Just Cuz: Mirrors & Moments

Wide Mouth Smith

—Poems and Photos by Smith, Cleveland, OH

RITUAL REBIRTH

First stroke—cannabis toke
second service—sip of caffeine
third—toke
fourth—sip
again

Aaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh

Gear engaged
cog converging
fog of wisp away

Now we wait for sun to rise
as today's game begins again
in seep of yesterday's weep

 Every Day

SISYPHUS PRIME

In dark before dawn
clutching cup of hot black coffee
poised between was and will
not quite is
licking wounds
weighing pain
seeing how much grass is left
to ease me through
the three reals of time
before the rock
during the rock
after the rock
and as always
the hill
the rise
the mountain
the sweat unsweet
doing today yesterday
tomorrow today
now now
now being walk to work
push up hill
drag back home
to repeat unnecessary
serial solar recycle

 Full Speed Ahead

ME

Just cuz a field's been picked
don't mean it's empty

I ain't got much left to leak
getting low on go

Losing meek but moving too slow
to win end-ribbon treat

Just cuz you don't want to
don't mean you shouldn't

Looking through the recipe book
to see how I measure up

Either an empty or half-full cup
depending on how you look

Just cuz it is
don't mean it is

 All Risk

SPIRIT, BONE, BODY, MIND

Spirit and bone, bone and spirit— 
which the rein, which the stirrup?

Bone in body, body round bone—
which one jester, which one throne?

Right hand laughs as left goes long
cuz nothing's right, nothing's wrong.

Two left feet or lack of spine?
Neither one's a crime.

Mind or brain or mental gain
depend on aim of game.

These are your multiple choice questions—
don't leave answers, just suggestions.

 Pastel Shell

 

POST HOC ERGO PROPTER HOC

The lie
"After this, therefore because of this"
is true

cuz treadmill don't stop
stomach don't quit
rent don't go away

no winner's circle
no golden ring

and the view down the road
looks to be a bad disaster movie
with its tacky tawdry
unfun unfair
one more Zen joke on folk

so it's down to mirrors and moments:

who do you see in the mirror in the morning
when you hold your moments close?

 Rainbows

SISYPHUS SECURITY

There's rock,
there's hill,
there's knowing what to do.

But rocks can break,
hills wear away,
and knowing's site-specific.

So I could lose my gig,
have no place to go,
no rock, no hill, no roll.

Got no retirement fund,
no fallback plan,
no rescue from the mud.

Heading up to Big Box Store,
apply as a greeter
to remain an eater.

So sayeth me,
surplus meat
in this land of sharpened teeth.

 Rollcloud

FRAYED STRINGS

The soundtrack without sound
in a movie never made

The apple of the paring
for the pie that wasn't baked

The scratch of itch not coming
after sneeze aborts in air

The weight of daily drubbing
knowing fair is never fair

Final stride at end of day
which began with one at dawn

The learning from your "betters"
that you're not even pawn

Looking in the morning mirror
hoping not to see an ass

The pocket ever empty
weighing wallet's minus mass

 Soulshadow

RAT LAB

All is not as is perceived,
though good is good in friends I see.
New-met folk seem kind to me,
And even strangers help in need.
There's bad and wrong and ugly spell,
yet much less than was thought to tell,
but most our good folk got no gots
so working hard to raise their lot.

I am not rat, I do not roll,
I will not be your tootsie role,
it's truth I seek and chains to lose
in finding through this field of fool.

Not much time to police police
or research vote to aid in ease,
must eat to work and work to feed
to keep ongoing family
on starting track awaiting bell
to salivate our way to well,
it's not quite right but there's no time
to solve it all by closing rhyme.


Click for music by Peter Ball, vocals by Smith, 2014:
www.reverbnation.com/mutantsmith/song/21105263-rat-lab

 Wipeout

Today’s LittleNip:

LET US LOTUS
—Smith

The monkey offers
Buddha branch of honeycomb.

Buddha accepts and says
"Hey monkey, wanna get stoned?
Let's head for parts unknown."

__________________

—Medusa, with many thanks to Smith (Steven B. Smith) for today’s fine poems and photos in his inimitable style!

 Zencat Crack

—Photo by Smith

Celebrate Poetry!

