Howling Wolves & Superglue

Nicole Taylor

WILD WOMEN AND HOWLING WOLVES

—Nicole Taylor, Eugene, OR


Cheryl and I went to listen


to Whiskey Priest at


the Coffee House Café.

We learned of the $5 cover.
I watched one or two others
walk away also.

We met Natalie and
her friend Faith with
her own faith journey.

Another friend Beth and I
went on similar journeys to this but
she was on a journey for a love.

Cheryl, Natalie, Faith and I went to
Safeway and bought chicken strips,
Chocolate bars, parmesan Cheetos, and
“vitamin water for Cheryl’s health.”


I ate M &M's or
raw cookie dough with
her young daughters. Beth
complained,
worried of the raw eggs.

We sang of
Lucy in the sky with diamonds.
I thought of
Moon shadow…
I'm being followed by a moon shadow,
but forgot the words.

Beth and I sang how do you
hold her close to where you are?
how do you talk to an angel?

Faith drove us through
Mount Angel, Gervais, and St. Louis,
past my old friend Carrie’s neighborhood,

stopping in the road, chasing a bright quarter moon,
playing leap frog with the vehicle ahead and howling like wolves.

Sixteen, seventeen years ago
my friend Beth paid
for our cover and our cocktails
between dancing, rocking out,
between dancing to a Rooster song and
we were singing at Bart's or the Brass Rail,

Yeah they come to snuff the rooster.

________________________

SIMULATION CHARACTERS

—Nicole Taylor

Young nephew Alec
and I walk
the Devil's Lake beach.

He tells me about
the fantasy characters
he writes.

He tells me about
the SIMS game characters
and their lives
and the female suitors.

It is so easy
to get married

in the game,
he tells me.

________________________

MORE NEIGHBORHOOD ANNOYANCES

—Nicole Taylor

Snoopy, the adorable but sometimes
    yappy neighbor's dog.
The lonely pit bullish neighbor's dog.

The pinkish metal door slams downstairs.
High heels on low steps.

Squawky city black crows perching
    nearby on a lamp on a lamp or fir branch.

Noisy sirens of emergency vehicles
    racing up 12th, a City of Salem Fire Department truck.
Four beeps for a neighboring vehicle's broken alarm.

The laying of horns, loud and rude.
Forgotten summer plums among the bark dust.

Forgotten wind tossed jack pine branches
among snow and ice. We hope for the return of
a City of Salem Parks Department truck.

_______________________

ENGLISH IVY AND WILD CUCUMBER
(Hedera helix and Marah oreganus)

—Nicole Taylor

Hedera helix and Marah oreganus
is the Latin for the invasive English Ivy and
Wild Cucumber. Four hours I widely prune
English Ivy that is killing the several Douglas Firs
in this yard, plus pruning some wild cucumber
plant and soda cans.

“I want you to cut my ivy and you can write about it,”


she tells me, Helen, my brother in-law Pete’s mom
weeks earlier at our combined family Mother's Day party.

Four hours on cliffs of two residential streets,
cliffs of ivy and fir.

Three fire trucks race across the two branches
of Salem, uniting this west community.

Two pedestrians leave the dark refuge across at
Eola Bird Refuge, where Robins, Starlings and Swifts
sometimes reside, and many homeless.

Three bicyclists race east, toward shopping at Safeway or
Reader's Guide Books.


______________________

COUNTING AND TIMING THE BAND

—Nicole Taylor

At least I arrived early,
with no plans after
a cancelled open-mic event.
I was avoiding another event with
a Valentine's theme. I arrived
before 8 PM, early enough.
I avoided the $6 cover by snacking
and watching from the pizzeria
restaurant, above the bar and
performers. The band arrived
at approximately 8:40 PM,
Mike Dillon's Hairy Apes BMX.
My dinner arrived, salmon fettucini
with a nice pinot noir. The dark red
bass appears from the young man's
bass case, the young man with a
reggae look and "Jamaica" jacket.
Then another musician enters and
the drummer, in his Oklahoma t-shirt,
removes and sets up his equipment.
Then there's the large vibraphone. They
arrange the mic, speakers and many
equipment wires. But repair is needed
on the vibraphone. So they walk up to
retrieve "Super Glue," as indispensable
as duct-tape now. The band started at
10:05, 65 minutes late. The "punk rock" band
who lives in three states and larger cities.
They sing "All Fucked Up on An Acid Trip"
and the Seeing Eye Dog song.

