The Fall
He didn't see it coming The wholeness of his life would be irrevocably shattered in one split second The stairs were old and steep He signaled to his wife to wait Descending first with a box In a frightening flash he flew to the floor As his head smashed the concrete it felt like a thousand boulders crushed and pinned his body He was conscious, he could speak Instant awareness flooded his mind with horror and disbelief His body felt like a frozen block The ensuing moments were a dark agonizing blur as though the stars had fallen extinguishing the light The future became a kaleidoscope of medical misery and mental anguish causing him to obsess about death rather than live out his crippled sentence He was a prisoner, jailed in his body Shackled to a bed or wheelchair His perfect mind was an isolated entity Directing a corporal self without effect Existing like an immobile statue A tribute to what was and could never be The days dragged to months, then years With formidable emotional and physical endurance minute movements returned to his battered body He gradually achieved unexpected progress But not enough to set him free There was hope, always hope New advances in treatments arose daily It was vital to focus on the present to let the past drift away when he was active, strong, happy, memories which inflicted exquisite pain A spark in him burned like glowing embers Adding fuel to his inborn fighting nature He powered his body through tunnels of torture Small rewards reinforced his will to live Inner strength pushed him up the high road Still, there were moments when in the depths of depression and despair Death beckoned as a welcomed release (Jane H Fitzgerald writes poetry with clarity and compassion. Her four books including, Notes From the Undaunted , can be found on Amazon. Jane has been published in many journals including Dreamers Creative Writing, Open Door Poetry Magazine, and others. Jane hopes that her words will bring diverse peoples together). The Compromise
It would be easier, so much easier when she was going to die after the transplant. I’d wake sweating out pills booze panic. So sure her broken form would be a found puddle of blood in fox print sheets. Our apartment porch’s thin bars smashed in, the window becomes shrouds of glass covering her red hair, as the invisible tendrils of elder fungus reach down her throat and snuff her breath into a final phlegm-less cough, that imagined week where the donated cells revolt, rise fire, and lava across her face, down her back, pull intestine down the toilet’s hell face. Love becomes screams through a dry burning mouth. But I held her hand, thin and cold, no fire, no choking, just long drives to the hospital, new cell civilization the turned winter terror to spring, and time clogged rivers, birds born, and worry died in mouths. She was miracle flesh, poisoned into life, quoting books, crying over friends missed. Then quiet across the room, and the normal stab and haunt of alcohol wipes in my nose. The Things Dads Do We pray. Our hands rudderless, floppy, numb and burning, skin ripped as red oak leaves, the dying smell of a hospital. The long steps up, the slow steps down into a dinner of tears and crackers and dry hamburger meat. We pray with greasy hands in the chapel, lonely as the winter that strangles and chokes the glass. The cold moment with a god we don’t know. Never felt. Don’t feel now, same tendrils of sickness, cannibal fingers interlaced, pointers crossed as horns. And yes, that thought is understood. The sulfur wings, the comfortable grip of the pen, the scrawled name the only believable holy word, the understanding of the decades past of fevered babies, broken lungs, the rot behind the eyes, the look in desperate beds of straw, of oak, of steel. What father would not eat the fire, choke back the charred decision, tear arm from arm, any arm. We would murder the moon, make piles of halos of angels and birds, knees mashing in faces, kid-noses, lovers, and devils. What would dads do? Anyfuckingthing. BMT Day # 890 The long net of a storm pulled the length of the sky, tight and unwelcoming as we trekked towards the end of our new street and into patch of trunks and underbrush. My brown boots, the cuff of dirt, around the midsole, laces tighten and prepared. Tread holds the pollen, broken limbs of figwort and sweet gum. The ankle leather scraped from overgrowth, as our shortcut dips into a deer trail. It’s that moment when woods become a forest I find comfort. I have stood under darker trees, under darker clouds laden in spears, each bolt with its own name, its own unique touch of death. I have hiked through this before running does not make it easier. You learn