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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Once in a Blue Moon

 —Poetry by Michael H. Brownstein, 

Jefferson City, MO
—Public Domain Photos

 

 

WINTER’S THUNDER

the clouds hung wrong in the horizon 
tear-stained but dry-eyed

* * *

NO LONGER TRYING TO TRY

a delinquency of stupidity
swamp of diarrhea
and the moon slowly colors itself
staying inside its lines

 

 

 

 

LULLABY

orange moon,
orange sun,
witch's brew,
witching run
 
orange moon,
orange sun,
storm of wind,
storm of drum

and then the moon
let loose the night—
orange moon, orange sun,
witch-less light.

* * *

SMUGGLING ILLEGAL MARIJUANA
ACROSS THE BORDER

grasshopper

 

 

 

A FAILURE IN THE WAY WE COMMUNICATE

This is how stuff starts
a rumor on the bus becomes
a lie in the classroom becomes
a kicking on the playground
a cloud of audience
a liter of disbelief.

* * *

ASSIGNMENTS

today a four-minute mile—
a world of newspapers
and I am tired past
a weariness of bone

 

 

 

THE WORLD FELL ON FLAT FEET

Then
a rest between melody's thick breath
a shadow of whisper
and a good friend promised me
every dance you do
will be that much less fragile

* * *

THE WORLD FELL ON FLAT FEET—Part 2

a bone of lime
and still
I can smell poetry

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Sometimes
clouds cannot cover
the sun.

Other days,
the sun swallows
the light within clouds.

—Michael H. Brownstein

______________________________

Our thanks to Michael Brownstein for today’s fine poems—short, but oh so sweet…!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We Get Up Anyway

 Wakamatsu Farm, 2025
—Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,
Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down to
Form Fiddlers’ Friday for poetry by
Nolcha Fox, Lynn White, Stephen Kingsnorth,
and Caschwa

 

 

ON SIERRA’S WESTERN SLOPE

We walk the pond loop this morning thru oak & buckeye woods, immersed in sights & sounds. Golden dead-grass landscape of mid-June, wildflowers withered. What catches the eye is critter scat—wild animal droppings. Easy to misread: was this a coyote who gorged on grapes in a vineyard? is this a gray fox latrine—small black poops close together on the trail? could this be bobcat? this, opossum? Here’s where prospectors rearranged landscape—human or burro-loads of rock and topsoil relocated in quest for gold. And now you tell a geology of this place—rocks formed in ocean so many eons ago. Are we walking an ancient seaside?

boulder like a whale
surfacing, its mouth open—
history’s hunger 

 

 

 

 

OPTIONS

I can’t wrap my mind
around shooting off into space—
leaving the garden to ground squirrels,
a whisper of wind in oak leaves—
for the mixed blessing of starry days
and nights, sunrise on Earth
so far away. 

 

 

 

 

NO TRESPASSING NO LOITERING

Of course a Corvid doesn’t loiter.
No Trespassing signs have no meaning
for a bird of his feather. Black as the metal
spears lined up as fence, he lifts off
from dumpster-pavement, black fan-tail
announcing Raven. Aerobatics is
his dance, his chance. Now he’s exulting
among leafy canopies and steadfast
trunks of oak. Private Property, the sign
says, but a woodland is avian’s place.
And now, look, he’s found a partner
on the other side, the two of them
as nature gives them the right-of-way. 

 

 

 

STUBBORN

Oak’s
tenacity
is deeply rooted
in the face of this cutbank
transforming woods to highway
not thinking of trees
as having
soul. 

 

 

 

 

DO YOU CARE?

If you knock on the door with your fist
you won’t leave a thumbprint.

It’s best to believe in leaving things
just the way you found them.

It might happen to mean
closing an old ranch gate behind you.

Or putting out the campfire
to dead ash, all your tracks swept clean.

Will this make you popular?
Would anyone know you were there? 

 

 

 

 

WE GET UP ANYWAY

As if frying breakfast eggs
or smudging the room with sage
might ignite the house.
Heart-stopping moments
might start with familiar, intimate
ritual or habit—how to describe
the tilts of chance that make
daily existence so touchy.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

BUT IT’S HOT
—Taylor Graham

Look! summer snowflakes
caught but not melting on tall
green stems—Queen Anne’s Lace.

___________________

Our thanks to Taylor Graham for fine poems and fine photos as we finish off the first half of 2025. Regardless of the "tilts of chance", we get up anyway, she says.

