Thursday, May 05, 2011

Fisherman's Stew

Paul Fericano and Annie Menebroker
Sac. Poetry Center "Tag Team Poetry" reading
April 30, 2011
—Photo by Sandy Thomas, Sacramento

—Claire J. Baker, Pinole

I drive to Lake Eleanor.
Shelley's nose nuzzles my knee.
From a tranquil view we watch
two men wait for fish to
ripple boyhood memories
or intangibles they need.

This silver-blue hour when dawn
duplicates dusk, when a few stars
on the sleepy lake of night burn
pillow-case white—this hour
when some begin life while others
complete the circular journey.


Today we're serving up a wonderful Fisherman's Stew in the Kitchen, a tasty melange of poets and pix too numerous to mention—enjoy!

About Pat Pashby's poem below, she writes: Here is a note that one of my daughters sent me on Mother's Day a few years ago. I used her words but turned it into a double cinquain at the time. Have cherished it for years.

—Patricia A. Pashby, Sacramento

Dear Mom,
thank you
for nurturing
and sharing my
love of reading and my
love of the out-of-doors
plus the freedom to live my life
as I choose—things that keep me sane—
your gift
of joy.



—Patricia Hickerson, Davis

we heard the helos coming
first in the distance
then louder
like a flapping of wings
giant batwings in the millions
a crash
shouts of the guards
fire painted the windows red
monster shadows fluted the walls
screams of our mothers
we huddled
shots rang out
allah akbar
smoke and dreams of smoke
smoke drifts
end of smoke
helos mounted the sky
all quiet
let us pray


—n.ciano, Davis

Mother I am you.
You bore life to me
Mother you bled for me.

Mother I am your seed.
You watched me grow.
You nurtured me.

Mother you guided me.
And when winter came
You sheltered me.

Mother you love me.
You sacrifice your time for me.
Mother you laugh with me.

Mother you sometimes get mad at me.
You’ll yell semi-angrily.
You then begin to cry with me.

Mother you’d give it all for me.
And I’d hope you know I’d do the same.
You and I, we're family.



Stuck in the mall
I sat there waiting
wishing, wanting, needing
hoping for
someone to get off
but everyone was on
riding the carousel
I watched them go round,
my life
the carousel
I never got on.
On the outside
everything was muted
and then there was nothing but silence.


—Charles Mariano, Sacramento

at one time
anxious anticipation
for this annual drive
down the 99,

going home
to Mama

can still hear her voice
scolding Lola and i,
for slamming the screen door
as we race outside

can feel myself
curled in her bosom
the smell of Zest soap
and Avon perfume,
her calm, soothing voice

can see
the way she beamed
at the Mother’s Day card
i made in school

i’ll drive there again
this time
without a warm,
loving embrace
to greet me

i’ll sit on the grass
under the shade tree
the small picture
on polished stone,

“hello Mama,
flowers for you”


for Charles Goodrich

   today your garden is sea

          yesterday the mountain

   tomorrow yet unknown

                  requires silence

—Be Davison Herrera, Corvallis, OR


—Robin Gale Odam, Sacramento

I think I remember there were angels
trying to save you. I said I was sorry.


—D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove

We thought they were clouds
But they were not clouds at all,
Marching just above the sea.
They were the souls of miners
Finally set free to walk the coast
Once again; the grey of fog,
The sting of salt water on their faces
Washing the coal, the metals away.

We cannot dream these things.
They come like unwelcome family
To live with us and we cannot
Refuse their entrance.

The foghorns keen across
That last of land. We cannot
See the stars tonight. We never
Imagined things would turn
Out this way, leaning on our picks.


Today's LittleNip: 

Everything you do
Let it come from you
Then it will be new—
Give us more to see...

—Stephen Sondheim, Sunday in the Park With George 



—Photo by Robin Gale Odam