That Lingering Scent~

 —Illustration by Nolcha Fox 

(with Microsoft Designer)

* * *

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

 

 

YOU LINGER
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

Fresh roses bloomed in every room.
You filled each vase we had.
Diptyque Eau Rose was your perfume
that wafted in your wake.

Alas, you left, the roses
withered, longing for your touch.
Diptyque Eau Rose still lingers
in my nostrils, may it bring you to my arms.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

ROSE BUD ON SMALL BUSH
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

Seeing all stems in bloom
   except one tight-fisted bud
     on an upper branch,

I perform a fingertip Caesarian.
   And, hello, a petal tip
     peeks out at the world.

As a dreamer,
   I know well of nature—
     that sometimes life
only needs
   a little nudge and a sky
     full of yesses.

After full growth and color,
   fragrance lingers, even as
     the rose dries and withers.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Stephen Kingsnorth

FOILED
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Black Magic lingers in my mind,
combined, I find, with Roses’ scent;
though less boxed-in, sealed in a tin.
The fans still stir in current streams
those favoured flavours of our dreams,
ingredients’ unique appeal.

By wrappings foiled, yet somehow seep,
like pheromones of cacao love,
those wafts for tastebuds, salivate.
With nostrils flared how fare the whiffs
of hazel whips and toffee crisps,
montélimar and fondant crème?

Crunch finger chip of honeycomb,
soft centres, clingers onto teeth—
a stinger, come to dentist fees—
as crystalised in ginger bite,
that zinger type of boxing match,
this bringer of exotic tastes.

That industry was all wrapped up
by chocolate Quakers, Friends indeed,
this Cadbury, as Fry before.
The favourite bloom of Bournville beds,
or packers of those first produced,
what lingers yet is name of brand.

As boy I thought it made good sense
to soak rose petals, jammed in jar,
concoction soon both brown and sour.
It preserved, faint, that first jar full,
black, blue, strawberry, rasp and goose,
as linger flavours stronger rose.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Stephen Kingsnorth

THE THORNS OF PROGRESS
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

We need to be very careful to recognize
that when progress is thought to have
been achieved by tiny, incremental steps,
it may better take on the characteristics
of regression.

We are proudly a nation of laws and more
laws, with prisons beyond capacity, telling us
something is not working

The Mueller Report, big hype going in, with
all the positive assurance of the lingering scent
of roses, then nothing at all of consequence

The January 6th Insurrection, we all saw the
brazen violations, but the key figures escape
going to jail, because they are cast in the same
mold as giant industrial corporations: too big to fail 

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

 

THE TATTOO OF LIBERTY
—Caschwa

The World Wide Web will reveal
quite a few poses of our Lady Liberty
covering her face to conceal
violations of Her puberty

can’t we just leave this gal alone
to sleep off encounters with evil
and not pick her face to the bone
unbalancing those scales once level

gifted from France to a great new world
promising righteousness and peace
now the object of sticks and stones hurled
by a Congress openly for lease

there is no ink on her skin so dark
as to obscure her intentions of good
now reduced to an image quite stark
of an ornament out on the hood

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa

MAYBE DON’T OPEN THAT DOOR
—Caschwa

(Dark Secrets)

Listing “attention to detail” on the resume may
sound good, but that could also mean safe cracker
or micro manager, or hacker, or con artist

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa

PROTECTED PASSWORDS
—Caschwa

I keep my passwords in a cavern
several miles below the Earth’s crust,
and faithfully reset the passwords on
a schedule which I will not disclose.
If you ask me to complete a survey,
fine, as long as that doesn’t lead to
you then asking me to log in to some
website to share with more people.
Ain’t gonna happen! No freebies for
paid marketers.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa

DIY
—Caschwa

Thank me, I’m welcome
Don’t forget to lock the door
and give me the key 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa

BAD KING
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

A poisonous association
With a king who wore a crown,
Promising salvation,
But he brought everybody down
Into a pit filled with demons,
Fire walls, all around
And the screams of the burning victims
Filled the air with pain—
Prayers of the living-faithful,
Everywhere surround,
But they just can’t seem
To break in
Through the walls of suffering
Through the fate of sin.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa

 

DOMINATOR SEEKING AFFIRMATION
—Joe Nolan

It’s hard to be on top
With no one underneath.

