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Halcyon Days - <strong>2019</strong> <strong>Issue</strong> <strong>15</strong> | 1
Halcyon Days—<strong>Issue</strong> <strong>15</strong><br />
Founder | Monique Berry | Hamilton On Canada<br />
Contributors<br />
Mary Bone<br />
4 Wild Mare<br />
5 Saudade<br />
17 Night Lights<br />
Stella Mazur Preda<br />
6 In the Shadow of Summer<br />
7 The Coven<br />
Andrei Fendley<br />
8 The Changes of the Forest<br />
R. Gerry Fabian<br />
9 Permanent Marker<br />
Gaiyle J. Connolly<br />
10 Contrast<br />
11 Cottage Haiku<br />
11 Cottage Haiku<br />
James Swafford<br />
12 El Malpais, New Mexico<br />
Emily Bilman<br />
13 Triassic Gifts<br />
Phil Huffy<br />
14 October<br />
<strong>15</strong> In November<br />
Ingrid Bruck<br />
16 Texas Storm<br />
22 Late Fall Evening<br />
Robert Funderburk<br />
18 Beyond Seasons<br />
Mary Gaylord<br />
19 Orchestra of Leaves<br />
Sharon Frame Gay<br />
20 The Seasons<br />
Steven Tutino<br />
23 Autumn<br />
Emily Bilman<br />
Pg 13<br />
James Swafford<br />
Pg 12<br />
Robert Funderburk<br />
Pg 18<br />
Gaiyle J. Connolly<br />
Pg 10, 11<br />
Mary Bone<br />
Pg 4, 5, 17<br />
Sharon Frame Gay<br />
Pg 20<br />
Ingrid Bruck<br />
Pg 16, 22<br />
Phil Huffy<br />
Pg 14, <strong>15</strong><br />
Stella Mazur Preda<br />
Pg 6, 7<br />
Cover | Bereta—stock.adobe.com<br />
Halcyon Days Magazine<br />
ISSN: 2291-0255<br />
Frequency: Quarterly<br />
Publisher | Designer: Monique Berry<br />
Contact Info<br />
http://halcyondaysmagazine.blogspot.ca<br />
Twitter: @1websurfer<br />
monique.editor@gmail.com<br />
Special Notices<br />
Halcyon Days has one time rights.<br />
See website for subscription details.<br />
No photocopies allowed.<br />
Halcyon Days - <strong>2019</strong> <strong>Issue</strong> <strong>15</strong> | 2
Contributor Bios<br />
Andrei Fendley is a student in engineering. He writes poetry in his spare time especially about nature. He began writing poetry when he<br />
began his college career.<br />
Emily Bilman teaches poetry in Geneva, CH. Her dissertation, The Psychodynamics of Poetry: Poetic Virtuality and Oedipal Sublimation<br />
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<br />
poetry books, A Woman By A Well (20<strong>15</strong>), Resilience (20<strong>15</strong>), and The Threshold of Broken Waters (2018) were published by Troubador, UK.<br />
Poems were published in The London Magazine, Poetry Salzburg Review, Offshoots, San Antonio Review, Expanded Field, Hunger Mountain,<br />
Poetics Research, etc. She blogs on http://www.emiliebilman.wix.com/emily-bilman<br />
Gaiyle J. Connolly, a poet and artist from Hamilton, Ontario, Canada, has numerous publications to her credit, some of them prizewinning.<br />
They appear in local and international periodicals and journals. Her collection of poetry, Lifelines, which she also illustrated, was<br />
published in 20<strong>15</strong>. She is Past President of the Tower Poetry Society in Hamilton and has been active in poetry groups in Mexico. She is<br />
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<br />
story writing inspired by her childhood years spent in rural Quebec.<br />
Ingrid Bruck writes poetry, grows wildflowers and makes jam. Finding Stella Maris, her debut chapbook, was released this year. Her poem,<br />
Flying, was nominated for <strong>2019</strong> Best of the Net. Current work appears in Otata, Failed Haiku, Halcyon Days, Red Fez, Communicator’s League and<br />
Leaves of Ink. Poetry website: www.ingridbruck.com<br />
James Swafford has recently begun writing poetry after retiring from a long career teaching literature at Ithaca College in New York. Born<br />
in Kansas, he is now a permanent resident of Canada, living in Toronto.<br />
Mary Bone has been writing poetry and short stories since the age of twelve. Her poems have been published at Oklahoma Today Magazine,<br />
Vita Brevis Press, Family Friend Poems, Literary Librarian, Spillwords, Literary Yard, Best Poetry Website and other places. Mary enjoys<br />
drawing and painting in her spare time.<br />
