Time On Our Wings

—Poems and Photos by Carol Louise Moon, Placerville, CA

THE SHIMMER

A large royal-blue eye   
with its moss-green aura;
a sudden dozen-of-them
floating, bobbing mid-air.

The scaly-taloned
forward stride,
jutting narrow-neck
with sharp beak.
The proud glance
to the grass—
to the hen.


(first pub. in Brevities)

THE DOVE
      That’s the thing about
      Democracy, you have
      to listen to everybody
      and that takes time. 
              —Louise K. Moon


This bird has time
on her wings.
She hesitates
on green grass within
the strengthening light.
Her eyes dart in life’s
rhythms. Listening for
wind she pays attention
to subtle sounds.
It’s because she has time
that she listens.

She is a figure of speech
with no speech at all,
a silent white bird.


(first pub. in Rattlesnake Review, Vol. 23)

I SAW A DRAGONFLY

red and delicate
as another dragonfly that
landed on a yellow rose
which smelled fresh
as the rose next to it.

The sun shone
just a bit brighter
than the sun had shined
the day before.
And I was one day older—
and young as ever I was.

CANARY

Canary, canary, won’t you
come stay in my garden today?
You, with your yellow, chase my blues,
redden my heart, brighten my yard;

content in my violet regard.
You, with your yellow, chase my blues.
Come stay in my garden today,
canary... Canary, won’t you?


(first pub. in Brevities, Vol. 110)

GRAY FUR

Gray and busy, he is planting;
he has found his nuts aplenty.
Digging up the neighbor’s garden
he has buried his good treasure.
Climbing up a tree-bark ladder
bushy tail so quickly follows.
Looking out, his eyes are searching
—sentry from a high limb lurking.

WHITTLING LIFE AWAY

With a small blue pocket knife
Willam whittles wood, fashions
simple dolls. His old-age life
consists of morning rations:
stale bread, coffee, a few
almonds, apples he portions
into quarters, saving two
for the old gray mare. Today
cool delta breezes flow through
the unkempt yard; willows sway.
Willam says his life’s okay.
Staring out across the lawn
he sighs, wonders where it’s gone.


(first pub. in Brevities and Song of the San Joaquin)

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

SAPPHO DELIGHTS IN LADY SLIPPERS
—Carol Louise Moon

Yellow are the slippers
      amid the sunlight.
Laced in rich brown ribbons
they puzzle me now.
Does a fairy wear these shoes?
Does she lead me past
     the wide meadow?

__________________

Our thanks to Carol Louise Moon today, as she checks into the Kitchen with lovely spring poems and photos, calling out to all of us Rapunzels who are stuck in our towers…

But you are not alone! If you fire up your computer tonight, starting at 6pm, you can hear Virtual Open Mic #2: 90 minutes/30 readers! Then at 8pm, James Lee Jobe reads on Facebook. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about connecting to these and other upcoming virtual poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

__________________

—Medusa

Lady Slippers 

“Does a fairy wear these shoes?”
—Public Domain 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.

Tempestuous Tempests

Skaidra Rita Zvaigzne
—Poems by Tom Goff, Carmichael, CA

SKAIDRA
(2005-2020)

Seeing you now slink through the house in hurt,
Such contrast with the you we knew at the start:
That expectant-mom-and-dad drive up-coast
To Bandon-by-the-Sea, Oregon, where your breeder bred
You, fed you good fresh food once mom-dog’s milk
Was no longer whimpered for, suckled at. All your ilk,
In beehive-upended swarms: sweet beagle beagle
Beagle beagle beagle beagle learning to bugle
Day’s reveilles, bay and bark for “Scoobie” munch:
We’d known you only by photo: puppy-plump, well-fed.
How big? The Samuel Johnson definition,
“As much food as the hand can hold,” that’s “luncheon”:
You, sweet, lunch-sized (who’d salivate, now,
Pavlov?): our mouths water at thoughts of holding you…
Yet, palm-propped by a lady in that picture, who
Are you, how strong, how vulnerable? That truncheon
Power already in your dark eyes…seems masterful.
The domination gaze—masterless, in a sense?—
Not to be easily ruled; yet all innocence.
Who’ll have who tight-reined, who as if loosed, unleashed?

