—Photo by Katy Brown, Davis
SUMMER CAMP 51
—Taylor Graham, Placerville
Seven years old and stuck at Larkspur Meadows
while her parents cruise the world, she applies
cryptanalysis to family postcards from London,
Florence, Rome. “Wish you were here” decodes
to “brush your teeth and lose that babyfat.” In
her journal it's Adventures of Plump the Reject
Person, wherein the heroine unearths a freeze-
dried Pharaoh at the intersection of Paris and
Bombay. Man of labyrinthine tongues, he speaks
no modern language, but holds magic, the key
to a monosyllabic stronghold known as Camp
Spur—doomed to destruction by exploding
myths disguised as marshmallows around the
fire. Only Plump survives.
*
A mother's face fades like hydrangea
from bluish-purple to mummy-
gray. A postcard will come tomorrow, its stamp
a monochrome dead head in profile.
What she remembers is oleander ruffled pink
but poison don't touch
and a lemon tree, sourgrass
under crisp blue mountains, alleys after school
running free.
She's here now: week six, day three,
hour ten. What color crayon could trace
a way home? She'll never see Pasadena again.
*
Kapok lullaby:
A girl can't fall asleep for shooting stars
wide-eyed in a scout-green sleeping bag—
think of morning's wakeup cold
water in the face, reveille, scrambled eggs, KP.
Imagine, she might
slip from tomorrow's name-that-bird walk,
and follow instead
a wordless chirp of feather-
throat through trees. It says
“Look up! Right there!”
beyond the trail. And lo, a great light circles
overhead, stops,
lets down its blazing tail.
Brighter than day, a comet comes
to carry her away.
_______________________
A SYMPHONY OF BLASPHEMY
(An ode of admiration for Meredith Wilson)
—Caschwa, Sacramento
“In God We Trust” in boom or bust
The words are there on currency
To overspend is not a sin
Won’t see a price this low again
No profits come, expand the slum
Taking us back to fiefdom life
A lonely single in the wallet
Recession, cut backs, just can’t stall it
Homeless vagrant, garbage fragrant
We’ve lost respect for pioneers
Leaf blowers, bots, a world of machines
Diet of fast food, few leafy greens
Health care cuts, break dancing nuts
Sports heroes get rich playing games
Unfair furloughs to workers we need
Foreign aid using sweat labor seed
Do it right now, don’t care just how
Men of cloth remove it too quickly
Full separation of Church and state
Loosen the belt, we’re way overweight
Maple
—Photo by Katy Brown
STILL WATER OR NOTHING
—Caschwa
Great grandpa was pretty particular
What ingredients he used to make
The hooch that neighbors lined up to buy
After spending good coin to get the malt,
sugar, yeast and corn meal, he didn’t trust
just any old water to complete the mix
It had to be fresh, mountain spring water
Carried in clean, lead-free containers
To be his still water
From mash to slop to sparkling brew
He would take no part in complicating his
Customers’ lives with sub-standard water
________________________
THE PERIL OF APPAREL
—Caschwa
During a heat wave in Santa Monica
A female motorist stripped off her
Pullover revealing her lighter halter
This caused some male motorists
To fixate on her suggestive motions
And crash into other cars
The police arrived on the scene,
Determined that they should halt her,
And barked over the megaphone: Pull over!
_______________________
Thanks to today's cooks for having some fun with their poetry! Taylor Graham has written
à
la D.R. Wagner; Carl Schwartz's "A Symphony of Blasphemy" is dedicated to fellow baby boomers; and his "Still Water or Nothing" was written, he says, "Following the old expression 'dar gato por liebre' (to give
cat for hare), it is good to recognize the difference between standing water
and still water."
And don't forget to check out Medusa's Facebook page for our latest photo album which was posted last Saturday, this one from Katy Brown as she travels up the hill to Lake Tahoe.
______________________
Today's LittleNip:
Now I lay me down to sleep,
For I am a pathological layer.
—Caschwa
—Medusa
Bird of Paradise, McKinley Park, Sacramento
—Photo by Katy Brown