Photos in this column can be enlarged by clicking on them once,
then click on the X in the top right corner to come back
to Medusa.

Rabbit Holes of Change

Big Country

—Poems and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA

BIG COUNTRY

Back in the day, it was a big country.
No fences along the steep, rutted one-lane,
past the white Shepherd who herded our truck
up the grade; a faded yellow Lab
who’d wander by in neighborly fashion.
No one bothered with leash laws.
         A great big country without fences.
We’d hike our dogs to every view
over canyon and ridge beyond ridge toward
Baltic Peak, its abandoned fire lookout.
We’d scout new routes through manzanita,
come out at the great stone where
Miwok summered long before we came;
and bedrock mortars above the creek.
Did we drive the Miwok from
         a great big country without fences?
Of course things must change.
New neighbors, security lights, black
community solar-powered gate
that made me feel like
a prisoner on my own land.
It was time to move on, look for
         a great big country without fences.

 Molly

R.I.P.
    for C.H.

After the search—if it was a good one, a live
find—we’d follow the deputy to some eatery,
whatever was open. We’d traipse in, dirty

with trail—ground-pounders and dog handlers,
jeepers and mounted. Our first time, first search
in this county, we filed in with the others 

to Sportsman’s Hall, old Twelve-Mile House
on the Pony Express trail: hamburgers.
It had taken all morning to coax that lady

out of the canyon, hours to get her safe
back home. Cindy was there in cowboy boots
and jeans, an out-of-saddle way of walking;

beaming to meet us, welcome us to the team;
befriending us in our new place. Over years
we’d see her now and then—on searches,

in odd corners of the forest where she worked
and we happened to be training our dogs.
We took for granted. Cindy was always there,

to know where the key was; where that
trail went; saddled and ready in any weather
to look for the lost. But she was the real find.

Now she’s the one who’s missing.
I’m searching with nothing but words.

 Rock Wall

MISUNDERSTANDING

Blame the moonlight, that dangerous mirror
hanging as from a hook in heaven—
a birdcage of midnight mummers, a gem
the lapidary failed to cut to unflawed glory.
A treasure forgotten from one fullness
to the next. Moonlight is reflection
slipped from behind us—a globe pocked,
imperfect; ever a light for lovers,
the sleepless lonely, and fools for words.

 Heron Landscape

ULTRA VIOLET
    at the elementary school

My dog sniffs a blue-purple something
crumpled in front of G8. Human
scent—it’s old, there’s no one there.

On the play-yard fence hang jackets
and scarves, a thrift-store of abandoned
wrappers. Bodiless effigies of loss.

The day warms up, the coat
becomes a burden. Kids forget, their
mothers remember what it cost.

My dog and I—so many searches
with bad finds. On the news, the latest
schoolyard massacre. I remember

Columbine. It takes me back to high-
country trails, snow-melt
knifing a way toward ice-blue lake,

columbine bending its graceful
crown red as blood.
The memory takes me back.

 Storm at Caples Lake

SEEKING EL DORADO
response to Caschwa’s “Dodger Stadium” 
 
No map in the local tourist magazine.
My old friend George—historian of stars
and mountains and treasure buried
under our feet—was dead now, disappeared
down a rabbit hole of changes. The preface
to his last lecture cited a golden land
transmogrified to village. I clicked on the link.
Error message. Screen dead as George.
No map. A dragon in guise of wild goat
stood high on a gouged-out golden cliff,
the way guarded by remote-powered gate.
One might step in and never get out;
no rabbit hole escape. Fenced and gated.
Where was a map, the freedom to follow
how the land lies? Maybe the real treasure
was George, who knew these things.
Did he take the truth with him
on his flight down the dark hole to stars?

 Barb Wire

Today’s LittleNip:

WINTER WONDERLAND

—Taylor Graham

This stunning snow!
The power’s out, the phone as well.
This stunning snow—
darkened house, icicles aglow.
Each shovel-stroke a crystal bell
as earth’s transformed by winter’s spell,
by stunning snow.

__________________

Many thanks to Taylor Graham for her musings on “a rabbit hole of changes” on this, the winter solstice of 2017. To find out why this will be the worst day of 2017, go to www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-5191403/The-Winter-Solstice-2017-worst-day-year.html/.

