Poets on the Moon!

 —Poetry about Spaces and Places by
Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

MARTINEZ STRAITS PARK          
Martinez, California

Amber lamplight shimmers
over a marshy pond
where mallards and swans
mirror in dusky shallows,
momentarily glow crossing gold.

Nestled among reeds
that Costanoans weaved
into baskets, a few fowl tuck
heads under wings, to doze or hide.

From our park bench,  
a full moon reflects a molten-
silver waterbridge burning
toward the Strait’s far shore.

We gaze
into a darker sky,
watch as stars, one-by-one
tinsel the twilight.

 

 

 

 

NIGHT MEADOW
Tuolumne, Yosemite

Above this meadow
unhampered
by human light
the Milky Way
tinsels
a long luminous

pathway—one of its
sparkles, the earth
on which we dwell.
Gazing into our galaxy
we are fabulously
both here & way up there.

 

 

 

ON SEISMOGRAPH

After a quake
I envision
Richter scale-
like lines
by da Vinci
from
loosening
hand & wrist
before
beginning
a masterpiece
sketch like

the Vitruvisn Man.

 

 

 

 

POETS’ RETREAT AT VALLEY
OF THE MOON MONASTERY

Brown-robed Brothers glide to chapel
along a winding path that overlooks
foothill vineyards. Anchored with camera
under a flowering plum tree, I snap
their grace . . . If only click and I am holy.

Swallows float in from far valley
cluster on the chapel crucifix
like a host of unanswered questions as
Brothers tongue sacramental wafers,
sip wine from their autumn harvest;

small birds nudge fresh straw
into nests, flutter around the cross.
I press the camera to my eyes, record
all this spirit, & wishing life on earth
were simple, as a camera’s click.

 

 

 

 

YESTERNIGHT

How like
a calming echo
to hear you say
you noticed
the full moon
softening
the dark waters
under the Bridge
we cross
to a fresh shore

 

 

 

 

WHEN NASA CALLS…

Dear poets, we’ll be star-stuff on the moon!
We’ve much to offer such a far-out place.
They say a lottery is coming soon.
Relax, prepare, we’re bound to fly in space.
They need celestial lyrics there and praise
for engineers and physicists who stand
behind their spaceship for its final phase—
grooving with gravitation’s pull, to land!

When NASA calls for astro-sonnets, we’ll show
we’re more than primed to render lofty art.
Let’s choose familiar pens and pads to go,
enhance our stellar images to start.

The moon awaits our lines in cosmic song.
Hi-tech will keep the trip from seeming long.

_______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

OUT ON THE PATIO
—Claire J. Baker

Mote    s
floa t  ing
bef  o    re

our ey    es
a re
      ti   ny

twe  ets
fr  o      m

par   a   dise?

_______________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Claire Baker for today’s fine poetry, including her lovely sonnet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A busy day in the NorCal area:
Incoming Stanislaus County
Youth Poet Laureate Valentina Zeff
reads in Modesto, 1pm;
Sacramento Book Festival
takes place in Sacramento, 4pm;
Sacramento Poetry Alliance features
Mary Mackey and Tim Kahl, 4pm;
Sacramento Poetry Center presents
A Sit-In With Walt Whitman, 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!

 

 LittleSnake takes off 

on an adventure….

A Timeless Meter

 

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

IRIS FOR MEMORIAL DAY

Remember how we cruised the country roads
blooming with iris on that long-gone day
for honoring the dead, our live dogs
with their noses out the car windows, scenting
colors of flowers we never saw. Long ago
those dogs—veterans of so many searches—
joined the cadre of great old hero dogs
departed to a new dimension. This year
for all my iris, the season is past; just one
dog finding his way on his path to blooming. 

 

 

 

 

ON MEMORIAL DAY

I visit a battlefield. Miles of soldiers
fallen or still standing, dead—
black skeleton conifers to the far horizon.
These ridges and canyons burned
summers ago. I come
not to plant flags by the graves
but looking for life. Sapling pines
and incense cedars sheltering
under charred mother-trees.
And wildflowers—rainbow iris,
woolly sunflower, diamond clarkia.
Deerbrush in bright white blossom
attended by countless tiny pollinating bees.

