September Truths

Chrysanthemum Plate

—Photo by Jane Blue

RUNES OF THE MIDDLE AGES
—Jane Blue, Sacramento

Astronomy encompasses everything:
in the middle of the Pacific
a baleen whale sings to the night sky.

Chrysanthemums open
eternally on a blue and white plate,
wedding present from Osaka. Even though
that marriage is over and the stars
are dead and lost
to cities, they continue to speak
their fervent language.

A gelding stands out on a high plain.

From that lashed island, Iona, comes
the Book of Kells, painstakingly illuminated
through the lacunae of the Middle Ages.

The minutiae of insects rasp their short song:
the nomenclature of oratorio. Under the stars
the pedestrian quill of a crow.
In the kitchen, radicchio. This is our life.

Not the sadness the world has become.
Not torture; from Uranus
you can’t even fathom the venom.
 

______________________

UNCURABLE

—Patricia L. Nichol, Sacramento

In prison, Michael Bookwyrm served hard time
for crimes too horrible to specify.
He served his time—that fundamental slime—

but was he now a model man? Oh no . . .

Even though Mike helped make license plates,
washed a trillion pairs of underwear,
fended off the fondness of his cell mate,
this hard work had not made him a new man.

He was incorrigible. He was bad.
But he had served his time and was released.
He thumbed his nose, that horrid, dreadful cad,
as he left the prison bus and walked away.

He was a louse: he went to a book store
and bought a dozen books, used and new,
and scribbling with his vicious pencils four
he repeated his crime: he wrote in the books.

He underlined words and he wrote comments
about the meaning of the world and life.
The authorities had not made in him a dent:
he could not read without writing in books.

_____________________

METAMORPHOSIS

—Patricia L. Nichol

It was a long, empty summer,                                   
the days blank with an ache                                  
that sometimes diminished,                                   
but never went away                                               
never went away                                                    
never left the confines of her                                  
reality.                                                                    

Those were the days of disbelief,
the timeless nights hollow and flat
with regret and sorrow
that sometimes abated,
then rebounded
in midnight’s solitary hours:
toxic and taut.

But, to her surprise, time moved on,
inclined light foreshadowed autumn,
red leaves, brown ones, crunching
underfoot; and soon came
cold, windy nights,
the days becoming more compact,
austere yet rich.

Those were the depthless winter nights,
awash with memory and grief
that sometimes subsided,
but never died away. . . .
Then in her heart
retrospection turned to springtide,
lush unfolding.

______________________

LIGHT SHATTERED

—Patricia L. Nichol

The sun moves behind
the clouds,
purple-gold

undone, rays hidden
under gray. Storm coming

sooner than I thought.
Remembering    not holding
you close, letting you go

as daylight shattered
the southern windows,

sunlight that day
you lay dying,
empty room,

the music
diminished behind me
our son weary
nearby.

Today’s sunlight
in this bleak world
shrouded now

gray clouds,
weather and human
blent together

with your departure
then,      then
and even now,
your eyes withdrawn
from this world.

_______________________
 

SILENCE
—Patricia L. Nichol

When is it that words cannot breach the gap,
that sounds and syllables fall short of scope,
when we lose our voice and become silent?

Silence becomes a formidable thing
in the dark avenues of solitude
when words can narrow and not breach the gap.

Solitude when used against oneself,
and not for creative expansion,
can weaken one’s voice and promote silence.

There are truths we each must learn the hard way,
through discovery and thought and time,
and we must find the words to bridge the gap

between us and the hard things of the world:
like love and grief, ecstasy and anguish
else we lose our voice and become silent.

It may be that words will not breach the gap
if we do not share the of marrow of our life,
if we remain islands unto ourselves
and lose our voice in the depths of silence.

Bean Poles

—Photo by Katy Brown, Davis

SEPTEMBER SANDY

—Nanci Ginsberg, Sacramento

Strikes Sixty

Smart, Sensible, Serious.

She Sews—She Sings

Strolls Slowly Surrounding

Summer Sunlight Seeking

Solitude.

She Supports

Simple Style

Strategizing Schemes.

Sometimes Successfully

Starts Simple Systematic Solutions.

She's Special—She's 

Supreme—She's Sandy!!!

_____________________

Thanks to today's chefs, including Nanci Ginsberg for her first visit to the Kitchen! And Jane Blue says this about her poem: The poem is from a ms. called "Identity Theft" (unpublished). I was doing exercises derived from an acrostic, but not the usual left-margin acrostic—following the alphabet throughout the poem. First I made a list of words alphabetically and then tried to fit them into a poem. Good for surprise content.

