Too Much Beowulf?

Enhanced photo by D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove

NEW JOB
—Rhony Bhopla, Sacramento

It’s bone cold, so cold
that my dog refuses
to go out.
I fumble
for her leash so that
I can somehow bribe her
with a quick walk.
The curb is lined with
yellow and auburn leaves, sticking
to the asphalt, making
me feel guilty about not
raking.

We approach a small house
on the corner, walking
through our steamy breaths.
It’s a garage sale, and I find
an old pipette oil can,
rusty to the core. Something
I can paint red, and maybe put
some pens and pencils in.
There is a barber chair
and a pack of customer aprons.
The man sucks his cigarette
hard, after I ask him about the chair.
We haggle about the price.
Finally, he said for a deal he’d rig
his old truck and bring it over.

The chair has a metal loop bar on the
bottom, where you put your feet.
It swivels around and around.
I give it a few twirls, then notice
all of the dust, and maybe some
hair stuck to my shirt. After a
good cleaning, I make room for a trolley
with a pair of scissors, electric shaver
and one of those soft brushes.
I steal a construction wooden
horse sign, use it as signage:
Southside Barber Shop.
Then I wait for customers.

Hey guy! I call out. I want to cut
your hair. You need one!
Sometimes
You have to volunteer or work for free
to get business.
He’s up for the idea, and sits
on the chair. I turn on the small
black and white television,
I plug in the shaver.
My dog
cocks her head to the side
at the buzzing sound.

_____________________

ENTERPRISE
—Michael Cluff, Highland, CA

Cornelius espied
through an open window
an apple pie,
he later learned,
cooling in the tepid Temecula air
at Melinda's house
on the sill leading
into the Colonial dining room.

Hungry, he availed himself
and swiped it away
clean and swift.

He had not eaten all day,
not of his own accord.

He took it out to the parkway
checked his blue pinstriped suit
and grey plush tie
in the side mirror
and opened his Mercedes.

Driving off
he recalled
the expensive Serbian wine
he had purloined
from Otis and Cornelia's cellar
dedicated to such
while they were vacationing
in Gstaad.

Not half bad
he thought
as he admired
the polish on his penny loafers
he had.....

bought at Allen Edmonds.

___________________

ASSESSMENT
—Michael Cluff

Through the open window
the past is staring back
at me in now neutered forms.
The stale air mixes with the new century
campanula, peppertree and zinnia accents.

I have not actively lived here
since deaths overrode the need
to be so alone and onery.

Poetry from the early nineties
nestles in the red plush chair
that no one has occupied
since Gore was Vice-President.

On the second couch
flyers about readings
point to the unaware ceiling
and remember
the sound of some now-silent voices
that rattled the beams above
a fire pit in a coffee bar.

Dress shirts and pants
sleep in the closets
knowing I would have to adapt
to them and so would
the world of fluid fashion
for them to leave
their pleasant hibernations.

Azure goes to umber
the sky says goodbye
to the sun
and today's memories
are born in the unformed
grass and purple shadows
on the right wall.

____________________

JANUARY 5, 10:58 p.m.
—Michael Cluff

Auditioning to play
the Jewish father
I never had,
the section on the Seder
was not acted
but real.

I may not get cast
but I felt back home
in this space
even though
it was in a church
auditorium in Ontario
just north of Edison
on Archibald.

Being Abe
in Beau Jest
with his suits,
herringbone trench coat
and wingtips
would be nice:
a touch back to a culture
I miss

I am happy to
just have been
allowed to act in his shoes,
attempt his Hungarian accent
for that little tab of time.

____________________

SO MAYBE I WAS A LITTEL HEAVY ON
BEOWULF IN THE SYLLABUS
—Kevin Jone, Elk Grove

“Another lecture
On Old English,”
Moaned the student
Perched
On the windowsill.
“I can’t take no more.”
And he jumped.

The classroom was
A Fed surplus module,
With windows
Floor to ceiling.
He hit the ground
Running, headed
For the cornfields
And was never
Heard from again.

____________________ 

Today's LittleNip: 

MIMI
—Michael Cluff

Placing honey
in my mouth
holds no intrigue
for Mimi anymore
only vinegar wine
will do it
for her alone.

____________________

—Medusa

Leaves, Mike's House

—Photo by D.R. Wagner

Surviving On Our Blues

 Roman Glass

—Photo by Katy Brown, Davis

STILL LIFE
—B.Z. Niditch, Brookline, MA

Still life
loses balance
in all the baggage
we fear,
just in case of
improbabilities
on our daily canvas
may vanish
and we will turn into
waves of obscurity
so we paint,
compose,
sing,
frame
notes, portraits, poems
and survive
on our blues.

