Claiming Light

THEY HAVE DIFFERENT NEEDS
—St. John of the Cross
 
Some seeds beneath the earth
are dormant.

They fell the last time the cool air
turned the leaves
gold.

Those seeds have different needs than we do;
let them go about their life
completely unharmed
by your views.

We have cracked open, we sensed
even beneath the earth—
the holy was near,

and are reaching up to know
and claim
light

as our
self.

_____________________

—Medusa

This Fine and Fragile Globe

Easter Cupcakes

—Poems and Photos by D.R. Wagner, Locke

THE SHAPE OF THE COIN IN ITS HISTORY

She said: “There wasn’t supposed to be a room here.”
And he agreed, opening the door onto rows of houses
In streets of every color, pouring what remained of the memories
The dead could no longer access into the roadways where
Great animals and hungry ghosts flocked to find what they thought
They were looking for.  Every house faced away from the world.

He said: “I am an eyeball rolling away from a body, blue then mud.
Blue then mud over and over, into a lake of fire fueled with unused
Words, forests of them, given to those seasons we had to discard
When we were required to have only four.”  And someone imagines
They are the words to a song and begins to sing them.  There are
Deafening explosions every time a mouth is opened.  “See—the hills
Are still green.”  A four-inch hose full of a pink substance begins
To spray over everything until it all loses form and begins bubbling.

She said: "Redeem us.”  But here were too many children who
Had no idea what she was talking about and began picking at
Her clothing until it was gone and her red skin hissed and bubbled.
Entire populations relocated, hoping for a better weather.

He said: “The clocks have squandered everything.  There is no
Botany left.”  We tried again and again to return him to a waking state.
He looked up at us and we could see him in the dream.  He was drowning
But still using as many bullets as he could command to rid himself
Of his forebearers, as if they were corridors in a fragile palace.
Full of images, all for sale and warlike to the touch, as sentence
Diagrams fight against their respective places, gazing longingly
At adjectives used for mausoleums, full of ancient faces,
Full upon the sea, gobbling their adventures without a tear.

She said: "We cannot continue this way.”  And exiled herself
With some forgotten king who only existed in a bit of Antic
Muse, unable to decide if she were happy or not happy.
She listened to the conversations of women walking the plains,
Smelling of good food and constant mornings as if they had
Never known anything else.  She became unable to perceive dusk.

What we shall not know is their blindness five hundred years
From now, lifting from the garden, no longer children and barely
Glimpsed by anyone who could narrate more than the principles
Of madness, its firmaments and angels so intimate and musical
No one is able to notice them.  A hand holding a fine and fragile globe.

 Dog Stain

A BIT OF THE ENCHANTMENT, MIND YOU

This was the path of the enchantment.
The dark blue-black tricks of the night
Lifted by their skirts to dizzying heights.

The ability to know the waves, to call them
By name and have them bear our bodies high
Upon their crests into the great storms, fly.

To hold the fairy light within the hands like this.
To see the glow and cast it out upon the world
Where few would ever see or even know.

The naming of the mythic beings and kings.
The places where they ruled soft upon the tongue,
Spoken to the firelight, built on harps, then sung.

The casting of enchantments spells.
Thought foolish things by nearly everyone
But not by you or me, what can barely be undone.

Iris

PORCELAIN

The Yuan Dynasty blue and white
Dishes both feature a stylized fish, fins erect,
Mouth open, surrounded by beautifully
Figured aquatic, decorative motifs.  The plate from
Sometime in the 14th century, as is the Wine
Jar with similar decoration.  They echoed a dream
Of the veranda with its coolness in late afternoon.

The memory of the clay was long and perfect.
The magicians had crested an almost unreal
Time in the depth of the glazes, mirrored
Stories full of changing figurations, horses
Ridden to the edge of the pools in the pavilions.
The great fish rising from the waters to speak
From prophecy and a promise of endless
Evenings to be enjoyed by those whose sword
Was sharpest, commanding all that could be
Made beautiful to be made for themselves,
For their single delight.  All of this time wrapped
Deep inside a dynasty alive now only in the scholar’s
Memory.  Days of the Khan, all dust blowing
Through a labyrinth made of objects.

The blood has long ago dried and decayed.
Only these vessels remain, their fishy presence
Porcelain mirrors, trinkets belonging to time,
Who rules kingdom after kingdom of ghosts.

 Back Stairs, Locke

A MESSENGER

Your name spelled out in spilled salt.
The lengthening of the day and figures
In the garden walk into the twilight.

Your arms covered in charms
To ward off the momentary.

The changing of mirrors
Prevents our walking on kaleidoscopes,
Vehicles transporting souls
Back and forth to the bookshelves.

The silk of the spider
Bearing all our weight.
The reminders that the dream
Will not undo me, an
Empty ship we can use to
Ply the night.  Sound
Walking away from all things.

