Sights for the Greenman

 

 —Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth, 

Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

JASMINE STARS

I’m weary with this blanket wrap
of fog or snow, ground war dead clogged,
but then remember under feet
those sacrifices, autumn spread,
the fallen as of golden youth,
with winter hopes yet stratified
’mongst mycorrhiza, worldwide web,
while greys and browns are all around.

Think aconite, hellebore,
those lightning stars of yellow strike
to break monotony of rime
that seals the prevalence of death.
How dare these petals risk the sharps,
some flimsy tissue crêpe in sun;
what permit issued, warmer time,
appearance counter winter prime?

At least the lauded snowdrop bells—
supposed as signs of season’s turn—
present a thick waxed hardened shell,
break crystals blanket, ready dressed.
Yet here against the honeyed blocks
these sparkles brighter than the stone;
this Roman candle shower, stark
amidst the loom of bitter pall.

A magic carpet, hanging wall,
the Persians thought a gift from God;
but where the flaw, one thread bare missed
as blossom tides us to the spring?
This contradiction to the norm
is what declares the globe a place
where unexpected signs of grace
invade the drab, and real can change.

 

 

 

 

GOSSIP BLOOMS

No stigma here, the statement clear,
herbaceous in audacious dare,
summed up in long division clumps,
with rhizomes, half-soil, half-sun zones.
Bold flags stand clear, beside path wind
where crazy steps are slowed by thyme,
despite blue speedwell webbed among,
while each turn beckons change of view.

Alpines range, crack edelweiss,
flames, flamingos, forget-me-nots,
scree of grit in tumbledown,
montbretia abseils from above.
Aubretia plumps slake thirst with lime—
mounts purple head in Lilliput—
snow in summer scales crevasse sides;
ice plants, stonecrops, petal flakes.

Global lilies, Cuba, Peru,
by bottlebrush and baby’s breath,
bee balm, bellis and bergamot,
Columbine of dell’Arte fame.
From bell towers, campanula swing,
as Christmas, Lenten rose for faith,
Michaelmas, Star of Bethlehem,
while brooms sweep up their far-flung seeds.

Golden rod, red hot poker too,
shoot ember flames by feverfew,
the blacksmith, hammered by his brew,
wants solitude from bellowed voice.
Snapdragon where no nostril fire,
where love lies bleeding, in-a-mist,
lady’s mantle for monkshood wear,
goosefoot long, before steps parade.

Worldly stagecraft laid out as planned,
the pity, pleasure, profits made,
the Greenman watching as earth is played,
a commonwealth of health displayed.
For folklore, medicine, lovers doomed,
witches, wizards, wholesome wealth,
those stories gossiped, hovel gloom,
I take that crazy walk through blooms.

 

 

 

 

PRIM ROSE

Hyperbole, diva, prima,
was never trait for peeping glow,
declining formal, sparkling low.
Like cowslips, settled, nestled grass,
blade shade, in banks thrive, drop pearl dew,
amongst hard graveside marble lines,
sneak out in bunches, butter-milk.

Prim pastel, shy in place, breakthrough,
short-stalked packed floppers, shower spread.

Ready bunched, satisfied to stay
half-hid, flourishing, without need
to be, with flourish, presented
on knee; better, leg bent, the sight
in site to gain, blush cream the bloom,
pale brave-face rose, the primrose hue.

 

 

 

 

DANCE HAUL

The flags are out, see iris peer,
as wallflowers lean from corner doors,
surround décor—pretend not there.

Of course flame gorse protects itself,
that golden butter, buffered hedge,
with piercing needles, jagged edge,
too late for those, attracted stare,
who dared to mount that well of stair.

With ling and heather, feather bed,
the moor protective round the lark,
but flung above in descant flight,
that nesting ground sees high-rise site,
its bass abandoned, soprano,
a solo fight, Italianate,
where smothered love alienates.

The hills wear purple, headed mount,
where all things bright and beautiful,
until the mourn of morning time,
thin petal love no more than crêpe.

 

 

 

 

GROUNDWORK



 

The muzzled flower from stunted stem,


ground heavy clay, no well-rot core,

a damper on the risk deployed


when tap lies poor, clogged fibrous truth.



 

Secrets kept three—if two are dead,


though we must keep them from ourselves,


for we not what we think, but hide,


secret at home, rock under tide.



