Cornerstone Gardens, Sonoma
—Photo by Cynthia Linville, Sacramento
SUMMER
—Caschwa, Sacramento
Smokers habitually toss butts
Where a pond used to be…
Now its bottom too dry
To snuff them out
Under the canopy of a mature forest nearby
Hotel guests strip naked or nearly
And gently slip into carefully manicured pools
Seeking relief from the rat race
At the former pond an ember lay
From that a spark, then a stinky burning
While the ground cover ripples with heat
As more and more dry plants ignite
Bonding as if clasping hands
Each a small account holder
Investing in the greater flame
That lashes out beyond the pond
—Caschwa, Sacramento
Smokers habitually toss butts
Where a pond used to be…
Now its bottom too dry
To snuff them out
Under the canopy of a mature forest nearby
Hotel guests strip naked or nearly
And gently slip into carefully manicured pools
Seeking relief from the rat race
At the former pond an ember lay
From that a spark, then a stinky burning
While the ground cover ripples with heat
As more and more dry plants ignite
Bonding as if clasping hands
Each a small account holder
Investing in the greater flame
That lashes out beyond the pond
Brutally assaulting the forest
Stripping the trees naked, or nearly
Violently invading the perfectly sculptured hotel
Dragging scorching smoke and exploding branches
Into the carefully manicured pools
Where the guests run out like rats
Holding hands, seeking relief
Where a pond used to be…
___________________
ALIKE BUT NOT
—Caschwa
As a child, my teachers regarded
My left-handedness nonjudgmentally
as a quality
My left-handed mother-in-law faced
The schoolmaster’s hard, swift, wooden
Stick repeatedly striking her wrist to
Drive out the evil
______________________________
My father served in the Sea-Bees
Near Normandy in World War II
He came back alive and well,
Liked the military, hated the war,
Lived long and died an old man
Can people who die with hate in their heart,
Whether soldiers while fighting
Or veterans in a parade
Go to Heaven?
______________________________
My wife and I went to the optometrist
To be tested and fitted for contact lenses
Turns out our prescriptions were
exactly the same, which was rare
Almost as rare as when we interpret
What we see
Exactly the same
Stripping the trees naked, or nearly
Violently invading the perfectly sculptured hotel
Dragging scorching smoke and exploding branches
Into the carefully manicured pools
Where the guests run out like rats
Holding hands, seeking relief
Where a pond used to be…
___________________
ALIKE BUT NOT
—Caschwa
As a child, my teachers regarded
My left-handedness nonjudgmentally
as a quality
My left-handed mother-in-law faced
The schoolmaster’s hard, swift, wooden
Stick repeatedly striking her wrist to
Drive out the evil
______________________________
My father served in the Sea-Bees
Near Normandy in World War II
He came back alive and well,
Liked the military, hated the war,
Lived long and died an old man
Can people who die with hate in their heart,
Whether soldiers while fighting
Or veterans in a parade
Go to Heaven?
______________________________
My wife and I went to the optometrist
To be tested and fitted for contact lenses
Turns out our prescriptions were
exactly the same, which was rare
Almost as rare as when we interpret
What we see
Exactly the same
Cornerstone Gardens, Sonoma
—Photo by Cynthia Linville
I COULD ALMOST DIE OF YOU LIKE
SOCRATES DOWNING THE HEMLOCK
—Tom Goff, Carmichael
You are the bravest woman I’ll ever know.
Why else do I couple you with Socrates
in David’s painting, readying to swallow
the hemlock cup? His right hand about to seize
this is Adam’s electric hand, and I love hands
decisive and warm and active, like your pair.
His left hand thrusts a forefinger: he withstands
—by pointing upward to the Beyond—despair.
Pinwheel-lively seated on his last couch,
he’s so like you, my truthful one, I blanch
just thinking of how I’d crumble inside your kiss.
But suicidal dissolves are what cowards miss.
A Flaxman Socrates, drinking as if to quench
his thirst, not life, ignores the sloppy debauch:
His followers, convulsively hugging, weeping.
Warped willows, roots undermined by the bitter seeping…
______________________
You are the bravest woman I’ll ever know.
Why else do I couple you with Socrates
in David’s painting, readying to swallow
the hemlock cup? His right hand about to seize
this is Adam’s electric hand, and I love hands
decisive and warm and active, like your pair.
His left hand thrusts a forefinger: he withstands
—by pointing upward to the Beyond—despair.
Pinwheel-lively seated on his last couch,
he’s so like you, my truthful one, I blanch
just thinking of how I’d crumble inside your kiss.
But suicidal dissolves are what cowards miss.
A Flaxman Socrates, drinking as if to quench
his thirst, not life, ignores the sloppy debauch:
His followers, convulsively hugging, weeping.
Warped willows, roots undermined by the bitter seeping…
______________________
AN OPEN WINDOW
—Carol Louise Moon, Sacramento
—Carol Louise Moon, Sacramento
What is a window, but a frame.
The existence of a frame on a wall.
I exist, therefore I am a window;
a window to my soul, and the souls of others
and their windows.
What is a window, but a frame.
I’ve been framed into existence by my parents,
God rest ‘em. They too were windows,
beautiful souls, a cool breeze and two colorful birds
flying by and into my window…
my frame of reference.
That’s why I refer to them now, in this poem…
Yes, I was framed… a silver lining
around two beautiful Birds of Paradise
in my forever garden. God rest ‘em.
I was framed.
_____________________
Today's LittleNip:
CHEMISTRY
—Olga Blu Browne, Sacramento
—Olga Blu Browne, Sacramento
Whispered over oceans, echoing
off mountains, calling out to the
unknown.
In a voice that breathes, silence
is softly spoken. Ecstasy and
distance.
Love escapes; poetry's sadness
is intimate. Chemistry expired.
___________________
—Medusa
Cornerstone Gardens, Sonoma
—Photo by Cynthia Linville