_____________________

IN THE CORNER
—B.Z. Niditch

Your first holiday
with a love letter
falling into strangeness
out of hand
barefoot by dunes
on the warm shore
after summer school
seeming immortal
in sober exercises
and lesson plans
that never go into effect
making up
for laziness
and lost time
in those marred days
of false disciplines
down heated corridors
with hospice smells
and artificial lilacs
on purple-edged vases
replicas of the Etruscans
in the corner hall
where you read
in liquid silence.

_____________________

TO BE LIKE HAMLET
—B.Z. Niditch

To be like Hamlet
mind breathing into words
exceeds any answer

every hand
is turned away
clenched by time

and here is Ophelia
in the fourth act
waiting the curtain

any private whisper
or murmur
in the human landscape

leaving
the stage
like all of us.

___________________

AUDITIONS
—B.Z. Niditch

Dressed down
resembling
a street fighter
for a two-bit part
passing for Hamlet
to read his soliloquy
in Old English
before your turn
and you quoting
from memory
your elegy
about your friend
from your school play
who also died
from a love affair
of a different age
and gender
language flowed
on the edge
taking shots
under pressure
when the lights
went out
and you got the part.

____________________

TONE POEM
—B.Z. Niditch

We breathe in night air
from falling snowflakes
outside the recital hall
before a concert feast,
already contemplating
long conversations
and fine reviews,
the second violinist
talks to the first
in a foreign tongue
giving him a soft tug
on the shoulder
reminding the other
of those arpeggios
in the string section's
finale and fixing
his own spotted tie,
as the doors open.

____________________

TRIO
—B.Z. Niditch

Listening
with a harmonium ear
imagining out at sea
floating to Ravel
tasting echoes
in our tongues
outlasting the distance
between two oceans
of a denoument,
suddenly an applause
of thunder
inside the marble hall
of chamber music
as we embark
catching the sunshine
of our own trio.

_____________________ 

Today's LittleNip: 

And this, our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything.

—William Shakespeare

_____________________

—Medusa

Detail, Chataqua bronze

Ashland, Oregon

—Photo by Cynthia Linville, Sacramento

A Week Past Novilune

Photo by Katy Brown, Davis

MY SOUL WAS A WINDOW
—James Lee Jobe, Davis


When this night lifts away from the world, like a blanket

torn from a bed, I will finally leave this body.

I have been waiting, counting

years like days.

What comes next is something I cannot know,

but it doesn't matter.

My spirit rode the ark

through the flood.

My soul was a window to stare through

and day dream.

I will leave this body, and some day

you will leave yours, friend.

These shells we ride in are like used cars, parts wear out,

until finally it is done.

It has been a long night,

empty, and cold.

My only companions are a clock

and a worn out book of poems.

And that's alright; even now the first rays

of the newborn sun are kissing the earth.

Goodbye

and goodbye.

____________________

THE NIGHT SHE LEFT THE WINDOW OPEN
—Jame Lee Jobe


Lovely indeed, she had lit many beeswax candles

of yellow and white; the tiny flames escaped

one by one through the open window, flying

off to heaven to become the stars. The scent

of her perfume and her oils drifted out

on the evening breeze to cover the flowers,

the jasmine, and the honeysuckle. And she sang!

Her song gave life to the moon, whose dance

pulled the tides in and out, wave and splash,

the waves of another day, another chance

at living. At being human. Life escaped

through this window only to return as love,

as the kindest dreams of our children,

as a chance, a slim chance, of a future.

____________________

WHAT'S NEXT
—Taylor Graham, Placerville

Here's the shop on Main Street with
its windows blank. For Lease. Nothing
inside. It used to be a bookstore,

window on the world, and time—
mankind's history and his prospects,
every imaginable adventure

bound in words. I'd pick a volume
off the shelves; flip through pages. Feel
its heft and fiber, comfort of its spine.

The bookstore's out of business.
Now there's Nook and Kindle. I hold
a brand-new one in my hand,

there are no stories stored inside.
It weighs less than the book I close
like a window on the ages.

I stroke the buckram cover
as if I could feel, slipping
from the printed pages, its life.

