Peer Owlish

—Anonymous Photos

IN CAUTIOUS TIMES
—Carol Louise Moon, Sacramento, CA
 
In times like these dark times anxious
men and women of the land will pace.
Back and forth, and forth and back, and like
the endless cogs of machinery.

To what the purpose, now?  We spoke,
believed the best of fellowman and friends.  
But what of man’s Best Friend,
a momentarily forgotten pet.

Anxious Rex, seated near an open cottage
window, looks as if to see a horseman
plodding up the path.  Perhaps he bears
news of food, with cautious dogs in tow.

But what becomes of us, we ask.
In silence Rex now meditates, replies—
his steady out-of-window gaze
signals us to hope for better days.

GHAZALS FOR A FOGGY DAY
—Carol Louise Moon

Black dog knows he is observed and adored;
his foggy breath, his gaze out the window to the bay.

A bright morning shoved into a closet invites no one
with cane-in-hand to walk a brick-lined pathway.

I think of her often: her word-grace, her casual
smile-of-earnest, her nodding of hair, flaxen hay.

Woodpecker works hard at his drilling, adding his
share of noise to the ungreased wheel of early day.

Penned-poems, dreamed, cause rapid-eye-movement. 
But the poem in your eyes is what carries me away.

Who has read our names on postal parchment
that they would know the love these names convey?

PEER OWLISH
—Carol Louise Moon

      “Go, prince: peer owlish through
      the windowpane…” from the poem
      “Compound Eye” by Peter Davison


Peer owlish through the windowpane
and out into the world to gain
a view of what you need to know
to keep you always toe-to-toe
with folks you’ll be competing with.

Peer owlish through the window now
with glasses on, a closer look on how
to read each trend and book and face—
so you can keep the faster pace
of what you think you know so well.

Peer owlish through the looking glass
in shirt and tie and navy coat—
remembering that you’ll not gloat
when successes come your way.

Peer owlish now into your home
through windows dim, into each room,
to see and know your character—
Integrity—a specter
who assures your honesty, and worth.

WINDOWS
—Carol Louise Moon

One must practice patience waiting for a computer
to warm to compose a poem on Microsoft Windows.

Not wanting to be introspective this sunny afternoon
I choose, instead, to study what’s out the windows.

Poet Odam, who often writes from the perspective
of one looking outward, has us leaning out of windows.

As if mirrors, echoes, and love loss weren’t enough,
there are Poet Odam’s window poems, about windows.

My dog, who has the heart of a poet, is often seen on
evenings gazing glossy-eyed out our bedroom windows.

We cannot know exactly what a dog is thinking, except
that we consider his soul to be like our soul windows.

After writing about goose bumps caused by chilly wind,
it is prudent to don sweaters and close all the windows.

I’ve closed all windows, and also curtains, in my home,
turning on lamplight to re-read Joyce Odam’s windows.

ALMOST A GIRL
—Allison Grayhurst, Toronto, Ontario, Canada

We play with sounds,
making a flower out of tissue paper.
She bounces a ball,
miming the harmony of its rise and fall.
She paints with strokes
that calls the orange seed to bloom,
and all the while she dances
to the starlight's tune, loving
its brave expression.
We read tales told in rhymes
and sniff the picked herbs
in our garden.
Every morning we count spoons
and watch the boys play next door.
She knows her colours purple and blue,
plays Boo! behind the door.
Her body beats an ancient symphony of affection,
loving easily my inviting arms.

Still brimming with awe,

and cuddling sweet against your
father’s welcoming cheek.
Still bizarre in the light of
your unique humour and stubborn
as the apple tree is strong in the
happy earth.
Turning One tomorrow and all the things
you’ve learned in that span—
to say a word, to grow in kindness and
in temperament, to laugh out loud.
All the things you still are—a soul
of amazing riches, thoughtful and gentle
and so sure of yourself.
Still entranced with all things small and new.
Still each day we awake to your beauty
as we look into your strange sea-coloured eyes
and bend to smell the strands of your wispy hair.


