Dec. 7, Coming Home, & Two Carols

Bird in Leaves

—Photo by Katy Brown, Davis

RUSH HOUR
—Caschwa, Sacramento

Oh how good it feels
To put some distance between
That daily arena of tedia
And one’s own free will

To put some distance between
Giving 150 percent and
Enjoying the fruits of one’s labors

That daily arena of tedia
Is now put on hold
Like a tiger in a cage

And one’s own free will
Directs the rush hour traffic
Coming home.

_____________________

RHYTHMS
—Carol Louise Moon, Sacramento

Every word from you, whether
in patterns of raindrops, in cool, quiet
evenings, or lightning—every other
interval of heartbeat since we met—
our rocks skipping water below a sunset.

_____________________

FEATHER
—Carol Louise Moon

Egret: candle-bird, solitary, posing
in marshlands. Each feather the tinny
essence of snow. Sunlight flashing
intricate snowflake patterns. Icy—
on parchment. White-thread tapestry.

_____________________

TIDINGS
—Carol Eve Ford, Kenai, AK

Early in spring the Magpies gather
in raucous rag-tag tail-waving parties,
each clowning, and prattling madcap blather
in birches and spruce, sarcastic smarties,
“Oh we’re pirates bold, and searchin’ fer gold, me hearties!”

Embellishments, festooned displays of
iridescent tails and wings
enticing stunts abound in days of
importunity. Blue-green feather sings
of all the promise nesting brings.

Every summer tree is full of pranksters
insistent, charming, goofy, proud.
Even the fledglings are fluffy gangsters—
incessant hucksters working the crowd,
offering up discordant chatter—really loud!

Enchanting wags with wings wide spread,
itching to give each other flack,
eating, still they yell to be fed,
impulsive beggars, yackity yack,
oh, mimes they are not, though dressed in black.

Eventide, and autumn’s cold,
incrementally shifts the days,
easily turns the green to gold,
illuminates in different ways.
October Magpie laughs and plays.

Extra bright in black and white,
inside aspen’s golden crown,
every hop he takes delight
in showers of gold he dances down,
overjoyed this jester-clown.

Elements sharpen, all turns chill,
introspection frames the days.
Everlasting Magpie, still,
isn’t going to change his ways.
On frozen branch he lightly sways.

Elegant tail is Magpie’s crest,
identifies him from afar.
Even in winter he makes his jest
in skeletal trees, waves scimitar.
Orchestra leader; super star.

_____________________

NAMING
—Carol Eve Ford

Every living being known to man
is assigned an orderly scientific classification.
Even those we don’t yet know can
instantly be plugged in for identification.
Only groups are named with poetic imagination.

“Exaltation” is a group of larks.
Is a “parliament” of owls a bunch of wise guys?
Enter “wake” of buzzards, a “shiver” of sharks.
Is a “gaggle” on the ground, a “skein” when it flies?
“Ostentation” of peacocks, “charm,” “gulp,” “tiding” of Magpies.

Elephant “herds,” a “murder” of crows,
“Intrigue” of kittens, “party” of jays,
Each “wisp” of snipe, every “gang” of elk knows,
If moles form a “labor,” pheasants bloom “bouquets.”
Otters “romp,” tigers “streak,” naming comes in many ways.

______________________

REUNIONS
—Carol Eve Ford

Larks are called an exaltation,
Eagles form a convocation,
Plovers meet in congregation,
Starlings are a murmuration,
Peacocks, certainly, ostentation,
Each its own united nation
All in constant celebration!

_____________________

Thanks to Carl Schwartz (Caschwa) for his Seed of the Week poem (Coming Home) in the form of the trimeric, our "Form to Fiddle With" this week. (Dude! Ya combined them! So Kewl!) If you want to tackle the congenial trimeric, go to the green column at the right of this and find Forms to Fiddle With—For those of us who love pain... And thanks to Mike Cluff for the December 7 poem, too.

Our other poems today are from Sacramento's Carol Louise Moon and her pal, Carol Eve Ford, who hails from 'way up Alaska way (Kenai). Most of them are a form Carol Louise herself created, called E.I.E.I.Os (E.I.Os for short). They are English Quintets which follow the official rhyme scheme (A, B, A, B, B), and have an additional feature: the first letter of each line is in the sequence, E.I.E.I.O. If you'd like to learn more about Carol Eve, go to Medusa's Archives: she was featured on Sept. 2 of this year.

