Cheeky

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Springing From The Silence

—Poems and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA

WHERE THEY MINED FOR GOLD

    a gloss for the goat of Spanish Hill

Sprung from the silence of the hill
He hangs upon the ledge a-glisten.
And his whole body seems to listen.
      —Edwin Markham, “The Lizard”

A steeply hard-panned, rutted road
to climb, where miners took their fill
of gold, and left. Yet something lives,
sprung from the silence of the hill—

whether he-goat gone wild, or some
earth spirit no one would christen
with bell or name. Up there, standing,
he hangs upon the ledge a-glisten

with shattered gold quartz, human dreams—
and this: a survey stake lodged in
firm ground. To grade and pave his wild?
And his whole body seems to listen.

BLUE SKY, WHITE CLOUDS

A tree fell root-side up, roots
weathering in air, from rain and sun
unsheltered. And look, a small
creature peeks out at daylight.
A root-piglet, or a small root-dog
in the crown of roots. Its eyes
regard me. “And so,
what are you?” it wants to know.

WILD NATURE’S TRIANGLES

Between Thanksgiving and Christmas,
three wild turkeys paraded the Spring Street
centerline, oblivious to traffic dodging potholes.

Then one morning, only two turkeys,
as if Spring Street were our town’s Bermuda
Triangle. The two stood sentinel, awaiting

a return; finally, calling loud and mournful.
Just two turkeys. In winter rain and fog,
everything but slick pavement disappears.

Now it’s almost spring. Blue skies, white clouds.
Today I hit a pothole to avoid two turkeys:
tom in full tail-fan, the hen with head tucked

demurely or wondering, is this
the only guy left in the world? Have I
no other choice?

THROUGH A BLIND WINDOW

    a lisana

Leafless
branches, young oaks awaiting sun
to spring their buds beyond our sight,

and guess
what’s just bursting to be undone
from this closed room as dead as night.

Whiteness!
sparkling clouds on blue sky and one
bird singing up the woods with bright.

LATE WINTER HAIKU

through bare blackberry
bramble whistles a chill wind—
listen, spring’s coming

prints on a dirt road
waffle-tread, cow’s cloven hoof—
so many histories

no wildflowers yet,
buckeye just leafing out—look!
red-bark blossom-bells

white clouds race across
blue sky, whipped by a cold wind—
spring fleeing winter?

on a rainy day
trespassing a vacant lot
daffodils in bloom

BOOK, CAT, COMPUTER                   

            In the night
his eyes carry him
        to unknown places.
            He is your friend.

—William Carlos Williams, “The Turtle”
 

I got to the end,
skimming lines and lines—
ink on pages
once crisp white, stained
with fingers briefly
touching a word
caught between covers
left so long
closed on the shelf
in the night.

I was looking
for I didn’t know what.
Part of my brain
skipping from The Turtle
to my cat intent
on dallying
with computer cords
& cables,
scouting dark corners.
His eyes carry him

through office-jungle
to tangle of cords
communicating
energy to
circuit and screen.
What have I to do
with Turtle
but with cat-mind
adventuring
to unknown places?

My kitten, Latches,
with prehensile
ability to
open doors, explore
dark cupboards—nothing
contains him.
His purr might
be the original song,
as the book tells me
He is your friend.

Today’s LittleNip:

WHOSE CHAIR IS IT?
—Taylor Graham

The rocking chair belongs to Latches.
It used to be the man named Hatch’s
chair, but cats take precedence in all
matters from the great to very small.
By the good grace of black cat Latches,
Hatch may sit there in timely snatches
but only with Latches smug in his lap—
both of them snug in the black cat’s nap.

____________________

Our thanks to Taylor Graham for today’s fine poems and photos, including some thoughts about our recent Seed of the Week, Blue Sky, White Clouds. Don’t forget that Taylor will be co-leading a Wakamatsu workshop with Katy Brown this coming Sunday, Mar. 24. Contact Julie@ARConservancy.org to sign up, or call 530-621-1224.

