the crows have come today
to count and measure the wounds of the earth
these wounds are large and numerous
and the crows announce them one by one
I am their witness
lazy man I never put my hoses away
they lay wherever I drop them
I never bother to remember where, either
I have spent my life walking around
looking for the far end of hoses
I imagine finches watching me or raccoons
all of them thinking me a fool—
stupid man! he should put the hoses away!
well, to hell with them all
I don’t have feathers or fur
and I don’t go around judging people
with poems on their minds
the advertisement was for a rustic cabin for sale
looking at the photograph,
I decided that rustic must mean beat all to hell.
looking down at this aging body
One can see that I must be a rustic poet
and then
from somewhere outside of my also-rustic house
a dog began to bark
it barked for a very long time
____________________
because we are human we think
we must endeavor to be perfect
how foolish—
it is our perfect imperfections
that makes us human
we suffer, we sweat, we love
so just love yourself anyway
right now
at dusk the sun dies
every morning the sun is then reborn
and it is that every morning brings another chance
for you and I to be better people
to grow to learn to love
it’s easy when the sun rises tomorrow
just wake up and open your heart
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
silence is a blessing the perfect emptiness
that binds you to the void embrace it
raise up your arms and give thanks for silence
give thanks for the vast emptiness of the void
—James Lee Jobe
____________________
—Medusa, thanking James Lee Jobe for today’s fine poetry and visuals!
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.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is 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.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
