Peace Be~

 Sanctuary
—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Photos and Original Art by Joyce Odam 

PEACE BE TO THE MORNING
—Joyce Odam

Peace be to the morning
with its cool announcement of arrival,
pale and thin, on wings of nothing . . .

And peace be to the fading of night
that takes away its dreaming and its sleep
or its long wakefulness . . .

Peace be to the mystery
of whatever is there—or not there—
that turns such pages . . .

Peace be to the memory
and the forgetting of all that needs to be
forgotten and remembered . . .

And peace be to the moment
trembling on the brink of the next one,
and to that mystery, peace, too . . .
                                         

(prev. pub. in Say Yes, 1999;
A Sense of Melancholy, Rattlesnake Chapbook #4
by Joyce Odam, 2004; and in  
Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/7/15; 2/23/21) 

 

 

 

 While Outside It Rained

THE LURE OF AUTUMN
—Joyce Odam

This is the autumn we’ve waited for all year;
we are the falling leaves—the fierce red light
that turns the air to copper—the brimming night
that echoes this for hours, like a smear
of ancient blood upon the sky—minds clear
and open to the season—to the sight
and feel of all that hurry with hearts that might
turn rhythmic to this churning atmosphere.

We are the ache and joy of all that change—         
transfigured into something newly strange—
an older blood-flow urgent to belong—
happy to follow some age-old desire:                                             
We, who are an old, nomadic pair,
becoming now another autumn song.
                                         

(prev. pub. in Song of the San Joaquin, Fall 2021;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 10/27/15; 9/26/23)

 

 

 

 When It Rained

SEASONAL CHANGES
—Joyce Odam

At once the season changes. Every tone
of light is on another plane. The day
constricts. A shiver in the air finds bone.
Trees shudder and release the birds
that flutter out and briefly fly away.

Then time resumes its count, shifts back in place.
Summer continues, canceling what was there :
a touch of winter in some kind of race,
something to mock the lack of words :
which season choose, with no time to prepare?

                                                       
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/14/10; 6/28/22)

 

 

 It Was The Rain

out of arid night
legion of migrating winds
morning patina

    —Robin Gale Odam


(prev. pub. in Brevities, May 2020;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/3/24) 

 

 

 

 Away Is Not Far

SUMMONED
—Joyce Odam

True as the gold light in your eye
that fastened like a sun
to my dark mirage,

a circle of stars, a core of words,
like a power surrounding you.
I was only heat-shimmer,

spinning in the light.
We did not reach,
I was dreaming on a blue ice floe,

you on another.
There was nothing to save us,
but love. Even our souls wept.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/7/12; 4/12/22)

 

 

 

 The Seventh Rain

WAILINGS OF WIND
—Robin Gale Odam

We have crying yet to do,
it will arrive now and again  
as the sprinkling over an early
autumn . . . and as a torrent.

Even now our tears are welling,
even now, though it is quiet, and
we are at peace . . . even now . . .
we remember wailings of wind. 

 

 

 

Night Has A Need

 

 

SEARCH THE WIND
—Joyce Odam

Know this of me, that I will search the wind
for your last touch. I will become a scavenger of
every breeze for something of you I have known.

Often I hear compassionate grass lean to a sound
and mourn against the soil in ravaged listening,

then sigh against my legs and tell me you are here.

Our energies converge. Nothing of what we are to
one another is spent, but borne through all the 

filters of awareness.

My hands enclose the living emptiness to treasure
you; the bending of my fingers makes a sound of
love upon the wind for you to hear. My pulse 

works thunder.

The chasm of our distance storms with angry love,
and I can feel you miss me in the lashing of all 

growing things. There is a wailing in the air when 

love shreds on the pangs of loneliness.

Nothing is lost. I answer with a yielding you will 

feel upon the wind’s return.
 

 

 

 Writing About Rain

Today’s LittleNip:

RUMOR AS TRUE
—Joyce Odam

What is this force of blueness
that comes from everywhere,
that we know will swallow us.

Look how it is forming—   
becoming a climate.

It knows where we are.
It has not yet made a decision.
Come, let us dress for the weather.

                                
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/8/22; 4/12/22;
12/5/23; 1/21/25)

____________________

Joyce Odam is no longer with us, having passed away last week, but Robin Gale Odam has been skillfully curating her mother’s poetry and photos for the Kitchen for years now, and (thankfully!) she would like to continue to do so. Our gratitude to you, Robin, for continuing to send Joyce’s and your work to us.

Our new Seed of the Week is “A Deer Passed by. . .” 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

 

 

 

 Joyce Odam (1924-2025)
—Photo by Katy Brown, Davis, CA

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!

 

Wailings of Wind~

Bye-Bye, Persephone

—Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa
* * *
—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Caschwa, and Joe Nolan
—Public Domain Visuals Courtesy of
Joe Nolan and Medusa

 

 

HINTS OF AUTUMN
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

I pull out the comforters,
and set the thermostat to heat.

