THEME POETRY
AUTUMN 2023 = FOLKLORE & FAIRYTALES
LET’S REALLY TALK ABOUT GOLDILOCKS
Joan Gerstein
California, United States
​
Little Goldilocks wanders through the woods,
our fairest maiden with hair the color of wheat.
She enters a stranger’s house, tests furniture,
then finds the kitchen for something to eat.
​
The first porridge’s too hot, the next one’s too cold.
Conduction may explain how that could take place.
But how do you explain such entitlement?
She’s trespassing in someone else’s space.
​
Well, wouldn’t you know, the bears return
to feast on their porridge, honey sweet.
Goldie hightails out of there so fast,
she doesn’t even have time to tweet
​
and tell all the world of her escapades.
I can almost hear a southern drawl.
She not only had a video to show
She did interviews, wrote articles withal.
​
She never mentioned she left the house a mess,
nor admitted this home-invasion was not right,
but the bears feared to call the cops on her
because they were brown, she was very white.
__________
​
STRIVE FOR PERFECTION
Mara RZ
​
I tried to be perfect
​
To fulfil my role
​
Not dishing neglect
Needed be my goal
Cleaning and birthing
Servant and whore
When I realised
Not ever more!
"I'm sorry
I can't be all that you dream
I'm just me
so's time to self 'steem"
__________
​
a-Maying
A found poem from the words of A. W. Pollard’s 1903 edition of Le Morte d’Arthur, Book XIX, Chapters I-II.
Rachel Finney
United States
https://rachelmcfinney.wordpress.com/
​
I have loved you many a year—
you season, clad in green silk;
you castle of herbs, mosses, and flowers.
Your woods and freshest fields
are long and many,
be-dashed with light
on every early morn.
In this month,
each knight shall walk
with a lady beside him;
the queen shall be with king again;
the day shall meet the morrow
in the east.
_________
​
FIREBIRD SUITE
Phyllis Meshulam
​
1. Arts Program, 2003
We are here to show what people, even little children, can create. It’s a shame our government is poised to destroy. Music Teacher, Oak Grove School
School arts assembly
on the eve of the Iraq war.
Music teacher speaks
to an audience of parents.
Children create rivers
with scarves and rhythms,
villages with song.
Later I scan
the broadcast,
x-ray of an invasion,
for tell-tale
silver streamers of
depleted uranium.
Nab the banned: sub: stance: deflect: defect: of birth: of birds
2. Arts Program, 2011
School chooses Firebird
arts theme. Children
construct forests with xylophones,
turn their bodies into horses and birds.
Then Fukushima,
then memories of Chernobyl.
Fifth-grader Quinn writes,
A bird, all life on the tips of its wings.
If it flaps them, a giant earthquake
cracks the earth in two.
Who can: forget: the hearth heap: or: remember: the kin: ship of skin: and fin.
​
Ukraine’s Red Forest
begins to sing again,
sometimes through double
or crooked beaks.
Firebird, flitting
racing, tracing
a way out, a way forward?
​
How to: reap reply.
3. In Search of Story Serum
The Firebird in fairy tales is usually as an object of a difficult quest, initiated by finding a lost tail feather, most often at the bidding of a father or king.
Stories haven’t saved us yet (except
Scheherazade, saving herself).
Still slip me a potion, sail me away
on a Kafka-craft, in search, in search.
It seems there is a tsar who can’t abide
the nightly loss of just one golden fruit
from his royal grove. He sends his sons, one
by one, at dusk to find the orchard thief.
A library table as my craft,
a raft to ride me from the high seas
of my emotions. At least save me from
a melt-down thanks to the interruptions
of the couple at the desk nearby, loudly
(and badly) teaching and learning geometry.
Don’t they know what’s at stake?
Each son will say he kept his watch but sleeps
then lies about it. Until Ivan, the youngest,
anoints his eyes with dew, keeps vigil, observes
a midnight sun appear, a flaming peacock
which gobbles the radiant fruit.
Ivan lunges and captures a single tail-feather torch.
And then the orchard thieving stops.
But the tsar burns for the rest of the bird.
He commands his sons, “Now, go bring me that feathered fire.”
And I keep asking myself, “where is the map,
the blueprint, the key to the code?” It must be
around here somewhere. Over that horizon. On that shelf.
Hard-hearted tsar: feathered fire: untethered fire: nuclear fire
4. At Sunset
The future can exist only when we understand the universe as composed of subjects to be communed with, not as objects to be exploited. Thomas Berry, The Great Work
I am trying to make the shape of
that cloud into a dragonfly
but really, it doesn’t look like one.
The only cloud that looks remotely
reptilian (I do think of dragons
as reptiles, even when they are insects)
is long and snake-like,
perhaps a feathered snake, which,
like all the clouds right now,
is the color of nectarines blended with cumulus.
I am trying to make the color of the sky
into the blue of the Virgin’s mantle,
that shade of blue so precious,
ones made from ground-up Lapis lazuli,
or Egyptian blends of copper and sandstone.
But really, the sky is a much lighter
blue right now. It holds the deeper
blue in reserve, whistling Delft
for another twenty minutes or so.
But back to the non-dragonfly cloud.
It now looks more like a baby bird
fallen from its nest: unfledged, scrawny,
wings skeletal, a fire-bird chick
flattened against blue tile.
Tile fire blue
__________
​
A MORNING’S WALK
Nolo Segundo
United States
My wife and I walk every morning,
a mile or so--
it’s good for us old to walk in the cold,
or in the misty rain, it makes less the pain
that old age is wont to bring to bodies
which once burned bright with youth,
though now I wear braces on ankles,
braces on knees, and I walk slowly
with 2 canes, like an old skier,
sans snow, sans mountain.
We passed a tree whose leaves had
left behind summer’s green and now
fall slowly, carefully one by one
in their autumnal splendor.
My wife stopped me--
listen she said-- but
I heard nothing—hush!,
stand still, she said,
and I tried hard to
hear the mystery….
Finally, I asked her, knowing my hearing
less than my wife’s (too many rock concerts
in my heedless youth), what we listen for?
