Adelaide literary Magazine No 35, April 2020

Revista Literária Adelaide

first for her. Mother spoke about her tent, not talk long, his 3-year-old son creating
and the size of it, and how my sister Cece- mischief with remodeling debris, while his
lia’s husband joked with her about sleeping 6-year-old daughter asked him questions.
arrangements. It sounded like Mother had a He sounded ecstatic. I thought about this as
little pup tent, something she was eager to I listened to Teri speculate on whether the
share with me but did not know a lot about. stress of caring for two kids while working
Calling during the day was unusual. Mother full-time at his law practice caused exhaus-
wanted me to know I would not be able to tion. Wishful thinking.
reach her the upcoming weekend, because
of her camping plans. I spent the next few days on the phone,
attempting to discover what caused Paul to
We planned to camp ourselves that become unconscious. By Saturday, the rural
summer. We were going to drive to east hospital transported him to the nearest city,
Texas to visit an old roommate, borrow her Cincinnati, to the university hospital there,
tent, and go to a state park in east Texas, the the one which had experience in serious
piney woods, a place dear to my heart since disorders. He had a ruptured brain aneu-
my first job in Texas had been a camp for rysm. That’s what my aunt died from 13
kids in East Texas. My partner did not crave years prior. By Sunday, the situation became
the out-of-doors like me. “When I want to obvious and dire. I got basic info only from
commune with nature, I go to the mall and my phone calls. Teri had been assigned as
look at the tree”, he said when asked to go the communicator she said. “Not much can
camping. The few times I convinced him, be discerned,” she said. “It’s all-in god’s
he liked it, took to it like a duck to water, hands,” she said. The phone calls got less
annoying our friends by setting up detailed informative as time passed.
living areas in the woods. Now we had a
year-old son, who loved the outdoors, who We had a camping trip scheduled. “Why
had gotten his dad to wander around any not camp in Ohio?” I asked Lee. He reluc-
wilderness area on walks–over waterfalls, tantly agreed. I called my friend with the
through drainage ditches, onto undevel- camping gear. We headed out with that
oped private property. I treated the outings much planning, Sunday, something about
like I did the children in my early babysitting the phone calls creating a compulsion to
days–out of sight, out of mind—mimicking head north and east. At some point, I got
my parents early childrearing. ahold of my brother’s wife. She asked me
when we were coming. When! That was
Friday evening, I got another call from enough for me to know I needed to take
back east. This time it was Teri. She had less time to travel than I imagined. We got
bad news. Our little brother had taken ill. to Ohio by Tuesday evening.
They were attempting to find Mother, Paul
hospitalized, transported by an ambulance We got the camping gear, taking a day
that afternoon. “He came home from work to drive to east Texas in the Chevy Citation
early with one of his migraines,” Teri said. Mother drove to me a few months earlier.
I thought about our recent conversation, Mother did not approve of using bikes and
Sunday evening, my congratulatory call. cabs after I had a baby, bringing me her
He had his third child, a girl, coming home old car after she bought a new one. My
with Kate, his wife, the next day. Paul could youngest sister Sheila’s banker husband
advised Mother to quit trading in her cars,

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that selling them made more economic They declared Paul dead on Monday,
sense. Instead, she gave her old cars to Aug 27, 1990.
her children, first one, then another. I got
the Citation once it had 40,000 miles on it. We ate lunch, not knowing what was
I drove my first car through the East Texas going on, because of the bits and pieces
piney woods the first day, getting to Hope, of non-info I kept getting. When we got
Arkansas, right over the state line, where back, everyone left, Paul declared dead.
we set up the tent. It was over 100 degrees. The next phase started. I went to Sheila’s
The baby did not like the heat. The giant hotel room and found her there. She filled
moths with the dramatically contrasting me in. Stevie Ray Vaughan’s helicopter had
colors of black and white sitting on the just been found, the TV said, burning Paul’s
side of trees mesmerized him. We made death memory into eternity with SRV, a
it to Tennessee, then on to Ohio by the guitar prodigy from my adopted hometown
next day, calling the hospital periodically to of Austin, Texas.
check on Paul’s condition. Teri continued to
be vague, discouraging me from calling or It was Christine’s first day of first grade.
coming. I could not decipher her meaning
or intentions. We arrived in Ohio and set I returned to the campsite. They held
up camp. We developed a routine by then, the wake in the nearby town where Paul
nature cooperating as we made our way had his law office. Teri got us together and
north. The campground 6 miles outside of suggested we offer support for Kate as
Cincinnati worked out great, being outside she spent three straight hours shaking the
and in peaceful surroundings. We visited hands of people lined up around the block
the hospital from there each day, and re- to pay their respects. Many stopped and
turned each evening, for the week we spent told their Paul story, how he traded and
at Paul’s deathbed. bartered for legal advice; how he answered
his own phone; how he helped this one
Teri met us at the hospital Wednesday and that one with their legal needs. Kate
morning, telling us her version of what had smiled and nodded, showing grace and dig-
been going on and what would happen next. nity under duress. She soothed the visitors,
At that time, she said Paul had taken a turn many in shock that someone so alive had
for the worse, right before we got there. I his life cut short, with the added horror of
visited Paul in his room in neuro ICU, trying knowing Kate had three babies to raise.
to glean info without bothering his wife. It
took me a bit to decipher what was going The funeral mass was conducted in the
on because Teri had taken it upon herself to largest local church, six miles away. The
censor and parcel out info, with whispers procession of cars took forever, the cars ex-
about who needs to know what and when. tending for what seemed like the entire six
She said the house was too busy for me to miles. The church was full. Afterward, we
come to, that I needed to stay at the camp- went to a family event. We left from there,
ground so as not to bother those at Paul’s returning to Texas through another route,
house, which would have been Mother, Teri camping in the forests of Tennessee. The
and Cecelia. Sheila went to a hotel to stay. beauty of the outdoors kept my emotions in
I don’t remember where my older brother check, me now occupying the middle child
Peter was. I don’t remember him being there. slot by myself. I had not seen Paul since
Sheila graduated from college. I missed her

