A Cat Was Standing . . .

 

—Poetry by Joseph Nolan, Michael Ceraolo, 

Caschwa (Carl Schwartz)

—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA

KITES IN SHADOWED SUNSETS
—Joseph Nolan

I hitched my kite to
Lesser stars
That hovered on horizons,
In drifting shadows
Of setting suns
Released from teth’ring strings.

Gravity,
That slipped away,
Allowed the kites
To dance in
Dark suspension—
To while outside
Any goal’d ambition,
To just enjoy
The ending of a day,
Without thought of tomorrow. 

 

 

 

 

 

LOT’S WIFE
—Joseph Nolan

Lot’s wife
Dissolved in the rain,
Though this is
Not part of the story
You normally hear.

It is so easy
For those condemned,
Left behind and abandoned-
To disappear in the rain-
Their easy road to ruin.

You hardly ever hear
Much of Lot’s wife,
Anymore.
You only hear
How God worked his magic—
Turning a woman
Into a pillar of salt,
Punishment for nostalgia,
Feelings of loss,
Or simple curiosity.
Caught-karma-contagion—
A warning to all
Not to look back,
When God is up to no good.

You don’t often hear
How easy it is
For those God’s destroyed
To disappear
Back into the Earth
Or be carried away,
Lick-by-lick,
By thirsty deer.

 

 

 

 

 

THE CRUMBLING DWARF
—Joseph Nolan

He was needed in colors,
But came, still, in gray.

They needed him tender,
But he stayed, still, at bay.

His good-paying jobs,
Were all taken away,
Sent overseas,
To fill others’ needs,
So, now, he had little to say.

It’s a crumbling bargain—
Displacement and rage,
For a humbled, gray dwarf,
Displaced from his page,
Of comfortable,
Post-World War Two,
Affluent, crew-cut America.

So, now, he had little to say,
And no-one wanted to listen
To one who’d been pushed aside,
Who couldn’t be what he had been,
Who couldn’t provide!
Like he could before,
When things were far more easy,
After the last World War.

 

 

 

 

 

THREE POEMS FROM DUGOUT ANTHOLOGY,
A Poetry Series by Michael Ceraolo, S. Euclid, OH


       Herman Franks

We stole signs from the Germans and the Japanese,
and it wasn't wrong for us to do so
While baseball isn't life or death,
winning instead of losing is part of our way of life,
so it wasn't wrong to steal signs in '51
When Leo suggested it,
and Hank Schenz volunteered his telescope,
I was happy to be the spy relaying the signs
And if that could always assure victory,
we would have won a pennant or two
doing it while I was managing San Francisco,
instead of finishing second four years in a row

* * *

       Bobby Thomson

Because of the way I was raised,
I struggled for years to justify what we were doing
I finally realized that,
even if you knew what pitch was coming,
you still had to hit it squarely,
and I deserved credit for doing so

* * *

        Ralph Branca

I was among those taunting the Giants
earlier in the season, so some might say
I got a deserved comeuppance
in giving up the homer to Bobby;
I don't think so, because of the spy
Bobby got more credit than he deserved
and I got more blame that I deserved
We'll be linked as long as baseball is played,
and I'm at peace with my role in the drama

 

 

 

 

 

BOLD TO COME ACROSS CLEARINGS
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

(triggered by a line from “The Thought Fox”

by Ted Hughes, Medusa's Kitchen, 5/23/21)


a cat was standing in
the middle of the street
frozen with fear as it felt
and heard the swoosh
of large mechanizations
zipping by

it spotted a tree, magnificent
haven of safety, peace and
quiet, and darted straight
away to climb it

“911, what is your emergency?”

Just saw a car that was waiting
in the suicide lane cross 3 lanes
of traffic and drive straight into
a big tree on the parkway. The
front end is totally smashed and
the whole car is on fire!

