The Copper Sun

Eureka

—Poems and Original Artwork by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

JUST AS THE COPPER SUN          

Just as the copper sun, round and perfect, went
down, and the last lit hour flared, and the sky
was the last sky of the day and nothing moved—
for a moment everything was held in a formal
stillness—still I rose from what I was doing to
marvel—the only movement in the world, to
stare at the sun as if to hold it there on the swift
horizon, and I could not hold it—and still all the
soft red air surrounded me and I was tainted the
same red, and a cold blue was spreading—another
movement to match my own.  Everything else was
caught : the brief bird in the air could not move,
the leaf falling from the limb in front of me was
arrested in air, and then the frozen moment let go
and the sun was the only movement, and I was
locked in a stillness, my hand in its gesture, my
mouth forming its “Oh” for my eyes which, I am
sure, held two red suns that went down at the same
moment as the one on the horizon.


(first pub. in Parting Gifts, 1998-99)

 Patio

THE DOORWAY INTO LIGHT
After Loving Perspective, 1935, by René Magritte

What burns in the air is light; it shapes itself to dark and
hovers there and cuts the day away to verify the perspectives
of Magritte. A tree of symbolism magnifies

until it is as simple as a child’s belief in art : one leaf be-
comes the whole tree and a building shrinks beside it, white
sky and white dimension glare and make

comparison to show the doorway into madness is not far.
Light burns with promise and the door repeats the shape of
leaf to shape perspective—out of

the mind’s possessing—out of the changing inner room—
out of the scale of space and time—out of the constrictive
mind, according to Magritte.

    
(first pub. in Tiger’s Eye, 2003)

 Story of Green Leaves

AUTUMN

Soon autumn will find us trembling with joy—
its cool relief—its heady promise,
and thus, believed.

Time is not wasting away—
it is only lingering the longer
for the sweet nostalgia of every autumn—

all the leaves are hurrying
and the sky retracing old patterns—

oh the softly urgent winds . . .
oh the sunsets . . .

________________

LEAF FALL

blue wind
out of
gold wind,

taking the leaves
then
letting them go

 Leaf Shapes

LEAF DANCER

         S-
        he
      is
    a
   dark -
  veined
 leaf
 balanced
  against
   a stone wall with
    |bones of light|
       showing through
         and waiting as
          for music to un-
          -furl from a tree
           in the trans-forma-
          tion dance her shadow
        r
        e
         p
          l
           i
            c
           a
          t
        es.

 

Three Views

FRAGMENTS OF DESIGN.

Smudges
and curlicues.
White space.
Borders.
Outside the lines, little escapings:
Tendrils.
Leaf shapes.
Cracks in the idea.
Intentions moving in other directions.
Fuzziness and clarity.
Exactness does not matter.
Continue or stop.
You’ll know when.

________________

SOUNDS

the drone of sound,
its soft monotony,
the sound that links

that hum beyond
the folding din and
what it becomes

that almost sensory under-
tone that holds the balance
against the sway

the orange sound in the
working of the butterfly’s
strong wings

the sound made when
a brown leaf falls
on a brown day

 Area Rug

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.

__________________

TO SILENCE

Underneath the din I find it—
you stretched out by a quiet pool,

looking in—watching your reflection,
and mine as I bend over you.

You smile at me in the water
and point to a school of small blue fish

dozing in the shadows by the bank,
and the perfect leaf that floats above them,

the sheer white butterfly
flexing its undecided wings,

and we watch the leaf drift away
upon the faintest ripple that

breathes out from the shore.
And I lie down beside you,

my face next to yours
in the sky-deep water—

and the only sound is that of the grass,
brushing against itself in the soft green breezes.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

On the bench,

this speckled yellow leaf
perfect-shaped
another leaf for my camera.

—Joyce Odam

___________________

Many thanks to Joyce Odam for so skillfully poeming (and drawing) our Seed of the Week, Autumn Leaves! Our new Seed of the Week is the companion to it: Autumn Sounds. Send your poems, photos and artwork about this (or any other) subject to kathykieth@hotmail.com. No deadline on SOWs, though, and for a peek at our past ones, click on “Calliope’s Closet”, the link at the top of this column, for plenty of others to choose from. And for two hours of autumn rain sounds to inspire you, go to www.youtube.com/watch?v=sARlCTIx3TU/.