_____________________

SICKROOM WINDOW
—Taylor Graham

The moon is a merchant ship sailing
half-rigged across the ocean of blue sky.
Graceful as Arabic alphabet,
those lovely, curving letters in her sleep
fresh as bed-sheets never were,
in this tedium of lying on a fever-tide.
A week past novilune, in the Latin
way of telling a waxing moon
that's come sailing through east-window
on the waves of late afternoon,
foam writing some alien script full
of unknown meaning, still fresh as salt-
water lapping at her inner ear.
Listen, it says.

_____________________

THE FOUNDLING AS SEEN FROM A HIGH OPEN WINDOW
—D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove

There was something about his breathing,
Quick short breaths, as if a spider
Monkey was doing the breathing. There
Was no way to explain why this was.

He moved with a liquid elegance
Seldom seen in any interior space.
The sky seemed to lift his body
Higher than one might expect just
Looking at him standing there.

The room began to attract many birds,
Way too many birds. The noise was
Becoming overwhelming. It was as if a dream
Had broken away from the great
Cart of dreams somewhere on a high
Path and began to hurl itself down
A road never meant to carry more than
One or two riders at the same time.

I should have warned you this kind
Of thing was going to happen.
That all the principals in the poem
Would be forever without identity,

Tossed over a cliff high up on
A mountainside before anyone
Caught a good look at them
Or could construct any idea of why
This might be occurring at all.

The night quickly gathered all the
Players in her arms. The wagon
Spun into the open air off
The cliff edge, high above the
Town. Townspeople thought it was
A meteor rather than a discovered
Bit of language working as hard
As possible to become a great
Mystery. Within three-quarters
Of an hour everyone had forgotten the
Incident, only noticing the
Way the crowd took sharp, quick
Breaths and made their way away
From the windows, to their homes
Moving as quickly as possible.

____________________

NIGHT JEWELRY
—D.R. Wagner

There was a break in the cloud
Cover just as we reached the meadow.

The moon had been busy arranging
Things and when she poked
Through the clouds it was like
A lute solo had been remade
With shadows and that yellow-blue
Moon light bubbling out of a crescent
Cauldron and changing the entire landscape.

We could read the night of a sudden.
The fingers of light seemed glass-like
And more nervous than memory,
As if anxious to explain why this
Had happened just now, in this way.

“It’s just the moon breaking through
The clouds. You seem to think it is some
Kind of beautiful mystery.”

I was taken aback. I could feel
And touch and taste my own center.
“Of course it is,” I said. May we applaud this whole
Thing? It is so much more jewelry than anything else.

_____________________

SOME FRENCH PIANO MUSIC
—D.R. Wagner

Tonight I will follow the plain
Out to where the adagio lives,
Where the Pavanne is still danced,
Where the melody takes the bass
Out against the cloth of night
And presses it as close as breath.

Where we are the prayer in
Ravel or Poulenc or Satie,
Or Deodot de Severac, or Fauré.
France comes to our bed and
Caresses us as we have never
Been touched before. It settles
In our heart and in our hands,
In our memories of something we did
Early on in life, when every day was long
And every night, longer still.

We will keep this close. We will
Breathe and the music will pulse
Through, yet remain, and we shall sleep
In the hands of the masters.

____________________ 

Today's LittleNip: 

WORD-A-DAY NAANI FOR NEW YEAR
—Taylor Graham

The skull's a mazard,
a fragile brain's helmet.
Tilting at windmills
spins our thoughts dizzy inside.

Through the window,
morning dawns numinous—
by 10 o'clock bored.
Where does awesomeness hide?

Google “noosphere”—
the whole world's knowledge
at a mouse-click.
Too much thinking; set it aside.

____________________

Thanks to today's master chefs for our Kitchen fare! Taylor Graham is checking out the Word-a-Day link at the bottom of our green box to the right of this and using it for inspiration. If you're wondering what a Naani is, go to "Forms to Fiddle With" higher up in that same box. And have you ever used the word, "novilune"? Every day brings new surprises, yes?

—Medusa

Photo by Katy Brown

Windows All Over The World

Rome, looking over rooftops 

toward the Vatican

—Photo by Jane Blue, Sacramento

EAST WINDOW MEMORY IN AN UNCONVENTIONAL WAY
—Ann Menebroker, Sacramento

It was dark, the way dark can be
when there is no light, but for street lamps
outside the house and someone was at
the window, trying to get in; a younger
woman sat in a chair, holding an unloaded
ancient rifle that had belonged
to her first ex's granddad, and thinking in circles
of genuine fear of survival and life
without her in it, waiting for this fool
to come in, ask her out for breakfast
in an unconventional way. The mind's
little games, the heart's smallest
rules, a night that came down like one
hell of a rain storm, and it was about
2:30 a.m. after he'd closed his restaurant.
He kept holding up his day's income
as if that would make her open the door.
(Or the damn window!)
But she kept the rifle aimed and he looked
genuinely shocked that she sat so quietly.
The dark room. The old part of night.
The giving up and going away. The window
so thin in its glass, not dividing violence
by more than a thought, kept shut.

