The Impermanence of Paprika by Tricia Marcella Cimera (SPICES & SEASONINGS Series)

The Impermanence of Paprika
by Tricia Marcella Cimera

My father always threw paprika
over the potato salad he made.
A big voila! of red on top of
sunny yellow mustard & eggs.
His devotion of slicing countless
potatoes for us, done so casually.
We ate our summer dinner with the
red paprika sun setting in the sky;
gone     before we all knew it.

PHOTO: Potato salad topped with paprika by Msphotographic.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: My dad loved to cook and create, and had many, many jars of spices and seasonings. It seemed his favorite was paprika; he sprinkled (scattered, tossed, threw) it on a variety of food. I remember the fat spice jars with their teak lids, how the contents glowed inside them. I have the jars now – but I keep shells, rocks, and sand in them. I miss that wonderful potato salad. Joy in a big bowl.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Tricia Marcella Cimera is a Midwestern Poet with a worldview. Her poems have appeared in various diverse journals online and in print. She lives, writes, despairs, and tries to hope in America.  A cedar Poetry Box called The Fox Poetry Box is mounted on a post in her front yard.

Toss Well to Coat Evenly by Tori Grant Welhouse (SPICES & SEASONINGS Series)

Toss Well to Coat Evenly
by Tori Grant Welhouse

            That summer a buttery light got into everything.
I was in between jobs.
We bought a new gas grill.
                        I placed chicken pieces in a large bowl,

            plumped up and pale as coddled cream.
The baby played on a rug in the great room,
reading a story to herself while nudging
                        wood blocks with her peachy feet.

            Her father mowed our green sweep of lawn.
The smell of cut grass lifted on a breeze
through the kitchen window. I snapped
                        cobs of corn in thirds. The boys slept

            until noon. They moved around me in the
kitchen smelling like campfire. They overfilled
bowls with Kix®, which rumbled in a raft
                        of golden milk. They talked in a code

            of friends and girls and sports and elbow
jabs. They watched me melt butter.
They promised to be home by dinner.
                        I bought a new cookbook.

            The word blackening caught my attention.
I slashed the fleshiest parts
of chicken, streamed butter.
                        Raising children was a haphazard business.

            Where was the bonfire? I sprinkled spices—
cumin, paprika, cayenne, salt, pepper.
That summer the corn tasseled.
                        Children slept dreamless.

            Tossing well to coat evenly,
we laughed around the table.
We fanned our lips, our tongues
                        on fire. The boys gave the recipe five stars.

PAINTING: Tablecloth by Maria Primachenko (1976).

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: I am fascinated by food and recipes. Food is identity. Food is home. Food is adventure. When my sister died, I reread the cookbooks she gave me. When my mother died, I inherited her recipe box.  I’ve been working on poems paired with recipes. This poem was inspired by a recipe for blackened chicken and corn that highlighted a summer.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Tori Grant Welhouse’s poems have appeared most recently in Bone Bouquet, Half Mystic, and The Woolf. She earned an honorable mention in the 2021 Hal Prize and was a runner-up in the 2020 Princemere Prize. She won Etching Press’s 2020 poetry chapbook competition for Vaginas Need Air and Skyrocket Press’s inaugural novel-writing contest with her YA fantasy The Fergus. Learn more torigrantwelhouse.com.

Corn on the Cob by Linda McCauley Freeman (ONE GOOD MEMORY Series)

Corn on the Cob
by Linda McCauley Freeman

An emblem of summer, a day
when my dad, a white chef hat jaunty on his head,
hauled out the greasy grill and dumped in charcoal
from the big bag he kept in the garage,
the same charcoal he liked to put in our Christmas stockings
long after the joke wore off.

But in summer, he’d say, “Stand back!” douse
them with lighter fluid, strike a match, as
my brothers and I jumped breathlessly
at the poof of flames that singed our eyelashes,
for we were never far enough and eyeball level
with the grill, and my mom
would bring out a tray of raw meat
she’d pounded into patties and my sister
trailing her with lemonade and then
we’d all sit together husking the corn,
revealing the bright yellow kernels,
peeling the silk strings of summer.

