Feed the Fire

 —Poetry by Thompson Emate, Lagos, Nigeria
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

Last night, in the record library, I heard a strange song. It was strange because it told a story—a story about how seven men entered Glory Land. The first man was troubled by the night; it spoke to him. He entered Glory Land and understood how this struggle made him a unique writer. The second man's mind was a turbulent sea; it often travelled beyond borders. He entered Glory Land and realised that this turmoil made him a sought-after counsellor. The third man's emotions fluctuated, especially at night. He entered Glory Land and discovered that this made him a talented music composer. The fourth man could summon the elements of nature, which sometimes disturbed his sleep. He entered Glory Land and understood that this ability kept him youthful and vibrant. The fifth man could hear conversations from neighbouring houses, which were more audible at night. He entered Glory Land and learned that this gift made him indomitable. The sixth man could see writings on the wall; they sometimes emerged and flew like birds. He entered Glory Land and realised that this helped him unlock the door to mysteries. The seventh man could paint scenes in his mind and bring them to life—this was a disturbing skill. He entered Glory Land and understood that this gift helped him save his loved ones. The song soon ended with questions: Do you think any of these men would want to hold onto their strangeness? Do you mind being like any of them?

 

 

 

FEED THE FIRE
 
Feed the fire, 
Let what lies within rise into the flames. 
Feed the fire, 
Release the darkness that has taken hold in the
    chamber. 
Feed the fire, 
Allow the tendrils of the night to enter its embrace. 
Feed the fire, 
Cast the monsters into its fiery pit. 
Feed the fire, 
Send away the stranger that lurks in the stillness of
    the night, into its inferno. 
Feed the fire, 
Awaken refreshed, renewed, and reshaped.

 

 

 

 

WHEN THE NIGHT COMES
 
When the night comes,
I’ll be sitting alone on the porch,
gazing at the garden,
hoping to still be inspired by its bloom.
 
When the night comes,
I’ll no longer hear those melodious songs,
songs that encourage me to be my best,
songs that dispel the darkness in my chamber.
 
When the night comes,
I’ll walk alone in autumn,
listening to the wind sigh and sing,
watching the feeble boughs dance to the melody.
 
When the night comes,
I’ll write a eulogy,
I’ll write a tribute to my rare gem,
while gloom settles in my room.

 

 

 

 

 

THE DOOR
 
Don’t knock on the door;
You’ll awaken the spirits.
Don’t knock on the door;
You’ll summon the strange.
Don’t knock on the door;
It’s not yet time.
 
But do knock on the door,
For it’s past twilight.
Knock on the door,
For some things need to be understood,
Knock on the door,
And unlock the river of inspiration.
Knock on the door;
There’s an emergence from the deep.
 
Youthfulness comes with great aplomb,
The strange pulls the leash,
As you seek the path to Zion’s gate.

 

 

 

 

 

THE OTHER WAY
 
There is a search for the other way,
A route that shields us from the tendrils of
    night,
A path that separates what has been woven
    together,
A way that quiets the uproar within our minds.
 
A sage once told us that our uniqueness stems
    from our peculiarities.
But how can we truly believe this?
Does he understand the extent of the turbu-
    lence in our hearts?
He saw our doubts,
And he pointed us toward the way.
 
We followed the path he revealed,
Journeying through a meadow of mysteries.
We approached the spirits with reverence,
And they were surprised by our ability to unveil
    some of the secrets.
We learned that there is a depth within us that
    sometimes merges with the night,
A depth that enhances our creativity.
 
We embrace our strangeness,
Seeking knowledge to understand this depth
    within us.
Yet, we still yearn for perpetual redemption.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Writing is utter solitude, the descent into the cold abyss of oneself.

—Franz Kafka

____________________

Newcomer Thompson Emate says he spends his leisure time on creative writing, particularly poetry and prose, and he has a deep love for nature and the arts. His work can be seen in Poetry Potion, Poetry Soup, Visual Verse, Written Tales magazine, Writer Space African Magazine, Spillwords, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Borderless Journal and elsewhere. Welcome to the Kitchen, Thompson, and don’t be a stranger!

A short amendment to yesterday’s post about Joyce Odam’s passing: she died on the early morning of Sunday, Sept. 14.

___________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Thompson Emate

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 A reminder that
Bob Stanley will talk in
Auburn today, 10am, about
“Why is This a Poem?”
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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Different Ending

 Untitled
* * *
—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Photos and Original Art by Joyce Odam

 

 

ENDINGS

—Joyce Odam

1.  
This is where we take the different ending :
the walk on the beach
in that peculiar light—
the sea immense and lonely.
“Oh,” you protest,
“we can’t say the sea is lonely.”

