—Public Domain Photo Courtesy
of Nolcha Fox
—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Caschwa,
—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Caschwa,
Stephen Kingsnorth, Sayani Mukherjee,
Michael Ceraolo, Joe Nolan
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Joe Nolan and Nolcha Fox
I never felt comfortable
in my own skin.
I poured my insides
into a shell,
let the tide drag
my outside into
blue ocean.
Before I could snuggle
into small darkness,
a woman picked me up
and put me
in her pocket.
Now I’m stuck
in aquarium sand.
I didn’t plan on this at all.
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
in my own skin.
I poured my insides
into a shell,
let the tide drag
my outside into
blue ocean.
Before I could snuggle
into small darkness,
a woman picked me up
and put me
in her pocket.
Now I’m stuck
in aquarium sand.
I didn’t plan on this at all.
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
(prev. pub. in Corporeal Literary Magazine)
I have big dreams
bigger than this
seashell
I hide in
from the sharks.
I’ll upgrade
to a pickup truck
and camper shell,
hit the open road
and see the world.
—Nolcha Fox
bigger than this
seashell
I hide in
from the sharks.
I’ll upgrade
to a pickup truck
and camper shell,
hit the open road
and see the world.
—Nolcha Fox
TRAPPED IN THE KEY OF C
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
Bach’s Two-Part Invention,
its shell strong enough to
keep out modulations and
the disorder of accidentals
laying wet in the sand while
bright-eyed tourists with large
cameras hanging from their
necks approach like sleuths
in sloths’ clothing to shoot
black & white photos of any
subject that glistens, forcing
the painful choice of whether
to go with the default settings
for cloudy bright, or to take a
chance that the settings for
cloudy dull will yield a better
image in the darkroom, where
the salty ocean air gives way
to the dominating odors of
developer and fixer solutions
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
Bach’s Two-Part Invention,
its shell strong enough to
keep out modulations and
the disorder of accidentals
laying wet in the sand while
bright-eyed tourists with large
cameras hanging from their
necks approach like sleuths
in sloths’ clothing to shoot
black & white photos of any
subject that glistens, forcing
the painful choice of whether
to go with the default settings
for cloudy bright, or to take a
chance that the settings for
cloudy dull will yield a better
image in the darkroom, where
the salty ocean air gives way
to the dominating odors of
developer and fixer solutions
TRIPS AROUND THE BAYS
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
On the sea shore, Haїti strand,
she, my first sight, selling shells;
her Creole was tongue-twist for me.
Blush pink, spine spikes, murex, topped,
her stall, the jetty, harvest time;
the same slipway, grin wide smile,
that lad dived deep, for dollar tip,
through water clear, sunshades dropped—
Jacmel maybe, full forty years.
We, fog-bound, searched for open air,
hotel, Brighton, overnight,
as I, delight, first met my wife.
Talk of abroad, innocence—
Tahiti was my destined aim—
but global loss—just fourteen?
For school choice I made history,
my periods, geog away—
The History Man, a Methodist.
Stranded, was it, Columba’s land,
scallop, pilgrim on the shore,
forever carried, emblem, search?
Lord of the flies, conch to call,
pre-razor, urchins, thought as class;
those pods and valves, mollusc types,
for melons, cockles, clams, bivalves.
Lace for neck, or currency,
than earth more ocean, planet, ours.
His sole living welcomed by all,
hermit-crabbing in his cell,
envisioned, spirit’s wind within.
Held in itself, whisper waves,
what mighty exoderm to stand,
colour, pattern, in its whorl.
Fibonacci in nautilus,
infinite in grains of sand,
so dust and ashes of our own?
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
On the sea shore, Haїti strand,
she, my first sight, selling shells;
her Creole was tongue-twist for me.
Blush pink, spine spikes, murex, topped,
her stall, the jetty, harvest time;
the same slipway, grin wide smile,
that lad dived deep, for dollar tip,
through water clear, sunshades dropped—
Jacmel maybe, full forty years.
We, fog-bound, searched for open air,
hotel, Brighton, overnight,
as I, delight, first met my wife.
Talk of abroad, innocence—
Tahiti was my destined aim—
but global loss—just fourteen?
For school choice I made history,
my periods, geog away—
The History Man, a Methodist.
Stranded, was it, Columba’s land,
scallop, pilgrim on the shore,
forever carried, emblem, search?
Lord of the flies, conch to call,
pre-razor, urchins, thought as class;
those pods and valves, mollusc types,
for melons, cockles, clams, bivalves.
Lace for neck, or currency,
than earth more ocean, planet, ours.
His sole living welcomed by all,
hermit-crabbing in his cell,
envisioned, spirit’s wind within.
Held in itself, whisper waves,
what mighty exoderm to stand,
colour, pattern, in its whorl.
Fibonacci in nautilus,
infinite in grains of sand,
so dust and ashes of our own?
