Love is a Lamb

Tuesday and mom, Freckles

—Photo by Taylor Graham

LOVERS AND THE SEA
—Taylor Graham, Placerville

Just the two of them, square dancers
without a square, clinging at the cliff-edge
so far above the breakers—waves
that seek the undercutting caves are just
a lazy pattern-rhythm of a wordless
call that sings with wind under filaments
of light as—breathless, skip-a-heart-
beat—they swing their partner as a part
of the figure: circling the square,
squaring the circle—a perfect pair
for this pivot-at-the-cliff-edge chance,
this moment of the dance.

_____________________

LOVE / RECOVERY
—Tom Goff, Carmichael

Love and convalescence find
themselves competing for the mind;
pacemakers and wheelchair races
now rule the REM state. Fairest faces,
to say nothing of embraces,
wait their turn while patient’s weak.
But soon, self-urging speech must speak.
New blood must flow, life circulate,
eclipsing all need to cogitate
why potion or pain sat throned and orbed.
The pitying party self-absorbed
(leave took from the heart’s peculiar banquet)
relearns to dine on a not so bland diet.
His thoughts reshape towards this end,
to love those who upon him tend.
As whales do burst to breathe and breach,
he seeks relief. Will it be sweet reach
of hand to tender hand and touch?
Return of love for love is much;
he hopes to repay that largest share
lavished by that same wife whose care
Barbados with softly caressing air.
Of couples, wives are the truest royals;
husbands the humbler household loyals.

____________________

ST. VALENTINE'S DAY
—B.Z. Niditch, Brookline, MA

We heard a rumor
in the city
new cards
for love
change hands
more rapidly
now than ever,
with so many
bittersweet dreams,
memorable occasions
uncovered by name
in this unshaven
cosmetic time,
here's my sentiment
and heart talk,
for you,
you remember us
as we acknowledge you
in cards, poems, roses
and assorted chocolates,
calling out to our mates,
spouses, partners, 
for heaven's sake
whatever your gift is
please arrive safely
at our back doors
on time.

___________________

PLATH'S LAST FEBRUARY 14TH
—B.Z. Niditch

Half listening
to your amanuensis
of another script
inside your card
of unguarded moments
I know Valentine's Day
dares us to believe
that love chills us
to dare the future
will be less solitary,
as we poets forget
the cynic inside
and every comical
outside feeling
of abandonment
and isolating desire,
you hold your card
in Cambridge's logs
to the uneasy fire.

Wednesday

—Photo by Taylor Graham

 

FOR ALLIE, WHO SOMEDAY MAY EXIST

—Michael Cluff, Corona

Those days of gloom
left the room
when Allie reappeared
and warmth ever neared
the lack of something dearly missed
the brighter edges of life seldom kissed
until she blurted
"you never flirted
with me, no way
that is, not until today."
Now joys exist
weeds no long desist
the harrowing pain of isolation—
she now gives constant exaltation.

________________________

180-DEGREE MIKE

—Michael Cluff

Valentine's is a special day
when love comes out to play
petty dealings and the daily fray
disappear under its heady sway.
Please therefore, do not delay;
get your love a dainty nosegay.

If you do not, start to pray
that your amore does not go away
into another garden's aromatic sway
and possibly, just possibly be led into clay,
encrusting the heart against you who then will stray.

__________________

IF EVER
—Olga Blu Browne, Sacramento

 
If ever I loved you, I'll
cry tomorrow.

And the cradle is empty
and the rains have come.


(first pub. in DADs Desk)

__________________

WEEP
—Olga Blue Browne

Poetry, etched in pen, exposes
secrets and sins.

And shadows of rejection take me to
places you or I have never been.

Unknowing of love or joy, where dreams
weep, and the soul is left thirsty.

