HD 2019 - Issue 15

Halcyon Days - 2019 Issue 15 | 1

Halcyon Days—Issue 15
Founder | Monique Berry | Hamilton On Canada
Contributors
Mary Bone
4 Wild Mare
5 Saudade
17 Night Lights
Stella Mazur Preda
6 In the Shadow of Summer
7 The Coven
Andrei Fendley
8 The Changes of the Forest
R. Gerry Fabian
9 Permanent Marker
Gaiyle J. Connolly
10 Contrast
11 Cottage Haiku
11 Cottage Haiku
James Swafford
12 El Malpais, New Mexico
Emily Bilman
13 Triassic Gifts
Phil Huffy
14 October
15 In November
Ingrid Bruck
16 Texas Storm
22 Late Fall Evening
Robert Funderburk
18 Beyond Seasons
Mary Gaylord
19 Orchestra of Leaves
Sharon Frame Gay
20 The Seasons
Steven Tutino
23 Autumn
Emily Bilman
Pg 13
James Swafford
Pg 12
Robert Funderburk
Pg 18
Gaiyle J. Connolly
Pg 10, 11
Mary Bone
Pg 4, 5, 17
Sharon Frame Gay
Pg 20
Ingrid Bruck
Pg 16, 22
Phil Huffy
Pg 14, 15
Stella Mazur Preda
Pg 6, 7
Cover | Bereta—stock.adobe.com
Halcyon Days Magazine
ISSN: 2291-0255
Frequency: Quarterly
Publisher | Designer: Monique Berry
Contact Info
http://halcyondaysmagazine.blogspot.ca
Twitter: @1websurfer
monique.editor@gmail.com
Special Notices
Halcyon Days has one time rights.
See website for subscription details.
No photocopies allowed.
Halcyon Days - 2019 Issue 15 | 2

