Wednesday, January 10, 2024

Catching Poems

 —Poetry by Linda Klein, Playa Vista, CA
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain 


It floats in the air around me,
illusive, nearly invisible,
leaving me confused
as to whether it is real.

Fluttering for attention,
it teases, charms,
comes in close, dares me
to reach for it, to get a sense of it.

I scribble down my feelings.
Then, like a child playing
hide and seek, it flees,
compels me to play along.

I search for its essence,
the truth it reveals.
It is the confident one
while I am the follower.

This, it knows for certain.


My elementary school graduation
was held at Loewe's movie theater
in Brooklyn, New York.
I walked to the theater
with my parents and younger brother.

Floating along like a sunbeam
in the yellow, chiffon dress
Schneider the tailor made for me.
I chose the material, color, and style
despite mother's protests.

The theater was a big, dark auditorium,
where we had seen many movie shows.
Now it was lit, although dimly,
from several, ornate wall sconces.
Our shadowy images loomed ahead.

I left my family sitting with other guests
in a back, middle section,
and joined my classmates in front.
I was the only one wearing yellow,
beaming from blonde head to yellow shoes.

Mr. Silverman, our principle, finally called my name.
I rose slowly and brightly, fairly bouncing up
the aisle to the stage to receive my diploma,
believing it was I who was lighting up the room.


They are never content.
They must continually feed,
not just on the crusts of stale bread
you throw to them.

They scramble and scratch.
You watch them tear at each other,
wishing you never sought after them,
wishing they would fly away,

not only to achieve distance,
but far from mind and memory.
Stubbornly they stay,

pecking at you, picking at you.
Your suffering pleases them.
Their pattern persists, to annoy
you and to destroy you.  Why?

It's their way, to spread the disease
of hate, to disarm and harm.
Your cries of pain are, to them,
sweet strains of a songbird's refrain.


Night is closing in now,
like a curtain being drawn
across the sky, shutting out
what light life had to offer.

There is no going back.
Only memories remain.
I wonder if they were real,
or just my mind's invention.


Today’s LittleNip:

—Linda Klein

Night flies in holding her sleeping child
in a protective embrace,
urging angels eager to bless him,
to do so silently, for it is not yet
time for him to awaken.


—Medusa, with thanks to Linda Klein for today’s fine poetry!
"no going back...only memories remain..."


A reminder that midnight tonight
is the deadline for submissions
for Lit Fest 2, as well as the deadline
for early-bird sign-ups for the
Community of Writers 4-week
Ursula K. LeGuin Zoom workshop

later this month.
For info about these and other
upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

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