You don’t have to sing, just because
they tell you to…
—Poetry by Kyle Hemmings, Claire J. Baker,
Sayani Mukherjee, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Caschwa, Joe Nolan, Nolcha Fox
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joe Nolan
ARABESQUE
—Kyle Hemmings, Westfield, NJ
ruined ballerinas
steal your love letters
shred them
while thinking
of their own
unstable lovers
then run out
to sell themselves
to the night
—Kyle Hemmings, Westfield, NJ
ruined ballerinas
steal your love letters
shred them
while thinking
of their own
unstable lovers
then run out
to sell themselves
to the night
NUDE
—Kyle Hemmings
in an empty
art gallery
she becomes
unbuttoned &
silly/smashing your
abstracts
until you’re
reduced
to Warhol-silence &
titanium white
C.S.I.
—Kyle Hemmings
under the blind eye of the sun
she cheated me
of fresh tomatoes & love.
i scattered her shadow
near jagged rows
of rose bushes &
lazy susans.
huddled in my kitchen
the detectives ask me
about my work history
demand a list of contacts
my source(s) of income.
I tell them that
i live on hand-outs & kindness
a meager pension,
on dollar store bread
& instant noodles
already expired.
—Kyle Hemmings
under the blind eye of the sun
she cheated me
of fresh tomatoes & love.
i scattered her shadow
near jagged rows
of rose bushes &
lazy susans.
huddled in my kitchen
the detectives ask me
about my work history
demand a list of contacts
my source(s) of income.
I tell them that
i live on hand-outs & kindness
a meager pension,
on dollar store bread
& instant noodles
already expired.
HEREIN
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
Here, in my side-sagging bed
where I sleep on the brinking edge,
this night, before the sun’s lift-off,
I arrive at a sent-to-me line for a poem
in limbo. My dream pen writes it in. Yes.
Later, when I confess to Linda my edginess
with all things God, she suggests I address
fears, frustrations, frenetic fantasies
to a placid dog of my own choosing—
or even to: To Whom it May Concern At All,
or Hey, Does Anybody Out There Even Care?—
all ideas these days and nights I will consider.
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
Here, in my side-sagging bed
where I sleep on the brinking edge,
this night, before the sun’s lift-off,
I arrive at a sent-to-me line for a poem
in limbo. My dream pen writes it in. Yes.
Later, when I confess to Linda my edginess
with all things God, she suggests I address
fears, frustrations, frenetic fantasies
to a placid dog of my own choosing—
or even to: To Whom it May Concern At All,
or Hey, Does Anybody Out There Even Care?—
all ideas these days and nights I will consider.
AUGUST
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India
There's a craze over August
The eighth month
To show the face of it a little more bright
Wooden floors upon the high-end beach
Nutty glowed tapered tales
Of coming undone a little more
The Indian summer has a dark end
Murky milky fidgety way
The snakes hide that way
In a little hole of August
A ceremonial end
To suck the letters
In a peephole
Let the month do the reading
As I unhinged my gate
To look over winter break.
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India
There's a craze over August
The eighth month
To show the face of it a little more bright
Wooden floors upon the high-end beach
Nutty glowed tapered tales
Of coming undone a little more
The Indian summer has a dark end
Murky milky fidgety way
The snakes hide that way
In a little hole of August
A ceremonial end
To suck the letters
In a peephole
Let the month do the reading
As I unhinged my gate
To look over winter break.
BEFORE SUNRISE
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
It is the darkest of the night
until two strings of black and white
distinguishable, light suffice.
And that the cue, as songbirds queue,
let loose dawn chorus, and the verse.
We dozy folk roll, cover more,
await close, interval of worms,
when early, eager beaks spike greens,
their break fast, our mug late abed.
For moles, whose life, soil burrow dark,
while bats, moths, fireflies sprite as wights,
swoop owls depending, grey rays, eyes,
like hawks that pray on urine trails;
their cycle spin, circadian,
reminds that orbits may not count,
as sockets tricity, or sight.
Our value judgements, mankind tuned,
leave disenfranchised, half our world—
a macho, pick who, Peru sky?
In spinning globe, rise ball or fall,
at midnight, dusk, daybreak or noon,
adapted life is interspersed
in symbiosis, live and die—
may death mark stardust, future spark?
So when we sleep or anxious, toss,
at dead of night when clock creeps slow,
recall that more than flocks leap walls—
our woolly jumpers counted out—
for thriving life prepares, retire,
our standing set in wider space,
and grace suggests, span measures place?
When will our praise weigh other ways?