The morning chill reminds the trees
to kiss their leaves goodbye.

Darkness chases daylight
to an early snooze with me.

I rise to moon instead of sun
and stumble through the house.

Cooler mornings, longer nights
mean autumn will be here.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

ALARM
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

This seasonal non sequitur—
heats, length, like an athletics track—
at least in these Welsh hills about,
as nights grow longer by the hour,
light timers are set earlier.

Soon dimmer sight brings switches on,
and central heating prices rise;
by Christmas cactus, window closed,
and as dusk gathers, school-gate kids
fall victim, autumn, charcoal skies.

But thus the cycle, hands on clock,
a pointed change to what occurs,
plane angle pose around our star,
at least for those midst hemispheres,
meantime observing Greenwich zone.

Confused when night and sleep equate—
for older age keeps shorter sleeps,
effects insomnia, awake,
those daily dozes claiming space,
reducing need for pillow bed.

I fool myself this cool is not,
though duvet raised around my neck;
or else this slot’s for grandkids’ ‘cool’,
another morn, or eve more like,
though know not how define that mood.

Their cooler mornings quite, in tents,
some new events, experience,
chill factor, naught to do with cold,
a festival in muddy field,
discomfort duly certified.

So is it season, attitude—
or even pillow altitude,
persuades me that the time is nigh,
a change in pattern is required,
behaviour changed for what befalls.

I am relieved that nature sends
these formulae for earthly health;
a stealthy axis, planetary,
in universal mystery;
alarm if I’m to face the day. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo 

Courtesy of Joe Nolan

ROPE LADDER
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

One tree house ready
for cooler mornings
while dew is busy
dripping from awnings

climb up, settle in
soon you’ll feel stronger
it won’t even matter
that nights become longer

trees are really libraries
open through the eve
lots of books for all to read
oh the stories that they weave!

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

THE BIG LIE
—Caschwa

(Poets Lie)

There are whoppers and then there
are bald-faced, evil as the Devil, lies
which are so brazen and sharp they
make the Poet’s Lie look like truth
not quite dressed for dinner

Cable TV for a fee, such charges once
cited as sufficient to forego many of
those pesky commercial advertisements
that totally interrupt the flow of action
making viewing our favorite shows now
a nasty chore

Hey marketing whizzes, you don’t have
to ask me more than once if I’d like to
enter a purchase contract for a luxury
car I could never afford on my wages

Lower your price to real world, lower
your tone to a Poet’s lie, lower your
expectations to fit the aspirations of
working folk, erase your presumption
that your lovely car for sale is exactly
the one of my dreams, you’re are NOT
EVEN CLOSE. I need a vehicle that fits
in my small garage, not one that could
hold all the baggage in Grand Central
Station and light up the entire neighborhood
for fun and games. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

TIME FOR NEW SOLUTIONS
—Caschwa

America’s War for Independence
    We’re still dealing with old
    laundry with the same stains
    on it

War on Drugs
    Who’s kidding whom? The
    Cartels have this completely
    bought and paid for

War on Crime
    Just more losers, no winners

Jewish Holocaust
    Killing 6 million was just the
    opening move

Israel’s War on Hamas
    Until the world holds Hamas
    accountable for the war crime
    of using human shields, Israel’s
    military defense feels no need to
    stand alone in following the rules 

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

SERENE MEDITATION GARDEN
—Caschwa

(The Self-Realization Fellowship Lake Shrine lies
a few blocks from the Pacific Ocean, on Sunset
Boulevard in Pacific Palisades, California. It was
founded and dedicated by Paramahansa Yogananda,
on August 20, 1950, and is owned by the Self-
Realization Fellowship.)

Six decades ago my main means of transportation
was a noisy motorcycle, which I rode all around
town. One of my favorite places to visit was a Self-
Meditation Center at the edge of Santa Monica,
less than 10 miles from my home. There I could 

park, kill the engine, and immerse myself into the 

endless beauty of undisturbed silence. I and my 

ears much preferred this instead of the barrage of 

sounds that emit from big city venues.

In the ensuing years, I faced daily challenges to
silence: UCLA, always tearing down old, or
building new, structures; working in downtown
Los Angeles; commuting to work on the light rail;
living next to noisy neighbors; the noise of endless
household responsibilities and the constant re-
minders to complete them; shopping in humongous
stores nestled closely together in giant shopping
malls; the harsh sounds and lights of police activity,
both ground and air; political rallies with mega-
phones, shouting, and screaming; family gatherings
where all relations, near and far, gathered to 

sharpen their swords on judgmental mandates.

Now I am retired, surrounded by dust and weeds
that overstay their welcome; urns of ashes to r

emind me of lives that ended; cable TV that 

assumes I would just love to pay additional 

monthly fees for programming that used to be free; 

and here I am in Sacramento, hundreds of miles 

away from that Self-Meditation Center. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

PURIFICATION BY ANNIHILATION
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

We shall have Heaven on Earth
By going through Hell
Every twenty years
With another war.

