Like the Spirit of Love

Bedrock Mortars (Indian Grinding Rocks)

—Photo by Taylor Graham

BEDROCK
—Taylor Graham, Placerville

First day of spring.
The world was wild, bright with new
except
my dog was sleep-walking
on the trail, sniffing grass that's never
always been so green. An old dog,
full of dreams.

“Track Cathy!” I reminded him, again.
He stopped and shook
his head as if to clean out cobwebs,
memory, the spirits of sleep—
until

fully awake, searching frantic
for the trail he'd missed,
he led me under oaks to a grassy knoll.
There, a slab of rock
with three smooth holes that held
just enough rainwater
for a dog to drink.

Bedrock mortar, grinding-stone
of people gone long ago;
holes full of nothing but new spring-rain
and years and years of leaf-fall,
water for an old dog in his sleep-
walk dreams.

_____________________

OUT OF THE DARK
—Taylor Graham

A scream—
the neighbor's peacock?
as from the east
a stock-prod of light
stuns, explodes in rays
sudden as forsythia—
the overwintered sun?
What hex-sign can save us?
It's Spring.

____________________

VERNAL
—Taylor Graham

Spring is a bitch
coyote with new pups famished
for milk, herself famished for meat
to make the milk, our sheep
grazing pasture that will never
be so lush in summer.
Spring is my sheep dashing from field
to lawn and past the gate, coyote
fast behind them disappearing
in sable shadow. Spring is a brief
wild time of disappearances.

Squirrel, Southside Park, Sacramento

—Photo by Katy Brown

SHADOWS ON THE GRASS
—Katy Brown, Davis

A scarf of clouds over Stone Mountain tonight

obscures Orion hunting in the sky;

a gibbous moon attempts to shine through.

Do you remember when we danced in the meadow:

we sang like loons to the same hunting stars.

How sweet the summer was that year.

On the eve of equinox tonight I think of you,

shining, still in the moonlight.

Time fades your image like an old photograph.

Perhaps it is like this: the image fading and fading

until we slip away from anyone’s memory.

Somewhere up on Stone Mountain tonight

shadows swirl over emerging grass.

I’d like to think you are among them,

your memory of me becoming clearer.

______________________

THE LOST HOUR
—D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove

When we entered the compound
We were shown to the rooms
Near the playgrounds and the ponds.
There were a variety of rare ducks
Swimming and the morning had a most
Beautiful sunrise about it, green and violet,
The softest of pinks and golds.

We were led to where the center for sleep
Was located.  It was here that the researchers
Said that had found the lost hour.

This is where the children were
When we entered.  They were
Floating fog-like just above their sleeping mats.
This seemed impossible.

“They are all dreaming a common dream,”
The shorter of the two men told us.
He wore strange eyeglasses in which
The frames around the lenses seemed
To be a constant motion of color.
“When they do this, the world changes.”

“Those ducks you saw coming in, indeed,
The pond they were swimming on isn’t
Really there,” he said, letting his hand
Float above the sleeping bodies of the children.

“Time is so much longer in the very young.
They can easily create such places as this.
This is the first time however, we have seen
Them float like this.  We hypothesize
This happens often.  We further believe
That if enough children share a common
Dream it will remain for a substantial time
In the waking world.  We call this 'The Lost Hour'

Although it may persist for much longer than that.”

By now, the children were waking.  They had settled
Back down to the floor upon their sleeping mats.

“Look outside at the pond and the ducks now.”
We opened the door and looked out the door.
A gray, slightly foggy morning was in progress.
The pond, the ducks, the beautiful colors of dawn
Were flickering, strobe-like in the air.  They disappeared.
“The Lost Hour,” the taller researcher said.  "Live in it.”
 
_____________________

Today's LittleNip:

And Spring arose on the garden fair,
Like the Spirit of Love felt everywhere;
And each flower and herb on Earth's dark breast
Rose from the dreams of its wintry rest.

—Percy Bysshe Shelley

_____________________

—Medusa, who recommends you check out www.mtdemocrat.com/prospecting/discover-common-dreams-at-the-coz for more from Taylor Graham about the Common Dreams reading in Placerville this coming Sunday.

