—Poetry by Don Thompson, Buttonwillow, CA
—San Joaquin Valley Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
—San Joaquin Valley Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
NESTS
Birds no more vocal and yet
it could be another spring
if anecdotal evidence of leaf buds
convinces you. Not so far.
Although rain left the air
invigorated rather than dank,
the wind tossed down the last
of last year’s nests.
And the wait-and-see birds
are in no hurry to build new ones.
Birds no more vocal and yet
it could be another spring
if anecdotal evidence of leaf buds
convinces you. Not so far.
Although rain left the air
invigorated rather than dank,
the wind tossed down the last
of last year’s nests.
And the wait-and-see birds
are in no hurry to build new ones.
ON GLENNVILLE ROAD
Anchorite granite, slabs
cracked by inclement eons,
each in its hermitage,
seem almost prayerful—
or you could say undeniably
at prayer…
And yet, expecting no answer
since for them, if not for us,
mica glittering with this day’s light is
all the answer anyone needs.
Anchorite granite, slabs
cracked by inclement eons,
each in its hermitage,
seem almost prayerful—
or you could say undeniably
at prayer…
And yet, expecting no answer
since for them, if not for us,
mica glittering with this day’s light is
all the answer anyone needs.
STASIS
Ditch water down on its luck
and stagnant, stays put…
Nothing’s going anywhere.
No clouds in the slate sky
deceive you with
their illusions of long journeys.
A slow swirl of birds
flutters like handkerchiefs
waving goodbye—
a meaningless but unbroken
tradition among them.
MARIAH
Say the night wind’s a singer
in an old noir flic,
holding on through her last set—
whiskey contralto
gone raw.
Plum-colored gown a bit snug
and outmoded.
But even so, this wind
refuses to whine—ever,
not even through a cracked window
or power lines
just about to fray.
LAST LIGHT (1)
The scrubland seems at peace
this evening. For once.
It must be something
implicit in the last light—
how mesquite and thistle
reach out for it, hold onto it.
If you could take some home,
an anodyne glow in the bedroom,
there’d be no uncertainty
about sleep—no sullen vigil.
* * *
LAST LIGHT (2)
The day’s remnant light: wasted
on you, unless looking up
from where you stand now,
knee-deep in shadow,
you take it in again, eagerly,
28K sunsets and counting.
* * *
LAST LIGHT (3)
The dove’s coo’s not maudlin,
but close. Last light
tends to catch you off guard—
slips through chinks
in your game face,
that semi-permanent scowl,
reviving sentiments
you thought you’d stuffed.
And that dove, although oblivious,
picks up on it somehow.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
One day you will find the right words, and they will be simple.
—Jack Kerouac, The Dharma Bums
____________________
Welcome to the Kitchen, Don! Don Thompson has been writing about the San Joaquin Valley for over fifty years, including a dozen or so books and chapbooks. His A San Joaquin Almanac won the Eric Hoffer Award for 2021 in the chapbook category. For more info and links to publishers, visit Don's website at www.don-e-thompson.com/. Again, welcome to the Kitchen, Don—and don't be a stranger!
____________________
—Medusa
Don Thompson
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