where is e.e. when we need him?

e.e. cummings, 1894-1962

e. e. isn’t coming to your rescue
—Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA

e. e. cummings
Isn’t coming
To your
Poetic rescue.
He’s not a muse to you
Nor would he likely
Choose
To be one
When you are
Turned upside down
Searching for
The verb
Or noun
With which to
Fill a line
The one that
Fits in perfectly
As though from
The Divine!
e. e. isn’t coming
To your rescue.

You have to write it
On your own
You have to sweat
And rack your bones
Sensitive to undertones
Of words
That drift off sideways
Into innuendo
You didn’t intend, Oh!
How hard it is
To get it right
In the middle
Of a writer’s night.
And e. e. isn’t coming
To your rescue!

_________________

Our thanks to J.N. for helping us celebrate the writing of poetry! For more about e.e. cummings, go to www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/e-e-cummings/.

Two road trips in poetry in our area today: Joseph reminds us how active the Modesto-Stanislaus Poetry Center is, and they have a fundraiser this afternoon at the Barkin’ Dog Grill on 11th St. in Modesto, 2-5pm. And heading the opposite direction, Yuba Sutter Arts will present five readers this afternoon at the Burrows Theater in Marysville, 2pm, including Ladies of the Knight poet Angela James. 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!)

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 Memory of Stars

Tractor, near Ripon, CA

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

Like the green of the pine trees in the rain.
Like finches outside the closed window.
Or watching the moon wax larger,
A little more every night until she is full.
Like the owls hooting in the darkness.
Life in my valley is lovely,
To both the eye and the heart.
And soon tomorrow will become today
Again. Rest well, friend.

 Tractor, near Knights Landing, CA

My old house is framed with color
As the bright orange leaves drift down
In the light wind and soft rain.
A wet afternoon on November,
Looking up in the drizzle.

 Tractor, near Walnut Grove, CA

In their world, I suppose am a poor man, but not in my world; in my world I am wealthy. I have my life, my family, and a home. People love me and I love them. Money is nothing.

__________________

I was a basket of whiskers,
A ball of regret. The Dharma,
When I found it, was a fresh shave
And a long toss of the ball.
(I never looked for that ball again;
Perhaps a fine young dog found it.)

 Tractor, near Winters, CA

It’s a ghost, it comes and goes at random times,
You cannot predict, and you cannot request.
Something will happen and I just know it is there.

It might be with me when I sleep
Or when I take a walk where tall pines grow.
I am glad for the company.

The ghost of my son, checking in on me.

 Tractor, restored 1948 John Deere, Sacramento, CA

 

They say when you see starlight,
That those stars are already dead,
And have been for millions of years.
2:30 am, the Sacramento Valley,
The night air is smokey, murky.
A forest fire rages 100 miles to the north
And the smoke has blanketed my valley.
Looking up, I can see the memory
Of a couple of determined stars
Peek out at me. The universe goes on.
Stars can die out and forests can burn
But we do go on. Being alive
Is like turning the pages in a book.
Just keep on reading, friend.
The end will come soon enough.

______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

The day is beautiful, it gives us a place to enter the light. Likewise with the night and the darkness. In the balance of this cycle, we grow and we love.

—James Lee Jobe

______________________

Thank you, James Lee Jobe, for your fine wake-up call here in the Kitchen this morning!

A reminder that this Sunday, Apr. 14, midnight, is the deadline for the 10th annual Art Where Wild Things Are contest for nature-themed works in all visual art media: paintings, drawings, sculpture, fiber art and photography, hosted by Sacramento Fine Arts Center. Info and to enter online: www.sacfinearts.org and click on the “Art Show Entry” link on the right, then on the "Prospectus" link in the center, under the drawing.

The 15th Annual Voices of Lincoln Poetry Contest is now open for submissions, deadline July 20. Entry forms/contest rules are available at www.libraryatlincoln.org; see Voices of Lincoln Poetry Contest in the blue box on the right; for questions, contact Alan Lowe at slolowe@icloud.com.

