Lion Pride
—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Mary Lynne McGrath, Michael Ceraolo,
Sayani Mukherjee, Caschwa, Joe Nolan
—Public Domain Visuals Courtesy of Joe Nolan
The window’s closed
to shut out wind song
so that none of my dilemmas
could clamber up the towel rack
to ride the breeze and flee,
but not before a pixie
took advantage
of that opening,
and replaced me
in the mirror
with that wrinkled,
crinkled stranger
who’s now looking back at me.
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
MAZE
—Nolcha Fox
We’re stuck in leafy maze
of our design.
Sticking heads into
the hedges, looking
to escape each other,
stalking clues
to secret exits.
—Nolcha Fox
We’re stuck in leafy maze
of our design.
Sticking heads into
the hedges, looking
to escape each other,
stalking clues
to secret exits.
THE BIG BOUNCE
—Nolcha Fox
He bounces up and down,
trying every mattress
in the store.
The last bed bounce
throws him up,
and he never
comes
down.
—Nolcha Fox
He bounces up and down,
trying every mattress
in the store.
The last bed bounce
throws him up,
and he never
comes
down.
WINDSONG
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
All key notes of the Beaufort scale,
from high to low, isobar flow—
a breeze to know the tempo blown,
with gales of laughter, stopped, standstill,
though leaning into forceful wail.
Can oboe, pipe or clarinet,
sound woodwind air from reeding score?
What chimes with us by window pane,
drone tone moan through coned turret stones,
the current draught served up in bars?
His Master’s Voice turns table as
windup, ambient, 78,
for Mary had a little lamb,
or lullaby on gramophone,
as Blowin’, Candle, Idiot.
Broad brushwork drawn through elder, trees,
leaf ash grove grating chimney stack,
rush blanket bedding rustles brew,
sedge warbler sings us something new,
pine resin waxed, stretch catgut bowed.
Chinook, Sirocco, Foehn, Mistral
at minim, quaver, thermal rise
and fall, as gliding, sliding, stall,
the zephyr taking full control,
a mayday pitch in final squall.
Hear siren calls from windlass wheels—
find windbreak to hear still small voice,
the lyrics in our souls set free
by spirit’s breath, dynamic play,
such melody without refrain.
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
All key notes of the Beaufort scale,
from high to low, isobar flow—
a breeze to know the tempo blown,
with gales of laughter, stopped, standstill,
though leaning into forceful wail.
Can oboe, pipe or clarinet,
sound woodwind air from reeding score?
What chimes with us by window pane,
drone tone moan through coned turret stones,
the current draught served up in bars?
His Master’s Voice turns table as
windup, ambient, 78,
for Mary had a little lamb,
or lullaby on gramophone,
as Blowin’, Candle, Idiot.
Broad brushwork drawn through elder, trees,
leaf ash grove grating chimney stack,
rush blanket bedding rustles brew,
sedge warbler sings us something new,
pine resin waxed, stretch catgut bowed.
Chinook, Sirocco, Foehn, Mistral
at minim, quaver, thermal rise
and fall, as gliding, sliding, stall,
the zephyr taking full control,
a mayday pitch in final squall.
Hear siren calls from windlass wheels—
find windbreak to hear still small voice,
the lyrics in our souls set free
by spirit’s breath, dynamic play,
such melody without refrain.
And why did I let it blow away? I let it blow away because God was watching me and He watched because Sister Mary Damien asked Him to because she can't be everywhere at once but God can, and her students need watching so that they don't break a rule and the rule was that when the bell rang we lined up on the playground on a line painted on the asphalt next to the cyclone fence with the open gate, so when the wind blew, my red hat flew off my head and I was afraid to chase it and it blew out of the gate and I lost it to the motor oil in the gutter and to the Fear of God because I stayed on the line and waited for the teacher and the rain wet the asphalt and the smell of the ground filled my head with sorrow and my hat blew away.
