The Frantic Dance of Being

Directional

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

 

 

THE RELEASE
—Joyce Odam

Man of the wild dance—of the mad reunion,
let me dance with you, and whirl like you—
until my shadows beat like wings about me
making their own circles of lift and fall,
the way your garments whip and flail
like ghost demons of red light and
black momentum. Let me bend
in all your directions, follow
your darkest dream toward
the illusory center where
a mirror breaks—even as
you leap, through and away,
from the center that holds you.
How can you be held by images
that release you from the frantic dance
of being—you who are distant—you who
are gone—gone into the image of yourself.
You never open your eyes. You dance alone,
even as I dance beside you but avoid the mirror
that bends your fragments in a gradual glitter and
fade—and there is no further music for the dance.
Are you still my father?

 

 

 

 Differences

ARRIVAL
—Joyce Odam   

It was for you I wore this heavy gown
and brought this gift.

It was for you I grew this thin
and tough as the resisting, jealous wind.

It was for you that now
I grip your hand with such a grip.

Don’t fall away.
Don’t turn aside.

It was for you I learned
to control the erosion of my face.

You’ll not learn who I am until
you look with fear and love into my eyes.

I am the power now. It is for you I touch
your weakness with my claim:

it was you who called me,
and I came.

 

 

 

 Map

SOAP
—Robin Gale Odam

They all looked perfect,
but there was something else.
Trouble descended the staircase.
Misery peeked out from a shadow.

Old love reappeared, eyes half-shut.
Threat and peril renewed their pact.
Worry remembered about sorrow.
Suffering vowed to leave.

Misfortune asked a favor.
They all averted their eyes.
The year arrived with its chill.
They all shivered.

                     
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/28/23) 

 

 

 

 Six Black Birds

WINTER AFTER WINTER
—Joyce Odam
After “Wild Swans” by Edna St. Vincent Millay

It was not swans, but the dark birds of
misery that went over, over the wild sky,
claiming themselves lost.

What could we do
but listen
till they faded.
                ___

Such were the storms of winter,
arriving and arriving
till we were wildly crying—

through them
and beyond them,
winter after winter.
                ___

Thus love was broken, at the heart—
at the heart and mind,
and all the habits of forgiving.

Such
was
the error.
                 ___

Dearest—not a fault—but a failure.
This day is but another, and another,
sad reminder—

the way we are long parted.
Death and living.
Memory and forgetting.

And, oh, these birds of sorrow
bearing everything through
the terrible skies, finding their way.
                                    

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/26/13)

 

 

 

 Fishing in a Rain Pond

WHEN I GO VIOLET-MOTIONED
THROUGH THE HOUR
—Joyce Odam

When I go
violet-motioned through the hour
I go alone
without your smile or kindness.

I am a century removed from here.
I feel my flesh sing cool
with evening.

My tamed wild animals
step through the leaves.
I am not dangerous to them.

I cannot find the center
but there is no hurry.
I think I am in the mind of a
story-teller.

Green is born
and when I weep for it
my eyes are endless with
unreceivable love.

Somewhere the word I must learn
is drowning under silence.

When I come back to a sound
my poems are as heavy     as trees,
but I put all the thoughts I have gathered
before you
like perfect visions.

Under your sleeping
I dream.

Deep in the water
a bird     strange in its happiness
tells me what it has heard
in the dark of my mind.


(prev. pub. in Wind Magazine, Fall 1975; and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/28/21. Also
Grand Prize Winner, Ina Coolbrith Contest, 1972)  

 

 

 

 Southeast

VEER
—Robin Gale Odam

priorities shift as if they were
options—as wee birds in a nest,
beaks open to the sky, every one
in peril.
                   

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/9//23) 

 

 

 

 Follower

A ONCE-TOLD LAND
—Joyce Odam       

We are all lost together
on this land.
We came to hunt wild berries
and wilder flowers.
But we found nothing for
our hands to gather.

Now we have come too far.
And though we can hear
an evening train caress the distance,
we cannot find its long black tracks,
as though some wilderness
would not accept that scar.

