I Want Bead Curtains

Egret, Yolo Bypass

—Photo by Katy Brown, Davis

1940’S: THE MOVIES
—Joyce Odam, Sacramento

In the Theatre’s dark rows, they move like
tuning violins through a stun of dark, their
bodies vibrating to identifying edges. Perhaps
they’ll find a seat and stare with the rest of
us at a screen where figures move and mood-
music leads us along. Perhaps their innocent
knees will touch in the dark, and perhaps
their hands will grope. And perhaps the fig-
ures on the screen will turn from their lines
and watch while the usher kneels down by a
back aisle seat and strokes the arm of a girl.
And perhaps the dark is made for this—drama
and need—and the music filling the settling
dark. And some will settle back and sleep,
and some will kiss, and some will twist a handker-
chief that is made for tears. And outside, the
daylight will wait for them to come back out
and be stunned back into the flow. Or perhaps
it will be night, and the mood will be retained
for awhile, and the soft-focus world will re-
cede to a blur around them—even the stars;
and the violins will end on a note of articulate
pain; and already a ladder will be placed
against the marquee where a man will be
changing the letters for the next attraction.

____________________

THE COMING ATTRACTIONS
—Joyce Odam

It was only a dime to get in if you were
under twelve. And I could pass if I
hunched in, round-shouldered, to conceal
the breast-development I always hid
self-consciously. Then I would go
to the ladies’ room to put the lipstick on
and mascara from the small red box
with the small black wand. And I would
pose into the flattery of the mirrors
until I found my movie face. Then I’d
go in to the gilt interior of the theatre,
ornate—plush-dark—and velvet-hung,
where drama led my thoughts away
and yearning took my heart along
for all my star-touched life—in love
with love—and Charles Boyer.


(First published in Pearl, 1997)

____________________

FROM THE LOVE STORIES OF MYSELF
—Joyce Odam

who cared
what old melodrama
what farce

my life was
black and white movies
spliced and edited
half-hearted chase scenes

some lecherous form
settling beside me
whispering

but I watched
that young and handsome
usher
behind the flashlight
who could have been
a movie star

he showed the way
to loge seats
plush and deep

who cared
what plot

laugh through some scenes
weep for others

any sham of a reason
to be here
stage-struck
aching to be discovered

chewing on ticket stubs
instead of
fingernails
in the adolescent dark


(First appeared in Slant, 1991)

_____________________

ADOLESCENT LOVE
—Joyce Odam

I go to the movies, come out an actress,
in love with leading man after leading man.

Too shy to be myself, I become a composite
of leading ladies, sultry and mysterious.

Happy endings wait for me; the school boys
I’ve had crushes on never disdain me,

but yearn after me with regret in their eyes.
I am on the stage of my life, in role after role,

rehearsing, anticipating, waiting to be who I am,
wondering when life’s perfect love will find me.

_____________________

RED HAIR
—Joyce Odam

Natural redheads. Natural
response. Mirrors confirm.

All eyes go toward. Admire.
Hair of fiery look.

Audacity of self-assurance.
Hair that lifts to light.

Has sheen. Pulls self and
others in same distraction.

Admiration: Hey, Red… !
Target for helpless hearts.

Advertisements
love that look. Movies, too.

Little Egyptian bottle.
Henna.

Promise to cure dullness,
ignite with sexy color.

____________________

NOIR
—Joyce Odam

She looks at us through painted eyes,
her dark hair ornately styled.

She speaks with a slight accent
and seems to have a secret
she wants to tell, but seems afraid.

She moves through the gift shop,
pointing to this-or-that antique,
as if to dissuade our questions.

But we want to know where we are—
why we are lost in this movie—
what the plot is.

She warns with her eyes.
But we persist. A curtain parts slightly.
The beads rustle—

we need to get back into the audience,
learning forward
to see what we will do—

she picks up a tiny jeweled box
with a secret compartment (we know this
from the surreptitious note she slips inside).

We buy, and hurry out the exit
and are back in our seats in the theatre—
dark and empty now—

she has warned us not to open the box.

