Poetry

By Bonnie McMillen

Fond memories of our time together
dance and break into my present day.
 
The drone of a small plane,
the excitement of a landing,
the rush of air as it hits the grass.
I know you remember those summers of
freedom, beauty, and wonder.
Exotic planes, as from another world,
taxi into and out of the hangar.
The magic moments of heat, blue sky, air rushing,
pushing my tiny body over in the tall grass
at the edge of the strip.
 
Now, many years have passed and you
are no more.
The airport is now a university.
By some small miracle the huge hangar remains.
Instead of highly polished and colorful planes,
college students and staff
taxi in and out of the hangar.
The blue sky, heat, and freedom
of movement remains.

Bonnie McMillen is a native of Bradford and spent her younger years playing around the Harri Emery airport on Dorothy Lane. While working as Director of Student Health at Pitt-Bradford, she became interested in writing poetry and short stories. This interest has continued into a busy retirement. Abecedarian, McKean County 1955, Tales from the Female Crypt

By Bonnie McMillen

Girdles, think heavy duty Spanx
with a metal clip you hook your nylons to.
Think panty hose without the panty.
 
I know—awful, and this was for all
girls and women, whether skinny
or fat, you had to wear the girdle
because you must not jiggle
or have a panty line.
Only sluts had asses that jiggled.
 
Your period was celebrated
for five minutes
then hated, reviled, hidden,
surrounded with shame.
Called the curse, Aunt Flo, your visitor,
etc., etc., etc., etc.
 
If you snubbed a boy he’d
call out, “She’s on the rag.”
 
No pregnancy tests,
you waited and waited,
made an appointment with
an old white man OB-GYN,
then were told it was too soon to tell.
 
Thirty was old,
forty was ancient,
fifty was NOT mentioned.
 
Sex was dirty.
If talked about it was
misinformation in whispers.
 
The only way to enjoy sex,
we thought, was to get married
and fast. It was a race and
no one wanted left behind.
 
If we didn’t marry young
all the good guys would be taken.
This might help explain
how your mother or grandmother
ended up with that old grouch.

Bonnie McMillen is a native of Bradford and spent her younger years playing around the Harry Emery airport on Dorothy Lane. While working as Director of Student Health at Pitt-Bradford, she became interested in writing poetry and short stories. This interest has continued into a busy retirement. Abecedarian, Dear Harry Emery Airport, McKean County 1955, Tales from the Female Crypt

By Stephanie Delano

Sitting on the sand, I watch the tide flow
in and out with a sense of peaceful rhythm.
I have no urge to leave this place and go,
 
go out into the world and not show.
Show who I really am, instead I wither.
Wither in the shell that others seem to know.
 
They put you in a category where you can’t grow.
Grow into who you want to be. With some
inspiration you can change and bestow
 
upon yourself a place that you know.
Know you belong, even though you wither.
You can sit in the sand and flow
 
with the tops of the trees that are aglow
with sunset vibes and the rhythm
of crickets singing down low.
 
Standing now, it’s time to go.
Go out into the world unknown,
where glitter of daggers and chaos know
no bonds of what to reap and what to sow.

By Taylor Tarahteeff

Fog off San Francisco Bay doesn't embrace,
it chokes.
 
But people don't seem to notice.
They wade through the smokescreen staring at their feet
as shimmering pilons of steel and iron pierce through the top of the ghostly white veil.
 
People in San Francisco like the fog, if only because
it masks the needles, the vomit, the decay,
the dull cities of camping tents, it all disappears in the fog.
 
In a churn of confusion, I was separated from my family,
left to roam the streets of the necropolis. I wished for fog.
For in its absence I saw only danger and desperation
lingering like mustard gas at the base of the
astrally-reaching towers of affluence.
 
I shuffled down streets looking for a friendly face, a ray of hope.
I found myself staring at my feet, avoiding the sights of the place I traversed.
I wandered into a doorway, drawing looks I did not return,
waiting for an interloper like me, separate from this mess.
Some businessman handed me his phone cautiously, expecting a con.
He too stared at his shining black slip-ons.
 
