Lures
—Photo by Katy Brown, Davis
KAFKAESQUE IMAGES
—B.Z. Niditch, Brookline, MA
Kafkaesque dream images
so powerful here in my jeep
after I fish for answers
to my nightmare
in the copper light
of a less than courteous sun
for an unguarded moment
commingling on my mind
in a slightly deaf and death
shadow circling my car
by one red eyelid photograph
staring at me
outdoors at a stop sign
at dusk watched by
spy glasses of unknown
cameras taking our pictures
by unauthorized visions
on parking lots
even after happy hours
beyond city limits
by auguries and juries
as backdrops of memory
haunt us while secretly
taking our prints.
—B.Z. Niditch, Brookline, MA
Kafkaesque dream images
so powerful here in my jeep
after I fish for answers
to my nightmare
in the copper light
of a less than courteous sun
for an unguarded moment
commingling on my mind
in a slightly deaf and death
shadow circling my car
by one red eyelid photograph
staring at me
outdoors at a stop sign
at dusk watched by
spy glasses of unknown
cameras taking our pictures
by unauthorized visions
on parking lots
even after happy hours
beyond city limits
by auguries and juries
as backdrops of memory
haunt us while secretly
taking our prints.
Life Ring
—Photo by Katy Brown
LIFE JACKET
—B.Z. Niditch
Not forgetting the hour
turning blue like saltwater
pitched down at the Cape
standing below deck
in the home harbor
my sockets gave way
to city grackles and gulls
as whale watchers appear
on the wooden docks,
with latitude I take out
a photo of a jazz singer
from my wallet
crossing a Cambridge St.
yet I refuse
to make a fist to the sky
about an ex
who passed away,
the cold air stalls
in a jot of liquid silence
from a sleepless dawn
fearful from regrets
aching at sea years
setting sail
with this life jacket
at first light
in this old navy shirt
getting over a fever
dropping from an affair
of the mind and body
on board with vistas
from old sunglasses
bought for a song
at the last fishing port
as you recall
the keel and mast
from boiling winds
aromatic waves
blowing hurricanes
flirting with life
outlasting islands,
unexpected storms,
and crazed by
breathless breezes,
my logs still detailed
from studious sockets
as rain takes
on a ferry
for one more voyage
from beach head squalls
with a tidal journal
awaking buried loss
to waves on its memories
and swallow a conscience
as surf rises
on the ocean mirrors.
—B.Z. Niditch
Not forgetting the hour
turning blue like saltwater
pitched down at the Cape
standing below deck
in the home harbor
my sockets gave way
to city grackles and gulls
as whale watchers appear
on the wooden docks,
with latitude I take out
a photo of a jazz singer
from my wallet
crossing a Cambridge St.
yet I refuse
to make a fist to the sky
about an ex
who passed away,
the cold air stalls
in a jot of liquid silence
from a sleepless dawn
fearful from regrets
aching at sea years
setting sail
with this life jacket
at first light
in this old navy shirt
getting over a fever
dropping from an affair
of the mind and body
on board with vistas
from old sunglasses
bought for a song
at the last fishing port
as you recall
the keel and mast
from boiling winds
aromatic waves
blowing hurricanes
flirting with life
outlasting islands,
unexpected storms,
and crazed by
breathless breezes,
my logs still detailed
from studious sockets
as rain takes
on a ferry
for one more voyage
from beach head squalls
with a tidal journal
awaking buried loss
to waves on its memories
and swallow a conscience
as surf rises
on the ocean mirrors.
Marina Gull
—Photo by Katy Brown
THE WAVES
—B.Z. Niditch
Thought waves
fishing for language
in my lexicon
while deployed
here by the crews
my breath untangles
and races above
all animated shadows
of a vagabond sun
on the Coast,
reels in memory,
rays hide out
as if to coax us
on the oarlocks
nameless voices
by tentative waves
of our own anonymity
whether we are
earth-wise or sea worthy
as my own empty body
smashes my jazzy mouth
of three syllables
shadows a coxswain words
along a drifting swim
to fathom what is lost
when welled up dark waters
rim along the lighthouse
on this navigator's waterway.
Anchor Tip
—Photo by Katy Brown
WEIGHED DOWN
—B.Z. Niditch
Weighed down
fishing in this traffic
flowing and adrift
by the sea whirred on winds
along the weeds and dunes
by toxic dawn's helpless waters
and here on my roped kayak
by crags enigmas
anchored for my early voyage
finding a cod for supper
from one's wet hand,
for a moment's perfection
without worry yet feeling
like Melville at the hot sun's
bristling melancholy
of his balmy meanderings
without a history, only exile.
Berry Tree
—Photo by B.Z. Niditch
UNDER THE BERRY TREES
—B.Z. Niditch
Unexpected haven
out to the sea
redolent of berry trees
where you hide by aspen
carving your initials
as any fishing survivor
on this shade of dawn
clearing wrinkled meadows
filled with hyacinth
where no spy or observer
could pick this place
here only a breath's wind
will speak from silence
among undiscovered rocks
not far from this coastal port,
soon grown up by the ocean beds
you embrace a shoreline sand
holding white sea shells
to expect a listening echo
in your hot grass blade hand.
Blue Heron Itch
—Photo by Katy Brown
LOST RIVER
—B.Z. Niditch
They retake silence
enticed by collected winds
tapping the evergreen waters
into a numb maze of ice fishing
which soon became mine
as a mourning dove dives
into blackened waters
the ocean still rages
its burly breezes
from last Friday's storm
shelling the home harbor
and points North,
the radio news
travels briskly
until a nervous confirmation
that local sailors vanish
once again by
the Lost River
that appeases fountains of
all imagination,
morning breaks
in my tongue, like a heron
floating at a distance
with so many names
to fill in and multiply
like cod and salmon in a basket
to the unveiling voices,
for waves can be merciless
like dusk, rain, even the sun.
________________________
Today's LittleNip:
THE DISAPPEARED
—B.Z. Niditch
(for Pablo Neruda)
Where are they
the children
the lost
those living in memory
in our solitude
those without strength
who march with us
in solidarity
who sing with us
toil with us
write on walls
all over the world with us
in prisons
with us
forever
clinging to a future
of the disappeared
and dispossessed
of the earth.
_______________________
—Medusa
B.Z. and Friends
Rockport, MI