Hey, everyone. The fourth installment of my tanka series titled “A Tanka Trio (4)” is now live at Gobblers by Masticadores. Each of these installments contains three tanka (be sure to click this link or the link below to read all of them). A special thanks to Editor Manuela Timofte for publishing this installment as all three tanka in this set are especially appropriate at this time, given the destruction of American democracy by right-wing fascists.
Hi, folks. I’d like to let you know one of my nature photography images titled “Sheep Mountain & Beaver Pond” has been featured at Gobblers by Masticadores. I appreciate Editor Manuela Timofte sharing my passion for nature photography with all of you. Thank you kindly, Manuela. I hope you enjoy seeing the natural world through my eyes.
You can view the image and its accompanying commentary here:
nothing in life occurs as it does in the lyrics of songs it’s all fantasy all make-believe carefully orchestrated a plastic tableau displayed behind a plate glass window look but don’t touch lest the illusion shatter
her eyes were still open when I entered the room her body slowly giving up its heat the world had gone silent save for my father’s ragged exhalations a blasted look in his eyes panic dread the weight of heaven and hell threatening to crush him
there are protocols for this sort of thing my mind mumbled dully lists upon lists procedures to follow and don’t skip anything lest the facade crumble lest all of creation come to an end
I watched my hand touch her wrist warmth but nothing else and a door in my mind swung soundlessly irrevocably shut a box checked I felt my hand squeeze hers no response another box another check mark a window in my mind battened boarded up permanently and her eyes dazed tired confused staring into her own private eternity I tried to brush them closed like some celluloid hero like someone who’s in charge but they remained exposed stubbornly resisting my mind sputtered clicked observed registered a checkbox left empty with only one remaining
I pulled the sheet over my mother’s face the final act the list complete my duty accomplished my fate sealed
and my mind collapsed
I stood at my bedroom window as a misting rain enfolded the earth in a hushed dirge a six a.m. requiem an epilogue to a life betrayed a life cheated my mother deserved so much better and the world refused to move its gears stripped its dynamo fried as the dawn held its breath
the ghosts arrived strangers in bleak uniforms muffled voices latex gloves clipboards a gurney uncanny inhabitants of some other dimension performing their own obscure rituals drifting room to room in and out covert thieves stealing my mother
and still the rain fell
in my mind a mantra arose unbidden urgent inexorable straining against my temples my eyeballs my ears
my mother is dead
over and over and over
listen closely the universe said listen as you’ve never listened before because your life your sanity depend upon this one thing acceptance now or risk losing yourself forever
the words pooled eddied in my head swam like mystical koi gliding in arcane murk and I knelt at water’s edge gazing into this saturnine mere where my reflection died and hope dissolved and I drank from cupped hands and choked on the bitter draught of reality
and still the rain fell
there are woods we dare not enter treelines with teeth green shadows with poisonous beckoning tendrils restless copses of voiceless supplication leading us astray from the path numbness timelessness and nameless plutonian pits of despair and despite foreboding warnings despite all that screamed to the contrary I fled into this grove of oblivion where the darkness promised succor but instead stripped me naked gutted me flung my entrails among noxious thickets and abandoned me in a clearing beneath an eternally moonless night eldritch stars overhead representing obscene unknown constellations another place another cosmos another time
eyeless voiceless nothing left of me but my ears damned by deafness weak useless my mother’s voice no longer audible her frequency terminated a static hum where her essence should be but I listened anyway strained to discern her closing thoughts her last whisper her soul departing but the only sounds I heard were the howl of white noise and the wretched screech of infinity
another mantra arose this time a song from years before my mind a musician’s mind an artist’s mind always seeking the flow the deep slow currents the steady stasis of movement the only balm for my soul a song of death of sorrow of loss of seeking that which can never be found
my mother lost in a June blizzard chasing Wildfire
and still the rain fell
the sky cried in my stead my own tears locked away deep inside far beyond my own pathetic reach the incense of petrichor and wet sage lingering settling upon my skin a patina of unexpected serenity a cocoon of protection against a reckless arbitrary God an indifferent heaven the senselessness of it all
weeks passed but the song remained and I clung to it with all my might I grabbed its reins dug in my spurs and rode it out for all it was worth for only it could save me only it could deliver me from the blackness of that forest of torment
I said good-bye to my mother on a sweltering June day my broken heart buried with her the burden of her absence carried with me for a decade now I kissed her forehead gave her my parting gifts three guitar picks I love you, Mom inscribed on each
and asked her to wait for me
and when the early snow falls I shall chase Wildfire too
(Author’s note: This poem is inspired by “Wildfire,” a song by Michael Martin Murphey that helped me deal with my mother’s death in June 2015.)
