Tag: writer

“Charge of the Night Brigade” by Linda Romanowski

From 1/6/1996 to 1/8/1996, 30.7 inches of snow fell in Philadelphia.

My husband and I lived in NE Philadelphia for 23 years. Our row house was located on a small one-way street, with parking on both sides. There were several snowstorms in 1996. One in particular brought much havoc into our neighborhood. It was an all-day snow socker, which conveniently ended at 9:00PM. As all of us gathered outside to shovel through the damages, a plan emerged.

We knew we would be trapped for days, with no hope of any city assistance. It was decided that we would get ourselves out of the mess by working together. One of our neighbors had access to a snow plough. Every able-bodied person, teenagers included, set themselves to the task at hand. One by one, two by two, alone and side by side, we dug every car out of the snow. There were several elderly neighbors who gladly threw their car keys from their windows when we knocked on their doors to explain our idea. I can still see and hear those keys flying through the air.

The women who were not shoveling canvassed the street with coffee, tea, hot chocolate, gloves, hats, scarves. There was so much snow, we made every child’s dream come true when snow forts appeared on their front lawns the next morning.

The final act was a drama in itself. Each car was moved out of its spot, cleared of snow, plowed out of their spot, and re-parked. Clearly, there were moments of danger. Clearly, it was exhausting. All was done before dawn’s shocked arrival at the sight of mission accomplished. The Noble Act of Neighbors ended.

Thereafter, parking was a non-event. It has been many years since I’ve thought of that crisis. My mind’s eye still sees the men’s arms flailing like speed skaters, their efforts causing the snow to part like the Red Sea. Just as the Amish raised the barn in the movie “Witness,” we raised the bar of decency and conquered the aftermath of the storm. There was no better moment than that one.

Some of you who might read this were part of that miracle. Know how very grateful I am to have been your neighbor, to have worked shovel to shovel with you that night.

My mother would always say that good neighbors are a gift from God. That’s how my husband and I were raised. That’s how my husband and I raised our shovels, did the coffee runs, and caught jangling keys before they could be lost in the white avalanches.

Thank you again, former wonderful neighbors of Mayfair. You will always have a special place in my heart. I remain forever grateful.

Linda M. Romanowski Linda M. Romanowski returned to Rosemont College (Class of 1975) to obtain an MFA in Creative Writing, Non-Fiction in 2021. Her thesis, earned with distinction, became her debut hybrid Italian memoir, Final Touchstones, published by Brown Posey Press, an imprint of Sunbury Press in January 2023. Her non-fiction and poetry publications include The City Key, the Mario Lanza Institute Facebook page and website, Moonstone Arts, Ovunque Siamo, and Vine Leaves Press. Her book reviews appear in Philadelphia Stories magazine, the Italian American Herald newspaper, and the US Review of Books. The Historic Society of Pennsylvania and the Library Company of Philadelphia accepted Final Touchstones into their collections in 2023. Final Touchstones earned Finalist status for the Eric Hoffer Book Award for 2023, for memoir, culture, and poetry, and is nominated for their Legacy category for 2025. “Final Touchstones” won the Sunbury Press 2023 and 2025 SUNNY Award for Non-Fiction. “Bearing Witness,” an excerpt from Final Touchstones was included in A Conspiracy of Ravens, A Collection of Work by Rosemont College MFA Alumni, Spring 2025.Linda is a member of the Book Authors of Southeastern Pennsylvania and can be found at www.LindaMRomanowski.com.

“The Eagle and Mrs. B.” by Linda Romanowski

Many a Philadelphia area college student spent those post-Thanksgiving/Pre-Christmas days working at one of the “Big Three” department stores in Center City: Strawbridge & Clothier, Lit Brothers, or John Wanamaker’s. Due to my mother’s influence, I thought working at Wanamaker’s was the best of all worlds. After all, who could resist the classy interior and exterior window displays, the jagged mountain range stroke of the owner’s signature on the side of the building, and the transportation proximity?

Two other striking figures claimed the store’s signature distinction: the Wanamaker eagle and the annual Christmas fountain and light show. The serene and imposing gilded bronze aviary statue was the focal point for gathering, for claiming  “lost parents,” and for bon voyages until next time.

Lifting one’s eyes to the sights, sounds, and waving fountain streams of the hourly Christmas performance stopped shoppers in their tracks and delighted the minds of wide-eyed youngsters who rarely cried during those few minutes of awe. My first recollection of seeing the aqua wonder made me fearful, thinking at any moment, the fountains would fall from their upper stage perch and drown the audience below, extinguishing the prancing lights in the process.

