—Ann Privateer, Davis, CA
A sign says no, you and your car
are not wanted here, here too
many people muck up the works
there's only room for just a few
so maybe you need to skidoo.
We, from the same
spend days away
reliving our pain.
so different, and yet
somehow the same.
Far away from comforts
we return to the lives
The past lingers in the skin of memory
So close and yet far from my present life
Reverberating in the mind's soft eye
Continuously questioning me, "why"?
On so many levels of actions past
Here on this day when every moment
Slips away, no thing lasts but erosion
Particles unfurl, forms will disappear
They did not hire him so he ate his lunch
Alone, the noon whistle blew, cats jumped high,
A fallen deer threads through the broken hearts.
To be almost, and to sit in the midst
of the forest, moments that never last.
—Carol Louise Moon, Sacramento
“On the hard ground where Adam strayed,
where nothing but his wants remain
what do we do to those we need…”
On the hard ground where Adam strayed
my little dog chases a sporting squirrel.
Except for exercise his needs are met…
for food and love, apartment life,
where nothing but his wants remain.
Or, is it need for open space, companionship
of smaller size—his brother squirrel, his
father crow, a bed of lawn, the sun for lamp.
What do we do to those we need?
I claim my love for him is deep. But do we
collar those we love? Do we not set the
banquet plate with chalice beside our own?
THE BLACK PURSE
—Carol Louise Moon
Black of Blacky’s beady eyes
Black of little Blacky’s coat
Black, the back of the napping dog
Black of morning coffee grounds
Black, the hands of the kitchen clock
Black, the numbers ten and noon
Black, the purse which holds
yellow bits of kibble for
Blacky, the waking, stretching dog
—Carol Louise Moon
Because I think of Barkley as my four-year
old son, and I’ve gotten him vaccinated
to prove it, do I now put him in obedience
school and call it kindergarten? I think, yes.
I need to show him off. I hope the instructor
takes class photos, and that I can purchase
twelve wallet-sized. Come picture day he’ll
wear his blue bow tie, and people will think
he won a poetry contest—not for writing a
poem, of course not, he’s a dog—but for
memorization. Who’s to say he hasn’t
memorized one of my poems?
—Medusa, grateful for recent good wishes from readers during and after her vacation and Computer Fatality!