Everytown, USA

 —Poetry and Photos by Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

 

 

MY TOWN AND YOUR TOWN

Victory Park
“O Captain! My Captain!
our fearful trip is done
The ship has weather’d every rack,
the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear,
the people all exulting…”
    —Walt Whitman:  Leaves of Grass

In a youthful city where it was a victory
to even get a park, that became its name.
Furnished with barbeque grills taller than
children, many divisions of lawn, and lined
with palm trees, this was the first park I
knew, a short walk from the house.


MGM Studios
“I believe it to be true that dreams are the
true interpreters of our inclinations; but there
is art required to sort and understand them.”
    —Montaigne:  Essays

From our front lawn one could view the
25,000-gallon water tower that kept watch
over the Corporate Administration building,
adjacent to Lot 1, of 9 filming venues.


Pronto Market (later Trader Joe’s)
“Keep thy shop, and thy shop will keep thee.”
    —Chapman, Marston, and Ben Jonson:
    Eastward Ho

Many odd items not found on the shelves of
major supermarkets; tasty to the eyes


Mr. Music in Studio Village
“That which penetrates the ear with facility
and quits the memory with difficulty.”
    —(defining good music) quoted in the
    New York Times, March 9, 1961

A high school band buddy worked there and
knew every title and artist by heart.


Helms Bakery delivery trucks
“How use doth breed a habit in a man!”
    —Shakespeare:  Two Gentlemen of
    Verona

Driving by the bakery a few times, the aroma
triggers a whole pattern of events aimed at
stuffing some of that delicious bread into
one’s mouth.

 

 

 

 

“Can’t you keep Billie’s bike out of the
driveway?”
“Anyone can become angry—that is easy, but
to be angry with the right person, to the right
degree, at the right time, or the right purpose,
and in the right way—this is not easy.”
    —Aristotle:  Nicomachean Ethics

A commercial using this exclamation was
filmed right around the corner from my house,
and repeated in my house perhaps too many
times.


Oil wells on a hill
“‘Tis distance lends enchantment to the view.”
    —Thomas Campbell:  The Pleasures
    of Hope

We could faintly hear their squeals throughout
the night.


Thrifty’s
“For this relief, much thanks.”
    —Shakespeare:  Hamlet

Wonderful to have both a drug counter
and an ice cream counter!


Baldwin Hills
“For my sighing cometh before I eat, and my
roarings are poured out like the waters.
For the thing which I greatly feared is come
upon me, and that which I was afraid of is
come unto me. I was not in safety, neither had
I rest, neither was I quiet; yet trouble came.”
    —Job: 3:24-26

We had just left Fedco, situated below the
Baldwin Hills Dam, and were miles away at
Zody’s, watching on TV, when the dam burst
and flooded the area.


Culver High
“Deep into that darkness peering, long I
stood there, wondering, fearing, Doubting,
dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to
dream before.”
    —Edgar Allen Poe:  "The Raven"

Following high school, would I yet be ready
to find a career, a wife, be drafted, finally
separate from the home and family of my
formative years?

 

 

 

 

Hillside Memorial
“I remember, I remember the fir-trees dark
and high; I used to think their slender tops
were close against the sky; It was a childish
ignorance, but now ‘tis little joy to know I’m
further off from Heaven than when I was a
boy.”
    —Thomas Hood:  "I Remember, I
    Remember"

Both my parents are buried there, along with
Jack Benny and other celebrities.  


Hughes Aircraft Co.
“All his geese are swans.”
    —Robert Burton:  The Anatomy of
    Melancholy

My dad worked here for several years. When
a pay raise was coming, local vendors got
advance notice and raised their prices before
the new paychecks were issued.


Loyola Marymount
“Not in the clamor of the crowded street,
Not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng,
But in ourselves are triumph and defeat.”
    —Longfellow:  The Poets

Visited that university once, on my motorcycle,
to take a college admissions test. The fog was
so dense I had to remove my eyeglasses to
see my way.


Deadman’s Curve
“I’ll put a girdle round about the earth in forty
minutes.”
    —Shakespeare:  A Midsummer Night’s
    Dream

One merging street was made a cul de sac
because too many approaching drivers were
taking that turn too fast for merging traffic.


Fear Street
“I wander through each charter’d street,
Near where the charter’d Thames does flow,
And mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

In every cry of every Man,
In every Infant’s cry of fear,
In every voice, in every ban,
The mind-forg’d manacles I hear.”
    —William Blake:  "London"

Right near Dead Man’s Curve was this
street that seemed to attract a collection
of strikingly undisciplined folk.