Photo by Anna Cherepanova. 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Linda McCauley Freeman is the author of the full-length poetry collection The Family Plot (Backroom Window Press, 2022) and has been widely published in international journals, including in a Chinese translation. In 2022, she was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Recently, she was the featured poet in The Poet Magazine, and appeared in Delta Poetry Review,  Amsterdam Quarterly, and won Grand Prize in StoriArts’ Maya Angelou poetry contest. The recipient of a grant from Arts MidHudson, she was selected for Poets Respond to Art 2020, 2021, and 2022 shows. A three-time winner in the Talespinners Short Story contest judged by Michael Korda, she has an MFA from Bennington College and is the former poet-in-residence of the Putnam Arts Council. She lives in the Hudson Valley, New York. Visit her at  LindaMcCauleyFreeman.com for upcoming events and follow her on Twitter@LindaMccFreeman and Facebook@LindaMcCauleyFreeman. Family Plot is available on Amazon.

In the Swim, poem by Catherine Wald (BEACH AND POOL MEMORIES Poetry and Prose Series)

In the Swim
by Catherine Wald

I plunge in water cold and clear
to glide as weightless as a fish
with fluid motions lithe and sleek:
and as I dive, I disappear —
cut loose from earthly want and wish.
To learn anew to see and seek,
I slide below mad wave and chop
descend beneath slick surfaces,
ignoring pulls from shore and pier.
There are no stage sets here or props,
no boundaries or differences,
no tendencies to plan or steer.

As currents tug and buoy me,
I am a creature quite transformed:
a mermaid queen, a siren bold,
a woman who knows liberty
with cooled-down skin but blood still warm
whose legends are as yet untold.

PHOTO: The author with her mother at Rye Beach in Rye, New York, approximately 1956. The white towers in the background are Rye Playland.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: I’ve been a water baby since an early age (as you can see from the photo). I wrote this poem in response to my mother-in-law and her sister, who used to make fun of me for being in the water all the time when we spent time at their cabin on Lake Champlain. I wanted to convey to them why I love the water so much.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Catherine Wald is a poet and teacher based in Manhattan. Her poems have appeared in American Journal of Nursing, Chronogram, Friends Journal, Minerva Rising, J Journal, The Lyric, New York Times, Quarterday Review and Westchester Review; her chapbook, Distant, burned-out stars, was published in 2011 by Finishing Line Press. She is author of The Resilient Writer: Tales of Rejection and Triumph from 23 Top Authors (Persea 2005).  Visit her at catherinewald.com.

A Lake Michigan Swim, poem by Tina Hacker (BEACH AND POOL MEMORIES Poetry and Prose Series

A Lake Michigan Swim
by Tina Hacker

Chicago summers vaporized saliva
so even speaking was painful.
Tourists raved about the skyline,
rows of yachts lazing in the harbors.
But kids knew the lake
was the true attraction, fun and relief
in one package whose ends were open,
spilling thrills.

Bone-chilling waves roared out
like a siren to children being slathered
with sunscreen at the sandy edge.
A few raced in, ducked under,
pretended the water didn’t stab them.
Most approached baby step by baby step,
made genuflecting dips, kneeled to thighs,
then waist, then dove under, exulting
as their bodies embraced the cold.
Hands waved; legs leapt into sky;
imaginations spun bodies
into dolphins, mermaids, great white sharks.

After 40 minutes, parents on shore called,
“Time to come in.” Were ignored.
”Just ten minutes more.”
Wrapped in towels like burritos,
the kids’ lips
wore blue corn smiles.

SOURCE: Previously published in Imagination & Place: Weather.

IMAGE: Vintage postcard of North Avenue Beach, Chicago, Illinois.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: I grew up in Chicago, Illinois, and spent many days swimming in Lake Michigan. I don’t know how I did it. That water is beyond cold even at the height of summer. It wasn’t until my family took a weekend trip to Lake Geneva, Wisconsin, that I found out that some lakes have warm water. You don’t have to freeze at the beach!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Tina Hacker is a four-time Pushcart Prize nominee whose work has appeared in a wide variety of journals, both online and paper. Her full-length poetry book, Listening to Night Whistles, , published by Aldrich Press and her chapbook,Cutting It, published by The Lives You Touch Publications are available on Amazon. Since 1976, she has edited poetry for Veterans’ Voices, a magazine of writing by veterans across the country. This year she was given the honor of being a 2016 Muse of The Writers Place in Kansas City.

AUTHOR PHOTO: Tina Hacker posing behind a cutout at a performance ofThe Magic Flute.

Safety, poem by Ruth Bavetta (BEACH AND POOL MEMORIES Poetry and Prose Series)

Safety
by Ruth Bavetta

My grandmother would tie a rope
around my waist so I wouldn’t drown
in the green-fringed swells
that murmured and gurgled around the rocks.

