—Poetry by Linda Klein, Playa Vista, CA
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
WORDS
Words are multi-faceted jewels.
They can be blunt or sharp tools,
used to express feelings and thoughts,
to calm fears and expel doubts,
to drive home points when opinions differ,
or to offer solace to those who suffer.
I keep mine in a silk-lined box,
and use them often. No need for locks.
Every day I scan and sort,
consider their value, what each is worth.
Some may sparkle like pendants emitting light,
Others soothe, smooth as pearls, they fall just right.
My objective is to select them
so those who hear them don't reject them.
Words are multi-faceted jewels.
They can be blunt or sharp tools,
used to express feelings and thoughts,
to calm fears and expel doubts,
to drive home points when opinions differ,
or to offer solace to those who suffer.
I keep mine in a silk-lined box,
and use them often. No need for locks.
Every day I scan and sort,
consider their value, what each is worth.
Some may sparkle like pendants emitting light,
Others soothe, smooth as pearls, they fall just right.
My objective is to select them
so those who hear them don't reject them.
LOSS OF A CHILD
I don't know how long it went on.
Whenever we met people on the street,
my mother would tell them of her grief.
He was all she had, her baby boy.
She'd stop people she met on the street.
They were uncomfortable and wanted to leave.
She lost all she had, her baby boy.
What was she going to do now?
It made them uncomfortable and want to leave.
What could they possibly say?
She didn't know what to do now.
Was I wrong to be embarrassed?
They never knew what to say,
or how to help or comfort her.
I stood at her side, embarrassed
and feeling so insignificant.
Nothing could help or comfort her.
She needed to tell of her grief.
It didn't matter that I felt insignificant.
I don't know how long it went on.
SOMEHOW, WILD CHILD
Sometimes I see you
an image, a memory
laughing and running
bold as you can be
wise beyond your years.
There was something
you knew then
somehow, my wild child.
Now, there is only me
hanging on with shaky hands
tired, weak, and sad
searching helplessly
for that joyful child
somewhere, still
living here inside of me
somehow, my wild child.
Sometimes I see you
an image, a memory
laughing and running
bold as you can be
wise beyond your years.
There was something
you knew then
somehow, my wild child.
Now, there is only me
hanging on with shaky hands
tired, weak, and sad
searching helplessly
for that joyful child
somewhere, still
living here inside of me
somehow, my wild child.
THE TRAIN TO KURANDA
You said it was the train to Kuranda,
and urged me aboard with a gentle pat,
grabbed my bag and pulled me down beside you,
while I removed my damp outbacker's hat.
The passengers were scrambling for choice seats.
We watched and listened to every complaint.
We didn't mind the tropic morning heat.
Nor did we even care that it had rained.
Chugging along through the green mountain range,
the colors of the world were flying by.
You opened all the windows on the train.
I begged you to sit still and breathed a sigh.
As we approached the tunnel in the hillside,
it seemed natural, as though erosion caused it.
You gave me a look to last forever,
and took my hand to offer me comfort.
Was there ever a place called Kuranda?
In the darkness you whispered "I'm sorry,”
and I tried to ask why, but you kissed me.
You see, I understand. Please don't worry.
(prev. pub. by The National Library of Poetry)
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Poetry heals the wounds inflicted by reason.
—Novalis
_____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Linda Klein for today’s fine poetry!
You said it was the train to Kuranda,
and urged me aboard with a gentle pat,
grabbed my bag and pulled me down beside you,
while I removed my damp outbacker's hat.
The passengers were scrambling for choice seats.
We watched and listened to every complaint.
We didn't mind the tropic morning heat.
Nor did we even care that it had rained.
Chugging along through the green mountain range,
the colors of the world were flying by.
You opened all the windows on the train.
I begged you to sit still and breathed a sigh.
As we approached the tunnel in the hillside,
it seemed natural, as though erosion caused it.
You gave me a look to last forever,
and took my hand to offer me comfort.
Was there ever a place called Kuranda?
In the darkness you whispered "I'm sorry,”
and I tried to ask why, but you kissed me.
You see, I understand. Please don't worry.
(prev. pub. by The National Library of Poetry)
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Poetry heals the wounds inflicted by reason.
—Novalis
_____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Linda Klein for today’s fine poetry!
—Public Domain Cartoon
For 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!
pancakes and syrup—
the only reason to get up
some days…