***

At puppy class, Pet Smart, it seemed you breached
Every rule of young-canine etiquette:
Turned sensitive nose up at our plain honest treats,
Went foraging after other doggies’ goodies;
Preferred the dog beds their parents provided them
For practice lie-downs. Ours, more plain and neat
But flat; too little quilting for your taste.
You willfully lagged in basic training, let
Alone impressive tricks. A beagle rival, Stanley,
Seemed born to test your mettle. Little League
Parents helicoptering their kiddies
Around the bases, baying at referees,
Aren’t spurred to keener envy than was ours:
Stanley, that teacher’s pet, that Goody Four-Paws,
Who never put dewclaw wrong, who always obeyed,
A sitting, Downward Dog taunt to Skaidra Rita.
But who’ll have the last woof? Nora takes charge,
Rehearses our girl with keen, tenacious patience.
It’s Graduation Day! Will Skaidra perform?
All dogs get a last chance to strut tricks for treats.
…Yet Stanley, though docile, seems off his doggie game.
Now watch! as Skaidra displays a concentration
Not publicly (till now!) displayed. Walk. Stand. Sit. Lie down:
Immaculate. Bravo Skaidra, bravo Nora!
Like Secretariat, Skaidra seems to know
She’s graduated at the head of her class,
Left the good Stanley, no hard feelings, lagging.
A win for our sweet dog…her snapshot’s beagle-dragon
Gaze: camera red-eye? Deserved pride’s blaze, I imagine…
Look now! Our Skaidra Rita Zvaigzne prances
In graduation cap and gown, all princess… 

***

Inevitably, years on, the event comes. Faint signs:
A near-constant droop of tail; low energy
Your sniffer fitfully recharges outdoors
On walks. You seem less interested in food…
A beagle lose love for food? We try new treats,
All the ones forbidden by illness up till now.
Beef, rice, potatoes, carrots, back on the menu.
You light up briefly at nibbles of white-meat chicken.
Soon, gloom again tightens. Today’s the day
We must let you go. Driving to pick you up
For your last vet visit, I’m close to home,
In the right lane. Down sidewalk, a loose dog runs
Toward, then past my car, still keeping to walkway
(good), but what next for you, fleet little black dog?

No more than I can help Skaidra can I help you…
We’re now at the vet, in gentlest of healing hands,
Where Skaidra, her gaze already withdrawn from us,
To come on command only to a much older master,
Shrugs peaceably inward. By and by, surrender:
Dark pupil and iris go darker. Iris out. Eyelids close.  

  —Public Domain Photo

REVISIONARY RATIOS

The Laureate, soon to star young Robert Graves
—acted for our purposes by Tom Hughes—
Too recently returned from those half-caves
The trenches full of blood, mud, man’s refuse;
The film purports to give elegance and grace
Of setting (green England) to doings now in the news,
Revisionary, sordid, taken for such disgrace
As clings to the boots of those whose sole excuse
Is artistry. Now we can savor exciting clashes
Between Tom/Graves and imperious Laura Riding,
Who jumps—or is jumped?—from sky-high window sashes,
Played by Dianna Agron, no doubt most biting.
Sir Derek Jacobi (no knock on his ability),
Plays Dad to young Graves: dash of respectability…

  —Public Domain Photo

ALL OF A PIECE

O villain, villain, smiling, damned villain!
                         —Hamlet

[Lord Oxford] saith…that the villains his
enemies were favourably heard at the Council board
with smiling countenance between my Lord
of Leicester and your Lordship.
            —Bernard Dewhurst, to Lord Burghley, 1573

A piece of him.
                        —Horatio, in Hamlet

In council, meeting panjandrum and panjandrum,
Reading in faces villainy that smiles,
He’s old nobility, wishing to throw a tantrum.

The cause is debt, is money; same old anthem,
Young earl who’s overspent his high lifestyle.
In council, facing panjandrum and panjandrum,
All of a piece

With his poet self, exposing the conundrum:
Tear-trails from eyes concealing cynical wiles.
He imagines himself, throwing a lavish tantrum

Before new-risen men of state, whose one theme
Is “ancient riches,” raked in at their turnstiles.
In council, standing against ranks of panjandrum,

New poohbahs, quick to judge (perchance behead them?)
Old warrior knights of “swashing blows” and bile.
He’s young, hot-blooded, dreaming a lavish tantrum,
All of a piece

With playwright, actor; such gifts won’t recommend him
To these “reptilia,” grins of crocodiles
In council, new men of standing, high panjandrums.

In drama, words hang on air, for he’s had at them;
He strides, seeing red only, out the long aisle,
A “boy of tears.” Boy? Having left them his tantrum,
He’s had quite enough. Panjandrum and panjandrum.
Still in one piece?

 —Public Domain Photo

A TEMPEST, FEW PLAYERS, NO LIGHTNING, NO RAIN, MUCH MIND
(Presented at Folsom Lake College by Actors from the London Stage)

For Arthur Wilson, excellent actor

 

Strange, long ago, to have seen The Tempest in Ashland
Played, while a genuine tempest pelted the groundlings
(In ponchos, not leather jerkins or Renaissance woolens);
Quite dry, us, lord-and-lady-lofty in a box
(Absent the odd stray splash on the guardrail),
Hearing stage thunders, watching the stage lightnings
“Contend with the fretful elements” for mastery.

Vast contrast with this all-indoors parched Tempest,
A stage of wooden flooring, blank backdrop canvas.
Some lengths of rope, a wide cotton sheet to shroud
A plain wheeled suitcase (turned Ferdinand’s load of logs).

