—Illustration by Nolcha Fox
(with Microsoft Designer)
* * *
* * *
—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Claire J. Baker,
Stephen Kingsnorth, Caschwa,
Sayani Mukherjee, and Joe Nolan
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Medusa
IF A PIG HAD WINGS
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
A piglet rolling in the mud
heard honks he thought were vehicles.
Then he looked up at the sky,
and saw a V of geese fly by.
He wished to rise above the crowd
of grunting pigs that filled the pen.
His heart took flight to join the geese,
to land in places never seen.
He was blind to piggy bliss.
He thought joy just belonged to birds.
Dissatisfied with what he had,
he grew into a maudlin pig.
Do not wish for what can’t be.
Be thankful for the little things.
Life is short, and then you're dead.
Live what you have in gratitude.
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
A piglet rolling in the mud
heard honks he thought were vehicles.
Then he looked up at the sky,
and saw a V of geese fly by.
He wished to rise above the crowd
of grunting pigs that filled the pen.
His heart took flight to join the geese,
to land in places never seen.
He was blind to piggy bliss.
He thought joy just belonged to birds.
Dissatisfied with what he had,
he grew into a maudlin pig.
Do not wish for what can’t be.
Be thankful for the little things.
Life is short, and then you're dead.
Live what you have in gratitude.
AFTER READING JUNG
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
A poet packs a notebook
of intuition and air;
will read within, between
and beyond the lines
she hopes to inscribe there.
Inspired by Jung, she’s
drawn to a tiny tributary
of the subconscious sea.
Following its slow tide,
she reaches a pristine lagoon,
props against driftwood,
yearns to write. But first,
holding her bare ring-finger
under the full moon,
she wears the orb as a pearl.
(A variation appeared in Medusa;’s Kitchen, 2024)
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
A poet packs a notebook
of intuition and air;
will read within, between
and beyond the lines
she hopes to inscribe there.
Inspired by Jung, she’s
drawn to a tiny tributary
of the subconscious sea.
Following its slow tide,
she reaches a pristine lagoon,
props against driftwood,
yearns to write. But first,
holding her bare ring-finger
under the full moon,
she wears the orb as a pearl.
(A variation appeared in Medusa;’s Kitchen, 2024)
HIGH HOPES
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
Balloon competing, distance stakes,
the bomber’s payload in the sky,
a socialite’s girl, debutante,
addicted scoring, desperate?
Is high raising our altitude,
or judgment on our attitude;
a measure, climbing greasy pole,
relating to our mental state?
I hear a disappointed note,
of what we had, for one of ours,
but expectations not fulfilled,
a letting down as dreams were drowned.
Or yet to be, and soon to come,
a possibility around
the corner if the stars align,
good fortune smiles and all set well.
The test is what the height entails—
if others crushed as we attain,
that summit reached at others’ cost,
the boast of oversight declared.
While hope remains with faith and love
it needs be grounded in the earth,
for gutter, rubble is for real,
best sounding board to check the zeal.
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
Balloon competing, distance stakes,
the bomber’s payload in the sky,
a socialite’s girl, debutante,
addicted scoring, desperate?
Is high raising our altitude,
or judgment on our attitude;
a measure, climbing greasy pole,
relating to our mental state?
I hear a disappointed note,
of what we had, for one of ours,
but expectations not fulfilled,
a letting down as dreams were drowned.
Or yet to be, and soon to come,
a possibility around
the corner if the stars align,
good fortune smiles and all set well.
The test is what the height entails—
if others crushed as we attain,
that summit reached at others’ cost,
the boast of oversight declared.
While hope remains with faith and love
it needs be grounded in the earth,
for gutter, rubble is for real,
best sounding board to check the zeal.
NOW HIRING
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
Properly credentialed nuclear physicists
to replace immigrant labor force expected
to be permanently deported in the near future
Requires intense manual labor, more stamina
than superheroes, report to work on time every
day, including holidays, tolerate sub-2nd-class
citizen treatment, accept indentured servant pay,
no benefit program, no health care program, no
unions, no voice whatsoever at any level of
jurisdiction in how employees must be treated
by management
Be ready to trade your parchment degrees for
a meager, scrawny towel to wipe your brow.
Only the highest talent need apply.
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
Properly credentialed nuclear physicists
to replace immigrant labor force expected
to be permanently deported in the near future
Requires intense manual labor, more stamina
than superheroes, report to work on time every
day, including holidays, tolerate sub-2nd-class
citizen treatment, accept indentured servant pay,
no benefit program, no health care program, no
unions, no voice whatsoever at any level of
jurisdiction in how employees must be treated
by management
Be ready to trade your parchment degrees for
a meager, scrawny towel to wipe your brow.
