The Fragrance of Chinese Tea

High wind howling out of the window

Meditative Chinese classical Guqin music

Simple tiny aging clay tea pot

Polished bamboo utensils

Special Porcelain pouring pitcher

Tiny Porcelain pairs of aroma cups and drinking cups

Spring water from the mountain

And tins of a variety of tea leaves 

From green to deeply roasted

All set on a low rectangular wooden table

The tea master, humbly settles into a Zen state of mind

Closing all senses to the surroundings

Three to four tasters sit in silence

Eyes following every move of the master

In handling the tea sets with a touch of musical artistry

From hot bathing the pot and sets of cups

Along with cleansing of the mind

After passing around the tea leaves for admiration of its aroma

The master gracefully steeps a pinch of tea leaves into the tiny pot

Allowing the leaves to stretch out their bodies comfortably in hot water

Effortlessly releasing the light, fresh, soothing fragrance in slow motion

The aroma radiates and lingers over multiple infusions

A complex aroma beyond description

Eases the hidden emotions and nurtures the neglected soul

                             

Upon the subtle invitation from the master

The tasters gingerly hold on to the rim of the aroma cups

With great respect and admiration

Breathing in deeply the delicate fragrance of the tea

There are no words to describe the release

Of the tea spirit bound by the subtle to intense fragrance

Spiraling up a mysterious and dreamy story from the high mountain

Simple flowers to a hundred year old tea tree

Wrapped in layers of floating clouds for century long

Raindrops falling in rhythms seeding the fragrance in the tea leaves

Chinese tea in a moody afternoon

Seduces a rainbow of fragrance to rest in the hearts

Of all admirers crossing the path

To the ultimate culture born in nature

Drinking the Fragrance of Chinese Tea

S.P. Ma

Feb 2020

A Single Flower

Not only was he compelled to send a single flower but he always sent a bouquet of flowers. Nothing less would do for him, in his world.

It had been a messy break up, resulting in both of them not knowing how to communicate. Hurt feelings were scattered everywhere like the petals of the dozens of roses he had sent, falling down the sides of the vases like tears falling down the cheeks of their abandoned love story. The tapestry their lives had woven, thread by thread, from living together had unraveled as families, friends, and traditions took up sides or disappeared completely. Landmines had been planted, waiting to explode upon the slightest harsh word or angry provocation.

No matter, he continues to send his flowers religiously every Valentine’s Day, every birthday and Mother’s Day year after year after year.  Strange how he continued this ritual despite the fact that they had stopped living together over thirteen years ago.

One could only guess why. Could it be he still loved her? Or was it the only way he could bring himself to show he was sorry. Then again, could this ritual be only self-serving, sending the flowers to try to ease his suffocating guilt as he thought about all he had done to cause the fissure between them.

A single flower, a bouquet of many….he will never stop sending them, this symbol of love, sorrow, guilt, regret, and remorse.

Ellen

Feb 2020

Untitled

Grand Avenue Insomnia

Another night of tossing and turning had led to the frustration of being wide-awake when I wanted to sleep. There was no use lying there when even warm milk had not helped, so I decided to go for a night walk to tire myself out. Leaving the house, I started my excursion eventually ending up by Maspeth Federal Bank where I picked up the first wonderful scent drifting and waffling down Grand Avenue. It was a wondrous smell recalling all the best memories of youth combined and intertwined in a tempting wave of goodness. Baked cookies, fresh bread and bacon cooking, all intermingled in a sprightly melody tantalizing the nostrils and sending me reminiscing to holiday seasons long past. As I was drawn down the quiet deserted avenue, the scent became stronger eventually leading me to the exhaust vent of the Glendale Bake Shop. I sniffed and inhaled the commingling of smells recalling youthful memories and hearing music playing in my head.

Anyone looking down from a window would have thought a bear was rooting through the garbage, but I didn’t care. Looking down from the grating and peering into the bakery from between slits in the gate I saw two pairs of eyes staring at me. Two little creatures who were animatedly talking to each other stopped and ran to the door. I heard the lock turn and the door opened just enough for me to slip in. Sure enough, the Gingerbread Men were beckoning me to enter after having put down their candy cane rifles deciding that I was not a danger, but simply a pastry fan.

