Innocense and Little Red Wagons

—Poetry by Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
—Photos by Katy Brown, Davis, CA

 

 

LITTLE RED WAGON

Our family lived in early Berkeley hills
amid long grass and wild animals.
Here I nearly caused my mother
to suffer federal incarceration  
as one day I took all the mail
out of neighborhood boxes,
filling my little red wagon—
I was five or six, wanting
to see mother’s smile.

Proudly I rumbled along our dirt road
and brought the treasures
home to Mom….She didn’t smile
or even give a hug. Instead,
she called the police.
He and his shiny badge glared
down at me, that silver star
piercing me to the core.
I ran upstairs and cried forever.

Now, a lifetime later, I still ask:
Innocence and red wagons,
      where do they go?

 

 

 

 

 

 

A WILDERNESS OF GRIEF 

                                   

I sit in a chaotic landscape

like the first grotto at Lourdes.

But I’ll not see the Lady

with golden roses round her feet,

nor Bernadette on bended knee

urging me to pray

amid the briers of this day.

 

Though bare trees, leaf mold,

dried grass, weeds & I prepare

a fitting place, I don’t expect

to see the Lady’s face

or feel her presence full of grace . . .

 

She’ll never visit a free-reeling

rebel like me, though She may

pause a few moments, reflecting

on the Holy signs marking this day

as exceptional in their way….

 

I sit on a rotting log in shadows.

Spotting a lavender thistle,

sharing with it my grief,

and lack of belief,

I feel its pastel tint

reaching me

as movingly as She.

 

 

 

 

 

MASQUERADE BALL                   

In a Cote d’Azur mansion,
crystal chandeliers quiver,
ballroom confetti swirls  
like pink snow. All fill glasses
at fountains flowing champagne.

The orchestra plays the theme.
Masked & costumed, not speaking,
grown safe in the unknown,
a stranger & I lean closer,
melding in a Tango!

Dancing free of care
on ethers of Monte Carlo air,
we don’t dare wonder of the other,
Who are you, who in the world?
Were we once enemies, best friends?

In the final orchestra interlude
we climb a gilded staircase.
On a marble balcony, we gaze
on the sea’s moon-silvered path…
In minutes the midnight theme
and all will unmask.

 

 

 

 

 

 

LOVE SONG

Waiting
for you
is always
as if
you have
just
arrived
and  
we will
reach
a place
of refuge
within
each other.

 

 

 

 

 

 

A SKY OF CROWS   

Did the wheeling crows
    Vincent painted above
         sanitarium wheat fields

overlap their wide wings,
    when they heard
         his shot,

saw their painter fall,     
    sunflowers,
        if not bowing heads,
          
beginning
    to root from Vincent’s
       fingertips?

 

 

 

 

 

 

A SINGING WILLOW*

When birds within a willow tree
sing out so amazingly green,
their lives are BE & always be.
Songs from a huge old willow tree
resound so clearly, cozily,
from wings that stay unseen.
The songbirds in a willow tree
sing out so amazingly green!


*A Triolet, with variations

 

 

 

 

AFTER BASHŌ

 

A gypsy

lady bug

flexes wings

on my lifeline--

first time

in my long life.

Hey ho,

liking myself

way more  

in this

careful pose,

coffee can wait.

 

_______________________

 

Today’s LittleNip:

 

THE TEA OF

MIRACLES

 —Claire J. Baker

 

Relaxed, we sip

this long-chosen tea,

our essences arisen

as naturally as breath,

while expansive ideas

oxygenate the air.

In saying farewell,

we dovetail as close

as tea leaves cluster,

lustrous in their message

as dregs in our white

porcelain cups.

 

________________________

 

—Medusa, with thanks to Claire Baker and Katy Brown for another collaboration today, blending their fine poems and pix!

 

 

 

Silver Lupine

—Photo by Katy Brown

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

 

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