—Poetry by Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA
ODE TO AN ANCIENT LIPSTICK
Flamboyant tube, it’s sad, but now,
fully turned up, you’re flat as a dime!
Long ago, before we chose each other
I looked pathetically pale…
One summer, when you partly
melted on a towel at Stinson Beach
I lamented your pizzazz
so wantonly squandered.
In my teens, when my lips flowered,
I’d pose at a mirror for a movie
close-up; paint my lips, kiss the mirror,
a handsome dude, then I’d tissue
off the telltale smooch.
Dear friend, time has thinned my lips!
Now I need you past brim, so I can paint
on fuller flesh. Sorry, but now it’s bye-bye
best tube, bought at a Berkeley dime store
long replaced by a boutique offering
nothing as mood-enhancing
or affordable as you,
Poppy Silk 202.
Flamboyant tube, it’s sad, but now,
fully turned up, you’re flat as a dime!
Long ago, before we chose each other
I looked pathetically pale…
One summer, when you partly
melted on a towel at Stinson Beach
I lamented your pizzazz
so wantonly squandered.
In my teens, when my lips flowered,
I’d pose at a mirror for a movie
close-up; paint my lips, kiss the mirror,
a handsome dude, then I’d tissue
off the telltale smooch.
Dear friend, time has thinned my lips!
Now I need you past brim, so I can paint
on fuller flesh. Sorry, but now it’s bye-bye
best tube, bought at a Berkeley dime store
long replaced by a boutique offering
nothing as mood-enhancing
or affordable as you,
Poppy Silk 202.
AT CLARA’S KITCHEN TABLE
a poem from the seventies
One day we sketched our souls
on sturdy napkins—
her soul a tiger, mine a cliff gull
with an injured wing.
Minutes later, our souls gazed
back at us, as if to ask, And now….?
Young, rebellious, we wore cutoffs
and tie-dyed t-shirts,
named our worn sneakers
Slippers of the Gods,
big toes poking out like bad jokes.
Around Clara’s table, we conjured
adventures; made & stashed away
laced brownies… We soared
beyond her dull marriage and my past…
One evening, we pricked our fingers,
pressed them together to blend our blood.
Thirteen years later, her husband’s
new job swifted the family to Europe.
We wrote for awhile, then lost contact…
Now, forty years later, this friendship
still flows through my veins like oxygen.
a poem from the seventies
One day we sketched our souls
on sturdy napkins—
her soul a tiger, mine a cliff gull
with an injured wing.
Minutes later, our souls gazed
back at us, as if to ask, And now….?
Young, rebellious, we wore cutoffs
and tie-dyed t-shirts,
named our worn sneakers
Slippers of the Gods,
big toes poking out like bad jokes.
Around Clara’s table, we conjured
adventures; made & stashed away
laced brownies… We soared
beyond her dull marriage and my past…
One evening, we pricked our fingers,
pressed them together to blend our blood.
Thirteen years later, her husband’s
new job swifted the family to Europe.
We wrote for awhile, then lost contact…
Now, forty years later, this friendship
still flows through my veins like oxygen.
ONE DUSK
A praying mantis,
ivory colored, molting, chose
our roadway for a rare showing.
At first we thought the apparition
a torn gardenia-petal blown
gently to and fro,
Kneeling in dim light, we studied
its head, oddly shaped wings,
forelegs that enable this magician
to take stilt-steps & kneel to pray.
Next morning, prayer granted,
mantis was gone.
A praying mantis,
ivory colored, molting, chose
our roadway for a rare showing.
At first we thought the apparition
a torn gardenia-petal blown
gently to and fro,
Kneeling in dim light, we studied
its head, oddly shaped wings,
forelegs that enable this magician
to take stilt-steps & kneel to pray.
Next morning, prayer granted,
mantis was gone.
OF ANTS & AWARENESS
What do ants experience
in their mountainous world
of spikes, crevasses, walls ---
amid dust piled higher/wider
than their entire bodies?
Do they bond with providence,
pause to praise predestination
nibble on tidbits of redemption?
Build altars near anthills?
Keep a hidden food source?
Will likely outlive us
on outer planets?
What do ants experience
in their mountainous world
of spikes, crevasses, walls ---
amid dust piled higher/wider
than their entire bodies?
Do they bond with providence,
pause to praise predestination
nibble on tidbits of redemption?
Build altars near anthills?
Keep a hidden food source?
Will likely outlive us
on outer planets?
TRULY ALIVE!
I think of newborns
who charm the universe
with a glance,
elders who send forth
sparks of awareness
that perk up a whole room,
People who are as real as
the yearly butterfly migration
down the California coast,
wings fragile in flight
yet linked for uplift
in the airy tide of wings,
the gathered pollen of wings.
the entire congregation
moving
as one great body,
lively
and full of light.
I think of newborns
who charm the universe
with a glance,
elders who send forth
sparks of awareness
that perk up a whole room,
People who are as real as
the yearly butterfly migration
down the California coast,
wings fragile in flight
yet linked for uplift
in the airy tide of wings,
the gathered pollen of wings.
the entire congregation
moving
as one great body,
lively
and full of light.
IN REFUGIO PARK
bird sanctuary & pond
As devotees of Vivaldi’s
Four Seasons,
we elders are late fall/winter.
We stroll into stark passages,
praising elegant swans,
joggers & cyclists flashing by;
when sun leans our way,
we laud its warm fingers,
marvel our planet’s tilt & turn.
We have nothing but thanks
for the yawning years, now piled
near eighty-five pillows high.
In the processional called life,
we elders may slow the flow.
Yet we, too. are part of the music.
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
VIRTUAL CHOICE
—Claire J. Baker
A lady bug
photographed
beside a raindrop—
nearly her size,
is pictured close-up
on a shiny green reed,
this water-worship Sunday
morning, all in perfect focus,
like God’s eyes… At end of her
water sermon, the minister asks,
What is your water? Easy, it’s
that raindrop beside the ladybug…
__________________
Our thanks to Claire Baker for her poetry today, as she celebrates life and age and landmarks thereof. And congrats to her for winning 3rd prize at this year’s Dancing Poetry Contest for her poem, “Dancing with Veils”. Another area poet who won a third prize is Allegra Silberstein of Davis, for her poem, “The Night is a Dark Wind.”
__________________
—Medusa
bird sanctuary & pond
As devotees of Vivaldi’s
Four Seasons,
we elders are late fall/winter.
We stroll into stark passages,
praising elegant swans,
joggers & cyclists flashing by;
when sun leans our way,
we laud its warm fingers,
marvel our planet’s tilt & turn.
We have nothing but thanks
for the yawning years, now piled
near eighty-five pillows high.
In the processional called life,
we elders may slow the flow.
Yet we, too. are part of the music.
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
VIRTUAL CHOICE
—Claire J. Baker
A lady bug
photographed
beside a raindrop—
nearly her size,
is pictured close-up
on a shiny green reed,
this water-worship Sunday
morning, all in perfect focus,
like God’s eyes… At end of her
water sermon, the minister asks,
What is your water? Easy, it’s
that raindrop beside the ladybug…
__________________
Our thanks to Claire Baker for her poetry today, as she celebrates life and age and landmarks thereof. And congrats to her for winning 3rd prize at this year’s Dancing Poetry Contest for her poem, “Dancing with Veils”. Another area poet who won a third prize is Allegra Silberstein of Davis, for her poem, “The Night is a Dark Wind.”
__________________
—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!
enjoying the butterflies
