October (d, untitled)
Standing up to
my belly button
in the Russian River
Off West Side Road
The current heading the way
of the setting sun
Whistling a tune
From the Men In Hats
I love this place
The cotton woods
Forgetting the words
living the life
the heart of a drifter
- -Li Po, aka Pat Nolan
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
October (b, c)
October (c, untitled)
Looking through the screened window
her left cheek appears
just past the swooping redwood branch.
Moon, bone, son, swoon,
I'm getting lost in this bright, soft light.
Holding out my palm
I see all those braided lines,
like meanders at a river's mouth.
In the morning she's still bright
among the small clouds made orange
by the sun just below earth's rim.
Such a slow journey, such patience.
Damn this coffee tastes good.
- -Chris Gaffney
October (b, untitled)
Sitting in the temple of redwood columns,
bats are silent shadows swooping
in the vaults above
the full moon light slanting in
through the latticed leaf windows
accompanied by the choir
of frogs and crickets.
Buddha's reasons and
Bodhidharma's devices
are preached here
without words or gestures.
-- Gregory Wonderwheel
Looking through the screened window
her left cheek appears
just past the swooping redwood branch.
Moon, bone, son, swoon,
I'm getting lost in this bright, soft light.
Holding out my palm
I see all those braided lines,
like meanders at a river's mouth.
In the morning she's still bright
among the small clouds made orange
by the sun just below earth's rim.
Such a slow journey, such patience.
Damn this coffee tastes good.
- -Chris Gaffney
October (b, untitled)
Sitting in the temple of redwood columns,
bats are silent shadows swooping
in the vaults above
the full moon light slanting in
through the latticed leaf windows
accompanied by the choir
of frogs and crickets.
Buddha's reasons and
Bodhidharma's devices
are preached here
without words or gestures.
-- Gregory Wonderwheel
October (a)
October (a)
Codicil
That man,
who accepted the stolen TV with a wink,
will run into a burning mobile home
next spring
to rescue an old woman.
The woman in the Volvo,
weaving in traffic
while furtively talking on her cell phone,
peels 20 pounds of potatoes each Friday evening
to take home fries to the shelter
every Saturday morning.
And even I, who was so rude to the clerk this morning,
have been known
to bring flowers
to the bereaved.
- -Ellen Skagerberg
Codicil
That man,
who accepted the stolen TV with a wink,
will run into a burning mobile home
next spring
to rescue an old woman.
The woman in the Volvo,
weaving in traffic
while furtively talking on her cell phone,
peels 20 pounds of potatoes each Friday evening
to take home fries to the shelter
every Saturday morning.
And even I, who was so rude to the clerk this morning,
have been known
to bring flowers
to the bereaved.
- -Ellen Skagerberg
September (a, b, c, d, e)
September (e)
The Full Moon
The moon is full
The moon is full
I am happy
Cause the moon is full.
-Claire, aged 7
September (d, untitled)
In a dream I embraced a
large hard white sphere
trapped in its magnetic hold
I chased a child's blue ball
down a wild icy river
simple silver moon is there
anything you desire of me?
-Amaryllis Fletcher
September (c)
The Road Home
even on back roads
I find I have velocity
and direction
where
I have come from
I'm not quite sure
where I am going
I don't much care
the sign says Nirvana
I'm not there though
I only know
I am somewhere south of there
filled with this feeling
and aware of it
strange
how I keep leaving behind
the very thing
I am looking for
but then life is for living
time is a spiral
and every road
the road home.
-Ric Masten
September (b)
dharma and no more
the dainty cat is growing fat.
she reposes on the rocking chair
laps at pregnant stomach hair.
o the kitty's belly is replete
stuffed with mousies tiny feet
this be her baby's bloody meat
digested for the milky teat.
o she is a happy carnivore
this be her dharma and no more.
-Leif Halvorson
The Full Moon
The moon is full
The moon is full
I am happy
Cause the moon is full.
-Claire, aged 7
September (d, untitled)
In a dream I embraced a
large hard white sphere
trapped in its magnetic hold
I chased a child's blue ball
down a wild icy river
simple silver moon is there
anything you desire of me?