DADs DESK Editor/Publisher Carol Louise Moon has put out three little books of Pleiades: Pantoja Pleiades Anthology: Pleiades from A-Z by Janet Pantoja ($3); The Book of Lesser Pleiades by Carol Louise Moon ($2); and L and M Pleiades by Carol Louise Moon and Carol Eve Ford ($3). Order these, plus the current DADs DESK—Sacramento’s ONLY large-print poetry journal—from Carol Louise at 537 41st St., #6, Sacramento, CA 95819. If you'd like to write Pleiades (the 7-line, 7-syllable/line, same-cap-letter-starting-each-line form) and exchange them online with The Moon and Stars Pleiades Circle, write to Carol Louise Moon at dadsdesk@hotmail.com (include "Pleiades" in subject line).

Another fine book has crossed my desk recently: Complaints of the Artist's Wife, a chapbook of poems by Elsie Whitlow Feliz, our Sacramento poet who passed away this year, has been published by Positive Pats Press, with Don Feliz as Editor and Publisher. Copies may be ordered from him at 7386 Cranston Way, Sacramento, CA 95822.

And another poetry challenge is in the works, this one from Gillian Wegener in Modesto. Gillian writes: The third annual New Year's Poetry Challenge is ready to roll! Starting December 10, you can, if you wish, receive a prompt a day for 30 days. The challenge is to write a poem for each prompt. Some of us write a few poems, a few of us write some poems and save some prompts for later, and a couple of us write our way through the holidays, writing a new poem every single day. This is an absolutely no-pressure endeavor. You don't send your poems to anyone unless you want to, and no one checks up on your progress. In January, I'll ask poets for their favorite poem, or if a favorite prompt has appeared, the poem written to that prompt, and I'll put together a small book of our work. At the January reading, we'll celebrate the new year by reading some of our work at the Barking Dog Grill Open Mic, but again, no pressure at all. This is just for fun and to start the year off with some new poetry under our belts. If you have not yet emailed me that you are interested, please let me know at wegenerspage@yahoo.com. I'll add you to our list and away we'll go!

______________________ 

Today's LittleNip: 

DECEMBER 7, 2011
—Michael Cluff, Highland

Seventy years is a long time.
At Pearl Harbor there was a crime;
the attack took away innocent lives,
made many a widow out of wives.
War is never a pretty game—
no matter the time, it remains the same.

_____________________

—Medusa

 Branch Changing

—Photo by Katy Brown

Ghosts & Other Skaters

Many Fallen Leaves

—Photo by Joyce Odam

THE GHOST SKATERS IN WINTER
(Kyrielle)
—Joyce Odam, Sacramento

All night I hear them swishing by
on skates of silver. They defy
the moving edge of moon’s cold light,
night skaters blent against the night

who reappear with substance lost,
except to memory’s sad cost—
pale shining figures dressed in white,
night skaters blent against the night

like winter’s ghosts on silver ice.
If they are there but to entice,
should I respond…? (As if I could.)
Night skaters blent against the night,

will disappear—they always do—
time measured back from what it knew,
almost surrendered, but not quite,
night skaters blent against the night.

_____________________

GHOST
—Joyce Odam

Your bones seem made of silver light
as you dance toward me, transparent,
your arms holding outward.

I am not yet frightened of you;
you are so graceful and purposeful
and made of such melancholy.

I do not yet feel the music you feel,
though I move accordingly, finding
your slow and intensive rhythm.

How long must we dance like this
in the swimming moonlight,
wrapping around each other like loss?


(first pub. in Tule Review)

____________________

NO MORE DRUNKEN NIGHTS, MY LOVE
—Joyce Odam

You poured wine over my head, and I
poured wine over your head. Then we wept.

Now you come over the telephone with foolish
words, a bouquet of praises in your mouth.

What am I to believe? I have closed the door.
I have sealed the envelope.

I am an old woman now in a wooden chair.
I sit and think of nothing. I stare and stare.

____________________

CLEAR NIGHTS
—Joyce Odam

And will you take me to the door
and out into the night
with its surprise of stars
and its performing moon,
with its sky-patterns
that you know,
with all its listening endlessness
and powerful vertigo,
and say that you
just wanted
to show me this?


(first pub. in Parting Gifts)

_____________________

THESE MISSING DAYS
—Joyce Odam

January 2nd is missing, or did you
lose—too soon—all your resolve?