Few remain who believe
In Divine Right of Kings,
The perquisite of prima nocta,
Primogeniture and
Inheritance of thrones.

If none below,
Who’s above?

You really can’t call it love
What happened at the Pimp’s Palace
On Little Saint James
In the “Virgin Islands”
With teenage girls and boys
Under the age of eighteen,
But it substituted
For the depredations of nobility
Subverting the common man
Into chattels to ruling classes.

It’s hard to be on top
When no one’s on the bottom
Over whom you can rule.

 

 

 

LIGHT TOO BRIGHT, CLOSE TOO CLOSE
—Joe Nolan

Those who like to be known
But not too well
Might slip away
Soon after
You tell
Them
Exactly
How you see them.

Unflattering
As it may be
To taste the salt,
Reality,
Their clothing,
Quite invisible,

The conversation,
Unrestrained,
Delved into
A curtained-brain,
Preferring
To be concealed.

Thus,
Psychological-
Visibility
Presented challenges
To the managed
Imago
That preferred
Strongly
To not be
Revealed
Too well,
By light
Too bright
And close
Too close.
It hoped you’d never tell.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

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

I remember the day nights
The cycle of season and rain
Night with its feathers of death
I remember the twilight
Of sun rising and setting to the West.
The girl at the walk of flying dreams
Cuckoo's nest with flying spree
Remembering all the time of day
And night of heavenly muse.
The little saplings at the gates of rainbow
Music and dance of earthly paradise
Flying with roaring laughter of twentieth spring.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Roses are red, violets are blue. I’m schizophrenic, and so am I.

—Oscar Levant

___________________

Our thanks to today’s contributors for poems and pix of fine quality, indeed—some of them about our Seed of the Week, The Lingering Scent of Roses. It all makes scents to me…

SnakePal Freya Pickard will be dedicating a post to Medusa's Kitchen on her poetry blog, Pure Haiku, next Wednesday, 23 July 2025, at around 2pm UK time. That’s at Pure Haiku, https://purehaiku.wordpress.com/?p=8530/. Thanks, Freya!

___________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 The Perfume Makers
—Painting by Rudolf Ernst

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Poetry in Motion meets
in Placerville today, 10:30am;
and Sacramento Poetry Center
presents readers from the book,
Winter in America (Again,
tonight at 7:30pm.
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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bridge Over Time

 —Poetry by Julie A. Dickson, Exeter, NH
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

EARLY MORNING

The wonderment
of the early morning hours,
its stillness in nature
I reveled in the quiet
attuned with the crisp chill in the air,
I pulled my collar up around my neck
and exhaled visibly
The sun crept up over the crest of the building,
its yellow-white brightness
causing me to squint slightly;
I turned toward the north
as a flock of geese flew,
seemingly overdue
in their southbound migration
toward warmer climate
The emerging sun bathed the morning
in potions of brilliance
Arcs of light caressed the sky
poems of great longing
spun their tales
in the essence of dawn

 

 

 

 

THROUGH TIME

Floating through time, an entity in spirit
not quite in tune with the past,
not touching the present,
glancing at the future
looking beyond pain and hurt
to see if happiness exists

I have love in my heart
a quiet glow
unbidden, ‘tis deeply hidden
the pain surrounds my heart
like a glove protecting me
from pain-filled memories

yet shielding me from living
a double-edged sword
time is essentially
an intangible place in reality,
a zone of possibilities,
of uncertainties

 

 

 

 

FIRE SKY

Crimson backlit white-edged clouds
goddess peers below, between
gnarled tree branches. like my knees

knobby and painful, she sends rays
of sun to warm the ground, and me
walking slow under a canopy, her

loving arms encircle me, soothing
embrace ‘neath this fire sky, healing
warmth to old bones, her daughter

like many will age, fall to nourish her
in time, but for now her soft hands
touch me, gently forge my path.

