An Immense Poetry

Bolinas and Frog

—Photo by D.R. Wagner

CANTICLE DESCRIBING WONDER

—D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove

Who was it joined the hurricane

To the canticle describing wonder?

Clipping it to centuries long gone

And a hand constantly thought of

As a tree pulled from a landscape

Martyrs might enjoy, notes torn away

From the piano, working temporarily as birds.

A glittering air formed of an immense poetry

Where nothing appears but a singular

Consciousness in the form of an umbrella,

A green mind, then changed by metaphor

To a clear spot in the forest loaded

With medieval trappings and a presence.

A bell-like sound across the square

Where we sit on green chairs

And pretend to be waiting for something.

We watch the hurricane unlock itself

And deliver a blank wall of pure rain.

We have forgotten all about words.  We join

Hands and sway side to side, humming.

______________________

HOLES IN THE SKY

—D.R. Wagner

When I pressed myself toward waking

I discovered that some of the rooms

Of my dream had been eaten away,

Large chunks had gone missing.

The parts with the steep steps leading

To the sea, the twilit room where the

Lady sat crying, holding the long-tailed lamb,

The hills where one could see how large

The fires were as they swept toward the towns,

Nothing on earth able to stop them.

A hunger was left in my bones because of this.

I could hear a historic wind wind through my skull

As I reached for coffee, searched to find where

The window looking upon the fields had gone.

Holes in the sky, something peering through

Them from speechless realms, carrying weapons

The likes of which I had never seen before,

Clouded with forgetfulness and trailheads that

I had seen once in youth that had been stolen,

Used to make fires to cook food upon, the smell

Of roasting meat swelling the morning air.

And now this, an aching within my body

Overarching all but the eyes of the highest

Hawk, the screeching bird, seeking thoughts

Smaller than voles to feed upon and I tried

To run back to the sheds of sleep and the coolness

Of streams hurrying down the hillsides

Eager to see the sea, to join the endless tides.

______________________

ONE ROOM IS A HOUSE

—D.R. Wagner

Creeping out among the branches

To know your name.  I am above you now.

This is like breathing.

The support we feel when

We recognize our name on

A list of things that may be

Eternal, a whispering in a hallway

That we do not understand.

We watch the lightning strike

The trees in the garden,

The fountain.  Oh who will tell

Me if I am dreaming?

I look through the long lists of the saints.

They had no idea at all if they were

Dreaming.  I discover my face

In a book of rare engravings kept by

The captain of a long ago disappeared ship.

 On Jack's Path, Bolinas

—Photo by D.R. Wagner

A CHANCE ENCOUNTER

—D.R. Wagner

A primitive land that leaves

Nothing much behind.  It owns

The Winter sky and displays it

In the dance a willow tree

Chooses to describe a wind.

I would try flight but who would

Understand?  Even the birds do not

Know why and it is not everything

To them.  Huddled close to a tree

Trunk, knowing when the wind departs

It will once again be time to find

Seeds just beneath the snow.

They have black heads and blacker eyes

And carry maps made of their bones

That tell them where to go.

So I, come here late and without guile

Still detect a primitive ecstasy in

The noises of the crows, the impatience

Of the weather, the scolding I endure

From all imagination for calling this reality. 

____________________

A POSSIBILITY OF BREATH

                                         for W. Stevens

—D.R. Wagner

This space between here and the clouds

Seems careless but for fleeting beauty

And a wharf for docking weary eyes

To something not covered with the dust.

A dreamt majesty that doesn’t

Stare but remains an argument

That there is a sweet, staring

Distance between all things.

Waking as we do from whatever

Uncertain depths we

Direct ourselves in so-called sleep,

We find the wide heaven,

This sparkling haven where we no

Longer need make choices

But use the energy we have gathered

To quell time’s complaints about

Everything that is not dead,

Forgetting even our own names,

Living here without bodies to see

‘The low owl plummet, rising of the morning.’ 

_________________

SUNLIGHT

—D.R. Wagner

I am sunlight on the surface of the ocean.

I too am the ocean itself,

Streaming to the very bottom

And tracking all that moves within me.

I am the tears of children.

I am the fjords leaning deeply into

The land.  I can see the high cliffs.

