Adelaide Literary Magazine No. 54, October 2022

REVISTA LITERÁRIA ADELAIDE

My Longest Relationship

My longest relationship is with myself.
To keep the love alive, I need to ask:
Are my heart and mind
regularly communicating?
Am I taking care of the body
that works so hard?
Am I investing in quality time
with my soul?
Am I forgiving myself
for past mistakes?
Am I making plans
for tomorrow and beyond?
There is so much history here.
I don’t want to break up.

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A Blessing

Close your eyes.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Open your eyes.
You just experienced
a blessing.

Fireflies
Her good deeds shone
from the depths of her heart
as if she was made of fireflies,
lighting the way for others
in the dark.

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Dawn

Hazy streetlights at dawn
The sound of crickets and cicadas
Permeate the otherwise quiet lane
A lone figure is walking
A calm and steady gait
She stops to admire the sunflowers
Then looks up at the lightening sky
The trees nod hello
While the fog waves goodbye

Dayna Lellis is a New York City math teacher who likes to bake, hike, read, and write.
Several of her poems were previously published by Adelaide Magazine. To learn more about
her writing, visit daynapoetry.strikingly.com.

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EXPAT

by Joe Albanese

Trading Post at the Edge of Known

Empty more mistaken pearl
to curl fate

and find oneself

somewhere with
no stars
and no fear,
no knots and
no ends

The varied cost not haggled,
just peaked and tipped

Traverse naught and koan, and
trust the seed into the flame

leaving only an epitaph of sand

Go without stars
Go without fear

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Made Up in Laughing

Frame half-open windows
Slip out of billows
Stomp on the sunlight
stamped in the sidewalk
Dry and kind
Call off a shadow
Tripped up in meadow
The sere breath is casting,
made up in laughing
Holding all chance others left behind
When day drops to fair-low
Return not its sparrow
Its echo’s in moonlight,
verve in the clockwork
Draped in the caul of what we can’t unwind

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Expat

Bound to North
Not home nor far
Made by escape,
A hope to fight
Trust lantern lost
Believed or touched
Fade made by dark,
And light by light
When cold turns warmth
And prayer divides
Be either sail in storm,
Or spark from night

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The Pronation of Shangri La

Bellowed to the threat of any falling leaves
Softcore Shangri La is gone but far from freed
Caught in the tired idea that petrichor is wrong
Upended by some heathen in the scattered steam
A valley that’s been dried out yet not quite cleared
Cross-eyed, unremarkable garden forms a path
Retreaded by many so-and-sos just like me
To the beacon of kingdom con and its seams
Whatever’s being kicked up stains twice, and
there’s no going back

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Its Winds Still Blow From Time to Time

It comes like that,
with sheer weight that invariably
dismisses
all other thought. So
I grapple and claw to hold
ground in my mind
that has
been compromised each time
prior.
There is no taming this tempest
in my head; it can only
be set loose from time to time,
and I must remind myself
when ropes
and shackles
meet their brink. And so
I let those waves
crash there, taking me in
its throes—knowing
and not knowing the storm
has passed
so long ago. I myself
am merely on shores—watching,
waiting for
the end of the winds’
exhale.

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Joe Albanese is a writer from South Jersey. His fiction, nonfiction, and poetry have been
published in 12 countries. Joe is the author of Benevolent King, Caina, Candy Apple
Red, For the Blood is the Life, Smash and Grab, and a poetry collection, Cocktails
with a Dead Man.

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MY FIRST REAL SKY

by Juan Mobili

Leaves

My wife told me,
that her sister,
the one I barely knew,
when she got

her pair of glasses
saw
that leaves
were their own selves,

not the rowdy bunch
of veins
and green
she knew.

Imagine
how irresistible
her joy was
when she met them.

 

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My Father Smoking

The ceremony began with the unopened pack of L&Ms my father would
pull out of his pocket, hold in his right hand, flip it upside down,
and tap it several times on the back of his left hand,

only then he would carefully pull at the tab on the strip of cellophane,
flip the top open, select the cigarette he’d smoke and push the chosen one
up with his right thumb above the rest of the pack.

As he held the cigarette between the fingers of his left hand, the right one
would slip into a pocket and emerge again holding his silver Zippo.

The sound when he flicked the lid open would make the whole family
pause,
the sort of collective awe Argentinians experience at the movies
when Fred and Ginger danced on a terrace under a sky full of stars.

By the time his thumb pushed down the small wheel that struck
the flint that caused the spark to awake the flame, we were ready to
applaud.