Really, you don’t have to
Count that long—
Wars occur more frequently
Than that.

From the War to End All Wars
And make the world safe for
Democracy, ah, democracy,
A banner we wave to overthrow
All the dictators of the world,

To the Sands of Iwo Jima,
Where 6,800 Marines died
To wipe out 18,000 dug-in
Japanese,
In February of ‘45,
Six months before
The bombs were dropped,
Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

It just goes on and on—
Korea, Vietnam, Iraq,
Afghanistan, Iraq, again,
With 500,000 dead Iraqi children
Between the two Iraq wars,
Dead, because of sanctions,
And Madeleine Albright
Said it was justified.  

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

I HAVE TO LAUGH
—Joe Nolan

I have to laugh!
Oh, yes, I do.

Every little thing
Your Mother do.

She’s able and
She’s strong.
She knows so many ways
To get along.
She’s wise and
She’s shrewd.

Don’t get me started
On her last dark plan
About how to crucify
A man
Who didn’t really deserve it
But couldn’t withstand the scam,

So he went in flames
Like many others.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

ONYX AT PLAY
—Joe Nolan

Onyx doesn’t listen to the sea.
Minerals in the desert
Can be had for free
When you clear Arabs
And Muslims away.

Onyx is deaf
To human pleas.
It cares not a whit
For you and me.

It’s all about feeding a machine
With rare-earth minerals
With which cell-phones are made
While Onyx is at play
In the toys we use
And throw away.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Joe Nolan

READY FOR LIFT-OFF
—Joe Nolan

It’s getting close to lift-off
So we add a little fuel
To the major thruster
To make sure we can blow
Gravity behind.

Lift-off is a state of mind.

It’s about being willing,
Ready and able
To disable gravity
And all that holds you down,
As though you were
Part of the ground,
Like an over-ripe apple
Fallen from a tree,
Left to rot.

Flip the switch
On the dashboard
That says, “Lift-off.”
Add a little fuel,
Look at your watch and scoff.

Let them know
You’ve been here, before,
Before the Garden of Eden,
Well before the Fall,
You’ve got it
Under control
And you’re ready
To blast off
Without taking a bite of the apple
That caused the downfall.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Words are, of course, the most powerful drug used by mankind.

—Rudyard Kipling

___________________

—Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa

Our thanks to today’s contributors, some of whom wrote about our Seed of the Week (Cooler Mornings, Longer Nights). Today we celebrate the Autumn Equinox, as Persephone heads off to hang out with Hades for six months. Brrrrr…

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

Straight Out Scribes are a poetic phenomenon, and they have a new book out: Spirals, Spirits and Spells, available on Amazon and Kindle. You go, girls!

 

 

 

 

_____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Sacramento Poetry Center
presents An Evening
with Mary Mackey
tonight, 7:30pm.
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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Raising Hell

 —Poetry by H.L. Dowless, Northeastern U.S.
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

A ROCKIN’ ROLLIN’ SIXTY YEAR OLD!

I’m a rockin’ rollin’
Sixty year old!
Sweet dolly
Don’t you dare tell ya mommie,
‘Cause I live in a king’s palace of rhinestone
And gold!.

I’ve been going wild
Since I was five,
Dreaming of sailing the seven seas,
I do as I please.
I was hunting birds
Pretending they were lions
And tigers,
I was a true-born bush plane pilot,
I’m number one
‘Cause I’m the son of a dare devil bootlegger’s
Son,
I can still shoot a mean six-gun!

Honey
Your heart
And mind have already been sold,
Sweet Dolly.
Now I’m a rockin’ rollin’
Sixty year old!

I’ve poached more than a hundred deer,
I’ve caught at least a million pounds of game fish,
I played football where I caused whole stadiums
    of people to cheer,
I’m still that wonderful leprechaun who can fetch
    your best wish.
Honey,
Now what do you have to fear?
I can still rock
N roll,
Because I got that hard-swingin’
Bone-throwing soul,
I’m a poppin’
Boppin’
Sixty year old!

I’m still the perfect answer to a poor maiden’s
Midnight prayer,
I’m a drink of water
And a breath of fresh morning air,
I’m all yours right now
Honey,
If you only care
To take a dare!

I’ll beat the piper
As I raise hell for a thousand years,
I’m truly one of a single feather,
Watch me now ‘cause I’ll live forever!

I’ve just ran more than ten
Then swam for a mile!
I can really strut my stuff
Because I got style.
I’m the chief goat in your most sought-after fold,
Honey now
I’m  a real wild child!
I’m a rockin’ rollin’
Sixty year old.

 

 

 

 

JUST SITTING AROUND ON MY FRONT PORCH

I’m sitting on the front porch of the house
Watching the sun come in,
Drinking coffee
And feeling fine!
Yes I guess
I’m sitting here on this front porch
A-wastin’ time.

