Another Day~

 —Poetry, Photos, and Original Art
by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, 

West Covina, CA

 

 

SLANTED AFTERNOONS

If I can change one thing,
it would be the stars in
the sky. I could start with
their names and their location.
I would let them linger longer.
I know it is useless days I always 
return to. My eyes give me away.
They wander like clouds and make
their own rain on slanted afternoons.
Every day seems like Sunday.
That is what I want to change.

 

 

 

 

IN DARKNESS

In darkness 


trees disappear 


their colors too


still the birds sing


not in flight


their cries
heavy and urgent
the olive trees
don a gray hue
along the moon’s
spotlight 
a shadow trembles
as if frozen in fear
a light shower
falls from the sky
over the trees
like a faucet
it shuts down
birdsong
from the trees

 

 

 

 

TODAY IS ANOTHER DAY

I will not see you
today just like all
week. My mind is
not on anymore.

Today is another
day with small hope.
I’m climbing the wall
like a forlorn insect.

I take a small nap.
I will open the bar
and drink till I sleep.
My bar is not far.

My bar is in the kitchen.
The fridge is stocked.
I bought beer and wine,
a sea full of spirits.

I am on the third round.
I could go a few more.
The sea is overflowing.
I need no boat or canoe.

A few hours of this
and I will hit the wall.
The lamp is bright.
Today is like the last.

 

 

 

 

SPEAK TO MYSELF

I speak to myself.
I do not understand
my words. I speak
without pause
about the time life
ended for us.
My childhood tongue
spoke to me about
the dreams we had.
I had enough of
these words that made
my day my nightmare.

 

 

 

 

PLEASANT SCENT

You bring the flower
to your nose
to get to the pleasant scent.
The aroma becomes
too much as
you cut up the flower and
put it in a vase
with cold water.
In a few days
you mourn its death.
The scent lingers for
a little while.
The vase is emptied
of water and flower.
Into the trash it goes.
The shriveled petals
decorate the garbage
can in red and green.

 

 

 

 

GOOD NEWS

I bring you good news.
I opened the front door.
There were no clouds.
The sun was shining.

There was no traffic.
I had a full tank of gas.
I could go anywhere.
I decided to come back.

I stepped back inside.
I locked the front door.
I went back to bed.
I went back to sleep.

I hoped for a good dream.
I bring you good news.
Everything will be alright.
Please do not disturb me.

 

 

 

 

DYING HERE

Dying here,
In this world.
This tongue knows
No language.
This world is
Chaos and
Death. A new
World will rise
Like fire and
Smoke. Just wait
If you can.
Already
The world molds.
Bring lemons
Or olives.
Already
Mankind brings
Words for the
Speechless tongue.
Have no fear.
It’s burning.
When will you
Speak? Dying
Here, I rise.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Some days it is a heroic act just to refuse the paralysis of fear and straighten up and step into another day.

—Edward Albert

___________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Luis Berriozábal for today’s fine poetry!

 

 

 

 Still, the birds sing…
—Public Domain Photo

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 











A reminder that

Nancy Gonzalez St. Clair will offer

a workshop today in Lodi, 11am.

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!

 

 

Our Restless Earth

 —Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,
Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down for
Form Fiddlers’ Friday, with poetry by Caschwa,
Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Michael H. Brownstein, and Charles Mariano

 

 

MEDITATION ON FREEDOM AND CONTROL

These woods had gone wild, a fire hazard.
Tangles of brush and bramble among
oaks and pines fighting for their share of sun.
Then someone cut some trees and cleared
the brush. The trail that always made me feel
constricted was liberated with an open view.
Last week’s out-of-control wind storm
toppled more trees and littered the ground
with broken limbs. The trail was cordoned off
for public safety. Today, the way is clear.
New stacks of firewood. New cracks
across the paved trail—our restless earth.
No one’s walking in the rain but me
and my dog whose receptor ears are tuned
to every patch of woods, eyes scanning for flits
and scurries of life. I’m alert too,
to keep him from bolting after squirrel, deer,
jackrabbit. Everything’s under control
except for the awesome willfulness of nature.

