Deaths and Little Dinosaurs

 

—Photo: Visual Verse in collaboration 

with students at Wangari Maathai 

International School (WMIS), 

Courtesy of Michael Brownstein

—Poetry by Michael H. Brownstein, 

Stephen Kingsnorth, Sayani Mukherjee, 

Caschwa, Joe Nolan, Nolcha Fox, 

Claire J. Baker

—Public Domain Photos Courtesy 

of Joe Nolan 

 

 

NURSERY RHYME
—Michael H. Brownstein, Jefferson City, MO

Remember the cow that jumped over the moon?
She thought she made it, but, no, she landed in June.

No matter, she said, proud of the lapse in time and energy.
I can always try again and again and again—

but she never did—try again, that is—cause she slipped into mud,
a monsoon kind of flood, hit the ground with a thud

and landed upright—everything OK—met a giant man-ox,
met his wife and his kids, and settled down eating lemon grass

and somehow the legend of the cow jumping over the moon
lost its glimmer of strength, but let's not forget the jump of the spoon. 

 

 

 

 

 

DEFINING A SOUL
—Michael H. Brownstein

You are the rhyme in beauty.
the great half-smile of first-quarter moonlight,
the radiance of sunrise over Lake Michigan.

When grand herring gulls rumble in the water,
large lake trout skip to the surface,
and waves wash away sand castles

I see you there, too, within the smell of hair,
skin, the breath of perfume from your lips,
and I can touch the rhymes of hearts.

 

 

 

 

 

ARBOUR SECRETS
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

 



Their names carved through cork cambium,


truncated as initials, heart,


and arrow through as Cupid’s bow,


putti, hands held, romantic link,


companions or manipulate?


And so we make love by our mark,


with rings to signify through age,


both leaner and expansive years,


but which trees grow, prosperity—


our family’s or breathing green?


As first love fades, an autumn dawns;


the fall of leaves is seminal,


the seedbed for our further crop


where mycorrhiza thrive at root,


send signals, read float pheromones.


And even when our wood is stumped,


like Jesse’s tale, try pollarding;


though willow weeps, tears can be dried,


crown candelabra rise instead


so stoop to conquer thrills the stage.

 

 

 

 

 

DERELICTION
—Stephen Kingsnorth

Some derelict, boy soldier old,
known only under sods of late—
his state decided use complete,
dismissed to find his winding way.
His wife had found another cause
as his own troop had altered sides,
political expediency
brought swifter end to that affair.

With comrades carried home in bags,
short shrift reduced to none at all;
he could not face the grocer’s queue,
food bank, account, no interest.
He started beneficial forms
till pride took stand, double-cross sign.
Bow arching over stretching road,
bare honesty brought home, to stare.

Those secrets not to be confessed,
lost wife, lost war, loss self-embraced.
Then only creed he could, aware,
declared to priest in curtained box.
Unsure whether condemned, seduced,
the last straw loaded back himself.
He found the dereliction here
that led too soon to bottled fear.

 

 

 

 

 

SWING
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India

Turbulence, a whiskey splash
A minute away
Homecomings
Wet with inner child
Kites run wild
Spree of freedom and sinking feet
A deep cajoling
A wide-open night
A slow-moving jazz beat
A trinket of fairy dust
Shadow's dreamcatcher isle
Doodling over a white blanket
Mistakes and eraser
Our mothers know the way
Protect like a key chain
The last rushing crawling
Deaths and little dinosaurs
Crayons, fabricated, sprinkled of.
An Opal-shaped halcyon phase
Dwindling steps
A little swinging floor
Russet and rusty
An infinite way
To love from above
A little push at the back
Cherry-kissed jumping-off
Little bit of dare
A little fear, a small red map over knee
A smudge from the elders
As if carrying little wildflowers
Inside a basket
Experienced insides of adult-boned
Dilly-dally fall
Over the window
A little trinket of shower. 