she stood there stoic and still as a river rock cairn at the crossroads bus stop every afternoon alone save for her reluctant shadow that always seemed to pull away from her clawing at the gravel to unpin itself from this dirty-faced girl with willow whip arms and a mangled knot of corn silk hair
she stood there by my grandfather’s mailbox with the shot-up targets and broken beer bottles glinting dully in the weeds of the four o’clock sun like dusty brown cataracts and waited for someone who never arrived staring soundlessly as the folding school bus door juddered shut and exhaust fumes enfolded her in a hydrocarbon miasma
she stood there in her too-big ratty plaid jumper of indeterminate hue and mismatched sneakers and scab-caked knees rooted to the ground like some obscure totem some miniature monolith weather-worn eroded her features smoothed by the passage of eons at this nowhere bus stop somewhere east of benignancy paused between moments stranded between the dots of the ellipsis…
she stood there as we piled off the bus each day a mass of larval humanity gummed together in sweaty profusion and exquisite ignorance and ran past her down red dirt roads that sliced through cheat grass and junipers sage and pines kicking up dust in our manic wakes a mindless stampede of vacuous hubris and nascent dark desires our souls’ eyes shuttered against grace and mercy our young hearts already blackened by vainglory we perceived her incuriously in our periphery discerned her absently incidentally our puerile minds negating her ripping her brusquely from the cloth of our reality
she stood there waiting as the cracks in the world began to show arrivals departures childhood’s horrors comings and goings day and night week after month after year after generation and I recalled her vaguely a tenuous mirage on the distant silver horizon of youth and my children and their children spoke cryptically of the uncanny silent girl at the bus stop until her novelty wore off and she disappeared from their collective consciousness as their own childhoods unwound in a chaotic blur
and the cracks widened and deepened and the world spun slowly to a stop
she stood there stoic and still as a river rock cairn in the withering gloaming at the end of time where no bus had stopped for millennia where the damned no longer gamboled and cavorted where sepulchral silence clung shroud-like to the bones of the earth waiting for someone no one anyone and I approached her my back bent with age my gait halting my old man’s eyes dim and rheumy my breath a rasping wheeze and she looked at me with pallid marbled eyes and I recognized her at last and I sensed the world sigh and I took her cold, ashen hand as the final sunset faded and I waited with her
Hey, folks. I was delightfully surprised when my recent poem “From Tsukiko, While Watching the Moon” was reviewed by Adam Fenner. Adam is a gifted novelist and poet, and his poetry reviews are both keenly insightful and enlightening. I was honored to discover Adam had written an in-depth, spot-on analysis of my poem and I thought I’d share a link to his review on his wonderful blog for those of you who would like to check it out. Take some time and explore his work while you’re there. He’s a formidably talented writer.
An exciting update—After Rain Skies: The Global Anthology, curated by Michelle Ayon Navajas, continues its remarkable run of success, reaching #1 best-seller status in multiple categories for both its Kindle and paperback editions.
From the book:
“After Rain Skies: The Global Anthology is the third installment in the After Rain Skies series, bringing together writers, poets, and storytellers from around the world to speak out against all forms of abuse and violence. Each poem and prose piece is either a personal story or one that inspired the writer—a voice raised in solidarity with those who have endured hardship. These are raw, real stories of resilience, courage, and the search for light after darkness, told through powerful prose and poetry.” – Michelle Ayon Navajas, Curator
Hello, friends. Today I’d like to share one dear friend’s wonderful review of another dear friend’s amazing novel. These two authors are pillars in our writing community, and it’s my pleasure to highlight both of them here. I hope you enjoy Joni Caggiano’s review of Diana Wallace Peach’s new book, Tale of the Seasons’ Weaver.…..
D. Wallace Peach has crafted a prologue in an exquisitely breathtaking setting– a winter forest marked by the harshness of an extreme mix of challenges. She weaves an enchanting tale rich with every imaginable metaphor and color. With a thrilling introduction to various creatures we will come to know throughout the chapters, Peach triumphantly guides us to each new page in this captivating adventure.
