Rachel Morton
Inspiration piece

Welcome Home
By Claire Guyton
Response

I think of my grandfather and see first that expression he used to get on his face when he was thinking back, we just knew he was, to those lost years. That expression could drain a room of all its air. He’d look at you but it was obvious those flat eyes weren’t seeing your face. He was seeing the flash of the machete in the moonlight, a man’s cracked leather boots splattered with blood, the tilting, spinning shadows of the night as he ran. Where? That’s the silent question that slipped through those lips, peeling back from the pain. Where can I go not to see these things?

Here, we would say, come here. Don’t look inside your head. Look at us.

He liked to sum it all up for himself, just out of the blue, when we were playing chess or making a salami sandwich or walking to the post office. I’ve had a good life, he would say. Yes, I had some bad luck, there, way back. That was some very bad luck. But then I came here, and I met your Grandma, and she made a man out of me. I had three beautiful children. And I have you, little Mickety-Mack. When I was a teenager he still called me that, once in front of a couple of friends. What’s wrong, Mickety-Mack? You look funny. In college, home for Thanksgiving, I walked into the den, where half of him hid under an old quilt, the other half behind the newspaper. Welcome home, Mickety-Mack. Know anything useful?

I wish I did.

The big holidays, that’s when he was at his best. Surrounded by family, color, noise, too much food. Only in the rare lulls did we catch him falling away, his face sliding into that expression. He was seeing the boots. Or his pretty auntie in the refugee camp, on her knees for a bag of rice, the man’s long white fingers clutching the back of her bobbing head. And he saw himself, after, grabbing more than his share from the bowl. Don’t. Please don’t. Look at us.

In those last couple of years, as he got thinner and slower, he would joke that when his time came he wanted to die like a cat. He would steal away to a quiet spot in the woods, lie next to a fallen tree. With any luck the worms and beetles would have chewed him down to the bone by the time he was discovered. Maybe, he said once, I’ll drive to the coast and buy a kayak or a canoe and just paddle until my arms give out. You’ve never been in a kayak in your life, Grandma said, you’ll just go around in circles until somebody notices and pulls you out of the water. He said, Oh, I don’t think I’ll have any trouble. I know how to tell if the tide’s coming in or the tide’s going out.

I don’t know how a cat senses its time has come but as it turned out, Grandpa didn’t get the word. When we found him, Grandma and me, he was leaning against the barn door, looking like he’d just decided to plop down in the snow to take a rest. He’d been chopping kindling, an easy enough job the doctor had approved. Aneurysm. They said it would have happened just the same if he’d been napping under that old quilt in the den, stretched out in his recliner, Barney Miller reruns rolling on the big-screen TV his children had given him for Christmas a few weeks before.

Probably he did decide to drop to the frozen earth, rest against the graying wood of the barn he’d built himself, try to wait out whatever was happening to him. He had a nice view of the snow-heavy evergreens in the woods behind the house but I don’t think he noticed that, in his final moments. You could see in his face what he’d been looking at. Those blood-spattered boots.

The boots were still as the man scanned the room for the little boy, the fast one that slipped away. The man watched and waited, breathed quiet and even, listened for another’s breath. Ignored the rolled carpet at his feet. The boy held his breath and studied those boots, framed in the oval of rough fabric, so close he could see the exact shape of each ragged drop of red. Each one, he imagined, came from a different person. This small one with the cleaner edges, that is my sister. That rough smear is my brother. Here, the fat soaking one, that is my mother. And this one, with all the jagged lines, yes, that is my father.

Oh shit, I said, with Grandma right there. Oh shit Oh shit Oh shit. Nobody was with him. Nobody was there to make him stop remembering.

Grandma knelt before him. Reached out to stroke his face. Nobody ever did that, she said, never, not for one minute.

Oh shit. Oh shit.

Don’t you see it? she said. She was still looking at him, still caressing his hair and face. It’s a good thing, Mick. It’s a good thing that’s what he was thinking. Because it means finally he beat it. He shut it down. She leaned into him, kissed his parted lips. He said enough, she whispered. Enough.

No, I don’t see it. I’ll never see it. In my grandfather’s final moments his mind was full of fear, horror, despair. That can’t be a good thing. But Grandma, she’s the one who made a man out of him. She’s the one who saved his life. I guess that’s how she did it, twisting good out of bad.

Welcome home, Mickety-Mack. Know anything useful?

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Fiona Avocado
Inspiration piece

Morning Rituals
By Marla Deschenes
Response

The simple ways of living are the beauty in this suburban jungle
The mornings where I cross that floor full of determination
To make this day better with more coffee, and more adoration from my dog
His morning walk complete before I move to zipper on my coat.