Mary Gaylord is a librarian in Indiana who seeks to uplift readers through poetry. Her poetry has recently been published in Castabout<br />
Literature.<br />
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<br />
frequently published, with pieces recently accepted by The Lyric, Schuykill Valley Journal, Gravel and Fourth & Sycamore.<br />
R. Gerry Fabian is a retired English instructor. He has been publishing poetry since 1972 in various poetry magazines. His web page<br />
is https://rgerryfabian.wordpress.com. He is the editor of Raw Dog Press https://rawdogpress.wordpress.com and has published two books of<br />
his published poems, Parallels and Coming Out Of The Atlantic.. His novels, Memphis Masquerade, Getting Lucky (The Story) and Seventh<br />
Sense. They are available at all ebook publishers including Amazon, Apple Books and Barnes and Noble.<br />
Robert Funderburk was born by coal oil lamplight in a tin-roofed farmhouse near Liberty, MS. He is an LSU graduate (1965), and a<br />
SSgt USAFR (1965-1971). He has had 16 poems accepted by literary magazines, 5 published thus far. One short story accepted by Blue Moon<br />
Literary and Art Review. He lives with his wife, Barbara, on 50 acres of river wilderness in Olive Branch, LA.<br />
Sharon Frame Gay grew up a child of the highway, playing by the side of the road. Her work has been internationally published in<br />
anthologies and literary magazines, including Chicken Soup For The Soul, Typehouse, Fiction on the Web, Lowestoft Chronicle, Thrice Fiction,<br />
Crannog, Saddlebag Dispatches and others. Her work has won prizes at Women on Writing, Rope and Wire Magazine, The Writing District and<br />
Owl Hollow Press. She has been nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize. More information can be found on Amazon @ https://<br />
www.amazon.com/-/e/B01HN5AGXK Facebook: Sharon Frame Gay-Writer. Twitter: sharonframegay<br />
Stella Mazur Preda is a resident of Waterdown, Ontario, Canada and is the owner and publisher of Serengeti Press, a small press<br />
publishing company, located in the Hamilton area. Since its opening in 2003, Serengeti Press has published 43 Canadian books. Serengeti Press<br />
is now temporarily on hiatus. Stella Mazur Preda has been published in numerous Canadian anthologies and some US, most notably the<br />
purchase of her poem My Mother’s Kitchen by Penguin Books, New York. She is a current member of Tower Poetry Society in Hamilton,<br />
Ontario and The Ontario Poetry Society.<br />
Steven Tutino is currently a graduate student at Concordia University in the process of completing an M.A. in Theological Studies.<br />
He obtained a double major from Concordia as well in Honours English Literature and Theological Studies His poetry has appeared in<br />
Concordia University’s Journal of Interdisciplinary Studies in Sexuality, The Paragon Journal and Halcyon Days. His artwork has appeared in<br />
Word in the World, The Paragon Journal, The Minetta Review, Beautiful Minds Magazine, GFT Press: Ground Fresh Thursday, Michael<br />
Jacobson's The New-Post Literate, The Omnicult, November Bees: Journal of art and literature, Inside the Bell Jar, and Hour After Happy Hour<br />
Review. Steven currently resides in Montreal, Quebec.<br />
Halcyon Days - <strong>2019</strong> <strong>Issue</strong> <strong>15</strong> | 3
Wild Mare<br />
By Mary Bone<br />
A wild mare<br />
galloped along,<br />
her long mane was flowing<br />
in the breeze.<br />
Autumn leaves rustled<br />
around her.<br />
The surroundings<br />
were a picturesque<br />
backdrop as the sun<br />
went down.<br />
Ainslie—stock.adobe.com<br />
Halcyon Days - <strong>2019</strong> <strong>Issue</strong> <strong>15</strong> | 4
Saudade<br />
By Mary Bone<br />
The love that remains<br />
peaceful thoughts in the twilight<br />
nostalgic feelings<br />
Юлия Колмогорцева—stock.adobe.com<br />
Halcyon Days - <strong>2019</strong> <strong>Issue</strong> <strong>15</strong> | 5
The Coven<br />
by Stella Mazur Preda<br />
a hallowed sanctum in a secluded wood<br />
