Thursday, November 03, 2011

What Is Is The Same

Bear With Shades
—Photo by D.R. Wagner

—D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove

Well, it’s not like I could
Understand anything that was
Being said without some kind
Of confusion fluttering up
From below my feet creating
Clouds of thoughts from crowds
Of children making off with what
Little anything on this round world
Had to offer. Even tears could be bought
And sold just like clothing.

I was going to stop here for a moment
To see what everything looked like
From this point of view. I figured
That would help as much as taking
A match to the whole place
Would ever do.

“Sir, would you like a rose, sir?
It’s worth more than anything you might
Say about revenge right now
And smells so much better as well."


                  —Kenneth Patchen, Sleepers Awake
—D.R. Wagner

What was left that could be broken?
Hearts were a lousy bet to begin with.
Promises weren’t too far behind.
Parts of the body and collections
Of toys were right up there with treaties.

It became like trying to breathe underwater.
Forgetting was not an option. It would
Be as if daylight had found a room
On a poor side of town and refused
To come out, getting drunker and drunker
As the hours passed it by in the streets,
Taking as much as they could from
Whomever passed by, regardless
That the sea was parading itself
Up and down the shoreline offering
A real alternative to loneliness.

Finally, we gave up on colors,
Ideas, open land, the sweetness of fruit,
All that time could hold, in order to protect
Ourselves. We stood around the windows,
Gazing up at the buildings, attempting conversations,
Recalling those who could dream so beautifully
For all of us. “Gray, the place became
Gray. Nothing would lay claim to this
Place any longer.” We began to walk away
Hoping that this truly was not anything
We could imagine the world to be.



The smell of that
pink soap dispensed
in nearly first rate bathrooms
slightly covers the stench
left by him
on Kydia's rasped skin.


detergent could never
deter the odor
he had left so violently
inside and upon
her quintessence.


Kyle found the mess
a bit too hard
to dispose of properly
nothing in his training
had quite prepared him
for this at home.

—Michael Cluff, Highland, CA


—Patricia Hickerson, Davis

she walks a mile
to a green place
finds a bench to sit on
she walks a mile
from her house
so she can be quiet
to be quiet in the park
where there are trees
that stand quietly
she has no home now
where it is quiet
where there is no threatening wind
she walks a mile
to trees
where it’s quiet
now I am quiet, she thinks


she follows him everywhere

around the corner
down the block
behind the garage
through the alley
up the hill
under the trees
across the street
over the bridge
under the overpass
when will he stop walking?
the sick man with the bad heart
he will keep walking forever
as long as his heart ticks the time
and she will follow him
hoping to keep him safe
under the trees—
safe from the simmering sun

—Patricia Hickerson


—Patricia Hickerson

four eyes lucent
look for the branch
guide the way,
through the swamp
to where you want to be
four eyes hidden deep
to look for the branch
to guide the way
to the mangrove swamp
translucent in the body
call it jelly
call it fish
call it four-eyes
the eyeglasses in the swamp
looking for the branch
to guide the way
mangrove and swamp
swamp the jelly
swamp the eyes
deep in the body


Thanks to today's contributors! Mike Cluff sent us the rest of his poem which was yesterday's LittleNip, though the mystery of What Happened is still, well, a mystery—and maybe it should remain so.....

Check out our Kool Thing of the Week (over on the green board at the right) for a complete schedule of the poetry-in-the-schools Confluence 2011, sponsored by Sac. Poetry Center.

And we have a new album on Medusa's Facebook page: Poe, Poe, Poetry Night, the Friends-CARE benefit which was held on Halloween at Sac. Poetry Center. Thanks to Annie Menebroker, Michelle Kunert, Katy Brown and Sandy Thomas for all the 'way kool photos!


Today's LittleNip: 

Why do we worry about the quality
of life? Quality is not the point.
I love you. What is is the same.

—William Bronk



—Photo by D.R. Wagner