Monday, September 17, 2012

Loneliness is Better Shared

Jill Price

—Jill Price, Davis

There is an hour of the day,
Or is it night? I can’t be sure,
When twilight and dawn meet
And the Earth holds its breath.

I can’t say exactly what signals its arrival.
Perhaps it’s the darkness that envelops the sky so completely.
Maybe, it’s that particular silence that makes me feel entirely too loud.
The blinking of my eyelids, the soft inhale and exhale of air,
The constant drumming in my chest, far too discernible.

As I pull open the door and step onto soft earth,
I shed myself, and I am the night.
On cool air, I glide, and
My eyes find your thin silhouette,
Your summer brown face cloaked in shadows.

Together, we walk, somewhere in between
Truly alive and a waking dream.
When we stop, we sink,
Running the grass through our fingers
As if to make sure that it’s real.

I lie with you, wordless.
Our bodies hug the Earth’s contours like memories
As we revel in the anonymity of this night.

We enjoy our smallness,
Our inconsequence.
We matter, but only a little.
Your hand finds mine,
A lifeline of flesh and bone.
Both of us knowing, that
Loneliness is better shared.

—Jill Price

Humans can’t
look back
on time
their birth
so they look

They lament
“Early Death”
some die
they do
more shit
to make
them famous.

No one
“Late Birth”
they know
that when
they’re born
is really

But maybe
is accidental
as birth.

you close
your eyes
and die
as if
you fell
to sleep.

Humans can’t
look back
their birth
so they
the moment
they cease
to be.

To cease
to be
at least
to cease
to be
what last
they were.

But did
the place
scare you?
Was it
than any


—Jill Price

i like to sit with you
bare foot
on mom’s red rug
trapping threads
between my toes

we don't talk much
just sit
you sip coffee
i microwaved fresh
wishing my own tongue
could bare the taste

our fingers turn pages
in a one-sided race
your four eyes strain
to read fine print
as i struggle to keep pace
with wrinkled hands

we stay like that
you sipping, reading
me watching, racing
till dim light calls
the chiming of the clock

tonight i walk to bed
we’d stay warm all winter
with coffee
and words
on mom’s red rug

Jill Price

—Taylor Graham, Placerville

It starts with a pair of footprints
stirring dust, abrading the crust of earth
with vibram, as if man
were weather's tool, the hand of rain
and river—the hand of wind.
His lungs full of wind that's always been
his song. Its lift and sting
brings him to the edges for a view—
where landscape's ripped
and tattered so the seams show through
as buzzards sail the spiral thermals.
Gneiss, granite, basalt.
Man's foot-tread, stitch of leather.
Wind skywrites his syllables, an echo
rising, repeating, falling.   
Temples of limestone and light.
Rock spires point to each star in turn,
telling its name in more tongues
than a man could pronounce or decipher.
A star's story, history, legend, place
in the net of stars.
In time, another human comes
calling the name of lost-ones into wind,
following a dog who fills its lungs
with the wind's scent-song, becomes
the wind's scribe and messenger.


—Caschwa, Sacramento

There are duties that come with position
and ailments that stun the physician
tradition and protocol frame one's life
there is no simple exit

Maybe if we sneak across the channel
find a place hidden like one square in flannel
we can shed inhibitions, gather rays
and just be ourselves for a moment

We must have chosen burning Hell
where infernal paparazzi dwell
where all the world's a stage
and all the players have cameras

Into private space they barge
with telephoto lenses large
take an everyday scene in France
and paint it with sinful connotations

I hope they find Medusa next
and lose their cameras to hair that's hexed
publish burnt images of a lady they say
whose tale cannot be repeated


Our thanks to today's chefs! Jill Price is a second-year English student at University of California-Davis. Born into a family of writers and journalists, Jill has loved reading and writing for as long as she can remember. She most enjoys writing prose and music, but occasionally feels inspired enough to call herself a poet. When she is not writing, Jill can be found singing, acting, or playing soccer. Her dearest ambition is to actually finish writing a novel, or, if that fails, to learn to whistle. Welcome to the Kitchen, Jill!

Also this Monday morning, Caschwa (Carl Bernard Schwartz) has given us a riff on the current problems of the royals in England, plus Taylor Graham has taken off on D.R. Wagner's "Wind's Tale" from last Saturday's post. TG also sends us a monorhyme (see the LittleNip below). So we've made the monorhyme our Form to Fiddle With this week. Have at it. (Details on the green board at the right of this.)

Congratulations to Jeff Knorr, who was officially named the new Sac. Poet Laureate today. See the Sacramento Bee article at

And we have another wonderful photo album from Katy Brown on Medusa's Facebook page. Be sure to check that out!


Today's LittleNip:

—Taylor Graham

No words. The saxophone sings true.
Stars over smoke-tree. A dust sweeps through,
lamenting distances. One shoe
without its mate; a note without a clue.
This bag of shadows. Summer's yew
reciting names of winds that blew
each page away—promises due,
their dates in disappearing ink. A few
clipped ends of yesterdays. Rue
is for remembrance lost. The dew
each morning perishably new
as skeins of wild geese rose, and flew.
Horizons always heartbreak-blue…
They're gone. The saxophone sang true.



See Medusa's Facebook page for another album
of Katy Brown's Port Sanilac Powwow photos!