The Trouble With Tribbles…
—Poetry by Caschwa, Nolcha Fox,
Stephen Kingsnorth, Sayani Mukherjee,
Joe Nolan, Shiva Neupane, and Claire J. Baker
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Joe Nolan, Caschwa, and
Stephen Kingsnorth
—Poetry by Caschwa, Nolcha Fox,
Stephen Kingsnorth, Sayani Mukherjee,
Joe Nolan, Shiva Neupane, and Claire J. Baker
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Joe Nolan, Caschwa, and
Stephen Kingsnorth
FOUR VIEWS OF THE ROSE PARADE
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
On television:
PJs, slippers, hot coffee,
same old announcers, pets
and kids to tend, too early
for most calls, not like really
being there
On the street:
horrendous traffic, same
for parking, finally found a
spot to watch the parade,
settled in, wished bathrooms
were closer, lots and lots to
see, aromas abound, frosty
air and skin, no announcers
with details
The prep shops:
This is where floats are made
one petal at a time, a bunch
of happy elves scurrying all
about to methodically amaze
the visual senses
Marching in the band:
wear uniform shoes, pants,
top, hat, and gloves; knees
high, one of twelve or more in
a marching row, MUST keep
straight, watch the music, watch
the director, MUST keep straight,
here and there avoid poop, don’t
wave to anybody, play the printed
music, MUST keep straight, feels
like miles, so far just one city
block, knees high, watch the
director, MUST keep straight
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
On television:
PJs, slippers, hot coffee,
same old announcers, pets
and kids to tend, too early
for most calls, not like really
being there
On the street:
horrendous traffic, same
for parking, finally found a
spot to watch the parade,
settled in, wished bathrooms
were closer, lots and lots to
see, aromas abound, frosty
air and skin, no announcers
with details
The prep shops:
This is where floats are made
one petal at a time, a bunch
of happy elves scurrying all
about to methodically amaze
the visual senses
Marching in the band:
wear uniform shoes, pants,
top, hat, and gloves; knees
high, one of twelve or more in
a marching row, MUST keep
straight, watch the music, watch
the director, MUST keep straight,
here and there avoid poop, don’t
wave to anybody, play the printed
music, MUST keep straight, feels
like miles, so far just one city
block, knees high, watch the
director, MUST keep straight
Jo Lynn Schwartz at the Rose Bowl prep shop
—Photo by Caschwa
—Photo by Caschwa
JOIN ME
—Caschwa
if you qualify, in my class-
action lawsuit against any
and all boards of education
in the USA who made decisions
of what curriculum to teach
during the time that Baby
Boomers would have been
in grammar school
the lawsuit seeks just
compensation for being
misinformed whether by
willful or statutory
negligence for the following:
· teaching us the wrong serial comma rule
· teaching us that Pluto was a planet
· teaching us to use adverbs to modify verbs
(educators, journalists, everybody ignores
this rule)
· teaching us to not end sentences with prep-
ositions
(educators, journalists, everybody ignores
this rule)
· teaching us that adults were worthy of our
trust
(oh, all those dark stories they didn’t tell us!)
· using cartoon images to show us how sex
works
· praising punctuality, then waiting for late-
comers to arrive and be seated before com-
mencing the lessons
· not building our minds to process lists greater
than 7
· painting a picture of Columbus that made him
appear to be one of those celebrities you’d
like to meet
—Public Domain Photo
I THINK I’M BETTER NOW
—Caschwa
after getting my Pfizer vaccinations,
I added pfuel to my pfastidious pford
pfocus and pfaced the pfortune of
pfixing my ailments with a pfolding
list to document the pfact that I had
been pformally vaccinated
how pfacetious of me to pfollow this
whole line of thompfoolery! have I
become a pfellow who lacks the very
pforce to stand upf on my own? we
must pfight the temptation to copy the
pframework of corporate giants who
admit to no pfaults or pflaws
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
WAVING
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
She talks with both her hands,
she waves them in the air.
