—Photo by Ann Privateer
PERSPECTIVE
—Ann Privateer, Davis
Recess, a break from formulas
and books, hanging out with teacher.
Going back I rode my bike
flying on the bicycle lane
all going the same direction.
A tunnel up ahead so I
left the pack, pulled into a lot
where old vehicles set, stored.
From that low place, I could see
the street, a traffic light, signs.
If I climbed with my bike
we could cross, I thought, but once
at that place, water swirled below
abandoned trains created
another barrier
like a trapeze artist, I was
alone on the brink with my bike.
—Ann Privateer, Davis
Recess, a break from formulas
and books, hanging out with teacher.
Going back I rode my bike
flying on the bicycle lane
all going the same direction.
A tunnel up ahead so I
left the pack, pulled into a lot
where old vehicles set, stored.
From that low place, I could see
the street, a traffic light, signs.
If I climbed with my bike
we could cross, I thought, but once
at that place, water swirled below
abandoned trains created
another barrier
like a trapeze artist, I was
alone on the brink with my bike.
______________________
—Kevin Jones, Elk Grove
As soon as the snow finally melted
In Northern Illinois,
My grandfather decided it was time
To hike the three miles
West of town,
Out to the Hollow
To look for Indian bones, arrowheads,
Whatever we could find.
We never saw any artifacts,
Though I remember
Budweiser cans in the ditch,
And not a few dead dogs.
And pussy willows.
Lots of pussy willows,
Which we’d cut and
Put in our bag. Nobody
Appreciates your
Bringing home a dead dog
Any way.
_______________________
NEVER SWEEP THE PORCH BEFORE A HURRICANE
—Cynthia Linville, Sacramento
He is untethered
beaten up by the night.
Dropping pennies all over the house
he asks, Is this another ghost tour?
He is between a hard rock and a place
with the Angel of Death breathing down his neck.
He is bound together at wrists and ankles
with a raging demon.
Our thumbs bleed
from breaking down steel doors.
He has stitched my stocking toe to the carpet
so I won’t leave.
In the clove-scented white light
the serpent’s tongue stings my eye.
With the twist of a molecule
the moon flies beneath the clouds.
* * *
The moon flies beneath the clouds.
Our thumbs bleed.
He is bound together at wrists and ankles
beaten up by the night,
by a raging demon.
He asks, Is this another ghost tour?
Dropping pennies all over the house
so I won’t leave,
he has stitched my stocking toe to the carpet.
In the clove-scented white light
he is untethered,
breaking down steel doors.
With the Angel of Death breathing down his neck
he is between a hard rock and a place.
With the twist of a molecule
the serpent’s tongue stings my eye.
* * *
The serpent’s tongue stings my eye
so I won’t leave.
In the clove-scented white light
our thumbs bleed.
With a raging demon
and the Angel of Death breathing down his neck,
he is between a hard rock and a place,
beaten up by the night.
Dropping pennies all over the house
he asks, Is this another ghost tour?
He has stitched my stocking toe to the carpet.
He is breaking down steel doors
with the twist of a molecule.
He is bound together at wrists and ankles.
He is untethered.
The moon flies beneath the clouds.
—Photo by Cynthia Linville
(YOUR) LOVE IS NOT ALL
—Cynthia Linville
What are the years
but drops of water on the palm
five—just a handful
ten—a small mouthful
that is gone
the throat already parched
before she says
I'm leaving.
______________________
I WALK THROUGH WET SPRING PASTURES, PICKING PSYCHEDELIC MUSHROOMS FROM THE COW PATTIES.
—James Lee Jobe, Davis
The mud on my work boots is as thick as the walls of Jericho. maybe thicker. The raw, black sky whispers to me that it will rain again, at any moment. The air is heavy, and my breathing is difficult, as though I were breathing through a warm, wet blanket. I wash a large mushroom with water from my thermos, and eat it right there. Lightening flashes, followed by a long, low roll of thunder. I settled under a huge willow tree, my back to the trunk. In no time at all the beautiful show begins.
The mud on my work boots is as thick as the walls of Jericho. maybe thicker. The raw, black sky whispers to me that it will rain again, at any moment. The air is heavy, and my breathing is difficult, as though I were breathing through a warm, wet blanket. I wash a large mushroom with water from my thermos, and eat it right there. Lightening flashes, followed by a long, low roll of thunder. I settled under a huge willow tree, my back to the trunk. In no time at all the beautiful show begins.
______________________
RAINY SPRING MORNING, BALTIMORE
—James Lee Jobe
—James Lee Jobe
All the long morning I walk
through the harbor front
in the slow, steady drizzle.
There is a wildness to the city.
Pigeons, mice, spiders.
Opossum on Federal Hill.
An oak with an Oriole nest.
In the water, who knows what?
Fish, oysters, crab.
Overhead, geese returning to Canada.
From the cracks in the concrete
blades of grass and weeds poke through.
Even with skyscrapers above me,
the wilds of nature are everywhere.
through the harbor front
in the slow, steady drizzle.
There is a wildness to the city.
Pigeons, mice, spiders.
Opossum on Federal Hill.
An oak with an Oriole nest.
In the water, who knows what?
Fish, oysters, crab.
Overhead, geese returning to Canada.
From the cracks in the concrete
blades of grass and weeds poke through.
Even with skyscrapers above me,
the wilds of nature are everywhere.
_____________________
SIGNS OF SPRING
—James Lee Jobe
—James Lee Jobe
It is only March,
but there are signs of spring,
and although I enjoy winter,
I find some hope in that.
All four seasons are fine with me,
it is change itself that I like.
The three redwoods in my front yard
where just taller than a man
when we moved into this house,
and now they are well above the roof.
In that same time our family has also grown.
The three children are now adults
and there is a lovely grandchild.
My wife and I have gone grey
and the yard work is getting difficult.
Some things that used to matter
now don't matter at all,
and I find myself giving thought
to things that once I did not care about.
My season is changing, too.
I can feel spring coming.
It isn't here yet, but it's coming,
and I like that.
______________________
Today's LittleNip:
SIGNS OF SPRING
—Cynthia Linville
—Cynthia Linville
pressed to the wall like
an Yves Klein painting
crying at breakfast
teetering just this side of crazy
out the window:
tiny green heart-shaped leaves
with the blink of an eye
the sky shouts
the cage door is open—
fly out
_____________________
_____________________
—Medusa
—Photo by Cynthia Linville
