A Touch Of Blues

 

 Other Side Of Dark

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

 

 

AWAY
—Robin Gale Odam

Around the block, up over the
point of tears to the trail of stones
through the green park with the song-
birds and the night sifting down.

Away for the crying—
I will go away.

                            
(prev. pub. in Brevities, April 2020;
and Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/25/23) 

 

 

 

 We’ll Talk

HOME
—Joyce Odam

Why do we get off
here?
I do not know this place
nor any of these people.
What kind of neighborhood
is this
with its houses
of no house-numbers
and its street-names
repeated at every corner.
I thought you knew
the way.
I have always followed what you knew.
But there is nothing here,
this old, ghost-town-of-a-place
you seem to remember.

You open a door
and go in
and after a moment
I follow, trusting you,
and find
a false-front house
with fields behind
and the famous tumbleweed
of movies
rolling past.
You should have
disappeared
to make this poem mysterious.
But you are standing there
with lonely welcome on your face,
your arms extended.
                           

(prev. pub. in Calliope, 1989;

and Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/13/11) 

 

 

 

A Sound

SOMEONE IN A RENTED ROOM
—Joyce Odam

Someone in a rented room playing a violin
to the night, to the music itself, in tribute
to the mood and to the violinist, music
that softens against the walls and
spills out into the hallway where
someone passing listens—
someone with memories—
someone with buried tears—
someone who unlocks
another door and goes inside.

And this is not
a romance in disguise,
this is a moment
that snags against another
moment that only exists in the
imagination of this poem,
the violinist someone who died
a long time ago, unknown to
the poet but who puts him here
to fill an unhealed sadness of someone
playing a violin in a rented room.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/11/17

[with different line break]; 1/19/21)

 

 

 

 Secretive

CAUTIONS
—Joyce Odam

You don’t tell. Trust no one.
Forgiveness is myth. Talk is cheap.

Secrets are shallow, having drowned
themselves over and over under your breath.

Information is stored for revenge
when needed—when hate replaces love.

Tell no one. Trust no one.
Truth is a fading commodity.

It’s not so hard to give in to unhappiness—the
depression that lives there under every flicker of joy.

 

 

 

 A Whisper Of Language

SOLITUDE
—Robin Gale Odam

My heart wears the stains of
the world, the lies and the cold
breath of fake promises—decades
of whispering to myself, and the
mystery of oblivion.

                      
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/11/23)

 

 

 

 The Role Of Darkness

SOOTHINGS
—Joyce Odam

Who do you think I am in the moonlight every night
by the dreaming window, watching stars leap
above ghostly cows,
the moon growing dizzy with love?

Who do you think dries the bones of light
that shudder the curtains?

And who do you think howls the dogs to sleep?

Who do you think is in love with impossible sounds
from the mouths of flowers,
those moans of dying in unfamiliar vases
on moon-dusted surfaces?

Watch with me—help me remember—since you
are the one who started all this with your sighing
and crying—refusing to enter
the terrible dreams.

There is only one more hour before light
comes swaying over the distance that is night . . .
Say this again to yourself: only the distance
of the night . . .   Now you can sleep . . .

                                         
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/30/14; 2/9/21;
8/30/22)

 

 

 

 A Touch Of Blues

CROW SINGS DEEP OF MELANCHOLY
—Joyce Odam
      
his black voice harshly harmonizing
with himself

his sharp eyes sharply severing
the day apart

cutting the loud sky with his wing
so wide and dark

making a noise we cannot bear to feel
or hear—it breaks the heart

 

 

 

 Night Has A Need

CROWS AND GULLS
—Joyce Odam

Black crows caw from a winter tree
across the width of misery,
claiming the sky possessively.

And in the field two seagulls soar.
And then two more. And then two more.

Clouds gather with their tones of gray
upon this dragging, gray-soaked day
and send the stillnesses away.

And then a rain begins to fall.
Then stops. And just forgets it all.

The crows call out from here and there
and send their cawing everywhere
and make sharp patterns in the air.

The gulls insist on being white.
I don’t know what they’ll do with night.