She knocks down frames
and books and lamps,
her hands are bandaged
bloody messes.
We all know to stand aside
when she walks in the room,
or we’ll walk out with lumps
and eyes all blackened
from her waving message.
—Public Domain Photo
WITHOUT YOU
—Nolcha Fox
Grief slips in and stops the clocks. Time melts. Sheets sleep forgotten in the dryer. Clean dishes bang on the dishwasher door for hours. I sob for them. Red and gold autumn leaves are brown, brittle skeletons whisked past my window as wind blows in snow. Icicles hang from my eyelashes. Grief sits on the couch and watches reruns on TV. He knows he’ll be here until I refuse to pay for the pizza he orders in.
—Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Joe Nolan
UNDERHAND
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
The handle for so much we share—
like rule of thumb for horses’ height—
though not a compound, shandy brew,
handbrake, handrail, the handbook rule.
As with the psalm, ‘work of thy hands’—
the palmist works by reading them;
so do the deaf by language signs,
firsthand, shorthand—cut to the quick.
The man was deaf and dumb, they knew,
display, case wonder-worker’s art;
they bustled, battered, barged about—
prime position, spectator sport.
But no, He wasn’t playing ball;
outside the village, calmer space,
used picture language for that man—
poked ears, as fingers touching tongue.
Left, scouts shake hands, Parkies just shake,
thugs knuckle down and dust their brass,
but who will finger perps involved?
Backhanders, handsome, intervene.
Manipulate? A handy craft,
like masons building temple walls,
their thumb whorl pressed, ID set lodged—
fingerprint or more secret game.
As hard as nails or bubble-soft—
old Sherlock knew profession’s skin—
imploring, rubbing, wringing, both
raised in prayer or folded in death;
our hands mouthpieces speaking out.
With wrinkled, sweating, fisted voice—
e’en manacled to prison walls—
tell me what you hear, see, reply.
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
The handle for so much we share—
like rule of thumb for horses’ height—
though not a compound, shandy brew,
handbrake, handrail, the handbook rule.
As with the psalm, ‘work of thy hands’—
the palmist works by reading them;
so do the deaf by language signs,
firsthand, shorthand—cut to the quick.
The man was deaf and dumb, they knew,
display, case wonder-worker’s art;
they bustled, battered, barged about—
prime position, spectator sport.
But no, He wasn’t playing ball;
outside the village, calmer space,
used picture language for that man—
poked ears, as fingers touching tongue.
Left, scouts shake hands, Parkies just shake,
thugs knuckle down and dust their brass,
but who will finger perps involved?
Backhanders, handsome, intervene.
Manipulate? A handy craft,
like masons building temple walls,
their thumb whorl pressed, ID set lodged—
fingerprint or more secret game.
As hard as nails or bubble-soft—
old Sherlock knew profession’s skin—
imploring, rubbing, wringing, both
raised in prayer or folded in death;
our hands mouthpieces speaking out.
With wrinkled, sweating, fisted voice—
e’en manacled to prison walls—
tell me what you hear, see, reply.
Sample of his father’s handwriting
—Courtesy of Stephen Kingsnorth
DISTINCTIVE HAND
—Stephen Kingsnorth
Reading his distinctive hand,
folded palm lines, morrow’s plans,
his scripted plate, not cupric mined,
italicised, unemphasised.
Knuckles, ripe brown berry skin,
soil from tining under sun,
in former census, ag lab tagged,
now CO, army in the field.
Educated pacifist,
tying bass to Ailsa Craig,
tranche travels never took him there,
but whorled red fruit, homespun hair stems.
Under Battle Britain stars,
Biggin Spitfires strafing fire,
a bombproof shelter under stairs,
he slept, roll Ewbank later stored.
Never fingered playing cards,
rarely joked, no brandy glass—
the non-conformist, neighbour tarred,
borne retribution, first-born died.
