Nothing Better

What could be better?
Your hands holding a love letter
You wrote the words, took the time
to set down our truth, speak the sublime.
Our gift, meant to last forever
Beyond your life or mine.

Martha

Seven O'Clock

Seven o'clock and where is that sock?!
I hate myself
Every morning I dither
6:30 the radio screams!
I shut it off, just like my mother
Not now, I whine -- I still have time
It just can't be . . . seven o'clock!
Where is that damned sock?!
Agh there on my foot,
What else could go wrong?
But, haha, seems I made it again
I knew it all along
I can still do it
Just.

Martha

It Was Easy to See What They Saw in Each Other

The gold wedding band lay at the bottom of the drawer, covered by brown and blue socks, neatly folded boxers, and a small stack of dingy t-shirts with the arms cut out. Daddy never talked about their marriage. All I knew was the stories I made up from the two photographs he also kept in the drawer. She was fourteen when they married; he was twenty-four and in the Army Air Corp. He must have looked a lot like the picture: green eyes that shot off the page, a crooked cocky smile. It was easy to see what they saw in each other. She had a wild look, excited, self-assured in a way that you wouldn’t expect from someone so young, someone born and raised in a town of 300 where the churches outnumbered the stores.

I want to know how they met. He was probably stationed somewhere nearby, Abilene or Anson? Maybe she hung out in honky-tonks near the base. She could easily pass for drinking age in that war time atmosphere. Tall, angular, long auburn hair swept to the side like a movie star.

There’s a story that floats around in my head, more dream than reality, about a marriage even before she met my father, a marriage when she was only thirteen. Maybe I made it up. Maybe someone told me the story, sort of an insurance policy just in case I ever had any admiration for my mother. That was a dangerous possibility. To me she was beautiful, and glamorous, and, well, so sad, all at the same time. She broke my heart, again and again but I loved her all the same.

They must have moved around after they married. I was born two years later in Lubbock. They were settled enough to take me in for studio photographs, not just once but several times. And then the pictures ended, replaced by snapshots.

SMARTZ

Anybody Can Learn to Play

She wanted to play the harmonica ever since she heard that woman at The Five and Dine in El Segundo. They must have been in their fifties or sixties, the three of them. One played guitar and the other a keyboard. But it was the harmonica that made Marlene fall in love.

Later a friend of a friend gave her one but only if she promised to play it. She tried but it was just too big, too fancy. So she put it back in its pretty case and went down to the used book store where she found a smaller one with an instruction book and a guarantee that “anybody can learn to play.”

At night she’d pour herself a finger of Jim Beam and sit out on the back step to practice. At first it seemed hard and then easy and then it got hard again. The only part she could get right was the uh huh huh-huh. And after awhile it got to be more fun to have another finger or two of JB, forget about the book, and just let ‘er rip.

To Die For

Deep, rich, earthy brown with slightly crusted edges
Thick and softly textured with tender moistness
Still warm though awash in a mass of chilled, orangey pseudo-crystallites
So sumptuously savory.

Ginger cake a la mode – that’ll be with pumpkin ice cream please.


Saundra C.

OOO Girl! You got that GOOD hair!

Good as opposed to Bad?
Bad as in Black?
Black as in Ugly?
Ugly as in Me & You?
Me & You as in Africans?
Africans as in Slaves who survived the Middle Passage?
Slaves as in 3/5th of a Human Being?
Human Being as in White People?
White People as in Beautiful?
Beautiful as in porcelain white skin, thin lips, narrow noses, and Long, Silky Straight Hair?
Long, Silky Straight Hair as in Good?

OOO Girl! You got that GOOD hair!

Yes I do.
In fact, in case you hadn’t noticed, everything about me is Good.

Good as in Proud.
Proud as in Knowing who I am and who I came from.
Knowing as in embracing the Strength of my ancestors.
Strength as in surviving the denigration and destruction of my African Culture and Beauty.
Culture and Beauty as in lifting a newborn baby, with iridescent black skin and tightly coiled course hair, to the sky to be blessed by the heavens with Good Health, a Good Family, a Good Life.

Yes, I have Good Healthy Hair.
I have Good Black Skin.
I have Good Strong Bones.
I have a Good Full Heart.
I have a Good Blessed Life.

Hell, I’m just damn GOOD!


Saundra C.

