Founder's Favourites 8 - Sep 19

Founder’s Favourites
Issue 8-Sept 2019
Alex Phuong
Annejo Geijteman
Debbie Richard
Fabrice B. Poussin
Gaiyle J. Connolly
J L Higgs
John Grey
R. Gerry Fabian
Rhema Sayers
Stella Mazur Preda

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Founder’s Favourites
Issue 8-Sept 2019 | Monique Berry, Hamilton ON Canada
Contributors
Debbie Richard
4 Dayspring
5 Rebirth
Stella Mazur Preda
6 A Soldier’s Prayer
7 The Farmer
Gaiyle J. Connolly
8 Against All Odds
9 Variation
Fabrice B. Poussin
10 Infinite Echo
11 Secrets of the Seasons
12 Conversation
14 Exhuming Relics
Alex Phuong
13 Kate Winslet
Rhema Sayers
15 The Monster under the Bed
John Grey
16 The Rose
Annejo Geijteman
17 Haiku (2)
J L Higgs
19 Tikkun Olam
My Favourites
Dayspring; Rebirth Debbie Richard—
Warm tones of Dayspring and the phrase
“trespasses submerged” in Rebirth.
A Soldier’s Prayer; The Farmer Stella
Mazur Preda—The prayer speaks of
emotion and honesty. The Farmer reveals a
rough image but beauty and strength of
survival.
Against All Odds; Variation Gaiyle J.
Connolly—I find the journey from the title
to the last line satisfying. Variation brings
tension but ends in a positive light.
Infinite Echo; Secrets of the Seasons;
Conversation; Exhuming Relics Fabrice
B. Poussin—I find comfort finding new
beginnings of deep mysteries. Next, the title
and visuals in Secrets of the Seasons. A
creative way to describe the facets of words.
And I love the atmosphere of the attic and
the finding of letters.
Kate Winslet Alex Phuong—Love the
memory collage of her movies.
The Monster under the Bed Rhema
Sayers—Brings me back to my childhood
and the forgotten era of nighttime monsters.
The Rose John Grey—I love the small as a
child’s teacup visual and the odor it invokes
in me at the end.
Haiku Annejo Geijteman—I enjoyed
learning a new word “floof.” And the
coolness of the fan in the second one.
Tikkun Olam J L Higgs—The Jewish
theme is new for me. And being instructed
to show kindness is refreshing.

Dayspring
By Debbie Richard
To never tire of the crashing waves
upon the distant shore,
Or watch the great ball of fire
arise from a blue abyss,
Like a tangled web of seaweed
pulls creatures from the ocean floor,
Look skyward toward the heavenly light
and be clothed in the warmth of nature’s kiss.
Allen G.—stock.adobe.com
Debbie Richard is listed in the Directory of Poets & Writers as both a poet and creative nonfiction writer. She was
shortlisted for Best Poem in Adelaide Literary Award for Poetry, 2018. Her poems have appeared in Torrid Literature
Journal, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Scarlet Leaf Review, WestWard Quarterly, Halcyon Days, and others. For more
information, visit her website: www.debbierichard.com

Rebirth (Haiku)
By Debbie Richard
Waterfalls cascade.
Wise men cleanse impurities,
Trespasses submerged.
Totojang1977 | stock.adobe.com

A Soldier’s Prayer
By Stella Mazur Preda
Let my heart never forget
how to love
though hate may surface at times
Give me the strength and courage
to endure
though life may not be spared
Grant that my soul and spirit
survive
though my body may be dead
Allow our children and theirs
to sample
life without bloodshed and hate
Guide us to the peace we seek
open our
eyes and hearts to those in need
Help us now to understand
teach us
tolerance and compassion
Shower blessings on this world
forgive us
for the destruction we cause
Fotos 593 | stock.adobe.com

The Farmer
By Stella Mazur Preda
Skin like well-worn leather,
the face maps stories of his life;
wrong turns and dead-ends
scored deep into skin once supple.
Lengthy grooves conceal sad secrets.
The creases that tug at the corners
of his mouth when he smiles
raised six strapping sons.
Furrows – chin to cheekbones
ingrained through perils of drought.
Nestled deep in the bumpy terrain
azure eyes – like two sunlit lagoons;
fresh folds at the corners – reflect
recent loss of his wife of fifty years.
Paths of life are mirrored in his face,
trophies of ultimate survival.
Martins Vanags | stock.adobe.com

