Birds of a Feather or Two~

  —Photo by Jill and Scott Kalter

(Courtesy of Nolcha Fox)
* * *
—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Claire J. Baker,
Stephen Kingsnorth, Sayani Mukherjee,
Shiva Neupane, and Joe Nolan

—Public Domain Birds Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

FLIGHT SCHOOL
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

Icarus had dreams of grandeur,
He wanted to reach the heights.
He fashioned wings
of wax and feathers.

The birds were irked.
They pecked out plumage,
Chased him off the cliff.

He hadn’t attended
their flight school,
and so
he was dropped.

 

 

 

 

WHEN BIRDS GET TOGETHER
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

to gather their daily A-B-C’s,
they seem lively, yet at ease.
Already nice, they already please.

Birds, god bless, don’t wheeze,
don’t complain of worn-out knees,
or of needing slicker skis.

Too high-strung for afternoon teas,
too quick to fear bedazzled bees,
birds crave rufflings from a breeze

to swift off lice in twos or threes. 

 

 

 

 

BIRDS OF A FEATHER…
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

See flocks which stay with their own kind
miss predators, critical friends.
Surrounded by plumage alike,
we protect from diversity;
this preservation of gene pool
comes at the cost, creative whole.

At race course and sports stadia,
the crack house, skid row, refugees,
bridge players trumped, cricketers stumped,
alcoholics as meet, anon,
communities, like-minded isles,
we need more crossing of those aisles.

Both dip, stoup, stoop, to pray and prey,
the pilgrim and the sparrowhawk,
these words for birds, wing and prayer
are interwoven, breast to tail,
as featherweight in boxing ring
while featherlight speaks for itself.

Now this an anapodoton,
the main clause missing, but implied,
an idiom, the rest assumed—
those in the know to understand;
birds of a feather fits the bill—
as flock together, lesson learned.

It features, art of rhetoric;
it’s heard atop the omnibus.
It’s written by the quill in hand;
transcribed by keyboard, laptop codes.
Device in conversation, books,
an agèd idiom revealed.

 

 

 

THOSE DANG SQUIRRELS
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

Growing up in the city I would occasionally
see a squirrel. I heard tell from folks who
professed to have a more worldwide view,
that there were actually 2 kinds of squirrels:
ground squirrels and tree squirrels.

I believed what they said and henceforth held
the common sense view that if a squirrel was
scavenging about on the ground, that was a
ground squirrel, and if it was up in a tree, that
was a tree squirrel.

All that worked fine until we moved to the
suburbs, and each and every day I would
observe squirrels first scavenging about on
the ground, and then those very same squirrels
would climb up into a tree, no problem.

So maybe these squirrels I see in the suburbs are
some kind of hybrid, which I will hereby denote
as the “all terrain squirrel.” And that’s all I know.

 

 

 

 

HOW TO APPROACH A VOLCANO
—Caschwa

Is that an active or inactive volcano?
She’s a gal in the dressing room volcano,
and she’ll be ready when she’s ready. Find
something else to occupy your time, pal.

 

 

 

Blue-Footed Boobie

ANTI-DEPRESSANT
—Caschwa

(Digital Age Advice)

A key element of Spell Check
helping you avoid the frown
you would get from the act of
pushing the wrong button down

 

 

 

 

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

I live among the trees
The lush greenery of global earth
Moonstone of glowing night
Monsoon is spreading its wings
The Mayflower of seasonal changes
God is among us
Watching the children grow
The Godspeed of everything
Poetry music nature of dappled earth
Family of flora and fauna.
As I sip my morning June
With coveted rain and blessing. 

 

 

 

 Shiva Neupane at Parliament House

(Birds of a feather hang out together—

at Parliament House!)

MY TRIP TO CANBERRA
—Shiva Neupane, Age 5, Melbourne, Australia

I saw kangaroos on my way to Canberra.
I saw sheep on my way to Canberra.
I saw bridge on my way to Canberra.
I had visited to Parliament house in Canberra. 

 

 

 

 

 

WARM BUTTER
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

Don’t say “old,”
Since after old
Very soon
Comes dead.

Don’t say a word
That augurs
Something we
All dread.

Don’t say it.
Don’t say it.
Don’t even think it.