 

 

 

I am a rock

beneath the surface of a cool stream,
can see the sky, a bit blurry through
flowing water, quenched, dark-rippled.

I am akin to dry cousins, sun-bleached,
dry and brittle unless kissed by droplets
of rain, falling on river’s edge, though
set apart; we were as one—long past,

recall a time when I dwelled above on
cliff overhang, cascading tiny water-
fall cast iridescent light against dull
granite wall, and then I was broken,

a bad dream, sense of descending down
slope into the stream, no one mourned
my passage, gone to memories, resting
on pebbled bed, my watery grave.

 

 

 

 

OLD TOWN HALL

Massive wall, crumbling
to pale powder—chalky white,
flakes of pink lay in slivers
on dark pavement.

This old town hall,
bricks a sun-faded russet
with loose fine dust, barely holding
between the courses—

a mortarous barrage waiting to rain down.
Once steadfast against winter storms,
breaks free under hot sun, baked dry
any last remnants of moisture.

Wall appears to slough off
a shower of forgotten fragments,
exfoliation of time, exposing
an under-layer anxious to be seen.

 

 

 

 

SLATS

Long bridge over the river
connects memory to my feet
as I travel through time.
I mark each slat of wood
name them for days I’ve  lived.

Walking across a chasm
full of hope or fear,
bridge stands strong
against sway of struggle,
even through painful times
it commemorates these
slats of pain and joy.

One for the birth of a child,
another when I lost my way,
there seem to be just enough slats
to count moments, minutia
that brings me forward
to where I stand today.

 

 

 

 

PEACEMAKER

Who can be the peacemaker
Keeping us content,
Calming all our differences
With harmonious intent?

Who can solves all crises
And end the lasting struggle,
Preserving calm tranquility
Preventing future trouble?

Is there such a person
For I would come to know,
That with her mere existence
A peaceful calm would grow

People in agreement
Disputes forever waned,
Knowing that hostilities
Would not be seen again

Truly, we must wonder
If quarrels can ever end
Can we be the peacemakers
With the means to send

Our message to all people
To seek and find a way
To communicate and listen,
And find peace, day by day

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

When the power of love overcomes the love of power, the world will know peace.

—Jimi Hendrix

_____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Julie Dickson for today’s fine poetry!

 

 

 

 Peace Bridge by WilkinsonEyre, River Foyle,
Derry-Londonderry, Northern Ireland

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Morning Fugue

 —Poetry by Sam Barbee, Winston-Salem, NC
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

 

 

BACH & BREAKFAST
 
Morning fugue. Music for my amble
into our kitchen. Stroke the cat.
Well-tempered hound, head on thigh.
Two coffee cups nested where
you placed them, loops outward
for fingers not quite awake. 
 
Ceramic partners in our recovery
from second bottle of wine.
Yours chartreuse, mine Dr. Seuss:
lavender paisleys versus Sam I Am.
Bach overlays, and bistro blend pierces.
 
I daydream of grandchildren I may never know.
A harpsichord plays their tiny canticle.
Their melodies like innocence itself.
 
I consider my young doctor's favorable verdict.
Bolstered with a modest sermon about gluttony. 
Try a fun run: cavalier quarter-mile? 
I want my odysseys short—at end,
I only merit a casual sweat. 
 
Spend holidays with friends,
and family I enjoy. I want to baptize
the menagerie outside the kitchen.
Barefoot, I traipse our damp lawn.
Hear a melody while I cull the garden.
Set aside fear of snakes.  

 

 

 

 

IMPULSE
 
My striped cat claws rip tree-bark, shreds
    upholstery.
Might shred my throat if a primal pulse provokes.
 
Interruption of heartbeat, like art, phased erasures
beyond a frame. Intuition instructs preference.
 
