In The Pink

 —Artwork by Lily Prigioniero

 

* * *

—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth,
Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
—Public Domain Visuals Courtesy
of Stephen Kingsnorth

 

 

…IN TIME

Sheer delight, in this warm light,
mother sewing, needles, hems,
just as grandma, whirling wheel,
humming with her Singer twirl.

And back before, treadle machine,
there’s great grandmother, from her prime—
even when her mind so far gone—
the tailoress, pin money girl,
cottage, mushroom, redarning socks.

Dancing reels for her tartan plaid,
jigging, jogging, relayed thread,
bobbin’, weavin’, spool outplayed,
rainbows woven in my dreams.

She dressed us all, the curtain, door,
both winter lined and summer, fall,
with gathered swags, and altered cloths,
those kneelers, falls and all for church,
that holy linen soon made whole.

We watched spellbound, as damascene,
circulating, patterns shared,
legs akimbo, statuesque,
pins and needles, blood returned.
      
Pincushions scattered, by design,
of hedgehog silver and wristband,
some jamming thrums note machine stuck,
we, she in stitches, seamstress trained,
yet time for chuckles, sowing jokes.

 

 

 

IN THE PINK

A playful, teasing, archly way
to challenge what we took for grant;
the only dark is light in fact,
for hanging shade hints deadly night,
as pupils led from here to end,
from start, this stranger startle path.

My mother hemmed, used pinking shears—
sheep closely shorn are pinked, NZ—
so always learn—those pupils fed—
for verse has taught this old new tricks,
though master none, but jack of all,
I’ll trade until the winds die down.

A simple graphic to design,
with range of hex by code defined,
though nature’s labels fix their stamp,
carnation, coral, fuchsia, rose,
flamingo—reflects what they eat—
or salmon, shock, blush, bubble gum?

The nearer roof, though it alone
shows pixilated, mottled touch,
some stippled artwork of a sponge,
though first evade force drawn to end,
the journey valued, mere the goal,
search cranny, chink, crack, crevice, niche.

The pastel pinks portray perchance
a setting where the sun shines bright,
an interplay, perspective’s dance,
this colonnade, a narrow path.
But pay no heed, dread nearly there;
bled, drained, as is red shed from son.

_______________________

THERE

We really should have read the signs:
the glass paned door, like afterthought,
the rare-used tarmac covered path
the corridor from A to B,
for those intent on getting there.

The Sister took us,
a warder to defend her cause,
too much gabble, knowing all,
compassion as a gossamer.

We lapped it up as puppies might,
for She was god-like, trusted here,
and we of other disciplines,
not rude enough as others, right.

Mum gobbled at our offered sponge,
her blistered tongue dehydrate clue,
but, unattuned to obvious,
we trusted Trust, as taught to do,
for She mature, blue uniformed.

I dare not let my mind go there—
this verse creeps twenty five years on—
that dark place where our mother’s care
was in the hands of hurried staff,
the nurse we should have harried there—
removed her from those clutches, dare
to bring her home with us, there, then.

We look back, incredulity,
but no one questioned medics then;
though shocked, but trained in courtesy,
we left, her at their mercy, there.
A curse which I have borne since then.

 

 

 

 Kakaso'Las Totem Pole

by Ellen Neel (Canada), 1955

—Photo by Ymblanter, CC BY-SA 4.0 

via Wikimedia Commons

POLE STAR

Here’s cupid heart cut into bark,
the timber frame for barque or home;
first nations carved their story too—
an ancestry, family tree.
Algonquian wood, totemic stood.
While others kneel at altar steps
and would alter inheritance,
they stand to ban native device
though fail to understand the craft,
or storeyed picture book of past.
Dust to dust but ash to pole,
for funerary casket cache,
a welcome sign or ridicule,
pot-boilers in the tourist trade,
community, kinship support.
Neel before all with female skill.
You see the wood before the trees.

 

 

 

 

GENDER STRONG

With forearms, bicep, metal ringed,
tradition cast in women’s lives;
those hands, a language of their own,
an index, if the tongue not known.
I see a limp, agreeing sign,
another, lips, surprising self,
and other, slipping scarf to face,
the elder, palm spread, stating case.

