Sunday, July 06, 2025

Gothic

 Dungeon
—Image by Kalhh (Pixabay)
 
* * *

—Poetry by Dawn Pisturino, Arizona
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Dawn Pisturino
 
 
DARKNESS

You rise with the morning sun,
A shadow on the eastern horizon.
Darkness follows you in the daylight
And thickens the gloom of night.
My inner light beckoned to you,
Piercing the blackness,
But you extinguished it,
Preferring to shroud yourself
In the pall of funeral dust.
 
 
 
 Ophelia
—Painting by Sir John Everett Millais



OPHELIA

Ophelia leans over the balcony
In Juliet-like display,
Contemplating the courtyard below
And listening for the sounds of her beloved.
“Hamlet! What keeps you away
And too preoccupied to see your lady love,
Your poor, impatient Ophelia?
Am I not worthy of your attention, too?
Forget the madness of your father’s death
And come to me!” Silence responds,
And Ophelia’s eyes glisten with tears.
Perhaps her father is right. If Hamlet’s
Affections are untrustworthy—
If he merely approaches her in jest—
Far better to die a tragic death
Than become the butt of court hilarity.
Her heart twists and turns with painful
Realizations and doubts. She must get away
And escape the constant scrutiny
Of father, brother, and royal gossip.
She will not marry anyone but Hamlet!
She runs from the castle, seeking clarity
In the running river.
She fills her arms with rue
And plunges into the rushing water,
Washing away all doubts and fear.
But a moment’s breathless distress,
And peace is hers at last.

_____________________

GOTHIC

Our love straddled the line between Life and Death
And all things in-between.
The limitations of Life could not contain us.
Only the limitless boundaries of Death
Could accommodate our souls,
Joined together, point-to-point,
In an unholy alliance that defied
The conventions of our time.
The castle walls loomed around us
Like great sentries, keeping us imprisoned.
Our hands bound with chains to moldy walls,
We whispered through the bars of our cells,
Anticipating the day of our imminent demise.
The Count’s rage could not extinguish the flames
Of our adulterated connection.
We lived for each other, and so, we would die,
Together, unfettered by human law and the
Condemnation of Holy Mother Church.
Our love would live on,
Even as the breath left our dying bodies.
Walking hand-in-hand into the darkness,
Cursed to face eternity together,
Our souls would rejoice in our oneness
And find mercy in an All-Loving God.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Love is like the wind, you can't see it but you can feel it.

―Nicholas Sparks,
A Walk to Remember

____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Dawn Pisturino for today’s fine poems, and some pix she sent us to go with them!
 
 
 
 —Public Domain Cartoon Courtesy of Medusa

















 
 
 
 
 
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!