 

 

 

 

 

JOY: A DEFINITION

A
sudden
sun-strike hits
green candle
of a single pine
on the winter ridgetop,  

golden crown luminous
at dawn—a moment
gone, but the spark
in my brain
lighting
me,
 
how
I can’t
explain it
taking me out
of myself my breath
giving up to the sky. 

 

 

WHITE CHRISTMAS WITH CHAR

I drove up the mountain to where snow
was sticking from the last big storm. You would’ve
gone farther, always the adventurer. Otis—
half Husky, and what would you think about that!—
rampaged in what hadn’t melted, and followed
snowed-over scent trails of who knows what critters.
We were in the fire scar just starting its slow way
back to forest. Miles of burn to the horizon,
snow on char for a white Christmas.

It’s where I went to see the solar eclipse
after you were gone—I knew I’d have a good
view, no trees to block the sky. Clouds
did that, but just at the moment of totality,
they broke and made a peep-hole.
Moon and sun and the blue of your eye.

 

 

 

CANYON TRAIL, DECEMBER

Fungus is alive
in canyon dark—this mushroom
wears a tiara.

    The woods’ bread-and-tea, a stash,
    decillions of wormhole deeps.

And here’s a dark-clad
human, a walking zombie—
eyes dead in his head.

    The planet’s climate makes mud,
    thoughts swarm thick as calendars.

As we swing our arms
in tune with our steps shall we
hear the morning’s music?

    Let’s connect with a taproot
    disinhibiting the way.

 

 

 

 

BETWEEN TIMES

Early rainy Sunday morning
between Xmas and New Year’s Eve,
between Gold Rush and speed limits
Main Street’s practically deserted
but for holiday lights and rain.

 

 

 

 

BETWIXTMAS
    Christmas 2024-New Year 2025

Feasts are for remembrance
in the midst of change
and here I am between them.

In dream you’re on the high road,
I’m here twixt earth and sky,
dog and cat asleep beside me.

Already the dog’s destroyed
his unshreddable Xmas tug-toy;
the cat declares he’s starving.

The dog is wild adventure
and warmth of a loving home,
the cat is brave and clever.

Holidays are time recurring
as time seems forever evolving
the joy of everyone we love.

Now in midst of all the changes,
feasts are for remembering
you, with dog and cat beside me.

 

 

 

 

Today’s LittleNip:

PALE PINK XMAS
—Taylor Graham

The holiday passed,
decorated trees remain
along the highway—
pale pink ghost of a pine waves
at home-bound traffic speeding.

____________________

Our thanks to Taylor Graham for this week’s wonderful poetry. Her LittleNip refers to Placerville’s tradition of locals putting up Christmas trees (with lights) on the fence along Hwy. 50 each year. And “White Christmas With Char’ was posted on TG’s Facebook site this week; today it’s a welcome addition to TG’s post here in the Kitchen.

Forms Taylor has used this week include a Stepping Stones Chain that is also a Definition Poem (“Joy: A Definition”); a Tan-Renga with lines from the Internet as partner (“Canyon Trail, December”); a Triversen (“Betwixtmas”); some Normative Syllabics (“Between Times”); and a Tanka (“Pale Pink Xmas”). Our Seed of the Week was “Out of Control”; see TG’s “Meditation on Freedom and Control” for her response. And our Triple-F Challenges this week were “Elegy for the Old Year” and “Poem for the New Year”; Taylor Graham has written both, along with something in-between (“Betwixtmas”).

In El Dorado County’s poetry events this week, El Dorado County’s regular workshops are listed on Medusa’s calendar (if you scroll down on http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html/). For more news about EDC poetry—past (photos!) and future—see Taylor Graham’s Western Slope El Dorado Poetry on Facebook at www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry. Or see Lara Gularte’s Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/groups/382234029968077/. And you can always click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html). Poetry is Gold in El Dorado County!  
 
And now it’s time for…  


FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY!  