 Perfecta

—Photo by D.R. Wagner

The Turning Hour

UNDER MY OLD WING

Have I not held you under my old wing
for protection.
Did you not come to me
lost and frightened.
All but dead.

How cold you were,
how tense you were,
before you fell into soft sleeping.
Did I not lie to you about your dreams,
explain them into sanity for you.

Were you not the one
of promises and moans,
your reluctant eyes opening at last.
Oh how you suffered,
clung to me
and whispered about your dangers.
How full the days grew.

Then these short hours
full of your healing.
But I shall not remind you of any of this.
This is a silent letter to a new soul.
You are forgiven.
So am I.
Please go.

_____________________

THE HOUR OF STRANGE LIGHT

The strange light settles over the day
for this is the hour that pulls you in.

A long bridge elongates into the horizon,
making no shadow on the flat perspective
     of the sea.

A tangle of shore debris holds the light
with patient stillness. 

Lavender skies press in
and no gulls cry.

All sound has hushed and nothing moves:
time has taken you from one life

to another. Then something shifts.
A gull swoops past;

an old tarp makes a sound
in a sudden breeze, shuddering free.

You watch the moment change
and let it go. The sea

ripples. One shadow touches another
and the dark fills in.

_____________________

THE ADVANCING MIRROR

Now is the hour of tight arms holding on to the falling. Nothing is plumb. There is no direction to consider. The floor is far away. The ceiling even farther. The dream is urging you to step inside. But you are reeling inward. There is no one watching to prove this. Time is about to non-exist, though it owns the dark. The clock opens its face to meet your cry. The room tilts accordingly, and every instinct resists. You are replicated where you meet the advancing mirror. Escape here, says the glass. Your image steps inside—turns—and helps you through. This is not possible, you think, but a long hallway leads you to a door—a slowly opening door—where someone inside is turning toward you with open arms, urging you to remember.

_____________________

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 NY Poetry Forum, 1971, and 
In a Nutshell, 1975)

THE TEXTURE OF GRAY LIGHT

Time has judged her. For a long moment
she just stands there, considering the
sadness of twilight. She does not feel
the texture of gray light on her face.
She has become a pattern of the room.
Her face matches the curtains.
She balances against the small table
that holds some faint rumor of flowers,
maybe not even that much detail.
Her body is assuming the shape of shadow.
Her dress rustles when she breathes.
Her hand is lost in its reach.
Maybe someone has asked her a question
and she does not want to answer.
She is a familiar story. Must she tell
it again? She does not know the ending.
Maybe the hour has come to say goodbye.
Maybe the door has already closed, or maybe
someone is just arriving. Must she care?
Maybe she will still be able to withdraw
her hand from the heaviness of its gesture.

______________________

MIND-STRUGGLE    

Tonight, in the tweak of time, life enters
like a thief, taking what I am. Never mind

the hours waiting for my dreams,
the sweet hours of morning with their

energies
and schemes.

I am not willing,
though I doze, and nod, and waken

at moments—lost—and not of counting, 
which is odd. I have a clock and calendar,

I have plans, small as they are,
not like tireless sands of sleep,

mindlessly drifting—over and over,
through the same container that I am.

I free the night,
I free the weightlessness.

______________________

DANCE OF THE WEB-FAIRY
(After "The Fairies Are Exquisite Dancers”
by Arthur Rackham)

Once upon a dance, upon a thread of light
that stretched from stem to stem of leaf and

flower—oh—once upon a fairy tale, archaic
as a dream, upon a morning drenched with

meadow-dew—the ancient fairy—weightless
as a shadow, danced upon the dwindling

hour of the night. And the two lost children
woke,     and smiled,     and held each other.

______________________

Our thanks to Joyce Odam for today's poems and pix, marking The Lost Hour, our latest Seed of the Week. In her LittleNip, she kicks off our next Seed of the Week: The Vernal Equinox. Spring into spring (the equinox is tomorrow, after all) and send your seeds to kathykieth@hotmail.com  Peek into Calliope's Closet in the fuchsia links at the top of the blog, though, for other SOWs; no deadline. Use 'em as you will...

