For just a moment, they were One…
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joe Nolan
—Two Cat Photos by Donald Anderson
—Poetry by Shawn Pittard, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Donald Anderson, Joe Nolan, Sayani Mukherjee,
and Nolcha Fox
Donald Anderson, Joe Nolan, Sayani Mukherjee,
and Nolcha Fox
AUGUST
—Shawn Pittard, Sacramento, CA
The summer breeze
smells of a long spring.
Lifts hummingbirds
and fat, black bees
to the trembling throats of pink
and yellow flowers.
Apples ripen on the south-facing fence.
Cicero said,
“If you have a garden and a library,
you have everything you need.”
But I’m dreaming about mountain lions
and the blackberries
growing wild by the river—
succulent and sweet.
—Shawn Pittard, Sacramento, CA
The summer breeze
smells of a long spring.
Lifts hummingbirds
and fat, black bees
to the trembling throats of pink
and yellow flowers.
Apples ripen on the south-facing fence.
Cicero said,
“If you have a garden and a library,
you have everything you need.”
But I’m dreaming about mountain lions
and the blackberries
growing wild by the river—
succulent and sweet.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
101 IN THE SHADE
—Shawn Pittard
Even the cat Is lapping water
from its usually untouched bowl.
The bee that strayed into the kitchen
seems to have found some relief.
The finches are silent.
Squirrels out of sight.
At the edge of the backyard patio
our garden Buddha
chills in the shade of an
umbrella’s cast shadow.
—Shawn Pittard
Even the cat Is lapping water
from its usually untouched bowl.
The bee that strayed into the kitchen
seems to have found some relief.
The finches are silent.
Squirrels out of sight.
At the edge of the backyard patio
our garden Buddha
chills in the shade of an
umbrella’s cast shadow.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF
HEMINGWAY’S DEATH [7/2/61]
—Shawn Pittard
He was 19 days shy of 62.
I’m older than him by three years.
Like him, I find solace
in clear mountain streams—
dead drifting dry flies onto the hydraulic pillows
that bulge on the upstream side of boulders, dancing
a wet fly through the oxygen-rich riffles.
It was on this river at twilight I found a lost dog
waiting for me by my pickup.
Here is where I took my in-laws
on a family outing, teaching fly casting
in the river, picnicking on its banks. My nephew
learned to tie a clinch knot on a day the dandelions
were in full bloom.
One day I’ll be crossing
the river terrace, to or from my truck,
and I’ll remember the time I fished this water
on the anniversary of Hemingway’s death.
HEMINGWAY’S DEATH [7/2/61]
—Shawn Pittard
He was 19 days shy of 62.
I’m older than him by three years.
Like him, I find solace
in clear mountain streams—
dead drifting dry flies onto the hydraulic pillows
that bulge on the upstream side of boulders, dancing
a wet fly through the oxygen-rich riffles.
It was on this river at twilight I found a lost dog
waiting for me by my pickup.
Here is where I took my in-laws
on a family outing, teaching fly casting
in the river, picnicking on its banks. My nephew
learned to tie a clinch knot on a day the dandelions
were in full bloom.
One day I’ll be crossing
the river terrace, to or from my truck,
and I’ll remember the time I fished this water
on the anniversary of Hemingway’s death.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy
of Joe Nolan
SLIPPAGE, SLIDERULE, SLIPSTICK
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
Our summer is but time in tilt,
another bearing, axis shaft
as in relation to our star
this ground bends low or rises aft.
Of beating heat, till monsoon break,
some pleasant warmth for breathing skin,
or long light skies, mere glisten ice;
as global race, our face in spin.
On plates tectonic, servery,
baked earth, slaked thirst, our crusted roll,
through spring to fall, grandstand between,
in orbit rôle, ellipse withal.
Thus rites, appeasing of the gods,
sun Ra, stars, moon, space tidal pull,
survival cycle, harvest doom,
year’s plaintive flood, alluvial.
Is it not false as calculus,
fixated points of equinox,
that we would mark what waxes, wanes,
by shifting hour in changing clocks?
But with the Greenman, at the henge,
an apogee sidereal
may yet be scene with bear or swan,
a bull in zodiacal wheel.
So dreams and tales of ancient lore
mix with precise astronomy,
for ancient empires knew the score,
that music of spheres’ harmony.
So slipping, sliding, segue form,
by record shock, outlandish chance,
whether, in contrast or as due,
our seasons, rare, strict measured dance.
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
Our summer is but time in tilt,
another bearing, axis shaft
as in relation to our star
this ground bends low or rises aft.
Of beating heat, till monsoon break,
some pleasant warmth for breathing skin,
or long light skies, mere glisten ice;
as global race, our face in spin.
On plates tectonic, servery,
baked earth, slaked thirst, our crusted roll,
through spring to fall, grandstand between,
in orbit rôle, ellipse withal.
