October 2015
Michael L. Newell
astrangertotheland@yahoo.com
astrangertotheland@yahoo.com
I have lived approximately one third of my life outside my home country of the United States. I have been a teacher, a professional actor, a federal bureaucrat, and a life long nomad, even here in the states. My work has appeared in sixty or so magazines in the states and a half dozen magazines in England. After a 27 year career as a secondary school English teacher, twenty of which were spent abroad, I retired to coastal Oregon 14 months ago where I lead a quiet life which includes walking five or six miles most days. I have had ten chapbooks and one book published, all of which are out of print.
Say Goodnight Michael
for Jill Stanton, Kimberly Lively, and Anna Maria Shortt
"You," she said, "can never just say goodbye, turn
and leave. There are always more words, more
things to do, more time to fill, until
someone finally just shoves you out the door."
I thought about this, then turned back
into the room: "You," I began, "don't
seem to realize that each new avenue and alleyway
of conversation leads to another and another until
we eventually find our way back home. Of course
then we must retrace our path, particularly
if the journey was an exciting one. So you see…"
Three pairs of hands shoved me out the door:
"Say goodnight, Michael." The door closed.
"But I wasn't finished," I said
to a passing neighbor who entered his room shaking
his head and avoiding my eyes.
"I'm never finished," I muttered. The cat
in the hall window yawned and stalked off.
-first published in A Stranger to the Land (Garden Street Press, 1997)
Leaving Yokahama
for Tetsuo "Ted" Kanamori
Twelve and frantic, I wanted
to find Tetsuo, tell him goodbye;
but we were already packed
and then we were on the bus
driving through American military housing
on the way to the harbor
and the long trip home.
We were passing a field
filled with boys playing baseball
and the ball floated towards
left field. I could nearly smell
the leather of the glove that nabbed it,
deprived it of air, and suddenly realized
the fielder firing the ball back to shortstop
was Tetsuo. I tried to open a window,
but it was sealed shut; the air
conditioned bus was built with childproof windows;
I felt hot, I couldn't breathe,
I felt squeezed like a ball in leather;
I tasted salt and felt
my father slip an arm
round my shoulders and explain
why we couldn't stop. On the receding field
Tetsuo was trotting to the dugout. His side was up.
Thirty-five years later I still
hate windows that won't open.
And when I see a ball suspended above
an outfielder, I want to yell a warning.
-first published in Aethlon: The Journal of Sports Literature, Volume 11, number 1
for Jill Stanton, Kimberly Lively, and Anna Maria Shortt
"You," she said, "can never just say goodbye, turn
and leave. There are always more words, more
things to do, more time to fill, until
someone finally just shoves you out the door."
I thought about this, then turned back
into the room: "You," I began, "don't
seem to realize that each new avenue and alleyway
of conversation leads to another and another until
we eventually find our way back home. Of course
then we must retrace our path, particularly
if the journey was an exciting one. So you see…"
Three pairs of hands shoved me out the door:
"Say goodnight, Michael." The door closed.
"But I wasn't finished," I said
to a passing neighbor who entered his room shaking
his head and avoiding my eyes.
"I'm never finished," I muttered. The cat
in the hall window yawned and stalked off.
-first published in A Stranger to the Land (Garden Street Press, 1997)
Leaving Yokahama
for Tetsuo "Ted" Kanamori
Twelve and frantic, I wanted
to find Tetsuo, tell him goodbye;
but we were already packed
and then we were on the bus
driving through American military housing
on the way to the harbor
and the long trip home.
We were passing a field
filled with boys playing baseball
and the ball floated towards
left field. I could nearly smell
the leather of the glove that nabbed it,
deprived it of air, and suddenly realized
the fielder firing the ball back to shortstop
was Tetsuo. I tried to open a window,
but it was sealed shut; the air
conditioned bus was built with childproof windows;
I felt hot, I couldn't breathe,
I felt squeezed like a ball in leather;
I tasted salt and felt
my father slip an arm
round my shoulders and explain
why we couldn't stop. On the receding field
Tetsuo was trotting to the dugout. His side was up.
Thirty-five years later I still
hate windows that won't open.
And when I see a ball suspended above
an outfielder, I want to yell a warning.
-first published in Aethlon: The Journal of Sports Literature, Volume 11, number 1
©2015 Michael L. Newell