Are you secret, or out of volition?
I kept faith with your resolution,

but you have become private—
choosing not to let me in on your

calendar of days as you spend
them. And I, who was ready to

accompany you, am left stranded
in a glitch of my life—my thumb

extended—on a long empty road.
It is dusk. And cold. And I didn’t

bring a page to fill—or a pencil
to fill it with—let alone a thought.

And I wonder if tomorrow you
might yet drive by and rescue me,

or if ever I should believe in anyone
again who voices their persuasive

intentions. I expected the full
365 days—not—this soon—gaps.



(first pub. in Sakana, 2005)

_____________________

THESE BLUE WAVES BREAKING
—Joyce Odam

These blue waves lift forever to the shore
     as if practicing time in suspension.

They pull in from the eternal horizon;
     the dark rocks wait for their fall.

The sound of their breaking is just about
     to be released.

The turbulence of blue churns with impatience;
     the layers of wet light glow upon the sand.

The smell of the sea air comes through the
     tang of memory.

The gulls have just lifted away with their
     harrowing cries.

The sky’s last light is slipping and slipping
     into time’s darkness.

And in that darkness, the waves finally
     and silently break across the picture frame,

right up the tangible edge of my wet shoes.

_____________________

Thanks to Joyce Odam for today's fine fare! I hope you're able to check out "This Week's Kool Thing(s)" over on the green board at the right of this, along with our new Seed of the Week: Coming Home (send 'em to kathykieth@hotmail.com), and the new Form to Fiddle With, the Trimetric, a handy little form which was "invented" by Dr. Charles A. Stone. See his website at writingsbystone.wordpress.com/trimerics for a whole passel of 'em. Hey—I'm all for repeated lines! If a line is worth saying once, well...

The Davis Poetry Book Project will launch this weekend! Editor Allegra Silberstein writes: This anthology of poems by local residents and people who in the past have lived here will have its grand opening at the Davis Art Center, 1919 F Street, Davis, on Saturday, December 10th. The reading will begin at 7:00, but the doors will be open at 6:30 for poets to pick up their books and for the purchase of books. This will be a great opportunity to hear our community of poets read their work. I have titled the book Entering, with the adobe train station on the cover symbolizing entrance to Davis and, on another level, entering the soul of our city through poetry. This project, funded in large part by the City of Davis Arts Contract Program, has been more difficult than I had ever imagined, but the support of people like Dr. Andy Jones, Danyen Powell, Briony Gylgayton, Lauren Swift, Carrie Dyer, Katy Brown who did the photography, and Mark Deamer at The Printer, have sustained me on this journey. Also, I am very grateful to our Davis Art Center for sponsoring this reading. So many fine poems were submitted that I decided to increase the number of pages. Storywalkers Consulting Group and Eager Mondays also contributed to this cause. I'm hoping that enough sales will come in to cover the additional cost. This book will make a fine gift for someone who has everything...come and find out why at this reading.

_____________________ 

Today's LittleNip: 

LOSING DAYS
—Joyce Odam

Since
the days
have begun
playing tricks on
me, I find time does
not matter to my plans.
I have become very good
at plausible explanations.

_____________________

—Medusa

 —Photo by Joyce Odam

Time On Our Talons

Photo by Ronald Edwin Lane

THE NOBLE BEAST

And I
Locked eyes

Rather than horns


—Ronald Edwin Lane, Colfax

_____________________

BETWEEN WORLD AND IDEA
—Taylor Graham, Placerville

Over so many years, a glance
loses its focus even as the outline
remains. Let’s say, light
defines a parapet, Venetian gothic,
Oriental cresting over a flat
face of stone reflecting water
or the other way around.
(Rats inhabit the low-
tide.) “So gorgeously decadent.”
Or do I only remember
what you might have said?
As in any dream,
I see you clearly: tall, slender
column bearing the grand
façade. Arches. Eyebrow arched,
arcing as you look down
from that height. Beautiful
world that always was and never
is.

____________________

THE HAP-HAPPIEST SEASON OF ALL
—Katy Brown, Davis

Tony Bennett’s song bounces around the living room
on this deceptively sparkling morning.
A chill breeze whisking remnants of last night’s fog
from Ceylon-blue skies.
Brilliant leaves swirl in the yard.

How different from last evening.
In fog that muffles every sound—
a car door closing sounds like a rifle shot.
The doctor’s words echo over and over in dense grey:

here would be his headand here his feet—
the MRI image-slices of anatomy.
Here the lungs: see, they are grey . . . uniform.
Going a little further, here the pancreas,
see the shadow. . . .
and the left kidney, the long shadow on top . . .
and here is his colon.
See the narrow wall, just here.