At 10:40 three ladies on the small
wooden floor, barely large enough
for many dancers. I reminiscence.
I think of another Italian restaurant
where I worked, danced and drank
on a designated floor to modern
hard-rock, NW bands.

_____________________

AN OLDER COUPLE WAITING FOR AN AMTRAK BUS

—Nicole Taylor

With her gray bun
in a patterned brown scarf,
she sits on a bench
reading a mystery novel
Killer Hair.

I'm sitting inside on a wood bench, watching
ominous clouds and increasing winds.

He sat beside her
reading geographical quizzes
to us over his striped glasses
matching her other scarf, paisley.

I think of how couples grow
so similar in appearance.

She offers him a piece of a homemade
cookie and smiles at me briefly, peacefully.

She watches him
as he walks to the men's room.

She watches over
their four matching black bags
with pink straps.

I think about a winning poem
of living peacefully.

I think about a sit-com episode,
an Everybody Loves Raymond episode
of the grandparents
eating and arguing peacefully.

    After I notice the luggage I think of two friends asking me
        "What is your favorite color?"

_________________________

Thanks to Nicole Taylor of Eugene, Oregon, where we have several Snake Pals, for today's poetry! Nicole writes that she currently has no MFA's but many hopeful projects, a varieties of styles and a wide variety of subjects. She is an artist, a hiker, a poetry note taker, a sketcher, a volunteer and a dancer, formerly in Salem's DanceAbility.  Her poems have been accepted in BareBack Journal—an online Canadian journal; Boneshaker: A Bicycling Almanac; Camel Saloon; Cirque Journal; Denali Journal of Lane Community College; recently Eugene's 150th Birthday Poetry Collection Anthology, Four and Twenty Journal; Full of Crow; Gloom Cupboard; Haggard and Halloo; Just Another Art Movement Journal—New Zealand; KenAgain; Kerouac's Dog; Miller's Pond; Outlaw Poetry Network; Pemmican; Sketchbook; Snow Monkey; Symmetry Pebbles; Tiger's Eye; Watercourse Journal; West Wind Review; Yes (an anthology of the Silverton Poetry Association) and others. She has won bookstore gift certificates, workshop scholarships, a small online Beatnik contest, and respect from many Oregon poets. She blogs at facebook.com/ntaylortoo, and at oregonpoeticvoices.org/poet/312, a collection of Oregon poets with written and audio poetry available online through Lewis & Clark College in Portland.

_________________________

Today's LittleNip:

A good poem always translates into heaven.

—B.Z. Niditch

_________________________

—Medusa

Look For Us in the Stillness

—Photo by D.R. Wagner

LIVING IN THE TEMPLE

—D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove

We were living in the temple.
The ring within the bell
That would never be struck.
The rising of a thousand prayers
On their way to protect children,
Heal those with illnesses, quell the fears
That stalk the dark of forests,
Wished upon the stars and could
No longer kiss the lips of lovers
So far away the sea seemed small,
Tender as a kitten and pounding with life.

We were pounding with life,
Were living inside the temple,
Held aloft by incense smoke and chanting.
Om Mani Pad Me Hum, more times
Than the world had turned and we
Had been the ones who turned the world.

Look for us on mornings,
Our throats full of dawn liquor.
Look for us in the stillness
Of the afternoons, in the slow opening
And closing of a butterfly’s wings
Resting on a hyacinth or lilac.

Look for us in the last of evening,
Still within the temple waking
Lavenders and reds, crouching on the edge
Of moving storms, poised to become night,
To be the rain against your windows,
The wind within your body.

We dwell within the temple.
Do not be alarmed that we have
No corporal body.  The light swings
Within us and at long last, at
Long, long last, the voice of the bell
Is ours and is yours as well.

Rise from your simple bed.
Bow to the breath that is your own
And we will bow to you.  Bowing.

______________________

—Medusa

Praise

Household Gods

PRAISE

What is praise that we may
Have morning once again,
That I may wake beside you,
See you there once again?  Speak

Your name and feel your sweet
Breath against me?  Oh yes, surely
This and more, so much that stars
Must be language for it, that flowers
Too must learn to speak, trees also,
Waves upon the oceans, as many as

Grains of sand in its forms and always
More.  One voice cannot tell this
Thing beyond a simple dancing or any
Exultation devised to say about
Such things.  How poor all poetry
Becomes before it.  So every thing

We do must become praise, a
Name of wonder, the light I see
In your eyes, this waking beside
You.  And morning, morning here again.
Praise, praise, praise, all praise.

