By Cindy Jenson-Elliott © 4/3/2020

 

I 

I lick the sphere 

of shiny blue suction cups

and hurl the tiny polyvinyl ball

at the window with such force

it sticks in my students’ minds, 

even as it slides down the glass,

leaving a slime trail behind.

 

II

Everyone freaked out

the first time we found 

a Brown Widow egg sack 

in the school garden,

a fuzzy white sphere

covered in spikes

like a virus.

Someone sprayed in secret,

over Spring Break,

killing everything with legs,

leaving even the emerald jewel, 

a Monarch chrysalis,

a black coffin.

 

III

I wash my hands

and scrub my son’s old bike

and put it in the driveway

with a sign that says, “FREE.”

Two days later, it is still there

Because, unlike the bike,

we are not.

 

 

IV

Doing dinner dishes,

each plate is snatched from the rack

instantly, silently

as we listen to a story

creep over our skin.

 

  

V

A man and woman face each other

on opposite sides of the narrow street,

a makeshift gym springing up

on each sidewalk, 

in piles of dumbbells,

Jump ropes and giant elastic bands.

They work in sync,

Standing and squatting, 

Standing and squatting,

a sing-song of call and response

reaching across the street

as I ride my bike 

through the middle 

of the room.

 

VI

What will I do

when my To-Do List

runs out and I am left

with nothing

to do?

 

VII

I feel the lymph nodes

on the sides of my son’s neck.

“It’s OK.

That’s normal.”

 

© Cindy Jenson-Elliott 2020

 

Eddy shreds the world

like a mouse destroying insulation

to build a nest.

In any conversations, his slim hands

grasp some small thing,

pressing, pinching, poking and tearing

like the claws of doom

until small becomes tiny,

and tiny turns into a tornado

of paper, cloth, plastic, wax –

a swirling snowdrift of parts

that can never be reassembled

exactly the way they were. 

 “I don’t know why I do it,” he laughs

as he grasps a translucent pushpin 

and proceeds to poke holes 

in a vintage cloth and antique table.

Once, he tells me, he called home 

from the front desk at school

and found, afterwards, he had shredded

a message meant for someone else.

His fingers have a life

of their own, entirely separate

from his brain.

But the hands that take away 

also craft wonder – 

a Milky Way of stars folded 

from tiny scraps, complex masks 

assembled from discarded junk,

joyful words embroidered

in lost ends of thread.

He is Shiva incarnate,

his third eye focused outward,

a garland of paper skulls

looped around his neck,

each one smiling with wild kindness

on a world he rebuilds 

from broken bits.

 

Darren Samakosky

Don’t need

no leap year

I just want

to keep

you here

Near my side

for all time

Sorry

for the worry

Sorry

for the fears

Don’t need

No leap year

I just want

to keep

you here

In the last

Friday

in February

I remember

the last thing

you said

to me

overcast

clouds are wishes

you see

And

I’m missing

you

like a memory

In the last

Friday

in February

I trust

the past

but seek

a better belief

Underneath

Forgiving skies

A reprieve is

what we need

And

I’m missing

you

like a memory

Holding on

so you don’t

slip away

from me

In this last

Friday

in February

Don’t need

no leap year

I just want

to keep

you here

Near my side

for all time

Sorry

for the worry

Sorry

for the fears

Don’t need

no leap year

I just want

to keep

you here

My heart knows how to sit 
in a quiet room

Making days into history

Allowing time to wonder artistically

writers  - you may have my heart

but my head try’s too now 
to wrap itself around

My hands hold on tight 
to all they can

There is poetry in an early exit

There is a gift in the incomplete

We will rise

We will ride

We will write

We will rewrite

The truth is that we see ourselves

Together and distant

Forever a well kept moment

a cancellation

a present

Don’t unplug our chords

our vocals may gets silent

when a virus takes absence

When lies and common sense

conspire till they become indifference

And our abandoned classroom sits still

Dear Writers Workshop,

With your beating hearts

Your work space now

A void both filled and unfilled 

Dear Writers Workshop, 
you have my heart

The door is locked 
and the lights are off

At the window 
you can peak inside

And leaning on the podium 
with pride - there we are

In mid sentence reciting

golden lines and sacred writing

Dear Writers Workshop, 
Here's a last breath

we made a community a family

You my students 
unconditionally becoming

Brothers and sisters

Some beg to still stay strangers

Some begin to be themselves

Dear Writers Workshop,

Thank God for you

Thank God we are alive
Thank God we had our time

I just want some one to tell me

we will one day meet again

Be good. Write on.
Mr. Samakosky