Month: November 2025

Small Change

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excerpt

Whenever she wanted someone to erase the board, or recite a poem,
or empty the stupid wastepaper basket, or answer her latest booby trap
question, guess who got called? Not Zaccardi, the second smartest boy in
the class, not Cercchio or even Balestieri, but me, Amabile. (Anadora and
Astibianni were so dopey she gave up on them after the first few days).
So I began to have trouble with my eyes. I couldn’t read her tight
little chalk scrawl. The letters in the Italian reader made my eyes itch and
then go swimming off the page into the inkwell. Of course, I had looked up
this eye business in volume five of The Home Library of Health Knowledge,
and I practised a lot, squinting at myself in the mirror and stumbling
over the excerpts we had to read out loud to correct the vulgarities of the
Napolitano dialect in our pronunzia. Blackie caught my drift, but was not
impressed. When I asked to be moved to the middle of the room beside
Rita McCrae, her thick lips curled into a sneer. She informed me that my
debility was a spiritual asset. I must offer my discomfort up to be duly
noted in the heavenly account book beside my name, and be thankful that
I had been given this opportunity to experience the mortification of the
flesh. It would help, she assured me, to correct the sinful smirk I got on my
ratty little face whenever I asked her something she didn’t know. “Pride,”
she said, wagging her fat forefinger. “It’s one of the Seven Deadlies,
and don’t you forget it.” I nodded, trying to make the serious mouth I’d
seen that actor use on the late movie when he did that scene where the
President of the United States gets a phone call telling him about Pearl
Harbor. Blackie ignored it. And before I could beg and plead and reason
about the empty desk next to Rita McCrae, she went back to her boring
and very wordy attempt to explain page one of the Baltimore Catechism.
Even though I had not achieved my ultimate objective, I was not
discouraged. She was convinced, at least, that my eyes were bad. I had
made some headway and I had a well wrought plan, but I knew I had to
proceed with caution. Behind her puritan facade there lurked a spiteful
and unprincipled child. During the first week of December, Balestieri
had given her trouble, asking the smart ass questions he was famous for.
Blackie’s eyes narrowed and her mouth squirmed. She gave him one of her
lectures on pride and we thought that was the end of it, but during recess
one of the kids she’d kept in for detention saw her pour the filthy water

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763157

Wheat Ears

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Athena
Athena smiled at me when I observed
that everything fit in its position
nothing jutted out of place
in all the sandy corners of the earth
but the palm tree beseeching
its skyward direction when
early in life I learned
of my secret love: sea
dark blue and merciless
inviting and ardent punisher
of sins told and sanctified
when the goddess chose
to make a marble cenotaph
and to erect my statue which
would speak of greatness
true demagogue that I was
with a vague smile
upon my face
she then placed a wilted daffodil
and a fiery red carnation
over my heart
it was a sad day when
I drank water to become diaphanous
before I vanished into the sea’s
deep blue embrace

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BKHW4B4S

Yannis Ritsos – Poems, Volume IV

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Hermaea II
Perhaps because they indicated distances and rested
the passersby and perhaps for other reasons which were
forgotten through the years, Hellenes felt true reverence
for Hermaea, especially the common people and the young
boys and girls —
who during their evening stroll in
the summer, would stop in the road for some time and
look at the piles, to which they dedicated fruits,
sweets and small animals (birds or rabbits), they also
crowned their well-groomed heads with branches
and wreaths made of flowers, since they, with their pure
instinct felt something beyond reverence;
in fact, during
the festivals, as a sign of their high respect, they touched
their lips or phalluses (which they always firmly supported
to look erected) thus drawing strength for the days when,
irreversibly, the festivities would end.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0F9X3VPN4