____________________

BREAKING THE DREAMER

If you stand closer to this edge
You will be able to peer further
Into the spinning wheel that is the morning.

A small flock of yellow birds
Move past us full of tiny sounds
And the blessing of color.

Fog has changed the place.  It rises
To just below the tree tops,
Capturing the entire valley in the dream-
Like quality of the place.

Now, I will tell you about lands
Below the fog.  The children are still
Asleep there.  Perhaps these mists
Rise from their breathing.  Perhaps
They are the dreams themselves.  We
Have no way of knowing
Until we too are among the sleepers.

The fog is a fog of purple horses, barely
Near to having form at all but nevertheless
Beautiful as they completely fill
This land below the fog.

Do we see them?  The plains growing
Pale.  A great dust breaks the dreamers,
Hides them, moves them from
Their supposed destinations.

We see gold, true gold descending
Over them, oblivion blazing away
Like an illusion.  There are no edges.

We push past all we know of art and
The making of glorious things to push
The light just that much further
Past our own vanishing.  We have no
Idea how any of this works,
Just that the fog returns.

Tiny droplets touch the hairs on our arms.
We begin to think of them as the
Planets, their satellites, beauteous.
They quickly disappear.

_______________________

MOON FANCIES

I should not stop to comprehend
How we are led by the moon or why
The journey is so far and distant from the town
Ot that we are transformed by it,

Obedient to its whims.  It comes.
It goes away. We clothe our
Bodies in an imagined bliss,
Find ways home across great water,
Beg ourselves witness the bright air
Filling our lungs with so much
More than we can ever remember.

Always the moon prevails, blows
Across the tremulous sky,
Always impossible.  We may be
Carried by one thousand hummingbirds
To our fine bed, dressed in robes
That angels wear and take residence
With our privilege of being here
With the great nets of our bodies

Moving away from us.
Oh yes, let us go.
I promise I will meet you there
Just before the snows.

And we will make the night cower,
Rename the stars and wear our
Joy like hearts, even as our eyes
Close to feel the hands of sleep,
The immaculate fingers of electricity.

And in these full and celebrated
Garments go back out to the night
And bring the moonlight in.
 

TALKING TO CHILDREN’S POETS

Tonight I will let the moon come
To me.  I will fill my poem with it
And sing into the early blue of night.

I will discuss the gardens
With Stevenson and Yeats,
Talk with Lang and Calvino.

We will speak as if we had all
Of time at our command, coins
Made of love of the stars,
The secrets that release the past
To the imagination only to be taken
Prisoner by words and uncertain
Dawns.  Signs for the animals of transformation
To dance among us and play to deceive
That we then cannot see, then see again
The golden fields near and far away,
The kind of language we must use
When handling the beating hearts of children. 

 

____________________

BIRDS

There were birds here.
One can see where certain
Kinds of grasses have been bent
Down to form places for their
Courting.  There are hollows too

Lined with feathers and nests
Made of twigs and string, of floss,
Bright bits and scraps of paper,
Forgotten by all else except them.

Here too are tracks upon the ground.
Here, a book of soothing gathered
From their shapes and movements
In the sky or by the nature of their calls.

Yet, when we come here now,
There are no birds here at all.  Only
Signs of them remain.  We must

Learn a kind of quiet, a special
Patience too and remain time
Enough for us to see them
With our own eyes, hear their songs.

They are like our own dear souls
In that souls must be regarded
In like kind to reveal and be
Revealed before us, full of colors, voices
Moving through the air, among the trees,
The shrubs, upon the waters too.  Looking
Deep into the heart, toward dreams, toward
Day that may find birds there,
And know them—that may be quite enough.

_____________________

NOT KNOWING ANYTHING

We talk bravely, measuring
The day.  Filling it with things
We must do, places we must go,
People we must see.  As if the
Whole of time were a fabric requiring

Action for each of us to continue.
Wave after wave meets the shore.
Ideas rise and dissipate without
Any consideration from any of us.

