—Photo by Art Beck, San Francisco
WHAT WE CAN'T KEEP
—Art Beck
What sparkles
isn’t in the water, not
even the breeze. It
slips through blue
ripples and air so quietly—
touches you just
as you realize it’s gone.
What we can’t grasp
we have to mourn—
not as a loss but as a gift
we’re simply too poor to accept.
Too rich for blood
to contain, too cunning
for flesh to own.
_______________________
ALL SAINTS MORNING
—Art Beck
for Al Masarik, who recently passed away
A lazy, open door Saturday.
The sly, Chinese waitress quietly
flirts with you in painful English
while the cook chops vegetables for the soup.
You flirt with the bacon on your plate.
Your bacon—you think—has already flirted
with disaster, has no further
interest in any of this. But outside,
over the chimneys,
a black Halloween balloon set
free the morning after
sails like the risen Lazarus
into a blue, unsuspecting day.
Behind the bar, under spotless glasses,
the rich purple bottles lounge in rows
like squads of fat cops fingering
their nightsticks, waiting to
march you off to lunch.
And who’s that walking past
the window on legs you can’t
take your eyes off?
What’s in the air that’s so
helpless and promising? Everyone knows
about spring, but that snappy copper
headed woman’s hair really needs
this hard, November, sidewalk light,
this especially anxious breeze to flutter
in that I don’t mind winter come
get me way. Even in November, something
in the blood can’t ever say no,
doesn’t care you can’t say why.
A lazy, open door Saturday.
The sly, Chinese waitress quietly
flirts with you in painful English
while the cook chops vegetables for the soup.
You flirt with the bacon on your plate.
Your bacon—you think—has already flirted
with disaster, has no further
interest in any of this. But outside,
over the chimneys,
a black Halloween balloon set
free the morning after
sails like the risen Lazarus
into a blue, unsuspecting day.
Behind the bar, under spotless glasses,
the rich purple bottles lounge in rows
like squads of fat cops fingering
their nightsticks, waiting to
march you off to lunch.
And who’s that walking past
the window on legs you can’t
take your eyes off?
What’s in the air that’s so
helpless and promising? Everyone knows
about spring, but that snappy copper
headed woman’s hair really needs
this hard, November, sidewalk light,
this especially anxious breeze to flutter
in that I don’t mind winter come
get me way. Even in November, something
in the blood can’t ever say no,
doesn’t care you can’t say why.
—Photo by Art Beck
THE FOLLOWERS OF ADVICE
—Pijush Kanti Deb, Assam, India
It sets the teeth on edge
and ablaze a fire in the eyes as well
yet the old advice is shameless
in persuading the innocent followers
to take time by the forelock
and make headway in life,
though ignorant to the negative role
played by a haughty bull—
almost lunatic in running towards
and trampling down the enchanted followers
and driving them out of the way of destination.
The upcoming timid followers realize
the risk of taking a leap in the dark,
feel the standing of their hair on end
at the frightening body-language of the bull
and are prompt to take to their own heels,
saying, ’’Grapes are sour.’’
Here, an egalitarian can beat his brains
for a quick and sustainable solution—
mingling the advice with power,
inspiring and providing the followers
with amulets to be bold enough to
take the bull by the horns,
compelling it
to go back straight to its dirty stable,
bestowing the followers with sweet grapes
and fueling them to the brim
to make headway in their lives.
_______________________
A POEM BUT ILL-FATED
—Pijush Kanti Deb
A poem,
maybe a careful embellishment
with the illumination
of the luminous hearts,
an immortal image
drawn with the ink of nectar
borrowed from the Heavens,
painted with more than seven colors
collected from
both the rain-bow and dream-bow,
an offering from the devotees
to the earthly Gods
who live and die
only in the literary world.
Yet the poem is always ill-fated
to be loved and praised
only by a few
differently made hearts and tongues.
—Pijush Kanti Deb, Assam, India
It sets the teeth on edge
and ablaze a fire in the eyes as well
yet the old advice is shameless
in persuading the innocent followers
to take time by the forelock
and make headway in life,
though ignorant to the negative role
played by a haughty bull—
almost lunatic in running towards
and trampling down the enchanted followers
and driving them out of the way of destination.
The upcoming timid followers realize
the risk of taking a leap in the dark,
feel the standing of their hair on end
at the frightening body-language of the bull
and are prompt to take to their own heels,
saying, ’’Grapes are sour.’’
