Holy Apostles Soup Kitchen

Archive for October, 2012|Monthly archive page


In Poetry on October 25, 2012 at 7:52 pm

Having so many thoughts at once racing around in my head.

Going away, then coming back again.

Some staying longer than others, having some push others around

So they can go in turn.

All of a sudden, my brain steps to the side

My mind is on a rollercoaster ride.

Secret thoughts stepping through a locked door

That says do not disturb.

Locking it while leaving the general thoughts on the surface.

Whispering and snickering behind the door.

Let them solve the human’s problem today.

Nancy Moore


Someone Fell Down

In Poetry on October 19, 2012 at 1:18 pm

Someone fell down, so I made a mistake.

I thought he was a giant, a paragon, an idol

Turns out that he’s just a man like me.

Somebody fell down, so I made a mistake.

I thought he was smart

(Or at least knew the difference between real and fake art)

I thought that he was striving to be

An untrainable animal, running with an energy that’s abandoned

So I made a mistake.

I now see other people and someone fell down and now they are

Birds of a feather and they all flock together

So I made a mistake, it’s not that bad, for heaven’s sake

I thought he was an untrainable animal who would never fall down

So I made a mistake, I am only human, for heaven’s sake

But there are also others who, like me, have feathers, just like me

And we all say, So we made a mistake.

Jay Stafford Perry

A Pocketful of Diamonds

In Prose on October 11, 2012 at 8:47 pm

A number of years ago, I happen to witness an interesting event in a bar that I frequented. The Headquarters was a dive, a dump, or whatever else you would call a place so dimly lit, that everything appeared to be grey. This was done to hide the peeling wallpaper saturated with cigarette smoke, rarely swept floors, and torn vinyl bar stools that surrounded an oblong wooden bar that filled most of the front room. The back room was up two steps to the right and housed the one toilet bathroom that never locked but always ran, worsely worn bar stools, and two pinball machines that didn’t work resulting in broken glass.

The owner and bartender was one Joe Baron, an overblown, overstuffed, balding man who, despite his red blotchy puffiness, was cheating on his wife with Christine, a blond-haired, blue-eyed barmaid that was a 10 on everyone’s scale. Joe was loathed by us all and yet envied at the same time. One night, the door swings open, and everyone looks up momentarily to see an older man, wearing a wool overcoat despite the mild spring weather. We watch as he sits and orders two double shots of rye whiskey and downs them quickly, slamming the empty glasses on the bar and then ordering two more.

“Slow down, buddy” Joe says. “What’s the problem?”

“You don’t want to hear it,” the old guy says.

“Sure I do. Just take it easy.”

“Okay,” the old guy says. “I’m gonna tell you something, and show you
something…my son, Johnny, my only son, has a brain tumor.”

With that, everyone within earshot “ohs.”

“I don’t have health insurance, none, and the doctor, his doctor, is demanding
$12,000 to do the surgery. He says I can pay  $8,000 of it after
the surgery is completed. But I don’t have twelve thousand dollars.”

“I’m sorry, buddy” Joe says. “I wish I could help you.”

“Maybe you can. Do you know a jeweler?”

“Yeah,” Joe says. “I know a few.”

“Okay” the old guy says. “Look at these.” He reached into his pocket and pulls out a small purple, velvet bag. He loosens the string and pours several of what look like diamonds on to the bar.

“I smuggled them in years ago from Bulgaria, but I’ve got no papers and I’m afraid to bring them to anyone. I can’t afford to get locked up.”

“What do you want me to do?” Joe asked.

“I want you to buy them from me. They are worth easy $20,000. I will sell them to you for $12,000.”

“I don’t know diamonds from cut glass,” Joe says. “How can I buy them?”

“I understand that. You take them to your jeweler friends. If they tell you they are worth $20,000, you bring me $12,000 tomorrow night.”

“Man,” Joe says. Me and my friends could already see the dollars in his eyes.

“Okay,” he says.

“But you have to have the cash here tomorrow for me. My son needs that surgery and I can’t afford to waste time.”

“Okay. It’s a deal.” The two of them shook hands. The old man put the diamonds back into the velvet bag and hands it to Joe. He then shuffled out the door. Joe put the diamonds in his pants pocket. All of us shouted, “are you crazy?”

“What have I got to lose?”

Charlie Moonjion

The French Braid

In Prose on October 4, 2012 at 9:01 pm

“You know what I always wanted?” Maggie said dreamily, “I wanted a French braid in my hair…but I don’t know how…look at how my hair is anyway.”

“Not sooo thin. I can French braid. Come. Squinch over here on the bench next to me and I’ll do it.”

“It won’t hurt, will it? Tugging and pulling? I bet I have knots in my hair – I always do.”

“Hmm…not so bad.”

“But I hated it when Moms combed my hair. It always hurt, I swear, and when I was real little -”

“Oh here Maggie, keep your head still,” Ruth advised.

“Sure. Well, like I say when I was I was really little and she got her comb out – swoosh, zoom – I was out of there. Hid behind the couch, so of course she could see me,” Maggie chuckled, “and come after me with that big comb of hers.”

“Where’d you grow up?”

“Outside Pittsburgh by the Monongahela. Dirty city – all that soot, all the mining. It’s a steel town you know.”

“I know.”

“Everyone left though…ouch! That hurt! Guess I got a big knot there, huh?”

“Yeah, a bit. It’s ok. I’ll try to be gentle. So you were saying…everyone left?”

“Yeah, yeah. No work. The steel mills closed down. Oh, but you know what I remember? On the corner of Crossin there was a soda fountain, and on my birthday every year I could get a soda. My favorite was black and white.”

“What’s that? Black and white?”

“Oh, it’s chocolate soda and vanilla ice cream. I think…wait now…I’m not sure. Maybe it’s vanilla soda with chocolate ice cream.”

“Hey, maybe it can be either! Whichever you want – hold still, don’t twist like that. I can hear you fine without you turning your head around each time you talk to me.”

“Hmmm…I guess I don’t remember because it was so long ago. I don’t even remember what color my bedroom was. You know, I had to share it with my sister and my brother. I hated that. They were so stupid, such brats. I wanted a room of my own. I guess everyone does, huh?”


“Did you have one?”

“A soda?”

“No, silly,” she giggled. “A room of your own?”

“No, I can’t say that I did. Well, that’s it dearie, you’re done! You’ve got your French braid. That wasn’t so painful, was it?”

“Oh, man…a French braid! On me! I can’t believe it!”

“Here, here’s a little mirror. Take a peek.”

“Wow, wow look at me!”

“You’re a beauty, I must say! Now, you know what I think? I think there’s something you need to have that you’re not going to get in that soup kitchen of yours…come on, grab your bag. We’re gonna go find you a black and white – or white and black soda!”

Annie Q