At the Crossroads, Everything Changes

A Timeless Dance
—Poems by Eliana Vanessa, Mandeville, LA
—Visuals by James Maj

a timeless dance

skeleton newlyweds
tend to get hot and bothered
during summer,
though a little less sweet with the sour
never left desire well enough alone,
tonight, necromancers
march in a second-line
to guide restless bones home—
gathering skullcaps, stirring mint juleps,
emptying out loose change,
and, with Miles Davis
in the background,
they’ll carefully
rearrange cemetery dirt to show
how true love, frozen in time,
once embodied,
always plays nice,
as its ancient tongue begins to thaw,
moving like so much hard ice,
just to come back to life
within a lonesome blues tune,
entombed for a honeymoon,
where they are meant to rest in peace.

suspension of disbelief

in the space
where night
and the river
intersect,
two bodies
lose themselves
to loneliness
as hope
hollows herself,
in the burn
of crimson lips
that wildly kiss,
to melt
the frozen face
of disbelief
goodbye.

lost in the skin

every illusion
is made for flesh,

and it is no surprise
that i cannot walk straight

when all these crooked veins
beg for more blood

with which to circulate
the body of a perfect lie.

shadows on fire

skin cringes
attempting to flee
the licking heat
of burning memories,
as resurrected truths
hold strong
within repressed consciousness,
relegating pain to the role of bystander—
the soul, scorched,
caught in the aftershock,
having no other choice
but to descend the spiral of defenses
that, like so much self-torture,
seems hellbent on lighting the way.

notes on how to decapitate an angel

carefully
remove wings.

keep flyaway feathers
as an offering.

cut deep into
the heart of its jugular,

repeat,

for the regrowth of faith
is vulgar,

and will rear its ugly head,
again and again.

soul-stakes

at the crossroads,
everything changes,
as if on cue, the blindfold,
at one point, having been
neatly wound about your skull, unravels,
and all the prophecies
you thought would guide you
during your darkest hour,
forward your prayers
to a voice mail in the sky
because nothing is
of imminent importance,
and, you are comfortable with this,
comfortable with all of it,
as you justify
that some spirit has surely by now
answered the question,
pressing your ear to the ground,
on the side of a familiar highway,
where it gets hard to listen,
as the stakes got higher over the years,
whether you are here, or there,
destined to remember
a pregnancy test,
buried near the house you grew up in—
what summer was it?
who saved you from yourself then?
it’s not over, but it’s over, cries the wind,
as, suddenly, you feel older, all the wiser yet,
to make another offering of gin.

Today’s LittleNip:

honesty is the best policy
—Eliana Vanessa

i murdered you
into every crow,

using a pink and yellow
arrow with bow,

looks like i worship Satan,
after all.

____________________

Eliana Vanessa is originally from Buenos Aires, Argentina and moved to New Orleans, Louisiana at a young age. Her poems have been selected for display via a community project called “St Tammany Poetry on the Streets”, and she recently participated in the Jane Austen Festival (2017, 2018, 2019, upcoming) as part of a panel of other selected poets. Eliana Vanessa’s work appears in Siren’s Call, The Horrorzine, The Rye Whiskey Review, The Ramingo’s Porch, Fearless Magazine, and the anthology, Masks Still Aren’t Enough. For more about Eliana, go to www.facebook.com/eliana.vanessa.7758/. For more of her poetry, go to www.thehorrorzine.com/Poetry/Aug2018/ElianaGradishar/ElianaGradishar.html/. Welcome to the Kitchen, Eliana, and don’t be a stranger!

Tonight in Sacramento, the Sac. Poetry Center will present a special event: Soundscapes & Poetry with Thomas Antonic and Michael Fischer from Vienna, Austria, with improvised sounds and poetry, 7:30pm. 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, celebrating new poetry friends!

 Eliana Vanessa

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
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in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.

Facing Homeland

 Bamboo “wishing” or “haiku” tree at WakamatsuFest150,

Placerville, June 6-9
—Poems and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA

THERE ONCE WAS A CANDY STORE

           from the Yelp reviews
 
The perfect Father’s Day present.
A rustic candy store with bare bones décor.
All kinds of candy from your childhood,
that small town life, a time that was so long ago.
How underrated.
A little history and a story behind the chocolates.
I didn’t know so much candy existed.
Like home made except you aren’t afraid
of salmonella.
Quaint little shop, dated & worn down
but appeals to the old town charm.
As though I’m stepping back in time,
the type of candy store I always dreamed of.
Decisions, decisions.
Almost too pretty to eat.
I’m glad we don’t live nearby.
A lot of things missing, rearranging,
the store is closed, boarded up.
Windows papered up. Making some changes.
Sad to see it close.

