The Iowa In Him

An Avenue of Elms
—Painting by English Painter John Nash (1893-1977)
 

ELMS
—Dennis Schmitz 
 
I’m not sleeping really in my former
home but sleeping in my self until

the Iowa in me—or one street, my street,
leads me, longing, to the older body’s

morning. It’s my brother’s house now.
This would’ve been my bedroom window

in which the wind is all verb, & sun,
finite but in a thousand leaves,

flicks & flicks. Eat, my brother urges,
then walk, & so we talk still negotiating

our fit. Where he’s monosyllabic, I perfect,
disappoint as we go, a lower-case praise

of trees, the neighborhood’s necrotic Dutch
elm victims, scions dying on the warty galls.

Praise the blurt & syncopated chaff of chain
saws: the city’s culling that I was bred for—

metaphorically I am cut but not cut down,
happy just to be, sixty-five but still

preliminary. Now our walk is transition,
board-game rules: one step back, two steps

into complicity as the crew-chief signals
our way through the downed trees, prone trunks

(really just torsos), limbs gnawed arm-length
& then all into the rusted truck-bed, a coarse spew

that blows back on two workers who feed
the chipper. Chuang Tzu’s wise man is a tree

that grows big because its trunk is too twisted
for coffin-lids, leaves poisonous when the disciple

licked one. The crew-chief’s face is clamped
in a parenthesis his ear-protectors make, a moral

deafness—are the saws so loud that he can’t hear
the trees scream? We walk on. What used to be

is knotted in the roots of what is—the bedroom’s
sick elm where sun once flooded my boyhood.

__________________

—Medusa, with gratitude to Dennis Schmitz for bringing me, as so many others, into the world of poetry

 Dennis Schmitz (1937-2019)

To see the recent Sacramento Bee article about 

Dennis, Sacramento's first co-Poet Laureate 

who passed away last Friday, go to 

www.sacbee.com/news/local/obituaries/article235221732.html/. 

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.

Beautiful As A Dream

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

Each day, take some time to spend in silence. Welcome the emptiness of no thought. Just breathe and be. Let the silence sweep you along like a leaf that fell into the stream. Just like a leaf that fell into a stream.

_________________

A summer day. Heat lays upon the Sacramento Valley like a debt that can’t be met. Still, it’s as beautiful as a dream. The sun. The sky. The shade from trees. The sweet sounds of the finches in the jasmine.
 

There are people among us who have a lot of money and yet have no wealth. Likewise there are people with absolutely no money who are truly the richest among us. Wake up. Today is a fine day, just as it is.

_________________

Sunlight is the smiling face of life, especially just at the moment when life begins a new day. Is it unusual for a man to be in love with the universe, just as it is? It shouldn't be. Here is the water, the air, and the earth. Here is the corner where I can pray. A new day, the sunlight joyously returns; the wren in the jasmine watches.
 

A wind from the north end of the Sacramento Valley, stout and warm, does the same thing to my hair that it does to the treetops. The sky touches my head and the earth touches my feet, and here I stand, a human being alive in this world. A fine day, indeed.

I folded the sheet of newspaper into a hat the way my mother did when I was a child. If I made two more folds it would have become a boat, but I stop at the hat, and I place it on my head. Once upon a time, I did this to please my mother, so that she would know that I learned from her. Years later, I wore the hat to make children laugh. Now? My mother is gone and so are the children. In the silence of the house I wear the foolish hat, a hat made of folded newspaper. No one sees, no one laughs. Outside, the sound of a blue jay. It is a lonely sound.
 

Hot and silent. No sign of even one bird. No dog barks in the distance, and I cannot even hear any traffic. The sky lacks clouds. I stop walking and stand perfectly still. My breath, my heartbeat, nothing more in all of the universe.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

This I pray, that I might always speak up for those people whose voices are not being heard.

—James Lee Jobe

___________________

Thank you, James Lee Jobe, for your fine poetry today and those classic posters from memory lane!

To see yesterday’s Sacramento Bee article about Dennis Schmitz, Sacramento's first co-Poet Laureate who passed away last Friday, go to www.sacbee.com/news/local/obituaries/article235221732.html/.

