—Public Domain Cartoon Courtesy
of Joe Nolan
—Poetry by Joe Nolan, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Nolcha Fox, Sayani Mukherjee,
Caschwa (Carl Schwartz)
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Joe Nolan and Nolcha Fox
UNRECOVERED DREAMS
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
There was something
I was thinking of,
But I can’t remember
What is was,
Because it has
Slipped away.
Something fine,
I’d like to say,
But I’m afraid,
It has slipped away.
Thus, things
Are undone.
Would there were,
A recoverer
Of dreams,
From stringent mansions
Of infinite means,
To calculate blunt meanings,
Of unrecoverable dreams,
That seem so meaningful!
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
There was something
I was thinking of,
But I can’t remember
What is was,
Because it has
Slipped away.
Something fine,
I’d like to say,
But I’m afraid,
It has slipped away.
Thus, things
Are undone.
Would there were,
A recoverer
Of dreams,
From stringent mansions
Of infinite means,
To calculate blunt meanings,
Of unrecoverable dreams,
That seem so meaningful!
—Public Domain Cartoon Courtesy of Joe Nolan
UNTO ENNUI
—Joe Nolan
When wisdom
Wends to weariness
And weariness, ennui,
Faced with formerly fascinating,
Beleaguered you will be.
Babbling brooks
That once whispered
Of the beauty of the rain,
Refreshing and renewing,
Are blurred by foggy-brain
Into a vague crescendo
That runs through daily load.
—Joe Nolan
When wisdom
Wends to weariness
And weariness, ennui,
Faced with formerly fascinating,
Beleaguered you will be.
Babbling brooks
That once whispered
Of the beauty of the rain,
Refreshing and renewing,
Are blurred by foggy-brain
Into a vague crescendo
That runs through daily load.
—Public Domain Cartoon Courtesy of Joe Nolan
MINISCULE EMPIRES
—Joe Nolan
In our little town
Are ten-thousand tiny towns,
Each of them an empire
In itself,
Each with its own flag,
Culture and history,
That almost no one knows,
Crowded close together,
Devoid of any wealth,
Each with its own misery.
They all go on like this
From century to century,
Until some sudden contagion
Makes everything much worse,
And carriages are dragged through streets
By men yelling, “Bring out your dead,”
Since they can’t afford a hearse.
—Joe Nolan
In our little town
Are ten-thousand tiny towns,
Each of them an empire
In itself,
Each with its own flag,
Culture and history,
That almost no one knows,
Crowded close together,
Devoid of any wealth,
Each with its own misery.
They all go on like this
From century to century,
Until some sudden contagion
Makes everything much worse,
And carriages are dragged through streets
By men yelling, “Bring out your dead,”
Since they can’t afford a hearse.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
AUTUMN MISTS
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
None moves as much as watered eyes,
perhaps with globule tear unrolled,
or snail trail mark, sprung from before.
The worst imprint to me revealed—
a young boy, teen, struggle, hold,
with kindly war-torn interview—
admitting bedtime hunger, hard,
then wells,
and correspondent reaches out
to shoulder-hand, as mother would.
It is the kindness of the strange
that tilts the brink.
Brain-lost sister needs relief,
we helpless, till greased garage hand
offers place, refuge, space.
The well is full and I am mist.
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
None moves as much as watered eyes,
perhaps with globule tear unrolled,
or snail trail mark, sprung from before.
The worst imprint to me revealed—
a young boy, teen, struggle, hold,
with kindly war-torn interview—
admitting bedtime hunger, hard,
then wells,
and correspondent reaches out
to shoulder-hand, as mother would.
It is the kindness of the strange
that tilts the brink.
Brain-lost sister needs relief,
we helpless, till greased garage hand
offers place, refuge, space.
The well is full and I am mist.
Colin's Folly, wherein a sheep farmer in Wales used
field stones to build a barn over a ten-year period.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
COMPASSION
—Stephen Kingsnorth
It’s of sightreading, plight report,
sightseeing from the tourist bus,
where words fail as the first resort,
an episode as centrefold,
that bypass of all reasoned sum.
