Light-Bulb Moments

—Poems by Dah, Berkeley, CA
—Photos by Carol Louise Moon, Placerville, CA
from her "Wall" series

A LIGHT-BULB MOMENT

This busyness in life
this false confidence

We feed off of
things to do

Cruising time
we live
again
and again until

our thinking is removed

We … a fleeting experience
a dogged determination

O forging
searching
as if we are close

BONES

Ample strength of ice

the mountains are
too old for this

/ fallen granite
like stony corpses /

all bones
nothing else

CONDITION

Regarding life:
we exist as hollow
inside and out

Know this
as eternal
know this as
the only condition

hear this as truth
In The Beginning
is never-ending
 

SHAKER

Afflicted with existence
confusion's hardship
when and where
are we going
after the shaker
of mysteries
rattles our bones
until no eyes can see
no eyes can find
no eyes
no

WHITTLED

To know this is to remember
a journey of grounding,
wings broken off / oxygen-
laced veins
/ eyes snapped by swift
light glare /
the fragileness of breath
powdered skin of genesis
/ shivering / ripening
whittled into life

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

SAILING
—Dah

In leaps and bounds / we
procreate with
beast-like motion:

seeds sailing out of one
into the other / as if
this is the final port

_____________________

Our gratitude to Dah of Berkeley and Carol Louise Moon of the Sierra foothills for their wonderful Sunday offerings to us around the Kitchen table this morning!

If you’re of a mind to travel to Turlock to hear the Ladies of the Knight read their poetry, today’s the day: 2pm at the Carnegie Arts Center, 250 N. Broadway, presented by MoSt. Check it out! 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.

—Medusa (Celebrate Poetry!)

 —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.

Precious

Almond Blossoms, Yolo County

—Poems and Photos by James Lee Jobe, Davis, CA

Even our priests wear masks.
A mask of a swan
Inside of a mask of a crow.
We cannot believe that we are beautiful,
So we wear these things
To hide us from life.
We do the same with language,
Hiding truths inside of lies
While using a lie to rape the truth.
There goes my father, he’s an owl,
No, he’s a laughing hyena,
Here for a corpse to scavenge.
And there goes my mother, she’s an old hen,
No, she’s a dog, a poodle,
Sleeping all day on the sofa.

 Old Elm, Spring, Yolo County

Every life is precious, indeed, every item
Under heaven and across the universe is precious.
Every rock, every clod of dirt
Is a piece of the earth that holds us as home.
The plants, large and small, trees and flowers
And weeds and herbs have a value.
And each worm helps feed the soil
That in turn feeds us.
The salmon, the old barn owl, those are obvious,
But also precious are the mosquito, the roach,
Even the tsetse fly serves some purpose,
And so is blessed, and so blesses us all.
So it is that here before you I give thanks
And praise to the river otter and the raccoon,
To the mighty prairie hen, the jack pine,
The arugula and kale, the valley oak.
Let all step forward and be named.
Every life is precious, indeed, every item
Under heaven and across the universe is precious.
Even man.

 Spring, Yolo Bypass Wildlife Area
 

A coyote walks unknowingly toward a man.
He is a hungry and lean animal. This man
Has a hunting rifle and is downwind, hiding.
He raises chickens and pays taxes on the land.
Who is the hunter and who is the prey?
Above this scene, dusk deepens into night,
Crickets sing. The Sacramento Valley.

____________________

Sunrise still an hour away, full-on
Darkness outside. Going out
For a breath of air I hear
Some morning sounds;
A freight train to my west,
It’s moving north very slowly.
A neighbor’s cat wails mournfully.
I can’t see it, but I know which one.
Closer, the coo of a dove. And so
I add my own voice to this cacophony;
“Hello world. I’m still here.”

 Springtime, Yolo County

Every evening,
Darkness swallows it all,
Even the sun.
Then, come morning,
The darkness is erased
By the light of the sun.
Darkness. Light.
Some creatures prefer
To live in one.
And some creatures
Live in the other.
It isn’t like one way is good
And the other is evil.
I say, sleep when you’re tired,
Play whenever you wish.
I love both, and I love
The wrinkles and bald spots
Of becoming an older man.
There is a time coming
When the darkness will come
And stay.

_________________

Moonrise over Putah Creek,
A family to love—a place to belong.
Fully present and only 62 years old,
How lovely, this moonlight.