a gathering of the poets’ coven<br />
incantations of poetics herald<br />
the arrival of the Autumnal Equinox<br />
we rejoice in the celestial changes<br />
taste fruits of the autumn harvest<br />
elicit pleasures of the Muse<br />
with offerings of literary delights<br />
a Hunter’s Moon will soon follow<br />
define halcyon days of Indian summer<br />
an unrelenting euphoria too soon<br />
obliterated by the winter solstice<br />
dina—stock.adobe.com<br />
Halcyon Days - <strong>2019</strong> <strong>Issue</strong> <strong>15</strong> | 6
In the Shadow of Summer<br />
by Stella Mazur Preda<br />
succulent berries bushes now bare<br />
plums and crisp apples take centre stage<br />
cornstalks resplendent in golden silk<br />
welcome the harvest season<br />
monarch butterflies swarm prepare for migration<br />
chainsaws echo across fields<br />
trees felled branches stripped logs sized<br />
in preparation for winter warmth<br />
in the kitchen preserves are bottled<br />
delicacies of summer<br />
sweeten bitter winter days<br />
eskstock—stock.adobe.com<br />
Halcyon Days - <strong>2019</strong> <strong>Issue</strong> <strong>15</strong> | 7
The Changes of the Forest<br />
By Andrei Fendley<br />
I once saw the tree beautifully green<br />
But today it is the color of a bean<br />
I saw a squirrel obtain its nuts<br />
While the villagers warm their huts<br />
I saw a squad of geese flying south<br />
Each honking gleefully by mouth<br />
A leaf on the ground<br />
Tells us of fall is coming around<br />
A forest once so bright<br />
Turns golden while the air gives a chilly bite<br />
red<strong>15</strong>0770—stock.adobe.com<br />
Halcyon Days - <strong>2019</strong> <strong>Issue</strong> <strong>15</strong> | 8
Permanent Marker<br />
R. Gerry Fabian<br />
Morning breaks slowly<br />
like a spaniel stalking<br />
a plump cottontail.<br />
An aroma of coffee<br />
creeps up the stairs.<br />
The thud of the paper<br />
on the porch confirms<br />
the hour.<br />
You reach over and<br />
intertwine your fingers<br />
in mine.<br />
My tongue slides<br />
across my dry lips<br />
reliving<br />
the cherry gloss kisses<br />
that cause my heart<br />
to beat with effulgence<br />
some twenty years later.<br />
Sue Colvil—stock.adobe.com<br />
Halcyon Days - <strong>2019</strong> <strong>Issue</strong> <strong>15</strong> | 9
Contrast<br />
By Gaiyle J. Connolly<br />
Delicate<br />
Queen Anne’s Lace<br />
reigns out of place<br />
crowning<br />
common railway tracks.<br />
One sways<br />
the other is still.<br />
Though different in station<br />
both gleam compatible<br />
in linear design<br />
for their subjects to behold.<br />
c | Reimar—stock.adobe.com<br />
Halcyon Days - <strong>2019</strong> <strong>Issue</strong> <strong>15</strong> | 10
Cottage Haiku<br />
By Gaiyle J. Connolly<br />
In bed listening<br />
to rain on the old tin roof<br />
I’m a child again.<br />
c | schankz—stock.adobe.com<br />
Cottage Haiku<br />
By Gaiyle J. Connolly<br />
Til the old stove glows<br />
huddle under the blankets<br />
the wood sweet-smelling.<br />
c | Victoria Nefedova—stock.adobe.com<br />
Halcyon Days - <strong>2019</strong> <strong>Issue</strong> <strong>15</strong> | 11
El Malpaís, New Mexico<br />
By James Swafford<br />
Conquistadors called it badland, maybe because<br />
it couldn’t be ranched or dug for gold, or maybe<br />
(though I doubt it) as a trick, like calling Iceland<br />
Iceland, to ward off those who would love it if they came.<br />
The great lava flows, layers on layers, the newest<br />
after three thousand years still black with the fire<br />
that birthed it: bad land for exploiting, good for<br />
thinking beyond frills and fripperies, for meditating<br />
the long slow cycles of earth, of fire and ice,<br />
the inexhaustible work of plants, the secret spaces<br />
of caves, the sweep of air and depth of sky,<br />
the motions of unseen lives that stir scrub juniper<br />
and Apache plume, all things great and small,<br />
unconquered and essential.<br />
c traveller70—stock.adobe.com<br />
