Some Random Tuesday

 —Poetry by Richard LeDue, Norway House,
Manitoba, Canada
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

 

 

BURY ME IN MY RAIN BOOTS

Whisky-soaked yesterdays have dried up
finally, and the empty glass
that tried to convince me of itself
being a metaphor for my soul
has been put away in a cupboard
as quiet as any coffin
we leave to someone else
to choose for us, but the grey clouds
have more patience than the spring sun,
so they’ll wait for the right time
to remind me how I learned
to swim in puddles of my own making. 

 

 

 

DAMNING SPRING SUNLIGHT

Letting footprints in the snow melt
like someone trying hard
to forget all the Sunday mornings
and other time wasted going
in the same circles each day,
only for the inevitable blank stare
from mud (a distant cousin to Adam
looking at a half-eaten apple)
that makes me feel overworked
in this staring contest we call “god.”

 

 

 

 

43 IS A MUSICAL NUMBER

Old songs trying to help me
not feel like my youth,
a radio stained with static
in this digital age,

only for me to find my own music
in the silence of grey hair
and wrinkles in my bathroom mirror
on some random Tuesday.

 

 

 

 

I don’t have enough

passion to prove blood is red
inside a heart beating alone
like a drunk who doesn’t know
they’re fighting only themselves,
and my smile is forced without being forced,
leaving all my unspoken hellos and goodbyes
to boil in veins, blue as cartoon water,
until my words float, deader
than overcooked hot dogs
three days before pay day.

 

 

 

I like to pretend

earthworms hum hymns to a god
we used for fish bait
without realizing we were being
sacrilegious,
while our Sunday best an appetizer.

that it was enough to fill beer bottles
on those blacked-out Saturdays,
when old love songs helped us
forget how we feel too often
that god pointless.

a prepaid funeral the greatest optimism
that our own creator didn’t end
up on a hook beyond our comprehension
in a pond the same colour
as eyes glued shut.

 

 

 

STRANGERS AT A BUS STOP

Your crooked smile as straight as it can get,
failing beautifully at hiding sadness,
with the sort of dishonesty lying to itself
about being a better driver than it is,
and I start to realize my lips
more like a double decker bus
no one wants to ride,
while my most practised grin
a turn going the wrong direction
down a one-way street,
leaving all our shared pains quiet
as we are, strangers at a bus stop,
where tears are better at waiting
than the fear of being late for work.

____________________

Today’s LittleNIp:

GIVING IT UP
—Richard LeDue

It takes courage to stare at the sun,
instead of blacking out
into another night narrated
by an empty whisky bottle
the next morning.

The light burning with the darkness
of how all our failures
fuel irresponsibility like a machine
we say someone else built,
while we slept in again.

____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Richard LeDue for today’s fine poetry from up in the snow~and to Joe Nolan for coming up with some fine photos!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
SPF Fringe presents a workshop,
Using Poetic Elements to
Write Songs for Musical Theater,
in Nevada City today, 4:30pm;
Stephen Meadows will read in
South Lake Tahoe today, 5:30pm;
and Mahogany Urban Poetry Series
features De Saint in Sacramento, 7pm.
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.

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!

 

 

 

Buggy

  You Brought Me Flowers

* * *

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

 

 

COUNTER-CLOCKWISE
—Robin Gale Odam

Today I will write
from yesterday—I will
simply turn the hours
counter-clockwise,

watching for what has
come to pass through my
fury—a vexing search for
temperance. Or the one
flailing character flaw.

Or one tick of space held
in the transition of the hour
hand. Or the one grain of sand
fixed in the hourglass.

                 
(prev. pub. in Medusa's Kitchen, 2/21/23) 

 

 

 

Thinking

TO MYSELF
—Joyce Odam

Who is Joyce, who is she,
with her stumble of words,
her clumsy language?

Look, she is all un-
gathered again,
mended so temporarily
in one first mirror.

Stepping away, look how she
stutters apart,
sending little nervous glances
in all that glass.

Oh, she has something to say.
Oh, she is opening her mouth.
Oh, a moth flies in.

Tell us about gray, then;
tell us about soft suffocation
on the tongue.

Well, her eyes are sufficient,
I suppose;
they are rather like candles.
But the moth has died.
                        