Not every pair of eyes welcomed this holiday diversion. My first Christmas working season in the children’s department in 1972 provided a novel view of the saleswomen employed at the makeup counters. The daily music grinding of “Frosty the Snowman” did nothing for their business. No cash registers rung in harmony with “O, Christmas Tree.” Gazers leaned on their pristine cosmetic display cases; their backs turned away from the porcelain faces of Estee Lauderettes, who resorted to makeup remover to erase the handprints and elbow marks on their precious encasements of promised beauty and glamour. No allure of scented bottled blossoms could overpower the lofty sounds and scenery above the audience. It must have been the bane of their existence, their dreams of pocket money ruined by lit-up distraction. One year, I counted viewing thirty-six performances of Rudolph’s very shiny unpowdered nose glowing across the ceiling.

*****

Every college student on Wanamaker’s holiday payroll hoped to work for the main floor supervisor, Mrs. B., known for her kindness. She was a smartly dressed, middle-aged Jewish lady, brownish-black hair coiffed to perfection, with no-nonsense eyeglasses attached to a pearl chain that hung elegantly around her neck. Her high-heeled pumps that coordinated with every outfit gave her an acceptable height, appearing taller than she was. Her trim figure clicked in tandem with her stride. Mrs. B. took the time to acquaint herself with several of us. One afternoon, during the height of the Christmas rush, she announced that she would retain us for the week after Christmas. We were delighted, as it meant money for next semester’s textbooks would be less of an issue. All we needed to do was follow her instructions without variation.

When we punched in on the time clock on December 26th, Mrs. B. led us to an unfamiliar store area, one at a time. We were placed separately in obscure areas of dressing rooms and stock areas, out of the view of the “suits” who might sniff through the aisles looking for post-holiday imperfections. There were close calls, but none of us were spotted. Had we been “caught,” we would say we were Christmas shopping to maintain our ruse. During that week, Mrs. B. was ubiquitous, her eagle eyes surpassing that stony sculpture’s glance on the first floor. We functioned seamlessly as the suits paraded the aisles, praising Mrs. B. for her diligence and attention to detail. I’ll always wonder if the Wanamaker eagle suspected her and kept the secret, among all the others, under its ornate-clad feathers.

Linda M. Romanowski is a graduate of Rosemont College, in 1975 with a BA in Psychology and Elementary Education, and this past May as an MFA graduate in Creative Non-fiction. She was assistant editor of Non-fiction for Rathalla magazine, Rosemont’s literary publication. Her Italian heritage-based thesis, “Final Touchstones”, earned with distinction, is scheduled for publication by Sunbury Press within the coming months. Several of the essays from her pending book were published on City Key, Ovunque Siamo and the Mario Lanza Institute Facebook page. She recently reviewed Ellen Stone’s poetry book “What is in the Blood” for the online Philadelphia Stories 2021 Fall issue. Her poem, “Seen In Translation” was selected for inclusion in the Moonstone Arts Center Protest 2021-100 Thousand Poets for Change.

Three Poems by Ed Meek

Soundtrack of the City

The soundtrack of the city
can keep you up nights
or hum in the background
a discordant tune of wheels turning
and gears interlocking, trucks
unloading, planes taking off
and coming down.
The bass thumping in a passing
smoke-filled car. A Harley roaring
down the street. Sirens wailing
of rescues and D.O.A.
daytimes the volume
jumps to life with the birds
who serenade leaf blowers, lawn mowers,
horns, the ebb and flow
of traffic, the heavy breathing buses
the scraping skateboards,
barking dogs. The disembodied voices
of neighbors you’ll never know.

The Reserved Section

I’d wandered into the reserved section by mistake
but the performance had begun
and it was too late to escape
to the seats for the general public
my inexpensive ticket already paid for.
It was as if I had pulled back the curtain
and entered the first-class cabin–
been admitted to the club
and seated at the head table.
The champagne was vintage.
The caviar Russian.
The lights dimmed.
I was just behind
a Guggenheim and a Rockefeller.
They didn’t seem to see me.
I was invisible as I often am.
For once it was an advantage.
I glanced down the row at two
black women who smiled and nodded.

Hostages to Heat

In Brooklyn when the temp hits 90
the heat invades our claustrophobic co-op.
Outside, the cement sends the heat
up through our bodies in waves.
We float in our sweat like seals in the shallows.
I used to love the feel of sweat
blanketing my body
running in the mid-day sun
and playing pick-up basketball on black tar.
Now we dread summer days when
an orange disk occupies a hazy sky,
Particles of ash coat our lungs
and the sunlight sears our eyes.

