Hands That Hold My Heart

—Poems and Photos by D.R. Wagner, Locke, CA

TEARS AND THEIR CHILDREN



The room had no ceiling.


Someone had recently taken


The stars out for their evening walk 


And they remained excited by the 
Moon.



Tears were suspended in the air.


We could walk between some of 


Them and hear their voices full


To the brim with the joy and sorrows


They contained.



I cannot name the beasts who dwelt


There.  They had faces like people


We all knew.  So few of them had 


Names.



They were the vermin of politics,


Blind to most all of whom walked


These beautiful plains.



I have been asked not to speak


Of the rivers of blood, but to dwell


Upon the bliss possible at the edge


Night collects about itself before


All turns to darkness.



I should mention a kiss


And not speak of the mangled,


Distraught and mad who walk beside


Us everyday.  Why would you care


About such things when the stars


Are as eager as puppies to please


Your imagination.



I have been told I must end this way


Of talking and leave such journeys


To those unable to dream.

Look, even now they come to a stop…

 

A VISITATION BY SEA SPIRITS



They were lighting small lanterns


All the way across the headlands.

Ships were coming.  They


Had been seen from the pilot hill.



Bright flares on the tops


Of their masts.  The lights


They carried were of many colors and


Occasionally shot bursts


Of colored flame into


The high atmosphere


Illuminating the bottom 


Of the clouds.



The coming of these ships


Had been foretold but


They were not expected


To arrive in the dead of winter.



The children had begun


Behaving strangely about


A month ago and the Teal


Gulls were seen on the 

Edges of the Father-glade.



At night the booming 


Of the fisher bells


Could be heard at

Curious hours of the night.



There was a hesitant


Music coming from the


Taverns that was neither


Joyful nor sad.  It held 


A great sense of longing in its notes.


We were unable to determine 


If there were words to the songs.


The crowds grew well into the night.



The ships arrived much past midnight.


Were these sailors Gods


Then, plucked from the night


And to be proclaimed


Throughout the land?



Their garments were magnificent.


Some of us could see 


Them, some could not.


Quickly there were stories of them


Before the morning came.


People were waiting upon


Them for answers.


The ships glittered with lights.



In the morning they were but


Hulls abandoned and gray,


Peopled by shades the same gray


As the forged bullets with which


The world infects itself.



There was no conversation.


There were no oracles.


Glimmers ran softly up the sails


Like fairy lightning and


Nothing was forthcoming.



All day they sat in the harbor,


A kind of fungus on the water.


By nighttime, fires were


Started on their decks.


They burned with sickly


Colors and drove flights


Of dark birds around


And around their sails

Even as they burned.



On the following morning,


Ashes on the water.


The children packing 

Their lunches and

Heading off for school


Whistling tunes and


Singing songs we 


Had never heard before.



By the end of the week


We were once more


Upon the beautiful


Hills gazing out to sea,


Hoping to spot a sail.

EXCUSE ME



Okay, the light was burning in the castle.


I was standing in the hall.  I wasn’t even dreaming.


Still I could hear you call.  And it was still too far to fall.



Broken willow on the shoreline.  Eyes that could stab,


Take the quick road to the heart and punch a hole.


I tried to understand it but there was too much pride in my soul.



When I got to the watchtower there were dead people on the floor.


Some of them had names like mine, others had no names at all.


I begged them for forgiveness.  They had no idea how I could speak


Out loud.  Ain’t no coming back.  Ain’t nobody holding an open door.



I sat down to wait for that special hour.  The dark bird flying 


Into the mouth of the shower.  I can't meet you there.


I work in the tower.  I stand in the rain.  The water reminds me


That my blood is insane.  I hide myself where my skin begins to tear.



I’ve walked away from this room.  Please don’t remember my name.


I don’t know what you need.  I just don’t understand.


Who are you anyway?  I’m still way past insane.


Whatever it is, I can’t give you a hand.

ROAMED THROUGH YOUR HEART



I watched them fall off the edge of the cliff.


It has been months since I have seen your face.


All I had was your voice banging around in my heart.



Everyone can see us standing here.  I don’t know


Why I am still talking to you.  They tore a hole in my


Life that I have no way to understanding.  How can I feel


This way?  I watched you fire up your bike and blow


Away down the street.  What is this supposed to be about?



They told me I would never forget you.  You were not the wind.


You were not the sea and I was not the noise that roamed

Through your heart.  Save me were I were.



I am a creature of the shore and can only stand here


Unashamed and so in love with your love that it rises


Above my heart and raises its hands to become


Their own lions.  I shall be the kiss upon your mouth.


And you shall be the hands that hold my heart.





THE SEA WALL



I don’t remember even thinking


That I ever needed you.  


All the roads split wide open.  


You were standing by the gate.


It was way, way past the nighttime;


It was much too long to wait.



Leave me here before the sea wall,


Give me words or maybe not.


