No One at Home by Tina Hudak

 

Tina Nord

No One at Home

Some years are tough. The battery grinds and grinds, yet refuses to start. The foot bears down on the gas pedal relentlessly. Sheer will offers nothing to alleviate the situation. This summer, the car goes into the barn and the doors close.  

This summer, she sits, expecting nothing. Accepting whatever or whomever comes her way. She may even offer a chair, or a cool drink, or a fluffy pillow to rest one's head. This summer she lets up on the gas pedal and its omens, allowing herself to drift in and out of sentences or pencil lines. On a whim. Or, she meanders. Some days, along the white clover just beginning to flower underneath the shade trees, or along the street curbs, looking for discarded gems to shine like the bluejays she so loves.

Yes, this year is tough. The door to the barn remains closed. She can wait.

The staccato sounds

of woodpecker pecking

then, a car engine grinds.

© Tina Hudak

Tina Hudak

Tina Hudak is a writer-artist in the Washington, D.C. area. She has works included in the Library of Congress and the Harvard Art Library, and with small press publications in the U.S. and overseas. Visit TinaOpines and A Blue Bunny Studio on WordPress.

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Isolation Becalms the Soul by Richard M. Ankers

 

Chris F

Isolation Becalms the Soul

The modern world rarely affords us the solitude of a few quiet thoughts. We rush and busy ourselves with the inconsequential, worrying and struggling with matters foisted upon us by those little glass boxes so rarely kept in our pockets, giving barely a sideways glance to the world we inhabit. It’s a pity, this forgotten joy. There’s a big world out there just waiting to be seen.

Time to stop. Time to breathe. Grab a coat. Slip on those boots we bought just to pretend. Savour the moment. This moment. We’ll arrive at the next soon.

The crunch of gravel beneath our feet. A garden gate groans from a lack of oil, its paint blistering to the ground like black snow. The car sits in the garage, grateful for the break. But without its navigation, where do we go?

Close our eyes. Make a wish. Turn and walk away.

The meadow is spongier than that luxury Axminster carpet we saved all year for. We fairly bounce our way across the turf and into the sunlight-dappled wood. The persistent knocking of a woodpecker welcomes us inside far more than we welcome the knocking at our own front door by those sellers and hustlers we wish to ignore. A narrow ochre path leads through a bluebell-lined interior that radiates fresh, clean air. The butterfly that skims our shoulder now has no secrets.

Take in every second of every minute and cherish it like it’s our last. Remember the colors, the scents, the shadows, the cool. It won’t be the same next time. What a treat. What a gem of a place.

There’s an arterial stream beating from this wooded heart and, much to our surprise, we follow it. There is no where or how or when, just instinct. This has served us well in our long distant pasts, and we reclaim it for our own. We thank God for these boots. They were worth every penny. Not for keeping our feet dry, but for granting us this woodland delight. Even the busy bee is pleased we’re here in our daffodil yellow jacket that lures so enticingly. We laugh with unbridled joy. This simple isolation becalms the soul.

Don’t be afraid. It’s just nature doing what nature does.

We pop out of the arboreal wonderland like a bubble from a bowl of washing up, glad to be free of the viscose surface and flying high. We head towards the sound of the city, our compass point, but our spirits sink with each new step and our newfound freedoms seem less potent.

This is the way. Come back anytime. Don’t forget.

We smile as we sit in our favorite chair, not because we leaped the fence like a schoolchild, nor because our feet ache and we're glad to be home, rather, because the moment we close our eyes we’re back. The sun nourishes our skin. The air cleanses our soul. Moment after moment returns. The smile, however, never leaves.

See you soon, says the bee, as the butterfly brushes our lips.

© Richard M. Ankers

Enjoy other posts by Richard M. Ankers HERE.

Richard M. Ankers

Richard M. Ankers is the English author of The Eternals Series, Britannia Unleashed, and co-author of The Poetry of Pronouns Books 1 & 2. Richard has featured in Daily Science Fiction, Love Letters To Poe, Starspun Lit, and feels privileged to have appeared in many more. Richard lives to write. 

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I Open My Front Door by DK Jammin’

Amal NR

I Open My Front Door 

Let me just weep
For this place, this world,

And all the people in it,

Including me.

 

Whenever I open
My locked front door,

My reluctant heart,

It’s there.

 

Bereft of You,

Without each other,

Without a why, lost,

Isolation rules.

 

A friendly wave today,

Implacable hate tomorrow.

Turned both outward
And inward.

 

Not truly who we are,

But us for now,
Our light, our love,

Grayed out.

 

Often I push You away,

Keep You on my sleeve,

Rather than endure
It all.

 

I’m so, so sorry.
If I could do anything

Other than grieve,
I would.

 

I open my front door

And look, and –
It’s there. It’s there.
I weep.

© DK Jammin’ 

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DK Jammin’

DK Jammin’ is 73 years old and lives in Colorado. He graduated from Yale University, raised a daughter, and worked at the Texas Legislative Council in Austin. His poetry has been published in Macrame Literary Journal, The Accendo Review, Soul Poetry, Metapsychosis Journal, Synchronized Chaos and in the Men’s Poetry Journal, “Enkidu.”

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Colour Doesn’t Matter by Snigdha Agrawal

 

Michael Nikon

COLOUR DOESN’T MATTER

In a sea of fairness, she stands alone
A dusky hue, dark skin tone
Eyes avert wherever she goes

She bears the burden, silent, strong,
In a world that tells her 

she doesn't belong

But deep within, a fire burns
A truth unyielding, 

as the world turns

Belong she does

For doesn’t the darkness hold stars

she asks

That thought stays with her

as she goes about 

unmindful of their stares

© Snigdha Agrawal

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Snigdha Agrawal

Snigdha Agrawal (née Banerjee) holds an MBA in Marketing and has over two decades of corporate experience. She enjoys writing in all genres, including poetry, prose, short stories, and travel diaries.  Educated in Loreto Institutions, run by the Irish Nuns, and brought up in a cosmopolitan environment, she has learned the best of the East and West. She is a published author of four books.  Her works have appeared in several anthologies and e-journals, published in India and overseas. She has recently been nominated for the 2024 Pushcart Prize in poetry.

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