Grandfather Eucalyptus

Anza Borega
—Poems by Carol Louise Moon, Placerville, CA
—Photos by Chris Moon, Jacksonville, FL

PINE CONES

Riding the Amtrak rails south
she is in search of something afield,
but not so much bales of cotton.
These bales, covered in blue tarp,
are not the country view of her
Northern California.  Is there
something familiar along the way? 
Farther south she detrains, visits
her uncle and sees his pride of
ownership.  Right there, in his urban
yard of less than an acre, sits
a gorgeous reminder of home—
a Ponderosa Pine.  And scattered
all around, sturdy pine cones—
reward for her travels.

        garnet pine cones
        abundance signals
        victory over drought

 Carolina Winter

EUCALYPTUS IN THE VALLEY

Eucalyptus...  the old man.
The old man...  eucalyptus.
I can’t make up my mind.
Look at the shape of him.
What do you see,
eucalyptus...  or an old man? 
Well, of course, you see
a eucalyptus!  What else
do you see?  Can’t you see
an old man in the shape
of it?  (Not the old man
in the field!)

Let’s walk farther away. 
Now look.
Let’s walk up closer. 
Now?

Now, smell him.  He
smells nice in the arm pits,
doesn’t he?  Just like my
grandfather.  I’m gonna
call this tree
Grandfather Eucalyptus.    

 View of Anza Borega from Julian, California

VALLEY GIANT

That hillside here in the
valley with soil erosion
looks like the Giant gouged
it out with four fingers,
quite unhappy with
the crop-dusting planes.

That last go-round
got him so choked up with
crop dust, plus tripping on
a whole stack of irrigation
pipes sent him landing the
valley down ten feet deeper.

You can see where the farmers
have dragged his body away,
and that last rain has left a
shallow lake.

 Vineyard, Templeton, California

SALINAS VALLEY PATCHWORK

These vetchers did such a
good job with their straight
lines and little fence posts
sticking up.

And the vintners have strung
narrow black plastic piping
and wires that run in straight
lines.

Very young vine plants sit
patiently in rows waiting
for water to sprinkle on
them while the sun shines.

A lovely Salinas Valley
patchwork quilt with browns
and greens and little white
patches all sewn together
can be seen from this small
airplane.

A whole mess of crows flying
over looks like someone
peppering a king-sized quilt
with ground-up pepper corns. 
But...  I don’t know why
someone would do that.

 Badlands of South Dakota

REMEMBERING LUZ

Tío Juan keeps to himself since his
wife Luz passed on.  You are prickly
like a pine cone, I tell him.  Eventually
you’ll have no visitors, no one
to comfort you. Tío...  ¡Tú no tendrás
a nadie! I warn him.  Lighten up, Tío,
it’s been ten years.  You know death
was her cure for cancer.  We spend
the afternoon gilding pine cones
for the senior center, then break
for lunch, eating Luz’s favorite tortilla
recipe.  Es sabroso, Tío.  She lives on
in our cooking.

        bowl of masa balls
        flattened, toasted on
        hot comal—Luz is shining

 Dixie Valley, Nevada

Today’s LittleNip:

THE VALLEY EXPRESS

—Carol Louise Moon

Trees dash by, and grapevines
sneak under telephone wires
in this greening valley.  Small
houses slowly turn.  Wooden
fences march, then fall behind.
Little blackbirds flap out
within this dizzying view.

It’s time for us to nestle
into padded recline, close
our eyes, and let this train
rock us to sleep.

___________________

Our thanks to Carol Louise Moon and her photographer brother, Chris Moon, for their tales and pictures, words and visuals!

For upcoming poetry readings and workshops available online while we stay at home, scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa

 California Zephyr

—Public Domain 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.
 

Pandemicomium

—Poems by Tom Goff and Michael H. Brownstein
—Public Domain Photos

PANDEMICOMIUM
—Tom Goff, Carmichael, CA

The inbox crowds and crowds with intimate
Yet socially distanced words. Hint, whisper, touch,
Color, plus voluble precipitate,
The residue of warmth we tender, such
As both to allay and heighten clinical
Ghost apprehensions from our muscle realm;
The screenshot glass reminds us, what we call
Virtual drink comes test tube. Overwhelm
Friends we cannot, while swept by tides in-spirit,
So cluttered with idea-debris, we quail.
Flotsam, no reagent pirate to clear it
From our mindstream, lest we forget we fail:
Imperfect in our capture of all threat,
Confident, in how we spread our ragged net.

