Sacramento's Cynthia Linville reads at
the Valona Deli Poetry Series in Crockett
last Sunday, Jan. 13
—Photo by Katy Brown, Davis
AHEAD:
The path leads
to a hill
where, as a boy,
when my father
was alive,
we sat, watched
what seemed to be
the endless
circling of stars.
I had imagined they were smiles
of the dead. Their shining pride
a parental amusement
at our merry-go-round ride.
Now,
alone at the hill’s crest,
my eyes adjust
to the night’s gray.
I look down to where the path
dies away, swallowed
in the yawning black
of woods
and see—
—Matthew Travieso Williams, West Sac.
___________________
EPHEMERA:
The woman rummaging
in the garbage
has strapped
a flashlight
to her head.
Its distant
flicker
is the light
they tell us
not to go
toward. It illuminates
a creased face
beneath her
dirty bangs,
that hangs
gray and brief
as the hot
breath
put into her
work,
and dissolves
in the night
behind the next
set of refuse.
—Matthew Travieso Williams
__________________
A MOONLIGHT SONATA
—Marie J. Ross, Stockton
—Marie J. Ross, Stockton
They listen to elegant sounds of the cello’s bow
Which only they could hear
With city lights in the distance
They sit dreamily in ethers of enchantment
The cool breeze of night a symphony
Of waltzing wishes
Moon swings high its revered crown
Round and silver, aimless yet stationary
In the eyes of the two beneath
What might they be thinking?
The moon can be ambiguous and
Sometimes the face of gloom
But the cello’s bow was smooth music to their ears
A romantic odyssey across the strings
Surly destiny was lingering there between the stars
And the swoon of night’s elixir.
__________________
ONE NIGHT
—Marie J. Ross
She dreams
Hears flash of thunder
Feels mystic flesh tingle
Like a steed
—Marie J. Ross
She dreams
Hears flash of thunder
Feels mystic flesh tingle
Like a steed
Stealing her breath
They roll on silk sheets,
She sighs,
In slow revealing moments,
And hears
His ache of completion
Her long black hair
Lay limp across his shoulders
As she kisses a drop of sweat
From the tip of his nose
When she dreams about him;
Stars tick like tango rhythms
Dancing on her pillow
Teeth marks surrendering
To his music,
And she turns
To dream another dream of him.
They roll on silk sheets,
She sighs,
In slow revealing moments,
And hears
His ache of completion
Her long black hair
Lay limp across his shoulders
As she kisses a drop of sweat
From the tip of his nose
When she dreams about him;
Stars tick like tango rhythms
Dancing on her pillow
Teeth marks surrendering
To his music,
And she turns
To dream another dream of him.
Ice Pitchers
—Photo by Katy Brown
ONE BIG STAR
—Carol Louise Moon, Sacramento
They say our sun is one big star.
That's hard to believe, because we're looking
at it up close, well, closer than other stars.
So instead of twinkling, it looks
to be a lamp without a cord. "Don't stare
at the sun," my mom would always say.
"Looking directly at the sun
could make a person see stars."
So, don't even try looking at the sun
through a telescope.
Just star-gaze with your telescope
the more distant stars—
sort of like the way you spend all day looking
through those magazines about movie stars,
instead of time with little brother looking
like a lonely little left-out-of-all-the-star-
gazing-and-fun-brother things. It looks
as if he's got you on a pedestal: you, a star
shining brighter than all other stars.
________________________
NOW THAT MOTHER'S GONE—
before our golden age, our golden age
now bronzed before our time, and
time has taken feathers and other
nesting from this nest—the rest of us
all drift away. This house that housed
the thoughts we thought were so
important.
Of importance now, that what-of-what
is left: a crate on earthquake earth:
quaking, shaking that of what on earth
we knew of her. Too late, now, to think
our thoughts of late—of Mother who is
gone before our golden age, an empty
cage. . . she's gone. . . and now,
she's gone.