Then head up to El Dorado Hills tonight, 5-7pm, for the Poetry Off-the-Shelves poetry read-around at the El Dorado Hills Library. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about this and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa

 Celebrate poetry—and the power of your own life story!

Photos in this column can be enlarged by clicking on them once,

then click on the X in the top right corner to come back

to Medusa.

Getting Better

Red Crane

—Photo by Katy Brown, Davis, CA

THE RED CRANE
—Katy Brown

bright red paper crane
far from eastern shore of home
flying on the shelf

 Emu

—Photo by Katy Brown 

LITANY
—Katy Brown

hawk
bluebird
a pair of egrets, flying

red-billed somethings
fleeing the dry grass
gossiping geese

and an emu
as far from home
as Okei-san

 Emu 2

—Photo by Katy Brown

BY THE DYING POND AT WAKAMATSU
—Katy Brown

The Old Woman bleaches the morning,
setting aside the dark oaks.
She pins a pair of egrets in the milky blue.

 Mirrored Pond

—Photo by Katy Brown

MORNING MEDITATION
—Ann Wehrman, Sacramento, CA

over sixty years—who thought I’d live that long?
as morning arises
my belly craves yellow egg yolks poached in butter
my skin, the fresh cold breeze

unable to walk or sleep, I perch on my stool
ice pack pressed to swollen hip
strained, arthritic, degenerative

I take measured deep breaths
in and longer out
filled with joy, despite pain
to live one more day on this precious Earth

Two Small Birds

—Photo by Katy Brown

FOR THE MUSIC
—Ann Wehrman

excitement bubbles in my veins
like frying eggs on the sidewalk
hot August afternoon

at the bus stop, I squint at the sun
through oversized solar shades
backpack weighs heavy with
flute, music stand, scores

I play with a local community college orchestra
sit in with students, adult volunteers

like me, far past the age and allure of industry’s darlings—
yet as Casals confided, “…I think I’m getting better,”
and I come for the music

with arthritis, older eyes and ears, stomach trouble,
I feel close to the aging, ailing Beethoven,
who wrote ever more glorious works
his heart and body broken
his spirit blazing white fire, free

Sac State Ginkgo Leaves in the Fall
—Photo by Ann Wehrman

AUTUMN LEAVES

and a muffled sob escapes my lips, held in place
by my will to make it through one more winter
living alone, though surrounded by people

warmth, melting safety, holding and being held closely
all wane toward a pinprick of memory
to be stored in a mason jar, grow dusty on a shelf

wild flower mowed, blood red climbing rose pruned
tighten muffler around my throat, pull cap
over my eyes, tie on winter boots, resolution

autumn leaves and tears my heart from my breast as he goes
keeps it under his wing, cycling around the sun
leaving me open-mouthed under my scarf, crying for love’s return


—Ann Wehrman

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

A kestrel can and does hover in the dead calm of summer days, when there is not the faintest breath of wind. He will, and does, hover in the still, soft atmosphere of early autumn, when the gossamer falls in showers, coming straight down as if it were raining silk.

—Richard Jefferies

__________________

Many thanks to these two graceful artists today with their fine poems and pix! The emu that Katy Brown has been photographing lives near Wakamatsu Farm in Placerville, where Katy and Taylor Graham have been presenting workshops recently. Watch Medusa’s Kitchen for the next one.

There will be poetry readings almost every evening in our area this week, starting at Sac. Poetry Center tonight with Marie Reynolds and Jan Vernon, plus open mic, 7:30pm. Poetry Off-the-Shelves poetry read-around will meet in El Dorado Hills on Tuesday night and Placerville on Wednesday night, both at the libraries and both from 5-7pm.

Thursday’s Poetry in Davis will present An Evening with Writer/Actor Peter Coyote at John Natsoulas Gallery, 8pm. Also on Thursday night, Winters Out Loud Poetry Open Mic meets at 7pm, and Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe meets in Sacramento, 8pm. And on Saturday, the Second Saturday Reception at Sac. Poetry Center will present a showing of "Under the Giving Sun", featuring the artwork of Paul Anderson, 5-8pm. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about these and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa

 Two Piggies

—Photo by Katy Brown
Celebrate poetry!