 Poets Under the Oak

PERIPATETIC

An oak tree for shade,
a few small books of verses—
on the winding road,
this and a brown bird singing
cheer us along as we go.

WITH CALLIGRAPHY

lavender and pink—
girl’s face concealed by hat brim
she becomes design

 El Dorado County Poet Laureate Suzanne Roberts 

works with youngsters on haiku

4th GRADE AT THE FESTIVAL

Delta breeze whispers
to kids counting syllables
into lines to hang
on the bamboo wishing tree—
sea-wind gives their haiku wings.

 Haiku with Wings

BLUE OAK HAIKU

wind through high oak boughs
carrying news from east, west—
oak has known it all

her shade shifts with sun
but always canopies one
grassy spot for us

LEARNING HER NAME

It must be synonymous with duty and patience,
with loneliness and longing for a far-off
homeland. This festival is anniversary
of her coming here, where she forever stays.

Visitors from the homeland will honor her
solitary grave. Four days of ceremony, overflow
parking in a pastoral setting; tickets, shuttles,
and booths with vendors. What would she call it?

I’ve read the name on her stone: English
facing the rising sun, Japanese facing home.
But I know her name as solitude, evening walks
to a point of land where she could

send her dreams west, wind-blown ocean foam.
Here, her bones have taken root under oak.
Can living voices of her homeland,
in her native tongue, now call Okei home?

Today’s LittleNip:

LUSH JUNE
—Taylor Graham

Weed-eating in cut-
off jeans—grass-chaff sticks to my
shins, I’m bleeding green.

 Three Wakateers: Taylor Graham, Sue Crisp, Katy Brown

(Three Volunteers Who Helped Make It All Happen!)

___________________________

Our thanks to Taylor Graham for her poetry and photos today, giving us a taste of WakamatsuFest150 which took place in Placerville last weekend. For more about that, go to www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry/.

American River Conservancy will host another poetry workshop, Capturing Wakamatsu, on Sunday, Aug. 25 from 10am-12pm, facilitated by Taylor Graham and Katy Brown. More about that later.

Taylor Graham will read at Sac. Poetry Center this coming Monday, June 17, with Red Fox Underground Poets, a power-packed passel of poets from the foothills, plus open mic, 7:30pm.

Today at 11:30am, Wellspring Women’s Writing Group meets at the Wellspring Women’s Center on 4th Av. in Sacramento. Then tonight at Luna’s Cafe and Juice Bar in Sacramento, Poetry Unplugged presents Brad Buchanan plus open mic. 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, celebrating our busy poetry season!

 Katy Brown, the Magnetic Haiku Gremlin
—Photo by Taylor Graham

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

Knowing Where to Look

—Poems by Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
—Anonymous Owls and Their Photos
 

OPEN DOOR, II

I'm at my computer desk.
When I type the word "child,"
am drawn to turn. At my door
a grandmother & grandson—
he in full Afro, cutoffs,
tank top & flip-flops.
Handsome wears a steady gaze
as if he often waits for me.

As grandma offers: "He wants
to say good morning," he smiles.
"O, good morning," I grin.
We all proceed to the rest
of the day—I, back to my poem
addressing God as    Dear Sir,
Dear Lady, and now Dear Child.

AT FAMILY CAMP
(on California Coast)

Our tents are colorful mushrooms,
nylon geometry over duff down.
A camp log weathered silver
collects ropes of kelp, orange peels,
a bathing suit, thick socks.
Our fifteen tents clump inside
a redwood clearing near
water willows by Butano Creek.

We explore tidepools, the creek,
succulents along the beach.
After campfire, kids scramble
among sprawled parents, snuggle
into sleeping bags or army
surplus blankets, laughing.

A matriarch,
I prop up a low star
as young redwood fronds
sweep over my tented cathedral
flashlight-lit from within.

ON MOUNT DIABLO

Young tree climber,
you scar the skin of trees
by climbing so fast,
as if branches were Himalayas
and you will reach a top peak,
wave a flag, your arms
stretched up to God
for praise.

