—Poetry by Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
—Ladybug Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
SUMMER WIND
Today I reclaim
the summer wind held
in my palm
as a child, my bare arm
out car window
my hand blown crazily
like a silken scarf
before cupping over
wind enough
to believe
that one day
out in the world
I could slowly open
my hand
and warm my life.
(prev. pub. in Song of the San Joaquin,
Summer, 2020)
Today I reclaim
the summer wind held
in my palm
as a child, my bare arm
out car window
my hand blown crazily
like a silken scarf
before cupping over
wind enough
to believe
that one day
out in the world
I could slowly open
my hand
and warm my life.
(prev. pub. in Song of the San Joaquin,
Summer, 2020)
AT JOSHUA TREE PARK
Waving a wand of shadows,
dusk cools wildflowers,
ocotillo, dunes, chaparral,
sand prints
and the tortoise at my feet.
Newly hurt by love,
here I will try to reach out:
holding my hand loosely above
the tortoise, I watch his head
and feet for any signs of
withdrawal. When he does
not retract or inch away,
I gently stroke his stubby
toes, my metabolism
grown turtle-slow.
Heartened
I watch
sand
grains
sifting
through
my hour
glass.
Waving a wand of shadows,
dusk cools wildflowers,
ocotillo, dunes, chaparral,
sand prints
and the tortoise at my feet.
Newly hurt by love,
here I will try to reach out:
holding my hand loosely above
the tortoise, I watch his head
and feet for any signs of
withdrawal. When he does
not retract or inch away,
I gently stroke his stubby
toes, my metabolism
grown turtle-slow.
Heartened
I watch
sand
grains
sifting
through
my hour
glass.
BACK IN CAMP
My introverted, analytical, bookish John M.
mumbled phrases which eagles flew
to far ledges before I could interpret/
respond, so I read John’s body language—
right or wrong. An odd-couple,
for twenty-five years we van-camped
hiked, explored, rested, photographed
Yosemite and other national parks,
This morning,
on the Vernal-Nevada Falls climb,
we finger-signed danger at cliff edge:
shifted packs for balance,
became silhouetted,
but not struck, by lightning!
Back in camp, we rested, built
a campfire, listened and watched as
kindling and small logs crackled sparks
that swirled among stars as rubies
dissolving into heaven… Neither spoke
as flickering flames,
mellowed tiredness,
the evergreen Yosemite night,
plus memories of the Mist-Trail climb
held us
in reverential reverie.
My introverted, analytical, bookish John M.
mumbled phrases which eagles flew
to far ledges before I could interpret/
respond, so I read John’s body language—
right or wrong. An odd-couple,
for twenty-five years we van-camped
hiked, explored, rested, photographed
Yosemite and other national parks,
This morning,
on the Vernal-Nevada Falls climb,
we finger-signed danger at cliff edge:
shifted packs for balance,
became silhouetted,
but not struck, by lightning!
Back in camp, we rested, built
a campfire, listened and watched as
kindling and small logs crackled sparks
that swirled among stars as rubies
dissolving into heaven… Neither spoke
as flickering flames,
mellowed tiredness,
the evergreen Yosemite night,
plus memories of the Mist-Trail climb
held us
in reverential reverie.
CAMPING ZEN
1
When a pine cone falls,
pollen from its cubicles
gilds a beam of sun.
2
Bird songs wing
everywhere,
Are birds perched on air?
3
Markings on
butterfly wings—
lines in your iris.
1
When a pine cone falls,
pollen from its cubicles
gilds a beam of sun.
2
Bird songs wing
everywhere,
Are birds perched on air?
3
Markings on
butterfly wings—
lines in your iris.
ON MARE ISLAND SHIPYARD*
Vallejo, California
We visit the redwood chapel,
circa 1855, for its twenty-five large
Tiffany stained-glass windows.
This day a tree-filtered sun
flickers light and shadows
over heroic memorials,
rays settling into glass suns
and moons, rendering them
lively, colors most vivid.
In one panel
Jesus and His sheep move
ever so slightly.
In another, Mother Mary’s
gown quivers…
Finally leaving, we tiptoe
more toward Art—
and further away from war!
