Man on Wire

by George Rembaum

The Man On Wire is a documentary movie about walking across a wire between the Twin Towers in New York. It shows how one can dare to do an impossible act and succeed if one stays with the dare. What kind of person can take on such a challenge and stay with it? First of all, you must share a total belief in your instincts and feel that anything can be done if you work hard enough at it, and refuse to be discouraged by the naysayers. The hardest part is to have such belief in yourself that you would try anything, and not give up when things turn against you. The first part,the total belief in yourself, shouldn't be so hard. In your life you have seen experts in all fields turn out to be people with simple goals that were highly studied and not found to be wanting. We are all experts in living and keeping abreast of intellectual endeavors. So why can't we hope along with all the others that we can affect the flow of events by our studied ideas?

My 60th Birthday

By Gary Bernard

What left have I
When I turn around
to see my footprints fade
And time in a child's cradle
Gives it a brief look
Only to be surprised again
And again
As History is a fool's child
Because it's sixty years
And my birthday
And the mariachis
Martin and the staff surprise me with
And seventy people and more
And it was supposed to rain
But it didn't
And the sun nestled in the puff of clouds
And the garden that tried to thaw
In the weeks past the February freeze
And cousin Ron leaned over to me
"Gary" he said
"All the people are here because they love you"
And Diane brought me a diabetic cake
And Adam was on time
And the mixture of work
And friends and family
Like all old friends and family
Talked and strummed guitars
And ate
And the shoulder surgery that hasn't properly healed
And the tax audit
And people enjoying themselves
All friends, all family
All the people
I love

Remembering

By Ruth Aroni

I remember sunny days and pink roses and skinny girls with smooth legs and bald old men crying in the night.

I don't remember where I left my virginity or if I ever had it to begin with or if it was on the bus after I got off and walked to my apartment.

I have always tried to be clean and neat and tie things in bundles and smile at handsome men who I hoped found me attractive although I never did get picked up by one.

I don't see why you are always telling me to change and get better and do better and look for another answer when I'm fine just the way I am.

I have never sat in first class on an airplane, drank a martini, sat through three movies in a row, eaten less than two chocolate chip cookies at a time, danced the tango, or used a hula hoop.

I wonder why the sky is blue, why Nuns wear black and white, why I love to dance so much, what it's like on the moon.

I do not want to shut down, lose my sense of humor, miss a sunset, lose my teeth, miss love, break a red crayon, burn my mouth from hot chocolate, get a ticket.

I tried to fry an egg, laugh at your jokes, wear pants that were too tight, rob a bank, run for school president, make friends with someone small.

I try not to let my ground turkey spoil.

This is Where I come From

By Anna Bernard

Rolling mountains, determined creeks, small shacks,
red earth and brown cliffs with minimal vegetation
Heavy basalt rocks that formed at the bottom of the ocean
before they were shaken
and thrust to lie mild and still by the roadside,
by the cemetery, the railroad tracks.
I come from a great abundance of tears
Stubbornness, grit, and prayers before the shrines of saints
I come from Blessed Mothers and Novenas and dark polished pews with
horizontal scratches made by fidgety hands that came unfolded somewhere
around the Agnus Dei.
I'm from hard work and dreams, both humble and soaring
from rugged shoes and no shoes on the way to hundred dollar shoes
I come from pinching pennies and learning to splurge
From hope in Burma and a rock that a soldier carried in his pocket
I come from yellow roses
and memories of a girl who loved chickens and was loved by chickens that clustered around her in the twilight
I come from Wars and a Revolution in the 20th century
I come from the unique heartache of miscarried children and children under 3 months and under three years whose names are spoken in a whisper of loss
I come from winding roads and leaving home forever
Clifton and Morenci, Silver City and Hanover, Juarez and places in Chihuahua,
From floods and fires that rang the ridges and the understanding that Santa Ana is both the bastard who sold us and the devil winds
that gave us jumpy nerves and dry skin
I come from Pasadena and 90 years of Rose Parade watching
A hometown that changes all around but keeps the street names and the remembrances of my parents, my siblings, myself
I come from ocean splashes on a trip to Zuma Beach in a bathing suit with a turquoise clothespin pattern
I'm from homemade lemonade with bits of branches and sweet blossoms discarded by the sink
From countless family dinners around an oak table that I was taught to set perfectly
From Grandmas who believed in literature and universities though they had never been to campus
From people who thought poverty was for climbing away from while reaching out with helping hands
I come from copper mines
From Apache land and the Rio Grande, from the Gila River and the Mimbres,from Durango
From seashells found far from homes and the Tarahumara runners of Copper Canyon.
I come from walnut trees, and palm, sycamores and blue sky covered by smog.
I come from countless stars in the Southwestern sky
From lightening strikes and thunder
From people who moved North
Perhaps a millenium after moving South
I come from people who don't think in borders and boundaries
but in terms of rivers running first one way and
then the other and flowing
as we move out ahead
and as we follow...