 Valley Oak, Early Spring

The last time I ever saw my father
He was a beam of light,
Blue, reaching
From heaven above to the earth below.
Reaching to me.

In life, my father was a complicated man. A hero
In the war, strong on the hardest of battlefields.
In marriage, he was a liar and a cheat, constantly.
He went through his life fueled by good whiskey
And armed with finely made firearms.
My father could not stand a bully. He died at 58.

We agreed on little. He was my role model
Of things to avoid. We fought a lot, followed
By long periods of mutual silence.
In those silences I learned to be a man.

Then my father came to me in dreams.
In the early dreams he was clearly troubled,
Often angry, or upset and weeping.
Sometimes his ghost would be pointing at me.
I would wake up feeling like a criminal.

But slowly, over a couple of decades,
The dreams improved. My father became friendly.
We would sit in cafes and sip coffee and talk.
Conversations that were real.
I would ask him to stay,
And he would smile and say not to worry,
That he would be back soon.

One night when I was a man in my forties
I had best dream of all. My father told me jokes
And we hid from the ghost of his Aunt Dolly
So as not to be interrupted. He said,
“I only come here to haunt you.”

Just like that, it was over. No more dreams.
I was nearly 50. Was I a man now?
I wondered that. Maybe it wasn’t about me,
I thought that. Maybe he needed this.
Perhaps it was time to let my father go.

His name was James Lee Jobe, like mine.
I became James Lee Jobe when I married.
James Elvin Jobe married Alexandra Lee
And we each put the names together.
And I was also James Lee Jobe.
But I wasn’t like him at all.
I had a lot more peace than he ever did.

I began to want to tell him that I loved him.
I needed to say the words to my father,
Words that he and I had used so seldom.
When I went to bed at night, I asked for a dream.
Just one more dream.

It took some time. I was in my mid-50s
When the two James Lees met again.
It was in a dark and silent field somewhere,
We both knew fields in our lives.
A blue beam of light reached from heaven to earth,
Right to my feet. It was simply beautiful.
Blue light shined on me, on the field, on the sky.
I touched the light, and there inside it
Was the face of the other James Lee.
“This is me now, son. I am happy, at peace,
But I can’t keep coming back now. That’s over.”
We each said the words then, and it was done.

My father never returned again,
And I know that he won’t. And that’s alright.
It took us more than a half-century,
But we got there as a father and a son.
Not in the usual way,
But it ended in love and acceptance.

So why am I telling you this?
So you’ll know that you can make it, too.
You might be the drunken parent,
Or you might be the forgotten child,
But I am telling you you can make it to the light.
Old James Lee Jobe made it, and so can you.
Goodbye for now.

________________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Editing poems at night
Under the influence of hot chocolate.
Life opens like a flower.

—James Lee Jobe

________________________

Good morning and thank you to James Lee Jobe for his thoughtful poems today, as we inch into spring.

Today is the annual Sac. Poetry Center Spring Conference in Sacramento; I hope you’re not missing it! Then tonight, The Kings and Queens of Poetry reading will take place in Elk Grove, 7:30pm at the KAST Academy on Grant Line Rd. 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 (Celebrate Poetry!)

—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.

Mabel, Fatty and the Law

Mabel Normand, 1892-1930

—Anonymous Photos

Today’s poems are by Michael Ceraolo, S, Euclid, OH, from his new project, Mabel: Selected Lifeography.

LEAP YEAR

I was born in one,
November 9, 1892,
to be exact
Not in 1895
as it says on my tombstone,
nor in 1893 or ’94
as it was usually written
in the studio bios;
an attempt at autobiography
should at least try for accuracy
I was born in Staten Island,
though it wasn't officially called that
until long after I was dead
and wasn't even part of New York City
until 1898,
not in any of the myriad other places
I told interviewers through the years

I was born early and with a caul
(the membrane usually detached
during the birthing process),
sort of a veil thought to bring good luck
and even presage greatness;
my parents were able to sell it
to someone who paid well for it

I went first to public school at home
and then away to a convent school
in Massachusetts,
                             finishing early
and starting right in to work,
beginning in the company mail room
but soon sent to the art department
to work as an artist's model

I wanted to be the artist,
not the artist's model,
but it was lucrative
and would do for the time being,
                                               since
it soon enabled me to work with
James Montgomery Flagg and Charles Dana Gibson;
I think I was the only model
Gibson used more than twice