IN DEEP, MR. FROST?
—Tom Goff

We watch seawater, nearby; far;
Connoisseurs of roiling waves
Shocked against rock, up over sand bars;
Froth, where it laves, huge cylinder caves
That coil, snarl, crumple reduced
Like oranges pulp and skin once juiced.
You query our need for scrutiny?
Ask the gray cat whose bowlside vigil
Means eyeing orange fin-flicking glee,
Her stare her feline sign and sigil.

ORPHEUS, HEAD
—Tom Goff

Bacchantes who parted
his throat from his shoulders,
no more subtle than boulders.

Still, did they not do
later poets a favor?
Any moral to savor?

This great poet,
all mind, all head,
drifting on downstream,
singing down rapids,
long since dead.

At least
body’s about where it ought to be,
downward down
with or without
Eurydice.

ISOLATE ENERGIES
—Tom Goff

Come forth in spirit, you,
out of your houses.
Don’t exit physical
houses, but come out
astral, all ectoplasms.
Live, though encaved,
not like folkfalls enchasmed.
Mount directionless wheels,
pedal swift Pelotons,
tread your stair climbers,
unmothball your NordicTracks.
Prove more than your skeletons.
Reach, stretch for spirit realms.
The material underwhelms?
Master the spiritual
pieces of discipline.
Progress is ritual.
With isolate energies
measure up to the wax
rubbed into Daedalus wings
or applied to your skis
meant for the fresh-powder freeze.
We must go underneath?
Then be now your hurtlings
downward that strain at knees
all the way downslope.
Gnash fiercemost where sickness lusts.
Bite down on spiral gusts
caught with your teeth.

 “A bit of beauty even in a lot of ugly.”

A FLOWER GROWS IN BUCHENWALD
—Michael H. Brownstein, Jefferson City, MO

The flower growing from the dead tree trunk
let out its color, breathed, opened itself to light.

Life is like that. A bit of beauty even in a lot of ugly.
The men worked around it, admired it, spoke to it.

Cruelty is not a human trait. Yet cruelty exists
and the cruel men did not destroy the blossom.

Later, in shacks too cold, too dark, too sick,
the men talked of the flower, their surprise and awe—

even in a place of darkness with the bad taste of bile,
if you look hard enough, there is an example of humanity.

The flower did not last, but the men did, and the cruel men?
They ran in the end—bullies always do—and the men behind

glorified in the memory of the flower, grew strong,
took back their lives, married, raised children, and grew stronger.

WE WILL MAKE IT TO ISRAEL NEXT SPRING
—Michael H. Brownstein
 
You dug vast graves,
You buried the dead.
You prayed for forgiveness,
You lived and lived.

The truth is your spirit
Expanded, your soul
Gained volume, your
Life not a why me
But a we will survive—

As a people, a people
Of power, prosperity, poets—
A steel welded strength.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Does anything in nature despair except man? An animal with a foot caught in a trap does not seem to despair. It is too busy trying to survive. It is all closed in, to a kind of still, intense waiting. Is this a key? Keep busy with survival. Imitate the trees. Learn to lose in order to recover, and remember that nothing stays the same for long, not even pain, psychic pain. Sit it out. Let it all pass. Let it go.

―May Sarton, Journal of a Solitude

__________________

Our gratitude to Tom Goff today for his smooth poetry, and to Michael Brownstein, who is celebrating Yom HaShoah (Holocaust Remembrance Day, which was actually yesterday) with two poems. Thanks to both of you! For news about Yom HaShoah, celebrated this year online, go to www.bing.com/news/search?q=Yom+Hashoah+(Holocaust+Remembrance+Day&qpvt=Yom+Hashoah+(Holocaust+Remembrance+Day&FORM=EWRE/.

For upcoming poetry readings and workshops available online while we stay at home, scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

__________________

—Medusa
 

 —Public Domain 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.

Ruminations

Guise

—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

Words are far away from me today,

no fire or ice to say, nor color
worthier than gray.
I barely know
a thought
or rush
of something
to complete,
if I could only
rouse myself
from this morass,
this pit of gloom wherein
I find no art to give to life.

_________________

THIS TANGLE OF SLEEP

this swirl of almost-known forces
that one must penetrate—this tangle
of sleep, so thick with effort and terror—

how probe the mind for this—the mind is
asleep—only in dreams does it let its levels out

waking is not release—only what swirls beneath

 Quiet the Moon

THE STILLNESS HERE

Beware the stillness here,
the lack of shadow,
the false sound
that follows where you speak.

