Our Own Zone

—Poems by Tom Goff, Carmichael, CA, with

Images of "Slender Grecian Maidens"

SYNTHESIZER PIECE (c. 1977)

I once composed a simple three-voice fugue;
back then, not now, it seemed like the spiffiest splendor.
It cranked along, as on synthesizers by Moog.

I hit a home run: ah, Baltimore Oriole, Boog.
As composer I coulda been a contender;
I once composed a simple three-voice fugue.

What summed up that era for me more? Jo Ann Pflug?
The Moog’s mésalliance with (bass or piano) Fender?
My fugue cranked along, as on synthesizers by Moog.

Real answer or tonal? What key? All that’s now moot,
or mute: composer’s a title I had to surrender.
I once composed a simple three-voice fugue,

no parallel fifths, melodically good and not too-g
-ood both: too-insistent top note, on its own bender.
It might have been ginned up on synthesizers by Moog.

Would Wendy Carlos, born Walter, have pulled the ploog
(she, avant-garde pioneer, brave redefiner of gender)?
I once composed a simple three-voice fugue.
How might it have cooed on her synthesizer, the Moog?   

OUR OWN ZONE

Right here is our free-speaking zone.
The powers that be have dignified
Our skills, tongue-wagging or iPhone.
Right here is our free-speaking zone,
As long as we restrain our moan
Just shy of fights to be untied.
The powers that be have dignified,
Right here, this. Our free-speaking zone.

—a friendly reply to “Freethought Day” by poet Marcus Bales

VILLANELLE AFTER SOME WORDS SPOKEN
BY DR. CHRISTINE BLASEY FORD

Indelible in the hippocampus is the laughter.
Hand over my mouth till I thought I would never breathe.
Assaults come back as fragments; try recalling your slaughter.

Is this the message we intend to pass our daughters?
We’re not the drunk male bodies under which we writhe.
Indelible in the hippocampus is the laughter,

so inerasable the cackling, I’ve stopped being a blotter;
I’m the litmus. On me, the stain, transformed since youth.
Assaults come back as fragments; try recalling your slaughter.

Ingrained like a BB pellet might enter the eye of my brother,
an accident, dropping him like one sliced by a scythe.
Indelible in the hippocampus is the laughter,

so deep that when I read today’s crime is manslaughter,
I read it as man’s laughter. None of it fun or blithe.
Assaults come back as fragments; try recalling your slaughter.

Sometimes I wish this world were rid of every daughter.
The randy boys could taste in only their blood their rage.
Assaults come back as fragments; try recalling your slaughter.
Indelible in the hippocampus is the laughter.

WIDOW’S WALK

Your sadness bleeds dark messages.
It is as if the invisible ink were brought
to light. Just brush on death’s clear liquid.
It shows through your blouse. If you thought to
fight revealing it, you can’t, or just then you couldn’t.
Widow, you told me. You seem bereaved, and harried,
as only those who organize
around the ravine are harried
with debts, or simply numbers, figures carried.
These crawling signs crowd out
memories, life and love, as if fresh doubt
attached to what you know was muscular fact.
You manage largely without sighs.
I know how each lie lies,
“I’m fine” when you are far from knowing
what wellness is. Do smile. Do not be showing,
as if pregnant with this. You’re widow, I’m orphan.
Our secret. Let’s keep it that way.
I have nothing for our pain: the endorphin;
the mood enhancement; the meal replacement,
if food is what’s needed. We talk awkwardly.
I notice you stand straight, clutching the railing
around the cupola on a sunny day.
You wait for the sailor, but on this bridge
you are the captain. Clear to the farthest ridge
the stable landscape comes at you in waves.

EACH SYMPHONY FOUR’S A
“SLENDER GRECIAN MAIDEN”

Symphony Four by Bax, “that’s his weak one.”
Does everybody say it? Many believe it.
Tod Handley chose to record it twice, not shun
the challenge of this apparent love-or-grieve-it.
A blustery, happy symphony, Tod opines;
and is part right. Performance may disclose,
in brusque accents and shifting hammers of sea-
surge, points the composer would—imply? Impose?
That “rough tide in high summer,” we agree,
is what gives it Tintagel-style thought-lines.
Ocean-floor temblor; themes for Mary press
against an old theme reserved for Harriet.
What makes for the Baxian contrast is distress.
His rending, re-making, both stitch his listener-net.
Don’t let that whistling pucker, sea-chantey stuff
betray you. “Old Spice” fragrance? Call his bluff. 