_____________________

AT THE WINDOW (for Rachel)
—Patricia Hickerson, Davis

during the long night
I held your hand

in the street below
a police siren started up
stopped in mid-scream
its abrupt terror
spinning out to claim a fresh victim
from among the broken and helpless

at the window our murmurings
like doves in conspiracy
cleared a space for us
in the city’s dense web

Many nights I held your hand.
Many years.
Many afternoons I hoped you were safe.
Many hours I guarded you.
Many hours I dreamed of you.
Many hours I rejoiced in you.
Many hours I regretted you.
Many hours I loved you.

______________________

BROKEN WINDOW
—Patricia Hickerson

still I dream large and wild
windows wide open, arched
curtains flung roomward
sheered with sunlight
where once I paced, waited

watched her,
windowless and wanton,
warping the weft of weeks

watched her thru a window
went out to dinner, waited to go home
to a police note tucked in the front door
your daughter….

to wickedly polished floors
gleaming with a satin sheen
rooms beyond were warm with carpet
dogs stretching from their naps
gazing, brown eyes wistful

the undulant fever of my daughter’s mind
lost in all rooms among chairs and tables
hands at my throat
smashed panes in the French doors upstairs
she tried to break out

so intensely the house behind its eucalyptus shadow
rooms haunted at the rim of the canyon
wisteria purpled the driveway
acacia yellowed the sunpad below

_____________________

WHAT I SAW FROM MY HOTEL WINDOW ON MY 80TH BIRTHDAY:

an expanse of still water running deep, slow, hardly moving
(like me now)
and hidden in its depths—outrageous, secret, tumbling life
as in the note I wrote 45 years ago.
I said to him I am sitting, an exile from our love, at a window on 48th Avenue
looking out at the Pacific
next stop—China
wishing myself a world away from the pain of having to give you up.
Years later, you, now a dead man
buried faraway in Alabama
you are feeling no pain.
And I feel almost none.

—Patricia Hickerson


(first pub. in Rattlesnake Review)

_____________________

WINDOW WORSHIP
—Caschsa, Sacramento

Enter softly, gentle sheep
To the sanctuary of love
Where stained glass windows
Cast their magic plumes
From aeries far above

‘Tis a darkened oven chamber
Warmed by random acts of kindness
Intensely colored
Rays of truth that
Find their way through blindness

Come now, approach and greet the light
That shapes and molds your soul
Unite your spirits
Hand in hand
Two hearts become one whole.

____________________

PLAN B
(A true tale)
—Caschwa

We were off to bed
On a blustery night
Soft pillows to head
Our windows shut tight

When the roar of the wind
Whipped the roof off next door
Tiles plummeted no end
Gaping holes where they tore

Our window was history
Just shards and a frame
But the source was no mystery
Those loose tiles were to blame

We called our landlord that night
And they sent their Mr. Fixit
Who nailed plywood over the blight
Good as new, ipse dixit

_____________________ 

Today's LittleNip: 

OPEN WINDOW
—Sandy Thomas, Sacramento

The steeple spirals
toward the heavens

the gargoyle watches below
atop Notre Dame de Paris

just above the open window
that looks down on the rooftops

in the distance
the Eiffel Tower calls

_____________________

Thanks to all those who've opened up windows in the Kitchen today for our Seed of the Week: Through the Open Window... Carl Schwartz (Caschwa) writes: Walking along 12th Street this morning, a merchant’s Closed sign read “Sorry we missed you.” Fortunately, it was not a guns and ammo shop!

It's not too late to send us poems on this subject—or any other. The Snakes of Medusa are always hungry........ That's kathykieth@hotmail.com (Remember: the p.o. box we used to have in Pollock Pines is now closed.)

