My lady by Connor Deeks

My lady by Connor Deeks

“Lady, I think it’s time to be going.”

Betwixt lady-in-waiting and butler,

Stands lord Richard the third and lady Jane.

Lady Jane how I have doted on thee,

Your every wish, tallt above your servant.

I wither here, beaten by the sea’s wind,

My eyes stricken red as my lady’s dress,

By the sand kicked up midst the coming rain.

“Do you not know how childish you appear?”

Spinning shoeless, seeking sweetness from him,

A retched lord from the Archfield estate,

Stupid boy whom I slayed in math lesson,

Until the ripe age of twelve and one half,

When your father, lord of our vast estate,

Plucked me from a life of learning to work,

Nay to slave over your whimsical ways.

“Lady, my umbrella is about to snap.”

It is so windy out here, my lady,

This sand so wet I’ll be scrubbing these shoes

For hours and soaping that dress for weeks.

Or maybe I’ll put a match to it now,

A mere strike of phosphorus and it’s gone.

“That gown was for the ball my lady.”

Why do you insist on your whimsical ways?

Your father will be outraged, blamed on me

Most likely for not reporting to him

Like an indentured servant would years ago.

“My apron is ruined, my leggings torn,”

I can’t afford a new one, my lady

My outfit barely clinging together,

What am I going to do, my lady?

The weather has become grim, let us leave.

“Did you not hear me my lady? Miss Jane?”

My how I wish this storm would ravage me,

Take me from this endless servitude.

La Grande Jatte on a 'Saturday' By Alyssa Abell

 Long hair swings in the salty summer air,

Blonde, it glitters and glows in golden waves.

Sparkling, crisp blue of the Seine is her

favorite, wrapped by humid saline breeze,

The sky, infinite and flawless bright blue.

La Grande Jatte is her perfect Saturday,

with mama, and big sister Angelique.

A picnic of brie and grapes and French bread.

They would drink wine while she drank juice or milk.

After lunch time was the hardest for her,

nearly swimming time but, oh, the long wait.

You must be patient, mama said, dear child.

But mama it is so very hot now,

Red dress clinging with sweat and annoyance.

You must wait, Madeliene, or you will drown.

The half hour felt like days or weeks.

Then the words she hoped for came like angels,

It is time to go swimming, Madeliene.

She hopped about, she danced with pure joy,

the man’s trumpet, loud, matched her excitement

 Come mama, come Angelique she squealed.

Ripping off her bests to proudly show off

Her new, blue suit from the shops in Paris.

Bought with the money Papa had sent her.

She runs, splashing into the crisp water’s

 Relief, burying her head beneath the

 shallow waves that lapped at Mama’s hot legs,

Madeliene blew bubbles, laughing with

Angelique, they sat burying their toes.

This was Madeliene’s perfect Saturday.

Big Things (Character Sketch) Levi Kyllo

I am sailing down the river, windward
When my thoughts go array, every which way.
Turning my head to see the shore, I gasp
At the sight of how far I've come today.

My father and mother are beaming with
Pride. I smile, thinking back to older times.
When the shore was still fresh and the glory
New, people looked up to me. Kinda cool.

I saved litte ones from dark-dreaded foes
And fought of unwanted guests during the night.
A great knight of the sea, some might call me
'Cause back where I'm from, I am a big deal.

The broadest of shoulders a man can get,
I stand six feet tall, my ego taller.
The life of a sailor ain't so easy,
Day and night, rudders and water and strife.

I like to remember when I was a
Young lad, my father teaching me to sail
In the warm waters of the sea, next to
France, called the Mediterranean Sea.

Showing off our wealth was a normal thing,
Everybody else was doing the same!
No one looked down on me. I was happy.
When I got to the States, everything changed.

People didn't have a ton of money
To spend on a brand new Catamaran.
I adapted to this new place, barely.
I grew up. Thought I was better than them.

Taught to be proud, I still look down on them
For not having the same boat that I have.

Man in the Hat by Corynn Bernhardt

Man in the Hat by Corynn Bernhardt

Exhausted, I find myself in the grass,

Elbows sink into the mud below

My shoulders. The weight of my heavy chest

Makes them push back and sink deeper. Who cares?

Ive had a long, hard day at work. This is

The only free time I get away from

The place that makes my face dark and chalky,

The place where hammers and fellows fall hard,

The place where no light besides lanterns loom.

Even at home, I cant escape the noise.

The banging of the hammer, the clashing

Of the dish of the young boy with my wife.

