Of Books and Libraries
By KJ Hannah Greenberg
Response

“MooMaw, tell me a story.”

“Sure.”

“Tell me about libraries.”

“Well, I’ve long been something of an anorak.”

“A parka?”

“No, a ‘boring,’ nonsocial person.”

“Why?”

“I like my garden and my violin. I was never interested on clubs, except for youth orchestra.”

“Oh! Tell me about books. Mommy has three of them but keeps them locked in her cabinet.”

“Books are worlds. Through them I discovered aesthetics, the artistic dimension of invention; technique, the skill dimension of discourse; and ethics, the moral dimension of creativity.”

“So you’re a professor to make other people read books?”

“Something like that.”

“Are yours locked away?”

“Heavens! Of course not! Did you never notice this shelf?”

“So many books, MooMaw!”

“Would you like to read one?”

“Could I touch it?”

“Sure. Reading trumps mental brumation, always.”

“Huh?”

“Mental torpor, lack of critical thinking, missing assessment skills. You must read and read and then read some more.”

“Can I really touch it?”

“Sure.”

“Wow!”

“Did you know that prescriptive ethical theories and descriptive ethical theories have existed for more than a millennium but were first legitimized in the Twentieth Century?”

“MooMaw, I don’t think you teach gardening or violin.”

“Nope. Philosophy.”

“That won’t help me with fractions. Also, your words are too long”

“Sorry.”

“Explain this one to me—it’s in this book’s title—‘incommensurabilities.’”

“That means ‘things that don’t match.’”

“Like your socks?”

“Well, they sort of match. They’re the same fabric and length, just different colors.”

“Like my hair and yours?”

“Actually, I was a ginger before you were born.”

“I made your hair change color?”

“No. Hair color changes when people get old.”

“So what’s the word mean?”

“‘Not matching per causality.’ ‘Causality’ is about intent and actualization.”

“Your words really are too big for me. Do you like this book?”

“Look at the cover, again, I wrote it. I’ll try to explain. That bike that you wanted but didn’t buy because your allowance wasn’t enough is a simple example of an incommensurability.”

“Whatever, MooMaw. Do you have an easier book? Another one that I can touch?”

“Absolutely. Take this one.”

“Thanks. I like holding them. I like sniffing them, too. Why doesn’t Mommy let me touch hers?”

“They make her sad. One of hers, she wrote. Another one of hers, her dead twin wrote. The third one of hers, your PopPops wrote.”

“Mommy’s still alive even if Auntie and PopPops are dead.”

“Another case of causality. Anyway, you would’ve liked libraries. Imagine a building filled with room upon room of ceiling-high bookshelves.”

“Not possible. Hardly anyone has books.”

“Libraries belonged to everyone…”

“This one’s called Grimms’ Fairy Tales.”

“It’s scary.”

“More than incommensurabilities?”

“Different.”

“What if you were a kid who couldn’t reach high shelves?”

“There were ladders. Better, each library had a room with low shelves. That room for special for children.”

“Children had their own book room? Was your book there? PopPops? Mom’s? Aunties?

“No. University books didn’t sit in children’s library rooms.”

“What sat there?”

“Books about dolphins, friendships, rockets, dragons, families, daffodils, and kites. What’s more libraries provided an hour, at least once a week, when a librarian, meaning, a person working at the library, would read to children.”

“Did they read Grimm?”

“Yes, and other frightening tales.”

“Wow! Do you like being a professor? Did PopPops? Mommy? Auntie? Why did Mommy quit?”

Mommy became very sad when Auntie died.”

“ I don’t want to be a professor. I want to be an ear, nose, and throat doctor. I know the word for that; ‘otolaryngologist.’ Did PopPops help you with gardening or violin? Did he teach them to Mommy or Auntie?”

“PopPops taught math. I met him when we both worked at a university. He didn’t like digging in the dirt or practicing music. He did teach Mommy and Auntie had to dance with numbers.”

“Like this?” (she spins).

“Not exactly.”

“So, did Mommy or Auntie teach math? Philosophy?

“No and nope. Mommy taught literature, she taught about books.”

“Why not about gardening? She loves her roses and Lily of the Valley. I can pick her roses but not her Lily of the Valley. Mommy says they’re poisonous.”

“They are. Please never touch them.”

“Was Auntie a professor, too?”

“No, she was a cattle rancher. She fell in love with a cowboy, whom she then married. After their wedding, she moved to his farm.”

“Did she have books? Do you still know her husband?”

“He remarried. The had no children, so he saw no reason to keep in touch with Mommy, PopPops, and me.”

“That’s sad.”

“Yes.”

“Will you read some of Grimm to me? I know how to read but I like hearing your voice. Afterwards, can we bake chicken potpies and pick some of the edible flowers in your garden?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Moomaw, do you still play your violin?”

