Response Photograph
Broken Dreams By Judy Weinberg

 
Inspiration
The Hollow Husband by Grace Burns

Judy Weinberg
Response

Mary
By Grace Burns
Inspiration piece

she stands alone

amidst the ugliness,

destruction and chaos

she stands alone

always upright,

never faltering

she stands alone

and prays not

for her own plight

but for those

whom she loves

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Fork Handle by Judy Weinberg

Inspiration

SILENCE IN THE CRIB by Marcela Kogan

Response

Perched side-by-side on a bench in Forest Hills Park in Queens overlooking the cemetery, a blanket of snow covering the dead, I ask papi point black: “How is your sexual relationship with mami going?”

I wonder for a split second if this is a weird question for a 28-year old daughter to ask.

But we’re honest with each other that way.

Papi brings the pipe to his mouth and lights it in circular motions. I stay still and wait for an answer. Papi only says things once. He takes a deep puff, lifts his eyes to the sky and exhales. The smoke settles between us.

Two blocks from Woodhaven Blvd, worlds away, I hear familiar sounds of horns beeping, sirens going off, buses humming and sighing as drivers fight through Friday afternoon rush hour traffic.

I arrived at my parent’s 4^th floor apartment an hour ago from Washington D.C.  I brought with me an essay I wrote about Buenos Aires, the city I lived in until I was 12 years old, when papi decided to open up a dental practice in America in hopes of making more money.

But his dreams were shattered as he waited for hours in his dental office for patients who rarely came. Those days he looked broken, and I longed to fix him.

Papi greeted me by the doorway of the Queens apartment with outstretched arms and I walked into his embrace. I put my suitcase down and looked for my mother.

“Aqui estoy,” she said. In the tiny kitchen overlooking rooftops and train tracks, amid the steam from soup bubbling over and the sizzling sound of vegetables sautéing,  mami reached out for me. We hugged for a long time. I planted a kiss in her soft, warm cheek.

Papi was standing by the kitchen. He had on his fedora hat and tweed jacket—a signal that he was ready to go on one of our rides. I couldn’t wait!

At the park, the wind blows away the smoke and papi’s face reappears. He looks amused, mysterious as if he knows something I don’t and he won’t say what.

“I can’t complain,” he replies exaggerating a British accent with a theatrical air to mask his Spanish accent. He takes rhythmic puffs while gazing at the vast expanse of dead bodies before him as if looking at a world wonder.

“I know you don’t get along with her,” my voice a whisper. I run my fingers through my long brown hair, tilt my head back, hold in my stomach and move closer to him.

“I just wanted to make sure you were sexually satisfied,” my voice a whisper.

He looks me down. I sit, poised. He lowers his eyes, fidgets with the rim of his hat, shakes lint off his cardigan sweater.

Filled with a sudden burst of energy, my heart races. I begin to babble on about my writing assignments,  the temp agency I’m working for, the theater class I’m taking, drowning in my chatter like someone on a bad date.

“Let’s go,” he interrupts. He puts on his hat, gets up and disappears behind me.

My heart drops. “Papi wait,” I turn my head,  exasperated. “What about us?”

He picks up his pace, motioning me to follow him.

I don’t obey.

Instead, I stare at the weeds shooting through the snow. Thoughts swirl through my brain and my mind fills up with images like collages, my mother storing dishes in the dishwasher, my brother buying my father a better video recorder, the “theme” party my housemates are planning, each thought twirling up and up through a spiraling ladder into a vast space somewhere.

Then I’m gone.

A voice calls out to me, shaking me out of a trance.

“Vamos.” Let’s go.

I oblige and march toward papi’s car. The parking lot is empty except for a police car parked near us. I get in the car, but papi doesn’t say anything and I wonder if he’s mad at me. We sit for a while. The cops in the police car look over towards our car, then say something to each other.

Papi stares straight ahead. “Act like everything is normal,” he said. I notice he is gripping on to the wheel, his thumbs tapping on it

The police car backs up and leaves.

We’re all alone in this still, desolate park.

“Descansa.” He motions me to put my head on his lap and rest. I follow his order. My eye lids feel heavy and I feel nothing.