__________________

VALENTINES
—Patricia Pashby, Sacramento

Youthful hearts
. . . ache
. . . palpitate
. . . break
. . . rejuvenate

Aging hearts
. . . ache
. . . palpitate
. . . break
. . . defibrillate

__________________

Our thanks to today's poets and photogs! Taylor Graham's three new lambs named for days of the week continue to thrive (love is a lamb); Tom Goff celebrates his wife Nora Staklis's help in recovering from a wee bit of surgery; and BZ Niditch sends us a Valentine's greeting from the storm-ravaged East Coast (no damage to his house), as do our other four eloquent poets today. It's not too late to send us love poems, though—love is never out of style, and Love is our Seed of the Week, for which there are no deadlines. Is love a lamb for you, or a roaring lion?

Area poets will be saddened to hear, however, of the passing of Mary Zeppa's mother. Our thoughts are with you, Mary.

_________________

Today's LittleNip:

ADVICE FOR TRUE ROMANCE,
PLUS A GOOD DENTIFRICE
—Kevin Jones, Elk Grove

“Just remember, kid,” said the dentist.
“It’s just as easy to marry a rich woman
As it is a poor one.  And considering
Your teeth, I’d recommend rich.”
 

_________________

—Medusa, sending a happy, loving Valentine's Day to all of you from this most tempestuous of Gorgons!

 Thursday

 —Photo by Taylor Graham

 

Like It's Your Last

Treighton Mauldin

LIFE NOT YET KNOWN

We’ve not met 

But I know 

I love you

I can feel your head 

Nestled against 

My chest

I can smell you 

I lose myself 

In it

I can see your face 

Your dark eyes 

The family nose 

Your Mother's smile

But when you laugh 

I know you 

Because it's mine

 __________________

 

OF FRIENDS AND LOVERS

Nothing lasts in this world 

And it’s a damn good thing 

Since I manage to fuck up 

Every meaningless thing I try not to do

Even the good things, 

And trust me 

There aren’t many, 

I manage to spill, or break, 

Or irreparably disassemble

Just ask my friends 

And they will tell you 

How I’m not around 

Just ask my lovers

And they will tell you 

How I’m quick on the draw 

Just ask my family 

Actually if you see them

Just say hello for me

But make sure not to ask 

Ones who are not too close 

Because they will tell you 

I am kind, and passionate, and talented 

And we can’t have that

It’s a damn good thing 

That nothing lasts 

So that all these friends and lovers 

Don’t have to live 

With what I’ve done

______________________

LAUGHING AT THE PAST

I remember sitting with my mother, I was sixteen 

and I thought that freedom was close enough to taste, 

It was just after the sun had risen, before I went to work 

I was drinking coffee; she was drinking wine from a box 

Still drunk from the day before 

Smoking cigarettes one after the other, 

And flicking the butts into the grass 

She would tell me how she was broken, and why

The stories never matched up, or made much sense 

But I didn’t doubt that she was broken 

Because I could see it in her face, loose and gray 

with deep creases that seemed carved by unsteady hands, 

and I could smell it on her breath always reeking of liquor and 

ash
And I could hear it in her laugh

Some laughs are infectious; hers was, 

But not in a good way; her laughter spread like a plague 

Infecting my thoughts, and my dreams, and tearing them apart 

Burying herself in the destruction, and feeding on it 

like a parasite

I can hear it now, haunting me 

And feeding on my sorrow, and on my mistakes 

The ones that I make all too often, 

telling me that I'm no different from her; that I’ll always be a 

failure 

Throwing back its head, spreading its dis-ease 

And I can’t escape.

______________________
 

OUT OF THE SHOWER

And dreaming
I stood there
Naked
Facing her
Still dripping

Bottle of red wine
In my hand

“Are you going to drink
Straight from the bottle?”

I lift the bottle
Let the smooth
Crimson liquid roll
Over my tongue,
Down my throat
Warming my soul

“Classy”
She says
 I drink
What’s left of the bottle
And say not a word.

_____________________

THANK YOU

We are born Alone
And we will die Alone
I don’t remember where I heard that,
It’s true though
And we spend every moment of our lives
Looking for ways
To forget it.

Looking for ways
To forget
That none of “This”
Means anything
That none of us
Mean anything
The absurdity of life

I know it’s not original
It’s been done by all the greats

But I still look in vain
For meaning
In everything I do
Increasing my hunger
By reminding me
That I will never find it

So I’ll just keep living
Like I’ve been living
In the bottom of bottles
Falling in love, and on my face
And breaking bones
Trying to mend broken hearts

Living every day
Like it’s my last
Because I know it is.