____________________

NIGHT FRAGMENT
—Joyce Odam

Long ago,
             when life was new,

trains came through
             with ghostly sound

and easy distance.
             Nights were long

with listening
             and what I knew

was whole and strong
             —not like illusion.

Where this goes
             is just as far

as nowhere is—
             I’ve been there, too.

___________________

DIVERSIONS
—Joyce Odam

Hooray for the
fine wind and time
for old movies on TV
James Cagney young
a feather-hatted blonde by his side.

And meanwhile
back at the window and
the brisk Canadian wind
in the frantic poplar tree
my mother getting drunk and sad…
her hurts and pains…
with pills for each…
she takes them all.

Oh, Canada,
my strange and native land…
she’ll never cook tonight,
she’s sad.
She talks and weeps…
so many yesterdays to grieve…
to worry for…
she does them all.
She’ll never cook tonight.
She’s sad.


(First published in Red Start, 1987)

_____________________ 

Today's LittleNip: 

OLD MYSTERY
—Joyce Odam

I want bead curtains to hang in my doorway
like those in old movies, tinkling softly
when someone brushes through.


(First published in Brevities, 2009)

____________________

—Medusa

Three items of note:

1) Thanks to (the prolific!) Joyce Odam for her contributions to last week's Seed of the Week: Strangers on a Train, and to Katy Brown for her stealthily-caught egret;
2) Our apologies to Chris Piper for some early formatting difficulties with his poems on yesterday's post—if you read it yesterday before 10am, you might want to check back for the corrections; and
3) Heads up: this week's SOW is Poppies, Robins, and Other Signs of Spring. Send your spring signs (or any other poems and pix) to kathykieth@hotmail.com or P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726. No deadlines on SOWs.

(Generic but 'way cool photo I found on the Web)

Buzz Buzz Bump

Chris Piper

A FLY BY THE WINDOW
—C. Piper, Napa

Quiet
still and quiet
an intermittent buzz
a fly by the window
buzz buzz bump
buzz buzz bump
a fly by the window
trying to get out
It flies against the window
urgency audible
in the still and quiet

Its multifaceted eyes
see the window
must see the window
some sensory mode
must feel the window
it strikes with such force
that energy dissipates
as sound out of proportion
to the size of the fly
but not its struggle

I observe the fly
It perceives the glass
but cannot conceive of glass
It throws itself again and again
against the apparent
transparent obstruction
buzz buzz bump
buzz buzz bump
to be free or die trying

I make less noise in my struggle
not relative to my size
less noise than a fly these days
bump with less conviction
against perceived but
incomprehensible barriers
buzz buzz bump
buzz buzz bump
buzz bump
buzz
bump

____________________

Thanks, Chris! C. Piper, 60, and his wife of 31 years, Alice, live in Napa, California, where they have raised three children—Benjamin, Julia and Samuel. On Wednesday evenings, he takes out the garbage. On Saturdays, he mows the lawn. Every morning, he writes, and most of it is released to the public on Wednesday evenings.

____________________

DUET FOR PIANO AND VOICE
—C. Piper

I.
 
In my dream
you reach across the table
and lay your fingertips
upon my forearm
like a pianist
finding first position,
your eyes reading my eyes
like sheet music;
the hammers strike
within my heart,
a dissonant chord throbs
in syncopation to my pulse,
and I weep
as I am weeping now
because I feel your touch
and because I feel my pulse.
 
II.
 
People who can sing
don’t know a thing about it
that is people
who just open their mouths
and sing;
“Just open your mouth,”
they say,
“sing from here.”
I can open my mouth
but cannot sing from there
or I can sing from there
but cannot open my mouth
but in my dream
your fingertips upon my forearm
I sing.