But the sunset
is a thing of glory,
uninterrupted as we had imagined,
continuing like a Scheherazade-story,
larger than Cinerama . . .
and we confess that we are
terribly sorry we did not think
to bring a camera.

We are getting frightened and cold,
colder than all the splendor
and the hunger; and we put
our arms about each other
and recall the warning
of another story teller
who cautioned
that this was a once-told land
without a morning.


(prev. pub. in Vagabond, 1972; and
Medusa’s Kitchen 11/13/12; 5/25/21) 

 

 

 

 The Slow Rain

NEON
—Robin Gale Odam

Strange at the window,
The dark end of night and the
Shiver of wind at the yellow lace curtain.

Strange at the window,
To look past the curtain, to look
Through the neon to rumors of war.

Strange at the window,
The breath of the wind through the
Yellow lace curtain—the cold light of
Neon, the dark end of night and the
Translucent rumors of war.

Strange at the window,
The cold neon and the cold hotel—
Cold coffee and scone on a tray in the
Hallway and one faint knock at the door.
                 

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/13/22)

 

 

 

 Another Dream

I would have Picasso paint me

in the
wildest
of flowers—
angled and bent
in the most outrageous of
colors—made of garish light
and smearing.
I would be a poppy here
and a thistle there
I would not be invisible.
My eyes would have to be
found in one of my
distortions; my heart
would be hidden in one of my
depictions—cut open
and poured
into an old cup of beauty.
My twisted hands would
affirm their affection
for the poetry of
his deepest rage and holy feeling.
I would understand
our mutual interpretation.
I would suffer
his fame.
He would forget to sign his name.

—Joyce Odam
                            

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/3/15) 

 

 

 

 Stepping on a Crack

I REMEMBER SWEARING

in another language—it was not in
words I understood but the surge of it
was exhilarating—evil stood behind me,
mimicking and memorizing promises,
and crying.
 
—Robin Gale Odam
                              

(prev. pub. in Brevities, October 2015; and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/4/12)

 

 

 

 Dusk or Dawn

EGO AS WORSHIP
—Joyce Odam

You are The Sun—Love as Love;  
I bask in you,
from childhood on—
my light,
my forever.

I tell time by you.
I tell patience by you.
I tell my long suffering by you.
You mark my counting.

Each night you become a horizon.
I focus on you.
You dim,
then disappear—
hiding from me.
I mark your line, barely discernable.

Each morning you return—
light my face—
promise,
promise, promise.

I always believe you
though you are seasonal,
I cannot control you with my desire.

Oh Sun,
Oh Healer;
I am
dim
by comparison.
How can I deserve you?

You who are
Mother,
Father,
God-figure,
Healer of dark—
every answer to my life—
my love depends on you.

In winter
you almost frighten me,
how you turn so cold.  

Have I offended you
with my summer complaint?
Am I arrogant to question this?

You who are The Sun to me
must ever console me;
you are the focal point of my existence;
when I sleep, so do you—
or so I believe.

I am the only one who knows this.
You burn out—you die,
even as I.

You who are the sun—I who name you
Love,
Life-force,
Love-force—
you alone in my sky,
in my dark,
in my distance from you—

surely you must know
that I am your only connective.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

HAUNTED  
—Joyce Odam

I wrestle with your obstinate ghost,
ever-angry and unforgiving,

what a wild loving and hating—
never resolved,

the push and pull of difference—
ever-faithful to the war.

Even now, you assail me in dreams,
still wanting my surrender.

___________________

Happy New Year from poets all over to world to poets all over the world—and to everyone else, too! Our thanks to Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam for sparkling poems, and for Joyce’s equally sparkling photos today based on our Seed of the Week, “Out of Control”. Here’s hoping we get those out-of-control horses of 2024 calmed back down again in 2025.

Our new Seed of the Week is “Before I Knew Better”. 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.

I was wrong in yesterday’s post—Countdown on the Cobblestones happens in Old Sac TONIGHT, not yesterday. I hope you checked Medusa’s calendar; it’s correct on there.  In any case, celebrate SOMEwhere tonight, and be safe!

For Edna St. Vincent Millay’s “Wild Swans”, go to https://poets.org/poem/wild-swans/.