The Spring issue of eco-journal Canary is now available at canarylitmag.org/, celebrating yesterday's Spring Solstice.

Lots to do today in poetry in our area:

•••Starting at noon, Third Thurs. at the Central Library in Sac. meets for a poetry read-around;
•••Ladies of the Knight read in Yuba City at Justin’s Kitchen, starting at 6:30pm;
•••Don Schofield (plus open mic) is featured at Poetry in Davis, John Natsoulas Gallery, 8pm;
•••Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe and Juice Bar has featured readers plus open mic on 16th St. in Sacramento; 8pm.

Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about these and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa (Celebrate Poetry!)
 

 —Anonymous Photo of Anonymous Cat
Caught Reading Human Books in His
Rocking Chair

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

Sea-salt, Seaweed, and Seaworthy

Sunset, Sidney Island
—Photos by John Westling, Placerville, CA
—Poems by Carol Louise Moon, Placerville, CA

EARLY RETIREMENT

This day I go to walk the dog:
it is the edge of dawn,
I with my jogging suit and
he with jog-suit on.

We’ll walk the narrow path
that leads past those who drink
their tea and those who gather
all their gear to go into the sea.

And so we’ll saunter here today,
with cool winds picking up.
Walking slowly to the pier, he
with cap, me with my cup, we’ll

watch the yachts, the fishing boats
the pelicans and gulls. We’ll hear
their cries, the waves that crash,
the clanging of the bells.

But he and I’ll not stay too long,
nor venture very far.  We must
go home, and there we’ll watch
the sunset with its fire through
picture windows, nice and warm,
then early we’ll retire.

 Columbia Cove

ESTERO BAY

Springtime usually has her way—
as well she has her will.
It’s hot here and the wind is still
on a sea-salt sultry day.

Springtime usually has her way.
Cayucos ‘neath a flowering hill,
a beach town and an calm idyll.
Seashells lie in disarray—

a scattered treasure-chest display.
The lupine found atop the hill
are joined by the merry daffodil
on this idyllic springtime day.

Soaring gulls fly in to play,
to dive, to fish and have their fill.
As well, the pelicans will
surf the waves in this bright bay.

 Columbia Cove

SEAWEED

These are not her socks of
blackened green, but her bare
feet that she might feel the sand
between her clumsy toes.

The hair you see is not her hair,
but seaweed lying on the cold, cold
shore.  There are bladders, ripe,
on each their rubber ends if you
would care to pop the seaweed bulbs.

Within, is wash to wash your graying
mop—to shampoo with the brackish
ocean tide.  Then move along the shore
to find some shells.  Of these, then,
make what you would wish.  Perhaps
you see her face in this sea star.

 Richie

THE OLD SEA CAPTAIN

It was not a dark and stormy night
and the old sea captain was not
on the deck of his ship.  He was
at the old Spanish Inn at a table
by himself.  I asked him what he
was eating.  He said, “Tuna on rye,
coleslaw and a mug of beer.”  He
was furiously writing something
on a paper napkin.

“When it’s not a dark and stormy
night,” I asked, “and you’re
not on the deck of your ship,
do you often come to this table?”
‘Though he was busy eating his
tuna on rye, coleslaw and sipping
his mug of beer, he replied that
he liked to sit here and write.

“And, what will you do when
you retire?”  I asked.

“If it’s not a dark and stormy
night, and I’m not on the deck
of my ship, I’ll probably come
to this old Spanish Inn and
sit at a table by myself and
order tuna on rye, coleslaw
and a mug of beer.  Then I’ll
probably sit and write for
a while.  Here’s one I wrote:

It was not a dark and stormy
night, and I was not not on the
deck of my ship.  I had come to
this old Spanish Inn to sit
by myself and write at a little
Spanish wooden table.  I had
just ordered tuna on rye when
the waitress asked me what
I was doing.  I told her I was
retiring and had come to this
inn to sit and write poetry,
repetends mostly."