The vision remaining, tenuous
As any city.  So many things
That cannot be.  I will
Stand here on the beach
With you.  We will wait
For the sound of the waves
To return.
 
You send someone
To bring it back.

 Poppies

THE SEVENTH DAY

Soon the lights will go on again
And I will be able to see your face.
We were laughing in the dark.
There were secrets that escaped
Our lips and had form only when we spoke.

I heard your sorrow and
Your heartbreak, your breathing,
Confused as a seventh day.

Thirsty air.
The solid cut of our bodies
Shaking hands in the darkness.

Soon the lights will come on again
And we will be
At the corner of 24th Street
And Cleveland Avenue.  I bite deep
Into my leg so I can taste the blood.

 Rose

CLIMATE CHANGE

For ten thousand years
I would be asleep.

Objects would people my sleep:
An iron ring, anything that might
Be called a mirror, fantastic
Deer, some bright red, some green.

I would be able to count all
The drops of water in a rainstorm.
I could sleep beyond the ambiguities
Dreams demand of us as we
Become dust, bit by reflected bit.

I could hear the inside of a symphony,
Think other possibilities for the cellos,
The viola, the beautiful melodies
The clarinet uses to have us lose
Our way in the music.  Your features
Would remain indistinct and I
Would nod in my ten-thousand-year sleep.

I would weave you a multicolored heaven,
Full of visionary shadows and
Millions of things that vanished, as smoke,
Curled out of a forgotten chimney.

The order of things would not matter
To me.  I would be humble
In my sleep and embrace its hours,
Knowing how quickly ten thousand years
Might pass and how haunted
I may become by the inaccessible
Robes of time.  Watch him walking
Away, seeking some other embrace
That might not have such memory.

I will have forgotten how strange
All this seems as it drops
From my memory, as Adam
In paradise must have felt
Before he knew a thing, and all
Ineffable lest we be required
To open our mouths and speak.

I will stand in the garden and on
The patios and they will always
Remain strong to whatever body
My sleep might conjure.

All would be precise as in the placing
A bullet requires to find the exact
Center of a target.

Come, then—sweep the past with me
In all its strangeness.  Death would
Not be able to understand my sleep.
I would return accidentally from
My obsession and seek the life of
Another climate.
          
I would await the return of poetry
To the dawn, to the shores
Of Ithaca, with its marvelous intent.

Sail upon this river then.
Who has not changed?
How to identify a particular
One?  Perchance to recognize eternity.

_____________________

Today's LittleNip:

STORM

We're going to get drenched in this storm, I said.
We had better take off our clothing.
But it was already much too late.

_____________________

—Medusa

Battered Buddha

Open Doors

—Photo by Robert Lee Haycock, Antioch

OPEN DOOR I
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole

A sparrow
hops
into apartment
pecks grit
from hallway rug,
slips

into bathroom
doesn't flush
or turn on tub water

Dances into kitchen
where when I peek
sure to find him
washing dishes
preparing lunch

only the memory
the compliment
remains.

______________________

OPEN DOOR II
—Claire J. Baker

A hummingbird
zips
into living room
settles on
windowsill
a tiny
caesura
I draw a deep
breath, let
fingers encircle
iridescence
At back door
the jewel
spirals high
into a honey-
colored sky
leaving in hand
a pulsating
rainbow.

—Photo by Robert Lee Haycock

IN REPLY TO HUNTER HILL'S
“nightdarknessfog”
—Ann Wehrman, Sacramento
Hunteritooamahunter
Dianainmiddleage
(allrighti’moverfifty-don’ttellanyone)
Youarejustakidlikealltheothers
Don’tworrythisisnotacomeon
butwheniread
Your
**brilliant**
poem
andeverywordRAAANNNintothenext
andyouplayedwiththetext—
youmusthavefiguredout
HOWTODISABLEYOURCOMPUTER’SREDUNDERLINE
THATTELLSYOUYOU’VEMADEOOPS
AGRAMMARORSPELLINGMISTAKE
(mypoemisonebigmistakeaccordingtothiscomputer)
Whenireadyourpoemandfelt
thenightandthestemsofthegrasscomealive
andyouknewU2musicwouldberightatthattimeofnight
notratatattat!!!!!
butemotionalandfullofpainandconviction…
i’mgoingtogetUPnow
andchangethestereo
oh,Godnotastereo

i’mshowingmyage

it’snightheretoo
iusedastereowheniwasakidlikeyou
nowit’saCDplayer
iwouldplayU2foryoursake
butidon’thaveanysoiwillspinmyclassicaldiscs
unlikeinyourpoem
(i’msettleddownamaidenladystrictfearfulandsensible
i’mDianainmindonly—itcouldbedangerous)
isit{[inside]}inthisverylatenightalone
listentoeverycrackandpeepandjumpwhenthesprinklerscomeon

liketheydoeverynight
beautyofCopeland’smusic
overitthebuzzinginmyears
thenightdarknessoverarchesalloutside
nevermindlookingforanoverarchingmetaphor
thenightskyfilled***withsilentstars***doesjustfine