*decommissioned 1996
Vallejo, California
We visit the redwood chapel,
circa 1855, for its twenty-five large
Tiffany stained-glass windows.
This day a tree-filtered sun
flickers light and shadows
over heroic memorials,
rays settling into glass suns
and moons, rendering them
lively, colors most vivid.
In one panel
Jesus and His sheep move
ever so slightly.
In another, Mother Mary’s
gown quivers…
Finally leaving, we tiptoe
more toward Art—
and further away from war!
*decommissioned 1996
CUMULUS CLOUDS
The book of sky opens, pages turning
as cumulus clouds heap, converge,
billow, spread wide into snowy meadows
moving westward, beyond our vision,
disappearing, and returning
as ocean foam.
When a storm-cloud shrouds the sun,
shadows flicker over our eyelids,
poppies partly close,
reopening when the sun again
takes center stage.
Inspired, we climb fantasy’s ladder,
enter an alabaster mansion, explore
as painters, poets, dancers of the sky.
Look, snowy mountains, brooks,
wildflowers, summer lakes…
We will ourselves back to earth,
knowing everything exists
masterfully in flux.
The book of sky opens, pages turning
as cumulus clouds heap, converge,
billow, spread wide into snowy meadows
moving westward, beyond our vision,
disappearing, and returning
as ocean foam.
When a storm-cloud shrouds the sun,
shadows flicker over our eyelids,
poppies partly close,
reopening when the sun again
takes center stage.
Inspired, we climb fantasy’s ladder,
enter an alabaster mansion, explore
as painters, poets, dancers of the sky.
Look, snowy mountains, brooks,
wildflowers, summer lakes…
We will ourselves back to earth,
knowing everything exists
masterfully in flux.
A FIRE ON THE BEACH
Sonoma Coast
We are as newborns taking our first breath
for rite of passage into mellow age…
We wonder: what has been our anchor,
compass, anthem, calling?
Where have we been going? Where have
we yet to journey, junking baggage
along the way? Recalling how
the moon prepares the sea for change,
we meander-drive to our western ocean,
gather driftwood, build a fire on the beach,
keep adding flotsam fallen from our lives…
Blown sand and dune grass
leisurely whisk away our fragile prints.
We are insignificant
as grains of sand
yet glorious as every perfect pearl.
Our gritty fire lights the evening star.
And keeps on rising, sparking every star.
Sonoma Coast
We are as newborns taking our first breath
for rite of passage into mellow age…
We wonder: what has been our anchor,
compass, anthem, calling?
Where have we been going? Where have
we yet to journey, junking baggage
along the way? Recalling how
the moon prepares the sea for change,
we meander-drive to our western ocean,
gather driftwood, build a fire on the beach,
keep adding flotsam fallen from our lives…
Blown sand and dune grass
leisurely whisk away our fragile prints.
We are insignificant
as grains of sand
yet glorious as every perfect pearl.
Our gritty fire lights the evening star.
And keeps on rising, sparking every star.
MOMENTARY C’S
A crafty
lady bug
checks
out
my
curving
lifeline.
Caribbean
coffee
I craved
cools.
A crafty
lady bug
checks
out
my
curving
lifeline.
Caribbean
coffee
I craved
cools.
Today’s LittleNip:
AFTER BASHŌ
—Claire J. Baker
A gypsy lady bug
flexing wings on my lifeline —
hot coffee can wait.
____________________
Good morning and a big thank-you to Claire Baker for taking us camping today, bringing us the salt air from her home in the Bay Area! Insignificant as sand, glorious as pearls…
For information about the Ladybug Hike at Redwood Regional Park in Oakland, go to solotripsandtips.com/redwood-regional-park-ladybugs/.
____________________
—Medusa
AFTER BASHŌ
—Claire J. Baker
A gypsy lady bug
flexing wings on my lifeline —
hot coffee can wait.
____________________
Good morning and a big thank-you to Claire Baker for taking us camping today, bringing us the salt air from her home in the Bay Area! Insignificant as sand, glorious as pearls…
For information about the Ladybug Hike at Redwood Regional Park in Oakland, go to solotripsandtips.com/redwood-regional-park-ladybugs/.
____________________
—Medusa
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
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Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
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that which was previously-published.
Just remember:
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for poetry, of course!
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously-published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
