Idylling With Dogs

—Photo by Taylor Graham

HOW TO LISTEN TO DREAMS
—Taylor Graham, Placerville

The old dog startles from sleep
on his cedar-bed. He grumbles low
in his throat, almost
a growl. What dreams woke him?
Nightmare is a closet shadow,
labyrinth, or your hand
groping for a splinter, foxtail, shard,
exploding rocks. Door-locks
have teeth. What terrors
dominate a dog's dreams? He has no
words but the flare in his eye.
You've had such dreams
refusing speech, and woken up
trying to grab the word
by the throat but it's escaped
between door and sill, clutching its
knife, its knowledge lost
on the journey to words. The old
dog gives chase,
disappearing into the dark.

____________________

IDYLL WITH SHEPHERD-DOG
—Taylor Graham

The sable puppy has discovered how much
larger the world than she imagined
in her first of spring. Released to nature,
her own—the one, unrepeatable life. Watch her
leap the low rock wall, flashing the white
of pantaloons as she careens
down the swale in search of her whole five
acres filled, today, with autumn, this
golden moment, the only time there is; alive
and hungry as a pasture of sheep.
She's ready to meet the next season,
a winter's snow; ewes fading into the dark
of their barn; the old ram,
agate eyes at the edge of her world.

____________________

NAMES ON THE WIND
—Taylor Graham

The wind warned us to stay inside.
It was snapping oak leaves off the trees,
sending them in swirls
past the windows too fast to read.
Each leaf had a name
unwritten. In the field, filaree and vetch
called green names. In shelter
of a great live-oak, the sheep chewed
their cud of remembrance. But
it was the wind that caught
our attention. We hung onto our
heads so they wouldn't blow away.
The names were just storm-
drift, heaping up in berms, filling up
the driveway; the room
a-swirl with unshoveled memory.

—Photo by Taylor Graham

CODY
—Carol Louise Moon, Sacramento

Cody is a stately dog,
heads-of-state stately
with head atop a giraffe's neck.
This double breed of yellow lab-
golden retriever does not retrieve
but casts his glance toward
a mudded toy rat thrown
to the garden corner.
The command to fetch,
run… move is unheeded
as his trembling legs tell of more
than hesitation. This terribly
timid dog licks my ankle,
distracting us from the task at hand.
A bird chirp from the neighbor's yard
startles him. He ducks behind me,
head lowered, ears cocked.

Through the patio window and into
the family den I see a portrait
of this stately dog, he head held
high and proud.

_____________________

OLD HUNTING DOG
—Carol Louise Moon

In the crisp days of autumn
hot breezes mute his distant bark,
the happy wanderer's song
of his canine heart.

The autumn hunt is on.  He'll be
padding his way back to me
with a drowned duck in his strong
jaw—or, maybe not.

His eyes, moist with vitality
will greet me from his trail.  Add
more to this great joy—I'll see
the wagging of his tail.

______________________

SOMEDAY SOLACE
—Carol Louise Moon

My old dog dreams himself to sleep,
soft hair of muted gray,
soft breath in autumn's day.
This thought of him I'll always keep
inside my slowing heart
and mind—set apart
for more last days, for when I weep.

_____________________

Today's LittleNip:

A lot of shelter dogs are mutts like me.

—Barack Obama

_____________________

—Medusa

 Bette

—Photo by Katy Brown

When You Need Wings

WHY I MAKE YOU TAKE PIANO LESSONS
              for Sam and Charlotte
—Lytton Bell, Sacramento

Because I cannot live forever, but need a way
to offer you comfort when you feel scared or sad or lonely;
in those lifting notes, I want you to feel my ghostly arms around you.

So that when life fails to seem beautiful, you can,
through the magic and strength and training of your own hands,
like the brightest rainbow after the fiercest storm, make beauty appear.

So that when your soul cries out for expression, you have a portal
through which your spirit can be born
wide-eyed into this world, and you will recognize—and claim it.

If you are at a boring party and don’t know anyone,
you can sit down at the piano and stun them all
until they love you unconditionally!

If you have to try out for a talent show, you never have to wonder:
What is my talent?  And do I even have one?
You do.

Because it makes you dream.  Because it makes you dare.
When you need wings, let the music you make carry you
as high as you desire to fly.

In life, nothing matters except what you create.
Create art.
Create joy.

There is birth; there is death—
and in-between those inevitable bookends
there is a wild cascade of ecstatic music!!!

