—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.
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.
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.
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;
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!
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!
