Indulging in Poetry

  Let us break pizza together ~
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa
* * *
—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Sayani Mukherjee, Devyanshi Neupane,
Carol Anne Johnson, Joe Nolan,
and Steven Bruce
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joe Nolan,
Steven Bruce, and Medusa

 

 

INDULGENCE
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

He left for work, now I can indulge.
I light the fire, warm the house.
I spike my eggnog, curl up on the couch.
I grab a pillow, wrap myself in blankets.

I light the fire, warm the house.
I douse the Christmas tree with gasoline.
I grab a pillow, wrap myself in blankets for
protection.
I toss a match into the room and run like heck.

I douse the Christmas tree with gasoline.
I spike my eggnog, I can carry it to go.
I toss a match into the room and run like heck.
He left for work, I indulge in pyromania.

 

 

 

 Forget the chocolate . . .
—Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa

HAGIOGRAPHY
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

’Tis understatement, I suppose,
indulgence, only, stage craft, mine,
retreat when clearly star each day;
Uriah name I freely own—
humility, the cad I play.

To step back, others showered praise,
applaud them, though they know deserts,
that I who gained them pride of place;
I revel as promote their cause,
and as instilled, drive forth their case.

Forget the chocolate or cakes,
tobacco, whisky, flutter, cards—
but butter up to win the cream;
companions feel I’ve paved their gold,
this angel’s scheme fulfilled their dream.

Who claimed indulgence not for sale,
when reputation bought by mine—
hear admiration trails my way;
piled laurels crown, surround my head—
when weighed, divine, saint’s pay I’d say. 

 

 

 

 Papillons dans un paysage, un village 

à l’arriére-plan
—Painting by Jan van Kessel the Elder (1626-1679)
—Public Domain Painting Courtesy of Medusa

 

BABY
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar, W. Bengal, India

I have lost my tulip tree
Buried and briefed under a tilted stage
A banyan tree under my eunoia days
The neem tree is green today
The bird is flowed from the sky
Silked and tattered in the orange sky high
A new rust orange peeling off
The memories of lost napkin
A blue coat of overcoat promised land
The fairies come alive in the penknife pen
Still I hold my babies true.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

MY BIRTHDAY DAY
—Devyanshi Neupane, (Age 5 now),
Melbourne, Australia

My birthday is on seventh December.
I cut white, blue and purple cake.
I have colourful balloons.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

In shadows deep where memories tread, 
A battle rages in my head, 
Whispers of past, they claw and cling, 
Yet within me stirs a softer thing. 
 
A flicker of light, a candle’s glow, 
In the heart's hidden chamber, courage grows, 
Each tremor of fear, each haunting trace, 
Is met with a smile, an embrace of grace. 
 
The nights are long, the silence loud, 
But hope rises tall, like a steadfast cloud, 
I gather my fragments, stitched with care, 
Each scar a story, each wound laid bare. 
 
In the labyrinth of thoughts, I find my way, 
With every step, I choose to stay, 
To breathe in the present, to let the past fade, 
To waltz with the storms and dance unafraid. 
 
The echoes may linger, but I am not bound, 
I rise from the ashes, reclaimed, unconfound, 
With every heartbeat, I weave a new song, 
A tapestry woven where I truly belong. 
 
So here’s to the battles that shaped who I am, 
The strength I discovered, the quiet I’ve tamed, 
For in the embrace of resilience and time, 
I’m learning to soar, I’m learning to climb. 
 
Through valleys of darkness, I carry my light, 
In the warmth of my spirit, I’ll conquer the night, 
With love as my armor and hope as my guide, 
I’ll navigate life, with strength deep inside.

—Carol Anne Johnson, Cork, Ireland

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

WEBBED-FEET CHURNING
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

Notorious a-salts,
Re-ported in the noose—
Alt-ear-your motives
Re-mane in repose
Waiting for suckling ducks
To paddle halfway
Across a pond
With webbed-feet churning
Underneath a surface
That seems still.

