Hope is the Elixir

    

—Poetry by Mary McGrath, Stephen Kingsnorth,

Nolcha Fox, Michael H. Brownstein,

J.I. Kleinberg, Sayani Mukherjee,

Caschwa, Joe Nolan and Shiva Neupane

—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joe Nolan

IN MY HOLIDAY HEART
—Mary McGrath, Sacramento, CA

It's not the brightest
  but the most mysterious
    that I hold in reverence.

Blue lights
  on the skirt of the spruce
    drop pools of blue
      onto the snow.

 

 

 

 

 

MOMENT
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Celebrate, in memoriam,
campanile striking high,
broadcast news now due to air.

Hammer metal for clapper beat,
timing clock to count the hour,
swinging weight, for waiting past.

But baubles do not hang around,
festive stars shape thin-cut space,
hidden pin in ball of tin.

So what the prompt that rings a bell,
moment, force, a moving part,
turns about the pump to chime? 

 

 

 

 

BELLWETHER
—Stephen Kingsnorth

I heard the flock was led by belle,
a stranger name, castrated ram,
the eunuch, leader of the pack,
which set the track to follow on;
what is the state of play we see,
a record set and to be kept,
not least as trough for media,
the feeding frenzy, herd again?

That’s why the bell, attractive chime,
a gong, as if a medal worn,
like shepherd calling on his own,
a primary, the source of more;
why do those decibels ring true,
minor vibrations through the air,
a tinny tinkle, canny sound,
that draws attention of the crowd?

From Middle English, centuries,
bucolic to newscasts today,
a choker hanging round the neck,
an anchor chain linked to the past;
trace skein that stretches, binds the years,
forget balls, wool pulled over eyes,
and whether pattern holds true yet.
bellwether holds place, lexicon. 

 

 

 

 

BOW BELLS
—Stephen Kingsnorth

They say I’m bloomin’ Cockney—


born within sound, Bow bells,


like all the London churches,


in orange, lemon, nursed.


I do drop all my H’s,


know all their rhyming slang—


perhaps my verse a cliché,


is what indeed they mean.


I’m not ashamed, my accent,


the voice from where I’m born,


or even measured verses,


the patterned stanza, norm.


Just write me off, old-fashioned,


but regular when breathe—


good reason to drop letter,


it saves a bleedin’ gasp.
My teachers didn't like it—
they took the cane to rump, 


but much enjoyed the flogging,
my English master said.

 

 

 

 

Bells brought her back

from the twists
toward twilight,
past planets
peering through
dusk, back to
cloistered candles,
into incense
and warmth.

—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

 

 

 

 

Blessed be the mutt

escaping frazzled owner’s hands,
trailed by his leash and butterflies,
his tongue a juicy steak atwirl,
a doggie dog-gone smile at kite
aflight above his head. He leaps
through rainbows, sneezes,
seizes all the joy afloat, and shares
it with the flowers.


—Nolcha Fox

 

 

 

 


FROM THE CHRONICLES OF METH MOUNTAIN:
The Christmas Miracle on Meth Mountain
—Michael H. Brownstein, Jefferson City, MO

When Christmas day dawned, there were no Christmas trees, no gifts, no cookies, no glasses of milk—only small plastic bags with meth.

It's Christmas, she told her companion. Get up. Let's see what Santa sent us.

Wow, her friend said. Take a look at all of this meth.

Then he heard a scream. Turning quickly, he saw her staring into a mirror. A mirror? They never had a mirror. What's wrong?

My teeth. They're back. They're back.

And the meth degraded into water.

 

 

* * *

 

Four Found Poems by J.I. Kleinberg, Bellingham, WA:

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                                                      

     

 

 

 

 

                                                                                                                                      

WHITE SHADOWS
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India

Keeping a score is a nuanced way
One two three for every chore
Morning tea sugars milk
One liquid one pound one gallon
Prefixes and suffixes for everyday
Coming and going
Homeberries holiday retreats winters
For the bride of bridges
Worlds collide upon the lightness
In darkness there's an ocean fold clothes
Embers Ashes evening namesake
A beatitude of quietly elegant musk rose
Her twopence basket holds nutshell
Little animals of simplicity
Like water like wind takes up spaces around
A knife-edged barred silhouette
Mudslides of diamonds and rusty patches
Winters and evenings
Delights keeping the purse open for queue
Questions drop open
Little girl's snowflakes snowmanship
Crafty simple art
An orange peel melting pot cooking jar
National anthems parades paraded paths
The evening lights take shape
Oval-shaped nights northern ferry
Cards cares locations inroads insides
Out of suffixes out of prefixes
Keeps borders out
Beyond the white-washed agedead
Sprung open the bluebird wind
The white lake fire
Awakening of the evening light
My fingers into white shadows. 

