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Archive for September, 2012|Monthly archive page


In Prose, Stories, secrets & dreams on September 27, 2012 at 9:00 pm

If I had a million dollars, I’d pack a bag and head off to the airport to acquire a ticket to the most remote island off the coast of Greece. I’d ask the travel agent which islands were undergoing civil war, or had State Department advisories. Whichever place she’d mention in hushed tones would be my destination.

I’d take up fishing in a fishing village, gain the natives’ trust, drink Ouzo in the scorching summer heat, stalk octopi in the dark sapphire seas, and give charitably to anyone in need,. At night I’d involve myself in whatever conceivable intrigue the Mediterranean offered. I’d want to live dangerously.

When I was sure that the minerals of the jagged coast had penetrated my bloodstream – I would buy a farm on the rockiest, most ungovernable soil. Then i would stock the farmhouse with books on Greek philosophy and poetry and spend my nights basking in the afterglow of a campfire surrounded by the dying scents of roasted goat and feta cheese – singing Ionian hymns to pagan gods.

I would guide my sheep across the rugged country, muttering commands in Greek, aided by an old sheepdog. I would find startling mountains to rest by. I would also farm olives, haggle with the village women, and hunt wild boar with the men. At night, when I was alone and all the animals were asleep, I’d sit under the dazzling stars and break out a book on ancient Greek geometry, put a good tape in the stereo next to me, and read. I would marry a young village woman to share this stark and simple beauty. Once my money was exhausted, I would remain a shepherd-farmer-philosopher on my remote island forever.

Peter Nkruma 


A Simple Marriage

In Prose on September 20, 2012 at 8:44 pm

There is a man. A man who has grown in his own thoughts, his own ideas. When he was a kid he thought about what he wanted to become in his life, the successes he wanted to have, the accomplishments he would strive for. He worked hard. He lived many days accomplished and successful. His name is Yoberdox.

He lived his life – a businessman, a family man, though he never had a family of his own. He moved to the countryside, to a beautiful home which he cared for the same way he cared for his business. He cared for his crops, his garden, his animals, his furnishings – all was well for Yoberdox. He also enjoyed making motorcycles. He never rode them. He would make the motorcycles, take them apart, then make them over again. He made about 6 bikes altogether.  Continuously when he had time, he would very slowly examine his bikes, the same way he examined his garden every day. He lived inside of his garden, he learned plants, the names of them, and what they meant to outside living. Yoberdox was so accomplished in his life he could have small vacations away from his business and enjoy his home.

Although he made motorcycles, he lived most of his life afraid. He never went riding on highways. He was afraid of the road. He was afraid of getting hurt. Yoberdox never married, probably afraid of commitment to someone like himself. He married in a way he never spoke about. He married his life, his business, his home, his garden, his furnishings, his motorcycles. He fell in love with his life – but it was a marriage he was afraid of.


September 11, 2001

In Guest stories on September 13, 2012 at 7:32 pm

I was sitting outside, reading The New York Times that Tuesday morning. Between reading a few sentences, I glanced up from the newspaper and watched people hurry by. There seemed to be nothing special to see that morning. The weather was exquisite. The sky was deep blue, the air clean and fresh. The day before, I had had an important meeting at the World Trade Center complex. Because it had gone well, I now had a sense of peace and calm. Cars, taxis, buses, and trucks passed me on the busy thoroughfare while I sat and read the newspaper. I had grown accustomed to the noise. People continued to pass by as I continued to read the paper.  Many were going to work. Others walked their children to school. A jogger ran by.

All of a sudden, I heard a loud roar coming from above, like thunder. The noise grew louder by the second. It was deafening, like the sound of jet engines. Something here was amiss. The only other time I had heard a similar sound was during Fleet Week, when the military was in town. The sound was very loud, a deafening roar. I looked up, and caught a glimpse of a jumbo jet flying overhead. It was flying unusually low, just above the tops of the buildings. I clearly saw the jet, its cabin windows, its two large engines giving off the deafening sound.  The jet appeared to be flying the length of Manhattan, due south. It was swaying back and forth, as if it were experiencing trouble. It was flying erratically. A woman who was walking by was having difficulty holding back tears. “Someone with personal problems,” I thought. Then another woman followed, also in tears. I put aside my newspaper and began to watch intently.

Several people were crying openly. Most unusual. The jet had flown over my head a few minutes before, but I had dismissed any notion of a connection between the plane and tears. Finally out of curiosity I stood up and approached one of the women. I asked politely whether something had just happened. I suspected a vehicular accident. I was wrong. The accident was much more severe. “A plane smashed into the north tower of the World Trade Center,” she said. I took several steps into the street, turned my head and saw the large gaping hole in the building. Then I flashed back to the jumbo jet that had just flown by.

Ted Sikorski

As in the Movies

In Poetry on September 6, 2012 at 8:59 pm

As in the movies I was touching a dream

Since a year ago when I first became involved with writing.

Since then every Wednesday

I am in the room, spiritually, really creating.

I also got the habit to write every day

Just one page at a time

Or at least I got the habit to try.

Whatever may happen – either beauty,

ugliness or many times something undefined,

I see all of us sharing verbs, words, the real.

Longing to make work of high value.

I have seen us as celebrities,

A positive force built up massively

Until we are valued by society and culture.

Let us meet next Autumn at least at the park,

In front of the building

When our book will be produced

As if we to say, we are important.

Our lives are a mystery that counts!

John Cabello