Poetry season is upon us, and Medusa receives announcements every day about upcoming events and other news. Be sure to keep an eye on this, our daily diary, as well as the green and blue boards at the right. Unfortunately, not every announcement comes to us with much notice—sometimes the notes arrive almost the day of the reading—so watch for them.

_____________________

Today's LittleNip:

SUSANNA
—Carol Louise Moon, Sacramento

Sit beside her in your alpine cabin,
snow stacked to windows.
Sip cider together, and tell her
September truths—that her breast
surgery in autumn moves a
single mountain, keeps her near in
spring, you sighing on her one breast.

____________________

—Medusa

—Photo by Katy Brown, Davis

Lilacs and Chrysanthemums at Twilight

—Photo by Christine Murphy

Sometime in the Fall, the crows moved in. They came in a dark flock and landed on one large, bare tree, looking like black leaves. They held a conference, and the cawing could be heard until sundown. The next morning they surveyed the town, flying in ones and twos, taking note. Another conference was held in the tree. They seemed to reach an agreement, because the next day they moved out across the town, each crow stopping at a different house. By the end of that week we all had our resident crow. Mine has been here since then, keeping an eye on me. When I take a walk around the block, pairs of beady eyes follow me from rooftop or driveways. I'm not sure what their plan is, but they seem to be following it.

—Catherine Weaver, Palo Alto

________________________

TRADITION
—Catherine Weaver

In the old world,

Curled up in a ball,
Tradition sleeps.

The nest is warm

And lined with dried moss,

Keeping out the noise of the day.

She is comforted

By porcelain and grace,

And the brown smell of old things.

I visit her now and again

And bring her a gift of lavender

In a cedar box.

In return she gives me

a blessing

and some ballast for my shoes,

so when I go soaring

through uncharted skies,

I know which way is up.

_______________________

BLACKBERRIES
—Catherine Weaver

I enter between the thorny vines
But refuse their love as they entwine
My legs and elbows desperately
Whispering a heartbroken plea.

Ignoring them, I grasp their fruit
My blood-red stained hands clutch the loot
With my arms scratched red and raw,
I pop their babes between my jaws.

The succulent juice stains my lips
But as I turn, my sweater rips
Thorns hold fast to my shoelaces,
Hair, sleeves, socks and other places.

I cannot exit from between the vines;
They refuse me as their love entwines.
I cry and struggle desperately,
But am ignored my whispered plea.

—Photo by Taylor Graham

THE PHOTO I DIDN'T GET

—Taylor Graham, Placerville

My puppy pulled me downcreek. Bare
trees dancing in white bloom, first fair
day of spring. She dashed in puppy care-
lessness of water leaping the stone stair-
steps, splashing rain back into air.
Such a water-works of sparkle-flair!
I aimed my camera, clicked. But where
was Loki in all that flash and flare,
movement lens-struck, vision-glare
of sunstreak silver-sable, dash & dare?
Here's no puppy photo I could share.
Some mythic mis-shape from the lair
of life-light streaks escaped. Beware
of eye-tricks and wish-blinks. Stare
into memory and dream. She's there.

________________________

FOR THE MOMENT

—Taylor Graham

Push-pull-push-pull-no-pain-no-gain.
Just stretch. You had a flying mane
of hair once; you raced over plain
and ridge. You're never young again
but sunlight's ageless, and falling rain.
Just breathe. Earth and sky remain,
and rattle-song of sandhill crane.

_______________________

WILTED CHRYSANTHEMUMS

—Taylor Graham
 
A summer's moon-snow on the lawn,
and spring grass brittled to the awn;
a traffic-savaged three-legged fawn
you couldn't save—each regret drawn
across the midnight. Then comes dawn
with promises. Its minutes yawn
and stretch to hours. Old wives pawn
their flowerpots as salmon spawn
and die. White petals are the faun
of woods enchanted and then gone.

________________________

PASSING THROUGH
—Michael Cluff, Corona

In the shadows of some Septembers,
it was a good month for water,
ash trees and polliwogs
before their turning into adulthood.

The dogs would live in tentative
accord with felines
which walked on two as well as four paws
as the boiling skies reached into reserves
and dumped all it onto the plains.
 
The bamboo and begonia would seek recourse
yet would reside with it
until October or even November
came along and shade would be more.
And cats darted as they were disposed to do
between a choice only they and the ash
and the frogs of the new coulees
rejoiced and indulged in
completely.

