—Photo by Charles Mariano
WHERE OLD TRACTORS GO TO DIE
(Bright’s in LeGrand)
—charles mariano, sacramento
driving down Plainsburg road
just off the 99,
on an overcast, early eve
miles and miles
of orchards, fields
from a distance,
could make out shapes
long lines of something,
ghostly silhouettes,
in the middle of nowhere
i stopped, for a better view
and stared
at rows and rows
of old tractors, lined up
solemnly,
tires flat, treads broken, rusted
a once mighty army
chugging, clanking loudly,
silenced,
brought to a standstill
no more ground to cultivate,
a final resting place
just before the sun sank
into an ominous
dusky haze,
i thought about all the old farmers
gone now,
on these great machines
who bled, sacrificed, worked the land
under that brutal, central valley sun,
side by side,
with my father
___________________
THE BEGINNINGS JUSTIFY THE MEANS
—Caschwa, Sacramento
It was a street about 3.5 miles long
With 2 starting points
Always heavily trafficked
There was no end
Like a sentence with an
Initial capital
And no period
There was no end
Words and vehicles
Collide at all angles
Fenders distorted
Grammar tortured
someone is goinG
the wrong waY
look ouT!!
there was no enD
(Bright’s in LeGrand)
—charles mariano, sacramento
driving down Plainsburg road
just off the 99,
on an overcast, early eve
miles and miles
of orchards, fields
from a distance,
could make out shapes
long lines of something,
ghostly silhouettes,
in the middle of nowhere
i stopped, for a better view
and stared
at rows and rows
of old tractors, lined up
solemnly,
tires flat, treads broken, rusted
a once mighty army
chugging, clanking loudly,
silenced,
brought to a standstill
no more ground to cultivate,
a final resting place
just before the sun sank
into an ominous
dusky haze,
i thought about all the old farmers
gone now,
on these great machines
who bled, sacrificed, worked the land
under that brutal, central valley sun,
side by side,
with my father
___________________
THE BEGINNINGS JUSTIFY THE MEANS
—Caschwa, Sacramento
It was a street about 3.5 miles long
With 2 starting points
Always heavily trafficked
There was no end
Like a sentence with an
Initial capital
And no period
There was no end
Words and vehicles
Collide at all angles
Fenders distorted
Grammar tortured
someone is goinG
the wrong waY
look ouT!!
there was no enD
Flower with Green Bee
—Photo by Michelle Kunert, Sacramento
BURSTING
—Carol Louise Moon, Sacramento
Bee Balm: nature's fireworks.
Blossoms of crimson surprise
bursting on midsummer days.
Brilliant-red seen buzzing with
bumble bees. Search along stream
banks to find these flowers; leaves
brewed become Oswego Tea.
—Carol Louise Moon, Sacramento
Bee Balm: nature's fireworks.
Blossoms of crimson surprise
bursting on midsummer days.
Brilliant-red seen buzzing with
bumble bees. Search along stream
banks to find these flowers; leaves
brewed become Oswego Tea.
___________________
OUR SUMMER LAKE
—Carol Louise Moon, Sacramento
Summer's lake is clear, and once again we
open up the cabin near the hedge.
Two snails slide along a flowered ledge
untouched by any sense of urgency.
In morning light we're moving silently
to drag our family's boat to water's edge
past nestled geese along a sandy wedge.
Our cat has found a curiosity;
he chases waggling goslings he has found
while romping in the heat of early June.
A hawk seeks taller trees amid the sounds
of oars and geese. Our summer lake so soon
engulfed in muted sunlight all around—
a wondrous view beneath a fading moon.
____________________
WATCHA PIKA
—Carol Louise Moon
Pick a day, a summer day
to watch a pika making hay.
He dries the grass on rocks nearby;
he'll sniff the air, he'll watch the sky.
He pulls his hay-store underground,
and when he does then I have found
it's going to rain! It's going to pour.
Meantime, watch him dry his store.
Watch him closely. You'll see
he knows his meteorology.
Pick a day, a sunny day
and watch a pika making hay.
____________________
POOLSIDE PARTY'S OVER
—Carol Louise Moon
The party's over, and now for the cleanup.
I survey my backyard of what-its-nots.
There beneath the grief-stricken willow
I see the stub-my-toe stone, the laughing
gnome, and the dead-as-a-garden-snake
hose I forgot to coil in a threatening
manner;
the cremains of the chicken barbeque and
Great Aunt Edie's brilliant birthday pastry
with a million and eighty-one tiny burnt-out
torches; an over-flowing twice-recycled
brown bag full of frosty paper plates filed
helter-skelter A to Z; six flammable
Japanese lanterns
exploding into shades of red and greenish-
yellow with a hint of hot blue flame;
wadded tissues whispering the phrases
lations, Hap, Birthd and con in silver.
Much ado about nothing, I say, as I fall
headlong into a fully-clothed pool—
stark naked.
—Carol Louise Moon, Sacramento
Summer's lake is clear, and once again we
open up the cabin near the hedge.
Two snails slide along a flowered ledge
untouched by any sense of urgency.
In morning light we're moving silently
to drag our family's boat to water's edge
past nestled geese along a sandy wedge.
Our cat has found a curiosity;
he chases waggling goslings he has found
while romping in the heat of early June.
A hawk seeks taller trees amid the sounds
of oars and geese. Our summer lake so soon
engulfed in muted sunlight all around—
a wondrous view beneath a fading moon.
____________________
WATCHA PIKA
—Carol Louise Moon
Pick a day, a summer day
to watch a pika making hay.
He dries the grass on rocks nearby;
he'll sniff the air, he'll watch the sky.
He pulls his hay-store underground,
and when he does then I have found
it's going to rain! It's going to pour.
Meantime, watch him dry his store.
Watch him closely. You'll see
he knows his meteorology.
Pick a day, a sunny day
and watch a pika making hay.
____________________
POOLSIDE PARTY'S OVER
—Carol Louise Moon
The party's over, and now for the cleanup.
I survey my backyard of what-its-nots.
There beneath the grief-stricken willow
I see the stub-my-toe stone, the laughing
gnome, and the dead-as-a-garden-snake
hose I forgot to coil in a threatening
manner;
the cremains of the chicken barbeque and
Great Aunt Edie's brilliant birthday pastry
with a million and eighty-one tiny burnt-out
torches; an over-flowing twice-recycled
brown bag full of frosty paper plates filed
helter-skelter A to Z; six flammable
Japanese lanterns
exploding into shades of red and greenish-
yellow with a hint of hot blue flame;
wadded tissues whispering the phrases
lations, Hap, Birthd and con in silver.
Much ado about nothing, I say, as I fall
headlong into a fully-clothed pool—
stark naked.
_____________________
Today's LittleNip:
another rejection
they can’t all
have their heads
up their asses
they can’t all
have their heads
up their asses
—charles mariano
Charles has a wonderful story about bootlegging on the San Joaquin County Historical Society and Museum blog; see sanjoaquinhistory.org/blog
_____________________
—Medusa
Phillip Larrea, Gene Avery, Keith Ball, Stan Zumbiel,
Annie Menebroker, Mikey West (w/Eva behind him)
at the recent Poetry With Legs reading at
the Shine Cafe in Sacramento
Photo by Michelle Kunert
[For more photos from the reading, see
Medusa's Facebook page]
