SNAKES ALIVE! What's all this fuchsia, and can I spell it right?

—Photo by Charlotte Vincent, Sacramento

RESURRECTION

—Claire J. Baker, Pinole

When we stand on a hilltop

and face a sunrise, we harbor

no concern over what or who else

we may become, or when, or if.

Every sunrise is a Great Now

metaphoring

that we, too, have risen

many times before—that

rising again and again is

what life is all about. 
 

(first pub. on website:

sfpeaceandhope.com)

___________________

TRULY ALIVE!

—Claire J. Baker

I think of newborns

who claim the universe

with a glance;

elders who send forth

sparks of awareness

that perk up a whole room.

People who are as real as

the yearly butterfly migration

down the California coast,

wings fragile in flight

yet linked for uplift

in the airy tide of wings,

the gathered pollen of wings,

the entire congregation moving

as one great body—

lively and full of light.

(first pub. in Beacon on the Hill and

website: sfpeaceandhope.com)

______________________

NORCO POEM #11, JUNE 2008

—Michael Cluff, Corona

Off the main path

using an abacus for math

in fly-blown old Norco town

Jean Paul put the stylus down

began to loudly moan

enough to crack open every stone,

"Here on Old Hammer Road

adobe makes many an abode

but the trail of the mighty horse

is now a rutted, briar-ridden, rutted course,

time has moved into a newer century

I consider it a foul penitentiary."

The moon rims above his ice-planted lawn

listens to his bitching without a yawn,

yet the river bluffs are starchly the same

ignoring the silliness and drama of human change.

—Photo by Frank Dixon Graham, Sacramento

UNCLE BILL’S CABIN IV

—Patricia Hickerson, Davis

who was she, Uncle Bill?

a feather of a woman

feathers singed

bones delicate, pale, thin

her fantasy a broken feather

a baby born pale

bird-baby feathered without nest

palm tree baby broken leaves

bird without nest

who, Uncle Bill?

in a dream I know who it is

…Cousin Belle

her portrait on my dressing table

colors added onto the photo

long ago on Ross Avenue

she had a baby

but no nest

I cried for Belle

she gave up her baby

wept ever after

the jitters the shakes

Uncle Bill pats my shoulder

not to worry, kid      

_______________________

UNCLE BILL’S CABIN V

—Patricia Hickerson

running up the path from my dream stump

I saw that Uncle Bill’s gardenias

were in bloom by the front door

a delicious fragrance filled my head

made me cry

Uncle Bill herded me into the cabin

f’chrissake, what’re you bawling about?

if you didn’t spend so much time

dawdling on that tree stump

here, kid! dry your tears and scrape these carrots

that midnight in my sleeping bag on the window seat

I saw the moon creeping across the sky

blanching the gardenias at the front door

the petals opalescent     

             

_____________________ 

UNCLE BILL’S CABIN VI

—Patricia Hickerson

leaned against the dream stump

fell asleep

dreamed of holding a piece of paper

a poem in progress

dreamed of being in bed

woman in the next bed

a man leaves her bed

sneaks into mine

finger at lips

shhhh

still holding a piece of paper

poem in progress

his body barely touching mine

our toes meet

he’s against my back

cruel delirium

almost touching

not quite

holding a piece of paper

shhhh

dream in progress

littered in leaves falling

Uncle Bill calls out

it’s time for lunch 

____________________

Thanks to today's cooks for our tasty stew! 

Larry Sheehy of Mendocino writes to say hey and to send us a link to Watershed Poetry Mendocino:  www.facebook.com/pages/Watershed-Poetry-Mendocino/183822851667017

I've posted three happenings for next week on the blue b-board: two workshops you might want to check into, and the Lew Welch book release by City Lights in San Francisco. Check these out.  

 

You may've noticed some changes in the Kitchen—most notably that the links to Medusa's Inner Life (which used to be on the green board under "Snake on a Rod") have popped up to the top of Medusa and turned fuchsia. (I'm not thrilled with the color, but it's the only option, so we'll go with it.) Just click on any of those FUCHSIA LINKS for more poet-phernalia; the old ones have been refurbed, some of the info has gone into new pages, and there are some new pages that I hope you'll take a look at—such as the "Sounds for Sore Ears", which contains local poets reading on youtube—another chance to get our people and their work out into the ether! This page has room for all of you; if you have a link to yourself reading, send it to us at kathykieth@hotmail.com and we'll stick 'er on there.

