Troubling Your Dark Sleep

 —Poetry and Photos by Moira Magneson, 

Placerville, CA

—Public Domain Photos Courtesy 

of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

 

ST MARTIN ANGEL’S

When it was bad we took your truck and bourbon
drove north Oregon hardly speaking at all
   cut the Siskyous to the Umpqua River
followed a dusty road to its end


Martin Angel’s land      there      a hot springs
he had told us about years ago       he had said
        if you’re in love go there  

We stripped and stepped into the scald  
of that pool     as we sat buoyed


in the water      sweating   I thought


we might have bloomed     your face
ruddy as if scraped
I thought I saw the meanness of years
lift from us     the way a bat     rises
softly    from a flower or a wound

By dusk your breath was warm with bourbon  
you went to start the truck and I walked


a trail to the Umpqua     I almost dove


but stopped     I smelled rot     across the water

        a deer netted in the rocks     the purple
        dunnage of guts drifting   out its side

The truck horn sounded

        the legs were just enough in the water
        so that the current caught its hooves  causing
        it to kick now and again
     

        a sort of peculiar   palsied    trot

I had to leave. 


(First published in Bindweed, and in Moira’s chapbook
from Rattlesnake Press, He Drank Because, 2008)   

 

 

 

 

I :: PONYMOUS

It’s easy to swell with self-
   

    Importance, the “I” in everything, if not explicit

       Implied. Language         

 

                                      Insists on immortality

In the hammer of the line,
    Its gold grammar.
        I, subject only to myself, object of mine own

Inflection, cleave to the unending
    Imperfect tense. O the mind is
        Ignorance, careering

Improbability—toss the dice—
    

    It’s snake eyes : crooked with ego &
        Illusion, a refusal to go 

                                      Incognito

In the universe.
    

    Ill-starred delusion,              

        I cannot not be.


                                      I e=x=i=s=t

Imploded by my own petard.
    

    Irreducible prolixity, the “I” is forever at
    work, doing
        Its job. Even at this moment,

It must signify,
    

    Infixing the final word, constructing/my
    deconstruction/
        Interred in this poem, empty pine box
        wherein I lie. 

(First pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen)

 

 

 

SUNDAY

Eighteen-wheeler on Highway 99 rattles along
in the slow lane, stinking of shit and loaded
with lowing cattle, pink muzzles pressed


to the perforated panels. On their way
to the house of revelations where crowded
together, they smell him before they meet him.
Bellowing out hosannas, each files up the ramp
to the end of the story: God is a man
swinging a sledgehammer, apron slick with blood.
When his shift is done, another man just like him
will step up to take his place.


(First published in The Southern California Review) 

 

 

 

 

THE WHOLE TRUTH
“Americans . . . need to watch what they say,
watch what they do.”
    —Ari Fleischer, White House Press Secretary,
       Sept. 26, 2001

I say this: you will not corral me,


Shear my words or dock my tongue. I


Will not cut it out. My mouth is holy.


I am the human form divine. I


Promise that my broken feet


Will trample through your dreams.


I will lick your neck, your body


Politic, keep you awake. I will


Trouble your dark sleep


As you’ve troubled mine. I do not


Fear the wild beasts for I am


Blessed. Black sheep, nightmare, wooly dis-
Invitation—I am the little lamb of God
Damn. God damn. 


(First published in The Sacramento News and Review) 

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

WHAT AM 👁!? 

tiny

         catastrophe    
       
           

                     of light


briefly
         briefly
                     briefly

blinking



(First published in Gathering Rounds, Volume II)

______________________

Today we welcome El Dorado County’s new Poet Laureate, Moira Magneson, a SnakePal who published littlesnake broadside #6 for Rattlesnake Press back in the early 2000’s, and a Rattlechap, Because He Drank, in 2008. Moira is El Dorado County's fifth poet laureate, serving a two-year appointment from July 2025 through July 2027.