Growing still, he’s learning to walk, but I

Don’t have the energy to go home and

Hold his hand or catch his fall. I’m too tired,

I’m too worn. Even his little smile

Cheer me up. So I’ll sit here,

And think of his face, his chubby cheeks, round

Like the saucers on the dinner table,

My wife washes them diligently, soft,

With so much care and concern it takes me

Back to the days when she did that for me.

Cleaning the saucers from dinner and my

She cared back then, too. So did I, once.

But that was a long time ago, too long.

Now even my work pants go days unstitched.

And the sun touches me more than she does,

Swallowing my face and my shoulders, grasping

Desperately to get one more touch. Not her.

Not us. That was a long time ago when

My bones where stronger, my muscles more toned,

And I didn’t have to come sink in the

Grass to feel any relief from this life. 

Character in the Painting by Kody Cayson

I haven’t seen him around town lately.

The years have been good to him, very good.

The limp from war past is almost gone,

Still amazed he made it home, thought he died.

Life could be so different if only.

If only I waited, he made it back.  

How could he fall for her though, she is so

Odd. She lacks in thought, but excels in symmetry.

What is she doing! Wearing black on such

A sultry day! And who has a monkey,

And keeps it on a leash! Preposterous!

Oh Mr. Jones, I bet you’re jealous now.

I wonder if he still wants me, does he?

I wonder, does he even see me here…?

Oh, Mr. Jones please just look at me…

You lucky girl, I wish that could be me.

What am I saying! He is just a man,

Like any other, there’s more fret about.

Like Bella, who’s father left before she

Was born. Not his fault, he couldn’t have known.

Required to marry, pregnant and all.

“Tarnish the family image”, said father,

He never was too fond of Jasper Jones,

Arranged marriage to the duke, most girls dream.

But not mine. A secret only two know,

Between broken daughter and stern father.

Bella tugs my dress asking for her dad,

If she knew how close he really is.  

“Time to go home”, but Bella starts to wine.

“Just a few more minutes then, now go play”. 

Second Image/Poem - Philip Pompetti

On the Dock
by Philip Pompetti

A small flag beats uselessly against the

wind. Boards move like slippery fish beneath

his wet and sodden feet. He is alone

in this gray, bleak dockside path to nowhere.

Cold, stiff hands now stuffed in colder pockets.

Perhaps he is reminded of a time

when the path taken was not quite as

important as the act of getting there.

Perhaps he is reminded of a

summer job on a summer ship, fishing

for the bounty of the sea and the

answers to the questions of the heart.

Or better yet, maybe it is a walk

along the dock to remind him of home.

No, even better still, it is a walk

to forget about the familiar

troubles of home. Forget or remember,

in this moment, it is the boards beneath

his feet, the salty wind in his face, the

solitude of a walk at dawn that will 

sustain. Sustain like the final note to

a ballad once heard. There is no place like a

dock at seaside, no place where you can walk

among the different worlds of life.

There is a freeing feeling to be felt,

seeing the great flyers of the sky,

the walkers of the land, and the swimmers

of the sea all within an arms reach.

And yet their freedom is pure compared to

the fetters we put ourselves in.

Cold, stiff hands now stuffed in colder pockets.

The Duke by Chad Lahr

The Duke

Here, he sat and pondered like before.

Every Sunday watching the boats row by

on a placid sheet of glass, his favorite.

Each time the same, while each time quite different.

Dressed in his suited Sunday best,

though he never minded sitting in grass,

The Duke of Yorkshire pulls on his mustache

and considers how he got to Paris.

As a child back home, he dreamt of this life

Yet yearns for Yorkshire pudding, secretly.

The murmur of the bustle behind fades

as he pays no mind, eyes locked on ripples.

The Duke adjusts his town-weight silk top hat

and rests his chin upon his cane, content.

Smoke from the left drifts by and takes him back

to his late father and his pipe, in York.

He breathes in and lets out the longest sigh,

Longing for his own clay pipe at this point.

“I came to study art, to find myself.”

He thinks, eyes locked on the oars and the sails.

“I should acquire a boat, it’s not too late.”

The bachelor ponders his seaworthiness.

The rest of the crowd seems staunch and uncaring

of the colors, smells, and sounds that The Duke

was so drawn to this place by, years ago.

Waves of nostalgia blend with new senses

and for a moment, the island is new.

He will return here, same time next Sunday

and most likely have the same thoughts again.

This is his peace, this is his choice. Paris.