Who would ever a-thought
Syria would fall so fast?
Well, we were sucking out its oil
Underneath the radar
For at least a decade
And carting it off to Iraq
Where Cheney set up fiefdoms
For his oil-buddies
After the ‘03 invasion,
When they hanged Hussein.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

KEEPING A LID ON IT
—Joe Nolan

What society demands
And thus requires
From all its worker-bees
Who aspire
To be
Worthy servants of the Queen
When they gather
To converse
At the water-cooler in the office
Or at the watering hole
On their way home
Is to not be too extreme
In how they express
Their feelings—
To make a pledge
That they don’t feel that way—
Too extreme
And by all means
Not to scream
In four-letter words
Like they had Tourette’s.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Advertisement Courtesy of Joe Nolan

THE END OF DIALS
—Joe Nolan

It is the end of dials.
Dials have all died off.
Dials made the world go ‘round,
Back when we were young,
   
But now we’re doing digital.
The world’s on “oh’s” and ones.
Now, instead of swirling
We poke and poke and poke
Little numbers on a screen
Or letters on a board.

My little kitten stares at me
Wondering why
My fingers seem so mad.

 

 

 

The Dog 

—Painting by Francisco Goya (1819)
—Public Domain Art Courtesy of Steven Bruce

Today’s LittleNip

LIKE A DOG
—Steven Bruce, Gdynia, Poland

Love’ll sniff
you out.

It’ll sit,
beg, bark,

and wag its tail
so long as the fire burns.

But it doesn’t
stay.

___________________

We have a potpourri of international poets visiting the Kitchen today: Stephen Kingsnorth from Wales, Steven Bruce from Poland, Sayani Mukherjee from India, Devyanshi Neupane from Australia, and of course other pals from the US. Many flags sitting at our roundtable this morning, some of whom tackled our Seed of the Week, “My Only Indulgence”. (Be sure to check on Tuesdays for each new Seed of the Week.)

And welcome to newcomer Shirley Healy from Cork, Ireland (who writes as Carol Anne Johnson). Shirley has been blind from birth and has been diagnosed with complex PTSD and dissociative identity disorder. She says she “mostly writes about her struggles with mental health, coping with and surviving it daily.” See more from Shirley at http://therapybits.com/. Welcome to the Kitchen, Shirley (Carol Anne), and don’t be a stranger!

___________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that Poetry in Motion
meets tin Placerville today, 10:30am;
and Sacramento Poetry Center features
Traci Gourdine and Gary Thomas
tonight, 7:30pm.
For info about these and other
future 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?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
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!

 

 Oops~

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cicatrix

 —Poetry by Gregg Norman, Manitoba, Canada
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

 

 

CICATRIX

a scar by a prettier name
tracks we leave
as we pass through this life
dune tops along crests
of our desert flesh
nerve-dead meat maps
of foolish deeds and misdeeds
symbols of sins past
of childhood carelessness
of teenage recklessness
of adult heedlessness
forever signs of best intentions
faded by time
wondrous things
to see and touch
and emotional scars too
with the permanence
of the visible

 

 

 

 

EVANGELICALLY SPEAKING

Those walleyed, private jet yawpers
wailing evangelically on the telly
will whitewash your sins away
for a small donation,
redemption always available
for a price and a hallelujah.
You can also buy health,
wealth, and prosperity
to hear the hucksters tell it
on the screaming omnipotent tube.
There’s always a market for souls
if you want to go that way
and you can pay under the table.
But if what you want
is a kinder gentler world,
well, brother, it’s just not for sale
‘cause there’s no profit in it
and they don’t have it to sell anyway. 

 

 

 

GETTING OUT

floating on the echo of a night-dark
    train whistle, bound for
    destinations desired yet undefined

soaring on spread-eagled wings above
    the little ant people, swooping
    to take up the most beautiful of them

imagining running at warp-speed through
    streetlight haloes away
    from a small-town romance

dreaming of a prize-winning walk
    down a carpeted aisle to give
    astonished podium thanks

escaping however I may from this
    imposed reclusion, pretending
    to elude the solitude I crave

 

 

 

ICE ROAD

Sheets of stained plywood
braced by banked snow
define an outdoor rink
in the early morning dark.
Bathed in headlights
a boy skates long laps
in sub-zero stillness,
his breath steams the chill,
his blades scratch the ice.
Round and round he glides,
accelerating at the impatient
car-horn honk,
slowing only when
he hears it again.
He pushes a scarred puck
with a taped stick
on the path before him
from small-town ice
to the National Hockey League.
It is a road he doesn’t believe
he will ever travel
but it is one on which
the old man insists
he must skate
if he wants to play the game.

