Saturday, July 23, 2011

Dancing on the Spin

Summer Still
—Ronald Edwin Lane, Colfax

—Patricia Hickerson, Davis

I saw you, honey
the grey-white wing of your dress
a chiffon drapery
I saw it lift in the wind of your quick motion
as you headed toward the front door
and out of my house

I knew it was you
didn’t see your face
only a fall of long golden hair
the way you wore it as a young woman

I knew it was you
checking on me again
my daughter, murmurous in my heart


—Don Feliz, Sacramento

Murmurs fill the room
when the couple arrives:

one is dark
the other light,

she smiles
he scowls,

her jeans are too tight
he wears a tux,

she’s a very tall
Tallahassee teacher,

he’s from Seattle
shorter than most,

she drinks beer
he has wine.

She’s a woman.
He’s a man.


The rumor
of release
from oppression
found under
heavy boots.

Staying seated
in burqa
the front
of bus
in Tehran.

—Michael Cluff, Highland, CA


Children conference
breath held
teacher passes
knuckles saved
imaginations grow

—Michael Cluff


A giggle
tie unknotted
kiss shared
same gender
total love.

—Michael Cluff


—Katy Brown, Davis

Murmurous old barn,
hushed in twilight,
swallows light—
shadows collected
in high corners
slide down walls—
tender in the darkening,
nuzzling, nesting,
so near an earlobe
your breath—
touch without touching.


—Katy Brown

Dusk—the haunting song
of a pod of murmurous whales
echoes through a swish of waves
washing against the hull.

Sometimes we lose one another
even on this block island ketch—
hidden by the sails,
setting and unsetting the sheets,
securing the halyards.

By day, we appear to stand still,
the water rushing past us
to some uncertain destiny—
the sun, slipping along an arc
from edge to edge of the world.

The days and nights pass—
rotations of a cosmic hoop
suspended around the sky;
the boat; the unending water;
and we on the deck: the only certainty.

We take turns at the tiller, feeling
the water dividing underneath us.
We use an old map and navigate by stars:
the edge of the world—turning toward us
just over the twilight horizon.


—Taylor Graham, Placerville

Just listen to wind against
shutters. Cumulonimbus growing
blacker, a giant pounding on his anvil.
Power-up! he sings his true
name in sky-word.

I'm either lost or free now,
without my lights,
and storm rushing down.

Lightning knights the hilltop,
rocks flare, brightly new.
Shall I huddle indoors
as images arc
and the sky thunders through?


—Taylor Graham

Snowmelt from up-
country churns downriver
below the bridge,
slicking boulders, frothing
how many cubic-feet-
per-second—and there
she stands midstream
where she's walked
out of the night's tall dark—
arms raised in warning?
beckoning? or praying
praise to morning, mists
uplifting like wings
of angels with no time
for a mortal doing word-
steps stone to stone
where no one else may
follow, dancing
on the tilt and spin
of earth.


Today's LittleNip: 

—Kevin Jones, Fair Oaks

Thought I was a seer.
It was astigmatism.

The voices spoke
To me. Got hearing aids.
They’re just murmurs.



Check out the Pig-a-Chopper in the upper green box on our b-board for a couple of new postings about local poets. Earlier this week, we mentioned Brigit Truex and Red Poppy Review; now we've added Susan Kelly-DeWitt's column in Coal Hill Review, in which she says nice things about Martha Ann Blackman. Got anything to add? We're looking for journals in cyberspace to add to our collective repertoire.

Blondes are preferred
By more aphids, gnats and thrips
Than any other color

—Ronald Edwin Lane