Chasing the Liminal

 —Poetry by Fay L. Loomis, Kerhonkson, New York
—Public Domain Photos 

LIMINAL
Homage to The Book of Dreams, Nina George
(Crown, 2019)

in between
neither here nor there

    •    asleep . . . awake
    •    conscious . . . unconscious
    •    birth . . . death
    •    labyrinth . . . straight line
    •    dream, coma, déjà vu, insanity, little death
    •    memory . . . amnesia
    •    androgynous
    •    previous . . . next
    •    tug-of-war, blind man’s bluff
    •    light . . . dark
    •    heaven . . . hell
    •    begin . . . end
    •    costume, mask
    •    yes . . . no
    •    window, mirror, lens

poet friend said liminal overused
yet I remain intrigued by otherness

an archive of myself

 

 

 

 

WHO IS JOSEPH BELLOWS?

TO: Joseph

FROM: MSABM (The Museum Staff Against
Bellows’ Messes)

stinky pinky two-by-four
couldn’t get through the museum door
because of all the junk on the floor


TO: Joseph

FROM:  MSABM (You know who we are.)

the goops* have no manners
they throw their bananners
on anyone’s spot
but their own

*MSABM is highly suspicious that Joseph might be
related to the goops


TO: Joseph

FROM: MSABM (You certainly know who we are.)

the three little pigs
all rolled into one
is Joseph Bellows
with his shirt undone

 

 

 

 

GOD’S POEM

In the beginning was the Word
And the Word was with God
And the Word was God (John 1:1)

God said, “Let us create a living Word”
And God created human beings
And the human beings were in the image of God

God scribed a line of joy
And added a contrapuntal note of sorrow
And the humans became a verse

Then God colored the humans
And rhymed and sounded them
And the beings repeated many stanzas of life

God said, “Our poem is not yet finished.”
And the humans continued to struggle, work the
    poem
Until they were at-oned with God

And God saw everything that he had made,
and, behold,
it was very good. (Genesis 1:31)

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

SWEET CRUSH
—Fay L. Loomis

Lyle Sweet

sweet Sweet
young Sweet
too sweet

no Sweet

_____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Fay Loomis for today’s fine poetry!

 

 

 

 

For info about
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

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.

Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.

Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!

 

Down the primrose path. . .

Absurd and Lonely Prize

  First Stanza
—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Visuals by Joyce Odam

 

 

THE ALBINO PEACOCK 

—Joyce Odam

At night,
beside the Fool,
the peacock strolls the grounds
and in the moonlight rounds
the courtyard pool—
a quite

absurd
and lonely prize—
white peacock of the King
the Fool leads on a string
for the Queen’s eyes.
He’d heard

the Queen
once say how she
pitied what the King kept
blinded—how she had wept:
it could not see
to preen.

                         
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/1/11) 

 

 

 

Without Shore

SESSIONS
—Joyce Odam

Oh world, I shall not be with you today—
today I shall be traveling inward
to myself,
homeless as a city . . .

I am not immune to love—love just
keeps being love—and I just keep
looking up the word, which is absurd.

I am lying in the sand with my Mother,
reading True Confession magazines.
It is summer and we are young,

and wherever I have been,
I have left me there,
wandering
the curio
shops,
touching things—
waiting for endings of seasons
and pretending I am not just a visitor . . .

A policeman
    mis-asking me why I am crying—
        because I-am-a-child-! I tell him,
               and run—run back to now.

 

 

 

Aminal

ASKANCE
—Robin Gale Odam

The tilt of humor, the mask of
curiosity, the worry of judgment—

the dubiously disapproving suspicion,
disdainfully oblique and skeptically askew—

show it all at once.

                                        
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/22/22; 5/14/24)

 

 

 

 Theater

AS IF IN VIENNA
—Joyce Odam

There we were in the land
of waltz—stoned on love,
and happy to the core—waltzing

to some old Vienna tune
we thought we heard. Laughing
and tipsy. A bit pathetic. A bit absurd.

We loved the music
that drifted in from the boardwalk.
The one-bulb ceiling light

burned and blurred
as we reeled together—
out into the fragrant night

full of dazed somnambulates
who did not know
we waltzed among them—entering

each dream—stealing their sadness.
We would need it later—think it ours.
Such a little while love had lasted.

                                      
(prev. pub. in Song of the San Joaquin, Spring 2006)

 

 

 

 A Very Intoxicating Liqueur

NO MORE DRUNKEN NIGHTS, MY LOVE
—Joyce Odam

You poured wine over my head, and I
poured wine over your head. Then we wept.