Only the highest talent need apply.
MUSIC IS ON MY MIND
—Caschwa
(Rattling the Bedlam cage)
Got to court and pleaded Louie Beethoven’s Fifth,
because no, I didn’t encourage Sam Barber to write
Adagio for Stringing Them Up by their Necks. But
how will we ever explain to our tender youth that
we expect them to dutifully march to the tune of Ed
Elgar’s Poop and Circumcise?
—Caschwa
(Rattling the Bedlam cage)
Got to court and pleaded Louie Beethoven’s Fifth,
because no, I didn’t encourage Sam Barber to write
Adagio for Stringing Them Up by their Necks. But
how will we ever explain to our tender youth that
we expect them to dutifully march to the tune of Ed
Elgar’s Poop and Circumcise?
HOMELESS BRAIN CELLS
—Caschwa
I had been a good student in public school
GPA about B+, heavily rooted in rote
repetition, graduated high school, looking
forward to college
Then one day, exactly 58 years back from the
date this poem was composed, I can only
record some hearsay:
I was out on my motorcycle
and got hit by a car
flung through the air
coma for 10 days
thumb had to be reattached
ankle crushed, broken, fractured
rebuilt with 2 bone grafts
My own memory: Started college on crutches,
played in the stands with marching band,
because they needed low brass, got hooked on
fresh ground coffee, did well with studies as
far as rote repetition could take me, but in some
areas I was overwhelmed with too much data to
process in too short a time, as though the necessary
brain cells were holed up in a homeless
—Caschwa
I had been a good student in public school
GPA about B+, heavily rooted in rote
repetition, graduated high school, looking
forward to college
Then one day, exactly 58 years back from the
date this poem was composed, I can only
record some hearsay:
I was out on my motorcycle
and got hit by a car
flung through the air
coma for 10 days
thumb had to be reattached
ankle crushed, broken, fractured
rebuilt with 2 bone grafts
My own memory: Started college on crutches,
played in the stands with marching band,
because they needed low brass, got hooked on
fresh ground coffee, did well with studies as
far as rote repetition could take me, but in some
areas I was overwhelmed with too much data to
process in too short a time, as though the necessary
brain cells were holed up in a homeless
encampment
unable to stretch their muscles to enlarge my
knowledge
after 6 months, surgical pin removed, then after
one year, got to walk again without crutches
Despite my limitations, supposed or otherwise,
transferred to University, graduated, got a teaching
credential and landed some substitute assignments,
became a Certified Paralegal, played trombone in a
swing band, married, had a son, got a house, dog,
unable to stretch their muscles to enlarge my
knowledge
after 6 months, surgical pin removed, then after
one year, got to walk again without crutches
Despite my limitations, supposed or otherwise,
transferred to University, graduated, got a teaching
credential and landed some substitute assignments,
became a Certified Paralegal, played trombone in a
swing band, married, had a son, got a house, dog,
etc.
and finally retired
Now 58 years later, still hunting for those lost brain
cells and all the epiphanies they might have locked
and finally retired
Now 58 years later, still hunting for those lost brain
cells and all the epiphanies they might have locked
up;
once in a while, I think I am on the verge of finding
a prize, gold nugget, but anything of material pro-
once in a while, I think I am on the verge of finding
a prize, gold nugget, but anything of material pro-
portions
eludes my grasp.
eludes my grasp.
ARE WE THERE YET?
—Caschwa
Ask not, want not
Don’t ask, don’t tell
Neither a borrower nor a lender be
Buy now, pay later
No trespassing
Walk-ins welcome
Open 24 hours
Open-and-shut case
Warranty included
There are no guarantees
Forever faithful
You won’t live forever
Watch your 6
Keep the line moving
I come from a large family
Arachnophobia
—Caschwa
Ask not, want not
Don’t ask, don’t tell
Neither a borrower nor a lender be
Buy now, pay later
No trespassing
Walk-ins welcome
Open 24 hours
Open-and-shut case
Warranty included
There are no guarantees
Forever faithful
You won’t live forever
Watch your 6
Keep the line moving
I come from a large family
Arachnophobia
LIFE
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India
Little flowers of heaven
I surmised a letter for you
What-ifs and what not?
The mountains sprang a rhythm
Of hullabaloo and orchids
A little girl of unnamed origin
Weaving a Garland of heaven
Of half agony and half joy.
Questions of life after death
I give my hands of hope
Bouquets of forgotten mystery
The river ran a mountain high
Nature's mystery slowly unraveling
As if everything is a great shower of life.
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India
Little flowers of heaven
I surmised a letter for you
What-ifs and what not?
The mountains sprang a rhythm
Of hullabaloo and orchids
A little girl of unnamed origin
Weaving a Garland of heaven
Of half agony and half joy.
