Can You Rhyme W/Guaifenesin?

Photo by Michelle Kunert, Sacramento

CACTUS CANARD
—Michael Cluff, Highlands, CA

Shattered on the spikes
a hummingbird slowly drops its
solid fresh green flesh
intrudes into another's
rhythm
movement now deferred,
defeated in one,
both shift at last;
only now
when the sirocco decides
to saunter then sashshay
early in this autumn maze.

___________________

Thanks also to those who attended last night's reading at The Book Collector. Here's what you missed, if you weren't there: a solid read by two wonderful poets (Crawdad Nelson and Maureen Hurley); a special surprise musical performance by Scotch singer/guitarist Neil O'Neill (kilt and all); and dancing by Michelle Kunert. (Yes, she really did dance.) Join us for the next 2nd Weds. reading: Which Side Are You On? Songs and Poetry of Labor and Protest, hosted by Richard Hansen.

Kevin Jones picked up on the silly giveaway that was lurking in Calliope's closet on our b-board: three cinquains about cough syrup. This challenge was inspired by a long illness I had several years ago: sitting at home coughing and hacking (and dazed on cough syrup), I decided to write piles and piles of cinquains in order to get used to the form. At one point I remember trying to rhyme "guaifenesin"... Anyway, Kevin won a free rattlechap, and now I shall change the challenge. He says: You didn’t say they had to be Good Cinquains. But then most are kind of Crapsey anyway… (William Wantling & cough medicine—why didn’t I think of it sooner?):


3 CINQUAINS ABOUT COUGH SYRUP
—Kevin Jones, Fair Oaks

Wantling
Traded grades for
Cough syrup. Ethical,
No, but in Comp, anything’s a fair
Exchange.

__________________

Gallon
Jug of codeine
Cheap wine wrote the final
Line even for the tough hipster
Poet.

________________

Cough meds
Got him, along
With a bottle of cheap
White, leaving the last of the Beats
Wantling.

________________

LET
—Michael Cluff, Highlands, CA

Today
I have let the declawed
cat attack the caged
waybills and canaries
with glamour and glee.

My razors will not be put away
I will let the cuts
bleed fancy and freely
without alcohol or peroxide
to never numb the sting.

I will do my lines
without fare or after thought
let them come
as they dart
natural and unimpeded.

Irises will spend
time with chickweed,
mice with forceps
and I, in a tan Mini Cooper, let the air
go one way to Montreal....

or, at least Missoula or Minot,
while enjoying
"Watermelon Man"
and will not let in
iotas of guilt
any longer.

__________________

RICOCHETS OF MERCURY
—Michael Cluff

Always gauging
the temperature of my soul—
it varies too much
for a thermometer
to work
without shattering
into an environment
not always of my accord.

A creaking floorboard
or Indian head penny
will spark it off
with equanimity

as do cow creamers,
clip-on ties
and conundrums
cleverly constructed.

But
the degree of descent,
ascent
is mine alone—
a range without wire
barbed or blanching

orbiting around
my impulses
ricochets or mercury
I know
best of all.

__________________

POEM’S WORLD
—Mitz Sackman, Murphys

An ocean of ink in a single drop
Trembling at the tip of my brush
Poised above the stark white paper
A universe waits for existence
—Deng Ming-Dao

A sea of thought fills my brain
A rolling wave of feeling dances toward my notebook
An ocean of ink in a single drop

The canvas of life impels me
I must find my way into this life’s paint
Trembling at the tip of my brush

Ink awaits the time ideas gel
Slowly in my mind words form pattern
Poised above stark white paper

The poem blooms slowly forming
Creating visions never seen
A universe waits for existence


(Inspired by Medusa's LittleNip on Tuesday)

__________________

Today's LittleNip:

The poem is momentary though it has not the same moment always. Changes occur and it changes with them. The moment is felt.

—William Bronk

__________________

—Medusa

Photo by (correct me if I'm wrong) Katy Brown, Davis

Some of our many, many SnakePals:
Bill Gainer, frank andrick, Taylor Graham,
Kathy Kieth, Joyce Odam, Ann Menebroker, Sandy Thomas

Want to be a SnakePal?
All it takes to be a SnakePal is to send us poems, artwork or
photos—we're cheap and easy that way.
Got a reading coming up?
Send a pic, bio and 3-5 poems to Medusa for posting!
(The only bad publicity is NO publicity...)

(By the way, when this photo was taken earlier this year, I was also sick.
These kind people stood next to me to prove how brave
and supportive they were...)