Against All Odds
By Gaiyle J. Connolly
She shouldn't have made it.
Alone, months at a time
neglected
no shelter
little food.
Scarcely a drink.
Inclement weather,
overnight chill,
heat of the sun.
Against all odds,
sheer will
kept her alive
in the harsh surroundings
of the inner city.
Still, she can be seen
between the cracks
on the twelfth floor
condo terrace . . .
a persistent petunia.
Jogerken | stock. Adobe.com

Variation
by Gaiyle J. Connolly
Blue sky
chilled wine
French bread
Brie cheese
cold meats.
Oh no!
Dark clouds
downpour
but then
sunshine again.
Like Orpheus music
their love made
the sun
come out.
Africa Studio | stock.adobe.com

Infinite Echo
By Fabrice B. Poussin
So often have I traveled through the waves
seeking beginnings of deep mysteries.
Particle erring in an unknown realm
on its own I only find another stop.
I might rest above the hopeful clouds
upon a setting sun to contemplate a destiny.
Mighty for a brief moment I pound the cage
powerful in this dream of immunity.
There, is infinite silence except for a sound
like the eternal drums of a dying heart.
Klavdiya Krinichnaya—stock.adobe.com
Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in
Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, Founder's Favorites and many other magazines. His photography has been published in The
Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review as well as other publications.

Secrets of the Seasons
By Fabrice B. Poussin
What mysteries hold the light of the zenith sun
not matched by the secrets of a full moon?
The marvels only a lord of the heavens can see,
when in the night the king of the earth stays alert.
Giant of the seas, sovereign of the oceans deep
and blue, expectant of the somber hurricanes.
Warmth of the first flakes of a winter cold,
under the last deaths of the falls past.
Father to the new season of green and life,
caught between the thin rain and a soft dew.
And a fourth, mother of earth’s rebirth
holder of treasures, creator of unending renewal.
Юлия Колмогорцева | stock. Adobe.com

Conversation
By Fabrice B. Poussin
Speak they say, speak they beg, say something,
create, make, put us together so we may rhyme;
give us what we need, so we may too feel alive.
They can be so demanding, from time to time
impatient, rude, loud, intolerant, and pointed,
those silly words, blue, sad, smelly, infinite.
They want to be there on the mountain,
flow with the torrents into the steams below,
from the cold snow, to the warm oceans.
Shall one be so delicate with these touchy creatures,
or skip them like a pebble on the sheet of the lakes,
and watch the ripples, wavelets, and listen to
the subtle whimper they leave behind, children,
disconnected, unable to find meaning on their own
without their friends on the deep and lost shore?
Syllables who want so much to grow older so fast,
sing, play, perform, and leave a mark on eternity,
building a home for the hearts they yet have to find.
Better than objects, full of so many indefinite souls,
they journey at a speed unfathomed, free;
should they be set in stone, or remain poetic chaos?
eikotsuttiy | stock.adobe.com

Kate Winslet
By Alex Phuong
On one Labor Day afternoon, while driving
down a Revolutionary Road, a simple, all-
American girl named Kate Winslet was
searching for something to do for her
summer vacation. After driving for several
hours, she saw a billboard with the headline,
“TITANIC SAILS ONCE MORE!” She
hesitantly resisted the urge to buy tickets for
a summer cruise because of her fear of
drowning. After stopping by Laguna
Beach, she went into a library to check out a
copy of her favorite novel, Sense and
Sensibility by Jane Austen. Kate often
identified with Marianne Dashwood
because of their romantic sensibilities. She
also enjoyed Shakespeare, and her favorite
fictional character from the Bard was
Ophelia from Hamlet. After returning home
from the library, she became not just A
reader, but The Reader. As she read a book
about Steve Jobs, she pondered what life
would be like if she were to have Little
Children. She also feared Carnage because
she wants to live happily ever after rather
than suffer a miserable demise (which could
have happened if she boarded that Titanic
replica). As night began to present itself,
she went to bed while letting her mind
expand with the Eternal Sunshine of the
Spotless Mind. Curiously, this simple
young woman is still nothing like the
famous British actress because the
Hollywood legend has green eyes while
Kate’s Irises were hazel.
JPDC | stock.adobe.com
Alex Andy Phuong graduated from California State University-Los Angeles with his Bachelor of Arts in English in 2015
and was an editor for Statement Magazine. He currently writes articles and film reviews online. His writing has appeared
in The Bookends Review, Society of Classical Poets, and Wilderness House Literary Review #12/4.