 

 

 

TRAILSIDE

peavine in the sun
is blooming passionate pink—
it must be summer

though it’s only May
by my human calendar—
peavine in the sun
lures me away from oak shade
for a pink-ruffled moment.

 

 

 

SAILING MY WEED-EATER

Green the grasses, bowing to wind. An ocean, a flowing vegetive river from creek to pasture, wild oats chest-high, foxtail, brome, understory of clover, batches of woolly vetch knitting all together with wildflowers. They say wild celery flourishes, salt or freshwater, a riverboat would founder.

green the puzzle
to solve, mowing piece by piece,
one day gaining ground

 

 

 

TO CATCH IT

I didn’t realize I was chasing a poem,
walking the chaparral hill trail
encroached on both sides by yerba santa
in full bloom, buzzing with tiny bees,
and a black-rimmed burnt-orange butterfly—
a sainted herb and its pollinators.

But now I see the For Sale sign
on this natural piece of earth. It has me
scribbling on my notepad almost illegibly step-by-
racing step to get it down before I forget,
while I still can feel its heartbeat pulse, its wing
song, its timeless meter.

__________________

STILL A MYSTERY

My tablet disappeared between the Geeks
and home. This quite jinxed me. Most carefully
I peeked, probed, pried in every corner, crack,
every crevice of the car. Again and
again. At last, an undiscovered slot—
a thin space I didn’t know existed
under the passenger seat and accessed
from the rear. How did my tablet get there,
with no one in my car but me, as I drove
my tech-repaired tablet from Geeks to home.

 

 

 

 

Today’s LittleNip:

ANYBODY HOME?
—Taylor Graham

So diligent a mother wren,
her house so filled with twigs for nest,
they reach the roof, they block the door—
where will the babies fit?

_____________________

Our thanks to Taylor Graham for the fine poetry she caught for us today! Forms she has used this week include a Haibun (“Sailing My Weed-Eater”); a Response Poem to Medusa’s recent Seed of the Weed, Chasing Poems (“To Catch It”); two Responses to our Triple-F Challenge, Memorial Day (“Iris for Memorial Day”; “On Memorial Day”); a Hainka (“Trailside”); a Pangrammatic Lipogram (“Still a Mystery”); and a Ryũka (“Anybody Home?”). The Lipogram/Pangrammatic Lipogram was our other Triple-F Challenge last week.

In El Dorado Country poetry 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 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!

* * *

 

 

Sovende mor med barn 1883
Painting by Christian Krohg (v. 1)

Last Week’s Ekphrastic Photo

Poets who sent responses to last week’s Ekphrastic photo were Joe Nolan, Nolcha Fox, and Stephen Kingsnorth:


NAP-TIME
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

A look of contentment
A look of exhaustion
Orange
Much more lively
Than drab gray.   
 
Comes the time
When slumber
Turns to rumbles
A man must rise
And duty-fill the day.

* * *

LOVE AND DEATH
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

She didn’t answer hubby’s yell.
The dinner wasn’t ready.
The drawers and cupboards’ contents
laid in pieces on the floor.
He found her limp next to the bed.
The baby was still sleeping.
The policeman said the woman
must have died from sheer exhaustion.
The judge decreed the baby must
have murdered his own mother,
and required the poor infant
to go without a bottle
until his mother finally got her rest.

* * *

Stephen Kingsnorth’s response is also an Ars Poetica:


POSING?
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Which first appeared in artist’s oeuvre?
Cloth folded, over shoulder laid
with puff piled pillows for her head,
a close packed room of furniture;
or plainer dress of navy wool,              ,
sheet blanket cover overlaid
with bedpost jutting into chin?
The first, more detailed, fabric sewn,
or second, real discomfort known?

She drifts, like I, shut-eye unplanned,
for sheer exhaustion of her charge;
does rhythmic rock play hand in it,
or is the cradle solid legged?
The Nordic clime requiring thick—
the woolly hat for baby’s head—
as artists merge what’s seen, with dream,
like photograph, with what they will,
the history of art is changed.