JUDGE BAX

(Arnold Bax, adjudicating at the Father Matthew Feis
(Feis [“Fesh”] = Festival)
                —Cork, Ireland, 1927
 

I come to Cork to adjudicate
for Erin’s musicians, her dance, her song;
an independent nation’s fate
cannot rest solely on soldiers long.
Even before that Easter, dark
with serpent coils of black smoke
symbolic of centuries run stark
over wreckage heaped and starving folk,
I studied the generous homespun heart,
how, humbly woven, the Celtic knot
of culture must spell freshly thought
restorative spells, salvific art.
You Gaelic-speaking Catholic lad,
you Anglo-Irish lass, twin spires
of youthful dream in green flame clad,
entwine your tunefulest desires
in artsong, sonata, symphony.
Let Irish piano, violin,
full orchestra troll out fine and free
all Danaan ecstasy and sin.
And if I must withhold quite sly
my smiles and blessings, look severe,
rate at times harshly your notes wrung wry,
the reason of my restraint is clear:
ah, long ago as Dermot O’Byrne
I sang out love on a broken harp
for a land this earth’s youth alone must earn,
build instruments finer than mine, more sharp
of echo and effect, yet sweet:
on gala occasions—Matthew Feis—
or simply as on a Dublin street,
practice how subtly to enmesh
your native Eire’s indigenous
half-pagan raptures for all of us.
Remember you this, then: would I outfling
my truest, most heartsore envisionings
in words and notes for that most wrong,
cruel admonition of the strong
—tell proud youth only what not to sing? 

EYE POWER

The students have such power in their eyes.
Some use it to stare out, as if at you.
Some gaze out there, and yes, how grand the view
of trees and, almost, lake. If looks were wise…
and what good wise, when wisdom courts the lies
that fuel the powerful like some federal stew,
empowering them to lie the Big Untrue
whose edge cuts honesty down to vermin size.

Wake up! Use vision to devise, contrive
a way out of the willful-blind blind alley.
You can see, if you will, out of that Valley
confining as any gopher gulch or hive,
if you have words and thoughts to loft your gaze
blinking, sky-dazzled, on leaving the cavelike maze…

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip(s):

“EGYPTIAN LABOR”
     (Bax)

I loathe jotting these tiny notes on this big paper;
but there it is: orchestral passion in form—or what? Vapor?

* * *

BOOKS ON THE UNDERGROUND
    (public-service video)

As Belle, the charming Emma Watson’s dutiful.
Leaving books to be found on subways? Beautiful.

—Tom Goff

___________________

Many thanks to Tom Goff for today’s fine poems! Tom will be reading at Sac. Poetry Center this coming Monday, Nov. 12, with Tom Hedt, plus open mic.

Tonight there will be a reading at University of the Pacific in Stockton from Sixteen River Press’s new anthology, America, We Call Your Name: Poems of Resistance and Resilience by selected famous/infamous/unknown poets. That’s in the Wendell Phillips Center, 1000 W. Stadium Dr. at UOP, 7-9pm. Free. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about these and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

For a little bit more about Marcus Bales (“it’s okay to be funny”), go to www.spillingcocoa.com/stopping-by-by-marcus-bales/.

—Medusa

Celebrate poetry!

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

In The Blue Heart Of Dream

Corsage

—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

THE CRUEL HEART

She came to the place of surrender with a ragged
gift that she had carried over the long and difficult
distance of herself.  She could not remember what
was in it, only that she must lay it at some mysterious
altar and wait quietly while it was being received.
She felt the disdain awaiting her. She wondered if
she could say the words. She wanted to mean them,
but something was in her heart, cruel and lonely and
jealous of her intention. It vowed to deceive her,
whispering inwardly where she could hear. But the
path was there, and she was upon it, smoothing its
stones with her slowness. Every little detour de-
lighted her, and she followed many, but that was
before now. Now was now and made of a great
ringing, so maybe it was her silence she must sur-
render. She howled and her cruel heart answered.