2.
This is where we take the delicate ending :
the walk on the particular beach
at a particular time,
approaching some object
made of dark light
that seems to be moving.
When we near it,
it is the disheveled doll
left by our childhood
that seems to remember us,
for we pick it up and hold it.
It is so cold and wet and
featureless. It gasps like a kitten, and expires.

3.
This is where we take the difficult ending :
walking the roiling beach in winter light,
leaving the doll behind.
The sea rocks and moans over the doll,
retrieving it in its foaming arms.

4.
This is where we take the desperate ending :
You look back and tell me
what you see.
I don’t look back.
I am watching a seagull swooping and crying
into the sea’s defining loneliness.

 

 

 

 When

NIGHT BIRD STOLEN FROM
A GRAY CANVAS
—Joyce Odam
After “Night Bird” 1990, Wonsook Kim Linton

Small dream bird, I hold you through the prison
of sleep while an old black brooding hawk watches
from night’s dark tree and hunches itself over the
release of waking, which has its own landscape of
terrors.

How will I save you when my hand is offering you
flight away from this dream; why do you tarry in
patient trust like a careless omen of yourself?

Are you the signature of life? Symbols surround
us— surreal and dense—merging to a collage of
mystery. We share this brief connection: I give you
my fear so you can translate it into flight—yet you
stay with me.


(prev. pub. in Parting Gifts, Winter 2003;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/5/18; 12-26/23) 

 

 

 

Before I Wake

THE POET BEFORE SUNUP  

—Robin Gale Odam

The child would collect books at
Every chance, pouring through the
Pages and guarding the angst of all the
Times of wishing she could say goodbye,

Of moving once again, of selecting
Only one or two—and maybe the skates,

Or the doll—so as to fit everything
Important onto the back seat of the old
Car and then turn the corner and vanish
Before sunup.

                                 
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 02/04/25) 

 

 

 

 Songbird

BLACKBIRD
(Song)
—Joyce Odam

Black Bird, Black Bird, flying so low
Black bird, black bird, I watch you go
Down wind, downward, into the snow.

Soft touch, soft touch, open your hand.
Some tell fortune—some make demand,
Black Bird, falling on a cold land.

Omens, omens, all over town.
Fortune cookies cover the ground
Black Bird finds them.
What has he found?

Hard truth! Hard truth, where is your lie,
now that wind chimes trouble the sky.
Every winter they learn to cry.

(Repeat 1st verse)

Black Bird, Black Bird, flying so low            
Black bird, black bird, I watch you go
Down wind, downward, into the snow.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/27/22)

 

 

 

 Distance Traveled

INTO WINTER
—Joyce Odam

And when I go,
I will go as geese
calling softly into winter.
I will hear the sound of my soul
move through winds and darkness
and feel sad thoughts of men
touch me, as some dry mist
I must travel through;

and it will be a soaring,
like a remembering of dreams
when I flew wingless,
looking down on cities,
and moved as easily through air
as the sea-buried
sliding through water.

In my transitory moment,
warmth and cold
will be one sensation. I will
shed pain from body and mind
in final molting,
and the sound of my last breath
will be like the migrating-murmur
of geese calling
softly into winter.

                               
Into Winter was my first contest-winning poem—CFCP (California Federation of Chaparral Poets),—receiving a 1st H.M. in 1962—part of my poetry beginnings. The poem was published in the Ina Coolbrith Anthology in 1963 and is included in The Confetti Within (my first chapbook) in 1966.       —Joyce Odam

 

 

 

 Where Do We Go From Here

POETS LIE
—Robin Gale Odam
(After my mother, 08/07/1924-09/14/2025)

Soon or never, the figure
at the pulpit casts the long
shadow across the floor

The character sits, just
barely, at the edge of the seat,
at the farthest pew, out of range
for the ray of light dimming
through imagined glass

The one prayed for,
on the bed in the quiet room,
exhales on the whispered breath,
something found in the writer’s
scraps

Soon or never, the figure at the
pulpit casts the long shadow across
the floor, the pathway, and the
sanctity of truth 

 

 

 

 

Today’s LittleNip:

ASHES
—Robin Gale Odam

We leave our bones behind—
tray of whatnots, reading
glasses, pencils and notes . . .

_______________

This is a particularly touching set of poems and art today, made, as usual these past few years, by Robin Gale Odam from her and her mother’s portfolios. It is touching because, sadly, Joyce Odam passed away shortly after 2am Tuesday morning—appropriately enough, saying goodbye to us on her weekly day in Medusa’s Kitchen which she held for almost 20 years. Joyce was 101 years old and had suffered from Alzheimer's for several years. Robin was able to keep her in her home, which was a blessing, for sure. Keep Robin Gale and the rest of Joyce’s family in your thoughts. Joyce was a huge part of my life, and she will be missed.

