Janice Denham

His soul resounded in his head's far corners, the notes echoed like truck tracks on driveway gravel a block away.
He shut out the elements one by one. No clicking. Swallow later. Wind ceased to rush. No secrets. Simply notes tearing away as if the crushed gravel broke into impressions emitting individual sounds. Suddenly they grew with deliberate flow as a sweet, swirling movement. They told him their life depended on what he heard, what he touched. No call for a lifeline. They are alive for him alone to scatter. They are his to grow.
He tapped the keys as flinging tones, notes, then they merged with rapid succession like the clicking of tiny claws of a frightened cat running on a tile floor. They would not hide from his touch. He was master. Alliteration on the keys. Cacophony into sweet rhythms, relentless melody.
The energy, even the substance, of his arms flowed into keys now shared and echoing. Sweet bliss unfurled a syncopated symphony into the world.

Philip Duyff- Vinyl, What Might You Become?

They live in Langa, an impoverished township on the outskirts of Cape Town. Some would say they have nothing. But with their apparent nothingness their unbound creativity produces. From what others toss, these folks create new and unique pieces of art. From phone wire, soda can tops, and even vinyl records. They proudly share their handiwork and offer their creations for sale to those of us more privileged folks who temporarily visit their world.

 Roberta Duyff- Daughter of Liberia

… you brought the powerful beats of African drumming to entertain us.
… you opened your heart to become the spirited teenager in our family.
… you shared your faraway culture as we prepared your native dishes together.
… you learned from the many challenges given to you and the competent teaching ofyour American teachers.
… you gifted others with your colorful, handmade, beaded bracelets.
… you gave your easy smiles, your uninhibited energy, and your eager joy to all you met.
… you befriended other exchange students as you together became global citizens.
… you returned to Liberia as a forever part of S. Louis and our family, now ready to embrace the next steps and opportunities for your future.

Our dear daughter of Liberia, may your drumming continue forever.

Andy Lechner

Card playing among the adults was the regular ending to a big meal at Grandma’s. Hers was a small space, just two bedrooms and a bath, and a dining room too small to accommodate the 20 of us who’d have to eat wherever enough chairs could be arranged. The 13 of us grandkids would be allowed away from the tables shortly after gorging ourselves on stuffed cabbage, chicken paprikash, or hurka blood sausage, to amuse ourselves in the backyard or basement without destroying the place. Meanwhile my parents, along with a paternal aunt and uncle, sometimes a couple great uncles, and the grandparents would break out the cigarettes, ashtrays, whiskey (often with tea and milk), paper and pencils to keep score, and card decks worn thin from past use to play till dark or beyond. Endless games of pinochle, euchre, sixty-six, and 5-card draw poker (using wooden matches to bet) were punctuated by laughter, work tales from the Ford engine line near Sandusky or the Lorain steelworks, and gossip gained from the latest Friday Fish Night at St. Jude’s. This was the time when we grandkids knew that short of burning the place down, we were on our own to do as we pleased. Good times for all.

Victoria Salvato-Lechner

Cold slap of water hits my shins. I expect the numbing cold of ocean water, but I’m distracted. A clump of brown green sea kelp rode in on a wave, snagging on my ankles. My feet burrow into velvety sand, certainly not for warmth, anchor me, thankfully. The brown green encircles me and I give a fleeting thought to what those waving leaves of kelp might carry. Clinging jellyfish tentacles, urchin encrustings, slick sand crabs are mainly entangled at the hold-fast cell I know. Breathe. This kelp is a floaty, leafy thing with just a whisper of yellow in its brown greenness. Water swirls to its hiatus behind me and the moon - pull of the tide strongly, surely draws it back. The brown green at my ankles streams out like tattered clothing, with me its anchor. I let it go, stepping out one foot at a time. Concentrating on balance, that illusive thing as one ages, I watch my kelp engulfed by all that vastness. The tealy baby blue of a late afternoon sky is quickly fading now. It would be several hours until sunset. I abruptly turn around, imagining what will become a red-tinged sky behind me, with its ephemeral brilliance so fleeting, like so much.

 Penny Long

Flamingo, flamingo talk to me
Tell me a story about your infamy
Why is your head turned round and down
We are never alone, there’s no need to frown
Standing day by day in other’s mire and muck
Might surely keep you feeling stuck
Although it may seem you are fixed in the in between
Now is the time to shine pristine
Look up and you will see 
That fish spirit has come to set you free
Reminding you as a matter of course
That we are flowing in abundant life
Forever connected to nurturing Source
So lift your countenance up high
Free Spirit, Fly Away Fly