Two Buses, London
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Stephen Kingsnorth
—Poetry by Joe Nolan, Steven Kingsnorth, Michelle Kunert,
Michael Ceraolo, Caschwa (Carl Schwartz)
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joe Nolan,
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joe Nolan,
Steven Kingsnorth and Michelle Kunert
BODY PROBLEMS
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
Body problems,
Inhibit any beach
Appearance.
Shunning nearness,
Those in excess-size
Inhabit space,
Wearing the drab-est
Swimsuits,
Avoiding sparkle-shine.
Why are there
Beaches, anyway?
Can’t the ocean’s edges
Find some other
Place to play?
And why must
We appear
In the glare
Of bright sunshine?
For those, like us,
Prefer to recline
In shadow
And in moon-light,
Sipping our wine,
Waiting for dream-world
To overtake our time,
When we are free to fly,
Like any other.
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
Body problems,
Inhibit any beach
Appearance.
Shunning nearness,
Those in excess-size
Inhabit space,
Wearing the drab-est
Swimsuits,
Avoiding sparkle-shine.
Why are there
Beaches, anyway?
Can’t the ocean’s edges
Find some other
Place to play?
And why must
We appear
In the glare
Of bright sunshine?
For those, like us,
Prefer to recline
In shadow
And in moon-light,
Sipping our wine,
Waiting for dream-world
To overtake our time,
When we are free to fly,
Like any other.
UNREQUITED HUNGER
—Joe Nolan
I needed
More than I got.
There was something
I forgot—
Not to beg, bend,
Squeal or forget,
That rationing
Is unreal
And doesn’t account
For hunger.
Disgruntled leopards
Abide in trees,
Between daytime feedings
Appearing at ease,
But they feel
Their stomachs rumbling.
They want more
Than they get.
One measure of virtue
Is not to be near,
Any, whose features
Reveal, too clear,
Dissatisfied dispositions,
Since, one day,
In hunger,
They might bite off your leg,
When you grow
Somewhat drowsy
And have gone
Off to bed.
—Joe Nolan
I needed
More than I got.
There was something
I forgot—
Not to beg, bend,
Squeal or forget,
That rationing
Is unreal
And doesn’t account
For hunger.
Disgruntled leopards
Abide in trees,
Between daytime feedings
Appearing at ease,
But they feel
Their stomachs rumbling.
They want more
Than they get.
One measure of virtue
Is not to be near,
Any, whose features
Reveal, too clear,
Dissatisfied dispositions,
Since, one day,
In hunger,
They might bite off your leg,
When you grow
Somewhat drowsy
And have gone
Off to bed.
BETRAYED BY HELIUM
—Joe Nolan
Pushed envelopes
Bend at the corners,
Crumple, wrinkle,
Spindle, twist and
Often get mutilated,
Expanded like the Hindenburg,
Until they burst into flames
In a lightning storm,
Fall to the ground,
Revealing their
Stripped-down
Air-frames
In an incendiary
Collapse,
Feeling humiliated,
Betrayed by helium.
THE WORLD’S GOT A BAD ATTITUDE
—Joe Nolan
The world’s
Got a bad
Attitude,
But I’m all right.
It’s putting masks
On all our faces,
Again!
Telling us to
Stay apart,
Again!
But good news is
Delta’s got a
Weak-sister,
Everyone survives.
It’s gonna
Save a lot of lives
And we can all
Move on.
Those tests they used
They were no good.
They’d tell you
You got bugs from Pluto
If there were some.
They put that test
Back on the shelf
And they won’t use it
Anymore,
After they screwed us all up
With that quackery.
The world’s
Got a bad
Attitude,
But I sleep all right.
This B.S. will soon be over.
—Joe Nolan
The world’s
Got a bad
Attitude,
But I’m all right.
It’s putting masks
On all our faces,
Again!
Telling us to
Stay apart,
Again!
But good news is
Delta’s got a
Weak-sister,
Everyone survives.
It’s gonna
Save a lot of lives
And we can all
Move on.
Those tests they used
They were no good.
They’d tell you
You got bugs from Pluto
If there were some.
They put that test
Back on the shelf
And they won’t use it
Anymore,
After they screwed us all up
With that quackery.
The world’s
Got a bad
Attitude,
But I sleep all right.
This B.S. will soon be over.
POSTER PAINT
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales, UK
I stand for the stop at the lane,
wait on the rubber-ribbed platform,
hold the steadying twirl-covered white pole,
glance through the glass rising from the ticket bin,
the green slackish bell-cord, tired, running the length
above the nearside seats.
Too many fingers, few gloved, more greased,
boned claws and fleshy fores,
tapping ping, I hear it still,
as we draw to the kerb
beside Dad's weeping work—
the poster details church services
for the month, ten feet by eight,
by childish measurement;
father failed to find the fool-proof
poster paints, waterproof.
Now the bleeding red and
bluish tears trail down the white,
at meeting points, a painful purpled bruising
of inexperience.