_______________________

Our thanks to Treighton Mauldin for today's poems and pix! ‪Treighton is a true California kid, with the childhood horror story to back it up—born and raised up and down California, from the Monterey seaside to a broken-down camper in a small Sierra Nevada mountain town, and many places in between. It's safe to say that stability and conformity are words that Treighton has never known, and continues to go out of his way to avoid. Treighton now lives in Oakland with his soon-to-be wife Elena and his unruly dog Falcor; look for him at the local bars with the scummy floors. Read more at treightonmauldin.com ‬

And we have a new photo album on Medusa's Facebook page today: SPC Black History Month Reading by Michelle Kunert. Check it out!

_______________________

Today's LittleNip:

Poetry asks us to tell what lies masked within.

—B.Z. Niditch

_______________________

—Medusa

Pussyfooting

MOODY AFTERNOON WITH PIANO AND CAT

I was bored with the light falling on the piano. I wanted the music sheet to simply open—to be lazy—dwindled out and long, and play the stared-at song. And I wanted a door to close

softly—like the perfect ending to a song. But the light stayed, thick and dusty in the heavy afternoon. I was stuck in time’s slow meaning, staring at the dust on the piano. And the cat

jumped up onto the keys and walked a tune across them. I listened intently and the cat jumped down again, and I loved the cat for its disturbance on my reverie. And the light

shifted, and something moved across the room like a wet shadow, and I knew I was weeping to myself again. And the cat purred against my leg and meowed for my attention,

and the piano sank back into the wall as the hour lengthened. And I guess I could have held the mood a while longer—but it was over, and the cat won.
                                                

(first pub. in the Ina Coolbrith Anthology, The Gathering, 2005)

____________________

THE RED MIRROR

In the red mirror she glows. Candles burn around her.
The whole room flickers as her image
takes on life and mocks her.

The red glass holds her eyes—draws her in—
wavers with warning. The room seems
to burn. The glass melts.

The red cat wakens from its
its indolence—sleeps again in its circle—
on the red chair, has not seen or felt the shadows move.

She preens to the glass,
likes how the shadows move beyond her,
how when she moves,     they move,     like a dance.

___________________

IDYLLIC LANDSCAPE
(After "The Cat Decides" by Bob Girasek)

The cat loves the shadows they stir up between
them, little lost light-flickers that tease open
again—the way they show indifference—

the way they turn apart in two silences—
the cat will have nothing to do with such
grieving—no matter how trivial or tragic.

It lies in wait for fragile opportunity, waiting
for the kill—as they do with words while they
waste such a fine poetic scene to be sad in.

AIR CIRCUS:
The Lady The Girl, The White Cat, And The Juggler
(After "Circus Memories" by Michael Parkes)

The lady in the black dress and the flying red hair folds her arms and watches the blindfolded juggler from her peripheral distance. He is spinning three golden spheres of secret, after secret, after secret. She notes the approaching swans, the day-time crescent moon, and no star. The enraptured girl on the perilous ledge is entrusted to her care, and it is the lady who holds all this together by her watching. She knows that the girl—by the intensity of her own fascination—will not fall—that everything is as wondrous as she wants, so long as long as the lady keeps the cavorting juggler performing with  the hypnotic effect of her attention.
                 ~~~
The girl knows that she is never in danger, sitting on the jutting ledge of the precipice, hugging her knees and watching the blindfolded juggler keep the three golden balls in the air while the white sky-cat circles and circles the lariat, suspended like a circular platform. The sky is an endless blue. White clouds are forming like the softest of pillows. Two white swans approach on slow, slow wings toward the juggler who is forming ever-widening golden circles. As long as she sits very still and watches, the cat will not fall, the juggler will not drop a single golden ball, and the lady in the billowing black dress will hold all this all together with the power of her watching.
                 ~~~
The blindfolded juggler in his gold tights and vest leaps and prances on the thin blue air, juggling three golden spheres for the approaching swans to fly through. Paw by careful paw, the white cat pussyfoots around the floating circle of the perfectly-thrown lariat. The juggler leaps, and points his toes, and lands with one foot on the lariat, the other foot circling in the air. As long as the fierce-eyed woman in the black dress with the wild red hair keeps watching him, he will perform. He knows she’s there.

