—Poetry by Caschwa (Carl Schwartz),
Stephen Kingsnorth, Michael Ceraolo,
Shiva Neupane, Joe Nolan
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joe Nolan
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joe Nolan
MOTHER
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
so versatile
could be a noun,
a verb, or an adjective
carefully laying foundations
all the aces down
all the kings down
forever corrected
for being the youngest child
for being left-handed
member of the PTA bowling team
prized for just being there
tolerating second hand smoke
she had loved to walk
and covered great linear distances
until falling the distance to the sidewalk
all her kids went out on their own
as did a key part of her mental faculties
Alzheimer’s took her away
to where she could walk again
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
so versatile
could be a noun,
a verb, or an adjective
carefully laying foundations
all the aces down
all the kings down
forever corrected
for being the youngest child
for being left-handed
member of the PTA bowling team
prized for just being there
tolerating second hand smoke
she had loved to walk
and covered great linear distances
until falling the distance to the sidewalk
all her kids went out on their own
as did a key part of her mental faculties
Alzheimer’s took her away
to where she could walk again
LAURA INGRAHAM’S MOTHER
—Caschwa
way, way back, before many of
today’s voters were born, GOP
spokeswomen had mothers, who
had mothers, who had mothers,
who had not yet been awarded the
Constitutional right to vote
for the sake of argument, imagine
that all adult women in America,
from Pilgrims forward, did have that
precious right, and could thumbs up
or down any program that sought
to reduce or erase student loan debt
do you think any of those women
would have willfully done waitress
work at age 73 to help pay their kids’
school bills? Or might they have
instead cast their vote to modify the
workings of our government to actually
serve the people it was intended to
serve?
WE HAVE LAWS
—Caschwa
we have long had laws
forbidding ownership of various
drugs, firearms, and paraphernalia
then we passed a Constitutional
Amendment which on the surface freed
the slaves, but had the unseen effect
of shrouding them with the disrepute
of all those other forbidden drugs,
firearms, and paraphernalia
which a sizeable portion of free citizens
will find a way to proudly rank among
their collection of prized possessions
and our quick and easy disregard for
illegality only gives their possessions
a greater market value
so no need for lip reading here
“The South will rise again” boldly
resurrects such ownership
—Caschwa
we have long had laws
forbidding ownership of various
drugs, firearms, and paraphernalia
then we passed a Constitutional
Amendment which on the surface freed
the slaves, but had the unseen effect
of shrouding them with the disrepute
of all those other forbidden drugs,
firearms, and paraphernalia
which a sizeable portion of free citizens
will find a way to proudly rank among
their collection of prized possessions
and our quick and easy disregard for
illegality only gives their possessions
a greater market value
so no need for lip reading here
“The South will rise again” boldly
resurrects such ownership
MOTHERLODE
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth,
Wrexham, Wales, UK
Before voice recognition came
to open doors, I had that key.
Or face identified by scan
of programme, I long faced the smile.
Then Instagram was weighing scales—
though that in pounds not metric rate,
and tiktok was her clucking sound—
now was it clock or chicks around?
More, twitter was the sparrows’ sound,
those tweets her teasing sweetie treats.
When Facebook, eyes read from the pram,
that was the stage when I was born.
A common mark, uncommon love,
the strongest bond, experience,
from womb to breast, rock cradle hug,
unless, these days. some surrogate.
With motherland in loyalty,
the motherlode, vein silver, gold,
it is the precious treasury,
a dying gasp on battle field.
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth,
Wrexham, Wales, UK
Before voice recognition came
to open doors, I had that key.
Or face identified by scan
of programme, I long faced the smile.
Then Instagram was weighing scales—
though that in pounds not metric rate,
and tiktok was her clucking sound—
now was it clock or chicks around?
More, twitter was the sparrows’ sound,
those tweets her teasing sweetie treats.
When Facebook, eyes read from the pram,
that was the stage when I was born.
A common mark, uncommon love,
the strongest bond, experience,
from womb to breast, rock cradle hug,
unless, these days. some surrogate.
With motherland in loyalty,
the motherlode, vein silver, gold,
it is the precious treasury,
a dying gasp on battle field.