VIOLENCE
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India
Wanderings amidst snow-cradled stairs
Lily-footed innocence
A lighthearted Soaking
A Feather-like elusive disarray.
Then a leopard at night
Humanoid force
The violence is foggy
My tainted mirror sees it
The masks of forked paths
A string, a right-left child's play.
After a nanosecond speed
The bulletproof vest
Marching through
For virtue
Death and dreaming
Glassinobs-scented handkerchief
Shorting of breaths
Death over death's bosom.
The power of a couplet
The pinching truth
Salty with each throb.
The leopard runs deep down
Forests and pillars
Authority holds the shadow
The skeptical insomnia
A sharp finish
Morphine sleep, time's hole.
Hours hold on.
The river runs through
Shadows and bones
Chess game and vigilant mistress
A dark hell with my resistance.
I can't lie with the River.
It sees through
A wise grandmother and a woolen muffler.
Coils the structure
Men with law enforcement
Country's growth spurt.
The children feed on
Winds and brain-smoked intelligence.
The play is ironic.
A blind stare.
Aborigine’s instincts a creepy vestibule
The river rings on
A music to ears
Lily-footed innocence
It holds the strings alright
A juggler.
Mass extinction
Nature's yearnings
A blood-dripping amazonian finish.
It devours.
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India
Wanderings amidst snow-cradled stairs
Lily-footed innocence
A lighthearted Soaking
A Feather-like elusive disarray.
Then a leopard at night
Humanoid force
The violence is foggy
My tainted mirror sees it
The masks of forked paths
A string, a right-left child's play.
After a nanosecond speed
The bulletproof vest
Marching through
For virtue
Death and dreaming
Glassinobs-scented handkerchief
Shorting of breaths
Death over death's bosom.
The power of a couplet
The pinching truth
Salty with each throb.
The leopard runs deep down
Forests and pillars
Authority holds the shadow
The skeptical insomnia
A sharp finish
Morphine sleep, time's hole.
Hours hold on.
The river runs through
Shadows and bones
Chess game and vigilant mistress
A dark hell with my resistance.
I can't lie with the River.
It sees through
A wise grandmother and a woolen muffler.
Coils the structure
Men with law enforcement
Country's growth spurt.
The children feed on
Winds and brain-smoked intelligence.
The play is ironic.
A blind stare.
Aborigine’s instincts a creepy vestibule
The river rings on
A music to ears
Lily-footed innocence
It holds the strings alright
A juggler.
Mass extinction
Nature's yearnings
A blood-dripping amazonian finish.
It devours.
SIX CLEVELAND HAIKU
—Michael Ceraolo, S. Euclid, OH
Cleveland Haiku #634
Summer day—
dozens of orange barrels suddenly
bloom along the road
* * *
Cleveland Haiku #635
Sign
on highway exit ramp—
bird perched atop it
* * *
Cleveland Haiku #636
Highway sign decoded—
law-abiding numerates
Keep Right
* * *
Cleveland Haiku #637
Driving the highway—
grass growing through cracks
in the concrete barrier
* * *
Cleveland Haiku #638
Driving the highway—
remnants of a tire blowout
in the road
* * *
Cleveland Haiku #639
-'s Serf-n-Turf—
slaves in the kitchen
not just a metaphor?
—Michael Ceraolo, S. Euclid, OH
Cleveland Haiku #634
Summer day—
dozens of orange barrels suddenly
bloom along the road
* * *
Cleveland Haiku #635
Sign
on highway exit ramp—
bird perched atop it
* * *
Cleveland Haiku #636
Highway sign decoded—
law-abiding numerates
Keep Right
* * *
Cleveland Haiku #637
Driving the highway—
grass growing through cracks
in the concrete barrier
* * *
Cleveland Haiku #638
Driving the highway—
remnants of a tire blowout
in the road
* * *
Cleveland Haiku #639
-'s Serf-n-Turf—
slaves in the kitchen
not just a metaphor?
TURQUOISE BLUE
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
Turquoise blue
Is a beautiful color
That speaks of many
Layers of love and freedom.
Wear it
In an amulet,
Hanging from your neck
Above your heart
And deliver
Your devotion
Into your works of art.
THE STEAMROLLER
—Joe Nolan
The steamroller
Rolls down the street,
Crushing little things,
Underneath.
What once were little pebbles,
Now, so discreet—
Just part of a flat surface,
Under-feet.
—Joe Nolan
The steamroller
Rolls down the street,
Crushing little things,
Underneath.
What once were little pebbles,
Now, so discreet—
Just part of a flat surface,
Under-feet.
COMPOST SEASON
—Joe Nolan
In a season of compost,
Ripe acorns must
Be raked-in
To decomposing fruits,
At end of season.
Flies swarm
And insects roam,
All around the
Fertile degradation
Of things that
Once were firm.
Raking and raking,
Overturning,
The most revolutionary
Occupation
Is turning dead things
Into life–new life–new growth.