I think the older lays out jest,
tale at expense of men as kind,
the male as figure, mocked behalf,
consenting, knowing, ribald laugh.
It’s not a matter for the young,
the theme and lingo quite beyond,
but gender strong, not monochrome,
say here what can’t be said at home.

They know the strength in letting think—
their menfolk—have control of things;
but they know better, learned at knee,
inherent power in subtlety.
Their vocab, like the colours, spice,
that masculine, inadequate,
their laud, not masters, any day,
but easier should think that way.

 

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

SWELL
—Stephen Kingsnorth

As even breeze moves parachutes,
copters spiral down from trees
tidings washing palm nut rafts—
long live the dead, unison,
for cycled seed renews itself.
Kernels wherein gene life celled,
core of morrow’s growth restored—
sun up; now is swell.

___________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Stephen Kingsnorth for his fine poetry today, most of which is based on the accompanying photos~

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Illustration

A reminder that today is
The Big Day of Giving; go to
BigDayOfGiving.org to see how
you can donate to your
favorite non-profit. And tonight,
7pm, Poetry Night in Davis
present Mario Ellis Hill and
Bill Carr plus open mic.
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
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!

 

 

 

Enjoy The Game

 

 —Poetry by Linda Klein, Playa Vista, CA
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

 

 

MY MUSE

If I had to name a muse,
music is the one I'd choose.
A soothing song, a sweet sonata
stimulates cortex to medulla oblongata.

My fascination swims
in wild flourishes and whims,
swaying with the rhythm and the beat,
stirring my senses and moving my feet.

Rapturous sounds of wind and rain
capture my thoughts.  I need to explain,
to describe what it is how I feel.
The sizzle of the sun's warm kiss is real.

Chirping bird songs bring my words home.
It all comes together in a poem,
ringing, clinking, and clanging,
singing, jingling, and jangling.

The music of life's composing,
symphonies that lead to supposing,
random sounds pulled from the air
tell of joy and dark despair.

They are the soul of my inspiration,
the impetus for my imagination.

 

 

 

 

MY FIRST SOLO

Near the end of our Westside Singers,
Harold, our director, had dementia,
which was quickly worsening.
His son drove him to rehearsals.
Harold's mental capacity had
diminished to a point where
he didn't know where he was, nor
who we were.  Our pianist, Patricia,
was slowly taking over the lead.

Chorus members were leaving.
When we were down to five singers,
I left too with a sad, empty feeling.
I remembered when I sang my first solo.

It was an unusual chorus in which
almost every singer sang solo
with the leader's encouragement.
I knew I must also begin to do so.
It was not in my nature to be one of
the few who only sang group songs,
besides, I had a good voice
by comparison to most, who were
more comical than musical.

Harold, himself, was not a singer.
He played the saxophone and
lead a jazz band, while Patricia had been
a club and bar singer.  She accompanied
herself on piano, but could be harsh,
hurtful, and stubborn with the chorus.

After three years as a member
of this unusual chorus, years of
self-goading and self-loathing,
I pushed myself to get the sheet music
for "Alice Blue Gown".  I didn't read
music.  It was for Patricia.  I handed her
the page at rehearsal.  She rolled her eyes.
I said I want to sing the intro, although
I've never heard it, another eye roll.

Patricia began playing what was on the page,
while I sang something else completely.
She slammed the keys with both arms,
uttering and muttering, "No, no, no."
"Just follow me," I said.  She glared at me,
but I started again, with what I thought were
clever hand gestures.  "I once had a gown.
It was almost new.  Oh, the daintiest thing.
It was sweet Alice blue."

Patricia laid her head on the keys and
banged them, screaming, "Shut up!"
Harold never interfered in an argument
between women.  She won out.  I omitted
the intro, but kept my hand gestures.
Some of which were doozies.

From then on, I sang a solo in every show,
slowly becoming accustomed to the exposure
by pretending there was no audience.
They became a myopic blur, dissolving
into their seats.  I looked out at empty chairs
until I heard applause, then I bowed.  "Thank you."

 

 

 

 

THE GAME

Life is a game, a serious one.
To play it well, know yourself,
your strengths, your limits.

Consider goals.  Find allies.
Know your opponents.
Learn the rules.  Play fair.

Be prepared to lose.  Try again.
Defeat is not an option.
Keep moving forward.

Give it all you have
for as long as you can.
Play the game to win.

Enjoy the game.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.