___________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 That wild horse that was 2024~~
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy
of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column at the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.

Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones  by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)

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!

 

 

 

Hope For Better Things To Come

 Devyanshi Neupane's Big Event

—Photo by Shiva Neupane
* * *
—Poetry by Devyanshi Neupane, Nolcha Fox,
Stephen Kingsnorth, Joe Nolan, 
Claire J. Baker, and Caschwa
—Public Domain Visuals Courtesy of
Shiva Neupane, Nolcha Fox, Joe Nolan,

Medusa, and Victor Kennedy

 

 

KINDERGARTEN
—Devyanshi Neupane (Age 5),
Melbourne, Australia

I finished
Kindergarten.
Now,
I’m going to school. 

 

 

 

 —Illustration Courtesy of Nolcha Fox

WEATHERING THE WEATHER
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

The weather is a box with locks,
no keys to pry the puzzle clean.
The box devours the hours,
no pledges made or kept.
Although we do our best
to guess intentions, that black
box ignores our divinations.
We think we can control the box
with forecasts, but it’s the box
controlling how we live and die.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

ELEMENTAL
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Olduvai gorge, where clan thought born—
our story worn on strata screen—
here’s grinding, overlap, abut,
tectonic plates rejecting stack,
so quaking shifts crust’s calm above
with chasms, mounts, uprisings, falls.
Volcano valves spew spouts of flame,
founts pyroclastic lava rocks,
stored pressure cooker, magma melt
at heart of planet, pulsing core—
so faithful geysers shoot aboil
their water cannon fusillade.

That flood, essential for all life,
its cyclic weeping, vapour cloud,
unfairly’s spread across the lands;
tiered paddies through to desert dunes,
antediluvian each year
before the deltas wash anew,
While wind blows where its spirit wills,
some garnered, harvest farming blades,
by Beaufort scaled, but never stayed,
we only know by what it moves,
its presence felt on flyblown skin
and poorly anchored whizzing by.

See water spouts, dust devils’ twist,
our firestorms fuelled at flypast—
by billow gusts their patterns skewed,
as firebreaks futile in its path;
earth, air, fire, water’s, interchange
leaves humans helpless, powerless.
The rainbow prism, scene from here,
of sun and rain in atmosphere,
reminds, creation’s covenant;
because essential elements
though here within our stewardship,
all move beyond our prone control. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

SOURCE
—Stephen Kingsnorth

Resounding echoes, Babel noise,
a hush required to reassure,
that still small voice, within, without,
persuading one that’s in control.
Which one in self, communion,
in common cause, companions,
as god contracted to a span,
scandal, particularity,
in Palestine, some score and ten?

Redemption through that weaker one,
incarnate as the powerless,
for godly might is scene as hung,
all-powerful as cannot lose,
My sea of faith drifts cynical,
religion, church, and priestly garb,
authority, less weakly borne—
for who defeated, losing wins,
reversal all that is assumed.

For most there’s instinct to survive,
of such the fittest in that drive;
but there is too self-sacrifice,
not only in the human kind—
as prompted impulse, reproduce.
Folk think that being loved, the source,
salvation through our troubled lives;
but is it not someone to love
that turns our hearts to fuller truth?

 

 

 

 Supermassive Black Hole at Center of Milky Way
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

ABOVE THE HAGUE . . .
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

       for winter solstice

There’s the sound of a small plane
plying the blue, exhaust left open,
leaving a cloudy line
across an amazingly fresh view.

Above the line I envision
physicists with calculus, trig,
and that string-theory math
fashioning a bomb to end all . . .

Below the line I see hoards of migrant
children from all over the world
holding makeshift signs that read
in every language

            NO   MORE   WAR.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

CONQUERING JERUSALEM
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

Out of control—
The blood-lust of the wicked
Who prey upon the weak
Who slaughter helpless children
Shouting, “Amalek!  Amalek!
Death to all—a blood-red sun.
Thus, we conquer
Jerusalem.”  

