Voodoo Queen
—Painting by Karen Hickerson
—Patricia Hickerson, Davis
aunt and uncle
every whirl a stanza
every dip a sonnet
the Big Apple
Lambeth Walk
the Shag the Lindy Hop
watched from the sofa
(a child of 10)
they made their turn around the
hardwood floor
rugs rolled up
phonograph playing
she his rag doll
with painted cheeks and curly hair
high heels
and a floating skirt
writing in rhyme the child yearned
to dance their poetry
what they kept up
for 60 years
glide forever
through their elegy
_____________________
ON READING ABOUT RIMBAUD
—Patricia Hickerson
scabrous walls, an abandoned tent
Rimbaud said he hated his early work
priest on a toilet,
ulcer on the Venusian ass
given up forever at the age of 20
after he ransacked Verlaine’s soul
turned poetry upside down
this kid
running home to Maman at every crisis
sleep now, Rimbaud
beside these tumbled walls brown and dark
shelter you and your Abyssinian woman
in European dress with
you the rich trader in your fancy African garb
playing the artful dodger in the exploited place
then back to Maman to die at 37
cancer of the leg
ancestor of trash and sleaze
you looked back
called it ‘disgusting’ and ‘ridiculous’
whaaaaat!
_____________________
Acting
Behind
Closed
Doors
Excited
Fertile
Gestures,
Her
Imagination
Jubilantly
Kicking,
Licking,
Manufacturing
Nuances
Of
Pompous
Queens
Royally
Seducing
Those
Ultimate
Venomous
Wandering
Xenophobes,
Yanking
Zippers.
—Caschwa, Sacramento
_____________________
A BLUR OF MUSTARD
—Carol Louise Moon, Sacramento
No one thought to check
the back seat of the sedan
for a gypsy decked in silver,
a barber dangling a blonde
toupée by one finger,
a clown with two-tone purple
hat and large copper watch—
except for me.
My uncle left so much
baggage there, I wasn’t sure
what my farther had seen
from the corners of his
star-studded eyes.
____________________
OFF-GREEN
—Carol Louise Moon
Off-green hurts, somehow.
Nausea.
Nostalgia in the second lining
of my stomach—my soul.
Because it sticks
and won’t let go…
I end up running in circles
like a one-winged bird
in yellow mud, toes splayed—
feet slipping.
_____________________
PORTRAIT MEMORY
—Carol Louise Moon
I remember Mom’s thick, brown hair
resting softly on her shoulder,
over the cushioned wooden chair.
And there where my father would stand
with his muscular, squarish hand
over the cushioned wooden chair
resting softly on her shoulder.
I remember Mom’s thick, brown hair.
_____________________
MONSOON
—Carol Louise Moon
The night is damp and electric.
Near a moonlit grass bungalow
a while goat stands on the road’s edge.
The old scops owl sounds a warning:
“Flooding rains will come by morning.”
A white goat stands on the road’s edge
near a moonlit grass bungalow.
The night is damp and electric.
_____________________
Today's LittleNip:
I'm not a poet
I'm a living poem
Written just for you
Writing myself down
Bit by bit
Waiting to be read
—Dillon Shaw, Davis
_____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to our poets today and Artist Karen Hickerson, niece of Pat Hickerson. And here, for reference, is a baby scops owl (see Carol Louise's skillful octo...)
Scops owl