Month: November 2025

In Turbulent Times

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excerpt

Then Liam was still. With a low moan his body relaxed, and she felt the full weight of it pressing on her. For a moment he lay upon her with his chin on her shoulder. Then he pulled himself away and rolled over on to his back with a sigh. Nora winced at the hurt of his withdrawal and burst into tears.
҂
Liam Dooley sat in his armchair by the fire reading an old, leather-bound copy of The Confessions of Saint Augustine that was old even when his grandfather bought it in Smithfield Market in Belfast many years before.
‘Grandda, if I was to ask you to name the book that most influenced you,’ Liam had once asked of the old man, ‘which one would you choose?’
‘The Confessions of St. Augustine,’ Grandfather Owen Dooley had replied with no hesitation. ‘That book gave me a whole new way to think about God and religion. It took me deep into the meaning of life, and continues to do so. He’s been the most influential thinker that I’ve ever read. I have an old copy in the bookcase there. Read it as often as you can. And when I die, I want you to have it and cherish it.’
When his grandfather died the book had indeed passed to Liam, the only physical keepsake Liam had of the old man whom he had venerated for as long as he could remember. Often he felt that his grandfather watched over him from Heaven, that everything he did had to be good because his grandfather was always there, watching. Liam’s great fear was that his grandfather could read his thoughts too. But he calmed himself by arguing that his grandfather would understand the often lustful thoughts of a young, single man. As long as Liam kept his lust on a tight leash his grandfather would appreciate the struggle and commend him on its victory. Only once had he surrendered; and since the day of his lapse with Nora Carrick he had taken to praying not to God, not to the Virgin, not to St Francis, but to his grandfather, asking his grandfather to forgive the humiliation he had caused him in the sight of God and begging the old man to intercede for him with the blessed saints, with God Himself.
‘I’m not like Padraig,’ Liam argued with the spirit of his grandfather. ‘I am not a priest. I have taken no vow of celibacy. Nora is an adult woman. She came to me of her own free will. Pressed her body against mine. I could not have done what I did otherwise. You know that. I would never touch a woman unless she encouraged me. And Nora encouraged me. It was she who suggested going to bed. She wanted to have sex with me.’
Liam looked up from his book. The fire was low.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763270

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562904

The Incidentals

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Mail
Before the birds start their morning
chirping postman takes to the roads
with his bag hanging off his shoulder
postman brings the good news
to every house, no warning, no fear
of the dog in each yard, the dog which
usually attacks him, he enters each
place and drop letters in the box, news
of a relative’s marriage, the letter from
the lad who lives in a faraway country
addressed to his mother who takes and
with trembling hands opens the letter
to read her son’s latest news and the
lone postman walks out of the yard
heading to the next house with
the good news about a newborn baby, letter
left in the owner’s box while his
tears always roll down his face for
the letter he too hoped to receive.

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

https://draft2digital.com/book/3745812

He Rode Tall

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excerpt

“I would like to see Mr. McQuaid, the branch manager,”
said Joel.
“I’m sorry Mr. Hooper, but Mr. McQuaid is no longer with this
branch. He has transferred to our Denver offices. I am the new
branch manager, can I help you with something?” said the attractive,
middle-aged woman who Joel, conditioned in his paradigm
of chauvinism, had mistaken as a receptionist.
“Well ma’am, I sure hope so.” Joel hoped he would have a clean
slate with this manager, and not have to deal with the negative
impression he had made on his earlier visit. Joel continued, “You
see, my daddy used to bank here, and I am running short of cash
and was hoping that maybe you could help me out with a loan.”
“Why don’t you come into my office, Mr. Hooper, and let’s see
what we can do for you.”
Even if he didn’t get any money, Joel was certainly appreciating
the treatment he was receiving on this visit. The last time he was
here after his dad died, he had waited over ninety minutes to see
Mr. McQuaid, who, as the secretary explained, “was a very busy
man.” Finally, when he did get to sit down with him, Mr.
McQuaid told him that an old, rundown ranch yard and a
half-section of land really had no market value. According to Mr.
McQuaid, the Circle H could never be a functioning cattle operation
without access to at least several additional sections of
pastureland, and his home ranch was essentially worthless. Furthermore,
Mr. McQuaid also advised him that horses were worth
a dime a dozen. Joel had tried to explain the breeding and value of
his livestock to the young, city-raised banker, but it all fell on
deaf ears and he was quickly dismissed.
Finding himself on the street outside the bank within five minutes
of being ushered into the branch manager’s office, Joel had
retreated back to the ranch and made up his mind to cut expenses
wherever possible.
But now, he had run out of ways to cut costs any further. Joel
needed cash not just to pay off some of the bills …