__________________

FROM THE TRAVELS

Faded signs would never name the towns.  It always    
rained, and there was no one to give directions.  The     
sole café was sad—like in the movies—or in the   
Hopper paintings.

A child always stood in the road behind us, bouncing
a red ball in the shadows between the few thin trees
that stretched toward each other across the lane. 
A woman always appeared in an open doorway,
watching us leave.


(first pub. in Parting Gifts, 1998-99 and Peripherals
Prose Poems, Rattlesnake Press, 2009)

 Valet

RED LIPSTICK

Lipstick would never
stay on my mouth,

wearing away
as soon as applied—  

even the liquid
black lipstick

of the 1940’s
that went on like nail polish.

I never learned to smoke,
either,

so could not be
sophisticated—

leaving my lip-prints
on smoldering white cigarettes.

_________________

STILL LIFE FOR A PIECE OF CAKE

barely    touched
a piece of cake
left on the table
on a plate
with a wet
tea bag
the cake
dry
white
with frosting
in thin strips of
drizzled design
a floated napkin
rippled under it  
and under the napkin
the   paper   plate
held down by the
pale   dry   white
of the dried-out cake
by the crusty drizzle
of sickly frosting
by the
near   flight   of the
floated napkin
but
the   tea   bag
is the
one
essential
true thing
here
I    don’t    know    why


(first pub. in Urban Voices That Matter, 1996)

 Check, Please

ONE FOR THE KITCHEN

Meals
are un-
ritualistic here.

Survivings.

No grace,
complaint,
or conversation
to amount to
much.

Ordinary.

Like each day   happening
without a death.

Necessities
of preparation.

Putting the plates
on the table.
And the food.

The quick consuming.

Finishing
with or without
a compliment.

Wiping the stove
and the counter.

Offering leftovers
to the refrigerator
like prayers
against
the future hunger.

Washing
the dishes.


(first pub. in Legend, 1972)

 Call Me

HEART TO HEART

Tongue-in-cheek, you understood—it was
about the little things—it was the insignificant,

the unimportant things—that darkened the mind.
You somberly agreed. We faced the night

full of our darkness. We noted the absence
of stars,  the pollute of color that still hung.

We sucked the old wounds clean with our 
continuance of words. Our laughs were harsh

upon the harshness of each other. Our broken hearts
poured and poured their love upon the floor.

We stood in bloody shadows of commiseration
holding each other in our cynical desperation.

___________________

PLATE 9
(Plate 9. Group of Artists, Marie Laurencin’s painting of
Appolinaire, Picasso, herself and their circle. The Cubist
Poets in Paris, 1995, University of Nebraska Press)


We are the desired realities here.
Just because we ‘stare out’ does not mean
we see you; just because we sit ‘hesitated’
does not mean we do not flow with existence.

Our pretty names are spoken on your tongues.
We rhyme with ourselves.
We are assembled in this proof of our reality.

Name us whom you please, we are personifications.
Our shoulders touch and our garments flow together
in a blend of lyrical arrangement.
We cannot help our beauty.

We are as curious as you, and as removed.
We look at you. Let us be unknown. Let us be
known when it becomes compelling to know us.

Let not our unreality surprise or frighten you.
We are as you, but fragments of a landscape—
life or non-life—art or its supposition—
all that is substitution for the real thing.

 Rendezvous

IN THE BLUE HEART OF DREAM

A bird winds slowly skyward
lifting a bronze shadow out of the murk.
It is heavy and lonely,
the last thought of a dying dreamer
who has heard the faint call outward.

What follows is grief, freed of weeping,
though it is heavy too
and folding like a weariness,
too much effort needed
to be free of truth and imagination.

A fan closes as if by itself, ending
the escape. The sky goes dark again.
Or stays bright. Who can say?
The delicate art is saved from eyes.
Nothing depicts.

Everything moves in relation
to everything else, even the stillness
which must breathe and wait.
A word is being offered to the silence.
A listener must make a choice.