 

 

 

 

SEAGULL

A seagull in a parking lot
Eating french fries and burger buns
Says much about what’s wrong
With our upside-down world

I point an admonishing finger
At him and sternly say
You—you’re  a helluva
Long way from home

You should be bob-bob-bobbing
In a saltwater chop somewhere
With a herring in your busy beak
Instead of a limp greasy chip

Wandering flat-footed in this vast
Expanse of littered asphalt
Outside the people’s food court
At the milling market mall

You’re a seagull after all
Not a landlubbing gull
Or a mall gull and certainly
Not an asphalt gull

I tell him he’ll grow fat
And be pocked with pimples
If he doesn’t stop woofing
People’s greasy leftovers

He beady-eyes me back
Chomps another chip
Squawks a seagull squawk
And flies away

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

My writing, it’s my way of making sense of everything. My way to feel whole. May I never be complete and may I never feel content—please, let me always have the need, always have the urge to write.
 
―Charlotte Eriksson

___________________

—Medusa, welcoming Gregg Norman and his fine poetry back to the Kitchen today, and our thanks to Joe Nolan for finding us photos to go with it!

 

 

 

 

For future 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?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Slowing Down With The Dharma

 —Poetry and Photos by James Lee Jobe,
Davis, CA

 

 

I love the tule fog—it looks like magic
and in the deep grays of winter
I wish for it—a fog of loveliness
to hug this good earth
in this good valley

 

 

 

 

There are monkeys in your head. Through your eyes the world sees these monkeys dancing. Through your ears the world can hear the music they dance to. You may ask, “Why are there monkeys dancing in my head?” It’s a fair question at this point. The monkeys in your head are dancing because it’s fun in there. It’s a good head to be in, and the music has a nice beat. Why not look, listen, and dance? 

 

 

 

 

Crows were watching, they often do. 

The sun was white-hot and rippled with fine torso muscles. 

The world sprang upwards toward my sullen footsteps. 

My heart beat as it should, my lungs breathed in and out, in and out. 

We had hoed the weeds from the hard rows of tomatoes and beans 

and okra like men of the earth. 

I felt like a man of the earth, a man of the soil, even though I was still a boy. 

My father did not like physical displays of affection between us, 

and I often felt that he did not love me, 

but on that day I reached up and took his hand anyway. 

And that day, that rare day that I will always remember, he gave me his hand, 

and then finally, his most private smile. 

It was another ordinary day, over 60 years ago. 

Crows were watching, they often do. 

I was walking in my father's long shadow. 

 

 

 

 

Moonlight floods the valley like a forest fire  
a full moon and a lunar eclipse  
the shadow of the earth passes across 
the face of the moon  
but neither of them greets the other  
friend there is silence as the universe moves

 

 

 

I found the dharma late in life, so I learned to slow down just as I needed to slow down anyway. It is good to hang on to the moment that is happening now and to let go of all the foolishness of my past. Yes, I have been a fool many times, but right now a hummingbird is blessing the early blossoms on my peach tree and inside the house my wife is singing. Breathe in and out slowly. I am still alive.

_________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Peace: the stillness between two seconds.

—James Lee Jobe

_________________

Welcome back to James Lee Jobe with his fine poems and photos this morning! It’s been awhile since he visited the Kitchen, and it’s good to see his writings here again! He says: “I have turned off most social media. Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, etc. Gone. If you need to reach me, email me at jamesleejobe@gmail.com. If you have my number, you can call me or text. I have kept one social media site, Bluesky: https://bsky.app/profile/jamesleejobe.bsky.social/.

“I have also dropped my blog, and instead post poems on my Substack: https://substack.com/@bookofjobe/.”

Thanks again, James, and we’ll hear from you the next time—soon, I hope!

_________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 A hummingbird blesses the flower . . .
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

 

 

A reminder that the
Sacramento Buddhist Meditation Group
will hold a workshop today,
"Writing Towards Awakening", with
Laura Rosenthal, starting at 10am;
Mosaic of Voices meets in Lodi
with Gary Thomas and
Salvatore Salerno, 2pm; and
Sacramento Poetry Alliance
presents Judie Rae, Judy Crowe, and
Ellen Reynard in Sacramento, 4pm.
For info about these and other
future 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?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
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!

 

 

 

Come Fly With Us!

—Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,
Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down to
Form Fiddlers’ Friday, with poetry by
Melissa Lemay, Nolcha Fox,

Stephen Kingsnorth, and Caschwa

 

WELL SEASONED

You’re bringing in firewood from storms
three years ago and last year, heaps of split oak
seasoned and ready for the woodstove.
Plenty to last you a winter or more.
More rounds waiting for your woodcutter’s
splitter—live-oaks just broken off head-high
not in storm, but of their own weight.
You keep some slash piles for quail, towhee,
and others needing shelter and cover.
Was it drought that killed those live-oaks
within weeks of each other? We sure need rain.
In all your years here, you’ve never seen
the land so dry in fall. Years well-
seasoned, you still bring in the firewood. 

 

 

 

LEFTOVERS

A dirt side-path off the main paved trail— 


why did I choose that path on an icy
fall morning? Beyond some homeless trash,


a one-man tent, blue. Someone’s refuge
from rain and cold. And propped against
the tent, hand-written on a piece
of white cardboard: “you steal from me
and I swear I cut off your finger” 


with carefully drawn index digit and sad face. 


Not far from the blue tent, a pair
of blue gloves in good condition, placed
side by side, holding nothing. 


Next day the tent was gone, gloves
still in place, ten fingers pointing at the sign
lying flat on the ground. What stories 


a pair of gloves might tell. And over it all,
the rosy fingered dawn of a new day.

 

 

 

SONG OF THE HOMELESS DOGS

Heard across the fence
of the animal shelter—
barks and yips and howls
and a u-u come-hither
plaint as we walk past,
Otis my rescue
dog and I. Need I explain
to a dog rehomed
so many times already
that what the dogs want
is their own forever-home
and someone to walk
them on the free and wooded
path beyond their fence?
That is the gist of their bark-
yip-&–howling song
I write now in poem form
for someone to read
and take the song to heart, choose
a dog and sing the response. 

 

 

 

 

NO REFUGE HERE
Dec. 4, strip mall

It’s Bargain Week, doors opening
amidst earthmovers, cherry-pickers—
construction of even bigger stores.

My dog on loose-lead leads me
past loading docks, then stops—
among crates, a mummy’d squirrel.

Where I buy wiper blades
is cordoned off: Do Not Disturb,
Fire Case Analysis.

Supermarket parking lot—
young pines hogtied in bundles
lest they try a forest escape.

Overhead, skein after skein
wild geese on a rising vector
calling “come fly with us!”

I have no business here,
I’m only walking my dog
before things get really hectic. 

 

 

 

 

DETECTING THE UNSEEN
at the Fairgrounds

Across the arena fence, a man
with metal detector slowly methodically
searches for dimes, quarters, rings.

On this side of the fence, my dog
slowly diligently scans with his nose
for leftover scents of dog, squirrel, deer.

What instruments of science, a poem. 

 

 

 

 

EFFULGENT: A DEFINITION

How to capture this sun-up
so brief it’s gone almost before
I aim my camera,
and all I get is a blinding blur.
And the moment is gone
like all beautiful things in motion.
Words persist. Dazzling,
luminous, radiant.
And coming toward me
on the trail, a stranger simply
walking with a joyful
step and peaceful,
all-encompassing smile. 

 

 

 

 

Today’s LittleNip:

LEAVES ON THE WATER
—Taylor Graham

Creek’s hardly flowing,
fallen leaves float
undrifting,
awaiting
rain.

_____________________________

Happy Lucky Friday the 13th! We are always fortunate enough on Fridays to be visited by Fine-and-Fancy Fiddler Taylor Graham (and her sidekick, Otis)—and that’s a privilege, indeed!

Forms TG has sent this week include a Choka (“Song of the Homeless Dogs”); a Sevenling (“Detecting the Unseen”); a Triversen (“No Refuge Here”); a Definition Poem (“Effulgence: A Definition”); and a Diminuendo (“Leaves on the Water”). The Diminuendo was one of our Triple-F Challenges, and our Tuesday Seed of the Week was “Refuge”.

In El Dorado County’s poetry events this week, Poetry in Motion will meet in Placerville on Monday, 12/16, and El Dorado County’s regular workshops are listed on Medusa’s calendar if you scroll down on http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html/. For more news about EDC poetry—past (photos!) and future—see Taylor Graham’s Western Slope El Dorado Poetry on Facebook at www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry/. Or see Lara Gularte’s Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/groups/382234029968077/. And you can always click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html/). Poetry is Gold in El Dorado County!  