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0980897955

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562862

Poodie James

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excerpt

Poodie saluted. Spanger hesitated, then returned the salute
before he wheeled the cruiser around and headed toward the station.
Pete Torgerson cranked the steering wheel knob as he crossed the
Great Northern tracks and guided the Packard along the dirt road
between the river and town. His headlights swept the curves, illuminating
sagebrush and bunch grass. A jack rabbit bounded in
front of him for a few yards and faded into the blackness of the
road’s margin. Ahead, a few cars rested in a dusty parking area
around a pole supporting a flickering red neon sign that identified
Ted and Angie’s Chicken Inn. George Pearson’s Lincoln, and
Fred Lawrence’s Cadillac were there. He didn’t recognize the
other cars. Inside the two-story log heap, the air was heavy with
smoke and “Tuxedo Junction.” Ted waved from behind the bar. A
man Torgerson recognized as a clerk from the J.C. Penney mens
department pumped nickels into the juke box. At a corner table,
Angie was taking a dinner order from a man who sat alone. Slim
ankles and high heels were just disappearing from the top of the
stairs into the upper hallway. Torgerson heard a slur of a male voice
loudly ask, “Which room?” In a circle of light, four men studied
their cards at a table whose green cover was embellished with stains
and cigarette burns.
“Mr. Mayor,” Pearson greeted him, with a hint of derision,
Torgerson thought, “we just got started. Seven-card stud. Throw
in. It should be an interesting game.”
Torgerson nodded to Pearson, Lawrence and two orchardists
from the north side of Lake Chelan. The growers materialized at
Ted and Angie’s every fall when packing house business with Lawrence
provided an excuse for an overnight stay in town. Angie
delivered the mayor a whiskey sour. Nothing to eat, he told her, he
wouldn’t be staying long. Torgerson anteed. Lawrence dealt.
Torgerson examined his hand. Next time around he called, and
threw two dollars in the pot. The game was underway, and the
mayor got down to business.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562868

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08W7SHCMV

Übermensch

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Unsaid
He was ready to say something when He looked behind
our shoulders and agreed with those who stood
at the edge of the crowd. He left something unsaid, as
if the lyrics of the song that from young age we had
so much loved, words of ancient dramatists and of uncles
with jet black curling up moustaches and it was a sin
to think of beauty, murder to dream of Paradise.
We were ready to learn another song, although
it insisted to remain silent in our thoughts as if not to be
ever sung; the door opened and the other, the deranged one,
run to the courtyard with his arms loose and his eyes were
focused on Übermensch with his tight lips as if He was
angry and the butterfly insisted to fly over His glorious
head creating a perfect halo.
I like those who give right to the future and sanctify
everything passed because they want it to die with
the present.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562906

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BGFRGLVH

George Seferis – Collected Poems

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Syngrou Avenue, 1930
To George Theotokas, who discovered it
When the smile that breathes beside you defeats you, tries to bow
and doesn’t consent
when the vertigo that remains from your travels among books
detaches from your mind to the pepper trees on the left
or the right
when you leave the petrified ship traveling toward the
seafloor with broken rigging
the archway with its golden décor
the columns with their meaning that narrows them
when you leave the deliberately carved bodies
for measuring and amassing riches
the soul that doesn’t match your own soul, no matter
what you do,
the toll you pay
that little feminine face in the cradle gleaming in the sun
when you let your heart and your thought become one
with the blackish river that stretches, stiffens and goes away:
Brake the thread of Ariande and voila!
The light-blue body of the mermaid.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B096TTS37J

Tasos Livaditis – Poems, Volume II

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Long Listed for the 2023 Griffin Poetry Awards

https://griffinpoetryprize.com/press/2023-longlist-announcement/

Then the great silence took control
and the sun started going down
amid the fiery sky in the west.
And the sky turned red. And the soil red like blood.
Nothing was heard on the whole earth.
And dark phalanxes started appearing
slowly-slowly coming down the slopes.
The war dead started appearing
from all the plains, the gorges, the mountains,
the roads.
They unfolded into black long lines as if
they were going to battle
and they proceeded dragging along their feet
and they staggered with their bodies leaning forward
as if they had walked for a long time
as if they felt tired of waiting for so long
and they marched and limped and they stirred slowly
at the far end of the world.
The earth quaked every so often then it cracked open
and a black-green hand poked out of the soil
and stretched its rotten fingers.
The dead stirred and stood up
and they stepped on the other dead and walked
and they dragged themselves on the earth
and grabbing onto the army coats of the others
they rose and joined the phalanxes making
millions of walking dead.
The horizons turned fiery red as if the world was on fire.
Dead men were coming from the trenches,
from subterranean stoas, holes,
they were coming from the mass graves dug in
the plains
where they buried them in haste as if they were shoveling
a pile of manure.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763564