Afterwards, on the ride home, we’re quiet for I don’t know how long. It’s getting dark. I look out the window and yearn to be the woman walking out of the supermarket, the girls strolling into 7 Eleven, the older man crossing the street, the taxi driver yelling out the window, the business man waiting for a bus, the construction worker eating a sandwich—everyone and anyone other than me.

My eyes burn and breathing is shallow.

My father is talking to me but I can’t make out the words he is saying.

A metallic taste rises in my mouth, my eye lids feel heavy again and I fight falling asleep.

“No le digas a mami que somons asi o se va a poner celosa.” Don’t tell mami we are like this or she’ll get jealous.

I shake my head. I would never tell. But I wonder, what are we doing?”

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NOTE: All of the art, writing, and music on this site belongs to the person who created it. Copying or republishing anything you see here without express and written permission from the author or artist is strictly prohibited.

Boxed In by Judy Weinberg

Response

Under a Crimson Sunset I Journey to the Heavens by Marcela Kogan

Inspiration Piece

A cab drops me off at Kennedy airport and my mood lifts.

I’m flying from New York to Washington, after a grueling three-day visit with my parents. In an overheated 4^th floor apartment, amid smells of ethnic cuisine and sounds of people arguing in multiple languages, my mother berated me for choices I made in my life.

She warned me that my life will go nowhere unless I stop writing and find a decent job, unless I got married and stop dating losers.

I’m eking out a living writing. The pay is scant but the work is noble.

Still I was scared she may be right. Riding to the airport, passing by boarded up apartment buildings, liquor stores behind bars and urine strench-subway entrances, I felt  myself tumbling into the abyss of my future.

But at the airport, amid announcements of flights boarding, plane delays and safety warnings, surrounded by lovers embracing, mothers holding babies and crews racing through security, my heart opens. I join thousands of other travelers, living in their world, sharing their excitement.

I’m swimming in the sea of humanity, feeling grateful for this privilege.

Airports are magical—the hustle and bustle of people flying all over the world, the lift to heaven a springboard to higher than heaven, the runways like red carpets rolled out for the grand entry of travelers.

I flew for the first time when I was 12-years-old. My mother and I were moving from Buenos Aires to New York to join my father, who had come to the U.S. a year earlier to work and send money home for airfare.

I had nightmares about moving and didn’t want to leave my friends. I feared I’d live out the rest of my life conjugating verbs, sentenced to never-ending English classes like those I took for five years at the Instituto Cultural Ingles, condemned to the suffocating grammatical constraints of my adolescence. On the flight to New York, I looked out the window, counting the number of clouds in the sky. I imagined myself skipping along the clouds, hopscotching all the way to America.

We touched down in this foreign land. Before stepping off of the plane, my mother whispered, “Entras con la pierna derecha.” I walked out with my right foot first, as she instructed. My throat tightened, and I wanted to cry.

I inched my way into the terminal and gazed at a festival of lights. My senses awakened as I took in the colors, sights and smells of the room—the neon signs above food stands, toys displayed in racks, kiosks selling nick knacks. Children were running in the terminal, laughing, and everyone seemed well-dressed, rich and happy.

My mother let out a throaty laugh, and hugged me. My father, waiting for us outside the gate, waved his arms calling out my name.

Twenty-years and hundreds of flights later, I still feel the splendor of travel.

I board the plane and look for my seat by the window. The man sitting in the middle, sorry to see me, steps out to let me in. I wriggle in, fumble for my seat belt, and stake my elbow on the armrest, securing my spot.

The pilot announces we’re ready to take off, his strong confident voice a lullaby. The plane accelerates, gaining momentum, and takes off. Leaning back, I put my life in God’s hands. Voices drown the sound of the engines and we drift into different worlds of our imaginations.

The captain turns off the seat belt sign. We’re free to walk about the cabin. The plane buzzes with activity,  as technology deprived passengers bolt from their seat, rip open the overhead compartments and whip out laps tops, iPods and DVD players.

Like addicts getting their fix, they sit back, sedated, their gadgets pacifiers.

“I wish we could get Internet,” the man in the middle seat mutters, frantic at being off line.

I turn my body away from him toward the window.

