Daniel Wilcox Debuts

“Roll Ever Columbia”
by Daniel Wilcox

They bag fading lighthouses,
Explore more lone departed posts,
Live in their relationship of ship
To water and shore;
Brave roaring ocean storms
Bar none, faring better, more
Than boats-of-line passing through
That perilous channel ‘washing
Tons’ of Oregon’s waves,
Churning in between,
But unlike historic river pilots
Who guided in-bound ships
Over that dangerous bar,
Their home doesn’t dominate high
On Fort Astor’s exalted bluffs;
And her love hearkens back to 1812,
Long before any lensed high tower,
Back when townies lit up a blazing
Tree as the brilliant signal flare
To direct in an approaching schooner.
His love lights up her coastal way,
Rivering to her protected harbor;
Not like today in shallow America
Where too many a sparred couple
Forever shipwreck their ‘bows.’
He’s an in-bound ship-of-line
Braving dangerous headland
And the deep rolling river, but above,
His wild woman set aflame,
Delights his vessel’s guided way;
There’s no disappointment;
Her shored cape opens and
Welcomed, he sings the mark,
“Safe water,”
Oh so verdantly green,
Unfathomably deep,
For life;
Roll on,
Dear Columbia,
Ever and ever and ever.

*Don Bruno de Heceta, Spanish Sea Captain, was the first known
European to discover the mouth of the Columbia River in 1775.

*Captain Meares, on July 6, 1788 tried to find safe harbor on the
northern side of the mouth of the Columbia, but couldn’t so named the
place, Cape Disappointment.

*Woody Guthrie song “Roll on Columbia”

Northeast Night

Under the warm stars
Of that Whittier night,
Not Snowbound
Globally warmed,
Sliding,
Not sledding,
A lass and a lad
–Lasted, ever
Clung so close
Warming,
Like maple syrup
Snuggling
Within his
Large parka,
Smoozing,
Below
A maple
Tree

Bio:
Daniel Wilcox’s wandering lines have appeared in many magazines
including Word Riot, Counterexample Poetics, Write Room, Mouse Tales Press,
Enhance, vox poetica, and Unlikely Stories IV. Three large collections
of his published poetry are in print: Dark Energy,
Psalms, Yawps, and Howls, and selah river.
Before that, he hiked through Nebraska, Cal State University Long
Beach (Creative Writing), Montana, Pennsylvania, Europe, Palestine/Israel,
Arizona…Now he resides with his wife on the central coast of California.

B.r. Stateham Returns With a Treat in Tanka

Love and Revenge

Trees draped in fine gold
as a crisp wind speaks softly-
Cold is your heart.

A fine line separates us
that between love and revenge.

In Your Old Blue Eyes

In your old blue eyes
I am still the smiling boy
with mischief dimples–

We hold hands and watch years pass
and love mellows like fine wine.

Flowers Bloom

Flowers bloom in a
riot of outrageous colors-
hot the summer’s breeze.

Life moves with a measured pace
And we but invited guests.

Old Warrior

Helm dented, eyes dimmed
In armor old he stands firm.
Flags swirl, wind whispers

As women scream ‘Mercy, my lord!’
But in hand a blood soaked blade . . .

bio:
B.R. Stateham is sixty-four years old and still dreams . . . of dragons, of alien worlds; of dark nights haunting shadow filled alleys, of hard men with odd Codes of Honor. In other words the old man is a writer. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Bobbie Troy Returns

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By Bobbie Troy

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The Canvas
By Bobbie Troy

I stood in front of
the empty canvas
bravely thinking that I could draw
even though my pencil had
never nurtured life or
still life for that matter

I looked and looked
and confusion reigned
where to begin?
but even more importantly
where to end

Escape
By Bobbie Troy

give me a castle
but take away
the moat

No Grave to Visit
By Bobbie Troy

I understand
that he wanted to be cremated
and his ashes strewn in the woods

but what shall I do with myself
when I have no grave to visit?

Bio:
Bobbie Troy maintains her sanity and perspective on life by writing poetry, flash fiction, and original fairy tales with a 21st century twist. Her work appears in many online and print journals. Her poem, Dear Diane, was nominated for a 2010 Pushcart Prize (http://www.aliceshapiro.com/bobbietroy.html); her fairy-tale play, Sasha and the Tree of Sorrows, was produced in March 2011; and her poem, Dear Diane (Letter 2), was nominated for the 2012 Best of the Net. Bobbie also served on the Editorial Board for Saltain, a collection of poetry by Alice Shapiro. As a latecomer to the published author scene, Bobbie is proud of the fact that her first poem was published at the age of 62.

