Alys Caviness-Gober
Summer Season by Deborah Petersen Celebrating This blue-green-white season When the bird song harmony is Drowned out by the intermittent lawn mowers And the children’s play laughter from the park across the street. The season When the rising sun enters the front room at a different angle Bringing in the shadows and stories of the leaves from The tree in the front yard. Barefootedness. Grounded. Smells a’plenty. The season Of eating so unlike the other seasons Such as the carrot with dirt right out of the ground Or the tomato plucked aching to be bitten The season More of our skin is exposed to the warmer breezes And the cicadas sing songs of joy and thanks wrapping up the day In their evening concerto.
Alys Caviness-Gober
Summer's Sizzle by Vivianne Belle Can you hear it? The gentle sound of leaves kissing each other, branches dancing, as summertime's breeze plays soft music for them. Can you hear it? Floating shouts and laughter, children playing, bonding in the splash of summertime's poolside friendships. Can you hear it? The clink of drinks and music and low murmurs, gatherings in the dusk on manicured grass, backyard barbeques expanding outward into the air. Can't you hear it? I can't breathe.
Alys Caviness-Gober
All She Wanted Was To Be Right by Ndaba Sibanda her stories buried under an edgy chest, they rioted, rumbled, seeking to reach a crest inside her silences, her moments of aloneness an interplay between her calms and their rowdiness though untold, they told and retold their sorry stories of moments in time loved, lost into an ocean of memories she feared telling her best friend or her aunt that each time he passed by or she caught sight of his photo, it was a crime she couldn’t find ample pluck to articulate, act on and bare her unheard words housed in hurt and too chocking to share that on boundless nights she turned and twisted on her bed the scars of loneness and longing brutal, heavy, hot and red she turned to her pillow for comfort but it was tough and tight she wasted ages navigating a past that failed to make her right
Alys Caviness-Gober
Bicycle
by Deborah Petersen
I loved my grandfather.
He gave me a freedom and permission and a rite, gifts unmatched by any other. He bought me my first and very own bicycle. It was not the kind with the banana seat or with plastic tails attached to the hand grips; no, it was a Foremost, kinda greenish and white (later, I learned the proper name was ‘turquoise’) and unlike any other. Sure, there were bicycles all around, no doubt, with 14 kids total in our house and the one across the street. We shared bikes for there did not seem to be ownership of the ones sprinkled about our yards, left in the rain, in all sorts of disrepair and mobility. But, here was mine, and mine alone.
It was a bike that did not have gears or speeds; its power and speed was determined by the number of minutes we were late after curfew or trying to outrun the storm and lightning hits. With a bike, we all became pre-pubescent engineers: “You’re on your own, kid, best learn how to change that tire!” I knew how to replace a slipped bike chain and make adjustments to the seat and handlebars for just the right height. I knew how to attach the wire baskets to the back so that I could deliver newspapers, and pick up milk, kool-aid, bread, and bologna at the store.
In the summer, all the days were the same: Tuesdays were Thursdays, Fridays were Saturdays. We had to rely on the adults to tell us when the school year was coming back around and the day long bike adventures were coming to a close. It was unheard of to ask an adult to drive us anywhere. The mornings would start early (not aware of any time on the clock, just the shadows of the leaves coming into the kitchen as the sun was rising), gulping down some breakfast cereal after a fight with the siblings who was going to get the toy inside the box, which always broke by the end of the day, whether it was a magic code ring, or spinning top, or ball in a maze. Then, up and out onto the street with freedom and summer street heat and breezes when we found the hill to glide down real fast. No helmets. No water bottles. No food. We knew where most garden hoses were kept and adults always had some fruit or a peanut butter sandwich ready to hand out wherever we landed.
If there was a plan to spend the day with a friend or a cousin, we were on own and wore the confidence in getting where we needed to go like the dirt sweat ring on our necks. We didn’t measure distances by miles back then, no, it was more by the number of dreams, and songs we belted out from beginning to end by the Monkees and Paul Revere and the Raiders. One day, we headed out to the Eckert’s for horseback riding. Another day, to collect eggs out at the Kennedy’s chicken farm. Some days, we headed north, then, east to spend the day making cannon ball jumps in the quarry in the back 40 at the Warner’s. Then, there were the days to bale hay at the Christman’s and to milk cows at the Hoffman’s. I had heard, some time ago, there was a culture somewhere on an island in the Pacific that did not have different words for “work” and “play”— funny, neither did we in this small Midwestern town.