Breakable Shadows

The Twins
Photo by Taylor Graham

SHADOWSCAPE WITH LAMBS
—Taylor Graham, Placerville

On this luminous morning painted with a gilded wash—
oaks weighed down by their deep green shadows—
May’s sunrise turns numinous and listening, bleating ewes
bunched close by the fenced garden. All this
growing-waiting pushed from within, a vegetable birth,
a spring. Still, worry hitches as caught breath. Premonition
of what happens—fate, or a judgment—the barren
ewe goes to slaughter, and the prospect for lambs—
they step eggshell-cautious on their breakable
shadows. Safe passage toward another shearing night.

__________________

ORCHARD DREAMING
—Patricia Wellingham-Jones, Tehama

He dreamed his almond orchard
tree by tree, purchased
the saplings, patted each
in its hole in the row.

He brooded over the first full season,
snapped a few pink blooms
for his wife the second spring.
Several years of good harvest
followed, his hands learned new skills.

Last week’s heavy storms
churned soil into mud ponds.
Gale winds roared through the orchards,
wrenched out trees by their roots.
Toppled them on their sides,
left them for dead.

He stood behind
streaming glass, watched
his dreams fall, tree by tree.
He wrung those hands
that had learned so much,
wondered, as farmers do
through their lives, if he could
build his dream again.

__________________

FRAGILE THREADS
—Patricia Wellingham-Jones

The young Mexican parents
coo and chortle with their baby,
coax giggles from the little mouth,
finger ringlets of her black hair.

You’d never know
they lost their firstborn,
their beautiful son,
two months ago.

Today they weave
the fragile strands of their lives
across the gaping hole
in their hearts.

__________________

VORTEX OF REBIRTH
—Ann Wehrman, Sacramento

earlier, the storm crashed
flooded the concrete
path outside my studio
puddles reflect sun’s gold
glint clean as your rain eyes
their secrets deep inside
black dirt in sidewalk seams

still vibrating and nauseated from
the bus ride home,
its smells of sickness,
cigarettes, unwashed humanity,
I step around the pools
in this moment’s unnatural stillness—
clarity tinged with gold/amber/sepia
lack of birds’ chatter and keen
back of my neck tenses
all my flesh rises, puckers
each hair a separate alert
above, thunderheads
roil and smoke, black pearl
bass drum gongs, silent
my hearing, now super-acute,
fancies they shout at each other
Get out of my way
edge and bump, locomotives

underneath them, motionless
trapped out of time
in a vacuum, a parallel moment
an alternate schedule
that allows change
broken by a hand larger
than clock, than human
my skin taut,

from deep space whistles
without sound
into air, the invisible vortex

I fish in the vacant box
for my mail, walk back
another night—
you, somewhere else—
I should go in, but linger

the air, before light,
has turned heavy, too warm,
the sun brightened
around racing, dark, massed clouds
which poise, threaten
at any moment
to coil into a fury,
reach down a stark, crooked finger,
hook me up and in
without sentience or regret,
rip apart all vestiges
of my pride, self-reliance, self-respect

__________________

SATIRE ON ARTIFICE
—Ann Wehrman

Shall I drink spring water from beaten gold;
fashion a cup from a dew-pliant leaf
or a strip of bark, still fragrant with loam?
You urge me to sew gowns of gold brocade;
embroider in silver, even silk,
cat’s-cradle patterns, royal, elusive, ascending—

instead, I braid chains of autumn leaves;
don frayed, baggy clothes; wrap in threadbare quilts;
eat plain, dark bread; drink my coffee strong—
tired, bleeding, stubborn, faithful,
I must follow the simpler path.

__________________

MIDNIGHT KITCHEN
—Ann Wehrman

rain falls above me
like a creek, or spring,
as I sit
in the warm,
quite kitchen
alone

my heart aches for you
to feel your spirit’s nearness

you speak in my mind
so clearly
walk me through
each day’s pain
I feel your caress
as if it were real
your kiss
your deep embrace

I long to be with you
in substance
touch your face
know that
I am not imagining
our love

__________________

ORPHEUS AND THE TURTLEDOVE
—Ann Wehrman

loving you, I venture
over unknown waters

my feathers flecked at the tips
by passion
exhausted, intense
I approach the edge
of my desire

still, you draw me
to you
hold me within caverns
of flame
assuage my thirst
tender my germination

I kindle and die
again and again

__________________

Today's LittleNip:

The stuff of thought is not caged in the brain but is scattered all over the body...