Two people standing on the shore asked each other sadly: what does the water feel like?
Be the one who knows how the water feels, because you dove in!
Participate in the senses with your music.  Contribute your verse.

A whole world you can get lost in.
A world you choose, full of ambrosia and angels.
A world you construct, note by note, and that can heal not just you, but anyone listening.

Be heard.  I want to listen to you.
Through fear, through loss, no matter what is coming:
play, play your song.

_______________________

—Medusa

We Will Have to Dance

Women Smoking

THE LOSS: VETERANS DAY

The arcades throw long shadows
On the houses and walkways.
The golden note.
The purest throat of evening.

Hands gesturing.
Someone asks for a blanket.
The night is cold.
Someone else makes up
A song.

Oh, even more golden.
The moment has a wound
In its side.  We try to soothe
It with cool cloths and water.

You had asked me to come back.
I was afraid of almost everything
But the flowers along the walks
And even they had teeth.

Everything has changed now.
There are rows and rows
Of white stones along the hills.
Pretty, pretty, all close together.
The flags fluttering above all their boxes.

_______________________

THE POEM OF WATER

The story is unrepeatable.  It has no
Walls but dominates dreams with its
Huge body, so huge civilizations may be lost there.

Never finding their way, such a labyrinth
Undoing our tongues by refusing speech
As we open our mouths, no longer able
To breathe, lost once more on our journey
As Ulysses was lost.

I remember the last time standing
On the banks of the Niagara River,
The Upper Rapids.
The rocks seemed to be exploding,
The sound clear and loud but still
We were able to talk to one another.

Then it happens, for over a mile
Eternity opens it mouth so wide
We swoon upon the river banks,
Gazing full into your body.

You are the element.
Oh water that is all things to me
From life, to death, filling my body
With your flowing.  Am I in love with you
Or is it that you are in love with me?

I seem to speak as you do, drop by
Drop; some clear, some clouded.
I do not know what I am trying
To say.  My library pours from its shelves,
Filling all available space, pours through
The windows, through the town and city,
Never stopping.  We hardly notice

Where all of language pours back
Into your element, washes itself
Within you and returns to our lips
As we sing endlessly to your mystery.

____________________

NAMES IN THE WIND

The wind has other things to do,
You tell me and I tell you.
This morning it is out for names.
In city streets, in country lanes.
It sweeps them up like leaves
And throws them past our ears
And we can hear them.

We can hear their mothers call them
Back to the house for dinner.
Searching for them in the Summer,
Before the darks of Autumn,
When the year begins to stumble.

In the Winter when among the snowflakes,
Through the sledding and the skiing
And the voices called across white
Fields caught close against forever,
They tumble down upon our ear drums
And then lose themselves so quickly.
We can barely understand them
Though we try to hear each name.
The game, the same, as always

When the wind decides it knows
Us and finds other things to do.
It can name the living, call the dead.

You tell me and then again
I too have other things to do.
So you tell me and listen for the wind,
Please do.  You tell me and then
You know, I will tell you.

 

SANCTUARY BY THE SEA

The sea was loud with blue.
So loud it could not contain it
And tossed it up toward the sky
Loading it with reflections and
Bouncing light off the clouds
So that all of them near the shore
Had the look of a tumbling surf
To them.  This illusion was confirmed
By the onshore breeze which
Slammed the clouds against
The hills reaching toward that
Same sky and glistening in
Millions of shades or green
As if introducing itself to the sea.

This was a clear morning.
Tired from the climb, I stood
On a promontory that had
A cliff that slid all the way
To the true surf itself,
Complaining below to the hollows
Of the rocks, arguing with the
Gulls about perfection.

Even these elements knew
Exactly what perfection was
And worked together to capture
The hour and show it to the sun.

This is the part where I get
Really scared.  I think I will get caught
In this place by the sea and not be
Able to find my way out, pushing
My hands against the words with the sea
Just on the other side of them,
Keeping me from getting back to the world.

The gulls seem to cross this line
Easily and continue to make noise
In my ears. The cliffs are much too steep
But I can see a pair of tigers
Moving from ledge to ledge, measuring
Each step with a trochee foot. 

The clouds begin to dissipate.
Their pretty dream bodies move toward
The higher hills, the olive groves.
Beyond that, the sounds of goats come
To me.  What was fear becomes
Only a part of the morning.  Startled
Song birds burst from the small, deep
Green shrubs and disappear even
Before one can focus on them.

