—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth,
Nolcha Fox, Joe Nolan,
Shiva Neupane, Michael H. Brownstein,
and Caschwa
—Public Domain Visuals
—Public Domain Visuals
Courtesy of Joe Nolan
—Photos of Penny by Nolcha Fox
WHERE AM I GOING?
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
There has to be some space, for all,
a place that lodges, heart and mind,
that claims attention through our time,
more than a clause or pausing by,
the genius loci where at home.
And there it is, to be, on course,
a complement for how exist,
for being more than brain, lungs, heart,
but spirit in relationship,
our fellow humans seeing whole.
To be where I of less concern
than those about, community,
presents a journey more worth, while
we share all joys and pains as ours,
so none care destination, goals.
Though going be an active verb,
it’s better, loving, as we’ve heard;
whatever creed or lore to guide,
not to deny, that is the core
that love in god, beyond all odds.
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
There has to be some space, for all,
a place that lodges, heart and mind,
that claims attention through our time,
more than a clause or pausing by,
the genius loci where at home.
And there it is, to be, on course,
a complement for how exist,
for being more than brain, lungs, heart,
but spirit in relationship,
our fellow humans seeing whole.
To be where I of less concern
than those about, community,
presents a journey more worth, while
we share all joys and pains as ours,
so none care destination, goals.
Though going be an active verb,
it’s better, loving, as we’ve heard;
whatever creed or lore to guide,
not to deny, that is the core
that love in god, beyond all odds.
MISSTEP
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
Not watching where I put my foot,
I miss a step, instead of stiff
and solid ground, my toes
are planted in my mouth.
I should bite down
before I speak.
Misstep, mistake,
I need to brake before I say
exactly what I’m thinking.
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
Not watching where I put my foot,
I miss a step, instead of stiff
and solid ground, my toes
are planted in my mouth.
I should bite down
before I speak.
Misstep, mistake,
I need to brake before I say
exactly what I’m thinking.
Penny, 2021
—Photo by Nolcha Fox
TWO DOG POEMS (FOR PENNY)
—Nolcha Fox
CAT DOG
My dog is a cat. She signals she wants me to open the door. I open the door. She stands in the doorway. If it’s raining or snowing or colder than an ice cube, she stands in the doorway several minutes longer. I can’t close the door. She’s too big to knock outside. When the outside air is appropriately warmed by the heater, she ambles outside. She stands motionless. Maybe she is meditating. She slowly walks down the path. Does she need to pee? No. This is an inspection tour of the property. Slowly, slowly, she walks inside. While I hold the door open for her. And warm the outside air with the heater. I close the door. Three minutes later, she signals she wants me to open the door. Annoying dog.
* * *
DOG
I am your dog. I love you when you’re constipated. I love you when smell of shit. I love you for bringing me home. I love you for failing to housebreak me. Sometimes I smell of shit. I can’t lick you now, you walking out the door. Without me. I can only lick myself. I can only dog-ear this moment as we say goodbye.
—Nolcha Fox
CAT DOG
My dog is a cat. She signals she wants me to open the door. I open the door. She stands in the doorway. If it’s raining or snowing or colder than an ice cube, she stands in the doorway several minutes longer. I can’t close the door. She’s too big to knock outside. When the outside air is appropriately warmed by the heater, she ambles outside. She stands motionless. Maybe she is meditating. She slowly walks down the path. Does she need to pee? No. This is an inspection tour of the property. Slowly, slowly, she walks inside. While I hold the door open for her. And warm the outside air with the heater. I close the door. Three minutes later, she signals she wants me to open the door. Annoying dog.
* * *
DOG
I am your dog. I love you when you’re constipated. I love you when smell of shit. I love you for bringing me home. I love you for failing to housebreak me. Sometimes I smell of shit. I can’t lick you now, you walking out the door. Without me. I can only lick myself. I can only dog-ear this moment as we say goodbye.
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Penny Sleeping
—Photo by Nolcha Fox
THE PALACE-INDIAN QUESTION
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
Twenty-five miles
Of virgin, Mediterranean shoreline-property!
We’ll call it Malibu-on-Med,
Once all the Palace-Indians have been removed.
Think of the possibilities!
We’ll all get in on the ground floor
Of this rare opportunity,
Once all the Palace-Indians have been removed.
What exactly are they doing
On this land
We have called our own,
Ever since Biblical times
Of King David, King Solomon
And his thousand wives?
Let’s forget about the thousand wives,
That sort of thing
Doesn’t fly anymore.
It’s not politically correct,
Actually, it’s an embarrassment,
But we must never forget—
It was genocide
That made America great
The first time,
Clearing the land of the
Native Americans,
Who were just in the way of
Manifest Destiny—
To rule from
Shore to shore,
So why can’t we clear out
Two-million Palace-Indians?