____________________

TERMINAL VELOCITY
—C. Piper

Orientation in space
perfected
falling no longer sensate

pull, push
sound, hush
balance and harmony

wind and water
a moment
of companionship

feng shui achieved—
impact
far away

____________________

TEH CONVERSATION CONTINUED
—C. Piper

Not even the Ninth—
the wonderful Ninth
with its majestic movements—
could match the power
and beauty of the music
Beethoven thought;
and he labored,
painfully labored
in lifelong gestation
inventing lexicon
where none existed
to bring forth
the mind’s symphonics;
but in translation—
as in all translations—
something of the original is
lost.

So it is with any conversation,
but particularly this one—
straining at the limitations
of the social contract
that stipulates
hat means hat
and chapot, chapot
and etcetera;
not coming to terms
with the known vocabulary
to express thoughts
spoken in a tongue
too personal,
like an emotion. . .
but not an emotion.

The thoughts flow
orderly, coherently,
but quickly and,
despite efforts to
loop them like a series
of images . . .
but not images . . . ,
they change each time—
some for better,
some not, some
lost.

If you could read my thoughts
without the clumsy translation,
this would make sense,
but not this, me . . . I . . . we . . .
lost . . .
you would find me innocent
or if not innocent, blameless,
or if not blameless then
not guilty by reason of.

____________________

THE UNCERTAINTY PRINCIPLE
—C. Piper

The Uncertainty Principle
reasserts itself
with unprincipled certainty.
We know moment or momentum
but never both . . . never.
The more precisely
we determine the one
the more imprecise
and indeterminate the other—
your position absolute,
but where are you going?
Where am I . . . relatively speaking?

We segue between
place and pace—
strange attractors,
bodies in motion
that touch experimentally,
the mechanics of the universe applied
and re-applied to maximize output:
less heat, more light deep into the night . . .
deep, deep into the night.

_____________________ 

Today's LittleNip: 

CASCADE LITANY
—Patricia A. Pashby, Sacramento

majestic soaring
conifers garbed in snowflakes—
lacy haute couture.

pristine mountain lakes
suspended in gauzy mist—
variant sapphire.

eagle, coyote,
scouring the chalk-white landscape—
nomadic gourmets.

miniature saplings
bent double by heavy snow—
bow in reverence.

______________________

—Medusa

A Willow Woos

—Photo by Ronald Edwin Lane, Colfax

The Twig

Dogwood bud

—Photo by Katy Brown, Davis

THE POEM
—Amy Lowell

It is only a little twig

With a green bud at the end;

But if you plant it,

And water it,

And set it where the sun will be above it,

It will grow into a tall bush

With many flowers,

And leaves which thrust hither and thither

Sparkling.

From its roots will come freshness,

And beneath it the grass-blades

Will bend and recover themselves,

And clash one upon another

In the blowing wind.

But if you take my twig

And throw it into a closet

With mousetraps and blunted tools,

It will shrivel and waste

And, some day,

When you open the door,

You will think it an old twisted nail,

And sweep it into the dust bin

With other rubbish.

______________________
 

—Medusa (who waits here in the mountains for dogwood blossoms; "snow on the dogwood" means an end to winter...)

Did you remember to set your clocks an hour ahead?

Sound—And Silence

Photo by Carl Bernard Schwartz

A RIDE WITH STRANGERS
—Carl Bernard Schwartz, Sacramento

I was sitting on the train
chatting with a chap I knew from work
mid-sentence in fact
when suddenly there was an urgent ring

followed by a rapid exchange of dialog in a foreign
tongue from a land beyond where the tracks extend,
even farther away than what Alaska’s celebrated
hockey mom can see over the horizon.

The train continued to stop at the regular places
but those stations now had unpronounceable names
using combinations of consonants that simply
don’t appear in the English language. Ever.

Instructions printed in bold red letters at emergency exits
transformed into gibberish, nonsensical expressions so
out of this world that no diagrams could be called upon
to elaborate on or explain what they meant.

When the train punctually arrived at my usual stop,
I awaited the standard reminder to exit with your baggage.
Instead, a garble of frantic voices, almost white noise came
over the PA, followed by 4 distorted gun shots, and then

a pregnant silence set the stage for a Tower of Babel
broadcast of announcements. I could discern just
a few familiar English phrases: Hurry! Jump now
or die! repeated endlessly like airport parking instructions.

