Archive for March, 2024
MY ATTEMPTE AT WRITING POETRY: NIGHT RAIN
Published by New Worlds Unlimited in Voice of the Majestic Sage in 1984.
Night Rain
The darkened hush of an autumn evening,
A distant mummer and a world of sound approaches,
The wind sweats great flowing beads
Yet in darkness
Where colors fade to gray
And reality to hazy contours
Night hides the rain,
As if only the sound exists,
A time for memories that have no sounds
Only pictures alive in some unchanged time,
A memory’s life.
MY ATTEMPT AT WRITING POETRY: PHANTASY
Published by New Worlds Unlimited in Images of the Mystic Truth in 1981.
PHANTASY
Sickness pervades this cloistered sphere,
This world he calls his own,
Mutterings leap with meanings unclear
Crying a message unknown.
Shadowy thoughts revoke the day
God gave His hand, then turned away.
Come see the shell that isn’t a man,
Muse at this poor wretched fool,
Look to his eyes a moment and then
Depart his mad vestibule.
MY ATTEMPT AT WRITING POETRY: LOVE VISITED
Published by New Worlds Unlimited in Dreams of the Heroic Muse in 1982.
LOVE VISITED
Love visited me once
On a moonlit night
Last in six months,
I grew,
Was nourished,
Became almost human
As my being sought a home,
I held the moon at arm’s length
And watched it grow small
As its certain cycle
Continued to darkness,
The baying of dogs rings untrue,
The sky is empty.
MY ATTEMPT AT WRITING POETRY: THE TEMPEST
Published by New Worlds Unlimited in Treasures of the Precious Moments in 1985.
THE TEMPEST
Lost,
In a torrent of storm and power
A delicate finger fondles the earth’s surface,
Extends from a dark gray womb reaching out,
Caressing,
Tearing with the force of a lover lost in ecstasy,
A mighty machine borne of cloud and air
Spending itself on the unsuspecting earth,
I watch,
A distant viewer of a mystical force,
Amazed at the beauty death’s angel has summoned,
Amazed at the power unleashed before my eyes,
Distance masks the fury, the rage of storms,
Distance masks the horror of life’s reality.
A NEWARK REMEMBERANCE
DOWN NECK ST. PATRICK’S DAY PARADE
A NEWARK EVENT
During my youth I live in a section of Newark, New Jersey referred to as the ‘Down Neck’ Section of Newark. The area was also known as the Ironbound Section due to the many factories in the area. The title ‘Down Neck’ was acquired, which I once read, due to the shape of the Passaic River running past the area. And on the Sunday afternoon, nearest to St. Patrick’s Day, the residents of this area and my street, Christie Street, were treated to what had to have been one of the shortest St. Patrick’s Day parade in existence.
The local Catholic Church sponsored the parade, whose steeple I could see from my parlor window. Weekdays were filled with the rumble of Balentine Brewery trucks set on the mission to quench the thirst of a parched city. Sunday was a day of rest for the trucks, making the parade possible.
Magically, sometime before the parade, a green line appeared down the center of our street, harbinger of the gala event. I never witnessed this line’s creation, but every year it materialized. At approximately one-thirty the residents began to gather on the sidewalk. Since the brewery and Catholic Church’s school took up one side of the street, the number of residents was few. Of course, there were always the annoying boys riding their bikes down the center of the blocked off street before the parade began. I was proud to be one of their number.
The parade began around the far corner from my house, on Market Street. With a band, not a school band, but one made up of adult men most of which had almost mastered the instrument they were assigned. Before the band came a few ruddy-faced Irish men, decked out in their top hats, waving to the minuscule crowd. At the front of this procession were the parish priests. The parade was half a block long and took thirty seconds to pass. The procession turned the corner onto Ferry Street, melting into the Down neck neighborhood, and repeat the tradition next year.
MY ATTEMPT AT WRITING POETRY: WALLS
Published by New Worlds Unlimited in Treasures of the Precious Moments in 1985.
WALLS
I’m just marking time,
And can’t explain why
When the door opens
I kick it shut.
A wall was built some time ago,
The seams mossed over
So nothing can penetrate,
The wall’s purpose, lost with the key,
Yet the prisoner finds the wall insecure,
Builds walls within walls,
Breaks into himself only the find emptiness,
And the final realization comes too late,
The walls protect nothing,
And nothing was saved.
MY ATTEMPT AT WRITING POETRY: SPRING’S PROMISE
Published by New Worlds Unlimited in Mysteries of the Lyric World in 1988.