—Richard M. Bergland

__________________

Be sure to join us at The Book Collector tonight
(1008 24th St., Sacramento, 7:30pm)
as Crawdad Nelson and Maureen Hurley read,
with Richard Hansen hosting. Be there!

—Medusa

This Aggregate of Filmy Remains

JoAnn Anglin
Photo by Anna Andrews

DEADLY FRAGRANCE
—JoAnn Anglin, Sacramento

The killing scents you wear
slide across my cheek, encircle my heart.

I recall the long ago cologne of Lucky
Strikes and Pabst Blue Ribbon—flavors
inhaled with my baby’s breath, surreptitious
sips from tumblers left by party guests.

Wit or wisdom’s clever words I forget
yet remember the whiff of whiskey in
the golden crescent stain,
the biting scent of burgundy spilled
on imitation lace.

I know you are here by the
stale warm beer odor and
cigarette smells that precede you.

Now I lean into your sour shirt,
lick your nicotine fingertips,
inhale the warmth of liquor sweat rising.

Your pheromones of death ensnare me,
take me back to infancy.

Lured by your fatal cologne I long for the
remembered death scent of you,
long for your warm amber breath.

___________________

Thanks, JoAnn! JoAnn Anglin was raised in Sacramento. She writes nonfiction as well as poems about nature, human and otherwise. She takes part in three writing groups and has been published in The Sacramento Anthology — 100 Poems, the Anthology of Third Sunday Poets, in The Pagan Muse, and in Voces del Nuevo Sol/Voices of the New Sun. In 2004, her chapbook, Words Like Knives, Like Feathers, was released by Rattlesnake Press. Go to www.rattlesnakepress.com/JoAnn_Anglin.html for more about JoAnn.

NorCal poets will be sad to hear that Quinton Duval passed away yesterday at home. Quinton has been quite ill recently, and we’ve all been thinking about him and his family. Recently retired, he was an excellent poet and publisher (Red Wing Press), and a great guy to be around. He will be sorely missed.

Congrats to recent winners in the California Federation of Chaparral Poets, Inc. annual contest, announced in April at the annual convention in Los Angeles. Carol Louise Moon won the Golden Pegasus, and Joyce Odam won the Theme Poem (New Worlds). A partial list of other winners included Katy Brown, Don Feliz, Elsie Whitlow Feliz, David Anderson, Claire J. Baker, Allegra Silberstein, and Cleo Griffith. More info about CFCP at www.chaparralpoets.org/. We have two chapters in Sac, and there’s one in Modesto.

No Sow of the Week this week. I’m backlogged with poems and photos to publish right now, and want to take a week to catch up. Our Mother’s Day SOW turned out to be wonderful, by the way! Looking over the poems that came in, I see such a wide variety of thoughts and feelings about mothers—which is only right, because, as Mitz Sackman said, it’s a complex job...

So let’s take a breather this week and look at a variety of poems on a variety of subjects. If you’re wanting for inspiration, scroll down on the b-board to Calliope and rummage through her closet. (There’s a give-away there, incidentally, that’s been up since the beginning, but nobody’s taken advantage of it yet.) And if you want to see last week’s poems, click on “Older Posts” at the bottom of this cream-colored column; that’ll take you to the last seven days, all in one swell foop.

___________________

NERI'S "NUDE"
—JoAnn Anglin

She isn’t whole,
doesn’t know if she ever will be.
In the months since she shattered,
she has started to disappear.

Her once-strong lines, edges
of sweeping curves, elegant angles
were a clear demarcation
between her and her world.

Sometimes she misses what was solid,
sometimes not.
All those things with barbs cannot hook into her now
can’t tear what lacks substance.

Now the world flows into her at will,
takes what it wishes, in shreds of
her corporeal being.
She is amazed at what can pass through her.

Once somebody’s memory, she has
become a faded dream.
Yet what is left moves, uses space,
casts the faintest shadow.
An exquisite tension keeps the threads
of her in a semblance of her shape.

She keeps trying to move forward
in fluid shimmer
to gather the external fibers of her
that are in rapid dissolve,

the angel hair threads that glint,
not from internal shining, but
reflect what passes through her
yet never fills her up.

And somehow the aggregate of
filmy remains keeps moving forward.

She is seen as if through steam,
through frosted glass,
through a veil.
What remains suggests her,
but is not quite her.

All she knows is the magnetic force
of her yearning, but she does not
know if the yearning is to be whole
or if she yearns to fully dissolve.

