An Ancient Tale #135 (part 5)

Old Horth leaned heavily on his talking staff
Walking with the weight of years and worry
His 47 anos have not been kind to him, but he stays in good spirit
And now with the coming of the winter circle welcoming God’s gift
The return of the Sun cycle
Placing the twelf totem, the massive pillar on its way
With the markings from the water carriers, Zethines
Soon all twelve tribes from all of the villages and the outlying hunters
Would gather on the plane of the ancestors
Near the mouth of the creation delta
The Henge mounds have been tended
Meat and grain have been laid aside
His apprentices have been schooled
Why did this script need to raise its hairy head again?
Capturing speech in markings in the dirt
Tales are to be told
Symbols on a tablet will cause the People to worship the clay
Not listening to the stories of God
Horth had learned all of the speech symbols from his teacher, Gareth
Gareth had been a great warrior priest, keeper of the scared tales
Hunting the lion that attacked Arrack with Gareth is how Horth
Became lame
On that hunt in the dust while waiting out the lion in the hills
Is where Horth learned these symbols
Gareth convinced Horth that the People must not create this false God
Or God would surely punish the People
Horth promised Gareth
The lion circled back on the pair and took Gareth and Horth’s calf muscle
Before Horth could strike a fatal blow
Horth fingered his talking staff, feeling the mark for Gareth
The marks on the talking staff were just memory devices for stories
They were not the same as the marks in clay
Children played near the wall, kicking a goat-belly ball
It was always good to hear their laughter
The Mothers were meeting in the fire circle this evening
They would be planning the lineage, arraigning unions, determining education
The intermingling of tribal blood was essential
Girls and beardless boys would be given places within
A village’s walls
Horth needed to see to the completion of the pillar’s position
This new one would align with the winter’s setting sun
The calendar would be complete
The first of the three was for the rising of the summer’s sun
The last of the second three marked its setting
The first of the third three aligned with the rising winter sun
This last one would mark its setting
These sacred days set aside to worship God and to praise his
Creative power and our thanks for his gifts
The summer festival is for life and creation
The winter festival to mourn our dead and show the strong connection
To our ancestors
Horth’s talking staff handed down from tale keepers of the long past
Leads the People in worship and praise
He wanted Zontan to follow him, but that may not be God’s will
Zontan remains an enigma to old Horth
After checking on the proceedings for the Mother’s meeting
He will head down to the grove of trees during the evening’s breezy time
To listen to the whispered words

An Ancient Tale #135 (part 4)

Weasels and jackals were active tonight
Zontan and Uris could see the distant glow of the fire circle
Three full moon’s from tonight would be the winter’s end
A time for both putting the year’s dead to eternal rest
And when the Mother’s would select mates for the hunters
And farmers, toolmakers, priests, and others of each settlement of the People
The Mothers determine who we are; the Fathers what
Zontan had avoided Bibe’s choices, so far
He was well past the time for starting a family
Even Uris had fathered two children by Bethe
They were fatherless now, but the Mothers would take up their care
The People’s tradition of the line determined by the mother
There were twelve settlements, descendents of the twelve daughters of Orb
Soon all would be walled villages along the river
Sumer’s wall was nearly finished and all of the stilled homes
Would be abandoned
Quetin was not comfortable about leaving his family home
He enjoyed the solace of living on the edge of the river and village
Near his obsidian store
Quetin did not have the solitude of the hunters in the hills
On the platitude above the river’s banks was the circle
One entrance pointed to sunrise in middle anos; the other to sunset
In the end of anos
This end of anos, the People would raise the last, the twelf pillar
Each one carved to match each totem village
The inner circle would be complete
Horth, a son of Greathe and the keeper of the tales,
Would speak on the beginning of time and our placement in it by God
Stories handed down from the time of Aamdam and Evean
Zontan was there last month with the debate to expel Uris
He knew the symbols that Uris knew and the abomination that it meant
Capturing speech in symbols for all to see and not hear
Put in clay with no interpretation
The Fathers felt the fear; the Mothers knew it

An Ancient Tale #135 (part 3)