Path in the woods

Annie and I went for a humdrum walk in Tualatin, (the place with the dreadful RV park) and we came upon some unexpected woods. It was a beautiful hike. Surprise woods are always the best.

Myrtle's Hands

Large brown age spots, knuckles swollen up with arthritis, and calloused fingertips give it all away. There's no hiding the life she's had.

They were young, small, soft, and supple when once she clutched her own mother's breast. In their maidenhood, they caressed a sweetheart and then a husband.

Later they hardened as she sewed, picked fruit, canned, put up preserves, shelled peas, shucked corn, churned butter, and pounded dough into bread for her family. They helped to birth others' babies, washed her own babies, nursed them, and buried some.

When she broke down and they wouldn't work anymore, she covered her face with them and was sent away to rest.

Martha

The last time I saw . . .

the fellas was Sunday.

Hey There!
Come on up.
How are you?
You hurt your back?
OK, I won’t hug you too tight then.
And you? You’re doing OK?

Come on in.
It’s been a while.
Yeah, I’m fine, just working and . . .
You too?

Right.
It’s been almost a year.

He fretted about the first birdhouse he built, and put on top of that 7 foot post in the yard, because no birds were using it. Well, the other week when I was sitting outside, two small birds were flying in and out of his bird house. So I know he’s happy now.

You know, we were just lovers for 2 years.
He would just call and say “You want some company?”
I didn’t really know him, so I just thought I was going to have some in-house loving for a while, but things morphed into a 5-year struggle.

I tried talking to him but . . . it was my life too.
Yeah, I know you talked almost every day.
I’m sure his mother’s breakdowns had an affect on him.
You didn’t know about his mother?
Wow.
He was just too far gone.

Obviously I’m still processing the whole experience.

Oh sure.
It’s getting late.
I’m so glad you came by.

Yeah, we all miss him.
Be safe.
I’ll be in touch.

(I don’t really miss him . . . do I?)


Saundra

What I Meant to Say

I once said to the Comcast Cable customer service representative: “I know it’s not your fault, but your company’s treatment of its customers is really appalling.” What I wanted to say was, “You prick. You actually enjoy pretending to care and don’t really care at all. I’ll bet you send your wife’s phone calls to voicemail. I’ll bet you stand too close to the person in front of you in line at the grocery store checkout. I’m pretty certain that you cut people off on the freeway and don’t give up your seat to older people on the bus. You’re probably that IT guy at work who pretends to listen to me while he’s thumbing through his Blackberry. Or my doctor who doesn’t look up from the chart and is out of the room in five minutes flat. I’ll bet I’ve met you a hundred times in the last month alone.” But instead I said “please and thank you” and hung up the phone.

Martha

Harper Street Women Writers

Making a difference, one word at a time.

Untitled

In my mind's eye, I'm at my peak
Free of convention and ready to speak
I'm mouthy, direct, ready to connect
I give love and take pleasure
Sizing up and taking measure
I'm a dancing fool, a foolish dreamer
But never a schemer
In my mind's eye
smartz

The Poetry In My Day, Today

Saundra

The poetry in my day awaits me
The bus ride is rough and tumble
and full of anticipation, My My

The poetry in my day awaits me
The walk through the park setting is soothing
and full of warmth from the Sun, My God

The poetry in my day awaits me
The Tulip tree that greets me is tall and strong
and full of wisdom, My Tree

The poetry in my day awaits me
The place of mine for the day is still here
and full of possibilities, My Work

The poetry in my day awaits me
The chance is mine to make it what I will
and fill my day My Way

Wanting

I am a wanting woman,
lying in my loving bed.
White light streams through the curtains
and filters the goldens and creams and roses of my room.

The pillows, sheets and covers make me alive.
They tell me of my wantingness.
It is serene and silent here.

I lazily dream, half awake,
of kisses on my neck and legs wrapped with mine.
Soft breathing and hands loving my body.
Pulsing, warm, sweet, slow passion.

Wanting.

Mother's Day

With her only child living out of town, Rose had breakfast on that May morning with her friend Lita, another orphaned mother. As they sat eating their raisin toast and eggs in the crowded boisterous coffee shop, they were suddenly aware that a team of paramedics had arrived and was quietly lifting a very elderly woman from her chair and onto a gurney. The old woman was rigidly awake but unresponsive to the medics’ questions, oddly removed from the harsh reality of her own predicament. Her husband and children silently followed her out to the ambulance in the parking lot, trying to avoid the prying eyes and curious faces of onlookers.