Contributor Bios
Andrei Fendley is a student in engineering. He writes poetry in his spare time especially about nature. He began writing poetry when he
began his college career.
Emily Bilman teaches poetry in Geneva, CH. Her dissertation, The Psychodynamics of Poetry: Poetic Virtuality and Oedipal Sublimation
in the Poetry of T.S. Eliot and Paul Valéry was published by Lambert Academic in 2010 and Modern Ekphrasis in 2013 by Peter Lang. Her
poetry books, A Woman By A Well (2015), Resilience (2015), and The Threshold of Broken Waters (2018) were published by Troubador, UK.
Poems were published in The London Magazine, Poetry Salzburg Review, Offshoots, San Antonio Review, Expanded Field, Hunger Mountain,
Poetics Research, etc. She blogs on http://www.emiliebilman.wix.com/emily-bilman
Gaiyle J. Connolly, a poet and artist from Hamilton, Ontario, Canada, has numerous publications to her credit, some of them prizewinning.
They appear in local and international periodicals and journals. Her collection of poetry, Lifelines, which she also illustrated, was
published in 2015. She is Past President of the Tower Poetry Society in Hamilton and has been active in poetry groups in Mexico. She is
working on her second book of poetry for which once again she will provide illustrations. As a change of pace, she is trying her hand at short
story writing inspired by her childhood years spent in rural Quebec.
Ingrid Bruck writes poetry, grows wildflowers and makes jam. Finding Stella Maris, her debut chapbook, was released this year. Her poem,
Flying, was nominated for 2019 Best of the Net. Current work appears in Otata, Failed Haiku, Halcyon Days, Red Fez, Communicator’s League and
Leaves of Ink. Poetry website: www.ingridbruck.com
James Swafford has recently begun writing poetry after retiring from a long career teaching literature at Ithaca College in New York. Born
in Kansas, he is now a permanent resident of Canada, living in Toronto.
Mary Bone has been writing poetry and short stories since the age of twelve. Her poems have been published at Oklahoma Today Magazine,
Vita Brevis Press, Family Friend Poems, Literary Librarian, Spillwords, Literary Yard, Best Poetry Website and other places. Mary enjoys
drawing and painting in her spare time.
Mary Gaylord is a librarian in Indiana who seeks to uplift readers through poetry. Her poetry has recently been published in Castabout
Literature.
Phil Huffy had a long career doing something else. Now he writes early and often at his kitchen table in upstate NY. His work has been
frequently published, with pieces recently accepted by The Lyric, Schuykill Valley Journal, Gravel and Fourth & Sycamore.
R. Gerry Fabian is a retired English instructor. He has been publishing poetry since 1972 in various poetry magazines. His web page
is https://rgerryfabian.wordpress.com. He is the editor of Raw Dog Press https://rawdogpress.wordpress.com and has published two books of
his published poems, Parallels and Coming Out Of The Atlantic.. His novels, Memphis Masquerade, Getting Lucky (The Story) and Seventh
Sense. They are available at all ebook publishers including Amazon, Apple Books and Barnes and Noble.
Robert Funderburk was born by coal oil lamplight in a tin-roofed farmhouse near Liberty, MS. He is an LSU graduate (1965), and a
SSgt USAFR (1965-1971). He has had 16 poems accepted by literary magazines, 5 published thus far. One short story accepted by Blue Moon
Literary and Art Review. He lives with his wife, Barbara, on 50 acres of river wilderness in Olive Branch, LA.
Sharon Frame Gay grew up a child of the highway, playing by the side of the road. Her work has been internationally published in
anthologies and literary magazines, including Chicken Soup For The Soul, Typehouse, Fiction on the Web, Lowestoft Chronicle, Thrice Fiction,
Crannog, Saddlebag Dispatches and others. Her work has won prizes at Women on Writing, Rope and Wire Magazine, The Writing District and
Owl Hollow Press. She has been nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize. More information can be found on Amazon @ https://
www.amazon.com/-/e/B01HN5AGXK Facebook: Sharon Frame Gay-Writer. Twitter: sharonframegay
Stella Mazur Preda is a resident of Waterdown, Ontario, Canada and is the owner and publisher of Serengeti Press, a small press
publishing company, located in the Hamilton area. Since its opening in 2003, Serengeti Press has published 43 Canadian books. Serengeti Press
is now temporarily on hiatus. Stella Mazur Preda has been published in numerous Canadian anthologies and some US, most notably the
purchase of her poem My Mother’s Kitchen by Penguin Books, New York. She is a current member of Tower Poetry Society in Hamilton,
Ontario and The Ontario Poetry Society.
Steven Tutino is currently a graduate student at Concordia University in the process of completing an M.A. in Theological Studies.
He obtained a double major from Concordia as well in Honours English Literature and Theological Studies His poetry has appeared in
Concordia University’s Journal of Interdisciplinary Studies in Sexuality, The Paragon Journal and Halcyon Days. His artwork has appeared in
Word in the World, The Paragon Journal, The Minetta Review, Beautiful Minds Magazine, GFT Press: Ground Fresh Thursday, Michael
Jacobson's The New-Post Literate, The Omnicult, November Bees: Journal of art and literature, Inside the Bell Jar, and Hour After Happy Hour
Review. Steven currently resides in Montreal, Quebec.
Halcyon Days - 2019 Issue 15 | 3

Wild Mare
By Mary Bone
A wild mare
galloped along,
her long mane was flowing
in the breeze.
Autumn leaves rustled
around her.
The surroundings
were a picturesque
backdrop as the sun
went down.
Ainslie—stock.adobe.com
Halcyon Days - 2019 Issue 15 | 4

Saudade
By Mary Bone
The love that remains
peaceful thoughts in the twilight
nostalgic feelings
Юлия Колмогорцева—stock.adobe.com
Halcyon Days - 2019 Issue 15 | 5

The Coven
by Stella Mazur Preda
a hallowed sanctum in a secluded wood
a gathering of the poets’ coven
incantations of poetics herald
the arrival of the Autumnal Equinox
we rejoice in the celestial changes
taste fruits of the autumn harvest
elicit pleasures of the Muse
with offerings of literary delights
a Hunter’s Moon will soon follow
define halcyon days of Indian summer
an unrelenting euphoria too soon
obliterated by the winter solstice
dina—stock.adobe.com
Halcyon Days - 2019 Issue 15 | 6