 

 

 

 

 

IT GETS WORSER AND WORSER
—Caschwa

if bad grammar brings you to your boiling point,
here is something else to really stew over:
there is one nation that is quite hostile to
the United States of America, and
uses all the tools in its Mafioso
form of dictatorship to rip the seams out
of the American fabric of freedom,
independence, and power to the people

so clever and efficient are they that they
have convinced some Americans that other
Americans are the hated enemy,
reigniting to raging flames those glowing
embers from our unfinished Civil War days,
propelling our once United States to the
ranking of Eighth Wonder of the Modern World,
the Grand Canyon of Both Houses of Congress,
leaving patriots stranded on either side
of the most widely divided body of
government that the world has ever seen. Why?

as usual, it is money and power
that steer individuals to make choices
more in favor of money and power than
the rights and freedoms that are guaranteed to
all Americans by the Constitution 

 

 

 

 

 

TOO MUCH MEMORY
—Caschwa

some people remember too much
all the facts and details
who, what, when, where, why, and how
they can store and retrieve all that data
is a mystery to me

just what good is it to know all the trivial
aspects of an inconsequential event?

guess it helps with crossword puzzles
to know all the stars and all their roles;
had an uncle who could speedily recite
all the states and their capital cities, while
puffing on cigars that no one else seemed
to enjoy

just what good is it to know all the
inconsequential aspects of a trivial event?

for those of us who rely on rote repetition,
the sting of memory loss is remediated by
a quick rendezvous with other sources

they don’t put real, live grizzly bears or
poison plants in libraries, just books that
others have written with pointers on how
to avoid getting hurt;

for backpacking ventures, most of what
one needs to know will be set forth in a
trail guide or other handy pamphlets, but
there is no need to tote around all those
Dewey Decimal coded books, so that
lightens your backpack a bit

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

CONURE
—Caschwa 

 

(to view them,
just look at our
Congress) 

high-pitched screech
when the bird wants
ATTENTION
mistake giving it
direct attention
whenever it begins
to screech
 

_____________________

Our thanks to today’s contributors for fine poetry and photos! About his “Conure” poem, Carl Schwartz writes, “Snakepal James Lee Jobe recently referenced the Conure on Facebook. This “Found” poem comes from one of the Internet links describing the behavior of Conures; see lafeber.com/pet-birds/species/conure/.”

Tonight, Mon. (5/31), at 7:30pm, Sac. Poetry Center’s Socially Distant Verse features Vicki Carroll and Vivian Dixon-Sober online at us04web.zoom.us/j/7638733462/. (Password: r3trnofsdv) Host: Andrew Laufer. Info: sacpoetrycenter.org/event/socially-distant-verse-featuring-vicki-carroll-vivian-dixon-sober-and-host-andrew-laufe/?fbclid=IwAR0cp8w7EygK6ktmR_67DRXI54q2KZwZJIeQkFF0MuEdsqGWgq2HIsvvdXA/.

Starting this Thursday (6/3), 8pm, Davis’s Poetry Night Reading Series will move back into the John Natsoulas Gallery for in-person readings by Indigo Moor and Carol Lynn Stevenson Grellas. Host: Andy Jones. See also Dr. Andy’s weekly newsletter at andyjones.substack.com—and please subscribe!

Poetry East, an award-winning journal of poetry, art, interviews and translations (poetryeast.org) has sent out a call for submissions, beginning June 1 and ending Aug. 15, for the Fall issue. This volume will gather poems that—in spite of the darkness of the pandemic—celebrate life, endurance, optimism, and all those many unsung things which sustain us. Because their website doesn't have the current submission guidelines, I'm posting them here: Send 5-8 poems (using #10 envelopes) with a cover letter including your name, address, and contact information (phone number and/or email). Manuscripts will not be returned unless accompanied by a self-addressed, stamped envelope with sufficient postage. We allow simultaneous submissions when acknowledged as such. Allow up to four months for a reply; Poetry East will not reply via email to submissions. Please send your submission to: Poetry East, P.O. Box 8186, Northfield, IL 60093-3400.