My footsteps imprint upon the stairs in sock-like patterns
The morning is when I meditate beneath lingering stars
The dog’s breath fogging up the fall air, the air breathing the cold brisk of fall
My thoughts on what’s ahead and what will forever be behind.

Padding back home gratefully for coffee and the beloved kibble
I leave my companion behind for his morning of sleeping on the furniture
And make my way back out into the crisp, the air swooshing with a laugh through my hair
The too early jack-o-lanterns mock me from the neighbor’s yard as I hurry to my day.

My happiness is not hard won through business purpose
The mornings where I lay beside the dog for just that moment of a little longer
And make my excuses to the alarm clock, and cross the floor with bravery of warm socks
Encasing my feet, my hard-won victory of purpose for another money making day.

The wind blows back my still open jacket as I descend the concrete stairs
To the automobile that is still kind enough to transport me after all these years.
I take one glance back at the house, and turn the key in the ignition
My happiness is my survival and my heart on my sleeve love.

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Helen Lewis
Inspiration Piece

Feel What I’m Singing
Found Poem By Laura Shovan
Inspiration Piece

Someone asked me the other day,
they said, Etta, you know
you had a rollercoaster of a life.
But if I, if I didn’t have a rollercoaster
how would I, how would I know?
How would I be able to
sing about the things?
How would I be able to
feel what I’m singing about,
the ups and the downs,
the highs and the lows
And I love, I really do
I love the highs and the lows.
I think that’s put some fat on my head.

From Women in Jazz: Interview with Etta James, available on YouTube

Glasses on My Head

Joshua Winegarner
Response

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Katie Helms
Spring
watercolor, sumi ink, graphite on paper
Inspiration piece

loop fling shroud
By Heidi Mordhorst
Response

clouds of birds swoop

separately together, evening

wing tips crowding loudly

— dark leaves on twigs

seeping spring green

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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.

Listen With Your Eyes
By Heidi Mordhorst
Inspiration piece

“I can sing the Alphabet Song in silent language.”

*******************

Listen with Your Eyes

Secret clutched in a closed fist:
If you wait one pinky moment
Letting sounds slide towards your thumb,
Eventually they perch like birds on a fence,
Nesting two together on a quiet egg
Till the egg cracks and a beak of song breaks through

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Oregon Coast – Newport Beach. Photo taken by Pharoah Bolding.

Blaine Klitzke – Double Falcon Summer (Click for MP3)
Inspiration piece

Beach Comber
By Pharoah Bolding

Response

He always enjoyed the beach.

He couldn’t help but find himself immersed in the experience of nature whenever the opportunity to roam the beach arose. The sand between his toes; the moist winds careening in from the sea; the calming serenity of the sunset on the aquatic horizon. To him it was like nirvana. He needed this; he needed to get away from the insanity of the city. He needed this reprieve from smog and congestion and traffic jams and foul-mouthed exchanges. Life had been pretty intense as of late and, well, being on the beach like this was equally refreshing and strengthening. He inhaled a slow and steady dollop of oxygen, reveling in the feel of the fresh ocean air as it traversed his interior before exhaling as slow and steady possible. He decided right then and there that once he was done with his afternoon’s business that he would saunter around this little seaside town and look into a timeshare opportunity. He loved it here. He began to dream of starry nights with luxurious ocean breezes . . . fine wine and long summers . . . freedom from his obligations . . .

. . . then the cold steel his ivory cotton slacks and midnight-toned leather belt held clutched to his abdominal region scratched against his weathered stomach skin.

That brought him right back down to reality.

This was no vacation – and he was no tourist.

The beach was just a setting – a setting for a deadly game. As much as he wanted to immerse himself in it . . .

The beach would have to wait.

He had business to attend to.
Blaine Klitzke

Inspiration Piece

(Please click the link to download – MP3)

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Brian MacDonald
Inspiration piece

Spark
By Brenna Crotty
Response

Because he didn’t leave any Personal Belongings at the flat,

We have no hairbrushes or notebooks, or soccer jerseys from university,

Or love letters to burn.

Just some used condoms, still in the bin,

But it doesn’t feel terribly symbolic to burn those.

We could burn him in effigy,

But Charlene doesn’t want to do that

And Laurie says it’s Satanic

And Karen says the whole thing is stupid anyway

And nobody asks me what I want to do,

Because I’m The Victim

And therefore obviously filled with the big Useless Relationship Items

And Feelings that need to be burned away

With grand, symbolic gestures.

But mostly I feel nothing, like a spark going out,

And I have so little of his to assign meaning to.

Just the time I lost one of the earrings he gave me

And refused to wear just one because of the whole

Looking Like a Twat issue

So he asked me to swallow the lonely one

And I did.

Which leaves self-immolation, I suppose.