Beware the golden bird
that floats down
on a shaft of sunlight
through these dark trees.

It is all illusion;
it is all wish;
it is never memory,
though you think it is.

 Katauta

LABYRINTH

Web
is mental,
not unlike
the will of
righteousness—

do not test it
as test is wont to do,
nor argue with it,
there is no frame of thought
it cannot override—

don’t tempt fate
as innocence
will tempt—
let it be,
unless you
are a labyrinthine spider, too.

 A Touch

RUMINATIONS OF A MISANTHROPIST

Nothing wrought from memory feels true.
Take that love with all its loss and gain—
infatuation—love that is insane—               
so much that ends with everything to rue.
The oldest invitations of allure    
still prick at love until the passions blur
and retrospect is harder to endure.  
Or would you let the passions have their say, 
how they can make the willing heart obey,   
with memory that makes a promise last—       
if you just let illusion have its way.           
Obsession has a way of holding fast.
Never mind the ultimate remorse     
when love bails out, preferring a divorce.

 Acumen

THE WINDS WILL HEAR

Of this and that,
there are things to measure—
the where and why, and all the
other, of all such questions.

         ~~~

Forego the questions.
Believe in whatever will
save you. Put your boat out
on that water.

         ~~~

Now you are the single sail
on the sea of being—experience
the calm—forgive what you must
of whatever cancels you.

 My Madness

THIS IS MY MADNESS

This is my madness,    this is my sane,
this is my gladness,    this is my pain,
this is my everything,    this is my none—
this is my ending—barely begun……

Time is the loneliest thing that I know,
Love follows after it,   angry and slow,
angry and cursing and weeping out loud.
Love follows after it.  Love is not proud.

Time is a woman.  Life is a man.
Death is an only child Fate did not plan.
Nothing can harm us, nothing can fail—
look how we walk with our hands on the rail…..

Going down stairways and groping down halls,
we leave the pulse of our hands on the walls,
we leave the echoes of footsteps to fade—
and silence to cover the sounds that we made…….

Merry-go-round with its one-sided horse,
lavender eye, and a song of remorse,
playing and playing, relentlessly sad—
with free rides for children who all have been bad……

I went to look for a possible word;
I found it lost in the throat of a bird.
Mockingbird, Meadowlark, Starling, and Crow—
sing it so sadly—this word I should know.  

Down in the garden the poison is grown,
mushrooms for someone who goes there alone,
goes there with mercy and vision so vast—
if you are hungry, you must learn to fast.             

Out in the sunshine and out in the rain
love follows loneliness for Love’s own gain,
making its promises, and its demands—
Love follows after    with tangles for hands,         

This is my madness,    this is my sane,
this is my gladness,    this is my pain,
this is my everything,    this is my none,
This is my ending—barely begun…          

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

MIND-POWER
—Joyce Odam

You are that maze
I never get through.

How did you
make yourself so clever,
without an exit?

How did I
get in?

___________________

“You are that maze I never get through.” Thank you, Joyce Odam, for stunning images such as this, and the tight metaphor that follows clear to the end. And those irises! These times are not all chaos; Mother Nature still seems to have her wits about her.

Our new Seed of the Week is Tenderness. 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.

Changes! I’ve started fussing around with the furniture in the Kitchen; in the next few weeks, I’ll be brushing up on things that are out of date, for example, and hopefully coming up with more eye candy for you while you’re locked up in stir.

Last night I messed with the links at the top of the home page. Some have disappeared—mostly ones that are, to me, obsolete. But I did add one called “Medusa’s Kitchen Calendar”, the reason being that Sac. Poetry Center has listed a link to that title, thinking that it was my calendar. Well, it isn’t, but I added a page to direct viewers to the real calendar, which is, as you know, over in the blue column.

Anyway, in the process, I discovered (what I had forgotten) that 2020 is the year of the Snake! So I added a silly horoscope to that page, and guess what it says? That this year you should “Be sure to sleep well and take care of your health.” Wow! It also says, though, that “Snake relationships will be meaningful and romantic. There will be a lot of scope for progress.” Good news, there, yes?

