Dancing the Bone Dance

 

—Poetry by John Grey, Johnston, RI
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

THE SCRATCHES ON THE DOOR

Yes, I hear the noise at midnight,
something scratching on my bedroom door.
No whimper, no howl,
just that infernal noise,
nails on wood,
over and over and over.
So many ways to get to my fitful sleep:
the open window, the closet,
the dark beneath the bed,
so why the only route that's barred,
why that scrape of dire frustration,
that rip, that tear,
that merely scuffs the solid oak.

So what kind of creature are you?
A giant rat? A wolf? A rabid feline? Maybe,
a harpy?
I squeeze under the sheets, imagining these
and worse.

Truth is, something's been
scratching on the membranes of my mind.
As you can tell,
I let it in months ago.

 

 

 

 

 

DREAMS, GOOD AND BAD

Sixty years on,
and you still dream
of high-school finals,
that fear of failure.

But other nights,
it’s supplanted by
that episode with a boy named Terry,
the one whose body was never found.

The questions on the paper
keep shape-shifting.
Your pencil breaks.
Your brow sweats uncommonly.

But that patch of earth, in Graby’s Wood,
where Terry is buried, lies undisturbed.

The proctor grows horns.
The clock on the wall spins frantically.

But that Terry dream is so serene,
as you balance on your shovel,
congratulate yourself on a job well done.

The alarm clock rings
and the schoolroom fades
with the morning sun.
Relieved, you stumble out of bed.

Meanwhile, dozers are razing Graby’s Wood,
and the earthmovers are standing by.

Those invidious finals
are about to become the good dream.

 

 

 

 

 

TWENTY-FIFTH WEDDING ANNIVERSARY

Forty-seven
and if not for the blood-soaked dagger
dangling from your hand,
no different from the woman
I long ago fell in love with
when I saw you for the first time
in the city park
setting fire to a squirrel’s tail.

Such perfect cheekbones still,
and hair with barely a trace of gray.
So slender,
and what grace.
It’s like ballet,
the way you pirouette
around the body on the kitchen floor.

I will admit
that I feel more love for you
when you’re in my arms
than when I burst in on you like this
as you’re disemboweling the handyman.

But I took you for better or worse.
So far so good.
You’re better than I ever expected.
And the worst has been happening to
other people.

 

 

 

 


THE MOBILE MAN

When you hit the accelerator,
you’ll soon know
how dumb you are.

At your velocity,
be prepared for takeoff

In your mind,
you’re reinventing
the combustion engine,
the wheel,
the chassis
and the screaming exhaust.

When they find you,
wrapped around an oak trunk,
there’ll be no
piecing you back together.

At least,
not the way you were originally.

Instead, they can just
string up various body parts
to what remains of your skeleton.

And then, having conquered speed,
you can reinvent the bone dance.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Better to write for yourself and have no public, than to write for the public and have no self.

―Cyril Connolly, The New Statesman, February 25, 1933

___________________

—Medusa, welcoming John Gray back and thanking him for today’s magical poetry—a whiff of Halloween as we finish up September! John first visited the Kitchen on April 13, 2023.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

Find previous four posts by scrolling down
under today’s post; or find previous poets by
 typing the name into the little beige box
at the top left-hand side of today’s post; or
go to Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 and find the date you want.

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!

 

LittleSnake’s Glimmer of Hope
(A cookie from the Kitchen for today):

 
haunting sounds
of spirits huddled
under the briars~
quail family coos
its soft goodnights

The World Coming At Us

 

—Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,
Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down to
Form Fiddlers’ Friday for poetry by
Nolcha Fox and Stephen Kingsnsorth

WORLD COMING AT US

Here comes dawn on the trail ahead.
Here comes willow weeping its summer leaves,
and tall trees held up by climbing ivy.
Here comes Sparrow foraging breakfast alms.
Here comes the Tunnel, hoop-arch
for old-time locomotive that lost its track.
Here come cutbanks roofed by vaulting oaks,
no way out but whence we came & whither we go.
Here comes no one on the trail
but me & dog who stops to sniff what I can’t see.
All this coming at us as we walk.
Here comes steep & narrow side-path, camps
of the roofless, freeway commuters rushing by.
Here comes Raven calling untranslatables.
Here comes the backward trail, &
rising sun to cast our shadows forward. 

