Of Light and Windsong

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of 

Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA

MY RESTING PLACE AMONG THE BRANCHES
—Michael H. Brownstein, Jefferson City, MO

This is the way of the seed of the locust,
the grass frog, the tiny peeper.

I built this room from ripped cedar shakes and cardboard,
soft adhesives, silver spun nails, crucifix screws.

Light enters the room through tears in the netting,
disfigured branches, salt and weed.

They told us her shoes were on the wrong feet,
that her eyes leaned backwards.

They told us she had chameleon skin
and wonderful hair the color of curl and frizz.

They told us she would like this place above the garden,
near the home of the gray squirrel and mother possum.

We like it, too, the wood strong and smooth,
soft bark, the leaf a melody of light and windsong.

WORRY
—Ann Wehrman, Sacramento, CA

never ends
wring it out like a washcloth
quickly heavy again
with dirty water
mental
emotional
anguish, distress

pace the room
sit motionless, abstracted
all is pallid, flavorless, cold
I’ve forgotten my job

have nothing to say
can’t write
maybe see a counselor
explain the same issues
new face, caring heart

I sip coffee
wash the dishes
pent-up feelings
careful not to break

anything is useless
lie in bed, face to the wall

TWO POEMS FROM DUGOUT ANTHOLOGY
—Michael Ceraolo, S. Euclid, OH

          Ray Chapman

Even though it was a dark day and I didn't see the pitch,
I heard later that Mays blamed me for not ducking!
I guess when you're the only one to have done something,
you can't help but be known for it,
but I was much more than the only major-leaguer
killed from something that happened on the field
I had worked in the mines in my youth,
and that drove me to work hard at baseball
and become a fine major-league player
I was going to turn thirty in the off-season
and had decided 1920 would be my last year,
after which I would go into business with my father-in-law
The pitch that killed me was the beginning of the tragedy,
robbing me of the chance to retire as a champion
and keeping me from seeing
the daughter I didn't even know was on the way.
Katie remarried, but never got over my death:
she took her own life several years later
And for the unremitting finish,
Rae, the daughter I never saw,
died from the measles not long after Katie's death

* * *

           Carl Mays

I never knew why my teammates hated me
If you think that I exaggerate,
read any writing on baseball and try to find
an instance of one of them saying a good word about me
You might find someone who patronizingly tried
to 'understand' me, but that's as far as they'll go
And that was even before I hit Chapman,
who should have ducked and spared me the grief
I don't know if all my managers hated me,
though I know Huggins inexplicably did
It wasn't until I ran a baseball school
long after my playing days were done
that anyone connected with the game
had a good word to say about me
I say the hell with those who despised me so

THE CREDULOUS HIGH-WIRE ARTIST
—Joseph Nolan

 
I, who wander flatfoot
Over high-wires
Or run barefoot
Over coals
To my heart’s desire,
Deserve no pain
And seek no gain.
It’s just a thing I do!

God help me if I fall!
Bandage my blisters
If I’m burned at all.
Keep me safe
Since I’m just a waif
Believing
Every tale-told-tall!

LEARNING TO LEAVE
—Joseph Nolan

I’ve learned to live without you.
This is how love dies:
Like a fish that learns
To crawl on land,
Growing legs and hands.

Learning to breath
In burning air,
To hold aces
Up a sleeve.

This is the way
Things go on living
When they’ve learned to leave,

Something that was unbearable,
Like the burning of the sea,
From a volcanic eruption,
That laid waste to you and me. 

HOW TO REDUCE THE USE OF ABUSE
—Joseph Nolan

How to reduce
The use of
Abuse
In the lyrics of
Hip-hop music?

Where the artists
Call their women
Sluts and hogs and ho’s,
As if they had no purpose
Except as f—ing posts?

How to raise up
This dreary appraisal,
Of women
Who’ll give birth,
To the next lot of
Whatever you’ve got,
To run around the ghettos?

I wish I really know’d!

OUR SONG MUST STILL BE SUNG
—Joseph Nolan

Our song must still be sung,
Despite its loss of meaning,
Into the coming storm
That strips the world
From weaning,
From a frigid, bold,
Meaningless ancestry,
Untold.

We linger, together, in shadows
Hoping to be filled
With transcendent wisdom,
While our nights
In darkness
Go cold.

Happen to happen
To be, to be,
Like an
Open flower
Facing to the sun
In the middle
Of a far-cast field
Opening the
Earth to sky
A humble harvest
To unfold!

 

AROUND THE HEARTH AND TABLE
—Joseph Nolan

The stew
Simmers,
Cooking
On the stove.

The fire is
Burning warmly.

We feel near-content,
As more
We will be,
When the logs are spent
And dinner’s done.

Our humble castle, warm,
We’ve brought home
Game from hunting.

Winter beer,
We drink warm.
We don’t want to get a chill,
No matter, come what will;
We’ve earned our places
At this friendly table. 

 The Power of Soap! NYC Buildings Being De-Grimed

STAY IN YOUR LANE
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

a long ways back in biblical times, before
anyone could even conceive of traffic
control on a high-speed, multi-lane,
interstate highway, local authorities fiercely
endeavored to micromanage everyone’s affairs

especially when some lowly guy like a mere
carpenter offered others advice and opinions
that made people think differently than the local
authorities wanted them to think—long story
short, they crucified the carpenter

and now that a couple thousand years
have gone by, NOTHING HAS CHANGED!

despite all the highfalutin proposals in our
Declaration of Independence and the
Constitution, if one is not a white, rich, male,
property owner, with the “right” connections,
they risk dying on the crosses they bear

…..but then, there might be one itsy, bitsy,
tiny exception to that rule, if the voting public
were to demand that the elected custodians
of their best interests be held accountable
for doing the job they were elected to do…

 

FERAL BLACKS
—Caschwa

(Regarding the hateful, divisive assault on BLM)


life in the city, a nation of laws
collar and leash if your pet has big paws
lions & tigers & bears & the blacks
cannot run loose here, too many attacks

when their right to be free
impairs our liberty
we are thereby behooved
to have them all removed

constitution, law, good for discussions
messing with us means real repercussions
humans, humanity, toss that aside
bring out the big guns to have them abide

citizens by decree
right to vote, not to be
confused with welcome here
have we made that real clear?