We also have a new album on Facebook: The Writers' Circle by Katy Brown, taken at the Sac. Poetry Center reading on March 11. These writers meet on a regular basis after having taken a workshop from Julia Connor together. Thanks for the beautiful pix, Katy!

______________________

Today's LittleNip:

THE TURNING HOUR:  5:00 A.M. VERNAL EQUINOX

In the full-moon night of morning
of this first full-day of spring,
I feel the moon ignite the
dark with a fierce quiet
as I rise from my dream
and go to the window
to find the powerful
square of light—
so near—out-shining
the street lamps, and the
porch lights, and the first few
headlights of the morning, and I
stand there awhile in the stillness
and begin to map my day which, in
this clear, shimmering moment, I own.

_____________________

—Medusa

Veils of Moonlight

Rufous-Sided Towhee (chick?)

—Photo by Ann Privateer

ONE

—Ann Privateer, Davis

love is a ball
of sound

you breathe it in
through two

nostrils, it fills
your chest

tingles there
radiates barriers.

We share breath
coming in, going out

crying, praying, laughing
it circulates, enters

and leaves, one love
breathing a song

asleep or awake
the only constant sound.

___________________

SPRING BY THE OCEAN
—B.Z. Niditch, Brookline, MA

Glossed underfoot
by the snow's foliage
now gone under
half-buried landscapes
between paving stones.
Under bare elms
the sky is waiting on
spring with new covers
of bluish mornings,
as buds on branches
still speckled
at first light
spray a dazzle
of morning green
on sleepless trees.

Along this brackish
home harbor
as mute as lichens,
uncertain of secrets
of fate, absence, silence
at the ides of March
when wind wanders
by the shore ripples
near sea memory voices
waxing new bird song
above ditch water sand,
we run the boardwalk
of a familiar bay
when a beached whale
floats upward
pale and unable to speak
you wish the wave
of Melville's hand
were here at the rocks
to welcome departures
of the tide.

___________________

ADRIENNE RICH'S GONE
—B.Z. Niditch

One short year ago
on a cold March day
trailing dust
snow and ashes
you passed us by
in the early dawn
you were never late
for a woman's expression
to astonish us
with words, glances, pain
even at your readings,
you rightly disturbed us
we watching your wise face
with lively silver threads
from your pocket poems
now opened up
to feminine freedoms
from hidden woolen scarves
and a daughter's handkerchief
of controlled tears
you, Adrienne, knitted out
those kept oppressed
by some man's power trip
in bondage and shelters
from home wreckers
and violent quarrels,
you offer a way
through a poetry
of confessional talk
to look at our nature
differently.

 Salome

—Illustration by Aubrey Beardsley for

the play, Salome, by Oscar Wilde, 1894

SALOME
—Taylor Graham, Placerville

This dance was her choice, her solo.
She never thought of sharing it with Death
as partner, but afterwards: a holy
man's head on a platter. Only the dance,
so many veils' illusions tossed aside,
revealing how she was most alive, moving
to the music! How could she know
that music is time with nothing to lose?
the body a terminal moraine;
what's left after the music's energy
tosses it in a heap on the tiled floor. Veil
of moonlight—who trusts that?
Who could believe the bluest of skyblue
garments means that man could fly?
When she stopped dancing, and they cut
the man's head off, as if a veil
tossed away—it didn't land on paving-
tiles like so much discard, but rose up
into sky as an angel might. The veil
from a dead man's eyes flew off,
no more weighed down by the finest
or coarsest weave of fabric.
It was pure light.

_____________________

A RAVEN'S DOMAIN
—Olga Blu Browne, Sacramento

High above a broken bridge
in shrouded heavens,

a slow moon rises as an
ebony-winged raven

listens for echoes in breathless
darkness

where sounds fuse and
February winds are still.


(first pub. in DADS Desk)

__________________

A RAVEN SOARS
—Olga Blu Browne

I believe a raven soars, with
a soul's last journey.

I believe prayer is a dance
to the rhythm of chant.

I believe spirits live and art
is life.

I believe a raven flies against
the edge of darkness.


