Luck of the Irish

Dark Hedges, Ulster Province

 —Poetry by Lynn White, Blaenau Ffestiniog, 

North Wales
—Public Domain Photos of Ireland

 

 

ANN GLOVER

It was a long way from the green fields and boggy
    moss
to the tropical heat of Barbados
where the ship took them,
those Irish peasants,
as seeped in idolatry as their homeland was in rain,
or that’s what the masters said
so far as she understood
their language
as harsh and severe
as the god they worshipped.

And it was a long way from the tropical heat of
    Barbados
to the master’s house in Salem
the last port of call
for some of those Irish peasants,
those who survived so far,
still enslaved
but called ‘indentured’ now.

She always believed it was her tongue
that killed her,
not its sharpness,
Irish was a gentle language, after all
and she never learned theirs
so their questions
could not be understood
or answered.

And what answers could she give in any language?
What language could tell them
who was godly
and who was devilish,
who was a witch
and who was a saint.

Only power could speak
and the Irish had none.
Only power can speak
and slaves have none.



(First published in Woodside Writers, 2025)

 

 

 

 

THE POTATO EATERS



The harvest looks good today
un-blighted
so we know that we shall eat
this winter
and there should be enough
to pay the landlord
and put a roof over our heads
this winter.
So we will kneel and say a prayer
that he will not ask too much.

 

 

 

 

FOR THOSE LIVES BLIGHTED


Once, in Ireland, one million died
and we’re still counting.
One million fled
for their lives
and we’re still counting.
Equivalent to the population
of Gaza
before
the avalanche
of violence
spread so thickly
it destroyed all
in its paths.
And its paths were everywhere,
rubble strewn deep as an Irish bog.
And before
the aftermath
when starvation ruled the land.

Starvation had ruled the land in Ireland
when the potato crop was blighted.
Without potatoes there was no food.
Without potatoes there was no money for food.
Without money for rent colonial landlords
    evicted,
and slave labour of starving men women and
    children
followed the rule of law
through occupation
and colonisation.

And no help came.
No Aid came
to help them.
And still
potatoes were exported.
And still
the landlords did well.
All the colonialists did well.
They always do.

So Ireland knows how it feels
in the depth of its turf,
in the depth of its being,
its rock, its stones,
its body-filled bogs,
its bleached bones
it knows the story
knows that
change comes
only
with survival
survival first
then to change
one step at a time.

And sometimes
words and money
can effect change
as readily as weapons,
that time the past shows
it’s the time to make a stand
against more political the manoeuvring
to undermine another respected decision
un-welcomed again by the most powerful.

And history shows its time.
For Ireland knows
how lives are blighted.



(First published in Dissident Voice, 4 Feb 2024)

 

 

 

 

LUCK OF THE IRISH

The Irish love their horses.

It’s a long tradition
which survives urbanisation
among young working class people
in parts of Dublin,
people seemingly like me.
They take them along the city streets,
into supermarkets, on buses,
even up in the lift to their new home
on the balcony of an apartment.
The stories are legion.

And the Irish love their stories.

But I was not like them.
I couldn’t be part of that story.
I find horses just too big, too strong,
too high from the ground.
Even on a seaside donkey I was afraid
I’d take a tumble from the saddle
or be nudged and trampled into the sand.
I was sure that it was only
by the luck of the Irish
that I survived.

Yes, Lady Luck loves the Irish.

But I know for certain now
that when I join that wild-eyed horse
on the balcony
the luck of the Irish
is bound to desert me.


(First published in Orange Blush Journal, November 2020)

 

 

 

 


THE CIRCUS OF MY DREAMS

In the circus of my dreams
the unicorns are are prancing, rearing up,
flashing their rainbowed hooves,
pointing with their golden horns,
with their unique golden horns.
Then, ridden by Leprechauns,
they’re dancing round and round
the circle of the ring.
Kicking up the gold-dust ground
from their droppings into
shimmering sawdust.

In the circus of my dreams
there is a rainbow.
A rainbow that has painted
their hooves with its light
as they climbed their way up
and slid their way down
to the crock of gold at the end.
Time for the little people to dismount
and mould the gold into hearts of love.
Time for the unicorns to use the gold
to nurture and replenish
their golden horns, their unique
golden horns.



(First published in Pilcrow and Dagger, February 2016)

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Being Irish is very much a part of who I am. I take it everywhere with me.