While you’re thinking of submissions, it has been announced that the deadline for Sac. Poetry Center’s 2020 issue of their annual journal, Tule Review, is July 31. Go to spcsacramentopoetrycenter.submittable.com/submit/.

Tonight from 5-8pm, Sac. Poetry Center presents the Second Sat. Art Reception for “Shift”, the work of Stephanie Smith. 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 Bethanie Humphreys’ new chapbook, Dendrochronology, is available for pre-orders at Finishing Line Press: go to www.finishinglinepress.com/product/dendrochronology-by-bethanie-humphreys/.

—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.

All Hands on Deck!

Norman J. Olson, Maplewood, MN

—Poems, Photos and Original Artwork by Norman J. Olson
 

at Loew’s Hotel in Santa Monica

flunkies in white…
pacific breeze cool
like ice
melting in a McDonald’s
soda cup…
a world of echoes
and turquoise water
touching the spoiled
thighs and skinny
asses
of those on whom
the lucky god
has smiled…

santa monica beach

palm trees on stilts
walk along the
beach…

beggars in piles of rags
and shopping bags
live in the alleys and
locked doorways…
their rocking bodies and
crazy voices
raise questions of
medicine, politics
and
ethics…

a feathery contrail
drifts above the lemon
sun like the hand
of somebody’s
serene
unworried
god…
 

whose hand is this veined and wrinkled claw?

still…  my brain seems
to be
a timeless seagull
riding waves of fresh
Pacific air…  above
a sinking sun
beneath a bone white
half
moon…  where the
sky is blue as angel’s hair…

on the bus ride from Marco Polo Airport to Mestre

above flowers and
green ditches,
concrete buildings moldering,
I saw the spires and roof tops
of Venice through
a misty rain…  riding
the five-Euro bus
from VCE to the Mestre
bus station…  later walking,
lost, the
Italian rain
felt warm
after Minnesota and
ten hours
on the airplane…  I wondered
if Titian ever walked
here, back when it was
a farm field, maybe, or
a dirt road…  and marveled
at the gray-white light reflected
through thinly painted
trees… 

I worry about Vesuvius

65 feet up from the sea
on the deck
of a huge cruise ship… which was
like a
chandelier grown monstrously
big…  I watched the volcano
near Stromboli twice
blow fire and sparks
into the clouds…  the expert
said this volcano had been
continuously
erupting all through
recorded history…  but
of course, that is just
an eye blink
to a volcano…

storm near Madera in the Atlantic Ocean

the huge ship with its
cargo of
aging legs, skinny
asses and tuxedos rolled
like the whole world had
come unglued…  I sat on deck
three and watched the
giant waves looking, yes, just
like enormous saw teeth
turned upside down…
the old Australian guy confided
to me that he had just
had “a bit of a chuck…” but
I chewed 
another anti-seasickness tablet
and headed for the
buffet…

 

almost across the Atlantic

two days out of Fort Lauderdale,
we saw a cruise ship
in the distance
like a goblet of frozen lights in the blackness
of the ocean night… 
later from the back of the ship,
the moon came out,
round as any balloon,
and stepped with
slippers of light
across the turquoise path
of the ship’s wake…

driving across Alabama

after a month out
of the USA, driving from FLL
to MEM in the middle of the
night, it was good to
see familiar lights
and advertising signs…  even
McDonald’s…  I stopped and
got a soda…

the only rental car available
was a huge Mercury…  so I drove
while the others slept
and thought how American
is this, driving an enormous,
poorly engineered gas
guzzler
through the warm woodsmoke
of an Alabama night…  contentment
sitting in
my fat American
belly like a Moon Pie
and two Big Macs…

Today’s LittleNip:

birthday poem
—norman j. olson

in the hotel window
I see thinning grey hair
cropped short
and fading green/blue
eyes…