________________________

LILACS

—Kevin Jones, Elk Grove

The lilac
Will lose its blossoms
Tonight.
Already, the branches
Move in the wind
Like a young girl
Shaking out her hair
After loving
In the long grasses of spring.
As though she knows
This must be
The last time.

________________________

Thanks to all of today's chefs! Jane Blue's daughter, has published a book aimed at tweens called Gold Dust, with anime-influenced illustrations by her daughter, Kyra Weaver. Find all the information about it at www.amazon.com/Gold-Dust-Catherine-Weaver/dp/0983848548/ref=cm_cr_pr_pb_i. See also the book's Facebook page (www.facebook.com/LeprechaunParty). Cat Weaver has a blog at islandofcalifornia.blogspot.com, and today she has sent us these two photos by her friend, Christine Murphy, whose photography can be seen at www.lifeforcephotos.com

By the way, if you type "Catherine Weaver" into the white search bar at the very top left-hand corner of this blog, today's post will appear; if you scroll down, you'll see a wonderful photo of Jane and Cat, along with some of her previous poems that appeared on Medusa.

The rest of today's contributors are working on our SOWs, and Taylor Graham sends us not one but THREE monorhymes. Thanks, kids! Kevin Jones asks if the wilted flowers need to be chrysanthemums, and I said no, of course not; the SOWs are just there to be triggers, not rules. We all know Medusa does not, after all, play by ANY rules. (Actually, I called her a lawless bitch, but this is a family blog.......) 

Speaking of which, James Lee Jobe has sent me some erotic poetry to post in future days. Stay tuned for those!

________________________

Today's LittleNip:

TWILIGHT
—Catherine Weaver

In the twilight, the hills of the valley take on a lavender tint—the deep blue of the sky mixing with the rosy glow of the sun's last escaping rays and reflecting off the golden grass; and somehow this melange gives the entire landscape a royal hue, blessing it with a glowing purple kiss. 

_______________________

—Medusa

 —Photo by Christine Murphy

Dimensionless Summer

Wilted White Chrysanthemums

—Photo by Joyce Odam

OLD WOMEN IN A GARDEN
—Joyce Odam, Sacramento

After supper
the old women will walk
through the garden,
limping their way
over the knobby ground
in search of beauty.

How wearily-content
their bodies
take to evening pilgrimage
so they can stand in color
and in fragrance
in an easy wind.

One will gather
a bright bouquet of duty
for the complimenting guest.
The other will accept
with thin protest.

And for the long,
gaunt moments that they
linger, they hang
like scarecrows on their bones
and watch the Iris
bending in September.

______________________

WOMAN IN ORCHARD   

—Joyce Odam  

An unsmiling woman, bearing apples on a
dark tray, half-hidden under yellow

flecks of light through a dense tree,
on a September calendar—who does she

remind you of?  Not Eve.  Not your long-
dead mother.  Not anyone you know,

though she is familiar.  She is a trans-
figurement of green.  Her green dress

blends with the darker green of the
orchard.  Her tray is held steady,

in a serene pose of patience.  She is
green shadow.  Her apples gleam.

She lets her eyes linger upon you.
You cannot make out her features;

she has moved back one shadow
deeper.  She beckons you in.

She would never harm you.
You can trust her.

(based on 1997 Calendar: Women by Women,
The Royal Photographic Society “Pomegranates”  
by Minna Keene, Canadian, 1861-1943)

(first pub. in Ekphrasis, 1999)

___________________________

LATE SEPTEMBER POEM

—Joyce Odam

I, not beautiful,
not sad,
sit at my table
naked in the morning

the windows are cool
and open
no one is looking in

I might
sit this way forever
looking at the nothing
of the wall

I might sit here
till midnight
or till the telephone
or doorbell makes me move

I love the contour of
the chair
the wood-feel
beneath my elbows

I am not thirst
or hungry
or lonely

I am
sitting here

                  
(first pub. in The Wormwood Review, 1973)

—Photo Enhancement by Joyce Odam

SEPTEMBER QUATRAINS

—Joyce Odam

This is the last solstice, full of blue arms
reaching through the ghosts of each other,
sad memories drifting ever forward
and meaning nothing.

Often we talk of this, at three in the morning,
into late pillows
full of heavy sincerity and
aching with dreams that wait for our silence.

Oh, this is all just another weary conjecture,
threads of sleep roaming the hours
between us
where we are different and lonely.

We are remnants of all we meant to be.
We never get to make our point
or take the argument under consideration.
We drift and drift on this lake of difference—

one boat becoming two. We drag our hands
in the water and touch the sky. We watch
ourselves leaning. You enter the silver glitters
where sleep has entrusted you with its answers.

