—Photos from a Sac. Ballet Rehearsal
by Katy Brown, Davis
DRAGON HEAD
—Rhony Bhopla, Sacramento
Children turn their heads in glee
Gung Ho Fat Choy!
Sing Song: The trailing red tail of the Chinese Dragon
is bound to the lapel of my headdress
in small minute folds, layer after layer
by which
my mother carefully tugs
at me.
The smell of rose-colored steam, lavender
and the American-grown mint
left at the bottom of a teacup
gently soak fabric
as it wraps around my head---
a cultural icon, coveting the ancestral
cells, that sailed on winds.
Her voice, near me, gently knocking
my ringlets back and forth
in my ear lobes.
A mother is wrapping her daughter’s
red headdress.
Red dresses, the dragon’s golden speech,
our drum pushing us into the sunlight.
Gold letterings of proclamations
fill with coins.
I dance in this parade too.
My turban is the dragon head.
—Rhony Bhopla, Sacramento
Children turn their heads in glee
Gung Ho Fat Choy!
Sing Song: The trailing red tail of the Chinese Dragon
is bound to the lapel of my headdress
in small minute folds, layer after layer
by which
my mother carefully tugs
at me.
The smell of rose-colored steam, lavender
and the American-grown mint
left at the bottom of a teacup
gently soak fabric
as it wraps around my head---
a cultural icon, coveting the ancestral
cells, that sailed on winds.
Her voice, near me, gently knocking
my ringlets back and forth
in my ear lobes.
A mother is wrapping her daughter’s
red headdress.
Red dresses, the dragon’s golden speech,
our drum pushing us into the sunlight.
Gold letterings of proclamations
fill with coins.
I dance in this parade too.
My turban is the dragon head.
THE VISITOR AND HIS DOG
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole
Poet John brings
poems to share
two salads
two enchiladas
all from
an Italian village
near his job.
John comes young
And I get younger
near John and his dog
John has no dog
But I see a groomed
collie floating
toward me over
a green meadow.
_____________________
HYSTERECTOMY
(a poem of the 60s)
—Claire J. Baker
They pluck her ovaries—
ripe cherries;
yank out her uterus—
juicy pear;
rip out her tubes—
bean sprouts.
But she still has
pregnant thoughts
and beautiful babies.
(from author's chapbook,Touchings, 1976)
_____________________
RELAXED IN RECLINER
—Claire J. Baker
She watches
a lyrical poem
spread petals
over the page
like
portulaca
or poppies—
wind chimes
twinkling
grace notes
of time.
CONSIDER SPRING
—Carol Louise Moon, Sacramento
After Robert Francis’ "Squash in Blossom"
Consider the luscious
greening moisture of sleeves
that open into new leaves;
how the color green gushes
through spring until summer;
how the unfoldings turn golden,
each stem is hidden
in a process more somber
now. As if, to be
truly a green-thumb
one must also plumb
the depths of uncertainty
about the insignificant, small
matters of a splinter
revelation: the coming of winter
after the drying up of fall.
______________________
SPRINGTIME
—Carol Louise Moon
It is a brilliant springtime day.
The yard’s alive—and midday moon’s
eye sees it all. The curiosity of jays
the ogle of the cocky crow
each note how spring’s atwirl in dance
in balance of the midday heat.
We look not just at all the weeds
which yield to flowers pinking here,
but get a glimpse as Death prepares
the way in tempest summer winds.
Time’s pattern oft’ repeats this scene
as spring recedes to summer.
The moist bloom glowing in my hand
will wither toward its end.
—Carol Louise Moon, Sacramento
After Robert Francis’ "Squash in Blossom"
Consider the luscious
greening moisture of sleeves
that open into new leaves;
how the color green gushes
through spring until summer;
how the unfoldings turn golden,
each stem is hidden
in a process more somber
now. As if, to be
truly a green-thumb
one must also plumb
the depths of uncertainty
about the insignificant, small
matters of a splinter
revelation: the coming of winter
after the drying up of fall.
