Baby the Greatest, by Karen Bowles

Amazing!

How a pumpkin picked
for its clarity of color,
absence of blemish or bruise,
the grandeur of its girth,
the brightest of oranges,
like the  afternoon sun
hung low against the gray fall sky,
a color turned by the leaves of the sour gum tree in late autumn 

its rotund firm form
eagerly embraced
by two small groping hands
anticipating a certain heftiness of weight when lifted
measuring rib by rib
its potential for fierceness
when carved skillfully 

its still green stem,
when encircled by a sharp stiff blade,
becomes a handle for a trap door
gently lifted to reveal
a cavern of flesh and seeds
and once
scooped out by spoons and ladles,
and lit from within
by one white tea candle,
a grimacing grin, devilishly twinkling eyes
framing a stern stout nose
to sniff out those
that dare to cross its path and not
fork up a treat! 

How the flesh of such a monster
can taste so sweet, so succulent
when baked into a pie
encrusted with cinnamon
and oozing with caramelized brown sugar. 

How its seeds once roast and salted
can be marveled upon the tongue.

Roxanne Hoffman, Hoboken NJ, October 24, 2007 (Revised July 14, 2008)








 
Dena Rash Guzman




Halloween 1999. Our baby was nearly four months old. We had been invited to a Southern Culture on the Skids and Reverend Horton Heat show by some friends. My parents watched our baby that evening so we could go out. I was zaftig with life giving milk and baby fat at the time and decided to dress as a voluptuous nurse. My tag said something about "Head Nurse" and I was very popular with the men that night. One drunkenly asked me if I was a real nurse. I told him, "No, I am not a real nurse, but I'm really nursing!"


~ Dena Rash Guzman









       
        Sunset over the Tomnacross Tree, Tomnacross Churchyard, Kiltarlity

          by Martyn Clayton

HALLOWEEN MEMORIES

            “What a cute photo!” mom said.  Then she followed with, “He didn’t open his mouth because he was missing teeth.”

My brother grimaced.

            She was holding a photo of a then-six-year-old posed for his day camp picture.  He wore a tee shirt and shorts, his shy smile magnified by his blond hair.

“Omigosh that’s me!” said the now 48-year-old man.

            That afternoon we looked at photos and cards and laughed at the memories.

            “Remember Halloween?” he asked.

            We grew up in an apartment building, which became a kids-and-candy paradise on trick-or-treat night.  It was safe to let us wander through each of the five apartment buildings in our complex, ringing doorbells with our friends.

            Many of our neighbors left bowls of candy by the door with signs that said, “Help yourself” if they weren’t home or chose not to answer the door.

            Every now and then we’d go back home so mom could sort through our stash and eliminate what we didn’t want or like—and if she ran short she’d take our extras and hand them out to whoever rang our bell.

            And every Halloween we’d see one of our all-time favorite specials, It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown.

My brother and I hoped against hope that THIS year Linus would see the bright orange pumpkin rise in the patch.  We had that same hope whenever Lucy told Charlie Brown she’d hold the football in place when he kicked it.

            I’m not sure which we liked better, Halloween or Mischief Night.

            We made mischief, and it was made to us (see below).

            Back in the day we had Silly String, harmless stuff propelled out of a can.

What kid knew the colored substance contained ozone-depleting substances?

So that was gone.

There was always whipped cream, which made a huge mess.  Well that’s what Mischief Night was about, right?

Not many kids come trick-or-treating in our building, however the street is alive with giggles and squeals and the occasional scream.

And it makes you wonder.

            My brother morphed into the concerned parent although he’s still a kid at heart—the first year my nephew went trick-or-treating his dad had a midnight party.

The little guy came home with a bundle of goods.  My brother promptly dumped them on the table and started his search, which proved fruitful.

            “Ooh do I have a stomach ache,” he said from his office the next day.  “I snuck downstairs and ate a whole bag of chocolate.”

Chocoholism runs in our family.

“Drink lots of water and eat lightly,” I advised.  “Don’t eat anything too healthy, and slowly ease back into eating regular food.”

I heard him gasp into the phone.  “Are you serious?” he asked.

No, I joked,

“Eat lightly, though, and no fried or greasy foods.”

            He called later that night to tell me he didn’t eat all day except for dinner.

            “I feel better, thanks, sis,” he said.

He did it again the following year.

Mom pulled out more photos from one of the boxes.  One showed two tiny figures bundled head to toe, and the only visible body parts were our eyes peeking out from our hooded heads.

            Across the street from our former apartment was a hill.

Maybe to adults it was an incline; however to us, ages 3 and nearly 6, it was a HUGE hill and took forever to climb—especially with a sled in tow.

            We’d soar to the bottom, where dad would catch us, and then we’d walk back up that hill.  Ice and the falling snow—it almost always snowed on weekends, and that’s when we sledded—made the trek difficult for two pairs of heavily-padded legs.

            Determined, we’d look for footholds, and a few times we’d slide down the hill on our stomachs. 

            My parents’ house has few remnants of the kids who once lived there.  Although photos of my brother and me—and of my niece and nephew—adorn walls and table tops, a visitor would be hard-pressed to find real physical evidence.

            Inside the house, that is.

            Outside on the terrace is one telltale mark that remained stubbornly over time.

             There on the red brick walls are the dried remains of an egg yolk from an egg thrown from the street circa the late '60s or '70s.

            How this egg yoke dried up and endured harsh winters, driving rains and blistery heat is anyone’s guess.  That our mom didn’t know about it probably preserved it’s “life” since she’d have cleaned it in a minute.

            And who can claim to have been egged more than 30 years ago and STILL produce the egg?

            This year I’m going to a friend’s party.  We’ll reminisce and answer the door when kids come, and then her kids will come home with stash.

            Thankfully some things remain the same.  Halloween anticipation is one of them.

 
(this story also appears on Janie's page)

 "Breath of Bastet" 

"I am the Cat which battled heroically on the night
when the enemies of the Setting Sun were overwhelmed.
 And who is this Cat? This Cat is the Sun-God Ra himself..."
(From The Book of the Dead, 3000 BC)
 

It is six am and most decent persons sleep 

I am bare and borrowed in my tiny vintage slip
It crawls up on me hugging my hips as I turn
On the davenport 

Just where I wish you'd be, not so healthily grinning
In the slacked chasm of my shifty morning 

The lone star is my breath as it kinks across my yawn of countenance 

finding your name just then at the mouth's cusp as the sun, my lord publishes
"And you again, mortal"?

 
I find my silvered feline and curl up to her 

She gives me a tug with opaque claws and mighty winks
 

That is how it goes
The mummification at another night of battled wakefulness
A contemner's shake to anathema of the gloam 

If I could close my eyes just now,
My cat would take the sun down
Bringing a bilious clap.

by Jane Crown