___________________

NYC/LOT'S WIFE
—JoAnn Anglin

September 11, 2001

Don’t look back they are told
Run, run
Fast, fast
Don’t look back

Some look
See falling:
Bodies, windows, walls
Light falling into dark
The world falling
Into the shape of a dragon
That follows, follows

Still they look back

Don’t look back
But they do
Some are turned
To brittle salt
Some to tears
To screams
Some into holders of
Dreams of falling
Perpetual dreams
Perpetual falling

___________________

LUNCH TRUCK
—JoAnn Anglin

my breath puffs in each cold morning air
back muscles ache, hauling 50-lb. bags of ice
fingers hurt, congealed from spreading ice around
my yogurts/juice boxes/cottage cheese
gas twists out foully as I struggle to light the flame
under the big coffee pot
burn fingers on hot coffee grounds

selecting sandwiches
try to remember which sold best yesterday
which unsold I’ll eat for lunch.
fingers grow sticky
jelly fillings icing on cheese Danish
caramel on the maple bar
cinnamon almonds on bear claws

leather & metal give
a satisfying heft to
my coin changer
I carefully separate
ones/fives/tens,
make sure no dimes hide in the nickels.

loosen up those bra straps girls
yells the boss

smile, smile, smile
these poor ol’ boys want to
see your pretty face

a high stretch up into the truck
behind the wheel letting my cigarette
hang from my mouth
while I turn the big truck round
use the long side mirrors

at the construction site
the deep throated horn
bosses’ look of dismay
workers’ friendly waves
I try not to raise much dust
quickly leap out flip up side panels

As I hand back change I marvel at
scars on big hands
many missing fingers
smell of sweat and dirt

the former field of weeds
still wet newly poured concrete.

I just bring sustenance

__________________

Today's LittleNip:

An ocean of ink in a single drop,
Trembling at the tip of my brush.
Poised above stark white paper,
A universe waits for existence.

—Deng Ming-Dao

___________________

—Medusa

JoAnn Anglin
Photo by Maureen Hurley, Oakland
(who will, coincidentally, be reading tomorrow night
at The Book Collector!)

Believe Twice

Crawdad Nelson

TO A DEAD RAT
—Crawdad Nelson, Sacramento

The thump of a railroad fat with peaches
recalls the orchard and the work
even the fruit crates catskinned
off Tahoe by wildcat gypos
a hundred years before or after
the jackpot.

And the racetrack: I linger over it
full of regret.

Outside the cannery rats are foiled
in their tracks by attractive wafers
chained to the fence.

The ponies are pounding, wild in wind and silk
and my heart leaps at the chance.

A bum in the weeds would rather tell me
about the CIA than light the cigarette
so we part slowly and at peace.

They're bending at the turn, a fire of turds
and hoof-clots follows the dense pack
and my horse throats out, ahead
but burning, all precious energy and lust
beaten out of him.

The factory cranks out canned almonds
the trucks roll off to Safeway burdened
with all the easy cheese, the milk has
officiously been pumped and sealed
at the scale, and the rat snuck up to the wire.

Took a chance. The guard saw
everything on camera and made a mark.

An employee in a hairnet popped an almond
with her teeth and proposed marriage
to the guard but it was lost—her horse
rolled in the stretch and threw her,
whereas the fruit truck entered the third turn
one minute ahead of himself.

The rat took the cheese.
I rolled my own and watched
a two-round prize fight at the bus stop.
I put my roll down on the
chick in a skirt but she had no heart
and the whole thing withered,
I had nothing.

The train pounded on through midtown just about
splitting the rat in half where it had expired
about sunrise, when I lost my last dollar.

__________________

Thanks, Crawdad! Dale "Crawdad" Nelson has been in Sacramento long enough to discover two excellent patches of morels, within walking distance. He also knows where to get lemons, oranges, persimmons and walnuts. His latest collection is Big Drink, from 24th Street Irregular Press, 2009. His poems have appeared in places like the Palo Alto Review, New Hampshire Review, The Bear Deluxe, Sacramento News & Review, and other print and online publications. He works as a writing tutor at Sacramento City College, where he is also a history major, and he believes the study of grammar has profound implications. Read more about him at www.myspace.com/crawdadnelson

Join Rattlesnake Press in celebrating the work of Crawdad Nelson and Maureen Hurley this coming Weds., May 12, as Richard Hansen hosts at The Book Collector, 1008 24th St., Sacramento, 7:30pm. Be there!

___________________

today I heard few words
but each touched me as if a
thousand years had passed

beneath pine trees
I found this poem for you:
make time for your art.

