—Carol Louise Moon, Sacramento
I love to call them evergreens
because they’re ever green.
The crimson sweater that you wear—
the redness of your orange hair—
contrast to make your green eyes seem
to light up, sparkle, glow and gleam.
I love to spend these days with you,
to see you through my eyes of blue.
SQUEAKY GREEN TENNIS SHOES
—Carol Louise Moon
the wrapping around in amplitude,
soft caveability dental-flossed into place,
snug; stair-stepping synchrony:
cradled in rubber as if flotation were
imminent; with ease upon bending
of particles, the meeting of hard surfaces
and portions of biosphere—which rock
and teeter the tennis
flexible foot armor, and more—
Kenpo ease of ankle joints
deflecting, rolling, but otherwise
a quoish sound emitted when
passing through grassy plains:
but when pushed to urban concrete
or kitchen tiles with ear-wreaking racket
at alternating intervals:
enough to annoy.
HAVING NO RECOURSE BUT TO PULL A PRANK
—Carol Louise Moon
So, I threw the curly-haired decoy dog
into the neighborhood street
right in front of the speeder and cried,
“My baby, my baby. What have you done
to my doggie?”
“And, I hope you have insurance…
which is beside the point.
You’ve hit my dog so hard he is no longer
human, and you are not human, speeding
through our quiet neighborhood
on a murder mission. And now,
you’ve done it, you’ve murdered a
Miniature Maltese Mix Mutt.”
“Never mind viewing the gore. I’ll wrap
him quickly in this blood-spattered blanket,
whisk him away, and bury him neatly
under the myrtle before the sun goes down.
That’ll teach you not to speed out here
where the sign is clearly posted
I HAD SOUGHT OUT THE COMPANY OF MIMES,
… having grown tired of the poets.
The mimes I had thought to be
a controlled bunch:
no blurting out poetry prompts
no telling me where to end my poem
no asking me to speak up
no suggesting submission guidelines
with strict limitations.
I was right.
Mimes could say it all with just one
gesture, just one glance, one frown:
“What? You actually think
you’re a poet?”
DEATH OF GREEN
Look! Choppers flying in formation
over the desert floor, through sawtooth gaps
between black cinder cones. Even in this season,
just after dawn, the sun is lethal.
One chopper to our left at 10 o’clock, one
to our right at 2, more coming from the north,
staggered like birds in flight, a dance
with high-desert clouds. From each uniform-
drab chopper, a cable hooked to a beautiful fruit
gold as paradise; each chopper a bird of pray-
for-peace, rescue under sky of clouds and flocks,
the hazards of weather over bare desert
on a spinning globe, sun and wind
moving toward their imagined horizons.
Downpour of water from the tap. Dishwasher
hums counterpoint functionality to the fridge,
a song of lasting love till it runs out of
warranty—gone chill, or tepid (just listen to
celebrity-gossip on the morning news, stranger
than sea-creatures); song of love mottled
and familiar as window that won’t scrub clean
in spite of all the products on TV; curtains
faded— but look, beyond the pane
the world’s gone green and leafy, Blackbird’s
singing from a crown of oak, the Midas sun
touches every growing tip with gold; and spring
lambs practice their highest leaps, uncalculating
gambols with life.
—Photo by Katy Brown, Davis
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole
What an honor
when you open to me
as if I were an oracle
on an ancient road
to Athens or Rome—
your journey's pause
for a lighter load.
A listener, I remain
silent until a fountain
of shared secrets rises
and falls between us—
brackish water in our wells
replenished drop by drop
with freshest of waters.
NO PASSPORT NEEDED
—Claire J. Baker
Come, let us join
on the journey
We, the people,
gay, and not so happy,
handicapped and holy,
yet all the same—
getting out of
our own way.
No tether, weather
or war can hinder
Peaceably we go,
peacefully we stay.
—Claire J. Baker
—Photo by Katy Brown