Still, the seasons come and go at their different
intensities, and with each one we prefer the other.
But "we" does not fit here. I talk
to myself in the plural. But we are singular—

one way mirrors—mine has a disappearing
bird at the corner of its song; it has
found its way through.
I listen after it. “Yes,” I say.

My boat swirls on its darkness, a fierce bird
falling toward me like a shadow.
I fear we will collide,
but it is only a thought I entered.

And this is where it ends. A yellow cloth rose
glows dusty in the sunlight.
I cannot let myself into your mind.
“Another ending," you offer, and I won’t answer.

Now my mother floats toward me. The yellow rose
is hers, silk like her dress. Her love is
as binding as ever. She is looking at me with her 

old intensity and telling me my new name.

Now my sister has awakened me to tell me
this story. “It is true,” she says, and
whether I believe her is up to me. I can’t decide.
She is the one I conjure out of my lost reality.

One way to follow this
is through your own forest. Make it blue
and deep, and never mind where it centers.
It is just as vague and defined as you make it.

Now it is fading—all I was so sure of—
all that gleamed for my pleasure—all that I
wanted and lost. Like old sepia wrapped
in brown tissue, anonymous with faces. Serious.

It all fits so well—this memory in this slot—
and those that time fell through. I no longer
remember myself as a child—not every year
of my childhood. And yet, these pieces…

______________________

THE DIMENSIONLESS SUMMER
After "Calm Morning", 1904 

by Frank Weston Benson, 1862-1951

—Joyce Odam

            Time is but the/stream I go a-fishing in./Robust art.
                                       —Henry David Thoreau (1817-1852)

Shall we remember what was—or what we almost
recall, out of nostalgia,

or the old comfort of boredom.
We had no edge.

We had not lived beyond the now—
the cinema of our minds,

made of movie-lore and imagination.
We should have noticed

more detail
Everything was smaller then.

We were never dramatic.
Everything was enough.

Even the yearning.
Practice proved nothing.

There was always enough day
to go around:

the calm horizon, the rippleless blue water
—the small, floating boats we trusted,

the yellow, gathering sky—
the easy silences that stayed unbroken all this time.

                                                
(first pub. in Ekphrasis, 2008)

_______________________

Thanks to Joyce Odam for her tasty contributions today, including her wilted chrysanthemums, which we're using for our Seed of the Week. Tell us about them: what were they used for? A wedding (maybe the bride or groom failed to show up!) or a funeral? A suitor's gift, a promotion, an apology, or a party? Where are they—on a big-city balcony, or an old man's garden, or a busy mother's kitchen window? Did they wilt from neglect, or was it just their time? Set your muse on those wilted chrysanthemums and send the results to kathykieth@hotmail.com, but there are no deadlines on SOWs. Click on Calliope's Closet in the fuchsia links above to see all the glorious seeds that have sprouted for us in past weeks, months, years…

_______________________

Today's LittleNip:

OPEN HEART
—Carol Louise Moon, Sacramento

Please don't leave us, September child
whose heart has stopped to rest.

Don't forsake us in our best years of hope.
Don't leave us to grope candleless
in the dark.  You are our way home

in the despair of a long, lonely night.
Nestled in your crib, you are our light.

_______________________

—Medusa

—Photo Enhancement by Joyce Odam

Loneliness is Better Shared

Jill Price

THE 25th HOUR

—Jill Price, Davis

There is an hour of the day,
Or is it night? I can’t be sure,
When twilight and dawn meet
And the Earth holds its breath.

I can’t say exactly what signals its arrival.
Perhaps it’s the darkness that envelops the sky so completely.
Maybe, it’s that particular silence that makes me feel entirely too loud.
The blinking of my eyelids, the soft inhale and exhale of air,
The constant drumming in my chest, far too discernible.

As I pull open the door and step onto soft earth,
I shed myself, and I am the night.
On cool air, I glide, and
My eyes find your thin silhouette,
Your summer brown face cloaked in shadows.

Together, we walk, somewhere in between
Truly alive and a waking dream.
When we stop, we sink,
Running the grass through our fingers
As if to make sure that it’s real.

I lie with you, wordless.
Our bodies hug the Earth’s contours like memories
As we revel in the anonymity of this night.

We enjoy our smallness,
Our inconsequence.
We matter, but only a little.
Your hand finds mine,
A lifeline of flesh and bone.
Both of us knowing, that
Loneliness is better shared.

