Moe's Book, Berkeley, CA, late '60s
—Poetry by Nancy Haskett, Modesto, CA
—Public Domain Photos of Berkeley
METAPHOR
Two young black men, barefooted,
joke and laugh
in the park near the condos.
From a distance,
they appear to be trying
to walk across something
like a tightrope,
strung between two trees.
One of them jumps up,
gets a foothold,
holds his arms out,
begins to carefully
walk toward his friend;
he teeters, catches himself,
places one foot in front of the other,
sways in the wind.
When I get closer,
I see that,
instead of rope,
they are walking on wide yellow
police caution tape
as they step carefully,
trying to keep their balance.
Two young black men, barefooted,
joke and laugh
in the park near the condos.
From a distance,
they appear to be trying
to walk across something
like a tightrope,
strung between two trees.
One of them jumps up,
gets a foothold,
holds his arms out,
begins to carefully
walk toward his friend;
he teeters, catches himself,
places one foot in front of the other,
sways in the wind.
When I get closer,
I see that,
instead of rope,
they are walking on wide yellow
police caution tape
as they step carefully,
trying to keep their balance.
UPWARD CLIMB
I.
There is comfort
in a familiar stairway.
Our feet naturally fit
the smooth, worn indentations;
we read the history
of this place
through our soles;
we grab the hand rail for support,
know where to avoid squeaks or splinters,
climb with assurance of
what lies ahead.
II.
At Ellis Island,
an examiner in one of the rooms
asked immigrants a logic question,
required them to explain
the best way to clean a stairway—
start at the bottom
or start at the top—
and the young girl answered
by saying she didn’t come
to America to wash stairs,
which was the perfect response
back then,
when newcomers felt more
of a welcoming promise,
when an upward climb
still seemed possible
for so many.
(prev. pub. in The Gathering 15)
I.
There is comfort
in a familiar stairway.
Our feet naturally fit
the smooth, worn indentations;
we read the history
of this place
through our soles;
we grab the hand rail for support,
know where to avoid squeaks or splinters,
climb with assurance of
what lies ahead.
II.
At Ellis Island,
an examiner in one of the rooms
asked immigrants a logic question,
required them to explain
the best way to clean a stairway—
start at the bottom
or start at the top—
and the young girl answered
by saying she didn’t come
to America to wash stairs,
which was the perfect response
back then,
when newcomers felt more
of a welcoming promise,
when an upward climb
still seemed possible
for so many.
(prev. pub. in The Gathering 15)
BERKELEY, 1969
We had come to Oakland
for the first time,
my fiancé and I,
to spend Thanksgiving weekend
with a friend in art college.
She took us to the UC campus,
one of the dormitories rising four or five stories
above the trees,
huge, hand-lettered signs in four descending windows:
END
THE
WAR
NOW.
We walked along University Avenue,
watched Hare Krishnas in their saffron robes,
girls in long skirts of multi-colored squares,
ankle bracelets that chimed as they moved barefoot
down the sidewalk, through haze of pot smoke, incense,
Abbey Road songs played everywhere from tinny transistor radios;
we wore seed bead necklaces around our necks,
watched Easy Rider in a crowded theater after our turkey dinner.
On a bus back to the airport,
the only other passengers were a few soldiers
dressed in Army fatigues,
each one in a seat alone,
rows apart in the darkness—
our final destination, Long Beach,
theirs probably Saigon;
an almost empty bus
crowded with emotion,
our reflections ghost-like
in darkened windows.
(prev. pub. in Poet’s Corner booklet, 2019 and in Connections, 2020)
We had come to Oakland
for the first time,
my fiancé and I,
to spend Thanksgiving weekend
with a friend in art college.
She took us to the UC campus,
one of the dormitories rising four or five stories
above the trees,
huge, hand-lettered signs in four descending windows:
END
THE
WAR
NOW.
We walked along University Avenue,
watched Hare Krishnas in their saffron robes,
girls in long skirts of multi-colored squares,
ankle bracelets that chimed as they moved barefoot
down the sidewalk, through haze of pot smoke, incense,
Abbey Road songs played everywhere from tinny transistor radios;
we wore seed bead necklaces around our necks,
watched Easy Rider in a crowded theater after our turkey dinner.
On a bus back to the airport,
the only other passengers were a few soldiers
dressed in Army fatigues,
each one in a seat alone,
rows apart in the darkness—
our final destination, Long Beach,
theirs probably Saigon;
an almost empty bus
crowded with emotion,
our reflections ghost-like
in darkened windows.
(prev. pub. in Poet’s Corner booklet, 2019 and in Connections, 2020)
FABRICATION
With the dexterity of Arachne,
politicians possess an uncanny ability
to take one thin thread of truth,
unspool all of it,
pick up a sharp needle,
sew a quilt of knots and lies,
with no logic or pattern,
the facts now reversed, torn, entangled,
hidden from view.
Once the fabrication is complete,
it’s impossible to find
where the thread began;
even more alarming,
the end is nowhere in sight,
nothing to yank on,
to unravel it all
at the seams.
(prev. pub. in Stanislaus Connections, 2020)
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
If anyone thinks that peace and love are just a cliché that must have been left behind in the ‘60s, that’s a problem. Peace and love are eternal.
—John Lennon
* * *
Everybody loves the sixties, especially those who weren’t there.
―A.D. Aliwat, In Limbo
_____________________
Welcome back to the Kitchen, Nancy Haskett, and thank-you for sending us these fine poems today—nostalgia for those of us who are Of A Certain Age.
Today at 6pm, The Couch Poets Collective (Episode 8) features Wolfgang Carstens, William Taylor Jr., Brenton Booth, Todd Cirillo and Matt Amott at us02web.zoom.us/j/81052056462?pwd=b1RSSUgxZllVeitMR1p4dDl0VUNuQT09&fbclid=IwAR1g8ph430KyKhu5WzQhe_K5qqBVf4MQMAuut-WmDeG9EvDUfbNzaAj-hxM#success/. Meeting ID: 810 5205 6462; Passcode: 626591. Host: Cord Moreski. Open mic to follow.
With the dexterity of Arachne,
politicians possess an uncanny ability
to take one thin thread of truth,
unspool all of it,
pick up a sharp needle,
sew a quilt of knots and lies,
with no logic or pattern,
the facts now reversed, torn, entangled,
hidden from view.
Once the fabrication is complete,
it’s impossible to find
where the thread began;
even more alarming,
the end is nowhere in sight,
nothing to yank on,
to unravel it all
at the seams.
(prev. pub. in Stanislaus Connections, 2020)
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
If anyone thinks that peace and love are just a cliché that must have been left behind in the ‘60s, that’s a problem. Peace and love are eternal.
—John Lennon
* * *
Everybody loves the sixties, especially those who weren’t there.
―A.D. Aliwat, In Limbo
_____________________
Welcome back to the Kitchen, Nancy Haskett, and thank-you for sending us these fine poems today—nostalgia for those of us who are Of A Certain Age.
Today at 6pm, The Couch Poets Collective (Episode 8) features Wolfgang Carstens, William Taylor Jr., Brenton Booth, Todd Cirillo and Matt Amott at us02web.zoom.us/j/81052056462?pwd=b1RSSUgxZllVeitMR1p4dDl0VUNuQT09&fbclid=IwAR1g8ph430KyKhu5WzQhe_K5qqBVf4MQMAuut-WmDeG9EvDUfbNzaAj-hxM#success/. Meeting ID: 810 5205 6462; Passcode: 626591. Host: Cord Moreski. Open mic to follow.
_____________________
—Medusa
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.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously-published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously-published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
