No Regrets Summer 2020

No Regrets Journal

Summer 2020 Issue 30

No Regrets, a journal of poetry, prose and images about the exploration of being and meaning.

Clayton Medeiros, Editor, Poet, Photographer, Collage Artist claymedeiros@aol.com Neil McKay (Johnny Trash), Webmaster Submissions are by invitation of the editor Epublishing http://issuu.com/claymedeiros/docs Facebook page No Regrets Journal, haikus, poems and photographs https://www.facebook.com/NoRegretsJournal

Jays Stellar jays meet in nearby fir trees Harsh calls belie the summer’s day Quick winged hummingbirds rest Once in awhile on the black wires Strung between high poles Along the alley-way where The yellow house overlooks the bay Punctuated by quiet white sails Hazy islands beyond them Mark the world’s limits Of this summer afternoon

Bee The bee ignores cacophonous crows Goes about its business of stamens and pistils Crows chase another hawk out of the neighborhood Life’s web requires a sense of place and purpose Airborne paths from flowers to hive and back A sense of this moment’s timeliness Preparation for austere winter Generation follows generation Here and there Darwinian natural selection Creates new beginnings




Reading Summer morning bright sunlight Mom sits cross legged on the sidewalk steps Her lap the perfect place for the six month old baby’s Enthusiastic responses to the illustrated book she holds There is much pointing waving and gurgling Impatient for the next colorful page to be turned

Bath Time When you are five, Old enough to be alone For as long as you want to, Bath tubs are amazing.

When you lean back, water Covers your ears, muffles Adult sounds all around.

You talk to Captain Nemo, Sail the seas with pirates, Swim with porpoises.

Until, wrapped in a towel You always trip on walking To the bedroom, where Someone reads books Until sleep comes quietly With whispered last words.

Sun Glints Sun glints off The wrinkled lake, Sings the dark away.

Mists dissipate among Green hills and valleys, The dog on the path, Swings side to side, Morning’s hours Light slanted shadows Lead the way into the woods.

Skim Skim dark ponds A hairline of flight Dips and a whirlpool Of circles shimmer To the horizon The surface stills Once again Quiet ponds await Those who skim Catch the eye In quiet afternoon Wanderings to see Where you’ve been Among silent waters A darkened sheet Reflects supple wings A whispered flow Catches the ear In misted mornings When a single note Is all the music 

Summer Time Musicians on the band stand Tune up, check microphones, Amplifiers, testing, testing Among lawn chair families Blanket to blanket neighbors Picnic baskets, shoes, sandals Abandoned as afternoon Celebrates evening’s Dancing to come

Truth The truth could not be had Through abstruse study Combing learned journals It lay somewhere in the meadow Under the feet of cows Plundered by field scamperers Supported by long sweet grass With baskets yet to come Determined bees Languid butterflies Wreak pollenated havoc In yellow days Birds tunes rise With breezy chorus

Remodel Hammers and saws Discipline milled boards To fit the needs of The remodeled house With its stubborn 1930s old growth joists Ready for challenges In the twenty-first century 

Dog Walk The dog and he had the same gait A bit forward on the old leather leash A touch of uncertainty in each step When they entered the park A daily part of each morning And each evening after dinner From the one bedroom apartment Down the block where he lived For the past 50 years Neighbors abandoned urban life Soon replaced by young families Ready to renovate old brownstones New people to talk to on the Walk in the park with the dog.

Elegance Silence followed her hushed elegance Simple sounds dared not interfere Retired behind each careful step Marked in mindful obeisance Among red walkway bricks Shaded against the shawl’s rose This late season afternoon Fulfills latent aspirations

Presence with that she sauntered across the stained wooden floor stopped turned smiled left the room

Guitar Master Friday afternoon’s speckled pants A week’s work sprayed, brushed Hides Saturday secrets, End of the week beer The weekend awaits those bitten, As the full moon’s call Drives into Saturday night Where music celebrates All the song writers, Sober, drunk, hung over, high, But the words, the words Flow like fine wine Everyone’s pay check Brightens Saturday’s darkness Brings out embroidered shirts Denimed sleek singers Thumping bass players Drummer’s staccato, But most of all, most of all, The quick fingered Guitar player’s wailing strings Twine in the mind Like no word could

Freedom’s Wheels An old red car, not worth much, But in America freedom’s about going When and where you please.

Once upon a time, it was pack your bag Head to the frontier, but there hasn’t been one For a very long time, yet, already explored places Have a ring to them—Montana, Alaska, anything West, Far enough north, hope for somewhere new, Entanglements left behind in today’s rear view mirror, Inevitably meant to sing over sunlit macadam, Hiss over wet highways, takes us back to a red car, Six purring cylinders, ready for anything Like a trip to Montana so she could start over.

She had wheels now.