Timeless As A Stone

 Writing From Memory

—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Photos by Joyce Odam

 

 

FIVE FIFTY-FIVE
—Robin Gale Odam

I woke
from
an old sleep
and I knew.

I lay still
two lifetimes
then
pulled
myself
into
this
day.

 

 

 

 Other Side of Dark

QUESTIONED 

—Joyce Odam

Is that a stain
or just a shadow
on the floor
beyond the door.
It’s something
red—
that is
a clue—
now
what to do
with what I see . . .
 
a shadow or a stain upon the floor
or something more
beyond the door ?

 

 

 

 At The Shadow

HONEY
—Robin Gale Odam

My name is Honey. Remember?
You still keep my shadow, for comfort,
and because, as shadow, I change shape,
one time full around you, and then, as you
go your way, barely a trace. 

 

 

 

His Own Self

 

AGE OF MIRRORS
—Joyce Odam

She crawls through mirrors to be near you. Is it love?  
Is this the season of surrender, are you aware
of her presence, in your mind . . .

do you dream her, crawling through glass, inter-
locking
the images, touching you with her eyes,
her nearness, familiar now . . .   

where is her shadow, holding her so strangely while
she is crawling through all these mirrors
to be near you. Is it love . . . ?

 

 

 

 What's Moved Is Light

 

YOUR REFLECTION
—Joyce Odam

Only I could see you,
as you are,
I was that vain.
How could you
bear me,
face after face,
looking at you
from mirror after mirror—
going through life like that.
And when you would leave me
I would wait, timeless as a stone,
and wear myself out, looking for you.
And you changed. And I let you change.
And I grew afraid, for myself. I could not
love either of us—both—I was that vain.

 

 

 

A Glass of Wine

 

SIPPING WINE
—Robin Gale Odam

when was it you became
a dream—either before, or
after . . . it seems as though

you were a memory from the
beginning—we felt like we had
always known one another

turns out one of us
was wrong

 

 

 

Words To Murmur

 

THE MEMORY-SCENT

OF DRIED ROSE PETALS
—Joyce Odam

What are roses when they wilt—
wilt and die—scented and soft,
as the softest words to say this—

expensive when alive :
roses for lovers
as token,
as symbol,
perfection without claim—
roses with long green stems,
innocent thorns, warning against touch.

Roses cut from bushes are for sacrifice.
Shrubs cannot hold them against this.
Vases will oblige them—present them.

Single,
or by the dozen,
roses will pose for you with their presence—
admire them,
sigh over them,
take their picture from bud to fullness, to petal-fall,

trash now—
tossed away—given to loss—
leaving a trail of sadness behind them.
                                               

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/19/19; 6/28/22)

 

 

 

So The World Won't Cry

 

 
FIRE FLOWERS
—Robin Gale Odam

I was sipping darkly.
I heard the most beautiful music—
many voices, women, poets, singing.
You should have heard it.

I called because I wondered if I’d
vanished. I thought I remembered
your arms around me. I felt your
silence. The music filled me, lifted
me back from . . . somewhere.

I lit the candle and twisted pieces of
paper into little blossoms, blackened
their edges in the flame—fire flowers.

How did the grandmothers do this?
Did they have potions? Did they pray?
Did they dream and awaken to kisses
in nightfall? Kisses in nightfall—I am
rambling.

I placed the burned flowers in that little
vase. I lifted the tiny porcelain baby and
danced around in the voices of poets.
And I wanted to ask you to remember.

I should be going. I left ashes.
Ok, then. Yes, they are asleep.
Everything is locked up. You’re welcome.

You will rejoin your company, make
light conversation, look into the night sky.
I have not vanished—the moonlight will
follow us, you in this night and me in your
eyes. 

 

 

 

Autumn Will Find Us

 

POEM FOR THREE VOICES
—Joyce Odam
After “The Grief of Cafeterias” by Donald Justice

What does poverty care for love, she asked, and
rose from her chair and flew through the window.
But he was not there to answer. He had used the
door. The room twirled in confusion. The child
played quietly in the dark curve of the turning.

Room after room repeated this—rooms of stolen
light bulbs and solitaire—the child turning the
cards while the mother soared against the ceiling
with the white moth that was so beautiful. We must
kill it, the mother said, handing the broom to the
child.

