Indulging in Poetry

  Let us break pizza together ~
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa
* * *
—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Sayani Mukherjee, Devyanshi Neupane,
Carol Anne Johnson, Joe Nolan,
and Steven Bruce
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joe Nolan,
Steven Bruce, and Medusa

 

 

INDULGENCE
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

He left for work, now I can indulge.
I light the fire, warm the house.
I spike my eggnog, curl up on the couch.
I grab a pillow, wrap myself in blankets.

I light the fire, warm the house.
I douse the Christmas tree with gasoline.
I grab a pillow, wrap myself in blankets for
protection.
I toss a match into the room and run like heck.

I douse the Christmas tree with gasoline.
I spike my eggnog, I can carry it to go.
I toss a match into the room and run like heck.
He left for work, I indulge in pyromania.

 

 

 

 Forget the chocolate . . .
—Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa

HAGIOGRAPHY
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

’Tis understatement, I suppose,
indulgence, only, stage craft, mine,
retreat when clearly star each day;
Uriah name I freely own—
humility, the cad I play.

To step back, others showered praise,
applaud them, though they know deserts,
that I who gained them pride of place;
I revel as promote their cause,
and as instilled, drive forth their case.

Forget the chocolate or cakes,
tobacco, whisky, flutter, cards—
but butter up to win the cream;
companions feel I’ve paved their gold,
this angel’s scheme fulfilled their dream.

Who claimed indulgence not for sale,
when reputation bought by mine—
hear admiration trails my way;
piled laurels crown, surround my head—
when weighed, divine, saint’s pay I’d say. 

 

 

 

 Papillons dans un paysage, un village 

à l’arriére-plan
—Painting by Jan van Kessel the Elder (1626-1679)
—Public Domain Painting Courtesy of Medusa

 

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

I have lost my tulip tree
Buried and briefed under a tilted stage
A banyan tree under my eunoia days
The neem tree is green today
The bird is flowed from the sky
Silked and tattered in the orange sky high
A new rust orange peeling off
The memories of lost napkin
A blue coat of overcoat promised land
The fairies come alive in the penknife pen
Still I hold my babies true.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

MY BIRTHDAY DAY
—Devyanshi Neupane, (Age 5 now),
Melbourne, Australia

My birthday is on seventh December.
I cut white, blue and purple cake.
I have colourful balloons.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

In shadows deep where memories tread, 
A battle rages in my head, 
Whispers of past, they claw and cling, 
Yet within me stirs a softer thing. 
 
A flicker of light, a candle’s glow, 
In the heart's hidden chamber, courage grows, 
Each tremor of fear, each haunting trace, 
Is met with a smile, an embrace of grace. 
 
The nights are long, the silence loud, 
But hope rises tall, like a steadfast cloud, 
I gather my fragments, stitched with care, 
Each scar a story, each wound laid bare. 
 
In the labyrinth of thoughts, I find my way, 
With every step, I choose to stay, 
To breathe in the present, to let the past fade, 
To waltz with the storms and dance unafraid. 
 
The echoes may linger, but I am not bound, 
I rise from the ashes, reclaimed, unconfound, 
With every heartbeat, I weave a new song, 
A tapestry woven where I truly belong. 
 
So here’s to the battles that shaped who I am, 
The strength I discovered, the quiet I’ve tamed, 
For in the embrace of resilience and time, 
I’m learning to soar, I’m learning to climb. 
 
Through valleys of darkness, I carry my light, 
In the warmth of my spirit, I’ll conquer the night, 
With love as my armor and hope as my guide, 
I’ll navigate life, with strength deep inside.

—Carol Anne Johnson, Cork, Ireland

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

WEBBED-FEET CHURNING
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

Notorious a-salts,
Re-ported in the noose—
Alt-ear-your motives
Re-mane in repose
Waiting for suckling ducks
To paddle halfway
Across a pond
With webbed-feet churning
Underneath a surface
That seems still.

Who would ever a-thought
Syria would fall so fast?
Well, we were sucking out its oil
Underneath the radar
For at least a decade
And carting it off to Iraq
Where Cheney set up fiefdoms
For his oil-buddies
After the ‘03 invasion,
When they hanged Hussein.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

KEEPING A LID ON IT
—Joe Nolan

What society demands
And thus requires
From all its worker-bees
Who aspire
To be
Worthy servants of the Queen
When they gather
To converse
At the water-cooler in the office
Or at the watering hole
On their way home
Is to not be too extreme
In how they express
Their feelings—
To make a pledge
That they don’t feel that way—
Too extreme
And by all means
Not to scream
In four-letter words
Like they had Tourette’s.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Advertisement Courtesy of Joe Nolan

THE END OF DIALS
—Joe Nolan

It is the end of dials.
Dials have all died off.
Dials made the world go ‘round,
Back when we were young,
   
But now we’re doing digital.
The world’s on “oh’s” and ones.
Now, instead of swirling
We poke and poke and poke
Little numbers on a screen
Or letters on a board.

My little kitten stares at me
Wondering why
My fingers seem so mad.

 

 

 

The Dog 

—Painting by Francisco Goya (1819)
—Public Domain Art Courtesy of Steven Bruce

Today’s LittleNip

LIKE A DOG
—Steven Bruce, Gdynia, Poland

Love’ll sniff
you out.

It’ll sit,
beg, bark,

and wag its tail
so long as the fire burns.

But it doesn’t
stay.

___________________

We have a potpourri of international poets visiting the Kitchen today: Stephen Kingsnorth from Wales, Steven Bruce from Poland, Sayani Mukherjee from India, Devyanshi Neupane from Australia, and of course other pals from the US. Many flags sitting at our roundtable this morning, some of whom tackled our Seed of the Week, “My Only Indulgence”. (Be sure to check on Tuesdays for each new Seed of the Week.)

And welcome to newcomer Shirley Healy from Cork, Ireland (who writes as Carol Anne Johnson). Shirley has been blind from birth and has been diagnosed with complex PTSD and dissociative identity disorder. She says she “mostly writes about her struggles with mental health, coping with and surviving it daily.” See more from Shirley at http://therapybits.com/. Welcome to the Kitchen, Shirley (Carol Anne), and don’t be a stranger!

___________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that Poetry in Motion
meets tin Placerville today, 10:30am;
and Sacramento Poetry Center features
Traci Gourdine and Gary Thomas
tonight, 7:30pm.
For info about these 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
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Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
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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!

 

 Oops~