Now you come over the telephone with foolish
words, a bouquet of praises in your mouth.

What am I to believe? I have closed the door.
I have sealed the envelope.

I am an old woman now in a wooden chair.
I sit and think of nothing . . . I stare and stare . . .

                                                   
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/6/11)

 

 

 

 Dark Moon Night

FINALITIES
—Joyce Odam

Because we are done. At once. Sudden
and silent, not even time for a last no.
        .
A little bit mysterious. Even for us.
But that is how we surprise each other.
        .
Old quarrels are best. So well known
we can say them at the drop of a guard.
        .
Just now : Your splendid rage, causing
its reaction, your eyes like a sermon.
        .
I am no Amen. I go into the room at the
back of my mind and rock in the dark.
        .
Each night I kill a moth because it is frantic
in the lamp and attacking me in its blindness.
        .
Even when we try, we are unable to repair
what is valued and broken.
        .
Just now—this dangerous look between us.
No compromise.

                                              
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/20/16; 2/15/22)

 

 

 

 A Little Tenderness

FOOLISH THOUGHTS
—Joyce Odam

What is this feeling that comes over me?
I hear a dove and sense a loneliness.

A tiny sparrow makes me want to cry.
Oh, Fie! — That strange word.

How can a word come back like that
from nowhere?

Makes no sense to be so close to tears :
something as simple as a texture,

or a tone
of someone’s voice.

What do I miss this moody day
that overwhelms me so?


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/5/16; 2/25/20) 

 

 

 

 Talisman

HEAVY
—Joyce Odam

Am I not the one with the heart made of lead,
eyes made of brass—hands without touch
through gloves of numb—am I not that one…?

I saw the peacock spread its fan,
and I wept for all women
vainer than seduction with its pretty ways :

how they preened back—in spite of
memory’s sweet haze. Never mind that :
I am the one without words enough to say

the deep yearn that lives
next to the leaden throb—the one
who pines away—who will foolishly sob.

                                                   
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/2/13)

 

 

 

 Just One Sip

TOASTING YOUR HAPPINESS
—Joyce Odam

In love again
so foolish in your second happiness
sitting close enough to touch
and laughing at every glance,
you bring your news to us,
your friends.

We pour the wine to toast you . . .

You do not notice our loveless eyes
our smiles that hurt
our words that come
like finished marriages
the way we touch each lifted glass
except our own.


(prev. pub. as Urban Voices That Matter broadside;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/2/13; 12/15/15)

 

 

 

 

Notes in Zen

STARLIGHT
—Robin Gale Odam

Tonight my shadow
wrote this poem—it was for
all of you, shadows of shadows,
cast across the floor in the dark.

I move carefully through the house,
avoid the windows, the starlight.
                     

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 10/10/23) 

 

 

 

Eddie-Lou’s Dream

AN OLD ASPIRATION
—Joyce Odam

Hold me, the way a poem holds
words, the way shadow holds light,
the way anything lost is wanted.

Let nothing aspire beyond its being,
or better yet—aspire—as if
we are capable of love

that does not change,
that risks another’s love,
and thus creates a tragedy.

I have an old aspiration
anxious to repair its energy.
It lasts as long as I think about it.

What is this worth
that demands so much,
that is never paid in full,

that is like a debt
of something worthless
now, except for its experience?

How will we ever make good
on all our promises that were coerced,
or foolishly offered, becoming these weights?

                                        
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/3/13)

 

 

 

 Sleepwriting

Today’s LittleNip:

OF COURSE IT WAS A DREAM
—Robin Gale Odam

My mother guarded me with her
fine synonyms for fire, embers of
values from interpretations of fables
and guile.

The children of her muse wrapped me
with ribbons of disguise for the blessing
of anguish. Of course it was a dream.

              
(prev. pub. in Brevities, May 2020)

__________________

Many thanks to the Odam poets for today's fine fare as they riff on our Seed of the Week, "Beyond Absurd". Our new SOW is “The Lingering Scent of Roses”. 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. And see every Form Fiddlers’ Friday for poetry form challenges, including those of the Ekphrastic type.

___________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 

Sommerfrische

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that

Twin Lotus Thai presents

Cynthia Linville, Sue Daly,

and Richard Turner tonight

in Sacramento, 6pm.

For future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

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.

Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column at the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.

Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones  by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!