This is a way out.  The trail is not
At all as I thought.  I take a drink
And begin to whistle a folk song.

_________________________

SUMMER IDYLL WITH BUTTERFLY

The cabbage butterfly has just
Discovered that the world
Was so much larger than
It ever imagined.  It careens
Across the afternoon flashing white
Wings with their dark spot.

The whole place is so impressive
It must fill itself with Summer.
Everything is alive right now.
There is simply no other time
Anywhere else in the universe.

What we imagine still is not enough.
I hold you here.  Kiss your lips.
My body sweeps yours and your
Body has never imagined
Such a thing could happen.

Even in autumn’s glow
Or deep inside a cabin
In the deep of Winter’s snow,
The golden crackling of the evening
Fills the air with voices of a
Thousand starlings.

And it will teach you there
And there and here and so
The wind outside the room
Is so white with snow
It is impossible to see.

Opening your eyes, I will fade
Before you in the wind.

I am on the edge of a lake in Summer.
Come here, please once more.
Touch me as I imagine touch could be.

______________________

Today's LittleNip:

“THE MYSTERIOUS LOVE OF THINGS”
                                    —Jorge Luis Borges

We have for them and them for us.
How easy it is to unseat any color
Into something that is no longer aware of itself
Or of us as we hurry through the labyrinths
Time gives us for a chance to know
Error or to know truth.

We thank ourselves for the blue
Of the ocean and it is not us at all.
It is the conversations between memory
And things learned by the body,
Burns on the hands, inside the mouth.

Admonitions of ourselves unaware
Yet constantly striking poses that
We may learn to handle those impulses
Where we will have to dance
And be impeccably pristine about it all.

______________________

—Medusa, with thanks to D.R. Wagner for today's poems and pix!

Tim's Ride

Moon Tracks

NIGHT LIGHT
—Tom Goff, Carmichael

Sleepless, I ramble in bed, not wanting sleep
but telepathy to connect my restless mind
with my uneven heartbeat, hoping to find
wide open that trail both agents can trace and keep.
I imagine you dark of hair and pale of skin,
then conjure the sweetest things you’ve said in friendship.
Now your silent tears torment me to mend slips:
clumsy offenses I’ve taken—but meant no—part in.
I lie in bed, the white streetlight all around,
piercing my window while it disturbs birds’ rest.
And yet you, not it, the upset igniting the nest,
thoughts whirring without a sound, and hurting without a wound.
The light’s as bright as you, and like you a mist:
soft, silent and fine, it cuts me like amethyst.

_______________________

MOON TRACKS
—Dewell H. Byrd, Central Point, OR

sneakin crost my winder sill
quiet as you please
silverin hair on my arm
you aint got no rain
to still my ackin pain

g'wan atta here anyhow
taint no sleep left in me
do yer biziness sommers else
i got no growl with you

gonna be nother burnt corn day
feels it in my bones
hunert or more
taters turnin black 
tomader vines rattlin in dry wind

git on outna here now
cover yer tracks with rainin clouds
seasonin the groun
don't wanna see you gin till
pickin time
or spoonin.

DIZAIN #3

—Michael Cluff, Corona, CA

Herman would be one with the night
His shoes of very freshest leather
his eyes now Mephisto bright
can see through all fogbound weather
to bring his scalpel and some flesh together
amateur coroner, but classroom bound
he slices through avenues without a sound
students and corpses equal in all
to him are placed in a pyre mound
some false, some real, some spring, some fall.

___________________ 

Without the ambivalent noise
of an electrical appliance
humming away on the armoire
the sleepless night arrives
and the listing
of inanities begins:
the bill of less injury to be paid
the color of Aunt Sonya's hair
beef wellington vs. Swiss steak
bengal vs. tigers' striping
atoms blending into Adams
danios in an aquarium too near the outside reflectors
the dry cleaning Cousin Elgin leaves unclaimed
effigies on a southern campus——

on that
the circle I have always hated
returns to the place it started at
fifty-six years ago
rimmed with Rebels and magnolias

—Michael Cluff

___________________

BLUESDAY
—Caschwa, Sacramento
 
Oh how I miss you
the apple that never grew
that I never got to chew
grasshoppers came through
there was little we could do

An earthquake hit the town
toppling buildings down
from common to reknown
insulting to the crown
there was little we could do