ONE DAY AT PRE-SCHOOL
—Caschwa

(To complement “Ennui” by Joyce Odam,
Medusa’s Kitchen, September 1, 2020)


“The door is open, please come in and take your seats”
said the Sub for the day, third one this week, while glancing
down at the Lesson Plan left by the regular teacher

then the Sub adjusted the transom, looked up at the clock,
and sat down on the floor with the rest of us, asking each of
us, one at a time, to share our best giggle, reminding us we
would not be graded on this assignment

the stomping hooves of winds outside threatened to snatch up
rooves and hurl them like knives scraping the sky away, leaving
no icing to lick once all is done and our lives are back to normal,
a concept we have not yet been able to master at our young age

the Sub pointed to letter characters and had us stand up and
attempt to bend our bodies to imitate the shape of the character
being discussed. Nobody could manage to hold the position of
the capital “I” for very long, too boring, and more than one of us
fell over, unable to sustain the balance to pose as a “T”

finally the bell rang and we were released to be picked up by
preoccupied elders with high expectations, but our smiles
transferred to them as we explained how our day went, and
we could see in their eyes some envy, to be a child once again

THOUSANDS OF TIMES
—Caschwa

the bagel was put into the toaster oven
just like every morning

and instead of standing there and waiting
while it was toasting I sat myself down at
the desktop computer in another room
just like every morning

maybe the bell rang to signal that the
toasting process had concluded, or maybe
the timer was still ticking away, either way
there was nothing about the experience to
distinguish it from the way it is
just like every morning

so I got up from my chair and went over
to the toaster oven, and there sat my bagel
fully toasted and ready for topping. No one
furnished a court reporter to properly record
evidence and testimony establishing whether
the bell actually rang, or whether I heard it

just like every morning

________________________

Today’s LittleNip:

WE, ALL SERVANTS, ARE!
—Joseph Nolan

Cut down trees
To build a house.
Dig a hole
To bury mouse.
Cut the grass
To feed your ass.
We, all servants, are!

________________________

Good morning on this Labor Day, with its chance to be grateful for work and to feel compassion for all those who are out of work this year. And thank you to our poet-contributors who’ve, as usual, penned us a multitude of treats—including some thoughts about Worry, our current Seed of the Week, some political poetry, and a couple of poems in response to work from others who appeared in the Kitchen recently. Joseph Nolan, in addition to his gifts of poetry and public domain photos, has sent us pictures of the sun’s surface activity from Europe’s largest telescope. Check ‘em out at www.domigood.com/2020/09/europes-largest-telescope-captures.html/.

Here in our area, Sac. Poetry Center uses Zoom for weekly readings and workshops. For more info, go to www.sacramentopoetrycenter.com/. Area online poetry events this week include:

•••Monday (9/7): No Sac. Poetry Center reading due to Labor Day.

•••Tuesday (9/8), 7:30pm: SPC Tuesday night workshop hosted by Danyen Powell. Bring a poem for critique. Contact mostoycoff@gmail.com for availability and Zoom info.

•••Wed. (9/9), 6pm: MarieWriters workshop (prompts) hosted by Nick LeForce: zoom.us/j/671443996/.

•••Thurs. (9/10), 7:30-9pm: Sac. Poetry Center presents Poetics of Inspiration: From the Streets to the Edges of Clouds by Bonnie Wai-Lee Kwong. Register in advance for this Zoom meeting at us02web.zoom.us/meeting/register/tZYldOCrrTIsGd3zdcXdxMayV4fVqsEXFc8Y/. After registering, you will receive a confirmation email containing information about joining the meeting. Info: www.facebook.com/events/305269893875310/.

•••Friday (9/11), 4pm: Writing from the Inside Out workshop led by Nick LeForce. Reg. in advance at zoom.us/meeting/register/upwkde-opjkpnyQECAVBKolY4hKCdl61uA/. After registering, you will receive a confirmation email containing information about joining the meeting. (If you have registered before, use the same link.)

For news about what’s cookin’ in SPC’s Poets’ Gallery, go to jenniferpaintsandwrites.com/poets-gallery/.

* * *


Also this week:

•••Tues., Sept. 8: San José Poetry Festival begins online, runs through Sunday, 9/13, including a reading by US Poet Laureate Juan Felipe Herrera and Friends on Friday night. Info/tickets: bit.ly/pcsjtix

•••Fri., 7:30pm: Video poetry reading on Facebook by Davis Poet Laureate James Lee Jobe at james-lee-jobe.blogspot.com/ OR youtube.com/jamesleejobe/.

•••Sat. (9/12), 7-8:30pm: 916 Ink presents Not Literary Nights, a Virtual Night of Words and Whimsy to benefit 916 Ink and their literary work with disadvantaged youth. Details: www.facebook.com/events/291502022276566/.

•••For more about El Dorado County poetry events, check Western Slope El Dorado poetry on Facebook: www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry/.

____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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