In Spite of It All
—Poetry by Smith and by Lady, Cleveland, OH
—Visuals by Smith (Steven B. Smith)
—Poetry by Smith and by Lady, Cleveland, OH
—Visuals by Smith (Steven B. Smith)
THE FIRST WEEKEND IN AUGUST, 2023
—Lady
Friday we had that slash of light
between the warm and chill humidity
The Early Augustness of August
in an Ohio whose green fields
pool in an oasis of the lake's
memory, its capacitance—north here,
protected rim, Midwest. But looking
at the vantage points of Terminal Tower
and where they manifest around town
you can read the books of the bridges
of this city,
Cleveland.
Our Echinacea are a variety that shoots
up to my head and then falls over in
its own headiness from the heavy violin
that plays the sun and rain
that germinates the marigolds
gone to seed
returning om deux poof
Now I am a friend of both clover and
shamrock, the mint takes over the
patio, the never-used rue, lavender
like prone blue explosions happy to
bloom, dry out and end up in some
sachet or forgotten, left out for the gods
that which with the days,
grows in full sun,
partial shade
and darkness.
In the church of our living room
there was that slash of light—
the slash divided two on each side
of an overgrown golden Labrador
in his heaven on Earth, lifting his
eyebrows, groaning assent, tousling
the freshly vacuumed carpet, basking
in the banter of four primate friends
two cats and one plant.
Then the window behind your lazyboy—
it was still a gold beam and now it's
over there, on that last window,
now a full rectangle
of light.
We must remember that we have
had such Augusts and that, like dandelion
seeds, they float out from Saturday's fairy day
firefly decanter and it's here again, we're in
perennial darkening Forest City and with
the lights turned out, the lacy loops
of grandma's letters left over
in some folio, we eat ganache,
knife, peach.
—Lady
Friday we had that slash of light
between the warm and chill humidity
The Early Augustness of August
in an Ohio whose green fields
pool in an oasis of the lake's
memory, its capacitance—north here,
protected rim, Midwest. But looking
at the vantage points of Terminal Tower
and where they manifest around town
you can read the books of the bridges
of this city,
Cleveland.
Our Echinacea are a variety that shoots
up to my head and then falls over in
its own headiness from the heavy violin
that plays the sun and rain
that germinates the marigolds
gone to seed
returning om deux poof
Now I am a friend of both clover and
shamrock, the mint takes over the
patio, the never-used rue, lavender
like prone blue explosions happy to
bloom, dry out and end up in some
sachet or forgotten, left out for the gods
that which with the days,
grows in full sun,
partial shade
and darkness.
In the church of our living room
there was that slash of light—
the slash divided two on each side
of an overgrown golden Labrador
in his heaven on Earth, lifting his
eyebrows, groaning assent, tousling
the freshly vacuumed carpet, basking
in the banter of four primate friends
two cats and one plant.
Then the window behind your lazyboy—
it was still a gold beam and now it's
over there, on that last window,
now a full rectangle
of light.
We must remember that we have
had such Augusts and that, like dandelion
seeds, they float out from Saturday's fairy day
firefly decanter and it's here again, we're in
perennial darkening Forest City and with
the lights turned out, the lacy loops
of grandma's letters left over
in some folio, we eat ganache,
knife, peach.
Firewater
AUGUST 9TH
—Lady
With wizened corners, bruised arms,
and crooked walk, with his silver chimp hair
fuzzy and short,
this old man is as vital as a dandelion head
busting,
his genitals hang down from the pan of his
hips,
dark red organs of the heart
cushioned by a puffy mass of wispy pubic
hair
the productivity of a milkweed's leather pod
you can examine it in your hand before
it loses all its silver offspring.
Tomorrow
At 3 am after the storm crickets and frogs skip stones over the night's sinusoidal pond stochastically breaking on the shore of listening to the owl who comments. Inside the cat pulls at the carpet and the heavy dog pants into the other bedroom to place himself into the body of an alien waiting sphinx.