Orange

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Loose Ends
All night long, sleepless,
you promised not to cry
to drive downtown
to the family lawyer
and tie up loose ends
suddenly, you sense his presence
so intensely in the car
on the driver’s seat
he used to call his kingdom
you feel as if sitting on top of him
his erection deep inside you
like when you saddled him
back then, in the secluded
Horseshoe Bay Park road and
you pull the car to the shoulder
rapid heartbeat overtakes you
a sweet elation runs through
your spine down to your torso
conspicuously moving
forward and backward

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763750

Water in the Wilderness

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excerpt

Rachael’s voice rose, and in spite of an inner resolve to appear brave, she began to tremble.
Ronald stood up. “I’ll take you part way until I know you’re safe. An’ after I leave you, if you see someone you know, ask them for a ride to my folks’ place.” Going to Bobby he lifted him from the chair onto his feet. “Okay, Bob old man, get on my back again.”
Rachael knew she had no choice but to follow them. Once they had made it around the house and back onto the street, she hurried to catch up. “I’m scared, Ronnie, I don’t want to go back. Uncle Bill will beat me.”
She saw her cousin grit his teeth. “No, he won’t. You tell them you just wanted to see your dad because it’s Christmas. He wouldn’t dare beat you for that; my mom won’t let him.”
Rachael wanted to believe him, but she was not so sure. She remembered what her uncle would have done to her that other time if Ronnie hadn’t been there to protect her and take the beating for her. Then, too, there was Lyssa.
They walked on in silence. Rachael had felt warmer after being in the shelter of the shed, but now her face began to sting again from the biting wind. She buried it in the sweater still wrapped around her doll. “Oh, Shirley,” she murmured, “I can’t take you back where Lyssa can hurt you again.”
When they reached the main street of town, Ronald stopped and lowered Bobby to the ground. “Okay, I’ve gotta go before someone sees me. But you keep goin.’ It’s not far now; you know the way. And, like I said, if you see someone, ask for a ride.”
Rachael didn’t answer. He looked at her keenly. “Look, kid, promise me you’ll go back. You can’t go to the farm, it’s too far. My mom’ll take care of you. Now, promise me, Rachael.”
She lowered her eyes and gazed at her snow-covered boots, realizing that her feet were numb with cold. What choice did she have, anyway?
“Promise me.”
Rachael looked up at him, her eyes brimming with tears. “I promise. But where will you go, Ronnie?”

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

Ken Kirkby, A Painter’s Quest for Canada

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excerpt

assion doesn’t come from this generation.”
“I was. I was raised in an ancient place by somewhat ancient people.”
“So, what do you propose I do?”
“I propose you find out whether I am telling you the truth.”
As he and Rocco left, Ken turned and said, “By the way, I think the gallery
should be called The Joseph D. Carrier Gallery.”
Carrier smiled. “Of course.”
Once work on the gallery began, Ken and Carrier met frequently. When
Carrier discovered that Ken’s paternal grandmother, Constanze Inocente,
was from Genoa, he declared that the connection made Ken Italian, and a
member of the community. With Carrier’s urging, Ken joined the Canadian
Italian Business and Professional Association, a dynamic and diverse
group that included doctors, lawyers, carpenters, and bricklayers.
As opening night of the Carrier Gallery approached, Ken suggested a
show of his Arctic paintings, on a massive scale.
“You haven’t sold any and you want to start off with a huge explosion?
Rocco asked. “What if it fails?”
“You’re sounding like my mother. What if…”
“I love the idea, but what a risk!”
“When you jump off a cliff, make sure you do it head first. Be honourable.
Do it big.”
What about the cost?” Rocco asked. “Who will pay for it?”
“All we have to do is commit to the vision and the rest will follow.”
Ken rented the warehouse next door to the framing factory, a space
large enough for his Arctic paintings. He painted the ceiling black, the
walls white, and the floor battleship gray. Then, he went to work on the
giant paintings. Rocco focused on the show. They needed a sponsor, Ken
said. The show had to be unique. Canadians didn’t care about the Arctic
so everything about it had to be special.
“If Canadians don’t care, why are we doing this?” Rocco asked.
“Because this story has to be told,” Ken said, explaining that the entire
saga had begun on a beach in Portugal. And that’s when it struck him –
Portugal would be their sponsor.
He wrote a letter to Dr. Antonio Tanger Correia, the Portuguese Consul
General.
Correia called. “Mr. Kirkby. As if you had to explain yourself! What a
delight to get your letter. We must have lunch!”
They met for a lunch that extended into dinner. Ken explained that he
wanted the invitations for the exhibition to come from the Portuguese
people, meaning the Consul General and the Portuguese Ambassador to
Canada. “I’m not asking for money,” he said. “I simply want you to issue
the invitations.”

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