There was nothing much to say about the event, but Rose was fixated on the scene. Embarrassed by her reaction, she quickly said goodbye to Lita and drove home where she did her laundry and fell asleep in her recliner.

That afternoon Rose decided to do something that she and her son would likely have enjoyed doing together on Mother’s Day. After running a few errands, she drove to the local cineplex and bought a ticket for the 3:00 showing of the latest Star Trek movie. Although this was not her first choice of films, she thought it would be entertaining enough for a vacant Sunday afternoon. Her timing was off and she arrived too early at the theatre, so she sat in the half-dark, bored, with only scattered thoughts and her Sunday lonelies to occupy her mind.

A trio of young overweight women lounged in the seats in front of her, comparing their new pedicures and sending text messages to absent others. One of the young women, sporting a tight purple tank top and khaki capris, draped her substantial legs over the seat in front of her, lifting them one at a time, proudly admiring their smooth, tanned and hairless surfaces.

A man, well into his eighties, entered the theater below and Rose watched as he slowly shuffled across the floor to the stairs in search of a seat. Balancing a cane in one hand and a soda in the other, he struggled up to Rose’s row and over the feet of three teenagers to sit next to her. Grunting and groaning, he fell into his seat and took a good deal of time to settle in. Rose had the feeling that he wanted to chat, but she was not inclined to talk to anyone, and continued to stare straight ahead into the empty screen. The old man sneezed twice, paused and exclaimed loudly, “Well, God Bless Me!” apparently irritated at his neighbors’ poor manners.

After seven commercials and six indistinguishable trailers, the movie was just beginning when a young Black man struggled through the other side of the row and quickly sat down beside Rose. Exuberant, he commented and joked to her through the first ten minutes of the film. At last giving up on getting any feedback from her, he too settled down to quietly watch the movie.

The film itself was a predictably overwhelming concoction of dazzling special effects and explosive sound. Underneath, however, was a classic Star Trek tale. In a pivotal scene of the time-traveling plot, an aged Mr. Spock appears in the same scene with his younger self. The young unsuspecting Spock happens upon the old Spock from behind and confused, calls out, “Father?” The older Spock turns and faces his incredulous younger self, and like a father, he imparts his wisdom and guidance to the young Spock before they part ways.

Just as the credits started to roll, the young man next to Rose leapt up and departed as abruptly as he had arrived. The three young women in the row ahead simultaneously turned on their phones and searched for missed messages in the still dark theater. Rose waited patiently for the old man next to her to pull himself up from his seat and inch down the row. Clutching the railing with his right hand and leaning on his cane with his left, he slowly descended the stairs, farting all the way to the bottom with Rose trapped closely behind him. As soon as she could, she sped around him and hurried to her car.

Sitting, dithering, in the driver’s seat, Rose was reluctant to put an end to her weekend by going home. At last she found a purpose -- one more errand she could run -- and drove several miles to a health store in search of some vitamins her doctor had prescribed. After a frustrating half hour poring over labels, she decided on her purchase and took the pills to the cashier. There, leaning on the counter, was the old man from the movie theater. Their eyes met and Rose said, “Hello, I think we were sitting next to each other at the movies this afternoon.” He looked her over and said, “Really? I didn’t notice you,” picked up his packages, and left the store. Refusing to acknowledge this rejection, Rose decided to walk across the parking lot to a market to buy some food for her dinner. Walking into the store, she was astounded as she ran into the young woman with the purple tank top from the theater. Feeling like she was going way out on a limb, and not understanding her motivation, Rose approached the young woman and related that she remembered her from the theater, and also told her about the old man. Of course, the young woman was dismayed by the approach, but she managed to recover and kindly wished Rose a Happy Mother’s Day.

Rose sat in her car in the sun, puzzling over the events of the day. Did the old woman’s illness, the young man’s exuberance, and the reappearance of the other two people from the theater have any meaning, or was it the universe’s little joke, telling her how meaningless everything really was? She thought about the young Spock encountering his older, wiser self and mistaking him for his father. She wondered about the woman she would be in twenty years. What would that woman tell Rose now? Would she, like a mother, be able to give Rose the guidance and reassurance she sought? Rose sat in her car in the sun, imagining a loving, nurturing, humorous, wise woman, at peace with herself. She started up the car and drove home, confused and comforted.