Halcyon Days - <strong>2019</strong> <strong>Issue</strong> <strong>15</strong> | 12
Triassic Gifts<br />
By Emily Bilman<br />
The warm water feels like baptism<br />
On my body as I immerse myself<br />
Into the weight of water charged<br />
With iron, copper, calcium, salt<br />
And fluoride, the mountain’s<br />
Triassic gifts that loosen and relax<br />
My muscles like striated mango-flesh.<br />
I exercise my legs, counting to ten –<br />
Twenty – thirty – forty – then, begin<br />
Swimming back and forth and back again<br />
Towards the long glass windows<br />
Disclosing a congregation of chamois.<br />
I, then, see the snow-capped slopes<br />
Through the large windows and a closer look<br />
Disclose huge pine cones trailing on the tall<br />
Tenebrous larches like the breasts of abundance.<br />
The next morning, a howling icy wind spiraled<br />
Hail and snow on the windows, swirling the snow<br />
From the rooftops, bending the tall pines.<br />
JUAN CARLOS MUNOZ—stock.adobe.com<br />
Halcyon Days - <strong>2019</strong> <strong>Issue</strong> <strong>15</strong> | 13
October<br />
By Phil Huffy<br />
Again sweet summer has to go,<br />
her song is nearly through,<br />
as fall stands ready in the wings<br />
just waiting for his cue.<br />
This transformation we expect<br />
indeed, it’s bittersweet;<br />
we’ll watch in peace as leaves collect<br />
or cartwheel down the street.<br />
C Lamplightersdv—stock.adobe.com<br />
Halcyon Days - <strong>2019</strong> <strong>Issue</strong> <strong>15</strong> | 14
In November<br />
By Phil Huffy<br />
The poet who would speak of fall<br />
and bid the other seasons wait<br />
may in her thoughts and voice recall<br />
fine vistas then to celebrate,<br />
for multitudes of forest views<br />
grow keener with each passing day<br />
and far off things her gaze pursues<br />
are offered in a bold array.<br />
Down by the pond below the hill<br />
near silver maples now undressed<br />
a doe may stand and drink her fill,<br />
enjoying there a moment’s rest,<br />
and through bare boughs descends a glow,<br />
direct and brilliant in its flight,<br />
revealing to the ground below<br />
a wave of golden autumn light.<br />
Such things the poet may advise<br />
to bring us to her special place<br />
and life seen through poetic eyes<br />
may well be worthy of our grace.<br />
Erin Cardigan—stock. adobe.com<br />
Halcyon Days - <strong>2019</strong> <strong>Issue</strong> <strong>15</strong> | <strong>15</strong>
Texas Storm<br />
By Ingrid Bruck<br />
lightning ignites fourth of July fireworks<br />
over prairie and highway,<br />
thunder rumples and roars in September<br />
light trails flicker from tree to tree in the sky forest<br />
ripples zip branch to branch and down a tree trunk<br />
bolts explode on rolling grasslands in the plains<br />
oil derrick skeletons indifferent keep pumping<br />
while overhead a foil net crackles,<br />
flows and surges to ground<br />
we’ve driven ten hours from Four Corners,<br />
four more to go to reach Dallas<br />
clouds open, torrents pour<br />
sheet lightning stretches for miles<br />
the windshield wipers work double time<br />
we slow down to keep control of the car<br />
a sports car zips by in a hurry,<br />
slips and spins out in front of us<br />
my husband yanks our car two lanes over<br />
we swerve and avoid a collision<br />
the other car settles catty-wampus and broadside<br />
we toddle past,<br />
take the slow way home<br />
and enjoy a vast light show<br />
IgorZh—stock.adobe.com<br />
Halcyon Days - <strong>2019</strong> <strong>Issue</strong> <strong>15</strong> | 16
Night Lights<br />
By Mary Bone<br />
Morning stars above<br />
twinkle and glitter all around<br />
wonderful night lights.<br />
Yuriy Mazur—stock.adobe.com<br />
Halcyon Days - <strong>2019</strong> <strong>Issue</strong> <strong>15</strong> | 17
Beyond Seasons<br />
by Robert Funderburk<br />
The leaves of autumn’s<br />
frosty winds,<br />
red and gold and rust,<br />
draw more beauty<br />
from death<br />
than sunlight<br />
and gentle rain<br />
on summer trees<br />
could ever offer.<br />