 

It’s time for more contributions from Form Fiddlers, in addition to those sent to us by Taylor Graham! Each Friday, there will be poems posted here from our readers using forms—either ones which were sent to Medusa during the previous week, or whatever else floats through the Kitchen and the perpetually stoned mind of Medusa. If these instructions are vague, it's because they're meant to be. Just fiddle around with some challenges—  Whaddaya got to lose… ? If you send ‘em, I’ll post ‘em! (See Medusa’s Form Finder at the end of this post for resources and for links to poetry terms used in today’s post.)


Check out our recently-refurbed page at the top of Medusa’s Kitchen called, “FORMS! OMG!!!” which expresses some of my (take ‘em or leave 'em) opinions about the use of forms in poetry writing, as well as listing some more resources to help you navigate through Form Quicksand and other ways of poetry. Got any more resources to add to our list? Send them to kathykieth@hotmail.com for the benefit of all man/woman/poetkind!

* * *

 

 

 Last Week’s Ekphrastic Photo

Poets who sent responses to last week’s Ekphrastic photo included Caschwa (Carl Schwartz), Nolcha Fox, and Stephen Kingsnorth. (For lots more Ekphrasticism, see yesterday’s post from Stephen Kingsnorth.)


RAPUNZEL, RAPUNZEL
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

(let down your hair, so that I may
climb thy golden stair. You could
go running, and racing, and dancing,
and chasing, and bounding, hair
flying, heart pounding and splashing,
and reeling, and finally feeling now’s
when your life begins)

When you are dangerously tall
but not yet near the moon
your footsteps will fall
to the beat of a tune

that a modest one-horse carriage
imprints in the snow
proposals for marriage
from guys you don’t know

so hard to tell which is witch
imprisoned by spells
a fate you can’t switch
for joyous wedding bells

* * *

SOMEWHERE MY PRINCE
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

Some women spend a lifetime
looking for a prince and castle.
I just want a man who’ll happily
clear the ice and shovel.

* * *

CARRIAGE
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

So few the clues on which to muse
but carriage was the word to choose—  
their bearing more than wheels they rode.
Though castle was not news to us,    
romantic turrets duly told—
all rookies name the obvious.
So castle, carriage, moon, unfold—
and moonbeams tell how site was seen,
though cloudy, bright light on the scene.

But carriage of the witness leans—
reliable, imaginings?
How’s body language translating?
A witness statement, after crime—
‘What did you see?’ asked we, police.
But what impression, focus, stance?
How does observer carry self?
A poacher out in full moonlight?
His shoes are given due regard.

Now which the filtered facts required?
That chess board, crime scene, all to check—
where moved the bishop through the night?
We plot positions, their intent,
as trace their tracks through thawing snow,
arriving, or departing, cart.
A motive, means to craft this art,
the standing so to stage their part?
Were playing pawns, grand master’s game?

I am no horseman, but the beast
seems to be harnessed on the right,
as if a ghostly knight rides by.
So is our steed spooked in some way,
a wraith, wight filly in the fray,
some shade beyond that lunar white?
Begone!  Detection so betrayed
by evil forces thus deployed,
defence and gambit, other world?

Fresh flakes fell over footfall prints,
the dappled grey in stable block,
like gothic granite on display.
Four horsemen of apocalypse,
I never solved the crime involved—
that castle keeps its secrets yet.
Imprisonment, if their desert,
is sentence passed, as Rapunzel;
and I’m resigned, unhappy lot.

