poetry from Eric Bonholtzer

Still Life


Its beauty is in its austerity
A room cool and vacant
One part indistinguishable
From the next

Flat ground marks a path
Around a circle meditation
Calm sought for
a room of light and beauty

Out a window that ocean
Of tranquil waves like thoughts
As I too watch
From that window, looking in

I can see myself
Through a frame of the mind
In this room as
my thoughts become clear

poetry from Eric Bonholtzer

A Dark Path Against a Barren Plain


The mountain stands like a man against the horizon of dark stars.
Dead space fills the barrens before it, the path wending
across the fruitless expanse, twisted switchbacks leading
upon senseless folding, an ever forward ageless progression.

There are no pilgrimages here, only pilgrims set against the storm torn sky
as they wend their way toward inexorable destination. Twisted thorn trees
clutter and clutch, tearing spirit, soul, body and garment alike.

Timeless lashes upon the backs of burdened beasts with their worldly possessions
Tightly gripped like crosses held to their chests, as the only choice
drives them forward. The watching moon has long since gone and come.

“When will we be there father?” It was an innocent question from impressionable eyes
watching a man who could only bend, a tear trickled through stubble.
A shake of the head and the boy fell silent. No one really knew.

But these were masses, the huddled tired streams of rags and tatters
torn, unmended threads tying them, not in unity but parts of a whole
Eyelets and minarets with their voyeuristic hypnotic gaze
Mesmerizing, entrancing and inviting even as they repelled.

“Will it be home again when we get there?”
The words fell upon unlistened air
No answer because he himself didn’t know
Dejected eyes shaded, saying only, “Onward we go.”

poetry from Eric Bonholtzer

Solace


The green grew around us
Like archways or caressing finger tips,
As hoof beats twined our own hearts as we trudged,
A road of many paths, directions an unnecessary nuisance
The beauty of being truly lost
Is that when you are found
All is as it should be, in these moments
Leaves, branching outward, onward.
This is the reward for taking the time to listen
To yourself and to others, in this hideaway
Of solace found in mind
The greatest sprits always within.

unabashed biased and subjective lists

these lists are offered in no particular order

SHORT STORIES


The Horla Guy De Maupassant

The Diary of a Madman Nikolai Gogol

Green Tea Sheridan Le Fanu

Carmilla Sheridan Le Fanu

poetry from Anselm Brocki

Solving

Instead of forever
looking for worthy
problems to solve
in order to become
breathlessly absorbed
living vibrantly for only
a few prized moments
because of so many
tedious, repetitive tasks
to perform, why,
in a more perfect
world, couldn’t
challenging problems
be on the breakfast
table neatly, discretely
like spoon, bowl, and
napkin each morning,
ready for my total
attention, puzzlement,
and startling crescendo
solutions?

--Anselm Brock

poetry from Anselm Brocki

Skirmish

“Don’t you dare
give me those old
rotten apples you’re
hiding behind there!”

That’s Louise, my
child mother, insulting
a swarthy, broken-English
fruit seller at Grand
Central Market in 1933,
She’s twenty-six,
I’m ten. He fills a paper
bag and grumbles back
in Middle European
from behind an artful
display mound of his
freshest fruit. Neither
of them thinks the
other quite human.

“We’ll wait till we get
home to wash these,”
she says loudly before
we leave. “No telling
where his hands
have been.”

I look at his smeared apron,
white cap bagging down
on both sides, dark
eyes, five o’clock shadow
and dirty fingernails but
can’t imagine yet what awful
things he has been doing
with his hands.

--Anselm Brocki

poetry from Michael Estabrook

Back in the Middle Ages

“Say, Doc? I grimace
as he yanks the stitches
out of my jagged red hernia scar
(though curiously it doesn’t hurt).
What happened
when someone had a hernia
and needed surgery like this
way back in the Middle Ages?”
He brushes
my incision carefully
with an alcohol wipe.
“They died,” he says
as he strides out of the room.


-- Michael Estabrook

poetry from Michael Estabrook

Looking Over His Shoulder

I saw a hawk
regal, strong, and proud,
invincible as Odysseus,
swoop down and land
in the tree out back, never
looking over his shoulder
to keep an eye out for death
or the tax man
or the latest physical ailment,
like the rest of us
seem to be doing
all the damn time.


