Gale Acuff: “Rub”




One day when I’m dead I won’t be, I’ll be
alive, they say, in Heaven or Hell, and
I’ll go to one or the other depend
-ing on how I behave on Earth, either
way I get eternal life but to get
it I’ve got to die, there’s the rub, that’s what
the Bible says or maybe Shakespeare or
Stan Lee or Stephen King or some kids-books
authors but anyway for ten years old
I’m pretty awful, if I died right now
I’d go to Hell and you’d never get to
finish this poem, lucky you, ha ha, I
mean finish reading it, of course you might
finish writing it for me and then you
go to Hell, too, like I will, then again
I could wind up in Heaven, a mistake
made by God’s accounts, say, you can show me
how you completed this poem and if you
didn’t care for the lines I wrote before
I croaked you can help me revise ’em, I’m
pretty easy that way, and besides I’ll
be dead and so will you, if eternal
-ly dead but anyway what can I do
in Heaven at least to wreak revenge and
as for Hell it might be neat to have folks
torture one another instead of Old
Scratch having all the fun for himself so
be gentle, you can’t get much more vulner
-able than dead, I think, you’re pretty weak
then, even a baby’s stronger, even
if you can’t be touched, or maybe you’re both
weak and strong. You might as well be living.



About the Author: Gale Acuff has had poetry published in Ascent, Chiron Review, McNeese Review, Adirondack Review, Weber, Florida Review, South Carolina Review, Carolina Quarterly, Arkansas Review, Poem, South Dakota Review, and many other journals. He has authored three books of poetry: Buffalo Nickel (BrickHouse Press, 2004), The Weight of the World (BrickHouse, 2006), and The Story of My Lives (BrickHouse, 2008).

Gale has taught university English in the US, China, and the Palestinian West Bank.


Image Credit: Carl Fredrik Hill “The Cemetary” (1877) Public Domain


“Hearts Break All the Time” By Jeanette Powers



Hearts Break All the Time

I remember the gnarled hands
of my grandfather
working the rotary dial
of the old goldenrod yellow
Ma Bell telephone
calling the hospital
where my grandmother lay
waiting to have her chest cracked
for a double bypass

heartbreak was not new to her

I hung my fingertips
on the tall bureau with the phone
and the lazy susan with her fake pearls
watching him talk and listening
I love you, Helen
I’d never heard him say that before
tears fell down through the stubble of his cheeks
they were the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen

his hand always trembled for a cigarette
and it did then too

they are decades gone now
just like land lines and my youth

the doctor is earnest
reading my genome results
tells me I can’t absorb folic acid
or Vitamin D, my liver is weak
and that no matter how healthy I am
a heart attack is sure

I’ve already had several
I assure her with a smile

she doesn’t laugh
but I’m hoping I’m just like my grandmother.


About the Author: Jeanette Powers: poet, painter, philosopher, professional party dancer and working class, anarchist, non-binary queer. Here to be radically peaceful, they are a founding member of Kansas City’s annual small press poetry fest, FountainVerse. Powers is also the brawn behind Stubborn Mule Press. They have seven full length poetry books and have been published often online and  print journals. Find more at and @novel_cliche


More By Jeanette Powers:

Reflections in the Windows of Your First Car

Cycles of Grief Go On And On



by John Dunn

It began with an email from an old friend, now living in Sweden. He is in his later 60’s and reported that one of his kidneys had quit working and the other was down for the count and maybe longer. Weekly dialysis is what he has to look forward to.

A day later another old friend, a musicologist and pianist, about the same age as my friend in Sweden, told me over breakfast that just two weeks before he had suddenly lost the use of his left arm. A debilitating and despair-inducing moment for anyone, but especially for a pianist. The function is slowly returning, but the discouraging thing is that they still don’t know what caused it.

Yet another friend of about the same age reports that back trouble has led to a loss of feeling in parts of his legs, which affects his ability to walk and stand. X-rays and MRI’s suggest all manner of disc problems. Neither the prognosis nor the path to recovery is yet clear.

These incidents and a number like them over the last few years put me in mind of a story  about R.H. Tawney, the great English economic historian and socialist. Tawney was well acquainted with mortality. An English non-com in World War I, he survived one German bullet only because it struck the Book of Common Prayer he kept in the breast pocket of his jacket. Later wounded during the Battle of the Somme, he was left in no-man’s land for some 30 hours before being evacuated to a field hospital and later back to England. (

After the war, Tawney returned to civilian life and lectured for a number of years at the London School of Economics (LSE). Like many Englishmen of his time, Tawney smoked a pipe and wore tweeds. Walking into the lecture room at LSE one day, he stuffed his still-lighted pipe into his jacket pocket. A few minutes into the lecture a student noticed smoke curling up from that pocket. He alerted Tawney who, without missing a beat, pulled the pipe from his pocket, patted the smoldering tweed jacket to be sure the fire would not spread, smiled and remarked to his students (echoing Wordsworth) “intimations of mortality.”