The child learned to fly beside the moth through
the scene-changing years. The cards learned to
tell their own fortune. The rooms simply changed
the walls and windows while the mother learned
to sing with the voice of the child who had learned
to harmonize.

                                                               
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/17/15)

 

 

 

Thinking Back

 

 

KALEIDOSCOPE
—Robin Gale Odam

It’s been so long,
where shall I begin . . .

He had an affair.
I’ve gotten over it.

He still lives here.
We are polite shadows
of each other,
history of pain and love
and shared time.

The children are
giants, full of smiles,
glowing in tomorrow’s sun,
unaware of the storms.

And of storms,
my brother is dying.
Our childhood echoes
through me forever.
My oldest giant tells me
we all are dying, I suppose
to comfort me—or perhaps
to shelter himself.

Daddy’s memory lingers
in the beating of my heart.
I hear his voice in the wind,
with the other child.

Mama is eternal. She knits
words with the skill of a master.
She speaks color and dimension.
She knows how to ride storms
and keep secrets. When I was little
she used to nibble on orange peels.

I breathe because my
lungs want to be filled and emptied
and there is the deepest pleasure in it.
This may be my greatest strength,
but then philosophy gives
so many choices.
It is always now, ever changing,
a living kaleidoscope.

Today I will look into my shadow.
I will admire my giants.
I will consider my brother’s sweetness
and the voices in the wind.
I think I’d like to keep my secrets—I have
prepared a little plate of orange peels. 

 

 

 

Sanctuary

 

READING RILKE
—Joyce Odam

The Love—become the symbol of
desire—the long look
into the self that looks into

the empty mirror for release—
the bewildered soul
in its essence—you the container,

you the griever and believer—
torn, as faith is torn, between mind
and mind, in their difference.

All is as it is. Pay no one debt
to your limitation.
Let words take blame

as thought gives utterance.
How else believe in desire, leading
to love. All is not loss, or gain,

all is in the reaching, and the having
—the grasp into non-substance—
as relief—as joy—and the pain of joy.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

SPOKEN
—Robin Gale Odam

Your words
hung at the doorway
of my comprehending.
They waited for my recognition.
They waited for so long.

(Come in, come in, words,
now that you are spoken,
come in.)

___________________

Welcome to October 2024! We’ve started it off right with fine poetry and pix from the Odam Poets, Joyce and Robin Gale, and we send them hearty thanks for today’s fine fare, as “timeless as a stone”. The Seed of the Week was Nosy Neighbors.

Our new Seed of the Week is “The Imperative to Stash”. I have WAY too much stuff. Other creatures only stash once a year; humans often seem to get carried away with it…  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

 

 

 

 Beefing (pepperoni-ing?) up for winter…
—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.

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

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

 

 LittleSnake planning his stash~

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pokin' With That Ol' Proboscis

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Nolcha Fox

* * *

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

 

 

TOO MUCH NOISE
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

Silence hid in the linen closet,
behind the towels and mildew.
So much safer, safer
in the shadows than reduced
to tears, exposed to slaps of
whack-whack-whack from
ceiling fans, to crackling static
cackling lights. Too loud,
she said, to hear me whisper
of the summer fading into
slant-light autumn, whisper
of the maple leaves adorned
in early lipstick red.
You can find me in the shadows,
cuddled up with hope that winter
chill will stay outdoors
and snowfall will be brief.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Nolcha Fox

 

A SAINT FOR A SEASON
—Nolcha Fox

Saint Audrey of Autumn
leaves miracles of color
on every horizontal
surface of the day.
Trees shiver as she ambles
into sunlight that grows softer,
and leaves shadows
in the meadows where
the dandelions once swayed.
The days grow sad and shorter,
and her amble turns to hobble
when the winds cool hours
into winter snow.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

UNDER SURVEILLANCE
—Nolcha Fox

Deer jump the fence to criticize
the taste of leaves and flowers.
Rabbits check the greenness
of the grass in our backyard.
Wild turkey promenade the street
to check our curb appeal.
Our nosy neighbors tell us
everything we need to know.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

THE PARKERS
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Proboscis—they won’ understand—
the name by which I knew them when
they watched, while looking other way,
pretending focus not on me.