She looked up at my old head, and smiled--
only she could hear the sound each leaf made
as it rippled the air in falling to the ground.
__________
​
BROKEN-SLEEP WONDERLAND
Ann Howells
Carrollton, Texas, United States
White Stetson and hand-tooled boots,
a jackrabbit rustles chamisa,
I’m late! I’m late! Me?
I’m crying on shoulders of field mice.
He, bloated and grotesque,
blocks chamber exits -- swollen cork
wedged in a bottle. He's consumed
everything labeled Drink Me.
Caterpillar draws his pipe,
skunk smell wafts. I'm not surprised;
what is a caterpillar anyway,
but a three-inch worm in fake-fur chub.
At Hatter’s mad, mad, mad party,
tea is pre-sweetened, place cards blank.
Hare wears a side arm;
Dormouse is decidedly uneasy.
Cards wobble when I trump the Queen,
throw down a harlequin:
tri-belled cap, leotard, fringed boots.
He behaves as Jokers always do.
Mock turtle tears trickle my narrative.
I am not the person I was.
Sea-dark eyes lock into mine.
Someone rattles teacups.
__________
​
WONDER AT THE WATERING HOLE
Jennifer Kindler
United States
Deep in the forest was a watering hole.
It must have been there since long ago.
But then I must say I really don't know,
Because until lost I came upon it one night,
It had never been mentioned that I can find.
But there I was that night lost and alone,
Getting deeper in the forest and further from home,
Fear telling me I could never get out on my own.
When there suddenly shimmering in the moonlight,
My eyes met a most incredible surprise!
Fear now forgotten my eyes stared in disbelief.
No longer was my heart bogged down in grief.
This watering hole brought to me great relief,
For it was not the watering hole usually found;
This one had bubbles floating all around!
The moon found the glimmer of some of the bubbles.
Curiosity found me soon forgetting my troubles.
I walked over closer through the forest stubble.
The world around me seemed all black and white,
Just the dark night forest and the white moonlight.
Around the water then I noticed some flowers.
Above the forest floor they towered.
Yet this was a very unique encounter,
For the flowers had no color or dimension,
As shadows around the water, they stood at attention.
What was going on? What to do?
It wasn't too long before I knew.
Hot and tired, my attraction to the water hole grew.
I went over and began to check it out,
Convincing myself it was safe beyond a doubt.
So, I eased on into the water and there I lay.
In soft moonlight and bubbles there seemed a way
To believe that come day, everything would be okay.
Having fun in the bubbles, I created a splash,
And then as if by magic in just a flash –
​
As the bubbles hit the shadows that as flowers stood,
The flowers began to expand; it was so good!
Then to their added dimension bright color could
Be seen in all the flowers even in the dark forest night;
In all my living days, I will never forget that sight!
The next day finally able to walk out of the forest,
I felt as if bird angels were serenading me in chorus,
And wanting me to always remember evermore –
That in the scariest night, still are blessings to be found;
And the happiness you find, may spread happiness all around!
__________
​
THE DAPPLED FOREST
Chuck Madansky
United States
In the old stories, one tree looks just like another
and soon, you are hopelessly lost.
You come to a clearing—a cottage—and your panic melts.
You just feel sheepish, relieved.
Smoke, the sweet smell of barbeque, pours from the roof—
maybe they’ll ask you to lunch. The knocker crumbles like sugar.
Naive to think that things are better, just because
we can see the sun. The old ones knew about shadows,
how night is the shadow of Earth, and the absence of light
is the least of what blooms at dusk.
The forest reveals itself in moist fragrance, quiet tones of rust
and green, in stillness the brilliance of daylight dissolves.
Turn and re-enter the uncertain light.
__________
​
BEAUTY SPINS NEW THREADS
Nadja Maril
Maryland, United States
https://twitter.com/SNMaril/status/1513551773847506952
https://instagram.com/nadjamaril/?hl=en
https://www.facebook.com/nadja.maril/
https://www.linkedin.com/in/nadja-maril-2090a07/
Throughout the castle the court slumbers,
At the top of the tower the princess sleeps,
Waiting for the right hero.
The wise fairy won’t let just anyone past the brambles
To change destiny.
Thorny thickets preserve the status quo.
They say a person needs a knife
To cut their way through it all.
But you can coax the vegetation
To yield with the right intentions.
Anxious to be the hero
You cut down branches with axe and scythe
Magic keeps them growing
Despite desire to restore her life.
To a spindle she touched her hand
Despite spinning wheels banished from the land
Tempted by the disgruntled fairy, ‘Dearie try this.”
The princess falls asleep to await her kiss.
One hundred years, one hundred ways
To ignore an ancient castle
Surely if she’d awaken now
To the world she’d be forgotten.
A kingdom without spinning wheels
Stops making yarn and thread.
Synthetic textiles replace natural fibers.
Fabrics cease to decompose
Plastics pollute the earth.
​
The land and sea is filled with trash.
Nothing is saved, but the memories
Of a fairy tale happy ending.
Could there be a rescue not involving cash?
I’ve been waiting to find a girl like you
Together, says the prince, we’ll start a farm
Raising sheep, goats and greens
We’ll grow linen, cotton, and beans.
The good fairy knew her stuff.
The site of a tragedy
Can become the kingdom’s redemption.
The lovers minister to the world
Tenderly
Resisting personal greed
Weaving new threads of inclusivity
Hosting a celebration
They remember the need
to invite everyone.
__________
​
YOCKENTHWAITE KEEPER
Molly O’Dell
Buchanan, Virginia, USA
I float up the Cenozoic staircase
to catch a ruckus in our clearing.
Knapweed and salad burnet bloom.
There’s a lass dancing the circle,
chews burnet and slips a sprig
of pignut behind her ear.
Her lad fishes the river Wharfe
and she wanders the dales, discovers
our ring of stones
pirouettes between boulders,
naught pierced by sunlight,
then arabesques above my space.
Our clearing invites walkers
and airmen who crash. We keep
watch over all who come and go.
She hears me stir, hops down
and bows to try and wrest me
but I’m too long set,
since the Bronze Age, in a ring
cairn proper, a small circle of stones,
us kerbs all what’s left.
