Grim Reaper At Work

 —Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,
Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down to
Form Fiddlers’ Friday, with Poetry by
Nolcha fox, Stephen Kingsnorth, Caschwa,
Christina Chin, and Uchechukwu Onyedikam

 

 

FOX CRY

What’s the wailing about? he wants to know.
However can words fill a scream gut-wrenched?

From down our gravel drive, a scream. Gut-wrench
as if gravel being ripped from bedrock.

Inside our gate, a heap of fox-den rock.
Earth-heave seismic waves—or is it traffic?

On a curve of two-lane, speeding traffic,
Gray Fox kit welded onto centerline.

Fox-nose splits headwind off the centerline,
ears pricked for flight, flank pressed into blacktop.

Vixen howls out her gut against blacktop,
against traffic that just keeps on wheeling.

As trucks and SUVs keep on wheeling
she wails for a justice that does not know.

 

 

 

 

THE LOSS OF EDEN

The Harvest Moon’s a sliver, a finger-
nail paring, a curved incision
on the night sky. It’s too dark to see
familiar landscape, roads cut into ridges,
half of a hill leveled for house
and garage. Headlights flash & gone
aimed for somewhere else—
freeway, interchange, cities that used
to be groves and meadow grazed
by wild creatures. It’s almost
Halloween, but the Grim Reaper
has been at it all year long, harvesting
species, in all the phases of moon.

 

 

 

 

WHAT’S THE COST?

The Haunted Forest poster
Grim Reaper beckons at edge
of highway, this accident-
disposed junction,
traffic speeding by....

I glimpse past the gate—
peaceful forest beckons
living tree by tree.

 

 

 

 

HAUNTED   

They found the cabin solid, the sink rusty,
a toilet one wouldn’t want to use;
crack in a windowpane, door that wouldn’t
shut tight. The four-square space fit
for storage. Decades of binders—financial
deals long settled, old letters, photos
of ancestors gone, antiquated camping gear
that might serve in an emergency.
Ground squirrels moved under floorboards
and something kept shredding papers
for a nest. What’s spookier than skittering
feet on creaking wood, chill whistle
of October wind through cracked glass
and threshold, the haunting of documents
ripped by rodent teeth, a dissected past?
The old pair walked away.

 

 

 

 

RR TRACK WITH DOG

Her nose low, she moves at a brisk trot
stop! something worth sniffing minutely
something my human eyes can’t see
a black tent, someone’s homeless camp
in a dark stringer of oak and pine
brown towhee in a bush
corrugated metal pipe in low meadow
my dog alerts wild scent from a distance
is this where fox has her den?
madia still in bloom after a frosty night
what my dog grabs off the ground
a thing I couldn’t see or smell
it crunches in her jaws
small bone I grab out of her mouth
in the deep green cutoff,
blackberries once tempting
what’s left of berries now shriveled
fresh horse-apples signal autumn
cool enough to saddle up for a ride.

 

 

 

 

WHEN THE OWL CALLS

This morning in dark of a rainy dawn,
while my phone app on the back deck
listens for birdsong, I switch on a video
of owl sounds. Shrieks, whinnies, hoots –
spooky as Halloween—
and Shelby’s on the spot, receptor ears
at full pitch, my puppy going nuts.
Is the taloned night-hunter
about to descend? Owl calls must trigger
some madeleine response. It isn’t fear.
She’s trying to climb into my laptop,
a creature on the edge of wild.
And Otis? He knows the wild firsthand,
from birth. He doesn’t wake from
napping on the carpet, conserving energy
for this morning’s training in the rain.

_______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

CINDY THE MAGICIAN
—Taylor Graham

It’s just plain magic
when the dog goes crazy wild,
she simply says “aus!”
and he turns into the soul
of civility and peace.

_______________________

Taylor Graham says she “went nuts” with Halloween photos, and I say we’re all the better for it! This is such a colorful, fun season. Our thanks to Taylor Graham for the poems and photos today.

Forms TG has used this week include a Duplex (“Fox Cry”); a List Poem (“RR Track with Dog”); a Tanka that is also a Response to our Tuesday Seed of the Week, Magicians I Have Known (“Cindy the Magician”); a Boketto (“What's the Cost?”); and a Word-Can Poem that is also a Response to another Tuesday Seed of the Week, The Owl Who Waits  (“When the Owl Calls”). Her poem, “Haunted” has a reference to our current Seed of the Week, Skittering Through the Woods. The Boketto and the Duplex were two of last week’s Triple-F Challenges.