 Norman w/Self-Portraits

Welcome to the Kitchen to artist/poet/travel writer Norman J. Olson, who writes:  I am a 71-year-old small press poet and non-commercial artist who published my first poem in 1984 after many years of regular submission and rejection. I have now published hundreds of poems and artworks all over the world...  my one and only book of poetry, Forty-Four Image Poems, published by Urtica, 2018 (French poet and editor Walter Ruhlmann in English), is available at: www.lulu.com/shop/norman-j-olson/forty-four-image-poems/paperback/product-23723310.html/. My website is normanjolson.com, and see also a blog by Cristina Deptula, entitled Synchronized Chaos; some excerpts from that can be seen at: 

•••synchchaos.com/travel-vignette-from-norman-j-olson-2
•••synchchaos.com/travel-vignette-from-norman-j-olson

•••synchchaos.com/travel-vignettes-from-norman-j-olson

•••synchchaos.com/travel-vignettes-from-norman-olson

•••synchchaos.com/essay-from-norman-olson

•••synchchaos.com/travel-vignette-from-norman-olson

And you can see more of Norman's art at: www.facebook.com/norman.olson.12/media_set?set=a.104373629582355&type=3/.

Thanks again, Norman, and don’t be a stranger!

And don’t forget Sac. Poetry Center’s free MarieWriters Generative Writing Workshop on Friday's as well as Wednesdays through April, in honor of National Poetry Month. That's tonight at 6pm. 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!)

 All hands on deck—with Norman!

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.

Turkey Moon

—Poems and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA

MEMORY LANE

Alley flowers bright against the dark unknown; hollyhocks and pansies. Beyond, walls with doors all closed, keyholes calling for a magic key. One door leads to Grandmother’s cellar, forbidden place slumping into earth. I might catch a glimpse of Honey-Bear earth-lit with bear-knowledge slipping into dark. Scene remembered from a child’s book gone years ago. Quagmire of memories. Driving through town, I see an alley with trailing ivy; walkway behind a bungalow abutting weedy lot, daffodils blooming in spite of. Beyond lies the edge of possibility. Then I see the sign, PODIATRIST. Beyond, another sign: NO TRESPASS. The place is gone, locked in ice of the mind. My mother forgot almost everything, entering the unknown dark.

living flowers light
a path for the next footstep
where the bear might be

A STOLEN DAY?

You held out the carrot: Adventure.
We set out on a hike—just a short walk
through summer meadow lavish
with annual wildflower show: lupine,
paintbrush, columbine…. Far below,
thin line of snowmelt lake dissolving sky’s
blue. Along this creek, willow in thickets
not yet touched by autumn, beckoning
higher up the slopes. Willow bright
with song—maybe the elusive willow
flycatcher. Willow rooted in mountain,
locked in a green embrace.
Almost impenetrable. Not quicksand
but where’s the way out? You say,
don’t worry. But ego is a swindler: I can
find a way out of here. Distant thunder.
Dark clouds race for the summit,
thunder’s closer. Here’s a hike
to remember—if we reach our car.

RIDGETOP SCHOOL

They’ve redesigned the entrance, cut down trees, built more fences. But memory leads past the bungalows, down into woods. Spell of pine and cedar deepening the sky’s blue. The path has shifted, but it brings me to cedar-bark tepee—Nisenan? Imagine sleeping under that cedar where Raven perches, knowing I don’t belong. I walk around to the tepee’s entrance. What’s that? a wooden hobby horse for a very small child. Pioneer artifact? or product of someone’s power tools?

a horse to carry
a child’s imagination
across endless plains

BREATHING POEMS

Isn’t poetry-for-money like quicksand?
That’s what I thought when they offered us
money for poetry. Doesn’t money have strings?

The cost of paper and pens for writing poems,
of course. But fancy paper, fancy pens?
Who can write poetry that way? Don’t the best

verses come when you don’t even have
a scratch pad, or your hands are occupied with
steering the car? Isn’t poetry like breathing?

Just close our eyes and invoke metaphor;
transform quicksand to a sea of word-
sound-image. Swim. Don’t forget to breathe.