Third Thursdays at the Central Library poetry read-around takes place at noon today in Sacramento at the downtown library, 828 I St., and Beth Suter will read at Poetry in Davis (plus open mic) at John Natsoulas Gallery, 521 1st St., Davis, at 7pm instead of the usual 8pm. And there’s always Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe, 1414 16th St., Sacramento, with features and open mic, 8pm.

The Winter 2017 issue of Sacramento’s Convergence is here, at www.convergence-journal.com/winter17/. And submissions deadline for the next issue (for Spring and Summer 2018 issues) is January 5. See www.convergence-journal.com/submit.html/.

—Medusa

 Nutmeg

—Photo by Taylor Graham
Celebrate poetry!

Photos in this column can be enlarged by clicking on them once,
then click on the X in the top right corner to come back
to Medusa.  
 

The Miracle Just Starts

—Photo by Katy Brown, Davis, CA

—Poems by Philip M. Raskin (1880-1944)

 

THE MIRACLE

The Rabbi tells his old, old tale,
     

    The pupils seated round.


“…And thus, my boys, no holy oil
     

    In the Temple could be found.

The heathens left no oil to light
     

    The Lord’s eternal lamp;


At last one jar, one single jar,
     

    Was found with the high priest’s stamp.

Its oil could only last one day—
     

    But God hath wondrous ways;


For lo! a miracle occurred:
     

    It burned for eight whole days."

The tale was ended, but the boys,
     

    All open-eyed and dumb,


Sat listening still, as though aware
     

    Of stranger things to come.



Just wait, my boys, permit me, pray,
     

    The liberty to take;


Your Rabbi—may he pardon me—
     

    Has made a slight mistake.



Not eight days, but two thousand years
     

    That jar of oil did last,


To quell its wondrous flames availed
     

    No storm, no flood, no blast.



But this is not yet all, my boys:
     

    The miracle just starts.


This flame is kindling light and hope
     

    In countless gloomy hearts.



And in our long and starless night,
    

    Lest we should go astray,


It beacon-like sheds floods of light,
    

    And eastwards points the way,



Where light will shine on Zion’s hill,
     

    As in the days of old.


The miracle is greater, boys,
     

    Than what your Rabbi told.

 

—Anonymous Photo

THE LINNET

Have you heard the linnet trilling,
     

    To discover did you try


What is hidden in her carol—
     

    Does she sing or does she cry?



I am singing like the linnet,
     

    When my heart does pine and long;


Love, and pain, and joy, and sorrow,
     

    All are hidden in my song.

—Anonymous Photo

HANUKKAH LIGHTS

I kindled my eight little candles,
     

    My Hanukkah candles, and lo!


Fair visions and dreams half-forgotten
     

    Were rising of years long ago.



I musingly gazed at my candles;
     

    Meseemed in their quivering flames


In golden, in fiery letters
     

    I read the old, glorious names;



The names of our heroes immortal,
     

    The noble, the brave, and the true;


A battlefield saw I in vision,
     

    Where many were conquered by few;



And mute lay the Syrian army,
     

    Judea’s proud foe, in the field;


And Judas, the brave Maccabaeus,
    

     I saw in his helmet and shield.



His eyes shone like bright stars of heaven,
     

     Like music resounded his voice:


“Brave comrades, we fought and we conquered,
    

     Now let us in God’s name rejoice!



“We conquered; but know, my brave comrades,
    

    No triumph is due to the sword;


Remember our motto and watchword,
     

    ‘For the people and towns of the Lord.’”



He spoke, and from all the four corners
     

    An echo repeated each word;


The woods and the mountains re-echoed:
     

    “For the people and towns of the Lord.

”

And swiftly the message spread, calling:
     

     “Judea, Judea is free!


Rekindled the lamp in the Temple,
     

    Rekindled each bosom with glee!”



*     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *  

My Hanukkah candles soon flickered,
     

    Around me was darkness of night;


But deep in my soul I felt shining
      

    A heavenly, wonderful light.

_________________

Today’s LittleNip:

THE TENANT
—Philip M. Raskin

In my youth hope hired
     In my heart a tent;
Promised me a fortune,
     Never paid her rent.

