Debbi Antebi

CHASING TIME

she lies still in bed
with heavy pillows placed
like a castle around her head,
looking perfectly comfortable
in the artificial fortress
but squirming inside
with restlessness and dread

she tries to chase time
like running after a thief
but calmly it slips away
without granting any relief
ironic, she thinks, how she spent
so many precious years
chasing short-lived passions
escaping her fears

what once lay ahead
like an infinite stretch
of dreams and possibilities
is now compressed
into the colored pills
lying next to her bed,
which she quickly grabs,
squeezing them tight
with a racing heart and shaky hands

© Debbi Antebi 2013

Debbi Antebi’s poems have appeared in Every Day Poets, unFold, The Bijou Poetry Review, Short, Fast, and Deadly, and The Yale Journal for Humanities in Medicine, among others. She lives in Istanbul, Turkey, and blogs at http://debbiantebi.com/

Donal Mahoney

Father Spoke in Code

Father spoke in code
Mother understood.
She would cry
once he went to bed.
I never understood the code.
My sister didn't either.
As we got older, we quit
asking Mother what he said.

A feral cat claimed our yard.
It would leap the fence
when anyone appeared.
Except, of course, Father.
When he came out to walk
around the garden after supper,
the cat would sit straight up,
then rub against his leg
and look at him as if it understood
what others never could.

My sister used to say
the two of us were proof
Father and Mother
got together twice.
I told her I wasn't so certain.
I looked a lot like Mr. Brompton,
the next-door neighbor.
He used to buy us sugar cones
from the ice cream truck.

My sister, by the way, didn't look
like anyone in the family either,
but that was 40 years ago
when I last saw her.
I went away to college
and she got married.
We were never close after that.
Not even Christmas cards.

Forty years is a long time.
Now, we plan to get together
for a weekend this summer
before one of us dies.
I suggested we wait
till one of us is terminal.
What's the rush, I said.
But my wife told her
I was only kidding,
that we'll be coming
and not to make a fuss.
Burgers and hot dogs
will do just fine.

I know what Sis and I
will talk about that weekend,
the two people we'll always
have in common, no matter
how many years and miles
may lie between us.
Father and Mother have been
dead for decades now
but they're still alive in us.
I talk in code, my wife says,
and my sister cries a lot,
now that her husband's dead.
The one thing I want to know
is if my sister knows
what happened to the cat.
It knew the code,
may have had some answers.

© Donal Mahoney 2013

Nominated for Best of the Net and Pushcart prizes, Donal Mahoney has had work published in a variety of print and electronic publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa.

Guest Poet: Stephen Torelli

The Ironic Garden

Born in a garden the plans begin;

the courageous commander submits to sin.

He plans his carnage and promotions too

within the garden’s quilted hue.

Fountains, flora, and fauna galore,

warring warriors at destiny’s door.

Death and horror are his show…

it ain’t TV or radio.

Peaceful gardens it may seem

are the center of mankind’s dream.

And though the General drafts his plan

without the help from any man,

what are the garden’s astounding sights

that assist this soldier with his plight?

Is it the roses, and violets too,

or the spangled sunlight’s hue?

Popping poppies in this patch,

posing posies here to match.

Tangled tulips for your eye,

budding blossoms make you sigh.

Willowy willows on that site,

brilliant buttercups shine at night.

Pungent peppers for your taste;

Poisoned pears…don’t make haste.

Hatched in a garden, the plans are complete,

twisted tombstones at your feet.

© Stephen Torelli 2011

Stephen Torelli teaches Citizenship in a New York City High School and frequently contributes to The 6S Social Network.

