Deliberate Poetry

—Photo by Ann Privateer

IN THE ROUGH
—Ann Privateer, Davis

Broken glass confetti
gleams in gravel
along the railroad tracks

a persistent whistle
the tumbling sound
of wheels far off

remind me of a man
I knew whose fantasy
was to make love

in the underpass
as a train sped
overhead.

The Doppler effect
the rise, crescendo, and fall
screeches past.

My English teacher said,
end your story with a train
wreck; me, I like smashed glass.
 

____________________

STORM BIRDS

—Taylor Graham, Placerville

The clouds use their own language, speaking down
to Blackbird peck-pecking at scraps from street
to gutter. First-rain splatters on the town,
sets tin-roof crows to flying. Drops repeat
on ripple-sidewalk, multiplying feet
running for shelter. Images transform
with every shudder of ionic storm,
and then lightning leaves just one sudden trace
that brightens into clearing. Sun-rays swarm,
Blackbird so briefly rainbow-touched with grace.

Ceramic Plate poem

Collaboration between Viola Weinberg and 
Stephen Dean Holsapple
[Click/pic to enlarge]

VAGUE
—Olga Blu Browne, Sacramento

How long is a moment?
How far away is time?

Distance is the soul of
forgiveness.

Where memories are vague
and soft as the night's breeze.

____________________

LOST IN WORDS
—Olga Blu Browne
 
Love does not remember me,
locked in time, lost in words.

Told of shadows and the shape
of death...

Memory is the key to a soul
that dwells in yesterday.

____________________

DELIBERATE

—Olga Blu Browne

Merely another memory, etched
in pen.

Deliberate thoughts, deliberate
poetry.

Softly whispered into the
universe.

Silence broken, breath is the
sacrifice. SHsssss.

(first pub. in Brevities)

___________________

Our thanks to today's contributors! The ceramic plate poems are from a series of Viola Weinberg's called "How Love Turned Out"—short poems (20 words) on the theme; then the plates were done in collaboration with artist Stephen Dean Holsapple. Interesting, yes?

Thanks also to Trina Drotar for the tip about Mary Mackey's PEN Oakland award (see the green board at the right of this). Trina writes that she will be performing a story about food, along with several other Sacramento writers (including Mary Ellen Burns) tonight at The Avid Reader Sacramento, 7pm. A story about food... Hmmm...

Tomorrow is a busy poetry day; be sure to check out the blue board (below the green board) for a look at the readings you have to choose from.

__________________

Today's LittleNip:

Pottery, like fine poetry, cannot age.

—B.Z. Niditch

__________________

—Medusa

Ceramic Plate poem

Collaboration between Viola Weinberg and 
Stephen Dean Holsapple

[Click/pic to enlarge]

Too Much Mood Music

INEQUITY
     (After Franz Marc: Woman
      in the Wind by the Sea, 1907)

The woman in the green coat
wrestles with her hat
and balance—
forcing her way
through the storm.
The winds
conspire to torment.
The blue sea gathers
more force
against the shore.
She struggles so—
her arms in a flail
—tearing at the air,
howling into the howling—
as if some fight she fights
would have it out with her.

___________________

OLDER THAN PAIN

So early they go
shoulders hunched low
under their umbrellas,
silhouettes of November,
stalking the morning
like martyrs in the rain,
walking carefully
(slower than I would go)
holding their ancient,
spined and wide-curved
shelters
skillfully
against the wind.
Old women
know how to walk in storm;
they hold to a daily habit
like a kept word,
walking like old religion
into such element as
the stubborn errands of the mind.
(I go by whim and season,
choosing my whether.)
So early they go,
holding their dark umbrellas low
over their shoulders,
grim mothers of remember, older
than pain, moving like revenants
through the penetrant rain
of this gray weather.

                           
(first pub. in EPOS, 1967)

__________________

THE WINTER LOVE

That day there was a storm—a quarrel
of sky and sea—a division of force.