It had been rainy and lonely those first few nights
With only some cold grains to eat
Chasing him out with stones
Sending him out of the walls into the wilderness
Bidding him to never return
Driven out like that first couple from their maternal grounds
Uris felt that the people had stolen the fire from him
He had stayed angry
On the fourth sunrise as his wounds healed,
He dried out and let that madness evaporate
With the water from his skin
He found flint, obsidian, wood, and the will to move on
It was a time to hunt, not just for meat, but for a way to continue
He could not fashion the spear tips to match Quetin
Using the obsidian and striking stones he made smaller tips
And with strands pulled from his tunic
Was able to make the smaller striking sticks
He twisted the twine into a string, bending a strong shaft
Made a bow as he had seen a northern man carry once
It would do
The hare on the spit that night tasted like victory
If not vindication
Uris tried to understand the elders reticence in drawing words
Betheadeeon had first showed him how to make some of the symbols
He didn’t know why it was blasphemous if he only pictured praise for God
Or showing the exploits of Gilgamesh
Some of the elders didn’t want these tales easy for everyone to see
Without them to tell them the tales
Control
He would ask Zontan why the speech spinner-elder, Horth, had turned on him
Uris knew that Zontan could draw speech and hunted alone
He would track him when he came to the hills to hunt
They both knew how to set the symbols in wet mud to keep the words
Uris knew that it was death to be caught on the hunting paths
He knew how to hide his smoke in the hills
Damp leaves of the Tigrus tress suspended over small flames from hardwood
Skins from the hares would cure well and keep him clothed
But he missed his mother’s spinning
Maybe he could find a mountain tribe and hunt for them
Teaching them of God and Gilgamesh and of his people who descended from Eden
And cultivated the crescent
From one full moon to the next, he planned and hunted and scratched symbols
In far hills
Uris knew that Zontan would hunt the hills during the full face of the moon
He knew his rock

An Ancient Tale #135 (part 2)

The moon rise is cool in the hills above the river
It’s large, round, white lion face lights up the land and village
Dark rimmed eyes stare down
Seeing all
The dark will grow cold and long
I am grateful for the company while I sit on a rock, waiting;
Spears at the ready
Using a non-lethal end to make pictures of words
It is still forbidden to do so
Urisabethe was stoned for it, after only last moon rise
He has been banished and lives in these hills, alone
I will meet him tonight while I am on guard duty
The jackals are active tonight and I must stay aware
There is another lion pride that has killed our cattle
They hunt at sun rise when God sends us the new day
My people once only lived off of what God gave us
Now we are able to plant and grow;
Raise and herd cattle, sheep, goats
As well as hunt with skill; using knowledge gained from
The fall of Eden
The tale of the Gil – Gilgamish – has taught us how
I rub out the picture speak with my foot and take up the trail again
Of the lion pride
Wolves howl at the night’s light
I hear the cattle’s concern from far below
The first summer night when I took my man-lion’s tuff, I was 16 anos
My father had fashioned me a strong, sharp spear
I tracked the pride to its lair, Eathis taught me well
I did not pick out the old lion as I was told
But the alpha; I wanted the pride’s best
When I baited him to charge – I place the shaft’s butt in the sand
Holding it fast with my foot and drove its head deep into his chest
As he fell at my feet, I was not prepared for the roar of rest of the pride
At his demise
Only the fire circle that I lit with my flint kept them at bay
I took the beast’s head in my hands, and praised his spirit to God
Knowing the when I ate his meat and wove his main into my hair
I would grow from his strength
Uris taught me to draw that story in the ground
Someday, I will place that in wet clay and let it dry so that it lasts forever
Horth and other tale-tellers will pass it in the circle of fire
These talk pictures will one day be inscribed for descendents
Ancestors and descendents will be able to live in the same moments
Knowledge and stories
Something moves to my left – I heft a spear, ready
This night will be long

An Ancient Tale #135 (part 1)