As culture shock, for none prepared,
of mother, death, umbilical,
passed father, whose knowledge unknown,
all answers dust or up in smoke.
Through moving muscles of the face,
bewilderment that this should be,
frown-creased brow, stress tapered smile,
the flush that routes from heart to face,
a blush from such a world as this.
So not of writing, but that site
where pain of others touches part
we did not know we owned before.
And that is human nature’s art,
well, passion being for the sole,
the golden way, though most say nay?
—Stephen Kingsnorth
It’s of sightreading, plight report,
sightseeing from the tourist bus,
where words fail as the first resort,
an episode as centrefold,
that bypass of all reasoned sum.
As culture shock, for none prepared,
of mother, death, umbilical,
passed father, whose knowledge unknown,
all answers dust or up in smoke.
Through moving muscles of the face,
bewilderment that this should be,
frown-creased brow, stress tapered smile,
the flush that routes from heart to face,
a blush from such a world as this.
So not of writing, but that site
where pain of others touches part
we did not know we owned before.
And that is human nature’s art,
well, passion being for the sole,
the golden way, though most say nay?
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Notcha Fox
(Wherein the literary magazine editor was
attempting to be compassionate.)
REJECTION BLUES
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
… not the best home for your work at the moment.
At the moment,
my poetry is homeless,
shuffling down dim lamp-lit streets,
sprawled out in a soggy alley
drinking vodka from a broken bottle
behind a run-down bar.
We wish you the best of luck with placing it.
Down on its luck,
my poetry hitches a ride
in a boxcar of a train
headed for nowhere in particular,
for a place with no name.
Living on the edges, wandering,
It sings the rejection blues.
attempting to be compassionate.)
REJECTION BLUES
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
… not the best home for your work at the moment.
At the moment,
my poetry is homeless,
shuffling down dim lamp-lit streets,
sprawled out in a soggy alley
drinking vodka from a broken bottle
behind a run-down bar.
We wish you the best of luck with placing it.
Down on its luck,
my poetry hitches a ride
in a boxcar of a train
headed for nowhere in particular,
for a place with no name.
Living on the edges, wandering,
It sings the rejection blues.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy
of Notcha Fox
(Compassion backfired in this case.)
DELETED
—Nolcha Fox
You spend hours
staring at the screen.
The curtains shut,
your eyes surrounded
by dark circles,
living life in
photographs and posts.
When you shuffle
off to finally eat,
I sneak on your computer,
wipe you off
your social media sites.
Now the dog can’t find you,
your food remains uneaten,
because you are deleted
from the world.
DELETED
—Nolcha Fox
You spend hours
staring at the screen.
The curtains shut,
your eyes surrounded
by dark circles,
living life in
photographs and posts.
When you shuffle
off to finally eat,
I sneak on your computer,
wipe you off
your social media sites.
Now the dog can’t find you,
your food remains uneaten,
because you are deleted
from the world.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Notcha Fox
(This poet is bemoaning lack of compassion for
literary magazine editors.)
TO A DEFUNCT LITERARY MAGAZINE
—Nolcha Fox
Was it me who killed you?
Did I demand too much?
Did I drive you under
covers, flashlight in hand
to read my words?
Were my poems a nest
of baby birds, mouths open,
wanting you to feed
them love, to take them
on your back and fly?
I will bring you roses,
chocolate, only please
come back.
literary magazine editors.)
TO A DEFUNCT LITERARY MAGAZINE
—Nolcha Fox
Was it me who killed you?
Did I demand too much?
Did I drive you under
covers, flashlight in hand
to read my words?
Were my poems a nest
of baby birds, mouths open,
wanting you to feed
them love, to take them
on your back and fly?
I will bring you roses,
chocolate, only please
come back.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Notcha Fox
CHICKEN, CHICKEN, CHICKEN
—Nolcha Fox
A black chicken,
frantic to return
to the other side,
ran along the fence.
I wanted to help her,
but she clucked
and fluffed away so fast,
she must have thought
I wanted hot wings.
—Nolcha Fox
A black chicken,
frantic to return
to the other side,
ran along the fence.
