Call Him Brother

First Lady of Spring

—Poems and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA

BROTHER BIRD

White-breasted Nuthatch
this morning at the feeder
so frantic-busy—
must be famished between storms.
I’m glad I filled the feeder.

__________________

WILL IT SNOW?

Rainbow behind me,
sun blinding on the shotgun-
window side, big dark
cloud’s downpour pelting car roof—
dusk and I’m aiming for home.

SNOW ON SPRING STREET
(a Catena Rondo)

We’re at the black ice edge unraveling
on four-lane highway and back roads of town,
a fairytale of snowflakes drifting down.
We’re at the black ice edge unraveling

on four-lane highway and back roads of town,
the secret alleys’ mysteries under snow.
Streets reflect blind dazzle, an eerie glow
on four-lane highway and back roads of town,

the secret alleys, mysteries under snow.
A car fishtails and winds up in the ditch,
its traction zeroed by the gaze of witch.
The secret alleys? mysteries under snow.

A car fishtails and winds up in the ditch.
We’re at the black ice edge unraveling
our plans set yesterday for traveling.
A car fishtails and winds up in the ditch.

We’re at the black ice edge unraveling
on four-lane highway and back roads of town,
a fairytale of snowflakes drifting down.
We’re at the black ice edge unraveling.

ACROSS CONTINENT AND TIME
          for Coppa Hembo and Elihu Burritt

In this midnight between days and ages
two long-dead men of peace in storm-weather—
the Yankee blacksmith who wrote long pages
on brotherhood bringing men together;
a Nisenan chief of the same feather.
In their timeless day beyond Earth Mother,
what might they speak of, one to another?
Too many wars white against white; white
against red, black, brown, and yellow brother,
against green Earth herself. Night against light.

OLIVE LEAF SEWING CIRCLES
          1846, 1866 and so on

The women sit at their needlework
stitching a pattern. Brotherhood.
Shall their boys become soldiers?
Each stitch says never. Still
war happens, as it always has before.
Men’s ideas turn to argument;
they speak with guns and swords.
Isn’t this how the last war started?

It takes one hundred million needles
every week to mend what battles
tore. Families in tatters. Every stitch
for the love of some woman’s man,
that he come home safe from war;
that man-kind change its heart to Peace.

PRISONERS OF WAR
         after Elihu Burritt's “After-Battle Amenities”

These Russian soldiers taken in battle
by the French, detained
inside Liédot—island fort on the Île d'Aix—
look how they come tonight
in full uniform, but convivially
on invitation of their captors.
       What of the war?

French and Russian, they speak of far-off
homes, of wives and sweethearts
left behind; a little girl called Tatyana,
a boy christened Jean-Christophe.
In time the conversation turns to politics.
A Russian says, we are only machines
of slaughter. Off the field of battle,
we have no enemies.
        Does he raise a glass to his hosts?

And a man—English or French, or
Russian—wanders the battlefield at night,
binding up wounds of the dying,
no matter what uniform they bleed,
in what language they cry.
What of the war?
        We are only brothers.

BORDER BROTHERS
           Mexico City earthquake, 1985

In the brotherhood of nations, who are we?
After disaster across the border
our government sent aid—
from fiber-optic and seismic mining teams
to a tool primitive but perceptive
as my search dog’s nose

to help rescue a brother-nation’s people—
such resilient people working day and night,
some with hacksaw blades in bare hands,
cutting rebar and smashing cement,
digging through tons of rubble
to find family, friends, strangers—

people like Fernando, come now
to our country to work among us. When storm
blocks our driveway with snow-fallen oak,
or rain clogs the culverts, making
our creek a river to overflow the road,
he’s here at the ring of a phone,

clearing a path for us,
doing what we couldn’t do for ourselves.
I call him Brother.
Most of us from immigrant stock—
aren’t we Americans a generous people?
How have we lost our way?

Today’s LittleNip:

RAIN ON THE POND
—Taylor Graham

Raindrops on water,
each drop rippling rings outward
joining as network—
what message in this lovely
already dissolving web?