As desolate as all this seems,
it’s just the first of many themes,
as fragile as the life in dreams. 

 

 

 

 Times Of Time

THE DISSUASION
—Joyce Odam

If you see me as beautiful, know I am real,
I am tattooed to enhance my beauty,

I wear a gold ring in my nose
and a silver one in my lower lip.

I wear a spiked bracelet around my head.
I braid beads into my hair.

I carry this branch of tree-life in my hand.
Every talisman has its power.

I am the daughter of the sky
and of the stricken land. We accuse you.

You see love in my eyes.
You see my mouth does not open to speak.

I am female.
I forgive nothing.

I may love you, but I love my beauty more.
It is my own.

You may desire me,
but that would be your sacrifice.

Animal soul and tree soul imbue me.
The elements nourish me.

I am deathless now. Would you hold me?
It will take more than that. It will take more.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/5/24) 

 

 

 

 Death Just Stares

BITTER AND SWEET
—Robin Gale Odam

It begins with naught—
he drew a shadow out of the
shotglass and drank it down fully

If you perfect your dark look
the world will look darkly on you

I have not lost my memory of this

He thought I said "combatable"
so we were married

Even at the darkest of joy
there is a beginning and the end

                      
(prev. pub. in Medusa's Kitchen, 3/21/23)

 

 

 

 In Mind And Time

LIKE PARABLES
—Joyce Odam

The wild deep rows. The haggard light.
The old clock running down. Its hands
of time praying and letting go—moment
by moment of whatever time is, which is

to remember nothing of anything. Rows of
dark light manipulate themselves into layers
of sweet dreams. Oh, sleep is insidious, and
so like death, with its little gray commas  , , ,  

here and there, interrupting the light between
words, hesitations, and the silence thrills
to be so loose upon the quavering air, and
love is everywhere in little surrenders—

putting itself in jeopardy, committing errors.
Why do you think we terrify ourselves—
dwindle away like mutterings? Each memory
is thin, like a twilight that is easy to feel

at the close of day. Why do you think
we feed the dark our simple terrors? There
is no more space for words that are over-
used and fallen all around us, like parables. 

 

 

 

 In A Book Of Poems

MY WISH FOR YOU 

—Joyce Odam

I cannot find words for you—you
of mute language—keeper of silence,
textureless against texture.

Leaves drift around you from
another page. Are they words?
You watch them fall.

The air is blank, like a white sky.
You are only a drawing.
I love your perfection.

The next page will turn you over.
I will not turn the page. You are
the keeper of what I want to know.

The words that seem to know you
are jealous words.
I cannot get past them.

I want to write over them,
leave you there
without the words of another.

You refuse
my writing of you,
will not help me.

You hold a small book,
tightly closed.
Is that where you keep yourself?
                                

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/19/16)

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

THE DREAMED DEATH   
—Joyce Odam     

we are the dreamed death . . . now we go
silently down old stairs and corridors,
now we go floating in and out of minds
that are terrified of us . . . we leave our
shadows there . . . we touch their eyes closed
and we whisper awful things to them . . .

                                           
(prev. pub. in The Lilliput Review, 1999;  
and Medusas’ Kitchen, 4/27/21)

___________________

There are new neighbors (our Seed of the Week) and there is us—when we move, WE become the new (possibly obnoxious) neighbors, says Robin Gale. It’s all perspective, I guess. Anyway, thanks to Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam for some fine new-neighbor-ness today, and to Joyce for the way cool visuals.

Our new Seed of the Week is “Empty”. 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

 

 

 

Irises are here!
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!

 

“The gulls insist on being white . . .”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Those Noisy, Nosy Neighbors

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
* * *
—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Caschwa,
Stephen Kingsnorth, and Joe Nolan
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Joe Nolan, Stephen Kingsnorth
and Medusa

 

 

 NOISY NEIGHBORS
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

My new neighbors
moved in yesterday,
in the lot the city bought.

They’re big and loud.
They’re deaf and blind.
But they sure get work done.

They wake me up too
early when they
wander off to work.

But I don’t mind.
They’re very kind.
They help me when they can.