(prev. pub. in The California Quarterly, Summer 1974)

 

 

 

Tidal

 

TRUTH POEM
—Joyce Odam

There’s a monster in the
bedroom!

No, David. There are no
monsters.

David all golden
and beautiful and three
stands and looks at me
with patience and truth
after pulling his wagon of toys
from the feared room
and as sure as a man
and as if I did not understand
explains :

There’s a
Monster in the bedroom. 

 

 

 

Maybe Tomorrow

 

TESTY
—Robin Gale Odam

I had no time to write
the script, verbs hissing
around me like flying bugs . . .

And tasking, tasking, felt
so normal but now the day is
winding down and I can't seem to
remember deeper than the first line . . .

Every day is the same day
sewn together by billions of
minutes with their languages and
dialects and harbingers ever the same . . .


(prev. pub. in Medusa's Kitchen, 1/31/23)

 

 

 Separated

 

FIRE DREAM
 —Joyce Odam

Do you thirst,
said the spectre—swimming before me—

my dream stretched out like a blanket afire,
the sky foreboding at the edge of the question.

I tried to answer, but the cup I held
kept spilling, and I could only watch the pouring.
                                                   

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/7/18; 6/22/21)

 

 

 

Silent

WE HEAR THE FALLING
                
Like discord
under lovely sound
we listen . . .
bird and man
     share all such
     metaphor
     as soul
     migration
     wind in throat
     phoenix-song
and deep within ourselves
as through the lift of wings
we hear the falling.

—Joyce Odam
                       

(prev. pub. in Small Pond, 1957;


also Frog Perspective, Mini-Chap, 2002;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/20/16)

 

 

 

Meditative

COG
—Joyce Odam

You start your life
With all the fire
Of optimism
And desire.

You live your life
And painfully
Find all not what it
Seemed to be.

You near the end—
What did you learn?
Perhaps you only
Had your turn.

            
(prev. pub. in My Stranger Hands by Joyce Odam, 1967;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/7/23) 

 

 

 

Bridled

MARRIED
—Joyce Odam

thought i was
nice tho plain and not quite smart
agreeable enough
and docile
like a dog
or a cow
or a length of rope
gave me favors for goodness
abuses for my slow
to obey or agree or understand
said i was bought and paid for
with a laugh to show you were kidding—
didn’t wonder why i smiled
why i looked away

i’ve grown plainer
and disagreeable
and cunning in the heart
i’ve become unruly
like a cat when it’s hungry
or a horse with the
first rope around its neck
or a new deck of cards
i make up riddles to scare you
i read our identical fortunes every day
in the democratic newspaper
you’re just about ready to love me I think
even tho you can’t afford me—
just about ready to know me
even tho i keep on changing

                                           
(prev. pub. in Squeezebox, Summer, 1975)

 

 

 

Should Have Danced All Night

THE LAST SWALLOW
—Joyce Odam
(“One swallow does not make a spring.”—Aristotle)

What is this absence? This loss
we feel? This timing gone wrong?
This cold season?

What is the meaning of a species
almost vanished? Should we mourn?
Should we learn to save ourselves?

What is after us?
We are pressed together in a vast
disharmony. We lose the rhythm.

                          . . .

The last poet in the world
sits writing in a quiet yard.
He looks around for inspiration.

The sunlight is warm upon him.
He is disconnected from his own memory.
He sees a shadow cross his page

and he looks up in joy . . .
it is the last swallow . . .
his is the last poem to speak of it.

                                          
(prev. pub. in Poets’ Forum Magazinr, June 1997;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/27/18) 

 

 

 

All My Love

HOORAY FOR EVERYTHING
—Joyce Odam

The water in the toilet is barely blue.
The light bulb in the bedroom burns out
and we’ve only had it twenty years.
The paper did not come.
No mail today either.
Yes, it’s Sunday
and the silence is too long.
Soon it will all be true,
everything that was sworn to and denied.
Hangovers do not cure drunkenness.
Why did you not hold me this morning?
We share our house with the spiders.

                                                 
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/4/18)

 

 

 

 Harmony

 

JOYOUS
—Robin Gale Odam

Yes I have no shame
today—I am buoyant and lofty
again . . . there is more to be said—
blah blah blah.

                       
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/31/23; 1/9/24)

 

 

 

One Melody

Today’s LittleNip:

Wishes are empty little things—
they learn to cry.