______________________

PHILOSOPHY PROOF POEM

—Jill Price

Humans can’t
look back
on time
before
their birth
so they look
ahead
instead.

They lament
“Early Death”
because
some die
before
they do
more shit
to make
them famous.

No one
laments
“Late Birth”
because
they know
that when
they’re born
is really
beyond
control.

But maybe
death
is accidental
as birth.

Maybe
you close
your eyes
and die
as if
you fell
straight
to sleep.

Humans can’t
look back
before
their birth
so they
fear
the moment
they cease
to be.

To cease
to be
or
at least
to cease
to be
what last
they were.

But did
the place
before
birth
scare you?
Was it
more
troubled
than any
sleep?

____________________

december

—Jill Price

i like to sit with you
bare foot
cross-legged
on mom’s red rug
trapping threads
between my toes

we don't talk much
just sit
you sip coffee
i microwaved fresh
wishing my own tongue
could bare the taste

our fingers turn pages
in a one-sided race
your four eyes strain
to read fine print
as i struggle to keep pace
with wrinkled hands

we stay like that
you sipping, reading
me watching, racing
till dim light calls
the chiming of the clock

tonight i walk to bed
thinking
we’d stay warm all winter
with coffee
and words
on mom’s red rug

Jill Price

THE WIND'S TALE
—Taylor Graham, Placerville

It starts with a pair of footprints
stirring dust, abrading the crust of earth
with vibram, as if man
were weather's tool, the hand of rain
and river—the hand of wind.
His lungs full of wind that's always been
his song. Its lift and sting
brings him to the edges for a view—

where landscape's ripped
and tattered so the seams show through
as buzzards sail the spiral thermals.
Gneiss, granite, basalt.
Man's foot-tread, stitch of leather.
Wind skywrites his syllables, an echo
rising, repeating, falling.   
*
Temples of limestone and light.
Rock spires point to each star in turn,
telling its name in more tongues
than a man could pronounce or decipher.
A star's story, history, legend, place
in the net of stars.
*
In time, another human comes
calling the name of lost-ones into wind,
following a dog who fills its lungs
with the wind's scent-song, becomes
the wind's scribe and messenger.

______________________

THIS POEM IS TITLED NOBILITY
—Caschwa, Sacramento

There are duties that come with position
and ailments that stun the physician
tradition and protocol frame one's life
there is no simple exit

Maybe if we sneak across the channel
find a place hidden like one square in flannel
we can shed inhibitions, gather rays
and just be ourselves for a moment

We must have chosen burning Hell
where infernal paparazzi dwell
where all the world's a stage
and all the players have cameras

Into private space they barge
with telephoto lenses large
take an everyday scene in France
and paint it with sinful connotations

I hope they find Medusa next
and lose their cameras to hair that's hexed
publish burnt images of a lady they say
whose tale cannot be repeated

______________________

Our thanks to today's chefs! Jill Price is a second-year English student at University of California-Davis. Born into a family of writers and journalists, Jill has loved reading and writing for as long as she can remember. She most enjoys writing prose and music, but occasionally feels inspired enough to call herself a poet. When she is not writing, Jill can be found singing, acting, or playing soccer. Her dearest ambition is to actually finish writing a novel, or, if that fails, to learn to whistle. Welcome to the Kitchen, Jill!

Also this Monday morning, Caschwa (Carl Bernard Schwartz) has given us a riff on the current problems of the royals in England, plus Taylor Graham has taken off on D.R. Wagner's "Wind's Tale" from last Saturday's post. TG also sends us a monorhyme (see the LittleNip below). So we've made the monorhyme our Form to Fiddle With this week. Have at it. (Details on the green board at the right of this.)

Congratulations to Jeff Knorr, who was officially named the new Sac. Poet Laureate today. See the Sacramento Bee article at sacbee.com/2012/09/17/4826132/qa-jeff-knorr-sacramentos-new.html

And we have another wonderful photo album from Katy Brown on Medusa's Facebook page. Be sure to check that out!

_____________________

Today's LittleNip:

SEPTEMBER BLUES

—Taylor Graham

No words. The saxophone sings true.
Stars over smoke-tree. A dust sweeps through,
lamenting distances. One shoe
without its mate; a note without a clue.
This bag of shadows. Summer's yew
reciting names of winds that blew
each page away—promises due,
their dates in disappearing ink. A few
clipped ends of yesterdays. Rue
is for remembrance lost. The dew
each morning perishably new
as skeins of wild geese rose, and flew.
Horizons always heartbreak-blue…
They're gone. The saxophone sang true.