—Bob Stanley, Sacramento


This is part of a poem that Bob wrote for Mayor Kevin Johnson’s For Art’s Sake initiative; the full poem appeared in the Sacramento Bee California Forum section yesterday. (Poetry to celebrate occasions in public life! Cool!) For more info on Whirlwind Bob’s activities, scroll down to his photo on Medusa's b-board.

This week in NorCal poetry:

•••Monday (5/10), 7:30pm: Sacramento Poetry Center presents !X. The Sacramento City College Ethnic Theatre Workshop (now in its fifth year), with the direction of Professor Angela-Dee Alforque, integrates various forms of art (drama, music, dance, poetry, visual art) with race, ethnic and gender studies. This year, !X will present “Mis-Education Liberation".

Coming up at SPC:
Next Monday (5/17), 7pm (note early start time and location change): Sacramento Poetry Center presents Hot Poetry in Fremont Park with poets Carrie Rudzinski, April Ranger and Terryl Wheat.

•••Tues. (5/11), 6pm: Shawn Franco will read his work and Indigo Moor will read from his new book, Through the Stonecutter's Window, as part of the Second Tuesday Poetry Series at the Barkin' Dog Grill in downtown Modesto, 940 11th St. Contact wegenerspage@yahoo.com for more info. Shawn is a local student with lots of experience in the slam world and Indigo is a poet and jazz musician who has recently won the prestigious Cave Canem Award and whose second book, Through the Stonecutter's Window, came out this month. And...this is Bring a Friend to a Poetry Reading Night! Anyone who brings a friend to the reading will be entered along with their friend for a drawing for Indigo Moor's newest book, so bring that friend along! Open mic will follow.

•••Weds. (5/12), 7:30pm: 2nd Weds. Rattle-read; see above or the b-board.

•••Thurs. (5/13), 8pm: Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Café presents Zoe Keithley plus open mic. 1414 16th St., Sacramento. Free. Hosted by Geoffrey Neill.

•••Friday (5/14) thru Monday (5/17): Third Annual “In the Flow Sacramento Jazz Festival”. On Friday (8pm) there will be a special evening of music and poetry at Luna's Café, 1414 16th St., Sacramento, hosted by NSAA (AKA Lawrence Dinkins) featuring Electropoetic Coffee, Josh Fernandez, Ruben Reveles, Frank Andrick and many more. Tickets are $10/day or $30 for a 4-day pass. For info on other events during the weekend or to order tickets, visit www.intheflowsacramento.com

•••Sat. (5/15), 7pm: Aid For Haiti features poetry by Dennis Schmitz, Bob Stanley, James DenBoer, Victoria Dalkey, Susan Kelly-DeWitt, Mary Zeppa. Music by Pat Grizzell and Junkyard Burlesque, plus long-time Haitian Activist Larry Castagnola. Newman Center, 5900 Newman Ct., Sacramento. Suggested donation: $25, but all donations welcome. All proceeds go to Partners in Health, Dr. Paul Farmer and his medical workers in Haiti. Sponsored by Castagnola Haiti Project, Grandmothers for Peace, St. Francis of Assisi Parish, Sacramento Poetry Center. Info: 916-457-2478 or sacramentopoetrycenter.blogspot.com/. Click on the pic on the b-board for more info about Partners in Health.

•••Sat. (5/15), 9am-1pm: “Soar to Healthy Heights” Sr. Health Fair at Fountain Square Rose Garden, 6237 Fountain Square Dr., Citrus Heights. Free! 75 exhibits dedicated to senior issues and concerns: presentations, demos, screenings, give-aways and entertainment—including a poets’ table, with Bob Stanley appearing from 11-12pm. (If you want to display “stuff” on the table, get it there before 9am.) Info: Margaret Bell at megdmb@surewest.net or Dr. Jayna Carpinski-Costa, 916-722-8647.

•••Sat. (5/15), 3-5pm: Spring 2010 Celebration of the Women's Writing Salon in Grass Valley, now in its 5th Year! Sierra Mountain Coffee Roasters, 671 Maltman Dr., Grass Valley, 530-477-5282. This is a free event celebrating the voices of fabulous local women writers, featuring Judy Crowe, Heather Donahue, Christine Irving, Terri Kent-Enborg, Patricia Miller and Julie Valin. (Note new time and venue!) Info: Betsy Graziani Fasbinder at bgf2u@sbcglobal.net

__________________

WHERE THE BUCKS ARE
—Crawdad Nelson

Down on that second big in-turn,
that's where you want to be, waiting,
when we set the dogs.

