Día de los Muertos!

 

Día de los Muertos!

—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth, Caschwa (Carl Schwartz), Joseph Nolan

—Public Domain Photos by Joseph Nolan, Stephen Kingsnorth

SIREN
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales, UK

I can never know the dread of
those who heard cut out doodle-bug;
the sadness those who saw the wheel
of bicycle slow turn atop
the bomb-site, handlebars mark of
grave under metal, dust and brick.

Mother, first-time blitz siren heard
was wearing treat, her brand new dress;
on pavement she newspaper spread
and then lay down, air-raid prepared.

Father dug at The Rookeries
within the sound of Biggin Hill
when buried deep, just head revealed;
he lived because was rescued last.

I cannot know; they little spoke
of despairs, agonies and loss.

But rocket stillness, spinning wheel,
newsprint, clean dress, and soil to neck;
these they told and tales haunted me. 

 

 

 

 

MUGS
—Stephen Kingsnorth

Elevenses, for sixties boy,
from garden-work, a rest, the tray—
Dad’s coffee mug, my jug of juice,
Mum’s teapot, milk and sugar bowl—
the robin choosing worms dug up.
The chat, as sweat allowed to dry,
a golden star for what achieved,
his comment, what not yet complete,
the tasks that lay ahead for each,
so buck up son, or lunch delayed.

Refreshment break, for twenties lad,
from pressing list, brief pause, a queue—
Dad’s mug, flat white, my cortado,
Mum’s cappuccino, cold foam iced—
the tweeting passing dirt dug up.
The talk is now to farther friends,
few faces seen, on Facebook, apps,
the garden chair a door-way step,
live streaming as the crowds pass by,
so buck up son, or lunch delayed. 

 

 

 

 

 

DEAR WISH LIST
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

how long is it okay for one
to keep wishing to be declared
a child prodigy?

hasn’t happened to me yet,
and I’m now senior, retired,
and haunted with viral swarms
of ads for final arrangements

but there it lingers, that one
unfulfilled item on my bucket
list, before I kick the bucket

guess I’ll just have to wait in
the wings, figuratively speaking,
and see if some angel of mercy
has drawn my lucky name…

 

 

 

 

THAT SILLY GAME
—Caschwa

in the game of solitaire, one
can reach a point where cards
may be moved about, all legal
and such, but the outcome of
such moves will not raise one’s
score any bit at all

those were the cards we were
dealt for the election of 2016,
where we had already elected
representatives to champion our
best interests, and they populated
an Electoral College, but said body
of supposedly trustworthy people
failed to adequately vet all the
candidates

they messed up on a truly grand
scale, because one candidate
stood out from the rest like a loaf
of bread in the grocery store with
rats crawling all over it, and they
put him on the ballot, like it was
fine and okay to bring that home

now look where we are today,
we’ve long ago tossed that loaf
of bread out, but those rats are
running free in the pantry

oh sure, we can still move some
cards around, but what good
will that do us now?

 

 

 

 

 

THE GREAT DISAGREEMENT II
—Caschwa

it was an institution that had been
utilized all over the world for some
millennia, keeping other people as
property; trumpet fanfare, beat the drum

definitely legal, accepted practice, not
a criminal pursuit all wrapped in guilt
but then the relationship was cast as wrong
amend Constitution, charge at full tilt

it was a bridge you cross every day
the routine becomes an addiction
suddenly decommissioned by the feds
you must quit cold turkey, this awful affliction

easy to see how this wasn’t going to turn out
well, no helping hands to save the day,
quite the opposite cemented their stance:
we’re crossing that bridge, stay out of our way

the marching band plays patriotic tunes
competing with the chaos of a nation hooked on glum
families divided to fight to the death
shrill fifes, trumpet fanfare, beat and beat the drum 

 

 

 

 

 

THE MISSING SEASON
—Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA

There was once a season
That misstepped its time
And never found a place
Within that slipping year.

Everything was just the same
But seasons,
Only three, that year,
Made Winter disappear.

Some claimed it was global warming,
That snow was gone for good.

Others called it an omen
Since Fall
Just kept on falling
For over half-a-year,

And harvests
Kept on coming in
Until our overabundance
Made us drunk and giddy
On hard-cider. 

 

 

 

 

 

FOREVER-LEAVES OF BROWN
—Joseph Nolan

Trees
May bear brown leaves
Throughout the winter.

Some leaves
Never blow away.
They cling
From year to year,
As though affixed.

Maybe they are
Worry
Mixed with fear,
Anger and resentment
And cannot be let-go,
No matter how hard
The wind may blow,
Reserving aging places
Where otherwise,
Fresh, green buds
Would grow.

 

 

 

 

 

THE OUTLOOK OF THE TOTEM POLE
—Joseph Nolan

Harbingers
Of bas-relief,
Climb into
Your fitful sleep,
Depriving you
Of sleep!

What do
Strange dreams mean
When they catch you,
In-between,
Dream-worlds and
Waking hours?

Are there
Special powers,
You can near,
Divine,
Working from your
Outer shell
Deep into
Your wishing-well,
Where fables
Are enabled?

And anything
You wish
Is well
As your totem-pole
Looks out
The other way.

 

 

 

 

 

GLOBAL DREAM-VILLAGE
—Joseph Nolan

We don’t have to be
Up-in-arms.
We could all be all our
Arms-around-each-other.

We don’t have to be
Hot and bothered.
We could all be
All-for-each-other.

We could dream, together,
One-and-all,
In our common village,
In our world of dreams

And tell us all
In brightness of the morning
What had happened
In our worlds of dreams.......
Smiling on the morrow,
Depriving world of sorrow!

 

 

 

 

 

HUSBAND AND BRIDE
—Joseph Nolan

One slope
Doesn’t match the other,
But somehow,
Together, they perch,
Inside the same structure,
Though imbalanced,
They never lurch,
To and fro
Or side-to-side.
They understand the asymmetry
Perfecting a husband and bride.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

ANOTHER COMPLICATION
—Caschwa

how does one address a Fellow
a different gender than Othello?

they give those titles away, you know
no matter what your hormones grow

___________________

Our thanks to today’s contributors for a hearty Monday stew of poetry and photos! About his dream poems, Joseph Nolan writes: “When I was studying Psychology in undergrad, there was a story about a tribe in Africa with no neurosis among the tribe. They gather in the morning and share their dreams, every day.” That’s kind of what poets do—and every day would be nice! 

Día de los Muertos began yesterday and continues through tomorrow. For some colorful images, go to www.bing.com/images/search?q=dia+de+los+muertos&qpvt=dia+de+los+muertos&tsc=ImageHoverTitle&form=IGRE&first=1/.

 

 

 

 

 

•••Tonight (11/1), 7:30pm: Sac. Poetry Center’s Socially Distance Verse presents David Rosenheim and Marisa Lin plus open mic. Zoom: us02web.zoom.us/j/7638733462/. password: r3trnofsdv.

•••Also tonight, 6-8pm, go to the virtual hot tub for the Sac. Poetry Alliance Tub Open Mic Poetry (STOMP) Reading! Join the Zoom room at us02web.zoom.us/j/85846531910/.

•••Sat. (11/6), 7-9pm: Sac. Poetry Alliance’s First Anniversary Celebration at LowBrau, 1050 20th St., Sac. (20th & K Sts., www.lowbrausacramento.com). Info: sacramentopoetryalliance.com/.

___________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 

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