And this solitary pilgrim,<br />
captured by autumn’s<br />
blaze of color, when<br />
he takes his final<br />
woodland walk,<br />
what then?<br />
He lifts from this<br />
tabernacle of<br />
of earthly shadow,<br />
this life of vapor<br />
and dust, to live<br />
beyond the stars<br />
and shine in the endless<br />
fields of Heaven.<br />
371865—Pixabay.com<br />
Halcyon Days - <strong>2019</strong> <strong>Issue</strong> <strong>15</strong> | 18
Orchestra of Leaves<br />
By Mary Gaylord<br />
Listen<br />
to how autumn trees sing<br />
each grove a band, with its own tune<br />
as leaves flutter<br />
with Fall winds<br />
each breeze, a composition<br />
each note, a different tone<br />
each song unique, a thousand leaves<br />
color harmony, full<br />
blown<br />
while skies may darken<br />
and lightening dance<br />
a thunder song<br />
drums in,<br />
yet each tree<br />
still plays<br />
its charming chord<br />
while earth, on axis spins<br />
every day, a new orchestra<br />
leaves and wind, swing-time,<br />
whilst nature, the conductor<br />
lifts high<br />
a leafy chime<br />
c | rolffimages—stock.adobe.com<br />
Halcyon Days - <strong>2019</strong> <strong>Issue</strong> <strong>15</strong> | 19
Seasons<br />
By Sharon Frame Gay<br />
"T he seasons, they just go by," thought Marian as<br />
she looked at her yard lined with leaves in<br />
brilliant oranges and reds.<br />
"Now, how will I ever rake them up?" She sighed, then<br />
walked back to her chair near the fireplace.<br />
Marian was 85 years old and lived alone. Her elderly<br />
cat, Stewie, died last year. Marian was lonely without<br />
him, but at her age there was a chance that she might<br />
sicken and die. Her pet would have to find a new home<br />
without her. Just the thought made her sad.<br />
Every winter, the neighbors shoveled her sidewalk, a<br />
wonderful time that Marian looked forward to each year.<br />
She scurried around making hot cider, brought out cookies<br />
Halcyon Days - <strong>2019</strong> <strong>Issue</strong> <strong>15</strong> | 20<br />
IgorZh—stock.adobe.com<br />
that she had baked and put in the freezer at the first hint of<br />
snow. She'd invite them all in and feed them, enjoying the<br />
voices in her hallway, people in her kitchen.<br />
This year, it was different. The neighborhood had<br />
changed. Familiar families had moved away. Children had<br />
grown. People were transferred. Now all that was left<br />
were faces she didn't recognize. People from foreign<br />
countries. India. China. Mexico. Not a one stopped in to<br />
see how she was doing. If by chance she was sitting on<br />
her front porch, they scurried by with nary a wave.<br />
"I'll bet they've never even seen snow, much less know<br />
how to shovel it," she mused as the leaves hurled<br />
themselves to the ground. Yesterday when she walked to<br />
the mailbox, there was a nip in the air. The sky looked<br />
like snow.<br />
(Continued on page 21)
Her son John lived far away in California. He tried to<br />
convince her to move closer, but she resisted. This was the<br />
home where she raised him, the house that weathered all<br />
the storms that come with marriage, a child, a lifetime.<br />
Why, right there on the wall was a tiny mark from the last<br />
time she had measured John. He was six feet tall. Eighteen<br />
years old. Now he shuffled along in his cardigan sweaters,<br />
balding head bowed as he walked. Had it been that many<br />
years since the wall had been painted? She shook her<br />
head, glanced away.<br />
That night the wind howled down the chimney. The<br />
house groaned, as though it were trembling with concern<br />
over the coming winter. Cold rain lashed at the windows,<br />
and boards creaked like voices from long ago.<br />
The next morning, there was frost on the windows,<br />
dusting the rooftops and the streets. Marian worried that<br />
the food she ordered from the local grocer might not be<br />
delivered today. There were only crusts left in a bag of<br />
bread in her pantry. She ate them with jam, and sat at the<br />
