This is what Lewis and Clark saw on their 1804 cross-continent expedition.
GIANT FOOD COURT WRITERS
We are the Giant Food Court Writers
Make up's generally serious
But, happily, occasionally, rowdy, too
Using the mart's aisles
Getting 'good for you' eats
Chowing down on great tasting
Coffee shops' goodies
Sharing and receiving great feed back
it's something we do
On the first and fifteenth of every month
Come and join us, please.
- Carly Brown
decaf
gingerbread latte
topped with a mountain-cap of whip
holds
the promised comfort of an overstuffed chair
Ready to settle in and savor my empty caloric splurge
I lift the plastic lid
and then
like a child that Santa forgot
I stare
at the vacant spot where the cream should be -
confection melted by the spicy steam.
Disappointment spurs my self-initiative!
CONFIDENTLY I stride in the direction of my goal.
"My whip cream has all melted, may I have more?" I ask.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained
YUM!
With a soft ‘whish’ the cocoon split open and wet wings, sodden with birth moisture, eased their way down, followed by bent legs, thin body and hair’s breadth antennae.
Hanging by a thread, she shook her head, confused by the noise and light, frightened by the sudden change. Her cocoon had been a fluid, comfortable world of muffled, soft tones, dark, a warm place to sleep, to drift, to feel the pulsing movement that rolled languidly up and down her body.
Awareness came slowly, the dawning of ‘knowing’. She had gone into seclusion a caterpillar, which was all she expected fro life, until instinct caused her to weave a womb and sleep for reasons she did not know. And now, on this Spring day, she knew. Not her name, but her purpose. How she knew? It came to her in age old knowledge, the heritage of millennium.
Almost of their own volition, the butterfly’s wings opened. “Oh!” she gasped. “How beautiful!” And with the same instinct that had seen her through her transition, she lifted off from the branch, leaving the brown cocoon behind. She thought she ought to feel nostalgic about the loss but she didn’t. A new life beckoned, with all it’s possibilities, sending her off without a backward glance.
*
Although there was no wind to speak of, the tree vibrated rhythmically. At first, Butterfly thought the tree must have been groaning with the stresses of life as a tree. But as she approached, with trepidation, she saw the most magical sight - It wasn’t the tree that hummed and moved, it was the excited flutter of a thousand wings, just like hers, speaking the language that only the winged creatures knew. She alighted next to a grouping of large, orange butterflies in the highest branches.
Their apparent leader looked down on the newcomer and asked, in haughty tone, “And who are you and where do you come from?”
Little Butterfly put her mind to thinking. “Well, who are you? I seem to look like you and if I know who you are, I’ll know who I am. As for where I come from,” she pointed an antennae. “I come from over there.”
The rabble laughed. “You think you look like us? We are called Monarch! We are the queens of our world. You most certainly are not one of us.”
“Then I don’t know who I am.” and a teardrop the size of a butterfly’s breath fell from her eye, dropping lightly on the branch below.
With that, an enormous creature covered the ambient light with her slowly beating wings. She lighted gently for one her size down beside the little butterfly. "Welcome, my small friend, to our colony."
"Wh..who are you?"
"I am called Queen Alexandra Birdsong and if these Monarch's claim to be the queens, I suppose that makes me the Empress!" Little Butterfly felt instantly better as her protector gathered her into those cavernous wings.
"As for who you are, little one, we've all seen flights come and seen them go, seen them flutter in the summer breeze and journey off on their trails south. You, my dear are called Painted Lady."
Little Butterfly couldn't help but smile. "Painted Lady! That has a beautiful sound to it!"
"And a beautiful look as well."
***
Martha also presented another short story, continuing with her modern-day Biblical tales, this time about Judith, a Jewish woman who, pretending to be a prostitute, visits the Assyrian king, and when he falls into a drunken sleeep, beheads him.
In her story, "Joanna," a rebellious young Amish woman, is faced with the contradictions of living with a religion she loves, while wondering what goes on in the forbidden world outside.
Judith with the Head of Holophernes, by Cristofano Allori, 1613 (Royal Collection, London)
Ever since I heard about the robbery at the TD Bank in Hatboro, I wanted to write a story about a robbery. My story is called "Intruder on Main Street."
Also knew that if I didn't write any poems for today, it would be two more weeks before I'd birth any.
WHERE THEY ONCE TROD
What’s in a backyard?
birds keep me company
swoop low overhead
as I pour the eggshells
and lemon rinds
the cucumber peels and
green bean tips
into the compost heap
beneath the hot June sky
Half a century ago a
family lived here
with an underground
swimming pool
perhaps he had fought
in the Good War
and took the train to
town where he had a
job as an advertising salesman
This land was always occupied
if not by Europeans who
sailed in marvelous vessels
and watched the curling gray
waves of the Atlantic
- is that a whale on the horizon? -
before their final destination
Willow Grove Pennsylvania
I like to think the
long-haired Lenape
lived in my back yard
where my bird bath is now
and the last of the silver maples
They sat around a bonfire
cross-legged
a man and a woman
he roasted a piece of venison
from an antlered deer
and gave it to his woman
who ate with dainty hands
then ran her fingers through
the soft grasses that
cushioned her body
and patted her swollen belly.
WHEN YOU WERE MINE
to a dear friend I met while working at Art Matters
We would visit in the kitchen
you’d chase out your husband
and banish him to the back burner
he never took you seriously
Which coffee cup do you want?
I’d choose the clear glass with
the delicate handle
and you’d pour out the
El Pico or Martinson
I’d watch the steam rising
and look at your thinning
white hair and the empty place
your breast used to be
Davy Eyre pancakes were
rising in the oven
you served them on the fine china
with iris-blue edges that
pretended to be a pie pan
I absconded with as many dishes
towels and kitchenware from
Bloomingdale's you allowed me
after you were committed for
helplessness to the old ladies'
home where you gave up on your
life as an artist and writer.
I rent my garments and wear
the black cloth of death
on my arm
At the dining room table by the
tall rack of African violets you cleaned with
Q-tips when you were senseless
with depression
we examined each others’ works.
You wrote a column in Art Matters
and I besieged you to shorten it:
you don’t have to name every last artist
in the exhibition, I said.
You insisted.
A woman who always got her own way.
Has it been two years of confinement?
Though I visited you, I can only remember you
in your house on the cul-de-sac
and the back yard arbor where your
youngest Matt
got married
a man with chubby arms and legs
from a disease that nearly killed him
Cancer got him instead.
I send you postcards of places I go
While you rot away in your two-bedroom pad
visited by those who would cheer you
but to me you say,
it’s horrible
horrible
you don’t understand.
What should I wish for?
That you should live as long
as your 98-year-old mother?
Or that you end your misery
while dreaming of
the soft buttery taste of
the Davy Eyre pancake.
Jennifer, the presenter, said it rains every 3 to 4 days in these parts. We all live in a watershed, a low point where the rain collects and then runs off into creeks which empty into the Delaware and finally the Atlantic Ocean.
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