Monday, December 10, 2012

Seven Stars for the Seven Angels

Fall Fungus
—Photo by Taylor Graham

—Stephanie R. Ehlers, Davis

In His image
we were created
from the dust that
covers the earth
His voice,
as soft as a whisper
but as loud and thunder
the sound of love
radiates from every pore
like the roar of many waters
His hair,
white as wool
as white as snow
the purest white
like rays of light
darting in all directions
His eyes,
a flame of fire
piercing and penetrating
the nature of His wisdom
His feet,
a burnished bronze
refined in a furnace
pillars of fire
glowing red hot
His hand,
holding seven stars
for the seven angels
a token of His favor
and powerful protection
His mouth,
a two-edged sword
penetrating deep into the soul
His face,
like the sun shining
on a bright summer day
He is the first
and the last
the living one
whom we will
see on the last day


—Stephanie R. Ehlers

Here as I sit and write this poem
Thinking of all I love and all that I hate
I think of all the times
I used to laugh and cry
Thoughts of suicide thinking it's my fate
Nothing can stop me
Will they care when I'm gone
I should be out hanging with all my friends
I was trapped in a box but now I'm free
Nothing can stop me now

It wasn't my intention for you to suffer
My pain was deep within my heart and troubled head
Comfort comes only with time
I try to repair my life
Despair and confusion left my mind unsure
Help me get through the stares
I am going to feel today, the wondering why
Help me get through the tears I'm going to shed
Help me get through today


—Stephanie R. Ehlers

First came the rider on a white horse, across the
expanse of sky between heaven and earth, holding
a rod of iron in his hands, a thing of fury and
wrath—and all were judged.  Where is your name?

Fencebreaker Creek
—Photo by Taylor Graham

—Taylor Graham

Miss Hunt is dead, age 92.
Her horses mourn the day.
As shadows walk the barn, they chew
their flake of oaten hay.
Where has she gone, on what new ride?
The waters in the creek subside.
Where has she gone
where has she gone
as buzzards fly their tilty glide?

Miss Hunt is dead. Age 92
is not so bad. And yet
her favorite mount, a roan named Blue,
will nudge the gate and fret.
He'll sniff the wind for weather-news,
a forecast from the falcon mews.
He'll sniff the wind
he'll sniff the wind
for storm that everything renews.

Miss Hunt is dead, age 92,
and will not come again
to post down the long avenue
and canter through the glen.
Now who will quote from Kenilworth
and whistle, tightening up the girth?
Now who will quote
now who will quote
Miss Hattie Hunt has gone to earth?


—Taylor Graham, Placerville

All the classrooms shut
for Sunday, children playing
truant with their minds
unlocked. What new alphabets
in the voice of clouds and rain?

And what stranger came
in a black frilled cape by night?
Not animal nor plant, this
life-form like a child’s design
singing to the ears of trees.

My dog leads me blind
through corridors of building,
through playground and fog.
How does she know the answer
without formula or sign?

Beyond the high fence,
cedars let their incense rise
to the wind, their muse.
What name for imaginings
born without a cloak of words?


Suzannah found a bottle cap
a perfect fissure line
down the middle.
It reminded her
of those good days
her step-parent had
every harvest moon
the treasure now retrieved
makes Jake feel better too
not the dross
he was very often
told he was
except each seventh day
come snow, sleet
or hell.

—Michael Cluff, Corona, CA


—Michael Cluff

Freddie became a micro-millionaire
after he sold his tie collection
from the late seventies to
early eighties
while Melinda traded barettes
for bars of silver insured by
Swiss bank watchers.
Vincent took his
self-hand inkings
from fourth grade
and now lives
like his rent payments are supplied
by Fort Knox.
Best of all
is Alexis
attributer to many museums
because of her collective
profits pilfered from
chicken and ham bones
found on Three Mile Island
or San Clemente
she and Richard
or was it Tricia
can't remember exactly


Today's LittleNip:

—Olga Blu Browne, Sacramento

Listen and say nothing as if it
were poetry.

Where memories echo and shadows
dance to the rhythm of the winds.

And morning birds sing softly in the
night hour.

There is where poetry is born.


—Medusa, with thanks to today's contributors, including newcomer Stephanie Ehlers, who comes to us via D.R. Wagner's class at UC Davis. Welcome to the Kitchen, Stephanie!

—Photo by Cynthia Linville, Sacramento
Be sure to check out Medusa's Facebook page
for Cynthia's new photo album, Coasting California!