—Colin Farrell

___________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Lynn White 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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Forgetting My Dreams

 —Poetry by Christina Chin, Malaysia, and 

Jerome Berglund, Minneapolis, MN
—Public Domain Photos

 

 

SEVEN TAN-RENGA
—Christina Chin (plain text) and 

Jerome Berglund (italics)

passing a vendor
bamboo clapper
banana fritters

when I sleep in
always forget my dreams

* * *

cut banana leaves
in demand
south Indian restaurant

before battle
ingesting fly agaric

 

 

 

 

classical aspect ratio’s
rather square
artichokes flowering

loosening the compact soil
chinchilla manure

* * *

blowing out candles
when the guest leaves
passover

the sober
teetotaller

 

 

 

 

stir fried
rapeseed flowers
golden field season

actors become
best directors

* * *

Venus
high in the night sky
summer evening

everywhere
double decker busses

 

 

 

 

nations call
for change and peace
summer cloud

beeswax candle
handling nitroglycerine

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

What’s interesting about collaborations is the possibility for one plus one to equal three.

—Rei Kawakubo

_____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Christina Chin and Jerome Berglund for today’s fine collaboration!

For info about the sly Tan-renga, go to https://www.graceguts.com/essays/an-introduction-to-tan-renga/.

 

 

 

Banana Fritters

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!

 

LittleSnake is visiting
the tropics today~

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Diamond Birds

 Two Real Cats Looking Through The Torn Curtain

* * *

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

 

 

BENEATH THE FATAL CLOCK
—Joyce Odam

1.  The daily trouble
bogs us down
in dullest woe.
The nuisance, Death,
is at the edge of everything,
pestering like a brat
at the mother-hem.

2.  Songs begin at morning
but the singers lie
beneath the fatal clock
trying to be immortal lovers.
Birds persist in happiness
and leaves go joyfully forth
like resurrection.

3.  Somebody who is old
comes knocking at the door:
Selling my life!
New rags for old?
Any broken mirrors
you can’t use?

4.  Look what I bought,
I tell the one
who loves me for my bargaining;
look how its colors
dull the light…
look how it tarnishes the eyes…
look how it crumbles in the hand…
                                       

(prev. pub. in Prairie Schooner, 1972;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 04/24/18) 

 

 

 

Afternoon

 

 

 THE BIRDS ARE SINGING
—Joyce Odam

and on the landscape
the birds are singing
invisible in the trees
it is morning
and the sharp songs are everywhere
the sunlight cannot find them
though it looks and
quickens the shadows
of things that are growing

the singing of the birds
is like shouts of diamonds
celebrating their voices
the green leaves
answer with
swift protective flutterings
within which
the diamond birds are hiding

and in the center
of the landscape
a man in a pair of shorts
is sitting on a chair
that is growing from the earth
his body made golden by the sun
his soft hair lifting to the light
and he is sitting there
in all that sound
reading the newspaper

                                
(prev. pub. in Jam Today, 1977;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/30/19; 4/30/24)

 

 

 

DNA

 

 
ALL THE NEWS IS GOOD
—Joyce Odam

Mama, all the news is good.
You were right to be
an optimist.

I have filled the little cup
with life
and I am here
with all my blues
sewn to a morning dress.

I sit at the window
and watch the birds
who know me now.
Their shifting songs
wash over me in happiness.

I say to you,
I love those birds.
My dress of blues
fits me like words.

I think I know your secret now.
God bless.

                         
(prev. pub. in One Dog Press, January 1997;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/12/15)

 

 

 

No Echo

 

  

IN MY HANDS THIS GUITAR
—Joyce Odam

What! in my hands,
this guitar?
Not that I know the way of
music,
the way I would touch it real
if I could.

My hands just love the way
they feel upon this wood,
but they are shy
and move quietly
over the unsure combinations,
reaching here and there
for the simple chords
which, when they come,
so please my simple ear.

I do not fumble thus for
public groan or kinder silence.
I play alone
on this guitar.
I sing to it.
It likes the sound of that.
I sing to the night.
The night sings back.

 

 

 

 Through The Night Hours

 

STREET BLUES
—Joyce Odam

The music that haunts the most
is always blue, the kind of blue
that merges into black and gray,

that comes from every ragged hurt
there is to share and what the
inarticulate will ever try to say;

some city-street-musician plays it
every day—wailing inward like a
winter soul, long-beaten down and

long-removed from hymn or lullaby,
though, here, the lost still try to
pray—too poor for more than what

they have become, scavenging at
emptiness with hungry hands, being
everything the street blues say.

                                  
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/25/18)

 

 

 

The Sleeper

 

 

 CHANGING MOODS
—Joyce Odam

What now,
after all this time-space
sprung darkly
from
events that slip somehow
beyond these words.
The lovingness
(I like that word)
its likeness,
this quietness,
its weightfulness—
for all this among
the wordiness—
or sorryness—
before it
has no word to say
or eyes that ask for the
love—all of it, for a while.