I’m sitting around here on the front porch
Watching the parakeets and toucans fly by!
I’m drinking freshly roasted black coffee
And I feel so alone,
Just wasting precious time.
Lord,
Wasting precious time.

Well
It's been nigh-on forty years
I’ve sat here watching the ants crawl
As I make up their labor song.
I’ve just been sitting around here on my front porch
All of this time,
My oh my,
How the years have flown!

I have a son who was born way back in ninety-
    five,
When he sees me he shakes his head from side
    to side
And asks me why,
Why did you not even bother to try?
Now
I doubt he barely even knows that I’m alive!
I’ve been sitting ‘round here on this front porch
Wasting time,
Lord yes,
A-wasting precious time!

It feels so good here in the morning wind
As I conjure up fantasia’s merry song,
How could this be so wrong?
Lord,
I simply can’t force myself to arise
And begin a daily grind.
I kind of love this freeborn sensation I have
When I’m just sitting here like this,
Wasting my time.

Will I soon change my swing seat for a homemade
     hammock?
You bet ya,
Just as surly as there is poison in hemlock!

Will I soon mix myself a tall cold drink?
Well fellow,
Now you bet ya,
Just as surely as that luscious morning sun comes
    up pink!

Do I love walking around in imagination’s enrap-
    turing haze?
I want it to take me just as far as it can get me!

Do I care what any of my neighbors think?
Frankly I don't give a happy dime!
For now, fellow,
Kindly step aside
And let me enjoy the blushness of this rising sun
Before my day is done!
I’m so happy just sitting around here on this
    tropical porch
Wasting time…  

Lord yes,
But I feel so fine!
Yes,
What little I have is all mine,
Including my time.
I’m still happy when I’m only lonely,
‘Cause I don’t hear no complainers whine.
Like the sun,
One day,
Some way,
In my own way
I’m still gonna yet shine!
But right now
I’m sitting around on my tropical front porch,
Just wasting time.

 

 

 

 

AM I GOING CRAZY?

I think I’m going crazy,
I’m not going to lie,
As I woke up so early this morning,
I dreamed I grew wings
And could fly!

I think I’m going crazy.
Once when eating peach
Or kiwi fruit
From a moonthread gutter sprite,
I fathomed
Thinking back,
Somehow it reminded me of salty watermelon pie!
I had way too much Maddog Twenty Twenty that
    night,
I guess.

After I wiped
The prickly juice from upon my face
And picked all the fuzz from in between my teeth,
When I glanced into my castaway timeless gothic
    mirror
I almost hung my head
To cry.

I think I’m going crazy,
I never land a continuous job,
People claim I’m lazy.
After I’ve been there nearly a year
The companies always shut their doors
And stop.

I honestly think I’m going crazy.
When I drive down the road
The world before me appears all dark
And cold,
As the scene surrounding me turns hazy.

I sincerely think I’m going crazy,
So now I’ll hang my head
And cry.
I can’t figure out why everybody
Seems so shady.
I take a deep breath
And sigh.

I think I’m going crazy,
No,
I am convinced it might be really true;
As I walk down Main Street,
People stare hard when I talk to myself,
Like they believe I’ve come unglued.

When I carry my tent
And my pad,
You see,
I’m glad it's only me.
I spend my days pretending to read
Inside the local library,
Or at the park in the cool shade
Laying out
Underneath the old live oak tree.

 

 

 

  

SUCH A DAY IN MY LIFE

Out roaming the hills
And wide-open fields,
Going to make my way
On mother nature’s bountiful yields.
Behind me looms this imposing feeling
Of G-men stumbling around on my trail.
Lo,
Such a fabulous story
Do I now  have to tell!

A huge beautiful buck suddenly appears,
So I raise my bow,
Drawing my string as he gently walks forward
Seemingly without any fears.
I release the string,
My arrow flies while that winning sensation
Inside my heart cheers.

That magnificent form melts into a heap.
I sit motionlessly with nary a sighing breath
Nor a single peep.
I hear nothing,
So I ease down the tree,
Making my way forward.

I skin out the feet,
The legs,
The body,
And the head,
While backwards upon my hands
I allow that freshly shorn skin to drape
With nary a single nick upon the horns,
Nor the head
Or the cape.

I gut the carcass,
Spearing the tongue,
The heart,
The liver,
And the kidneys
With a freshly cut oak stick
Right from the start.

Then I chop the forehams,
The rear hams,
The ribs,
And the neck
In a single whack.
All of this luscious meat
And the cape
I wrap up in cloth
To form a pack,
Tying it
And slinging it
O’er my left shoulder
Upon my back.

The sheriff was hot after me
Following along with his hound dogs,
But I held him at bay
By tossing ready-made meat chunks behind fallen
    logs,
Spiked with clear glass shards
Making his dogs remain.

I,
For certain,
With a wink
And a nod,
Now dutifully completed
My family-assigned job.

If that poor possum sheriff only knew,
I,
So skillfully was riding far away
From this night-time combat scene,
With a quiet trolling motor
In a jon-boat style of canoe. 