They plow the snow,
dig holes for trees,
rescue cats from roofs.

Life is so much better
with my heavy
equipment friends.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo 

Courtesy of Medusa

BACK AT YOU
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

more than a half-century of my life
rolled by before cell phones had
become commonplace

so don’t look at me like I am dominated
with some kind of dementia if I’m not
on the same page with younger folk who
were born with cell phone technology
already installed in their brains

yes, I have to check with my son to
figure out some labyrinths that seem to
trap my gray matter with no solutions in
sight

Social Security had already become active
about a generation ahead of me, and I was
OK with the old normal of spending some
time to visit them in person. today they are
requiring adept usage of tricky authentication
platforms, hoping to never again see us
bothersome seniors in person

I’m retired, so I can make an appointment
to visit in person, as long as they can work
it around my heavy nap schedule. but no,
they insist I use a computer like a sharp
shooter uses his weapon, and hit the bullseye
every time. 

 

* * *

 

The next two photos are of Denise Kingsnorth and 

others of the Methodist faith community expressing 

support for the Palestinian people:

 

 

 

 

NEW NEIGHBOURS
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

I used to think they those next door
until the news brought refugees.
Those of Ukraine found sanctuary
amongst our faith community;
then Gazans, tented, rubble-strewn,
evacuated time again,
gained place, heart solidarity,
as past had seen LGBT.
For humankind seeks humans, kind,
as we ourselves are thirsty too.

My newest neighbours found next door,
those birds and bees who would be free
with fellow creatures, folk like me;
too underground and in the seas,
whatever species, plant to stone,
even as creation groans.
Indigenous have opened eyes
to see perspectives known from past,
to live in uncorrupted globe,
where humans move from dominance.

 

 

 

 

TRASH TO TREASURE
—Stephen Kingsnorth

First High for me were dreaded daze,
selective school, old-fashioned ways,
one minnow in rapacious pond,
a raggamuffin, London town.
Set bully boys of corporal,
mete punishment as then allowed,
by staff, the rod, me easy mark,
less thrashed as terrified within.

In daily train, suburban class,
delivered to once upper crust,
now urban jungle, Kray dismay,
new ballad there in Peckham Rye.
Academy where others thrived,
I bowed, belittled, without pride,
as trashed by fear of woe betides,
gowned masters, prefects, ill-defined.

But grace translated father’s work
and I reset in rural climes,
that second school of gentler ways,
where shattered confidence rebuilt.
I saw no slippers, swagger sticks,
no canes displayed, nor ridicule,
but learning as new concentrate
while drama moved from desk to stage.

So fifty-on, still celebrate
that gold unknown in days before;
I do not judge those Peckham lads
before the bar, in prison cells,
where I would be if not translate
by gracious fate to rural rides.
I learnt that learning so depends,
self-confidence, mutual respect.

 

 

 

 Well, french fries are a vegetable, aren’t they?

And catsup is made from tomatoes, after all . . .
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa, who

probably could eat six cups of french fries.a day~

SIX CUPS A DAY
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

It’s hard to eat all your vegetables—
At least six cups a day,
Of assorted colors—
Green, orange,
Purple, red and yellow
Without having to move your out-house
At least six meters a month.

Who has time
For all the chewing
Six cups a day
Requires?

And how should you explain
To your nosy neighbors
That your peripatetic outhouse
Is a sign of good health to come?

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

MORNING RUSH
—Joe Nolan

Rush hour in the kitchen
Between the sink and stove
Busy in the morning
Almost time to go

Busy in the morning
Ready for the road
Get in line
All the engines running
Frustrated—things too slow.

Hope there’s not a break-down
Or accident or flares
Nothing that prevents you
From getting there
On time.

 

 

 

 Klaus Corpuscles
—Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa

LOTTERY OF CHANCE
(With a nod to W.W.)
—Joe Nolan

In an infinite
Lottery of chance,
We might watch
Corpuscles dance,
Red blood cells form
From inorganic sludge
Or all deform
Back into the basic
Sludge from which
They came.

Entropy and
Enthalpy,
Order out of chaos,
Back into reverse.

