Building Houses & Watching Light

Photo by Michelle Kunert, Sacramento

MY NEW HOUSE OF POETRY
—Patricia Hickerson, Davis

I’m building another house
beyond the one I’ve just abandoned

this new one is almost constructed
set in a forest of leafy cinquains
surrounded by shady stone sestinas
branching pantoums
carved from mahogany sonnets
surrounded by sturdy quatrains and stanzas
furnished with haiku and iamb
fires burning in every rhyme
under sky blue verses and cloudy couplets
stretching for endless pentameters

it’s a house in perpetual progress
tentatively called:
Villa Nell in the Wood
named for a great aunt I once loved
my grandfather’s sister
she was a poet…
for you, Aunt Nellie

_____________________

POEMS OF MILA AGUILAR
        (Filipino revolutionary poet,
        jailed in the ‘80s by Marcos,
        now a Manila English professor)
—Patricia Hickerson


a soldier was once sentenced to sit alone
gun emptied
bullets buried in concrete

she was left to embrace her own tomb
till her arms grew stiff
broken under their own weight

she was left to carve out a window
where there was none
to sculpt a bird from darkness
to plant in its throat a voice
filtered with the soldier’s own song
lifting the soldier’s own wings
in the voice of the bird

her song sent it up thru the window
out across the world

____________________

WINGING IT
—Michael Cluff, Highland, CA

In his tweed coat
Timothy wishes for succor
a spot of soil
that is not controlled
by sand and pudding.

Millet patches
are souring the staple
corns and meals
which dash the banal up
with a savvy sense of succotash.

And Luisa is pregnant
by unknown means
even Mary of olden days
would have recognized
in minor contretemps.

In his blue tie
the same color as his tongue
Timothy recoils
wear wingtips he wants
made of real mockingbirds' wings

______________________

NORCO POEM #4
—Michael Cluff

On a certain Wednesday midspring night
Libby waits for the right rays of moonlight,
when they arrive, she sets her course
to the corrals to dance with the horse
a young palomino called Jibber-Jabber
the waltz and reel they will collabor
until each step is perfectly executed
and their teamwork never disputed.

It is a lovely world they have created
the judges in old Vienna proudly stated
she was the queen of this specific ball
Jibber-Jabber just ate oats and malt out in his stall

And people on Deputy Evans Drive
took it all in their cantered stride
that's the way it is in Norco
west of Riverside.

____________________

St. Vincent De Paul thrift shop gets plenty donations of church organs
I told them likely from the same who threw out "old" hymns
replacing them with trendy praise written by pop stars
who noticeably often repeat over in their songs "I" and "me"
which seems to miss the entire point of church worship

—Michelle Kunert

____________________

MIDTOWN
—Ann Privateer, Davis

We stand beneath the surface
of the land, together, yet apart,
hands deep in pockets or clutching
the daily news, backpacks,
snowboards, ignore the fetal
figure on the floor, out—near
the trash bin, under an art
poster on the wall of the Metro
with miles of track and so Midtown
travelers change the scene
except for the one on the floor.

______________________

A MAN WATCHES LIGHT
—Ann Privateer

cascading ripples in a stream
like minnows that ricochet, dart,

then disappear. Colors glisten
above the rocks, changing motion

with each curve and shadow, mirrored
by trees swarming a turbulent sky.

A perfect day for fishing. Soon, rain
slicks the dock, fields tremble waiting

for harvest. His mind, once a mosaic
of thought, gives way to the focused

clean surface, practicing treading water.

_____________________ 

Today's LittleNip: 

If you could be invisible for one hour, where would you go and what would you do?

_____________________

—Medusa

Photo by Ann Privateer

Journey

Photo by D. R. Wagner, Elk Grove

THE JOURNEY
—Mary Oliver

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice—
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do—
determined to save
the only life you could save.

____________________ 

—Medusa

Dreaming of Black Ink

Carl Bernard Schwartz

EASY CREDIT TERMS
—Carl Bernard Schwartz, Sacramento

The fair winds were there
along with really foul winds
that followed them everywhere

Rip-tides above water
sailing free and easy
‘round the captain’s daughter

Fingers firmly on the nose
laughing at the jib
as the stern just rose and rose

The sails so confused and impacted
sneezed apart leaving big gaps
like a legal document redacted

Where was this vessel going?
Fair winds and following seas
blessed the crew now just rowing.