Bankrupt is my tenant—
     This I know at length—
Why then to expel her
     Do I lack the strength?

____________________

For more about Philip M. Raskin on this closing day of Hanukkah, see www.poets.org/poetsorg/poet/philip-m-raskin/. For more about "Menorahs in Jewish Art", go to richardmcbee.com/writings/jewish-art-before-1945/item/menorahs-in-jewish-art/. (And thanks, Katy Brown, for the photo!)

—Medusa

 —Anonymous Photo

Celebrate the poetry of the season!

Photos in this column can be enlarged by clicking on them once,
then click on the X in the top right corner to come back
to Medusa.

The Art of Listening

Yellowing

—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

THE WORLD . . . THE SUN

When the sun came out this morning, it burned a
hole in the sky and spilled its black ashes around
and whatever dared to look at it was stricken with

stabbing color—rings of nausea—jagged patterns
of blindness.  The dark hole of the sky filled with
blessing—the light pouring in—in all its radiance.

When the sun came out this morning, everything
that was too fragile thrived then shriveled.
Know that this light is forever.  It borders the

cold world and the cold heart alike.  It wobbles,
then settles into a golden ring.  Bask in it . . . bask
in it . . .  let it heal whatever can bear such healing.

 Fire in the Leaf

THE LIGHT AS GIFT
“flowers were dressed in nothing but light.”
                                             —Mary Oliver

It was
as if the light
gave itself away to
everything—especially the
flowers.

 Remember When

THE WIFE OF THE SLEEPING MAN
After Bedroom with Fire by JMW Turner, 1827

Now she would truly know, as though—
as though—all her well-read words would

train her mind to memorize. This was a
cozy night, her crossed feet were bare,

someone sleeping there—nearby—
and the room was warm enough to read

from a treasured book that took all her life
to read. She was the watchful wife of the

sleeping man who dreamed in his sleep,
as if she was not there. And they lived

like this : he on his couch, and she
in her reading chair, though she never

turned a page, and he never turned to a
more comfortable position, and the fire-

place never burned down—and this was
their perfection : a sing-song life without

any strife, and no ambition, and they were
content, as though it was meant to be like this.

 The Vessel

THE WAY YOU LINGER

You float—as all things float—in distant thought,
no longer real or found in designed distance.
How can you not realize where you are?
                  ~
You call me, weeping. I am closed to your voice,
cannot grant a solace to your tears, which pour
through the phone and burn my ear, my cruel mouth.
                  ~
Somewhere in sleep, you dream my life again.
I cannot make out the dream from here. My mind
is a white line on a white page. It becomes a road.
                  ~
You are walking toward me.

 Prayers

PERSPECTIVE     
After Three Men Walking   by Giacometti, 1948

Walking out from the center of the mirror, I face
three directions and am at once at the mercy of
three compulsions.  Thus am I split into the three

measurements of existence:  I am past, present,
and future.  But, still, I am of the mirror—that
mothering eye that will not diminish or release,

but only gives me a glimpse of illusion—that
bordering reach—that drifts off the fathomless
edge around me.  If only I can pull away at the

exact moment, I will escape the unguarded blink
that must occur.  Even now, I can feel my three
selves slip the magnetic hold of my own fear

and reluctance—that pull at the weakening
center—if only I am that brave—if only I can
break my own trance, and that of the mirror.

                                    
(first pub. in Tiger's Eye, 2001/02)

 The Grieving

REMEMBERING DANNY
(Mother Ryder’s Home for Children, c. 1932)

Danny has shown me how to hold a blade
of field grass to make it whistle.  I have a
skill now.  I can make music of the grass.

             ~~~

Shy Danny has never teased shy me.
We twist on the swings.  Time is not
here yet.  We wait for it in the dusk.

             ~~~

"Danny, will you miss me . . .  .  Danny
will you remember me?"  We touch our

      knees together at the bottom of
      the three cement steps that lead

           down   to a locked door.  One of us
           must leave.  We are eight years old.

                                                 
(first pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2010)

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

CALL TO MIND
—Joyce Odam

Fragment only of the word I lost.
Let it return, new and unused,

like a curse not uttered,
like a prayer there was no word for,

like the gift of silence
meant for the art of listening. 