A mere five actors, working hard to jest,
Soliloquize, argue, proclaim, voices a tad frayed
From three nights’ vocal fry in grueling shows.
Still, exuberant, all liveliness, yet unfrenzied.
Warm work, this? Thirst equal with outdoor drought?
Five players, running the gauntlet of nineteen named parts.

One actor peels off his Gonzalo shirt,
Displays wiry arms and pecs; he’s Caliban.
That shirt, yanked over shoulders and head,
Rolled and furled clockwise around his forearms,
Hints unseen Prospero-cuffs, mage-manacles.
Counterclockwise, head and shoulders back into shirt:
The good Gonzalo again. Quick flips or flicks
Of scarf; each different drape a different person.

Sweet Ferdinand one turn of cloth from scheming Sebastian,
Ingénue Miranda turns head-bobbing, birdlike Ariel.
What can’t a man become, pants legs hiked to show socks?
When Caliban offers to kiss Stephano’s foot,
The would-be usurper peels off boot and sock,
Sock’s flung (moist?) into a bemused spectator’s palm;
Brutish boy Caliban kisses—no, ew!—licks foot,
Just high enough up the ankle to call it shin
(Our Bard may be bawdy: don’t gross everybody out)…

That said, what’s the verdict? A minimalism, most apt
For displaying the players’ fine fettle, the actors’ art.
Our “imaginary forces” at work…with words? Gestures?
The two seem at odds; the famous lines oft slip past
The listening ear. And yet, when Prospero melts
Away the last scene, the Magick trickery, masque and all,

The lines come soft: much more humane than choleric,
This wizard so close to his destination, Milan,
An end-point, a chair, a seat, the resumed name of Duke,
That he will renounce the whirling power of spells,
Which really proceed from words which are the journey,
And all this lightly, sadly, softly voiced,
His accents, lit silver curls in short gray hair.

Nora and I drive home, in what? A tempestuous tempest?
No, a few spits of Leap-Day rain on the windshield,
Betokening not so much a grand typhoon,
As the emptying paltry contents of one small spittoon…  

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

The fishermen know that the sea is dangerous and the storm terrible, but they have never found these dangers sufficient reason for remaining ashore.

—Vincent Van Gogh

_____________________

—Medusa, with our thanks to Tom Goff for his poetry in these stormy times, his smooth rhymes and wide vocabulary (panjandrum!). And our thoughts are with him and Nora in the passing of their dear Skaidra.

Michael H. Brownstein sends us a coronavirus link regarding false claims: natureclaim.com/coronavirus/. Be careful out there!

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.

Sheltering Moments

Alikeness

—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

WHY I HAVE CALLED YOU HERE

I am what sings here at the mouth of the cave.
I own the darkness.
My pure memory reminds me of light.
I am vague as a sorrow.

Whoever comes to me
will stay
and be blessed by their own travel.
Bring your own mirror if you would see deeper.

A bird of warning sits on a shadow-branch
that sways. We love
the winter with its eloquence of snow—
the way the white surrounds

and disappears.
Do not fear. Pretend with me 

that you were never the one I loved.

The Sweep of Memory

HARBOR LIGHTS AT THE END OF SUMMER

remember the way to the harbor ?
the seagulls were circling and circling
the skies were so broken we shuddered
the breezes came up of a sudden
the turbulence sudden with meaning
the docks set to rocking and rocking
the twilights grew longer and colder
our long-ago summer was ending—
moonlight and starlight’s last ember
we watched the small boats bump together
we watched how the lights touched the water
we lingered    then lingered the longer
remember ?    remember ?    remember ?

 The Difference Between

THE FAIRY TALE

All night the captured dreamer must ride on the back of
the bull through the forest of her own dream through
tangles of vines with white leaves that catch at her hair,
and through the four directions that keep pointing and
quarreling to keep her lost. Morning is at the other end
of the dream but she is holding her arm across her eyes
as if she can stay asleep and not believe where she is—
her sleeping-gown in shreds—her posture one of mes-
merized foreboding. The night is heavy and deep and 
has no dimension—it has swallowed every sound and
left her this muffled passage where the bull, like an old
protector, must bear her along—for as long as she needs,
in this precarious half-sleep, where she cannot feel or
hear the comforting snort of his effortless breathing, or
the carefully stepping delicate tread of his feet.


(first pub. in Poetry Depth Quarterly, 1999)

___________________

HERSELF
After Girl with a Stick, 1881 by Camille Pissarro

the child is so perfectly a child
     a gathering moment
          captures her for its own

removes her from time
     and holds her heartbeat
          and gaze and lets her belong

to a distant age—a future
     that will remember her
          as a phrase of meaning

on a leafy day full of broken sunlight
     when she was released
          from herself and death

and did not know—
     a child that the sheltering
          moment will never let go.