She stood on dry sand, marooned
with her crutches, giving me freedom
with the one hand, safety with the other.
I floated naked in the water, sloshing
to and fro in the rhythm of the sea.

The waters spoke to me
when I was a measure only partly filled.
They called to me and sang
and I didn’t need to understand,
because I knew.

Here, in the inland garden,
I do not hear that song. Here,
I am dry and speechless, left
to stumble in the garments of experience
where no line leads to understanding.

AUTHOR’S PHOTO CAPTION: This photo is from about 1938. Laguna was quiet and beautiful then.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: When I was a kid, my grandmother had a cottage almost on the sand at Laguna Beach. She was crippled by arthritis and couldn’t have run into the water to save me, so she did what she could.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Ruth Bavetta is an artist and poet whose poems have been published in Rhino, Rattle, Nimrod, Tar River Poetry, North American Review, Spillway, and Poetry New Zealand, and many others. Her work is included in four anthologies. She has published three books, Flour Water Salt (FutureCycle Press) Embers on the Stairs (Moontide Press) and Fugitive Pigments (FutureCycle Press.). She loves the light on November afternoons, the smell of the ocean, a warm back to curl against in bed. She hates pretense, fundamentalism, and sauerkraut.

A watery echo, poem by Patrick T. Reardon (BEACH AND POOL MEMORIES Poetry and Prose Series)

A watery echo
by Patrick T. Reardon

The home movies
show how red my
skin got from the
sun that day and
many other
days at the kids
blue-bottom pool
at Columbus
Park. We were all
so pale, Irish,
red and blond hair,
and deep sunburn,
on which we put
cool Noxema.

The odd-shape dark
spot the nice young
doctor found on
my back forty
years later was
a hot echo:
melanoma.

PHOTO: Two-year-old Patrick T. Reardon (rear) and his one-year-old brother David Michael (drinking from the hose) “swimming” in a bucket in the backyard (August 1952).

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: Given the subject, there wasn’t really anything else that suggested itself. The end lines of the two stanzas weren’t planned. They were serendipitous as was, in a reverse way, the sunburn and later skin issue.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Patrick T. Reardon, who now avoids the sun, has been swimming in the ocean of words for the past 55 years and hasn’t drowned yet.

A Short Dive from the Low Board, poem by John Lambremont, Sr. (BEACH AND POOL MEMORIES Poetry and Prose Series)

A Short Dive from the Low Board
by John Lambremont, Sr.

That summer, the sun beat down on us
like it was the Devil himself;
we scampered for shade
into the thickest woods,
and drank a lot of hot water
from the garden hose.

The neighborhood pool was our savior,
our clear crystal blue oasis.
As soon as our summer membership began,
Mom started taking us to the pool
nearly every morning in June,
and we would often return again
with Dad late in the day.

On one sunny sojourn,
the Lackie twins and I
had the diving board
to ourselves; we performed
cannonballs and can openers,
jack-knives and swan dives
to our collective hearts’ content;
then we noticed that the lifeguard
had left temporarily his nearby post,
so we quickly concocted a plan.

We decided that the thing to do
was to all jump off the board
in rapid succession, taking
care not to land on each other,
so we prepared for the leap,
John in front, me in the middle,
and Jim taking up the rear.

John ran off the board,
and as I started to follow him,
I saw the lifeguard emerge
from the snack shop,
looking directly at me,
his face contorted with anger,
and about to shout, blow
his whistle, or both.
Busted, I stopped at mid-
board, and tried to turn around,
but in so doing, I ran into Jim,
lost my balance, and fell off
to the side like a poul-doux
being shot from the sky.

Time slowed to a crawl
as I rapidly descended;
I had no time to extend
my arms, and I landed
face-first on the concrete.
Stunned and numb, I drew
myself to my knees, checked
my face for blood, and found none.
My vision was awash in waves
as I staggered to my feet
and wobbled over to my mother
in her pool-side recliner.
She comforted me as I cried,
for once not scolding me
for doing a bad thing.

Jim got off the board gingerly,
and went to the spot where I fell.
He found there a small piece
of chipped tooth, picked it up,
and brought it to my mom.
She wrapped it up in a damp napkin,
summoned my little sister,
and took us home.

Dr. Lorio gave her concussion instructions,
and held me out of two baseball games.
The dentist said there was no way
to re-attach the chip, but that a cap
on the tooth was a viable alternative.
I declined, and to this day, one
can still see the chip in my upper incisor,
a permanent reminder of my
short dive from the low board.