_______________________

Many thanks to Joyce Odam, as she writes to us about forgotten treasures. Our new Seed of the Week is The Heart of Christmas. 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

 —Anonymous Photo

Celebrate poetry!

Photos in this column can be enlarged by clicking on them once,
then click on the X in the top right corner to come back
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Mosaics of Memory

—Anonymous Photos

DYING TO REMEMBER
—Loch Henson, Diamond Springs, CA

A glance at the prismatic

twinkle of the Christmas


tree ornaments, and the


memory of a future imperfect


starts to develop.


This is likely the last Christmas


with someone I love.  The impending


loss takes my breath away,


leaves me bereft before


the damage is dealt.



The band Crowded House had it right—


“Wherever there is comfort,


there is pain,


only one step away”


And yet here I stand, 

one 
step away…grateful and


bitter in roughly equal measure.



The scent of pine boughs


and vanilla candles mingle

with wood smoke, and


I can feel the mosaic 


of memory assembling,


and preparing to render


its artistic impression of


these observations.

SENTIMENTAL ABOUT TREES
—Loch Henson



Late October, and the carnage begins.
After we harvest up all the pumpkins


for frivolous carving,

after we slaughter the turkeys for


Thanksgiving (and the hogs, and the hens…


pretty much annihilating anything in the


barnyard for our feasting),
we shall turn our attention to the forest.



Standing tall and quiet, our pines and firs


and cedars feel the coldness of the season…  


not the air temperature: the cold stare of our

children, saws in hand, looking for the


perfect sacrifice.  



Of course, we’ll adorn its carcass with plastic


baubles, and LED lights from the big


box store. We’ll stand it in a corner, and


pay retail homage to the gift gathering,


do our level best to obfuscate the Christ


in Christmas.


UNFINISHED
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

I was complimented
By a poet on high
For not having lost
All my buttons (cue sigh)

The other part of that story
Is finding the host
For my collection of buttons
That are the bones of a ghost

Plastic and metal
From two holes to four
Buttons populate my bureaus
And gather on the floor

Where now are the garments
That long for this treasure?
Long gone in the trash
Less their buttons du jour

REAL PEOPLE
—Caschwa

I received a nasty letter from our
Big Brother water department
Saying I was not doing my part

That I am using more water now
Than in the same time period
Last year, so I need to try harder

ExCUSE me for not being a
Real person!  Real people
Would have fronted the money

To hire a crew of landscape workers
To mow, clip, trudge, and sweat
And go shower off elsewhere

But if you choose to do it yourself
And come into the house to
Clean up and properly bathe

It is like you are stealing water
From those who need it more
According to the sacred numbers

Real people chain smoke, go to a
Luxury hotel and flush each cigarette
Down the toilet, because that’s OK there

Real people always take their cars
To a commercial car wash facility
Distant from their immaculate driveways

Real people have connections with
The water police so that even if leaks
Appear, no punitive action is taken

Oops, got to go!  My calendar
Shows this is the time for my
Bi-monthly, 3-minute camp shower

_____________________

Today''s LittleNip:

Progress is impossible without change, and those who cannot change their minds cannot change anything.

—George Bernard Shaw 

_____________________

Thanks to today’s poets, including Loch Henson, who has been very ill these past months. But she’s recovering now, and was able to read with Taylor Graham and Kaitlyn Stahl last Friday in Cameron Park. For more about that, see www.mtdemocrat.com/prospecting/next-stop-for-poet-laureate-is-cameron-park/.

After some trepidation about the books arriving in time from the printer, the new Tule Review from the Sacramento Poetry Center did arrive in time for its 25th Anniversary Party last Saturday night. (Sorry I didn’t post it in time—I didn’t know whether it was happening or not.) So the new issue is available now, and submissions for the next issue are also welcome; see spcsacramentopoetrycenter.submittable.com/submit/. According to that site, the deadline for poetry there is Dec. 31……

Poetry readings in our area begin tonight with two open mics in Placerville: Poetry on Main St. at The Wine Smith on Main St., 5-6:30pm, and Poetry in Motion at the Placerville Sr. Center, 6-7pm. Then in Sacramento at the Sac. Poetry Center (7:30pm), Barbara West and Grace Loescher will read (plus open mic.) 25th & R Sts. And tomorrow (Tuesday) is the free workshop, Set Your Creative Intentions for the New Year, presented by Cal. Lawyers for the Arts, 9:30-11am—be sure to check their website to see if there is still room.