_______________________

QUIETUDE  

I would not wish for time again
to measure by with its old conditions.

All those stages. Memories that hurt—
and please. Loved ones as they were,

and me, as I was—
many times over, stage to stage.

Loose fragments—
scatterings into absolutes

and guessings . . . .
Why would I want it all again,

unbound from
ribbons of thought?

This moment
holds a siren—going by,

bedside music—
pleasant,

and the cat, 
asleep in its own dreaming.

_____________________                       
                                                                      
Our thanks to Joyce Odam for today's poems and pix as she winds up the Seed of the Week that was started by her last week. This week we may as well go for the obvious and tackle that most slippery of subjects, Love. Send your love poems, either extolling it, hating it, or somewhere in between, to kathykieth@hotmail.com

And as a final nod to our feline friends, Michelle Kunert sends us a charming link to "catios"; thanks, Michelle!: See catioshowcase.com

____________________

Today's LittleNip:

MAMA, I HAVE A CAT
—Joyce Odam

We could be sisters now, my Mama;
we are the same age now.

I sit here and talk to you in your picture—
the same age now—grinning at each other.

___________________

—Medusa

Treasures Under the Moon

Massachusetts Swans

—Photo by B.Z. Niditch, Brookline, MA

HOW THE CAT GOT ITS WHISKERS

—Patricia Wellingham-Jones, Tehama   

When the world was new
and animals forming
cat rose and stretched
her long legs. Ambled
around a countryside
full of hills and leaves.
She tried to slide
between two trunks
and into a hole in a bank
but her head got caught,
she had a dreadful time
wriggling free.
In a fine-tuning moment
whiskers sprouted
each side of her nose.
They quivered at fluttering wings,
twitched at the changing breeze,
sensed every creature passing
and measured each space. Cat
never got caught
in a tight spot again.

_____________________

CAT NEAR THE CEILING

—Patricia Wellingham-Jones      

Come, my sweet girl,
O furry friend of all delights,
owl-like perched up on the shelf,
won’t you descend from the heights?

Feather-duster clamped in your jaw,
head-swinging threat to collage and carved cat,
won’t you whistle-down to my wheedle,
O you dear whiskered brat,

and leave the books in their ranks.
Once you’re afloor, I’ll sigh thanks.

____________________

A DRIBBLE OF KIBBLE

—Patricia Wellingham-Jones      
 
It all seemed so simple
when I put out those first bits of kibble,
just feed the skinny wild kitten,
help him to thrive.

For weeks we left it like that,
kibble in a bowl near the door,
young cat stealing forth to eat
then slink away.

He started hanging around the yard,
darted if I got too close,
edged back to where he could see me.

One day I told him he felt like Patch,
we were going to be friends.
He regarded me with a solemn stare,
didn’t seem to object.

I started sitting by the food bowl
then trailed my fingers down his spine.
He shivered but hunger kept him there.

That was four years ago,
Patch no longer steals out to eat.
He owns everything in the place,
stole my heart along with the kibble.

___________________

THE NEW GUY      
—Patricia Wellingham-Jones

He became a feline version
of persona non grata
the fifth night in a row
he dragged a rat
into the house,
munched it half-way gone
and left the nasty bits
on the white carpet.

___________________

YET ANOTHER GIFT

—Patricia Wellingham-Jones

With yet another gift in his mouth
the young cat dives through the pet door,
doesn’t understand
that treasures under the moon
should stay there.

—Photo by Katy Brown, Davis

THE LOST BUT BETTER PORTRAIT?
—Michael Cluff, Corona

The Florentine woman
with the manx
also posed for
Leonardo
an hour or two before Lisa
always refused to smile
directly.
Emilia was not the best sitter;
no iota or hope of one
ever appeared in various
important parts
of the body.
But Pheralina would eclipse all human
models to shameful penumbras
just being
the animal
animus
she was.