So what inspires this Christian Krohg?
Commission by famed patronage;
desire to canvas market place?
Concern, conditions that obtain,
or mother and a child well known?
Do these two versions lend a clue?
Does first leave much dissatisfied?
His question posed—why did I paint?
What is the answer we might give?

* * *

Caschwa (Carl Schwartz) took up the Triple-F Challenge of the Pangrammatic Lipogram, using all vowels except “e”:

 

 

 

BUILT TO LAST
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

Old socks from young days
put on daily, wash, dry, again,
still fit, wish I could buy such
pairs today.

China, Japan, all of Asia put a
stop on production of socks that
fit my footsy whilst I could not
wait. Socks for my town must
transport as quickly as a fast
train.

Viola! Axiomatic buzz from my
brain, try shopping in daylight.
Helps spirits stay high

* * *

Here are some Duas from Carl:

 

 

 

My first time riding a horse, I had a little help
getting up, but then I was 100% successful

That was my first and only time

**

Aliens landed and said “Take Me to Your Leader”

I told them honestly we don’t have one

**

I was a master at remembering details of ancient
history

Then the birthing process seemed to pull those out
of my mind

**

We learned how to decline nouns and conjugate
verbs

Now we tell our grandchildren about those lost
arts

**

Laser beam pierced the ship, made it sink in the
middle of the sea

That was the origin of our ¢ sign


—Caschwa

* * *

Carl also sent a Nonce:  his is Three 6-line stanzas; Rhyme Scheme abcabc, defdef, ghighi; Variable syllable counts:

 

 

PREPUBESCENT PORNOGRAPHIC POETRY
POLICE
—Caschwa

Be warned, if you get caught enjoying an open-
    face
sandwich, you may get accused of showing too
    much
interest in viewing things that are uncovered,
as if that was an antisocial kind of disgrace
warranting surrender of those images from your
    clutch
barring you from viewing all those things over
    which you hover

But it is just lunch, just a mere sandwich
nothing that should disturb the social calm
No! say the prepubescent pornographic poetry
    police
your mind is as evil as the most hideous kind of
    witch
holding for ransom a healing, soothing balm
even upsetting the Sheriff, who is immodestly
    obese

Close that sandwich. Do no fight the public will,
you can never, ever win that argument
they will burn you at the stake, praise your demise,
and blindside all with preaching, you’re the target
    for a kill
the best logic and reason won’t make any dent
that’s the very last sandwich you will see with
    your eyes

__________________

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.) How much of a punch can you pack into the tiny Atom?

•••Atom: https://poetscollectivepoetryforms.wordpress.com/2014/12/22/atom-2

•••AND/OR, bug season is here! Write an American 767 and talk about bugs:

•••American 767: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/3223

•••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 “Fences”.

____________________

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

•••Ars Poetica: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ars-poetica
•••Atom: https://poetscollectivepoetryforms.wordpress.com/2014/12/22/atom-2
•••Dua (devised by Ai Li): a two-line poems with two spaces between each line, no periods and no titles
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••Haibun: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/haibun-poems-poetic-form
•••Hainka: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/hainka-haiku-tanka-new-genre-of-poetic-form
•••Lipogram/Pangrammatic Lipogram: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lipogram
•••Nonce Poetry Forms: www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/poetic-asides/nonce-forms-what-they-are-and-how-to-write-them
•••Response Poem: creativetalentsunleashed.com/2015/11/18/writing-tip-response-poems
•••Ryūka: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ryūka
•••Tuesday's 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/.

__________________

—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!

 

 

Twenty on the Dot

 Celebration!