Insight’s threshold escorts insomnia. Despair,
my trusted filter, insists I ignore any pause,
 
any risk, resist a morning alarm, or church bell.
Hold fast in my kitchen’s equality of yearning
 
and/or denial. My sweet tooth craves fruity
    nostalgia,
but insists I taste the next vision—tranquil treats
 
from the Promised Land. Coffee soothes the
    familiar cavity.
I stir in self-validation—my new normal’s favored
    flavor.

 

 

 

 

WHERE I GO WRONG
 
Most birds repeat a particular song,
a happy warble distinct to their branch.
Fish weave one crystal bearing.
Worms to the fruit. Bee to the flower.
All single agendas.
 
I scramble with an alternate omega. 
Try to witness what poets see,
prove empath to each metaphor’s pain
when I live my own, both feet
 
in the grave, heart in dank heaven.
A fugitive, frantic down a trail,
avoiding the glen of beheaded prophets. 
Me, Saint Diligent, toiling to disclose
 
my backstory’s uneven rhythms,
but a single, un-divine Mystic will
belittle my admissions, expose
phony cacophony. Hang me
 
with a slight, but: my rhymes meager?
He doles cruel damages, and leaves
my bough full of bruised fruit
bumping against the trunk.
 
Me, grasping at fabled grace
in an aspiring realm where I might disperse
solemn verse and enjoy embrace—
an unfamiliar affirmative—uneffaced
before flying south without a trace.    

 

 

 

I FEAR FOR BIRDS

 
Avian myths, no tree off-limits.
At home in the park, the barley field.
Windborne flourish. Trafalgar coo.
Sag on black lines pole to pole.
 
Guided by holiest text, pump wildly,
dirge by night. Frantic calls. Quest
midnight's misbegotten trajectory,
moonlit shimmer of cobalt wings.
 
We glance above, covet their elegance,
extract soot from a stoic owl in pine. 
Brown eyes blink into our rooms—
our civil shrapnel to shred hollow bones. 
 
Created on the fifth day, their downy estate
discontent. Now AWOL seeking legend. 
Billions disappeared, reckless course
or careless slant? I fear for birds:
 
sweet gull, return to dune. Pigeon,
to urban bench. Hen nibbles earth, still
cooped. Lovebirds to birdbath. For me,
stark mornings without a dove to soothe.

 

 

 

 

STAR SPANGLED BANNER AT MIDNIGHT
 
With no summon or surprise,
the National Anthem blared
on our black-and-white television
each midnight. A hymn to revere
pride and solidarity. A rallying tune
to acknowledge civic unity, heritage,
a refrain for WW2 veterans like daddy
already sleeping as a test pattern
 
old replaced glory flapping tight and plumb. 
’60's tribute at the hour villains and sinners
did their work. 
                         Even those years,
fledgling anarchy rattled within me. 
I stumbled into marches, brandished buttons,
flipped peace signs for the causes—
anti-Vietnam.
                       anti-Nixon.  
                                           anti-Pollution Laws. 
My novice stars and stripes ready to unfurl.
Asserting at my angry hour, no longer
 
dosed with Sit-Com malaise. Until now, such
appeasements assured me, and white-washed
windows framed sunshine. Questions untapped,
rally cries undiscovered, my esprit yawned
snagged in well-placed safety nets.
Suburban bliss tolled a daily all-clear.
Rage's waking chime would soon provoke
what came after the set went dark.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Poetry is emotion, passion, love, grief—everything that is human. It is not for zombies by zombies.

—F. Sionil Jose

____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Sam Barbee for today’s fine poetry, and to Joe Nolan for finding us some eye-catching bird photos!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
there will be a workshop,
Paint Chip Poetry,
in Modesto today, 1pm;

Straight Out Scribes read at the

Wo'se Festival in Sacramento, 2pm;
and Spoken Word Federation
presents a competition
in Sacramento tonight, 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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Buck Moons & Mystery Cats

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

  Joyce Odam, Caschwa, 

and Claire J. Baker

MEDITATION ON COYOTE MINT   

All these rooted white stars—
countless on a single plant exploding
out of earth at the drop-
off edge, an entire watershed below
diminishing to far horizon
as snowmelt goes eroding into ocean. 