By greenhouse glass, or upstairs, house,
through mirrorwork in lawn art piece,
reflecting on what might have been,
the scene they hoped to see unfold,
muck spreading, me by compost heap.

As I drew in sweet-smelling grass,
the cuttings laid on fungal rot,
they peered, as if at mushroom plot,
sure my hobby—their horse in fact.

It is obsession, flower power,
the sniffing, nicotiana,
my perfumed garden, on the scent,
weed gathering or at potting shred,
now screened net curtains, prying eyes.

I have it plumbed, extractor fan,
heat, light controlled, experiment,
to test if dreams can be fulfilled,
strangers grown in suburbia.

Named Parker, as my neighbour’s claim,
‘keep off the grass’ at entry path,
the vigilantes of estate,
while I feel must not disappoint,
their record sheets help populate.

They really need a uniform,
a standard, cap, brass buttoned up,
and roses, rambling, hybrid, climb,
all thorned to prick self-satisfied. 

 

 

 

—Public Domain Art Courtesy of Medusa

NOT ALONE, NOT WOODS
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

oh sure, you read history accounts
about European composers, who,
to free their mind and invite artistic
thoughts to prevail, take a stroll in
the woods alone

and here you are glued to one spot
in a megalopolis, separated from the
closest forest by hundreds of miles,
perhaps thousands of dollars, and
the luck to reserve a ticket to enter

your best bet is to find a quiet park
where leash laws are strictly enforced,
where children are meek and mind their
parents, where it is just a few steps away
from your normal milieu, where your
knowledge of edible plants can sustain
you for a whole day, where??

I was fortunate to find such a park when
I worked at a savings & loan on Wilshire
Boulevard’s Miracle Mile. At lunchtime,
I and my packed lunch would leave the 27-
story edifice with a helipad on top and
stroll down the street to the La Brea Tar Pits.

Though I was definitely not alone, and
definitely not in the woods, my mind was
a world away from the megalopolis in
which I was otherwise entrapped 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Art Courtesy of Medusa

AFTER GRADUATION
—Caschwa

I know full well that I was
presented documents saying
that I had successfully completed
one or another course of study:

my high school diploma, my
college degree, my Paralegal
Certificate, my teaching
credentials, swimming classes,
CPR, Driver’s License, my Mule
Skinners recognition from the
Grand Canyon, etc.

What I do not have is a photo-
graphic memory of every word
or phrase used on those documents
so I can’t tell you specifically
whether that good news was
declared, certified, or just written
down.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

FULL OF SAND
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

Everything
Is full of sand,
Lost to reason,
Beyond command.

The sand inside
Has lost its soul,
Fallen into granules
Beyond control.

Your only chance
Is to bag it up
Lest it slip
Its way
Through your fingers.

Once it’s bagged
It might be useful
To stack around a home
To keep away a flood.

Even just a handful
Will teach you many lessons
About impermanence
And the dull, dreadful ways
Things fall away.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

THE PROMISE OF CALIFORNIA
—Joe Nolan

The promise of California
Is a soaring hawk
In a cloudless,
Bright-blue sky

With every assurance
It will be like this for months
While the grass turns brown.

Nothing at all
To get in your way
On any given day
Until the winter comes.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

WHEN IT’S TIME TO GO
—Joe Nolan

Well, you know,
It’s only a
Question of time
Until you let it go.

Even your dog,
Who loves you so,
Can’t hold on
Forever.

One day
Her arthritic shell
In which she limps, along,
Will cry out to be gone.

Such a sad day,
Such a sad day,
But later, in your dreams,
Later, by months or years,
She will say she loves you!

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

EXEMPLARS OF COURAGE
—Joe Nolan

Winners go up high
Higher and higher
Straight up to the sky
Where they melt or fry
Or freeze
On top of Everest.

We all applaud
Such brash displays of courage
Their motivation
Their masterful achievements
Examples to us all
Not to have a downfall.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

The nosy navigate life like it’s an open book and they’re the editors.

