GOODIE TWO SHOES
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
the sweaty, somewhat
overweight backpacker
plants his heavy, stiffly
laced boots on some
well-worn dust, obeying
the sign to stay on the
trail….
…now suddenly a petite
ballerina, who paints her
tiny steps with a fine-haired
brush, gathers energy from
the elasticity of the frame to
sail effortlessly across the
expanse…
…leaving him thinking that
it would be better to step
aside and let this other pass,
before yielding to nature’s
not so timid suggestion that
it was time to empty one’s
bladder….
…whilst she, as if totally
oblivious to the consequences
of running out of time, patiently
spins circles of webbing all
around him, laughingly ignoring
that sign to stay on the trail
Davis, CA
UNRECORDED INTERVIEW
—Caschwa
had a chance to visit with
the former president who
took keen interest in my
recognition of his astute
trading abilities in terms
of baseball cards
he had these assorted folders
marked with various levels
of confidential or sensitive
government information that
he parlayed into a fantastic
collection of great cards:
nuclear warhead data
traded for Mickey Mantle,
Ken Griffey, Jr., and Ty Cobb
percipient witnesses info
traded for Babe Ruth,
Jackie Robinson, and Derek Jeter
locations of key testing exercises
traded for Roberto Clemente, Stan
Musial, and Hank Aaron
sun melts
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
STRANGE BEDFELLOWS
—Nolcha Fox
the two of me
dancing in the dusk,
a duet of distance
between my unburied
dead dreams,
dead heart,
and the body that
moves through time,
repeating rituals
the same as yesterday,
the week before,
the year before.
The two of us,
dead to the world
and living in it
CAMERAS EVERYWHERE
—Nolcha Fox
If I were a movie star
I wouldn’t mind at all.
I’d love to be the latest news,
to be a fashion icon.
But I’m no one,
I am a bore,
And so I need to know:
why do I see cameras everywhere I go?
JAMA DRAMAS
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
“Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows”
—The Tempest
No superheroes shared my bed,
but teddy bears of stifled brown—
a clip round ears that made their mark—
whose beady eyes stared, never closed.
Sleepovers unknown when a child,
duvet from eiderdown, changed togs,
though sleeping bags and groundsheet roll?
I drew the line at pastel shades,
a boy in striped pyjamas, me
at scout camp—what’s intent these days?
Not prepared for grown-up world—
too many lies, berthed corporates,
embedded, even pillow talk,
whose bodies lodging as their board—
those companies where partners sleep—
accounting sheets of laundered cash,
with blanket statements cloaking truth.
Now my bedding is annual,
laid out neatly, soiled in lawns,
red cabbage patch, petunias,
together laid, red greens in mauve,
food for senses, taste include,
as scout out more strange bedfellows.
STREET SEEN
—Stephen Kingsnorth
Now here’s a type of public art,
pop culture’s keys to what we need,
from balcony, an overview,
a fresh perspective, our street scene.
Far from Seine-side boulevard,
academic salon debate;
this the grounding where we live—
no need for return carriage fee.
Pedestrian, the custom base,
the lingua franca as she speaks,
accents depending on our roots—
at least a conversation piece.
I wonder what the questions asked—
me to him or him to me—
an ars poetica for real,
but will he make a meal of it?
Unless he uses archetype,
a format pre-programmed to hand,
a Remington, whatever brand,
must hit the target first time round.
But off the cuff, some shorthand note,
the word once writ forever stands.
Why not use notice, stanza form,
to set the tone, advertisement?
And would one pay per line or rhyme?
Will his style suit our fashion choice?
A blank expression, steady feet?
How will we be when meet the verse?
I see no queue unless it’s cropped—
where are those fields of waving corn?
Unless I glean the harvest’s home,
is this posed as a statement piece?
CONDEMNED FOR COLLECTION
—Stephen Kingsnorth
Beside wall hung admissions chart,
like prison yard note, scaffold site,
this bold post of confession type,
waiting, patient, appointed time—
but when will that collection come?
White goods close, geriatric ward,
with motor off, so powered down,
some costly energy reserved,
for better spend, efficient things.
