Caschwa, Joe Nolan, Sayani Mukherjee,
and Michael H. Brownstein
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joe Nolan
TONIGHT
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
She dons her cloak of feathers,
making sure they’re all in place.
She watches pumpkins’ faces
smile as candles flicker bright.
She knows that things tonight
are never, never what they seem.
Her silhouette disguise to hide
the sharpness of her beak.
She waits for pitter-pattering
of tiny little feet.
Is she owl, or is she witch?
No one will ever know,
except the few unlucky dead,
but they will never speak.
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
She dons her cloak of feathers,
making sure they’re all in place.
She watches pumpkins’ faces
smile as candles flicker bright.
She knows that things tonight
are never, never what they seem.
Her silhouette disguise to hide
the sharpness of her beak.
She waits for pitter-pattering
of tiny little feet.
Is she owl, or is she witch?
No one will ever know,
except the few unlucky dead,
but they will never speak.
OWLNESS
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
I’ve seen more owls on printed page
than ever branch, or barn indeed;
in literature, and children’s tales,
awaiting eyes to read the scene.
With space for waiting—waiting room—
before its zoom down on its prey;
without a prayer that gracious glide,
the slide that causes flap below.
Just long enough, that owl who waits
in contemplation of the flight,
the striking site to execute,
by featherlite the quarry snatched;
no weight until that clutch applied,
fierce claws to pierce, blow breath away—
eclipsing moonlight by its span,
but brief, dark momentary, stark.
’Fore bone, thick fur, bring pellets’ score,
the brood, bare patient, pleads for more.
With nightingale argument brewed,
from Middle English poetry,
for owl peers through its literature—
that page again, owlness debate—
as with the Parliament of Foules;
but reading such will have to wait.
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
I’ve seen more owls on printed page
than ever branch, or barn indeed;
in literature, and children’s tales,
awaiting eyes to read the scene.
With space for waiting—waiting room—
before its zoom down on its prey;
without a prayer that gracious glide,
the slide that causes flap below.
Just long enough, that owl who waits
in contemplation of the flight,
the striking site to execute,
by featherlite the quarry snatched;
no weight until that clutch applied,
fierce claws to pierce, blow breath away—
eclipsing moonlight by its span,
but brief, dark momentary, stark.
’Fore bone, thick fur, bring pellets’ score,
the brood, bare patient, pleads for more.
With nightingale argument brewed,
from Middle English poetry,
for owl peers through its literature—
that page again, owlness debate—
as with the Parliament of Foules;
but reading such will have to wait.
SEIZING THE MOMENT
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
big, wide eyes, rotating head
the owl espies all, living or dead
it sees a Poet’s Lie, a Deer Passed By
not at all a fan, but it scans the Empty Beer Can
ready to swoop and pounce for that scoop or ounce
of nourishing sustenance, no change in its
countenance
a small rodent for lunch, not a blink, just a munch
what will tomorrow bring? how long on this branch
must it cling?
THAT DAY LONG AGO
—Caschwa
Mother Theresa met Brother can you
spare me a dime, and they both spoke
in halting Yiddish, giggling profusely
if you run across them do not laugh at
them or ridicule them, and keep your
dimes in your pocket
TALL HAT HERCULES
—Caschwa
Heard it said that the Olympic Torch
will be lit in grease. They must have
added fry cook to the menu of
competitive events.
—Caschwa
Heard it said that the Olympic Torch
will be lit in grease. They must have
added fry cook to the menu of
competitive events.
THE ZODIAC, ETC.
—Caschwa
Toady’s parody
rhapsody or tragedy
isn’t soda jerk
essential work?
for the filthy rich
and digger of ditch
one size does not fit all
does not measure the rise and fall
of the nation’s economy
any more than astronomy
what percent of our workforce
can order a meal that is full course
pay all their bills and still enjoy frills
take real vacations and bring their relations?
the class of “nice if you can afford it”
does not aim to trickle down usable credit
odds are you’ll never see such people near
perennial bootstraps that spawn a career
IF I KNEW THEN
—Caschwa
Back in the sixties, when I was a fairly high
achiever in my home town junior and senior
high school music program, I was honored by
an invitation to play the baritone horn at the
neighboring Santa Monica School District’s
Stairway to the Stars concert, held at the Santa
Monica Civic Auditorium. One of the featured
pieces for this concert was a Suite by Gustav
Holst, originally scored for strings, but later
arranged to include brass and reeds, etc. Then I
arrived and was seated next to a young girl from
Santa Monica, who was also very adept playing
the baritone horn. We agreed to take turns
playing the “solo” portions on our parts.
Heard today on the
radio that Holst had named
this piece after an
all-girl’s school where he
taught and later sponsored and
supported for years
how could I have been
so dumb??? should have let that girl
play all the solos!