In El Dorado County poetry this week, it’s not too late to sign up for another Capturing Wakamatsu workshop at Wakamatsu Farm in Placerville this Sunday morning, led by Taylor Graham and Katy Brown. Also, Lara Gularte and Sue Norman are facilitating on-going Veterans’ Voices workshops in South Lake Tahoe and Placerville. And 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/artwork were Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth, and Caschwa:


Ooooooo, BABY
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

Baby wants to run away.
Her food is soft and runny.
She’s tired of soggy diapers
and the smell of clingy poo.
When kids descend upon the house
to grab a bunch of candy,
she follows them on walker
dressed like someone
else’s granny.

* * *

FRAME UP?
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Here framed the generation gap,
though not contrasting photographs,
but composite, that wraps it up
with cosy cardy, buttoned up,   
and spectacle of glasses chain;
this chubby stance of walking frame.

Both chasing daisies in their way—
the young for chains in meadow play,
or ’mongst the stones in cemetery,
while granny plotting underground,
and planning sod’s lore cover up—
so push those very flowers up.

There layabouts from babes to old
combined for some in seventh age—
see some seem old before their time.
Has scene been framed, a set up cast
as advert for that tubular,
for could she lift it in her stride?

I contemplate—what makes her aged—
is it the optics, stye of frame
that never would be faced by child?
Anomalies unsettle us,
dependent time continuum—
though I must go now, change the clocks.

* * *

WHO DONE IT?
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

Okay, who put these silly reading glasses
on my face when I specifically requested
Red Baron fighter pilot goggles?

* * *

Here is an Inverted Terza Rima from Joyce Odam’s archives; she first discovered the form in Poets’ Forum Magazine:

 

 

 

WHITE ROSE, RED ROSE
—Joyce Odam

Brush touches canvas. Something knows,  
or seems to know, what must evolve;
the mind envisioning a rose.

The artist knows what will involve          
the vision and selects pure white,
proceeding on this firm resolve.

Brush tries to bring the rose to life,            
turns shape and color to a smear,
turns early effort to a blight.
                                                             
No brush nor artist can be seer.                  
The rose itself wants to be red
The finished painting makes it clear:

Surely the canvas is to blame.                 
The white rose, sacrificed, and bled,
gives up its purity.  It wanted fame.    


Poets Forum Magazine, Inverted Terza Rima
Rhymed:   aba   cac   dcd   ede   fef


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/19/19)

* * *

Here are some Tan-Renga for the sesson from Christina Chin (Malaysia) and Uchechukwu Onyedikam (Lagos, Nigeria):

 

 

 

MIST-EERIE
—Christina Chin (plain text) and
Uchechukwu Onyedikam (italics)


ascending into dawn
hissing through the garden
a barn owl
its shadow stitches
the mouth of the dead

    ~ ~ ~

an interior—
dim lanterns
surrounding pangolins
armoured backs carve
runes in the dark

    ~ ~ ~   

at the doorstep
without announcement
the doorbell rings 
a striking thing—
a swan 


* * *

Here is a Haiku from Carl Schwartz (Caschwa):

 

 

 

POINT TO PONDER
—Caschwa

What happens when the
Slovak Orchestra must play
up-tempo pieces?

* * *

Here is Carl’s Extended Sonnet:

 

 

 

THE RISE OF PETTY
—Caschwa

It’s Sunday, time to wear the finest suit
at church must sit in awe and do as told
sure, heard it all before, they are that old
pretending that they really give a hoot
When services are over, all will leave
the steep and looming gable far behind
their footsteps showing shoes with gleaming shine
the pinnacle of what they have achieved

A restaurant awaits this crowd with glee
shepherd with herd of sheep that cannot think
forbidden fruit, temptation to the brink
orders entered one by one, key by key
The shepherd (either gender) states his case,
his taste for tea is zero, nothing suits
the flock stays silent, their opinion moot
before they can think, the thought is erased
None in the flock can have second helpings
unless almighty shepherd holds thumbs up
except when empty swallows water cup
a refill is brought in by angel wings

It’s Monday, the laundry calls out for help
get out of bed and rush into some clothes
silence ill curses and stifle those oaths
dirt and stains wait like a forest of kelp

