Grasping the Moment

 —Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,
Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down to
Form Fiddlers’ Friday for poetry by
Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Caschwa, Joshua C. Frank, Joyce Odam,
and Claire J. Baker

IN THE MAIL

A billing envelope—how to spoil
a bright spring day. But I didn’t sling
it onto a To Do pile. I opened it.
Surprise, a check! Net-surplus payment
for creating more electricity
than I used. The enchanted fire escape
of solar power. I’d play a happy
tune if I knew how to fiddle.
Instead, I’ll grab my battery-op
weed-eater and cut some fiddleneck
that’s growing taller and tougher
by the day. I can afford to recharge
my heavy-duty weed-whack battery
(and it sure beats fossil fuel!) 

 

 

 

 

THIS IS AN EXPERIMENT

Park your car, leave your phone behind.
Sling nothing over your shoulder.
Imagine you’re newly hatched from eggshell.
Notice everything—sky blue as ocean,
green as earth in May, or their vapor glimpsed
through canopy of leaves. Grasp the moment.
Beyond right-of-way fence overlooking
highway, four gray lanes passing themselves
so fast, the moment’s gone. Notice. A bush
has showered petals like confetti, a marker,
access portal to a rough path climbing.
Breathe-in leaf and sky, petal confetti,
silence beyond roar of traffic. Sweet agile
song of bird unseen. Now, find your trail
again. Can you find your self? the one
who locked your car and walked away.
The one you have, for a while, forgotten. 

 

 

 

 

OWL-WATCH
Inspired by Argus, Giclee print by Tyler Vouros

One eye open into light, one
to dark, feathered gray strokes
in minute detail all seeing, recording.
Such is art. Do you wish for such
swivel vision for the path you’re
walking? still mysterious ahead,
and what’s behind you just as dark.
Your own progress visible
to the quick silent pursuing you
unseen. 

 

 

 

 

WIND GAMES

Remember how old dog Cowboy
would play with the wind like his best friend?
He was supposed to be a tracking dog,
following the way some pretend-lost person
walked. Old Cowboy would find that
person alright, but by totally different ways.
You’d swear he was improvising
as he went, playing hide-and-seek
with the wind, maybe.
After Cowboy, I had a “real” tracking dog.
You could count on Loki to follow
somebody’s footsteps.
Was that as much fun? I wonder.
Now Loki, too, is gone.
What will new dog Otis do
with a stranger’s scent let loose
on the wind? 

 

 

 

 

JUST BELOW THE SUMMIT

Some old memories you keep to yourself
because they seem like boats cut free
in a storm, bound to sink
into the deep
wave tossed

and lost
while your friends sleep
unaware of the brink
that life is, that rock-rooted tree—
some old memories you keep to yourself. 

 

 

 

Otis

 

WHOSE NAME?

My phone recorded a call I didn’t hear.
The Great Horned Owl who’s summoned so many
in the dark before dawn. The owl who once gripped
a living cat by her flanks then dropped her,
still alive, as if a warning. That was years ago;
she’s long gone now. This time, whose name
did the owl call? Not my new dog, young, healthy,
too strong for an owl. Maybe it was his name
as puppy abandoned on the road—a name forgotten
now. He has a new name one, a new life.

______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

MEMORIAL DAY IRIS
Prince William to El Dorado

That day we drove the country roads
and saved them as iris tubers,
planting at home to keep—Tollgate
was blue-purple and white.

We kept driving country roads
moving place to place, free as thought.
Did Tollgate wither in new soil?
It blooms in memory.

_____________________

Taylor Graham and her dog, Otis, forge ahead through Spring in the foothills under the watchful eye of the Great Horned Owl, and we are gratefully hiking right along in their poetic footsteps. Forms TG used this week include two Word-Can Poems (“This Is an Experiment” & “In the Mail”); an eerie Ekphrastic poem that is also a Prime 53 (“Owl-Watch”); a short Balance (“Just Below the Summit”); and a Ryūka chain (“Memorial Day Iris”). The Balance was one of last week’s Triple-F Challenges.