In the Shadow of Summer
by Stella Mazur Preda
succulent berries bushes now bare
plums and crisp apples take centre stage
cornstalks resplendent in golden silk
welcome the harvest season
monarch butterflies swarm prepare for migration
chainsaws echo across fields
trees felled branches stripped logs sized
in preparation for winter warmth
in the kitchen preserves are bottled
delicacies of summer
sweeten bitter winter days
eskstock—stock.adobe.com
Halcyon Days - 2019 Issue 15 | 7

The Changes of the Forest
By Andrei Fendley
I once saw the tree beautifully green
But today it is the color of a bean
I saw a squirrel obtain its nuts
While the villagers warm their huts
I saw a squad of geese flying south
Each honking gleefully by mouth
A leaf on the ground
Tells us of fall is coming around
A forest once so bright
Turns golden while the air gives a chilly bite
red150770—stock.adobe.com
Halcyon Days - 2019 Issue 15 | 8

Permanent Marker
R. Gerry Fabian
Morning breaks slowly
like a spaniel stalking
a plump cottontail.
An aroma of coffee
creeps up the stairs.
The thud of the paper
on the porch confirms
the hour.
You reach over and
intertwine your fingers
in mine.
My tongue slides
across my dry lips
reliving
the cherry gloss kisses
that cause my heart
to beat with effulgence
some twenty years later.
Sue Colvil—stock.adobe.com
Halcyon Days - 2019 Issue 15 | 9

Contrast
By Gaiyle J. Connolly
Delicate
Queen Anne’s Lace
reigns out of place
crowning
common railway tracks.
One sways
the other is still.
Though different in station
both gleam compatible
in linear design
for their subjects to behold.
c | Reimar—stock.adobe.com
Halcyon Days - 2019 Issue 15 | 10

Cottage Haiku
By Gaiyle J. Connolly
In bed listening
to rain on the old tin roof
I’m a child again.
c | schankz—stock.adobe.com
Cottage Haiku
By Gaiyle J. Connolly
Til the old stove glows
huddle under the blankets
the wood sweet-smelling.
c | Victoria Nefedova—stock.adobe.com
Halcyon Days - 2019 Issue 15 | 11

El Malpaís, New Mexico
By James Swafford
Conquistadors called it badland, maybe because
it couldn’t be ranched or dug for gold, or maybe
(though I doubt it) as a trick, like calling Iceland
Iceland, to ward off those who would love it if they came.
The great lava flows, layers on layers, the newest
after three thousand years still black with the fire
that birthed it: bad land for exploiting, good for
thinking beyond frills and fripperies, for meditating
the long slow cycles of earth, of fire and ice,
the inexhaustible work of plants, the secret spaces
of caves, the sweep of air and depth of sky,
the motions of unseen lives that stir scrub juniper
and Apache plume, all things great and small,
unconquered and essential.
c traveller70—stock.adobe.com
Halcyon Days - 2019 Issue 15 | 12

Triassic Gifts
By Emily Bilman
The warm water feels like baptism
On my body as I immerse myself
Into the weight of water charged
With iron, copper, calcium, salt
And fluoride, the mountain’s
Triassic gifts that loosen and relax
My muscles like striated mango-flesh.
I exercise my legs, counting to ten –
Twenty – thirty – forty – then, begin
Swimming back and forth and back again
Towards the long glass windows
Disclosing a congregation of chamois.
I, then, see the snow-capped slopes
Through the large windows and a closer look
Disclose huge pine cones trailing on the tall
Tenebrous larches like the breasts of abundance.
The next morning, a howling icy wind spiraled
Hail and snow on the windows, swirling the snow
From the rooftops, bending the tall pines.
JUAN CARLOS MUNOZ—stock.adobe.com
Halcyon Days - 2019 Issue 15 | 13