Seals
 

Today’s LittleNip:

HARBOR SEALS
—Carol Louise Moon

Two harbor seals
circle our small boat at anchor.
Two harbor seals
whose gray coats glisten like two eels
in this cozy sheltered harbor.
A summer’s day surprise in store—
two harbor seals.

_________________

Our thanks to Carol Louise Moon for these poems from her new series, “The Old Sea Captain”. The photos were taken by photographer John Westling during his voyage in a small fishing boat, circumnavigating Vancouver Island in 2013 with his pal, Richard Golden. He has recently published a novel about the adventure, called Counter Clockwise, which is available on Amazon at www.amazon.com/Counter-Clockwise-Mr-John-Westling/dp/1729298060/. 

 
Tonight from 6-8pm is the weekly MarieWriters Generative Writing Workshop at Sac. Poetry Center, facilitated this week by Laura Martin. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about this and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa (Celebrate the Poetry of the Sea!)

 John Westling, Photographer, Writer, Sea Captain

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

A Sharpness of Birdsong

Blue Sky, White Clouds
—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

WATCHING AND WATCHED
After Edward Mycue, Cover Art for Mindwalking

Black leaves against sky of mottled blue,
small clouds forming—the hour turning
the wrong way on the chalk-white wall,

losing time and meaning, and through the
latticed window an empty face looks down
at the woman fleeing from her dream—

hands held wide with effort to run, pushing
against escape. She turns her head back and
the dream can be seen through her skull—

her head full of bees where the viewed dream
is a black swarm—buzzing with warning: 
hurry,     hurry,      she is about to waken.

 Atmosphere
 

NEW DAY

The sky, filling with morning blue,
a fragile cloud or two, threading.

A sharpness of birdsong penetrating the silence—
brief—and from no distance other than

where it was a startled moment back. Then
that slow, soft tone of whiteness

that takes the place of early blue. 


The way you surrender the owned moment

to the intrusion of sounds and urgencies,
your reluctance to rise from the warm bed,

seductive with comfort, warm around you.
The sky again, gone flat

outside your window measure,
full of daylight now—the clouds

losing their pink direction, taking on
the heavy factory gray

that smudges them. You stretch, and sigh . . .
You look at the clock . . . 

 Cryptic

DAY OF FALSE LIGHT

Today is a day of false light . . .
day before spring . . .
day of swift clouds . . .
and changing motion.

It has rained.
A small rain.  Last night.
It washed my car
and gave the grass reprieve.

I felt a moodiness.
Could not believe my lethargy.
Wasted the hours.
I should have started

some big change—
I felt the thought,
but could not follow.
All day I felt

myself recede
while I watched
the intricate weather
spread its rumor.

Strangely I heard no bird sing
nor felt
its shadow cross my window.
All day

I waited for something
that never came, wanting something
that I could not have,
though I could not find its name.

                                  ________________

                                        KINETIC
                          After Vasarely's Harlequin

                 you are fat balloon   escaped
                         from a circus   waving goodbye

                           you love the  diminishing blue sky
                              the clouds  you pass through

                           you feel like   a safe childhood dream
                               the same   black edges find you

                          you become    closed pattern of light
                       beloved toy of    darkness

                                  _________________
                                                                    

DRIVING THROUGH THE HILLS

these levels of hills
beyond which reach the sky
and my yen for distance
                   .
one blue upon the other
shades of distance recede into the
pale-to-darkening sky
                   .
the hills come to me now with their
overlapping tones and shadows
old twilight hills that I am watching
                   .
a thin line of river flows up the mountain
leaving behind a small lake
upon which a small island is floating

 Surreality

SOMEWHERE, THE LONELINESS
After The Corn Poppy by Kees van Dongen

Wide sweep of wind across cloud-torn sky,

gray upon blue,
wild yellow grasses bending below,

a lone tree struggling in a nearby field—
this is free country,
nothing to surrender or resist,

no bird or sound but the wind.
The day is gathering the hours.
The grass is rustling.  Something

must happen, else why are we here,
the only observers, a place of no
landmarks and no roads.

