The Masked City

In Spring

A butterfly flies over and covers my nose

Decorating me like a flower

 

In Summer

A bird rushes over and nests on my hair

Building a concert hall for me to hear

 

In Autumn

A maple leaf tumbles in air and lands on my lips

Hushing me to hear the gentle breeze

 

In Winter

A birch sways in the cold and showers me with snow

Refreshing my soul in the silence of beauty

 

Now the city is covered in masks

My butterfly, birds and I are lost

While chasing after the passing wind

S.P. Ma

June 2020

MASKED

Masquerade ball in Versailles celebrating marriage of Louis,Daupin of France to Maria Teresa Rafaela, Infanta of Spain Feb 1745 by Charles Nicolas Cochin

The party had finally arrived, all  the planning and primping, the rehearsed conversations and affected behavior that would occur and of course the chance to remove life’s invisible mask of station and occupation and revel in the life she was meant to live, if she had been born into the right class and the right century. Finally she was unshackled from the reality of being a waitress in a greasy spoon on Route Whatever, free to impersonate and disguise herself while at the same time revealing and unmasking the Queen she was meant to be, regaled by her court, pursued by her suitors, sought out for her knowledge and experience on matters of state, finally achieving her full potential. She was freed of her cage, not gilded or fancy, but bent, dented, and scratched, surrounded by the lowest miscreants of society. With the cage door unhinged, this bird was free to fly, liberated from her prison.



She intentionally arrived fashionably late while desiring to be prompt. She was whisked into the ball by a masked footman to be announced to her subjects. The ballroom was brilliantly luminous and grand beyond her wildest dreams; the drone of polite chatter in her ear was soothed by the harpsichord. Guests prattled on in small groups, none of which seemed to have any vacancies. Finally, in her element, she absorbed the sights and sounds of the extravaganza. Magnardises were served as Baroque music filtered through the air. She danced and socialized, masquerading and burying her true self, shut away deep inside so as not to be embarrassed.



At midnight reality invaded, whispering in her ear as the swirling, dancing mystical masquerade continued late into the night. Morning would be coming and a full day at the diner lay ahead, her job providing no paid sick time. It was time to leave, remove the mask, hang up the ballgown, reapply the invisible mask and lock the cage door behind herself to wait for dawn.

Jim

June 2020

Stay for a Spell at Big Hank’s Strawberry Farm

It’s Sunday morning and Anthony is lying in bed smiling. He’s thinking about all the delicious strawberries he ate at Big Hank’s Farm yesterday.

“Anthony,” calls his mother from the kitchen, “Time to get up and have breakfast. I made strawberry pancakes with bacon.”



“Oh, oh,” Anthony thinks to himself, “I better get up before my father eats all the breakfast.” Anthony slides off his bed and shuffles into the kitchen. He sits down in his usual spot at the table in between his mother and father. He turns and smiles at them as he picks up his fork.



Both parents drop their utensils at the same time and gasp as they look at Anthony.  “Why are they looking at me like that?” wonders Anthony. “Why is my mother’s mouth hanging wide open and my father’s brows and eyes twitching in disbelief?”  “What happened to you?” Mom asks Anthony in a quiet but very shaky voice. “Go look in the mirror at yourself,” she tells him. “Is that a costume you’re wearing, young man because I don’t think it’s funny at all,” Dad says in an angry tone.



Anthony slithers from his chair and quickly goes to the full length mirror in the hallway. “What the…? What happened to me?”  There is a bear cub reflection staring back at Anthony in the mirror. Anthony sees a small head with rounded ears, small black, beady eyes and a black nose with fine curves in the shape of a mouth. His head, arms and legs are covered with a very soft brown fur. His chest and stomach area have turned into a big, very delicious-looking bright red strawberry. “How is this possible?” Anthony wonders.



“Mom, Dad, what happened to me?” I know I ate too many strawberries yesterday at Big Hank’s but I never thought something like this could happen,” Anthony stutters.



“Well,” says his father, I’m going to get the car and bring it out around front. We need to speak to Big Hank and find out if he has any idea how something like this could possibly happen just from eating a bushel of strawberries.”



When they catch up to Big Hank at the farm, Big Hank can’t believe what he sees. There are Anthony’s parents holding onto him but he doesn’t look like Anthony anymore, nope, he looks like a strawbear. Big Hank will have to tell the story once again, this time to Anthony and his parents, explaining how someone can go strawberry picking at his farm and wind up turning into a strawbear.

They all sit down together in the grass near the strawberry patches and listen to what Big Hank has to say.