The extraordinary ordinariness
of coyote mint on this granite- and lava-
made mountain that echoes
coyote in your dreams, if you should
stay and camp, thinking
the world will be the same at dawning.

 

 

 

 

OPENING MY EYES       

It’s the full Buck Moon that wakes me
like a headlight thru the bedroom window
facing SSW. It’s a sliver moon but
oh so bright, like the headlight of a car
almost submerged in water. Flood waters
are on the news, in the hill country.
This is ridge and canyon country
where it isn’t raining, but the full moon
is almost drowned in ridgetop
and it’s hours before dawn.
I meant to write about ferns but
this full sliver moon takes precedence,
so brilliant, so intense, so intent on waking
me to all the marvels of today. 

 

 

 

GETTING HIGH

If it’s a holiday, I need to escape—
load my dog in the car, drive the almost
deserted 2-lane below cliffs, where catalpa
grows wild along the shoulder, and grackles
might merge with their shadows, the sun
beating down so 4th-of-July hot on bee boxes
calling the black bear to their honey....
But already we’re past all that.
We’re headed upcountry, the best way
I know to get high.

 

 

 

 

MATT’S WORLD

Is vibrant color everything?
Finger-paint smeared red with sky-blue
on butter-yellow, till the black-
and-white beyond-absurd gets lost

in green-orange labyrinths. Purple
is! Vibrant color. Everything
you can make from what Teacher calls
the Secondary Colors—look,

she points to the big Color Wheel.
Dull classroom walls repeat: Yes, it
is vibrant! Color everything!
As if that explains what Matt sees—

what the world around calls mishmash—
each aqua-mango-sunset swirl
and spiral-dancing on the page
is vibrant color. Everything.

 

 

 

 

FIELD MOSAIC
 
Looking down on the ground, I could describe a giant’s mosaic, each tessera cut and polished by eons of tectonic art, uplift and subsidence, the careful detailing of erosion. Wind and water. Each piece colored by its flora, its palette of mosses and lichens. So much meaning here, if I knew more geology and biology, if I could get high enough to look down on the whole design.

It might sound absurd—
walk the land, marvel and
sometimes that’s enough.

__________________

AGATHA THE BOOKSTORE CAT

loved mysteries, named as she was
for the beloved writer of crime.
She was pleased to host our poetry group
in her bookstore once a month.
She loved to find clues, and most of our
poets were ladies who carried purses.
As we read our verses around the book-
store table, Agatha was choosing a purse—
one roomy enough for a dignified
and well-fed orange tabby. Each month
it would be a different purse. Who knows
what mysteries Agatha was composing.
She never chose mine—I came
with a daypack full of books and papers.
Not Agatha the mystery cat’s style.

 

 

 

Otis

 

Today’s LittleNip:

DARNED DOG-TOY
—Taylor Graham
    
Single sock stuffed with target toy
for terrific tugs by obsessed Otis,
squeaker salvaged, nice-knit to
destroyed doggy-doodad plush as prey.
Wolf-wild toss & tumble
flap & flail till he’s tuckered-out,
slips to sleep like any angel.

______________________

It’s a July morning in the Sierra Foothills of California, and Taylor Graham is waking us up with fine poetry and photos—and we thank her for that. She’s been with us here in the Kitchen for the full 20 years we've been cooking, and our thanks to her for sharing her fine work all that time.

TG is fond of forms and always blesses us with some of those; this week she has sent us a Quatern that is also a Response Poem to our Tuesday Seed of the Week, Beyond Absurd (“Matt's World?); a Haibun (“Field Mosaic”); a Word-Can Poem (“Getting High”); a Response Poem to Katy Brown’s recent "Infinities" (7/9/25, https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/search?q=katy+brown&max-results=20&by-date=true/) (“Meditation on Coyote Mint”); some Alliteration (“Darned Dog-Toy”); and a Response to Katy Brown’s "The Art of Ambush" (see link above) (“Agatha the Bookstore Cat”).