—Photo by Caschwa
* * *
—Poetry by Caschwa, Keith Snow,
Jeanine Stevens, Charles Mariano,
and Stephen Kingsnorth
—Photos by Caschwa and Jeanine Stevens
—Public Domain Visuals Courtesy
of Joe Nolan and Medusa

 

 

LET’S CELEBRATE!
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

that we can breathe air in
and out again

wiggle our toes
and smell like a rose

eat all we want
use any font

write things that rhyme
just any old time

speak with no curbs
grow our own herbs

love all our neighbors
help with their labors

sleep well at night
surpass our old height

honor the worth
of life here on Earth 

 

 

* * *

May 29, 2025 marks the 20th anniversary of Medusa’s Kitchen, so we sent out a call for celebratory poems on any subject. Here’s what some of our SnakePals came up with: 

 

 

 

 —Artwork from West Turkey Courtesy of Jeanine Stevens

BOG JUMPING
—Jeanine Stevens, Sacramento, CA

Every turn of the road, our driver sings
familiar Irish tunes, some folk,
others from film scores.
Arriving at one spot, the earth thick
like licorice studded with various colors.
We learn this is the only place
a carnivorous bug survives.
I check my parka for signs of a nibble.
The ground is soft and spongy.
A sign says we can jump, try out springiness.
You and two older men who eat oysters
and beer each night for dinner,
have a great go of it, rising, bouncing,
not even loosing balance. Driving through
a heavy mist we stop at Yeats’ grave,
“Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.”
On our way again, we arrive at Westport,
Matt Molloy’s pub owned by one
of the Chieftains. A classic setting,
numerous ales, whiskeys, locals
on drums, flutes and hot fiddles.
One woman in our group, very conservative,
sedate, freckles, begins tapping her toes,
posture relaxing like a marionette;
she reaches for two spoons (intended for
bowls of Irish stew with Guinness extra stout),
hikes her skirt and measures out a mean beat.
Amazing we find such joy, respond
to rhythms mirroring our own heartbeats.
Even at 75, grandfather could do an Irish jig,
a high-stepping fling at a barn dance in Indiana. 

 

 

 

 —Artwork from West Turkey Courtesy of Jeanine Stevens

ECLIPSE: A Villanelle
—Keith Snow, Harrisburg, PA

This villanelle was from a prompt to use song
lyrics for the repeating lines:

The first one there says to second one,  
there is more darkness all around.
Little darling, here comes the sun.

Our brand new day has just begun.
I’m glad your feet are on the ground.
The first one there says to second one

We first must walk, then learn to run,
to where, joy and happiness abound.
Little darling here comes the sun

The harbinger of a celebration
Like a king, being fitted for a crown
The first one there says to second one

Don't let doubt limit your own expectation.
You're not meant to be just earthbound.
Little darling, here comes the sun.

Rising star, seeking attention.
Beyond clouds her light can be found
The first one there says to second one
Little darling, you are the sun!

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
[This photo also happened to be a recent 

MK Ekphrastic Challenge.]

CELEBRATION OF LIFE
—Charles Mariano, Sacramento, CA

whenever i see images of trains,
any trains,
i find myself staring
long and hard

i see trains differently
than most,
‘specially now,
decades later

like this old train pic
chugging at me
outta the fog,
it has an eerie, ghostly quality

i see and hear,
a frightening replay

it’s 4am, and i’m 18,
a hot summer night in Merced
driving with the windows down
by myself,

sleepy as hell
and prob’ly a tad buzzed
i somehow, someway,
hit that damn train
on G Street

my eyes blinked awake
to this surreal, slow-motion scene,
a monstrous view,
a thunderous, screeching noise

the train
nicked the front end,
bumped the car sideways,
suddenly, to the left of me,
gigantic metal wheels
sliding closer…

instinctively,
i let go of the wheel,
scooted to my right,
snaked out the window
and rolled hard on the rocks

i sat there stunned,
the world trembling, pounding
all around me,
as i watched the tail-end
of the train
finish crunching the car

scary, but kind of funny
at the time,
when telling friends
not funny anymore

as miracles go,
this qualifies 

 

 

—Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa

THE RECIPE
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

A candle on the birthday cake
for waxed or waned poetic drafts.      
Observe, reflect, protest if tasked,
indeed the themes unlimited   
as illustrate community
with rhythm, pulse, beat heart, drawn breath.

Here’s language, glyphs to mark out codes,
their sounds demanded of our mouths;
might words fulfil a double rôle,
casting spells, witchcraft our thought
though take their toll on working through—
can any term so fully grow?

