CONTEMPLATING THE NAVEL
—Claire J. Baker,
Pinole
As a newborn I wailed
one tremendous wail
to prove I was hardy &
hail—
a kind of celebratory
prayer
for mom & the clever
cord
that fed me well, in
there.
Now when I consider
the fleshy button bump,
the elemental lump
that rides my belly jello
I fall asleep in seconds,
old & odd, but mellow.
(first pub. in California
Federation of Chaparral
Poets'
Contest Prizes booklet,
2010)
_______________
AND
NO SALES TAX, EITHER
—Kevin
Jones, Elk Grove
Claude
Peed would buy, sell
Or
swap anything but drugs
Or
flesh. If he didn’t
Have
it, somewhere in his
Storefronts,
tucked on
Side
streets on the other
Side
of the tracks, he’d
Find
it for you (’55 T-Bird?
The
one with port hole
Windows? Red or black?
Ceramics?
Are we talkin’
Beam
or Boehm here?)
And
though I never
Bought
much from him
(The
occasional early
Hemingway—not
firsts—
Those
have cap A’s on
The
copyright page, or
A
Duncan Satellite or two—
Didn’t
return worth a damn,
But
the metallic paint, and
Sparkles
made up for it),
But
he liked to talk to me.
Asked
him once about
Licenses.
“What kind ya
Need,
kid? Oh, me?
No. Strange, but
Nobody’s
ever asked.”
_______________
Every year at the
California State Fair
I wear sneakers so I can tell some vendors I don't
wanna shoe shine
nor put my feet up on the electric vibrating
"Footsy Wootzy"
My greatest fantasy is to instead receive really
sensual foot and back rubs
not at the Chinese massagers' booths
but from
hot-looking guys who perform "salsa" or "tejano" music in
the cantina
—Michelle Kunert,
Sacramento
ANAPHORA I
—Michael Cluff, Corona
While the rains never
dried up
while the jello never kept
its mold
and while the horse never
forgot to use its hoofs,
since log cabins were once
in abundant laxity
since the moon refused to
recognize the sun
and since the river begged
not to sing,
once the persimmons were
perserved
once the owl flew homeward
my calm came to an
abeyance
while the snow began to
fall.
_____________
ANAPHORA II
—Michael Cluff
So many times elusions
so intense warp truths
sow delusions
sew weak fabrics
so loosely
loose changes slide
through there....
their responses are
they are sowing sous
so their tears
tear allusions
sew fair happy weeks
so tightly
so illusions lose their
loose
threw allusion phrases
into
phases so-and-sos
sowing intense elusions
tear through
losing
weakly.
_____________
TOES AT
UNCLE BILL’S CABIN X1V
—Patricia
Hickerson, Davis
I told
Uncle Bill how my cousin and I
as little
kids at the breakfast table
when no
one was looking
put
morsels of bacon
between
our toes and let our new puppies
come and
lick them and try to eat them
from
between our toes
Uncle
Bill thought this was disgusting
just what
little kids will do, he said
then told
me his own theory:
toes love
to stretch
and
wiggle
they love
to be watered, soaped, squeezed dry
with a
warm fluffy towel
massaged
to have
their nails clipped very carefully
feel the
sun, rain, earth
dig into
hot sand
toes like
to be twitched, squeezed
fondled
licked kissed played with
and
this
little piggy went to market
this
little piggy stayed home
this
little piggy ate roast beef
this
little piggy had none but
this
little piggy went wee wee wee wee wee
all the
way home
_____________
SUMMER
MORNING HISTORY
—Patricia
Hickerson
dawdling
in bed
it’s
Sunday and hallelujah for mid-August
we’re all
warm and sweaty and full of bliss
World War
ended and now the call to hot biscuits
home-made
grape jelly and drooling butter
the white
metal table top
squeezed
into the kitchen
the
swinging door
here
comes Daddy
bathrobe
cinched, hair askew
Mom soon
after, pale without her lipstick
Grandma
briskly aproned
eyeglasses
steamed
gurgling
coffee pot
Martinson’s
best
spaniel
at the knee ears flapping
waiting
for scraps
World War
over
uncle
soon returning from the Pacific
still in
one piece
Kamikazes
didn’t get him after all
Grandma
briskly aproned
eyeglasses
steamed for pure happiness
her son
sailing back across the big ocean
here come
the hot biscuits
_____________
MORE
COFFEE, PLEASE
—Patricia
Hickerson
the
writer has to keep writing
coffee or
Rock Star
which
shall it be
the
writer has to…
every
morning, quarter to 8
sits at
the computer
the
machine for churning out
stuff
as though
it were the lifeline
to
reality
when, in
truth, it’s all fantasy
memory,
fantasy
which
shall it be
her hips
are beginning to ache
from
sitting so long
the price
of old age
OMG, when
will it end?
_____________
Today's LittleNip:
LAMENTATIONS
—B.Z. Niditch,
Brookline, MA
Let's consult Medusa
when night surprises
her echoes settle
a poet's lament.
The moon is feverish
to lock light in
riddles
hoodwinked by fate,
so don't turn a poet
into stone.
Medusa, fair
indebted goddess
where fruit and music
jumble up paradise
in your kitchen,
let me bask
on the hammock
among sleepless
blankets
rinds,winds,gardens
tasting elixirs
of good fortune.
_____________
—Medusa
