“Lengthening Shadows” Post #5: “The Hunt” by Wanda Kay Sanders

WANDA KAY SANDERS

The Hunt 

It is the shadow of the moon against the sun 
A starless night hidden behind clouds 

Only a slight wind blowing 
Dry air across the desert land 

We hear the collective howl of wolves 
As they hunt in the darkness 

The thirst for blood like that of a man at war 
A man armed with bayonet and machine gun 

Watching for the slightest move of the enemy 
His prey on two legs instead of four 

Hiding behind the shadowy rock. 
Wait and wait some more 

Prepare for combat 
Only one will survive until dawn 

---

“Lengthening Shadows” Post #4: “Journey to Eternal Goodness” by Jenna Jabbar

JENNA JABBAR

Journey to Eternal Goodness 

I descended from an eternal place 
From goodness and wine 
Now the sun hits my face 
Burns off all marks of my previously privileged life 
The breeze that carries scornful sand 
Enters my system to cough up the remaining aroma of the wine 
Thirst, like a samurai, fights the canal that welcomed pleasant fruits 
This desert plants its mark on my soul 
My naked body 
I do not mind it, at first 
Since clothes were never introduced in the place of eternal happiness 
But others around me 
Like myself, trying to endure the wrath of the environment 
Use their arms to cover up the parts sacred of the human body 
I do the same 
I attempt to conceal myself 
Yet, that does not work as my arms do not contain everything 
They are less significant than to cover up what shall be covered 
As I attempt to drag my legs into the abyss 
An elderly lady wearing a ragged brown dress looking oddly familiar  
Looks at me with pity 
An intricately innocent smile is drawn upon her exhausted face 
“Dear, why don't you go to that store?  
“You might find something suitable for your smooth, delicate body. 
“Do so before the sand storm marks your destiny.” 
A beige building with fur on its side 
A bland poster with glitter to beautify it 
Typical rectangular windows with odd figures painted diligently on it 
Figures like demons, saints, prophets, angels 
And struggling peasants 
Peasants who, oddly enough, look closely like the body covering folk 
Folk like myself 
The place smelled of musk and coal 
My legs are dragged to the store as if a will from its own 
Well, how nice 
A thrift store 
I sigh thankfully as I find an opportunity to cover up my bared soul 
Rummaging through the clothes 
Desiring cloth that would conceal my secrets  
Not sure if it matters if the cloth is ill fitting 
Or ripped 
Or hideous 
Or inappropriate 
Why shall it matter at the moment? 
I can change cloth along the deserted route, right? 
I take sight of the first rack of clothing 
A pair of blue jeans, fluttery pink wings, a green shirt, a devious red cap with demon horns 
I am dazed by this rack 
As I wander and feel the worn out clothes, a glowy figure comes to sight 
I would love to describe him, yet I forgot what he looked like the moment I left the store 
We conversed, though, and it is still engraved in my brain 
The figure shines themselves  
A mysterious energy surrounds the store 
An energy too powerful to describe 
It seemed as if a force pushed me to the ground 
Unable to stand tall 
Only able to kneel down 
To—what seems to be—The Mighty 
The Mighty, that is what I will call them, looks at me pitifully 
“Why you worry yourself so, to cloth yourself?” The Mighty asks 
“Well mysterious spirit, The Mighty, my body is uncovered. 
“It is shameful, I assume, to have this much revealed.” I protest 
The Mighty laughs and concludes, “Child, the cloth picks the slave, 
Or does it? 
“That mystery, Child, your people will take years to figure out and answer. 
“You would never understand what I shall say, what I rule by.  
“Do not concern yourself too much. Everything will unravel.”  
The Mighty sways away with much grace and greatness 
As soon as The Mighty leaves, my legs drag my confused body 
I am directed to a pair of blue jeans with flowery patches 
Directed to a sunny, yellow shirt 
Both seem appropriate for the burning weather 
As I journey to the cash register, The Mighty reappears 
“Child, you shall not pay now. 
Consider it a debt that shall be paid off when the time calls you to.” 
I make my trip to the exit, more confused than ever 
More people are voyaging, yet nobody seems to know where to go 
The tired faces and ached bodies want a refuge 
No matter how far they have to go 
I do the same 
As the broken folk progress in their trip, 
The weather decides to change its morals 
From smoldering sand 
To frigid frost 
Although I was once delighted with my cloth, 
I cannot stand it 
I used to ridicule the coat-wearing folk 
Now I envy them 
My bodily system begs me to take the coat of one of the paupers 
I do not do that, though 
For a reason I cannot quite tell 
The weather gets angrier at us  
But luckily, we reach a slope where everybody settles 
Or at least I thought 
Most people in the bowl seem familiar 
As if I know them 
As if everything they feel, I have felt along my journey 
I turn my head ever so slightly to see people residing in a deeper slope 
Another bowl containing absurd creatures with wings  
Creatures so ginormous to the point where it felt like they won’t fill in the bowl 
But they did 
The bowl, as much as it swallowed, grew larger and larger 
More vicious than ever 
Growing poisonous plants and muddy drinking water 
This is the moment where people are penalized  
For how they treated each other during the deserted expedition 
This, I figured, is the beginning of my eternal journey