In El Dorado County poetry, Poetry in Motion will meet in Placerville this coming Monday, 7/21, 10:30am. And El Dorado County’s regular workshops are listed on Medusa’s calendar (if you scroll down on http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html/). For more news about such events and about EDC poetry—past (photos!) and future—see Taylor Graham’s Western Slope El Dorado Poetry on Facebook at www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry/. Or see Lara Gularte’s Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/groups/382234029968077/. And you can always click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html). Poetry is Gold in El Dorado County!  
 
And now it’s time for…     

 
FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY!  

 

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

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

* * *

 

 

 Last Week’s Ekphrastic Photo

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


FIXING BROKEN THINGS
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

How often I puzzle how to put things back together,
how to make the splinters and mismatched edges
and chunks of time hold until the next morning.
Sometimes new screws and bolts and bungee cords
keep the unkeepable together long enough
to make it to the next repair shop.
Sometimes duct tape and bandages stop
leaking eyes and hearts long enough
to make it to the next poor choice.
Sometimes I can jumpstart a stalled conversation.
Sometimes I can’t find anything in my toolkit
to fix what’s broken: cancer, heart attacks, death.
Sometimes I have to turn the open sign to closed,
lock the door, and try again tomorrow.

* * *

CAPE ABILITY
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

How far from Nietzsche’s Űbermensch
to gloss of Hollywood et al,
and even now, White House display,
delusions, yet more fantasy.
A hero or as fascist cast,
defeat of evil, or its source,
in charity or arrogance,
that voice of underdog displaced.

Save native bloodlines on the land
Americans are immigrants,
as he, from distant planet, comes.
Near century, copyright wars,
heraldic shield upon his chest,
then Clark, the vigilante, born.
Like record, old, seventy eight,
the first big-budget movie framed.

His pose is not of relaxed poise
for in this place is not much space;
so what confronts me, interface—
‘Here I am’ or ‘Job complete’?
Thrust chest, crossed arms seem satisfied
that all lies, under their control;
are these tactics we would embrace
as superhumans overcome?

Here’s puppet stage where strings are pulled,
solutions on the battleground
achieved by intervening force,
incarnate muscle capable.
I would that wicked dominate
until earthlings cooperate,
for good is borne of freedom’s choice,
true healing known through grace alone.

It’s grief and pain reveal love’s cost,
its strength, length, light, known in the dark;
post pantheon of classical,
are gods, seers, prophets more this type?
Now superheroes spread their wings—
or other parts unique to them—
my plea, remain their comic strips;
so please bring on the Kryptonite.

If we’re to learn from our mistakes
then recognise, prerequisite;
it’s losers pose no question marks,
self-justified in ignorance.

* * *

Here is a Sonnet from Joyce Odam in the form of the Alfred Dorn Sonnet (https://classicalpoets.org/2022/01/obsession-an-alfred-dorn-sonnet-and-other-poetry-by-tamara-beryl-latham/ AND/OR https://www.poetrymagnumopus.com/topic/1056-the-alfred-dorn-sonnet/):

 

 

 
THEIR PERFECT LOVE
—Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

They love each other. Notice how they pose:
two as one, perfection in their eyes.
They kiss in public, heedless of the stares.
She yields to him. His arm about her shows
his ownership. They are each other’s prize.
Poor and foolish? Neither of them cares.

Love conquers all, so how can they ignore
the truth of this? They’re trusting to the core.

They’ll revel with the highs and skip the lows.
They’d rather trust than forfeit. That’s their plan.
They bond the tighter to resist their foes
with no persuasion more compelling than
“You get the thorns with every perfect rose.”
But if love cannot break them, nothing can.
      