By the way—last night I was writing "fuchsia" here and there on the blog and spelling it wrong every time (fuschia). So this morning I started paying attention to the spellcheck warnings and had to go through and change it everywhere. I hope I got 'em all...

___________________ 

Today's LittleNip:

Love is easy, and I love writing. You can't resist love. You get an idea, someone says something, and you're in love.

—Ray Bradbury

__________________

—Medusa (you never know what she'll be up to next!)

—Photo by Frank Dixon Graham

Wishing Upon Fireworks

—Photo by D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove

 

INDEPENDENCE DAY

—B.Z. Niditch, Brookline, MA

July Fourth

when fire flies

burn out

along an azure sky

from blossoms

of endless spectrums

raised to shadow box

over the ocean

in sensational passing

as the fire works

in a hallucinatory crimson

of flames with pieces

and sequences of light.

__________________________

IN HITCHCOCK, VISTAVISION KISSES CLIMAX IN FIREWORKS
—Tom Goff, Carmichael

Did you just wish upon a star? Not

a falling star, but a false one, brightest

in the firmament because helicopter?

Now then, what happens when you wish

upon fireworks? I do, constantly: you

rocket Ellen Burstyn bombs red-air,

mid-glare in each of my wishes.

When entire skies ignite heedless

of the expense in a waste of flame, our spirits

& genders just Gumby in the superheat. Me

Grace Kelly, you Cary Grant. Or, since we’ve

both ingested San Francisco/Monterey,

those flaring nightjars make Pacific breakers

wetting my Kim Novak hard upon

entry into your James Stewart kiss.

Oh Lady Liberty, raise my fiery torch

and warm globally our previously warm globule.

I would say, we are half Hollywood,

but this is our movie, ours. One good stiff

look from you, my Greta Gerwig, my

sky-leaping lady of mystery and risk:

I am forty oxen bogtrotting to slaughter.

You brandish the compressed-air nozzle,

then with your most unassuming flourish

press it to my brow, it shoots and retracts

its knowing point; in my brain I want that one

last briefly banshee Piccolo Pete

when the pliers applied midsection

like tweezers make it pop big but no,

you let her rip and my mind’s a mere punk,

you sweet sweet sweet sociopath,

impetuous friend-o.

Evil July 4th

—Photo by D.R. Wagner

Why are our public libraries closed July 3, the day before Independence Day?

I wonder why July 4th should be recognized as an official government holiday anyway—

when some rich white, slave-holding men in 1776 declared their "independence" from Britain

But the wise out there ought to know it took until the 1960's or even into the 1970's,

for so many Americans to earn and exercise the same "freedoms" declared back then

and the fight still goes on for the common American

And by the way, America is still dependent, not independent, from the rest of the world

including the third-world sweat shop workers that make stuff for it

yet America's leaders still make war with other nations, even for reasons as simple as not being Americans

Besides, exploding fireworks not only frighten pets and children,

stands where they are sold are a corporate plot intended to blow up peoples' money budget

and extort the poor in the name of entertainment so they'll end up at their local charity "food bank"

 

—Michelle Kunert, Sacramento

__________________________

MS. LIBERTY
—Caschwa, Sacramento

(Article I, Section 9, Clause 8: No title of nobility shall be granted by the United States: and no person holding any office of profit or trust under them, shall, without the consent of the Congress, accept of any present, emolument, office, or title, of any kind whatever, from any king, prince, or foreign state.)

The former Lady Liberty, now liberated of her noble title by the Constitution,

Stands staunchly with a flaming torch in her corner of the ring

Staring defiantly across to her upstart challenger, the Fire Marshall

You are not the father of this country!

You are not the father of my children!

You’re not man enough to be on top!!

The Fire Marshall took a long Jack Benny pause, and then mildly responded:

We are a nation of laws, Ms. Liberty, that everyone must follow

Put out those fireworks or I’ll have Smokey Bear swipe your bacon

I knew I was too hot for you to take me on alone.

It’s the 4^th of July, the nation has some serious celebrating to do

Go get Smokey and his friends and join us for some BBQ.  You’ll love it!

Do you think that’s OK, Ms. Liberty?  I’ll have to ask the Mrs., plus

There are rules to follow, we’ll need permissions for all those public  

Gatherings, parades, open fires, serving homemade food, kids up late, etc.

Mr. Fire Marshall, you’re sounding like the king we just revolted against.

It’s a holiday, the libraries are closed, so get your nose out of that rule book

I am giving you permission to be free.  Hey, you got Smokey’s number handy?