Think instead
Of bread,
Warm and delicious,
Fresh from an oven,
Ready to slather
With butter.

Oh! To be so well bred
That you always had bread
And better, still,
To have had butter
To slather at will,
All you want.

Such dreams of youth and pleasure
Surely keep spirits young.
Think of the way warm butter
Went dripping onto your tongue.

 

 

 

 

MOST LIKELY
—Joe Nolan

Most likely
There will be
A sense of ending.

Most likely
There will be
A sense of loss,

When all
The timbers
Of trees
Are shattered
By bombs
That have
Flown across.

Most likely
You won’t have answers
To questions
How no one cared
Better than
To destroy all we know
As if destruction were bliss.

 

 

 

MIGHT HE MATCH YOU?
—Joe Nolan

Which windy whirl
Might arc and swirl
Autumn leaves
Down from their trees?

While walking girls
With lovely curls,
Laugh and tell their stories,
Walking down their streets.

Listening,
An acquired skill,
Is put to task
As girls ask,
“Tell me more
About your suitor?
Is he able, skilled and deft
Or have his ways
Left him bereft
Without a social clue?

Do you think he
Might match you?”

 

 

 

FALL IN LOVE AND DANCE
—Joe Nolan

Fall in love and dance.
Fall in love and
Dance, dance, dance.

The sparkle
Of infatuation,
Eyes held in
Embracing glance,

Hold your partner tightly
And dance, dance, dance.

Brightness
In a sweet caress,
The rhythm of the movement,
Fall in love and
Dance, dance, dance.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

SURE IT IS
—Caschwa

Where in the world is Acapulco?

It’s right on the flip side of Acapushco.

_____________________

Our thanks to today’s contributors for comments on our Seed of the Week, Birds of a Feather, among their other words of wisdom. Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week, and Fridays for poetry-form and Ekphrastic challenges. 

Speaking of birds, the Canary Summer Solstice 2025 Issue (Number 69) is available now at  https://canarylitmag.org/?mc_cid=072b92cec7&mc_eid=c689f0c391/. Canary is a fine literary journal, based in California, which “encourages engagement with the natural world, a recognition that we are a part of this complex, integrated endangered system”. Canary's Managing Editor, Charles Entrekin, passed away in February, unfortunately, but his wife, Gail Entrekin, continues to release an issue every quarter. Our condolences to you, Gail, on your loss.

_________________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Dianna Henning & Karen Terrey
will read at Sacramento Poetry Center
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.

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!

 

Ya gotta luvaduck~!
We’re all birds of a feather,
after all . . .

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Little Mad

 —Poetry and Visuals by 

Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal,
 W. Covina, CA

 

 

GAUZE CLOUDS

Clouds seem like gauze
for skies’ wounds. Some
are like puffy shadows.
Some seem like snow
splashes. The gauze
clouds float above tall
buildings and hills. In
the black sky they veil
the stars and the moon.

The white gauze clouds
turn gray after a while.
They bend and break apart.
The wind pushes them
away. They come back
and spread across the
skies. They line up like
sheep and disperse. I
find them at the beach,
out at sea, reflected in
the waves. Late at night
the gauze clouds follow
me all the way home. Surf
sounds remain in my ears

when I hit my bed to sleep.

 

 

 

 

YOUR SMILE

Your smile is as wide as the moon.
You smile to eradicate the gloom.
Oh, excuse me for speaking in rhyme.
You smile and I smile back in kind.
I’m going to walk into the river
To see if I can fish out the moon’s
Reflection, to gather lots of fish,
To see where the world ends.
Your smile will be waiting for me.
My smile will be waiting for you.

 

 

 

 

A LITTLE MAD

Everyone is a little mad,
some more than others.
Ordinary madmen feign
their disorders for a bed
to spend the night in.
When offered medicine
they protest with such
fervor, tears fall out of
their eyes far from gentle.
Their flesh turns red as
if scorched by the radiant
smiles of a thousand suns.

 

 

 

 

SPEAK TOO FAST

I speak too fast
and you speak last
and say goodbye.

I speak from a
place of love. No,
not yes, you say.
I give and give
and get back shade.

