Gerard Sarnat
Gerard Sarnat splits time between his San Francisco Bay Area forest home and Southern California's beaches. He is a seeker and Jewbu, married forty years/father of three/grandfather, physician to the disenfranchised, past CEO and Stanford professor, and virginal poet at the tender age of sixty-two. Gerry has recently been published or is forthcoming in Aha!Poetry, AscentAspirations, Atavar, AutumnLeaves, BathysphericReview, Bird&Moon, BlackZinnias, BlueJewYorker, CanISitWithYou?, ChicagoPoetry, CRITJournal, Defenestration, Etude, EZAAPP, Flutter, FurnaceReview, HissQuarterly, Jack, Juked, LanguageandCulture, LoudPoet, Mademoiselle'sFingertips, Miller'sPond, Mipoesias, MyFavoriteBullet, NewVerseNews, NewWorksReview, Nthposition, OpenLettersMonthly, OrigamiCondom, PensonFire, PoetsAgainstWar, Psychopoetica, Rambler, ReviewAmericana, RiverWalkJournal, Scrambler, SlowTrains, Snakeskin, SoMa, Spindle, StonetableReview, SubtleTea, SugarMule, SylvanEcho, ThePotomac, ThievesJargon, UndergroundVoices, UnlikelyStories, and WildernessHouseReview among other international print and electronic journals. “Just Like the Jones',” about his experience caring for Jonestown survivors, was solicited by JonestownAnnualReport and will appear later this year. He is currently working on an epic prose poem, The Homeless Chronicles. Gerry is a member of Poets and Writers, qualifying in Creative Nonfiction and Poetry.
Poems from Gerard's manuscript
“Riffing 60”
Fell asleep watching 9/11 reruns…
Dreamt of holocausts and bald spots
a college kid scribbling poetry
-- which I didn't. Late for squash
with a roommate. Which I was.
Stomach aches
(too much aspirin for creaky knees?)
wake me middle of
my forty year
standard nightmare.
I write this swiftly
then splurge on turkey wings
the skin still on
‘cause today's my birthday.
"For Doña Juilietta Casimiro: Prayer to Ninos Santos"
Today, 58,
I will abstain,
Fast and wait. Tomorrow,
Holy children, white and clean,
Talk to me. Let me be with god,
Sweat Jesus' blood. Mazatec elder,
Guide and heal me with your sacred
Plants. Little ones, spring forth, take
Me to the Virgin Mary's feet, to die again
And again, but never be alone. Protect me
From black clowns and sorcerers, who trick
Pull me to the other side. Most holy of lords,
Noble prince of waters, awaken this sleepy head
To mulch on the volcanic landslide of your kind spirit.
Thunder my teeth. Paint my golden caps and purple rings.
I will follow your flashes of white light, gather them up, try
To get them to stay. Little birds of the mountains and
Woods, teach me to laugh and dance on this sweet
Earth. Little women and men, show me the spindle
Sword, Christ's crown of thorns, your ghost house
Of comedy. Curandera, your hands can read my
Body. Your prayers, sage, and thirteen candles
Open and close this space. Divine millennial
Genius of sacred reason, witch's thread of
Red saucers sitting on elves stools, cure
Me of envy, respect my hunger,
Save me from brujos and the
Numb narcotic of fools'
Cow dung parasols.
Muchas gracias.
Amen.
Gerard Sarnat
gsarnat@aol.com
Fell asleep watching 9/11 reruns…
Dreamt of holocausts and bald spots
a college kid scribbling poetry
-- which I didn't. Late for squash
with a roommate. Which I was.
Stomach aches
(too much aspirin for creaky knees?)
wake me middle of
my forty year
standard nightmare.
I write this swiftly
then splurge on turkey wings
the skin still on
‘cause today's my birthday.
"For Doña Juilietta Casimiro: Prayer to Ninos Santos"
Today, 58,
I will abstain,
Fast and wait. Tomorrow,
Holy children, white and clean,
Talk to me. Let me be with god,
Sweat Jesus' blood. Mazatec elder,
Guide and heal me with your sacred
Plants. Little ones, spring forth, take
Me to the Virgin Mary's feet, to die again
And again, but never be alone. Protect me
From black clowns and sorcerers, who trick
Pull me to the other side. Most holy of lords,
Noble prince of waters, awaken this sleepy head
To mulch on the volcanic landslide of your kind spirit.
Thunder my teeth. Paint my golden caps and purple rings.
I will follow your flashes of white light, gather them up, try
To get them to stay. Little birds of the mountains and
Woods, teach me to laugh and dance on this sweet
Earth. Little women and men, show me the spindle
Sword, Christ's crown of thorns, your ghost house
Of comedy. Curandera, your hands can read my
Body. Your prayers, sage, and thirteen candles
Open and close this space. Divine millennial
Genius of sacred reason, witch's thread of
Red saucers sitting on elves stools, cure
Me of envy, respect my hunger,
Save me from brujos and the
Numb narcotic of fools'
Cow dung parasols.
Muchas gracias.
Amen.
Gerard Sarnat
gsarnat@aol.com