Over the years, Moira has worked as a river guide, artist's model, truck driver, television writer, editor, and community college writing instructor. A Northern California native, she lives in the Sierra foothills where she has spearheaded many art actions and initiatives, including El Dorado County's Poetry Out Loud Competition, Veterans' Voices, Barbaric Yawp, and Black Lives: An American Overture. In 2024, she was the resident poet for ForestSong, a community arts project exploring solastalgia, biophilia, and resilience in the face of wildfire devastation. She’s also a long-time member of the Placerville poetry group, Red Fox Underground.

Moira is the author of A River Called Home: A River Fable, an illustrated novella (illus. by Robin Center, Toad Road Press, 2024, https://www.arivercalledhome.com/about), and In the Eye of the Elephant (Sixteen River Press, 2025, https://shop.sixteenrivers.org/products/in-the-eye-of-the-elephant), her first full-length collection of poems. People can purchase her books at Sixteenrivers.org or Toad River Press, or they can buy them locally at The Bookery on Main Street in Placerville. And Moira will be reading in Modesto at Second Tuesday Poetry on Sept. 9. Cogratulations, Moira, on all this excitement in your life of late!

______________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Moira Magneson

A reminder that
Poets and Writers
of El Dorado will hold a
workshop with Lara Gularte in
El Dorado Hills today, 5:30pm; 

and today is the deadline for

Sacramento Poetry Center's 

next issue of Tule Review.
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!

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Until Tomorrow

 —Poetry by Robert Beveridge, Akron, OH
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

live bait
sign in window
peepshow

* * *

a kiss goodbye
a road that stretches north
tongue tastes of dust

* * *

rain connects mountain
and sea: rivulet becomes
stream becomes typhoon

 

 

 

 

 

your breath
the mint leaf in my tea
autumn night wind

* * *

the market is down
buzzards leave the picked clean corpse
of the wildebeest

* * *

winter evening
lost doves fly north
in ragged x

 

 

 

 

spaghetti the cattails’ heads eaten by nutria

* * *

greenland ice sheet drops by massachusetts

* * *

pasture caroling
sheep unsure how to brew an
appropriate wassail

 

 

 

 

mayfly has his
whole life ahead of him
until tomorrow

* * *

empathy
the bees suck juices, leave
apple for the ants

* * *

early frost
faster, the squirrel harvests
sunflower seeds

 

 

 

 

ducklings mill on shore
parents sit close by, resting
their outdoor voices

* * *

canoes paddle
across the sky, tip out
their extra water

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

august sun settles
あたし の ひょうがき 1
waiting for autumn

—Robert Beveridge

_____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Robert Beveridge for his fine poetry today!

 

 

 

 August Sun

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!

 

. . . the mint leaf in my tea . . .
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Texture of Shadows

 The Texture of Shadows
—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Photos and Original Art by Joyce Odam

 

 

BROOM AND SHADOWS
—Joyce Odam

woman with a broom
stoops to her task

long shadows measure
the gold wall of evening

the setting sun is swift
and she is slow

so patiently sweeping back
the shadows

so late
in the day

                   
(prev. pub. in Tundra—The Journal of the Short Poem,
#1 Premier Issue, August 1999) 

 

 

 

 Half Empty

A DARK SHACK IN A WOODS
—Joyce Odam

A dark shack
in a woods
edged with yellow flowers
and simple daisies
and tall green stems of
something thick and climbing.
Who lives here
among these darks and lights?
Whose little house
is huddled
in the closing shadows
that pull even deeper
into long, deep night?
No light is at the windows.
Does a face peer out?
Are we unwelcome,
passing by like this?
This seems a dream-place
of some ancient calendar
and we an unturned page
of our own travel.
Should we knock?
Should we ask
direction, or perhaps
to stay the night
now closing down upon
the last soft shining
of the flowers?
                    

