—Poetry by Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
—Artwork Courtesy of Public Domain
A SILK SCARF
Today I reclaim
the wind
held
in my palm
as a child
my hand out
car window
blown
willy-nilly
like a silk scarf
yet gripping
enough sweet air
to know that
one day
I will inhale
it all back,
like hope.
(prev. pub. in Benicia Herald, 9/11/22)
Today I reclaim
the wind
held
in my palm
as a child
my hand out
car window
blown
willy-nilly
like a silk scarf
yet gripping
enough sweet air
to know that
one day
I will inhale
it all back,
like hope.
(prev. pub. in Benicia Herald, 9/11/22)
RITE OF PASSAGE
A woman strolls
mountain meadows
of poppies and lupine,
alone, yet less lonely…
Back in her cabin,
drawn to life up-close,
she photographs poppies
pearled with rain,
a snail’s silvery wake,
the grandkids as they sleep.
Attracted by open people
speaking truly,
she gives and goes for
spontaneous hellos, rainbow
spray from a garden hose.
Craving a glorious rite of passage,
she stuffs the past into a spent
backpack, edges it over a cliff,
watches it change
into an eagle soaring higher.
A woman strolls
mountain meadows
of poppies and lupine,
alone, yet less lonely…
Back in her cabin,
drawn to life up-close,
she photographs poppies
pearled with rain,
a snail’s silvery wake,
the grandkids as they sleep.
Attracted by open people
speaking truly,
she gives and goes for
spontaneous hellos, rainbow
spray from a garden hose.
Craving a glorious rite of passage,
she stuffs the past into a spent
backpack, edges it over a cliff,
watches it change
into an eagle soaring higher.
WE NEED MORE BIRDS
Once there were as many
birds in our gardens
as in 30 Gardens of Eden.
We would count their number
and report to the Prince of Sky.
The birds left feathers
and tiny nests we added
to our door wreaths.
Their chorus was admired
by Bach and Beethoven.
We watched, breath held,
as the bravest and friendliest
pecked seeds from our palms,
and from our lifelines.
World, we need more birds.
Once there were as many
birds in our gardens
as in 30 Gardens of Eden.
We would count their number
and report to the Prince of Sky.
The birds left feathers
and tiny nests we added
to our door wreaths.
Their chorus was admired
by Bach and Beethoven.
We watched, breath held,
as the bravest and friendliest
pecked seeds from our palms,
and from our lifelines.
World, we need more birds.
DANCING WITH TAMBOURINES
Tambourines live for a chance to shake
it up, jingle the atmosphere, perk up
fantasy & imagination, extend
a million invitations—
if you contemplate coming, come Now.
Enhancing costumes with bangles,
carefree all the way,
tambourines radiate gypsy
rapture, sensuality,
brashness & wild adventures.
Tams tremble when held closer:
add colorful circumferences.
After flirting & teasing at will,
tambourines climax with a Bang!
anywhere & anytime they please.
At ease with all positions
of dancers hands,
these rounded rascals hypnotize
with a show of their own,
extending honorary invitations
to a devil-may-care, seductive world
of gypsies having their way
with jazz & pizzazz. Tambourines
live for the chance to shake it up.
(AEI/Dancing Poetry Festival
Grand Prize, 2012)
Tambourines live for a chance to shake
it up, jingle the atmosphere, perk up
fantasy & imagination, extend
a million invitations—
if you contemplate coming, come Now.
Enhancing costumes with bangles,
carefree all the way,
tambourines radiate gypsy
rapture, sensuality,
brashness & wild adventures.
Tams tremble when held closer:
add colorful circumferences.
After flirting & teasing at will,
tambourines climax with a Bang!
anywhere & anytime they please.
At ease with all positions
of dancers hands,
these rounded rascals hypnotize
with a show of their own,
extending honorary invitations
to a devil-may-care, seductive world
of gypsies having their way
with jazz & pizzazz. Tambourines
live for the chance to shake it up.
(AEI/Dancing Poetry Festival
Grand Prize, 2012)
MOSAIC TREE
All of us are damaged in some way.
Linking together, working
through brokenness, we fashion
from shards of our lives
a large mosaic tree.
Here’s a key, a dented gold band,
a shattered compass.