(first pub. in Brevities)

__________________

REGRET
—Olga Blu Browne

Against this moon, a winter's
leaf falls without regret,

like a ritual of devotion
of shifting shadows,

wrapped in time, that echo
within this silent heart.

_________________

Today's LittleNip(s):

Neighborhood crows shout
As soon as the sun rises
Raucous alarm clock

***

Blossoms float softly
Filling gutters with fragrance
Like petals of snow

 

—Nancy Haskett, Modesto

_________________

—Medusa

 —Photo by Richard Hansen, Sacramento

A New Dress: A Taste of Ireland

Glendalough, Ireland

CANAL BANK WALK

—Patrick Kavanagh

Leafy-with-love banks and the green waters of the canal
Pouring redemption for me, that I do
The will of God, wallow in the habitual, the banal,
Grow with nature again as before I grew.
The bright stick trapped, the breeze adding a third
Party to the couple kissing on an old seat,
And a bird gathering materials for the nest for the Word
Eloquently new and abandoned to its delirious beat.
O unworn world enrapture me, encapture me in a web
Of fabulous grass and eternal voices by a beech,
Feed the gaping need of my senses, give me ad lib
To pray unselfconsciously with overflowing speech
For this soul needs to be honoured with a new dress woven
From green and blue things and arguments that cannot be proven.

___________________

MIRROR IN FEBRUARY

—Thomas Kinsella

The day dawns, with scent of must and rain,
Of opened soil, dark trees, dry bedroom air.
Under the fading lamp, half dressed—my brain
Idling on some compulsive fantasy—

I towel my shaven jaw and stop, and stare,
Riveted by a dark exhausted eye,
A dry downturning mouth.
It seems again that it is time to learn,


In this untiring, crumbling place of growth


To which, for the time being, I return.


Now plainly in the mirror of my soul


I read that I have looked my last on youth


And little more; for they are not made whole


That reach the age of Christ.

Below my window the wakening trees,


Hacked clean for better bearing, stand defaced 


Suffering their brute necessities;


And how should the flesh not quail, that span for span 


Is mutilated more? In slow distaste


I fold my towel with what grace I can,


Not young, and not renewable, but man.

__________________

MY COUNTRY IN DARKNESS
—Eavan Boland

After the wolves and before the elms
the bardic order ended in Ireland.

Only a few remained to continue
a dead art in a dying land:

This is a man
on the road from Youghal to Cahirmoyle.
He has no comfort, no food and no future.
He has no fire to recite his friendless measures by.
His riddles and flatteries will have no reward.
His patrons sheath their swords in Flanders and Madrid.

Reader of poems, lover of poetry—
in case you thought this was a gentle art
follow this man on a moonless night
to the wretched bed he will have to make:

The Gaelic world stretches out under a hawthorn tree
and burns in the rain. This is its home,
its last frail shelter. All of it—
Limerick, the Wild Geese and what went before—
falters into cadence before he sleeps:
He shuts his eyes. Darkness falls on it.

____________________

A CELTIC BLESSING

—Anonymous

May the light of your soul guide you. 


May the light of your soul bless the work that you do 


with the secret love and warmth of your heart. 


May you see in what you do the beauty of your own soul. 


May the sacredness of your work bring healing, light 


and renewal to those who work with you 


and to those who see and receive your work. 


May your work never weary you. 


May it release within you wellsprings of 


refreshment, inspiration and excitement. 


May you be present in what you do. 


May you never become lost in bland absences. 


May the day never burden. 


May dawn find you awake and alert, 


approaching your new day with dreams, possibilities and promises. 


May evening find you gracious and fulfilled. 


May you go into the night blessed, sheltered and protected. 


May your soul calm, console and renew you.

____________________

Today's LittleNip:

CLOTHS OF HEAVEN

—W.B. Yeats

Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,


Enwrought with golden and silver light,


The blue and the dim and the dark cloths


Of night and light and the half light,


I would spread the cloths under your feet:


But I, being poor, have only my dreams;


I have spread my dreams under your feet;


Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

____________________

—Medusa

Creating a Language

Rising

DEATH LOATHING HIMSELF

Mostly because of his choices.
Death wanted to see certain things
Completed but his ADD interfered
With his choices.  He found himself
Surprised when someone he was
Interested in would suddenly depart.