Who am I to grieve over such things?
A dream cannot live without the sleep.
Let the bird go.
It is only your thought of it.
If it loved you, you will know.

__________________

A THEME OF RED
After Four Darks in Red by Mark Rothko
 

A figure of a man
dragging red behind him all his life:
His blood? His love?
All his rage and effort?
    .
Now he stands
at a blank frame of ending;
everything behind him
is a hum of memory.
    .
He does not turn to look.
He puts his hand against a wall
that was always there,
waiting for his handprint.

 Exit

Oh, The Heart Knows Sorrow,

and the stone
knows no mercy—
not the rain with its glossiness,
nor the hour with its emptiness.

I, who am hearing and seeing
what the mind recalls,
am in the limbo of regret.

I become part of the rain,
the wet sound of it—
the shadowed light
that does not know where to settle. 

None of this matters
to the cat 
who curls into a circle of sleep.

Oh, sleeping cat,
alone in your own world—
life is a mystery,
and we are a tiny part of it.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

WASHING DISHES THE
OLD-FASHIONED WAY
—Joyce Odam

Day-dreaming
out the window,
hands deep in sudsy water,

always seemed to give
a certain
lingering sense of pleasure.

__________________

A big thank-you to Joyce Odam for her takes on our ekphrastic Seed of the Week—see the photo at the right of this column. Joyce went with the broken (about to be cut-up!) heart, but also with the plate and even the scissors—and dishwashing!

Our new Seed of the Week is Harvest. There are lots of ways to "harvest" (as ye sow. . .). Send your poems, photos & 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.

The El Dorado Hills version of Poetry Off-the-Shelves meets tonight from 5-7pm in the El Dorado Hills library on Silva Valley Parkway, this week in the main section of the library. And a note that tomorrow (Weds.), there will be a reading at University of the Pacific in Stockton from Sixteen River Press’s new anthology, America, We Call Your Name: Poems of Resistance and Resilience by selected famous/infamous/unknown poets. That's in the Wendell Phillips Center, 1000 W. Stadium Dr. at UOP, 7-9pm. Free. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about these and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa

 Four Darks in Red by Mark Rothko, 1958

(See www.mark-rothko.org/four-darks-in-red.jsp)
(Celebrate poetry!)

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

The Hole Story

—Photos by Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

THE HOLE STORY
—Caschwa

As a young child I was
enthused to get to play
miniature golf

I wasn’t particularly good
at the sport, but felt that
progress was certain

On one occasion the
family visited a local course
and my game was fine

At the last hole, my turn
came and I poked the ball
past the windmill blades

and got a Hole in One!!
My reward was a card
good for one free game

I kept that card till it faded
we never went back there
I may still have that card

HAPPY DAYS ARE HEAR AGAIN
—Caschwa

A royal recipe of money, trade routes, and domination
winning is everything, if those lowly people complain,
just grind them into the compost to grow your land.

Endless grievances were shouldered and tallied
a Revolutionary War announced that the People were
mad as Hell about their rights being trashed.

And so began the Democratic Experiment, which finally
lent an ear to the various concerns of the People,
oppression and abuse now codified as bad things.

Over the next couple hundred years, our reputation of
approving funding for compassion was construed as a
formal dare to autocrats and tyrants around the world.

Somehow the allure of the red carpet, bowing to those
divinely appointed drug lords and kingpins, resurrected
the old royal recipe which had never quite died out.

What we need now more than anything else is for our
government to hear us again, to give us back the key
and let us drive where we choose.  HEAR OUR VOTES!

THE GAME BEGINS
—Caschwa

(a riff on Medusa’s Seed of the Week:
see photo in right-hand column)


Long, long, long ago
my fingers worn and torn,
I treated myself to a
nice, sharp pair of
left-handed scissors.

They felt like the relief
of extracting a thorn,
the comfort of finally reaching
the next level in a difficult
game of skill.

It was like pairing up
with a mate that you would
gladly spend the rest of
your life with, and beyond
forever and ever.

And yet there was one other
unanticipated benefit:
these scissors have become
the top drawer, first choice,
weapon in my arsenal.

Whenever a righty might ask
me if they can borrow a pair of
scissors, I give them a taste
of what it feels like to live the
maligned life of a lefty.

