Sanctuary

 

—Poetry by Michael H. Brownstein, 

Stephen Kingsnorth, Caschwa, Joe Nolan, 

Sayani Mukherjee, Daun M. Wright

—Public Domain Visuals Courtesy of Joe Nolan

JUST BECAUSE A LEADER IS MAD
DOES NOT MEAN YOU MUST FOLLOW HIM
—Michael H. Brownstein, Jefferson City, MO

Putin tries to poke holes into the body’s work of a nation
but the body’s work of the nation cannot be poked through—
 
gut-shot punctuation, terrorist renderings, vocabulary of madness
and Russia bleeds fire, cruelty, vocabulary of an insane man's mind.
 
He walks into the noise more than once,
and now he must exit from the room:

You do not have to follow a leadership lodged in evil.
Following orders is not a defense.

How do you fight a courageous people, Putin?
You do not. Genocide is murder. Murder is murder.

 

 

 

Russian Polar Bears

 

 

WAR AND BEAUTY
—Michael H. Brownstein

Let us say the colorful hummingbird symbolizes peace.
Let us say the two-legged giant with weak arms is the gray of cruelty—
The hummingbird swift and agile, a glitter of texture;
the giant clumsy and slow, the creator of tools of destruction.

Let us say they meet in the field of wild flowers blossoming.
After the fires fade, only a thick fog of death remains.
Let us say the hummingbird tries to symbolizes peace.
Let us say the giant with weak arms tries to be the master of extinction.

The field will regain itself, flowers will bloom, hummingbirds will sing
their soft whisper of a song: I do this work for you,
two-legged giant with weak arms, so you will have many fields
colored with beauty and sweet perfumes to scent the air.


(prev. pub. by Visual Verse)

 

 

 

 

 

A BREATH OF FORTITUDE
—Michael H. Brownstein

(based on an image by artist Vony Razom,
who is currently producing art from
a bomb shelter in Ukraine)

in the madness of the fertile lands,
a red blossom and its red leaves—
and from its seed, red caterpillars
bending into Red admirals, strong
in wing and shape, rugged Vanessas

do not mistaken fractures in the sea
for weakness of the heart, soul sickness—
she knows the beauty of self and water

from her place on the shore of power,
a current: she flips into the air, sails
within the wind, reflects on strength
and courage—sometimes a butterfly
becomes human and changes the world.


(prev. pub. by Visual Verse)

 

 

 

 

 

SANCTUARY
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Altar surround, the sanctuary—
it’s holy ground, bared soles, atone,
for I have trod with loosened thongs,
where even angels fear to tread,
and souls exposed, by spirit fed
a sentinel, saint sentry point.
Yet killing field those turbulent—
Becket, Luwum, Romero, priests,
for shame exposed, unwelcome voice,
seed martyr blood, fools, Christ their king—
with multitudes, their names unknown,
except to God, whatever creed.
Those altars stripped, not altered much.

Shunned prophets, scared, seek safety nets
in sacred havens, sanctum space,
immunity, asylum rite,
from refuse dump, safe refuge site,
till thugs, known shades, raid spirit life—
as desecrate inviolable.
Protection lost from wild attack—
yet nurture, nature’s threatened wild?
Is that how march to promised land—
this strange globe where extinctions feared,
assuming that our commonwealth—
fresh sunsets rise and fall again,
yet enemies, cast outer dark?

 

 

 

 

TRANCHES OF EVIDENCE
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

I hold in my hands a collection of bricks
that comprises one tranche
other people will bring other tranches
and together we will build a wall

did we forget something important?

maybe some mortar would be helpful,
along with instructions and recipes
or else all these tranches of bricks
won’t be a wall, just a pile of bricks

 

 

 

 

 

YES, I’M PICKY
—Caschwa

senior citizen, retired,
I am only open to trying
things that have a 50-year
history of product safety

driverless cars will have
to wait 50 years just to
get on the OK-to-try list
I keep in my sanctuary

and if I were to use assisted-
steering to get me into a tight
parking spot between 2 other
cars, those other cars better

have assisted-steering also,
or else they are going to ram
right into my car trying to get
out of that tight spot, right? 

 

 

 

 

WE KEEP TRYING
—Caschwa

Reconstruction
          will that be our sanctuary?

Restoration
          will that be our sanctuary?

Reparations
          will that be our sanctuary?

Repossession
          maybe this will work,
          we already have laws written 

 

 

 

 

NATURE-SCAPE
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

Earth is cool
When sun is hot.
Neptune is far
Colder, colder, still.

Earth has its own will
And turns away
From sun, too hot,
To spread its heat
Across its circling surface
To raise the falling rain.

Great rivers once ran east to west
Across the vast Sahara.
We can see their river-beds
From satellites in space.
No one in our current times
Would know this,
Were it not for traces
Left behind,
Beneath deep desert sands.

Now, we cry out
Beneath monsoons
That flood our lands
And wash away our farms.
How can we manage in this mayhem,
Season after season,
For no reason,
Except the way it is?

 

 

 

 
 

SHADOW IN A PARALLEL TRACK
—Joe Nolan

I dreamed I was lost
But it was untrue, it seems.

A shadow
In a parallel track
Paces along with me,
Angry for some slight
Not taken back.

It seems it will pursue me
No matter how lost
My track may be.
It is derivative.
I must have given it birth.

Perhaps the shadow better knows
A fortune bound irrevocably to fate.
Together though we feel the pace,
Our outcomes will be for one
To well outlast the other. 