Intimations indeed. However we humans have come to be what we are – Dawkin’s “blind watchmaker”, directed evolution, dumb cosmic luck, divine intervention – we are biological machines and we are wearing out. We are mortal.

When someone young confronts her mortality, it’s one thing: facing a possibly fatal illness or recovering uncertainly from an accident, she thinks about what she will miss if she does not survive.

For those of us in our 60’s, it’s different. We have largely lived our lives. As I see it we have three choices.

One is urged on us by advertisements, medical inducements and a variety of feel-good books: struggle to remain young, in appearance and in our activities. Try to look 20 or 30 years younger than we are and try to continue in activities at levels that our bodies simply cannot endure any more.

The second choice is to resign ourselves to old age, in effect to see the glass as half empty and say to hell with it. Why bother? It’s no use. We are going to die, so what’s the point?

The point is the third choice, what I might call the path of wisdom. It was my friend Alex, a priest in the Orthodox Church of America and a very wise man who urged this on me when I was telling him about this article.  (He’s not much older than I am, making me wonder how he got to be so wise!) I was lamenting the fact that our generation is being discarded, that we are being made useless by the way society treats us, ignoring our hard-won experience in its pursuit of whatever is new.

In effect he said that he has no desire to retire into the kind of busyness that our society thinks of when it thinks of someone being useful. “I want to be useless”, he said, “I want to be free to relax and write and think.” He went on to talk about how he wants to make his life-experience available to others. At which point my wife said to him “you want to be useless but valuable.”

“Exactly”, he replied.

Useless but valuable. We slip over into the local lanes, where we can pull off easily. We can stand by the roadside, waving to those driving by, causing them to wonder what we might be doing, whether we have something to offer.

Alex went on to tell me about an entry in the published journals of Alexander Schmemann, an Orthodox priest who was Alex’s mentor. (As well he was the father of Serge Schmemann, who used to write for the NY TIMES and who now writes for the INTERNATIONAL HERALD TRIBUNE). Schmemann senior says that we can”cling to life (“I can still be useful”) and to live as if death had no relation to me.” Or we can transform “the knowledge of death”, i.e., our honest acknowledgment of our mortality, “into the knowledge of life…” He goes on to say that we “really are needed, but not for all the concerns that fragment our lives. Their [our] freedom is needed, the beauty of old age, the reflection of the ray of light from it, the dying of the heart and the rising of the spirit.” (These quotes are from THE JOURNALS OF FATHER ALEXANDER SCHMEMANN, 1973-1983, p. 84.)

Alex’s comments, my wife’s response and the journal entry reminded me of the way I have tried to lead my own life, practicing what I call teacher’s mind. I can never know how what I say or do will effect others. All I can do is share with them what I’ve come to know and what I now realize I cannot know. I offer it to them with no expectation that it will make a difference. I can only hope that at some point it will come back to them at a time when they need it. I may find that out; more likely I will never know. Which is alright.

Recently, expecting that we will be moving at some point, I have been giving away books, lots and lots of books. I love books, I cherish books, I have a touch of bibliomania. But, with my wife’s help, I realized that I didn’t want to pack up all these books and move them two thousand miles. And I wanted others to have use of them. I wanted them to find good homes where others would read and enjoy them as I have read and enjoyed them.  I’ve given them to local libraries, to cull for volumes they’d like to add to their collections and to sell the rest to raise money. A few I’ve given to particular people.

I would like to do the same with my life and I hope my contemporaries will consider doing the same.

I cannot give my experience away – the memory of it will be mine until I die – but I can share it with others. I can share with them all that I have read and thought and experienced, the good and the bad. I am sometimes surprised to discover that nothing more than an account of my time in the anti-war movement in the 60’s or of the year I lived in Israel, on a kibbutz, in the early 70’s, can hold people’s attention. Young enough to have only read about these things, they can hear about them firsthand and ask questions. Or they can share a moral dilemma with someone older, wondering what you – the older of the two – might do under the same circumstances.

Growing older can be economically difficult, especially now that we are all living longer and given the fact that many of us have seen retirement savings badly eroded or even destroyed. Growing older is physically difficult: no matter how we try, these bodies of ours will slow down and wear.

But it need not be spiritually debilitating. Some of us can take comfort in the promise of an afterlife. (I have my doubts on that score.) Even with that, though, we can, if you will, set ourselves spiritually alight, as numerous small beacons to those coming after us. Beacons to remind them that we are still here for them, places where they can sit and warm themselves in the glow.

As Alexander Schmemann says in that same entry, we should not “focus on death, but, on the contrary” we should “purify one’s reason, thought, heart, contemplation and…concentrate on the essence of life, the mysterious joy. Aside from that joy, one needs nothing else because “bright rays are rushing from that joy”.”