From the number forty-seven,
bus rattle, initial mystery,
pausing beside the hall,
did any glance
as they dug hands deeper into sleeves
or double-checked the ticket ready for rare inspector
or stopped the chatter for a breath
or walked the gangway holding chrome?
Did any comment on the bleeding shame
or chuckle, vast display ineptitude
or try decipher what was wrote?
I alighted, walked past, and
entering the doors, said nought.
For shock and sadness
brought the mix with bewilderment and guilt,
that my Dad had made this failed display,
and this display of failure
when he knew everything there was to know
and was famed for his calligraphy.
I know that preachers could then
attract a crowd, but doubt the menu
then or now would cause a visit
from the bus. Apart from harvest festival,
who cares the preacher painted blue,
the date in red, here tearful faced?
But father here, public disgrace,
and my ducts are inward.
ROOTS
—Stephen Kingsnorth
Sixty past, the London bus
was all I knew, in scarlet hue,
witnessed in films, all black and white,
Westminster chimes and London Bridge,
but read, as British, smog on show,
colour by numbers, as it were.
Our house, one minute from the route;
we learned to run if one drove past,
for always paired, those diesel beasts,
and we might catch the second one.
Its frontal number, mindset prime,
forty-seven, big to my five.
The formula learnt off by heart,
like one-pound-beans, greengrocer’s store,
mine was tuppence-child-half-fare,
another stage, a penny more.
Conductor with his waistline till,
leather satchel, burnished ware.
It took us kids from Sunday School—
we had to walk there, Sabbath best—
it reached the farthest, cows I think,
or Biggin Hill, see Spitfire flight,
past fields where Dad had dug the war,
by bombsite where we cowboyed dirt.
Rarely, taken Up To Town,
we met its sibling, trolleybus,
flimsy trailing sparky wires,
as I would bus-spot, numbers note—
then even Greenline, express type,
so far from Greyhound twelve years on.
Maybe it’s maudlin to recall
that school where I had learnt so much,
even waiting, second missed,
space to listen, wait and watch,
no phone or tablet, interfere,
find out how some others lived.
—Stephen Kingsnorth
Sixty past, the London bus
was all I knew, in scarlet hue,
witnessed in films, all black and white,
Westminster chimes and London Bridge,
but read, as British, smog on show,
colour by numbers, as it were.
Our house, one minute from the route;
we learned to run if one drove past,
for always paired, those diesel beasts,
and we might catch the second one.
Its frontal number, mindset prime,
forty-seven, big to my five.
The formula learnt off by heart,
like one-pound-beans, greengrocer’s store,
mine was tuppence-child-half-fare,
another stage, a penny more.
Conductor with his waistline till,
leather satchel, burnished ware.
It took us kids from Sunday School—
we had to walk there, Sabbath best—
it reached the farthest, cows I think,
or Biggin Hill, see Spitfire flight,
past fields where Dad had dug the war,
by bombsite where we cowboyed dirt.
Rarely, taken Up To Town,
we met its sibling, trolleybus,
flimsy trailing sparky wires,
as I would bus-spot, numbers note—
then even Greenline, express type,
so far from Greyhound twelve years on.
Maybe it’s maudlin to recall
that school where I had learnt so much,
even waiting, second missed,
space to listen, wait and watch,
no phone or tablet, interfere,
find out how some others lived.
QUICK! BUS!!
—Caschwa
half-a-century ago when I lived
in Southern California, one of
my apartment neighbors tried
a stint of working at an upscale
fish restaurant (pun intended)
he voluntarily quit after the
management wouldn’t budge
from its routine policy of having
wait help clear away the dishes
before customers were through
eating what was served to them
he had hoped to garner some
significant tips, but the undertow
of always chasing buses didn’t
leave customers in much of a
tipping mood
—Caschwa
half-a-century ago when I lived
in Southern California, one of
my apartment neighbors tried
a stint of working at an upscale
fish restaurant (pun intended)
he voluntarily quit after the
management wouldn’t budge
from its routine policy of having
wait help clear away the dishes
before customers were through
eating what was served to them
he had hoped to garner some
significant tips, but the undertow
of always chasing buses didn’t
leave customers in much of a
tipping mood
EVERYTHING IS BRAND NEW
—Caschwa
looked up the earliest uses of branding irons
and found that the Egyptians have records of
using them 2,500 years ago
so “brand new” was brand new around 500 BC,
the beginning of the Pre-Roman Iron Age, about
the time they were holding the 70th Olympic Games
and all the branding that came after that was not so
brand new after all, especially now in the digital
age, where branding marks are created by bare
fingers touching room temperature keyboards in
homes or offices, quite distinct from the smell and
commotion of burning marks into the hides of living
animals
—Caschwa
looked up the earliest uses of branding irons
and found that the Egyptians have records of
using them 2,500 years ago
so “brand new” was brand new around 500 BC,
the beginning of the Pre-Roman Iron Age, about
the time they were holding the 70th Olympic Games
