This Is Going To Hurt

 

—Poetry by Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
—Photos by Caschwa

HOW TO
PLEASE A
PERFECTIONIST

Appellation
Champagne
 Controlée
Fine expensive champagne
while enjoyed for its taste,
is more widely acclaimed
for its style.

To my own bourgeois eyes
it is only some grapes
that were forced to sit still
for a while.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

My perfectionist guest,
though, demanded a box
to precisely enclose
this fine gift.

But the bottle was long
and the gift box fell short,
a dilemma that just
left me miffed.

I took the old bottle
and sawed it in half,
quickly capping the holes
with my socks.

Here, behold this grand gift,
the world’s finest champagne,
exactly contained
in a box!

THIS IS GOING TO HURT

the abscessed tooth demands its moment
of truth
it puts aside any other concerns or cares
there are no words much better than just
uncouth
romance is gone among the highway flares

your well made plans
become spider webs
designed quite well
for ungainly results

a chart is built to show what work needs done
it all costs more than you will ever earn
just tie a string and pull the damn thing out!
the abscessed tooth demands its moment
of truth


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/13/20)

 

 

 

 

WITH NO WARNING

(hoodie and sunglasses firmly in place,
ready to rob a fog bank of its secrets)

    PLUTO

Our solar system had nine planets
That every little kid could recite
Then one was kicked off the team
For using steroid enhancers

    THE SERIAL COMMA RULE

Knowledgeable teachers taught
Us to leave out the comma between
The last two words of a list
Now, just, to, be, safe, we, don’t

    ONE MAN, ONE VOTE

This concept, fashioned by
Greek slave owners, served us
Well to lay the foundation
For home owners’ associations

    WHO WON THE REVOLUTIONARY WAR?

The British withdrew their military
Forces but left behind elitism,
Red carpets, interminable income gap,
Saluting colors, bowing to authority, …..

    FREE SPEECH

Free?  Not so much really, when
Women cannot even express
Their milk in public, let alone opinions
But anyone toting a gun has the floor


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/19/18)

 

 

 

 

NEWS AT ELEVEN

She almost didn’t survive a frighteningly difficult
pregnancy, but she made it through and was now
so proud  of her miracle baby, gently sleeping in his
official NHTSA-approved infant safety seat, tucked
in with his tiny fingers clutching the soft blue baby
blanket that was a gift from grandma.

It was hard keeping up payments on the car,
with those extra medical bills, days off work, etc.
but again she made it through and on this morning
was en route to take her miracle baby to the
pediatrician for their routine weekly visit.

She checked all the mirrors faithfully and scanned
every part of the highway, but could never have
seen the unlicensed, uninsured, drunk driver—as
much a part of the California landscape as sand in
the desert—slither from the shadowy roadside
trench like a moray eel, and suddenly gain traction
on the pavement.

The collision created a huge fireball that fully
consumed both vehicles and their passengers,
miracle baby and all.  Police, fire, and news crews
shortly arrived in ever larger numbers by ground
and air, expertly setting up alternate lanes and
routes to channel traffic around the crash.   

Somewhere off in a studio, a well-groomed, vibrant
young lady with a million-dollar smile, almost
giggling with happiness, announced breaking news
of the crash, diligently quantifying the height of the
fireball, the number of responders, the ages of the
victims, the estimated dollar amount of damages,
and of course, the travel delay along that stretch of
highway.

By the time it got to the 11:00 o’clock news, there
was not even a ripple of profound emptiness about
the loss of life, just the ho-hum fact that there were
now two fewer cars in the constant stream of traffic.  

The entire event was reported as if the crash was
merely a prelude to the good news that the highway
was now open … for the benefit of all those motor-
ists just trying to make it through.

 

 

 

 

WHEN WORDS FAIL

there was only hissing
from the mother's lips
the promise of rose hips
increasingly plugging her ears

eyes fixed with a cryogenic
stare into the endless sky
why did my sweet child have to die
'neath a billboard advertising beer?

an innocent shown no mercy
struck down by another's curse
left to ride flat in a hearse
ceasing to age one more year

the driver was released
to his recovering uncle
whose home was a jungle
full of danger and no fear

it was a portal to trouble
help yourself to a cold one
learn to use a shotgun
nothing else matters here

 

 

 

 

THE GIFT OF HINDSIGHT - I

California 2009

Revenue ran low, so the governor
furloughed state workers for the first time ever,
when this act was challenged the court
found it was legal, expressly provided for

that sequence of events showed how our
government plans ahead like a sleeper cell
using the fabric of law to ensure that
those at the top stay in the money

 

 

 

 

THE GIFT OF HINDSIGHT - V

The Tea Party

Strains of patriotism blanket the
conversation like elevator music
not quite reaching those people
who actually climb the stairs

 

 

 

 

THE KNOW-IT-ALL

She hasn't a name
nor an address or phone
she knows pure contentment
just standing alone

the most perfect frame
sporting the finest attire
she knows when to shout
look at me, I'm on fire!

unabashedly naked
from breasts to her ass
she knows how to share
virtually everything she has

a woman fully liberated
of emotion and feeling
she knows how to tally the
countless glances she's stealing

she may very well be
the ideal companion
she knows when to be silent:
a department store mannequin

 

 

 

 

YOU MAY KISS THE BRIDE

Funny how that can happen
I guess the groom got my
ride to the tavern where I was
going to shoot pool with the
guys and have a few beers,

and I got his ride here to the
altar, deposited right on the
threshold to eternal bliss,
that magical kiss, tonight we
will consummate….

Don’t cry, he’ll be just fine,
likely to meet a darling at the
tavern who will fill his heart
with love and tenderness,

Oh wait, do you have a
couple bucks I can give to
the driver?


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/1/19)

 

 

 

 

TOSSED LOST SALAD

I went fishing
lost my bait
caught a cold

I went through life
lost my youth
now I’m old

I went shopping
lost my focus
bought too much

I went crazy
lost my mind
out of touch

I went dancing
lost my balance
all grace erased

I went to work
lost my server
whole day’s a waste

I went broke
lost track of who
says I owe ‘em

I went home
lost my glasses
found a poem.

________________

Today’s LittleNip:

SIMPLE
—Caschwa

No big words
Let in here
To fog the sense

Fancy terms
Look it up
By far too dense

Gaze out shut
Windows and
Open minds hence

Leave the gate
Standing and
Tear down the fence.

________________

—Medusa, with thanks to long-time SnakePal Carl Bernard Schwartz (Caschwa) for today’s fine poetry! Carl has been hanging out in the Kitchen since 2010, and in addition to all that poetry, he has sent us many photos over the years. Today’s pix are a sampling of some of the ones we have posted in the past.

 

 

 

 

 Carl Bernard Schwartz,

also known as Caschwa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder to take advantage of
the Antiquarian Book Sale at
The Book Den in Sacramento today;
and The Poets Club of Lincoln has
a reading in Lincoln this afternoon.
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—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

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!

 

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

ice cream snack—
sweet reward for
making it through
another day…