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wedding scheduled weeks after my son’s route through Illinois and Indiana, crossing
birth. As I drove back to Texas, I had plenty the Mississippi River, along Highway 50, a
of time while driving to contemplate the scenic route complete with gorgeous scenery
death of my little brother, the saddest thing and campgrounds along the way. This road
to occur in my 35-year life. The camping pro- goes to Paul’s country home, the civil war
vided a modicum of serenity. I directed the home they were renovating when Paul died,
energy from my grief into creative projects, the home Kate finished renovating while
building a complete set of marionettes and driving hours, back and forth, to and from
a stage, writing a script, and performing the Ohio State, to get a teaching certificate, to be
original show for years to come, following the bread winner. Paul’s wife resiliently and
Paul’s death. persistently raised their children, I thought
as I drove to their house, where we were
While in despair in the crowded waiting welcomed for our visit which lasted a few
room in Cincinnati, wondering how Kate days before returning to the road, Highway
would manage, I heard Paul’s voice from 50, which took us to Maryland along the
back in Canton, this time telling me that river in the southern part of Ohio.
Kate could do it, me seeing him following
her at her heels, like he did with Sheila back We used our food stamps along the way,
when they came out of the woods, after a filling up our cooler and the car with foods
cross country race meant for college ath- that fit the bill of easy, cheap and nutritious.
letes, saying ‘You can do it. Keep going’. I It was fun to plan menus which included
remembered the words coming from the fresh fruit, whole grains, protein, and cal-
small clock radio on the stand by Paul’s cium for our then 3-year-old.
bed, the song playing under the sounds of
the many machines keeping Paul’s organs Mother welcomed us graciously, pro-
sound. “There will be an answer. Let it Be!” vided us with towels and a bedroom, in the
Why did the hospital staff bother, I thought, nice house she had purchased with money
as I looked around at what seemed like hun- inherited from her family. Mother still
dreds of wires and tubes. Those words pop worked at the job she got when she left Ohio
into my consciousness from time to time, back in 1975, battling daily for respect as a
always when needed, in times of duress, humanist and liberal in a conservative com-
when solutions seem out of reach. Time is munity, once again on the outside looking
often the solution. in. That edge of conflict cast a shadow over
Mother, putting her in a defensive position
1992 throughout the career she finally had. Yet
she persisted, working until age 70, using
I think about Paul all the time on my lawyers when necessary to protect the job
drives across the country. My husband and her clients from the conservative views
shared Daddy’s view of machines, refusing against her and the poor and disabled pop-
to learn to drive, leaving me the designated ulation she championed.
driver on all our trips. Grief processing for
me comes with lots of thought, internal nar- I did not consider this as I asked Mother
ratives designed to explain and normalize to elaborate on my medical record.
strong forces within. We drove the familiar
“I got my medical information from the
library,” Mother said when asked.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

“Each week I went to the library to read the answer to the issues which popped up
medical books. Your dad would say, ‘What later. Hovering on the edge of hoarding is
dread diseases do our children have this another repeated theme in my family, with
week, Mary?’” Mother laughed and blushed two sisters following in Mother’s footsteps
as she remembered their interactions from acquiring more possessions than fit or nec-
35 years prior. essary. Challenging delusions leads to rejec-
tion, a sad but consistent response in my
“I got my anxiety from my mother,” family in the years since we grew up and
Mother continued. Grandma Corbett away. We left Cumberland after several
shared the anxiety trait, something I never confusing conversations resulted in more
heard. We ended the conversation, both confusion. We never resolved any of it, re-
musing at how doctors back in the day maining true to our traditions.
were misinformed, Mother telling me about
being put on diet pills for gaining over 15 2004
pounds with me. I reported that to my mid-
wife, when I returned to Missouri, after I visited Mother one more time during
Mother became increasingly hostile to me her life, taking my youngest son Larry to
for the next two days, culminating in telling visit her when he was 11 years old. I sched-
me to leave her house. The only other time uled two job interviews in and around Cum-
Mother reacted that strongly to my visits berland, leaving my son with Cecelia and
was a decade earlier when I cleaned out Mother, who lived one block apart. Larry
her collection of dozens of empty boxes ran around with Cecelia’s sons, while I vis-
and bags, over 10 garbage bags full, which ited with Mother and went on job inter-
she made me bring back into the house to views. I noticed Mother’s house had neatly
prove I had not thrown away her valuables stacked boxes, all attributed to visits from
and ‘papers’. Both times Mother accused Teri driving over the mountains to help Ce-
me of being “like your father”, followed by celia. Cecelia’s home had piles and messes,
insisting I knew. Both times Mother insisted spread out throughout her large house, the
I needed professional help with a mental one at the end of the road, way up high
condition, and both times she dropped all on a hill, with acres on the side of a small
discussion of the events that led up to her mountain surrounding it. By spreading out
reactions, refusing to accept generic apolo- clothes and boxes and furniture and toys,
gies without me admitting a transgression, the accumulation of 15 years looked man-
which she refused to describe. I recognized ageable. Five nonworking cars completed
the feeling of knowing right from wrong, the landscaping which otherwise comprised
from being able to see reality vs. delusions. of hundred-year-old rock walls and dilap-
My diagnoses were delusions; and med- idated stairs leading up to a massive rock
ical delusions have continued to divide my porch overlooking the rest of Cumberland,
family throughout our later years. I finally down in a valley. That’s where we watched
understand Mother’s few issues, centering the fireworks on the Fourth of July. Sheila
on somatic anxiety. I wonder about Moth- drove over the mountains from DC with
er’s early years, her own anxious mother her young daughter. Sheila spent most of
bedridden for years from an unnamed her time huddled with her child, then age 8,
malady; followed by the death of her sister trying to get her child to interact with others
and brother. Those tragedies might hold

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and not keep insisting they leave. Then they Mother stated, “That movie is not a
left. Larry expressed his astute observations good topic for an 11-year-old. Let’s change
on our way back to Texas. the subject.”

“Why did your sister let her daughter ma- “Larry watches all those movies and has
nipulate her like that? If I did that to you, mature opinions about them.” I stated with
you would make fun of me.” the authority of being the mother to my son
for the past 11 years.
Larry shared his opinions on all my
family members, ending it saying he liked To no avail. We discussed what Mother
my sister’s dog the best of them all. Leo agreed was proper.
later became our dog when Cecelia moved
into an apartment. She drove Leo all the “Your mom was all, like, little, and quiet,
way to Texas because of how Larry and Leo and old; you were all, like, loud and agro.”
got along. Larry and I share the animal whis- Described Larry on our way back to Texas.
perer gene. Larry kept track of license plates on our
drive up and back. He saw every state but
Larry loves movies. He wanted to dis- two, and relayed which two, along with
cuss movies with us, his Grandma and me. how many from each state, none recorded.
He loves Michael Moore, leading to us dis- He kept track in his head, as we listened to
cussing the latest Michael Moore movie. books on tape, on the trip up and back.
Mother continued her role of declaring
what topics were suitable for children, We saw the Mother through different
leading to me being exasperated. eyes, our contexts not the same.

About the Author

Josie Hughes: My writing experience includes 15 years as a playwright and performer. I
finished a M.A. in children’s theatre; placed in three national playwrighting competitions;
and produced or directed multiple touring shows during that time. I evolved from puppeteer
to children’s librarian, retiring 5 years ago after working for 24 years as a public and school
librarian. I have completed 30 graduate credit hours in writing on top of my degree classes.
This essay/chapter comes toward the end of my memoir chronicling growing up in a large
family dominated by mental illness.

103



POETRY



EPHRAM PRATT
REMEMBERS

TWISTING & TURNING

by Jack E Lorts

Ephram Pratt Speaks of Whispering is what the stranger
whispered
Quiet the noise
of the carburetor, in that language
known only
or is it a carbuncle
he asked, to choristers
chanting in unison
in muted silence,
of a passing to the priests
and priestesses
stranger,
one with shaggy locks, of a sect
known only to shadows.
looking as if
his eyes emerged

from an errant
abandonment.

