Friday, January 05, 2007

And Snow It Goes...

—Patricia A. Pashby, Sacramento

The New Year
chugs into the station—
a freight train hauling
seventy-five boxcars
stuffed with a lifetime
of incidents.

It will stop awhile,
then slowly move on
down the line,
adding a car, or two,
ending the journey
on a siding
where weeds grow
between the tracks . . .


Thanks, Pat! Look for Pat's littlesnake broadside, Potpourri, at The Book Collector (free), or send me an SASE at POBox 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726 and I'll mail you one.

Other Nor-Cal poets are also checking in today, tying up loose ends about moving, snow, the holidays:

—Dewell H. Byrd, Eureka

Shadows need sunshine to survive,
rumors need shadows.

Guests gather
for the holiday feast
gift laden

Greetings vary

Rumors skirt
between hugs,
last year's

Momma soothes like warm chocolate.
Papa kicks up dust 'round the tax base.

Kids romp, hide,
sense uneasiness.

Food mixes with alcohol,
football, competition.
Old hurts
patina relationships,
Hot breath of guilt

"Why don't you visit more often?"
"We get lonely, you know."

Rumors create shadows,
shadows on shadows,
sunshine or no.


—David Humphreys, Stockton

Skiing started to change the Rockies back then
from chaps, spurs and shiny leather
to snowflake sweaters, liederhausen and rioja bota bags
squeezed out with too much sun, white zinc
glacier goggle lens black against the glare.
Pommel horns standing up like Spain
still as stubborn as a branding calf's lariat
looped around the moon eagle's lunar landing,
boot heels, stirrups and a wide brimmed hat's bandanna
wrapped around the start of another day.
His levis faded from wearing like work that wasn't,
boots cut plain with mother of pearl snaps
while his dad built ski lifts into the golden aspens
with elk river bugling mule deer antler racks
and a by-god thirty-thirty point of view,
acid his catalytic cultural fusion
thermonuclear bikini atoll, two-part epoxy
though he lost his spleen
when he hit a tree in the out of bounds powder
one lonely wasted day.
A better skier than anything else he did,
turns carved smoother than bow strung whispers
in love with an Indian princess
and a lightly strummed guitar.
But the work he did with a rope
was like tethering a space walk crystal clear
above the oceans, clouds and drifting continents
mirrored in his helmet's visor.


Thanks, David and Dewell!


Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their poetry, photos and art, and announcements of Northern California poetry events to for posting on this daily Snake blog. Rights remain with the poets. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)