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—Original Art Pieces by Norman J. Olson, Maplewood, MN
—Poetry by Jeanine Stevens, Joseph Nolan, and
Caschwa (Carl Schwartz)
I OBSERVE THE COLOR ORANGE
—Jeanine Stevens, Sacramento, CA
How terrible orange is, and life.
—Frank O’Hara
I prefer juicy slices all spokes and rims,
but forgot my sharpened paring knife.
The only color along this creek is the fruit
I hold and lichen’s rust, bright
as Aztec marigolds. Peeling takes longer,
a slow meditation, thumb under bumpy rind.
A sun-bright hologram emerges,
more mercurial, shedding silver-blue scales
like bruised hands thrown up
in a burnished desert. Black trees
crinkle, shape limbs like solar dew prints.
I sense a cache of cloves, crushed peppercorns,
smoldering titian fires, chariots burning
in a narrow canyon. Is this the wheel
that drove me here to show a palm uninjured—
still sweet, pliable? I snap the rind and reveal
the weeping eye yearning to cross
a bigger stream. Such an impatient color
this orange: oil droplets migrating, unbearable
hearing, the heave of touch, hot and aural.
(prev. pub. in Alehouse)
—Jeanine Stevens, Sacramento, CA
How terrible orange is, and life.
—Frank O’Hara
I prefer juicy slices all spokes and rims,
but forgot my sharpened paring knife.
The only color along this creek is the fruit
I hold and lichen’s rust, bright
as Aztec marigolds. Peeling takes longer,
a slow meditation, thumb under bumpy rind.
A sun-bright hologram emerges,
more mercurial, shedding silver-blue scales
like bruised hands thrown up
in a burnished desert. Black trees
crinkle, shape limbs like solar dew prints.
I sense a cache of cloves, crushed peppercorns,
smoldering titian fires, chariots burning
in a narrow canyon. Is this the wheel
that drove me here to show a palm uninjured—
still sweet, pliable? I snap the rind and reveal
the weeping eye yearning to cross
a bigger stream. Such an impatient color
this orange: oil droplets migrating, unbearable
hearing, the heave of touch, hot and aural.
(prev. pub. in Alehouse)
HALF-SLICE OF ORANGE
—Jeanine Stevens
~A Summer Cento
Now comes summer, clouds heavy with weeping.
Little puddles of sunlight collect in low places.
The sky so clear, and the buzzard up there sailing his slow
whirling majestic spirals and discs.
The tall maize rolls up its long green leaves; the clover drops
its tender foliage, and declines its blooms.
Meadows newly mown, withering grass perfumes the salty air,
while in the juicy corn the hidden quail cries
and the long afternoon; a white heron like a dropped cloud,
her own soft-footed poem.
August moon gold like a half-slice of orange fished
from a stiff Old Fashioned.
Charles Wright: “Return of the Prodigal”
Walt Whitman: “A July Afternoon by the Pond”
William Cullen Bryant: “Summer Wind”
John Clare: “Summer Moods”
Mary Oliver: “Summer Poem”
Robert Penn Warren; “August Moon.”
________________________
ORANGE GROVE
—Jeanine Stevens
San Fernando Valley
Seemed like everyone had a convertible, the best for riding
around after dark.
You could head in most directions, find an orange grove.
We walked tractor ruts beneath the trees,
meandering in the scent of paradise.
White pungent blossoms, like waxy imitations
on wedding veils. I was confident in my peasant blouse
and spaghetti strap sandals.
Returning home, hard to sleep, silky weather
lasted all night. Even the ginger bush
outside my window
favored the dark, the quiet.
That autumn, I would read John Steinbeck’s The Pearl,
smog already visible over the pass.
We looked forward to our last year when
we could spend time in the “Senior Grove,”
—Jeanine Stevens
~A Summer Cento
Now comes summer, clouds heavy with weeping.
Little puddles of sunlight collect in low places.
The sky so clear, and the buzzard up there sailing his slow
whirling majestic spirals and discs.
The tall maize rolls up its long green leaves; the clover drops
its tender foliage, and declines its blooms.
Meadows newly mown, withering grass perfumes the salty air,
while in the juicy corn the hidden quail cries
and the long afternoon; a white heron like a dropped cloud,
her own soft-footed poem.
August moon gold like a half-slice of orange fished
from a stiff Old Fashioned.
