Thursday, November 27, 2014

By a November Shore

—Poems by B.Z. Niditch, Brookline, MA
—LittleNip by Ann Wehrman, Sacramento
(Anonymous Photos)


The Autumn scent
of an early frost
across the blue lake
a shadow of brown bears
creep in departure
as bluejays fly South
by the always-sunny surfboarder
with bloodshot eyes
who works out in the crossroads
of the cranberry bogs and dunes
here on his daily jog
though the red-leafed woods
in a cushioned disposition
regretting his becalmed wish
of being back in California
watching this poet's friends
put an anchor on his kayak
along the ocean's edge
and paying him a seasonal visit
on the swaying dock
these fishermen with a wine bottle
bringing salmon and Danish cheese
throw pebbles on the shore
as a trumpet plays
in the greensward fields
among new foliage colors emerging
by the tar-burning orange leaves
as fresh flames burn out
by the cooking oils
of the hibachi grill
in the bedrocks of the Cape
there is always room for
one more guest here
for a seasonal visit.

IT'S BLAKE'S DAY (Nov. 28)

As quickly as a block dance
is over a poet awakes
from a heavenly dream
it's Blake's day again
and we put icing on the cake
hearing night music
along the roof tops
even at an angel hour
of winged landscapes
the poet is off the shelves
between us is our brother
in fine animated company
coming to our celebration.



Hunting hides
the conversation
of the fawns
in the woodland
who disappear
like Blakean angels
with high-pitched voices
who hear the shots
of reminiscent thunder,
a poet on the grassland
watches skywriting
translate his thoughts
of saving animals.


Leafy November
overgrown with elder
as a heavy song
from a Spanish guitarist
shouting out his melody
fills this newly created Fall
here at a gig
a sax player
in long nights
carries cranberries
and crab apples from his garden
crawling on all fours
by mildew roads
on a thin haze of sunlit sands
of overdue memory
longing for the echo of waves
in his full handfuls
awaiting his night music.



Tins of oysters
under a spotted shore
with several fishermen
by green sweet waters
in a pastoral landscape
watch eclipse nuptial plumage
under nests of evergreen trees
over the grayish cloudy sky
an artist sets up her fairing outlines
on her unfolding hapless easel
on a spot of the earth
with a Montreal accent
she gestures to a poet
returning from his half-mile jog
wearing his old blue beret
that she will do an oil portrait
of him if he would like
as a fluctuating sun
by mourning doves
overpowers them.


My eyes open
to awakening birdsong
in the cornerstone
of my rock garden
Fall is here in a glorious sun
with moments of new feathers,
black- and blueberries
pressing the aspens
in my hyacinth arms
with two lovers' nicknames
on the poplars
a sailor is hungry
since it's been raining
on his weekend leave
he attends an Autumn fair
and hayride in a harrowing Eve
among owls, bears and whales
along the sunflower woodland
and ocean's edge.



The chess players
in Harvard Square
migrate to tents in Florida
or California this season
like sky birds
bartering for warmth
they carry their pawns
queens and king
in their green schoolbags
for their whole life dream
is to be a champion
for their favorite game
searching for new diamonds
for baseball or for their lovers
which are not real
but good for storytelling
when they return
forgiven by their friends
leaving them
to the campus of young princes
and resuming a Sunday brunch
from their intelligent opponents
who eagerly embrace them
with the bishop's kiss of peace.


We like a day
like today
when blankets come off
awakened by sleeping paintings
of poetry in my soul
with a seasoned visit
from the angel Muse
followed by six others
reflecting my wishes
for a creative season
when browsing
from the easy sun,
hearing the throaty voice
of a cardinal
we bring bread to his tree house
practicing sax riffs
on the highland dunes
from my plucked heart
waving to fishermen
along the ocean.



On green sleeves
leaning from my window
fresh from apple picking
trying to explore
red and orange in an abstract
of my own
imagining a Mondrian hand
over me
from a storehoused memory
urging me on,
my lemony kite anchored
by a harvest festival wall
now released
to dance over birch branches
through dazzled whirlwinds
over a sky nation of clouds
as a nature's stepchild
tiptoes on new foliage
planting bulbs and  footprints
to a posthumous season.

Today's LittleNip:

—Ann Wehrman, Sacramento

Thanksgiving dinner
at a friend’s
rush home
to work online
work never finished
never enough
granola and milk
at 9:00 p.m.
stomach still
full of turkey
tired, but
work still not done
work that’s never done
work that pays the bills
really, really full
keep working
midnight, still working
your picture on my desk
looks a little fuzzy
my too-tired eyes
wonder where you are 
if you know how I feel
if you care
fall into bed
pass out
work still not done
no idea where you are
or if we will ever
come together



...from Medusa and Rattlesnake Press!