__________
​
IN THIS VERSION, EURYDICE ESCAPES THE UNDERWORLD
Rosie Garland
Manchester, United Kingdom
https://ninearchespress.com/shop#!/What-Girls-Do-in-the-Dark-Rosie-Garland/p/215785787
I make it on my own. Months of hard slog crawling
back to light, shadows snarling at my heels. Don’t
look back. Washed up on a tough shore,
mouth clogged with silt, on all fours
and retching, coughing
mud. Don’t
look back.
I am no savage god. No Lord of Death. The Lord of Absence,
perhaps; my subjects locked into private loneliness. This is
not the first time you have visited, adding your unique variety
of sadness to the void. Think of it as a time for letting go.
Yes, my night is dark. Like the night, I wax and wane.
Enjoy your return to light. We shall know each other again.
I have been
a ghost of myself.
Surfacing at last into taste
and touch, I sour the pomegranate
sweetness on my tongue. He’s waiting,
reaching out tempting arms, weaving old
magic. Next time, I will still be terrified, but not lost.
__________
​
ADONIS
Ben Groner III
Tennessee, United States
Before sharing about my ailments,
she figured I’d had an easy life:
popular, carefree, getting by on
an aquiline jawline, an aqueous gaze.
Like Adonis. It reminded me of
the friend in high school art class
who said, You could play Adonis,
hiding her blush behind her brush.
The acrylic auburn horses were
a wilderness reborn from her wrist.
But I am no lord, dying and rising
again. No alluring youth, desired
by a pantheon. I should have told
them. We all get gored by mirrors
when we’re alone. I’m just as lost,
inchoate, feeble, bewildered as you.
Just as thrumming, as resplendent.
__________
​
BAD OMENS FOR OCTOBER
Kait Quinn
United States
Instagram @kaitquinnpoetry
A yellow orchid with one petal folded
over signifies betrayal.
Mid-October snow: prepare
for a winter that blizzards
into April.
A ring finger bends back at first
knuckle;
a grave has been disturbed.
When the neighbor's row of marigolds
wilts all at once overnight, scorned
corpses will meet at midnight
parched for blood, giddy
for revenge.
Watch the sugar bowl. A topple
with a spill
welcomes poltergeists.
If the fairy lights are strung and the apples
bob, but the spiced candles
on the mantle won't light, a witch
is casting obsidian spells
with cold, cardamom breath.
A white squirrel caked in cemetery dirt
does not bode well for this year's harvest.
Pin your gaze to rabid eyes, and you will spend
your life searching for more
beyond the more
beyond the moor.
__________
​
THE MOTHER HOLLE FAIRY TALE: A MODERN RETELLING
Sister Lou Ella Hickman, OVISS
United States
​
Once upon a time there was a widow
who lived with her two daughters.
One was ugly and greedy.
The other was good and beautiful.
Because the daughter was good and beautiful,
she was treated badly by her mother.
Even though her chances of being loved were slim to grim
she still swept, cleaned, and spun her spindle
until her fingers bled.
One day when her fingers bled while spinning
she tried to wash her hands in the well.
However, her spinning spindle seemed
to have had a mind of its own
for it sprang out of her hand
and into the well.
Of course, her mother blamed
this good and nameless girl for this mishap.
Since she good and obedient,
she followed her mother’s orders to retrieve the spindle.
She jumped into the well
and as she fell, she fell asleep as good girls are wont to do.
She woke up in a different world—
a meadow replete with sunshine and flowers.
Walking out of what seemed like heaven,
she heard loaves of bread in an oven cry out,
“Help us, help us lest we burn.!”
So, she did.
Then she walked on.
As she did, she heard an apple tree speak,
“Shake me for my apples are ripe!”
So, she did.
Third time was the charm when she met Mother Holle.
“Stay with me.”
And so, she did.
True to form, she did as she was asked:
she swept and she cleaned.
She even shook out the bed linens.
During her stay, Mother Holle cared for her.
​
As a result, the beautiful, obedient girl felt appreciated and loved.
During her stay, she became homesick and decided to go home.
She told Mother Holle goodbye;
thanking her for her appreciation and love.
As the beautiful, obedient girl
walked through the courtyard gate
she was promptly showered with golden rain.
A gift from Mother Holle.
After sharing her story when she got home, she returned to her spinning.
Not only was her sister ugly; she was also greedy.
It was no surprise when the mother told the ugly one,
“Now’s our chance to get rich.”
Agreeing, she knew she would be a far more golden child than her sister
so lickety split she leaped into the well.
She woke up in the same almost- heaven world
her sister spoke about.
As she left the meadow, she heard the same loaves of bread cry out,
“Help us, help us lest we burn.”
“Sorry, I can’t get my pretty hands dirty.”
Walking on, she heard the same apple tree cry out,
“Shake me, my apples are ripe.”
“Sorry, one of them might bonk me on the head.”
Like her golden sister before her,
she met Mother Holle.
But being the lazy girl she was—
she couldn’t hold down the job
of sweeping, cleaning, and shaking out the bed linens.
She left, lickety split,
only to be doused with pitch
as she passed through the courtyard gate.
A gift from Mother Holle.
__________
​
PEGASUS ON STRIKE
Petrouchka
​
(The winged unicorn is called Pegasus, a winged divine stallion, a symbol of poetic inspiration.).
Its flight is an allegory of the soul’s immortality.
I was sitting at my corner this morning
Thinking to write something poetic,
Something for love,
Something that melts the heart,
Something that burns the imagination.
And…I wished myself very good luck.
My Pegasus was curled on the floor
Resting next to my couch.
I hoped he’ll get up and fly,
I hoped he will glide,
But… he said “I’m on strike”
And pointed out the dazzling chandelier
With his twisted sparkling horn. Oh, Dear!
My pen began dripping blood.
Dark blue cloud darken the sky
And purple hell began drumming on the path
Of my creative imagination.
Then, came the flood of useless words,
a tornado of unfitted verse after verse -
With no rhythms, no rhymes.
The page became thin, almost transparent.
My magical feather made whole after hole;
Scratching deep to the table.