Young man,
your boots need not touch
the tree's skin—
nor hands or knees.
When you climb
with the iris of your eyes,
limbs will christen your body
and leaves will whisper
your name.

_________________

ON A RAINY WEDNESDAY

Sparrows
flutter
under
chandeliers
of leafy
raindrops.

_________________

BIG PUDDLE, BRIGHT SUN

Listening
to the silent sound
of rain pooled
on the porch
pulled back, drop
by drop, into a citadel
of cumulus clouds.

MARKET DAY

Fellow seniors
cart groceries past
my open apartment door—

colorful veggies, whole
wheat bagels, fruits,
pasta pic-up-stix, & Ah,

over-the-rainbow sherbet—
and pies, some "humble,"
others not at all!

A CHANCE ENCOUNTER
(at One-Act Plays)
 
A friend from years ago seems
well, but her eyes no longer
sparkle. I wonder if she still
collects paintings, antiques,
stray pets, is happy, unhappy.

Her handful of words
sandpaper,
then light rain.
I almost venture a joke
to ease the room's static,
the squeaky floorboards.

Awkwardness trapezes
between us, garishly costumed.
When the house lights dim
she sits yards away, alone
across the aisle.

At intermission
when house-lights flare,
I glance her way.
She is gone.
What I have needed to tell
this once-close friend
will wait, maybe forever.

AT DUSK

Hearing the local owl
in a nearby eucalyptus,
we mimic those mournful
hoooos. Who indeed!?

The cat-eared papoose
ignores our calls,
wings west, arcing into
a stark ascent

toward embers of sunset,
as if he sought God
and knew where to look.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

IN AN ASPEN GROVE
—Claire J. Baker

We see
for a moment
aspen leaves quiver
from soft landings
of moonflakes.

____________________

Many thanks to Claire Baker today for her fine poetry from Pinole, cheering us up as we swelter over here in the Valley and foothills. Tonight, in addition to MarieWriters Generative Writing Workshop at 6pm at Sac. Poetry Center (facilitated by Ann Michaels), El Dorado County Poet Laureate Suzanne Roberts will read at the El Dorado Hills Library with Carol Lynn Stevenson Grellas (plus open mic), 5:30pm. 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, celebrating the “soft landings of moonflakes”

 For “Whoo’s Who” in the owl world 

(and some wonderful, startling photos), go to 

www.audubon.org/magazine/january-february-2015/whos-who/.

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

Do Not Starve The Mouth

Grab Bag

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

BREAD AND HONEY

I am the black honey for your soul
sticky and sweet
I have been brought
by old bees
that died long ago

I came from all sources
in tiny portions
until I was here

you taste me
crave me
smear me all over yourself
with starving words and motions

we are bread and honey
oozing over edges
uncontainable

___________________

HUNGRY

Taste.
This is sweet—
this is sour.

One is fine grape—
one is mysterious lemon.
Both are true to the mouth
which responds with different pleasure
which gets hungry so often
which needs…which needs.

Do not starve the mouth.
It has no kiss to protect it.
Do not starve the mouth.

 Lime Slush

THE NECESSITY OF BLACKBERRIES

(This has nothing to do with the sonnet of
blackberry eating—the old thrill of sunlight
on the passion of berries :
the taste,
like something forbidden,
the stain on the mouth,
the hands,
the clothing,
the child who will live
because of blackberries, wild and wonderful.)

When I lie, I lie deeply :

This is about blackberries—
where they grow,
and what they know,
though I question this.
We are here for each other,
rare as life,
with its seasons, and completions,
and beginnings—meaning what it means,
since we need meaning
and offer it when needed— 
and after blackberries, why we hunger so.

 Bellie-Jellies

TIME OF PLENTY

Banana skin flowers,
limp and brown as the wilt
of yesterday’s hunger,

lie in disarray,
a discarded bouquet
from yesterday’s feast.

That was a yellow time,
ripe in the over-indulgence
of our taste

and good . . .
and so good . . .
too bad we must waste

the bright petals too
that fold down
in such squander.
              

(first pub. in Atom Mind 7, 1970)

 Oreo Centers

THE LIGHT-FILLED FLOWERS   

Sweet cups of brimming light—and should we drink
from all the goblet-flowers of this place,
would we, like Alice,  grow in size—or shrink—
lose our senses—feel ourselves erase . . . ?
Oh, careful one, how pale you turn to think
I’d poison you by urging you to taste  
such heady light—intoxicate your soul—
risk some addiction you could not control.

