Calling all writers!

Word slingers, keep 'em coming.

Send us your anecdotes, your sonnets and slams, your limericks and lyrics.

We'll publish them here.

Email your Writers Corner submissions to [email protected].

We prefer e-mail submissions, and we ask that you limit the length of your stories and poems. Please include your hometown with your submission.

You can send hard-copies by mail to Maureen Dolan at The Press, 201 Second St., Coeur d'Alene, Idaho, 83814.

NOVEMBER

Those years crawled to the graveyard iron,

rattled the chains that held the gate,

until the rust fell, the lock came open

and they wormed forth

through the misty breath of November

and on into the crust of fallen snow

where they etched their names into

stone slabs that marked where they would lie.

We gathered to cast our voices and

bid for the coming years and

remember what was traded.

Those years we lost in the desert

that gathered rabidly

with matted hair and foaming tongue,

twisted tooth,

feeding on the soggy carcass

of what was once a generation.

We leave behind those tiny shards of broken glass,

and dried tombs of crusted blood

and look now to a Red winter.

Now the marks have been counted and

we gather the ashes of tomorrow,

the pages that have burned and been

thrown from empty windows.

Our voices captured in empty boxes,

and our skin stretched tightly across our bones,

these years too will crawl to November.

- Jeff J. Langford, Rathdrum

THE NAME GAME

I wish to say a thing or two,

about her changing name,

I gave her mine when she was new,

its always been the same.

I met her mom at work one day,

her eyes and hair the lure,

and when she spoke her sassy way,

I never found the cure.

On Valentines I made her mine,

and let her keep her name,

she shoved it left and that' s just fine,

it's how we played the game.

Today my kid says "thank-you dad,

I tried your name a while,

although it makes you kind of sad,

I'm walking down the aisle."

So to my dad and brother dear,

I'm sorry to admit,

my daughter's made it mighty clear,

our name shall take a hit.

I like to tease about the change,

I find it kind of fun,

at first I thought it rather strange,

to lose it to a son.

I know I really can't complain,

my daughter's still around,

Instead of losing her, I gain,

a new son I have found.

My daughter takes a name with pride,

In work and play and strife,

You couldn't find a better bride,

To have and hold for life.

- Jeff Simonson, Kellogg

CHALK TALK

Chalk people on the sidewalk,

Emilio drew them in the morning,

Before the crowds came and walked them back

Into dust.

He had done it everyday

All summer long.

It was okay that they didn't last.

He knew nothing was forever.

He'd started with a big plastic tub of chalks,

A present from Gert, the old lady upstairs.

He opened the container and wondered what to do with such big crayons.

"Use the pavement," she said.

His eye widened.

Sounded like a good way to get in trouble to Emilio.

Gert chose a pale peach colored stick and

Ran it across the concrete canvas.

The curved line she drew sounded soft and scrappy.

The sand filled pavement grabbed the line,

Took chunks of the soft marker and ate it hungrily.

It was beautiful.

A little arching start of a rainbow on 23rd Street.

"You do it," she said.

Emilio shook his head no.

His father would skin him for such defacement.

"It's okay," Gert said. "Look, it wipes away."

Impermanent, she said.

Mistake proof too.

So he did.

When his father saw, Gert stopped him,

Showed him the beautiful colors,

Asked if he wanted to try.

He almost did.

Emilio saw his father's hand flex.

It was thinking.

It wanted to color this world better than gray.

But, no, he had to go.

"Let Emilio," was all he said.

So Emilio got permission.

Gert was good at that kind of thing.

Gentle and friendly and crazy.

At first Emilio made circles and triangles and squares,

With arms and legs and hats and shoes.

Then they got faces, with noses and mustaches and glasses

Earrings and lipstick.

By night, they were powder on his neighbor's shoes.

Emilio dreamed them so they were ready to come alive at dawn.

Women with checkered dresses.

Men with tank tops and tattoos.

Cops with big hands.

They all got walked away.

He drew people he knew.

The man with one arm.

The kid with orange hair and big belts.

His mother,

At least Emilio thought it looked like her.

He put wings on,

But no halo.

Gone by nightfall.

One morning he drew Gert.

"You've gotten good," she said, admiring the likeness.

Too good for chalk, she decided.

"Some things need to last longer than others," she told him when

She gave him the paints.

"Use my walls," she said, when she saw him wondering where to ply his craft.

So he did.

- Jan Sarchio, Coeur d'Alene

APRIL SHOWERS

The muddy womb pushes its young to the dance floor.

Folding their nervous hands over the deads,

The children lead in a tango of sorts.

Spinning and snapping and stepping in sync,

The deceased struggle to keep up with their eagerness.

Acknowledging defeat, the dead exit the floor-

A floor covered with the red hats of solo artists.

- Tracy Shriver, Post Falls

The music's melody leisurely adheres to my mind,

It's captivating, fascinating and delighting to find,

An artist who has studious thoughts that are of ample meaning,

It is refreshing and it keeps my heart beating,

All these thoughts embark on cascading my soul,

Inspiring me to arduously endeavor on finding my goal,

So now I go and speak about honor and respect, and the substantiality of it in our generation,

I embark on my mission and it is taking all my determination,

Now satisfied I sit back and enjoy the music's melody,

Open my eyes and enjoy this beautiful serenity.

- Sasha Fisher, Wenatchee