That’s how it should look,
but here—this thickening—
a shadowed noose
closing.

Fiery leaves falling like embers
in the sparkling light this morning—
and shadows
shadows everywhere.

_____________________

IN A MATTER OF SECONDS
—Emily Camacho, Sacramento

In a matter of seconds you can either fall in love, or have your heart broken.
You can witness a miracle or experience a tragedy.
In a few seconds you can spend wisely or lose everything.
You can make someone's day or make them miserable.
All it takes is a few seconds.
A few seconds and everything can change.
A few seconds and nothing can change.
But the question we always ask ourselves is,
"Why can't we decide what happens to us?"

If nothing happened to any of us,
then we wouldn't be able to relate to anything.
If everything happened to us,
then we would be so vulnerable and numb and able to relate to everything.
But is that a good thing?
Only if you able to come back from it with a smile on your face.
Is it a bad thing?
Only if you let it bring you down.

When people say, "What doesn't kill you, only makes you stronger,"
it is hard to believe because it isn't always true.
You can experience something so traumatic
and life-changing that not all of you, stays with you.
You leave something behind when that happens.
When you lose someone you love,
a piece of your heart goes with them too.
For some people, there is always someone else
that can make them whole again.
But for some people, there is not enough
to bring it all back.
But no matter what,
you will always have a scar to remind you of what was once there.
A scar reminding you of the good things that happened,
or a scar that reminds you of what you're missing the most.

_____________________

THAT NEW CAR FEEL
—Caschwa, Sacramento

The familiar closing bell calls forth
men in expensive suits
clapping their hands
smiling

No matter what happened
Up or down
They made it through another day
To trade again

Like that shiny fender
On their new luxury automobile
Lots of close calls
No dents or scratches

Yet.

______________________

YOUR VOTE COUNTS
(Our huge numbers have made us a democracy by proxy
Exploding the original Greek version into
Countless hanging chads)

Even before ballots are printed
The pollsters are super busy
Counting our votes

All that secrecy and privacy one expects
To have in the voting booth
Has been sold

To profilers who evaluate our situations
And quantify our expected opinions
That’s our vote

Forget about free choice or common sense
We are basically assigned to one or another
Specific voting bloc

Perhaps the greatest chance that our vote will count
Will happen when pollsters find that swing voters have
Become the majority…


—Caschwa

______________________

MEASUREMENTS
—Caschwa

Death is only one consonant more
Than life which surpasses sin by
A vowel, so it boils down
To just me, alias
I have to go now
It is my time
Expired
Over
Out.

Birth
Weight and
Inches long
A new baby
Innocence defined
Inheritance maybe
When all the papers are signed
We’ll say that infant has your eyes
And more hair than ever topped your head.

______________________

A FINE LINE
—Caschwa

Around 63 years ago I had a
Terrifying near-birth experience
Unable to vent the expressions to describe it
I just gritted my tiny gums
And waited to be born

Shortly after graduating high school
A motorcycle crash left me in a coma;
Was I near death, or just revisiting
That same near-birth experience again?

After coming out of the coma
I was ushered through a phase called
Rehabilitation, like with prison inmates
I was confined and could only do

What I was told to do, written off
As unable to make correct choices
For myself. Told to wiggle my toes
Better just do it, or else

Now I perceive, comprehend, understand,
Disagree, throw a fit, alienate others,
Defy authority, astonish onlookers,
All for the near-life experience.

_____________________

Thanks to today's contributors, including newcomer Emily Camacho, one of Cynthia Linville's CSUS students. And Carl Schwartz (Caschwa) has a new album on Medusa's Facebook page; check it out!

_____________________  

Today's LittleNip: 

WINTER
—Nikki Giovanni

Frogs burrow the mud
snails bury themselves
and I air my quilts
preparing for the cold
Dogs grow more hair
mothers make oatmeal
and little boys and girls
take Father John's Medicine
Bears store fat
chipmunks gather nuts
and I collect books
For the coming winter

______________________ 

—Medusa

CHICKEN LITTLE
—Photo and poem by Ronald Edwin Lane

“The SKY is falling!”

“THE SKY IS FALLING!”

Like yelling, “Fire!”

In a crowded theatre

To a chicken

Dang free-range birds

Have too much time

On their talons 

What of Tears, Anyway?