—Mary Lynne McGrath, Sacramento, CA
—Mary Lynne McGrath, Sacramento, CA
FAYE DANCER
—Michael Ceraolo, S. Euclid, OH
I got the nickname All-the-Way Faye
because of my all-out style of play,
not because of any promiscuity,
though I did have fun off the field as well
I considered it my mission
to test the chaperones' mettle,
especially when it came to curfew:
we had to be in by 10 PM
as though we were high school kids
I wasn't going to let a silly rule
stop me from having a few beers,
and I never got caught
I wasn't alone in my escapades,
but I won't squeal on my partners in crime
—Michael Ceraolo, S. Euclid, OH
I got the nickname All-the-Way Faye
because of my all-out style of play,
not because of any promiscuity,
though I did have fun off the field as well
I considered it my mission
to test the chaperones' mettle,
especially when it came to curfew:
we had to be in by 10 PM
as though we were high school kids
I wasn't going to let a silly rule
stop me from having a few beers,
and I never got caught
I wasn't alone in my escapades,
but I won't squeal on my partners in crime
SOPHIE KURYS
—Michael Ceraolo
I was fast, I stole a lot of bases,
and I was from Flint, Michigan,
so of course I was called The Flint Flash,
proving that sportswriters generally weren't any better
at giving us nicknames than they were with male players
I had a brief moment back in the news
when Rickey Henderson topped my career stolen-base total
Sportswriters scoffed because I was a woman,
but I wonder how many he would have stolen
if he'd been forced to wear a skirt while playing
—Michael Ceraolo
I was fast, I stole a lot of bases,
and I was from Flint, Michigan,
so of course I was called The Flint Flash,
proving that sportswriters generally weren't any better
at giving us nicknames than they were with male players
I had a brief moment back in the news
when Rickey Henderson topped my career stolen-base total
Sportswriters scoffed because I was a woman,
but I wonder how many he would have stolen
if he'd been forced to wear a skirt while playing
DOTTIE KAMENSHEK
—Michael Ceraolo
Wally Pipp once said
I was the best-fielding first baseman,
male or female, he'd ever seen,
and I appreciate the compliment
I understand the value of publicity,
so when a low-level minor-league men's team
offered me a contract hoping for publicity,
I did consider it,
but they offered much less money
than I was making with Rockford
—Michael Ceraolo
Wally Pipp once said
I was the best-fielding first baseman,
male or female, he'd ever seen,
and I appreciate the compliment
I understand the value of publicity,
so when a low-level minor-league men's team
offered me a contract hoping for publicity,
I did consider it,
but they offered much less money
than I was making with Rockford
ANNABELLE LEE
—Michael Ceraolo
I wasn't a delicate creature
like my namesake in the Poe poem:
I didn't play with dolls; I was a ballplayer,
though I was never lucky enough
to be on one of the league's good teams,
and a head injury ended my career
Helen Callaghan was unique among us,
but I get at least partial credit
for my nephew Billy
—Michael Ceraolo
I wasn't a delicate creature
like my namesake in the Poe poem:
I didn't play with dolls; I was a ballplayer,
though I was never lucky enough
to be on one of the league's good teams,
and a head injury ended my career
Helen Callaghan was unique among us,
but I get at least partial credit
for my nephew Billy
SURFACE
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India
Trees and feathers
A dualistic play.
The upper hand of a red burnt sky
My frisky fall play
Endings are coming open
Pledged to encounter
Courage, a brave face
A dark grey suit
As in business meetings happen
A chilling coldness
A freeze-up jar of
Small unread tokens.
When time demands
My breathings came short
Upon surface
A rose-gold flush
The clicking of my shoes
Trailed along the play
To keep it open
I must write
To build the mansion
I need to cement up.
With cleansing and breathing
A new dawn cap
A virtuoso of abundance
For my ecstasy lies in
A creative fiction.
Trees and feathers
A dualistic play.
The upper hand of a red burnt sky
My frisky fall play
Endings are coming open
Pledged to encounter
Courage, a brave face
A dark grey suit
As in business meetings happen
A chilling coldness
A freeze-up jar of
Small unread tokens.
When time demands
My breathings came short
Upon surface
A rose-gold flush
The clicking of my shoes
Trailed along the play
To keep it open
I must write
To build the mansion
I need to cement up.
With cleansing and breathing
A new dawn cap
A virtuoso of abundance
For my ecstasy lies in
A creative fiction.
POINT TO PONDER
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
the Oxford serial comma rule
handily employs punctuation
to clarify an expression or idea
if there were to be an Oxford
serial rapist rule, or serial killer
rule, something much more
profound than punctuation
would have to be employed
something much more profound
than all the laws that have ever
been passed, printed, or etched
in stone
and while we are still waiting with
far more convicts than jail space,
all we get are more commas….
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
the Oxford serial comma rule
handily employs punctuation
to clarify an expression or idea
if there were to be an Oxford
serial rapist rule, or serial killer
rule, something much more
profound than punctuation
would have to be employed
something much more profound
than all the laws that have ever
been passed, printed, or etched
in stone
and while we are still waiting with
far more convicts than jail space,
all we get are more commas….