Charles Wright: “Return of the Prodigal”
Walt Whitman: “A July Afternoon by the Pond”
William Cullen Bryant: “Summer Wind”
John Clare: “Summer Moods”
Mary Oliver: “Summer Poem”
Robert Penn Warren; “August Moon.”
________________________
ORANGE GROVE
—Jeanine Stevens
San Fernando Valley
Seemed like everyone had a convertible, the best for riding
around after dark.
You could head in most directions, find an orange grove.
We walked tractor ruts beneath the trees,
meandering in the scent of paradise.
White pungent blossoms, like waxy imitations
on wedding veils. I was confident in my peasant blouse
and spaghetti strap sandals.
Returning home, hard to sleep, silky weather
lasted all night. Even the ginger bush
outside my window
favored the dark, the quiet.
That autumn, I would read John Steinbeck’s The Pearl,
smog already visible over the pass.
We looked forward to our last year when
we could spend time in the “Senior Grove,”
with benches and giant redwoods.
But by then, most of us had part-time jobs
(movie theater, launderette) and
couldn’t lounge around.
Otis Danielly (Boy’s League, Choir), the only
black kid in school, went to Korea,
didn’t come home.
Half my friends were already engaged; Dorothy
made her wedding dress from a
silky white parachute.
But by then, most of us had part-time jobs
(movie theater, launderette) and
couldn’t lounge around.
Otis Danielly (Boy’s League, Choir), the only
black kid in school, went to Korea,
didn’t come home.
Half my friends were already engaged; Dorothy
made her wedding dress from a
silky white parachute.
NOT LEAVING, JUST GOING
—Jeanine Stevens
Shoes don’t last long on cement,
rough scuffs, soles pulling away
from clamp-on roller skates.
Every season a trip to Speedway City
for a new pair, and a free balloon
tied to my wrist, orange,
the color of summer sherbet.
When home, I walked to the corner,
then down two blocks, stopping
at busy Capital Avenue. Just wanted
to show grandfather.
In the distance, someone yelling.
I turned around, my father running,
waving his arms. I said,
“I’m not leaving Daddy, just going.”
Years later, when he was still able,
he drove me to the Long Beach Airport
for my connecting flight.
His eyes moist, seemed to wince pale
with a flicker of blue—
not leaving, just going.
(prev. pub. in Exit 13)
—Jeanine Stevens
Shoes don’t last long on cement,
rough scuffs, soles pulling away
from clamp-on roller skates.
Every season a trip to Speedway City
for a new pair, and a free balloon
tied to my wrist, orange,
the color of summer sherbet.
When home, I walked to the corner,
then down two blocks, stopping
at busy Capital Avenue. Just wanted
to show grandfather.
In the distance, someone yelling.
I turned around, my father running,
waving his arms. I said,
“I’m not leaving Daddy, just going.”
Years later, when he was still able,
he drove me to the Long Beach Airport
for my connecting flight.
His eyes moist, seemed to wince pale
with a flicker of blue—
not leaving, just going.
(prev. pub. in Exit 13)
O IS FOR ORANGE
—Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA
O is for orange,
For all things
Bright and opportune.
For poppies on a hillside,
The light of a harvest moon.
O is for opening,
For moments to commune.
O is for everything,
For the promise of
Summer in June.
For orange-blossoms,
Of course!
For pop-sickles
And cream-sickles
And orange jelly-candies
And for utter
Abandoned laughter,
Let go
Without remorse,
Since Orange is for Oh!
__________________
BRUNCH AT THE POET’S HOME
—Joseph Nolan
When a poet
Is cooking,
When you’ve
Come to his house
To eat,
You should expect
Something delicious,
Something rich and dark and deep.
You might hope for
Soft, brown caramel,
Atop scones
Full of fruit,
Dishes of whip-creamed berries,
While cats caress your feet,
Beneath round tables
On wood slatted-decks,
Beneath green branches
That shade the best,
In sweet, bright-breeze of Spring,
And then uncork
What you have brought
To this blissful
Offering.
—Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA
O is for orange,
For all things
Bright and opportune.
For poppies on a hillside,
The light of a harvest moon.
O is for opening,
For moments to commune.
O is for everything,
For the promise of
Summer in June.
For orange-blossoms,
Of course!
