Thursday, October 28, 2010


Photo by Jane Blue

—Jane Blue, Sacramento

One crimson blossom of the Rose of Sharon peers
through the kitchen window, little hibiscus
of late Autumn.

What do you say?

That beauty is random.  You must look at it
and seize it.  That life goes on.

The sun so bright, ash leaves glitter as they fall.

Beauty is not random.  It belongs to the young.

Beauty is like a gun to your head.  Beauty
is like a ravaging disease.

Life does not go on.  The leaves are piled, swept
into dull mounds in the street, like
biers, like cairns.

Halloween:  fog comes, obscuring the fake
cobwebs and gigantic spiders
crawling up the children’s houses.

Let beauty fall on you as the sun,
that even above the fog, is there.  And at night,
the moon to reflect it.

The moon is dead.
Only the sun brings forth its beauty.


"I Am the Dream and the Dream is Now" RT Poetry Contest for Grades 3-12:

The Sacramento Regional Transit District (RT) is celebrating its 3rd annual Season of Civil Rights with a series of events during the months of December, January and February to build awareness about the significant role that transit played in the American Civil Rights Movement. In preparation, RT invites students in grades 3 through 12 who attend a school within RT's service area to participate in the "I Am the Dream and the Dream is Now" poetry contest. RT will display the winning poems on RT interior transit cards in each bus from December 1, 2010 through February 28, 2011 to commemorate RT's Season of Civil Rights. Winning poems will also be on display at special events during the three-month campaign, and winners will receive a $25 bookstore gift card and The Rosa Parks Story DVD. Deadline is November 12. Info:

Watch Medusa’s Up-coming Deadlines! page (under the SNAKE ON A ROD) for other deadlines, and don’t forget the extended Tule Review deadline is Oct. 30 (see b-board under SPC’s red box).

Thanks to today’s contributors, including this Pleiades from Carol Louise Moon. More about the Pleiades form next week!

—Carol Louise Moon, Sacramento

With longy ellow throats, the Yellowthroats cry
Witchery, Witchery, flying through the sky.
Woe! to the one who does not heed:
witches’ spell, witches’ brew, or witches’ breed.
White magic sing-songs
whisper through the trees
while Yellowthroats, on the wing, sing Witchery.


—Richard Zimmer, Sacramento

Now comes the haunting hour,
the sun is setting in the west,
Halloween has arrived—
Trick-or-Treaters start their quest.

On this day in late October,
Children hurry all around—
little boys in vampire garb,
little girls in witch’s gowns.

Climbing stairs for Gummy Bears,
sticky things for them to eat—
chocolate bars and candy corn,
the rewards are truly sweet.

All about the moonlit night,
happy children knock on doors.
Back home by pumpkin’s light,
candy pours on front room floors.


 Photo by Janet Pantoja

—Janet Pantoja, Woodinville, WA

What's rattling around
in the closet of your mind
this Halloween—spiders,
ghosts, goblins, witches,
warlocks, monsters, wolves,
dragons, a Frankenstein?

Thought pictures in all kinds
of disguises parade through
the closet of our minds . . .
weave subtle webs of entanglement
that would convince us that Good
could be undermined.

Shine a flashlight on these
thoughts—what do you see?
just fear . . . dressed up, lurking
powerless in a corner—as weak
as a spider's web—to be swept away 
by the Broom of Understanding.

So this Halloween dress up
in your scariest costume—
party—have a terrific time!
be on guard though . .  .
watch the door of your mind—
invite thoughts that are only Divine.


Today's LittleNip(s):

Here lies John Bun,
He was killed by a gun,
His name was not Bun, but Wood,
But Wood would not rhyme with gun, but Bun would.

Here lies Sir Tact, a diplomatic fellow
Whose silence was not golden, but just yellow.
                  —Timothy Steele

Here lies the preacher, judge, and poet, Peter
Who broke the laws of God, and man, and metre.
                  —Lord Jeffrey

Here, richly, with ridiculous display,
The Politician's corpse was laid away.
While all of his acquaintance sneered and slanged,
I wept: for I had longed to see him hanged.
                  —Hilaire Belloc



Photo by Jane Blue