For sunrise is not that at all,
but earth turn with another face—
‘before’ is in one zone alone.
While sonrise mystery remains,
does lore of other faiths appeal,
and teach us, small part of the whole?
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
It is the darkest of the night
until two strings of black and white
distinguishable, light suffice.
And that the cue, as songbirds queue,
let loose dawn chorus, and the verse.
We dozy folk roll, cover more,
await close, interval of worms,
when early, eager beaks spike greens,
their break fast, our mug late abed.
For moles, whose life, soil burrow dark,
while bats, moths, fireflies sprite as wights,
swoop owls depending, grey rays, eyes,
like hawks that pray on urine trails;
their cycle spin, circadian,
reminds that orbits may not count,
as sockets tricity, or sight.
Our value judgements, mankind tuned,
leave disenfranchised, half our world—
a macho, pick who, Peru sky?
In spinning globe, rise ball or fall,
at midnight, dusk, daybreak or noon,
adapted life is interspersed
in symbiosis, live and die—
may death mark stardust, future spark?
So when we sleep or anxious, toss,
at dead of night when clock creeps slow,
recall that more than flocks leap walls—
our woolly jumpers counted out—
for thriving life prepares, retire,
our standing set in wider space,
and grace suggests, span measures place?
When will our praise weigh other ways?
For sunrise is not that at all,
but earth turn with another face—
‘before’ is in one zone alone.
While sonrise mystery remains,
does lore of other faiths appeal,
and teach us, small part of the whole?
I FINALLY FOUND WINDSONG
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
one expert proclaims, “Although
‘windsong’ is a word that I have
seen used on many occasions,
virtually no dictionaries list it as
an accepted word.”
I tested that theory and looked
in my big, weighty, Webster’s
Unabridged Dictionary, and there-
it-wasn’t, right between wind sock
and Windsor
a reminder of that other, famous
there-it-wasn’t “trickle” from Ronald
Reagan’s Trickle Down Theory of
Economics
or the lost city of Atlantis
or that missing sock
or that Lotto ticket with 100%
near matches
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
one expert proclaims, “Although
‘windsong’ is a word that I have
seen used on many occasions,
virtually no dictionaries list it as
an accepted word.”
I tested that theory and looked
in my big, weighty, Webster’s
Unabridged Dictionary, and there-
it-wasn’t, right between wind sock
and Windsor
a reminder of that other, famous
there-it-wasn’t “trickle” from Ronald
Reagan’s Trickle Down Theory of
Economics
or the lost city of Atlantis
or that missing sock
or that Lotto ticket with 100%
near matches
WE RISE TO THE OCCASION
—Caschwa
The British are coming!
The rocket’s red glare, the bombs bursting in air
Oh, say does that star spangled banner yet wave
Pres. Bush’s “Mission Accomplished” banner
God shed his grace on thee
****
Uvalde, Texas
The subject brought a military assault weapon
The local law enforcement brought clichés
Help!! Active shooter!!
We have him contained
Help!! Active shooter!!
The subject is contained
****
Now all kinds of investigations are pending…
—Caschwa
The British are coming!
The rocket’s red glare, the bombs bursting in air
Oh, say does that star spangled banner yet wave
Pres. Bush’s “Mission Accomplished” banner
God shed his grace on thee
****
Uvalde, Texas
The subject brought a military assault weapon
The local law enforcement brought clichés
Help!! Active shooter!!
We have him contained
Help!! Active shooter!!
The subject is contained
****
Now all kinds of investigations are pending…
DARKNESS AND LIGHT
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
Sunlight has a funny way
Of shining around
Any blockage
Set before it,
Giving rise to
Shining coronas,
Bright outlines,
Iridescent halos,
Brilliant auras,
And the first,
Faint light of dawn.
In darkness,
We pray for light,
Knowing light is there
And light will surely come—
Since surely,
Day follows night.
We pray for light,
Hoping it
Can make us right,
But nightmares,
We dreamt at night,
Follow us
Throughout our days,
Blending deep darkness
Into our lives-in-light.
CONSULTING SHADOW
—Joe Nolan
Will it ever
Really be
Groundhog Day,
When we look to see a shadow,
Asking how long it takes
Winter to go away?
How important a shadow may be!
Something that can tell us
How cold the cold may linger
How long and longer
Winter’s cold will last—
How long we’ll be confronted
With the shadows of our Past.
—Joe Nolan
Will it ever
Really be
Groundhog Day,
When we look to see a shadow,
Asking how long it takes
Winter to go away?