A model friend was posing for lantern slides
(still images projected onto the screens
between the movies being shown)
and she encouraged me to do it too
I later accompanied her to a movie set
(most of the movies at the time
being made in and around New York City)
and was soon hired there myself

As I look back to write this,
I find it truly amazing
how many of my movies' titles
had already, or would in the future,
apply to an aspect of my life
For those readers now ready to panic,
knowing I made over two hundred flickers,
relax,
          and remember
the word Selected in the work's title
So here we go

STAKE UNCLE SAM TO PLAY YOUR HAND

During the war I made what I guess
you could call propaganda,
a short with the above-named title
to support the Liberty Loan Drive
But moviemaking wasn't support enough
for my country and my brother Claude,
who was fighting overseas in France:
at a rally I pledged a five-thousand-dollar bond,
and offered a kiss to any bond buyer,
raising over $12,500 in two hours

MABEL, FATTY AND THE LAW

Roscoe and I were both badly treated
by the law, though in different ways
He suffered through three trials
when he wasn't even remotely guilty;
the only one guilty of anything
was the doctor who said she was just passed out drunk
My mistreatment didn't involve any formal charges,
just rumors and innuendos
in a few different cases
But because one of those remains unsolved,
suspicion clings to me posthumously

 With Charlie Chaplin
 

A MIDNIGHT ELOPEMENT, OR
ONE HOUR MARRIED

We could even call it Mabel's Married Life;
here's the story
It was the wee hours of a mid-week night
and we had both been drinking,
so when Lew got down on his knees and proposed
we both treated it as the joke it was meant to be,
complete with a mock wedding ceremony
But almost immediately
we decided to take it seriously
and drove to Ventura to get married for real
Lew and I had appeared together in Mickey
and had been good friends ever since,
sharing a love of pranks and hijinks
as well as a love of books
We didn't live together at first,
but grew closer as time went on,
and he eventually moved in with me
and nursed me during my illness
until I could no longer live at home;
he even kept his heart trouble from me
In my will I left him only a dollar
because he was more than capable
of earning his own living,
                                     and
some have tried to read much into that
But my tombstone has the hyphenated name
MABEL NORMAND-CODY,
                                         and
I wouldn't have done that without good reason

______________________

Today’s LittleNip(s):

There was a long, hard struggle when we were never sure that there would be a pay envelope on Saturday. There were just four of us then—Mr. Sennett, Fred Mace and Roscoe Arbuckle—and me! But we worked hard, and hoped hard, and just trusted in luck. And better days soon came.

—Mabel Normand

Just because I’m a little—well, you know, different—people believe anything weird about me.

—Mabel Normand

______________________

Our thanks to Michael Ceraolo for giving us a preview of his latest project! For more photos and info about Mabel, go to themabelnormand.com OR bizarrela.com/2016/10/mabel-normand-silent-queen-comedy/.

MarieWriters will meet tonight at Sac. Poetry Center, 6pm, with the Friday Generative Writing Workshop which will take place throughout April. Or travel down to Modesto to Modesto Jr. College for the reading there, sponsored by MoSt, also 6pm. 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 (Celebrate Poetry!)

 —Anonymous Photo of Mabel Normand

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.

Grab a Hat and Go!

 —Poems and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA

THE OLD PLACE

This evening, deer-brush lilac’s all in bloom
so briefly fragrant, it could knock you down.
A ridgetop breeze is sweeping its soft broom.
You signed the papers miles from there, in town.

So briefly fragrant it could knock you down—
the past you loved, the oaks, that land you leave.
You signed the papers miles from there, in town,
you’ll learn to smile at this departure’s eve.

The past you loved—the oaks, a land you leave
to find the place where you’ll begin again—
and learn to smile at this departure’s eve.
Is there a word that signifies amen,

we’ll find a place where we begin again?
A ridgetop breeze is sweeping its soft broom.
Is there a word that signifies amen
this evening, deer-brush lilac all in bloom?

APRIL’S ACRE

Which hat this morning?
Stiff or floppy? Maybe the dead-straw
garden hat with brim as wide as front pasture,
where poppies will burst from winter
under a broad green band.
Not too much protection from Sun!
Light teases water out of storm-drenched
earth, transforms it to grass and clover
and twining vetch—she wonders
how that particular shade of shadow-blue
would become her? Or maybe the plain brown
of just-turned soil that goes so well
with any kind of green. Choices, choices.
She feels the druid stirring. Grab a hat and go.

