Perfect Songs

—Photo by Ronald Edwin Lane

UNTENDED

—Ronald Edwin Lane, Colfax

You probably don’t know this,
but there’s a bed of roses, miniature
ones, in bloom, and they’re
suffocating—suffering

the grip of purple vetch, while
bunched by bromes, and topped
by thistles bearing green pumpkin
head buds pushing purple Mohawks.

The sky is gray.  Rain mists.
Weeds compose once clean
decomposed granite paths.
It’s painful to get around.
Foxtails cling to socks, poke ankles,
foot.  Filaree corkscrews through
shoes.  Prickles abound. 

And you can’t hear them scream,
these roses you don’t know, though
it seems they should, after all

they’re dying inside, despite
the show that others try to hide,
deny.  And they may survive, but
with a gardener’s hand
the roses would surely thrive.

______________________

SPRING OPENING

—Patricia Hickerson, Davis
 

Spring hides nothing

everything opens

the trees the leaves the buds

voices are softer—listen!

rain pauses to let in May

where we walk

along the rosemary hedge

breeze drifts up we sneeze

cloud covers sky blue earth whirl

spinning Spring on the ant trails

where we walk

dirt roads and muddy bypaths

rabbit jerks its head to our footsteps

we’re not a quiet species hammering atop nature

where we walk

weeds poke through our concrete efforts

might as well give in to Spring

surrender         

______________________

ODDQUAINS

—Michael Cluff, Corona

Ought

needs to be

must in most cases

when humaneness calls me forth

now

Dawn 

becomes clear

as the rainbow shows

what man refuses to laud

hope

Vans

move highchairs

across Merced town

Mirelle follows right behind

firm

All

suits encumber

one into doldrums

safety in conformity

dead

__________________________

Gopherweed with Bee

—Photo by Taylor Graham

THE ZEN OF PUPPY TRAINING

—Taylor Graham, Placerville

She's worn us both out with mis-

match sits and stays; she breaks—why

can't she learn simple English

commands? and now she's high

as April grass on the ground, humming

to herself, a silent music

simply breathing free.

I drop the leash and wander off

to watch the gopherweed

in bloom, the bees have found it,

tiny golden bees wild as

April puppies, moving in and out of all

the harbors of gopher-flower green,

and as I wander in and

out of thought-flower, flies and bees

and one silken moth,

my puppy follows me, her breath

a perfect song.
 

______________________

Carl says: When I lived in the L.A. area, I had to drive 60 miles out of town to see the stars and planets… 

TIS SPRING AGAIN

—Caschwa, Sacramento

Fever, virus, falling Venus

Crescent moon growing soon

Weather and wardrobes each

Try to outsmart the other

Hot tubs warming

Mosquitoes swarming

Time to mate, commit to fate

River rising over the gate

Short handed, left stranded

Abandoned fertile farmland

Ears of corn filmed as porn

Gobble the curious like quicksand

Blue tarps cover sheds and cars

Royal blood flows from their scars

Weathermen shout what has transpired

They’re wrong a lot but don’t get fired

Most accidents happen close to womb

We’re having a sonic baby boom

Pull over, kid, you skate too fast

It feels good now but it won’t last

Parasailing in the parking lot

No one is chasing, no one gets caught

Takes us back to a starlit sky

Spring fever heat, an open fly.

______________________

A true story...

LET ME PUT YOU ON HOLD

—Caschwa

The lady with the shiny oversized

Crucifix necklace had just finished

Buying some merchandise and was

Walking toward the exit of the store

Holding a few shopping bags in her hands

And talking busily on a cell phone

Held tightly to one ear, she reached

for her car keys…..gone!

She hurriedly checked in every bag

And in the shopping basket she used

And then in other shopping baskets

And asked the cashier if she saw them

When there were no keys found and

No answer right away, she put

The cell phone on hold and starting

Using words that don’t appear in scripture

Soon she found her car keys in the store,

Regained her composure and promptly left,

Leaving us a distinct memory of her shiny crucifix,

Along with those words we can’t repeat.

______________________

Thanks to today's cooks and artists for our Monday morning breakfast! 

Those Crossroads Reading Series gals (Trina Drotar and Sandy Thomas) have their ducks in a row, for sure! Trina writes: The audio of the latest Crossroads reading featuring Lisa Dominguez Abraham and Susan Kelly-DeWitt is now available at www.ccasac.org.  Look on the right hand side and scroll down a bit.