Speaking of news, for more about El Dorado County poetry events, check Western Slope El Dorado Poetry on Facebook at www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry/. Right now, for example, you'll see there that MoSt Poetry Center in Modesto challenges you to write a couplet (a two-line poem about anything, rhymed or not) every day until April 30. At the end of the month, the couplets will be put together into a “community spread” poem. Go to the Facebook page listed above and click on the “Community Spread” announcement for more info. It started a week ago, but will last through the rest of the month, so you have lots of days left to participate.

For upcoming poetry readings and workshops online while we stay at home, scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

Things to do while you wait out the bad bugs (BAD, not BED!):

•••go through your old poems and organize/edit/submit;
•••write new stuff and send it to the Kitchen (kathykieth@hotmail.com) or elsewhere;
•••fiddle with forms for FFFriday on Medusa, and don’t forget our Seed of the Week;
•••sign up for some or all of Sac. Poetry Center’s workshops; there are actually THREE A WEEK now on Zoom;
•••read, Read, READ! Poetry, of course—but everything else that you usually don’t have time for.

That’ll get you started for this week. And thanks again, Joyce, for your poems and photos!

_____________________

—Medusa, pulling out the mop to give the old Kitchen a go ~

 The Beautiful Chaos of Spring
—Public Domain 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.

This World Full Of Cheese

Lunacy I
—Public Domain Artwork Courtesy of Sue Crisp
 

LUNACY
—Sue Crisp, Shingle Springs, CA

Waxing Gibbous Moon tonight,
soon to be on full glow,
casting shadows of darkness and light,
on its night-time world below.

Those with creature souls
will feel its magnetic pull,
take on, perhaps, creature roles.

A form of lunacy felt by some,
leading them down odd roads,
a transition they will soon overcome.

Lunar events, strange powers, lunacy overloads,
but then, perhaps lunacy is just lunacy,
a condition a full moon goads.

 —Artwork by Norman J. Olson

GOING ASHORE AT VILLEFRANCHE
—Norman J. Olson, Maplewood, MN
 
the big ship barely moves with the
6 foot swell, but stepping from
the gangway to the bouncing
deck of the tender
boat, young hands help
me across…  the water is blue as the
back end of midnight, but shiny too
like brittle dreams
or young love…  the soft green hills of
Villefranche frame the bay
and a few
tan houses, flung
like a handful of dice onto
the hillside…  a Philippine girl and two
boys from the crew
giggle at what?? a fat old man slipping on the deck…
no, they are too kind for
that…  maybe they giggle because they
are young and look into a future I cannot even
imagine…  or maybe they
are just happy with the brown purity of their
arms and smooth smiling
faces… and a few hours off
work…

 —Artwork by Norman J. Olson 

MEMORY OF A TRIP TO ROME
—Norman J. Olson

the ancient
marble is piled in my
memory, tons upon tons
of
stony thoughts…  who carved that
creamy white stone… what sort of
hammer did they use?  were
they hot and tired?  sick
of being poor boys making
monuments for the rich perhaps,
or maybe they were happy to have a place
and not be starving
in the street…  the Pantheon is
only two thousand years old
and already, some of
the stones are badly
worn…

I remember a tabby
cat
who sat
in the shadows and looked at me
with yellow
eyes…  the tomb of Raphael... 

me standing
there beneath the sky blue occulus
with my dead phone
in my wrinkled blue veined
hands…

 —Artwork by Norman J. Olson

LIMITS
—Caschwa

Used to love reading books
I read every science fiction novel
and whaling adventure book
in the little public library near my
elementary school

then came junior and senior
high school with assigned reading
from very heavy tomes that
greedily stole my time away

and after that came a serious
head injury from a motorcycle
crash that imposed new limits
on my trusty gray matter

I still love to read, a little bit
at a time, such as a person who
wades happily in shallow water
but avoids the deep dives, because

my mind is like a paper bag, eager
to receive all kinds of groceries
intentions—well and good
retention—wish I could

instructions: pick this poet up very
gently from the bottom with both
hands, and don’t set him down on
a wet counter top

________________

MULTI-BASKING
—Caschwa

(inspired by “crowded brain” from
“Idle Mind” by Tom Goff, Medusa’s
Kitchen, April 1, 2020)

lather with lotion
go to the beach
the sounds of the ocean
will mute the sun’s hot reach

filter out substance
concentrate on form
let the sand’s gentle acceptance
replace struggles at the dorm

poppy-cock and ballyhoo
are all you need to know
keep timepiece buried in your shoe
and stay till the horizon is red aglow 