—Medusa, celebrating those who open us up to poetry

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.
 

Sisyphus Rocks 'n Rolls

Sunrise
—Poems and Visuals by Smith, Cleveland, OH
 

MOTHLESS MORNING COFFEE WATER

1st cup coffee morning 1:
1 medium beige moth
death by flame

1st cup morning 2:
1 thin black moth drowns in water
1 more flies in flame

1st cup morning 3:
1 small beige dies by drowning

1st cup morning 4:
no death
coffee tastes the same

 Autumnlair

SISYPHUS AT THE PSYCHIATRIST

So many rocks to rock and roll
there's the rent rock
the car rock
the food rock
the cut and fix the flesh rock
the skin color rock
the bully rock
the cock rock
talk rot
mock rock
rock rock
and of course the ought not rock
so I wake at night
cry for missing mommy Entropy
and dead daddy Doubt
mess my bed with wet of sweat
from cultural courted stress
more or less moralless
and rage at rock
as I faux
rekindle hope of besting slope.

 Beginning

ALMOST PERSUADED

I’ve been told too many truths for justice
or torment in limbic loin
to look for form or function in future satin

I crow denial thrice
return to green for growing
and look to lust for life in logic’s other loggerjam

 Undercat

THE LADY CAME AND STAYED

I'd barred the door
unwelcomed mat
said no way
I'm over that
besides you're young
but whippersnap
we've wayward flow
no future flap
so you must go
right now
not slow
but the Lady stayed and came

 Salts

Our sad-eyed Sufi writes of rain
a night boat on the river
1,000 bright moments
intimate awnings
4 a.m. birds
coffee
love won
love lost
then blushes when we applaud

 Art in America

MYTH AMERIKA

O Red White and Blue-eyed Lady, I am
But a fey ray in the King Kong of your
Clutch, a dank doodle dandy, Jekyll-haired
Hyde. For to spite your apple-laid Annies,
Your tacky plastic seams of care slighted
Bellies begetting sewer, catfish cauls,
You fed me my folly, bled my need
Of calling,

Beshat, of fox on Farley.

 Short Circuit

WW III

Heading for Worry War III
what with the orange virus
and small hands on large levers
in the White House

bullies bellow loud in the land
but I don't worry
cuz edamame ain't got no daddy
and Only the Lonely is ever so lovely
in the season of the song

so welcome on in from the dark
to our corner of the arc
and sit a spell

light is low
but warm and real
feel fine
for flowing flux
depends on being kind

and luck

 329

CIAO CHOW BOOGIE

Ciao chow boogie go down wail gone
Sassafras the fancies she’s my daddy-o mom
My moldy goldy oldie my crazy maybe one

Raise sin to sensation peel feel from ground
No explanation just loose liquid sound
Undress in nude nation do the two-back get down

Riding now into never with every sly lie
I'm cool cat copacetic in absolute time
Jig forever together in metaphoric fire

 Day4night

Today’s LittleNip:

Marrakech at dusk
Purple petals on the ground
Red flower falling

—Smith

________________

A big thank-you this morning to Smith from Cleveland (Steven B. Smith) for his musical, mythical land of poetry and his eye-popping visuals. “Cool Cat Copacetic”, for sure!

Tonight at 6pm, Six Poets Laureate will be together for one evening in a discussion about Social Justice issues at Capital Books on K St. in Sacramento. Then at 7:30pm, James Lee Jobe hosts The Other Voice in Davis, featuring Rhony Bhopla and Tamer Sa’id Mostafa plus open mic. That’s at the Unitarian Universalist Church on Patwin Rd. 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.

To see the Sacramento Bee article about Dennis Schmitz, Sacramento's first co-Poet Laureate who passed away last Friday, go to www.sacbee.com/news/local/obituaries/article235221732.html/.

—Medusa, still rockin' with poetry after all these years...

Lockwhennot

—Photo by Smith

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.

