Vision, Crocodilian and Otherwise

—Photo by D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove

First time I got Marylou pregnant
—charles mariano, sacramento

when she asked me
to come over
to the darkness
of her parent’s garage,
we were thirteen

i was socially inept
no clue,
about what goes on
with female bodies,
except from tv

she had long black hair,
nice lips, buckteeth,
and she smelled…intoxicating

after what seemed like forever
she pulled me close
kissed me, softly at first,
then harder
and i was lifted magically
to a very warm place

kissing,
that overwhelmed my senses
drowning
in hands, arms, lips,
breathing, pressing

walked home afterwards
stunned, ashamed, worried sick

she was pregnant,
i was sure of it

took weeks
before i figured it out
felt foolish
hid in my room for days

finally
i called Marylou, to ask
if she wanted
to get pregnant again

____________________

CROCODILIAN VISION

—Carol Louise Moon, Sacramento

Does it help to know

that an alligator sees in vivid color?

Would it help to show him

my shirt collar is already ripped, snagged

on a fish hook my last fishing trip?

Is my Kayak green, gliding through

his murky glades, seen in techno-vision?

Does he know the quirky color of my blood,

appreciate its pink dilution in water.....

his waters?

Is the St John's River wider, kinder

in places other than this place

of ever-fresh indifference—

ever-dangerous, ever-flesh?
 

____________________

A "nightmare" for Prince Harry—

        He is awakened by a guard while sleeping off a hangover from another wild party

        The guard declares, "Your grandmother has died,

        and grandfather and father and brother have been killed in an ‘accident’ involving the paparazzi

        You are expected at coronation ceremonies tomorrow evening after the memorial services.”

        All the guards then declare, "The Queen is dead, God save the King!"

       "Wait—how can this be?!" decries the only royal whom practically everyone has seen naked

       "I think I'd rather go back to Afghanistan..."

       "Oh no you don't," the head guard declares. "English parliament has ruled to pull out of illegally occupying all other countries. 

       —By the way your highness, a queen of royal blood has already been chosen for you

       And now you shall love her as if she is your wife..."

       Prince Harry's heart froze in horror—

       Suddenly he awakens, drenched in sweat and relieved that it only was a dream. Or maybe it isn't, he wonders… 

—Michelle Kunert, Sacramento

 

___________________

HAIR
—Ann Privateer, Davis

Now I wash my hair every five days

Thursday, Tuesday, Sunday, Friday

you get the idea, time has dried

it and at times it looks fried

it’s unruly wiry hair that needs dye

or palmate or a pretty tie

to tame the haywire pile

of gray/brown into style.

In high school I washed it every day

puberty’s oil glands would sigh

and pump out more oil, Grandma

loved my red locks gleaming in sunlight

but I called them auburn, chestnut, ginger,

or summer sandy brown on my

driver’s license windowed

with genuine leather stays.

—Photo by Ann Privateer, Davis

Somehow you keep exploring in my dreams

—Timothy Sandefur, Rescue

You must be up there still,

Neil, sliding down

that flimsy ladder, bolted

to the lander’s spindly

legs—aluminum,

like a jungle gym—

and poised to mess your new,

white boots with billion-year-

old silver dust; scuff up

some sand on that tranquil shore;

waving too fast in your home-

movies, making faces

safely behind your mirrored

mask.  Your laughter crackles

back to grown-ups in Houston.

Summer vacation will last

forever.  Out of sight.

Tonight again, you’re splashing

at Buzz in the Mare Cognitum,

or bouncing after a ball

out of bounds.  Man in the

Moon, gleaming like

an upturned smile.  Hail

Columbia; Peter Pan;

Captain America; Nostalgia

Man.  No, not Man,

mankind.  Host of Daydreams,

you keep flying toward

that earthrise; fling yourself

at a horizon that falls away

as you approach, around

and around forever.

____________________

FIVE QUINTAINS

—Michael Cluff, Corona

I would rather not hear sing

the actor Bob Hope

but with his sometimes partner Bing

Crosby's voice I can easily cope

but the other's makes me consider a suicide rope.

The pretty blooms

of the late summer

finds their way into dining rooms

as days do pass they become a bummer

the growing smell makes the nose go number.

As I teach my new class

watching time is a task

used to indicate who will pass

and let students grow and bask

yet I keep on the professional mask.

The potbelly mollie

new in the fish tank

makes the water quite jolly

never in mood dark or dank

the joy she produces I gladly have drank.

The new necktie that I tied

blue, black and white stripes

is paraded around with pride

its importance cresting overt hypes

by colleagues of lick-spittle types.

 

____________________

STAR LIGHT

—Taylor Graham

First star of evening. Storm clouds pull apart

as if that star might speak, And then a tongue

of lightning, sudden silence. Is the heart

of heaven waiting thunder? How you've clung

to hopes of stars. The ancient songs are sung,

and still repeat, but translated in dreams

you half remember, puzzle, and forget.

The forest beasts won't talk to you, it seems,

disappear to dark. Stars. One night you met

a man who'd caught so many in his net,

he'd reached his limit. Could you catch just one

and keep it in a night-bowl by your bed?

What kind of dreams come of a burned-out sun?

The sky keeps its secrets above your head

as webs of stars behind the storm clouds spread.

___________________

Our thanks to today's cooks for their cheeky poems, "first times", and quintains, and welcome to newcomer Tim Sandefur from Rescue and his tribute to Neil Armstrong! This week's Form to Fiddle With digs a little deeper into the quintain and other five-line forms with the help of The Poets Garret; see the green "board" at the right of this column for details.  

Another way to stretch your poetry muscles is with Lilliana Mendez-Soto's East Sacramento workshop, which begins another six-week session this Wednesday (8/29). Check that out on the green board, too, under the brain. And once you've got those wonderful poems done, send 'em out into the world, fer criminentlies—either to Medusa or to some of the publications listed over there on the green board. There are lots of deadlines coming up this week. Don't be shy—the world wants to see your work!
 

__________________

Today's LittleNip:

COLLECTING

—Taylor Graham, Placerville

What to do with a child

who shoots down moons for fun?

Just before they start to wane;

pewter targets in the sky. He'd collect

what fell to earth, as if shards of clay

pigeons. The smallest, perfectly silver-

round, he'd tuck in his pocket

for plugging meters and the juke box

with its achy-breaky. His father

frowned if he aimed at stars—all that

splintered glitter, image of eternity

burning itself out. And angels—

broken wings plummeting

like swans in season—he promised

his mother he'd never shoot

one down. What good

is a dead angel?

__________________

—Medusa

  —Photo by Katy Brown, Davis