—Poetry by Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
—Photos by Katy Brown, Davis, 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?
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.
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.
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?
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
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.
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—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
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—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