to wait - through, over, at, the hard decision of spring. We look ahead, as the brush and branches open, brown spring limbs spread into rebirth of buttercup. Yellow caps spark in the layer of green, next to the lone oak, strong and stable, rocks jut as a mountain range, alone among the invasive blossom of suns. (C.L. Liedekev is a writer/propagandist who lives in Conshohocken, PA with his real name, wife, and children. He attended most of his life in the Southern part of New Jersey. His work has been published in such places as Humana Obscura, Red Fez, Open Skies Quarterly, River Heron Review, and Vita Brevis. Many of my recent poems have dealt with my 10-year-old daughter’s bone marrow transplant and recovery). Pressing Three
*To erase and try again press three. Hey there. It’s me. I’ve been kind of sad lately. You know how it is. Anyway, thanks for calling. Leave a message and I’ll try to get back to you. *To erase and try again press three. Hello. I’m fucking depressed. I’m making a conscious effort to be completely honest with myself. With others. That’s why I’ve decided not to answer the phone. Please, don’t be mad. I’m tired of pretending happiness to be polite. This waltz of well-mannered untruths makes me even more miserable. Ya know? You can leave a message at the tone but I probably won’t respond. *To erase and try again press three. Hi! I don’t feel like talking to anyone. I’ve also been really lonely lately? Please, leave a message if you’ve got some time. Actually, no. I’d just feel bad for not calling back. Just. Forget it. *To erase and try again press three. I think I’ve fallen in love with my cellphone. An unorthodox affair. Who are you to judge? What else do I own more enabling for my anxiety and ambiversion at once? No. I can’t use this one. *To erase and try again press three. FUCK. To erase and try again press three. *I’m sorry. The person you are trying to reach has a voicemail box that has not been setup yet. (Monica Mills is a Jamaican-American writer and poet. She is from Maplewood, New Jersey and has a bachelor’s degree in political science and English from Rutgers University. Monica’s work appears in journals such as The West Trade Review, The Anthologist, The Normal Review, and The Quiver Review among others. She enjoys rainy days and ginger tea.) Hiding My Truth
A sinister energy somehow returns, and it carries excitement and doubt. It blossoms inside like an old parasite and draws out my vulnerable thoughts. This poisonous leech disguised as truth tempts me toward sparkling journeys. But I can’t give in and risk jail again, so I hide behind logic and safety. Now my insecure smiles and appropriate speech protect me from dubious stares. As God is my witness, I’m not really odd, I’m just hiding my truth till the end. (John Zurn has been faced with the challenges of bipolar disorder and anxiety disorder for his entire adult life. He gradually learned that: medication, exercise, meditation and creative writing were vital for his long term recovery. Despite this challenge, he still worked as a teacher and counselor for thirty-five years.) The Nest
I imagine you looking at the robins’ nest in the Maple outside your bedroom window. You can’t see the blue eggs, but you watch the male bring his partner dry grass and twigs. He brings dirt, too, dipped in a birdbath or gathered from a swampy spot at the yard’s edge. The female cements the nest, protecting her brood of four or five. Sometimes you stare at your body cast, a remnant of your spinal surgery, but most hours you watch the tree, the birds, the clouds, and the sky. The days pass slowly, but at the two-week mark, you see tips of yellow mouths, like tulips or other flowers you used to smell in the lawn beyond. You think of the day your hardened mold cracks open and you walk outside. How you will look upward, mouth open, scanning the blue and clouds and sun, hoping to glimpse a fledgling, or any free bird, flying far across the sky. Where it travels is not your concern. Your joy is that it does. (James Mulhern’s writing has appeared in literary journals over one hundred and fifty times and has been recognized with many awards. In 2015, Mr. Mulhern was granted a writing fellowship to Oxford University. That same year, a story was longlisted for the Fish Short Story Prize. In 2017, he was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. His novel, Give Them Unquiet Dreams, is a Kirkus Reviews Best Book of 2019. He was shortlisted for the Aesthetica Creative Writing Award 2021 for his poetry. Recently, two of his novels were Finalists for the United Kingdom’s Wishing Shelf Book Awards.) |
The Beautiful Space-
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