I held back relief like a bated breath
until a silver sedan with fog lights beaming
waded through the filth to get me.
 
Then we, the reunited family, slunk out of the city
past the hollow sunken faces,
the houses made from pallets,
and escaped down the coast
while the fog slid in to choke San Francisco once more.

Taylor Tarahteeff was the editor of the 2020 issue of Baily’s Beads. He graduated last year with an interdisciplinary arts degree. The Door to Nowhere

By Aaron Suranofsky

Traipsing tanned pine needles carpeting the woods
around my lonely little farmhouse home,
from behind a tree, a flash of grey, a kitty,
for a moment sporting its slender frame, what luck!
But like a silver bolt it streaked off toward the old barn,
like a nudging wind it threaded into the grass and disappeared.
 
Every day I sat by the stream that necklaced my house until the sun disappeared
behind the jagged spine of the woods,
shredded my fingertips trying to pry open the heavy doors of the barn
until night began to swallow me, and I had to run home,
lamenting my bad luck,
abandoning the kitty.
 
One day I set a dish of milk out where I first met the kitty,
found a cramped tent of roots, wormed inside and disappeared.
The sun crawled through the sky like a slow coin flip. I made a call, testing my luck,
and as it landed on the edge of the horizon, a touch of grey peeked out from the woods.
Stamping into the clearing, it seemed oddly homely,
lapping at the milk. I noticed more fluff on its stomach before it trudged back to the barn.
 
That night Dad woke me, mentioning noise in the barn.
As we pried the doors open, darkness cried like a litter of kittens.
Lifting a gas lantern we found its-her-home.
Her distended stomach had disappeared,
leaving eight damp clumps of fluff cuddled on the straw-matted wood.  
Flame glowed in her hazel eyes, her sharp pupils oozing a gentle look.
 
They say black cats are bad luck,
so of course, I chose him when the litter finally filed from the barn.
With pets and a bit of milk, he snuggled against my ankles as we explored the woods.
His mother often greeted us as she patrolled, accompanied by one or two other kittens,
before leaping into a nearby shadow, where they’d disappear
until they’d leave shredded moles and mice at the door of our home.
 
Suddenly Mom invited strangers to our home,
trading kittens for cash, oh she felt lucky.
One by one they were packed in cars, disappearing.
We watched the emptying barn,
me, my unlucky little kitty,
and his mother, leering from the woods.
 
Eventually we closed the doors of the barn
when only the wild cat I named Kitty
remained as her final son faded into the shadows and disappeared.

Also by Aaron Suranofsky: Pepper, Ripples,

By Emily Little

The breeze made the trees laugh with us.
I always got butterflies when I made you smile like that.
I wish I knew how to do that all the time.
“Hey, lie down with me. The clouds are having fun up there.”
 You pointed up, with that smile still beaming.  
I lay down, resting my head next to yours
and this senseless touch made me blush. 
The grass tickled my ankles
 as my feet stretched out past the edge of the blanket. 
“What are you seeing?” I asked quietly now,
afraid I’d scare the clouds away. 
“A winter rose,” you whispered. “You?” 
“An albino hummingbird.” I pointed.  
“Oh, a rarity,” you breathed. 
“Is this your favorite part of summer?”
I crossed my feet and rested my hands on my stomach. 
“It used to be.” 
“What is it now?” I watched as my hummingbird changed shape. 
You turned onto your side, looking down at me. 
“Can you guess?” you asked
resting your head on your hand.   
I blushed again, feeling ablaze. “Nope.” 
You sighed, lying back down. “Then you’ll never know.”
A comforting silence hung between us
 as you watched more clouds drift.
I only watched the rise and fall of your chest.
 
I still wonder if you noticed the roses in my cheeks that day.
I still wonder if you heard my breath catch
when your hand reached for mine.
All I know now is that that was my favorite part of summer.  
And I never found out yours.

Also by Emily Little: Sweet