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/17/15; 10/25/22) 

 

 

 

 Curiosity

AT THE PERIPHERY

After Edgar Lee Masters’ Spoon River
—Robin Gale Odam

I’m certain I was here before—
the deep lush of green shade at the
periphery, the bouquet at my breast,
the perfume—

fragile sunlight on my parasol,
the earth dry and soft—my gown
dusted the blue shadows on the path-
way, the dust of the earth. The dust,

the marker, the granite bench, the
linen kerchief—the bowl of fruit and the
plate of bread, the table set for guests.
I loved the blue shadows.

My mother prayed, she said, for the sorrows.
I tried to tell her they are called sparrows—

we came to gather at the valley, the one
you have to cross alone—not to pass like
an arid breeze, but just to dip into the
stream, and to die the death into the
holy grail.

I loved the blue shadows.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/27/24)

 

 

 

 Metaphor

TO ASK ABOUT OUR LIVES
—Joyce Odam

To ask about our lives
come through the door.
Sit on the chair.
Invent a topic we can use.
Ask if we care or do not care.
We do.
Ask us about our love.
We love.
Inquire about
the worst, the best,
our hearts can bear.
Avert your tender eyes.
The way we answer
is a snare,
the snare we make and live in
year to year.
 
                         
(prev. pub. in Muse of Fire, March 1997;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/20/18; 4/28/20)

 

 

 

Fragile

 

CHIAROSCURO

After The Mother of Loneliness by James Barkley
—Joyce Odam

She stands in a gray despair on a
cold black porch by a cold black sea

posing for no one that she loves—
not even sure the sea will have her

or that she will have the sea. A last
rim of light on the rail behind her

would define her next. A front-lit
window seems to pull her back.

She does not shiver in the swiftly
dying light—turning one way

and then the other—incompleted :
nude of winter, loved by shadow.

                                   
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/12/23)

 

 

 

 Silence

I WOULD LOVE YOU
—Joyce Odam

I would love you but love is not enough.
Love is an ache to memorize, a long guilt

to remember, no matter who declares it.
Love is not what you want it to be.

It is not a perfection. It grows lonesome
and cruel. It is always half-child.

I would love you, but we are the wrong two.
We are from the wrong arrogance and pride.

We could never be completed in time.
I would love you anyway, but you would

leave me even if you stayed, and I would
leave you at every disillusion and every regret.

I would love you, but we are dark inside—
two lights gone out as if they were candles,

the soft-scented smoke of effort,
fading out like a spent breath,

and that is all of us . . .
this sigh . . . this drifting silence . . .

 

 

 

 Dream in Color

INSOMNIA XXV
—Robin Gale Odam

Whisper of shadow in the dark,
the quiet death of indifference—

I shall retrace my steps, find
what poured out into the dream.

Wing-flutter outside the window,
book of sorrow, origami sparrow.

I shall light my candle—hush of
memory, flick of light, the quick
of night.

                     
(prev. pub. in Brevities, December 2017;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/29/22; 5/07/24) 

 

 

 

 Walk A Mile

SHADOW LOVE
—Joyce Odam

It was love, I swear, emergent
in the stricken world
into which I hurled
my broken self
and marveled
that I fell
so far—so near,
the marred perfection
of the one
who beckoned me
with longing look.
I did not care how long it took.
The hand reached up
as mine reached down.
How easily a soul can drown
in hope’s reflection—
shimmering within the mind
with no reunion—still entwined
in shadow’s promise.

                                      
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/14/17)

 

 

 

Somewhere To Keep Them

ALL THE OLD HANGOUTS     
—Joyce Odam

where life no longer lives
in all those happy peopled days
it is easy now to forgive

the follies that live on
in secret rendezvous
and myths of love

as if to squander
all that we believed—
those little dramas of the mind

the veiled relinquishment  
of sad returnings:
eyes caught in brief forever's

abetting all the drama
we preferred of life—
the old locations,

old dumps and dives
razed, forgotten,
torn down now

like all the years of memories
that merge down avenues of
fabled light that perforates the dark…
                  

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/10/20)

 

 

 

