WORD FOUNTAIN FALL 2011 Issue No. 5
|CONTENTS, Word Fountain Fall 2011 Issue 5|
|Pedro Marrero||Partridge Street|
|Jami Kali||I write about You|
|Alina Vitali||Silly Bird|
|Scott Zimmerman||The Birds and the Trees|
|Pedro Marrero||In Terrible French|
|Kayla Raniero||The Scents, Sounds, and Tastes of Autumn|
|Hannah Raineri||Hidden Terror|
|Guy James McKeown||My Head Has Exploded|
|Angela Greco||A Plea|
|Edward Lupico||Spitting It Out|
|Rachael Goetzke||This is not a poem about Tori Amos|
|Jami Kali||Thrill of the quit|
Partridge Street by Pedro Merrero
Always the uninvited guest.
A little house on Partridge street
She opens the door
I apologize for interrupting
Undoubtedly the scent
“This is the young man
And they all let out a collective:
Neptune by Edward Lupico
East on I99
off you go
Dawn spits us out
off you go
Every day I would spend
Colored by Robin Hazel
Whoever decided to call us black people
He neglected to categorize our
I know true blue black negroes,
But I suppose I shouldn’t criticize
Silly Bird by Alina Vitali
Joan stared at her daughter’s confused expression. A grown woman and she could never keep track of anything. Now Jessica had misplaced her mother’s wireless phone receiver. Who knew where she’d put it? Bad enough cleaning up after your children when they were children, but not when they were adults. “Where is it?” Joan asked. “Remember where you last saw it?”
“Mom, it was on the dining room table when I left yesterday. Now, it isn’t there. I haven’t touched it.” Jessica walked into the living room. “What’s your suitcase doing out here?”
Joan followed her daughter. The morning light barely threaded through the blinds, stretching broken stripes over the furniture in a chaotic pattern. Her red carry-on stood, half-zipped, in the middle of the floor. It belongs in the back bedroom closet. She didn’t remember lending it to Jessica, but she must have….and now Jessica had brought it back and forgotten to put it away. The girl had been raised better than that.
Jessica picked up the suitcase and set it on the wingback chair. She frowned.
“Now what?” Joan asked.
Jessica unzipped the case and opened it. The missing phone lay nestled in the bottom. A small red light blinked—the receiver’s battery had run down.
Joan stared. “Why would you put the phone in there? I’m not into playing games, Jessica. I need my phone. What would happen if there was an emergency and you weren’t around? Did you ever think of that?”
Joan shuddered. Why is she doing this?
As she looked at her daughter’s face—a study of weary misery—the younger woman’s eyes welled up with tears. Joan swallowed the rest of her lecture. Poor thing. Something is wrong. I’ll call Dr. Cohen later. He’ll know what to do. She watched Jessica set the phone on its recharging base in the hall. The hungry indicator flashed green, sucking power in.
Joan shuffled to the kitchen, picked up a mug, and filled it with tap water.
Jessica followed. “What’re you doing?”
“The begonia’s withered. I forgot to water it.” She stepped to the window, drew the draperies back, then stopped. Wilted yellow leaves drifted to the floor, mingling with pink petals fallen from brittle arched stems. The soil glistened, moisture darkened the clay pot, and water overflowed the saucer, staining the wall and dribbling on the floor.
“Jessica, honey, you already watered it. Why didn’t you say so, silly bird?” Joan turned to get a paper towel.
“I didn’t…wait, I got it.” Jessica bent over and wiped the small puddle off the floor with a tissue. “Got a tight schedule today, Mom. Let me get the laundry started.”
“I did it yesterday, honey.” Joan returned to the living room, sat in the recliner, and pulled the Japanese red and black throw over her legs.
Jessica carried an armful of rumpled clothing and linens into the living room and dropped the heap in the middle of the floor. “Is this all of it?” Her salt- and-pepper hair fell away from her face as she straightened.
Jessica looks so old. Is she ill?
“I just did the wash, silly bird.” Joan got up. Something’s not right. She wandered over to the phone table in the dark hall, running her finger over a palm-size brown phone book and a dozen yellow sticky notes—Water the begonia, turn off the stove…she craned her neck to see if the stove was off. Well, of course it was. Jessica wrote these… Joan recognized her daughter’s scrambled printing.
She looked at the notes. One yellow square stuck above the others. She grabbed the phone and dialed. After a series of rings, Danny answered. “Hi, Grandma!”
Joan smiled. “Hi honey. Can I speak to your mom?”
“Mom went to see you, Gran!”
“Oh…” Joan lowered the receiver and stared at it. Jessica reached around from behind her and took the receiver.
“It’s okay, Mom. Come sit down.” She cupped a warm, soft palm around Joan’s elbow and led her back to the recliner.
“I need to call Dr. Cohen.” Joan said. Something was very wrong. The doctor, her good friend, would help her sort it out.
“You have an appointment with Dr. Patel on Wednesday,” Jessica said.
Joan shook her head. She remembered another reason why she needed to call the doctor. “No, Dr. Cohen is supposed to give me some test results, silly bird.”
“Mom, like I told you last week—Dr. Cohen died ten years ago.”