In El Dorado County poetry this week, come up to Wakamatsu Farm in Placerville for the RIPE AREA Festival on Sunday, starting at 11am, with music, poetry, food, and family activities—see https://www.facebook.com/myrtletreearts/. For more news about this and other El Dorado County 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/. (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

 

This week, we received Ekphrastic poems from Nolcha Fox, Caschwa (Carl Schwartz), and Stephen Kingsnorth, who is telling us about Ladybird Books and the influence thereof on British children of his generation. First, Nolcha’s poem, which is in the form of a Quadrille:


BLISS
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY     

Oh, to be a ladybug
asleep upon a leaf,
soaking up the sunny
warmth and snacking
on the beasts that feast
on plants where ladybugs
prefer to snooze.

Beware, you aphids,
mites, and other creepy
crawly things. Watch
your backs. You will be
history.

 

* * *

 

 

 
CLASS DISTINCTION
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Of ladybug I’m unaware
for ladybird’s name over here,
though one First Lady took aback,
as insect nickname seemed to mock—
our ignorance, nomenclature.

A harvester of aphid prey,
it is that beetle’s red, I say,
with spots to count while being friend,
that earned familiarity,
unlike its wider family.

We children of the fifties know
first books to read were Ladybirds.
From open wings in World War One,
the logo changed to roundel closed,
less beetle than that friendly red.

Matriculating when I did,
the hundred-year-old company
first booked its trading, ‘Ladybird’,
a branding widely recognised,
for rôle in teaching history.

In British schools its reading scheme
predominated, leading class—
its cast stereotypical,
established postwar patterned past,
a mindset, broken bones set fast.

The innocence, siblings at play,
as Peter, Jane portrayed our life,
the housewife Mum, breadwinner Dad,
a silent mother, mum indeed,
as father earned and learned his power.

Sarcasm now, spoof titles list,
pastiche on how things used to be:
The Nerd, Mid-Life Crisis, Branding,
Shoplifting with Mother, Dating—
but imitation, flattery.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

And two ladybug quatrains from Carl:

 

CHALLENGE ACCEPTED
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

you can rent lots of hungry goats
to gobble up those pesky weeds
or lady bugs with spotted coats
to satisfy their aphid needs

but no one has the appetite
to help you lose that extra weight
unless it’s a bull, twice your height
raging mad at the bullring gate

* * *

Here is a Rispetto from Caschwa:

 

 

 

 

 
BIG VACUUM  
—Caschwa

my wife is gone, and yet she’s here
there’s little things I recognize
I’ll tell a joke that has no peer
sarcastic hissing will arise

alive or not she’ll have her way
the Welcome Mat has lots to say
the backyard grill awaits her grin
I gaze around, and she’s not in

* * *

Caschwa has also sent a Tri-Cube chain, the poetry form devised by Sacramentan Phillip Larrea, who passed away recently:

 

 

 

 

WE ALMOST MET
—Caschwa

I saw you
at the prom
hard at it

dancing with
nobody
that I knew

won’t ask you
again to
be my date

better that
I hide in
the jazz band

take in the
spectacle
from afar

I’ll be fine
not touching
perfection

you’ll become
a trophy
wife that I

could never
afford to
satisfy

a big house
swimming pool
social skills

luxury
won’t let you
get away

* * *

Josh Frank sent us a Kyrielle:

 

 

 

 

A PARENT’S PRAYER
—Joshua C. Frank

How heavy the crosses that You have been giving—
Dear God, ever gladly I’ll bear them
And heavier still for as long as I’m living,
But as for my children, Lord, spare them.

I know that their lives on the earth are a trial,
But heartbreaks and griefs that impair them,
I’ll carry that burden myself with a smile,
And as for my children, Lord, spare them.

Don’t let them remake the mistakes of my youth,
And don’t let the devil ensnare them,
But help me to teach them to revel in Truth—
I beg You: my children, Lord, spare them.