---

“Lengthening Shadows” Post #3: “Five Falls Ago” by Shams Aldwake

SHAMS ALDWAKE

Five Falls Ago

Five falls ago, beneath bright skies,  
I found your light in candle lit eyes.
I walked where olive branches swayed, 
And heard the songs the soft wind played.

I knew your name before I knew 
How deeply I would long for you. 
Your sun lay warm upon my face, 
Your sea called out, a soft embrace.

I’ve written of you through countless days, 
Yet still can’t capture all your ways.
Your winding streets, your golden light, 
Your quiet mornings, stars at night.

Five falls ago, the leaves turned gold, 
With every breeze, a story was told. 
My feet struck hard upon the ground, 
Still chasing after your sacred sound.

But seasons changed, and time moved fast, 
And now I search for what has passed.
I’m forced to stop; the truth is clear,
Ive come too late—youve dissappeared

Where are you now, my voice, my faith? 
How could so much be swept away?
I search for you in autumn air, 
In every street, in every prayer.

Leaves fall softly from each tree, 
Like snipppets of memory.
Yet olive roots stay buried deep, 
Holding the promises they keep.

When will your honor be restored? 
When will your pain not be ignored? 
The stars bend low across the night, 
As if ashamed to shine so bright.

And here I stand as seasons turn,
With memories that forever burn.
A longing time cannot erase,
Still searching for your familiar face.

You are my grief, and you’re my pride,
A living pulse I keep inside.
Though autumn leaves may fall and fade, 
My love for you will never change.

Five falls have passed, yet still I know 
Some roots grow deeper as seasons go. 
Though branches bend beneath the sky, 
Their roots hold strong and never die.

So if one day you fade from view, 
My heart will still remember you.
Through every fall, through every year,
Your name will always linger near.

---

“Lengthening Shadows” Post #2: Three Poems by KD Williams

KD WILLIAMS

Musings from a Wannabe Vampire 

The blood thumping in my skull 
is like a siren song 
is never ending 
is going to stop 
suddenly, one day, inevitably, 
unless I am successful 
at catching my shadow
lengthening itself across the kitchen floor,

for now, I eat pasta with red sauce, 
I drink Merlot out of a goblet, 
I grow my nails long and sharpen them to a point, 
the easier to snatch, 
the better to forget, 
the more the scarier…
Years gather together like droplets becoming one puddle on the sidewalk. 

A vampire gives up the day 
to gain the night—
the sun has never been my friend, 
but, like a lover who I cannot help but love,
even when it burns, 
I persist,
and as a vampire I’m sure I will learn lessons akin to 
the sun is worth the burn 
and 
when the stakes are laid low,
Immortality does not shield you
from Death, 

it only makes you a witness 
to more loss and more time, 
while you technically remain intact,
you will outdo yourself,
undo yourself, 
losing so much, 
dying so long 
living becomes meaningless. 


---


How can it be the weekend,
when you’re not here?

You used to whine at my feet 
while I tapped at keys,
asking me to lie down next to you instead. 

I have things to do, I’d say.
There are emails waiting,
and deadlines,
and a thousand little things
that always seemed so urgent.
And you would look at me
with those old, foggy eyes
as if you knew better.

So I would, sometimes,
lie down midday with a sigh,
and you would settle against me
like you had been waiting all day
for the simple miracle
of us being still.

I thought I was giving you what you wanted.
I didn't know
you were giving me what I needed.

Now I understand.
You were here to teach me
a lesson I was too busy living
to learn:
Slow down.
Get horizontal once in a while.
Let the world wait.
Let the messages go unanswered
for another hour.
Let the dishes stay in the sink.
Let the laundry remain unfolded.
Notice the afternoon light
lengthening shadows across the floor.
Notice how warm the blankets are.
Notice the sound of breathing.
Shush, shush.

I would give anything now
for one more interruption.
One more insistence
that I stop what I'm doing.
I would put everything aside.
I would lie beside you
for as long as you wanted,
my hand resting on your fur,
remembering the shape of you
again with my fingertips.