He tried to be selective but the climate
His work precipitated made him react,
And when he reacted someone was dead.

Long-term illnesses were the best for him.
He could prepare his entrance, get the boat
Ready and move on satisfied.

But his condition kept getting worse;
Heart attacks, car bombs,
Murder, drowning, car accidents,
Falling down stairs, insane shooters,
Useless wars, plagues, overdosing.
The list got too long for him,
It's hard enough to run the business
Without such a population expansion
Going on all around him.  There was no
Rest for him.  He became nervous and would
React before he had all the facts.

That used to be okay, someone cut down
At the height of their powers, suicides
That actually worked in his favor.  But now
It felt to him like a mistake made in a surgery,
The patient dying because of a human error.

He wasn’t human.  He hated making errors.
Time noticed this and would make bets with him,
Challenging his prowess and determination
To run a clean shop.  Time had nothing to lose.
It loved to play with death for it could thrill
At seeing himself disappear in every termination.

Death was up against a wall. 
He lost track of time until it was too late.
The heroes had to find their way into language
Through books and legends.  These things
Death said were ‘timeless’ and the argument
Was on.  Time laughing at anything that wasn’t
Time and finally death laughing at anything
He committed in error.  He never tried to rid
Himself of his condition.  Perhaps he could
Have improved at the job but time was always
There, waiting to be stopped so he could make
Another move, causing something death had
To react to before he could think.  Death took to
Holding his breath at times and promoted
Narrow escapes from his ever-present jaws.

_______________________

THE SONG OF THE SKY
                for Guy Murchie

It could have been the wind asking.
I certainly can’t tell.
A kind of ruby-colored light
Was hovering just above my head.

A beacon, as stars are beacons
To their part of creation,
I was here to pierce the sky,
To find a way through it, to truth.

“Truth is deeper than memory
And, unlike memory, timeless,
Inviolable and unbounded.”

I could go no further.
I stood gazing up at the moon.
The moon is capable of anything.

I will leave you alone up here,
Listening, tracing the currents
The night plays across the darkest
Parts of itself.

I press myself against the sky.
It opens for me.  Once more
I fly.  How I fly.

Ripped

THE TRAM

The car was already burning
When we first saw it.
It was halfway up the mountain
Already, hanging from a cable.

The fire was so bright we could see
The people trapped in the car.
Some of them began to jump,
Surely to a certain death,
But we were wrong.

Instead of falling, they rose up,
A sound coming from them
That sounded like song.

Oh, the voices of angels
Shall rise from the flames
And the songs they will sing
Will course through our veins.

Oh, from the deep heart
They come burning.
They carry us up to the sky.
Though the fire may seek to consume us,
We are cleansed as we climb to the sky.

______________________

THE HERMIT DREAMS

China is burning.
My jaw is still wired shut.
We have released the secret
Migration routes of the
Arctic Tern and the Rosette Spoonbill.
We are the unforgiven.

We slide across what is left
Of the ice and start up
The terminal moraine
The glaciers revealed as they
Beat it out of this place.

Water is meditation.  Water
Is pure energy.  It generates
Heat even as it passes from
Liquid into ice.  Whenever
It changes, it is energy.

You are over 70% water.
You are the reason
China is burning.  The Yellow River,
The Yangtze River.  The rock
Falls high in the Himalayas.
Water sliding under the snows
Of Everest down even to the Ganges.

We have found a place quite
Unknown.  The air is thin
But we can hear for miles.
We can hear to listen to the water,
To translate its speech into
Organic things: plants, flowers,
Goats and Yaks, those birds
You see daily above these
High peaks.  It is these
Things that have brought
Us the news: China is
Burning.  I can see it behind
Your eyes like an infection.

We must shower, change our clothes,
Remove our sandals and begin
To trudge down the mountain.

 Shadow

LA SONNAMBULA

Day or night do not matter much
When seated in the red- and white-striped chair.
The room requires an ability to
Carve light into huge slashes and crescents
And toss them about the room,
At once careless and precise.

