Thursday, December 16, 2021

As Rock Rolls On

 
Dogwalkmorning
—Poetry and Visuals by Smith (Steven B. Smith), Cleveland, OH
 


Mom put us in a perp line
5-yr-old sister 9-yr me straight and stiff
in front of the refrigerator

"We won't be going on the picnic
until whoever stole the cupcake confesses"
she glared, She-Hulk angry

I stood firm, cool, innocent
sis squirmed
after 10 minutes of stare
mom told me to go outside

When I came back in
my crying sister had confessed
and we were heading out

I felt triumphant
the cupcake I'd stolen even more delicious
 
 
 
Momart
 
 
 
We creep from dark
sneeking peeks for sabertooths
mastadons, dire wolves
to huddle round the tribal fire
chanting myths and misses
want and need
how much blood we're willing to grieve
for the laughing light before us
the hard cold teeth behind
as we pound bone
blow flute
sing
glancing back for the fiery eyes
and dripping drool
of life's school
 
 
 
The Journey
 
 

From Pappy
honesty and endurance

from Mom
love and kindness

from both
laughter

rich
at the bottom of the poverty well
 
 
 
One Fish
 
 
 
Last time I felt safe
I was 5
half-asleep in backseat
of 1940's car
on 1951 highway
drone of primitive rubber
running crude concrete
and rattle wreck of entropy
lullaby sublime
parents dark shape in front
me safe behind
no worry
no time
no trouble mind
 
 
 
Shadow of the Yeti
 
 

Mom, dad, bro 1, bro 2, maybe sis
so many dead, burned, buried
and that's not counting the cats

or the eventual dog

Oldest friend still living
snuck in 50 years ago 376 miles away
now 2,129 miles off

donno if that's progress or escape

But they’re all with me
dead, alive
inside and out

now and never forever

This here and gone makes me me
for my only her—
wife, partner-in-crime, friend

in yes and no of if and when
 
 
 
Enlightenment
 
 

There you go
yet . . .
here you are still
(and your shadow beat you to it)

You can't step out of the picture
of reference
and expectation
(the father and mother of suffering
sez long-gone Buddha)

You can only shed your leave
if you shed the going too
 
 
 
 Tired Track
 
 

In parked car in cold
sun toasty through warm glass

The road do get rocky
the vehicle creaky
the body tired
the mind weary
the soul cranky
the map fades
the route lost

In other words
business as usual

As rock rolls on
one continues the show
with nary a me or you in the know
 
 
 
Quantum Imposition
 


Politician-infested waters
I enter anyway
cast my vote

thinking

Here comes snow again
cold ice wind blow
another run for sun

thinking

Freight train
low heavy slow rumble
pulling night

thinking

Cemeteries
what a waste
of grace and space

thinking

Power corrupts
the corrupt seek power
we choose our Gods

till finally

Cold room
hot bath
aahhh
 
 
 
Quantum State
 


Today’s LittleNip:

If I sit in the dark
still, quiet, eyes closed
trouble can't see me

—Smith

___________________

Smith writes to us of family today; maybe he’s been touched by the holidays! Our gratitude to him for more of his fine poetry and artwork, kicking our holidays up a notch as we rumble-tumble into another year.

•••Tonight (12/16), 7-9pm: Poetry Night in Davis presents a fundraiser for Yolo Food Bank, as Lucas Frerichs and Andy Jones read two holiday classics (“A Child’s Christmas in Wales” by Dylan Thomas (1952) and “A Visit from St. Nicholas”—also known as “The Night Before Christmas”—by Clement Clarke Moore). Open mic will follow (4 min. or 2 items, and if you play on your flute, you can read for 5 min.). John Natsoulas Gallery, 521 1st St., Davis. Host: Andy Davis. Info: www.facebook.com/events/595585191730084?acontext={"event_action_history"%3A[{"mechanism"%3A"your_upcoming_events_unit"%2C"surface"%3A"bookmark"}]%2C"ref_notif_type"%3Anull}/.

___________________

—Medusa
 
 
 
Skullsmith








 




 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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! 

Expectation
(the father and mother of suffering
sez long-gone Buddha)