* * *

Michael H. Brownstein has sent us three Dua, a form presented to us by Ai Li, who also brought us the Cherita. Rules are simple—two-line poems with two spaces between each line, no periods and no titles. See the tenth Dua anthology, wildflowers were here (1-2-3- Press), on Amazon at https://www.amazon.com/stores/author/B0080X6ROC?ccs_id=74793f8f-c2c1-44a8-8e12-b8f33733638f/. Wildflowers is the tenth Dua anthology, with “90 virgin Dua poems from UK, USA, Singapore, Germany, Canada, India and Spain”. Amazon says the Dua “shares the same storytelling ethos with its siblings, Cherita and Gerbun. It continues the age-old need for us to tell and pass on our life stories to a waiting generation in the wings, who are eager to keep the flames of a campfire eternal”. Here are three Dua (with our thanks!) from Michael:

 

 

 

we walk into the thunderstorm


an army of clouds fireworks the sky

* * *

the sun rose over the lake front


herring gulls cackled as they flew the wind

* * *

outside of town a stranger crawled out of a wall


in the distance a thunder of falling brick

 

 

 

—Michael H. Brownstein, Jefferson City, MO

* * *

And here is a poem from Charles Mariano that is based on our recent Ekphrastic challenge, the mailman at Christmastime:

 

 

 

 

THE U.S. MAIL
—Charles Mariano, Sacramento, CA

“Who’s that, grandpa?”
“That, Mija, is a mailman.”

“Why is he stealing
from those blue boxes?”

“He’s not stealing, Mija,
he’s picking up mail
to deliver it.”

“In my day,
mailmen ruled the land.
They’d slog through
rain, sleet and snow
to get your mail to you.”
“What’s mail?”
“That was letters and greeting cards
that you’d write words on paper,
stick them in an envelope
with a stamp.
You could say hello or send love letters,
anywhere in the world
through the postal system.”
“What’s a stamp?”

“That’s the little square thing
you’d stick on the envelope
upper righthand corner,
to get it to wherever you sent it.”
“Cool huh?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Why go through all that trouble,
when they can just text me?”

____________________

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.) Are you up to an aicille rhyme? Sink your teeth into an Irish Rinnard:

•••Rinnard: https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/rinnard-poetic-forms

•••AND/OR tackle the Dua—see Michael Brownstein’s examples above.

•••Dua: a two-line poem with two spaces between each line, no periods and no titles

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

•••And don’t forget each Tuesday’s Seed of the Week! This week it’s “Before I Knew Better”.

____________________

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

•••Ars Poetica: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ars-poetica
•••Definition Poem: https://www.poetrymagnumopus.com/topic/1105-a-definition-poem
•••Dua: a two-line poem with two spaces between each line, no periods and no titles
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••Elegy: https://poets.org/glossary/elegy
•••Normative Syllabics: hellopoetry.com/collection/108/normative-syllabic-free-verse AND/OR lewisturco.typepad.com/poetics/normative-syllabic-verse
•••Rinnard: https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/rinnard-poetic-forms
•••Stepping Stones (devised by Claire Baker): Syllables 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 (7, etc.)
•••Tanka: poets.org/glossary/tanka
•••Tan-renga: https://www.graceguts.com/essays/an-introduction-to-tan-renga
•••Triversen: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/triversen-poetic-form
   
__________________

—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.

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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Order, Chaos, Yet Conjoined

 Virgin and Child Surrounded by Angels
—Painting by Jean Fouquet (France) 1452-1458
* * *
—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth,
Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
—Public Domain Art Courtesy of
Stephen Kingsnorth

 

 

STEPHEN, MARTYR

Should I treat it as a postcard, artist unknown,
to me,
half-diptych stands as striking, herald tones,
heraldic shades,
a veil between the vivid and washed holy marble
plane,
so fine the portrait, early date, I want to see its twin.

But then I’m left to grapple, pre-reformation church,
if even centre-justified, supposed, this manger birth.
Madonna’s not appealing, the Queen of Heaven
song,
incongruent portrayal, a juxta to my faith.
Perhaps I should be distant, or taken off the case,
restrict myself to painting, ignore the personal.
But then what of engagement, a subject. spirit
stirred—
you may be academic, but this affair’s of heart;
I try to social distance, but that would mean a mask.

And then I delve still further, a guidebook from
the rack,
and wracks the word, the struggle, king’s lover
feeds my lord.
I learn that she has neighbour, through patronage,
reward,
and Stephen, the first martyr, is stoned cold,
pointed, bold.
I know the zeitgeist different—though wonder,
watching news—
I know said fallen women, the Nazarene’s response.
It’s not the breast portrayal—the baby’s fat on
milk—
though Agnès known for low-gowns, a provocation
stance.
I guess who pays the piper, can chose the model
worked,
but state that names the mistress, a title to the
crown?

