The moon arrives,
the same time as always.
She carries stardust
and a dog-eared romance
in her purse.
The trees reach up their arms,
bare-branch longing
for her white kiss.
She cannot grasp
wood fingers below.
Trees, without mouths,
cannot whisper love.
Her oblong light
slips away from
tree shadows, defeated,
a fool’s errand
repeated again.
MIDNIGHT
—Nolcha Fox
It’s midnight,
the park bench
leaks moonbeams,
the street lights
magic lanterns
crowned with mist,
fireflies float
among the branches.
It’s midnight, and
The Antebellum
Ladies Nudist
Society parades
to the applause
of leaves.
BY THE TIME I STEPPED OUTSIDE
—Nolcha Fox
Step carefully,
the lawns are ablaze,
the sidewalks
a burning wall.
Don’t do what I did,
sleeping in late.
By the time I stepped
outside, the leaves
were on fire,
and I melted into fall.
THE MORNING IS TOO LOUD
—Nolcha Fox
The morning swings a hammer, shatters darkness.
The morning pulses peonies and primrose.
The morning strips my stupor to the Rolling Stones.
The morning clatters pots and pans.
The morning barks at deer across the street.
I want to tie the morning up, slap duct tape on its mouth.
A FOOL’S ERRAND:
ARS OVER BILLS
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth,
Wrexham, Wales, UK
Fool’s gold I know, pyrites flag,
the skull and crossbones from the mast;
rich courtly laugh to clown the king,
paid back as any knave in pack.
And errands too as I, a boy—
my sisters ran from errand girl—
to err is human, breathing need,
a stutter pause in fluent speech.
My waist expands with raspberry,
another dish that’s best served cold;
foolhardy soul asked kiss me quick
as Nelson’s passing on his ship.
Knight-errant, set chivalric code,
adventure, quest, Medieval lit,
and maybe tilting in the lists,
Quixotic errand, windmill sails.
What kind of verse needs pay to judge?
Is this a Trollope in our midst?
An ink reward to printers’ press,
not cash award for insight shared.
Can it be lucre drives the muse?
Self-published, short of tested, tried,
as pay the tool; or play the field—
research deployed and market feed.
What ethic in submission game?
Swordplay, wordplay, rapier wit—
angels pause where we rush in—
few suffer gladly rhymes enforced.
I think our task soliloquy
that may be overheard in wings
where prompter sits and offers things;
when lines are done, listen again.
ONE JOB
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
had just one job
it was a Fools’ Errand
to generate a poem
for Monday
but then life happened
other priorities
interventions
distractions
day-to-day
duties
collectively taking
the form of a
monopoly
on one’s
mental
bad ass
careless
madness
an abyss
of hisses
the kiss
of death
to a wish
WEAPON OF CHOICE
—Daun Wright, London, Ontario, Canada
We write because the pen is mightier than the sword says Lytton
And our inked thoughts are indelibly encrypted on minds
We write to speak on behalf of those with no voice who try to speak but are never heard
The pen, our megaphone for many years, is just now being heard and recognized.
We write.......
I write to address the injustices of civil society
To call attention to the fact that there is little-to-no civility among us, but a displayed harshness
that literally causes humans to lose hope in each other.
I write because I want it fixed and changed into a sphere where we can all coexist in harmony
Peace at the conference table may be difficult but still achievable
I write.....
STRENGTH OF A WOMAN
—Daun Wright
I'm strong because life made me so
Ups and downs made strength speak
And clamor for peace when turmoil seeks
Twisting and turning all challenges come
To invade this life, a stable one
I do not bend neither do I break
Mold me again for I am not weak
I rise and I fall
With each tide I grow tall
As I look beyond the mountain I see what I seek
Crush or be crushed
I won't ever fail
Determined and straight
I step through it all
I'm strong because life made me fall!!!
—Daun Wright
Our changed perception reveals
Sagging skin adds character to a facial frame that has seen and experienced life to its fullest and has overcome it.
A single forehead wrinkle, a testament
To frowns and puzzling life's questions to which there’re no answers
And yes, there is wisdom!
Indelible laugh lines tell me she's had many a hearty laughter, from the belly, I mean
Her lips still not crinkled say I'm not done
I can still have an opinion and I will speak
For generations to come
Oh there is so much strength!
Brows slightly raised show promise of a vibrant ticking mind that's quick to participate and to solve arising problems.
That's what she's done all her life and continues to do
As the poise of her pose renders her a timeless beauty.
