Voices of Autumn

Snake & Jack

—Photo by Katy Brown, Davis, CA

HEARD THAT
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

Is that the sound of squirrels on the
roof, or some dry leaves shuffling?
ah, squirrels don’t crackle
when something touches them

a small, lonely rock wreaks havoc
in the metal rain gutter, its pings
manipulated by the wind like a
kite without a tail

now there is distinct pitter patter,
the banter of a pair of squirrels
along with that crackle and ping:
a test kitchen for the senses

encouraging and enabling different
sources of sounds to join together
more in conspiracy than in harmony;
will such a recipe get good reviews? 

 Smiling One-eyed Jack

—Photo by Katy Brown

SOME PEOPLE… 

…have a natural talent
for singing or dancing
I failed those tests badly
my temper turned madly
give them one gold star

…remember without trying
no rote repetition
memory photographic
clear road for mental traffic
give them two gold stars

…keep long lists in their heads
continually adjusting priorities
masterminds of law and order
aware of what’s across the border
give them three gold stars

…seem to know just what to say
when and how to say it
without upsetting tender hearts
or bruising egos of sassy old farts
give them four gold stars

…so want to believe
what a candidate says
expecting rewards for truth
like for a dear baby tooth
sorry, no more gold


—Caschwa

 Alas, Poor Jack!
 

DO SOMETHING!
—Caschwa

Some folks have the
quite irritating habit of
reminding everyone
far too often that
“We are a nation of laws.”

Big deal!!

Tell that to the victims of
motorists who routinely
ignore posted traffic safety
laws

Tell that to the survivors
of victims killed by all kinds
of violent, illegal means

Tell that to all the convicts
who get a warmer welcome
from their prison family than
from any relations they have
on the outside

Tell that to the vast majority
of people who are not in line
to be enriched by the publishing
and sales of law books, the
building and management of
prisons and law libraries, or the
campaign funds of “law and
order” candidates

We have been a whole world
of laws since at least biblical
times, so being just one nation
of laws is really nothing to brag
about.

Do something!

 Jack With Cats

—Photo by Katy Brown 
 

FIRST REIGN
—Caschwa 
 
Years and years of
intensive practice had
finally paid off

the most deserving
rookie pitcher in the
league was given the
chance to take the
mound and show off
his tremendous skills

something did look a
little out of place, though

there was no rosin bag,
the catcher was wearing
a gas mask, and there
were a bunch of little
insects crawling among
the cleats…

 Jack-in-the-Tree

—Photo by Katy Brown

DENIED ACCESS
—Caschwa

They were just kids in
junior high school that
I taught some 40 years
ago in South Central
Los Angeles

lurking in urban alleyways
silenced by ricochets
terrorized in light of day
didn’t know another way

often wearing too much lotion
some had never seen the ocean
the hiss of asphalt muffles their screams
no country roads, just metal I-beams

and today those kids are old
enough to daily receive mail
asking them to prepare for their
final arrangements

quiz on Friday 

 —Photos of "Headstones" in Sac. Near 40th & J Streets

by Michelle Kunert, Sacramento, CA

AUTUMN SOUNDS
—Joseph Nolan

Autumn wears the sounds of leaves—
Autumn, hear we, rustling,
The sounds of colors, crunching!

On windy days, blown down the streets,
Leaves in piles, to children greet,
To fly into a pile!
And toss them to the sky!

From yellow, gold and red—
To brown—
Losing blush, their tones go down,
As they’re blown around
Our ancient town.

Tell me, where do colors go
When Winter wears the Earth in snow
And leaves cannot be seen?
Does Winter know it’s mean?

Tell me, what would colors say
If Winter would not have its way
To bury them in white?

Leave me where the colors flow
Upon the ground
That loves them so!
But lets them blow away.

 —Photo by Michelle Kunert

THE NEED FOR EVIL TWINS
—Joseph Nolan

Evil twins are much in need:
Clones, just like us
To test out all alternatives.
Do your vitamins really work?
No way to know for sure
Without an evil twin
On whom to test the alternative circumstance.

But it’s not just vitamins,
It could be the second piece of cheesecake.
Wouldn’t you like to know how that might turn out?
Test it on your evil twin!

No need to worry.
E.T’s are very cooperative,
Just like little brothers.
They will eat, drink or otherwise
Consume any potential matter in question
Without objection.

So, if you are wondering
What your hangover would feel like
After that second bottle of wine,
Let your E.T. drink it.
You can ask him the next morning
And save yourself the headache.