—Anonymous

_____________________

Welcome to another Monday in the Kitchen, and many thanks to today’s contributors! You’ll see whiffs of recent Seeds of the Week from them, including our two most recent: Nosy Neighbors (animal and otherwise), and Alone in the Woods—not to mention tidings of Fall. Autumn photos are so seductive…

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

Hey—the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—for poetry, that is! When was the last time you sent your poems to the Kitchen? 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. You, too, can be a SnakePal! The world is waiting…

Check out last Thursday’s Sacramento Bee article about the 1997 Royal Chicano Air Force mural at Washington Neighborhood Center in Sacramento—muy bueno! It’s at https://www.sacbee.com/news/equity-lab/representation/article292935904.html/.

Placerville’s Mountain Democrat has published its Poem of the Month, “The Forest is a Graveyard” by Ellen Osborn. Congratulations, Ellen!

_____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Art Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
the GTFO Collective will read
tonight at Sac. Poetry Center, 7:30pm.
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.

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

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!

 

 Monday Mood 2

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Diogenes' Lanterns

 Argyle, Scotland

—Poetry and Photos by Maureen (Mo) Hurley
(1952-2024)

HAND TOOLS

There was an old pruning saw
I favored that folded in two
with a wingnut hinge
curved handle and blade
two crescent moons
that hung from a rusty nail
on the wall of the back porch
of my grandmother's house.

The saw curved like a comma
and I could pull down hard
on it with my 12-year-old arms
and cut the slender branches
that threatened to pull me
from the back of my horse.

No one else to do it for me
I made do as best I could.
Like the time the Toby's Feedstore
driver delivered a ton of hay but
dumped it at the bottom of the hill
because he couldn't be bothered stacking it
assuming there was a man about the house
to take care of such ordinary things.

I was faced with hefting hay bales
a tenth of a mile up to the old barn
and the sky spitting, rain was coming.
No matter that it took me most of the summer
babysitting to earn enough money
to buy that ton of shining oat hay
for my old glue factory rescue horse.

I wailed, wiped my nose on my sleeve,
jabbed rusty hayhooks into a bale
and frogmarched it to the barn.
Then another, and another.
It was hard work for a child.
It was the only way I knew how
and I was never going to make it
before the rains came.

 

 

 

 

 

MY GRANDMOTHER’S HANDS

My grandmother’s hands
were torn and speckled with pigment:
fair northern flesh burned by the fierce California
sun.
A rebellious knotted vein rose up like a stone.
Souvenir from a strand of barbed wire
strung to keep the deer out of the garden.

Her freckles were an archipelago of islands
adrift on a moon-milk sea.
They were Brendan voyagers in curraghs
headed for the New World
with a warrior phalanx of shields
raised up against a common enemy, the sun.
But they failed to protect her children—
when the melanoma set sail for that country
from which nothing ever returns.

I remember her wide spatulate fingers
that rubbed floursack sheets against the washboard,
that mended jeans, made dresses for first day of
school,
and how I was ashamed they were not store-bought.
I remember the way she weeded the gardens,
dug up the praties, stacked wood for coming winter.

From her, I learned the survival of hands.
No caresses were needed because her love
was as fierce as the sun that burned her skin
as she labored in the garden or at the clothesline.
She kept us safe, and provided when no one else
would.
As she knelt to pray in the Sunday pew,
the sun shone on that knotted vein
and it was so beautiful—the scarring and the freckles,
a skin painting of faith and tenderness.

 

 

 

 

DUN I, IONA
    (after a translation from the Ohlone)

I dreamed you were a sliver
of light glinting on the curve of the sea.
On the machair, the rabbits
cleansed their scalloped sand porches
while amid the lambs, the hares stood sentinel.
I dreamed of you dreaming me
on the granite dome of Dun I,
... at the center of the island
between a rowan and an oak
in a crevice at the well of age,
the falcon's eye, a distant sun
dancing on the edge of the world.

 

 

 

 El Dorado Del Mar, San Felipe, Mexico

 

13TH WAVE

When I was a child at Venice Beach,
floating in the calm sea beyond the surf,
out of nowhere, rogue waves rose up
like translucent jade knives, formed crests
against the throat of the deep summer sky.

Out of my depth, I swam to greet them.
That was the drill if an Outsider appeared—
Swim to meet the wave before it broke you.
Dive through the crest to avoid its force.
Swim and dive, swim and dive. Deflect the blow.

Rise and fall, rise and fall. Far from land,
I watched the blond shore grow ever distant.
The waves played me—like the father I never had—
tossing me up to the roof of the sky. In terror,
I waited for the right wave to bring me in.