___________________

Many thanks to Taylor Graham for today’s fine poems and photos! She writes, “Brotherhood makes me think of Elihu, the American advocate of world peace.” Elihu Burritt (1810-1879), called the "Learned Blacksmith," conceived measures that helped internationalize the 19th-century pacifist movement. Taylor Graham’s book, Walking With Elihu, may be seen at www.amazon.com/Walking-Elihu-Burritt-Learned-Blacksmith/dp/1452896216/, and you can read more about Burritt at www.encyclopedia.com/people/history/us-history-biographies/elihu-burritt/.

Check out the Catena Rondo form at www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/catena-rondo-poetic-forms OR www.thepoetsgarret.com/2013Challenge/form17.html/.

Poetry in our area begins at noon today with Third Thursday at the Central Library, Sacramento Room, 828 I St.,  Sac. (Bring poems by someone other than yourself.) Then tonight, 7pm, head down to the Crocker Art Museum for Open Poetry Night at the Gallery, 216 O St., Sac. (Open mic sign-ups begin at 6pm.) The evening will be dedicated to celebrating the current exhibit of artist Jacob Lawrence with a poetry open mic, poet Donté Clark, and a brief overview called "History, Labor, Life: The Prints of Jacob Lawrence". Go to www.crockerart.org/event/1901/2019-02-21 for info and to register; space is limited. Free for members or with the price of admission to the Museum.

Or keep going across the Causeway to Poetry in Davis at 8pm, featuring Lee Herrick plus open mic at the John Natsoulas Gallery, 521 1st St. 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 (Celebrate Poetry!)

 Our Brother, the White-Breasted Nuthatch
—Anonymous Photo

  

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.

Dreams Unfolding

5 AM Moon

—Photo by Carol Louise Moon, Placerville, CA

—Poems by Carol Louise Moon

PERFECTION

The stillness of a full moon,
chill poise of dreamscape,
and the sound of a fan stirring
air muffles terse conversation...

We lie in our rooms of pink
for me and blue for you.
We need light for comfort, but
we shiver in darkness.

What can be heard from our
rooms that the stillness of
the moon does not witness in
its quiet begging of perfection? 

 Heart Candle

—Photo by Carol Louise Moon
 

BY CANDLE LIGHT

I knew that I would love you
when I saw you lying there
beneath the color blue:
two black eyes—raven hair.

When I saw you lying there
I gazed into your eyes,
two black eyes—raven hair
so soft.  I heard your cries.

I gazed into your eyes
again by candle light
so soft.  Hearing your cries,
I held you through the night.

Again by candle light,
beneath the color blue
I held you through the night.
I knew that I would love you.

________________

MIN-PIN IN MOONLIGHT

There he stands, small—
a shiny black dog silhouette
on striped brown planks
of house deck;
his pearl black eyes
gleaming in moonlight.

He has eaten his fill—
his long-stick legs still
supporting his belly,
hammock-style.

His cropped sausage tail
points to a constellation—
a gathering of stars
he cannot see due to mist
surrounding the moon.

“Look at me,” the moon invites.
“Yes,” the min-pin whines—
then, “No,” he whimpers.
It’s the shiny buck in the field
he seeks as his companion.

 Min-Pin

—Photo by Carol Louise Moon

PLIGHT OF THE NIGHT JANITOR

He pushes his broom
all the way to doomsday,
not wanting to discuss
the filing of paperwork
along the way.

He knows the plastic trash,
cardboard, and coupons
carelessly discarded—
all that is disgusting about
this supermarket—
will follow him.

He rests his mop against
the break room table,
waiting for the meltdown
of an iceberg.

 Push Broom

—Photo by Carol Louise Moon

EVENING ON RATTAN

Her suitor, a tired old man
in no mood for dancing,
sits as he is on rattan.
His woman waves a hanky
as she sallies up to his gray face.
He chooses to ignore her.

Standing as he is near rattan
chair, a man impatiently taps
his patent-leather shoes.
She sallies up to his gray face;
she’s in the mood for dancing.
He chooses to ignore her hanky.