* * *

And SOME kinda form from Carl (abab/cdcd/efef). Extra credit if you get which form it is:

 

 

 

SHORTCOMINGS
—Caschwa

Can’t speak any French
or swim like a fish
judge without a bench
meal without a dish

new year’s resolutions
an exercise in pain
the problem, not the solution
the deficit, not the gain

winning cards in penny poker
casino style ups the betting
no payout for just a joker
richer we will not be getting

__________________

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.)  First write a Terza RIma:

•••Terza Rima: https://poemanalysis.com/poetic-form/terza-rima

•••AND/OR then try one of Joyce’s Inverted Terza Rimas:

•••Inverted Terza Rima: aba   cac   dcd   ede   fef

•••AND/OR Abracadabra! Isn’t that a poetry form? Thanks to Joyce Odam, we have the Abracadabra for Halloween:

•••Abracadabra (devised by Joyce Odam): eleven lines, eleven syllables, single stanza; rhymed: a b c a x a x a b c a

•••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 “Skittering Through the Woods”.

____________________

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

•••Abracadabra (devised by Joyce Odam): eleven lines, eleven syllables, single stanza; rhymed: a b c a x a x a b c a
•••Boketto: poeticbloomings2.wordpress.com2016/05/11/inform-poets-boketto
•••Duplex: www.readpoetry.com/try-this-trio-3-poetic-forms-to-push-your-writing
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••Haiku: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/haiku-or-hokku AND/OR www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/haiku/haiku.html
•••Inverted Terza Rima: aba   cac   dcd   ede   fef
•••Response Poem: creativetalentsunleashed.com/2015/11/18/writing-tip-response-poems
•••Tanka: poets.org/glossary/tanka
•••Tan-Renga: https://www.graceguts.com/essays/an-introduction-to-tan-renga
•••Terza Rima: https://poemanalysis.com/poetic-form/terza-rima
•••(Inverted Terza Rima): aba   cac   dcd   ede   fef
•••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/.
•••Word-Can Poem: putting random words on slips of paper into a can, then drawing out a few and making a poem out of them

__________________

—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 Frannie Dresser
six-week Zoom workshop,
“Writin’ With Critters”
starts today at 10am.
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!

 

 

 

 

Things Going Bump Under Your Bed

 —Poetry by Kathy Kieth, Diamond Springs, CA
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

GHOSTS DON’T EXIST
 
even though there is a big one living
under the bed: sleeping all day
 
down there between the dust motes
and the candy wrappers: flipping
 
the corners of his quilt out
of boredom in late afternoon: lurking
 
just beyond the brave beam
of his flashlight. . .  Of course ghosts
 
don't exist: it says so in musty
library books: in the tall legs
 
of grown-ups: in windy sunshine
and kids that tease: in the bland drone
 
of the TV flickering blue in the next
room after he goes to bed. . .  Of course
 
ghosts don't exist: all that nightly
grunting and rustling is just
 
wind from the open window: thump
of his heart keeping time in
 
the dark: ragged edge of a dream
he can't ever quite shake free. . .

 

 

 

 

GHOSTS AND CHILDREN
 
own Halloween, sandwiched as they are
between the quick and the dead.  Not quite
jelled, they flap like see-through bats between
Here and There, like holograms in some
elsewhere-kind of theme park, where they roller-
coaster/bumper car/ferris wheel all day, slipping
 
back and forth through reality cracks to bring us
bits of news and fresh pieces of other-worldly
pie.  Just the other day, I caught one hanging
in my closet; but when I got out the broom, she
flipped back into her bed, pretending again to be
a mere child. . .
 
We earthenware adults had better stand aside,
especially on All Hallows’ Eve, or these spritely
creatures will bump right through us. . .

 

 

 

 

A GHOST OF A RAG
 
stirs in an old window: threadbare
shreds of a once-curtain wave
at the will of the dusty wind: flutter
 
in helplessness: moths with aging
wings waver and flounder, no longer
sure of their purpose: stretch out
 
to bone-dry fields of saffron straw:
reach for withered daffodils once
planted by newlywed hands. . . Ghosts
 
of graying lace still fly, though: still
toss and turn all night, dreaming
of days of being hemmed and pressed:
 
still quiver in purple dusk-wind, as
the last daffodils nod there under
a crumbling window: their pale faces
 
glowing in the moonlight. . .