Here, an egalitarian can beat his brains
for a quick and sustainable solution—
mingling the advice with power,
inspiring and providing the followers
with amulets to be bold enough to
take the bull by the horns,
compelling it
to go back straight to its dirty stable,
bestowing the followers with sweet grapes
and fueling them to the brim
to make headway in their lives.
_______________________
A POEM BUT ILL-FATED
—Pijush Kanti Deb
A poem,
maybe a careful embellishment
with the illumination
of the luminous hearts,
an immortal image
drawn with the ink of nectar
borrowed from the Heavens,
painted with more than seven colors
collected from
both the rain-bow and dream-bow,
an offering from the devotees
to the earthly Gods
who live and die
only in the literary world.
Yet the poem is always ill-fated
to be loved and praised
only by a few
differently made hearts and tongues.
—Photo by Art Beck
THE BITING SOUL
—Pjush Kanti Deb
A dogmatic life longs to be on the floor,
to dance to the rhythm
of a haughty and naughty heart,
stimulated by a keen discernment
that is added in life and heart
along with up-to-date sagacity and black magic,
creating a plain under the table
and tempting pockets to welcome
the seas and the oceans with their treasures,
leaving propriety unheard outside the door.
The remaining virtue still peeps for a while,
throws away its useless plumb-line
and joins in the blind man’s bluff
to allow the shadow of wealth and resources
to cause an eclipse on the rules and regulations
provoking the old soul
made in Heaven,
to enter the workshop to make a sharp tooth-set
for its unabated biting
on the soft part of its beloved heart and life
to bring their consciousness back on the right track.
______________________
THE ODDNESS BETWEEN HUTS AND SKYSCRAPERS
—Pijush Kanti Deb
In the oddness between huts and skyscrapers,
let our steps cross the border line—
drawn by our pride and contumacy,
and be rushed towards the ocean of tears
to bring a change in the odd-looking picture.
Maybe
our haughty hearts may raise their palpitations,
brimful pockets move their heads
to either side again and again,
the domestic planets and the satellites,
luminous in our own brightness,
get self-eclipsed and become gloomy,
the bitterness of failure of yesterday
disturbs the steps to fall by a slip
and unknown tomorrow suffers from
the fear of being bit by our own blood.
Hence,
let our proceeding steps be unlinked
from babbling tongues and timid hearts,
our mortal eyes and ears be sanctioned a leave,
the line only be crossed with the hint of
the immortal sensation of our souls,
and our tears be dropped in the ocean
to shape it into a manageable river
which can wash away the oddness
from the picture of huts and skyscrapers.
Before the Storm
—Photo by Robert Lee Haycock, Antioch
NOTHING HAS BEEN DONE
—Robert Lee Haycock
I raise my hands
Call down a hungry moon
Ink babbles from my fingers
Lies drip from my elbows
Nothing has been done right
Nothing has been done
I crawl among my tools beshat
Scattered across splintered floors
Paintings fly up the walls and away
While others wonder where I am
Nothing has been done right
Nothing has been done
I am exiled from that house of many windows
________________________
TRICKY BUSINESS
—Robert Lee Haycock
You are beautiful
And I would bed you
And you would allow it
And what you really want
Is for me to see your hurt
And your need
And for me to forbear
And what I really want
Is for you to know I see you
And you are beautiful
And I want you
And I forbear
It's a Small World
—Photo by Robert Lee Haycock
Today's LittleNip:
BUT
—Robert Lee Haycock
There is no magic
Still the sun will rise
There is no magic
Yet the spring will come
There is no magic
But I will believe
______________________
—Medusa, with thanks to today's contributors for their fine poems and photos! Pijush Kanti Deb, writing all the way from India, has a new book, Beneath The Shadow Of A White Pigeon, which is available on Amazon at
www.amazon.com/Beneath-Shadow-White-Pigeon-Pijush/dp/1505854113/ref=sr_1_1_twi_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1422829526&sr=8-1&keywords=beneath+the+shadow+of+a+white+pigeon
www.amazon.com/Beneath-Shadow-White-Pigeon-Pijush/dp/1505854113/ref=sr_1_1_twi_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1422829526&sr=8-1&keywords=beneath+the+shadow+of+a+white+pigeon
Sutro Heights, San Francisco
—Photo by Robert Lee Haycock