 —Photo by Michelle Kunert

SILENT WHISPERS
—Joseph Nolan

She whispers softly,
So softly that
Her whispers
Can’t be heard.
Not a single word.

She knows not
How to shout
OUT LOUD!

Such sound
Is not given
Permission.

Were it so,
There are some
Private things
You might
Come to know,

Rather not, though,
I think you’d
Rather not know
Of such sad things
That scream in rage,
That happened
Long ago. 

 —Photo by Michelle Kunert

WARRIOR REHAB
—Joseph Nolan

We’re sending
Our ruined warriors
Off to Happy Camp

To retrieve their
Dispositions,
So foul, gone sour,

From fighting
In a dirty war
With no justification,

Thus, burdened by guilt,
Shame and grief,

They’ve turned
To drugs and drink
To overcome their training,
As though they were still human,
And relearn how to think.

They’ll practice meditation
And watch the charging thoughts
Raging through their minds,
Like madmen turned
Against the world
And all those around them.

And after many years,
They might come back again. 

 —Photo by Michelle Kunert

RECOVERY FROM GRIEF
—Joseph Nolan

Dangle your fine sleeves
Gently to the sides.
You need to catch the breeze
To clear the sand from eyes,

Eyes, too long gone,
Gone off, sleeping,
Recovering from weeping!
After your dear one died.

Take as long as you need!

Sorrow and grief
Demand a time to heed
Slowly, and slowly,
Slowly bleeding,
From a broken heart.

Life is a work of art.
Paint it with dark colors
To reflect shadows,
Slipped sideways
Over love,
Fallen apart. 

 Jack at Jenny's Giant Hamburger

—Photo by Katy Brown

Today’s LittleNip:

ADHD AT ATM
—Caschwa

Just give me the cash,
don’t waste my time
messing around with
codes and passwords!

___________________

Lots of poems and lots of nifty pictures today, and our thanks to our intrepid contributors for those, as we struggle into last year's costumes for this spooky time of year.

Tonight at 6pm, Poetry in Motion read-around will meet in the lobby of the Placerville Sr. Center on Spring Street in Placerville. Then at 7:30pm, Sacramento Poetry Center features excerpts from the Fire and Rain: Ecopoetry of California anthology, featuring readers Joshua McKinney, Susan Kelly-DeWitt, Tom Goff, Chris Olander, Stephen Meadows, Lucille Lang Day, E.K. Cooper plus open mic. And on Friday at 7pm, Writer’s and Poet’s Cafe features Jeanine Stevens, Ed Cole, and Donna Fado-Ivery plus open mic at St. Mark’s Methodist Church on St. Mark’s Way behind County Club Plaza in the north area of Sacramento. 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.

Interested in workshops? Check the green box at the right for a listing of local ones which will be held this week and/or later.

—Medusa, celebrating the season of Paul Ter-gist and other spirits!

 —Anonymous Artwork

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.

Hauntings

—Anonymous

THE HAUNTER
—Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)

He does not think that I haunt here nightly:
How shall I let him know
That whither his fancy sets him wandering
I, too, alertly go?—
Hover and hover a few feet from him
Just as I used to do,
But cannot answer the words he lifts me—
Only listen thereto!

When I could answer he did not say them:
When I could let him know
How I would like to join in his journeys
Seldom he wished to go.
Now that he goes and wants me with him
More than he used to do,
Never he sees my faithful phantom
Though he speaks thereto.

Yes, I companion him to places
Only dreamers know,
Where the shy hares print long paces,
Where the night rooks go;
Into old aisles where the past is all to him,
Close as his shade can do,
Always lacking the power to call to him,
Near as I reach thereto!

What a good haunter I am, O tell him,
Quickly make him know
If he but sigh since my loss befell him
Straight to his side I go.
Tell him a faithful one is doing
All that love can do
Still that his path may be worth pursuing,
And to bring peace thereto.

____________________

Such a sad poem: the loved one still by his side, but he doesn’t know it. Our thanks to Thomas Hardy for an interesting twist on the seasonal theme of ghostliness.

Today from 10am-12pm is the Fall Wakamatsu Poetry Workshop at Wakamatsu Farm in Placerville, facilitated by Taylor Graham and Katy Brown, and sponsored by American River Conservancy. Info is at www.arconservancy.org/event/capturing-wakamatsu-a-poetry-walk-workshop-2/, and I’m told you can just show up, too! Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about this and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

For more about Thomas Hardy, go to www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/thomas-hardy/. To hear it read, see www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-haunter/.