HIS HATS:    

On top shelf front closet:
1 shearling trapper cap, 1 mesh safari hat,
1 waterproof western hat, 1 legítimo Sahuayo,
1 canvas rainhat; 1 hardhat—forest or disaster

Ball-cap hanger on back of utility door:
22 ball-caps assorted colors; sample logos:
K-9 Training Seminar; Mountain Bluebird
Trails; Professional Rodeo Cowboys;
ShopSmith; California Native Plant Society;
Tree Swallows Fly

Chair by front door, ready-to-go:
1 straw cowboy hat, 1 felt Stetson, 1 canvas
safari hat, 2 ball-caps: 1 white Graham Canyon
Ranch, 1 orange Search & Rescue Volunteer,
1 OD wool watch-cap; also a pair of rough-out
chaps & a 4-string banjo

IMAGINE, AN ELEGY

That ageless house by the side of country road, half hidden behind rock wall and hedge—it meant good fortune if I caught a glimpse, driving by. Imagine a farmer’s home with girls in straw hats sitting on the porch, the youngest hanging from a lower branch of the big sycamore. A four-square house settled on its piece of land forever unchanging. Each child in straw hat an imago not yet flown, spring blossoms caught under hatband, a ribbon iridescent as bluebird in flight. Yesterday I drove that way. The hedge was gone, the sycamore a skeleton holding its bone-arms up to cloudy sky. Why? Not one leaf left. I drove on by.

every dragonfly
along the way was gone, and
gone the pure blue sky

SAND BAR

Dark as a bruise in morning light,
Raven: watchful bar-tender by the creek.
Every winter, water digs its own tomb
in sand-spits graveled over by storm.
Overhead scream of Hawk—
no small life escapes. It’s not Raven’s job.
Druid-stone mossy on its shadow-side—
omen for the eclectic seeker of such sign.
Raven’s found a golden prize—
Ogre Tree Fungus?—a leap of faith:
good grows out of ugly.
For the moment, Raven’s done
with sandbar tending.
He paces like a Human wondering
what to do with his treasure.

HORSEBACK TARTOUM
          for Cindy

Wind is up again for spring,
wild wind, to fly away her hair.
Horses are part of her blood.

A wild wind sets hair flying
and mane over new green grass,
acres of meadow and trail,

windy mane over green grass
and then untrodden forest paths.
She knew every hidden corner

and the untrodden forest paths
that urged her on, deeper woods
where she could lose herself—

urged on by deeper woods
but there she was never lost,
her horse steady beneath her.

Oh, she could never be lost
to sky and God’s green earth
as wind blows time away.

Acres of meadow and trail,
her horse steady beneath her—
she knew every hidden corner
where she could lose herself
as wind blows time away.
Horses are part of her blood.

Today’s LittleNip:

WHAT BECAME OF THE BARN OWL?
—Taylor Graham

If pigeons drove the owl from its barn,
shall we invoke Merlin Pigeon-Hawk
to magic the intruders away?
Can he transform them back again to owl?

Let the old hay-door open its mouth
to speak that emptiest word of Night:
who-who-whooo?

___________________

Thank you, thank you, Taylor Graham for starting our morning off in the Kitchen with your usual fine poems and pix!

It seems like I’ve made more than the usual number of mistakes lately; the latest was on Sunday, when I spelled Mary Oliver’s name wrong in the caption of her picture! Ouch. It’s bad enough to spell ANYbody’s name wrong, but when you’re trying to pay tribute to someone…  Anyway, I apologize to all of you sitting around the Kitchen table, and especially to Michael Brownstein for besmirching his wonderful post/poem.

Head across the Causeway tonight to John Natsoulas Gallery in Davis to hear The Poets’ Quartet, 8pm; or go to Luna’s Cafe in Sacramento for Poetry Unplugged, with featured readers and open mic, also 8pm. 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.

Some last-minute additions to the calendar, three from MoSt, the lively Modesto-Stanislaus Poetry Center (www.mostpoetry.org). The first is this coming Friday, a reading at Modesto Jr. College from 6-8pm; see www.mostpoetry.org/event/poetry-reading-at-mjc/. Then on Sunday, Ladies of the Knight will read at Carnegie Arts Center in Turlock (sponsored by MoSt, at www.mostpoetry.org/event/ladies-of-the-knight-reading). And on Tuesday (4/9), Second Tuesday at the Barkin’ Dog in Modesto will present readers from the 16 Rivers Poetry Collective, 6-8pm (www.mostpoetry.org/event/second-tuesday-barkin-dog-4-2019). Be sure to take a look at MoSt’s excellent website and the many activities they present, including some charitable projects. And all in the name of poetry!