—Friedrich Nietzsche

_____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Linda Klein for her fine poetry and to Joe Nolan for the fine flower photos he found for us for this May Day, 2024!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that today is
the deadline for
the 2024 VOICES anthology.
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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Landscapes of Difficulty

 

Stay

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

  

 

WITHDRAWN

—Joyce Odam

Today I shall not be pleased.
Don’t praise me.

Your words are straw
for a dry earth.

Bring me a river to follow;
bring me a wild strawberry
from a mountain.

I want your eyes to say
something to my heart.
I want your hands to pray for
the soft, erosive earth
of my body.

I want you to touch my mind
with easiness.

I am so tired.
I have been through such places.

Landscapes of difficulty
are everywhere.
They impede me.
They change into wilderness.

Not that wilderness
displeases me
for its own sake,
but I will not be pleased today.

                                       
(prev. pub. in Negative Capability)

 

 

 

Where The Trees Are

THE BIRDS ARE SINGING

and on the landscape
the birds are singing
invisible in the trees
it is morning
and the sharp songs are everywhere
the sunlight cannot find them
though it looks and
quickens the shadows
of things that are growing

the singing of the birds
is like shouts of diamonds
celebrating their voices
the green leaves
answer with
swift protective flutterings
within which
the diamond birds are hiding

and in the center
of the landscape
a man in a pair of shorts
is sitting on a chair
that is growing from the earth
his body made golden by the sun
his soft hair lifting to the light
and he is sitting there
in all that sound
reading the newspaper

 

 

—Joyce Odam

(prev. pub. in Jam Today, 1977;
and Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/30/19)

______________________

YOUR REPROACHFULNESS

—Joyce Odam

how come you flutter to me
on stone wings

am I sky, am I broken earth,
are you pleading for flight,

or will you fall awkwardly
and break into pebble pieces

shall I feed you to water
who never loved the air

shall I protect you finally
in my brimming hand

that could never
touch you soon enough

 

 

 

Dreamers

THROUGH THE FAIRY TALE, AS RETOLD :

—Joyce Odam

The red horse ridden by a red-garmented rider hold-
ing a yellow flame aloft—bright enough to light the
way through the glowing dark.

The horse-hooves never touch the earth to make a
sound. The horse has ridden this way before on the
oft-repeated mission.

The yellow flame the rider holds never goes out,
but flares the harder. The raised arm of the rider
never tires, but tirelessly carries the flame that will
never go out.

The wakened trees lean in the same direction as the
horse and rider, then settle back.

The forest goes still again and the little white birds
fly up and follow the rider as they always do.

 

 

 

As Near As Love

 

UMBILICUS

—Joyce Odam

Bear Woman is larger than Warrior Woman.
And more fierce. She could kill at whim.   
But this is a dance. Tribal and inexact.  

They circle and posture, snarling, for threat
and challenge. One of them will have to die,
but that is expected.

All night the sky rains blood, but neither
has conquered the other. Ritual demands
the exchange of powers. But the winner

must be sly and woo the other’s surrender.
That they are kin is of no consequence.
Love is the power between them, equally

possessive and resisted and must be broken.
All night they have beaten the earth raw
with their dancing. The dawn redeems them.

 

 

 

 Falling Leaves

THE VINES

—Joyce Odam

I could say of these vines that they are tangled, cannot be solved, that one should not enter them; they are fastened to the earth in knots, choking their own spaces. They are complicated—like puzzles—looking for straightness and upwardness, or how to avoid those directions.

And they are strong, growing thick with their struggle—as muscular as cats. They possess the place they are at with the tenacity of secrets, or changeability. You cannot step through them, unless you be as small as insects are, or moisture made of gray drizzle, or are as bodiless as breezes.

And vines are very slow and dark; they are forever changing their mind, or trying out new decisions—such are the thoughts of vines, coiling as slow as centuries, curving all over themselves in a sort of sensuality—like a slow writhe of serpents in some rare goldness—not knowing which of them is the one they are.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/29/17; 8/23/22) 

 

 

 

Remembering

WHERE THE LIGHT ENDS

—Joyce Odam

This deep red water,
full of blue reflections,
drowning trees and clouds,
it is sunset
and the colors
bleed and bleed
but cannot dilute.
Water shadows
fret at the bank edges—
lap against green—
try to eat the earth away.
The trees lean out to test themselves.
The bank holds them in place.
The river turns where the light ends.
It is sunset and the river
has vanished into the sky.
The sky has swallowed the river
and the last bend of color.
All is peaceful now.
The trees can rest
and the shadows
repair themselves–
everything that was—
still is : this is the myth
of all that has no sensation—
only the sad awareness of your watching.