Some get noticed.  Some do not.
Ideas wander.  They have no owners.
The most unlikely circumstances
Arrange to generate marvelous

Occurrences.  There is no telling
If you or I may fortuitously
Recognize a particular melodic
Sequence, a chromatic change
In a blood sample, a notion
As unexpected as the sun being
Discovered in the center of our
Solar system as something of
Importance.  I watch a dove
Bobble as it lands on a power line.

This too seems a simple thing.  The bird
Coos in its unique way.  A line of com-
Munication opens up instantly.
I recognize a series of related
Vibrations.  They suggest great
Changes in the way we relate
To one another.  I decide to explore
This for the rest of my life.
 

____________________

THE WAY OF SAYING

             a poem to myself on my 56th birthday

I remain surprised that the ocean
Waves can repeat themselves endlessly
Without losing nuance and particular
Expression; a monologue interesting
Whenever encountered, full of sound
And fury, driven by the weather, its soul.

I remain amazed by love in its myriad
Forms: how it searches for us in music,
Dance, poetry, intimate conversations,
Displays of everything from architecture
To quick glances drenched in meaning,
Things we say to animals, touching.

I remain enchanted by the light moving
Through the afternoon, what it does to
Leaves, how it breathes each month into
Our lives, explaining everything as it does so.

I remain possessed by all of water in its
Forms and manners; for I too am water
As you are and the birds and the flower,
The great fields of grain to the horizon,
The trees themselves and the rivers
And the waterfalls and our poor tears.

I remain in great delight that all these
And more incite refrains, that I may
Know them still, that they have become
Gifts to my memory; allow me to recall,
Feel them as great forces driving every
Day.  All these are forms of grace.
I know this more each day.  May this
Be so my whole of life.  What bliss this be.

____________________

Today's LittleNip:

TIME

‘What do you have over there?’
‘It’s time,’ you said.
‘Well don’t wake anybody up.
It’s late and everybody will want some.’

____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to D.R. Wagner, who celebrated his birthday on Thanksgiving, for today's poems and photos!

Undead

Furies Await!

Eye in the Sky

—Photo by Katy Brown, Davis
 

SEEN ON A SATURDAY
—Tim Bellows, Sacramento

Yellow Corvette, turquoise stripe
    nine inches wide—clear down the center.
‘Vette pulls up at Mandarin and Vine.
    It’s a got-it-made convertible
muttering in the bright day.
    Blonde woman at the helm, sapphire dress.
Arms bare, draped over the wheel.
    Ah, blonde woman driving.
Gorgeous. And she’s one strange miracle
    as she frowns all through the stoplight,
frowns as she
    rockets off.

____________________

INSOMNIAC FINALLY SLEEPS,
FINALLY WAKES, WRITES HIS POEM

—Tim Bellows

I

Was that a film about our jet fighter crash?
Is it still rolling? Seems I’m in the cockpit,
all of us pilots concerned we’re losing power

as the foothills rise up. Down and down we go.
We shake the black box, slap whirring control panels—
such imperious entities around us to make us brave
as the gray blur of hills keeps rising.

Ah, life. We do what we can. Things are
what they are. Death is what it is as dusk
spreads its anesthetic on the shrubbed ground.

II

Now we’re spliced into another scene.
We’ve gotten through the crash, fanned out
on a dreaming land. We find the cedar cabin,

step in, sweep up, set a pan under the kitchen sink
for drips, set cast iron pots on the stove for stew meats,
carrots, herbs, a broth mix. We notice the two suns
lowering, lowering as dusk takes on their yellow-violet hue.

In this we will live, comrades awaiting the next mission out.
It’ll be go, soon as we’ve rummaged for our equipment.
Radios, leather helmets, pocket watches
inherited from grizzled fathers

who crashed long ago and now
inhabit another cabin
in another film.
 

____________________

DREAM AFTER THE POETRY READING

—Tim Bellows

It’s Gary Snyder, older, draped around
his fragile bones. In straw sunhat.

He embraces my meadow-blonde gal.
He has such power: Look! Her far-off eyes

now slow like the best of poems,
the best of passions.
 