Country

—Poems and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA

RUCKSACK
    on the barn-quilt trail

Summer past solstice, a brisk wind
up-canyon. Orchards ripening to apple-colors,
spray of lavender by an oak-barrel
table above vineyard.
Rucksack pattern painted on wine-
cellar, a quilt design storied from somewhere
in Africa, ending up here. We’re all
wanderers.
The land grows like
crazyquilt—pumpkin-patch and pasture,
harvest-shed, woodlot. Our land’s a comforter
stitched with roads and fences.
At edge of forest, Raven croaks a warning:
Winter coming.
He speaks of transformations as we
might talk of quilts and poems, metaphor and
symbol,
art made from scraps of living—
memory-remnants worked into patterns
to pass down generations.
Raven’s words are true;
see how clouds converge, darkening bright
with storm.
We’ll gather up our wrappers,
scribblings that might become poems,
leftover words to take back down the hill,
and home; starters for an autumn song.

FIGMENTS OF A COUNTRY ROAD

Traffic’s cruising down the two-lane
too fast for the nasty curves, but so goes
a country road.
And there—a dark form
elongated into human, man lounging
at edge of pavement, feet in the westbound
lane.
What strangeness repels fate?
His destination: direction the sun sets; he’s
on his way to see his sister in the Valley;
he stands up, strides away.
On his ballcap: Cookies.

COUNTRY DIRECTIONS

From Feed & Seed (Stetsons and rat traps),
the county 2-lane follows old overland trail but
with gaps—fences obliterating the route.

You’re still a ways from your destination.
Forget location devices, GPS will get you lost.
Old RR track, and a bridge that gathers

flowered crosses on the shoulder—slow down
for the curves. At the T, look sharp
for an old house rooted on hilltop rock, but

with a garden of solar panels, an avant-garde
outpost with generations of antennae,

satellite dishes trying to connect to this
world spinning almost too fast

for wheels on a country road.

RUSH HOUR TURKEY-STYLE

7:35 a.m. School bus is stopped at intersection to make left turn— crosswalk occupied by two wild turkeys, tails fanned. Traffic stopped all four ways. A gray SUV waits to turn right; lady in high boots gets out, arms wide, shoos turkeys away but they pirouette, regroup at crosswalk and centerline. Lady chases, kicking, turkeys not impressed. Man in corner house comes out, stands on his porch to watch the action. Vehicles in four directions at a standstill, backed-up out of sight. No one’s honking but laughing.

turkeys with tom tails
at full banner—rush hour
in our little town

 Main Street, Placerville

IS MAIN STREET CHANGING?

Back in ’84, we stepped into Cash Mercantile and I bought myself a pair of Redwing boots I still wear. Cash Mercantile? Maybe it replaced the Round Tent, but that was before our time. Cash Mercantile’s gone now, along with Rivendell books and Hidden Passage and a string of indie bookstores that couldn’t make it in this world of big chains and cyber-shopping. But the Bookery survives. And people still walk their dogs past Placerville News and they still smile and say hello under foothills blue sky

and on the ridgetop
tall pines looking down on us
changeable humans

ASK THE SCARECROW

Kink and twist of chipseal. Look for scarecrow in a pumpkin field. Apple trees far as the eye—pears, barn, vineyard. Beyond, dark of evergreen. A flight of crows. Maybe I dreamed scarecrow, but what’s autumn without one? Scarecrows in a school garden we passed miles ago. Keep on driving, looking for scarecrow wearing family castoffs, come to life stuffed with straw. Crow and raccoon, honey-bear at edge of winter. Who stole every apple from the tree? Scarecrow keeps it to himself, family secrets into dark.

scarecrow in patchwork
field as sun lengthens shadow
this day to ages

 Sue Crisp, Improvisationalist

Today’s LittleNip:

ROYAL IMPROV
—Taylor Graham

rime couée for Royal manual portable
at WINEderlust, Placerville


Vintage typewriter, vintage wine—
a perfect fit, a match divine.
Might I type you a verse
in honor of this festive day?
What subject? That’s for you to say.
It won’t empty your purse….

Donations always welcome, but
we do this for the love of—what?
of poetry! of rhyme
and words so wing’d, they fly for free
as I press down each vintage key.
Verse, like wine, takes its time.

______________________

Thank you, Taylor Graham, for today’s fine poems, taking us into the country and talking as we have been of quilts and country roads and autumn. She and Placerville Poet Sue Crisp are improvising poems on typewriters for visitors to Main Street in Placerville. For more about the rime couée, visit popularpoetryforms.blogspot.com/2014/02/rime-couee.html/.