I was thinking: “I’d better
Write on paper tissue”.
My stallion nodded his horn: ”True”
And went back to sleep.
How I deserved this?
– He telepathically read my mind.
“You abused me every day and night.
From sunset to sunrise you write
And you write, and you write…
I am hungry and tired, I cannot fly.
So, I’m on strike. At midnight
At least you can share with me glass of wine.”
__________
​
THE DRAGONFLY
Briana Bostic
United States
With shaking wings,
Moving along the root
Of a tree
Crawling along,
Before still
To rest
Glinting in the sun
Talking to the magic
Of the dust
Finding the treasure
Of the mushroom
The vine, the bee, the branch
Levitating
In the mist of dawn
Raising a new beat in flight
__________
​
BABA YAGA
Diane Funston
Marysville, California, United States
Glass cobalt evil eyes from Turkey
hang in a window in each room.
A hammered tin Hamsa
hangs outside every doorway entrance.
These baubles I placed for protection
from all harm, the seen and unseen.
After passing centuries of abuse,
words and other wounds
I forgave Baba Yaga,
whom I believed could no longer eat children.
Her advanced age, gnarled weak bones
grew frail in unforgiving winters,
she grew lonely with failing powers.
I moved her out of her high-rise hut
into our warm home
far away from black ice.
I tended my garden
as she grew accustomed
to nourishing meals and healing sun
I began to wonder if there was a little love
or merely a place to eat and rest.
Her voice regained familiar strength and timbre
I heard her chanting spells behind her door.
Her responses to questions growled back
while her elderly hands grew talons
ready to pierce and slice
even the most innocent requests.
I found myself denying recent scratches
rinsing drops of blood down the drain.
In between battles from last century’s war
I prayed daily to my god of poetry.
​
I shielded torn flesh from my loved ones
I was cursed with guilt
for welcoming her in.
​
When the plague locked us all inside for months,
it was easy to cover my scars and wounds.
After all, Baba Yaga hissed one day,
after she again drew blood with her tongue,
“Mother knows you still need mending”.
__________
​
SPIDER LORE
Mary Janicke
United States
O Children
Beware the spider
She lurks in corners
Ever watchful
Her home built of silky strands
Her offspring hidden in glistening sacs
So, watch out
Who knows
She might be a deadly
Black Widow or
Brown Recluse
O Children
Be vigilant
And patient
And brave
As a spider
Don’t get snared
in her sticky web
__________
​
SANTA, BUNNIES AND FAIRIES
Julie A. Dickson
Exeter, New Hampshire, United States
​
1
No surprise, brother and I had peeked inside,
parents gone to a party; mom wore black crepe;
carefully peeled back tape on wrapped gifts,
sweater in itchy wool, scarf hand-knit by Nana,
books and drawing set. No Santa anticipation
by morning, stockings weighed down with oranges.
​
2
Hand bloody, violently forced rhythmic twist
just to present tooth. Father exclaims, rinses
fairy-bait wrapped in tissue under pillow, check
repeatedly before succumbing to sleep - See?
brother chides in morning, shiny half dollar
in my palm, sore mouth already forgotten.
​
3
Notes followed room to room, under table
skirt, in the garage, run upstairs to bedroom
closet. [That bunny gets around!] Back to kitchen
peering inside dishwasher to discover bright yellow
wicker basket stuffed with annoying fake grass found
everywhere for months, candy long since eaten.
​
4
Childish fantasies dissipate, tiny molars, bicuspids
moldering in bureau drawer, no pillow dreams,
each ebbing away as fine sand through fingers,
pebbled memories, marbles rolling under sofa,
lost among dust bunnies too far to reach
with broom, escaped smoke up the chimney.
__________
​
FAIRY TALE
Gene Goldfarb
New York City, NY, United States
If wit desert me be gentle friends
for knives amuse and dullness offends.
There was a man who loved a maid
over and over it’s been said.
What have we here: a comedy
or dark and rueful tragedy?
Patience, sweet patience—persevere!
Listen, be good and you will hear
a tale of woe and merriment
of earthly cares and heaven sent.
​
The princess lived in a treasure land,
the prince in a kingdom just as grand.
They met one morn’ in a wooded glen.
He could only cough and say “ahem!”
She softly urged him, “Oh, speak, dear prince.”
He could barely sigh and gave a wince.
She took this for a boorish token
of dumb retreat from true words spoken.
With a grunt of disgust cold she turned.
He’d lost his tongue and she’d been spurned.
She mounted her steed and off she flew
cursing the prince and this rendezvous.
So, our sad tale would here have ended
were strange fate and chance not so blended.
Then a fortnight anon one fine day
prince and princess on horses astray
chanced to meet in a market square.
He’d learned to be bold, and she was fair.
“Dear princess,” he said, “forgive my tongue
afraid to sing when it should have sung.”
“Sweet prince, I listen. Present your song.”
He knew to speak and make it not long.
A crowd had gathered and close on pressed
the prince to hear the words from his breast.
​
“Oh fine lady,” he exclaimed for all,
“You own my heart, a thing not so small.
In deeds or songs though the price be steep
I’ll pay it in full without a peep.
Be mine and glow ‘neath the jealous sky.
We’ll be for we ‘stead of me for I.”
The crowd held its breath the sun its heat
the princess to speak, the match to greet.
​
Her answer rang like a joyous bell,
“I’ll be your bride and forever dwell
with me at your side and we on high
will rule together, not you or I.
​
The crowd resounded with thund’rous glee.
All were for all ‘stead of me for me.
​
And so this tale is brought to good close,
welcome our beds and happy repose.
__________
​
SCOTTISH CHILDHOOD
F. Kate Langan
Canada
​
There is magic in the fields
with sheep all around
but the wind sends us kids
hurtling into the woods where
ghosts of fallen soldiers
still dive for cover
in the air-raid shelter
at the roar of overhead bombers.
We are running like death
between the lowering shoulders
of sharp-nailed spruce
until the light changes
to echo softly off the bark
of birch and beech,
and we, glancing back, see
the pursuing ghosts
remain enmeshed, trapped
within the dimmer sentry
of clawing evergreens,
freeing us to play once more.