MuDJoB Guest Writes: First Anniversary

Views

Two small people carry one large thing and an argument ensues,
It ends with the big thing left on the street when one of them blows a fuse.
A patient sues his doctor and the lawyer sports new shoes,
The doctor makes excuses, saying, “I’m always the one they accuse!”
Fans at the game are anxious to see the visitors lose,
Though the leading player rolls on the ground and rubs a swelling bruise.
Mom and Dad watch a crime in progress on the local news;
A hateful man in an interview hurts with the words he spews.
Three competing suitors are hoping the beauty will choose
Against a backdrop of music and hearts of pink in varying hues.
The tenants default on their rent with excuses by ones and by twos,
And complain of the neighbor who stinks up the hall with the garbage that he strews.
Eli propounds on Kate’s erroneous definition of clerihews;
In order to get her to see the light, he gives her a book to peruse.
The church falls short on worshippers who can’t sit in predestined pews,
And Masons turn out their membership for failing to pay their dues.
A husband abandons his wife in aborted attempts to amuse;
Her demeanor is drowned in pot luck casseroles, soups and stews.
A detective sifts through the ashes searching remains for clues;
He’s found an earring, a tooth and a nail, but he doesn’t know whose.
Teenagers wooing, say they aren’t smoking. They are. It’s only a ruse.
They’re thinking of eloping because her father is turning the screws.
Workers waiting for jobs are standing outside in queues,
While the hardnosed factory owner seeks alternatives to use.
Someone is at the zoo with a child his ex-wife would abuse,
And an old man who’s lost a fortune regains it by singing the Blues.

© Michael D. Brown 2011

Guest Writer: Nicole E. Hirschi

The Battle for Time

Tick… Tick…
Tock…
The music’s stopped.
Eerie silence
Haunts-
Frozen in time,
Where circles abound
My heart beat,
In my ears
Pound.
Their voices
Once prolific,
But up until now
Only silence
Was to whom
I’ve been bound.

Tick…Tick…
Tock…
Writer’s block.
Great wonders hidden
In small packages
Unlock the door
With missing key.
Unleashed,
The Muse purrs
“Pandora’s Box
Open it, its yours.”
The missing world,
Once-silenced Voices,
Rush back
And time is
Mine again.

© Nicole E. Hirschi 2010

Nicole E. Hirschi writes when Muse and Time agree with her. Also known as Coraline J. Thompson, her short flashes can be found splashed acoss the net and in a few books as well. Read more of her work at http://WordVamp.blogspot.com

Guest Writer: Michael D. Brown

Timepiece

There are verdant woods and a river
In the mountains where I dream,
Though perhaps it’s not a river
But just a sun-drenched stream.

There are faces on the rocks and trees.
Oh, I know it’s a trick of light
And shadows and my perception
That they have thoughts and sight,
But I like to think they’ve watched the women
Wash clothes and children play –
Standing to ponder eternity
As generations pass away.

Through gaps in the leaves on the ridge,
I see boys and girls aglow,
Practicing their dance-steps,
Unaware of this ¨life¨ below.
When these children are men and women
And have children of their own,
The ancient rocks and trees will stand
And know what they have known.

There are verdant woods and rivered rocks
In the mountains to the east
And perhaps they will be standing there
When all the dancing’s ceased.

© Michael D. Brown 2010

Michael Brown is from New York and resides now in southern Mexico where he teaches ESL to teenagers. He is also the maintenance man on MuDJoB and loves to read and write.

Guest Writer: Harris Tobias

Time Traveler

The future hasn’t happened yet
And the past has come and gone
There isn’t much a man can do
To mess around with time
You can’t go back and alter
A single word you said
You can’t undo the things you did
You can’t speak to the dead
You can wish that things were different
You can wish upon a star
But time is locked and shuttered
That’s just the way things are

So how do you explain this thing
I built inside my room
From bits of old computers
And a cell phone from my mom
I hooked the thing together then
I plugged the damn thing in
I thought that nothing happened
So I switched it on again

It flashed and popped and chattered
Then smoked and made a spark
I thought I’d popped a breaker
Cause everything went dark
I started down to check the fuse
To see what I had caused
But halfway down the staircase
I turned around and paused

Nothing looked the same
As it did an hour ago
It looked more like a house
A century old or so
What lamps there were were kerosene
Or maybe they were whale
The whole room looked like it came
From grandma’s garage sale