—Photo by Caschwa

BRALESS ISN'T GOOD
—Caschwa, Sacramento

Braille would become a sickly ___ille
the li___rian would hush you
we would have to catalog a whole new
subphylum of inverte___tes
your ___nd new car would lose some value
the Irish would say Erin go ___ugh

______________________

UNITED WE STAND
—Caschwa

There is a saying that imitation
is the sincerest form of flattery
that's why copying test answers is OK

"I'll have what he's having" can be
a compliment to good judgement
or the character flaw of laziness

that oh-so-precious right to vote
invites shepherds to tell their flock
precisely what to think, whom to hate

If only courtesy could be codified
the driving privilege would not be
extended to rude, belligerent people

we tolerate small flaws from aspiring singers
and dancers, but if a writer pens "to" for "too"
the floodgates of criticism open wide

Six is unlucky for me
lucky for you
I'll stop here

______________________

THE ODE TO SUCCESS
(is paved wtih good attempts that fail)
—Caschwa

It didn't rhyme, it didn't flow
it didn't have a beat
alliteration missed the boat
that only had one seat

but there it was with engines roaring
leaving most behind its wake
advertising a brand of ale
that would surely take the cake

a host of fans remains there still
offering praises to its speed
their glasses kept dry and empty
by an ale too fast to read.

_____________________
 

JOYOUS TINY MOMENTS

—Caschwa

As a small child I found
miniature golf
quite intriguing
even more so because
we rarely went

on one occasion
at the last hole
I hit a hole in one
past the windmill blade
and won a card for a free game!

we never went back there

***

Pregnant
term
complications
arrived at hospital
7 o'clock pm

Full staff present
C-Section
8 o'clock pm
8 pounds, 4 ounces
healthy baby boy!

mother and son doing fine
29 years and counting

***

In the backyard we have
a dwarf apple tree
quite young yet
bore fruit
full size
Yum!

____________________

Thanks to today's contributors, including Katy Brown, who has another new photo album on Medusa's Facebook page: Snow in October, reminding us of things to come.

Trina Drotar writes:  There's still room for teens in this Saturday's FREE creative writing workshop for teens at the South Natomas Library. The workshop runs from 1-3pm. Snacks, prizes, and more!! All teens (13-18) are welcome. All materials will be supplied. Pre-registration is recommended but not required. See www.saclibrary.org/?pageId=26 for more info.

Sadly, Trina also says that the Crossroads reading series she has been hosting with Sandy Drotar will come to an end with December's reading. This has been a very classy, well-attended series, and it will be missed. Another series that will be closing is Inspiring Words in Woodland. Hey—we need some NEW reading series to plug up these holes, yes? Got any ideas?

And be sure to check the current Sac. News & Review for a interview with Sac. Poet Laureate Jeff Knorr.

____________________

Today's LittleNip:

ABOUT POETRY

—Tim Bellows

Poetry is like
life. While you’re
making it, you

never quite know
where it’s going,
or why or

how. You only
know that Furies
and winds dashing

against white summits
await your bravery.

___________________

—Medusa

Trees on Hwy. 32

—Photo by Katy Brown

Whistling Joy

—Photo by Taylor Graham, Placerville

WHAT WE DON’T DO WITH ALL OF OUR IDEAS
—Ann Menebroker, Sacramento

There were all of these little thoughts kept
on small pieces of paper, backs of grocery lists stuck
in corners to come back to, make them into poems
illuminating quick words that had a certain ring to
them, as if the brain had some motive other than
keeping its energy alive with cautions and fuel.
But too often these possibilities stayed quiet. There
were sentences lost: She often felt like a devotional
chore, a rosary-counter.  Or how about: There was
too much day to handle, that never found where
it belonged.  She pulled off the side of the street to
write down:  Pulled together with reality and tricks,
but none of it was going anywhere.  She heard a famous
movie star quoted with:  It’s hard to have a private life.
And later, in an e-mail to a friend, she ended with:
In the end, very little ends up being monumental.

____________________

WORD TRICKS
—Roger Langton, Louisville, CO

Words are playing tricks
on me. When I want
to use them, a few
go missing, playing
miniature golf or some
other unexpected game.

While sleeping, lightning
brings them back, just
in time to convince me 
I'm not senile.

Once in awhile words
are lost in traffic
too slow to be useful
seemingly lost forever

I go to word books to
search for them. When found
fire burns: of course, I know
those words!
And that word, And that word.
They have been reliable friends
for decades. What did I do
to make them unfriend me?

The words come back
one by one with
an apology and a big smile,
I forgive them,
go on using their gifts,
hoping they will stay with
me this time.