Thus rites, appeasing of the gods,
sun Ra, stars, moon, space tidal pull,
survival cycle, harvest doom,
year’s plaintive flood, alluvial.
Is it not false as calculus,
fixated points of equinox,
that we would mark what waxes, wanes,
by shifting hour in changing clocks?
But with the Greenman, at the henge,
an apogee sidereal
may yet be scene with bear or swan,
a bull in zodiacal wheel.
So dreams and tales of ancient lore
mix with precise astronomy,
for ancient empires knew the score,
that music of spheres’ harmony.
So slipping, sliding, segue form,
by record shock, outlandish chance,
whether, in contrast or as due,
our seasons, rare, strict measured dance.
“Fleas and Their Trappings”, MK, 8/21/23)
SICKLE
—Stephen Kingsnorth
An itch is scratchy, such a nerve,
prolonged by scratching, itchy more,
the cycle that keeps earth alive,
sickle on to stooks, stacks, grain,
but why such happy miller’s song,
if garnered future soon laid waste?
* * *
WATCH AND PREY
—Stephen Kingsnorth
Turned to prey, as blood sacrifice
soon to be offered on the steppe,
like war, when masses in the church
find more wary crowd to the pews;
so on the pampas, prairie, veldt,
as some will graze while others watch,
uneasy stirring ripples through.
My skin so creeping, fleas about.
SICKLE
—Stephen Kingsnorth
An itch is scratchy, such a nerve,
prolonged by scratching, itchy more,
the cycle that keeps earth alive,
sickle on to stooks, stacks, grain,
but why such happy miller’s song,
if garnered future soon laid waste?
* * *
WATCH AND PREY
—Stephen Kingsnorth
Turned to prey, as blood sacrifice
soon to be offered on the steppe,
like war, when masses in the church
find more wary crowd to the pews;
so on the pampas, prairie, veldt,
as some will graze while others watch,
uneasy stirring ripples through.
My skin so creeping, fleas about.
—Photo by Donald Anderson
EYE OF THE PERSIAN
—Donald Anderson, Stockton, CA
Ray-cat's finicky eye—listening close
to sounds beyond my range—
eyes of wonder
sniff of potent hunter
curious intensity
You crave attention from me
as if it were food
yet obstinance, you do what you please
in front of our cups
our phones
our TV and laptops
You are rub head
Wet nose lick
Paw and nip
Insistent pushing over and crash
Explorer adventurer
By strength I can subdue carrying you
To necessary nail trim
after, trust remaining,
We relax to golden beams through the trees
Couches and hushed fans
Previous tomorrows
—Photo by Donald Anderson
DARK STARS
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
Dark stars,
Clustered together.
How closely!
Skin to skin
Filled with juices
Waiting to explode
Under pressure
From molars—
Juicy little novas
That shock and
Rock the tongue!
Reminding you
Of berry-picking
On summer days
When you were young.
White t-shirts
Came home
Purple-stained,
Bucket, nearly empty,
Evidence of
Gratification
Instantly fulfilled.
When your Mother asked you,
You explained,
“Purple Rain.....
Pur-ur-ple Rain......”
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
WORLD ON FIRE
—Joe Nolan
We must live in cities
Cupped in ashes.
Black must be the
Hillsides and the mountains,
No green on Earth
To contrast the blue sky,
No living things
Surrounding concrete towns.
We must burn our forests down.
Go there with your fire,
Torch the grass,
Scorch all life down-wind.
Let trails of emigrants
Roll slowly down the highways.
Gray must be the sky.
Our landscapes will be studies
In gray and black,
Just like Whistler’s Mother,
Still, stark,
Light and dark.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
THINKING ABOUT YOUR REPLACEMENT
—Joe Nolan
They’re thinking about your replacement.
It’s only a matter of time.
Graveyards are filled
With indispensable people
Just like unemployment lines.
They’re thinking about replacing you
To serve their corporate needs—
Something to do with a budget
And being eager to please
Future customers
Who choose different styles.
You’ve aged out of the going trends.
Everyone has a beginning.
Everyone has an end.
There’s a plan for obsolescence,
Disposal and making waste.
You can start
Thinking about learning coding
When your annual review
Leaves you in suspense
About your imminent future,
Where the light in the tunnel went out.
It’s too early for social security
And too late for pensions.
By the way,
How’s your defined-benefit plan
Doing these days?
—Joe Nolan
They’re thinking about your replacement.
It’s only a matter of time.
Graveyards are filled
With indispensable people
Just like unemployment lines.
They’re thinking about replacing you
To serve their corporate needs—
Something to do with a budget
And being eager to please
Future customers
Who choose different styles.
You’ve aged out of the going trends.
Everyone has a beginning.
Everyone has an end.
There’s a plan for obsolescence,
Disposal and making waste.
You can start
Thinking about learning coding
When your annual review
Leaves you in suspense
About your imminent future,
Where the light in the tunnel went out.
