Thursday, October 11, 2012

This Web of Dreams

Exhibit, California Museum: 
Creating Freedom: the Art & Poetry 
of Domestic Violence Survivors
—Photo by Michelle Kunert, Sacramento

—David Iribarne, Sacramento

That night you swam naked in the pool
Street lights shined your body
making its shadow ripple within the water.

You were so erotically beautiful
as you lifted your arms
above your head
stretching them to touch the sky.

I imagined heavenly creatures
were watching as was I.
Watching you in the cold water
stoking your smooth breasts
following your hands
as it went down to your navel
then to your sweet spot
and down your thigh
waves made in the water.

You closed your eyes
the moon showed its light upon you
as you put your hand out towards me
as if you’re handing me a sexy gift.
The water dripped from your body
making you glisten.

No more could I watch from afar
I moistened my skin
bare with the pool's body
swam closer to you.
I was so drawn to you.

I ran my hands over your smooth skin
starting from the top of your head
down to the contours of your face
lazily and slowly down to your breast
stopping there 'cause indeed
that was your best feature.

I took a deep breath
and closed my eyes
made fantasies about us.
I breathed out as my hands traveled down
to your hips and you laughed
as I tickled your love handles.

This is what you and I craved.
It was a quiet and silent night
but our minds were racing

My hands continued their journey
to a world we had so missed
and been absent from for a while.
Too long.

This was our sexy movie
This was what gave us goose bumps.
This is what had been missing from
our bedside table.

Sacramento Archives "Crawl", Oct. 2012
—Photo by Michelle Kunert

—Olga Blu Browne, Sacramento

Midnight whispers and primitive rituals, where
memory turns to legend, and the wind is still
against a silent heart, remembering shadows
of yesterday and the sounds of love.


—Olga Blu Browne

This the closing hour between distance
and death.

Where twisted words cause imaginary

There memory bridges the gap
between breaths.

Living in fear. Memorizing yesterday.


—Olga Blu Browne

Forgotten oceans, mortal tastes
memory by memory,

the antique man stares at an empty

where the winter moon rises beyond
barren branches,

listening for sounds he cannot hear,
silence is endless.


—Olga Blu Browne

Dusk prowls beneath this web of
dreams, where silence echoes from
within, listening for the shadows,
shadow, shadows woven of darkness


—Kevin Jones, Elk Grove

My grandfather liked
To go for rides
In the country.  He’d
Stow a pint of Kessler’s,
And a gunnysack
For whatever I’d
Collect, and we’d
Go off down the
Dusty backroads
Of central Illinois.

“See that round barn
Over there?” He
Asked. “Yep.”
“Tragic story. Simply
Tragic.” “What
“Man ran himself
To death in there once.”
“How come?”
“Was trying to find
A corner to take
A dump.”


Today's LittleNip:

—Ann Privateer, Davis

We gathered in solidarity to right a wrong
by police on an unforgettable Friday—
pepper spraying students in our community.
Seven thousand strong showed no apathy
stood up against a magnitude of injustice—
people on the quad to cry, to sing, to listen,
took a stand, shared their anguish
with the world over what went wrong.  


—Medusa, with thanks to today's contributors, and a reminder that the California Museum exhibit continues through Dec. 10. David Iribarne has two poems in it, and several other Snake Pals have poems and art there also. Details are on the green board at the right of this column.

Bob Stanley, still working away. Be sure to show
your appreciation for his hard work as Poet Laureate at
the Sacramento Poetry Center this coming Saturday, Oct. 13.