____________________

IN A HIGHLAND GARDEN
—Michael Cluff

In the waiting evening
a snake watches bumblebees
chortling over the stung wasp.
The viper turns
and smiles
as only a demon can do
when he sees Valerie and Mario
engrossed in the other
as they move eye to eye
down a bucolic ridgeway.

___________________

COWBOY UNDER THE LATE LONESOME
—Taylor Graham, Placerville

Moon, pulling its long slow pulse
of tides—what can Cowboy, a dog,
know of schedules, phases, tables?

Sigh of breeze through leafless oaks,
and the moon, a half-sliver, shadow
of itself. Does my dog sense

there's no place for stopping in this
life? Lonesome Cowboy might be
a song for a sad guitar to sing along,

to keep from putting words to one's
own loss. Already the old moon
disappears behind trees. It's leaving.

Is the moon tonight so lonesome,
it goes seeking through the dark
where an earthbounder can't go?

____________________

AGOUTI:
—Taylor Graham

Shade of the shape-shifter, each guard-hair variegated, eggshell white to dun and tipped with black, a brush to sketch a spoor in dim-before-dawn that disappears in light. It leaves behind the gutted lamb, mother-ewe calling for her child. Agouti, color of coyote. At dawn I walk the north corner with my dogs, scouting for coyote, making sure my sheep are safe. Down to the creek, tracing it up the wild rock way. Agouti, color of my young dog who ranges bright-eyed over our borderland, on guard. When the sheep are home again at bedtime, I brush her coat, each maculate sable hair a puzzle. Agouti. She sheds questions all over the house.

____________________

MARKET
—Taylor Graham

She keens on the edge of wishing open-air
cinnamon, nutmeg and ginger heady as love
keens the edge of saying “No” to spice smelling
young as stories told
old as generations this rich dust on the tongue
bargaining arguing shoppers step over spilled
blood spoiled milk at the edge
what keeps living without wishing fragrance
so dear it stings
as it clings. The singed mouth sings.

___________________

Our thanks to today's contributors; lots of animals today. Patricia Wellingham-Jones sends us cat poems for our SOW; some of Taylor Graham's poems were triggered by D.R. Wagner's last Saturday. (Do you know the word, "agouti"?) B.Z. Niditch was not swept away by the storms that hit the East Coast, and he sends us some swans to go with Katy Brown's other bird pix. And Michael Cluff sends us a variety of critters, including another poem about his beta (fish).

Annie Menebroker's daughter, Sue McElligott, will be having her first art showing, "Inspired by Music", from Mar. 5-April 1 at the Nevada City Box Office (at the Miners Foundry) in Nevada City. See minersfoundry.org/inspired-by-music

Some new venues that are accepting poetry are listed in the green box at the right of this. Check them out, and don't be shy about submitting to them—some are local, some small, some bigger and more highfalutin'. The more you send out, and the greater variety of journals, the better your chances. Hint: I understand the Cal. Fed. of Chaparral Poets bi-monthly theme contests are always in need of more submissions. Jump on it!

___________________

Today's LittleNip:

LEVELS
—Michael Cluff

Downstairs the beta floats
without its own intentions
at work
while up above
the bad cider flows
and someone
or thing
has achieved
momentary
happiness

__________________

—Medusa

Bypass Blackbird

—Photo by Katy Brown

Fair and Ugly Disappear

—Photo by D. R. Wagner, Elk Grove

ON COVERING THE BONES OF CHANG CHIN, THE HIRED MAN
—Liu Tsung-yüan, 773-819

The cycle of life is a worrisome thing,
a single breath that gathers and scatters again.
We come by chance into a hubbub of joy and rage
and suddenly we’re taking leave again.
To be an underling is no disgrace,
neither is nobility divine;
all at once when breathing stops,
fair and ugly disappear in decay.
You slaved in my stables all your life,
cutting fodder, you never complained you were tired.
When you died we gave you a cheap coffin
and buried you at the foot of the eastern hill.
But then, alas, there came a raging flood
that left you helter-skelter by the roadside.
Dry and brittle, your hundred bones baked in the sun,
scattered about, never to join again.
Luckily an attendant told me of this,
and the vision saddened me to tears,
for even cats and tigers rate a sacrificial offering,
and dogs and horses have their ragged shrouds.
Long I stand here mourning for your soul
yet how could you know of this act?


