Flying Island

All This Chaos Bricks are flying and folks are crying, cursing  at cops who barricade the streets and chase fleeing protesters with tear gas and faces masked and buddy sticks raised with arms aloft, seeing that the straight blue line pushes forward against the masses they perceive as unruly. Lest we miss the point of all this chaos, the injustices pile up from time immortal and grievances are rife with grief and tears. Mothers have sobbed into dank, dark spaces; wives and offspring have cursed their losses, cried and begged for God’s saving graces. Marjie Giffin is an Indianapolis writer who has authored four regional histories and whose poetry has recently appeared in Snapdragon, Poetry Quarterly , Flying Island , The Kurt Vonnegut Literary Journal, The Saint Katherine Review, The Northwest Indiana Literary Journal, Through the Sycamores, The Blue Heron Review, and the anthology The Lives We Have Live(d) . One of her plays was produced in the I...

Backseat Rider by Marjie Giffin Crammed into the backseat of my daughter’s new Toyota Rav4 with two life jackets, a sack of boxed cookies, a carton full of tri-colored tissue-wrapped gifts, my hefty purse, extra tennis shoes, and this notebook, I scribble. I contemplate my destiny: relegation to the backseat for the rest of my days. I now have senior status which, translated, means I pay for gas and hotel rooms and stops for burgers and fries, and I sit forever in the back with the baggage. I have brought too much stuff, my suitcase weighs too much, my head is in the way of my son-in-law’s rearview mirror. I need too many potty stops, my phone volume is set too loud, I forgot to bring the correct change for the trail of toll booths. My varicose veins throb due to my crumpled position, and my neck aches from bending my head out of sight. I dare not complain, or I will be stereotyped as a crabby old b...

Goodwill is scattered all over the canopied bay among the trampled cardboard boxes and crumpled bags and soggy sheets. A young, moody-faced teen languishes on the curb, nodding when spoken to but not answering my motion for help. Figures, I think, cursing lazy youth, as I trot to the back of my car and heave up the hatch and begin loading my arms with all the added goodwill I can muster: baubles that came from Macy’s, canisters that once spilled out Gold Medal flour, baby dolls that were kissed and held. No time for sentiment; tepid rain drips from the awning and pools on cracked, uneven cement. The scent of moldy cast-offs mixes with the mustiness of tentative, springtime rain. A sack of Christmas candies catches the eye of the non-attentive teen; May I? his eyes seem to ask. I toss it to him like a bridal bouquet. In the rearview mirror as I pull away, I see him grinning as he digs in the crinkly silver sack. — Marjie Giffin ...

Mother’s Company by Marjie Giffin Mother is having company. It’s been years, but I still recall turkey platters and gilded plates, soup tureens with china ladles, crystal stemware and cubes of ice that clinked together musically. There were lavender-scented soaps tucked amidst lacey table linens in drawers so laden with heirlooms that Mother would strain to pull their polished, glistening handles. I could breathe in and catch the scent of Chanel No. 5; I would steal a peek and see her lips pursed before the glass as she coated them with red. Today’s company is being served on paper plates on a kitchen table so crammed with paraphernalia that the tasteless sandwiches almost tip off its edge. Photos, stacks of letters, nail files, coupon boxes, hosiery eggs – all compete for centerpiece space and the attention of the curious guests who dine. One of the favored few shaves with an electric razor in between s...

Eye Patch by Marjie Giffin I was a kindergarten pirate but bagged no bounty. No swashbuckling for me, no gold ear bangles. No red, knotted bandana, no breech pants or boots. But my eye patch glistened! Fabric shimmered with tears. Name calling hurt, and it blurred my sight. Flipped elastic caused pain to tender scalp and pride. Far better to be Four Eyes than a pirate at five. Far better to sport curls than a patch over eyes. Bio: Marjie Giffin is an Indianapolis resident who writes poetry and nonfiction. She has published four regional histories as well as recent poems in Poetry Quarterly, The Flying Island, Story Circle Journal, and a local blog. In her spare time, she is active in workshops at the Indiana Writers Center and with Story Circle Network.

Place of Peace by Marjie Giffin Elisabeth sleeps, Knees curled against my groin, My knees tucked around her toes, My mother body Encircling her daughter body: Warming the nest, Lining the next, Nesting. Our cheeks pressed, Her breaths puff evenly, Play a soft cadence Against my skin. The space between us Is moist and close, And a flutter Of her tiny lashes Touches, tickles lightly. Nestled as we are, Her slumber becoming My poetry, I commit the feel Of this little one’s lifesong To memory – That I might at any moment Recreate this place of peace. Bio: Marjie Giffin is an Indianapolis writer and educator who has taught writing as an adjunct professor at IUPUI and writing/literature at a private school for gifted students. She is an M.A. graduate of Butler University in English and continues to take writing workshops as a member of the Indiana Writers Center. She is an author of four regional published histories and has her poetry published in anthol...