Friday, October 24, 2014

Doors We Open

—Courtyard, Locke, CA
—Photos by Katy Brown, Davis

—David Anderson, Lincoln, CA

A light rain
wrinkles the pool
cherry petals
white spatter

crimples the pool
a hush of flutes drifts
white spatter
in the tremulous air

a hush of flutes adrift
drops rain on and off
through tremulous air
from black twigs

rain drops off and on
cherry petals
against black twigs
in a light rain


—David Anderson


Dinner is ready.
The appetizer’s prepared,
plates warmed, food steaming,
your special wine bucketed,
waiting for your arrival.

Oh dear, I forgot
and have no excuse, but
I’ve been so busy
I no longer have time
to spare. This once, forgive me.


Messiaen’s bird songs
repeat their dances for hours
as I think her of
hands, light on the piano—
they turn the world upside down.

Catch them? No, follow
the hummingbird in red sage—
He twists the flower,
floats on green shimmering wings;
as he feeds, he feeds your eyes.


My skin trembles, numb,
awaiting your touch. My want
makes your face appear.
I stop work. I idle, I
can’t re-start for thought of you.

You’ve been on my mind
all day. The road between us
will close as you come
home. Come to bed and find me.
I will be waiting for you.

—Ann Wehrman, Sacramento

our sixty-year-old bodies
even more beautiful
wrinkles are battle scars
eyes open with experience

we begin the return
circle continuously, like kites or hawks
make long swoops
catch glimpses of each other in passing
signs that you hear me
feel what I feel


—Ann Wehrman

          for Raymond Carver

They say I do not know whereof I speak,
that spurs and bit are necessary tools;
a horse needs mastery—then she’ll submit.

How would they like to taste the iron bar,
or worse, to feel sharp points in tender flesh?
A horse will naturally run with joy
if she agrees to carry you, so please
respect the tender flesh and willing heart,
use hands in mane and knees on flanks to guide,
and race together through the setting sun.

—Kevin Jones, Elk Grove

They took in boarders,
At least one.
Charmer, in Nellie’s eyes,
Though Mike, a city
Cop, was probably
Focused elsewhere.

But the day he realized
That Nellie and the
Dude (Always wanted
Him to be one—maybe
A traveller in shoes
Or books)
Were very often as one,
He came home, shot
Her in the face, tossed her
Down the cellar stairs,
Stalked out to find
Her lover.

Long day for a small town
Cop.  No suspects.  He
Stepped across her body
At the bottom
Of the stairs, went into
The far room of
The cellar, hanged himself
From the spike over
The cistern.

Neither died quickly
Nor gracefully.
Nor really ever
Left the stairway
From the cellar.

I could tell you that
I spent much time in the
Cellar: my father was
A prison disciplinarian.
He had his ways.

I enjoyed my adolescent
Years down in the cellar
Actually.  Nellie and Mike
Were good talkers, and
I heard and learned much.

Back upstairs, I always
Recalled they
Were somehow blue.
I remember too, that
My parents were able
To buy the place
Very cheap.


Our thanks to today's contributors! David Anderson is part of the Lincoln Poetry Group which sponsors readings at the Twelve Bridges Lincoln Library on the third Sunday of each month from 3-5pm, as well as their annual contest. (Watch the blue board below the green board at the right for their readings.)

And some of Katy Brown's photos will be part of tonight's "The Beast in Me" art opening at the Moon Cafe Gallery on Main St. in Locke, featuring many artists plus an open jam session, food and drink—all free! Check it out; the fun starts at 7pm.


Today's LittleNip:

The doors we open and close each day decide the lives we live.

—Flora Whittenmore