 

 

 

Beyond Absurd

 Three Little Fishies
—Illustration by Nolcha Fox
(with Microsoft Designer)

* * *

—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Claire J. Baker,
Stephen Kingsnorth, Caschwa, and Joe Nolan
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Joe Nolan and Medusa

 

 

THE GREAT ESCAPE
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

Three little fish popped
up their heads to see
some distant mountains.
They were so bored
with underscape, a vacay
sounded awesome.
They swam towards shore,
but lost their way,
and zigged instead
of zagged. They didn’t
know that lures were fake.
Their vacay was a bucket.

 

 

 

 Franz Kafka
—Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa

BEYOND ABSURD
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

What term is used when such observed—
that further stage, craze left behind—
bizarre is not enough described?
I did check out the gazetteer,
to find Absurd, if did exist,
discover if place lies beyond?

Grotesque to quirky, curious,
what can be character portrayed,
the kinky, eccentric, outré too?
Outlandish, and the whacky, quaint,
amazement caused by step too far,
the ration of our thought outstretched.

That surreal, out-of-the-way,
an off-piste ski through avalanche,
and read as Kafkaesque indeed.
’Tis risible, though nervous grin,
as new wave artistry throughout,
our story, cubist, dada, fauve.

Set template thrown, incongruous,
preposterous as vocalised
but ludicrous, when playing, rules.
Graffiti, writing off the wall,
convention-breaking theatre,
conspiracies, in theory launched.

Hypocrisies, establishment,
financial dealings of the rich,
and double standards, justice judged.
So bounced and trounced, imbalance’ fount,
as smashing of assumption’s rôle,
reductio ad absurdum.

That logic of the ancient Greeks,
still national, rational holds.
Our faith, with logic, seemly dies,
but life defies, decries that bet;
beyond absurd, lost common sense,
where could be grounded, game, set, match.

Distant from the site of reason,
for far is how we treat the earth;
on the farther side of nonsense,
we hurt another, there, beyond.
So farther, far, and yonder, yon,
just keep a little space, absurd.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Artwork Courtesy of Medusa

A WILDERNESS OF GRIEF
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

I linger in a chaotic landscape—
like the first grotto at Lourdes?
But I’ll not see the Lady,
golden roses round her feet,
nor Bernadette on bended knee
urging me to pray
amid the briers of this day.

Though bare trees, leaf mold,
foxtails, weeds, and I prepare
a fitting place, I don’t expect
to see the Lady’s face
or feel Her presence full of grace . . .

The Angel will not visit a free-thinking
rebel like me, though She may finger
a rosary, reflecting on Holy signs
marking this day,
mercifully kind in their way . . .

Sitting on a mossy log amid shadows,
I stare at a lavender thistle, bare
my blatant lack of belief;
the thistle, as I prepare to leave,
becomes as moving as She. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

LIVING IN ARREARS
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

(Beyond Absurd)

O say can you see, by the dawn's early light,
What so proudly you bought at a great discount
    sale?
Its broad golden shine and bright silver claims
through mysterious light were so forcefully
    bragging.

And your budget's red glare, the debt wholly unfair,    
Gave proof through the night that earned trust was
not there, O say does that entangled offer yet pro-
mise a land of the free and a home as you see your
whole life through the mists of the deep Where the
bank’s haughty mortgage in dread silence reposes,
Look at those ads which the breeze, o'er the tower-
ing steep, As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half-
discloses? Now it catches the gleam of morning
mail’s first plunk, A whole different story now
appears in the light. ’Tis the entangled contract—
O long may it wave O'er the land of the unem-
ployed and the home of the tattered bunk! And
where is that band who so vauntingly swore, That
the havoc of war and the battle's confusion A home
and a Country should leave us no more?

The money has wash'd out with polluted appeals.
No refuge could save the hireling and slave From
the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave, And
the entangled contract in triumph doth wave O'er
the land of investors and the home of the knave. O
thus be it ever when freemen shall stand Between
their lov'd home and the war's desolation! Blest
with vict'ry and peace may the heav'n rescued land
Praise the power that hath made and preserv'd us
an investment! Then conquer we must, when our
cause it is just, And this be our motto— "Don’t
cede your trust," And the entangled contract in
triumph shall forever wave O'er the homeless
veterans and their graves.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

DEAR GOD
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

(Birds of a Feather)

Please listen, I beg of you, hear my
one, simple, modest wish that is very
similar to one you granted not too
long ago

Give me a winning Lottery ticket and
on the first day only, I will be in the
shoes of a dictator and issue many
commands

After that, great care will be expended
to share the money with those who need
it the most, the poor, the needy, the ill,
all my supporters

Thank you in advance, dear Lord, for
hearing my plea, which I make in
earnest for the betterment of the nation,
as I see fit 

 

 

 

—Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa

OUR GREAT IMPERFECTIONS
—Caschwa

The awesome Liberty Bell
replicated aplenty as
miniatures, with cracks and
all found at swap meets,

thrift stores, online, made
in China, such patriot appeal!
store it in the Hope Chest
with the folded flag that

once draped Dad’s coffin
tell the kids stories about
its meaning, that’s OK,
facts optional, ad lib at will

the Bell that was to ring truth
and freedom forever now
silenced by a self-proclaimed
king who maintains a Hall of

Besties, all driven by greed, the
highest common denominator
don’t let this be the new normal,
else the Constitution, Due Process,

Rule of Law, Statue of Liberty, and
immortal speeches by our patriots
will freeze in place like those cracks
in that Bell that can no longer ring 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa

TWEEN TWEEDLE AND ‘DEE
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

There was an epic battle
‘Tween Tweedledum and ‘dee,
Over much of nothing
As far as we could see,

Parsing fine points
Of meaning,
Which led to a major schism
That’s gone on for centuries.

If only we could tell
Just what they were saying
Oh, so long ago
Under the shade of a bodhi tree
That made the world unwell.  

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

THE RIGHT MOMENT
—Joe Nolan

At just the right moment,
She forgets who’s on top.
It has to be someone.
Let it be him.

Her mind slips into star-banks
Where unborn children smile
Waiting for their chance to be born.

She floats completely weightless
As do they.
Her gaze catches one
Out of billions
And he slips in.

Just then,
She screams.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

ETERNITY PASSING BY
—Joe Nolan

A big black hole
At the center of a galaxy
Enables its rotation
From spiral-tip
To spiral-tip,
Over trillions of miles.

Only one dark anchor
Controls the flight of ships
Of billions of brilliant
Light blips
That lighten the darkened sky,

So bright in the darkness!
You may not cast your eye
In their direction
Lest you become blind.

So bright,
So dark,
So bright,
So dark,
We almost cannot see.

The vastness
Seems eternity,
But it’s not.
It’s just another galaxy
Among quadrillions,

Speeding away
In flight
From a common center
That long ago let fly
Everything we know
And have not yet
Discovered
That goes on all around us
Though we never notice
Eternity passing by.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Poetry is the opening and closing of a door, leaving those who look through to guess about what is seen during the moment.

—Anonymous

____________________

—Medusa, with many thanks to today’s contributors! In case you couldn’t tell, our Seed of the Week was “Beyond Absurd”. Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.

 

 

 

Next time, keep your eyes where

they belong, Buster~

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Poetry in Motion meets
today in Placerville, 10:30am;
and Youth Open Mic
takes place at 7:30pm,
Sacramento Poetry Center.
For info about these and other
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

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.

Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.

Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Releasing the Crows

 —Poetry by Jason Ryberg, Kansas City, MO
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

GETTING BY

What little money I had that day, I decided might
     as well go to a cheap, used
paperback copy of 100 Poems from the
     Chinese by Kenneth Rexroth and
as many refills
     of coffee
as the
     girl
who
     worked
there
     at the
diner would
     let me get by with.

 

 

 

 

MIDNIGHT RIDE

At
some
point in
the dream, the
bed has become a
horse-drawn wagon with either no
driver or one who clearly has been possessed by too
many spirits, as he seems to be little more
     than a disembodied cackling and
the crack of a whip, and I don’t know about him but
at least the horses and I are
more than grateful for
whatever
meager
light
the
moon
can
provide
for us on
our midnight ride through
her garden of many wonders.

 

 

 

  

OUT BACK OF THE PLACE

Past the windowpane of an abandoned mansion,
     the wind tosses a single fallen
leaf around in the gray winter light of dawn,
         amusing itself this way for hours, while
            a wisp of white smoke
        is slowly
                    rising
                                    up
from
        a
                                 shack
                       out back
                                       of the place,
              where the trees have been
                       reclaiming the yard for decades.

 

 

 

 

SOMEWHERE/SOMEWHEN

Rainy dust or dusty rain? Whatever it is, brings
                                     on memories better than a
                 time machine, except
                                     you don’t get
                          to set
                                     the
                   dial;

            you just sit there and deal with the shaky 

    playback of the whenever / wherever from
                                  your past that gets pulled,
                     randomly,
           up from
                          that
                                deep

                  dark well for you by whatever forces
here at work,
             around or within you, when the
                                        thunder and lightning
                              roll in, or
                       even
                                just
                          the

       smell of dust and rain, on a day with a forecast
                   for nothing but sun, takes you back to
               somewhere / somewhen you
                                             haven’t thought
                                    about
                                             in
                                             years.