 

 

 

 

READ

Read,
Read a poem,
Read it out loud,
Read an alluring one
To carry you the entire day long!

Read one about the birds
And the bees,
The elegant flowers
And the trees.
Don’t waste time thinking
Of what people might say,
Just read a poem,
Allowing the magic flow to have its own way.

Write,
Type those words,
Feel the enrapturing  flow,
View the brilliant colors of those fantasia mill
    pond birds.

Come to know guarded secrets,
Those timeless sources of great debate,
The pleasures in simple creekside dreams
As you walk through the poet’s park
By Pawley’s Island’s pearly gate.

Pause at the magnificent mansion ruins
And the marble effigies of creative talent’s eternal
    goddesses,
As you amble through endless majestic gardens of  
    flowers
And the kaleidoscopic blossoming tunnel passages

Don’t waste time
Worrying about what the neighbors might think,
Just pull out an ipad and commence to type,
Read and sing,
While jettisoning any hype.
Read of all that is pleasant,
While you dream of doing your destined thing.

Take a bit of time,
Walk down town,
Any sunny day would be fine,
Smile,
Please don’t frown.

Don’t waste precious time
Worrying about what all the people might say,
Pause by All Saint’s church graveyard
In the new rising sunshine
As the live oak leaves gently sway;
Have a folding cup full of La Belle Amie’s good
     red muscadine!
Just read,
Read an elegant poem.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

If you expect to succeed as a writer, rudeness should be the second-to-least of your concerns. The least of all should be polite society and what it expects. If you intend to write as truthfully as you can, your days as a member of polite society are numbered, anyway.
 
—Stephen King, On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft

___________________

—Medusa, welcoming H.L. Dowless back to the Kitchen today with his fine poetry!

 

 

 

 H.L. Dowless

A reminder that
Ripe Area: The Art of
Native Plants Festival takes place
in Placerville today, with a
poetry presentation by Lara Gularte;
and the Petaluma Poetry Walk
takes place in Petaluma today
from 11am-8pm.
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!

 

 Ophidophilia

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Snapshots

 —Poetry and Original Art by Kushal Poddar,
Kolkata, W. Bengal, India

 

 

PADDLING

The bicycle's wheels wipe out
the chalk-line lanes.
Now, a city exists. Now, it is a bed
reciprocating with a monitor
quite quiet. The night looks dead.

A pack growls and barks at
another in the smog. This bicycle,
never repainted because we
do not do those here, had carried
you on its rod when your father
used to paddle, and then you on
its seat so hard that you recall
the metal rails after the last train
running away with someone
who should have stayed.

Nothing does. The dogs tear silence.
Your bones ache. The shanties glisten
underneath the streetlights.

 

 

 

 

ZEROES

You open your translucent umbrella.
The great men fall, drop one by one,
heavy and weightless, flash and prepared.
The neons burn. The buildings bloom
the blossoms of light.

You hear the thud, see the bodies.
The great men fall from the above.
You shout  "We are all skeletons within."

The pavement, cracked, wet, murmurs,
"No. We are the constellation of Zeroes.”

 

 

 

 

The news of an orange shark found in Costa Rica triggered a poem and a drawing just now and I submit those for you.

 

THE ORANGE SHARK

The dusky boy saw the orange shark
first and ran to his buddies.
Their faith in his words sail
for an ocean of loss; only the waves
of laughter crashed in the ears.

The crazy man of his village says
that the hue happens when some
gene goes rogue in a chain, breaks free.
He says that another orange creature
was seen near the coast of Costa Rica.

The boy spends his evenings waiting
for another glimpse. Moon ripples
in the mud, amidst the the stones.
Silence lies and wither away; all its
jelly dries until nothing but the shapes
of its tentacles remain on the sand.
Somewhere below a dream swims around,
preys on smaller dreams and shadows.

 

 

 

A FLASH-FLOOD SNAPSHOT

Between three walls we huddle.
The cloud-burst births a flash-flood.
One woman and her ward take selfies
with the growling water as their mise-en-scène.

We see some hawks and river gulls.
The crows emerge later. One rat's
bloated body visits the stairs. It drifts
a bit and hits back again and again.

In one of the photos, snapped because
the phone is programmed to capture
anything that stirs, the child wearing
the apparels of an adult and her guardian
in a child's are in slightly pixelated frame
with the vermin not here and here at once.

 

 

 

 

DEATH HAS QUITE LARGE HANDS

You have quite large hands,
I tell Death. They radiate and emit
stone-warmth of the summer.
I see no heartline, not any lifeline.
My hand holding one of his
shows both; one line looks like
an orbit of a fallen star, the other
that of a comet. 

The night's fragrant firmament
burns distant coal-fires, lets me
know that the constellation of lives
exist. One fox brushes me and runs past.
From the river the mast of an eighteenth-
century ship rises to highlight
the changing weather. I release
his hands. Death returns to his
nocturnal gardening. A slug dies
beneath my careless feet.