On Thursday, Third Thursdays at the Central Library (poetry read-around) will take place at noon, and there will also be a read-around (Poetic License) at the Placerville Sr. Center on Saturday (12/23), from 2-4pm. Writers on the Air will not meet that day, however, due to the holiday season, and Sac. Poetry Center will not meet on Christmas Day (Mon., 12/25). 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.

The winter issue of Canary is now available at canarylitmag.org/. Editor Gail Entrekin writes: "Winter descends upon us all, no matter what habitat we are living in, and its silences help us to slow down. May this issue of Canary contribute to your peace and introspection during this quietest of seasons. And may it inspire you for the work before us all."  

—Medusa

 —Anonymous Photo

Celebrate Poetry!

Photos in this column can be enlarged by clicking on them once,
then click on the X in the top right corner to come back
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Lost Babylon

—Anonymous Illustration

BABYLON
—Robert Graves (1895-1985)

The child alone a poet is:
Spring and Fairyland are his.
Truth and Reason show but dim,
And all’s poetry with him.
Rhyme and music flow in plenty
For the lad of one-and-twenty,
But Spring for him is no more now
Than daisies to a munching cow;
Just a cheery pleasant season,
Daisy buds to live at ease on.
He’s forgotten how he smiled
And shrieked at snowdrops when a child,
Or wept one evening secretly
For April’s glorious misery.
Wisdom made him old and wary
Banishing the Lords of Faery.
Wisdom made a breach and battered
Babylon to bits: she scattered
To the hedges and ditches
All our nursery gnomes and witches.
Lob and Puck, poor frantic elves,
Drag their treasures from the shelves.
Jack the Giant-killer’s gone,
Mother Goose and Oberon,
Bluebeard and King Solomon.
Robin, and Red Riding Hood
Take together to the wood,
And Sir Galahad lies hid
In a cave with Captain Kidd.
None of all the magic hosts,
None remain but a few ghosts
Of timorous heart, to linger on
Weeping for lost Babylon.

______________________

—Medusa, reminding you that Jeff Knorr will be reading at Poetry in Placerville today, 1-3pm, at Love Birds Coffee and Tea Co. on Broadway 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.

Dark Nights & Shadow Shredders

Manic is the Night

—Poems and Photos by Michael Lee Johnson, Itasca, IL

MANIC IS THE DARK NIGHT

Deep into the forest
the trees have turned
black, and the sun
has disappeared in
the distance beneath
the earth line, leaving
the sky a palette of grays
sheltering the pine trees
with pitch-tar shadows.
It's here in this black
and sky gray the mind
turns psycho
tosses norms and pathos
into a ground cellar of hell,
tosses words out through the teeth.
“Don’t smile or act funny,
try to be cute with me;
how can I help you today
out of your depression?”
I feel jubilant, I feel over the moon
with euphoric gaiety.
 

YOU CAN’T LOVE A CORPSE

You can't love a corpse
'cause a corpse can't
love for free—
between being here once,
now gone.

Years pass
memories of then
photograph in heart now.

There he is on hard times,
hollow days,
Christmas Eve playing
Halloween tricks.

He speaks memories in
your eyes, they keep you twisting.

The cheers, the methodology,
the mirror, pools, of dark still water—

history is the way your face looks
when you wake up from this dream.

He was the best of images reflected.

The deep frost
amber memories
expose his face tonight
the way it was—
antiquities, ceremonies
of the living dead.

The farm, the farmer,
children,
campfires,
hayrides, friends,
harvester,
this way the Ottawa,
Illinois sky covers
its face with orange smears.

Little sticks of carrots
pop up from the ground,
farm reports and crop prices,
neighbors’ yellow harvest the corn.

Phillip was/is a good man
gone piecemeal dry.

Everything comes back
in brilliant face,
colors, autumn leaves,
then passes quiet
back into the night.
Somber, sober, this marking
of fragments I share this
space in time with you.