 Spring Berries

—Photo by Caschwa
 

I’M GETTING MARRIED IN THE MORNING
—Caschwa

but the bride-to-be
so tender and proud
has never met me
or heard me out loud

she sees my fine verse
submitted with hope
and rejects with a curse
like I’m some kind of dope

omniscience, she insists
read every word she’s used
approach with clenched fists
and expect to get abused

original copy
as dumb as that sounds
no rusty jalopy
or any lost and founds

the road to success
is paved with rejection
no maps, I confess
will help with direction

_________________

TOO OLD
—Caschwa

some never begin
the long, long list of begats
royal tits for tats

it is not like, once
weaned from mammary
one has extra memory

to master all that
lavish consanguinity
for eternity 

 Spring Apricots

—Photo by Caschwa
 

PUBLIC DOMAIN PHOTO
—Caschwa

(based on a photo posted in
Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/14/20:
“All Unattended Children
Will Be Sold To The Circus”)


warning: democracy left
unattended will be sold
to the circus

all the better to jerk us

as the main key to
democracy
is huge crowds of people
showing up to cheer
performers in the hot
spotlight who risk
imminent peril

often looking lunatic doing it

drudgery is gone
the clowns toss out peppermint

and the band plays on
all for our betterment

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joseph Nolan

TWO POEMS from his “Dugout” Series
—Michael Ceraolo, S. Euclid, OH

Andrew "Rube" Foster
 
As a pitcher I was equal or superior to Mathewson
As a manager I was superior to McGraw
As a league found I was equal or superior to Johnson
As a czar I was equal or superior to Landis
As such I had my detractors,
something that didn't bother me in the least:
anyone who actually does something has detractors
But it proved to be too much for one person:
overwork, plus exposure to a gas leak
that possibly caused brain damage,
led to a breakdown necessitating institutionalization,
where I died a few years later in my early fifties

___________________

C.I. Taylor

I see Andrew compares himself to Ban Johnson,
among many other baseball immortals
But just as Mr. Johnson didn't build his league by himself,
neither did Andrew, though he may have convinced himself he did
That was always his problem:
he couldn't be content with the credit he was due
Anyone else who was due credit,
anyone who questioned any of his actions,
was a 'detractor', especially those
like my brothers and me that he considered rivals
That's sad

 Lunacy II
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joseph Nolan

I, WHO SLAUGHTERS DINOSAURS
                By Crow Magnum
—Joseph Nolan

Today, dinosaurs are smaller than paramecia.
Everyone must hide indoors
From microscopic tyrannosaurs.

I shoot them with tiny arrows
And stab them with tiny spears.
I smash them
With tiny clubs
So tiny, no-one can see.

This battle goes on night and day.
I and the rest of my crew
Work in shifts.

We dance shaman dances
Around those possessed—
Those who cough and cannot breathe.

We sound giant trumpets in their ears
To frighten away the little red demons
All of us shamans have seen in our dreams.

This battle is not what it seems.
It is a battle with the past
Superimposed over the present.

There is no treatment
And no cure
Except for fish-bowl cleaner
And the shaman stuff we do.

Call us if you need us.
We charge time-and-a-half
On weekends.
And guarantee to huff and puff
Until we blow your house down!!

 Lunacy III
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joseph Nolan

PANDEMIC MAN
—Joseph Nolan

Wears a mask

Stands far away

Hoards toilet paper

Stays home

Socializes by phone

Reaches out with email

Video chat and moans,

After he has hung up

And feels too alone.

__________________

WORLD FULL OF CHEESE
—Joseph Nolan
 
Can you imagine a world
Full of cheese?

Bless yourself
If you sneeze!

Some of it
Is quite awful.

I don’t know
How it could please

Anyone near enough
To smell it,

Although
I know they
Would say,
“The pleasure
Is in
The pudding,
So jump in
And see
How it feels!”

 Lunacy IV
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joseph Nolan
 

INTO A PRIVATE MADNESS
—Joseph Nolan

I must shuffle off, now,
Into my own
Private madness.

Resiliency
Will serve me best,
Since I’ve lost
All the rest
With whom I
Used to travel.

Complacency
Abandoned me
About twenty
Friends ago,

When I was still able
To sit at a table
To banter, bandy and joke,

But now it seems such a burden!
Just to show up and be seen,
To murmur,
“Eu te amo!”
When I fail
To feel
What I mean.