 I Thought It Was A Dream

AND DARE WE SPEAK IN COUPLETS NOW
—Joyce Odam

And dare we speak in couplets now
whose lives are

spent in ones and threes
whole conversations

lost among the burdens
and the leaves

upswept from seasons
sharp as growing pains

our fingertips are raw
from holding on

to every hope and rage
so far no work is done

we taught the bitter with the love
and now we set the work aside

too high, we say, and strike
the fetal pose

in case of cameras
in case of caring eyes

too long, we say, and shorten
all our tries

and drift away
downhill

or off the edges
of our wings
                             

(prev. pub. in Piedmont Literary Review)

 

 

 

 Lullaby

Today’s LittleNip:

spirit guardian
whispering of gravity—
shadow in the tree

virgins bathing in the pool
luminous in modesty

          —Robin Gale Odam

___________________
 

Our Seed of the Week was “Shadows On Our Lives”, and shadows are right up the alley (so to speak) of Joyce and Robin Gale Odam. Many thanks to them for their poetry today, and for Joyce’s fine graphics. Robin's birthday will be August 1, and Joyce's August 7. The Odams are truly a family of Leos.

Our new Seed of the Week is “Whispers in the Night”. Send your poems, photos & artwork about this (or any other) subject to kathykieth@hotmail.com. No deadline on SOWs, though, and for a peek at our past ones, click on “Calliope’s Closet”, the link at the top of this column, for plenty of others to choose from. And see every Form Fiddlers’ Friday for poetry form challenges, including those of the Ekphrastic type.

Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.

___________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Swaddle

—Photo by Joyce Odam

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Shadows On Our Lives

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy
of Joe Nolan

* * * 

—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Claire J. Baker, Caschwa, Carol Anne Johnson,
Veronica Hosking, and Joe Nolan
—Original Photos by Shawn Hosking,
Erin Hosking, and Veronica Hosking
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Joe Nolan and Medusa

 

 

BLACK AND BRIGHT
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

I am the shadow in the dark of clouds that rain in August. Brightness fails to show its face. My mood is black and fallen. I don’t know why I feel displaced, a stranger unbelonging. If I could, I would have learnt to love black days like bright ones.

The ghost of you puts in my hand a piece of crumpled paper. You fade away into the storm as I look at its message. “The sun will show, and you will love again. The stranger who was your self is here. You only need to find him.”

inspired by:

“I would have learnt to love black days like bright ones.” from Derek Walcott’s “Dark August.”

“You will love again the stranger who was your self” from Derek Walcott’s “Love after Love.”

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy

of Joe Nolan

 

 

SHADOWS ON OUR LIVES
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

The shadows keep this child from sleep,
concealing curtains, know not what—
for certain, curtains, if a lunge,
that arras where some dagger drawn;
until exhaustion overtakes,
his body buried under spread,
till dawning morning sheds new light.

I guess first startled with the eyes,
the flicker from those nearby hoods,
once black, then flashing, through the lash,
silver sliver, aquamarine,
but all made up, the mask indeed,
like Cleopatra in her weeds,
but seeds of tats, inked navy men.

Apache was top music then,
guitarist’s solo, horn-rimmed Hank,
the backing band, more famous Cliff;
all smiling teeth and coffee bars,
those painted ladies by the juke,
The Shadows—lad now turning teen,
a tribal note in quiver twang.

Cat Stevens, Yusuf, Moonshadow,
the present moment in eclipse,
foreshadows what is yet to come.
So Shadowlands, the tragic tale,
from lion, witch and wardrobe man,
deprived of joy in widowhood;
what further shadows lie ahead?

A shadow cabinet declared,
the constitution’s furniture,
while shadows hover everywhere,
like understudies prepped for stage—
less shadowy than MI5,
espying where there’s cover up,
like shock reveal, those shades of grey.

Those shadow not congruent grey,
as lengthen after noontide’s height;
some caused by wrinkles of our skin,
the graver losses, passing friends,
those prints of sickness, patterned crab.
Such darker markers on our lives
all leave a signature as sign. 