THE GAME CONTINUES

This was no ordinary plate,
convex from rim to rim, it
featured two distinct plateaus,
separated by bloody red,
“Do not park here” curbs.

One is left to wonder what
trouble awaits if one puts
the wrong substance on
either of those plateaus…
major consequences!!

How could you?!?!
The dip goes in the middle
and the chips around it,
not the reverse of that…
don’t break my heart again.   😒

NO SUGAR TONIGHT
—Michael Ceraolo, S. Euclid, OH

The Redeemers

(definition of Redeemer

—one who helped to redeem the South
from the promise of democracy)

                                               were, if anything,
even less likely to tolerate economic democracy
than they were political democracy,
and that was shown in a strike of sugar-cane harvesters
in southern Louisiana in 1887

The planters

(definition of planter

—one who has everything planted for him)

were doing their best to re-institute slavery
in fact if not in law
"the planter
                    gets back
through his plantation store
in profits on his goods
about one-half the wages
which he pays the laborer"
                                        and
the workers rebelled by going on strike

"Without color of authority or necessity
the Chief Executive of the state of Louisiana
ordered out state troops to enforce
the aggressive and arbitrary will of said planters"
and the planters responded financially
making sure that the state
"would be put through as little expense possible
during the continuation of the strike"

"There were several companies of white men
and they went around night and day shooting
colored men who took part in the strike"
"no less than thirty-five negroes were killed outright"
many of those not the striking workers,
and some historians have put that figure even higher,
though the 'official' death toll was eight
in what is now known as The Thibodaux Massacre

The striking workers returned to work.


(an excerpt from Michael's book, 

American Labor: An Episodic Epic)

A HOT AFTERNOON IN THE SHADE
—Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA
 
Semblance raised
Of carrot-cake,
Eating frosting
In the dark,

Along the edges,
You placate
The ridges
And all pledges,
Gone astray.

What would
A wise-man say
To the power
Of temptation

That drives
A good woman
Wild
And lets her
Wetness have
Its way?
Despite
Her crying
Child,
She shares her breast.

Leaving all the rest
To make their way
Until it’s time for dinner.

With her lover,
She’s the winner
In this hot
Afternoon
In the shade.

THE CRUCIBLE
—Joseph Nolan

The sun cannot stop shining
Nor seasons, passing, that fly.
Nor can the sky stop raining
Across the world
And why,
Does man cry?
Why cannot man stop to cry?

I heard
A Winter legend
Of snow
That piled high
And covered
Every city
And mountain,
No matter, the mountain, how high,
And filled up
Every valley,
No matter, the valley, how wide,
And nevertheless
Under the snow,
Man still cried and cried.

There is no cure for crying
No matter, the mountain, how high
Atop each mountain’s a crucible
Inside which each man cries.

MEDIA LIES
—Joseph Nolan

Finely-crafted worlds of lies,
Anathema and alibis
And phony fairy-tales
Meant for those whom reason fails,
Who never want to see
The dark-side of reality.

Each day, on the evening news,
Reporters sing their tales of blues
With pictures by the score,
To back it up, what’s more,
Some of those pictures
Are derived from mythical lore.
Viewers lean back
In their
Recliner
Chairs
And
Snore............

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

A ROBOT ON MY PHONE
—Joseph Nolan

There’s a robot on my phone
When I answer.
It doesn’t say a word,
It’s only listening.
I hear its heavy breathing—
That’s what I heard.
Artificial, stupid lust.
Someone said there’s a law against this,
But in business they trust.

___________________

A big thank-you to today’s contributors on this, Election Day Minus One. Members of Los Escritores del Nuevo Sol read at Sac. Poetry Center tonight, 7:30pm. Poetry Off-the-Shelves meets in El Dorado Hills tomorrow, Tuesday, at the library on Silva Valley Parkway from 5-7pm.

On Thursday, Wellspring Women Writers Poetry & Prose Prompts workshop for women meets upstairs at Wellspring Women’s Center in Sacramento, 11:30am-1:30pm, then Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe in Sacramento meets at 8pm, with featured readers and open mic.