 

Their worth depends on those denied,

the wise don’t seek, honest reveal,


if so, the fault with who confides,


though better still if none aside.



 

The frost tells, middle dancing ring,


while we suppose, the centre knows;


our enemies would be disarmed,


if we sad histories aware.



 

By time disclosed, all witnessed, heard,


as when forced other promise lock—


for we could not ourselves prevent, 
as, 

universal, sun, moon, truth.



 

To hold is wisdom—folly, share


for only empty brings the power,


avoids the loneliness control,


associated, practised art. 



 

A secret, rooted fear or shame


shared only when the dare is small,


the compost soil of love assured,


then growth released, best bloom, reward.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

TRAVELLING MERCIES
—Stephen Kingsnorth

Plants, nature’s nurture of the soul,
both body, mind, as healing food,
delightful walks through heaven’s hoard,
essential pantry for our sense.
Venturing deeper, some explore;
more pace content, where others trod.
Brief steps or longer stretch laid out,
endurance test, or travel best,
the journeyman, apprentice rests—
carry fleas around the world.

____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Stephen Kingsnorth for today’s fine poetry as he surveys the flora of this season!

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Poetry Night in Davis
will feature a
Wide Open Mic tonight, 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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Town of Words

 —Poetry by Sushant Thapa, Biratnagar-13, Nepal
—Public Domain Photos

 

 

LIFE TAKES A COURSE

I look up
You take a course.
You are no more
The sunken sky
That doesn’t rain
Happiness.
We,
Us,
From
I and  
You.
Being with you
Is a contemplation.
It gets real
Like the music of footsteps
Which is actually a dance
Accompanied by a piano.

 

 

 

 

WORDPLAY

The mediocre thoughts
Fly like ravens
In the darkest nights.
I put on the smile
Like the first full moon
In the sky.
Your thoughts follow
Like leadless wanderers.
I kiss the bosom of wonder
To wake up
From your spell.
Being me,
I take up one more voyage
To the town of words.
One day has arrived
When simplicity is the face
That hides no nature.
The wordplay is a commotion. 

 

 

 

 

LET ME BE

The sunken boat,  
The traveling feet,
The river that weeps alone.
I need to find my trace
From the rupture.
You are in my imagination
And in my reality.
This is a drugged life
Where abstraction is addicted
To the core.
Don’t kill the mediocrity
Without acknowledging it.
I have been praying
By the river
Which gets more sacred as it rains.
I watch the river get full.
Your face in the mirror
Fills my reflection. 

 

 

 

 

WALKING FORWARD

I keep on searching for
Something that cannot be found.
It is locked in ancient caves.
It is hard to pretend
When you hear the music
Cutting you like
Two lovely pieces
Of joy.
The footmarks show the way
They lead,
Even though they are just
The past
That travelled the same road.
I find the mirrors of duality
And caves of sadness.
I pick up the stone
To begin my hunt.
Give me a firework
To celebrate my sky.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

We are like fireworks…rising, shining and finally…scattering and fading. So until that moment comes when we vanish like fireworks…let us sparkle brightly…always.

―Tite Kubo, Bleach, Volume 20

___________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Susant Thapa for fine poetry today!

 

 

 

 …to celebrate my sky…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!

 

 

 

Hope's Blindfold

 In the Dark Mirror
* * *
—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Photos and Original Artwork by Joyce Odam

 

 

THE MYTH YOU TRY TO LIVE UP TO
—Joyce Odam
After Unconditional Love by Sarah Descallare

Hope wears a blindfold so you can grope
toward the brightness of your desire.

It is the only way to earn what you want.
It is its own guarded secret.

It will tell you, and tell you to follow—
follow. And you will follow

and not stumble,
though there are pitfalls everywhere.

Your heart is pure and your
want is sacred.

You will never fail yourself,
and someday hope may reward you.

                                         
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/23/10; 9/13/11; 

9/22/15)

 

 

 

To Sing At Dawn

VENEER
—Robin Gale Odam

You were beautiful—your mask,
your costumes, your voices, and the
lyrics you sang as if you were real.

                        
(prev. pub. in Brevities, October 2013;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/7/23)

 

 

 

 Mercy

THIS PAGE OF PITY
—Joyce Odam

This page of pity
is for your great loss,

is for your sad song,
is for your mute cry.