                            —Joyce Odam


(prev. pub. in Brevities, November 2019;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/18/23)

___________________

Our current Seed of the Week is “Bugs.” Robin Gale Odam writes: “One of our children told us that ‘not all bugs are insects, but all insects are bugs’. . .  and then there are worrisome things or matters that simply bug us. . .  or troublesome flaws, or self-doubt, or even little metaphor, to cast over fears... and what we imagine is present or nearby, watching us, or merely looking around, or perhaps unaware that we even exist (that would be one of the fables). . .  hmmmm. . . 

“p.s. along this journey we learned that plural for metaphor is metaphor. . .” I did not know that. . .

The only thing I would say is that nobody wrote about the spy apparatus, as in listening devices, as in “this room is bugged”. Oh well. . .  next time. Maybe they were afraid the email was bugged. . .

Our thanks to the Odam poets, Joyce and Robin,  for today’s fine poetry and Joyce’s lovely visuals.

Our new Seed of the Week is “So Extravagant”. 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

 

 

 

May is on the way!

 

 

 

 

 

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 at 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!

 

 

 

What Will They Teach Us?

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa
* * *
—Poetry by Claire J. Baker, Nolcha Fox,
Stephen Kingsnorth, Caschwa, Joe Nolan,
and Sayani Mukherjee
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Joe Nolan and Medusa

 

 

ANTS AND ANSWERS
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

What do ants learn
in daily rugged terrains
of peaks, crevasses, walls,
water, detritus, dust gathered
higher, wider, more dense
than their entire bodies?

Do ants bond with providence,
pause to reflect on predestination,
nibble on tidbits of redemption?
Build altars near anthills?
Cache bits of food? What will
these wee professors teach us?

 

 

 

 Longhorn Beetle
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

THE BUGS
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

Creepy crawlies in my bed, they slither underneath the sheets. They nibble at my toes and legs. My ears are filled with scritchy scratchies. My body is a mass of bites. My brain is full of dead distractions, liquified by constant caffeine. And then there are my kids….

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Illustrration Courtesy of Medusa

SPANISH FLEA
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

My gym routine driven by scales,
piano, 5-finger exercise,
though damper on the sustained strings,
my mottled foot, jazz fleas, bite work.
The score, Tijuana Brass,
sound notes as jumping Spanish Flea,
though who cares nationality
when trumpet blasts blow fleas away.
We all had itchy feet that night,
in dingy basement with the roach.

 

 

 

 Silkworm
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

BUGGED BY BUGS
—Stephen Kingsnorth

With exoskeleton, hard, crept
a new word, English lexicon—
that nation insectivorous—
but lately spreading ’cross the pond,
a Bunny, like grey squirrel type.

Invading species, welcome not,
as ancient native is replaced;
but spy such usage, once spurned, now
a shortcut slang for real term served—
bacterium or microphone.

Or maybe laptop victim here,
devices listen, inner ear;
both hover, bee, essential ’sects,
a complement to pollinate,
as I’m left humming, bug-alert.

So bugs surround, conspiracy,
to listen, sicken, corrupt files;
if only hedgehogs benefit.
We lower screens where light emits,
and welcome swallows sweeping low.

So stags and mayfly, roaches too,
full endo, exo panoply,
for they play part in Greenman’s plan,
far less destructive, human rōle,
leave hydrocarbons sprays on shelf.

It bugs me that one sound suffice
for all those meanings overheard—
verb, noun, cartoon, germ, common cold,
all bear the blame and carry weight,
just too much sitting on our plate. 

 

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

WE ARE A NATION OF LAWS
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

(Bugs—to fix)

Well, it’s likely that bell doesn’t ring as true
as it used to, being that our prisons are over
capacity, and that ain’t so red, white, and blue

And there are convicts who are executed
based on one set of facts, then contradictory facts
prove the earlier set should have been refuted

In the meantime, our lawmakers have built
a citadel of laws that only the most powerful,
flashy gladiator could overcome to avoid guilt

Ordinary citizens are completely vulnerable
to this crushing avalanche of insinuations and
overkill, and need something more tolerable

Perhaps we should no longer give police officers
a seat or voice in Congress, so we can finally fix
the bugs in this monstrous, phony game of rock,
    paper, scissors 

 

 

 

 Butterfly Close-Up
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

FITTING AND APT
—Caschwa   

(After a recent Seed of the Week,
An Unexpected Guest)

Knock, knock
    This room’s taken

Knock, knock
    Close the curtain!

