Hour Eleven “Green Door”
The leaves beckon and entice
with a splash of sunlight
before the damp woods surround
and their psithurism
becomes the pervading sound,
blotting out thoughts
while inviting adventure
with the whispering winds
of why not?
The Private Memoirs and Confessions of a Justified Sinner
If I get a cell-
and I’m saying IF –
I’m very popular with the warden crowd –
you can’t outfit my cell in any more gold
than one of the Louies –
you know, the big ones before all the
head-chopping – what’d they call them?
Gillotines? Our friend Macron, he
should be scared they don’t bring that back.
So, let’s all take a bow of silence
for the real criminals.
What’d I say? A bow? Why not, they act like
royalty, maybe they could get a pardon for
their sins. Knock on King Charlie’s door
and demand a pardon.
No one’s ever going to believe
I’m the biggest sinner.
Not when you’ve got chumps like –
what’s up with Prince Harry?
Little Harry out writing nasty things about
his family?
What a shame, what a shame.
If that were my son, I’d
cut him off.
Talk bad about your own father?
No security detail for you!
That’s only fair.
And, I’d be the most secure in prison.
I don’t need a gang.
Secret Service
would be there in the shower, which –
I’m in talks – would be private.
And, maybe I’d get a suite. A prison suite.
I could still get things done.
I’ve been promising my many, many friends
as soon as I have time, I could write
my memoirs.
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