Our Great Green Mother

—Poems and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA

SCATTER

I walked my dogs down gravel,
and along the frontage trail where fairy-lanterns
bloom in May, fragile as parchment.

Young dog Trek flushed a turkey—I yelled
unquotables after him as Turkey led Trek
over and over the hill out of sight.

I scanned my where-abouts. Turkeys
must have little vanity in their nesting, nor
wish to be cozy over their brood—

6 eggs together in the nest, a 7th
a bit apart; 2 more a ways down the trail,
and a 10th well beyond.

What instinct governs the hen turkey’s
housekeeping? What force secretly ferried
those eggs so far from their nest?

Trek returned to me, turkey egg
in his jaws unbroken, so gently
I couldn’t scold him.

END OF THE DIRT ROAD

Cause to celebrate, when the cement
mixer pulled away, grumbling
down the hill, headed back to town.

Second step in foundation of the house.
My hands felt raw clear up to the elbow
from trenching, with or without gloves.

The whole construction—systems
of power and plumbing not to mention
framing, walls, subfloor, roof—

all rather vague in my mind. Did I
dream a kitchen with refrigerator so far
from pavement? at least, a house

dwarfed by the principal spirit
of that place, a grand Ponderosa.
Such was the plan.

What I saw: the spirit of earth
leaving like an endangered species,
the Kingsnake slipping away.

FIELD NOTES FROM THE PRESERVE

Hike thru delphinium & checkerbloom, gum plant, purple needle grass. Triteleia in purple, white, pretty-face yellow. Hot-spot for plant diversity. We keep finding new things. Climate change, the unknown. Grassland w/ oak woods to east—honeysuckle & snakevine twining poison oak; to west, chaparral—chamise & ceanothus, toyon, white-leaf manzanita. Soaproot pollinated by nocturnal moths. Morning glory bright white against green mule-ears—lacy glint of gray-dead leaves; plant clumps extending 2000 years? My camera balks at recording so much time. 5 buzzards kettle the canyon. From the high point, a view over so much country. Underfoot, so many surprises.

flowers sun-bursting
over old leaf-skeletons—
silver net of time

LISTING THE RARE AND ENDANGERED

         Pine Hill Preserve
 
Stebbins’ Morning-glory: in love with Wyethia
bolanderi, bright white face against vivid green

Pine Hill Ceanothus: rare endemic, expanding
its range, advancing low twig-tips rooting
in gabbro-soil

Red Hills Soaproot: a different soaproot grew
at our old place but I never caught it in bloom

Bolander’s Wyethia: not rare but to morning
glory. Those vibrant green leaves!

Wyethia reticulata, El Dorado Mule Ears: so
rare I missed it; note-book full, trick knee too
tricky

Must come back another day, another note-
book, same old knee

CELEBRATING MOTHER’S DAY

We parked in a turnout, shrugged on our packs
—everybody got enough water?—and slipped
around the locked green gate. Up the trail
with a stop midway to mark the sudden change:
woodland to chaparral; grassland stringer
in-between—note how wildflower meadow-wash
shifts yellow to purple as Spring moves on.
I paused on pretext of a photo; allowed the scene
to breathe itself in. Then, back on trail, hustling
to catch up, not to miss words on the way.
At the saddle, views in every direction; a bit
of wildfire history; how periodic burns help
the rare plants survive. We hiked back down.
Green gate and cars just out of sight. I stopped.
An edge of meadow seemed to blue in shade
of Quercus douglasii, blue oak; how it released
the breath it gave me. Our great green Mother.

THE AMGEN’S COMING!

In honor of the race, I mowed our right-of-way,
swinging my motor-scythe to visions of our little
county two-lane alive with bikes—
zinging skimming pulsing—world-class cyclists
burning a whole lot more body-fuel than
I ever could with my Stihl.
Tomorrow they’ll be spinning up Green Valley,
just yards from my still-unmowed pasture.

Visions help. Weed-eating gets tedious,
stopping to unwind spiral garlands of wild oat,
vetch, and clover from the trimmer-head.

But just now I found where the deer
bed down among grasses, between speeding
traffic and pasture fence;
also an old nursery-label for Arctostaphylos
uva-ursi Kinnikinnick. Never have I seen
the species here. Did someone hope to cover
this land in bearberry? Or, like the Amgen Tour,
just passing through?