The clouds broke, the rain blew down—
churned under, and belonged to the sea.

The sea gathered and rose into the sky,
but there was no taming of either.

We walked along that shore to feel the
fury—answer our moods, our silence—

building now to the clash of power:
one fed the other, the whole winter of us,

daring—and uncaring of outcome.
This was a love to the finish.

THE BLUE GULL
(After a photograph by Robin Perry)

The sun becomes a black hole. 
A small blue gull flies over the sun.

The sea and sky
reach toward each other.

A gold band of light between
prevents the sun from falling into the sea.

A buoyant force
prevents the gull from being drawn into the sun.

The day rebels. 
A storm is building.

The sea agitates.
The band of light broadens.

Bits of gold light fleck the subsiding motion
of the sea.

Only the unaffected blue gull remains
to reinvent the dying universe.

                                               
(first pub. in The Bellowing Ark, 2007)

____________________

MOOD MUSIC

Too much music for the mood—
sonorous, as though through rain.

And why connect music to rain?
And why storm for emphasis?

There is no sense of premonition.
What mood controls this?

You are trembling like a leaf in
rain-light—too beautiful to watch

from melancholy—that cold window.

____________________

WISHING ON STARS

I shall not measure
this night again.
It loved its own storm.
It was wild and loud.
It broke at my house
with my power.
All my fear of it is gone,
gone like the bad dream
wakened from.
I shall not save one piece of it.
Something new is here.
It is quiet and calm.
I have one hour of darkness left
which is all mine.

*       *       *       *       *       *

Six stars are missing from the sky.
The train has cracked them
where they fell
on moonlit tracks.
                           

(first pub. in Halftones to Jubilee, 1989)

__________________

Today's LittleNip:

THE DESIRE TO BECOME A STORM       
        (After The Desire to Become a Storm
        by Armando Roche Rabell)

I push through barrier after barrier with my life
which is crowded with intention and failure.

I am huge; I fit everywhere, for I am forceful;
I am my own jungle of resistance.

Trees crowd into me—
challenge my right to be among them.

I push them aside.
As long as I am strong I can do this.

At night I sleep among
the sleeping trees.

Each morning
we begin again.

__________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Master Chef Joyce Odam for today's mushrooms (toadstools?) and other fine fare about The Perfect Storm.

Our new Seed of the Week is Traces: whether it's footprints in the sand, a door slamming behind you, the horse thief in your family tree... we all leave traces, yes? Tell us about them in poems or photos or art and send the results to kathykieth@hotmail.com

Where is Shelter?

—Photo by Taylor Graham

CABIN IN THE WOODS

—Taylor Graham, Placerville

From under the rug, or deeper, a sound
like crying. Almost a moan-song, as pine trees
make in a hard wind, or when they hear
chainsaws bringing down a brother.

The crying, intermittent but not ending,
came from underneath—a subterranean den
was weeping. Today I found barefoot
prints in mud, or maybe hands; studded

with tidy claws; digit-stubs reaching forward.
Forlorn in gravel that used to be
dirt road. Soon to be paved. Can we
sit here peacefully at home when under us

the pinewood floor keeps moaning like
a memory? A chord, maybe voice of bear
and pine tree united in plaint. You checked
the front door—nothing there walking,

creeping, flying. A flurry of leaves, filled
with nothing but light.  How long
shall we live here, before we build something
bigger, tighter, impervious to crying?

_____________________

DOG ART

—Taylor Graham

She made a picture with her breath
which drew in ridges and canyon, the scent
of a small boy lost from yesterday,

small boy in jeans, blue cotton T-shirt
(can dogs smell color?), 3 yr-old

waiting invisible except as she inhaled
his image, lifted her muzzle higher
in the fitful breeze to fix the outline of his

wandering (adjust for contours, updrafts,
chiaroscuro of sun and shadow)—

it only took an instant, as her handler
checked the map. With her breath she drew
a small boy crying for his mother.