In patent-leather shoes
and gray suit another old man
sits in a chair of rattan,
impatiently tapping his shoes.
He’s in the mood for dancing.
He chooses to ignore her suitor.

________________

FORKLIGHT OPERATOR

See him through the window,
the forklift’s little window
with the large forklift, lifting.

Sitting up high, he rolls along
rolling through the green
grocery aisle past fish
and meats.

When he meets others, he
lifts them up with his words;
a preacher preaching—
a fork on the aisle

like a fork in the road,
one-way leading to heaven,
one-way leading to hell.

What! A heavenly smell of fish?
What a heavenly smell of fish!

Now he’s preaching like a
preacher and reaching like
a reacher.

Now he’s dying.
He’s dying to get off early
to see the preacher’s daughter.

 

 Super Moon

—Photo by Chris Moon

MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM
AT THE MADONNA INN, 1967

The night is short. Her royal-blue
gown hangs as pillar cover over
her Greek athletic. Patent-leather
shoes of black crocodile peek out
from under. Gem and pearl earrings
dangle from a face so lit by moonlight
that her valiant squints his blue-gray
eyes of delight. A creamy wrist orchid
megaphones their proper names. 
Penguin-suited musicians play in an
alcove of this cool, stone wine cellar. 
A dream is unfolding, its memory
is sealed.

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

moonless night…
a powerful wind embraces
the ancient cedars

—Matsuo Bashō

___________________

Our thanks to Carol Louise Moon and to her brother, Chris Moon, for splashing  delightful poems and photos across our Kitchen table today, two of which are shots of the moon. One is tempted to make some sort of joke about Moons sending moons, but that would be supermoonfluous.

Sac. Poetry Center presents the MarieWriters Generative Writing Workshop tonight, 6-8pm, 25th & R Sts., Sac., facilitated this week by Christin O’Cuddahy. 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

 Madonna Inn, San Luis Obispo, 1962

The Madonna Inn was quite The Thing back in 
the '50’s and '60’s. 

That’s where I first met up with a vibrating bed. 

For more about the Inn’s history, go to 

www.madonnainn.com/our-history/.

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.

Commisseration

Where, Here

—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

DECORUM

Two girls, identical as twins—but years apart by
one or two—sit posed alike and dressed the same:

long skirts and sleeves and pleated bodices—
hair pulled back tight and center-parted. They

sit up straight, demure, to show how well-behaved,
obedient and promising conformity to what society’s

norm expects of them. They almost smile to keep
the look their mother wants. You’ll note they

do not twitch, or blink, or breathe—but hold that
look to yours—a century later. You hope they fled

the pose at last, to squeal and giggle out the door
to play and rumple their dresses and muss their hair.

__________________

THE SEPARATED TWINS
After Antoon van Welie, Princesses of the Legend, 1899

Two sisters
merge into only child

each protective of the other
though they are jealous.

Each is given
the same identity.

A truthful mirror
stands between them

one to each side
of its imaging.

When they look in,
they are each other.

This comforts them.
Their eyes make claim.

They become one.

 Refuge

ALONE NOW
“There is a community of the spirit. / Join it, and feel the 
delight / of walking in the noisy street, / and being the noise.”       
                                                                    —Rumi

How infinite the consequence—how true—
how far the drift—alone in white surroundings
with your thoughts and view—so limitless
and without sound, and without shore;
where are the birds . . .
where is the sky . . .
and where
all that you thought you wanted—
all that you thought you knew . . . ?
                       ~
It is like coming out of a spiral
     changed and
         erased of
            all damage—
                 making
                    one step forward
                    into a vast whiteness.
                 No memories
               impede,
            you are the one
          made
       of particles,
     as if you have yet to
    become real.          
   You are looking for
    the other—
      the one you have
        dreamed,
          the one you love
             without knowing love,
               the one you need for a mirror.