_____________________

BE PATIENT

said Charlie Sheen
to his crew now unemployed
as if creditors would take no action
and not even act annoyed

Be patient
I tell my lenders
since Arnold used his talents
to skim pay off state workers
until the budget was in balance

Be patient
say the financiers
at the top of their pyramid schemes
all is in place and under control
you will realize every one of your dreams.


—Carl Bernard Schwartz

_____________________

FOUNDATIONS
—Carl Bernard Schwartz

(After "Departmental" by Robert Frost)


The styling of Robert Frost
the senses do not accost;
readers otherwise badgered and bossed
are fortunate his work was not lost.

Another example to bring if I can
is the lyrical verse of the Music Man
which has the energy of a big poetry slam
though the rhymes might line up like a traffic jam.

Just as a uniform is complete with a cap
and the finest maple syrup merely comes from some sap
the power of alliteration is just bait in the trap
till it all comes together as the foundations of rap.

_____________________

NO WITNESSES
—Carl Bernard Schwartz

Who shot dead the preacher’s boy
just walking outside the church?
His frail and delicate posture
overcome with such a lurch

At first he didn’t feel the bullet
enter him through the back
then a massive tidal wave of pain
made no mistake of an attack

The soil claimed his body quick
as if trampled by a bull
completely unable to move a limb
he had no push or pull

I had seen a man take out a gun
and aim it toward the boy
but he commanded me to look away
if another breath I would care to enjoy

I followed his direction well
so I didn’t actually see the gunfire
only the bloody remains lying on the ground
under a recruiting sign for the night choir

The police asked me a ton of questions
then let me go inside where I kneeled
No one saw and no one will tell
through lips forever sealed.

_____________________

PLAY MONEY
—Carl Bernard Schwartz

Born and raised
heckled and hazed
in just one of the many
suburb cities
in Los Angeles County

I soon could appreciate
how dollars depreciate
because everything equaled
pirate’s treasure
a material bounty

We would play a board game
for our pleasure and fame
or play billiards for honor
Rack ‘em, loser!
It was always a fun thing

Horseshoes, pinball
lots to do, all in all
when I finished my homework
happy play time
water pistols to gun sling

One thing was still missing,
not feasting or kissing,
or self discipline guidelines,
nope, not even
a Canadian Mountie

To this day I still rue
what I saw at the zoo,
‘twas the pioneer spirit
caged and shackled
in Los Angeles County.

_____________________

WRAPPING UP BLACK HISTORY MONTH
—Carl Bernard Schwartz

(After Paul Lojeski’s "The American Dream")


While the nation’s top experts
and everyone lower down
fumble awkwardly with
our prolonged history
of deficit spending,
small business
proprietors
dream of
black
ink.

____________________

DOWN FOR THE COUNT

—Carl Bernard Schwartz

Toppled down

I can’t get up

And while I’m stuck

A big ol’ truck

Has run over my cup

My limbs are weary

All other parts ache

My good teeth are few

So everything I chew

Is as tough as a snake

I don’t have a phone

With an answering machine

People look right at me

And believe they see

The epitome of mean

The street is just no place

For refined folks like I am

Somewhere, some time

I’ll earn a dime

And live like the King of Siam

_____________________

Thanks, Carl, for today's pix and poems. Born and raised in Culver City, California, blocks from MGM Studios, superstars, limos, etc., Carl Bernard Schwartz appeared once on Bowling for Dollars (where he got a spare) but has no other nexus with Hollywood. After getting a degree in music from UCLA he sampled sales, banking, teaching, law office support, and now he’s a state worker. Married (27 years) to his sweet soul mate, and they have one grown son. In 2008 he read some left-leaning poems at Queen Sheba’s, and more recently he has attended the Hart Center Tuesday Night Workshop, been published in Medusa’s Kitchen, and will be in the next Ophidian.

Rattlesnake Press will be releasing a littlesnake broadside of Carl's poems, Maybe Tomorrow, this coming Wednesday, March 9 at 7:30pm at The Book Collector, 1008 24th St., Sacramento, along with a chapbook from Martha Ann Blackman entitled The Caring Tree. Be there!

_____________________ 

Today's LittleNip: 

The self-assured porcupine, endearingly grotesque, waddles up the road in broad daylight. He looks as if he had slept in his rumpled spiky clothes, and he probably has.