The first time the men took me into the circle of fire and
I heard the full tale of the hero, the Gil
I was 48 seasons or 12 anos
Smooth faced and just beginning to learn the hunt
The full gray beards sat closest to the red leaping flames
And told about time before history
The circle of fire was the night time circle of time
The straight tall polls arraigned to time the seasons
Letting us know when the sun will lower in the sky
And when it will begin its rise in the sky again
Here in the Tigerus valley this time table determines our
Plantings and when we bury our dead
Our river provides us plants and meat
Plants grow, animals come to water
I am Zontanabide, son of Quetin, the spear-tip maker
And Bibe, my mother, herb mistress, knowing the property of plants
My father can see into the heart of obsidian stone
Chipping out the strongest tips with flesh slicing sharpness
The flutes he fashions fit tight into the split-top pole
He knows when the sinew is chewed enough and will dry
To hold it all together
He made my spears special for me to kill my lion and
Taught me how to throw straight and true with keen eye
I have my lion tuff tied to my hair
And I’m around to prove both his worth as a spear-maker,
My courage as a hunter
I’ve heard the story of the Gil for six winters
Each time I see into our past with better understanding
The word spinner, Horth, is the wisest man the people
His beard is white and long, his days as hunter are past

The Lottery

Eduard came night after night
And sat at his table to take in a view
Those bangs, the straight nose, the hour glass
And waited for her to sigh
But it was only that green liquor to take him away
But could not forget that down-ward gaze
Her painted face couldn't hide her beauty
The milk-maid nee' bar-maid
And that small mouth
That he could only guess would taste of
Garden peaches
The only way to capture her for himself would
Be to put her on canvas
Because he would never be able to capture her between his sheets
Her downward cast gaze matched his forlorn stare
Ah well, Eduard knew that there two-franc women
And that was a lottery he could win

Wet Socks

I’ve had wet feet since we hit the beach
Eight days ago
I’m sitting in a dirt hole, cold; it’s getting dark
And I can move back and try and sleep on the ground
When the night gets black
I have seven kills
Must think of them as Germans and not other men
I’m trying not to think of home
It seems like a long time ago I was playing football
In high school
But, it was just six weeks ago
I had never shot a gun before
Now I have seven kills
I hear my mom’s voice once in a while
But only her tone and not her words anymore
It was either me or them
The fire fight seemed to go in slow motion and
Last forever
I scan the field with my glasses
There must have been wheat here before...
It’s only a memory now
My feet are cold, but at least I made it inland
I’m only up from the beach somewhere in Italy
I remember reading about the Romans
And that’s all I know of Italy
Except that the Germans came and killed Italians
And now we must kill the Germans
I have killed seven of them, and they killed a bunch of us on
The beach

Touch #531

He lightly brushed the back of his hand against her cheek
And she responded smiling, brushing back
As he titled her chin up to kiss her lips
She pulled him into her
More than moist lip to lip
Exchanging electrical charges
Her laugh was like a light breeze that seems
To sneak in through an open window
The sheets still held the memory of last night
But the room was charged with the laughter of the morning
Too soon they would wash and dress and leave

They lay back on the bank, resting shoulder to shoulder
As languid as the smooth surface of the late summer creek
She whispered something that the dragonfly flew close to hear
But just missed it
He smiled that deep type of smile
Slowly leaning into her
And she responded by laughing and leaning into him
When they touched palm to palm and chest to chest
Even the breeze stilled to watch
The sun felt warm, but did not match the heat on the blanket

Monsters

I want to know that my monsters are hiding behind closed
Doors
I want them lurking in the shadows ready to pounce and
Devour
I want them in books and on the screen
I don’t want them running banks or congress
In charge of manufacturing or making decisions about my
Health care
Scary monsters should live in my head and not head of companies
That make people work long, hard hours creating wealth for the few
I want my monsters chasing Scooby-doo or Ripley
Not putting my friends on the street with little hope of work
Or housing
Running numbers that are so large that none of us can comprehend them
Using industrial fillers for baby formula or children’s’ toys or pet foods
Sowing fear and selling guns on the cheap

In another time he would have been the head of some organized crime
Organization
But, that’s not where the money is anymore
Illegal drugs are too risky, better to work with the pharmaceutical companies
Cholesterol and diet medications are the wave of the future
Organizations have always owned politicians – it’s all in the donations
Master of the Universe is just another name for Godfather
Where once upon a time big Al would have wiped his competition out
Now, it’s just easier and cleaner to bankrupt them
And what they did and who worked there are of no concern
And when his game time ends
He knows who and how much
His holdings will be safe and his bank account fat
His buyout will be big