—Medusa

Ely, Cambridgeshire, UK

—Katy Brown, Davis

Window Into a New Year

Sad Under Roses

—Photo by Joyce Odam

THE SAME OLD ROSES
—Joyce Odam, Sacramento

First he will look at you—so sad—
so sorry—so you won’t stay mad,
then say whatever he will say—
words that will help him work his way
back to your hardened heart: beware,
ever-so-humbly standing there—
flowers extended with such flair:
first the look, then the small sashay,
looking down at his polished shoes,
laughing his two-way laugh—you choose:
is he God’s gift or just bad news—
how he first looks at you—so sad—
so sorry—so you won’t stay mad.

_____________________

FINDINGS
—Joyce Odam

I used to obey the direction, face forward,
walking in a straight line, to the corner and
across the street, bouncing my golf ball on
the loud sidewalk—counting the distance—

so many steps—bounces—resounds—
the sensate pattern of the cracks,
obedience to superstition—another
mother—eyes in the back of her head,

I got to school this way, no snow, except
in Seattle. I lived in sunshine: summer—
summer—summer all my life. I learned to
shortcut through alleys, past the garbage

piles and there found marvelous things,
planted—I thought—for me to find
by kindly fairies straight out of
my fairy-tale books. Once a teacher

gave me tap-shoes from
the poverty closet. I was ashamed,
but loved the shoes. I went
tap-tap-tapping home from school—

feeling eyes
at windows—scolding eyes.
I don’t remember if Mother . . .
I don’t know when I lost the golf ball . . . .

_____________________

BUTTON HOOK
—Joyce Odam

Bending to her shoe.
Priest. My mother told me of.
Priest. Bending to her shoe.
One shoe then two.
Buttoning her shoes.
Her crippled shoes.
Bent to his mother.
His dark symbolic mother
with whom he lived.
For and with.
Priest with mother
dark above him on her chair
her long gray swallowing skirt
touching the floor at his knees.
Shoe. Shoe. Priest and shoe.
Her grim presence.
Ill… Ill… Old and old.
Sitting there expressionless.
Sad duty: Son. Mother.
Priest my mother told me of.
Kneeling there
with ivory button hook
before her.
Priest. Shoe. Priest. Mother.
Prim shoe… High shoe…
of polished leather
with so many buttons
my mother told me of…


(first pub. in Etcetera, 1998)

____________________

REUNIONS
—Joyce Odam

they danced
upon narrowing lawns

years pulled them back
old lives corrected themselves

the falling music threatened to die
the old musicians stayed in tune

old lovers loved again
strangers who came remained strangers

nothing is ever the same
some wept at this

some carried
old reasons within them

“old old”
was the name of the next song

the dancers danced again
their shoes lost under chairs and tables

the drifting dancers hung onto the
sloping shoulders of each other

time came back too soon
they went home


(first pub. in Blue Unicorn, 1991)

______________________

WINDOW DISPLAY
—Joyce Odam

The plastic boy in the window wears
a woman’s wig, a pair of long pants
and a plaid shirt. A tilted mannequin
on a stand beside him wears a falling-off

evening gown and no shoes. She has
painted-on hair and a chipped-off smile.
A newer mannequin in a corner, by the
nail full of belts and the folded umbrella,

wears a velvet hat with feathers and a
flowered skirt and long green beads
over a purple sweater. Inside the display
case, I catch my own reflection,

staring out, through the array of odds
and ends—accessories and picture
frames—books and vases—
a one-eyed teddy bear—
some baby shoes—a candy wrapper . . .

dead flies
lie upside down inside the glass.
The sign says: Enter. Open nine to five.
No checks. No smoking. Help wanted.

_____________________ 

Today's LittleNip: 

Every single soul is a poem.

—Michael Franti

_____________________

Thanks to Joyce Odam for today's poetry stew, and let's take a clue from her talk of windows for this week's Seed of the Week: Through the Open Window... What happened there? Did somebody escape, or sneak in? Did you see something you weren't supposed to see? Or was it metaphorical—a window of opportunity? Send us your window poems at kathykieth@hotmail.com, either now, this week, this month, or in the years to come. No deadline on SOWs.

—Medusa

Rose Leaf on Gray

—Joyce Odam

Of Comets and Teacups

Angel

—Photo by Michelle Kunert, Sacramento

BEYOND THE PURDAH
—Rhony Bhopla, Sacramento

The vinyl bag is filled with objects,
some hard, some soft,
something like a handle of a tea cup,
something that has a pulse,
a little sticky like school glue.

Who knows what they are
except the one who put them
together. Who, like that sinewy
boy, who sleeps under tarp
and brushes his teeth with his
index finger.