—Bertha Damon

_____________________

—Medusa

Photo by Carl Bernard Schwartz

The Leaves On The Caring Tree

Martha Ann Blackman (left) at The Book Collector in 2010

with Bill Gainer, Sandy Thomas, Trina Drotar, Ann Menebroker

and Joyce Odam

—Photo by Katy Brown, Davis

The Caring Tree

—Martha Ann Blackman
 

What is heard

is the rustling of leaves

as branches

move

in the breeze.

Not heard is an eon

of cooling the earth,

bringing sweet water up

from hair-like roots

to the tips of leaves.

Not heard is the cacophony

of birds and squirrels,

singing the tree’s lifeline.

Not heard is the weeping

as pollution entrenches

the valley

and the waters

run dry.

See the leaves

raised

in prayer,

giving blessings

to all.

_____________________

Poetry

—Martha Ann Blackman

Poetry isn’t everything,

it’s merely the song

caught by the wind,

chasing past tree boughs

with the bird

winging by.

____________________

Shed Light

—Martha Ann Blackman

Shed light

on a shadow

and it disappears,

the dark edge

fading

as you

squint.

____________________

Stone Mother

—Martha Ann Blackman

Stone Mother,

whose sides

are round

with soft hardness.

She comes

when I call,

ancient rocks,

ancient rites.

___________________

Up the Hill

—Martha Ann Blackman

Walk the ground,

it blesses you,

caresses you;

home again

catches you,

by briar

or beauty

or both.

___________________

Thanks, Martha, for today's poems! Martha Ann Blackman has co-edited a number of poetry collections, including Hard Pressed and Watching From The Sky ; the latter co-edited and co-published with Ann Menebroker to benefit Grandmother’s for Peace.

Martha's poetry has been featured in Rattlesnake Review, Poetry Now, The Tule Review, Because People Matter, 24th Street Irregular Press/Poems-For-All, and on Medusa’s Kitchen.

She participated in the “Poets in the Schools” program through the Sacramento Metropolitan Arts Commission and has performed poetry and song in Earth Day and Friends of the River events. She has appeared on KVMR Radio in Nevada City and KVIE-6 and KXTV-10 in Sacramento. She also sang with the band, Space Debris, for going on eight years

Martha Ann has been a featured poet at The Book Collector, The Sacramento Poetry Center, Luna’s Café, Whole Earth Festivals, Giavonni’s, and The Nevada County Poetry Series. She is currently collaborating with artist, Laura Jane Coats, on The Memory Within, a poem/book that will be published in a hand-set, letter-press format.

Today's poems are from Martha Ann's new chapbook, The Caring Tree, from Rattlesnake Press, which will be released this coming Wednesday, March 9 at 7:30pm at The Book Collector, 1008 24th St., Sacramento, along with a littlesnake broadside, Maybe Tomorrow, by Carl Bernard Schwartz.
 

___________________ 

Today's LittleNip: 

Connections

—Martha Ann Blackman 

We are the leaves

on the branches

of the limbs

on the trunk

of the tree

whose roots

are in the earth.

___________________

—Medusa

Martha Ann Blackman 

(w/Allegra Silberstein in the background)

—Photo by Katy Brown

St. Elmo's Fire In Our Fingertips

Sunset, El Dorado del Mar, San Felipe, BC, Mexico

—Photo by Maureen Hurley, Marin County

FAIR, WINDS, AND FOLLOWING, SEIZE
(a sea-chanty, arrgh…)
—Tom Goff, Carmichael

Be ye fair, winds, and, following, seize my
sails, let these blasts rum-sodomy-lash the mizzenmasts,
yardarm these salt and sallow topgallants.

Sough me no soughs but the bluffest puffs,
the blowmedown seizures of breeze.

What mariner expects no ecstasy, epilepsy,

to reimburse the empty sag, lag, and bag, humdumb
doldrum-boulders crashing the dead boredom

wake of hymn who’s now forever waveless?
Like a fainted ship, a feinted chip, on a chessboard
ocean? Beats not me, not even impressed am I

into the lee of Robert E.’s admirablety. Nor hope

to find me, matey, savoring the cease and silence
of ebb tide where late the great squirts
ink-squidded from offshore far

at will into the cannonade,

enfilade of breakers, crash! Seems not too rash
to say the flay and rage of even cálm waters
and cléar winds most savage my following bird,

knock with knout, walkingstick knob or boss
upsidethehead poor booby or albatross
(do I sorrow, keen, reel,
or self-keelhaul, over the loss?