At that moment, the chap from work ended the phone call
and we both descended the stairs taking us off the train.
“See you at lunch, Bob.” “Don’t be late, Frank”
Another Monday at work, just like all the rest.

____________________

THE TRAIN TO ROME
              (after Krishnamurti)
—Jeanine Stevens, Sacramento

We leave a noisy town with smooth
running trains and pinpoint lights.
Tourists eat a heavy meal.
Brown tobacco smoke clouds
the compartment. A porter sells gum.
We pass walled towns and well fed cattle.
On the hills, black cypress cut shapes
in a parchment sky, and we see a lake,
so emerald green, it must be full of memories.
A stopover at a small village,
some going down steps taking photos,
chatting without seeing.
Workmen whistle in a new building.
An old woman with small hard feet
carries a pot of milk; her walk is not gentle.
A flute plays soft notes under a banyan tree,
and a little drum throbs,
inviting a crow’s ragged call.
In the fading light, two fist shaped owls
gurgle like stones rattling in a tin box.
The horizon beams blue-violet,
a shade that only comes with age and hot sun.
On my return trip, I think everything
will change, nothing will look the same.

_____________________

Hello, Benin! Techno-phobe that I am, I just discovered the “Stats” section of blogspot; it has the capability of showing me which countries' citizens are reading the blog at any given time. Yesterday afternoon, someone was reading from Benin (!), in addition to US, Canada, UK, Poland, France (was that you, Ann Privateer?), Iran, and South Africa. On Thursday, 229 people checked in from the US, 22 from South Korea, 21 from Canada, 15 from the UK, 7 from India, 6 from Iran, and 5 each from Australia, France, Japan, and Russia. Last week we also reached Brazil, Spain, China, and Germany. Last month we reached the Netherlands, too, and Denmark. See where your poems are going? Awesome, in the old-fashioned sense of the word! (According to the stats, those people are reading The Ophidian, too.)

@#%*&%^*@#!!! Medusa manages to post most of the NorCal poetry events that happen in the middle of the state. I comb Facebook, SPAM, sac365, the newspapers, friends, and the kindness of strangers to keep on top of things. But I missed a biggie this week that had me tearing my snake-hair and looking for somebody to turn into stone: the March 10 reading/reception for Poetic License, the SMUD display of poets’ portraits done by Suzanne Johnson. (Remember the portraits she did for the deck of playing cards that came out in 2008?) I found out about the reading on the Day Of; I hadn’t even known the show has been happening since Feb. 2! (Somebody better check my medication…) Fortunately, one of my “stringers”, Katy Brown, managed to get over there and take some beautiful photos; thanks, KB! (See below for Bob Stanley and the b-board for her stunner of Pat Grizzell.) It was a stellar line-up of some of Sacramento’s finest poets, and I’m sorry I missed it; I hope my negligence didn’t make YOU miss it. (Somebody lemme know next time!)

While you’re trawling the b-board, check out all the new stuff, including the new Poetry Now. Next week is a biggie, for some reason, and St. Patty’s Day is HUGE. You could go to the Brown Bag Lunch reading at the Library at noon, the Flatmancrooked reading at CSUS at 3, and then have your pick of events that evening in Sac, Grass Valley, or San Rafael.

And thanks to Jeanine Stevens and Carl Bernard Schwartz for more Strangers on a Train poems (our SOW), and to D.R. Wagner for these “sound” poems (recent SOW—never too late for a SOW!). D.R. writes: Here are three sound poems originally published in Cruisn' at the Limit, a book I did with Duck Down Press in Fallon, Nevada 'way back in 1982.  The one entitled "*" is about getting drunker and drunker while walking at night.  "Song Without Words" is an invented language I did a number of poems using.  It actually does sound lovely if one reads it aloud.  [Note to D.R.: You should see what this poem does to my spellchecker!]  "Singing Together" is about being the new kid in the neighborhood and is to be read quickly and loudly.