CULTIVE TON JARDIN

This isn’t Pony Express Re-Ride, I know
the route and schedule. From Folsom, the race
takes Green Valley right past our front pasture,
on to Placerville before brutal ascents, 18,000 ft
of climb! to Tahoe.
        My pasture needs mowing. Daypack
with iPad handy, I’m wielding my Stihl against
wild growth. Right on schedule, a brief WOOP!
Red-blue lights flashing, and the first of count-
less motorcycles, CHP, Sheriff cars.
               I must look like an old-time
peasant mowing my pasture, pausing to watch
the cavalcade rushing past. Put down my
trimmer, grab my iPad.
       No peasant—I’m war correspondent,
ready for the first wave of cyclists—aim, click!
Click click and they’re gone.
              Another red-&-blue flashing
interlude. From his SUV a deputy waves, calls
“best seat in the house!” Finally, a very long
string of cyclists; trailed by endless support
vehicles, spare bicycles on roofs; medical;
motorcycles. What a parade!
       All it lacked was the Pony Express.
What’s left are a few photos, a poem, and one
mowed swath inside the pasture fence.
I go back to my mowing. The grass stops
growing for no bicycle race.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Poetry is what in a poem makes you laugh, cry, prickle, be silent, makes your toenails twinkle, makes you want to do this or that or nothing, makes you know that you are alone in the unknown world, that your bliss and suffering is forever shared and forever all your own.

—Dylan Thomas

____________________

Our thanks to Taylor Graham for making our toenails twinkle today with her fine poems and photos! And remember that Poetry Unplugged meets today at Luna’s Cafe, 1414 16th St., Sacramento, with featured poets and open mic, 8pm. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about this and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa

 Celebrate the bliss and the suffering that is poetry!

Photos in this column can be enlarged by clicking on them once,
then click on the X in the top right corner to come back
to Medusa. 

Tin Cup in a Beggar's Hand

—Anonymous Photos
—Poems by Nick LeForce, Sacramento, CA

THE SHIPWRECKED SOUL

Beware the captain
That sails only on smooth waters;
That drops anchor only in safe harbors;
That lets aboard only familiar faces;
That will not brook strong winds or stormy weather;

Whose life, well lived, is a deadly comfort—
Never to be dashed against the rocks of passion;
Never to be dismembered on the shores of love.

Yet a life so well lived it hides a shipwrecked soul.

I have been such a captain.

But now I set out on unknown seas

With sails full open
Guided only by whispers in the wind;
By images in white capped waves;
By patterns in the flight of birds;
And by bits of news from distant ports;

In search of that soul survivor,
The almost forgotten fragments of Self
That shall heal the world as the world heals me.

HEAVEN

What is the world to me?
A tin cup in a beggar’s hand
waiting to hear the “clink”
of every coin you drop.

What you discard as worthless
is worth more than years
because you teach me
that there is no gate to heaven.

Love turns away no one.

The walls I see exist only inside my eyes,
the gate only inside my mind.

I was too busy laying claim to the world
to notice heaven around me;
too concerned with the coins in my cup
to realize I made myself a beggar in life.

Then, you came!
You believed in me.
Your eyes twinkling like stars
in the night sky
witnessing my dreams.
Your smile rising like the morning sun,
melting walls and gates and
awakening the magic in me.

How can I ever give to you
what you have given me?

I offer what I have with love.
I pour the wine of my words 
into your cup, wanting us
to get drunk on life
and share the heaven in our hearts.

SACRED RELICS

I do not know when
I lost my footing on the earth
or when I moved upstairs
from the heart to the lofty places
where ideas dance.
I do not know how many steps
I must take to make the pilgrimage
back to the holy land.

But I do know the longing
for something that cannot be named;
the missing of something unknown
as if the day calls me;
calls me out to play…

because I was once eager
to go outside.

I once knocked on the doors of friends
uninvited.

I once moved in my body
as if I belonged there.

But here I am, now,
in the middle of my life,
with duties to be done
and chores to be completed

while the pilgrim comes, uninvited,
knocking at the door of my heart;
bringing sacred relics
of the life I have not yet lived;
ready to take me, even as I am,
if I am willing
to find my way
down the stairs
and open myself
to life
once again.

BONE KNOBBY

Bone knobby hands,
bulging river veins,
speckled age spots.

500,000 hours worth
of skin deep secrets 
holding stories
that may never be deciphered

of minutes and moments
that make up a life—

a history of grips and gripes
and tender touch;

of changing diapers
and doing dishes;

of writing and wronging
and giving and taking;

of handshakes and high–fives
and come-here’s and stops;

of everything handled
and all out of reach—

molded by cooking and cutting
and cleaning and creating
and years forgetting her youth.

Yet still longing to be held
in the bone knobby hand
of the once-again lover,
lost to her in all the middle years
of making money and raising children.

His touch can still send a shiver
somewhere up the spine of her soul.

And you can see it
in the curl of her lips,
as his fingers encircle hers,

while their eyes look off
at separate horizons.


(prev. pub. in Heaven in Our Hearts
by Nick LeForce)

TODAY

Today,
I place myself
at the mercy of the world—
I drop all pretense
of winning the fight
against the tide of my life.

Today,
I let the chips fall
where they may—
I let my actions
be ends in themselves
without regard
for the consequences
or the benefits
that may come of it.

Today,
I forfeit the titles
that hold no meaning for me—
I let myself be defined
by the way I show up
in the moment.