_________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!

A cat was sitting…

 

But Not To Keep

 

NOT TO KEEP
—Robert Frost (1874-1963)

They sent him back to her. The letter came


Saying... and she could have him. And before


She could be sure there was no hidden ill


Under the formal writing, he was in her sight—


Living.—They gave him back to her alive—


How else? They are not known to send the dead—


And not disfigured visibly. His face?—


His hands? She had to look—to ask,


“What was it, dear?” And she had given all


And still she had all—they had—they the lucky!


Wasn’t she glad now? Everything seemed won,


And all the rest for them permissible ease.


She had to ask, "What was it, dear?"
       

  

                                                      “Enough,


Yet not enough. A bullet through and through,


High in the breast. Nothing but what good care


And medicine and rest—and you a week,


Can cure me of to go again.” The same


Grim giving to do over for them both.


She dared no more than ask him with her eyes


How was it with him for a second trial.


And with his eyes he asked her not to ask.


They had given him back to her, but not to keep. 

 

___________________

—Medusa

 

Tonight (5/30) from 7-8pm, Frank Dixon Graham presents Sunday Salon: Support for Poets and Writers, a weekly online group for support and information about your latest project. Zoom: us02web.zoom.us/j/82282378630/. Facebook info: www.facebook.com/events/2746033925682471/?acontext{"source"%3A"29"%2C"ref_notif_type"%3A"plan_user_invited"%2C"action_history"%3A"null"}&notif_id=1622340389126414&notif_t=plan_user_invited&ref=notif/.

Taking Flight

 

—Poetry by Tom Goff, Carmichael, CA

—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

PACIFISM
 
I’m reading Antony Beevor’s D-Day book.
Enthralling, how with carefully selected
Capsule histories, vignettes he has shook
(Magnificent Seven’s Vin: “Were you elected?”
Chris: “No, but I got nominated real good,”
Snippets of talk just like that), Normandy
In flames, much gore in Operation Goodwood,
French sufferings which rate a C’est la vie
From some chroniclers: the atrocity’s too much
By page 260; I turn to Early Morning,
Kim Stafford’s book in tribute to William Stafford.
Quiet filial insight after so much scorning
Of reason, Patton to Bradley having chaffered
Over what cost in gasoline per tank
Per mile of penetration into German-
Held French territory, egos with ribbons of rank,
Infighting for scraps of war caressed like ermine.
Soft is the voice but resolute the peace
That emanates from poets. The less certain
The tone, the less that of Romans sacking Greece:
Poetry’s no iron wall, more beaded curtain;
Not hostile stone for archetype: far star,
Aurora borealis ropes of sand,
Benignly sugared transparencies that bar
Or stripe north nights in slow-dissolving bands.
Sometimes the only note of war I need,
An unknown soldier’s jest fetched up from Sword,
The D-Day beach. As bullet streaks make bleed
Tommies gulping surf, some anonymous lord
Of nonchalance splutters this thought: “I say,
Perhaps we’re intruding. This must be a private beach.”
How vital under threat of death, to have scored
A rhetorical hit, deflected the blood-red screech
Of mortars, machine-gun bullets. Back to the fray,
The urge so briefly and lightly set aside
Resumed, the ethos Kill-or-be-killed for guide.

 

 

 

 

 RUSTY
 
Today must be the day we euthanize
Our good cat Rusty; he has been so ill,
He wolfs, or is that lynxes, down his fill
And more of soft cat food, then on a rise
Of kibbles crunches away. He cannot keep
Down all this food, yet onward, meal-obsessed,
Consumes his sister cat’s share. He won’t rest
Until he feels the needle-jab that reaps
More quickly than the skeleton with scythe.
Skeletal as he is, for all his eating,
He keeps that soft orange fur with hints of rose.
Used to be sociable, curious exceeding,
Delved in each Christmas bag; by writhing lithe
Poked in, popped out. Now probes where, no one knows.
 
I gave him the lead gift in the twilight,
Says Jeffers, mercy-killing a hurt hawk.
More tame, the civilized way to bring on night
For cats. A catheter will never balk
At easing open the blood-flow, artery gate
Where serums through plastic locks must softly enter.
One tube is for sedation, one for Fate.
Clear liquid cleanses the cat mind, and with tender
Insistence prepares for the pink fluid to come.
Rusty in all his weakness gave two little
Head-butts of friendship to my hand; went numb,
Then all his illness-thinned frame had to settle.
The doctor’s loving calm, three candles lit.
Both gold cat’s-eyes remained open, had not quit. 