Ed Meek is the author of four books of poetry and a collection of short stories. He has had work in The Sun, The Paris Review, Plume, The North American Review, The Boston Globe. He writes book reviews for The Arts Fuse. He is a contributing editor for The Rivanna Review. He teaches creative writing at the Osher Lifelong Learning Institute. He lives in Great Barrington with his wife Elizabeth and their labradoodle Mookie. His most recent book is High Tide.

“Temp Job” by James B. Nicola

Walk down Fifth Avenue for lunch hour when
you have a temp job in the Forties or
the Fifties; next day, do the walk again
and I’ll bet you a hundred to one you’re
not going to see any of the same
faces. I did this for about a year
when suddenly I thought I heard my name,
or something similar (I’m still not sure).

I turned and shook a total stranger’s hand.
He squeezed, I think, my upper elbow too
as if some mutual past permitted such
a thing. The passing gesture, so unplanned,
impressed me. I could not say where he knew
me from, but I shall not forget that touch.

James B. Nicola, a returning contributor, is the author of eight collections of poetry, the latest three being Fires of Heaven: Poems of Faith and Sense, Turns & Twists, and Natural Tendencies. His nonfiction book Playing the Audience: The Practical Actor’s Guide to Live Performance won a Choice magazine award.

“To Khulood al-Zaidi, Women’s Rights Activist” by Suzanne Morris

“Just to have the freedom to go wherever I wanted,
and to not think something bad might happen to me.”

I try to step outside
freedom’s airy shelter

and look in through
the open windows of my day:

how I stroll from house
to road, unafraid,

and, heart unflinching,
open the box to withdraw
the mail, then

wave at a friendly honk
from a passing car.

Nothing worthy of note
along the way.

Or so it seems,
until I think of her:

how, alone that time in Amman
she heeded a warning

and boarded a plane
for San Francisco

then rode the bus for hours
just because she could,

rode and rode
all over San Francisco,
just because she could

maybe her thoughts
drifting to Fern, who

might be there too,
had she survived

the short ride from Baghdad.

Imagine how,
by habit of mind,
she might have

lowered her eyes
from a stranger’s gaze

then, stepping out,
surveyed
the sloping street

for any suspicious sign;

how she might have
smiled to herself then, that

being free and being safe would
take some getting used to

at least for as long
as she was here

how she might already
have known that

Duty would call her home.

I think of her as I sit down
on my porch of an evening,
to read a book

how heedlessly I surrender
to a world of make-believe,

how easy it is to take
this small freedom
for granted.

The breeze picks up
and I look around,

suddenly alert.

I bring my fingers
to my cheeks,

trying to imagine myself
inside her skin:

the breeze upon her face
as she waits for the bus

in San Francisco.

Suzanne Morris is a novelist with eight published works, and a poet. Her poems have appeared in several recent anthologies, and in online poetry journals including The New Verse News, The Texas Poetry Assignment, Stone Poetry Quarterly and The Courtship of Winds. She resides in Cherokee County, Texas.

Two Poems by Shontay Luna

Chicago (in the early ‘90s)

I. North Side – A Yuppie and Generation X
potluck constantly battling each other as they
sit between streeted throngs of decapitating
movie theaters, army surplus and fetish shops.
A full day’s shopping on Belmont from the Red
Line; two blocks from west to east you can get
a burger, tattoo, condoms, and a doughnut in all
in one swing. Baseball’s most disillusioned fans
in their red and blue regalia, herd themselves
bleary eyed with Pabst in hand four blocks
north of the urban jungle.

II. South Side – Baseball’s flip side, slightly more
civilized but still hungry~ Chinatown a world by itself
within another windy one. Walking down it’s on avenue
encompassing; like passing through an avenue of
time. Bronzeville used to be a glistening as it sounded;
the ensuing decades dulling it’s former polish. Former
middle class turned buppieville Chatham reigns further
south while Hyde Park gives off Greenwich Village
vibes while providing a landscape for a generation x
stomping ground to the east.

III. West Side – Mexico’s a Little Village and a modernized
time travel trip upon the twenty and the 6. Helplessly dotted with
year – round molasses ass traffic before disappearing into
the realms of Cicero and Berwyn. Beyond that, the Spindle
and the mall. Commercialism a beer belly in a too-tight shirt.
Northeast of that, urban poverty simmers and reeks while
suburban spectators cheer for the Bulls.