Cross your fingers
or your eyes

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Ephram Pratt Examines Ephram Pratt Remembers
What Happened on the Border Twisting & Turning

Evidently Etched & electrifying
he felt the need as a song

to adhere to buried in an iodine
the commandments lake,

enumerated in twisting & turning
the 29th chapter in silence,

of Hepatitis. twisting & turning
The opening phrases in a bud vase

warned him the size of
of a coddled irrationality Abner Doubleday’s

rampantly engaged wine bottle.
in crossing Don’t let the voice

what needed to of the windmill
be entered into take sides in the argument

by soft caution, between balls of yarn
illegitimate dogmatism, and rolled up

fossilized impunity copies of the
and unlicensed irregularity. New York Times.

Cross out It’s all because of
all the regulations, isolated sounds

he whispered, heard in the voices
as faux lime encrusted of angry angels

talismans twisting & turning
swung from her lips. in the wind.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

About the Author

Jack E Lorts, a retired educator, lives in a small town in eastern Oregon. His work has been
published widely over the past 50+ years in such places as Arizona Quarterly, Kansas Quarterly,
English Journal, and more recently online at Haggard and Halloo, Locust, The Poetry Village,
Poetry Breakfast, etc. Author of three earlier chapbook, Uttered Chaos Press of Eugene, OR
recently published his “The Love Songs of Ephram Pratt.”

109

AS CINZAS DO SOL

by Rosangela Batista

As Cinzas do Sol Sun Ashes

Cegam o céu; Blind the sky;
Secam o sal de Pernem. Dry up Pernem salt-pans.
Dão bocadinhos à lua Hand feed the moon
De açafrão e cal. With mites of saffron and white lime.
Cai, cai pó-ente,
Põe cinzas d’ouro Fall, fall sun-set,
Nos tetracantos da mente. Golden ashes to the tetra corners
Of minds.
Cinzas da Índia India’s ashes meander in my own waters:
Serpenteiam em minhas águas: Cup of toasts to saints,
Brindes de taças aos santos, Betel, marigolds, and candle lights.
Bétulas, crávulos, vélulas tantas, The sun of India’s house
Taças de vinhos. Hides in Goa promontories,
Ó sol da casa da Índia! Calm, rusted-orange.
Quando cais ao acaso Imperturbable, it lies down,
Nos promontórios de Goa, Smeared at the decline.
Calmo, enferrujado, It says farewell—
ah! laranja dó, Scratched, bloodless—
Imperturbável te deitas To the acacia domes,
Untado a pira do ocaso. Violaceous amongst the prickles.
Exangue, dás adeus The Goan sun hides himself
Aos domos d’acácia, In my diary
Seus espinhos As an acacia yellowelium
Que te arranham violáceos. Scented pom-pom,
O sol de Goa se esconde em meu diário Sublime lovelyom.
Num pompom amar-hélio
d’acácia perfumado de amorOm.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

About the Author

Roseangelina Baptista is an American-Brazilian based in Central Florida. She is a bilingual
freelance writer with interests in promoting poetry and mindfulness for society and in
reviving Indo-Portuguese literature. Her poetry first appeared in the Joao Roque Literary
Journal (June 2019) and Adelaide Literary Magazine (November 2019 and February 2020),
other works were contributions to local anthologies (2020.)

111

PRAYER

by Dana Gioia,
translated by Rosangela Batista

Prayer Prece

Echo of the clocktower, footstep Eco da torre do relógio, passos
in the alleyway, sweep Na viela, o varrer
of the wind sifting the leaves. Do vento peneirando as folhas.

Jeweller of the spiderweb, connoisseur Joalheiro da teia aracnídea, conhecedor
of autumn’s opulence, blade of lightning Da opulência do outono, lâmina de raio
harvesting the sky. Ceifando o céu.

Keeper of the small gate, choreographer Guardião do pequeno pórtico, coreógrafo
of entrances and exits, midnight Das entradas e saídas, sussurro da meia-noite
whisper traveling the wires. viajando pelos cabos metálicos.

Seducer, healer, deity or thief, Sedutor, curandeiro, deidade ou ladrão,
I will see you soon enough— Ver-te-ei em breve o bastante—
in the shadow of the rainfall, Na sombra da chuva,

in the brief violet darkening a sunset— No fugaz violáceo escurecendo o crepúsculo.
but until then I pray watch over him Mas até lá, eu oro, olhai por ele
as a mountain guards its covert ore Como a montanha guarda
seu ferro em segredo
and the harsh falcon its flightless young.
E o bruto falcão, sua cria inepta ao voo.

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About the Author
Dana Gioia is an internationally acclaimed poet and writer. Former California Poet laureate
and Chairman of the National Endowment for the Arts, Gioia was born in Los Angeles of
Italian and Mexican descent. The first person in his family to attend college, he received
a B.A. and M.B.A. from Stanford and an M.A. from Harvard in Comparative Literature. For
fifteen years he worked as a businessman before quitting at forty-one to become a full-time
writer.

113

MAKING LOVE

by George Payne

Hospital Visit Making Love

when I visited the way a
her brain starving coyote
needs the Moon
a tattered
cotton nightgown crimson &
skeletal
wore only the
structure of language your hands
were needed
not enough to cover
the contusions, or Simple
hands
be understood
by those who needed her words rising
on the
more than she did chest
yet also vivid
your jeans
if the drugs were working kicked off
as if transformed into a dress of corals the bed

placed at the center of a black light. you were
The one I had when I was sixteen needed

smoking pot in my bedroom, listening chrome ion
to The Doors Break on Through plated

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stainless with Revista Literária Adelaide
a leather strap
My Griefs Lie
at the edge
of the pillow My griefs lie to me like a
Poker player down to their last hand
stuck between Or a poacher caught without a license.
the hours They tell me what I want to hear, how it’s
Not my fault, and it will be better next time.
in the That feeling of losing something priceless.
amber of now A gold watch left in a jewelry box, hand carved
By Pap, when he still made things,
a vaporous Before it happened. It’s not useful to talk about.
sweet olive That’s the way grief is. Useless,
black night impossible to utter.
Lost in its own self replication.
Tears, too. But the tears shed

The way a drunk dry heaves vodka.

Have You Seen My Integrity?