 Heaven's Echoes

WHALE                

Did curiosity bring you in—to die in spite of us—test
our compassion—our own curiosity and awe?  (What
does death care for whales or humans struggling in the
shallows?) What will we do with you, here among us—
huge as a guilt impossible to remove by the weight of
water, or watery wish, or weight of some far loneliness—
like a pall of festered memory. And we in our clumsy
pity, near enough to touch you, make you real, feel your
struggle as our own. Was it curiosity, that last force of
decision that turns toward or away from whatever obli-
gates such misdirection? Was it the lights of the harbor,
or the luminous drifting voice of music, that drew you
in—a sound mirage you thought you could enter—was
that the narrowing you swam into, as into any path of
deception—how else could you have misjudged the tides,
or was it our wonder at your presence as the ultimate un-
obtainable, the hugest wish granted, but with a price?
How did we steal you from the sea of our morbid atten-
tion, finally able to touch your ruin as our own? Oh, we
tried to save you—we really tried, before we turned
cruel and turned you into an object—to circle around in
fascinated ritual, and poke, and slice, while you looked
at us—your eye like a drowning.

 In All That Difference

TEXTURES

It’s in the eyes—
far-away eyes,

not dreaming,
but gazing into somewhere lost.

The sky is raining dust—long-ago dust,
from an old place that memory knows—

so it goes, the old field hat
to shield the sun,

filter the light,
keep time in place;

it’s not the history, the face too grim,
the truth too silent.

Some inner hum keeps humming—
texture of words no longer sung,

but remembered;
the crosshatch crying of the face

that no longer cries
or sings against the light.

__________________

SPARROW, I WISH TO BE ADVISED

You caught my eye, a twitter of movement
in a winter tree, I loved you—
that you could claim this much of me.

Then there were two of you—
I glanced around at the huge cold sky
for dangers—found none—

and went back to watching your flurry of
brown silhouettes in the stark branches—
your smallness—your oblivious joy.

 Whimsical

THE SPARROW TREE

I heard black sparrows sing
in the darkest night
in its black tree.

At dusk the nervous sparrows
     would
              fly out,
       alight,
                        fly out,
 alight,
             in the

  waiting branches that became
    for them their place to sleep
and then the moon rose from the
 darkest dark from a spreading
 cloud bank full of twitterings,
            or just the dark.

All night I tossed and listened to
  the sparrows thrill the mystery
  —that only sparrows know—
   till finally, they let me sleep.

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

HOW DRUNK OF HIM
—Joyce Odam

the drunk who was crossing the street
on red
did a dance to the bus

when the bus had passed
gave a finger to the bus
did a drunken maneuver

and before he got to the corner
slanted off
from between the safety lines

turned east
and was silhouetted into the sun
of 8:00 a.m. and Friday

___________________

Our gratitude to Joyce Odam this morning for her photos and her talk of love, loss and that intriguing flock of sparrows!

Our new Seed of the Week is Spare Time. 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.

Davis Poet Laureate James Lee Jobe writes that he has three suggestions for getting your poetry fix online while we are Sheltering at Home:

•••Live-feed poetry readings on Facebook by James Lee Jobe. The first will be this Thursday, March 27, at 8 pm. Go to Facebook.com/JamesLeeJobe to connect.

•••A blog for your poems: Yolo County is the name of the blog, and YoloCountyPoems.blogspot.com is the web address. You may email your poems to James at this same email address, JamesLeeJobe@gmail.com, and please put “Poems” in the subject line. Any topic, but family friendly, please. Include a one-sentence bio if you want.

•••Poetry videos online that you can see right now. The web address is YouTube.com/JamesLeeJobe.

Thanks, James Lee! This coronavirus situation will hopefully spur all kinds of creativity in poets, finding ways to keep them linked house-to-house, person-to-person, poet-to-poet.

___________________

—Medusa

 "A twitter of movement in a winter tree..."

—Public Domain 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 Mass of Mess

—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA

VIRUS 19
—Michael H. Brownstein, Jefferson City, MO
 
There is no element of surprise with a quarantine,
No understudy to take your place,
Masks and eye protection have been ordered.
They lay in cartons on warehouse shelves,
They have been here for months—perhaps years.

In Puerto Rico, I.V. bags caught the great gusts of wind,
Tore holes through walls and forest,
Let the hurricane tumble everything into a mass of mess.
One hurricane, one response,
Suddenly the world was minus needed medical equipment.

Leadership leads.
They do not go home on an early recess.
They do not haggle over ins and outs.
They put on a mask, gloves, eye wear—
Enter the zone of terror and lead.

I’m waiting.

___________________

THE SEASONS OF VITAMINS
—Michael H. Brownstein

wintershine
someshine
springshine
sunniershine
sunniershine
too much shine
autumnshine
sunshine

____________________

FINDING AN INSIDE/OUT
—Michael H. Brownstein

the poetics of Jung
swung
aesthetics/synthetics

the weight of process
redress
state/trait

a dream, a breakthrough
glue
dream/stream

and that is it
wit
splat/chat

SHELTERED
—Sue Crisp, Shingle Springs, CA

Shelter comes in many a form,
a place to keep us safe and warm.