“Of course!”

“Will you play some songs for me after we pick the flowers? Music helps me with spooky things. I want you to read Grimm but I don’t want to be very scared.”

“Deal.”

“When we make the potpies, will you tell me more about libraries?”

“Yes. Not all goodness can be digitalized.”

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One-Eyed, Long-Nosed, Espying Rooftop Pigeon Eater
By KJ Hannah Greenberg
Inspiration piece

As soon as Harriet entered the building, she headed to the seventh floor. There, on the rooftop, was the pigeons’ nest.

The last time that she had climbed so high in the complex, she had thought that Jarad was going to propose to her. Then, rather than sit on one of the provided benches, she had placed herself on the floor, near the raised beds of tomatoes, peppers, and squash.

He had spotted her and had sat nearby. Yet, his posture had been curious; there had been no kneeling on a single leg. What’s more, there had been no tiny box filled with a precious ring.
Instead, Jarad had looked directly at Harriet and had told her that he was breaking off their affiliation.

Thereafter, he had fled.

For a short span, Harriet had stared at the door through which he had left. Her lover had given her neither reason nor rationale for the destruction of their union. At least, he hadn’t lied about the whats and wherefores.

It wasn’t so much that Harriet had become unhinged by the mysterious woman’s voice on their answering machine. Neither had she become unsettled by the large withdrawals that Jarad had “surreptitiously” made from their shared bank account.

However, it had been the headhunter Email that Harriet had seen on Jarad’s laptop when a stomach ailment had made him bolt for the bathroom before deleting his screen. The job referenced was in Asia.

Harriet’s mother had never liked Jarad. She had complained all along about things like gaslighting and forced isolation. Harriet had ignored her, telling herself that if not for Jarad, she would never have sought therapy and would have remained in dysfunctional friendships.

On balance, her therapist, too, had pointed out the gaslighting. Meanwhile, Harriet’s former friends had remained loyal. First, they had reconnected with Harriet on social media and, thereafter, they had reconnected in person. Although Jarad had honked a lot about those reestablished associations, given her therapist’s help, Harriet began to reengage in them.

Anyway, after her would-be plighted man had run away, she had stayed on that rooftop. One benefit of her apartment was her access to that outdoor space. The umbrellas and waterproof lighting were nice, but the gardens and the urban wildlife that was attracted by the gardens were nicer. Harriet had espied all manner of birds, some squirrels, a snake (!) and a handful of lizards on that roof.

That fateful day when Jarad had broken up with her, she had also seen the pigeons’ nest. Peaking beneath the belly of a morning dove had been two eggs.

Now, four weeks later (she hadn’t dared to revisit the location earlier since even envisioning such a visit had brought tears), she again had climbed onto the roof. Curiosity had overcome grief.

Whereas the young nestlings were not yet able to fly, they were practicing flapping. Their down was mostly gone, replaced by adult feathers. Their life seemed to be proceeding according to expectations.

Harriet sighed and then took pictures of those young with her cellphone. After the crumbling of her and Jarad’s partnership, when Harriet had returned to their apartment, she had apprehended that not only had Jarad removed his things, but that he had, likewise, taken her computer, her favorite paring knife, her tiny bottle of expensive perfume, and her car keys.

Fortunately, after Jarad was arrested at the airport, her belongings, including her car, had been returned to her. Further, the officer who had knocked on her door had been welcomed eye candy.

Additionally, Harriet had been able to collect funds from Jarad’s hidden bank account. It was useful that her sister was married to a skilled lawyer for whom cat and mouse games were a main source of income.

At any rate, what Harriet wanted most was quiet and normalcy. At least, on the rooftop, where a neighbor was growing honeysuckle and another was farming roses, there was a semblance of peace. Plus, there were baby birds! So, before she felt emotionally well enough to return to work, but after she had recouped her fiduciary losses and then some, Harriet had returned to the roof.

Given pigeons’ predilection for nesting high, often beyond the reach or sight of humans, the nest had been a surprise. Harriet had never seen eggs nor hatchlings, except on the Internet. It was encouraging that something was healthfully moving toward the future. That is, had been moving toward the future.

As soon as Harriet had opened the door to the roof deck, Cyclops, a one-eyed rescue that lived on the floor below her apartment, came charging through. The canine had no ability to read the displayed signs that stated pets weren’t allowed in urban paradise.

After marking various raised beds, he ran toward the rail housing the nest. In a single, quick gobble, he consumed both fledglings.

Harriet screamed.

Cyclops circled back and then ran into the entrance through which he had emerged.

Following that incident, Harriet’s recovery took weeks. She recuperated at her sister’s home. Whereas her family knew about her relationship plight, she hadn’t told them nor anyone else about the rooftop carnage. All that was known was that Harriet had been found unconscious under the dahlias and had been sunburned, to boot.