The audio from the first reading featuring Julia Connor and Victoria Dalkey is still available in the archived area.  Look for past events and scroll down.

Don't forget to mark your calendars for the next Crossroads reading series on July 21 featuring Shawn Pittard and Danyen Powell.

To get a head start on the rest of the season, the dates and featured readers are:

October 20 - Laura Hohlwein and Alexa Mergen

November 17 - Kathryn Hohlwein and Dennis Schmitz

December 15 - JoAnn Anglin and Graciela Ramirez

If you want to keep updated on the Crossroads readings, please consider checking out the Crossroads Facebook page at http://www.facebook.com/pages/Crossroads-Reading-Series-at-CCAS/307059609360186 or go to Facebook and search for Crossroads Reading Series at CCAS.  That is where you'll find event photos, event news, and links to the audio.

_____________________

Today's LittleNip: 

Caschwa (Carl Bernard Schwartz) took his inspiration for this from yesterday's Benét poem:

I see your Stephen Vincent Benét

And raise you one Edna St. Vincent Millay

Each is betting the farm on the belief

That Spring is not just another day.

—Caschwa

Thanks, Carl! More about Steve Benét's poem tomorrow...

____________________

—Medusa

The journey is
really the writing process.
I am the conclusion
 

—Photo and Caption by Ronald Edwin Lane

                            

Beauty Rose

—Photo by Katy Brown, Davis

RAIN AFTER A VAUDEVILLE SHOW
—Stephen Vincent Benét

The last post flickered, failed. The screen's dead white

Glared in a sudden flooding of harsh light

Stabbing the eyes; and as I stumbled out

The curtain rose. A fat girl with a pout

And legs like hams, began to sing "His Mother."

Gusts of bad air rose in a choking smother;

Smoke, the wet steam of clothes, the stench of plush,

Powder, cheap perfume, mingled in a rush.

I stepped into the lobby—and stood still

Struck dumb by sudden beauty, body and will.

Cleanness and rapture—excellence made plain—

The storming, thrashing arrows of the rain!

Pouring and dripping on the roofs and rods,

Smelling of woods and hills and fresh-turned sods

Black on the sidewalks, grey in the far sky,

Crashing on thirsty panes, on gutters dry,

Hurrying the crowd to shelter, making fair

The streets, the houses, and the heat-soaked air,—

Merciful, holy, charging, sweeping, flashing,

It smote the soul with a most iron clashing! . . .

Like dragon's eyes the street-lamps suddenly gleamed,

Yellow and round and dim, low globes of flame.

And scarce-perceived, the clouds' tall banners streamed.

Out of the petty wars, the daily shame,

Beauty strove suddenly and rose, and flowered . . .

I gripped my coat and plunged where awnings lowered.

Made one with hissing blackness, caught, embraced,

By splendor and by striving and swift haste—
Spring coming in with thunderings and strife—

I stamped the ground in the strong joy of life.

___________________________

—Medusa

Sometime Queens, Dancing Fish

Electric Flowers

—Photo Enhancement by D.R. Wagner

THE SOMETIME SLEEPING QUEEN

—D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove

The Sometime Sleeping Queen

Had awakened and had beside

Her a beautiful child who

Brought joy to all who saw,

For there was magic in the bed

Where the Sometimes Sleep Queen has slept as

All her city had slept and

All the realm had slept.

When it was already evening

I became the snow peaceably

Drawn by the countenance of the soul

That I should come, disguised

With my lover and would tell

This Sometime Sleeping Queen

How such a thing could be

And that this selfsame lover

Was none other than myself and we

Dwell with you now with

Children three.  The first was

Spring whose joy could only bring

Her sister Summer to the days.

And long, long they were and

Everyone we played with

And in the cool of the evening

Brought us another brother, Autumn

From the Sometime Sleeping

Queen’s most bountiful of wombs.

While I, the Winter with my

Lover continued to swirl

Until my lover was all

Within each child as blood

Within a living body and took

From that Sometime Sleeping Queen

Only this tale that wraps itself

Around your heart and finds

You too sleeping till the dawn

Must find you, full, in the arms

Of any season.

___________________________

“EVERYDAY HAS THE SHAPE OF THE NITE

WHAT IT COMES OUT OF.”  ....Ridley Walker

—D.R. Wagner

You must forgive me

If I forget the night.

I’ve managed to keep it

Outside with the Spring

Of the frogs that have

Settled into it.  April

Sounding like a fantasy,

Birds in the air,

Pictures in the wind.