kitchen window, watching menacing clouds scud by.<br />
There was a knock on the door. Marian shuffled down<br />
the hall, asked "who's there?"<br />
"Your neighbor, Mira", said a voice in a lilting accent.<br />
Marian opened the door and gazed into the face of a<br />
woman she had seen countless times driving up and down<br />
the street. She had small children, Marian knew, tiny faces<br />
peering out the window as the car sped by.<br />
"Mrs. Curtis?"<br />
"Call me Marian".<br />
"Marian, then. I think I received some of your mail by<br />
accident." She held out several envelopes, placed them in<br />
Marian's hands.<br />
"Well, thank you very much. Might you come in for a<br />
while?"<br />
"Oh no, thank you. I have to go." Mira smiled and<br />
backed away, walked to the end of the porch, then stopped<br />
and looked back.<br />
"If you need anything, Marian", her voice hesitated.<br />
"Anything at all, please call on me." She rubbed her hands<br />
together, smiled nervously. "It's so cold today!"<br />
"Is it cold where you come from?"<br />
Mira glanced around shyly, pulled her scarf closer<br />
about her head. "No, it's warm where I used to live. This<br />
is all so different." Her voice trailed off, and she looked<br />
sad.<br />
"It seems like there's a lot of new folks around here,"<br />
Marian said, shifted from one foot to another.<br />
"Yes, I suppose there is. Lots of new things to learn."<br />
Mira smiled again, took a step back, folded her hands in<br />
front of her. "Well, goodbye now."<br />
"Goodbye, Mira."<br />
That afternoon Marian had an idea. She brought out<br />
the cookbook, searched through the recipes, started<br />
baking. The house soon filled with the aroma of vanilla<br />
and chocolate. Later, she walked to her mailbox with<br />
several letters, tossed them in and raised the flag for pick<br />
up.<br />
One week later, there was a knock on the door. When<br />
Marian opened it, six women stood on the porch, all with<br />
an envelope in her hand.<br />
"Come in, everyone" Marian smiled. She stepped aside<br />
as they entered the house. Her neighbors sat in the living<br />
room and visited for hours. Each one was new to the area,<br />
had no idea what to expect, and had a difficult time<br />
speaking English. Marian filled them in on the weather,<br />
the town, where to buy the best vegetables, the finest cuts<br />
of meats. They all had such a wonderful time that they<br />
decided to do it again the next week. And the next.<br />
One day, right before Christmas, Mira came down the<br />
walk with a basket on her arm. She smiled at Marian and<br />
asked "may I come in?"<br />
"Of course."<br />
"My cat had a litter in October. They have all found<br />
good homes. I have one kitten left." She pulled a small<br />
gray kitten out of the basket, set it on the floor. The cat<br />
looked up at Marian with green eyes, it's tiny face so cute<br />
that Marian just had to pick her up, hold it to her neck.<br />
"She's yours if you want her," grinned Mira.<br />
Marian hesitated, swallowed. She felt the cat's<br />
heartbeat against her chest, her hand cupped it's little head.<br />
"Oh honey, I would love to, but I can't. What if<br />
something happens to me? What would the kitty do then?"<br />
Mira touched Marian's arm gently. "I will promise<br />
you, my friend. No matter where we are - no matter where<br />
you go, or where I may move....I will always give your<br />
kitten a home with me, should you ever find that need."<br />
Marian cried, held the cat closer.<br />
"Yes! I would love her!"<br />
Now Marian sat with the kitten in her lap, looking out<br />
at her driveway. Neighbors had gathered with shovels and<br />
snow blowers, new faces outside her window, laughing<br />
and working in the freshly fallen snow.<br />
In the kitchen were the wives, warming the cider and<br />
arranging cookies on trays, speaking in so many beautiful<br />
accents.<br />
"Ah, the seasons, " Marian thought, "They just go by."<br />
Then she set the kitten down and walked into the kitchen<br />