(prev. pub. in Poets’ Forum Magazine;
also Living in the West (Sr. Mag.), May 2013;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/1/11)


* * *

Here are a couple of First Letter Acrostics from Carl Schwartz (Caschwa):

 

 

 

COVER IT WITH CHEESE
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

Elder
Gentile
Gentlemen
Purchase
Ladies
And
Nobody
Talks
Pubic
Atrocities
Rarely
Matter
Ergo
Society
Accepts
Naughty

* * *

THE ART OF MIGRATION
—Caschwa

Criminal
Attorneys
On
Retainer
Back
Up
Special
Tourists

* * *

Carl's Haiku with an observation about history:

 

 

 

SIGN OF THE TIMES
—Caschwa

Depression Era
parents bought family one-
ply toilet tissue

* * *

The Pantoum is such a lovely form, and Claire Baker has sent us one (with
variations) for our closing:

 

 

 
FANTASY, IN TIME OF WAR
    with compassion for Ukraine
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

When fantasy’s fireflies return
and free up visions of survival,
nights caress like woolen blankets.
Not held in Mason jars, they glow

in fantasies freed for facing war.
When Russia’s musty missiles miss,
fireflies glow past Mason jars
to throb within each inner wrist—

faster when Russian weapons miss.
While anchored lightly, fireflies
pulsing within each inner wrist
spark scenes of wonderlands.

When warmly pulsing, fireflies
cancel fear, reflecting back
to wonderlands remembered dearly,
despite a despot’s greedy war.

Reflected glow-worms cancel fear,
spur wonder nights in dark arenas.
May curses damn a greedy despot,
fireflies hold as calm as stars

in dark arenas of wondrous nights.
Holding strong through heartless war
may Ukraine hold calm as stars
when fantasy’s fireflies return.

__________________

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.) Respond to Joyce Odam’s Alfred Down Sonnet with one of your own, about love lost or anything else:

•••Sonnet, Alfred Dorn: https://classicalpoets.org/2022/01/obsession-an-alfred-dorn-sonnet-and-other-poetry-by-tamara-beryl-latham/ AND/OR https://www.poetrymagnumopus.com/topic/1056-the-alfred-dorn-sonnet 

 

•••AND/OR swim freestyle! Send us a form poem of any ilk—your choice, and there are plenty to choose from at Medusa's FORMS! OMG!!! (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/medusa-muses.html/):

•••Freestyle: choose your own form

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

•••And don’t forget each Tuesday Seed of the Week! This week it’s “The Lingering Scent of Roses”.

____________________

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

•••Acrostic Poem types: https://studybay.com/blog/how-to-write-an-acrostic-poem

•••Alliteration: https://www.grammarly.com/blog/literary-devices/alliteration
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••Freestyle: choose your own form at Medusa's FORMS! OMG!!! (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/medusa-muses.html/)

•••Haibun: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/haibun-poems-poetic-form
•••Haiku: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/haiku-or-hokku AND/OR www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/haiku/haiku.html

•••Pantoum: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/pantoum.html AND/OR https://poets.org/glossary/pantoum

•••Quatern: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wipquatern.html AND/OR www.masterclass.com/articles/how-to-write-a-quatern#what-is-a-quatern
•••Response Poem: creativetalentsunleashed.com/2015/11/18/writing-tip-response-poems
•••Sonnet, Alfred Dorn: https://classicalpoets.org/2022/01/obsession-an-alfred-dorn-sonnet-and-other-poetry-by-tamara-beryl-latham/ AND/OR https://www.poetrymagnumopus.com/topic/1056-the-alfred-dorn-sonnet
•••Tuesday Seed of the Week: a prompt listed in Medusa’s Kitchen every Tuesday; poems may be any shape or size, form or no form. No deadlines; past ones are listed at http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/calliopes-closet.html/. Send results to kathykieth#hotmail.com/.
•••Word-Can Poem: putting random words on slips of paper into a can, then drawing out a few and making a poem out of them

__________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 

Today's Ekphrastic Challenge!

 
 Make what you can of today's
picture, and send your poetic results to
kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.)

* * *

—Artwork 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!

 

Those sneaky mystery cats~!