Wednesday, January 05, 2011

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


—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.


—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.


—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.


—Taylor Graham

Upstream in lofty arcs
it leaps
into the current’s
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.


—Claire J. Baker, Pinole

The moon flowers
into full bloom.
We cradle hands
for mystical light.
We have waited years
for such a night.

splendor slips
into cupped hands
like a prayer
we were born to

(First published on
December 2010)


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 or P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726. No deadline on our Seeds of the Week.


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)



Moss takes hold
Of the slow
Molds itself into a stream
But still doesn’t go anywhere

—Photo and Poem by Ronald Edwin Lane