St. Therese of Lisieux

SPILLING
—D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove

We were not supposed to compare
The miracles when they occurred.
One was certainly not better than another;
The roses of Juan Diego to those of Theresa
Of Lisieux. We were not to crumple at the
Tiniest comment. What of tears anyway?

We should be able to rise up to the very
Top of buildings without moving our legs.
Surely there would be the burning that carries
Us higher and higher to where finally
We could finally become less and less.

So we spill over and flush the earth
With our tears and quiet sorrows.
We will open the serape of Juan Diego
To see the face of the Virgin, we will find
Joy in the smallest things as we watch our
Hearts empty and fill with love like the locks
On a canal, lifting us up or lowering us

To the clear way around all obstacles,
The way singing does or looking into the eyes
Of the beloved, the light reflecting, souls dancing.

______________________ 

—Medusa

The Dancer And The Dance

Armstrong Woods

—Photo by Cynthia Linville, Sacramento

WEEKLY COFFEE
—David Iribarne, Sacramento

I see her hands shake
as she holds the cup of coffee.
Ever so fast she drinks it
licking the cup clean.
It is like candy to her.

Takes the top off
peers into the cup looking
for any last drops.
“Do you have a light?” she asks.
Lights the secondary vein into her soul.
I look at her as she smokes
all 115 pounds of her.
She is so little, so frail
my hand is bigger than her head.

She smiles at me
brown teeth grinning
coffee and cigarettes
ticket to her happiness.

“Look at the man over there; he looks like he is enjoying his cup of coffee,” she says.

Think to myself
how she looks to this outing
every week—
feigning to when she can finally
stop getting decaf.

“I had my first cup of coffee when I was five and my first cigarette
when I was seven. I knew I was hooked,” she says.

She smiles again
her face thin and strained
wrinkles ever defining her struggles.

_____________________

LOST STRUGGLE
—David Iribarne

On my birthday
when we last spoke.
Six months have passed
struggling to come to grips
all you have done
all you haven’t done.

Days drift away
still not healed
wonder when I'll feel better.

When he died
rather than remember him
you had to steal things
steal from us, steal our memories
so you can have your memories.

Our process was made your process.
You pressured, pleaded, and pushed
until we broke, not wanting to deal
with you or it anymore.

Deciding before we wanted to decide.

Stole hankerchiefs, heirlooms, articles.
Attempted to take money, watches,
lost our trust, respect, love.

Search my brain everyday
as to why you did these things
empty space, nothing found.

Letters have been written
harsh words traded.
Phone calls containing verbal slaughters.
Relationships disappearing.

Awkward silence.

Six months have passed
since we last spoke
struggling to come to grips
with what you have done
with what you haven’t done.

____________________

STUFFED ANIMALS
—David Iribarne

We cleaned out your closet,
you told me the names of your stuffed animals
how all of them had a story;
they all become your story as well.

You excitedly told me each of their names
smiled, reminisced at how I used to do the same.
Except with me it was my action heroes.

Looked at how you would sheepishly grin
as you told me how one stuffed animal
was a brother of another,
how one fell for another,
how one married another.

Marveled at the detail you had included
in these stories:
told me how mother and father met
the fights sister and brother had
what kind of food they preferred.

You begin to make them dance
chuckled as the panda bear sashayed
with koala bear across the dresser.

Cherish these moments
make my heart whole
and break also as there are not many left.

You make the rabbit tap dance.
You make sounds of tapping
as he turns into Sammy Davis Jr.

You are such in your own world.

Twelve years old…where had time gone?
Two years ago, you asked mom about make-up
At six, you played with Barbie and Ken.

Somewhere when you were lost in your world
I felt I lost you.

I hug you tight.
I like this world that I am in.

_____________________

DISAPPEARING SOUL
—David Iribarne

You can dance better than you can walk.
It is then that you come alive,
Feel the wind, the sun
you are a delight in their presence.

It is then when I wish you were inside me
when you feel comfortable enough
to let people in.

On the stage you lose your guard
do not care about people’s thoughts
about your past mistakes
this is your time to shine.

Gracefully move as if no one else is around.

Invisible things are, people too.
Move to touch you, shield goes up.
Disappear on me every time
don’t know why you leave
don’t know where you go
just can’t reach you.

Times I thought I had broken through
knocked walls down
but again you build walls.

Stand next to you
wonder where you are
wonder what makes you happy
what makes you sad
what broke you into so many pieces
that you don’t let anybody put you back together.