-- Michael Estabrook

poetry by Micheal Estabrook

My Grandma Sadie

One of the survey questions
was to name a few
of the key influential people in my life.
I didn’t have to think about it long:
Shakespeare, Dante, Mozart
Whitman, Thoreau, and my Grandma Sadie
just noticed that none of them
are still alive, but that doesn’t
stop me from talking
to them regularly. Fortunately,
I suppose, my Grandma Sadie
is the only one who ever
feels impelled to talk back.

-- Michael Estabrook

Some questions for poets

How did you get started writing poetry?

Are you inspired by other poets, or do you take your “inspiration” from yourself?

How much revising/editing, if any, do you do?

What are your feelings on sharing your poetry with others?

Do you write for publication, or mainly for personal interest?



You can email your answers to . . . Fjm3eyes@aol.com

Call for Poetry

Part of what I want to do with Metaphorical Salad is to provide a showcase for poetry. The examples here hopefully represent a beginning. I would like a good sampling of prose poetry. If you would like to submit, please email me at Fjm3eyes@aol.com with your poetry or for information.

poetry from Lyn Lifshin

SOFT TISSUES


Eyeballs burst,
a spleen ruptured
by flying rubber.
Part of a skull
broken away by
something falling,
exposing a brain.
Limbs fractured
by falling walls, a
jugular vein slivered
by glass. Thousands
of grains of plaster
driven thru skin
reveal themselves
as a tell tale haze
on x ray





Lyn Lifshin

poetry from Lyn Lifshin

ONE FATHER HEARS HIS SON CALLING FOR A NEW TRUCK


his older one
happy about the
dollar from the
tooth fairy. ‘I
always hated to
leave her to go
to work.” Now
I hear them in the
ashes, they are
ashes. When I
think of flooring
the gas, my body
won’t m move





Lyn Lifshin

poetry from Lyn Lifshin

2 DAYS AFTER MOTHER’S DAY FIVE YEARS AGO

Maybe there could be
her soul floating over
the duck pond, laughing
at the geese as she does
still in the 8 millimeter
video, my sister’s hoarded,
kept as ransom for what
ever wasn’t in our lives.
Her smoke hair, licorice
and curly, astonished and
by ferreting out how much
this town house doesn’t.
She watches the dragon flies,
turquoise and sapphire,
but it’s the geese she floats
over waiting for me to come
back from ballet. Not having
a body is a relief she sighs
in my dream, no need to worry
about gaining or losing 50
lbs and if I wanted to smoke
she whispers I haven’t got
a mouth for that or for bad
mouthing any relative.
Better just be air, tho I can’t
hold my daughter who
never thought enough of
herself





Lyn Lifshin

poetry from Andy Christ

My Toenails

Battle-hardened soldiers, I cut you.
Your heads I throw in the trash.
Like a lizard, you grow back what you lost.
I know you. I will cut you again.










Andy Christ

poetry from Andy Christ

Philip and the Poet

Remember Sheherezade, the character
who had to tell stories or die? Well I’m not
Sheherezade. My loquaciousness
is not due to a horror story, although
my sister is a Stephen King fan.
This is my play time, and you, dear Reader,
are my imaginary friend. Where shall we go?
To my childhood? My teen years?
The Oval Office? Grocery store shelves?
I want to tell you about Philip. I saw
him almost every day when I worked
as a lifeguard. In the suburb of Cleveland
where we grew up, lots of kids would go
swimming at the public pools. Like anything else
that needs organization, the pools were fenced in.
Philip would run with his little nine-year-old legs,
bare feet over rough concrete, from the fence
to the deep end of the pool. I guess it was about
twelve feet. There goes Philip in my memory,
trotting toward the water, calling out
“To the Netherlands!” or maybe “To China!”
and, diligently holding his nose, he dives
into the nine feet of water. He stays close
to the pool’s edge, and he always tries
to touch the line at the bottom. Each time
he succeeds, he pauses at the surface
to attend to the pressure in his head.
Then he’s back out again, walking to the fence,
dripping unconsciously. Now and then
he says something to his imaginary friend.
How simple it is to be nine years old. All
those people around, all that sunshine, and
Philip prefers his imaginary friend and
imaginary trips around the world. And if he
got too far out, someone would jump in after
him. Now I’m a poet and we have
imaginary friends too (they’re called readers), and
we dive into our unconscious and come up
with something beautiful. Our imaginary friends
will go anywhere with us.



