Friday, March 09, 2018

Arching Over The Qwerty

—Poems by Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
—Anonymous Photos



Gunshots at school!!
Adrenalin pumping
Bodies thumping
Sirens, uniforms
The logic of unicorns

Everything was
Hunky, dory
Fully armed teens
Were just a story
Fairy tales
For training films
Where evil fails

A fire drill
Had come and gone
No lesson learned
About right and wrong
Form over substance
Do what you’re told
This will help you tomorrow
If you ever get that old

Finally the shooter
Was caught and arrested
For blowing holes in theories
Widely taught, not yet tested
There was, in fact, a good man with a gun
Who stood tall until bullets came near,
His sidearm no match for an AR-15
He crumbled and trembled in fear

Seventeen people are alive no more
From a gun that does not kill
You can even buy one at the store
Much more easily than a pill
Now every child and teacher
Needs at least a bullet-proof vest
Because just the act of coming to
School could be their very last test

(It’s just another Friday)

First bring me a large cup of black coffee
Add a hint of poetic heather
And sweeten with the hyacinth allegory.*

*from The Ghost Sonata by August Strindberg

Confirm with the 35% of supporters
Who really don’t give a hoot about anything
Whether a stiff tariff on Canadian steel
Will suffice to quell the dossier issues.*

*raised by Christopher Steele

Trust me:  I will give you the exact answers
That my attorneys carefully drafted, reviewed,
And approved; but be forewarned that they
May not, in fact, be answers to the questions
You presented.  By checking the box agreeing
To these terms, you also agree to generously
Compensate my attorneys.*

*And it is your turn to bring the donuts.

Now proceed.


Start with a grueling, bloody war
That finally sets us free
To play the music on the score
Sweet sounds of liberty

Celebrate the freedoms won
Each state makes its own laws
One man, one vote, a slave, a gun
Due process, amend the flaws

What will happen to this land
A quarter millennia hence;
Will our pillars turn to sand,
Each bump a capital offense?

All this utter nonsense must come to a screaming halt
There is no resolution in a conquest bent on fault.


So many sweet memories of
Kind friends, lucky choices, now
Covered in bittersweet layers
Like an old onion sitting in the

Bottom of the bag in the far
Corner of the pantry; a true
Starlet waiting nervously for her
Infinite talents to be discovered.



There are just a few
Multi-talented people
Who can write a script,

Direct, produce, cast,
And star in the leading role
Of a hit movie

Of course, each of these
Few have countless copycats
Who aren’t all that good

Think a moment, does
Not one come to mind right now?
A real loser. Sad!


The promise of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness
Lies idly along the banks of a perpetual motion,
Deaf and blind, stream of commerce richly fed by
Russian oligarchs that our own Supreme Sheriff
Of Nottingham insisted we warmly receive as 
Full-fledged members of We the People

The newly certified powers that be built a dam, paid
For by taxpayers too poor to push back, yet too patriotic
And proud to turn their back on their country, and now
That dam divides our nation, native son residents and
Absentee landlords, manual labor and foreign money,
Poets, Dreamers, and Ponzi schemers, one dam nation.


Strong gusts of wind
alliterate all they touch,
causing small plants and
tall trees to lean the same

Scientists and politicians,
finding higher water levels
eroding their own homes,
each sit down in some dry
place to carefully compose
vanguard articles about
cause and effect;

Right at this very moment
learned authors are busily
re-writing the Book of Genesis
to help us understand the NRA
spin our natural, human traits
by portraying Cain as wielding a
modified club, capable of smiting
dozens of living creatures in the
blink of an eye.

And then popular pundits and
common citizens will likewise
issue forth reams of comments
about how obvious it all was,
how we should have seen it
coming and taken action to deal
with it much sooner.

Maybe if we depicted the Earth
as a manufacturer’s discount
coupon with a conspicuous
expiration date and list of several
limitations and exclusions in fine
print, we could awaken the powers
that be to take some real action
before it is just too, too late.


Here we are,
fingers arched
over the QWERTY,
ready to set forth
volumes of viable solutions
to many of the world’s
most complex problems.
It is a dream about to come true.

SUDDENLY reality happens.
What is reality?
The truth.
Whose truth?
There is only one truth.
Who told you that?
Uh, well, you’re a troublemaker.
Fake news, I knew it!


Today’s LittleNip:



Delicious, chocolaty brown
Aura like the emperor’s crown

Politely listens to whatever I say
Imposes no color against my drab gray

Brown eyes intent, wet nose in the air
Ready to run, or to hug like a bear

A tap on the door brings me up to my feet
She goes out, does her business, comes in for a treat


Our thanks to Caschwa (Carl Bernard Schwartz) for his fine poetry today! For more about
The Ghost Sonata, go to, and for more about its symbolism, see

To see Richard Polt’s classic typewriter collection (for those of you who remember what a typewriter is…), go to


Celebrate the poetry that has been written 
on typewriters over the years!

Photos in this column can be enlarged by clicking on them once,
then click on the X in the top right corner to come back
to Medusa.