 

 

 

 

LOKI SHOWS BUT CAN’T TELL

My dog alerts me
before we come around the bend—
exciting! prey-drive titillation.
Better than a gray squirrel tease.
Here’s black flurry fury
of great wings & fanned tails
from cutbank to oak & back across
our path. Half a dozen huge
black birds disturbed
from dinner by me & my dog.
Ponderous noisy flight.
What are they?
Guttural calls mix with wingbeats.
Raven.
One lands on a branch—
bloody-red head, speechless.
Turkey Vulture.
Do they mingle for a meal?
Is this a fight-to-feast’s-finish?
The birdsong app on my phone
tells me nothing, as if
it’s all in my imagination, as if
nothing was seen, nothing was heard.
My dog knows better. 

 

 

 

 

GOLDEN EMBERS

I thought star thistle
had the last word on summer—
Goldenrod still blooms.

Left along the trail:
a shopping cart, a walker.
Goldenrod still blooms
as if planted by someone
yet hoping for something good. 

 

 

 

 

DIRTY DAY

          annual Hangtown Creek cleanup

To the creek
we’ll go with buckets and
trash pickers, ardor, and sturdy gloves.

We mean to
clean up the waterway
that flows thru town with all its wastings.

From the start,
a bramble-trek thru thorns
above water rippling over rocks.

Creek does its
best, we join in.
Afterwards, guess who’ll need a shower. 

 

 

 

 

UNROOFED UNROOTED

Wind thru old home-camp
lonesome as one cowboy boot
left out in weather. 

 

 

 

 

TOWN CREEK FROM A DIFFERENT ANGLE

             Great Sierra River Cleanup

We climb down parapets
and make our cautious way
with buckets and litter-pickers.

A helpful young man
with all the world’s time to spare
offers to fetch me trash.

I’ve got the best grabber
for cig-butts by the hundreds
from leaf-fall & pavement cracks.

Under the bridge
amazing rock sculpture
done by the creek herself.

I meet venerable Grandpa,
three-branch willow as wrinkled
as leaves of autumn.

This cleanup day 2023
with no sign of the homeless,
where do you think they are? 

 

 

 

 

Today’s LittleNip:

BEFORE RELEASE INTO WILD
—Taylor Graham

Saved from the wet-mop
into my hand:
Hand’s selfie with Frog.

__________________

Taylor Graham has sent us more tales of her recent adventures, including the clean-up of our local creek. As usual, Raven is watching... Forms TG has sent us include a Zappai (“Unroofed Unrooted”); an Anaphora (“World Coming at Us”); a Lune (“Before Release into the Wild”); a Hainka (“Golden Embers”); a Parallelogram de Crystalline—wish it had a shorter name, she says (“Dirty Day”); and a Triversen (“Town Creek from a Different Angle”). The Parallelogram de Chrystalline was one of last week’s Triple-F Challenges, and yes, that title is a bit unwieldy.

For news about El Dorado County poetry events, past and future, go to Taylor Graham’s Western Slope El Dorado poetry on Facebook at www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry/. And click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html) for details about 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.

And now it’s time for…  


FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY!

 

It’s time for more contributions from Form Fiddlers, in addition to those sent to us by Taylor Graham! Each Friday, there will be poems posted here from our readers using forms—either ones which were sent to Medusa during the previous week, or whatever else floats through the Kitchen and the perpetually stoned mind of Medusa. If these instructions are vague, it's because they're meant to be. Just fiddle around with some challenges—  Whaddaya got to lose… ? If you send ‘em, I’ll post ‘em! (See Medusa’s Form Finder at the end of this post for resources and for links to poetry terms used in today’s post.)


There’s also a page at the top of Medusa’s Kitchen called, “FORMS! OMG!!!” which expresses some of my (take ‘em or leave 'em) opinions about the use of forms in poetry writing, as well as listing some more resources to help you navigate through Form Quicksand. Got any more resources to add to our list? Send them to kathykieth@hotmail.com for the benefit of all man/woman/poetkind!

 

* * *

 

 

 Last Week’s Ekphrastic Photo 

We received responses to last week’s Ekphrastic photo from Nolcha Fox and Stephen Kingsnorth. Nolcha was inspired enough to send two, in fact:


LAST RITES
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

Autumn brings the neighbors out
to eat and talk and buy.
The final flowers of the fall
are out in bright display.
Folks barter junk and gossip,
and bask in breezy sun
before the winter chases them
indoors to wait for spring.

