Motorcycle Goddess

by Samuel Pickwick

There she went. 

The hot exhaust from her bike stung his eyes, but he forced his lids to stay open so he could etch into his mind her black curls under their handkerchief helmet, the tight leather pants on her muscular legs. Her fingers tightly gripping the handles, the part that makes the loud “Vroom vroom” as she pulls out into the intersection. 

He scratched his balding head, burning in the sunshine. Squinting into the distance after her, he almost missed the “Walk” symbol. 

Had she seen him wave today, or not? That was the question he asked himself every afternoon on his way home to his condo from his teaching job at the community college. 

Professor Crumner. He often whispered it to himself, lying awake in bed, cooking his TV dinner in the microwave. He even found himself doodling the name when he was supposed to be grading the students’ papers, and then he always had to use Wite-Out and then write comments on top of that, and sometimes even angry red slashes, just to make sure no one saw. 

How he wanted to be a professor. Maybe she, his motorcycle goddess, his Aphrodite of the open road, would notice a Professor. The fact was, he was still finishing up one blasted community college course: Psychology. It was his fourth time through.

“I think she looked at me,” Mr. Crumner was thinking now. “Her sunglasses just covered it up. I think she would have waved, but she always does like to be the first to go in the line of stopped cars. She is so clever.” He smiled to himself as he thought about her sheer cleverness.

He had waved, eagerly, his hand jerking back and forth like a dog tearing into meaty bone. He waved every day. 

At first, he had only seen her every few days or once a week, but then he started sitting at the intersection until she came by. His head was very red, but that was mostly from the Hair-Be-Here! he used every morning. 

The next day, he hurried from his classroom, arms full of to-be-graded papers and rushed to the intersection. He couldn’t have missed her, could he? One of the stupid-as-hell students had asked when the final would be. Blast.

However right when he had almost reached the intersection, something got in his way. Literally. He ran into something, and heard a small voice say “Oh!”

Mr. Crumner looked down, suddenly angry. A woman stood there. She was quite ordinary looking, with pale colorless hair in a low ponytail, and a long nose. Really, the only odd thing about her was the way she was looking at him. Shyly, with a small smile on her thin lips. “It’s me,” she said.

“Who the hell are you?” Mr. Crumner said, and looked up to scan the intersection. He was impatient - didn’t have time for mousy little women with long noses. 

Her eyes widened. “Why, I’m HER!”

Mr. Crumner looked down at her. “What do you mean, woman? Speak clearly now - I am a professor!” He didn’t feel bad about this lie. The woman looked stupid.

She laughed and looked nervous. “Why, you wave at me every afternoon! I always drive home at this time, and you stand on the corner and wave!”

What was she talking about? This wasn’t Veronica (for that was the pet name he had given his Leather-clad Lover)! He was truly angry now, and righteously so. 

“Excuse me,” he said haughtily. “I must be going now. I have no idea what you are speaking of.” Just then he heard the familiar roar of an engine and looked up just in time to see Veronica speeding off. He had missed her! And it was all this woman’s fault. Without looking back at her he stomped off toward home.

The next day when he got to the intersection, he looked around warily for the woman. Thankfully she was nowhere to be seen. 

Ah! There was his Motorcycle Mumu (another of his fanciful nicknames) approaching! He raised his hand and waved as fast as he could but this time the light stayed green and she went right through. 

Mr. Crumner lowered his hand, but suddenly he heard honking. Looking up he saw a purple mini-van which had stopped in the middle of the intersection, with... the mouse-woman waving eagerly!

“See! You DO know me, man! You waved, I saw! You were being so funny yesterday, how strange and sweet you were being!”

Mr. Crumner was suddenly cold. He looked around, embarrassed by the woman’s display, and rushed off down the street toward his condo.

The Water Collection

Sand Bars

~Augustus Snodgrass

I remember that night 

better than others.

Red flags had waved swimmers away

all day

 and tides ripped 

the waves.

