—Photo by Caschwa
—Poetry by Caschwa, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Jean Jones, Joe Nolan, Nolcha Fox, Jill Kalter
—Original Photos by Caschwa and by Scott
—Original Photos by Caschwa and by Scott
and Jill Kalter
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joe Nolan
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joe Nolan
and Nolcha Fox
PLAY BALL
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
oh the thrill of a
crepuscular-night
double header
extra innings
brings the game
into diluculum
and those too
close to the sun
shield their eyes
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
oh the thrill of a
crepuscular-night
double header
extra innings
brings the game
into diluculum
and those too
close to the sun
shield their eyes
—Photo by Caschwa
LAREDO’S LAMENT
—Caschwa
they’re all shot dead
blood tells their story all too well
like in Parkland ages ago
the market for big guns, you know
nobody regrets anything
not killing kids
not erasing
values that made Patriots proud
loose cannons whose message is loud
nothing here is safe anymore
room filled with dread
more same ahead
—Photo by Caschwa
TRUST ISSUES
—Caschwa
In the United States of America
(with rare exception) all minted
coins and printed currency include
the motto “In God We Trust”
Our Treasury Department says
that came from the Civil War when
there was a spike in religious
beliefs
So you’d think you could walk into
a book store that sells bibles and
buy one with a penny, that should
be good enough
After all, it is a stated trust in God,
not in the market rate of precious
metals, or anything about all the
metrics of the stock exchange
For years, I’ve been using one of
those “In God We Trust” quarters
to rub off a view of the winning
numbers on a Scratchers ticket.
Each and every time, God wins the
jackpot, and I get to keep my quarter.
—Photo by Caschwa
TOO CLOSE TO THE SUN
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
It is as always Icarus—
Daedalus less easy spell
save alter ego, writing Joyce,
in Ulysses (revision work),
while Stephen had appeal to me.
But Icarus, liked striking spikes,
that curly C resolved in us—
one of few myths that held its course,
unlike kite meltdown, feathers type—
cite waxwings, ornithology.
Father, son, escaping, climb—
a psychodrama anytime—
advice, then hubris, helios,
but let fly, why, though know he’ll crash?
Unless a puppet on a string,
that’s how the Dad lets freedom sing,
despite the sting known in the tale,
the snowstorm flap to plunge below,
and grief when sorrow drowned beneath.
Ecstatic sky, depressive dip,
bipolar for psychology,
deceptive, safe if travel low,
beneath radar complacency,
a tidal wave, analysis.
That middle course in altitude,
above sea fog, beneath heat ray,
prescribed by mindset, attitude
as elder, younger, wisdom weigh.
—Public Domain Comment Courtesy of Joe Nolan
REGARDING THE ACT
—Jean Jones, Wilmington, NC
I find myself
Writing to you,
Watching my son play—
Is all that we do
Connected
To the act itself?
You need what you need,
I need the act,
And that's the extent of it, right?
But, don't you feel lonely, though,
And would you like to
Hang out,
Before,
And after the act,
To talk,
To be In each other's company,
Don't you think?
Aren't you lonely, too?
I know I am,
In this house,
I need The Act,
But more than that,
Conversation with you, too—
I need you
To talk to me, as well,
I need you
To feel appreciated.
—Public Domain Comment Courtesy of Joe Nolan
YOUR REPTILE BRAIN
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
Let me speak directly
To your reptile brain,
Filled with all your memories,
Mixed with all your pain.
But were I to digress,
From what you hold as true,
I’d become your enemy
Since anyone not with you
Is against you
When you operate
From your reptile brain.
So let us not
Talk of war
Or other threatening things,
Lest we rouse your reptile brain
With all that trauma brings.
—Public Domain Illustration
Courtesy of Joe Nolan
EXISTENTIAL ISSUES
—Joe Nolan
Some say, “I.”
Some say, Why?”
Some say,
“Never in a million years, would I!”
Some say, “Try!”
Some deny.
Some refuse.
Some abuse.
In a million years,
We’ll all be
Bye-and-bye.
No need to worry,
When others say, “Hurry!”
There’s a quiet porch
Around the bend,
Near the end.
—Public Domain Illustration
Courtesy of Joe Nolan
MICKEY AND ROGER
—Joe Nolan
Mickey seemed like Superman
When we were just kids
In New York’s summer.
But Roger Maris
Got more home-runs
Than Mickey,
One summer,
Surprisingly.
Mickey was thus
Overshadowed,
But Roger would not last.
He faded with a loss of hair
That came from being in New York
Talking to newsmen,
Through the summer.
The newsmen didn’t like him,
Not like Mickey
And proved themselves a bummer.
—Joe Nolan
Mickey seemed like Superman
When we were just kids
In New York’s summer.
But Roger Maris
Got more home-runs
Than Mickey,
One summer,
Surprisingly.
Mickey was thus
Overshadowed,
But Roger would not last.
He faded with a loss of hair
That came from being in New York
Talking to newsmen,
Through the summer.
The newsmen didn’t like him,
Not like Mickey
And proved themselves a bummer.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
ENCOUNTER WITH A WIZENED MOLE
—Joe Nolan
Halfway down a rabbit-hole
You run into a wizened mole
Who asks, “What has brought
You down this far,
Where badgers cannot fit?
What’s the meaning of it?
What is it you’re after?