For some, perhaps a cave or den,
a space to spend spring, summer and winter in.

A barn for comfort as the seasons unfold.
A blessing for animals, young and old.

Squirrel nestles in her oak tree dray.
The space for her and new babies to stay.

For some, a tent is their chosen home,
a moveable shelter when they decide to roam.

There are those of us who chose to shelter in a permanent space,
a place to call our home base.

Be it house, yurt, cabin or RV,
your shelter is what you choose it to be.

Shelter is shelter, temporary or permanent,
whether a cave, dray, barn, house, whatever makes you content.

 —Public Domain Artwork Courtesy of Sue Crisp

ISOLATION AS A SOLUTION
—Joseph Nolan
 
These eyelids,
These lips,
These things
I have to let slip,

These things that drift away!

Many a cruise
Has been rued,
Since—yesterday—!

We might live in desperation
For months, for weeks or for days,
As we watch our lives and ambitions
Slowly slip away
Into idle-isolation
From each other,
Though we might pray
For a better social-solution
Than to simply
Go away!

 Yes, that's a colt!

THE MADONNA AND HER SUPPLICANT
—Joseph Nolan

The Madonna
Sighs
And leans her head
Sideways.

She lets her glance
Slip along
The outer lip
Of the corner
Of her eye,

Expecting you to notice
The meaning of the
Trance
In which
You are submerged.

However,
Without a single word,
Madonna lets you know
What you should know
Then
Lets you go!

__________________

MAHASAMADHI
—Joseph Nolan

All the accumulated jnana
All the gnosis
All the kundalini shakti
All the brilliance of experience
Of sat-chit-ananda,
All rose up at once,
Through the sushumna nadi
And popped
Through the top
Of the sahasrara chakra
Into infinity
And liberation was thereby won!

Forever, One!

CORONA VIRUS VS. CORONA BEER
—Joseph Nolan

Oh! Please!
Leave me alone
And allow me     
A place to sneeze!

Oh my!
I don’t know why
Libertines
Might freeze their balls
In salted-margaritas.

It must be
Personal taste,
The way some people
Let things go to waste,
Like Earnest Hemingway,
Before he blew his brains out!

And now we have a
Corona virus.
Not to be confused
With Corona beer,
Spiced-up with a
Squeezed, slice-of-lime!

__________________

DEEPER INTIMACY
—Joseph Nolan

Intimacy,
Grown deeper,
Listens for quieter
Rhythms of the heart.

Its stops and starts,
Its little quivers—
A held breath,
How it deals with death
When death comes near.

The way it
Holds its fear
And shows its longing.
Deeper, and draws near
And even nearer.

Its currents, quieter,
Running in the space
Between the wake
Of larger, stronger vessels
That beat their ways
Through waters
Far from shore.

Sparing effort,
The better to
Go farther
Behind the breaker,
Sharing speed,
Feeling need,
Feeding back
Through
Brackish water.

 Is There a Pecking Order Here?

THE GREAT MYTH
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

We were led to believe that
Law & Order
was a most worthy goal
to deter crime on the whole
and to rate high in the poll

big money, huge effort, for
building prisons
to house all those convicts
make use of the deep six
scare all those derelicts

such facilities now packed
over limit
goodbye proof, guilt by assumption
crime through the roof, no redemption
wrong suspect goof, false execution

we bought the idea
lock, stock, barrel
that using more force
would alter the course
and nip crime at the source

a waiting list, miles past
around the block
of felons eager to serve their time
get free benefits on our dime
learn from masters about the career of crime

Oh what a nice belief, that
Law & Order
would be the best solution
build a new institution
another wrong-suspect execution

____________________

HARDBALL
—Caschwa

he took the name
of a favorite sport
and made it his game
in his very own court

overfilled the cuspidor
with remnants of tobacco
chewed and spit those interviewed
as if they, not he, were whacko

his message had gotten way off track
like when a vinyl record warps
we searched and found a championship bier
upon which to place his corpse

he’s still alive and roams the halls
honing barbs till they’re razor thin
but being held to account like anyone else
was a contest he just couldn’t win

PEOPLE
—Caschwa

one
person
together
with another
circle grows larger
till it becomes thirteen
colonies, then fifty states
president, commander in chief
with a background in real estate sales
wanting to brand all the tallest structures
throws out expert advisers to save money
roller coaster market crashes, bad through and through

one
person
infected
undetected
coronavirus
horns of a dilemma
neither outcome is welcome
so settle your affairs
final arrangements
peaceful slumber
that’s the cure
back to
one

___________________

AT WAR
—Caschwa 
 
oleander, oleander
claims all the blooming garden
cutting doesn’t stifle it
just lets our feelings harden

every part of it is toxic
it grows and never tires
the only resolution is
the hottest of all fires

we tried to use impeachment
our garden to defend
but that negotiation
failed to bring weeds to an end

it looks real bad, but there is hope
we’ll have a new direction
this November get out and vote
in our most important Election

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

TODAY
—Joseph Nolan

Today,
I feel joy
Bubbling
Inside my heart
And mind!