I am the the songs of the beasts within my body.

And I can speak their words.

And I can know their language.

And I can move with storms.

And I can move with romantic calmness.

And I can carry the burden of the loveliest

Of breezes within my wave troughs.

I can capture the light of the lighthouses and guide

The ship and soul back to the rooms

Away from the wind to sit before

The fire while night rages against

Everything and I can tell you of these

Things for I am the sunlight on the surface

Of the ocean.

______________________

MICHAEL APPEARING UNEXPECTEDLY 

—D.R. Wagner

We did not at first recognize him

As the archangel.  How could we?

A svelte and affable young man

Saying, ‘Hello, my name is Mike.

I’m here to tell you that you

Will want to check on your children.

This is a very bad neighborhood.’

Who is like God anyway?

Someone finally thought to ask

To make sure the children

Were alright.  ‘Whose side are you on?’

Shouted another.

‘I’m just here now,’ he answered.

It was later we saw the sword,

The splendid boat he boarded to

Leave us.  ‘I’m going to the mountains.

I just wanted to say I will protect

You forever.'  And then we believed him

And saw the chairs surrounding him.

____________________

Today's LittleNip:

BASKET CASE

—D.R. Wagner

Music in a basket, taken to make a room

And then a dwelling and then a palace.

It has proven itself to be no

Architecture for living.  There is no

Inside.  The rooms are beautiful

But without doors.  There is only

Sound at the end of an arm or a

Stepping across a threshold trying

To direct the forward motion of the whole

Thing.

We live in the crescendos and

Diminuendos.  Legato to the

Edge of the cliffside

To see the view and there,

To once again discover the

Woven basket,

Capable of any season,

Full of song and placed beside

The clearest water of a Spring.

____________________

—Medusa

 Bolinas Rockslide (with Lisa)

—Photo by D.R. Wagner

 [Check out Medusa's Kitchen's Facebook page

for D.R. Wagner's photo album, 

"Surf's Up!"]

Like Riding Comets

Napa Fountain

—Katy Brown, Davis

UNEXPECTED PLEASURE—

GARLAND YASMENT

—Michael Cluff, Corona

Early summer "Spring Cleaning"

this year led to discovery:

an old blue polyester blazer

and blue/white checkered dress pants

from around the time

of Nixon's resignation

were packed away

with disintegrated mothballs

into the attic

overlooking

the now nearly stagnant pond.

A reminder of days

when making a religion class

at the mousy inland college

on time and relatively often

so as not to be dropped

was the worst worry

I had to face

or if the spray-on

shampoo

would comb out

all the dirt

collected

during a Thursday afternoon

track meet.

Now avoiding the auditor

and bill collector

makes me wish

the pond ran deeper

and ever so much faster

over the intermediate rapids

between here and Brown Bay Inlet.

_________________ 

IN THIS STAGE OF LIFE
(Frank)

—Paul Lojeski, Port Jefferson, NY

The great stones move far below
in red fire, as time shoves it 
all forward. 

Now, no more wine or wild nights
of disregard, the bones frail
and light like broken twigs.

I list those already gone
in a drama of loss and reflection,
this self-serving grief a shield

from my own break with the world.
How to approach the final moment?
Will poetry and love be there?

Putah Creek Cafe Wall

—Photo by Katy Brown

SIGUR ROS

—Paul Lojeski

Staring out

the window

at white mist

and mountains,

he begins to play

the songs

in his head. 

Others join in:

their sounds

walk the wind,

sail streams,

fly the night sky.

One thinks of space

and possibilities

like riding comets,

feeling the rush

of sunlight.

And eyes close

as dreams' dark

doors open.

Walls of music

everywhere,

walking on

in sleep's endless

rhythm.

Time just ahead.

____________________

THE LIMITS OF REASON

—Paul Lojeski

A giant boulder

sat in the middle

of the road. 

Crowds gathered

and pleaded with it

to please move.

Later, as evening

cooled passions,

various eloquent

speakers stepped

forward to make

sensible arguments.

You’re impeding

human progress,

the Mayor said. 

Applause and cheers

followed.  A mother

cried, Our children

can't see around

you to the future.