But I grew numb, the sea sapped my strength,
I was too far from shore for lifeguards to see.
When would my crazy mother—sleeping it off—
stone-deaf to my brother's wails, realize I was gone?
I was a child alone in a vast sea. Breathe. Breathe.

Out of nowhere I heard my grandmother's voice:
"Always count the waves," she said. "Find the set."
9, 11, 12—I counted, but couldn't find the pattern.
Then, on the horizon of a wave, the fin of a dolphin.
A break in the set. He looked me in the eye. "Now!"

We caught the 13th wave toward the safety of shore.
I lay facedown in the sand, too tired to be amazed,
or say "Bye." Who'd believe a child's tale, anyway?
I said nothing about the waves and the sea that day.
It was my secret—a matter of survival, at best.

 

 

 

  El Dorado Del Mar, San Felipe, Mexico

A FIFTH OF BEETHOVEN

Yesterday I told my students a story
about Gustavo's crazy cockatiel,
how Kirk the musicman tried to teach it
the opening to Beethoven's Fifth
& how it couldn't get that last chord right,
no matter how much they both practiced,
how the note always fell flat, but the bird
would say entonces, or coño, and include
all the tape recorder clicks & whirrs.

Every time I went: DA-DA-DAA Dum,
the class bird catcalled and wolf whistled,
dirty danced on his perch, bopped his
head,
puffed out his orange cheek patches,
and crested like a Mohican. I was
explaining how some words fall flat,
the poet's job to seek the music of words,
was a matter of practice, like doing scales.
Unfortunately, the bird got so worked up
he catcalled the entire poetry hour.

I was hoping he'd just take the Fifth
(or maybe down a fifth) and shut up
before I threatened to squeeze
his sorry yellow ass into a tequila sunrise.

 

 

 

 
TO MY POETRY STUDENTS

            —The foundation of every state
                  is the education of its youth.

First, do not be offended if I don't remember your
names.
My children are as varied as the voices of the wind.
Do not assume that because I don't call you by name,
that I do not know you. For I remember all of you,
the poems you write & all your faces shining
with the first faltering words of hope.
Do not rage against the wind or lack of memory
as if the sun had risen prematurely at daybreak
painted with rosy yearning, only to find the clouds
had forgotten how to properly mourn the tragedies
of a world drowning in the vagaries of the heart.
For once I stood alone with the voices of the wind,
my own song hanging at the end of its chord,
like Edvard Munch's silent scream echoing off the
canvas,
a nocturne of loneliness, an etude seeking rebirth
before I called it poetry, before it called for me.
Sleep returns lost memory in minute increments
of time swaddled in the supplication of blue solace
unburdened by prayer or the length of the road
set adrift in the traceless grasses' slow current.
To love words requires only the longevity of a mind
that is part redwood, & part bristlecone pine
& a threshold for a mouth that is part estuary,
& part river to address the worded islands of the
world.
Remember to write of what is visible and seen;
pay homage to the slender names rooted in oak,
lichen & moss, reed & bracken fern, lupine wolf &
moon.
Treat your poems like long lost kith and kin.
Then, someday when you can forgive their way-

wardness
they will be Diogenes' lanterns on dark, restless 

nights.

______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.

—Percy Bysshe Shelley

______________________

Today’s Kitchen is devoted to Maureen (Mo) Hurley, who passed away this summer. Mo visited the Kitchen for a while back in 2010-2012 with her photos and poems, and I thought it would be an appropriate tribute to bring some of those back, fine as they are. Rest well, Mo—we all miss you.

For more about Mo, go to https://www.adobecreekfuneralhome.com/obituary/maureen-hurley/.

______________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 

 Mo Hurley

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that the final
ForestSong will take place in
Lotus, CA today from 1-5pm.
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.

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

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!

 

 

Until Her Tattoos Fall Off~

 —Poetry and Photos by Robert Lee Haycock,
Antioch, CA

 

 

MERDRE!

I awoke to a dream
of a missive from Dada
written automatically
to my exquisite corpse

 

 

 

 

SPOILER

Too many chiefs
and not enough cooks
to spare the rod
and the victor’s child
from the broth of war

 

 

 

 

LET US PRAY

God is great
but God’s a goof.
We are thankful for our roof.
Amen.