READY IN AN INSTANT
—Caschwa
(from Medusa’s Kitchen, July 27, 2022,
after clicking Robert Beveridge’s
link [xterminal.bandcamp.com] to his
comments on the biased treatment
of blacks by police in Akron, Ohio)
At lineup, the whole force hears about
those grizzly bears with rabies that
have been terrorizing the community,
and instructions are passed down the
chain of command to show no quarter
Jayland Walker, Stephon Clarke, they
go by all kinds of names and dress all
kinds of ways, but you know when you
see one, they are the very reason we
tote guns around to protect the public
make sure you have your gun, and a
backup or 2, plenty of ammo, and last
but not least, a damned good excuse!
we cannot tolerate those kind of beasts
running around like they own the place,
so team up, mow them down, and shine
up that lovely badge of yours
—Caschwa
(from Medusa’s Kitchen, July 27, 2022,
after clicking Robert Beveridge’s
link [xterminal.bandcamp.com] to his
comments on the biased treatment
of blacks by police in Akron, Ohio)
At lineup, the whole force hears about
those grizzly bears with rabies that
have been terrorizing the community,
and instructions are passed down the
chain of command to show no quarter
Jayland Walker, Stephon Clarke, they
go by all kinds of names and dress all
kinds of ways, but you know when you
see one, they are the very reason we
tote guns around to protect the public
make sure you have your gun, and a
backup or 2, plenty of ammo, and last
but not least, a damned good excuse!
we cannot tolerate those kind of beasts
running around like they own the place,
so team up, mow them down, and shine
up that lovely badge of yours
PROVING THE TRUTH OF RHYME
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
I lined up
Thimbles,
Into circles,
To prove
The truth
Of rhyme,
Seeking the protection
That thumbs
Surely deserve,
By circling
Enabling-metal,
To poke a
Needle through.
And what of me and you?
Do I need protection
To penetrate
Into you?
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
I lined up
Thimbles,
Into circles,
To prove
The truth
Of rhyme,
Seeking the protection
That thumbs
Surely deserve,
By circling
Enabling-metal,
To poke a
Needle through.
And what of me and you?
Do I need protection
To penetrate
Into you?
STILL TOUCHABLE?
—Joe Nolan
I hope you are
Still touchable,
Though I’m sure
You must be
Less so than before.
There are ways that
Mirrors shame you
When you try to wear, again,
What you wore
Twenty seasons, before,
Since every streak of red
Is lighted by touches of gray
And broad-brimmed hats
Are your style of the day.
Scarves now grace your neck
To hide some signs of age.
As you rifle through
Your address-book,
You notice there's no need
To keep a certain page
That is well-worn.
—Joe Nolan
I hope you are
Still touchable,
Though I’m sure
You must be
Less so than before.
There are ways that
Mirrors shame you
When you try to wear, again,
What you wore
Twenty seasons, before,
Since every streak of red
Is lighted by touches of gray
And broad-brimmed hats
Are your style of the day.
Scarves now grace your neck
To hide some signs of age.
As you rifle through
Your address-book,
You notice there's no need
To keep a certain page
That is well-worn.
TRYING TO GET HOME
—Joe Nolan
The keyhole
Looked rather fuzzy,
When I tried to
Slide in my key.
It’s hard to get home
When you feel so alone–
Suffering from apostasy.
Someday,
I’d like to visit
The shrine
We used to keep as ours.
We should visit
Early in the morning,
Burdened-down
With armfuls
Of flowers,
Sing some psalms
And burden-down
The beggars
With sacks-full of alms,
Blow a magic trumpet,
Until all
The walls
Fall down,
Then wander, we,
To get drunk,
Into the nearest town.
—Joe Nolan
The keyhole
Looked rather fuzzy,
When I tried to
Slide in my key.
It’s hard to get home
When you feel so alone–
Suffering from apostasy.
Someday,
I’d like to visit
The shrine
We used to keep as ours.
We should visit
Early in the morning,
Burdened-down
With armfuls
Of flowers,
Sing some psalms
And burden-down
The beggars
With sacks-full of alms,
Blow a magic trumpet,
Until all
The walls
Fall down,
Then wander, we,
To get drunk,
Into the nearest town.
PAYING TO BE HEARD
—Joe Nolan
Lots of people
Pay lots of money
To someone who will listen
As they complain
About their relatives.
It’s worth it,
They feel.
Talking about it
Makes it real.
So it is.
So many wrongs and injuries—
Craters on the moon,
Poison in the veins,
Detritus remains of
Rotting, hulks of ships
Stranded on the beach,
Half-buried in damp sand,
Remedy,
Beyond command.