But wishing we had more time 
is not the point. 
The point is that 
the time we have is enough
if I remember 
to be there for it.

---

Season of the Demon 

This is the season of the demon who lengthens a shadow 
in your peripheral vision. He stands in the doorway of your sleep,
listening, more patient than a father, watching your furrowed brow. 

My child, he will say, if you wake up, if you see him, if you look him
square in the eyes. 
Maybe it’s better that way, seeing him full-on, 
not reflected in the corner of your bathroom mirror. 
Once you do, you’ll start searching for him in every face. 
You won’t mean to, but the mind demands faces from shapes,
the actor who looks like another actor who looks like your old therapist,
collecting faces until one fits the mood.
His suitcase is full of looks he can try on for any occasion. 
Yours is next. 

---

“Lengthening Shadows” Post #1: “September 2nd — 31 Years Old” by Josiah Jackson

“Growing Season” Post #21: “There Is a Time” by Wanda Kay Sanders

WANDA KAY SANDERS

There Is a Time 

In every life there is a Time – for everything, 
     Mostly a mystery till it happens. 

So often we want to know ahead of Time, the impatience 
      We humans have, but – 
       It never happens till it happens. 

We can Not control Time –  
       Not even our own. 

The Master of the Universe controls that intangible, 
        And we Must submit to Him. 

I wonder how much of Time we waste 
        Trying to be in charge of something 
         Beyond our ability. 

If we focus on our own part 
          In the moment, 

Maybe we would appreciate life more, 
          And Time would not seem so intangible. 

Just something to consider. 

---

“Growing Season” Post #20: “Slow Blink with an Old Cat” by Zach Braun

ZACH BRAUN

Slow Blink with an Old Cat

He was more like a weird hyena in a storm when we found him and took him in. 

Although his irises are twinged with that Halloween green, his pupils take up most of his eyes. Years ago he chased down crumpled receipts like butterflies.

Now his eyes are calm and clouded over.

The poet said, "My thoughts // are as fast // as clouds."  

Looking at each other, we close our eyes, trusting. In that darkness daisies bloom because they’re up to here with the ground and — just like that — they’re over it.

Then we open our eyes again.

---

“Growing Season” Post #19: “The Growing Season” by Brian W. Ball

BRIAN W. BALL

The Growing Season

I grow. The seasons come with me. I stretch the President’s face around the pale bones of my skull. Everything feels new.

I’m a dripping mess. I will clean myself later, if I have time. The President’s skin is soft and puffy. It’s a tight fit, but the change is welcome.

I came in through the open window of his chamber. The night was still. He bolted up with a start and tried to fight me off. His arms were like bent blades of summer grass, thick and lush. I ate them first. My lower jaw worked around his soft body. He tasted like fear, like warm death.

Now, full and content, I rest and grow. Goop drips from my mouth. I hear his protectors talking and smoking outside. They did not seen me come. I’m fast, a summer breeze, welcome and unseen.

The seasons on this planet change. That I know. The air is clean and made for life. I sleep and dream of nothing but hunger.  

I wake later as a woman enters the residence. She wears large dark glasses and carries many bags. She puts her things away and says hello. I am waiting. She takes her glasses off and stands near me. I am ready. I open my dark eyes.

Her neck bends back into a curve, the skin stretches there. She watches. I have grown. The President’s skin over my body is cracking but holding for now.

I try and speak. All that comes from my mouth are writhing, screeching tongues soaked in malice. My fingers are snakes and twist around her arms. Her face is blank, like the sky before snow. I do not smell her terror.

She goes limp. She has perhaps fallen asleep. Her fear is less in this state. I drop her with a thud.

Many of the President’s protectors enter quickly. They carry weapons of a fashion. As they attack. I consume them. Their muscles and tendons are lean and tough, difficult to chew. My jaw is made for the work. It breaks apart and reforms. I rest again.

When I wake, the woman is standing over me. She smiles.

My body has grown, again. I can feel it. I am still hungry. There is a knock at the door. She answers it. Her face is a season of a smile.

Some enter. They are soft and fleshy. They carry papers and serious expressions. They look confused, worried. I can smell them as I rise. Their faces grow from concern to horror.

My head touches the high vaulted ceiling. They are panicking now, trying to run, to escape. The rest of the President’s skin falls away. They turn to the woman for help, for succor.

She stares at them a moment, her face still and empty. Her mouth opens and out comes the whipping venomous tongues of hunger.

We consume them together. This is the growing season.

