Night Wolf
—Poetry by Michael Ceraolo, Joe Nolan, Stephen Kingsnorth
and Caschwa (Carl Schwartz)
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joe Nolan
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joe Nolan
and Stephen Kingsnorth
SHOOTING STAR (a Playlet)
—Michael Ceraolo, S. Euclid, OH
(a tragedy that hasn't happened-yet.)
Johnny was a schoolboy
when he threw his first touchdown pass
Hallelujah he said
Now I won't have to worry about class
After high school, Johnny went away
to College Station, Texas,
where he waited a year to play,
to become the star of the day
Johnny made his legend
with his play against Number One
And since he wasn't there to study
after two seasons he was done
Drafted high 'cause the owner interfered,
Johnny wasn't what he appeared
When he at last got a chance to play,
his hard partying ruined the day
Such shenanigans cost him his place
And yet he continued to be quite a case,
making the news on many a day
even after he'd ceased to play
Johnny died one night, died in a strange bed,
empty whiskey bottles around his head
Johnny's life passed by in what seemed like a day
If you look on the net you can still see him play
The world now knows what you are:
A shooting star
A shooting star
A shooting star . . .
THE END
—Michael Ceraolo, S. Euclid, OH
(a tragedy that hasn't happened-yet.)
Johnny was a schoolboy
when he threw his first touchdown pass
Hallelujah he said
Now I won't have to worry about class
After high school, Johnny went away
to College Station, Texas,
where he waited a year to play,
to become the star of the day
Johnny made his legend
with his play against Number One
And since he wasn't there to study
after two seasons he was done
Drafted high 'cause the owner interfered,
Johnny wasn't what he appeared
When he at last got a chance to play,
his hard partying ruined the day
Such shenanigans cost him his place
And yet he continued to be quite a case,
making the news on many a day
even after he'd ceased to play
Johnny died one night, died in a strange bed,
empty whiskey bottles around his head
Johnny's life passed by in what seemed like a day
If you look on the net you can still see him play
The world now knows what you are:
A shooting star
A shooting star
A shooting star . . .
THE END
This Week's Seed of the Week: The World Gone
Upside Down
TURNING THE WORLD
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales, UK
I needed foreground, image said—
so lichen stone, a clean air wall,
unfocussed wider lakeside drift
brought closer by this bubble ball.
As lockdown asks which households share,
better to see the distant near,
claimed crystal foretells what will come,
good news or worse feeds hope, fear, both.
Deciduous, meniscus pads,
that strata, cirrus, treeline, glade,
lovelight the clearer seen in death,
glass darkly reflects bright for shade.
Like pinhole, this lens turns the world,
sole boots become where wear old hat,
the mighty fallen from their seat,
as downside up, Magnificat.
Light from the upper left confused,
site lines refracted, eyesight orbs,
perspective, points, horizon changed,
as pupils learning to absorb.
This landscaped portrait, still-life shot,
Hyde Hall well-hidden, out of frame,
for plot where choose to plant our sphere
of influence tags aim and name.
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales, UK
I needed foreground, image said—
so lichen stone, a clean air wall,
unfocussed wider lakeside drift
brought closer by this bubble ball.
As lockdown asks which households share,
better to see the distant near,
claimed crystal foretells what will come,
good news or worse feeds hope, fear, both.
Deciduous, meniscus pads,
that strata, cirrus, treeline, glade,
lovelight the clearer seen in death,
glass darkly reflects bright for shade.
Like pinhole, this lens turns the world,
sole boots become where wear old hat,
the mighty fallen from their seat,
as downside up, Magnificat.
Light from the upper left confused,
site lines refracted, eyesight orbs,
perspective, points, horizon changed,
as pupils learning to absorb.
This landscaped portrait, still-life shot,
Hyde Hall well-hidden, out of frame,
for plot where choose to plant our sphere
of influence tags aim and name.
The World Gone Downside Up Again
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Stephen Kingsnorth
WHOSE SCRIPT?
—Steven Kingsnorth
You ask how things are, show concern,
though enter door and there on wall,
a poster, first in line, front queue,
tells ‘Good vibes only’, capitals.
On second view, another clue,
is my preferred, backstory words,
less harsh, and downside up as well,
enquiry gentler, deeper well.
So many state, ‘how are we, folks?’,
as if a question not intent,
astonishment, should you relate,
an answer with a health report;
a farewell parrot, not adieu,
but have a nice day, smile, cliché,
an autopilot guiding through—
the customer is always rite.