The zenith lay ahead, when his arm rose like a priest’s
about to impart his last blessing, and he took the first drag,
pure silent grace as the filter would nestle between his lips.

We wondered where the smoke travelled when he inhaled,
before it would come out slowly through his nostrils
like the steam of a small vessel sailing down the dinner table.

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For the Polish on Her Nails

The beauty parlor was her haven
and her fortress high on a mountain
inaccessible to men, men who had
a part in her making and unmaking.
I was her whisper in my father’s ear
that convinced him I was his idea,

his precious rib,
but only a whisper,
not to disrupt the polish
drying on her nails,
red as birth blood.
 

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Las Golondrinas

“Golondrinas con fiebre en las alas”
Carlos Gardel & Alfredo Le Pera

I was sung the tango
of the swallows with fever in their wings,
at bedtime,
by my father,
his idea of a soothing lullaby,
his impenetrable hypothesis
of fatherhood,
and I dreamed
I was made of
crude metaphor
swallows
and my father’s voice.
 

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My First Real Sky

Being born in a big city
who’d imagined such river of stars!
I was illiterate as far as constellations,
unaware that shooting stars
gave their lives for our wishes.

Juan Pablo Mobili was born in Buenos Aires, and adopted by New York. His poems
appeared in The American Journal of Poetry, The Worcester Review, Otoliths (Australia)
Impspired (UK), and Bosphorus Review of Books (Turkey) among others. His work
received an Honorable Mention from the International Human Rights Art Festival, and
nominations for the Pushcart Prize and the Best of the Net, in 2020 and 2021. His
chapbook, “Contraband,” was published this year.

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MY FIRST PET

by Duane Anderson

The Paper Trail

I am not competing for a place in history.
My name was listed in the newspaper
after being born to let everyone know I had arrived,
then report cards came along,
rating me from a F to an A, pass or fail.
Did I get what I deserved?
They were posted, and I moved on
up the ladder of education.
Photographs were taken of me
as the years passed by,
growing taller and heavier,
always changing with each picture,
posing like I was a model in a fashion magazine,
except the clothes I wore were nothing fancy.
The pictures still exist, lying around,
somewhere in a photo album,
no one to look at them for years.
Again, mentioned in the newspapers,
maybe for a sporting event where I placed
in one of the top three spots,
or recognized for some award,

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and finally, the paper trail will come to an end
when I pass away, and then,
just maybe, an obituary will be printed
if anyone is still around that remembers me,
and my place in history will be finalized.

My First Pet

I once had a pet crawdad.
Picked it up hiding between the rocks
in a shallow creek bed,
placed it into a bucket
filled with water from the creek,
but it did not survive long.
I guess it might have helped if I had fed it
and changed the water every so often.

I never did have another pet,
though I wouldn’t have minded
having a squirrel or a rabbit as one,
but they were too fast for me to catch,
and the one pet that I did have,
I never did give it a name that I remember,
other than crawdad, and maybe
it was good I never did have another one.

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Life’s Battles

The tree grew to a height of four feet,
then its life ended, causes unknown.
No autopsy performed, no prayers
or celebration of life held, no burial.
The caretaker who planted it
and its other sibling, still alive and green
in the opposite corner of the yard,
ignores it in its lifeless state.
The green ferns turned to its
final color of brown, now, just a permanent
monument of what was once a vibrant evergreen,
a life turned short.
Both trees, a remembrance of life and death.
One, a battle of survival, holding its own,
and the other, a battle lost.

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Ignored

The bird flew over to the bird bath
hoping to find water,
but none was to be found.
The rains had been absent,
forgetting they were still needed
and wanted and loved.
The neighbor who placed
this sculpture in her back yard,
left it unattended.
The bird bath stood all alone,
its full potential ignored,
by both man and nature.

Duane Anderson currently lives in La Vista, NE. He has had poems published in Fine
Lines, Cholla Needles, Tipton Poetry Journal, and several other publications. He is the
author of ‘On the Corner of Walk and Don’t Walk,’ and ‘The Blood Drives: One Pint
Down,’ and ‘Conquer the Mountains.’

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A CHILD LOST

by Ray Keifetz

Fool’s Birthday

Not every day
do you pass through a door
without opening it
and behind the iron bolt
find cake.
Not every day
against the slow grinding glaciers,
evaporating seas,
the calcification
of every human heart,
do you sing.
Not every day is a birthday.
Not every slice has something
to blow out.