Martha

The Poetry In My Day

Saundra


Sitting, listening, taking it all in.
My serenity.
My space.
My windows let the outside in.

It's beautiful.
It's comforting.
It's me.

The birds sing morning, noon, and night.
Their soft songs in the air as they flit in and out of the Yard Bird House.

Sitting, listening, taking it all in.
My sanctuary.
My peace.

My windows let the outside in.
It's me.

Birthday Chronicles - Cooper Gallegos

On my 9th birthday I lived with my father and stepmother. I didn't have a party or a cake or presents. Instead we sat around the kitchen table and dipped graham crackers into glasses of milk. I was lonely and missed my mother. At bedtime my father came to tuck me in. He did a "voila" and suddenly he was holding the 1940s Brownie Box camera he'd used in our cross country hitch hiking trip when I was 4. And now the camera was mine. Suddenly the day was transformed and I felt treasured.
When I turned 17, at the same house, no one remembered it was my birthday. I was a pre-hippy, thought birthdays were bourgeois but secretly I treasured myself all day and went to bed thinking, "Wow, this was a trip!"
On my 21st birthday I drank scotch in a bar in the heart of ELA and with every drink I thought how much scotch must taste like gasoline. I kept drinking anyway. It was my birthday after all.
And when I turned 50, I rode my bicycle through ice plant in Pacific Grove and accidentally bumped into Al Gore who was campaigning for vice president. I wanted to shout, "Today I am 50!"

The Airport

Last Night

Sandra Sandoval

Last night at dinner
My right hand
Was magnetically drawn
To your left knee
I had to reprimand it


Last night when you talked
I wanted to spin your words
Into fine sugar strands
And feast on them


Last night I took your kiss home
And put it to bed
It lay on the pillow
And kept me company

The Scorpion and the Foot Bath

The Scorpion and the Foot Bath by Cooper Gallegos

It was the beginning of our first summer in the Mojave Desert. We had one brutally cold winter behind us and we felt like veterans, cocky and energetic, tramping around our five acres like true desert-rats. Life was refreshingly casual. We bathed only when we felt like it, chased Jack Daniels down with Coors beer and saw ourselves as combination outlaws and ranch wives.
One lazy afternoon, just after the water hauler had filled our 250-gallon water tank I was headed back into the house wearing only shorts and sandals. Just outside the door I stepped on a rock and my foot exploded in pain. I staggered forward in time to see a 3 inch scorpion the color of amber skittle through the dust, making a clean get away. By the time I got to the kitchen my foot was swollen and I was gasping what I thought could be my last gasps. “To the car!” my housemate screeched. We lumbered down our dirt road in our old green Buick. “Elevate your foot,” Pam said. So I did. “No, no, maybe that’s a bad idea!” She was trying to figure out the direction poison traveled through the body while navigating desert roads looking for the hospital.
When we finally pulled up to the entrance of Victor Valley Community Hospital Pam practically shoved me from the passenger door. I limped in and told the duty nurse what had happened. “In here,” she said. She was a no-nonsense type and I hurried after her. She produced a dishpan of sudsy water. “Which foot?” she asked. I pointed to my right. She grabbed my ankle, submerged my foot and scrubbed vigorously. I cringed on the chair, in pain, my head beginning to ache. My foot emerged, dazzlingly pink, clean as a whistle. The nurse took one look at my other foot, covered in desert grime. “Okay, give me your other one,” she said.

It's Just A Number.

"It's just a number" - the official philosophy of age for anybody over 40. But it also happens to be true.

Take the 81-year-old mother of 8, grandmother of countless grand and great-grandkids, who had a younger woman say to her not long ago "You can read that?" as the octogenarian, without benefit of glasses, read a passage from her most recent book.

Then there's the man who renewed his driver's license and bought himself a brand new Cadillac on his 99th birthday and went out to celebrate with his 78-year-young tenderoni.

And let's not forget the 61-year-young sister who's finishing her bachelor's degree in 3 weeks, just in time to embark on her new journey to earn a master's degree in Public Administration.

