Friday, October 05, 2012

Gardens of Shadows

Dry Dock
—Photo by Taylor Graham, Placerville

—Carol Louise Moon, Sacramento

My feet are flat fish,
halibuts, I'd say
when time comes for the telling.
The smell's not what it's worth,
the dog knows that—
his nose and all.
The dog knows that
the smell's not what it's worth
when time comes for the telling.
Halibuts, I'd say.
My feet are flat fish.


—Carol Louise Moon

Mister Lover Man: Times have
misshapened memories. I've
misplaced your photo, often
mispronounced your middle name,
misspelled your wrong address and
mismanaged my emotions...
Misty-eyed... I'm missing you.


—Carol Louise Moon

Sphery moon on northern bog.
Sphagnum working overtime.
Sphynx Moth moves within a grand
sphere of season's influence.
Spherule eyes gazing, keeps his
sphygmic pulse on time, poised with
sphenic wings arched overhead.


—Carol Louise Moon

Thursday Theme: the three graces,
three-fold talent through and through.
Thick thermometry and a
thoroughfare of theatrics
thoughtfully thickens. The Thief,
the Thinker and Thyself, a
thimble of theology.

(first pub. in BREVITIES)

—Photo by Taylor Graham

—Olga Blu Browne, Sacramento

I, born of shadows and silhouettes and
secrets in the wind.

Anonymous is my name, I'm fire, my
heart is ice.

I'm called beauty, but you, you will
call me desire.


—Olga Blu Browne
Secrets in solitary places
like memories wrapped in
white paper

Freeing what waits within
and all that's never been spoken

Where hope is like petals in the
wind in a garden of shadows.


—Olga Blu Browne
With words that bleed poetry
whispered in a poet's tongue,

She writes of gestures of grace
and echoes of pain.

Caught between memory and
experience, kept alive by words.

Words that bleed poetry, whispered
in a poets tongue.


—Olga Blu Browne

Speak softly in my presence, where
silence is sacred, and memories echo.

There I pen my poetry on ivory

Weeping words of nothingness lost,
Like the phantom of your essence.


—Olga Blu Browne

Welcome the silence, and the
stillness of quiet.

To write in solitude is the entity
of pure poetry.

A comfortable silence where
memories are endless.


—Olga Blu Browne

An unwritten poem is a shadow
on the edge of a poet's mind

Where rocks weep with memory
and echoes have shape.

Without pen, poetry sound is


—Olga Blu Browne

Memory by memory harmonizing
soul and self,

understanding the tone of

Whispers remain an entity of
sound, silence sings its song.

Glass hearts wait to be listened
to, as time loses its design.


Thanks to today's poets, and to Taylor Graham and Michelle Kunert for today's photos. Carol Louise Moon is a fan of Pleides poems (and fish) and is the editor of DADs DESK, Sacramento's only large-print poetry journal. It's available at The Book Collector. Olga Blu Browne writes that she's a resident of Sac, where I have attended poetry workshops with Joyce Odam and Norma Kohout at the Hart Senior Center for 3 years now. Many of my works have appeared in [Joyce Odam's journal] BREVITIES or DADs DESK. I also attend Poetry Unplugged at Luna's Cafe every Thursday.

About her photos, Taylor Graham says: I'm probably the only one fascinated by how dock (the rust-red "weed" in our fields) looks like an artist did a dry-brush effect over dead grass. 

And be sure to check out Medusa's most recent Facebook album by Michelle Kunert: Last Monday at SPC.


Today's LittleNip:

—Taylor Graham

The sky's unbreakable, a blue gem.
According to the records, drought or flood.
But will it ever rain again?
We leave our prints in either dust or mud.



Black Irish Band at Union Pacific Railroad's
150-year Celebration in Old Sacramento
September, 2012
—Photo by Michelle Kunert