TS Hidalgo… Well Beyond the Outskirts of Your City

Well Beyond the Outskirts of Your City

If you go running to get to the middle of heat
(whilst Hamilton takes pole in Canada
and the constitution of stable governments
is discussed in your country),
either avoiding obstacles
after reaching our Land of Rabbits,
or you plan to go from Spain itself
e.g. to the Wall, or the rest of it
(… Deutschland,
Deutschland über alles… ),
surely you’ll wonder upon arrival
May I finally sit right here?;
money, power, influence,
bugged phones,
environmental protection,
a fluzo condenser,
but there is none of them here:
plain and simple,
you just don´t know
the Hospitality Sector has become a preferential matter.
 

TS Hidalgo (44) holds a BBA (Universidad Autónoma de Madrid), a MBA (IE Business School), a MA in Creative Writing (Hotel Kafka) and a Certificate in Management and the Arts (New York University). His works have been published in magazines in the USA, Canada, Argentina, Chile, Germany, UK, Spain, Portugal, South Africa, Nigeria, Botswana, India and Australia,and he has been the winner of prizes like the Criaturas feroces (Editorial Destino) in short story and a finalist at Festival Eñe in the novel category. He has currently developed his career in finance and stock-market.

 

Copyright © 2017 by TS Hidalgo

 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Joanna Conom… The Cigar Box

 

The Cigar Box

that he bragged held enough of thing
to take him around the world twice
was found years later under his bed
in it the expired able bodied seaman
identification box checked cook
 
a picture of a small boy in shorts
holding the hand of his mother
who bought him a hot cinnamon roll
to eat on the bus trip home
from their weekly trip to market
 
a small card with an icon of
the virgin mary on one side
the 23rd psalm on the other
birth and death dates of his father
whose face he had a difficult time
putting into memory
 
four glass marbles of various color
a slingshot carved of bone
another picture well handled
of a young man in shorts wavy hair thick
grinning each arm around a south sea
island woman with belly ready to birth
 
a glossy of another bride
standing at the altar dressed with
a huge smile and yards of white satin
a dried red rose from her casket
documents showing baby names tiny footprints
 
a mugshot of indeterminate alleged crime
from unknown place assorted coins
clippings from newspapers
announcing the death of old friends relatives
an origami ring made with a dollar bill
union book local 8 miscellaneous cards
 
all fit into the cigar box cheap pine
worn shiny by touch and travel
and life in times forgotten
 

Copyright © 2017 by Joanna Conom

 

 
 
 
 
 
 

Art Eddie… Scrabble Poem: Loxy Lady

 

Loxy Lady

A jupe a wo a no,
zeal and line and chi.
hers. me.
 
A face a bun a run,
lox and tire and qi
her note. mi.
 
A pad a gob a mean
zu and zex. i.v.
her toys. me.
 
A rise a tit a cow,
di and meats divvy
her elf. her leaf. her meat.
 
A rile a jog an aw,
done when one like qi.
her one her gate her bat,
her n. her am. her loin.
an ode.
 

Hear are the words in the order they were played: gates, sex, bat, gib, lox, zeal, lines, like, me, me, qi, ace, an, face, far, gob, tit, toy, loin, cone, pad, pe, divy (Ahmed’s first made up word), jupe, mean, notes, ran, jo, meats, tire, jog, toys, rise, aw, wo, rile when, en, do, di, zu (Ahmed’s second made up word), cow, chi, iv (Tory slipped this abbreviation in), no, am, im, elf, bun, and ui.

http://penheadpress.blogspot.com/2010/09/ode-to-pad-scrabble-poetry.html

 

Copyright © 2010 by Art Eddie

 
 
 
 
 

Carla Blaschka… Washed Away

 
 

Washed Away

We buried Mom. Dead. Finally. Pancreatic cancer is a fast, vicious way to go. It is fast, cancer-wise, but not fast enough. For the last two months Mama could barely hear me. She always had that faraway glazed look as she tried to deal with the pain, every moment, every day.

I went home and washed my car. Papa used to joke about it.

“How is it that scrubbing cars can make a child of mine look so ecstatic? He used to say to Mom and all his friends. It was the best washed car in town, then it would be. If I stop, I’m back at the same old monster movie. I get in free.

I remembered the weekend it started. Mom had found Papa’s journal. The first he knew about it was when it hit him on the head and she howled, “How could you?”

She clipped him on the ear to make sure he was listening and then sent our scrabble board scrittering across the floor. She pointed to the door and I ran, but not to far.

“How could you write with…venom of one who died in such pain?” she cried. The only person I knew who had died was my Uncle Joe. Dead before I was born, the story I heard was that he had fallen on a piece of rebar at a construction site. It pierced his stomach and he died a couple of weeks later after infection set in. They say my grandparents really never got over it.

“Why shouldn’t I?” roared Papa, right back.

“Why shouldn’t I write bad things about that bastard. I’ve been a good father to yours, haven’t I?”

She slapped him. I heard it. I was still trying to understand – did Mom have another kid I didn’t know about? My world was starting to rock.

“I loved him, you have no right. I thought you were a good man,” she added bitterly.

What a weekend it was, with the confusion and pain between Mama & Papa virtually tangible. If it had had a physical substance their antipathy would have filled our house with mud.

Things cooled down but they were never the same after that and ever since…our family had the cleanest cars in town.

 

Copyright © 2017 by Carla Blaschka