—Carol Louise Moon
_______________________
BROWN PAPER BAGS
—Carol Louise Moon
A ladder of nine rungs leads up to a loft,
a storehouse of memories wrapped
in brown paper bags, collecting dust.
Framed pictures of the ancestors from
Ohio, the poet among them—his
writings, some bound, some loose,
are also collecting dust.
What have I awakened to today? A
memory of my father? That too,
should be poemed so that it can collect
dust in a loft, like the grief I still store
somewhere between my shoulder blades,
somewhere within my nine-run ladder-
back—which leads to thoughts of my
father as memorialized in his portrait—
his portrait, which sits up in the loft
unwrapped of brown paper… like the
dream I had last night. My father was
helping me move and unwrap furnishings
for my new apartment.
As he left, he hugged me so tight I just
knew he was with me again. But no.
I awoke to find myself wrapped in a
brown paper bag of grief.
—Carol Louise Moon, Sacramento
They say our sun is one big star.
That's hard to believe, because we're looking
at it up close, well, closer than other stars.
So instead of twinkling, it looks
to be a lamp without a cord. "Don't stare
at the sun," my mom would always say.
"Looking directly at the sun
could make a person see stars."
So, don't even try looking at the sun
through a telescope.
Just star-gaze with your telescope
the more distant stars—
sort of like the way you spend all day looking
through those magazines about movie stars,
instead of time with little brother looking
like a lonely little left-out-of-all-the-star-
gazing-and-fun-brother things. It looks
as if he's got you on a pedestal: you, a star
shining brighter than all other stars.
________________________
NOW THAT MOTHER'S GONE—
before our golden age, our golden age
now bronzed before our time, and
time has taken feathers and other
nesting from this nest—the rest of us
all drift away. This house that housed
the thoughts we thought were so
important.
Of importance now, that what-of-what
is left: a crate on earthquake earth:
quaking, shaking that of what on earth
we knew of her. Too late, now, to think
our thoughts of late—of Mother who is
gone before our golden age, an empty
cage. . . she's gone. . . and now,
she's gone.
—Carol Louise Moon
_______________________
BROWN PAPER BAGS
—Carol Louise Moon
A ladder of nine rungs leads up to a loft,
a storehouse of memories wrapped
in brown paper bags, collecting dust.
Framed pictures of the ancestors from
Ohio, the poet among them—his
writings, some bound, some loose,
are also collecting dust.
What have I awakened to today? A
memory of my father? That too,
should be poemed so that it can collect
dust in a loft, like the grief I still store
somewhere between my shoulder blades,
somewhere within my nine-run ladder-
back—which leads to thoughts of my
father as memorialized in his portrait—
his portrait, which sits up in the loft
unwrapped of brown paper… like the
dream I had last night. My father was
helping me move and unwrap furnishings
for my new apartment.
As he left, he hugged me so tight I just
knew he was with me again. But no.
I awoke to find myself wrapped in a
brown paper bag of grief.
________________________
Today's LittleNip(s):
COUNTER AD
—Caschwa, Sacramento
The easiest way
for graying men
to keep their edge
is to put their new
razors aside and grow
more facial hair
GAMBLING AT THE PUB
—Caschwa
We used to have
a surefire way
to lose pounds
until they converted
to euros
The easiest way
for graying men
to keep their edge
is to put their new
razors aside and grow
more facial hair
GAMBLING AT THE PUB
—Caschwa
We used to have
a surefire way
to lose pounds
until they converted
to euros
________________________
—Medusa, who welcomes, in addition to some of our regulars, newcomer Matthew Williams of West Sac.! Also take note that we have a new photo album on Medusa's Facebook page: SECOND SATURDAY IN SAC by Michelle Kunert, featuring artists and poets around town at January's Midtown Second Saturday event. Check it out!
Cynthia Linville of Poetica Erotica; watch for
"A Marathon of Love Poems"
which she'll host on Feb. 15 at SPC.
which she'll host on Feb. 15 at SPC.
Scroll down to the blue board at the right of this
for details under "More Than a Week Away".