Speaking of Lara Gularte, she is editing a new publication called New River Quarterly for Sacramento Poetry Center, which will include poems by members of the Mule Creek State Prison poets’ workshop which Lara facilitates. For more about this new publication, including how to obtain a copy, go to https://www.sacpoetrycenter.org/publications-tule-review/. Congratulations, Lara, on such a wonderful project!
 
And now it’s time for…  


FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY!  

 

It’s time for more contributions from Form Fiddlers, in addition to those sent to us by Taylor Graham! Each Friday, there will be poems posted here from our readers using forms—either ones which were sent to Medusa during the previous week, or whatever else floats through the Kitchen and the perpetually stoned mind of Medusa. If these instructions are vague, it's because they're meant to be. Just fiddle around with some challenges—  Whaddaya got to lose… ? If you send ‘em, I’ll post ‘em! (See Medusa’s Form Finder at the end of this post for resources and for links to poetry terms used in today’s post.)


Check out our recently-refurbed page at the top of Medusa’s Kitchen called, “FORMS! OMG!!!” which expresses some of my (take ‘em or leave 'em) opinions about the use of forms in poetry writing, as well as listing some more resources to help you navigate through Form Quicksand and other ways of poetry. Got any more resources to add to our list? Send them to kathykieth@hotmail.com for the benefit of all man/woman/poetkind!

* * *

Last Week’s Ekphrastic Photo

Poets who sent responses to last week’s Ekphrastic photo included Melissa Lemay, Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth, and Caschwa:


BALLS (based on a true story)
—Melissa Lemay, Lancaster, PA

Balls! the little one says.
Bouncing balls, blue balls, yellow balls, smack
the balls, all the balls, lick my balls…


Stop saying that! mom cries out,
exasperated, tired of living in
an unintentionally R-rated Dr. Seuss book.

* * *

BALLS
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

It takes balls
of glitter to decorate
a Christmas tree.

It takes balls
to divert a cat
from the tissue box.

It takes balls

to survive the holidays
with a smile on my face.

* * *

WRECKING BALLS
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Now here’s a ballroom, quickstep to
piled glitterballs, more discotheque,
or Christmas decoration bulbs
awaiting plant in socket wires,
soon strung across our countless trees?

A nursery to grow such bulbs
amongst the corms, by Easter’s rose,
excited kids who nurture plant—
the factory of future’s use,
a winter’s tale in summer’s warmth?

Or this a balloon factory,
preparing for the party times,
when full grown means they’ll be full blown,
potential planted, rainbow blaze,
as flexibility springs more?

Herbaceous border’s, site again,
or bedding plants, this year’s display,
or garden plot for sprouting seeds,
where youngsters meet these toxic plants,
temptations set in danger signs?

For seas, they say, full plastic balls,
as are fish stomachs, tortoise shells?
Like sweets, bright colours, mixed in piles—
it is the children they attract,
though learning comes—hope educates?

This is the epoch—plasticene
as indestructible now reigns;
I wonder, is it in our veins,
around the carotid, those beads,
masked balls a-dancing, every sphere?

* * *

BOUNCE HOUSE RISK ANALYSIS
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

(Severity times Likelihood equals Risk Impact)

So what if those are not balls, but balloons?
Hot air or water, they could burst and cause harm
This is real life, not cartoons
Parents would sue, get the farm

Testing the risk with grown men
ignores a child’s natural weakness
so don’t make me say this again
we don’t test run NASCAR in the Preakness

all that the children’s eyes should see
are explosions of color and glee

* * *

And here is an Ars Poetica from Stephen Kingsnorth:

 

 

 

PACEMAKER
—Stephen Kingsnorth

A pacemaker with pulse, flow—more,
a rhythm fit to breathing rate
as torso, trunk needs xylem, phloem,
here is the food, stored heartfelt core.

Its spirit cracks emotion’s door,
prise open old, unsettled scores,
shares wonder in a tender vein
or horror born of human flaw.

Averse to mind-games, havoc’s trail,
it stretches our vocabulary,
permits the playful lexicon
its range from mindful to veneer.

Confessional, unspoken loads,
a celebration, overjoyed,
here’s space to mark questions unasked,
to raise, pose mysteries of life?

Distraction from my disease pain,
release from tempting final step—
when rhyme and reason leave their post,
my daily diary of sane.