TWO POEMS FROM DUGOUT ANTHOLOGY
—Michael Ceraolo, S. Euclid, OH
Anonymous Five
We weren't quite anonymous,
five of us who died during our playing careers—
but apparently we weren't well enough known
to have a cause of death attached to us—
said cause listed as "unknown":
Faustino Valdes
Fred Boyd
Slim Norris
Matias Rios
and Blanch Moody
* * *
Gone Down Fighting
It's not a metaphor for competitive spirit
Three of us who were active players at the time:
Zack Foreman
Jose Leblanc
and me, Len Koenecke,
died from injuries sustained in a fight
I don't know the circumstances of the other two,
but I'm told there was nothing heroic
about my incident, at least on my part
I'm told I tried to take control of the plane
away from the pilot for some reason,
and they hit me with a fire extinguisher,
causing the cerebral hemorrhage that killed me.
I don't remember any of it
SURVIVAL OF THE WICKED WOUNDED
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
Cobblestones
Lie quiet in the street
Overcome and overborne
By every passing ambulance
Rushing wounded to
The care of doctors, cutting.
Quiet, though they are,
They ripple rhythmic echoes
Against surrounding buildings
From wooden wheels
That haul the wounded,
Praying to be healed.
Cutting deeply,
Severing limbs,
Surgeons cut away
What life’s worth living for—
To be a man,
To be a father,
To earn a living,
To support a family,
All so the
Wicked wounded
Can survive.
1964
—Joe Nolan
Our local corner-market
Sold candy-bars
For nickels
On the street.
Candy hasn’t been a nickel
Since our days were sweet,
Before they shot Kennedy,
Before Vietnam,
Before the Great Society,
When coins were made of silver
Because there was still
Value in our money,
In 1964.
When they removed
Precious metals
From our currency,
We knew
Something was up.
It was just paper
And soon a candy-bar
Would be a dollar.
ANNIHILATION IN THE NEWS
—Joe Nolan
Exactly what might bring us down
Is a matter of speculation,
Designed to draw a frown
Across our brows.
Speculation in the news,
Spilled across the headlines,
Like odious stews,
That halt a normal breather’s breath,
Full of mayhem, full of death.
How can we drink
Such poisonous brews,
That ferment in our firmament,
Causing us to leak into our guts,
Like GMO foods?
FICKLE MOON
—Joe Nolan
Why call moon, “new”
When it is dark
And only stars
Light the night-time sky?
How could we be so sure
Darkness would give way to light,
Slowly, over time, at night
And not reverse?
Such has been our time
With fickle moon,
Dangling,
In starry darkness,
Lamplight,
At times,
Not so bright,
But other times,
Much more brightly shining.
We long for brightness
Over time,
And wonder why our moon
Would dissipate,
Allowing early darkness—
Broken rhyme.
Such is the weight of our time
That we have no lease on light
In our days
Or overnight.
Shadows overrule us
And bring near threat of blight.
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
A MONKEY’S LAST SUPPER
—Joe Nolan
Hanging around
Waiting to be eaten
By a prowling panther
Ready to pounce
On me,
Unsuspectingly,
Up in my tree,
Eating a banana,
That I plucked for free—
My Last Supper!
______________________
Many thanks to our many contributors today! Lots of talk about the moon this morning, after last night's eclipse; Joe Nolan comments on having missed the whole thing. (But thanks for finding us today's photos, Joe.) And Michael Ceraolo continues to work on his Dugout Anthology, about the history of baseball's players.
Nolcha Fox’s “Visiting Hours” addresses this week’s Seed of the Week: A Fool’s Errand, and she wrote, “I started playing with some of your poetry prompts [see our CALLIOPE'S CLOSET link] and went wild. Nature wild. Which then tickled me to also attach a few natural world poems I'd written earlier.” SOW’s are intended to stir up your muse, of course; looks like they did the job for Nolcha. (Do you remember when the Antebellum Ladies Nudist Society was the SOW?)
Stephen Kingsnorth also wrote a response to A Fool’s Errand, full of puns and such, to our delight—note the pun on Trollope. We are all, after all, famous writers… As is chewed upon by Carl Schwartz, who bemoans the fickleness of the Muse when distractions arise.
And a big welcome to newcomer Daun Wright from Canada today! Don’t be a stranger, Daun.
So who’s reading at Sac. Poetry Center tonight? You’d better check our UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS page at the top of this column to find out.
______________________
—Medusa
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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that which was previously published—
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Garden of SOWs