 

 

 

 

The very first Sizzler
“Every great and original writer, in proportion
as he is great and original, must himself
create the taste by which he is to be relished.”
    —Wordsworth:  "Preface to Lyrical Ballads"

Part of Airport Village, it had sawdust on the
floor, and the meals were brought to the table
using wooden platters with a carved-out
section to hold the sizzling, metal plate.


Culver Crest
“Does the road wind up-hill all the way?
Yes, to the very end.”
    —Christina Georgina Rossetti:  "Up-Hill"

Super challenge on a bicycle. Holiday
lights the best of the best.


Veteran’s Memorial Tower
“In uplifting, get underneath.”

    —George Ade:  Fables in Slang

Inside was the Tower Restaurant,
downstairs on one of the lower levels.


Mar Vista Bowl coffee shop
“They also serve who only stand and wait.”
    —John Milton:  "On His Blindness"

My coffee buddy and I would wait long
times in long lines to get such sweet service
from those young ladies.


Playa Vista
“All history, so far as it is not supported by
contemporary evidence, is romance.”
    —Samuel Johnson in Boswell’s Tour
    to the Hebrides

Here, the history is not so buried. All knew
about Hughes Aircraft, and its world’s
longest (at that time) private runway. My dad
reported that it was the depth, more than
the length, that made the runway so suitable
for large jet aircraft to use.

 

 

 

 

The Meralta, Culver, and Palms Theaters
“The difficulty in life is the choice.”
    —George Moore:  The Bending of the
    Bough

Lucky were we to have three movie theaters.
Admission was a coin or two.


Municipal Plunge
“Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain
height. What pleasure lives in height (the
shepherd sang)?”
    —Tennyson:  The Princess

Learned to swim in this Olympic size pool.
The lifeguards (guys and gals) wore some
conspicuous white powder substance on their
noses to fend off the sun while sitting high
above the pool.


Duquesne Avenue
“I felt myself extremely awkward about going
away, not choosing, as it was my first visit, to
take French leave.”
    —Madame D’Arblay:  Diary,
    September 8, 1782

How appropriate (or not?) that the local police
headquarters office was on this avenue.


R&R Rentals
“Man is a tool-using animal. Nowhere do
you find him without tools; Without tools he
is nothing, with tools he is all.”
    —Thomas Carlyle:  Sartor Resartus

Was friends with the 3-generation family that
ran this.


Back Stage Café
“He knew the taverns wel in every toun.”
    —Chaucer:  Prologue to The Canterbury
    Tales

Not yet of drinking age, I stopped in there
once to get change for a dollar, and they were
very nice to me. This bar and grill was right
across the street from MGM’s main lot, about
2 blocks from my house.

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

And though I came to forget or regret all I have ever done, yet I would remember that once I saw the dragons aloft on the wind at sunset above the western isles; and I would be content.

―Ursula K. Le Guin, The Farthest Shore

__________________

Today’s feature is by long-time SnakePal Carl Bernard Schwartz (Caschwa), who says he “Was born and raised in Culver City, CA, ‘The Heart of Screenland’. While there are a few things that make this Los Angeles suburb unique, mostly it is comprised of universal qualities shared by other towns as well.” Thanks for this ambitious series, Carl!

__________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Carl Bernard Schwartz (Caschwa)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For 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?
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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nightingales in China

 Time's Hold

—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Photos by Joyce Odam

 

 

IN CHINA THERE ARE NIGHTINGALES
 —Joyce Odam

In China there are nightingales,
or so they say,

that live in golden cages of emperors
and live obedient lives,

I heard of one who was mechanical,
perhaps to take the place

of one who could no longer sing
on cue—

and if the emperor knew the difference,
I don’t remember—

although something grieved him, that much
I can recall.

                                          
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 10/22/19)

___________________

IN THE DUST
—Robin Gale Odam

we play in the meadow,
in the dust of the arid dirt . . .

we build sloping hills with
furrows all around . . .

we draw our names and
pat them all flat, we draw the
rainbow, the tortoise, the moon . . .

you remember we used to play
at the beach, building castles
with tin shovels and pails . . .

you ask me if father might
take us there . . .

I look long at the sky,
remember rain . . . 

 

 

 

Keeping Its Shadow

ABERRATION OF DESIRE
—Joyce Odam

After Ereshkigal (Dea Babylonian Regent of the
Afterlife, otherwise known as Lilith). The Goddess
holds the “Tools of Justice” used as a symbol to
measure the human righteousness and to deter-
mine the fate of mortals.


Wings lowered—hands raised in offering—
I know that pose—caryatid—envile
against mortal at risk—temptation,
offered to resistance—Lilith,
goddess of the dark,
enigmatic of face,
unblinking of eyes
—representative
of her dark divinity,
her talons grounded
on the subordinate backs
of lions—force against helpless
force; by her side, two sated owls
rigid in stone—to mock and warn—
ever-guarding, mocking aberrations
of either direction—Lilith—regent of
the afterlife—ready for your knowing.