Poor name for unrhymed lines which speak
more loudly oftentimes, called bank;
prefer the posers as parade,
those pausing with a question mark?
Our dreams turn mares to trash the worst;
daydreaming hopes to realise

I owe so much for challenge range,
the prompt to eye, for me I blink,
seeds rarely out of sight and mind,
as pics on pixel roundabout;
a service for the layabouts
whose minds alert though limbs desert.

Medusa, snakes, where myths abound,
as samples, Sam, hiss, pitch from pit;
care, kitchen wrangler shows so much.
As older, Greenman takes the stage,
for lifetime creeds embrace more lores;
this cookbook scores, my current star.

A global network of the versed
in creativity of words
when most curated, confidence
that editors find worthy style,
but here no judgement, recipe,
one’s dish accepted, tastebuds fired.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

SIMPLE GIFTS
from this land enabling us the better to cope!
—Stephen Kingsnorth

Trace gifts for anniversaries,
from paper whereon poetry,
the first of verse, before my time,
a site unknown for many years.
Real thread that runs from classic forms
first cotton; wool, to fluffy stuff.
Hide meaning, words as leather work,
that parchment for the valued codes.

Flax linen for the fourth estate,
a journal in poetic cause.
For fifth, the Greenman in the wood,
that kieth of unexpected spell,
there rooted in a Gaelic grove,
the Celt where elements the creed.
Here’s candy six, the sweeter mix
of every style and mood—with pics!

Cat’s Cradle, for the seventh, wool,
imagination’s building sight.    
Enhanced taste is number eight,
when salt is sprinkled, verse rehearsed
Our nine is copper, Verdigris,
green tarnish which the reader coats    
Ten, Tinman on the yellow brick,
though/for where verse leads, another guess.

A rainbow may be somewhere hid,
tipped treasure at the coloured dip.
Steel speaks of strength, though tariffs too,
so here’s to site where no fees due
(eleven not an easy word,
accommodated at some cost.)
Silk luxury the dozen prize,
as lace reprise for baker’s count.

While ivory and crystal teens      
bring china, twenty, total toll.
Magnificent, provided food,
as we, at kitchen table, filled. 

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

 POETRY
—Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

“What a mighty voice it requires in the poet, to keep
his lines strange, and rolling like waves, and brave
like the sun.”             –John Crowe Ransom


These words that celebrate from me,
these words that grieve,
these words that sing or weep . . .

These words that come from their
own places—of their own volition,
that I take, and call them mine . . .

How they cluster—how they form—
too fast, or too resistant—depending on
their own need or inspiration . . .

Which of us needs the other more—
my reach, or their release. Oh, words,
words—we are the path to one another.
I will write while you speak. 

—Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa

Poetry is as powerful as a Dragon~

and just as tough!

DRAFT
—Robin Gale Odam, Sacramento, CA

Breathless, the poet scribbled
with sharpened pencils—breathless
in the turning of the hour, in the hour of
gleaning, in the placing of the flourish.

Fragile curls of pencil lead and broken
points lay scattered over pages of
endings.


(prev. pub. in Brevities, July 2018;
Song of the San Joaquin, Fall 2018;
Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/27/22; 7/18/23; 11/16/24) 

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

WRITTEN BY MOONLIGHT
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

May you and I read within
each other deepness
only a chosen few will reach.

Let us be open, not wear a mask,
sensitive to fantasy and reality,
aware of the other’s shadows,

hurts, triumphs, beliefs, quirks.
When we disagree, may we
withhold unkindness.

How luminous when we met,
our pages turning as one.
Yet in their own time and space.

You are a young romantic poet—
I, an elder-elder.
May we keep sharing our poems.