and all the branding that came after that was not so
brand new after all, especially now in the digital
age, where branding marks are created by bare
fingers touching room temperature keyboards in
homes or offices, quite distinct from the smell and
commotion of burning marks into the hides of living
animals
I told an army veteran at work who had been to Iraq that pulling out all
U.S. military occupation fighting forces is the most humane thing to do
during this Covid pandemic
I believe that the only Americans who need to remain in Iraq and
Afghanistan are those who give humanitarian aide relief
While Jesus taught to be kind to your enemies as well as to your
neighbors, many Americans likely don’t want to give humanitarian
health care to those in ISIS and the Taliban
Of course showing kindness to such “terrorist” Muslims would be the
main way to change their minds about America’s Christians and their God
—Michelle Kunert, Sacramento, CA
U.S. military occupation fighting forces is the most humane thing to do
during this Covid pandemic
I believe that the only Americans who need to remain in Iraq and
Afghanistan are those who give humanitarian aide relief
While Jesus taught to be kind to your enemies as well as to your
neighbors, many Americans likely don’t want to give humanitarian
health care to those in ISIS and the Taliban
Of course showing kindness to such “terrorist” Muslims would be the
main way to change their minds about America’s Christians and their God
—Michelle Kunert, Sacramento, CA
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Michelle Kunert
Alas I am sick and tired of the several calls a day I receive that my iPhone
calls “Spam Risk”
I have no idea where these come from, other than the various
“petitions" I sign online—
those from such human rights or animal humane organizations
claim they don’t sell the information you give them
I wonder if these petitions’ organization don’t know they’ve been
“hacked” for phone numbers that are otherwise not publicly listed
These pestering calls mainly are recorded messages, or “robo-calls”, rather
than live people—
Yes I know the worst of it is, a lot of these scammers are trying to
purposely record one's voice to use to perform unauthorized money
transactions
All one can do is just hang up, rather than “have some fun”, as one can
with live telemarketers—
Once I even shared the Christian gospel message with a man calling from
a call-center in India
I told this man that God not only loved him but that he didn’t need to “rip
off” people for an honest living
and when I asked him if he’d receive Jesus as his personal savior, I
kind of tripped him up
I hope that I had changed a life for the better because of that.
—Michelle Kunert
THREE FROM HIS CLEVELAND HAIKU SERIES
—Michael Ceraolo, S. Euclid, OH
Cleveland Haiku #626
Sunday sky—
blimp high above
the football stadium
* * *
Cleveland Haiku #627
Sunday sky—
only the half-moon
visible
* * *
Cleveland Haiku #629
A few light bulbs out:
the sign now read
DRIVE WITH CAKE
—Michael Ceraolo, S. Euclid, OH
Cleveland Haiku #626
Sunday sky—
blimp high above
the football stadium
* * *
Cleveland Haiku #627
Sunday sky—
only the half-moon
visible
* * *
Cleveland Haiku #629
A few light bulbs out:
the sign now read
DRIVE WITH CAKE
Today’s LittleNip:
APPRECIATING BEAUTY
—Joe Nolan
Wrinkles crease to smile, again,
Gleefully,
When they notice
Beauty sparkle
Before them,
Through
Old cataract’d eyes.
_____________________
Good Monday to you from this gnarly gorgon and our massive fleet of poets, some of which are waxing poetic about our Seed of the Week, Always Chasing Buses! Remember: no deadline on Seeds of the Week, even though each Tuesday we move on to the next one.
What name do you choose to write under? Carl Schwartz has gone by “Caschwa” for many years, though I always manage to slip his given name in somewhere. Then I noticed that Joseph Nolan had listed himself as “Joe” Nolan in his new book, Water Dreams (from Cold River Press), so I asked him if we should start posting him as “Joe”. He said, well, apparently the winds of change were blowing him that way, so, sure. Now he’s Joe Nolan in the Kitchen. As far as I can see, it doesn’t matter what name you use, as long as you’re consistent. As the old joke goes, I don’t care what you call me—just call me!
Sacramento Poet Susan Kelly-DeWitt has a new book out: Gatherer’s Alphabet, from Gunpowder Press. Info: gunpowderpress.com/product/gatherers-alphabet-poems-by-susan-kelly-dewitt/. Congratulations, Susan!
Tonight (Mon. (1/24), 7:30pm, Sac. Poetry Center Socially Distant Verse features Joy Ladin and Bunkong Tuon plus open mic. Zoom at us02web.zoom.us/j/7638733462/. (Meeting ID: 763 873 3462 / pass: r3trnofsdv/.) Info: www.facebook.com/sacpoetrycenter/.
Poetry of the Sierra Foothills
•••Sat. (1/29), 2pm: Poetry of the Sierra Foothills (Poetry is Gold in El Dorado County) Open Mic. at Love Birds Coffee & Tea Co., 4181 Hwy 49, Diamond Sptings, CA (where Hwy 49 meets Pleasant Valley Rd.). Host: Lara Gularte.
_____________________
—Medusa
_____________________
—Medusa
Effects of the Tongan Hurricane
on Santa Cruz, CA
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joseph Nolan
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