IV. East Side – Waltzes with Indiana’s frontier, hugging the
farthest curve of Lake Michigan. Beaches of rocky shores
and outlines of warehouses that billow smoke in the not too
far distance. Ten miles south of downtown, it once was an
area of factories: its hardworking streets lined with rows of
homeowners who worked at any of the five steel mills in
the area. Offering anything along Commercial Avenue
so as not be bothered with making the lengthy trip downtown.
For a taste of aged cornucopia, come to my home, Chicago.

Typical Chicago Weather

The gentle
branches
flutter in
the early
Autumn
breezes
traveling
in July.
Weaving
through
pavé glass
vases
embellished
in color
crepe squares,
jumbled into
pixelated
rainbows.

Chicagoan Shontay Luna is a poet, blogger and fanfiction author. Her work first appeared in Anthology and Capper’s and her most recent appearances include The Crucible, Press II Press and Blue Lake Review. Her newest book is ‘The Goddess Journal – a tool for unlocking the Goddess within every Woman.’

“Big Talk” by Mari de Armas

Whenever prompted, I provided my new address, followed by a forceful pronunciation of ATT-LANT-TAH. I said it this way to the movers, the insurance agent, and the post office until I heard my friend Lisa, an Atlantan herself, say, “Ahlannuh,” in one-and-a-half syllables.

We were catching up over drinks at a sandwich shop called Victory. Being new to the area, I asked her to pick the place and was a bit taken aback when she suggested it. I envisioned a Subway restaurant with a liquor license, but I was pleasantly proved wrong. It was a lively establishment with a smattering of booths and tables anchored by a busy bar. Two women with murals of ink tattooed on their arms bounced from table to table, taking orders and delivering mason jars of colorful drinks. Our beverages had just been delivered, mine a Victory Libre cleverly served in a glass Coke bottle, and hers a whiskey-coke slushy that made me wish I had a tolerance for Jack Daniels. Lisa, a writer, an amateur sailor, and a roller derby girl, could easily drink me under the table, so I was fairly certain that a few sips of her slushy weren’t enough to cause her to slur.

“Say it again,” I demanded.

“What? Ahlannuh?”

I had gone through this song and dance in Los Angeles already, running around town mispronouncing everything from street names to neighborhoods. I wasn’t about to make that mistake again, so I asked Lisa to listen and correct my pronunciation as I rattled off every landmark I could possibly remember from my guidebooks. She stopped me at the National Center for Civil and Human Rights.

“Everything is pronounced the same,” she said, waving her hand. “There are only three or four names that might be confusing.”

For those, she provided solutions apt to my maturity level. She explained that the first syllable in Piedmont Park is pee because you may need to do that in the bushes. The city of Decatur is pronounced ‘dick hater’ due to the prevalence of lesbians. Krog Market is not pronounced like Kroger Supermarket, but instead, it rhymes with hog because you go there to pig out. She said to resist the urge to pronounce anything in Spanish. Ponce ends in a silent ‘e’ like the word pounce. When Atlantans want you to pronounce the ‘e’, they add a ‘y’ to the spelling as evidenced in the name of a neighborhood called, Poncey-Highland.

I thanked her wholeheartedly for the lesson.

Continue reading “Big Talk” by Mari de Armas

Three Roman Poems by Carlo Rey Lacsamana

Please note: Poetry is compressed to fit smart phone screens. If you are reading this poem on a phone screen, please turn your screen sideways to make sure that you are seeing correct line breaks for the poem.

I
Morning is laid out like a tablecloth
over the gardens of Villa Borghese
the whole of existence sparkles like the trumpet
moaning in full blast at the piazza overlooking Piazza
del Popolo
how the winter clothes bite the warm crust of sunlight like bread
how the ears drink the never-ending songs of fountains like wine
-songs of return songs of leaving-
and as I step into the shadows of trees
I remember what brought us here
to feast on this mystery like sheep that feed on grass
stuff our mouths with marvel and green air fill
our bellies with gratitude and poems
we stay close to each other listen to the wind
play with our hair our good intent for the world
reunites with our sorrow in the freshly cut grass
to love what is left to love in this loveless world
we lean back our heads in the light with eyes closed
as though we carry the answers