Today,
I live this day
as if it is my whole life—
I let this morning’s awakening
be my birth,
this night’s fall into sleep
be my death,
and all the in-between
be the fullness of me

and then, I give my blessing
to all of it—

Today.


(first pub. in Endless Horizon by
Nick LeForce)

PEBBLE

How high the tiny edge
of shallow water
to the pebble in the sand;
the pebble that endures
the inevitable onslaught of life
hundreds of times per day,
tossed in the waves,
washed by the sea,
worn by the tide.

Imagine the white foamed wave
towering and tumbling over you
while you stand fearless in its path
because you know
it is what brought you here
and what will take you
on the next leg of your journey.

You would welcome
the rush of coolness
peeling at your surface
and the pull and lift
of the current
wanting to claim you,
to carry you along,
outward or inward,
as if you are lovers
finding your place
with each other;

and the lettering
of your movement
across the wet sand
is your sonnet to the sea
that calls the waves back
again and again
because you know,
even though you are tiny,
your love is as great as the ocean

and your love will go on
even after you have been
worn down into sand
and the ocean leaves
the white foam of its tears
glistening on your surface.


(first pub. in Divine Whispering
by Nick LeForce)

PEEK-A-BOO

I befriended clouds
playing peek-a-boo with the sun
rising over Darling Harbour.

My eyes danced with them
across the sky
and we never needed
to know each other’s name
because we were born together
on this day.

We celebrated the moment.

We sang a silent hymn
to the coming of the light.

They shared with me
the secret of shifting shapes
and the magic of becoming
a mirror for the imagination
because clouds embody the belief
that you can be anything you want!

When I rose to leave,
I no longer needed feet or force.

I floated between worlds
laughing at gravity;
and I let the wind carry me,
along with my friends,
through the heavens.

Now, if you look,
carefully, at clouds,
you will see me there
playing peek-a-boo
with the sun
and calling to you
to come, come
dance with me
across the sky.


(first pub. in Endless Horizon)

Today’s LittleNip:

We must let go of the life we have planned, so as to accept the one that is waiting for us.

—Joseph Campbell

_________________

Our thanks to Nick LeForce for today’s fine poetry! About himself, Nick writes: I call myself the Transformational Poet because I believe poetry can touch the heart and transform lives.  I use poetry as a medium to bring out the inner qualities of a person and to help people find their own path in life, which is the life the person is meant to live and not the life crafted out of obligations from the rest of the world. I want to release the incredible potential that is hidden inside people and awaken them to the wellspring of resources for living life fully. Ultimately I want to create a world where people see and bring out the best in each other.

My poetry also integrates my work as a life-coach and trainer in the fields of Neuro-Linguistic Programming (NLP) and Hypnotherapy, which study how language impacts experience and provide tools for helping people overcome challenges and achieve their dreams. I have the good fortune to travel extensively conducting trainings, and I always read poetry in my classes. Some of my poems have been translated into Chinese, Japanese, French, German, and Spanish.

I’ve published 7 books of poetry: Heaven In Our Hearts, Endless Horizon, Divine Whispering, The Poetry of Life, The Work of Being Yourself, Falling Before Grace, and Bearing Witness, all available through amazon.com/.

Thanks, Nick! Welcome to the Kitchen, and don’t be a stranger! For more about Nick, go to www.nickleforce.com/ or www.facebook.com/nick.leforce/.

—Medusa

By the way, if you’d like to hear James Lee Jobe read his own poems which were posted on Medusa last Saturday, go to www.facebook.com/jamesleejobe/videos/vb.1320592106/10216319051991846/?type=2&theater&notif_t=mention&notif_id=1527016074406135/.

Nick LeForce

Celebrate Poetry!

Photos in this column can be enlarged by clicking on them once,
then click on the X in the top right corner to come back
to Medusa. 

The Magic Number of Myself

Choreography
—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

FROM THE CARNIVAL OF DAYS
AND NIGHTS

The clown arrives with his black mask
and signature; he will amuse
with his pointed humor,
wait for the laughter—
who knows him?
who asked him here?
the audience
propped in chairs—
his puppets—
he dances,
he juggles,
he rolls on the floor
to make the spotlight follow him,
he offers the flourish of his autograph
to the first one who finds him funny.
The audience cannot laugh or applaud.

                                             
(first pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2010)

__________________

CHANGING THE RELATIONSHIP

One day she up and changed, became someone to fear,
perhaps, to puzzle over at best, for her new and ornery
ways, the soft and raggedy way she dressed—all in torn
things—pulled from back hangers.

And it was where she went in bad weather and came
back at odd hours—hours when the clock showed a
particular row of repeated numbers on the small clock by
her bedside.

It was the way she murmured of blue forms by the
window, that seemed to know her, and love her, and how
she went to them in her trance of being and celebrated
with them her sorted miseries, and how her new name
glistened on their lips—and how she loved the sound of
this, and became their name for her, and it was her own—
the one she chose to be, before you came.

