For My Hometown Heroes

The Massapequa Little League Softball Girls aged twelve and under are the 2023 World Series champions.

This is Massapequa.

This place where Massapequa Moms

fight to unmask their children,

allow team mascots represent leadership

“Once be a Chief,

always a Chief.”

A place where girls parade in successes and athleticism,

not deteriorated in prostitution.

Once known for Long Island Lolita Amy Fisher.

Her failed attempt of killing her married boyfriend’s wife Mary Jo Buttafuoco.

Shooting her in the face into deformity

on a Biltmore Shores doorstep.

This is not my Massapequa.

More recent Rex Heuermann

known as the Gilgo Beach Serial Killer responsible for the unsolved murders of escorts now connected around the country.

This is not my Massapequa.

Despite Jerry Seinfeld, Brian Setzer, and the Baldwins all have lived in this suburban neighborhood at some point.

It was also home for over forty years to Doris Wahl, my mother.

She, the first woman starter of Track and Field at the Olympic Games Atlanta, Georgia 1996.

This is my Massapequa.

It is with proudness that I declare this extraordinary place to live.

Honored to be a woman of the Massapequas.

 

Reader

Book in hand, eyes on page,
Printed books, traditional
And still very functional
Even paper stiff with age.

Eyes on screen, phone in hand
Ebooks, newer, more compact
Still are books, for all that
Readers worldwide understand

Fingers brush dots in groups
Ears take books in audio
These are reading too, you know
Readers read, we’re quite the troop

Words connect us, in translation
Different forms, same information

The Recipe Box

The Recipe Box

 

The blue, wooden recipe box

Was a summer project in 1964,

When I was ten.

Nailed together into a rectangle with

Almost 90-degree corners,

It held tried-and-true ways to make delicious meals:

Watergate salad, corn pudding, popovers,

Blueberry mace cake, banana pudding

Ahh! The memories of those dishes make me salivate.

The occasions waft through my mind:

Pot-luck dinners, family events, company’s-a-comin meals!

No one was worried about carbs or fat.

Microwaves, insta pots, and air fryers weren’t even day dreams.

Meals took time to make and were eaten at a table with conversations.

What looked like a recipe box was really a time machine

Capturing the flavors of family life.

 

Cindy Herndon

hour 11: time to go

a sigh

not of relief but of… tiredness

a sort of love in a sort of giving up

a laugh in the former weird silence i decided i manifested

i love making them annoyed and i love when they love me anyway

it is joyous to know it was all really made for me

sometimes still it all

but i am here and i will love again

Will You Say You Love Me

Hour Ten Kyrielle form

Will you still say you love me when
the fall of age when it begins
and when my waist is out of place
upon my features will you trace

The outline of my eyes that look
like jeweled sunflowers pressed in books.
When crows land upon corners lace
your fingertips will you then trace

The sculpture of my body when
the folds of skin need a surgeon
will it be my heart you’ll still chase?
Your eyes, will they then leave a trace

Of true unconditional love
the kind that spreads wings of a dove
locks of silver- an age-old grace
upon my features, will you trace?

WHAT IS LOVE? – #10

WHAT IS LOVE?

(In homage to Adrian Henri)

Love is burning the blueberry pies

Love is a uniform seen by blue eyes

Love is not having to worry about your size

Love is

 

Love is linking lighting to an amateur stage

Love is the wind blowing over the waves

Love is valid, no matter your age

Love is

 

Love is making the bed on time

Love is the shopping, standing in line

Love is the poem with or without rhyme

Love is

 

Love is coffee love is tea

Love is tickling the dog’s belly

Love is you and love is me

Love is

The Secret Path – Hour 11

I never believed in fairies or goblins or leprechauns.

I was born to a practical family.

But reading fairy tales and magical stories was all I wanted to do.

I had a willing suspension of disbelief, and could believe the stories

without expecting such creatures to appear in the real world.

 

Years later I discovered overgrown garden pathways

and mysterious woods full of the sounds I knew

magic would make. No other places are so welcoming

to me today. No other places so much like home.

 

Down a green tunnel to a fairy castle or a witch’s lair,

Seeking bright eyes and the slight flutter of wings,

I once again become six years old, expecting

the Ice Queen’s sleigh and the wonder of Turkish Delight.

Red Flag Warning

Hour 11

Red Flag Warning

 

Rip tides.

Big waves with rolling white foam.

Surfers in wet suits paddle out to ride.

Two women in bathing suits swim beyond the surf.

Playing games with the ocean,

like teasing a tiger,

handling a rattlesnake.

I walk the beach,

pick up fragments,

tumbled, broken pieces no longer look like shells.

That should tell us something.

We are not in charge.

Submarine recently lost,

taking rich tourists to visit the Titanic,

victim of an iceberg.

We dare to conquer,

return to our place of origin.

But no longer belong.

Maybe whales, dolphins beach themselves

trying to conquer air.

Games with the land that go awry.

 

Sue Storts

09/02/2023

An ordinary thing #11

What is it
Just an ordinary thing
To smile with your eyes
And say hello
With warmth in your voice
You’ll never know as you passed by
That the ordinary thing
Of making a connection
Could save a life
I was on my way
Planning my escape
Maybe a date with the train
Or a rope or a knife
I hadn’t decided
But I knew with certainty
That I didn’t belong
And no one would miss me
After I’m gone
Until you did an ordinary thing
Made extraordinary
At the brink.

It’s Woke

The President is on TV just now

telling us it’s fake news again.

They stole the win, he did nothing wrong,

And he should know this

because HE’S THE PRESIDENT,

THE  PRESIDENT of all Presidents,

Past, Present, and Future. I listen as

sirens flutter overhead

like helicopters searching for truth.

I take off my gloves

and walk out into the night, watching

cold faces gathering

to photograph the evidence,

asking each other how it happened

in front of their noses.

No one saw anything until it all

went up in flames. I watched

the vastness of his blonde hair waving

across his face like explosives. He said,

“It’s fake news again. Fake, Fake News

again”. Then the tiny hands of our watches stopped

ticking and fell silent.