_________________________

POLITICS IN JULY

—Taylor Graham, Placerville

Two hundred thirty-six years since that hopeful

day. And now, every pro and con descends

to the same interminable argument. Like dancing

on broken wineglasses barefoot. All evening

pundits grope for answers that sneak off

in the dark. Let's spare the power grid; turn off

the TV. Listen to mosquitoes buzz instead.

There's not a breath of breeze in the grapevine.

And after all the fireworks, tomorrow's just

another Thursday.

________________________

FOURTH OF JULY PARADE

—Taylor Graham

Not just another barbecue—

it's Independence, Liberty.

She dreams of horses on parade

unbridled, red-white-blue and free.

Just six years old, a grade-school girl—

St. Joan astride was still a Maid.

Unbridled red-white-blue and free—

she dreams of horses on parade.

She's Paul Revere, she mounts the wind

to speed the news on land and sea.

She dreams of horses on parade

unbridled red-white-blue and free.

She's read no history books in school;

how could she know oppression's blade

unbridled? Red-white-blue and free,

she dreams of horses on parade.

Her liberty's a flying mane

and hooves that pound a jubilee.

She dreams of horses on parade—

unbridled, red-white-blue, and free.
 

_________________________

Today's LittleNip:

NOT BOMBS

—Joyce Odam, Sacramento

Red

Glare,

Rockets

Bursting

Behind raised

Torch in her hand—

Celebration fireworks

Of desired peace—

Desired peace

Desired

Peace.

_________________________

—Medusa

 —Photo by D.R. Wagner

Naming Me Happiness

Asian Child with Frog

—Photo by Joyce Odam

PLEASURE MY FACE

—Joyce Odam, Sacramento
 

Come touch the night
with your day fingers,

and when you know,

pleasure my face

beneath your hand

that I

may never fear the dark

your touch

has quieted.

(first pub. in Signet, 1962)

______________________

SWIMMING IN LOST TIME

(based on "The Swimming Hole" by Thomas Eakins)

—Joyce Odam

Six of them, in stillness and in motion,

in and out of the swimming hole,

the slow, slow day

perfect around them, time that is gone.

They are timeless. They are unaware

of this. They think of life as theirs,

no encumbrance, no place to fail, or die.

They yield themselves to the pleasure

of each other’s sameness, their nudity,

their separateness within

this closing hour. This is the only way

they can escape the rest of their lives.

This is a still of their existence—silent as

memory’s limitation, even the water-ripples

are silent around them, the sunlight

as it enters the green shadows.

—Photo by Joyce Odam

THE UNCERTAINTY OF THE DREAM

(based on "Charm" by Georgi Demirev)

—Joyce Odam

Dream that escapes into oblivion,

downhill into silence.

Slanted handwriting to explain what is there,

what is not.

Hanging, fragile, painted things—

images of what you imagine:

Gaiety in the Death Carnival.

Beckoned, you follow.

In the mirrors of one another.

Innocence. Blame.

In and out of flowing breezes.

Like paper. Like chiffon.

Trials of energy that fail.

Wave after wave of time, escaping.

Curtains. Many curtains. Butterfly dance

of pleasure. And then the waking:

the falling upward, climbing through—

through closed eyes, the mind surrendering.

________________

HUNGRY
—Joyce Odam

Taste.

This is sweet—

this is sour.

One is fine grape—

one is mysterious lemon.

Both are true to the mouth

which responds with different pleasure

which gets hungry so often

which needs…which needs.

Do not starve the mouth.

It has no kiss to protect it.

Do not starve the mouth.

(first pub. in Celebration, 1987)

_____________________ 

I FIND IN SUNSHINE

—Joyce Odam

   

(Hope is a thing with feathers.

                    —Emily Dickinson)

I find in sunshine what I need

and hardly stop to wonder

at why I need, or why I find

in such a simple pleasure

a moment of eternity

that rests upon a flower

and balances that part of me

that does not fit an hour,

where time is not akin to life

and life is but a moment—

and time a strange, elastic force

that has no ending to it.

(first pub. in Poets' Forum Magazine, 1997)

 ___________________

Thanks, Joyce Odam, for today's dreamy delights, finishing up our talk of Unexpected Pleasures! There is a July 4th photo over in the green board at the right; see what you can make of it for our new Seed of the Week. Medusa tries to keep an even hand about political matters, but it seems like this country is almost as divided these days as it was in the '60's (yes, I was there). Or maybe you'd rather write about backyard bar-b-q's and fireworks of various sorts. Anyway, today's SOW is a photo.  

