Blaenau Ffestiniog, North Wales
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Medusa
ROSEBUSH
Many offered a hand to set me free.
I told them to wear gloves
and to beware of the thorns
hidden amongst the blooms,
ready to penetrate their skin,
but no one heeded my warning,
they were enchanted
by the fragrance,
bewitched by the beauty,
the pastel pink delicacy
of petals pleading to be picked
and blind to the thorns
ready to pierce
ready to strike,
thorns as hidden as the worms,
the maggoty munchers
now metamorphosing
into manifestations
of new growth,
hands
ungloved
and unmarked
elegantly enticing them
to join me in the dark
unsettling heart.
Many offered a hand to set me free.
I told them to wear gloves
and to beware of the thorns
hidden amongst the blooms,
ready to penetrate their skin,
but no one heeded my warning,
they were enchanted
by the fragrance,
bewitched by the beauty,
the pastel pink delicacy
of petals pleading to be picked
and blind to the thorns
ready to pierce
ready to strike,
thorns as hidden as the worms,
the maggoty munchers
now metamorphosing
into manifestations
of new growth,
hands
ungloved
and unmarked
elegantly enticing them
to join me in the dark
unsettling heart.
(First published in Eccentric Orbits 5, Summer 2024)
ONLY A ROSE
It was only a rose I gave to you,
a pink rose plucked from the bush
carefully
by my own fair hand.
It was only a rose.
But I knew you loved roses,
loved each one more than the last
as you took them
smilingly
from my own fair hands.
The bush grew so many
roses and hands.
It seemed to know your love of them,
those pink roses
and my own fair hands
plucked to make you a perfect bouquet.
It was only a rose I gave to you,
a pink rose plucked from the bush
carefully
by my own fair hand.
It was only a rose.
But I knew you loved roses,
loved each one more than the last
as you took them
smilingly
from my own fair hands.
The bush grew so many
roses and hands.
It seemed to know your love of them,
those pink roses
and my own fair hands
plucked to make you a perfect bouquet.
(First published in Alien Buddha Emo Valentine Zine,
February 2025)
THE REVERIE OF RENÉ MAGRITTE
Mr. James daydreamed of roses.
It was his recurring reverie.
Blousy pink roses
so clear
he could almost spell their fragrance
almost touch their pastel petals
a sweet dream
of pale,
pink roses.
It was the hands that turned it into a nightmare,
those pale fragile hands reaching out,
more and more of them
threatening
beckoning
cajoling
he couldn’t work it out,
couldn’t understand,
only knew he felt
fear,
fear day and night
a sleepy dread
of dreaming.
(First published in Gorko Gazette, July 2024)
ROSES FOR GAZA
Gaza is a garden full of roses.
Stone roses.
Rock roses.
No petals to crush and bruise
to release their fragrance.
Only dust.
Dust and the stench
of death.
No green space left.
No sweet tranquility,
peace or quiet.
No escape
in this world
of politicians
unable
to cast the first stone
in this world
of double standards
in this world
of politicians
with hearts of stone
in this world
where humanity
is reduced
to rubble and rock roses.
(First published in Stone Worlds,
Four Feathers Press, June 2025)
ROSIE
Can I be a rose?
Yes, I think so.
It’s my calling,
after all.
And I have pinkish skin
and rosy cheeks.
And I am as multi-layered,
as complex, as any
petalled rose
worth my name.
Yes, that’s for sure.
Is there a fragrance
on my breath?
I like to think so.
And will it be discernible,
sniffable,
rosily perfumed?
Yes, especially
in the moist evening,
but take care not to
disturb my roots,
to cut me off
and watch
me fade
away.
(First published in the Electronic Pamphlet,
February 2017)
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
EARWIGS
—Lynn White
Can I be a rose?
Yes, I think so.
It’s my calling,
after all.
And I have pinkish skin
and rosy cheeks.
And I am as multi-layered,
as complex, as any
petalled rose
worth my name.
Yes, that’s for sure.
Is there a fragrance
on my breath?
I like to think so.
And will it be discernible,
sniffable,
rosily perfumed?
Yes, especially
in the moist evening,
but take care not to
disturb my roots,
to cut me off
and watch
me fade
away.
(First published in the Electronic Pamphlet,
February 2017)
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
EARWIGS
—Lynn White
My neighbour was sweeping up.
“Beware of earwigs,”
she said.
“They go in through your ear,
crawl ‘round your brain
and tickle you to death.”
Her name was Rosie.
She cleaned trains for a living.
No earwig survived where she swept.
Fortunately not many travelled by train.
(First published in Trash, February 2020)
______________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Lynn White for these fine, rosy poems today!
A reminder that a workshop
with Lara Gularte,
Writing Words to Light the Way,
takes place in El Dorado Hills
today at 5:30pm.
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!
with Lara Gularte,
Writing Words to Light the Way,
takes place in El Dorado Hills
today at 5:30pm.
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!
