Diane Helentjaris uncovers the overlooked. Her latest book Diaspora is a poetry chapbook of the aftermath of immigration. www.dianehelentjaris.com
The LeMoyne Star
“Hmm, maybe the purple is best right here by the green.” Belinda Owens sat on the back porch of her log home in Waterford. The village’s handful of streets sprouted vernacular Virginia houses dating back a century and more. Sure, DC – only fifty miles away - was historic but the District never gave her this feeling of timelessness, of crisscrossing with ages past. Belinda found it easy to imagine she was living fifty, one-hundred, or even two-hundred years earlier. She and Dolph, her husband, called Waterford “the magical village.” Quiet this time of day. No hustle. No bustle. The front porch of her log house would have been equally peaceful as nothing much was going on. Nothing. Well, maybe Joe Smythe across the street was weeding his perennial bed but Joe didn’t make much noise.
Second summer of med school, working for Dick the surgery head, I wander the cool dark hospital halls and interview patients.
Indian Mound Road
A soft whirring hummed through the four in the morning silence. Two bicycles, lights extinguished, rolled through the inky Virginia neighborhood.
The Reluctant Bride
Sunshine flooded the one-room schoolhouse. Outside, a meandering road traced the spine of Virginia’s Blue Ridge Mountains.
She speaks to me in a language I never learned, this woman I never met, and tells me the most ancient family story of all.
A Modern Odyssey
The old man is going home: crossing a bridge left fifty years ago in adolescent rage. Home – after twelve trials and a thousand dangers
Dreams and the Doctor
Dreams reflect our days like the shards of a broken mirror — the bits and pieces of our awake time, reformed and reassembled and patched,
Bored, I went to my bedroom, reached in the peanut butter jar, holes punched in the lid, and grabbed the chrysalis.