 

 

 

THE WILD WOOD

down the hill
from Villa Montalvo
and the carriage house
there’s a bench
in a little grotto
hung with ferns
where I first read
The Wind in the Willows
from cover to cover
and I never came back

 

 

 

DEAR BOBBY,

You’ve got to find
that thing you love to do
then do it harder
until Mama takes your car away
and even the dogs won’t have
anything to do with you.

And find that woman
you love to love
then love her longer
until her tattoos fall off
and she sings for your
supper door to door.

And don’t be afraid to
climb that pile of empty
crates you’ve stacked up
over all these years
then peek in the windows
and you’ll see me dancing.

And damn it Bobby
never forget to dream.

Love,
D.R.

 

 

 

 


Today’s LittleNip:


THE LONG AND SHORT OF IT
—Robert Lee Haycock


Art is long and life is short?
I should hope to snicker and snort!

_____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to prodigal Robert Lee Haycock for his return to the Kitchen with his fine poems and pix! Robert Lee has visited the Kitchen off-and-on since 2010. He says these offerings are “written with invisible ink”, so I guess we’d better hurry up and read them!

 

 

 

 Robert Lee Haycock

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Sacramento Poetry Center
will be at the
Oak Park Literacy Festival
today, 10am-1pm; then SPC
will feature Tom Crawford’s
Be Broken to be Whole
tonight, 6pm.
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.

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

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!

 

 

 

Skeletons in the Woods

Otis Confronts the Woods 

 

* * *

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

 

 

ALONE IN THE WOODS

Or maybe not. Oh where
shall we walk today, my dog and I?

I’ve been checking the internet
for forest and city news.

Mountain lion sightings—
home-security & game-trail cams:

Big Cut, Cedar Ravine, Greenstone,
Green Valley, Newtown, Forebay...

How refreshing is a walk alone
with my dog in the woods.

Just the two of us, and deer,
birds, squirrels; with luck, no lion. 

 

 

 

 

GHOSTLY SKELETON

Queen Anne’s Lace still stands
in a dead-dry field, sovereign
in the march to fall. 

 

 

 

MORNING ON THE PAVED TRAIL

She walks
like it hurts
I say “brava!”

subsolar
clinch-enrichment

That guy
arm-pumping
eyes on pavement

blind
optical trickery limits
bird carillons

I say “good morning!”
silence.

consecrate
or gravitate
don’t trip 

 

 

 

 

A SHADY SPOT

Beside the gurgling creek’s a micro-park,
a place for moment’s rest off the main street—
one black travel pack, a pair of black boots,
blue sleeping bag (occupied) in an arc
of comfort in September noonday heat—
if he’s not supposed to, who gives two hoots?

__________________

FUTURES

Is there a stockbroker for
seed pods? We must have a fortune
in them here, offspring of weeds.
They’re everywhere.
They know no limits, no maximum.
The stickery ones especially keep multiplying.
Just look across the field,
all the little parachutes, the hang gliders
on the wind that carries some away
and brings us more, that gives them wings. 

 

 

 

 

IN THE WOODS ALONE

without my dog. Is this the nature area
I’ve known for years, and often get lost in?
a maze of trails, some with signs at junctions
but no arrows pointing which way
to where or what? At trailhead, a new post,
glass-encased flyer on mountain lions.
Down the trail between fields of blackberry
bramble. What species of aster is this,
taller than my head? My plant-app won’t say.
And this leafy tree? not a clue. Here’s
pine I don’t recognize? the app tells me
Pinus (pine)—big help! And here, what kind
of plant is this? app tells me it’s a sapsucker—
bird!? My dog might be a better guide.
A vulture flies high and silent overhead.
I’ve reached the creek. I’d best just
keep my bearings and enjoy the moment
among willow, tule, bramble, and all the un-
nameables. Is that the magic of the woods? 

 

 

 

 Prayer Flag

Today’s LittleNip:

NATURE WALK
—Taylor Graham

unknowns before us
on trail leading who knows where—
leaves fall from the twig

_____________________

 

Otis and Taylor Graham are out in the woods again today, making the most of the autumn weather and braving the ghosts of lace and leaves and whatever adventures they can find, and we thank them for reporting back to us in fine poetry and photos. Forms TG has sent us include two Haiga (“Nature Walk”; “Ghostly Skeleton”); a Word-Can Poem (“Futures”); a Just 15s (“Alone in the Woods”); a Rengay with a random-words partner (“Morning on the Paved Trail”); and an Italian Sestet (“A Shady Spot”). The Italian Sestet was one of our Triple-F Challenges last week, and Tuesday’s Seed of the Week was “Alone in the Woods”.

