—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Nolcha Fox
THE BIRD YOU ARE
You are a bald eagle,
marring your majesty
with miserable morals:
stealing what isn’t yours.
You steal the bright,
the shiny,
the absurd.
You steal what others
made and love.
And you don’t care.
You only love yourself.
You are a bald eagle,
marring your majesty
with miserable morals:
stealing what isn’t yours.
You steal the bright,
the shiny,
the absurd.
You steal what others
made and love.
And you don’t care.
You only love yourself.
BIRD BRAIN
My head is just a bird cage,
my life is a dead bird.
My recollections
are collections
of bird turds
that the ceiling fan
wooshes away.
My head is just a bird cage,
my life is a dead bird.
My recollections
are collections
of bird turds
that the ceiling fan
wooshes away.
She opened her heart
and the bluebird of happiness
flew inside.
Now she’s so stuffed
with bird poop
and bird seed,
she can’t zip up
her pants.
She’d rather be thin
and depressed.
and the bluebird of happiness
flew inside.
Now she’s so stuffed
with bird poop
and bird seed,
she can’t zip up
her pants.
She’d rather be thin
and depressed.
NO BLUEBIRDS HERE
Response to “Bluebirds”
by Charles Bukowski
Once I had
a bluebird in my heart,
until it crapped all over the place,
and left insect parts on the floor
for the cat to eat.
I let that bluebird out,
and I haven’t been sorry since.
Response to “Bluebirds”
by Charles Bukowski
Once I had
a bluebird in my heart,
until it crapped all over the place,
and left insect parts on the floor
for the cat to eat.
I let that bluebird out,
and I haven’t been sorry since.
Little lies
believe they are
invincible.
Little lies
believe they do
no harm.
They ignore
the warnings
posted round
the murky space
between us.
They jump in
and think
the water’s fine.
believe they are
invincible.
Little lies
believe they do
no harm.
They ignore
the warnings
posted round
the murky space
between us.
They jump in
and think
the water’s fine.
RED
How often you have swaggered past,
your red dress floating in the breeze?
I am just a tiny tick,
a pebble on the sidewalk.
At best I am a mirror
of the things that you disdain.
Every day I leave a poppy,
red, at your front door.
Each flower is a bullet,
I aim it at your heart.
It bounces off your soulless shell,
you crush the petals with your heels.
How often you have swaggered past,
your red dress floating in the breeze?
I am just a tiny tick,
a pebble on the sidewalk.
At best I am a mirror
of the things that you disdain.
Every day I leave a poppy,
red, at your front door.
Each flower is a bullet,
I aim it at your heart.
It bounces off your soulless shell,
you crush the petals with your heels.
THROWING CAUTION OUT
THE WINDOW
Only for you,
would I surf
volcanic lava
on a chocolate bar,
would I ride
a unicycle
atop a satellite.
When I see you,
logic is impossible,
my chance of survival
slim.
THE WINDOW
Only for you,
would I surf
volcanic lava
on a chocolate bar,
would I ride
a unicycle
atop a satellite.
When I see you,
logic is impossible,
my chance of survival
slim.
GOODBYE, COMMON SENSE
Enthusiasm drops
another shiny object
on my plate.
Isn’t it beautiful?
Eat it, she says.
It’s small. You can fit it in.
I eat the shiny object.
I eat until I’m obese,
and time doesn’t fit in my pants.
Common Sense lectures.
He tears out his hair.
He puts on a parachute, goes skydiving.
And he doesn’t ever come back.
Enthusiasm drops
another shiny object
on my plate.
Isn’t it beautiful?
Eat it, she says.
It’s small. You can fit it in.
I eat the shiny object.
I eat until I’m obese,
and time doesn’t fit in my pants.
Common Sense lectures.
He tears out his hair.
He puts on a parachute, goes skydiving.
And he doesn’t ever come back.
THIS IS HOW I LEAVE
I’m that librarian,
sewing old book
bindings in an attic.
I leave a legacy
of dusty pages,
rarely read.
I’m that last woman
standing in line
for the one public toilet in town.
I wash my hands after I blast
the pee stains
and stall-wall engravings.
I’m that drunk
waking up in a ditch,
wondering why I hold
a sewing needle
and a blow torch.
I’m that librarian,
sewing old book
bindings in an attic.
I leave a legacy
of dusty pages,
rarely read.
I’m that last woman
standing in line
for the one public toilet in town.
I wash my hands after I blast
the pee stains
and stall-wall engravings.
I’m that drunk
waking up in a ditch,
wondering why I hold
a sewing needle
and a blow torch.
(My father smoked cigars. This poem is for him.)
HOW TO SMOKE A CIGAR
First, sit in a room
with your wife,
that woman
who says stinky
cigars should
be buried outside.
Next, pull
a cigar from
the wooden box.
Feel the grain,
breathe in
burnt chocolate.
Now, cut the cap
with that expensive
little tool. Even
if it’s not expensive,
tell your wife
it is.
Fondle the cigar,
puff it raw.
Smile. That’s a rule.
Now, light it up,
let the sweet taste linger,
but don’t inhale.
That’s everyone else’s job.
HOW TO SMOKE A CIGAR
First, sit in a room
with your wife,
that woman
who says stinky
cigars should
be buried outside.
Next, pull
a cigar from
the wooden box.
Feel the grain,
breathe in
burnt chocolate.
Now, cut the cap
with that expensive
little tool. Even
if it’s not expensive,
tell your wife
it is.
Fondle the cigar,
puff it raw.
Smile. That’s a rule.
Now, light it up,
let the sweet taste linger,
but don’t inhale.
That’s everyone else’s job.
Today’s LittleNip:
CHUM
—Nolcha Fox
A leaky boat, no oars,
the shark fin
looming larger.
duh,duh,
duh,duh,
duh,duh…
My only weapon,
this book in my hand.
I hold my breath.
No bite.
Oh, it’s only a poetry reading.
It’s my turn at the mic.
_____________________
Many thanks to Nolcha Fox this morning for her fine poetry—always surprising!
If you’re in the mood to drive to Petaluma, the Petaluma Poetry Walk with readings around town takes place over there today. Closer to home, The Poets Club of Lincoln will feature David Charles Anderson this afternoon, plus open mic, at The Salt Mine in Lincoln, CA. Also this afternoon, a repeat performance in Sacramento of Graciela: Poesia de la Luna Llena, a tribute to Sacramento Poet Graciela Ramirez by Teatro Espejo. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about this and other future poetry events in the NorCal area.
CHUM
—Nolcha Fox
A leaky boat, no oars,
the shark fin
looming larger.
duh,duh,
duh,duh,
duh,duh…
My only weapon,
this book in my hand.
I hold my breath.
No bite.
Oh, it’s only a poetry reading.
It’s my turn at the mic.
_____________________
Many thanks to Nolcha Fox this morning for her fine poetry—always surprising!
If you’re in the mood to drive to Petaluma, the Petaluma Poetry Walk with readings around town takes place over there today. Closer to home, The Poets Club of Lincoln will feature David Charles Anderson this afternoon, plus open mic, at The Salt Mine in Lincoln, CA. Also this afternoon, a repeat performance in Sacramento of Graciela: Poesia de la Luna Llena, a tribute to Sacramento Poet Graciela Ramirez by Teatro Espejo. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about this and other future poetry events in the NorCal area.
_____________________
—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!