 

 

 —Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa

And some affectionate thoughts about the thousands of poets who have visited the Kitchen in more than two million posts:

They Talk to Me in Poems—

steady stream of missals
handed to me carefully—
tightly chiseled or scratched on the back
of a matchbook: shiny, expensive

journal poems tied up in ribbons or
soft mumblings on a microphone or
ethereals in flimsy cyber-strings of
e-mail: picture poems or quotes

from somebody else: submissions or
just weekend ramblings: bottle-
messages stuffed in the mailbox or
crumpled on the coffee table: flat

smack up against a deadline or
strung out one-at-a-time for
months and months: casual notes
(if you really want this) or please-

please-please swallowing the lines…
They talk to me
in poems: how it hurts and
where it hurts and when

it feels better: who they lost and how
it ended and why why why.  They
talk to me
talk to me

talk to me: carefully crafted or
spilled
splattered
sparkling—an endless, sweet, sweet

cacophony of heart songs
spent clear across
each fluttering page…


—Kathy Kieth, Diamond Springs, CA

 

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/1/22)

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.

—Thomas Gray

____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to today’s poets for their celebrations! Here’s to another twenty years~

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 A reminder that

Lara Gularte will present

a workshop in El Dorado Hills

tonight, 5:30pm.

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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Twenty Years Minus One Day

 The Quetzal, Guatemala’s National Bird
* * *
—Poetry by Carol Frith, Joyce Odam, 

Taylor Graham, James Lee Jobe, 

and Jeanine Stevens
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

QUETZAL
—Carol Frith

A snake? I've forgotten how to write
a serpent. Quetzal, with your feathered
    scales
and brother to the moon? A god, not
    quite
a snake. And I've forgotten how to write
about the moon, who slept with you, her
    light
a memory that all light somehow fails.
Bright snake, I've forgotten how to write
about you...Quetzal with your feathered
    scales.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/30/05)

 

 

 

 

ORNAMENTAL FROG
—Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

In a small green sink-jar
filled with water and
gray river stones
I keep
an old glass frog
with one foot missing—
happy there,
I think.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/24/05)

 

 

 

 

4.8
—Taylor Graham, Somerset, CA

Did you hear it? That rattle
of door against sill
as if cloud heaped on storm-cloud
upcountry too high/far off
for thunder, or fingers over the black
keys not quite touching
music. Silence. Did you feel
it? A giddiness between
steps, the earth not easy
in its glide underfoot.
Something sticks, an inter-
stice, as if you saw
the leaving of the fox, and not
the creature herself.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/28/05)

 

 

 

 

THE OFFERING
—James Lee Jobe, Davis, CA

Usually it is a field mouse, but once
it was a full grown rat, that I find dead
on my morning doormat, left there by Kitty.
My wife says, “Maybe she is trying to prove
that she is doing her job.” I smile and nod,
and go for the shovel, but really,
wouldn’t that imply that Kitty somehow knows
that humans expect cats to be diligent mousers?
Certainly I never asked that of her. I prefer
to think that she is seeking approval
for the justice that she has dispensed
upon the intruder. Or that perhaps
murderous Kitty has a compulsion to kill
that cannot be suppressed, and, not caring
for the taste of mouse, she comes to me
for aid in destroying the evidence of her crime,
aid that my shovel and I always provide.
Better still, it could be that Kitty, after being fed
by us for so long, is giving something back
to the family, bringing to the table something
of her own making. “Good Kitty,” I tell her
as I go for the shovel.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/6/05)

 

 

 

 

INVISIBLE
—Jeanine Stevens, Sacramento, CA

The day I became
invisible, I walked
into a small photo
shop, rang a bell
for service, no one
came. I stopped
to visit a colleague
on campus, students
swarmed around him,
I slipped out unnoticed.
Through glass, I saw
a friend engrossed
in a meeting. I left
with a cup of water
from the cooler,
then wandered
to a park, watched
ducks, an older
woman also sat,
bent, a spot of blood,
the size of a nickel,
seeped from her arm.
"I'm not hurt, just
old, my skin breaks
easily." I felt I tiptoed
at the edge of things,
anonymous, it was
somehow peaceful.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/16/05)

______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Who says my poems are poems?
My poems are not poems.
After you know my poems are not
    poems,
Then we can begin to discuss poetry!

