Holding Heaven's Map

 

—Poetry by Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

A SHIMMERING
      a pantoum

High in the sky a shimmering
in wakes of a million wistful wishes,
as people pray both day and night
hoping every word is heard.

In wakes of a million wistful wishes,
we speak as if there were a God
who listens, hears our every word
in sun-edged lighting of a cloud.

You speak as if there were a God,
dear heart. And you believe there is
in silvered edges of a cloud,
mystical and other worldly.

Dear heart, you believe there is
a portal where one kneels and waits,
mystical and other worldly,
where one is handed heaven’s map—

a portal where you count and wait.
When your anticipation flares
you are holding heaven’s map,
watching stars encircle darkness.

Again, anticipation flares
past life on earth, and now you kneel
as stars enliven total darkness…
High in the sky a shimmering.

 

 

 

 

EVENING POND

A harvest
moon
shimmers
over ripples
of  
concentric
circles
a
pebble
dropped
by a
sleepy
child.

 

 

 

 

A RAINY DAY, THIRD GRADE

Our teacher brings us
a large butterfly
stunned by raindrops.

We watch in awe as
she places her rescue on a
windowsill . . . .  While we learn

history, mysteries of why such
and such happened, the butterfly
flies away, bequeathing us  

memory of its colors, design,
yet mostly of its flight
into freedom in a clearing sky.

 

 

 

 

A WILDERNESS  OF GRIEF                                    

I sit in a chaotic landscape
like the first grotto at Lourdes.
But I’ll not see the Lady with golden
roses round her feet, nor Bernadette
on bended knee, urging me to pray
amid the briers of this day.

Though bare trees, leaf mold,
dried grass, weeds and I prepare
a fitting place, I don’t expect
to see the Lady’s face
or feel her presence full of grace . . . .

She’ll never visit a free-reeling
rebel like me, though She may
pause a few moments, reflecting
on the Holy signs marking the day
as exceptional in their way.

From a rotting log in shadows.
I notice a lavender thistle.
So I share with it my grief
and lack of belief . . . .  A thistle
becomes as moving as She.

 

 

 

 

AFTER LINDA HOGAN*

… a grain of dust dwells
at the center of every flake
of snow…

If so, poet,
I’m eager to know,
if I wait for sun melt
or sudden rain,  
what will a dust grain show—

a mere fleck prone
to hide in a wafer of ice
a speck within an angel-food
cake morsel frosted white?

But, really, Linda,
with all of your selfless
communions with the natural,
I believe in your fleck
wherever it may be.


*Native American

 

 

 

 

A HARVEST OF WINGS

Waiting
for crows to fly
in front of the full moon’s
orb, gliding shadows to quicken
our night.

We praise
the harvest moon
for framing such a flight,
silhouetting inch-close wings in
moonlight.

 

 

 

 


“...DOGMA OF DARK BREWS”*
     
What is the dogma of colas?
And cognac? Coffee? Carafes
of dark beer & brandy?  
What of inate power in prune juice?

Vodka, varoomed from potatoes.
Spring water flowing from a mystical
mountain may not need a doctrine,
nor California milk and cream.

Cutting to the bottom line, I wonder,
what is my dogma as an elder elder,  
especially as a poet who has
adventured and served the art?

In playing with the word dogma,
I discover AM GOD. In fiddling
with its cousin tenet, I arrive  
at a palindrome. So it goes. 

 

 

*Dr. Anissa Sboui, Tunisia

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

LAKE WINGS
—Claire J. Baker

Small
dazzling
silver
wings
ride
ripples
Will they
fly off
singularly
in pairs
or as
a flock?

______________________

—Medusa, thanking Claire Baker for her fine poetry today!

 

 

 

 

For upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
in the links at the top of this page.

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
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—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!