 

 

 

 

GHOST SHIPS
 
Sea-wives wait for their fishermen.
Small lamplights tat the shoreline like
lace made of flickering fireflies
darning the unraveling waves.
 
Small lamplights tat the shoreline like
silhouette ghost ships in fog.  Still
darning the unraveling waves,
glittery eyes watch for real sails, but see
 
silhouette ghost ships in fog.  Still
the women reach for their husbands, as
glittery eyes watch for real sails, but see
no sign of relief from this pain.
 
The women reach for their husbands,
each day embroidered with fear,
no sign of relief from this pain.
Dread is the seam of a sea life.
 
Sea-wives wait for their fishermen—
lace made of flickering fireflies.
Dread is the seam of a sea life,
each day embroidered with fear.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

The ghosts of things that never happened are worse than the ghosts of things that did.

—L.M. Montgomery, Emily’s Quest

_____________________

—Medusa (your favorite hag)

 

 

 

 Happy Halloween!

 

 

 

 

 

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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Abracadabra!

 —Poetry by Royal Rhodes, Central OH
—Public Domain Illustrations Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

A MAGICIAN OF SURREALISTIC ANIMALS

He made the alphabet of animals surreal,
unlike the ilk that sailed on Noah's Ark.
Brancusi, Ernst, Man Ray, Duchamp would deal
with art of such a brand, a noble lark
demystifying beauty—like his fly
of steel and porcelain—a basin, doves
that served as armchairs, while he sought to try
to make a funhouse with the mirth that loves
to laugh, and not a silent, doleful church.
Working in the Louvre, he saw the stare
of ancient creatures while he felt the lurch
and buck of riding sculpted Apis bare.
He planned a house of brick—a giant head—
whose grand design is now entombed and dead.

 

 

 

 

WORDS OF A MAGICIAN"S SPELL

The magician turned things into tales
to tell our fabled foibles with a bite.
Our modern mode of teaching virtue fails
to let us know our acts are wrong or right.
Forget such lessons, old or modified.
Look deep into a creature's startled eyes,
a dolphin's glance that darkened as it died,
a seagull's wing that flails and fails to prise
itself from oily globs, a starving cat
too weak to eat that once was loved when new
and kittenish, the whale we killed for fat,
the gelding boiled into a pot of glue.
These animals have neither words to say
or need, like us, a word that means "betray".

 

 

 

 

 

CONJURING THE MAGIC OF SLEEP

Beyond the river of stars
I erased myself from the light
and hunted buried clues
to the place where you bedded,
where sleep had promised rest,
a place you had found alone.
Along your sleeping sprawl
flowing linen folds
enclose your legs like clothes
in a hellenistic frieze
and loosely follow lines
of a torso that rose and fell
with each suspenseful breath
like the soul raised in elation,
possessing or leaving the body.
Floating, levitating,
my pivoting, weightless arm
moved—a magician's pass.
I poised my head beside
your ear and whispered phrases:
Let me list the names
of our lost identities.
I will tell such secrets
that every heart reveals
at last, at the end of life.
I know who bears the fault
your dreams of love expired.
Tell me whether you want
to know these hidden things.
But if I speak, remember,
I also will have to disclose
the horror and horrors to come
from a womb of stillborn words.
So grip my hand and ascend
towards that clamorous weeping.

 

 

 

 

 

MAGICIANS OF HEALING

A stroke had slowed, made thick, his tongue
and sent Enlightenment magicians
to attend him, science's patricians,
casting latin words like spells
amidst machines whose sounds have stung
the silence, more than what it tells.

We seek to mint a soothing word,
but language like these stiffened sheets
is dull, unlike the rhythmic beats
of hearts that speak to heart, the hand
that's held when our emotion's blurred,
while life is life and nothing's planned.

A feeding nurse directs him: "Swallow."
His wit returns: "I do prefer
the sparrow," startling us and her.
His history of verbal play,
of puns, conundrums hard to follow,
give a grace no words can say.

This winter ended with that sparrow,
even though the falling snow
continues, making progress slow.
"His eye is on the sparrow." Move
us past our fear, so narrow.
The deepest part of us is love.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don't believe in magic will never find it.

