Crisis of Middle Age

by Norman Jones

Poem


Cross on Calvary

by Lawrence Rahn

Painting


Evidence Seen and Unseen

by Deborah Cole

Poem


Anna and the Boys

by Larry Connelly

Poem


Keep a Grip

by James Janssen

Prose


Frozen

by Marie Slider

Poem


Anna and the Boys

By Larry Connelly, Navy

Writing Type: Poem

By Larry E. Connelly

—Liberty Lake, WA

 

You ask me, “Could that be young Jake hanging

from the swaying branch yonder on that old tree?”
That lifeless thing dressed in rags, no hat or shoes,

if not Jake then there would hang you or me.
We were three once, the rulers of County Arbrest,

its miles of wooded paths all told.
By day or nightfall, unaware, the wealthy and proud

toward our open purses had rode.
No quarter did we give, and none could we ask,

for who would easily give up a weight of gold?
Unless forced to yield by vagabonds, well-horsed,

well-armed with attitudes so bold.
The story has oft been told of how the girl came

to capture us and lay claim to the posted reward.
Her plan was simple: first went my heart, then John’s,

followed by young Jake’s.
We were too blind to recognize the growing of discord.
Just a wink here, a quick hug there shared by each of us,

at first to the others’ delight.
Then came the night sounds that proved Jake

was the only one; John and I sat apart, alone that night.
To the sounds of hooves and muted commands,

we two losers swiftly faded into the morning’s mist.
Till the cry, “There he runs by yonder path!” 

We had no proof of complicity. Jake’s name

was scratched in villages from the list.
Sometime later, in a small market town, John glimpsed

sweet Anna with bread, cheese and wine.
Along, with a fat purse for Jake’s demise,

came a fair young officer with whom she alone would dine.
Revenge blinds even the most astute; experience and care

meant naught. John drew his sword, his challenge fair.
From my hillside perch, the valley’s beauty

has only one slight blemish,

as John's silent body twists in its air.
In their shabby graves, there now lay Jake,

next would be John into the paupers’ section placed.
After Jake and John, the third grave awaited me,

to whom no good deed could be traced.
I shivered.



Cross on Calvary

by Lawrence Rahn

Painting


You Were Our “Doc”

by Michael Kuklenski

Poem


Mother Russia

by Scott Sjostrand

Poem


In Memory of

by Tanya Whitney

Poem


America's Largest Mobile Library

by Dan Yates

Prose


A Simple Act

by Nila Bartley

Poem