_______________

A STAR FROM MY POCKET
—Joseph Nolan 
 
If I could pull
A star out
From my pocket,
To put into your hand,
I would, I would,
If I only could.

I would paint
Such a star
In moonbeams,
The better
To stir
Your heated soul
Into an embrace
With Infinity.

In these dark times,
I pray that you’ll
Be whole!

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joseph Nolan 

THE EMBARKATION
—Joseph Nolan

To the wisdom
Of forefathers,
Poured into
Sake cups,
We drink.
Drink up!
Kanpai!

Such wisdom
Is fleeting,
As anchors
Are raised
And ships leave
Our harbor
For long trips
A-sea,

We have cried
Our good-byes
So many times
Before,
But still overcome,
We can’t help but
Cry more.

And those left behind
In bondage must be,
As love’s lines stretch
Long in longing
To ships on the sea.

_________________________

Today’s LittleNip:

PUNISH
—Caschwa

the purchase of sheep shears
must of course come with
de-furred payment options

***

trust in the Devil yields
trident rue
good, honest work is
tried and true

*** 

stop me if you’ve heard this
 
_______________________

Lots of robust poetry and visuals in our usual Monday lollapaloosa, and many thanks for it all, including Norman Olsen’s artwork and poems, which are, as he says, “about travel that seems almost unimaginable in the insanity of our pandemic…” Our Seed of the Week: Lunacy, was a no-brainer; you can pretty much see lunacy wherever you look these days!

Most poetry events in our area have been cancelled due to Shelter in Place, of course, but some readings and workshops have gone online—such as Sac. Poetry Center’s following schedule of Zoom happenings for this week (www.sacramentopoetrycenter.com):
    •••Today (4/20), 10am: Writers on the Air, led by Todd Boyd. Zoom link: us04web.zoom.us/j/6542635827?pwd=YzdvelcxOW1CNWg2YnBuc05ZYUJaQT09&_x_zm_rtaid=QcbpsqIjTGS8PhPrvCDtrw.1587397473644.e382bbce4a111b0261a600df3755f73d&_x_zm_rhtaid=459/. Meeting ID: 358 106 078     Password: 025674. RSVP in advance via email to writersontheair.message@gmail.com/.
    •••Tonight (4/20), 7:15pm: SPC Monday night poetry reading, featuring Bob Stanley: “With all this solitude: old poems & new poems,” hosted by Lynn Belzer. Bob is the author of 3 collections, in addition to holding a 4-year-long term as Sacramento’s Poet Laureate. Go to
us04web.zoom.us/j/7638733462/. Meeting ID: 763 873 3462 ("P O E T R E E I N C")     Password: spcsdv2020
    •••Tues. (4/21), 7:30pm: SPC Tuesday night workshop, hosted by Danyen Powell. Bring a poem for critique. See us02web.zoom.us/j/346316163/. Meeting ID: 346 316 163
    •••Wed. (4/22), 6pm: MarieWriters: Write to a prompt and share your poem led by Ann Michaels. zoom.us/j/671443996
    •••Fridays, 4pm: Writing From the Inside Out weekly workshop, writing to prompts, facilitated by Nick LeForce. Info/reg. in advance for this meeting at zoom.us/meeting/register/upwkde-opjkpnyQECAVBKolY4hKCdl61uA/. After registering, you will receive a confirmation email containing information about joining the meeting. (If you have registered before, just use the same link.)

Also this week:
•••Friday, 7:30pm: Live-feed poetry readings on Facebook by Davis Poet Laureate James Lee Jobe. at www.facebook.com/jamesleejobe/. Poets are coming up with creative ways of connecting, too, such as Rhony Bhopla’s “10 minutes of quiet writing” (live) on Facebook last night at 8pm. Watch for them!

One last note: a mea culpa to Joseph Nolan, who is the true author of the following poem which I posted as the LittleNip yesterday, calling it a creation of Carl Schwartz’s. To reiterate:


VIRAL BLUE LAWS
—Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA
 
Every day sucks like Sunday
Back when Sundays were blue.
You can’t even go to a movie!
There’s really nothing to do,

Except you can still go fishing
Or climb a tree or two
Or mow the lawn
Or catch up on your homework
Or dream until Sunday is gone.

Sorry, Joseph! (I've changed it on yesterday's post.)

___________________________

—Medusa

 

 Lunacy V
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joseph Nolan

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.