What’s in your window—maybe eyes—
or what is seen when words are heard,
but is it neon, glaring bright,
or careful, wise, reflective sign?
If I may only shine, your good—
and you define, design that mood,
when I bring tremor, shaking hand,
I’ll not be brave to pass that vibe.
So roll your blinds, forget the rhyme,
too clever strapline, easy quote,
but let your mind, soul, speech align,
from others’ shoes hear story told.
And then tread lightly, understand,
your pilgrimage is not as theirs,
and if you claim the voice of God,
remember that your feet are clay.
—Steven Kingsnorth
You ask how things are, show concern,
though enter door and there on wall,
a poster, first in line, front queue,
tells ‘Good vibes only’, capitals.
On second view, another clue,
is my preferred, backstory words,
less harsh, and downside up as well,
enquiry gentler, deeper well.
So many state, ‘how are we, folks?’,
as if a question not intent,
astonishment, should you relate,
an answer with a health report;
a farewell parrot, not adieu,
but have a nice day, smile, cliché,
an autopilot guiding through—
the customer is always rite.
What’s in your window—maybe eyes—
or what is seen when words are heard,
but is it neon, glaring bright,
or careful, wise, reflective sign?
If I may only shine, your good—
and you define, design that mood,
when I bring tremor, shaking hand,
I’ll not be brave to pass that vibe.
So roll your blinds, forget the rhyme,
too clever strapline, easy quote,
but let your mind, soul, speech align,
from others’ shoes hear story told.
And then tread lightly, understand,
your pilgrimage is not as theirs,
and if you claim the voice of God,
remember that your feet are clay.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Stephen Kingsnorth
THE RULE OF LIFE
—Stephen Kingsnorth
It was, school days, an imprint stern,
asserted, clear, sans serif bold,
that underlined, compulsory,
we should not, should, our duty told,
be this or that, do that or this,
and woe betide indisciplined.
I learnt command surpassed all else,
a question mark, the eroteme,
that answers were instruction led,
and wonder, wander far eclipsed.
But human barred is child obsessed,
no entry, invitation sign.
The neat pressed clothes a scrappy pile,
behind the ears, scraped dirt of knees,
and adult only, secret view,
first germs for boy not immunised.
Restrictions now were guarantee,
experience, globe’s oyster pearl.
My new norm was the downside up,
to disrespect, a golden cup,
for I had found my treasure map,
and there I dug my hole.
—Stephen Kingsnorth
It was, school days, an imprint stern,
asserted, clear, sans serif bold,
that underlined, compulsory,
we should not, should, our duty told,
be this or that, do that or this,
and woe betide indisciplined.
I learnt command surpassed all else,
a question mark, the eroteme,
that answers were instruction led,
and wonder, wander far eclipsed.
But human barred is child obsessed,
no entry, invitation sign.
The neat pressed clothes a scrappy pile,
behind the ears, scraped dirt of knees,
and adult only, secret view,
first germs for boy not immunised.
Restrictions now were guarantee,
experience, globe’s oyster pearl.
My new norm was the downside up,
to disrespect, a golden cup,
for I had found my treasure map,
and there I dug my hole.
TURNING THE WORLD
—Stephen Kingsnorth
If pregnant and unmarried teen
is mother called the Virgin Queen;
if sinner told the law is stoned—
yet lifted—for men first assault;
if blind can see by second touch,
the arrogant, not see as much;
if kingdom troops are led by ass,
and coronation, crown of thorns;
if death is not the final word
but easter springs from permafrost;
if glory not city of gold,
but god in gutter with the snipe;
if blame derives from woman, asp,
but, fault man, Adam’s wanderlust;
if chosen folk are global spread,
regardless creed, known love agreed;
if mighty are thrown down from high,
the poor raised up, Magnificat;
if vagabonds will rule the roost
in understanding, play the fool;
if power is known in giving way,
not in insisting on one’s say;
bread shared is root, community,
but not a jewelled chalice passed;
then I embrace the spinning globe,
turned upside down, two poles reversed.
And if you hold another view,
let’s sit and talk, find something new.
For mine is but a question mark,
and you may know what I’ve found lost.
