Super-Sized Series

 Celebrations

 

 

Kennywood Picnic, Summer 1955 by Joan Leotta

Before Kennywood
banned bring –in food,
we packed eggplant "parm,"
spaghetti, watermelon, salads
--no cooking on common use grills
for our family.

After a morning of rides
we spread out across two picnic tables--
cousins, aunts, uncles,
grandma, parents--
to eat and talk
and talk and eat
until the long day's sun
burned the sky away.

Darkness brought
fireworks fighting
with the moon for sky space
as we festooned the lower air
with light by
running with sparklers
as the adults cleaned up the picnic.

When all lights
and noise gave
way to the quiet
cool twinkling of stars,
and moon declared
victory over the man-made lights
we piled into assorted Oldsmobiles,
Fords, and Studebakers
and headed home.

Appeared in Your Daily Poem  

 

 Haiku, fireworks by Rachael Ikins

Sulfur scent, dragons
linger, glow like jellyfish,
spit smoke, float; fireworks

 

Two poems by Lorraine Caputo

 

ON PLAZA SAN FRANCISCO
 
I bathe in the full moon’s silver light,
watching her dance with the clouds
 
Suddenly fireworks light the sky
in red & golden showers, whistling
spirals of sparks weaving through
growing thunderheads of gunpowder
 
& the air clears to reveal
the moon once more
 
A chiva party bus arrives to that plaza,
its passengers forming a loose circle,
dancing within the lilt of a five-man band
 
in this sacred time of the year
San Antonio, Solstice
Inti Raymi, San Juan
 
in this holy valley surrounded
by snowy volcanoes, filled
with ancient memories
 
from In the Jaguar Valley 

 

 

CORPUS CHRISTI
 
Through this late morning, the music of
a brass & drum band echoes. Couples
dance up narrow cobbled streets, altars of
the Virgin of Sorrows, the Jesús del
Gran Poder carried by men. Women embrace
elegant sprays of flowers. They leave behind
only a prism of strewn rose petals.
 

 

Where Joy Resides by Arlene Gay Levine
 
There are places we knew in childhood: green grass blankets
sprinkled with dew diamonds and early June blooms,
chocolate warmth of cocoa on a January day, the sweet smell
 of summer sweat, the sound of the drums coming
from far away for an Independence Day parade,
the paragraph in a book you know you’ll never forget.
 
Oh, the cold crush of flakes forming winter’s first snowball,
or the golden sparks of a clambake fire, such stories
told round the circle there
with the tang of salt sea spray perfuming the air.
 
All these pictures we recall and hold them sacred still!
So let us celebrate our kaleidoscope of seasons
while the years continue to spin us about
praising each for distinctive reasons:
spring, summer, winter, fall.

appeared in Your Daily Poem  

 

 

Best concert ever by Joe Cottonwood

Spread a blanket, edge of crowd
eat fried chicken not dancing
Jerry far away a tiny bobblehead on stage
flash of a beatific grin

Toddling child appears naked before us
says “Poop” a complete statement
parents somewhere dancing
the need immediate smelly

Selected by this child we
have no diapers no wipes
everyone oblivious dancing he has
black ringlets smudged cheeks trusting eyes

There are moments
—when you look into a lover’s eyes
—when a tree is falling
—when a child is in need
the world stops except that one thing

Jerry stops
the whole amphitheater silent
as we improvise with napkins
glug of white wine for cleaning fluid
dancing skeleton T shirt
folded and knotted as diaper

Saturn his name
stays with us we are Saturn’s rings
until mom and dad appear frantic and so sorry

We say we’re honored he chose us
They say thank you so much
but—no, the music never stopped
 

 

Family Picnic by Marilyn L. Taylor

Life hasn’t been easy for Betsy since she turned
thirteen—just look at her, the sniffy way
she sits all by herself, wincing with scorn
at her noisy cousins lining up to play
a pick-up softball game before the day
runs out.  Childish, she mutters from the chair
in which she lounges, tossing back her hair.

But now, two uncles and a favorite aunt
are filling in at right field and third base;
Betsy’s breathing quickens, but she can’t
stop buffing her nails, sucking in her face,
keeping her careful distance—just in case
we take her for that splendid child Betsy,
who left us only very recently.
 