How important a shadow may be!
Something that can tell us
How cold the cold may linger
How long and longer
Winter’s cold will last—
How long we’ll be confronted
With the shadows of our Past.
HANDLING NARCISSISTS
—Joe Nolan
She was looking for something
That wasn’t there.
That’s the way it is
With narcissists.
You think you have a handle
And a grip,
But when you press to motion,
You feel all pressure slip
And waltz away,
Into unknown play,
Known only to the dancer.
That’s the way it is,
Sad to say!
—Joe Nolan
She was looking for something
That wasn’t there.
That’s the way it is
With narcissists.
You think you have a handle
And a grip,
But when you press to motion,
You feel all pressure slip
And waltz away,
Into unknown play,
Known only to the dancer.
That’s the way it is,
Sad to say!
ART AS SALVATION
—Joe Nolan
It was by the
Power of God and
Frozen Angels,
That everything
Was put into
This mold.
It was because
Of conflict
In the Heavens,
That all things, new,
Were destined
To grow old.
It was because
Of enmity,
A serpent in a tree,
Persuaded Eve
To eat an apple
And then serve it
To Adam.
There’s nothing
We can do
To reverse
The course of arrows,
Bent unto each others’ hearts,
But salvage some
Salvation.
—Joe Nolan
It was by the
Power of God and
Frozen Angels,
That everything
Was put into
This mold.
It was because
Of conflict
In the Heavens,
That all things, new,
Were destined
To grow old.
It was because
Of enmity,
A serpent in a tree,
Persuaded Eve
To eat an apple
And then serve it
To Adam.
There’s nothing
We can do
To reverse
The course of arrows,
Bent unto each others’ hearts,
But salvage some
Salvation.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Nolcha Fox
SOMEWHERE THE SUNLIGHT
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
Groping in darkness,
scorched and alone,
penned in by peaks,
dejection sets in.
One more step
and a breeze
caresses your cheek.
Land shimmers golden,
trees emerge from the night.
Water in distance
reflects back the dawn.
Somewhere the sunlight
declares a new morn.
WHAT I SUMMON
—Nolcha Fox
Pills all are swallowed,
bottles are empty,
time to call in
for a refill.
Medicine names
unpronounceable,
but speak them
I must on the phone.
In front of my eyes
bursts fire and smoke,
a demon dances,
delighted.
I’ll never pronounce
my med names again.
Next time, I’ll just order
pizza.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
17
—Kyle Hemmings
our awkward virginity
a teabag leaking out
we made funny faces
in the dirty pond
we were still thirsty
____________________
Good morning, August, and thanks to all of today’s contributors—not a narcissist among them! Lots of newcomers coming into the Kitchen this month, along with friends who visit us regularly. We have a newcomer to the Kitchen this morning, in fact: Kyle Hemmings has been published in Sonic Boom, Otoliths, Right Hand Pointing, Large Hearted Boy, Deracine, and elsewhere. He says he loves street photography and ‘60s garage bands. Welcome to the Kitchen, Kyle, and don’t be a stranger!
—Nolcha Fox
Pills all are swallowed,
bottles are empty,
time to call in
for a refill.
Medicine names
unpronounceable,
but speak them
I must on the phone.
In front of my eyes
bursts fire and smoke,
a demon dances,
delighted.
I’ll never pronounce
my med names again.
Next time, I’ll just order
pizza.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
17
—Kyle Hemmings
our awkward virginity
a teabag leaking out
we made funny faces
in the dirty pond
we were still thirsty
____________________
Good morning, August, and thanks to all of today’s contributors—not a narcissist among them! Lots of newcomers coming into the Kitchen this month, along with friends who visit us regularly. We have a newcomer to the Kitchen this morning, in fact: Kyle Hemmings has been published in Sonic Boom, Otoliths, Right Hand Pointing, Large Hearted Boy, Deracine, and elsewhere. He says he loves street photography and ‘60s garage bands. Welcome to the Kitchen, Kyle, and don’t be a stranger!
Our Seed of the Week was "Before Sunrise", so we have poems about light and dark and shadow. Be sure to check each Tuesday for the week’s Seed of the Week.
Nolcha Fox's "What I Summon", by the way, is a response to last Monday's cartoon about thinking you're pronouncing the names of your drugs, when actually you're summoning demons. (Don't mind us, Kyle—we're only silly on Mondays. Mostly...)
____________________
—Medusa
Kyle Hemmings
For upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
in the links at the top of this page.
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!
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
in the links at the top of this page.
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!
(The narcissist speaks.)