                                    
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/3019)

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

MOON
—Robin Gale Odam

night sky, swath of gray,
mother earth and her muse—

curve of dark under the first
pastel ray from the one horizon—

at the other, the dark of invitation,
an invocation, surreal levitation for

virtue of seasons—for the lift of wings
of flying creatures, and the sanctity

of wind moaning through hollows and
sighing at the path of the hour-hand,

above the-notebook-and-the-pen, over
what is there or gone or coming to be.

___________________

Many new-May thanks to Joyce and Robin for answering to our Seed of the Week (Trees) in such splendid fashion, with fine poetry and visuals!

The eggs of the Canada Goose who was nesting on the carport across the street from me have hatched; those yolks turned into three yellow fluff-balls that wandered around the carport for a few minutes and finally settled under the hen who is their forever-mother. After some bonding time, both parents flew down to the street and called until the golden fluffs fluttered down (safely!). Then all five of this new family hustled across the street and down the bank to the creek that will be their home throughout the chicks’ childhood—putting my mind to rest after several weeks of worry, I might add!

This scene will repeat itself millions of times around the globe this season. Such power those yolks hold! So our new Seed of the Week is “Yolks”. 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

 

 

 

 Owlet meets his first tulip~
—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.

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!

Knitting The World Together

 —Illustration by Nolcha Fox (with Microsoft Designer)

* * *

—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Steven Bruce, Caschwa, and Joe Nolan
—Visual Poetry by Robert Fleming
—Tree Illustration by Nolcha Fox
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Stephen Kingsnorth, Steven Bruce,
and Joe Nolan 

HIDDEN
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

Somewhere unbeknownst to man,
is forest hidden, untouched, wild.
Roots that knit the world together,
Leaves that paint the black of night.
Somewhere, something, bigger
than our tiny egos can envision,
somewhere that will outlast
all the damage we inflict.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

FOREST TIMBRE
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Our arboretum, monument,
where folks recall the dead of war,
so many fallen, leaf on leaf,
consigned to earth, the world of worms.
There counterintuitive, dun
becomes burnt umber land, ground-scaped,
rich humus for the sapling root,
new life for old, continuous.

Pinetum for the conifers
from northern climes where Christmas grown,
to Lebanon’s Bsharri trees,
both signs of God in branched out faith
as Bodhi in the Buddhist way,
Yggdrasil for the Nordic strains.

Is this the privilege of trees,
as Eden to Golgotha, more,
to take the space in legend, lore,
from hourglass, route to canopy,
with mycorrhiza web on call?
Take tump or clump where bark is heard—
as chopped, spokeshaved or pecked, beak, bill—
there’s carbon storage on the hill.

That whipping post, those stocks, witch chair,
were cradle, marriage bed before,
and all things hewn for infant care—
indeed family tree carved out;
what may be harvest of our grain—
the nurtured life or deathbed knell?

 

 

 

Harvesting Tools 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Stephen Kingsnorth

HARVESTING THE GRAIN
—Stephen Kingsnorth

A treasure chest, still silver shine,
tools bright, though handles manicured
by leathered palms, patina years,
now pegged, clipped, hung in craftsman’s den;
from blade, spokeshave, to chisel grooved,
for furrow hew or plane and lathe,         
this vice clamp locks the sacred space,
that horde where bored cannot be found,
the artisan’s trove, unmoved, set square.

Paraphernalia screwed down,
with awls and all to punch their weight
through hide where seek the buckle bite—
this is the workshop for the grate,
sandpaper gauge to be applied.
Here sons ply wood with hammered nails—
learn cursed shrieks where thumbs intervene—
learn feel for trees by timber yards,
a metric for their carpentry.

As lads run rings and harvest grain,
know knots, as buff what can be done,
they learn to work with, journeymen,
and not to fight relationship,
mortise and tenon joined as one.
Bemoan claimed signs of fading skills,
but while there’s canopy, concern,
that bole of life outgrows the stump,
those trees present salvation yet.