From here it is possible to contemplate
The planets, one minute small, to be
Held in the hand, the next,
An impulse transforming them into
Something beyond human understanding,
An unceasing theology made of swirling
Rocks in an airless void that has no
Center and is everywhere.

I build talismanic instruments,
Swords and knives, and offer them
To the sleepless, thinking they may be gods
That can unwind their own labyrinths
So one may travel from this room
Filled with chintz and recklessness
To find a precise place
Where we might stand, pleased
To be seeing a garden,
A faun waking a nymph,
The lemon trees,
The room where the song has
Finally found a voice that can
Only be heard by La Sonnambula,

Pleasing to the ear, made of water
And the curve of a hand
To cup the ear, to repeat
A weaving in dream after dream,
Honey dripping on my feet,
Holding the ‘shyness of melancholy’
In the hands resting on one’s lap.

I cannot know it but for the
Loneliness of waking illiterate
To all the writing in the world.
Dust creating a language within me,
I endeavor to speak.

_____________________

‘AND THEY ASKED DEATH TO DANCE FOR THEM’

They have taken me into the morning
And I have been made to dance.
To dance for a city in mourning.
To dance that it may be entranced.

I was dropped by the veils of the morning.
And still I was slow to dance
And I gave my captors a warning
And I gave them a serious glance
And my dancing proved transforming
For by dance I would bring dark romance.

It seems a ticket to freedom at first glance,
Finally a game of good chance,
For the steps I must make to transform them
Would bring forth a curious advance.

The dance that I make is a charmed one.
The power I have, it is strong
So the way that would keep them from mourning
Would blot out their lives with my song.

And all peoples who bid me to magic,
All peoples who bid me to charm,
Know the results will turn tragic.
They had best keep their people from harm.

So take me not into the morning
And be careful to bid me to dance,
For I am the death that seems charming.
But my dance ends your life with its glance.

______________________

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

Toward Spring

Beware the Ides...

—Photo Enhancement by Richard Hansen, Sacramento

EGRET
—Carol Louise Moon, Sacramento

It was the first time I saw
this snowy bird.
We had left coral leaves behind
as we drove over the mountain to view
The Great Silver Slate frosted with fog,
with her huge rock standing by.

The waters smelled of first-drowning
and nausea as I rode in the back seat
along a eucalyptus-lined, crescent road.

There in a window-view of marshland
(a broken mirror) I saw him:
white-rock-carved and candle-like,
proud and patient.

I named him Candle Bird.

The second time I saw him
there was no near drowning, no nausea,
just fog;  springtime and the Ides of March.
He was white Easter candle,
or white knife, so I named him Caesar Bird.

The third time… I saw Statue Bird…

_____________________

"…the mouse and the swift will sleep
at opposite ends of the house…"
        —from Mark Strand's poem, "My Mother is Late Summer"

THE MOUSE AND THE SWIFT
—Carol Louise Moon

Dad's room was at one end
of the house.
In our home
Dad was the mouse.
Mom, being swift
to remember her future
asked him to leave,
move down the street—
but we'd still have our dinners together.

Swiftly she packed him,
and slowly he moved
in springtime…
I clearly remember.
The Ides of March,
and I unaware
of the misery they shared
broke heart-in-half,
my heart remained always tender.

—Photo by Richard Hansen

THE VERY CORPOREAL CORPORAL JO
—Richard Hansen

two years ago Margerie married Corporal Jo
and they had a baby

Margerie go blow your soldier boy happy
altho you don’t know
this’ll be the last time
his hands will be snapping your head back
while
barking orders: “Lady Astor harder and slow!”
the way he likes it at that certain plateau
where the pleasure is impossible
just before he blows his load

soon he’ll be on ship heaving his breakfast
with other men as strong him
leaving a cooking oil slick
on their way
to southeast Asia
where he won’t even feel the poison prick
piercing his skin
giving him at most 2 hours to live
but then
falling through straw and sticks
on his back with wooden spikes
glistening in mid-day sunshine
and designed
to make the last hour of life
a deterrent to those
who’d invade this soil
“such pain makes no sense”
corporeal Corporal Jo was thinking
between waves of agony that made his face grimace
“Americans would never do this to them
there’s no way to settle in”
and Margerie that when
half a world away
the emptiness crept in
and your neck and chin started twitching
you knew he was gone
but only allowed
“something’s wrong”
but the knock on the door
confirmed the horror