 My Mother's Favorite Flower

THE EVENT OF SORROW

This was the event of sorrow.
We knew it from before.
It had the same eyes
and the same song;
it had the same tempo.
We knew we were not wrong
to celebrate it.
It had the same wings,
drug heavy against the ground,
back to be punished for its pain.
How we lamented—
remembered and lamented,
telling our stories over and over
to one another—lighting
our incense and our candles,
obeying the famous rituals
sorrow always demanded.
Pathetic in our circle,
we did our dance together,
forming the ring of suffering,
sorrow in the center,
a stricken figure,
luminous with
its reverent sadness,
its great wings round and ragged
and so heavy at the shoulders.
And all we could do
was weep and admire,
weep and admire,
the way sorrow never forgot us,
the way it came such a long way
on its anniversary to be with us.

 In Sync

IF I GO AWAY

if I go away
will you be lonely

if I go away
will you celebrate

how do I fathom you
I who am less loved and old

shall I roll away
like an old tire from a dying car

who would travel you like a taken road
all that disrepair

if I am a good cook
may I stay

must I pin my anger to the wall
like an old tapestry heavy with dust

when you hate me
I am there smiling for you

when you love me
I am suddenly bereft of myself

all alone at an open window
watching the swift sunset

 Pretty Pink Rose

ATTENDING THE CELEBRATION
THE FINAL DAY OF THE ART EXHIBIT

A huge warehouse of a building
with large shadows about.
The night cold and early.
The others assembling. We chose
a large, cold, echoing center
in which to talk.
I felt you draw back from
the pain and discomfort of words.
Awkward.
You understood.
Blessed my difficulty.
Vague now together,
away from old easiness.
Changes.
Lifetimes eroding into frail acceptances.
Denials of what we have to accept.

I had to tell you . . .
you had to hear . . .
the air churned with believing,
pulled down around us with its listening.
We leaned away from ourselves.
Too harsh, love and living . . .
too harsh, love and dying . . .
the old incompletions
like thin, tearing shawls.
Poor comfort. All we had.
We spoke in soft murmurs awhile,
our words interweaving.
The tall, gray shadows of the building
trembled. We grew cold
and meandered toward the others
who were standing under evasive room-light
as they laughed and shivered,
as they embraced in greeting
and mingled among
the incompletions here,
though this was an ending
to be celebrated.


(first pub. in Nite-Writers International Literary
Arts Journal, 1997)

 Peppermint Rose

WHEN I THINK OF PARIS

When I think of Paris, Paris thinks of me. I sit in one of
its small cafés and watch my multiple reflections pass.
My glass images collide—and I bleed; my reflections cry—
but my dry face stares. Poets at nearby tables write poems
about me. Artists draw me. Congenial laughter drowns
me out.

I do not know myself here though Paris calls me
Daughter. Paris says, Laugh. Drink. Celebrate. But I am
torn through time like a leaf blown from a city tree. Wrong
season, I cry. Wrong century. Time has refused me. Paris
fades and leaves me here at this small table, scribbling swift
words on a shrinking piece of paper.

__________________

POETRY
“What a mighty voice it requires in the poet, to 
keep his lines strange, and rolling like waves, and 
brave like the sun.”            —John Crowe Ransom


These words that celebrate from me,
these words that grieve,
these words that sing or weep . . .

These words that come from their
own places—of their own volition,
that I take—and call them mine . . .

How they cluster—how they form—
too fast, or too resistant—depending on
their own need or inspiration . . .

Which of us needs the other more—
my reach, or their release? Oh, Words,
words—we are the path to one another.
I will write while you speak.


(first pub. in Poets’ Forum, 1998)

 Whimsy

THE BREATH OF TIME         

The view is good from here.
Snow birds cry love to me.
The mountain peaks shine

and the sunlight pours down
on everything.
I hear the thin ring of bells

from valley churches.
I can even fly—soar
through all my dreams—

all explained. My body is light
and my mind
has never been so deep.

Love shines from within me
and touches everyone.
It is brief but good.

I feel a swarm of color
and am surrounded by sunlight.
I transform into all of it.

I have reached the magic number
of myself.
This year I celebrate.

_________________

Today’s LittleNip:

STONE-WRITTEN POEMS
—Joyce Odam

Words on stone—abbreviations of life,
succinct, or falling short—

that celebrate
(or delegate) to history’s recall.

Cemetery walkers wander here—and here—
reading these measures of esteem :

the names, the dates, the outworn plaudits, 
and marvel at how faint, how worn

they have become, communicative now
to scanning eyes—to whispering voice—

perhaps with bits of reverence
for sentiment most prettily engraved.

______________________

Our thanks to Joyce Odam for her poetic and photographic celebrations today, celebrating our Seed of the Week: Celebration! Our new Seed of the Week is Asleep at the Wheel. Send your poems, photos & artwork about this (or any other) subject to kathykieth@hotmail.com. No deadline on SOWs, though, and for a peek at our past ones, click on “Calliope’s Closet”, the link at the top of this column, for plenty of others to choose from.