*
—D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove

                  *
Stars moving in the trees
We are walking
Drinking brandy.

                  *
Drinking stars moving in the trees
We are brandy
Walking.

                  *
Walking stars brandy in the trees.
We are drinking.
Moving.

                   *
Moving brandy drinking in the trees.
We are moving stars.

                   *
Stars drinking brandy in the trees.
We are walking stars.
Moving in the brandy trees.

____________________

SONG WITHOUT WORDS
—D.R. Wagner

Waa melkios trelaan trellan
spendnit eas eaos, tromareeet
Renthuuubar hortium mentikke
sponfinnie remalis.

Sponfinne remalis eaos hothar
fretobit hothar hothar menkallit
sprefan donobitobit tellouth
sponfinnie remalis.

Ochnar, ochnar, ontamout
remalis remlis, ochnar, ochnar
trebonit yentherahh mentallan
menkobit, menkobit ochnar.

__________________

SINGING TOGETHER
—D.R. Wagner

We dont like you
cant tell you
how much
we dont like you
sing the wiping tears
away around him they
did and didnt really
as they say dont like
to say to him we dont like
very very much but everyone
was all together bunched
and the singing came
because he only had a
new haircut or just
couldnt say some word
we all knew or was new
to us all and later he too
would join in after awhile
and everyone to his house
for things to fun and somebody
else we wouldnt like
again and again until
we all became too old
and went out to do it
for real in god and country

____________________

Today's LittleNip: 

The trains roared by like projectiles level on the darkness, fuming and burning, making the valley clang with their passage.  They were gone, and the lights of the towns and villages glittered in silence.

—D.H. Lawrence

____________________

—Medusa

Sacramento Poet Laureate Bob Stanley reads 

at Poetic License reading/reception

—Photo by Katy Brown, Davis

...And Wings To Fly...

Nancy Norton

BUZZY
—Nancy Norton, Healdsburg

A slumbering bumblebee

rests in the sunny cup of a shocking pink Zinnia

within a fence of yellow star stamens,

kicks legs—a black-bristled dog

turns over at the prod of a girl god

keeping all five eyes closed,

dreaming galaxies of pollen-studded blossoms,

atmospheres so thick with nectar honey

that this bee swoons ever back

to buzzy, leg-kicking slumber.

__________________

Thanks to Nancy Norton, Pat Hickerson, and Ron Lane for today's contributions! Nancy Norton finds poems and stories during the quiet moments of her life in transit, in flight and in the wee hours of the night. Independent newspapers in Kansas City and Northern California have published Nancy’s nonfiction and reviews of movies and theater. Her one-act play, All in a Day’s Work, won first prize in the NVC Jessamyn West Contest. Her poetry has appeared in CALYX, The Comstock Review, Susan B & Me, a book of women’s writing and photography and online at www.fishpublishing.com, www.thelinnetswings.net and mirror-magazine.com. Nancy is working on a collection of poetry and short stories as a continuing student at the Whidbey Writers Workshop.

Here are some more "tree-ish" poems from Nancy, appropriate-enough to California Arbor Day which runs from March 7-14 [see yesterday's post]. Then we have a noir poem from Pat Hickerson, celebrating our Seed of the Week: Strangers on a Train, and a photo-poem from Ron Lane, celebrating, well, spring, which officially starts next week. (Don't forget to set your clocks ahead this Sunday for Daylight Savings Time!) Watch for work from all three of these poets in the upcoming second issue of The Ophidian (O2), due out in April.