SPRING’S PROMISE
My breath frosts the winter scene from my eyes
As I peer out the bedroom window,
Trees bend their naked arms
As cold north wind gives them life,
The lawn, the hue of hay
Bristles with the wind,
I look to the future
When my world will once again fill with life,
I look to my wife round with life herself
And the sound of the promise of spring
Rings in my ears.
MY ATTEMPT AT WRITING POETRY: WAITING TOOL
Published by New Worlds Unlimited in Mysteries of the Lyric World in 1988.
WAITING TOOL
A pencil sits poised
Waiting to give life,
As a sculptor creates form
From the essence of marble,
So, the words await
Needing a sculptor of thought.
MY ATTEMPT AT WRITING POETRY: MY CHILD SMILES
Published by New Worlds Unlimited in Memories of the Halcyon Days,1987.
MY CHILD SMILES
My child smiles
For she knows nothing of the world
And that is good.
My child cries
And she knows nothing of the sorrow of the world
And that is good.
My child laughs
And that is good for the world.
UNWELCOMED GUESTS: A GHOST STORY
On one side of my property, some eight to ten feet deep, is a gully. I was told some time ago that this gully belonged to a railroad. I have seen an arial photo, taken perhaps in the 50’s, showing tracks at the bottom of the gully. I’ve also been told that they were either train or trolley tracks. I began thinking, What if there was ever an accident down there?
Unwelcomed Guests was accepted for publication by Necrology Shorts in February 2010.
UNWELCOMED GUESTS
Will Trizma was a writer of ghost stories and mined the local countryside for legends and their settings. The area abounded in both. His wife, Joan, acted as his editor and sounding board for his ideas. At times, the only comment she would make is, “You’re sick.”
Not only did he write ghost stories, but he also dreamt of them. One night he conjured a most vivid story; a story from the future. But unlike most of his dreams, he could not remember this tale. The only recollection he had was that it was horrifying.
* * *
It was the evening of August 15, 1949. The time was slightly before ten as a train made its way toward West Chester. There were fifteen souls aboard, counting the crew and passengers on this quiet summer night. The steam locomotive was pushing a caboose and two passenger cars. The weather had been stormy for days and up ahead the foundation of the bridge spanning Ship Road had been undermined by runoff. Jim Purvis, making his last run in a fully loaded fuel truck, slowly crossed the bridge. As he reached the span’s center, it collapsed leaving the truck astraddle the tracks. Jim could not believe he was still alive considering the load he was carrying. Although injured, he managed to climb out of the ravine and go seek help.
As the train slowly made its way into a depressed section of track, the conductor, Ben Elliot, sat on the caboose’s platform and began filling his pipe thinking about sharing a late dinner with his wife. He looked down to light the pipe, and once achieving a satisfactory burn, he puffed contently, and then looked up. The sight before him made his scream, “Holy sh…! He never finished the expletive.
The caboose rammed the truck, followed by the cars. The locomotive cut through the wreck until it reached the truck exploding the gas tank and turning the wreck into a funeral pyre.
* * *
Writing is a lonely profession, and years ago Will sought out a local writer’s group for support and editorial advice. During a Christmas dinner attended by all the writers, Will and Joan suggested a summer party and volunteered to hold it at their house. As the day of the party approached, one spouse or two became sick and others were called away unexpectedly on business.
Will and his wife greeted their guests, their thirteen guests.
Their dog, Millie, a lab mix was her usual excited self with the arrival of every new visitor. Once everyone was there, she settled down and dozed in the sun.
The conversation was lively with all the creative minds present, and as dusk approached, Will was called upon to tell a ghost story. “Not dark enough yet,” he answered.
Dessert was served, and when there was no longer a hint of sunlight, and with the patio bathed in twilight, Will deemed the time right for his tale and went into the house. He returned with candles, one for each table, after extinguished all the inside lights. “Now we have the right atmosphere,” he said. Will began his story and even Millie appeared interested, her eyes reflecting the candlelight.
The weather had been rainy the last few days, and at ten as he began to read, Will noticed a mist begin coming out of the gull bordering one side of his property. A few guests had asked him earlier about the gully and he answered that it had once harbored a railroad track.
The mist became denser and soon overtook the yard along with the guests. One by one they all fell asleep, including Millie. As the wall of fog enveloped all present, fifteen human shapes began to form. The specters slowly made their way to the dozing, and one by one, entered their bodies.
The next morning, they awoke from their deep sleep and knowingly smiled at one another. Ben Elliot looked around, and Will’s eyes filled with tears. “We’ve waited sixty years for this moment.”
Millie awoke and growled. She knew there was something terribly wrong with her master.
THE END
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