Right where you can see real good
but don' t stand out: be ready, don't swat
mosquitoes or fuck around

pointing your gun at things
or twisting in your boots. It's rough
country down there, be quiet

use your head and don't get up
until you hear the signal shot, or I'll hoot
from up on top there where

everybody drinks beer.

__________________

I GET THE IMPRESSION THE WORLD IS MADE OF ROSES
—Crawdad Nelson

Nothing but petals as deep as you go
nothing but almost immediate decay—
sweet-smelling, soft on the fingers,
climbing the walls and falling
in long extravagant washes of rose-bloom
over fences, envining bare boards and settling,
peaceful, rampant, enlightening, compassionate,
careful, partially restless, more than a handful
over rusted nailheads, onto the locked gate.

Roses! Flowers and thorns! Broken stems!
A bustling rapture of dew-set buds!
Nodding in ecumenical frenzies!
Passions in loose exuberant landscapes!
Free as rain—you can wall them out
but you can’t stop a single bloom, can’t
even delay them: crushing bouquets,
the multiplication, the reproduction,
the endless repetitive sweep and sway!

Tie them down, they only strain through
the wires and unpin the stakes!
They liberate! They step out of line!
They grow in all directions, to the light,
unexpectedly verdant, unpredictably vain.

Joyous and splendidly narcissistic!
Disestablished, reaching out of the ground
with courage and beauty, seeking the sun,
a racket of color! Flowing, spilling, spreading
over manures and pathways—onto the
benign, hopeless, horizontal mesh of trails—
limp in cool mornings! Deeply circumstantial!
Decidedly loose! Prolific! Profligate! Righteous!
slatternly, sluttish, promiscuous! Living twice:
Once in the garden, once in the collection—
I get the impression the world is constructed
Entirely of roses!

__________________

THE BEGGARS AT SANT FELIEUX
—Crawdad Nelson

Looking into the sun,
my own little separatist movement
on stone bridge crossing to medieval side
man with plastic cup, not asking, simply fact.

At the door of the cathedral, experiments:
porto, puerta—his cup loose with Euro coins, odd bald
headed men on obverse faces—coppery,

precious, in the high stone building full of saints
bound and abused in life-sized carvings of
eternal suffering, pricked
with many grievous arrows,
confounded but purified for 700 years,

officially worse-off than the crone
yesterday outside la Sagrada Familia
vitally invested in asserting
that she is good—bon, buon, bueno...

the hefty clank
of metal on her blessed palm
interrupting my idle gazing at Spanish girls
with lean thighs wearing only men's shirts,
belted, over erotic heels.

__________________

CELINE AND I STAY IN A RESIDENTIAL HOTEL
—Crawdad Nelson

I pay two weeks, advance, and wait, front desk, for keys,
Celine under one arm, sweating lightly, feeling, like the character
who shuffles past trash-heaps, minutely absorbed, but disinterested.
I share the rickety elevator with an incomplete wraith saying,
Don't just believe, believe twice!

My door is dead ahead, turn right, ten paces past smell of death.

#521, interior, window facing: desolate other windows,
decades of pigeon droppings and feathers, old shoes, hats
pigeon carcasses like empty feathered shoes,
on an aluminum roof three floors below, neglected.

Glance at the sink—cockroaches waiting on rim, in drain—
—mice to and fro—flattening under door—
a two dollar breeze
wrinkles ancient white curtain, I look out:
Not Paris. Seedy and stale,
people have been living this way all along
to the corner for a pack of cigarettes, a can of chili,
eating, smoking, taking a bath,
sweating on the easy chair under the fan, looking.
listening. this must be the continuous present.

Someone shouting all night
about the bitch—dead and dying—voice on flat air,
I am resurrected after midnight by Nina Simone,
lovelier than remembered, as though sung from profound remorse
—but he hates, threatens,
enumerates sins and places of origin,
claims that he loved her once,
before he lost it, landed here.
Celine mocks him: Coward! Louse!

I am one more lunatic at three a.m. too hot

anyway—roaches are infinite—
tickle me like sweat drops: secretly,
acting surprised when I pounce,

One bathtub down the hall, in a little room,
another around the corner, and a door that opens
onto a shaft, unspeakably blank, brick in dust,
inward stare. presence of rats, generations deep.

A shower that dribbles without passion
we are in the trickle-down Bastille, leftovers,
thorazine and lithium scent the elevator,
vomit underfoot, wallpaper, I take my place,
long-haired anarchist
enemies of the state living day-to-day on benefit checks
and found parcels, walking out front to the mall

in the mathematical center of the valley sunlight is magnified,
conquered and organized
we are flatter than—what channel is that on?