Which way,
Oh! Captain, our Captain?
Shall we
Summon, thee, a hearse?   

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

INTO EVENING’S FLOWER
—Joe Nolan                                                 

Plucked!
A little feather
From a falcon’s wing

Dropping into
Evening’s flower
When the owls
Sing

Dipping tunes
By talons led,
Grabbing mice,
To thus be fed.

Who counts
The souls that go?
Skipping thus
From frame to frame
Known by this
And other name
Depending on the frame?

Of which dream, woke
And which dream, came,
To harbor dreams
Of strong and lame,
From lifetime to lifetime—
Depending on which frame?

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

SO MANY SCORES
—Caschwa

(Overflowing)

Conductor’s score
Score order
Keep score
Score points
Score board
Credit score
Grade score
Four score…
Test score
Score a date
Score (a scratch mark)

_______________________

Many thanks to today’s contributors, riffing on our Seed of the Week, New Neighbors, and a note that the Spring Equinox Canary is available now at https://www.canarylitmag.org/.

_______________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Poster Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Indran Amirthanayagam
and G. Murray Thomas will read
at Sacramento Poetry Center
tonight, 7:30pm.
For more 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!

 

 

  

The Angels of Our LIves

 —Poetry by Michael H. Brownstein, Jefferson, MO
—Artwork Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

from Firestorm: A Rendering of Torah

Let me start from the beginning:
Each one of us is responsible for our own actions,
not our parents no matter how abusive or evil,
not our teachers who may have bullied and insulted,
not our peers who showed us a code of behavior
    we knew to be wrong.
I was following orders is not an excuse.

I will tell you my story:

Around the time Jews had already settled in Palestine (and many other places), perhaps near the time of the grand Roman census or centuries later, a man was about to be put to death. The rabbi who was also the executioner asked if he had any last words. He nodded his head toward the sea of onlookers. I’d like to whisper something to my mother, he said. She’s out there in the second row. His mother was escorted to the platform and bent her ear to hear what her son had to say. He bit it off. The rabbi, aghast, looked first to the mother holding her hand to her head to stop the flow of blood and then to her son who spit out the ear and calmly rubbed it into the wooden platform. Why did you do that? The rabbi almost screamed. Calmly the man answered, Since I was a small child, my mother taught me only to do evil. This is why I am here today. The rabbi ran his fingers through his beard. No, he said, that’s not why. In your life journey, you met many honest and good people and you—not because of your mother—chose to ignore what they had to offer. Then the rabbi pulled the lever and the man went to his death.

 

 

 

 

A POEM TO AHARON ZISLING

It has been said that there were cases of rape in Ramile. I could forgive acts of rape, but I won’t forgive other deeds, which appear to me to be much graver. When a town is entered and rings are forcibly removed from fingers and jewelry from necks—this is a much graver matter.    
    —Aharon Zisling, Agricultural Minister to the Israeli Cabinet, July 21, 1948

To begin with, utensils and furniture, and in the end, bodies of men, women and children.
    —a witness

What is worse, Aharon Zisling,
the looting of a town or a forced march into dust,
the heat and the weight of what is owned
a double burden, and then the third,
grandfather down, grandmother unable to continue,
the substance of child so heavy
the sand, the birds, all of the maggots
home? What can you do, Aharon Zisling,
you who rant against Pogroms,
you who believe the Exile of Israel,
you who spoke against criminal and thief?
I thought we better than this,
Aharon Zisling, not even enough saliva left
to bathe the stone in the mouth of those too weak
to go on. The heat, lack of shade, scream of guns.
I thought we better than this, Aharon Zisling.
This one here, she is fourteen,
her legs not strong to go on,
and this one, almost ninety,
no one strong enough to carry either one,
Aharon Zisling, you who condone rape,
you who condone murder,
you who condone the breaking of the tablets.