Overworked so redundant now,
but has recruitment filled the loss,
for here the temp now permanent,
its icebox at room temperature?
No longer straining in the heat
for snow in summer, winter thawed,
counterintuitive despite
preserving once at optimum.
Boxed phials, labelled, personal,
specimens, tubes, or vaccine trials—
so what’s the culture—what holds here?
Forensic indexed with a smile.
So the Staff, found waiting room.
LOOK UP
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India
Gleaming, falling, tantalising
Lyricism spooks
Bade my little fire
In a little pocket knife
An aching sweet exhaustion
The venusian push of a consuming drug
At the end a tattered haul.
Gnawing punishing
High tides low tides
Fallen angels
Gifts forgotten
Matchbox of an opera
An ever-consuming desire's punch.
Just for survival
Orderly
Wear little watches
Now and then
Tomorrow a new light
Dream of an awakening
Bear away little drops
Then look out at the budding.
Pungent airy holes
Dusty shiny tools
Rigid mapping
Out of the blue door
A new lyricism
Bygone old scarecrows
Empty shoutings
Hole of a soul
In a big bag
Then a calling
Sun like
Look up.
MORNING SONGS
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
Spouses squawk,
--Over eggs and toast—
Morning songs!
Like blue-jays,
Happy to express
To listening ears
Everything that
Comes to mind.
Off to work,
Smiling.
MOTIF OF PILING UP
—Joe Nolan
On top of that,
I put a this
That doesn’t
Go below.
Beneath the bottom,
Is a ring,
I lost
Long ago.
Maybe when I’ve
Passed away,
Archaic estate-diggers
Will come along
To unearth
Buried treasure?
Atop the top
Is one more this
I could not let go.
My wife
Has decided to join me,
Maybe to outdo me?
With idle acquisitions
Balanced in
Precarious positions.
A leaning-tower
Of pizza-boxes
Demands to be thrown away,
But we like the smell of pizza,
So we’ll wait for another day.
ANESTHETIC
—Joe Nolan
I need an anesthetic,
But the legal one
Is rude.
It plagues you
In the morning,
After a sweet interlude.
ERRORS OF WILTING FLOWERS
—Joe Nolan
The falter of flowers
Left after—
The process of
Starting to wilt,
The dubious honor
Of last,
Left standing,
Despite
The obvious wilt,
When once,
I could,
Clearly decry,
“There can’t be any more!”
Now, come I,
In furtive crying,
Pleading,
“Mistaken was I!”
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
ENLIGHTENMENT
—Joe Nolan
Enlightenment
Is everywhere,
So you just have to
Smear it around,
To create
A bright pastel
Of light and love and sound.
______________________
Good morning from Medusa and today’s poets! We keep writing, keep telling the stories that rise up around us. For example, El Dorado County Poet Laureate Lara Gularte writes: “I am pleased to share the Firehouse [Session Poems] featuring Ekphrastic poetry inspired by artist Loren Christofferson and his art exhibit, "Dark Mountain, Deep Valley." Due to the artist's landscapes which speak of, and beyond, the natural environment, the poets were inspired to write Haiku. Please check out the Ekphrastic work of Anton Nemeth, Taylor Graham, Carolyn Dyle, Steve Talbert, Kat Solares, Beatrice Pizer, Sue McMahon, and myself. The art and the poetry may be found on this link: https://artsandcultureeldorado.org/fhs-dmdv/.” Check it out!
Weather is supposed to be our friend this week, allowing for readings in Sacramento (Sac. Poetry Center, Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s, The Way of Poetry workshop and Teatro Espejo’s tribute to Graciela Ramirez); Davis (Poetry in Davis); Lincoln (The Poets Club of Lincoln) and the Poetry Walk in Petaluma. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about these and other future poetry events in the NorCal area. You might even be interested in the Emily Dickinson Museum’s annual Tell It Slant Poetry Festival which can be accessed online, and runs from Sept. 18-25. The beat goes on, smoke or not!
______________________
—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.
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All you have to do is send poetry and/or
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that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