It was wearing a cucumber green
fedora and a gun metal black
v neck t-shirt
Last spotted down by the Batten Kill
under the bridge, if you see it
please call me ASAP
Do not approach it.
It has been known to
lash out when startled
It may be alone or
with an accomplice,
and it sometimes acts like it
is confused, but can pretend
to know where it wants
to go.
Do not be fooled.
Call the police if
I cannot be reached

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Where Deer Sleep

My three-year-old son
wondered where deer sleep
so I walked him there. Stepping
into a realm that is not reserved

for fathers and sons, we found
a ritual that has nothing to do

with us. That altar where a
slumberous sky ascends towards
the apex of the Earth, and
a feeling of trespassing arrives
if not for me than for him. A child
cannot touch the mystery without
stepping into it. Existing together
as they may. Masking the

eyes with all that must
be hidden

116

AMERICAN
IN BRAZIL

by David Lee Garrison

Last Look, Lisbon, 1965 Sousa March on the Radio

The troopship was leaving Lisbon They found him slumped
for the war in Angola, against the steering wheel,
its deck covered with soldiers coffee splattered on his suit,
gazing back. Heavy sun fell radio still on.
on their shoulders, and their shadows
darkened the armored steel Since that last day of his life
that knifed through the water I finished a book and started another,
past the docks, picked a bunch of ripe tomatoes,
past the Magellan Monument admired an owl in a fir tree.
and the beaches. Their last glimpse
of home through sweat and tears Clouds bloomed and wilted,
must have been like a painting and the moon smiled
in which tiny splashes of color to its fullness on a night so clear
formed trees, houses, swimmers, you could see its freckles.
cars on the coastal highway.
What they saw was who they were, Summer heat showed signs
and they did not move or speak, of letting up—heavy dew
nor did I, as if to do so in the morning, brown leaves
would have kept us from remembering. swept away by wind. I wept

at his funeral. The next day
the deejay sent us all to work,
as always, with a Sousa march
at seven-thirty on the dot.

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American in Brazil

At an open air bistro in Belo Horizonte,
a mountain city of Brazil, we drink
cachaça, made from sugar cane, and sink
into the valley of the evening. Monte,

the word for mountain, rhymes the city’s name
in vowels that flow like waterfalls. I love
this country, ask my new friends
what thing proved
most memorable in mine. As one, they claim

it was “the garbage man. He has a life.
He earns enough to marry, own a home,
and raise his children with at least some hope
of mountains they will have a chance to climb.

It’s not an easy life but he can strive.
The dustman here does just one thing: survive.”

About the Author

The poetry of David Lee Garrison, a retired professor of
Spanish and Portuguese, has appeared widely in journals
and anthologies, and two poems from his book Sweeping
the Cemetery were read by Garrison Keillor on “The
Writer’s Almanac.” The title poem from his Playing Bach
in the DC Metro was featured by Poet Laureate Ted Kooser
on his website, “American Life in Poetry,” and read on the
BBC in London. He won the Paul Laurence Dunbar Poetry
Prize in 2009 and was named Ohio Poet of the Year in 2014.
He lives in Oakwood, Ohio.

118

SPOT ON MY BACK

by George Thomas

SPOT ON MY BACK HYMEN SAYS...

three times balance on top of a fence
I’ve lost the whole shooting match to please young Becky
as Zorba might say
the whole catastrophe multiplied write love lyrics
there’s a spot on my back to worship Robert Browning
that hasn’t been washed
since my last divorce pledge to stay
I go through life now in sickness and in health
with this itsy bitsy until death do you part
tiny teeny little itch
right between the shoulder blades slip into a woman’s panties
that I can never & masturbate into
quite her high heeled shoe
seem
to That’s a few of many things
scratch Hymen can make us do

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MARQUIS de SAD Adelaide Literary Magazine
CODEPENDENCY

this one, yesterday
she’s crazy told someone
she’s done anything about my constant sinus headaches
sexual loss of balance
he can imagine dizziness from the inner ear problem

now she’s leaving him being a fixer from Texas
her voice thin she told me
already disappearing how to squirt a saline solution up my nose
in the air the benefits of psuedoephedrine
she’ll hang up how antihistamine works
in a second
I would fix
all right all right, this morning’s headache
I’ll marry you with her helpful hints
if that’s what you want but my pain
is that what you want? makes me bitter
and
a desperate man intransigent
he suddenly knows
will say anything About the Author
promise
anything George Thomas does have an MFA and has been writing
to keep himself connected to poetry and fiction for more years than he’d like to
the crazy woman remember. Currently, he drives around in the beautiful
on the other end Pacific Northwest, isolating in his automobile until his wife
of his comes home from essential work each evening.
private
line

120

STILL LIFE

by Sarette Albin

STILL LIFE

In the morning’s stillness I slipped out
From your loose embrace and left
You sleeping in, face craned upward,
Chin exposed and underbelly white.
The space my head had lain a moment before,
Nothing now but a wrinkled, plaintive dent.

I crept slow across the night-cooled tile, protecting
Not your dreams or deep drawn breaths
But the quiet of the house itself.
A lighter sleeper than us both.

In the kitchen, I cringed at the rumble
Of water filling the kettle’s empty belly,
The stove’s sharp click as it sparked to life, and
The scrape of one ceramic mug seceding from the rest—
A thund’rous violation, all of it,
Of the still and sacred dawn.

At the table I sat, warmth cradled in my hands,
Steam whispering past my cheeks and brow.
Then, silence returned. Like a spooked deer,
Stepping back into an open field, keen to disappear
Forever at the first foreign sound. I waited
Transfixed until it knew I posed no threat.

And I breathed a prayer into my darkening tea
That you wouldn’t awaken for hours and send the
Silence skittering away for good.

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Dusk

We walked together through the park while the dog sniffed every tree;
The air was thin and sharp with cold as the sun slipped slow from view.
We talked about the way we were when it was just you and me. And
The stories that we spun were old, favorite tales we loved to tell.

The air was thin and sharp with cold as the sun slipped slow from view.
Yet in the growing darkness, we revelled in this sweet repeating, for
The stories that we spun were old, favorite tales we loved to tell.
Our pace grew languid, our steps unhurried, and the shadows stretched before us.

Yet in the growing darkness, we revelled in this sweet repeating, for
We knew then that the world had passed us; there’d be no catching up. So,
Our pace grew languid, our steps unhurried, and the shadows stretched before us.
When did it happen, you mused aloud, when did we fall behind?

We knew then that the world had passed us; there’d be no catching up. So,
After speculating for awhile at the exact year or day or hour, we gave up on your query-
When did it happen, you mused aloud, when did we fall behind-
And walked together through the park while the dog sniffed every tree.

Undertow

He loves like the ocean meets shore.
Sometimes rising slowly, silent and creeping
Inch over inch until you’re completely submerged.

Then withdrawing without notice, leaving you
Scattered with seaweed, shells, driftwood piles,
And temporal tide pools with a trapped fish or two.

Sometimes raging unchecked, waves white-capped
And foaming, roiled by the wind. Everything in his path, you
Most of all, dragged into his tumult, his waiting black depths.

And every so often, dazzling and bright, he reflects
The sun, ablaze but unburnt. Inviting you in,
To swim in his fire, immersed in liquid gold.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

About the Author

Sarette Danae holds a BA from Iowa State University and a Masters of Liberal Arts from
Southern Methodist University. Originally from Seattle, she is a passionate educator, avid
outdoorswoman, and writer of poetry as well as creative nonfiction. Her work can be seen
in magazines such as Confluence, The Door is a Jar, Ethel, and Blue Mountain Review.

