Haiku

overhead they honk

divide the full moon with a “V”

wild geese in autumn

Marion Doerflinger

Go Away

go away

let me hurt

let me remember

that you were no star

just the glowing tip of a cigarette

Marion Doerflinger

You’re Too Late To Say Love

Can you help me?  I’m looking for a girl

            Sorry, you’re too late to say love.

I came through the portal ‘cause someone said she came this way.

            She did but she wasn’t alone.

Am I dead or just in Hell?

            Hell is what you make it.

Look!  There she is.  She won’t talk to me or look my way.

            Hell is how you take it.

Can you help me?  I’m looking for a friend.

            You’re too late to say friend.

She’s riding a horse and her long hair is tumblin’ in the rain.

            You’re too late to say friend.

I found you!  I found you!  Remember me?  I found you.

            How kind of you to remember me but I don’t remember you.  Now let go my hand so I can reach where I’m going to because the sun never moves here and we only mark time by the destinations that we reach.

Marion Doerflinger

Apple Blossoms, Old Money and Sex

            Bill stepped off the elevator, dropped his disposable cup in the trashcan and headed slowly down the long carpeted hallway. His luxury suite was at the end and his private office commanded a breathtaking view of the red brick building next door.

            As he reached the halfway point he stopped to take a drink from the water fountain; it was the only one in the nineteen-story building that had ice-cold water. The cool wetness came as a much-needed relief on this scorching, stifling August afternoon. As he drank, his lips delicately pursed over the arching silver stream. In his peripheral vision, Bill saw a woman exiting through the plate glass doors of his executive offices.

            As the woman sauntered toward him, Bill sensed something familiar about her. He stood upright, straightened his silk, peach-colored tie and began walking toward her. Bill felt every nerve in his body spark and tingle as he took in her square jaw and pageboy hairstyle. He felt his penis stiffen and he slowed.

            The woman took small steps, steps that were out of synch with her large bone structure. She didn’t seem to be in a hurry. Now there were ten feet between Bill and this goddess-like creature in the tomato-red dress. She had auburn hair with golden streaks, a full bosom, and long legs and carried a large black bag slung carelessly over her left shoulder. There was something in the sway of her hips that created an urgency in his groin, something that caused all the butterflies in his stomach to beat their tiny wings hard enough to create a gusty wind.

            Five feet separated Bill and the woman. Bill rarely made eye contact with anyone in the hallway, preferring to watch the tassel of his slip-on wingtips gently bounce. Now his eyes were drawn to the thick lashes coated with mascara that framed mottled-blue eyes.

            She smiled and nodded. A husky “good morning” tumbled out of red-lipsticked lips. Bill nodded in response, unable to make his vocal cords respond.

            He stopped when they were handshaking distance apart but she kept walking. Her scent—a mixture of apple blossoms, old money and sex—settled in his nostrils and cloaked his body like a warm blanket. Bill knew he knew the woman. He couldn’t place the face. Or the jaw. Or the lips. Or the legs. But those eyes; he knew those eyes.

            After she had passed, he watched her reflection in the fifteen by twenty-four pane of glass that separated his world from the rest. He couldn’t take his eyes off those legs. The calves were sinewy and rested on delicate ankles. The juxtaposition would seem unsightly on any other woman—one that more than ordinarily attracted him. The red dress did nothing to soften them, only accentuating the fullness of her thighs.

            Bill reached for the handle of the glass door just as the woman punched the down button for the elevator.

            With a light ding, the steel gray doors parted. Bill watch four men exit. As the remaining occupants stepped aside to allow her inside, Bill jerked his hand away from the door, turned and ran back down the long hallway.

            The doors were almost closed. “Robert?” He pushed the down button several times.

            The elevator doors slowly began to re-open. Bill and the woman stared at each other. Her husky voice whispered, “ Ellen. It’s Ellen now. I’ve missed you.”

            Before Bill could react, the doors closed and the elevator cables swooshed. Bill looked over his shoulder, down the long hallway. He stared for a long time.

            Then, behind him, the elevators opened with a slight ding. Bill took a deep breath. Even his heart seemed to stop as he hoped for the fragrance of apple blossoms, old money and sex.

Julie Failla Earhart

The Considine Fireplace

Here I am, even now

for what was, for what has been

the Considine house, where

once they stood before me

absorbing, reflecting, as I

generated the warmth

that was for them

the comfort of their lives

A house like no other

as wide as three stories tall

as high as the nearby trees

as white as the snow of winter

in a yard of more

than an acre, covered

with a forest of trees

In time of spring and summer

my breath was white

against the sky

In the evening and into the night my breath disappeared

in the black of the

night

In wintertime, my breath

was back as soot

from the coal which

had been thrust

down my throat.

Only on those days

when the sun shown all day

from dawn till night

and the wind blew her warmth

even into the ground

was my breath not seen

Who were those who ravished this house

my home

who left me standing here alone.

Without a single breath of life

with no hope for a life to come

No walls, no roof

No shield from the breath

of the seasons storms

No protections for those to come

to provide for my breath of life.

Yes!, here I stand, alone

Still able yet unattended

Tell me please

What is the meaning of this

Just me aloneness?

Harold Eastman