_____________________

BONE YARD OF THE TREES
         —after “The Freeze” by Joe Stroud
—Nancy Norton

Look at the bone yard
look at this acre
of trunks laid low
by the press of progress
slabs of wood
piled high as a house
earth stained black
with the life blood of
walnut redwood live oak

groves
that once marched
across valleys
copses
flattened by a stampede
of sterile suburbs
one lifetime
of rampant greed
stamped across the land
crushing sacred forests

Look at the
tree bones
tossed into trucks
hauled away
to feed trivial fires
centuries of land memory
dialogues with the sky
vanish
in an ember glow

rise
in a cloud of spirits
as if
the Pomo Indians
of Clear Lake Massacre
appear
in a Ghost Dance
igniting dreams
of desiccated earth
drenched in dried blood

____________________

SPRING GREEN
—Nancy Norton

It’s a lime green, the kind of green
on which white butterflies alight.
A lite green, as opposed to army green,
with its deadly wash of gray;
as opposed to deep forest green,
with black shadows at its heart.

It’s a green veil screening
girls baring feet, legs, shoulders
for the first time this year;
the green of tender leaves
fluttering in delight
at the warm breeze,
exhaling pure oxygen
in clouds at the sky.

______________________

CHICHORY SEASON
—Nancy Norton

The Queen Anne’s Lace is all stitched up in white
blue Fairy’s Wands are rattling out next year’s
offspring in the hands of enchanted children
bunches of ruffled Daisies have fallen over
exhausted at their crowded summer dance
the Sweet William vanished in a fruitless profusion
of strawberry plants now withered to brown
the peaches are large but sparse on the tree
there is just one more ripe each afternoon.

_____________________

STRANGERS ON THE SCOTTISH FLYER
—Patricia Hickerson, Davis

“From London to Edinburgh
is as far as I go,”
said the jolly old gent
in the red plaid tam o’
as he swilled down the vodka
the scotch and the gin
and peered at the strangers
with an ear-splitting grin.
They all thought he was crazy
but humored the dog
and whiled away the hours
through rain and through fog.

By the time they reached Scotland
they’d had quite enough;
they seized him by necktie,
pulled him up by the scruff;
“Out you go,” they all hollered,
threw him out of the train.
He ne’er knew what happened
so soft was his brain.

So next time you go
through the dark countryside
mind you don’t drink too much
by sobriety abide.

____________________ 

Today's LittleNip:

Ahhhhh!

Endless blue skies

Time to rest

And wings to fly

—Photo and poem by Ronald Edwin Lane, Colfax

_____________________

—Medusa

Trees, Trains, & Angels

Photo by Ann Privateer

THE AWAKENING
—Ann Privateer, Davis

the dream…I move from
room to room
in the house of my youth
searching for my mother
calling, mom, mom,
but no answer
coming to a place
where I could see through
a tilted basement window
where my father
and the trees that surround him
used to be, but all are gone,
whitewashed away
the way basements were
and all of a sudden I knew
that she had fled with him.

____________________

Thanks, Ann Privateer, for the poem and pic, and thanks to today's other contributors! We're talking noir, here, for our Strangers on a Train SOW. Send your poetic or photographic or artistic speculations about strangers on a train to kathykieth@hotmail.com or P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726. No deadline on SOWs.

A good time was had by most at the Rattle-Read last night at The Book Collector, with fine poetry by Carl Schwartz and Martha Ann Blackman. Their new publications may be had at TBC, along with the latest WTF (#9—and yes, I dropped off some more copies at TBC last night). Speaking of WTF, Editor Frank Andrick graces the front page of the new Poetry Now (along with rattlechapper Susan Kelly-DeWitt), and copies are also available at TBC—or click on the happy guy with his computer on Medusa's b-board over at the right.

The group was rowdier than usual last night; must've been the pomegranate juice.

My bad: Michelle Kunert let me know that her photo of the dancers I posted yesterday were Chinese, not Ukrainian. Oopsie.....

Tonight! Poetry Unplugged at Luna's Cafe presents James Lee Jobe and Sam Skow. That's at 1414 16th St., Sacramento, 8pm. Reared in Sacramento, Sam Skow began performing spoken word poetry in and around Los Angeles upon moving there in 2000. Honing his particular writing and performance style in the Slam scene, he made the 2003 LA Slam Team which won the National Poetry Slam Championship that year. He has released three chapbooks (Blame the Hat, Fighting Cancer with Coughdrops, and Handjobs to Hyperbole) and one CD (The Deadliness of Mistletoes) under his own name and two different aliases: Buddha Hat and Barnabus Briefchatter. Sam has since returned to Sacramento to pursue his college education, but he is still known to rhyme to himself at bus stops, train stations, and during smoke breaks.