—Medusa, celebrating poets of the past ~ and ghosts of the present!

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.

Dreams With Milk & Honey

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

Dreams and trees, dreams with milk and honey. The scythe slicing through silk, through wheat, and through all unreasonable expectations. Silver and gold, filtered with rubies and the wetness of love, filtered with diamonds. The smells and flavors of sex. The smells and flavors of a life together. These are the ways that the humans find themselves, the ways that they find each other. Night is here, night and silence, and now they might hold one another until day returns, and in that embrace is courage.

Down here, it's very deep and thick, and covered with rock and stone. The digging takes years, perhaps a lifetime, and parts of a person are often lost along the way. It's dangerous this far below, but somewhere down here is a measure of truth, just a bit of real honesty, and if it takes some work and a wound or two to reach that truth, that's not too high of a price to pay. Stone to the left and stone to the right. Darkness and rock. And only the strength of one human heart to rely upon. 

Beautiful and perfect; those flowers on my cactus that live for just one day. They bloom with color and glory, as magnificent as life, if only for a short while. And I stand there marveling at the sight, wondering why it is that the cactus flowers move me like no other, more than roses, more than lilies, when it dawns on me that they are all the more lovely because they will die so soon. How human of them.

________________

The sun has once again slipped away into the west, somewhere toward the ocean. The house is empty and still. I light the incense and say the words. Within moments I settle down into my own emptiness. Evening zazen.

So it has come to this; the last bee alive on earth. Watch as I turn my hand in the air and the bee follows it. A flowing motion for both of us. Watch as I lean in close, as if to speak to the bee, but say nothing as my mind is a blank. What does one say to the final bee? Summer. The day is very hot, over 100 degrees. I turn to go back into my house, and the last bee follows me like a happy dog. Perhaps I’ll call him Lewis.

Your grandparents went first. Then your father. Maybe one grandparent outlived your father just a little, and so felt that extra bit of suffering. And your mom. Your favorite uncle, the one you could talk to. Then before your knew it, that entire generation was gone. All of their friends. The older neighbors. Dead. Every last one of them. Death, spreading like black mold in an old mildewed house. And so you became the older generation. Who is that in the mirror? Is that really you? You move slower, you think slower. It doesn't matter anymore which way you walk, the mold is spreading there already. And then one day that son of a bitch comes for you, too. What? You were expecting a fairy tale? Friend, I am not always here with good news.

_________________

Today’s LittleNip:

May compassion be part of our deepest nature. Let it rise from our interconnection with all things. And as our compassion rises, so let life begin anew, redeemed.

—James Lee Jobe

_________________

Our thanks to James Lee Jobe for today’s poems and pix with his usual mix of good news and bad news on this, the annual Sacramento Poetry Day! This official proclamation was made by then-Mayor Anne Rudin in 1986. To see Patrick Grizzell’s wonderful description of how it all came to be, go to www.facebook.com/patrick.grizzell/posts/10208638162724506/.

Black Women Tell Tales today at Writers on the Air, beginning at 9:30am, and featuring Stephanie Bray, Brenda Davis, Gladys Wilburn, and Geraldine Walker plus open mic at Sac. Poetry Center, hosted by Todd Boyd. Also in Sacramento today, starting at 2pm: Creative Minds spoken word gathering of artists of all kinds at GOS Art Gallery on Del Paso Blvd., is hosted by Gerry "Gos" Simpson and Straight Out Scribes. In Placerville from 2-4pm, it’s the Poetic License read-around at the Placerville Sr. Center lobby on Spring Street. The suggested topic for this month is "forgetfulness", but other subjects are also welcome.

Or head over to Stockton for the Flor y Canto Celebration of Poetry, Song and Dance at Haggin Museum on N. Pershing Avenue, hosted by Eleazar Caballero from 1:30-4pm. 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, celebrating the Flor y Canto of poetry!

 Evening Zazen

—Anonymous

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EIEIO

Autumn Trees
—EIEIO Poetry From the Missouri Group, The Merry Bombadils,

Courtesy of Carol Louise Moon, Placerville, CA
—Photos by Christopher Moon

FADING AUTUMN
—Teresa Klepac 
 
Ember of a sun amid faded summer trees—
I watch leaves in dervish swirl to the ground.
Every golden leaf tossed up by the breeze
igniting red and orange, dried up brown—
offerings rustle at my feet before a walk
to town. 