There are many trees like
this lone tree. The clouds turn ragged
and tear through each other, hurrying, hurrying.

 Ethereal

THE TURNING

That winter day when we walked in rain
and wind, and I wore a coat, and you wore
a thin white shirt, and our wet hair
flattened to our faces as we leaned

into the elements of our discussion,

and the cold skies moved in heavy
tones of gray—immense and rumorous—
though we were only out for an easy,
winter walk, around the windy, rainy block.


(first pub. in Zambomba online, 2002)

 In the Quiet

THE PINK LANDSCAPE
After The Trail by Joan Miro, 1918

That pale stone house between the soft green dis-
tance of those far trees under this generous blue
sky full of nervous clouds—this random vegeta-
tion that tangles and leans—this almost-road that
wanders through it. Here is where we will sort the
morning. Take off your shoes and feel the warm
silt rise; go in a crooked line—whichever way you
choose—but end up at the house. It hasn’t rained
here yet, so the colors sift and fuse to this soft day
of pink sun-shadow where the warm light lies. And
all around us is the silence that I brought you here
to hear—here in the way time does not fly, but waits
for us to catch up with it—here! this here! this now!—
is where we are together. Feel the quiet. Feel the cool.
Feel the promise in the air. Be content with me. No
other time will be this rare.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

TABLE TOP REFLECTION
—Joyce Odam

. . .tree-leaves in table-top reflection
from skylight/upside-down-tree/flut-
tering   green  sun-light  in   glass top/
blue sky below . . . pleasant vertigo. . .

___________________

Many thanks to Joyce Odam for serving us a hearty breakfast in the Kitchen today: lots of blue sky and white clouds, our Seed of the Week! Feel the promise in the air! Spring is headed straight toward us!

Our new Seed of the Week is Angry Birds. You can go with the obvious, the cartoon/video game, or you can listen and watch the landscape around you for birds protecting their nests, for example, or chasing cats, or...? 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 (Celebrate Poetry!)

 Harlequin

—Painting by Victor Vasarely (1904-1997) 

For more about Victor Vasarely, go to 

www.artnet.com/artists/victor-vasarely/.

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

Dancing and Dust

Blackbird Keeping an Eye on You...

—Photos by Katy Brown, Davis, CA

RATHER NOT
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

First the monotone of two left feet in
a rental tuxedo, meandering onto a
shiny, hard wood, dance floor

duple and triple meter call out from
the printed score, light years distant
from muscle groups in the legs

the dreaded wall mirror refuses to be
calm and reflective, choosing instead
to send raging waves of discontent

maybe someone will call a bicycle to
comfort this misplaced soul with a nice,
even, level, symmetrical, ride home

the next time an agent of the royal court
comes calling, they can just wait in line
behind blue skies and white clouds


(CS paired up the SOW and Joyce Odam’s 

recent reference to “monotone” for this 
poem.)

___________________

LIKE A CRUTCH
—Caschwa

Still have a pair of crutches I used
a long time ago, wooden struts with
holes drilled for inserting machine
screws and securing with wing nuts
to adjust the length to your height.
Those crutches hide in the closet,
still set just as I had left them.

Seems like some peoples’ memory
works like those crutches, and once
they experience an image, or event,
or some dialog, it stays there hiding
in their closet just waiting to be
recalled at a later date.

Not so with my memory. Déjà vu is
the best I can do, wondering if I had
ever encountered that notion before,
often having to resort to starting
back at square one.

Sure looks familiar,
maybe I’d seen it before,
maybe on TV.

 Quicksand Meadow

PARTY POLITICS
—Caschwa

The main reason I don’t invite Citizens United to
my birthday parties, even though the Supreme
Court has held that they are “people”, is that their
dominant political influence has acted to effectively
siphon off my discretionary funds

denying money to workers who sorely need it so that
more funds are available to honor the woeful cries of
investors whose needs have already been met many
times over

If only a few
words could highlight what is wrong
and fix it also.

