From the Empirical Archives: Nights Such as These

Nights Such as These

Emily Grelle

Originally published in the February 2013 issue of Empirical

The wind in the eaves,

playing frisbee with my father

counting up, hands clapping

under the impact of the moment

in which the flying disc, like a UFO,

hit home, my plan— it

was to reach 100 without breaking

the count, the value

of which exceeded the thousands

of summer nights hence that I have dreamed

of returning to that season of unseason,

when all I had to offer was handed back to me

with equal fervor, and we were counting on each other

and my mother, on the porch unrivaled

in love, rooting for us like the grass, waving

in the breeze, with wishes full in the heads

of dandelions growing gray to plant our hopes

in fields where they’ll grow bright as suns

and even the blades are gentle enough

to ease the inevitable fall.

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From the Empirical Archives: In the Shade of a Cave

In the Shade of a Cave

Wally Swist

Originally published in the February 2013 issue of Empircal

We hike halfway up Mount Toby to where the gorge drops

off and takes the thin stream of Roaring Brook down

toward the culvert beneath train tracks to Cranberry Pond

I explain that the water is normally roaring every spring

from the snowmelt; however, not having much of a winter

has affected the watersheds. I illustrate that usually

the force of the brook hammers the stones, that the sound

mixes with the ionization of the water rising above the cliffs,

so that you can see, hear, and smell the torrent all at once.

In giving Bob a guided tour of the flora bordering the trail

this mid-April, I find the Quaker Ladies grouped in blue

and white clusters at the bottom, in the scrub meadow that

overlooks the pond. Farther up where I warn him

that here is where the trail begins to become steep, I spot

one nodding purple trillium, then point out the others

blazing their own trail up the slope. He aims the camera

to shoot his photographs of what he describes

as their flowers looking downward, and I explain that is why

part of their name includes the word nodding. He blurts out

how he was an infantryman in the Battle of the Bulge,

one of four soldiers out of a platoon of forty who survived

the surging stormtroopers. I point to the bright yellow

discs of inflorescence of coltsfoot flourishing beside

a trickle of a stream cutting its way through the black mud.

There! I exclaim, and identify the four-lobed lush purple

flowers of hepatica, whose royal hues can be easily missed

due to their diminutive size among leaf litter. I speak

with an intended ebullient clarity that I hope he remembers

when we find the clearing beneath the mossy cliffs halfway

up the mountain, speckled white with the luscious

blossoming of bloodroot. I inform him that there is only

a two-week window of our seeing this perennial in the wild,

of which he shows his rapt appreciation by taking one

photograph after another. Do you see that one, I say, placing

one of his hands in one of mine, as I draw a straight line

to where one bloodroot flower grows in the shade of a cave

in the cliffs. Oh, I see, he answers, then continues:

Yesterday I couldn’t feel my hands and feet from the trench foot I got

in the battle. They only gave us thin gloves, so we could fire our rifles.

My feet froze, since the boots they gave us were not much,

and the socks were too goddamn thin! We look at each other,

with mutual understanding beneath green cliffs, whose

natural architecture we both admire, among blossoms

of bloodroot that star the entire vertical rise in the sunlight.

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From the Empirical Archives: The Circle and the Pyramid

The Circle and the Pyramid

Lorna Davis

Originally published in the February 2013 issue of Empirical

It seems that empires always leave a stain,

A toxic pattern in the conquered soil,

A ruddy mix of tears and blood and toil,

Impervious to a thousand years of rain.

The hearts of human leaders once were true;

Their duty, to secure the people’s needs.

But empire’s logic grips the ground like weeds:

The many just exist to serve the few.

Where freedom’s eagle rests upon her seal,

The pyramid inside the circle reigns

And slowly works to cancel freedom’s gains

With quiet laws that help the mighty steal.

Our promise lies in leaving none behind;

The circle needs each part to be complete.

The pyramid just lifts up the elite

To ride the trudging ranks of humankind.

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From the Empirical Archives: Arizona

Arizona

Tara Malcom

Originally published in the February 2013 issue of Empirical

We were drinking malteds

when we saw - them -

chicanos, or mexicans (?),

honking upstreet, flags flaring,

celebrating a victory,

possibly a war won,

or even a game of futbol -

they were waving out windows

we did it! lo hicimos!

we mocked them high-fiving

& boy, did we do it -

me the mick

& you the jew.

Now, I look at the state

I spent my young summers

in uproar.

“They’re devouring the words of chicanos

& pretending every word is laced

with the devil’s LSD.

It’s terrible” I say now,

silently remembering the day

we walked amongst the murals.