Knock, knock
    [silence, the island of paradise]

Alone with my thoughts, just looking for
a fitting room that is appropriate to try out
different forms for my new poem

Let’s see, iambic or trochaic, or maybe a
mix of the two. What rhymes with total
annihilation? Do I even dare try a haibun?

Been meaning to write one of those poems
that needs 6 words, each of which has more
than one meaning, if you get my meaning.

    Knock, knock
I’m busy writing a poem
    We are closing now, if you don’t leave on
    your own, Security will escort you out

Ok, see you tomorrow 

 

 

 

Ladybug Larva
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

DOWN, PLEASE
—Caschwa

If the news was a Muse . . .

A certified toadologist must forego
all the princely accoutrements and
settle for being lowly, disregarded,
and dispensable. Give me today my
daily toe jam, warts, etc.

Only the king of kings gets first bite
of a newly opened bag of chips, the
last beer in the cooler, the best seat
in the house, and everything is already
paid for.

Fine women come a’courting, none
resort to snorting, they undress their
entire lives to be refashioned with a
royal kiss. If perchance they came to
the wrong place, they become the bride

of a toad, a common taxpayer, an
underpaid laborer, her only self-image
is mother to too many, more on the way,
unable to even count to one anymore.

Dreams are only found in higher stations
which are occupied by noble souls who
would not hesitate to crush you to death.

Give me today my daily lecture, I must
know my place and serve the king, even
if he is obnoxious, unruly, and slovenly.
Or maybe there is a better way? What if
we lowly folk were entitled to vote and
in response receive laws that serve us?

Stop that right now! Questions are not
allowed in the bargain basement, you
must first be elevated to a higher station… 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

HOPING FOR A BETTER OUTCOME
—Caschwa

If you’re just playing solitaire
on your home computer and no
certain money or property
is at stake, and you don’t win the
game but elevate the score a
bit higher than where you were, luck
can make you happy because that
is indeed an increase from where
it was and so you deal again
to try to repeat your good luck
on the next draw; however in
reality, if an errant
driver totals your fabulous
5 year old luxury car and
their best offer is no more than
market value for a 5 year
old car, but less than your full cost
to replace the wonderful car
that had served you so well, you are
not going to be very happy. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa

ASSASSINATIONS
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

The crossing of the Rubicon
Led to Caesar’s slaughter.
Republican senators
Found him out of order
In the Roman Republic
Where they didn’t want a king
To overrule its ruling class,
So they decided to kill his ass,
In an event we all remember.

It was the original conspiracy
Where Rome’s senators
Mobbed his ass with daggers
And even his dear Brutus
Stabbed him in a tender spot
That shouldn’t even be mentioned.

“Et tu, dear Brutus?”

John Wilkes Booth
Said, in Latin,
“Sic Semper Tyrannus!”
When he jumped down from
Lincoln’s balcony
To the stage of Ford’s Theater
After doing his dirty deed
With a single-shot derringer
Spent inside his pocket.

But Oswald said he was a patsy,
And, most likely, he was.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

BUGS
—Joe Nolan                                   

I am a fly.
I don’t know why.
It wasn’t up to me.
I’m not a self-made fly,
Conceitedly.
At least I’m not a flea.

I am a flea.
Or, if not,
Ever so nearly
Might I be
A dapper flea.

Or maybe a honey-bee?
Buzzing on your flower
To rest my wings for hours
And with your honey, flee.

Such is the way of bugs,
To lurk about in rugs
And have a need to bite thee
Now and then
If ever so slightly!

Ever made a bug your friend?
So many ways those friendships end:
A crushing of a shell
A bat-shit crazy yell
A bomb
Or a spray
Or any other way
Might do as well.
It isn’t hard to tell
A bug
To bug off!
 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

NOT YOU
—Joe Nolan

Exactly, no.
The obverse of an aardvark
Is still yet to show
Underneath an awning
Of shade you
Can’t let go

While everywhere
There’s flowers
In and out your hair
That shine in sun,
Letting pale observers
Know that you’d be fun
If they had you,

Which they won’t,
Since you
Are fairly selective.