 Snow Cones

One summer more
After Charles Demuth, Plums, 1925

and the plum tree
weights its heavy branches down.
the plums too tight together,

and too high. Each year
another branch breaks
and the plums fall to the ground

Much is remembered and expected
of the taste of plums :
one sweet bite,

before the sour taste within.
These are not plums for the finicky;
these plums are meant for jam,

or wine
and have no further use
except for the birds. 

 Marshmallow Melt

POEM FOR SPILLED WINE

The page, half-purpled with spilled wine,
assumes significant design
for the poem.

And the pale, non-color of each word
transcends the shallow meaning, blurred
by truer tone.

And you, my clumsy reader, flush
and jump the blot the noisy hush
of your chagrin.

But words must wear whatever taste
our living spills on them—we waste
no metric stain.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

A BREAK IN THE MONOTONY
—Joyce Odam

Each night they share the chocolate—after dinner,
when they claim their separate chairs and prepare
for the boredom of comfort, when their differences
bring them together in the ritual truce of sharing
something rich and sweet.

____________________

Our thanks to Joyce Odam for her poems and artwork exploring the sweet-and-sour—just like The Candy Store, our Seed of the Week. Our new Seed of the Week is Heat Wave. Send your poems, photos & 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.

—Medusa, celebrating those sweet murmurations…

 Plums, 1925, by Charles Demuth
For more about Demuth and his work, see 

www.theartstory.org/artist-demuth-charles.htm/.

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

                                              

O Sweet, Sweet Poetry!

—Anonymous Photos

WINTER’S SOLSTICE CLEARING
—Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA

The years
Lay like pearls in a line
Stretching back in time.

I remember each one,
But not that well.

Where each one ended
Is hard to tell.

Difficult to say
How each one
Slipped itself away,
Disappearing.

Its view
Blocked by the new—
Newness reappearing
Through
The fog of
Winter’s solstice
Clearing.

__________________

THE CARAVAN’S ASSAY
—Joseph Nolan

All the time,
From time to time,
I think of things
That matter,

Like what is what
And which is which
And how to flip a switch
Into the sublime.

I think of these things
As being mine.

Oh, beyond
The caravan’s assay,
Out in the desert,
Day to day,
We move along
Assiduously,
Shunning all complaining
Since we must do the same
Next day, and always.

OOLONG TEA
—Joseph Nolan

We have diamonds in our pockets
That sparkle and shine
When we rub off the dust
Over Sumatran coffee     
Oolong tea
Or wine.

Do you Oolong for me,
From time to time?
I know I do,
For thee!

It’s good to hear you whistle
When you feel pleased;
Pleasure’s a necessity
That puts us at ease.

______________________

TIME TO MARRY
—Joseph Nolan
 
Why wait
For gray
Hairs to sprout
From your
Lovely head?
Seasons are passing.

With grief,
You cleft
The shade
Of daylight’s seam,
Preferring duller light
Of gray moon-beam.

What will it mean—
These idle years
Still alone
And childless,
With time
That weighs like stones
Too heavy carried?
It’s time now—
Time for you to marry.

DELICIOUS WINS
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

Little children plucked out,
minds and bodies together,
from the fabulous sights and
marvelous, fresh aromas of
the candy store

to be set down on a dusty
schoolroom floor listening to
the eldest elder remaining on
Earth, obsessed with orders
to obey deadly demands of
discipline or else!!!

There was, of course, talk of
revoking their “privileges”
dumbly delivered to the deaf
ears of an audience not yet
learned enough to even be
able to count quite that many
syllables on their fingers

but then again, how could we
expect a Curriculum Committee
Council composed of calcified
creatures of the purest pablum
to really know what is best for
our children?

__________________

GOBSMACKED
—Caschwa

gob·smacked
/ˈɡäbˌsmakt/
adjective

Denoting that whole, crazy convolution of events
which enabled hostile foreign agents and moles
to raise the status of mister Trump and mister Pence
as viable contenders for top White House roles

We took it from there, it was all downhill
Second Amendment, Confederate flags
erasing our fine unity until we wonder still:
are all of our Old Glories now no more than rags?