The sun falls below the horizon, setting the sky aglow with vibrant colors—red, scarlet, crimson and magenta merging into somber purple, violet and blue. I am flying through the color wheel of heaven.  I imagine I’m the first human being on earth, God’s rough draft of Eve. My head feels light.

I know nothing, remember nothing. I feel no shame and bear no burden.

I have no body, but my spirit flies.

I’m a clean slate, innocent, pure and curious.

On earth, I’m vulnerable to people’s opinions, but above the clouds only what I think matters.

On earth, I blame myself for making mistakes. But in the sky, closer to heaven, I’m more forgiving

On earth, time is running out. In heaven, time has no meaning.

The captain announces we’re about to land and asks flight attendants to take their seats. People put away their electronic devices and hand over trash to the flight attendant passing by.

Another flurry of activity fills the aircraft as passengers perk up in time for landing. Bursting with friendliness, passengers strike up conversations with the person sitting next to them, as if realizing, for the first time, there is someone there.

“The city looks beautiful from here doesn’t it,” says my new pal, leaning toward me, straining his neck to look out my window. I feel his breath as his shoulder brushes mine, and feel touched by this intimate gesture from a fellow man.

Coming in for a landing, my heart sinks. I feel the uncertainty of my life once again.

At the baggage claim area, lovers kiss, mothers hug sons in uniforms, fathers embrace their babies. My dark mood lightens and I ’m once again swept up in their excitement. My eyes fill with water and the scene becomes a blur. But I don’t have to see to know that love will soon come my way.

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NOTE: All of the art, writing, and music on this site belongs to the person who created it. Copying or republishing anything you see here without express and written permission from the author or artist is strictly prohibited.

Judy Weinberg
Response
Waves In Bark

Grace Burns
Inspiration
The Calm

arrives tonight.

Note: All of the art, writing, and music on this site belongs to the person who created it.  Copying or republishing anything you see here without express and written permission from the author or artist is strictly prohibited.

Judy Weinberg
Letting Go
Response

Gen X
By Grace Burns
Inspiration piece

We are masters
of multitasking

We book
double book
triple book
our days

Every waking
second is
aptly assigned

We are rulers
over time,
supreme schedulers

We cling
to these
false powers

Convincing ourselves
that they
are absolute

Until the unexpected
loosens our grip

Forces us
to let go

Our plans
shatter

Into pointless shards

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Note: All of the art, writing, and music on this site belongs to the person who created it. Copying or republishing anything you see here without express and written permission from the author or artist is strictly prohibited.

Judy Weinberg

Response

Grace Burns

Inspiration
Momentary Invincibility
bending, straightening,
stretching, contracting
inhaling, expelling

almost too arduous
but never enough to
cease the dance

sitting still is far more
poisonous

I move like this
to solve all problems

I move like this
to cure all ailments

I exercise to exorcise

Judy Weinberg

Response

Rainbow Spotting

By Grace Burns

Inspiration Piece

Prismatic droplets arch
above the eastern sky

I chant ancient incantations
long dormant

uttered last by my
girl ghost.

Note: All of the art, writing, and music on this site belongs to the person who created it. Copying or republishing anything you see here without express and written permission from the author or artist is strictly prohibited.

Judy Weinberg

Inspiration

Black or White

By Grace Burns

Response

What would it be like

to live in a digital world

where there were no

shades of gray?

right or wrong

true or false

bad or good

No time would be wasted

on ruminating.

Answers to all problems

would be instantaneous

and irrefutable.

There would be no regrets,

no wishful thinking,

no need for second chances.

Note: All of the art, writing, and music on this site belongs to the person who created it. Copying or republishing anything you see here without express and written permission from the author or artist is strictly prohibited.

Judy Weinberg Photograph

Inspiration Piece

Life With My BFFs

We were empty vessels

eager to be filled

with life’s abundant pleasures.

How naive we were

not to realize that sorrow

must accompany joy.

We are older now

weighed down with the byproducts

of our comedies and tragedies.

We cling to each other

and brace for what comes next.

We dare not let go.

Note: All of the art, writing, and music on this site belongs to the person who created it. Copying or republishing anything you see here without express and written permission from the author or artist is strictly prohibited.