The venue is a large building shaped like a gazebo

Spaced steel bars for walls and roof

Everything inside visible

Outside, at each corner, men stand with long poles

Inside stands a man

Dressed for a Safari

Boots, a revolver, jodhpurs, a coiled whip, a pith helmet

A low steel door springs open

A noise as loud as a gunshot marks its unlatching

Then back behind canvas, another gunshot noise

We think another door has opened

A large powerful Bengal tiger enters from a tunnel

It looks at the man and licks its lips

Pacing in full cat stealth it moves towards the man

The man pops his whip with sonic cracks

He herds the cat toward a round pedestal

The cat knows its place and sits on it snarling

Another gunshot noise releases another tiger

That tiger too is herded and seated

The pair look like two giant chessmen 

On the devil's board

Three more empty pedestals are soon filled

The last tiger is over 700 pounds - the largest

He regards the 150 pound man

As the 150 pound man would regard a cheeseburger

The 150 pound man prances around the ring

Showing off his whip to each tiger who snarls  

Brandishing sharp teeth and claws 

As long as the man's fingers 

The strutting man pretends he is superior to animals

Only his whip impresses the cats

They hate its noise

They hate the discipline 

Provided by the men with the poles

That can provide a stunning electrical jolt

The audience applauds the domination 

Of these powerful animals

Stolen as babies from a murdered tigress

Intimidated to behave unnaturally as fools

Treated in inhumane ways

To serve their master's need of wealth and goods

No man with a whip would face a tiger in its own bailiwick - 

The jungles and swamps of India and Bangladesh

There the tiger is supreme

But as men remove the jungles and swamps

So they can increase their wealth and population

The tigers decrease

Soon to disappear

The last to be seen - on pedestals

Snarling at a man with a whip

2013

                                                   33

The Hawker Hurricane was developed just prior to WW II, with introduction to service in late  1939. Though a less modern design than the famous Supermarine Spitfire, it required 2/3 the construction time and was more tolerant of battle damage. Over 14,500 Hurricanes were manufactured through the duration of the war.  Both fighters used the Rolls-Royce Merlin engines. Hurricanes were credited with about 55% of the air victories by British fighters. About a dozen hurricanes still exist.

           Michael James- Mined in England. There thrown on the wheel for impress of first hands.

           Turned and shaped in Berkeley.

           Fired and painted by students of Tamalpais district which he left in 1993. 

           Writes essays, stories, and poetry. 

ON MY BEDSIDE TABLE

          On my bedside stack of books 

          there is a small drawing 

          of the anatomy of the knee.

          It never ceases to astonish,

          this beautiful image of the ligaments, 

          the buffering of cartilage, 

          the protecting shield of the patella - 

          all conceived as an amazing construction for movement 

          a piston that supports

          your running, standing - 

          your leap for joy.

                                            2013

PATIENCE

          Patience is an arc of time 

          ill-defined in limitation. 

          The decision for its onset is an innocent one, 

          unaware of the demands for its endurance.

          "In the long run" is a common phrase 

          which bows down in honor when

          patience is considered.

          Patience can be an anvil 

          on which to break open the spirit to its core. 

          These are the days, day after day after day 

          when the small gifts loom large,

          when the heart bursts open with gratitude 

          for the tiniest atoms of blessings perceived.

                                                                               

                                                          2013

MY DELIGHT BUTTON'S BEEN ON

       My delight button's been on for years now: 

          I'm able to focus on the previously overlooked, 

          whittling down my responsibilities so that I can 

          make time to watch the finches 

          meet and chat around the bird feeder, 

          taking time to notice thoughts, to catch the glimpses

          of emotions 

          whatever happens when you have the time to let surface

          the communication between your own head 

          and observing heart.

                

                                                    2013

CONSIDERATION

          Where I live, I can enjoy some stars

          at night,

          not obscured by city light -

          a lovely grace to put me in perspective

          which my day's sunlit ego is ignorant of.

          A few miles away, we have an observatory.

          What a luxury, and isn't it just the right word

          for it!

          At night, we have more time;

          at night, we have the time to observe,

          while in the day's light and its demands,

          all we can do, at best,

          is

          see.

                                        2013

Lucille grew up in N.J., on the cliffs opposite NYC.  She wrote poems as a teenager. 

After graduating college, she worked in London, Rome, briefly living in Vienna before

returning to work as an R.N. in NYC.  Upon retirement, she moved to California and 

began writing with the Sonoma Writers Alliance.

At last, brilliant—the perfect crime executed! Today he will be gone. I heard them talking last night.

  “Poor thing. He just has to go.”

“Honey, don’t cry. It will be for the best.”

“Oh my heart is breaking… if only there was a solution, but I guess it’s the only way.”

“It’s just not the right time to have two kittens, dear, we’ll get over it.”

Ha! Am I good or what! Au Revoir mon cher Tigger. Tigger! What sort of name is that for such a pathetic member of the Great Cat Family. Were they trying to insinuate that this sickly, fur faded, stripes-gone-awry, mangy creature resembles THE TIGER, burning bright in his magnificence? The little worm has the eyes of a mouse, the courage of an ant, the body of a stunted mole.

