Let's Get Moving!

 Or, As the Brits say, Moving House…
—Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa
* * *
—Poetry by Claire J. Baker, Nolcha Fox,
Stephen Kingsnorth, Caschwa, Joe Nolan,
and Sayani Mukherjee
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Joe Nolan and Medusa 

MOVING DAY HALLELUJAHS
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

This indeed is a moving day.
But I’m not going anywhere
that I cannot speak with you,
trip with you and laugh with you.

In simple words, no moving van
when we’ve a steady sailing ship
that journeys planets far and near
and hallelujahs us all the year.

So long as you and I can move
each other with salutations
and unpossessive bye-byes
wherein we settle into freedom,

we won’t need a moving van. 

 

 

 

—Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa

MOVING DAY
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

Today’s the day
I pack your books,
your grudges, mopings,
dirty clothes,
the secrets that
you kept from me,
your shadow
that won’t leave.
I’m moving on
with someone else.
You’re moving to
the trash.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

LOCATION?
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Is it location, or surround,
for those confined, by limits bound?
I always thought that place the thing,
that common ground which shared so much.
While not forgetting nature’s sounds—
new traffic, sirens do impose—
but yet it is the house-held signs
those prompts to recall down the years,
the faces, voices, laughter, tears,
companions through the closing days;
these speak as loudly as the hills.

As autumn leaves I would have books,
not so for reading, but to see,
the covers, colours, flies inscribed,
all taking stock of what, who passed.
Small bits of glass and that engraved,
the homemade gifts, me, child and mine—
those painted, carved but sweated things,
fool’s gold to those who wont for wealth.
So if it moves, it climbs the list;
if useful, merely, do without;
we’ve walls and floor, the roof intact.

And cast aways to outer space,
a few pence for some charity—
though priceless last week, lodged within.
The toughest loss, my hymnody,
Germanic upright, Kaiser age,
played less by sight as fingers, ear—
piano, key to leaving here,
that transport of delight for me.
Once seven main rooms down to six,
but now at four and more than most,
at least without the stairs to climb. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa

THE HOUSE THAT MOVED
—Stephen Kingsnorth

Told moving house a major stress,
but where the emphasis?
My relocation, focal site,
transferring home from house.
The change was of my fixed mind-set,
with salt drips reaching tongue,
half-empty cup now overflows,
I feel it in my bowels.

Never chessboard gambit, clever,
nor shift, a change of gear,
timely initiating—but
fresh rhyme, new paradigm.
Stone lintel long-divorced from wall,
each hang had its own song,
put-up-with hatch that I moaned, now
anointed without oil.

The tin bath is my jacuzzi,
gas ring my Aga range,
my outhouse mangle, laundromat,
sea shanties I sing there.
Before door shaped the bell lost flex—
but like the clapper swing;
beneath, the scraper where I tread,
soiled boots swop for my soul.

Still sat, I stare through the pained glass,
cracked, garden, easy whin,
built on dolerite foundation,
now this my box on sill.
Kites pennant, hawks stoop, thermals swoop,
vigilante cloud patrol,
while even storm petrel coastguards
serve lookout for my byre. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

TEXTURES
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

(Moving Day)

The ocean floor is basic blue
echoed by a standup double bass
playing tones better felt than heard

overlaid by the subtle honeydew
of a baritone saxophone’s winning ace
claiming spoils like a predatory bird

beneath the tides, one color becomes two
an adept flautist aptly states the case
insinuating that there is yet a third

it is odd in cold water to have such a stew
waves crash on shores like percussion in a race
bare feet may capture some of what occurred

a rainbow of colors, none absent but a few
harmonies of lower brass put smiles on the face
of an artist using brushes, but nary a word

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

FOLLOW SUIT
—Caschwa

(Dark Cave)

Sometimes, when our law
enforcement officers flash
their badges but still confront
potential resistance, they may
go the next step up and display
their gun.

bicycle riders who go out
after dark may feel the same
way when they shine their
headlight, to no avail because
just that light alone is not enough
to convince motor vehicle drivers
to avoid hitting them.