And how about the 60-year-young grandmother who was carded at the local drugstore where the sign posted says "ID checks are required for the sale of alcohol if you look 35 or younger." Even her grown son couldn't burst her exuberance when he said "Ma, they card everybody."

OK, we do know that spandex is not everybody's friend, but other pleasures do present themselves with the marvelous passage of time. And all that time is wonderful.

Age is nothing but a number - but it's a great number to be, especially when those Senior Discounts ring up.

The Open Door

I can't look. I'm afraid - afraid of the unknown - why?

Could it be because the cat ran from behind the garbage can under the big fruit tree in the far corner of the backyard that night when I was 10 and it was my turn to take out the trash and my daddy made me do it even though he knew I was terrified of the dark?

"Go on out there girl. There's nothing to be scared of!" he said in his usual booming I'm-going-to-whip-your-butt-if-you-don't voice.

And, of course, my worst fears were echoed in the screeching scream that could only come from a skinny, scared 10-year-old little girl.

Damn that cat!

But the thing is, I always knew there was something in the dark - something lurking there waiting to scare the beJesus out of me.

But I didn't always know what it was. So, yes, I am still afraid to look. Yes, the unknown is always lurking, always scary as hell.

When I Think . . .

When I think . . .
When I think . . .

What do I think about? Whatever comes to mind in this moment in time.

I remember, I reminisce, I romanticize all that's passsed.
I daydream. I fantasize.
What will come of me now?
My memories of joy and pain sustain me while I'm here in this loving life.
What will come of me now?
My life is so full of days and nights gone by.
What will come of me now?
I surely can't say.
So I continue to remember, reminisce, and romanticize all that's passsed.
And I daydream and fantasize until now becomes the memories of joy and pain that sustain me.

Summer of '88

Sandra Martz
In the summer of ’88, I loaded up everything I owned in the largest truck I could get from U-Haul and moved to a former apple orchard outside Aromas. Within a few months I’d populated my two acres with a ewe and her two babies, a dog, a cat, and a pair of gay goats. In the rare evenings when the fog didn’t come in, I imagined I could see the ocean through the notch between two small hills on the western horizon.

Some nights I’d pick up a jug of red wine, throw briquettes on the rickety barbecue, and grill a big ribeye for me and the dog. Most days I’d work awhile in the yard or the garden area. Once I came across a small snake hiding under a thick patch of Johnson grass. Deathly afraid of snakes, I called the Aromas Fire Department for help. “Is it on fire?” they asked.

Another time a red ferret raced into the garage and out again. Occasionally wild chickens would try to roost in the laundry area. Once I found a small greenish egg up near the box of Tide.

Over time I grew tan and muscled and comfortable with myself in a way I didn’t remember being before. I canned apples and made applesauce and finally got a small garden put in. I got to know my neighbor with the funny accent (he was from Malta by way of Canada) who made his own wine and cured olives. I learned to take his advice about most things.

My life now is much tamer. I miss the sense of adventure, the naive belief in unlimited possibilities.

A Good Year

Sandra Martz
Daddy stands near the Chrysler engine that powers the irrigation well. This is the last time he’ll water the cotton this summer. The stalks are full, almost touching each other across the furrows, the creamy-yellow flowers beginning to wilt and brown at the edges. They’ll drop soon, revealing tight green bolls. Most of the serious threats are past: the blistering spring sandstorm that can strip the young plants right down to the stems; moths that lay eggs on the tender cotton leaves that hatch into ravenous boll worms; the blistering July sun that drives midday temperatures to 100 degrees or more.

“This will be a good year,” my father says, not so much with words but with the glitter in his eyes, the slight upturn of the corners of his mouth. This year--if the cotton puller doesn’t break down, if the prices hold up, if there’s no August hail storm--there’ll be enough to pay the butane bill and buy seed for next year and make the payment on the farm. Maybe even enough to get that bailer for the alfalfa. And, of course, enough to pay the church tithe on what’s left.

The One

Sandra Martz
She looked into the future
saw memories unraveling
bits of color traveling
into space
searching for the one
who could remember their names.

What Else

Sandra Martz
The walls are thin and you can see sunlight around the windows. When the wind gets up, the howling keeps you awake and creates small dunes of red sand along the west walls. The mother takes cotton and wedges it into the cracks around the windows with a case knife. It helps, a little, but they still have to sleep with a wet wash cloth over their faces in order to breathe.