I have unrolled it for you
as if it were a scroll,

as if ink could ever
wear such woe

and not bleed there
indelibly. Oh,

you to come to me
with such great sorrow

and spread its shadow over me
like a wing of heaviness.

My shoulders ache
with sympathy.

                        
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/27/12) 

 

 

 

 The Sense of Time

HUMILITY
—Joyce Odam

What is it that has taught me this force,
this grand pretense, this mask of life
worn for survival

what is it that has taught me this craft
of hope and put my faith in this carrot
that I follow for the maybe of it

what will I thank for this that I go on and
on in absolute illusion, because just once
if I go on in any such reasoning, I go on

to the next day, and the next, because
I'll have conjured some attainment
that I need for
going on,
and on,
and
on


(prev. pub. in  Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/6/24)

 

 

 

The Loneliness

WE ARE

all particle—of the earth—of the air—
of every whispering voice and every

tear fallen from grief, or joy, and every
tear for the silk fabric of fog, mist over

water, sound of crying, the harsh notes
of rage, the emptied stare,

looking at everything—brooding,
crying—the very act of this—the

very rhyming in every windowed
reflection made of glass, the sensation

of touch, the rush of pleasure, the feel
of darkness to the grope, the sunrise,

the sunset, the blur of hope in the frazzled 


mind, the very hope of existence in the doubt,

the distance and the near—the everything,
and everywhere—in this moment, here.


—Joyce Odam
                                                

(prev. pub. in Cal. Fed. of Chaparral Poets Contest;
also in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/21/21)

 

 

 

 How Round the Hour

JOURNEY
—Robin Gale Odam

as though time stood still
all the others watching us
bind our vows in vain

promise anchored in the deep
vessel fettered in the sand

                       
(prev. pub. in Brevities, May 2020;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/6/24)

 

 

 

 Chance

WAIT WITH ME (… and we cannot …)
—Joyce Odam

A donkey becomes holy in my mind.
I do not hold to one place
or one thought.
I scatter and wonder
into everything.
How will I
pray
into
my
want
and need.
I am humble.
Words tighten
and I cannot speak.
I am slow, I am sore,
I am a-flounder in my
heart and mind which
combine, and I wait… for
a forgiveness… for a sign…

                                         
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/28/20) 

 

 

 

Watching The Day Change

POEM FOR EVENING  

—Joyce Odam

Evening
is the soul
of the long day.
It is lost
for awhile
in half dark
and half light.
It moves through a time
of forget and remember.
The sound that it makes
is shadow.
The place where it goes
is night.
                 

(Forest Lawn Contest, 1st Place, July 1996;
prev. pub. in The Human Voice Quarterly, 1968;
also in The Night Eye Mini-Chap, 1998;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/13/11)

 

 

 

 There’s A Crack in The World

NOTE
—Joyce Odam

enjambment
hope and
suicide
all promising
their dark
and their
spark of
light
diffused to
this arrangement
all our dreams
composed
upon the soft
continuance
of time in lock
no key
no door
except the
shadowed promises
oh rage
oh joy
take turns
with me
I waft
and flicker
out
now you
are free


(prev. pub. in Red Cedar Review, 1993;  
Dark Verticals Mini-Chap by Joyce Odam, 2002;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen 10/4/16)

 

 

 

 Want

MORTAL
—Robin Gale Odam
After To the Forest by Edvard Munch, 1887

I hold gently to death. He leads me
towards the tree shadows near the unfolding.
I wear my best transparency. He bears my name.

                                             
(prev. pub. in Brevities, June 2016;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen 6/20/23; 12/24/24)

 

 

 

 The Mind And Body Begin To Heal

HOPE AS REVERENCE
—Joyce Odam

I love.
Though God
is. Or will be.
Or never was.
The frightful name of Him,
The Wholeness, the Emptiness.
The Fringe of Existence.
His or mine,
Hollow God.
Voiceless God.
God of Soul and
Original Question.
Afraid of Himself—
said here for the Superstition,
the Incomprehension, too big
a word for Utterance  
like God, who is Ever and Beyond.
My prayer for Him, for His Melancholy.
We circle. I Love, but love is Mysterious
and Sole—entirety and void—void filled
with God who does not translate Himself,
lonely and incomplete, here for the glory,
for the explanation, which is meaningless
to the fear and incoherence—the distance
of our incomprehension.