 

 

 

 Before Yon Waking

ADDRESSING THE SUBJUGATOR
—Joyce Odam

Before yon waking of the difficult
morn, you will let me use one of

my perilous thought-patterns,
slowed down—

you will have me know
your will before

my own, but not
unkindly—

just for
intuitive guessing.

Yes,
that’s how it’s done.

____________________

SO I WRITE ABOUT YOU
—Robin Gale Odam

how you follow as I feign the broken
wing, fly just a shade outside the verse,
stumble with a shudder of frozen words

further and farther from my nest—
the soundless chamber, the transparent
dust motes, the light pouring underneath
the fracture of rainbows, and whatever
is going on in the heavens

                       
(prev. pub. in Brevities, April 2017 and
Song of the San Joaquin, Winter 2019)

 

 

 

 Breathing There

I TALK TO YOU IN MY ERRATIC
LANGUAGE
—Joyce Odam

I talk to you in my erratic language
while you slide into darkness—
true shadow of yourself—
anonymous and hidden,
but I thrash after you.

There is no pretense here—
I realize you are hiding from me
in your shadow guise—fitting
along the wall, and contours of the air,
breathing there—under my intrusion.

You pantomime, and I ignore you.
You emerge and flare out, in all
directions, I will not forgive you,
I hold to the vacant darkness
that has released you.

___________________

INSOMNIA XLIV
—Robin Gale Odam

Sorrow modulates down a half-note
in the measure of each passing night, now
tender and low, soft in the filter of secrecy

A devious dream vows comfort then
disappears in translation—what asylum
should wreak havoc with spittle of laughter
—this can never be a memory

An elusive moon interprets the fiction of
curiosity      I must have spilled my tea,
I remember swirling the leaves
with my finger      I probably
should not write this

I sharpen my pencil,
let the curls fall
                  

(prev. pub. in Brevities, July 2020)

 

 

 

 Drear

WORLD-WEARY
—Joyce Odam

The old poet of the beautiful sadness
locks himself in his dreams
and writes letters to his melancholy.

He broods over balconies
and haunts himself with music
from the darkened room behind him.

Even the mellowing light of his eyes
turns a desperate blue as he
stretches back into the embracing shadows.

Once in a while he loves . . . but mostly
he only remembers the old loves
that depend upon his remembering . . .

mostly the old loves fail him once again.
Dawn finds him broken and drunk on
his own sadness.  Who will rescue him then.

                                              
(prev. pub. in Noir Love, Rattlesnake
LittleBook #2, 2009)

 

 

 

 Where Light Flows Into Shadow

Today’s LittleNip:

CENTERED
—Joyce Odam

And love is centered like a thought
that stays where mirrored
thought requires

one
to the other
addressing the outwardness

where light flows into shadow
and nothing matters
but the center

_________________

Our thanks to Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam for their timeless poetry this morning, and to Joyce for her timeless photos! Our new Seed of the Week is “What Raven Sees”. Send your poems, photos & artwork about this (or any other) subject to kathykieth@hotmail.com. No deadline on SOWs, though, and for a peek at our past ones, click on “Calliope’s Closet”, the link at the top of this column, for plenty of others to choose from. And see every Form Fiddlers’ Friday for poetry form challenges, including those of the Ekphrastic type.

_________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Ravens Chatting Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For 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?
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!

 

 

Brutal Weather

 —Poetry by Claire J. Baker, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Caschwa, Joe Nolan, Sayani Mukherjee,
and Nolcha Fox
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Joe Nolan

 

 

ODE TO FORKED LIGHTNING
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

We watch a thousand jagged twigs
linked and branching,
electrified against a midnight sky.

White-hot fire keeps secrets well.
Aluminum paper crinkling tightly
mimics white-hot embers that trigger

a sky-wide map of rivers,
their myriad tributaries—the moon
in thrall of such intricate flashes of fire.

Forked lightning crackles over
our mountain cabin amid poppies
enlivened into molten gold.

We campers under such a wild
and stunning panorama,
bask in terror linked with awe. 

 

 

 

 

WHETHER BRUTAL?
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Pathetic fallacy at bay,
for landfall is path prophesied,
and not the turmoil in our minds.
The alley, once a backstreet path,
is now scene for tornado’s craft,
a flattened valley, matchstick ground.

As ring of fire on which still built,
Canute against time, tidal waves,
our groaning earth sends smoke signals
and pile by sink, those clashing plates.
But we’re poor readers of the earth,
as so we are at scanning skies.