I struggle to make myself

Understand it, but it is too late

And the day has leaked

Itself all over me

Staining my clothes with

Memories that are not mine.

A drift of ghost

Schools of small fish

Cascades into my

Frontal lobes like

Waterfalls of songs.

Please help me here.

There is no place left

To go and I can see

The dogs circling the fires.

How long have we lived here?

Wishing and chasing the light

Into our own hearts,

We grow old by the

Fires next to the fences

Erected to keep us

Away from all that

Has failed the land.

I spend my life thinking

Words that could head

Away of these and wade

In the chill of morning,

My hands burnt and

Bleeding.  Prayer shaft

Of light that bores into

Our souls.  Help us.

Help us.  Help us.

They become the chant

Of the frogs in Spring,

The whining of dogs

Left alone, the

Stumbling through

Night after night

Obliged to continue

Living beneath the

Detached dome of

Time.  Our very breath

So precious we

Can barely say

These words.

__________________________

ZEN

—D.R. Wagner

The hands opens.

The hand closes.

The breath has harbors

Where it could stay

For years watching itself

Move easily over wave.

Being the waves.

This is not more.

This is not less.

This is not distraction.

This is ten thousand years.

This is a single cup of tea.

This is the weight of the world.

This is still the breath.

The weight of breathing

Does not change.  It

Remains the music we

Have dreamed so full of

Each breath.  There.

Now opening the ears.

Now letting all sounds

Pass the doors.  Now

Letting all discussion

Float upon April.

Only frog sounds all night.

When I weigh them

In the morning the

Scale refuses to move

At all.

April. Breathing.  What

Is weight after all?

_________________________

RAMON AND THE DANCING FISH

—D.R. Wagner

Ramon began lighting the candles

Hours before the sun set.

He lined them up along the

Beach, just out of reach

Of waves.  There was no wind.

The moon rose.  It reached out

Touching each of the lamps

With a moonbeam.  Ramon

Returned to the shore and

The moon seeing him took

Him by the hand and carried

Him to her home.

This I have heard from

The starfish who live in the sky.

They have seen lights along

The shore and watch the silver fishes

Come to the edge of sea and

Dance upon their tails

As I have danced here

With my own tale, though

I know it is true.

For Ramon who loved

The lights in the night

Has come to see me too,

Holding the hand of the moon.

They both swear this is true.

And who am I to say it

Was a lie when it was told

To me by Ramon and the moon?

For neither of them can but

Speak the truth

Or there will be no lights

Along the shore and the

Dancing fish will come

No more and this story

Will grow so dark

There will be not

A single word more.

_________________________ 

Today's LittleNip: 

LETTERS

—n.ciano, Davis

A word

is not a few

l

e

t

t

e

r

s,

but an entity,

and a meaning to the whole. 

Every word holds a position

for a chance to take a stance

in a battle cutting deeper than

any sword could ever withhold.

Your words could not be seen

but it were for those

l

e

t

t

e

r

s,

that turned into a meaning

cleanly cutting into a feeling.

Words.   

________________________

—Medusa

 S.F. Fishing Fleet

—Photo by D.R. Wagner

Polyethylenes and Hellbenders

Medusa's Worst Day EVER...

 

BEYOND PURE
—Tom Goff, Carmichael

Every so often, a woman student, taking short

breaks, ambles around the Center, drinking

deeply, unselfconsciously from a square plastic

half gallon bottle of water. Elegant, feminine

upward tilt of face meets mouth of bottle:

doesn’t she emulate the turbaned “Arab”

on old Hills Brothers Coffee cans?

Mr. Arab lifts up his face unto heaven,

heaven in a shallow tilted coffee dish,

the bend of his arms as easy and supple

as a violinist’s perfect stroke of bow. And

the brown liquid he quaffs is the sun!

Oh, I wonder what nourishment you absorb

from the light cube, what clarity you ingest,

dear young student. From what cosmic fount?

Will it quell spring fever? Replenish gaze-

juices the monitor tractor-beams into its glow?

O drink your fill of the water beyond pure,

clearer than heaven’s eye, burnpoint hotter

than the insanest, unsafest fireworks, purity

brighter than the flesh made of the Word.

Drink till it hurts, young one, drink

down the pure beyond (how

many of us hoist, and then sip from,

the expanding cube of the universe?)…

__________________

SUNBURST

—Tom Goff

The day runs long; sinking sun

clings to afternoon, claws sunk

in the tinge of thin copper coating

my lenses. Light lozenges paint

transparent anti-radioactive facepieces

on eyes and noses behind wheels:

where are my isotopes?