* * *

TOO EARLY
—Nolcha Fox

Christmas sales have begun,
and it’s only September.
I race with all the crazy fools
through aisles of winter specials,
no matter that the flowers bloom
and leaves have not turned yellow.
I buy a load of ornaments,
and velvet bows and wreaths,
bags of tinsel, sparkly cards,
and gift bags by the dozens.
I store them in the closets,
and hope the doors stay shut.
But cats and dogs are wily things
and pull the whole mess out.
They tear through decorations,
leave trails through the house.
I must go to the store again
before the sale ends.

* * *

Stephen Kingsnorth has used the charming and sonorous term, “hot polloi”:


CASH CROPS
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

      “An Englishman’s home is his castle”

There’s more than three feet in this yard—
and this a garden, trees, blooms, lawn,
with stars above and stripes below—
lines manicured, a mower wide—
but bunting strung, blown balloons tied,
an arrow, placard—for whose sake,
unless a label for what’s framed?

A jumble sale as British wont,
though indoors, of some institute,
but never household—bailiffs’ turf;
if outdoors, fêted with their wares,
community, of village fare,
when local weather, fated, reigns,
then pull together, flood or fire.

What irony, aristocrats—
some open grounds for charity,
to hoi polloi, their duty done;
not normal, castle-English-homes—
by hedge, fence, wall, moat replace-rail;
such soles as these beyond the pale—
down drawbridge rarely, if at all.

Or is it really yard for sale—
not yard of ale as old lore told—
unless a brewer needs kegs cleared,
but back of house, the unscene site,
that less attractive, out-of-sight,
to rear of showy public spot,
dump messy sort-tomorrow plot?

So this a picture quite unknown,
a neighbourhood I’d never home,
and this a language of its own—
a bargains, barter, trading post
or for the local hospice cost?
Now will kids boast old toys for new?
What is the story with this host?

* * *

And here is an Ars Poetica from Stephen to greet October and the witchery thereof:

 

 

 

 

 SUBCULTURE GROWN
—Stephen Kingsnorth

There was a day most hung on words,
though if bewitched they hanged the witch,
so folk used languages of signs
those, inner circle recognised.
Meaning and symbolism tied
and intertwined, skewed cuneiform,
so those not in the know nonplussed,
urban scenography in play,
translation lexicon at bay.
How take low hanging fruit displayed,
how pluck the messages conveyed
from stranger soil, subculture grown?
What is fake news due urban myths,
and what proves that we know nothing,
or rather mean there’s nothing new?
Used words verge in memoriam.

____________________

Many thanks to our SnakePals for their brave fiddling! Would you like to be a SnakePal? All you have to do is send poetry—forms or not—and/or photos and artwork to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post work from all over the world, including that which was previously-published. Just remember: the snakes of Medusa are always hungry!

____________________

TRIPLE-F CHALLENGES! 

 

See what you can make of these challenge, and send it/them to kathykieth@hotmail.com! (No deadline.) Let’s do a LaCharta:

•••LaCharta: http://www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/lacharta.html

•••AND/OR try a Sonnet we’ve never done, Jeffrey's:

•••Jeffrey’s Sonnet: http://www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/jeffreyssonnet.html

•••See also the bottom of this post for another challenge, this one an Ekphrastic photo.

•••And don’t forget each Tuesday’s Seed of the Week! This week it’s “Frustration”.

____________________

MEDUSA’S FORM FINDER: Links to poetry terms mentioned today:

•••Anaphora: https://literarydevices.net/anaphora
•••Ars Poetica: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ars-poetica
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry 
•••Hainka: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/hainka-haiku-tanka-new-genre-of-poetic-form
•••Jeffrey’s Sonnet: http://www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/jeffreyssonnet.html
•••LaCharta: http://www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/lacharta.html
•••Lune: www.masterclass.com/articles/how-to-write-lune-poetry#what-is-lune-poetry  AND/OR www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/poetic-asides/poets/poetic-form-lune
•••Parallelogram de Crystalline: http://www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/parallelogramdecrystalline.html
•••Triversen: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/triversen-poetic-form
•••Zappai: https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/zappai-poetic-form

____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Today's Ekphrastic Challenge!

 
 Make what you can of today's
photo, and send your poetic results to
kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.)

* * *

—Illustration Courtesy of Public Domain

















 
 
 
 

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.

Find previous four posts by scrolling down
under today’s post; or find previous poets by
 typing the name into the little beige box
at the top left-hand side of today’s post; or
go to Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 and find the date you want.