Basket and spade bear you to the grave
which waterways will keep from further harm.
My mind is now at ease
whether you know it or not.
One should wait for spring to cover up bones,
and propitious is the time now.
Benevolence for all things is not mine to confer;
you call it a personal favor for you.


(trans. from the Chinese by Jan W. Walls)

____________________

—Medusa

No Place For Stopping

TOUCHING MY BONES

There is no place for stopping
For the moon is sick in its rising
Swollen and a sorry yellow, slit
In half and hiding behind trees
That would be well to let it go
So it might do what it must
To this night.  It was such a pretty
Thing.  It gathered so much to itself.

But now, there is no place for stopping.
I cannot be here any longer
Beneath your window, for I too
Am wounded and all that was wondrous
Causes me to shake.  My life
You already have for real things, for things
This earth brings forth.

I thought it was love.
That we were one.
That we were responsible for one another.
What do I have that you want?

They sit at the table near
The top of the hill drinking
Their tea, clicking their spoons
Softly against the fine china.

Make of it what you will.
I just do not want to stop.
I will go round and round again
Like figures on a vase.

I can touch my own bones
And now must wear disguises
To pass through these same villages
Twisted by this sick moon.

I continue to move farther away
From the noise of these creatures.
I listen to the lion roaring on the hills.

I think all this is wonder
And they tell me to stop and rest
Awhile.  I shall not stop here.
Black winds push me forward
Until I find the seasons have returned,
Find love bursting from every heart.

______________________

DOWN TO THE CREEK

I am walking and the stars are out
Walking as well.  We have agreed
To meet here at night when
We can see one another easily.

They are like cats, hissing and popping
Up from behind clouds suddenly,

Surprising me, rolling on their
Backs and presenting themselves to me
As packages of light and flashing.
        *
        *
I have left the room, never to return.
There are no answers to be had here
Any longer.  I may even have forgotten
The questions.
        *
        *
“Where are you going?”
I don’t know.  Perhaps down
By the creek to read a book.
This may take hundreds of years.
I’ll be back before evening.

I later recalled seeing us in a tapestry,
In a museum.  You were embroidering
A coverlet for someone of high rank
Who had died.
I was trying to calm a horse
Frightened by the noise
The stars were making.

_____________________

“TREES FRIGHTEN ME A LITTLE,
THEY ARE SO BEAUTIFUL.”
                    —J.L. Borges

I am not here.  I could not save myself.
I had weapons but they have fallen
Beneath the ocean where there are no
Monuments to images.

I was unwoven even as I walked
The labyrinths pursued by shadows
I never knew were ignorant of chance
And named themselves as power
When there was none.

An interminable playing on a board
That refused to be still while I
Chipped my lines into it.

Shifted and boundless,
Echoes, and undertows that
Amounted to no more than whispering
To myself toiling on the edge of the sea,
Perhaps believing I might be some
Kind of lighthouse with a heartbeat
Standing insidiously in a language
I could barely understand.

THE NIGHT MARKET

Tonight the sky crowded with stars,
The streets crowded with shoppers
At the night market.  The pale yellow
Eyes of hundreds of lanterns swaying
Above the heads of the camels, above the stalls
Selling nutmeg and cardamon, cinnamon
And ginger, sage and a wealth of sweet
Incense.  Patchouli permeates the air
On the corner where the seller of tiger
Skins and monkey skulls plies his furtive trade.

The maker of knives polishes his wares,
Keening the edge of his fine daggers
So they might flash intent even under
The dull light a crescent moon might cast.

The dogs linger near the meat sellers,
Tables of red and red and shadow.
He moves wasp-like, hovering over the cuts
Trimming, arranging them in layered rows
Among the piles of yellow fat.

