Polly Brown – Family Wealth

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Polly Brown
Family Wealth

               When lightning struck the barn
that had been his father’s pride—when the cows
       and all but two work horses perished—

               most of the family capital went up
in smoke. And when fire spread to the house
       where his grandmother raised him,

with its fine dark furnishings, white porch,
               all the shining gifts sent for the wedding
       lost and gone—the polish and ease

               that had made him a leading man
vanished. Facing such loss—with no insurance
       then—he might have gone to work in town,

               let his land grow up to weeds. ‘No,’
she said, ‘Here.’ So he brought his bride
       home to the hired man’s house downhill,

       and they started over. That’s where she fed
donuts to chickadees come to her palm.
               That’s where they stood with my father

       in his new uniform, for a family portrait
               before he went to war. Where Grandpa
       knelt before each meal, to give thanks.

Evelyn Posamentier – Washington Heights

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Evelyn Posamentier
Washington Heights

gradually
mothers lean out of windows
yelling for their children to come home for supper.
in eternity, the stars emerge slowly
as the backdrop turns to dark & there is no
such thing as time or there is
all the time in the world or there are
children everywhere or stars & no children
or many children or stars with children, or each star
holding a child, no morning, noon,
suppertime or school, no smokestacks &
buildings, no slippery streets, no families,
with ends to meet, no time or end of days.
i once had a parakeet in that city
which does not exist
the bird was blue, also yellow, a touch of green
it was as free in its cage as i was

Donna J. Gelagotis Lee – On the Farm in Harbourton

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Donna J. Gelagotis Lee
On the Farm in Harbourton
 

Through the midline of the pasture, the stream
plunged, trickle and rush, over stone and rock,
up to thick wads of bank, grasses lying over
their wiry strands, as if waiting for the horses
to bring their muzzles and drink, as if here
were a fountain with its mark on the human
earth we strode over with intent and progress.

In our minds, the stream was going somewhere,
had come from somewhere, was feeding our livestock.
We wanted to put our lips there to feel the water’s caress.
Instead, we cupped our hands, made a container
to drink, removed ourselves, at least in our thought,
from the animals so that we could have dominion,
we could wrap our thoughts in rationalization,
nationalize our landmass, claim our water rights.

While the horses grazed in the upper pasture, pushing
the limits of its borders, we stayed far below, pushing
our lawn mowers, haltering the mares for studs,
coaxing colts to round us on lunge lines,
with our clicks and clucks and darts of words flung
the length of the rope. No wonder the horses bolted
for the top of the pasture when we set them free. No
wonder when we came upon the brook while walking
up to fetch them, we paused at the tap of the water’s
fine lap, its echo eddying into our ear canal, as if blood
could flow like an eternal stream.
                                                               If God could have stopped us,
he would have done it there. He would have had us bathe in the stream,
had it wash us like babes. We would have never known sin,
the way the earth does not know the reason for sin
and how to rectify it. And so it called to me one morning
with bells in a cumulous sky. I heard them swinging
in their drift, could clearly hear the flow over pebble and stone.

Donna J. Gelagotis Lee – Individual Dramas

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Donna J. Gelagotis Lee
Individual Dramas
 
               —Athens, Greece

A city of flat rooftops
like stages of the Acropolis,

rooftops from which you could view
the centuries—ages

in the tabernacle of Athena’s burgeoning
olive grove—city of scattered lights,

of our individual dramas. That is what I saw
when I hung the underpants and bras

a Greek woman had found dangling
from the shower rod.

Her unintentional gift: a journey
to the top of the house, a rooftop to the world’s

clean laundry—why, I could rise up
and be anything, anyone, anytime.

Sandhya Krishnakumar – Impressions, National Gallery

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Sandhya Krishnakumar
Impressions, National Gallery

At ten in the morning,
under cloudy London skies,
the queue for the free visit
is long. A guard in blue
walks past, calling aloud,
‘Raphael? Raphael?’
to ensure that nobody
is in the wrong queue;
there is a separate entrance
for the special exhibition
of paintings by Raphael.

Behind us, a man says to his son,
‘Il cherche un petit garçon
qui s’appelle Raphaël.’
‘He is looking for a little boy
called Raphael.’ I turn and catch
a glimpse of the young boy;
he looks worried, he really hopes
little Raphael would be found soon.

Later, inside the museum,
standing before the recently renamed
Ukrainian Dancers by Degas,
a lady says to her companion,
‘They must sell this painting
to collect money for Ukraine.’
For a brief moment, images of war
overshadow the paintings around us.
In another room, a father hurries away
with his young son as he yells,
‘Elles ne sont pas belles du tout!’
‘They are not beautiful at all!’