Four straight hours of still heat, limp curtains,
obscenities eroding the paint, parched,
—cockroaches insolently creep over page 390,
Death on the Installment Plan—the squalor of Paris,
somehow more compelling, more fermented.

At the end of the hall I step through a window,
crouch on a fire escape, gloomy L street—
mostly lights. Come to think of it,
when the book is over
I won't have to cross Paris, ratlike,
shadows, cobbled waterway, tombs,
museums, cafes, damp parks.

It's unforgivably dry. Crows shift where they roost,
three floors below in the trees. I take my place,
etch a name from a book, believe twice.

___________________

Today's LittleNip:

Life’s all about ass: covering it, kicking it, kissing it or trying to get it.

—Anonymous

___________________

Crawdad

__________________

—Medusa

Whoever I Am

Photo Enhancement by Stephani Schaefer, Los Molinos

MIAMI DAWN
—Patricia Hickerson, Davis

coffee cup jostles the saucer—
tall, lean, shoulders sloped
head wrapped in the night turban
flowered housecoat snapped-to
she closes the front door
clink of glass jalousies
walks out to pick up the Herald
folded into itself—sleepy as a child

Mother Mother Mother pin a rose on me

mist rises
puddles rim the lawn
it must have rained just now
drenched the Bermuda grass

—if I could hug you again

cloud-heaped sky, lowering heat
my pillow damp
sweat at the back of my neck
where hair grows
makes a mangrove swamp

another clink of the jalousied door
Mother inside the hushed morning
even the grackles quieted
she sinks back, fingers the paper
coral shell nails
tap through the pinked pages
there, the crossword

…hug you, Mother

I turn the pillow to a dry place

__________________

T0NIGHT MY MOTHER

says something I almost hear
on this night
away from her—her voice urgent,
something important—
something she forgot to say before.

And I must listen with no response
under the sound of her voice
that in my mind is speaking.
And I grow confused:
is it now—
or some other time,
and where am I
in my inner distance?
I am altered by her voice
which is murmuring—
halfway sad—
though she is trying
to comfort me.

It’s all right, Mama, I say,
and she grows silent.
The soft wind in the night
rattles my window and moves on.
Goodnight, I say to no one.


—Joyce Odam, Sacramento

___________________

MY MOTHER, OPENING COCONUT
—Joyce Odam

First she would pierce the eyes
with an ice pick
to pour
the strange and colorless milk
into a jelly glass for me to drink.

Then she would crack the shell
into jagged pieces
with her small kitchen hammer
to get to the white meat
that shone like crystal—

this we would dig at
with a knife,
or scrape loose
with our teeth—
this exotic, occasional treat.

The last of the pieces
would always harden
and lose their sheen,
And I never wondered
if she ever wanted to taste the milk.

__________________

CORRELATION
—Joyce Odam

Mother, it is for you I reach into life
for myself.

Whoever I am is still you.
Life holds us apart and we mourn.

I create mirrors in my mind—
fill them with you—age into them.

All my life I pulled free of you,
and still you loved me.

You honor me
and I weep my own forgiveness.

The force of your energy lives in me.
I claim it to continue.

__________________

—Medusa

With Every Vein

PROMISE FOR THE FUTURE
—Photo and Poem by Ronald Edwin Lane, Weimar

A perfect daughter to love and to hold
With her bare little feet
Each tipped with five tiny toes
To wiggle her way through her days
And to stand
And to walk
And to run
And to leave impressions in the sand
And to play games
Such as hopscotch
And “This little piggy went to market”
And to one day
Carry her away as a woman
Perhaps to distant lands
And wherever those toes may go
She shall understand
That I will always be there for her
To lend a helping hand

__________________

AND AROUND THE ROOM WE RODE
—Tom Goff, Carmichael

(in memory, Frances Ronan Goff, 1917-1998)

In the one picture I have left of you
you turn a didactic back. More evident,
your fiesta mood: you’re traffic-copping tricycles.
Your bangled wrists, as if to the skipping theme
of “Ding Dong School” or “Romper Room,” set palms
aslap in a Kodak blur. Hips schoolmarm-calm,
hair lightly permed, your bent, your whole intent
is for letting three boys train-track down the pine-
board floors on wheels that clunk. We whee and whoo
in homespun cyclones, lust for Popsicles.
Progressive Education proudly thrives:
No Silly Songs bid this kid carousel scurry on.
Our Long Plays centrifuge hot Khachaturian.
The Saber Dance in xylophones unhives!
Your blouse, photo gray here, whispers, Mommy’s nice,
in blue and orange notes, with birds-of-paradise.

