Sayani Mukherjee, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Michael H. Brownstein
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Joe Nolan and Nolcha Fox
VISUALLY PRESERVING THE SIERRAS
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
No camera or cell phone in my backpack,
yet craving remembrances, I made my eyes
twin lenses for distant and close-up shots.
Between each extreme concentration
on my desired subject, the vision
captured, I rested my eyes and
the fingers I’d circled,
to frame my scene.
Ask me about Sierra light and shadows,
the depth of field required for mountains. . .
I’ll mention that the wind decreased
to a whisper for remembering wildflowers.
And animals seemed to pose before my eyes.
Ask, my friend,
if you’ve time enough to believe in
the magi of my imagination.
NEWSFLASH! Earth Hurtles Incessantly
Through Nothingness!
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
There is nothing in a vacuum.
Nothing, nothing....nothing
And no gravity in space.
Vacuums have a tremendous power
To draw things into themselves—
Strong enough to overcome gravity.
The vacuum of space seems large enough
To suck in the entire Earth.
Why it doesn’t I don’t know
Or maybe it does?
Is it because of vacuum’s power
that Earth hurtles incessantly
Through nothingness?
And what of those
Hungry Ghosts
Who allow a vacuum
To rule the center of their being
Like a black-hole at the center of a galaxy?
Don’t stand too close!
FLOODING IN OMAN
—Joe Nolan
Where in the world
Is Oman?
It’s across the water
From Iran—
One side of the Hormuz Strait.
Who can believe its fate?
To be flooded by rains
Twice this year,
January and July,
With a child swept away
In the rushing waters,
A desert country
Not prepared to endure
Such freak-shows of nature.
Can someone tell me why
Nothing old
Is true
Anymore?
Why we can’t find
Any reason
What any of this
Is for?
MISTY MOUNTAINS, SALTY SEAS
—Joe Nolan
Why do misty mountains
Fall into salty seas,
Majestic in their contour—
Just rocks to you and me?
A way to climb to Heaven,
But first,
Must cross the sea,
With heart kept pure
Or else tossed-down,
Unworthy,
You will be,
As oft, half-hearted pilgrim
Finds bars across his path
As he prepares to mount the heights,
But never reaches land.
WANDERING EYE
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
I don’t have to travel
to have a wandering eye.
I don’t look at other men,
but ramble in my mind.
And so I dream of other climes
and watch the real estate.
I know he doesn’t want to move,
so I can only dream
of where that other road might go,
what I might take to get there.
LIFE IS MEASURED BY THE
MAGNITUDE OF LOSS
—Nolcha Fox
Somewhere is the land
of lost everything.
It stores the big stuff
I’ve misplaced.
One day I’ll visit,
bring everything home.
All the many minds I lost
will be romping
through clover.
All the many hearts I lost,
and all the folks I lost to death
will be drying off
from a swim in spilled tears.
All the patience I lost
will be waiting in a room
with no chairs or doors.
All the time I frittered away
will grow back in a field
of watches, each set
to a different time.
I’ll need at least
three moving trucks
and all my friends
to clean the place out.
I can believe
money buys happiness
as long as I know
where to shop.
I can be
that kamikaze pilot
wearing a helmet,
betting I’ll survive the fall.
I can aim
for a bull’s eye,
and call what I hit
the target.
Yes, I can,
all I need
is optimism
and a dose of
poor judgment.
and it’s not you.
Headlights
are owl’s eyes
blinking through
shimmering waterfalls.
Windshield wipers
can’t swim against
this downpour
of tears.