Laura Zucca-Scott Returns

Sunrises and Sunsets
By Laura Zucca-Scott

I think of sunrises and sunsets
Painting the skies
I have seen so many already
Yet never the same
By the quiet, mighty sea
By the alpine mountain tops
Driving back from a long trip
Going on to a new adventure
Or simply going home
When the sun greets you
You say thanks for dissolving the darkness
But when it says good-bye
It leaves a majestic image
Of clouds and brightness
As to reassure you
I will be seeing you soon

JP Richard Returns

The Bus Trip
By JP Richard

The bus pulled up in La Paz, motor coughing and exhaust belching, its gray, dusty sides visibly dented and scratched from hard use. The tour group slowly climbed aboard, looking at each other anxiously.

Could this heap make it all the way to the Salar de Uyuni, the world’s largest salt flats in the southern part of Bolivia?

The ten adults and the twelve children in the group- parents, grandparents, teenagers and younger children- had been looking forward to this trip for weeks. Other travelers who had been to the Salar spoke in raptures about the trip. We had read up on the site’s wonders. The day had dawned bright and crisp, with the thin, high-altitude air practically vibrating with our anticipation. We were setting out for the interior wilds of Bolivia on a dilapidated bus on an adventure we were having second thoughts about already.

“I wonder why the bus is so seedy,” I asked Steve. ” I’ve seen some real plush tour buses cruising all over town. Why didn’t we get one of those?”

“Maybe the tour organizer took our idea of economy a little too far,” Steve shrugged his shoulders.

The whole trip had been planned by a local travel agent with a reputation for taking good care of her guests. What had happened this time? The trip had been sold to us as a high adventure trip to one of the wonders of South America. We knew accommodations were a little less than luxurious in this poor country, but our first impression was not positive. But there was no turning back now. We had paid for the trip in advance.

The first six hours of the trip, we crossed the vast, dry, desolate plains called the Altiplano on a two lane paved highway. A smattering of llamas, sheep, and goats alternated with isolated mud-brick farmhouses along the route; only two small towns broke the monotony of the drive by providing us with welcome, if seedy, rest stops. Occasionally, the bus passed a lone bicyclist beside the road.

We had prepared for the trip with snacks and bottled water for everyone, books and magazines for the adults, cards and PlayStations for the younger travelers. It worked surprisingly well for most of the trip. The youngsters were distracted with video games while the adults gazed at the monotonous scenery and commented on the poverty of the countryside.

The next five hours were less relaxed, as we traveled on an unpaved dry-gravel track the Bolivians called a road. We often forded dry rivers as they twisted through the desolate countryside. The ride was bone-jarring and dusty; we squirmed in our seats to get comfortable, rubbed our teeth to get the grit off. The teenagers were asking when it would be over, the younger children ran up and down the aisle more frequently. One calming tactic was to let them take turns in the front seat and stare out at the scenery. The monotony of it seemed to calm them- or it may have been the drone of the engine.

The bus would start down a sharp precipice, on even narrower tracks, only to climb up the other side of the valley, just as precariously. Now I knew why they had assigned us such an ancient bus. A newer one would have been too wide for the dirt roads and probably would have broken its axle in this terrain.

Periodically, the driver and his assistant would stop the bus in the middle of the road, open the door or window, letting in even more dust and dirt, then toss out some leaves and a spray of clear liquid from a bottle.

“What’s that all about?” I asked Lupe, our translator.

“They’re tossing out alcohol and coca leaves as an offering to the gods. Each of these spots recently had a serious accident.”

Then I noticed. A wooden cross stood by the roadside at some stops. At other sites, a smashed vehicle was visible at the base of the cliff we were teetering on, reminding us what could happen again.

During this phase of the trip we saw even fewer animals and no towns. So when we arrived at a town called Calchini, just at sunset, the adults heaved a collective sigh of relief.

“Looks like a ghost town,” my granddaughter Jackie said.

We turned onto the salt flat and headed out into a bleak open space with absolutely no vegetation to serve as route markers. The diminished light of the waning sun made the already stark view seem even grimmer.

After only five minutes, the driver stopped, consulted with his co-driver and Lupe, and then turned back toward Calchini.

“He says he needs to find a guide or he’ll get lost out there in the dark,” said Lupe.

