Hello and Welcome to ‘Scintillating stories’
in this show we read short stories (and poetry) by a variety of authors.
Today we are reading four poems which range from absurd, to introspective, to hilarious.
The first poem is by Grace Giska. Grace is a full-time adventurer who spends most of her time on a horse, in a cave, or climbing rocks and trees. She’s also a freelance writer who works in a variety of genres. Her work can be found with Ramifications, Ebook Launch, and Malfunction Magazine.
The Problem with Conservationists
“If you could uninvent any fish, which fish would you choose?
No, you can’t have
all of them. No,
you can’t uninvent the whale.
Why? Because some people
like whales. Pick tuna, or snappers, or lionfish if you feel such a need to be exotic, but stop
talking about whales.”
***
To whom it may concern,
I thought we finished the whale business,
but I see you’ve bought a boat. You
may keep your boat, but I’ll keep
an eye on you.
You cannot uninvent the whale.
Yours truly,
The ASS (American Sealife Society)
***
To whom it may concern,
I see you’ve bought a radio. And
I know you’ve been visiting lighthouses
walking by yourself along the coastlines
in the evenings barefoot. Your footprints
have been collected. I know you’re a size
ten and a half. I told the news
about you. Turn on your television tonight,
nine o’clock sharp, there’s a special
about the person (that’s you…)
who’s trying to uninvent the whale.
I’m watching you.
You won’t get away with this.
You cannot uninvent the whale.
Good luck,
The ASS (American Sealife Society)
***
To the Whale Uninventor,
I had a dream about you last night.
I was collecting seashells
with my six-year-old daughter and she found
one, white and worn-down, a perfect
miniature dwarf sperm whale.
She said, “Daddy,
what is this?”
I said,
“It’s a miniature dwarf sperm whale, darling.”
She asked,
“Daddy, what’s a whale?”
Stay away,
The ASS (American Sealife Society)
***
To the Whale Uninventor,
I led a tour group
out to our whale watching platforms
behind the aquarium this afternoon. We watched and waited until
the children in the group got
too annoyed with the lack of whales to wait and
watch any longer. We left
without seeing a single whale.
I couldn’t explain whales
to the children, or even myself. You
forced my hand. I’m going
on an expedition.
See you soon,
The ASS (American Sealife Society)
***
To the Uninventor,
My expedition is going
well, though I have some curious suspicions
about what you’ve been up to
out here on the rolling blue tides
where there are no corners
for you to hide in. Only ocean. I thought I spied
a plump white dodo bird,
wings like yellow snappers, sitting on a bouncing buoy.
Two tuxedoed auks sat on either side of it,
peering at me
like I was the strange one.
There’s a patch of island ahead of me, rocky and overgrown
with algae.
A building too.
I’ve spotted you, Uninventor.
Meet me at the algae,
The ASS (American Sealife Society)
***
Dear Uninventor,
I’ve looked over the terms and agreements
outlined in the contract you left
with me after our meeting. The tea
was quite delicious, and your offer
was most interesting and generous.
I’d like to accept. Enclosed
is my signed copy along with the adoption papers
for the dodo with the spotted beak. I’ve grown
rather fond of her.
Let me know if you require anything else,
Your new assistant
***
To my daughter,
It’s been too long.
Six months and I can’t believe
your mother let you dye your hair
aquamarine. I love it. My little
mermaid, I should be home for Christmas
this year, sorry I missed
Thanksgiving. It’s just been so busy
trying to get all the whales
moved in. The Caribbean monk seals
are excited to have new playmates. The Japanese
sea lions are moving in with the minks
and the auks are running amok. Oh dear,
the Labrador ducks got into the lab again, the Uninventor hates
when they get mud on the machines.
I’ll be home soon!
I love you,
The Uninventor’s Assistant
Our second poem is by Corinne Anderson. A slightly feral human, prefers books to people, enjoys almost black coffee, and a purple pen for editing. When she isn’t writing her own works, she is busy looking to help other authors see their words in print. She is the founder of Sunflowers at Midnight magazine, and the owner of Ink Smith Publishing. Her most recent publications can be found in Aberration Labyrinth, BRAVE Voices Magazine, The Dribble Drabble Review, and Poet’s Choice.
Inheritance
Corinne Anderson
Mom’s mother was in the ground before 40
and yet her hands grace her oldest daughter
thin and long and perfect for playing the piano
but Grandma hated the piano
and so her skills died with her.
Pop is still walking the earth at 90
and his own eyes watch him from his granddaughter’s face,
he is not alone,
but loss and loneliness have driven him miles away
to bask in sunshine and grapefruit, and love
while his brood huddle together for warmth in the Garden State.