Our new Seed of the Week is “Cooler Mornings, Shorter Nights”. 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.

Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.

___________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Last Dance of the Night
—Photo by Joyce Odam

A reminder that
Mary Mackey, Julia Connor,
and Dotty Wilber will read
at Twin Lotus Thai in Sacramento
tonight, 6pm. Reservations
strongly recommended!
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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When is a Lie a Lie?

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

A FREE-FLOWING YES!
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

Howdy to elves
& our mischievous selves.
Cheers to ee cummings & goings,
to hummingbirds & humming bees
who pollinate with grace & ease . . .
Blessings on our elders & challenged
who try bravely to succeed
when life can be hard & harder.
Yay to barter for the fun of it,
And hay for the sun in it.

Joy to all who blow soapy bubbles
into shimmering rainbows that rise into
floating free, 1,2,3. Amazing John Muir
had coaxed poppies open, goldenly.
Hello to the 4-leaf clover we tucked
in a book; to friends & kin standing by
with care & wishes for good luck . . .
Let’s go for hallelujahs, wedding bells,
chiming stars & heavenly choirs.

Thumbs up for the humane in humanity,
for friendships & blend-ships &
just plain ol’ gettin’ along . . .
Kudos for kindnesses given & received,
like notes of a lovely song.
Hooray for all who grab life’s golden ring
& hold tight with pizzazz, then follow
their footsteps into each fantastical,
free-flowing Yes! Yes! Yes!


(Grand Prize, Dancing Poetry Festival, 2025) 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo 

Courtesy of Joe Nolan

WHERE POETS LIE
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

We judge from panoramic view,
lie of the land, its beauty scape,
pretend the pylon march not there,
plain flood awaiting its despair,
short-sighted should truth be laid bare.
So do we lie, scene what’s not there,
the hidden cost of licensed fair,
those nightmares borne from yesterday.

Below the manhole lies a truth,
whatever we conceal, deceive,
that real convenience is found
beneath nature’s romantic roof.
So do we laud the drainage too,
or stand aloof and rue the hue?
No, all is subject as our cues,
whatever means lie for our use.

But to expose we might impose
a fable, knowing fox speaks not,
the parable, laid alongside,
a metaphor—without the ‘like’,
or footnote, box of honesty,
pathetic fallacy to fore?
My DMs full of sympathy—
the fifteenth time my mother died.

I’ve thought of labels, making clear
a poet writes, not diarist.
Confessional, within the church,
Westminster Abbey, poets lie
in their own Corner, marble arched,
amongst busts, plaques, memorials;
this final plot, where we rely
on verses voiced by nation’s best.

The noble savage had his day,
device, oxymoronic voice;
the laureates wear laurel crowns,
established mark of due renown.
Of coevals, Harry Baker reigns
as slams his way, word, rhythm craze;
hear ring of truths in stranger ways,

those lays a modern minstrel plays. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo 

Courtesy of Joe Nolan

THE POET
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

The poet doesn’t lie. Exactly.
He can’t explain the depth of his pain,
or the colors that smell of spring.

Ask him about the season’s change.

Fall breathes leaves to the ground.
The night chill is a polar bear’s hug.
“I’ve been too busy writing to notice,” he says.

Ask him about the moonlight.

The moon is his lover, his shadow.
She rocks him in her crescent.
“I went to sleep before I could see her,” he says.

Ask him about the chaos around us.

The killings, false promises overwhelm him.
Earthquakes, tornadoes destroy all he loves.
“I don’t know what to do,” he says.

The poet tells the truth.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

COLOSSUS ON A PEDESTAL
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!                             —Emma Lazarus

How refreshingly pure were the native American
Indians who stood, not as landlords, but as
custodians of the land’s natural beauty and 

longevity. Then the ocean delivered to the New 

World dirty tides of that ancient demise, where 

one man owns all the land, assessing the value of 

human beings by the size of their land holdings, 

reducing many men to one tiny dot among

huddled masses yearning to breathe free.