—Nolcha Fox
THREE POEMS FROM DUGOUT ANTHOLOGY
—Michael Ceraolo, South Euclid, Ohio
Dottie Wiltse
I know a number of male pitchers
have pitched and won both games of a doubleheader,
but I have them all beat:
on August 28, 1945
I not only did that but also
met the man who would become my husband
* * *
Audrey Wagner
I was only fifteen when the league started,
so for the first few seasons I didn't start play
until after the school year ended
And since baseball was a means to an end
(and what a glorious means, one I was good at),
I kept that same routine through college:
my last season was at the ripe old age of twenty-one
Disagreements with management led me
to play in a competing league after that
More money and no travel also played into it,
making it easier for me to attend medical school
I sometimes wonder why I'm not listed
among the players who died in a plane crash
* * *
Clair Schillace
I was one of the first players
signed by the league
And I think I was the first
to hold out for more money:
after my rookie year
I asked for ten dollars more a week,
but eventually settled for five
we are a proud nation of laws
cue the fanfare, raise the flag
recite the propaganda
repeat by rote
print and post
more laws
our dear lawmakers huddled all day
and all night to give us laws about
every wrong thing we might think
to do, overflowing the shelves of
law libraries with new, old,
revised, rescinded,
updated, restated,
laws
and with all that time and effort
it has become apparent that
they missed one, a dangerous
wrong that needs to be righted,
that is best
not ignored
they came close by imposing
restrictions on carrying concealed
weapons, open carry gives notice:
due process
fulfilled
the teeth of sharks, the talons of
jungle cats, the ground-shaking
thunder of a raging bull
all fine, if out
in the open
but our proud nation of laws has
not one single law on the books
about carrying
a concealed grudge
it is not a hate crime, no peacekeeper
will come calling to demand proof of
compliance or any kind of certificate
go ahead, perfectly legal
they missed it
HE KNOWS EXACTLY WHAT HE IS DOING
—Caschwa
takes the fears everyone has
about too much governmental
control and uses them to incite
aggressive protest
takes the apathy everyone also
has about too much protest and
uses that to grab control
fans the flames always burning
since the “end” of the Civil War
and uses that heat to smother
any silly notions of peaceful
transfer of power
aligns with people who are ready
to grab their guns to settle problems,
and distances himself from people
who are more inclined to study an
issue and understand the other
side’s arguments before it reaches
a call to arms
models himself after mob bosses
who treat their underlings like junk
yard dogs, ensuring that they are
constantly angry and mean by
starving them of any reasonable
measure of food or love
replicates the Nazi movement by
using the “feel good” Chautauqua
element that arises from unity of
purpose, to do the opposite and fuel
actions borne of evil
micromanages all the above protest,
control, power, call to arms, mood,
and actions, then disavows any
knowledge of the details, which works
for him now, because it always has
before
WON THE BIG ONE
—Caschwa
yep, that’s right, I matched
the Powerball number
no more
just one
number
makes me equal to
a mountain climber
at base camp
staring up,
way, way
up at the
peak
MADE NECESSARY CHANGES
—Caschwa
went the longest time without
knowing upgrades were even
available, but soon as I heard
I made the change from that
old, dated, analog sophagus to
a state-of-the-art, fully digital
e-sophagus
now anxiously awaiting the
roll-out of the inevitable
e-junioragus, and e-senioragus
JEWEL
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India
Grim lights on the table
A smooth texture
When you peel an orange
You can see its
Insides, fragile nuances.
A whole new universe
Under the parapet of
False consciousness.
Hiding the precious jewel
On a gravel of ego
Self and the binary
Life and antilife
Little dusts
The seed and the shadow.
Wordsmiths architects dreamers
Feed us up
Until we peel.
Unravel the orange
Once more
Holding a world under a bridge
Looking through the
Forests from a soft glance
Of my chestnut pencil.
I break the human laws of seeing
Far ahead
Hiding under
Scalpel of an operation
Sinews and skin-dipped submission
Under law, customs, conducts
So I dare to see
Peel.
Hooking a fish through the ocean.
I know the jewel.
I’m not so keen when im in place.
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
To cull the ludo, dull the lines,
when spun is done and won the frame;
if tongue has sung, strung ladder rungs,
and I have plumbed from numb to thrum,
flying, sighing, catch my breath.
“It’s ’im”, they cry, lead letter lost—
(though I think Wesley, hymnody,
or Cockney laze that trims the first)
then im the one, negates the sum
total of what might versify,
writer’s block, if ever tried,
impossible while heart beats mind.
Impressable, late teenage me,
impassable that mountain road,
implausible my version sold,
improbable that Dad thought gold,
impossible, deceit achieved.
I do expect grave earth to roll,
the sun arising, as it seems,
a light to, after black night, shine
where wonder creatures populate.
I’ll not deny the tooth and claw,
that jungle rules predominate,
but also folk in their best dress,
serving in community.
Frameworks and limits, recognised—
genetic codes and common sense,
which if we’re mindful, adept, adopt,
learned wisdom of our species’ course.
For muscle memory in mind,
though flailing, failing, learning slow—
least not automatons on show,
and not so righteous as to bore—
wine-bibbing claims sound heritage,
and lunch Zacchaeus, menu spread.
I’m weary of religious care
as bridges gaps, pontificates
that all is well, and will be so,
for nought impossible to God.
I’d give it that—a zero score,
recalling cup that did not pass,
as will unleashed from puppet strings,
and choices bring us where we are—
it is an art, as we should know.
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
AUGUST
—Michael H. Brownstein, Jefferson City, MO
this morning
the sun's great brightness
burned my shadow
___________________
Impossible! That’s our current Seed of the Week, and it sums up our contributions today: Impossibly fine poetry! Our thanks to them on this late-August day, as Autumn lingers in the wings, waiting for its turn onstage . . . Be sure to check each Tuesday for the week’s Seed of the Week.
On Thursdays, Sept. 1-29, 4-6pm: T.S. Eliot “The Waste Land” 5-week online course will take place with Brenda Hillman and Robert Hass. Tuition is $300; limited financial aid is available. Info/reg: communityofwriters.org/events/event/a-short-course-on-the-waste-land/. Sponsored by Community of Writers; supported by the International T.S. Eliot Society (tseliot.sites.luc.edu/).
—Medusa
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