__________________

DIVIDE
—Dawn DiBartolo, Citrus Heights

mother has always been

both pit bull
and poodle ~

can't see true
thru her own hair;

not in anger
but razor tongues

~ just gleaming with rich ruby blood

dripping diamonds and
other precious jewels concealing death.

i used to dream
of her in castles,

across a moat too vast
for us to reach.

i was the drawbridge
extending endlessly ~

no trench nor solid ground
could divert me;

yet the distance between us
is of her making.

__________________

DAMAGES
—Dawn DiBartolo

when I slip back to childhood
simply for memory’s sake,
firstly, there is this keloid,
a non-fading wound
viewed from the outside:
a little girl,
pink corduroyed legs
dangling as she sits
on the porch steps
of the white
plantation-style house
in the heights. beside her,
mother hangs her head
into trembling hands,
cuts of sane self
bleeding into the years
and crusting over in the
chilled ohio breeze.
she’s violently beaten
into disenchantment
so that one day,
nothing is real.
the child sees / knows /
feels only mother;
the hot tears down her cheeks
were never her own,
yet dampen everything she is.

_________________

ANCHOR
—Dawn DiBartolo

i have the same dream
every night, with winged
adaptations to the ongoing fantasy;
but she was never angel.

like the horizon, precisely where sky
and earth meet, i made myself seamless ~
a defensive balance… necessary to survive.

so, they call me and cry,
“she’s fallen again!” i say
“because she’s no knowledge of bottom.”

still, i am helpless in the undertow of my
infatuation, struggle for a moment,
then let go…like so many times before.

i’ve been drowning since my birth,
suffered a thousand separations
from what should have been my net.

she is a precious hell,
a binding torment
i can neither tolerate
nor escape.

__________________

MOTHER
—Dawn DiBartolo

when i was young,
i loved a girl
i didn’t know,
nor did she know
herself.
we came to an impasse
of grays
and seeing no other option
fell content to stay there.

when i was teen,
certain weaknesses
came between
she & i,
and the way we began
to see things
was victimized
by the shadows of time
that played in both
our eyes,
and so we closed them,
more than happy
in our inability to see.

and that i now know me,
the girl i fell out
of love with
has older eyes,
with misperceptions
still caught in the corners,
the sleep that will always
be there.
but knowing its existence
no longer blinds,
cuz i can see her
with truer vision,
and dream content
that she is simply
the image that she projects.

__________________

PERFORM

…for me,
she said, as if my existence
were dependent
upon her approval.
tap, jazz,
like i’m to
shake my ass
to fit the choreography
she’s laid down before me,
like her footprints made stone
of sand.
but i’ve always been
the one in the back row
going right
when everyone else
is going left,
headstrong,
and determined
to feel my own music.

just dance
…for me,
she said, like life
was center stage,
and i was the star.
“and i’ll watch you
twirl about,
judging the length
of your arm span
from afar.”

and begrudgingly,
i do oblige
cuz the little girl inside
still seeks
her audience of one.


—Dawn DiBartolo

__________________

VENOM DNA
—Chrys Mollett, Angels Camp

Years ago I wrote a poem
about my Mother as The Black Widow—
The poem itself was full of venom.
I found surprising things looking for that poem—
But couldn't find it.

Now my Mother's ninety,
and has little venom left.
But I inherited enough of it
to resent certain things still.

Now I do her mail and bills—
Launder the underwear
she wets every day—refusing Depends.
I clean the kitty box
and sup with her on Sundays
For these little tasks I pay myself enough
to not feed the venom.

I'm resigned to the mixed grace
of aiding an aging woman
who is my birth mother.
Who remembers so little
of the great ship she once was.
And whose life is growing smaller
as mine gets busier.

I stay away sometimes
when my plate is too full.
I don't want to feed the venom.

Pampered—Maybe she'll outlive me—
Or, I'll find that Black Widow poem
after she's gone—
And look back with delight and appall
Upon the times of high venom.
Hers and mine.

Mothers are leaves
whose every vein
supports their offspring,
whether Abel or Cain.

—Carl Bernard Schwartz, Sacramento

__________________

Today's LittleNip:

No matter how old a mother is, she watches her middle-aged children for signs of improvement.

—Florida Scott-Maxwell

__________________

—Medusa