Closer to home, starting this week, Sac. Poetry Center will be offering its MarieWriters Generative Writing Workshop on Wednesdays AND Fridays throughout April, National Poetry Month. Celebrate National Poetry Month with a new poem!

—Medusa

 Deer Brushing on Lilac (or is that deerbrush...?)

—Anonymous Watercolor

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.

Paradigms for Paradigms

Evergreen

—Photo by Carol Louise Moon, Placerville, CA

DON’T STOP WRITING PARADIGMS
—Carol Louise Moon

Where could I wander?
Stopsigns made of redwood.

Where are pine tree leaves?
Pine trees don’t have rounded leaves.
Leaves are not the issue here.

Do you wander, yet
you do not know the pine trees?
Stopsigns endear you,
knowing this does not help much.
Then I realize—
I wander because of you.

The image of tree
wandering through a desert.
Poet runs after,
but never catches tree,
imagines trees uprooting.

The mind meanders
and, like a meander, flows.
A turn of phrase, a
tanka “turn” at twenty-four,
then seven more syllables.

      Write me a poem
      about your writing career—
      write by the numbers.

Tree Roots

—Photo by Carol Louise Moon

PARADIGM OF THE FLYING HORSES
—Carol Louise Moon

What goes up and down?
Today I’ll ride two horses.

Ride a... rocking horse?
No, I said ride a dapple
grey Tennessee... Walking Horse.

Here is a puzzle.
Want to see a miracle?
Trees turn to horses.
Philippine Mahogany
wood-worked and painted
now fly around—no pasture.

Friedrich Heyn horses,
carousel, painted anew;
White dappled with grey?
A restoration process—
Flying Horses fly again!

Children love riding
horses, it is fair to say—
unless they fear them.
An apple a day keeps the
veterinarian away.

      Nineteen hundreds saw
      wooden horses circle ‘round—
      children saw them fly.

 Wall-Snow-Tree

—Photo by Carol Louise Moon

WATER FIRE PARADIGM
—Carol Louise Moon

Fire rains from above?
Fiery-pink fish run upstream.

Turquoise flows below?
We speak in mists of feathers
like birds clustered high in nests.

Wet boulders dare us
to tiptoe among the moss-
laden steep as two
kingfishers plunge into a
turquoise pool below.
Our day is dangerously dark.

Coal-gray clouds hang low.
Thunder claps her many peals.
Fawn races through the brush—
he, our guide on paths of fear.
Again, thunder claps resound.

A shower of stars?
Dry forest is ablaze now.
We wander blinded.
White embers rain on our path
blocking hope to find our way.

      A day without mist
      is more than one can endure.
      Our souls are thirsty.

 Lake End

—Photo by Taylor Graham

WHERE THE SPRING DRIES
—Taylor Graham

What hidden traces?
Breath becomes the westerly.
               
Why is grass golden?   
Gold-fever sucked the springs dry
making dust of the pond’s blue.

Summer drains the clouds,
distance veiled with ghosts of rain.
When will barn owl mark
the dim with lengthening night?
Pellets on dirt floor—
tiny bones measure hunger.
               
A Wakamatsu
walk inspires a new waka:
ridgetop facing home,
the garden’s keyaki tree.
She sleeps under oaks.           

Have you heard them call?
the egret, the coyote,
and the silken worm.
Now learn to spin their voices
into a language of fall.
               
      And still the creeks flow
      following our sunset west
      toward the sea, away.    

 Winter Woods

—Photo by Taylor Graham
 

WILDWOOD PARADIGM
—Taylor Graham

What birdsong at dawn?
Wild-plum sweetens in half-light.

What do the rocks know?
A glimpse of fox where shadows
follow breezes up the swale.

If you step softly
you might see the fork-horn buck
leaving no hoofprint.
Shall I keep three owl feathers,
three shafts of flicker?
The song of uncounted birds.

An old cabin breathes
absence through its creaking door.
What spirit is left
when the people move away?
Hawk nests in the highest oak.