SPRING VISITATION
         a Zejel

Far out of sight, from down the swale,
flush out of March’s gloom and gale
and into spring still fresh and frail

as blossoms on the wild-plum bough—
a laughing giggle—who knows how?
unseen and subtle, shy somehow
but getting louder on the scale

of birdsong. Such a trilling thrill,
a gobble! bolder, climbing still
up through our trees, our pastured hill:
two hens, a tom—his splendid tail!

TURKEY MOON

Taking the slash pile apart, twig by branch
by lichened limb chain-sawed off the corpse
of a great live oak fallen in storm,
we found three fresh turkey eggs. Carefully
I placed some branches back over the pile.
We left as quietly as we could.
Next day, four eggs. I checked my guide:
8-12 eggs normal, up to 20.
She’s got a lot of laying left to do.
Incubation: 28 days, a whole moon-cycle.
By good fortune, the nest will thrive.
I’m wishing on a Turkey Moon.

Today’s LittleNip:

SPRING SURPRISE
—Taylor Graham

Under the pile of
brush we meant to dismantle—
three new turkey eggs!
It’s time to revise our plans
if we treasure wild turkeys.

___________________

Thank you to Taylor Graham for today’s poems and photos, as she skillfully works the recent Seed of the Week, Quicksand, into this morning’s offering. Count how many times she slipped it past us! And for more info on the zejel, go to www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/zejel-poetic-forms/.

Wellspring Women’s Writing Group meets today at 11:30am at Wellspring Women’s Center on 4th Av., and Chris Erickson is the featured reader at Poetry Unplugged tonight (plus open mic), 8pm, at Luna’s Cafe on 16th St. in Sac. 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!)

Click once to enlarge these
FUN TURKEY FACTS!

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.

Best Friends

Barkley and Poet
—Poems and Photos by Carol Louise Moon, Placerville, CA
 

FASTIDIOUS

The internet informs that
Miniature Pinschers are fastidious,
obsessive/compulsive—
a fact that bears out in my dog’s life.
He is a short hair; so am I.
He is fastidious, and I am
fascinated by this.

Barkley is a black and tan, miniature
Doberman with a pink tongue.
He looks fierce until observed
industriously licking the kitchen
floor with his little pink tongue.

He displays pride of ownership,
owning our bedroom with its
clean tile floor and soft green
quilted bed.

Does he know that, two
houses down, there’s a small dog
living in backyard dirt?

Be kind.  Don’t tell him.

 Barkley on vacay with his plaid suitcase

BARKLEY AND THE PLAID SUITCASE

A plaid suitcase holds his clean
blankets and two small sheets.
Beside this, a small container
of munchables, treats for when
he is his better self.

The clock on the wall ticks out
a steady beat as warm sun
cracks between curtains in
this blue motel room.

Inside a large crate there, he sits,
bedding dry and warm.  He
mulls over his many thoughts,
and sighs, peeking out the metal
crate door.

This strong-legged, perked-eared
little black dog used to be the
Alpha among people.  But now
the Second Beta, he sits quietly
being his better self, waiting for
the exercise hour on a sunny
deck or a green motel lawn.

Munchables (he can almost
taste) in a tight-lid plastic
container still sit beside his
plaid suitcase.  He’s done with
this vacation and wants to
go home to begin a vacation
of his own making.

 Captain Barkley

OUR GUARD DOG

Our guard dog sits by venetian doors
basking in taffy light, a fraction of the
light shining past the nursery.  His bark,
as if wind through gloved-muzzle,
would merely waft to the garden from
this balcony.  Below, the garden pin-
wheel near potted plants, the buttoned-
down shirt drying on the line are
witnesses to his vigilance in guarding
our napping toddler.

Our shepherd sniffles and snorts as if
guarding a cave entrance from the
intrusion of sunlight.  But look... the
garden hose, now a fountain, threatens
to flood our neighbor’s terraced yard. 
It has already washed away a weed pile,
uprooted poppies, and floated a baseball
glove.  Where will dog and toddler play
following this midday catastrophe?