_____________________

—Medusa

See Medusa's Facebook page for another album

of Katy Brown's Port Sanilac Powwow photos!

Castles Built on Air

—Illustration by Howard Pyle

I'D BUY YOU, WISDOM (from The Laments)
—Jan Kochanowski, 1530-1584

I'd buy you, Wisdom, with all of the world's gold
But is there any truth in what we're told
About your power to purge our human thought
Of want and worry, elevate distraught
Spirits to heaven, up to the highest sphere
Where angels dwell beyond distress and fear?
You see mere trifles in all human things;
Mourning and mirth are two extended wings
On which you bring us equanimity,
Yourself unmoved by Death, calm, changeless, free.
For you, the rich man is the one who owns
No more than what's enough—no precious stones,
Or land, or rents; your piercing eyes behold
Misery lodged beneath the roof of gold.
But if poor people heed your sober voice,
You do not grudge the poor their simple joys.
To think that I have spent my life in one
Long climb towards your threshold!  All delusion!
My Wisdom was a castle built on air;
Like all the rest, I'm flung from its top stair.


(trans. from the Polish by Stanislaw Baranczak and Seamus Heaney)

_________________________

—Medusa

Shadows Wander

The Race

—D.R. Wagner

THE GROUNDSKEEPER

—D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove

I know what they are up to.
I had seen this thing before.
They were waiting in the small tents.
They were standing by the doors.

They had all renewed the promises.
They had cleaned the kitchen floor.
They had memorized the new tattoos.
They had restocked all the stores.

And now I sit here waiting.
I am studying the maps.
I am trying to disguise myself.
I’ve reset all the traps.

I’ll wait here like I’ve always done.
I will stay just out of reach.
I will open up the water gates.
I will rearrange the sheets.

Then I’ll remain in the great quiet
And I’ll arm the hidden guard.
I will dampen down the fires,
Then gather up the shards.

_______________________

WE ARE REALLY NOT THAT SMART

—D.R. Wagner

The palaces of the night,
Made of fireflies and moonbeams,
Ropes one hundred thousand
Strong, the night birds throng
The parapets and glide along
The chimneys with their dark smoke.

Actaeon becoming the stag on the edge
Of the forest, his hounds seeing his
Coat glisten and become fur.

Poor the weeping that comes
From the great cities.  Lame,
Tired and with wings of pity,
Tied to the coattails of change
So that nothing is recognized
When we pass a place.

“This was your home as a child
And it is a grocery store,” the lights
Depending on our feeble memory.

They even record and play thunder
Storms when the sprays of water
Turn on and wash the vegetables.
We are outside.  The world is ours.
Let us run through the garden.

The thin strips of wood that made
Up apple baskets are gone now.

Entire trees are draped in torn
Plastic fluttering with the wind
Alongside of every highway.

Sweet prayers rise from our throats.
Saint Theresa joins us with armloads
Of roses.  She tells us about Actaeon,
Gathers the stag in her arms.

THE WIND'S TALE

—D.R. Wagner

It starts with the birds.  Wind can place them
Where it wants them, a kind of skywriting that
Is so elaborate cultures could actually read them
As they moved upon the wind, daring and articulate.

The thermals curve and swirl.  From here flight seems
Without effort and the wings upon them must be an
Imagined sound of wind over primary flight feathers.

            *

The temple of night snow under a full moon.
The wind holds the flakes and I have heard them
Touch the ground, owned by the wind, made to
Describe the landscape by the wind, shown the drifts

White and deep before the howl of blizzard interrupts
The lesson and confirms the myriad voices this whiteness
Contains.  “I will hide everything from you under the pleated
Drape of snow.  And we will recognize this same tale

In the desert, in the sand dunes and the wind voices
Caught in canyons and dancing with dust devils, tornados
Hurricanes and other extreme manifestations, wheel
Within wheels spinning with millions of copies of mantra
Locked inside them."

This is that same wind. “ Open your hand and feel it
Move over your fingertips.  We will ride the great vehicle.
We will be the be the birds floating over the highest places.”

________________________

DEATH STROLLING THE HOSPITAL

—D.R. Wagner

He went rushing past me in the hall
Suitcase clutched to his chest,
Smile stuck to his face and I made
As if to say something of the cold
Coming in from the stairwell or the hard
Reflection the sun made on the iced-
Over snow; a simple ‘hello’ might
Have reached him, but no.  The ease
Of Spring pulled him through the halls
Out the door to birdsong and all that
World to see again, suddenly.  His arms
Full of a lover more precious
Than water.