Little Streams

The summer stream barely covers the rocks and stones
In its winding bed
The long grasses that reach out of the water no longer
Bend to its current
Dragonflies rest and sun themselves lightly
Tadpoles no longer part of the foodchain
Frogs slide slowly under the surface
Up or down stream take about the same effort
And they only worry about the occasional bird
Or barefoot boy aiming to make his first conquest
Cattails grow to heights above the road
And brown
Each morning the sun rises a bit later and each evening sets earlier
Everything is hoping to collect that last bit of extra warmth
He blankly stares out of his high-rise apartment window
Lucky to pay for an eastern river morning view
Soon the undergrounds would disgorge gray creatures
That would fill the streets and look like ants around
A piece of discarded candy
Even women dressed in their colored uniforms looked
Dark from up here
He fingered the smooth slightly greasy metal in his pocket
Today
He lit another cigarette and blew and smoke against the glass
It looked like pictures he’d seen of cosmic explosions
As the white cloud dissipated all around him
Time to go
Lock the door, ride the elevator, take a cab
It all seemed so ordinary
Not actually a chill in the air, but that first day after days of heat
And humidity
When the dry air is a relief, when the heavy air of August breaks
And you know that summer is over
The coffee shoppe was full and active
Suits, three piece, double button, pants and dress
Steam coming from behind the scurrying coats on the other side
Of the counter
It was a study in black and white
Normal
The gun’s magazine held twenty rounds
It was empty in ten seconds
Scattering, falling people; screams; shattering glass and broken lives
Filled more than coffee cups

Whistling again

I had drifted away from the green and lush river district
Wandering around on the savannas
I became as parched and the dry, late summer, thrice-browned grasses
My tongue, so dry and swollen, stuck to the roof of my mouth
Desiccated lips drawn together and fused
As if my teeth were wired shut
Even my eyes became so moistureless that the lids fused together
I traveled on only feeling the heat of the sun
Providing me direction by its passing overhead
But, my ears remained opened, hearing the sounds, cries, shouts, songs, and whispers
The deep base profundo of the earth
Keeping time with the universe, slow and low
The rustle of some creature in the distant, warning, loving
The calls and shouts of joy, fear, loneliness, laughter
The wind playing tones and offering them up so that I could
Imagine my own tune
I would have whistled if I’d had some spit
I was isolated, but not alone
Then a friend came along and convinced me to sip and splash from
Their water sack
And they took me to comfort under the shade of their shadow
It’s been a while since I’d visited an oasis
The greens are so much more vivid, the cool blues of the water deeper
I think that I’ll sit by this date palm
Wondering about the balance between silence and words

Word Catalyst Magazine proudly announces its first printed chapbook with selections from our first year of online publishing.

The book contains the work of 29 authors chosen by the editor. We would like to thank each and every contributor to the magazine for their input. Your purchase of this year's chapbook will help enable us to include more authors in our next volume.

The chapbook is a 48 page half-letter, saddle-stitched booklet with a full-color backdrop cover featuring the art of John D Moulton, a featured artist on Word Catalyst Magazine. The full-bleed cover is printed with a scratch, water, smudge and fade resistant micro-pigment ink. All inside text is black and white.

Each Keepsake Edition Chapbook is being hand assembled and published on demand.
If you plan to order more than one copy of the chapbook as gifts etc. please order them in advance so I can set a printing schedule. Thank you.

To You

I’ve walked among the broken and handed out biscuits
And smiles
As I’ve wondered down the streets of the town
From block to block and slow side street to busy corner
And stoop
Greeting your eyes with a kind word or directions, if I knew
Them or you cared to hear
My whispered wishes riding the winds reaching your ears
“Lift up your heads and nod to one another”
I shook hands or waved to those of you that I knew
Or wished to know me
Encouraged those of you who sit, not knowing what you
Wait for
Sang with the street musicians, roaming about for dimes
I shared what was in my lungs with you
And you, others that are to come
The plants that kept me alive, their ancestors will you
What I breathe in at fall, their seed in your spring delight you
When there were parks I would watch the young parents
Watching their wards
Or feed the squirrels with those who had passed that time
Before me
But I feel your pulling away like the moon moving away from
The earth at only millimeters a decade
I feel the stretch of the universe, that movement of time
The town has become a city and there are too many streets for me
To cross
I leave those to you
I’ve sang my songs and now it is up to you to carry and call the tune
What materials that I was blessed to use is yours
I’m reduced to the atoms from which I rose
And into the silence that I was