(First published in The Society of Classical Poets)

* * *

Our recent Tuesday Seed of the Week was Memories Worth Keeping, and today we have three form contributions from Joyce Odam, starting with some Blank Verse in Tetrameter:

 

 

 

 

WHEN I INVOKE THESE MEMORIES
—Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

You are to blame for them. You are
the veil that wraps around my mind—
smothering thought—the suffocation

of your eyes—the way you died.
Gone to your death, your presence is
within me where I grieve and try

to separate myself from you.
Layers of life (we called them years)
have found their place to be. My heart

contains all this, symbolically,
my heart, too frail for love, my heart
that breaks in symbol—as hearts do.

This also is a myth—but words,
for those who can articulate,
are only words. Emotions rule,

and memories—too few—too dim,
to find their own reality, too quick
with pain. It is no use—they’ll have

their way—guided by you, my ghost.  
How can I be the self I own
within my mind, haunted by you,

held in your aura, which is black—
black and passionate with death,
this new design by which you rule?
                                     

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 10/23/18)

* * *

In the Poems-Are-Everywhere Department: Looking at the photos she sent for her post last Tuesday, Joyce discovered this lovely Found Poem which could be made out of the titles of those photos, if they were strung together:

 

 

 

(P.S.) FOUND POEM
—Joyce Odam

before the storm
boundaries
fault line
in his garden
the color of her eyes
touch of pink
way deep

* * *

And here is Joyce’s lovely Italian Sonnet. Check in with us every Tuesday for more from Joyce and her daughter, Robin:

 

 

 

 

GRAIL
—Joyce Odam

Oh, how I want, and find I cannot have,
I who would challenge everything that binds.
Every restriction, every pitfall, finds me
back at some beginning, nothing to grab
but hands that slip away. A curse, a laugh,
escapes my mouth, for that far shining blinds
me still, and my persistence winds its
dull way forward—and its dull way back.

Oh, how I pity me—woe after woe—
longing, for what it’s worth, does not teach much.
I lick my wounds and wish it were not so,
for still the need continues to aspire
beyond reality’s elusive touch—
and at the end, there is only this desire.

* * *

Stephen Kingsnorth wrote an Ekphrastic poem to this delicate painting which was posted in MK last Monday:

 

 

 

 

REFLECTING, NOVEMBER 1918
—Stephen Kingsnorth

I muse, one piqued, how was it framed,
if granny’s bonnet, two-toned silk,
was held to hair, hat pin as this?

Envision, humming, mirror stare,
a milliner with hattrick craft,
as body-piercing through the brim.

There sweetest nectar overflows,
ambrosia of memory,
but what was felt now ribboned black.

Once svelte, elegant figurine,
by bevelled glass, her image frost.
Eleven ’leven, date too late.


* * *

And let’s close with another memory poem, an Ode from Claire Baker to welcome our new month, June:

 

 

 

 

JUNE HILLSIDE
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

Do we cling to memories tightly,
or maybe even loosely like a breeze
through hillside poppies?

When June sun opens
poppy petals widely, each
flower is now a Tiffany lamp,

revisited memories keeping
attuned viewers ready,
steady as we go.

___________________

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.) How about a Bryant?

•••Bryant: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/bryant

•••AND/OR: You don’t have to go over to Joyce’s house to find Found poems; they’re all around you! Look under the bed, stuck to the stove, even that newspaper in the cat’s box… Find us a Found poem this week:

•••Found Poem: www.writersdigest.com/personal-updates/found-poetry-converting-or-stealing-the-words-of-others AND/OR poets.org/glossary/found-poem

•••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 “Ornery”.

____________________

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

•••Balance: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/the-balance
•••Blank Verse: literarydevices.net/blank-verse AND/OR www.masterclass.com/articles/poetry-101-what-is-the-difference-between-blank-verse-and-free-verse#quiz-0
•••Bryant: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/bryant
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry 
•••Found Poem: www.writersdigest.com/personal-updates/found-poetry-converting-or-stealing-the-words-of-others AND/OR poets.org/glossary/found-poem
•••Kyrielle: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/kyrielle.html
•••Ode: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ode
•••Prime 53: https://www.press53.com/prime-53-poem-summer-challenge
•••Quadrille: 44 words (not counting the title) and includes one word the host provides to you
•••Rispetto: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/poetic-forms-rispetto
•••Ryūka: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ryūka
•••Sonnet, Italian (Petrarchan): www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/sonnet AND/OR poemanalysis.com/poetic-form/petrarchan-sonnet
•••TriCube by Phillip Larrea: Each stanza is three lines, three syllables per line, any subject
•••Villanelle (rhymed or unrhymed): www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/poetic-forms-villanelle
•••Word-Can Poem: putting random words on slips of paper into a can, then drawing out a few and making a poem out of them

___________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

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

* * *

—Public Domain Photo

 

A reminder that
Poets United presents
MVP’s of Poetry
Best of the Best Show
tonight in Old Sacramento, 8pm.
For info about this 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!