It is not weather reading us,
nor yet the science, noted guide.
But rise and shine or never seen,
that beat of waves as shore, above,
has x-ray reach through to our core,
invasion, brutal, of our skin.

But how should we so allocate
such character, emotive feel
as savage, cruel, bestial,
unfeeling of the human heart?
So dull and stupid was the charge,
but whether guilty, not so fast. 

 

 

 

 

SIX CLEVELAND HAIKU
—Michael Ceeraolo, S. Euclid, OH
 
Cleveland Haiku #664

August ball field—
kids' season ended,
infield reclaimed by weeds

* * *

Cleveland Haiku #665

Morning in the park—
trees split in half
from last night's storm

* * *

Cleveland Haiku #666

Afternoon in the park—
tire tracks from vehicles
hauling away downed trees

* * *

Cleveland Haiku #667

Kids back in school—
bird songs the only sounds
in the park

* * *

Cleveland Haiku #668

Afternoon sky—
an abandoned balloon
floating by

* * *

Cleveland Haiku #669

Late August—
last year's fallen leaves
crackle underfoot

 

 

 

ONE DAY WITH THE KIDS
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

I fell into a dark abyss
everything swirling around
me, hot, very hot, reached
back to bring my hand
forward, it was bound and
oddly, starting to decompose

there was a captivating aroma
reminiscent of breakfast in
bed, and suddenly I was wide
awake, shaking, and crumbling
into little pieces

the swirling slowed down just
a bit and I started to evaluate
my surroundings, feeling like
a goldfish in a globe, see all,
get nowhere

afraid to open my eyes, but
risked a peekaboo here and
there, and espied one of my
darling grandchildren stepping
near, asking

Wanna play sugar cube again?

 

 

 

IRRITABLE TOWEL SYNDROME
—Caschwa

Irritable towel syndrome is a "disorder of gut-brain
interaction" characterized by a group of symptoms
that commonly include
“it hurts when I rub the towel over my belly”
“feels like a bowling ball in there”
creasing and changes in the consistency of towel
movements. These symptoms may occur over a
long time, sometimes for years.

 

 

 

 

THE THIEVERY SCHEME
—Caschwa

we may not know it, but every time
we look at a timepiece to tell us the
hour, it is quietly taking our time away
from us

we stop to admire the gems on
beautiful bejeweled watches, the
pendants of grandfather clocks
freeze us in place while we stare

we wait and wait for grandma’s
cuckoo clock to finally utter that
bird call

those who don’t take handily to
Roman Numerals are drawn into
a black hole of space while
wondering what time it is

Enter the kitchen with your cell
phone and wrist watch and note
the various time readings on the
oven range, microwave, and coffee
machines; then manually reset
them to have the same readings,
temporarily

in regions that observe a Daylight
Savings Time, there is that ritual
twice a year of resetting all your
time pieces, house, car, office,
everywhere

some of our more advanced electronic
devices may not require manual
adjustment to display the correct time,
but we double check just in case, and
that takes time 

 

 

 

TOO LITTLE, TOO LATE
—Caschwa

had already reached the
age of 21 before Congress
finally lowered the voting
age from 21 to 18

the powers-that-be waited
until everyone was absolutely
and totally confused before
implementing changes to the
serial comma rule

spent oh, so much precious
time learning to read Roman
Numerals, and now one hardly
ever sees them, except on
copyright dates

those erasers pre-attached to
ink pens can create humungous
smears that are far worse than
the mistakes they are intended
to correct

sad to see newspapers print
corrections to prior articles,
always adding in their legal
disclaimer, WTF

 

 

 

 

UNDERNEATH A MOONBEAM
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
 
We just sailin’
Way up top—
Underneath a moonbeam.

Beggin’ for the heaven
We gave up,
Scratchin’
For satisfaction
In stuff we
Shouldn’t’a touched,
Too often and too much,

So now we got
Nowhere to go,
So we stay home. 

 

 

 

 

A PRAYER FOR INDIFFERENCE
—Joe Nolan

We’re only being murdered.
There’s no need to say a word.
It wouldn’t be the first time
A people was swept from the Earth.

There must have been some provocation
To justify this annihilation.
Otherwise, how could it happen,
In a just and benevolent world?

Go on about your business.
This is not your problem.
There’s nothing for you to do, here.
Look elsewhere and move on. 

 

 

 

 

TESTING IN A TIME OF LIMITS
—Joe Nolan

They said the test didn’t show anything—
Little things, maybe, but nothing significant,
Nothing to say what’s going on.

There’s another test they might do later,
If the problems don’t go away,
But they can’t do that one for another two years
Since I had that one three years ago.