We also quickly realize that humans struggle to feed their families during what seems to be an interminably long winter. We learn that some creatures in the woods are dangerous and exist on an island where a Winter King resides. What we understand to be the beginning of the book may signify the dissolution of the human world as they know it. The hunters commit an unforgivable mistake, and their desperate actions will lead to severe consequences. With this information, we delve into the ethereal yet fragile world that a young woman must learn to navigate. She is tasked with weaving the seasons of their world onto her tapestry as we follow her through twists and enchantments that only the wildest imagination could conjure.
As lovers of nature’s seasons, all creatures, and the immeasurable beauty that the living world brings to all our lives, we often held our breath during the reading of Tale of the Seasons’ Weaver. (I buddy read this book with my husband, which was our treat at the end of the day.)
The main character is “The Seasons’ Weaver,” who is called Erith. Everything about Erith was remarkable. I loved the coziness of her woodsy abode and the visionary creatures that lived with her. She was half charmed and half human. Within Erith’s force of personality, I saw a lot of myself. Much of what made her such a lovable, captivating, and disarming character was, in many ways, the challenges we all deal with in life. Many unanswered questions about what happened to her and her family and the great expectations inflicted upon such a young woman made her anxious, untrusting, and often unsure of herself. I found a lot of today’s world in this captivating book.
Throughout the chapters, we meet extraordinary characters, some of whom we come to adore, but many of whom we know are foreshadowing. The entirety of the book is written imbued with mystical and dangerous quests. D. Wallace Peach’s ability to write with such ease and flow, with her formidable use of creative description in each sentence, is particularly noteworthy. Her imagination is found while building a world that is both in trouble and one in which the protagonist, Erith, has many secrets to which she is not privy.
As a poet who does not often read fantasy, I found a considerable amount to be learned from reading this genre if you find a writer with a vision that lights a spark on every page. I will quote a few lines to show you an example of D. Wallace Peach’s sensational descriptive vein of writing.
“Gynnessett’s corona of buttercup curls bounced below a circlet of golden pansies. Her silk apparel boasted a garden of embroidered irises, and despite the wintery weather, living flowers trimmed her neckline and the hem of her ruffled skirt. She was as light as sunshine, as mercurial as a butterfly, and when she passed by me, the scent of lilacs lingered in the air. I wondered if she tucked wings beneath her finery.”
Peach, D. Wallace. Tale of the Seasons’ Weaver (p. 16). (Function). Kindle Edition.”
“Wind clattered through the bare branches. Twigs chafed like eager fingers. A banshee swept into the clearing and whipped the falling snow into funnels that raced into the blue fire and spat cold sparks at the sky. Nelithi drifted from the evergreens, a phantom spirit of murder and mercy, crystal irises peering at me above a seductive smile.”
Peach, D. Wallace. Tale of the Seasons’ Weaver (p. 177). (Function). Kindle Edition.
“Your true strength lies here.” He rested two fingertips on my temple and then tucked a stray hair from my face with a touch as light as a galiwhig’s wings, the gesture so tender I leaned into his hand. “Your magic far exceeds the limited illusions of the charmed. You must believe it, welcome it.”
Peach, D. Wallace. Tale of the Seasons’ Weaver (p. 250). (Function). Kindle Edition.
The last quote is one from a particularly spectacular character in every way. A member of the charmed. Even though many possess staggering powers, one such person remains a true gentleman in every sense. He is a man every woman would love to know who holds her heart most valuable, even more than life itself. A tender romance added to the tension and fear felt while reading each time they headed into the night.
There has to be a hero in every story, and in this book, I saw a community of heroes in the end—people who wanted to conduct themselves morally. This was another inducement to my sheer delight in reading this book. An individual with an overwhelming sense of humanity wrapped this enthralling story with every aspect of the challenges one eventually encounters.
This book is a gift to those who love nature and find its very fabric something we need in which to exist – oh wait, we do, don’t we! D. Wallace Peach is a treasure to read, and if you are a writer of poetry or prose you may learn a lot while enjoying every page. I know I did.
At the end of the book is a poem that will touch your heart and speak to your soul through the visuals of the earth’s beauty and riches. The author chose to end with a poem called “Wisdom” by a brilliant poet, Michael Utley. I don’t think she could have picked anything that would have summed up this fantastical journey to preserve the earth’s natural bounty than by listening to the love of nature pour out so splendidly by Michael Utley.