 “Around one hundred years ago, a mother bear and her four cubs lived at the back of the farm in a small cave. Mother bear would warn the cubs over and over not to go to the strawberry patches as this was too dangerous for baby bears. Mother bear was not able to tell if the cubs were listening to her or not so she came up with an idea. She would cast a spell that if any of her cubs ate a strawberry they would turn into a strawbear. There were only certain strawberry bushes that Mother bear put the spell on and these were ones that were very remote and far away from the rows of other safer strawberry bushes. If the Mother bear saw that any of her cubs turned into a strawbear, then she would know that she was being disobeyed.  The only way her cub could turn back would be when the next Full Strawberry Moon appeared in the sky.”



Big Hank looked at Anthony and said, “You must have wandered off pretty far when you were picking strawberries and, by mistake, you picked and ate from the ones that still had the Mother Bear’s spell on them. Unfortunately for you, now you have to wait for the next Full Strawberry Moon to change back to your old self.  Anthony and his parents were not happy at all upon hearing this but there was nothing else they could do. Now it was just a matter of time and getting used to Anthony being a strawbear. “Well, said Big Hank with a twinkle in his eyes, “Maybe you should make sure you hide all the honey in the house until your cute little strawbear turns back into your son.”

Ellen G.

June 2020

After Chaos

Last night

In the big city

The lightning struck

The thunder roared

The rain poured

People were sent to stay home

This morning

In a small suburban town

The sky is spotless

The clouds disappear

There I walk alone

On a quiet road

Under the sun

I walk with dignity

My shadow

Follows me closely

To check if my heartbeats

Are in rhythms with my feet

I look to the left

Catching the sound of breeze

I look to the right

Seeing a line of black trash cans

Under the bright sun

Cutting out a silhouette 

Telling the story of black and white

S.P. Ma

June 2020

The Swan

Yup, I’m a swan.

I am walking down your street, at high noon, your time.  Behold my splendor, for I am a swan.  A New Joisey swan, got it?  The best of dem all.

I am no measly duck, although the ducks at the pond have been nothing but nice to me.  I am no measly chicken or robin or sparrow or crow.  Even the hawks revel in my beauty.  Just don’t try to bite or peck me.  I will peck the hell out of you, if you make me.  Don’t make me peck you.  Peck me? Peck YOU!   

I am walking down your street.  Ain’t it neat?  I was never an ugly duckling.  Beautiful since Day One.

If you harbor jealousy or ill will, you may try to run me over, but I know you won’t.  I am no pigeon, or squirrel, or rat, or mangy stray dog.  I am a swan.  The only one in town. Got that?  Rejoice in my beauty!

Rich M.

June 2020

Oh, Little Strawberry

OH, LITTLE STRAWBERRY YOU ARE SO FINE

WITH YOUR ROSY CHEEKS AND PITTED SKIN, YOU LOOK SO DIVINE

BASKING IN THE SUN OF A BEAUTIFUL SUMMERS DAY

ADMIRING YOUR LOVELY GREEN BONNET, I WISH TO CARRY YOU AWAY

AN EMPTY GREEN BASKET I HAVE BROUGHT FOR THE EXTRACTION

TO SCOOP YOU UP IF YOU FEEL THE SAME ATTRACTION

MOST FRUITS MODESTLY HIDE THEIR SEEDS AWAY

BUT YOU COURAGEOUSLY AND PROUDLY PUT THEM ON DISPLAY

AS OUR FRIENDSHIP CONTINUES TO DEVELOP

WITH A BILLOWY COLD BLANKET OF SWEET WHIPPED CREAM, I WISH YOU TO BE ENVELOPED

AND RAISED ON A THRONE OF FLUFFY GOLDEN CAKE

SURROUNDED BY YOUR BERRY SUBJECTS WHAT A DISPLAY YOU WILL MAKE

A BLIZZARD OF POWDERED SUGAR CONFECTION

WILL ONLY INCREASE MY COVETOUS AFFECTION

WE MUST ALL PASS FROM THIS EARTH ONE DAY

YOUR TIME HAS ARRIVED COME WHAT MAY

Jim

June 2020

Gone Fishin'

The ride to Greenport was a long arduous trip leaving Queens at 4:45 am with a full tank of gas and a cooler filled with ice, sandwiches, snacks and beverages for the arrival at 7am. My ten-year-old son Sean fell rapidly back to sleep, a veteran of these trips since he was six. The Peconic Star with Captain Dave was our destination and a midweek trip assured us that it would not be overly crowded. Departure would be about 7:30ish waiting a few extra minutes for stragglers with money to cover the cost of gas and bait by paying fares.