―Roald Dahl

_____________________
 

Our thanks to Royal Rhodes for today’s fine, magical poetry, just ripe for the season! Royal says he has known magicians of art, bringing beauty into being, magicians of education, opening new worlds to students, and magicians of medicine, healing so many of the world's ailments and sorrows. He lives in a small village whose inhabitants daily embody the abracadabra of friendship.

_____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Enchantresses

 Promises, Spells And The Like
—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Photos and Original Art by Joyce Odam

 

 

THOUGHTS FROM THE SEVENTH DAY
OF AUGUST
—Joyce Odam

This I have done :
stared at the sun too long.

Thought the wind in my hair
was mine.

Ached
to be bird.

Welcomed and given the pain
of love.

Looked through the golden eyes
of the summer lion.

Turned into leaves
soon after.

Belonged to nature
as no human should.

Walked through the souls
of the dead.

Worshipped
weeds and flowers.

Practiced the sorcery
of thought.

Knocked
wood.

Destroyed myself
with seven sins.

Danced in the arms
of a shadow.

                  
(prev. pub. in Arx, Nov. 1969;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/21/18; 1/7/25)

 

 

 

Another Time

VESTIGE
—Joyce Odam

I picked up the lamp and it was empty,
wishes scattered all over the ground,
and no Genie.

The lamp was dented and dull,
tossed away as worthless, and I had
no desire to ask for magic again.

I heard a harsh laugh in the distance
and watched a sinuate figure
vanish like smoke in the air.

What do I care? I muttered,
and kicked
the useless lamp back into the gutter.

                                     
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/7/24)

 

 

 

 A Different Place

there is little here
flowers hidden every year
in your tall shadow

    —Robin Gale Odam

After The Prepared Bouquet, 1957, by Rene Magritte

(prev. pub. in Brevities, March 2020) 

 

 

 

 Heart Of A Flower

THE SORCERESS LOVES 

—Joyce Odam

If I say red,
you see red.
Such is the power of my language.

I lean close to you,
let you feel waft of lavender
from my old flowers. You love me.

I read my book of spells,
every night and into the morning.
You never catch on.

I sigh blue at you
and you hold me. I moan
silver . . .   silver . . .   and you weep.

You cling to my gray cliffs of peril
and I create white gulls
to release us into flying.

Look! We are everywhere,
as in
a swirling kaleidoscope of color.

It is your dream, and I have entered it.
A long thin stream of black
cuts under us, and I rescue you.

                                   
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/17/10; 10/29/24)

 

 

 

 Self-Portrait

FRESH WATER AND THE SEA
—Robin Gale Odam
After “Variations on a Theme by H.D.”
by Joyce Odam

One disaster, one bother away,
maybe Chance could save me again.

The ravens would say, rise up to the day.
I write for the Muse to twine the blues
among the hues of gray.

Ace of magic—return of the stranger—
I know the dark hair, the eyes deeper than hurt.

He gives me a clue, a clue, he says, the some-
thing between us—fresh water and the sea—

the something between us, the clue is the clue.
The clue is the vapor, the ravens would say.

And the brackish tears would stain my face,
and as for Chance, the breath of illusion—

the rolling whispers, the eminent span
of the drawn-out quarrel—he’ll do it again. 

 

 

 

 A Touch Of Blues

THE LITTLE SHOP OF MYSTERY
—Joyce Odam

What we sell here is always what you need.
Amulets and calendars; out-dated stones;
jars of rain that still separate into drops.

We have the spool of thread you lost when you
forgot how to sew—in just those colors needed
for the coloring book you never opened.

We have more : pretty little boxes to hold rings,
a perfect leaf that you passed up when you
were looking through a window to find

your old reflection looking back
through you . . . shall I go on?
We have the key for your travel. The map.

The other side of the door. We have
the book you read and lost, the one
with the pages full of truth and photographs.

We have the perfect penmanship of your youth,
a tube of healing for your hands. We always greet you
with recognition—are sad when you must go.

Goodbye. We know you must be off. We have
postcards for this. We have a cat that sleeps
on a chair and dreams prophetic dreams.

The dreams are for sale. The little bell
on the door is made of sunshine.
It tinkles every time someone comes or leaves.