II

Temporarily on display
at the Galleria Borghese
is Rubens’ Risen Christ from 1615

to rise like the Christ in Rubens’ painting
waking up from death with a face washed by forgetfulness
not of indifference but of surrender
a face that says “it could not have been otherwise”
the dignity of the wounded
his body looks healthy and fresh
as though it has forgotten the wounds and the injury
it has suffered
even the stab hole on his lower right chest does not speak of pain
but like a tiny mouth that wants to sing
his feet longing to touch the warm earth again to walk all over again
pass through fatigue and thirst and hunger all over again
the angel lifting the shroud from his head with a surprised look
to see in Christ’s eyes the love of life as great as the suffering endured
dying indeed is the beginning for this is what Resurrection is
we are summoned to live again to love again to be hurt again
to die again

III

As old as Rome is my love for you
as chaotic as the tourists in Fontana di Trevi
is my desire for you
the way Bernini grasped chisel and hammer
I grasp you in my heat to shape this desire
to make a body of this wanting give it head arms and legs
miraculous as marble
maybe along Trastevere our glance will meet
when everyone is on his way to work when every fucking tourist
returns to his hotel when the sun grants refuge to the cold
and brokenhearted or in some corner in Piazza Spagna
where people show off their clothes or in some bar at
Piazza Navona where the fountains say your name all the time
over a cup of coffee our glance will meet
because your eyes are the city
that I feel enclosed engulfed enveloped like a gladiator
in the Colosseum but I do not fight there are no cheers
no rewards no condemnation
I am only a poet whose weapon is a flock of sparrows in his throat
whose appetite for loneliness runs further that the Tiber River
whose longing is as steadfast as your seven hills
I would rather be punished if punishment means
to be devoured by your touch
who can I make friends with here but the wind passing by like myself
sighing through neighborhoods razing the palaces and squares
with its cold breath of nostalgia
she keeps me company like a mother leading me by the hand
taking my heart to all the places where metaphors
lead to another existence where every line of a poem leads eventually
to you
yes, the wind whipping against my face exposes my heart
the heart which has too many secrets intrigues dark passages
like the Vatican but its walls crumble when it hears your footsteps
when the fragrance of your hair invades my body with tremors
and my voice is silenced like the paintings I survey for hours
at the museum searching for your face sometimes I dream of entering
the paintings of me becoming Christ crucified and you embracing me
like the Madonna weeping or me becoming Saint Sebastian
tied to a pole and you the arrows entering me without mercy
I loving the pain or I want you to be the nude like those of Rubens’
so loved by the painter you can tell by the folds and softness of their flesh
outside of these art galleries the moon wells up brighter and wiser
the lampposts flicker the river flares up the burning waters
carrying your reflection the rumble of cars over the road
the dying civilization words pile up in me like the dreams of immigrants
along the roadsides
the ghost of Anna Magnani appears in Piazza del Popolo dancing like
a madwoman
I dance with your shadow while the Neros of this world
set the temple on fire
maybe civilization is a bad idea who can tell
all these noise and madness tearing us apart
what about this dancing beneath the winter stars
the smoke-signs above the railways there is another road
we can turn into and the secret you impart in my ear
there is still a reason to live

Carlo Rey Lacsamana is a Filipino writer, poet, and artist born and raised in Manila, Philippines. Since 2005, he has been living and working in the Tuscan town of Lucca, Italy. He regularly contributes to journals in the Philippines, writing politics, culture, and art. His works have appeared in Esquire Magazine, The Citron Review, Mediterranean Poetry (Stockholm), Amsterdam Quarterly, Lumpen Journal (London), The Berlin Literary Review, Literary Shanghai and in other numerous magazines. His short story Toulouse has been recorded as a podcast story in the narrative podcast Pillow Talking (Australia). Follow him on Instagram@carlo_rey_lacsamana

“The Same Songs” by Frank Modica

Please note: Poetry is compressed to fit smart phone screens. If you are reading this poem on a phone screen, please turn your screen sideways to make sure that you are seeing correct line breaks for the poem.

A Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young
song blares from my car speakers
while I drive to my mother’s
west suburban bungalow
after a short trip to Aldi’s.
The lyrics about lost
loves ring out
unexpected, streaky
tears on my cold,
wrinkled cheekbones.
“Life is so unfair,”
I shout at the radio,
“Too many wasted days and nights.”
I don’t stop to consider
whether this same
soundtrack disturbs
the quiet daydreams
of other restless drivers
who drive around Chicago
trying to forget the loves
they lost in all
the same places.

Frank C. Modica is a cancer survivor and retired teacher who taught over 34 years. Frank’s first chapbook, “What We Harvest,” nominated for an Eric Hoffer book award, was published in 2021 by Kelsay Books. His second chapbook, “Old Friends,” was published in 2022 by Cyberwit Press.