123

FROM ABOVE

by Roger Singer

FROM ABOVE BELOW THE SURFACE

the bones of words there’s a bruising
remain behind inside
like rumpled sheets
without memory of sleep years of promises
as day tosses bus station goodbyes
a mixed salad of walking last kisses
and arriving unopened presents
wrinkled black and
the hours melt into white photos
the water of day muddy shoes
from long walks
time slows for the damage from
anxious eyes an argument
while rain marks windows words shaped like
and umbrellas below blades
splashing on buses sunsets without
sizzling off neon’s
you
coats of color
weave upstream
in each direction

its calming to watch
until thrust into it

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Revista Literária Adelaide

GOOD FOOD

words and whispers
lies and promises
cold coffee
pieces of napkins
plates half full
half empty
yesterdays papers
three unclaimed hats
salt and pepper
ketchup without a top
bald headed cook
waitress with a limp
laboring ceiling fans
thick diner air

the door opens
someone enters
no one takes

notice

About the Author

Dr. Roger Singer has been in private practice for 38 years in upstate New York. He has four
children, Abigail, Caleb, Andrew and Philip and seven grandchildren. Dr. Singer has served on
multiple committees for the American Chiropractic Association, lecturing at colleges in the
United States, Canada and Australia, and has authored over fifty articles for his profession
and served as a medical technician during the Vietnam era. Dr. Singer has over 1,000 poems
published on the internet, magazines and in books and is a Pushcart Award Nominee. Some
of the magazines that have accepted his poems for publication are: Westward Quarterly,
Jerry Jazz, SP Quill, Avocet, Underground Voices, Outlaw Poetry, Literary Fever, Dance of
my Hands, Language & Culture, The Stray Branch, Toasted Cheese, Tipton Poetry Journal
and Indigo Rising, Down in the Dirt, Fullosia Press, Orbis, Penwood Review, Subtle Tea,
Ambassador Poetry Award Massachusetts State Poetry Society, Louisiana State Poetry
Society Award, Mad Swirl Anthology 2018.

125

EXHALE

by Diane Webster

DEATH BURIED STOLEN

Plastic tulips and silk roses Who would steal an angel
pretend they grow around and wed it to a gnome
my parents’ gravestone. from my front yard to theirs?

Still not allowing them What children born
truth after all these years from this union
dead in the ground of pilfered beings
in their forever-home caskets. forced to live
in a strange land?
Stone-faced names chiseled
like Russian smiles To preside
in black and white photos over a neighborhood
of ancestors scowling of thieves and outsiders
disapproval even after their stone faces
the page is turned. a testimony
of disapproval
Even after death lies when I saw only
buried beneath my feet; benevolence.
my feet itch to stomp
on the holes that house
my parents’ bones,
but I still don’t want
their judgment.

126

SILENT FADE Revista Literária Adelaide

Drowning – Blade –
breathe in the amniotic fluid thirsty in a desert.
one life supporting A carving of longitudinal lines
now death. where time zones
Breathe in, cough out flow into pooled
no longer able to out curiosities of the body’s
all in to descend insides now released
like a waterlogged branch to roam the floor’s cracks
stuck in mud with leaves in pseudo veins where gravity dictates
swaying in water wind. with dizzying darkness,
where weary rest
Hanging – in Rip Van Winkle
tight strangulation never-never land.
where breath struggles
in birth-panting gasps Last impression –
not enough to fend a snow angel
off unconscious dark, in grass hay
a dream in silent fade. lying under blue sky
with Monarch butterflies
Bullet – pretending a breeze.
feel barrel nestled I close my eyes
under chin bone dust to dust.
like a kissing lover
discovering the soft spot.
Cool until it warms
to body temperature,
a tunnel like a birth canal
in reverse to discover
the way out behind
the track of a .38 explosion.

127

EXHALE Adelaide Literary Magazine

Forty years gone PLEASE
with her last exhale,
and I am alone I feel like a reclaimed house
to mourn alone, in the woods creeping ever
to keep our album closer, on the porch, inside.
tucked under my shirt
to straighten my back Rocks and hail smash
into military attention, windows into shards.
eyes forward, stiff, Red paint retreats
a tree succumbing wrinkles into siding.
to desert sand Doors lose locks
grain by grain, as weather grays frames.
dead leaf by dead leaf, Roof creates a skylight
praying for petrification all on its own.
to paralyze my core.
I raise my studs skyward
not for redemption
but in pleas to take me
quickly now please.

128

THE SHALLOW

by Ambrose Gibbs

The shallow earth to live for what life is worth, for the birth of a child in this wild society
full of poverty to be shallow on the roads of anxiety to never have a chance to breathe
the night of thieves with false beliefs to see an opportunity to speak for unwanted
words to seek for what life means to be lost in a cause for an unwanted clause for a
moment to pause to see life as it rides into the night for a fight in life to internalize the
mind in time for the shallow hollow road to go for an religion a world of superstition
to be in a position for the journey of an expedition to become a life long mission.

The shallow life of the man in the night to roll over like a storm of light, the eagerness to believe
in this world of tragedies the lost motive of human anatomy for the astronomy of space race
a life on planet earth to face havoc with grace, the fusion of a confusion lost in a illusion the
constitution of political hypocritical politicians the political musicians in a world of attrition
the conditions to fall under hate the lost fate of the shallow souls the foul smell of a person in
jail, the amount of this worlds hell to land on god shoulders for the brave heart of soldiers.

The shallow light of the moon for love to come soon to float in life like a balloon the
legion of doom to go out in life with a big boom, the myth of a witches broom as
fast as time goes for the zoom of war hero’s to die inside for the lost of pride and
dignity for lost responsibility the agility of life struggles to learn how to hustle for the
bubble to burst with a curse to live is to die first for the good and the worst.

The shallow of the dark a killer in the park, the motion to dart away from pain to ruin the heart in life
to be smart from the first start of life in the dark, to find the light at night for the spirits to be right
for lost love can be united despited the wrong to be right the visions of a super life thru the night for
the shallow roads are hollow, a life that’s a hard peel to swollow for a road that’s shallow and hollow.

129

PULL OVER

by Peter Mladinic

Pull over Sleeping with a Student

Pull over in daylight. 1.
Take the exit ramp.
Pull over. I need to tell you something. The book is open.
Pull into the rest area, please. Leaves on the trees are dull green.
We muddle through: no absolutes,
By the time you get back no one answer, no one person says
into parkway traffic, I’m the one with the answers.
life as you’ve known it We muddle through the book,
will have taken flight. through the traffic of sidewalk pedestrians.
No step-by-step guide,
Finding home, Poe’s raven no full dark beard to disguise who I am.
perched on your roof. No, but sometimes I wear a mask
Words can’t silence its caws, so I don’t even recognize myself.
nor can summer thunder. We muddle through: our hands
in tool chests search for the right wrench.
Earlier you walked through my door. We muddle through wind and rain,
The X-rays, the lower back pain the paper mill stench
we’d hoped was nothing.. one night in late September
Please, pull over. riding with a man who learned
English from the writer John Kennedy Toole
From now on and piano from Toole’s mother.
all things compared to this
will be smaller, or greater: 130
the windshield, the parkway’s

green and white signs
in the midday glare,
your children, grandchildren.
Are you driving? Please, pull over.