—Lady
—Lady
Pythia
BREAKFAST AT THE BORDERLINE
—Lady
Breakfast out into the Sunday Gestalt
The slow burn highway
quest of focal vision right through
landscape of peripheral
Sit on bench beside the door
it sticks a little before you
can get it open, wait for eat
to become eight
Drink full coffee down before
waiter comes around for
fresh pot proper cream cup
proportion
Good time motown music and
a two-year-old’s occasional cry in a
high-class greasy diner
Young woman in a sea shell
dress and a man with scrambled egg voice
comfortable making money
two years from college
Elbows on the table I
cradle my head against my knuckles
like a sumo wrestler ready for the
next locution to ooze across
the table
Got my glasses off and stare at
fuzzy you, remember myself dreamy-eyed
in a 20-year-old photo another
20 years of us to go
Panhandler on the
highway entrance has a nice way
Have a nice day folks
he says
Russian dolls gotta have
a sense of humor—being a Russian doll
No Refunds
Something growing inside me
not supposed to be there
alien being 10" long
how long am I?
—Smith
Mindthought
In my mirror
muddy and muddled
faint flashes of light
Got used to rolling one rock up hill
then failing down
now they want two
We're complicit
no one's innocent
even our babies are bio-deformed
—Smith
Mission Center
Storing my self
down at Self Storage
in a Buddha box
—Smith
Just Arrived
THE OUTSIDE INSIDE CLAIM GAME
—Smith
Sadness seeps into
then eats at you
driving inside out
Happiness derives
from within inner spin
not from at without
Living life too long
may dull interior song
dim glitter's grin
To regrow show
one needs go way down low
clean your cluttered in
Sad sin of self
demanding higher shelf
dishonors here
It's fear of loss
in increasing cost
which our ego hocks
So give not fake
smile outside take
inner anger ache
Your arrow of gain
comes when whine is tamed
in dampened pain
It's all a game
no one to blame
except own aim
We all are the same
as confused as when we came
birth to earth in shame
—Smith
Sadness seeps into
then eats at you
driving inside out
Happiness derives
from within inner spin
not from at without
Living life too long
may dull interior song
dim glitter's grin
To regrow show
one needs go way down low
clean your cluttered in
Sad sin of self
demanding higher shelf
dishonors here
It's fear of loss
in increasing cost
which our ego hocks
So give not fake
smile outside take
inner anger ache
Your arrow of gain
comes when whine is tamed
in dampened pain
It's all a game
no one to blame
except own aim
We all are the same
as confused as when we came
birth to earth in shame
Life in the Fast Lane
Today’s LittleNip:
Did two armed robberies 1970
got $64 in first
10.5 months in second
—Smith
__________________
Our thanks to Cleveland’s power couple, (Steven) Smith and his spouse, Lady (Kathy), for today’s poetry and visuals. Steven is battling sarcoma again, this time a 10” tumor behind his left kidney (the alien inside him), with nuke-juice and hope, and we’re with him all the way in cheering for those ray-guns and for yet another win in that department. Steven’s a long-time SnakePal/monthly contributor whose latest poem-mantra is Radiate/Remove/Recover—and he’s also a tough old bird, so hope is not misplaced. Give ‘em hell, Smith! (And thanks again, Lady K!)
__________________
—Medusa
Inner Smith
NorCal poetry reminders:
Third Thursday at the Library
takes place in Sacramento
at noon today; later, there will be
a workshop in Cameron Park;
Poetry in Davis features
Richard Loranger, Tony Passarell &
Greg Carter; and
The Roux Open Mic & Feature Series
takes place on Northgate Blvd.
in Sacramento tonight.
For info about these 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!
Third Thursday at the Library
takes place in Sacramento
at noon today; later, there will be
a workshop in Cameron Park;
Poetry in Davis features
Richard Loranger, Tony Passarell &
Greg Carter; and
The Roux Open Mic & Feature Series
takes place on Northgate Blvd.
in Sacramento tonight.
For info about these 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!
(A cookie from the Kitchen for today):
graffiti heart—
love warms up
the cold cement
