This year’s Pushcart Prize nominees are:
Lynne Bronstein“Tirzah” (poem)
Beverly Collins “Effects on Nature” (poem)
Elizabeth Jaeger“Mean Girls on the Mat” (prose)
Carole Mertz “Renata at the Piano”(poem)
Belinda Subraman”4 a.m. again”(poem)
Terry Wolverton “Where You’ll Find Me "(poem)
Congratulations to the nominees. Please enjoy their work, and the work of all the other worthy poes, writers, and artists. Thank you, all, for your readership, and your support.
Marie C Lecrivain
Curator
Joy
Remembering your love of nature
The garden dances
With the wind as a partner
And songbirds as melody
Twirling, Whirling, Swirling
Surging, twisting, stretching
Seeking nourishment
Ascending new heights
Yarrow, Pittosporum, Myoporum
Germander, Cranesbill, Mexican Sage
Emerge
As shiny gemstones
Atop circular shapes
Brimming with stones
A Japanese Maple flourishes
© 2023 Ellen Cantor
© 2023 Ellen Cantor
Ellen Cantor is a Southern California artist who uses the camera and words to
reimagine her feelings. Using poetry, Ellen examines how events impact her life.
Poetry is Ellen’s way to interpret feelings about today’s changing world.
Photographs augment and help to articulate the feelings she expresses through her
poetry.
Ellen received a BS from The University of Illinois at Champaign-Urbana and
continued her education in Interior and Architectural Design at UCLA. She has
studied photography at Santa Fe Workshops, Maine Media Workshop and The Los
Angeles Center of Photography and Poetry through Inlandia and with Nancy Woo.
what mythical creature singing
what mythical creature is she
singing the voice of the river
yet the river itself is mythical
nothing unusual for it to sing
to roar in white water
perhaps she is also the rafter carried along
as earth’s memories are carried
along canyon walls
that too is singing
that too is mythical
the earth how unusual
being herself singing
mythical
a journey
the few memories
that survived
slept inside a house
with neat plain rooms
a small kitchen
and a small mowed lawn . . .
a screened porch
like other faces of the ordinary
spoke to the world nothing of shame . . .
my years faded forward
until counseling opened
an unexpected gift
an omen in a dream
that gutted everything glacier
and life collapsed . . .
this ancient gracefulness appeared
a spirit animal talisman
carved to fit in the palm of my hand . . .
now as i turn seventy
survival is a wildness wonder
marked with prowling paw prints
and fresh scat
tonight
as i sit in this silence waiting
for the first snow to fall
a soul-faced she-wolf
flashes across the forest darkness
in my eyes
© 2023 Sister Lou Ellen HIckman
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
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/
I call them the “Mean Girls.” At my age–I’m almost 50–I’m too old to be dealing with adolescent girls who think they are better than me simply because their bodies have not yet begun to deteriorate. I thought I had left behind that sort of arrogance, the exclusionary behavior that defines so many teenage girls, decades ago when I graduated high school. But I was wrong. In my youth, I was picked-on. At least in the 80s that’s what we called it. Now, we as a society have rebranded the term, opting for bullied instead. The term, however, doesn’t matter. It’s the experience–the scarring–that counts, that sense that no matter what I did, I would never be good enough. And I wasn’t. Not for them. And most of the time, as a result, not even for myself. No matter how well I did in school, or how well I performed athletically, I remained an outcast, my self esteem sinking so low that I’m not sure I ever fully recovered. Still, I survived. I got out of high school, moved on with my life, and never looked back–until now.
In my youth, I was a good athlete. Not great. I was never world class material, but I could pick-up new sports relatively easily and, regardless of the sport I chose, I always achieved some level of success. In high school, I was a three varsity athlete, playing tennis, basketball, and softball. For years, basketball was my sport. I lived and breathed to be on the court. I managed to win a few MVP awards, and in my senior year, I was selected as the school’s female scholar-athlete. In college, on a whim one afternoon, I switched from basketball to track and field. I told the coach I wanted to break the school’s javelin record. When he asked me what my experience was, I admitted that I didn’t have any. Surprisingly, it didn’t deter him from giving me a spot on the team. When it came to running, I wasn’t exceptionally fast, but I was versatile. The coach knew I’d be up for trying any event. While my running times were always a disappointment, I did break the New York University record for javelin–a record I still hold today. After that, my goal was to qualify for nationals, and in my senior year, I succeeded.
Following college, life got in the way of sports, but I always prided myself on staying in shape. When my knees started to balk at the idea of running, I turned to walking. And I still lift weights daily. Recently, I returned to work, following a stint of homeschooling my son during the pandemic. Returning to work meant I could also resume studying Taekwondo with my son. I have a black belt, but at my age, I can’t kick as high as the teenagers in my class. Nor is my balance and coordination what it once was. Still, I am strong and my natural athleticism hasn’t completely abandoned me. I can do most of the drills–although I move slower than I once did–and I don’t shy away from sparring, even if it means getting kicked in the head by my much younger and far more nimble classmates.
