—Photo by Katy Brown, Davis
—Ann Privateer, Davis
a carrot found
in the street
Oh Dear.
fully grown
green lacy leaves
feather above
but alas
it's yellow
not orange
discarded, I think
I'll take it
scrub it
then eat
this unusual strain
to see
what magic
will be imparted
on me.
____________________
NO MORE STARS
—Ann Privateer
There's nothing to see here
no deception
too much truth
a boring diet
entices me
too much trivia
paste the walls
with fur lined swatches
there's nothing to see here
no shadows
too much light
half empty glasses
invite me
we'll party
on champagned ice
immersed in elderberries.
There's nothing to see here
no lies
no imagination
sitting all day
hands folded
release me from prison
to waterfalls
flowing to the sea.
____________________
TO THE CARROT
—Katy Brown
Hail to thee,
modest young carrot,
buried in earth
growing down, not
up—escaping sun,
your top marks
your hiding place.
Hail, tender carrot:
slender orange jewel,
bright spot in
soup, salad, or
just eaten raw.
You grow delectably
out of sight.
___________________
NOTHING TO SEE HERE
—Katy Brown
Corporate accountants fleece money from boards;
hide profits from taxmen and fudge bottom lines.
But no one gets hurt—it’s a victimless crime.
Move along. Move along.
There is nothing to see here.
Army consultants charge fortunes for hammers,
claim success with equipment that never will work.
They wine and they dine all the sleek politicians.
Move along. Move along.
There is nothing to see here.
Hungry young veterans beg in the streets
with war wounds and trauma beyond any help.
There aren’t enough doorways to shelter the homeless.
It’s far more convenient to just look away.
Move along. Move along.
There is nothing to see here.
Street
—Photo by Ann Privateer
—Photo by Ann Privateer
START WITH LIVERWURST
—Katy Brown
You can train a dog to do anything
if you use enough liverwurst—
or so my friend Jean told me
when I was a child.
Her old Chesapeake Duke
obediently said his prayers,
played dead, and balanced a kibble
on his nose for a pinch of ‘wurst.
Years later, Belle, an untamed pointer,
came to live with me.
She refused to go through doors.
Everyone terrified her—
when people came outside,
antelope quick, she fled
to the far corner of the yard.
Any sudden movement made her cower.
There seemed no way to banish
the terrors that haunted her—
no way to earn her trust—
until I remembered liverwurst.
One chunk of liver sausage at a time,
placed closer and closer, over many spring hours,
many sweltering summer months,
brought her close enough to catch—
close enough to comfort.
I used liverwurst with Belle—
but I was the one who was captured.
She trained me in the art of earning trust.
_____________________
THE FIRST SEVEN HORSES
—Katy Brown
It is written that the First Horse
was condensed from the South Wind
by the Old Woman who created all things.
She gave the mare the speed of a desert sirocco.
This horse—fluid, swift—flew
over the sands with breathtaking grace.
The Old Woman created five more mares—
the first band of horses.
These new horses, she gave the gifts
of endurance of a rising sun
and courage of the leopard.
She gave them intelligence and sensitivity
and infused them with the spirit of mutuality.
This small herd grazed together
in the shade of the Great Oasis—
ran together over mountainous dunes.
One moonless night, the Old Woman
created the first stallion and introduced him
into the band of mares, giving them all
the gift of devotion.
Thus, were the first seven horses created.
Thus, were the Bedouins given
the gift of survival.
But that is another tale for another time. . . . .
_______________________
—Katy Brown
It is written that the First Horse
was condensed from the South Wind
by the Old Woman who created all things.
She gave the mare the speed of a desert sirocco.
This horse—fluid, swift—flew
over the sands with breathtaking grace.
The Old Woman created five more mares—
the first band of horses.
These new horses, she gave the gifts
of endurance of a rising sun
and courage of the leopard.
She gave them intelligence and sensitivity
and infused them with the spirit of mutuality.
This small herd grazed together
in the shade of the Great Oasis—
ran together over mountainous dunes.
One moonless night, the Old Woman
created the first stallion and introduced him
into the band of mares, giving them all
the gift of devotion.
Thus, were the first seven horses created.
Thus, were the Bedouins given
the gift of survival.
But that is another tale for another time. . . . .
_______________________
Our thanks to today's contributors! If it seems like Ann Privateer and Katy Brown have written similar poems, that's because they got together and had a mini-workshop. Do you find it useful to write with other people?
Head on over to City College at noon today for a Late Peaches reading, then down to Luna's tonight to hear Mary Mackey. Scroll down to the blue box at the right of this for details. And here's a link to an interview Trina Drotar did with Mary for Sacramento News & Review: www.newsreview.com/sacramento/in-any-language/content?oid=9153959
_______________________
Today's LittleNip:
AFTER MISCARRIAGE
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole
She dries her tears
on a diaper, inhales
the fresh cotton,
whispers a brief
prayer, sips
steaming herbal tea.
Finding pearls
in the dregs,
shw swallows them,
envisions
sturdier seed
gripping her womb
for dear life.
______________________
—Medusa
Giant Grapefruit
—Photo by Katy Brown