I found myself back in the alley


Begging you for one more shot.



Dream your dream of when I loved you.


Dream your dream or maybe not.


Dream some wicked explanation.


Don’t tell me that’s all you’ve got.



Drifting, drifting, drifting,


The ghost lights sticking to the shore.


I could tell you that I loved you


But there wouldn’t be much more.



I’ll still be standing on the hilltop


And you’d still forget my name.


I’d be breaking just like egg foo yung.


I would still be this insane.



Touch me with your precious tenderness.


Run your hands across my skin.


Leave me by the dying embers.


I can swear I never lied.

THE TOY TRAIN



She said it was a toy train.


It was made of spider webs.


It disappeared through a closed door


Not like any train I had ever seen before.



My dog came through the mirror


Without a sound, without a sidelong glance. 


Derelict, abandoned, a room without a floor.


The train could move inside a dream facade.


Littered with old memories, their meaning gone


Like rain that through a broken window pane might pour.



And I dwelt there through a thousand nights


Caught by the grey of shadows, a prisoner 


Of the moon, a captive of the spirits that


Dwell inside my bones, a distant ringing


Of a bell across the quickening season.


Masked, unmasked, another mask and then no more.

A PLACE FOR THE MOON



This path leads along the shore-


Line for about a mile, then ducks


Beneath some wind-shaped pines


Into a cove where the moon may


Always be seen as it assembles


Its lines and hoists itself


To the night sky.



Years ago many people would gather

Here to watch these preparations,


But now this place is mostly forgotten.


Those who came here have mostly died


Or have gotten themselves far, far away, no longer


Thinking of this place.



I came here with gifts for the moon,


But it will not receive me and prepares


Its rigging, mixes its huge variety of lights


And sits down for a few minutes


Before it is time to lift above the tree line.



I watch it practice becoming huge, then


Diminishing to the much smaller size


It uses to reign as lord over the night.



It flips through its phases, tucking itself


In here and there, using the shadows


To its greatest advantage to remain


As beautiful as possible.  It is


An amazing display and takes place


In that regal silence the moon demands.



After awhile, I am joined by a few


Others who know of this place.


They come for inspiration and to restart


A sense of wonder lost to themselves


In their commerce with the world.



For centuries this place has been


Such.  I have seen the winds here,


Flocks of owls and creatures who


Build the night.  Last to arrive


Are the dreamers in their gauzy 


Garments, truly stardust and breathing,


Smoothly and deeply.



The moon begins its ascent.


The night settles into itself perfectly.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

THE ROOM



The room was laid with knives.


How I was I to communicate with you?


Who is the creator?  When I opened my mouth


There was a lot of blood.  I didn’t know language


Could work like this.  I was as light as a feather.


It must have been my memory.



Then, I was majesty.  How quickly the heat


Leaves the body.



Children with bundles of sticks 


On their backs move through the streets.

____________________

—Medusa


 

      

Magic Carpets and Serendipity

—Photo by Ann Privateer

ICE CLIFFS
—Ann Privateer, Davis, CA
 
jagged blue shadows
against a darkening sea
sharp shadow shards

define a porcelain sky
openings part, show
the way fog percolates.

A lid stands where algae
wobbles, life-like
for a thousand years.

We weigh in, it could be
another minute until it
shears off imploding

the tiny one-man skiff
and yet, we stay, transfixed.

___________________


WATER GAMES
—Ann Privateer

the joy of water compares
with the joy of sound

both surround the body
sometimes penetrating

each orifice, reverberating
the chest, sending thrills

and chills that wiggle
up and down, binding

the next nexus
and there you are

flattened and smoothed
eyes smiling radiantly.

 —Photo by Ann Privateer
 

MARKING EDGES
—Ann Privateer

we run with scissors
hang on for dear life

go in all directions
to become friends.

you know when to let go
when to habituate

when to not budge
so you go around

in circles, resting
while the ocean

sleeps warm or cold,
no comfort, so deep

let go of places
that habituate.

 Trolley

—Photo by Robert Lee Haycock 

IN MEMORIAM PÁDRAIG PEARSE
—Tom Goff, Carmichael, CA

(Symphonic poem by Arnold Bax in tribute to
the Irish revolutionary,
executed after the Easter Rising, 1916)

One meeting was all you had to take the measure
of this odd poet-schoolmaster-warrior, carved
so the whole face seemed scenting, with its curved
stark-angled delicacy, for that air-treasure,
no sooner minted than lost upon the wind
(spirit) and sunk down deep under a cairn
(body), where none’s to discover it, gone blind:
just how many bodies and spirits yesterday bairn
did Pearse lead to a Falstaff’s honor in Irish dust?
Not even a coat of arms to rub with rust.
Yet you found him sympathetic, sorrowed for him
in music more fitting a Beowulf on a barge
atop soft sheaves of flame, as if it bore him
onto, not off, a thundering shore whose margin
slaps first life-shock into heroes. Just one rann
Pearse wrote foresees everything: in one brief span
he invokes the soft-spoken king of blackened clay,
wants sleep in the keep of no grain, no face, no day. 