__________________

DUST BEWARE!
—Caschwa

Our present pathetic excuse for a POTUS
has created a monumental vacuum in terms
of leadership in plotting a good path to take
to successfully address our most challenging
issues. The quest to go green, for example,
has put core supporters at odds with each
other to articulate
1) our most pressing needs,
2) feasible funding sources
3) a realistic course and timeline to follow, and
4) legislation necessary to get favorable results

We need to impose
liquidated damages
on laws that don’t work 

FEEL IT
—Caschwa

A president without poetry is like a grand piano
without strings. From our founding fathers to
today’s assortment of living presidents, ten have
written poetry: Washington, Jefferson, Madison,
J.Q. Adams, Tyler, Lincoln, Grant, Harding, Carter,
and Obama.

On the whole, these poet presidents demonstrated
high regard for reaching out to people, which is the
core of poetic work. They showed the warmth of
sympathetic vibrations with the heartbeat of everyday
people, rather than the fire of war chants fueled by
raw emotion.

The next election,
will we vote for another
poet who feels it?

GUMSHOE CLUES
—Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA

Gumshoes
Draw up
Hidden clues

We fear
Might one day
Show

Subliminal,
Omitted news
We’d rather
Have ignored,

Presenting
Strange anomalies,
Unfortunate,
And more,

If we had our
Druthers,
We’d shove them
Under rugs
Or out our
Back-doors!

__________________

A MIGHTY TIGHT KNOT
—Joseph Nolan

A mighty knot
Of tightness made
Defied the hand
And needed blade
To cut it all
Asunder.

Such a wonder!
How tightly
We might tie
A knot!

 The Robins Are Back!

THE AMBIVALENCE OF THE DEAD
—Joseph Nolan

Are the dead
As ambivalent
As the living?
Or have they lost
The need to roast
The living
For their foibles
Since they
Gave up the ghost
Of needing to be
Proper, in line
With a proper line,
And ghosts don’t
Need to work
Overtime?

_________________

OUR BLISS, NOT LESS THAN
OUR EXISTENCE
—Joseph Nolan

It’s useless
To be alive,
To be angry,
To try to find
The meaning of
Existence.

We all grow tired
We all work jobs
We all serve bosses.

We try to
Save our wins
And lose
Our losses.

We range
And feed.
In our private
Moments
We lick
Our painful wounds
And bleed.

We have
No need,
More than this:
To seek
Our bliss,
As though
We were
Not less
Than our
Existence.

________________

Today’s LittleNip:

DUST
—Joseph Nolan

Dust
Only lets light through
If it must;
Otherwise,
In blocking light
It trusts—
Into a gray and hazy
Fuzz.

_____________________

A big, almost-springtime thank-you to today’s contributors! Photographer/poet Katy Brown will be co-leading (with Taylor Graham) a workshop this Sunday at the Wakamatsu Farm in Placerville, starting at 10am: “Capturing Wakamatsu: A Poetry Workshop: Observing Spring at Wakamatsu Farm”. Contact Julie@ARConservancy.org to sign up and for carpool info.

Speaking of Spring, Sunday, April 14, is the deadline for the 10th annual “Art Where Wild Things Are” contest in Sacramento for nature-themed works in all visual art media: paintings, drawings, sculpture, fiber art and photography, hosted by Sacramento Fine Arts Center. Works will be judged and then the winners will be exhibited from May 14-June 2 at the Center. After that, all accepted works, winners or not, will be taken to the June 8 Spring Gala and Auction benefit at Effie Yeaw Nature Center in Carmichael for sale. Go to www.sacfinearts.org and click the “Show Entry” link for info and to enter online.

Poetry in our area this week begins tonight at Sac. Poetry Center with Scott Edward Anderson and Alice Pettway, plus open mic, 7:30pm. SPC workshops this week include Tuesday Night Workshop for critiquing of poems at the Hart Center (27th and J Sts.) on Tuesday, 7:30-9pm (call Danyen Powell at 530-681-0026 for info); and MarieWriters Generative Writing Workshop at SPC for writing poems, facilitated this week by Christin O’Cuddehy, 6-8pm.