____________________

OBSESSION
—Ann Wehrman

three years old
something wakes me
I pad down the hallway
peer into the kitchen

Mom sits in the dark
like Curie surrounded by radium
watching a lone, cobalt flame
burn on the stove

no food simmers
the heater works fine
still she gazes, entranced
at the deep blue glowing

Mommy
I break her silence
her gaze registers
I return to bed

 

 —Photo by Robert Lee Haycock

ON BEING FIRED FOR
TALKING BACK TO MY MANAGER
—Ann Wehrman

The queen decrees, “Off with her head!”—
I tremble, grow cold, but
look straight in the eye
of the unmasked executioner, her vassal,
who, nonplussed, raises his sword,
obedient to her command.

It feels like I’ve been here before—
faced off with, then lost to
women wearing Mommy’s face;
back then, I suffered under her spell—
but this battle, I fight to win.

The red queen might be thirty—
I, fifty plus,
should be able to stand up to her
by now,

yet my years and achievements
prove weak armor
against her disfavor;
my defenses fail,
sword falls powerless from my hand,
pride rolls across the room,
body slumps out the door;
I accept this defeat,
but do not surrender.

____________________

RETURNING
—Ann Wehrman

our fifty-year-old bodies
even more beautiful
wrinkles are battle scars
eyes open with experience

we begin the return
circle continuously, like kites or hawks
make long swoops
catch glimpses of each other in passing
signs that you hear me
feel what I feel

________________________

TO MY BROTHER
—Ann Wehrman

I see him as I walk
down the aisle at Thrifty’s
he is young, maybe twenty
he sits in a chair in the corner
head in his hands
waits as the druggist mixes
his clothes are dirty and ragged
dark hair long, unkempt
is the prescription for him, or a loved one?
does he just sit
not waiting for a prescription at all?
miserable, in pain, drunk, on drugs,
lost, or with nowhere left to go,
the face is hidden, still held in his hands

if this stranger raises his head
out of his eyes could shine darkly
the soul of my brother, lost since thirteen
in a lawless world which I dare not enter

brother/stranger
if he lifts his face to mine
he will howl

 

—Photo by Robert Lee Haycock

 

BARNSTORMING
—Robert Lee Haycock, Pinole

A biplane practices her aerobatics over the shores of old seas, Sand and Marsh Creek.  

Growling and whining barrel rolls, she loops the loop and is silent as the engine stalls. 

I hold my breath to hear the purr of pistons revive, that last explosive kiss of gravity.

_____________________

HAUNT
—Robert Lee Haycock

Our dead visit then fade like old photos 
My hands are sticky with their kisses 
The choir refuses to get off the bus 
My wedding ring holds the ocean 
Lightning follows thunder 
The door knobs turn

_____________________

BURNING DAYLIGHT
—Robert Lee Haycock

We saddled up 
Down dusty streets 
Saloon, livery, assay office 
Beyond the weed tumbled edge of town

Into the hills 
Out of nowhere 
Pools, palm trees, driving range 
Before we knew what we were doing

____________________

CONCORDANCE
—Robert Lee Haycock

I asked you for change

          "Approaching Concord"

I held out my cup

          "Concord is our final destination"

You spit in it

          "The doors will only open once"

____________________

Today's LittleNip(s):

GHOST HUNTING
—Robert Lee Haycock

Dog runs in her sleep 
Pursuing phantom quarry 
I dream I follow

         ***

RAIN
—Robert Lee Haycock

The downspouts chuckle 
The sere hills dream of green robes 
I chuckle and dream
 

___________________
 

—Medusa

 

—Photo by Robert Lee Haycock

Held Up By Hope

Hopi Warrior Earthware by Joseph Cerno Sr. 

Crocker Art Museum, Sacramento

—Photo by Michelle Kunert

GREAT EXPECTATIONS
(Don't Want To Know)
—Michael Lerman, Elk Grove
 
I'm sparingly traveling, just to barely unravel it.
Too much knowledge, and you can level anything,

downgrade beauty to vanity and love to lust.
What's the capacity when getting to know us?
Too much reality, and my heart might be lost.
Just her trust, that is all I ever wanted.
My love is haunted, but she can't see romance in ghosts.
She sees romance in pros, avoiding all the nature's cons.
But river never flows, unless there is a crack that runs.
And I was perfect, once, but beauty isn't always a perfection.
It's nature's brilliant exception, a drawing sketched by inspiration,
when sounds of ovations draws silhouettes of those great expectations.
But I'll be patient, 'cause future is mirage held up by hope.
I'll grab the shining rope and pull myself up to the moon,
turn earth from night to afternoon, so I can see the world my way.
Some things are better late than soon, and I don't want to know tomorrow's day.

