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
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.”
—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.
—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.
—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!
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!
tied up in knotssssss . . .