            A mate greeted us at the dock, helping us up with our heavy cooler. The Peconic Star had a nice, polite, respectful crew that treated everyone well. The bathrooms were small but clean, a rarity on party boats. A wonderful stereo system had been installed on the boat and as we pulled away from the dock Willie Nelson’s “ON THE ROAD AGAIN” played loud and clear to celebrate the launch of our trip. We had found a quiet spot on the port side of the ship, out  of the way of traffic.



            Our Mate Pete brought rods and rigging followed a little later by buckets of bait. I gave Pete a gratuity to improve our service during the day.



“Hey Pete, how has the fishing been this week?” I asked.

Pete’s face grew serious. “Well I have seen better, a lot of shorts and a pick of keepers, but still a beautiful day on Peconic Bay,” Pete optimistically suggested.

I tied rags onto the rail to keep our hands clean and marked off the legal limit of fish length. Our rigging consisted of an eight-ounce weight and two Porgy hooks tied about eighteen inches apart on which we double hooked clam strips in preparation for the arrival at the fishing grounds.

It was about an hour and a half ride to our first stop; Willie Nelson, BB King, and Johnny Cash crooned away along with Patsy Cline on the beautiful ride through the clear, pristine, blue waters past Orient Point and up near the Connecticut coast. An old black man named Sam was stationed to my left with a heavy southern accent, I initiated the conversation.

“A bad day of fishing is better than a good day at work,” I exclaimed.

“Yes Indeed,” Sam laughed,” but a good day of fishing would beat all!”       

“Yes indeed,” I agreed.

Suddenly the ship slowed down in view of the Connecticut coast and the horn blew, signaling time to drop lines. A whirring sound could be heard as hook, lines, bait and sinkers penetrated the water all over the boat. A few Porgies were pulled up along with some Sea Bass and Sea Robbins but it was a little slow. My son, losing patience ran down to see a Sand Shark that had been pulled out of the deep. Next the horn blew again and lines were pulled up rapidly as the boat took off to another more promising location. The music stopped and Captain Dave came on the P.A. System.

“Good Morning Everyone, I think my next spot should be better. We had some luck there yesterday.”

The Rolling Stones began to play “Brown Sugar” as we cruised through the choppy water. After a short ride the boat slowed, the horn bellowed, the fishermen stood up and the lines were dropped precipitously into the abyss, everyone hoping for better luck. Right off the bat, lines started vibrating, reels started spinning, and rods begn bending as men and boys all over the boat jerked their rods, setting hooks and snagging fish. I could see the look of excitement in my son’s eyes as both of our rods were struck simultaneously by fish. I pulled up a nice Size Porgy keeper glistening and iridescent in the sun as Pete dropped a five-gallon bucket for each of us. Sean was struggling a little and pulled up two nice keepers, one on each hook. The day was off to a good start. All over the boat, rods were active as men and boys pulled up fish. Rods were rebaited and sent down again and again in rapid succession, nobody wanting to miss out on the action. Sam already had half a bucket of Porgies and then landed a five-pound Sea Bass, a beautiful purple and black fish attractive enough for any aquarium.

“That’s a nice one!” I commented.

“Indeed! He will be on the plate tonight,” Sam yelled over Tina Turner.

Mates hustled, running all over the boat; buckets were filled to overflowing, then coolers were filled, fishermen pulling out sandwiches and drinks to make room for more fish in the coolers. Less successful fishermen’s buckets were filled by complete strangers having already reached their limits. Sea Bass, Porgies, and Blue Fish waddled around the deck as fishermen pulled in the bounty, ankle deep in a frenzy of writhing flopping fish. The stereo played Patsy Cline as fishermen young and old with aching arms harvested fish, exhausted by the plethora of biblical proportions as if Manna from Heaven had blessed the ship reigning down on it.

For some the trip was recreational and fish would be handed out to friends and family or brought to fish fry’s, but for others, their filled freezers would sustain them and their families during the long winter months ahead. Removed heads would become a fish stew, not wasting anything and justifying the fare to questioning wives.

The music stopped and Captain Dave returned to the P.A. “Well, I didn’t lie. This spot was better, he boasted! “We will be going back soon since everyone has reached their limit. I hope you all had a great time. The mates will be around for anyone who wants their fish cleaned at the back of the boat. If you entered the pool and have a contender for a pool winner, bring him to the back of the boat for weigh in now. The prize today is $195. Dollars! Enjoy the ride back and I’ll see you all on the dock.”

Willie Nelson ended the days musical selections with a rendition of “The Party’s Over,” an appropriate song to end a bountiful and beautiful day of fishing on Peconic Bay.

Jim

June 2020