At the corner of 24th and Hampshire

a young boy waved his flag at me

& I smiled, an itch at the back of my throat

that swallowed like hot shame.

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From the Empirical Archives: Dancing with Shiva by Lorna Davis

Dancing with Shiva

Lorna Davis

Originally published in the February 2013 issue of Empirical

I have seen Shiva lately, dancing through the world

In a bright spinning blur like the blades of a harvester.

I have seen him on the freeway in the spinning of wheels

As I ride glassy-eyed to another intrusion.

I have seen him in the hospital in the resolute faces,

And we danced down the halls to the click of a gurney

As I watched ceiling tiles flash by in time

Until he stopped, open-armed, and hovered above me

In the cold bright lights of the operating room.

I have felt his quick hands in the surgeon’s blade,

And I still taste his breath in the poisons that carried me

Lifeless and limp to the door of his realm,

Only to let me fall, tumbling and reeling,

Back down to earth.

Then the dark dance led me to his inner sanctum

Where smiling acolytes in blue scrubs

Brought me to sit before the high priest

With the sacred stethoscope hung on his neck

And robed in a long white coat.

And the high priest, stern but not unkind,

Warned of the dangers of dancing with Shiva:

You may be healed, he said, but at a cost,

For the god of destruction will demand a sacrifice.

You will fast, and purge, and become a hollow shell,

And still he may take every strand of your hair,

And even the marrow of your bones.

But there is hope in the juxtaposition

Of opposites in this dance,

Where the kind-hearted nurse gently and carefully

Pumps poison into my veins,

And cheerful attendants burn me with dark rays,

For the enemy of my enemy is my friend.

So I go through the motions, spinning and reeling,

Following every step in this dance of destruction,

Struggling to hold on to equilibrium

As Shiva leads me from poison to poison,

Carefully balanced between sickness and death

As if dancing on the edge of a blade.

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From the Empirical Archives: The Loss of Many, The Loss of One by By Peggy Aylsworth

The Loss of Many, The Loss of One

Peggy Aylsworth

Originally published in the January 2013 issue of Empirical

It’s August. The sea lies still.

The air grows thick and heavy.

What’s new

is old.

Young soldiers reverse artillery.

“Tough” is the word that drowns

in sorry

blood,

pushed to a pressure without a human

name. The spirit flogged to this:

obey,

prepare

for the kill, to face another face,

shatter its grace, less worthy, as

the story

goes.

Is this his brother, created equal,

condemned for the crime of other?

A bullet

to the head,

his own, crosses the divide to choice.

The land grows empty as lightning strikes.

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From the Empirical Archives: The Photograph: A Wish for Stillness by Peggy Aylsworth

The Photograph: A Wish for Stillness

Peggy Aylsworth

Originally published in the January 2013 issue of Empirical

The wing of the plane cut the sunrise

in half,

but couldn’t diminish the aurora

exploding

its orange, its yellow. Everything is on its way

to somewhere.

But look, the stanchions

on the bridge,

like children waiting to throw stones,

watch ripples

in the lake foretelling the clamor of their lives.

The stillness

of bare winter, its illusion could convince

the eye

nothing would change, but reflections

in the water

shimmy, wriggle, promising, promising.

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From the Empirical Archives: Driving by Carol V. Davis

Driving

Carol V. Davis

Originally published in the January 2013 issue of Empirical

I never did drive in Russia,

even after all those years.

The possibility of it so horrifying.

The way drivers there carve out a lane

between two others, even in city center.

Some would say it’s their right, having waited

all those years to buy a car and then having to suffer

such indignities: windshield wipers swiped at night,

even with glaring streetlights spying on you.

And the GAI, the traffic police, waving cars over

into their webs, not freeing them without a bribe.

But maybe you deserved what you got

when your car was vandalized, fool that you were

to leave those blades lying so prettily on the windshield.

Those were Soviet times.

Now there’s no waiting to buy a car, though

not everyone has that kind of cash lying around.

Still a Land Rover is pretty tempting, the lovely

wooden dashboard just asking for it, windows that smoothly glide.

Just consider the people trudging along the sidewalks

or stranded by trams that never come when

the temperature plunges below zero.

You wouldn’t want to trade places now, would you?