 Three Doors

WINTER WEAR
—Harold Asner

Each winter I start to go shopping.
I want to see what’s new at the mall. 

Early January, temperature’s dropping,
icy streets, and traffic’s a crawl.
Oh, I guess I’ll just shop next fall. 

2018 Eclipse of the Moon
 

SHE’S MISSING!
—Carol Louise Moon

Evidently, she didn’t wait . . .
inquires before the one-night stand,
encounters with men alone, the date
in Paris, the foreign cruise ship and
oh! the untraceable form in the sand.

__________________

ANY JULY 4TH
—Pat Laster

Ebbing fireworks on the Fourth
indicates the stash is spent.
Enigmatic: What’s the worth
in money wasted. Every cent!
Our pets are not at all content. 

 Hazel's Cafe

INVITATION
—Marie Asner

Each season invites a peaceful bliss
into hearts that hope one finally says,
“Enter and find a special kiss
inside this place with moonlit rays.
Oh, stay no more in hours, but days.”

__________________

Today's LittleNip:

The world is never the same once a good poem has been added to it.

—Dylan Thomas

__________________

Our thanks to Carol Louise Moon for rounding up some poems from The Merry Bombadils, a group of poets who writes EIEIO’s and sends them to each other for critiquing. There are five members, and they are from several states, but all belong to the Missouri State Poetry Society. Carol Louise “invented” the EIEIO, a five-line poetry form with rhyme scheme A,B,A,B,B. The first letters of lines 1 through 5 are E,I,E,I,O.

And thank you to Carol Louise’s brother, Chris Moon, for his fine photos! “Three Doors” is clever because the third door is implied. 

Today, it might not be too late to attend the Poetry Appreciation Class down at Hart Sr. Center on 27th & J Sts. in Sacramento at 1pm this afternoon, focusing on Edgar Allan Poe with Marie Taylor. Cost is $5; call 916-808-5462 to reg. Then tonight at 6:30pm, Bob Stanley hosts readers Eileen Malone, Kathleen McClung and Carol Lynn Stevenson Grellas at the Sac. Poetry Center in Sacramento. And at 7pm, also in Sacramento, at the Avid Reader on Broadway, Mary McGrath and Todd Boyd host Speak Up: The Art of Storytelling and Poetry, presenting poems and stories on the theme of “Ghosted”. 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, celebrating poetry between friends ~

Refugee from Old MacDonald’s Farm

(But don't let me give you a bum steer . . . )
—Anonymous Photo

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
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in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
 

Rooted in Dreams

—Poems and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA

DANCE AT THE SHADOW EDGE
Sunday by the schoolyard

Whoever put it here? Skeleton
in a safety vest (fluorescent green)
on patrol inside yellow caution tape—
construction zone
with a pit (I’d guess) six feet deep—

beyond sunshine on schoolyard play-
field. Imagine children running,
calling to each other at their games.
No school today. A girl
and her dog dance across the green. 

INHERITED ROOTS

Just a dream: you received a cyber-notice
of responsibility for a gigantic snarl of roots.
It covered acres, on earth deeded to your father
so many years ago. Your father—dead
three decades now—never said a thing about it.
You know nothing. How can you be responsible
for roots entwining soil somewhere you’ve
never even been?
Waking, you remember—at grade school,
bare as bones, the great roots of a tree exposed
like dragon toes dug into soil, holding up
a living tree—just a small tree—
so much of it growing underground.
The dream stays with you.
How can you respond? Pull the roots
out, destroy them? 

MORNING RUSH HOUR

Traffic on two-lane
but quiet on our hillside,
trees going nowhere,
rooted while reaching for sun.
Breeze writes its history of leaves. 

FREE AIR

Loki smells the vet’s office
long before I open the door; she wants
to stay in our little Honda, on wheels that spin us
far away. Feet on the ground, she turns-on
double-speed, circling, panting. Let’s get out
of here! She tucks her tail, shivers at leftover scent
of animal-fear—though she always calms
under the vet’s hand. She’s been left here before;
led by some stranger through the back exam-
room door, into the room of stainless cages.
Dogs and cats awaiting their fate.
Loki, whose heart’s desire is to know
the world entire, unleashed as wind in her lungs,
ever running. 

GOLDEN EYES WIDE OPEN

In our troubled times—
shootings and building collapse,
war, allies betrayed—
our cat gives what cats can give:
hovering presence, his purr. 

