—Photo by Nancy Haskett
* * *
—Poetry by Nancy Chisholm Haskett,
Modesto, CA
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Medusa
* * *
—Poetry by Nancy Chisholm Haskett,
Modesto, CA
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Medusa
PHOTO TAKEN, JUNE 7, 2010
She sits on a stool
on a Glasgow sidewalk,
warmed by a ribbed gray sweater,
long skirt,
legs wrapped in heavy white stockings,
swollen feet and ankles
jammed into open-toed sandals.
A silk scarf of bright reds, blues, and greens
covers most of her head,
gray hair in front
matches her bushy eyebrows,
her eyes unfocused,
maybe in a daydream
as she plays music,
the large red accordion
resting on her lap,
right hand on keys,
left hand pressing tiny white buttons,
a slight smile
revealing a gap between her two front teeth.
There is no basket
in front of her,
no obvious way
to drop Euros as a thank-you
for her solo concert.
Perhaps all she needs
is acknowledgement and appreciation
from those who pause for a moment
to listen,
nod,
smile,
before walking on.
She sits on a stool
on a Glasgow sidewalk,
warmed by a ribbed gray sweater,
long skirt,
legs wrapped in heavy white stockings,
swollen feet and ankles
jammed into open-toed sandals.
A silk scarf of bright reds, blues, and greens
covers most of her head,
gray hair in front
matches her bushy eyebrows,
her eyes unfocused,
maybe in a daydream
as she plays music,
the large red accordion
resting on her lap,
right hand on keys,
left hand pressing tiny white buttons,
a slight smile
revealing a gap between her two front teeth.
There is no basket
in front of her,
no obvious way
to drop Euros as a thank-you
for her solo concert.
Perhaps all she needs
is acknowledgement and appreciation
from those who pause for a moment
to listen,
nod,
smile,
before walking on.
WHAT I DIDN’T DO
Hundreds of pigeons
strut, peck, fly
through memories of streets in
Antwerp, Bruges,
Strasbourg, Lucerne,
on cobblestones, underfoot,
dodging feet and car tires,
hopping up curbs,
heads bobbing,
iridescent neck feathers
catching sunlight—
and then, one in London,
south bank of the Thames
top of steps near a water fountain,
broken leg, hobbling,
wet.
In my mind
I pick it up,
feel its heart flutter
under dampened wings,
the roughness of orange feet,
sharpness of tiny claws,
an act of salvation.
Hundreds of pigeons
strut, peck, fly
through memories of streets in
Antwerp, Bruges,
Strasbourg, Lucerne,
on cobblestones, underfoot,
dodging feet and car tires,
hopping up curbs,
heads bobbing,
iridescent neck feathers
catching sunlight—
and then, one in London,
south bank of the Thames
top of steps near a water fountain,
broken leg, hobbling,
wet.
In my mind
I pick it up,
feel its heart flutter
under dampened wings,
the roughness of orange feet,
sharpness of tiny claws,
an act of salvation.
SOUVENIRS
In the loosely woven basket,
hidden under new gray and white KN95s,
are colorful fabric masks,
sewn and marketed early in the pandemic,
some in Scottish plaid,
one dark navy sprinkled with tiny white stars,
a San Francisco Giants logo, black against orange,
a kaleidoscope of pastel tie-dye,
another simply declaring, “VOTE!”
At the time it was all we had,
and we wore them to protect ourselves
as well as others,
but some, in defiance,
refused to comply,
walked bare-faced down grocery store aisles,
stood at the check-out
daring the cashier to refuse a sale.
Soft and silky in multiple layers,
they are reminders
of those first frightening months
when complacency shattered,
just as it could do again
at any time.
NEAR MISSES
There was that time
on the 405 freeway,
fast lane curved right,
revealed a wheelbarrow
mere yards away dead center,
no time to stop,
swerved into the next lane
without even looking
and then there was the four-way stop
at Carver and Standiford
before the signal was installed,
when I stopped, started to go,
paused just long enough
to see the semi truck run straight through
but before any of that
and years before I was born,
there was the morning when my dad
broke his ankle during parachute training
at Fort Benning, Georgia,
stayed behind to recuperate,
didn’t jump into Normandy on June 6.
There was that time
on the 405 freeway,
fast lane curved right,
revealed a wheelbarrow
mere yards away dead center,
no time to stop,
swerved into the next lane
without even looking
and then there was the four-way stop
at Carver and Standiford
before the signal was installed,
when I stopped, started to go,
paused just long enough
to see the semi truck run straight through
but before any of that
and years before I was born,
there was the morning when my dad
broke his ankle during parachute training
at Fort Benning, Georgia,
stayed behind to recuperate,
didn’t jump into Normandy on June 6.
DIGITAL NY TIMES, May 7, 2024
Lead story:
Met Gala fundraiser,
$75,000 for a single ticket,
five men lift and carry an oversized train
of sapphire blue organza,
decorative resin birds perch on a woman’s shoulders,
a man wears a headpiece as large as a pillow,
a woman is shrouded in mosquito netting—
outlandish outfits
walk the carpet for one night
at outrageous cost.
Scroll down:
Israeli Forces in Rafah,
aerial photo of demolished apartments,
roofs gone,
views into rooms with wallpaper and posters,
a refrigerator in a tiny kitchen,
everything exposed,
emptied of residents
forced to leave
at outrageous cost.
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
A good snapshot keeps a moment from running away.
—Eudora Welty
______________________
—Medusa, with thanks and welcome back to Nancy Haskett for her fine poetry today!
Lead story:
Met Gala fundraiser,
$75,000 for a single ticket,
five men lift and carry an oversized train
of sapphire blue organza,
decorative resin birds perch on a woman’s shoulders,
a man wears a headpiece as large as a pillow,
a woman is shrouded in mosquito netting—
outlandish outfits
walk the carpet for one night
at outrageous cost.
Scroll down:
Israeli Forces in Rafah,
aerial photo of demolished apartments,
roofs gone,
views into rooms with wallpaper and posters,
a refrigerator in a tiny kitchen,
everything exposed,
emptied of residents
forced to leave
at outrageous cost.
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
A good snapshot keeps a moment from running away.
—Eudora Welty
______________________
—Medusa, with thanks and welcome back to Nancy Haskett for her fine poetry today!
A Snapshot of Nancy Haskett
A reminder that
Storytelling Sunday presents
Griffin Peralta and Derrick Brown
in Placerville today, 4:30pm.
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!
Storytelling Sunday presents
Griffin Peralta and Derrick Brown
in Placerville today, 4:30pm.
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!