                                                         
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/25/15)

 

 

 

 

 Today’s LittleNip:

I ASK YOU TO TELL MY FORTUNE
—Joyce Odam

Seven, you tell me, being
a seer, and three to round out
to ten should odd or even
rule. You are so serious.
I watch with apprehension
as you turn the cards, even
as I scoff at their power.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/17/10)

 

 

 

At Dusk

_____________________

Our thanks to those two enchantresses, Joyce and Robin Gale Odam, for today’s fine poetry, Robin’s curating, and Joyce’s fine photos. Our Seed of the Week was Magicians I Have Known, and these two poets are, indeed, skillful magicians of poetry!

Our new Seed of the Week is “Skittering Through the Woods”. 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

 

 

 

 Touch
—Photo by Joyce Odam

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!

 

 

 

Magicians I Have Known

 —Image Created by Nolcha Fox

 (with Microsoft Designer)

 * * *

—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorht, 

Claire J. Baker, Caschwa, and Joe Nolan
—Public Domain Visuals Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

MAGIC ACT
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

All the magicians I have known are experts at one trick. They don’t use coins or cards, nor endless streams of scarves. All they use are smoke and mirrors, meant to be distractions. Before I guess their need to harm, the stage goes dark and spooky. When lights come on, the magic’s gone, replaced by knives that pierce my broken heart.

Don’t trust a magician
who asks you to spin
on a wheel of fortune.

 

 

 

 

SLEIGHT KNOWLEDGE
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Here’s merlin swirling overhead,
a smaller falcon, bird of prey,
while ’copter, whirling rotor blades,
the merlin squadron over seas.
Welsh bard and prophet, soon to be
the wizard legend, Arthur’s court;
magicians all in fancy’s flight,
from wand and wind as wander land.

Pendragons, legends of the Celts,
Arthurian by all accounts—
save those where hero of the Welsh—
illusionists—as myths I fear.
Devant they say before my time,
but met each day I practised French;
in front of all he staged his play,
folk mesmerised, what seemed to see.

When trained at London platform, youth,
saw conman with his ‘find the queen’;
as knowing folk, so confident,
fetched wallets from within their coats,
he moved that card, in tromp l’oeil,
so won good cash till crowd caught on,
then left his pitch for somewhere else.

That trickster, blatant, knew his pack,
observant, his diverting skills;
the modus of the conjured move,
for sure we know what logic tells.
Though loving mushrooms in a soup,
I’ve never met the magic kind;
but verse and fellow words, well met,
are best magicians for a broth.

 

 

 

 

THE OWL’S FIELD GUIDE
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

I wonder what field guide
the owl reads, turning
his head full circle
as if to ponder meaning
behind meaning.

Is death
the primary thrust
behind an owl
watching and waiting
on a frozen branch?

I could end here,
but Mary Oliver’s mice
freeze in the owl’s field
and rabbits shiver
under angora-like fur.

This soft night
I want each being to live
wholeheartedly, never be
a stray tidbit in any beak,
fangs, claws, jaws or tusks. 

 

 

 

 

IT SEEMS THAT WAY
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

Magical tricks to confuse my senses
People with recall as keen as a camera
Changing any word into all of its tenses
Musicians with perfect pitch, etcetera

Knowing best answer before question is asked
Memorizing protocols exactly as written
Ready, willing, and able to do what is tasked
Can roar like a lion, or be soft as a kitten

Human metronomes, counting the beats
Function quite well without recipe book
Masterful at stadiums finding their seats
There’s always a fish that is caught on their hook

They appear on game shows and win big prizes
Building fine castles from out of mere sand
Can handle large problems, whatever arises
If you are lucky, they will shake your hand

 

 

 

 

BEHIND THE SCENES
—Caschwa

(The Owl Who Waits)

My little house has no
                fireplace,
so we don’t have all
those friendly chats

Also no
                stairs
anywhere, so gone are
those elaborate entrances

For some reason, no
                windows
in the kitchen or bathroom,
so goodbye to all those
refreshing design ideas
based on daylight

It does have an attached garage,
handy for those times I forget
my car key, or phone, or
something, and no one sees me
walking back and forth retracing
my steps

 

 

 

 

MY ROCKING CHAIR
—Caschwa

When the footrest is down, it rocks,
but Rock’n Roll is not my thing, so
I set it to recline and then it welcomes
other genres of musical expression
such as Classical Masterpieces,
my favorite choice

sound-system volume lowered to allow
sleep to prevail, I am treated to the
concerts of players and conductors
whose skills far exceed mine

the formal study of music may
demand that the student put aside
all they have learned before in order
to have a clean slate to mimic the
masters.

