James Brasfield, Cove

The Blue Ceiling

                   there the points of compass held 

                        – Thoreau

The tide rising – tossing out, taking in –

the spindrift silvered and twilight brightened, 

revealing miles travelled by waves. 

Over the dunes 

a sudden star fell, a sewing needle’s flash 

through a remnant of dream. All the while 

he moon faded to the pale shade of meerschaum 

lining my dead father’s pipe, 

a comfort of gray smoke unspooling 

from charred layers, a compulsion 

I keep to conjure 

him I have no memory of.  

Where I slept as a child in the shingled cottage, 

my little boy slept at daybreak, 

his yesterday inhabiting his dream: 

pieces of a puzzle from midday darkening, 

then rain, rainbow, then rain, 

the summer wind cold, then waves 

pounding the beach through night again 

below the blue ceiling, 

pine knots shining through paint 

in lamplight, a room upon pilings  

to weather a storm, 

as if citadels were possible.  

            A man now, my son has set compass 

            to magnetic north of his imagination, 

            his geometries found for light falling –

            line and plane, color and volume –

            for light coming back through surfaces: 

            depths’ layered tints a revelation 

            stilled, constant the radiance forged . . .  

A mockingbird began its songs, 

trying in succession to choose a song sown 

for the moment, as if morning might pass farther away, 

and flew, gray wings over a burgeoning surf 

then dark sand, and from a dune’s brambles 

sang, as though at noon a cardinal’s cheerful song.

              I hear it nearly a thousand miles away, 

              harboring my first days 

              there, and return with my son, 

              days not to be only

              what they were then, or then . . .

Late that morning we found a whelk, 

sea-bleached, its creature absent, 

its scoop of mud and broken shells, 

its spire begun with a speck of sand, 

the work we marvelled at, 

passing the shell back and forth between us.  

Further details

Gary D. Grossman, Lyrical Years

The Dishwasher

1.

Rearranging the dish-

washer is my “thing”.

A family joke run amok,

I peer over shoulders,

“Dad aren’t you glad we’re

even putting plates in?”

But I move two blue-striped

bowls from bottom to top

and the small plates to the

center, where they evade

the rotating sprayer,

wife and daughters laughing.

“Does it really matter?”

and of course it doesn’t.

Like so many things done,

and said every day. Force

of habit or the mirage of

control of our environment,

as in this is “my” house.

2.

It is my one attempt at

engineering, or is it geometry?

Filling a finite space to

the maximum. Efficiency

squared. Or you might just

think me lazy, while I

ensure the lowest number

of dishes that I myself must

wash. Or perhaps a mild

neurosis, my inability to just

let things slide, like lights

on throughout the night.

Accepting what I cannot change.

3.

When they were younger

and had friends sleep

over, after lights out, when

they were nestled in bed,

small bird voices would

fly out from their

slightly opened doors

“what’s that noise?”

“Oh don’t worry, it’s

just my Dad rearranging  

the dishwasher”.

Further details

Kate Maxwell, Down the Rabbit Hole

Carroll Called it Fiction

Alice, Alice, just choose a door.

If you’re waiting for it to be the right one

then you’re obviously in the wrong dream.

Haven’t you seen the news?

Doors can be alternative these days.

They all lead to somewhere

but even somewhere is up for debate.

All doors matter. Just open one

and if you grow too inflated for the house

then bust down the house, girl.

Want to join the Tea Party?

Grab a crock of conspiracy, take a place

where the noise never stops

the riddles don’t make sense

but hey, it’s a wild ride.

Or be a Dormouse. It’s up to you.

Just stop whining about rules and traditions.

Those doors are under renovation now.

You don’t want to get locked out, Alice.

The Queen, or King (nobody’s really sure)

may look comical with painted face

such dainty hands and pompadour

but they will still

take your head.

Heed the Rose Garden warnings.

Watch those loyal soldiers

painting blue roses red, and remember

however farcical and futile they seem

those cards are stacked

much thicker than you think.

Follow the white rabbit, Alice.

It’s easier just to fall.

Eat the cake. Drink from the bottle

labelled with little lies

and it’ll make the world seem real.

And what is real anyway, Alice?

Real is what you believe.

Find that golden key

flashing in the comments thread

hidden in the web, in the chalice

of evangelical zeal.

Choose a door, Alice, and believe.

Further details