______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

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

The autumn windfall of fallen leaves
A shadowy misty river-water
Sat by the upfront, the river cried
A dozen zenith-fulls of wavering sadness
I churned  the fall from the seasons
Of Tulip's most unkempt secret
A lonely hazardous blush garden
All around a thorny buzzing
Fall came with its basket
By the river it was
As I carried the leaves with the moist touch
So all were symphony of a cacophonous haze.

______________________

—Medusa, with thanks to today’s contributors, some of whom  wrote about our Seed of the Week, Bugs.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Cartoon Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Sacramento Poetry Center
features an all-open mic
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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hunting For Angela

 —Poetry by John Grey, Lincoln, RI
—Visuals Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

THE DAMN BODY

Can't tell the body anything.
It’s out there preening
on the baseball mound.
It's strutting down the sidewalk.
It's in a crowd.
It's by itself, folded up into a park bench,
feeding its mouth peanuts.
Can't say body take off that cop's uniform,
or soldier's khaki or bus-driver's navy blue.
Can't get one to do your bidding.
Stand straight, stop scratching,
keep your legs together...
give bodies all the orders you want
but don't expect obedience.
There you go, looking in the mirror again,
thinking well at least my own body
will do what I tell it.
I can just hear you:
lose those pounds, waist,
smooth out those wrinkles, face,
put back that muscle, upper arms.
The body's good to have,
good to have around you,
but it won't listen to a word.
Besides, a word is just a sound
a body makes.
If it sounds like a resolution,
it’s more likely just a smirk. 

 

 

 

 
 

IN AUGUST

The sun is heavy.
Its light weighs down
our shoulders.
The sky is over-full.
But of blue, not rain.

Time, in these houses,
is reduced to something
akin to a board game.
Garner enough minutes
and you have yourself an hour,
enough hours
and that’s a lifetime.

People leave,
take their shadows with them.
I’ve a hole in my heart
wide enough for a truck to pass through.

I hold a hand
held together by string and tape.
It is my own.
I have no finesse
and little function.
Daytime is a blunt object.
Night, if there even is a night,
is a sharpened saw. 

 

 

 

NECROPOLIS

It’s a cemetery
but I prefer the word “necropolis”
like it’s some kind of city of the dead
with a large tombstone for a city hall, a bunch of
bones for a mayor,

No housing problem, of course.
Everyone’s got their own box.
No hunger.
For the worms and weevils that is.
No loud noises,
except for the occasional thump of a shovel.
Very little traffic
and mostly above ground.
And no crime.
The bludgeoning that cracked
Ernie Jones’s skull happened
a week or two
before he moved in here. 

 

 

 

 

ANGELA, WHOEVER YOU WERE

It was fourth grade.
Arithmetic, English.
Social Studies and death.

The outside was bright and warm,
the classroom dark and cold.
Typical of early Spring.

It wasn't Susan,
the one whose blond ringlets
rolled down the back of her dress—
oh how I wanted to run
my fingers through them.

No, it was some girl called Angela.
Spectacles and freckles.
Her empty chair
was the first time I'd ever noticed her.

Our teacher explained
that she would not be returning to us.
Those are the words I remember.
Not anything Angela ever said.

The room still smelled of chalk
Sheila Gross continued to shove her hand
in the air and shout, "Me! Me!"
every time the teacher asked a question.
Billy Ramsey and I talked in class no less.
And Susan's ringlets tempted me
as they had always done
and would continue to do
for the next two years
before her military family moved.

I once tried to track Angela on the internet
though I couldn't remember her last name.
So no luck there of course.
Some people exist a million times online.
But most, not at all.

I used to think schooldays were a simpler time.
I now know they were a naĩve time
and there's a difference. 

 

 

 

 

THE FOOL

The fool inside my clean white skull
is engaged by dizzy wind
into scratching his annoyances
across the eyes and ears of those close to him.

His life held in check by sky,
he figures himself for a survivor,
his crazy tongue
a way of freeing himself
from the others in his corral.

Oh this fool considers himself immense
even if he should be locked in handcuffs,
reckons the self-inflicted he
to be the ultimate in revelation.

So he plays upon the shock
of telling you what he really thinks,
even if that comes from not thinking.
He considers himself wise beyond his years
but is that really fearful beyond all rationale?

