Thursday, January 15, 2015


Angels Among Us
—Photos by Katy Brown, Davis, CA
—Poems by B.Z. Niditch, Brookline, MA


Here we are poet-
exiles, gnomes
or vagrants migrating
with a seasoned
destiny like sparrows
but with no one
in your specter
to take you in,
perhaps people think
we are curious
a bit eccentric
like hesitant words
in muffled speech
and language,
perhaps another poor poet
in the Americas
will recognize me
through his glasses
jumping over hills
or at intersections
of the winding sky.



You managed to arrive
early in my life
while budding ideals
surfaced along two Coasts
in subterranean joys
as I climbed up to dive
in a flow of oceans
having traveled
having cut short
all circuits
to my becoming a poet
surrounded by birds and fauna,
Walt, nothing is foreign
to us, neither springs or
waterfalls nor language
of alembic alphabets
cools our tongues.

 Wolf Moon Rising


by the silence
behind trees' first light
of a wintry vacation
maps our hours out
on a park bench,
I'm slowly drawing
pictorial sketches
from haiku
when red ink
falls on the hands
by my melancholy watch
brushing away
odd-and-end thoughts
as suddenly as photographs
in music as a cat
crawls under a park bench
with a frozen numbness
alarmed by the voice
of the poet I hear
in my spirit
Dylan Thomas
reading "Under Milk Wood"
wanting only to drink
at the local pub
as familiar faces
run from the cooling breeze
of the fountains.



Would you mind leaving
me off at the bus stop
in San Francisco
a runaway needs to make a call
back east
who has run out of bread
and grief
in a cavernous dawn
yet happy by practicing sax
half the day with shadows
in silences of musical directions
with a winter's pawned jacket
covered with memory echoes
and new riffs
of angel-winged spring.

 They Also Serve


Touch me
with your ephemeral spirit
of an exiled acceptance,
jostle me, Arthur
with your travel passport
under Africa's blazing sun,
grant me words
that move me with wonder
to share your secret language,
gently forgive me
from your open shirtsleeves
with no self-doubt
between your hands,
Remember me, Rimbaud
when my words are printed
on city graffiti walls,
whisper to us
across rented rooms
in the rainbow underground,
heal me
from your wounds
in the house of a friend.



Life is an agenda
full of charades
whether played
on soprano sax
or jazz fiddle
drawing ink portraits
it's a mind-bender
in the middle
of the road
on back alleys
or city hallways
in front of jams
traffic or music,
against a mountain
of winter storms
or in an avalanche
of sunshine
by paper flying cranes.

 White Horse


Hey, man on a roll
here is an eightieth high-five
to you, brother Elvis
still near my light shade
of my animated dawn
on our January 8th birthdays
so life won't be cruel
to us,
rock on through the night air
reaching us in invisible breath
from the hands
of first-light recognition.


Today's LittleNip:


A tapestry of red rugs
pointed from a blinding light
to a poet's secret language
we exist waiting
for understanding
as a verse suddenly
suddenly fills a watching eye
grateful to be astonished
by emerging spaces
of a fragment of a universe
in gestures of trembling
yielding a collection
of sheltered nature.


—Medusa, thanking today's contributors and noting that there are a heckuva lot of readings in our area today—scroll down to the blue board (under the green board) at the right for all the details! Please note also that today is the deadline for the next issue of
WTF! See for submission guidelines.

Guarding Left-overs