He used to tell me that he got this feeling, the need to get out.

When four walls were the same every day

It was like putting his head in a plastic bag and inhaling.

Itchy Feet is what he called it.

But we were naked in bed at the time

With the sheets like scraps of confetti,

Just barely touching our skin

And both his arms were on my back

And I couldn’t imagine him ever moving again

So I made a joke about Athlete’s Foot

And that was that.

We finally collect a pen he used to chew on,

His favorite football mug,

And the toothbrush he sometimes used.

All of them are mine

But they touched him, I suppose.

They were in his mouth, he sucked on them,

Contaminated them,

Made them unusable for others.

My friends fail to make the comparison between

The Objects and me.

We take them out to the backyard to burn them

But ceramic mugs don’t catch fire easily,

And a pen and a toothbrush are small, paltry things.

So my friends bring me their own fuel:

Solid cords of oak from the wood shed

That still smell like a

Green, Living Thing,

And their own anger, and loneliness and outrage

On my behalf

That burns so much better than what I have to offer.

Karen, with her husband who cannot help but fuck

The Secretary

But who doesn’t have the decency to leave her for good.

Laurie, who hasn’t slept in the same bed as her boyfriend

Since the baby was born.

Charlene, who watches too many Goddamn Chick Flicks

For her own good.

They build a pyre, three feet tall and stacked like

Jenga blocks so the wood won’t roll away.

Loosen one and it goes from towering blaze

To a smoky pile of dust and ashes.

So I leave it be.

They cluster the items in the middle and rim the center

With grass and branches.

Nature’s lighter fluid.

When they finally get the wood to catch,

I wait

And feel nothing.

He left without a word, but he used to tell me that he would do someday,

And just knowing that he might be gone,

It would make me breathe him in differently.

I never took him for granted.

The branches crackle and burn with a hearty,

Hefty weight to them.

Half of me is cold from the October wind

And half is warm from the fire on my face and arms,

The red comfort of it.

I blink smoke out of my eyes and wait for the feeling of him to leave me.

He was always already gone and yet he never left,

All in one.

All in one.

The sparks drift up from the pyre and disappear into the bowl of the sky

And are more beautiful for it.

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Lynne Elizabeth Heiser
For the Love You Know
Mixed Media on Canvas
Response

The Love You Know
By Tim O’Kane
Inspiration piece

There’s no love like new love – the true romantic’s opiate,
Then it’s asses to ashes and lust to dust, but not before you procreate.
Highly regarded pretty toys are soon discarded by witty boys.
No matter how loud the babies cry, silence is still the sound of good-bye.
And it’s one for the progeny,
Two for the beau,
Three to play your roll,
Four for the love you know.

There’s no gold like fool’s gold – cup-shaker, light-walker valentine.
There’s no fool like gold’s fool opines the supine concubine.
The new slave trade is the old slave trade; bodies in motion for money.
The auctioneer’s gavel cracks the air – “Sold to the man in Armani!”
And it’s one for the luxury,
Two for the blow,
Three to sell your hole,
Four for the love you know.

There’s no God like your God – and His smack religious bourgeoisie.
Father forgive me but I can’t stop connecting dots you refuse to see.
Skim the cream off a carpenter’s dream, poster boy for the big money machine,
Pray for love and pray for peace and pray for death to your enemies.
And it’s one for hypocrisy,
Two for the glow,
Three to save your soul,
Four for the love you know.

There’s no love like true love; perfect pitch and timbre clear,
Her solo show so apropos of a love so insincere.
Truth can be hurtful – beauty is painful, but the best songs always get a reprise,
He said “I love you”. She said “What does that mean?
Write it down; keep it under one hundred words please.”

And it’s one for the harmony,
Two for the flow,
Three to make you whole,
Four for the love you know.

And it’s one for the progeny,
Two for the blow,
Three to save your soul,
Four for the love you know.

Lynne Elizabeth Heiser
A La Luce
Mixed Media on Canvas
Inspiration piece

Troublous Dreams
By Tim O’Kane
Response

“This man is walking to work, same way as always, and he crosses Wielhe Avenue, same place as always, when he come across this fork in the road.  It wasn’t – the road didn’t split – it was a fork.  A dinner fork, you know?  Flatware or whatever you call it.  He just stops and stares at it.  What does it mean?  A sign?  Allegory?  He’d actualized himself into this new age mythos metaphor magnet, yet in the moment, he still considers it might all just be a visual pun.  So he’s just standing there, letting a thousand combinations of a hundred possibilities race through his mind.”

“What happened then?”

“That’s when the truck hit him.”

“Sounds like a movie.”

“Yes, but not a Lifetime Movie Network movie.  The truck was driven by the Ghost of Joseph Campbell, not the man’s wronged ex-wife.”