I looked from the window of the
Intensive Care Unit, down at the taxi
Moving away.  “Goodbye," I said and the
Monitors all flat-lined for an instant
Setting off alarms all over the floor.
Only the dying could see me now.  They thought
I was smiling but I was not.  I have no wishes
Left to wish.  Cool eyes on fevered foreheads.

Guardians

—Photo Enhancement by D.R. Wagner

THE SONG OF ANTIBIOTICS

—D.R. Wagner

A shaft of light on a blue
Green mold.  The tiny flower
Heads of this same mold about

To burst into a snow of bacilli.

And here from a tree bark,
A wisdom of contention
With healing, finally won by
A tree fighting off insects.

A collection of broken mirrors
that somehow are able to explain
To our bodies a set of instructions
Needed to address an infection,
Trip a disease into thinking something
Away from our soft selves.

Praise for the mold and the small
Things lurking near the edges
That go unnoticed except by a very few

Who see the light come in, thin
But still able to form prisms, still
Able to open channels of waves
And point directly to the words
Of a song we eagerly await to hear

The lyrics of, learn its sacred words.

______________________

THE UNCOMFORTABLE SHADOW

—D.R. Wagner

It wasn’t as if any body would do.
Birds, dogs, men, women, cats,
Even trash cans and automobiles.
All had been tried but the fit was never
Right.  Too long or too short or two
Convoluted to offer solace to a self-
Respecting shadow like this one.

Finally, there was a village in Bavaria,
Somewhere near Burgstall and Miesberg,
That had no shadows at all.  This
Seemed like the place to set up house
Keeping. The sun was good, “Shadow
Friendly” read the advertisements,
“Cool evenings, a place for lovers,
Landscape and quiet houses.”

The first weeks it rained almost everyday.
There was no work for shadows.
Under the eaves inside barns,
Corners of the house, just beyond
The fireplace in the evening,
Next to the bed at sleep time.

Shadows wander.  They are part of something
Without being that something.
They are visible memories of what
Moving through time means, what

Leaning into the light or turning
A corner could be, if necessary.

Gradually, work became more and more
Demanding.  Everything wanted a shadow,
From hawks and chickens to house mice,
Inglenooks, eves to chimneys.

It was good work.  No talking,
Variety and a closeness that could
Otherwise not be had.  The language
Became easier, a comfort gradually
Came over  the shadow and such
Twilights and late Summer evenings
Themselves actually became memories
Because of the shadows.  This was how
It could be.  It belonged to no one and to
Everyone.  Soon the world would revel
In these shadows. Even the Earth itself

Had one and gave one to the moon.

___________________________

KISSING ONE ANOTHER 

—D.R. Wagner

I cannot make the words turn anywhere
Toward what I want to say.  Exactitude
In the tearing of wind through the line
Of trees along the edges of the park which
Absents itself in the lost songs of ancient
Wood, Elm to be specific, Locust, to be a season.

There is no scale.  I am lost in the dust that words
Cast upon the walking form of man.
The twilight man.  The man about to sit
Upon a chair.  The man embarking on
An explanation of form who disappears
Forever in a throng of words ridden
Into oblivion by those who would define
Everything that is said as if it had more than flow;

From staring at a beautiful woman into
An explanation of what the bishop had
For breakfast that turned the parish
Into an unsymmetrical sludge that
Caught itself in prayer and barely
Saved what we know as the final,
The unique, the absolute.  Somewhere
We forget exactitude and find darkness,
Kissing one another, hoping for ultimate substance.

_________________________

Today's LittleNip:

A poet's work is to name the unnameable, to point at frauds, to take sides, start arguments, shape the world, and stop it going to sleep.   

—Salman Rushdie

_________________________

—Medusa

 Captured

—D.R. Wagner

Wind Music

Clay Dove, Port Sanilac, Michigan

—Photo by Katy Brown, Davis

METEORITE

—Roger Langton, Louisville, Colorado

Sitting on my working desk
rests a small meteorite,
made of iron and when lifted
is heavier than one might expect.
It was found in the
Soviet Union in 1947,
one of many fragments
that were harvested.

Speeding through black matter.
Unfathomable cycles of hot and cold.
A journey of millions of miles
that cannot penetrate the human mind.
The flaming descent. The greatest
test of god particles. There
were winners and losers—

melting and reforming. Maybe they
were all winners. The way nature works.

What are the odds of this conglomerate
landing on our little planet? And
the greater odds that a speck
would come to rest on my desk?
It is a persuasive reminder of
where I am and how
outrageous it is to cling
to even a speck of ego.