_____________________

LONG UNDERWEAR
—Caschwa, Sacramento

Fall is a chasm between seasons
collecting the decaying leaves of
Summer fun and offering only
glossy photos of Winter sports

it harshly descends on the valley
floor like drunken sailors
crashing into port relieving
their bladders everywhere

warm and friendly lasts
no longer than cheap whiskey
soon everything is
drenched in heartache

sunrise becomes an abstract,
just one printed word in the
almanac thickly surrounded by
pages and pages of cloud facts

heavy trousers reluctantly extend
their fabric to the toes while
if they had their druthers
they'd be cozy cutoffs

Layers and layers of shirts and
coats and sweaters and vests
and ascots and headgear
hide the child within

who sits fidgeting in the dim light
of church windows stained by Fall
so very much wanting rather to be
out rolling in the mud.

 —Photo by Evan Myquest

SHORE
—Patricia Hickerson, Davis

say goodbye to what we knew
the rills and inlets have changed
they are wandering in new directions
the ocean is there
the beach, yes
the houses are gone
pretty much
and we are left to wonder why
the new geography    

____________________

THE DANCER IN THE FLOODED SUBWAY

—Patricia Hickerson

the dancer
under the weather from drink
trips down the stairs
to the subway
not noticing water
ducks under the turn style
with a wink at the change booth
bounds along the platform
throws his hat toward the tracks
whirls around the post
smiles at the red head in the change booth
shouts at the sounds of incoming rain
which he has mistaken for a train bound for South Ferry
what? no trains today?
well I’ll be an idiot! that red head was just a mirage?   

_____________________

SEASHELLS BY THE SEASHORE

—Shawn Aveningo, Rescue

Heloise walks the beach,
remembers her first time,
holding a black cherry
ice-cream cone in one hand
her daddy’s hand in the other,
eyes popping at the enormity
of a Ferris Wheel.

She spies a mirror in the sand,
floating away from the fun house.
Reflections skewed anew,
distorted beyond shape shifters
and laughter.

She picks up a nautilus
holds it to her ear, hoping to hear
the roar of the ocean subsiding,
replaced perhaps by Sandy’s whisper
showing her the way home.

_____________________

NOV. 3, 2012

—B.Z. Niditch, Brookline, MA

Waking up early,
stopped working out
to fill out a birthday card
for my good friend, Dan
the director of my plays,
turned on the film,
"Black Sun"
about a Japanese guy
in love with Monk
and other jazz greats,
then another
black and white movie
this in Italian
"White Angel"
about the Madonna's
help to a suffering man
and a nun who prays in
a miracle,
then striking at noon
Medusa
has D.R. Wagner's poems
about Monk and the Madonna,
I call CC. my Chinese friend
to go with me to church
and she says to me, "BZ,
there are no coincidences
in this life,
only God incidences,"

Dan will celebrate
at a Chinese restaurant
called "The Kitchen"
then go to Giovanni's
in the North End
for dessert.

_____________________

SEEKING HARMONY

—B.Z. Niditch

Dissonant rain
of voices
as the dusk
sun sinks in the west
before my eyes,
I move a mountain
of falling words
on my mind's blanket
with a thousand glances
over my shoulder
as an avalanche
of thoughts
rumble at the moon
murmuring against tomorrow's
eruptions of volcanoes.
 

____________________

Today's LittleNip:

DECASTICH #1

—Michael Cluff, Corona

apwormsple

___________________

Our thanks to today's contributors, including Shawn Aveningo, who will be reading at Time Tested Books with Poetica Erotica (poetica-erotica.com) this Thursday. Scroll down to the blue board at the right of this for details of that and other readings this week.

On the way past our green board, though, stop and stroll around and have a look at the Forms to Fiddle With. Last week we were talking about the Decastich, and Michael Cluff came up with the ultimate one (see Today's LittleNip). If you ever need an example of a form, by the way, go to The Desolation Poems by Sacramentan Jan Haag (janhaag.com/PODesIntro.html), which includes an example of almost every form you can think of. Jan will be releasing her new book at Sac. Poetry Center tonight (see the blue board). Check out her website at janhaag.com/index.html for more about her needlepoint, her poetry, and more.