Jazz With Ella

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excerpt

and pedal off. As soon as Tanya strolled in the other direction, Paul and Vera emerged from the bushes.
“We must go in and see.” Vera dragged him to the rickety building.
“We don’t need to,” he demurred.
“You think I am a spy, but it is good to have this information. It is good to know about our government officials. It can help us.”
“And I thought you would be a good communist,” said Paul.
She stopped in the path and stared at him. “But I am being a good communist. I am.”
She darted away into the boathouse and Paul followed to find her casting about widely at this love nest as if she would find something incriminating that she could take away.
★
The home of Fyodor Shukshin was set half a mile down a winding dirt path that branched off the main regional road. It was a dark, old, wooden house with some remnants of the original gingerbread still clinging to the eaves, though it had long needed paint and repair. At the gate stood a cement well covered with a sloping roof and this had been kept in trim condition. The front yard was a small patch of dirt with signs of thorough grazing by chickens now gone to roost. Although the light was waning, Paul could see that the surrounding fields were covered in growth: beet greens and carrot tops showed on one side, bright green potato plants on the other. They entered the house through a groaning, battered door and Vera greeted her father.
Vera’s sudden return to the farm even with a stranger in tow bothered Fyodor Shukshin not one bit. Apparently she was in the habit of dropping in at home at any opportunity in her work schedule.
“So it’s you,” he snorted. “Come from across the Volga.”
“Some day I’ll go much farther away than Toglyatti,” she said, smiling at her father fondly, then turning to Paul. “Meanwhile, I like to visit here.”
Her father returned the smile a bit cynically. “Of course, when you can get fresh vegetables here—and sell them for a profit—why wouldn’t you like to visit your old father?”
She grinned, searched through the cupboards and served pickles in a bowl accompanied by slices of heavy black bread. At first Vera’s father appeared delighted to meet the foreigner.

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

Savages and Beasts

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excerpt

Yet the evil pouring out
of that entry shook him up as if a powerful tempest unlocks a
house off its foundations, such was the thunderous burden put on
his mind to comprehend the atrocity the details of which he read.
“Why, father? Why a man would end up doing these evil
things?” Anton asked.
“Most of these behaviours relate to the man’s psycho-spiritual
essence or level of human’s advancement but in this particular
case it all flows out of what these people who run the Residential
Schools believe, on what philosophical basis they have been
brought up, what values they have been taught in their schools,
and believe me, in the era we live in this country, the Anglos, still
live with the colonial era mentality. They still consider themselves
occupiers rather than co-existent people next to other
people they see themselves as the archon class and everyone else
down under them. That’s where all this misery springs from.”
“Dad, how could that be possible, we live in the 20ieth
century, this is an advanced country, this is not Africa,” Anton
resisted his dad’s negativity.
“Yes, son, it is true this is Canada, yet think of it seriously,
how did these evil things could ever occur? Where would their
origin be but in the colonial era mentality of the people? Because
when we supress we follow in the steps of tyrants who declare in
speech after speech their desire to bestow freedom to all and to
work for the betterment of people’s lives whereas they indulge
in self-deception and monologues which have themselves as the
only audience, satisfying themselves and their ideologies, whereas
when we reject suppressing others and accept others the way they
are we transcend deception and become true societal citizens.”
Anton said nothing. He felt his father was right. He felt
it in his heart and he only hoped that one day things might get

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763602

Übermensch

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Unusual
Something unusual would always happen when we met
an old friend who we hadn’t seen for a while. He’d shake
our hand and ask of our well-being as it was something
important and we tried to hide behind unspoken words,
relating our loneliness, news we always kept to ourselves.
After all what could one say to an old friend to make him
feel concerned? Our everyday things, our routine, the job,
the wages never which were never enough for the necessities
and always the traitor behind the shadow the door? For
this we always cried behind the wall or alone under
the bed-sheets unless we could hear the sparrows, our
forever hungry friends.
I like those who prefer a few virtues. One is better
than two when one has more means to uphold destiny.