_____________________

HOOKED

—Roger Langton

In a brain as old as mine
there are many hooks carousing
through the nooks and crannies
of human intelligence,
looking for memories that when
snagged will cause pain.

These many hooks multiply
over time and are not neutral.
They are persistent in their search and
grab hold only when suffering is found.
Then the line is jerked upward
and brought to the conscious self.

They are evil and relentless. They come
while listening to stories, watching a movie,
or when the mind is not
completely in the present.

These heartless hooks are triggered by an
association in the present of some
similar event in the past. If they persist
and win most of the scrimmages
a life can be diminished with agony.

When the search for suffering
becomes less productive
the hooks dig deeper to find
the less reachable areas of repression 
which makes its owner
shout, or sigh or double over
as if struck by a stomach blow.

They are near impossible to manage.
They stay with the emotion-bound past
ripping apart the present. Some hooks
becomes weaker and frail as
the years pass but it is only by dying
that they evaporate as the mind
goes still.

_________________________

GANGS AND GUNS

—Roger Langton

The two gangs have been
enemies for years.
The neighborhood children
take the places of those
who die and there are plenty
of guns to go around.
Two gang members
initiate a drive-by shooting
seeking revenge for some
unknown act of little consequence.
The driver shouted,
"There's one of those bastards."
The bullets rage from the gun.
One strikes the side of a house,
another whistles toward
the shaded porch.
One missile strikes a dark
figure crouching in the bushes.
The shooters speed off
with sounds of screaming wheels.
Next day the headline proclaims
that a famous athlete has been arrested
for drinking and driving.
There is a small article
reporting that a drive-by shooting
killed a child and his grandfather.

_________________________

SQUARE DANCES & POLKAS

—Roger Langton

The leaves dance to
wind music
spinning along
the driveway
lifting up and down
pushing together
like unacquainted lovers
mostly square dances
and polkas
one group does the minuet
the green leaves
are not good dancers
the yellow ones
are better,
fly higher
are lighter on their feet
when the heavy snow
comes the dancers
are no longer seen
they are tired
and welcome the rest.

Old Vine

—Photo by Katy Brown

AT CONCERT'S END
—Tom Goff, Carmichael

When you didn’t come to hear us play, it crushed;
I gathered my strength of trumpet and went on,
but you weren’t there. No point now whether I rushed
or dragged or diverged from this “show must go on”
mode upon which I fix. I found the excitement;
my trumpet partners and I stayed fully aligned
through Polovetsian Dances, a blood incitement
for pressing on through Saint-Saëns (he, much maligned),
and Copland’s “Hoe-Down” from Rodeo, Superman.
Conductor Peter, filling the late Michael’s shoes,
was superb. But you weren’t there. Downhearted I scanned
at concert’s end the thinning crowd. Heads, shoes.
My love, now I know you were a casualty.
Work claimed you. When will Time harmonize you and me? 

_______________________

OUTPOST
—Tom Goff

The late September light softens
parking lot, lavenders over the gray.
Lampposts taller than ever. The sky’s
vast hand goes yellow-white just
palming, caressing each hill, bird,
ambling human. Here I sit sick
with dread, longing, love: that
above-stomach knot is my heart. Here
you stand as you stood yesterday,
eyes on mine, lips silently caroling
Absent! How you press your lovely
ghost bronzefist into my Thinker brow.

______________________

Thanks to today's chefs for their tasty fare: Roger, Katy, Tom, BZ, and artist Cindy Sherman, whose Medusa work inspired BZ's LittleNip. 

Roger Langton taught high school and college in California for 30 years until he retired and moved to Colorado. He began writing poetry in the 1970s, being encouraged and inspired by his cousin Annie Menebroker and by his friend Paul Fericano. He was editor of the Red Cedar Review of Colorado and printed several chapbooks using the poems of A.D. Winans, Ann Menebroker and Joyce Odam. He is the editor of the chapbook: Surviving Bukowski: The Relationship between Charles Bukowski and Ann Menebroker. His poems have been printed in various publications. At age 77 he has started writing poetry again after several years of inactivity. Welcome to the Kitchen, Roger!

_____________________

Today's LittleNip:

CINDY SHERMAN'S MYSTIC MEDUSA
—B.Z. Niditch, Brookline, MA

Pink collage
with photographs
in unison of dreams
without group
thinking of stars
untitled #282
hermetic and free
like Medusa herself
clothed in mystery
not afraid of Jason,
with eyes intent
on being perfected
as a woman.

_____________________

—Medusa

Medusa

—Painting by Cindy Sherman