A few weeks later, Harriet again returned to her abode. In the interim, Cyclopes had died from a bacterial infection that was likely traceable to the fledglings. As for the birds’ parents, they built no additional nests on that roof.

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Under far
cumulus cliffs
in a circle
of bone soil
one vapor plume
leans and twists
Brief white spurts tease
with collapse
until ghosts boil
ascending
Peaked hoods and
shoulders warp up
a scroll with
winter mountains
become flame-
tongues of wild steam
Rock fissures
over magma
shout old rain
back at heaven

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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.

Taxue
By Daniel David Watkins
Inspiration piece

One morning, quite a while ago, before Hong Kong became what it is, a horse appeared on the beach, just a silhouette small upon the white sand. It stood at the far end near the rocks wild but not free, being hemmed in on the right by the sea and on the left by the bank rising to the fishing village of Deep Wave Bay. The land beyond to Lantau Peak was hidden. Unknowable. I had come down in the early morning from the apartments – themselves, at that time, incongruous. The cold blue grey of dawn made me giddy and I blinked before I stared at the impossible horse thrown up by the sea. I thought I might hunker down where I stood above the beach to watch. Safe.

Wu Fong made wooden puzzles. He would take them to the market in Central for the tourists. He fashioned their intricacies from drift wood but you would never have known, once the grain was polished. The pieces were hard from the salt and bleached white and he left them like that so they felt good in the hand. And the boys would take them apart in their arrogant haste but never could put them back together with their fumbling fingers. All impatience.

In truth, the boys had woken me. Their feet had slapped down the concrete steps outside my door and I wondered at them in my half dream. But they were nowhere to be seen. Perhaps they had gone to the village to help with the nets. The thought of them unsettled me and I imagined they would appear suddenly on the low cliffs above the horse to throw stones.

The horse began to walk now close to the water’s edge. It lowered its head before shaking itself away and rising to a trot. Perhaps it had seen me or sensed me watching, and the possibility of a connection between us unnerved me so that, even from my vantage point, I decided to rise to my feet.

Mr Lau would know. He would know how the horse had appeared. He would know what to do. The boys said the horse had been stolen from the stables at Shatin by the Wo Shing Wo but the ransom had not been paid. In desperation the gang had brought it in the night to Lantau on an old dredger. I looked at Mr Lau the following week but he shook his head and said nothing. So I knew it wasn’t true. And the next day a rumour grew that the horse had swum across from Tsing-Yi to escape a cruel owner. I imagined the poor beast’s head bobbing above the waves, its eyes wild, its nostrils gaping red holes as it struggled against the currents and tides between the great container ships towering above. It could not have been like that. These were fumbling tales.

Just as suddenly as it had arrived that winter morning, so it disappeared. The impossible horse vanished after the second week. And they said it had been a ghost.

I met Taxue in the spring. I had been so lonely during the long winter that I wondered if I had created her out of my own imagination, that she had somehow emerged out of the breeze as alienation personified. My kindred spirit.

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Origin Story
By Michelle Greco
Inspiration piece

I’m from a neighborhood
where kids put you in a schoolyard headlock
in third grade.
I’m from stained glass. Jesus
looks down on everyone—melancholy.
I’m from sneakers strung
on telephone pole wires.
I’m from a place with no trolley cars
but plenty of subwoofer bumps.
I’m from Rasta and black
and spiked Kool-Aid, though I’m none of
those things.

I’m from cilantro y arroz amarillo,
platanos.
I’m from mangoes eaten whole
in a garden growing a pine tree.
I’m from a snowball thrown
by my aunt’s teenage boyfriend
to the top of our brick apartment building—
the mark lasted all winter.

Then I asked her what love felt like
because she knew everything then.
I’m from a rusty-red Honda with a
kickback/stickshift tapedeck.
I’m from Metallica and Guns N Roses
and the Doors.

I’m from thick black hair and
bangs that stuck to my face
when my four-year-old self sweat.
I’m from frontyard kickball
with all the neighborhood kids
until dusk, the youngest asking
me about owls because
I knew everything then.

I’m from greased-back ponytails
and hoop earrings with my name in them—
though I’m none of those things.
I’m from urban but strut high-class
and speak city slick.

I’m from Battlestar, Doctor Who,
space ships that pew pew.
I’m from pixie cuts, red dresses,
lipsticked velociraptors.
I’m from rum then whiskey—
the burn that runs warm.

I’ve known love, I’ve known lust
and I know nothing now but this—
I contain multitudes.

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Marilyn Ackerman

Dancing

Response

Dancing
By Diane Mayr
Inspiration piece
Common sense and a sense of humor are the same thing, moving at
different speeds.  A sense of humor is just common sense, dancing.  ~ William James

With the music we lift our
feet. Our arms float. Our hands
take on a life of their own. As
the tempo picks up we laugh
for we know what Common
Sense said, is true, “You can’t
dance with a broken heart.”