This coming Saturday will be the Second Saturday Art Reception at Sac. Poetry Center Gallery, this month featuring Mary Lynn Tenenbaum and Jonathan Baran, with guitar music by Bob Stanley. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about these and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

Did you remember to set your clocks back, or are you living on borrowed time?

—Medusa

 (Celebrate reading—and poetry—and

reading poetry!)

 

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

In Such Kind Ways

—Anonymous Photo

THE BEAUTIFUL CHANGES
—Richard Wilbur (1921-2017)
 
One wading a Fall meadow finds on all sides  
The Queen Anne’s Lace lying like lilies
On water; it glides
So from the walker, it turns
Dry grass to a lake, as the slightest shade of you  
Valleys my mind in fabulous blue Lucernes.

The beautiful changes as a forest is changed  
By a chameleon’s tuning his skin to it;  
As a mantis, arranged
On a green leaf, grows
Into it, makes the leaf leafier, and proves  
Any greenness is deeper than anyone knows.

Your hands hold roses always in a way that says  
They are not only yours; the beautiful changes  
In such kind ways,  
Wishing ever to sunder
Things and things’ selves for a second finding, to lose  
For a moment all that it touches back to wonder.

______________________

—Medusa, reminding you to set them clocks back an hour (fall back).

For more about Richard Wilbur, go to www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/richard-wilbur/.

 

 More Time For Celebrating Poetry!

The Diamond Sword of Living

Crops of Yolo County: Sunflowers

—Poems by James Lee Jobe, Davis, CA
—Photos Courtesy of James Lee Jobe

Here is my sweetest dream,
Open it, like a music box.
Look, my love, there is still room 
Inside for a dream of your own.
Two dreams as one,
Your heart with mine.
One life shared by two souls.

 Crops of Yolo County: Rice

The sweet, gray Tule fog creeps along the cold edges of the ground. It loves the rivers and creeks all winter long. By afternoon, the fog is gone, burnt away by the same sun that it kept hidden from us throughout the morning, like a secret note burned in an ashtray. And where does the fog come from? The earth. The rivers. From the hidden places of this life. And where does it go? To rest in heaven.

 Crops of Yolo County: Almonds

The heel of the hand, the axis for a revolving life.
Fingers, all intact, trace the distance
Between this reality and the next.
Knuckles, bent like Judas when he repented,
And scarred. Hand in hand,
We walk between the plowed rows.
Reaching and touching, feeling the way.
Reaching out.
Hands touching hands. 

__________________

Today the world will open like a door. And when this door opens, the morning air will kiss you. It will be the kiss of an older sister who loves you. Then, joining hands, the two of you can enter the world together.

 Crops of Yolo County: Corn and Soybeans

On the day of your burial they came for your body with an old horse-drawn hearse. The unpainted wooden wheels creaked down the cobblestone street and the man dressed in black looked neither to the left or the right as he drove the wagon. Only straight ahead. The hooves of the horses made a hollow sound against the street cobbles and echoed against the walls of the gray buildings. You were my own, my dead one, and I followed you to the grave by walking behind the wagon, one hard step at a time. My grief was an army not to be stopped. The general of that army held me when I broke down and fell to my knees. He whispered my name, but nothing else. James. My body heaved with sobs and cries. They threw dirt on your grave and I could not bring myself to look up. There was a throbbing in my temple and I suffered long and hard, far past the end of the funeral. How I ached for you. Then it was night. I was alone in the cemetery, and with my finger I traced your name on the tombstone. I stood again and struggled on as a human being will. Back to the world, back to whatever remains of this horrid life.

 Crops of Yolo County: Legal Cannibis

In the land where I live, sunrise happens
From behind vast mountains.
Who knows what is going on beyond?
Clouds lined with gold and silver.
A whisper from God
To swing the diamond sword of living
And breathing.
We put our pants on
One leg at a time down here, below,
And those people with a third leg
Are especially blessed.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

And so the people gathered in peace at last,
All of us, billions, finally tired of the nonsense.
Under a blood red sunset we held other close, asking,
"Which star are you from? What do you love?"

—James Lee Jobe

___________________

—Medusa, with thanks to James Lee Jobe for his fine poems and photos this Saturday morning!