STONE MOUNTAIN UNDER MOON

In the woodstove, embers roast the evening.
Beyond, a dark hallway where dog and cat patrol—
cat maybe imagining rats underground
in a cage of ductwork and other secret organs
of the house; dog on guard with every sense,
listening for siren or coyote, sniffing for smoke
of fire gone wild. The Hunter’s Moon,
my favorite, comes fierce through the north
window, startling, aslant over petrified mountain.
Tonight, Moon’s reflected light will drain
into my dreams as dog and cat prowl the dark,
superheroes of a story I’ll never know. 

Today’s LittleNip:

AFTER OCTOBER RAIN
—Taylor Graham

All you little leaves
of grass, just keep on growing.
Before we know it
you’ll be tall and full and strong
and oh yes, I’ll be mowing.

_____________________

Taylor Graham brings us her usual fine poems and photos from life in the foothills, and we thank her for those! This coming Sunday from 10am-12pm, Taylor Graham and Katy Brown will lead the Fall Poetry Workshop at Wakamatsu Farm in Placerville, sponsored by American River Conservancy. Go to www.arconservancy.org/event/capturing-wakamatsu-a-poetry-walk-workshop-2 for info and to register.

As for tonight, in addition to Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe and Juice Bar at 8pm in Sacramento, Crocker Art Museum will present Open Poetry Night: In Tribute to painter/poet Frank LaPena at 7pm, including open mic. (Sign-ups at 6pm.) That’s at 216 O St. in Sacramento. 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, celebrating the poetry of the moon ~

 —Anonymous Photo of a Hunter's Moon
For more about the Hunter’s Moon, go to 

www.universetoday.com/61121/hunters-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.

Remembered

Sidewalk Over Water

—Poems and Paintings by Douglas Polk, Kearney, NE

LOST CREEK

August days seemed on fire,
oven hot,
the winds from the south,
tar bubbles between the slabs of concrete,
my friend and I
would sneak out to the creek,
not deep enough to swim,
we'd take off our shoes,
and tie them together
to hang on our necks,
socks stuck in the shoes,
trousers up to our knees,
we would wade in,
and walk downstream,
remembering to stay close enough to town
to hear the firehall whistle,
announcing twelve,
one, and five o'clock,
we'd play in the creek,
under shady, shady trees,
knowing our asses and dignity damaged
if we were ever caught,
the creek, a place for snakes,
and tramps,
a place forbidden,
especially in August weather,
the dog days, when snakes, supposedly blind,
Lost Creek,
we would lie on the bank,
waiting for any wetness to dry,
then make our way back to town,
complaining about the heat,
pretending our afternoon was
hot as ever.

 The Heroine

REMEMBERED

her smile remembered,
and her legs,
hot summer days,
and nights,
spent entwined,
my best memory,
her body,
and the little shiver,
at my first touch,
full of promise,
and passion,
and so much more.

 Old Windmill

THE WINDMILL

the windmill creaks and clangs,
water carried to the surface of the earth,
and out the pipe,
I take the tin cup from the nail,
behind the brace,
the water cold, and clear,
tasting pure
and sweet,
while the windmill continues its complaints,
working late into the afternoon.

 Blue Birds

CHANGING SEASONS

the Autumn chill,
tingles on the lungs,
birds gather overhead,
noisy with anticipation
as fall arrives,
horns heard in the distant morn,
marching bands practice
with thoughts on the fall nights,
and football,
and half-time shows,
change always a surprise,
how quickly the seasons come
and go,
and summer disappears forever.

 Pheasant

Today’s LittleNip:
 
A DAY WELL SPENT
—Douglas Polk

the day over,
my soul not betrayed,
can still look in the mirror
and not have to turn away,
so in some way,
the day’s a success,
even if it is only known,
to me and my soul.

____________________

Thank you! to Doug Polk for his fine poems and paintings today, all the way from, as he puts it, “the wilds of Nebraska”. Beautiful county that he captures in his art—both words and pictures and word-pictures. Welcome back to the Kitchen, Doug!

This just in: on Sunday, American River Conservancy will sponsor Taylor Graham and Katy Brown as they lead the Fall Poetry Workshop at Wakamatsu Farm in Placerville. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about this and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa, celebrating pictures in words and paint ~

 Cranes on the Platte

—Painting by Douglas Polk

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
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Time Is A Long Blue Shadow

Her Eyes
—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

PSYCHIATRIC TECHNICIAN:
HIS STORY

Now his madwoman still is mad in her jail,
scratching at eyes and sobbing, “I’m sorry,
I’m sorry, I’m sorry . . .”