 

(LittleSnake’s Pal)
LittleSnake’s Glimmer of Hope
(A cookie from the Kitchen for today)

quicker closing of
the gap between
day and night
drives Raven
into the treetops~

Playing the Trump Card

 

—Poetry by Shiva Neupane, Melbourne, Australia
—Genies Courtesy of Public Domain

AN OLD SECURITY GUARD:

In an eery night
He showed up at the site.
Being focused like a toxophilite
Despite toe-curling frostbite.
 
I admire his chutzpah
Working despite being a Grandpa.
He’s full of energy and determination
Which gave me an inspiration. 

 

 

 

 

COOK:
 
A cook prepared
the dish by huffing and puffing
And rang the bell
The waitress made her way to Kitchen
And grabbed the plate to the table
 
The aromatic diversity of porn food
Seductively governed the senses of customers.
Whereas the cook was governed
by the culinary appreciations. 

 

 

 

 

THE ECOLOGICAL DIETARY:
 
The bird fed nestlings the ants,
The serpent swallowed the nestlings,
The eagle clawed the serpent with its talons
And devoured it.
 
The eagle was hit by a plane
And it fell on the ground
The swarm of ants enjoyed their platter
At the expense of eagle’s death.
 
I’m astounded by the ecological playbook
of KARMA
In which organisms are destined to play
a game of spiteful survival tactics. 

 

 

 

 

ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE:

Our Civilizational nightmare
may ensue from when we stop
employing our minds.
 
The perpetual appetite for curiosity
gives our mind a philosophical diet.
Allowing AI to do our intellectual tasks
May jeopardize our futuristic values
and diminish our habit of thinking.
 
Be acutely aware of the genie
It may come out of the bottle
And play the Trump card
Over what we do.
 
_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

I’M AN AGNOSTIC:
—Shiva Neupane
 
It is more fair to be honest
then pretending to know everything
I’m not against the believers
Nor against the non-believers
I do not want to commit a thought-crime
I’m a clueless person.
I’m open to the diversity of ideas
To learn from them.
The beauty of being agnostic
Is phenomenally great.
Because it always encourages to become a
rationally balanced person.  
 
______________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Shive Neupane for today’s poetry! Sheer genie-ous, I'd say...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that today in Placerville
at the Switchboard Gallery, there
will be a reading of Ekphrastic poetry
based on the current art exhibit,
“Details and Materials”.
For info 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.

Find previous four posts by scrolling down
under today’s post; or find previous poets by
 typing the name into the little beige box
at the top left-hand side of today’s post; or
go to Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 and find the date you want.

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!

 

LittleSnake’s Glimmer of Hope
(A cookie from the Kitchen for today):

Midnight deer:
silent hooves
slowly glide across
the roadway

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My Hurricane, My Agony

—Poetry, Photos and Original Artwork by
Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, 

West Covina, CA

WHAT I FEEL
      After Orhan Veli Kanik

I am out to explain
what I feel on the page.

I want to talk about
things I know to be true.

With words I get the pain
out so I can live on.

With words I calm the grief.
With these hands I write and

wipe away my cold tears.
With poems I use this

voice for everyone to hear.

 

 

 

 

 

STILL


Still as a monument
and voiceless like
the stones you were
made from. Your mouth
could not say things

or feel a kiss. Your
dream, if you had
one, was as sad

as your still head and mouth.
A butterfly
lands on your nose,
a dove graffities

your left eye, and
this was one dream,
or so I heard
from a small bird.

 

 

 

 

 

OUT OF THE DARKNESS

Look away.

The dead of night approaches.
The witching hour comes
to disturb the dreamers.
In the dark night,
darker than a grave,
a heart with no pulse pines for you.

With outstretched arms,
immense reach,
and incomprehensible strength,

a phantom comes
out of the darkness
from ancient times.
Its breath is like death’s stench.
Its dead eyes put dreamers
in their graves.

In nightmares, dreamers tangle
with the phantom.

Here, on its turf,
you lose every time.

The sign of the cross won’t save you.

 

 

 

 

 

MY HURRICANE, MY AGONY

You are my hurricane,

the eye of the storm,
the unexpected rain
that destroys my roof.

I could barely stand
here, in this uneven,
flooded land. How deep
are these holes the rains

left behind? Who are you?
This soil will take years to
heal. You are my agony,

an agony like no other
that gnaws at my heart
and drinks all my blood.

 

 

 

 

 

 

ONE DAY
 
One day
you will no longer recall my name.
The days will seem normal.

I lost
myself long ago, a capsized soul,
in desert oasis mirage.
One day

maybe another day, my name will
be removed from everyone’s lexicon.