 

 

 

Gilliat Struggles with the Giant Octopus

—Painting by Gustave Doré

 

SLIGHT
—Steven Bruce, Barcelona, Spain

Out of their tiny mouths,
it comes, slight and salty,

a swirl of wearisome words,

which are nothing
but a sweeping small swell
over the stilled Kraken’s papillae.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

FOUR VISUAL POEMS
—Robert Fleming, Lewes, Delaware

 

 

Apollo 11 in 1969 discovers pizza

 

Moon crust pizza causes howling

Pizza with moon peppers causes jealousy

 

Pizza with mushrooms is a narcotic

 

_____________________

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

GO YE 4TH
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

Go ye 1st and
incriminate
the mime

Go ye 2nd and
illuminate
the Sky

Go ye 3rd and
dominate
the show

Go ye 4th and
disseminate
the Estate

Go ye 5th and
prevaricate
a tale

Go ye 6th and
conglomerate
at Broadway

Go ye 7th and
exaggerate
the inning

Go ye 8th and
humiliate
Pluto

Go ye 9th and
detonate
a Grand Slam

Go ye 10th and
decorate
perfection

Go ye 11th and
calculate
the last hour

 

 

 

—Public Domain Cartoon Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

BACKWARDS
—Caschwa

she said she was fire
so he brought out the
fire extinguisher
to extinguish her

he said no woman could
ever put him in his place
so she dropped him
down a manhole

if only arians knew what
antidisestablish
meant

it doesn’t work to play
a grand finale
on a spinet

couldn’t speak French
so I called my
derailleur
a ten-speed

once you admit that you’ve
been there and done that
they’ll throw the book
at you

I swallow pills to help my health
and to enrich
Big Pharma’s
wealth 

—Public Domain Cartoon 

Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

WOE IS ME
—Caschwa

I’ll just woeander
along the winding Creekside
in the early dawn

humming woelodic
responses to the bird calls
in the forest trees

munching sliced woelon
for endurance and good strength
it is a long hike

my woemory fails
to recall where I started
hope the end is soon

oh woercy, woercy
there’s a deer hiding thither
we fear each other

and stay far apart
to remain off the woenu
together in peace
 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

AT THE ORGANIC RESTAURANT
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

Would you like your
Pseudo-organic
Compost-pile
Fake chicken
Leafy green salad
Sprinkled with
Lipid-covered
Nano-particles
To re-set your
Operating system
Or not?

You have choices,
You know?
It’s still a free society.

We’re not locking people down
Like 2021
And shoving this stuff
Down their throats.

That will come
Sometime later, maybe,
When the next, tragic,
Synthroid micro-predator
Is released into your genome
By mandated injection.

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Be seasonal, ethical, and gentle.

—Fennel Hudson, Traditional Angling: Fennel’s Journal No. 6

__________________

Welcome to another week of Medusa’s Kitchen, and thanks to today’s contributors for helping us celebrate our Seed of the Week (in honor of last Friday’s Arbor Day), Trees—among, of course, other subjects from far and wide. 

 

This coming Thursday is the annual Big Day Of Giving. Go to BigDayOfGiving.org to find out how to make a donation to your favorite non-profit.

Swan Scythe Press is accepting manuscripts for its 2024 chapbook contest through June 15th (postmark). Any living poet writing in English is eligible to submit. The winning manuscript will be published in a 6" x 9" format, perfect-bound with full-color cover. The contest winner will receive 25 copies of the book and a prize of $200. Info: go to submittable at www.swanscythepress.com/. 

And this coming Wednesday is the deadline for the annual anthology, Voices, from Cold River Press. For info about that 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. National Poetry Month will end that day, too, but that doesn’t mean NorCal poetry events will end—there’s plenty more to come! So keep an eye on that link for all that fun and poetry frolic in the future!

_____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

Goodnight, Moon...

—Public Domain Photo

 

 

 

 

       

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Sacramento Poetry Center
will present Sarah Menefee and
Jim Normington tonight, 7:30pm.
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!

 

 

Meant To Be A Dreamer

 —Poetry, Artwork and Photos by
Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozábal,
West Covina, CA

LOS ANGELES WEDDING

Wind marries rain
on the avenue 

on the corner across
the street where
evening and ice split up
and went down
running into the ground.