Remember spring storms,
waters churning, rock-carving
down the lichened steps.
A patient old willow waits
to wade in the first fall rain.

      Now before moon-rise
      Big Dipper pours its star-tales
      into cricket night.

 Fairy Lanterns

—Photo by Taylor Graham

LIVING CHAPARRAL
—Taylor Graham

            for Wendy


Where does a road end?
Green hides in driest places.

What does Vulture know?
You sit motionless
among ghost pine most alive.

If you see horses
by moonlight topping a hill,
calling softly—in
what language? You remember
from always-never:
invitation to their dance.

Barn Owl regards you
as wonder watching wonder.
Above and around,
everything goes silent, dark—
your four eyes locked together.

What secrets concealed
in thorny spike and thistle,
in the poorest soil?
The fairy lanterns are lit,
wrapping your verses in grace.

      On brink of winter,
      wild grape transfigures the trees
      in translucent gold.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Petal by petal
yellow mountain roses fall—
sound of rapids

—Bashō

___________________

Many thanks for this “joint” post today: Carol Louise Moon and Taylor Graham, both from Placerville, have sent us poems today in the form of the paradigm, with photos to go along with them. For more about the paradigm poetry form, see lewisturco.typepad.com/poetics/2007/06/paradigm.html/.

Sacramento Poet Brad Buchanan will be reading at the Cal. State University, Sacramento Library this afternoon at 3pm. Then tonight, MarieWriters Generative Writing Workshop will meet at Sac. Poetry Center, 6pm, facilitated this week by Laura Rosenthal. 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 (Celebrate Poetry!)

 A wee (malachite) kingfisher friend
—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.

Hats in the Wind

—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

HAT IN THE WIND
(after “The Death of the Hat”
by Billy Collins, Picnic, Lightning)


Hat in the wind lifts like a laugh,
dances itself away, while you chase it.

Hats have a whim of their own;
they will rest for years where you put them—

not inclined to anything;
then ‘poof’ some wind reminds them

of what they are—head-toys, playthings,
curious about the sky.

Sometimes you win,
retrieve them with a scold or embarrassment

from a puddle, or a tree—
or maybe lose them to that sky

that lifts them from
the old decorum you pretend.

WOMAN DAY-DREAMING

A woman
in a white apron

and a hat to shade her from the sun
sits in the day’s warm light,

hands in her lap, palms down,
mind-drifting to a place

that takes her from herself.
And the day shuts down.

Her work is waiting—
it waits behind her in a long field;

her work is waiting
in a house full of windows

that glaze their eyes
in the day’s warm silence

and also seem to forget
her work is waiting.

IN LINE

Enter the swaggering man with his dark suit
and hat,
and his cane,

one hand on the railing
at the edge of a crowd of pressing people
in line . . . in line for what . . . ? . . .

He stands with his weight on one hip against
the gray wall—off to the side—
way off to the side

of everyone.
He seems so fragile, standing there,
this delicate man with such a swaggering manner.

__________________

RANDOM

Here is a lady in a gold hat
with one lock of hair down her face

standing in a ray of darkness
watching those who disappear

from her, as she disappears to herself. 
Still, her gold hat shines

in the gold-struck eyes of one
who admires her—follows her home.

THE APPOINTMENT

She is unfinished. Not even her hat suits her.
She cannot find the right expression for her face.
She’s lost her keys and her purse, misplaced her list.
Her eyes assume a glaze; her stare protects her.
She waits in the waiting room as she is told.
The white background of the room overpowers her.
She lets herself become enveloped without protest.
She cannot make out the vagueness of her mind.
It feels like a curtain has slipped around her.
Soft.  Diffusive.  Safe.

___________________

HER BEDROOM

closet full of dusty clothes
silver-veined dresses
squashed party wear
stained lace and fur
unwashables
a leopard coat and hat
coat-pin
some jewels missing
high-heels lined up
behind the slippers

on the dresser a jewel box
and perfume bottles
all shoved back
and in the grimy mirror
in diligent reflection,
in rows and rows,
white plastic vials
of prescriptions


(first pub. in Philadelphia Poets, 1988)    

THE BROTHERS AND THE OTHERS

Rough, from the hills,
saw-chiseled,
hiding out as knots of wood,
their hats and beards
all pulling from the world,
their eyes grown dark and closing
as they hang in slanted shadows
in a pose of ancient longing,
how they clanly, dimly,
whisper to the walls . . .
how they clan
and dimly whisper
to the walls.   

