Dandelion Moons

—Poems by Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
—Anonymous Photos of Dandelion Moons

BORDER CROSSING*

All the lost children
who trudge long and far
families fleeing
violence, gangs, rape,
asylum begged for,

mercy, just a chance.
All the lost children
arriving worn-out
at guarded border,
captives pulled away

like quarantined sheep.
parents plead: "Quando"?
All the lost children
shipped north or caged in
tents, the heat intense!

These innocente,
twenty-three hundred
traumatized, poor, hurt.
All the lost children
left to cope alone,

love disregarded—
migrants are weapons.
Millions mourn for these
political pawns—
all the lost children.


*(Form: “Sliding Fiver”—
   everything in fives)

STREET PORTRAIT

Every morning
a handsome youth
pushes
a shopping cart
past our place.
Cans, bottles, a blanket
under bulging plastic.

This tall calm young man
might be painting bridges,
shouldering a blue sky,
a net to catch him
should he fall
or try to fly?

Someone's son, brother,
father?
This modern-day David
of the Streets—
a turnabout coming soon?

AROUND A KITCHEN TABLE
(a poem of the 70s)

She and I sketched our souls:
her panther near a cloud,
my one-legged gull at cliff edge.

We named our sneakers
"Slippers of the Gods."
Toes poked out like bad jokes.

Adventuresome dreamers, we
rose above her cold marriage
and my abusive past.

One night, pricking fingers,
we held them together,
blended our blood.

Her husband's job transferred;
they moved to Europe.
We lost contact...

Fifty years later
kitchen-table epiphanies still
flow oxygen through my arteries.

ONE WINTER

You, warm and real
as you were
became a scrap
of address
found one winter
while looking
for matches—
you, warm and real
as you were.


(a similar version was first
pub. in Blue Unicorn)

POEM FOR A MAN
COMING DOWN THE TRAIL

"What's up there?"  I ask the hiker
as I start my climb.
"Cows, only cows," he says
and walks glumly to his car.

I climb the hill trail. A breeze
skips my breath over grassland
like a seed or tumbleweed.

Dandelion moons, tossed
nearly bare, fuzz the air.
Poppies candle the fields,
petaled flames burning
wildly through wind flurries.
Buckeye blooms
extend white torches.
Anise exudes
a calming fragrance.

From valley to peak, animal
tracks faintly section the hills.
Salt licks catch the sun
like patches of snow.

Blinking at my footsteps,
Winslow Homer cows feast
as cloud-shadows move
over their backs, like maps
on the move.

Hike over, I return to my truck,
drive off to strains of
Beethoven's Pastoral Symphony.

EXPANSIVE VIEW

Is
each
expanded
spirit
in essence
another name
for God?

 

WHAT MAKES & SEPARATES
THE CLOUDS

What makes and separates the clouds?
What causes them to fade away?
Why do some people weep in crowds?

Should we pick the garden flower?
Step back and simply let it grow?
A human time, no ivory tower.

Can we tell these two apart—
what arises from an avid mind
and what comes from an ample heart?

A quirky question, call it small.
Yet, world, we are the only species
we know to wonder this at all.


(first pub. in Blue Unicorn, Nov. 2018)

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

AFTER RAIN, A CINQUAIN
—Claire J. Baker

Morning,
we spot street oil
transformed into pastels—
prisms on asphalt as fresh sun
returns.

____________________

Many thanks to Claire Baker for her poems of dandelion moons and other wonders!

And a note that MarieWriters Generative Workshop will meet tonight at 6pm at Sac. Poetry Center, 25th & R Sts., Sac. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about this and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.
 

—Medusa

 —Anonymous Photo
Celebrate poetry—and the rain!

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.