—Allison Grayhurst

My colours would be grey

if not for your heart so
tempered by preserved dreams
and accepted disappointments,
dancing in the unknown,
with a tongue
unafraid to astonish or offend
the public swallower . . .

if not for every morning, finding
your eyes closed, sleeping near my
smiling body, and your lips that unearth
each tear from my harbouring breast,
unearth the giant seed of deliverance . . .

if not for our partnership,
our home of unhooded tenderness,
the doorways within that lead
to evenings of geranium spring . . .

if not for holding you, or
your touch splitting the shell
of my skin, flooding my womb
with fires of indomitable
peace . . .


—Allison Grayhurst

I felt the day fail you
 
then wrap you up like a spider would.
I felt your soul collapse
before it lifted.
The difficult swallow, the backing away
changed direction.

At the end,
you were at peace.
At the end, the images joined their shades,
and you held the innocence
you’ve always held so well, needing my love
accepting my love, and, releasing.
Releasing from the pain
and from the process
of ending.
Releasing into
the all-caring arms
of our mutual God.


—Allison Grayhurst

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

The lamp once out
Cool stars enter
The window frame

—Natsume Soseki (1867-1916)

___________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Carol Louise Moon and to Allison Grayhurst for today’s wonderful Friday fare, encouraging poets everywhere to “Peer Owlish” and see what we can see...
 

 —Anonymous Photo
Celebrate Poetry!

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then click on the X in the top right corner to come back
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Sierra Dome Dance

—Poems and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA

FREE FLOW   
                               
Otherworldly, this water awakening
to daylight below the bridge, finding free-
flow from its perspective between
bike trail and city hall, where the last
of the nightly homeless lug their earthly
loads. Litter along the edges, a slightly
toxic-silver sheen of galvanized
metal on the bank. Sun filters through
canopies of bright and shadow—
big-leaf maple with its many lifted arms,
feet rooted in the flow. This city
creek’s afraid of nothing, its healing
water moving over broken stone.

THE NEIGHBORS SAY NO
    a trimeric
   
Shall the old Gold-Rush era ditch be paved,
our public water now piped underground?
This hand-built ditch has carried snowmelt down
to the mines, to separate rock from gold.

Our public water now piped underground—
what good is that to deer and cougar, fox
and bear who come here thirsty for the flow?

This hand-built ditch has carried snowmelt down
as cold as mountain midnight, full of lore
almost forgotten in our lowland towns

to the mines, to separate rock from gold.
The water runs free-flowing, whispering
of trees, the heart of home, the forest soul.

 Pattycake

RUNNING FREE

At a Shepherd’s flying run, Pattycake huzzah’d
through manzanita fenceless to the next ridge
over, or paused ever so briefly, mid-splash lake.
Then one day she keeled over sideways; jerked
back, shocked, embarrassed. A stroke? Vet,
x-ray, ultrasound, state-of-the-art flashdoodle.
I understood nothing except our old dog was
dying. Fluid on the heart? With no abracadabra
the vet drained her abdomen. Two days later—
another vet trip on the docket—I let Patty out
to splendiferous morning. She ran, woo-hoo!
free, challenging the ridgetop and especially
that young bitch down the hill. At full speed
ishkabibble her heart knocked her dead. I can
hear her running when the wind’s just right.

UNDER THE SHUTTLE

In dream I found a ribbon
tied to each worn shoe, and pulled, till
the buried people were dragged back to their
daylight lives.
           Relics of rescue from what smothers
us. But the saved didn’t thank me. Instead,
they rooted back into their hoards, while
                 somewhere high above
my dream, invisible in night sky, silver-skinned
humans looked down amazed at our universe.
Humans without gravity—
           not held earthbound by old invoices
and cancelled checkbooks—circling above us
free of clutter.
                    In a metallic cocoon
a star-shuttler weaves his life into space
light and lighter. Before I wake—butterfly
or moth, a breath of wings.

KEEPING OUT

I climbed the once-familiar hill, still
searching. What to do with such a splendid
vista from the top? But a space
before the top was missing—leveled
with survey stakes and cryptic markers where
brush used to grow its natural shade
of green without wishing to be beautiful
for crowds of people. It was
beautiful nevertheless on the edges beyond
barricades and keep-out signs. So I did—
I kept out of the leveling, kept moving
toward the mountain; found
a deer-trail skirting the steeper side
of hill where trees still grew in a fringe
below the top, leafed and needled
green in spite of covenants and strictures,
where all creatures in their free place
are beautiful.