It’s too early for social security
And too late for pensions.
By the way,
How’s your defined-benefit plan
Doing these days?
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
REFLECTIONS
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India
Silvery opulence
Amidst
Snow-clad hours
My forever blue
Anatomy of love
A golden rose
Bow-tied piano scape
Scary as love
Around wintry snowflakes
He embalms my soul
Autumnal palsy
His goodness gracious
Poignant peak
I couldn't summon my notes
Momentum reflections
Necessary
To be written down
For me
When Autumn comes
I will gather
My snowing pal
And
I will ride these
Paper towns
With my oceanic wetness.
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India
Silvery opulence
Amidst
Snow-clad hours
My forever blue
Anatomy of love
A golden rose
Bow-tied piano scape
Scary as love
Around wintry snowflakes
He embalms my soul
Autumnal palsy
His goodness gracious
Poignant peak
I couldn't summon my notes
Momentum reflections
Necessary
To be written down
For me
When Autumn comes
I will gather
My snowing pal
And
I will ride these
Paper towns
With my oceanic wetness.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
Today’s LittleNip:
SUMMER SLIPS
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
Red slips, a slinker,
tipping tiptoe on the leaves.
It strangles sun, it oozes blood,
as warm days crinkle yellow.
A final grasp, a breath of wind
to gasp and rasp of autumn.
I turn around, the leaves fall down
as summer slips away.
_________________
Good morning to our readers around the world, as we say good-bye to August. Autumn must be in the air; we’ve been receiving poems about it lately, so our Seed of the Week was “As Summer Slips Away”. Thanks to our poets and photo-providers today for their responses to that and to other subjects, as well. Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week, but don’t think your work has to be just about those subjects.
We are privileged today to welcome back SnakePal Shawn Pittard, who is sharpening his poetry sword once again after life took him in other directions. Shawn did a chapbook for Rattlesnake Press back in the ‘oughts, back when the press was in business.
Stephen Kingsnorth was inspired by Joe Nolan’s flea poem which appeared last Monday in the Kitchen. And I do mean inspired; he sent a gaggle of poems on the subject. I wonder what the name of a group of fleas is? Flock? Funk? a funk of fleas…?!
NorCal poetry starts tonight with Straight Out Scribes rockin’ Sacramento Poetry Center, 7:30pm. And Saturday will bring Harvest The Arts, a celebration of diversity in Natomas. Click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html) 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.
SUMMER SLIPS
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
Red slips, a slinker,
tipping tiptoe on the leaves.
It strangles sun, it oozes blood,
as warm days crinkle yellow.
A final grasp, a breath of wind
to gasp and rasp of autumn.
I turn around, the leaves fall down
as summer slips away.
_________________
Good morning to our readers around the world, as we say good-bye to August. Autumn must be in the air; we’ve been receiving poems about it lately, so our Seed of the Week was “As Summer Slips Away”. Thanks to our poets and photo-providers today for their responses to that and to other subjects, as well. Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week, but don’t think your work has to be just about those subjects.
We are privileged today to welcome back SnakePal Shawn Pittard, who is sharpening his poetry sword once again after life took him in other directions. Shawn did a chapbook for Rattlesnake Press back in the ‘oughts, back when the press was in business.
Stephen Kingsnorth was inspired by Joe Nolan’s flea poem which appeared last Monday in the Kitchen. And I do mean inspired; he sent a gaggle of poems on the subject. I wonder what the name of a group of fleas is? Flock? Funk? a funk of fleas…?!
NorCal poetry starts tonight with Straight Out Scribes rockin’ Sacramento Poetry Center, 7:30pm. And Saturday will bring Harvest The Arts, a celebration of diversity in Natomas. Click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html) 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.
Stephen Meadows
Stephen Meadows has been named the new Poet Laureate of El Dorado County; read all about it, including info about his upcoming Sept. 8 reading with Calif. Poet Laureate Lee Herrick, in Placerville's Mountain Democrat at
https://www.mtdemocrat.com/prospecting/poet-laureate-stephen-meadows-says-more-in-few-words/article_e409dab2-06bf-50d4-b361-07c1016e50b3.html?utm_medium=social&utm_source=facebook&utm_campaign=user-share&fbclid=IwAR03yn7jloQmA1LNg7RgXWhfHXs_n4oHwlraABbeOt8BaCnu9-meeHr5eH8/.
Joanne Blossom
And congratulations to El Dorado County's Joanne Blossom for having her poem, “Tying Your Shoes”, published in the Mountain Democrat as Poem of the Month. See https://www.mtdemocrat.com/prospecting/poem-of-the-month-tying-your-shoes/article_fac3f628-3c5f-11ee-8524-63efe37fbdff.html/.
_________________
—Medusa
—Public Domain Photo 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!
lost dog found—
happiest of accidents!
