Thursday, March 17, 2011
Pigeons Of The Seven Woods
—Allegra Silberstein, Davis
The robins have come
they are everywhere:
on the lawn
in the trees
on the bushes
feasting on firethorn.
Full and fat
they defy our tom
who slinks away
from ruffled feathers…
Thanks to today's contributors, and the top o' the morning to ye on this St. Patrick's Day! Lots of readings to go to today and tonight, including Irish lass Lauren Norton with her folk trio, The Souterrain, at John Natsoulas Gallery in Davis—see the b-board for details.
And what better way to celebrate the Green than by heralding spring (which officially starts this Sunday) with our poetry? Our Seed of the Week is Poppies, Robins, and Other Signs of Spring; send your springy poems to firstname.lastname@example.org or P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726. No time like the present....!
JACK AND NEAL CELEBRATE THE SEASON
—Kevin Jones, Fair Oaks
“I love this time of year,”
Says Neal, “Sun’s shining,
It’s getting warmer. I can
Drive faster and not worry
About getting stuck
In a snowdrift.”
Jack: “But you always
Drive fast. And I’m
The one who
Has to push out
Of the snowdrifts.”
Drive. And just look
Around: trees budding,
Flowers blooming. You
Can even see cool
Stuff in the ditches.”
“Mostly trash and
Bottles in the ditches,”
“Not all the bottles
Are empty,” says Neal.
Uncounted thousands; body toll from a Tsunami in Japan
many survivors left homeless in the snowing cold,
hoping to find lost loved ones alive
and trying to figure out how to bury their dead
Meanwhile as the reflux hit the coast of Santa Cruz
its residents showed their concern for the Japanese
by whining "OMG, my yacht is totally ruined..."
—Michelle Kunert, Sacramento
THE CRONE'S CAPSULES
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole
ecstatic sparks which explode
into fire, our elder distills
her libido into golden capsules,
scatters them in gardens,
parks, near ponds and meadows,
on hilltops, at seashore,
wherever lovers embrace.
Believing the capsules hold
exotic seeds or sensual
honey of the gods,
lovers swallow her elixir.
leans back, hopes
their orgasmic peaks will feel
fantastically like forever.
IN THE SEVEN WOODS
—William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)
I have heard the pigeons of the Seven Woods
Make their faint thunder, and the garden bees
Hum in the lime-tree flowers; and put away
The unavailing outcries and the old bitterness
That empty the heart. I have forgot awhile
Tara uprooted, and new commonness
Upon the throne and crying about the streets
And hanging its paper flowers from post to post,
Because it is alone of all things happy.
I am contented, for I know that Quiet
Wanders laughing and eating her wild heart
Among pigeons and bees, while that Great Archer,
Who but awaits His hour to shoot, still hangs
A cloudy quiver over Pairc-na-lee.
Sunday March 13 while opening my car door
cold wind blew in some brown dried leaves
from the yard in front of a church
so close to Spring with flowers blooming
yet so many places seem stuck in the Fall