Here! Here! the mob

shouted, and a thin

farmer grumbled,

Your shadow's

killing my crops'

sunshine!  Some

pulled their hair

and others threw

themselves

to the ground

but nothing changed

as days slipped

into weeks and the weeks

into months.

Still, the great rock

refused to budge.

That’s when they

brought out the dynamite.

___________________

MORNING CHORE  

—Paul Lojeski

Down winding roads 

in spring rain, trees 

heavy with green. 

In the supermarket

prices are high,

higher than yesterday

with no explanations 

issued forth from leaders 

too busy with the business

of invisibility.  Though

I shake it off in front

of shelves of cookies!

How can an empire crumble

amidst such splendor?

__________________

Today's LittleNip:

THIS AFTERNOON

—Paul Lojeski

I sat on the couch next

to a table.  The lamp

on the table lit the way

across poems of ancient

times.  Vast distances

were everywhere.

__________________

 

—Medusa

Napa Doors

—Photo by Katy Brown

Thinking, Healing

Thinking

—Photo by Robin Gale Odam, Sacramento

HEALING
—Rhony Bhopla, Sacramento

Take this lotus bloom

Hold it over your eyes,

Your nose, your lips

Its mist will provide

A salve for those grooves

That your tears have made

Nothing will take away

The shadows that come

In the blanketing night

Nothing will solve the mystery

Of what it means to be alive

What it means to be true

You are a particle of the nature

And your weight in this world

Is counted by each breath you take

Breathe out the song of your pain

Let the rhythms of life intoxicate you

Hold all memories inside your chest

Don’t let the salve seep into the earth

Let it thrive in your cells

And nourish the blossoms of healing.

__________________

 

HWY 99 DOG-STOP

—Taylor Graham, Placerville

On the long, hot drive north,

this vacant lot—unmown patch

of grass, an olive tree; ground

littered dark with fruit

that no one wants—wild mustard,

and a strange, tall weed

with spreading fans for leaves.

It waves

an invitation to the breeze.

__________________

BENIGHTED'S NIGHT SONG

—Taylor Graham

I've walked out under stars, until

I'm lost—the land so dark and still;

the sky, the mountains scowling down

with that wordless, primeval frown. They wish me ill.

Be silent now, and wait.

How would you master Fate?

I see no road, no sign to guide

me home. No meteor to ride

across the treetops. Where to sleep

in a wilderness-dark so deep? On every side….

Don't move. Be still, just wait.

See how stars blaze the gate.

 

___________________

yes, we got no bananas

—charles mariano, sacramento
 
have a habit
of scotch-taping a cartoon
at the beginning of every
journal day,
right before i note
the date and time

not sure why,
guess it’s to lead-off
with a light touch,
an amusing visual,
‘steada just reading
my ugly handwriting

this morning,
strangely enough
couldn’t find one
that spoke to me

no cartoon
is like driving
without a seatbelt

finding the perfect
cartoon
one that slays me,
is critical

it’s how i begin, burst through
seed to sapling,
gasping for air, first light

should write a disclaimer
for today,

Big-Ass Bump in the Road,
Proceed With Caution

______________________

Thanks to today's chefs! About her photo, Robin Odam says: I’ve been thinking—crisscross, intersecting, overlapping thoughts. Taylor Graham writes:  Oh, the unexpected pleasures of overlooked & derelict places! As for the floressence, can there be pleasure in being lost? well, maybe in retrospect—after one is safely found. She's talking about our Seed of the Week: Unexpected Pleasures, and the floressence is the poetry form invented by Brigit Truex that we're fiddling with this week (see the green board at the right of this). 

Speaking of unexpected surprises, Carl Schwartz noticed that yesterday's cat photo by Frank Graham has a mug of a dog on the cat's chest—unexpected! In addition to your poems, don't hesitate to send us photos or even artwork of your surprises. The snakes of Medusa are always hungry!

And speaking of photos, we have a new photo album on Medusa's Facebook page, this one featuring D.R. Wagner's recent trip to Bolinas—Surf's Up! Check it out!

_____________________

Today's LittleNip:

You can’t stop the waves, but you can learn to surf.