 

 

 

 Poverty

Today’s LittleNip:

AN EMPTY PAGE
—Joyce Odam

I wish I had words on this page.
Thought vanishes as I think it.

Time is culprit and suspect.
I wish I had words.
                   

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/27/12)

___________________

Thanks to Robin Gale Odam and Joyce Odam for their fine poetry and Joyce’s sharp visuals as we enter the second half of 2025. Our Seed of the Week was High Hopes.

Our new Seed of the Week is “Dark Secrets”. 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

 

 

 

Dark Secrets

—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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hopes—High and Otherwise

—Illustration by Nolcha Fox 

(with Microsoft Designer)

* * *

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

IF A PIG HAD WINGS
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

A piglet rolling in the mud
heard honks he thought were vehicles.
Then he looked up at the sky,
and saw a V of geese fly by.

He wished to rise above the crowd
of grunting pigs that filled the pen.
His heart took flight to join the geese,
to land in places never seen.

He was blind to piggy bliss.
He thought joy just belonged to birds.
Dissatisfied with what he had,
he grew into a maudlin pig.

Do not wish for what can’t be.
Be thankful for the little things.
Life is short, and then you're dead.
Live what you have in gratitude.

 

 

 

 

AFTER READING JUNG
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

A poet packs a notebook
of intuition and air;
will read within, between
and beyond the lines
she hopes to inscribe there.

Inspired by Jung, she’s
drawn to a tiny tributary
of the subconscious sea.
Following its slow tide,
she reaches a pristine lagoon,

props against driftwood,
yearns to write. But first,
holding her bare ring-finger
under the full moon,
she wears the orb as a pearl.


(A variation appeared in Medusa;’s Kitchen, 2024)

 

 

 

 

HIGH HOPES
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Balloon competing, distance stakes,
the bomber’s payload in the sky,
a socialite’s girl, debutante,
addicted scoring, desperate?
Is high raising our altitude,
or judgment on our attitude;
a measure, climbing greasy pole,
relating to our mental state?

I hear a disappointed note,
of what we had, for one of ours,
but expectations not fulfilled,
a letting down as dreams were drowned.
Or yet to be, and soon to come,
a possibility around
the corner if the stars align,
good fortune smiles and all set well.

The test is what the height entails—
if others crushed as we attain,
that summit reached at others’ cost,
the boast of oversight declared.
While hope remains with faith and love
it needs be grounded in the earth,
for gutter, rubble is for real,
best sounding board to check the zeal.

 

 

 

 

NOW HIRING
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

Properly credentialed nuclear physicists
to replace immigrant labor force expected
to be permanently deported in the near future

Requires intense manual labor, more stamina
than superheroes, report to work on time every
day, including holidays, tolerate sub-2nd-class
citizen treatment, accept indentured servant pay,
no benefit program, no health care program, no
unions, no voice whatsoever at any level of
jurisdiction in how employees must be treated
by management

Be ready to trade your parchment degrees for
a meager, scrawny towel to wipe your brow.
Only the highest talent need apply.

 

 

 

 

MUSIC IS ON MY MIND
—Caschwa

(Rattling the Bedlam cage)

Got to court and pleaded Louie Beethoven’s Fifth,
because no, I didn’t encourage Sam Barber to write
Adagio for Stringing Them Up by their Necks. But
how will we ever explain to our tender youth that
we expect them to dutifully march to the tune of Ed
Elgar’s Poop and Circumcise? 