Inside it was bright, quite a contrast to the blackness of a moonless night. The Ginger Bread Men straightened each other’s bow ties then picked up their candy cane rifles and resumed their posts as sentries guarding the door. A party was in progress and cookies were milling about dancing and socializing. Over on the oven bacon strips danced on the grill like a beach goer on a sweltering day without sandals while sunny side eggs looked on in amusement and Kaiser rolls split their sides laughing then lay down on the grill to get a nice tan.

If the vent had smelled wonderful, this was multiplied many times over in the bakery. A forest of cinnamon sticks, a grove of cloves, piles of ginger root and whole nutmeg, star anise hanging down from high above and piles of juicy raisins, dates, and figs along with dried fruits and citrons all added to the wonderful scented scenario begging to be eaten. Marzipan pigs and cows danced on top of a creamy white cake while gingerbread people tidied up their houses to await the opening of the bakery. Gregarious black and whites coaxed the pfeffernusse and chocolate drops out of their trays to the main dance floor on the counter. Pretzel rolls with their salty language argued with the Irish Soda Bread, always spoiling for a good donnybrook then calming down, the Soda Bread did a jig and a reel. Easygoing apple turnovers went along with the festivities while apple tarts fancily decorated in sugary icing flirted with them. Triangular Hamentashen cookies did a traditional dance and the Linzer Tarts, those spherical powdery treats with a delicious mouth watering jelly remained stoically regal. Everyone shied away from the Crullers knowing how twisted they were. Just then, the donuts rolled in looking a little glazed over after a night on the town. Sprinkle cookies adorned in their many bright colors associated with the rainbow cookies, which formed an arch in imitation of the atmospheric light show.

Suddenly the Ginger Bread Men told me I would have to leave since the baker would be out soon with the new recruits to ready for the opening. As I exited, all the pastries were quietly resuming their assigned places in their trays ready to go to sleep. I was feeling tired myself and anxiously retreated home to resume my slumber.

Jim L

Feb 2020

Raindrops

    It was a rainy Tuesday morning and as I sat in my car outside the doctor’s office waiting for my husband, the wet floor mats gave off an unpleasant familiar fume.  As I vaguely regarded the people walking across Woodside Avenue through the blurry windshield, my mind drifted.  A flurry of images blew across oceans of time.  This tide came washing in memories of two women who had crossed my path.  

  Recently I learned dogs can sniff out people who have cancer.  Every so often I meet a person and my lingering impression is his or her scent.  My friend Anna introduced me to a neighbor of hers with whom she had recently become acquainted.  I detected a musty odor in her presence every time we were together.  Oddly, Anna never noticed the smell of mildew that I sensed coming from her neighbor, Sara.  It permeated the air and my nostrils flair even when I recall it.  Soiled laundry and dirty socks reek similarly.  I wondered if something unclean or diseased oozed from her pores or if she suffered from an unclean spirit. 

  As a three-year old, my grandmother would take me with her to visit people from Germany.  

“Girl you cannot be rude to Tante Schmachtenberger, verstehst?”

“Ja, Mama, ich verstehe.” (Yes, Mama I understand.)

 “Good.  She is your great-great aunt and a kind lady.”

   Tante Schmachtenberger answered the door in her dressing gown wearing two different house shoes and lots of jewelry.  Once we were in her parlor, she and my grandmother would converse for a while leaving me to observe the surroundings.  The dust and grime of her ancient Persian rug lingers in my recollections accompanied by a faint odor of decay that permeated the room.  On sunny afternoons the light would drench that front room and dust mites flew upwards like sparks.

  Our visits were always brief.  Mama stood the whole time.  On one of the stands there was  a glass dish with a few disintegrating sourballs in it.  I cringed whenever she offered me one.   Once we got out of the house Mama would walk briskly and replace the stale and slightly dank air with deep breaths in the great outdoors.

Yvonne A.

Feb 2020

Yes, It's Me

In a metropolitan nighttime sky filled with so few stars,

You still shine.

From my earthbound vantage point, I look up every night, nod at the first one I see and wish so hopelessly

that you and I were still we.

The lines that I have written, so many for you,

“For every star he wished upon, he wished that every wish was gone.”

That’s not true.

Where did that come from?

It came from you.

 You are so close to me, yet so infinitely out of reach. A single light flares so bright tonight.

Beaming

Radiating

So present

So there!

And I am still here.

Staring up at you gazing down at all that you can see. And hoping that you’re smiling, at least from the inside where no one can see.

Yes, it’s me

 Tom M.

Jan. 2020