Sexy, Yet Reserved

Ann after ARCO Concert, 2023

—Photo by Ethan Pham Aguilar

 

* * *

 

—Poetry by Ann Wehrman, Sacramento, CA
—Photos by Chris Feldman, Ann Wehrman, 

and Ethan Pham Aguilar

 

 

HAIR II
 
hair—my body’s leaves, fur
keeps my head warm
dead cells seem alive
 
hair swings, unfurls
gleams, glints in the light
slips gently through my fingers
brushes my skin, soft, sensual
 
hair drips, cold and wet
down my back after a shower
tangles, rips, knots, breaks
when I try to comb it
 
hair drops in slow motion between my fingers
silken spiderweb strands
catch fire in sun’s penetrating rays
 
hair deep brown for decades
now snowy white in my winter years
magical, mysterious, beautiful
 
 
Note:
“Hair II” is a revision of an earlier, short poem, “Hair,” which was published in Medusa’s Kitchen on July 16, 2007. 

 

 

 

 
January Afternoon Sky
—Photo by Ann Wehrman


 
JANUARY AFTERNOON IN THE CITY
 
clouds like doves’ soft breasts
sail quickly by on the wind at the horizon
above me, dark gray slabs fill the heavens
storm clouds, yet few drops fall
waiting for the bus, I grudgingly open my umbrella
 
later, I return home
bright gold sun peaks out from stubborn gray clouds
giving way to patches of baby blue
sweet, deep, cold air
good night to stay home, eat something warm,
watch TV
yet, the trees still crave rain

 

 

 

 
Tree and Berries
—Photo by Ann Wehrman

 
I WAS WRONG
 
watch the birds play in the tree
that shaded me, comforted me
talked with me as I waited for the bus
 
now, as the year ends in frigid nights
naked, leafless branches
bloom with berries, red-orange seed pearls
 
birds flutter from branch to branch
bite, drink sustaining nectar
cock their tiny heads at me, friendly yet wild
 
for years I’d thought the winter berries
parasitic, maybe mistletoe
sorrowed for the tree being slowly killed
 
but today I see winter’s berries
grow naturally on this tree
birds play hide and seek, then rise and fly away

 

 

 

 Green Peach
—Photo by Chris Feldman

SEXY, YET RESERVED
 
blouse was Chinese silk, burnt yellow
like late afternoon sunshine
with a rippled texture
like the wrinkled cheek
of an Empress Dowager
wearing it, I felt glamorous
sexy, yet reserved
 
wore it on a date with my first real love
to Zeffirelli’s entrancing Romeo and Juliet
afterward, we pledged steady
exchanged class rings
while Jim Morrison snarled at our generation,
“Light my Fire”
but my steady slept around
I survived, barely
moved on, hesitantly
 
a year later, I wore the yellow silk blouse
to the movies again
this time, Fantasia with Carolyn
two friends out together
shared a joint in her beat-up car
giggled at Disney’s dancing pink elephants

 

 

 

The Fire Within
—Photo by Chris Feldman


 
IN THE CENTER OF NIGHT’S EMBRACE
 
warm darkness surrounds
I nestle deep within your arms
you stir, awaken me with your desire
 
in a dream, half-seen
I move with you, open to your deep kisses
welcome your need with my own
we dance as one being
in the center of night’s embrace

 

 

 

Love Birds
—Photo by Chris Feldman

tantra
 
ecstasy of heart
our spirits unite
in a kaleidoscope
your eyes hold me
your caresses ignite my core
all colors bloom
as your embrace opens
my inner spine—
forest-green heart flowers
indigo song
amethyst in my brow
rises, offering white, pure
light of consummation


 

Love Mural
—Photo by Chris Feldman

“It’s a Joni Mitchell Kind of Day”
(For Carolyn)

...you’d say,
your impish spectacled grin
blinding me to the blue tinge of your thin lips
the dark circles under your eyes
I never quite knew what you meant
part of your charm, I guess
 
was it a day in which
the tinkling, lilting soprano
would dance over all our troubles
or one ruled by Blue
the dark sadness in Joni’s atonal, wordless wails?
 
You shared your art, your music with me
got me stoned—too stoned
stood by fiercely loyal, stood over me
 
rebel to the core, you opened your heart to me
when my sensitive teenage soul was ready to break
on that fast, college-prep track
when my passionate heart
suffered first love’s betrayal
 
a friend, an inspiration to me then
decades later I wonder if you wanted more from me
but held back, kept it to yourself
at seventeen, you knew what love is
thank you for being my friend
 
____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

I am glad it cannot happen twice, the fever of first love. For it is a fever, and a burden, too, whatever the poets may say.

―Daphne duMaurier, Rebecca

____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to today’s collaborators for fine poetry and photos!

 

 

 

 Street Art, Atlantic City
—Public Domain Photo

A reminder that
Susan Kelly-DeWitt and Mary Mackey
will read at MoSt Poetry on Saturday
in Modesto this afternoon, 2pm; then
in Sacramento at 4pm,
Frank Gioia and Beverly Parayno
will read at Sacramento Poetry Alliance.
For info about these and other
 future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
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.

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.

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
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!