October
By Phil Huffy
Again sweet summer has to go,
her song is nearly through,
as fall stands ready in the wings
just waiting for his cue.
This transformation we expect
indeed, it’s bittersweet;
we’ll watch in peace as leaves collect
or cartwheel down the street.
C Lamplightersdv—stock.adobe.com
Halcyon Days - 2019 Issue 15 | 14

In November
By Phil Huffy
The poet who would speak of fall
and bid the other seasons wait
may in her thoughts and voice recall
fine vistas then to celebrate,
for multitudes of forest views
grow keener with each passing day
and far off things her gaze pursues
are offered in a bold array.
Down by the pond below the hill
near silver maples now undressed
a doe may stand and drink her fill,
enjoying there a moment’s rest,
and through bare boughs descends a glow,
direct and brilliant in its flight,
revealing to the ground below
a wave of golden autumn light.
Such things the poet may advise
to bring us to her special place
and life seen through poetic eyes
may well be worthy of our grace.
Erin Cardigan—stock. adobe.com
Halcyon Days - 2019 Issue 15 | 15

Texas Storm
By Ingrid Bruck
lightning ignites fourth of July fireworks
over prairie and highway,
thunder rumples and roars in September
light trails flicker from tree to tree in the sky forest
ripples zip branch to branch and down a tree trunk
bolts explode on rolling grasslands in the plains
oil derrick skeletons indifferent keep pumping
while overhead a foil net crackles,
flows and surges to ground
we’ve driven ten hours from Four Corners,
four more to go to reach Dallas
clouds open, torrents pour
sheet lightning stretches for miles
the windshield wipers work double time
we slow down to keep control of the car
a sports car zips by in a hurry,
slips and spins out in front of us
my husband yanks our car two lanes over
we swerve and avoid a collision
the other car settles catty-wampus and broadside
we toddle past,
take the slow way home
and enjoy a vast light show
IgorZh—stock.adobe.com
Halcyon Days - 2019 Issue 15 | 16

Night Lights
By Mary Bone
Morning stars above
twinkle and glitter all around
wonderful night lights.
Yuriy Mazur—stock.adobe.com
Halcyon Days - 2019 Issue 15 | 17

Beyond Seasons
by Robert Funderburk
The leaves of autumn’s
frosty winds,
red and gold and rust,
draw more beauty
from death
than sunlight
and gentle rain
on summer trees
could ever offer.
And this solitary pilgrim,
captured by autumn’s
blaze of color, when
he takes his final
woodland walk,
what then?
He lifts from this
tabernacle of
of earthly shadow,
this life of vapor
and dust, to live
beyond the stars
and shine in the endless
fields of Heaven.
371865—Pixabay.com
Halcyon Days - 2019 Issue 15 | 18

Orchestra of Leaves
By Mary Gaylord
Listen
to how autumn trees sing
each grove a band, with its own tune
as leaves flutter
with Fall winds
each breeze, a composition
each note, a different tone
each song unique, a thousand leaves
color harmony, full
blown
while skies may darken
and lightening dance
a thunder song
drums in,
yet each tree
still plays
its charming chord
while earth, on axis spins
every day, a new orchestra
leaves and wind, swing-time,
whilst nature, the conductor
lifts high
a leafy chime
c | rolffimages—stock.adobe.com
Halcyon Days - 2019 Issue 15 | 19

Seasons
By Sharon Frame Gay
"T he seasons, they just go by," thought Marian as
she looked at her yard lined with leaves in
brilliant oranges and reds.
"Now, how will I ever rake them up?" She sighed, then
walked back to her chair near the fireplace.
Marian was 85 years old and lived alone. Her elderly
cat, Stewie, died last year. Marian was lonely without
him, but at her age there was a chance that she might
sicken and die. Her pet would have to find a new home
without her. Just the thought made her sad.
Every winter, the neighbors shoveled her sidewalk, a
wonderful time that Marian looked forward to each year.
She scurried around making hot cider, brought out cookies
Halcyon Days - 2019 Issue 15 | 20
IgorZh—stock.adobe.com
that she had baked and put in the freezer at the first hint of
snow. She'd invite them all in and feed them, enjoying the
voices in her hallway, people in her kitchen.
This year, it was different. The neighborhood had
changed. Familiar families had moved away. Children had
grown. People were transferred. Now all that was left
were faces she didn't recognize. People from foreign
countries. India. China. Mexico. Not a one stopped in to
see how she was doing. If by chance she was sitting on
her front porch, they scurried by with nary a wave.
"I'll bet they've never even seen snow, much less know
how to shovel it," she mused as the leaves hurled
themselves to the ground. Yesterday when she walked to
the mailbox, there was a nip in the air. The sky looked
like snow.
(Continued on page 21)