KEEP MOVING

Coyote ran in his blood—or was that howling
of canyon before the gray silvering of dawn?
Scrawl of smoke writing poems across the dark
that might catch him if he ever slept.
Was he just talking to himself in time
to the clock? Life a slow whittling, like shaving
sticks to tinder before lighting the match. Some
times words just seemed too much, too given.
Then it was, Coyote ran silent in his blood,
always running.

______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

SIERRA DOME DANCE
     a huitain

Against the kitchen ceiling, lit
by dawn, a spinning spider dance.
A hanging web; encircling it
two spider-lives; a circumstance
and pomp, and yes, an elegance
of oh-so-slowly weaving limbs
uncountable; the hanging chance
in nature’s woven, silken whims.

 Sierra Dome Dance

_________________________

 

Many thanks to Taylor Graham for a little spider-dancing and other poetic wonders this morning! TG and Katy Brown will be co-leading a writing workshop this coming Sunday, 10am-12pm, at the historic Wakamatsu Farm in Placerville. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about this and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

For more info about the trimeric, go to poetscollective.org/poetryforms/trimeric/. For more about the huitain, see poetscollective.org/poetryforms/huitain/.

—Medusa

—Anonymous Photo

 Celebrate Poetry!

Celebrate Poetry! Jane Beal will read at 

John Natsoulas Gallery, 521 1st St. in Davis tonight, 

8pm. And don’t forget that Poetry Unplugged at 

Luna’s Cafe will host featured readers and open mic 

tonight, 8pm, 1414 16th St., Sac.

  


Photos in this column can be enlarged by clicking on them once,
then click on the X in the top right corner to come back
to Medusa.

Caging the Minotaur

Minotaur

—Poems by JD DeHart, Chattanooga, TN
—Anonymous Illustrations

WE CAGED THE MINOTAUR

When we first found him,
he was so alive
playing his little game
at the center of that
whatever it's called.

Now he just sits, listless
with empty eyes. T-shirt
sales spiked two months
ago.

Since then, the interest
has waned. Nobody wants
to see a sad, moping, dull
creature of lore.

Pretty soon we'll ship him
off and he can spend his
final sad days in a sadder
zoo and all of us will have
moved on.


(prev. pub. at Red River Review)

 (It's "labyrinth", JD)

JOHN RAMM’S RETIREMENT PARTY

This poem is for the recently departed
Mr. John Ramm, a dedicated co-worker
who was found one day grazing in a field,

and who now exists in the halls of this
great company’s memory, a horned figure
once stuffed into a business suit, now
mounted upon the wide victory wall.


(prev. pub. at Poems and Poetry Blog)

________________

LEGEND OF JOHN RAMM

Not sure why he spells his name
with two m's sometimes. Maybe
it's just been that long.
You can tell by the way he sniffs
the day, it's not all good here. He
wants you to think it is. We all do.
How are you, I'm fine. Do they
even give you time to answer? I
sit across, study his antlers, want
to set him free. But his handlers
just won't let me.


(prev. pub. at Squawk Back)

LIKE RAMMS AT PLAY

He was a creature of the forest,
at work and at play,
then forced into an office.
But all that has been said before.
Now the family
must manage the remains,
decide if they will return
to the forest glen, scamper
and rut, or make the continual
business climb.


(prev. pub. at Venus in Scorpio)

__________________

JOHN RAMM VISITS THE LIBRARY

Shhh, echoes the front
of the library
with its many books
and few people

There is a stamping
and an animal snorting
from the science section,
causing the librarian to rise

Telling the dear Mr. Ramm
she wishes he could read
books, but he's just a wild
animal, after all.


(prev. pub. at Venus in Scorpio)

THE WEDDING OF JOHN RAMM

Two antlers decorated
the top of the cake like
a taxidermist's confection

They are not sure
if they should leave the veil
on the bride, as tradition
dictates, or drape it across
his wide brow

Truthfully, he stands, hands
planted at his sides like oaks,
hooves glued to one spot,
unsure of how to behave
in the promenade.