Meanwhile, my mystery problem
Will be allowed to persist
Since it’s not too severe,
And doesn’t warrant exploratory surgery.

So I have
My name
In line
For the queue,
So I won’t lose my place,
For the test they say
Can tell for sure,
If I am blessed by grace,
In a time of limited assets.

 

 

 

 

HOW LONG HAS MY SKIN BEEN BROWN?
—Joe Nolan

How long has my skin been brown?
Has it been since I floated around
Before entering my Mother’s womb?
 
How long ‘til I get to my tomb?
Will it be
With many
Sad memories
That disappear
When I die,
Or will they all
Surround me,
As I drift back
Toward the sky—
The sky
From which I came?

 

 

 

 

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

Mahogany beaches
A skirmish tall high
My spirits a little lofty
I ached over the beached sunsets
The footprints all lying
All surmising a vast hooded Deepness
An ongoing rivalry
With sun at my back
The beach swam a decade-high
Nebulae too old to decipher
I saw the northern lights in wintry summer
My lyrical beautiful sea
All praying for a zenith revival
Sculptures and philosophies all along
My noted gaze a little lofty
The pine trees arose a decade-high. 

 

 

 

 

DIVINE
—Sayani Mukherjee

I surpassed a gloomy vessel
Half-emptied with brimming madness
It poured down over my triumphant choir
I summoned the angels from heaven
Of uttering divine prophecy
In the utmost time
Fall before illusion
Time's coveted monument
It surpassed a breathed life
All enchanting under the divine choir
The spasmodic rhythm
Of Earth-awakened madness
It passed a heavy fall
Before I lie awakened with omniscient rhythm
I knew the divine speaks to all.

________________________

Today’s LittleNip:

WEATHER OR NOT
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

It didn’t matter where he moved.
The weather always followed.
The door would always lock on him
to leave him in the cold.
A dark cloud hung above his head
and rained on his parade.
He couldn’t get on top of it
to be on his cloud nine.
He never had a moment’s rest.
He always felt snowed under.
With all the stress that he endured
he lived under the weather.

________________________

Our thanks to today’s contributors, some of them musing about brutal weather—both inside the soul and out. Brutal Weather was our Seed of the Week; be sure to check each Tuesday for our new Seeds of the Week.

________________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Sacramento Poetry Center features
Traci Gourdine and Aaron Bradford
tonight, 7:30pm.
For info about this 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?
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!

 

 

 

All About Blue

 —Poetry and Visuals by
Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal,
West Covina, CA

 

 

HOW BLUE WAS YOUR BIRTH?

After Beatriz Villacanas

How blue was your birth?
Like the sky or the sea?
Like the blue note from Miles?
Do you dream in blue
as darkness surrounds your dream?

Are your heart and mind blue?
Does your lost desire leave you blue?
How blue is your past
and how blue will your future be?
Of course, your nickname is Blue.
And does your bluebird sing?
And do you sing along?

 

 

 

JUST CALL ME LOUIS

After Fernando Pessoa

Joan, it is!
It is my name.
It is not a pseudonym
like Alvaro de Campos,
Alberto Caeiro, or
Ricardo Reis.
I’m not so clever.
I have read Fernando
Pessoa and I’m no
Fernando Pessoa.
I have heard my name
butchered since
grade school.
I laughed at teachers
who didn’t think
I was so funny.
When they pronounced
my name, some tried
their best to come close.
But there were some
who asked me
seriously, how did
I pronounce my full
name in English?

 

 

 

 

TODAY IT BEGINS

Today it begins,
the welcoming sun,
generous with warmth,
it burst its light,
it threw it far and wide,
the door of its heart.

Not evil at all,
but stare, and blind
you will be. And
still, it is generous
and welcoming.
Scorching, searing,
the sun brings
warm air.

Its blade cuts.
You feel it in shadows.
In the open sky
it shines again and
again. Feel its needle
in your flesh as it
towers over mountains.

 

 

 

 

IN THE SCHOOLYARD

Yellowbird,
hummingbird,
singing, darting
back and forth
in the schoolyard

pigeons and
white doves
toss their bombs
with severe
accuracy
and precision.

 

 

 

 

HEY, LITTLE BIRD

Hey, little bird on the top of the roof,
what is the song you sing?
Is it about the sky so blue?
It sounds so gentle and pure?
You fly to the eucalyptus tree
and move on to the pines
as the golden sun warms your
wings. Is it a song of childhood
before my hair turned gray?
You’re so small with a song so big.
Hey little bird on the edge of the roof,
sing me a song I never heard.
I stand by the door listening
to your beautiful song.
It is more satisfying than chocolate.
You make my house a happy place.
I stand by the door listening.
I get all misty with tears of joy.