______________________
SPRINGTIME
—Carol Louise Moon
It is a brilliant springtime day.
The yard’s alive—and midday moon’s
eye sees it all. The curiosity of jays
the ogle of the cocky crow
each note how spring’s atwirl in dance
in balance of the midday heat.
We look not just at all the weeds
which yield to flowers pinking here,
but get a glimpse as Death prepares
the way in tempest summer winds.
Time’s pattern oft’ repeats this scene
as spring recedes to summer.
The moist bloom glowing in my hand
will wither toward its end.
BEFORE THERE WERE INVENTIONS
—Caschwa, Sacramento
I totally LOVE Bach’s inventions!
What an absolute delight
And of course Thomas Edison, et al.
Imagine if the person who
Invented the wheel
Tried to interview for a job today
Sorry, you’re pretty bright
But we can’t bring you on board
With that grooming and hygiene
The God that I worship looks
With more favor on mothers
Who sing to their babies
Than on top recording artists
With their high tech mikes
Reaching global audiences
He favors spreading the Word
The way people did before the
Invention of the printing press
It saddens Him to see medical journals
Publish only high-priced remedies
To heal those in need
Knowing full well that they are
Made from God-given natural herbs
Reprocessed and re-packaged
Real estate developers assume
The role of God to tell us what is
The highest and best use for the land
Then they charge more for properties
That have a view of land
That is totally undeveloped
RECIPE FOR A POLITICIAN
—Cynthia Linville, Sacramento
½ C ground peacock bones
1 oz. rose-petal perfume
16 shards of glass extracted from a wound
1 gallon of spittle from a horse’s mouth
a sock of dragon-charred wind
1 single unicorn hair
3 live scorpions
a loaf of moldy baloney
1 silver-coated tongue
a pot of leprechaun gold
*dirty deeds signed in blood
*as many as possible
I RAISE MY HANDS
—Robert Lee Haycock, Antioch
I raise my hands
Call down a hungry moon
Ink babbles from my fingers
Lies drip from my elbows
Nothing has been done right
Nothing has been done
I crawl among my tools beshat
Scattered across splintered floors
Paintings fly up the walls and away
While others wonder where I am
Nothing has been done right
Nothing has been done
I am exiled from that house of many windows
—Robert Lee Haycock, Antioch
I raise my hands
Call down a hungry moon
Ink babbles from my fingers
Lies drip from my elbows
Nothing has been done right
Nothing has been done
I crawl among my tools beshat
Scattered across splintered floors
Paintings fly up the walls and away
While others wonder where I am
Nothing has been done right
Nothing has been done
I am exiled from that house of many windows
_______________________
AJA
—Robert Lee Haycock
Me
I am old and tired and I had no appreciation for the things I held in my hands in my youth
She
Yes you did but you just don't remember
They
And I want a name when I lose
______________________
LOVE SONG FOR THE PATAPHYSICIAN
—Robert Lee Haycock
for Molly and for Tad
Every bit of it
And nothing
Makes any sense
Even when it does
I can only remember
That I loved you
Even when I didn't
But you knew that
I know
You knew
_______________________
NOTWITHSTANDING
—Robert Lee Haycock
Dreams of Grandma
Dreams of Grandpa
Things not done
Things not started
Broken things
My dear old incontinent dog
A rain that comes
A rain that goes
Falling down
Getting up
Mistakes
More mistakes
What shall I write about?
______________________
Today's LittleNip:
END OF THE LINE
—Robert Lee Haycock
Cradled between rails
I awaken to a dream
Sails and black diamonds
______________________
NOTWITHSTANDING
—Robert Lee Haycock
Dreams of Grandma
Dreams of Grandpa
Things not done
Things not started
Broken things
My dear old incontinent dog
A rain that comes
A rain that goes
Falling down
Getting up
Mistakes
More mistakes
What shall I write about?
______________________
Today's LittleNip:
END OF THE LINE
—Robert Lee Haycock
Cradled between rails
I awaken to a dream
Sails and black diamonds
______________________
—Medusa