 

 

 

 

FORETOLD

The dead bird conjures quite a gathering.
We skirt the screaming murder scene.
City eats us.
The dead bird
and its kin who inspect the grass,
leaves, rotten fruits, half-eaten
biscuits to find the cause of death
and stay ahead remain until
the evening when city vomits is back.
We stroll down the lone and yellow
dusty fields between the main road
and the housing rows awash with
low light and whistling wind.
We see the scene again.
The unresolved murder and a death
no one accepts although everything born dies.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Concentrate on what you want to say to yourself and your friends. Follow your inner moonlight; don't hide the madness. You say what you want to say when you don't care who's listening.

―Allen Ginsberg

____________________

—Medusa, welcoming Kushal Poddar back to the Kitchen and thanking him for his fine poetry and artwork.

 

 

 

Earth has no sorrow that Earth cannot heal~

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that the
Dancing Poetry Festival
takes place in Kensington
today, 12-5pm;
Sacramento Poetry Alliance
meets in Sacramento
 at 4pm, featuring
John Johnson and Marjorie Stein;
and Los Escritores Del Nuevo Sol
releases its new anthology at
Sacramento Poetry Center, 6pm.
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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fooling With Words

 —Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham
Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down for 

Form Fiddlers' Friday, with poetry by
Nolcha Fox, Lynn White, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Joyce Odam and Caschwa

 

 

THE NEW RESCUE

She’s a pest, leaping to greet
me, grabbing with gape-toothy
grin. A grown dog knows better,
he’s icon of calm.

Her rapturous rowdy brings
out the old uncle in him.
He lets her beat him up, and
then he stares her down.

They find room for each other
on the dog-hairy futon
once occupied by the cat.
It used to be mine.

 

 

 

 

IT SHALL BE

What told me “It shall be Shelbee?”
My dog needs a partner for play.
A homeless pup begged “Please take me.”
What told me “It shall be Shelbee?”
This pup who was found as a stray—
just look at her bright eyed esprit
that told me it shall be Shelbee.
My dog has a partner for play.

 

 

 

 

PINE BRIGADE
    along the El Dorado Trail

A small army of non-alien beings
with tiny limbs the length or height
of their bodies—survivors
of the regime’s slaughter & burn
campaign in the name of fire safety—
they’re rank on rank now,
sworn to take back their rightful
home, their birthplace from pine-nuts
fallen from above.
They know the lie of the land.
And they’re going to win this war.

 

 

 

 

THE ART OF RACING IN THE RAIN

House, Bridge, Fountain, Gate
Nests, Eggs, and Nestlings
This Day
Pity the Beautiful
Delights & Shadows
Picnic, Lightning
The Making of a Poem
Hungry Ghosts
Fooling with Words
Above the River

 

 

 

 

MAILBOX & STONE

I count my steps by crunch of gravel.
No one knows the heart living inside a stone
or what awaits me at the bottom.
A message in the mailbox illuminates my step,


my breath as I was instructed


is boxed for opening & closing & between.


Then comes the return which is harder.


No one will see me come & go in the dark


as the stones give witness.


After “Stone” by Immanuel Mifsud, translated
from Maltese by Ruth Ward

_______________

IMAGINATION LIES OR FLIES

One white dove, where I’ve seen
a flock of iridescent gray pigeons circling
as if homing-in on gray pavement
of a car lot where a tall man
is fidgeting with a small aperture
on a broken-down trailer.
A single white dove is in flight today.  
I take this as the bird of peace,
our hope for the future,
released from dark confines to free sky
before it’s called back home.

 

 

 

 

Today’s LittleNip:

WINCO PARKING LOT
—Taylor Graham

New dog’s transfixed watching wild geese thru
    glass.
Wild old dog’s been-there watched-that,
learned to leave them alone.

______________________

 

Taylor Graham is having fun with her new rescue dog, Otis's new pal, Shelby, and TG has written about them this week—thanks, TG, and thanks for the photos, too!

Forms she has used today include the Kimo (“WinCo Parking Lot”); a Triolet (“It Shall Be”); two Response Poems to our Tuesday Seed of the Week (“Pine Brigade”; “Imagination Lies or Flies”); a Dodoitsu chain (“The New Rescue”); a Book Spine Poem (“The Art of Racing in the Rain”); and a Borrow-&-Give-Back (“Mailbox & Stone”). The Book Spine Poem and the Borrow-&-Give-Back were two of last week’s Triple-F Challenges.

In case you missed my correction yesterday, the Tuesday Seed of the Week needs to be  cooler mornings, longer nights, not shorter ones. Argh.