__________________________

GREEN GRASS OF TUNNEL
—Michael Lerman

Green grass flows through tunnel of cement walls.
As rain from ceiling falls, heart knows that sun still glows.
As I ignore the noise of woes, I hear the voice of love that grows.
I see how good my story goes, as I shut eyes in peaceful bliss.
I think tomorrow's memories, so they become what is.
I like that I exist, that I can feel these miracle vibrations.
Star-studded constellations, light peeks through holes of my mind's roof.
My ears and eyes don't ask for proof, I simply know.
Reality is past and doesn't move.  My heart is in the flow.
Like flake that's part of snow, I'm instance of an infinite beginning.
The universe is spinning, like light bunnies on my ceiling.
I'm swimming through this feeling.  The pool is filled with summer night.
The moonlight is my guide.  It leads me to the door of flying windmill.
Like secret that is sealed, inside, there is a chest that only I can open.
My smile is a token that's unspoken, and gears start working, unlocking copper chest.
I look inside and gasp.  I see myself in sleep, without a care, in deepest rest.

_________________________

HOMELESS
—Michael Lerman

Blinking film frames, slightly tilted.
Trees from concrete, city-wilted.
We have built it.  Now, we're climbing.
That's how mine is, so is yours.
That's how we remember it, from birth.
We cannot rehearse, but we sure do try.
It's the play, called life.  Doesn't matter if you're high
in a highrise fortress, or sprawling in the mansion.
All of us are homeless.  Wall is comforting invention.
Some don't like to mention address, 'cause they feel evicted.
Heart restricted, soul begins to wonder.
Mind goes under, drowning in footsteps and raindrops.
Numbing rhythm, I wish this sidewalk never stops.
Stoned by rocks, this high can feel so heavy.
These blocks of envy, gates that shut like gavels.
All hopes are empty, except for graceful ending to my travels.

________________________

IT'S ALL SO...
—Michael Lerman

It's all so bubbling, and it's all so troubling.
It's all so humbling, whether we're soaring or stumbling.
Sometimes, so struggling in this infinity.
But please, remember that we are divinity, pure light that's free.
This universe, pure love, it's all so you and me.
You have to see that I love you so unconditionally.
This physical reality, you know, it's just a game we play.
I don't remember how we came to stay, it's bitter-sweet.
I think we're here to learn how in a darkness, light of love is lit.
Sometimes we feel so sad, as if this instance won't repeat.
This instance we call life, the joy of feeling our heartbeat.
Please know that this forever will repeat, so don't shed tears.
We are eternal ships that always find their piers.
Subconscious memories, sometimes, our only tips.
You loved the way I kissed your lips, the way I looked into your eyes.
Try to remember me, 'cause I might be just static when your eye lids rise.

_________________________

SLEEP WILL COME
—Michael Lerman

Toss and turn, for what is it that I yearn?
There's nothing else to learn, just be myself and take my truest form.
Rejecting earthly norm, my soul is breaking free from limitations.
Bliss could be formed, if I can just succeed in raising my vibrations.
I feel the tiring sensations, beliefs that are so planted in my head.
Doubts from disappointments I had.  At last, I have no fears.
Like salt, they melted in my tears, with stereotypes from thousands of years.
As old and rusted gears, those centuries still carry on with time.
Sometimes I am a mime, sometimes court jester that's so loud.
I could be villain of true crime.  I could be hero in self-doubt.
I'm king, so glorified by fearful crowd, or maybe poet heard by none.
I died as soldier that's unsung.  I'm general of losing battle that I won.
It all goes on right now, in different lives I chose to have.
And still I'm only me, myself, awake by memories, uncertain thoughts.
It's like I'm reading faded notes, attempting to play melodies with fingers that are numb.
I close my eyes, let go of words.  I'm trusting now that sleep will come, that sleep will come.

Earthenware Seed Pot by Joseph Cerno Sr 

Crocker Art Museum

—Photo by Michelle Kunert

I recall once finding a wedding bouquet ditched in a parking lot
  It still had fresh-cut purple iris along with lavender and fern greenery
  and I begged Mom to let me take it home to stick in water
  because apparently whomever caught it at the end of ceremony
  didn't even bother to throw it in the trash if they didn't want it
  I kept this bouquet on the kitchen table till it was wilted brown
  and wondered if something similar would happen to the marriage it represented
  After that I thought weddings should instead have live flowers
  the kind that one can plant to see bloom again and again
  preferably like the kind to give hope to a loved one in a hospital

—Michelle Kunert, Sacramento

_______________________

I pulled yet-unbloomed sunflowers from my garden plot
  dozens just sprouted up suddenly everywhere like weeds
  though I planted just two last year
  the sunflowers usurped water from the squash plants
  as well as taking room for my greens to grow
  No need either for any shade from the sunflowers—
  I threw them into the compost pile
  where their decay will serve nicely

—Michelle Kunert

_______________________

Today's LittleNip:

I have recurring dreams I hate—
  such as being suddenly naked in public
  or filthy bathrooms where I have to pee
  I don't hate the dreams where I write poetry
  or the others where I paint pictures
  what I hate is when I wake up—
  I can't remember what I wrote
  and briefly wonder, where's my art?

