Misery, Nonsense

On Sitting Still

A rolling stone

Gathers no moss

While a wheel

That no longer rolls

Gathers lichen and rust

—Photo and Poem by Ronald Edwin Lane, Weimar

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THE MISERY AND THE NONSENSE OF THE DREAM

—Ann Menebroker, Sacramento

It's a rare occasion, the dreaming.

Some say we all dream; it's just that some of us

don't remember. I don't remember

what dreams fill my sorry head at night.

Dreams, the surreal effort of poetry, are

a writer's journal But what happens

that I'm not aware of? In this morning's

newspaper a story catches my attention—

thousands of dead birds falling

out of the sky on New Year's Eve, red-winged

blackbirds. Among the dead are a few

grackles, some starlings. (Friends at the wrong

place in a disadvantaged moment.) Some

of the town's taxpayers are not sorry. They pay

to clean the bird's constant droppings.

I pay nothing to wake up. And this time

I wasn't even sleeping.

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CHASING THE RAT

—Taylor Graham, Placerville

Have you heard the wind?

All night I pursued the bat,

the rat, the cat of my dreams.

Why does the roach sing?

In a house of many rooms

my clothes dance in the moonlight.

Shadows fill each bowl

in the cupboard, the kitchen

spreads its cloth for mice.

What is the fitting grace for

such a feast? Small ants

carry away every crumb.

What should a house keep

in empty drawers and hollows?

I’ve heard the wind speak

to the spaces inside walls,

and the long night rain answers.

Why does the rat climb

my bedpost, as if begging

for the crust? A mouse,

pursued, peeks into the eyes

I see in my own mirror.

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WINTER’S DREAM

—Taylor Graham

Brief cold January sun

gilds and silvers cobwebs spun

in deserted garden plots

where cabbage rots. What’s begun

in moon-dream? The wilted chard

leafs, and mancha—a full yard

of living green, as if elves

stirred themselves. Earth frozen hard.

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DREAMING SALMON

—Taylor Graham

Upstream in lofty arcs

it leaps

into the current’s

crossfire

eddies, strainers,

currents of dream

and voices of ancestral salmon

calling down-current

as it leaps

to the secret

of its fins and skeleton,

its spawn,

its song.

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WINTER MOON

—Claire J. Baker, Pinole

The moon flowers

into full bloom.

We cradle hands

for mystical light.

We have waited years

for such a night.

Soundlessly

splendor slips

into cupped hands

like a prayer

we were born to

whisper...whisper.

(First published on Poetslane.com

December 2010)

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Lots going on tonight, poetry-wise: check the b-board for details on SPC's reading at the library, Poetry in Davis, and the workshop in Stockton. Don't forget: deadline for the next Convergence is Wednesday, Jan. 5—that's today! See b-board.

And thanks to today's contributors! We're talking about In My Dream; send your dreamings—or poems and pix on any subject—to kathykieth@hotmail.com or P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726. No deadline on our Seeds of the Week.

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Today's LittleNip:

Singing waka, reciting poems, playing ball

together in the fields—

Two people, one heart.

—Ryokan (trans. from the Japanese by John Stevens)

_____________________

—Medusa

Moss takes hold

Of the slow

Molds itself into a stream

But still doesn’t go anywhere

—Photo and Poem by Ronald Edwin Lane