The Power of Poetry

HEADING HOME ACROSS HIGH DESERT
—Patricia Wellingham-Jones, Tehama

The sharp smell of pine laced with snow
pierces diesel fumes clogging earth’s pores.
Among mountains, clouds play tag
like coy maidens, sky
blue gowns streaked with long white threads.
Coots’ green-webbed feet hopscotch
patterns on the frozen pond
while the sun etches shadows woven
with snow goose wings.
Between the gaunt and naked poplars
fencing the home place, deer tread
lightly on the land and I am pulled
past their winter-thin ribs
to a kitchen light streaming.

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Thanks, PWJ! The push for winter poems ended last night at midnight, but we have enough to last us through the week. And, as you can see, our winter poems have caused a shift in the weather. Ah, the power of poetry...........!

Today, or Rather, Tonight:

•••Tonight (6/28), 6-7 PM is the Hidden Passage Poetry Reading at Hidden Passage Books, 352 Main St., Placerville. It's an open-mic read-around, so bring your own poems or those of a favorite poet to share, or just come to listen.

•••Also tonight (6/28), 9 PM: The Mahogany Urban Poetry Series is hosted by Khiry Malik and Rock Bottom at Sweet Fingers Jamaican Restaurant, 1704 Broadway, Sac., $5. Info: 916-492-9336.

______________________

PROMISE
—Ann Wehrman, Sacramento

Soft like cotton wool,
winter's golden sunset clouds
over brittle trees.

_______________________

HOME
—Ann Wehrman, Sacramento

Struggle up
rickety back stairs,
coated with ice,
push open the
splintered wooden door,
enter the kitchen’s warmth.

The low table under sun-splashed eves
where we write,
where I make bread,
kneading the dough
just the length of that song
we both love.

Tiny gas stove,
unexpected luxury
of a deep, old bathtub on porcelain feet.

Steam hisses softly
from the ancient radiator,
beams rise out of each corner,
meet in the ceiling’s heart,
underneath, firm and wide,
rests the double bed.

Late afternoon flows into evening,
still-warm rays of winter sunset
reach through dormer windows,
tint the bedspread
peach,
rose,
dusky brown.

_______________________

WINTER
—James Lee Jobe, Davis

Sunrise, the cat's frosty breath
hangs in the air like fog.
She stares through slitted eyes
at light patterns on the window.

Even the crepe myrtle huddles for warmth.

Still wind, and fallen leaves
lay like the dead on a battlefield.

If there are birds, they aren't saying anything.

In the houses, people stir. Slowly,
the sounds of morning come to life.

A crisp, biting day begins.

_______________________

WHAT KIND OF SOLDIER I WAS
—James Lee Jobe, Davis


The Fort Dix Post Exchange store

carried The Columbia Anthology of American Poetry,

and I wandered off to shout poems

in the frozen pines and make snowmen.

______________________

Thanks, Ann and JJ!

—Medussssssssa

Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their poetry and announcements of Northern California poetry events to kathykieth@hotmail.com for posting on this daily Snake blog. Rights remain with the poets. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)