—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
AT THE SCENE OF A FEATHER LANDING
All that history repeating itself.
An argument, spur of the moment, long time
coming.
And in a public place.
Yada yada yada.
And then a feather
floats down from the sky,
lands between us.
You laugh.
I laugh.
For all I know,
the feather laughs.
Though maybe not the bird that dropped it.
All that history repeating itself.
An argument, spur of the moment, long time
coming.
And in a public place.
Yada yada yada.
And then a feather
floats down from the sky,
lands between us.
You laugh.
I laugh.
For all I know,
the feather laughs.
Though maybe not the bird that dropped it.
FREIGHT TRAIN
First in line at the railway crossing,
waiting for the freight train to go by—
I give each car the name
of someone I know—
Rita, Joe, Paul, Samantha—
then, when I run out
of friends and acquaintances,
I go with the letters
of the alphabet,
and having reached Z
with plenty more of those
cars to come,
I merely count
them off
1-2-3-4
until I enter some kind
of Zen,
no thoughts,
no awareness of my body,
and at the head
of a queue of similarly
enlightened drivers,
as finally, the caboose goes by,
the gate rises
and 1/10 of the population
of a small town
in western Maryland
are all in a blessed state
of calm and clear awareness
cojoined in one
abundant mindset
before reluctantly
moving on.
First in line at the railway crossing,
waiting for the freight train to go by—
I give each car the name
of someone I know—
Rita, Joe, Paul, Samantha—
then, when I run out
of friends and acquaintances,
I go with the letters
of the alphabet,
and having reached Z
with plenty more of those
cars to come,
I merely count
them off
1-2-3-4
until I enter some kind
of Zen,
no thoughts,
no awareness of my body,
and at the head
of a queue of similarly
enlightened drivers,
as finally, the caboose goes by,
the gate rises
and 1/10 of the population
of a small town
in western Maryland
are all in a blessed state
of calm and clear awareness
cojoined in one
abundant mindset
before reluctantly
moving on.
REVELATION
Being able to flop back in this chair,
close my eyes,
imagine myself transported
to a nearby forest,
or distant jungle,
or even a far planet
and in the company
of only those
I choose to be with,
I no longer feel the need
to go from one room to the other.
Being able to flop back in this chair,
close my eyes,
imagine myself transported
to a nearby forest,
or distant jungle,
or even a far planet
and in the company
of only those
I choose to be with,
I no longer feel the need
to go from one room to the other.
OUR DEAD
Strong winds, huge breakers,
booted him out of the sea,
left him flat on his face in a pit of gray sand.
The smaller waves that spread
their way up the shore
may have broken foam around him
but they didn't take him back.
From a distance, Tom thought
him a lump of something inanimate,
a heap of washed-up seaweed
or, if a once living thing,
maybe a leatherback.
But it was a dead man sure enough.
His hair was matted and stinking of salt,
his flesh, green as dune-grass.
One look at the body
and Tom could feel
all the losses in his own life—
frail people on one side,
a limitless ocean on the other.
He called 911 on his cell phone.
The tide was slowly pulling out.
Sandpipers, crabs, leaped upon the leavings.
A pelican, a flock of terns, soared above,
eyes scouring the bobbing surface.
Until the cops, the ambulance arrived,
he could only sit on a rock and watch over
the rotting corpse.
Not one other creature wanted his job.
Strong winds, huge breakers,
booted him out of the sea,
left him flat on his face in a pit of gray sand.
The smaller waves that spread
their way up the shore
may have broken foam around him
but they didn't take him back.
From a distance, Tom thought
him a lump of something inanimate,
a heap of washed-up seaweed
or, if a once living thing,
maybe a leatherback.
But it was a dead man sure enough.
His hair was matted and stinking of salt,
his flesh, green as dune-grass.
One look at the body
and Tom could feel
all the losses in his own life—
frail people on one side,
a limitless ocean on the other.
He called 911 on his cell phone.
The tide was slowly pulling out.
Sandpipers, crabs, leaped upon the leavings.
A pelican, a flock of terns, soared above,
eyes scouring the bobbing surface.
Until the cops, the ambulance arrived,
he could only sit on a rock and watch over
the rotting corpse.
Not one other creature wanted his job.
PREGNANT LAND
In this country
women refuse to give birth,
though they get pregnant often enough.
They just let the thing
grow and grow beyond the nine months,
into nine years if necessary,
or nine lifetimes.
They want the passion,
the ovary explosion,
the growth inside them—
but not the pain
of pushing that thing out,
spilling it on the desert,
tossing it in a trash bag,
strapping it to their back
as another target for
the army or guerrillas
in the hills.
They want to grow round
as hot air balloons,
float off into the battle-free sky.
If only what weighs them down
could lift them up.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
There is poetry as soon as we realize that we possess nothing.
—John Cage
____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to John Grey for today’s fine poetry!
In this country
women refuse to give birth,
though they get pregnant often enough.
They just let the thing
grow and grow beyond the nine months,
into nine years if necessary,
or nine lifetimes.
They want the passion,
the ovary explosion,
the growth inside them—
but not the pain
of pushing that thing out,
spilling it on the desert,
tossing it in a trash bag,
strapping it to their back
as another target for
the army or guerrillas
in the hills.
They want to grow round
as hot air balloons,
float off into the battle-free sky.
If only what weighs them down
could lift them up.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
There is poetry as soon as we realize that we possess nothing.
—John Cage
____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to John Grey for today’s fine poetry!
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!
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!