your Corporal Jo decided
with ten minutes of life to go
to become his own master
started
barking orders at Lady Astor
you came to his aid
in his frontal lobes
causing a massive endorphin cascade
giving hours on that certain plateau
where the pleasure is impossible you know
till from the bottom of his balls
he blew his load
landing in the halls
of unconditional love

Margerie when you opened the door
Uniformed arms didn’t allow you
to hit the floor
They knew you already knew
and what to do for you
They went to church and mowed the lawn
met your father and fixed the plumbing
a private first class and an Army captain
after a week and half they reported back but then
remained really grand family friends
and your Corporal Jo
who isn’t corporeal anymore
loves you more
than you could ever know right now
has been watching over you
the best he can from where he’s at
made sure the man you married
measured up to the standards of manhood
and
Jo constantly sends you positive energy
on mystical winds
and is tickled to life you can’t forget him

____________________

UROLOGY DEPT. APPOINTMENT
—Richard Hansen

The panicky formerly cantankerous large Male Patient
tasked to drop his pants and has a flaccid penis
has politely asked for
a Male Medical Professional to conduct
the hands-on instruction on
self-Catheterization
if possible please
But…


Michael's busy confirming the appointment booked by 

Simone 


who was alone
in the office this morning according to the security 

officer so 


as soon as he knows proper procedures were followed


he'll go to the examination room 


right by the cubicle Tyrone uses on Tuesdays


with a extra container for 


urine overflow
because he doesn’t mind helping out 



Dr Bigsby scheduled Nurse Bessy
to see the patient at three
originally


and


Even though the patient is pleasant Bessy senses his 

embarrassment 
and can guess his preferences easily
having had so much experience with


these kinds of things especially just recently


and luckily today


a choice is available that
partly assuages
the patient's sense of
impending offended modesty


by at least keeping his weenie away from female 

eyesight
thereby maintaining the mystery
in case he ever wants to ask nurse Bessy on a date that 

is


and besides
this gives time
to Bessy
who bought a brand new micro-fine point black Pilot pen 

but 


misplaced it 
and insists it's the best pen to work with so
she's looking for it
hoping’tah find it before quittin’ time
to finish a letter she’s writing sometime before dinner 

tonight

___________________

Today's LittleNips:

start every morning
with the doors wide open
or
until the cows come

-----

taking the high road
is overrated

-----

whenever i fail miserably
i don't give up
i find something else
and fail again

-----

must have dozed
because could hear myself
snoring


—Charles Mariano, Sacramento

___________________

—Medusa

—Photo by Richard Hansen

A Breath Between Seasons

B.Z. Niditch

LOSING TIME

Time like a yo-yo
or a slinky
moves us forward
as we
in glimmering dusk
watch the catch fiery sky
disappear later
than we realize
behind a March
of the moonlight
in a playing card
universe
in a receding life time
game of chance
carrying us
to a higher pocket.

__________________

MISSING AN HOUR

Hearing the bell
on Grandfather clock
knowing the time
of the changing hands
will alter our view
of the moon and sun,
that our life will turn us
between two worlds
on earth and sky,
when we will light up
at dusk
or darken our rooms,
change appears to spin us
in a halting horizon,
when savings time goes
around we judge
which miracle surprises
will amaze us,
if the day will run late
and pass us by
or push us forward
from our original plans
by nature's own minutes,
at animated time zones,
or sleepless patterns
may yet recapture us
in another new dimension
or like jet lag
sack us to silence,
we will accept
in breathless indifference
new echoes of evening
and shadows at dawn.