___________________

BETWEEN MEETINGS
—Tom Goff

I’m bad today: I skipped a college meeting
and the ensuing doughnuts, muffins, juice.
Enough, I swore, with the undersong of greeting,
the buzz of hover, status-check, and ruse
of busyness about plans. If I were to go
to any sad meeting, it would be to see you,
my much-missed joyous seeker of nothing faux,
desiring to know how you fare in the quest to free you.

We carry like cages around us history,
we’re shackled to bars at each bright chakra point.
These iron cubes, an invisible mystery
to prattlers outside the pain that cramps each joint.
But you are too young not to escape that jail.
Signal me soon with your gaze you did not fail.

___________________

KEATS’S DEATH MASK
—Tom Goff

Here lies one whose name was writ in water.
No, I think not. The mask shows one whose face
the water is writing on. So, with the grace
of icicles in spring, we see the daughter-
delicate features melt away to breath,
thinning, attenuating, vibrating
the resonance of molecules whose ring
stings truest upon the escapement-lift of death.

Oh the life mask was also a lovely thing:
moved, we compare it to the sheath, ice-wet,
that glories the large-eyed features of the pup
seal who’s broken the breathing-barrier yet
keeps for one instant more the shine and cling.
The liquid swarms outside—it is—the cup.

 Magic Carpets and Serendipity

—Photo by Robert Lee Haycock
 

CONJUNCTION
—Robert Lee Haycock, Antioch, CA

Her face is veiled in earthshine
But for a catty crooked grin
As Mars and Venus are undone
In their adulterous dancing
And the peacock screams

__________________

PIGMENTS OF MY IMAGINATION
—Robert Lee Haycock
 
Glaze of dawning brushed
Across unsullied ground
I set my back to morning
And leaning at my cane
As if on a mahl stick
Scumble my sandy-eyed shadow
Onto another day's canvas
Stretched from too early
To the west too far
 

Rotation

—Photo by Robert Lee Haycock

Today's LittleNip:

MORNING WAY TOO SOON
—Robert Lee Haycock

Cheshire grin of a crone moon
Cacaphony of the spheres
Lonesome lunatic
Morning way too soon
Flames of grass
Pall of fogs
When dawning comes
Where do dreams hide?

_____________________

Our thanks to today's fine poets and photographers, and congratulations to Tom Goff, whose series of Bax poems has been posted on the Sir Arnold Bax website! See under “Essays and Articles” at arnoldbax.com/.

—Medusa
 

—Photo by Ann Privateer

Under the Bright and Leaping Stars

Mask

—Poems by B.Z. Niditch, Brookline, MA

—Photos by Denise Flanagan, Newton, MA

REFLECTIONS

Awaking by a juniper tree
writing early verses
like the exiled prophets
and poets Jeremiah, Blake,
Byron and Shelley
on hills, mountains, lanes
in an unknown universe
with my intuitive anonymity
wishing to travel beyond the Cape
outside the thrilling mystery
of diligently watching
these draped fountain walls
watered down of my own history
wishing to travel back and forth
in a kayak over the river's mouth
toward north, west and south
shaped by a gentle invisibility
peaceful word, sword and spirit
to other spheres of geography
down halls of eminent biography
with Keats, Yeats and Andrei Bely
opening diligently to love others
in my own unlimited sealed span
with you daughters and sons
swaying above Manhattan's breeze
with Crane and Whitman
Emily Dickinson and Merton
in my own raised trope's trapeze
hoping in adolescence for romantic
and critical trophy rewards
as in a prophecy to hope and desire
to be revealed in a lens of reflections
and shine into a stars firmament
clothed in a glorious new linen
with a divine-sent perfection
by a remnant of poetic souls
above all the earth and waters
hearing a chorus of small birds
beyond all space and time
in all fate and states of mind.

__________________

STREET OF SILENCES

Walking on country roads
where my words should be
housed in a double row of roses
near my rock garden
caught between islands
as Fall showers us with wind
trembling on our back
between a life-line kayak
near a lobster boat man
speaking in Portuguese
out of breath
in the morning shade
drawing a cerulean landscape
of a blue dusty sky
at the Cape's coastline
greeting me
with six mourning birds
drinking in the river
as they plan to fly South
covered with sunshine
amid the shadows of the sea.

