—Photo by Robert Lee Haycock, Antioch
NEW YEAR'S EVE, 2013
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
The new year ravages
the wider world
with gunshots,
firecrackers. Dogs howl,
sirens scream.
In the City, calendar pages
burst from skyscrapers.
Revelers kiss strangers.
Couples stagger out of bars
into the cold, breath fogging.
The homeless stir among trash,
lost as confetti.
Here on Senior Hill
we bed at nine or ten,
parking lot quiet, quilts
crushed around necks.
Most of us plan to make it
through another year—
quickly grab the reins.
Others not sure how
or why.
_______________________
THE CONFESSIONAL POET
(Jan. 3: W. D. Snodgrass's birthday)
—B.Z. Niditch, Brookline, MA
My once liquid muted voice
opened up
when I drove up
in my new sun glasses
to a used bookstore
while staying in San Francisco
watching up at her buildings
trying to remember my lines
for my part in a play,
I took W.D.'s book
off the dusty shelf,
soon "The Heart's Needle"
was in hand
starting to cogently read
every healing wounded page
almost missing the audition,
yet seeing wisdom's display
of transparency in W.D.'s words
move this grateful adolescent
to a higher pulsing wish
to write more than I know,
not realizing this unknown poet
started up the confessional school
also taken up in their own way
by Bishop, Sextant
Lowell and Plath,
I sat in the cold theater alone
read my Shakespeare script
and felt like Cicero himself
also born on January the third.
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
The new year ravages
the wider world
with gunshots,
firecrackers. Dogs howl,
sirens scream.
In the City, calendar pages
burst from skyscrapers.
Revelers kiss strangers.
Couples stagger out of bars
into the cold, breath fogging.
The homeless stir among trash,
lost as confetti.
Here on Senior Hill
we bed at nine or ten,
parking lot quiet, quilts
crushed around necks.
Most of us plan to make it
through another year—
quickly grab the reins.
Others not sure how
or why.
_______________________
THE CONFESSIONAL POET
(Jan. 3: W. D. Snodgrass's birthday)
—B.Z. Niditch, Brookline, MA
My once liquid muted voice
opened up
when I drove up
in my new sun glasses
to a used bookstore
while staying in San Francisco
watching up at her buildings
trying to remember my lines
for my part in a play,
I took W.D.'s book
off the dusty shelf,
soon "The Heart's Needle"
was in hand
starting to cogently read
every healing wounded page
almost missing the audition,
yet seeing wisdom's display
of transparency in W.D.'s words
move this grateful adolescent
to a higher pulsing wish
to write more than I know,
not realizing this unknown poet
started up the confessional school
also taken up in their own way
by Bishop, Sextant
Lowell and Plath,
I sat in the cold theater alone
read my Shakespeare script
and felt like Cicero himself
also born on January the third.
—Photo by Robert Lee Haycock
SEEDS OF RED YESTERDAYS
—Olga Blu Browne, Sacramento
(inspired by Joy Harjo)
Broken survivors, poisoned by
culture, drink in the betrayal of
aging faces and ancient hatreds.
________________________
GOLDEN PAUSE
—Olga Blu Browne
(inspired by Joy Harjo)
Reminiscence of the past, yes,
winter clouds, midnight waters,
and me at the end of my beauty...
Touch me, remind me, I am
still here
Wind walkers
echoes of the past
Listen to the land, where
the winds echo off
mountains, and footsteps
are whispered in the wind
while shadows weave in
the darkness.
—Olga Blu Browne, Sacramento
(inspired by Joy Harjo)
Broken survivors, poisoned by
culture, drink in the betrayal of
aging faces and ancient hatreds.
________________________
GOLDEN PAUSE
—Olga Blu Browne
(inspired by Joy Harjo)
Reminiscence of the past, yes,
winter clouds, midnight waters,
and me at the end of my beauty...
Touch me, remind me, I am
still here
Wind walkers
echoes of the past
Listen to the land, where
the winds echo off
mountains, and footsteps
are whispered in the wind
while shadows weave in
the darkness.
________________________
THE NIGHT IS EMPTY
—Olga Blu Browne
Waiting for eternal silence,
the one whose life fades,
listening to echoes from
a silent heart.
This night is empty.
_______________________
THE NIGHT IS EMPTY
—Olga Blu Browne
Waiting for eternal silence,
the one whose life fades,
listening to echoes from
a silent heart.
This night is empty.
_______________________
MY MIN-PIN
—Carol Louise Moon, Sacramento
Little doggie doo
the size and shape of filberts
has decked my halls
this holiday season.
So, in nonchalant distraction
I turn my attention to the
orange wooden Dala horse
from Sweden (1950), the
center piece of holiday décor.
He, unlike my min-pin,
has left no reminder of
his hard work, frolicking
in my hallway.
However, I do still choose
my little doggie named
Pinocchio—my favorite
of the two.
______________________
WEAVER BIRDS
—Carol Louise Moon
I love to watch the Weaver
bird, the clever way she weaves—
like lodges of a beaver.
I love to watch the Weaver
build her nest; the Tailor’s clever
home of sewn-together leaves.
I love to watch the Weaver
and the clever way she weaves.
______________________
Today's LittleNip:
AS A WAY
—Claire J. Baker
Her spirit
embraces
quietude
as a way
of moving
forward.
AS A WAY
—Claire J. Baker
Her spirit
embraces
quietude
as a way
of moving
forward.
______________________
—Medusa, reminding you to keep watch on upcoming workshops under "More Food for the Brain" in our green box at the right of this column, including two by Trina Drotar that are coming soon!
—Photo by Robert Lee Haycock
[As always, these photos may be enlarged with a single click.
And Check out Robert Lee's new album, "Metal",
on Medusa's Facebook page!
