An Open Page for Earnest Eyes

Your submissions printed here for all to see. In this collection we present, in no particular order, the following poems:

Three Poems by Cheryl A. Rice of Kingston, NY. USA
My Master Key by Danielle Madigan of Las Vegas, NV. USA
Notes of an Assassination by Richard M. Johns of DeKalb, IL. USA
TEA AND CRUMPETS by Liberty R. O. Daniels of Ferndale, MI. USA
Some of the wisdom by Ahmed Said of Cairo, Egypt
Two poems by Patricia Aitken of Chicago, IL. USA
My painful shadow by Guillermo L. Barrios of Los Angeles, IL. USA
Tradition by Nicole A. Butler of Binghamton, NY. USA
CIRCLE by Nicholas C. Lutwyche of Haughton, LA. USA
concerning Raymond by Thomas R Harmon of Albany, NY. USA


Word of your demise hardly untimely, I mourn nevertheless,
at my distance, the distance I chose between your son and me.

It has been so long since I’ve seen your black
watchcap, angled at a jaunty tilt (so unlike the man I knew)

bobbing above the Sunday Times, heard the
letters you never mailed to them, never wanting to brand yourself

in Smalltown, New York as a City Socialist; so long since I’ve
heard the stories that comfort your family now, how you sped through

Manhattan between the wars and trolleys to deliver telegrams
as a teenager. I don’t know the uniform, but can see your lean body

efficient as always, weaving like a tassle thru the crowded
avenues, focused on the task at hand, gracious in tips, shy

and handsome and reserved in your duty. I remember the soldier z
pictures, teased you like one of the kids about the hulas you hid in

your Hawaiian duffles, macadamia fever in drafted young
husbandhood. Married, fathered then before the light,

before leaving the country, picking a new name,
settling into a new life. You on the tractor, you among the hot

orange groves, the man I knew read mostly, walked a little, still cut
sharp figure in fedora and tie. Aloha Joe, Father Sharon,

Joey Kirschbaum, kid who legend has it missed his own
birthday party, held for some strange reason in his absence,

boy with the beautiful mother gone early, wicked
stepmother I heard nothing about, I still see you behind

the smidgen of stained glass that topped the living room window,
shades drawn to ward off intruders, as if the Elephant Man

lived there, not just the rebel, not just the young Zionist,
not just the man who went with his gut and made a country

where none was for him before, entering then his own chamber,
not gas but all open air, much to strangle him off at the heart,

or are you still whizzing thru the city, capped and narrow,
invisible bullet in the mean streets, getting the message through

to addressee? Getting your little ones to the dream,
to live the small, good life, to be your own god?


Watching the line of my two chins I fear, I the shine of the brown fuzz you call hair, side by side at the sushi bar, we are friends

who imagine the lovers we crave, and I

introduce you to the sting of wasabi, the hot wash of sake that clears the raw palate, and you swing chopsticks like you were

born with them in your smart hands.

My bleached buddha, I hold the world in your arms, your hurricane monologue’s

a language I haven’t heard in all my lives.

This time is a skip a skip in the disc, and you and your kiss a star mark I move without, dancing on clogs of wood,

lotus tea for company and breakfast.

I am glad for the rice, sustainer of much plain life. Like the moon you change, now bright, now black as bean paste. I drink the mai-tai of my dreams,

and taste your whole heart in the toast.


Born as eggs are from the ass of fate, denied site of eternity by lowly birth, black egg crawled from his warm tube, snug too long, rolling into tomorrow with his gift for great length, rolling into autumn with his illusion of space, invisible sight cloaking destiny, rolling from the prickly nest to the grassy knoll, the water tower, to the guy with the spatula , always one goose step ahead, armed to the embryonic beak. Black Egg rolled and rolled and rollled, rolling over the rough spots, unchipped, uncracked by terrain, black egg polished prize of the Orientals, taken for ordinary in the West, aloft in spirit, grounded in yolk, Black Egg knew from his slimy birth he was meant for higher things, got higher, thought higher, spun his albumen tethers clinging to the chin of humanity like a gobbled brunch, humility chaser, rolling

page in the book of breakfast.

Cheryl A. Rice Kingston, NY.


My Master Key

Starving for Knowledge, I can foresee. The epitome of darkness, Looking down upon me! Striving for excellence In all that I do. I feel a sense of uncertainty,

Which often makes me blue.

Could I… Be searching for something That does not exist? Or am I… Afraid and overlooking Something that should Not be missed. There are moments in life, When I have my doubts. Those moments, Which make me, Question the World, And what is

This World all about?

Living my… Life day by day, Not knowing The final outcome leads Me astray. I often wonder, “Where would I Be Ten years from now?” “Will I still Be searching?” Or “Will I

Be standing on solid ground?”

