—Photo by Charlotte Vincent, Sacramento
RESURRECTION
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole
When we stand on a hilltop
and face a sunrise, we harbor
no concern over what or who else
we may become, or when, or if.
Every sunrise is a Great Now
metaphoring
that we, too, have risen
many times before—that
rising again and again is
what life is all about.
(first pub. on website:
(first pub. on website:
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TRULY ALIVE!
—Claire J. Baker
I think of newborns
who claim the universe
with a glance;
elders who send forth
sparks of awareness
that perk up a whole room.
People who are as real as
the yearly butterfly migration
down the California coast,
wings fragile in flight
yet linked for uplift
in the airy tide of wings,
the gathered pollen of wings,
the entire congregation moving
as one great body—
lively and full of light.
website: sfpeaceandhope.com)
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NORCO POEM #11, JUNE 2008
—Michael Cluff, Corona
Off the main path
using an abacus for math
in fly-blown old Norco town
Jean Paul put
the stylus down
began to loudly moan
enough to crack open every stone,
"Here on Old Hammer Road
adobe makes many an abode
but the trail of the mighty horse
is now a rutted, briar-ridden, rutted course,
time has moved into a newer century
I consider it a foul penitentiary."
The moon rims above his ice-planted lawn
listens to his bitching without a yawn,
yet the river bluffs are starchly the same
ignoring the silliness and drama of human change.
—Photo by Frank Dixon Graham, Sacramento
UNCLE
BILL’S CABIN IV
—Patricia Hickerson, Davis
who
was she, Uncle Bill?
a
feather of a woman
feathers
singed
bones
delicate, pale, thin
her
fantasy a broken feather
a
baby born pale
bird-baby
feathered without nest
palm
tree baby broken leaves
bird
without nest
who,
Uncle Bill?
in
a dream I know who it is
…Cousin
Belle
her
portrait on my dressing table
colors
added onto the photo
long
ago on Ross Avenue
she
had a baby
but
no nest
I
cried for Belle
she
gave up her baby
wept
ever after
the
jitters the shakes
Uncle
Bill pats my shoulder
not to worry, kid
_______________________
UNCLE
BILL’S CABIN V
—Patricia Hickerson
running
up the path from my dream stump
I
saw that Uncle Bill’s gardenias
were
in bloom by the front door
a
delicious fragrance filled my head
made
me cry
Uncle
Bill herded me into the cabin
f’chrissake,
what’re you bawling about?
if
you didn’t spend so much time
dawdling
on that tree stump
here,
kid! dry your tears and scrape these carrots
that
midnight in my sleeping bag on the window seat
I
saw the moon creeping across the sky
blanching
the gardenias at the front door
the petals opalescent
_____________________
UNCLE
BILL’S CABIN VI
—Patricia Hickerson
leaned
against the dream stump
fell
asleep
dreamed
of holding a piece of paper
a
poem in progress
dreamed
of being in bed
woman
in the next bed
a
man leaves her bed
sneaks
into mine
finger
at lips
shhhh
still
holding a piece of paper
poem
in progress
his
body barely touching mine
our
toes meet
he’s
against my back
cruel
delirium
almost
touching
not
quite
holding
a piece of paper
shhhh
dream
in progress
littered in leaves falling
Uncle
Bill calls out
it’s time for lunch
Thanks to today's cooks for our tasty stew!
Larry Sheehy of Mendocino writes to say hey and to send us a link to Watershed Poetry Mendocino:
www.facebook.com/pages/Watershed-Poetry-Mendocino/183822851667017
I've posted three happenings for next week on the blue b-board: two workshops you might want to check into, and the Lew Welch book release by City Lights in San Francisco. Check these out.
I've posted three happenings for next week on the blue b-board: two workshops you might want to check into, and the Lew Welch book release by City Lights in San Francisco. Check these out.
You may've noticed some changes in the Kitchen—most notably that the links to Medusa's Inner Life (which used to be on the green board under "Snake on a Rod") have popped up to the top of Medusa and turned fuchsia. (I'm not thrilled with the color, but it's the only option, so we'll go with it.) Just click on any of those FUCHSIA LINKS for more poet-phernalia; the old ones have been refurbed, some of the info has gone into new pages, and there are some new pages that I hope you'll take a look at—such as the "Sounds for Sore Ears", which contains local poets reading on youtube—another chance to get our people and their work out into the ether! This page has room for all of you; if you have a link to yourself reading, send it to us at kathykieth@hotmail.com and we'll stick 'er on there.
By the way—last night I was writing "fuchsia" here and there on the blog and spelling it wrong every time (fuschia). So this morning I started paying attention to the spellcheck warnings and had to go through and change it everywhere. I hope I got 'em all...
By the way—last night I was writing "fuchsia" here and there on the blog and spelling it wrong every time (fuschia). So this morning I started paying attention to the spellcheck warnings and had to go through and change it everywhere. I hope I got 'em all...
___________________
Today's LittleNip:
Love is easy, and I love writing. You can't resist love. You get an idea, someone says something, and you're in love.
—Ray Bradbury
__________________
—Medusa (you never know what she'll be up to next!)
—Photo by Frank Dixon Graham