For pop-sickles
And cream-sickles
And orange jelly-candies
And for utter
Abandoned laughter,
Let go
Without remorse,
Since Orange is for Oh!
__________________
BRUNCH AT THE POET’S HOME
—Joseph Nolan
When a poet
Is cooking,
When you’ve
Come to his house
To eat,
You should expect
Something delicious,
Something rich and dark and deep.
You might hope for
Soft, brown caramel,
Atop scones
Full of fruit,
Dishes of whip-creamed berries,
While cats caress your feet,
Beneath round tables
On wood slatted-decks,
Beneath green branches
That shade the best,
In sweet, bright-breeze of Spring,
And then uncork
What you have brought
To this blissful
Offering.
REMEMBERING CHARLIE WATTS
—Joseph Nolan
Charlie’s gone!
God-dammit.
He was so good
With drums.
We know
We all
Will miss him,
No matter
What else comes.
Charlie was a man
With class.
You wouldn’t feel
To question,
Never need to ask.
He was right-there
Behind you,
Setting time,
Beat by beat,
Something to adhere
To,
In the glare
Of the lamp-lights’ heat.
Everyone
Will remember him,
A solid man with grace;
It will be hard to replace him,
Keeping time in crumbled space.
__________________
STARS WITHOUT REMORSE
—Joseph Nolan
Stars, within their orbits,
Stars, within their course,
Stars that loft
Throughout the sky,
Never bear remorse.
Stars have no choice,
But to follow momentum.
Propelled,
Or rather, drawn?
Stung by heaven’s anthem.
Each in its
Own, private song,
Deliberates its destiny,
Toward some
Dark black hole,
Drawn long,
Slipping into eternity,
Into annihilation
Or whatever else might be,
Across an event-horizon.
—Joseph Nolan
Charlie’s gone!
God-dammit.
He was so good
With drums.
We know
We all
Will miss him,
No matter
What else comes.
Charlie was a man
With class.
You wouldn’t feel
To question,
Never need to ask.
He was right-there
Behind you,
Setting time,
Beat by beat,
Something to adhere
To,
In the glare
Of the lamp-lights’ heat.
Everyone
Will remember him,
A solid man with grace;
It will be hard to replace him,
Keeping time in crumbled space.
__________________
STARS WITHOUT REMORSE
—Joseph Nolan
Stars, within their orbits,
Stars, within their course,
Stars that loft
Throughout the sky,
Never bear remorse.
Stars have no choice,
But to follow momentum.
Propelled,
Or rather, drawn?
Stung by heaven’s anthem.
Each in its
Own, private song,
Deliberates its destiny,
Toward some
Dark black hole,
Drawn long,
Slipping into eternity,
Into annihilation
Or whatever else might be,
Across an event-horizon.
BOUQUET OF DANDELIONS
—Joseph Nolan
A lover offered me,
Yesterday,
A bouquet,
Bright,
For today.
She smiled as
She lit some incense,
To perfume
Our wandering way.
Dandelions,
Born in Spring,
Picked in bloom,
Were her offering,
But I said,
“They’re only weeds.
I think we need
Some roses,
To prick our fingers
And bleed,
Before we will
Appreciate love
In our
Strange, strange world,
That on ourselves
Does feed.”
—Joseph Nolan
A lover offered me,
Yesterday,
A bouquet,
Bright,
For today.
She smiled as
She lit some incense,
To perfume
Our wandering way.
Dandelions,
Born in Spring,
Picked in bloom,
Were her offering,
But I said,
“They’re only weeds.
I think we need
Some roses,
To prick our fingers
And bleed,
Before we will
Appreciate love
In our
Strange, strange world,
That on ourselves
Does feed.”
GROSS MISTAKE
—Caschwa
looking at my checking account online
and finding a meager balance that rudely
represents what I put there, no more
where are my riches?
where is my humongous tax break?
where is my share of the economic upturn?
meanwhile, there are gigantic corporations
too big to fail, coming out of gargantuan
bankruptcies, coddled, cradled, nurtured
why am I on the outside looking in? why am
I on the street, as naked as a peeled orange,
covered only by the shadows of skyscrapers?