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Visual Courtesy of Medusa

OUT OF CONTROL
 —Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

Genocide was practiced against the Jews
in Germany effectively killing 6 million
over a relatively short span of time

then Jews were given statehood in Israel,
their own sovereign nation, nested alongside
Jew haters, recently led by Hamas, who
regularly send warriors and bombs across the
border to punish and eradicate more Jews,
publicly announcing their intention to
continue the genocide

lately, the Jews fought back, poking gaping
holes in Gaza buildings and tunnels, where
Hamas took refuge behind Palestinian human
shields. It was public knowledge that Hamas
did this, though using human shields was
clearly listed among other heinous war crimes,
and the United Nations stuck its head in the sand
and doled out no consequences of substance to
deter Hamas, so Hamas continued then and to
this day to use human shields

Israel should not and will not stop defending
itself against these attacks by whatever means
necessary. America, of all people, should
know about this: we send police to bash in
doors and intrude on places where criminals
are suspected of hiding both themselves and
their loot; if innocent people are there and
get injured or killed, that is considered just
collateral damage, doesn’t count.

But if Israel replicates this practice in the Gaza
Strip, all kinds of Hell break loose accusing
Israel of genocide. Maybe America and Israel
need armored robots to knock on the door and
confirm who is inside? And if there is no
response, level the place. 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo  

Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

HOW IT IS
—Caschwa

If it works for me, and
the color is olive drab
it is real, not totally fab
real like the bite of a crab
or a very nice ride in a cab

neighbors with sabers
far from enablers
stirring the embers
of attention grabbers

it was written in stone
that men shouldn’t hone
murder, and it was not alone
ten commandments known

Crusades and witch burnings ended all that
kill others at the drop of a hat
capital crimes, swat like a gnat
we now hang upside down with the most
wicked bat
 

 

—Public Domain Photo 

Courtesy of Joe Nolan

MOST DESERVING COFFEE
—Caschwa

(based on a recent MK Seed of the Week,
“My Only Indulgence”)

Try every coffee shop
Search high and low
Follow every highway
Every path you know

Ooh, yeah

Try every coffee shop
Ford every stream
Follow every rainbow
Till you find real cream

A dream that will need
All the love you can give
Every day of your life
For as long as you live

Try every coffee shop
Ford every stream
Avoid powder substitutes
'Till you find that place

Try every coffee shop
Ford every stream
Follow every barista
Try every coffee shop
There's a brighter day on the other side
Follow every rainbow
Till you find real cream

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

And now we welcome the new year. Full of things that have never been.

 

—Rainer Maria Rilke

 

___________________

 

 

 

Happy New Year from SnakePal Victor Kennedy
in Portorož, Slovenia!

Many thanks to today’s contributors, and congratulations to Devyanshi for graduating from kindergarten! Our Seed of the Week was “Out of Control. Here's to a new year full of many good things , , ,
 

. . . not the least of which are many poetry events! Already, the 2025 camera is starting to fill up. For example, sign up for MoSt’s (Modesto-Stanislaus Poetry Center) New Year Poetry Challenge at https://www.mostpoetry.org/2024/11/29/get-ready-for-nypc-16/. And save Feb. 1 for the 13th Annual MoSt Poetry Festival, with Michael Meyerhoffer and his Pulling Up the Floorboards. Info: https://www.mostpoetry.org/event/2025festival/.

 
For more about NorCal poetry, make a resolution to check out UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html) every day! 

____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Cartoon Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that 

Sacramento Poetry Center

will be closed until Jan. 13.

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.

Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.

Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)

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!

 

 

 

 

Wild World (Out of Control!)

 

—Poetry by John Grey, Johnston, RI
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

WILD WORLD

It’s a wild world.
That’s what they tell me.
Now that the December winds
come calling,
lash the trees with sleet,
and rats race along the rooftops
looking for a way in
out of the cold,
and the temperature drops
like a dumbbell on a foot
while night burgles
the last of the outside light.
 
No time to be out in it, they warn.
The leaves are dead
and that’s just the start
with every ice-bound sidewalk
ready to pull itself out from under
any strays,
and the wild dogs loose
and hungry for flesh,
and the muggers out
for their last bloody haul
before the weather mugs them.

Stay inside with family, is their advice.
Light the fireplace,
roast chestnuts,
sing carols,
hug close,
feel cramped,
bring up old sores,
scrap and argue,
vent and sulk,
run outside in a furious huff
and slam the door behind you.