We work as a team, all ages,
each from a need to contribute,
forget, or hold in memory…
Glue keeps us bonded, as we
gather once a week for a month…
The completed mosaic crowns
our wide walkway, its hardy trunk
rooted to the earth’s far side
through oceans, mountain ranges—
a soldier’s medal beside a fireman’s
seared badge; a child’s chipped
marble nudging a pearl amulet—
our mosaic perky from fingerprints,
play, imagination, forgiveness—
tears and laughter all melded
with mosaic leaves, repentance,
acceptance, the moving on.
(prev. pub. in Benicia Herald)
All of us are damaged in some way.
Linking together, working
through brokenness, we fashion
from shards of our lives
a large mosaic tree.
Here’s a key, a dented gold band,
a shattered compass.
We work as a team, all ages,
each from a need to contribute,
forget, or hold in memory…
Glue keeps us bonded, as we
gather once a week for a month…
The completed mosaic crowns
our wide walkway, its hardy trunk
rooted to the earth’s far side
through oceans, mountain ranges—
a soldier’s medal beside a fireman’s
seared badge; a child’s chipped
marble nudging a pearl amulet—
our mosaic perky from fingerprints,
play, imagination, forgiveness—
tears and laughter all melded
with mosaic leaves, repentance,
acceptance, the moving on.
(prev. pub. in Benicia Herald)
SINCE
I can’t reach you
in any other way, I
leave my fingerprints
in the grain of this poem
just finished and forwarded
to you, hurt & lost friend, fancying
that when your fingerprints dovetail
with mine that you will take a firmer grip.
I can’t reach you
in any other way, I
leave my fingerprints
in the grain of this poem
just finished and forwarded
to you, hurt & lost friend, fancying
that when your fingerprints dovetail
with mine that you will take a firmer grip.
THE PHOTOGRAPH
In a black-and-white photo,
seven mothers dressed in white
dance in a morning graveyard
among mass-produced markers,
battleship gray, lined up like
left-right left-right
feet of war.
There is a precise spacing between
the souls of soldiers.
Charcoal trees drip in light rain,
the sky, a blind mute, stares.
The headstones converge, hover
heavily over heavenly grass—
all the while
seven courageous mothers
wearing almond-tree white
circle, sing lullabies
as they dance.
for peace,
for peace….
________________________
Today’s LittleNip:
BRAINSTORM
—Claire J. Baker
Here’s
to
sparks
behind
the
light-bulb
moment
of
fashioning
eternity
and
making
it
last.
________________________
Our thanks to Claire Baker today for her fine poetry! Check out yesterday’s post (Form Fiddlers’ Friday) for the form that Claire invented.
Today will be a very big day, event-wise, in NorCal poetry, with the Great Valley Bookfest Festival in Manteca (lots of authors and seminars!); Lara Gularte and Dianna Henning reading for Sacramento Poetry Alliance at 1169 Perkins Way in Sacramento; Susan Cohen in Auburn at the new Silver Tongue Saturdays series; She Spits Fire at Brickhouse Gallery in Sacramento; and, if you’re in SF, check out Poetry World Series Litquake 2022. Details for these and other future poetry stuff can be found at the UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS link at the top of this column.
_______________________
—Medusa
In a black-and-white photo,
seven mothers dressed in white
dance in a morning graveyard
among mass-produced markers,
battleship gray, lined up like
left-right left-right
feet of war.
There is a precise spacing between
the souls of soldiers.
Charcoal trees drip in light rain,
the sky, a blind mute, stares.
The headstones converge, hover
heavily over heavenly grass—
all the while
seven courageous mothers
wearing almond-tree white
circle, sing lullabies
as they dance.
for peace,
for peace….
________________________
Today’s LittleNip:
BRAINSTORM
—Claire J. Baker
Here’s
to
sparks
behind
the
light-bulb
moment
of
fashioning
eternity
and
making
it
last.
________________________
Our thanks to Claire Baker today for her fine poetry! Check out yesterday’s post (Form Fiddlers’ Friday) for the form that Claire invented.
Today will be a very big day, event-wise, in NorCal poetry, with the Great Valley Bookfest Festival in Manteca (lots of authors and seminars!); Lara Gularte and Dianna Henning reading for Sacramento Poetry Alliance at 1169 Perkins Way in Sacramento; Susan Cohen in Auburn at the new Silver Tongue Saturdays series; She Spits Fire at Brickhouse Gallery in Sacramento; and, if you’re in SF, check out Poetry World Series Litquake 2022. Details for these and other future poetry stuff can be found at the UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS link at the top of this column.
_______________________
—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.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
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!
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
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
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!
among the poppies...