TG makes a note that the prayer flag is from local artist Andie Thrams's ForestSong project—this one was from the Somerset event September 22; the final event will be Sept. 29 at Camp Lotus (including poetry writing with Moira Magneson). El Dorado County’s ForestSong is an art project by Andie Thrams which centers on painting Forest Prayer Flags to deepen appreciation of and connection to forests, address environmental loss, and celebrate biophilia. Info: https://www.andiethrams.com/forestsong-events-and-more/. Open mic 3:15-3:45pm!

Writers whose mailing address is within El Dorado County are encouraged to submit to the new Slope and Basin literary journal before its Oct. 1 deadline (that's next weeek!). Info: https://artsandcultureeldorado.org/slope-and-basin/.

Coming up in El Dorado County in October (10/11-12) is Tahoe’s first-ever Tahoe Literary Festival, with workshops, panels, and key speakers in Tahoe City, CA—including an Ekphrastic workshop with Lara Gularte. $35 for the entire festival, or $15 to hear just the keynote speaker, Obi Kaufmann, on 10/11. Info: https://yourtahoeguide.com/2024/09/tahoe-literary-festival-workshops-panels-highlight-inaugural-festival/.

In El Dorado County Poetry this week: In addition to ForestSong this Sunday, 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 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

Last week’s photo brought response-poems from Lynn White, Nolcha Fox, and Stephen Kingsnorth:


CORNER SHOP
—Lynn White, Blaenau Ffestiniog, North Wales


The Gould’s had the corner shop
opposite the church.
You could buy anything there,
at a price.
Row upon row of tinned goods,
sliced ham and spam
at double the price.
You could buy anything there
any time,
even on Sundays,
especially on Sundays,
when the queue snaked outside.
It was a gold mine, everyone said so.
They sold everything there
at double the price
always
without a smile.

* * *

SOME THINGS CAN’T BE FIXED
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

She thought she could wind him
around her ring finger,
turn him into the prince of her dreams,
remake him from a manly man
into a simpering shadow.

He opened up his simple heart
to let her have her way.
Inside she found his valves were full
of chewing tobacco, motor oil,
and ten-year-old cans of beans.

No need to wreck her manicure
to clean up such a mess.
While she drove off, he popped
a beer and turned to watch
the playoffs on TV.

 

 

 

TINS CAN?
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

The window dresser’s rôle is shelved,
for who’s attracted by the brand
(save holder of some shares, I’m bound)—
all gold, bold blue, full coloured hues,
though green’s ironic, just fake news.

A garage lot, though bikes the plot,
a recipe for dirt bike gas—
or this the cover to the guide,
the key to making engine run
on two stroke fuel, without the knock.

It’s gas and oil in ratio
that’s poured into container, sealed,
then shaken with all energy,
both ‘violently’, with ‘vigour’ too,
before its destined gas tank home.

Now burning rubber’s not my thing—
nor threadbare tread, exhausted clouds,
the playground of sand devils’ whirl
through gritted teeth, a dusting down,
adrenalin enough and more.

Some pedal work without the gas—
I’d guard against rear geyser mud;
had ‘Three in One’, a trinity,
(though perplexed what, why made it so)
to oil the chain—saw hanging loose.

Recall behind the saddle, bag.
my thin tin tiny puncture kit.
Now when do tins become a can—
perhaps when they are able to,
with prospects of retailing charm? 

 

 

 

* * *

Caschwa (Carl Schwartz) has been playing with alliteration; he calls this “Alliteration Obliteration”:

 

GARBAGE TIME
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

the politician who has no real plans
for the future will state a platitude
with an attitude, no gratitude

lots of suggestive gestures, backed
by a bought out crowd of brain dead
scarecrows wearing propaganda t-shirts,
hats, and carrying or ferrying large print
signs bearing small minded thinking

yes abortion will kill a fetus, can’t let
that beat us, why must we also off the
mother and her doctors, leaving alive
no proctors to show us the way?

just how, in what strange, deranged new
order is it acceptable to prevent an abortion,
but accept the contortion of enabling hot
heads with guns to invade our schools and
kill masses of people?