Can we get to what’s the matter?
Was it just
A look-and-see
Or was it much more
Desperately,
Between broken
And whole?
Repaired,
Or merely spared—
Encounters in your
Therapy,
You’d rather you could avoid?
Which modalities
Were employed
To let you gain some insight
Into sadness
From your
Existential plight
Of darkened viewpoint,
It seems
Will not allow
Any relief
From light?”
—Public Domain Photo
FASTING ON SALT WATER
—Joe Nolan
The deepest
Ocean trench
Was deep enough
To swallow Everest
And all the Himalayas
In a row,
But refused to do so,
Stating it was fasting
On salt water.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Nolcha Fox
CARTOON CHARACTER
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
Sadly, the early deaths of professional wrestlers [are] treated much like the deaths of cartoon characters— ‘they can’t be real people, so they can’t die real deaths’.
—Journalist Phil Mushnick
In the gym doorway,
tall and wide,
his bulk blocked the sunlight,
the room fell dark.
His saunter as planned
as his moves in the ring,
a ballet of muscle
and tattoo.
Don’t you worry
about getting hurt? we asked.
He drank from a flask,
shook his curls and laughed.
We practice, we know
what will happen, he said.
He swallowed a pill.
Pulled a muscle, he said.
We watched him on TV
that night, he growled,
then groaned. And fell.
The camera panned away.
A heart attack? Oh please!
You know it’s fake.
Don’t worry, Poppa said.
he’ll be back next week.
—Photo by Scott and Jill Kalter
IMPOSTER
—Nolcha Fox
“We love your new book,
so entertaining,” they say.
I toot my horn and thank them.
I bow and tip my top hat.
My painted smile grins wider.
At home, without the face paint,
without the orange wig
without the round red nose,
bright costume hung,
what is left of me?
I stare at a blank paper,
my brain as empty
as my coffee cup.
I wonder if I’ll ever write
another poem again.
—Photo by Scott and Jill Kalter, Jackson County, OR
DIRECTIONS
—Nolcha Fox
We discuss directions, we argue
with our navigation system.
We call her Rhonda.
He wants to take the shorter route
which takes longer, of course,
not the course I would choose.
The roads are slick, the tires
skid from side to side.
I want to take the longer route,
which takes less time,
the roads are cleared of ice and snow.
Rhonda wants to take the interstate,
which takes us five miles
out of the way. Rhonda doesn’t care
about time or mileage,
she just likes to drive fast.
—Public Domain Illustration Courtesy
of Nolcha Fox
NUMBERS MAN
—Nolcha Fox
We were so jealous
of the numbers man.
We needed all
our fingers and toes
to count his blessings.
Everything he touched
increased and grew.
His stocks soared.
His business expanded.
He won at horses.
A different beauty
adorned his arm
each day of every year.
We didn’t know
he counted cancer cells
that ate him inside out.
We didn’t know
he counted every
second, minute, hour
of each day that he woke up.
We didn’t know
he gave away his money
to the charities in town.
We were so jealous.
We didn’t know
the numbers man
until the day he died.
Monkshood
—Photo by Jill Kalter
—Photo by Jill Kalter
LIFE IN THE SLOW LANE
—Jill Kalter, Jackson County, OR
After years in life’s fast lane
All consumed by stress and strife,
I’m about to go insane.
I need a slower pace of life.
So from the city I escape.
No more for me the daily grind.
Now my life can take new shape
And change the contours of my mind.
Making time for little things
Like tiny flowers on oak trees,
Fragrance that the spring rain brings,
And warmth that comes from summer breeze.
The wildflowers in the woods,
I must discover each one’s name.
The poet’s stars and monkshoods
A vivid beauty they proclaim.
Pine boughs with their bright green tips
Herald cones that come in fall.
The roses transform into hips
To feed the squirrel, the bird, and all.
Frost coats grasses in the field.
Snowflakes form a pure, white gown.
Life’s allurement is revealed
To those who take time and slow down.
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
WAY TOO CLOSE
—Caschwa
it starts with a skin rash
could appear anywhere
no way to remove it
nothing will improve it
your sugar level soars
don’t nibble that sundae!
___________________
Good morning from Medusa, snug in her Kitchen this morning, surrounded by fine poems and photos from around the world! Some of them deal with our recent Seed of the Week: Too Close to the Sun. Be sure to watch the Tuesday Medusa each week for a new SOW.
We have two new visitors today: Scott and Jill Kalter have been collaborating in life and photography since the 1980s. After spending 30 years in the hustle-bustle of Los Angeles, they escaped to the Applegate Valley in Southern Oregon. This change in lifestyle has offered new avenues for their photographic adventures and inspired Jill to take up poetry writing again after a 40-year hiatus. Their early photographic adventures included staying up all night to develop and print black-and-white photos in a make-shift darkroom setup in their bathroom. In more recent years, they've been exploring macro photography as a means of seeing the world from a new perspective. Scott and Jill now live on a small "hobby farm" with two border collies, one black cat, and six sheep in Jackson County, Oregon. Welcome to the Kitchen, kids, and don’t be strangers!
Our UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS link is back in action; check out info about tonight’s Sac. Poetry Center reading on Zoom, for example. For more upcoming poetry events in Northern California and otherwheres, click on UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS in the links at the top of this page. And tell ‘em Medusa sent ya!
____________________
—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!
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!