 

 

 

 

HULE, LEBANON: AUTUMN 1948

When I returned to the village the following morning with an order to send the villagers away (the villagers had surrendered a day earlier and begged to be able to remain in their homes), I found out that while I was away, two of the troop’s officers had killed all of the captives who were in the house (the men of Hule were detained in a large house) with a sub-machine gun, and then had blown up the house on top of them to be their grave.       
    —Dov Yirmiya

There is a reward for murder,
for the surprise burst of everything into hearts and
    souls of men,
a prize of value for the seeking of revenge.
At the falling of the dead, men saw wings of glory,
and others fresh-picked olives,
cinnamon and curry. Murder is blood,
the thick paste of smoke, a litter of limbs.
The murderers walked away, Aharon Zisling.
I thought we better than this.

 

 

 

 

FOLLOWING ORDERS

1.

The last gash of light
came with the ratchet of a single gunshot
and the baby’s head broke to the side.
Before her mother could react,
a second bullet tore away her cry.

Mother and infant, a chair,
the sigh of blood against wallboard and glass,
a disarray of flesh and matter.
Because it had been ordered, Aharon Zisling,
no one was punished.

2.

The man in the uniform came into this world
    with one purpose:
to cause pain.
The infant also had one purpose:
to know its consequence.
Soldier and infant complimented one another—
murderer and the one to be murdered.
But what was the mother’s purpose in this   
    transaction?
Simple.
She made the introductions.

3.

There are people visiting this world who came
    here to die.
These are the angels of our lives.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip(s):

ONE MORNING YESTERDAY
—Michael H. Brownstein

Cumulus and cirrus clouds cloud my eyes,
poke my ears,
suffer indignities to my nostrils.
Serious thunderclouds hibernate in my mouth
spewing out electrolytes and a heavy fog.
Outside my window, wind gallops into tall grass.

* * *

GOOD MORNING
—Michael H. Brownstein

Wake up and buckle down.
Let the earth muscle up,
your arms are strong,
your legs stronger,
fly into the wind with the best of them.

_____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Michael Brownstein for today’s provocative poetry!

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
there will be a Memorial for
Viola Spenser in Sacramento
today, 2pm, at the Cal. Stage;
and Wm. O’Daly and
Indran Amirthanayagam will read
in Camino, 2pm.  
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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Into The Wall

 —Poetry and Visuals 

by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal,
West Covina, CA 

INTO THE WALL

Into the wall
we go, to get
to the other side.
Let’s go. Come on.

Don’t worry. I
said, Don’t worry. We
will come back home
and talk about

it. If you are
patient, if you can
free your mind, we
won’t remember

when we walk through
the plaster flakes or
the crumbling sound
as life begins.

 

 

 

 

FOG EVERYWHERE

There was fog everywhere.


It was like a cloud blanket


covering the street and the 


sky. It was like a puff of smoke 


going inside my eye. Behind


the fog there was the greatest 


show on earth that no one 


could see. Dumbo and Mighty 


Mouse flew in the sky, their


red capes had sparkling neon


lights. There was Marvin the


Martian and Lee Marvin arm- 


wrestling with cigarettes 


dangling from their lips. It was


the smoke from their cigarettes


that brought on the fog.

 

 

 

 

GENT BENT

Triangles
 are not square.
And circles
go around
and around.

Three points of
a square less
one point is
a circle.

Some get bent
out of shape
when they feel
like square pegs
in round holes.

 

 

 

EVENING OF SILENCE

Another evening of silence,

all the houses are asleep.
I enjoy it this way. Without
sound, and preferably no lights.

I know I need to get a grip
 on things. 

It seems everything 
slips away. 

Even the lights and

sound dwindle to nothing.

 

 

 

 

THE TABLE’S BLUES

The table blames me
for not having company
over. The table is empty
of food and drink for
family parties. We have
grown apart, too busy
to spend time together.
Each chair is in the same
place for days. I spend
most of my time in my
room sleeping depression
away. I come out to the
living room to eat alone
and watch tv now and
then. I think the table is
more alone than me and
perhaps more depressed.