Ahh, the golden avenue of a revenue stream,
beaming brightly as consumers stifle their
honey and shell out money to buy big guy
rifles and ammo just to show us how many
people they can kill, to set a new record

shoot, kill, tabulate, celebrate, congregate on
the steps of Congress to confess you’ve had
enough government stuff, but if a woman wants
to terminate a pregnancy because she has had
enough, the wrong answer gong sounds to let us
know she must show us a live birth before long

and so we save the fetus, and it has big problems
like the mother knew it would, but our brains are
wood and fail to process such information in a
nation that just doesn’t care: it only stays well
if it pays well

* * *

And now a Sonnet from Carl:

 

 

SONNET FOR TAILGATE TROMBONE
—Caschwa

the trombone slide is hurtful when it hits
another person sitting in the way
so to avoid all sorts of gripes and fits
we face the rear to lift our horns and play

we feel the beat because we cannot see
the ups and downs of our conductor’s wand
just guided by the drummer’s melody
like even ripples forming on a pond

the road ahead presents a deadly turn
we’ve been forewarned to hold on to our seats
the hard way is the lesson here to learn
just don’t lose sight of any drummer’s beats

and so we bring our slides back to their start
and disembark the tiny apple cart 

 

* * *

 

Here is an Ekphrastic Haiku Sonnet from Melissa Lemay,
based on this woodcut:

 

  

Evening Rain, Shinobazu Pond, 1938

—Woodblock Print by Shiro Kasamatsu (1898-1991)

 

 

EVENING RAIN
—Melissa Lemay, Lancaster, PA

The sky, a blank white
page covered in thoughts of rain—
it traipses down like

static on a
television set, blowing
this way and that.

I hide my face in
its gentle caresses,
wondering if its

reminiscences
play hide and seek, looking for
me through the broadcast.

Fractured memory lives
inside every droplet.

 

 

(prev. pub. in MasticadoresUSA, September 2024)

 
* * *

And here is an Ars Poetica from Stephen Kingsnorth ("an offering, Calliope..."):

 

 

 Calliope
—Marcello Bacciarelli

 
RHYME AND REASON
—Stephen Kingsnorth

A kingdom in a priceless pearl,
potential in a mustard seed,
infinity for poetry,
a time and space continuum.
By numbers, painting, not my style,
nor black outline to emphasise;
the portrait not a photograph,
unless the mood is captured, still.
A billion texts do not suffice,
poor studios, walls, galleries,
so brochure for the oeuvre range,
used tickets, book stacks, theatres.

More learned, seek answers, than propose,
react, respond to questions posed,
ekphrastic images for work
to delve into the artists’ lives
with gift and curse of mindfulness,
recalling all that passed this way.
My life or ours, for all are mine—
collective book of hours our prayer,
an offering, Calliope,
where sparks ignite flames, fire of words.
So look but see, hear, listen too,
find what is there, discover more.

____________________

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

____________________

TRIPLE-F CHALLENGES!  

 

See what you can make of these challenges, and send your results to kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.) Let’s do an Insane Cinquain:

•••Insane Cinquain: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/insane-cinquain

•••AND/OR how about a Haikuette? Can you write without verbs? This one looks tricky:

•••Haikuette: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/haikuette

•••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 “Nosy Neighbors”.

____________________

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

•••Alliteration: https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/alliteration
•••Ars Poetica: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ars-poetica
•••Cinquain, Insane: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/insane-cinquain
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••Haiga: Haiku accompanied by a picture
•••Haikuette: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/haikuette

•••Haiku Sonnet (four Haiku followed by two lines of seven syllables each): www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/haiku-sonnet-poetic-form
•••Italian Sestet: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/italian-sestet
•••Just 15s (devised by Sarah Harding): poem or stanza of 15 syllables
•••Rengay: https://haikupedia.org/article-haikupedia/rengay
•••Sonnet Forms: https://blog.prepscholar.com/what-is-a-sonnet-poem-form AND/OR poets.org/glossary/sonnet
•••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

 

 

 

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

* * *

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of
Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

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!