Exhuming Relics
By R. Gerry Fabian
Sitting on a discarded chair
in the attic, attempting to
discard cluttered curios,
I find an odd old
faintly perfumed envelope.
Removing the love letter,
I read the most sincere
attempt at affection,
noting the misspellings
filled with the initial innocence
of hopeful hand holding
and the awe of our first kiss.
It is signed, Mary Jo.
As I sit there,
with the sunlight
revealing scattering dust motes,
my calcified cortex
cannot reconstruct
the time, or place
or face
belonging to these words.
Eugene Kravchenko | stock.Adobe.com
R. Gerry Fabian is a retired English instructor. He has been publishing poetry since 1972. He is the author of Raw Dog Press and has
published two books of his published poems Parallels and Coming Out of the Atlantic. Gerry is currently working on his fourth novel,
Ghost Girl. Visit his webpage at https://rgerryfabian.wordpress.com.

The Monster under the Bed
By Rhema Sayers
There is something hiding under my bed,
That growls ferociously when I come near.
It’s black and hairy with eyes shining red,
And its snarls are frightening to hear.
But my beautiful Ariel, so gentle and sweet,
A big dog of undetermined stock,
Also hairy and black, will often retreat,
Under the bed to chew on a sock.
Sometimes I think that it’s Ariel there,
Under the bed, so sweet and so shy.
But it can’t be my dog, more likely a bear,
That snarling beneath the bed does lie.
And yet from the darkness, back near the wall,
I never hear the sounds of a fight.
I would think there’d be an incredible brawl
That would last at least half through the night.
Quietly under the bed they repose,
Content with each other’s company.
They get along so well, I suppose,
Because they share the bed’s custody.
So when it’s time for me to go to bed,
I long jump, flying several feet,
So that my toes are not likely to tread,
On any who might those toes eat,
I wonder sometimes, whether or not,
Dog and monster might just be the same.
But if they’re identical under the cot,
Then is it real or simply a game?
So is it my Ariel, gentle and sweet,
Whose personality the bed does change?
Are there two down there below my bed feet,
Or one dog that is passingly strange?
Image by Henryk Niestrój from Pixabay
Rhema Sayers is a retired ER doctor who has taken up freelance writing as a second career. She has a passion for dogs and
had eight at one time. Ariel, a very peculiar dog with a sense of humor, was one of the eight. Rhema lives in the Arizona desert
near Tucson with three dogs and one husband.

The Rose
By John Grey
A fortuitous rose,
small as a child’s teacup,
but a feast for senses
in crimson equanimity.
Deep among the thorns
like rubies in soil,
or the leak of blood
from a fresh love wound.
On my knees,
in the bush’s cause,
I inhale the wild ancestor,
the elusive present occupant.
Juhku | stock.adobe.com
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in That, Dunes Review, Poetry East and North Dakota Quarterly
with work upcoming in Haight-Ashbury Literary Journal, Thin Air, Dalhousie Review and failbetter.

Haiku
By Annejo Geijteman
Spinning fan soft light
Melting ice cream drips slowly
A summer nights dream
Haiku
By Annejo Geijteman
Black white tufts of floof
Soft footsteps in the hallway
Loki says meow
Ian | stock.adobe.com
Glenda Powers | stock.adobe.com
Annejo Geijteman is a Dutch green haired writer and poet who loves the scent of coconut and the
aftertaste of a well crafted short story. She lives with her long haired tuxedo cat Loki and an assortment of
spoiled houseplants. She believes writing should always be true, even if it hurts.