 

 

 

  —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

A SOAP OPERA FAMILY
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

All through my early teens,
Mother called my birth father a devil,
said one day when she held me, a baby,
he hurled at us a keepsake French vase
she brought to America from her homeland,
said the vase missed us by inches
and smashed on the wall behind us.

She told me he gambled away the house,
that when she wept, he golf-clubbed
the car windshield to bits, that at meals
he ignored his linen napkin, wiping
his mouth on her freshly-ironed
tablecloth . . .

Years later, he said of her,
you can’t change the spots
on a leopard’s back, told me
that she and her nurse friends
brewed beer in the bathtub,
so he pulled the plug.

Father said that when they parted,
she boarded us two kids so she could be
courted by a college fellow, said she
forgot about us, that we got so lonely,
he had to rescue my sister and me.

There were other raw stories—
going both ways.
Who was I to believe, and why?
And now, lifetimes later,
beyond the repressed trauma,
does any of this matter

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

STAY HOME
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

The worst time to visit a cemetery
is potentially during the Winter solstice,
when shadows are the longest and hours
of sunlight the shortest. How disconcerting
it must be to stand in the extended shadow
of a tall head stone or monument while trying
to recall cheerful or pleasant experiences you
once had with the lost loved one.

Don’t get caught in the
shadows cast beyond my grave
come another day 

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

Four observations from Caschwa (Carl Schwartz)::


ZIP LIP
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

I said “Holy butt, Shirley”
slowly, but surely
then sharp as a stick
she knew how to kick

* * *

JUST TO BE SURE

Before I can accept your offer
for a “great deal”, I’ll have to
run it by someone else whom
I already trust a great deal.

* * *

LEXICON

Definition of noodle dough: pasta futures.

* * *

ANSWER PLEASE

Explain to a child
why the name Seymore only
has one “eye” in it 

 

 

 

  —Public Domain Photo Courtesy 

of Joe Nolan

 

 

The stars are stories written in light,


They shimmer in silence beyond our reach,


Each spark a memory burning bright.

Beneath the hush of the velvet night,


We lift our eyes with quiet speech—


The stars are stories written in light.

We dream of flight, of endless height,


Guided by wonder that they teach—


They shimmer in silence beyond our reach.

No map can hold what stirs our sight,


Their mysteries rest where none beseech—


Each spark a memory burning bright.

—Carol Anne Johnson, Cork, Ireland

 

 

 

 —Cyanotype and Photo by Shawn Hosking

CATARACTS
—Veronica Hosking, Avondale, AZ

Cataracts
milky white
film covers
lens over pupil
focus dulls
stealing your
Eyesight

 

 

 

—Photo by Veronica Hosking

NIAGARA FALLS
—Veronica Hosking

Water rushes
building up to a crescendo
before it cascades
down into the gorge
elevator doors open
near thundering falls
droplets of water
form a rainbow in sunlight
tourists climb the stairway
as water pelts their faces
reaching out to touch the falls
heartbeats race unheard

 

 

 

 —Photo by Erin Hosking

DANDELIONS
—Veronica Hosking

children skip through
yellow orbs dotting green grass
dandelion field

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

 

RECONNECTING
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

This elderly lady
Will soon be packing,
Ready for her move
To live near her daughter
And three grandchildren
Not of her bloodline–
Her daughter was adopted,
Their history
Not free of betrayal,
Over a land-deal
That nearly wiped her out.

Far, she will move
And far she’ll travel
For the promise of
Love and family.
We wish her well
And every happiness,
Though she’ll be missed
And dreadful, sorely.

We hope she
Won’t be
Abused and exploited,
Cornered by a promise of love
From those who wish to keep her
In their orbit
So their inheritance
Will not drift away.

 

 

 

  —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

DYING FATHER
—Joe Nolan

Where is love,
Where is love,
How deep the pain?
How lonely,
How full of disdain.

What is it you have to say,
Now that your father is dying?

Dying, dying now,
Alas, he slips away
Into his final slumber.
He will not get away
This time,
Not this time,
His due is coming near.