Once they’re gone,
The magic shoreline
Will be worth so much more,
With luxury condos by the score,
Luxurious shore-front resorts,
Full of tourists
Who’ll pump in their money
Once all the unruly
Palace-Indians are gone.
THE SOUND OF DAMAGE
—Joe Nolan
Can you hear the sound of damage—
Damage that has a name?
When things don’t sound the same
As they did before,
Like a voice
And its vocal chords,
Like being at a loss for words?
Sound is the early sign
That something must have changed
In the way things
That used to ring,
Cannot, anymore.
Canyons are worn down
By rivers,
Year to year,
Always growing deeper.
There is no need to fear.
PEACE
—Shiva Neupane, Melbourne, Australia
The planetary anguish is unbearable; the
—Shiva Neupane, Melbourne, Australia
The planetary anguish is unbearable; the
situation becomes terrible. The dance of
death is lurking in the souls under the bricks.
The voice of innocent people is faltering.
The people have endured excruciating pain.
The Humanitarian support is desperate
to achieve peace and harmony.
The political narrative has to stop—
The humanitarian crises may jeopardize
the whole civilization.
The Humanitarian support is desperate
to achieve peace and harmony.
The political narrative has to stop—
The humanitarian crises may jeopardize
the whole civilization.
THREE LINKED HAIKU
—Michael H. Brownstein, Jefferson City, MO
a patch of rose heads
sprout poetry and striped doves—
spiraling rainbows
a spackle of poems
near the path of silver roses:
a rainbow of doves
spectacle of roses,
pink cotton candy rainbows,
a swale of blue doves
—Michael H. Brownstein, Jefferson City, MO
a patch of rose heads
sprout poetry and striped doves—
spiraling rainbows
a spackle of poems
near the path of silver roses:
a rainbow of doves
spectacle of roses,
pink cotton candy rainbows,
a swale of blue doves
NSF
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
When I first encountered
the term “NSF” it was
about 4 decades ago while
working at a savings & loan;
back then it meant “non
sufficient funds”
Today we see all kinds of
NSFs meaning “not suitable for”,
such as movies rated not suitable
for “young audiences”
Here are a few more:
nsfmtb (my taste buds)
nsflutsr (living under the same roof)
nsfmmdr (meeting my diet restrictions)
nsfaa (any audiences)
nsfgp (getting published)
nsfagns (a good night’s sleep)
nsfltb (lining the birdcage)
nsfgmv (getting my vote)
nsfwip (wearing in public)
nsfwotw (wasting one’s time with)
nsfcto (crossing the ocean)
nsftb (top billing)
nsfsat (serving another term)
WHEREFORE
—Caschwa
(They say every why has
a wherefore. —Shakespeare:
The Comedy of Errors)
prancing barefoot through
a prickly pond, postulating
that this or that pointed
object is projecting some
profound poetic meaning I
can pilfer to sneak into the
periphery of my next verse
ouch! damn epiphany right
on top where one would
least expect it; paranoia
cancels happiness, must
settle for copasetic; it is a
pyramid game, a sleep
number bed for one,
designed to parlay
molehills into mountains
—Caschwa
(They say every why has
a wherefore. —Shakespeare:
The Comedy of Errors)
prancing barefoot through
a prickly pond, postulating
that this or that pointed
object is projecting some
profound poetic meaning I
can pilfer to sneak into the
periphery of my next verse
ouch! damn epiphany right
on top where one would
least expect it; paranoia
cancels happiness, must
settle for copasetic; it is a
pyramid game, a sleep
number bed for one,
designed to parlay
molehills into mountains
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
It looked like the world was covered in a cobbler crust of brown sugar and cinnamon.
― First Frost
____________________
Welcome to the Kitchen today. I hope West Coasters moved their clocks back an hour yesterday! And thanks to today’s contributors this morning for all their blood, sweat and tears, some speaking to our Seed of the Week, Where Am I Going? Stephen Kingsnorth of Wales and his wife, Denise, have contracted COVID again (third time). And several SnakePals are dealing with death in their families: Nolcha Fox’s mother passed away last week; Caschwa (Carl Schwartz) lost his wife last month; and Taylor Graham lost her husband earlier this year. Our condolences to all of these poets, and to others in our little poetry family who have been variously stricken.
Dan Rounds and Josh Fernandez are reading tonight at Sacramento Poetry Center. Click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html) for details about this and 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 (or get changed) during the week. By the way, the November edition of Sacramento Poetry Center’s Poet News is up on their website at https://www.sacpoetrycenter.org/poetnews.
____________________
—Medusa
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
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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
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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):
single candle
lights the face
of the Buddha—
breathtaking!
