Tuesday, July 20, 2010
The Devil Smells Like Moonlight
A TRAVELER’S TALE
—D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove
In the blood of evening we wade
Through the moments listening for thunder,
Something we can rely on before we wash
Our legs to get ready for the night.
I do not understand why we continue
To reach for one another but I do
Participate. Perhaps it is for the feel
A hand might might have touching near the heart,
Asking a forgiveness that is non-specific
But well meant, wanting something to be
Done before the whole place becomes
Dark and we stumble from one pool
Of light to another never sure our direction
Is correct or even necessary, Before
It gets too dark to see your eyes
Before me. Perhaps we will be in love.
Perhaps we will find a doorway for a
Moment, crouch there and begin to relate
Stories to each other as if it were
Important for us to hear them.
I will tell you how I came here
Across the wine-dark sea of ancient
Time and found myself just outside the city
At this time of day, traveling with
The others past the dim orchards,
Seeing the fires on the horizon, hoping
Rest would be full of peace, quiet
Song and the precious company
And comfort one might find here.
It seems a long way to travel
To find only the bloody failing
The light is intent on illuminating.
We begin to call to one another,
Softly at first, then louder
Always trying to make the new
Distinctive, luxurious to discuss
And comely in its transformation,
Its shading, its interlocked devices,
Our commerce in its patterns, always new,
Always skillful, filled with a fragrance
Unbound by the finality of daylight,
Praying we may never be so totally alone.
It's Seed of the Week Day; try the simple form below that was sent to us by Joyce Odam. First line is one syllable, second is two, etc. (Anybody know the name of this form?) Send your pennings to email@example.com or P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726. No deadline on SOWs. And what you send me doesn't have to be a SOW, either—just let whatever you write fly my way... Thanks to today's other contributors, too!
—Joyce Odam, Sacramento
playing tricks on
me, I find time does
not matter to my plans.
I have become very good
at plausible explanations.
LUCKY MOJO CURIO SHOP
—Cynthia Linville, Sacramento
She finds the unmarked entrance.
She’s here because her suitcase is only half-packed
so there’s still time, isn’t there?
Divination by crow—
flying from the left
(But all her trouble has been expected.)
The lady suggests Five-Finger Grass
Four Thieves Vinegar
High John the Conqueror's root
but insists she first decide
what (and who) she wants.
Her husband once said, I'm not afraid of The Devil
but she has an inkling he hasn't met The Devil.
She knows The Devil smells like moonlight
and cannot be out-witted with good luck charms.
URBAN SOLACE XV
—Mitz Sackman, Murphys
Poetry is the alchemy teaches us to convert ordinary materials into gold.
She climbed up the stairs to her small studio apartment
An efficient modern space, not an artist’s garret
And yet her own writing sanctuary
It was Friday evening, others were out partying
But she was celebrating the end of the work week by writing
Her real life was about to begin
She was preparing to, as Anaïs said
Turn ordinary moments into the gold of poetry
Eagerly she reached for her journal
Went to work on this week’s material
Spinning the tales of her life
Into golden poems
The pink reminders of the evening
Have gathered themselves into the corners
Where the light has its own agenda.
The cornfields in their ranks and files
Start their parades delving into the mysteries
As they spiral upwards into fractals
Worshipped like the poor will objects able
To be possessed. We skate among them
Challenged by our wrong intentions, crashed
Into by dreams and ransacked by the arrogance
The mind handles to confuse us with lucid
Moments that defy time, leaving us on
The edge of our beds at three or four
A.M. trembling and unable to put the body
To rest again so that we may mount
The pastel boats of the nights flickering
Ships and use them as the vehicles
We need to consume the far shore
And ride home again, more or less
Complete upon waking and filled
With tales the night has told morning
Even as it steals from its bower fading
As it does so, convincing in its
Description of foolish wisdom.
...there is a silent beat in between the drums.
That silent beat makes the drumbeat, it makes the drum, it makes the beat. Without it there is no drum, no beat. It is not the beat played by who is beating the drum. He is a noisy loud one, the silent beat is beaten by who is not beating on the drum, his silent beat drowns out all the noise, it comes before and after every beat, you hear it in between its sound...