Then comes across them.
Listen just long enough
for them to tell me,
“It’s a wild world.”.

 

 

 

 

GOING BLIND

Everything you reach for
is elsewhere.

A shape is the best
former details can do.

People you knew by sight
become familiar voices.

You may warm to strangers
but they’ll never have a face.

 

 

 

 

TENTH BIRTHDAY PLUS ONE WEEK

You were barely ten
when you came across
that body in the river.

It was a young woman,
a heap of bone and flesh debris,
trapped between two rocks.

Her face was pale,
her throat, a tattoo circle
inked in moldy green skin.

A week from your tenth birthday,
and the belated gift to your head
was a corpse with long straggly hair.

No need to tear
the packaging to shreds,
its eyes were unwrapped already.

 

 

 

YOUR NIGHTTIME INDOCTRINATION

Your breasts’
breath hastens
to the prospect of eternal life.

Your body rolls over,
spills your throat uppermost,
like a guide-post
to secular heaven.

There is something
in your bedroom
that resists every definition
but pleasure.

It alights on your vein,
gives so much with its taking.

Your family finds you dead come morning.
But they just don't know where to look.

 

 

 

 

WHAT LIES AHEAD

I’m halfway up a hill
with you beside me
at the foot of the ruins
I saw so dead by day
yet now, with sun’s rays
poring through, alive
and I go on without pause
while you reluctantly follow.

I’m drawn to the crumbled walls,
the vine-strangled arch,
the very core of your unease.
I’m spellbound by shape and shadow,
while you feel as if something’s
watching us.

What you hear as a warning
to me is a beckoning.
What you fear threatens us,
I welcome as abstruse company.

My fervor is a quest for knowledge.
Your resistance is your unknowing.

 

 

 

 

FROM MY HOUSE BY THE SHORE

Every dusk,
through a cracked
second-floor window,
I watch this
woman in black
walk slowly along the shore,
then stop in the same place
every time,
to toss something
into the waters.

I feel for her.
I feel for what stresses
her so much
that she needs
to dispossess it.
I feel for the waters
who do not wish
for this nightly gift.
I fear for its return.
I fear for anything
whose fate is sealed
in cycles.

 

 

 

IN THE AFTERMATH

Sometime after the tornado hits,
the people show up on the sidewalk
to see what they have left of themselves:
to most, it’s everything,
to a few, it’s nothing.

The twister’s footprint
is both wide enough and not so wide.

An old house has found a new lot.
A tree is garbed
in a farmer’s best suit.

Yet some homes are so unscathed,
it’s like they gained a coat of fresh paint,
a new roof and windows.

Nobody knows why some were punished
and others weren’t.

Some good people lost so much.
Some unworthy ones could laugh
the whole thing off.

So, to these God-fearing people,
it had nothing to do with sin or virtue.
No, it wasn’t the Almighty’s wrath.
Nor a vision of the end.

And yet…and yet…
there were those flying cows.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

TO DEAR ADAM, LOVE EVE
—John Grey


I am having a rib removed.
I won't even be anesthetized.
And I will get that bloodstained bone
back to you.
I’ll deliver it in person
or send it by mail.
Thanks for the loan.
But no thanks for the implication.

_____________________

—Medusa, with thanks and welcome back to John Grey with his fine poems today! Our current Seed of the WEek is Out of Control, and these poems from John hit the nail right on the head...

 

 

 

 

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.

Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.

Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)

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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Memories of Light

 —Poetry by Cheryl Snell, Glen Dale, MD
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

TURN IN THE DIRECTION OF THE SKID

When I catch her kissing my boyfriend


after our shift I refuse to get in the car with him. 


I have to go home with her instead. 
I

call an Uber, and we tilt our bodies against 


opposite doors in the backseat, 


the silence between us rock-hard.  



 

Uber guy says, “You ladies should smile more, 


pretty girls like you.” He flexes the muscles 


in his forearms and makes his homemade tattoos
dance. 


“What about the uglies─should they smile, too?” 


My roommate sits perpendicular to the cushion, 


bares her teeth in a crazy grimace, and growls. 