What do you have to say, now,
You who loathed him,
Which loathing
Wished for his ending,
Which ending,
The only way
To be free?

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy 

of Joe Nolan

 

 

CLEANING HOUSE
—Joe Nolan

I can’t wait to give this stuff away--
Horrid, ugly, nasty things,
Cluttering my ways and means,
The draft that won’t blow through,
Underneath the awnings,
Colored green and blue,
Rank things to give away
If someone will take them
To save me a trip to the dump.  

 

 

 

  —Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa

 

WASTED EFFORTS
—Joe Nolan

I can’t help thinking
It’s all just
Totally lost—
A complete waste of time
And effort.

You can’t make pigs fly
Even if you wanted to
And most of them
Would never even try.

They know they were
Not born with wings
Or feathers
Or hollow bones
And have no sins
They must atone
For rolling in mud,
Since that is in their nature.

You can’t mix up
Birds with pigs
Or pretend that cows will come home
Just because you’d like them to
After a gate is left open
For them to wander away.

________________))____

Today’s LittleNip:

EASY PEASY
—Caschwa

I don’t have a hair loss problem.
When it thins out too much, I just
go to Lost & Found and they give
it back to me. No problem.

______________________

Our Seed of the Week was “Shadows On Our Lives”, so shadows are weaving in and out of today’s poetry, and our thanks to our contributors for their help in this regard, including a return visit from Carol Anne Johnson, all the way from Cork, Ireland! 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.

Newcomer Veronica Hosking is a wife, mother, and poet born with cerebral palsy. She was the poetry editor for MaMaZina magazine from 2006-2011. Her poems have been featured online and in print anthologies: Silver Birch Press, Poetry Pea, Arizona Matsuri, Heterodox Haiku Journal and Pure Haiku. She received her first Pushcart Prize nomination in 2024. Her poetry blog is at https://vhosking.wordpress.com/. Welcome to the Kitchen, Veronica, and welcome to your photo helpers, too! DOn’t be strangers . . .

_____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Sue Daly and Jill Stockinger
read tonight, 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!

The news has me all 

tied up in knotssssss . . .

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Out the Train Window

 

Norma May Kohout, 1922-2025
—Poetry by Norma Kohout, Sacramento, CA

 

 

OUT THE TRAIN WINDOW

fluent white poetry of egrets
in flight,
explosion of mallards alarmed
by the train,

moored tankers, freighters loading,
unloading
below Benicia Bridge, visible
from the train,

across Suisun Bay—a moving sheet
of chipped slate—
the soft-green hills of Vallejo roll
by the train;

convolutions of pipes, metal stairways,
orange tanks,
futuristic oil-refineries grow
beside the train;

snow-feathered egrets on black-stilt legs
watch for fish
in the marsh’s bright channel,
near the train.

And more, and more—strange, ugly,
natural, beautiful—
waits to be discovered
on the train.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/4/06)

 

 

 

 

THE ZEN OF GRAPEFRUIT

Larry brought me grapefruit from his
    tree-filled
place in the country.
I've begun cutting the peels
with a knife,
rather than removing them with my
    fingers;
which leaves
a sticky crowded feeling under my nails.

The yellow covering cuts away nicely
with a few curving motions; so does
    the white layer
that I rather like, and
purposely keep a bit of,
remembering my neighbor in
    Los Angeles
said it had lots of Vitamin K.

The bitter-mellow smell comes up; and
my mouth begins salivating when
    the serrated blade
cuts through the naked fruit, making
    cubes
of the natural sections
where little cells of juice glisten.
I put the grapefruit in a glass dish,
licking the citric sweetness from my
    fingers.

But I miss the comedy routines about
    grapefruit
from my distant girlhood:
grapefruit juice squirting from the spoon
into people's eyes,
and movie incidents like James Cagney
famously squashing
one in his blonde gangster moll's face.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/24/07)

 

 

 

Norma with Bob Stanley

—Photo by Katy Brown

 

WINTER SUNSET

Last night . .
just before dark, the leafless trees
reared assertively—
black detailed silhouettes,
sharp against the yellow light of sunset.