PHOTO: “Boy jumping off diving board” by Kelly Redinger. Prints available at fineartamerica.com.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: John Lambremont, Sr., is a poet and writer from Baton Rouge, Louisiana. John has a B.A. in Creative Writing and a J.D. from Louisiana State University. His poems have been published internationally in many reviews and anthologies, including Clarion, The Minetta Review, The Chaffin Journal, Picayune, and Words and Images, and he has been nominated for The Pushcart Prize. John’s last full-length poetry volume is Dispelling the Indigo Dream (Local Gems Poetry Press 2013), and his latest chapbook is What It Means To Be A Man (And Other Poems Of Life And Death) (Finishing Line Press 2015). John’s new full-length poetry collection, The Moment Of Capture, will be published in June 2017 by Lit Fest Press.

Modesty, poem by Derek Kannemeyer (BEACH AND POOL MEMORIES Poetry and Prose Series)

Modesty
by Derek Kannemeyer

There’s a photograph of me at the beach:
I’m four or five, skulking in a nook of rock
with one arm flung across my midriff
to prevent the lascivious exposure of my navel.
Where did it come from, this modesty my parents hooted at,
in sunny South Africa, on the frolicsome Cape sands?
The panic caught on my face can’t be coy, surely;
surely I can’t believe I’ve anything much to protect?
It’s terrible to be born so private and so self-involved,
to be so modest and so immodest, as if anybody even cares
about the flaws or the perfections of one’s ordinary person.
How much longer must I hole up so, for the indifferent world
to not gawp at, holding this same shy, brazen pose?
Still stricken so with wonder at my terrible, terrible bellybutton;
still singing, “Don’t look at me! Don’t look at me!”

PHOTO: Three Kannemeyers on the rocks, circa 1954, Western Cape, South Africa.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: The poem that appears here was written to announce an upcoming reading. In the few years since I wrote it, the photograph that inspired it seems to have utterly disappeared. Mmh. But I’ll offer another one, from the same year, I believe, in which you will notice that I am the only one of the subjects who remains decently clad. And unlike my brother and my father, I have my eyes closed: to draw attention, it may be conjectured, to my renunciation of all this unsavory (and yet poetic? rather charming?) self-flaunting of the exposed self.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Derek Kannemeyer was born in Cape Town, South Africa, raised in London, England, and teaches in Richmond, Virginia. His writing has appeared in a few dozen print and online journals.

Without Training Wheels, story by Leslie Sittner (STARTING TO RIDE Poetry and Prose Series)

Without Training Wheels
by Leslie Sittner

Drive-in movies were new venues in our area in 1952. Mom was fascinated. We went three or four times each week to different ones. We made a bed in the back of the station wagon and after the first movie, my brother and I had to go to sleep.

During intermission there were often drawings for popular items like bicycles. Ticket stubs were drawn to determine the winner. Since we were “four,” we always thought we had a pretty good chance of winning something.

We did. We won a girl’s bike with my brother’s ticket. Since he was too young to use it, the bike was mine. We were secretive about the real winner; my brother was young but had big ears.

Learning to ride required a week’s worth of training wheels. Dad coached. I did fine. They were removed. I was pretty cocky because I’d been taking gymnastic classes; I was strong, flexible, and had good balance. Unfortunately, steering, pedaling, and staying upright simultaneously was elusive without the extra little wheels. I practiced. And practiced. I practiced more. Dad gave up. Mom ran out of band-aids for my many cuts and scrapes.

When my parents suggested I give up and the bike be stored and saved for my brother, I learned very quickly to stay upright, ride straight, turn, and stop. Good psychology.

Now that I was on my own, I was allowed to ride on our suburban street as long a parent was supervising. I thought I was hot stuff. My little brother wasn’t permitted to leave the yard on his tricycle. I thought I was big-sister-hot-stuff.

AUTHOR’S PHOTO CAPTION: This is me in 1952 with the drive-in bike, a neighbor, and my brother on his tricycle. To this day he doesn’t know the winning ticket was his.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: This prompt brought back memories of easy childhood summers. Apparently there was more gender equity in wardrobes in 1952. Nowadays I always wear tops.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Since returning to upstate New York after 25 years in Manhattan, Leslie Sittner has been turning to the written word as a form of self-expression and reflection. She began this journey two years ago and is just finding her voice in different formats. Two of her stories are now available in print in The Apple Tree by Third Age Press, and on-line prose at 101Words. A variety of prose and poetry can also be seen on-line at Silver Birch Press and 50 Word Challenge.