Tonight at 6 pm, Taylor Graham will be reading at Arts and Culture El Dorado’s Confidence Lab, 437 Main Street, Placerville.

Before that, at noon today, Third Thursdays in the Sacramento Room of the Central Library in Sacramento (on I Street) will hold its monthly poetry read-around at noon—bring poems by someone other than yourself.

And here are FOUR new calendar entries for today and tomorrow:

•••Tonight at 8pm, Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe and Juice Bar presents Sojourna Jennings plus open mic on 16th St. in Sacramento.

•••Also tonight at 8, Poetry in Davis will host Elana K. Arnold and Mischa Kuczynski plus open mic at John Natsoulas Gallery in Davis.

•••Tomorrow night, 8-11pm, Luna’s will host the Sacramento Unified Poetry Slam.

•••And also tomorrow night, at Capital Books, 6pm, Six Poets Laureate will be together for one evening in a discussion about Social Justice issues, including some readings from the anthology, Undocumented: Great Lakes Poets Laureate on Social Justice, followed by a Q&A with the audience. That’s at 1011 K St. in Sacramento.

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

—Medusa, refreshed after her mystery day off

 Chicken Contemplates Crossing the Country Road
—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.

A Snoozing of Snakes

—Medusa, taking a day off. The festivities shall resume tomorrow.

And a note that NorCal poets will be saddened to hear that Sacramento's first co-Poet Laureate, Dennis Schmitz, passed away last Friday. Our thoughts go out to his family.

_________________________

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.

 

Endless Road Maps

Sunday Drive

—Poems and Original Art by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

BYWAY

what is the route of nowhere—
somewhere a map has given it a place

I follow such maps and find myself
on a new island occupied by me only

unfold yourself
to me

I am here—
lonely  

___________________

TRAGEDY AND TRAGEDY, FADING-OUT
After Carnival Evening by Henri Rousseau

Where are we now but in some dream
together, emerging a dark woods—

two mimes in white costumes,
wandering through a night-sketch—

late of a country carnival
(how long ago)?

Displaced by time, perhaps,
the winter-stricken trees already lonely

for our presence
as we slowly diminish—

two cloud-wisps emulating us—the cold
and following white moon about to weep.

 There and Back

ASKING DIRECTIONS   

Strangers with endless road maps
stop by my house

I cannot tell them where or how
to find where they are going

I am lost between the
staying and the leaving.

 Will It Rain

FENCE LINE
(Wyeth)

Down the long gray hill
his shadow follows
like a reprimand,
lurching against
the steep uneven ground.

The old fence struggles
where it leans
and the loosened light
spreads weakly
across the winter miles.

Old tractor ruts
along the fence line
turn at the last
where the fence turns
back toward the house.

His cold face
finds a random ray of light
while he looks off
past the boundaries.
(Which way . . . ?)

His shadow must decide
against this old consideration;
it seems to pull
to some direction of its own.
(Where would he go . . . ?)

It is a colder day than any other
of this stark and tedious winter,
each one shorter than the last.
Dark settles
and obliterates.

Anywhere has always been
too far from here.
And here is what is known.
He reaches the bottom of the hill.
(Perhaps another year.)

 Mid-Season

SUNRISE AS FAR AS IT REACHES

This morning
the sun comes
up over a small
grave somewhere
in a far country
, and I can feel
my mother’s bones
move to the warmth
, and waken to
the bright sound
of the birds
, and rap back
at the squirrels.

________________

A GLITCH OF TIME

Mother, I approach you on the road;
you are looking down,
picking your way carefully,
looking at the stones and flowers.

I am wearing a yellow dress.
I wave to you and begin to run,

but you, somehow, are receding—
keeping the same distance
between us—never looking up
to help me reach you.

Harvest

HOW FAR WE HAVE COME TO BE HERE

A town set apart
in the midst of sorrows.

A long, thin road
and the small lights of houses.

And now the mountains around us
loom with possession.

We will
never leave here.