She didn’t ask for this life, had once imagined joining her sister on the assembly lines at the plant in Dallas. But that dream was overcome by a handsome airman who undid her bra with one hand on their first date. She made him fasten it back and take her home straightaway but his big gold-toothed smile and an embarrassed apology made her to give him a second chance.

A month later he asked her to marry and she said yes. She knew he had a child and wasn’t quite divorced yet, but he promised to fix that soon. They rented a house in River Oaks near her sister so she could babysit her niece and nephew.
After he was discharged from the service, he took a job driving long haul trucks. He was gone a lot but home enough for her to get pregnant. When he did come home, he brought ears of fresh corn and tomatoes and green beans from the roadsides where he stopped to sleep.

And then one night he came home with a scrawny little girl carrying a grocery sack of ragged dresses and underwear. “What else could I do?” his eyes begged.

BEHOLD BARACK!

Bold
Beautiful
Black
Bewitching
Breathtaking
Beloved
Bountiful
Bodacious
Bi-Racial
Bitterless
Badass
Beguiling
Buoyant
Best
Brilliant
Big
Biblical
Busy
Blameless
Bedecked
Booted-and-Suited
Budding
Blessed
Buttressed
Bullish
Behemoth
Beneficent
&
BEYOND BELIEF!

Early morning memories of Mark

"I don't want to go," he said. They were sudden, unexpected words. Mark had been submerged by depression and drugs for weeks and verbalized very little, aside from responding to questions with a curt yes or no. He sat in a wheelchair across from me in the hospital garden. It was early June, the sun burning hot, and we were enveloped by azaleas and roses in full bright bloom. He still shivered; nothing could keep him warm. He would be dead in three weeks, destroyed by AIDS at 32.

The day before, Dr. Scott confirmed one of Mark's worst fears -- that he probably had Kaposi's Sarcoma and nothing could be done except chemotherapy -- which ultimately killed him. I had followed up later that day with my own cruel blow of truth. Our younger brother Tim had been diagnosed with an incurable brain tumor. He would follow Mark in three years. Mark howled a primal, psychic scream and hadn't spoken since.

For the six months of his illness, I longed for Mark to tell me what it all meant to him -- the plague that was decimating his friends, and the advancing loss of his own health and life. Now that he uttered that sentence, "I don't want to go," I was speechless, with no comfort to give him, no light to offer. His words hung in the air as they needed to. It was his only expression of lament and sorrow and it needed to be unanswered.

Lying in my bed in the dark of an early morning, 23 years later, I hear his words and can see him, small, frail and ill, in that garden. I treasure this hard memory and preserve those few words as his gift to me and the other people in his life. Inside all of that pain, anger, outrage and grief, he didn't want to go -- he still loved.
Martha

Advice to New Writers (smartz)

Read, read more

read again, read aloud

Chew words

spit them out on the page

dribble them down the front of your shirt

caress them

let them slip out

soft, moonlight, a bud opening

If they don’t please, toss them

If they come tumbling back

give them a second chance

Gather words in a basket

set them on a shelf to ripen

put a few good ones under your pillow each night

and let them seep into your dreams

Lost

to whom?
from where?

how do i know, when i’ve never been found
how do i know, when i’ve never been bound

could i be lost to me if i never knew me?
could i be lost to you if you never knew me too?

lost is such a big scary place
the craters and caves in the place called lost are treacherous indeed
how can i be found in such a place?
my smoke signals are feeble at best
what do i do next?
i crawl, i walk, i cry, i talk
how can i be found?
i don’t know the language
i improvise but there’s no sound
is it not loud enough, not strong enough, who has the keys?
i can’t see found in the craters and caves of the place called lost
can you find me? PLEASE

It's Our Time Now

Seize the moment, come out of the rain.
Seize the moment, release the pain.
Seize the moment, build your home in this Universe we share.
Seize the moment, because you care.
Seize the moment, it's our time now.
Seize the moment, you know how.
It's our time now.

A Small Piece of Driftwood

Rough and wrinkled
but smooth and strong.
Cracked and brittle
but still holding on.
Broken and jagged
but in one piece so long.
Aged and weathered
but no where near gone.
Accentuated lines and rugged edges
but no worse for the wear
loving all of life's pleasures.