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Monday, March 01, 2021

Snaz, Pizzazz & Balderdash!

—Poetry by Sue Crisp, Joseph Nolan, Michael H. Brownstein, Caschwa
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA


THE COLOR GREEN
—Sue Crisp, Shingle Springs, CA

A quick glance around the room confirmed nothing had 
         changed in the kitchen since 1955.

The round oak claw-foot table
still sat in the middle
of the room.

Aged, and still running, the Coldspot refrigerator,                  
with its round silver eye staring out into the kitchen,
remained in the same corner.

Atop the Coldspot sat the little                                                        
lime green plastic radio,
just where it has always been.

Sitting down at the table
brought a tsunami of memories
flooding back, like it was yesterday.

8:00 a.m., the little green radio
poured out the story of
“One Man’s Family,”

8:15 a.m., it was “Lorenzo Jones,”
followed by “Helen Trent” at 8:30 a.m.
Then “The Guiding Light” at 9:00 a.m.

And so the day went,
in fifteen-minute increments
until noon.

The little lime green radio played out dramas
for the listener, day after day,
without a snap, crackle, or pop of static.

Rising from the worn oak table,
She walked to the faithfully running Coldspot,
and lifted the radio from its fifty-five-year perch.

Cradling it in her wrinkled arms,
she retraced her steps to the back door,
then firmly closed the door on another chapter of her life.

 


 

SHORELINE RUNNING
—Joseph Nolan

The ocean's big,
The beach is long,
The air is light,
My legs are strong.

I reference
Myself
In this enormity.

A run along a beach
Is not just exercise,
It’s worship and release!
Into motion,
Earth-bound flight,
My legs are strong,
My body, light.
 
The endless view
Speaks of eternity
As outward
Eyes and heart can reach,
All the way.
The rhythm of the waves
Betrays all need of speech.

Hard, wet sand
Caressed by
Receding waves,
Bubbles and white foam,
Wetness
Underneath my feet,
Joyously,
My body greets the sea.

 


 

TOXIC FISHING
—Joseph Nolan

As a boy,
In a little mill-town,
I fished for fish
I could not eat
From poison.

PCB’s, and every
Foul fluid
From railroad yards
That infiltrated
Flows of water
That made
Their way
Downstream.

How they could live,
But not be eaten?
So toxic
They might get revenge,
One small fish
At a time. 

 


 

THE TOP OF THE WHEEL
—Joseph Nolan

Whatever happened to
Snaz, pizazz and
Red-hot jazz,
Sizzling nights on the town,
Down in Greenwich Village
Atop the “Top of the Mark,”
Watching Dizzy blow trumpet
For at least three sets a night?

What is it
We didn’t get right
When we shut our night-life down?

Whatever happened to
Social satisfaction,
Artistic freedom,
Interpersonal action?

And where do we go from here?
Nowhere?
Just stay home and Netflix
All our nights away? 

 

 
 Dysphoric Soup: Sign of the Times?



RECOVERY FROM MISERY
—Joseph Nolan

It’s not necessary
To carry a huge burden
Of ancillary passages
From modern history
To be advised that
Half of us
Look sideways,
That some of us
Look backwards,
That one quarter
Are looking forward
Into bright pastels
Of our forward day.

Well, well,
Who’ll ring the knell
Of current celebration,
Once we’re let out
Of this time
Full of doubt,
Of imprisonment
Across our nation?

I’d like to ring a bell
For everyone, to tell
It’s over, it’s over, it’s over!
You can all come out
And be well!

We can dance
Together, again,
Be happy
And live life, like when
There were no horrible goblins
Waiting to eat our brains
And everything was just the same
As the time of Donna Reed
And also of Ozzie and Harriet.

 


 

SHASTA SPRING
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

A few miles before
we arrive, Mt. Shasta sheds
her heavy gray shawl

for a gauzy cloth
of pure cerulean blue,
snow fading on slopes.

Shasta Indians:
melted crystals offer, ah,
clear, sweet spring water. 

 


 

FOUR SENYRU
—Michael H. Brownstein, Jefferson City, MO

we called him Time Out
school, apples against his head
a loom of missteps

* * *

Ground Crew
skied down the mountain
a snowman smiling

* * *

rainfall and heavy boots
splashing dancing giggling
mud in the mouth

* * *

digging through splat
he said no need for gloves
a broken waste pipe

 

Excuse me if I butt into line ahead of you....

 

JPS*
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

forget time, bands march
on hot, stinky, asphalt streets
I am stuck there yet

incurring many
revolutions per minute
before being flipped

the powdered white shoes
I wore at the Rose Parade
now another shade


*John Philip Sousa

 


 

WALL RIPPLES
—Caschwa

let’s start with the wall
for which Mexico will not
pay one single cent

that wall itself is
a metaphor for massive
government trespass

building a fortress
around a drive-in movie,
shutting down business

quite the opposite
from endorsing government
deregulation

this wall mania
handed over the controls
to private concerns

who make a profit
wherever the government
leaves an opening

imagine a world
where all revenue from golf
supports public works

balderdash! you say
the rich deserve to be kings
it’s their birthright……ooops! 

 


 

THE EXERCISE
—Caschwa

experts in knowledge
were jostled and pushed aside
by dark art demons

costs too much, they cried
socialism is our doom!
tax cuts to the rich

on the mountaintop
they peer down at us and laugh
like the goats they are

what is all this stuff?
tall buildings, short tempers and
a set of wrong keys

insurrection day
planned like a happy, cheerful
quinceañera

welcome disorder,
no federal intrusion
free as an eagle

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

NO SHORTCUTS
—Caschwa

English teachers will
not take bribes in exchange for
a reduced sentence

__________________

Oh, Carl! How can we start off a week with such a purple pun?? But thanks, Caschwa (Carl Schwartz) and all our other sterling poets for today’s contributions—half of which are delightful Senryus (www.masterclass.com/articles/how-to-write-senryu-poems#quiz-0/). Claire Baker, on the other hand, has sent us a Haiku Sequence, about which she says “it can be a challenge to put three or more [Haiku] together and still retain the spirit of the Haiku”.) For more about this, see www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/haiku/haiku.html/.) And Sue Crisp’s little lime green radio is a nostalgic nod to our Seed of the Week, Green.

Poets everywhere will be saddened to know that Lawrence Ferlinghetti, poet, publisher, and City Lights Bookstore owner in San Francisco passed away from interstitial lung disease last Monday at the age of 101. For more information, go to www.nytimes.com/2021/02/23/obituaries/lawrence-ferlinghetti-dead.html/.

Sac. Poetry Center’s Socially Distant Verse features Bri Blue tonight, 7:30pm, plus open mic, at Zoom: us04web.zoom.us/j/7638733462/. Password: spcsdv2020. Facebook info: www.facebook.com/events/801674790490610/. Host: CharRon Smith.

This coming Thurs. (3/4), 8-9pm: Poetry in Davis presents Andrea Ross and Indigo Moor, both reading from new books! Zoom: ucdavisdss.zoom.us/. Facebook info: www.facebook.com/events/234399385017711/. Host: Andy Jones.

________________

—Medusa

 

 
Lawrence Ferlinghetti, 1919-2021 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 



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