—Poems by Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
—Anonymous Owls and Their Photos
—Anonymous Owls and Their Photos
OPEN DOOR, II
I'm at my computer desk.
When I type the word "child,"
am drawn to turn. At my door
a grandmother & grandson—
he in full Afro, cutoffs,
tank top & flip-flops.
Handsome wears a steady gaze
as if he often waits for me.
As grandma offers: "He wants
to say good morning," he smiles.
"O, good morning," I grin.
We all proceed to the rest
of the day—I, back to my poem
addressing God as Dear Sir,
Dear Lady, and now Dear Child.
AT FAMILY CAMP
(on California Coast)
Our tents are colorful mushrooms,
nylon geometry over duff down.
A camp log weathered silver
collects ropes of kelp, orange peels,
a bathing suit, thick socks.
Our fifteen tents clump inside
a redwood clearing near
water willows by Butano Creek.
We explore tidepools, the creek,
succulents along the beach.
After campfire, kids scramble
among sprawled parents, snuggle
into sleeping bags or army
surplus blankets, laughing.
A matriarch,
I prop up a low star
as young redwood fronds
sweep over my tented cathedral
flashlight-lit from within.
ON MOUNT DIABLO
Young tree climber,
you scar the skin of trees
by climbing so fast,
as if branches were Himalayas
and you will reach a top peak,
wave a flag, your arms
stretched up to God
for praise.
Young man,
your boots need not touch
the tree's skin—
nor hands or knees.
When you climb
with the iris of your eyes,
limbs will christen your body
and leaves will whisper
your name.
_________________
ON A RAINY WEDNESDAY
Sparrows
flutter
under
chandeliers
of leafy
raindrops.
_________________
BIG PUDDLE, BRIGHT SUN
Listening
to the silent sound
of rain pooled
on the porch
pulled back, drop
by drop, into a citadel
of cumulus clouds.
MARKET DAY
Fellow seniors
cart groceries past
my open apartment door—
colorful veggies, whole
wheat bagels, fruits,
pasta pic-up-stix, & Ah,
over-the-rainbow sherbet—
and pies, some "humble,"
others not at all!
A CHANCE ENCOUNTER
(at One-Act Plays)
A friend from years ago seems
well, but her eyes no longer
sparkle. I wonder if she still
collects paintings, antiques,
stray pets, is happy, unhappy.
Her handful of words
sandpaper,
then light rain.
I almost venture a joke
to ease the room's static,
the squeaky floorboards.
Awkwardness trapezes
between us, garishly costumed.
When the house lights dim
she sits yards away, alone
across the aisle.
At intermission
when house-lights flare,
I glance her way.
She is gone.
What I have needed to tell
this once-close friend
will wait, maybe forever.
AT DUSK
Hearing the local owl
in a nearby eucalyptus,
we mimic those mournful
hoooos. Who indeed!?
The cat-eared papoose
ignores our calls,
wings west, arcing into
a stark ascent
toward embers of sunset,
as if he sought God
and knew where to look.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
IN AN ASPEN GROVE
—Claire J. Baker
We see
for a moment
aspen leaves quiver
from soft landings
of moonflakes.
____________________
Many thanks to Claire Baker today for her fine poetry from Pinole, cheering us up as we swelter over here in the Valley and foothills. Tonight, in addition to MarieWriters Generative Writing Workshop at 6pm at Sac. Poetry Center (facilitated by Ann Michaels), El Dorado County Poet Laureate Suzanne Roberts will read at the El Dorado Hills Library with Carol Lynn Stevenson Grellas (plus open mic), 5:30pm. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about these and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.
—Medusa, celebrating the “soft landings of moonflakes”
For “Whoo’s Who” in the owl world
(and some wonderful, startling
photos), go to
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.