—Jon Kabat-Zinn

_____________________

—Medusa

Bolinas Graffiti

—Photo by D.R. Wagner

Ornification

Gift Store Rabbits Multiplying

—Photo by Frank Dixon Graham, Sacramento

UNEXPECTED PLEASURES

—Tom Goff, Carmichael

Complimenting you on your glasses,

how they frame or fit the shape

of your face. I should Ellington

my praise: darling, it’s your face

makes those lenses lovely.

Watching you slip into

the room beside mine.

Sitting silent behind you

also sitting silent, we about

our different works,

finding such rhythm as this

works.

Glimpsing skin by hint. Excerpts a blank

book opens on. Capris giving each taper,

calf-to-ankle, a tabor-beat

lightness, a taper-light lilt. Where

another pretty might keep her

back-of-the-ankle tattoos:

little dragons, small mandalas.

Could the look work for you?

I’ll never know, unless lip-close.

No: still little to no makeup, nor ever

the need for. What psychology

says, suppress right here

your urge to adorn, say, these facial

curves exquisite as finely milled

beauty bars, and as nude? And

so adornment just resurges,

more urgent, over here? In this

dragon’s-milk, lamb-and-maiden-fed,

scent-flowery, thought-billowing kiss?

What ornifieth a gentlewoman,

oh my lady.

____________________

AFTERNOON AND EVENING OF THE DANCE

—Patricia Hickerson, Davis

street guys

they go to a bar

they pick up women in boots

everything goes screwy

they go out on the street

sunny skies

they kick up their heels

they dance down 5^th

soon it’s midnight

afternoon has gone quietly, dies

waltzing down 5^th

darkness and quietude

middle of the night

they march up the stairs

arm in arm

into the room

now the real dance begins    

___________________

I LOVE A LIAR

—Patricia Hickerson

a drooling, winking liar

his eyes are on me

lying

a liar with a bald head

eagle eyes

and a small sharp beard

preferably dyed black

he’s a dyed in the wool

liar

words drip from his lips

lips moistened for the kill

drooling, winking liar

nails manicured

opened-up collar

double duty jacket

for pleasure or sex

drink in hand

elbow at bar

hey, lady, whacha doin’ tonight

romeo in khaki shorts

toes on the brass rail

voice lost in the noise          

Red Tomatoes

—Photo by Frank Dixon Graham

UNCLE BILL'S CABIN (For TH & WG) 

—Patricia Hickerson

nothing tidy here

no yelling, no barking

no dogs to distract

words spread wide

no songbirds twittering

no sheep ba-a-ing

words spill out

crawl up the walls

the real songs we sing

night and day   

__________________

YOU ASKED
—Patricia Hickerson

I told

I’ll tell again

I tell everything

I tell it to the world

I tell it to my friends

I tell it to my son

I tell it to my dog

I tell it to my priest

I tell it to the walls

I tell it to the sun

I tell it to the moon

I tell it to the earth

I tell it to the road

I tell it to the valley

I tell it to the hill

I tell it to my flowers

I tell it to my chair

I tell it to the window

I tell it everywhere

I tell it to you   

__________________

UNEXPECTED PLEASURE
—Michael Cluff, Corona

Last Friday
I discovered
missing college newspapers
I had written for
in the mid-seventies.

They weren't all that good
and now I realize why I skipped
over journalism as a lifestyle.
But seeing my first wife
in the guise I first met her
plus all the thick hair
on my nape back then
made Monday's haircut down
to the scalp
(to hide what was long gone
in some strategic spots)
all that more delightful
since her playing with my locks
got us married in the first place.

A lack of alimony
in my life since 1991
is a treat
I enjoy at the end
of every month.
 

___________________

Thanks to today's contributors! Frank Graham reminds us of two things: that the second session of Sac. Poetry Center's International Poetry Tour which he hosts with Emmanuel Sigauke will take place at North Natomas Library this coming Saturday, and that the deadline for the next issue of SPC's Tule Review, edited by Linda Collins with Kate Asche and Frank as Co-Editors, is July 1. Check the green board for details about that, and scroll down to the blue board below it for more info about Saturday. By the way, poets in our area have two choices tonight for readings; be sure to check out the blue board for those, too! 