These are questions, I cannot deny. I think about them From time to time. I search for answers, I know deep inside. Only I can answer them, I’ve come to realize. So when I’m afraid, And I… Cannot find my way. I remember

Two important things.

I am… The Master of my own chastity. Only I… Hold the Key to my own destiny. So if I… Should find myself, Trapped in the darkness Of doubt. I will… Not bide my time waiting – To be let out. I will use…

My master key.

Danielle Madigan 1/26/2001 Las Vegas, NV


Notes of an Assassination

At last the nightmare is over: he wakes in a room without shades. Dust glints in the air.

The particles flash like blades.

Somehow the window is locked, so he stares at the city below. The room feels stuffed with force.

Still, there is nowhere to go–

for he thinks that…What does he think? Nothing: he hears a voice. “The shots have already been fired,” it says,

“that will kill everything in this place.”

Richard M. Johns DeKalb, IL



As I sit here staring at the bruise on my arm, I constantly ask myself why he tried to harm someone that he barely knew. I keep wondering why he decided that he had to make up a lie to lure me out to dinner and then up to his hotel room when all he had to do was to tell me the truth. If I had wanted to be a willing partner in his quest, I would have given my all and really done my best, but he was there under false pretenses, I discovered, by just wanting to add me to his long list of lovers, though you can’t really consider a lover to be a one-night stand and this guy had no intention of becoming my man, plus I’m still in celibacy from my last relationship so I didn’t think he was too cool or too hip wanting to bed down someone that he just met. Was he doing this on some kind of a bet and, if so, what was it that made him so grown? He could have stated his evil intentions over the telephone, but yet, there I was sitting across from him in the hotel restaurant. The lights were so dim. It was cozy and romantic and I must say that given any other time and kind of day, I might have been receptive to what he had in mind but to try to assume who I was–well, that was unkind! And exactly whom did he think that he was trying to feed me alcohol and give me a buzz? Well, I wasn’t going for that kind of stuff. I ate my meal until I’d had quite enough so that later, when we adjourned for the business meeting, I’d be in control of my faculties and my breathing. On the way to the elevator, he cracked a joke. Although I felt a little uneasy as he gave me a poke, I passed it off as a friendly gesture in kind, not really knowing whether he was about to mess with my mind, but soon I discovered that this promoter of sorts was only interested in seeing me without my undershorts! When I resisted the brazen pass that he made and he realized that he wasn’t about to get laid, he grabbed me and held tightly onto my arm. I wasn’t quite sure if I’d be able to storm out of the elevator when it finally stopped, but as the couple entered, I suddenly hopped over to the other side and he released his hold. I clutched my purse and became so bold that I ran out of the elevator and said a prayer, held on tightly as I fled down the stairs. I didn’t look back once he had let me go and never stopped running until I reached the ground floor. I composed myself and slowly began to walk out the door, and then, to myself, I began to talk. As I entered the parking lot and neared my car, I began to laugh, “Har de har har.” What a night! I thought this was a business meeting. I wasn’t aware that I would be the dessert treat. Was I being naive or conceited to think that someone just wanted to buy me a drink and treat me to dinner and conversation, but instead ended up trying to carry me off to bed. And now the purple bruise on my right arm reminds me of how I escaped all harm. I don’t know if I’ll be that foolish again, giving the benefit of the doubt to some strange man, so the next time someone invites me to tea,

I’ll make certain that dessert is not me!

Liberty R. O. Daniels Ferndale, MI


Some of the wisdom Some people are for goodness keys

They live and die for us to breathe

The prophet unsheathed the sword
But saw that better is word

Come meditate to tell yourself
What is bad is put on shelf

They said in Arabic if mendacity
Some time is saver how the veracity?

Some in seeking what is perfect
Come to studying life of insect

Be heuristic when you teach
And “practice what you preach”

Ahmed M. S. A. Said Cairo



I love Chicago’s enchanting Autumns. I watch the landscape as its color filter changes. The glorious hues of red, orange, yellow, & purple please me.

The leaves flutter from place to place with each puff of wind.

I watch the landscape as its color filter changes. Autumn has music in the swaying branches and crisp leaves underfoot. The leaves flutter from place to place with each puff of wind.

Green crab apples turn red while the ground is covered with a blanket of gold.

Autumn has music in the swaying branches and crisp leaves underfoot. As I walk, dancing leaves extol me, intentionally dropping to my feet. Green crab apples turn red while the ground is covered with a blanket of gold.

Their beauty widens my eyes and makes me smile.

As I walk, dancing leaves extol me, intentionally dropping to my feet. The glorious hues of red, orange, yellow, & purple please me. Their beauty widens my eyes and makes me smile.

I love Chicago’s enchanting Autumns.


*This is a Pantoum, an ancient Indonesian style of verse. It has
eight lines in the following pattern: 1234 2546 5768 7381.



Sweet Magnolia petals float in a puff of wind and caress your face.