In a large, ornate hall with dark
red walls, lunettes with golden
motifs and names of artists,
a group of little children
in green and white uniforms
sit on the floor as a teacher
asks questions about the painting
in front of them—The Finding of Moses.

‘Who is the baby?’ ‘Jesus!’,
yell some with raised hands.
All have notebooks and pencils
to draw what they see.
Eventually, some children
gather to discuss their art.
A little girl of seven or eight says,
‘This looks more realistic.’

As I look back, the paintings
I saw now seem hazy,
their contents blurred,
their colours dulled,
while the patrons’ comments endure.

Jasper Glen – Saskatchewan

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Jasper Glen
Saskatchewan

Disguised here there is nothing here
But a red barn, and a yellow silo—outcast.
I almost didn’t see it with my own mouth wide.
Saskatchewan has no shadows
Except when summer’s oppressive heat
Invites piratical swarms of horseflies.
Saskatchewan, unfolding still, a wide opened
Book of spells, its yellowed pages.
Field bonded to field, the woven plain.
Mistress of a yellow kilt lain, her first surface pelt.
Her father’s first certificate of sheet barn.
Regulating the range—A particular chemical.
News crop out. Steer farm. The fourth largest
Farm in Saskatchewan, has picture + number
Of acres = medley of yellows and browns.

This province is pressed for space.
We need, believe it or not, real estate wants.
Un-human scale: and the birds’ eye
Virgin drawing, for I am piloting that black bird?
Step back from what the eye can see
Suicidal vehicle, why carbonic
As long as the elements of life
Actual elements of life exist
From the black nonsense of space
Packed chemically in a barrel first
And the world is black.
I bring you an onomatopoeia
From the gunshot.
Province an auditorium
For our skins now as if populous.
It is not a sin in the field killing
A done-for animal.
Saskatchewan as a planet.
Standing pat there, paradoxical.

Eoin Rogers – The A-Bridge

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Eoin Rogers
The A-Bridge

Walk at night and you’ll find it
by ear, the seashell echo
of distant running engines.
It arcs above the motorway,
leads from one dark walkway

to another, is pedestrian,
not designed for major transit
or migration, and yet
is known as lure to suicides,
attracted to its fatal height

and four unceasing lanes
that, excepting violent collisions,
will not stop for anyone.
Passing traffic reverberates
within the preventative metal

frame that forms a hollow tube
around the bridge, a cage of sorts
through which, on clearing nights,
the stars might peep
to match the winking city,

the Doppler rush of a loaded truck
ringing the cabled pylons
to their apex, as if they were attuned
to the frequency of suffering and beauty,
the note of passing things.

Claudia Gary – Key Bridge, Tuesday Morning

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Claudia Gary
Key Bridge, Tuesday Morning

I look down at the face of the Potomac
alive with sunlight. Then I bask a moment,
look up at rubber shoes and tires spinning

along the pavement of my span between
Rosslyn and Georgetown—students, workers, tourists
under the bluest sky, breathing fresh air

and feeling free. But here’s a dour face:
yesterday’s debutante, today’s chic matron
jogging across the river, eyes fixed forward,

thoughts inward, worrying about her waistline,
reliving last night’s table conversation,
reviewing her to-do and shopping lists,

planning a party and a hair appointment,
revising next year’s garden, anything
but what’s around. A harried driver looks up

and wishes she were outside glass and metal
like this trim woman in a running suit
who must be having a much better morning.

Claudia Gary – Inner City Headcount

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Claudia Gary
Inner City Headcount

A staunch refuser opens up her door
and blinks at me as if she’d never heard
about the Census. Has she been asleep?

Did the TV news, highway signs, alert her
that I’m not FBI, police, or ICE;
not even her cursed landlord’s rent collector?

Whatever brought her out today, she nods,
answers my questions, smiles, wishes me well,
warns me I’d better not stay here past dusk,

then shuts her door. I hold the railing tightly,
ease down uneven steps onto a crumbling
sidewalk. Once more I touch the device screen.

Her family’s names, race, birthdates, slip into
an archive where no one, including me,
can read them now.

Katacha Díaz – The Earth Berm House

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Katacha Díaz
The Earth Berm House