Questions of life after death
I give my hands of hope
Bouquets of forgotten mystery
The river ran a mountain high
Nature's mystery slowly unraveling
As if everything is a great shower of life.
FOR THE SAKE OF VIET NAM
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
What’s going on, here?
It can’t be real.
It’s only something
Deeply impure,
With killers at the ready,
Brought in from foreign shores,
Ready for their missions—
To search and destroy.
Young boys, only eighteen,
Some as old as twenty,
Commanded by second-lieutenants
Of the ripe age of twenty-four,
Sent out to the jungle
To hunt the Viet Cong,
Burning villages to save them
Lest they be communized.
It’s a question of endurance
How long they will
Send them here,
To sweat and die in jungles
For the sake of Viet Nam.
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
What’s going on, here?
It can’t be real.
It’s only something
Deeply impure,
With killers at the ready,
Brought in from foreign shores,
Ready for their missions—
To search and destroy.
Young boys, only eighteen,
Some as old as twenty,
Commanded by second-lieutenants
Of the ripe age of twenty-four,
Sent out to the jungle
To hunt the Viet Cong,
Burning villages to save them
Lest they be communized.
It’s a question of endurance
How long they will
Send them here,
To sweat and die in jungles
For the sake of Viet Nam.
MISSILES
—Joe Nolan
Missiles fly
Like cobra venom
To strike the eye
And make blind
The prey
It wants
To eat.
Flying toward
Its sacred spots
That home the soul
That keep it whole
And let it stay alive.
The meaning
Of missiles
Is death—
To maim and cripple
To cause its fall
A prelude
To put on notice—
The victim will be
Swallowed
Just before it dies.
—Joe Nolan
Missiles fly
Like cobra venom
To strike the eye
And make blind
The prey
It wants
To eat.
Flying toward
Its sacred spots
That home the soul
That keep it whole
And let it stay alive.
The meaning
Of missiles
Is death—
To maim and cripple
To cause its fall
A prelude
To put on notice—
The victim will be
Swallowed
Just before it dies.
HOPE IN FEATHERS
—Joe Nolan
Let us wrap our hopes in feathers
The better they might fly
Higher than the stratosphere
Into godly skies
Above the Earth
And all that lie
Along its verdant surface.
Let us pray
Our hopes will prevail.
Above the Earth
Darkness, silk.
Stars shine bright
And die,
Brilliant in their final hours,
Exploding in the night.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
OWNING THE WORLD
—Joe Nolan
See it inside a bottle-cap—
The world carved into stone,
Set into miniature relief,
Reduced for you to own,
To slip into your pocket,
And carry to your grave,
Knowing that your fortune
Could never your soul save.
____________________
A girl from The Buffalo writes about piggy bliss…. thanks to Nolcha Fox and all the other fine contributors this week, some of whom wrote about our Seed of the Week, High Hopes. Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week, but there are no deadlines on SOWs. And check each Friday, too, for poetry-form and Ekphrastic challenges.
The 2025 Voices (Mysticism, Prophecies & Marigolds) from Cold River Press (www.coldriverpress.com/) will be celebrated (unleashed?) in Sacramento July 26 from 1-6pm, at Sacramento Poetry Alliance, with beverages, BBQ, books and a potluck. Lots of familiar voices in there, including one Joe Nolan, a SnakePal who often pops in around here… Congrats to Editor Dave Boles and to all the contributors!
Starting soon, you can participate in the Poetry Postcard Fest. Organized by the Cascadia Poetics Lab, the Poetry Postcard Fest is a self-guided 56-day workshop that involves receiving a mailing list of other poets to whom they will send 31 first-draft poems on postcards. The structure of the fest allows for flexibility of time to write and send the postcards, but it is suggested the poems be written and sent between July 4th and August 31st. Postcards can be purchased or hand-made, and participants are encouraged to be creative with themes and images.
in 2024, the fest had 608 participants spanning 10 (countries around the globe: Canada, France, Ireland, Czechia, Austria, The Netherlands, Australia, Mexico, the United Kingdom and the United States (52 states and Canadian provinces, including the District of Columbia). The fest is open to people who contribute at least $27 U.S. to the Cascadia Poetics Lab and register by July 14th. Find out more here: https://cascadiapoeticslab.org/how-it-works/ and register here: https://cascadiapoeticslab.org/ppf-2025-event-registration/.
___________________
—Medusa
A reminder that
Cindy Huyser and Maris Juwono
will read tonight at 7:30pm at
Sacramento Poetry Center.
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!
Cindy Huyser and Maris Juwono
will read tonight at 7:30pm at
Sacramento Poetry Center.
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!