Photos in this column can be enlarged by clicking on them once,
then click on the X in the top right corner to come back
to Medusa.

Norman

—Anonymous Photograph

WORKSHOP, WITH TORTOISE

—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

We think it first a child's stool,
then a slowly moving rock...
A fellow poet offers, "Tortoises walk
in straight lines." On condo balcony
the leathery-footed creature
inches straight ahead.
We envision tracks over desert sand.
"How old?" we ask the hostess:
"30 years, has lived with us for 28."

We begin our critiques. Following some
inner map, the chelonian enters
the room, stops beside our couch,
withdraws its head, thrusts out,
stares at white wall—a slide show
of a kit fox, Joshua trees,
prickly pear cactus?

Gifted with a marvelous metabolism,
"Nelson" stays in the key of "slow."
To the query, "Don't tortoises live
about a century?"
"Yes, we should leave instructions
in our will—perhaps a codicil."

If critiques ever verge on "prickly,"
we'll turn to Nelson,
as mellow as a candle burning.

_____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Claire Baker for Nelson and this meditation on our use of time. I wonder what Nelson thinks about Daylight Savings Time (did you set your clocks back?)…

Photos in this column can be enlarged by clicking on them once,
then click on the X in the top right corner to come back
to Medusa.

Words Have Wings

Raven Woman

—Poems by D.R. Wagner, Locke, CA

—Anonymous Illustrations Provided by D.R. Wagner

FEVER

Talking to her was like recalling
A landscape I had seen in a fever.  The
Summer was upon me and I had been
Feeling the rhythm of July.

The heat had hands and often held me too
Tightly, making me think I had heard something
I had not, but was sure I had.  Her voice
Seemed to find distances within me
That had real substance, overly familiar,
Even intimate.

She disappeared into a silence
I could not comprehend.

 CHOOSING

“This is lovely.  I will use this,”
I said to the world, or at least
This room.

I shall keep the poem there
With lots of simple clothing.
Its people of little speech
With eyes that gaze through
My own.  I will give it your name
To wear for awhile and I will love it.

I will build a small roof over it,
Put it in the garden and make
Up songs for it that are very beautiful.

Tonight we can go to it.  We can hold
Hands and together we can make a song for it
That is lovely.  We can use it in our lives.

PLEASING THE SHADOWS

This place is full of mysteries and shadows.
It has no need to make sense.
It is as beautiful as a wing.
Perhaps if I light a candle.

Candles can look at sorrow much better
Than I am able to do it.  I like to close my eyes
Knowing the candle is burning against
All mystery and owns its own shadows.

This is beautiful enough to not want
To destroy any of it.  I could see the fire
In the heart but that was not what makes
It beautiful.  I remain part of the candle.

Words have wings.  They fly through
My mind as if it were a shrine to wings.
Streams of color wrap themselves
Around everything.  This pleases all shadows.

I am learning to speak to loneliness.
It says much and pretends to say more.
I have had dreams like this, so I know.
This is as useful as sound is to the blind.
It is as useless as a garment is to music.
It carries itself well and is seldom hungry.

There are spices in everything, even
Loneliness.  Emptiness can
Fill great holes, otherwise impossible
To ever walk across.

I trade things to it, like my breath or parts
Of dreams I no longer need.  It is all cloth
To any emptiness.  A candle flickers.
Footsteps echo for a long time here.

I try to explain.  The candle gutters out.
I have plenty of wishes to dance with.
When emptiness needs to find an ending,
It will appear.

from D.R.'s upcoming book, Storm Footed:
 

LEMON

She secretes a lemon scent on me,
Tells me “Everything you want to feel,
Everything you want to taste.”

I start the car.  There is a sticky substance
On the floor of the vehicle.  I am unable
To get my foot off the accelerator.
I hear the tires exploding and see
Showers of sparks fly up behind me.

A great silence.  I seem to be lifting
Higher and higher above the earth.
I‘m not doing that at all.  There is
Only the blank faces of the stars.
They reach down and squash
Lovers like mosquitoes, a constant
Buzzing in the ears.

THE CASTLE TINKLES IN THE WIND
AS IF MADE OF GLASS

This is the true hour.
The opening of the hand to reveal
All are still here building our litanies.