In El Dorado County poetry this week, the Ripe Area: The Art of Native Plants Festival takes place this Sunday at Wakamatsu Farm in Placerville, with a poetry presentation by Lara Gularte; and on Thursday, Lara will present her “Writing Words to Light the Way” workshop in El Dorado Hills, 5:30pm. For info about EDC’s regular workshops, scroll down to Medusa’s Kitchen’s http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html/. For more news about such events and about EDC poetry—past (photos!) and future—see Taylor Graham’s Western Slope El Dorado Poetry on Facebook at www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry/. Or see Lara Gularte’s Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/groups/382234029968077/. And you can always click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html). Poetry is Gold in El Dorado County!  
 
And now it’s time for…     

 
FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY!  

 

It’s time for more contributions from Form Fiddlers, in addition to those sent to us by Taylor Graham! Each Friday, there will be poems posted here from our readers using forms—either ones which were sent to Medusa during the previous week, or whatever else floats through the Kitchen and the perpetually stoned mind of Medusa. If these instructions are vague, it's because they're meant to be. Just fiddle around with some challenges—  Whaddaya got to lose… ? If you send ‘em, I’ll post ‘em! (See Medusa’s Form Finder at the end of this post for resources and for links to poetry terms used in today’s post.)


Check out our recently-refurbed page at the top of Medusa’s Kitchen called, “FORMS! OMG!!!” which expresses some of my (take ‘em or leave 'em) opinions about the use of forms in poetry writing, as well as listing some more resources to help you navigate through Form Quicksand and other ways of poetry. Got any more resources to add to our list? Send them to kathykieth@hotmail.com for the benefit of all man/woman/poetkind!

* * *

 

 

 Last Week’s Ekphrastic Photo

Poets who sent responses to last week’s Ekphrastic photo were Nolcha Fox, Lynn White, and Stephen Kingsnorth:


LETTUCE, PLEASE
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

Lettuce have summer
with sun brightly shining
and hot to enjoy one
more splash in the pool.

Lettuce have salad
that’s fresh from the market,
before it’s trucked in here
from two states away.

* * *

AT THE HEART OF THINGS
—Lynn White, Blaenau Ffestiniog, North Wales


She felt as hard-headed
and multi-layered as a cabbage,
layer after layer
reaching into depths
unknown even to everyone,
even herself.

She began to peel off the outer leaves
to find what lay hidden beneath,
but it looked much the same
as the outer leaf,
a little less battered and crinkled
but fundamentally the same
especially through dark glasses.

Now she’s ready for the next layer.
Perhaps there’ll be a drop of water
shining full of light
and she’ll really need
the dark glasses then.

But she thinks it may be something darker,
the leavings of some hidden creature
lying between the layers.
And another layer reveals the holes
made by a sleepy caterpillar
and its leavings.

If she peels off layer after layer
she knows she’ll get to the heart,
where she'll put the pieces together,
make sense of the cabbage
and come to see the brightness
at her heart..

* * *

PITCH FOR PATCH
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

With sunshades framed in green I see—
what else would cabbage wear indeed—
but leave these leaves untanned for they
did photosynthesis in field,
and skin unscreened degenerates.

Is green for envy, or naïve,
environmental, no, for sure
unless to mock hypocrisy,
a change in climate of debate,
from hate for those who disagree.

Could by this pool sprout brassicas—
where’s broccoli, kale, cauliflower—
except those lazing without sight.
A towel-booked space instead of bed,
what factor would this patch doll wear?

But manage damage at its core,
where tanning hides is leather work,
a velum inked, though not tattoos.
More natural, as flit by, leaves,
egg caterpillars, cabbage whites.

I leave the sun-fried spectacles,
ingredients for bubble, squeak,
a British dish for leftovers;
rare dish for Burns of turnip, swede,
exotic rocket garnish, topped.

No rhyme or reason to this scene,
which leads to wordplay in my mind;
computing Babbage having fun,
those Savage actors everywhere—
but that must mean my package done.

* * *

Some of you read on Tuesday that master poet Joyce Odam passed away last Sunday night. Here is a poem of hers in a form which she has outlined below the poem. Suddenly death comes in—

 

 

 

KOMM, SÜSSER TOD

—Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA



 

Suddenly death comes in—


sets up his music stand and begins


to play his tiny violin.



 

Death, I knew you were vain,


but talented, too? The hours wane;


your music sounds like winter rain—

 



like little drops of notes


that turn into little ferry boats


on which my life serenely floats.



 

Oh! I think I see shore.


I feel like I’ve seen all this before.


I am so sleepy. Play some more.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/8/11)


Mono Rhyme:
A poem, or section of a poem, in which
all the rhymes have the same end rhyme.

Triplet / Tercet:  
A three-line stanza, or poem, rhyming aaa.

Mono-Rhymed Syllabics:
Syllables:  698    698    698   etc.   
Rhymed:  aaa     bbb    ccc    etc.

* * *

Here are two Haibun from Caschwa (Carl Schwartz):

 

BOOMER CALCULUS
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

Already 4 more generations have
come along since my birth, and it’s
time to name yet another. Should
the next be Differential or Integral?
Now that our Pillars of Democracy
show major cracks and faults, many
social restraints are in place keeping
us from roaring like in the ’20’s, or
being gay like in the ’90’s. We’ll need
some novel concepts that won’t offend
anybody, sounds favorable or positive,
and are readily understandable for those
of us who are not top-notch scholars.
Try clips borrowed from comic books?