____________________

BLAKE'S BIRTHDAY (NOVEMBER 28)

—B.Z. Niditch, Brookline, MA

It's Blake's birthday
and we have
angel cake
on hand
from our friend
we call Chet
the Frisco baker
visiting
the rented high rise
ten stories above
who arrives
every November 28,
always losing his keys
or I.D.
in the South End
of Boston
when there are art
festivals all around
like the painter
next door
knowing lots
of men and women
who are surrealists
with exhibits
24/7,
and hearing music
even at hours
in snow shoes
or raincoats
like the horn player
out of a coma
playing sax
for us
or the jazz violinist
next door
fresh from Harlaam
meeting her Dutch uncle
the first time
since the last war,
but it's Blake's birthday
and even though
two wine cups
are broken
and a bit of stuffing
falls out of the sofa
and the door bell
and telephone
keep ringing
we will celebrate
our poet's
"Heaven and Hell"
with aplomb.

 —Photo by Taylor Graham

LANDSCAPE WITH WILD PLUM

—Taylor Graham

Drivers grapple with the grade
under a weight of cloud.

In a hillside cabin, a man studies old legend
as if it were a relic of stenography,
a crosscultural puzzle in code.

Over the summit,
the clouds heap themselves to storm.

A small boy sees wild plum
dancing saffron-yellow with the willow.
He whistles this joy.

_____________________

DOGS IN FOG
—Taylor Graham

November bivouac by the Patuxent.
My dog and I talk, to warm a night of fog.

My dog runs in circles after a lost scent
that fills this whole canyon bound up in fog.

On Trinity's high peak, by moonlight,
we drift to sleep above lowland oceans of fog.

My low-beams trace the road-edge. Breeze
will brighten scent if sun ever lifts the fog.

Searching the winter Bypass—my dog's
neon eyes. A flashlight shines halos in fog.

By moon's hazy glow I walk the old dog
tonight. His whiskers silver with fog.

_____________________

TINY MOMENTS OF JOY

—Taylor Graham

Sun leaves its track across a child's eye.
That cursive L on postal parchment takes you back.
The mouse asks little, and praises in quiet.
In pine woods, finding bear track a blessing.
Morning's ungreased wheel, a cartload of surprises.
The sadness of a horse's soul is its beauty.
Sage takes over the garden of cleansing.
Under your bare feet, the silk of black mud.
By magic, the box erupts in tabby cat.
Toadstools leap up and dance for joy and rain.
When the dog laughs, be ready to follow.
Dawn opens its wide windows, even behind clouds.

_____________________

Contributors from here, there, and everywhere today—our mighty thanks to them! Cousins Roger Langton and Annie Menebroker sent us poems intended to bookend each other, and Taylor Graham is continuing to put together her dog manuscript while she and Michael Cluff work on our Seed of the Week: Tiny Moments of Great Joy (have you noticed all the tropical fish Michael has thrown into his poems lately?). Unfortunately, we didn't post B.Z. Niditch's poem about Blake's birthday yesterday on the exact day, but we can always celebrate it, right? 

By the way, Roger Langton writes that a poem of his which appeared on Medusa's Kitchen, "Hooked", later made into a broadside by Paul Fericano, has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Congrats, Roger! Several other SnakePals have written that they've also been nominated; 'tis the season. For more info about the Pushcart, see our green board at the right of this. If you want to see Roger's poem, go up to the little cream-colored bar at the very top of Medusa, at the left, and type in "Roger Langton Hooked"; the post in which it appeared will come up and you can scroll down to the poem.

And while you're over there on the "boards", scroll down to the blue board and check out the poetry readings that are coming up this weekend, including Susan Kelly-DeWitt at The Avid Reader on Sunday, and don't forget the Sac. Poetry Center's annual Fundraiser at the Millers' home tonight! Sometimes readings come to the Kitchen at the last minute; best to check the blue board daily.

Cynthia Linville writes: The Winter 12 Issue of Convergence is online at www.convergence-journal.com/winter12! Look for work by Jason Dean Arnold, Myles Boisen, Doug Bolling, Melissa Donovan, Anara Guard, M. Boyd Houts, Erren Geraud Kelly, Pete Madzelan, David McAleavey, John McKernan, Simon Perchik, Robert R. Sanders, Anita Scharf, Allyson Seconds, Randy M. Taylor, David Thornbrugh, and Brenda Yamen. In addition, Editors' Choice pages and photos throughout the website are updated bimonthly, so stop by often. Frank Andrick is my featured poet this month.

