Yet Another Web of Intrigue

 —Illustration by Nolcha Fox

 (with Microsoft Designer)

* * *

—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Caschwa, 

Stephen Kingsnorth, Devyanshi Neupane, 

Sayanı Muhkerjee, and Joe Nolan
—Public Domain Illustrations 

Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

 

SNAZZY SPIDER
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

She spins a web of finest silk
adorned with dewdrop diamonds.
She gathers it to float away
and sail high seas in style.

 

 

 

 

 WINDFALL
        San Rafael, Ca
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

A Victorian mansion
stands deserted
on a hilltop,
while its
ancient
apple trees
drop
windfall
gems
in
piled leaves
where spiders
nurse, wait
& hibernate
under worn
pup-tent webs.

 

 

 UNSEEN PERILS
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

not all spiders are celebs
nor do all make homes in webs
deadly threats that hide in dark
could be strangers in the park

checking account off by some
trouble lurks and will soon come
missed a lecture in tough class
it’s on test to bite your ass

bought a car, it looked so nice
engine fails first roll of dice
man proposed and she said yes
outcome still anyone’s guess

“fresh until date” days away
don’t read label, price to pay
use a ladder for repair
add more weight than it will bear

first to use poetic form?
reading shows that it’s the norm
waiter gives you the best seat
cannot get enough to eat

 

 

 

 

 

SPIDERS
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

The letters wander, paper place,
as if the writing lacks control,
a waste of space, yet occupied
by gliff marks, stains claimed, moving hand,
so spidery, when compact sought.

This cottage, wood work, timber beams,
with nooks and crannies every turn,
where webbing trembles, trampoline,
a battlefront for type of clean,
what template set, clean living met?

For her the years’ deposit mess,
for him preferred to flying corps,
in dust and ashes, soup unseen,
these weightless in their waiting room,
or drop in, abseil from thin air.

It’s leggy scurry, knees, unease,
coordination, moving parts
that causes shudder, or ignore,
for harmless against global scores
core native species here before. 

 

 

 

 

TOO EXPENSIVE
—Stephen Kingsnorth

(After last week’s SOW, “Too Expensive”)

Most all on offer, all we buy
is too expensive—pensive thought.
It’s less our pockets bear no gold
as Mother Earth has less supplies
than that demanded, us, our seed.

Through our sailing close to wind,
as though our current, currencies
should sustain such, much growth on growth.
Though barns be full, we build still more.

Accounting in not cash alone,
but social credits on the books,
as too those debits, prices paid,
a balance, as art of the deal;
the art of ancient stories’ line,
creation myths by wise designed.

Expense of spirit, waste of shame,
misuse of others, Eden’s blame,
so as creation’s myths are shared,
the challenge posed, but what is dared?

Ensnared by Zeitgeist, very, few,
a greater mass has riches too,
yet even greater, poverty;
when will those barns be battered down? 

 

 

 

 

I LIKE WEATHERS:
—Devyanshi Neupane, Age 5, Melbourne, Australia

I like cold weather
I like warm Weather
I like Rainy weather
I like Sunny Weather

 

 

 

 

RAIN
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar, W. Bengal, India

Purple hibiscus and the tears of tomorrow
Bleed a thousand promises of faith
I breathed a heavy breathing of autumn
Of memories and March days
Of banal thoughts and the heights of the promise
An autumn day of quiet and solitude
The river runs a deeper knife
Of past statues and quiet evenings
A little day of yellow faces
My poetry is for roses and dandelions
Dancing around the river green
Till the moonshine kisses the rain. 

 

 

 

 

YOUR GRAND-DADDY’S CAR
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

This is your Grand-daddy’s car
One that puts your head back
When you step on the gas
It’s got power
Under your ass.
This is your Grand-daddy’s car

This is the one
He drove for fun
At a hundred miles-per-hour
On Sunday afternoons
Down a long, straight, road
With its V-8 humming
“Just to blow out the carbon,”
He said,
But people standing
Alongside the road
Swore they could hear him
“Whoo-hoo!”
When he passed by.

This is your Grand-daddy’s car
With paint that shined like the sun
When you’d wax it
On Saturday morning,
Before the sun got too strong,
Getting ready
For that Sunday ride
With the top pulled down
For the sun to bake your skin
And the wind to whip your hair
Leaving the world behind.
This is your Grand-daddy’s car.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

 

The artist is a receptacle for emotions that come from all over the place: from the sky, from the earth, from a scrap of paper, from a passing shape, from a spider's web.

 

—Pablo Picasso

____________________

Our thanks to today’s contributors for writing about, among other things, Spiders (our Seed of the Week).

 

The March issue of Sacramento Poetry Center's Poet News is now available at https://www.sacpoetrycenter.org/poetnews/. Check it out for area poetry events (including the Bay Area), poetry, submissions, workshops and more!

 

A note that the tribute to B.L. Kennedy which was scheduled for March 1 has been re-scheduled to March 8, Three Penny Theatre in Sacramento (next to SPC), 7:30pm. 

____________________

—Medusa

 

Words to the wise:

 

 

 

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 Al-Mutanabbi Street Starts Here

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