 

 

 

 

HOMELESS BRAIN CELLS
—Caschwa

I had been a good student in public school
GPA about B+, heavily rooted in rote
repetition, graduated high school, looking
forward to college

Then one day, exactly 58 years back from the
date this poem was composed, I can only
record some hearsay:

I was out on my motorcycle
and got hit by a car
flung through the air
coma for 10 days
thumb had to be reattached
ankle crushed, broken, fractured
rebuilt with 2 bone grafts

My own memory: Started college on crutches,
played in the stands with marching band,
because they needed low brass, got hooked on
fresh ground coffee, did well with studies as
far as rote repetition could take me, but in some

areas I was overwhelmed with too much data to
process in too short a time, as though the necessary
brain cells were holed up in a homeless 

    encampment
unable to stretch their muscles to enlarge my
    knowledge

after 6 months, surgical pin removed, then after 
one year, got to walk again without crutches

Despite my limitations, supposed or otherwise,
transferred to University, graduated, got a teaching
credential and landed some substitute assignments,
became a Certified Paralegal, played trombone in a
swing band, married, had a son, got a house, dog, 

    etc.
and finally retired

Now 58 years later, still hunting for those lost brain
cells and all the epiphanies they might have locked 

    up;
once in a while, I think I am on the verge of finding 
a prize, gold nugget, but anything of material pro-

    portions
eludes my grasp. 

 

 

 

 

ARE WE THERE YET?
—Caschwa

Ask not, want not
Don’t ask, don’t tell

Neither a borrower nor a lender be
Buy now, pay later

No trespassing
Walk-ins welcome

Open 24 hours
Open-and-shut case

Warranty included
There are no guarantees

Forever faithful
You won’t live forever

Watch your 6
Keep the line moving

I come from a large family
Arachnophobia 

 

 

 

 

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

Little flowers of heaven
I surmised a letter for you
What-ifs and what not?
The mountains sprang a rhythm
Of hullabaloo and orchids
A little girl of unnamed origin
Weaving a Garland of heaven
Of half agony and half joy.
Questions of life after death
I give my hands of hope
Bouquets of forgotten mystery
The river ran a mountain high
Nature's mystery slowly unraveling
As if everything is a great shower of life. 

 

 

 

 

FOR THE SAKE OF VIET NAM
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

What’s going on, here?
It can’t be real.
It’s only something
Deeply impure,

With killers at the ready,
Brought in from foreign shores,
Ready for their missions—
To search and destroy.

Young boys, only eighteen,
Some as old as twenty,
Commanded by second-lieutenants
Of the ripe age of twenty-four,

Sent out to the jungle
To hunt the Viet Cong,
Burning villages to save them
Lest they be communized.

It’s a question of endurance
How long they will
Send them here,
To sweat and die in jungles
For the sake of Viet Nam.

 

 

 

 

MISSILES
—Joe Nolan

Missiles fly
Like cobra venom
To strike the eye
And make blind
The prey
It wants
To eat.

Flying toward
Its sacred spots
That home the soul
That keep it whole
And let it stay alive.

The meaning
Of missiles
Is death—
To maim and cripple
To cause its fall
A prelude
To put on notice—
The victim will be
Swallowed
Just before it dies.

 

 

 

 

HOPE IN FEATHERS
—Joe Nolan

Let us wrap our hopes in feathers
The better they might fly
Higher than the stratosphere
Into godly skies

Above the Earth
And all that lie
Along its verdant surface.
Let us pray
Our hopes will prevail.

Above the Earth
Darkness, silk.
Stars shine bright
And die,
Brilliant in their final hours,
Exploding in the night.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

OWNING THE WORLD
—Joe Nolan

See it inside a bottle-cap—
The world carved into stone,
Set into miniature relief,
Reduced for you to own,
To slip into your pocket,
And carry to your grave,
Knowing that your fortune
Could never your soul save.

____________________

A girl from The Buffalo writes about piggy bliss….  thanks to Nolcha Fox and all the other fine contributors this week, some of whom wrote about our Seed of the Week, High Hopes. Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week, but there are no deadlines on SOWs. And check each Friday, too, for poetry-form and Ekphrastic challenges. 

 

 

 

 

The 2025 Voices (Mysticism, Prophecies & Marigolds) from Cold River Press (www.coldriverpress.com/) will be celebrated (unleashed?) in Sacramento July 26 from 1-6pm, at Sacramento Poetry Alliance, with beverages, BBQ, books and a potluck. Lots of familiar voices in there, including one Joe Nolan, a SnakePal who often pops in around here… Congrats to Editor Dave Boles and to all the contributors!