 

 

 

 

 MOCKINGBIRD
 
Those who named you had no notion
But scurrility. What beak-borne strung
Necklace or torque of notes
Could be more sincere?
 
You sculpt, no, erect
Your pavilion or tone-pagoda
From your sleek gray
Body with the white wing-chevrons
 
Atop the telephone pole
Adjacent to my late mother-in-law’s
Pomegranate tree, bamboo thicket. You atop
The pole, you are a landline wire and
            the voice along it.
 
Of your song you, plus the house
With its wooden mass—the fences completing its
Quadrilateral—contrive a thespian’s ancient
Megaphone, mouthpiece in the mask, echoing
 
In the amphitheatre. Montserrat Caballé
Of ventriloquists, your song’s
Inside-my-ear-projected, though it issued
With you above. Depending on angle,
 
You are either of two red-starred
Soviet trumpeters in the touring orchestra:
This I remember, at Palacio de Bellas Artes;
One trumpet finesses the passagework
As if for commissars in the dress circle,
 
Tongue-articulations timed to the swift
Valve-movements. The other trumpet,
Swivel-pointing the brass bell this way and that,
Doles out rations of blare to the masses
 
Like power ballads, parcels fortissimos
To each according to his need; thus
You ripple out note-rings, angles and Engels,
You, resonant tiny fanatic, singer to mere me, prole. 

 

 

 

Today’s LittleNip:

Love has turned many into poets; pain has turned many into artists; charity has turned many into pacifists, and anger has turned many into activists.
 
―Matshona Dhliwayo

___________________
 
—Medusa, with many thanks to Tom Goff for today’s fine poetry!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!

 

 

 

Those Red-Flagged Winds

 

—Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA

—And scroll down for Form Fiddlers' Friday!!

TREASURES ALONG THE WAY

Vending machine’s not broken, just out of reach. Pre-pandemic, I’d scan my card, push a button; out slid the latest map. I need Rocklin—got lost enroute to my 1st Covid shot. 2nd dose coming up, I want a real paper map like I grew up with, open in my lap, cross-country trips before interstates—Dad’s meandering choices—a squiggly line through wide white space, or tangled red & blue knots of cities. I got my shot, but no thanks to internet Directions. I visualize a compass, a continent in my head. // The line outside AAA, 6 feet from other masked folks waiting. A man steps out: who has an appointment? what are we here for? He takes my map order. (Oh, to stand at the vending machine of choices—I’d take them all; so many new roads, new developments.) He brings me just Rocklin.

I won’t get lost—but
where’s the wander-pleasure of
maps, the scenic route? 

 

 

 

 

 

TOUCHDOWN OF TURKLETS

Loki was going crazy at the dog-yard fence.
Out the window, a turkey. No, two wild turkeys
behind the house. And a blur of wings,
a pigeon-size bird descending from sky,
then another; too many to count landing, dashing
after the big birds. Turkey-kids having field-day,
Discovery of Wings! When all the launching
out of oaks was done, the landings graceful or not
on dry stubble, the grouping and regrouping
of young, I made a guestimate: a dozen turklets
and two grown-up turkeys, plus raven
flying recon above treetops. What about
the abandoned turkey nest I found
in the garden? What about it? Turkeys
can have their red herrings, their surprises, too. 

 

 

 

 

 

UNDER-WEED TREASURE

I search for glimpses under the Scythe-man’s
faded gold—once green. Yellow fiddleneck
flower stalks gone to skeleton tough as
petrified wood, and a mat of wind-waved
grass tangled with nets of stickweed and vetch.
As we cut the dead and dying, I look
sharp for treasure hidden under ragged
swaths of his blade, my whirling motorized
string. There. A hint of vibrant green, sapling
valley oak pushing up from underground.
Careful! cut around it, let it live. And
look, skimming the mown field a white moth—ghost
of what’s gone, dancing into the still air. 