Unlike, I, Bear, a real cat,  who am able to live up to my name. My fur shines black and sleek. My yellow eyes are honed to stealth and each rippling muscle poised to pounce and kill. 

The myth persists that animals are pure and innocent, whereas humans suffer from complex and deviant motives. But does not my heart beat with the same desires and passions that cursed the original Adam and Eve? Do I not love and covet and scheme and dream? Under my fur beats a heart wild with the same vagaries and impulses as you, human reader. And do I not collapse into ecstasy when my mother...the female human who feeds, brushes me, cleans my litter box, and clips my nails...then croons, pets, and cradles me saying, “Who is my lover boy? Who do I love? Who is gorgeous and beautiful and the best feline in the whole feline world? This is when I collapse onto my back—my chin, tummy, nether region properly exposed so they can be stroked and rubbed. And my automatic hum shifts into overdrive, as our two voices merge into a crescendo of mutual adoration. 

And do I not slink and pout and seethe with resentment and betrayal as they—and by they I will now include the human male who I don’t really think of as my father as he is so clueless that he barely knows which kibble I prefer and manages to stroke me absentmindedly with his huge awkward hands in the wrong direction! Suddenly, inexplicably, traitorously, they brought home that scrawny, mewing, miserable excuse for a sentient being into the house, saying “He will be such good company for Bear!”

Company! Is it company when all attention is diverted from me 24/7 to that good for nothing scumbag. The sickly thing was always terrified,  wouldn’t eat, and needed special vitamins for his fur.

“Oh, you poor baby,” crooned my mom, “yes, yes, there, there, little twinkle star of my heart, let       your mommy take good care of you. Oh don’t you worry little love button, yes you are the most beautiful, lovely loveliness in the whole feline world.”

“The whole feline world!” Wait a minute. Am a missing something? Can there be two best in-the-world felines? Does that add up? No, that is when a black blob entered my heart. It lay there sticky and stuck, a galling tumor of jealousy—spite spawning pure hatred. There were no two bests in the world. Best is one and that one is me! That rotten little shit-face had to go. And that is when I started to outline my perfect crime.  Perhaps my brain is smaller than a human's, but formed with the most potent strands of evolutionary DNA and perfected by years of scheming, it's as sharp as the tip of my claw.

First, Destruction. Everyday I carefully select one of mom’s favorite items—a shoe, a photo, her lovely embroidery work. Then I bite and tear and pull and mangle it to an almost unrecognizable condition and place it right where the little brat sleeps, and wait for the scream.

“Tigger! No, no! Naughty Baby. Oh dear, it’s totally ruined. Hon…look what Tig did!”

Yes, naughty, naughty indeed. Tigger will just have to learn to control his wild (tee hee) impulses.

Second, Vomit!  Tigger freaks at the sound of plastic bags rustling, a true scaredy-cat. So I wait until Tig has had his dinner and then chase him around and around waving a plastic bag in my mouth until he’s hopelessly sick and dizzy. Then I stop chasing him just when he’s landed on mom’s favorite area rug so he has a marvelous stinky throw-up right on the spot.

“Tigger! Oh dear. Not again. What on earth am I going to do with you. Hon….look what Tig did…

         again!”

Yes, poor baby cakes, what a disgusting habit you’ve (ha ha) developed!

Third, Shit. This was the hardest part as I have always been so fastidious in my habits and have never been known to have an accident. But that was just the point. Who else would deposit little turds in  mom and dad's bed (of all places!) and for good measure a nice spray of piss, leaving them with a humungus laundry problem.

“Tigger! How could you! No! No! Bad kitten, very, very bad. Hon! You’ll never believe

          what Tig did  —the second  time this week!”

Tigger, what a filthy, dirty, disgusting (chuckle, chuckle) creature you are!

So here we are driving the rotten pooper back to the shelter. Of course they had to put me in the car with him, his dear companion, so he wouldn’t be freaked for the car ride. They think I calm him down! Unlike wimpy here I enjoy a robust drive, a slight breeze ruffling through my pet carrier, the scent of life wafting about. If only the little meow-er would quit his sniveling. How’s he going to find a new home with that attitude? Are we there yet? I can't wait to get the pesky scumbag out of my life.

Ah, at last. Ugh, I can smell that clammy shelter. Can’t stand all those dogs barking and that horrible disinfectant stuff stinks. Do they really need to take me in there too? Can’t I just wait in the car? Wait a minute, wait a minute, why are they taking me and leaving the little pisser in the car? And why is mom lifting me out of my carrier, tears in her eyes saying, “Oh Bear, don’t worry, you’ll find a wonderful home. You are charming, bright, gorgeous. No one can resist you.”
 

What is she saying? My god, she’s starting to sob, “It’s because Tigster needs one on one attention. The doctor says his condition could be life threatening. We can’t possibly give him the care he needs with two cats. Bear! Bear! Good Bear! No Scratching!”

