Lily stood in the bay window of the living room looking out at the street. She had her arms crossed over her chest, and the thumb of each hand tapped the taught muscle of the opposing bicep. She tapped her right foot in perfect timing with her thumbs.
Her son, Henry, stood beside her. He was seven and small for his age, barely able to see over the loropetalems outside the window. He did not have his arms crossed over his chest. He did not tap his thumbs or his foot. Although it couldn’t be guessed from his posture, he was ready to run and throw his arms wide and hug.
Then Malcolm’s Lexus emerged from beyond the Freis’ privet hedge three houses down. It came on swiftly, and then Malcolm braked suddenly, as if almost forgetting that this was his house, and turned into the driveway.… ...continue reading
Thursday, August 30, 1975, Gilbert O’Sullivan’s “Get
Down” was at #8 on Billboard’s Top 100
Yorkshire’s asphalt dipped down to the new drain grate, before snaking dead end into Tecumseh Bluff. The kids knew the path, knew where to walk to avoid people and animals, and on rainy days to avoid puddles that would soak through their shoes and socks. Teachers would scold them for playing in puddles and classmates would make fun of them for being poor and for being from the westside and for having to walk to school. But the colossus that grew here was matchless in the eyes of west enders and few knew better how to navigate its bypass than the neighborhood kids.
After a half day’s heavy rain, debris would cover the grate, a mixture of maple leaves, pine needles, and sticks sealing it tightly and creating a swirling main of pollen, drowned insects, empty cigarette packs, candy wrappers, and band fliers pulled from windshields along the serpentine path.… ...continue reading
The April fires burn into the velvet night.
Flames turn to ash and memories
the last remnants of the dark, dead times.
And so the Festival begins.
Wine is drunk.
Songs are sung.
Love is made.
Boys take girls to the forest and become men.
Girls become women.
And women become mothers.
The Mother of All smiles
from her perch atop the moon.
Like it has for generations
flames turn to ash and memories the dark and dead.
And so the Festival begins.
– Josh Krach
Author’s Note: Spring is my favorite season. This poem is a nod to the first clear, warm evenings when the moon is full, the first flowers are blooming, and all the dead is burned away in the first bonfire of the season.… ...continue reading
(I will whisper this so it stays between us)
Your heart has been broken.
It has been shattered for so long
you believe it will never be whole again.
I will take your hand in mine,
your heart in my other
and walk us down to the river
to our hidden grotto of brick and iron.
I will wield your shadows and shatters
turn them into gold lacquer
rebuild what you thought unfixable
until we see the beauty in the imperfections
– Mae Fraser… ...continue reading
Crimson heat rains down on ochre landscapes, the souk stalls spilling out much more vibrant colors: plush pink pillows, yellow bananas, green afghans, orange turbans, and violet roses. Beige and mustard-colored Berber carpets and more flamboyant magic carpets reminiscent of a Scheherazade tale protect the stalls from the elements—and for the right price, you can buy such a “roof” for your foyer or living room or, if you’re really opulent, your palatial outhouse.
But I’m here in this medina quarter for something more muted. My wife’s favorite tagine has stewed its last lamb salona, no thanks to my accidentally cracking it into three pieces, and I must replace it. I don’t visit the souk often. It’s not a place for me. I love the sights and sounds, especially the oud, ney, and bendir, played together or individually, telling the traditional stories or finding space for new tunes.… ...continue reading
I can still picture the scene in my mind’s eye.
I see my buddies lying face down on the linoleum floor, shielding their faces from the pepper-infused crimson sauce splattered everywhere. The cries of young men brought down in the prime of their lives by puddles of hot nacho cheese beneath their feet; the visceral smell of ground beef too damaged to ever be seasoned.
The hours after the lunch rush had been quiet, the summer heat keeping the customers away and lulling us into a false sense of security.
That’s when Charlie came calling.… ...continue reading
Gothic of course with gargoyles
wandering the ancient halls.
timeless despite the chiming
never to be heard in unison.
Clock hands close in prayer
where, gowned, the giant ravens
barely see the visitors’ gaze
in shades of admiration.
An aria sung on a bicycle
drifts graciously through the years.
“Wait to be asked” was sound advice
in finding a life worth living
among minds higher than mine,
their intellect as tangible as stone
were stone winged for flight
above reason’s indifference.… ...continue reading