—Medusa

 —Anonymous Photo

Celebrate Poetry!

Photos in this column can be enlarged by clicking on them once,
then click on the X in the top right corner to come back
to Medusa.

In Defense of Xanthippe

—Photos by Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

SIROCCO
—Tom Goff, Carmichael, CA

The clouds come back, the nervousness comes back.
Winds might be much outdoors, yet are no match
for gusts in mind that blanch the grass and crack
mind-palms these siroccos erect, sap, trunk and thatch.
Trees poke till they pierce the mental sky-tent: black
leaks through the sagging blue. Through this blown hatch
come fear-streams, doubt-streams radiating slack
cold limblessness through every numb scalp-patch.

Worse yet, the mind-provoked war on the mind
soaks with such hot star-radiance the horror,
it apes the childhood paper window blind
whose glare spreads buttery-even its one tenor,
the yellow field of sweet derangement choired
when mockingbird song-prattle mimics inspired.  

_________________

SYLPH
—Tom Goff

When he must think about her, long-ago sylph,
how she gleamed face to foot with energy,
how much it must have drained her, strained her, willful
young self-commander disciplined to live free,
relentless as an electric non-stop sitar
that tempers its bending song for immature men,
he realized however near her, how far
he’d have to stretch like Elastic Man to…spar
against her? Snap her back? Turn denizen

of some sweet-smelling underworld of act
of the love that was her, where the choiceless pearl
herself was cast with abandon at others’ feet?
(Where did it roll to?) He lacked, that time, tact
and truth to admit: he loved her slender whirl,
her élan while dancing lascivious, innocent-sweet.

[Percussion, notes shaken on her own archaic sistrum,
insinuate her back in and out of his system…]

 Tahoe Rocks, Lake Tahoe, CA

—Photo by Sue Daly, Sacramento

BAXIAN THEOREM
—Tom Goff

The secret maybe lies in Robert Graves’
defense of Xanthippe*, countering rational
Socrates: the female inside creative knaves
impregnated by supranational,
amorphous inborn forms of the Divine:
thus, hymns to move atheists, filaments of the All
coherent to anyone who knows the Nine
were sisters. The ear turned sonar to the call
of one must receive the ensemble sibling blend
Bax hears. He knows how the lunar rainbow’s darks
can flavor the conventional downpour-day bend.
No telling Xanthippe-within-him where to seek sparks:
Impressionist lilac, orange Asturian, Russian
red-gold, sabotaged with cold sudden swipes of Prussian…


*Xanthippe: wife of Socrates, unfairly maligned
(see I.F. Stone’s The Trial of Socrates,
as well as Robert Graves’ essay in defense of her)

_________________

SEEN ON THE TURKEY CIRCUIT
—Tom Goff

Our mating pair of turkeys has our campus
Firmly in its wattled craws: the male
Gobble-voice looms up big as any grampus,
As he, the anti-Sally Rand of bale,

Fan-dances his glaring sway. But ah, female,
How you make mincing menace as you stray
From off the green quad’s placid-shaven swale
Onto the concrete paving, girl gallopavo,

A confident she-swashbuckler or she-bravo,
And pick your all-deliberate-speedy way
Up the stairs, up to the cafeteria landing:
What are you, black-plumed dinosaur, demanding?

After hours, or else instinct would freely work:
Your talons would scrabble across barenaked floor;
You’d pierce by raptor-keen scent each tight-shut door,
Pounce, snap, jerk neck, gulp. Oh, my Jurassic turk. 

 Zephyr Cove, Lake Tahoe, CA
—Photo by Sue Daly

BAX, PIANO SONATA NUMBER FOUR
—Tom Goff

The jauntiest of these, your terse opuses
in ivory; outer movements both motoric,
pulsating straight for the radiant purposes,
nerve-ending charges, subtle to phosphoric,
sensuous electricity—dare we say fun?
Let critics miss your wonted serious, “dour”
edge: For them, Sad stamps masterworks, not Sun,
however blanket-soaking grim the shower.

Slow movement: capers turn caresses. New,
this eerily soft fingertap on skin:
the pat-pat of a G-sharp pedal point
transforms hard keys to lips whose delicate sin
repeats as it lights on Mary? Tanya? Who?
(You—confuse two such bodies, limb,
tendon, bone, joint?)

__________________

Rilke TriCubed
—Tom Goff

    for Phillip Larrea, whose invented form this is

You don’t know
love? Eyes, eyes,
soft petals

turned words, words
floating here,
there—where?—all

night-held: your
skin, caressed,
remembers…

***

His head lost
with his light,
eyelight. But

vision burns
down fuselike
deep in loins.

Makes his gaze
I-see-you
star. Change, now.