 

 

 

 

LOVE AND CARE

Make sure
you water
your flowers
with love
and care.

Too much
or too little
will not let
them grow
as well.

Make sure
you sing to
them and let
them feel
your love.

Treat them
with care. Don’t
mistreat them.
They grow
for you.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

TWO MORE WEEKS
—Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

Two more weeks
for the winter sky.
I wonder if I will
be blue still or if
my blues will be all
gone. In the past
I felt much better.
This blue soul
can testify to that.

____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Luis Berriozábal for his fine poetry and visuals today!

 

 

 

 “… so small with a song so big…”















 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that the

Wakamatsu workshop which was

postponed last week due to the weather

will be held at Wakamatsu Farm

in Placerville today, 12-2pm.
For into about this 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?
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!

 

 

 

Oh, Dada!

 

—Poetry by Keith Snow, Harrisburg, PA
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

I WISH…

I had a poem
braising
in the oven
with yellow potatoes,
and last of the carrots.
A savory one,
that would warm me
internally and leave you
sated.

 

 

 
 

MAS O MENOS (More or Less)

I'm more cat nap than catnip.
I'm more let the cat outta the bag than the cat
got my tongue.
I'm an alley cat, a fat cat, top cat, I'm the cat's
meow and I dream of Kathmandu where I gorge
on momo's and wake up starved for attention.

I'm less into Lexus ES300 than Andre 3000
less about Disney than Netflix,
but if the former’s free that's a plus
I'm into learning different lingos and lexicons
and languages but teaching
grammar not so much.
I'm more ranter than rambler but this poem
just wants
to meander…

I'm more cul de sac than sad sack,
more tic tac than knick knack and
I definitely would give a dog a bone before I'd
patty-whack.

Would you believe
I'm more Maxwell Smart than Maxwell House?
More coffee cake than coffee table?
More playing cards than player piano,
unless, it's Vonnegut's novel.

I'm not Yale or Penn or Dartmouth or Harvard
beets but I like borscht served hot or cold. I
would study in a Temple in Philly and always
order my cheese steak wit.

More into it's a small world than into small talk.
I'm more give me the night than sunshine on
my shoulder and more likely to feel some
kinda way than to utter i'm just saying.

I rather be in a city park than a national park.
I'll always be the projects and never be project
runway. I'm more urban than suburban no
matter where I actually live.

I am into words but need to spend more time
in the word I am more the church than a church
that's not to say you can't find a good church.
Shouldn't we all be building our treasures in
heaven?

 

 

 

 
 

Sometime After Post-Post Beat Poetry and Post-Post Modern Poetry but before Slams and Spoken Word were World Wide. When Reading from your Laptop or Phone was Considered Very Gauche. There was a Movement at Poetry Readings Across the Earth or in One Soon to be Defunct Bookstore West of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania where Large Titles for Very Small Poems were a Thing. Celebrating that Time...

Oh, dada.

Ding!


____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

You don’t have to suffer to be a poet; adolescence is enough suffering for anyone.

—John Ciardi

____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Keith Snow for his fine poetry today! Keith first visited the Kitchen in December of 2022.

 Keith Snow holds forth…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
tonight (midnight) is
the deadline for the
Stanislaus County Youth
Poet Laureate Contest.
For info about this 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?
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!

 

LittleSnake is ready for
them taters!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Promises of the Morning

 —Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,
Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down for
Form Fiddlers’ Friday, with poetry by
Nolcha Fox, Caschwa, Stephen Kingsnorth,
and Steve Brisendine

 

 

PROMISES

Each morning I promise us a walk. Today,
the trestle. A lonesome place close to town
yet far away—just glimpses of ranchland, wood-lots,
a ridge too steep for building. What in summer
was a tule ditch dirty with trash is now a creek
running thru thicket. Oak, pine, and willow
knit together by bramble above dark silent water.
After rain, trail becomes puddles become an ad hoc
creek to join the big one at the trestle, where
my topo map doesn’t even show a creek, but now
it’s too wide and deep to cross, alive with storm-
water. My dog and I don’t walk open trestles.
It’s OK. Spotted Towhee darts white tail-feathers
in the brush, and now a spot of sun breaks thru
cloud. What more can I ask of a morning?

 

 

 

 

A PEACEFUL PLACE

A
broken branch
can’t block the way
down off the paved and center-lined trail where
everyone’s in pairs, groups, or alone
for a morning walk.
Good exercise. But
how I prefer the grassy swale
in front of me
just a leftover piece of ground
like a tease between
mounds of rock and stringers of thicket,
not a trail but a thought, an
opening
providing no scenic view but
quiet except for a
robin foraging for worms after
storm. How green
the grass my dog samples leaf by leaf
until we come to a
vernal pool that
wets my boots, who cares. No car-tracks, no Deer
Xing signs though we flush a doe. A January
yellow flower I’ve never seen before. This peaceful
zone not named nor designated. Just here.