Stephen Hawking Dances

Sitting on the cusp of my extinction
I’m perched on the cliffs of my uninhabited isle
Throwing bottles into the sea
Some are corked, some are not, some contain messages, others not
No two messages are the same, I think linearly
Because of the undertow, the rocks below are littered with glass
And some wet paper
And the beach down the way
Is covered with returns
I’ve been taking my living out of bottles again and I have plenty
I had over-understood your kindnesses
So all of the messages are about or to you
I have lived in exile too long and have only heard the
The rushing of the wind or only my heartbeat in my ears
Orange turning to red, cooling to green and then blue
I darn not close my eyes and watch what is on the inside
Projected onto my lids
At night I stare up into the stars as they dance around
I saw Stephen Hawking dance once
And the music that he stepped to was
“Nothing produces nothing, it produces something”
He proved, mathematically, what we’ve all known all along
There is nothing
Black holes don’t suck in all of time and space and
Turn them into nothing
They emit Hawking radiation
And begin the dance again
There is no end, just different states of being
So nice that equations are made to sing so eloquently
Like stars we’re all slamming into one another at the speed of light
Or traveling away from one another
Deeper and deeper into dark mattered space
Degrading as time takes its toll
I need to slam into other bodies and emit positive energy
Not just to sit and stare into space and drink and fart

And More Rain Comes Down

We’ve stopped watching the news
All they say is that more rain is coming
But I knew because of the heavy winter snows
And if the rains came all at once
We’d see the river roar outside its banks
The river is running fast and angry
Swallowing all of our fields and streets
Taking back what we had stolen
My great-great grandfather had escaped the trail of tears
And became European to settle this land
But he secretly kept the spirit of the people
And it’s been handed down to me as I have
Passed it along to my sons and daughters
Spring planting will be late this year
The river doesn’t bring riches to our fields anymore
Just mud that hardens like cement in the sun
We spent last night sandbagging the river bank
And I heard someone’s dog go by yelping at the dark
I moved as much as I could upstairs
Our second floor is groaning over the amount of stuff
That we have
And hope to keep
The wife is worn with worry
Over more than her great-grandmother’s porcelain
But we’re the lucky ones
Charlie’s house was taken
It sat on a bluff that the river ate away and then
His house fell into the muddy waters
The state guard would have been here to help
But no one is left here in our state
They’re all over there, fighting
Just another administration killing others on a path of tears
I’m tired and this is the last flood that I’ll battle
What’s left will be left – time to move to higher ground

Touching the Stone

Two spirits hearing the same distant plaintive train’s whistle
Feeling captured in amber
Words are sometimes without meanings
Spoken as light as air and with the same consequences
Whispered in that mindless wind that won’t settle
Circling each other with the majestry of love-sick cobras
One move life
The other death
You leave me an emotional puddle
Curled up on the floor
Weeping dry tears because there is no more moisture
Switch
Focus
The dirty bedraggled unkempt poet still in the clothes he’s worn for months
Mutters at his clubfoot as he crosses in the middle of the busy street
Carrying all of his belongings in plastic bag
Over his shoulder
The tin cans rattle as he limps away creating their own song to the heavens
And her words hung on the edge of his ears, whispering
“You were probably good looking once”
Switch
Focus
He reaches out to touch her shoulder
And hopes her skin doesn’t tighten and her back curl away, this time
He pictures rubbing lotion on her burnt back
To comfort her for her lack of discretion flying too long near the sun
He knows what he is not and that he can never be that bright light
She holds nature above nurture
And follows the sight line of the horizon
As clouds spill over the edge of the world
Switch
Focus
An elderly couple sit on the park bench
Sharing the sound of the song coming from the children at play
On the swings
Back and forth
Giggles reaching for high squeals
From joy to easily forgotten terror
Theirs is a shared smile
The contentment of his hand on her shoulder
Teenagers holding hands never realize how important that can be later
In life