LOST IN A POE REVERIE

Add to your daydreams
a raucous rant of reverie
from a fearsome sleepwalker
writing over five stories
about interrogated soul mates
in a mystery meter rising
on the far side of the moon,
multiply mirrors of singers
at live dance halls
divided into lively couple’s clubs
as the dawn awakens our hearts
subtracted into diamond legends
from King Solomon mines
or Treasure Island
when all lights stamp reality
that quickly burns away
from any spade-handled dross
of locating coins and stamps
from underneath the dark sea
of sinking cargo ships
as epileptic saints appear
from laced curtains
behind buried Puritan blinds
who move like chessboard pawns
over toothless archangels
hidden in church bazaars
fleeing lower basements
as exiled wandering stars
rescued over by shark
and right whale waters
when strong Sicilian sailors
unload fresh salt for New England
for our home harbor
to cook on colder nights
as Mayflies search for trout,
cod, and red salmon
near whitened kingfisher herons
who rest and stretch out
on the sunny high-tidal beach
over a first frosty branch
reaching for bread and quail
along the edge of the bay side
of a camp site's lagoon
to search ethereal currents
near a once-crunchy snow forest
thawed now among birdsong
as rings of sea voices rise
where Edgar Allen Poe trains
as a once dismissive soldier
in South Boston by Castle Island
despising all regiment
of his rejected discipline
writes in a trance of hours
by the ghostly Atlantic's watch
hidden between portholes
hearing an oceanic Druid din.

__________________

AT RIMBAUD'S WATCH

Making the rounds
a nurse,
a chaplain,
a solitary,
a bishop at Mass,
a warden,
a missionary,
a wrestler,
all falling yet rising
as Lazarus from the dead,
hidden in four corners
Rimbaud watches
lives in French routines
his eyes open at the windows
at a tiny coffee shop bench
toward a bake
of cinnamon croissants,
baguettes or raisin bread
with his three Charleville aunts
feels at times as a clairvoyant,
picturing a starving midshipman
who sails to Brittany country
by a Bay's thrilling seaside
craving La Tartine Gourmande
as thyme-infused sardines
sautéed with tomato sauce
from an old French marinade recipe
are basted on the grill,
as Rimbaud remembers
the kindly sextant who cleans
off the Virgin's statuette
feeling as an idyll bard
who dream-tosses at his exile
while in Paris or Casablanca
wishing to make sleeping waves
rise over the body of the seas,
or once knowing an innocent man
on trial sent off to Devil's Isle
in his contrary engaging thoughts
he encircles the university
with its large library
roundabout the cascade
on narrow roads and streets
children watch a puppet show
still there between wars
or stand by on Bastille Day
for a revolutionary parade
near the city's cemetery grounds
assuaging the wise in adversity
always wishing to be astounded
or carry on in a tent
with a Casbah's surprise,
yet even pitying a limping beggar
in the alley before bed
under the bright and leaping stars
imagining the Christmas Magi
being put in the store window
as an absentee student runs
away from home at school
being teased for his belief
taunted and execrated
in the school yard snow
being named "sale petite Cagot"
as his visionary shadow
winces at long-suffering souls
trying to escape their foolish fate
now drinking cups of red wine
on draped stools behind bars
a vagabond asks out loud
for another round
among a crying-out thief
once nearly executed
by rope's guillotine
here in the line-up’s churlish crowd
this proud fool cannot wait
to be free while he is blamed
yet this time exonerated
not seeking a peaceful relief
yet seen here as a collaborator
in another street pickpocket crime
loudly mouthing and proclaiming
his innocence spilled here
with his hopeful brother
upon release.

__________________

ON THE TRAIN

On the train up to Boston
when the first fragile snow
fell from the heavens
like isles of rainbows
we glimpse our spirit days
as shade and sun's shadows
begin their narrow peeks
from a still-glowing first light
upon the walls and windows
like a pre-Christmas surprise
I'm busily eating
my brie cheese croissant
with a cup of coffee
when I was eleven
going to symphony hall
my violin case next to me
with a complimentary ticket
from my uncle and aunt
to hear Munch conducting
L'enfance du Christ by Berlioz
and across from me is Father Adrien
a priest from Brazil and Argentina
who is writing a biography
on John of the Cross
we strike up a conversation
in Spanish and Portuguese
and we became better friends
through a festival of letters
and when his book arrived
with his signature inscribed
knowing as a boy's shadow poet
from all my joy, loss and sorrow
I would venture outside my home
for a lone walk in my century
now writing in my diary's arena
of my open yet vanished geography
that secret divine appointments
would follow me
in my everyday history.