***

Panther, turn
bar-circles
in circling

bars. Tiring,
tight-wound round
core strength; numb.

Pupils fill:
Image, touch
heart, die out. 

After Rilke translations by Edward Snow

 Squirrel

—Photo by Caschwa

Cameras caught pop-star Elton John nodding off at Prince Harry and Megan’s wedding
Watching it I could totally understand why Elton John probably was “bored” into falling asleep—
Why invite a pop-star like him to a wedding and not even have him perform?                      

—Michelle Kunert, Sacramento, CA

 Strawberries
—Photo by Caschwa

 

THE PRESIDENT’S MIEN
—Caschwa

Let me introduce myself,
Hyman the Magnificent
founding partner of Hy
Krimes & Ms. Dameenurz

We are not, let me repeat,
we are not retained by
the President, not yet…
just lying in wait

Soon it will be prime time
to recall the clowns and
bring in some real legal
pros to help the ratings

“E Pluribus Unum” was
written to describe the path
that money should follow:
up the ladder all the way

It’s the economy, stupid!
Clearly, plans that redistribute
wealth to the poor only give
good wine to bad apples

It is in our nation’s best
interest to keep the money
in the hands of the privileged
few, like the dear Lord ordained

Gotta run, file some briefs
down to make them briefer,
everything up to code,
a very secret code.

 American River

—Photo by Caschwa
 

NOW YOU DON’T
—Caschwa

(Inspired by Taylor Graham’s photo
of 2 beautiful horses with blinders,
above the poem “Losing Your Balance”,
Medusa’s Kitchen, May 17, 2018)

Horses, whose eyes face
side to side and so have
a blind spot in front, are
given blinders to help
them pay more attention
to what is straight ahead.

It is not perfect,
but it works.

Along comes the brand new,
fabulous, horseless carriage;
first a few made by hand, then
mass production gives us
skazillions all over the place,
driven by headless horsemen.

It is not perfect, and all too
often, it doesn’t work at all.

Our new sign of the times is the
driverless car, which replaces
the headless horseman with fancy,
man-made computer gadgets not
too unlike the ones that keep getting
human drivers into so much trouble.

It is so far from perfect that horses
are laughing their heads off!

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

DRAFT BY MISTAKE
—Caschwa

It was bottled beer
that had gotten very old,
so the only recourse
was to save it in a wooden
keg and serve it as draft.

________________

A big Monday thank-you to Tom Goff, Michelle Kunert and Caschwa (Carl Schwartz) for today’s fine mix of poetry, and for Carl’s and Sue Daly’s photos! (Don't forget that Sue will be co-hosting Speak Up at the Avid Reader on Broadway this Friday night, 7pm). Carl’s “Draft” poem refers to my mistake on Saturday, when I got James Lee Jobe’s post all set up in draft form, and then forgot to poke the crucial “post” button—heading off to the grocery store instead, and leaving everything in limbo ’til well-nigh 11am, when my vigilant mother-in-law wrote to ask if we had died.

For Phillip Larrea’s TriCube form, go to the Calliope’s Closet link at the top of this column and scroll all the way down to the bottom.

RD Armstrong reminds poets, artists, and writers that the Lummox #7 poetry anthology and contest deadline is May 31! Guidelines for both the anthology and the contest: www.lummoxpress.com/lc/2018-lummox-7/. Lummox #7 is also looking for art (illustrations, collages, artwork of all kinds), as well as essays, reviews, interviews and (NEW!) Flash Fiction. There is a $15 reading fee for both the anthology & contest; this (non-refundable) fee covers both options, payable via the PayPal button at www.lummoxpress.com/.


Poetry in our area begins tonight at Sac. Poetry Center in Sacramento, 7:30pm, with Cynthia Linville and Carol Lynn Stevenson Grellas, plus open mic. On Friday, Speak Up: The Art of Storytelling and Poetry meets at The Avid Reader on Broadway in Sac., 7pm, with the theme of “Making a Home”. On Saturday morning, 9:30am, Writers on the Air will feature Victoria Blanco and Jesse Dewhurst, plus open mic, at Sac. Poetry Center. And on Saturday afternoon, Poetic License will meet in Placerville at the Sr. Center, 2-4pm. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about these and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa

 —Anonymous Photo

Celebrate the poetry of the glorious Meleagris gallopavo 

(see www.hbw.com/ibc/species/wild-turkey-meleagris-gallopavo 

for photos and videos of turkeys around the world!).

Photos in this column can be enlarged by clicking on them once,
then click on the X in the top right corner to come back
to Medusa. 