Emma Lazarus
told no lies, it was abject
greed that killed the truth 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

LIGHTNING DELAY
—Caschwa

Relaxing at home watching the
Dallas Cowboys vs. Philadelphia
Phillies on TV. The game was
delayed by lightning, players
drawn in from the field, fans
ushered out of the stands

lots of seats not sat in
lots of steps not stood on
lots of refreshments not vended

briefly got up, went to the
kitchen to refresh my beverage,
returned to my recliner, and
called to my dog to bring me
my slippers

the odds-makers are still puzzling
over the possibilities of that wish
being fulfilled

then I raised the footrest, lowered
the head rest, and took a nice nap

 

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

I’M A LEFTY
—Caschwa

some public school teachers with good intentions
went great lengths to teach me the conventions
of putting pen to paper to form letters

but there was something missing I could not
articulate, because each time that I got
pen to paper, scrawls and smears dominated

my work product, so nothing like calligraphy
its peaks and valleys not the recognizable 

    geography
of any seasoned scribe whose writing earns praise

in the ’60’s I forged ahead with a manual typewriter
which my college professors said made things 

    brighter
being so worn out from reading manuscript all day

by and by I allowed word processors to create 

    legible
copy on my behalf, plus do spell check, and enable
me to finally create something worth reading

and to this day I take awful notes by hand that even

I cannot decipher later in the day, another mystery 

to lie buried in a stack of papers to be thrown away 

 

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

THIS IS NOT WHAT THE ANCIENTS
WERE SAYING
—Caschwa

“Thou Shalt Not Kill”, unless

that is the easiest solution to resolve a problem

you are untouchably privileged

you use a military-grade automatic assault weapon

the NRA has your back

you are doing the community a public service to rid the world of certain people

you’ve heard good arguments that the 2nd Amendment gives such approval

why not? 

 

 

—Public Domain Illustration 

Courtesy of Medusa

 

REVOLUTION! TO THE EXTREME
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

Oh, no!
Everything you fought for
And couldn’t be replaced
Has been let go.

There is blood
Upon the snow.
Kerensky
Has been overthrown
By the Bolshevik
Coup against the government.

What shall we do?
There are men with rifles
At every corner
Of every strategic point,
Mapped out by Trotsky,
In his plan to overthrow
The Socialist government
Of Kerensky,
While Kerensky
Didn’t have a clue,

After they got weapons
From the opened armory,
He opened for fear of
Rebellion from the right,
But overnight,
He faced an overthrow
From the left
That overthrew.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

SCI-FI NOIR
—Joe Nolan

Hunter-killer robots
Teleported through
Time and space,
To strategic places
To ruin and to waste
Anything of value
With disruptor beams
And many other weapons,
Impossible to trace,
Formed by 3-D printers
From twisted imaginations
Blow up all the vehicles
On our interstate highways
With no way to defend
Since they just “transport in”
Seconds before they shoot.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

AMERICA’S PLANTATION
—Joe Nolan

Annihilation is
Antisocial conduct,
Hopefully reserved
For those who’ve
Been convicted
Of crimes warranting
The ultimate price
Of losing your life,
But missiles
Fired in anger
At a boat in Caribbean,
Presage
Aggression against
Venezuela.

It’s just like
Manuel Noriega—
They want to treat
Maduro just like him—
Invade his nation and
Capture or kill him.

The Monroe Doctrine
Is still working
To make Latin America
America’s plantation.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

STILL MIDDLE CLASS?
—Joe Nolan

Let’s pretend we’re all
Still middle class,
Though it feels
Like we are falling.

How many years
Have gone by
Without a decent raise
And some years,
Not any?

If you have a mortgage
Payments are the same,
But taxes, insurance
Maintenance and care,
(Don’t even mention groceries)
Just keep creeping
Upwards,
Making paychecks lame.

So, it feels like falling—
Falling behind—
Background anxiety
In the back of your mind.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

HOPE
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India

The night is murky
The dawn passes through
As the road gets ditsy
The pine roads pass by
The same old Town of dreams and magic
As I wander through
Through the wet sickness
Dry devoid of God's optimal grace
The rain drenched hopes
Come by in surplus
The pink peonies of mahogany lines
Soft dangling daisies hope by
As I come home in unpredictable feelings.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

The purpose of a writer is to keep civilization from destroying itself.

—Albert Camus

____________________

Our thanks to today’s lively contributors, some of whom riffed on our Tuesday Seed of the Week of “Poets Lie”. Of course we do; it’s our stock-in-trade, sending you lies, either pretty or otherwise.

No lie here, though: the wondrous Dancing Poetry Festival from the equally wondrous Natica Angilly will take place in Kensington this Saturday, 9/20, from 12-5pm. Artists Embassy International (www.dancingpoetry.com/aeihistoryandinfo.html/), a non-profit arts organization founded in 1951 by Althya Youngman, was intended to further understanding and peace through the arts. Each year for the Dancing Poetry Festival, successor Natica Angilly and her Poetic Dance Theater Company choreograph the three Grand Prize poems which won First Prize in the spring contest. Other Second- and Third-Prize poems are also read by the authors. This year, SnakePal Claire Baker has won a Grand (First) Prize, so her poem that is posted above, “A Free-Flowing Yes!”, will be choreographed. Claire also won a Third Prize. And another SnakePal, Allegra Silberstein, won both a Second and a Third.

