Second Thoughts

by Peggy Verdi

Forget the degree you didn’t earn,
Awards you never received,
Lessons you failed to learn,
The child you never conceived.

Those are past dreams,
Barely worth a glance.
Spring with sun’s warm beams,
Brings a second chance.

What matters is to breath deep,
Let the shoulders drop
Close your eyes as if to sleep
Make the chatter stop.

You cannot erase the past,
Nor change the road you chose.
The paths you made hold fast
Some doors you ought to close.

The moment speaks to you
No need to analyze
Your now is always true
Peace and joy the prize.

What I Learned From My Mother

by Carol Cone


I learned that every woman should know how to make white sauce,
That it is the most important ingredient upon which many meals rest
Like creamed tuna, creamed chipped beef, creamed salmon and peas
It makes a can of something into a whole meal, she said;
I learned that you should wear gloves and a hat to church
I learned that old ladies who have lost their husbands
Need a lot of hugs, like grandma
I learned that baking soda was good for brushing teeth
When you couldn’t afford toothpaste
Or salt will do almost as well

I learned that you didn’t have to buy books because
The public library owned all the books there are
And you can borrow them all the time.
I learned that bread and butter with brown sugar on top
Is as good as cake for dessert.
I learned to lick an ice cream cone around and around
So that no drips ever ran down the side.
I learned that making my own dresses is more fun
Than buying them in a store
A twenty-five cent pattern with two dollars’ worth of fabric
And a bit of effort will turn out a fine dress
And nobody will have one like it.

I learned to darn socks, weaving the threads in and out
Across and down, until you had a perfectly woven square
Where the hole had been;
I learned the lessons the depression had taught her
That no leftover was too small to keep
That every empty jar had a purpose,
That nothing should ever be discarded
Unless it was outgrown, worn out, or beyond repair.

I learned that you love your children
No matter what they say or do
No matter how often they break your heart
You’re always there when they need you.
That’s what mothers do.

Mowing

by Carol Cone


There’s a field out back in need of mowing
weeds and grasses, Queen Anne’s Lace,
milkweed, mullein, daisies, growing
between two ordered lawns; this space
seems too untidy, out of place,
but still a shame to just erase.

Jeff, the mower, comes today --
he’ll cut back the wayward hay;
his orange monster makes its pass,
it chews the stretch of tangled grass
to tame the field the easy way.

I run to pick just one bouquet
before they bend and fall away,
Indian paintbrush, red and gold,
blue vetch, star grass, a quick array
of all the stems that I can hold.

All this will grow again next year
but oh, I wish it still were here
So I could lie in the long soft grass
to watch the pink-edged clouds that pass
and drink the soft and whispered sound
of uncut grasses all around,

Small Spaces

by Claire Schomp


The book feels light now, but it seemed so heavy then with its tiny, dense words crammed closely together as if the writer had too much to say, too few pages in which to say it all. Here were tightly squeezed stories, compressed and barely contained by the thin, aged pages—yellowing even then.

Now, I rub my fingers along the book’s edge, the cover torn here at the bottom, softened over the years like the knuckles on my mother’s hands, worn with the wear of an eager reader’s touch. Rabbits pose in the picture, but they are not childlike: no animated Bugs Bunny or big-toothed floppy ears here. These rabbits are stoic, poised, quivering creatures—worlds away from the pictures in the books I was used to, but so familiar to my own wood-wedded eyes. I’d seen these rabbits before in wet, grassy fields behind our schoolhouse, among springtime primrose clusters and jolly, oversized daisies.

Opening the cover, I see my name, carefully penned by a younger girl who, as one of eight children, was perhaps too conscious of the need for ownership: the need to claim this book, this piece of furniture that had been in the house for years, as her own—as if, somehow, the reading made it so.

I look at the title printed neatly below my name, and this Watership Down reminds me of our own loftily named Spring Grotto: a dewy, deep, muddy place where we forged hidden trails along with the rabbits, frogs, foxes, and perhaps even a curious dog or two. It was our place, then, where adults were not allowed. Our place to test wills and play at making house: the spreading of sticks, flowers, and mudpies; the building of bridges and digging of holes; the drinking of icy water as it sprung from the earth.