When I first returned to the mat, there was only one other parent–a father–in the class. Nearly everyone else was thirty years–or more–younger than me. For many of the students, if you tripled their age, they would still be younger than me. Needless to say, that alone made me feel old. The young men–boys my son’s age or a bit older–in the class, were nice to me. When I paired up with them, they were patient with me. If they mistook my slower pace or more deliberate movements for flagging energy or physical exhaustion, they genuinely encouraged me to keep going, to not give up. If I was doing something incorrectly they tried to help, demonstrating the proper technique. I could only wish my joints still worked as well as theirs, or that old sports injuries didn’t rise up to haunt me. I’m sure they noticed that I was not as sure on my feet as they were, but they never made me feel bad because of it. They also never grumbled about being partnered with me. If it bothered them, if they preferred working with someone more aligned with their own ability, they never indicated it. Over time, I came to really appreciate their kindness.
The young women–high school girls–were different. Some of them simply ignored me, which was fine. It’s not like there was any common ground for us to have a conversation. A few were friendly. Recognizing that I often had my head in a book before class, they would stop to ask what I was reading. It seemed they too enjoyed literature and were not put out by the age difference between us. Sadly, the girls that made the greatest impression on me were the ones who took me back to high school; the ones who made it clear that they did not appreciate my presence in the class. Unlike the girls I knew in high school, they never verbalized their feelings, not to me anyway. They never told me I didn’t belong, but they didn’t need to. Their demeanors and their attitudes exuded their displeasure, their belief that they were better than I.
I hated being partnered with them. It took the pleasure out of the class. They would intentionally hold the clapper pad too high, knowing that I couldn’t kick as high as they could, even if they were shorter than me. I would readjust the pad to a height that was comfortable, and they would roll their eyes as if my limitations pained them. After they completed push-ups (on their knees as most girls seem to do, while I did them they like the men and boys) they were condescending in their attempt to sound encouraging while I finished mine.
Even worse than being partnered with them for drills was having to spar against them. The Mean Girls looked at me as if I were a heavy bag, either that or they hoped that if they hit me hard enough and frequently enough, I’d give up and go home–for good. I moved slower and provided an easy target. One Mean Girl tried to repeatedly hit me in the head, angling–it felt upon impact–to give me a concussion. More than once, I went home with a throbbing headache. Another Mean Girl side kicked me so hard, she marked me with a black and blue bruise the size of her heel. Many nights, I crawled into bed in agony, wondering why I kept going, why I repeatedly presented myself for injury. But I refused to quit simply because others perceived me as being too old–weak. I am not feeble–I am far from it. In paying my tuition, and in working as hard as my body permitted, I had as much right to be on the mat as they did. Ultimately, though–after that bruising side kick–I felt compelled to speak to the instructor and I asked him to please avoid matching me with certain students. He understood, and once we were kept apart, classes became more enjoyable.
I might have thought it was all in my head, a case of paranoia, but it turns out I am not alone. One night another mother, a woman close to my age, came to class. She had been a student at the school much longer than I, but it was the first time we took class together. Our similar age and height made us natural partners and we worked well together. For the first time on the mat, I didn’t feel inadequate. Taking turns during drills, I could focus on technique, because I no longer felt compelled to prove myself. And when one of us messed-up, or age made our movements awkward, we laughed–genuine good-hearted laughter–because life is too short to take everything seriously. In short, not only did I feel comfortable, I had fun, which was the whole reason I took up Taekwondo in the first place.
As I got to know the other mother better, I told her that classes were far better when she was there. She agreed. When I shared my feelings regarding the Mean Girls, she nodded. Her experience with them had been similar to mine, which is why she hadn’t been attending the school as regularly as she would have liked. Being partnered with them, she confirmed, was demeaning, “They acted as if they were somehow demoted every time I had to work with them.” Yes, that was it precisely. Getting stuck with either of us was the equivalent of drawing the short straw, and they didn’t want it. They didn’t want to be in a position where they were stuck with someone “weaker.” It made them look bad, or so they thought. To compensate, they did their best to knock us down, both literally and figuratively.
However, what they don’t seem to realize is that someday, they too will be old. They won’t always be able to kick so aggressively, so rapidly. Someday, they too will wake up and realize that they are not as fit or athletic as they once were. Age happens to everyone. It is unavoidable. We become our mothers whether we want to or not. What the Mean Girls fail to see is that we–the other mother and I–should present a glimmer of hope. A realization that age doesn’t have to be an end. There is no way I will ever again be able to compete with a younger crowd, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be competitive with my peers or that I can’t have fun. I can’t help but wonder where the Mean Girls will be in thirty-five years. Do they not realize that one day, in a future not as far off as they believe, they will wake up and find themselves standing face-to-face with someone much younger, someone prettier, someone more agile. Youth is fleeting and they won’t always have the advantage of it. I wonder how they will adjust.
As for me, I learned long ago that I don’t need anyone’s approval. My goals are no longer as lofty as they once were. I’m not out to make an Olympic team, though qualifying for the World Championship, in my age bracket, would be a satisfying accomplishment. Until then, I will continue working hard to be the best competitor that I can be, because the only competition that matters, ultimately, is how I stand up against myself.