_____________________

Today's LittleNip:

The birth of a platy
and its still existing
after five days
a tiny moment
of great joy
for me
since my children
now have,
for the most part,
fish tanks, careers
and rubrics,
rubicons
of their own.

—Michael Cluff, Corona, CA

_____________________

—Medusa

—Photo by Taylor Graham

To Fomalhaut

Knitted Cactus

—Photo by D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove

ONCE UPON A TIME…
—Patricia Hickerson, Davis

evening in August
we sat on a boardwalk bench
staring out across the spread of sand
to an in-pouring of waves
on the beach at Pt. Pleasant
crowds surged behind us
feet slammed the wooden boards
skyrocketing rides wheeled upward
whizzing and roaring through the warm sky
echoed faintly by the musical tinkle
the merry-go-round
children calling out

never again…

___________________

WEB
—Patricia Hickerson

at sunset
she found herself
caught in a whirl of white
gauzy strands
ghosts of yesterday
cobwebs
closing in on her
she held her breath

the web danced around her
not to be taken seriously
the sun started down
in flight from day
she remembered a strong figure
standing immovable before her
she spoke to him
found him elusive
till he made a strange declaration
about herself
and him

it was the poetry of sun going down
red flares pierced a drift of clouds
she floated
without pitch or mold
hands over eyes
not to see what had happened
waiting for his hand held out
sick with wanting

______________________

THE HAUNTING
—Patricia Hickerson

this isn’t a TV show
where teams of ghost hunters
wield their technological toys
inspect old houses
hear whimpers and whispers
the restless dead
orbs appear
spooks shoot across space
(or are they just vagrant balls of camera light?)

this is a real haunting
a man you’d like to forget
somehow he doesn’t go away
always there inside you
gnawing at your innards
a savage process that will wound you  

  

  Late Summer Flowers

—Photo by D.R. Wagner

TO FOMALHAUT
—Ann Wehrman, Sacramento

oh, solitary one, Fomalhaut
lonely autumn star
what do you feel as time stands still
400 million years or more
in your rainbow-shrouded darkness
time to remember, digest, forgive
time spent alone
at the edge of the world

life proceeds
pleasure, pain tip scales right, left
you remain untouched, silent, alone
will you host new worlds someday
will planets spin around you
will we someday know
your surface skin, your fiery heart
your life-giving warmth
your inevitable cooling and death

_____________________

WATERBABIES
—Ann Wehrman

you’re like that illustration
in the children’s book
the spindly imp, cackling with mischief
and I, the fairy princess, floating
in a boat of leaves

your legs are too skinny
gnarly and hairy as a goat’s
all over you’re skinny
your nose is too big
your eyes light up
as you twist a phrase
to make it mean something else
more delicious

send a spiral of energy
sparking up my spine
massage the lower back
of my skull
remove the tension 
behind my ears
so that I can really hear—
and I find myself laughing
although you’ve long gone
downstream

so I lean back
safe in my woven cup
let the current rock me
white water sparkling left and right
until you return, all shy
with your warm mouth puckering
and your ageless, wise hands

___________________

HEAVY
—Ann Wehrman

face snuggles into your neck
your cheek
I could stay there forever
skin touching skin

arms extend down your back
holding, held
body heavy, warm

flying, I
clamber on top
ride your back
dip, swerve as one
liberated from gravity

soar side by side
dance around, beneath
ride currents of air
Earth turns
we scream with delight

___________________

AFTER GRADUATION

—Ann Wehrman

back curves
black hair tumbles
eyes half closed, she dreams
scent of warm grass fills her
grass easy, prickly
underneath her
cool, dense earth

she rests in the sun
on the campus lawn
unafraid, un-self conscious

exhausted
on my ten-minute break
I watch her lie there
covet her nonchalance, youth
freedom to lie on the grass
in sun’s warmth

bones ache with winter’s pain
I tighten my apron
return to work
job pays part of the bills
diploma in my dresser drawer

____________________

Today's LittleNip:

WAITING FOR THE KISS   
—Patricia Hickerson

here I am
my pillow soft
the moon high and hot
it lights the open window
whitens my sheets
outlines my lips
I’m waiting for you
and your good-night kiss    

___________________

—Medusa

—Photo by D.R. Wagner

Let Its Words Be Easy

GRATITUDE

I belong to you now,
you with your kindness,
saving my worthless life,

pulling me from the edge
to show me level ground—
no dreamless fall.