TWO POEMS FROM DUGOUT ANTHOLOGY
—Michael Ceraolo, South Euclid, OH
Margaret Gisolo
Before there was Little League
there was American Legion Junior baseball,
and I played before I was even old enough
(I turned fourteen that October)
Nobody seemed to care I was a girl
until the tournament started;
then a team that had lost to us
said I shouldn't be allowed to play
A ruling was made that I could continue to play,
and we won the state tournament
and made it to the semifinals of the nationals
The next year the Legion passed a rule
saying its baseball was only for boys
* * *
Ann Harnett
I wasn't the best player
during my five seasons in the league,
but I was proud to have been
the first player signed to a contract
I have mixed emotions
about having helped to design the league's uniforms:
they looked good, but nobody
really liked to play ball in them;
we put up with the discomfort
because we got to play the game we loved
—Michael Ceraolo, South Euclid, OH
Margaret Gisolo
Before there was Little League
there was American Legion Junior baseball,
and I played before I was even old enough
(I turned fourteen that October)
Nobody seemed to care I was a girl
until the tournament started;
then a team that had lost to us
said I shouldn't be allowed to play
A ruling was made that I could continue to play,
and we won the state tournament
and made it to the semifinals of the nationals
The next year the Legion passed a rule
saying its baseball was only for boys
* * *
Ann Harnett
I wasn't the best player
during my five seasons in the league,
but I was proud to have been
the first player signed to a contract
I have mixed emotions
about having helped to design the league's uniforms:
they looked good, but nobody
really liked to play ball in them;
we put up with the discomfort
because we got to play the game we loved
I am my friend:
My friend can't be anyone, I am my truest friend
who stays with me by being a soul mate
so I don't need any physical friend.
Making a chum is like wearing a T-shirt. On a
first day it looks awesome,
the following day it gets sullied.
—Shiva Neupane, Melbourne, Australia
A MOTHER’S MEMORIES
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
From deep within her womb she laughed;
A woman’s heart remembered:
Her children, come in from below,
Their souls came in from Heaven.
Within their water's-time they dreamed
And she could often hear them.
Some dreamed snakes, some green lakes,
While others, ice-blue heavens
And by their dreams she knew them.
They dreamed the dreams of tiny beings
Not ready for the world.
They swam, they poked, they prodded.
And dreaming dreams, they nodded.
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
From deep within her womb she laughed;
A woman’s heart remembered:
Her children, come in from below,
Their souls came in from Heaven.
Within their water's-time they dreamed
And she could often hear them.
Some dreamed snakes, some green lakes,
While others, ice-blue heavens
And by their dreams she knew them.
They dreamed the dreams of tiny beings
Not ready for the world.
They swam, they poked, they prodded.
And dreaming dreams, they nodded.
MORNING ASANA
—Joe Nolan
This morning,
When a joint was stiff.
I did not stretch.
I just let it lengthen
By itself,
Slowly,
Over time,
Under the influence of gravity,
Brought to bear
By shape and position,
Patience and shape.
Thus, it lengthened and
Stiffness almost went away.
—Joe Nolan
This morning,
When a joint was stiff.
I did not stretch.
I just let it lengthen
By itself,
Slowly,
Over time,
Under the influence of gravity,
Brought to bear
By shape and position,
Patience and shape.
Thus, it lengthened and
Stiffness almost went away.
MONTHS WITHOUT A SUNDAY
—Joe Nolan
There is no joy
In our communion.
It’s only a mixing of ash.
Fires from long ago,
Burned and then let go.
What’s left is only ashes.
Dry is what has long gone by,
An anvil and a hammer,
Sought by each
To have his way,
In months without a Sunday.
—Joe Nolan
There is no joy
In our communion.
It’s only a mixing of ash.
Fires from long ago,
Burned and then let go.
What’s left is only ashes.
Dry is what has long gone by,
An anvil and a hammer,
Sought by each
To have his way,
In months without a Sunday.
MYSTERIOUS DARK SIDE
—Joe Nolan
A hanging branch,
Hung from a leaf
Beneath suspended sun,
A moon that floats along,
But never shows its dark side,
Never, no never, at all!
How could that be?
To float along
So perfectly
And never miss a spin,
Never over-rotate,
Never under-dim?!?