Waited for you all this time
told you I would wrap myself
in your pain if that is
what it would take…

Could you tell me
why you leave
why all your indecisions exist
why I come alive when I see you
yet I see you less often?

_____________________

MAGNIFICENT OMNIPOTENCE
—David Iribarne

There are moments
that take you to a different place.
Things change from hazy to clear.

Our cares vanish, quietness
followed by songs of joy.
What was fractured and broken
suddenly is symmetrical and smooth.

There are people who capture you
take you to a different place.
Transform colors in your life
from different shades of grey
to bright shades of infinite radiance.

Smile so mesmerizing
captivates you and takes you
into another world
where you are lost but not scared,
just at ease, very comfortable.
Genuine beauty that makes you
feel at home wherever you are.
Every time they arrive
you forget what happened
and your focus is turned on to just them
never fading.

There are places that change your perspective.
You were there once before;
things seemed dim, unattractive
but once you visit again with that person
you only notice the good things
you don’t see the wheat-colored grass
the falling petals of the flowers
the cracks in the cement
rather you notice
the light of the sun
the redness of the petals
the sweet sound of the birds.

There are moments that take us places
people who transform things
but rarely is there one who can act as all.
Unless we are talking about you, that is.

_____________________ 

Today's LittleNip: 

How can we know the dancer from the dance?

—William Butler Yeats

_____________________

—Medusa

 Delta Farm

—Photo by D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove

Between World and Idea

Photo by Katy Brown, Davis

THE PORCH IN MIDSUMMER
                   (world & idea)
—D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove

A jar full of red flowers.
It was the way light
Moved across them but
Oh, the time was dead
And oh, the seeing was dead
And oh, there was no way
Left to focus and Oh, what
Was there to say coming
Home? “I could not see
The red flowers and now
This camera too is broken
And I wonder if we can see
Anything, anymore.” All that
Was left took years to pull
Itself together, slightly out
Of focus, slightly overburdened
With the marks paint uses
To describe light, it sits there,
A beautiful thing, arcing
This way and that, between
What was and is, between words
And image, between world and idea.

_____________________

RUBY SANDOVAL—
            the reincarnation of...
—William S. Gainer, Grass Valley

Just saw your picture
in the obits—
Christ, you were beautiful.
I could have loved you,
but we missed
each other:
time,
place,
circumstance.
It all runs together.
Maybe next time?
I’ll keep and eye out,
ask around—now
that I know
your name.

_____________________

THE GIRL WITH THE PINK SOCK
—William S. Gainer

She carried
her cell phone
in a pink
sock.
Said it was her
weapon
of choice.
Learned it watching
old
prison movies.
Said it’s better
than a bar
of soap
and the Screws
if they notice
just think it’s
cute...

_____________________

DECODING A SACRAMENTO NIGHT
—William S. Gainer

The guy
in the electric wheel chair
stops mid-block,
rolls a joint,
lets the smoke drift into
the fractured shadows
of the evening moon.

At the next intersection
he ignores the light.

The leaves piled
in the gutters,
he smiles
as they part
for him...

_____________________

SLEEPING ON THE TRAIN, LEAVING CHILDHOOD
—D.R. Wagner

From Albuquerque to Chicago
On the Santa Fe all the way,
I fell asleep in hopes of dreaming
But since then things have not been the same.

She held her hands as if she were holding
A ball of something. When she opened them to show me:
A small village at night. It was raining. Lights were just
Beginning to go on across the town. A few people were
Out walking, some hurrying home from the store. It
Looked to be a long time ago, before the war. The
Faintest strains of music rose up. Then she closed
Her hands once again and it all disappeared as if
We had imagined the entire scene. I looked out
The window. We were passing La Junta, Colorado.
We would never do this again. I thought of my father’s
Body in the baggage car, still and quiet in his casket,
Heading home, the rails rocking me back to sleep.

The platform at Des Moines was all but deserted.
I ran into the station just to do so, get a drink of water,
See the yellow lights, watch the candy butcher packing
Up his books and magazines. We would never see this again.
Soon it would all be gone, memories in my eyes, nothing
To say once again. I climbed back aboard waiting for the scenery
To begin, the steam escaping from under the beautiful
Silver cars. The men in uniform. I wanted to wait there,
To stop everything and have it always be that light, that time,
That year, never arriving back in Buffalo, New York with my
Father still dead and rooms full of sad and weeping people.
It just wasn’t worth it. I would take my long-breathed lines
Of thinking, turn them into endless poems and give them
All away until there no more left inside me to hurt or explain.