 A Complexity

COMMISERATIONS

I’ve got to be able to not die from this. All the mercies
follow, bearing brimming vials of tears. Their hands

tremble. The mercies falter in their wailing gowns,
knowing how desolate I am. They have hidden all

my mirrors. We have never solved the sorrow, its dull
reflection. The trail is dark with blood. It is old blood.

Other tracks smear over it. The old grief brings us here,
reflected in this grove of mirror-trees, shimmering and

shattering around us with their weeping. What county
of horror is this? Grief was never this far. My feet bleed.

The mercies sacrifice into shadows where they blend
and become each other. Their commiserate patience

consoles me. It is such a long way through the promises.
I enter the shadows.

 Disenfranchised

POVERTY
After Street Art by ana9112, Brussels, Belgium

Cowering now, wings folded, she waits for the
next need to move her toward night or toward
morning in the crevice of the hallway
of the white stone building
of one more desperation;
she shivers from the
feelings she
has found 
as if one more
unworthy love
has found her in
a moment of doubt
and transpired her from
the myths of herself to
the new reality. Now she
is left on a cold staircase
with a dream that will not waken.
The old shadow has pulled away
and left her timeless. She hugs herself
and waits, but something has forsaken her.
Maybe it will come to her before the need
is beyond redemption.

__________________

SOMETIMES THE CALL IS FAINT

and from a distance unrecalled,
the first warning,
a pleasing thought that tried to hide.

But the call was there,
sifting between the silence like dust.
I strained to hear it.

It had words, muffled and tender.
It had urgency,
and made a promise too thin to hear.

Had I time enough I would have followed
the first echo. I counted on the loyalty
of love that was as fragile.

Who was it? What in this terrible moment
of loss took precedence? What did I lose
that mourns so heavily in me now?

I search the golden end of every sunset,
feeling, knowing, and remembering.
But all the sunsets glow like this . . .

 The Anonymous

GRIEF POEM       

Mother, what are your rules?
You ache to my heart like an old toy.

Where have you taken your death?
Is it mine?
Did you lead the way
with one example only?

Will I know you in the void
or will we disappear together?
Have you no message for me?

Mother, I am delirious:
I felt you stroke my hair and weep.
I felt your tears upon my face
and I was both of us.

How small we are together
in the large life,
both afraid
of the overpowering dark.


(first pub. in Piedmont Literary Review, 1990)

 Appeal

WOMAN IN ORCHARD     
After 1997 Calendar: Women by Women, The Royal
Photographic Society, “Pomegranates” by Minna Keene 
(Canadian, 1861-1943)


An unsmiling woman, bearing apples on a
dark tray, half-hidden under yellow

flecks of light through a dense tree,
on a September calendar—who does she

remind you of?  Not Eve.  Not your long-
dead mother.  Not anyone you know,

though she is familiar.  She is a trans-
figurement of green.  Her green dress

blends with the darker green of the
orchard.  Her tray is held steady,

in a serene pose of patience.  She is
green shadow.  Her apples gleam.

She lets her eyes linger upon you.
You cannot make out her features;

she has moved back one shadow
deeper.  She beckons you in.

She would never harm you.
You can trust her.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

THE ONLY GRIEVING CHAIR
—Joyce Odam

Death is where the sorrow is.
Death sighs in its innocent role.
Death takes up the only grieving chair.
Death is surprised that you cry.
Death hands you a dark rose
and says it had to open.


(first pub. in Piedmont Literary Review, 1990)

_____________________

Many thanks to Joyce Odam for her fine poetry and photos today! Our Seed of the Week was Brotherhood; she chose to shine the light on Commisseration, providing a warm blanket for our brothers and sisters in turmoil.

Our new Seed of the Week is Loss. Loss can be devastating, uplifting, a relief, a great sorrow, new freedom, or—loss of car keys, loss of money, weight loss, loss of hair… As always, think broadly! 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.

For more about Antoon Van Welie, go to www.askart.com/artist_bio/Antoon_Van_Welie/11146803/Antoon_Van_Welie.aspx/.

—Medusa (Celebrate Poetry!)

