How Can We Not?

SO SAD
—Song Kowbell, Penn Valley

Locked in a room of
painting fumes
mixing with tears
of desperation for
a people....
my people.....
poor, black
standing on rooftops,
locked in attic coffins.
Feeling of helplessness
overwhelms me
as paint covers
the history of my home.

_______________________

Thanks, Song. How can we NOT respond to what's going on in the South? I was with poet friends last night, and we just couldn't seem to stay away from the subject. But we're writers; we process through our pens. Send me your poems.
(Song, by the way, is a search-and-rescuer, although apparently she isn't going down South at this point.)

Two post-scripts to the mention of Robbie Grossklaus yesterday: (1) he will be reading at Barnes & Noble in Stockton next Sunday, Sept. 11, at 7 pm, and (2) this weekend is his anniversary, so he and Sabrina are off to Big Sur.

If you, on the other hand, are still in town, there are three big (non-poetry) events going on: the Greek Food Festival at the Convention Center; Gold Rush Days in Old Sacramento; and Chalk It Up, Sat., Sun. & Mon. 10-6, Fremont Park (16th & Q), sponsored by Hoppy Brewing Co. to benefit Children's Arts Education. Not just for kids! "Treat the artist in you to a personal square for a $10 donation", which includes chalk. Also includes food, kids' crafts, craft vendors, music—and beer!

Let's have a contest! Identify the poet and the poem from these lines and win a free copy of Ron Tranquilla's new chap, An Ocean-Front Hotel Room.


And the night shall be filled with music
And the cares that infest the day
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs
And as silently steal away.

________________________

Let's close with a poem from D.H. Lawrence:


AT THE WINDOW
—D.H. Lawrence

The pine-trees bend to listen to the autumn wind as it mutters
Something which sets the black poplars ashake with hysterical laughter;
As slowly the house of day is closing its eastern shutters.

Farther down the valley the clustered tombstones recede,
Winding about their dimness the mist's grey cerements, after
The street lamps in the twilight have suddenly started to bleed.

The leaves fly over the window, and utter a word as they pass
To the face that gazes outwards, watching for night to waft a
Meaning or a message over the window glass.
______________________

—Medusa

Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their poetry and announcements of Northern California poetry events to kathykieth@hotmail.com for posting on this daily Snake blog. Rights remain with the poets.