Andy Christ

poetry from Andy Christ

Open Invitation

Philippe Soupault, where are you now?
We need your humor. Are you still walking
the streets of Paris after the Great War,
the War to End All Wars, asking strangers
if they know where Philippe Soupault lives?
Is your friend Jacques Rigaut with you still,
and do you still go together to
dinner parties to which neither of you
were invited? I hope you will
bring your flowers and chocolates here, and
have supper with us.
Teach us how to smile when the door opens
and we are welcomed to a little feast
of strangers.




Andy Christ

more of Elliptical Shores

I have decided to post more of my story, Elliptical Shores, partly because I haven’t posted anything in awhile. I intend to make additional postings when I have additional material on the story.



Elliptical Shores



Opening


Yes, he thought he knew a Rebekah once. But was that years ago, or minutes ago? One thing he did know, here time did nothing but go by. Not fast, not slow, it just went by, with nothing to show that it was inherently meaningful, or anything out of the ordinary. But, She had her forever dream. The phrase haunted, and in this haunting he could take solace.


Section 2


The art of listening is not lost among any of the fine people living here. Indeed, to listen is to live in this place. Ah, but what, and in some cases who, do they listen to? For me, it is the night that speaks, and it is the night that awaits my answers. I try to give it justice, what it and I deserve. You see, it’s part of the game I play, the game that I’ve learned to play so well.

What amuses me is there are those who think I belong here. I am, of course, quite willing to let them believe that. I take my victories when I can, and I’ll tell you it is a pleasure to fool my captors. It is a consequence of my musings that I feel at home in this place – and quite interesting, really.


High Tides and Low Seas


It is now your turn to listen, for I do not wish to waste these words on those who would trivialize my intent, which is only to offer evidence of my frailties. In telling this, I hope to give you justification for your mission, and to give myself a few smiles. The irrelevancy of what you may think of me no doubt is upsetting to you, because you see your mission as a great one, but you see I don’t want you to suffer from any delusions. I get so tried of you wanting to understand me, to figure me out. Why do you persist so? If you will allow me, I might help you to find an answer. But you have to listen, and listen with care. That’s all that’s left for you.

poetry from Lyn Lifshin

LOVING THE NAMES OF THE CITIES YOU FALL THRU


Kuala Lampur.
Jakarta, Ho Chi
Min City, wildly
intriguing as
yours, with its
season nothing
season nothing

melts in. I think
how you write
of your friend
scattering his
mother’s ashes.
how probably
you didn’t even

have that when
your mother
leaped into
Niagara Falls.
Your “plans”
have changed”
you wrote two

years ago. They
keep changing
but I don’t think
now I’ll know





Lyn Lifshin

poetry from Lyn Lifshin

I THINK OF YOU WITH YOUR CAT AND INSULIN NEEDLES


that’s how I will scan
you under my hair
talking after the first
reading at Rosa del Sol
when I was still some
one you wanted, tried
to find me in San Antonio.
I’ll think of you scooping
your “guy” the stray up,
fussing over how he
guzzled water, was a little
` too fat. I won’t think of
the only time you kissed
me and I knew it was the
last. You, at the vet, all
day for the glucose panels
soothes. I know now I’ll
think of your cat still with
you probably longer than
most women. How you
measure his water, how
you found him near the
Golden Gate. I won’t think
of suicide there, a perfect
spot, as Niagara Falls was
for your mother. I like it that
you named him Question. I
have a lot of questions too.
I’ll think of you listening as
he talks and talks of her, of
course, in a questioning tone,
will imagine you stroking
his tail that bends and hooks
at the top into a question mark
and know like so much, I’ll
think about you too often,
he’s soot black





Lyn Lifshin

In a section I call authors of note, the list is admittedly subjective. I can’t help it, I’m predisposed! So, I will say a few words on my choices, but authors not on the list may creep in there, too. .Now, are you ready? Am I ready?

