Shadows shift softly 
                                                    in the early hours 
                                                             transposed across the ceiling. 
                                                         Quietly.    Differently. 
                                                You wake to unfamiliar sounds 
                                                which, like shadows, will become 
                                                          familiar over time. 
                                          The bed feels as it did before, even 
                                             as it rests in a new place.     It is there 
                                                      you realize comfort 
                                                             in your new home. 
                                           Traffic patterns adjust to another route. 
                                                 We all settle into new coordinates. 
                                                There is always a different way. 
                                                           We experience change 
                                                throughout our lives; a new address, 
                                             a fresh set of keys, another neighbourhood, 
                                                    perhaps more stairs, each 
                                                              taking you closer 
                                                    to a place you belong.       
                                                            We live where we are, 
                                                       the context often new, but 
                                                      you come to know home 
                                                    is where you feel you belong.  

                                    ©2929 j.g. lewis

What we choose to carry
across the sand, across the street,
or through shadows that threaten or question,
will influence how we walk
across this planet.
Implications. Allegations.

Will you step meekly, leaving
a faint footprint, pace forcefully
forward, or drag your feet to leave a mark.
Could you be left behind,
a solemn slice of nostalgia?
Outdated. Obsolete.

How will the weight of a cruel world
affect you? Keeping up with
rapid technological advancement will silence you.
It never remains the same;
never will, nor will you.
Decisions. Revisions.

Sand will become stone, streets
will grow into neighbourhoods, and
skyscrapers will create doubt or a place to hide.
Will you take comfort in isolation
away from the sun?
Confusion. Evolution.

You will see your future more clearly
with your eyes no longer squinting.
Rest, as you can. Your mind is overflowing
Your body is tired. This pace
will leave you breathless.
Persistence. Resistance.

© 2018 j.g. lewis

by Patricia Morgan

Home is movement of the heart
And a conversation with nature.
It’s the place of awe and wonder
At unseen connections
That brings all to a stop
For a moment.

Home is hearing what is
Whispered, trilled, whooshed, or trickled.
Hissed, soughed, or scratched…
When the roar of humanity is silenced.
It is the space that allows a deep exhale
And a settling of the bones,
The relaxation of the muscles to stay…
To stay here today. Tomorrow, maybe there.

Home is this song that has arrived
When the heart quiets
And a weaving of mind, body and spirit
Forms its own state, free
Of boundaries, barriers and walls,
And the perseveration of thoughts.

Home is a mobile tuning fork
In harmony with its surroundings,
Coming to rest in perfect attunement
With community
And nature
And heart
So perfectly
There’s no need to leave…
Until there is because
Home is movement.

Patricia Morgan has lived a migratory existence from Maryland to the South Pacific,
from Oregon to Costa Rica, and currently resides in Washington.

by Lisa Marguerite Mora

It was red and perfect. Singular. Sitting pristine on the bush, the rose was fully bloomed. I’d been watching it, the small plot of garden for weeks. Boredom was the dusty dry heat of the sidewalk every day after school. Endless concrete pavement, I’d count the cracks, sometimes tried not to step on them. To entertain myself, instead of traveling straight down the boulevard home, I zig-zagged up and down the avenues so I could look at all the charming houses. All my life I’ve been looking for the relief of beauty. Though I wouldn’t have called it that back in the 2nd grade. Maybe I called it fun or wow! or thought of it as some kind of entertainment. Though, the rose, when I saw it, didn’t fall into either category. It beckoned from another world. Dark crimson velvet edged in light. That day I stopped when I saw it. In my mind formed the word, “More.”

Sophie was also in the second grade, but she was eight while I was seven. A big boned Scandinavian, I remember her hair falling prettily out of her long brown and golden pony tail. Her parents were young. And very free. Actually I don’t know if the long haired man who seemed to often be at their apartment with Sophie and her mother, if he was her father. I decided he was father-like, completing for them a family unit. She lived across the alley from me in a more modern apartment than mine. Hers smelled bright and sweet, with wall to wall beige carpet and Sophie had her own room. And Barbie dolls. I had a Francie. Recently I’d acquired a little red polka dotted raincoat and red rubber boots for her. I brought them across the alley to Sophie’s home, . Sophie’s bed was up on concrete blocks. Many of my friend’s homes were make-do like this. I didn’t think anything of it as our furniture was haphazard as well. Most people, I thought lived this way unless they were “rich” and part of another world.

The red rose, I’ve recently learned, is the emblem for the House of Lancaster a royal lineage to the throne of England in the late 1400s. The white rose was the House of York and the two houses fought each other in the War of the Roses or the Cousins War (they were all related) for the right to rule. Being close to the crown afforded a person luxury and protection and riches. The discrepancy between the classes then was especially marked as it is becoming today. Wealth and power has always been very seductive if only for the physical comforts they afford. Eventually the bloodshed between the two houses, culminated in the disappearance and probable murder of two boy princes, royal heirs of the House of York supposedly by the hand of their uncle Richard the Third, who was not even of the red rose faction. But we don’t know for sure that he killed them, his own nephews. Some say the deed was ordered by Margaret Beaufort of the House of Lancaster, the red rose. Richard was eventually killed in a final battle and Henry Tudor the Lancastrian heir, son of Margaret Beaufort, took the throne. He married a York princess and thus the Tudor Rose was born, the unification of the white and the red roses. With his reign came years of peace. I didn’t know any of this when I was seven. I knew only that I loved roses, which were as rare and as precious as diamonds to me, especially the ones that seemed to be made of red velvet.