Revista Literária Adelaide

2. 4.

We muddle through the tunnel named We muddle through dull days,
after Lincoln and the tunnel unnamed sleepless nights, visits from uninvited guests,
and muddle through a parking lot expected and unexpected phone calls.
listening to Lee Dorsey or Johnnie Taylor’s Muddle through the produce aisle
song about celebrities in heaven. and the marina. Muddle through the texts
We muddle through light and the silence in cages where animals sleep.
and through pages of a paperback Muddle through divorce, hospital,
Confederacy of Dunces. Muddle committee meeting. Good luck,
through a pet shop, wall to wall I say to Charlene, the bearded man’s
cages. Muddle through a spacious ex-wife. She’s getting up from the table
dining room with doors to leave. Muddle through: no one
leading out to gardens of purple, truth but many. No black and white
white and blue flowers. Muddle but gray. The perplexity, the many sides,
through directories and classifieds the pondering. The guess, the mistake,
and cupboards needing canned goods, the fall, the daylight, the chance–
cupboards like minds waiting to be filled. all talked about under the tree.
To muddle through means man,
horse and tree live together.
The man with the book wears a full dark beard.

3.

The face of the man I rode with
that night near the paper mill,
the man who knew the author before
he was an author, before he was dead–
I remember his driving, his voice,
his face growing vaguer each year.
I knew the ex-wife of the man
who sat with his students under a tree
and with an open book in his hand
said, “We muddle through.”
I also knew the student he was sleeping with.
She was with him that next winter
when he had a heart attack.
He wore a full dark beard.
When he said we muddle through
he was responding to words
in the book they’d been discussing,
he and his students,
among them Sandra, his lover.

131

Nephritis Adelaide Literary Magazine
White Wine

I remember her body language I pictured myself a gray-haired forty,
When she talked about him, vacuuming a rug,
The change in his body that surprised her a glass of white wine
In a dreadful way. Her eyes cast toward in one hand, in my mouth a menthol 100.
The mosaic tile floor, her shadow on the wall I pictured myself old
Which had nothing else on it. Her summer and small, with a glass of white wine
Dress was pale, as were her shoes. climbing Everest; patient and young
My Schwinn held up by a kickstand with a glass of white wine dining on shark
was on the driveway. charbroiled on Bastille Day;
My father was not there, my sister middle aged and impulsive with
One room over from the dining room a glass of white wine
Slept in her bassinette. She’d spelunking in Carlsbad; young and curious
been to the doctor with white wine hunting ducks in November;
Who told her his kidneys were not working old and compassionate, convalescing
The way an eight-year old’s should. from knee surgery on a porch with white wine
She was crying. Light from the back yard looking out at sage and mesquite, looking up
shined through the two windows at the big sky empty of buzzards at 10 a.m.;
and the one above the kitchen sink. with my glass of white wine in the stands,
He would come home from the hospital middle aged and excited, supporting the Celtics
In two days. He would be bedridden as the buzzer sounds.
And need a tutor for the coming school year.
Her reading glasses lay on the table
In the shadow of the artificial flower
Centerpiece. Worry filtered into wrinkles
In the corners of her brown eyes. Her right
Hand, on her forehead, bore her wedding ring.
She wore no lipstick. Her arms and thin
Shoulders bare, the shoulders curved
Inward looking for an ocean, as if
It offered some escape from what
Was to come when, hours later, the sky
Darkened, and the supper dishes were drying
In a rack as she stood staring into the dark
Out the kitchen window.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

Blister

The blister in the palm of my hand
found its voice, the voice of a rose bush
in the wind, with a literary edge.
Buoyant, celebratory
I took it to the Bob Anthony Studio.

When Bob, the photographer, said,
“Cheese” the blister smiled.
A smiling blister picture sits in my library
next to Ruby for Grief.
I raise hunting dogs. I have a dark side.

On Taurus Mesa
I set the blister on an eagle’s wing.
They soared over a canyon.
“Did you like Bob’s studio? Did you like
the eagle’s domain?”

Its first words questions,
I’d expected talk about the diamond on
Bob’s pinkie,
a recitation of “Lycidas,”
illumination on “The Singing Knives.”

About the Author
Peter Mladinic on the English faculty at New Mexico Junior
College. He published three books of poems: Lost in Lea, Dressed
for Winter, and Falling Awake in Lovington. Peter lives, with six
dogs, in Hobbs, New Mexico.

133

IMMORTALITY

by Manuel Madera

IMMORTALITY Of moss and grimy mold
And soul of gracious gold
Confessions last— If there is a hand to hold
The snow plummets to One with promise to conquer worlds
The nameless ground we
Have crossed and hopped It is that of mine
Let our icy fingers touch
Along the sidewalk of evermore And walk through a door
We stroll and skate In the middle of the night.
I did not know
I did not

Whether true has been true
Whether you abide by
Sentiments of peach
And love of cranberry

So pale hands shiver
Raspberry lips quiver but your smile
Set ablaze by confessions
Greeted with indecisive intimacy

Is it divided mortality or reflections
Of impassioned antiquity?
There imprisoned in the stillness
Of your loving eyes of eternal green

Or oceanic blue or intoxicated brown
I gather courage and courage it is
Withstanding repudiation of
Earned cohesion between soul

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Revista Literária Adelaide

Sorrow

Hundreds and thousands—
It is swimming on a bed
Floating in the depths
Of a quilt of watery blue

Bubbles of sorrow vanishing
From my mouth
And thoughts drown while
The bulb in the sky

Flickers and twists
Artificial and plastic decrees
Melancholy trips on the tips
Of a burnt cigarette

Clenching on my florescent lips
Bit by fangs of indecency
Hazed by hypnopompic absurdity
Where the devilish virility

Loses sensation of conceit
Replaced by incatious deceit
I thought of loving you
Loving you I have stayed

But tomorrow is nearing upon us
And yesterday I have lived
Farewell to the forever
I promised when sorrow

Was much less than a past.

About the Author

Manuel Madera and his poetry emerge from the dreary environs
of the world, steadily ascending the ladder of prominence and
success. Jumping from pseudonym to pseudonym, Madera
gathers the world around him and turns it into a world, or
several, of his own.