—Stephen Kingsnorth
If pregnant and unmarried teen
is mother called the Virgin Queen;
if sinner told the law is stoned—
yet lifted—for men first assault;
if blind can see by second touch,
the arrogant, not see as much;
if kingdom troops are led by ass,
and coronation, crown of thorns;
if death is not the final word
but easter springs from permafrost;
if glory not city of gold,
but god in gutter with the snipe;
if blame derives from woman, asp,
but, fault man, Adam’s wanderlust;
if chosen folk are global spread,
regardless creed, known love agreed;
if mighty are thrown down from high,
the poor raised up, Magnificat;
if vagabonds will rule the roost
in understanding, play the fool;
if power is known in giving way,
not in insisting on one’s say;
bread shared is root, community,
but not a jewelled chalice passed;
then I embrace the spinning globe,
turned upside down, two poles reversed.
And if you hold another view,
let’s sit and talk, find something new.
For mine is but a question mark,
and you may know what I’ve found lost.
WAREHOUSE BONANZA
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
local market out of toilet tissue?
I hear there are literally warehouses
of them, all stuck there because of
supply chain issues, and crippling
staff shortages
heard the same about ventilators,
there are plenty to be had, but they
are stuck in some warehouse
so then what about those nice
bootstraps we’re all supposed to
have, up by which to pull ourselves?
are we to believe that they have also
been sitting in some warehouse for
the last 40 years? is there some kind
of waiting list we can get on?
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
local market out of toilet tissue?
I hear there are literally warehouses
of them, all stuck there because of
supply chain issues, and crippling
staff shortages
heard the same about ventilators,
there are plenty to be had, but they
are stuck in some warehouse
so then what about those nice
bootstraps we’re all supposed to
have, up by which to pull ourselves?
are we to believe that they have also
been sitting in some warehouse for
the last 40 years? is there some kind
of waiting list we can get on?
EVERYTHING BAGEL
—Caschwa
no sign of forced entry
she just walked right into this bagel
not out of the woods yet
is exactly what you want when camping
new car ad shows only that car on the road
like a wedding with only the groom attending
—Caschwa
no sign of forced entry
she just walked right into this bagel
not out of the woods yet
is exactly what you want when camping
new car ad shows only that car on the road
like a wedding with only the groom attending
LOSE THE HYPHEN
—Caschwa
parents whom we commonly refer to as
African-American or Latino-American
tell their children to lose the hyphen,
because at the end of the day they are
American in every respect, and
that is what America is
we don’t call a baby-doctor, baby, we
turn it upside-down and say doctor;
we don’t call running-shoes running, we
turn it upside-down and call them shoes;
we don’t call one-half one, we turn it
upside-down and say half
that is what America is
there will be exceptions, like
quarters for quarter-dollars, and
semis for semi-tractor-trailers
but that is what America is, also
FREEZE, PLEASE
—Caschwa
take my body and my brain
from this poem with no refrain
and awaken me anew
when it’s 2/2/2222
I’ll be a baby again
with questions to wear you thin
whatever happened to democracy
from sea to shining sea?
is it true that the entire USA
is now one major, super highway,
whereby lexicons define “pedestrian”
as an obsolete form of “thespian”?
what’s that growing on my neighbor?
do machines do all the heavy labor?
have all right triangles become obtuse?
are we past the age of hypotenuse?
—Caschwa
take my body and my brain
from this poem with no refrain
and awaken me anew
when it’s 2/2/2222
I’ll be a baby again
with questions to wear you thin
whatever happened to democracy
from sea to shining sea?
is it true that the entire USA
is now one major, super highway,
whereby lexicons define “pedestrian”
as an obsolete form of “thespian”?
what’s that growing on my neighbor?
do machines do all the heavy labor?
have all right triangles become obtuse?
are we past the age of hypotenuse?
WINTER PRUNING
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
Each winter,
We wound our trees,
Awaiting resurgence
Through scar-tissue,
Of the blissful
Blossoming of Spring,
Hoping for greater abundance
As life-forces are challenged
To overcome
The damage
Inflicted by the cutting
We call “pruning.”
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
Each winter,
We wound our trees,
Awaiting resurgence
Through scar-tissue,
Of the blissful
Blossoming of Spring,
Hoping for greater abundance
As life-forces are challenged
To overcome
The damage
Inflicted by the cutting
We call “pruning.”
TO DO OR NOT TO DO
—Joe Nolan
To do or not to do,
That is another question!
Whether, ‘tis nobler,
To allow the gradual accretion
Of barnacles
On the backs of one’s buttocks
Or to take up a putty-knife
And scrape them off
From time to time?
Every form of self-purification
Might be painful
At times.