---

“Growing Season” Post #18: Four Poems by Diane M. Laboda

DIANE M. LABODA

Strawberry Gardens Forever

Playing in the garden with John Lennon
is a psychedelic dream of the later 1960s—
“Let me take you down” where living is easy 
and nothing is real, as long as you close your eyes.

It’s not much different today—
we’re out in our gardens, we’re taken away
by the music we pipe into our ears, we’re
attending to the political rhetoric and Cyclospora
symptoms and numbers, and sometimes
we just have to close our eyes to the world, 
because nothing seems real.

Nothing seems real. We’ve never been here 
before and we’re winging it. Scientists
and doctors speak truth to us, as do “pillow” guys
and medicine women who conjure alternate/crazy
theories. It’s enough to write a Sci-fi novel.

I myself believe only in the garden, the 
Strawberry garden where nature speaks in ever
reliable cycles—tomatoes grow to plumpness,
bean stalks grow tall and gravid. All creatures
live in harmony there without conventions
or banners or straw poles.

Rainstorms are always welcome.

---
 
Listen 

It’s spring and we all sprung forward
while listening for bluebirds’ twitter, 
peepers’ peeps and skunk cabbage
yawning and stretching skyward.

I listen for the sound of rain drumming
on the roof instead of the insidious
softness of snow’s whisper.

I listen to the wind carrying winter
away and dropping it on emperor penguins
and unsuspecting Argentinians.

I listen for the whisper of the woods
saying we are one, you are one—
one and one make harmony.

I listen for crocuses to croak, 
daffodils to laugh and tulips
to whistle their tune.

I try to be quiet and listen for the sound
of grass screwing up its courage to leap
out of the ground and become a meadow.

I listen for the brook to gain strength
and tumble instead of babble along
like a babe in the woods.

I listen for soft voices of the spirits of the woods, 
telling stories about vernal ponds, salamander dances, 
meadow mash-ups and bursting buds.

I listen to my heartbeat to make sure I’m still 
viable, upright and mobile—all I can muster
until the sun charges my photocells and puts 
a glint in my eyes again.

I listen for anything that will override 
the chaos in my head, calm my nerves 
and soothe the beast that overtakes my soul.

---

Raindrops

Listen, open your ears. Don’t run, don’t run away.
The footfalls you hear are raindrops that patter
among the pebbles, light of foot, blending
air and earth, running away.

The damp smell started minutes ago
foretelling this shower. Now the rumble signals
the faraway thunderhead—persistent, 
powerful, but nothing to fear.

The ground around you has turned into 
a shallow pond with raindrops rippling
and pocking the surface. In places it flows,
not away, but into the woods.

Every branch, every leaf is pelted into
bobbing around comically to this forest
percussion. They dance a slow jig, unafraid.
unselfconscious. They dance.

Light comes in dim patches, punctuated
by flashes of sheet lightning—just enough
to silhouette every tree, every bush, every
structure of man, your eyes.

It is then I let the patter take me into 
meditative joy, that I am here on my log
and you are dancing in the shadows, showing me
you’re strong and nimble and watching over me too.

---
 
Time is a Garden

I look forward to planting a garden,
opening the earth and nurturing 
the smallest seed into a verdant plant,
one that bears fruit, that will one day 
be my lunch, sustain me.

At first the going is slow, growth takes
time, effort, water, love. As with all
youth, I think there’s all the time
in the world for this growth to happen.
And so it goes for days and days,

One day I’ll notice that plants seem to
have spurted up overnight. They’re now
mature, flowering, talking among themselves. 
And I’m no longer in their conversation.
I’m no longer the growth master.

At that point, time seems to speed up,
just as it does for adults of a certain age, 
a certain ripeness. Next thing I know
blossoms have turned to fruit. The fruit becomes
the color of age and wants harvesting.

As the sun beats down, as clouds gather
and rain, as I grow past bearing age,
as my garden matures and fruits time slows
again. I feel like the tasty green beans, just
past prime,  past my best taste and color. 

I’m ready, brave enough to be plowed under,
feed the earth, no longer needing more time.

---

“Growing Season” Post #17: “Echinacea Says” by Jamie Berlin

JAMIE BERLIN

Echinacea Says--

Echinacea says,
Lift your face dear one,
Keep facing your horizon,
      Keep facing the sky,
            Keep facing what nourishes you.

I grow
strong stem,
heart-shaped leaves, 
ever upward 
to the sun.
Glorify me.

I pop 
spikes,
pollen cells;
bees—belles—
precious, perch
on orange spots,
plunder dark crevasses,
into the heart
from where 
my future 
passes. 

---