Let he who does not
have a calculator throw
the very first stone

* * *

CLUELESS GPS
—Caschwa

driving my car today going to
an eatery I had visited many
times before, but this time traffic
denied me access to my usual
route, and so I was compelled to
travel in a path of concentric
circles, getting closer, but not
assured of ever getting there.

going down the drain
a rather wasteful process
that leaves one stranded

* * *

Carl also sent a List poem:

 

 

 

RX WARNING LABELS
—Caschwa

Makes you ugly
Too expensive
Saps energy
Tastes awful
Ruins your social life
Like a car out of warranty
Fumbles your best basses
Derails your train
Locks you out of your car
Robs you of good dreams
Cuts your kite string
Sabotages your parachute
Lowers your earnings bracket
Seats a giant in front of you at the movies
Spits in your popcorn
Names you as foster parent for a colony of fire ants

* * *

A First-Letter Acrostic:

 

 

 

FRUITFUL
—Caschwa

Apple
Cider
Coolers
Easily
Negotiate
The
Ultimate
Answer
To
Everything
Take
Hearty
Eccentric
Portions
Or
Sips
It
Tastes
Inviting
Very
Edible

* * *

This is a poem that is a combination EIEIO and First-Word Acrostic. Carl devised this form, Carl’s Crazy Quilt, which is several different forms used to treat the same subject:

 

 

 

HOPEFUL
—Caschwa

Elizabeth graduated high school with honors, but
is struggling to choose the perfect college
enrolled at one but she didn’t make the cut
in time, which has really put her on edge
Oxford then offered her a spot without the pledge

* * *

And a Haiku:

 

 

 

THE ULTIMATE DARE
—Caschwa

“Guns Don’t Kill People”
try waving that flag over
war veterans’ graves

__________________

Many thanks to today’s writers for their lively contributions! Wouldn’t you like to join them? All you have to do is send poetry—forms or not—and/or photos and artwork to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post work from all over the world, including that which was previously-published. Just remember: the snakes of Medusa are always hungry!

__________________

TRIPLE-F CHALLENGES!

See what you can make of these challenges, and send your results to kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.)  Speaking of short forms, how about a Dixdeux (dee-DUH, ten-two):

•••Dixdeux: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/dixdeux

•••AND/OR something else with ten, the Dizain:

•••Dizain: https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/dizain-poetic-form

•••AND/OR maybe a Tribute Poem:

•••Tribute Poem: https://allpoetry.com/poems/about/Tribute

•••See also the bottom of this post for another challenge, this one an Ekphrastic one.

•••And don’t forget each Tuesday Seed of the Week! This week it’s “Cooler mornings, longer nights”.

____________________

MEDUSA’S FORM FINDER: Links to poetry terms mentioned today:

•••Acrostic Poem types: https://studybay.com/blog/how-to-write-an-acrostic-poem
•••Book Spine Poem: law.marquette.edu/facultyblog/2020/04/national-poetry-month-create-book-spine-poetry
•••Borrow-&-Give-Back: Take someone else's poem, write it out then remove even-numbered lines and write your own in their place; then remove odd-numbered lines and write your own.
•••Carl’s Crazy Quilt (devised by Carl Schwartz): several different forms used to treat the same subject; see medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2020/11/thanksgiven-and-many-more-in-return.html
•••Dixdeux: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/dixdeux
•••Dizain: https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/dizain-poetic-form
•••Dodoitsu: www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/dodoitsu-poetic-forms
•••EIO (or EIEIO) (devised by Carol Louise Moon): a five-line poem where the ends of lines rhyme in the scheme of A,B,A,B,B. The beginning words of each line begin with E,I,E,I,O.
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••Haibun: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/haibun-poems-poetic-form
•••Haiku:  AND/OR www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/haiku/haiku.html
•••List Poem: clpe.org.uk/poetryline/poeticforms/list-poem
•••Response Poem: creativetalentsunleashed.com/2015/11/18/writing-tip-response-poems
•••Tribute Poem: https://allpoetry.com/poems/about/Tribute
•••Tuesday Seed of the Week: a prompt listed in Medusa’s Kitchen every Tuesday; poems may be any shape or size, form or no form. No deadlines; past ones are listed at http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/calliopes-closet.html/. Send results to kathykieth#hotmail.com/.

__________________

—Medusa

 

 

 Today's Ekphrastic Challenge!

 
 Make what you can of today's
picture, and send your poetic results to
kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.)

* * *

—Artwork Courtesy of Public Domain

 
 
 
 
 

A reminder that the
Fran Herndon & Jack Spicer Centennial
begins today in the Bay Area.
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!

 

LittleSnake is visited by the muse~