____________________

THE BALLAD OF JOHN RAMM

Munching twigs, scenting
the air, hidden in a thicket
of leaves, brambles, thorns,
agile feet take him to flight
but not soon enough

Hailing a cab, trying to make
his way to work, he remembers
distantly what it was like to be
in the wild, but that was so long
ago, it seems like a different
animal lived then

While others preen, he pummels
While others rant, he rams.


(prev. pub. at VerseWrights)

AN ODE TO HERACLITUS

It’s true that nothing stays the same,
the lead singer taking over the former
crooner’s place,
learning of death on a late Friday night,
wondering how the weight will fall,
will this result in a withdrawal into self,
watching the slow destruction of the building
where we met and knew each other better,
listening to the words that used to give
comfort, now blaringly shallow and vague,
finally forgetting who we were as children,
becoming whatever it is we are now,
be it husk or full-fledged living creature,
be it static or dynamic character
filling the void of the page.


(prev. pub. at Eye On Life Magazine)
 
____________________

WHAT PLATO SAID TO SOCRATES

He has to know they’ll never
understand, yet he keeps talking—
Why does he keep trying?
Doesn’t he care about me at all?
They’re all too buried deep in caverns,
listening to their juicy music,
thinking about how to earn money
or get into bed with each other,
and he’s going on about the truth.
Dig deep, he tells them, and they look
at him like, We don’t have shovels, dude.
If it’s in them, I don’t see it.
What I see is the mob, the gulp of poison,
then me—aimless wanderer, the guy
strolling around saying, Remember when
he used to teach us?
Remember that?  They probably won’t.


(prev. pub. at Eye On Life Magazine)  

_______________________
 

Today’s LittleNip:

GRANDFATHER

—JD DeHart

We installed rollers to make the movement simple
Daily, we took notice of his toenails
Their thickness or thinness, their shade
We kept the results in a journal
While he told us stories of his youth
The family nodded and read his diagnostics.


(prev. pub. at Montucky Review)

______________________

—Medusa, with thanks to JD DeHart for these wonderful contributions to the Kitchen today!

 Celebrate poetry!

Photos in this column can be enlarged by clicking on them once,
then click on the X in the top right corner to come back
to Medusa.

Finding the Moon

Sun Crossing Over

—Poems and Original Artwork by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

TITILLATION
After Bondage by Tamara-de-lampicka


Detective-Mags: shackled woman
arching in exaggerated agony,
begging release.

Chains of love:
How dated.
Bondage as pseudonym.

How long can she stay beautiful,
chained to an old helpless pose—
how can she scratch her nose?

___________________

POWER STRUGGLE
After "L" Inaccessible by Levier

She holds a tamed bird in her hand
to signify her love for you. 
The bird is nondescript—confused

by the kindness of her hand.  Now that
it has forgotten how to fly from her power
it cannot remember the song of its freedom: 

as long as their eyes connect you must know
she is sincere.  She does not look at you,
turning aside in your clown costume and

tragic face.  You dress this way to amuse her. 
You fold your arms.  She croons softly
to the bird, her eyes lowered with tenderness. 

You are jealous of the bird, which does not
fear you.  You fear the gentled power of
the bird which rests so lovingly

in her hand—held there by its own illusion,
her symbolic gesture a riddle for the power
of your silence.  There is no bird.

                                     
(first pub. in Blue Unicorn, 2004)

 Sun Flare

THE AURA OF DARKNESS
After Bird in silhouette against flare of light,
Photo by James Ballard as seen in Reflections
on the Gift of a Watermelon Pickle


O bird, in bird outline
O bird, in bird silhouette
O bird, in stark relief—
    that old thieved line

Around you, a rim of flared light
Behind you, a swirl of energy
Inside of you, the dark threat

Unreal or real, what
    has decided you?
Sharp beak and quiet eye—at rest,
    what has arrested you?

             …against swirl of energy
       …all light has suppressed in you
…self darkened to mere silhouette

A shadow-child might see you
    and think you tame.
A shadow-world might free you
    and release your name.
And I might rearrange the gathered
    instance of you to exclaim  :

                 …reality is not true
          …imagination has its own view
…no shape of fear is darker than you

 Sun Through Clouds

LOOKING FOR THE MOON

How the moon
in a worry of sky
is kept bound by the tree
that keeps hiding it in its branches . . .