Vladamir Nabokov is becoming one of my favorite authors. Well, actually, he has been for awhile. He’s very easy to read, something I can appreciate. However, I enjoy challenging works, too. While I’m having trouble with Joyce’s Finnegan’s Wake, probably one of the reasons I haven’t picked it up lately, the book I am reading by Samuel Beckett is a pleasure. I’d say it is written in an unconventional style, but that could be an understatement. Its paragraphs, sometimes short but more often extended, the re-statement of sentences and what I think may be stream of consciousness style, are all what I like about the book. Plot, situation, and characters, recognizable objects that seem to be largely missing, are also I things I like.

Also challenging is Umberto Eco. In Island of the Day Before, I believe the island is metaphorical. Actually, I’m not sure about the entire book, which is a reason I’m having such a good time with it. The stories of Sheridan La Fanu and Edgar Allan Poe are great stories for the introduction, and maintaining, of suspense and horror. I recommend both.

Well, I didn’t cover all or the listed authors, but it’s a start. Right?

some authors of note

This list is according to me. I’d be interested in knowing some selections others.


Vladimir Nabokov

Umberto Eco

gabriel garcia marquez

Sheridan Le Fanu

Edgar Allen Poe

Nikolai Gogol

Fyodor Dostoevsky

Elliptical Shores

Tjis is a portion of one version of my story . . .


Elliptical Shores


Opening


The paths that led to its graves, narrow and winding, gave, for him, the cemetery its charm. As did the graves themselves – with their spare stone markers, some of which were decorated with ivy.

As he walked down one of those paths, the grave his eyes focused on brought happiness to his soul. The stone said simply,

Rebekah. She had her forever dream.

He knew someone named Rebekah once. Or thought he had.


Section One

She alighted from the carriage, and was greeted by an immediate sense of isolation. Rarified air, deep rooted and leafy trees, high but neat grass; this was why she had come here.

“It’s so beautiful here.”

“Yes,” the driver said. “Well, get back in, and I will take you the rest of the way.”

“Good,” she said, mounting the carriage. “How far?”

“Not very.”

It was more than a passing reflection , she did feel very good here. Within her sight was all that she wanted. It felt good to escape the limits of her village, so much more than she thought it would. Good to escape the often conveyed indifferences and the pettiness of its inhabitants. She felt uncomfortable with life in a community where privacy was little more than a word. The contradiction was that she did feel safe and cared for among so many who knew her.

Still, here was a place at once refreshing. Its naturalness assailed her, though she had not yet reached her destination. It was under such a spell that she again asked the driver, “How far?” and was exhilarated by his rewarding answer, “We will be upon it in moments.”

When she saw it, the shadow of the great asylum, predominant against the afternoon sky, she felt, beyond anything she thought she might have felt, her purpose, and so her soul, was shown her.

“I am,” the driver said, “as are we all, at your service.”

“Good,” she said, trying to sound as though she were not taken aback.

“Yes, it is. We’ll be served well.”

“We’ll see,” she said, forsaking further conversation for the present beauty that was hers to enjoy. Hyperbole threatened to visit her, even as the façade of the asylum, with the continued pace of the carriage, broke through the shadows. She could see its stature; such an asylum, she thought, should be imposing. For a curative atmosphere, and certainly cures were hoped for. While continuing to be impressed by the asylum’s austerity, she looked forward to be the one to offer such hope.

“We’re glad you’re with us, Miss Jenkins,” the driver said.

She smiled, but her focus on the asylum permitted no further conversation.


Standing before the asylum’s expanse, memories come easily. She was a child, and stories of lunacy were told, were believed, and were ignored. She was a girl of teenage years, her perceptions were framed and shaped by those around her. Stories of lunacy were no longer ignored but were woven into community gossip at times hurtful and cruel. She was a young woman of imagination and changing passion, stories of lunacy so much more now than the entertainments they had been. Now she was here, standing before the asylum, her freedom from perceptions formed by ignorance about to be realized. Here, she would no longer have to feel herself part of a citizenry whose care for “our unfortunates” was little more than a façade. Here, she could rejoice in letting such memories fade into the nothingness they deserved.

She regarded this as a good place, a place that ―

“Miss Jenkins.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, embarrassed because of her inattentiveness.

“It is impressive, isn’t it? I’ve only achieved part of my purpose.”