These days,
Many poets are opposed to rhyme
And some are opposed to meter.
Whenever there
Is talk of war,
We all begin to wonder
If we should
“Duck and cover,”
Perhaps, with a lovely lover,
Under warm and cozy covers
To kiss our asses good-bye,
Before the H-bombs fly.
My, Oh my!
Have humans nothing better to do
Than to frighten each other, blind?
What is in our minds?!?!
Do we not know
Of Hiroshima
And Nagasaki?
Here we are,
But where would we go,
If we incinerate each other?
Would we go to Heaven
Or the flat dough of unleavened bread,
Or kiss our asses, “Good-bye!”
Under desks where we have cowered?
—Joe Nolan
To do or not to do,
That is another question!
Whether, ‘tis nobler,
To allow the gradual accretion
Of barnacles
On the backs of one’s buttocks
Or to take up a putty-knife
And scrape them off
From time to time?
Every form of self-purification
Might be painful
At times.
These days,
Many poets are opposed to rhyme
And some are opposed to meter.
Whenever there
Is talk of war,
We all begin to wonder
If we should
“Duck and cover,”
Perhaps, with a lovely lover,
Under warm and cozy covers
To kiss our asses good-bye,
Before the H-bombs fly.
My, Oh my!
Have humans nothing better to do
Than to frighten each other, blind?
What is in our minds?!?!
Do we not know
Of Hiroshima
And Nagasaki?
Here we are,
But where would we go,
If we incinerate each other?
Would we go to Heaven
Or the flat dough of unleavened bread,
Or kiss our asses, “Good-bye!”
Under desks where we have cowered?
HEAVEN’S MUSIC
—Joe Nolan
There is always music
In the skies of Heaven.
Everyone can hear it,
All day long.
Everyone can recognize
It’s another sign of loving,
Coming from the center
Of The Great Beyond.
No one need do
Anything but listen,
To be entrained
Into Its loving flow,
That goes on and on
Forever,
Letting everybody know,
They are part of
The Art of The Being,
That resonates
Above and Below,
Calling every aspirant
To live within devotion
And let his
Limitations go.
—Joe Nolan
There is always music
In the skies of Heaven.
Everyone can hear it,
All day long.
Everyone can recognize
It’s another sign of loving,
Coming from the center
Of The Great Beyond.
No one need do
Anything but listen,
To be entrained
Into Its loving flow,
That goes on and on
Forever,
Letting everybody know,
They are part of
The Art of The Being,
That resonates
Above and Below,
Calling every aspirant
To live within devotion
And let his
Limitations go.
A Luncheon of Chocolate Pianos
AVAILABLE ANSWERS
—Joe Nolan
Answers that were needed
Were found in smooth-skinned
Curves of pears
And scent of ripe papaya.
Iguanas lounging
On long branches,
Soaking up the heat,
Spoke of satisfaction.
Rustling fronds of leaves,
In early-morning summer breeze,
Taught gentle ways of motion,
Like sailing on a sea.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
AN UNIDENTIFIED DRIVING OBJECT (UDO)
—Joe Nolan
I’m pretty sure
Something passed me, sideways,
When I wasn’t looking,
Before it disappeared.
After that,
Things are a little blurry.
They never will get clear.
_______________________
A big thank-you to today’s poets for this early February treasure chest of poetry and photos! Some of the poetry today deals with our Seed of the Week: The World Gone Upside Down. See tomorrow’s post for a new SOW.
Tonight (Mon. (2/7), 7:30pm, Sac. Poetry Center Socially Distant Verse features Cory Vance and Chad Sweeney plus open mic. Zoom at us02web.zoom.us/j/7638733462/. Meeting ID: 763 873 3462 / pass: r3trnofsdv/. Info: www.facebook.com/events/1009142746613924/.
This Thursday (2/10), 5pm: Sac. Poetry Alliance’s Fireside Book Club will meet online and discuss Pablo Neruda: 20 Love Poems and a Song is Despair, hosted by Frank Dixon Graham. Zoom at us02web.zoom.us/j/81872835469/. Interested in more book club activities? Join the group at: www.facebook.com/groups/4484141535016793/.
Also this Thursday (through Sat.): Sierra College and Sierra College Press present 2022 Sierra Writers Conference on Zoom: "Stories Matter: (Re)Imagining Past and Future". Info/tickets: sierrawritersconference.wordpress.com/.
____________________
—Medusa
—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!
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!
What goes upside down,
then goes downside up!