         ~

How the moon—in spite of this—
hides from the tree
in a freedom of sky—
cold and far—nearly perfect . . .

        ~

And how the tree lets it go
when we pass it by, leaving
these thoughts to wander upward
toward that unreachable surface . . .

        ~

Tomorrow we will find the moon,
in one of its places in the sky—
fully round—the cold, chiseled moon,
phrased lightly with scar-like detail . . . .

__________________

THE OBJECT
After Three Bathers (Bathers Playing
with a Crab) by Renoir
 

How can time ever hold them still?
They love the air, the sky,
the day,

the freedom of themselves
in romp and wrestle—
young nude women,

knowing they are watched.
Playful as they are,
they will be halted—

mid-everything.
Their story is not important.
They are having fun.

They are being young,
tussling over some object
of no value, but to win.

The late day hour
softens them—
the sun, the shadows,

the angle of the light.
No matter,
they are being painted by Renoir.

 Sun Melt

TIME RESTORED
City Recreates George Seurat’s Sunday Afternoon
in Art is alive along the River, Beloit, Wisconsin
 

The moment caught.
     (Ah, hold breath.)

History holds its breath
    (Release breath.)

The scene is faux
    (Sigh in.)

Each breath is twice,
    (Sigh out)

The scene familiar
    (Revise breath)

 (Laughs at the realization)
    (Big belly-breath)

History on a same-such-day
    (…It is only so…)

________________

ON READING RILKE
After Photo: Anna Pavlova in Ballets Russes
costume, wearing a Kokoshnikov (headdress)
 

When I look at fake pearls,
or remember looking at real pearls,

I bring my focus forward to the
lavish ornamentation

of pearls sewn-on in designed rows
of garments and costumes…

as functional as faux pearl buttons
enclosed in loosened buttonholes…

or the perfectly matched pearls
in earrings and long-strand necklaces—

tokens of wealth—flaunting
their price—their meaning—the pearls

having no guile or regret except what
we put there for them in our gazing.

I do not think of pearl-divers or oysters 
with any more relevance than                 

the metaphoric pearls
still casting their quiet light

in the soft glow of moonlight
in the stillness or movement of wearing.

 Sun Rays

THE CHOREOGRAPHY

and you imperfect dancer
dance alone
under the music
under the heavy light

so tired of movement
so tired of unfound definition

you say yourself painfully
being born of no love
and being told again and again
how poorly you dance

look
your feet move wrong
and your hands are tangled up
in old relinquished strings

see how you fail

there is no
applause for you

only the mirrors watch
so       what
if you dance for mirrors

overhead
sticks lie across the darkness
marking     your     freedom

someone has turned away
and the world vibrates
with the sound of that walking

 Sun Totem
 

PERSPECTIVE     
After Three Men Walking, 1948 by Giamocetti
 

Walking out from the center of the mirror, I face
three directions and am at once at the mercy of
three compulsions.  Thus am I split into the three

measurements of existence:  I am past, present,
and future.  But, still, I am of the mirror—that
mothering eye that will not diminish or release,

but only gives me a glimpse of illusion—that
bordering reach—that drift off the fathomless
edge around me.  If only I can pull away at the

exact moment, I will escape the unguarded blink
that must occur.  Even now, I can feel my three
selves slip the magnetic hold of my own fear

and reluctance—that pull at the weakening
center—if only I am that brave—if only I can
break my own trance, and that of the mirror.

 Sun Going Down

ERASURES

See how I erase you, Love—how you
unexist in words of poems and sad love songs
that insist,    insist,    insist,

on being reminders?
All your written margins,
penciled in private grief are at the mercy

of my afterthought.
See how I release my painful agreements
on pages where I sought answers?

Love, I know now, there are none—
only these pretensions and persuasions,
resisted, or believed.

How many dreams regret their dreaming?
Forget the question.
It is moot.

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

THE MOTION OF RELEASE
—Joyce Odam

There is a crease where something moves
that has not moved before,

a shiver in the sky
where the white birds cross,

a hollow in the dream
where the mind lets something out,

an old desire
that fades and does not grieve.