—Michelle Kunert

______________________

—Medusa, with thanks to today's contributors.  In the late 1990s, during the revolutionary age for independent artists, Michael Lerman wrote song lyrics, collaborated with composers/producers.  Many demos were produced, in styles that ranged from Pop, to Rock, to Trance, to fusion of different genres.  Some songs have received radio play in Norway, and an independent album was released in Japan.  In the beginning of the first decade of the 21st century, Michael served as a Hip Hop Ghostwriter.  In 2008, feeling constricted by the standard song format and limited by classic poetry, Michael concentrated on writing, independently from anyone, in a style to which he refers as Abstract Hip Hop Poetry.  At this time, you can follow Michael’s journey in an on-going book.  Visit MichaelsLyric.com to check out the current version.   

It's a very busy weekend here in NorCal poetry: scroll down to the blue box (under the green box) at the right of this column to check out all the happenings!

Skull Jar Earthenware by Lisa Holt & Harlan Reano 

Crocker Art Museum

—Photo by Michelle Kunert

A Measure of Poetry

Fuzzy

—Photo by Carol Bales, St. Louis, MO

DOUBTING THOMAS (Fuzzy)
—Donal Mahoney, St. Louis, MO
 
For years I've fed this feral cat at 4 a.m.,
a crouching mound of fur, Satanic black, with yellow eyes
that never blink. I call him "Doubting Thomas."

I place his can of Fancy Feast five feet or so from him.
He doesn't stir till I go in the house
and douse the porch light.

Then he leaps and cleans the can
and saunters off till 4 a.m. the following morning
when he's back again, eyes ablaze, crouching.

This pact I have with Doubting Thomas
helps me realize how God must feel
eons after the Big Bang.

Some folks, you see, aren't certain God lit that match.
Some believe the Big Bang just happened.
Out of nothing they believe something came to be.

I think the cat I feed at 4 a.m. agrees with them.
I'm sure he'd tell you Fancy Feast always was,
always will be and always will remain the same.

I wonder what that cat will do the day I die
when he arrives at 4 a.m. and finds the can
from yesterday empty where he left it.

There's no mystery as to what he'll do.
He'll find another porch like mine where every morning
without a bang Fancy Feast just happens.

______________________

SIREN OF THE STREETS

—Donal Mahoney
 
Whenever she comes by
it's always the same thing.
I make her comfortable
and then she leaves.

I tell her she's a harlot
hooking up all night
with God knows who
but in her case God

looks the other way.
Curious neighbors
ask if I know her.
I ask them do I look

like that kind of man?
Peter denied Christ thrice
but I make Peter a piker
when it comes to denying

this siren of the streets.
Once in a while a neighbor,
smitten as I am, takes her in
because she's attractive

and it's peaceful until
some morning very early
she's on my deck again
heartbroken, forlorn,

willing to do anything
for a nosh and a drink.
Since no one is up
at that hour to see me

I sit on the deck
and she leaps on my lap
and I stroke her until
she's a Lamborghini

purring at a red light.
Then she drives off,
leaving me on the deck
heartbroken, forlorn.

She must have been spayed.
Never had any kittens.
What might Pope Francis
think about this?

Her kittens, after all,
would have been beautiful
just as she is,
harlot or not.

____________________

CATS ARE POETRY (Maybellene)
—Donal Mahoney

In your mind you hear
words snarling
all day long
but no poem arrives.
The words are locked
in a cat fight,
syllables flying.

You hope the words
sleep well tonight and
wake in orderly fashion,
the way your cats
stretch at dawn
and wait to be fed
with feline decorum.

In the morning
the poem arrives
word by word,
chips off a diamond,
so you stop shaving,
grab a pen and
take dictation.

You write the words
as you hear them,
tweak a line or two,
and go spelunking
in your mind for
the right title.

Later, in celebration,
you tote a blast horn
to the roof
of the building
and announce
what agnostics suspect
and atheists know:

Cats are poetry.
Dogs are prose.

 Maybelline 

—Photo by Carol Bales

A LITTLE DREAM AT NAP TIME
—James Lee Jobe, Davis

I am asleep in the reclining chair,
wrapped in an old blanket I'm fond of,
with cold air coming in through the open window.
A little Englishman,
not even five feet tall,
walks up to me.
He is very old;
his mustache and hair are white,
and he is checking things off on a clipboard
and talking to himself.