And thanks to TG for all the forms she uses, making them look so easy! Those she has sent us this week include a Word-Can Poem (“Options”); a Joseph's Star (“Stubborn”); a Just 15s that is also a Word-Can Poem (“Do You Care?”); a Response to the Tuesday Seed of the Week, Birds of a Feather (“No Trespassing No Loitering”); a Haibun that is also a Word-Can Poem (“On Sierra's Western Slope”); and a Haiku (“But It’s Hot”). The Joseph/s Star was also one of last week’s Triple-F Challenges.

In El Dorado County this Sunday, Poets and Writers of the Sierra Foothills features Linda Toren and Gary Thomas in Camino, 2pm. 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 were Nolcha Fox, Lynn White, and Stephen Kingsnorth. Stephen wrote two, in fact:


STRESS
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

My boss told me to
take time off and go
somewhere to vacay.

He said I stressed
coworkers out and drank
up all the coffee.

I booked a trip to
paradise—white sand,
blue seas, and sunshine.

We lost an engine
as we flew, the cabin
hot and crowded.

When we finally
debarked, I found my
wallet stolen.

My luggage flew to
Michigan, my stomach
lost its cookies.

A hurricane was
forecasted to land
before the weekend.

I decided to
go home before
I tried the hammock.

Paradise was
stressing me far
more than merely working.

* * *

POETRY PENDING
—Lynn White, Blaenau Ffestiniog, North Wales


I feel creative here
alone
awaiting
something
lingering lazily
on the beach
waves lapping
gently
I climb into my hammock
and sway slightly
waiting
for a seed
a spark
to inspire
to light my fire
then I fall asleep.

Perhaps I’ll dream.

* * *

CUMULONIMBUS?
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

My spirit warmed by relaxed frame—
some wealthy timeshare, tropical—
the hint of paradisal claimed,
with colour codes, hot hex displayed,
invested content for brochure.
What speed, Styx ferry, from this dream?

Reactions speak of who we are—
the locals serving tourist trade,
the bribed who bury western waste,
the kids whose booze, fags, sold untaxed,
those cleaning toilets, sewer rats,
apartment dwellers, luxury?

Agenda as our work cut out,
or prospect for wealth to relax?
The bottle green, aquamarine,
a timber lodge and hammock hung,
is this our laze on silver strand,
retreat set under cloudless sky?

Cumulonimbus though in climb—
horizon may suggest a storm?
Too many waves in rising tide,
arresting crests in current warmth.
Heatseeking missiles, aiming tan,
prefer cooling off period?

May beach submerge before too long,
and those who serve this tourist trade
will lose their rôles in toilet clean,
supply of stocks to eat and drink,
with package trash on sand, in sea.
The cost of wealth, vacation breech?

* * *

BY THE SOUND
—Stephen Kingsnorth

Just see the strand and you’ll agree     
vacation wealth buys spacious beach;       
relax, enjoy sounds, sand and sea  

But serving locals hold the key,   
for western waste means ‘clean for leech’—
just see the strand and you’ll agree?     

But pricey comes that luxury,
with sinking isles and tidal reach—
relax, enjoy sounds, sand and sea?      

Not British briny, note drily,
as each who suffer, unheard speech;
just see the strand and you’ll agree?     

Environment, summed in that tree,
while cumulonimbus too, teach—
relax, enjoy sounds, sand and sea?      

In hammock dozing, miss their plea
despite request becomes beseech.
Just see the strand and you’ll agree     
relax, enjoy sounds, sand and sea?      

* * *

A Haiku chain from Caschwa (Carl Schwartz):

 

 

 

GHOST USHERS
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

Shadows that point in
the dark, directing you to
turn yourself around

as if the screen is
an active volcano that
spews lava, not scenes

to watch from your seat
comfortably munching some
popcorn and candy

Their voices turn shrill
you must evacuate now!
the show is over.

* * *

And some final words of wisdom from him, Haiku-style::

 

 

 

WHAT’S IN A NAME?
—Caschwa

 
If by chance your name
is Court Knee, you could also
be Tennis Elbo

__________________

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.) How about the Haiku’s big sister, the Fold:

•••Fold: https://poetscollectivepoetryforms.wordpress.com/2013/03/05/fold

•••AND/OR its 3-line cousin:

•••For-Get-Me-Not: www.poetrymagnumopus.com/topic/1882-syllabic-forms-found-in-pathways-for-the-poet/#veltanelle

•••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 “High Hopes”.

____________________

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

•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••Fold: https://poetscollectivepoetryforms.wordpress.com/2013/03/05/fold
•••For-Get-Me-Not: www.poetrymagnumopus.com/topic/1882-syllabic-forms-found-in-pathways-for-the-poet/#veltanelle
•••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
•••Joseph’s Star: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/josephsstar.html
•••Just 15s (devised by Sarah Harding): poem or stanza of 15 syllables
•••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
 

 
 
 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!