You’ll think that I am foolish, too close to feel
the art;
it’s set me all a-lather, these corrupt gospel soaps.
But that’s because the artist, holistic slice of life;
dictators use the poets, while novels burnt in piles.
We all admire the brushstrokes, the colour palette
range;
I have to face the subject, then subjugate my rage.
I think of temple tables, all overturned on stage,
inclusion sold for pigeons, then justify the trade.

 

 

 

The Dream
—Painting by Frida Kahlo (Mexico) 1940

AT EASE

Were your mares ever cumulus,
but mistified as logic gone,
fogged unities of place and time,
no rhyme or reason to the plan—
or ancient fears just played again?
Why clouds aswirl
behind bed floating curlicues
the turned four posts above that drowse,
except that suitable, assumed;
for dreamy theme acceptable?
Can this be independent mood,
mexicanidad without old pains,
invading past, mestiza mum,
mixed blood at heart of surreal,
chicano iconography?

The dead alert, an awkward bone,
’sif propped up on olecranon,
explosive marrow-stiffened legs.
Forgotten Jacob, pillow stone,
no ladder for the upper bunk,
no rungs ascending up above,
but comfy, death in tree of life,
dem bones companions of the free.

A cloth of gold in house of blue,
her frame, first scene through louvre door;
but pride of space, a nation state,
the local girl made good with art,
our story colours justified.
To her small bier with overwood
veneer to carry skeleton,
as if hers is a truckle bed,
no tiers at stake, for all is one,
won accolade, afraid of none.

 

 

 

 Cloud Shadows
—Painting by Katje Lang

 

CONJOINED

A misty, sometimes wispy fog,
those passing clouds, ethereal,
of shadows, shades—a ghostly term,
as sometimes wights amongst wraith graves,
grey area, daunt spectral taunt,
a phantom though clear sight eclipsed.

The corvidae will float above—
between the clouds and landed earth—
pandemic birds announcing death,
the ravens, rooks or crows about
with jackdaws, choughs and magpie thieves,
a blotting litter of the skies

Here’s melancholia, line-hatched
incised matrix by stroke, browed burr,
by diamond or carbide tips
to steel, bare copper needled plate.
Like manuscript now duly glossed,
intaglio in family,
from Housebook Master through the years,
a drypoint exercise in gear.

Above the dado, hill-top trees,
horizon line, point vanish block,
but nearer, lower, road through fields,
lone figure, dark with shading laid,
suggesting sun despite the bleak,
as if those clouds deserted rôle.

Apart from height above clear light,
the grainy bank describes the ground
except from patchwork layout there;
bold starker markings stripped above
like ridge or furrow of the tools,
in counter, cut glyphs, vertical.
Some order, chaos, yet conjoined?

 

 

 

 Image
—Jim Pickerell/Documerica

RIGHT BAGS LADY

“So can I help, though busy me?”
you seeing she, wee clashing spree
of orange, pink, grip scarlet too,
but brolly, mac, “this weather brew”,
brief craic through space, like wind-up clown,
“but I can bend”, the window down,
and through that space I face, agape,
accoutrements of ribs, creased drape.
“I bought a smock, though looking now
for something suits; your route, now how?
So when you see the orange screen—
it’s on the corner, by the green—
an advert fore—though might have gone—
my grandson sorts it—he’s called John—
he’s a real culchie, we’re jackeen—
city, Dublin, where we’ve all been.
Jack’s like his Da, though not at all—
you get my meaning, different soul.
Nixers the lot—I’m coddling ya—
though not so sure if she talks blah.
But your light’s changed, you must be off—
follow signs—as says Father Gough.
And I must crack on; lots to do.
You’re suckin’ diesel—time you flew.”