"Is he comfy?
Yes, very comfy.
Favorite blanket?
Yes, very good.
Cool, fresh air?
Yes."

Then he sees that I am watching him.

"Quite alright, that.
You can open your eyes in this dream.
I'm here to make sure that you have a nice sleep.
Perfectly safe, perfectly fine."

Nap time,
and I have the English watching out for me.
A blessed life.

_______________________

WHAT I SAID TO THE BEAUTIFUL WOMAN, STANDING NAKED IN HER DOORWAY
—James Lee Jobe

You are beautiful, even the desert sunset
is pale beside you.

This world is the wilted wildflower, and you
are the five petaled rose.

You are the Madonna, Gaia, the goddess
of creation, Diana of the hunt!

You are the golden stars
that bless the sky with light!

You are wit and grace
and a measure of poetry.

Hear me
profess my love.

For I do not wish to be your lover,
there are lesser men for that.

I do not need to marry you,
to mate with you.

And I am not going to make love to you
in sacred moonlight.

Hear me
profess my love.

I want to be
your brother.

I will be strong for you
when all others have weakened.

I will make you laugh,
and defend you.

Your
brother.

I will not change your life, and you
will not change mine.

In this life I know that I cannot be a man
without a sister to love.

___________________

SHINING LIKE THE EYES OF A CHILD   
—James Lee Jobe

I wake up on a ridge top,
Deep in pine woods.

Long have I been sleeping
Under the green boughs.

Below me, in the river canyon,
I can hear a woman crying.

Or is that the river I hear?

A red tail hawk makes a circle in the air
Below me, but above the river.

There is still so much to do.

A shelter must be built, simple at first,
Then more complex, with rooms
That have functions assigned.

Here, we sleep. Here, we bathe.

Before my labor is even begun,
Night comes to stripe the sky with purple,
And then covers all the world with silence.

A silence so lovely that even the forest smiles.

Me, the river canyon, the pine ridge top,
All blanketed with darkness,
And above it all, high, the stars,
Shining like the eyes of a child.

 Button Nose

—Photo by Katy Brown, Davis

LADYBUGS IN THE CITY
—Taylor Graham, Placerville
 
In a storefront window, a platter
of ladybug canapés. Crimson
wings polka-dotted white, as if briefly
come to light on crackers

the way ladybugs in a November
far from this city will swarm
on a downed log, its bark crisp
brown; thousands of lady-beetles

pulsing red life like a last heartbeat
of fall; and the lost hunter
will walk right by, with other things
on his mind; his voice an echo

of “help!” A forest labyrinth
eats away at memory and directions,
shows him a cave full of bones.
Skid-trails appear to vanish

without street signs. A city lacks
this kind of darkness. He wonders if
he’ll ever find his camp, his car,
his way back home. His luck.

Did he even notice
the wonder of the ladybugs?

________________________

ISLAND
—Taylor Graham

Nothing but beach. The float-plane wouldn’t
be back for a week. The wind off the Gulf
was cold. The cabin’s oil stove didn’t work.
He built an oven of river-rock with a driftwood
smoker for all the salmon he meant to catch.
In the oven she baked sourdough bread
from starter she’d stowed in her pack. They
set off hiking inland; got stopped by log-jams
from the great tsunami. He fished his limit.
She fished her dreams—no living river
could spawn so much swimming red-gold-
silver. They beach-combed: giant lightbulbs
from across the ocean; fisherman’s floats
in bubbled glass blue-green as wonder; and
oblong plastic-foam in rose and ochre. For her
he carved rose and ochre knights and bishops,
rooks, pawns, kings and queens. They played
chess on the cabin’s wood-plank table.
She watched a three-masted rock sail forever
past the point. He counted days by salmon-
runs. She kept her time by tides. He forgot
about the float-plane. She never would.

_______________________

Today's LittleNip:

JUST PEACHY KEEN
—Kevin Jones, Elk Grove

The screen-printing shop
Was in a garage, and mostly
Under the radar: we’d take
Jobs that commercial shops
Wouldn’t handle.  So when
The guy came in with
An order for shirts that
Read “Life’s a Beach and
Then You Die,” we didn’t
Think much about sense,
Just came up with a great
Design featuring an
Umbrella drink and the Reaper
And printed up a bunch.
Guy never came back.
And we never sold a shirt.
Could be
I misspelled something.

________________________

—Medusa

 Pals

—Photo by Katy Brown

Wounded Hands

 —Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento

GARDENIAS
(after "Love’s Maturity" by Hadewijch of Antwerp)

You whom I loved
with the first heart, which was fierce,

how memory
saves such hungers to feed on,

how the years multiply scents
and sensations,

how young
is forever young,

how your name
is still a murmur on my mouth —

whenever I bend
to the heady scent of gardenias—

that old fashioned—too-fragile flower
you always brought me instead of words . . . .