The maker of string instruments
Plays an oud with a long
Plectrum, loosing memories from each note
That search for the stories they
Begin to tell of love and battle,
Destiny and the life of the sheep
Herder and of lost loves found,
The black ships searching the sea
For the beloved.  Occasionally he
Finds the words to quell such yearning.
They get lost quickly in the corridor

The tents and walls of hanging carpets
Create, so far below the hissing
Stars, the cacophony of colored lamps,
The arguing and and bargaining roiling through
This market, a wave of fates and
Sounds, dreaming and not dreaming.
A great human zoo brought together
Here by a golden ambience of the muse
As I sit on the edge of the balcony
Watching it invoke, then consume, timelessness.

_____________________

ZODIAC

Pan, seated near the mouth of a river,
Talking to the Zodiac as if it were person.
Hang your heart where you will, he says
Heaven yawns to see you play this way.

Much of the road between here and the shore
Had been destroyed and a thick milky residue
Issued from the ground, covering the sands
And exuding a scent not unlike slightly spoiled milk.

The ropes that bound my body to the river bank
Were coated with a rime ice that cut into my skin,
Reminding me that I wasn’t blind; I had just shut
My eyes tightly so as not to see the pain.  I could
Hear Pan begin his noodling on his pipes.

The Zodiac began their dances, the goat, the bull,
The water-bearer, the lion rampant, the twins with
Their perfectly matched steps. the wistful virgin,
Dreaming the Archer and the crab, the fish chasing
Across the river of the sky.  And I was bound by the scales,
Carefully balancing a scorpion and a great ram against
A world I thought i knew but could not make speak.

Watching it slowly cover itself with a milky pain
That did not recognize compassion and glorified
Desire.  Everyone finding their own car and driving
Away from the light into the sunset, headlights aflame.

I could feel the ropes loosen around my body, the
Ice begin to melt, the poem unwind itself from the roving
That made the rope and my eyes finally wide open.
The stars beginning to spin madly.  This one trying
To make a song of it all, opening my throat to feel
The rush of words across the mouth of the river.

_____________________

THESE ARE MY ARMS

I thought divinity a great house
That rambled and sometimes all was glass
And sometimes all was mirror
And sometimes there was blood coursing
Through, on an adventure so inscrutable
We would never read of it
Or run through it with open eyes,
For what good are such eyes
When all remains unreadable?

This house, unaware of itself,
In love with the mysterious,
With its own presence and we

Would be given over to what tomorrow
Might bring with what that hourglass
Might find a fondness for and abandon
Us near a church we wander into,
Thinking it only one afternoon on the plaza,
Or a cache of old coins, or fragments
Memory finds broken yet full of surprises,
Like looking deeply into your eyes
And seeing myself reflected there.

____________________

Today's LittleNip:

THE MUSE LYING

Spurned by the champion of fire,
I can hear her beginning to push
The poem into my body, picking at the details,
Mouthing the words, not caring if I am
Goethe or Shakespeare or pale Homer
Mumbling his Greek on some hillside
Grazed by goats and hexameters.

I yield to the growling of the vowels,
The slip, verbs use to pull me
Under their spell, telling me to be not
Afraid.  An intimate music already
Too well-known as I walk into the evening
Touching my forehead, feeling for the fever,
Guessing the name of the spirit as
I climb the three steps to the porch
To where I can catch a well-known
Glimpse of the sea, open a vein
To keep the gnawing at bay and
Try to refuse to answer to anyone,
Pretending the dream is the most necessary,

Should I forget it and find death
Has plagiarized everything I suspected
Could be recognized as a poem,
As my own event.

____________________

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

Such Is Life

February Dawn

—Photo by Taylor Graham

LONESOME COWBOY
—Katy Brown, Davis
 
The hardest thing in the world
is to be left behind.
To listen for those slow footsteps,
to want with all your heart
to hear that laugh again.

The soft fleece of a red coat
may provide a bit of comfort,
still holding the scent of someone far off;
but the warm person who filled that coat
has been taken away—swallowed
by an antiseptic building.