to join her friends.<br />
Halcyon Days - <strong>2019</strong> <strong>Issue</strong> <strong>15</strong> | 21
Late Fall Evening<br />
By Ingrid Bruck<br />
blackbirds land<br />
in bare trees<br />
the chirping brightens<br />
the leafless woods<br />
wind stirs the chimes<br />
falling rain freezes<br />
the sidewalk glazes<br />
slush coats weeds<br />
fireplace crackle sends<br />
blue smoke curls up the chimney<br />
I smell the wood smoke<br />
and follow it home<br />
oktay—stock.adobe.com<br />
Halcyon Days - <strong>2019</strong> <strong>Issue</strong> <strong>15</strong> | 22
ankdesign—stock.adobe.com<br />
Autumn<br />
By Steven Tutino<br />
I<br />
n Autumn, I ponder with delight the thought of<br />
creamy maple syrup butter melted on toasted bread. A<br />
lick or two before the first bite. “What are you<br />
doing?” my sister askes in perplexity. “I like the taste<br />
of melted maple syrup butter,” I tell her. “Besides, its<br />
autumn.”<br />
I dream in colour and imagine walking through a forest<br />
of leaves with a dear friend, a lover, someone close to my<br />
heart. Autumn rain and tree branches devoid of colour, as<br />
the leaves, once so green, descend down to their new abode<br />
like Persephone going down to rule the underworld.<br />
Autumn is symbolic of meaning, filled with a sense of loss<br />
yet the realization that with loss comes great potential and<br />
eventual renewal. Autumn is about intimacy and solace and<br />
seeking pleasure in the warmth which comes from<br />
harvesting tomatoes and peppers and the love, its scent of<br />
cinnamon and pumpkin pie and all my old autumn loves. In<br />
Autumn, I say farewell to my grandmother’s garden and her<br />
once cherished fig tree now buried underneath the earth.<br />
She tells me the descent into the hardness of earth is the<br />
promise of fresh new growth. I remember walking through<br />
Indian summer one Friday afternoon after school and<br />
imagining an abundance of golden coins falling from the<br />
sky like a miracle God had sent into my grandmother’s<br />
house, her kitchen table like a display in a museum<br />
showcasing the diversity and richness of Scilian culture:<br />
home-made sausage, stir-fried potatoes and onions, sliced<br />
red peppers and eggplants stored in bottles of fresh extra<br />
virgin olive oil, jars of oil cured olives, both black and<br />
green (even cured, the saltiness is sill there), blood oranges<br />
and the trippa and ricotta. And the basil is stored, made into<br />
pesto. The arancini overflow with mozzarella. I remember<br />
our extended family gathering together each year at my<br />
grandmother’s house, turning fifteen bushels of tomatoes<br />
into fresh tomato sauce, stored in jars, dispersed to<br />
neighbours and friends. “Do you think we should make the<br />
tomato sauce this year? I’m not feeling it anymore…” Each<br />
year she tells me the same thing. But then she just can’t<br />
help herself. We can’t help ourselves…<br />
There is something decadent about picking grapes from<br />
the vine tree in Indian summer, where the sun descends<br />
down like an intangible dream and fills the world with a<br />
golden amber so rich and pure like maple syrup. In autumn,<br />
the forgotten leaves of summer speak for themselves and in<br />
the rain, my thoughts and feelings are most sacred. In<br />
autumn, I wander lonely in my thoughts through golden<br />
fields of lost summer loves and wonder where my love<br />
went. There is something about autumn which enriches my<br />
consciousness and being. In Autumn, I take solace in<br />
opening up the Bible to any random page and finding<br />
comfort in the love which God sent. Walking through<br />
autumn together with you is no mere dream. I yearn for<br />
pumpkin spice and my warm winter scarf, because autumn<br />
is a reminder of the power of goodbye.<br />
Halcyon Days - <strong>2019</strong> <strong>Issue</strong> <strong>15</strong> | 23
Halcyon Days - <strong>2019</strong> <strong>Issue</strong> <strong>15</strong> | 24