__________
​
JACK AND NO BEANSTALK
Judy DeCroce
New York, United States
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BCSCZGZD?ref_=cm_sw_r_cp_ud_dp_NK26XGC7WEC6KB0C99E0
https://www.linkedin.com/in/judydecroce/
​
“Boy, where are you going with that cow?”
“We’re going to town so I can sell her.”
​
“She is a very skinny cow.”
“Yes, sir, she is thin but from exercise.”
“You mean walking to town?”
“No, sir, she dances.”
“Oh, come now, a dancing cow. I don’t think so. Make her dance.”
“Sir, she will only dance for her owner.”
​
“Well, boy, you are the owner so…”
“I no longer own her for I am going to sell her and because that process has begun she is no longer mine.”
​
“Then you have no proof that she can dance.”
“Oh, I do, sir, I have a certificate. Read this.”
“Yes, it’s a certificate and appears to be valid. But it’s for 7th place in the 3rd Grade Spelling Bee.”
“Sir, if I was to lie, I would have claimed to be the winner.”
“That is true. Hmmm… How much for the cow?”
“5 gold pieces, sir, I am to take no less.”
“Well, I have no gold but I do have 5 magic beans.”
“Sir, those don’t look magic.”
​
“Ah… but the magic is hidden inside so it can’t be seen. I tell you… plant these and their power will take you to treasures you won’t believe.”
“This is true?”
​
“Yes, son, I’m as honest as you.”
“Deal?”
“Deal.”
Hmm…. if strength comes from these beans, I’ll swallow
them here, and be the strongest, smartest, cleverest, boy ever!
There, done…Poof!..............”Moo.”
__________
​
TAPESTRY
Rina Malagayo Alluri
Austria
The rhythm of the traditional
pedal loom, pangablan
keep the wheel spinning
their voices keep on singing
sharing Pinoy folk tales of
cunning animals
glowing in deceit
swift calloused hands
cautious so the kapas thread
does not tangle
turtles outsmarting
greedy monkeys
out of banana trees
with crocodile warnings
a knot would cause turmoil
for the weaver and the weaved
__________
​
MAGIC ON GRAVEL LANE
Mike Ball
United States
At her wooden shack on Gravel Lane, Granny Shank
was a sorceress who looked like a movie witch.
Plain as a pickle, a dill pickle,
Granny was sweeter than her creased face.
My uncle’s wife was blood kin to her,
so by Southern rules, I was once removed,
but for no good cause, we kids avoided her.
Yet I sought her on the advice of Uncle Bill.
You see, my left thumb had two warts,
and Bill said Granny could talk warts off.
I was in fourth grade, read lots of science,
and I remained to be convinced.
Climbing three wobbly, tilting stairs to her porch
was one act of a 10-year-old’s courage.
Knocking on her bell-less door was another.
The floppy screen door bounded back with each knock.
Bill had told her I’d visit.
She was as cheerful as a country crone could be.
She quickly asked to see my warts and
droned an appropriate hmm as she bent close.
Would that be witchcraft or feral medicine? No matter.
Cupping my thumb gently in calloused hands,
she rubbed the warts, then muttered
words too low for me to know.
I would have loved a cartoon resolution
—two warts flying off at once.
Instead, four days later, they were gone,
just gone, after years of living on me.
I was convinced. Pickle power.
__________
​
BESSIE
Cora McCann Liderbach
Lakewood, Ohio, United States
​
Sunset fades to indigo above the shoreline’s
fairy lights / Lake Erie’s frigid waters murmur
​
You’re here now, you’re here / waves relax you, invite your
imagination to roam / plunge into the murky depths / in your mind’s
​
eye, you spot her / long, reptilian body slithering /
on sand and silt / large eyes sleepy, watchful over
​
triple rows of teeth / fins ever so slightly rotating / tail trailing behind /
but the Lake Erie Monster is shy / doesn’t like attention / passing
sailors have fired muskets on her / labeled her
vicious / likened her to a sturgeon, surely the ugliest
beast in the Great Lakes! / Bessie is tired of the outlandish
fiction / has lived for three centuries now / heavy body
dredging the lake floor / hasn’t she earned the right
to peace in home waters? / to pause, as you do
even now / watch
the moon mount
its sapphire dome?
__________
​
ESCAPE FROM THE GINGERBREAD HOUSE
Abigail Elizabeth Ottley
Cornwall, United Kingdom
https://www.facebook.com/abigailelizabethottley/
https://www.instagram.com/abigail_elizabeth_ottley/
​
I hush back to sleep the brindled cat that
dozes, its head between its paws
then I slip the latch and tiptoe out
softly closing the door.
I plead with my crows not to raise their voices:
Caw, caw, caw. I promise them tidbits,
chicken bones to pick at. Cat kibble,
all they desire.
Silent as mourners in their smart black suits
they signal their sly assent.
Grark demands the fledgling, baby-gaping pink.
One by one, they turn to watch me go.
But I am not free yet. I look over my shoulder,
see your malted door closed like
an eye. I think of you then, snuffling through
your dreams, rooting for pignuts,
turning up truffles like moist, black jewels,
pink trotters tidily tucked in.
__________
​
THE DIVINE FOLKLORE OR FAIRYTALE?
Daya Jaggers
United States
The Divine dream
Constantly recreating
Infinitesimally
will always remain
being able to be
Because
We are it and
It is we
It just is
No need for
Apology
Just come along
soar with the endless spark
The unknowing
The show
The yarn
The myth
The mysterious
Or
Relish in complexity
Ponder Wish Adore Despise
Conjure Practice Multiply
Embody Play Decide Divide
Congregate
Enjoy coming and going
Through the Lore
__________
​
RANI’S NOSEPIN
Tulip Chowdhury
https://www.linkedin.com/in/tulip-chowdhury-32077220/
https://www.facebook.com/tulipchowdhury11
Looking into the table mirror, Rani sighed
There was no nose pin on her nose anymore
an ornament that had been a symbol of her married life
sign of being a wife in the village of Bangladesh, her home.
It meant she had her husband Rahim to protect and provide
but the absence of a nose pin announced in silence
an endless void in her life.