About his poem, Tom Goff says:  For any wishing to know if "ornifieth" is a verb, it is, at least coming from the pen of Edward de Vere, Earl of Oxford, who seems to have coined it. Hmmm...as inventive as..."Shakespeare?" The word is listed in the OED as appearing no earlier than 1590, with uses by William Segar and Thomas Bedingfield, both men known personally to de Vere. But de Vere had used it c. 1573, in his preface to a book some scholars think Hamlet must've been reading (it fueled his soliloquy, and those touches about the "unknown country"). 

___________________ 

Today's LittleNip: 

ASLEEP
—Patricia Hickerson

thru an earthquake

lightning strike

fall back on the bed

hit the pillow

breathe in

breathe out

a dream of poetry 

__________________

—Medusa

Cat's Table

—Photo by Frank Dixon Graham

 

On Snags of Time

—Photo by Joyce Odam

 QUEST

—Joyce Odam, Sacramento

To begin this odyssey, we gave away all 

we owned—kept our map in a secret 

place, and memorized what we could of 

it to dispel our growing terror at the 

thought of thieves. The Spirit of the Self 

seemed far away but we had to find its 

shrine which filled the empty place of 

our imagination and desire. The village 

faded behind us with all our old connec-

tions. I could not relinquish everything. 

I kept a souvenir-cup from when I was a 

child; later we would drink from it and 

use it to scoop and portion with. At last 

we reached the shrine of our long seek-

ing—a small place, really—not what we 

expected—set way back, with all its 

windows broken, the path to it over-

grown. But something told us this was 

it. Though worn-to-the heart with 

weariness and dried-up tears, we stayed—

content at last, to repair its damages, 

hack its weeds.

                                    

(first pub. in Poets' Forum Magazine, 1998)

_________________________

THE GODS DEPRIVED
—Joyce Odam 

Nothing here is familiar—

a land of whispers and sighing.

The sky has lost its color.

Rusty mountains guard its borders.

At night there is a crying.

Old dreams gather to escape from memory.

But memory follows them

like timeless travelers.

Giant flowers lean and murmur—

offer the gravity of answers.

Morning will be cold again.

The land will wake to loneliness.

The birds of sorrow

will return

but without their singing.

The spirits of love and loss

will resume their searching.

The moans will sharpen everywhere.

The mournful gods will say, not yet . . .

not yet . . . and speak of love to one another.

________________________

THE SKY INVISIBLE
—Joyce Odam 

seagulls drift in the white sky

and are not amazed that it is night

and my dream of them

they cry their white cries

and search for themselves

in the translucent dark

all night they make the sky invisible

and my sleep that harbors them

I am held in dream’s white soaring

 —Photo by Joyce Odam

ON SNAGS OF TIME
—Joyce Odam

What of the room of longing

that holds no lovers now.

Sad curtains tear the

dusty sunlight.

All day the old room-shadows

search for what is gone.

At night the voyeured window

brings it all back,

when the closed room fills

with ancient moonlight.
 

(first pub. in Poets' Forum Magazine, 2007)

_______________________
 

THE DISAPPEARANCE

—Joyce Odam

They turn away from what was theirs.

The long afternoon. The joy of yesterday.

No music follows. It is a quiet time.

A time of eloquence, with no more to say.

The landscape shimmers.

A small stream continues its thin journey.

The sky goes white.

They have no horse.

They have no wagon.

They have only their walking,

their same direction—

still resolute,

as though without regret;

they grow smaller

as though distance beckons them.

They dissolve together in the gathering light.

_______________________

Our thanks to Joyce Odam for today's treasures! Our next Seed of the Week is Unexpected Pleasures. Send your musings about the little (or big!) things that surprise us, like the cool breezes we've had recently after all that heat, to kathykieth@hotmail.com

_______________________

Today's LittleNip:

TWILIGHT MOON
(An Octo)

—Joyce Odam

Wandering through the mauve garden,

bending like old trees toward night,

leaning our shadows together.

Is it sadness that we feel—or

something unknown that we deplore.

Leaning our shadows together,

bending like old trees toward night,

we wander through the mauve garden.

 

______________________

—Medusa

—Photo by Joyce Odam