Two of our poets will be reading in the Bay Area this weekend: Bill Gainer will be reading twice, and Taylor Graham will be reading in Crockett. Check our b-board for details.

Cynthia Linville writes that the latest issue of Sacramento's convergence is out: go to www.convergence-journal.com/summer12 and check for work by Cezarija Abartis, Eleanor Leonne Bennett, Michael D. Brown, Daniel Davis, Frank Dixon Graham, Carl James Grindley, Dallas Harder, Dianna Henning, Erren Geraud Kelly, Tyler King, J. Alan Nelson, Timothy Pilgrim, Fabio Sassi, Tom Trippe and Robert Wooten.

I hope you’ve had a chance to scroll down our blue board over at the right of this lately; I’ve made some changes, checked the links—generally cleaned it up for your viewing pleasure. Let me know if I’ve missed anything.

And Medusa’s inner life is cleaned up—that is, the “inner pages” that are listed over there on the green board under SNAKE ON A ROD have also been refurbed. Check ‘em out! (Extra credit if you can find my driver's license photo.) I could use some help with the on-going reading series—I suspect some have fizzled and others have popped up—and the Book page. I erased everything that was listed on there in hopes of starting afresh. Let me know about your latest book (and links to its reviews) and it’ll go in there, since I’ve removed the books and reviews from the blue board.

____________________

Today's LittleNip:

UNDER-LIFE

  —Joyce Odam

My mother named me happiness.

Shall I believe her?

Time passes through me

like poured water.

Gold fastens to my sand.

I gleam with pleasure.

               

(first pub. in Poetalk, 1993)

_________________

—Medusa

Child Angel with Shell

—Photo by Joyce Odam

Subparticle Slivers of Slipping Seconds

Richard Hansen (left), who is seated behind

Lawrence Dinkins, Jr., Josh Fernandez and his wife, Crystal

at last week's Shine reading

—Photo by Ann Menebroker, Sacramento

VELKOMMEN

—Carol Louise Moon, Sacramento

Five Russian men chatter in Russian

at a restaurant table, gingham cloth,

silverware and napkins neatly placed.

At a restaurant table, gingham cloth

aprons of waitresses welcome us

as we sit down to dinner.

Aprons of waitresses say VELKOMMEN

but I hear a French greeting and I smile,

responding with, Muy bien, gracias.

I hear another French greeting and smile.

My husband holds one of my hands, then

suddenly a sugar packet appears.

My husband holds one of my hands, then

suddenly the sugar packet disappears,

reappearing from his left ear.

The sugar packet disappears again,

reappearing from behind his right ear.

I love this place.  I love his way.

Responding with Muy bien, gracias,

we remain seated and finish our dinner,

silverware and napkins neatly replaced.

With sugar suddenly appearing

and reappearing from behind his ears

I love this place, his way with sugar.

______________________

MY DYING PLANTS
—Carol Louise Moon

A casual walk today, the end of June;

my backyard and the weather getting hot.
Daisies in my garden fading fast—

my precious violets will be wilting soon.

Tiny pansies drooping in their pots;

it’s summer now, I knew they wouldn’t last.

_____________________

THERE IS NO NEED FOR SURPRISE ENDINGS

—Carol Louise Moon

The pie left out will turn to mush.

A clogged toilet will soon start rising.

The unwatched pot will boil over.

The sunset will mellow, the linens will yellow,

the dog-do will need to be flushed.

The end of these things… not so surprising.

You may not find that four-leaf clover.

Copper Eyes

—Photo by Katy Brown, Davis

INSIDE THE CAMERA OBSCURA
—Trina Drotar, Sacramento

today at the museum of contemporary art,

the stink of last night’s skunk faded

into a light spectrum on two walls

that vibrated as cars drove south

away from town, and a woman told

how the light is best when the sun

is directly in front of the slitted opening

___________________

WHAT THE MAP REVEALS
—Trina Drotar

Inside the gazebo, along the east-facing wall

hangs a map onto which marks

in shades of pomegranate, blueberry, mango,

and purple grapes had been made. 

Thin lines traverse north/south along creeks,

round a stand of oak trees marked

with a yellow push pin and a note

to oil the lawn mower in April. 

Thick lines squirrel east/west

resembling a frightening mask once seen on a trip

to a second-hand store where the only item

worth purchasing was an old opalescent sock. 

Lines curve where land and water merge,

where a girl in a tight tee-shirt found something

in the sand along a strip of beach she’d visited

only once.  Lines meander and criss and cross

and form angles and geometric shapes that the girl

traces with her right forefinger. 

