Dark as Grief

Midnight Tulip

—Photo by Katy Brown

MIDNIGHT TULIPS
—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.

_________________________

SHAKESPEARE'S MOTORCYCLE
—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 . . . .

Gold

—Photo by Katy Brown

MY LOST CHILDREN

—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

________________________

SOME SENSES

—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.

_______________________

END OF ACT III, SCENE 1

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

too.

His drinking

of a tall tepid glass

of Ontario water

delivered by the

deceptive

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:

JUST FIVE?

—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.   

_______________________

—Medusa

 Iris

—Photo by Katy Brown