By the way, the latest issue of Ekphrasis, Sacramento's ekphrastic journal edited by Laverne and Carol Frith, is available at www.ekphrasisjournal.com/.

 —Anonymous Photo
(Celebrate poetry!)

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

A Thousand Should-Haves

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

DECLARATION AT A RESTAURANT

I'm tired of riding the waves
of other peoples' feelings
to decide how I feel about myself.

Drops mic...remains seated.

Is there anybody else with me?
You don't have to answer that.

It's a stance I'm taking today,
a rainy morning in the autumn.
That moment when you decide
who the fingers point back to.

A solitary figure (who is, let's be
honest, not so solitary at all)
on a lonesome landscape (I'm
at a Waffle House, really) deciding
to stand up and be (and what else
to order in the meantime).

__________________

ACCOLADES

And what are these accolades,
many tiny figures I line up
with golden hue?

A kind word spoken
or misspoken based on an
assumption or gross
misunderstanding.

What's the value of it?

Award-worthy, or not, I will
not raise my hands in a laurel-holding
pose.

SNOW ELEPHANT

Like some animals, I must
adapt.  Rather than the usual
tusks and trunk, a mound of protective
barrier.

Rather than my usual large feet,
a few sharp claws to traverse
the climate.

Rather than being bitten by the cold,
I thicken my skin
to rest in its icy invitation.

__________________

FRONDS

A web bonds
the twigs together, bringing
the pages of the pine
into a closed system.

I wonder if what's inside
is the size of my hand or a pindrop
of danger.

Being brave, I move on
instead of finding out.

COSTUMES

I'm still a comic book guy,
even in my late thirties.  It
started when I was barely
an embyro, I'm sure.

I used to fill empty pages
of notebooks with squares,
then infuse those spaces
with badly drawn characters.

Since adulthood, it's still
about filling spaces.  Figuring
out the right images to
include.  I wanted to be a
superhero.  I'm something else,
I think.

No costume here, but I still
read about those who are
brave enough to put them on.

_________________

JAB

I’m sorry to make
you cry when I told
that joke about
veterinarians.

It seems so silly now,
like most things do.

Other words I have forgotten

(like pessimism when I
was defensive, riddles
that drove my audience crazy,
the sly comments I would make
to not-so-deftly avoid insult)

but I remember the lovely
smile that became tears.

That day, we shuffled on our
way, but seven years later
I have to reconsider.  I have
to wonder what ever became
of the girl who was on the other
side of that jab.

AS ALWAYS

As always, my love,
I find myself returning to words
I muttered years ago.

A thousand should-haves
and my work to perfection
never done.

Declarations when I was too
young to know what declarations
were, or to understand the weight
they carried.

Nevertheless, my feet
have brought me to this good
and guided place, a situation
I would not change.

Thankful for the small mercies
of a grounded decision.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

GLOSSOPHOBIA
—JD DeHart

The flapping tongue
who stands at the front of the room
before all the Emerson roving eyes
trembles through articulation
being careful not to salivate.

__________________

—Medusa, with many thanks to JD DeHart for today’s fine poetry!

  Putting on the Costume...

—Anonymous Photo

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

Turkeys, Ghosts & Black-Bean Chili

—Poems and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA

ART/LIFE

I saw birds for sale on Main Street—hens and
roosters, ducks, geese, a partridge, peacock,
quail, even a flamingo—in artists’ imaginings
of what colors a fowl might be. Each bird
striking, bold, unmoving.

Back home, through the window I see three—
four, five—wild turkeys sauntering
past the woodpile, pecking acorns off summer-
dull stubble. No two of them quite alike, each
so delicately muted,

I couldn’t say what color, except that I prefer
them to the artificial kind. And then
they’re gone, out of sight, no word when
they’ll be back. At least the artful Main Street
birds stay put. Unmoving.