 Winding Down

THE REUNITING SELF

I have slept where there are no dreams, and I have crept
down formless hallways of night toward a beckoning door
where I, myself, was standing,

and I have taken so long to do this—all night, through the
dark—all night, through the sleep, which never protected
me, which only opened its tunnel,

and I always thought I could get through, for I was standing
at the other end, small as a glimmer of escape from such an
old country as I come from,

Sleep Country, where I imagine I am real.

_________________

Today’s LittleNip:

THE RIVER BANK AND THE RIVER
—Joyce Odam

All summer, the long grass
reaches out toward the river…

the long grass leans and leans,
but the river is too swift

and will not wait for the slower grass,
but just keeps urging,  hurry…   hurry…

________________

Our thanks to Joyce Odam for taking us traveling down those country roads that are our Seed of the Week! Our new Seed of the Week is First Rain. 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, still wandering those dusty poetry roads after all these years…

 Carnival Evening

—Painting by Henri Rousseau, 1886
(see www.henrirousseau.net/carnival-evening.jsp)

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.

Quilted Skies, For The Sake Of Beauty

Marina Cloud

—Sky Photos by Carol Louise Moon, Placerville, CA

BACK ROADS
—Kathy Kieth, Diamond Springs, CA

Today the straight road can’t take us
anywhere we want to be, so we stay off

the freeway, follow the curving asphalt seams
that mark off quilt squares of chartreuse,

camel, saffron. . .  But today the stuffing
is in the sky, not the quilt:  piles and

piles of grey and white clouds blow around in
the blue like feathers after a pillow fight. . .

Back on earth, potholes and bright yellow
signs slow us down:  Caution, Yield,

Rough Road:  then a stubborn pheasant
stands his ground mid-road—we see his point,

go around him, slow down even more. . .  Finally,
far back into countryside, where the seams

have pulled us into some very center of this quilt     ,
a pure white llama stands, regal among scattered

sheep—more white fluff:  maybe from another
country, or maybe from the sky—from some-

place, anyway, where straight roads can’t always
take us where we want to be. . .

 Sky Full of Cloud

LUCKY
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

My father, a former CB in WWII,
had a pretty strong respect for
engineering and an equally strong
disregard for superstitions.

So at 80 years old, after a several
year bout with leukemia, when he
suddenly fell dead in the hallway
at home right on Friday the 13th,
he knew in his heart that he had
actually beaten the odds to have
lasted that long.

________________

THE RIGHT POTATO
—Caschwa

ten pound bag
that should cover it
even if there are a few
that need to be discarded

come to think of it, some
white cowboy with a ten
gallon hat might find a
few folks that don’t mix

and the next thing you
know, it is people getting
discarded just like potatoes,
and we accept that as normal

 Clouds and Boats

I LIKE PEOPLE
—Caschwa

who don’t get captured
who bring me money
who don’t waste my time
who praise and honor me

if your job is to maintain
our education, public health,
environmental protection, or
policing our communities

and you lack the funds to do
the job right, I will get rid of you
like the irresponsible, vagrant,
lowly scum you are

_______________

PARTY TIME
—Caschwa

The law and order party wants to
throw all those outlaws in jail…

…brown, Haiku, colored,
you can tell what they look like
by reading the news…

…because we just have no room
for those awful folks in polite society

however we did make room for public
officials, paid handsomely by private
interests, to pass volumes of laws to
make almost everything illegal,

while opening the door wide to for-profit
businesses who are in the right place
at the right time to provide us with
plenty of weapons and plenty of prisons,
while they smile all the way to the bank 

 Rigged Cloud

WELCOME
—Caschwa

House boat, always in
motion, immensely solid,
planet foundation

all the comforts of
a baby in the womb, so
very delicate

sea and mist around
the house, under the house, and
above the main deck

here, you won’t need a
meteorologist to
forecast the weather

preposterously
inviting, have a cold one,
tell us some stories

the pantry is full
of all kinds of tasty fish
catch, clean, cook, and eat

don’t drop your glasses
they will be gone forever
experience tells

________________

REWRITTEN
—Caschwa

The plaque at the entrance to Mar a Pago Pago reads:
“Give me your success, your economic health, your jet
set status, yearning to play golf, the illicit profits of your
dynamic stealth. Send these, with $450,000/each gate
fee to me, I welcome your wealth.”