______________________

THIS POEM

you do not want
gifts
especially poems
(mine)
inferior to pain
(yours)
and useless as
flowers
that will die and
useless as the
giving of flowers
as symbols of ineptness

or maybe an eloquence
undeserved
or maybe a fragment
of silence left over
from worn-out love
some love ungiven
or unreceived if given
you do not want
any of this
you turn away
your broken gardenia
in my hand

I BURDEN YOU WITH ROSES

Do not expect this to be real.
There are no realities,

only myths—
only the lies we tell ourselves

in the colorless world
of this gray winter—

only this pathway
of faded petals,

crushed into incense.

We will use anything
to make a reason for staying.

(first pub. in Rattlesnake LittleBook #2, 2009)

_______________________

MANET    
(after LILAS BLANCS DANS UN VASE DE VERRE [Vase of White
Lilacs and Roses]  from “The Last Flowers of Manet”)


Lilacs painted with the roses mend each other’s
light. The room grows dark. The day is
dying. The artist needs his sleep.

Hush the shadows—
crowding in
with liquid dark
where the water in the vase
helps the stems
support the flowers,
and the flowers
bruise the leaves—
and the table
holds back shadows
with its wrinkled tablecloth.

And the lilacs
shine with whiteness. And the roses
go more deep. And the near-blind artist sleeps.


(first pub. in  Ekphrasis, 2004)

______________________

MAYBE A ROBE WITH ROSES
(after “My Life In Robes” by Leonard Cohen)

My life in roses . . .
I thought this is what you meant to say,

but words melt in the rain
when compromise is made.

What else is there to believe
but what one wants to hear?

You always were the one
to speak into silence

as though it were a script
for tragedy—and roses

seemed a likely word to say,
whatever the stage of surrender.

You lick the blood from your finger
when I mention this.


(first pub. in Poetry Now, 2009)

PIECES OF REGRET
   
Something stirring, like regret, the fragment
sensation surfacing again—the rich scent of
gardenias that always take me back to where
you are, young and in love with me . . .

                                        I have a brown gar-
denia pulled from a neglected summer bush
that I rescue just in time to let it remind me,
let regret burn down, like a candle left to
burn down . . .

                                       Now all the pieces
fit in a sad collage: scents and sounds, scraps
of music mixed with seagull cries and the
sighing of the sea where I stand on docks
over water, that rocking motion where I match
the rhythm of time, my body that pulls at me,
an old connection . . .

                                       But always I must
leave, the fragments fall like pieces of memory:
dancehall lights and music, all mixed together,
an old band is playing and I am wearing a pink
oleander in my hair . . .

______________________

THANK YOU FOR THE ROSES

it is now i must write of
your hands
hard against flowers

the roses you bring
making a sadness
against your skin

and there they linger
bringing me nearer
for the kiss of both of you

it is not only roses
that you touch
so differently

but my face
when you give them to me
with wounded hands


(first pub. in Monument in Cantos and Essays (6), 
Lemon Center for Hot buttered Roll, 1975)

____________________

WELL, IF IT’S ONLY ROSES THAT WE KILL

One more rose
for whatever reason.

But you put it
in a bottle without water,

let it wilt there overnight
while I was not there
to save its life.

A bud-rose
turning dry at the edges.

              *

This morning I forgave us both,
almost.

              *

I threw the sick gardenias out,
exchanging them
for your silent flower.

Pain
cannot thank itself for love,

unless it knows
a better way

than one unhappy poem
for
one near-dead rose.


(first pub. in Voices International, 1971)

_____________________

Today's LittleNip:

WEARING A DRESS
OF VIOLENT RED ROSES

I go where I go wearing a violent gown of red
roses. Now I am covered with scars. I go
where I go in my violent dress that tears and
tears until I am bleeding. I save no petals to
put in a petal jar. Soon I am a long dry stem
free of all I had to carry—except for the thorns.

____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Joyce Odam for today's toothsome riffs on last week's Seed of the Week: Flowers in the Trash! Time to start thinking summer—our new Seed of the Week is Beachin'. Send your poetic or artistic thoughts about same to kathykieth@hotmail.com/. No deadline on SOWs, though; let 'em come when they will.

Lord, Greet Us With Fiery Words...

