Friday, October 20, 2023: Patricia Walsh's "Conversations in the Foyer"

 Conversations in the Foyer

Not remembering the tawdry situations at will

One step back to heaven a choice mistake

Seated at the window at a going rate, yes

Following the advertised crash like the holy.

Layer by layer scan the opportune buildings

The sore eyes burning what is still bereft

Singular graffiti on the background muzak

The damned soul of the party packaged itself to hell.

Everything being glorious, ample tears swallowed

The absent God rummages through the shower

The roving heart quick to dissuade any massacre

The local dead joke is perennially funny, at will.

Relationships looking bad, strange type of humour

Sorrow running around in a haphazard daze

No wish to adopt, slandered enough as childless

Stamped before time the smug disposition.

Needing hardy friends, could do with one now

Everything distributed by personal post

Catering to the walk-ups on dint of convenience

Standing in place of the journey, in performance.

The jibes by request, conversations in the foyer

Fearing the flavoured piecemeal employment

Evicting hatred, not hard to realise a sport

Punctuated misgivings branding a proper date.

© 2023 Patricia Walsh

                                           The Conversation in the Foyer, 1880, by Edgar Degas




Patricia Walsh was born and raised in the parish of Mourneabbey, Co Cork, Ireland.  To date, she has published one novel, titled The Quest for Lost Eire, in 2014, and has published one collection of poetry, titled Continuity Errors, with Lapwing Publications in 2010. She has since been published in a variety of print and online journals across Ireland, The UK, USA, and Canada.  She has also published another novel, In The Days of Ford Cortina, in August 2021.

Friday, October 13, 2023: Rose Mary Boehm's "My Father's Sky"

 My Father’s Sky

 

My hand disappeared in his, our boots

swished on the snow, already hardened

by many steps. That is the Milky Way, he said,

and pointed at a giant river of twinkling lights

that looked nothing like milk.

Oh, and over there, that ‘W’ is Cassiopeia.

I knew the Big Dipper, of course,

and Father let me find Orion. A belt woven

from starlight. Draw a line through the belt

towards the left, he said. See that bright star?

That’s Sirius. The Dog Star.

No, no dogs on Sirius.

It’s part of the ‘Canis Major’ constellation,

that means ‘Greater Dog’ in Latin.

How disappointing. I had imagined all dogs coming

to us from Sirius, beings from space.

The sky began to fall into some kind of order,

a glittering glory of twinkles and tinkles

I would remember forever and my small, cold hand

being warmed in my father’s big one.

 

Big cities let me forget my father’s sky. Sometimes

even the moon was hidden by buildings that seemed

to loom dark, towering and unforgiving.

The city lights made me ignore the grandeur

of a world beyond, the mysteries of space.

There always was, of course, the latest on the Internet,

TV, and assorted means of communication.

A little machine on Mars sent pictures from a desert

that once held some form of life perhaps. Bradbury’s

‘Martian Chronicles’ awakened a longing, Heinlein’s

‘Red Planet’ convinced me of the reality of my dreams.

 

One day, after I had held my grandchildren’s hands

and showed them Orion, Cassiopeia, the Big Dipper

and Sirius – the only ones I recognised—

we found home on our small piece of earth

in the middle of nowhere on the Castilian plateau.

A warm night caressed me as I sat on the pretend

plastic boulder that looked like a stone (something

dishonest somebody had thought up to house

the gear that made our pool work);

I heard the bulls low across

the quiet night and dreaming fields,

from the pond came the occasional splash.

A nightbird called its mate, the walnut tree

bombarded the wooden bench below it,

and I looked for Orion towards the horizon,

setting my eyes to ‘far away’ to find the Milky Way,

looking behind me to the left for Cassiopeia, and whispered

‘Dogs on Sirius’ to my father who had—softer than any feather—

taken my warm hand in his cold one.

© 2023 Rose Mary Boehm

Rose Mary Boehm is a German-born British national living and writing in Lima, Peru, and author of two novels as well as seven poetry collections. Her poetry has been published widely in mostly US poetry reviews (online and print). She was twice nominated for a Pushcart. Her latest: Do Oceans Have Underwater Borders? (Kelsay Books July 2022), Whistling in the Dark (Ciberwit July 2022), and Saudade (December 2022) are available on Amazon. https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/