How can I thank you—
with my love?
Okay then,

with my love.
I will surround,
immerse,

and measure you in love.
How will you
ever be able to be rid of me?

____________________

I WENT WITH YOU TO A HOTEL MADE OF OLD SORROWS
           (for A. M.)
                                    

I went with you to a hotel of old sorrows—those old rags again. We knew to whom they belonged: to friends who were dying; to lovers who would die loved in gentle rooms of waiting—to sit there in the afternoon’s gold light and tell the shadowed stories of our lives.

I was the one between.

I wanted you to remember with me that I was quiet and said nothing to the solace, or the gratitude that was exchanged. I was just the observer. There was such a sadness for the beauty that I felt in your touching of hands against each other, alive and true, your eyes longing over the secrets of the afternoon which was fading very softly into a sad farewell, one that would last forever this time.

You were happy then; and so was the one in the memory of that window—the room fading back into demolition—the strange cry that we heard from the stair—which was a warning.

____________________

A VERY HAPPY PERSON
                                  
“You’re a very happy person,” you said,
so I laughed to show how happy I was

and went around smiling to prove
how lastingly I was happy

and was so grateful later that night
to chop onions for the excuse of crying.

___________________

WHEN IT'S NEVER ENOUGH

I have given you my small gratitudes,
wrapped in soft handkerchiefs of praise

for your cornfield and your onions,
and for the nectarines on your heavy trees.

And I have thanked you and praised you
for your useful gifts of toil.

Oh yes, I have listened while you told me
what it took from you.

And I have murmured—over and over,
my praises—my recognition for your efforts

and your giving, which is never measured
by reciprocation, for still you claim

to remain loveless and unrecognized
for your generosity and goodness.

My handkerchiefs weep with frustration
to water all your fields of anguish.

THE WAITRESS

Sarcastic-toned and smiling, biting with her eyes, rathering elsewhere, she tends the table of noisy patrons who will not tone down to order, who ignore, though she waits at their edges with her pad and pencil poised—with her professional way of keeping track, while they call out—over the table—over each other—criss-crossing what they want, or mumbling  amid the chatter and the laughter they have brought; but she keeps her temper tight in her smile and somehow wades through them all, even telling a small joke to them, though they are loud and private, and they look at her in a friendly way as, ‘yes, thankyou’, they accept more coffee, and stay and stay.

_____________________

THE REPEATING
                
Going as far as pity
they come to the torn place in the earth
look for the seed in the drop of water
see it there
look upward and give thanks.
They are religious now.
Fanatics with a cause.
They have taken
all the death and forgiven it.

At night they go out
on rituals of loneliness
and choose up sinners.
(They are not perfect.)
They are ragged from living
her old red dress
with sequined hem dragging
making sparks against the stones
he carrying the old weapons he used to use
left over from wars and murders
and self defenses

Going as far as remorse
they tear at the earth with their fingers
dig up
the seed and the drop of water
to give to the ravenous bird
with the amputated wings.
And having done with it all again
they kneel
in the red moonlight.
Thank you for sorrow, they whisper.

                                                
(first pub. in Cellar Door, 1979)

__________________

DODOITSU FOR A LATE RAIN

My new trees are so grateful
for the rain. They are shining,
surprised to still be alive,
losing their yellow.
         
                 ~~~

I love the sound of wet streets—
the tire swish and the plop plop
of a hard rain—one that can
hold my attention.

                           

(first pub. in Poets’ Forum Magazine)

__________________

Today's LittleNip:

ON THE NEXT POEM YOU WRITE

Let it be new to your heart
and old to your mind—
long-hidden,
seeming new.

Let it be meant
to be unforgotten
for it is true—
as true as new can be.

Let its words be easy
on the eye that reads it,
and the voice that speaks it—
for if you let it go, it will never be.

_________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Joyce Odam for today's tasty fare! Our new Seed of the Week is Tiny Moments of Great Joy. Send your poetic thoughts about this vast subject to kathykieth@hotmail.com No deadline on this though—think about it throughout the coming crazy season and send 'em as you will.