______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

ROLLING THE SLAB FROM THE TOMB
(Tanka)
—Jason Ryberg

We knocked and knocked and
knocked, pleaded and cajoled, but
no one answered, so
we rolled the slab from the tomb
and a hundred crows flew out.

______________________

—Medusa, welcoming Jason Ryberg back, and thanking him for today’s fine poetry!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Poets Club of Lincoln
features Evie Groch
plus Open Mic
today in Lincoln, 3pm.
For info about this and other
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

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.

Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.

Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!

 

 

Stone, Sand, and Dirt

 —Poetry by Thomas M. McDade, 

Fredericksburg, VA
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

FEET, NOSE, MOUTH

Her empty wine and whisky jugs are young
but they evoke antique bottle shops and old
lighthouse lenses standing tall in museums
when the windows unveil and the moon
is right with candle flame high on nights
foul weather chases us off the beach sand
cork silence, twist-off cap the same
after a bouncy prelude
 
Sitting by a fat candle
that smells like evergreens
as window winds toss drapes
like veils of fleeing inhibition
we smoke Camels and talk
like a couple of old timers
jogged by a shard of sun
lighting a champagne magnum

An aging wind reminiscing
gone gusty Chicago days
discovers dump glass
with our fingerprints
recalls playing the mouth
of our first fifth of Gallo Wine
and whirls and whistles
funneling a toast. 

 

 

 

 

STONE, SAND, AND DIRT

The Boys’ Club
Athletic Director
Who’d named me
The fittest kid
In M-1 Gym

Off my pushup
And sit-up prowess
Wasn’t so flattering
When he switched
Hats to take control

Of the summer
Anybody And Their
Brothers Can Play
Baseball League
As I’d failed

To field the team
In the Jr. division
That I’d signed up
To do: didn’t think
I wrote on stone

I tagged myself
The biggest loser
In Federal Housing
Couldn’t roster nine
Using cash I bet

Weakling flashing
All over his face
I considered
A slew of pushups
For redemption

Man, it was as if he wanted
To kick beach sand in my face
Or at least on my sneakers
As an MLB skipper might
Diamond dirt on an ump’s

 

 

 

 

MENDOZA LINE

My friend Mike
Had gigabytes
Of baseball stats
In his head so
When I told him
Of my feeling
About a number
Off a memory
Of a Route 114
I used to drive
In Rhode Island
I expected him
To say that’s 101
Points below
The Mendoza Line
But he handed over
A half a buck
Without a word
And the digits hit
For $330 and I was
The one said
Nice average
He added
215 over Mario’s
Dismal go-to Poor
Plate Performance
Standard that’s
A crock anyway
When Mike died
On the 335th day
Of the year 2001
I thought of the
NL and Al
Batting champs
That season
Both hitting 350
But played his
Birthday 1.17
And struck out

 

 

 

 

THE STEPS

Take a bus to a beach town
Slowed to an off-season crawl
With all you own filling half-
A-half-century-old seabag, faded
Stencil naming you in caps
You’ve got a slim stash
And you’ll last in a room
If you lay off the hooch
Find a church, worship
Confess, take communion
Daily as your mother did
Kneeling tall, praying hands
Like a rocket or arrowhead
Become as familiar as kin
In case of a slip or a brawl
While prepping for summer
Gull stepping in
On Memorial Day
Cadences:
Vagrancy
Left
Panhandling
Right
Fear
Left
Hope
Your right

 

 

 

 

WILD BILL

Called Wild Bill
From his high
School football days
He stayed that way
Off the gridiron
While looking
After his beautiful sibs
Sometimes fisticuffs
He took care of his
Aged mother and when
A young bully staged
A hate-filled road rage
Over her light foot
Bill found a way
To track him down
And execute a perfect
Tackle as if the August
Asphalt were a playoff
Field and the jerk
Was a running back
Guilty of stalking
Bill’s lovely
Cheerleader sister

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Poetry is a way of taking life by the throat.

—Robert Frost

__________________

Newcomer Thomas McDade, a graduate of Fairfield University, is twice a U.S. Navy Veteran, serving ashore at the Fleet Anti-Air Warfare Training Center, Dam Neck Virginia Beach, VA, and aboard the USS Mullinnix (DD-944) and USS Miller (DE / FF-1091). He is a liberal Democrat and a vegetarian. [And, I might add, a poet.] Welcome to the Kitchen, Thomas, and don’t be a stranger!

__________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

Thomas McDade

 

 

 

 

 

 

For info about
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

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.

Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.

Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!