But she made a cry one-day (when they had
to put her away again, in a room alone) that
he can’t forget.

“If I let you out,” he had to demand, “will
you do that again?”

“I won’t… I won’t… I won’t…” she
promised.

“And will you be good?” he asked her.

“Yes!  Yes!  Yes!” she answered.

So he let her out, and she scratched at eyes
again.

And he shows us his scratched arms and
his haunted eyes, and he ends his story,
shaking his head, “It was sad and funny . . .
funny and sad.”

Sibylline

IN CHINA THERE ARE NIGHTINGALES

In China there are nightingales,
or so they say,

that live in golden cages of emperors
and live obedient lives.

I heard of one who was mechanical,
perhaps to take the place

of one who could no longer sing
on cue—

and if the emperor knew the difference,
I don’t remember—

although something grieved him, that much
I can recall.

 Golden Kiss

SUBJECT MATTER

water
is glass,
imaged by night

night
is part glass
and part river

each night a small boat
drifts dreamward,
carrying its sole passenger

each night
the passenger
is prison to the dream

each night the depth
pulls the dream
downward

each night
the boat
is prison to the river

_______________

LICENSE TO LEAVE    

You have to become the door.
This house is not solid.
You may leave.

The walls will flutter down
like old rose petals.
The roof will lift off
like a hymn.

Your anxieties will no longer
matter to you . . .
open their cages . . .
let them fly from your possession.

Your house will dissolve
in your mind
like an old repetition
finally resisted.

The world is holding out
its carpet for you.
Time is a long blue shadow
that wavers ahead of you
in the brimming moonlight.


(first pub. in Mockingbird, 1999)

 Luv Red Roses

ONCE WHEN THE BIRDS       

Once
when the birds
were young as spring
before
they grew gray feathers
and their eyes went dim
they brought love to my window
in little diamonds of singing

That was the season of my joy

Now in
the loose cages
of the trees
the birds are older than
all reflective distances
their song is broken glass
the bloodless leaves turn gray
and are heavily falling

       
(first pub. in Broccoli, 1970)

 Thinking Back

WHAT I SEND FROM ME

Gone . . .
gone from
the prison
of my heart.

Now you belong
to air.
You take my sadness
in the beak of love.

There is a far tree
shimmering
in the mind.
Go there.

You will be feathered
in leaves
and learn to wear
the silence of my search.

O, do not sleep
in your deep eyes;
I gave you rivers to reflect
my coming . . .

O, never sleep
again
lest you awaken
where you were.

                 
(first pub. in Legend, 1973)

_______________

OF HUMAN CRIES

Lest I let my heart be broken by too many truths
my spirit sullied by lies of the soul
bewildered by my darkness’s

how let the terrible light be a blinding fact
to my groping—body is proof—
it gropes and limps

through years and centuries
forward and backward
into myths and superstitions—

native to nothing but Self—a nomad
of every homeless thought to bless the wondering
that cannot free the mind of murkiness

or clear the eyes from sadness and terror
in such a prison
as one can stay imprisoned in.

 Artiste

NOT QUITE SO
After Young Girl Writing at Her Desk with Birds
                     —Painting by Henriette Browne

Let not the cage
confine the thought, door open,
bird released, much like a poem, uncaught.

To trick the word, prepare another word.
Coax it. Let it surprise.
Say thank you.

Begin with daydream. Begin with stare.
Begin with pen raised over page.
Wait for page to rustle with excitement.

The page lies flat. Refuses. Songbird  
becomes Muse—pulls your attention
to its nearness—does not sing.

The cage hangs on the wall,
shares its emptiness with the quiet room.
Song waits. Poem waits. They will happen.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

UNDER THE SLOW BEGINNING OF THE RAIN
—Joyce Odam

Caged moment.  I lie like an invalid.
Sounds carry now and I am their listener.
The rooster in the cage crows just the same.
The sound is round.  I look through sound
and become hollow.  Fever must be like this.

____________________

Today Joyce Odam sends us poems about cages (our Seed of the Week), but also about sounds, and a big thank-you for that. Sometimes sounds get neglected in our poetry. Last Sunday I posted the John Clare poem which is packed full of autumn sounds and sound-words. Give it a try: Our new Seed of the Week is Autumn Sounds. 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.

—Medusa (“Sounds carry now and I am their listener.”)
 

 Young Girl Writing At Her Desk With Birds

—Painting by Henriette Browne

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.