap yours."

I'm proud of her. Stick to your guns, honey.

"I can't understand why you are being so unreasonable about this, Eleanor Lynn."

"Don't call me Eleanor, you know I hate that name." says Lynn.

"It's a perfectly respectable name. Our great­grandmother was a real lady. She would havebeen gracious enough to rewrap her presents."

"If you think it's so all fired gracious, why don't you do it?"

"Because, Eleanor Lynn, my children have so many presents and yours only have a few."

A few? We almost bankrupted ourselves this year. I just couldn't stand another year of seeing that look in Lynn's eyes when everybody else‘s kids were opening presents for two hours after ours finished. Even though we make our kids open real slow.

"I can't believe you're being so selfish. That you would willingly ruin your own niece's and nephew's Christmas," says Sis. "You used the exact same paper and ribbon as I did on purpose. How could you afford it anyway?"

"I got it at Costco, same as you did. What difference does it make that they're the same?"

"Mine still believe in Santa Claus. They know he'd make their gifts special. Yours are probably so heathen they don't even believe anymore. I wouldn't put it past that Richard."

"Dick." I hear Lynn's breath catch in a sob. "And yeah, they do know God and Santa Claus aren't the same person.

Dick might not be very religious but he don't.. .doesn't lie to the kids."

I want to go in there so bad. I want to hold my wife. I want to yell at her stupid sister, tell her that if the kids think the presents are from Santa it would make sense they're all wrapped in the same stupid paper.

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But I don't.

When I asked Lynn what she wanted for Christmas this year, she said she wanted me to be nice to her family and not make a scene. And, by god, that's what she's going to get. Starting right now. © 2008 - Sheild

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NEAL CELEBRATES CHRISTMAS by Cheryl Chambers Neal discovered a spectacular postcard last year; on it the baby Jesus and the Virgin Mary huddled in a manger, candlelight behind each head providing the halos. Normally Neal noticed only regular Christmas postcards with a jolly Saint Nick or a cozy, well­lit home surrounded by fresh snow and a friendly neighbor sleigh riding by, a hand of greeting held high in the air. But this card depicted the real deal. This card was Ukrainian. He bought it.

His mother had him over two days before Christmas, which had become their tradition.

They sat on opposite sides of the table, feasting on ham, potatoes, a few carrots, and cookies for dessert. Afierwards, they took the bus to the theater and watched a Christmas comedy.

Neal accompanied his mother home on the bus, made sure she safely entered her apartment, then took the bus back home to his studio. That day they did not talk much, but they listened to the sounds of forks clinking on plates, boots crunching snow, and audiences laughing at slapstick. Later, alone in his apartment, Neal hung Christmas lights. He made popcorn strings of garland. He listened to Andy Williams. He turned off all the lights and left the Christmas string blinking on and off like a holiday strobe.

The next thing Neal knew, the phone rang and natural light filtered under the door and between the blinds. He didn't answer the phone in time but reaching toward the cradle left him staring at the faux fireplace mantel. On it, a solitary stocking hung. Above it, the postcard Jesus and Mary smiled at one another from inside the flame Neal had bought for them. Neal's presence intruded on their serenity. He freed them from the frame, wrote a short note to his mother on the back, and left the apartment to mail it, all the while thinking it was his mother’s turn to wonder where the hell Joseph was.

END

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