I just wanted to holler
when I reached for a dollar
and it had gotten smaller
while the bills stacked up taller
there was little we could do

common grasshoppers
insulting a dollar that never grew
while the buildings stacked up taller
hit the apple, miss the town
oh there was little to chew

_____________________

KEEP THE BEAT

—Caschwa

A doctor saw a drummer boy who said
his father beat him daily on the head
they waltzed on water like Saint Peter
each time he went to triple meter
the doctor said to get more rest in bed

I cannot sleep a wink with pillows pink
nor free myself from hearing creatures slink
will mother like the gift I bought her?
can we feel safe to drink this water?
what's dripping now in that old kitchen sink?

the drummer boy could not just go to sleep
beat square upon the head while counting sheep
a day that ends with Russian Roulette
the all night long percussion bullet
his hope for dreams was buried somewhere deep.

_____________________

Today's LittleNip:

DAWN
—D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove

Something just broke.
It think it was dawn.
Nope, it was just a glass.
They can sound an awful lot alike.

_____________________

—Medusa

The Vanishing Season

—Photo by Ann Privateer

THE VANISHING SEASON

has a son called Gargantuan
because days are long and full.
It dreams him into being
bigger than a snake, faster
than a tarantula, and teaches
him a new dance every day.

It pastes pictures to your
finger tips and rescues
a lock of hair.  While
the Cicadas rant their song,
sleep awakens the beast.

—Ann Privateer, Davis

____________________

SUMMER

—Ann Privateer

shamrocks, dog biscuits, rock
hopping, skateboarding, going
for a swim, parties, the beach
bum afternoons, mornings
together; summer, where did
it go?

_______________________

SUNRISE SUNSET
        for Kerry
—Taylor Graham, Placerville

Her single summer, the only one she knew—
curtains of rain over permafrost, then auroras
all night long, as the dwarf-woods woke

from snow, opened uncountable mouths
rejoicing in the sun's old syntax. We cut a way
through alder-thicket dense with bear-scent;

skirted mosquito bogs; camped on the Deshka.
Salmon-berries, blueberries, a bucket-full.
She swam out to a rock; sat there, statue-dog.

The one moment I ever saw her motionless,
but every sense alive, every synapse.
Moment merging light and shadow—gone

with a shutter-click. Shadow overtaking light,
sun slipping behind Denali; the Deshka
darkening. Her long winter almost upon her.

She only left the stories of her sons
and grand-daughters—dogs that follow
me or forge on ahead, my shadows.

—Photo by Ann Privateer

IN THE DARK
        for Sardy

I lie awake remembering midnight
callouts—your Shepherd-head resting in my
lap—long, winding 2-lane drives to places
I've never seen in daylight. Briefing, then
I'd follow you on game trails before dawn—

mineshafts, dropoffs. After earthquake, you led
me down tunnels dug in rubble, searching
to find someone alive. At night you slept
against me for comfort. I lay awake,
listening to the sirens. At last, too old

for searches, you laid your chin on my knee
as I tied my boot-laces. Your brown eyes
couldn't keep me home. I remember, in
last light, your woo-woo! of old-Shepherd joy;
golden falling leaves. And then you were gone.

_______________________

TWICE-TOLD TREASURES

—Taylor Graham

Leather-bound King Arthur considers this
togetherness with antique stopwatch and
stuffed owl whose gaze unblinks; the hiss
of cigarettes in corridors where stand
the worn-out bypassed living out their bliss.

_______________________

LOUD AT THE LIBRARY

—Taylor Graham

We nine held the moment together with
Shakespeare and baling wire, a boy's fogged face
outside the window ambushing time, while
the room of echoes filled: first-frost apples,
and stippled fish in wild ripples of stream;

how a dog's nose makes sense of the unseen;
two oranges—embers warming cold jacket
pockets. It was not quite Thanksgiving but
we held the pages in our folded hands,
reading out loud the unclocked words of praise.

_______________________

Our thanks to today's contributors; Taylor Graham is working with our current five-lined Forms to Fiddle With; she's also getting together a manuscript about the dogs in her life, past and present. Her final poem today refers to Poetry Off-the-Shelves, the read-around held monthly in Placerville.

Our other contributor is Ann Privateer, who divides her time between Davis and Paris (!), where her son and granddaughter live. Davis will be hoppin' with poetry tonight (Joe Wenderoth) and tomorrow night (Katy Brown and Patricia Killelea). Scroll down to the blue board at the right of this for details.