It seems there’s little room
To carry
Sadness, guilt and pain.

It seems I should leave
Those things behind
To be playthings of
Another day,
Maybe when it rains,
But today
The sun is shining.

_____________________

Another eclectic Monday in the Kitchen, as contributors send us fine poems and photos, some about remaining “One” while we’re split into “ones”. As for poetry events, it seems like they’re all cancelled in our area. And even if they aren’t cancelled, we’re not supposed to go to them...

An exception is this Friday’s Virtual Open Mic #2, sponsored by Nomadic Press from 6-7:30pm: 90 minutes/30 readers/3 min. each. Join by phone or computer. Info/sign-ups: www.facebook.com/events/206089637135499/?notif_t=plan_user_invited&notif_id=1584763210924531/.

Meanwhile, keep writing! Medusa submissions are up, as poets take to their pens and computers to express their distress about this whole dilemma, but that doesn’t mean the snakezzz of Medusa aren’t hungry. Their need for poems is, indeed, an on-going thing…

_____________________

—Medusa, hunkered down and waiting for the tsunami to pass...

 It’s not that we can’t do things outside, 

just not with each other. Go fishing!

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.

Happy New Year!

—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain

(Note poetry at the right side.)

HAPPY NOWRUZ
—Anu Shabu

I wish you all Happy Nowruz
Iranian New Year Day
Persian New Year day
Parsi New Year Day
Kurdish National Day
Afghanistan's Farmers' day
Albania's Spring Day
Let's plant trees, dig canals
Clean houses, decorate with auspicious symbols
Decorate the doors and windows with garlands
Use colour powders for creating patterns
Rangoli on the steps and thresholds
Purchase hyacinth and tulip flowers
Prepare delicious Dishes Desserts and snacks
Set Haft Seen on tables
Also candles, mirror, decorated coins, and eggs
A bowl of water with goldfish
A holy book or a poetry book
And Rose water
Prepare Haft Mewa 'the Seven Fruits'
With Raisin, Senjed, Pistachio, Hazelnut, Prune, Walnut, Almond
Like fruit salad made from seven dried fruits served in their own syrup
Wear colourful dresses
Visit our relatives and friends
Exchange New Year gifts
Let's see Amu Nowruz and Haji Firuz in the streets
Wish you all splendour spring and the new life it brings.

_____________________

Today's LittleNip:

Between us, we have the fire and the water. I'm quite sure that together, we can take on the wind.

—R.F. Kuang, The Dragon Republic

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Nowruz (Nowrus) is the Iranian New Year, also known as the Persian New Year, which is celebrated worldwide by various ethno-linguistic groups. Nowruz has Iranian and Zoroastrian origins, however, it has been celebrated by diverse communities for over 3,000 years in Western Asia, Central Asia, the Caucasus, the Black Sea Basin, the Balkans, and South Asia. It is a secular holiday for most celebrants that is enjoyed by people of several different faiths, but remains a holy day for Zoroastrians, Bahais, and some Muslim communities. This year, of course, public celebrations will be kept to a minimum due to the coronavirus.

For more about Nowruz, go to, among other sites, www.cnn.com/2019/03/20/world/what-is-nowruz-trnd/index.html/.

_____________________

—Medusa, wishing you Nowruz Mubarak!

 (See alangoo.com/buy-narenjotoranj-ferdosi-poem-on-wooden-egg-nowruz-haftseen to read the poem in English.)

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.

What's Next?

—Poems by James Lee Jobe, Davis, CA
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of James Lee Jobe

Early morning, my wife is still sleeping. From the park across the street I can hear a crow yelling. It is as if it is saying, in a mocking tone, “Ha! I can fly and you can’t!” Smiling, I realize all that is in my head, not the crow’s head. For all I know the crow might be praising this beautiful sunrise. For all I know, a crow might have perfect Buddha-mind, and just be existing in the moment. May the crow be safe. May he know peace.

Obsequious; I am dreaming, and I need to use the word 'obsequious' in a sentence, only I am not sure of the definition. A dream can be like that. Some mad need that leads to a ridiculous adventure, sometimes fun, but sometimes tense or even frightening.


So I find myself traveling, looking for a dictionary or someone with a larger vocabulary than myself. The landscape is varied, sometimes it is a busy city, sometimes a lovely countryside.

And then the dream changes, as they often do, and I am touring Unitarian churches in Egypt, then riding a train where the porters wear white jackets and tams. I have tea with some British senior citizens, and then wine with a beautiful woman whose accent I can't quite place.

