Dear, Dear Daffodils

 —Daffodil Illustration by Nolcha Fox
—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Claire J. Baker,
Stephen Kingsnorth, Joe Nolan, Caschwa,
and Michael H. Brownstein
—Original Art by Norman Olson
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Joe Nolan and Medusa

 

 

DEAR DAFFODILS
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

Daffodils hopped over the fence
from our neighbor’s yard,
anxious to escape the careful
pruning and perfection.
Word spread that we allow
our plants to grow just
as they’d like. How brave
they were to jump with no
idea if they would land alive
or squashed, that other
plants would eat as fertilizer.
Two yellow heads took root
and nodded sunshine to the fall.
I hope they like us well enough
that they’ll be back again.

 

 

 

 —Art by Norman Olson

I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD….
(first line of “Daffodils” by William Wordsworth)
—Claire J.Baker, Pinole, CA

With daffodils, I think of Wordsworth,
his words worth dwelling upon.
I dance with daffodils in mirth;
begin to reread William Wordsworth
whether in Berkeley or in Perth.
For daffodils in hills, or gone,
I shout the word for all its worth,
the poet’s sonnet lingering on. 

 

 

 

 —Art by Norman Olson

ANXIOUS FOR DAFFODILS
(30,000 current cultivar varieties known)
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

What wandered, wild, not far from lake
has now been bred, lo-botanised;
narcissus staring, water-born,
a cousin with a smaller nose.
Corona trumpet, common call
in every tint of yellow range,
a paschal shade to shape the year,
this host, a cloud unknowing drift.

One Easter I did eat the bloom
picked from the altar floral stems
to illustrate what doubtful tale
the empty tomb—‘but vicar ate’.
‘I don’t believe it’ parents said,
‘replaced the daff with sugar stalk’;
but realised my honesty
with first bite of that foul taste.

So I’m anxious for daffodils,
their last trump sounding when I preach,
aware that it may be my last—
that bulb far better in the earth.
So corm or rhizome, bulb or seed,
they all, with nurture, brought to bloom;
sweet-smelling, beeline, pollen, growth,
the word worth, but the seen transports.

 

 

 

—Art by Norman Olson

ANXIOUS FOR DAFFODILS
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

Can we wait
For our darlings, dear,
To climb out from the ground

To sprinkle earth
With bright sunshine—
To sparkle light
All around?

How dear they are,
Like early Spring,
When life and love
Make their offerings
From Earth
Back to the stars.

So delicate,
So fine,
My dearest, gentle flower—
My daffodil,
My darling!

 

 

 

 —Art by Norman Olson

MY HOUSEBROKEN BEATER
—Joe Nolan

I tried to kill my beater,
But she would not die.

I put some rocket fuel in her
To see if she would fly.

Flames shot out her tailpipe.
She roared while racing by,
But my beater
Would not go
“Bye-bye.”
She would not die.

She’s parked out
On my driveway, now,
Up on blocks.
It’s the only thing that stops her--
When we take her wheels away.

She’s been a bad, bad girl.
Now she’ll have to pay--
House-broken
House-broken--
We took her wheels away.

 

 

 

—Art by Norman Olson

 

WHICH MUSIC’S IN YOUR HEAD?
—Joe Nolan

Who has Heavy-Metal
Ripping through his brains
Slamming through
Redundant chants
As though he were insane,
Due to his musical
Programming?

Who has raucous Rap
Blasting from his car,
Announcing alienation
Anger and rebellion
To all,
Both near and far?

Who has soothing rhythms
Sounding ‘tween his ears
Picked up from some
Dead White guys
Who wrote it
Long ago,
Well before
Madison Avenue,
Tin Pan Alley
And Hollywood reality?

Who has what
And does it matter
How our brain cells scatter
Or coalesce, convalesce
From our stress and hectic pace
Or cornered in our minds
With unrelenting mayhem?

 

 

 

 —Art by Norman Olson

A CORPORATE SLOT
—Joe Nolan

Inculcation-indoctrination
Followed by regurgitation
Onto tests
To see if you’ll conform
Or digress.

You must be a pedigree
To obtain a prized degree
Replete with summa cum laude
Ready for your corporate slot
With a chance to rise to top
If you fit the mold
And say how you’re “excited”
About the newest marketing ploy
To develop pricing power
To charge more than is fair
To get a lion’s share
Of profits
By name-recognition,
Labeling
And Bernaysian-association
Designed to induce
The general public
To buy things they don’t need
Like cigarettes and booze
With broads laid out on
This year’s brand-new models
All shiny, fresh and
Just for you and
All you want to do.