The Birds and the Trees by Scott Zimmerman
There’s a tree outside
The leaves flutter
I don’t know my trees either.
In Terrible French by Pedro Merrero
It wasn’t the persistent tick of the clock
It wasn’t the spider quietly spinning
Nor the dying glow of a cigarette
It was an unfinished poem I found today,
Lines to a girl living
A note that read like love, like love
The Scents, Sounds, and Tastes of Autumn:
A Haiku Collection by Kayla Raniero
Children jump in leaves
Jackets now are worn
Fall cake freshly baked
Picking a pumpkin
The homecoming game
Scary ghosts and ghouls
Hot sweet pumpkin pie
Fun in the corn maze
Scent of rich sweetness
Spices of autumn
Sweet apple donuts
Colors all over
Leaves fluttering down
Untitled by Laurel Nestor
I never spoke much verbally, but in the written word I spoke volumes.
Though THOUGHT was managed in every word, a decent writer is unique, whereas a person with hands can sculpt or paint or someone with working legs can run.
Though everything a writer puts out is criticized and not given as much credit as the fastest boy at the track meet, nor the girl who won the art show.
They pour their whole soul in the feeble hope some one will pick up on the plot or moral that was intended by the author, because it is what they (the writer) loves.
They push through the mental blocks in an attempt to meet deadlines so that they pay the rent on time.
Though as much as it can frustrate them they think of what they have gone through and wonder how they made it this far.
They are strong and still manage to be free spirits though the American people tear their works apart by picking apart every witticism or flaw the work may not even have.
Hidden Terror by Hannah Raineri
Deep inside the anger burns.
My Head Has Exploded by Guy James McKeown
Too many lies made my head explode
Too many lies made my head explode
Too many lies made my head explode
Too many lies are bad for one’s head
Spitting It Out by Edward Lupico
I don’t write about hope
Gloria by Robin Hazel
I buried my grandmother
Her funeral card said something about
My cousins kept it real,
I, on the other hand
But sometimes I just don’t feel it.
This is not a poem about Tori Amos by Rachael Goetzke
Tori taught me about
She sits across from me at my kitchen table
Maybe I can be the piano bench instead
Jesus is the way, the truth and the life
Thrill of the Quit by Jami Kali
To Nirvana with a bag slung on my back.
Nirvana isn’t everything. An empty freedom is here
All-Nighter by Angela Greco
Leaving the library
Rachael Goetzke is co-founder and Managing Editor of Word Fountain. She hails from the Blue Ridge Mountains (VA). Her poetry and prose have been published in Word Fountain, The Cohort Review and Ripasso. By January 2012, she will have her MFA in Creative Writing from Wilkes University. For more of her musical musings, please visit: http://kindalikeapoet.wordpress.com/
Angela Greco was born and raised in northeastern PA. When she was 17, she won first place in a Pennsylvania poetry society contest for a Petrarchan sonnet. These days, she organizes a local book club and enjoys reading modern haiku.
Robin Hazel is a co-editor of Word Fountain, actress, writer and stand-up comedian. She is young, gifted, and black. Follow her on Twitter: @Heffa_Please (Simply to stroke her ego. She seldom tweets.)
Jami Kali sat on a roadside mountain cliff. She was higher than a colossal blanket of rolling clouds that shaded the valley below. Like waves of an ocean (in slow motion), particles whisked and whirled through the trees. She watched until finally, this monstrous sea of the sky swallowed the setting sun. You can find her work online at JamiKali.com. And while you’re at it, read her magazine, The Vein, at TheVeinZine.blogspot.com.
Edward Lupico writes in Wilkes-Barre.
Pedro Marrero was born and raised in New York City. His biggest influences include, but are not limited to: John Ashbery, Wendell Berry, Louis Aragon, Robert Desnos, and Jules Supervielle.
Guy James McKeown has been a resident of Wilkes-Barre for two years. He is an assistant manager at Crossing Over on S. Main St. His hobbies include reading and running, both of which he does every day. He first tried his hand at poetry in the summer of 2011.
Laurel Leigh-Anne Nestor is a writer who writes a lot of fiction. She’s a Libra with a dog. She is 14 and lives with her dad in Wilkes-Barre, PA.
Hannah Raineri is 14 and a freshman at G.A.R. Junior/Senior High School. Writing has always been one of her favorite hobbies, and she has a passion for it. She has been writing her whole life, and wishes to become an author as her career.
Kayla Raniero is a sophomore at Meyers High School where she is involved in drama club, chorus, FBLA, color guard, key club, yearbook staff, student council, and school newspaper. She also takes voice lessons, and performs with Music Box, Little Theater, Arts Youniverse, KISS, Misfits, and various open mike nights.
Alina Vitali grew up in the former Soviet Union and moved to America in 2000. Currently she lives in Tampa, FL. Her job as a therapist for children with severe emotional disorders prompted her to seek more tranquil activities, like gardening, or working on her MA in Creative Writing at Wilkes University.
Scott Zimmerman is a resident of Wilkes-Barre whose poems have previously appeared in Word Fountain. His poetry is self-prescribed and the only therapy that’s worked so far.
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The editors thank Catherine Yavorchak for her assistance with this issue.