Friday, December 11, 2015

Just This Moment

—Today's Photos are by Ann Privateer

—Ann Privateer, Davis, CA

my days and nights
whiz by

a creature flayed
on the highway

I say a prayer
for family, friends

for before the sprawl
before disintegration

before ancestors came
before all the same.

They who thought of us
the unborn. Now I,

secure at home, have time
to spare, think of them

toiling for me and of those
who will come, images

are etched on me.


—Ann Privateer

Close, engaged, active
one’s self, distinctly
chosen without wine

with big toes, big nose,
a Braille-reader mouth
clothed in a forged

package, colored
neutral, packed
poorly, masked

in gelatin-silver
a series support
sleeping spoons

on white sheets
a sonic boom
caresses nipples

defines boundaries
a contiguous kiss
turns with a fidgety

sigh to kindle
another day's light.



labors to become airborne
to land in a fallow field

north for a soup de jour
banquet with guests.

Night herons arrow south
passing the road-kill party

and carrions that wait
on high wires for a varmint

slithering in grass to appear
trading twilight for the whole.

—Ann Privateer


—Kate Wells, Placerville, CA

Just this moment.
The half-light.
Night air
slipping into the room.
No one watching. You said
something in your low rumble.
Something about my dress.
Or the smell of my skin.
Or wanting.
Not waiting.
Your warm hand
on the small
of my back.
Slow down the heat.


—Kate Wells

I wait to hear the violinist take

a breath, imagining his fingers ache

two measures into Bach’s partita. Notes

flicker, bend. The high C, cold sunlight, floats

above him and me and breath. Breath that shows

he, too, has a heart to break,

not just a machine pounding, faking. 

It is the quick pull of life in his throat

I wait to hear.

Does he listen for my snaking,

inhaled hiss, a sign I’m awake

far off in my lonely ice-boat?  
Does he know I hang

on his breath? Floating still on the lake,

I wait to hear.

—Loch Henson, Diamond Springs, CA

My intentions strayed.

I think it happened a few years ago.
They wandered off so gradually that
I barely noticed it occurring.

The first to go may have made
a quiet escape, but it started a
slow-motion exodus.

A lot of good things have
wandered away, leaving me
to tack and jibe against the
winds, all sail, no rudder.

It’s time to gather these
wayward intentions again.
I suspect they’re nearby, grazing
the nearest greens and blues.

It may take a small posse,
but I have friends with fast horses.

It’s just a matter of time.


Today’s LittleNip:

It is one of the blessings of old friends that you can afford to be stupid with them.

—Ralph Waldo Emerson


—Medusa, with thanks to today's fine contributors!