That was our time, though it was mostly spent looking ahead. The girl I was then read this book and began to enter a more conscious adulthood. Rabbit warrens took her through more than adventure and daring escapes; they brought her closer to the pleasures of reading and writing, of building with words and playing with ideas.

Now, holding the book, with its pages falling loose, I am transported back to once more troop through long damp grasses, towering as tall as my neck. I separate them carefully, feeling the spray on my face. I am searching for rabbits, but they’ve all run away. I close my eyes and listen to the birds, the insects, and the sounds of my siblings laughing nearby. I am able, now, to sink into this space—and enjoy the feeling of smallness that it lends.

The Kitchen

by Astri Eckhoff Kilburn

It was a cold room. The door to it was generally closed. My father liked to conserve heat. Maybe that was why. My mother also liked to seclude herself in there. It was a place where she could be left alone. God only knows, I didn’t like to venture in except for meals.

It was a fifties kitchen, plain and utilitarian, long and narrow. It didn’t lend itself to culinary creativity or interest. One wall held the kitchen cabinetry, the counter and the stainless steel sink. Since the house was built into the hillside, the opposing wall was part of the foundation, cold nubby cement painted over with a seafoam green. Up high in the corner by the room’s only window was a fan, venting all odors to the outside. It was usually on. I can hear it still. No cooking aromas were to emanate into the rest of the house.

There were quiet times in this kitchen, mornings when my mother was still asleep, my father sitting at the pull-out cutting board preparing his and sometimes ours breakfast and lunch. It was always the same. Good, hearty bread for breakfast with liverwurst or caviar in a tube. Lunch consisted of four pieces of crispbread with yellow or brown cheese, all carefully wrapped in parchment paper and stuffed into our school bags.

There were contentious times in the kitchen, like the months when I was preparing for confirmation. My father, an atheist who later progressed to agnostic, wanted something different for me than the Christian faith. One dinner after the next in months of dinners did I have to defend my beliefs and subserviently listen to his.

Then there was a happy time. My mom had invited me to bake a cake. Wow! I had never before been permitted to make anything in the kitchen for fear that I make a mess.

It was my favorite cake, lemon bread, - my grandmother’s recipe. The oven went on and the batter went into tin pans. I looked at the clock to measure time, desperately wanting to watch the delicate and exciting process of the cake rising and maturing into a delectable treat. Patience was difficult. I had been warned not to open the oven door for a full half hour, or my precious creation would collapse.

I waited in anticipation, the aromas of the baking cake filling my senses. I could almost taste it!

It was finally time to check on the cake’s progress. I carefully opened the door to look. Oh my! There was golden, lemony dough all over the floor of the oven.

I called on my Mother. I was so afraid she would be angry at the mess that I had created. To my great surprise and enormous relief, the keeper of the kitchen had a smile for me. A sparkle like that of a thousand stars had entered her eyes, melting body and soul, and lighting the warm fire of spontaneous happiness that seemed to have gotten lost between us over the years. I detected a mischievous grin as she picked up a couple of spatulas and handed me one. With a giggle she motioned me towards the open oven, whereupon we both got down on our hands and knees scraping the sticky and softly crusted cake off the oven floor.

It was truly the best cake I ever tasted, as it had the special ingredient of my mother’s love and acceptance liberally sprinkled on top. A warm and favored memory of an otherwise cold kitchen.

The Kitchen on North York Street

by Sue Gee

The clank of the iron handle
Lifting each round burner lid
Checking the fire, she replaces the heavy cover
I sit at the long table and think about the day ahead

Up before others, my mother and I have a certain routine
Almost like a dance in the morning warming kitchen
As she stokes to life the embers of last night’s cooking
I watch and lean in from my place at the table

I know the next step in the dance like I know my own name
The large pot filled with water and heated to a boil
Then the oats for the cereal that will soon be spooned
Into our white china bowls, each with a favorite Brer Rabbit scene

Slightly marred by surface cracks from so much washing
The china characters are faded at random places
This bunny’s ear is almost gone
This tree is half-covered with green, almost discernible leaves