 

 

 

 

 

WHAT WAS A WOODS-ROAD

I’ve been waiting in this line for the longest time.
I knew it was coming, this massacre of trees
in the name of keeping us all fire-safe.
Now, one lane’s blocked with leafy arms.
Now one lane’s blocked with leafy arms
waving goodbye; trees after chainsaw-strafe
standing unstirred by a delta breeze; their branches
no longer offering blessings sweeter than rhyme. 

 

 

 

 

 

FIELD LITTER

The spring is dying, grasses dead
with foxtail, wild oat, ripgut brome.
Seedpods split open, seeds must spread
for next spring, vagabonds must roam.

Dry awns and stickers find my boots,
scheming for rebirth, driving roots
through steel-toed leather hide of cow,
replanting weeds I’m cutting now. 

 

 

 

 

 

WEED-EATING CONUNDRUM

In a chill spring Delta breeze from the west—
No! those frigid red-flag winds from the north—
what kind of fire danger venturing forth
in a chill spring Delta breeze from the west?

No. Those frigid red-flag winds from the north
dare me to stop my mowing of dry grass.
Just take it easy, let the weather pass?
No, those frigid red-flag winds from the north

dare me to stop my mowing of dry grass
in a chill spring Delta breeze from the west
that rattles the abandoned turkey nest.
Dare me to stop my mowing of dry grass!

In a chill spring Delta breeze from the west—
no, those frigid red-flag winds from the north—
what kind of fire danger venturing forth
in a chill spring Delta breeze from the west? 

 

 

 

 

 

Today’s LittleNip:

1st ZUCCHINI HILL
—Taylor Graham

In drought my garden
this morning greets me—two green
lips begging water.

__________________

Taylor Graham continues to weed-eat her property, but still has time to send us fine poetry and photos from the foothills, for which we are most grateful! Sounds like her garden is growing, too, despite the drought. The forms she has sent us this week include a Blank Verse ("Under-Weed Treasure"); an Amanda's Pinch ("What Was a Woods-Road"); a Rispetto ("Field Litter"); a Catena Rondo ("Weed-Eating Conundrum") plus a Haibun ("Treasures Along the Way") and a Haiku ("1st Zucchini Hill").

 

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 for awhile, there will be poems posted here from some of our readers using forms—either ones which were mentioned on 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 forms and get them posted in the Kitchen, by golly! (See Medusa’s Form Finder at the end of this post for links to definitions of the forms used this week.)

I hope you got a chance to see all of Carol Louise Moon’s fine form poetry in yesterday’s Medusa! (We’re going to steal the Question Poem for this week’s Fiddler’s Challenge, in fact.)  Here are links to the forms she sent us:

•••Espinella: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/espinela-poetic-forms
•••Found Poem: www.writersdigest.com/personal-updates/found-poetry-converting-or-stealing-the-words-of-others OR poets.org/glossary/found-poem
•••Ghazal: poets.org/glossary/ghazal OR poetryschool.com/theblog/whats-a-ghaza OR
www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ghazal OR
www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/ghazal.html  
•••Palindromic Poem (Mirror Poetry):
www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/poetic-asides/personal-updates/poetic-form-palindrome-poetry-or-mirror-poem
•••Pentastich: a free verse or blank verse quintain which has no rhyme or meter: see www.masterclass.com/articles/what-is-quintain-poetry#what-is-a-quintain
•••Pleiades: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/pleiades.html
•••Question Poem: penandthepad.com/write-question-poem-6933078.html

Give some of them a try!

If you had problems with the confusing Poets Collective link for the Fiddler’s Challenge last week (the Catena Rondo), I apologize for posting it. A link that is much easier to understand is the Writer’s Digest one: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/catena-rondo-poetic-forms/.

Carl Schwartz, like Taylor Graham, sent a Catena Rondo, which was last week’s Fiddler’s Challenge. I told Carl I like forms like this and the Villanelle, with their repetition which has a lulling, rocking effect—and saves the writer some time and effort, besides, by repeating lines!


