Author: Monica McHenney

Monica lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her husband and two foster dogs. She taught parents how to raise their toddlers for twenty-five years before retiring in 2015 to write. The secret to toddlers is to make sure you get enough sleep. Monica hasn't found the secret to writing, yet, but is diligently working at it. See links to her on-line stories on the publications page.

A Change of Spring

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Not windy as we thought it would be.
Light breeze spins a metal orb;
shelf fungus grows in a tree knot.

Spring, the first of many buds,
of many mushrooms, honey colored. They make the most of rain.
Draw it into gills that spore. The dogs sniff around, giddy.

Soon enough another front will come. We’ll hunker inside.
Soon enough a fierce February like last 
February when soil sogged and trees uprooted.

We live by the weather, uncertain what else might give way,
grateful the sun shines, for now.
Then watch the world move fast past points of no return.

Wishing Spring

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Until spring comes, Persephone will fill the Styx with tears of longing for her mother.
Caught in the prison of Hades’s grasping power, she mourns.
Caught in the devil of the season, we wish it done.

We cry for hope.
Hope that the dark sky opens. That sunlight shines on puddles and nourishes green shoots of grass. 
Grass like flying carpets.
Take us from this dark country, soar high on a hope and a prayer.

A hope that Persephone and Demeter will be united
in love of Mother Earth. Their garden will bloom again. 
A prayer for spring. For redemption.

Wishing on a Glass Slipper

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Cindy earned while her stepsisters played. Her stepmother said retail work builds character. And isolation. Cindy was the only one in the shoe store when a Ren Fair guy came in and asked for glass slippers.

“Like in fairy tale land? No. Never seen anything like that.”

“They carry you away. Wherever you want to go.”

“But I don’t think we have them.”

“Worth checking. Wish come true.”

Cindy found one pair, her size, on a dusty shelf. From thin air it appeared.

“You mean these?”

“Try them,” he said.

They were hard, slippery, “I can’t walk.”

“Wish,” he said.

Ratatouille

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“Watch for the dog. I’ll shred the persimmon.” It was essential that tonight’s sitting go well. The food critic, Ratatouille, whose biopic took the world by storm, would be dropping by to review the restaurant. Their swanky Peninsula location near home gardens filled with fresh produce was ideal. The rats hoped for a five star rating.

When the dog stopped patrolling at 9, it would be safe to open. Gaston checked the sky for Orion. Waiters set out piles of persimmon, pine nuts, and dried passion fruit in the garden shed.

Someone shrieked. Ratatouille? A satisfied cat turned the corner.

If Hans Christian Anderson Were Writing Now

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Atticus Finch had never represented a bird. “So, let’s get this. You want to sue your adoptive parents.” 

“I had a terrible childhood. Bullied, teased. They called me Ugly Duckling.” The swan had tears in his eyes.

Maybe they were real, maybe it was just good acting. Horatio Swan was a highly popular leading cob. His beak was a fixture on Netflix and HBO.

Atticus leaned back in his chair. “Why now? You’ve said publicly your tough childhood led to the success you enjoy.”

Horatio trumpeted, “I’ve learned things in rehab. The price I paid. My inner cygnet is traumatized.”

Peace and War

Photo by Monica McHenney
The poppy leaf is stiff and white with frost.
Delicate feathers of foliage contrast against
brown mounds of spent high grass.
When the sun comes out, the poppies thaw.
Dew beads on a multicolored expanse of meadow.
Rough and soft textures interweave;
edges spill at random, blend in harmony.

Tetchy plants prefer to dominate, isolate.
Eucalyptus comes to mind.
Allelopathic, eucalyptus inhibits growth in adjacent plants.
Shreds of fallen leaves smother the ground. 
The sameness of the eucalyptus forest,
its homogeneity like a vast suburban tract or a war zone.
Chemical warfare, a kind of balance, a kind of aggression.

Things My Father Never Said

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Growing up, Christmas decorations consisted of a tree we cut ourselves, tinsel, lights, bulbs, a star. Dad didn’t spring for expensive yard displays, but loved driving around to look at other people’s. The brighter, the merrier; the more Santas, reindeer, elves, and Nativities; the better. So on Christmas Eve we would bundle into the car and gawk at the four or five big neighborhood productions.

The year my parents retired to Florida, we made a Christmas tour. A bigger, wealthier town, there were many huge displays. Dad kept saying, “Look at that.” But he meant, “We earned the American Dream.”

Trees Weeping On a Gray Day

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Swirling specters scatter 
cinnamon maple leaves,
whirling dervishes, they dance in autumn 
snow. Wind breathes
life, then stops.

I would stop but
the dogs pull through
slick pools of layered leaf litter, 
a spill of wet red
color seeps into wine dark puddles left from 
last night’s rain.

Just hours ago,
a gray day 
a hint of sun at ten, and blue.
But now it’s settled into quiet light,
an end of year contemplative light.

A wise light that gives 
the year a voice,
gives the day a meaning,
illuminates falling leaves;
a soft blanket over bright, cold truth.

The Way to the Heart is Through the Tastebuds

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I ate my way across America today. California scones on the plane to Charlotte. They hid out in my bag like hitchhikers on Route 66. At the Charlotte airport, chicken tortilla soup is served at my favorite taqueria and at the 1897 Market. Maybe it’s the same. Airports, the great equalizer.

I had dinner in Sarasota. Lox and cream cheese served by a Peruvian bartender who was adopted by an Italian-Irish couple at the age of six months. Is there a more American story? Or a better way to experience the continental United States?