AT LITTLE FARM
Spreading my arms wide,
I lean my whole body
against a cow’s soft side,
inhale warm fur, dried milk,
fragrance from her stall
heaped with hay.
She accepts me
and I her, on this up-close
and personal day.
After a few grand
cross-species moments,
I go merrily on my way.
Note: A similar version appeared in
Song of the San Joaquin, Fall 2020
BUTTERFLIES MIGRATE
They fly down the California coast
for a warmer clime.
In mid-October, ocean squalls
& climate-change storms
can rip off the tiny silk scarves
they wear for wings.
A chosen few Pacific Grove trees
receive in a fortunate year
ninety thousand
light landings
the breath and breadth
of whispers.
In sunset
monarch clusters blend
with horizon colors,
until eventide surrenders
to deepening darkness.
(for Barbara and Ron, fire evacuees,
from Santa Rosa to Monterey, CA)
CALIFORNIA CRICKETS
September, while strolling through
the neighborhood, I’m drawn to
a hedge of small bell-shaped blossoms
that resounds with crickets.
When a spot near the top grows louder
I press my ear inches away from
the high-note hum—
a cricket rubbing wings together as if
he strokes one violin string over and over.
I blow slow warmth toward a chosen
to show I am harmless.
Earlier I had learned Native Americans
keep no ladder which places humans
on the top rung,
and that they draw no lines
between people and other species—
even judgments are kept in flux.
Happy to remember: I’m part Indian.
CARQUINEZ STRAITS PARK
Martinez, California
Amber lamplight
shimmers over a marshy pond
where mallards and swans
mirror in dusky shadows,
momentarily glow crossing gold.
Nestled among reeds
which Costanoans once weaved
into baskets, a few fowl
tuck heads under their wings,
appear to sleep.
Relaxed on a viewing bench
we gaze over choppy waters
where a full moon reflects
a molten-silver bridge
reaching the Strait’s far shore.
Love riding the waves
slides foam over our bare feet.
Stars one by one tinsel
the early autumn twilight,
as if for the first time.
HOW DOES ONE
rise above a barbaric insult,
a psychic hard-kick-in-the-shins,
a dingy net cast over one’s spirit?
Maybe wrap the knifing remark
in kisses, present it to a frog
who transmogrifies into a prince
or princess of dragonflies,
hypnotic water-ripples calming?
Maybe frame the fangs
in memory
as a memento of having survived
a double-puncture wound,
not quite deadly
but as numbing as long-held ice.
One might unmask the remark,
walk it trembling through
a free-spirited, shouting crowd
in a viral pandemic.
It keeps putting you down,
but the meanness blurs
into nonsensical mutterings
that not even God can hear.
And, finally, you don’t give a scoot.
BLAST FOR A TANGLED PAST
Survivors, let’s make of the past a grand
Spaghetti Extravaganza
from ingredients we gathered
on our knees: mushrooms to mimic clouds
we’ve lived under; tomatoes for psychic blood;
garlic reminds us, we are repelled
and we, too, repel! Herbs & seasonings
will mask bitterness, sour edges.
Burger meat? Yes, we have a Beef!
Vintage wine will soothe the past,
complaints swirling away like
soggy crumbs. But first, a blessing:
Fellow travelers, we gather round
this crowded table to devour spaghetti,
unwieldy, tangled, heavily sauced to quell
all the whining. Blessings on fork-cutting
the tricky strings or go ahead, slop
chins, hands, cheeks, your new outfit.
It’s all your own choice.
The Angel of Forgiving-But-Not-Forgetting
will keep the wine flowing. A toast!
And now, survivors: Bon Appetit.
DOORS
May doors of experience open wide,
as we proceed in body and spirit
toward the next unknown,
face balm and gall, all the earthly
and mystical betweens.
Surely, being human, we are made
for such encounters.
Looking ahead,
as for a grand message
leading us forward,
the next world will return us to
the grace which cradled us at birth.
But we have not yet reached
that full-circle place.
Meanwhile,
helping to clear another’s path,
believing in or coming to know the art
of expansiveness, we stand before
a welcome door. When it swings wide
enough for our full humanity,
we will enter.
A slightly different version appeared on an art gate
in West Oakland, CA, by painter Tomye Neal-Madison.
_______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
IN SIERRA FOOTHILLS
—Claire J. Baker
Beyond the hills,
a monastery’s
Gregorian chant
ripples toward us
in the alto key
of hush.
_______________________
Our thanks to Claire Baker for this morning’s fine poetry! I was recently watching a documentary on the butterflies’ trek: migrations of any creature are truly amazing!
For more about the Monarch butterflies' visit to Monterey Peninsula, go to www.oldmontereyinn.com/monarch-butterfly-migration-monterey/. For Zhangzi’s "Butterfly Dream Parable", go to www.learnreligions.com/butterflies-great-sages-and-valid-cognition-3182587/.
_______________________
—Medusa
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