Street Art by ana9112 in Brussels, Belgium

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.

Choruses of Gerbils

Lizard Door Knocker

—Photos by Chris Moon

SILENCE SUITS HER VERY WELL
—Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA

An exiler,
A banisher,
She likes the thought
Of outer darkness
And gnashing of teeth;

She likes the thought
That wicked ones
Are punished
In eternal darkness
And cold,
So she doesn’t return
Emails or
Text massages.

She likes to keep
An old break
Complete;
Silence with the past
Suits her
Very well.
She’s very fond of Hell!

__________________

WISHES OVER DISHES
—Joseph Nolan

Not every day,
Week, month or year
Do I break
A drinking glass,
By momentary
Clumsiness,
Like an ass.
Sometimes, an
Entire year might pass
Without the breaking
Of a glass.

It is one of
My wishes
When I
Wash the dishes.

Fish Knocker

DROUGHT
—Joseph Nolan

We understand
How gardens fail
In summer
Without water.

Daytime heat
Without relief,
How summer
Breezes swelter.

We pray for rain,
But no rain comes,
Corn rows
Growing drier.

Come Sunday,
Worship time
Has come;
Hear wailing
From
Town crier.

________________

IS THE WORLD STILL THERE?
—Joseph Nolan

Every so often
I look out my window
To see if
The world’s still there.

The cars parked on my street,
The people I might meet
If I walked out my door.

I wonder why I wonder?
They’re all there
As they were, before,
But since I have retired,
I never cease to wonder,
Anymore. 

 Seahorse Knocker

DISHES VS. COLIC
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
 
Multi-tasking includes a reasonable
expectation of success, so attempts in
this area may involve no more work
than punching a few buttons to start a
machine (like a dishwasher) which does
the real work and usually yields an
outcome of success.

I am a great multi-tasker.

With juggling, conversely, there is often
a lingering expectation that success is
improbable, so when that same individual
who excels at multi-tasking dares to make
attempts in this area, the results may not
be to anyone’s satisfaction. Examples here
include tending a baby with colic, or trying
to administer multiple medicines orally to a
feisty Chihuahua.

I am a terrible juggler.

 Lady Knocker

ECLIPSE
—Caschwa

Was okay not caravanning all the way
out to South America to view a lunar
eclipse, confident that scientists and
journalists would have it covered

More greatly concerned about the
impending eclipse of our nation’s hopes
and values, along with the very flame
of Lady Liberty, due to you know who

_______________

THEY JUST KEEP TALKING
—Caschwa

“We will bury you.”
“Death to infidels.”
“Breaking news …”

“I have a dream.”
“I am the greatest.”
“I am not a crook.”
“I am 100% not guilty."
“I did not have sexual relations with that woman.”
“I’ll paint any car any color for $19.95.”

“At the tone, the time will be …”
“The happiest place on Earth.”
“Sock it to me, baby.”
“Look for the helpers.”
“Slam dunk!”

 Not Gettin' In!

THE SESSION
—Caschwa

The good doctor had to provide
two recliner chairs, each as long as wide
to accommodate the couplet
seeking answers as yet unmet

alpha gerbils usually don’t have such
complicated social issues that much
when you take away the sexual
component, the rest is intellectual

however, a chorus of two alpha gerbils
tends to sound like competing doorbells;
which to answer, which to ignore,
is there ever an end, what else is in store? 

 Lion Head Knocker

CAPTAIN EDDY
—Caschwa

The fearless Captain Eddy
a sturdy rowboat has he
set out upon the windy sea

a problem somehow left unspoken:
one of two paddles was badly broken
which left him just circlin’ and soakin’

he’s still out there to this day
one good paddle, his mainstay
far from home back at the bay

__________________

Today’s LittleNip(s):

ROAD RAGE?
—Joseph Nolan

Think twice.
Be nice.
Don’t roll
The dice.

* * *

A DREAM OUT LOUD
—Joseph Nolan

A dream
Is just a dream
Until it’s
Said out loud,
Then it is
A story
For the crowd.