No scratching! What does she expect me to do when these big burly hands lift me up. Oh my god! He's leading me to a horrible rusty cage—arhhhh—help! Mom…mom! Where are you going! You've got the wrong ...hissssss….yuk…is that blood on my claws? Mom…come back! It's me. Your precious Bear...your one and only....yeow.....your clever....meo.....ow....fuck off you thug! Mom...don't leave me....it's me...your one and only....supreme, brilliant creator....grrrrrrr...of the ....per......fect....hissssss....yeo---ow.....crime!

2013

Call yourself alive? 

As the year shrinks away 

Watch the trees unfurl their tiny flags 

And shoot light off

To make themselves feel comfortable. 

That's a sight that will open your pores,

But if you want your shoulder blades 

To ache for wings

Monitor the leaves 

As they try to decide 

Whether or not they're still alive 

And if so - what for? 

As they lose their grip on even that 

And catch a breeze red-handed 

As they fall. 

That's when you'll know what gravity 

Is all about, 

Feel it like a stone in your shoe 

Anchoring your heel to the ground.

After they land  

Tidy up your garden with a rake 

Because they can't do it themselves. 

Makes you feel needed and real 

Except on autumn afternoons 

When the wind moans lonely 

Through the naked tees

Like an untuned radio 

Or mornings when waking up 

In the same old skin just isn't enough. 

Time is the cheater here; 

Holds on to old injuries year after year 

But don't worry. On days 

When life is a trick you can't solve 

Because the hours are too close together 

Or maybe too far apart 

Remember the leaves, 

Forget the pain 

And grab a tambourine.

2013

LEAVES OF THE NIGHT

Steve Bakalyar

Moonlight through tangerine leaves

casts a speckled glow about my shadow.

A dim odor evokes the childhood memory

of a leaf pile—smoldering and pungent.

We were baptized

by immersion in the pile,

scattering the leaves

then raking

scattering

then raking.

At last the cremation was prepared.

Nude oaks, stoic,

awaited the annual rite,

their progeny the pyre.

A match’s sparking trumpet call!

Leaf-souls ascended,

skeleton embers

in a final graceful act

rendered umber perfume

that slowed the heartbeat,

stretched the nighttime.

All was well.

I linger in this reverie,

forestall a restive sleep

in which my troubled people—

wife, children, siblings—

will churn,

leaves in a dark whirlwind

never soaring to morning’s blush

nor drifting to a peaceful grounding.

2013

DEMENTIA

Michael James

I am Dementia. I love you and you and you - all you old folks.

I catch you just before you reach the bottom

Enfold You in my gentle arms

And lull you to sleep, an easy task.

Then while you slumber steal your brain

For my ravening maw

And feast, grow fat on your gray cells 

As I consume them from the inside out,

Until your mind feels like a fly

Trapped within a spider's silken strands.

I am Dementia, death's stepping stone

For all who seek oblivion

I'll help you cross the great divide, the in-between,

By wiping clean your mental slate. 

No troubling memories will come to you,

No memories at all.

I'll get to the rest of you in time.

Be patient, my loves; your turn will come.

I am Dementia; I long for the mating 

Of your sleeping brain with my succubus,

The ultimate sexual union

Of human with supernatural bliss.

l am Dementia, your replacement alter ego,

The worm who ate away the You who you thought eterne.

Out of sight the brain worm turns:

Then gone, a dozen years,

The husband and children, memories kept alive 

By a picture.

"That's my husband, I talk to him sometimes."

Destroyer Dementia, that's me!

I hope to be your destiny,

And visit you with frequent reps

That shake your tottering steps,

I'll fill you full with doubt and fear,

No friends for you,

No loved ones near.

You'll know the fear of midnight's rattle,

Of being lost, of stranger's prattle,

Confusion settling o'er your world

Obscuring all details.

I'll turn Chaos loose on you

You'll have no clue 'bout what to do

When once you're out of your own house,

Less than a human, just a mouse. 

When I take charge, I cull the field,

Restrict what's seen, I do not yield.

Wipe out the dreams of youthful toys,

Accomplishments, and tears, and joys.

As I munch the cells now fails the crone.

Her poor mind wonders  on its own.

Her purse she'll clutch, ransack it sure,

To carefully see each picture there,

Examine yet again her kin,

To try to bring them back again.

"What are you thinking, Gran?" one asks.

"Oh, nothing much."

The brain cells die, the creature fails

She'll now not ever know what ails.

The mind she had which could have told,

Gave up the fight as she grew old.

No time left now to search for soul,

No time to play another role,

To let the line sink in the deep,

To hook the Fish, to see it leap.

In flashing arcs above the sea,

A shining prize for all to see.

No time, and so she sleeps.

I have her now,

Though at one stroke,

E'en that could vanish in

A whiff of smoke

What could have been 

A heavenly rose,

Merely a tickle In the 

Cosmic nose.

February 2012