I went back upstairs and looked inside
Another room instead
Two people I had never seen
Were in my parent’s bed
I didn’t dare to wake them
there was nothing they could do
I was starting to get worried and
As my apprehension grew
I went back into my room
And quietly closed my door
I saw the lifeless pieces
Of my machine upon the floor
Without electric power,
I knew my goose was cooked
I’d never find an outlet
No matter how I looked
I guessed that I was stranded
A century in the past
I wanted to get out of there
And I had to get out fast
Before the household woke up
And forced me to explain
Exactly what I was doing there
They’d think I was insane
Even then they knew
Time travel was a dream
And who ever thought a kid
Could build a working time machine
The only thing that came to me
It popped into my mind
Was to gather up the pieces
And leave the house behind

I was leaving through the kitchen
When I noticed on the door
A calendar that gave the date
As 1894
I shut the door behind me
As quiet as a mouse
And walked through foggy streets
Until I could not see the house
I walked until I noticed that
The streets I walked down
Were not the streets of Philly
But of foggy London Town
Talk about a pickle
What was I to do
Lost a hundred years ago
In a place I never knew
I wracked my brains
I walked the streets
I didn’t have a clue
Then I had a bright idea
That rang some mental bells
There was one man in London then
His name was HG Wells
I’d read a lot about him
He wrote The Time Machine
He knew about time travel
He might have a scheme
To get me back to Philly
Back to mom and dad
I was getting desperate
Perhaps a little mad
I wandered aimless through the streets
How long I could not tell
I stopped and asked a bobby
If he knew of Mr. Wells
He didn’t but he helped me
Find the address in a book
He gave me directions, then
Walked off without a look
I don’t know if you understand
My predicament was strange
I dare not tamper with the past
Or the future might be changed
Just by talking to that Bobby
The fabric might be torn
And the future could be altered
So that I were never born

I walked through crooked streets
Gaslights relieved the dark
Several times I blundered
But I arrived at Regent’s Park
I found Hanover Terrace
And I knocked upon his door
It was late and he was angry
At least that is what I saw
I hurriedly explained my plight
He seemed to understand
He asked me in and offered tea
And made his one demand
“I want to see what brought you here
This device of yours
It’s hard to credit how it works
All the science it ignores.”
I showed him all the pieces
And how I thought it worked
When I mentioned electricity
I noticed that he jerked
To attention. Electricity it seems
Was something he was toying with
To power his machines.
It was something new he said
And was gratified to learn
That the future held such promise
Then he said that in return
For helping me get back home
I’d have to tell him tales
About my life in the future
And leave out no details
We talked all night, I told him
Of a world that was to come
He filled his notebook up with notes
And when we were done
He took me downstairs to his lab
And what a shock to see
So many strange devices
To produce electricity
I saw a Tesla coil
And some other things he had
I couldn’t name but I’d seen
In my High School physics lab
He hooked things up and turned things on
It stood my hair on end
He shook my hand and waved goodbye
I felt I’d made a friend
There was a mighty crackle
Then a flash and I was glad
To be back inside my Philly house
With dear old mom and dad
I couldn’t ever make it work again
No matter how I tried
The original would never work again
All the pieces had been fried.

It wasn’t till years later
When I was reading Wells
I marveled at how accurate
A future he foretells
I knew the reason he could see
A future so sublime
He had the notes he made that night
When I traveled back in time.
The future hasn’t happened yet
And the past is done and gone
There isn’t much a man can do
To mess around with time
You can’t go back and alter
A single word you said
You can’t undo the things you did
You can’t speak to the dead
You can wish that things were different
You can wish upon a star
But time is locked and shuttered
That’s just the way things are

© Harris Tobias 2010

Harris Tobias was raised by robots disguised as New Yorkers. Despite an awkward childhood he learned to read and write. To date Mr. Tobias has published two detective novels, The Greer Agency and A Felony of Birds, to critical acclaim. In addition he has published short stories in Down in the Dirt Magazine, Literal Translations, Electric Flash and Ray Gun Revival. He currently lives and writes in Charlottesville, Virginia.