What is needed is a drastic
upgrade to that bicycle headlight
that puts out a veritable fireworks
show that can’t be so easily
ignored.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Illustration 

Courtesy of Medusa

DON’T I WISH
—Caschwa

(Just a Dream)

I wave the emperor’s scepter
and all beneath me backs
away, disintegrates
in the face of my
brave warriors of
blight and intrusion

Hey! This was easier
than I thought it would
be, hardly any work at all

Then I hear the voice
the voice that must be heard
the voice of demands
demands that must be met

“I still see that nasty ring
in the toilet. Put some muscle
into that scrubbing, then don’t
forget the tub, you’ve got a lot
more work ahead of you”

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa

HERE IS MY ANSWER
—Caschwa

In the process of completing a DIY
brain examination, I must have
inadvertently disable or removed the
photographic memory component. So
I don’t have the pool of data to answer
your questions. You can repeat your
questions using a louder voice, more
details, or different inflections, but I am
only able to give you the same answer. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Cartoon Courtesy of Joe Nolan

LET’S TALK
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

Let’s talk about religion and
Internal wisdom.

Let’s talk about
The wind and how
It blows.

Let’s talk about
International conflicts,
Reservoirs of hate
And how they grow,
Overflowing dams
Built to contain them
And let it out
Little by little
To dribble from our faucets
The better to heat our tea
For us to swallow
Sip by sip.

Let’s talk about the
Falsehood of truth—
All the things
We’re sure we know
That just ain’t so,
That jumble up
Our brain-cells
With today’s news,
We’re supposed to know
Unless you’ve just let go.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

THE DEAD-MAN’S HAND
—Joe Nolan

I could only be
The ghost of your dead father,
Who died when you were just 13,
Cast into the shadow of a man
Doing stand-in as a husband
For as long as it took
A train to crash.

Simple and complex—
Unmet needs
Playing out
Through other bodies.

Strange demands—
Crying out for Daddy
In the context of a marriage.

We couldn’t resurrect him,
Didn’t know that we were trying
Until the all-or-nothing
Was thrown down on the table—
Aces and 8's,
The “dead-man’s hand.”
How could we have known?

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

AS THOUGH WE USED TO BE
—Joe Nolan

What can I say,
My darling?
Whatever I say
Would only
Make it worse.

The pain of
Our separation,
The logic
Of an
Impending Hearse,

That carries us off
To our lying beds,
You next to me
And we
Next to each other,

Unwilling,
Though we may be,
To lie
Along
Each other,
For Eternity,
In our humble graveyard,
Where bodies are reposed,
Collect me and caress me,
As though we used to be.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

SAGAS OF LOVE AND HATE
—Joe Nolan

Your lover stands
A-knocking
Outside your patio door,
Close to your
Luscious garden.
Why won’t you
Let him in?

He never stops his knocking.
He makes a horrible din
All through the night.

Something’s not right.
If you don’t want him
You should send him
Down the road,

With grief more
Than he can carry,
Such a heavy load—
To be bereft.

It happens so often—
Walking-papers given
To lovers, suitors
And others
Who just don’t fit,

Sent away to meet
Their fate
In sagas of
Love and hate.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

LIFE
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India

A night of tremendous rain
My soul is soaked in the letters
The greenery is beautiful
Like the sunken earth
With all the daisies around
I sip life's soma in great abundance
The birds are chirping around
The girls with polka-dotted umbrellas
Clouds gather in the North Carolina
The letter has arrived
It contains your soul-deep love
Till the rain hangs overs my body
I play with life's work.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

It’s not about working hard. It’s about what we’re working hard about.

—Craig D. Lounsbrough

__________________

Our thanks to today’s poets for all they sent us (our Seed of the Week was Moving Day), and wishing all who labor a replenishing Labor Day.

 

Sacramento Poetry Center re-opens tonight with its refurbished interior and a Labor Day open mic. The new Poet News is also available online at https://www.sacpoetrycenter.org/poetnews, and it tells of many Fall events on the calendar, including readings, workshops, and publications. They're gearing up for Sacramento Poetry Week in October, and the deadline for the latest Tule Review has been extended to Sept. 16. Lots going on—check it out, both in Poet News at in Medusa's calendar at http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html/. Summer's over—it's time to get moving!  

___________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

Squirrel Moving House
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

A reminder that
Sacramento Poetry Center re-opens
tonight, 7:30pm, with an Open Mic: 

What Work Is: A Labor Day Reading.
For info about this and other
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
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