Another change, and I arrive in Baltimore, it is 1941 and war is upon us. The shipyard is busy and I am offered a job with a union. The boss sends an assistant to fetch us coffee, and as we wait he whispers to me, "That will give the obsequious little turd something to do for a while."

There is nothing that I feel the need to prove, not one thing, and I have no one to prove it to anyway. There is just the next thing that happens. And I can live with that.

____________________

Grandchild. She's only just new, even crawling is yet a ways off, and so she wins me by just being herself. Dark hair, dark eyes, and a flash of a smile. Here. Now. In this family.

____________________

Late. A naked moon. Listen. In the distance, a long howl, the call of a wolf, like in some old black-and-white western movie. Or maybe it was the little poodle next door, that part doesn't matter, it's the howl itself that counts. At various times in this long, tangled web of existence we need a naked moon and a long, mournful howl. Go ahead. Just let go. Drop your clothes in the street and run for it. Howl until your throat is raw. None of us truly knows what happens next.

Frozen midnight with a chilled wind, 
Blown here from the moon, 
White and bitter cold. 
And around us? 
The sad eyes of the night. 
The valley is still and quiet, 
And there is a dull glow of light around the city. 
Brother, 
Sister, 
We nightly ease toward midnight, 
One frozen second at a time.

You are an outline in the water, or ash, picked up by the valley winds. And your life has come down to the days of the truth. Is the world impressed? You no longer care. Now, in the far corners of living here, you know yourself at last. In a quiet moment, you touch your face. Weathered? Perhaps. But even after all of this, it is indeed still you. 
 

__________________

Given that the river blesses this valley,
Given that the valley embraces the river,
Given that the wilds of the sky blanket the great everything
What fortune now awaits our lives and our loves?
We'll see tomorrow.
Another day to live and love.

And perhaps then yet another.

The measure of a good person is in kindness and love;
Should our leaders, our government be any different?
When you meet someone new, do you say,
“Where were you born? Where were your parents born?
Do you have the proper identification?”
No. You offer your hand and say,
“How do you do? Nice to meet you.”
Should our leaders, our government be any different?
No. They shouldn't.
Let the kindness of one person
Be the kindness of The One.
Let the kindness of leadership
Be the kindness of The One.
The measure of a good person is in kindness and love;
And the measure of leadership should also be
In kindness
And love.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Beautiful, the frozen bay, but why miss it? Wherever I go I have the wind, the earth. The stark beauty of the sky.

—James Lee Jobe

___________________

Thank you, James Lee Jobe, for another Saturday full of sunshine and good faith! As he says, Be the kindness of the One.

Gail Entrekin, Bay Area Editor of Canary, a Literary Journal of the Environment Crisis, sends a link to the newest issue (canarylitmag.org), and writes the following: “Well, this is a very strange Spring for the world's citizenry and for each of us as we struggle to cope with fear, confusion, isolation, and coming down from our usual hectic schedules to a flat plain of peace and acceptance. I wish you well on this journey.  

“Please be sure to read the little snippet of good news in the box at the top of this issue of Canary. Remember to enjoy your (or another) garden, plant something in a pot or otherwise, hike alone on your favorite trail, sit outside in a warm coat and lose yourself in the bright or foggy air. We don't have to stay inside. Just away from each other. 

“Read poems. Write something. Video chat with loved ones too, to attend to your social needs. I'm sending each of you, along with the Spring Equinox issue of Canary linked below, my very best wishes for your health and peace of mind. We are all connected.” For the newest Canary, see canarylitmag.org/, and check out the little chartreuse box there about how the coronavirus is, at least temporarily, improving the environment.

Thanks, Gail, for a nurturing message in these wacky times!


Although poets consider poetry and poetry readings to be essential, I am assuming that all poetry events in our area are cancelled due to "Shelter in Place". Most events have gone on hiatus until at least April 7, which is when the current Shelter ends (we'll see what happens then). Meanwhile, read, write, rest, review, and take care of yourself!

The good news is that some Virtual Open Mics are springing up, such as one from Nomadic Press on March 27, 6-7:30pm. Info/sign-up: www.facebook.com/events/206089637135499/?notif_t=plan_user_invited&notif_id=1584763210924531/.

____________________

—Medusa

 “We are all connected.” —Gail Entrekin

 

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.

Viral Poetry

Rain!
—Poems and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA

NEW VENUES (Gwawdodyn Hir)

This pandemic season’s crowned with care—
routine schedules cancelled everywhere.
We dare not meet—neither here nor there.
Poetry is thought and song to share.
A verse is viral—not the lethal kind—
from mind to mind to heart, it’s open-air.

POEMS IN THE TIME OF CORONA

Wipe down tables
after workshop—
poetry is
so infectious.
 