I fell asleep in hopes of dreaming.
But since then things have not been the same.

______________________ 

Today's LittleNip: 

MAKING QUIET
—D.R. Wagner

The pages of the book make no sound
As they turn. Nor do the sheets find
Rustling or seem to know we are here
Upon the counterpane watching
The fire in the grate retire into
Soft gray-white ashes, a deep glow
Still hidden in its smoldering.

Here is the quiet part.
Beyond this place is a peace that
Never breaks into language or gesture.

It sounds like this.

_____________________

—Medusa

Jenner Sunset

—Photo by Cynthia Linville, Sacramento

If I Taste Your Toes...

Panjarnata, Vajra Mahakala 

(The Great Vajra Black One, 

Lord of the Pavilion)

—Painting by Dave Boles, Grass Valley
 

SHORTER DAYS, LONGER NIGHTS
—Michael Cluff, Highland, CA

The dirt pig and Wally
had a trait in common:
the love of sleep
and the desire to indulge and luxuriate
in it as much as possible
without penalty of loss of independence
to outside entities.

Therefore both were happy
when winter wandered in
with wet weather and wide umbras
until Groundhog's Day
leaped up and grab each
by their adenoids
or the rodent equivalent
if such should exists.

Wally got a job
after forty months
on the dole
as his bigoted Uncle Horatio
described it
as a night watchman
near a light bulb factory
while Phil the groundhog
refused to rise at all—

so winter never left
all were happy
except Wally
and his soon-to-be
wife Lorena.

_____________________

ON LITTLE CAT FEET
—Tom Goff, Carmichael

In your world, fog’s
a toothed thing, aiming
centripetal, tightening
its gray-sworded bud around
the heart of the winter
weatherer, closing down
around you, chill flames
licking, fastening & clinging
to the red pump.

Down! cries Lear to this
mother, feeling her tight
tightening, choke choking
fingers knotting their fig signs
in left arm and left chest lobe,
not quite lung-high. Breath
comes curt, its heyho
briefer than December
Wednesdays in Riga or Fairbanks.

Never will this be the knee
knob, great toe, shin spear
proclaiming the cold snap,
the wind shear, no, it is the vast
great sign of All Curtains’ Day
closing. Shadow corkscrews
in one silent-cinema iris,
and no mistake. Soon an agony
of happy sun as the dome
halves itself and scuttles the shell,
one last egg that broke open

on twins. Behold, little man,
the wonder of you here alive,
your ghost twin sunk back
inside silent Mother. Equal
miracle, your having lived
so long inside the black geode
burst open now and alive
in sixteen splintery
colors...

_____________________

COME OUTSIDE WITH ME
—Ann Wehrman, Sacramento

Morning sunlight fills our cozy room
sweet, the sacred spirit of our love
my eyelids closed, your fingers in my hair
like a cat, content to sleep and purr
then suddenly—and you must come with me
I stand, and stretch, and step into the sun
stride slowly through the yellow, summer dust
and run, again and always, through the rain.

___________________

RAINSTORY
—Ann Wehrman

rare cold rain with thunder
May, Sacramento
spring sun quelled by
press of weather
rainstorm will not be denied
speaks its mind like the big river
straining against levees
drowning farms
snowmelt swells from
Minnesota to Louisiana
my high school dreams
on the Mississippi’s bank
buried by decades of life’s storms
melted into earth

years later, I wait here for you
in rain-soaked Sacramento
love welling in my throat

___________________

HEART TO HAND
(for Kara)
—Ann Wehrman

in the dentist’s chair
reclining back to horizontal
suction tube in mouth
my hands clasp each other tightly
mouth stretches open wide
face turns toward
twenty-something dentist
decades my junior
who closely resembles Kara
flute friend, younger girl
with whom I played
for several years, growing together
in confidence, artistry
supporting, not competing
unusual for the arts

my dentist zeroes in,
with Kara’s eyes, brows, face
asks again, are you OK
reminds me again, I don’t want to hurt you
let me know if it hurts
begins to use the laser, deep cleaning
teeth’s roots below the gum line

she could burn a hole right through my cheek
one slip, one heartless move
I’d be maimed for life
does that ever cross her mind?
can we control our dreams?

steady hand, pure heart
like Kara, power and ambition
clean and strong to heal
like the laser’s focus
like the sweet, strong notes of Kara’s flute, piccolo

____________________

I WANT TO COOK SUPPER FOR YOU
—Ann Wehrman

I want to cook supper for you,
but don’t know what you like—
so I’ll make what I like:

stew of beef, carrots, red wine
bread all crusty, yeasty, dark whole grain
with soft, sweet butter
apple juice
salad of deep-green romaine
with lemon and oil
chocolate cake, home baked.

