Abandoned Steps
—Poetry by Ann Wehrman, Sacramento, CA
—Photos by Chris Feldman
—Poetry by Ann Wehrman, Sacramento, CA
—Photos by Chris Feldman
WHITE NIGHT FLOWERS OF THE DEPTHS
we walked, you and I
down an unfamiliar street
houses, bushes, fences to the side
you were electrifying, insistent, joyful
I pushed a heavy steel grocery cart
you guided me with your body
into the hedge, up a slight incline
cart’s wheels caught
on the raw earth, matted grass
hedge’s deep green leaves
parted as I continued to push up
you urged me on without speaking
into soft, cool whiteness
giant flower petals, like lilies
reclusive in hedge’s depths
enveloped my face in deep caress
I turned and you’d left me
I slid back, saw you run down the street
maneuvering the cart, I tried to run after you
saw you enter one front door
house like all the others, clean red brick
unable to follow you
I had to return the grocery cart
pushed it over gripping resistance
concrete sidewalks
the dark night
we walked, you and I
down an unfamiliar street
houses, bushes, fences to the side
you were electrifying, insistent, joyful
I pushed a heavy steel grocery cart
you guided me with your body
into the hedge, up a slight incline
cart’s wheels caught
on the raw earth, matted grass
hedge’s deep green leaves
parted as I continued to push up
you urged me on without speaking
into soft, cool whiteness
giant flower petals, like lilies
reclusive in hedge’s depths
enveloped my face in deep caress
I turned and you’d left me
I slid back, saw you run down the street
maneuvering the cart, I tried to run after you
saw you enter one front door
house like all the others, clean red brick
unable to follow you
I had to return the grocery cart
pushed it over gripping resistance
concrete sidewalks
the dark night
CAMEL
I am a camel
in dry heat
my skin crinkling
from age and summer air
summers come earlier now, burn hot
long drought, fires rage
dust storms stifle breathing
masks, kerchiefs wrapped around faces
brown summer sky
costly air conditioning
just creates more toxins
feels heavenly at first
entering a store or the bus
but too soon, it’s freezing
hot, hot, Hell on Earth
fight back: refrigeration, swimming pools
rationed water, ice packs, cold baths
I lie on the bed, too hot for a cover
brown arms spread wide, sweaty hair
ceiling fan numbs
how many days has it been
I stopped counting years ago
I am a camel
in dry heat
my skin crinkling
from age and summer air
summers come earlier now, burn hot
long drought, fires rage
dust storms stifle breathing
masks, kerchiefs wrapped around faces
brown summer sky
costly air conditioning
just creates more toxins
feels heavenly at first
entering a store or the bus
but too soon, it’s freezing
hot, hot, Hell on Earth
fight back: refrigeration, swimming pools
rationed water, ice packs, cold baths
I lie on the bed, too hot for a cover
brown arms spread wide, sweaty hair
ceiling fan numbs
how many days has it been
I stopped counting years ago
Hot Tree
LIFE AS A HAG
Hag, hag, haggity, haggish, no matter how one bends the word it sounds like argghh, like dark, dank, dismal, like bent and sore, walks with a stick, not a fancy cane, limps home slowly at twilight, carrying a bag of fruit or pushing a cart. Hag has a home, rents a space, saved for it over the years, but lives in fear of rent raises, for how would she survive on the street? Hag coughs in the morning, takes her time, sleeps late, wakes slowly, alone, creaky, longing to be held, cherished, to love in return. Hag shuffles to the john, brushes her remaining teeth, grins at her spectral image in the glass, moves to the kitchen where the electric light’s too bright. Hag longs for gentle morning sun, an open window, safe neighborhood, and lilacs on a warm spring breeze. Makes coffee, swills the hot, strong brew black, and hag begins to wake up, mind focusing. One arm reaches long to the sky, then the other, ancient lungs fill, and the hag sighs, shuffles to her computer desk, opens her messages, still hopes for surprises.
Hag, hag, haggity, haggish, no matter how one bends the word it sounds like argghh, like dark, dank, dismal, like bent and sore, walks with a stick, not a fancy cane, limps home slowly at twilight, carrying a bag of fruit or pushing a cart. Hag has a home, rents a space, saved for it over the years, but lives in fear of rent raises, for how would she survive on the street? Hag coughs in the morning, takes her time, sleeps late, wakes slowly, alone, creaky, longing to be held, cherished, to love in return. Hag shuffles to the john, brushes her remaining teeth, grins at her spectral image in the glass, moves to the kitchen where the electric light’s too bright. Hag longs for gentle morning sun, an open window, safe neighborhood, and lilacs on a warm spring breeze. Makes coffee, swills the hot, strong brew black, and hag begins to wake up, mind focusing. One arm reaches long to the sky, then the other, ancient lungs fill, and the hag sighs, shuffles to her computer desk, opens her messages, still hopes for surprises.
Wood Crone
spring’s bounty
black bee hovers, whirs, wings a-blur
in space, before the rose bushes
in spring, in the sun
fat body holds in place
bee gasps in delight
a smorgasbord of nectar
she poises over white roses' tips
moves to a pale pink and white
opening bud
licking her tiny bee lips
black bee hovers, whirs, wings a-blur
in space, before the rose bushes
in spring, in the sun
fat body holds in place
bee gasps in delight
a smorgasbord of nectar
she poises over white roses' tips
moves to a pale pink and white
opening bud
licking her tiny bee lips
Bee on PA Thistle
SANCTUARY
I stand in darkness under a black velvet sky
dusted with brilliant white, yellow, red lights
moon, a shining pearl, flies high above
ventured out in December’s cold
tossed the trash, and now, I linger
enraptured, in cold, clean air
although whirling, riddled with violence
here, now, the Earth feels stable
I stand and worship night’s beauty
spirit speaks in my mind
no matter how the world spins
my creator’s love, my eternal sanctuary
Winter Stars
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Even if I knew that tomorrow the world would go to pieces, I would still plant my apple tree.
—Martin Luther
___________________
—Medusa, with many thanks to Ann Wehrman and Chris Feldman for today’s fine collaboration!
Spring’s Bounty
—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain
—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain
A reminder that Poets Club of Lincoln
features Kate McCarroll Moore
plus open mic this afternoon, 3pm.
For details about this and other
upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page.
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!
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page.
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!
tiny summer lizard
pumps his righteous anger
into the hot cement