 

 

 

 

 

THE COW GRAZING

I had my cold drink in the morning.
It tasted like grass.
I thought of the cow grazing.
I wondered if it felt the same taste.

I was hungry all morning long.
I felt like eating something good,
something hot. I thought of
the cow grazing. Will it end up
in someone’s oven or will it be
the goat grazing that never
once crossed my mind.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

TOOTHLESS
—Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

Toothless lions
and crocodiles
walk along in
the land of toothless
beings. How sad
is the widowed
queen of the jungle
and the crocodile
all out of tears.

____________________

—Medusa, thanking Luis Berriozábal for visiting us in the Kitchen again today with his tasty poems and pix!

 

 

 

 

"Will it be the goat grazing...?"

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy
of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

Find previous four posts by scrolling down
under today’s post; or find previous poets by
 typing the name into the little beige box
at the top left-hand side of today’s post; or
go to Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 and find the date you want.

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!

 

 LittleSnake’s Glimmer of Hope
(A cookie from the Kitchen for today):

autumn night sky wears
a single diamond earring…
—no, wait!—
that’s the moon~!

 

 

 

 

 

 

We Are The Falling Leaves

I Have Only My Eyes
—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Photos by Robin Gale Odam

TODAY THE GULLS
 —Joyce Odam

swarmed the cold winter sky;
the sun rimmed the edges of their wings.

They crossed each other’s sky-paths,
circular and slow.

I watched them from the car, not wanting
to open the door to disturb their dance.

Finally, they flew down onto an open space
in the parking lot.

I have only my eyes to tell you this.


(prev. pub. in Song of the San Joaquin, Winter 2019)

_________________

AUTUMN PROMISES
—Joyce Odam

Soon autumn will find us trembling with joy,
its cool relief—its heady promise,
and thus, believed.

Time is not wasting away,
it is only lingering the longer
for the sweet nostalgia of every autumn,

all the leaves are hurrying
and the sky retracing old patterns,
oh the softly urgent winds . . .
                                          oh the sunsets . . .

                                               
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 10/27/15;
also in Medusa’s Kitchen, 10/29/19; also in
Song of the San Joaquin, Fall 2021) 

 

 

 

 And Thus, Believed

 

 

THE SCRATCH OF A DRAFT
—Robin Gale Odam

Outside in the garden, only the
morning—the sheet of plain paper, the
birds in blue feathers.

The hum of the laundry, the comfort of
dishes piled up in the kitchen—the short list
of something to do before nighttime.

The plain sheet of paper. Eight birds
in blue feathers.


(prev. pub. in Song of the San Joaquin, Spring 2019) 

 

 

 

 

We Are The Falling Leaves

 

 

THE LURE OF AUTUMN
—Joyce Odam

This is the autumn we’ve waited for all year; 


we are the falling leaves—the fierce red light 


that turns the air to copper—the brimming night 


that echoes this for hours, like a smear 


of ancient blood upon the sky—minds clear 


and open to the season—to the sight 


and feel of all that hurry with hearts that might 


turn rhythmic to this churning atmosphere. 



 

We are the ache and joy of all that change—


transfigured into something newly strange—


an older blood-flow urgent to belong—


happy to follow some age-old desire:
We, who are an old, nomadic pair, 


becoming now another autumn song.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 10/27/15;
also in Song of the San Joaquin, Fall 2021)

___________________

DARKEN IT
—Robin Gale Odam

It started with high, sweet notes
and rich amber harmony, for contrast.
As I composed, the song told me
I was mistaken, told me how it
breathed in sorrow, how it was
a keeper of burdens, how its voice
was dark, how sweetness was a bane
to conceal or transpose or forget and,
although I begged it to reconsider,
it bade me to darken it.


(prev. pub. in Brevities, May 2011; also in
Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/13/14; also in
Song of the San Joaquin, Fall 2016)

___________________

THE CONNECTION
After Cover Image: Pegasus by Dick Schmidt,
photographed on Kauai after Hurricane Iniki, 1992
—Joyce Odam

The horse races along with a white bird
as companion.

They follow the urge of the free spirit
that flows between them.

The green trees
blur past.

The brown horse stretches out his lean length
into the rhythm.

They are in a race for existence,
they do not care who wins.

The free spirit urges them on—
the trees blur—and the horse reaches—

and the white bird is wing-close—
they share the same distance.


