Jazz with Ella

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excerpt

…she would try out a suggestion that a friend had whispered to her once to increase their enjoyment. It sounded like fun. But what would they do when winter arrived? Really, they needed their own place and that meant that Pavel needed papers—a passport, and a residence permit, at least. They would have to get busy.
★
It was a very different world for Pavel. Up with the rooster, check the chickens, water the market garden with buckets from the well. (Surely they had heard of garden hoses in the Soviet Union? He planned to do a little shopping in Toglyatti or Saratov one day.) Then, check the primitive irrigation system that watered the larger crop of barley. Estimate the height on the patch of sunflowers; as soon as they grew large enough, he had some great plans for intimate picnics with Vera among their stately stalks. She would look gorgeous, her sinuous shape naked in the fresh air. The pine forest was getting a bit old—he always returned with twigs and grit in his clothes. He hadn’t yet thought about how they would find their privacy once winter arrived.
If it were market day, they would pick the early beets and new potatoes and Shukshin would drive the produce into the village using his antiquated motorcycle and attached cart, a vintage vehicle that had probably seen service in the last war. These visits usually entailed time spent in fixing the motorcycle when Shukshin returned. Pavel didn’t know that much about mechanics either, but here he was learning faster. The way the parts fit together was engrossing; he found he could figure it out with some help from Shukshin, and he lamented all the years spent in studying academic subjects without getting a good grounding in what every adolescent learned while growing up: working on the family car.
The elder Shukshin thought he had died and gone to heaven; a good strong lad to do the farm work—at no expense to him other than some room and board. Granted, he wasn’t trained, but then neither was the last lad that he had asked to help him. A dimwit—and he had been sent packing. Fortunately, there was no official record of his ever working for Shukshin. That was the good thing about living in the provinces—no one from Moscow was very interested in whether they stuck to the regulations.
Moreover, Vera was in love with this strong, bright lad. There was only one annoying problem—he was a foreigner. He would likely get…

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562892

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763246

Entropy

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Calendar of Illusion
Sounds and words of illusion
reflections of the invisible flow in their shadow
voices and names
fragments of the chaotic truth
the words don’t reach adulthood
they vibrate in the distance
they pop up from the seams of the horizon
of the wounded man
ancient pneuma rises from the space
what do you wait for
which lovers does your song call
rise to recognize yourself
before you become a season
The wind carefreely passes
whoever is alone
and believes in miracles
and changes the world daily
the unsettled mind
that for eons deciphers in his heart
the forests of tiny nothings
Gaea knows the end
and blooms

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DPCRLJC6

Chthonian Bodies

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Toparch
Motionlessness incorporating stability
immortalizes the melody of the tree
whitewashed dawn
suddenly in the finch’s song
orchestra of swaying blades of grass
faraway island concurs
nothing is sweeter than
the wind’s embrace
the tree: an anchorite
amid immobile rocks and
swaying blades of grass
wish they had the last word
painter’s vision
in substratum and upon the immense sky
equanimity of earth between
two archangels: colors and lines

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763424

Water in the Wilderness

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excerpt

Rachael didn’t answer. Maybe if she kept quiet Mrs. Milligan would keep quiet, too. Didn’t the woman know she didn’t want to talk?
“Rachael? Did you hear me, honey?”
It was too much. She turned an angry face up to Auntie Tyne’s mother and shouted, “I don’t want a candy bar, an’ I don’t want to walk with you. Why don’t you just leave me alone?”
Turning abruptly, she took off at a run, slipping and sliding on the snowy sidewalk as she ran back to the house.
She had seen the hurt, shocked look on Mrs. Milligan’s face but she didn’t care. She didn’t want anyone to feel sorry for her. She didn’t want anyone to be nice to her, because she didn’t deserve it. What she should do is go back to Harrison’s and take her beatings, and work herself to death for Aunt Ruby. Why should anyone care about her, anyway? She wasn’t worth it. She never deserved a Shirley Temple doll in the first place, so what did it matter if Lyssa had gouged its eyes out? Lyssa should have got the doll – or Lark should have. They were both better girls than she was. They didn’t drag their young brother around in a blizzard. In fact, they didn’t do any of the bad things she had done.
Reaching the back door of the house, Rachael looked around. Mrs. Milligan was coming behind her, walking so fast that she was sliding on the path, almost losing her footing. Rachael hurried to get inside. Without removing her heavy coat and boots, she ran to her bedroom, slammed the door behind her, and fell face down on the bed.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562884