No problem, I just set my recliner to
whatever position seems most
amenable to the music I am playing,
and I will join the orchestra, in a
virtual kind of way, and play along 

 

 

 

 

MASS MEDIA CHANGED THINGS
—Caschwa

 
[In baseball in the United States and Canada, the seventh-inning stretch (also known as the Lucky 7 in Japan and South Korea) is a long-standing tradition that takes place between the halves of the seventh inning of a game. Fans generally stand up and stretch out their arms and legs and sometimes walk around. It is a popular time to get a late-game snack or an alcoholic beverage, as alcohol sales often cease after the last out of the seventh inning.]

Decades ago I used to enjoy listening to broadcaster Vin Scully do the play-by-play announcing of Dodger baseball games. Scully was right there at the game and the focus was
on the teams and the fans in the stadium. Each game, he  would advise us when it was the 7th Inning Stretch, and the organist was on cue to play appropriate sing-along music.

My guess is that the revenue stream generated by the appetites of fans at one ballpark was less than sufficient to post encouraging marketing figures on the big board. So today, those of us watching League Championship Games on TV are not invited to share in the ritual, but instead they just show us additional commercial advertisements.

 

 

 

 

SMIRKY
—Caschwa

A cup of steaming hot, soothing tea
to splash right into your face
Nothing personal
My feelings are the roots of trees
that quietly invade your pipelines

So wipe your face and good luck
with all the plumbing repairs

 

 

 

 

WHY CROWS CAW
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

Crows didn’t always
Caw like that.
They used to have
Sweet trills,
But nobody ever
Listened to them
When they sang like that,

So they started to make
Strange noises—
Scratchy, raspy, squawky sounds—
Some sounds you’d never imagine,
Completely out of bounds
For birds to make—
Annoying us
To death
And now they make
Disgusting noises
With every other breath,
Until they get
Our attention.

 

 

 

 

BECAUSE HIS MOTHER ASKED
—Joe Nolan

It’s only a
Matter of time
Until the urns
Of water
Turn to wine
When God’s light
Shines upon them.

Normally, this
Wouldn’t be so,
That water,
Under God’s light,
Would turn to wine,
But His Mother
Asked Him to act,
Saying, “They have no wine
For their wedding party.
It’s all gone.
Wouldn’t you do something
For them?”
He said,
“Woman, my time
Has not yet come.”

But He did it anyway,
Because He loved his Mother
And because He could.

 

 

 

 

THE EFFECTS OF IMMINENT RETRIBUTION
—Joe Nolan

The holiness was unbearable
When the Reaper
Came to town—
Sack-cloth and ashes were
Worn as evening gowns,
Self-flagellation
Became de riguer,
Make-up disappeared
From the faces
Of ladies-bourgeoisie.

Everyone got in line
To show humility,
Sorting out the garbage piles
For recycling,
Clamoring against climate change
To prove how green they were
And ladies-bourgeoisie
Gave up their furs.

It lasted only
As long as it lasted—
Until the Reaper
Went his way
Off unto another place,
Inspiring it to grace.

The same scenes
Replayed from
Place to place
As the threat of
Imminent retribution
Put everyone in his place.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

MY LAWN
—Joe Nolan
   
It’s all clean,
It’s all straight,
It’s all plain
And level,

Since I mow it
Every week,
Without fail,
Since I have
Retired.

My lawn
Is a symbol of pride
Of how hollow
I am inside.

___________________

Our thanks to today’s contributors, some of whom worked with our Seed of the Week, “Magicians I Have Known”.

Sacramento Poetry Center has pronounced Sacramento Poetry Week 2025 to be a huge success. Tonight they will present Youth Writers from 916 Ink. Check it out! Young people reading!

 

 

 

 

And a note that the deadline for The Al Cortez Memorial Youth Edition of SPC’s New Rivers Chapbook Series and Contest Submissions has been extended to Nov. 15. Info: www.sacpoetrycenter.org/publications-tule-review/.

And hey—Friday is Halloween! Be careful out there!

____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Medusa is getting ready for Halloween!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 A reminder that

Sacramento Poetry Center

will features readers

from 916 Ink tonight.

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!