They say “A dirty child is a happy child” and they said right. I recall the playground conversations once school started up again and showing off the war wounds of the season, the bumps and bruises of bicycle wrecks, the scars earned from the adventures and the freedom, and the permission from the season’s rites of passage. Looking back, I do believe that my bicycle took me to my first kiss, and to places where the cool kids hung out, until, we didn’t.
Thanks so much, grandpa!
Alys Caviness-Gober
Roosting In The Trees by Ndaba Sibanda Before it dawned on Qhude he thought that he had a chicken A darling of a domesticated bird. Yet as each day progressed the need to tame the bird became apparent It became clear that if he did not clip her wings soon he risked witnessing some coop drama live and direct! Fancy him clinging to her feathers when she has slipped off No, that was something he could not stomach on this earth!! Undeniably that fast-paced bird did not fly like a chicken ~ and when it hopped or flew, it had a dominant touch to it That bird knew neither confines nor coops, He saw her feathered beauty in this and that yard at no time! She made unbelievable disco music in the woodlands and at home His Guinea seemed not to care whether she was off her territory or not What a bird ~ a chicken knows when she strays off her place, Not that one, but hoorah she guided his property from bugs! What kind of bird pounces on predators like bugs? He ~ Cock, admired it, he ~ Qhude was the happiest bird in town! He loved the bird and imagined her taking about 26-28 days to hatch a full clutch and becoming a flighty mom too! Qhude pictured the seasonal layer, and boom, eggs hatched! He imagined his Guineafowl running around, he chasing, Telling her, “hey flighty mom, slow down for your kids” Perhaps she would frown, smile, or say, “don’t be silly!” He knew that she would prefer to nest on the ground Unlike a chicken that would opt for nesting in a little box Still he was afraid that one day his Guineafowl would run away forever No, he would train her to come back to her coop by giving her food and love…
by Alys Caviness-Gober
In The Witching Hour by Alys Caviness-Gober Sleepless, I meander, down hallways and through rooms familiar, my fingers run across beloved treasures left here bereft of you and waiting for your return; I’ve no need for lights. Pausing to peer out of windows into the shadowed nothingness of darkness accented in moonlight, the slim tree branches holding baby leaves are highlighted softly, swaying in a midnight dance. Gathering within me, shadows and light swirl and cascade in torrents, I sit before my scrying glass, peering into the shadowed nothingness of darkness, my gaze becomes anxious, desperation filters in; I seek accents highlighted softly. Exhale, let go. Stop seeking, let go, Breathe in, let go. Shadows and torrents, let go. Let go let go and look again. Exhale. My breath fogs my scrying glass, or perhaps for a second the glass fogs my second sight, then with swirling cascades of motion it clears, gently like the swaying of slim branches holding baby leaves; I see your face before me.
A Poor Person`s Precarious Paces And Spaces by Ndaba Sibanda Her efforts to hold back, to hold herself back Against hurtling and hurting herself helplessly With a hungry, tiny child strapped to her back Are a betrayal, as she bursts into tears and fury Her hiding husband betrayed her, battered her She is on the brink of soundness, she is shaky Hoping to ward off hunger and helplessness Famine weighs on her fragile body, her mind As she takes precarious steps that are oblivious To the world of lockdowns and social distancing She is dead, deaf, defenseless against a new reality Ushered in by an eerie, unseen virus, she wobbles on
Alys Caviness-Gober
The Art Of Making An Artwork by Ndaba Sibanda I try, I try to look at the planet Through an opening but a dot In my eye has a blurring habit My view is obstructed, my spark softens I look at the planet through poetic lenses That poetry has gifted me and dawn happens! The poetic lenses mend my vision, my sight They give my mind a lovely liveliness, an insight The sparkle gives birth to my artwork, my delight
Alys Caviness-Gober