This will be the premiere of James Lee Jobe's sixth chapbook, Very Late At Night, from Geoffrey Neill's little m press, one of our "sister" publishing houses in Sacramento. Rattlechapper James Lee has been a respected poet, publisher, and reader in our area for a long time. You can read more about him at rattlesnakepress.com/James_Lee_Jobe.html; meanwhile, here are some of his poems. His mention of trees is appropriate for California's Arbor Day, which is actually a week: March 7-14. (See www.arborday.org/states/?state=CA). National Arbor Day isn't until April 29: www.arborday.org/arborday/?gclid=CI_zstGsxKcCFRlPgwod_zCVDw. But I digress... Here are three James Lee Jobe poems:


SACRAMENTO. VERY LATE AT NIGHT.
—James Lee Jobe, Davis

A nocturnal forest grows on the roof
of the city, a bedroom for the great mother,
visible only to lovers, long after midnight.
Her valley oaks, pine, and cedar grow so thick
that I must push through many branches
to see the waning moon set far across the rooftops,
and the leaves feel cool against my bare back.
My eyes more often look inward, worrying,
Calculating. But when midnight is gone
and the dawn is coming without sleep again
I can climb up for the moonlight, and for you.
How wonderful you are, naked in moonlight!
Your breasts cast night shadows on the rooftops.
The warm scent of your body tickles the city,
and the people smile through their dreams.
How marvelous life is! Aren't we a pair?
Making love atop an urban forest of two
while below us all of Sacramento sleeps?

____________________

THE WIDE WORLD
—James Lee Jobe

You open your door
And the wide world calls out to you.
Trees have a dance
That they perform with the wind.
The wind sings a little tune to the leaves.
Dogs have a lot to say.
It goes like that.
Hearing this, you move through the verses
Of the wide world. Being alive
Is like reading a novel, and you say that
Out loud. You turn each page
Hoping that something good
Will happen.

___________________

THINGS THE ANGELS TOLD ME
—James Lee Jobe

The light doesn't pay any attention to you.
Not even a little. The choice of what to be
was always yours, and still is. Even now.
The end, the beginning; those are concepts
hardly worth attention! The difference
is between having and being.
It is your choice. On this side,
our side, you don't have peace;
you are peace. You don't move
into the light; you are the light
Or you're not, and remain dark.
Alone. Where you are,
you can see the light, and be warm,
but you're not a part of it.
You'll struggle and suffer,
but you get children, and that's worthy
of a struggle, you get a lover to hold,
you get a direction to move in, to grow,
and a name that is just for you.

_____________________ 

Today's LittleNip: 

LONG BEFORE AMTRAK
—Kevin Jones, Fair Oaks

For once
The train
Pulled up
Sort of on time

Those of us
Who still
Believed
Sort of applauded.

____________________

—Medusa

Photo by Carl Bernard Schwartz, Sacramento

Murder & Other Parties

"Charm of the Vinegar" Dance

Chinese Dancers, Camellia Festival

—Photo by Michelle Kunert, Sacramento

THE PARTY AFTER THE PARTY
—Cynthia Linville, Sacramento

I am wearing a blue ball gown near the pool
where one my lovers lounges in his birthday suit
and another strolls through with his camera
asking if anyone wants their picture made.
The rock band asks to be photographed on black
bean-bag chairs with heads of lettuce and raw meat.
(The drummer claims their music beats the heart.)
A firecracker lily dives nine feet into the pool
where couples cluster in the dark water
wishing everyone else would just go home.
A moonless voice is asking for a new muse.
Rose thorns near the gate
extract our dues in blood.

_____________________

DATA RETRIEVAL
—Carl Bernard Schwartz, Sacramento

I’m staaarrving!
weakly uttered the lad
looking up at low-hanging fruit
as if it was on a mountain top.