Not! ’cause who gives a limp rat’s toss
for such a ridiculous loss
as one lone fishsticksucking albatross?).

____________________

LETTING GO
—Patricia A. Pashby, Sacramento

Like a kite whose string
is tugged from tiny hands
and blown skyward by the wind,

our destiny is buffeted by the wind,
tossed like a runaway kite with string.
Control is wrenched from our hands.

Time slips quickly through gnarled hands.
We sow seeds of love into the wind
entrusting them to the kite on the string.

The kite sans string
whispers into the wind—
love ricochets into our hands.

____________________

SPANISH RIDERS AND GHOST LANGUAGE
—D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove

The quietest of gestures, spinning
Yard after yard of silk, trying to mount
The sky, feigning indifference or instinct,

The rooms open up one into another.
Here, the entrance to an ant colony
Here, the quick rush of water as it becomes
The edge of the sea, here, the placing of
Eggs in the larvae of an entire civilization
Without its knowledge. A fog of misinformation
Clouds over the country. No one is able
To understand what anyone else means.

Battles begin. Electricity becomes visible
Whenever one takes a step, crackling beneath
The feet, sending its delicious messages
Deep into the inner core. We learn to swim
Within these momentary caverns and jagged roads.

We can never begin again. For eons we have
Been riding down and still we are unable
To recognize the Saint Elmo’s fire in our fingertips.
We come to believe we are candles and trust
Many others will come to see our light, Spanish
Riders armed with ghost languages eager to
Offer recommendations and gesticulations
Deep within the social webwork where we live.

____________________

THE LEVIATHAN SPEAKS

In the dead of the night.
In the room of the Northern
Light. In the shop where the
Seasons learn their repairs. In
The port where the ships that
Purport knowledge debark, arresting
Thought like a thief and dreaming
Like a lake. We open up the doors.

Oh hear me sweet dreamers. You
Who walk in Jerusalem. We
are dancing, dancing, dancing. You are
Watching as best you can.

Rip the curtains from the door ways.
Open up the rooms. We are
The children of the moment.
You are prophets of the dream.

                    *

No one will believe you.
We cannot stay the course.
The horizon is sparkled with this vision.

We remove ourselves by horse.
Beyond rivers, we are the dreamers
Of the sea. No one can ever
Recall us. No one ever sets
Us free. But we do remain
To remind you that all songs
Are bred to three, the trinity. I will
Embrace your sweetest children.
They will belong to me.

Sing, sing, sing the bells they
Make to say, but there is never
Any difference, there is never
Any way that you may recognize
My hand here, that you may
Understand my plea.

When you wake up in the morning
You will never recognize it’s me.


—D.R. Wagner

____________________

(DR says: I think I wrote this one for all the poets in Sacramento.)

THE LITTLE STORY
—D.R. Wagner

In the little story
The house could sing.
The trees has faces.
Their thoughts had wings.

They called them birds.
They kept them in their arms.
They played among their branches.
Their songs were magic charms.

In the little story,
The end of day was long.
The twilight went forever
As it eased across the lawns.

There were dragons, any color.
They could be spoken to.
They were fierce, then tame, then magic.
You could watch them as they grew.

In the little story
With its adventures, plays and tales,
The wind would fill the sails,
Wandering the sea with whales,
Calling them by name.

They answered like an old friend.
They talked about the plains.
Places far from water,
where they could remember names,

Like buffalo and Indian tribes,
Things they weren’t supposed to know.
In the little story, all that seems,
Was so, each thing, and real in time.

A moment, a year, a million years
Or more. That is why we must repeat
It. That is why the tales still grow.

So I’ll tell you not a thing more.
I’ll leave it all for you to see,
And when you do, believe it
And come tell the rest to me.

_____________________ 

Today's LittleNip: 

I think it's more important to deal with life as it comes along than sit around pondering one's personal philosophy. What useful things you find out in this world, you invariably find out on foot, on the move. You can't wait.