How smooth are her movements as she hooks each cover with the smooth handle
Using just the right twist of her wrist
While taking a few side steps to reach with her left hand
Into the kindling box and then toss small chips into the fire

How many mornings started this way
In my years of growing up in this house
Until the wood cook stove was replaced
With the new electric range

The mornings changed almost immediately
The rhythm was never quite the same
No more crackling of wood or clanking of iron handle
The warmth seemed to leave that kitchen

The dance with my mother and me became less of a flow
Within the embrace of that warmth
And more of a colder step-by-step approach to the day

I went on
As children do
Without a backward glance
Not knowing what was missing

Charlie's Kitchen

by Carol Cone


Charlie pulled the string to the overhead light. The three bare bulbs added their sturdy glow to the golden rays streaming through the long kitchen window. He looked out and felt instantly warmed. It was going to be a good day. Another good day. Blue sky, deep blue, no clouds. The light here in the desert was so different. Somehow, edges were sharper, colors brighter, sunshine warmer. He was glad to be here.

He brushed a few of last night’s cake crumbs off the rectangular metal table. The white enamel table was worn and chipped around the edges, but it was a comforting well-used kind of wear that made him feel at home. It had been Aviva’s birthday last night. He had played his guitar, they all sang, and the cake wasn’t bad. He lit the gas burner on the stove and carefully filled the scarred kettle with tap water. They had their own well here, so the water didn’t have all those nasty chemicals he distrusted. He measured out the green tea – one tablespoon – into the chipped mug that said “Taos Dog” on the side, from the diner down the road. He could still smell the pungent fragrance of the chipotle peppers they had chopped to make the salsa last night. It had been really good – spicy, hot, tingling on the tongue, but authentic.

Charlie had never been in a community with a communal kitchen, but he rather liked it. Everyone here at the Abominable Snow Mansion was temporary, some for a night, some for a week, some for the winter, or until the perfect place turned up. Although he was camping out back in the tent he had bought at the flea market, he had the use of the kitchen and bathroom and showers. Sometimes several of them shared the meal-making operation, or the cleanup, and sometimes it was a solo, but it made him feel almost like being part of a family.

Like Aviva, who just peeked in the door and chirped, “Okay, Charlie? Can I make some coffee?” She was all polished and bright, her dark hair shining, ready to go to work at the inn, but she always had time for a smile, a cup of coffee, and a giggle for Charlie.

The kettle hissed, he poured his tea, and perched on the stool beside the table. While Aviva stirred her coffee, he looked around, as he always did, enjoying the humor of the wall paintings. Some of the guys had told him about the KPP – the Kitchen Paint Party – when everyone had a chance to do his own thing on the newly whitewashed adobe walls. Some cactus, some mountains, some pueblos, some Indians, some sleeping dogs, some chickens, even Wile-E-Coyote, all the sights you could see outside, only here they were crowding the big kitchen, keeping you company. It was a cheery place, he had to admit. Maybe home for a while.

The Scent of Loss

by Alicia Moyer

I sat outside in the damp November evening air, feeling hollow; wanting to weep, but unable. All around me rose wafts of decay, slightly frozen, then thawed during the day, now growing cold again. Sad odors; pungent, sweet, but full of goodbye. People speak of gladiolas and their, stiff, gaudy smell of funerals. For me, November aromas have the same effect, for I know that they emanate from lush life recently lived.

The moon came through the bony trees and cast a cold blue light. I pulled a third layer of wool around myself, and wrapped my arms tightly around my body to try to feel less alone and less cold. Just three days ago, we had sat here together, wondering aloud about how the water that passes by his house is the same that passes mine moments later. We wondered if it babbled the same messages to each of us. Now that sound had lost its buoyancy and was just a cold, empty chatter.

I can hear his voice so clearly; his gentle, throaty chuckle, and thoughtfully chosen words. He’s singing the latest phrase stuck in his mind. Wearing layers of overalls, fleece and wool, moldy old boots, and tattered cap, he has a spring in his uneven gait as he rounds the bend in the road and begins to cross the stone bridge by my house. I can smell him now in the wool that I am wearing as my body heat seeps through and mixes with the chilly air.