 

Sweet Sixteen by Tina Hacker

Mr. Adam’s restaurant:
voted best year after year  
for ice cream sundaes.
No anemic one-scoop creations
for the diet conscious.
Two scoops the minimum.
Bulging with flavors, syrups,
candy, nut and fruit toppings,
the menu listed four, six, eight
and the emperor of all confections,
the sixteen-scoop wonder. Any
patron finishing carried home
a certificate lauding the achievement
plus the satisfaction of getting a free deal.
 
To my dad, this was a challenge.
Regularly, he consumed the sundae
he called the Eighter but after a year
of placing second, he wasn’t satisfied.
He liked to win. Sixteen scoops! Nothing
less!  Chocolate, peppermint, strawberry,
pistachio, butter pecan, peach and a finale
of vanilla.  Hot fudge, whipped cream
in hues of pink, yellow and purple,
a hill of chopped walnuts and one
maraschino cherry completed the dish.  

It took two servers to carry the bowl. All
the nearby diners stayed to see the outcome.
Dad ate slowly, steadily until every drop
disappeared. Wiping his lips, he looked
at the astonished faces around him.
Like all good competitors, his expression
showed surprise that anyone had doubts

appeared in Silver Birch Press (My Sweet Words Series)
 

 

 

Two poems by Sharon Waller Knutson

Sampling at Baskin and Robbins

Mango mingles with maple
in my mouth as she says Michael
is the man I am going to marry.

Are you sure? I savor the sugary
swirling strawberry. In the spring
it was Stephen. She tastes bananas

and butterscotch. I left him
for Larry. I swallow a spoonful
of scrumptious pumpkin cheesecake.

But then I met Michael and I knew...
She relishes the raspberry ribbon
until she munches the almond honeycomb.

What happened to Henry? I ask. Who?
She drops her spoon and makes a beeline
for the bulging biceps holding a blast.

You like blueberries? His voice is deep.
She licks his spoon. What’s your name?
He says Brian and she says I’ll take you.

Before I can ask: What about Michael?
she is sashaying into the sunlight
with her new flavor of the month,

but I am too content to care as papaya
and pineapple join in wedded bliss
on the altar of my tongue.


At the Saturday Night Singles Dance

The mechanic at the Chevron
on Seventeenth Street asks me
to two step to Boot Scootin’ Boogie
while he waits for his dance partner.

I really want to line dance,
but it’s the least I can do
since he fixed my flat
on the freeway on Friday.

As I’m walking off the floor,
the Ford dealership salesman
in the silk suit takes me for a spin
for the first time since a stiletto

stabbed me in the instep as we
rounded the corner and collided
with his ex and he got the restraining
order after carrying me to his Camaro.

Just as he plops me in the folding chair,
the tall cowboy in silver sideburns
Levi’s and Stetson hat and boots
ducks his head under the doorway.

He’s a rich Wyoming rancher
who’s here to find a new wife
and mother for his seven children,
the word vibrates on the vine.

The divorcees and widows, all gussied
up in panty hose and flared skirts,
hunting for husband number two or three,
hold in their sagging stomachs and breath,

hoping he’ll whisk them around the floor
and across the state line, except me. I’m
enjoying the cool air blowing from the vents,
the music blaring on the record player

and watching him inspecting us like livestock
at an auction and testing out selected mares
as they prance and trot around the room tossing
their manes and parading their pedigrees.

Since I am not qualified for the position
with two jobs and an invalid mother,
I drag my dentist out on the dance
floor as Conway croons Crazy in Love.

His dentures clicking to the beat
of the music, we waltz and jitterbug
until the rancher rides off into the moonlight
in his Chevy Silverado with his intended.        

Both from What the Clairvoyant Doesn’t Say  

 

 

A TABLE AMONG THE WEEDS by Lori Levy

I could focus on the negative, how bad it is
to celebrate a birthday in Corona times.  Stuck at home,
separated from one son and his family.  Backyard a junkyard
of boxes and bags:  merchandise my husband brought home
when he closed his business.  Front yard a carpet of weeds.