I watch your eyes glitter as the fairy wings tickle you.

Your red and white dress whirls like a magic pinwheel under the tree.

You leap and shake the flowered branches in an impish dance.

Sweet Magnolia petals fall like raindrops and cover the earth with joy.

Patricia Aitken Chicago, IL


My painful shadow

I wanted to share the fire inside, instead we partook of our darkness your nipples brown hard your black pubic hair my angry dick crimson desperation despair lust shame

fear anger

It’s 3:40 p.m. it’s 5:00 p.m.

it’s 6:22 p.m.

I am not waiting for your call

I want to call you I want you to call you will not offer your round

mounds of juice anymore

I am tired of the dark places in you the hidden parts of you

those I desired so much

I want light sun moon
you can’t give it to me

I have to give it to myself.

Good bye dear woman, be well

find your own light

and let me cry for what it
was not.

Guillermo A. Barrios Los Angeles, IL



grandmother. babushka. petrushka soup. water with potatoes and barley. a hot fire burning in the kitchen of their warm hut. hanukah candles not yet burning. melted wax dyed pink and blue like tear drops along the metal, in a long stream from the high shemesh. sky. the tallest candle in the menorah is pointed towards the sky. abba comes in from the cold wearing a torn, woolen coat and deerskin cap to shield his ears from Poland’s winter winds. his mustached nose catches the smell of ema’s shabbos soup and challot baking in the oven.

candles. like the six burning over the kotel for our six million watching over us like Saba did on the

voyage to america.

at the Kotel where I now stand touching the wall to see if it’s real crying crying and shaking at the intensity of my own culmination of souls passed into me sharing a desire to pray like the old women did in Russia my Grandmothers prayed like I do here tonight in Jerusalem while they teach me the prayers explaing in the language they know, Hebrew which I try with all my soul to learn,

I’m just beginning,

an assimilated american hearing stories of my own tradition being passed from this wall I touch into my hand I write as their conductor throught time I glow like the candles of shabbos I sweat like dripping wax over a clean menorah I cry like the grandmothers did at the burning of their homes in the old country I learn like the scholars of our torah I wail

like the wall

I am home.

Bowing now at the power of the sun over Jerusalem in a photograph of my homeland sitting far away in my room conjuring stories in my vast mind of a desert I

wonder at

I hunger to share with my ema the water of the kineret the salt of the healing at the yam ha melech Ahava love is coming love is here

through tradition

Baruch ata adonai I am home to this masterpiece ha olam, the world beating like my heart a drum communication screams from my heart to my lover like his touch reigning over my body in disbelief of this

electrical power

a clean menorah waits on my shelf to be lit to pass our tradition

along to my children

I will soon return to my ema’s house for her to sing the songs of our past in my hands are hers lighting together the match reciting together our words in the same language of our grandmothers who brought the shabbos queen into our every friday evening

summer or winter

I continue to sweat with burning skin at the memory of Israel’s sun light my feet in new york now but I am still home wearing the key around my neck it will never fall off I am home to mushroom barley soup noodle kugel

mezuzot on my own apartment

this tradition travels with me in my hands I write with diligence like a child first learning how to read and share

I am home

like I’m snowed in and can’t open the door and look out the window sipping my tea as the twister picks up my jewish house and carries it between lands         because,

I am home.

Nicole A. Butler Binghamton, NY



“Mortally wounded you say- isn’t that the usual term for those whose eyes are blank and whose bodies gape with the

hideous damage of war?”

“Yes; yes but why then do I have this pain circling in my mind?”. Where is the connection with those ghostly shattered corpses

and me, untouched by hot metal?.

Why are these sunken eyes driven to trickle weakly at the funereal dirge? Why does this flesh still creep at the sound of the Ship’s alarm?

The silver medals long since tarnished.

Will those ships never rise from the sea bed and triumphantly return, somehow healed? And their salt-drowned crews all stand proudly in line on fresh scrubbed decks

listening to the home-port welcome?

And blinded soldiers, gassed lungs heaving plodding wearily from the rancid trenches in file, hand behind on the shoulder in front. Retreating from what was named

“The Great war”- they knew it not then.

Like so many vital messages, blood writ, theirs went unheeded. Twenty years on and another generation of young men was pitched into the wicked cauldron as it

smoked with greed, power and failed politics.

And now, numerous bloody conflicts later the World’s awash with the walking wounded, who cry out in their hideous misery, unheard, as more pitiful refugee columns are formed.

While the uniformed, unwounded, keep returning.

Nicholas C. Lutwyche Haughton, LA.


concerning Raymond

got a letter from government
“concerning Raymond” first line said.

dead never took so many fancy words
to say

but I got rights
the last paragraph read.

“concerning Raymond”
never used the word son

for the dawn of my life
but I got rights

just no other days.

Thomas R. Harmon Albany, NY.


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