Beyond

Beyond language, learning, science, and knowledge
I feel your existence, uncomplaining
Incorporeal
Taking me to where I know that I can’t walk
Riding vapors, updrafts of drafts
No mortised joint holds anything
I’d cry at this beauty, but its reach exceeds tears
Breath is so bright it burns
But there is no flesh for it to sear
As I look out of old eyes
You lead me back in and out of time
There is no metered measure
So there is no beginning or end
Beyond speech, we nod in agreement
As I bow to the power of no words
No concealment or congealment
Floating past the boundaries that would have been placed
On these thoughts or movements
We dance upon the tips of grass in summer
Before the dew forms in morning
Forming and reforming with wisps of clouds in the
Afternoon
I lose myself in the formation of your thoughts
Hearing the music that comes from your unblinking eyes
A rose bloom waits on a song you might sing
You return me to what was myself and won’t be again

Ode to the Chocolat Cookie

Tasty siren calling to my heart and soul
Peeking peaks of rich dark gooey chocolat
Melting in a warm brown confection of delight
I place a piece on my tongue and press it to the roof
Of my mouth
I do not chew it, but let it dissolve
Enjoying the sweet sugars, buttery flavors, and
Slight bite of the semi-sweet chocolat
I take my time and each piece is its own reward
Satisfying like
A summer night at the ball game
The giggles of your child at the sight of a caterpillar
The smile in the eyes of your lover
And then the last piece
Not lamented because it’s gone
But celebrated because it was there at all
Those moments added to a life well spent
Ah, so much in the conviction of a confection

On Poetics (part 1) – the poem

Spinning atoms around atoms in the first black darkness
Swirling about the dark matter of gravity
Creating universes
Until there is the denseness of the spark of light
And time
Unseen atoms to molecules to the majesty of surroundings
Fired in heat and pressure until carbon and quartz
Become mountains reaching upwards
A chunk broken off of the Mountain of Poetry
Hurling into the flow of time
Sinking,
Waiting,
Flowing waters sent from the crying sky
And weeping mountain snows
Wandering their way, creating mystic canyons cut through the sandstone
The poetry chunk using the water’s flow to hone its sharp edges
Smoothing out the language of the spark of star-stuff
The quartz flakes grab the light and shine up through
Defused muddy H2O
Using the time’s seasons to work its way up from the depths
Each cycle of time, flood to drought to flood to drought
And on and on
Moving a millimeter per cycle, up
Slowly creeping to the river’s edge and poking a smoothed, honed
Head out of the water towards sun and shine of time
The rock became a gemstone
A definition of time and existence
Working its way to wait and dry to be found
And shine in someone’s hand
It’s taken eons to work its way towards the shore
From the depths of what once was solid and hidden
Ah, but wait...
They’ve flooded the canyon to wash silt down river
The stone is picked up by the unrelenting white-water rush
Weight and worth slams it to bottom
It will need to spend the next eons of ebb and flow
And attempt to work its way back to the light and edge
Until found and seen
But, here’s the question – who or what will understand
What it offers... its unique explanation of beginnings and eternity
Or will they just see another wet rock?

come Sailing

Come sail the azure sea with me
Feel the pull of the pulsing waves
The whisper of the breeze singing softly
Tasting the salt from the spray as we knife
Through the water
Seeing past the curve of the horizon
Skin warmed and shining in the Caribbean sun
Gleaming under the night sky’s swirling stars
Barefoot wet flaps as we run around
The small deck like children chasing dreams
Laughing
Sitting after dinner, chatting about what we read
As the day grew long, becalmed
Bobbing in the ocean like the last Cheerio in the bowl
Holding fast, lashed to the mast using a short rope
Wet in raingear as the summer storms beat the bow
Wave after wave
And after years of tacking back and forth
Laughing into the wind and crying to the lee
And keeping those storms at bay
With our hands callused from the ropes
Twining our lives to one purpose
Your smile that holds the blazing heat
Tilting our heads together over the tiller
We’ll pull in port
And say what a ride it was
Please don’t say no