 

 

 

 

SPILT WINE

Ocean
with reflections
of the skies
and its children,
who go by sun
and moon, who
go by clouds
and stars, what
offerings do
you prefer?
Shipwrecked
boats and sailors,
spilt wine?
Such loss have
you inherited,
spilt blood and
oil, barrels full
of alcohol, diamonds
and pearls, precious
gold and spices,
perhaps too much
to cleanse, perhaps
too much spilt
blood and wine?
Let’s take a brief
bow, ocean and sea.
In the deep transparency
below the waves,
extraordinary treasures
are buried and drunken
sailors no longer bitter,
no longer breathing
the cool air, no longer
quarreling over
spilt wine, with clothes
too loose for their bones.

 

 

 

 

IN A DAY

In a day
I want to measure
a bird’s flight.
How many
miles does it fly
in a day?

Over a
body of water
its shadow
reflects. It
is a small shadow.
It’s so small.

In a day
it carries its song
and message.
Its shadow
is so small but its
song is long.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip: 

Every bad situation is a blues song waiting to happen.

—Amy Winehouse

__________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Luis Berriozábal for today’s fine poetry and visuals, and to Joe Nolan for the photo below!

 

 

 

 

—Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan, 

Stockton, CA

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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 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!

 

 

Wild Imaginings

 —Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,
Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down to
Form Fiddlers’ Friday, with poetry by
Nolcha Fox, Lynn White,
Stephen Kingsnorth, Claire J. Baker,
Caschwa, and Joyce Odam

 

 

WILD IMAGININGS

Where snow meets pavement on the mountain drive, we wandered, my dog and I, his wild blood turning my thoughts wild as we printed our tracks among tracks subsiding to snowmelt. This track, barely legible— field guide useless as tracks lose their contours under spring’s noncommittal sun. A vanishing print as big as my fist—the stuff of myth.

snow lets its secrets
overflow as pure water—
wild imaginings

 

 

 

What the heck? A mysterious find from TG~

WINTER ASHES

On woodstove’s hearth stands a 3-legged
cast iron kettle with lid and ring
for tipping and pouring. I don’t know
which side of the family passed it
down to me. Impassive as a dour
grandmother. On cold mornings I scoop
ashes from the stove and close the lid.
Later, in daylight, I lug it down
to the ash heap. Wild turkeys love it
for dusting. I collect a little
in a spice bottle to carry with
me on the trail, and for scent training
with my dog—a handy way to check
wind direction and velocity.
So I give ashes back to forest
they came from, in thanks for trees now passed.

__________________

GROCERY CHECKOUT

He overflows his mechanized
shopping cart pulling another cart behind
like a pack horse on expedition.
How many days, weeks, months is he
provisioning? or does he feed a whole crew?
They’ve called another checker
to reload everything from conveyor belt
to cardboard boxes, and back to cart.
Meanwhile at checkout, he’s trying
to remember his PIN. Three strikes and
you’re out. Everyone in line
behind him is hoping, cursing, praying
he’ll get it right. Checker refreshes
her patiently encouraging smile.

 

 

 

 

TRIBUTE TO HOUSE SPARROWS

The Safeway entrance overhang overflows
with birdsong on this cold March morning
as shoppers wing their raincoated ways
from cars to automatic doors never meant
for sparrows, who dare not venture forth
in such rude weather in search of breakfast
scraps. Best to huddle under manmade
shelter and sing the chipping song
that’s spilling over with hints of spring
and sometimes summons sun.

 

 

 

 

STRIP MALL IN MARCH

this frigid morning
fresh white petal drops on blacktop
mixed with fallen hail

overhead more birdsong
than in the woods—those sparrows
singing out the storm

shoppers dash from cars
to supermarket—wind makes
wings of their raincoats

 

 

 

 

LOST ON THE TRAIL

Poem written
by a young heart that’s smitten
and overflowing in pink
ink.

But midnight
turned everything to frostbite—
poem under hail like lice,
ice.

 

 

 

 

Today’s LittleNip:

ROSEMARY TEA
—Taylor Graham

Rosemary is just delighted
coming in out of the rain.
Lover of warmth and of dryness,
shadowless, a sunny plain
is she. But these winter days she
soaks and lets her savor drain
into my cup, a warming pleasure.
Memories stir in my tea.
Need I say, in this kitchen is
just the place she ought to be?