TESTY & TASTY
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

recent grad, college degree
pretty good chops on trombone
talked with Spike Lee on the phone
recent grad, college degree

pretty good chops on trombone
would I take a pie in the face?
he asked, from out of no place
pretty good chops on trombone

would I take a pie in the face?
he knew what he was asking
it wasn’t unfair tasking
would I take a pie in the face?

he knew what he was asking
I guess I took too much time
to rank up there with sublime
he knew what he was asking

I guess I took too much time
never heard from him again
no pie would touch my skin
I guess I took too much time

never heard from him again
I became a paralegal
walked the beach like a dominant sea gull
never heard from him again

I became a paralegal
worked real hard to get the facts
learned about laws and rules and acts
I became a paralegal

worked real hard to get the facts
weekends, evenings, off the clock
found facts hiding under a rock
worked real hard to get the facts

weekends, evenings, off the clock
easy to spot something wrong
all the words should fit in a song
weekends, evenings, off the clock

easy to spot something wrong
and state which law was broken
evidence may be unspoken
easy to spot something wrong

and state which law was broken
elements key to support the charge
into court the truth won’t barge
and state which law was broken

elements key to support the charge
convince a jury of twelve peers
to believe the facts and not their ears
elements key to support the charge

convince a jury of twelve peers
recent grad, college degree
the truth is there for all to see
convince a jury of twelve peers

recent grad, college degree
pretty good chops on trombone 

talked with Spike Lee on the phone
recent grad, college degree 

 

 

 

 

 

Next is an Abhanga from Carl, who says that, “like the Poet’s Collective example, there is no spacing between the stanzas”:


I OWN YOU NOW
—Caschwa

problem, plain and simple
just owning property
is not enough, you see
we’re God’s image
we own the scribes themselves
and tell them what to write
no matter wrong from right
now it’s in print
the top authority
is from a voice unheard
maybe a little bird
biblical verse
you gotta believe it
the seven deadly sins
the game that Cleveland wins
gold-leaf pages
almighty gave man brains
to compute gambling odds
the neck is just for nods
count me in, deal
these are good cards I have
elegant bluffs aside
truth is easy to hide
I own you now

 

 

 

 

 

Carl, in his creativity, says the following poem “has the rhyme scheme of a Sonnet, but uses alternating 11- and 12-syllable lines, and is not predominantly iambic pentameter. If this form needs a new name, I would call it ‘Notasonnet’”:


ANOTHER LOOK
—Caschwa

Each year the economic powers that be
conduct a market survey they call a Census
to count all our blessings, in order to see
new ways to gerrymander, knock down our fences

there is no escaping the scope of their search
all residents, by law, are so forced to comply
they’ll even dig into records of your church
even when there appears to be no reason why

and this continues on, each year after year
once they get the most votes, you’d think they have enough
but greed knows no boundaries, nor has a peer
and any counter moves they will quickly rebuff

their crowning achievement was owning some slaves
but the Thirteenth Amendment turned owners to knaves 

 

 

 

 

 

For his Grand Finale, Carl sends us this poem with the comment, “The Senryu is an inquiry into the nature of humankind, whereas the Haiku is an inquiry into the nature of the universe.”  Lewis Turco, Book of Forms, 5th Edition, pg. 280. This is a chain Senryu.”

For information about Lewis Turco and his books on poetry forms, go to:
•••Biography: www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/lewis-turco
•••Purchase (be sure to get 2020 edition): www.amazon.com/Lewis-Turco/eB001K7LAUQ%3Fref=dbs_a_mng_rwt_scns_share


EXTERMINATOR
—Caschwa

just one little ant
with an inquisitive soul
crept too near my meal

so I brought out my
sure-fire, kill-dead, remedies
for my peace of mind

I know that in the
whole scheme of things it was just
a cub reporter

looking for a scoop
sensational enough for
big banner headlines

prime rib or dog poop
either one would do the trick
conscript an army

to take it away
little bit by little bit
but not on my watch 

 

 

 

 _______________________

 

Many thanks to our SnakePals for their brave fiddling! Would you like to be a SnakePal? 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!