The nose pin, a tiny glass piece, a small but significant
twinkled when the sunlight played on it.
The nose pin brought envious glances from other women in the village
The nosepin was her proud status among them.
Long before the nose pin brought Rahim to her
Rani’s mother pierced her nose upon puberty
a village norm in readiness for marriage
and fed sweets to women who chanted with the ceremony.
Inside the mirror, Rani looked long at the pierced spot on her nose
at the soft hole whispering of days gone, times spent in loving care
The empty place reminded her of a life chapter gone forever.
Rahim was no more.
A widow’s symbol was no nose pins, and neither did Rani.
In the mirror, she envisioned Rahim’s face where the nose pin used to be.
__________
​
The Lawson Lane Witch
Maya Klauber
New York City, NY, United States
I’d talk about it to anyone who’d listen:
our steep climb above grampa’s house.
Stone by stone, I knew you were behind me.
You said, I heard her soup’s made from
children’s knees, and I said, I know
(over a puffed-up chest). We caught one
glimpse of somebody and fear tightened
around us. Then the dizzy, screaming run
downhill! Still, I knew then what I know
today in this hospital: although I’m tubed
& tendrilled and hurting like hell, that
you’re here and nothing’s gonna get me.
____________
​
THE HUSBAND SUIT
Shaun Anthony McMichael, MAT
Seattle, Washington, United States
https://shaunanthonymcmichael.com/
Then up got Jack and said to Jill,
‘Brush off that dirt for your not hurt.
Let’s fetch that pail of water.’ –English Nursery Rhyme
Do you remember how young we were
when we bought this field? Old enough to know
of the risks, too young to care
about things like infertility and thirst.
That great teacher of ours talked a lot about living water, yet
I feel more like Jack and Jill, having to daily draw
water just to sweat it out again. If we knew
how hard we’d have to work to get a decent yield,
would we have bought the field
in the first place? We might
have at least waited.
Time has taken us to task, making us fitter
for the tending and falling. I stumble
just to find my way up to our well.
Sometimes I think you ‘tumble down after’
just to make me feel better, just to give
me an occasion to rise to, to get over my broken
crown by helping you up, my hurt eclipsed by caring
for you, by hurry, by thirst. Taking care
of this ‘ours’ is my husband suit, my best fitting.
Some seasons we’ve had only tears for rain,
like a tide in our separate sets of eyes, lit
inside by the same fire. Each time we fall,
we rise a wiser pair, our two lives working
as one life, feeding each other with hands washed
not by lye but by earth whose fruit,
to our mouths, we lift. And maybe this is the water
by which the teacher meant for us to live.
Previously published with Blood & Bourbon https://www.amazon.ca/dp/B0C63J1WS1
__________
​
CINDERELLA IN SNEAKERS
Laurie Kuntz
Florida, United States
https://www.facebook.com/laurie.kuntz.7
https://kelsaybooks.com/products/talking-me-off-the-roof
https://www.finishinglinepress.com/
https://lauriekuntz.myportfolio.com/home-1
She had nothing,
but work and soot,
ashes, cinders, and harsh crones,
who spun envy into a cloak of abuse.
She had her night,
as if one night could suffice.
When Prince Charming sought
to fit her life into a slender glass slipper,
caped in her new-found strength,
she remembered all eyes on her,
and the dance she could shimmy to.
Now, with no curfew,
she flung broom and dust pail
to her spinster -to- be step-sisters.
Spurning the glass slipper,
that one day will shatter
and settle in dusty corners,
she put on her sneakers,
stretched her strong legs
and began to run.
__________
​
THE WITCH PRAYER
Genevieve Ray
England
​
In the hands of emerald green In
hands cut with shame Facing the
Northern star Facing the
thickening air She, with no
Name
​
Just a title
Just a direction
Just a place
​
In hands, pointing to the dawn In
fingers an ancient tom
Rocketing into the sky
Vanishing from the world below
She, without a family
Just a talent
Just a mission
Just an expectation
In hands shaping destiny In
black cape and gown Graduating
from lonely child To exceptional
magical woman She, with a retold
Story
Just an emblem
Just a villain
Just a Musical heroine
__________
​
ITHACA
Jen Colclough
Nova Scotia, Canada
I want to leave you with something,
the mother says.
A feeling that swallows every other one,
lovingly.
She chops her lettuce on the table,
beheading it.
A mother
is anyone who looks for you.
Odysseus could have come home sooner.
The hearths were more than ready,
Penelope’s hand in the doorway,
doubling as the ground beneath his feet.
Come home to Ithaca.
Odysseus, come home.
The mother turns on the stove
and tosses in the broken heads,
weeping for none of them.
I want to leave you with something,
she repeats.
And though you don’t know why,
little ‘sorrys’ fill your mouth like wine.
Dinner isn’t ready yet.
Don’t spoil it by swallowing the silence
down
& down
& down.
Silences
are their own alphabet.
In classical music,
the un-played note is also a choice.
The mother
is asking you to come home
even as you pass her the salt,
still trailing three years behind.
​
Tied to a mast,
you peel the carrots
to shield yourself
as the black-seed sirens chant:
Welcome home,
Welcome home,
Come home,
among the rocky breakers.
You will have many homes
before you’re done
and most
will be made of paper.
You will knock on doors
with bread in your hands
—an offering.
And when a man answers,
you will ask him to
tell you your name
in a language you can
understand.
Inside your body
lies the potential for violence
— your task is to beg your own forgiveness.
A hand extends,
but some people
can only love through windows,
or gloves,
their breaths fogging the glass
they do not dare to breech.
Come home,
the mother says,
this time in words.
“Dinner is ready.”
__________
​
BEAUTY AND THE BEAST
Duane Anderson
La Vista, Nebraska, United States
Two knees sit before me.
I never thought I would call
one of my knees beautiful,
but as I look at both of them
after a surgery to repair one,
I now call one beauty, and the other beast.
Beauty, the boney one,
and beast,
the one branding a new scar
down its front, swollen,
after taking a beating from the surgeon’s knife,
along with plenty of scabs from a rash.