LIKE RILKE

Calling on an angel like Rilke
embalmed in a mid-dream flight
of a cross-examined poetry
when lost in a parental storm
pressed by a mirage’s space
outside a tiny strange room
practicing my scales
about the recital riffs
of a first alto sax soloist
hearing church vespers
of those monks who return
from sleeping in the desert
now barricaded in prayer rooms
by a snowy mirror of stars
through cool long corridors
of a soundproof studio
by a constant metronome
of my fingered exercise
moving me to tears
the air assaults the island sky
with a dizzy rain
not far from my home
taking a November night's
chance at science
with a flicker of my wide palm
at a telescope in silence
from shadowy windows
to peer at the blood moon
outside the harvest fields
entangled in a pumpkin muffin
taken in the last light of sunset
as a songbird rests politely
by the lowered bridge's iron gate
near a wellspring marble statue
on the first icy draped branch
an anonymous poet waits with
a frosty glass of green tea
thirsts for a late Fall's pond
to skate as in childhood
as a wagon of hay riders
draws in my landscaped eyes
over the fallen red leaves
of a fallen birch tree branch
with my initials scrawled
from an adolescent crush
as an echo of dissonant winds
motions the sea breeze
as small exiting island birds
who love to circle and chatter
stake their nesting place
above the Cape's riverbed.

____________________

MANTEGNA AT THE LOUVRE

Walking in the Louvre
sighting Mantegna's
long suffering Crucifixion
mutely smothered
by the heavily wounded colors
reproving what transfigures
to be anointed for every age
in a scene of dolor's desolation
presaging a man of sorrows
liberally acquainted with grief
stretched on a visionary canvas
through the sunny windows
at an honorary altar's relief
carefully shaping a painting
in an oilcloth of pure lines
at our own reproof of unbelief.

____________________

ALWAYS HEREAFTER
(In Memoriam: Samuel Beckett, 1906-1989)

Through alleys and hallways
the runaway's heart beats
even by the French bakery
already tasting a baguette
with his own laughter
be does not beg
the manager takes a chance
for to him no one is a stranger
even by the crȇche and statuette
on hay and flower beds
as swallows visit
he returns to the river bridge
surprised to sleep and dream,
yet there is a poet nearby
on a secret mission
as a courier for the Allies
who lives with gallows humor
a day at a time
who writes plays every hour
when he can escape
here Beckett cleverly thinks
with an Irish wink
this optimistic boy needs
no critic or Schopenhauer
for knowledge is a wish
always ever after the last act
expecting another line of verse
to remember this child of promise
whose eyes are exhausted
who slowly swallows his bread
hiding out with the Resistance
who already sees the wounds
like a poet with St. Thomas
expecting to rise from the dead.

MIKLOS RADNOTI'S LAST HOUR
(1909-1944)

Rain on your torn fingernails
tortured by murderers
who do not explain
the empty road
an empty glass
a perfume of the past
in a cross-examined
eye socket
by a concave room
with one bulb of light
of toothless betrayals
there is a skull
by a ravine of hail
in a mouth of trampled snow.

___________________

PARIS LETTER, 1944
(In Memoriam: Paul Éluard, 1895-1952)

A shadow wall clouds overhead,
a poet's Resistance face
on a friendly wall bed
there is no death in a tricolor
from life's red moon
waiting for one letter
by candlelight lost to a moth
in the darkness's surveillance
of a thousand portents of snow
with blood in a chance meeting
on the road's silence
from your sudden passage
in the corridor of a dim abyss
as seen from a sentry of birds
hatching in nests for the spring
Éluard, those breathless nights
by icy endless silver birches
at first light guards you
in the feverish voice and hand
from a war's metamorphosis
with long-rustled suffering.

____________________

FRANK AUERBACH AT THE TATE

Escaping as a child
from any weighted lashes
or hurts from the brown shirts
you are kindly lifted
on one of the last trains
to save you from misery
out of an unmentionable
graveyard of history's
great crime,
arriving in England
to discover your gift
as you paint all afternoon
by the sirens of thunder
amid all shades of rain
desiring a unique gift
in your deluged landscapes
of a romance with the world
that critics marvel at
with our big ben time
of a tower's great wonder
draped with a dowsing wave
at your hand and mind
amid a fountain of a soul's
residing hidden dreams
of flaming imagination
your eyes in a Blakean cast
of resonant fire
outliving the enemies of art
in the narrow streets
parting at London's backyard
in an unblemished toil
of colorful love
in buckets of paint
on a long body of work
covering the gated canvas
among uncovered fringes
of a last faded remnant
under the brightest tabernacles
of a final blood moon
with your miracle anointed oil
that will outlast our century
in brushes at the tall sun
now finally being honored
at the Tate gallery.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

When you’re writing, you’re conjuring. It’s a ritual, and you need to be brave and respectful and sometimes get out of the way of whatever it is that you’re inviting into the room.