 

 

 

 —Art by Norman Olson

LIKE AN OPEN BOOK
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

Blustery Day

people ask me just too many
questions

If someone were able to get
inside my mind and look around
they’d find thousands of loose
pages swirling around, hunting
for the binding that would enable
at least a hint of some sense to
come from the ordered collection
of the sum of them

I know my memory is less than
ideal, so I use a computer to
enhance my memory. Instead of
enriching the cash flow of Big
Pharma by buying their amazing,
highly advertised, supplement pills,
I go to the keyboard of my desktop
computer and record whatever might
pose a problem for me to remember
on my own

So don’t ask me to recite text I rarely
if at all quote, what platform works
best in what situation, or professional
sports statistics from well before I was
born. Direct your inquiry to a computer,
developed to serve that very purpose

While you do that, I’ll seek to recover
memories from early childhood, back
when I already knew all there was to
know.

 

 

 

 —Art by Norman Olson

TURNABOUT
—Caschwa

Brandishing Her Sword

At first I hated when my local
professional basketball team
imposed a new requirement that
TV viewers like me and many
others upgrade our TV service
to have a paid subscription to
allow us to continue to view the
games on TV. My budget being
what it is, this blocked me out.

Then it occurred to me: maybe I
could do something like that, too?
Require telemarketers, etc. (anyone
I prefer not to speak with on the
telephone) to first have a fully paid
subscription to allow them to connect
with my telephone line. Then I could
feel safer browsing the Internet, and
knowing that my stated or inferred
preferences would not result in calls
to my home.

(we see you enjoyed the services
of a waitress. Trends show that
males who like waitresses also like
pole dancers, lap dancers, strippers,
and prostitutes. Here is a list for your
shopping convenience …) 

 

 

 

 

—Art by Norman Olson

GET YOUR ACT TOGETHER
—Caschwa

Before I Knew Better

script: well rehearsed
makeup: fresh and smelly
props: they’re all reversed
spotlight: aimed at your belly

you’re supposed to stand
on center stage
tell jokes that land
on folks your age

so few will laugh
at what you say
seems you’re not half-
prepared to stay

spotlight shifts
to show your crotch
sex theme lifts
the jokes you botch

crowd enjoys
your tragic plight
you pack your toys
seek exit light

and then you hear
a laugh or two
that you hold dear
there are so few

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Illustration 

Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

And we close with a set of belated valentines from
Michael H. Brownstein (and Norman Olson):


AN AFFAIR WITH LOVE
—Michael H. Brownstein, Jefferson City, MO

They were not a young couple
with a love of lust,
but elderly,
with a lust of love.
Do you know the difference?

Somewhere personality exposed itself,
imagination, creativity, intellect,
a theology of together—
two talking heads waking together,
snow falling outside,
the temperature falling from 50 to 6 below,
a wraparound wind,
neither one so uncomfortable they need to
    turn on the furnace.

Whew—that was a long line.

A lust for love,
not a love of lust.
Thirty years of marriage.
It does get better.

 

 

 

 —Art by Norman Olson

LOVE LINKS
—Michael H. Brownstein

under the blanket
love melodies comfort us
songs enter our soul

under the blanket
love melodies comfort us
peace enters our soul

under the blanket
love melodies comfort us
warmth enters our soul 

 

 

 

 

—Art by Norman Olson

IN THE MORNING IT WILL STILL BE OK
—Michael H. Brownstein
 
This is not who I love. This is not what I love.
Love is a god-stone, thick and sometimes valuable,
strong-wristed, one arc of a finger
stretching.
 
Love has the weight of god, the weight of
    Eve’s sister,
Lilith, and vomit, water mixed with salt,
a mottled permutation of tear-stained skin,
pink and ordinary, thinly veined and iridescent,
the sigh of sun arriving into day’s orange blue.
 
This is who I love. This is what I love.
An evening of chimneys and steam,
a cloud of feather and frog,
green eyes.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Grow old with me. The best is yet to be.

—Robert Browning

___________________

Our thanks to today’s contributors—fine poetry, of course; original, intriguing art from Norman Olson (whose birthday was yesterday, by the way), and Nolcha’s explosive daffodils in response to our Seed of the Week, Anxious for Daffodils. I didn’t post Michael Bernstein’s valentines last Friday, but I told him that ALL our Presidents need love, too, so today, Presidents’ Day, would be just as appropriate.

Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week. We’ve had some humdingers, and Caschwa (Carl Schwartz) is addressing them, one by one . . .

___________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 We’re anxious for spring pansies, too!  

Daffodils get all the good p.r. . . .
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Poetry in Motion meets
in Placerville this morning;
and Sacramento Poetry Center
presents
Dr. Andy Jones & Dyson Smith
in Sacramento tonight, 7:30pm.
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!—
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