_________________

Our thanks to Joyce Odam for her sun pix and freedom poems on this July 4th as she explores the many different kinds of personal freedom.

A reminder that this Sunday, 10-12am, American River Nature Conservancy will present Celebrating Wakamatsu, a writing workshop at Wakamatsu Farm in Placerville with Taylor Graham and Katy Brown, who will lead an exploration of the historic farmhouse, barn and surroundings. Take photos if you wish. There will be quiet time for participants to write a poem inspired by what they’ve experienced, and to share poems with the group and American River Conservancy. Refreshments provided. Children 8+ welcome with adult supervision. Please call to sign up, and for carpool meeting location (Placerville). Suggested Donation: $5/members, $10/non-members. Contact Julie@ARConservancy.org to sign up or call 530-621-1224.

Our new Seed of the Week is Invisible. Check out at Eeyore below—ever feel invisible, or wish you were…? Or can you see people/places/things that seem to be invisible to others? Whatever your take on invisibility is, send your poems, photos and artwork about this (or any other) subject to kathykieth@hotmail.com. No deadline on SOWs, though, and for a peek at our past ones, click on “Calliope’s Closet”, the link at the top of this column, for plenty of others to choose from.

—Medusa

 Celebrate poetry!

Photos in this column can be enlarged by clicking on them once,
then click on the X in the top right corner to come back
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Funny How Freedom Works (The Eagle is Watching…)

—Anonymous Photo

AN OZARKS FOURTH OF JULY
—Donal Mahoney, Belleville, IL

World War II was over but still
fresh in the minds of folks who lived
in Bill’s hometown in the Ozarks.
Independence Day was important.
It called for a celebration.

When his father had the money,
and that was rare, he would buy
a lamb for the Fourth of July.
He'd roast the animal on a spit
in the yard, turning it slowly
and dousing it with mop sauce.

Bill was 10 on the Fourth in 1948.
His job was to make the ice cream
turning the crank on the freezer.
His relatives would watch in the yard
and laugh and yell when he had
to pause and go to the bathroom.
Banana ice cream, his father’s
favorite, had to be just right.
Never stop turning the crank.

In 1948, there were no parades
in town or concerts on TV.
No television sets back then and
the town was too small for a parade.
But after the Great War, people
in the Ozarks were quietly proud
of their independence, not silent
or oblivious as Bill believes
some Americans are today.

 —Photo by Ann Privateer

BANKRUPTCY
—Ann Privateer, Davis, CA

No more food,
books, or aspirin
no more to give.

Help the helpless,
bring us back
to one, no one

to suffer.

 —Photo by Ann Privateer

AN IMPERVIOUS UMBRELLA
—Ann Privateer

There are no

guilty people
in the valley of the sun
where the spirit
comes before the closed door

where the Maltese cat
licks the buttered bowl
where ghosts still fall in love
where the gaunt woman smiles

there are no guilty people
beneath an impervious umbrella.

 —Photo by Ann Privateer

THE TORCH IS LIT
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

It is sinner time
Sinner heat
Sinner school for some

Sinner vacation
Break out the sinner swimwear
Simmer in sinner

Turn on the TV
Sinner Olympics
Sinner re-runs

Visit an eatery
Sinner hours
Sinner menu

ESL not going well?
Try the sinner special
All season long

I just gave myself a **********  horoscope!

We visited the pubic library
To gaze at those pubic records
Together, no surprises

The librarian would not, could not
Give us a private booth
So we sat in the pubic area

The hotter we got
The hotter she got
That just made it more fun

So it was out to the
Pubic beach with their
Pubic bathing areas

We were a couple
Newbie pubies
Back tomorrow

 Young Eagle Watching

—Anonymous Photo

FUNNY HOW FREEDOM WORKS
—Caschwa

High school grad
I knew what there was to know
And this was a full half century ago
Motorcycle crash

Didn’t see it
No recollection, no terrible fear
Wooden crutches for a year
Junior college

Got lifts from friends
Sometimes rode the bus
But waiting and waiting was such a fuss
I walked home 7 miles

It was fun
Longer strides than a normal gait
Completely free to skip the wait
Life is good