Or have my driver’s eyes turned ocelot’s

gaze in the rear-view mirror?

Sunglasses, safety glass, drivers’ visors!

How we old ones do shield ourselves

at every turn. Oh for the sheer

nit wit to stare and keep

on staring at the Great Round

Thing, sun-blinded, sun-seeing at

last.

_________________________

SPRING FEVER SYMPTOMS

—Michael Cluff, Corona

The nose runs

faster than the speed

of sound

and snot

and the eyes produce

more water per hour

than Niagara after

an intense ice melt

in northern Canada

due to global warming.

Yet the smell

of orange blossoms

goldenrod

and purple peonies

creates pleasure

irritation

that appeals, repels

the sadist/masochist

dichotomy

within me.

A plastic head-bubble

would work sometimes

but not when

my claustrophobia

and allegry to polyethylenes

kick in.

__________________________

 

SPRING SOUP
—Kathy Kieth, Diamond Springs

Lilies-of-the-valley brush the cheeks of stone

Buddhas as white coral bells ring in a new season;

sharp-eyed daffodils bend to watch

a dedicated honeybee mine the muscari;

pastel fairy rings of wildflowers hem

vernal pools in rickrack;

a Mallard pair makes careful circles, then

skids in for a slick landing on the glassy pond;

calla lily goblets offer up cups of their own nectar

to make wine out of last night's rain;

ferny carrots ripe for pulling rub

shoulders in chocolate soil;

an orange tabby tiptoes along the grape arbor, covets

the tiny, quick hummingbird feeding below;

arching rosemary reaches up to cerulean skies

with long arms dressed in sleeves of mauve;

turkey toms fan showy tails in thanksgiving

for willing hens;

but darkness still brings frosty breath

and pinpricks on bare skin,

and bluebellies still sleep in burrows

we'll never find.

_______________________

FOLLOW THE HELLBENDER

as he paddles the shallows over

shiny wet stones of pumice and

dendrite: slim, sleek agate he is,

swimming over the rocky creekbed:

legs tucked tight against his long

comma of a body: oars that reach out

for a push: tuck back in again as

his muscle of a tail-rudder takes

over: snakes him along: curves him

around the pre-history of a mossy

boulder and that tricky bend

in the bed. . .  Through crystal

water, dark shadows dapple him—

tease the hovering sunbeams,

threaten them with nightfall: light

and dark: dark and light: shape-

shifting sunplay as the aging

afternoon follows the hellbender

along this pebbly backdrop of

a winding crystal stream. . .

—Kathy Kieth

 ___________________________

 Thanks to today's cooks in the Kitchen! Tom Goff says his second poem is in honor of poem in your pocket day. BTW, I think John Adams advised young John Quincy Adams (himself a poet), in more or less these words, "You will never be alone, with a poet in your pocket."

And Michelle Kunert, who has a new photo album on Medusa's Facebook page, was inspired by the story of a mini-van-sized meteor exploding over California, and she challenges readers to write a poem about it, especially if they saw or heard it. See lightyears.blogs.cnn.com/2012/04/25/nasa-meteor-over-california-and-nevada-was-size-of-minivan  or   news.discovery.com/space/meteor-the-size-of-a-minivan-exploded-over-california-120423.html

Speaking of  inspiration in the news, don't forget to keep an eye on Medusa's News-SOWS over there at the right on our green board. Like the news, those links change a lot, and sometimes they're poems just begging to be written!

_________________________

Today's LongerNip:

AKERUE

—Caschwa, Sacramento

Bowlers reach a block where

They can’t score any higher

Sit still and watch the experts

Act humble and inspired

Worse than an enigma

More detested than dilemma

It was a problem for which

No solution was desired

Let it be, surrender

Resistance is futile

There’s nothing to salvage

Forget it, you’re fired

If something is worthless

No value can be proven

Just roll with the punches

No effort is required

This is not where a good

12-step program can help

Diffusing a time bomb

That was cleverly wired

Some day you’ll just be gone

Off lists, out of memory

Your energy all dissolved

A motor now retired.

_________________________ 

—Medusa

 Michelle Kunert reads at Sac. Poetry Center—

Be sure to check out Michelle's new photo album,

Storytellers' Fest at Carol's Books,

on Medusa's Facebook page!