No more nights of resting with your head
on a comfortable chest, listening to a heartbeat
—that heart beats somewhere else—
somewhere you can’t follow.
There is no comfort to be found
in secondhand smells or proximity—
no way anyone can satisfactorily explain
the passage of time in a grief as deep as this.

The only cure for such longing
is the familiar, slow measured step;
the comforting heartbeat;
the proximity of love returned.

________________________

THINGS TO DO WHILE WAITING
—Taylor Graham, Placerville

Remember bird song,
how to differentiate titmouse from junco.

Check email. Delete.

Regard the wind—its lips, the rhythm of its lungs.
Keep close hold of your shadow.

Look over Time's shoulder as it plays chess
with Eternity.

The key is the black horse they call a knight;
a token carved of the wind.

Learn to call the wait a vigil.

Never lose track of the question.

_______________________

THE DAY
—Taylor Graham

The day got up in the dark,
alarm untimely going off without coffee,
without getting properly dressed.
Abandoned by time—the day waited in line,
showed its papers, was admitted.
The day didn't recognize this place.
It stood drooping trying to keep its eyes open.
The day's pressure was low.
Like any Saturday, it wished for wild, bright
colors, but the walls were code-blue gray.
The day wished for sun
but knew it would be a bad printout
on the solar chart.
The day waited to be discharged
before the dying of the day.
Still the day hopes to reach tomorrow,
with prospects of overmorrow over
and over again, new.

______________________

SEASONAL
—Taylor Graham

Our little creek, dry most of the year—
the creek that crosses our boundary fence
6 times in 5 acres to wash that fence out;
the creek that brings down trash
which is all we know of our upstream
neighbors; and overflows our drive;
the creek where the three-legged deer died;
where mustard grows spicy-sweet
and bull-thistle raises its purple scepter;
creek that proves the road shown on the plat
is impossible to build;
the creek that stair-steps down bedrock
bursting up like poorly buried bones;
the creek, when dry, that remembers days
of flowing rain; and after rain,
that balms our sheep; beckons my puppy
to join its free-wild running;
that knows coyotes in the dark;
creek that bathes old-man willow's feet,
and roars through my winter dreams;
the creek we curse and love.

Oleander

—Photo by Taylor Graham

ABYSSINIAN
—Lynn M. Hansen, Modesto

A skilled hunter
You come, 
Without invitation,
Stalk me.

Agouti presence,
You blend into dapple
Of shadows and light,
Streak away at my outburst,
Return like the sacred.

Were you there
Before I noticed,
Unrecognized
In the business
Of the day?

You cry out,
I look,
Ignore you,
Turn away.

Your response,
A soft call,
Another request I resist.
When I look again,
you are gone.

(first pub. in Song of the San Joaquin, 2008)

_______________________

The woman with
the calico cat
appears to be
interested in intaglios
incised into terrazzo
tiles in a bathroom
never used except
on special occasions
involving either kittens
or killers; she
then sighs and
slides feline fluidity
into the detective's
arms and leaves
the puss behind
to decipher those
exact, esoteric etchings
all on its own.

—Michael Cluff, Corona

_______________________

CAT IN THE CITY
—Patricia Hickerson, Davis

he stalks the streets
belly dragging
whiskers once snowy
now grey and bedraggled
life in the gutter
licking mud for water
denizen of the alley
huddled behind garbage cans
orange peel dangling from his jaws
once the prize of tonier times
a satin pillow in the foyer
or in his mistress’ lap
as she cooed and fondled
access to foie gras and lobster
he was a king then
climbing the couches
hanging out the window
hissing at strange noises
he loved the elevator
rode up and down
he was taut and young
fit as a male can be
surprising females in the corridor
then came flood
he was washed away
sailing down Broadway on a refuse lid
he moaned and shrieked
gave up to the random
such is life   

_______________________

Today's LittleNip:

MATTER OF OPINION

—Kevin Jones, Elk Grove 

“I don’t have any
Nice things,” she said.
“I have cats.”

Still, her coat of
Many cat hairs was
Marvelous to see.

_______________________

—Medusa

February Morning, Placerville

—Photo by Taylor Graham