 

 

 

 

AVOID CROWDS

I like a quiet walk in the woods.
In the parking lot, a gaggle of walkers, one lady
talking nonstop loud so everyone can catch every
syllable. Even the scrub-jay can’t match
the out-loud lady for decibels.
We stride faster. Then stop—let my dog sniff
awhile. The talking group keeps going,
over the bridge out of sight, then
out of hearing. Quiet.
Can I hear oaks and pines conversing
through their roots?
What do the muffling clouds
have to say about the morning?
And the mosses’ vibrant green voices
without sound.

 

 

 

 

CEMETERY WALK

How to bundle for the walk
under clouds of gray?
Listen to the thunder-talk
only miles away.

Here we’ve come to visit those
warm and safe inside
graves whose stones a fortress pose,
set against time’s tide.

 

 

 

ELEGY FOR A RED SQUIRREL

Was it a meeting on the fly, you leaping
tree to tree, the raptor catching you midair
by one foreleg ripping off, leaving the rest
of you to sky, then earth? I found you sleeping
on the path so peacefully as if in life.
Beautiful fine sable coat, bright open eye.

 

 

 

 

SNIFF-PATROL

Loki lives a world of sniff—
fireplugs, alcoves, walls,
leaves and stones. I wonder if
wisdom from them falls...

off the breeze, a wind from far
mountain summit lands,
thru a gate that’s left ajar—
words she understands.

Where’s the key those words unlocks
in an old fur stole—
does it speak to her in Fox?
Loki’s sniff-patrol.

______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

PERIPHERAL
—Taylor Graham

A shy something moves
into wildwood, light-footed
for freedom to roam.

______________________

Our thanks to Taylor Graham this morning, as she invites us to join her and Loki on their morning walk. Forms she has used this week include a Haiku (“Peripheral”); some Normative Syllabics (“Elegy for a Red Squirrel”); an Abecedarian/Alphabet Poem (“A Peaceful Place”); and two 7/5 Trochees (“Cemetery Walk” and “Sniff-Patrol”). The 7/5 Trochee was one of our Triple-F Challenges last week.

Speaking of weather, the Wakamatsu workshop scheduled for last Sunday was moved to this coming Sunday, due to last week’s rain. The time was also changed to 12-2pm. For news about El Dorado County poetry—past (photos!) and future—see Taylor Graham’s Western Slope El Dorado on Facebook at www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry or see Lara Gularte’s Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/groups/382234029968077/. (Poetry is Gold in El Dorado County!) And of course you can always click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html) for details about future poetry events in the NorCal area.

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.)


There’s also a 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. 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

We received responses to last week’s Ekphrastic photo from Nolcha Fox, Caschwa (Carl Schwartz), and Stephen Kingsnorth:


EDGE OF THE PIER
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

Maybe it’s sunrise. Maybe it’s sunset. You’ve stood at the edge of the pier for so long, you don’t remember which is which anymore. You’ve watched the sky kiss the water, and the water slap the sky. You’ve watched the sun tease the clouds, you’ve seen the clouds’ rosy blush. The sun fills the world with light. The sun fills you with light. You look for your reflection in the water. Your reflection is gone. You are the light.

* * *

SOLO CRUISE
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

she missed her period
stewed about it a moment
double-checked
dwelled on it an hour
triple-checked
a life-changing moment

gone are those days of
heavenly fun in the sun
not a care in the world
must get out of town now!

she called her travel agent
to book her on a luxury cruise
one where they pamper you
take care of your every need
before she has to do that

she missed the bus
gotta know the schedule
gotta have exact change
gotta make connections
not yet in her skill set

she missed the boat

* * *

JETÉ
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Why focus, this divided view,
on gold drenched sea, proud sky climb cloud—
not distant girl out on a limb,
as if all beauty in surround?

The burnished deep is where folk drown,
some seeking treasure from the sound;
that building nimbus may be storm
or maybe mushroom, own grown bomb.

In nature, claimed, Romantics found
that profound truths bound earth, mankind,
though humans sullied global health,
our common wealth spoiled, stealth in race.

But see this mother of our seed,
one Gaia, breed of world indeed,
a silhouette in stand alone,
who with her folk could change the lore.

Appearing, jeté, ballet throw,
in balance, stance, relationship;
can she, will hers, reverse the trend
from first position, ’cross the bar?

