—Poems by Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
—Anonymous Photos
AFTER VISITING THE AIDS QUILT
We plant seedlings of pine
and of compassion
for every stitched-on name.
We lure flocks of gulls
over feverish neon,
dispel for awhile shadows
of yet another fallen.
We smash down skyscrapers,
rip out concrete streets:
For these remembered
let there be country lanes,
poppy fields, apple trees
and morning glories.
We envision
the afflicted restored,
pushing flower carts,
doves on their shoulders.
CONSIDERING THE FULL MOON
The moon is a flower we wear,
a sacramental wafer
held on our tongue, a
promise kept, an instantly-clear
foreign language.
We frame it with a keepsake ring
gaze at gold through gold.
Fully waxed,
the moon lights
a million candles,
communes with shadows,
disperses evening incense,
quickens the blood.
When we walk around
a night lake, our lantern leads
then follows
on cool water's
cobbled silver become
as radiant as one of God's
whispers.
RETREAT AT BISHOP'S RANCH
(first morning in Sonoma)
Grapevine leaves outlined in white
hold greens and amber which invite
our sojourn in this monastery,
fragrant, spring-like, quiet, airy,
consecrating prayers of night.
While chapel windows stained and tight
pastel the pews as monks recite,
our open parlor casements carry
grapevine leaves.
Arterial markings crisp and slight
retrace Da Vinci malachite.
We poets had arrived here, wary.
Offered cheese and crafted sherry
we mellow...Now in riveting light
grapevine leaves.
(A Rondeau first printed in
Poets of the Vineyard
yearly anthology, 2004)
COSIMO AND BIANCA
In autumn they leave the Umbrian flat
for their cottage in Tuscany where
ripe grapes reflect on windowpanes.
Breakfast is red and purple grapes,
rolls, sweet butter, soft cheese,
coffee in white porcelain cups.
They gather easels, palettes, pigments,
ride a horse cart into outskirts
of Florence, walk to the Uffizi.
Cosimo and Bianca are copying one
art piece. It will take each autumn
for the rest of their lives.
(Printed in author's collection,Trails of Naming)
CONTEMPLATING THE NAVEL
As a newborn I wailed
one tremendous wail
to prove I was hardy & hale—
a kind of celebratory prayer
for mom & the clever cord
that fed me well, "in there."
Now when I consider
the fleshy button bump,
the elemental lump
that rides my belly jello,
I fall asleep in seconds,
old & odd, but mellow.
(Printed in Chaparral
Prize booklet, 2010)
DOUBLE HELIX
Within the spirals of life's rousing ride
we carry DNA and spirit prints,
feisty drama, foibles, freedoms, talents
through every primal and transcendent fire.
Attempting to master loop-the-loops, we lean
to milder turns, away from jarring dips,
grow mellow everytime we compromise,
cast sun on polar views and clear the fog,
practice acts reflecting care and courage.
When joy bear-hugs and we hug warmly back,
we sip the tasty tea of miracles,
believing we will thrive on earth forever...
Yet somewhere on the journey, planets which
circled and marked our birth, will whiz on by;
the helix starts to memorize our glow,
our brief or extended melody. When we
can cling no longer, the spiral gives us wings
for soaring on...We rise, become the sky.
(Grand Prize, Dancing Poetry Festival, 2005)
EXCERPTS & THREE LAST WORDS
* A rainbow, colors sliding off
both ends...
* Leaves stroke leaves stroke leaves
in sensual green tides of trees...
* Climb onto a moment,
that molecule, that mountain...
* A cove harboring clouds, clouds
harboring coves...
* Child, at that request for space from you
we sent a kite & all the wind that view...
* Bright clouds glide over foothills
like flocks of white birds...
* Catch a Winslow Homer wave,
ride it across the canvas...
* A hummingbird riding the wind from
its own wings...
* Moonlight falls asleep in a calla lily...
* A softness on the poet’s shoulder—
love approaching?...
* Poppies rise from meadow grass,
or are poppies monarch butterflies?...
* In the end, always a beginning...
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
THE HARP OF HOPE
—Claire Baker
When we are numbed,
shocked clear through
by tragedies in our
home of homes,
may somehow we find
a way to keep plucking
the harp strings of hope—
using, if we must, our teeth!
____________________
—Medusa, with many thanks to Claire J. Baker for her fine poems today, and her harp strings of hope… And to Katy Brown for her luscious photo of afternoon sun on a grapevine, posted below.
Afternoon Grapes
—Photo by Katy Brown, Davis, CA
(Celebrate poetry!)
—Photo by Katy Brown, Davis, CA
(Celebrate poetry!)
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