 

LittleSnake's Spring Finery

Ground Chuck

 

 

Body Horror  

—Visual Poetry by Jerome Berglund,

Minneapolis, MN

 

 

* * *

 

 

Cement Shoes

* * *

  

 

Not Equal

 

 * * *

 

Plow Wind

 

 

* * * 

 

 

 Ground Chuck

 

 

 * * *

Tiny Home

 

 

* * *

 

 

House of Bricks

 

 

* * * 

 

 

Dove

 
 

___________________

 

Today's LittleNip:

 

Telling stories with visuals is an ancient art. We’ve been drawing pictures on cave walls for centuries…

—Deborah Wiles

 

___________________

 

Welcome back to Jerome Berglund today, who has brought us some more “vispo” (visual poetry) and hybrid poems (concrete and interdisciplinary approaches to different forms). Jerome has curated a small showcase of Vispo and Concrete, discussing the form and its intersections with Japanese-inspired traditions—see https://www.setumag.com/2024/02/guest-editors-note-setu-special.html/.

Jerome Berglund has worked as everything from dishwasher to paralegal, night watchman to assembler of heart valves. Many haiku, haiga and haibun he’s written have been exhibited or are forthcoming online and in print, most recently in bottle rockets, Frogpond, Kingfisher, and Presence. His first two full-length collections of poetry, Bathtub Poems and Funny Pages, were released by Setu and Meat For Tea presses, and a mixed-media chapbook showcasing his fine art photography is available now from Yavanika. For more about Jerome’s writing publications, go to
https://flowersunmedia.wixsite.com/jbphotography/post/haiku-senryu-and-haiga-publications/, and Jerome’s blog may be seen at https://flowersunmedia.wixsite.com/jbphotography/blog-1/. Welcome back, Jerome, and don’t be a stranger!

______________________

—Medusa

Living
—VisPo by Jerome Berglund

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!

 

 

Snake Droodle

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Into the Abyss with Father Sun

 —Poetry by Dawn Pisturino, Golden Valley, AZ

—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

SHELTER

I felt you smiling at me in the dark.
My heart leaped with innocent, untarnished joy.
We giggled like children,
Sharing jokes, touching hands,
Reveling in our mutual affection.
Your happiness shone like a brilliant light,
Leading me to your side.
And when I lay down beside you,
My head upon your chest,
You clasped me in a sheltering embrace.

 

 

 

 

 

MOTHER’S DAY

Mother’s Day brought storm clouds into your eyes,
Thunderclaps of anger,
And memories too deep and painful to ignore.
I felt your rage wash over me
Like a giant tsunami.
“I’m not your mother,” I cried,
Fending off the violent tempest inside.
You raised your hand to strike,
And I ducked the calculated blow.
“She’s dead. It’s over. Let it go.”

My words shook you,
And tears moistened your eyes.
“I hated her for hurting me,” you said,
“But I loved her, too.”
“I know, I know,” I cooed like a mother dove
And held you in my arms.

 

 

 

 

 

UNBEARABLE

I stand at the edge of eternity, gazing out over
the abyss.
The darkness breathes like a living animal.
I turn around to discover the source,
And it’s you, standing behind me in the blackness,
Reaching out to me.
Your need is palpable, pulsating with the gloom
of despair
And the deep-rooted pain of melancholy.
Help me, you plead, and my heart reacts with
desperate longing
To touch you and feel your fingers slide along
my skin.
Inner voices warn, Don’t touch!
My soul opens to receive your pain,
And we are conjoined as twins,
Lost in the confusion of bleak despondency.
Is this living or dying? I want to know.
Where is this hell in which we find ourselves?
You slip away into the shadows and my feeling
of loss
Is unbearable. . . unbearable. . .