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Back From A Climb

Back from a climb
higher than a sparrow’s fall
from peak to granite sorrow,
the old cold streams still flow,
snow settles over fields and hills,
grackles, finches, feed at feeders,
but we no longer feed,
we no longer flow.

Our lungs are dried.
Our knees ground down.

Trickles within a stride,
ascents within a breath,
soft dreamy drifts,
we slip them on
and shuffle off to bed.
In a room without roof or walls
we toss and turn and draw
the hemlocks closer.
Below the snow
we can’t stop climbing.

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A Child Lost

Whoever praised the shore
lied about the tide.
I cried against the lies,
the blankets, the sunblock air,
the strangers who reached down
and touched my hair.

A child lost.
Silent sand.

A child lost.
Waves,
rolling swells,
breakers,
broken shells . . .

A child lost
and there he stood,
seaweed streaming.
He never sang
and he was singing.

He was a child,
and he was safe.
But he was a child
I never found.

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Some Stones I Could Read

The old man set me to work.

My father lies here.
Yours may too.

Some stones I could read,
others winter worn
as if erased,
or not yet written—

The old man said nothing
about wrongs,
the right, the rest,
only it was just and proper
we pull up weeds, that every Spring
we lay down lilacs

whether we can
or cannot read.

I will tell you a secret.
Soldiers love leaves.

We read what we read,
take what we take.
How many did we bury in the meadow,
how many in shadow,
whispering elms,
ashes, ashes . . . ?

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On This Road We Wave

Dust hangs heavy over the road.
A fox fades, a moose looms, a driver waves.
Backlit silhouettes, faceless,
nameless as they near
wave like injured blackbirds their one good wing
and I wave back though knowing
none of this will lift.
Eyeless in the dust
I wave at men. I wave at squirrels.
I wave at moths. I wave at jays.
From his porch
an old man barely standing waves
a catcher’s mitt – disaster orange.
My hand lifts, another flutters.
Our hands, our paws, our wings
flutter, flap, sway—
So few on this road
carry their own light.

Ray Keifetz has published stories and poems in numerous literary journals and presses
including Ashland Creek Press, Briar Cliff Review, Gargoyle, Kestrel, the Louisville
Review, Phantom Drift and RHINO. His work has been nominated for three Pushcart
Prizes. “Night Farming In Bosnia” his first poetry collection received the Library of Poetry
Award from the Bitter Oleander Press. He currently lives in Northern New Hampshire.

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NOT TO BE BLUE

by Diana Raab

Not to be Blue

The day starts anew
its murmurs are all true
this early pandemic sunrise
towers above our chaotic world.
and brings bouquets of fresh flowers.
In a snap, the sun quickly sets
and we fall asleep free of regrets.
for months on end, this cycle continues
as one sunset merges into
the next sunrise
as we all awaken to pray
of new beginnings.
 

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Terminal Sweetness

My daughter Regine suffers
from something many of us
wish we had, but it can
handicap even an ordinary life.
She was born with terminal
sweetness, first noticed even
before her high Apgar score was yelled
out by the stressed out O.R. nurse.

Regine was born smiling,
happy and round.
Her father said she was so perfect that
her smile belonged on the side of a pamper
box.

Now twenty years later her perfection
makes us proud as she sprinkles her love
on those blessed by her presence.

She rejoices when her loved ones are happy
and whimpers when they’re sad
and does anything in her power,
even to her own detriment,
to release the pain in a loved ones’ heart.

Regine doesn’t even eat meat.
That hurts animals.
 

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Unleashed

when we spend even a short minute together
a rush of creative musings unleash
inside pent up me
like faucet set free from its base
and the world’s answers appear
without me stopping to answer
amidst shivering limbs beside crisscrossed toes
and a soul that craves being twisted with yours
then when your toes curl it makes my heart sing
as only then do I know I’ve given you back
all that you’ve shared with me—
that eruption of sorts
that I never want to live without.
please stay longer.

Diana Raab, PhD, is an award-winning memoirist, poet, blogger, speaker, and author of
10 books and is a contributor to numerous journals and anthologies. Her two latest books
are, "Writing for Bliss: A Seven-Step Plan for Telling Your Story and Transforming
Your Life," and "Writing for Bliss: A Companion Journal." Her poetry chapbook, "An
Imaginary Affair," was recently published in July 2022 with Finishing Line Press. She
blogs for Psychology Today, Thrive Global, Sixty and Me, Good Men Project, and
The Wisdom Daily and is a frequent guest blogger for various other sites. Visit: www.
dianaraab.com.

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