Her son John lived far away in California. He tried to
convince her to move closer, but she resisted. This was the
home where she raised him, the house that weathered all
the storms that come with marriage, a child, a lifetime.
Why, right there on the wall was a tiny mark from the last
time she had measured John. He was six feet tall. Eighteen
years old. Now he shuffled along in his cardigan sweaters,
balding head bowed as he walked. Had it been that many
years since the wall had been painted? She shook her
head, glanced away.
That night the wind howled down the chimney. The
house groaned, as though it were trembling with concern
over the coming winter. Cold rain lashed at the windows,
and boards creaked like voices from long ago.
The next morning, there was frost on the windows,
dusting the rooftops and the streets. Marian worried that
the food she ordered from the local grocer might not be
delivered today. There were only crusts left in a bag of
bread in her pantry. She ate them with jam, and sat at the
kitchen window, watching menacing clouds scud by.
There was a knock on the door. Marian shuffled down
the hall, asked "who's there?"
"Your neighbor, Mira", said a voice in a lilting accent.
Marian opened the door and gazed into the face of a
woman she had seen countless times driving up and down
the street. She had small children, Marian knew, tiny faces
peering out the window as the car sped by.
"Mrs. Curtis?"
"Call me Marian".
"Marian, then. I think I received some of your mail by
accident." She held out several envelopes, placed them in
Marian's hands.
"Well, thank you very much. Might you come in for a
while?"
"Oh no, thank you. I have to go." Mira smiled and
backed away, walked to the end of the porch, then stopped
and looked back.
"If you need anything, Marian", her voice hesitated.
"Anything at all, please call on me." She rubbed her hands
together, smiled nervously. "It's so cold today!"
"Is it cold where you come from?"
Mira glanced around shyly, pulled her scarf closer
about her head. "No, it's warm where I used to live. This
is all so different." Her voice trailed off, and she looked
sad.
"It seems like there's a lot of new folks around here,"
Marian said, shifted from one foot to another.
"Yes, I suppose there is. Lots of new things to learn."
Mira smiled again, took a step back, folded her hands in
front of her. "Well, goodbye now."
"Goodbye, Mira."
That afternoon Marian had an idea. She brought out
the cookbook, searched through the recipes, started
baking. The house soon filled with the aroma of vanilla
and chocolate. Later, she walked to her mailbox with
several letters, tossed them in and raised the flag for pick
up.
One week later, there was a knock on the door. When
Marian opened it, six women stood on the porch, all with
an envelope in her hand.
"Come in, everyone" Marian smiled. She stepped aside
as they entered the house. Her neighbors sat in the living
room and visited for hours. Each one was new to the area,
had no idea what to expect, and had a difficult time
speaking English. Marian filled them in on the weather,
the town, where to buy the best vegetables, the finest cuts
of meats. They all had such a wonderful time that they
decided to do it again the next week. And the next.
One day, right before Christmas, Mira came down the
walk with a basket on her arm. She smiled at Marian and
asked "may I come in?"
"Of course."
"My cat had a litter in October. They have all found
good homes. I have one kitten left." She pulled a small
gray kitten out of the basket, set it on the floor. The cat
looked up at Marian with green eyes, it's tiny face so cute
that Marian just had to pick her up, hold it to her neck.
"She's yours if you want her," grinned Mira.
Marian hesitated, swallowed. She felt the cat's
heartbeat against her chest, her hand cupped it's little head.
"Oh honey, I would love to, but I can't. What if
something happens to me? What would the kitty do then?"
Mira touched Marian's arm gently. "I will promise
you, my friend. No matter where we are - no matter where
you go, or where I may move....I will always give your
kitten a home with me, should you ever find that need."
Marian cried, held the cat closer.
"Yes! I would love her!"
Now Marian sat with the kitten in her lap, looking out
at her driveway. Neighbors had gathered with shovels and
snow blowers, new faces outside her window, laughing
and working in the freshly fallen snow.
In the kitchen were the wives, warming the cider and
arranging cookies on trays, speaking in so many beautiful
accents.
"Ah, the seasons, " Marian thought, "They just go by."
Then she set the kitten down and walked into the kitchen
to join her friends.
Halcyon Days - 2019 Issue 15 | 21