But maybe you’d prefer pasta, white rice
beer or gin
maybe you like those horrid,
fruit-flavored candies
maybe you don’t drink coffee,
need a cigarette, or cigar—
maybe you won’t have a good time.

____________________

TRIBUTE TO THE DEAD
—Ann Wehrman

I wasn’t a Dead Head for real
I have a life
I don’t worship Jerry Garcia,
nor did I spend the ‘70’s following them
across America and the world
I’m too self-conscious to buy their gear in head shops
or through discreet mail order,
but I’d love to sing with them

I missed much of the Dead shows that I did see
on acid, or when the hall was too large,
yet I have spent hours lost within
the intricate harmonies of their jams,
listening to a weekly Dead radio show or a CD
not “Truckin’,” the three-minute version
that actually made the charts,
but Jerry singing “We Bid You Goodnight”
like a prairie patriarch tucking in his brood
with their flowing homespun nightshirts
in a log cabin in the woods somewhere
or his genius pedal steel riffs
balanced by Lesh’s ethereal funky bass
on the “Dark Star” they stopped performing—
its meaning too treasured perhaps, or a lost hope…

the Dead I remember
were about driving from Illinois to St. Louis with friends,
blowing off homework sophomore year in college
to see them perform in the tiny, exquisite Fox Theatre
that showed Gone with the Wind non-stop for decades
about passing through the baptism
of Krishnas selling incense before the door
once inside the charged, expectant darkness
feeling mescaline kick in and the barriers begin to melt
about standing in my velvet seat,
the gorgeous, colored light show,
swaying, dancing—
the entire theatre on its feet, one body
about feeling so right
that I could drive home across state lines, still tripping,
secure in the center of The Dead’s cosmic love

they played to thousands, summer 1973,
Des Moines state fairgrounds
my lover and I in the top bleacher row
sun baked, rain poured, then the sun returned—
how symbolic, we nodded
trooped down, at the end
drove home over flat plains, back to Illinois
endless sunset unfolding behind us

the Dead were I,
selling clothes in a boutique in the ‘90’s
when the Classic Rock radio announcer choked up,
then tried to explain to us all that Jerry had died
unexpectedly, since his latest detox was working
and we had all hoped—

they are those who survive him,
fellow band members and all
who couldn’t imagine the group without Jerry,
yet tried to pick up the pieces
the Dead are I, in my fifties,
introducing a ten-minute track of “St. Stephan”
to a twenty-year-old musician
who’s only heard “Truckin’” on the radio
they are Jerry in the next world,
jamming with Hendrix and Janis,
waiting for everyone to get there
they are all of us,
listening one more time
as Jerry’s “Crazy Fingers”
caress the nerves of our souls

_____________________ 

Today's LittleNip: 

ZOMBIE PHILOSOPHY
—Michael Cluff

If I were
(Descartes would say I am)
to eat your heart
would I feel love again?

If I were
to baste your brain
in basil and bay leaf
would I grow smarter and wiser?

If I were
to taste your toes
could I walk away
a better man?

_____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to today's contributors. About his paintings, Dave Boles writes:

Panjarnata, Vajra Mahakala—The Great Vajra Black One, Lord of the Pavilion: the special protector of the Hevajra cycle of teachings and principal protector of the Sakya School of Tibetan Buddhism. A powerful protector that evolved from India. Ancient Sanskrit texts were adapted when the deity was introduced into Tibetan culture and the Lord of the Pavilion was created as a purely Tibetan deity with its own unique characteristics. It is most associated with the Bodhisattva of Compassion.

The Snow Lion resides in the East and represents unconditional cheerfulness, a mind free of doubt, clear and precise. It has a beauty and dignity resulting from a body and mind that are synchronized. The Snow Lion has a youthful, vibrant energy of goodness and a natural sense of delight. Sometimes the throne of a Buddha is depicted with eight Snow Lions on it, in this case, they represent the 8 main Bodhisattva-disciples of Buddha Shakyamuni, the historical Buddha. Associations: main quality is fearlessness, dominance over mountains, and the earth element.

Medusa wishes you unconditional cheerfulness and fearlessness today, and a mind free of doubt.

 The Snow Lion

—Painting by Dave Boles