When she barks, he crashes into a STOP sign,
and slurs, 


“Stop” as if the word, too, is skidding.

 

 

 

 

ESCAPE


A woman is waiting for the world to wink. 


Its eyelid closes and shadows sweep across the
moon 
and swallow the house like the aching silence 


after he spit brittle whispers from his sickbed. 


This is her one chance─and she’s on stilts now, 


lurching above the trees. 



 

After the blackened moon, a paring of pale light.

It blooms behind her, shows her that her house is 


where she left it—he never saw her step over it; 


he never noticed the clouds she’s carrying on
her back.

 

 

 

 

OBJECTS ARE CLOSER THAN THEY
APPEAR


“I promise these will work,” I tell her, 


handing her the Rx. “It has something to do 


with neurotransmitters. They’ll calm the yo-yo 


of your moods. You won’t swing too high or low.” 


“I’ll be stuck in the Goldilocks zone forever?”  


“Better than the phases that grind you down


to mulch.”


“What about side effects?”


“Maybe a little hair shedding, dry mouth”


“Like kindling?”


“You’re not combustible!”


“I’m already on fire.” 


She fingers the chained diamond around her neck


and I think of how the stone started out as carbon.


“I’ll take the new meds, but do you have any 


that will turn me back into who I was?”

 

 

 

A SHUDDER OF CLOWNS TALK TRASH
ABOUT UFOs IN THE HOUSE OF HUMANS

Icebergs are melting


headlights freeze deer


glitter’s all copper


the water’s not clear. 


Breezes speed up


to hurricane winds.


Your hair’s going gray


like all of your kin.


The cracks in your face 


match the ones in the earth


but that flickering sky 


only signals rebirth.


So don’t be so worried


there’s nothing to fear.


Aliens won’t hurt you.


We’re lucky they’re here.

 

 

 

 

THE METAMORPHOSIS OF LIGHT


The thing about the caterpillar is its size. 


Its body is striped skinny, and my sister is there 


with the camera, looking for luck.


It’s not as if all the leaves are countable,


but there’s a four-leaf something in here 

somewhere; 


the caterpillar is communing with the one being 


pulled down by a chrysalis beneath it. I touch it 


and it feels like the inside of a puppy’s ear.
Swaddled wings emerge, leaving the leaf to its
younger sister. 


Beyond that, we watch light shimmer through
new wings.
And then, the memory of light. Behind that, 


the sound of my sister clicking the camera.

 

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

If you're looking for a New Year where you won't have any problems, oh, you're asking for so much, my friend, so much! What you want for the New Year is actually very simple: Ask for the mental and physical strength to overcome whatever difficulties you encounter in the New Year!
 
― Mehmet Murat ildan

___________________

—Medusa, welcoming Cheryl Snell back to the Kitchen with her fine poems today!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column at the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.

Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts—
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)

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!

 

 

Dancing With Vivaldi

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

 

 

IN A STORE WINDOW

Stuffed puppy leaps for a ball—ornament
on snowy fake tree.

He longs to fetch that glistening ball
bright as star in the sky.

Pup’s caught in this Xmas leap
that can’t grasp what he really wants.

 

 

 

 

COLOR OF THE YEAR: MOCHA MOUSSE

I know this color. It’s muddy water in a bucket
containing my dog’s soon-to-be favorite toy,
a stuffed monkey we found abandoned at the park.
You might say, it’s a rescue, like my dog himself.
One of the creature’s arms is torn half-off,
it needs mending—rehabilitation like my rescue
dog needs. The monkey’s been soaking
for days; I try to squeeze out the mocha mud
permeating every bit of the toy’s fabric. I know,
when the monkey comes clean, dries out
and gets mended, my dog will begin tearing it
to pieces. It’s what he does with his favorite toys. 

 

 

 

 

DANCING WITH VIVALDI
on YouTube

I never dreamed of
boogying to Vivaldi
till I saw the girl
so young! bowing and bowing
her violin to the beat.