________________________

IRISH WOLF HOUNDS

Grandpa tells me that these two
companions sitting on his front
porch have been around for
7,000 years.

He tells me that the green hills of
Ireland where they roamed for
centuries, no elk could survive.

He tells me that even the wolf
fought and lost battles with these
magnificent creatures.  Large with
wiry gray hair, a caveman-skull of
a dog’s head, long lumbering legs...

his Irish Wolf Hounds are his pride
and my amazement.

 Barkley wears his lifejacket in the dinghy with Carol Louise

IN CAUTIOUS TIMES

In times like these dark times, anxious
men and women of the land will pace.
Back and forth, and forth and back,
like the endless cogs of machinery.

To what the purpose, now?  We spoke,
believed the best of fellow man 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.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

THE BLACK PURSE
—Carol Louise Moon

black of little Blacky’s coat
black of morning coffee grounds
black of Blacky’s beady eyes
black hands of the kitchen clock;
black, the numbers ten and noon
black, the back of a napping dog
black, the purse which holds
     yellow bits of kibble for
Blacky, the waking, stretching dog

___________________

A big thank-you to Carol Louise Moon and Barkley today for these dog-gone fine poems and pix! 

Poetry event choices in our area today include Mary Mackey reading at the CSUS library, 3pm; Poetry Off-the-Shelves poetry read-around at the Placerville library on Fair Lane in Placerville, 5pm; and MarieWriters free workshop at Sac. Poetry Center, 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!)

 Fashionista Barkley

—Photo by Carol Louise Moon

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.

Like a Breathing

Sand Painting

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

ON THE BEACH ALONE
(Long Beach, CA, 1939)

I am following the long stretch of shoreline;
the sun is going down; strips of seaweed
lie along the wet sand, left by low tide.

A few last seagulls circle in mauve twilight.
The sunbathers and swimmers have gone home.
I am on the darkening beach alone—

stumbling in heavy sand the slow mile back
to where I turn in—past the small rental cabins,
up the one small block—to 39 Mermaid Place.

I have been gone since just after breakfast.
My mother is home, scolding at the sand I track
all over the thin blue rug and the scarred linoleum.

After supper, I fall asleep on the floor,
curled up in front of the small gas heater—
too chilled to get warm.

One loud block away,
I can hear the surf—feel its power—
dream I can swim.

                                                 
Poets’ Forum Magazine, Spring 2000 (Challenge: Epiphany)
Chapbook: A Sense Of Melancholy, Rattlesnake Press, 2004

 Boardwalks

DREAM OF RUNNING

There is the boat lapping at the shore
softly bumping and thumping against the sand,
the small wooden boat we need to escape in.
We are running toward it as fast as we can
but the dream is heavy
and tangled with jungle vines and
there is breathing behind us, close as our ear.
And we are afraid we have lost the way,
but at once we see the beach, soft in the moonlight
suddenly before us, lying cool and deep,
with silvery light upon it, waiting for our footprint
and we know we can make it.
And there is the small boat rocking like a cradle.
We want to be in it pushing out over the water
snuggling against its round sides in the moonlight
looking up at the stars
feeling the cool night on our flushed faces
easing down into gentle breathing while we ride.
And now we are running across the sand
but so terribly slowly
a force is pushing against our chests
our arms make swimming motions through air
pulling distance toward us, pulling our bodies forward
and the small boat is patiently rocking.

(first pub. in Voices International, 1992)

 Sunrise

TURN OF SEASON

I wake and find the morning not in tune,
a cold wind humming and a band of sun
fading across the east, too thin, too far,

some ragged bird-cry caught against the window
just as it flashes by, forewarned of nothing;
the winter leaf I always watch for, fallen—

done for, simply fallen, and the air
gone silent for it—just one breath of silence
before some new sound that the wind remits

decides to suffer to its farthest pitch
and in stubborn grief, give up  its long-held wailing,
just like a voice I’ve heard before—my own.

Did night do this to me—no thought forgiven?
Oh, how begin another day like this!