—Tom Waits

___________________

—Medusa, thanking B.Z. Niditch and Denise Flanagan for today's hearty vittles, and a reminder that B.Z. Niditch's new collection of poetry, Everything, Everywhere, is available at www.amazon.com/Everything-Everywhere-B-Z-Niditch/dp/0988793857/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1446735300&sr=1-2&keywords=b.z.+niditch

Wantonness Toward Oblivion

Conservation Gargoyle

—Poems by Scott Outlar, Chattanooga, TN

—Photos by Katy Brown, Davis, CA

SYSTEM SHIFT
 
Blood-stained glass
drizzles down a cutthroat sky
in a dog-eat-dog
paradise gone slightly awry
with subtle shifts
toward apocalyptic fervor
when the truth can’t get a word in
edgewise
at the broken angle
where the angels gather
to dance on pin tops
and scream to the heavens
with their symphony of the stars
Calling out the sun’s rage
to get a taste of quick fire
filling the veins with magma
pulsing the earth with temptations
to blow the top off
and get a cheap thrill big cheer
from the oil-drenched system
as it falls by the wayside
making room for some fresh growth
where all the weeds
have been gathering for ages
awaiting the opportunity to flourish
in a world gone to pot
once the bones are laid to rest


(first pub. in Dead Snakes)

PILLAR OF SALT
 
Into the Holy Land
The fertile crescent
The Genesis patch
The garden where the snakes dwell…

Into the arid desert
Where depleted uranium smog suffocates the city
Where primitive ideas chokehold the species
Where maniacs wield their ancient swords…

…To bomb it all to hell

 Lot's Wife

BLOODY GENES

Barefoot in bed
with Pinot Noir
to flood the veins

Ancient and rare
back to Dionysus
for the fire

Hang on the cross
bloody and bruised
wait for the solstice

Kissed on the cheek
don’t believe
they’re here to help you

Sell your cloak
buy a sword
the time is nigh

Like a thief
in the night
karma never misses

Memories of Atlantis
Angels and Nephilim
the flood will come

No Buddha raft
no God-sent ark
two by two to drown

The primal soup
gene swarm collision
collective rises steadily

A primal roar
up on the mountain
warns the herd

Kingdom of wolves
red-stained cloth
empire of fangs


(first pub. in Record-webzine)

NO FREE PASSES
 
There is nothing new under the sun,
especially on a morning when the clouds
turn the world a shade of gray,
blotting out all sense of warmth
as the skin becomes blistered and fragile
against the sharpness of Winter’s bite.

One more step closer
to the yawning grave
that waits with perfect patience.

Everyone will die in the end.
The reaper has no worries
while going about such a simple job.

Batting a thousand with pinpoint precision.
He just hit another one out of the park.
There is no way to pitch around this guy.

CREEPING WANTONNESS

The day of my death?
Or maybe just a deep sleep—

That wantonness toward oblivion
creeps over my soul
and calls out for annihilation

I feel like I’ve been pushing myself
toward what I don’t want
so I can crash hard
and find what I truly need

I feel like I’ve been running myself
to the point of exhaustion
so I can collapse
and wake up resurrected

I feel like I have absolutely nothing
left to give,
and so now I know
that I’m only just getting started

I feel like the thought of death
is my true best friend,
but because my thoughts are always wrong,
it must mean that life is the highest truth
I could ever possibly reach

STILL BIRTH
 
In the end
all that matters
is the final poem
that pours forth
from the last lips
left living on earth
as the black smog
suffocates…everything.

It matters not
that no one will survive to read the words.

It matters only
that they were written,
that they were felt,
that they were experienced,
that they were born…


(first pub. in Dead Snakes)

________________________

Today’s LittleNip:

The poet is the priest of the invisible.

—Wallace Stevens

________________________

Many thanks to Scott Outlar and Katy Brown for today's fine cookin' in the Kitchen!

Frank Graham posted the following helpful tips on Facebook's Poetry in Davis page: Listen to Dr. Andy Jones Poet's Poetry and Technology Hour on KDVS, FM 90.3, from 5-6pm today (Wednesday) on your way to hear Joshua McKinney give a free public talk on T.S. Eliot's craft at 7pm in McKinley Park, 601 Alhambra Blvd., Sac. [at the Writing with the Great 20th Century American Poets series of workshops]. Conclude your evening with some excellent spoken word poetry at 9pm at the Mahogany Urban Poetry Series at Queen Sheeba Ethiopian Restaurant at 17th and Broadway in Sacramento.  

Note also that Dr. Andy Jones will be hosting Lynn Freed at the Poetry in Davis reading series tomorrow (Thursday), at the John Natsoulas Gallery in Davis, 521 First St, 8pm.

—Medusa
 

—Anonymous Photo

The Lie You Sorely Need

—Poems and Artwork (Zendalas) by Joyce Odam, Sacramento

FURY OF RED

(After Beware of Red by Paul Klee)

It might be blood.
It might be madness in the eye.
It might be the buttons on the door.

The windows hide among themselves.
The walls disguise.
The red intensifies.

It might be shades of love.
It might be sorrow in the stone.
It might be claw marks on the floor,

The walls misplace themselves.
The black lines slide.
The red intensifies.

___________________

IN HIDING

You swore you would stay mysterious,
let the rooms hide you, train the windows
not to see when you looked out of them.

You would retreat into one of the shadows.
You would not answer the disguised voice
with the edge in it.