Dreams of Fire

—Photos by Hubble Telescope

—Poems by Sudeep Adhikari, Kathmandu, Nepal

levitating melancholy

i saw you gliding
across the layered heap
of silver quiet

almost touching the firmament

like an atom swirling
in the void
to craft a world
you can touch with your skin.

a hollowness gently
shivers, resonating with the noise
of a sleepless anxiety

and you rise like an angel
to invisible heights

while i stay melancholic
in my under-world of ancient inertia.

dreams of fire

the galaxies weave the fabric
and paint it with liquid stars
i can see my infinite faces there

from my reptiles crawling in the
darker underground,
to my disembodied godheads.

stuck right at the transition

i am oblivious, love-stuck and
enlightened; trying to find
the fire which i have never lost.

string-theory of multiple and one
 
there i implode like a supernova
my vapors silently mirroring
all the dimensions,
even the curled-up ones
making sub-atomic knots
on the wall
of my space-time make-believes.

disembodied and
fractured, the whole universe becomes
my body; i am in each grain of soil,
in every rain-drop

and in each pollen,
trying patiently
to terraform an alien dystopia.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:
 
A Glimpse of Eternal Snows celebrates Nepali wildlife: a smooth grey boulder lifts its head to become a rhinoceros; a langur look-out hysterically grunts the alarm from the treetop as a tiger merges into the dappled scrub; and a menacing mantis makes her home in the makeshift bathroom and refuses to become a pet.

—Jane Wilson Howarth, from her book, A Glimpse of Eternal Snows: A Journey of Love and Loss in the Himalayas

_____________________

Many thanks to Sudeep Adhikari from Kathmandu, Nepal, for this Sunday’s cosmic poetry! Sudeep is a structural engineer/Lecturer and poet whose recent publications were with Beatnik Cowboys, Chiron Review, The Ekphrastic Review, Midnight Lane Boutique, Occulum, Silver Birch Press, Eunoia Review, Utt Poetry and Spilling Cocoa over Martin Amis. Also a Pushcart Prize nominee for the year 2018, Sudeep is currently working on his 4th poetry-book, Hyper-Real Reboots, which is scheduled for publication in September 2018 through Weasel Press, Texas. Welcome to the Kitchen, Sudeep, and don’t be a stranger!

Poets everywhere will be saddened to learn of the death of Beat Poet and Author Bobbie Louise Hawkins. To read more about her, see www.nytimes.com/2018/05/18/obituaries/bobbie-louise-hawkins-beat-poet-and-author-dies-at-87.html/. For some of her poems, see www.bobbielouisehawkins.com/category/daily-poem/.

Don’t forget today’s readings in our area: from 2-3pm, James Lee Jobe will host the new Davis Art Center Poetry Series, featuring Traci Gourdine and William O’Daly, at Davis Art Center on F Sts. in Davis. Also today, Lara Gularte will host Poetry in Placerville, featuring Carol Lynn Stevenson Grellas plus open mic, 1-3pm at Love Birds Coffee and Tea Co. on Broadway in Placerville. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about these and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa

 Sudeep Adhikari
Celebrate the poetry from across the sea!

Photos in this column can be enlarged by clicking on them once,
then click on the X in the top right corner to come back
to Medusa. 

Still Life

Still Life With Dentures and Glasses

—Poems and Photos by James Lee Jobe, Davis, CA

The lizard is quite brave, like Hannibal,
And he dashes out on the trail right in front of me,
Stops, and looks up at me.
He has stopped me in my tracks.
I drop down to my hands and knees,
And I bring my face very close to his.
He doesn't run. He just cocks his head
And looks back me, and so in this way
We regard one another. A man and a lizard
On a Sierra Nevada trail in the heat of the afternoon.
This is his world, and I grow weary of the encounter
Before he does, and so I stand, say goodbye,
And start walking back down to my own world.
And he dashes off, too,
Back to whatever it is that a lizard does.

______________

Finally, it is quiet.
Sssh.
You can hear the sound
Of your bare feet in the grass.
You can hear your breath
And feel your heartbeat,
But more, you hear
The sound of your own life.
Human.
Your soul makes no sound at all,
But you listen for it anyway.
Your body is alive,
And tells you so.
Sssh.
It is night, and looking up,
You see that the moon and the stars
Are quiet, too, shining silently
On the green branches of the pines. 

 Still Life With Coffee

You were a beautiful animal,
And you had been running across an overgrown field.
Your muscles turned like a ceiling fan while you ran,
And this patted down the sound of being alive.
I told you that today was Ho Chi Minh's birthday,
And I served you coffee, Vietnamese style;
It slowly dripped onto the condensed cream.
Coffee is a friend with a golden soul and a hand to hold.
It was a beautiful day in May, cool, and the air was clean.
As we sipped the coffee I watched your long paws;
One of them was scratching at the ground.
If I concentrate now I can still hear that scratching sound.
Then you ran again, finally disappearing from sight
When you cleared a rise at the far side of the field.

 Still Life With Messy Desk

Death is king in the world of men.

There are many fountains that flow with wine,

But you must sacrifice a finger every time you drink.

There is great wealth to be had,

But only if you learn to smile

When another child is tossed into the fire.

And friend, that fire is always burning.