I suppose we will all die.
Everyone seems to have done it.
We all, finally, chose to forget this place.

In the alley someone is screaming,
Trying to wake the stars,
Great wires dangling down
Snarling traffic as if it didn’t matter.

An entire collection of echoes
Heads off towards the endless plains.
Someone is trying to memorize
The patterns of the streets
Hoping there is a song somewhere
In their curves and intersections.

Soon we will know who we are.
I read it in a book, my dear,
It must be true, just like a world
Without violence, the dove landing
On our shoulders, its feet sticky
With blood.  We do not realize it can’t see.
Still, we welcome the moment.

We rise out of our mouth, pick up our masks,
Create our myths, walk out into the garden.

We never see where the bullet
Comes from.  There will be a sting,
Then a deep warmth as if one were praying.

The sky overflows with stars.
There are tears in our eyes.
We begin to feel as if we were
Walking in deep snow.
Everything becomes a murmur.
We begin to believe even the water
Will keep us from drowning.

________________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Cram your head with characters and stories. Abuse your library privileges. Never stop looking at the world, and never stop reading to find out what sense other people have made of it. If people give you a hard time and tell you to get your nose out of a book, tell them you're working. Tell them it's research. Tell them to pipe down and leave you alone.

—Jennifer Weiner

___________________________

Our thanks to D.R. Wagner for providing this fine Fall brunch to start off the weekend. D.R. is working on a new book, Storm Footed, with Dave Boles of Cold River Press. Below is the cover; for info and pre-sale pricing, go to www.coldriverpress.org/.

And don’t forget to turn your clocks back tonight! A gift of an hour…

—Medusa

 Wraparound Cover of D.R. Wagner's soon-to-be-released book,

Storm Footed (Cold River Press)
Celebrate poetry—and new books!

Photos in this column can be enlarged by clicking on them once,
then click on the X in the top right corner to come back
to Medusa.

Telepathy for Angels

Brad Hamlin and Nicky Christine, Sacramento, CA

—Poems by Bradley Mason Hamlin

IN RESPONSE TO A GIRL AFRAID OF OAK PARK

Sacramento
is shopping malls
big and smalls
beer
and Central California
valley girls
with the way they kiss
keeping their boyfriends
warm at night

and Tower Café burgers
& fries
poor people
rich people
and people who don't
give a fuck
working too much
and working not at all

so
if you get a screwdriver
thrown at you
on the gentrified streets
or one of those
lucky beer bottles
gets empty
and too close to your head

it's all good
because when you live
in a valley
there's just got to be
a way
to let your voice
be heard.

 —Anonymous Artwork

WHEN SHE WALKS AWAY

speaking


language


long forbidden


I clasp my palms


and fall


praying
to gods unknown …



stiff knee caps popping
against ancient
and new
dusty silence
of city


head bowed, listening



for the


forgotten ones
to whisper
your name.

 —Anonymous Photo

IF YOU GET JUST THE RIGHT AMOUNT DRUNK TONIGHT

Right
now
in the super drunken
ecstasy
of appreciation

I know maybe
we don’t have it
all figured
out

all of the time

but
just know this
from me

as summer radiation
fades into
the awesome embrace
of autumn shadows

I love you
and don’t let
anyone
ever tell you
differently

and beer
I love beer & wine
and vodka

because,
why the fuck not

and
if you get
just the right amount
drunk tonight

you might see it
exactly
the same way.

 —Anonymous Photo

ATTACK OF THE IDEA PEOPLE

People, they offer their ideas when you tell them you’re a writer, because if you’re a writer, you know, you’re probably desperate for inspiration.

Hey, I know a great story you can write!

No, thanks, you say. You write it.

But I’m not a writer. Don’t you want a good story?

I’m already working on something.

Wow, that’s too bad, because this would have been really great.

 —Anonymous Artwork

TELEPATHY FOR ANGELS

Sometimes
it’s impossible
to sleep

maybe
it’s one martini
too many
red wine
or good California
beer

or bills
or worrying about
the future
the children
my pretty wife

and
only one thing
takes me
to clouds

I pray
to gods unknown
or to those
to whom I think
I should know
or want to know

I pray
to my ancestors
and various
other departed people

I phone it in …
hoping
to get past
the
dead letter office

but
I can’t tell you
whether or not
they answer

only
that they
grant me
the gift of dreams.