—Poems by B.Z. Niditch, Brookline, MA and

Photos by Michelle Kunert, Sacramento

THE TRASH COLLECTOR

No one ever suspected
the trash collector man
of anything
but the utmost character
who loved flowers
and perfume
more than his time
on earth's dry land,
as he puts lilac flowers
in the cans and bins
after his pick up
at all hours, never napping
from dawn to afternoon
always had win-win smile
or a joke or laughter
it was to himself at hand
that he was after
if he neglected his work,
yet some vocal youngsters
from the neighborhood
teased him as he drove by
in his truck named
on the awning "The Olympian'"
and called Zeus out
for his quirky vocal
back-slapping remarks
causing a morning rumpus
he was teased as
a strange foreigner
"the knee-jerk gardener"
yet all the bark
from tree limbs around
piles of bottles
found from the sea floor
radios and T.V.s
or any old car technologies
even books of knowledge
or five-starred catalogs
from local colleges
shards, swings
all the things
from our back yards
deemed superfluous
prison paper weights
or war paraphernalia
that no one wanted
any more
were carefully
driven away
and in its place
jonquils, crocus
newly risen hosed roses
and peacefully
scented dahlias.

_______________________

WAITING FOR

When the flower pot
rises anonymously
at our play
in Beckett's dawn
with Vladimir
as Estragon complied
to their pleading lines
from the trash trails
puffy and tumefied
in the sun
after planting what ails it
on each perishable spot
yet still smooth to reach
as Act One nails it
from a not-forgotten poet
and the scene
lubriciously moves
posthumously,
we were thinking
for hours of that crocus,
and jonquil
had ominously died
from its own shadow sill
without still water's
drinking power
yet a flower
quietly emerges
from a valve or pipe,
no testimony or money
any regrets or secrets
hidden in the can
from any type of cash
yet from yellow bowers
boughs and shelters
bouquets are restored
from the trash
helter-skelter
as gals and fellows cried
at the miraculous hand
of Pozzo
as we waited for Godot.

SEVEN THIEVES

Seven mountain thieves
not convicted for any crime
escaped before anyone
believes they did any time

They were orphaned
moored along the sea
hungry and thirsty
lured to a basin country

A poet tourist shared
with them his bread
a lawyer insists,
has their rights read

by a fountain lighthouse
they fed on olive salads
in love songs hills above
playing guitar ballads

Cowardly rumors pardon
the tallest tales of trees
with garden elegies
ate at their invented cheese

They dance for hours
never strapped for cash
had a stash of flowers,
it was said, by the trash

Longing for land
shipwrecked on the ocean
wherever they travel
always a commotion

Exiled from a colony
between the Devil's Isle
these clever gents and ladies
were never sent to Hades,

Yet there was a trial
of long suffering
on their forgiving faces
yet lent special graces

As a musical band of seven
with lyrical smiles as one
preparing for heaven
living under the sun.

_______________________

CAST PARTY

Expecting a sudden rain
on the sleepy deck
which does not happen,
oysters served
with champagne
in the sunshine
after the cast party,
the unrivaled wind on
our shoulder blades
a mixed bouquet
on the head table
by spent dark waters
a voice still echoes
from a trembling coast
over makeshift places
the now mirrored actors
offering autographs
climbing aboard
unveiling memories
and good laughs
snapped by the press
in a circle of lights
as hours of inward
excitement transform
our abandoned images
on the port of call
shivering in the breeze,
flowers still are herbal
after they rise
on the ship's bow
auspiciously nestled in
the shadow of ashes.

MARK STRAND'S DAY
(birthday, 4/11)

Never forgetting
Mark Strand 's third lecture
on comparative literature
at Columbia
from a live poetry read
in a surrealist expression
from his shoulder blade
to his voiced impression
piercing the stillness
of nature's narrative
mature clever words
of creative great splendor
he never lost his accent
from Prince Edward Island
and vividly speaks
in Canadian whispers
of sail and wind breakers
boats, the Bay,
hills, meadow
and our city's first snow
you are fond of Ernst,
Magritte
and Giorgio de Chirico,
we poets
respond to secrets
any signs of an April's lark,
round birds and sparrows
in Central Park.

_______________________

Today's LongerNip:

APRIL FOOLS US

T.S. Eliot we recall
in the famous Wasteland
that "April is the cruelest
month of all",
but she may yet fool us
in our solitude
running away
from dark attitudes
of winter rain and snow
beating down
from the mountain
we may soon drink
from the valley's fountain
when east winds finally
are dusted away
over the Cape sands
from the reeds and sea
offering us a spring nature
when clouds disappear
like funereal weeds on earth
in a long-shrouded land,
Lord, greet us
with fiery words
thinking of Hopkins,
Keats, Wordsworth
and a flower-like countryside
full of gentle birds
just for today
the Eliot I've taught
for years is put away
from my nostalgia
until marvelous May
fills our phantasmagoria.

__________________________

—Medusa, with thanks to today's contributors (from both sides of the country!) and a reminder that tomorrow is the deadline for the next issue of Rattlesnake Press's WTF, edited by frank andrick. For details, see rattlesnakepress.com/wtf.html

—Photo by Michelle Kunert