__________________

FIDDLERS’ CHALLENGE!   

 

See what you can make of this week’s poetry form, and send it to kathykieth@hotmail.com! (No deadline.) This week's challenge (see Carol Louise Moon’s example in yesterday’s post):

Question poem: penandthepad.com/write-question-poem-6933078.html

__________________

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

•••Abhanga: poetscollective.org/poetryforms/abhanga
•••Amanda’s Pinch: poetscollective.org/poetryforms/amandas-pinch
•••Blank Verse: literarydevices.net/blank-verse OR www.masterclass.com/articles/poetry-101-what-is-the-difference-between-blank-verse-and-free-verse#quiz-0
•••Catena Rondo: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/catena-rondo-poetic-forms
•••Found Poem: www.writersdigest.com/personal-updates/found-poetry-converting-or-stealing-the-words-of-others OR poets.org/glossary/found-poem
•••Haibun: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/haibun-poems-poetic-form
•••Haiku: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/haiku/haiku.html
•••Question Poem: penandthepad.com/write-question-poem-6933078.html
•••Rispetto: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/poetic-forms-rispetto
•••Senryu: www.masterclass.com/articles/how-to-write-senryu-poems#quiz-0
•••Sonnet Forms: blog.prepscholar.com/what-is-a-sonnet-poem-form

•••Villanelle (rhymed; can be done unrhymed): www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/poetic-forms-villanelle
 

__________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

 

 

 

 

Heaven-Bound

 

—Poetry and Tapestry Photos by Carol Louise Moon, 

Placerville, CA

A HARBOR SEAL’S HARBOR

There must be a place
where harbor seals harbor,
and on a marina dock
is as good a place as any—

unless that is where
I am walking to my boat,
and a huge seal is sunning
himself in a fierce manner

with his great back arched,
his face to the dark clouds—
his great red mouth gaping
and his sharp off-white teeth
gleaming in the bright
afternoon sun between clouds.

I run past him quickly and
jump off the dock and over
the gunnel of my small craft,
turn the ignition key—and
wait in silent fear for the
engine to come to life. 

 

 

 

 

 

CRESCENDO
(Espinella)

The day has yet to play such tones,
such melodies as I have heard
enhancing every rhyming word—
a lyric—as the day postpones
its end. I have an ear which hones
into the rhythm of each soul
I care about. I feel the roll
of hours throughout the day with lack,
needing final notes to tighten slack—
like sleepy midnight bells to toll. 

 

 

 

 

 

CITHARA NOVA
(Ghazal)

The strumming of a harp guitar? Or harping
sound of John’s Cithara Nova lever harp?

Tall, broad shouldered, handsome Koa wood
planks in the artisan’s hands; he builds harps.

Rock/Hammer/Scissors: game of draw or win.
A harp builder draws designs and wins at harps.

Savarez harp strings from France, 36 in all,
strung and tuned. He pulls at my harpstrings.

This harp sits in his shop, waiting his careful
reach and touch. A bird sits atop a mute harp.

I have recorded his days, videos and photos, to
chronicle the building of the Harp Maker’s harp.

This wooden beauty is taller than this poet. By
year’s end—could this harp be my harp?

____________________

HEAVENLY
(Pleiades)

The harpist takes her place, a
tapestry cherry wood chair.
Taking her harp in hand she
tilts it to her shoulder. The
time it takes to begin—a
tantalizing breath away.
Truly, we are heaven-bound. 

 

 

 

 

 

LINCOLN
(Palindromic/Mirror Poem)

Lincoln walked miles
wearing down
those old shoes
just to return 2 cents.
It wasn’t about the money.
It was about ethics:
making a wrong right,
following through,
valuing your neighbor.
Following through
making a wrong right;
it was about ethics.
It wasn’t about the money,
just to return 2 cents.
Those old shoes
wearing down—
Lincoln walked miles.