Name it and I’ll get if for you.
offered one well-nourished gentleman.
Just say the Kingdom or Phylum

It’s been days since I’ve eaten! 

Class, Order, Family, Genus

I’m not going to make it! 

or Species. You’ve been
standing there long enough
to count all the branches
and leaves. Postulate
now how many roots?

We can’t have you just
laying on the ground
not participating in
discussion.

Bother! Now
I have the
chore of
hauling 
you
off.

_____________________

ASILOMAR WALK
—Mitz Sackman, Murphys

Rolling on the horizon
Little white puffs
Sailboats in the wind
Dot the bay
Polka dots against
The blue black of the water
Off Asilomar this fine morning
Brisk winds hurry walkers
From a leisurely stroll to brisk steps
A stirring January day
Bright sunshine
Not lowering clouds
Bring joy to the morning walk

______________________

A TRAIN FROM LONDON
—Taylor Graham, Placerville

The young man undoes a button on his vest;
it was a good piece of roast he put away
before boarding—and eyes the older gentleman
across, a stranger, thin as the walking staff
he props against a paltry traveling bag.
Suddenly it's dark, as the train plunges
into tunnel beneath street and church-vault,
surges up again to give glimpses
into a tenement's back door. The man
across holds a strange small book, leather-
bound and worn—could the letters
on its cover be Arabic, or Hebrew?—
and seems to search its pages for a passage.
Where could such a man be bound, foot-
traveler on a train? On what sort of mission?
Then, as if content, the stranger looks up.
“How long, do you think, till we reach
Kelvedon?” Is that his destination? A mere
village, just two hours out of London.
And, mark his foreign accent. American,
that land where brothers kill their brothers.
“It's good to leave the coal-smoke behind,”
the stranger says. “London's hard on a man's
lungs. Have you ever been to Scotland?”
The young man undoes another vest button
and, without seeming, checks his watch.
Ninety minutes more to Kelvedon.

____________________

STRANGERS ON THE RAILS
—Taylor Graham

It's a long double-rail way from here
to there. The book I brought is dull,
inspiring strange images. I'm in the belly
of a troublous segmented insect
that lashes the landscape with its tail.
Across from me in the compartment,
a young man in best suit and dark tie
exudes all the honesty of the small
tract he reads to himself, oblivious
to the world outside the window
as it's lashed by our locomotive
progress, two parallel tracks rushing
toward a vanishing point.

_____________________

MURDER ON PARK AVENUE
—Patricia Hickerson, Davis

is she sad?
hell, no
she’s as sparkly as springtime out here
whatever else is going on…
she’s got it all in hand
spike heeled boots and a rhinestone shirt
she just dumped her sweetie
or was it the other way ‘round?
funny how her brain is a blank
all she remembers is that day he got so mad at her
he tried to throw her from his tenth floor window…

whatever…she’s hard as cinders
hard as the mascara on her lashes
the Revlon nails at her fingertips
stalking past chrome and concrete
she won’t let it disturb her days
she can take him or leave him
she doesn’t care—
let him ball that back-door slut…

cars and chrome and concrete
glass walls and green lights
mascara and miniskirts,
nails and tails: she’ll be wanton at the Waldorf
he never really loved her, did he?

brass gleaming all around
brass banisters, brass lanterns
Grand Central Station glitters
diamond of the city
she’ll buy a real diamond some day
she’ll be diamond-hard
hard enough to scratch a glass window
hard enough to drop-kick that old guy
limping across the street against traffic
she’d love to see him or someone else she knows
gut-squashed in the fast lane…

_____________________

Today's LittleNip: 

As a child, my number one best friend was the librarian in my grade school. I actually believed all those books belonged to her.

—Erma Bombeck

_____________________

—Medusa (And don't forget tonight's reading with new publications from Martha Ann Blackman and Carl Bernard Schwartz at The Book Collector, 1008 24th St., Sacramento, 7:30pm. See you there!)

Camellia Festival

—Photo by Michelle Kunert