Sacramento poets used to be very active in DP, winning several prizes each year (Laverne Frith won three Grand Prizes over the years) and sweeping down there in our cars and our grandeur to read and claim the goods. Even Medusa was known to hit the podium once or twice (but never choreographed). To see this year’s winners’ list, go to https://www.dancingpoetry.com/2025poetrycontest.html/. Natica has a great flair for color and drama, and it’s always a spectacular event. No reservations required.

Also next weekend in the Bay Area, the 28th annual Petaluma Poetry Walk takes place next Sunday, a day-long event from 11am-8pm, with 26 poets reading in 8 venues. For the schedule and the new anthology, go to https://petalumapoetrywalk.org/.

And here in Sacramento, the deadline for the next Tule Review issue is TODAY! Get your high-heeled pencils on . . .

______________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
 Poetry in Motion meets
in Placerville today, 10:30am; and
Mario Ellis Hill and Jessica Cohn
will read at Sacramento Poetry Center
tonight, 7:30pm.
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!

 

Get them Tule poems in the mail NOW!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Missing Chase

 —Poetry by Michael Ceraolo, S. Euclid, OH
—Public Domain Illustrations Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

The Chase Poems

BEGINNINGS

We were together for three-and-a-half years
A friend asked if I wanted a dog;
her landlord had told here she couldn't keep the dog
(even though the landlord had had a much bigger
    dog
when they had lived at the house)
                                                   I told her
that I would take him off her hands

* * *

PUPPY, BUT NO PUPPY

Everyone who ever met him,
whether at
                 eight
                         nine
                                ten
                                      eleven,
thought he had the energy of a puppy
and were surprised to find out his real age

* * *

SHARING

Whenever I had some fried chicken,
I shared it gladly with him:
he would gobble up everything I gave him

 

 

 

 

A WALK IN THE PARK

I pass by places where Chase and I
used to walk,
                    whether
Schafer
              Brainard
                            Mayfield
                                          Lyndhurst,
and I won't get another dog:
he's too hard to replace

* * *

GOOD NIGHT

You would largely lie on the bed,
away from me to be comfortable,
                                                 but
when it was time for you to sleep
you would walk to the head of the bed,
stand there for a few seconds,
and I would lift the sheet
so you could crawl underneath,
and there you would sleep in touch with me

* * *

GOOD MORNING

Most people would consider it the middle of the
    night,
but every day between four-thirty and five
you would put yourself against my face,
and I would wake up smiling
Every time

 

 

 

 

 

THE MASCOT

You were the unofficial mascot at the nursing home
The brass loved you
The nurses and aides loved you
The residents loved you
Except for a very few
who shall no longer be mentioned

* * *

THE BEGINNING OF THE END

You went out for a walk
only two days before the end
Did you know the end was coming?
I suspect yes,
                      because
you just curled up and died

* * *

POST-MORTEM

I wanted to keep you around,
so I had you cremated
It took longer than I remembered
but I got you back
and you'll always be here

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

ENDING
—Michael Ceraolo

I would have thought getting him back,
cremated,
                would have been the end
But my girlfriend drew a picture of Chase
for me to hang on the wall
and that will be the end

_____________________

—Medusa, welcoming Michael Ceraolo back into the fold after a bit of a break, and many thanks to him for his fine (but poignant) poems. Our condolences to you, Michael, on the loss of Chase.

Over the Rainbow Bridge

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Into The Realm of Snowflakes

 —Poetry by Michael H. Brownstein, 

Jefferson City, MO
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

JOURNEY TO PARADISE

I am going back to the Realm of Snowflakes
happy people walking barefoot in the frost

work is a jingle, play a jangle,
everything's found cause nothing is lost

there is a dance in the breeze,
perfect flowers, revelation of trees

there—in the distance, the Realm of Snowflakes
happy people sliding on surfaces glossed

work is exciting, playing engaging,
life is grand—t’s dotted, i's crossed

 

 

 

 

AFTER AND BEFORE

After I killed myself
—I need to tell you this—
the last thing she said to me
were the words of a liar.

The week before,
I turned my nightmares to yawns.

Before I killed myself
—I need to tell you this—
the last thing she said to me
were the words of a liar.

The week after,
I changed my anger into necessities.

