Thursday, November 07, 2013


New Orleans
—Photo by Cynthia Linville, Sacramento

 —B.Z. Niditch, Brookline, MA

My hands long for change
desiring watering places
leaving the coastline
for the open fields,
there is talk of war
on the newspaper pages,
reflecting on perspectives
of what changes
like leaves on our trees of life
by winding scrub paths
a lip pressed with wild roses
from a humid deserted sleep
the unexpected poet visits
by an oasis's sun silhouettes
within a glance at silence
turning to a wellspring
from new syllables
in the Mojave air
meditating by the rustle
numbering light clouds
you bloomed unsuspected
in the Autumnal dawns
his new beard mustache
bristles in his curly face
embraces in the dust.


—B.Z. Niditch

Postcards from the motel
in Frisco
turning over a new life
the photo of the shy poet
strikes poses this Fall
under quilts and blankets
of a personal history
playing sax on the roof,
my wet mother's tongue
falls onto a sleepy gap of mouth
drops by the reed
with cozy sweat
on my motorcycle jacket
looking down at the traffic,
I'm pinned by imagination
over the city's enchantment
draped with an early stillness
by a camera's surveillance
of an orphaned time
trying to pay attention
of the man pumping iron
in denim, next to his girlfriend
getting a late morning kiss
my eyes reach landscapes
out by the Bay
getting closer to
young soccer players
running miles
near a bocce game
with excited guys in undershirts
acting like hairy water dogs
trying to play the rules
and to be fair,
by two sexy models
in red high heels
who flick their smile
and pack of cigarettes
on the corner,
giving it up for their shoot.


—B.Z. Niditch
Poised for whale watching
over mirrored waves
aching to sight
a watershed moment,
cameras are ready
on pure instinct
for a voyage's persuasions 
where no one is a stranger
easily scenting danger
to sounds of endurance
and chance sensation
near the ocean's divide
covering green islands
on the schooner's side
with giant gulls covering
over lonely rough surf
wanting to survive
the jagged boulders
spilling secrets
here by sandy leaves
a beachcomber survives
along the ocean's undertow
another deep diving watch
for a Jacques Cousteau.

 —Photo by Cynthia Linville

—B.Z. Niditch

Just at the moment
the dusk sun hits
the red brick
soundproof studio
the fog uncovers
its rain pouring tears
of avenging memory
from off the Bay
and the sax player
taking off his blanket
interrupted by bare glances
in the inattentive mirror
with pages of his new book
opened with one finger
stands by an open window
on the basement floor
in the dim electric light
for a time such as this
between two notes,
seasons, hours, stars
humming with ignominy
the same exercises
always with the repeated
sinking sadness of an E flat
dying for the kissing reed
of a lost soul urchin
dreaming of a perfect verse
from behind the scenes
at my gig.


—B.Z. Niditch

In the windless silence
watching a cormorant rise
from the wavering sea
a lone swimmer
with leaves as his cover
takes Autumnal photos
by the murmuring dock
now full of pink-eyed salmon
from the first catch of the day
as fishermen glide
through the wooden decks
where memory clings
to his second-long glance
at the splashing shore,
a newly sprayed
bronzed beachcomber laughs
with open shirt
and lost and found sunglasses
on display
takes out his wash
with childhood's first worry
his body slightly adrift
skimming on the edge
of his whistle of breathing
and plays the Spanish guitar.


—B.Z. Niditch

Over the giant evergreens
in the eye faded dawn
when sunshine moves away
to create shadows
in the scant Fall fields
by footsteps of a Golden Fleece
through garden caresses
from hot-housed memories
of a seasoned observer
refusing to shun the silence
of the standstill winds
wishing for aspirations
of an hour in the country
by an elusive season
when my nature comforts me
of at least a compromised miracle
by losing myself to forget time
at the dew under these trunks
spying mushrooms on the fields
with a few tourists
exacting cameras
in the caprice and gesture
of believing this day
all things will be new
by these forsaken trees
a hundred years younger
than our own blindness
to forgotten bird voices
in the increased landscape
of an artless shade
covering a dazzling veiled
mourning dove
behind the branches
mingled on ice blue hills
assuring me by these woods
of constant cycles at rebirth.

 —Photo by Cynthia Linville

—B.Z. Niditch

Tugging at my kayak
a lobster boat next to me
the sea unconscious rises
from undertow fears
with high tide with its icy
blue green brine,
my heart awaits its beating
to the waves' music
calling out Fall echoes
of the dark deep moon
over my daredevil venture
out on the ocean's miles
of grey metamorphoses
on elemental waters
expecting secrets to dot
the map of my voyage
before morning arrives
on the hull and dock
carrying the veiled fishermen
with salty tongues
of salmon-pink hauls
on baskets of wizened flesh.


—B.Z. Niditch

An acorn snaps on
a new Fall coat
the color of red
on your right shoulder
with diving butterflies
in neon and gold sparks
along the wharf's docks,
here by a humming fountain
of the home harbor
friendless tangled leaves
take you by surprise
gliding your boat
into the Bay
as a young retriever
does cartwheels
near the diving board
of my orange kayak
anchored at the shore' s
wriggled edge
my mouth is sealed
except for a song
of the jazz band
echoed by myself
waiting all day
by this veiled sea
for a salmon to appear
even by the light
of a fully magical moon.


—B.Z. Niditch

Absorbed by the wonder
of language's light
silence inherits us
to map out our Fall day
a poet, painter, musician, linguist
all wishing to illuminate
the wonder of it all
from our private reality
and to recover what is lost
like orphaned children
searching for a fingertip of love
in this metamorphic world
wanting an audience
yet needing reassurance
that in a phantasm of our universe
we are not alone
or obliged to expect
an expansion of nature,
at the bay, under the pine trees
here at sunshine's space
behind the tall dunes
at dawn's turning points
with expression to capture words
jolting our warmth
as every morning's
first daydreamer knows
we carry the sounds, colors, words
like white doves
on the horizon and landscapes
unsettling lines between our bones
inviting all of you to listen.


Today's LittleNip:

Language cannot confine us as a poem defines us; she lines up its words in her willing nature.

—B.Z. Niditch



—Photo by Cynthia Linville
[For more of Cynthia's photos of New Orleans,
see Medusa's Facebook page. We have a new 
photo album!]