—Anonymous Photo

KEEPS ME AWAKE AT NIGHT
—Caschwa

On the One Hand:

We need to bring back
Cruel and unusual punishment
Because ever since it was suspended
The criminal element has subjected us
To ever more cruel and dastardly
Crimes

We put our justice system on overdrive to
Apprehend, prosecute, convict and
Punish people using the law of the land
But the intended message is just not
Reaching the people who cause us
Harm

From felons who have the mind of a cave man
To others who have an IQ to rival the judge
Our punishments are too polite, clinical, and sterile
Thus we overfill our prisons with people who willfully
Choose to dismiss any threat of consequences, short of
Torture

So enough is enough already!!!
Restore punishments that will really work to
Deter the criminal behavior that so consumes us
Bring on the pain big time, acid baths, cut off heads
Remove limbs, tongues, eyes, any and all comforts
Now we’re talking!

On the Other Hand:
All too often we get it
Wrong

And we convict and execute people who were
Not guilty

Of the charges pending against them.

Never mind.

 —Anonymous Photo

 

Today’s LittleNip:

MOVING
—Ann Privateer

recalling, propelling, flying
straying, staying, whirling
gazing down, spiraling up
wondering, emptying, knowing
returning, staying, sleeping
thinking, dreaming
about moving.

 —Anonymous Photo

______________________

Our thanks to this July 3, pre-Independence Day crew of poets for their various/colorful takes on Freedom, our Seed of the Week, and other things. And welcome back to Donal Mahoney who has been un-free in the hospital for almost two months!

Tonight the Sac. Poetry Center will present the Under 30 Poetry Project Reading and open mic, 25th & R Sts., 7:30pm. Check it out!

—Medusa

 Celebrate poetry—and the freedom to write it!

—Anonymous Photo

Photos in this column can be enlarged by clicking on them once,
then click on the X in the top right corner to come back
to Medusa.

Tweaking the Eagle

—Anonymous Photo

INDEPENDENCE DAY 2017
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

About 241 years ago
British colonists in America
Decided that they had had
About enough of a distant
King making all their decisions

These were grown men
Who cleared their own land
Of trees and Indian savages
Built their own houses, and
Wanted to make their own rules

No Goddamn king in Europe
Was going to tax them
And leave them with
Nothing
To show for it!

So along came the
Democratic experiment
No taxation without
Representation
The inalienable right to vote

A few old traditions hung on
Like waving and saluting banners
Rolling out the red carpet
The institution of slavery
Ritual transition of power

But now there was that freedom
For American men to
Make their own rules
And strictly enforce them
Like kings

And so the colonies became States
And the States became City-states
Warring among one another
To be that dominant top dog
With the powers of a king

Oh by the way, we now had a
Federal government
Cleverly divided
Into 3 different branches
Like a 3-seated teeter totter

Charged with honoring
The differences
Among the City-states
Recognizing one major taboo:
Don’t tread on my traffic laws

America 2017 brings us fake news
An obsolete Electoral College
A brilliant Constitution with
Dozens of impassioned Amendments
And millions of uneducated voters

Today, medieval creature comforts
Serve as our trusty vehicle to
Celebrate freedom, salute the colors
BBQ, and humiliate other people
Let’s all have some fun!!

_____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Carl Schwartz (“Caschwa”) for his saucy poem today!

The Broken Glass of Memory

Roly Poly Bumpy

—Anonymous Illustration

—Poems by D.R. Wagner, Locke, CA

WHAT IS SO CHASTE

A gauntlet of rainy mornings
Like something was wrong
With the sky.  Cities floated

By as if they had forgotten
The world.  Important fires
In their pretty buildings,
Green and purple flames
Pretending to be shelters
For little flowers and thieves.

I was tired of looking at them.
They reminded me of poetry
Or of those tunes God whistled
When he went walking
With his lions across his lawns.

What had any of this to do
With the white arms of war?
The bridges of blood
That filled the newspapers
And the filthy spill of stained words
I saw around me every day.

What was supposed to be this beautiful?
Men and women?  Children?
Water?  Some clouds?  A world?

What could I do
With such a splendid vista?

