Photo by Ronald Edwin Lane
—William S. Gainer, Grass ValleyTWO CANARIES AND A GREEN SEA
—Ronald Edwin Lane, Colfax
Two, glass-eyed, canary yellow
birds with royal blue striped sides,
and outstretched wing tips, winking
green and white right, to leeward
white and red, circle in a white to
slate gray mottled sky, to tilt, dip,
and dive, billowing belly fog, a wing’s
width above a patch of sea green
waves of blades yet to break grain,
flowing to a ditch of coffee
brown rich soil cut along the road,
to rise into rain, skipping drooping
power lines, three at a time, to turn,
turn, turn, turn and do it again, always
on opposite sides, singing like rag-dung
trumpets accompanied by a thousand
Tibetan monks chanting, “Om ah hum,”
with pitch and pulse in this score
rhythmically varying from meditative
to frantic ear throbbing roars. Eventually
one sails south, beyond the sea, over a
pinkish-white almond blossom bluff, to
disappear into mist. The remaining bird
circles left, right, belly skirts the sea, fogs,
rises, skips, peeks south and cries,
then rushes after its mate.
____________________
WAITING FOR GOD
The old man
is trying to die.
He's never done it
before,
it's taking
awhile.
He's finding death
to be a friendly sort,
likes to visit,
hangout with the living
longer than he should,
forgets
what he's here for.
In the hallway,
Someone whispers,
"God will be here
soon enough."
No one prays.
The old man
stares at the ceiling,
tells me
where he hid
his wedding ring...
___________________
THE SHORT TOUR
—William S. Gainer
He was that close.
That close,
we all know
how close
that
is.
He was trying to die,
it was his first time,
he needed
more practice.
Then he changed his mind,
made a comeback,
a miraculous
comeback.
He sat up,
said, “Hell
ain’t half bad.
Of course,
I was only
in the lobby.”
Asked for an
ice-cream.
We buried him
seven days later.
___________________
THE SCENT OF A LAST WISH
—William S. Gainer
He had a thing about
having enough flowers
at a memorial
service.
I don’t know
how many times
I sat with him
as he glanced around
the chapel
and mumbled,
“Cheap bastards.”
We had plenty at his.
Made sure
it smelled
like a funeral.
____________________
DAISIES IN DISARRAY
—Ronald Edwin Lane
It’s gray and it’s raining out and
the daisies are in disarray. Chains
ching upon the passes in May,
slip, slap and grip. Below rivers
run full and reckless, like the
tailgating highway traffic fool
hydroplaning in the two-lane, or
the mom in one putting her
makeup on, one slip and she’s
a rodeo clown, or kissing dash,
or imprinting her face upon an
airbag. And will the levees break?
What’s the legislature’s take?
Who’s on the dole?
Don’t want to tax the wealthy,
no siree, gotta layoff, stifle demand,
that’s the plan, preserve the wealth
of the man who sits on his butt
watching his stock portfolio grow,
while complaining about the
common man and his lack of
productivity. It would be great to
go to a park and escape the
rat race, but the parks are closing
down and so why the hell would
anyone want to come visit this state?
For Mickey Mouse and SFO? Sure,
but that’s not California’s gold, its treasure,
that’s not what brings in the bulk
of the butts, the tourists bucks. So
we save one and lose ten on the other end.
And this earth still spins, but it’s spinning
off its axis, and when was the last time
you stuck your head out of your butt?
‘Cause I’m telling you it’s gray
and it’s raining out and the
daisies are in disarray.
____________________
Today's LittleNip:
Butched, flaired
A lighted match of hair screaming
For attention
—Photo and poem by Ronald Edwin Lane
_____________________
—Medusa