—Medusa

—Photo by Evan Myquest

Like the Arabs

—Photo by Viola Weinberg, Kenwood

THE DAY IS DONE
—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me
That my soul cannot resist:

A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavor;
And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music
And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.

________________________

—Medusa

Playing the Seasons

Nature Transformation

A WEEPING

There was crying coming from under
The rug or so it seemed like it
Was coming from under the rug

Or someplace that had that muffled
Quality something that’s under
A rug would have if one had
To weep from such a place.

It was a forlorn sound that
Carried memories in it like pine
Trees carry their pine cones.

Every once in awhile some of them

Would break off and roll toward
The door.  After awhile there
Was quite a pile of these sounds
And they began to disturb our
Conversation.  When we opened
The door these sounds escaped
But we could still hear the crying.

Now it wasn’t coming from under
The rug any longer.  Now it
Was us crying, confused that we
Were unable to understand
How this room had become
This way when we were in it
For such a short period of time.

____________________

I GOT RHYTHM CHANGES

In playing jazz if is often possible
To call out a set of changes
Known to most players to identify
The progression of a particular
Composition.  These changes are

Shorthand information easing
Complexity and allowing more
Freedom to use the melodic information
To greater advantage in improvising
The structures that give jazz its name.

It turns out that plants and animals
Share a lot of the same chords.  We
Share great sets of changes with trees,
For instance.  We probably can create
Similar dances or incorporate ways of gaining
Attention that are familiar to both trees and ourselves.

As this information moves through life forms,
More and more living things become players
In a great orchestra.  We can all read music.
We constantly sing songs to one another.
We are reminded of intimate experiences
By falling rain or a flurry of leaves across
An Autumn day.  There is little that is really
Strange to us.  Perhaps a sequence of blooming
In the Spring is quite similar to a melody by
Thelonious Monk, perhaps Ellington can tell
Us about leaf structures with a particular horn
Line, perhaps Willow Weep for Me is really
A directive.  Perhaps we actually play the seasons
In their turning, watching how the bridge finds
The melody once again, trading choruses with
Bird songs, not feeling foolish as we do so, an ensemble.

_______________________

KING OF THE HILL
            a tale from the hills

Oh down the far fire down
He flew and caught the crust
Of the morning
And hauled it up on ropes.

Pulled it up beyond all hope
And stood fast at the time
Of the dawning.

And none took him down
And none wore the crown
That he seized from the varlet
McTavish.  He close-clubbed his
Head and he left him for dead
Then he made for the devils, for table.

And it was there that they found him
With foam at his mouth
With ten hundred men dead around him.

For he won, stopped the sun
Broke the back of the Hun
Stopped his herds, for the dawn
Afore it knew it was breaking.

Now that is the reason we
Build fires here and push
Them from the cliff of the mountain.

For he strove to be king
Over all that would sing
Any song other than
Sweet God’s fountain.

Clouds Using Their Own Language

BLACK MADONNA
            The Book of Little Past III

Today I had to watch the rain.
I made a picture with my breath
And a song to the Black Madonna.
I watched her lean out past
Her shrine and move this
City to wave and pulse and lift
And fail and show its insides
To the plains, to the plains,
To the rivers, the mountains,
The sea, until there was little
Remaining, then off she went
To the rain she went and the
The thrill of her fury was
Unlike anything else and the vision
I saw was but fragments.
Still it covered the rain and its
Fountains and looked past my breath.

I had to watch the rain.
I made a picture with my breath.
It worried all without fear
Or faith and returned the ring
To the warriors, returned it all
To the warriors. 

____________________

THE DARKENER: RING AROUND THE ROSY OH

And so the Darkener came and placed his hands
In those of the Sickener and so they resumed
Their trek to destruction.  And also so as tales
Go, they found a flea to carry their torture.