135

WITH A GUITAR

by Mark J. Mitchell

A SURBURBAN SEER’S MORNING DREAM MONSTER GHAZAL

Her morning dreams sprouted As a girl she dreamed up glass-jawed monsters.
flowers with names She wastes womanhood trying
inscribed on each petal. They bloom. No fruit to withdraw monsters.
emerges, but people die. Their small games
end sharply. A hasty burglar slips. Loot Part of this city feels older than dawn:
expands across marble floors. A new lake Cracked castles felled by the
is born. All this unfolds behind her eyes. spawn of monsters.
She can’t stop it. She won’t.
She bears no blame— A mirror on the floor the only thing that saw
no more than a lark for song, tree for roots. his broken act, Glass eyes still call him monster.
She turns over, sun drowning her. Windows
are her twins. Flowers wave and petals drop off. Bank doors breathe open. Evil markets fall
You knew that was coming. She sadly knows at her whim. She’s a proud, well-
you would see her in your own dreams, dozing financed monster.
on dusty sheets. But truth blooms in her eyes.
You can’t see. She sleeps, breathes. Dream shards litter the streets, obeying laws
She dreams a rose. of physics decoded by short mobs of monsters.

Night drops on her pages. Crumpled balls,
unmarked by words—unfinished,
flawed monsters.

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WITH A GUITAR Revista Literária Adelaide
A SONG FOR HER LAMP

He plucks thick bass strings Beauty is too often an obscure lamp…
to support a threadbare voice. —Paul Eluard
For JJ
It’s worn from all the years
of practicing delicate love songs When you sing beauty to beauty you waste
unskilled notes. Praise drops
that must be in perfect tune sharp as rain on rock.
at the moment she comes home. So her cool eyes mistake your open face
for some stone-fixed door with a hidden lock
PAGAN SAINT: A MATRON no key signature can open. Your bass
clef keeps your song distant—the quiet knock
We women learn how to weep. We are taught on her last door or note from a stuck clock
by goddesses, or so it seemed to me. she didn’t set, closing her perfect face
Now, girls come to my house when you sing. Her beauty’s her beauty. Waste
when mothers see your skill on falling praise. Carve notes on rock.
their days coming. In cool spring, beneath trees,
we sing the oldest songs first: Women’s lot,

husbands and birth. They learn About the Author
the weeping rites—
of Tammuz and Ishtar. I teach them to plant Mark J. Mitchell was born in Chicago and
cool lettuce and fennel, to watch them die. grew up in southern California. His latest
I slap small hands from the poetry collection, Starting from Tu Fu was
sweet stalks they can’t just published by Encircle Publications. A
eat. Midsummer comes. They’re ready to cry new collection is due out in December
for dead Tammuz and sing what Ishtar wants. from Cherry Grove. He is very fond of
baseball, Louis Aragon, Miles Davis, Kafka
Later, they come to my cool and Dante. He lives in San Francisco with
house. They’ve learned his wife, the activist and documentarian,
what husbands really do. I have sweet balms Joan Juster where he makes his meager
for pains and blend coverings so bruises living pointing out pretty things. He has
don’t show their shame. We published 2 novels and three chapbooks
sing the quiet psalms. and two full length collections so far. Titles
Girls cry. They always cry. I show them uses on request. A meager online presence can
for plants to stave off births. I feel them burn be found at https://www.facebook.com/
with broken love. I wrap them in my arms. MarkJMitchellwriter/

137

SOUTHERN RAINS

by Fabrice Poussin

Gnawing at the Flesh Her daddy’s old mirror

Teeth gnaw at the flesh below The glass may not lie
hungry to erase what was once sweet. No more than another image
Of what she may want to see
There is a throbbing beating In the old two-way mirror of her will.
at the rhythm of a dying heart.
Yesterday yet she played in the dark room
It feeds to grow like a playing ball Of past days on the stage of her theater
made of rebar and concrete. Now strewn with particles of memories
In the midst of spider webs and dusty mounds.
The creature has no game in mind
its only purpose to wreck a world. A single swipe of the palm and a rebirth
The smile frozen on the icy plane remains
With glowing eyes it seeks another target Smooth upon the pearly
red with fire it burns like a venomous reptile. shroud of younger days
Ready to play once again and forever more.
It dreams of many kin for a great invasion
to overtake the domain of the formerly young. There she shed the scars time gifted her
star in the infinite acts of the life she rehearses
Showing the way to a vast army of demons day after day lines fall upon the boards
it follows veins, arteries and wrinkles. telling the story of a little girl
and her bloody knees.
It devours the hopes and deeds of a gentle soul
until it too in a senseless act Gazes may fall upon the tale
faces its own demise. imagined by the onlooker
Powerless to shun the endless
giggles in her breast
The oval reflection of her soul agrees
It is time again to play hopscotch
on the pavement.

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Last Recall Revista Literária Adelaide
Soul on a platter

Departing is not always a prime choice The journey of a thousand years has ended
especially in the middle of the daytime hour. tired the little guy longs for a moment’s rest
to remember his birth, he can no longer do.
Worries and memories of the
mundane may linger Pacing the perimeter of a house of dolls
within the soul of the one so he lets his sharp fingers seek his dying heart
attached to the land. from within his chest to awaken, and to revive.

So many details left behind Enveloped in the shroud of his fighting self
unfinished on the plane in awe at the power of trees
of a rugged surface not to be and flowers around
ventured upon again. he falls to the knees, hoping for hail.

It had been a morning filled What is left for his blood to
with warm aromas of do, as the river dries
a darkness turning to dewy sunshine. all bottle up in a cistern with thickening walls
yet the echo lasts for the void of galaxies.
A beginning like so many more before
and then a step into a gentle timeless space. The package, tied with a broad bow of blue
readied for eons to be the present of all times
Thinking of things left behind he wondered his beating soul devoted on
what if all those details were still awaiting. a deep golden platter.

How could his daily passions continue alone
his home stand without the
pillars he once was?

Carved in his soul a last steamy
cup from another land
grilled slices and eggs he so much
had longed for in a dream.

Caught between duties and
eternal freedom he sighed
at once all welcoming the wisdom of all ages.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Southern Rains

Balmy drops from heaven vanish upon a crash
infinite in their power to continue to no end
they make a wall to a transparent fortress.

The child escapes in her summer suit
to drink the essence of a world she cannot fathom
soon lost in a waltz with the realm which made her.

She slips on the slide of a wet grassy slope
but she will not fall until her dance is done
her pearly flesh shielded by the puerile waters.

Her lips laugh in the enjoyment of this great meal
as she swallows pieces of the universe
so much like her, full of the original burst.

Now the time has come to embrace her dream
dizzy with the swirls of her giddiness she abandons herself
under the delighted eye of so many caring souls.

About the Author

Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry,
his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and many other magazines. His
photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review as
well as other publications.

140

LIN

by John Sweet

the captain, the sinking ship nothing, and then nothing

and we will do something or In pale grey rooms, asking
better yet God for forgiveness,
running fingers through a stranger’s hair,
we will do nothing and then silence.
and the lawns will all be green
Thursday afternoon in the
the doors will be kicked in house of the dying man.
and the children dragged
out into the streets Undressing his wife while he sleeps,
dust on my fingertips,
the votes recounted on her lips.

zero for you and zero for Words stained like the
them and then none for me sharpened teeth of priests.