CORVID-19

My spell-check changes Covid to Corvid,
as if to blame contagion on a family
of passerine birds—highly intelligent, clever,
adaptable birds. Are crows
getting even with us humans for messing up
their world? plotting against us?
the casualty count, the cancellations
and closures, stocks plummeting
like so many birds shot
out of the sky? A scrub jay swings
from my feeder like a kid on an empty
playground. I don’t blame the birds.
It’s my computer launching my words
into cyberspace, changing Covid to Corvid.

HOUSE CAT (Gwawdodyn Byr)

The TV ad tells me there’s a lynx
in my black cat’s heart. I say he’s jinx
of domestic quiet, sphynx of home peace.
Wild in tooth and claw? he purrs, he cat-winks.

CIRCLE SURVEILLANCE

Circle on circle, now low and slow above our spring-green canyon, directly overhead then looping, linking its woven circles—what does the chopper seek, cutting circle patterns on air? Searching for what? I’m mowing my pasture. One lone coyote lopes away when it sees me, when it hears rotors chopping softer then loud, lassoing wider expanses of sky in this world droning ever tighter—

in circles of globe
can there still be room for this
one wild coyote?

 Redbud

Today’s LittleNip:

JUST HERE
—Taylor Graham

One old gray couple
in a rain-washed fresh green field—
two donkeys nuzzle
without regard for traffic
speeding past to somewhere else.

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Thank you this morning to Taylor Graham, for her circling birds and elusive coyotes! She sends us some forms: a Prisoner's Constraint, a Welsh Gwawgodyn Byr (“House Cat”) and a Gwawdodyn Hir (“New Venues”), plus a Tanka and a Haibun.

For up-coming poetry events in our area, including those which are being cancelled due to CORVID-19—oops, I mean COVID-19—scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info—and note that more may be added at the last minute.
 
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FORM-FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY!  

It’s time for more contributions from Form Fiddlers! Each Friday for awhile, there will be poems posted here from some of our readers using forms—either ones which were mentioned on Medusa during the previous week, or whatever else floats through the Kitchen and the perpetually stoned mind of Medusa. If these instructions are vague, it's because they're meant to be. Just fiddle around with some forms and get them posted in the Kitchen. 


In Taylor Graham’s post today (see above), she sends two variations on the Gwawdodyn, a Welsh form: a Gwawdodyn Byr (www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/poetic-asides/gwawdodyn-byr-poetic-forms) and a Gwawdodyn Hir (www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/poetic-asides/gwawdodyn-hir-poetic-forms/). (Or, if you’d prefer to read the description in Welsh, go to cy.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gwawdodyn_byr/.) And here’s a link to Robert Lee Brewer’s talk about the Gwawdodyn: www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/gwawdodyn-poetic-forms/.

TG also sends us a Prisoner’s Constraint, and we also got one by Carl (Caschwa) Schwartz:


CRISIS AVIUM
—Taylor Graham

samisen music sown on rumor—
sewn in reminiscence

memories revive: a mecca, a caress,
cucurrucucu

a wren, a crane, a vireo, a swan
once-aurora, now eve

susurrus—musicians score an aria
sonorous as au revoir

we owe a raven's ransom
a sorrow soars

* * *

INSANE (Prisoner’s Constraint)
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

woe is me
one verse
enormous sense
in reverse

i can see
a six curse
minus sources
add a zeus

simile
now i am worse
arm as wax
summon a nurse

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Also today, we have three Rondelets which were sent to us by Carol Louise Moon. See www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/poetic-asides/rondelet-poetic-forms for a description of this form:


THREE RONDELETS
—Carol Louise Moon, Placerville, CA

OSPREY

You fly so high
to nest this chilly
springtime day
You fly so high
above this waterfall—
                gray sky
your field to soar and
     hunt and play.
I wish to be like you—
                 Osprey.
You fly... so high.

* * *

BILLY TAKES OUR BIRD HOME
—Carol Louise Moon
 
So canary—
our lives were happy with
              the sound
of canary.
The bird not fed, so
unfair. He
could take good care.
          The bird was bound
to be taken—the cage
         so round,
so canary.

* * *

BABY DYZEK’S EYES
—Carol Louise Moon

They’re see-through blue!
You wonder why the
                painted sky
is see-through blue.
And though it is, it’s
          also true
baby blue are the tears
                     that dry
on Dyzek’s check, that
                    make his eyes
so see-through blue.

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And here is another one of Carl Schwartz’s tongue-in-cheek poems about the art of writing in forms:


IMPERFECT
—Caschwa

this may not rhyme very well
or have that swing
but when I’m told to self-isolate
it somehow don’t mean a thing

those Access Hollywood tapes
would have sealed the fate of most
but the devil himself can take the heat
and prevail with just a boast

now if enough people just
lose enough money
the love affair is over
between the devil and his honey

the hate for women still persists
and for people of color, too
the party of Lincoln no longer exists
there’s no telling what voters will do

___________________

—Medusa, with thanks again to today’s form-fiddler poets! Do you have to stay home because of the coronavirus? Write poetry!

 —Photo by Taylor Graham

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.