—Poetry by B. Lynne Zika, Burbank, CA
—Photos and Art by B. Lynne Zika
BY FIRE
Every day I have held my mouth to a string of fire
and eaten, flame by flame, the hope of invisible things:
the fibers of books, the maps of hands,
the silence after music.
Every day, light falls through the sky,
inviting the earth to examine its shadow.
I see a thief in the shadow
of my face, greedy for the weightlessness of fire,
for the impeccable arrogance of sky
and the gravity of invisible things.
I hear in the cracking of my heart a kind of music
that trembles through my arms to my shaking hands.
From a blue shelf littered with toys, a saint hands
the bubble of a broken machine into the arms of my
shadow.
A tinny song plays on my shoulder, and the music
of copper fires
the mercurial air. I know I will never conquer the
things
of the flesh that will burn high enough to humble
the sky.
Every day I have lain in a white room, a sky-
light seducing the sun into the palms of my hands.
Every day I have agreed that there are things
I will never understand: the length of shadow
multiplied by need, hunger divided by fire,
the compound of the elemental absence of music
in a brick-studded sky, in vacant hands,
in the way our shadows turn from each other,
our music
choking with the things we cannot illuminate by fire.
Every day I have held my mouth to a string of fire
and eaten, flame by flame, the hope of invisible things:
the fibers of books, the maps of hands,
the silence after music.
Every day, light falls through the sky,
inviting the earth to examine its shadow.
I see a thief in the shadow
of my face, greedy for the weightlessness of fire,
for the impeccable arrogance of sky
and the gravity of invisible things.
I hear in the cracking of my heart a kind of music
that trembles through my arms to my shaking hands.
From a blue shelf littered with toys, a saint hands
the bubble of a broken machine into the arms of my
shadow.
A tinny song plays on my shoulder, and the music
of copper fires
the mercurial air. I know I will never conquer the
things
of the flesh that will burn high enough to humble
the sky.
Every day I have lain in a white room, a sky-
light seducing the sun into the palms of my hands.
Every day I have agreed that there are things
I will never understand: the length of shadow
multiplied by need, hunger divided by fire,
the compound of the elemental absence of music
in a brick-studded sky, in vacant hands,
in the way our shadows turn from each other,
our music
choking with the things we cannot illuminate by fire.
HOW TO FIND ME (v. 1)
It depends, of course,
on what you’re looking for.
Do you want me to be a pine tree?
Then go to where the saws stand weeping.
Do you want laughter?
I am a master at sass.
But you will find another door
just to the left of humor,
and may you own the courage
to walk through.
It depends, of course,
on what you’re looking for.
Do you want me to be a pine tree?
Then go to where the saws stand weeping.
Do you want laughter?
I am a master at sass.
But you will find another door
just to the left of humor,
and may you own the courage
to walk through.
HOW TO FIND ME (version 2)
It depends, of course,
on what you’re looking for.
Do you want me to be a pine tree?
Then go to where the saws stand weeping.
Do you want laughter?
Honey, I’ll sass you ’til your chuckle
ramps up to a chortle and you’re
plumb riddled with guffaws. Your mama
will have to come scrape you up
off a jelly-rolled floor
and you’ll still be begging for biscuits.
I am—I say I am—a master of sass.
But you will find another door
just to the left of humor.
There are no stately canopies
shielding tuxedoed arrivals
from any storms. No red-suited
doorman with gold braid
offering an arm or a white-gloved assist.
You don’t know what you’ll find
inside, but I know I’ll be wearing satin,
in your favorite color,
whatever that might be.
I’m not donning some fake modesty fur stole
to tell you silliness like, “I’m not much,
but you came looking, and
you done found me.” No, sir.
All I’ve got is what I am,
what I can do, which at the moment
includes pushing open a heavy door.
I’m hoping you’ve got the courage
to follow.
It depends, of course,
on what you’re looking for.
Do you want me to be a pine tree?
Then go to where the saws stand weeping.
Do you want laughter?
Honey, I’ll sass you ’til your chuckle
ramps up to a chortle and you’re
plumb riddled with guffaws. Your mama
will have to come scrape you up
off a jelly-rolled floor
and you’ll still be begging for biscuits.
I am—I say I am—a master of sass.
But you will find another door
just to the left of humor.
There are no stately canopies
shielding tuxedoed arrivals
from any storms. No red-suited
doorman with gold braid
offering an arm or a white-gloved assist.
You don’t know what you’ll find
inside, but I know I’ll be wearing satin,
in your favorite color,
whatever that might be.
I’m not donning some fake modesty fur stole
to tell you silliness like, “I’m not much,
but you came looking, and
you done found me.” No, sir.
All I’ve got is what I am,
what I can do, which at the moment
includes pushing open a heavy door.
I’m hoping you’ve got the courage
to follow.
HONEY
First you really must decide
whether you’ll approach her as a child,
exploring the woods for a likely spot
to hold the world’s fiercest fort,
guaranteed to keep you safe
from Genghis Khan himself
or at least Charlie Atwood,
who’s taken to stealing your marbles
and telling the other boys
he decked your sister once
for letting her setter take a whiz
on his front lawn.
A lie, of course, but
he’s got 30 pounds on you
and a mean big brother.
If you go to the woods
in black canvas high-tops,
you’ll find her
spilling over a hillside,
somersaulting from sheer glee
and flinging herself helter-skelter
at your feet. Take a moment
to examine the blooms.