           For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven. Ecclesiastes 3:1

In 1982, I toured a West Davis, California community that reminded me of a European village. With nearly 70 acres of what used to be tomato fields, this world-famous community began as one couple’s pioneering experiment in ecological living. Michael and Judy Corbett dreamed of building an environmentally-sound residential subdivision. Innovative planning and solar design were paramount for its future residents’ desire to live a better life—more in harmony with the lush landscape and each other—while using fewer non-renewable resources.
      The construction of the community, called Village Homes, was completed in 1975. The houses were built in clusters and oriented to get the most sunlight possible for solar water and space heating. The village’s narrow streets meandered east to west, allowing the 225 homes and 20 apartments, built in clusters, to maintain a north-south orientation making use of solar energy for heating and cooling. (In addition, the streets were named after places and characters from J.R.R. Tolkien’s book The Hobbit). Although some of the original active solar homes remain today, most are now passive solar and there are few traditional homes.
      The homes opened onto shared backyards, with limited fencing, where neighbours enjoyed meeting. Fruits and vegetables were part of the edible plantings around all the homes, and rainwater was drained from slopes that irrigated the orchards and gardens. There was also a large community room, solar-heated swimming pool, child care nursery, play fields, two large gardening areas, and a restaurant.
      Village Homes soon attracted architects, students of landscape planning, social scientists, tourists, and politicians from around the world. First Lady Rosalyn Carter came to visit in 1979 and toured by bicycle. In 1984, French premier Francois Mitterrand, arrived in an enormous helicopter to pay homage to the internationally-renowned residential project that was way ahead of its time and in a class of its own.
      Village Homes also had an extensive system of paths for walkers and bicyclists running throughout, linking with adjacent city pathways. Bridges crossed small streambeds, which allowed rainwater to percolate into the ground. Thus, eliminating the need for underground pipes, and the impacts on the city’s storm drain systems were minimal.
      But my biggest surprise on the walking tour was a cave-like, solar-powered, earth berm house. The earth berm surrounded three sides of the house, protecting it from summer heat and winter cold. The berm was designed and built by its architect owner, who lived there with his family in this tiny, earth-sheltered, solar-powered, 1,025 square-foot house for more than 20 years. The house’s exterior was built of treated wood, and wrapped in manufactured rubber to block out moisture. Water was heated mostly by an in-ground ‘breadbox system’, a solar water heater that combined collection and storage. A wood-burning stove heated the rooms during cold winter months. At the time, this berm home was one of the most energy-efficient houses in northern California.
      Outside, I climbed the railroad-tie steps set into the side of the berm house onto its ‘roof’—a garden growing in eight inches of soil. And just as in most gardens, I saw a patches of dandelions and clover, growing well in the rich soil amidst rosemary bushes, orange California poppies, and sunflowers!
      Crabgrass and weed patches were treated by residents with a homemade easy-to-prepare solution of vinegar, sea salt, and soap, safe for use around children and pets. A team of professional gardeners was contracted by the homeowners’ association to maintain the shared common area which included the vineyard and fruit trees, sprayed with organic solution. With more than thirty varieties of fruit trees, the common area included peaches, grapes, figs, pears, apricots, pomegranates, and almond trees. There was always something for the Villagers to harvest on the honour system.
      Almost immediately, I fell in love with nearby Davis, a friendly university town with endless farmland, and Village Homes’ avant-garde mode of living. I also bought a cosy, 634-square-foot cottage in the middle of edible landscaping with tomatoes, basil, corn, artichokes, eggplant, zucchini, cantaloupe, and much more. And I planted English lavender, geraniums and begonias to beautify and add colour to my flowerbeds. The monthly newsletter, full of the latest village gardening tips and other scoops, was delivered by a neighbour teen and also posted at the community centre and on outdoor bulletin boards.
      During the week I joined the thousands of bicyclists for a scenic, three-mile commute to my office at the University of California, Davis. To avoid traffic jams and accidents, I learned to plan on arriving after 8:00 a.m. or scheduled super-early meetings. During the rainy winter days, however, I waited at a nearby bus stop for a ride to campus on British double-decker buses, owned by the university and driven by university students.
      After retiring from academia, wanderlust and love to travel took me around the world to gather material for my children’s stories. Many years earlier, some UC-Davis colleagues and I had collaborated on a project with researchers at the University of Hawai’i in Manoa. The exotic landscapes, sunsets, and dancing palm trees of the Hawaiian Islands beckoned, so I kept returning to vacation. On the return flights home, I’d ask myself, ‘Should I sell my Village cottage?’ But as time went by, the answer would present itself when the Hawai’i Sea Grant Hanauma Bay Education Program invited me to train as an Interpretive Guide volunteer.
      In 2006, properties in Village Homes were in high demand with a 4-year waitlist, so I sold my cottage. Now I was a children’s writer, embracing my island dream with the charmer of my life, Mister Keeper, a Yorkshire terrier, and living near my nephews in Kailua and Hawaii Kai, the home of Hanauma Bay State Park, a popular snorkelling spot with the locals and visitors alike. It’s fun hanging out at the beach with the volunteer team sharing a passion to protect Hawaii’s marine environment, snorkelling along the coral reef and whale watching from mid-December through April.
      Nonetheless, I still miss walking with my canine companion along the Village’s orchards, harvesting organically grown fresh fruits and veggies in season, stopping along the way for quick peek at the Berm House, and a catch-up chat with the community’s neighbours.  AQ