I give enough.
I give too much.
You give only
what you could give.
Between you and
me and me and

you, I look at

everything. I
am alive with
death all around.
I am alive.
Death speaks only
truth unspoken.

Now and then, I
stand falling down,
shrinking into
where I cannot
flee. My flesh stripped
all the way down.
I call to you,
my finer friend,
finer than me.
I like you. I
feel so down. I
need you. Are you
there? It is dark
in the flow of
words almost gone.

 

 

 

 

NEVER IMAGINE

I never imagined 

you dead, that you
could die, that such
a force would be
confined in a grave,
where your words,
your smile, and your
laughter would not
be heard again.
I shake my head.
I thought you would
live forever. I feel
a loss I could never
imagine. If I had ten
tongues, they would
all be tied, desperate
to find the words.
I am unable to utter
a sound. Now and then
I dream of the dead
living, talking, laughing
and smiling. If this
is all our future,
well, it is, we live
and we die. Will
someone dream
about me when
I am gone?

 

 

 

 

ANGST

I fear angst
will penetrate
my dream and
leave me out in
the real world.

The door to
the dream world will
close. I will
pace in my room
all night long.

Every move
filled with angst and
despair. Each
step, one sad
reminder of

the dark space
I inhabit
in the real
world without dreams.

Who sleeps in


such of a world?


My legs fall


asleep and I


fall awake.

 

 

 

 

Today’s LittleNip:

MAKING PREDICTIONS
—Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

2067, I won’t be there.
On a street in Paris,
I won’t be there. In the
Hall of Fame, I won’t
be there. I peruse the
menu at my favorite
breakfast joint. I am
here and I will be there
next week, God willing.

___________________

—Medusa,  with thanks to Luis Berriozábal for today’s fine poetry and original artwork and photos!

 

 

 

" I speak from a place of love . . ."
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For info about
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 high-tails it outta here~

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Summer, Season of Love

 Fruits of Summer
—Painting by William Mason Brown
—A Summer Fiesta of Poetry
to Celebrate the Solstice
by Sarah Das Gupta, Cambridge, UK

—Public Domain Art

 

 

SUMMER DALLIANCE

Summer, season of love.
walking in the fields of paradise,
moonlit evenings, sound of distant waves,
voices from the sea of mythic lost lovers,
red wine and the song of the South.
Night scent, drifting from the garden.
Roses, exquisite, yet mercurial.
Red petals of over-powering desire,
winter thorns of rejection and loss.
 
In the fields the harvest is ready,
the stalks intertwined with poppies,
red hearts, awaiting execution,
death, an ancient sacrifice for the golden corn.  
 
Lovers sit on green banks by the willow,
leaves, like strands of green hair,
drown in the river’s fast current.

Now the summer solstice,
mid-summer of frolic and magic.
Cattle are blest, as the wheel rolls downhill,
to echo the sun’s great daily journey.
from that pale light beneath the curtains,
to the setting in the west
beyond the Garden of the Hesperides
where the spirits of twilight
guard the golden apples.  

 

 

 

 Milkmaids in the Fields
—Painting by Julien Dupré

SAFELY GATHERED IN

Plates of newly baked cottage loaves,
wooden platters of ripe apples
green, brushed, touched with red,
round, juicy, tempting
as that fruit in Eden.
Butter, freshly churned,
a creamy, soft confection.
Round, lunar satellites of cheese
mimicking the full Harvest Moon,
shining golden in the midsummer sky.

Laid out on trestle tables,
flagons of foaming beer,
eagerly poured into frothing tankards.
Whole well-cured hams
with coats of yellow bread crumbs
await the silver carving knives
gleaming in the bright moonlight.
Harvest cakes drip
with white icing sugar,
amid bunches of golden-eared corn
decorating the harvest table.
Trout, fresh from the mill stream,
Lie open-mouthed and bleary-eyed
at the munificence before them.

Milk-maids in sprigged muslin dresses
gather in a colourful crowd,
surveying the village lads
in smart smocks and breeches.
A fiddler is tuning up,
feet begin tapping to the old songs.
Shyly, couples get in line,
ancient melodies accompany
the youthful dancers.