Late Fall Evening
By Ingrid Bruck
blackbirds land
in bare trees
the chirping brightens
the leafless woods
wind stirs the chimes
falling rain freezes
the sidewalk glazes
slush coats weeds
fireplace crackle sends
blue smoke curls up the chimney
I smell the wood smoke
and follow it home
oktay—stock.adobe.com
Halcyon Days - 2019 Issue 15 | 22

ankdesign—stock.adobe.com
Autumn
By Steven Tutino
I
n Autumn, I ponder with delight the thought of
creamy maple syrup butter melted on toasted bread. A
lick or two before the first bite. “What are you
doing?” my sister askes in perplexity. “I like the taste
of melted maple syrup butter,” I tell her. “Besides, its
autumn.”
I dream in colour and imagine walking through a forest
of leaves with a dear friend, a lover, someone close to my
heart. Autumn rain and tree branches devoid of colour, as
the leaves, once so green, descend down to their new abode
like Persephone going down to rule the underworld.
Autumn is symbolic of meaning, filled with a sense of loss
yet the realization that with loss comes great potential and
eventual renewal. Autumn is about intimacy and solace and
seeking pleasure in the warmth which comes from
harvesting tomatoes and peppers and the love, its scent of
cinnamon and pumpkin pie and all my old autumn loves. In
Autumn, I say farewell to my grandmother’s garden and her
once cherished fig tree now buried underneath the earth.
She tells me the descent into the hardness of earth is the
promise of fresh new growth. I remember walking through
Indian summer one Friday afternoon after school and
imagining an abundance of golden coins falling from the
sky like a miracle God had sent into my grandmother’s
house, her kitchen table like a display in a museum
showcasing the diversity and richness of Scilian culture:
home-made sausage, stir-fried potatoes and onions, sliced
red peppers and eggplants stored in bottles of fresh extra
virgin olive oil, jars of oil cured olives, both black and
green (even cured, the saltiness is sill there), blood oranges
and the trippa and ricotta. And the basil is stored, made into
pesto. The arancini overflow with mozzarella. I remember
our extended family gathering together each year at my
grandmother’s house, turning fifteen bushels of tomatoes
into fresh tomato sauce, stored in jars, dispersed to
neighbours and friends. “Do you think we should make the
tomato sauce this year? I’m not feeling it anymore…” Each
year she tells me the same thing. But then she just can’t
help herself. We can’t help ourselves…
There is something decadent about picking grapes from
the vine tree in Indian summer, where the sun descends
down like an intangible dream and fills the world with a
golden amber so rich and pure like maple syrup. In autumn,
the forgotten leaves of summer speak for themselves and in
the rain, my thoughts and feelings are most sacred. In
autumn, I wander lonely in my thoughts through golden
fields of lost summer loves and wonder where my love
went. There is something about autumn which enriches my
consciousness and being. In Autumn, I take solace in
opening up the Bible to any random page and finding
comfort in the love which God sent. Walking through
autumn together with you is no mere dream. I yearn for
pumpkin spice and my warm winter scarf, because autumn
is a reminder of the power of goodbye.
Halcyon Days - 2019 Issue 15 | 23

Halcyon Days - 2019 Issue 15 | 24