Photo by Bob Dreizler, Sacramento
—Patricia A. Pashby,
—Patricia A. Pashby
have a heart
NorCal poets will be saddened to learn that Sacramento poet Pearl Stein Selinsky passed away on April 26. For many years, Pearl and her husband, Victor Selinsky, were active members of the community, and Rattlesnake Press published a SpiralChap by the two of them and then later, after Victor's death, a rattlechap by Pearl. Our condolences to Pearl's family at this difficult time.
Our poets continue to try to flex new poetry muscles this week with our Seed of the Week: Experimental Poetry. Some have chosen to try some concrete poetry, but poor Medusa, being a limited creature of the blogspot universe, may not be able to display all these complicated formats. Still, you know you did 'em, and that's what counts! (Short on inspiration? Read a little Gertrude Stein, or e.e. cummings, or Russell Edson...)
CREDIT CARD CRUNCH
—Patricia Hickerson, Davis
call cull cap cock crank
cringe crate crime crimp creed cram croak cried
crane cooked cloak cream kayoed kink clunk clash
cling clutter clue clad couldn’t cruel cross crunch crash
crock crepe crap crude condition s-cratch s-cum s-ketch s-kin
s-kewed s-crew s-kimp s-can s-cale abs-cond caliph condo
crime crook catch crush cuff cage kill
All were gone before last call.
Bye-bye! juxtaposed Hy.
A true Arts & Letters comrade! amended Sandy.
I’ve 1/2 a mind to bust you up! contravened Virgie.
And make it a tall! demanded Mark.
Insisting on having a drink with character.
Another customer bolted into the bar,
Bring me a Pousse-café, enjoined Hy.
And I’ll have a B&B, added Sandy.
And ordered their favorite drinks.
Three characters quietly slipped into a bar
BOTTOMS UP by Carl Bernard Schwartz, Sacramento
FAILURE TO CONNECT
—Chrys Mollett, Angels Camp
Oh, How we want to connect,
—to let hearts meet—
How badly we need to speak—
But our words are across the table
And they just Look at us!
We try our skill with angles—
Meaningful poses and positions...
That cannot be deciphered—
And there's no one in the mirror.
We dabble in thoughts and histories—
Joyriding all over the place.
But every link is broken
And the cart with all our careful attempts
Falls backward, and teeters on the brink.
We may bare our aching hearts from cover
Try on bright and doleful colours
Speaking thoughts that seem to matter
But it all sounds foreign to us.
We force ourselves to chatter
Wading deep through all the clutter
of dashed dreams and failure.
It feels like a moving picture—
Celluloid, and without character.
And so we learn to listen
Knowing there is depth and satisfaction
But, looking down—
We see our feet are tied together
Strapped to a dead post—
We're mired in silence and inertia.
Fear of forever taunts today.
We resist the simple, single grains
that could or might, in time, make all the changes come.
The most beautiful experience we can have is the mysterious... He to whom this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead...