Monday, October 15, 2012

Sweet Past Picking

Jellyfish Clouds
—Photo by Katy Brown

—Katy Brown, Davis

Tendrils of virga trail from jellyfish clouds
in the sky above the Yolo bypass.
A cirrus sailfish, bright against the horizon,
plunges over the Vaca Hills
toward the distant Pacific.

My lingering glass of iced coffee
wrings condensation out of the last
hours of a humid day.
Water-drops carve streams
down the side—miniature rivers
falling to the sea. 

The improbable skyfish float
over a pond—double there
to skim the surface:
escaping the deep ocean
to explore the deeper sky.


owl is back
book-ending the day
my pre-dawn alarm
calling out
as he tucks his head
under a dusty velvet wing
my signal to
out the light
surrender my book
as he lifts his wings to hunt—
in dreams
we hunt together
over the sleeping landscape
glistening city
lonely delta
we soar
red in tooth and claw
till gold cracks the horizon
and night
calls it good.

—Kim Clyde, Sacramento


—Caschwa, Sacramento

there's nothing like a good old mud fight
to keep the blood circulating
racing to where it is needed the most
it is the rhythm and flow of poetry

unlike old mountains and stagnent ponds
and sailers lamenting the doldrums
lacking movement, frozen still in time
locked in a room with no doors

encountering complex jigsaw puzzles
patiently building the frame, then filling it in
ending up with a complete picture
lacking movement, frozen still in time

people who just kind of "get it" are
locked in a room with no doors
racing to where it is needed the most
ending up with a complete picture

here's nothing like a good old mud fight
and sailers lamenting the doldrums
patiently building the frame, then filling it in
to keep the blood circulating



To the forest he raced
because why, I forgot
perhaps something he saw
then again, maybe not

if you could in your heart
my story believe
the verb at the end will
explain and not cleave

but oh, the wait, endless wait
through modifiers and such
has one grasping for action
so elusive to clutch

like children being good
for a long ride in the car
the burden wholly on them
a vacation not to mar

when will we
on this long drive
to some place fun
ever arrive?

Laverne Frith
reading at Poetry With Legs,
Shine Cafe, Oct. 2012
—Photo by Michelle Kunert, Sacramento

—Taylor Graham, Placerville

A statue stands in lieu of tree.
No more leaf-wild breezes through green
shadowed forest—the forest's gone.
The statue's raised its fist to fall
on where we used to walk, and call
shadowed forest. The forest's gone,
no more leaf-wild breezes through green.
A statue stands in lieu of tree.


—Taylor Graham

Into uncharted territory this foggy October
Saturday, travelers rushing to get home
before dark, even the wind is in a hurry.

Spilled wine at the wooden tables. You pass
on by. Beyond pavement, stone steps
down to where they put the statue in place

of a tree. You find the boundary fence;
walk on through, till tires are a muffled rasp,
the far ridge is clouded purple

and pines are pirouetting like you never
saw a grown tree dance. Dried-up
pea-vine tangles its golden strands around

ancient burn-circles fading into earth.
One grapevine's surviving wild.
Taste its dusty-blue; sweet past picking.

Shadows disappear in flight. From
somewhere in wildwood steps the princess,
where she's tucked herself safe away

from strangers. What riches here? Native
trees rise rooted in soil. You've given
your name to the voice of wind and winter.


—Taylor Graham

Toward evening they gather
at the watering hole—Wood Duck, Elven
Princess, Lumberjack with crosscut
saw—for enchantments in a ripple-glass.
Masks, webbed wings of arms; a half-moon
veil, red-plaid flannel trunk—a cedar tree
blazed to show the way. Costumes
reveal the scars, each with ancient lore
once shared among the species under stars
and sun. Song undone, except when
the fabric between spirit and costumed
body wears so autumn-thin.


Today's LittleNip:

College professor
vested suit and paisley tie
peace unfulfilling

—Michael Cluff, Corona


—Medusa, with reminders that TODAY is the deadline for both WTF and the Jack Kerouac Poetry Contest! See the submissions part of the green board at the right for details. (And no, you need not be a Luna's reader or even attendee to be published in WTF...)

Dale Pendell reading at Shine
Oct., 2012
—Photo by Michelle Kunert