But the weeds are as green as grass, and when I look closer,
I see they're sprouting tiny purple flowers, and these gems—
because unexpected, nearly hidden—are more beautiful,
to my eyes, than a bouquet of roses.  Still brimming
from a morning of phone calls full of birthday love,
I am ready to celebrate.  We set a table outside,
among the weeds, yes, and patches of dry ground,
but a white tablecloth, I discover, makes all the difference.
We are missing some family, but the others, part of our household,
gather with my husband and me under a bright blue sky
to have coffee, cake, ice cream:  our daughter and her husband,
our two grandchildren, our son and his fiancee—
who brings a treat to the table, a sweet potato cake
with apple slices on top, something new she's made,
and new, for me, means better, more valued than the same old
chocolate cake I make all the time, though I've made that, too.
Our grandchildren follow, thrilled, behind their dad when he gets up
to feed crumbs of cake to a squirrel that's come by, joining the party.

Later I receive a video from my daughter-in-law, a message
from the missing ones, my granddaughters, four and two-years-old,
the younger one copying, repeating after her older sister:
Happy birthday, Savta.  I miss you so much.  I love you so much.
I watch the video again and again, like a favorite movie
that never gets boring, the way my grandson binges on Star Wars.

Previously published in Red Wolf Journal   

 

 

Two poems by Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca

The Meaning of Family

The steep slope challenged us
The walk to the Naaz Café
at the top of the hill winding endlessly
Sometimes disappearing into the clouds
Our young legs not trained for such treks
Wishing for a horse or camel
to give us a welcome ride.

Nothing fazed father
He took everything in his stride
Whispering words of encouragement
Promising us the view would be poetic.
The Hanging Gardens of Bombay
(of Bombay, not Babylon!)
was a Family Sunday ritual
It was the meaning of family.

Past the Tower of Silence
Where a community buries its dead
We spoke a silent prayer
For those who left the earth
Thankful for another day of life.

Feeling like kings in the large airy cafe
the standard order samosas and chutney
For mother, colorful cassata ice cream
The tables wobbled, the chairs uncomfortable
We noticed them but didn’t care
The waiters cheerful and smiling.
The sparkling lights of the Queen’s Necklace
Breathtakingly beautiful below
A Naaz Café special promise delivered.

We conquered the steep slope
The trek felt like a pilgrimage
Only because we were with family.
Family carves moments into posterity. 

 
Breakfast at Sunrise

At the top of the mountain
The sun has a natural birth
The clouds have easy labor
To bring it forth,
To tip with golden tints
The distant snow-capped Himalayas
A joyous re-birth to celebrate
Easter.

Those days we were sure-footed
As mountain goats,
Leaping from stone to stone.
No matter how steep the trek
Uphill.

Spurred on by the enticing smells
Of breakfast cooking
By skilled hands,
But more eager to pay
Our homage to the Easter sun
We made our climb of joy
To praise the Creator.

Stopping in stillness
To see a pair of pine martens
One solicitously waiting with concerned peering,
Looking down the path
To watch that the other was within sight
Not moving forward till the comforting
Brown-gold fur of his partner was visible,
Lessons for us humans.

We made the yearly trek
A little slower, as our bodies slowed.
Man is a creature of rituals and rhythms,
Of devotion to the familiar,
The comfortable, the natural.

Now, though with different mountains
The smells of breakfast
Memories of crisp shivering
In the mountain air
And the sun through dappled leaves
Is resurrected in present moments
Whenever Easter rolls around.
 

 

Toro Nagashi by Shaun R. Pankoski

We stand in knee-deep water at dusk, under rain-heavy clouds,
holding our luminaries like prayers. Even the babies are solemn.

The old ones go first-- the aunties still as shy
as the plantation brides they once were, the men stoic,

their hearts made visible only from the flower lei
that they have draped around their lanterns.

We step up to release our procession of lights into the sea,
a rag-tag bunch with a rag-tag collection of lamps, pinned with messages

and drawings and photos and all the small mementos of a life,
until there is an ocean of fireflies.

We do this to guide their souls home, to send away disasters,
to welcome peace, To stand all together in the water and whisper,
“You are not forgotten.”

*Toro Nagashi is a lantern lighting ceremony to honor the dead that takes place in Hawaii in late August.