 

 

 

 

INDULGENCE

You feast on sweet fantasies
Of naked bodies mingling in the dark
And yearn for the honey-dipped words
I drop in your ears.

~

I indulge myself with chocolate-covered nuggets:
I love you—miss you—need you—want you—
Can’t live without you!
And wait for you to appear at my door.

~

But reality is not fantasy.
I bite my lips until they bleed,
Holding back the spiteful words I long to say
When you burn me with your caustic tongue.

~

My heart melts in my chest, leaving an empty
cavern
Filled with rage and fantasy deeds
That make me question my sanity
And the lengths I’m prepared to go to get revenge.

 

 

 

 

FATHER SUN

Father Sun rises from his bed with boastful pride,
A mighty warrior from the East
Waving his fiery sword across the heavens.
Adored as a god, worshipped as a king,
Blessed as a source of fire and heat,
He dominates the earth with paternalistic strength,
Sending down his life-affirming rays to support
new life
And fill the world with his healing radiance.
At noon, he watches from above,
Showering his love upon his dedicated followers.
But as the day wears on, and he makes his travels
across the sky,
His energy wanes. Yawning with fatigue,
He makes one last colorful display of power,
Falls slowly into bed, and dreams.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Love does not begin and end the way we seem to think it does. Love is a battle, love is a war; love is a growing up.

—James Baldwin

____________________

Dawn Pisturino visited us earlier this year for the first time, and we welcome her back today. She is a retired nurse in Golden Valley, Arizona, whose international publishing credits include poems, short stories, and articles. Her first poetry book, Ariel’s Song: Published Poems, 1987–2023, was recently released to positive reviews by her imprint, Horse Mesa Press. Her poetry has appeared in several anthologies, most recently in Hidden in Childhood: A Poetry Anthology; Wounds I Healed: The Poetry of Strong Women; and the 2023 Arizona Literary Magazine. She is a member of Mystery Writers of America, Arizona Authors Association, and PEN America. Welcome back, Dawn, and don't be a stranger!

 

For more from Dawn, go to http://www.dawnpisturino.wordpress.com/. 

____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A remind that
Mahogany Urban Poetry Series
present JRowe in Sacramento
tonight plus open mic, 7pm.
For info about this 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!

 

 

Shadows Reaching Through Shadows

 In His Garden

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

 

 

MEMORIES
—Joyce Odam

one by one I arrange them
on my shelves
sharp and brilliant
like glass
light-catchers
dust-holders
vain and useless
poignant and repetitive
giving in at last to new ones

* * * * *

how my collection grows
conjured real
by tricks of incantations
become semi-precious
like stones
held by a spreading shimmer
till they dull and blend
by loss     by years
each indiscernible from the other
                            

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/1/21)

 

 

 

Fault Line

 

MEMORY BOOK
—Robin Gale Odam

there we are, looking out into the
faraway—you gazing over the dark

river, me searching the forest of dark
trees . . . still in love with each other—

and each of us, from time to random
time, remembering someone else

_____________________

THE KITCHEN
—Joyce Odam

Another fragment, (the waiting from then to now)
to have this memory : morning sunlight : no pend-
ing but a hum, caught on one note : a slow smile
that lifts to mine as I remember this, but who is
there—

who is there that I can’t make out—a voice from
outside of this—an absent voice; a feeling of love
that owns this moment; a room that begins to swirl :
I am coming through a bright doorway. My mother
turns and says, Good Morning, Sunshine.

 

 

 

Before the Storm

THERE WERE ARMS FILLED WITH TIME
—Joyce Odam

How long ago was that?
There was the sensation
of holding.
So necessary.
Life was in a hurry.
So was time.
We were in its grip.
Swift. Intoxicated
and uncertain.
What did we know?
We held each other
in the dark mysteries.
Was this love?
What did we know?
We were practice.
Tremble. Young,
with the loneliness
of the young.
We were pulled away
into the swift years.
We forgot each other.
Our faces would fade.
We would become shadows
reaching through shadows
and find nothing but
our own selves
dancing to the mirror.
Music returned with this.
Music came back
to remind us.
Oh, vanished ones,
of my memories,
which side of memory
are you on?
It seemed like love.
Time is aloof, suspended
somewhere like a spell
put upon those
who believe in spells.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/2/18)

____________________

BAD MEMORIES
 —Joyce Odam

Not to be forgotten
for memory is
the last place they will go.