I wanted to help her,
but she clucked
and fluffed away so fast,
she must have thought
I wanted hot wings.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
SEPTEMBER
—Sayani Mukherjee,
Chandannagar, W. Bengal, India
Grained sounds,
Overwhelming—
Blow a fulfilled wish
Bloody flames
September gloom
Serpentine meshes
Alley of ruins
Lonely mansions
Gothic as flows
Gypsy dream, shaky fever
As being written
Trotted over
Cautious footsteps
Escaped police.
Looking down on
Footsteps
Forgotten
Counting two, three remaining steps
Sand-clad
Hands on my moral compass
Last look of a stranger
Coming again
The full iceberg
Words without sounds
Meaningful relationships
Icebreakers, cold frigidity
Full-cupped hearts
Room no. 634
Booked
Crossed
Laws.
My flutter and rapping up
Takes time to build
For water gulfs down
Raspberry-crimson hues on my side.
I wear my abstract footsteps well ahead
Faraway bleached scars
Yang, melting, matinée blue
A well-ahead moral compass
Brittle as the rules
Mirrors on my horizons
Come to my footsteps
Sand-worn history bubbles
Steps on September.
—Sayani Mukherjee,
Chandannagar, W. Bengal, India
Grained sounds,
Overwhelming—
Blow a fulfilled wish
Bloody flames
September gloom
Serpentine meshes
Alley of ruins
Lonely mansions
Gothic as flows
Gypsy dream, shaky fever
As being written
Trotted over
Cautious footsteps
Escaped police.
Looking down on
Footsteps
Forgotten
Counting two, three remaining steps
Sand-clad
Hands on my moral compass
Last look of a stranger
Coming again
The full iceberg
Words without sounds
Meaningful relationships
Icebreakers, cold frigidity
Full-cupped hearts
Room no. 634
Booked
Crossed
Laws.
My flutter and rapping up
Takes time to build
For water gulfs down
Raspberry-crimson hues on my side.
I wear my abstract footsteps well ahead
Faraway bleached scars
Yang, melting, matinée blue
A well-ahead moral compass
Brittle as the rules
Mirrors on my horizons
Come to my footsteps
Sand-worn history bubbles
Steps on September.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
SPEAK
—Sayani Mukherjee
Nightstands gingerly sweet
The flow and the rumination
Bird song, poetry, silver-spooned thoughts
Need time
To Unravel
The silken drapery of arguments
From each line
A keyword
Speaks volumes.
Tie your bowties well
Line up your peonies
As a well shredded promise
Take a knife
Cut brutal brittle.
New edge techniques come and go
Freedom land of
Opinions and insights.
Flows through the shore
Namesake imagery
The why's of Tricolour bindings
Just as a silken drapery
My silver-spooned thoughts
Two, three words
Speak volumes
Of beyond
Keeping the bridges under water
It burns.
—Sayani Mukherjee
Nightstands gingerly sweet
The flow and the rumination
Bird song, poetry, silver-spooned thoughts
Need time
To Unravel
The silken drapery of arguments
From each line
A keyword
Speaks volumes.
Tie your bowties well
Line up your peonies
As a well shredded promise
Take a knife
Cut brutal brittle.
New edge techniques come and go
Freedom land of
Opinions and insights.
Flows through the shore
Namesake imagery
The why's of Tricolour bindings
Just as a silken drapery
My silver-spooned thoughts
Two, three words
Speak volumes
Of beyond
Keeping the bridges under water
It burns.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
SACRIFICE
—Sayani Mukherjee
Skull cap of a hunger
Death beaten rusty
Polished windows
Sitting under a safe door
Indulging big-brained self-entitlement
Can only imagine
As much as it stretches
Out of the door
Green barns rocky fields
Whose silence is big
It thuds through the corridors
Bigger than the homefire
Security stability
Being at fringe
Can keep you warm
Under the pockets
Fold your rages within
A night suit
Sacrifice
Far deeper
Torrential downloads
Stream of an ennui
Strange of an era
Living in the heads
Sacrifice
Soul magic unseen.
