Persimmons
—Fruitful Fotos by Katy Brown, Davis, CA
THE HAG ACROSS THE STREET FROM HOOTERS
—Ann Wehrman, Sacramento, CA
rage weaves through sorrow and regret
I plait ice-blue rage
with regret’s black, sorrow’s burnt umber
strands twist in my fingers, tighten
as the girls sing their songs
just across the busy street
at the street-side patio
teasing, they lean out
perfect teen-aged midriffs bare
below skin-tight knit tops
above identical tiny skirts
they laugh, belt football songs
as cars speed by, customers file in, grinning
some with families or girlfriends in tow
across the busy street, I hear
the young hostesses’ wild song, laughter
anger blunts my tears, held back
I continue to plait
spinning words, memories
fortune, loss, waste
Little Squash
DREAMT JUST BEFORE AWAKENING
—Ann Wehrman
in a small room, like a bunk on a train
or the back of a van,
I watched, kneeling to the side
you, suspended over her back
perhaps giving a massage
maybe that was all it was, both fully dressed
you met my eyes, your face immobile
then flew away in silence
she lay there quietly
my heart ripped open, bleeding
to my left, a glass window
outside, women chatting, small girl
buried in a lady’s too-big hat and heels
tottered to the glass, inquisitive
wanted to join the discussion
Apples from the Mountains
I WANT TO LIVE ON THE MOUNTAINTOP
After Heidi by Johanna Spyri
—Ann Wehrman
Heidi, girl of the mountains
breathes fresh air
goats in her care
playful, they butt
sure are her steps
warm smile on her lips
(Refrain)
I want to live on the mountaintop
with my love
simple in heart
our love a beacon
work in the sunlight
dance in the rain
sleep in a basket of stars
Heidi
loves Peter, the goatherd
together they climb
sled in the winter
soon they will marry
share one cabin
smoke rings of bliss
rise from their chimney
(Refrain)
Sprouts Still on the Stem
BAY
—Tom Goff, Carmichael, CA
In your life
I believe I must forever be a leaf,
The lone bay leaf.
Forever doing my damndest (my gentlest)
To add obscure spice, dim savor
To your soup of friends, of lovings
And strivings, birthdays, milestones raced past.
Subtle, I am, till you scoop me unseeing
Up in a spoon, bite down as a dentist
Might suggest, then
Twitch me out of mouth between
Forefinger and thumb, pronouncing,
“What did I ever want with you?”
An Ocean of Walnuts
OCEAN, MIDWINTER
—Tom Goff
The first I love you seems so long ago.
You seem harder to read, slightly aloof.
So much in you that you will not let show.
I’m seaside villa, you’re dark undertow.
Foundation shudders, misaligned with roof.
How much do you feel, and how much do you know?
Wrong as I am, drenched in your life and glow,
I’m corpse you sink, all cuts, beneath sharp reef.
So much in you that you will not let show,
Yet show you do, each thinning tide and flow
Of obdurate rebellion against grief.
How much do you feel, and how much do you know?
You held me hard once; my mind said, Slow, slow.
The stories you tell harrow disbelief.
Though much in you you never will let show,
I struggle back to you, my mainland, snow
Curtaining us from mutual view: relief.
So much in you that you will not let show.
How much do you feel, and how much do you know?
Pomegranates (More Than Six Seeds!)
SEWING MACHINE
(Bax vs. Bach)
—Tom Goff
“Sewing machine music,” said Arnold [Bax]
of Bach’s Suites…
—pianist Harriet Cohen
Sebastian Bach loves counterpoint, that’s clear:
He winds up, and sets moving, fugues like toys
or warlike sewing machines, front, flank and rear,
all needles stitching, fending, constant noise,
a joyous noise, yes! But when will it stop,
the whir of diatonic cogs and wheels?
Fugue subject, counter-subject, knife and strop
continually in friction, jarring squeals?
Bax uses the Bachian rhythm, forward moves
expressed in themes that rub, caress, or bite.
November Woods is love wound all around loves,
superlative additional note-vine tight-
twined aching around the original pain: what islands
we are though breast to breast! And Bax adores silence…
Who better contends with Bach at counterpoint?
Aroint thee, old Sebastian, aroint!
“Sewing machine music,” said Arnold [Bax]
of Bach’s Suites…
—pianist Harriet Cohen
Sebastian Bach loves counterpoint, that’s clear:
He winds up, and sets moving, fugues like toys
or warlike sewing machines, front, flank and rear,
all needles stitching, fending, constant noise,
a joyous noise, yes! But when will it stop,
the whir of diatonic cogs and wheels?
Fugue subject, counter-subject, knife and strop
continually in friction, jarring squeals?
Bax uses the Bachian rhythm, forward moves
expressed in themes that rub, caress, or bite.
November Woods is love wound all around loves,
superlative additional note-vine tight-
twined aching around the original pain: what islands
we are though breast to breast! And Bax adores silence…
Who better contends with Bach at counterpoint?
Aroint thee, old Sebastian, aroint!
Arkansas Black Apples
Today’s LittleNip:
INCOMPLETE
—Ann Wehrman
You give me part of yourself—
air kisses brush my lips,
shadow hands stroke
my astral body,
draw it close to yours.
From across the room,
secure in its frame on my dresser,
your smile warms me;
I roll over, accepting that
which you are able to give,
yet unsatisfied.
_________________
—Medusa, with thank-yous to Ann Wehrman, Tom Goff and Katy Brown for this sumptuous pre--Thanksgiving feast! Katy's photos were taken on a recent jaunt to Apple Hill.
Evening Shadows
—Photo of Sacramento, CA by Katy Brown
Celebrate the poetry of where you live!
Photos in this column can be enlarged by clicking on them once,
then click on the X in the top right corner to come back
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