It was just a wedding
and no ring.
It was over
by rush hour.

In this city
I have seen many things.
The poet in me

believes this is paradise.

 

 

 

 

THE CROWS SING

I hear the crows sing.
Their song stretches
past the branches and
trees. How am I to tell
them, I am trying to
sleep? The night was

long. Let me dream as
I lay in my bed. Is it
wrong to tell the crows
to stop their song? I
need a little sleep. I
need a lot of dreams.

But the crows do not
stop and I just cannot
sleep now. I think I was
meant to be a dreamer.
But no one believes me.

 

 

 

I COME TO YOU

I come to you
with a heart raised
in winter and
a bird for you
on each finger.
They cannot fly
but I find their
songs whimsical
even in flight
far from their nests.
I come to you
with open arms
and an open
heart. The frost is
thawing and these birds
are singing new
songs as winter
gives way to spring.

 

 

 

 
 

NIGHTBIRDS

Nightbirds are the ghosts
in the shrubbery. We hear
the hollering like La Llorona
with voices that are music
for the dead. I see them 

flying out of the bushes
and flying back in. They
seem to be on the hunt
for lonesome prey.
But I am often wrong in

my guesses. In the orange
tree the nightbirds make
their nests. The branches
are thin and break. A blue
moon shines above as

the nightbirds take off
singing. There is something
dark and sinister in their
harmonies and black wings.
Their songs burst apart

in deep sorrow. Am I
sky high, hallucinating?
Am I sky high, like the one
night at the bar where
I had to leave my car?
I followed a comet home.
I could not find my street.

 

 

 

 

BOUQUET
After Pedro Mir

I imagine your
words a bouquet
of roses nourishing
the birds and bees of spring.
They fill me with warmth
from my head to my belly.
My blood circulates.
Your words are oxygen.
I feel them in my teeth.
They are the nutrients
and my salvation.
They take out the salt
from my wounds.
What can I give in return?
My heart?
My love?
My time?

Anything you want,
and anything you need,
a bouquet of roses
to acknowledge your importance.
You have saved me
from death without love.

 

 

 

 

KEEP PUSHING FORWARD

Why did the black cat cross my path?
Why did the black coffee burn my lip?
I have grown not to believe in bad luck.
The hurricane will come whether
I am in Florida or not. I flip the page of
my story and keep pushing forward
until I cannot go forward anymore.
My hand falls asleep when I sleep.
It goes too limp to hold a hammer.

In my dreams there is no talk of politics
or religion. I am just a child that plays
the games I no longer play. I do not
get nervous when my dream girl talks
to me. We kick the soccer ball back
and forth until the dream is over.
We go to a concert in another dream.

______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

BEHIND THE WALL
—Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozábal

Blackbirds walk
without shoes.
Between blades of
grass, they
leave slight
imprints, which
only the
most acute
eye can see.

______________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Luis Berriozábal for his fine poetry and visuals today!

 

 

 

 —Photo by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozábal

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that today is a busy day
in NorCal poetry, starting at 10am
with the Arts And Nature Festival in
Georgetown; First Church of Poetry at noon
in Sacramento; then a conversation
between Juan Felipe and Maceo Montoya
and Terezita Romo at 1pm at
Sacramento City College;
Voices of JUST-Is in Sacramento
at 4pm; Thompson Peak Writers’ Workshop
featuring Lara Gularte, Dianna Henning,
 and June Sanders in Janesville, 4pm;
and LabRats Music & Poetry Jam
tonight in Sacramento, 8pm.
For more info about these and other
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 version of
L.A. Wedding

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Remaining Invisible

 —Poetry by Michael H. Brownstein,
Jefferson City, MO
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

HOW TO REMAIN INVISIBLE WHEN
THE GREAT STORM FALLS
(Jefferson City, MO, tornado, 11:40 PM,
May 22nd/23rd, 2019)

Two days later you navigate the ruts in the road,
fallen trees, torn roofs, swinging wires, broken
poles
to a house at the end of a broken street and a
gravel path,
up the steps of a porch still strong, an electric box
dangling,
no windows broken, branches and car parts a picture
frame.
When the door opens, heat rushes outside. A frail
woman
at the door. Yes, she says. On her kitchen table,
a melting ice-cream carton, bags of leaking vegetables,
the soiled odor of spoiled milk. Come in, she says.
No electricity, a water pipe maligned, gas turned off.
All around you, every house has a sign—you can
stay or
you must vacate. There is no sign on her front door.
You’re the first people I’ve seen in three days. Is it
safe?
We have food, you tell her, and water. One of us
can remain with you. We’ll see if we cannot get
you help.
And then the wind of the tornado slips from her.
Her body rocks, then shivers, one hand goes to her
face.
Sorry, she says, I can’t help it and she cries and cries.