____________________

Taylor Graham has greeted yesterday's Equinox with swallows and rosemary tea today, and our thanks to her for her fine poetry! Forms she has used this week include a Haibun (“Wild Imaginings”); some Normative Syllabics (“Winter Ashes”); a Tribute Poem (“Tribute to House Sparrows”); a Haiku Chain (“Strip Mall in March”); an Irish Deibide baise fri toin (“Lost on the Trail”); and a Decannelle (“Rosemary Tea”). One could also say that her “Grocery Checkout” is a response to our most recent Tuesday Seed of the Week, “Overflowing”.

This Sunday, Poets and Writers of the Sierra Foothills features Wm. O’Daly and Indran Amirthanayagam in Camino, CA. And El Dorado County’s regular workshops are listed on Medusa’s calendar (if you scroll down on 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 included Nolcha Fox, Lynn White, Stephen Kingsnorth, Claire J. Baker, and Caschwa:


THE DISAPPEARING ACT, OR
HOW TO STAY HAPPILY MARRIED
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

He hears her huff and drop a spoon.
It’s an incoming honey-do.

Before she takes her apron off
and stomps into the room,

he’s out the door and hiding
in his workshop in the shed.

He tinkers, fixes broken stools,
repairs toys that don’t work.

He tightens screws
and hammers wood,

and he feels pretty good
that he can fix what’s broken

in a world that tosses out
the things it can’t control.

By sunset, he is satisfied,
and walks into the house.

She hugs him, pecks him on the cheek,
forgetting honey-dos.

* * *

HIS SHED
—Lynn White, Blaenau Ffestiniog, North Wales


He stands back and surveys it all.
There’s everything in there.
Everything
for a lifetime of jobs
around the house
where nothing stayed
the same for long.
Everything
for a lifetime of car repairs,
in every spanner a story.

 

Too much of a wrench
to part with any of it,
those nuts and bolts of a life
well lived,
its tools
well used
well ordered
and tidily placed
so that every screwdriver could be found
except the one he’s looking for.

* * *

TIRED AND WORN
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

What’s clocked, like time, just hangs around
but takes its toll on what before.
Electric, not the mood conveyed,
essential though, in past connect;
tied flex, clog coiled, white lasso hooked—
for speed, a spanner in the works.
But this, once proud, with gadget trace
in place, a workshop, mencave space?

Mauritius, Netherlands seem flagged
by orange screen, these cupboards blue,
but maps of world far flown from here
where rust scars what was once pristine.
Invested stock, tools of a trade,
devices, instruments on shelf,
the apparatus of employed—
put on their mettle, workers buoyed.

Alone, that red fire fixture bright,
where power source once circulate;
that energy that drove, exhaust;
but what the motive to retire?
So why abandoned, leaving all,
a wrench to leave, or not at all?
This mirror finds the cost, years passed,
both tired and worn, flexed muscles borne.

But duck if surface dusted down;
no eider, feather duster known.

* * *

Claire Baker had a different take on last week’s Ekphrastic photo:


THE CURIO SHOP
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

It’s roomy, but hardly Rumi-esque:
No Afghany rugs where he might have sat
Before whirling in a Sufi dervish.

There’s an ancient Philco radio. Or is
That black box a floor heater?
Mysteries stump, clump one’s curiousity.

What a mess! Worthless junk.
And some junk maybe priceless.
Lacking curio smarts, I wax impatient.

But, ah, there’s a nurse-call buzzer.
Mine seldom or maybe DID work?
I learned QUICK I’m not the only patient.

Is that dangling rope for a daredevil
To hang loose off the Golden Gate Bridge
Pretending to be an elongated gull?

Suddenly thirsty, I scan cans in fish tank.
Are colas cooling there? Could I ask
To buy one? But what about their age?

We’re out west: I stumble into a pan
For swishing pebbles into gold dust.
A guard-cat, yellow eyed, stares me down.

In leaving the curious shop, I shake dust
From my hair. It filters through the air
Looking like, unless I imagine, gold dust.