—Elvis Costello

_____________________

—Medusa

Sunset, El Dorado del Mar, San Felipe, BC, Mexico

—Photo by Maureen Hurley, Marin County

Fisselig & New Old Worlds

Storm

Photo by D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove

FISSELIG WITH STORM
—Taylor Graham, Placerville

On-ramp to the freeway's blocked
by flashing red. I pull a U,
down-valley, down-river
that's running high to catch the wind.
Wipers can't match rain, rain
that plumps the grass and flowering
mustard running wild
in fields, and blossoms wild-plum waving
on the shoulder. Such a wind
by fits and winding of the road,
a palm tree fandangos
for a farmhouse. Wind's running
'cross rain, waves across
road, a break
in clouds, flash of sun-shaft rain-
bow. Light-
headed for words in this jubilation
of weather—what's road, what's
rain, what's river?
lost where I was going
giddy with language, fisselig—where
did that
word pour down from? I'm flying
kites—fisselig fis-selig spring-
beseligt—
in my little car.

__________________

Thanks, Taylor Graham, for exploring our Seed of the Week: Fair Winds and Following Seas, and Carol Louise Moon for more sound explorations (last week's SOW). Remember, no deadline on SOWs; we can't be responsible for when the Muse hits us. And, as always, thanks to today's photographers for gracing our pages with color and light.

My inbox is full of Ophidian submissions which I'll get to today. And, out of the softness of my head, since Snakebytes went out yesterday and today with reminders, I've extended the deadline through today. So it's not too late to send your poems, if you haven't already done so. Go to rattlesnakepress.com/the_ophidian.html if you need guidelines.

__________________

FAIR WINDS
—Taylor Graham

Shameful, to sit inside our winter's
walls. Air and woods and mossy stones,
even earth's a-swirl with Van Gogh
brush-strokes—waves and spirals,
see that hawk, two vultures wing-tilting
dark to show the shape of sky.
Don't say this is just an episode
and soon enough it's Wednesday.
I've got my boarding pass to daylight.
I'll step aboard, and gaze awhile,
and feel as light and free
as a shearwater skimming sea.

___________________

SAILING TO A NEW OLD WORLD
—Taylor Graham

At the very moment when he stepped on board, he heard
the joyful tidings announced that there should be no war.
—Mary Howitt, “Memoir” of Elihu Burritt


It's June, 1846—Spring in New England,
when you board Hibernia, ship whose name
sounds Winter. But her cargo is Peace.
At last, the Oregon Question is settled; America
won't go to war with Britain.

What Springtime waits across the sea?
You'll walk a countryside where skylarks rise
out of upland fields—you never knew
a farmer's soil could grow such rapture.
An Angel of an English country inn

bears tidings: universal brotherhood,
friends across borders; the blessing of man-
on-earth saying “no” to war. Congresses
of Peace. It will be a lovely
Summer. And the harvest? For now,

Hibernia sails across the bluest sea,
its waves white-capped like
flags of peace. Each league she travels
shortens the space between once-warring
shores. Her rigging glitters in the sun.

____________________

HOT PINK AT 11:00PM
—Carol Louise Moon, Sacramento

Hot pink—it’s comin’ at me.
Hot pink—it’s all around me.
All I see is hot pink.

All I did all afternoon
with all those hot pink beads
was make hot pink bead necklace
after hot pink bead necklace

until my mind is pink.
I think my mind is pink;
at least, I think too much pink.

I close my eyes
my hot pink eyes,
and see all those hot pink beads.
I feel the necklace around my neck.

The hot pink necklace is not
a necklace I should be wearing—
at least, not wearing to bed.

__________________

MILFRED AND MOLLY
—Carol Louise Moon

Molly Munsford made a mudpie
for the man whom she might marry.
Milfred Manly marched with many
marksmen in the month of May.

Milfred made no merry music
with his much-loved mandolin,
moping much and missing Molly
most, the middle of the day.

Milfred marked a map for Molly
mainly meadows to the mountain.
Through the mists of melancholy
Molly Munsford made her way.

Meeting Milfred on the mountain
on a misty morning Molly
made a date with her mate Milfred
to be married there next May.

__________________

DOUBLE-PARK
—Carol Louise Moon

Sarcastic and biting? Not me.
I’m just biding time by the parking meter.
You said you’d meet me here
at the Hour Glass Store.
That was a half-hour, or more.