SOLSTICE

It was the annual day again when Aunt Winter came
to stay for her afternoon with us, and sat like an old
gray frown—precarious and prim—on the edge of a
chair in her hat and gloves, and sipped our welcome-
tea, and asked the polite and distant questions in her
old-aunt voice, and said, “No, thank you,” to the
cookies.

We inward-smiled at her stiff, old-fashioned ways.
Quaint was the word we gave her, and never cared
to ask about the occasion of her visit—always on
time with the calendar—and why she glanced
around at all of us with such an almost-smile, and
did not remove her hat and gloves to “… stay awhile
for news…” though she stayed all afternoon.
      
___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

ILLUSTRATION OF A HAT BY MARTHA COLLOT
(Le Parfum de la Rose, 1924 by A. E. Marty)


Red rose reaching toward red lips,
shy eyes closing as she bends
to sniff the rose;

is this
to illustrate her yellow hat,
or to scandalize the kiss . . .

____________________

Thanks to Joyce Odam for her surprising takes on hats, our ekphrastic Seed of the Week! Our new Seed of the Week is Quicksand, either literally or figuratively: bad jobs, bad marriage, bad cruise ship… 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.

Poetry Off-the-Shelves meets tonight in El Dorado Hills at the library on Silva Valley Pkwy., 5pm. 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.

—Medusa

Bill Gainer, Grass Valley Poet/SnakePal
—Photo by Katy Brown, Davis, CA, from

the "Poets in Hats" series

 Katy says, “Gotta Love Poets in Hats!!”

 
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.

Bees, Trees and Their Knees

—Anonymous Photos

DISCLOSED
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

A cluster of hats
is like a nest of eggs
waiting to be hatched
‘neath protective legs

angry, angry
bird, bird
sets free, sets free
forbidden word

the rise and fall
of the 3rd trombone
whose beck and call
was a muted moan

ace in your vest
ingot in your coffer
is that the very best
that you have to offer?

maybe it was I
hiding half-behind a tree
clicking pics of a goat’s eye
in anonymity

__________________

YES, THEY WENT THERE
—Caschwa

Sitting in a crowded hospital
waiting, waiting, waiting room
staring at a big screen displaying
calmly moving water gurgling
through brightly lit rock formations

expecting at any moment to see
Raquel Welch and her fantastic
crew pop out of the water and
proceed to the scientist’s head
to repair the damage to his brain

suddenly the scene changed to
show softly windblown leaves, not
grass from a well manicured lawn,
but frightening Honey I Shrunk the
Gardner rainforest giants

then my wife called out my name,
so I turned around to see her in a
pink transport chair, wheeled in by
a smiling medical support person
whose name I can’t pronounce

LUCIFER IN THE SKY WITH CUBIC ZIRCONIA

…said the girl with copyrighted eyes…

…like a tonsil scheduled for removal…

…this does nothing and ends where it should…

…the final stamp of disapproval…

…but at least the ice cream was good. 

—Caschwa

___________________

THAT EXPLAINS IT
—Caschwa

(Ekphrasic poem on the Seed of the Week, 

Medusa’s Kitchen, March 26, 2019)


I had always wondered why I had so
much trouble managing the strings on
venetian blinds, and now I know why I
was doomed from the beginning.

The slats do not, will not, and cannot
work together with unity of purpose
because each separate slat comes from
a different hat, whether a visor cap, or a
topper with a brim, or a beret with little
trim, or just a visor and its strap.

So now I let a drape cover the window
area, finally ending the continuous
stream of failed attempts to adjust the
different stripes on our federal flag,
following the example of the non-tactical
Navy blues, which replaced 13 separate
buttons in favor of one easy zipper.

CAUGHT
—Caschwa

I was sitting at a signaled intersection
patiently waiting for the light to change,
not too sure if I was going straight to Hell
or maybe make a hard right to Salvation

when everyone all around me blared their
horns, shouted curses, offered offensive
gestures, and finally the police came and
issued me a citation for obstructing traffic

this was my badge of honor for living
through it, my fencing scar, my bronco
busting hitch in my gittalong
I wear it proudly

__________________

ACCOMPLI
—Caschwa

A hillbilly knows the land
although never well enough
anxious heir can’t find his hand
ablaze with gold at the cuff
ageless birds abound and fly
armed with bones from dinosaurs
archangels pry open doors.