Moonlight floods over the empty fields,
the shadows lengthen among the trees.
The corn lies safe in wooden barns,
music drifts out over the meadows.
The old rhythm of harvest celebration
throbs through the mothy darkness.

 

 

 

 Lord, what fools these mortals be!
—Painting by Arthur Rackham

PUCK, BY ANY OTHER NAME…
(Voice from A Midsummer Night’s Dream)

I answer to many names
Puck, Hobgoblin, Robin Goodfellow,
even foul fiend when Mistress
is truly vexed
by my mischievous tricks.
In the cool dairy, the milk turns sour;
hiding in the shadows,
I bewitch the butter churns.
At twilight, in the mothy gloom,
I pick fennel, parsley, thyme and
scatter the withering leaves,
confusing the kitchen scullion.

At harvest in the summer sun,
I creep into maidens’ bonnets
or in dusty barns where motes
dance in rays of light,
I steal grain as the winnowers work.
In the mill stream I tangle
the fishing lines.
The rose-spotted trout escape
to cool green shallows.

I sit on the horse’s back
as he ploughs, turning the dark soil
into earthy waves.
I pull his ears so he tosses his head;
the ploughman loses his footing.
In midwinter, I polish the ice in the farmyard
as Mistress carries branches of red-berried holly
and dark-brooding ivy to bedeck the hall.
I fill lovers’ ears with tales of deceit
before sleeping in the breathy warmth
of the murmuring sheep fold.

 

 

 

 Sea Maidens
—Painting by Paul Chabas

SUMMERTIME

Lying in the shade of the old limes,     
feeling tiny pinpricks of sunlight,
through the leafy canopy.
Watching golden carp swim
in the cool, green depths of a garden pool.
Feel warm sand in between the toes,
as the waves break
into frothy lizards’ tongues
licking up the pebbly beach.
Swimming slowly in the calm,
intense blueness of a Pacific lagoon,
water slips between the fingers
languidly, lazily.
Deckchairs on the shingle,
the tide slowly ebbing,
watching the sun setting
in a last explosion of red and violet,
while dusk crawls furtively seawards.
Sunday morning,
cocooned in fluffy blankets,
an early coffee, wedges of sunlight
scattered over bedclothes.
Stretched out on the lawn
in summer’s luxuriance,
a glass of red wine
holds the sunlight captive.
Warm, mothy darkness,
the scent of roses drifts
through the night garden.
Run through dew-soaked grass,
as the morning mist rises.
Freckles of pollen cling to
wet sandals.
Lounging on cushions,
lost in reading,
raindrops spatter the window,
a spotted view of the garden.
Just hanging out, time crawling,
an inner immunity to a world still turning.

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

May the light illuminate your hearts and shine in your life every day of the year. May everlasting peace be yours and upon our Earth.

―Eileen Anglin

__________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Sarah Das Gupta for helping us celebrate yesterday’s turn of the seasons with her fine poetry!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Jeanine Stevens & Marc Petrie
will read at Sac. Poetry Alliance
in Sacramento today, 4pm.
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.

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!

 

 

 

Morning News

 —Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,
Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down to
Form Fiddlers’ Friday, with poetry by
Nolcha Fox, Joe Nolan, Lynn White,
Stephen Kingsnorth, and Caschwa

 

 

BEDLAM

Morning news is chaos. Riot gear, tear gas,
flash-bangs, soldiers in cities, tanks
in the Capitol. Who is it
disturbing the peace? Everyone’s on edge.
I’ll take to fields and pond instead—
white swans, egret, wild turkey hens with chicks;
in willow and tule, red-wing’s sweetest song.
What’s this? Sign at trailhead:
Law Enforcement Training Exercise
In Progress.
Even here, far from big city bedlam. Edgy?
I’ll fade into edges, camo myself
in wildwood.

 

 

 

WITH A VENGEANCE

Weed-eating used to be my morning meditation,
a connection with the land. But this year,
it’s gone crazy. Annual weeds are tougher.
Thistle keeps expanding its territory; coming back,
no matter how I whack it down to bare sticks
of stubble. It’s taken over field and creek, crevices
in boulders on the hill. Spring’s sweet clover
gives off a choking stench as it turns to dark dust
under my machine. Even in dying, vetch
remains a fastener, weaving all the weed species
together, clogging my trimmer-head. This job
has never been a cinch. But through time,
it seems the weeds have been plotting their revenge.

