VISITING BETSY
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole
A hummingbird flits
along nursing home
sliding-door glass
as if a new kind of air
may be penetrated
with patience.
_____________________
The whiz-kid whirrs
up, down, side to side
plying the thick glass.
Not knowing what to say
to a friend too young for here
I tell her a hummingbird
wants to zoom rainbows
all through
these sterile rooms.
—Claire J. Baker
THANKS, PAL
—Claire J. Baker
(for K.S.)
I made you into a fantasy,
my song's counterpoint,
my handy epiphany,
Thankfully you rebelled.
Now I am back on earth
where we both can grow.
____________________
my song's counterpoint,
my handy epiphany,
Thankfully you rebelled.
Now I am back on earth
where we both can grow.
____________________
CARAVAN
—Claire J. Baker
Stay with the caravan
yet be yourself; notice what
others do, what wise ways
they take, yet follow your own ways.
Whether you ride, walk,
limp, run or stumble,
you are your significant other,
a worshipper of sun and stars,
reader of faces, hands,
emotions, a predictor of rain,
lover of oceans, dune grass,
moonglow, a granter of wishes.
When alone, may you be
your own best companion,
sensitive to little things
for the big things are forever.
____________________
BIRTHDAY BASH, CHUCK
—B.Z. Niditch, Brookline, MA
A shout-out and chat-up
to you, Chuck Mangione
today is a brown leafless
Nov. 29, your pure-tongued
vibrating birthday
frozen in fur to celebrate in a line
though we can't get in
to the club as yet
too many other music lovers,
yet we hear the trumpet
rousing us from a deep train
of thought, it starts to rain
above us on city streets
after a burst water main
rakes us in brackish ditch waters
but we came to the club anyway
confessing to a golden hundred notes,
needling us in a silver age
to feel absolutely good
after a brawl bar fight
of two embracing cats
in the dark nothingness
at a two A.M. Autumn trip
accompanied by solo dreams
of unrealized transparency.
—B.Z. Niditch, Brookline, MA
A shout-out and chat-up
to you, Chuck Mangione
today is a brown leafless
Nov. 29, your pure-tongued
vibrating birthday
frozen in fur to celebrate in a line
though we can't get in
to the club as yet
too many other music lovers,
yet we hear the trumpet
rousing us from a deep train
of thought, it starts to rain
above us on city streets
after a burst water main
rakes us in brackish ditch waters
but we came to the club anyway
confessing to a golden hundred notes,
needling us in a silver age
to feel absolutely good
after a brawl bar fight
of two embracing cats
in the dark nothingness
at a two A.M. Autumn trip
accompanied by solo dreams
of unrealized transparency.
____________________
Today's LittleNip:
I stopped believing in Santa Claus when I was six. Mother took me to see
him in a department store and he asked for my autograph.
—Shirley
Temple
____________________
—Medusa