____________________

NEUTRINOS

Is it the god of the gaps
in those ghost particles speeding thru us,
neutrinos old as the Big Bang,
atomic bits of sun banging around inside us?
Are they friend or foe, angel or devil?
I wake to latest news of killings
around our planet and peasant-eating
profiteers. It’s still the black of morning.
How shall I distill all this
into a meaningful dawn, light
at the end of which dark tunnel?
A job to do. A trail to walk. 

 

 

 

 

SUNROAD

The sheep slept comfortably all night
until I woke before dawn, an hour until
daylight coffee. I woke to bleating
out the door, a ewe crying for her child,
her first-born plucked from this scene
by the owl before breakfast,
her lamb flown away with the owl
on its moon-road. In any case, sun’s up,
time to leave this weird hotel. 

 

 

 

 

NATURE WALK

out of morning cloud
red-bark tree presses against sky
its fleeting secrets
root-tongues caught in sun-
baked pottery

in holiday dress
old woman bears a long stick
with curved metal blade
talking to the silent woods
blaming us for take and siege

in dark damp shadow
we find fungus melting frost
in tangles of gems
we call it a tiara
what we chip so recklessly

creek meanders south
as if pointing us a path
that leads us astray
specimens we list and store
wandering layers of time 

 

 

 

GRIM REAPER DREAM

Why should the Reaper divulge his secrets
to me, who retired my scythe decades
ago? Now it hangs rusting in the shed;
I cut my grass with mechanical weed-
eater. Of course, Death uses plenty of
mechanized equipment. But I digress.
Why would the Reaper speak to me in dream?
He tells me some of the chosen approach
their time with anticipation, unsure
but ready for adventure, while others
try to procrastinate. He kind of likes
the first type, arriving with tentative smile,
a momentary pause—swing of the scythe—
then break out in silent laughter that no
doctor, nurse, friend, or loved-one has ever
reported hearing, perhaps it’s beyond
our mortal human senses. I couldn’t
hear it. But sometimes a big smile remains.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

RAINDROPS
—Taylor Graham

Drop by drop, pressure
drops by precious droplets
in bloodstream and heart.

____________________

“Wandering layers of time” pass and still Taylor Graham travels the forest with all its secrets and secretive creatures. Our thanks to her for intriguing poetry and photos on this last Friday of 2024. Forms she has used this week include a Haiku (“Raindrops”); an Ekphrastic Poem (“Sunroad”); a Tan-Renga in "collaboration" with some lines from the Internet (“Nature Walk”); a Dream Poem that is also Blank Verse (“Grim Reaper Dream”); a Tanka (“Dancing with Vivaldi”); and a Just 15s (“In a Store Window”). Our Seed of the Week was “Light / tunnel / and all that” and“Grim Reaper Dream” was an actual dream....

 

TG's Ekphrastic Poem is from Dec. 19's MoST New Year Poetry Challenge, Go to  https://www.mostpoetry.org/2024/11/29/get-ready-for-nypc-16 to sign up to receive their challenges for the new year. 

In El Dorado County’s poetry events this week, El Dorado County’s regular workshops are listed on Medusa’s calendar (if you scroll down on http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html/), but you’d better check to make sure they’re meeting during this holiday season. 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!  
 
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 Nolcha Fox and Stephen Kingsnorth:


THOSE WERE THE DAYS
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

The bakery sent a fragrant
truck with pullout
racks to show us all
the breads and sweets
we couldn’t live without.

The dairy set our milk
in bottles on the front porch.
They clinked and sent
cool chills through hands
as we brought them in.

The Fuller Brush man
visited with tools
to keep us groomed
and help our house
stay spotless clean.

The mailman
brought us presents
every Christmas.
He was our real
live Santa Claus.

Our postal folks
still bring the goods,
but it’s just not the same.
Everything’s on Amazon.
A click and we are done.

* * *

SPEAK EASY, POSTIE
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Is this a set up or for real?
Poor footwear for profession’s path?
A far too jolly attitude,
with packhorse load delivery.
But postmark, place, date may explain—
Chicago, nineteen twenty nine,
and speakeasy first call of day—
so cheery chat, this final round.

Does he slip slide as proof where been,
past townhouse brownstones, all the same,
with giddy nameless numbers strewn
on parcels, pathways, people’s porch?
Snowed under by two bags, one male,
Wells Fargo, in tracks of the brave;
at least he need not scale the rooves,
though might if wrong turn, upper floor.