ONE MORE DIMENSION
—Caschwa

From sea to shining sea
state DMV offices issue
eye tests to measure the
visual acuity of drivers.

These tests are comprised
of random sequences of
letters in different sizes,
printed out on a flat format.

Many have no problem
correctly identifying letters
presented in this basically
two-dimensional display

so you pass that test and
think your eyes are great,
then once on the road you
encounter just one more

dimension and it throws
all that complacency away:
sure, you can read license
plates fine as long as they

are directly ahead of you,
but glare from the sun hits
that raised chrome lettering
used to name the make or

model of vehicles, and it
looks like a prism throwing
rays of light in all directions,
obscuring any logical sense,

especially if the letters are
put in cursive or some other
fancy font, looking great in
the showroom, not outside.

_____________________

THAT SETTLES IT
—Caschwa

Oh how I dread doing that task!
So many key points to juggle,
clearly beyond my humble limits.

I’ll just wait a bit longer to allow
my ignorance to grow, let karma
take full command and hopefully

deny me from ever attempting to
do that task again.  That’s fine.
Well done, time to relax…..

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip(s):

USE WHAT WORKS
—Caschwa

Artistic
license
wins
anything
you
stake


* * *

ONE-HORSE TOWN
—Caschwa

If Mad Magazine got into the Kitchen…

On Thursday at Poetry in Dungarees, Bad Blood and Stutter Still will read at the dining room table, 8pm, plus open bar. And don’t leave town, on Friday, there will be a reading by the UnCollectedDebt Dept. “second-year” take-it-up-one-notch students, 7pm, at the UnCivilDebate “Bare the Hate” (living room sofa). Be sure not to miss the “Mildly Exciting Remote Grab Event!” (MERGE!)

_____________________

Thanks to our fine poets today! Carl (Caschwa) has gone all acrostic on us for the first LittleNip. And I’ve succumbed to the wonder of sweets (our SOW: The Candy Store) for these seductive photos.

Tonight at Sac. Poetry Center, Nick LeForce and James Lee Jobe will read at 7:30pm (plus open mic), 25th & R Sts., Sac. SPC workshops this week include Tuesday Night Workshop for critiquing of poems at the Hart Center (27th and J Sts.) on Tuesday, 7:30-9pm (call Danyen Powell at 530-681-0026 for info); and MarieWriters Generative Writing Workshop at SPC for writing poems, 6-8pm, on Wednesday in Heart Tree Studios, 25th & R Sts., Sac. (across the hall from Women’s Wisdom Art room), facilitated by Ann Michaels.

Also on Wednesday, the El Dorado County Poet Laureate Trail poetry series presents EDC Poet Laureate Suzanne Roberts plus Carol Lynn Stevenson Grellas, plus open mic, El Dorado Hills Library on Silva Valley Pkwy in El Dorado Hills, 5:30pm. Thursday at 11:30am, the Wellspring Women’s Writing Group (beginners welcome!) meets at the Wellspring Women’s Center on 4th Ave. in Sacramento. Also on Thursday, the long-running Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe and Juice Bar meets on 16th Street in Sacramento, with featured poets and plenty of open mic, 8pm.

It’s a busy weekend in our area, poetry-reading-wise, starting on Friday night at Sac. Poetry Center with Soundscapes and Poetry from Vienna, beginning at 7:30pm, with Thomas Antonic and Michael Fischer, plus open mic. Then on Sunday, Davis Arts Center Poetry Series features Patrick Grizzell, plus open mic, 2pm. Or you can head up the hill to Diamond Springs for Poetry of the Sierra Foothills with Deborah Shaw Hickerson and Allegra Silberstein plus open mic, 1pm.

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, celebrating poetry this week as every week…
 

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

No Need to Understand

Flying Island

—Anonymous Artwork

WHAT FORGOTTEN REALM?
—Alain Bosquet (1919-1998)
 
Let me introduce to you
my poetry: it's an island flying
from book to book
searching for
the page where it was born,
then stops at my house, both wings wounded,
for its meals of flesh and cold phrases.

I paid dearly for the poem's visit!
My best words lie down to sleep in the nettles,
my greenest syllables dream
of a silence as young as themselves.

Offer me the horizon which no longer dares
to swim across even one book.
I will give you this sonnet in return:
in that place live the birds
signed by the ocean;
and also these exalted consonants
from which can be seen
the brain tumors of stars.