 

Starting soon, you can participate in the Poetry Postcard Fest. Organized by the Cascadia Poetics Lab, the Poetry Postcard Fest is a self-guided 56-day workshop that involves receiving a mailing list of other poets to whom they will send 31 first-draft poems on postcards. The structure of the fest allows for flexibility of time to write and send the postcards, but it is suggested the poems be written and sent between July 4th and August 31st. Postcards can be purchased or hand-made, and participants are encouraged to be creative with themes and images.
 
in 2024, the fest had 608 participants spanning 10 (countries around the globe: Canada, France, Ireland, Czechia, Austria, The Netherlands, Australia, Mexico, the United Kingdom and the United States (52 states and Canadian provinces, including the District of Columbia). The fest is open to people who contribute at least $27 U.S. to the Cascadia Poetics Lab and register by July 14th. Find out more here: https://cascadiapoeticslab.org/how-it-works/ and register here: https://cascadiapoeticslab.org/ppf-2025-event-registration/.
 
___________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Cindy Huyser and Maris Juwono
will read tonight at 7:30pm at
Sacramento Poetry Center.
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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Miles of Snow and Roses

 —Poetry by Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
—Public Domain Photos

 

 

A MILLION MILES OF SNOW

1.
I envision that somewhere
extraordinary snowy terrains
exist forever, that if planes crash
into cliffsides or peaks, all on board
live and are led higher by a rare clan
       of alpine survivors.

2.
And I envision ancient snows
are writing a book on rare sunsets,
shadows, ice caves they have known,
maybe hinting on the final page where
the hidden portal to Shangri-la
       may be found.

3.
I wish that Himalayan snow
leopards lived on the dark side
of an unfound peak, were not hunted
to near extinction for their pelts, splendid
animals,  highly endangered,
       like our planet.

 

 

 

 

A WILLOW BATH

We hear, yet cannot see,
splashes of songbirds
in the willow tree,
fronds blown briskly clean,
while windwaves wildly keen

around & back again,
frisking over & inbetween,
songbirds chorusing—
willow tree charmers unseen,
bathing in leafy green.

 

 

 

 

FANTASY IN NEW GUINEA
    
When one is about to die,
three women of the mountains
strip your body with dignity.
They cover you chin to knees
with large butterflies.
Blinking satisfaction, you die
the splendid death of your dreams,

The women carry your weightless
body to the top of a waterfall.
Butterflies blossoming in a tall tree
watch over you as you slide down
liquid air, land perfectly laid out
in a rain forest clearing, where you
enter the far kingdom as a butterfly.


(Grand Prize and performance
with Dancing Poetry Festival, 2000)

 

 

 

A ROSE WROTE
    THIS POEM

Inhaling
a
rose,
do you
sense
an early
time
when
a rose
inhaled
you?

 

 

 

 

BETHESDA FIREFLIES

In summer
after dinner
we kids
played Hide
& Seek
& Kick-the-Can
then sprawled
on a
neighbor’s
lawn
watching
fireflies
merge
with
stars.
              

(Variation first pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/17/21)

 

 

 

 

SPECTRUMS   

I’ve looked for rainbows
in dewdrops on grass stems.
And I’ve been wowed.

When I squint at the sun,
pale pastels liven its curve.
I’ve seen spectrums, even in

moist spider webs anchored at
an ideal angle for light. As a child
I named these colors flat rainbows.

BOO on neighborhood gangs that
held a glass shard to the sun, aiming
it to set a paper scrap on fire.

After rain, I’d seen spectrums
on pavement near gutters, learned,
they’re car engine oils refracted.

As a lover of summer, drying my hair
in our Maryland backyard near
honeysuckle vines, a handful felt

silky like my dog’s paws. These
strands, and their refreshing tints,
uplifted me to start to seek loveliness

       beyond family cruelties.

_________________________

Today’s LittleNip:

ALPINE MEADOW
         Yosemite

Total darkness
slowly ignites
trillions
of silver wicks.

Looking up
from our meadow
and lulled by
Milky Way light,

we wonder,
are we
in heaven
or still on earth?

______________________

—Medusa, with our thanks to Claire Baker for today’s fine poetry! Claire had a birthday last week; like the lady I am, I won’t disclose her age, but let’s just say she’s seen a lotta presidents…. And happy birthday, Claire!—sending you virtual roses and a big piece of cake!

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Linda Toren and Gary Thomas
will read in Camino today, 2pm;
and LitFest 5 will take place
in Winters tonight, 7pm.
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!