VALENTINE’S
—J.D. DeHart, Chattanooga, TN

Two trucks pass, honking
playfully on Valentine’s
Day.  Is this what love is
for giants, like two behemoths
passing in midnight water?

________________

STUTTER
—J.D. DeHart

I gave my name
into the metal box.  Sadly,
it could not be heard.
One day I will find more
than the first letter hiding
inside a microphone.

________________

GAVE A WORD
—J.D. DeHart

The writer broke a word
like bread to share.  One loaf
of lines fed thousands like
the age-old story.  Then he
rang the word like a bell
in the street for a century.

BLAME IT ON THE BEES
—Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA

There are many things I should do,
But don’t,
Like practice my Spanish.

I don’t know why
I don’t,
But I don’t.

I guess I
Must like it this way,
Or maybe I’d say
I must be busy
And blame it on the bees.

_______________

SHAVING
—Joseph Nolan

Somehow, when I am done
My face has been re-won,
Smooth as a baby’s behind!
Without the slightest bristle
That might remind
I’m a full-grown man,
And not a child,
But only for awhile
Since whiskers always grow
Before you know.
And now, it’s to a park!
But I must be home
Before dark.

SORE THUMBS
—Joseph Nolan

Why do sore thumbs stick out?
Because if they involved themselves,
As they did before,
In all their normal chores
As they did before,
Before they became sore,
They’d be more and more sore,
More than ever before!

__________________

TREES DON’T BEND THEIR KNEES
—Joseph Nolan

My tree has gone haywire!
It’s growing in every direction.
I suppose I need to trim it,
But I don’t have the heart
To cut a single branch.

Maybe I think it’s lovely
The way trees
Don’t bend their knees. 

GRIEF
—Joseph Nolan

Grief is over-worn and frayed,
Like a threadbare towel,
Washed again and saved.

Meanwhile, dread dishonor,
Plagues not peaceful grave,
Which holds the old, internal,
Into life, eternal.

So, let dismal
Have its way:
Misery to living;
To dead,
It holds no sway!

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

WRITE FOR YOURSELF
—J.D. DeHart

A wise teacher says, I write
like I want to read.  Don’t spend
your time crafting for others.
Language is your own warm bath.
Soak, wallow, wrinkle in its wave.

_________________

Good morning and thank you to our lively poets today! Hats are everywhere, our current Seed of the Week.

Any April Fool knows that April is National Poetry Month! Find out ways to celebrate, include Poem-a-Day, at www.poets.org/national-poetry-month/about-celebration/. Or get a cool poster (see below) at poets.myshopify.com/products/copy-of-national-poetry-month-poster-2018/. Copies are free if you don't need 'em tubed.

Poetry in our area begins at Sac. Poetry Center tonight with Word Wizards plus open mic, 7:30pm. Then on Tuesday, Poetry Off-the-Shelves meets in El Dorado Hills at the library on Silva Valley Parkway, 5pm. On Wednesday, Brad Buchanan will read at CSUS in the Library, 3pm.

SPC workshops this week include Tuesday Night Workshop for critiquing of poems at the Hart Center in Sacramento (27th and J Sts.) on Tuesday, 7:30-9pm (call Danyen Powell at 530-681-0026 for info); and MarieWriters Generative Writing Workshop at SPC, 6pm, for the writing of poems.

Thursday, The Poets’ Quartet will read in Davis at John Natsoulas Gallery, 8pm (plus open mic). Also at 8pm, Poetry Unplugged will feature guest readers and open mic at Luna’s Cafe on 16th St. in Sacramento.
 

Then Saturday is the annual Sac. Poetry Center Conference at the Poetry Center from 9am-5pm. Be sure to register! 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.

Hats off to long-time Ginosko Editor Robert Cesarati in the Bay Area, who’s accepting short fiction, poetry, creative nonfiction, social justice, and literary insights for his semiannual, online litzine (with a print anthology published every two years). Check downloadable issues on the website for tone & style at GinoskoLiteraryJournal.com/. He's also looking for books, art, music, spoken word videos—the literary landscape to post on the website. Send submissions to ginosko.submittable.com/submit/. Why not take one of these many opportunities in our area to work on your poetry during this National Poetry Month, even do a little submitting? And remember—the Snakes of Medusa are always hungry!

—Medusa (Celebrate National Poetry Month!)

 2019 National Poetry Month Poster

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.