 

 

 

 

 

APPLE BLOSSOMS
(Palindromic/Mirror Poem)

Soon there will be
white apple blossoms.
The twigs being bare,
we could use popped popcorn—
we could cut branch shapes,
brown card stock.
Glue could also be used on
brown card stock.
We could cut branch shapes.
We could use popped popcorn,
the twigs being bare.
White apple blossoms
soon there will be.

___________________

FIG COOKIES
(Question Poem)

Figs?
Where, right here on our property?
When did you plant a fig tree?

Where?
Why behind the shop?
Why didn’t you tell me?

So?
You didn’t want me to have some?
Well then, did you save some for me?

When?
What do you mean all summer?
Don’t we have a recipe for fig cookies?

Why not?
Are there still figs on the tree?
Why am I buying fig bars!!? 

 

 

 

 

 

FRINGE WITH NIGHT
(Found Poem taken from
“For a Dead Lady”  
by E.A. Robinson)

Now, a faded hidden world,
the wonder of language shifting,
many divine, faint answers…
Saturn rising with scattered applause.
We delve into all inexorable causes.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

SMALL FROG
(Pentastich)

warm spring morning a
small dark frog watches
reddened leaf skitter—
happiness, despite
prying eyes of Owl

___________________

—Medusa, with many thanks to Carol Louise Moon for sending us these fine poems today! Form Fiddlers will be tickled by this gold mine of forms!

 

Tonight (5/27), 7:30pm, Sac. Poetry Alliance presents Native American Poetry: Traditional and Contemporary Visions and Themes, an online Literary Lecture by Lucille Lang Day. Host: Frank Dixon Graham. Zoom: us02web.zoom.us/. Facebook info: www.facebook.com/events/965954774208166/?acontext{"source"%3A"29"%2C"ref_notif_type"%3A"event_aggregate"%2C"action_history"%3A"null"}&notif_id=1621861694283862&notif_t=event_aggregate&ref=notif/.

 

 

 

...despite prying eyes of Owl.

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

Trains of Thought

 

—Poetry by Michael H. Brownstein, Prairie City, MO

—Stingray Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

BECOMING
—Because of Melanie Monterey Eyth
 

Who does a poet love
if not the poem within,
the rhythm and the image
standing near enough
throwing everything off-
balance, almost drunk?

 

 

 

 

 

WHAT IS HAPPINESS BUT A TRAIN OF THOUGHT

When I cried
my cries bruised the wind—
when I sighed
my sighs formed crystals in the rain—
when I tried
I discovered mountaintops of glory—
but when I lied,
when I had too much pride,
ice formed in my stomach
and then I found my spirit guide
and my cries became cries of joy,
my sighs the light within stars,
my tries victories even in failure
and each day began as a rainbow.

 

 

 

 

 

LOVE POEM

The world splattered ink all over me—
water, then light; rust and moon glitter:
somewhere the Witch of Hollandaise,
Demon of Serpentis, dog of the chariot—

Beside me, she dreams she is asleep
her hair stops lighting red to blue to green,
then the color of the Antigua beach, early:
three giant stingrays swimming near the surface.

 

 

 

 

 

THE AUTO BODY MECHANIC

He is the sandy white-haired giant
with a fist that can fill an adult skull
and when he brings it down against metal,
he is the forge, he is the anvil—
gentle and calm with quiet in his voice,
choirs in his movements bending material
to fit and mend. Is there more to this man
of girth and strength? Watch him work,
the easy river flow of body singing
until one job, then another and another,
and still another are complete.

 

 

 

 

 

ON MARRIAGE

I did not settle down—
I settled up.

I did not tie the knot—
too constraining, too confining—
I helped us create a bracelet of kisses.

I did not fall in love—
why hurt myself—
I soared with love.

Do you know the meaning of marriage
in the ancient language of the Ocktoroomera?
I don't either, but I know they marry for life
and everyone is happy.

_______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

THE BIRDS OF FLOWERS
—Michael H. Brownstein

the soft orange globe
near the edge of night
rises between the hands of god

_______________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Michael Brownstein for today’s fine poetry!

 

 

 

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!