Also tonight will be Poetry Unplugged at Luna's Cafe in Sacramento, featuring David Houston plus the release of Rattlesnake Press's latest issue of WTF (#16, finishing up our fourth year!). Want to know if your poem is being published in this issue? Medusa has a new Fuchsia Link, just for WTF, and on it I've posted the list of contributors for this issue. I'll get the lists for past issues posted soon; you are, of course, entitled to a copy of any issue in which your work appeared, so write to me if you didn't get one. As for the new issue, pick one up tonight at Luna's, or there are a few at The Book Collector, or frank andrick has them, or order one to be sent to you for $2 at rattlesnakepress.com/wtf.html  (If you're a contributor, write to me at kathykieth@hotmail.com and I'll send you yours for free.) Our new Fuchsia Link also gives information about how to submit to WTF; next deadline is January 15 (which will sneak up on you after the holidays), and frank has some big plans for beginning our fifth year with the February 2013 issue.

In the Mea Culpa Department, Medusa occasionally has a cut-and-paste debacle, and yesterday was one such day. If you checked into the Kitchen before 5pm yesterday, you unfortunately viewed a truncated version of Roger Langton's wonderful poem. I've fixed the problem on that post, and here is the correct version. I'm so sorry, Roger!

HISTORY LESSON

—Roger Langton, Louisville, Colorado

When on a train, I
snuggle by a window
and watch the flickering views.
Farm lands shutter by
with dark and brown soils
plowed in neat rows
ready for planting.
This was once a prairie
with yellow-brown grass
swaying with the wind and
tall enough to hide creatures
not wanting to be seen.
Buffalo may have lived here.
Remains of once living towns
identified by cracked concrete
remnants along with rotting
wood silent in decay.
Other towns survived
looking like sets
in a cowboy movie,
left stranded when the new
highway stole their customers.
(Two Stiff Selling Gas are long dead)
Further along the track
is the place of wild horses,
deer, antelope, snakes and scorpions.
There is no peace for them now.
No sign of the tribes that
used to live and breed here.
The stream beds stay dry.
No panning of gold anymore.
I scope for signs of a large city,
first the buildings of small industry
warehouses, vacant lots
the outskirts of growth like
the edge of a whirlpool.
Tall buildings come into view.
The train slows
as it nears the station.
I listen for the sounds of steam;
those sounds are only memories,
there are hints of electric motors,
wheels on the tracks,
echoes of horns honking.
The city used to be a trading post,
later a military fort.
When the railroad came
hoards of cattle started
pouring in and the place had a future.
Now it looks like many other cities
full of opportunity and despair.
Some get on and some get off
and the train is moving again. 
    
____________________

Today's LittleNip:

WHY EAT

when you want to play
to measure shadows
instead of your height, believe
you'll vanish like the seasons?

What is a poem?  Does it sleep

in the night while I'm dreaming?

—Ann Privateer

____________________

—Medusa

—Photo by Ann Privateer

Meeting Midrope

—Photo by Roger Langton

HISTORY LESSON
—Roger Langton, Louisvillle, Colorado

When on a train, I
snuggle by a window
and watch the flickering views.
Farm lands shutter by
with dark and brown soils
plowed in neat rows
ready for planting.
This was once a prairie
with yellow-brown grass
swaying with the wind and
tall enough to hide creatures
not wanting to be seen.
Buffalo may have lived here.
Remains of once living towns
identified by cracked concrete
remnants along with rotting
wood silent in decay.
Other towns survived
looking like sets
in a cowboy movie,
left stranded when the new
highway stole their customers.
(Two Stiff Selling Gas are long dead)
Further along the track
is the place of wild horses,
deer, antelope, snakes and scorpions.
There is no peace for them now.
No sign of the tribes that
used to live and breed here.
The stream beds stay dry.
No panning of gold anymore.
I scope for signs of a large city,
first the buildings of small industry
warehouses, vacant lots
the outskirts of growth like
the edge of a whirlpool.
Tall buildings come into view.
The train slows
as it nears the station.
I listen for the sounds of steam;
those sounds are only memories,
there are hints of electric motors,
wheels on the tracks,
echoes of horns honking.

The city used to be a trading post,
later a military fort.
When the railroad came
hoards of cattle started
pouring in and the place had a future.
Now it looks like many other cities
full of opportunity and despair.
Some get on and some get off
and the train is moving again. 