 

 

 

 The Advantage of Paper Plates

 

TOO MUCH BAGGAGE
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

leaving my uncle off at the
airport for a departure to
Denmark; he had already
booked the flight and had his
boarding pass in hand

this was going to be quick
and easy

then they played his song,
music to his ears, “Do you
have anything to declare?”
which triggered a series of
convulsive utterances to
the effect that:

my last flight was from USA
to Europe, and my luggage
went to China, which wouldn’t
have been so bad if not for
how unsettled our trade is with
China is these days; I wasn’t
sure I would see my bag again
or get some little, tiny micro chip,
instead with the verbal assurance:
“everything that was in your bag
is on this chip”

he boarded his plane, got the
seat he expected, and his luggage
went to ……. to be continued

 

 

 

 

 

GIBBOUS THIS DAY…
—Caschwa

educated about ABCs
correct spelling
declining nouns
conjugating verbs
even got a college degree

but in all my years, never
heard anyone use the
term “gibbous’ in a sentence
in a context that made the
meaning clear, so guess
everyone just invents their
own meaning

more than half the moon
is lit by the sun, obviously
pertains to bikini bottoms
that show too much cheek;
that must be what gibbous
really means

 

 

 

 

 

AT THE GREASY COUNTER-SPOON
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
 
It was news I needed,
Fresh and dark,
In early-morning cafe-meetings
At the Greasy Counter-Spoon,
To spin around on seats,
Covered in red vinyl,
Shiny, fresh and new,
But I never realized
I was only waiting for you.

I was too young to know
How you feel
When you grow older—
How much more precious
Things become
When they’re pulled away
Like stretched-out taffy
And I had no way to know
I was only waiting for you!

 

 

 

Cats are full of secrets...

 

 

 

IF YOU REMEMBER
—Joe Nolan

If you remember
To take your medicine,
You might recover.

If you remember
Not to take poison,
You might remain well.

If you remember
The words
When you sing,
What you mean to say
Might be heard—

Released,
Into peace,
Undisturbed—
Allowed to float
To the sky
Like a bird.

 

 

 

 

 

I BET YOU WISH
—Joe Nolan

I bet you wish
There was somewhere
To convene,
For the little tribe you knew,
Back when you were young—

A place where
Everyone was
Comfortable,
Under a summer sun,

Where everyone
Was happy,
Beautiful and young.

I bet you wish
You were still a dish,
Noticed and
Full of fun...

 

 

 

 

 

MAPPING THE SOUL
—Joe Nolan

We tried to map
The outlines of soul,
But few could feel
Where soul left off
And Ocean had begun.

I suppose
Because
We are all one,
It’s hard to disappear
Into thin air,
As everyone
Seems to suppose
Is how it goes
When we’re gone,
But that’s not so.
It’s just that
We have moved on—

Into dreams and whispers
In bright landscapes
Under soft sun,
Somewhere we can’t see
From here,
But somewhere
We’re all bound. 

 

 

 

 

Today’s LittleNip(s):

TAMBOURINE
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

A secret passageway to song,
primeval dance around the fire.
We jump and sway, uncivilized,
a savage heat revealing.
Suspended on the borderline
between nightfall and bright,
we’re in a trance, a tribal glow,
brought on by tambourine.

* * *

AN EGRET’S SECRETS
           (French Triolet)
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

Am old enough to keep a few
egret secrets in the night.
I press my pulse, two stick like glue.
So, wiser now, I add a few
ripe lies to spice my moral flu
that egrets won’t tell in liquid delight.
Grown sagely now, I keep a few
egret secrets in the night.

_____________________

Good morning, kids! Thank-yous to our poets today, and to Joe Nolan for some ‘way cool pix! You’ll find secrets woven in and out of today’s poems, answering the call of last Tuesday’s Seed of the Week, Secrets. Be sure to check each Tuesday for a new Seed of the Week poetry prompt.

I’ll tell you a secret: Monday is the first day of the Soul Bone Literary Festival 2022 online, with free literary readings and master classes until Sept. 4. Well, it’s no secret if you check it out on the UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS link at the top of this column. You’ll also see that Sac. Poetry Center features Claire Weiner and Seth Rosenbloom online tonight, plus open mic. Also this week: a hot Thursday with hot poetry at three venues: Concert and Poetry on the Patio featuring Anna Marie in Cesar Chavez Park in Sacramento; Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe, also in Sacramento; and the online reading for MALDEF, hosted by Escritoires del Nuevo Sol and Sac. Poetry Alliance. Saturday will bring another workshop in The Way of Poetry series, plus a reading at a new location for Poetry of the Sierra Foothills that will feature Linda Scheller and Gary Thomas plus open mic. Lots to do—be sure to take advantage of some of these wonderful offerings. We’re lucky to have ‘em—and that’s no secret!

_____________________

—Medusa, hot under the collar as usual~

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
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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!

 

LittleSnake knows ALL
your secrets…!