xavier gallego morel | stock. Adobe.com

Tikkun Olam
by J L Higgs
“Benjamin!”
“Coming.”
Benjamin placed the Tiffany lamp back on the shelf. Then
he began descending the wooden ladder attached to the rail
around the second tier of the antique shop. Dusting, sweeping,
whatever it required to maintain the shop was his responsibility.
It was not an easy task. Especially since the shop never sold
anything. Years ago, Benjamin had asked Moshe the point of
such fastidious cleanliness. Moshe’s reply, “Cleanliness is next
to Godliness.”
Almost as tall as it was wide, the antique shop had once
been a bookstore. Now, the sole book that remained was kept in
the backroom. Clocks, porcelain cups, bronze lanterns, china,
pitchers, and many other seemingly unremarkable items
crowded the shop’s shelves. Moshe had told Benjamin they
were God’s earthly stewards and all God’s creations and gifts
deserved respect, honor, and preservation, even down to the
least of things.
Through the years, little about the shop had changed. The
tiny bell that hung inside the front door still jingled just as it had
the first time Benjamin entered the shop. That day, as his
fingers reached toward the ancient push tab cash register next to
the rotary phone on the shop’s counter, Moshe had appeared
dressed in black, broom in hand.
“Who are you?” he growled, his eyes narrowed to slits with
suspicion.
Benjamin’s initial inclination had been to run away, to
escape. But he’d remained rooted in place, staring at the burly
man’s bushy gray beard, side curls, and kippah. After
stammering repeatedly, he finally said his name.
Shoving the broom into the black teenager’s hand, Moshe
had said, “You. Benjamin. Sweep.” Mimicking sweeping, the
tzizits hanging from his tallit swinging back and forth, he
repeated his command. Bewildered, Benjamin did as he’d been
told.
Stepping off the ladder’s last rung, Benjamin wiped his
hands on the front of his bib apron. Despite its dearth of sales,
the shop never lacked for customers. Each day, people of every
race, color, creed, sex, age, etc… came to the shop from near
and far. Be it children bearing broken toys or adults with
something needing attention or repairs, the routine never
differed. Moshe would take whatever they brought into the
back room. After spending a few moments there, where he kept
a copy of the Torah on a small wooden desk with a metal
folding chair, he’d emerge with the item functioning perfectly
and looking new. Any attempts at payment were always
declined. Instead, Moshe would hand the customer their item
and wish them a good day with a smile.
At first, Benjamin found Moshe’s generosity unsettling.
But his concerns were allayed when Moshe paid him that first
Friday. Since then, every week as they closed the shop for
Shabbat, Moshe would hand Benjamin his pay and say, “A
good week, eh Benjamin. God gave us many opportunities to
perform the mitzvah of tzedakah.”
At that, Benjamin always shook his head. While getting
paid, like Moshe’s ability to fix whatever was brought to the
shop seemed like miracles, Moshe’s constant talk of God made
little sense to him.
“You called,” said Benjamin, entering the backroom.
Moshe, seated on the metal folding chair, his back to the
doorway, did not answer. Benjamin walked over, touched him
on the shoulder, and Moshe slumped forward. Benjamin darted
from the room, snatched up the receiver of the black rotary
phone on the counter and dialed 9-1-1.
An ambulance quickly arrived and the EMTs determined
that Moshe had suffered a heart attack. Over their protests,
Benjamin insisted on accompanying Moshe to the hospital.
While Moshe was rushed into the emergency unit, Benjamin
stood alone with his hopes and fears.
For four whole days, Moshe teetered on a hair-thin line
between life and death. Having no next of kin, no one was
permitted to see him, not even Benjamin, who arrived early
each morning and remained until late evening.
On the fifth day, Moshe opened his eyes and asked for
Benjamin. As he stood beside the bed looking at Moshe,
Benjamin did not know what to say. Smiling, Moshe patted his
hand. Then he asked if Benjamin had been tending to the shop.
Benjamin told him the shop had remained closed.
Moshe sighed. “Shop must be open, Benjamin.”
“But… But people will come. I...”
“Let them come. Pshaw. Give me paper and pencil,” said
Moshe gesturing toward the small cabinet beside the bed. With
a trembling hand, he wrote, “bhvakasha elohim. lazor lcha
msharet tsanua vneeman betikun haolam.” Then he handed the
paper to Benjamin.
Benjamin stared at the strange words, shaking his head.
“Tikkun Olam,” said Moshe. “You, Benjamin, must mend
what is broken.”
“But I...”
“Put hand on Torah. Say words.” He tapped the paper.
“Tikkun Olam,” repeated Moshe, firmly tapping the paper.
“Repair of the world. Is every person’s responsibility.”
“But...”
“No but!” said Moshe, agitation in his voice. “Is
responsibility.”
“Fine!”
“Good!” Moshe fell back against the sheets and closed his
eyes. Standing over him, Benjamin watched Moshe’s lips
move, forming words like he was chanting, but in some foreign
language.
Standing in front of the antique shop, Benjamin pulled out
his keys and unlocked the front door. The tiny bell on the door
jingled as if issuing a call. Benjamin turned on the overhead
lights and headed to where he kept his apron and broom near the
back room.
As he approached the back room, he hesitated, then entered.
Pulling the paper Moshe had written on from his pocket, he
placed it on the desk beside the Torah and smoothed it out with
his hand. He heard the tiny bell inside the front door jingling
non-stop, summoning him. Heeding its call, he emerged from
the back room. There was much work to be done.
J L Higgs' short stories typically focus on life from the perspective of a black American. He has had over 40 publications and
been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Magazines publishing his work include Indiana Voice Journal, The Writing Disorder,
Contrary Magazine, Rigorous, Literally Stories, and The Remembered Arts Journal. He resides outside of Boston.
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/JL-Higgs-ArtistWriter-1433711619998262

Founder’s Favourites
Issue 8-Sept 2019
Thanks for
spending time with
my favourites.