The more I wait, the more impatient I get.
I see two patients in an hour
for a half-hour each. Each day is the same;
the same way you keep me waiting.

It IS a weighty issue!
Let’s not make light of it
in broad daylight, on Broadway.

Look, make it quick. You see how quick-
tempered I am. We’ve got to temper
this parking plan to just plain parking
our van at the office. Then we can walk
the two-block distance to do business
in the business district by two o’clock.

___________________

DESERTED
—Carol Louise Moon

Deserted, you and me,
Down on our luck, but free.
Don’t mind the company of
Desert fox and fennecs.
Dark evening finds us down,
Difficult to see, on the
Dry, dusty desert floor.

___________________ 

Today's LittleNip: 

Keep a green tree in your heart and perhaps the singing bird will come.

—Chinese proverb

___________________ 

—Medusa

NSAA (Lawrence Dinkins) celebrates the release 

of his new book, SubAmericans, on 2/26 at Carol's Books

—Photo by Michelle Kunert, Sacramento

Fair Winds and Following Seas

Sled Kite

—Photo by Katy Brown

FLYING KITES

—Katy Brown, Davis

Wind spirit— soaring like hope,
untamed as a tethered falcon—
the kite dips and pulls
against its string.

Jeweled fabric snaps in the wind
like a jib anticipates a plunging schooner.
Wild sound and turbulent motion,
barely held by a long white cord:

riding the wind, this fabric bird
draws the human soul upward
to soar— for a moment—
free of all but joy.

_____________________

Thanks to Katy Brown for the timely poem and pix! Apparently March is "coming in like a lamb", enabling kite-flying and all kinds of other fair weather activities, blessing us with "fair winds and following seas", as the sailors say. (Go to en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Following_sea for the origin of that phrase.) So that's our Seed of the Week: Fair Winds and Following Seas. Send your poetry, photos and artwork to kathykieth@hotmail.com or P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726.

Meanwhile, Joyce Odam finishes up last week's SOW, Sound Garden, in her usual masterly fashion; thanks, Joycey!

And thanks also to those of you who've agreed to play along with our Ophidian submission deadline, which is today, March 1! It's not too late to send poems; click on The Ophidian in the skinny blue box at the right of this for submission guidelines, or go to rattlesnakepress.com/the_ophidian.html

_____________________

HINGE
—Joyce Odam, Sacramento

Hinge on the door lets out a sound.

Fear with its secret, old and thin,
enters and seeks you out, my friend—
fear with its secret, thin and old.

Hinge on the door lets out a sound.

_______________________

TO MUSICK
(After “To Musick”—Robert Herrick)
—Joyce Odam

I take your word—spell it olde—
impose the distance ever between

the now and then—enter—and be
there—listen for the beginning

that leads to here—that fills
between—that resonates—

that endures—only a thought long
and a yearn away

from what still charms the soul
and enchants the ears.

______________________

SWIRL
—Joyce Odam

…motion of life…the face
in transfigurement of mood
the changing attitude

the invisible look of air
(if we could see it)
as we move through it

the way a silence
shapes to sound
and sound to silence

the way the eyes
draw in their sorrow

the way time moves
within the clock
and yesterday in tomorrow…

______________________

RAIN LULLABY
—Joyce Odam

Now that it has begun raining
this first day of March
of this continuing year

I will turn off the light,
put down my book
and listen to

the sound the rain makes,
willing the house to be silent
so I can listen myself to sleep.


(First published in One Dog Press)

_______________________

ELEGIES
—Joyce Odam

Today I wear the hum of yesterday,
strum my thoughts like a guitar,
make the
strings
sing
with
loneliness,
wear my song like grief and tears
for all the humming,
thrumming,
longing years


(First published in Poets Forum Magazine)

_______________________

NIGHT FRAGMENT
—Joyce Odam

Long ago,
when life was new,

trains came through
with ghostly sound

and easy distance.
Nights were long

with listening
and what I know

was whole and strong
—not like illusion.

Where this goes
is just as far

as nowhere is—
I’ve been there, tool

_____________________ 

Today's LittleNip: 

A.M. SOUNDS
—Joyce Odam

first the train
then the rooster
then the clock

clackety rumble
cock-a-doodle
and wake up

_____________________

—Medusa (who wishes YOU fair winds and following seas...)

Photo by Katy Brown