 

 

 

 

FOLDER EMPTY
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

looked up what poems my
computer had listed for
Monday’s publication

“This folder is empty”

I knew just what the device
was feeling, there are broader
and broader moments in time
that just seem lacking in any

poetry

we selected or elected our
best choices to lead us through
the challenges of our day, and
rewarded them with top salary,
benefits, perks, golden parachutes
only to learn too late they were

corrupt

politicians, police, fiduciaries, men
of the cloth, you name it, as soon as
they have earned our trust, they
violate our most beloved principles,
shielding themselves in the innocent
colloquy of serving higher goals

pretending

to be exactly what we want them to
be, but then following the same path
as the drunken limo driver who killed
a carful of teenage drivers, whose
parents had thought they had made
the right choice to get them home

safely

 

 

 

 

 

PHOENIX AT SOLSTICE
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

Pat me on the head.
Tell me I’m a good boy.
I need social approval
To validate my being.
Throw sacrificial offerings
Into yawning chasm’s Void.

Tell me virtue
Defends me from
Catastrophe
Though the castle’s burning, free.

Help me to descend,
Then rise again.
Tell me the Phoenix
Is reborn
Like every other
Sacrificial offering
Ever cast into
The chasm of the Void. 

 

 

 

 

LOVE IS EARLY
—Joe Nolan

There is love
Beneath varnish and paint.

There is love
Between sinner and saint.

There is love
Across our shining universe.

It rings true
And gives us peace,
Even though
Our wars
Will never cease.

We find it in
The loyalty of dogs.
We find it in the brightness
Of a child’s eyes.

Though we sometimes worry
And think low,
Love is early
And touches you
In ways you’d never know.

 

 

 

 

 

Today’s LittleNip:

Hope is the elixir of Life:
We’re dreaming and dreaming
Because of our hope.
Everything is going to be tickety-boo
Because hope is a placebo.
 
The world is filled with sea of people
But there is a drought of hope.
The river of hope irrigates the soul
And nurtures our dreams. 

—Shiva Neupane, Melbourne, Australia

___________________

 

 

 

 

 

Merry Day-After-Christmas, or as citizens of the UK designate it, Boxing Day. Sorry to be late today; plumbing emergency on this, our 40th wedding anniversary...

 

Lots of poetic talk of Bells today, our Seed of the Week. (Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.) Stephen Kingsnorth has written about lots of types of bells. To most people living outside London, the term Cockney simply means a Londoner, but traditionally, to be known as a “true” Cockney, you have to be born within earshot of the Bow Bells from the Church of St Mary Le Bow in Cheapside, the East End of London. Stephen writes, “It has just dawned on me, thinking of London churches, Cockneys being defined as born within the sound of...etc., this pic ought to be titled 'The Sound Of Bow Bells’…!” Oh, Stephen—are we to end the year with such harsh puns? Is that the bellwether of things to come?

J.I. (Judy) Kleinberg re-joins us today with bells, also—welcome back, Judy! She has sent “Found” poetry, which is her specialty. See www.writersdigest.com/personal-updates/found-poetry-converting-or-stealing-the-words-of-others AND/OR poets.org/glossary/found-poem for more about the Found poem.

Want to be considered for Cabrillo College’s Journal X’s 3rd edition? Send your poems, stories, memoirs, essays, photos, and art to https://www.cabrillo.edu/journal-x/ by Dec. 30.

Sacramento Poetry Center remains closed for the rest of the year, so no reading tonight; in-person readings will return on Jan. 9, with Anthony Xavier Jackson and Max West plus open mic, music, and refreshments. And Luna’s Cafe will have no Poetry Unplugged Open Mic this Thursday, either. In other words, no NorCal readings or workshops this week, at least that I know of. As always, please let me know if you hear of any.

And in the meantime, catch up on a little reading (and writing!) of your own…

____________________

—Medusa, wishing you a wonderful Kwanzaa  (https://www.officialkwanzaawebsite.org/index.html/). Habari gani? 

 

 

 

 “Hope is the elixir of Life…”


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
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