—Ryōkan


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/26/05)

_________________

Today’s post is a collection of poems from the first two months of Medusa’s Kitchen, back in 2005. There were others, of course, but these names still appear in the Kitchen occasionally after all these twenty years—with the except of dear friend Carol Frith, who passed away in 2019, and Ryōkan, who passed away quite a bit before that . . . Anyway, many thanks to our SnakePals—these and everyone else—for sticking around!

And come by tomorrow for our celebratory poems! It’s not too late to send one of your own, a poem that celebrates something—anything—form or free verse—and I’ll post it tomorrow. (20 years! Amazing!)

_________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

Original Illustration by Sam the Snake Man

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Andru Defeye will read 

at Malikspeaks in Sacramento

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!

 

 

 

Pendulum, Metronome, Heartbeat

 Morning

* * *

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

 

 

THE MOBILE
—Joyce Odam

you have tethered
the spirit
of wild geese
to your ceiling

mornings
they struggle
against their strings
in the brittle sunlight
that pulls at them
through the window

they turn
in the merest drift
of breathing
and swim
in the sterile air

on ever-spread
of ghost wings
spanning
the cardboard whiteness
of their staying
                    

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/22/12) 

 

 

 

Low Moon

 

LOVE
—Robin Gale Odam

he was fathomless—
i fell in love because of his
insanity, it was the same as my
father’s    and maybe mine

                  
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/19/24) 

 

 

 

A Study

 

  

THE TWO DOORS
—Joyce Odam
After Andrew Wyeth

Two doors hang side by side,
one door ajar
the other closed and locked.
A path of pale light crosses both

and gives a little warmth
to this cold room
that does not lead to anywhere
but this flat day.

One door holds back the story
that is here;
the other guards the answer
that there is no question for.

The open door looks out upon
the bit of land, the bit of sky,
combined there narrowly,
to make an unreality.

And in the dying light
of this still room,
the old dust teems
and squirms in its own drift.

No matter now.
A darkness
settles in upon the wall
and makes its comfort known,

the one door staying closed,
the other easing back
its slide-lock
in a last small patch of light.

 

 

 

Favorite Colors

 

JUST WHERE THE WISH LIES
—Joyce Odam

in the shallow well
with all the bright pennies
and nickels
all year
with the laughter of sunlight
and the glower of winter shadows
the wish lies
with its potential
with its curious direction
and is
or is not granted

 

                                                                           
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 06/14/11)

 

 

 

Evening Stroll

 

THE MECHANICS OF TIME
—Joyce Odam
After Cartier Mother of Pearl Clock, 1925

To open the puzzle clock that does not open,
to understand the mechanics of time
that has its own dimension . . .

    A harp plays of its own accord in
    a shuttered room; a soprano sings,
    surrounded by the stopped time
    of a white metronome.

To open such a clock is to impose your
curiosity upon the moving gears and the
arrowed hands, that turn, in tireless turning . . .

    A violin cries to another violin
    in the white room of troubled music;
    softly, they out-cry each other.

To open the clock is to allow yourself an
unearned answer; the face of the clock
will haunt your questions . . .   

    The sunlight in the room shines across
    the carpet to the white piano where
    taut hands lift from the final note
    and lay them quietly down again.
                                 

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/22/16)

 

 

 

Memory

 

AND THEN THERE WAS THE TIME
—Robin Gale Odam

If I cling you will be afraid—
so I sit over here and listen to the stories,
once again, from across the room.


(prev. pub. in Brevities, May 2020)

 

 

 

Redwoods

  

 

TIME IS A QUESTION MARK
—Joyce Odam
After "The Alarm Clock" by Dora Maar, 1940

Time leans on its shadow
on a shadow-dial, measures  
nothing but the time we give it.

Time is a question mark—
a yellow rule—a dot in a circle
—a shark-fin circling the mind.

Time, we call it, and it keeps
unwinding—this nothing that
we give so much credence to.

We give it clocks and clocks
and clocks of hurry but
it stays—or moves—

which, is not known.
Nor of relevance. We fear it,
mostly—waste it, always.
                          