Dream a Little Dream

Bare Naked Ladies
—Poems and Photos by Sue McMahon, Cameron Park, CA
—Artwork by Travis Warren

MY GOLDEN HILLS OF EL DORADO

My golden hills of El Dorado
with spotted horses to the north
and fat cattle to the south
once where ranch houses were barely seen

What a sight for a young girl
walking home from Mitchell Junior High
seeing your beauty every day is
where my dreams began

I could not wait to
climb up the hill and not look back
and to live on top of your snowy pine tree
mountains!

I remember winding through those rolling hills
in search of a special camping spot

Never knowing the destination
pitching tents wherever we wanted
always cleaning up better than
what we found our perfect secret place to be

Coming home and seeing the dark valley below
and Dad teasing about seeing our porch light on
as his old truck rumbled through
the fields of Folsom towards home

Oh my golden hills of El Dorado
what a trail of memories you leave

EL DORADO’S SERENITY


Your mountains so high and rambling creeks

Emanate your beauty no matter what the season

As long as the Waffle Shop stays open to fill grumbling bellies

Along the way ~

I won’t mind the string of cars, trucks and campers that

Jostle for a position at the old Ice House Road turnoff

Where many have died and past camping trips were made

Oh so long ago,

I will patiently let them pass so that I can enjoy the scenery

Of the grand but at times trickling American River

I anticipate Lover’s Leap, then Camp Sacramento as

Happy memories fill my heart till tears fall

While looking at your empty softball field ~ I miss you so

Then at the summit I smile as I look down at your crisp

Blue shoreline and long for sand in my toes or

Snow on my windows

Even the tangled mess at Whitehall left by the Cleveland Fire

Makes me sentimental and wanting for pioneer ways

My dearest El Dorado

I will always cherish your serenity ~

__________________

A DEVASTATING KING

My heart is heavy for the loss of trees,


homes, and wildlife in my dear El Dorado County.


The great Divide, North county that is so dear to my heart,


where I will come and live again someday.


This King Fire, this devastating beast that ran


northeast to the forest and beyond,


taking with it memories, homes of dear loved ones and


homes of wild animals who had to flee


that awful night when fifty thousand acres


went up in flames and devoured our beloved forest.


Where people called loved ones in a panic, hung up and


lost connections, lost pets, lost homes in the chaos.


We waited to hear from them, and waited longer


to see if they could return to their homes.


If their homes would be standing, oh the waiting.


I am saddened because in my lifetime I know


I will never see Stumpy Meadows surrounded by pine trees


and in her full beauty again.


I was searching for photos regarding the lake,


because I could not believe the fire had burned


that far; and there I found the Stumpy Meadows


Campground sign burning.


So, it is true this fire, not one bit acting like a king
but rather a beast, offering no chivalry as a true King would;


A true King would protect what has taken nature so long to create.
The Divide is where my heart is and where I will return,
to plant more trees and grow new memories ~

INTO THE HUE

Dream a little dream
In your mind asleep
Let your thoughts flow
Into a blue haze
Before you wake
Enjoy this state
Of mind and know
Loved ones are near
And lovers are even
Dearer in the dawn
Dream on

Into the hue
 

________________

FOR YOUR HEART

I would give you a rainbow
If I could reach into the sky

I would pull down your lost wishes
And somehow make them come alive

 I would grab your favorite color
And bring it to your bedside

Then paint your room this hue
If I could float into the clouds
And make your dreams come true

There may not be a pot of gold
At the end of everyday –
But I will always be your friend

Because,

I would give you a rainbow
If I could reach into the sky

________________

A FAIRY’S TRAVELS

Walking along the low road every day
I seek to find the little people
Who are called Fairies
There my true love will be brought to me
Oh his soul shall be mine, to forever envelop
In love, in warmth, in soft whispers
His breath may be cold and the heather
Still stained from his heart’s red blood
I will weep and weep, till him I seek
Oh beautiful bonnie banks
I will walk your low roads forever                                                         
Until my own soul is carried by fairies
Back to my homeland, and back to you
Where we will run on the high road once again
Into each other’s arms, forever in love
Where we are warm, where we can whisper
Soft words alone in the dark blue night
Oh Fairy come now and bring my true love home

To the beautiful bonnie banks of Loch Loma

SIX DEGREES OF BLUE SKIES

I opened the car door
And took a tumble onto
the icy interstate
This road keeps going to no end and
I yearn for a cozy destination and an
empty bowl of ice cream on my lap
I recently sold the chain saw and said
goodbye to those memories
the money bought me a tank
of gas and a basketball
for my grandson Dylan
Prime should have it delivered
before tomorrow’s sunset
I brushed off my knees along with the
bad memories that were digging in my mind
and continued on my journey;
I drove North, and a little East
into the clear civil dawn

Only blue skies ahead now

___________________


Today’s LittleNip:

VIRAL BLUE LAWS
—Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA

Every day sucks like Sunday
Back when Sundays were blue.
You can’t even go to a movie!
There’s really nothing to do,

Except you can still go fishing
Or climb a tree or two
Or mow the lawn
Or catch up on your homework
Or dream until Sunday is gone.