______________________
Today’s LittleNip(s):
MIXED FEELINGS
—Caschwa
some people have trouble
differentiating compassion
from compulsion
while I have the compulsion
to just come out and tell you
what that difference is,
it is my ultimate compassion
to watch you itch and squirm
waiting for me to tell you
* * *
COMPOSURE
—Stephen Kingsnorth
On verge to empathy itself,
that tug of strings may well the eyes,
a cordial drop from cords of care,
the quint of eye in question mark,
a sympathy that grips the soul.
It is composure built of grace.
Would the world composed this face.
* * *
(The speaker is compassionate by offering discretion. This poem is based on a
—Sayani Mukherjee
Skull cap of a hunger
Death beaten rusty
Polished windows
Sitting under a safe door
Indulging big-brained self-entitlement
Can only imagine
As much as it stretches
Out of the door
Green barns rocky fields
Whose silence is big
It thuds through the corridors
Bigger than the homefire
Security stability
Being at fringe
Can keep you warm
Under the pockets
Fold your rages within
A night suit
Sacrifice
Far deeper
Torrential downloads
Stream of an ennui
Strange of an era
Living in the heads
Sacrifice
Soul magic unseen.
______________________
Today’s LittleNip(s):
MIXED FEELINGS
—Caschwa
some people have trouble
differentiating compassion
from compulsion
while I have the compulsion
to just come out and tell you
what that difference is,
it is my ultimate compassion
to watch you itch and squirm
waiting for me to tell you
* * *
COMPOSURE
—Stephen Kingsnorth
On verge to empathy itself,
that tug of strings may well the eyes,
a cordial drop from cords of care,
the quint of eye in question mark,
a sympathy that grips the soul.
It is composure built of grace.
Would the world composed this face.
* * *
(The speaker is compassionate by offering discretion. This poem is based on a
mis-heard song lyric.)
SUNNY SIDE
—Nolcha Fox
After “On the Sunny Side of the Street”
—Song by Jimmy McHugh
My lips are sealed,
but I’m all ears,
tell me all your secrets
on the sunny side of discreet.
SUNNY SIDE
—Nolcha Fox
After “On the Sunny Side of the Street”
—Song by Jimmy McHugh
My lips are sealed,
but I’m all ears,
tell me all your secrets
on the sunny side of discreet.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Nolcha Fox
_____________________
Good morning in this week of the Equinox ((Thursday) and thank you to our contributors who’ve been wearing their pens to the nubbins! Our Seed of the Week was “Compassion”, so we have many slants on that today. Compassion is a many-splendored thing, yes?
There are poetry events almost every day this week in our area; El Dorado Country’s Poet Laureate Lara Gularte will be particularly busy, with another reading, workshop and open mic in the Laureate Trail series—this one on Wednesday in Pollock Pines—plus hosting a workshop by visiting-writer Leslie Kirk Campbell at Myrtle Tree Arts in Placerville on Saturday morning. Then Lara will host a Poetry of the Sierra Foothills reading in Camino on Saturday afternoon. Lots of poetic traffic in them-thar hills this week! Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about these and other future poetry events in the NorCal area.
Good morning in this week of the Equinox ((Thursday) and thank you to our contributors who’ve been wearing their pens to the nubbins! Our Seed of the Week was “Compassion”, so we have many slants on that today. Compassion is a many-splendored thing, yes?
There are poetry events almost every day this week in our area; El Dorado Country’s Poet Laureate Lara Gularte will be particularly busy, with another reading, workshop and open mic in the Laureate Trail series—this one on Wednesday in Pollock Pines—plus hosting a workshop by visiting-writer Leslie Kirk Campbell at Myrtle Tree Arts in Placerville on Saturday morning. Then Lara will host a Poetry of the Sierra Foothills reading in Camino on Saturday afternoon. Lots of poetic traffic in them-thar hills this week! Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about these and other future poetry events in the NorCal area.
And once again, our condolences to our British poets and readers on this, the funeral day of Queen Elizabeth II—a monarch for all times.
_____________________
—Medusa
—Public Domain Cartoon Courtesy of Joe Nolan
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!
Line up your peonies…”
