for Marlene T.
by Walter Ruhlmann
She makes me think of a bird:
not one with wide wings
spanning yards when it flies.
No. She hides behind her books
and she looks like a sparrow,
a robin or a swift.
She knows when seasons shift,
when time has come to play dead
or imagine the tide
invading her brain or flooding her
We met through shorts and lines,
it was in Spring maybe,
this is not so clear now.
She came covered in snow,
she had written something on the
back of her hands,
under her blue eyelids,
she had strange eyelashes.
She knows how to seduce me with
all these precious gems she affords.
Lately, the dark rhymes she sent
pierced my soul, deeper than
recent feeling I resented feeling.
I don't blame her for that
she only shared her art
masterly crafted, issued from the
of her fingers, from the depths
of her spirits and from the strength
of her rage.
works as an English teacher, edits
Datura, Beakful and Urtica. He has published close to thirty chapbooks and
poetry collections both in French and English, and hundreds of poems worldwide.
His blogs http://thenightorchid.blogspot.fr/ and
Terry Butler lives in
the country, near a small town south of San Jose, CA called Hollister. He used to
write steadily, publishing both in print and online as Terence Butler, but after some health
issues, the energy needed to write seemed to dissipate somewhat. He has been a professional
photographer and a painter/collage-assemblage maker for most of his working life, so painting
and photo art have taken the place of genre fiction as an outlet. Recently the
story “Fire Man” appeared all as a piece in his mind so he simply wrote it
down. He sent it to Cindy, and in the ensuing back and forth. They somehow
discussed using some of his visual art, too. Cindy is simply the best, and a
real stalwart in this little world. She has a big heart
and a deep love for animals, too!