Trish Shields, CA

 

 

Free Verse   Zambezi Sunset   careful steps between stripes of tall grass and lanky tree black muzzle against tawny brawn and teeth silence like a gunshot and they're off puffs of dirt measure life lived in seconds as they round the track claws extend bracing legs lengthen stretched out cat leaps forward towards the prize and misses nothing left but clots of dust zebras congregate at the water hole tallying the day's score their raucous high-fives make the gnus giddy with hopeful abandon cut short moments later as a nile crocodile smiles her lunch close enough for takeout prideful lions lounge beneath acacias biding their time tonight's a different story     silent life   she skims over water thrumming the tension a tribal beat tempting denizens soaring for fleeting seconds bitter disappointment un-birthed with each flagging breath spying a mate at last calling him forth with iridescent beauty a life framed briefly caught on briny scales gone     Ustashe   sharing kaffa and Krostule served with Kajmak every day for decades so close yet so far apart similar human dehumanized humming beneath the skin cruising shmoozing the right time right place right topi crashing through barriers crushing all hope spewing pent up dissatisfaction revenge vented for crimes committed eons generations ago a part from Vokovar realities mainlined regardless singling out each victim riding a river of red down into a mosh pit slamming the truth home with each fist each butt stroke similarities wobble demarcations swivel echoes of a time past when jackboots ruled hands jutting towards heaven the scent of death intangible different Brcko now calm indifference a meager swell surface tremors minimal as bodies churn below the world turning a blind eye once more *Notes: Kaffa is Serbian coffee while Krostule is a Croatian pastry. A topi is a Muslim skull cap, similar to a yarmulke but it covers more of a man's head. Ustashe is a Serbian term that alludes to Croatia being Nazi sympathizers.     standing in the shadows   growing up in the shadow of a giant granite strong impervious to all wading into adulthood swaddled with young entrenched with long nights close calls frantic calls bad sad glad news men and women standing in the rain always rain gloomy sacrifice in foreign lands a red poppy given out by old veterans unknown warriors strangers in front of Wal-Mart standing in the shadows waiting to go in out of the rain with droplets falling I reach the entrance looking up my father's eyes found in every old man's face look back at me I remember the few stories he shared about the pain and fear the long nights lost fights close calls hoping his grandson won't ever have to 11-11-09 for my Dad     grasping at straws   we sit and chat her hand flits as she talks about her child the trip they took across Canada her husband is across the room staring out the window my eyes drag back to her hands they fly to her purse he looks out from the photo so small and perfect his smile lighting his eyes her fingers move across touching her son's photo tapping the table between sighs tic tock goes the clock reaching for my bag sharing photos of my child we partake of glances while food on plates is untouched tissues piled nearby never quite stemming the flow I feel like laundry on the line matching the hospital's drab colour she goes upstairs when she's called he stays behind unable to grasp what the doctors have said what she has tried to tell him preferring the cold silence encasing his son in soft denial I wait for my daughter's turn fingering her photo her soft fragile pale skin we are so far from home a province away disconnected to everything but she and I our bond holding me cradling me in a safe cocoon the silence beckoning my hands flit like small birds as I speak to someone nearby soon I'll share her photo pushing the darkness away if only for a moment a memory pulling my lips up quickening my heartbeat pitter patter let's get at her the sooner the surgeon the faster the fate     bowered   my chest recessed with concrete vessels shrill with tepid tea eyes choked shut with raw yearning the scent of green calls to me 'til I'm awash with silence waves of discord won't let me be within each vine is promise embraced beneath the canopy sunrise paints her cheekbones and mouth visions of childhood caught on digital canvas the horizon between us     red letter   muscles tense hot raspy breath spiking my heart rate I catch a brief glimpse then it's gone jogging to a better vantage point...eyes darting just above the trees I see it my trigger finger twitching steam exhalation blotting out my vision waiting a trickle of sweat turning cold in the March air a wraith in the stillness fog swaddles brain rising with my temper one clear shot repositioning rechecking fumbling as I drop two more into the barrels ochre hazard light slips by missing the shot stills my robin-pecked heart spring moon eluding me once more Pawia* red poppies beyond the barbed wire *Pawiak prison is on Pawia Street. All incarcerated Poles were deported to Buchenwald or Stuthoff concentration camps.     waking dreams   sunlight peeks through dancing upon silver ribbons making patterns of light against tall brick and soot turning grey to blue pajamas with games of hide-and-seek while men with sticks beat and prod vermin from the yard a bit of green growing where nothing but winter holds fast tears from heaven turning dust to mire to pits where seeds lie dormant poked and prodded by a whisper etched on the wind     Christmas Garland   lights flickered as snow kept falling rising to the dizzy height once endured in NB visions of winter's maw assaulted my senses: cars engulfed, an arial poking through, humming for help highways reduced to one lane old ruts and high spots stranding everything having the temerity to venture outside white-tide white out sitting around the Coleman our moth-eyes caught pinning the dark at bay unwilling to challenge ice and cinderblock snow ribbons of green thatch between pregnant clouds/ banks of puffed white rice falling squalling brawling the New Year mewling with cooling temps and attitude my parents huddled beneath sweatshirts their golf clubs forgotten wishing for the parkas back home in Red Deer wishing for the rain they thought awaited them sneering at the coast's boast 'sure we get lots of precipitation, but we don't have to shovel it' rain comes sideways again chased by the wind reducing growlers to green bringing on the anticipated !pop! of daffodils slumbering just beneath the fringe of spring