That’s it! I am suddenly hollowed and scooped out by a surge of grief so strong that I can’t stop the wail. I grab violently at the earth, digging my fingers into it and tearing up hunks without knowing. At first, there is no air left between sobs, and no tears. When they come, I am only aware when my face prickles with their effort to freeze.

In the midst of this, something like a feather passes slightly across my damp, swollen face, and she’s there. She tries to read me in her usual way; touching her nose gently in little damp dots around the perimeters of my eyes, smelling and reading something, who knows what. Oh God, I love cats, I thought, as I enveloped her and dried my face in her warm, rich fur.

A Child Standing Alone

by Nancy Steinberg

Once I saw a child, small, frail,

standing alone in a bright hall.

Fearful, the child, standing alone,

clutching a ragged bag.

Eyes of the child, wide and moist,

seeing harm, hunger, want.

Shoulders hunched against cold uncaring

pinched, pummeled, pushed aside.

I smiled at the child, stretched out my hand,

gently touched the unkempt hair.

Friend, asked the child, hope lighting sorrowful eyes.

His hand met mine, a drowning grasp,

A child no longer standing alone.

Once I saw a child, hale, prim,

standing alone in a bright hall.

Excited, the child standing alone,

proudly displaying a brand-new bag.

Eyes of the child, shining and curious,

seeing opportunity, discovery, fun.

Body straining towards new adventure,

friendly, eager, assured.

I smiled at the child, stretched out my hand,

gently touched the beribboned braids.

Teacher, asked the child, wonder lighting inquisitive eyes.

Her hand met mine, a trusting grip.

A child no longer standing alone.

Year after year I saw a child

standing alone in a bright hall.

Fidgety, the child standing alone,

holding on to a special treasure.

Eyes of the child, saucers of seeking,

cups of needing, bowls for filling.

Arms wrapped tight or loosely hanging,

expectant, frightened, truculent.

I smiled at the child, stretched out my hand,

gently touched the bobbing head.

Love, asked the child, demand lighting anxious eyes.

A hand met mine, a heartfelt pledge,

A child no longer standing alone.

July, 1969

By Peggy M. Verdi

Once I saw the flickering
Black and white Zenith television
Fuzzy images of men
Walking on the crusty moon. She is not with us.
Cremation- memorial
A gray box on ashes
Pushed behind the outrageous orange hat
She bought that year in Key West.
Scientists-physicists, rocket launchers
Sent them to the moon, brought them home safely.
Countless start, like cancer cells
Multiply, shine, live on.
Friday, she died-overwhelmed by disease
That Sunday, men walked on the moon.
Every year, an anniversary, a celebration
Every year black and white astronauts
Conquer space, set a flag on moon’s unfriendly home
Every year we face our future lives alone.

The Box

by Carol Cone

The cardboard box holds your baby clothes,

Pajamas with feet,

Overalls, wooly bonnets, embroidered blankets

The fleecy snowsuit with bunny ears.

I unfold each piece slowly.

I weep.

I want to smooth your fuzzy hair

I want to touch your baby cheeks

I want to trace your profile nose to chin

I want you snug and warm on my lap

I want to tuck your head on my shoulder

And hug you silently until you fall asleep,

And then I can kiss you, softly, lightly.

The only time I can steal a kiss

Is when you sleep.

Now we meet with an awkward hug

The soft baby cheeks under a beard,

The long shiny hair threaded with grey

Pulled back in a careless ponytail,

The brown eyes are wary, watching;

For you the world is an alien place.

I ache to hold you, hug you, give you another secret kiss,

To invade the secret space around you

That holds the world away.

Who do you love? Who do you trust?

Who holds you safely now?

Lost Song

by Ray Evans

I was the first, and I am the last. So listen to me.

I was born to a great sound, a Word that was so powerful and inconceivable that it brought forth a great blast and blinding light that reached out into the blackness, creating space as it went. The Word is still ringing in my ears.

At first I had no awareness of myself, but as my brothers and sisters, born of the same sound and the same light, began to dance together, they formed me. I was the last, as again I am the last.

Consciousness of my own being was slow to come. My being was so spread out in the ever-increasing expanse that I had no sense of myself. Gradually, however, I began to feel the flow of my own life. I traveled through time and space, and kissed everything that existed. With my kiss came life, and with it, movement.

