Friday, May 04, 2012

Dark as Grief

Midnight Tulip
—Photo by Katy Brown

—Katy Brown, Davis

They push up through frigid mud,
through icy cloudbursts
and scrim of hail—
midnight spearheads; emerald stems.

Purple-black, the last dark
of infinite winter,
living shadows:
Midnight Tulips—

darker bruise against
a screen of bee-encrusted lavender,
symbols of pastel spring,
tokens from a younger world.

Spring arrives through
winter’s stark remains,
midnight tulips, dark as grief,
nodding in the April breeze.


—Katy Brown

He came roaring out of the rising sun,
(invisible to anyone who might have been looking)
riding low on his Harley, long hair streaming. . . .
flying down the streets of Stratford.

Invisible, unmarked ― no one saw him coming
among all the would-have-beens of his time,
long hair flying behind his Harley jacket,
Will raced like a maniac into the world.

Among all the could-have-beens ― the hacks―
unread, unperformed, unremembered,
Will blazed like a comet, luminous in the void,
his competition languished in dark wings.

Anonymous, unknown, undiscoverable,
the lesser talent from so long ago, lost,
languishing in the haze of centuries,
eclipsed in Shakespeare’s glory.

Writers, overdressed in lacy collars,
feeding common expectations,
paled compared to Shakespeare’s genius.
Will redefined the art of writing.

The Globe succumbed to his enchantment;
he changed the face of entertainment,
roaring out of the Empire’s rising sun,
riding low on his Harley—   Long hair streaming . . . .

—Photo by Katy Brown

—Patricia Hickerson, Davis

I saw both of you
your shadows paced the wall
you were trying to join us in the living room
because you wished to be among the living
not so much to live
but to let us know you loved us
as we sat talking, weeping, laughing
remembering you
both of you
as you once were


—Michael Cluff, Corona

If I wait
til a happier hour
the day with
viola de gamba
slightly worn out of cat gut
but pleasing underneath;
the walnuts
would never leave the fudge
pastel in a near naked sense
my tongue would mine
the agrarian retrofit
only until the aftertaste
kicked in at high octane levels.

And to dress in a drag leather garment
would not destroy but restore the illusions
the self implants into its backplot
after the Dubonnet
cut down by more than halves
ran envied away with a three-pronged fork
bent by brigades of granules.


9:50 p.m.
Saturday, March 3
—Michael Cluff

The coughing
caught the crew
as real
the sliver of life
each bit of drama
wishes to have
its ranks achieve.

It added to Abe's heart attack
made it more dangerous
to the actors
and the audience

His drinking
of a tall tepid glass
of Ontario water
delivered by the
yet delightful daughter Sarah
as the scene went to blackout
brought it all about.

Only after an hour
did the lingering taste
of ash and sulphur
on his horseradished tongue
establish a home
in his relaxing brain.

The glass was used
an act and a half earlier
to snuff out the match
used to light the right candle.

Illusion can create truth
in so many ways
since ash
and firewater
can help the actor be real
or put pleasure
in the forefront
of a bitty bit of time
on a North Dakotan reservation.


 Today's LittleNip:

—Kevin Jones, Elk Grove

Use all five senses
In a poem?
Those five?
Just those five?
What about
All the other ones?

No, you’d be too
Sad if I told you.   



—Photo by Katy Brown