And it’s Ring around the rosy oh, the fever pitch
The crazy bitch that chases its tail in destruction
A pocket full of posies go as round the ring the
Dancers go, scratch at the fleas and think no more
But ashes, ashes, they all fall down.  And the Quickner,
And the baker and the glad undertaker go round the ring
Again for children playing, go past the reaper grim and
All for playing, playing, playing.  And all in fun for playing.

_______________________

THE STAIRS

We had been wandering far below
The basements, not knowing hurry,
Never suspecting morning may have
Been one of the borders we had lost
Count of as we plied our way to staircases
Leading ever downward below
Loss, below memory, where darkness
Comes to find its champions
And water is dark, dark,
Having forgotten its origin.  We listen
To its body dripping, a spectral
Rider in a great emptiness.

We have no real hope of returning.
We had resigned ourselves to the museum
Time orders behind our eyes
While we find a failing peace
In walking these stairs, not knowing
Why we do so or when it must end.

How very like a damned curse a place
Like this can become as wandering
Becomes the only story.

We sit for awhile upon a landing
Totally surrounded by stairs and
Stairs, and stairs, believing this is the
Story of the world we are telling.

We hasten onward perpetually,
Always expecting dawn or thinking
We will eventually come to a great
River that will divide the night,
Fill us with courage and
Allow us to find an afternoon
In a totally empty hall
Filled with nothing but light.

_____________________

Today's LittleNip:

NOT MISUNDERSTANDING

As he spoke we began to realize
That his words had no meaning
When he said them next to each other.

We knew what the words were
But they were not spoken around other
Words that could help them
Have much meaning.

We thought that this was strange
At first and tried to help
By hooking the words up to other
Words that seemed to work,
But that just made things worse.

It was just like life for things
To be this way we decided
And we just let him talk
About whatever was on his mind.

____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to D.R. Wagner for today's poems and pix

Lost and Found

—Photo by David Iribarne

PARADISE

—David Iribarne, Sacramento

So often I dream of living in my poetry
where I find out something
that I would not have known
had I not been there.
Where I find beauty,
rhyme and reason,
sometimes no reason.

I am in a world where there is
passion, love, and peace nestled
in despair, conflict and sorrow.
My troubles don’t seem so impossible
because this is where I want to be.

I would never be lonely
I could paint so many colors
so many different images
I am in control of my destiny

I am my ruler.

It is my world
I hear my words
I control the tone
I am the maker
and the writer.
I can make my letters come into play.

Yes, I want to live
and breathe in my poetry
where everything is deeper and
you are forced to read between the lines

I mean so much more—
everything has more weight
because all of it has so much meaning.

When I dive into my poetry
it is refreshing, never dry
things are bright and ever colorful
all the language is so sweet
decadent and fulfilling
because of the limitless feelings that exist.

So often I dream
of living in my poetry
Constantly being my own instrument
my own muse, my own creativity.

_____________________

AFTERSHOCK

—David Iribarne
 
My father’s head, I stare at it.  I look at the many scars, scabs that on his head.  His head is ever so rough to touch never smooth.  His life also has turned rough.  As if he did not have enough to weigh on his head now it is sensitive to touch, cancerous.  So much now his days resemble my mother’s before her death.  He is brittle with so much going on—dialysis, they drain the toxins—sometimes too little, other times too much.  A defibrillator to aid his heart, shocking him when it does not beat the right way.  Causing earthquakes in his body.  My mother broke too slowly much the same way. When she contracted cancer the second time, she lost strength from radiation.  Ached at every turn.  Appetite dwindled.  She would often count down the days much like my dad does.  One breast missing, much more missing though.  She wondered what to do with her free time.  My dad does too watching reruns on the tube, trying to act interested.  She slimmed down unwillingly much like my dad has now.  My dad breathes, pulling it from the very depths of his stomach just as my mother did.  I look at my father’s head again, studying the bandage that covers the wound.  I question why he has to go through so much pain.  Why they drain, why the earthquakes, and really what is it all for?  Why prolong when there is no quality of life—he will often ask me this.  A question I struggle to answer.  My mother had to endure so much and now my father too.  I put my hand to his face.  It is cold, swollen. He grimaces, asking me to be careful as I try comfort him.  Can you imagine?  How do you carefully comfort someone?   I go to pull away and he pulls my hand back.  “I didn’t mean for you to not touch me, it’s just difficult, seems like pain is ever reverberating through my body.  Please stay near, your touch is comforting.”  I ask him, “How do you do it?  How do you deal with pain?”  He laughs—even that I can tell is difficult.  “I don’t think about it.”   I look at the mantel holding the many pictures of the grandchildren and I think he must of think of them when the pain comes.  He must want to be strong for them.  Ever so positive, my father is just like my mother.  Never asking why, though here I am asking.  These questions come alive on the anniversary of my mother’s death.