“That’s the last straw–now even our drivers are lost. Where did they come from?” Luckily neither of our two drivers spoke English, so they just looked back and grinned at that remark.

A local elder was recruited after tedious negotiations. He assured the driver he knew how to find our hotel even in the dark, so we were off again. Now it was pitch black and we had to trust the guide totally.

We did finally arrive. The hotel periphery was well lit and people were milling about the parking lot waiting for us. As I stepped off the bus I heard someone call out my name and say: “It’s good to see you!”

How could anyone in this desolate spot know me by name? Whatever the reason, I felt a warm surge of gratitude to be greeted by name after such a long ordeal. Then I recognized the familiar, smiling face. It was Roberto, a guide we had met two weeks earlier in Sucre, the old colonial capital of Bolivia. Now he was back as the guide for our whole group. I now knew the trip was taking a turn for the better.

Bio
J.P. currently lives in Virginia Beach, is a member of Hampton Road Writers Group and enjoys writing about his experiences. J.P. has previously published articles on disability topics in Exceptional Parent, has written a column on Federal Procurement for a DC professional journal currently teaches technical writing and does selective market research.

Laura Zucca-Scott

It is not spring yet
By Laura Zucca-Scott

It is not spring yet
If the sky is green and torn
When wind and hail scream their revenge
You will not win your battle
When the time is not ripe
And the elements remind you
How easily they can break you
So what if you are angry
When the sky is green
And the storm pushes you down
Dream of the days that will come
But do not forget
Anger is not bad
If you can remember why
And the day will come
When delicate blooms
Will tell you
It is time now
Let the spring embrace you

Laura regards reading and writing as essential elements of life. She is a bilingual writer and her poems have been published online and in several anthologies of poetry both in the United States and in Italy. One of her poems appeared in the “Beatitude Golden Anniversary 1959-2009” anthology. Laura has also been the recipient of several awards including the International Literary Honor Plaque “Florence, Capital of Europe.” Laura is currently a full time professor at Blackburn College where she is a regular contributor to the “Vortex,” the college’s literary journal.

John Grey Returns

PREGNANT TEENAGER

Ah, small legs kicking, arms scratching
in the womb.

Coming soon, say my unlovely dreams,
the season of birth and dishonor.

No need for celebration or prayer.
A look askance will do.
A shadow or two on my next ten years.
A lottery as to the father.

Come, hospital bed, let me press my baby
to my breast, giving up mother’s milk
and a host of next year’s plans,
for the unquiet sleep,
the ceaseless whispers of friends and strangers.

Come, light, in joyous plenty,
in the supermarket aisles,
the park, the coffee house -
cast wide the doors to the laugh
of the child of children.

DESIREE

The red-haired lady floats in the field
without ever really knowing where she is.
It rains. Her umbrella opens -
she’s a museum piece,
proud legs in tall grass,
her hand brushing aside droplets.

From the misty window,
scenery obliges.
In my old leather book,
I preserve red hair and angel sketches.

THE BUGS

There’s insects buzzing about the flowers.
They plight their troth to the natural world.

Inside the house, a few bandits, outliers, rebels,
circle fresh cooked bread or an undiscerning arm.

Some blooms are designed to lure the bugs they want,
dissuade all those they don’t.

In these rooms we’ve carved out of the wilderness,
the one who wields the spray can sees no difference

between any species, flying or crawling, brash or hidden,
as long as it’s adorned by chitinous exoskeleton.

The outside can encompass — everything belongs.
But within walls, we quickly draw our line of powder

behind the refrigerator, at the foot of the cupboard.
Ninety percent of the differing metazoan life forms on earth

the odds against it just being us.

THE THIN STREAM

A narrow silver vein of earth
flows across the countryside.
It introduces water on a small scale
to the crops it threads.
The skinny greenway of its shore
is a reminder of what the rains can do.

Farmer says it’s not the river it used to be:
half as deep as thirty years ago,
current braked by dam and drought,
fished out and splashed out
by the youth in its rear-view mirror.

Still, it’s the only stream they have in these parts.
Like a life that’s wound down and hurting
but still worth living in.
And lovers still link hands down
by its banks in early moonlight.
And no one dares say,
love’s not what it was.

It can only do
what it has waters to accomplish.
Reminder, regret, resignation, regards -
it’s river enough.

Bio
John Grey is an Australian born poet, works as financial systems analyst. Recently he’s published in International Poetry Review, Chrysalis and the science fiction anthology, “Futuredaze” with work upcoming in Potomac Review, Sanskrit and Osiris.