She smiled, a beautiful smile. What this place needs, he thought.

“I am to introduce you to our family,” he said. “I know you will be well received.”


Guided down the well lighted halls of the asylum, the colors of the walls pleasing, she felt the informality of our family most appropriate, and was happy to tell him so. All this was somewhat surprising. She read of asylums that were stark at best and not much more than warehouses for the ill at worst. This place was refreshing; she did not want to work in one of history’s relics.

“The souls who come to stay with us,” he said, “are all here because they want to be here. We have no problems.”

“No major problems, I believe you mean?”

“Yes, I suppose you might say that.”

Do I hear annoyance? She wondered. Good, it shows I’m talking with an honest man.

“We do have our little antagonisms, but it’s like I said. We’re family here.”

“Yes. The normal annoyances of family.” God, there was that beautiful smile.



The warmth of such a fine day was but one thing that invigorated her soul. Her resoluteness in coming to this place, her desire to better herself in a place where she could find purpose, was another, and one of far greater importance. The existence of such a place she found difficult to imagine, even now while she was looking at it. It was expansive, and austere, and what she thought she needed. She had a personable man to show her the asylum. She truly felt her life was on the up-turn.

She was most interested in seeing the asylum’s family, the reason why she was here, and the one member of that family who was to be her specific charge. She looked upon the challenge of such a singular thing with just enough apprehension to elicit questions. Why should she be given such a responsibility? Was she prepared for this? And, all apprehension aside, the answers were clear; her preparedness was not in question, it was the asylum’s faith in her that was worth everything.
She was meant to be here. Nothing else was to be said. Or thought of.


Proud to be accompanying such a lovely woman down these halls of her future employment, he felt a sense of the worth he was aware he possessed but lacking on so many past occasions. The reason for this, he had no doubt, was Miss Jenkins. Her enthusiasm was indeed needed in this place, but it was the decisiveness he had seen in her countenance, that he had heard in her voice, that made her presence here indispensable.

Her employment at the asylum would be challenging. The patient she was to be charged with was, he would have to say, enigmatic. A good word, perhaps the only one that did him justice.

“You provide a good tour,” she said.

“But not a complete one. That will wait for another time.”

“Really?” He couldn’t miss the sardonic quality of the pronouncement, a bit of charm he found highly agreeable.

“Until you familiarize yourself with some of our family.”

“With one in particular?”

“Yes. With the reading of his history. The history that we know of.”

“Or that he is willing to provide?”

“Yes, we think that’s probably right.”

Was this “family member” a manipulator? It seemed to her he was being described as such, and this struck her as especially attractive. That thought, attractive; a most interesting thought. One that bothered her. Just a little.

“My name’s Rebekah,” she said. “Miss Jenkins sounds so formal.”

“And formality doesn’t become you?”

“Not right now.”

“Does that extend to our family here?”

“I’d like it to. That might take some time.”

“Time. Yes, you’ll have all you want. I trust it won’t be too much.”

“It’s time I will appreciate.”

“Good. There’s much to know.”

She wanted nothing less than to immerse herself into the life of the asylum. To appreciate the trials of those living here. To prove to herself the worth she was certain she possessed. And, of equal importance to these two, to free herself from the sameness of the community she wanted little part of.

Those around her could never she her in a role such as this. Neither could she. Things have a way of changing, and so do fortunes; this was a reflection that she both desired and needed. She smiled, and she hoped her guide saw it.

“I think, Rebekah, we should see the director now,”

“That’s not you?”

“No, and I’m sorry.”

“So am I. I was feeling rather comfortable.”

“He wants to see you.

“Why? Doesn’t he know who he’s hired?

“He wants to see who he’s hired.”

“He will tell me what I need to know?”

“Perhaps more,” he said, taking her hand, to their mutual pleasure.


The Director, Rebekah thought upon her first introduction, was an amiable man. The importance of this, she could not dismiss. It meant she could work with him, not apart from him. His smile was warming, as warming as her guide, and she wondered is everyone in this asylum so friendly?

“Can I call you Rebekah?”

“Please.”

“Sit down. There are things I would like to tell you before you start with us.”

“Which will be?”

“As soon as we finish here.”

“No time to catch a breath?”

“I don’t believe you’ll want any.


Frank J. Mueller III