Keep raking and raking,
Dreaming of
Your magnificent garden,
Overcoming sloth,
As decomposition
Gives birth to newborn life.
—Joe Nolan
In a season of compost,
Ripe acorns must
Be raked-in
To decomposing fruits,
At end of season.
Flies swarm
And insects roam,
All around the
Fertile degradation
Of things that
Once were firm.
Raking and raking,
Overturning,
The most revolutionary
Occupation
Is turning dead things
Into life–new life–new growth.
Keep raking and raking,
Dreaming of
Your magnificent garden,
Overcoming sloth,
As decomposition
Gives birth to newborn life.
BETTER LUCK NEXT TIME
—Joe Nolan
The problem with spreading enlightenment
Is that you begin to believe
You are on a mission from some
Swami Somebody-Ananda,
Something like a mission from God,
Buddha or some other savior
Who has not yet made it into the holy books.
There are so many out there
Who would wish everyone into Satori
If they only had a way—
Undiscovered liberators of the human heart.
When you are a hammer
You go looking for nails.
Bang-bang.
Tap-tap.
It’s not that they were asking for it.
Most of them had no idea how easily they
Could be improved.
It only takes a little ego-work
To cast out the demons of ignorance,
But then.....
You notice little dents you’ve left behind
In other people’s minds.
Oops!
Better luck next time.
—Joe Nolan
The problem with spreading enlightenment
Is that you begin to believe
You are on a mission from some
Swami Somebody-Ananda,
Something like a mission from God,
Buddha or some other savior
Who has not yet made it into the holy books.
There are so many out there
Who would wish everyone into Satori
If they only had a way—
Undiscovered liberators of the human heart.
When you are a hammer
You go looking for nails.
Bang-bang.
Tap-tap.
It’s not that they were asking for it.
Most of them had no idea how easily they
Could be improved.
It only takes a little ego-work
To cast out the demons of ignorance,
But then.....
You notice little dents you’ve left behind
In other people’s minds.
Oops!
Better luck next time.
Today’s LittleNip:
CLOUD-FEATHERS FLOATING
IN BUTTER
—Joe Nolan
Soft cloud.....
Tickling-feathers,
Floating in butter—
More slippery
Than silk,
Sweeter than cream,
More nourishing than milk.
Everything,
Soon undone,
In exactly
The way
You wished for—!
_____________________
Good morning, poets everywhere, mid-August, and many thanks to today’s contributors! Some talk of seashells today (our Tuesday Seed of the Week), as other poetry for thought starts us down the road toward Autumn. Be sure to check each Tuesday for the week’s Seed of the Week.
And click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about poetry events in the NorCal area. This week starts with the (I think it’s just online, though info in some places says it’s in-person also) Sac. Poetry Center reading in Sacramento; then, Poetry Unplugged meets on Thursday, also in Sacramento. Also on Thursday, Poetry Night In Davis features Charles Halsted and Angela James. On Saturday, The Way of Poetry workshop series on Japanese forms continues in Sacramento; also on Saturday, a special reading of Ekphrastic Poetry takes place in Placerville as part of the Third Sat. Art Walk. Then on Sunday, the Poets Club of Lincoln hosts Judy Brackett Crowe in Lincoln. And hey—next weekend is the 11th Annual Banana Festival in Sacramento’s Wm. Land Park! Don’t miss that! Deatails for all these events are in the UPCOMING link above.
_____________________
—Medusa
CLOUD-FEATHERS FLOATING
IN BUTTER
—Joe Nolan
Soft cloud.....
Tickling-feathers,
Floating in butter—
More slippery
Than silk,
Sweeter than cream,
More nourishing than milk.
Everything,
Soon undone,
In exactly
The way
You wished for—!
_____________________
Good morning, poets everywhere, mid-August, and many thanks to today’s contributors! Some talk of seashells today (our Tuesday Seed of the Week), as other poetry for thought starts us down the road toward Autumn. Be sure to check each Tuesday for the week’s Seed of the Week.
And click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about poetry events in the NorCal area. This week starts with the (I think it’s just online, though info in some places says it’s in-person also) Sac. Poetry Center reading in Sacramento; then, Poetry Unplugged meets on Thursday, also in Sacramento. Also on Thursday, Poetry Night In Davis features Charles Halsted and Angela James. On Saturday, The Way of Poetry workshop series on Japanese forms continues in Sacramento; also on Saturday, a special reading of Ekphrastic Poetry takes place in Placerville as part of the Third Sat. Art Walk. Then on Sunday, the Poets Club of Lincoln hosts Judy Brackett Crowe in Lincoln. And hey—next weekend is the 11th Annual Banana Festival in Sacramento’s Wm. Land Park! Don’t miss that! Deatails for all these events are in the UPCOMING link above.
_____________________
—Medusa
sense to me these days, either.
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!