I highly recommend Tale of the Seasons’ Weaver. I can honestly say I enjoyed every page and appreciate the love of nature the author herself must cherish.
Hey, friends. I’m excited to let you know one of my nature photography images titled “Rock, Sheep Mountain & Trout Lake” has been featured at Gobblers by Masticadores. Many thanks to Editor Manuela Timofte for choosing to share my passion for nature photography with all of you. I’m truly grateful, and I hope you enjoy seeing the natural world through my eyes.
You can view the image and its accompanying commentary here:
Leroy blew his fingers off with blasting caps he stole from some old granary and he’d chew on the blackened stumps while waiting for the school bus like some kind of hard dude like he didn’t feel a thing I hated him but I understood numbness and I knew he was dead inside knowing his little sisters were never coming back from that long-ago pile of twisted metal on the highway he was sixteen and already an old man
Ronnie was a psycho and a pusher and drove a piece of shit Chevy truck with a .30-06 in a window rack and his eyes danced with hellfire when he wasn’t shooting up crank he was shooting up mailboxes and stealing anything that wasn’t nailed down and one surreal summer evening he almost killed me and I saw the face of true evil up close and personal my old man would have been proud Ronnie was already DOA and he didn’t even know it a wraith barreling down a midnight country road with Skynyrd blasting and his mind completely blown
Old Bud had a penchant for booze and young girls and enough sway with the local LEOs to look the other way when his granddaughters came to visit his self-proclaimed redneck empire collapsed one day when his black heart came a cropper and his corpulent ass gave up its ghost and its secrets no shame for the shameless his little kingdom in ruins but all those skeletons remain
my old man was an anomaly among this cretin coterie this hick menagerie his arrogant bullying earned him the moniker “little hitler” among the Leroys and Ronnies and Old Buds of this nowhere place this idyllic pastoral version of hell his NRA card-waving wife-beating chest-thumping sturm und drang racist dog and pony show approach to country life perhaps a little too much for their liking he was a laughingstock and too proud to know it hubris is a helluva drug
and one by one between shoot-outs and break-ins and meth labs and murders and suicides and all the hidden horrors birthed by the brackish hearts of men these restless ghosts have faded into oblivion only barren fields remain derelict houses rife with caustic memories and the soundless hush of the uneasy dead listen closely and steel yourself against what this silent place may tell you
my old man died alone on a busted sofa on a September farm in the middle of nowhere with a gut full of prescription drugs and a poorly scrawled note left on the kitchen table
“something went wrong in my head”
it said
he checked out without tipping the bellboy the cheap fuck remorseless to the end
and in his final act on planet earth he also killed me
closure wasn’t in his 10th grade drop-out vocabulary neither were compassion decency empathy love his lexicon was one of unfettered cruelty willful ignorance narcissistic dominance bigotry hate violence
closure? there is no closure when the bad guys get away with murder and speed outta town at midnight in black-windowed coupes with fat tires and skulls painted on the hoods glasspacks roaring tearing the world to pieces
there is no closure when the deceased can’t sleep and bones rattle restlessly in coffins and closets and all you can see on the insides of your eyelids is the haggard face of a seven-year-old kid staring back at you
so tell me do you know what it’s like to be a ghost? to lurk in sunless corners among dust motes and spider webs and choke on the cloying darkness that surrounds you permeates you to see horrors but never be seen to know fey secrets that should never be known to hear with deafened ears silent whisperings best left unheard do you?
I’ve been gone a long time my father’s smudged and bloody fingerprints all over my cheap headstone the desiccated yellow turf of my plot beaten to dust beneath his boot prints isn’t it funny how the dead persist? you’d almost think he mourned my passing if it weren’t for his soft laughter that sounds more like the cries of jackals
sometimes in the wan hours when the world is asleep and all is quiet I push through the sod and float on night breezes navigating by starlight and moonbeams among the crooked marble crosses and faded plastic flowers of lost souls and settle down on cold dewy grass and reach out tentatively toward my headstone and weep for that seven-year-old kid who never had a chance that child who died and was reincarnated as his mother’s protector his father’s enemy his fate written in the blood of the wound he inflicted on his father’s forehead the scar that remained until the old man killed himself alone on a busted sofa on a September farm in the middle of nowhere
Silent Pariah 