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From the Empirical Archives: Cold Lesson by Travis Laurence Naught

Cold Lesson

Travis Laurence Naught

Originally published in the January 2013 issue of Empirical

Late last night we pulled in to a cold and snowy parking lot

The chains on the tires had to come off as we approached the dry freeway after a long day of off-road
cavorting through 12 inches of fresh powder

It was an ominous feeling with the 22 degree air pressing in against the van heaters blasting on high next
to a road carrying no vehicles, threatening to overtake the warm blowing ventilation before the task of
removal was complete

Stillness was the predominant feeling produced on the night as not even a coyote was howling at the
Moon in such freezing temperatures

Yard lights spread far apart cast a steady though uneven glow to work by

Mental images of maniacal fiends set on manslaughter intermingled with the equally terrifying images of
Dad falling over from a heart attack

Mind racing in absurd and fearful thought such as this whenever a quiet moment caused by a
concentrated warming work pause was taken because the first signs of frostbite numbing effect were
nipping at his exposed extremities

But the job only took 10 minutes and his fingers were spared and my irrational emotions left me feeling
internally ashamed yet again

Because while life can be cruel, I always seem to get by

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From the Empirical Archives: Recipe for Peace by Devreaux Baker

Recipe for Peace 

Devreaux Baker

Originally published in the January 2013 issue of Empirical

Bare your feet, roll up your sleeves

oil the immigrant’s bowl

open the doors and windows of your house

invite in the neighbors, invite in strangers off the street

roll out the dough, add the spices for a good life

cardamom and soul, cumin and tears

stir in sesame and sorrow, a dash of salt

pink as new hope

rub marjoram and thyme, lemon grass and holy basil

on your fingers and pat the dough

bless the table, bless the bread

bless your hands and feet

bless the neighbors and strangers

off the street

bake the bread for a century or more

on a moderate heat

under the olive trees in your back yard

or on the sun filled stones of Syria

in the white rocks of Beirut

or behind the walls of Jerusalem

in the mountains of Afghanistan

and in the sky scrapers of New York

feast with all the migrant tongues

until your mouth understands

the taste of many different homes

and your belly is full so you fall asleep

cradled in the skirts of the world

curled in the lap of peace.

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From the Empirical Archives: Cold Mountain by Wayne Lee

Cold Mountain

Wayne Lee

Originally published in the January 2013 issue of Empirical

Han-shan says after a moment of bliss,

This is better than where I live. I see

Cold Mountain disappearing into mist.

My life among these thousand-meter cliffs,

my days of hermitage and poverty

evanescing in a moment of bliss.

I look in the mirror and I see wisps

of white, like clouds among the leafless trees,

Cold Mountain disappears into mist.

This day and the years gone by are endless

ripples, like rivers flowing to the east –

Han-shan vanishing on moments of bliss.

I have no desire now to reminisce

about my profession or family

as Cold Mountain disappears into mist.

Some may ask, did Han-shan ever exist?

Yes, I did, but now I have been set free –

a puff of smoke in a moment of bliss,

Cold Mountain disappearing into mist . . . .

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From the Empirical Archives: Voices II by Carol V. Davis

Voices II

Carol V. Davis

Originally published in the December 2012 issue of Empirical

It didn’t matter

whether we believed her or not

the dead kept on speaking:

whom to trust

who would betray her

After the voices stopped whispering

they took to the airwaves but only she could decipher

the code

the way a scientist sequences

genes while the rest of us only see floating quotation marks

I never knew why I landed in her column of dependables

was slightly offended as if I were not as

dangerous as I like to think

the last time I saw her she was

digging up her garden

all that beautiful dying

black tulips tossed on a pile

two-toned narcissus yanked by the stems

purity she wanted a native garden

spiked succulents to shield her

salvia to keep the fires at bay

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From the Empirical Archives: Drought Conditions by Travis Laurence Naught

Drought Conditions

Travis Laurence Naught

Originally published in the December 2012 issue of Empirical

Mouths take thoughts and juice them like rocks to create just enough residual moisture to make it
through the cactus lined desert.

Oranges would make better fare, especially mixed with strawberries and bananas in a blender with ice
to cool down the internal fire that drives these thirsty words, but those are not available in Washington
State any more . . . only Florida.

Put some in the mail and see if the miles dehydrate through evaporation process soaked envelopes sent
with the intent to keep a person healthy during unavoidable downtimes that are borderline required to
process all of the new information gathered.

Given that everything is even and those distances still provide a satiated feeling unlike any found at the
bottom of beer bottles, gin and tonics as well as so many other mixed beverages, then there is no
reason to quit pulling frustrated suckles.

Mental pebbles are not the same as a refreshing in person drink, but sometimes lying to oneself by
tasting the spit off of gravel is enough to get by.

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From the Empirical Archives: The Bridge, the Warrior, and Blue Eyes by Peggy Aylsworth

The Bridge, the Warrior, and Blue Eyes

Peggy Aylsworth

Originally published in the December 2012 issue of Empirical

The curve and rush of time and water.

Nothing learned as the warrior loses his head.

Blue eyes in the stone face, the subtle smile.