You would use light for deflection;
silence for absorption,
you would drift out of yourself.

You would adapt to everything,
shed and layer yourself with each evasion.
Your scream would stay in your throat.

Your breath would become shallow
with listening. You would perfect your
surface, practice normalcy for its disguise.

Who would know you like this,
who would want to find you, even now,
for all your antiquated secrets.

FATALISTIC

You are the rule for which life stands,
your agony of guilty hands,
your lame excuse.

You are the lie you sorely need—
the way a cat loves being treed,
so, what’s the use?

You never are the one you mean
you fight and fight for your esteem—
familiar ruse.

Next time you shiver my cold spine
like a bitter Valentine,
I’ll look away.

Should someone take you at your word
and offer you a broken bird,
it’s what you pay

for loving death so very much;
hold out your wrist as we discussed
when life was free.

How many scars can one wrist hold?
Your suicides are growing old.
You can’t earn grief,

or give it back to weeping eyes
and hearts that suffer in disguise—
that old relief.

If you’re too relevant for this,
think of all the pain you’ll miss
to be this brief.

THE LOOK IN HER EYE
(After A Few Small Repairs by Shawn Colvin)

You strike a small flame from the red horizon
—hold the matchstick to your doubled eye,
speak of dusk—the slow receding sky
stealing all the light that love relies on.

You say that love is not a promise broken.
The match flame flickers, but does not burn down.
You say this proves the truth that you have spoken
—truth not even tears, or rain, can drown.

The land and sky connect. Your eyes burn red.
The match flares up. Your face absorbs the light.
What will you do with power made of fire?

You speak of Faith—Fire as an awesome thread
—a metaphor for what can re-ignite.
You say all love is made of such desire.

DEATH IN DISGUISE

And it was nothing like life. It was death in disguise.
They were lovers. Their masks were facsimiles of
faces. They did not allow mirrors to haunt them,
only their eloquent eyes that fastened to one another.
They were possessive and possessed, ultimately to
become each other.

_____________________

TRUST

Hope comes to me in the guise of a weeping maiden,
stumbling toward me, face bent into her hands,
having lost her way again.

She pretends not to see me,
looking at her through my compassionate mirror,
how I guide her with my eyes: this way… this way…

SACRIFICE

If ever we are sent to guard the stark,
            uncalibrated dark,
let’s use a blindfold to enhance the task—
            a simple penance mask—

that none may view our features with concern
           and we, thus masked, in turn
may never look to pity for disguise,
           but resignate our eyes

to beauty that was coveted and lost,
           and love’s sad cost,
and only trust the darkness that can hide
           all anguishes inside.

______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

The mark on the soul

is butterfly wing
is breath
is no-thing
of every-thing
is what and where
and why—
never lose,  
never
forfeit,
never damage,
this want
is/isn’t
the most cherished
part of us    
this
mysterious being
in such a guise

______________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Joyce Odam for getting these fine poems and drawings to us despite her sniffles, and noting that our new Seed of the Week is Endangered Species. Send your poems, artwork and photos on this (or any other subject) to kathykieth@hotmail.com/. No deadline on SOWs.

Writing Our Way Straight

Eleven Shadows

—Photos by Katy Brown, Davis, CA

FLICKER-LIGHT
—Taylor Graham, Placerville
 
Through the oaks, a twinkle’s moving.
Phosphorescence glinting off pond-water,
ghostly wine. Shadows caught alive.
Are there souls out walking tonight among
the trees? The ancient oaks you call
medieval, bent and reaching up with bare
dead branches, widow-makers
that on a whim of wind might fall. Tonight
an old man becomes a child vanishing
into memory, but still in love with
shiver-danger. Bats weave their dark Z’s.
The owl’s in flight against the moon.
Can the cat, the mouse survive? Tonight,
spirits walk as we do. Through oaks
a flicker-light, alive.

______________________

OCTOBER HAUNTS
—Taylor Graham

A bat sweeps out on hunt. Brief uproar of cats in shrubbery. Then, silence. Moon reflects on a broken window. My dog leads the way. Ground-floor boarded up. Unsigned, unmarked. Haltered grace of arches—an institution: school, hospital, oubliette? Masked façade of crumbling brick and plaster. Ghastly blank of interior unknown; or ghostly, not blank at all? What occasion do spirits celebrate? inmates at table masking wishes with please pass the butter…. My dog goes sniffing edges, begging me to open a door, tell her go find! A place to search, derelict, abandoned; memories caught in cobwebs, unwritten stories littering the floors.

moon is masked behind
a cloud—a shadow passes
inside a window

______________________

SEASON OF MISTS
—Taylor Graham

If you were coming in the fall—this time
of slant and dimming light—you’d come masked
in wishes, Atlantis your next stop, traveling
bare-bones, adventure spun
on a spindle for your wander-staff.
You’d walk on water, the hope that holds
its islands hidden for the finding.   