—Caschwa
Back in the sixties, when I was a fairly high
achiever in my home town junior and senior
high school music program, I was honored by
an invitation to play the baritone horn at the
neighboring Santa Monica School District’s
Stairway to the Stars concert, held at the Santa
Monica Civic Auditorium. One of the featured
pieces for this concert was a Suite by Gustav
Holst, originally scored for strings, but later
arranged to include brass and reeds, etc. Then I
arrived and was seated next to a young girl from
Santa Monica, who was also very adept playing
the baritone horn. We agreed to take turns
playing the “solo” portions on our parts.
Heard today on the
radio that Holst had named
this piece after an
all-girl’s school where he
taught and later sponsored and
supported for years
how could I have been
so dumb??? should have let that girl
play all the solos!
FUTURE CAR
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
My little pocket-rocket
Burns daylight from the sun,
Fueled by its battery-roof.
It sprouts wings for fun
When you want fly.
My little pocket-rocket
Has energy to fly
Above the traffic blocks,
For a little while,
Just enough to get you through
To where you want to go
Without waiting,
Desperately waiting,
Wishing you were home,
Already.
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
My little pocket-rocket
Burns daylight from the sun,
Fueled by its battery-roof.
It sprouts wings for fun
When you want fly.
My little pocket-rocket
Has energy to fly
Above the traffic blocks,
For a little while,
Just enough to get you through
To where you want to go
Without waiting,
Desperately waiting,
Wishing you were home,
Already.
PLANETARY SOCIAL POLICY
—Joe Nolan
Oh, my!
“Everything
That doesn’t grow
Is bound to die,”
So said Dylan.
The world
Is just a planet
Spinning by--
Venus, Mars,
Saturn and Jupiter,
Who have no souls alive
To question why.
But we,
In our little bodies
On the surface of this planet
Think a lot
About why,
How and why
Billions of people cry
For hunger and thirst
When there’s plenty to go around
If only social policy were sound.
—Joe Nolan
Oh, my!
“Everything
That doesn’t grow
Is bound to die,”
So said Dylan.
The world
Is just a planet
Spinning by--
Venus, Mars,
Saturn and Jupiter,
Who have no souls alive
To question why.
But we,
In our little bodies
On the surface of this planet
Think a lot
About why,
How and why
Billions of people cry
For hunger and thirst
When there’s plenty to go around
If only social policy were sound.
HEARING VOICES
—Joe Nolan
There was a voice we heard.
What it said,
We do not know,
But it echoes and reverberates
And it won’t let go.
We all heard it,
At least twenty of us,
All at the same time--
Now it echoes and reverberates,
Buzzing our bodies with rhyme.
What it means,
We do not know,
But now,
It’s part of our being.
It’s burrowed into our heads.
Some believe it’s full of wisdom--
Pentacostal tongues of fire.
Some say it’s just to inspire
From a place we can’t contain.
PRAYER
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India
The river is run aglow
The night has ended
It surpassed the dawned sun
Marigolds under my youth of hope
Rainbow and trout fishes
A lakeside view of the garden side
The little girl is mumbling along
Knitting her effervescent fairytale
The young ones are in play
It is raining heavens and towers
As the butterflies run away
Trying to catch life's unpredictability
My smile is forever golden
I thank God's feet.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
GOD TOLD ME IN A DREAM, I CAN NO LONGER
BLESS YOUR NATION
—Michael H. Brownstein, Jefferson City, MO
the red-headed leader
blossoms
into poison ivy
____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to today’s contributors, some of whom wrote responses to our Seed of the Week: The Owl Who Waits.
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India
The river is run aglow
The night has ended
It surpassed the dawned sun
Marigolds under my youth of hope
Rainbow and trout fishes
A lakeside view of the garden side
The little girl is mumbling along
Knitting her effervescent fairytale
The young ones are in play
It is raining heavens and towers
As the butterflies run away
Trying to catch life's unpredictability
My smile is forever golden
I thank God's feet.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
GOD TOLD ME IN A DREAM, I CAN NO LONGER
BLESS YOUR NATION
—Michael H. Brownstein, Jefferson City, MO
the red-headed leader
blossoms
into poison ivy
____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to today’s contributors, some of whom wrote responses to our Seed of the Week: The Owl Who Waits.
Can you see me? I’m watching you . . .
A reminder that
Poetic License meets in
Placerville today, 10:30am;
and Brad Buchanan reads from his
new novel, Spy’s Mate, at
Sacramento Poetry Center, 7:30pm.
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!
Poetic License meets in
Placerville today, 10:30am;
and Brad Buchanan reads from his
new novel, Spy’s Mate, at
Sacramento Poetry Center, 7:30pm.
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!
for what? Halloween?