 

 

 

 

JEFFERSON CITY, MISSOURI

My son wishes to return
to his home, his quest marred
with the report of differences.
He is strong stone,
but he wonders if skin color,
a gesture in eyes,
a violence against diversity,
can make the pathway
a path of gardens
and not shards of broken
concrete, a mosaic of torn glass,
a system of closed doors.
The police car's headlights
go to bright, a few minutes later,
the lights atop flare into being,
then a siren, soft at first,
then a hurricane after the first calm:
He pulls over, rolls down his window,
places his hands on the steering wheel
as we taught him and waits,
seat belt still attached,
eyes facing forward.
He does not ask: Why did you stop me?
He already knows the answer.
He waits for the officer
to tell him why. This we also taught him.
In a place of white fear,
he is ready for whatever is to happen.
We had reports, the officer says,
of an African-American
driving the type of car you are driving.
Then he sees my son's wife,
his baby daughter,
and knows this is not the right one.
Yet he feels he has to pursue this,
escalate it to another cliff,
but my son is polite,
tells him he has just now
arrived across the river
and is heading home for a visit
with his parents. By now
there are three other police cars
on the scene, flashing lights
waking the child, his wife nervous,
my son with the PhD in botany,
molecular science, metabolomics,
has come home.

 

 

 

 

LESSONS FOR LIFE

Write with all your heart,
Finish what you couldn't start,
Create a work of art,
Design a life plan chart
And always, always, forever always
Remember the language of fart.

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

AFTER THE ELECTION, MY NATION
BEGAN FALLING
—Michael H.Brownstein

Pardoned: those who attack,
frack, sack, hack—
and then turn their back

__________________

—Medusa, with many thanks to Michael Brownstein for today’s fine poetry, as we tiptoe toward winder and the Realm of Snowflakes~

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that there will be
a dedication of the RCAF Mural
in Sacramento today, 11am;
and there will be a workshop
on Poetry in Full Colors
in Salida this afternoon, 1pm.
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!

 

LittleSnake on the Prairie~

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Welcoming Shelby to the Fold!

 Otis (left) and Shelby

—Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,

Placerville, CA

—And then scroll down for

Form Fiddler’s Friday, with poetry by

Nolcha Fox, Lynn White, Stephen Kingsnorth,

Joe Nolan, Sarah Mahina Calvello, and

Caschwa 

 

 

HOMING THE HOMELESS DOG

On the first day there were pats
and gentle words inside comforting walls.
On the 2nd day, the same doors opened,
closed, opened again to receive her within
the same walls. She drags a leash
as proof of connection. On the 3rd day,
“no teeth on skin” to pause the impulse
of possession. The peace of human hands.
A windfall of prickly rubber balls.
She gathers them all, and a stick meant
for the fire. Scraps of bark beside the bed
and, under the table, tooth marks
on a fabricated bone.
This is how she makes herself home.

 

DOING THE MATH

On the fourth morning
of a new dog, the old & the new
play sweet puppy-rough with each
other while I try to do my early stretches
which somehow become part of their
dog wrestling-dance. And then
they lie down to nap—one on each side
of me at my lap-
top. And now simultaneously
they wake again, each needing a pat,
left hand & right hand—
the reason I have only two dogs—
and here comes the cat.

 

 

 

 

SHELBY IN THE LEAD

This is our first walk on the trail. Alert
she is to every fascinating scent
along the way—woods giving off the scent
of autumn coming—and her nose alert
to squirrel—alert to wild hunger’s scent.

 

 

 

 

MEMORIAL TO UNNAMED CAT

Off the main dirt path,
here’s a game trail up and over
dredger piles, slippery climbs
and down-falls, to a slight clearing
under live oak—
a mound of river rock
with a poem etched in black metal
silhouette of a cat, its tail raised
high, forepaw lifted like
a scout exploring for life beyond
this unknown unnamed place.

 

 

 

EXASPERATING?

The birds must have had a feast.
Nearly all the plump ripe blackberries
are gone from their bramble along
the trail. I felt my way gingerly
past the picked-clean clusters, into
the thorny midst. No luck,
just scratches. So much for wanting
the sweet taste of a late summer
walk. Not that it matters —
can’t blame the birds for loving
blackberries.

 

 

 

 

WE CAN BELIEVE THE SUN

I try to follow the morning’s news in dark
hours before dawn—a government’s sudden
chameleon turnabouts; surveys showing nothing
has changed. The screen becomes a sonogram
of trouble. Commentators pick each detail apart
to its molecules, placing them on a slide
for more dissection and debate. Exasperating.
And then the sun climbs over a ridge,
reflecting on what’s left
of a pond waiting for frogs
to bring back song.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

SEPT 5
—Taylor Graham

a leaf
waits to
drift

o wind
breathe
aloft

I wait
for time
to fly

___________________

Welcome Shelby! Otis Graham has a new pal, adopted this week by him and Taylor Graham! TG has written eloquently about them both, as always, and many thanks to her for that and for her fine photos.

