—Poetry by Nancy Chisholm Haskett,
Modesto, CA
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
ASH
As I walk today
in hazy heavy air,
I pass cars, plants, mailboxes
dusted with fine black and gray powder,
and I breathe in
these same particles,
from fires all around our valley.
In camps like Treblinka, Sobibor, and Auschwitz,
the ash fell thick, like snow
twenty-four hours a day,
while local citizens denied knowledge of these places,
swept dust from porches and windowsills.
The guards who worked within feet of the chimneys,
inhaled fragments of their victims every day,
took in air filled with microscopic pieces
of men who had read from the Torah every Shabbat,
women who had baked challah and lit candles,
children who had practiced their Hebrew lessons.
With every life-giving inhalation
they breathed in those who no longer breathed,
absorbed them into their lungs, their blood,
close to their heart
As I walk today
in hazy heavy air,
I pass cars, plants, mailboxes
dusted with fine black and gray powder,
and I breathe in
these same particles,
from fires all around our valley.
In camps like Treblinka, Sobibor, and Auschwitz,
the ash fell thick, like snow
twenty-four hours a day,
while local citizens denied knowledge of these places,
swept dust from porches and windowsills.
The guards who worked within feet of the chimneys,
inhaled fragments of their victims every day,
took in air filled with microscopic pieces
of men who had read from the Torah every Shabbat,
women who had baked challah and lit candles,
children who had practiced their Hebrew lessons.
With every life-giving inhalation
they breathed in those who no longer breathed,
absorbed them into their lungs, their blood,
close to their heart
NPR REPORTS
Russian tanks
roll across deserted roads,
grandmothers make Molotov cocktails
as I drive to Target.
A journalist in Kyiv
interviews a lawyer
who has never shot a gun
or thought he could
until now
as I drive to the postal center.
In Kherson,
families hide in parking garages,
a mother cries,
a dog barks,
as I head to the grocery store
while Ukraine bleeds out.
Russian tanks
roll across deserted roads,
grandmothers make Molotov cocktails
as I drive to Target.
A journalist in Kyiv
interviews a lawyer
who has never shot a gun
or thought he could
until now
as I drive to the postal center.
In Kherson,
families hide in parking garages,
a mother cries,
a dog barks,
as I head to the grocery store
while Ukraine bleeds out.
REQUIEM FOR SCOTT
His parents drove in silence,
parked their car
near the spot where his abandoned truck
had been found.
Once
they carried hope,
fragile and soft,
as weeks became months;
it whispered not to give up
until now—
now that hikers had discovered his remains,
now that fragments had been unearthed
now that the truth had been found in pieces under their feet.
They walked through the forested area
over a pine-needle carpet
thick enough to keep a secret
buried for seven months.
They had no answers,
nothing that would explain
how their son, who was also a father,
could leave to meet someone on a hot July afternoon
and never return.
Perhaps it is a bond that is never broken,
a connection between a mother
and her first-born;
perhaps that would explain why,
as she walked in ever-widening circles,
eyes looking always down,
she found another bone,
overlooked somehow by all the other investigators—
a rib bone of her son,
a bone she once nourished from her body
as he grew under her own rib
so close to her heart,
so many years ago
when the future held such promise.
His parents drove in silence,
parked their car
near the spot where his abandoned truck
had been found.
Once
they carried hope,
fragile and soft,
as weeks became months;
it whispered not to give up
until now—
now that hikers had discovered his remains,
now that fragments had been unearthed
now that the truth had been found in pieces under their feet.
They walked through the forested area
over a pine-needle carpet
thick enough to keep a secret
buried for seven months.
They had no answers,
nothing that would explain
how their son, who was also a father,
could leave to meet someone on a hot July afternoon
and never return.
Perhaps it is a bond that is never broken,
a connection between a mother
and her first-born;
perhaps that would explain why,
as she walked in ever-widening circles,
eyes looking always down,
she found another bone,
overlooked somehow by all the other investigators—
a rib bone of her son,
a bone she once nourished from her body
as he grew under her own rib
so close to her heart,
so many years ago
when the future held such promise.
AN UNFINISHED BOOK
It sounded intriguing:
a Human Library,
a safe place where people
become books,
where participants are given
an opportunity to listen,
ask questions about taboo topics—
in other words,
to “read” the living books.
And so he went to the event,
looked at the selections—
Alcoholic, Feminist,
Convert, Unemployed,
Naturist, Disabled—
decided, at last, on Refugee,
took a seat at her table.
In precise English,
softly accented,
she told her story,
where she used to live,
her escape from violence
and oppression,
where she lives now,
in this city filled with stares,
distrust, prejudice.
She was an open book,
honest, inspiring, strong,
authentic,
and they shared similar dreams,
hopes for the future.
He lingered
after the other readers had gone,
asked her to tell another chapter,
didn’t want this book
to end.
It sounded intriguing:
a Human Library,
a safe place where people
become books,
where participants are given
an opportunity to listen,
ask questions about taboo topics—
in other words,
to “read” the living books.
And so he went to the event,
looked at the selections—
Alcoholic, Feminist,
Convert, Unemployed,
Naturist, Disabled—
decided, at last, on Refugee,
took a seat at her table.
In precise English,
softly accented,
she told her story,
where she used to live,
her escape from violence
and oppression,
where she lives now,
in this city filled with stares,
distrust, prejudice.
She was an open book,
honest, inspiring, strong,
authentic,
and they shared similar dreams,
hopes for the future.
He lingered
after the other readers had gone,
asked her to tell another chapter,
didn’t want this book
to end.
CARPOOL KARAOKE
Four of us in the car
headed to Irvine
in typical freeway congestion
which quickly evolves into
stop-and-go,
no end in sight.