APPLE HILL IN SEASON

At home, black-bean chili’s savoring in
a Dutch oven, cozy-warm with pumpkin and
spiced with chipotle’s smoky-ember.
It’s waiting for me as I drive the highway packed
with apple-pickers headed for foothill farms.
Here’s the season for Granny Smith pies, recipes
passed down generations. Pioneer families
settled those fruitful hills above deep canyon,
South Fork flowing out of sight. My boots
know that country. Hikes on brisk fall days;
big-leaf maple turning. On a muddy track
through woods, fresh bear-print. When leaves
are done with changing, there’s ice on puddles,
a crunch underfoot on our walks; fireworks-
sparkle of frost as my dog bursts through pearly-
everlasting brittle with fall. Remembering
almost brings me home to that pot of chipotle
chili kept warm on the iron stove.

GHOST OF THE HISTORY MUSEUM
    for George Peabody

                The past pulls you
inside brick & masonry walls, up stairs of the old
Gold Rush soda works. You lose all track
of present passing time.
       Daylight dims. Downstairs, no voices,
no footsteps. Lights are out. Door’s locked.
Iron shutters. You have no key, no cellphone,
you’re quite alone.
                No. You intuit a human
presence. She lets you know her name is Molly.
Use your head! she points to the locked door.
Your hand just fits through the mail-slot.
                       Out on Main Street,
two teenage girls startle at your wiggling fingers
like they’d seen a ghost. You’re saved.
                               Is Molly real?
Have ghost-hunters come to find her
with all their paraphernalia—cameras, audio
recorders, sensor meters, dowsing rods?
        Would Molly offer them
a clue?

A POEM FOR YOUR THOUGHTS
    Wine and Art Fest, Main Street

Here we sit street-side, poetry buskers
without a drop of wine in our cup. All around us,
rush of festive downtown’s brought to life after dark.
Gallery art is paired with just the right crush;
on the street, musicians—their rhythm sneaks into my
fingers as I pound on antiquated keys, a typewriter
which, years ago, taught me to print letters on paper.
A poem? As wine strikes the fancy tonight,
this old manual Royal portable is true vintage.
In the right hands it could perfectly pair
our common words with art.

PUZZLE-CARD FOR HALLOWEEN

Must be a spook who sent this e-greeting—
an ancient castle in dark of a moon-lit night.
No pathway to the door until a scarf
of brightness flits from torch to torch mysterious
as the latest remote technology. An empty suit
of armor holds a flaming bowl. The face-guard
opens—whoop! a mouse pops out. Could this
be our own old house? dim even with all
the bulbs turned on, and haunted by mice who
flit from trap to trap tripping them then
slipping away. What can they harvest in this
house? All our foodstuffs kept safe in metal
and glass. Rodents must subsist on trap-bait and
sleight-of-paw, shredding old important papers
and plastic produce bags. As calling cards
they leave small scat and this Halloween puzzle.

SANTOS ON THE ROOF

He’s learned the art of cleaning chimneys
in our land of seasonal snows, damps, smoke
from wood-stoves rising in winter skies. 

Santos comes down the ladder grimy
with soot. He still speaks with the lilt of his
homeland. How did he come
to my neighbor’s roof—to this country?

So many from the other side of desert
traveling at night, praying not to be robbed,
praying for water. Desert of cinder
cones and cactus blooming Pascua flowers.

Skilled at tasks we’ve lost the knack for,
Santos teaches his son to be his helper,
to dream of more. Families stay together.

Now he moves on to the next job
as the Land-of-the-Free breeze cools him
at his work. A man whose mother
named him Saints so far below Heaven.   

   

Today’s LittleNip:

HALLOWEEN FANTASY
—Taylor Graham

Ghosted downtown. Inside ancient walls, a spirit
sits the ancient historian down on a stool
in the corner like a time-out kid in one-room
schoolhouse, arms crossed over his chest, patient
pout on sober mouth, light dims window-
glass, as if walls held history as their hostage.

___________________

Thank you, Taylor Graham for winding up our Halloween season with fine poems and photos, and leading us into Thanksgiving month with her turkeys! This Sun. (11/4), from 10am-2pm, Taylor Graham and Katy Brown will facilitate a poetry writing workshop,  Observing Autumn at Wakamatsu Farm. 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. 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.

And if you’re in the mood for poetry and open mic tonight, Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe begins at 8pm, 1414 16th Street, Sacramento.

—Medusa

 —Anonymous Photo
(Celebrate Poetry!)

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