 Quick

TIDE TURNINGS
(after “Riptide” by Heidy Steidmeyer, Poetry, 1999)

All that is grim, caught here on this long and shining beach in
the warping moonlight—vague things gleaming in the distance;

a bird wing caught in the sand; the small look of something
made of string; the curve of the wet land where it goes on and

on past the following night; the old deliberate way you
glide along the water’s edge until you feel yourself disappear—

and why does it always seem at once so far away and so near—
as if time and distance can be traveled simultaneously.

__________________

CONCERNS

swimming into the mouth
          of locked water
                   a young whale

                            finding the
                                 shallow beach
                            at the end

                   and rocking itself
          to death
against our helplessness


(first pub. in Parting Gifts, 1997)

__________________

TIDAL

Look what the sea has done—those shadow lines
light touched and cast into striate patterns
for the relentless winds to worry

and try to change. But the persistent sea
will return and change it all again—
will suck away the trace

of all other touchings. This is mine, claims the sea,
and it will return again and again
to wrinkle the sand with

its ebbing, for always it must draw back
into its great heaving self—
like a breathing.

                                           
(first pub. in Hidden Oak, 2005)

 Desert Art

WE CATCH THE BALL OF LIGHT       

We catch the ball of light
under the twelve stars
of some mysterious sky-symbol

and throw it to each other with
such skill that it shines in the air
leaving after-streaks of motion.

Blue was never this kind,
not even the soft blue of twilight,
not even the cool blue of dawn.

Auras of silver surround us,
guide us over the wet sands
by this phosphorescent ocean.

Whispers muffle around us—
those presences again.
Our hands are the

deliberate hands of dancers;
our bodies follow, and we
cannot be silent about our joy.

The hours have more measure
than the moments.
We know a moment of pure religion.

We are bodiless…   Sexless…
Mindless even…
in this simplicity of movement,

this participation
in the surreality of thought…
this fanciful abandon…   This play.

________________

WOMEN MOVING AMONG WOMEN

You see how it is—women moving among
women like a dance of loneliness—or like

a practice of memory when life was free and
no one guarded their secrets, which were pure,

when only the long blue sands of twilight
would remember their dance. The reaching sea

would try to belong—but it too would leave them,
pulling at them to follow, or let go. The white gulls

would turn silver and vanish, leaving their threading
shapes in the turbulent air. The women would try

to forget those cries and emulate that grace;
the sands would cover-over as the sun lowered

and erased everything but this memory of women
moving among women in a dance of loneliness.

 The World Over

ENDINGS

1. 
This is where we take the different ending :
the walk on the beach
in that peculiar light—
the sea immense and lonely.
“Oh,” you protest,
“we can’t say the sea is lonely.”

2.
This is where we take the delicate ending :
the walk on the particular beach
at a particular time,
approaching some object
made of dark light
that seems to be moving.
When we near it,
it is the disheveled doll
left by our childhood
that seems to remember us,
for we pick it up and hold it.
It is so cold and wet and
featureless. It gasps like a kitten, and expires.

3.
This is where we take the difficult ending :
walking the roiling beach in winter light,
leaving the doll behind.
The sea rocks and moans over the doll,
retrieving it in its foaming arms.

4.
This is where we take the desperate ending :
You look back and tell me
what you see.
I don’t look back.
I am watching a seagull swooping and crying
into the sea’s defining loneliness.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

FROM MY ALBUM OF THOUGHTS
—Joyce Odam

As far as memory’s reach . . .
strolling summer’s moon-lit beach
again.

____________________

So many thanks for this poetry and artwork today from Joyce Odam, as she explores our Seed of the Week, Quicksand—the quicksand of memories and dreams and all sorts of metaphors that can be found in her work.

Our new Seed of the Week is "Nesting". 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.