Go hunting, I suppose.
With the forest filled
With gibbets and pits
Full of monsters.

But, oh it was nevertheless beautiful
And oh, it was a glorious day
And oh, it was only ourselves
Being good to one another.
My arm across your body
As we lie abed.
Your beautiful breasts.
The smile on your sleeping face.

 Three Little Stars

—Photo by D.R. Wagner

A PROMISE

A coyote passing through my bloodstream
But I was blind to his silver grey being.

I noticed that he had placed the great
Hands of a clock on my back like wings
But I could not fly, nor could I die.

I was given angel names.
Was I given too much?
I am talking to myself at night.
Everything stripped of color.

When will I hear a real voice again?
I stumble over the broken glass of memory.
I struggle to recognize clouds, roses,
The patterns of waves upon the ocean.

The coyote tells me, “Bad meat, bad water,
Keep moving toward the mountain.
Dawn will remember many things for you.”

 Peruvian Cactus Blossom

—Photo by D.R. Wagner 

 

A SUMMER WALK

Summer says: “I cannot hold anything
Very long.  I fill with vegetables and fruit
But they are but a moment in time.”

The road passing so quickly it seems
Not to move at all, then becomes a blur
Of children and lovely colors swirling.

It takes all of our lives to get here.
It fills with incredible power,
Whispers a few names and departs.

The day grows late.  You ask if it
Is even real, or just an enjambment
The breath encounters because
We are holding hands and dress
In this Summer, thinking we are leaves.

 Luffa Climbing

—Photo by D.R. Wagner

A KIND OF SINGING

The light beginning to crackle and glow
Around the buildings on the horizon.
In traveling through this place
We have no idea why such a phenomena
Should occur.  It’s rather like a
Small child being born and immediately
Becoming recognized as a great king.
What are the chances of such a thing?

The evening scoots down the low hills
As if it were another child, on a slide,
Being called to dinner just as he
Finally gains his spot at the top.
What to do?  Come home now?

Sit down, press one’s legs into the
Sides of the slide and take as much
Time as possible to descend to the ground.
Everyone will understand somehow.

When we reach the bottom of the hill,
The entire landscape looks embossed;
A storybook cover one could run one’s
Hand over and still feel the real worth
The story has to hold.  No one has
Visited this place below the hill
For so long, we have forgotten the songs
That used to be sung about it.
We believe we are making up a new song.

 Irrigation, Watermelon

—Photo by D.R. Wagner 

 

THE POOL

The pool became very frightened.
Something he could not see
Said, “Do not let anyone come here.”

“I shall pray to the sea,”
Proclaimed the pool.
“The moon can carry my voice.”

“The wind can dance for me.
I will touch it with my little waves.
Someone will understand.”

“It might be a dream
Or the press of a season.
Listen to our doings,” said
His frogs.  “We have songs.
Do not fear, dear pool.”

They leaned toward the sunset.
The kindness of night birds
Held them until they could sleep.

 Bean Rows, Locke

—Photo by D.R. Wagner

THE POETRY OF THINGS

They have found out who we are.
Mountains remember us.

They know our names.
I reached behind a shrubbery
To touch its back, hard with little
Fur patches.  It bristled when touched.

Things are not supposed to have
Personalities.  They only want
Us gone, so they can continue
To be things.

Be careful where you walk.
Many things have memory.
They seldom forget a kindness. 

 Melons, Luffas, Sunflowers, Gourds

—Photo by D.R. Wagner 

 

 

Today’s LittleNip:

THE YELLOW PLUM
—D.R. Wagner

The yellow plum tree
So sure of itself.
It pops tiny, one-bite
Fruits among its leaves.

On tiptoes, in early Summer
I reach into its dark green,
Pulling golden fruit to myself.

I imagine I see your face
In the deep green shadows
But, truly, my eyes are old.

Even my memories are
Seen from a distance.

___________________

Our thanks to D.R. Wagner for this fine Saturday brunch of poems and pix, celebrating mid-summer and its bounty!

—Medusa

Celebrate Poetry!

Locke Garden Restaurant

—Photo by D.R. Wagner

Photos in this column can be enlarged by clicking on them once,
then click on the X in the top right corner to come back
to Medusa.