Consider the fully open
but not yet drooping
into a lazy wilt.
Then pluck one blossom
where it joins the twig,
just below its green wax seal.
Pinch it free, thank the lady,
and claim it for your own.
Next, with the nails from your thumb
and index finger, pinch the bottom—
but not all the way through!
Stop on each side right before
you reach the style,
the little white cord
snaking its way from the joint
through the tube
to the outside of the trumpet.
Now take hold of the style
and slowly draw it toward the bottom, until,
the moment before the stigma pops free,
a drop of nectar appears
and dangles, trembling,
awaiting your decision.
First you really must decide
whether you’ll approach her as a child,
exploring the woods for a likely spot
to hold the world’s fiercest fort,
guaranteed to keep you safe
from Genghis Khan himself
or at least Charlie Atwood,
who’s taken to stealing your marbles
and telling the other boys
he decked your sister once
for letting her setter take a whiz
on his front lawn.
A lie, of course, but
he’s got 30 pounds on you
and a mean big brother.
If you go to the woods
in black canvas high-tops,
you’ll find her
spilling over a hillside,
somersaulting from sheer glee
and flinging herself helter-skelter
at your feet. Take a moment
to examine the blooms.
Consider the fully open
but not yet drooping
into a lazy wilt.
Then pluck one blossom
where it joins the twig,
just below its green wax seal.
Pinch it free, thank the lady,
and claim it for your own.
Next, with the nails from your thumb
and index finger, pinch the bottom—
but not all the way through!
Stop on each side right before
you reach the style,
the little white cord
snaking its way from the joint
through the tube
to the outside of the trumpet.
Now take hold of the style
and slowly draw it toward the bottom, until,
the moment before the stigma pops free,
a drop of nectar appears
and dangles, trembling,
awaiting your decision.
Yes
YIN
for Sara
I have seen the broken pieces
my brokenness left behind,
withstood their lash of anger
and wept —Oh, God, I’ve wept.
I flung open the doors of my wounding long ago,
faced the wicked pleasure of the sword
which pierced me, the laughing hands
gleeful in my pain,
and the self-protective armor
of the one who should have shielded me,
and met a healing heart
and finally slept.
I’ve stood nose-to-nose with my shadow.
Very well, I have a shadow.
Lord, how she now makes me laugh.
But, Mary, how did you bear
that you could not protect him?
Please—please—show me
how you withstood that grief.
There is a mother in the budding of a tree,
another shining in lunar light,
and many more whose bark-veiled arms
reach for both the sky and me.
Through them she speaks.
See what you’ve done
to protect them from your history.
You cannot protect them
from their own ways to strength.
Yes, I forgive.
Now forgive yourself.
for Sara
I have seen the broken pieces
my brokenness left behind,
withstood their lash of anger
and wept —Oh, God, I’ve wept.
I flung open the doors of my wounding long ago,
faced the wicked pleasure of the sword
which pierced me, the laughing hands
gleeful in my pain,
and the self-protective armor
of the one who should have shielded me,
and met a healing heart
and finally slept.
I’ve stood nose-to-nose with my shadow.
Very well, I have a shadow.
Lord, how she now makes me laugh.
But, Mary, how did you bear
that you could not protect him?
Please—please—show me
how you withstood that grief.
There is a mother in the budding of a tree,
another shining in lunar light,
and many more whose bark-veiled arms
reach for both the sky and me.
Through them she speaks.
See what you’ve done
to protect them from your history.
You cannot protect them
from their own ways to strength.
Yes, I forgive.
Now forgive yourself.
Today’s LittleNip:
WHY I DON’T CHECK OUT
—B. Lynne Zika
Because in an hour’s—two hours’—time,
the hummingbird will come back
to the plum tree
and plumb the last remaining blossoms
for a thing too sweet for words.
Because there always seems to be
one more thing to write.
Because I want to hear him say, again,
I love you.
_____________________
B. Lynne Zika is an award-winning poet and photographer and a retired editor of closed-captioning. Awards include: Pacificus Foundation Literary Award in short fiction, Little Sister Award and Moon Prize in poetry, and Viewbug Curator’s Selection, Staff Favorite, and Hero Awards in photography. Her father, also a writer/poet, bequeathed her this advice: Make every word count.
Welcome to the Kitchen, poet-who-makes-every-word-count, and don’t be a stranger!
_____________________
—Medusa
WHY I DON’T CHECK OUT
—B. Lynne Zika
Because in an hour’s—two hours’—time,
the hummingbird will come back
to the plum tree
and plumb the last remaining blossoms
for a thing too sweet for words.
Because there always seems to be
one more thing to write.
Because I want to hear him say, again,
I love you.
_____________________
B. Lynne Zika is an award-winning poet and photographer and a retired editor of closed-captioning. Awards include: Pacificus Foundation Literary Award in short fiction, Little Sister Award and Moon Prize in poetry, and Viewbug Curator’s Selection, Staff Favorite, and Hero Awards in photography. Her father, also a writer/poet, bequeathed her this advice: Make every word count.
Welcome to the Kitchen, poet-who-makes-every-word-count, and don’t be a stranger!
_____________________
—Medusa
For upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
in the links at the top of this page.
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!
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
in the links at the top of this page.
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!
to a string of fire. . .”