Forms TG has used this week include two Word-Can Poems that are also Response Poems to our Tuesday Seed of the Week, Exasperation (“Exasperating?” and “We Can Believe the Sun”); a Bina (“Shelby in the Lead”), and an Atom (“Sept 5”). The Bina and the Atom were two of last week’s Triple-F Challenges.

In El Dorado County poetry this week, Poetry in Motion meets in Placerville on Monday, 10:30am; then Moira Mageneson will read in Cameron Park on Thursday at 5:30pm. And for info about EDC’s regular workshops, scroll down to Medusa’s Kitchen’s http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html/. For more news about such events and about EDC poetry—past (photos!) and future—see Taylor Graham’s Western Slope El Dorado Poetry on Facebook at www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry/. Or see Lara Gularte’s Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/groups/382234029968077/. And you can always click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html). Poetry is Gold in El Dorado County!  
 
And now it’s time for…     

 
FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY! 

 

It’s time for more contributions from Form Fiddlers, in addition to those sent to us by Taylor Graham! Each Friday, there will be poems posted here from our readers using forms—either ones which were sent to Medusa during the previous week, or whatever else floats through the Kitchen and the perpetually stoned mind of Medusa. If these instructions are vague, it's because they're meant to be. Just fiddle around with some challenges—  Whaddaya got to lose… ? If you send ‘em, I’ll post ‘em! (See Medusa’s Form Finder at the end of this post for resources and for links to poetry terms used in today’s post.)


Check out our recently-refurbed page at the top of Medusa’s Kitchen called, “FORMS! OMG!!!” which expresses some of my (take ‘em or leave 'em) opinions about the use of forms in poetry writing, as well as listing some more resources to help you navigate through Form Quicksand and other ways of poetry. Got any more resources to add to our list? Send them to kathykieth@hotmail.com for the benefit of all man/woman/poetkind!

* * *

 

 

 Last Week’s Ekphrastic Photo

Poets who sent responses to last week’s Ekphrastic photo were Nolcha Fox, Lynn White, Stephen Kingsnorth, and Joe Nolan:


HELP WANTED
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

My vim has lost its vigor,
and my body moves too slow.

I have no energy to push
my weight around today.

My garden is an ideal spot
for growing crops of weeds.

The grass is taller than the trees.
Now, that’s an awful thing.

I used to think that getting help
showed I was good for nothing.

But who needs pride? I hire help
to keep my life in order.

I won’t need a money pot
when I am six feet under.

* * *

FIZZING
—Lynn White, Blaenau Ffestiniog, North Wales


Sometimes
I dream of those childhood days
When the sun shone everyday
and lemonade was kitchen-made
from lemons
and sugar
and tap water,
refreshment without fizz
scooped from a bowl
not poured from a plastic bottle
filled with gas and tightly sealed
filled with artificial flavours
to bring a hint of lemon
to the sweet fizz.
Oh yes,
take me back
to those lemonade days
of my childhood
don\t wake me
from my dream.

* * *

THE GREEN, GREEN GRASS OF HOME
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Indulgent smile, house pinny wife—
blade-runner mode tells us the age—
if found today an emptied jug
of home-made, or more-water-squash
would wake the sleeper to his task,
the lawn, those rows of cutting marked.

The weighty matter in her gift,
home-cooking how she earns his keep,
her outlet evidencing skill,
accepted recipe as grew—
my sister’s ‘housecraft’ timetabled,
wood, metalwork in spoons, scoops, whisks.

This comic take would be mistake
if published with these signs today;
small sympathy for man portrayed,
while scorn for womanhood betrayed—
domestic violence yet veiled,
for no one’s business but his own.

Or this from company I keep,
my family reacting to
the Ulster Presbyterian,
where ladies knew male ownership,
an agent Orange stranglehold,
so justified for scriptures’ sake.

My mother paid a char to clean,
but really bought the company;
two hours of gossip, half to dust,
a contract satisfying both—
the poor and lonely, binary,
those bannisters their talking shop.

So was grass greener, other side?
Perhaps his dreams of putting green,
old comrades from another course,
where D-Day saw mates, hole in one,
met girls in conflict, typing pool,
not French Resistance heroines.

* * *

LUCKY MAN
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

Poor me!
A fat, old man
Worn out from a day
Of pushing mower,
Sleeping in my lawn-chair,
Legs outstretched,
Shoes removed,
My sleeping cat
Beneath my knees,

But my wife’s
An absolute delight,
Ready with a loving smile
And lemonade.

How did this fat, old man
Get so lucky
As to have an angel in his life
Before going to Heaven?