Night fell 

and the sea fell too,

white crests ghosting

reflecting back the night

The sand bar 

stood between us and the sea

and we played 

in knee deep water.

We gulped the air

hungry for the salt,

far past our bed time

or any time.

We ran till we fell,

face first,

water coming from our noses,

gagging for breath.

We stared at the ocean.

Tonight, it was ours.

And the four of us

held hands

and marched on it.

The Water Collection

For Posterity

~Augustus Snodgrass

I used to dive off cliffs;

Head first,

arms wide,

Plummeting down 

towards rocks 

and river.

My head hitting first

and then the water holds me

as I go down 

then up,

fast

because my breath is gone.

But one time,

I tripped.

My toe caught.

The nail ripped;

red ran down my foot,

which was flying 

as I fell.

The river out of reach.

last minute

reflex,

I kicked forward.

I hit the water.

I stopped jumping.

But you said I’d have no stories to tell my kids.

You said it was for posterity.

The river is beautiful

but I don’t trust the cliffs

I don’t dive

I don’t throw myself off anymore

I wait 

cautious,

looking down

calculating.

And then,

I jump:

feet, torso, head.

A free thought from TT

On Being Happy
by Tracy Tupman


The Way to be Happy
is distilling happiness from little things
said he, and paused for emphasis,
like a bullfrog after a particularly mellifluous croak.

Not wanting to ruin a first date,
I didn’t mention that ‘distilling’ was pretentious
and clashed with his infinitive ‘to be’
but politely said Like what.

He remarked Oh the sun on this
and the scent of that.
And while I like warm sun on a carpet
and know cut grass has that smell,

and do not mind territorial birdsong,
nor fire chewing wood in the cold,
nor color, nor most things quotidian,
he is wrong. In point of fact,

I will be most happy when I see at last
the really big stuff: whole cities dropped into the sea
the Hero waiting, wreathed in cloud
and many nations rising from the dead.

Serious

Belonging
by Samuel Pickwick

You belong, 

I whisper to him in the dark

To me, Daddy, and God.

Sometimes I wince

Saying that last name.

I don’t trust Him enough

to own my son.

What if He takes you away?

I worry into his small soft ear.

Would You take him from me?

I look at him, 

so perfect, so human - 

And remember Who gave him to me,

Who entrusted one little life to me.

You belong,

I wonder aloud as I gently lay him down,

To me, Daddy, and God!

How can I pretend

To be in charge of life and death,

even his?

I open my hands

Trusting God our Father

to give, to take away.

Because of Valentines

To an unknown soccer player

    By Augustus Snodgrass

I don’t know your name,

only a red and white jersey

with no name on the back.

But I know 

you have something.

It’s the way your faux hawk looks 

when you leap

 in front of huge defender 

and barely head it 

into the top right hand corner

or your purple cleats

that out run

every other player 

on the turf.

I watch 

as you step off to get water,

high-fiving your best friend

(who has already introduced himself by the way).

And I sit 

knee propped 

and iced,

wishing I was just a bit braver.

From The I'm-So-Bored-Notebook

Pickwick,old chap, I found these in the back of the old notebook. Remember those days? Freezing and half asleep, the only thing keeping us awake was how hard we whisper laughed at what we wrote. 

Ode to Disputatio

By Samuel Pickwick

We don our black robes-

sheets of thin ice that envelope

our bright scarves and sweaters.

Today we are receiving

nucleotide knowledge; or

are the dense words really 

just missing our ears.  And instead

settling down into the folds

of darkness, where they can

rest until they begin to

leak out, where we hung

our robes in the closet.

And that is why, every

once in a while, a brilliant thought

pops  into our minds, the robe

has rubbed off on our favorite blue sweater.

Ode to Some Girl's Hair

By Augustus Snodgrass

A black head sits in front of me,

covered in dense curls,

thick and lustrous,

shining in the Disputatio light.

Black snakes coiling dangerously

close to my fingertips.

They hang from the theatre seats

but I resist the apple 

and fold my hands upon  my lap.