How does he balance, spread the weight,
but keep sum order for his trail?
There is no mist clouding his lens
but smiles, knows spectacle he is.
On rural rides our posties are
the grapevine, first responders’ news,
with daily updates through their eyes,
communities kept under watch.

My first job, schoolboy holidays,
so many cards through the wrong slot;
a life of learning in two weeks—
as mentor skived, took shopping break.
My first when boss told me to lie,
a naïve kid new on the block;
impression made and stamped for life;
I’m glad that recollection stayed.

* * *

Here is a Paradelle from Joyce Odam:

 

 

 

PARADELLE
—Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

When is a poem not just a line of words?
When is a poem not just a line of words?
There were two lovers once.  Name them who
you must.
There were two lovers once.  Name them who
you must.
When a poem is two lovers, you must name them—
once,
just once—when a poem is not who—not just two
lovers.

And then the sadness was over—is that how
it goes?
And then the sadness was over—is that how
it goes?
How far away we are—after all that time…
How far away we are—after all that time…
that the sadness was aft . . . that time was far
away . . .
how we are the sadness, after all.  Over.  Over.  
It all goes.

Mirror, break the myth of love.    
Mirror, break the myth of love.
You said.  And I said.  And we believed each other.
You said.  And I said.  And we believed each other.
Mirror, we believed—love, the myth each believed—
and I, the other myth, said, “And we break each
other.”

Of love, there were words.  And you said,
“Must you name them!”  And then a line of time . . .
is that how we are—and who—
            . . . of a line—of how it goes -- ?
How far away is that?  There were words.
Then I said, “Mirror . . . ”  And you said,  
“Break . . . ”

* * *

And an Ars Poetica for the New Year from Stephen Kingsnorth:

 

 

COMPANIONS
—Stephen Kingsnorth

From riser-recliner, three screens faced,
but not of Cinerama world
or bucking broncos now installed—
but TV, fishtank, laptop serve.

Of medications, all prescribed,
my primary is writing verse,
the best in combat of disease,
a daily dose, addictive form.

Distraction, symptomatic claims,
expected pains put in their place,
my files stay open, early hours,
for nighttime scribbles can’t be read.

Research and recall, both combine
with curiosities observed,
until fatigue or eyestrain brake
and guppies best to intervene.

Those crafty fish call back to craft,
my marker in creating verse,
and sometimes rhyme, not false or forced—
detracting from my best by worse.

Submissions rarely knockout bout—
throw in the towel if second rate;
if best, a spell which can be raised
against a curse—weaved wizard words.

My wish, escape from that old ‘I’
that dominates much verse I read,
but find companions, ‘sharing bread’,
as musing in poetic forms.

____________________

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 kiss the old year goodbye with an:

•••Elegy for the old year: https://poets.org/glossary/elegy

•••AND/OR bring some forecasts into the equation, sending your own—

•••Poems for the new year (examples at https://poets.org/poems-new-year/). Maybe a Paradelle for the new year, hot on the heels of Joyce Odam's fine Paradelle above?

•••Paradelle: www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/poetic-asides/poets/poetic-form-paradelle

 

•••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 “Out of Control”.

____________________

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

•••Ars Poetica: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ars-poetica
•••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
•••Dream Poem: https://www.bing.com/search?q=dream+poem+form&pc=cosp&ptag=C999N1234A316A5D3C6E&form=0A1010&conlogo=CT3210127&showconv=1
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••Elegy: https://poets.org/glossary/elegy
•••Haiku: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/haiku-or-hokku AND/OR www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/haiku/haiku.html
•••Just 15s (devised by Sarah Harding): poem or stanza of 15 syllables
•••Paradelle: www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/poetic-asides/poets/poetic-form-paradelle
•••Tanka: poets.org/glossary/tanka
•••Tan-renga: https://www.graceguts.com/essays/an-introduction-to-tan-renga

__________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Today's Ekphrastic Challenge!
 
 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 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.

Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.

Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)

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 no 

fish out of water, 

that's for sure!