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

Arrows

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excerpt

She was scrutinizing me as though willing herself to see
my soul.
Her hand came up to my cheek, and her thumb followed the line of
my cheekbone. An insurrection was taking place inside me. I wanted to
be close to her. Closer. My hands hurt with desire to touch her. My
breathing became jerky, and I felt myself grow hard in the way I knew I
must not, and the urge to satiate that hunger was ruining my
judgment. She said something, but I could only admire the fascinating
movements of her mouth—a ripe fruit, sweet and yielding.
Thank God she buried her face in my neck, though her breath,
warm on my skin, only added to the mayhem inside me, for it gave
me the time I needed to rally my wits about me. I pushed her softly
away. “Noli me tangere,” I breathed in Latin. Do not touch me. Her
big, dark pupils looked up at me, searching my face. I swallowed
awkwardly, conscious of the movement of my throat. “Chi’ka,” No, I
added in Carib. But it came out more like a strangled plea.
She knelt back, her hand on my thigh. I pushed it off, noticing as I
did the stake lifting my frock obscenely. She saw it, too. I pushed my
knees up, giving my privates the only touch and pressure they
would get. I breathed deeply, swaying softly back and forth.
Thoughts of Jesus on the Cross, at Calvary, flooded my mind,
slowing my heart.
Apacuana left me, a bit confused, I dare say, by my pushing her
away as I did. She fumbled for a long time at the entrance, building
some sort of barrier. I found it a sweet demonstration of her care for
me, but then began to worry she might have a more solid reason for
taking such precautions. I was left with a small fire burning and
enough kindling within reach to feed it.
I slept like the dead but woke up suddenly, certain I had heard
something. I tossed a handful of twigs into the glowing embers and,
moving gingerly, poked the fire until a timid flame revived. I
listened with expectation. Had I dreamed it? No, there it was again,
as if someone were shuffling at the entrance. My spirits lifted at the
thought of Apacuana’s return. But why not come in? I called to her.
Was it perhaps a beast instead?

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073522

Poodie James

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excerpt

The chief reminded himself to be charitable
tonight and think of the A-rabs’ good works for crippled and burned
children when the Shriners and their bottle-fed mischief overflowed
from the hotels into the street. A mass of purple, white and brass, the
high school band and drill team crossed the intersection and the band
broke into “I’ll Be With You In Apple Blossom Time.” The drum
major blew his whistle, strutted and kicked toward the sky. Thirty
batons twirled high and back into the hands of the girls, whose smiles
had yet to reach the pasted-on stage. The parade was off to a good
start, Spanger thought as he watched two youngsters sitting on the
curb wide-eyed and laughing, gripping their popsicles. The first float,
a confection of white, pink and green, bore the festival queen and
princesses in their satin gowns. Princess Marcie Welch, her tiara a
double band of apple blossoms, waved to the crowd. When she saw
Poodie standing beside his wagon, she blew him a kiss. Grinning
broadly, he waved back. Well, Spanger thought, the kids in town do
seem to love that strange little man.
On the side of the blue Packard convertible that followed the
queen’s float, signs with block letters a foot high proclaimed
“Mayor and Mrs. Pete Torgerson.” The mayor perched atop the
backrest of the back seat, turning toward one side of the street then
the other, moving his arm in the way Spanger had seen in the
newsreels when the Pope blessed crowds in St. Peter’s Square.
Sue-Anne Torgerson now and then glanced at the onlookers and
lifted her hand, her head just visible above the side of the convertible.
Torgerson waved the chief to the side of the car.
“Did you see that?” he shouted over the band.
“What, Pete?”
“Poodie James, that’s what.”
Poodie had waved and smiled at the mayor’s car as it went by.
That smile, Torgerson thought, that mocking smile. Sure as hell,
he knows. He remembers.
“He’s watching the parade,” Spanger said, striding alongside the
car. Even with Torgerson sitting on the backrest, the chief’s head
was nearly level with the mayor’s.

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

Impulses

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Flowerpot
A dried up flowerpot
gardenia hungers for moist
table cloth ripped by time
trickling slow creek
its menace to the four white walls
but how to still feelings
undulating penance and relief
when the cicadas a continuum
and the breeze not falter?
Aroma of freshly baked bread
conquers every inch of space
hungry gardenia
hovering dust
no remorse worry but for
poetic eloquence

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073565

Entropy

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Indeterminable
Each morning, he would open the window
and sing
to the architecture of uncertainty
dismembered memories of love
that resided in the words
in the sound of a voice that wasn’t heard
he would look beyond time
on the shore
the dream of God always slept
the heart is a library of discarded poems
that never disembarked
the moon flutters inside the myth
he sees further from the forests
the pregnant enigma
who knows whether the world will exist tomorrow
our belongings are reflections
of whom we fell in love with
the one who felt the echo of lust
memory is thin to remember
the shine that each hide
in old pictures
C’est un long chemin
pour la jaunesse des choses
the words shepherds
hideaway of things
they know
nothing belongs to them
they unfurl the sails
before they sink
in the faraway friendliness
The sky is a porter of souls
it remembers
time sows and reaps
immortality

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