Who will answer this longing? There is

patience in the woman leaning on the wall.

In the distance women walk and talk.

Pulteney Bridge is more than a bridge.

Red Rover, cross over. On the way why not

buy a rose, an antique map or sip a glass

of blueberry juice? And still the women wait

and walk as their day bends toward night. The old

has left its dying wish within the stone: Endure.

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From the Empirical Archives: Within the Going by Peggy Alysworth

Within the Going

Peggy Alysworth

Originally published in the December 2012 issue of Empirical

I am where your life isn’t

and yet is,

driving across the world,

eternity at the wheel.

Long, long sky,

raw land,

someone always looking

for the Father

and the Son

of antique earth.

Children are crying

in the land. The baby

coming into his soul through tears

but not of sadness.

Adam was suckled and taught to know.

I wake from the fire into radiance.

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From the Empirical Archives: Capsized by Shannon Rooney

Capsized

Shannon Rooney

Originally published in the December 2012 issue of Empirical

Buzzing with river energy–

that’s what happens

when you tip your canoe.

River otters swim into your mind,

and you can’t sleep.

The bald eagle

swoops down into your heart

and pulls forth

a silver fish.

Smells of willow and river moss

haunt me,

and I see again

that huge blue heron

as he rises into flight,

his broad wings shimmering

as I float past him.

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From the Empirical Archives: Molar by Carol V. Davis

Molar

Carol V. Davis

Originally published in the November 2012 issue of Empirical

In the end, the sky did not fall,

nor the earth move, for that matter.

Only the squat tooth rumbled

in its cage, saying:

Enough confinement, set me free!

Worried it would incite its neighbors,

urge the other molars to take up the chant,

loosen from their moorings, I pleaded

with the dentist to see me on his day off.

When he turned off the spot light and

lowered the chair, he warned of a

year-long relationship.

I regretted that call, sure this

half-hour encounter would cause

an earthquake in the bank account.

Why is every small decline of the body

a betrayal, as if a treaty had been broken

or a faithful ally switched sides without warning?

I stepped out of the medical building,

the sky darkening under the threat of rain.

Circling crows landed in pairs on the broken sidewalk,

one to distract the woman, the other to snatch her purse.

Or maybe they knew what went on behind closed doors.

Were going to make a run for it, gathering those gold

and silver nuggets the dentist surely hoards.

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From the Empirical Archives: What I'd Ban by Carol V. Davis

What I'd Ban

Carol V. Davis

Originally published in the November 2012 issue of Empirical

If I were queen of the world,

Dictator, Minister of Culture, I’d ban the phrase

At the end of the day, especially this election season

with the endless whine of interviews.

My husband vows to prohibit golf, but what’s

so bad about it, other than the dumb outfits?

Middle-aged men should stay away from shorts

that turn knees into the knobs of walking sticks.

I despise purposeful misspellings.

Do you really gain anything by dropping a letter?

Light to lite or night to nite?

I’m starting to sound like Andy Rooney now, but thick

as my hair is, I’ll never match those eyebrows.

When Rooney’d get really annoyed, they’d start to twitch ,

twin propellers warming up on a prop plane.

Or a pair of moths about to swoop in tandem

to attack a tree dripping with ripe peaches.

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From the Empirical Archives: Cycling by Travis Laurence Naught

Cycling

Travis Laurence Naught

Originally published in the November 2012 issue of Empirical

Rotating circles

                   Earth revolves around the sun

                                                Forever spinning

Earth revolves around the sun

                             Forever spinning

                                                Rotating circles

Forever spinning

                   Rotating circles

                                      Earth revolves around the sun

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From the Empirical Archives: The Woman in McDonald's by Richard Luftwig

The Woman in McDonald's

Richard Luftwig

PHOTO: David Schott

Originally published in the October 2012 issue of Empirical

With her half-finished coffee she studies

each insert of the Sunday paper

as if sight reading her music for the week.

In quarter-note snips, she clips

any coupon that looks hopeful,

careful not to do damage to bar codes

and expiration dates, shrinking

the usefulness of each page down to size.

Then steadily, she sorts her prodigies

into their proper piles:

veggies, sauces, pasta, meat,

dairy, detergents, paper, pets,

and the always popular “other.”

She writes in her notebook

in a tight, penciled hand each coupon’s

impending date of death, their life’s worth,

and if they can be doubled, then places

each survivor in a clear plastic folder

with expandable accordion bellows.

Later, while leaning her forearms

on her shopping cart, she will poise

her fingers like a concert pianist

and trace along the folder tips

as if playing a waltz only she can hear.

At checkout, she will perform

a masterpiece, counting off

her savings like an metronome,

filling her bags with accompaniments.

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