Write Me Letters by Ndaba Sibanda You have filled me in on what makes you tick, took me on a tour of your culture and creed. You have taken me to places where they dish out delicacies and glamour and glitz. I cannot thank you enough for the body of knowledge you have shared with me. I cannot thank you enough for the superb cuisines and places of interest you have exposed me to. But now, please waste not your breath and time, for time for buts and blah blah is over. But now, please dish out your fragilities, your you-ness, for I pour out my me-ness. Write, write me letters… Write, write me letters… Words whose meanings and sounds are spelt out in the dictionary of you `n me. Those whose font sizes dance a lively tap to the melody and therapy of my soul. Words whose meanings and sounds are meaningless and soundless to all. Write me letters at the centre of my heart, letters so hot they burn into eternal blazes. Write me letters whose glorious memories time and distance will not shrink or erase. Write me letters in the hidden bowls of my mind, letters so mad they invent and reinvent my world. Draw me pictures whose shadows and sounds and colours I will follow and fall for forever. Draw me diagrams of the unseen and untouchable only seen and touched in the depth of your heart. Diagrams reflective of the effectiveness of vibes, those that sweep one off one`s heart and mind. Please me tell that our walks and chats and outings are the fruit we are beholden to honour and nurture. Please tell me I am the letters and diagrams that have snowballed and sailed away with you. Write me letters and diagrams about denials and the writing off of reality at one`s risk. Write me letters and diagrams about what lies beneath the wholeness of you and your life. Let me drown in their transcendence and elegance, so that our deficiencies see the light of fondness. Let me plunge into the blast furnace of adoration, and deal with its heat, lows and highs with conviction. Bring me the honour and privilege to take a sneak peek into our lifetime displeasures and treasures and pleasures. Bring me all our baggage of staggering secrets and frailties, bring them on --for these are to be in the mirror of frankness. Write me letters slated in for victory and celebration, write me letters endorsed and sealed by our hearts. Write me letters whose weight is weightless and sight sightless in the face of our resolve and affection. Write, write me letters… Write, write me letters…
Alys Caviness-Gober
The Question Is: To Mask Or To Unmask? by Ndaba Sibanda In the difficult times of the COVID-19 pandemic it is advisable for one not only to observe self-distancing guidelines and good hygiene but also to wear a face-mask when one goes out It is common to see surgeons wearing their masks, it is unfortunate to hear that doctors have run out of masks in the middle of a pandemic like the COVID -19, such exposés shoot out a thin mask of laxity and bungling It is unfortunate that one dodger got away with defaulting because he was wearing a mask when suddenly he bumped into his guarantor and creditor who couldn’t recognize his face, even his speedy staggering gait failed to unmask him on the spot!
Alys Caviness-Gober
Glory Days (aka, the Biscuit Queen) by Alys Caviness-Gober Back in the day (my salad days), when third shift life meant days were nights and nights were days, I reigned Biscuit Queen in a fast food joint, making more and fluffier biscuits out of each batch than anyone else ever could; my Muse, a silvery bowl too big for my arms to encircle, embraced ingredients in scientifically specified order: first, in pours patented precision-measured dry mix, forming a mountain, exhaling like a living thing, puffing particles up and out suspending midair then falling softly; my brown uniform dims and my white apron whitens more, and like a ghost I work on, a dusting of unfertilized biscuits hang on my eyelashes and kiss my face; next, I chop a patented precision-measured margarine brick into butter-yellow cubes that cling to my fingers, ’til my fingers wave adieu, waving so they fall away to disappear into the soft white mountain waiting unaware in the bowl; last, gently slowly pours in a patented and measured cold creamy-thick liquid labeled “BUTTERMILK” that pools upon the dry mix like a cratered lake, with tiny rivulets cascading down the mountainside; then with Biscuit Queen magic, three times quickly my fingers thrust gently down and then up and around, mixing just enough to merge the mountain and cubes and pools into a sticky wet dough ball, then fast flop-plop, I fling down the ball perfectly, centering it on my wooden board, pre-dusted with a sprinkle of dry mix, then rolling delicately, my roller barely touching dough, three times my roller rolls, effervescently cajoling the dough outward to the demanded depth; now working quickly placing and pushing my biscuit cutter, one smooth motion, down-twist-up-flop biscuits onto pan, until no dough is left large enough to cut; quickly re-form dough ball, a little drier than it was, quickly roll my roller quickly cut down-twist-up-flop biscuits onto pan, until no dough is left large enough to cut; quickly re-form dough ball, now almost too dry, quickly roll my roller quickly cut down-twist-up-flop biscuits onto pan; with the magic of threes, when no one else could get so many biscuits from a batch, I reigned Biscuit Queen.