____________________

UNCLE BILL’S CABIN II

—Patricia Hickerson, Davis

sit on a dream stump

smoke-off words pour from the chimney

cloud my head

haloed in smoke

words curl across the earth

here they come dirt clinging

words dance, frisk away

like squirrels at play

brushed off

cleared into mouse phrase

wreathed in rabbit puff

earth to sky like geese

sky to earth in vulture swoop

veering, hunting, hawking, whistling

paradise cabin under paradise smoke

deep in the woods

deep in words

deep in breath

smokin’  

         

___________________

UNCLE BILL’S CABIN III

—Patricia Hickerson

sitting around the fireplace

Uncle Bill telling stories

scratches his belly

pulls on his beard

talks about Great Grandpa Zee

ran a whorehouse/saloon

Raines Law hotel just off the Avenue

whipped his sons

till they whipped him back

New York smarty pants

shoved kids off the sidewalk with his cane

aus mit du!

made a fortune

head of the Manhattan German Masons

died hated by many

what was he like, really?

out on the dream stump

another stone cold ancestor to consider

feisty old man from Baden-Baden

Lorelei on the Rhine

did she break his heart?

ich weis nicht was solis bedeuten

das ich so traurich bin

 —Photo by Taylor Graham

CANTICLE: HOLES IN EARTH AND SKY

—Taylor Graham, Placerville

We left the Land of Hurricane, its anthem of rain

wringing wind ringing our dreams; trees pulled

by the roots out of landscape, mountains running

down streams where men afterwards fished

the waters for their friends, cousins, brothers

in the pools and eddies.

        But on every side, the Land of Fire

swept down on itself, burning everything. Smell

of charred roots. Everyone long gone, crying

“Weather!” as they fled. Nothing could stop

the people. History became wind, no breath

remaining.

                 We left all that for the Terrace

of Temblors. Tympani, kettledrums just offshore

in the sea troughs, thunder of oil barrels

underfoot as if we'd mined the Earth our mother

till she shuddered, lay down in her self and died.

        Where shall we find a cellar, a crawl-

space to wait till we can move with weather,

seasons, seeding time, a small plot of soil, spring

of fresh water; for rain we simply call “rain”

because we prayed so hard for it.

_____________________

SCREEN DOORS

—Taylor Graham

Who was it in my dream last night, gazing

through the screen door, then

turning away—a dog, skimming the ridgetop

above Winnemucca Lake; a clear

spot in the woods; Bradley Forest, Paint

Bank; a geyser-green pond floating

October leaves saffron and yellow lime.

Amber-black hair shining metal mesh

of screen projecting summers

past. In dream I called a name—Roxy—

but it changed to Cody Taco Prissy

Firebird out of time

and sequence, so many lost

names. And then, new pup Loki

licking me in the face awake,

the sun still dark behind Stone Mountain.

___________________

THE ADDITIONAL SECOND

—Michael Cluff, Corona
 

Fixing the atomic clock

last Saturday did not

increase my bank book interest

improve my peeling hairline

or elongated sex a bit longer.

That midnight came just

as dark as ever

and sleep was left undisturbed

by the slipping away

of a subparticle sliver

of my

or anyone's length

of remaining time.

 

___________________

Today's LittleNip:

SENRYUS

—Michael Cluff

New aquarium

surrogate children for Jane

photos now abound

No aim Saturday

reading two biographies

lives I'm not leading 

___________________

—Medusa

Dragonfly

—Photo by Katy Brown

For Higher Purpose

—Photo by Frank Dixon Graham, Sacramento

THE GIFT

(Picture Scrooge jumping for joy

on piles of poetry...)

—Caschwa, Sacramento

We start with the gift of time

From an endless universe

It is a fairly small amount which may be

Greater or lesser than our challenges

Then there is money

Given, inherited, earned, won,

Found, stolen, counterfeited,

Whatever the source, money is power

But even those with lots of time

And abundant material riches

Feel an emptiness that can only be

Filled with higher purpose

Thus we have presidents who

Need to leave a legacy,

Well-off political activists who jet

Coast to coast to make a point,

And hourly wage earners who dedicate

Themselves to pursuits that serve the

Higher purpose of more fortunate people,

Only to find themselves penniless on a holiday

I am taking some time off this week

Overdue chores will get the lion’s share

Overdue bills will collect more dust

For higher purpose, there is poetry.

____________________

—Medusa