At first I was content with living in the wildness and profusion of matter. There was nowhere I did not reach or travel, blessing all as I followed my paths. The routes I followed were uncharted, but everywhere I went I seemed to bring life. Things bloomed around me in cascades of green, red like the winged cardinals of late, and yellow like the sun that finally blessed me with the power to give up my secret.

Memory is my secret. I carry the memory of every event that I have touched and that has touched me. I can retell these memories to all I meet, which in turn gifts me with new memories to spread across the earth.

I have been worshipped and feared, which is but right. Then I began to ail. I knew I was being poisoned by the very creatures I had helped create. They did it unknowingly, but they did it nonetheless.

There are still those who love me. I see them standing nearby as I pass them on the endless journey that my nature dictates. Their love feeds me, and I carry that love with me, in my cells, in my memory. It feeds me, but it is not enough. The others have won, but only for now.

You will all pass, and I shall sleep. When I awaken again, and I shall, your spirits and those of others like you will again give me, with love, memories to carry across the planet. They will call me many things; eau, agua, aqua, or water. I will begin the eternal journey again.

Over Dead Bodies

By Susan Kachmar

I am the last – the very last. All who were with me are either gone or in pieces. The water around me is crimson and there is not much of the lifeboat we boarded when we left the ship in our finery. More men than women boarded our escape vehicle while flames shot and dipped around us.

Why did we come on this cruise anyway? He really wanted to celebrate his retirement and now look at me – alone, without even his corpse. He did not make the boat I was in, but I am sure he is dead. He kissed my cheek as he shoved me in the lifeboat and said “I’ll see you when they rescue us.”

Now it has been nearly a week, if I can keep the count of sunrises and sunsets straight in my head. My boat is filled with water so the splintered wood remnants of the rail are just kissing the air. As I hold on to what is left of this boat, the waves bob and push against me as if the ocean is breathing. My lips, taught and salt-blistered, cry out for relief from the fright of seeing a gray dorsal fin rising ten feet away from the boat. The blunt nose surfaces, it snaps at a piece of leg in black striped tuxedo pants torn on both ends.

The sharks have been feasting on us for days now – all of us that made it into the lifeboats. In the beginning they only went after the ones who did not make it to a lifeboat. Those people had jumped into the water with lifejackets when they heard the sizzle and crack of burning embers meeting water. Now all of the others are gone – that is dead – not totally gone. I reach for the floating human flesh and gather it near me to toss to the sharks as they come nearer. I am indeed the last, though, because if they get me, it will be over all the other’s dead bodies.

The Black Notebook

By Carol Cone

It was a small black leather notebook with six rings, about three inches wide and six inches long; the kind you once used to buy in any stationery store. She held it loosely in her hand, and ran her fingers over the smooth, soft worn leather. It was bent up at one corner, showing the red lining inside. She felt the ridges in the leather where the small rings inside pressed against the cover. She held it against her cheek, feeling the soft grain of the leather, and raised it to her lips, then to her nose, but after forty years hidden in the back of a drawer, there was no longer the fragrance of that English Leather shaving lotion and pipe tobacco aroma it once carried.

She opened the cover slowly. Inside were the six small rings holding the fine-lined paper filler. They didn’t make little notebooks like this any more. She wondered why. Small notebooks for small memories. One small page at a time for special moments.

He had given her the notebook after their second time together, a time of unforgettable lovemaking and passion, tenderness and abandon.

“Here,” he said, smiling. “For you. Open it.” He watched her face as she turned back the cover. On each page was a poem, printed in his artist’s block letters, a poem of praise, of admiration, of commitment. She read them slowly and felt tears come to her eyes. She looked up at him as he watched.

”I didn’t know…” she began, but she did, inside, and as the weeks went on, her poems joined his in the little black notebook, her tributes to him as a lover, an all-consuming passion.

But it didn’t last. Fate intervened and the passion had to be buried, hidden, put aside forever. Only the notebook remained, hidden forever in the back of a drawer, in the back of a life, in the back of her memory. Perhaps in his, as well.