_________________

LOST HOUR

In a space
of an hour
everything can
change,
the earth quakes,
time circles
the equator
of our thoughts
and bodies,
in one lone lost hour,
the sun stretches
in the horizon
our day expands
as the sun
stood still
once in a miracle
in Joshua's day,
yet I am silent
as I spring forward
every watch and clock
knowing we will

_________________

MARCH

The mornings
when the ice chips
on roofs curl
and snow sparrows
fill our yard
as an aviary
of grackles
and blackbirds gather
cramming near the shed.
something of a squirrel's
murmuring flesh
appears on
the tree boughs.
March is absurd!
Only a breath
between seasons.
The squirrel now rests
on the hammock
then hides
as if in mourning.
I'm tossing a livery
of old coins over
the almond-colored pond
where skaters were
tossing snow balls
a short week ago,
now my winter's pennies
trickle in
this crippled water
we wait for first light
and skipping leaves
on drop-cloth woods
cautious for sunshine.

 Art and Shadows

—Photo by Katy Brown, Davis

SPRING FORWARD

Spring dares us
to believe in her
takes turns
to toss new pollen
as winter, finally
ditches us
when once ice
snapped trees
on green patches
of upturned rose,
thorn and bush
pushes through
once snow gardens
on common grounds.

________________

FLOODLIGHTS

Streaks of sunlight
beyond glacial hills
and Arctic wind gusts
on unknown ground
that we become a stone
among giant mountains
arrayed in a congealed
world of premonitions
when word gets through
we are all safe
pulling our own weight
here in Stowe, Vermont
sliding down trails
in our body counts
of lean imagination
at flashing first light
by a half-blind skier
coiled like feathers
in her snow mobile
thrusting free
as vacant clouds
by spruce and pine
awakening
in a blink of time
on undertow wheels.

__________________

RUSH HOUR

Clenched hands
on the steering wheel
in a loud clamor
animated in traffic
unrewarding views
of wreckage
and road rages
dazzling the window
like fire dances
flash by us
in an hour
of assured surprises
in pure frenzy
shadows of cars
zigzag highways
in a contraction
of speechless time.

_________________

ROCK STAR

My body shuddered
at a distance
when the school bell
sounded abruptly
and a camera viewed
our classmates
for the swim meet
yet something roused
inside me I could win,
even with variable speed,
without much training
for in the deep waters
of my young psyche
when the cheer leader
and future rose bowl
queen suddenly,
without warning,
pressed against me
and waved me on,
it was my birthday
January eighth
with only a few friends
more into books
not jokers or jocks,
and being younger
than everybody else
because of the two
double promotions
when we had to move
from city to suburb
and the girls were
so mature and exotic
in their way
I am almost hiding
nestled by the wall
that I forgot
all my stretch exercises
and time pieces
the past and tomorrow,
and the cheer leader
telling me it is Elvis'
birthday as well,
I'm heavily breathing
almost purple
from the cold air
she hands me a rose
at the finish line
and I was revived.

__________________

Our thanks to B.Z. Niditch for today's poems, and Katy Brown for the pix to go with them. B.Z. has contributed many poems to the Kitchen over the past year or so, but it occurred to me recently that we have never actually featured him. So here we are. B.Z. Niditch is a poet, playwright, fiction writer and teacher. His work is widely published in journals and magazines throughout the world, including: Columbia: A Magazine of Poetry and Art; The Literary Review; Denver Quarterly; Hawaii Review; Le Guepard (France); Kadmos (France); Prism International; Jejune (Czech Republic); Leopold Bloom (Budapest); Antioch Review; and Prairie Schooner, among others. He is also the founder and artistic director of The Original Theater in Boston, which has presented original, experimental plays on contemporary social and political themes since 1990. He has recently completed a journal, What I Think of You, and several novellas. He lives in Brookline, Massachusetts. Read more about BeeZee on The World of B.Z. Niditch (niditch.blogspot.com) or community-2.webtv.net/buzz-worthy/TheWorldofBZNiditch/index.html
 

__________________

Today's LittleNip:

INTO THE STILLNESS

Into the stillness
of your consciousness
with vague insights
of a house narrative
touching the bright
chance of the unknown
interrogates eternal weeks
of the hypnosis of language
lost in shadowy breath
with the countless hours
of a proverbial somnambulist.

__________________

—Medusa

First Kite

—Photo by Katy Brown