_____________________

cats cradle town
—Evan Myquest, Sacramento

tightropes from house to house
tightropes from houses to schools
stilt houses built over canals & watery ways
like certain towns are chocolate makers & brewers & mills
here is our town of graceful rope walkers of world renown

a friendly people in tights & stretchy boatnecks
who meet midrope & beg pardons
with both offering to backpedal or do the daring slide-by
allow me no allow me no no allow me
how about both of us pass over under (on the count of three-shall I count or shall thee)

they show off (o how they love to show off)
praise to the practiced back & forward flip while groceries are flung & caught
with never a loose flying orange or drippy yellow cracked egg
a glance at a rope waver says uncle van gained weight since last august
he telegraphs his turn about and his way clears at everyone’s dire warning shout

ah the pretty parasols & bunted balance poles
the rich and royal draperied pyramids of families arriving to church
with grandpas & grandmas topping the chairs
and such venetian fest nights out past dark with ropes of neon glowing lights

alas what to do about the tourists
the weak-kneed visitors want to grab & swing on our cats cradle ways
as they dismount from their water bounced boats
less than good vibrations for our fido walkers & (shudder) nannies with multiple prams
but an effort at accommodation is made
a guest is a guest after all (in spite of the number who fall)

o watch out for mr zapirowski
he sleep jogs the ropes the night long
with eyes closed wandering as you please
our version of magoo the blind driver
now doesn’t every town have one of those

tightropes from house to house
tightropes from houses to schools
teachers count heads & wag tongues over clumsy (& absent) bullies & fools

Across the Rooftops in Oakland

—Photo by D.R. Wagner

THE LIST

—William S. Gainer, Grass Valley

For their sake,
I hope I never hear
the diagnosis,
"You only have
six months
to live."

There are scores
to settle,
grudges
to be made right,
favors to return,
lessons to teach.

When the end
has its date,
consequence
begins to mean
less.
The penalty
has already been
levied.

I have a list,
you may be
on it...
 

____________________

THE LEGACY OF TIME 
 


—William S. Gainer

Us, 


our time 


was a
death threat.


The eastern wars


raged.

You were
supposed
to go.


They gave us


numbers.


We waited.

To survive
was the game.


After the gamble—

the only thing left
was time. 
 


The future 


gives little, 


but
it's free... 
 


To pass


undetected


our prize...

who cares,
who
remembers? 



The old ones


have their


legacy.


It's theirs 


to love...



Ours is to know—


____________________

A DREAM ABOUT BILL GAINER

—D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove
 
I dreamed I saw Bill Gainer
As the champion of the moment
And the moment was a mountain
Made of hearts, some broken,

Some soaring with the morning
And with first love or held
Together in long evenings
By both love and bailing wire.

And Bill was there.  He was speaking
Almost singing and the air
Was purer for it and every
Morning new and every mountain
Able to be climbed.

And I dreamed I saw him flying.
And I dreamed it was a perfect
Dream, unable to hold lies.

___________________

Our thanks to today's contributors! Roger Langton, illustrious Colorado cousin of the equally-illustrious Sacramento poet, Annie Menebroker, sends us a beautiful seasonal photo and a poem about that long-lost art, train-riding.) Bill Gainer is all over the place this week, including reading at Phillip Larrea's new venue, Capitol Beer and Taproom, on Saturday. Bill will also be hosting Poetry With Legs TONIGHT at Shine Cafe in Sacramento. Readers there will include Kelly Freeman and Karin Stevens, and Karin's work will also appear in Rattlesnake Press's WTF, the newest issue of which will be released at Poetry Unplugged at Luna's Cafe and Juice Bar in Sacramento on Thursday (tomorrow!), hosted by WTF Editor frank andrick. (Will Bill be there, too? Who knows, but he has work in WTF as well, as does Evan Myquest! As does Annie Menebroker...)

By the way, Grass Valley's Todd Cirillo will be reading at Capitol Beer with Bill on Saturday, and he will also be reading in Folsom TONIGHT at Verse on the Vine—with Phillip Larrea! Wow—such intertwining! Be sure to scroll down to the blue board at the right of this for all the details on these and the other fine readings this week, including Crossroads on Saturday, which will feature Dennis Schmitz and Kathryn Hohlwein. I've left out a few, but you know—they're down there on the blue board. Check 'em out!