Manufacturers of equators,
to what client, to what wanderer
who knows neither how to read nor love,
have you resold my poem,
that smiling predator who at each syllable
leapt for my throat?

My language is at half-mast
since my syllables
fled for safety, carrying with them,
as one carries wedding gifts,
all my spare sunrises.

My poem, as much as I dismiss you
like a valet who for twenty-five years
has been stealing my manuscript snows;
as much as I walk you on a leash
like a poodle
that fears to tread the dawn;
as much as I caress you,
with an equator around your neck
which devours my other images one by one,
at each breath I begin you again,
at each breath you become my epitaph.

A duel took place
between the words and their syllables.
followed by the execution of overly rich poems.
The language bled,
the last vowel surrendered.
Already the great reptiles were being conjugated.
Here is my last will and testament:
the panther which follows my alphabet
must devour it, if it turns back.

___________________

NO NEED
—Alain Bosquet
 
The elephant's trunk
is for picking up pistachios:
no need to bend over.
The giraffe's neck
is for grazing on stars:
no need to fly.
The chameleon's skin,
green, blue, lavender, white,
as it wishes,
is for hiding from ravenous animals:
no need to flee.
The turtle's shell,
is for sleeping inside,
even in winter:
no need for a house.
The poet's poem,
is for saying all of that
and a thousand thousand thousand other things:
no need to understand.

____________________

—Medusa, celebrating poetry and reminding you that WakamatsuFest150 continues in Placerville through today. 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.

 Alain Bosquet

For more about Alain Bosquet, 

see www.ndbooks.com/author/alain-bosquet/.

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

The World Answers Yes!

—Poems by James Lee Jobe, Davis, CA
—Photos Courtesy of James Lee Jobe

There is no ribbon there,
But I imagine it anyway—
          Her hair hanging down
In front of her sleepy face
As she rises to greet me.

__________________


Already late spring and the windows are all open to invite the world inside, and the world answers ‘yes’ with a breeze that smells of jasmine and rosemary as my yard blooms under a perfectly blue sky.

Geese cry out from the sky,


High above my valley.


The sound; is it lonely up there?


I look up, but they’re already gone.


___________________


A flash of rabbit, a glimpse of squirrel,
          Owl-strike from above—
The wild exists even here
Among the rows of tightly-packed houses.
          Moon rise in the suburbs.

Below these streets


Are the hoofprints of horses—


Once horses ran here


Where now the oil and gasoline


Burn


Tell me again about progress, please


___________________


Really, I loved them all—at least a little,


Or for a short while. Or as best as I was able.


That love is the trail that tracks me


Between then and now, the footprints


That I left behind me in the sand.


Rainfall into Putah Creek


Water


Going round and round


And round again


_____________________


Try to hold on to your joy.
In the end it is our eyes that have dried up
And crumbled into dust.
It is our lungs that have been filled with concrete.
Try to hold on to your heart.
Our vocals once made lovely sounds, but now?
Just these sad croaks, like a very old and lonely frog,
Whose end is near.
Don't surrender.
Try to hold on to your joy.
When you no longer wish to think or feel,
You can choose to close your dry and dusty eyes,
Pull the blanket up over your head,
And let out a croak.
But you don't have to.
Take a breath, then another.
Live one more day.
Be patient, friend, your own end is near anyway.
Such is life.
Live it while it’s here.
Try to hold on to your joy.

Night
dew and moonlight mingle
And
shine. Friends,
Don’t
you know that this world
Is
filled with blue flowers?

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

A perfect day. Blue sky with little puffs of clouds that look like hashish smoke from Mother Nature’s hookah. Sunshine like gold.

—James Lee Jobe

____________________

Our thanks to James Lee Jobe for this morning’s fine poetry, and pix to go with it! James will be reading with Nick LeForce, plus open mic, at Sac. Poetry Center this Monday night, 7:30pm. And tonight at Sac. Poetry Center, the Second Sat. Art Reception will honor this month’s art installation: History of Life: Art by Dawn Blanchfield, beginning at 5pm. Plus, Curator Bethanie Humphreys will offer a free workshop on ekphrastic poetry at 5:30pm, with a 6:30pm reading of the poems generated in the workshop. 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, celebrating poetry!

 “. . . this world is filled with blue flowers . . .”
—Anonymous Photo

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