_______________

Today’s LittleNip:

SHE’S TOO PRETTY TO PLAY WITH SOBER

I’ve
got at least
one

foot
inside
the grave

but
I like
to pull it
out

once
in awhile.

_____________________

Enough of Halloween and all its demons—time to bring in a team of angels! Many thanks to Bradley Mason Hamlin for today’s fine poems! Brad is the creator of Secret Society Comics and is the publisher at Mystery Island Publications (mysteryisland.net/bradleymasonhamlin.html)—see below for a sample. Brad was first featured on Medusa's Kitchen on Sept. 19, 2013.

Sacramento’s Rob Esperanza will be reading tonight at Good Earth Movement in Placerville starting at 6:30pm and followed by open mic. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about this and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa
 

 Celebrate the poetry of the visual!
(Photos in this column may be enlarged by 
clicking on them once.)

Misty Mysteries

Sunset

—Poems and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA

NIGHT’S DARK RIDERS

Guardians of night in our ridgetop house
where they’d hang all day, asleep in the wall.
The cat couldn’t catch even one bald-mouse
as they chirp, shake their wings to evening’s call.

Out they pour
from the eaves—night flight
of black-silk weavers
zapping bugs over the pond.

Above dark water they acrobat on hunt,
mapping a sky-path as they soar and dip,
echoing their vector between pine and oak,
guardians of night in our ridgetop house.

 Sunset

FOUR O’CLOCK SHADOW

Who sleeps by day slips off to deepest night.
We know of bats no more than of our dead
who disappear with coming of the light
and hunt old haunts as sunset bleeds to red.

Four in the afternoon.
Forget dark zigzagging through dreams.
Don’t hang yourself
upside down in sleep, slip life to life.

The bats swoop out of eaves—our homey house—
to zap mosquitoes on the wing. They know
the night-shades and the coming dark-to-dawn,
to sleep by day, slip off to deepest night.

 Window Spider

SPIDER-WEAVE

That sunny window stays festooned
for Halloween. Since late summer, silken
webs have grown from corner to corner, from
hubs where sit the eldest spiders, radiating
outward, networking in a triumph of spider-
weave. Sun makes gold and silver of the webs
that drape with the weight of dog-stirred
dust, with prey. Who dares break a thread
of these spinners, even after the witching
night? after the giant fake spiders are taken
down from haunted tunnels—the Gold Bug,
the old Priest Mine—packed away till
next Halloween. I’ve read, all the spiders
of earth in a single year consume in weight
the measure of all humankind. Have the
arachnids just been practicing on our flies?
In sleep I brush aside a filament of dream,
my hair reaching out in all directions
to intercept messages the stars in their
webbed constellations might send—
to me or to the spiders. 

 Hollow of Oaks

BEEHIVES AND DAWN
    from D.R. Wagner’s poems on Medusa, 10/21/17

These are the voices—
when soft—of the questioning owls

above the voices of coyotes
in broken discourse with heaven.

They love black leaves
but tell no one.

One could spread its wings
and touch the nether

walls of night trees.
So quiet the sound soothes,

a moon song always known
the night long, asleep

in a small hollow of oak trees.
Everything seems a cloak

full of stars, night keeping
beehives and dawn.

 On a Hill

MY DOG SAID

He needed to get out. We’d been driving—
past country club and 3-story homes tucked into
oak woods; new construction where I
used to walk my dogs. Hard to believe, so many
homeless in this town, throwbacks to living
without car, insurance, credit report, ID, phone.
Where do they camp in this world of fences
and no-trespass signs? I kept driving, looking for
a place to walk my dog. He reminded me,
again, of the laws of animal nature.
Asphalt climbed the campanile ridge to a dirt-
road pull-off. No sign forbidding trespass.
Not a footprint or tire-tread in dust.
Just a convention of crows in October light,
cacophony of wings. One said “this place
will be split-level with pool next year.” And off
they flew. I breathed the air and gave thanks
for a lightening of spirit while my dog
blessed the land in his own way. If I had to
choose, could I pitch a tarp-tent here?