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.

Asiatic Arecas, inspiration piece 

By © KJ Hannah (Channie) Greenberg

Asiatic arecas, all lambent in the sun,

Tall stepstools to celestial balls,
Inclusive to a one,
Bring a susurrus of social gaffes.

We laugh at adolescent acts,
At glugging, snorting, plus igniting.
We point at awkward dramas’ casts
Stare toward shy jilliken girls.

If plinths, glasses, mallets would not whirl,
Like merry-go-round riders,
There’d be no fear of injury, no trees birled;
Just here, there, somewhere, confused denizens.

So to modern party scenes, such gatherings, amen.
Pugnacity among glittery, costly, confettied props,
Brings troubles now and then, when
Healthier behavior models seem lacking.

Certain friends console hosts’ hacking
Desired peacemaking skills,
Offer up cajeput’s or weed’s backing
To cover up their fun.

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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.

Hela
By © KJ Hannah Greenberg
Response

Hela has birds for brains.
Penguins, really. They sit
Upon her noggin, squawk
At cats, devour raw fishes.

Except when her niece,
Estelle, makes origami
From the Sunday news,
Last week’s edition.

So much folding,
Fussing, bustling,
Creasing, pleating,
Corrugating culls

Auntie’s response, her tears
Over: obituaries, women’s
Pages listing besties’ divorces,
Babies born to everyone else.

No drink of fashion fades,
Does erase pain. Exclusion
Persists like a proud avenue,
She parades across leftovers

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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.

for snowbird
By Amy Blaxland
Inspiration piece

windy cloak sat down at the table
lay down at her deathbed
even on her deathbed
billowed black hooded breath
why nothing comes easy
her final gust
you don’t have to make an appearance
you shrink under it
pretend your size
your muscles loosen and lie
you cannot fear grief
the water comes out
your face
crying is the
lowest form of music

_________________________

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 writing permission from the author or artist is strictly prohibited.

The First Leaf of Autumn
By Helen Lewis
Inspiration piece

i

Phaedra the wood nymph sings and dances, showering the glade with rose petals. She is naked apart from a chain of daisies around her head. As she sways, her long hair swings. Suddenly she stops.

‘Who’s there?’ she calls. ‘Show yourself!’

A young man emerges from a bush. He has sun gold hair and sky blue eyes, and his garments are willow green.

‘I am Summer,’ he says, ‘deity of the season. I wander the earth at this time of year, inspecting my handiwork.’

‘I am not your handiwork,’ says Phaedra. ‘You have no right to inspect me.’

ii

Dear Diary,

You’ll never guess what happened today! I was singing and dancing in the nude like I always do, and this bloke popped up out of a bush and told me he was a god. A god!!!! I was totally gobsmacked — you don’t get to meet gods very often. Actually, I did meet one once, but he was old and ugly and full of himself, so he doesn’t count. And this one was abso-bloody-lutely gorgeous! He tried to kiss me and I didn’t stop him. I think I’m in lurve!

iii

From: bunny@yahoo.com

To: freeze_ur_butt@gmail.com; misty@hotmail.com

Subject: Our wayward brother

Brothers,

It has come to my attention that Summer has declared his love for the wood nymph Phaedra.

It is not fitting for a deity to become romantically involved with a semi-mortal.

We need to take action.

Spring

Vernal Deity

____________

From: freeze_ur_butt@gmail.com

To: bunny@yahoo.com; misty@hotmail.com

Subject: Re: Our wayward brother

I reckon wood nymphs are fair game. I tried to cop off with Phaedra myself once, and she gave me the cold shoulder. If I can’t have her, then I don’t see why anyone else should.

I agree that we’ve got to do something.

Coldly,

Winter

__________

From: misty@hotmail.com

To: freeze_ur_butt@gmail.com; bunny@yahoo.com

Subject: Re: Our wayward brother

Hey guys,

I don’t think there’s anything we can do right now. It’s Summer’s time, you know? But when the first leaf of autumn falls, the mystical power thingy transfers to me, and I’ll do something rad.

Chill.

Your mellow brother,

Autumn (AKA Fall)

_________

iv

Summer is drawing

to a close. It rains all night

and in the morning

the lovers embrace

beneath a maple tree and

share tearful goodbyes.

‘I’ll come back next year,’

says Summer. ‘You better had,’

Phaedra whispers back.

As they pull apart

a leaf spins down towards the

puddle at their feet.

And then it happens.

Phaedra turns to stone right where

she’s standing; eyes wide,

fingers to lips, mouth

open in surprise. She won’t

dance and sing again

until Summer sneaks

back into the woods and the

roses bloom once more.
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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.