Fire

—Photo by David Iribarne

LOST AND FOUND
—David Iribarne

In the last years of his life,
my father lost so much,
death was fast approaching
and I had to gain much time with him.
None of it could be wasted.

My father’s strength was waning
I wanted our relationship to build
and grow, so often I would watch
television with him;
it was what he had enough energy for.

My father, like me,
did not appreciate a lot of the “trash”
as he put it, on television,
but there were a few shows
that were worth watching.

Clever shows,

ones that valued a good story
kept the viewer intrigued and interested
were the ones he gave his time to.
His brain was still sharp and intact
it was one of the few parts of his body
that could be challenged.

We watched a few shows together
but one was an oddity for both us.

Numb3rs, a show about two brothers,
one an FBI agent and the other a math genius.
They teamed together to solve crimes.
The numbers wiz used math to predict
where a killer may strike next or why;
he or she picks a pattern of crimes.

Numb3rs was an unusual love
because I detested math
my father also wasn’t
a lover of logistics.

Neither of us had an affinity for the
wiz brother’s passion. Many different
criminals and crimes are not
what peaked our interest either.

Rather, it was the bond shown between the brothers.
Their never-ending differences that
through time became similarities
fortifying their connection between one another.

Seven years this show lasted
seven years of a resilience

an ever-growing durability.

At the start of the show,
my father and I knew little about math and logistics.
At the end, I doubt we knew much more,
but over that seven years I gained so
much of a deeper union with my father.

Expressions tightened
solutions more adaptable
increased rapport between one another
respect between us extended
knowledge expanded.
Our time not wasted but gained.

_______________________

Today's LittleNip:

A POET'S POEM
—Olga Blu Browne, Sacramento

Literary lovers, or a poet's
journey.

   I hear the clouds
   I see the silence
   I feel the words
   I taste the ink

I wear these memories
a poet's journey.


(prev. pub. in DADs DESK)

_______________________

—Medusa, with thanks to today's cooks! By the way, be sure to go to www.sacbee.com/2012/10/31/4949970/lucky.html to see Bob Stanley's "Lucky: Ode to the Giants" which appeared in Wednesday's Sacramento Bee. (And thanks to Pat Pashby for the heads-up on this one—I missed seeing it in the Bee.)

David Iribarne at the Rancho Cordova 

 Late Peaches anthology release in October

with Laura Martin, Luisa Morco, April Peletta. 

By the way, there will be another Late Peaches release 

at CSUS next Thursday; scroll down 
to our blue board for details.

[For another photo of David, go to Medusa's latest

Facebook album, "Halloween at SPC with 916Ink"]

Powers Beyond Imagination

Before the Lights Went Out

—Photo by Taylor Graham

SEEING IN THE DARK 

—Taylor Graham, Placerville

Tonight the wind is a runaway train
set to music with kettle drums en masse.
Tonight our bosses are kitchen knife and
can opener, flashlight and water jug;
and the crown-royalty we'd bring back from
exile, snowplow and city power grid.
Tonight we decorate the dark with scraps
scissored from the memories of life before
the lights went out; amazed to find there is
something new, this night of a perfect storm.