it appears that the captains of industry
have declared mutiny on our ship of state
and all of us deck-scrubbers must bow to them
we know what happens when you are naked
and you bow, someone sees that as their
opportunity, and starts knocking
and then they brag about it incessantly, building
viral mass media coverage of their spoils, and
people buy that, money is made, invested in
any of several private profiteering programs
including some pretending to be a religion; do
the math: return on investment = ROI = King
we are no longer a democratic republic
they burned that flag down long ago
vote, deny, recount, do it again, ad infinitum
want to know who is screwing you? wait till
closing bell at the stock exchange, and see
who is smiling
__________________
DIFFERENT TREATMENT
—Caschwa
CRT—I have seen it pop up
in different forms and polarities:
· if you are going to a medical
facility for treatment, dress like
you’re going to a 3-star or above
restaurant to receive more respect
· had a teller job at a savings & loan,
as soon as they learned that I was
a new daddy, all levels of management
showered me with material gifts and
other niceties, because I had passed
the initiation and was now in their club
· that’s the way we’ve always been
doing it—season ticket holders get
free parking and other perks just like
royalty, but if you’re not from a landed
estate, stay away, you don’t belong
here
· who you know—limo ride to Hollywood
Bowl, box seats, courtesy my old-money
boss after their A-list guest had to cancel
· our reputation as a nation of laws has lost its
punch since we shied away from doling out
meaningful consequences to bad actors, but
now, if enough American citizens get angry…
____________________
THUMBS DOWN
—Caschwa
no, no, a thousand times!
We the People are tired of
having our earnings withheld
and put into a conservatorship
run by self-gratifying pigs under
the lofty banner of public service
Trickle-down does not pay the
bills, does not remedy starvation,
does not benefit anyone who is
destitute, and has no more right
to call itself a benefit than the ugly
smears that were trickling down the
face of Rudy G like an ice cream
cone on a hot, summer day.
End the conservatorship, pass
the Build Back Better bill and
throw some of that fancy clout
into firming up the foundations of
our society. Ah, that’s better.
WHAT THE …
—Caschwa
within the purview
of the curriculum
of the public schools
we learned to
decline nouns, and
conjugate verbs
then, as we age out
of those institutions
we learn shortcuts
that torture and abuse
adverbs, only to leave
them writhing in pain
in some dark alley at
midnight
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
BEATER CAR AD
—Joseph Nolan
You knew you’d buy
Some piece of shit
Like this, eventually.
This could be your Waterloo,
For sure.
Maybe it might be a money pit,
It might feel like you’ve got a
A clamp on your tit,
Something to drag you down,
But until that time comes,
These wheels
Could get you around.
_____________________
Good morning to our readers and to today’s contributors, and thanks to them all for Orange and for Alleys at Midnight poems, our most recent Seeds of the Week. In addition to Caschwa and to Joseph Nolan, Jeanine Stevens has popped in with poems about orange, celebrating the season, and Norman Olson has sent more of his fine artwork.
Tonight, 7:30-8:31pm: Sac. Poetry Center’s Socially Distant Verse features Diana Medina and Cynical Insomniac. Hosted by SPC and Iambic’s own CharRon Smith. Zoom: us04web.zoom.us/j/7638733462/. Password: r3trnofsdv.
—Caschwa
within the purview
of the curriculum
of the public schools
we learned to
decline nouns, and
conjugate verbs
then, as we age out
of those institutions
we learn shortcuts
that torture and abuse
adverbs, only to leave
them writhing in pain
in some dark alley at
midnight
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
BEATER CAR AD
—Joseph Nolan
You knew you’d buy
Some piece of shit
Like this, eventually.
This could be your Waterloo,
For sure.
Maybe it might be a money pit,
It might feel like you’ve got a
A clamp on your tit,
Something to drag you down,
But until that time comes,
These wheels
Could get you around.
_____________________
Good morning to our readers and to today’s contributors, and thanks to them all for Orange and for Alleys at Midnight poems, our most recent Seeds of the Week. In addition to Caschwa and to Joseph Nolan, Jeanine Stevens has popped in with poems about orange, celebrating the season, and Norman Olson has sent more of his fine artwork.
Tonight, 7:30-8:31pm: Sac. Poetry Center’s Socially Distant Verse features Diana Medina and Cynical Insomniac. Hosted by SPC and Iambic’s own CharRon Smith. Zoom: us04web.zoom.us/j/7638733462/. Password: r3trnofsdv.
For more about the cento poetry form, see poets.org/glossary/cento/.
____________________
—Medusa
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joseph Nolan
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!