What is there to hide
On the dark side?
Some say alien bases.
Some say remnant traces
Of tailgate parties
For football games,
At one-sixth gravity,
So bilious and so large!
Beneath bright lamp-lights,
Since it’s too dark
To see a ball
Without lighting
On the dark side
Of the moon.
—Joe Nolan
A hanging branch,
Hung from a leaf
Beneath suspended sun,
A moon that floats along,
But never shows its dark side,
Never, no never, at all!
How could that be?
To float along
So perfectly
And never miss a spin,
Never over-rotate,
Never under-dim?!?
What is there to hide
On the dark side?
Some say alien bases.
Some say remnant traces
Of tailgate parties
For football games,
At one-sixth gravity,
So bilious and so large!
Beneath bright lamp-lights,
Since it’s too dark
To see a ball
Without lighting
On the dark side
Of the moon.
OUT HERE ON ARIEL
—Joe Nolan
I live so far away
From everyone who should count,
I don’t have to go to parties,
Weddings or funerals.
Not out here on Ariel,
The fourth Moon of Uranus.
Naturally, no expectations.
Distance, when sufficient,
Is an insulating blanket
From disappointment,
Hurt feelings and disgruntlement.
I have decided to buy
A dog, a cat or a mouse,
With which to share my house,
Out here on this moon
Called Ariel.
I will try to be kind
To whichever defenseless animals
I might choose
So they don’t feel like
They are living in Hell.
I don’t want to see them cringe
Each time they see me.
—Joe Nolan
I live so far away
From everyone who should count,
I don’t have to go to parties,
Weddings or funerals.
Not out here on Ariel,
The fourth Moon of Uranus.
Naturally, no expectations.
Distance, when sufficient,
Is an insulating blanket
From disappointment,
Hurt feelings and disgruntlement.
I have decided to buy
A dog, a cat or a mouse,
With which to share my house,
Out here on this moon
Called Ariel.
I will try to be kind
To whichever defenseless animals
I might choose
So they don’t feel like
They are living in Hell.
I don’t want to see them cringe
Each time they see me.
SOMEONE OR SOMETHING
WILL HAVE YOUR BACK
—Joe Nolan
Big job!
Keep track!
Death is coming soon!
Afterwards, won’t matter,
As won’t height of noon.
Keep track!
Don’t slack.
Many different things
Will disappear,
Like desire,
Like fear,
Everything, in fact;
Still,
You will not lack,
Someone or Something
Will have your back.
Into the vast aftermath
Of Armageddon!
Someone or Something
Will have your back.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
BIG FISH EATING LITTLE FISH
—Joe Nolan
The underwater slaughter
Of big fish eating little fish
Goes on forever.
Still, little fish survive,
Since they are
More many than the larger.
_____________________
Last Tuesday’s Seed of the Week was Mothers, and today we have a couple of poems about that dear old gal, including a set of better-later-than-never moms-and-baby pix found by Joe Nolan. Our thanks to all the contributors who showed up this morning, with their mothers or otherwise.
Don’t forget to check our UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS page at the top of this column for news about poetry doings and deadlines that are in the works.
_____________________
—Medusa
WILL HAVE YOUR BACK
—Joe Nolan
Big job!
Keep track!
Death is coming soon!
Afterwards, won’t matter,
As won’t height of noon.
Keep track!
Don’t slack.
Many different things
Will disappear,
Like desire,
Like fear,
Everything, in fact;
Still,
You will not lack,
Someone or Something
Will have your back.
Into the vast aftermath
Of Armageddon!
Someone or Something
Will have your back.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
BIG FISH EATING LITTLE FISH
—Joe Nolan
The underwater slaughter
Of big fish eating little fish
Goes on forever.
Still, little fish survive,
Since they are
More many than the larger.
_____________________
Last Tuesday’s Seed of the Week was Mothers, and today we have a couple of poems about that dear old gal, including a set of better-later-than-never moms-and-baby pix found by Joe Nolan. Our thanks to all the contributors who showed up this morning, with their mothers or otherwise.
Don’t forget to check our UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS page at the top of this column for news about poetry doings and deadlines that are in the works.
_____________________
—Medusa
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in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
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