 

 

 

TOWARD SOME MAGICAL GOAL
—Joe Nolan

Anyone who wanders
May not wane,
When he feels
The onset of pain,
If he binds
His feet up
In tight cloth
And pulls himself together
Against his sloth
And bears himself
Down the long highway,
As thought his every step
Was toward some magical goal. 

 

 

 

Mountain with cloud cap

 

ECSTASY ON THE RUN!
—Joe Nolan

You don’t deserve it.
I don’t deserve it, either,
But here we are
In the middle of
A mad adventure.

Sails are set out for the wind,
To carry us away.
We worry not.
We long for flight!
We know our dreams
Have surfaced from our night,

When we were together
In our dreams
And we remembered,
Which is more rare
Than to have vague feelings of connection,
Which is common,
Before making love.

Brilliant, roams the flight
Of waves, abandoned,
Into the spray of sea into your hair!
Sunlight sparkles
Effervescent marvels,
Into ecstasy,
On the run!

 

 

 

Are they being pushed forward so

it is easier to jump out of the water?

Biggest game in town. . .

 

MARVIN MILLER
—Michael Ceraolo, S. Euclid, OH

I never said to myself
be careful what you wish for,
though once I came very close:
during negotiations
after Seitz's decision
in Messersmith/McNally
Charlie Finley suggested
making everyone free agents:
my nightmare scenario
But owner shortsightedness,
or maybe just the person
making such a suggestion,
insured it wouldn't happen
Generations of players
continue to benefit

 

 

 

 

BIRDS OF A DIFFERENT FEATHER
—Michael Ceraolo

One of us a dove, one a seagull;
we both met the same fate as Ray Chapman
The bird of peace exploded into pieces
by a Randy Johnson fastball,
a tragic accident, while I,
the bird who scavenges by the water,
was murdered by a Dave Winfield throw
If I had been a human
he would have waited until my back was turned
before attacking me

 

 

 

"CHARLIE O”
—Michael Ceraolo

It was a good life as a team mascot;
it was sure better than pulling a plow
And I didn't mind being called an ass,
though I didn't like it one little bit
when the human ass gave me his own name

 

 

 

 

P.K. WRIGLEY
—Michael Ceraolo

I was worried
baseball would shut down in '43
because of the war, and I felt
those on the homefront deserved
some form of entertainment,
so I started a girls' softball league,
though early in that first season
we started calling it baseball
It was okay for the girls to play
all-star games at Wrigley at night
using portable lights;
I never desecrated Wrigley with permanent lights
After two years I got out of the girls' game,
selling it to Meyerhoff for peanuts

 

 

 

 

POST-TRUTH.
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar, W. Bengal, India

Ten minutes to write a poem
A juggling springing ball game—
A great initiative, a middle pause
A balanced middle
The ending ad infinitum
To keep open the buttons.

The fallen meters have woken up
A gray-scaled punishment
And discipline
A liberal adherence
To rules and penalties
But if not
Then meshed with
Slumber, a cocooned peace
Then impulse and romantic
Affinities
A high-strung burning sky
Of looking ahead
Peony and shrubbery feast
A caravan of quiet moments’ sleep
A tiptoed dance with
Card players
Until the swoosh gets fallen
An eternal dance
Both awake and asleep.

In big cities,
We read between the lines
Self-referential, a lying machine
A post-truth gazebo
Truths drop out of the stage show
Then all is a faded hat
The joker and his tap dance
Keep beating around the bush
His mask a serpent coil
Small tickets to a merry fair bush
Of looking left and right
Until the last fear of
Angels that will tread on—
A masked quill
Just for ten minutes
To beat around
To tuck a drumroll high.

Mocking flames and snow leopard drops
Then come back
Every summer
In our heat-waved city sky.

Words that we play often
A pitpat to leave and not to leave
Until the ten minutes
Melt in a vapour plane
Or a sand watch of
A quick drumroll high
A question and a non-question
Until we drop out of the mocking lies.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip(s):

JUST A WHIFF
—Daun M. Wright, London, Ontario, Canada



 

I lay here thinking of nothing and images of you pierce my 

consciousness and deliver the sweetness of you


Your kind eyes and ready smile but mostly


your presence invades my space and


the entire experience is etched in time

* * *

THE WAR HAS ENDED
—Michael H. Brownstein

And to the victors a parade—
but how do you win when so much is gone—
and where are the men?
Where are the men?

___________________

Welcome to Monday Madness, as we wind up the last week of June! We have another new poet today, this one from Canada: Daun M. Wright, aka The Permissible Poet, Podcaster & Freelance Creative Writer. Daun pens poetry that speaks to the heart of our being, while allowing each reader to reflect on their life's journey. She resides in London, Ontario, Canada.

As always, our poets have much to say—about the Ukraine, about our nation’s midsummer madness, about the craziness of the human condition, and about our Seed of the Week: Sanctuary. Caschwa (Carl Schwartz) found a word he didn’t know: “tranches”. He writes: “Was reading some FaceBook entries about the January 6th hearing schedule, and noted the expression ‘tranches of evidence’, which I had never heard before. Apparently ‘tranches’ are smaller parts of some larger entity, usually referring to financial instruments. In this case, they had new ‘tranches of evidence’ to examine, causing them to wish to postpone further hearings… until July.”

NorCal readings continue this week, with Sac. Poetry Center Zooming tonight, Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe and Juice Bar on Thursday (Straight Out Scribes), and a Nevada City reading on Friday. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about these and other future readings in the NorCal area.

__________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

Daun M. Wright

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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  “she knows the beauty
of self and water. . .”