How can you shout at the dead,
The twice removed,
The acid-head,
Those who went around you,
Completely!
As though you were dead.
Normal people won’t even believe
The craziness
Some relatives
Have up their sleeves,
Pulling out four aces,
All in the same suit, like spades—
Who could think it’s true?
Maybe, it must be you?!?
So it’s better to pay
Than drive old friends away,
New friends or old,
Lest your memories be sold,
To rag-merchants of the broken-hearted.
__________________
Today’s LittleNip:
MASKS
—Nolcha Fox
We put our masks on
every morning,
masks that smile,
masks the show we care.
Underneath we yawn,
we crossword puzzle.
Underneath we couldn’t
give a hoot.
__________________
Good morning, America—and beyond—and welcome to the month of August, 2022! I couldn’t resist the Lion Pride photo—such beautiful magnificence so deftly caught by the camera, truly Lion Pride! And each of our poets is, after all, a lion in his/her own way...
Our current Seed of the Week is “Windsong”, and today we have several poems blowing that theme around; the wind always arouses curiosity and room for a wide variety of poetic responses. Our Mondays around here are a rainbow of voices and ideas, and we’re all the better for it, starting our weeks off with comments from Medusa’s community. Thank you to today’s contributors, and as for the rest of you—don’t be shy about jumping into the fray that is every Monday Kitchen by sending poems about whatever’s on your mind.
—Joe Nolan
Lots of people
Pay lots of money
To someone who will listen
As they complain
About their relatives.
It’s worth it,
They feel.
Talking about it
Makes it real.
So it is.
So many wrongs and injuries—
Craters on the moon,
Poison in the veins,
Detritus remains of
Rotting, hulks of ships
Stranded on the beach,
Half-buried in damp sand,
Remedy,
Beyond command.
How can you shout at the dead,
The twice removed,
The acid-head,
Those who went around you,
Completely!
As though you were dead.
Normal people won’t even believe
The craziness
Some relatives
Have up their sleeves,
Pulling out four aces,
All in the same suit, like spades—
Who could think it’s true?
Maybe, it must be you?!?
So it’s better to pay
Than drive old friends away,
New friends or old,
Lest your memories be sold,
To rag-merchants of the broken-hearted.
__________________
Today’s LittleNip:
MASKS
—Nolcha Fox
We put our masks on
every morning,
masks that smile,
masks the show we care.
Underneath we yawn,
we crossword puzzle.
Underneath we couldn’t
give a hoot.
__________________
Good morning, America—and beyond—and welcome to the month of August, 2022! I couldn’t resist the Lion Pride photo—such beautiful magnificence so deftly caught by the camera, truly Lion Pride! And each of our poets is, after all, a lion in his/her own way...
Our current Seed of the Week is “Windsong”, and today we have several poems blowing that theme around; the wind always arouses curiosity and room for a wide variety of poetic responses. Our Mondays around here are a rainbow of voices and ideas, and we’re all the better for it, starting our weeks off with comments from Medusa’s community. Thank you to today’s contributors, and as for the rest of you—don’t be shy about jumping into the fray that is every Monday Kitchen by sending poems about whatever’s on your mind.
And check Tuesdays for each new Seed of the Week.
Congratulations to Sue McMahon from up our way; she’s had a poem, “The Dance”, published as Mountain Democrat’s Poem of the Month. See www.mtdemocrat.com/prospecting/poem-of-the-month-the-dance/.
This week, as always, brings a variety of readings to our area: Sac. Poetry Center’s Hot Poetry in the Park returns tonight with J. Rowe—plus, a new workshop from Sac. Poetry Alliance starts this Saturday: The Way of Poetry, six weeks about Japanese forms, presented by Louis Osofsky. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about these and other future poetry events in the NorCal area.
And remember to stay out of the wind, lest you lose your hat…!
_____________________
—Medusa
Congratulations to Sue McMahon from up our way; she’s had a poem, “The Dance”, published as Mountain Democrat’s Poem of the Month. See www.mtdemocrat.com/prospecting/poem-of-the-month-the-dance/.
This week, as always, brings a variety of readings to our area: Sac. Poetry Center’s Hot Poetry in the Park returns tonight with J. Rowe—plus, a new workshop from Sac. Poetry Alliance starts this Saturday: The Way of Poetry, six weeks about Japanese forms, presented by Louis Osofsky. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about these and other future poetry events in the NorCal area.
And remember to stay out of the wind, lest you lose your hat…!
_____________________
—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!
blowin’ in the wind…