https://www.amazon.com/dp/192676319X

Ken Kirkby, A Painter’s Quest for Canada

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excerpt

…Michael, and John Harris, a journalist, travelled deeper into the tundra to
one of Keith’s remote summer camps. They took few supplies, expecting
to find food and warm bedding at their destination. When Ken assessed
the situation after the float plane dropped them off, he realized they were
ill-prepared for their stay, and the trek back to the lodge. The supplies
at the camp consisted of a boat, a tent with no tent poles, a large can of
dried mushroom soup, and a few bedrolls and fishing rods. To make matters
worse, the weather turned and the hot summer winds were replaced
with the chill of an early fall. The grays and greens of the tundra began
to turn scarlet and heavy rain fell, which then turned to sleet and later, to
wet snow.
Blindly, they putt-putted around the shore, searching for the river that
would lead them back to the lodge. When they found it, it was too shallow
to navigate because the waters had drained to their summer depth.
Resigned, Ken and John jumped into the water, one pushing and one
pulling the boat, while Michael walked along the shore searching for obstacles.
The cold, wet, backbreaking labour continued all day. In the evening,
they propped the tent up with paddles, lit two Coleman stoves inside
their shelter and fried the fish they had caught, augmenting the meal with
vile-tasting mushroom soup.
They pushed on for four days, the time collapsing into itself until all
they felt was cold, wet, and bone weary. When they finally made it to Ferguson
Lake they were as thrilled as though they had found the elusive pot
of gold. A helicopter circled overhead and a large boat motored toward
them. They were well overdue and Keith was relieved to find them alive
and uninjured.
When Ken got back to Toronto he had one priority. After showering at
the studio he called Karen, “How about supper tonight?”
In the week Karen had been back, she had filed for divorce. Ken told
Marsha the next day that it was over. When he told Diane about the situation
she quit her job.
Karen rented a house on Belsize Avenue off Yonge Street and gave Ken
a key. The chaos of broken relationships roared around him and he had
never been happier in his life. With Diane gone, Ken turned the entire
space into his studio and hired his lawyer’s sister-in-law, Elaine Ross, who
had a background in publicity. She skillfully kept contact with the media
who hovered constantly in the background like hungry jays.
Michael visited frequently and he and Karen became good friends.
Watching them together, Ken was often startled by the intensity of his
feelings. At times, he could hear the beating of his heart, pounding like a
steady and welcome ache in his chest.
Karen applied to write the bar exam for the Northwest Territories on…

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562830

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073573

The Incidentals

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Numbers
Day in and day out he calculated,
added, subtracted, multiplied,
divided his clients’ wealth
in pieces, allotted some
to the fair or unfair tax man
he filled out forms, balance sheets,
statement of receivables,
invoices and depreciation
life’s depreciation when days
lessen on one column and days
in the underworld increase
dark schedule, millions of dollars
arrayed on sheets, poor man rich man
the dichotomy that people fall for
then they rise once and go beyond
the ephemeral wish of wealth
realizing no one takes it with them
when the irresistible Hades
makes his unexpected appearance,
the accountant, a poor man
in dollars, rich in his understanding
of need for food and shelter and
for the odd game recalled at times
when he didn’t eat all day only
to reach home late at night
exhausted that he could only
open a can of porky beans, his
supper, though he served his clients
well, had exemplary work habits, they
all had said at his funeral service,
to which just a few showed up.
No females attended, he hardly
had time for a woman’s body
the dutiful accountant who he was,
decided to go up to Heaven,
perhaps St. Peter would
give him the bookkeeper’s
job in the accounts of Heavenly
wealth fairly or unfairly assumed.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3745812#print

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763637

Hear Me Out

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All Cities are the Same at Dawn
“All the cities are the same at dawn; they’re all alike” you told me once and I didn’t believe you.
When day break arrives to their beds they all sigh the same way. And the night lovers whisper things or embrace each other before they get up and at the first light walk away with heavy footsteps.
They wear clothes half undone some inn their underarm when they kiss a soft silent kiss not to awaken the one sleeping next door.
And the door closes behind them most carefully, silently.
The car is turned on, a sound that seems very loud in the quietness of the night and even the gas petal seems to be half asleep and heavy from being asleep or exhausted from making love all night.
And the home they return to is always empty and cold.
Only the blackbirds chirp in the garden.
Half of the sky is lit and the day commences when you enter the shower to let the water run over it and take away the breaths and sweat of the night.
All cities are the same you told me once and I didn’t believe you.
Because I saw you leaving and I still wanted you in my bed, to take you in my arms, to breathe your breath one more time and to go back to my dreams.
And you kissed me softly and closed the door behind you.
How long has since gone?
I don’t remember.
How many times I closed the door behind me after I kissed someone softly on the cheek and whispered good night?
How many empty streets have I driven to reach home?
You were so right!
All the cities of the world are alike at dawn…they all sigh, they toss and turn in bed, some empty and others full of the all night long lovemaking.
Each day break one door closes slowly and one other opens and welcomes the loneliness of the traveller.
Only blackbirds chirp in the garden always the same way like the day break.
People change.
Some leave others come. What difference does it make in which city you are?