The beast, having a fierce competition
with my face. They could be twins.
Now, newfound friends,
with something in common.
They are in love with each other,
while I, once again, lose out.
_________
​
TAKE ME TO NEVERLAND
Linda M. Crate
Meadville, PA, United States
​
let's write our own fairy tale,
you can be Tinkerbelle
and i'll be Wendy;
this time it's a love story
and the magic is in our love
more than that faerie dust—
i'll write my books and show you
whispers of light from the moon
of my soul,
and you'll silhouette me in all of
your golden sunshine and show me
every shade of green;
we'll build our dreams
twining ourselves deeper and
deeper in our love—
they'll understand then that
no laws could ever stop love,
because love is beautiful no
matter what shape she takes;
so take my hand and take me
to never never land because reality
is too heavy and too harsh
for me to accept.
___________
​
JACK WHO…?
Karuna Mistry
United Kingdom
https://karunacreations.wordpress.com/https://www.instagram.com/karunamistrypoetry/
Morning lads, I’m looking
For a chap named Jack
Have you seen him?
Saw him last autumn
Was into scary costumes
I recall the Jack O’ Lantern
You mean mechanic Jack?
Worked at the local garage
Further down our road
Was telling stories all the time
Yeah, like Jack & Jill or
Jack & The Beanstalk
Always eating his favourite food
Jacket potato with cheese
And Jackfruit for dessert
Thought he was a plumber?
No sir, Jack of all trades he is
Joined the workers’ union too
Is that the famous Union Jack?
United the land, fine lad
God bless him and his soul!
Hmm, I think I know Jack
Always brought his own playing cards
Ace, King, Queen and …Prince
Funny, saw him at the casino once
Yes, that was Black Jack that night
He even wore four suits
​
He was always at the gym, that chap
Jumping Jack, number one
No one could ever beat him
Those well-toned muscles
And high stamina, all jacked up
- Could only be pumping drugs
My, what a jackass idiot!
Must be some kind of donkey
…Or mule, whichever
Soon after, he stowed away
Flew on a cargo plane
A real Jack in the box
Where did he end up?
Australia or somewhere
What a silly Jackbird!
You may have heard
Many more tales
Of Jack as whoever
But we still don’t know
Who Jack really is
Or what he’ll do next…
__________
​
MORE THAN ONCE UPON A TIME
Ken Gosse
United States
On the first day of spring Adam found he was sprung
(an amazing physique which was very well hung)
but he hadn’t a clue what that one piece was for
till a rib was removed and was tossed on the floor
(or the ground, we should say, since it wasn’t a room—
without roof, doors, or windows, no need to assume
that a visiting neighbor would soon make a call—
there was no need for privacy, none for a wall
in those days before anyone else would arrive)
then he noticed his spare rib had started to thrive.
On the first day of summer, young Eve came around,
more lithesome and lovely than all else he found
and he noticed another bone rising in awe,
overwhelmed by the shape of the creature he saw.
The hint of her smile would entice his first grin
and he sensed what he thought was original—sin—
when she reached for an apple and offered a bite
as they fell to the ground where they spent their first night.
The first fall arrived with their fall before dawn
(the seasons were young; summer came and was gone)
but the sunrise that day brought a chill to the air
and the garden they lay in was suddenly bare
because winter had brought the first fall to its close
and the cold, not their shame, showed them they needed hose,
pants, and shirts, even hats to protect their bare breasts,
thighs and nethers and heads, from their toes to their crests
as they headed out east in their search for fresh loam.
Where the first day had dawned, they might find a new home.
Soon, spring sprung again as did women and men
from the body of Eve since they still had a yen
for the apple they tasted upon their first date—
hence an orchard was first to put food on their plate.
They tilled and they toiled, they roasted and boiled
the food that was needed to feed their new brood
but it seems that today, though they each had their way,
their descendants condemn that first coupling as lewd.
__________
​
BOWL OF BLACK PETUNIAS
Michael Lee Johnson
Downers Grove, IL, United States
https://www.illinoispoets.org/
If you must leave me, please
leave me for something special,
like a beautiful bowl of black petunias—
for when the memories leak
and cracks appear
and old memories fade,
flowers rebuff bloom,
sidewalks fester weeds
and we both lie down
separately from each other
for the very last time.
__________
​
I’VE BEEN WRITING THIS SONG SIXTY YEARS.
Kelley Jean White
Philadelphia, PA, United States
I wanted to name myself Sparrow
though I’d never heard that bird’s song,
I had walked through three houses with rage
and forgotten the cause of my pain
and my mind had filled up with such smoke
I decided to name myself Ice.
And I’d move to a house made of ice
beneath the deep snow where the sparrow
might heal, be reborn through the smoke
of those nights and relearn her song.
I knew ice was good to numb pain
but it wasn’t a known cure for rage.
I was proud of it, carried my rage
out into the bright sky of ice
I’d forgotten the cause of the pain,
thought soon I would fly, little sparrow
and surely, I’d grow my own song
mind clearing its memory of smoke—
I forgot hidden flame made new smoke,
hadn’t known hidden pain made new rage.
I found I had no gift for song
and my voice had been numbed by the ice.
The bird I had chosen, the sparrow
could not fly high enough to leave pain.
It kept ruling my life, that pain
though I had forgotten it’s source. Smoke
hid memories in the little bird, Sparrow,
my little girl heart. She whispered to me rage
was his message, born of ice,
winter wind and cold struggle. Her song
wanted the voice of an eagle, a song
less her own than the pain’s.
Like wind chimes of ice
it rattled in sunshine and through smoke.
I owned this new song of rage,
whistled by the little wise sparrow.
Oh, bird born of smoke, little Sparrow,
lullaby, cradle, this little girl’s pain,
teach her song born of rage, melt her ice.
___________
THE WOLF AND THE SEVEN YOUNG KIDS
Mark Hudson
United States
(Based on the Grimm’s Fairy Tale)
Once there was a goat with seven kids,
no one loved them as much as she did.
She had to go to the forest on a mission,
She said, “Avoid the wolf. Use suspicion.”
She knew the wolf liked to eat goats,
and if he ate all seven, he would bloat.
