“For Larue” and Other Works by M. Mehas

Mona Mehas (she, her) writes from the perspective of a retired disabled teacher in Indiana USA. A pushcart nominee, her work has appeared in over 70 publications and online museums. Mona’s chapbooks are forthcoming in March and July 2024 from LJMcD Communications. Tweets @Patienc77732097. Follow everywhere at https://linktr.ee/monaiv or https://monamehas.net.

For Larue

September eleven two thousand one
I was arriving at work, where were you?
Walking in door juggling bags, cell phone rings
cursing answer, husband says, ‘You see that?’
Plane crashed in New York Tower, it just flew!’
Classroom TV on, deadly omen brings.

Homeroom comes in a dozen kids clueless
September eleven two thousand one.
Boys and girls cast outs last chance kids, my kids.
Intercom: homeroom today, keep with you
second plane had hit; why? Anyone’s guess,
Pentagon next, ninety-three flight of doom.

Images from TV screen gray, dusty
turned off devastation, kids slept or talked
September eleven two thousand one.
Lunch brought in, together we shared silence,
they wrote, drew pictures, maybe sought guidance
abused, neglected, forgotten, some done.

The kids saved me that day; I hope I helped
their attention span wavered; I was stunned –
art gifted by Larue, spiders I loved
September eleven two thousand one.
Her name scribed in black, colorful, spindly
twenty years hence still evokes what I felt.

With Larue’s dramatic colors and lines
her bright eyes were lifted with tears she shed.
New Jersey transplant the towers she’d seen
from window across shiny river, lean,
September eleven two thousand one.
Between us, her art spoke more than words said.

She cried as I still do, thinking of her
every year anniversaries pass on.
Little I could say and less I could do
for her that day, Larue touched me within.
Etched in limestone memories, where were you?
September eleven two thousand one.

Waning Days

Summer saps my energy, but Autumn fills my cup,
the colors connect me to Mother Earth
grounding me in Her presence.

In this, the waning days of Autumn,
bare trees against a gray sky
evoke frigid air and I transcend.

Winter landscape is alive,
despite stark appearance
potential energy in limbs
nutrient-rich bark, sleepy roots.

I stockpile my energy like the trees,
prepare for spring.

Merry Christmas

Why are you offended if I say, ‘Happy Holidays?’
If you believe in a God who’s loving and kind
Why does it matter how we meet?

What is wrong with ‘Season’s Greetings?’
Is your faith so small that only specific words
are acceptable this time of year?

Why are you confused with ‘Happy Solstice?’
I believe in the return of Sol.
In your religion, who made the sun?

In many ways, our beliefs are different
–church is not a building; a book is just a book.
My Higher Power is everywhere.

What matters is what we have in common.
Our desire for a peaceful future
radiates beyond boundaries.

From the Editor:

We hope that readers receive In Parentheses as a medium through which the evolution of human thought can be appreciated, nurtured and precipitated. It will present a dynamo of artistic expression, journalism, informal analysis of our daily world, entertainment of ideas considered lofty and criticism of today’s popular culture. The featured content does not follow any specific ideology except for that of intellectual expansion of the masses.

Founded in late 2011, In Parentheses prides itself upon analysis of the current condition of intelligence in the minds of these young people, and building a hypothesis for one looming question: what comes after Post-Modernism?

The idea for this magazine stems from a simple conversation regarding the aforementioned question, which drew out the need to identify our generation’s place in literary history.

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