___________________

Welcome to the Kitchen, Sue, and many thanks for your poems! We had a sneak preview of Sue’s work last Monday in the Kitchen.

Sue McMahon lives in her beloved mountains of El Dorado County, California. Her dream of living “up the hill” began while walking to school as a young child. She longed for the mountains that she could see in the distance from the city. She is from the Sacramento area and moved to El Dorado County in 1988, and currently lives in Cameron Park. She has her own Facebook page for her poetry, Blue Sky Writings. She self- published a book of poems, titled Blue Sky Writings, Whimsical and Romantic Poetry which is also available on Kindle. Again, welcome to the Kitchen, Sue, and don’t be a stranger.

And thanks also to Sue’s son, Travis Warren, for his fine drawings, and to Joseph Nolan for his take on Sundays. It’s interesting how many of our poets are including the concept of dreams and dreaming during this quarantine: “… dream on... into the hue” as Sue puts it.

__________________

—Medusa, still reaching for the stars ~

"Comfy in my skin, loving life!"
—Sue McMahon

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.

One Star At A Time

—Poems by James Lee Jobe, Davis, CA
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of James Lee Jobe

The crow seems to be yelling at me;
How would I translate those yells?
“I am the noise of spirit!
I am the sound of the strength
Of the wild!” And then it flies
Away from my front yard
And joins the other crows
Beneath the pines in the park
Across the street.

I was young and wanted out of my family and into a different life. I didn't want to be me, and I had not yet learned that this was impossible. So what did I do? I ate several years of the calendar in an effort to change time. I then vomited up a new calendar with new days, strange numbers, and different names for the months. And my family? What did they do? The same as always; my father kept drinking good bourbon and my mother told everyone that things were fine, just fine. And my poor sister tore a page from the first calendar, wrapped it around herself like a blanket, and she lives that way to this very day. "Sis, are you alright?" No answer. Just big eyes and a shiver. 

In the dream my penis falls off and I stick it back on again. Some people live without hope. Without any sort of spirituality. When I look at them, their aura is the color of death, the color of emptiness. A cold, dark thing. They seem to want me to join them in this darkness. They seem to want to convince me to lose faith. In fact, they seem to need it. I am reminded of The Book of Job. My faith is the light in the darkness. It is faith that allows me to re-attach the penis. And it is hope that makes me try.

Yes, it's true, I love this creek.
If it were not here, perhaps
I wouldn’t have stayed so many years.
When I was younger, I walked every trail.
Now, with achy feet and a bad knee, I just watch.
Swift water, white rocks.
The feel of my feet on the earth.
I don't even mind that time passed me by so quickly. 
Putah Creek. Years later. 

Here are the months of lightning,
The months of storms. Winter.
Dark clouds pass over this valley,
Thick and fat with rain.
I love the winter rains like I love this place.
I belong here. Let me ask you,
Truly, does a person own land,
Or does the land own the person?

November. Gray skies
And emptiness.
A whisper of the winter
To come. Watching a heron
Wade in the cold, dark water.

                   

                    (for D.R. Wagner)

* * *

Life is full of dreams,
Yes, and dreams are full of life.
Close your eyes, Sisters.
Brothers, close your eyes, too.
Just be.

                    (for Jane Blue) 

The day will come when I pack up and just walk over the summit to disappear forever. The day when I push the boat out into the current and let the river carry me away. It is a time that comes to all of us, some sooner, some later. Even now, tonight, I might reach out and touch the stars one at a time.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Life; part of the noise
Between our two long silences.


—James Lee Jobe

_____________________

Our Saturday thanks to James Lee Jobe for his stellar poems and photos today, marking yet another day of lives full of dreams! Don’t forget James’ online readings on Friday nights on Facebook, 7:30pm.

—Medusa, reaching for the stars ~

 —Public Domain 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.