______________________

AFTER ALL THAT RAIN
(sonnenizio on a line by Patrick Kavanaugh)

—Taylor Graham

The bright stick trapped, the breeze adding a third
voice to the water-flow that sticks on curves
of bank to make an eddy—sticks a-swirl
with dead leaves sticking to our slicker-legs.
One stick, stuck aslant, can plug a culvert,
with mud, grass, and leaves for sticking-plaster.
One stick can stop the flow; creekwater pools
across the road. And we are stickit, stuck.
We stick and prod with shovel and rake as
if to move water. But we lack stiction.
We might as well be armed with sticks and stones
and swear-words. “Stick that, you storm!” is useless.
But stick-to-itive we are, together—

two stick-figures taking on the weather.

—Photo by Taylor Graham

PEACE-KEEPING
         for Taco
—Taylor Graham

A guest has let her tabby loose in our
house—hissing standoff with our black cat. Dog
nudges himself between, and stares them both
down. He knows what's allowed. Later,
guest-cat gone, he finds his black cat sleeping
on the bed. He stands atop her, mouthing
her, ever-so-gently, on the head. She
purrs, until he presses a bit too hard.
She shrieks. He sighs, takes an old stuffed teddy
by the ear, shakes its life out. That's allowed.

____________________

ALMIGHTY

—Caschwa, Sacramento

The ground trembles
beneath my feet
as I ascend to my
rightful place
among the gods

soon I will be
seated on my throne
scepter in hand
unleashing powers
beyond imagination

hold everything!
I don't see my car,
did I take the
wrong escalator
again?

___________________

Thanks, TG and CS, for today's potpourri! Carl Schwartz (Caschwa) is his usual clever self, and Taylor Graham is tackling our Forms to Fiddle With, "stictly" speaking, and our other various SOWs. (Remember the SOW-Pic with the cats sitting on the dog?)

It's a busy day and night for poetry readings in our area. Be sure to watch the blue board at the right for all the details.

In the good news department, Primal Urge is back in publication; see primalurgemagazine.com/primalurge—and subscribe! Busy Editor Dave Boles is also opening his Tea Room Gallery in Grass Valley; Grand Opening is Saturday, Nov. 10, 2pm. That's 102 S. Church St., Grass Valley. He writes: Come check out the art of BODHI ART and the insane world of Dave and the rest of his inhabitants. It's going to be sweet.

Another local editor, Carol Louise Moon, is pictured (along with Michelle Kunert) down at the bottom of this post. (Well, sort of pictured...) Michelle has sent us photos of Sac. Poetry Center's Halloween Benefit for 916Ink which took place last Monday night, and we've posted them in a new album on Medusa's Facebook page. Check it out! Carol edits DADs DESK, Sacramento's only large-print poetry journal; the latest issue, Vol. 12, is available at The Book Collector or from Carol Louise at 537 41st St. #6, Sac. ($2). 

Speaking of editors, Ekphrasis Co-Editor Laverne Frith has a new website: see lavernefrith.com. His poet wife and co-editor Carol Frith set this up herself, though she claims no website expertise. It's remarkable these days how easy it is to do these sites, and every poet needs one. Get yerself going on yours, and when it's done, be sure to let Medusa know about it so we can post it on our Poet-to-Poet section down there near the bottom of our blue board. (By the way, Happy Birthday today, Carol! Happy Birthday also to Richard Hansen of Poems-for-All, Book Collector and Ophidian fame! And the Fall/Winter issue of Ekphrasis is now available; order it at www.ekphrasisjournal.com)

__________________

Today's LittleNip:

ETTER STEALING

—Caschwa

Did you know there is a
Vexillological Society?

To come up with that name
they had to borrow
parts of other words:

So now one has to
saute the fag
in pubic paces

_________________

—Medusa

Carol Louise Moon and Michelle Kunert

Check out Medusa's newest album on Facebook!