-Amaryllis Fletcher
September (c)
The Road Home
even on back roads
I find I have velocity
and direction
where
I have come from
I'm not quite sure
where I am going
I don't much care
the sign says Nirvana
I'm not there though
I only know
I am somewhere south of there
filled with this feeling
and aware of it
strange
how I keep leaving behind
the very thing
I am looking for
but then life is for living
time is a spiral
and every road
the road home.
-Ric Masten
September (b)
dharma and no more
the dainty cat is growing fat.
she reposes on the rocking chair
laps at pregnant stomach hair.
o the kitty's belly is replete
stuffed with mousies tiny feet
this be her baby's bloody meat
digested for the milky teat.
o she is a happy carnivore
this be her dharma and no more.
-Leif Halvorson
September (a)
As If These Things Are True
(Little Boy)
it's enough to live as if these things are true:
August 6th 1945, 8:15 am
the red brush pastes the summer
brown California grass
thunder has brought us here
up from the firmament
who has torn this island
this vast continent asunder
to grapple with fraility
scent of one red flower
hard afternoon heat
-Leif Halvorson
August ( a, b, c, d, e )
August (e, untitled)
There was no overt blessing.
The wolf looked at me
With strange light eyes.
From tangling summer leaves, the moon
finds its way through tilted blinds
to the sofa where I lie,
and touches cautiously the small room
where mother, with her suitcases, sleeps.
set in the economic dream-life
of a self-proclaimed great nation
gone to bloat.
There was no overt blessing.
The wolf looked at me
With strange light eyes.
He held an embroidered fan.
It was broken, and glistened.
Like all the beautiful things I had ever seen,
A red jewel, a distant castle,
The shell whorl, the forest,
It seemed to promise some other, better, world.
There is no other world, he said.
I was terrified.
As the water rose
He put his arms around me.
The water ran through the house,
Loosening, lifting. As it coursed,
He held my crumbling body.
You see? He said. It is all right.
You have succeeded,
Beyond any dream
Or melody of a dream.
-Deanna Hopper
August (d)
Moon Shot
Much like an astronaut
Minus all that gear
I go up
down
certainly into.
There are words are all over the page
Like craters and streaks on her dusty surface
Ideas
Phrases
Looking for linkages
That unexpected worm hole
That takes you
Instantly
From the written word
to another galaxy
to crying
to thought
to laughter
Children are told
The thing is made up of green cheese
So I sit down
And chart my next course to the moon
with a big slice of it next to me.
- -Eric Moes
August (c)
Arachnia
Weaving through the dark and silver hours,
Weaving, the luscious night has passed away,
and barely-light reveals the dainty work –
- a perfect web –
- my heart's too small, my hands
too few, to hold, enfold, this single perfect joy.
Harmonious, glistening, crystalline!
The orderly play of dry and sticky cords
across the garden path in dew and light.
Good morning to the light that gilds my joy,
good morning to the little shivering leaves,
good morning, Mrs. Ant and Mrs. Snail,
oh thank you, yes, I think it's lovely too.
Today I weave such garments for a bride –
- you know the little fluttery moth I mean –
Of thread, one thread, that binds all hearts together.
The uninitiate can never guess.
I boast an art of but a single thread.
It arches through the solemn redwood grove,
and straggles through the dusty basement corner;
it vibrates in the wind when all is dark,
communing each to each, engaging all.
And I can hardly wait to end my rest,
to weave again, to walk on air,
to fling with eager hands the silk adown;
where does the drift of silk alight it now?
You, Reader, Bride, this lovely thread will bind
your heart to me.
And from just such a tender
heart as yours, will I, enfolding, drink the wedding wine.
- -Deanna Hopper
August (b)
Another Poem About Torture
Just us two, you and I,
Let us make a pact with each other
for gentleness.
I will not force you to read this.
You will not strike me or yell.
I'll touch hand to paper
gently
and only with your consent
lead your eye along
the barbed wire fence of words;
invite you gently
to this solemn walk
down the corridor of bolted doors.
The burden of knowing is heavy
but lighter if we share it.
Then come, more hands, more!
Yet because of gentleness,
no scorn shall be given
for any reason
including turning away.
