Splash of the Month Collection -- 1999
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Splash of the Month Collection -- 1999
Note: Followed links may open in a new browser window.
July
of the Month
Witch's Sundial
By: Diane EngleIn summer's light I stood, centuries and continents from home, where she had stood, watching this weight of ivy work its spell on stone. Wild ivy crawling from its roots, bird songs, monuments bearing our name are all that offered blessing to this shrine. Rays from the same sun that splashed their clocks brought ruins into sharpened focus on patchwork landscape numb with age. Aunt Margaret, countless generations great, was thought to be a witch. They buried her upright with earls and lords in Scotland long before Cromwell came, flatening castle and cathedral in God's name. It was the custom then. Birds, undistressed by fallen kings or upright witches, sang carols handed down millenia of genes. Do not tell me a love of sundials cannot be carried thus. It was the women, donors of my blood, diluted and diluted still by shaft, by shadow, placed them--carved that surety in stone that braced the gnomon, held the dial, caught the sun, and turned the shade. I feel the witches' blood, and sense the curling lip of outrage. My name is carved in stone and yet -I cannot stay the shaft that lengthens shadow across this bright abyss, this splay of light. Copyright © 1995 Diane Engle
First appeared in Vincent Brothers Review Comments to author: 76557.3463@CompuServe.COM
June
Receptacle
By: Joy ReidGreen little bottle chosen for beauty no practical function just eye teasing pleasure. Plump little paradox wriggle your hips waggle your buttocks oh sumptuous abandon. Madeleine urn or pert water carrier I see you rather in an odalisque hand. Vessel of Myrrh or musk from the orient priceless purchase with stoppered scent. Sly genii bower smooth as a jewel emerald prison denying release. Shrewd dragon eye brooding on plunder ancient miser guarding the hoard. Coy little bottle bereft of purpose your value to me is inestimable. Copyright © Joy Reid Comments to author: jreid@staggs.schnet.edu.au
May
Restoration
By: Sean WebbIt's been years since the vintage church bells seized. The elaborate works, the means by which they rang, shackled in rust and persistence of pigeon squalor. I clearly remember the scanty bell tower struck silent and joyless by the incarceration of its bells. As well, I clearly remember the announcement: The only man capable of restoration had been found. I had no formal concern with the bells. It was not my church, not even my denomination, however, I was raised within a brick toss of this stunning bell tower. It reigned heavy on my conscience as it measured my minor accomplishments against its hourly toll. It spawned a peculiar circadian soul within my already peculiarly syncopated heart. Today, in my one room flat, I listen to the groan of plumbing pipes. The naked woman I always imagine showers in a room above me, hot tapwater strains through clogged pipes below. Offbeat unscheduled sounds emit from the common pipes, the common walls, the church of mice between us. I hear myself listening to the metronomic clock inside myself awakening to the tamperings of the restorative man. I watch him, fully recumbent, toiling for less than portal-to-portal pay. He works for the one clear note that will reinstate the hourly cadence of an intimate march. Copyright © Sean Webb Comments to Author: sean@doug.med.utah.edu
April
Beloved
By: Aarti Rampadarath
Your name was the word that kept me hanging in trees. An ancient habit: my tears frozen on wintergreen woods. The wind kept laughing at my ridiculous gown; I dripped to the ground in defeat. --- Your name was the word that kept me in place, an urgency to wait. My limbs were in chains. They did things to me I dare not say. Worse: I did them too. But at sunset I cried and sang of you, always.Copyright © 1996 Aarti Rampadarath
Comments to the author: A.Rampadarath@stud.let.ruu.nl
March
Balanced
By: Priscilla Bromfield
On a beam suspended in air blindly placing the foot upon the wood, then walking slowly; tiptoeing, actually. That's the language of love.Copyright © Priscilla Bromfield
February
Dignity
By: Larry Olson
Stars hung, like jewels, heaven high As a necklace upon the sky, While the desert moon filled the night With it's soft glowing light. In awe I stood under this west Texas sky, Like a prophet, seeking why; Looking off into eternity for answers fast, What I saw was a noble past. Riders crossing the grassland below, A Comanche hunting party moving slow, Stopping to look at the heavens, with reverent eye; Noble silhouettes under the western sky. Off they rode across the plains in determined course, As one in the moonlight, upon their painted horse. To the land, their presence was a loving caress, Their dignity, now, a mournful wish. Cowboys emerged from the dust of their passing, Chasing strays as I stood there watching; Galloping through the prairie grass, knee high, A ballet of horse and rider on the fly. The sound and sights of the struggle sent a chill, Of sweat and pain, of courage and skill. These quiet, yet loquacious men, gentle, and strong; Bespeak a simple grace and dignity, all but gone. I see the lights of Ft. Davis off to the northwest, Like an oasis, beckoning me back from the past. From those who asked for so little and gave so much: [The land and people became richer from their touch] A horse, a saddle, a land they can never really own, A starry sky to remind them; they are not alone. In their noble past lies a compelling history: To live and die with honor and dignity.Copyright © 1998 Larry Olson
Comments to author: lolson44aol.com
January
No Apologies
By: Kathleen Bohaty
gnarled they wave gossiping with empty clouds while standing guard by the pond their strength no longer hidden by flimsy leaves some of which remain on the ground no apologies from winter treesCopyright © 1998 Kathleen Bohaty
