Monday, January 31, 2022

Lurching Toward February

 
—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth, 
Cashwa (Carl Schwartz), Joe Nolan
—Public Domain Photos by Joe Nolan



“OUR 114-YEAR-OLD HOUSE”  
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales, UK

Why do we point, our agèd house—
not least the crumbling mortar mix—
that for those years, its bearing well,
an ancient lady, plastered face,
internal plumbing, just ignore?
Because, despite, we hear about
our neighbours’ draining nagging fears,
their modern box, trim not so prim,
still working through their snagging list.

Though others’ house, now home for us,
framed, timber rings already told,
long felled but salvage, other plant—
cork cambium, the builder’s bark,
bite at workforce, 1908.
Brick bonds of sand compressed from rock,
with ties that bind bulge sagging walls;
thrown pebbledash, grit shingle shower,
like sower’s broadcast, opencast.
That metal forged, crust’s mineral,
its ore-some veins, capillaries,
pig-iron, brittle, round the doors.

This build far older, ever thought,
patina paved at fossil stage,
before a cave was shelter claimed,
when dinosaurs yet twinkle-eyed.
That’s when those new foundations laid—
what we think quaint, as hills unfurled.
We show our edifice, design—
but it’s the sum, materiel,
battle ware, cauldron embraced,
creation fashioned from the world,
a bivouac from Eden’s lore—
its gardens hanging, Babylon—
the dust of stars, first tenancy,
that we encounter, old new home.
 
 
 

 

OLDEST HOUSE ON THE BLOCK
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

I am a giant land tortoise
114 years old, going on 200
same house I started with

you wouldn’t believe all the
junk mail I get daily, solar panels
kitchen remodel, walk-in bath

now and then I might foresee
a use for fire insurance, but
my trust in good luck suffices 
 
 
 
 


SWITCHED AT BIRTH
—Caschwa

waterfly
butterfall

basketcycle
motorball

autotrooper
paramobile

duckboard
keybill

draglift
forknet

househill
downkeeper

peapaper
newsnut

clothesfrog
leappin

counterscale
uppoint

gunberg
icefire 
 
 
 

 

SIREN BREAKS THE CALM
—Caschwa

Sitting at the desktop PC near a window at
2:00 a.m., waiting for the clothes dryer to
finish before starting a load of dishes during
this “off peak” time when it is cheaper to use
electrical current, and the wail of a siren
pierces the double-pane window unleashing
all manner of speculation as to what the Hell
is going on:

is it another little fire that got out of control?

or is it a rescue vehicle rushing to save a
life that has perilously lost the use of one
or another vital organ?

or is it a fully armed response to a crime in
progress deeply rooted in the holy protection
of old money?

or is it a retaliatory “that hooligan needs to be
taught a lesson he won’t soon forget!” mission
purposefully designed to bring out of hibernation
all those cruel and unusual punishments that had
appeared to work so well to delimit the correct
standards of behavior?

that sure didn’t last long, maybe it was just a
false alarm…
 
 
 

 

THEY ASKED ME TO RATE THE SERVICE
—Caschwa

I ordered some goods from a giant
mail order firm, and followed the
online tracking mechanism to see
my items proceeding on “ground”
transports from one major facility to
another across the country,

magically traversing mountains, ice,
snow, fires, and rain, until finally a
package bearing a label correctly
reciting my name and address was
left at my door, and a message was
sent to my computer upgrading the
status of this order as “delivered”

then the giant mail order firm emailed
me to ask for a comment as to the
service provided by the delivery person;
what person? no contact was ever
made by a human being with a name,

for all I know the delivery vehicle was
one of those driverless automatons,
that used a drone to maneuver over
and leave the package on my porch;
so how does one say a sincere “thank
you” to a couple of machines?

I’ve seen folks kick and cuss vending
machines that have yielded them truly
disappointing results, but I have never
witnessed someone actually voicing
the phrase “thank you” to a machine,
so with no precedent to follow here is
my feebly impersonal attempt: “Good
job, something or other!”
 
 
 

 
 
SUPERFICIAL KARMA
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

Flattery,
Might be the entry-way,
Into closer circles,
Where you could
Disappear,

Smiling,
From ear to ear,
With a design
To ingratiate,

While you count
What’s on your plate,
For you to overbear.
It’s a matter of
Mastery and control.

You pretend
To be available,
When you
Are not whole,

And incapable
Of real
Relationship,
Since you are
Narcissistic. 
 
 
 

 
 
70’S AT THE PUMPS
—Joe Nolan

Things go like:
Into dust,
Unto rust,
Off into the sunset,
No regrets,
We were never
Perfect, anyway.

Hard to make sense
When you spend your days
Smoking weed,
Burning incense,
To cover up the stench,
Like we did
Back in the
Seventies.

Please be at ease!
Line up at the gas stations
On odd and even days,
According to your license plate
For your limited allotment.

Then go back home.
Order take-out.
Give a bigger tip
To the delivery man.
His gas charges have increased.

We’ll get through this
When the Arab oil-merchants
Get greedy, and
Turn the pumps back on. 
 
 
 
 
Wood Nymph
 


NAME AND IDENTITY
—Joe Nolan

Nearness suggests
Similarity,
That may not be,
Apparently—
As when things
Fall apart.

Each person
Has his own heart,
Resolutely!

Identity
Asserts itself
Resiliently,
In the face
Of meaningless
Renaming,
That does not
Touch the bone.

We enter life
Alone,

And thus depart it,
Bearing just one name. 
 
 
 
 Rescue Dogs Headed to Work



LOSING ONE’S SENSE OF WHAT WILL FLY
—Joe Nolan

It doesn’t seem to make itself clear—
Blood moons in the Autumn sky,
Dense round objects,
Thought able to fly,

Questions concerning
Butterflies,
Cherries so red in May!

Wind-blown snowdrifts
That melt away
On muggy, summery days.

Brilliant colors in Fall,
Volcanic eruptions in
Places called Tonga,
Seem as though
Not from this planet
And brook no explanation.

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Monday is the day of silence, day of the whole white mung bean, which is sacred to the moon.

—Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni,
The Mistress of Spices

__________________

Ha!—Another Monday catches us with things to do and poems to write—our last day of January, perched on the cusp of Chinese New Year! Nonetheless, we have a gaggle of good poets welcoming us, and our thanks to them for poems and photos of inspiration, including some responses to our Seed of the Week: “Our 141-Year-Old House”. Tomorrow we'll have another SOW to white-knuckle over.

Yesterday we were pleased to post poetry from Marie and Harold Asner from Kansas, but I mistakenly credited Marie for “Playing the Palace”—actually, it was written by Harold. Mea culpa… again….
 
 
 

 
Tonight (Mon., 1/31), 7:30pm, Sac. Poetry Center Socially Distant Verse features A Showcase of Emerging Poets: Dee Dee Rae, Keenan Prince, Nick Soluri plus open mic. Zoom at us02web.zoom.us/j/7638733462/. (Meeting ID: 763 873 3462 / pass: r3trnofsdv/.) Info: www.facebook.com/sacpoetrycenter/.

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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 LittleSnake says:
Baseball ssssseason is on its way!