 

 

 

 

RE-RIDING HISTORY


Great horned owl declares the night-news.

From afternoon to midnight the pony’s flown.
 
Can a rider be lost the way a river runs?

GPS gone wayward with the sun’s flare.

Hoofbeats, pings absorbed in full moon’s orb.

Owl in tangle of trees holds the night’s catch.

The mountain rising toward tomorrow.

By hint of dawn, the pony runs for daybreak.

___________________

ELDRITCH SPELL

The 4:30 owl I heard clear
as daylight thru my night-screens
open to the dark, the chill—

that owl was neither dark
nor light, invisible out of sight,
its call nothing I could note

in black letters on white paper
or my laptop’s illuminated page,
echoing long after dawn. 

 

 

 

 

NO KINGS DAY
    6/14/25

Already there’s a crowd on the overpass—
strangers yet compatriots
bearing flags and homemade signs;
I with my little cardboard “No Kings”
at the far end, looking down
on freeway traffic speeding west.
Blonde lady raises her sign:
“Only You Can Prevent Fascist Liars.”
A honking car-ful of kids thumbs-up,
while an old guy in primer-colored pickup
guns it, spewing exhaust.
I aim my sign at cars on the overpass,
cars on off-ramp, down on the freeway—
aim it in all directions, make it count.
New sign: “Hey MAGA: Go Fact Yourself.”
Now a monster black pickup sends
black smoke in our faces
and a sign: “What the World Needs Now
Is Love Sweet Love.”
Truck with Trump flag waving in its bed.
Keep feet planted, smile on face,
how to do justice to a tank parade
from this side of a nation’s distances.

 

 

 

 

AFTER THE LAST DAY

Here
outside
a classroom
in the school trash
bin, I see leavings
from the spring semester:
one lonely sock, an empty
drink cup, and all these stars inscribed
with pupil’s names. Have the youngsters shed
their old stars for stars of a new beyond?

 

 

 

 

Today’s LittleNip:

IN BRIEF 2.0
—Taylor Graham

Cat
s h a r p e n s
claws

dog
c h e w s
bone

cat
c o n s i d e r s
teeth

_____________________________

Taylor Graham has written about bedlam today on this longest day of the year, chaos in neighborhood politics and weed-eating and all sorts of shapes and sizes. It’s a bedlam-ish time in these here parts—just like everywhere else these days, I guess.

Forms TG has used this week include a Response to the Tuesday Seed of the Week (“Bedlam”); a Word-Can Poem (“With a Vengeance”); a Monostich (“Re-Riding History”); an Ekphrastic poem in response to last week’s Ekphrastic photo (“Eldritch Spell”); a Brevette (“In Brief 2.0”); a List Poem (“No Kings Day”); and an Etheree (“After the Last Day”). The Brevette was one of last week’s Triple-F Challenges.

El Dorado County’s regular workshops are listed on Medusa’s calendar (if you scroll down on http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html/). For more news about such events and 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 were Nolcha Fox, Joe Nolan, Lynn White, and Stephen Kingsnorth:


MIDNIGHT DESIRES
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

Your eyes are streetlights shining,
sending bright through empty windows.
You are hunting hearts
that should have gone to bed.

Your ears pick up the rustling
of the hungry and the haunted.
You arrive to comfort them
and end their misery.

* * *

GREY OWL IN GRAY TREE
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

This owl’s wisdom
Is to wear a gray motif
To blend in well
With gray-bark tree
And look out peacefully
Until its time to eat
Then swoop in silently,
Grab a meal,
Return to perch,
Contentedly.   

* * *

KEEPING WATCH
—Lynn White, Blaenau Ffestiniog, North Wales


What does the owl see
looking out from its branch
with those big black eyes.
What does the owl see
through the wind and rain,
head turning full circle
ready for silent flight
as evening falls.
We can guess
but only the prey will know.

* * *

PANE RETAINED
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

My cot, set corner, parents’ room,
seeds planted, nighttime, took their root,
those scary, fearsome toddler bouts,
imprinted deep when sleep disturbed.
Caterwauling first heard then,
those London cats in fighting form,
and father at the window frame.
his Webley drawn, tinned pellets armed.