AUTUMN BURNING
—Nancy Haskett, Modesto, CA

In November,
Sierra Nevada forests
celebrate the end of fire season
with a conflagration of color;
burnt orange, blazing red,
incandescent yellow leaves
flare and flash,
an explosion of brilliance
against a backdrop of evergreens,
a showy performance
for an intimate audience
now that summer crowds have vanished.
The paved path through the meadow
leads to a bridge
over water that trickles
around exposed granite boulders,
no longer a deafening roar.
During this annual interlude
there is a stillness;
a quiet breeze
floats a kaleidoscope of bright leaves
that swirl, fall,
crunch beneath our feet,

turn to ashes.

NOT PICTURE PERFECT
—Caschwa, Sacramento

I recently saw the most beautiful
Gorgeous red sunset
Nestled behind some ugly
Overhead power lines

It brought to mind Eppie’s
Off Interstate 80 where
Across the street is a lot full of
Cranes, cherry pickers, etc.

That is what I would have
Needed to get the good angle
For that sunset photo
But I don’t have those connections

So I stayed on the ground
And my camera stayed in the house
While the sunset disappeared
Forever, just a memory

BLUEBELLS
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

I am an ancient eight-year-old,
a toenail grown inward,
a toy train whirled off track.
Welts from family beatings
burn my back...
This morning, spring showers

drip down classroom windows
like stunned explorers.
The teacher reads aloud
from Robert Frost
to rhythms of rain. Then,
"Class, the shower stopped,
let's go outdoors
and write about clouds."

I stare at rounded white fluff,
will die among cathedrals of light.
At last I claim my own cloud,
watch as wind opens
blue flowers...A lifetime later
I still remember my first lines
toward becoming a poet:

"I love to watch the bluebells
growing in the sky."

____________________

AFTER A SERMON ON ETERNITY
—Claire J. Baker
 
We mortals encounter
a million ways to die—
we are not the sun,
not the moon.
Dear old God,

dear young angels,
may our Goodbyes
reflect memories of
pink and lavender roses
we held so briefly,

yet forever.
 

Gargoyle

Three LittleNips by Charles Mariano, Sacramento:

FIRST BREATHS

i wake up
every morning
staggering
feeling my way
in the dark

then spend
most of the day
trying to write
my way
straight

        * * *

MISSION STATEMENT

every poem,
every story
has a soul,

when i write

it’s up to me
to find it

        * * *

LAST VAIN ACT

in my obit,
please don’t put
my pictureWall
next to someone
handsome,
or pretty

that would kill me
 

____________________

—Medusa
 

Wallpaper

Masking the Truth

THE MASKS WE WEAR,
THE MASKS THAT WEAR US
—Kevin Jones, Elk Grove, CA

I have always wondered.
Do we mask to disguise
Who we are?
Or to become
Who we are?

*

Had a colleague
Who taught Maskmaking
As Discovery. With a
Little papier-mâché
And some paint,
You could become you—
Or somebody else.
A popular course.  And
The instructor hung
The projects on the
Center’s walls, attracting
Even more students.
When they began
Using taxidermy
Eyes, the dean got
Nervous, as deans do,
Cancelled the course.
I looked for years in the
Storage rooms
For the leftover bags of
Eyes.

*

Was fascinated to learn
About the masks of
Classic Greek drama.
Supposedly, as the plays
Were performed in huge
Stadia, the mask served
As a megaphone.  Still,
As you’re acting
In plays that have
Humans contending
With gods, not a bad
Idea for a bit of
Disguise.

*

Read all of Joseph
Campbell’s Masks
Of God while a couple
Of weeks snowbound.
Came to believe in
Lots of things (Spring
Thaw will come, I know),
But never understood why
God needed a mask.

*

If you embrace
A dichotomous
Theology, you notice
The counterpart,
The smiling, well dressed
Man down at the
Crossroads never
Needed one, just
Wider than normal
Boots, reddish,
Of snakeskin
Or dragon, I’m sure.

*

There’s a story
About William James
At a costume party,
Though who’d want
To invite any, any of the
James brothers, or even
Alice, to a party?
William is taken by
A woman in an exquisite
Mask, asks her to
Take it off.  Another mask
Underneath.  And another,
And another.  Finally, a
Graduate student,
A teaching assistant:
“Sorry, Dr. James, it’s
Masks all the way down.”
I’ve heard the same story
Of Gary Snyder and
Turtles, but they slide
Off the face so easily.

* 

The clown’s makeup,
A trademarked mask.
Speaks of as many
Things as there
Are clowns.  The mime’s
Mask, on the other
Hand, says nothing at all.

*

In graduate school,
Was able to get away
With ending papers with
“And the rictus of horror
Can often be confused
With the mask
Of laughter” to end
Bad papers.  But
Only for a couple
Of semesters.

*

Is that a mask?
You need to ask?

_______________________

—Medusa