Photo by Michelle Kunert, Sacramento
—Patricia Hickerson, Davis
we drove the country road
past fields gone to seed
a tree here and there
lean branches bent over us
low fog pressed weed fragrance
closer to earth
Fall littered the ditches
a golden leaf glittered unseen
you were telling me about Shiva
Saraswati and Narayana
I said are we lost
don’t worry, you said
we are one with Buddha
Autumn’s dead leaves
scurried past us
then a stoplight
we rode to the far side of town
where is the living Buddha?
is he lost?
no, you said
we saw the word café
lit up in scarlet neon
like blood running through
inside it was sweating-hot
Buddha was there laughing
he took me in his arms
whirled me around
I was warm and safe
leaning against his big round belly
like a fiery old stove
Thanks, Pat, and thanks to our potpourri of poets today and every day! Pat has another little bit on catfishgringoriver.blogspot.com
The new issue of Gail Entrekin's Canary is online at www.hippocketpress.org/canary.cfm in honor of yesterday's Fall Equinox.
And Sacramento Poetry Center has announced the winners of its 2010 Poetry Contest for a Single Poem. Indigo Moor was the the final judge for this year’s contest, and he selected:
David Moody [Vacaville, CA] (Crossing the Equator)
Katie Quarles [Rocklin, CA] (Note to Self)
Rachel Jenkins [Davis, CA] (Transformer)
Shadi Gez [Faairfield, CA] (Fields)
Ellaraine Lockie [Sunnyvale, CA] (Evolution)
Ray Hadley [S. Lake Tahoe, CA] (A Good Trick at the Zoo)
Gordon Preston [Modesto, CA] (The Library)
Katie Quarles [Rocklin, CA] (The Garden)
Carolyne Whelan [Pittsburgh, PA] (Ode for Traveling Solo)
Kathleen McClung [San Francisco, CA] (Nephew Blurred)
David Moody [Vacaville, CA] (A Mouthful of Stars)
Laura Hilton [Auburn, CA] (And Can You Love Me)
Allegra Silberstein [Davis, CA] (Magnolia Blossoms)
Winners can contact Sandra Senne [firstname.lastname@example.org] 916-979-9706 for more details.
Pale shade of old cream,
light settles across the Vaca Hills this evening.
A thread of the new moon sinks
in a crescent of pearl beside the evening star.
The air, different now,
smells faintly of smoke and ozone
—the start of autumn.
Flights of geese sketch runes
in the darkening sky, fleeing southward
from rumors of ice building in the high winds.
They appear unseasonably early.
For the last few weeks, the violet evenings
have been stitched with migration.
The birds have not rested in the bypass.
Somewhere there is going to be a hard winter.
The wild geese know it.
The crows form a river of darkness,
heading toward their nightly roosts in walnut trees
outside of Davis. They will not move on
when the weather turns cold and wet.
They seem to take the shortened days in stride.
The light is changing.
There is a new scent on the evening breeze.
The air feels different, like an antique shawl,
settling on the valley.
The wandering geese have known for weeks.
—Katy Brown, Davis
—Richard Zimmer, Sacramento
Summer’s pleasures are gone.
The cloudy days of autumn
and winter are coming on.
Autumn descends, bringing
with it endless drifts of
yellow withered leaves.
Long autumn evenings
have no cheer, no warmth,
no butterflies, no bees.
—Carl Bernard Schwartz, Sacramento
Fall’s fanfare trumpets its way
across the closing chords of
Summer’s cool demise, and I
choose to listen to Stravinsky’s
Le sacre du printemps.
I love the feeling of the piece,
though my understanding of
French is about the same as a
tadpole’s conscious comprehension
Maybe the changing of seasons
triggers hormonal surges. In any
event, it brings about feelings I just
don’t understand. What better to
represent that than Cercles
mysterieux des adolescentes?
Picture Igor S. break dancing to the
strains of Jeu de rapt …….or not.
...Unless you do something in the world, you can have no real business to transact with man; and unless you love and are loved, you can have no intimate relations with them. And you must transact business, wire-pull politics, discuss religion, give and receive hate, love and friendship with all sorts of people before you can acquire the sense of humanity.
—George Bernard Shaw