 October Sun-up

THE REEL IS TURNING

Fishing reel? spinning reel?—those old spinners,
the Fates. I think yours is a film reel in the misty
mysteries of brain. A film in sepia: a line of tiny
old women—you can’t make out their faces—all
in overcoats, an assortment of dumpy overcoats
(thrift store?) filing between you and the TV
turned on to tweed/herringbone static. Leftover
witches from Halloween? No, they look like real
people, diminished. Dim. The line keeps moving.
Women no taller than your old TV—nearly old
enough to have dials; but it’s controlled
by a remote. You long for a dial you could
control. The line of old people is out of control.
It won’t stop to answer questions. You question
me about the new med you’re on. Could it cause
hallucination? What do I know? Get up off
the couch. Out of your dream. Get moving. Call
your doctor if you must. It’s morning, October
sun’s up in the foothills. The Fates will snip
the yarn when they feel like it. Enjoy the fall
of leaves in real-live color.

 October Oak

Today’s LittleNip:

EMU HAIKU
—Taylor Graham

prehistoric bird
out of place here—I’ll capture
him in a haiku

 October Oak Woods

________________________

Many thanks to Taylor Graham for her bats and bees and other creatures of the woods, and to Katy Brown for her emu (see below)!

The Love Jones Experience takes place in Old Sac. tonight, 8pm, or head over to Poetry in Davis for Joe Wenderoth plus open mic, also 8pm. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about these and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

And my apologies to Rhony Bhopla for misidentifying her poem, "Identify", in the earliest edition of yesterday’s post. Thank you, Rhony, for letting me know early yesterday, so I could fix it!

—Medusa

—Photo by Katy Brown, Davis, CA

Celebrate poetry—and emus! 

For more about El Dorado County poetry, go to 

www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry/.

Photos in this column can be enlarged by clicking on them once,
then click on the X in the top right corner to come back
to Medusa.

Collecting Moments

Venus Transit

—Anonymous Photo

EGYPT, TUESDAY 8th JUNE, 2004
            preparing for the Venus Transit
—Maria Rosales, Paradise, CA

Before the heat rises behind the mountain
birds give song to the blue morning.

The Nile is at peace.
The burden of all these hungry mouths
does not ripple her skin.

A new tribe is here
setting up tents
and telescopes
watching the heavens for signs.

A woman sits at home in her body,
alone in a throng.
Conversation
evaporates around her
into the heating air.
She is collecting
moments
tucking them behind her ribs
next to the heart.

Morning melts into the yellow Nile,
air jumps with anticipation.

Ra and Isis prepare to join.

________________

IDENTIFY
—Rhony Bhopla, Sacramento, CA

The man in the back, with his hair
faux punk, unintentionally knotted,
pranks us with a faint melody, holding
a shockingly buffed guitar; glued
to its flank, a photo of his mother.
She is waving at him, wearing pink.

These lumps, unrecognizable,
some go onto us, appear into us.
In the radiology waiting room
a horrified mother grandly spills
her coffee on the immaculate floor.

No one talks, but they have stories:
imaging of a post-op hip replacement
mammogram, a kid’s arm, dangling
the boy’s shrieks silenced
by the reverberation
of his own unending agony.

The way they identify you
is by clothing: black burka, face
half or not covered, female, don’t
know anything about them.  There
is something wrong underneath.
Do you do your monthly breast exam?

A woman walks in, collects the
black burka, they walk past the coffee.

When they come to collect
the black woman, they call out—
coffee stain on left wrist
with two small people,
turban, like the way
Maya Angelou wore them.

Her name is:
after my great-grandmother.
A lady in pink comes to find me,
light blue eye shadow, a small pink
and gold symbol on her chest.
How does she know me?
She says her name: Fatima.

 Victorian Doll

—Photo by Maria Rosales
 

AT THE HOUSE OF GOLD
—Maria Rosales            

                                                                                
This is her first time.
She lays her naked life on the table.
Surrendered, without regret.
He treats her gently, all business.

Gift from friends earrings 18 carat,
family bracelet 14 carat,
a treasure she bought for her beloved
that languished in a drawer for years,
pendant 18 carat, clasp 14 carat.
The gaudy necklace 
from her brother-in-law, the one whose name
no longer sits lightly on her husband’s tongue.
Surprise!  22 carat.
Calculator clicks, clicks, tally complete.

She hesitates,
slips her hand once more into her purse.