_____________________

Our thanks to Carl and Joseph for today’s poetry, and to Chris Moon for photos from his Door Knocker collection!

This is a busy week in our area, poetry-wise, starting tonight with Steven Sanchez and Michelle Brittan Rosado at Sac. Poetry Center, 7:30pm. On Weds., SPC will host the MarieWriters Generative Writing Workshop from 6-8pm, led this week by Christin O’Cuddahy.

Thursday at noon, Third Thursday at the Central Library will feature a poetry read-around hosted by Mary Zeppa and Lawrence Dinkins, 828 I St., Sac. (Bring a poem by someone other than yourself.) Thursday night will present a difficult choice: Open Poetry Night at the Gallery at Crocker Art Museum, 7pm, featuring open mic, poet Donté Clark, and the art of Jacob Lawrence (be sure to reg., and open mic sign-ups begin at 6pm); or Lee Herrick at Poetry in Davis at the John Natsoulas Gallery, 8pm.

On Friday, Sac. Poetry Center features a book release by NSAA (Lawrence Dinkins), 6pm; then Speak Up: The Art of Storytelling and Poetry meets at the Avid Reader in Sac., 7pm. Then on Saturday morning, also at SPC, Writers on the Air meets from 9:30am-1pm, this month featuring Jennifer O’Neill Pickering and two poets from Sable & Quill (Bethanie Humphreys and Heather Judy), plus open mic. Also on Saturday, Poetic License meets in Placerville at the Sr. Center from 2-4pm. This month’s suggested topic is “mystify”, but other subjects are also welcome. 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 (Celebrate Poetry!)

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. 
 

Omens

—Anonymous

AN OMEN, A SIGN ?
—Ian Copestick, Stoke on Trent, England

Yesterday I was, as usual,
Wandering the streets. It was
A depressing Sunday, worse
Than that, a Sunday with no
Money. I was feeling as low as
It's possible to go, considering
My options. The only one left
Was suicide, but I'm just not
Made that way, thank God.
A sudden ray of sunlight came
Bouncing off the chrome of a
Parked car and it felt like, no, I
Don't really know, but it felt like
Some kind of spiritual high. It
Said "Hang on, son, don't just
Throw it all away. Things may
Be grim right now, but there's
Good times coming ‘round the
Bend. Keep on keeping on and
Keep your head held high."
I don't know where this, I can't
Say voice, it was more like an
Idea, telepathy or something, I
Don't know, came from. But
When you're feeling that low,
You have to take your omens
Wherever you find them.
Well, it gave me the kick up the
Arse that I needed. Yes it gave
Me something to help me
Carry on.

___________________

Our thanks and hands across the sea to Ian Copestick for his fine poem this morning! Don’t forget that James Lee Jobe will host the Davis Arts Center Poetry Series today, 2pm, featuring Ladies of the Knight (Poetry Overturned) with Carol Lynn Stevenson Grellas, Jeanette Sem, and Angela James, plus open mic. 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 Poetry!)





 

Listening Along

Your Poet's Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwich

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

Let the day turn under, and let the year turn, too.
Life has an order, but we don’t know it,
And it doesn’t matter anyway.
Let the day turn as it will,
Everything that goes right is a blessing
And everything that goes wrong is a larger blessing.
Just go with it.
Tomorrow and all of life
Can handle themselves.

_________________

We are driving through our town,
Davis, California, and my wife asks,
“Why are you taking this street?” And I reply,
“Oh, I just don’t want to go the same old way.”
But friend, it isn’t true. I so love my city
That I just don’t want to miss a single street.
Who knows what we’ll see; a perfect redwood tree,
Or a sweet child on a bike, followed by an old dog.
Looking up, the sun blesses us with golden light.

 Your poet cooks. Feta chicken pasta with tomato 

and green beans, tossed with a slightly spicy sesame oil.

