—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham,
My solo first, without my Dad,
leaving nest, and striking out
was on the bus to Biggin Hill,
the Spitfire base, ten London miles.
Uneasy grass, cut tarmac path,
the lessons wobbled, me earth fixed,
but I panned them with Kodak box,
now fuzzy birds in album scrap.
I, though in teens, bravado warped,
much many owed to so few boys,
when fight and flight were intertwined.
They had thirty on my years,
silver wings in dogfight rings,
poor chance to touch the face of God,
until the spiral, Weald of Kent,
amongst the hop fields, Shepherd Neame,
where Dad’s grandfather, cooper, singed.
I was so small, stature, unwise—
recall the man who taught to pan
on half a crown, my Oxfam box.
I grew with shrapnel, pantry door,
knew buried Dad, earth to neck,
saved because his head above,
and all the blitz, bomb alley line,
Mum’s tremble at fire siren wail,
her nestled, cupboard under stairs
our chapel burning, tarpaulin hauled,
the bombsite of my Sunday school,
he fire warden as census told
years after he left the fold.
He rarely talked, she even less,
brief interlude, my birth from war,
but I saw only buddleia,
sprouting from the brick dust cracks.
It coalesced at Biggin Hill,
on my first solo from the nest,
first flight for many, some the last.
FIRST FLIGHT
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
It started with
the eagle’s cry,
my heart once
broken sprouted
feathers,
bumped against
its rib cage
prison.
Open window,
smell of grass
fresh-mown
upon a breeze
that lifted
birdsong
from dark shadows
of my spirit.
I climbed upon
a toaster, stale
bread wings flapping,
and took first flight
since you’ve been gone.
ELSEWHERE
—Nolcha Fox
My dream of being elsewhere
leads to curious journeys,
past sandcastles melting into brine,
down abandoned staircases
of cobwebs and candlewax.
Could I crawl into the skin
of someone else
and find contentment there,
perhaps become a child of night,
a traveler on the edge of time?
No matter where I find myself,
my bags are always packed
in hopes of opening a door
I’ve never seen to find
the prize that I’ve been looking for,
a place I can call home.
NO POETS
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
Unfurnished Apartments for Rent:
1 bedroom apartment.
All utilities included.
No poets.
No smoking.
Perhaps a poet
set his brain fuzz on fire,
scorching curtains,
leaving soot-prints
on the ceiling.
Perhaps a poet
pried up floorboards
or baseboards
in search of
a stray stanza.
Perhaps a poet
shed rhyme
and rhythm
incessantly,
a fine merlot on carpet.
But we poets can hide
behind smiles
and rent paid on time,
shame apartment owners
in poems they’ll never read.
A POET IS A DANGEROUS BEAST
—Nolcha Fox
A poet is
an insomniac
who trails entrails
of fractured
stanzas, leaking
blood and
vowel splatters
on the silver
sidewalks.
A poet is
terminally ill
with curiosity.
She’ll yank
her heart out
of its birdcage
to watch it beat,
to feel it ooze.
A poet is
a dangerous beast
who drops
bread crumbs
of fantasy.
If you follow,
she will eat you,
then spit you out as a poem.
FOUR POEMS FROM DUGOUT ANTHOLOGY
—Michael Ceraolo, S. Euclid, OH
Larry Sutton
I was twenty-four
when I saw my first baseball game,
much too late to even think about
becoming serious player,
so I became an umpire
(while keeping my newspaper job winters)
and also an unofficial scout
for the Brooklyn team until,
at the advanced baseball age of fifty,
Mr. Ebbets hired me to be
the first full-time salaried scout,
my territory the entire United States
* * *
Charlie Barrett
I was with Mr. Rickey at the beginning
when he came up with the brilliant idea
of the farm system,
which enabled us to compete with the richer teams;
I scouted and signed many of the players
Sure, we engaged in some sharp practices;
that's business
My only regret in that matter
was that I didn't get a percentage
of the percentage Mr. Rickey got
when he sold our excess players
* * *
Paul Krichell
Baseball isn't really a religion,
though there can be religious experiences
felt at times in the sense of awe and wonder
I experienced that feeling as a scout
when I first saw Lou Gehrig hit,
knowing even as it was happening
it was a peak experience in my life
* * *
William "Lord" Byron
Seven years in the bigs, minors on either side,
extra entertainment I'd always provide:
The Singing Umpire was another nickname
because rhyming calls were my main claim to fame
AFTER OUR DEAREST, DEAREST!
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
Well, I would have liked
To have saved my friends,
The ones most dear to me—
The ones who early
Passed away,
Into the Greater Ocean,
Where my slight skiff
Doesn’t stand a chance
To brave the waves,
Where rough winds savage
Plaintiff, yearning craft
Who would feign, follow after
Their dearest, dearest,
Who disappeared
Into the Greater Ocean.
So we linger,
On nearer shores,
Bearing the greatest grief.
We would sooner sail away,
But there’d be no return.
THE UNIVERSE WILL SEEM ALL RIGHT
—Joe Nolan
I’m here
For you
On the sidelines,
Urging you on
With applause.
Disappearing
Into indifference,
Whenever a coach
Calls, “Pause!”
Just a butt
Upon the stands,
Hoping that
Things come out right,
So afterwards,
When we mob the tavern,
The universe
Will seem all right.
Today’s LittleNip:
EARLY MAY MORNING
—Joe Nolan
Yesterday was summery.
Up to about 90.
Winds whipped up
Some allergy.
Mid-May at four a.m.
Cats are howling.
Back to sleep.
Everything
Will take care of itself
Before morning.
____________________
Our poets are their usual wild and crazy selves today, and thank goodness for that! Nolcha Fox addressed the ad on Twitter that sums up this society’s view of poets, and our Seed of the Week was First Flight—hence all the birds. Watch for a new SOW every Tuesday, and other prompts on Form Fiddlers' Fridays.
Don’t forget to check out our UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS link at the top of this column for what’s going on in area poetry this week, starting with Sac. Poetry Center tonight. Next Saturday will give you two choices, including Poetry in the Sierra Foothills in the afternoon, then the Luna’s event, Honoring the Poetry of José Montoya, in the evening. Check out UPCOMING for details.
You will hear of the “RCAF” in conjunction with the José Montoya reading next weekend. Check out this fine history of Sacramento’s Royal Chicano Air Force (RCAF) poets and artists by Dr. Ella Maria Diaz on smarthistory at smarthistory.org/rcaf/. Above is the RCAF Southside Park Mural, 1977 (restored 2001), 14 x 110 feet, at Southside Park, Sacramento.
Congratulations to Six Ft. Swells Press for a new release: Between Her Teeth: Poems by Mela Blust. Editors: Todd Cirillo, Matt Amott, Julie Valin, with cover by Julie Valin. Available now on Amazon.
____________________
—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—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
I’d be a dragon! Or Horus. . ."
