Church bells ring
on a street
in Mexico,
cars and guns flash–
a red stain
ragged hole shirt.
Yellow dandelion
candles glow
on a bedroom dresser,
through filmy curtains
piano music–
Debussy.
The sound sets you free
in turquoise water,
beneath pink flowers
the gunshot holds no fear.
going home
to blue bayou
a bullet always tells the truth
Susan Beth Furst
Alan Summers
Ekphrastic haibun inspired by:
‘House on the Hill’ by Helen Garrett
Oil on board (80cm x 70cm)
Victoria Art Gallery exhibition: Towards the Unknown
(24 November – 13 January 2008)
1956 saw my birth
and the devil’s rope gain ground.
I have yet learnt to fly
or succeed
where the movie star failed
to jump the wire
by motorcycle
in the Great Escape movie.
I did not leave a country by force only umbilically in a Chelsea hospital.
You left your motherland that year,
as I left my own,
and we returned together decades later to rust in old blood.
I was never really into boy bands. I mean, sure, I belted the lyrics to every Backstreet Boys song that came on the radio. And, okay, I had an N*SYNC poster on my bedroom wall. And I might have dreamt about running off to Hawaii with Taylor Hanson and those long, luxurious locks of perfect blond hair… But I swear, I was never really into boy bands.
climate change
the ice shifts
in my water glass
Elizabeth Alford
It’s like the blurred vignette on a doctored photograph. It’s like a doubled-sided headache without the ache, just an overwhelming sense of disconnect. Yet connections are made nonetheless. Answers to secrets of the universe reverberate in your veins, jumpstarting your brain, but damn! It’s like your body is running on empty.
By the way, the gas light came on and I need the car tomorrow. Here’s a twenty. Oh, and can you pick up like five of those fully-loaded burritos from that place up the street? Extra onions. Grab a bunch of those little packets of hot sauce too. Thanks.
like stale bread
and morning breath
the taste of a sneeze
Elizabeth Alford
I check in the hotel and walk
and walk and walk
there!
I approach the house of my birth
and ring the bell
A rented car
we drive south east –
the Rhodopy mountain
winding road
our destination
Levochevo
a tiny village in the mountain
red roofs
smoking chimneys –
the forest
A rented house – a week in Levochevo.
Steep steps.
A woman opens the door, lights the fire.
Easter Sunday
I stroll in Levochevo –
narrow winding alleys
An old man approaches and stares at me.
“Please remind me, who were you?
my head forgets so many things!”
“I’m a tourist at Valkanov’s house”
“Ahhh! The Valkanov’s house, big house!”
“Yes, it’s a family reunion, we’re four generations in Valkavov’s!
“From which part of the country are you
from?”
“I’m from Sofia”
“Ahhh! Sofia! You don’t give a damn about us in Levochevo! You don’t care! The old die, the young leave! Just look around!”
I look around
“A house for sale”
cracking walls
a new drainpipe
“A house for sale”
broken window panes no door
“Yes”, I say, “I looked around”
“All the best!” he says’
“Thank you, and all the best to you too”
a friendly old but strong handshake
Freddy Ben-Arroyo
green sea foam jello is a delicacy enjoyed
by the Curtain Snappers who also enjoy
an occasional game of carpet rugby
organized by the Ministry of Picture Wizards
who partake in an ever increasing number
of typewriter joyrides while
rounding up all of the Candle Tappers
until the unbearable burden
of the enjoyment itself
comes down to
the sickening reality
of a leather lampshade.
But the fruit was so sweet . . .
silence the fig tree missing leaves
Susan Beth Furst