(We’ll leave the lamp on for you.)

As governments do, they then set up a pilot program to
try out this plaque at our southern border.

You know the rest…

 Double-Layered Clouds

FOR THE SAKE OF BEAUTY
—Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA

I am in search
Of artistic beauty.

I will know it
When I see it.

It will grab me.
It will not
Let me go.

I won’t want
To get away.

It will be mine
I will be its.

Like someone diving headlong,
Knowingly and voluntarily,
Into a black hole,

Knowing that his neck
Will turn into a long
String of spaghetti,
Long before his toes arrive,
If ever they do.

It’s well-known
You must suffer
For the sake of beauty.

_________________

SNOWMEN AND COOKIES
—Joseph Nolan

I’m O.K.
You’re O.K.
This is all
We have to say,
Shut in
On a Winter’s Day,
Stuck together.

Let the kids
Got out to play
In the yard
To snowman, make;
Meanwhile
In the house we’ll bake
Chocolate chip cookies.

We’ll serve them hot
With cold, cold milk
So greedy, gobbling tongues
Won’t burn themselves
On liquid chocolate.

The is how we like them,
The danger and the peril
Of loving something
Just a little too much. 

 Bridge Clouds

THE TWO OF US, TOGETHER!
—Joseph Nolan

Imagination,
Regression.
Progress,
Repression,

When can an anarchist be
Completely free to see,

Sunlight on an ocean
Setting
As a sign of divinity,

With dolphins diving
In the surf, near sand,
While you and I
Hold each other’s hands
And burst out laughing,
Obeying no command,

To go and kill
Comrades across the seas.

Well, of course,
We’d rather be at ease,
In our measured moments
On this Earth,
Treasuring each one,
For all it’s worth—
The two of us, together!

________________

CIGARS FOR CASTRO
—Joseph Nolan

The CIA made cigars for Castro,
Cigars that would explode.
Sounds funny, I know.

But they never got
Any of those cigars
Into Castro’s mouth
Or set alight,
Or to explode
Under Castro’s nose.

Castro knew they were coming
Contained in some hokey, gringo,
Spy-made cigar-box.
He had been smoking the real thing
For many years,
Rolled up by Afro-Cubanas,
Who also smoked such big, fat
Cubano cigars, themselves.

Gringo cigars don’t smell right.
The cigar box they come in
Doesn’t look right.
They’re the ones
You don’t light up
Unless you want your nose
To blow
Off!

 Peeking Cloud

PRAYERS FOR FORGIVENESS
—Joseph Nolan

If I
Shall lay awake
At night
And pray

For Divine forgiveness
For my actions in the day,
I won’t be alone.

I’ve heard the prayers
Even of the stones
That line the road

And every hopping toad
And every chirping cricket.

Prayers for forgiveness,
Makes quite a racket
I’m sure the angels hear.

_________________

Today’s LittleNip:
 
POSTHASTE TOOTHPASTE
—Caschwa

(following “21st Century Schizoid
Man” by Smith, Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/16/19)


Cavities galore
spacing awful
missing altogether
not quite a mouthful

cannot afford
another office visit
maybe I can try
the latest dental widget

_________________

Thanks to today’s contributors! We’ve been talking about country roads and luck—plus, Carol Louise Moon captured some fine photos of the sky for us, and thanks for those, too!

Tonight, Odilia Galván Rodríguez and Cathy Arellano will read at Sac. Poetry Center, plus open mic, 7:30pm. On Thursday at noon, SPC’s Third Thursdays in the Sacramento Room of the Central Library will take place, a poetry read-around (bring poems by someone other than yourself).
Then at 6pm that night in Placerville, Taylor Graham will read at Arts and Culture El Dorado’s Confidence Lab on Main Street. Also on Thursday, Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe and Juice Bar in Sacramento takes place at 8pm, with featured readers and open mic.

On Friday, 7:30pm, The Other Voice in Davis presents Rhony Bhopla and Tamer Sa’id Mostafa (plus open mic) in the Unitarian Universalist library on Patwin Road. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about these and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

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

—Medusa, celebrating poetry!

 Four Llamas, With Clouds

—Anonymous

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