Cold River Press has released its book of poetry by the Tough Old Broads Victoria Dalkey, Kathryn Hohlwein, Viola Weinberg Spencer and Annie Menebroker. Called Tough Enough, it’s now available at the Cold River website (www.coldriverpress.com), or at the Sunday, April 28 reading which will be held from 1-4pm at Harlow’s, 2708 J St., Sac. In addition to Victoria Dalkey, Kathryn Hohlwein and Viola Weinberg Spencer, Sue Menebroker McElligott will be on hand to read some of her mother, Annie's, work—plus there are some pretty cool extras that will be announced shortly. Host: Cold River Press, with Traci Gourdine as the Emcee.

Speaking of Cold River Press, deadline to submit work to the 2019 edition of Sacramento Voices is June 30. Check the website for details (www.coldriverpress.com).

In the mood for a road trip tonight? Second Tuesday at the Barkin’ Dog will present poetry from the 16 Rivers Poetry Collective, plus open mic, beginning at 6pm at the Barkin’ Dog, 940 11th St., Modesto, sponsored by MoSt (Modesto-Stanislaus Poetry Center, www.mostpoetry.org/event/second-tuesday-barkin-dog-4-2019). 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!)

  

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.

Butterflies , Spider-Plants , and Other Forms of Sex

—Photos by Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

JOHNSON’S LAKE, ILLINOIS
—Kevin Jones, Elk Grove, CA

State couldn't
Open it as a park.
They'd found
Quicksand.

Uncle Eddie
Went to
Check it out.

Said it didn't
Meet his needs:
Was actually
Pretty slow.

SPIDER-PLANT BLOSSOM’S
ODE TO BEES
—Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA

After a long winter’s dormancy,
Bursting out into heat,
My spider-plant is eager
To crawl up a wall.

“When shall we meet?”
Its flower says to bees.
“I am waiting here for you
And will be
My most Complete
When we do!

I’m waiting for your
Buzzing song,
A tune of Spring
That lively brings.

Please don’t be long.
Otherwise,
I’ll fear my fate:
To pollinate
Too late!”

__________________

THE BEAUTY OF SPRING
—Joseph Nolan
I see
Tiny, green leaves
Push flowers from trees;
Pink petals
Fall to the ground.

Cats come out
To sun themselves;
There are smiles
All around.

The sunlight falls
So gently,
Not strong enough
Yet, to burn,

We reach outside
Our orbits of fear,
Of cold
That shut us in,

Out into love,
Into joy and
Out into play,
And into rebirth,
My dear!

GROWING SO MUCH MORE,
DAY-TO-DAY
—Joseph Nolan

Maybe I’m fucked-up
But I don’t know why?
Maybe I’m lost to reason
And I shouldn’t try?

I see my own reflection
In windows,
As I pass by.
I wonder where I’m going,
And I wonder why?

In these days, is it easy,
To just simply be?
Or has it become
Complicated:
Too many nuts
Upon the tree?

Maybe we’re too sensitive?
Too easily in pain,
Too eager to be victims,
Too easy to cry, “Rain!”

Raining on our picnics
Raining on our parades
Raining on our sunglasses
We like to call our “shades”?

It seems we’re on the outside
Of our communities,
By the score:
Totally alienated
And growing so,
Much More
Day-to-day.

___________________

CASTLES ARE FOR KILLERS
—Joseph Nolan

I shun castles.
Castles are for killers:
Cold-blooded,
Bloodthirsty killers.

Talk about walls?
Castles are all
About walls.

How could you get
Any sleep at all
Inside an
Old, cold castle?

I think I’d
Rather wrestle
With a 'gator,

And tell the
Royals living there,
“See ya later!”

A BOX OF FITTING PIECES
—Caschwa

Where a large jigsaw puzzle is missing even
one piece, the hollow of the Grand Canyon
imposes its enormous emptiness, replete with
breathtaking descents of up to a mile, switchback
trails, reliance on sure-footed mules, the treasure
of one, small, sip of fresh, spring water.

And so it goes also when a speaker or writer
composes a thought where one key word is
locked out or blocked out, because the memory
just can’t retrieve all the names, vocabulary,
meanings, and correct spellings needed to
complete every thought.