Don’t be disturbed. Hold on.
This might be an award winning
poem, there might be cream filling
in the center, or we just might go
to sleep tonight having
decided something important.

The boy’s right hand grasps a half
empty water bottle—
cricksy cricksy slopks,
makes the sound of it rolling
like the unpredictable noise
mini firecrackers make.

They don’t take bottle caps at the recycling center.
The first time he learned this, he stood
in the rain
unscrewing every cap.
While he did it,
he came up with the idea to make
a giant beetle with all of those caps.
It could be entered into a high school
art contest. He would win of course.
Someday, he will get his diploma.

We had no idea,
Those translucent caps,
jerked counter-clockwise,
then clock-wise, were a sort of
an anomaly.
We were
in an uproar over all of the plastic,
hissing about the growing landfills,
shaking our heads despairingly about
the homeless, not to mention
world hunger.

We live in purdah, an
acceptable segregation.
Our tea cups clink
then a handle breaks off.
We recross our legs,
swap the cream for the sugar,
lay the spoon on the tray
and watch through
the swirling cataract curtains.

_____________________

THROUGH A COMET'S DARK
—Taylor Graham, Placerville

On the way home your beeper
went off. Small child missing in rimrock,
juniper and pine. Clouds gathered and
pulled back, intermittent snow.
A comet stood in cold black sky impassive
as it passed over festivity and fear.
They say it comes once
in 15,000 years. Luck of a volunteer,
to give up hearthside and
family cheer; load up search pack,
winter gear, grab a thermos of coffee,
take the dark road to nowhere.
Rimrock's cup of time,
a new year's comet. You paced out
the night; a lost child waited
to be found. Listening
into silence, what did you hear?

_____________________

LAST POEM OF THE YEAR, 6:46 p.m.
—Michael Cluff, Highland, CA

Night falls a touch
and the hiker
scuttles along
the rim
separating the rime
from the treeline
he always wants
to go above this point
but the green entices
just as much
as the sudden
white of cold
needs to be defined
equally and eloquently
he plans to hold
his balance now
that is the best
he can only
and forever
do.

____________________

FIRST POEM OF THE YEAR, 9:22 a.m.
—Michael Cluff

The park across
the valley is still
unoccupied
no tennis
no touch football
maniacal joggers
hell-bent on setting
personal best times.

The peace is elusive
holidays are temporal
but the dirt
slopes
maintained solid
green grass
continues
staring back
at me
both without
smiles or
sadness.

____________________ 

Today's LittleNip: 

ARS POETICA
—Dana Levin

this hush, my pollen—the ordinary grace in the buds.
          the crowding,
                    my basement sorrows—salt and shadow, saying
          Lucky, lucky, your tiniest sadness,
this desert of fragments,
                    openhanded voyage,
                             this urge to making a scrapbook of stars—

_____________________

—Medusa

  Kites

—Photo by Katy Brown, Davis

The Magic Number

As we turn a new leaf...

—Photo by Joyce Odam

TURNING THE YEAR
—Joyce Odam, Sacramento

The year—deciduous at last—its days
all counted down, its worries and its woe,
its seasons done, the testing of its ways—
      and one more January looms.
Our favorite holiday, we laugh, and go

toward it with the energy it brings—
our yearly resolutions strong again
until they end up with the other things
      that fit our mental storage rooms—
the ones we try to clean out now and then.

____________________

BREATH OF TIME
—Joyce Odam

The view is good from here.
Snow birds cry love to me.
The mountain peaks shine.

The sunlight pours down
on everything.
I hear the thin ring of bells

from valley churches.
I can even fly—soar,
through dreams—

all explained.
My body is light. My mind
has never been so deep.

Love shines from within me,
touches everyone.
It is brief but good.

I feel a swarm of color.
I am surrounded by sunlight.
I transform into all of it.

I have reached the magic number
of myself.
This year I celebrate.

_____________________ 

Today's LittleNip: 

We spend January 1 walking through our lives, room by room, drawing up a list of work to be done, cracks to be patched. Maybe this year, to balance the list, we ought to walk through the rooms of our lives, not looking for flaws, but for potential.

—Ellen Goodman

_____________________ 

—Medusa, with New Year's Tidings for all in this Year of the Dragon (see www.squidoo.com/year-of-the-dragon). For some good and not-so-good New Year's resolutions for writers, go to billanddavescocktailhour.com/10-bad-new-years-resolutions-for-writers-bad-advice-wednesday-holiday-edition

 Photo by Joyce Odam