To pass the time as we inch along,
one of us suggests we sing
songs from Broadway musicals,
so we start with West Side Story,
on to My Fair Lady,
Sound of Music,
Les Mis—
windows rolled down,
we belt out tunes
like theater performers,
pay no attention to the stares
from travelers around us,
amaze ourselves with the lyrics
we can remember,
forget our slow progress.
An hour later,
we arrive at our destination,
brother and sister-in-law
anxious to hear all the news,
but after our family concert,
all of us can hardly talk.
Four of us in the car
headed to Irvine
in typical freeway congestion
which quickly evolves into
stop-and-go,
no end in sight.
To pass the time as we inch along,
one of us suggests we sing
songs from Broadway musicals,
so we start with West Side Story,
on to My Fair Lady,
Sound of Music,
Les Mis—
windows rolled down,
we belt out tunes
like theater performers,
pay no attention to the stares
from travelers around us,
amaze ourselves with the lyrics
we can remember,
forget our slow progress.
An hour later,
we arrive at our destination,
brother and sister-in-law
anxious to hear all the news,
but after our family concert,
all of us can hardly talk.
IN LATE AUTUMN
the Valley rests
when canals run dry,
as harvests end,
wind blusters, temperature drops
when canals run dry,
ducks and geese abandon the banks,
crows perch on bare branches nearby
as harvests end,
dry peach pits and almond hulls underfoot,
no drone of machines or bees,
wind blusters, temperature drops,
leaves removed from eaves and gutters,
thirsting for rain.
the Valley rests
when canals run dry,
as harvests end,
wind blusters, temperature drops
when canals run dry,
ducks and geese abandon the banks,
crows perch on bare branches nearby
as harvests end,
dry peach pits and almond hulls underfoot,
no drone of machines or bees,
wind blusters, temperature drops,
leaves removed from eaves and gutters,
thirsting for rain.
I’D LIKE TO LIVE WHERE
ravens speak
in caws and clicks,
watch from trees,
strut proudly on the ground
summer storms bring rolling thunder,
jagged lightning across slate skies
autumn chill paints trees in watercolor
shades of red and gold
squirrels scamper
across residential streets,
scurry up tree trunks in backyards
deer browse, raccoons scavenge,
coyotes smile,
lope leisurely
through fields of wildflowers.
ravens speak
in caws and clicks,
watch from trees,
strut proudly on the ground
summer storms bring rolling thunder,
jagged lightning across slate skies
autumn chill paints trees in watercolor
shades of red and gold
squirrels scamper
across residential streets,
scurry up tree trunks in backyards
deer browse, raccoons scavenge,
coyotes smile,
lope leisurely
through fields of wildflowers.
ADVICE
CNN celebrity chef Anthony Bourdain
said we should think about death
at least once every day,
which probably isn’t the best advice
since he took his own life four years ago.
I sometimes think about death,
but not what happens afterwards
which I can’t really wrap my head around,
but what I know I will miss,
like my family, friends, blue skies,
rain, wind on my face, music, books,
hot tea, fresh bread, soft cookies—
everyday things we should cherish.
And maybe that’s what Tony
was trying to tell us.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
WINTER CAMOUFLAGE
—Nancy Chisholm Haskett
Heaps of rusted cars
transform into mounds of pristine white;
litter disappears, sidewalk graffiti erases.
Dirty water in the bird bath freezes,
reflects rainbow colors on its surface;
weedy vacant lots become playgrounds for sleds,
loud voices are muffled
as snow continues to fall
quietly
hides a multitude of sins
___________________
Welcome back to the Kitchen, Nancy Haskett, and thanks for the fine poems! Nancy now has a collection available on Amazon from IF Books, titled Shadows & Reflections, which is available at www.amazon.com/Shadows-Reflections-Nancy-Chisholm-Haskett/dp/B0B3JXVXLV/.
Today at 2pm, Poetry of the Sierra Foothills features Stephen Meadows with his new book, Winter Work, at Chateau Davell in Camino. Then at 4pm, Sacramento Poet Brad Buchanan celebrates the release of his new book, Chimera, with a Facebook Live reading. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about these and other future poetry events in the NorCal area—and keep an eye on this link and on the Kitchen for happenings that might pop up during the week.
__________________
—Medusa
CNN celebrity chef Anthony Bourdain
said we should think about death
at least once every day,
which probably isn’t the best advice
since he took his own life four years ago.
I sometimes think about death,
but not what happens afterwards
which I can’t really wrap my head around,
but what I know I will miss,
like my family, friends, blue skies,
rain, wind on my face, music, books,
hot tea, fresh bread, soft cookies—
everyday things we should cherish.
And maybe that’s what Tony
was trying to tell us.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
WINTER CAMOUFLAGE
—Nancy Chisholm Haskett
Heaps of rusted cars
transform into mounds of pristine white;
litter disappears, sidewalk graffiti erases.
Dirty water in the bird bath freezes,
reflects rainbow colors on its surface;
weedy vacant lots become playgrounds for sleds,
loud voices are muffled
as snow continues to fall
quietly
hides a multitude of sins
___________________
Welcome back to the Kitchen, Nancy Haskett, and thanks for the fine poems! Nancy now has a collection available on Amazon from IF Books, titled Shadows & Reflections, which is available at www.amazon.com/Shadows-Reflections-Nancy-Chisholm-Haskett/dp/B0B3JXVXLV/.
Today at 2pm, Poetry of the Sierra Foothills features Stephen Meadows with his new book, Winter Work, at Chateau Davell in Camino. Then at 4pm, Sacramento Poet Brad Buchanan celebrates the release of his new book, Chimera, with a Facebook Live reading. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about these and other future poetry events in the NorCal area—and keep an eye on this link and on the Kitchen for happenings that might pop up during the week.
__________________
—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!