* * *

Today we have a big load of Haiku; here are some from Sarah Mahina Cabello of San Francisco:

 

 

 

Replanting trees
Part of me stays here
Tomorrow’s solace

    ~ ~ ~


Two souls
Tumbling into each other
Wild and wayward

    ~ ~ ~

Stumbling On
Sharp edge of a music note
Under neon skies

    ~ ~ ~


Canopy of trees
Hint of eternity
Stumbling to rooftops

     ~ ~ ~

Stay here
A while
Under rolling clouds

    ~ ~ ~

Window sunset
Intricate movements
Orange and pink clouds
    
    ~ ~ ~


One more step
Apple ribbons unfurling
Motion of sunsets

    ~ ~ ~


When you’re gone
Apple ribbons unfurl
Motion of sunset

    ~ ~ ~


Frida’s
Misspent marigolds
Scars we can’t see

    ~ ~ ~


Keening birds
Warm camomile grass
Don’t tread on my dreams

* * *

Caschwa (Carl Schwartz) has written a Dodoistu after reading about the form on yesterday’s post from Nolcha Fox:

 

 

 

My happy place went out of
business, so now I have to
find a new happy place, one
that I can afford

—Caschwa

* * *

And here are some Haiku from Caschwa:

 

 

 

COVER UP
—Caschwa

Where bathing suit is
optional, my next option
would be a wet suit

    ~ ~ ~

SWORN TESTIMONY
—Caschwa

Did you ever drive
an old Volkswagon, Beetle?
Yes I did, cockroach

    ~ ~ ~

BABY RATTLES
—Caschwa

Do mama snakes give
their offspring tender hisses
of encouragement?

    ~ ~ ~
    
POLKA DOTS
—Caschwa

Must keep several
on hand to put on those big,
lovely polka eyes

* * *

Finally, here is something that Caschwa says is “just silly”:

 

 

 

WORDS OF FEELING
—Caschwa

Some folks incline to be romantic
beer lovers easy prey for Germantic
others, on edge, get postmantic
lickers and sniffers, of course: Dobermantic

__________________

Many thanks to today’s writers for their lively contributions! Wouldn’t you like to join them? All you have to do is send poetry—forms or not—and/or photos and artwork to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post work from all over the world, including that which was previously-published. Just remember: the snakes of Medusa are always hungry!

__________________

TRIPLE-F CHALLENGES!

 

See what you can make of these challenges, and send your results to kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.)  Let’s steal things this week. How about a Book Spine Poem?

•••Book Spine Poem: law.marquette.edu/facultyblog/2020/04/national-poetry-month-create-book-spine-poetry

•••AND/OR a Borrow-&-Give-Back:

•••Borrow-&-Give-Back: Take someone else's poem, write it out then remove even-numbered lines and write your own in their place; then remove odd-numbered lines and write your own.

•••AND/OR a regular old Found Poem:

•••Found Poem: www.writersdigest.com/personal-updates/found-poetry-converting-or-stealing-the-words-of-others AND/OR poets.org/glossary/found-poem

•••See also the bottom of this post for another challenge, this one an Ekphrastic one.

•••And don’t forget each Tuesday Seed of the Week! This week it’s “Poets Lie”.

____________________

MEDUSA’S FORM FINDER: Links to poetry terms mentioned today:

•••Atom: https://poetscollectivepoetryforms.wordpress.com/2014/12/22/atom-2
•••Bina: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/bina
•••Book Spine Poem: law.marquette.edu/facultyblog/2020/04/national-poetry-month-create-book-spine-poetry
•••Borrow-&-Give-Back: Take someone else's poem, write it out then remove even-numbered lines and write your own in their place; then remove odd-numbered lines and write your own.
•••Dodoitsu: www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/dodoitsu-poetic-forms
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••Found Poem: www.writersdigest.com/personal-updates/found-poetry-converting-or-stealing-the-words-of-others AND/OR poets.org/glossary/found-poem
•••Haiku: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/haiku-or-hokku AND/OR www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/haiku/haiku.html
•••Response Poem: creativetalentsunleashed.com/2015/11/18/writing-tip-response-poems
•••Tuesday Seed of the Week: a prompt listed in Medusa’s Kitchen every Tuesday; poems may be any shape or size, form or no form. No deadlines; past ones are listed at http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/calliopes-closet.html/. Send results to kathykieth#hotmail.com/.
•••Word-Can Poem: putting random words on slips of paper into a can, then drawing out a few and making a poem out of them

__________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

Today's Ekphrastic Challenge!

 
 Make what you can of today's
picture, and send your poetic results to
kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.)

* * *

—Artwork Courtesy of Public Domain

 
 
 
 
 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Micah Bournes & Jazmarie LaTour
will be reading in Stockton tonight
with others, 7pm.
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!

 

Welcome, Shelby!