- -Deanna Hopper
August (a)
Nocturne
From tangling summer leaves, the moon
finds its way through tilted blinds
to the sofa where I lie,
and touches cautiously the small room
where mother, with her suitcases, sleeps.
Oh mother dear, what shall I do?
"Memory by memory the mind –"
erosion fills the house like sea-water.
Our traps hang from our arms
like Dickens' ghosts'.
set in the economic dream-life
of a self-proclaimed great nation
gone to bloat.
Among near-empty aisles
the neat shelves bulge with glossy goods.
the young man at the meat counter says,
"Thank you for coming by."
My gilded cage prevents action
as surely as did Hamlet's.
Oh what, what, what shall we do? Mother?
The music is dying with a dying fall,
but minus the pretty girl with the hyacinths.
Well-dressed refugees
erect a makeshift altar in the airport terminal.
They tape the Pope, the Queen Mother,
and Diana, Princess of Wales,
torn from magazines,
to it.
What shall we do?
- -Deanna Hopper
July (b, c, d, e)
July (e)
Another Revolt Against The Moon
Maybe I don't want to write full moon poetry
Maybe I'm not in the mood
Maybe I'm not feeling it right now . . .
Everyone 'gets it' except me. . .
Jesus Christ!
What makes that glowing rock in the sky
So Goddamned special?
Why is it the arbiter of depth?
I curse you!
I deny your power
Your tides are a fiction!
Why can't I write an ode to the rotting cottage cheese in
my fridge?
"Oh, wonderful stinking slurry of putrescent cheese rind
Harboring billions of farting and dying bacteria
I've put you in a can, in the fridge, to consume you . . .
To spoon you up, slather you with jelly, and gulp you
down. . . "
What do you think of that?
Do you shake your fists wildly at me?
Stomp around the house like a child with no toys?
Do you call me your god. . .
Your muse. . .
Sometimes I just don't feel inspired
Sometimes I don't know what I am feeling
Alone in this room,
Engaged in a battle of wits with this fungus filled
container,
Finally, there is music in the air!
And it's not coming from the cheese.
Eric Moes
July (d)
A LITTLE TIME
trip into dark mountains
over which the moon looms
but not for long as
the sun rises and strips
of willows are fresh with green flashes
- - KEITH KUMASEN ABBOTT
July (c)
full moon over the high sierra washes out Jupiter
fairy festival sparkles on the rippling lake
a good friend's wife is sitting just a little too close
the water moon stretches between reflections near and
far
touch, and retreat
- - anon
July (b)
Full Moon
Another Revolt Against The Moon
Maybe I don't want to write full moon poetry
Maybe I'm not in the mood
Maybe I'm not feeling it right now . . .
Everyone 'gets it' except me. . .
Jesus Christ!
What makes that glowing rock in the sky
So Goddamned special?
Why is it the arbiter of depth?
I curse you!
I deny your power
Your tides are a fiction!
Why can't I write an ode to the rotting cottage cheese in
my fridge?
"Oh, wonderful stinking slurry of putrescent cheese rind
Harboring billions of farting and dying bacteria
I've put you in a can, in the fridge, to consume you . . .
To spoon you up, slather you with jelly, and gulp you
down. . . "
What do you think of that?
Do you shake your fists wildly at me?
Stomp around the house like a child with no toys?
Do you call me your god. . .
Your muse. . .
Sometimes I just don't feel inspired
Sometimes I don't know what I am feeling
Alone in this room,
Engaged in a battle of wits with this fungus filled
container,
Finally, there is music in the air!
And it's not coming from the cheese.