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562946

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763807

The Unquiet Land

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excerpt

“It’s like I told the police, Ignatius,” Liam replied. “It was early morning. And I wasn’t wearing my glasses. I did see someone running from the church, but he was disappearing over the ridge in the direction of Lisnaglass.”
“Just one man?” Sweeney asked.
“I saw only one,” Liam told him.
“Lisnaglass is full of Unionist louts,” someone observed. “So you didn’t see who it was?”
“No, I didn’t.” Liam was almost certain that the culprit he had seen running from the church was Michael Carrick, but he saw no reason why Michael, of all people, would have given Father Padraig so severe a beating and carried out such vandalism in the church. By the time the police interviewed him he had convinced himself that he had been mistaken. He had also decided that even if it had been Michael, he could not have informed against him. Michael Carrick, everyone knew, was going to marry Caitlin MacLir, and Liam could do nothing that would destroy the happiness of a woman he hopelessly fawned on, like a devoted pup.
“You weren’t at the burying, Padraig,” Sweeney remarked.
“No, in all conscience I felt that I was unable to be there, Ignatius,” Padraig replied. “The burying, as you called it, was not a Christian one. And the graveyard at Killyshannagh is no longer consecrated ground. As a priest I felt that I could not honestly take part. However much I loved Finn MacLir. It was not the way I wanted to see him go.” A feeling of having been cheated by God Himself strengthened insuppressibly in Padraig’s breast. “But it was Finn’s own wish.”
Padraig’s words were like rocks tied to his ankles that sunk the priest in Sweeney’s estimation.
You could have put on a suit, Sweeney thought, forgot you were a priest for a few hours, and come to the funeral of the man who rescued you, raised you, paid for your education. You’re a sanctimonious hypocrite, Father Padraig. You deserved that hiding. I’d love to give you one myself. Sweeney walked away, disappointed and disgusted.
The general conversation in the MacLir house splintered, as those present addressed their neighbours rather than the group at large. Jim Patterson, finding himself with no one to talk to, caught the eye of Clifford Hamilton in the far corner of the dining room. Clifford, in a tailored black suit and white shirt, was leaning against the wall between the window and the bookcase. Jim Patterson crossed the crowded room and joined him. “How are you, Clifford?”
“Can’t complain, Jim. How’s yourself?”

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562888

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763203

Swamped

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excerpt

Then remembering his encounter with Frankie, he added,
“Oh, and just to remind you about Wheaton, we’ve been picking up
steadily there too, as you might have noticed. That’s the next one, I’m
sure of it. Don’t let it go without getting in.”
“I have my eyes on it, Eteo. Thanks. You’ve always followed
Frankie, I know.”
“Nothing but success with him, John, you know that.”
“Too true there,” John agreed. “I’ll clue in some people I know
to it.”
“Everyone who gets in early will make a good profit if they play
it right. I wouldn’t be surprised to see it in multiple dollars in a year
or so,” Eteo said. “That’s my gut feeling.”
“I’ll remember this, Eteo,” John replied, and with that he excused
himself to walk to the washroom. Eteo headed back to his office, but
before he reached it, Bradley Connors stopped him in the hallway.
“I didn’t see you at the dog and pony yesterday,” Bradley said.
“I had another meeting, but I sent Logan in my place. He has already
briefed me on it,” Eteo lied.
“I saw your son, but your presence would have been appreciated.
I wanted your input on this new company.”
“And as soon as I’ve studied the prospectus, you’ll have it,” Eteo
promised. “By the way, stay tuned to Wheaton, Frankie’s new deal. I
can only see it climbing.”
“I’ve heard that from others as well. Thank you, Eteo,” he said
and strolled off, looking pleased with himself.
Eteo hadn’t been back in his office for more than a minute when
Mario Messini called.
“Want to grab a bite later?” he asked. “My treat.”
“Sure,” Eteo replied. “What time?” Eteo tried to sound nonchalant,
but he was surprised.
“Da Carlo’s, noonish?”
“See you there at noon,” Eteo confirmed, then he added, “Just us
or more?”
“Just us Eteo, like old times,” Mario said and cracked a laugh.
At exactly twelve o’clock Eteo walked into Da Carlo’s. There was
no sign of Mario, so he took a table and ordered a glass of red wine.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562976

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08WP3LMPX

Neo-Hellene Poets: An Anthology of Modern Greek Poetry

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PORTRAIT
In the street where people run incuriously
indifferent to beauty, you sauntered
looking as if the breeze was raising you,
as if you never hated anyone.
Your step was soft, a revelation,
your face snow-white, a lily,
and as your shining glance alighted on me
that tranquil smile appeared.
Like the priest of some fantastic faith
or someone painted by Velasquez’s holy brush
an Andalusian lord
you peeked out from behind the sea of people.
Once I’d met you in a noisy street,
a serene ghost, fleshless, holy,
you stayed on in my soul like
an ethereal idol and I your fanciful believer.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562959

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763513