* * *

AFTER THE IRON AGE
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

man fashioned tools to make his life easier
while foreign made junk got cheesier and cheesier
there were whole shopping days when
men crowded the aisles in the hardware store
building up nice sets of hand tools, then
displaying them at home, what a thing to adore!

screw drivers, saws, all kinds of wrenches
bounty from shopping days spent in the trenches
now they’re at home, a true piece of heaven
yardsticks, rulers, and measuring tapes
to help ensure that cuts come out even
strong bonding materials named after apes

* * *

Here is a Nonce from Carl: 3 quatrains; Rhyme scheme aab ddbc eebc
Syllables in each quatrain:   1st line – 5; 2nd line – 7; 3rd and 4th lines – 9:

 

 

  

RAMPANT ABUSE
—Caschwa

bird feathers, sea shells
party napkins, lizard scales
all have colorful stories to tell
about how badly they were abused

taken for granted
as shelter for augmented
life forms that were quick to let them fall
see them trailing and just be amused

humans were the worst
spared no harm to be the first
to have their tales be all that is swell
left underfoot, where nothing’s twice used

* * *

This is an Unrhymed Villanelle from Joyce Odam:

 

 

 

WHAT YOU BURIED
—Joyce Odam

It is about to speak.
It has revisions you can do without.
What it brings is memory.

You try not to listen.
Yours is the only version.
It is about to speak.

Whatever you thought was truth
is about to be taken from you.
What it brings is memory—

this inevitable intrusion—
this sound at the edges, and all around you.
It is about to speak.

You can close your eyes. You can close your mind.
You can try to hide in your silence,
but what it brings is memory.

(Is it the wind . . .? Yes, it is the wind . . . )
Tell yourself that, then.
The inner sound is about to speak.
What it brings is memory.

* * *

And this poem from Stephen Kingsnorth is a response to a once-upon-a-time Seed of the Week from Medusa’s Kitchen:

 

 

—Photo Courtesy of Stephen Kingsnorth

 

  

TRIKES AND BIKES
—Stephen Kingsnorth

Took three to free me from my fears,
crashlanding from two wobble wheels;
so tired of freefall, wheals from slabs,
those kneecap scabs of preschool tears,
the trike sufficed to carry through.
Freewheeling without chain of doubt,
that I had linked, unbalanced ride—
derailling gears a distant skill—
equipment then not known about,
I rode the sidewalk, prams beware.
Two sisters, I, in rubber burn,  
to my back bar, lashed skipping ropes—
they skated on their rollers, powered
my pedals, pressured in their turn,       
as weaving, cleaving, gossip knots.

My rickshaw Wallah, twenty more,
stood straining on Calcutta streets,
foot bridge where wiry figure weight,
force driving over Hooghly bore;
what span between my life and his?
His leathered skin as hard, his nails,
sole purpose peddling means to move
for hale and hearty passengers,
now following their tourist trails,
whose backpacks filled way more than he.
Derailleur never his for ease,
nor skipping through suburban streets,
or playing trike with working bike;
just money seized as teased for pleas,
his rental told a privilege.

____________________

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.) Maybe follow Joyce Odam’s lead with a Villanelle, Rhymed or Unrhymed:

•••Villanelle (rhymed or unrhymed): www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/poetic-forms-villanelle

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

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

____________________

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

•••Decannelle: darksideofthemoon583.com/2018/01/26/10-line-poem-challenge-15-decannelle
•••Deibide Baise Fri Toin: https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/deibide-baise-fri-toin-poetic-forms
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••Haibun: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/haibun-poems-poetic-form
•••Haiku: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/haiku-or-hokku AND/OR www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/haiku/haiku.html
•••Nonce Poetry Forms: www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/poetic-asides/nonce-forms-what-they-are-and-how-to-write-them
•••Normative Syllabics: hellopoetry.com/collection/108/normative-syllabic-free-verse AND/OR lewisturco.typepad.com/poetics/normative-syllabic-verse
•••Tribute Poem: https://allpoetry.com/poems/about/Tribute
•••Villanelle (rhymed or unrhymed): www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/poetic-forms-villanelle

__________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

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

* * *

—Illustration Courtesy of Public Domain

 
 
 
 
 

 

 

 

 

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!