Crows at every window.

An ending, yes,
but the song continues to play.

The sunlight turns to rain.

Anything less than absolute trust
must be fear.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine
lin a blind saint, weeping

in love with you on october leaves down juniper street and
charlotte street, in the the moment sunlit and
shadows of ruined empires, and brilliant, the shadows of
still young enough to think trees stretched out beyond memory, sound of
that this matters passing cars on the freeway
across the river, train on
kissing you naked in the the other side of town and
blind heat of august afternoons
and then tasting your sweat even here
beneath the endless cerulean sky
drinking it like the it’s fear that keeps me breathing
one true religion
i have stayed in one place too long
air around us thick with
sunlight & dust and the i have accumulated too many
scent of spanish flowers meaningless objects

letters from strangers, from
forgotten lovers, books of meaningless poems
smeared across ripped and torn pages and

what the hell?

my oldest son already halfway out the door,
his younger brother just waiting his turn

i will drive them away
like my own father did me

i will become everything and
everyone i hate

this is how winter begins

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Revista Literária Adelaide
through rain, through walls of poisoned sunlight

beneath skies as soft as dust, laugh at the idea of salvation
you and I without shadows in
a place where everything is shadow who barricade the refugees in
churches then bulldoze them to the ground but
the village in ruins but i you an i in this other place and
can’t remember or i was never told not quite winter and
not quite spring
a simple war, i think,
on the other side of the world a fragile truce against
the blurred horizon
man who owns the country
killing those with nothing because he can a wounded animal at the forest’s edge

any number of gods growing can’t save everyone from a
fat on the bloated corpses life time of pain or maybe it’s
of women, of children, and they just easier to say this than to try
are crows and they are jackals
just like all holy entities maybe the enemy has been
hiding in plain sight
talons and beaks to all along
tear at the heart, and the priests who

About the Author

John Sweet sends greetings from the rural wastelands of
upstate NY. He is a firm believer in writing as catharsis, and
in the continuous search for an unattainable and constantly
evolving absolute truth. His latest poetry collections include
HEATHEN TONGUE (2018 Kendra Steiner Editions) and A FLAG
ON FIRE IS A SONG OF HOPE (2019 Scars Publications).

143



INTERVIEWS



FRANCIS MORAINE

the author of the
“BEULAH WHO THOUGHT

SHE WAS SWIMMING”

1.  Tell us a bit about yourself – something that we
will not find in the official author’s bio?

OK. Here goes.
In the big picture of the human condition, I’ve lived a charmed and peaceful life. Despite

this, life always felt difficult to me. Now at the ripe old age of 60, I look back and see that
my difficulties usually appeared because I lacked ‘structure’. By ‘structure’ I mean that even
in situations where I possessed talent, I nevertheless lacked one or two practical skills that
would have enabled me to fully realize that talent.

Thus I could communicate reasonably well from an early age, and I loved writing, but I
flunked grammar in three different languages! (English, French, and Italian).

I learned to play guitar and wrote some original songs that I’m very proud of, but I was
never able to learn the music theory that would have allowed me to master my instrument.

I studied science at grad level but avoided computers so much that it eventually hurt my
career.

Finally, I just couldn’t become interested in financial matters but was saved by my ex-wife
who was (is) a financial wiz!

The good news, I’m happy to say, is that by hook, crook, or serendipity, I’ve managed to
overcome all these obstacles. But—arghh!—it has been difficult!

2. D o you remember your first story (article, essay, or poem)?
When did you write it?

Oboy oboy oboy. This question raised ghosts for me (to paraphrase Robbie Robertson’s lyrics).
My first serious foray into writing was an essay on the topic of pollution in the Great

Lakes. I was in Grade 5. This essay won me the school’s public-speaking competition as well
as the essay contest at the local public library—a double-header!

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

I remember being so aloof and detached when receiving the public library award. I was
so confident back then! (What the heck happened to me since?) I was so contained that
the librarian felt the need to lean down and ask me: “Aren’t you happy?” I said yes mostly
because I knew it was what she wanted to hear.

During Grade 6 or 7, in a new neighborhood and a new school, I happened to read my
older brother’s copy of “The Hobbit” by Tolkien of course. I can’t begin to describe the
momentous impact this had on me. It literally opened my imagination. I can still tap into
the feeling that came along with this—a sense of revelation and awe, both for the magic of
s-t-o-r-y as well as for the way it revealed the limitless power of imagination. Truly my life
changed because of this book.

Soon after reading The Hobbit, a teacher at school (I can’t remember her name so I’ll
just call her ‘Teacher’) assigned my class the task of writing an original short story. I was so
intoxicated with Tolkien that I wrote an epic fantasy adventure unlike anything I had ever
attempted (all 3 or 4 pages of it)!

It began with a young boy scrambling in mountainous terrain. There was a lake (I can still
see it in my mind’s eye). He came upon a hidden opening, concealed by ferns. This led to a
dark tunnel and to a gigantic cavern, resplendent with crystals and waterfalls.

I wish I could remember where my story went from there—I seem to recall talking ani-
mals. Unfortunately I don’t remember anything else of the plot. What I do remember is that
in my mind, the crystal cavern represented vast and precious forces of the earth. There’s no
way that my writing at the time could have possibly translated those feelings onto paper.
Ironically though, I clearly remember the look of the wrinkled 3-ring pages on which the
story was written.

There’s a good reason for this. On the day Teacher handed us our graded works, she
asked me to read my story to the class. So there I stood, holding those pages in my hands,
staring down a classroom of fellow miscreants. I wasn’t overly nervous (as previously al-
luded to, I was very confident as a kid—more so than as an adult). So why is this memory
of the pages so clear? It’s because the reading didn’t go as smoothly as I (or Teacher) had
hoped. Soon after I started, the class burst out laughing. They continued misbehaving to
the bitter end.

At first I was deeply hurt. I looked up at Teacher and saw her pained eyes staring back at
me. What a lovely heart she had! She was just as distressed about the goings-on as I was.
She tried to come to my rescue by chastising the class but things were beyond recovery and
I motioned to her to stop. “It’s ok…it’s ok…” I muttered, and soldiered on.

In part, my apparently mature reaction was a form of self-defense. However, a part of me
realized that my classmates hadn’t been exposed to the magic of Tolkien. How could these
luddites possibly appreciate my flight of fancy? So I convinced myself to give the unruly class
the latitude to enjoy the story in whatever manner they might.

Such is the tale of my first work of fiction. …Memories! I haven’t thought about this for
several decades. Now that I do think of it, I realize that it represents an important event in
my life. In fact, the crystal cavern motif reappeared in a story (unpublished) that I only fin-
ished this year—some 40 years later. It titled, “Kamori: Malloch’s Circus Maximus” and it’s an

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