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/21/13; 8/17/21) 

 

 

 

 The Flowers

 

THE TEXTURE OF GRAY LIGHT
—Joyce Odam

Time has judged her. For a long moment
she just stands there, considering the
sadness of twilight. She does not feel
the texture of gray light on her face.
She has become a pattern of the room.
Her face matches the curtains.
She balances against the small table
that holds some faint rumor of flowers,
maybe not even that much detail.
Her body is assuming the shape of shadow.
Her dress rustles when she breathes.
Her hand is lost in its reach.
Maybe someone has asked her a question
and she does not want to answer.
She is a familiar story. Must she tell
it again? She does not know the ending.
Maybe the hour has come to say goodbye.
Maybe the door has already closed, or maybe
someone is just arriving. Must she care?
Maybe she will still be able to withdraw
her hand from the heaviness of its gesture.

                                              
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/19/13) 

 

 

 

Keepsake

 

 
 YOUR PART IN THIS
—Joyce Odam

As if drawing an outline of a body
in chalk
in the rain . . .

As if fading back
into doorway after doorway as if
you were guilty . . .

As if you have simply come
a moment after
and have nothing to tell them . . .

As if you have simply risen
out of the mediocrity
and become famous . . .

Now they are looking for you.
They have questions,
you were last seen . . .

The fact that this is your time and place
to be an innocent bystander
is wrong . . .

You are suspect, even though you saw
no one pushed, or fallen—no one stabbed,
or shot—no one merely ended. . .

You have simply come
a moment after
and have nothing to tell them . . .

You will have to pay for this—
you will remember it all your life,
the chalk,    the rain,    the resemblance . . .

 

 

 

Sweeter

 

 

THE POWER OF HEAVEN
 —Joyce Odam

This is the power
of heaven :
No prayer can fill it.
No death can bring it down.

It is God’s mind, unentered,
mystery of
light and dark,
continuance and
oblivion.

Stars make it far.
But far is
where we are from it.

Paths of sunlight
seem to reach;

the intangibles are what
we seek.

Oh, cry then,
into the claiming air
for whatever is there.
                  

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/22/16)

 

 

 

Ghost

 

 
WHAT IS NOT SEEN
—Joyce Odam

What is not seen is vital to our memory.
We call it ghost.

I no longer wish for saltless tears, but
let my eyes burn.

The cloud of knowledge : texture and
longing, ever-re-forming.

My mind flares up, caught again,
in violent description.

Now, to waken, is not to give in,
but to remember.

Lapses crowd in, little descriptions and
floundering, ‘the self’ forgotten.

Notes to myself
flutter neatly around me, like visions.

Hurt cries pain to sensibility,
caught on a thorn, pulling.

It’s all right, we murmur,
it’s all right.

Baying at the moon again,
my silent voice in patient bewilderment.

How can such a swirl make sense,
such a delirium become permanence.
                                      
                           
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/12/24)

 

 

 

First Draft

 

 

MAYBE FOUR INSOMNIAS
—Robin Gale Odam

The pendulum, the metronome
and the heartbeat—something for
measuring.

The perfect lullaby is my favorite
song—I haven’t written it yet.

Oblivion and sorrow,
I am at the verge of a precipice—
the nature of the edge is over,
probably down.

Subtlety carries such power—
I may give it a try, write like my
mother.

       
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/23/23)
                                                        
___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

THE FOOLISH QUESTION
—Joyce Odam

“Can unhappiness kill you?”
     “Yes, oh yes.” 

“Will I die, then?”
     “Yes, oh yes.”

“Will you cry for me?”
     “Oh yes.”

                        
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/5/13; 5/17/22)

___________________

Our thanks to Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam for catching us some fine poems about Time and love and all the magical things we deal with every day.

Our new Seed of the Week is “Fences”. 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.

And don’t forget—Medusa’s Kitchen will have its 20th anniversary this Thursday, May 29, and we’ll celebrate with poetry, of course. It’s not too late to send a poem that celebrates something—anything—form or free verse—and I’ll post it on Thursday. (20 years! Amazing!) Be sure to drop into the Kitchen tomorrow, also, for some other special treats~

___________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

Cartier Mother of Pearl Clock, 1925

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!