They represented also the month I was born and I thought myself lucky. Maybe even special. The red rose in the garden perched and floating on one stem of a single green bush, contrasted against the seawater graininess of my days. Sand and dust and a leaning forward of waiting for something more interesting, something better. I was aware, even then, I needed to grow up and take care of where my life was going. I knew the purpose of my being a child was so I could eventually become an adult, and become more than I was. Instinctively I was aware that being a child was dangerous. And somehow the notion of destiny lived in my heart.

We were in Sophie’s bedroom which was long and rectangular and a bit dark. “Shhh,” she motioned for me to be quiet, and crept toward the door. She listened, hunched forward, cracked it open, listened harder. Closed it again and sat with me on the floor where we were playing with our dolls. “I thought I heard Mike.” So, something about Sophie being worried about Mike, I registered. I didn’t want to be worried about anything here. I often spent time at my friends’ so I wouldn’t have to be worried at home.

Sophie walked from school with me one day. I decided to show her the rose. It floated swaying a little in the breeze in all its beauty. She was awed. She wanted it and I wanted it. Did she tell me to do it? I can’t remember. But I reached forward and snapped the rose off its stem. That’s what people did when they wanted something – they took it. Especially if it was beautiful. And precious. The rose had grown freely in the open air for all to see. Why shouldn’t I have it?

It shattered, red petals littering the sidewalk. We both stared in silence.

I knew the rose wasn’t mine and now I had ruined it. It was beautiful and unattainable or at least I didn’t know how to access such beauty for myself. We had no garden at home. Only an alley and concrete around our apartment building. Had I committed such an act because Sophie was there? Because she encouraged me? The red of the rose was now the red shame on my face. We walked away, and resumed our journey back home.

When the York king Edward the 4th died, his eldest son who was thirteen was the next in line. Edward asked his brother Richard to take care of the boy and guide him. Richard promised. He then put the boy and his younger brother in the Tower for safe keeping in the turbulent days after the king’s death. The boys were never seen outside of the Tower again.

At Sophie’s apartment her mother who looked all of eighteen was lounged in her bed, the sheet pulled up over her breasts. She smiled hello and informed us that she and Michael had just “made love” and it was “beautiful.” Her instructive tone made me uncomfortable. We listened politely before turning to go to Sophie’s room to play. Later I noticed when I went home that my Francie’s little red rubber boots were missing. I couldn’t find them anywhere though I searched and searched. I asked Sophie another time if she’d seen them. She looked cross, her cheeks flushed, her lips bruised bright crimson, a tight bud refusing to open.

They moved away at the end of the semester. Her mother said she didn’t want to bring Sophie up in the city anymore. Was I sad? Not really. Things I could not explain happened when Sophie was around and I became not myself. I went back to being a child who read books, and tried to write them. I viewed the antics of my classmates and the adults always a bit removed, for in the end other people continued to disappoint me. Instead I preferred my own imagination, wondering what was inside the charming houses on the walking avenues with their gardens of roses and other flowers. I stayed in wonder, shying away from that heavier vibration of need and angst, even though I had cause enough to have my own. Never again would I seek to possess something too fragile with beauty. Probably I would have done well in the age of chivalry and courtly love.

A few monarchs later after Henry VII’s rule, human bones of a ten and thirteen-year-old, both male, were found buried on the grounds outside the White Tower. Were these the legitimate heirs robbed of their right to the English throne? It’s assumed these were the little lost princes.

But even now, no one knows. No one knows for sure.

Lisa Marguerite Mora is an award-winning writer and poet.
She conducts workshops and offers literary services

www.lisamargueritemora.com

Walls surround me; people tell me, even ask me
where I’ve been. I can’t find the answers, or
the reason from within. If home is the place
where you lay your head, I’ve got no room left
for what goes on when the walls are closing in.

No longer seeking safety or salvation, but simply
common ground. There were never second chances the
first time around. It’s been years since I have come home,
though I’m not without my blame, I’m not without
my judgment and not without my shame.

No reminders. No residue.
No solutions, nor the pain.

More a feeling than a destination, home is not
about geography. Even less the physical location.
The whisper of home gets hard to understand,
even mundane decisions become more difficult
when you take life in your own hands.

Driving forward, moving slowly, the place between
here and this. Listen to music you chose, the next
track on the disc. Melancholy melody, even lyrically
it stokes a chord. We all remember taking chances,
but too often forget about the risk.

Nothing there, nothing lost.
Nothing left. Nothing gained

Of course I’m still dreaming of home, it helps me
pass the time. Past mistakes and memories,
I own them; they are all mine. My mind often loaded
with gentle thoughts of you, yet it still provides
no direction of where I’m going to.

©2017 j.g. lewis