* * *

Today we have a newcomer to the Kitchen: Steve Brisendine says he was intrigued by Form Fiddlers’ Friday and wanted to add a form he has devised, the Dividita. He has sent us some, and he writes: “The first two are in a form I call ‘Dividita’ (Esperanto for ‘divided,’ because it's based on the 5-7-5-7-7 Tanka form, doubled and then divided into couplets): Ten lines, 5-7 5-7 7-5 7-5 7-7. Additional rules/quirks/what-have-you are that only proper nouns and ‘I’ are capitalized in either title or text, the whole thing must be an unbroken sentence, and there is no closing punctuation.” Here are Steve’s first two examples:

 

 

 —Photo Courtesy of 

Public Domain

witness
—steve brisendine, mission, ks



 

I watch, but never


see the first leaf of autumn



 

break free of its branch,


flutter as if struggling to



 

take flight, spin to still-warm earth


(one falls from oak to



 

sidewalk, just out of my reach;


you are not the first,



 

I tell it as it tumbles,


but I will not forget you)

* * *

white skies by night
—steve brisendine


 
thin high clouds from the


south streak across Orion,



 

front- and backlit from


above and below by moon



 

and sleepless city, as though


some nebula—tired

 



of being spied on through long


glass for all these years—

 



has crossed the deep void to ask


for a bit of privacy

* * *

Then we have three of Steve’s Double Dividitas—20 lines, same rules:

 

 

—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain

repetition z
—steve brisendine

each generation


follows the same spiky course:

nonconformity


sold half-off on green tag day

 

s

at the thrift shop, or borrowed


from some hall closet



 

with or without permission—


all cycles spin out,

 

in, back again, rebirth of


the cool without end, amen

 



(we have all worn black,
l

et hair fall just so over



 

mirrored sunglasses


on gray January days

 



to show we are not like them;


we have all prowled rooms

 



with the taut lean energy


of panthers coiling

 



to spring at life—even as


time chambers a round, takes aim)

* * *

solstice
—steve brisendine



 

(for Cindy)

 



the year's longest night,


and I have dreamed you alive



 

again; ever the


big sister, you cocked one eye

 



and muttered through this shared art


show, rearranging



 

all works (not only mine) and


reminding me that

 



mom would not approve of


haphazard placements (you would



 

know better than I,


I suppose, having seen her

 



far more recently)—

yet still I held tightly to

 



hope and a small red sold dot,


woke with my fist still

 



clenched around both... if you come


back, the big piece on

 



the front wall, green and white like


Montana winter, is yours

* * *

and mortal life shall cease
—steve brisendine

 



the source of sharpest


pain is its absence—how the



 

jagged facets of


she is going/ she is gone

 



have been worn down over these


five years, taken on

 



translucent layers, produced


a clutch of something

 



like pearls, cast before strange eyes


(how pretty, they say, how they

 



seem to change color,


all western horizon when

 



a dust storm settles


or a twister is about 

 



to drop); test them, rub the strand


across your teeth, but



 

take care—they are known to bite


without warning, though

 



more often these days they rest


quiet, cool against the heart

___________________

Thanks to Steve Brisendine for his Dividitas; be sure to watch for more poetry from him coming up in February. All of today’s Fiddlers have features coming up next month, in fact. 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.) How about a Tercou:

•••Tercou (Amanda J. Norton): https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/tercou

•••AND/OR let’s have a go at Steve Brisendine’s Dividita:
 
•••Dividita (Steve Brisendine—Esperanto for "divided," because it's based on the 5-7-5-7-7 Tanka form, doubled and then divided into couplets): Ten lines, 5-7 5-7 7-5 7-5 7-7. Only proper nouns and "I" are capitalized in either title or text, the whole thing must be an unbroken sentence, and there is no closing punctuation.

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

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

____________________

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

•••Abecedarian: poets.org/glossary/abecedarian
•••Dividita (Steve Brisendine—Esperanto for "divided," because it's based on the 5-7-5-7-7 Tanka form, doubled and then divided into couplets): Ten lines, 5-7 5-7 7-5 7-5 7-7. Only proper nouns and "I" are capitalized in either title or text, the whole thing must be an unbroken sentence, and there is no closing punctuation.
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry 
•••Haiku: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/haiku/haiku.html
•••Normative Syllabics: hellopoetry.com/collection/108/normative-syllabic-free-verse AND/OR lewisturco.typepad.com/poetics/normative-syllabic-verse
•••Tanka: poets.org/glossary/tanka
•••Tercou (Amanda J. Norton): https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/tercou
•••7/5 Trochee: http://www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/75trochee.html

___________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

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

* * *

—Public Domain Photos
Courtesy of Joe Nolan


















 
 
 
A reminder that Lit Fest 2
takes place in Winters
tonight, 6pm.
For info about this 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.

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.