Thursday, January 14, 2021

Who Stole My Sky?

 
—Poetry by Joan McNerney, Ravena, NY
—Public Domain Photos



FALLING
 
Down into dusty subterraneous
passages where trains race. 
 
Silver rods sped through dream
stations transforming tunnels
with bolts of blue white sparks.

On a steel car looking out the
window. Careening in pitch black.
On edge, through trees into lights,
crashing fast against buildings. 
 
 
 
 

 

TONIGHT
 
Chimes tap against our
windowpane.  This evening
becomes starry sapphire
as sea gulls rise in
flight over rooftops.
Winds wrapping around
trees tossing leaves.
 
The courtyard is full of
aromas from dinnertime.
Shadows growing longer
each minute.  Lights go
on and I wait for you.
 
 
 

 

 FORGOTTEN

Like a worn slipper still under
the bed. Socks missing
from laundry.
 
Or that hard-to-find half-rotten
onion lodged at bottom of
refrigerator.
 
I am not important not significant,
unlike lost keys, legal documents,
or financial papers.
 
Not treasured or prized,
worthless half-rotten,
forgotten.
 
 
 

 

LOST
 
Wrapped in ashen clouds
pale shrouds of sadness.
 
My head bent recounting
all the days of my life.
 
Alone in this blur. Wanting only
to fill this empty haze of hours.
 
What remains only minute after
minute of more and more loss.
 
Who stole my sparkling sky
leaving only memories?

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

The poet is the priest of the invisible.

—Wallace Stevens, from
Opus Posthumous

___________________

Our thanks and welcome back to Joan McNerney from Ravena, New York, today—our prodigal poet who first was featured in the Kitchen in June of 2013.

Tonight from 7:15pm-9pm on Zoom, Frank Graham will host a Literary Lecture entitled, Frank Stanford: A Talk, featuring John Amen, Greg Brownderville, and John Burchard Erwin at us02web.zoom.us/. Facebook info: www.facebook.com/events/1796752840489081/.
 
And next Thursday (1/21), from 8-9pm, Poetry in Davis will present An Evening with Dana Gioia at
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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!
 
 “Recounting all the days of my life…”