And you will go there, too,
and suffer for them,
having caught up with yourself,

a suffocation of thoughts,
remorse tweaking your mind
at unexpected moments

until you ask,
of no god but yourself,
forgive…. forgive…. forgive….

                          
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/1712; 6/1/21) 

 

 

 

Way Deep

 

KITCHEN DAY-DREAM
—Joyce Odam

wrapped in music she goes deep—
goes deep

into her own
composing heart

how long ago is love—
how far away is time—

her eyes glaze
to a distant stare

someone is there,
evolving

into a familiar sadness
they embrace, the music dies away 

 

 

 

The Color of Her Eyes

 

LOW WINDOW LIGHT
—Joyce Odam

The window used to hold her there,
standing and watching the day change,
her eyes holding the vague eye of distance.

However far it was, she was patient.
The room darkened behind her, the window
glinted, caught the last of the sunlight.

She grew timeless then. The waiting
never ended. The patience understood.
There was never any end to the story.

                                          
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/19/15;
12/28/21)

____________________

BAROMETER
—Robin Gale Odam

Standing in the timeless boat
on the far side of the august river,
you press the long pole into the riverbed.

The vessel at rest in the moment,
your reflection on the rippled water,

in the ache of remembering, in the long
glance behind at the dream you were
given to live,

with the gravity of the stave in hand
you depart for the rarified horizon.

                              
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/13/23)

 

 

 

Touch of Pink

CONJURING UP MEMORIES
—Joyce Odam

Oh, broken childhood,
full of places and fears—
tears and forgotten

faces—who,    
and who,    and who,
are these others flowing past,

forgetting you—
you who are so small
and must go where life leads,

all the ways toward the center
past the quick
forgotten friends,

you who promised them
forever :  goodbye,    goodbye,
and more goodbye.

Now you spiral back
and arrive where you are :
questionless,    

and answerless :
everywhere is here,
has always been here,

moment upon moment,    
hour, and year—why grieve
for what you cannot know.

A seagull appears in your dreams,
and another,    and another—
those old cries.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 10/16/10;
12/15/15; 10/23/18)

__________________

KNOWING WHAT FROM WHAT
—Joyce Odam

Little is known about the truths
we tell—want to believe—need.

I've marked all the passages
that speak for me—

my praise for you, my awe
at how this works, the spark,

the flash of time that proves—
we who have words, who bless  

and curse and need them so—
so wantingly.

___________________

INSOMNIA XL
—Robin Gale Odam

the silent movie flickering in
halting motions, the measured falter
of the projector—or the faultless clock

darkness in the white moon shadow
at the flicker of a dream—one sip of
yesterday’s coffee, cold and black,
bitter as perfection

i will write this tomorrow at the slip of
daylight—for now i will close my book
and step over the threshold     listen for
the night’s raptor     the piercing of the sky

                        
(prev. pub. in Brevities, March 2020)

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

THE WORTH OF THE GAME
—Joyce Odam

I am playing solitaire again and I know when I
will not win—all black cards will turn up or all
reds—or no aces will show—or a king will be
in the first position. Sometimes I reshuffle and
begin again, but mostly I just play it out—
hesitating between identical plays—
trying to guess past the backs
of down-cards. I lose and
play again—the worth
of the game is in knowing
that winning at solitaire is boring.

_________________

Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam, between them, have a passel of memories and the skill to write about them! Our thanks for this fine, memorable collection today~  

Our new Seed of the Week is “Ornery”. 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.

Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.

_________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Twin Lotus Thai Fourth Tuesdays
presents Tom Meschery and
Susan Kelly-DeWitt tonight
in Sacramento, 6pm.
(Reservations recommended!)
For into about this 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!