Tonight. . .
the western skyline dominates:
salmon-colored glory streaks
the purple clouds,
seemingly the last light.

Yet to the south, a jagged piece of white
strangely vivid,
like an alien substance
unnaturally pinned on a black sky.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/6/09)

 

 

 

 

FROM THE TRAIN—THE GREENING

The valley fields are resting;
grasses are pushing up
under the black arms of plum trees;

broad strokes of green show pasture
for a herd of Black Angus,
mingling with red and white Herefords.

Old-green contrasts with
mottled brown on barn walls
and cinnabar on their rough timbers.

Patches of new green are starting up
alongside winter-soaked
marsh plants and flaxen reeds . . .

the train rolls west to peopled Martinez;
there green is growing only in mowed
    lawns
and weeds along the track.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/6/09)

 

 

 

Norma with Laverne Frith

—Photo by Katy Brown

 

 

EVENING WALK IN THE WINTER

all along my route
sidewalks give off the dusty-damp smell
of concrete and on this block

beyond the magnolia trees
that gather up night
and beyond their velvet shadows

fish is frying
that smells delicious
and around the corner

winter reveals secrets in leafless trees
and the glistening evening star
is so constant in its dark setting

it seems a benediction


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/6/09)

 

 

 

 

THE NIGHT FOR FROG LEGS

Tonight, after a day of hauling freight,
he sautéed frog legs—
standing solid, still neat in the army-
    style
twill pants and shirt.

Hot butter perfumed the kitchen; the
    white meat
sizzled, and Mother
drained string beans at the zinc counter,
stepping around
our German shepherd, Frieda.

Even to a daughter's eyes, he was hand-
    some:
ash-blond hair and clipped mustache—
turning frog legs
the way he learned in France in the war.
No other kids in the neighborhood
had frog legs for dinner.

We watched from the dining room table,
past Mother's cooking cabinet,
past the scar on the stove's white
    enamel,
where he'd hurled the spinach
in Grandma Lindholm's heirloom dish.


(first pub. in Rattlesnake Review #14
and in Medusa's Kitchen, 11/24/07)

_________________

Today’s LittleNip:

AT NIGHT
—Norma Kohout

Turning off the bed lamp
filled my room with soft dark.

The night sky came into view.
An oval pearl shone fiercely
on its cushion of indigo velvet.

I was glad the moon
was not yet round;
this perfection was all I could bear.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/24/07)

________________

NorCal poets were saddened to hear of the passing of Norma May Kohout recently at the age of 103. Norma Kohout played tennis in her San Francisco years, was counselor for The San Francisco Boys Chorus, a secretary, and a student at San Francisco State College. In Modesto, she taught junior high school English and participated in three teacher organizations. Norma said that highlights included receiving the Chaparral Golden Pegasus Award in 2001, being published in Senior Magazine, Tiger's Eye, Rattlesnake Review, and Song of the San Joaquin, plus California Federation of Chaparral Poets and Ina Coolbrith wins and publications. Also, Norma co-facilitated the Hart Center Wednesday Workshop with Joyce Odam. In publications, Norma had a littlesnake broadside, Out the Train Window, from Rattlesnake Press, as well as a chapbook from RP, All Aboard! Thanks for your poetry, Norma, and we will miss you.

For a lovely presentation of Norma reading her poetry, go to https://chaparralpoets.org/Member-profiles/NormaKahout.html/. For information about her work at All Saints’ Episcopal Church, go to https://www.allsaintssacramento.org/post/celebrating-our-all-saints-stories-norma-kohout/. For her obituary, go to https://www.dignitymemorial.com/obituaries/sacramento-ca/norma-kohout-12448897/.

________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Norma's Sidekick, Oliver

A reminder that
El Dorado County’s new
Poet Laureate, Moira Magneson,
will read in Camino today, 3pm.
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!