I Always Thought...

—Photo by Katy Brown, Davis, CA

PANTOUM
—Ann Wehrman, Sacramento

I always thought I’d get married
I was responsible to bear a child
the future depends upon my lineage
it would shorten the time of restoration

I was responsible to bear a child
a brown-haired, brown-eyed little bairn
would shorten the time of restoration
would be someone to love

a brown-haired, brown-eyed little bairn
would she look like her daddy or me
would also be someone to love
would I love a girl as much as a boy

would she look like Daddy or me
would Daddy and I stay together
would I love a girl as much as a boy
would Daddy love the baby without lust

would Daddy and I stay together
would we be soul mates
would Daddy love the baby without lust
is there a man out there who could

would we be soul mates
the future depends upon my lineage
is there a man out there who could
I always thought I’d get married

  —Anonymous Photo
 

ON BEING YOUNG AND FOOLISH IN AMERICA
—Ann Wehrman

traveler’s checks and food stamps in hand
the five of us squeezed into that rented Mustang
straight though from Illinois to California
to the ocean, my first time

tailbone-bruising ride
taking turns balancing on the ridge
between back bucket seats
spiders in pocket bathroom, Texas gas station

camped overnight in the desert
walked under stars, swam in clear creek—
then sprinted to the coast
wound through steep mountain passes
gas gauge near empty
coasted on fumes and prayer

I drove the carful of sleepyheads into LA before dawn
lanes like ribbons on either side
white markers, index cards at regular intervals
flying, swooping on the Interstate

too young and foolish to appreciate what we had
we bought some jeans
complained at the overcast beach
empty sand, flat sea, gloomy sky
unimpressed, turned back

most of us contracted mono—you and I, spared
shared our last loaf of white bread
rode Amtrak back, through tunnels down into Chicago

we did not relish the ocean’s immensity
pearl-soft, slow breath of fog
that gray day, lonely beach

travelers propelled by our desires
we did not stop to feel, to understand
infinite moments, priceless beauty
held in our hands

  —Anonymous Photo

HIS LAST MARCH THROUGH GEORGIA
          (W.T. Sherman)
—Tom Goff

The famed old soldier, well-groomed, still attractive.
Still older, do my looks please youngling you?
He campaigned for her, needing some duty active.

He loved her sculpting hands that shuttled, restive;
she metaphor-fingered gray clay, his residue,
the famed old soldier, well-groomed, still attractive.

He sensed her transfer to stone her reproductive
urge: marble with life her soft hand could imbue.
He campaigned for her, needing some duty active.

He ached to dissolve within her; the dream furtive,
hidden in hearty brusqueness (mine toward you).
The famed old soldier, well-groomed, still attractive.

She glimpsed all this: her hands traced him in cursive,
revising the hard tough surface as could few;
she too campaigned, girl-corporal duty, active,

haptic, each tingling fingertip suggestive.
You, nursing my long-banked fires to stir and brew.
The famed old soldier, well-groomed, still attractive.
A last campaign, a last someone reactive.

  —Anonymous Photo

SINFONIETTA
              (Arnold Bax, 1932)
—Tom Goff

Symphonic afterthought. Postlude to the Fifth,
some say. The aftertaste of ice and whiskey
from a Highland highball glass? Some find it briskly
Finnish, more stark than Järvenpää, stuck with

Sibelius. Well, I think not: Bax is Bax:
preludial plainchant English horn descants
more suave than velour. Allegro motif-stacks
tilt this way and that; all hues reveal their slants

more vibrant, Walter Raleigh’s best slashed sleeves.
Now tristful, woven wistful-fine, a move
toward late things: Bax’s boyhood Ireland grieves,
but distant-lensed, oblique, opaque. The groove-

free grain of oboe, cello, French horn, harp,
flute duo, no blade, no twist, no corner. Sharp
the poignant reverts to point. Heart-leap, heart-lurch.
We’re out of—if ever once in—white Finnish birch.

Brass, piccolo, strings that scurry. Tub-thumping, it’s called
by one Baxian friend. With Bax, I just thump along unappalled. 

 —Anonymous Photo

AFTER THE POETRY READING
—Tom Goff, Carmichael, CA

            for D.R. Wagner and Barbara West, friends in poetry
 

The surge took hold of body and mind both.
How not to think true life an anti-climax,
albeit to leave verse-reading one be loath;
the eyes must readjust, as after an Imax
film. O no, I’ll not give up or give over
this clutch that is seizure and lover’s bedroom touch,
though to express why cannot be spoken much:
leave this glow? I’d rather “smell my way to Dover.”

An old man’s lust for the pleasures of the young?
In love with a Russian girl confused at her heart,
young Bax learned his eyes would dilate—by drops unstung—
in full sun. Pupil-distending delights of art:
Wide-open, mine saw just now quail at full run.
People too, scooting just like them. What can’t stun?

  —Anonymous Photo

Today’s LittleNip:
 
INVISIBLE
—Ann Wehrman

I sneak into your bed
invisible, in spirit
it’s dark, and you are half awake
reflecting or slipping into sleep

I nudge your jaw, your throat
cat at your side stirs
perhaps feels my presence—do you?

____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Ann Wehrman, Katy Brown and Tom Goff for today’s tasty brunch in the Kitchen, and all those other anonymous photographers who've captured roadsign silliness around the country!

 Celebrate Poetry!

Photos in this column can be enlarged by clicking on them once,
then click on the X in the top right corner to come back
to Medusa.