Jet ink fountain pours the verse,
music pieces unresolved,
scribe permanent, insoluble,
tried faith that future life will probe.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
PAYCHECK
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India
My musical instruments
Blue topping ice creams
Matured conventional prologue
I see it barely now
How the postmen waited for the dove
How my natural insinuations
Folded before your zeal
X marked before and after
Afternoons planked a gaze
Its own milieu
Epiphanies phoned me
My hibiscus desk full of
Streamed lies
Lord's own megaphone
Metaphors everywhere
I swam under it
My musical instruments
I see it barely now
Lord's own paycheck.
—Public Domain Illustration
YOUR SHADOW SELF
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
You are a mere shadow
Of your former shadow self.
What happened to you?
Did you go sun-bathing, again?
You know you’re
Not supposed
To overexpose
Your shady side
To life
As others know it.
Shadow must cling to shade
Or disappear
In light, forbade,
To floating things of darkness,
Lacking any substance.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
IN A DISTANT CANYON
—Joe Nolan
Somewhere
Down a memory
That trails away
Into a distant canyon
Someone is shouting—
An old desire
Has come to make a statement
Under oath,
On a stack of Bibles
Attesting that
I’m not free of it,
Although I believe myself to be.
I thought I really
Had it beat.
It’s been years,
But when I retreat,
It’s waiting there for me—
In a distant canyon,
Sheltered from the wind,
Surrounded by rock walls,
Where nothing can come in,
Except from either end.
We both keep our eyes peeled.
Out here in the wilderness
Whatever comes this way
Might be hungry.
It might have our scent,
I and my erstwhile, abandoned desire.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
GEOGRAPHY OF LIGHT
—Joe Nolan
The geography of light,
Split inside a prism,
Diaspora of colors—
Cast into a rainbow.
If there is an infrared,
Also, ultraviolet,
How many
Other bands
Of light
Are colors we can’t see?
—Invisible colors of light—
By which we should learn to read?
Like black light,
That shows us hidden things
To write in sand
Recognized, amazingly?
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
HEAVENLY FATHER:
—Shiva Neupane, Melbourne, Australia
The hooligans are lurking.
I stayed away on a platform.
Nobody came to my psychological aid.
But one-and-only God came to me.
His presence emboldens my heart and mind.
The power of invisible God is incredible.
The hope is the pillar of strength
Which I found within me,
And withstood a fear of being hurt.
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
MY UNPREDICTABLE HAND
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
See, I have tricky trigger fingers—
the 4th and 5th on my right hand.
I name the two my naughty clingers.
I shun thee, tricky trigger fingers
that lock down on my palm to linger,
while ballerinas’ hands stay grand.
Gol durn thee, trickster trigger fingers—
the 4th and 5th, yes, favored hand!
___________________
Many thanks to today’s contributors for their Hand-i-work! Our Seed of the Week was Hands, so we see those scattered here and there, along with various other subjects in our usual eclecticism. Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.
Feel like writing about hands? It’s never too late; there are no deadlines here in the Kitchen! Just send your poetry, photos, and artwork about hands—or any other subject—to kathykieth@hotmail.com/. The Snakes of Medusa are always hungry!
Poetic License read-around takes place in Placerville this morning at 10:30am; Modesto Poetry Book Club meets at 6:30pm in Modesto; and Sacramento Poetry Center will hold its monthly Youth Open Mic tonight at 7:30pm. Click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html) for details about these and other future poetry events for this week and beyond in the NorCal area—and keep an eye on this link and on the Kitchen for happenings that might pop up—or change!—during the week.
___________________
—Medusa
. . . especially if you’ve been reading the news . . .
—Public Domain Photo
—Public Domain Photo
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-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
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
to 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!
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
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
to 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):
six crumbs on
the drainboard—
my housekeeping rep
forever destroyed…