Eric Moes
July (d)
A LITTLE TIME
trip into dark mountains
over which the moon looms
but not for long as
the sun rises and strips
of willows are fresh with green flashes
- - KEITH KUMASEN ABBOTT
July (c)
full moon over the high sierra washes out Jupiter
fairy festival sparkles on the rippling lake
a good friend's wife is sitting just a little too close
the water moon stretches between reflections near and
far
touch, and retreat
- - anon
July (b)
Full Moon
They say
The moon was ripped out of the Earth
In collision with a planet long gone
Still molten
She began her gravitational embrace
close in
Fourteen times bigger in the sky
The Earth spun faster back then
And tidal bulges flung the young moon
Like a lasso in space
Slowing her rotation
And opening the embrace
Still she circles out
Two inches more each year
And the Earth imperceptibly
spins slower
One day
In the great distant future
They will be locked in a gaze
Earth showing one face to the moon
As the moon now does to the earth
Walking past the redwoods
On the bank of the Gualala
The full moon would not let me go
I felt the longing of her violent birth
As she followed me
From tree to tree
- - Vince Whitcomb
The moon was ripped out of the Earth
In collision with a planet long gone
Still molten
She began her gravitational embrace
close in
Fourteen times bigger in the sky
The Earth spun faster back then
And tidal bulges flung the young moon
Like a lasso in space
Slowing her rotation
And opening the embrace
Still she circles out
Two inches more each year
And the Earth imperceptibly
spins slower
One day
In the great distant future
They will be locked in a gaze
Earth showing one face to the moon
As the moon now does to the earth
Walking past the redwoods
On the bank of the Gualala
The full moon would not let me go
I felt the longing of her violent birth
As she followed me
From tree to tree
- - Vince Whitcomb
July (a)
July (a)
All Things Considered on a Monday Morning in the USA
She suspends a tear fogging the lens
Of her driving glasses;
Sad stories on the radio.
A wire-haired woman,
Fishes her books from ruin,
Gentle brown hands smoothing each page,
The Tempest makes her pause she says,
As she sets them on a shelf up high to dry.
Another inspiration, down in New Orleans;
But Oh Man, back when she was 23, with lots of swing
And that rum thing – Ooo Lord Sugar Mama,
Came from every corner as she passed,
Gimme mo' a dat Cha-Ching;
A moist slip for her dress.
Now, that City is a broken down mess,
Limping against its unsteady backbone,
Progress made at an arthritic pace.
It was all she could take.
And it was not to say she did not hear
Their discomfort or disappointment over lost summer fun,
The Royal Hawaiian Luau,
Fresh pineapple in the sun.
There were plenty of gifts never received,
Words of love never believed –
So, when the young girl from Bakersfield came on
To tell her tale of woe, it was like OMG, my hair got wet
In the rain, and I had to sleep in the car, and
Dad, what a dope, thought he packed the tent stakes;
And, well, Mom had just had it;
Not even a soupcon of French milled soap
To be found in this Six Flags campsite:
How low can you go?
It was then she pulled the car over to the side of the road,
Where the forget-me-nots grow in the spring,
And sobbed in the memories.
Not one of them thought to take a blanket and a book
To read by an icy river on a hot summer day
Under an ancient tree for almost free.
- -Jane Rogan
All Things Considered on a Monday Morning in the USA
She suspends a tear fogging the lens
Of her driving glasses;
Sad stories on the radio.
A wire-haired woman,
Fishes her books from ruin,
Gentle brown hands smoothing each page,
The Tempest makes her pause she says,
As she sets them on a shelf up high to dry.
Another inspiration, down in New Orleans;
But Oh Man, back when she was 23, with lots of swing
And that rum thing – Ooo Lord Sugar Mama,
Came from every corner as she passed,
Gimme mo' a dat Cha-Ching;
A moist slip for her dress.
Now, that City is a broken down mess,
Limping against its unsteady backbone,
Progress made at an arthritic pace.
It was all she could take.
And it was not to say she did not hear
Their discomfort or disappointment over lost summer fun,
The Royal Hawaiian Luau,
Fresh pineapple in the sun.
There were plenty of gifts never received,
Words of love never believed –
So, when the young girl from Bakersfield came on
To tell her tale of woe, it was like OMG, my hair got wet
In the rain, and I had to sleep in the car, and
Dad, what a dope, thought he packed the tent stakes;
And, well, Mom had just had it;
Not even a soupcon of French milled soap
To be found in this Six Flags campsite:
How low can you go?
It was then she pulled the car over to the side of the road,
Where the forget-me-nots grow in the spring,
And sobbed in the memories.
Not one of them thought to take a blanket and a book
To read by an icy river on a hot summer day
Under an ancient tree for almost free.
- -Jane Rogan
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