Thursday will be busy, starting at noon with Third Thursdays at the Central Library (Sacramento Room); then Ladies of the Knight in Yuba City at Justin’s Kitchen, starting at 6:30pm; Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe and Juice Bar in Sacramento, with features and open mic starting at 8pm; and Don Schofield (plus open mic) at Poetry in Davis, John Natsoulas Gallery, also at 8pm.

Saturday at 10am at SPC, Writers on the Air presents The Celtic Hour w/Mary MaGrath, Bob Stanley, Carol Lynn Grellas, Brigid O’Malley, Nick LeForce, harpist Alex ives, plus open mic. Saturday afternoon in Placerville, Poetic License meets at the Placerville Sr. Center lobby, 2pm. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about these and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

Can’t get enough of President Trump? Books abound, even poetry books, including:

•••The Beautiful Poetry of Donald Trump by Rbt. Sears: www.amazon.com/Beautiful-Poetry-Donald-Trump-Canons/dp/1786892278/ref=asc_df_1786892278/?tag=hyprod-20&linkCode=df0&hvadid=312089030079&hvpos=1o1&hvnetw=g&hvrand=10471306352717190300&hvpone=&hvptwo=&hvqmt=&hvdev=c&hvdvcmdl=&hvlocint=&hvlocphy=9032472&hvtargid=pla-415511088626&psc=1
•••Bigly: Donald Trump in Verse (Make Poetry Great Again) by Rob Long, Ed.: www.amazon.com/Bigly-Donald-Trump-Rob-Long/dp/1621577309/ref=pd_sim_14_7?_encoding=UTF8&pd_rd_i=1621577309&pd_rd_r=fb73228a-473b-11e9-969f-a1ee2b4b46aa&pd_rd_w=75wsA&pd_rd_wg=oya4S&pf_rd_p=90485860-83e9-4fd9-b838-b28a9b7fda30&pf_rd_r=DA632K78CWE53PR2ZTG1&psc=1&refRID=DA632K78CWE53PR2ZTG1

—Medusa (Celebrate Poetry!

 —Anonymous Photo

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

The Elegant Poem

Those gilt taps…
—Anonymous Photo  

THE ELEGANT POEM
(on reading Frederick Seidel)
—Neil Fullwood, Nottingham, England

The poem looks round my house, shakes its opening stanza
Sadly. It says
I need to reacquaint myself with the hoover,
Remind myself
What a chamois leather is for.
The poem amuses itself with some rhymes
For spit and polish,
Elbow grease.
I tell the poem to fuck off,
Adding—before it has chance to take umbrage—
That if it were as elegant
As it likes to pretend
It would have said “expectorate and polish”.

The poem has lived in London and Paris and holidayed
In Dubai
Where the gilt taps
In the hotel lobby men’s room
Could have paid off my mortgage and made my overdraft
A thing of the past.
And don’t get me started
On the poem’s taste in Ducati motorcycles
Or the address of its tailor
Or its cufflinks
Its smoking jacket
Its long thin cigarillos
And the man who comes twice a week to do its cleaning.

The poem has created itself in its own Anglophile image,
Pure Knightsbridge lifestyle porn.
We’ve had a referendum,
I remind the poem,
And some pretty ugly shit has come to the surface.
The poem professes an academic interest
While affecting disgust.
This is the poem’s modus operandi.
The poem wants to be a renaissance masterpiece
Painted over a dirty picture.
The poem wants to play the Mass in B-Minor
While fucking groupies
And doing arrow-straight lines of coke.

The poem
Wants to tear its clothes off in public
And wallow in the reaction.
The poem
Wants to rut in the mud like a frenzied thing.
The poem
Wants to make a statement to the arresting officer
Using a vocabulary
And a range of erudite references
Designed to belittle him.
The poem
Will accept that it “fell down some stairs”
With the same insouciant indifference.