Some people may have a box to harbor stray
jigsaw puzzle pieces. One can pair that with
the flashcard concept to concoct a “box” for
storing some of those terms that just disappear
when most needed. Here is mine, for example:

chaparral, Condoleezza, filibuster, actuary,
copasetic, electrolytes, gerrymander, parlay,
provincial, ricochet, silhouette, hyperbole, Don
Rickles, Tasmanian devil, 4-corners states
(Utah/Colorado/Arizona/New Mexico).

Each person’s own box of missing puzzle pieces
will likely look far different than mine or anyone
else’s. Try if you wish, and have fun!

SCORECARD
—Caschwa

Growth is essential for business
            Good for mental acuity
            Good for moral compass
            Good for muscle fitness
                       Bad for toxic mold
                       Bad for cancer
                       Bad for tumors
                       Bad for crime statistics
                       Bad for rips in fabrics
                       Bad for debt balance
                       Bad for pollution
                       Bad for cataracts
                       Bad for structural fatigue
                       Bad for sink holes
                       Bad for strength of undertow
                       Bad for infestations

___________________

FIRST CHAIR
—Caschwa

A very tight ensemble, conducted by
Dr. Synchropath, eminent modulation
specialist known for losing his key
centers in odd places only to have them
light your fire when you least expect.

Sitting first chair trombone is none other
than Dorothy from the Land of Oz. One
day she mistakenly entered the set for the
Land of Uz, and was so overtaken by the
scenery she fell asleep on the Jōb.

The music opens with a fanfare for the
common denominator, melting like cheese
inside all those taco trucks on every corner.
Much thanks to our top-notch studio mixer,
which uses a somewhat different design than
the one your mother uses in the kitchen.

Wishing all’s well that ends, well, “I’m thinking
about it,” said Mr. Benny. 

SO CLEAN
—Caschwa

We know what a problem it is getting
that perfect shine on dishware, flatware,
and cookware, so we resolved to only buy
the “Original Sin” line of products, since
each piece carries a lifetime guaranty
that perfect cleanliness is not possible,
so it is okay to just rinse and reuse, and
not sweat it.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

THE GREAT ESCAPE
—Caschwa

Haiku prisoner
desperately
                    tunneling
at last, a                             break-out!

____________________

Thanks and more thanks to today’s contributors; spring seems to be creeping through the doors, and windows, despite the rain!

Red Fox Underground will be reading in mid-June at Sac. Poetry Center. Some of you may remember founding member Brigit Truex, who moved far away several years ago. She has remained active in the arts, though, and sends a website address where we can keep up with all her projects, including a new book about our local Wakamatsu Farm, Sierra Silk. See booksandsuchbybrigittruex.wordpress.com/.

Poetry in our area begins tonight at 7:30pm at Sac. Poetry Center, with Brad Buchanan reading from his new book, The Scars Aligned, plus open mic. Then Tuesday, travel down to Modesto for Second Tuesday at the Barkin’ Dog, featuring readers from the 16 Rivers Poetry Collective plus open mic, starting at 6pm. On Wednesday, Poetry Off-the-Shelves meets at 5pm at the El Dorado County Library’s main branch in Placerville.

SPC workshops this week include Tuesday Night Workshop for critiquing of poems at the Hart Center (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 for writing poems, 6-8pm on both Wednesday and Friday nights through April. There will also be a Wellspring Women’s Workshop this Thursday at 11:30am at 3414 4th Av. in Sacramento.

Also on Thursday, Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe and Juice Bar will feature Chris Erickson plus open mic, 8pm. On Saturday, Sac. Poetry Center’s Second Sat. Art Reception will feature “Shift” with the artwork of Stephanie Smith, 5-8pm. And back to Modesto to the Barkin’ Dog on Sunday from 2-5pm for the MoSt (Modesto-Stanislaus Poetry Center) Annual Benefit. Info, including how the money will be allocated: www.mostpoetry.org/event/sixth-annual-benefit-gala/. 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!)

 Did someone say sex?
—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.