So off she went into the woods,
hoping her seven kids would be good.
Sure enough, the wolf appeared,
“Open up,” he cried, and they feared.
But his voice was rough, and gruff,
the goat children called his bluff.
The wolf came in a different disguise,
he caught the children by surprise.
He ate them all with an intense hunger,
the only one who escaped was the younger.
The wolf fell asleep underneath a tree,
when the mother returned, shocked to see.
The younger one called to her, alive,
they went to see if the wolf did survive.
He slept under a tree, belly full,
but he ate all the children whole!
The mother took scissors, opened his tummy,
and the kids leaped out of the dummy.
The mother placed in the stomach stones,
and back together, the stomach was sewn.
The wolf woke up and stumbled to a well,
and to his death, the big bad wolf fell.
The family of goats was reunited,
and that left the family very excited.
_________
​
TRAILS OF GLITTER
Pratibha Savani
United Kingdom
https://www.facebook.com/pratibhapoetryart
https://www.instagram.com/pratibhapoetryart
Shimmer glides as they pass on by
Kicking freely in air
They somersault and sigh
Beautiful stretches of colours flow
Magical gentle beings
With an impressive horn that is powerful
Trails of rainbow glitter
Drift infinitely high
Leaving their mystical mark
As they touch the blue sky
Every time we see
A glimmer or a glow
They sparkle in the sunshine
We just don't ever know!
_________
​
THE TIGER GROOM
Shampa Saha
West Bengal, Kolkata, India
A big tiger was eager to marry a little girl
when she was playing on the ground with her pal
The girl had long black cascading hair
The tiger passing by the field, with a fear
that if the people can see him,
they will shout loud to call Jack and Jim!
"Oh my god! How big the giant,
How long the tail!"
They could shout and make a crowd,
To tell everyone the tale!
But the beauty of little girl,
forced the tiger to meet her father,
and make a deal.
The girl’s father was a poor farmer,
he shivered to see the groom!
Roared the would-be-groom so very loud,
"I want to marry your daughter", being proud!
The farmer just nodded his head,
but had a lot of tears to shed!
He started to cry in a pitch so high!
Oh God! Save me, and my little girl,
and rebuked his wife, why had she said to play it out,
and now what a dilemma, and what of the drama,
if a tiger would be groom!
But all the villagers and all his neighbours,
patted his shoulder and said to be calm.
Then they invited the tiger for his turn.
As they waited, the tiger came
wearing a coat, trousers, and crown with gems.
In the meantime, all the villagers
boiled oil in large containers and covered them all.
And they made loud noise, danced and joy,
that made the tiger happy!
The tiger groom, before entering the room to see own bride,
was told to have a seat, on the top sheet,
over the overcooked oil!
Tiger in joy, jumped on to the sheet with hay
that made the groom hot and boil
The pretty little girl and her father
where saved by their neighbours
by the little trick
and became free of being stuck.
__________
​
IF NOT HIGHER
Neal Whitman
California, United States
Once upon a time
my grandfather, Moses Vitman,
sat at my bedside and told me
that his grandfather, Issac Peritz,
once sat at his bedside and told him
that once upon a time
there was a small village in Ukraine –
it can longer be found on a map –
where the rabbi disappeared one night a year
between Rosh Hashanah* and Yom Kippur.**
Villagers wondered if perhaps the rabbi
went to Heaven to pray on their behalf.
The devout hoped that the rabbi
would be interceding for the whole village
and asking G-d to forgive
their wrong-doings of the past year.
Even good people sometimes
fall short of the Mosaic law
that whatever is hurtful to you,
do not do unto others.
One young man, a skeptic,
not much older than me,
did not believe such things.
He hid under the bed to see
where the rabbi went.
Surely, not to Heaven.
I, too, am a skeptic.
I asked my grandfather
what his grandfather told him.
Here is what I learned.
​
Before sunrise the rabbi
dressed as a common woodsman
and went into the dense forest
to chop wood he brought to the home
of a widow who was old and poor.
He kindled the wood. In the warm hut,
he prayed with her and readied to leave.
She apologized for not having six kopeks
to pay for the wood, but he told her
it was a gift from Heaven.
That young man became a disciple
of the rabbi. When anyone says
on the day the rabbi is missing
that perhaps he is in Heaven,
the disciple adds quietly,
“If not higher.”
A good-night story is supposed to make
children drowsy and ready for sleep.
But the story my grandfather’s grandfather
told him kept me awake for hours.
*Jewish New Year
** Day of Atonement
__________
​
MY FAIRY TALE
Kassie J Runyan
New York City, NY, United States
kassiejrunyan.com
Once dwelled a young woman
residing in her brick tower
where serenity reigned
Candles emanated a golden glow
Companions sang and danced merrily
Even cozy pants with stretchy bands were the norm
Beyond those walls lay a world of trepidation
A realm filled with strife and worry
Responsibilities weighed upon her shoulders
Ensuring her people were fed and clothed
Amidst fire-breathing dragons and irate villagers
She had to venture out,
concealing her hair beneath a hood
And confront the outside world
For without it, her tower's tranquility couldn't endure
With a brave smile, she took one step after another
Enduring the scorching heat and biting cold
Each day was a new challenge
She attempted to sing with the rats
That lived beneath the ground
But they rarely sang back
instead responding with bared teeth
In search of the tranquility of a candle's glow
She encountered flames from a lit bin instead
She tugged at her snug dress
wriggled her toes in her high heels
Attempted to tame her wind-blown hair
​
Smile girl, just smile
soon, you can return to your sanctuary
And dream of lush lands
painted with green and blue
Leaving your tower behind for a calmer world
Where the outside matched the inner serenity
Sleep long and dream
Of your prince.. who is bed beside you
And cuddle with your loyal companions
Who purr and snuggle closer
One day, my dear, you can cease
Venturing out into a world teeming with evil queens
And wrathful witches,
And self-absorbed, irrational people
Who shout at the heavens over perceived wrongs
But not tomorrow...
Tomorrow, she would once again leave her tower
And the day after that
And the day after that
Yet she continued to dream
Of that "someday" that might arrive.
___________