JAZZY

COUNTLESS TWILIGHT

          It used to be, people would agree, that the undesirables, the roaches, the mice, and all the rats would come out after twilight.
          All the heinous crimes were committed in the hours after nightfall.
          That was then and this is now.
          Stabbings, shootings, rapes and abductions do not respect the boundary lines between twilight and daybreak. Innocents become victims on the 8 am trains, buying lunch at bodegas, sipping drinks at the 5-7 pm happy hours, walking home at 2 am after the graveyard shift.

        
          Detective, you say you are making swift and great progress. Do you mean in bringing my loved one back?

          How many twilight's must I count over these skyscrapers?

Ellen G.

April 2019

Sweet Prelude

As the Dogwoods, Magnolias, Tulips and Hyacinths burst to proclaim the arrival of Spring, displaced polka dots in shades of pink land like confetti under branches where winged mommies may choose to raise hatchlings.  Their clear, crisp symphony cheers or jeers the unclogged ears.  It’s the annual renaissance blooming and booming abundantly with new life.  Alas so brief this kaleidoscope!  A mere wisp of time but utterly sublime.  The moment the long-awaited lilacs in bloom exude their divine perfume, this prelude to Summer is already poised to conclude.

Men, women and children emerge to promenade provoked by fairer skies and warm, gentle winds.  Once again sidewalks teem with life.  The trickle of traipsing feet on tree-lines streets belong to many who seem unfazed by the beauty unfolding around them.  Behold the wonders of the world!  Harken to pure melodies dripping like sap from maples and oaks folks!  Don’t just walk single file and miss the mark of enjoying this.

Yvonne A.

Apr 2019

Letter to Montaigne

Château de Montaigne 
24230 Saint-Michel-de-Montaigne, France

To: Michel de Montaigne,

 Dear Sir,

               As I collect my thoughts and scribe them down on this paper I think of you and how you did just that so long ago on parchment.  Oft and again as I sit in my easy chair reading, your words resonate and I feel your presence as though you are here speaking to me.  Such is the power of the written word to transcend centuries.

               You were a sixteenth century nobleman, a regional French statesman and philosopher.  And you wrote of everything that that captured your imagination from: psychology to sobriety to antiquity and on and on where ever your mind meandered – and always your insights were fresh and clever.  Your era was one of both great turmoil and wonder – with a succession of wars, plagues and religious upheavals but you had great artists, emerging science and the exploration of the new world to inspire you.

               Speaking of the new world – your famous essay “Of Cannibals” about your meeting natives brought from the Americas to Europe is brilliant.  It reveals the depth of your curiosity and it is ahead of its time in your projected ideas.  I was riveted when reading it and so thankful that you had the inclination to preserve your thoughts.  Today you are regarded as the father of the essay and your writings are on the shelves of all great libraries.

              It may seem strange that I write this letter to you – as you have been in your grave for over four hundred years – but I feel compelled to thank you for the transcendental conversations that I have had with you.  Your wisdom has touched me and your curiosity has encouraged me to explore.  If I can hear your voice as I read your words then perhaps you can read my thoughts wherever the essence of your spirit may be.      

Sincerely,  
Michael

MK - Apr. 2019

The Rim of Morning

It has been a monotonous night and as I turn the corner, I see the silhouette of my house against the backdrop of dawn arising. With each slowly paced effort, my aged limbs feel laden down as if I were carrying a heavy weight upon my back.

Through the back door I enter, and somnolence takes over. I pause for a few breaths at the bottom of the staircase, relieved to be indoors. Over the sound of my panting, I hear birds chirping, relaying how ecstatic they are at the world, whilst inside me, rage is erupting triggering an overwhelming urge to go outside and silence them. Instead, I am steadfast, listening for any other movement at this unsociable time, but there are none.

Gazing up, I begin the task of climbing each of the steep steps to reach my final destination.  At last I have achieved the mountain’s peak, still weary but instantly unburdened as I sit again for a brief respite pleased at my achievement. I am as calm as the sea on a sun-blasted day.

Abruptly, my attention is raised to the sound of a door being scraped open followed by the creaking of it slowly closing. A few minutes pass, and I gingerly push it open again. I survey the best possible position to rest my fatigued frame and with a single jump, I can see the horizon of the bed clearly now. I sense some warmth coming from a dent in the middle and settle where it had been occupied.

 The quietness is interrupted by my “Feeder” approaching me with a smiling face indicating that she is pleased to see me, and she mumbles something that I do not care for. In response, I meow, unbeknownst to her that I am disgusted at the disruption. I yawn widely bearing my sharp teeth, lick my outstretched limbs, rub my nose and whiskers with my paws, curl up in a ball with my tail wrapped around me and fall into a deep and long-awaited sleep.

Jan M

April 2019