The poem
Wants a crack at making something noble
And self-serving
Of six hours in a holding cell,
Or at the very least
Will use the time pleasantly to recall
The streets of Baghdad
And something it probably shouldn’t speak of.
The poem
Has committed vile acts but was always
Fashionably dressed.
It takes a last look round my house before it leaves
And uses its closing stanza

To criticise the curtains.

____________________

Top of the morning’ to ye on this, St. Patrick’s Day, and thanks, Neil Fullwood, for your elegant poem! Neil is one of our British SnakePals; he lives in Nottingham, England, but he assures me he is not the Sheriff of Nottingham… Check back into the Kitchen next Friday for more from Neil.

Poetry events in our area today include eco-poet Scott Edward Anderson (plus open mic) at Caffe Santoro in Diamond Springs, 1pm, and Mary Mackey (plus open mic) at Davis Arts Center on F St. in Davis. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about these and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa (Celebrate Poetry!)

For more about Frederick Seidel, go to www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/frederick-seidel/.

Did St. Patrick really drive the snakes out of Ireland? Click here and see: news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2014/03/140315-saint-patricks-day-2014-snakes-ireland-nation/.


 

Words Like Music, Like Honey, Like Love

—Poems by James Lee Jobe, Davis, CA
—Graphics by Zen Monk Thich Nhat Hahn

Up at dawn, editing poems
And listening to Moby’s B-sides.
The moon westers, the air is still.
Outside the redwoods stand like giants
Guarding this old house.
Poem follows poem. Eventually
The sky is a soft blue, like a watercolor.
I have lived 22,775 days.

I dream of the 1959 Baltimore Colts
And owning a themed restaurant.
Also in the dream I have a lover
Who is dissatisfied with life.
I can’t help that, no one can.
Waking up, I decide I want to see the sky,
So I slip into the old Birkenstock sandals
And go out onto the patio, quiet as a cat.
Fluffy clouds, gray and white, cover the sky
And are back-lit by the Waning Gibbous moon,
Almost dead center in the sky. It’s lovely.
Returning inside the old house, I stride,
Now fully awake, to my makeshift desk
And begin to write. 3 am.
A long time until dawn.

Moonlight on the treetops of Davis, California.
It is a light like a diamond shining. Silver white.
The trees are elm, valley oak, pine, mulberry.
There are fruit trees, already harvested in September.
And below these trees the moonlight is filtered, dappled.
Walking between the trees, I very quietly give thanks
For this beauty all around me. The full moon,
The many trees, the way the cycles of life roll on.
Just before I turn for home I hear an owl hoot.
He lives near me, and I often hear him,
But I rarely see him. His voice is like an old friend.
I call out, but he doesn’t answer.

A perfect day in early autumn
And my granddaughter has turned five
With a party in the park.
Pizza, cake, a piñata and presents.
Children running on green grass
Under a cool breeze,
Adults who don’t see each other often
Reuniting, and old friendships continue.
In short, a perfect day.
Later at home I cried for my son,
The uncle who missed the party,
Dead now 536 days. And counting.
He dearly loved both pizza and cake.

Does poetry build extra rooms to the house of my life
Or just fill my rooms with useless objects,
And the more I own, the more I am owned?
Outside the sun toasts the afternoon like a bagel.
I have butter, friend, I have jam.
And I have pen and paper.
 

The trees listened in as I was talking about poetry,
Dropping their branches down low
As if each limb held an ear.

“What is he saying about poetry?”

That it blesses our lives with a richness
Not found on television or the internet.
Words like music, like honey, like love,
That grab our souls and lift us up
On a magic wind, past the clouds,
Past the sun, and on into the reaches of space.

That’s what I said.

________________

Today’s LittleNip:

North wind in the pines,
A clear, cold sky—
Just a breath of fresh air at midnight.

—James Lee Jobe

________________

Good morning, and thanks to James Lee Jobe for today’s poetry and graphics! James will be hosting Mary Mackey (plus open mic) at the Davis Arts Center Poetry Series on F St. in Davis tomorrow, Sunday, 2pm.  Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about this and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa (Celebrate Poetry!)

 Midnight Sky
—Anonymous Photo

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