by Robert Hogg

The Lovers
for Mike MacLean & Jeanne Choquette

I sit in the kitchen under
the whirr of the ceiling
fan and write the sounds

of your voices in
the next room no
words I can discern

as you make love
first slowly then
urgently calling

each other’s name
quietly at first now
loudly yes yes

the love air open
though the door
between us

closed a safe room
provided
by your friend who

aches for
the wonderment
you share

for you are
more than two
in the next room

and I am
more than one
hearing you

in the kitchen
beyond
the wall

because I hear
your cries
not words

no the words
are mine
to make

out of care
or I might
say love

for you
breathing
a common air

though now
to breathe
is somewhat

painful
my lungs
too delicate

for air this
rich in
memory

by Harry Nudel

a transparent eye–ball:
I am nothing; I see all . . . R.W. Emerson

Summer’s End
Bkyln’s End

Sand to grey Sand
Gulls grey cavort

Life guard station
with bright umbrella

last swimmers at shore’s
continent’s edge

big & bigger thots
small smaller aging mind

……

Tatiana 1&2
Same lunch special

Raised the price
added Steamed Vegetables

took off the kvas
substituted diet coke

the ‘ greena ’ become
red white & blue

‘ alles ’ is the same
yet different

……

the crazy lady
munching her pastry

lipstick smeared
up to her nose

motley clothed
misshapen women

shabbos shop
for the bright kumquat

the dark scarecrow paired
Hasidim Hawk street corner religion

To black, brown & scarfed heads
& the stray Russian beauty

Blonde 6ft All–Amercan
Thin & Tall as Iowa corn

……

At the Tel–Aviv Market
Abuttin’ the Starbucks

I buy two jars of
Cyrillic labelled
Matjes Herring

The Clerk rings up
the price & speaks in Russian

I want to unravel the strings
that bind me here

to the ‘ Stans ’
where my Parents wed

to the Siberian winter road
Where my mother first dreamt
of her first son

the Clerk prob. doesn’t hear
my thoughts & finally says

5.29

……

we are all a genetic dream
washed ashore in time

sink or swim. . . .

Brighton . . . my lost Russian youth . . . 2015

by Greg McBride

I took a different route a few blocks over
and came upon a neighbor I didn’t know.
She strolled, leash in hand, an unleashed vibrance
in her step, yet an easy style in holding
to the road the way my wild yet tethered
grasses sway their splendid plumes. I asked
about her dog, a Pembroke Corgi,
a well–groomed little guy.

We started to chat, as neighbors do
when chance aligns and there is time.
I felt no tension such as often comes
when male meets female, man admiring,
woman pleased, yet guarded. She made sure
to say how much her fifteen–year old boy
loves the dog. A small and aged man,
I took as sly flattery that it might occur
to her that I could harbor designs.
She could be my granddaughter.

But I must admit, her presence roused
those stirrings felt sixty years ago,
when a fetching teenaged girl moved in
next door. My neighbor and I crossed
paths again another happy day,
and our conversation turned to novels
and public policy. And by then, I was
in love.
Perhaps a bit sly myself, I said,
“I hope that if we meet in another life
we’ll be closer in age and you’ll accept
my invitation to dinner.” “How sweet
of you,” she said, “but I think there will be
no other life for us. I’m happy in this one,
as I hope for all good men such as yourself.”
My inchoate hopes for new life dashed
again, I said, “And how kind of you
to appear to me in this one.”

by Greg McBride

Touching was for marriage, I had learned
at home, and church, so when they gave us lessons
in the gym, I hoped that it would be ok.
Beautiful Simone chose me as her partner,
her skin glowing the soothing olive
of the Sephardim, while I was confused
by the mysteries of attraction: her shapely legs
in algebra, her black hair swept across
her flawless face, a few strands wisping
over one dark eye. The needle dropped,
and the music scratched its way out
of game–score loudspeakers swinging
from the rafters overhead. She stepped
into my arms like a starlet, head tossed,
gazing toward some distant horizon,
our touching of little interest to her,
it seemed. But she pulled me into her warmth,
tight, and oh, the pain — her breast felt
like the sharp nose of a rocket launched
into my chest. It was her gift to me,
while I, in stifled anguish, clenched my teeth
and tried to imagine her fresh, young breast,
so close to me then, how nice it might feel
without steel. Only later would I learn
about the fifties’ Bullet Bra. One day,
we stepped into an elevator. The doors closed.
We were alone. Her skirt gauzy. Her talk
of training in dance, the strength of her legs.
She said that this, patting one rear cheek,
is the real source of power. I could give it
a feel, she said. Go ahead, she said,
and I did, and I knew, instantly,
that she was right.