She laughed the easy laugh; the one she always used during their Saturday morning lollygags.  “There’s always a movie playing in your mind.”

“Not always, but often enough to frighten me.  I’m always afraid I’ll cross the street with my mind in Walter Mittyland and get killed.  Sometimes – just the idea of that terrifies me.  That’s why I never take the exact same path home.  I always vary the routine to try to keep my head in the present.”

She pushed a mass of blonde curls off her face. “When are you always in the moment? So I’ll know when I need to make sure you are …”

He smiled.  “Pleasure and Pain; one always comes and suffers in the moment.  And when I’m all wrathy, I suppose.”

He looked at her.  “No, I don’t see movies in my mind.  In the pure moment – the honest moment – of introspection, I see a non-ADA compliant stone staircase of indeterminate time and origin; old, yet somehow timeless.  It seems to materialize out of the warmest light you can imagine; a light that holds the promise of a warm embrace. Or hot sex.  But it descends into classic Dark Recesses; a giant, black, yawning chasm that says “You: Damned for All Time!”

She stretched in the morning light.  “So is it a stairway to heaven or a stairway to hell?

He reached for her.  “Yes.”

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Cristal Guderjahn
Response

“Turn left.”
He had turned right.
He had turned right to avoid the onramp.
Her sense of direction had typically caused him to imagine a wayward goose, opposing its gaggle.
They had started the morning this way, contrary to the other, each now annoyed that the other had served a snarky remark at breakfast, and each knowing the day
would be ruined.
What was it about their combination of simple aspirations, and their once-similar notions that their union was perfectly conceived in Heaven, that caused them to now default to cruel discourse to make a point; and why was that point, once eventually realized after seemingly hours of exchanging acidic words, always, always that the other was mean and fundamentally wrong about the
original intent?
There were days he hated her, even looking at her; every line around her mouth, every gray hair tucked behind her ear, her overly tweezed eyebrows, it would all make him
sick.
Then, she would speak, complain about the way he treated her, and it would start again.
It was as habitual as it was aggravating
And here they were.
Stranded again.
He sniffed.
She looked at him.
She looked at him with her “horror” expression.
The expression that said, “See? You never trust me, and you always think I am wrong.” He did trust her, at times, but he was familiar with her confused sense of direction that
seemed to result in getting them terribly lost at the most crucial times while traveling. He wondered why he agreed to travel with her at all, given that she always insisted he
drive while she navigate, sometimes with a map, often without, while both of them seemed to wait for that moment, when something would trigger either a wrong turn or
furrowed brow, setting off the pattern, the wheels in motion, the way he worried they
would be forever.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “because I saw that onramp and didn’t think we needed to get on the freeway again,” but she only snorted with that crooked smile he had once loved.
“I told you to turn left because I knew we had to take the freeway again.”
“I didn’t know, and assumed we would backtrack.”
“You assume that’s wrong?”
” I do.”

“Of course.”
“Why, Gladys, I’m just…”
“You’re just what, assuming I am wrong again?”
“Look, why don’t you just get us back to where we should be, back on track?”
“I will,” she snorted, “as soon as you acknowledge that I’m right, and that I am not an idiot, as I assume you assume about me every day of our lives.”
He gently nodded and exhaled a slow, quiet breath and wondered if he could be the
one in their marriage to stop it, but he worried if he gave in, even once, that she
would continue without his fighting back, and he saw himself after years of her voice, riddled with rage, her grinding at him, and saw himself older, a broken,
older man.
He never considered himself the angry man he had become, and never thought they, together, would evolve into the shallow, single-syllabic dwellers of their home, the
home they’d once passionately loved.
He lifted his foot off the gas pedal and softly pulled the wheel to the right.
He let the car settle by the curb.
He stopped the engine.
“What now?”
“What now?”
“”Yes, stupid, what now?”
“What if today, we end all of this?”
She shifted in her seat, faced him, and released a loud sigh through her thin nose. “Seriously, Gladys, aren’t you tired of all this fighting and bickering, and how we never
laugh anymore, and the way we are together, when we’re alone, how we pretend we’re
just fine?”
If he were to be completely honest with himself, he doubted she gave it much thought, given that she never even so much as grimaced when he would say
something particularly cruel in the peaks of their arguing, and her once-kind eyes had darkened with what he could only imagine was disdain for him, regardless of any
attempt on his part to apologize.
And here were those dark eyes again, peering into his, and for a fraction of a moment, he thought he saw her, the woman he’d married eight years ago in Wooster, Ohio.
She sighed again, and pulled the hem of her dress down her thigh toward her knee.
“I suppose I’m quite tired of it, yes.”
“Well, there you are.”
“We are.”