Photo by D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove
—Patricia Hickerson, Davis
for those half asleep
waiting for Spring
will we ever know it again—
a winter of recovery?
huddles of deep fur
resting in caves
density of shadows
bears giving birth
suckling cubs
tucked into cubbyholes of pelt and bone
cradled at ease in a blind-struck hideaway
deaf to the crackle of ice
limbs encurled
heartbeats slowed
season of stillness….
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SEEDS AND BULBS
—Carl Bernard Schwartz, Sacramento
Seeds seem to do well
any time but Winter.
For example, the art exhibition
that inspired Modest Moussorgsky
to compose Pictures At An
Exhibition took place in
February and March of 1874.
Then in 1922 Maurice Ravel
penned his wonderful orchestration
from May to Fall, with the premier
taking place in October.
Contrarily, in January of 1986
the seeds of inspiration of 7
aspiring astronauts were suddenly
and horribly extinguished in the
Challenger space shuttle disaster.
Maybe we should just stick to
planting bulbs in the Winter,
and patiently wait for better
conditions before planting our
tender seeds.
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If I Could Write a Poem
I’d write of automobile rims that spin when the car is still,
silver and shiny and usually spinning in opposition to one
another, the front right spinning a tad bit slower than the
driver’s side rim, which seems always to spin faster than
the one behind where Billy always sits so that he can toss
bits of paper out the window instead of the rocks he carries
in his pocket that he once threw at a car from atop the
overpass five miles from where a woman found a dog, and
that rim always stops spinning before the one where his
little sister, Tammy, sits playing with her doll and brushing
the few strands of hair it has left while their parents ride in
silence toward a destination none of them had envisioned.
—Trina Drotar, Sacramento
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MY ARS POETICA
—Carol Louise Moon, Sacramento
Red and green, the color
of thoughts and words—
alive and blooming,
poinsettias in the
realm of literature.
Or, perhaps, poison oak:
awe-inspiring in its
ability to torment—
causing me to seek mercy,
even beg forgiveness
for having produced
a half-baked poem.
_____________________
THE SHIFTING
—Carol Louise Moon
The wind is so howling;
the dogs are so barking.
The bark of the
trees seen from here seems so dark.
The window is shaking;
I think of its breaking,
and see through the
glass all the trees are aglow.
The green moon is shining
revealing the leaf greens,
the sheen of the
greens where the rain is so wet.
The darklings are growling.
Their silhouettes moving
give rise to the
movement of Dog in my room.
My room is now shifting.
The pale light is sifting;
the stark eyes in
Marquerite's painting now move.
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A SQUIRREL'S DECISION
—Carol Louise Moon
This fidgety squirrel
has pause
at the base of a juniper
between two decisions—
go under, or stand in the driveway:
go into the night club, or hail a taxi.
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Today's LittleNip:
ONE POEM
is a cup
of caffeine
with sugar
and cream
___________________
—Medusa
Photo by D.R. Wagner