TIOGA DOWNS

by Julene Waffle

Ten minutes before the sun started 

its fiery path across the sky 

and dropped its first dewy light 

through my window, 

someone called the fire department 

at Tioga Downs,

but it was already too late.

Always Smooth, Better Call Saul (a cheeky bugger), 

Birdie Three, the angel of the barn, and more.

Did he speak to them? Tell them why?

There must have been a click of an igniter

Did their ears prick at the sound? 

Did they stomp their feet?

Da Boogie Man, Danzon Hanover who loved 

nipping at zippers and pulling strings. 

A barn intentionally set on fire. 

In an instant thirty horses were gone.

Diamond Express whose eyes sparkled like her name. 

Fireside Tail arrived not twelve hours before; 

A yearling, her owner cried, 

I’m so sorry little angel.

Their trainers and owners couldn't 

free them from the flames for the heat 

and the smoke and the burning.  

Hall It Off. It’s Rigged was a soft-hearted oaf. 

Karpathos was 22 and in his eleventh year 

of retirement. Lone Wolf American.

Onlookers could hear them, kick and scream,

then nothing 

but the crackle and break of flame and beam.

And people crying in the dusk.

Hot Shot Joe had a zest for life 

as big as the race inside him. 

Hunts Point—no one will know his full potential. 

Ideal Chance arrived two days before.

He was in a new home amidst strangers. 

These horses were more than statistics, more than racers; 

They were promises made and promises kept.  

They were family.

Market Mayhem. Mc Mach loved racing 

but might have loved his ears scratched more. 

My Delight was a lady’s man. Payara danced in her stall.

Owners knew their lineages better than their own.

Grant Me This adored her barn sister Silverhill Misty.

Pineapple Sundae just finished six months of rehab

for a knee injury.  He was a race horse 

who didn’t have one last chance to run. 

Once they begged for treats. Others leaned eagerly out

of their stalls to greet everyone who passed.

Some napped twenty-two hours a day. Some knew 

their mind and let everyone know it too.

Pocket Watch N. Prairie Dutches. 

Rough Montana Lane loved cuddles and kisses.

SD Watch Me Now was grumpy, but 

would secretly give you kisses then pull faces 

behind your back. Blazin Mooss was sweet in the barn 

and crazy on the track.  Slave Labour. 

Schlitz lived for hay bags and hugs. 

And a horse named Violence 

would sit in your lap if you let him.

Buzzards R Flying was a wise old man at heart

and his brother, didn't even have time 

to earn his name.

Some were just learning. Some were veterans.

They were nicknamed: Dandy Cheeks, Princess Di,

Macaroni, Norman, Spongebob, Sassy Susan, Tank.

They were gentle to the wheel,

and named by little girls and boys who were their best friends.

They made men cry at the track and made their owners 

throw themselves into the flames to save them.

Julene Waffle, a graduate of Hartwick College and Binghamton University, is a teacher in rural NYS, an entrepreneur, a nature lover, a wife, a mother of three boys, two dogs, three cats, a bearded dragon, and, of course, she’s a writer. She finds pleasure in juggling these jobs while seeming like she has it all together.

THE EXECUTIONER'S FACE

by Matt Witt

Dozens still missing in Oregon. Jackson County District 5 firefighter Captain Aaron Bustard works on a smoldering fire in a burned neighborhood in Talent, Ore., Friday, Sept. 11, 2020, as destructive wildfires devastate the region. (AP Photo/Paula Bronstein via OregonLive)

We load the car—
two sets of clothes and
a lifetime of memories—
as skyscraper flames are destroying
hundreds of homes of
friends and neighbors
a mile away.
Did they get out in time?
And then what?

We hit the back roads,
searching for safety,
with Bob Dylan howling through car speakers:
"The soles of my feet,
I swear they're burning."

Decades of reports said
this was coming
without climate action.
"Hotter temperatures."
"Disappearing snowpack."
"More frequent and more intense fires."
"Urgent transition needed to solar."
"Rapid investment in energy efficiency."

We can already picture
the photos the media will feed us
of some scraggly guy with stringy hair
who may have dropped a match—
with headlines: “What caused the fire?”

There will be no photos of
corporate lobbyists
whose puppets for years said
let's double down on what got us here
or who gave us half measures
and asked for applause.

We drive through the smoke,
community destroyed,
and now Dylan’s voice is sounding more desperate:
"The executioner's face,” he wails,
“is always well hidden."




Matt Witt is a writer and photographer from Talent, Oregon. His website is MattWittPhotography.com.

WIFE SOUGHT FOR QUESTIONING IN BLAZE

by Darlene Pagan

Image credit: defokes / 123RF Stock Photo

She never imagined the sheet she lit
would curl him in its hot tongue, never
believed he wouldn’t wake in those flames,
throw back the covers, and wash his feet like
she’d been asking him every night before bed. 

The air buzzed with a lightning storm.
The chickens refused to lay and no matter
how long or hard she kneaded the dough,
all morning, the loaves cooked up
dense and hard as baseball bats. 
At least, no child again this month. 

A photo of them as newlyweds, so young
they look like children playing dress up,
hangs in the hallway.  Too stubborn to quit
a decade later and now look where it’s got them. 

Black petals fall.  Bits of sheet, newly caught
rise like cardinals.  A door opens, the wind
roars, timbers spit and splinter until she finds
herself outside in the grass watching

lightning split a sycamore.  She looks from
the tree to the body they’re pulling too late
from the burning house.  She believes it
when she tells them she has no idea who he is.


Darlene Pagan teaches at Pacific University in Oregon, where she lives with her husband and sons.  A book of poems, Blue Ghosts, was published with Finishing Line Press. Her poetry and essays have most recently appeared in journals such as Calyx, Hayden’s Ferry Review, The Madison Review, Poet Lore, Hiram Poetry Review, Hawaii Pacific Review, Memoir(and), Brevity, and Literal Latté, among others. Pagan recently completed a full-length poetry project tentatively titled, Setting the Fire. She loves to bike, hike, dig at the beach, walk in the rain, sing, and ride roller coasters now that her boys are just tall enough to ride. 

GHOST GUMS

by Martha Landman

Ghost Gum, Mount Sonder, MacDonnell Ranges 1953 by Aboriginal artist Albert Namatjira. Photograph: National Gallery of Australia, Canberra 2010.

“Australia's totemic 'ghost gum' trees burnt in suspected arson. Two trees made famous in Aboriginal artist Albert Namatjira's watercolours were due to be placed in national heritage register. “--The Guardian, 4 January 2013.

A didgeridoo weeps
pristine tears
in Albert Namatjira's grave

Evilly, a fire
belly laughs
Australian desert coloured in ash

twin ghost gums
topple in
smouldering mourn.


Martha Landman is a South African-born Australian poet residing in tropical North Queensland.  She has published on- and off-line.