Uncle’s back aches at almost 60
hunched and angry and too full of regret
his reflection drowning in his could’ve-beens
and he never learned to swim.
That second cousin with the festering need for opulence
burns through the warm welcome of open arms each year—
divorced, abandoned, shunned and hated
by the creatures from her womb
only for her to twist and morph into the ugliness of greed
squirreling away the precious gifts of those dear-departed
and setting that warm safe-house ablaze.
Aunt carries the weight of steadiness
the constant, the calm, the voice of reason
as chaos unfolds in every household
her shoulders are heavy,
weighed down by everyone’s traumas
until there is no room for her own.
Mother holds fast to tradition
no room for errors or breaks in the way of things
and yet these things are too much
they serve no purpose, they are not entirely necessary
and yet,
bake the thimble cookies,
host the meal and don’t forget the kugel,
Easter isn’t complete without the Andes,
hold fast to cash at the stroke of midnight
and never serve orange-carrot-jello again.
Grandma forgot, but we didn’t.
We learned the famous cheesecake,
we smiled and told her our names,
we laughed and I didn’t cry when she died.
Would she fault me for that?
I asked for the glass porcupine, from the shelf in the bathroom,
which I didn’t get—we didn’t care about
the jewels or the money,
but we didn’t get those either.
Father is a quiet man
a loud and boisterous jokester
that found hugs important in the midst of tragedy—
he stays huddled under the physical labors
because emotions are hard and anger is best served at a job site;
I am his shadow.
Auntie is selfish and cruel
and Mother sees her in me
and I am not entirely sure she is wrong.
Auntie demands, spends, and demands more
even when there is nothing more to give:
she is the golden child, the struggling single-parent
that doesn’t cook or clean or take responsibility.
Grandpa is lonely.
He learned to cook when Grandma forgot
and now I sit and eat with him
pretending I am not the least favorite
grandchild, disappointment rolling off him in waves
that I don’t wear my cousins’ faces.
Sister is sad, and fierce
her life interrupted by a force beyond control
and yet, she pulls strength from some ancestor
to overcome her hurdles;
I don’t know who she gets it from.
Our last two poems are by Ken Tomaro and Nolcha Fox. Nolcha’s poems have been published in Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Alien Buddha Zine, Medusa’s Kitchen, and others. Her poetry books are available on Amazon and Dancing Girl Press. Nominee for 2023 Best of The Net. Editor for Open Arts Forum. Accidental interviewer/reviewer. Faker of fake news.
Ken Tomaro is a writer living in Cleveland Ohio whose work reflects everyday life with depression. His poetry has appeared online and print. Sometimes blunt, often dark but always grounded in reality. He has 4 full-length collections of poetry, most recently, Potholes and Perogies available on Amazon.
As surely as
by Ken Tomaro and Nolcha Fox
Godzilla stomps on Tokyo,
gravity will crush my bones.
My boobs will try to kiss my knees.
My gut will contemplate the floor.
I’ll need some steps to reach the shelves.
Gravity is not my friend.
Gravity makes things move
in most peculiar ways–
like the spare tire
hovering over my belt.
My eyelids will droop
as the world goes dark.
As surely as
The Hulk will SMASH
my unmentionables
shall never be mentioned again.
Gravity, why can't we be friends?
Gravity, I need a lift.
Don’t make me fall
from places high, like planes.
to places low, like graves.
Can’t you give me one more break,
And let me float awhile?
Bits and pieces of me,
things floating haphazardly
that shouldn't float at all.
Gravity, can you…
Oh never mind,
at this rate, eventually
I'll be able to kiss my own ass.
Debris that hurries by
by Ken Tomaro and Nolcha Fox
becomes a melody and why
aren’t we taking cover
instead of videoing
this hurricane
on our phones?
Aluminum siding
and a trampoline whiz by
so I'll snap a pic
for all the wandering eyes
just to break the monotony
of cat photos
on my phone
Whoa, there goes the cat
with a bird in its mouth,
still flapping!
I fly close behind
shooting photos
and posting on Facebook.
‘til the wind grabs
my phone from my hand.
It's true what they say–
a cat always lands on its feet,
even with a mouthful of bird.
But you'll never know
since the cat, like my camera
is gone with the wind.
Thank you so much for listening.
If you want to stay up to date with the goings on here at Yorick Radio then you can follow us on social media, sign up to our newsletter, check out our website and subscribe if you would like to hear more.
This has been a Yorick radio production
