The continued need to wish
that a strong poem lies in wait, in some adopted room
of my mind, inspired not by lust or loss, or by wanting
to inspire and project art into words, glues me
to the chair, hands and fingers curled to the touch
of keyboard, listening to all the sounds around me
or someone to say something I can use, looking for anything
to tip me into making a fullness on the page
a stain on the glass for the scientist to study
and be amazed by, a hard hit drive into center field
and gone so far, not one test tube is in danger
of breaking.
—Ann Menebroker, Sacramento
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ORDERS FOR NEW POETS
—Patricia Hickerson, Davis
of course you can write a poem
and you must write a poem
you must sing the way, new poets
fire up through the crust
become irrepressible piebirds
sing your new words
smoke the way out of passion
tilt your words from your hip pocket
whip out the words
spray them across continents
set the sea on fire with hope
melt glaciers
light a fever in the head
new poets, give us new reason for words
words become fireflies
each word charged to flash its semaphore in the night
each signal pinwheeling into space
each word rattles a tail of hot sparks
new words flare up from the heaving cinders
each word a searing firestorm
each word a sun spinning a halo of new suns
each generation of words more flammable than the last
each word a burning seed
each word the incandescent womb of new poems
______________________
IF I COULD WRITE A POEM
—Taylor Graham, Placerville
Would it be bright-cluster
dense as filaree purpling the pasture
where lambs go sporting May?
or would it sound like woodwind
teasing willow leaves,
rummaging up the swale?
or harmonica to a blind man's lips,
silky-sound he pulls
out of the hat on his head,
with nothing at his feet to beg
pennies? Who makes
a poem, anyway, for coin?
_____________________
THE PHOTO YOU SENT
for Steph Schaefer
—Taylor Graham
Heron's nest in a ramshackle snag
weathered the color of
Heron (Great
Blue) and all the jackstraw
lived-in nest
with two immense
heron-chicks practicing
wings, all
odd angles; and stretched
above, the dame
Heron—erect!—
neck/head/bill reaching oddly
skyward; herself
a weathered snag pointing
toward Polaris;
the dead tree reaching
with its bone-
fingers remembering
life;
all these odd
angles
almost
ready for flight—
that's the poem I wish
I could write.
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SERPENS
—Robin Gale Odam, Sacramento
I stare to allure you. Notice my restraint and my
beautiful scales. I move like a stream of liquid ribbon.
There are many doorways...I feel their thresholds
as I flick my tongue and glide along nameless
passages. You can sense my restless eyes.
You are not unlike me...you slide over boundaries and
gaze with quiet reproach. You love with icy passion.
I am spellbound...my limbless form curls around
your heart. You will come to know me. I can sense
your restless eyes.
_____________________
Today's LittleNip:
Keep away from people who belittle your ambitions. Small people always do that, but the really great make you feel that you, too, can become great.
—Mark Twain
_____________________
—Medusa
Fallen
—Photo by Robin Gale Odam