Assumed that he had moggies shot,
not merely shocked by shots in air,
that bedroom was a fabled space
in which the owl too found a place.
For pane ajar, hot city night,
some little, barn took shelter there,
a stance observing postwar life,
behind, his prey, garden below.

Thus first thought when I see an owl
is prompted childhood story told
of Dad, a pacifist, his gun,
protector of his little boy.
Seed memory your toddler brain?
Perhaps deep-buried keeps you sane?
Or maybe recall, too much pain?
So should I dare you not to delve?

These, owl and pussycats you see,
would later serve as pre-sleep reads.
But building on foundation laid,
it was a window still retained.
Perhaps the last on my dry lips
to be that owl on city sill,
familiar, spirit disguised,
from cot to final resting place.

* * *

Moggies?

Here is another Response Poem from Stephen, this one inspired as follows:

"Write a story or poem inspired by an unsent letter discovered in the pocket of a coat at a thrift store. Who wrote it, why was it never sent, and what secrets does it reveal?"


RED
—Stephen Kingsnorth

An overcoat just hanging there,
like spare part wear-rôle cast away;
I bought it, fabric, someone’s past,
not knowing owner passed indeed.
For note to Father scribbled there,
recording what he could not say,
despairing words he could not pray,
explaining why, where, when and why.
His Dad confessed to silenced priest,
but what confessed he dare not say—
that secrecy of box betray,
though cost continued, falling prey.
But now the teen would have his say
by giving broken body up;
that priest should know the wherefore, why,
the post too late to interrupt.
Enveloped, in the overcoat,
and chance, before the post-box site,
he crossed that junction, through the red,
before the trucker saw ahead.
The overcoat alone was spared.


(First published by Spillwords, 7th June 2025, at           
https://spillwords.com/red-by-stephen-kingsnorth/.

 

* * *

And some parting words from Caschwa (Carl Schwartz):

 

 

 

LEAVE IT BE
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

Hate those Form Shifters
they changed for´mi-da-ble to
be for-mi´da-ble

__________________

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.) Here’s a Staccato; it’s easier to understand from the example:

•••Staccato: http://www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/staccato.html

•••AND/OR in honor of upcoming July 4, jump in with both feet and try a La’libertas:

•••La’libertas: http://www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/lalibertas.html

•••AND/OR: I know, these are bears, both of them. How about something funner, like a Joseph’s Star:

•••Joseph’s Star: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/josephsstar.html

•••See also the bottom of this post for another challenge, this one an Ekphrastic one.

•••And don’t forget each Tuesday Seed of the Week! This week it’s “Birds of a Feather”.

____________________

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

•••Brevette: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/brevette.html
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••Etheree: http://www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/etheree.html
•••Joseph’s Star: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/josephsstar.html
•••La’libertas: http://www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/lalibertas.html
•••List Poem: clpe.org.uk/poetryline/poeticforms/list-poem
•••Monostich: briefpoems.wordpress.com/2016/01/07/slates-one-line-poems-monostich
•••Response Poem: creativetalentsunleashed.com/2015/11/18/writing-tip-response-poems
•••Staccato: http://www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/staccato.html
•••Tuesday Seed of the Week: a prompt listed in Medusa’s Kitchen every Tuesday; poems may be any shape or size, form or no form. No deadlines; past ones are listed at http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/calliopes-closet.html/. Send results to kathykieth#hotmail.com/.
•••Word-Can Poem: putting random words on slips of paper into a can, then drawing out a few and making a poem out of them

__________________

—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 info about
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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dreamseeker

 

 Dreamseeker
—Poetry and Visuals by Smith, Cleveland, OH

 

 

Sometimes it's simple
down to basics
laundry's started
the front yard's next
but right now
I sit quiet in sun
sip coffee
toke
close eyes
raise face
accept solar kiss
its peach-red-orange-cream glow
gleaming through lids
bringing me back to when I was 4
and felt safe
warm in parental love
before tooth and claw and teeth
and glove
in the dark of duty

 

 

 

 Onwhor

You can't know till you been
no matter who what where why or when
ain't never nowhere no how
however hard you plow