Her mother’s cross.
She will never wear it,
this image of torture of a gentle prophet,
symbol of tyranny of her mother’s womb.
Year after year, another child hurtled
into a world where poverty is a curse.

The crucifix slides across the white tablecloth.
He raises it to his eyeglass.
Nine carats.  She wonders
if what she feels is loss.

Perhaps the tiny arms
would reach out to her 
if they were not nailed down.

__________________

AN ENGLISHWOMAN AT THE GRINDING ROCK
             Rush Ranch, 2003
—Maria Rosales

Sisters across a stone circle.                                                             
This is the center of the world.

Around us, the vast river of grass flows
in silken currents toward the hills.

The baked rock is a Dali painting
            a moonscape cratered and pockmarked

where stone pounded stone. Weary shoulders stooped,
            other women lingered here—how long ago?—

made marks, ground acorns, nursed babies,
            flew East with the grass green wind.

My words inadequate             for this sacred place.
            Time only a concept,

measured in grass color, calf birthing,
the arrival of migrant hawks,

or sudden exclamations of lupins
            on the flanks of tender hills.

The spirits are at peace here.   They sing
with the redwing blackbirds

in the sighing eucalyptus, or wait
            with the barn owls for dusk’s return.

The stones talk of women who came to grind,
            of their history, not mine.

Unless I look beneath, to where my soul whispers,
strung in my brittle bone cage.

It calls me Woman.
Bearer of burdens, Keeper of the Fire.
Memory’s maiden.        Spellbinder.
The stones talk.
I belong.
 

 Tree

—Photo by Maria Rosales

RETRACING
—JD DeHart, Chattanooga, TN

Today I am retracing
my steps through old
pages.  Moth
sounds accompany my
soft journey.

I will make intentional
clambering noises
so part of the trip
is louder.

Am I a closed loop?
No, I do not own this
description.  I am
an ongoing chain,
an open hand, a word
that would sustain.

Why were these old
images important?  Who
can say now.

_______________

ALL THINGS
—JD DeHart

I tried to be All
Things and many voices.
Farmer and doctor
and housemaid.

Soon, my trying became
tired.  I held up
a small mirror, like
Sara in Isak’s dream.
At last I saw it.

Then I woke to hardly
remember what I had
learned.

 Light

—Photo by Maria Rosales

DISCLOSURE
—JD DeHart

Everyone hides
a little even as they disclose.
Or maybe it’s just me.

Maybe I am the actor
on stage and everyone else
is an honest player.

There’s too much to know
to share in a 30-second
monologue.

We switch the scene, until
the play has ended.

_______________

AH-HA
—JD DeHart
 
The camera tilts up.
An enormous set.
The main character
utters a tiny phrase.
Fade.
Cut somewhere else.
Tell me more.
The follow-up scenario.
Bring it home.
More mystery.
A sequel ensues.
Then we learn there is
nothing new.
Then we learn the contract
was signed.
The clowns are all saddened.
The dancers were all
just special effects.
People are people.
Even on the screen.

_________________

Today’s LittleNip:

PERCEPTION
—JD DeHart

We loved it at first,
the plates, busy young
people bringing us
forks.

But lately the meals have
soured.  Was it always
this way?

Did we take some minor
suggestion and run with
it, ascribing beauty
to plainness?

Oh well.  We will find other
offerings down the road.

____________________

Many thanks to Maria Rosales, Rhony Bhopla and JD DeHart for today’s fine offerings as we roll into November! For more about the Transit of Venus, check out en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Transit_of_Venus/.

The new issue of Sisyphus (from the Bay Area’s Charles Entrekin) is available as sisyphuslitmag.org/. This issue features articles about conservation, minimalism, and sustainable farming. You may enjoy evocative poetry, thought-provoking short story, social commentary, and humor. If you subscribe, you may comment on any articles. 

Sisyphus is open for submissions now on the subject of Healing for the next issue. Send work to ceentrekin@gmail.com. Charles is married to Gail Entrekin, editor of the ecology poetry journal, Canary (www.canarylitmag.org), and they both used to live in Nevada City/Grass Valley (I forget which). Between them, they’ve contributed a great deal of poetry through their publications, for which we are most grateful!

—Medusa
 

 Celebrate poetry!

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