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

 

BLOKES

—Stephen Kingsnorth
After “Sonnet 129” by William Shakespeare

Uneasy page for any age,  
as ethics swirl in gender’s plea,  
the more, permissive uncaged stage,  
our terms transformed, LGBT,  
with Q, plus questions followed, delved.
As powers hold, castle keep, Kafka  
and Dewey triggers volumes shelved,  
near bonfire, Alexandria,               
abuse of folk and fears awoke.  
When self-confessed loss of control,  
how stands the mastery of bloke—  
from hinterland, man-kind blamed rôle?  
Today Will’s witness words assured,
that social media storm procured.

__________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Stephen Kingsnort, who has dropped by the Kitchen this second day of the New Year with a pocketful of fine Ekphrastic poetry.

For more thoughts about Ekphrastic writing, see “Ekphrastic Poetry: When Art Kindles Literature” (https://notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry/) or “Explore Ekphrastic Poems: A Reading List” (https://www.arts.gov/stories/blog/2023/explore-ekphrastic-poems-reading-list/).

 

 

 

—Art by Sirin Thada.
(See https://www.poetryfoundation.org/articles/157020/ekphrastic-poetry-analogy-noise 

for even more about Ekphrastic Poetry.)

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Nicolette Daskalakis & Dorine Jennette
will read in Davis tonight, 7pm.
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!

 

 

 

Peering Into the Cosmos

 —Poetry by Wayne Russell, South East Ohio
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

IN THE TRENCHES

Through the trenches
of warfare, love’s bayonet 

bled me dry,

carnage upon the battlefield
sanity fled and left me, bone dry
and soulless as a corpse

no hugging lullaby nor voice
sung, just night, and bleak black,
just bullet’s wheezing past

feeling that inebriating sting,
that heart flared arch, then exploded
scattering across this parched dry

land, no one to hold my hand, as I
lie here dying, down deep in the
tattered trenches of love's warfare.

 

 

 

 

IN RUINS


Scattered ashes

memories of what was

those times we shared

now white ashen smoke

a quiet plume on the breeze

of winter hibernation

the evergreens bear silent

witness to this downward

spiral, this unfair charade

a psychological game

warfare waged upon the

innocent, bombshells explode

shrapnel slicing through the

organs, the hearts desire lies

in ruins.

 

 

 

 

LAST WORDS


Ring the death bell, ring the bells of

biblical solace, deer panting for dew

upon the slick blades of grass, jade

daggers and death bequeathed at

dawn, the wanting of you and here I

am pining away, lost in labyrinths of

bewilderment, lost in a sea of exile,

this raft afloat and froth of mouth,

here we are agape in the sheer dire

bedlam of our own making, this dream

and that, afloat and obtuse, hieroglyphic

mind, born in the blood-lotus morning,

third eye cast asunder, and if these are

the last words dropped and plummet

from the grey breaking skies, so be it.

 

 

 

New World Warbler

 

ON DOUBT

You doubt your reality
as the new world warblers
unravel their sweet shrill
cries, yellow breast, gray
back, lost into the old world
of wilderness and winding
streams of Australia, come
the world, cast out and fly
freely in Northern America,
never doubt yourself, cast
the stone into the eyes of
defeat.

 

 

 

 

 

UNTIL MORNING


Tonight in a swirl of cigarette

smoke, Jeff Buckley sang "the

last goodbye”, the exhaust from

my beat-up old car intermingling

within the slide guitar of vibrato

memory, there she strolls into the

tattered pages of my past, just

like the rest of them, rain-drizzled

film noir, a black cat crosses my

path, just for good measure, if I

could just sleep and dream of her

I would, if we could just lay on our

backs peering into the cosmos and

count stars until the morning came.

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

I count, this first day of another year, what remains.
I have a mountain, a kitchen, two hands.

―Jane Hirshfield, The Asking: New and Selected Poems

__________________

—Medusa, welcoming Wayne Russell back to the Kitchen with his fine poetry, and wishing this limping world some better days to come~

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.

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

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

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!

Happy New Year from 

Medusa and LittleSnake!