No More T.E.s

By Anna Bernard

In my poems
I am not struggling with a numb foot
a twitching eyelid
and a weird hollow feeling in my chest
when I come awake.
My skin isn't going all to parchment
and my hair is fluffy.
I have vitality and adventures.
I can bounce like a child with moon shoes.
In my Audi, I am spoiled,
A Peruvian Moche woman ruler
in my chariot of gold.
My long black braids
whip along in the wind
and my crown is riding
easily in the back.
I eat no guinea pigs,
Just well prepared maize and potatoes,
green vegetables and grains.
Dinner will be waiting
when I pull up to the palace.
Since childhood I have been a teacher,
always a reader
a maker of many crafts
and a songful diurnal coyote.
Ten thousand stories
have walked up the ramp of my consciousness
and of those,
I remember ten thousand fragments
that color my adulthood.
In my wishes I am retired and learning new ways.
I write letters to the editor.
I edit my own writing and I write.
Lemons and sugar commingle
in a pleasant blend of life as art
and life becomes Art
and toil becomes Art and
Teacher's Editions darken my days no more...

Life After Retirement from Teaching

I retired in 2005, after serving United Teachers Los Angeles. I also taught in the Compton, Culver City, El Segundo, and Lawndale school districts before spending 30 years working for Los Angeles Unified School District as a classroom teacher.

Since I was dedicated to my students’ progress, I created The Bulldog Magazine and The Bulldog Magazine for Second Language Learners to provide my students with the opportunity to write, edit, and publish their work. I was also a trainer for the WRITE Institute for District C in LAUSD. I managed the citizen of the month recognition program, PRIDE, and VIPs to encourage students to do their best and to reach goals for personal achievement.

In addition, I became an activist in United Teachers Los Angeles as I became involved with assisting teachers at all levels. In 1983, I was elected to the House of Representatives and later served as the union commissioner at James Madison Middle School in the Valley East Area. My passion has always been the advancement of teachers as professionals, always championing for professional respect and recognition for the teachers I represented.

Since my retirement, I have become a published travel writer which included creating a website, www.luxurygreecetravel.com. I have also remained an eclectic writer. I will share my published works with you and look forward to your comments and mutual experiences.

by Roberta Mark Engel

Observation

By Anna Bernard

I see myself as a child industriously, curiously, dismantling flowers. I'd find an aging rose that was already played out, opened too far, petals beginning to hang limply from their holding spots - and I'd pull the petals all the way off to study them and marvel at the softness, softer than anything I knew. I'd study the way the color sat so deep inside and couldn't be rubbed off. I tried. I experimented with paper and a pant's leg but it was in there to stay - crimson, blush and butter - securely sealed in the rose petal fabric. Which was what exactly? It held together well but also tore if you tugged enough - similar to a well made paper towel. The colors made me dream about lipstick purchases of the future and beaus, gifts, proms, and wedding bouquets and all the things that made women smile.
The tuft, the sad plucked tuft, was reduced to a bit of plant life with all the beauty gone.
I marvel that I was once an observant child with time on my hands and summer afternoons to explore the natural world of a surburban neighborhood and I wonder if current children have time and opportunity to learn by direct exploration. I wonder if I would still know how to take delight in close observation. My world now is text, books, newspaper, HD television, movies, photocopies and the internet. Now that I am so recently and abruptly retired, I want the time to observe again in a relaxed state and leave tasks in the dust - the soft, loamy pale milk and coffee colored dust of a trail in late September - the kind that coats your shoes or your bare feet with the Earth's affection.

Roses
Roses in a garden.
Of all the gifts I treasure from my students
nothing quite compares
with a slightly frumpy, thorny rose
wrapped in a wet paper towel,
then wrapped in foil.
"For you, Teacher."
I always feel special.
Roses in a garden
Make me think of hot summer days
sprinklers and bees
sprinkly pollen
flower guts.
Roses in a garden.
I used to pull the old ones apart
to examine the interior.
I pulled a few new ones apart
to discover the way the petals
folded together and
squashed themselves up tightly.
To be closed upon oneself
is an amazing thing to children
who can't remember
when they were wrapped up tightly
and folded over on themselves
in the womb...
Rose in a garden.