____________________

Many thanks to today’s writers for their lively contributions! Wouldn’t you like to join them? All you have to do is send poetry—forms or not—and/or photos and artwork to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post work from all over the world, including that which was previously-published. Just remember: the snakes of Medusa are always hungry!

____________________

TRIPLE-F CHALLENGES!

See what you can make of these challenges, and send your results to kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.) Let’s follow Taylor Graham’s lead today and devise Sevenlings and Definition Poems:

•••Sevenling: poetscollective.org/poetryforms/sevenling

•••AND/OR a definitive Definition Poem:

•••Definition Poem: https://www.poetrymagnumopus.com/topic/1105-a-definition-poem

•••See also the bottom of this post for another challenge, this one an Ekphrastic one.

•••And don’t forget each Tuesday’s Seed of the Week! This week it’s “My Only Indulgence”.

____________________

MEDUSA’S FORM FINDER: Links to poetry terms mentioned today:

•••Ars Poetica: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ars-poetica
•••Choka: poetscollective.org/poetryforms/choka
•••Definition Poem: https://www.poetrymagnumopus.com/topic/1105-a-definition-poem
•••Diminuendo: Nature, five lines of descending syllables: 5, 4, 3, 2, 1
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••Sevenling: poetscollective.org/poetryforms/sevenling
•••Triversen: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/triversen-poetic-form

__________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 

  Today's Ekphrastic Challenge!

 Frog Prince

—Painting by Carol Miller Burd, 1919

 
 Make what you can of today's
picture, and send your poetic results to
kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.)

* * *

—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 
 
 
 

For info about
 future 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?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
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!

 

 

 

Lost and Confused

 —Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Nolcha Fox

 

 

I CAN’T GIVE IT AWAY

It sits in the sideboard,
in blue porcelain funk,
my grandma’s
casserole dish.
I pull it out now,
trace its round
empty yearning
with my finger.
So many things
I’ve given up,
but this, this
hidden love,
unused for decades,
I can’t give away.

 

 

 

 

 

AN UNOPENED LETTER

I found a letter
in a box
at the antique store.
It was never opened.

In a box,
a secret drawer.
It was rarely opened.
The letter was a treasure.

A secret drawer.
What stories it could tell.
The letter was a treasure
someone hid from everyone.

What stories it could tell
if I opened that old letter
someone hid from everyone.
I wonder what it held.

I opened that old letter
at the antique store.
I wondered what it held.
I read a letter to my long-dead dad.

 

 

 

 

SLOUCHED

I’m slouched and paunched and rumpled,

disgusting to the women
who walk by.

I’m some forgotten
duffle-bag drug
dealers wouldn’t touch.

 

 

 

 

LOST AND CONFUSED

Life is a series of roads.
I lost my map.
I lost my passport.
I’m a perpetual U-turn
on a one-way street.
When I ask for directions,
folks babble in a language
I cannot understand.
They point the way I lost myself.
I cry to my dead mother.
She says, “That’s life, dear.
Keep your gas tank full.
Stash candy in the glove box.”

 

 

 

 

I’LL NEVER KNOW

I loved who I would
never have, and if
we found each
other by some
miracle, I might
not love what I
would get. Could
I live traditionally?
I chose another
road where I
relied upon myself
for food and shelter,
without him. But
still, I wonder.

 

 

 

 

IN DISGUISE

You always know what you should say.

You flatter me with chocolates,
flowers, dining fine.

But I found out
about your lovers.
You’re not the man for me.

 

 

 

 

MAELSTROM

You are a walking turbulence.

Disaster is your middle name,
Commotion is your purpose.

A whirlpool searching for a thrill,
you have no care what you suck in
so long as it is tasty.

 

 

 

 

STRANGER THAN

I am a stranger knocking
on a door I’ve seen in dreams.

I wonder if this doorway
leads to porticos with paintings

of my options never ventured,
if it leads to opportunities

or obstacles or holes.
Will I meet a friend or devil?

Should I leave or knock again
to face the truth?

 

 

 

 

NEEDING A LIFT

The moon is too heavy
to rise on her own.
We have to use a crane
to bring her to Weight Watchers.

 

 

 

Today’s LittleNip:

SHELTER
—Nolcha Fox

Many hide under disbelief
and walk by a dim lantern
because truth is too intense to tolerate.

______________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Nolcha Fox for today’s fine poetry, and for finding us photos to go with it!

 

 

 

 Happy Holidays from Ms. Fox!

—Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For future 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?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
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!