His cry for justice passes out of his mouth
and he bullies facts and memories
like they're a kid with glasses
but he may as well paint his face
and don a cap with bells.

Oh the fool has just said something
that only a fool would not regret.
It can't be taken back.
It can't be traded in.
It can only wait around for a response,
physical or emotional.

And then I'm not such a fool as I thought I was.
Shit, I should have just kept my mouth shut.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

The person who writes for fools is always sure of a large audience.

—Arthur Schopenhauer, Religion: A Dialogue and Other Essays

_____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to John Grey for today’s fine poetry! And apologies for today's late post; server probems.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that Georgetown’s
Arts in Nature Fest
takes place today, 10am-2pm;
Sacramento Poetry Center
presents a discussion about
a potential workshop:
Polyphonics: A Workshop
of Poets in Conversation, 11aam;
at noon, First Church of Poetry
meets in Sacramento;
then at 2pm, SPC features a
reading & discussion on
a new book, Sacramento Noir;
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.

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!

Chasing Fireflies

 —Poetry by R. Gerry Fabian, Doylestown, PA
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain 

CREPUSCULAR REVELATION

Chasing fireflies
three days after
school promotion,
running, grasping, catching
releasing.
Eventually winded,
we sit
on the large rocks
next to Penelope Creek.

You snuggle next to me
and pull my face to yours
and kiss me hard on the lips.
I pull away.
You try again.
I push you away.
You grow angry and punch my arm.

“There are many boys
who will want to kiss me.”

Now, four years later,
you are correct.

 

 

 

ETHEREAL ELEMENTAL EYES

She can see the blue in breath
and discover the depth
of cold tint in lies
or the azure of ocean truth.
Her vision sees the kind blush heart
as well as the currant-cold heart.
These eyes can discern
the slightest tangerine touch
and immediately process
if it is Carob caring
or mauve malevolence.
Her intense palette eyes
can accurately paint a portrait
within several seconds of contact.

 

 

 

 

TOKEN INQUIRIES

Rumor and gossip follow you
like a frightened novice detective.
Slurred speech forms your portrait
in the style of some second-rate
pointillistic paint splatter.
In the late evenings,
mongrel dogs avoid
your side of the street.
Any suspicious activities
limp across to rest on your door steps.

When called to appear before the authorities,
you arrive in a custom-made black striped suit,
a wearing a black Fedora
and a gold-handled oak cane
with a young woman clutching your arm
who is so attractive
that the building secretaries gasp
at her slender figure
complete with long strawberry-blonde hair
and buttermilk skin.
Her demeanor totally convinces everyone of your guilt
but garners nothing more than humbled apologies
for the intricate inconvenience.

 

 

 

 

GATHERING MOMENTUM

I slowly lower myself down under this oak tree.
No spreading broom tree, baked bread,
jug of water or angel urging me on.
Like Hemingway’s ‘Santiago’
I have gone way too far.
There is no way I can make it back.

It “goeth before the fall.”

Spontaneity,
I try and convince myself.
There is a town five miles up the road.
It’s my only real chance.

“No cell service” I’ll explain.
“What were you thinking?”
“I wanted to see the cabin where I was born.”
“Have you lost your mind?”
“There’s a part of my soul there.”
“What are you mumbling about?”

I lean against the tree to try and get up.
The rest has done nothing but allow
my already aching legs to stiffen.
I’m pretty sure I don’t have five miles in me
but I’ve been wrong before.

 

 

 

 

THE NORTH FORTY

I am heading into the forest
with the Brittany and a fishing pole.
The destination is Patterson Creek
where the speckled trout glide
through the tree-shadowed water.
The Brittany is like a drunk on Saturday night
sniffing here and there in a zig zag pattern.
It is mid-summer and the forest is cool and green.
The strong vegetation smell hangs in the air—
an aroma of comfort.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Last year I went fishing with Salvador Dali. He was using a dotted line. He caught every other fish.

—Steven Wright

____________________

—Medusas, with thanks to R. Gerry Fabian for today’s fine poetry!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that 

 Poetry in Parks meets at the 

Empire Mine State Park 

in Grass Valley today, 1pm; 
Drunk Poetry w/Andru Defeye
takes place today at noon
at the Press Club in Sacramento;
and Sac. Poetry Center
features the release of
Tule Review and
New Rivers Quarterly
tonight, 6pm.
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.

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!