Monte Rio
—Photo by Cynthia Linville
FEATHER
—Carol Louise Moon, Sacramento
Egret: Candle-bird, solitary—posing
in marshland. Each feather the tinny
essence of snow. Sunlight flashing
intricate snowflake patterns. Icy,
on parchment. White-thread tapestry.
_____________________
IN THE COMPANY OF GOLD CRESTS
—Carol Louise Moon
We speak in mists of feathers
as birds cluster in high nests.
Nature hears our words, whether
we speak in mists of feathers
or bring lofty thoughts together
on wings to fly—like Gold Crests.
We speak in mists of feathers
as birds, clustered in our nests.
____________________
OWL AND GOAT
—Carol Louise Moon
A little white goat soaked in silence
this damp, electric night
stands frozen in his fright.
The Great Horned Owl upon the fence
gives hoot to move him on,
—Carol Louise Moon, Sacramento
Egret: Candle-bird, solitary—posing
in marshland. Each feather the tinny
essence of snow. Sunlight flashing
intricate snowflake patterns. Icy,
on parchment. White-thread tapestry.
_____________________
IN THE COMPANY OF GOLD CRESTS
—Carol Louise Moon
We speak in mists of feathers
as birds cluster in high nests.
Nature hears our words, whether
we speak in mists of feathers
or bring lofty thoughts together
on wings to fly—like Gold Crests.
We speak in mists of feathers
as birds, clustered in our nests.
____________________
OWL AND GOAT
—Carol Louise Moon
A little white goat soaked in silence
this damp, electric night
stands frozen in his fright.
The Great Horned Owl upon the fence
gives hoot to move him on,
rains coming on at dawn.
The clouds are sharp and dark and dense.
The clouds are sharp and dark and dense.
____________________
WRAPPED IN BIRDSONG
—Carol Louise Moon
I wrap this blanket tight
around my skin-wrapped bones—
and walk the circular path
that leads me home… always home.
And again, the breath I carry
is my father’s memory released
as birdsong.
I lay a wreath of sighs and feathers
across his bones, and follow again
the path that leads me home.
WRAPPED IN BIRDSONG
—Carol Louise Moon
I wrap this blanket tight
around my skin-wrapped bones—
and walk the circular path
that leads me home… always home.
And again, the breath I carry
is my father’s memory released
as birdsong.
I lay a wreath of sighs and feathers
across his bones, and follow again
the path that leads me home.
Noah Purifoy, Joshua Tree
—Photo by Cynthia Linville
FIRST BOUQUET
—Donald R. Anderson, Stockton
Isolated from the world,
a future enslaved to technology.
Her hair in the wind, a first.
Her horizon now more distant than a wall.
He has shown her the world,
she has broken free of an old world.
A bouquet, strange fascinating concept.
Flowers bunched in ribbon,
colors from different plants mix
like paints on palette,
becoming nature’s masterpiece re-imagined.
Perhaps it is too much, too soon.
The freeness tastes too foreign,
the juxtaposition too unnatural.
One by one, over the balloon’s edge,
she drops the flowers back to the fields,
floating, floating, dropped.
Into the waving grasses,
where wild flowers cover them
in their windy grave.
To dance a moment, then gone.
Down and in,
gliding, splashing into the field,
colors swallowed by the wind.
—Donald R. Anderson, Stockton
Isolated from the world,
a future enslaved to technology.
Her hair in the wind, a first.
Her horizon now more distant than a wall.
He has shown her the world,
she has broken free of an old world.
A bouquet, strange fascinating concept.
Flowers bunched in ribbon,
colors from different plants mix
like paints on palette,
becoming nature’s masterpiece re-imagined.
Perhaps it is too much, too soon.
The freeness tastes too foreign,
the juxtaposition too unnatural.
One by one, over the balloon’s edge,
she drops the flowers back to the fields,
floating, floating, dropped.
Into the waving grasses,
where wild flowers cover them
in their windy grave.
To dance a moment, then gone.
Down and in,
gliding, splashing into the field,
colors swallowed by the wind.
Nkisi Ndoki
from the collection of Catherine Yronwode
—Photo by Cynthia Linville
A MEMENTO MORI
—Cynthia Linville, Sacramento
This is where we tell the devils that chase us to go back to hell.
This is where we discard the miles of unraveled cassette tape.
I know you are here by the shadow on the wall: I have no doubts.
There is no word for this kind of loyalty.
I put on my silver sandals and go dancing in the moonlight.
I can teach you to see in the dark.
These stars are for us.
* * *
These stars are for us.
I put on my silver sandals and go dance with you in the moonlight.
There is no word for this kind of loyalty.
I know you are here by the shadow on the wall. I have no doubts that
this is where we tell the devils that chase us to go back to hell
that this is where we discard the miles of unraveled cassette tape.
I can teach you to see in the dark.
* * *
I teach you to see in this dark where
we discard the miles of unraveled cassette tape.
There is no word for this kind of loyalty.
I put on my silver sandals and we dance in the moonlight.
I know you are here: by your shadow on the wall, I have no doubts.
We tell the devils that chase us to go straight back to hell.
These stars are for us.
__________________
He has moved beyond her pale
beyond the roses thick with her magic
She washes her hands of him
her hair of him, her floors of him
shakes his dust out of her bedspread
her rugs, her doormat
In the blink of an eye she knew:
even when he’s telling the truth he’s lying
—Cynthia Linville
This is where we tell the devils that chase us to go back to hell.
This is where we discard the miles of unraveled cassette tape.
I know you are here by the shadow on the wall: I have no doubts.
There is no word for this kind of loyalty.
I put on my silver sandals and go dancing in the moonlight.
I can teach you to see in the dark.
These stars are for us.
* * *
These stars are for us.
I put on my silver sandals and go dance with you in the moonlight.
There is no word for this kind of loyalty.
I know you are here by the shadow on the wall. I have no doubts that
this is where we tell the devils that chase us to go back to hell
that this is where we discard the miles of unraveled cassette tape.
I can teach you to see in the dark.
* * *
I teach you to see in this dark where
we discard the miles of unraveled cassette tape.
There is no word for this kind of loyalty.
I put on my silver sandals and we dance in the moonlight.
I know you are here: by your shadow on the wall, I have no doubts.
We tell the devils that chase us to go straight back to hell.
These stars are for us.
__________________
He has moved beyond her pale
beyond the roses thick with her magic
She washes her hands of him
her hair of him, her floors of him
shakes his dust out of her bedspread
her rugs, her doormat
In the blink of an eye she knew:
even when he’s telling the truth he’s lying
—Cynthia Linville
______________________
Today's LittleNip(s):
YOUR HEART
the taste and texture
of a beet
in my teeth.
***
You are now leaving the ruined city
Hip-wading through the run-off
Maintaining radio silence
Ashes in your mouth
Muddy hands
Elbows out
***
My heart’s fingers
long and soft
probe your chest for
open wounds
scars
bits of gold
or stone.
My heart’s fingers
long and soft
probe your chest for
open wounds
scars
bits of gold
or stone.
—Cynthia Linville
______________________
—Medusa
Noah Purifoy, Joshua Tree
—Photo by Cynthia Linville