 Resurrection Mary

RESURRECTION MARY

I learned years ago, true stories against myths.
I learned early in hustle time to distinguish single cash back rewards
from whores—dime store dancers from true date believers—
I never worried about the sentence structure of my life.
Life is a melody breather, philosophy of ghosts, past, pink pillow talk.
Resurrection Mary was my history teacher, my lesson, lover in white satin.
Single life is a hollow road, and a narrow road with a cemetery nearby.
I was then and now a writer, poetry of screams, dementia, limited skills, and open skulls.
I hampered history into our craniums, criminal minds, images of release, sperm climax.
When she was conscious, she kissed my breath, and dreamed of my beginning, my end.
I was a drifter of singles dances; she was a drifter of time, shadow maker.
I often breathed on her forehead, sucked on her toes, left the body for legends
tossed carcass into the south wind and south gate storms.
Jesus is a perfume seller of night scent.
Jesus is aroused and an iron bar bender, stretcher of the nights into years.
Mary clutches her small purse, passes of injustice, and hitchhikes back and forth in time.
I am stamped; shake me, watch click in time—
Resurrection Mary still holds a red wine glass, end of the barstool in time.
Shake it all off, no shame; put those dancing shoes on, one more time.

There was nothing special about women, young in Chicago '30's.
Resurrection Mary, danced, stamped a white wedding dress poetry mind, sex out, gone.
She taught me oral sex at lunchtime.
Resurrection Mary, we still hold wine, at end of the barstool.
Shake, no shame, put those dancing shoes on.

LEROY AND HIS LOVE AFFAIR

Girlie magazines dating back to 1972 are scattered across the floor.
The skeletons of two pet canaries lie dormant inside a wired cage.

Bessie Mae died here 8 months ago.
From her lips, and from her eyes comes nothing like before.

Leroy, her lover, her only friend, the man she lived with for
over 30 years locked her body in their bedroom.
He didn't want to part from her.

Leroy has no friends to detect anything that might be suspect.
He wants nothing between the two of them at all.
No one comes near to interfere.

Their bedroom is padlocked, stale, and stagnant with mildew, looking
the way it did before she died.

Foul odors ooze up through their bedroom ventilation ducts,
Leroy contends that a dead rat in the basement is causing the odors.

Leroy loves to lie about his sacred love affairs.

Layers of dust blanket over the mahogany floors, and the maid doesn’t come
here anymore.

Bessie Mae’s remains are wrapped in a scarlet housecoat,
Dried blood sleeps in a small pool beneath her bed.

In time they both will sleep, sole witnesses to this fiasco
their lives will catch them in; enduring it, holding
their tongues till time matters no more.

Nothing appears changed, lovers unwilling to depart.

I’M SHADOW SHREDDER

I take your ghost pile
gold your multi dreams,
bones of scattered parts,
twisted thoughts
moss that tangles
brain construction,
derailments—
these are desperate nights.
I shred them for you.
Devil is rhythm of rain,
a crossword of slices
you hold both blades.
Devil storms, holds drama
in your brain.
Give me your mass ruminations,
I vacuum them, flush out free.
I write this song of your depression.
I’m shredder man.
I free park your brain,
you toss me bushels of anxiety,
I use them, create a rainbow
of positive thoughts,
eliminate negatives,
cross over the bridge with
private pray, I’m your friend—
prayer partner, weeper night.
Rainbows send no darts
nor daggers.
Hearts and queens—
we’re all gamblers,
cards decked, stacked.
Toss me into your fears,
I’ll harvest them in grace.
Depression is a sucker, carp,
bottom dweller, feeder,
found in theater horrors
at night, leaser of ghost tears.
From my heart
I give Christ salvation active
to you:
Pray, I’m the shedder man.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Ghosts were created when the first man woke up in the night.

—James M. Barrie

_____________________

Many thanks to Michael Lee Johnson for today’s haunting poetry and photos and his talk of ghosts past, present and otherwise! Michael’s poetry videos on YouTube can be seen at www.youtube.com/user/poetrymanusa/videos/. For more about Resurrection Mary, see www.chicagonow.com/chicago-quirk/2011/10/meet-chicagos-most-famous-ghost-resurrection-mary/.

—Medusa

—Anonymous 

 Celebrate poetry!—and ghosts!

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