I'm a low life in low light
I like it that way
coming up poor
I seen more
everyday

I want to talk the long story

"Civilization, it was a nice run."
she says glum
stuck in highway hell
awaiting tow trucks, police,
ambulances
our weekly morning breakfast out

She drives magic
rides right flow glow
in gone wrong

I ride along

Pennies from Heaven hurt
when they hit you on the head
so don't be a Karen, Charon
give us a free ride
cross Jordan

You can take the beast
out of the field
but you can't take the beast
out of the beast
sometimes I don't no
simply means I don't know
while yes is pure guess
there'll be a sign
telling where you are
if you don't see it
you've gone too far
tick tick tock tock
hope we go round the block
past past replies
to today's lie

Do butterflies remember caterpillar?
Can caterpillar conceive of butterfly?

You know I'm never wrong
riiiiiight?

 

 

 

 Last Election

This little wiggly went to market
this little wiggly stayed home
this little wiggly seems stuck to your foot
let's get us a knife and cut to the bone

In in-know-sense of little children
and their dark demanding tones
lies tonic for the tome

Fare tale fairly told
behold our young in old

If I may bleed so bold

 

 

 

 Along the Way

Another waiting room
another waiting to see how bad
bad is

Older up and down the ladder
loading Entropy's train
I'm decay, detritus

But it's all good
is amazing
I'm still aging

Good genes
good luck
and the Gods loving fools

 

 

 

 Guilt

It's not the tail of the monkey
that bites and claws
but it is a stinky propositions

Outside tribal fire
it's dark
less spark

Burn with the bitten
swoon with the smitten
I add my own arc

Knew a donkey once
carried his carrot to Buddha
went back to the fold

 

 

 

 Way Wrong

Grant us slack o great "Bob"
turn up the dial but keep it quiet
on the Q.T. with the cutie
cue our current crumbs
in dance to chance
though unsure how it's done
but question flux
and fluff
of course remorse
but that's enough for now
kiss my Kismet
forget

So, Moe how flow
hero or heroin
what's the better born
manor or manger
tell me
o great mind manager
mime my am
for as I see
the valley of investment
invokes the belly of belief

Running the rapids
but there ain't no water
fixing to fight but it’s all foe

Hey Joe
why woe go
rain falls
spirit rises
hopes spring
death comes
flesh goes
shade shaped by made

It's the moist along the way
that makes the after matter

 

 

 

 Cell Division

I cling to my coffee
wait for the sun
ego not yet in on run
clinging and waiting and coffee
are one
me being being been
keen to ken gleaning glen

If you ask me
and nobody does
this is less land of the free
than home of the fuzz

We worship empty boxes
tiny microphobes
in little bathrobes
we bow knee
and bend principle
swallow shame
wallowing in same
is that the want we want
dissent went

Hard and slow no matter go

You spose the Captain knows
his lies are leaking

Or queries why my high ramble

 

 

 

 Line Item

Don't know a lot

If day, keep moving
if night, lay down

Or is it other way around?

Sun out now
brightens everything
shows the dead in the road

Not much to do
except joke
and toke
awake awoke

Got good haze around my rage
wrapped in disappointment
at new see of what we be
seems beast eat beast at best
but what the heck
lizard brain hungry
lizard brain always hungry
is fed
in our lizard licking heads
where fly is foe
food
or fled

Existence went from zero
to billions per second
in nothing flat
pure mettle on the pedal
pretty petal prose
everybody no's

Stochastic isolation

Well my friend it ain't the end
but it's getting there

 

 

 

 Miracle

Today’s LittleNip:

As you wish I wish I was
both the doing and the duzz

Speedup and scurry
or lay low and worry

Endless soiree

—smith

_____________________

Our thanks to Smith today—that’s Steven B. Smith—for his fine tokes of poetry as he continues to move along through the days, seeing what’s right with the world, and what’s wrong with it. Keep on comin’ at us, Steven B.!—Nine years visiting the Kitchen, and counting…

And best, most hopeful wishes to all of us for today, Juneteenth 2025~

_____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Afterhours
—Visual by Smith

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Poetry Night in Davis
is taking a summer break
and will not meet tonight.
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.

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!