Peeling your birthday
Like the skin of an orange.
Tearing away the sections
Of these years since your cancer
Ate you up,
A little at a time.
Eating the orange slowly
Section by section.
Tangy, yet sweet.
Piece after piece,
Section after section.
Time is one fruit, your death is another,
And this is your birthday. Brother,
I
Remember
You.

              (for Bill, my stepbrother)

 Your Poet Cooks. Veggie Stir Fry.

Here in the valley,
We have a dry season and a wet season.
By mid-summer I miss the rain very much;
The way the earth absorbs the water to fuel
Its labor to push the trees up for another year.
Not just trees.
Crops. Grass. Weeds.
Everything that grows.
I like to slip across the street to the park
And stand under the massive pines there,
Watching a slow rain fade into the field.
The gravity of a spinning planet
Holds the atmosphere, the weather below that.
The planet circling a star for warmth.
It’s complex, yet simple at the same time.
The pattern of life, nature itself.
Rain. Feeding the very tree above me.

 Your Poet

The valley and the creek hold their charms
Like a child holds laughter, brimming over.
From above, looking down,
The trees are like green lakes
Scattered among the well tended fields.
Crops grow.
Often at sunrise, when I am most alone,
I am touched by all of the life around me.
The dew-damp earth.
The purple sky to the east.
I bow with no one watching.
It is a simple bow, but genuine.

__________________

The mockingbird was up past midnight
Singing:

”This nest is mine, brother.
This nest is mine, sister.
See the moon, see the stars—
They bless this life,
They bless this night.
This nest is mine, and I
Will sleep here through
The rest of the night.”

Sleep when you’re weary, little friend.
I will listen along until then.

 Your Poet's Granddaughter Goes Down the Slide

Today’s LittleNip:

A gray day, rainy and cold—
Granddaughter, please, bring me your smile.

—James Lee Jobe

___________________

Thank you, James Lee Jobe, for cooking up such a fine poetic feast for us this morning! James Lee will host the Davis Arts Center Poetry Series this Sunday, 2pm, featuring Ladies of the Knight (Poetry Overturned) with Carol Lynn Stevenson Grellas, Jeanette Sem, and Angela James, plus open mic. 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 Poetry!)

 Jizo in the Rain

—Anonymous

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.

Be It What It Will

Midnight Express

—Poems and Photo Artwork by Smith, Cleveland, OH

STATUS REPORT 285

Black cat in lap,
olive eyes watch me
through the purr.

Falling snow scatters light,
softens sounds, sweetens strife.

 Clownburst

Leaf from tree
flies with birds
briefly

 Wins of War

Wounded frog suffers—
full fat heron watches
unconcerned

 Lion's Den

Spider, quiet, waits
for whine of web—
juice

 Kronos

Winter cold kills plants
which rot in soil
flower spring warmth

 Old Comb By Lady

LIFE WITH WIFE

I dumb cracker
she smart cookie
I walking disaster
she good looky

 Lady K

Warming heater expands,
its metal cricket creak
music in the cold

 Outtaorder

Sometimes sleep slides us
one trouble to another
with but dream between

Be It What It Will

Today’s LittleNip:

PHILOSOPHY
—Smith

I got my pluses
I got my minuses
I got my in-betweens

So do you

___________________

Good morning and thanks to Smith (Steven B. Smith) for today’s tasty brunch in the Kitchen! And don’t forget that Robert Ramming and Charles Halsted will read tonight at The Other Voice in Davis, at the Unitarian Universalist Church on Patwin Rd., Davis, 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.

Poems-For-All Press has released a new book by Paul Fericano: Things That Go Trump in the Night: Poems of Treason and Resistance, a lively collection of satiristic poems, comments, and prose about you-know-who, all put together by Robert Richard Hansen in his always classy style. And—Barack Obama has made a short comment on the back: “A searing and timely lampoon of the juvenile Trump dictum, and the courageous satirist who rescues truth from delusion.” Howzabout them apples!?! Check it out at outlawpoetry.com/2019/things-that-go-trump-in-the-night-poems-of-treason-and-resistance-by-paul-fericano/.

—Medusa

Smithstorm

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.