Oh—and thanks to D.R. Wagner for the ode to Gainer.    :-)

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Today's LittleNip:

FOREVER 


is only


as long 


as I am.

—William S. Gainer

_________________

—Medusa

—WTF cover photo by Wendy Rivara, Sacramento

Key-Punch a Prayer

SLEEPING TOGETHER

Like a white cat in the darkness
I shine for you.
I let you stroke my fur.
I magnetize the air till it ignites.
         *
All night I sing for you.
You think you are dreaming.
I guard the night, which is empty.
It floats in its darkness.
I move and it moves.
         *
There is such a pale distance all around us.
I am floating upon it like a dream
I am carried into your arms.
I am carried into your body
which has not moved.
         *
See how I step through music into bones,
how I disguise myself as your fingers?
You have such a lonely hand.
All night I trace your beautiful dark lines.
I cannot tell you how sad they are.
I listen to you sleeping.
I smooth out the cold pillow of the morning.

                                              
(Acknowledgement:  Bitterroot
“Blues”,  Piper’s House, 1991)

_____________________

GIFT:  ONE BROKEN COMPASS       

not that I want you lost
but that I have
faith in your survival…

you always know which way to go
under star or moonrise
or by day over all these avenues

I found it in a store           one bro-
ken compass pointing its
sensitive needle at my northmost hand

it was with love
I chose it for you
believe me

I knew how far away
you would go
on your lunch hour daydream

can ships sink without you
or trains go over the horizon
on their perfect tracks

when your eyes are most shining
with your plan
put it in your safest pocket

I gave you the thought         not the
freedom       not the accurate north
for the captive man


(first pub. in "In a Nutshell", 1975)

____________________

A ONCE-TOLD LAND       

We are all lost together on this land.
We came to hunt wild berries
and wilder flowers.
But we found nothing for
our hands to gather.

Now we have come too far.
And though we can hear
an evening train caress the distance,
we cannot find its long black tracks,
as though some wilderness
would not accept that scar.

But the sunset is a thing of glory,
uninterrupted as we had imagined,
continuing like a Scheherezade-story,
larger than Cinerama
and we confess that we are
terribly sorry we did not think
to bring a camera.

We are getting frightened and cold,
colder than all the splendor
and the hunger; and we put
our brittle arms about each other
and recall the warning of another
story teller who cautioned
that this was a once-told land
without a morning.

                                
(first pub. in Vagabond, 1972)

SPELLS

Take my reluctant hand
with its seven slow lines
that go outward from the palm.

Trace my sad histories
with your discerning fingers;
hum a soft song.

Pull my eyes to your face
and there erase the seven sorrows
that I hide from myself.

Mention the tomorrows;
mention the seven lies that fit.
I will love you. I will leave

my hand in your hand while you
hypnotize my oldest terror.
I will follow you through

your language made of praise
while you gaze me deeper.
Soon I will float through your eyes

and there disguise myself with
seven veils.  You will get lost
in them.

___________________

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)

___________________

Today's LittleNip:

PRAYER NO. 333GM1000

O most abstract holyism,
this century
perfects the stereotype
to a coded sanctuary.
Key-punch a prayer
for our identity.
Do not alter Self
or the Machine
will have to punch new holes
in your godly-card.
We cannot accept
new images for old
and do not change
that book of fables;
it is haunting
the way it is.
We have looked into science
and died.
We need
the ghost in the soul
and an archaic mystery
for the uncomprehending mind.
                          

(first pub. in Trace Magazine, 1967)

___________________

Our thanks to Joyce Odam for the poetic and pictorial treats today, finishing up our Seed of the Week: Traces (wow! even a poem that appeared in Traces!). 

Our new SOW is Sleepless Nights. What keeps you up at night? Barking dogs? Money worries? That pesky owl? A voracious lover? (Or see Joyce's "Sleeping Together" above.) Tell us about your tossings and turnings—the good ones and the bad ones—and send it all to kathykieth@hotmail.com. No deadline on SOW's, though—go to Calliope's Closet in the Fuchsia Links at the top of this blog for plenty of ideas, and see also our SOW-Pix, News-SOWs, and Forms to Fiddle With in the green board at the right of this for images to get that pencil a-pushing. And if those aren't enough, try some of those listed in "Need More SOWs?" below that. The only bad poetry is poetry which was left unwritten, yes?

__________________

—Medusa