In the world of men there is a Senate also,

And the Senators have shotguns, crossbows,

And automatic rifles. The good news is

They will give you a little bit of a head start.

The bad news is, you can't escape the hunt.

Not ever. You see,

In the world of men we are all hunted.

In the world of men we are all prey.

Death is king here, and by god,

Don't you ever forget it. 

 Still Life With Old Work Boots

We are defeated.
From over the ocean the warplanes return
Like dragonflies flying over a fishpond.
The stars above them hum and whisper in diamond light.
The world is a whirlpool of churning thought.
We are defeated, indeed, both sides are defeated.
No one really wins a war.
The graves of the innocent villagers are shallow and hard.
The broken arm of the night will not mend,
And the soldiers know this.
Some of the soldiers sleep in sleek caskets.
We should bury them together, two to a grave.
One American, one Afghani.
They could rest forever in each others arms.

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

All life is sacred, all of creation;
May we live in reverence.

—James Lee Jobe

__________________

Many thanks to James Lee Jobe for today’s fine poems and photos! On Sunday from 2-3pm, James will be hosting the new Davis Art Center Poetry Series, featuring Traci Gourdine and William O’Daly, Davis Art Center on F Sts. in Davis.

Also on Sunday, Lara Gularte will host Poetry in Placerville, featuring Carol Lynn Stevenson Grellas plus open mic, 1-3pm at Love Birds Coffee and Tea Co. on Broadway in Placerville.

But today is also a busy day, beginning at 9:30am with Writers on the Air, featuring Victoria Blanco and Jesse Dewhurst plus open mic at Sac. Poetry Center. Later today, there will be the Book Release Party for Cold River Press’s new Order of Events by D.R. Wagner (artwork by Brock Alexander), 6-8pm on Key Street in Locke. Also today: Straight Out Scribes will be M.C.’ing and reading at the first ever Uptown Art Fest at Robert’s Family Community Development Center in Sacramento, 5-8pm, including music by Shawn Raiford Experience. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about these and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa, with apologies for today's post being late. I saved it as a draft by mistake...

 —Anonymous Photo
Celebrate the poetry of connections!

Photos in this column can be enlarged by clicking on them once,
then click on the X in the top right corner to come back
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The Dance, The Dream

Cypress, Pt. Lobos, CA

—Poems and Photos by Sue Daly, Sacramento, CA
 

MOONGLOW

The moon softens the evening

with her gentle persuasion,

the sun keeps busy burning.

He rules the sky with fire,
churning and burning endlessly
while she just glows, patiently.

 Lone Cypress

perception

the moment
     the glitter
the newness
     the bitter  
the problem
     the solution
the rant
     the rage
the silence
     the sound
the coming forth
     the going out
the tide
     the sea
the nowhere
     the somewhere
the dance
     the dream
the stopping
     the starting
the hate
     the hope
the passing
      the present
the lust
      the loss
the thorns
     the cross

 Sea Rocks

BITTER HERBS

Sorrow steeps tea.
Mercy sips it.
Regret turns away,
unable to drink
what Sorrow
has brewed.

 Fannette Island, Emerald Bay, Lake Tahoe, CA

CHASING ETERNITY

Time chases eternity
and like the White Rabbit,
at times I arrive late
for a very important date.

Eternity chases time,
what do I hope to find
on this round ball
of blue and green?

I see a secluded space
hidden behind the trees.
I fall to my knees,
offer God my gratitude

for a chance to dance
with uncertainty—
a chance to dance
with eternity.   

 Zephyr Cove, Lake Tahoe, CA

TWO-IN-THE-MORNING
                      for Agnes

When the cards and calls stop coming
and the mortuary's paid in full,
call me, I'll come.

When the shock wears off
and grief cuts you in two,
call me, I'll come.

When the chores get done
and life moves on but not really,
call me, I'll come.

I'm not some platitude-giving person,
I'm a call at two-in-the-morning
when-you-can't-breathe person.

I'm your person.

Call me, I'll come.

 Tahoe Trees

Today’s LittleNip:

BEGIN

—Sue Daly

Slow yourself down.
Let your mind be still.
Tap into ancient wisdom.
Open your heart and drink it in.
Breathe slowly, drink deeply.
Quench the fire within.

________________

Our thanks to Sue Daly for today’s fine poems and photos! A week from today, May 25, Sue will co-host (with Mary McGrath) Speak Up: The Art of Storytelling and Poetry, Avid Reader on Broadway in Sacramento. This month’s theme is “Making a Home”.

Head across the Causeway to The Other Voice in Davis Poetry Series tonight, 7:30pm at the Unitarian Universalist Church on Patwin Rd., to hear Dennis Hock and Tamer S. Mostafa (plus open mic), hosted by James Lee Jobe. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about this and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa

 

 —Photo by James Lee Jobe, Davis, CA
Celebrate Poetry!

Photos in this column can be enlarged by clicking on them once,
then click on the X in the top right corner to come back
to Medusa.