 

 

 

 

FATHER

I always thought you would outlive me
Lifting heavy boxes past the age of seventy,
Carrying them fifty feet without rest
As if you were white water riding a crest
Of a wave digging talons into sand—
You were always the one I could count on to stand
As my corner man in the boxing ring
Or tell me a lie when I was asked to sing
At this function or that, knowing my throat
Was stale bread, textured oat.
Yet now I find you tied to machines
Calculating strokes of your heart on reams
Cascading past the nurse’s station in intensive care.
I left work early wondering if I dare
Peek in to see you beyond the open door.
You smile, plant heavy white stocking feet to the
floor:
I’m OK, you tell me, my heart was racing,
And you move your finger to your chest as if tracing
A child’s picture shaded with red
An intricate design with a loose thread.

 

 

 

 

AN AFFAIR WITH LOVE

Now that everything is over,
The speed bump, the crack in concrete,
A chapbook by Steven Schletor
Open to pages four and five
Waving its torn hands in the wind.
When it rains, when it snows,
After the hail, after the heavy sleet,
After the weather breaks to a drizzle,
The staples bend and rust and break,
But this is nothing. Water has a way
With cardboard and paper, rock
And sandstone, love and ink.

 

 

 

 
 
ERRANDS AND OTHER THINGS
OCCUPY MY TIME

and now I look through my list of poems,
a silence so concise it swells into me.
Is there no room for hunger or shame,
the loose breath of the injured fawn
leaning terribly against the injured oak,
its new buds wet with the last blossoms of snow?
Somewhere children are flying kites. It is spring.
Somewhere children are flying kites. It is fall.
The homeless man from the corner tells me
water is the hardest thing to find in the city.
“Can you spare fifty cents? I need a can of cola.”
His teeth are like mine, coated and spoiled.
I give him a quarter and he buys a bag of chips.

 

 

 

 

IN THE MORNING IT WILL STILL BE OKAY

This is not who I love. This is not what I love.
Love is a god-stone, thick and sometimes valuable,
strong-wristed, one arc of a finger
stretching.

Love has the weight of god, the weight of Eve’s
sister,
Lilith, and vomit, water mixed with salt,
A mottled permutation of tear-stained skin,
pink and ordinary, thinly veined and iridescent,
the sigh of sun arriving into day’s orange blue.

This is who I love. This is what I love.
An evening of chimneys and steam,
a cloud of feather and frog,
green eyes,
you.

 

 

 

 

CREATIVE BIO

Michael H. Brownstein is on the roof of his old house, the roof in serious disrepair, and he walks on it as if he’s on a boardwalk—a squirrel falls through where he just stood—what is left to do but go to all fours, tread carefully until he’s on safe ground, call the roofers (he can’t fix this), and write a poem.

He’s walking across a great field, firecrackers exploding. He swats away at dozens of mosquitoes. Near where he teaches, the security guard tackles him and points out a sniper who has been shooting at him as he crossed. There is nothing else to do but conduct a poetry workshop in his algebra class.

He goes camping, and a rattlesnake crawls into his sleeping bag. Prayer and poetry—they really do go together.

On and on. Take a break. Write a poem.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Poetry lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the world, and makes familiar objects be as if they were not familiar.

—Percy Bysshe Shelley, from A Defense of Poetry and Other Essays

_____________________

—Medusa, thanking Michael Brownstein for his fine poetry today!

 

Check out this article from The Fulcrum, "Our campaigns need more poetry", which appeared in yesterday's Sacramento Bee: https://thefulcrum.us/ethics-leadership/national-poetry-month/. Raise your hand if you agree...

 

 

 

 Take a break. Write a poem…
(Best advice I’ve heard all week!)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Escritores Del Nuevo Sol presents
its Contra Banned reading tonight
at Sac. Poetry Center, 6pm.


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!