—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Nolcha Fox
of Nolcha Fox
(I wrote this poem before my mother's diagnosis
of cancer.)
BEFORE THE STORM
Clocks cease their circular motion.
Wind holds its breath, doesn’t whisper.
Clouds congregate, scowl at sidewalks.
Temperatures stop, drop, and cover.
Birds hush their songs, fly to shelter.
It’s quiet. Too quiet.
of cancer.)
BEFORE THE STORM
Clocks cease their circular motion.
Wind holds its breath, doesn’t whisper.
Clouds congregate, scowl at sidewalks.
Temperatures stop, drop, and cover.
Birds hush their songs, fly to shelter.
It’s quiet. Too quiet.
BREATH
They call, they think it’s cancer.
She wonders if it’s false alarm.
She’s weepy, nothing lights her smile.
Stop calling, doctors cut her off.
At last, a test, she holds her breath.
The news is worse than she could want.
Each breath a prayer, and now
she’s grateful for another day.
BRAIN FREEZE
As doctors’ talks of Mother’s health
degrade from bad to worse,
I hear the words, but they don’t stay,
they fly right out the window.
I stick my sorry, soggy brain
into a plastic bag,
and stuff it in the freezer
until it comprehends
it must accept the winds of chaos.
NOT THAT HOLE
My mother’s cancer grips our thoughts.
We stumble, fumble in a fog.
We squabble over details.
I think the worst. I pray for time
to rewind back to when her only
gripe was getting up too late.
The evil C, that cancer looms,
a shadow shuttle promising
to drop a worn-out body in a hole.
This hole is one I don’t know how
to dig her out of and set her on her feet.
SPLIT BETWEEN TIME ZONES
My top half eats the sky in Mountain Standard Time,
certain that clouds are creamier here.
My bottom half walks backward between past
and present,
bumping into battered biscuits, three weeks stale,
tripping over the words that fell out of my mouth
when my tongue twisted time into a trap.
Rainbows and butter can’t soften the silence
you leave when you exit from life.
My top half eats the sky in Mountain Standard Time,
certain that clouds are creamier here.
My bottom half walks backward between past
and present,
bumping into battered biscuits, three weeks stale,
tripping over the words that fell out of my mouth
when my tongue twisted time into a trap.
Rainbows and butter can’t soften the silence
you leave when you exit from life.
I’m a fool
to watch the leaves
dance with the wind, to blush,
to die and fall.
I’m a fool to pull on boots
and dance in pouring rain.
I’m a fool to scribble words
at odd hours of the day,
when others watch the soaps
or meet for cribbage or for tea.
I’m a fool to ask the why
to pain that can’t be answered.
I’m a fool who leaves behind
the beauty of destruction.
Misery
likes to start early.
He presses his funeral pants,
the ones with the patches
on knees from peeking
through keyholes,
waiting for last breath,
waiting for the ceremony
to begin.
END
The road you’ve known is weathered and worn.
Stardust leaks from weary eyes.
The glow that led you to this hour
dims and turns to night.
You are October, fading, waning.
December is in your headlights.
Spring will never come.
The road you’ve known is weathered and worn.
Stardust leaks from weary eyes.
The glow that led you to this hour
dims and turns to night.
You are October, fading, waning.
December is in your headlights.
Spring will never come.
YOU SING
You huddle, flustered, bed a nest.
The nest, a cliff, your wings
too bent, too broken to lift off.
You fear the fall, you don’t believe
in God, that he will catch you
in his hands. Then please believe
your song is bigger than your pain,
is louder than your life. It echoes
through the dark, remains in rain,
it’s carried through the world
by wind. You’ll never know
how high and far your song
will soar, it’s not the end,
you’ll always be.
You huddle, flustered, bed a nest.
The nest, a cliff, your wings
too bent, too broken to lift off.
You fear the fall, you don’t believe
in God, that he will catch you
in his hands. Then please believe
your song is bigger than your pain,
is louder than your life. It echoes
through the dark, remains in rain,
it’s carried through the world
by wind. You’ll never know
how high and far your song
will soar, it’s not the end,
you’ll always be.
(This is the last poem I wrote the morning my mother died.)
IN YOUR HANDS
Your hands hold wilted petals you found below
browned leaves.
You believe they promise seasons turn again to
spring.
I only see death’s colors sprinkled deep within
your palms.
If I could press you in a book between the pages
filled with flowers,
I would keep you fresh, alive, preserved from
ticking time.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
I wear your heart
around my neck.
It matters not if gold or bronze,
if pretty pennies bought it.
It matters not it was engraved
with words too small and hard to read.
It matters that you thought of me,
and that I think of you.
—Nolcha Fox
_____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Nolcha Fox for sharing her life—which is very difficult right now—with us through her poetry. Her mother passed away last week.
IN YOUR HANDS
Your hands hold wilted petals you found below
browned leaves.
You believe they promise seasons turn again to
spring.
I only see death’s colors sprinkled deep within
your palms.
If I could press you in a book between the pages
filled with flowers,
I would keep you fresh, alive, preserved from
ticking time.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
I wear your heart
around my neck.
It matters not if gold or bronze,
if pretty pennies bought it.
It matters not it was engraved
with words too small and hard to read.
It matters that you thought of me,
and that I think of you.
—Nolcha Fox
_____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Nolcha Fox for sharing her life—which is very difficult right now—with us through her poetry. Her mother passed away last week.
—Public Domain Artwork
“You’ll never know how high and far
“You’ll never know how high and far
your song will soar…”
A reminder that
Beatrice Pizer and Sue McMahon
will be reading in Cameron Park
today; and the Guild Theater
Sacramento Hot Showcase
takes place 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—
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!
Beatrice Pizer and Sue McMahon
will be reading in Cameron Park
today; and the Guild Theater
Sacramento Hot Showcase
takes place 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—
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!
(A cookie from the Kitchen for today):
tiny crystal elephant
catches morning sun—
divides it into
a riot of rainbows…
