—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
CICATRIX
a scar by a prettier name
tracks we leave
as we pass through this life
dune tops along crests
of our desert flesh
nerve-dead meat maps
of foolish deeds and misdeeds
symbols of sins past
of childhood carelessness
of teenage recklessness
of adult heedlessness
forever signs of best intentions
faded by time
wondrous things
to see and touch
and emotional scars too
with the permanence
of the visible
a scar by a prettier name
tracks we leave
as we pass through this life
dune tops along crests
of our desert flesh
nerve-dead meat maps
of foolish deeds and misdeeds
symbols of sins past
of childhood carelessness
of teenage recklessness
of adult heedlessness
forever signs of best intentions
faded by time
wondrous things
to see and touch
and emotional scars too
with the permanence
of the visible
EVANGELICALLY SPEAKING
Those walleyed, private jet yawpers
wailing evangelically on the telly
will whitewash your sins away
for a small donation,
redemption always available
for a price and a hallelujah.
You can also buy health,
wealth, and prosperity
to hear the hucksters tell it
on the screaming omnipotent tube.
There’s always a market for souls
if you want to go that way
and you can pay under the table.
But if what you want
is a kinder gentler world,
well, brother, it’s just not for sale
‘cause there’s no profit in it
and they don’t have it to sell anyway.
GETTING OUT
floating on the echo of a night-dark
train whistle, bound for
destinations desired yet undefined
soaring on spread-eagled wings above
the little ant people, swooping
to take up the most beautiful of them
imagining running at warp-speed through
streetlight haloes away
from a small-town romance
dreaming of a prize-winning walk
down a carpeted aisle to give
astonished podium thanks
escaping however I may from this
imposed reclusion, pretending
to elude the solitude I crave
ICE ROAD
Sheets of stained plywood
braced by banked snow
define an outdoor rink
in the early morning dark.
Bathed in headlights
a boy skates long laps
in sub-zero stillness,
his breath steams the chill,
his blades scratch the ice.
Round and round he glides,
accelerating at the impatient
car-horn honk,
slowing only when
he hears it again.
He pushes a scarred puck
with a taped stick
on the path before him
from small-town ice
to the National Hockey League.
It is a road he doesn’t believe
he will ever travel
but it is one on which
the old man insists
he must skate
if he wants to play the game.
SEAGULL
A seagull in a parking lot
Eating french fries and burger buns
Says much about what’s wrong
With our upside-down world
I point an admonishing finger
At him and sternly say
You—you’re a helluva
Long way from home
You should be bob-bob-bobbing
In a saltwater chop somewhere
With a herring in your busy beak
Instead of a limp greasy chip
Wandering flat-footed in this vast
Expanse of littered asphalt
Outside the people’s food court
At the milling market mall
You’re a seagull after all
Not a landlubbing gull
Or a mall gull and certainly
Not an asphalt gull
I tell him he’ll grow fat
And be pocked with pimples
If he doesn’t stop woofing
People’s greasy leftovers
He beady-eyes me back
Chomps another chip
Squawks a seagull squawk
And flies away
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
My writing, it’s my way of making sense of everything. My way to feel whole. May I never be complete and may I never feel content—please, let me always have the need, always have the urge to write.
―Charlotte Eriksson
___________________
—Medusa, welcoming Gregg Norman and his fine poetry back to the Kitchen today, and our thanks to Joe Nolan for finding us photos to go with it!
For future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
during the week.
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
to find the date you want.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
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!