(prev. pub. in Song of the San Joaquin, Summer 2019;
also in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/20/21)

_________________

DEADLINE
—Robin Gale Odam

Sorry I’m late.
The poem wasn’t finished.
There were still five dishes in the sink.
My hair lay the wrong way.
I finally found my brush,
in the cabinet next to the coffee.
Just one more cup, hot.
I couldn’t remember if I was
forgetting something.
I couldn’t leave without my heart.
It was somewhere in the house,
or maybe in the garden.
The key turned three times in the lock.
It took the whole morning to reach the car.
Then there were red lights and a slow train.
I wrapped myself in music
loud enough to fill all my empty places.
I am here.
My heart is beating in the garden.
I am yours for this long day.

                                    
(prev. pub. in Brevities, May 2011; also in
Sacramento Voices Anthology 2017; also in
Song of the San Joaquin, Summer 2019)

 

 

 

 This Birdless Hour

 

 

SPRING FERVOR
—Joyce Odam

This worried sky, this field of yellow grass,
this birdless hour,

and that lonely man, lonely or not,
taking a simple walk through fields of swollen
light—

oh, here the season changes—maybe not this day
or moment, but soon—

soon as the rustling starts and builds
and the sky overwhelms the shadow-heavy earth

and the man heads home, and may not make it,
this blending man, caught

in the roil of swarming shadows that move in
and out,
this man, at one with everything, storm caught.

 
(prev. pub. in Song of the San Joaquin, Spring 2019;
also in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/23/21) 

 

 

 

 Should I Permit My Heart

 

 

SHOULD I BELIEVE IN SPRING
—Joyce Odam

I heard the birds singing today
under my sadness
and I said,
Should I believe in spring?
Permit feeling?

And the birds were oblivious
to my thought
and they sang in the tree
by my house
where I hung clothes
under a cloudy sky
and I said,
Should I believe
in possibility?
This singing is so pleasurable.

And the birds
sang through my reluctance
to permit joy to enter my heart
and I said,
Should I permit my heart to
open to anything again?

And the birds
continued singing
in the tree by my house
and I said,
Should I linger at this chore
and enjoy the singing?
And the birds continued,
oh, continued, singing.

                            
(prev. pub. in Acorn, 1996;
also in Senior Magazine, 2002;
also in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/25/14;
also in Song of the San Joaquin, Spring 2019) 

 

 

 

 This Broken Night

 

 

AS I GO
(After Fredederick Childe Hassam, July Night)
—Robin Gale Odam

I will take this with me, this
broken night, as much as I can
gather as I go—

there are so many remnants,
feigning to be mine.

And yet that song I cannot hold—
it is anchored to the hour.

I will take my black bag and my
wrap, these petals from the table,

one last sip, a final glance,
and yet that song I cannot hold—
it was always yours.


(prev. pub. in Song of the San Joaquin, Summer 2019)

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

the pendulum swings,
forth and back—swishing the air
its silent path

—Joyce Odam


(prev. pub. in Brevities, September 2018)

__________________

Good autumn morning to readers far and near! Today the Odam girls have sent all previously published work, which is fine with me. I always say, if it’s worth publishing once, it’s worth… Well, it’s worth having eyes on again. And again and again, yes? Medusa does welcome previously published work, so take advantage of that yourself.

Anyway, our thanks to Joyce and Robin Gale for today’s poetry, and to Robin for her photos—poems and pix which are titillating indeed (our Seed of the Week).

Our new Seed of the Week is “Frustration”. Send your poems, photos & artwork about this (or any other) subject to kathykieth@hotmail.com. No deadline on SOWs, though, and for a peek at our past ones, click on “Calliope’s Closet”, the link at the top of this column, for plenty of others to choose from. And see every Form Fiddlers’ Friday for poetry form challenges, including those of the Ekphrastic type. And be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.  

 

The Autumn Equinox issue of the environmental poetry journla, Canary, can be seen at https://canarylitmag.org/. Canary Editor Gail Entrekin read at Sac. Poetry Center last night.

__________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 July Night

—Painting by Fredederick Childe Hassam, 1898

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that  

Twin Lotus Thai Fourth Tuesdays 

takes place tonight—
reservations strongly recommended!
For info 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.

Find previous four posts by scrolling down
under today’s post; or find previous poets by
 typing the name into the little beige box
at the top left-hand side of today’s post; or
go to Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 and find the date you want.

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!

 

LittleSnake’s Glimmer of Hope
(A cookie from the Kitchen for today):

hawk and his mate:
morning calls bounce
off the creek, sparkle
like sunshine