                   
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/6/23)

 

 

The Fact Of Midnight

 

 

DARKNESS
—Robin Gale Odam

She kept secrets . . .
a sweet ride
parked in the shadow
of a dream,
a fishing line
made of pure
desire,
more words
than she would
ever speak,
a soft heart,
a droplet of
cool venom,
and darkness to match
his own.
        

(prev. pub. in Brevities, April 2014;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/6/23)

 

 

 

Thinking Back

 

  

THE MUSE, MUSING AROUND IN MY HEAD
—Joyce Odam

She was younger than I expected, kinda sad,
if you know what I mean, as if I actually
knew her, though she was
here—
in my head—
like a dream
and she was comforting me,
comforting me.
But why?
I felt no need of her,
no joyful or painful recognition,
no words pressing me to hurry.
And I could not hurry.
I was at the beginning of a scream.
I felt it,
building,
and I was paralyzed,
paralyzed in the dream,
the muse
wavering
brokenly around me
like something forgotten,
and old now,
and withering, like fire-smoke, or fog,
shot through with headlights
in the middle of an ocean—one I could not
swallow with my throat so full of scream,
and my muse
was distantly humming, something familiar,
and I had words,
I had the words, and we were writing . . . .


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/16/20; 8/20/24)

 

 

 

An Illusion

 

ALL OF THE ANGLES,
AND THOSE SHADOWS
—Robin Gale Odam

labyrinth . . . the two of them
destined to be as one, despite the
complexity that seeps in—curve by
twisting curve . . .

decades arrive and depart and the
children grow wiser . . .

the husband is gone—the children
are older than childhood now . . .

the journal is open on the table,
the window half-opened for the winds
born out of the curves of happenstance
pouring in from the complex of path-
ways created by the woods and the
vines . . .

stalwart, the widow looks inward—
memorizing all of the angles,
and those shadows . . . 

 

 

 

The Vessel

 

SHAWL
—Joyce Odam

I see her poised
to a brimming moment,
lighting an opaque distance
with the flame of her, spilling
tomorrow over
with the indelible glow
her wants have fired.

And I,
where pulsing hours
thicken a shadowy season
and turn the long day
under
like soil prepared for seed, I
wrap my shoulders around
with thin advice
and watch her go.
                        

(prev. pub. in From My Stranger Hands, Chapbook
by Joyce Odam, 1967; and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/11/23) 

 

 

 

Of Belief

 

  

DESIRE
—Joyce Odam

What of this blind faith of love,
with its discontent and its failed reach;

that it always knows
what is real, and what is desired

is real? Only hunger equates—
that hunger that is always there,

beyond food.
Hunger is all one has against need,

need that is always there,
like a moan that is uttered in silence.

Never mind impossibility.
Impossibility is only the beginning.

 

 

 

Solitary

 

 

Today’s LittleNip:

SILENCE ECHOES BACK
—Robin Gale Odam

on a formal date
all dressed up for the occasion
on their first real date

sitting across the table
on cell phones with each other

___________________

Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam are poet-birds of a feather—and fine ones indeed! Our thanks to them for today’s responses to our Seed of the Week, Birds of a Feather.

Our new Seed of the Week is “High Hopes”. 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

 

 

 

 ‘I have filled the little cup with life . . .”
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan,
Stockton, 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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Birds of a Feather or Two~

  —Photo by Jill and Scott Kalter

(Courtesy of Nolcha Fox)
* * *
—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Claire J. Baker,
Stephen Kingsnorth, Sayani Mukherjee,
Shiva Neupane, and Joe Nolan

—Public Domain Birds Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

FLIGHT SCHOOL
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

Icarus had dreams of grandeur,
He wanted to reach the heights.
He fashioned wings
of wax and feathers.

The birds were irked.
They pecked out plumage,
Chased him off the cliff.

He hadn’t attended
their flight school,
and so
he was dropped.

 

 

 

 

WHEN BIRDS GET TOGETHER
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

to gather their daily A-B-C’s,
they seem lively, yet at ease.
Already nice, they already please.

Birds, god bless, don’t wheeze,
don’t complain of worn-out knees,
or of needing slicker skis.

Too high-strung for afternoon teas,
too quick to fear bedazzled bees,
birds crave rufflings from a breeze

to swift off lice in twos or threes. 

 

 

 

 

BIRDS OF A FEATHER…
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

See flocks which stay with their own kind
miss predators, critical friends.
Surrounded by plumage alike,
we protect from diversity;
this preservation of gene pool
comes at the cost, creative whole.

At race course and sports stadia,
the crack house, skid row, refugees,
bridge players trumped, cricketers stumped,
alcoholics as meet, anon,
communities, like-minded isles,
we need more crossing of those aisles.

Both dip, stoup, stoop, to pray and prey,
the pilgrim and the sparrowhawk,
these words for birds, wing and prayer
are interwoven, breast to tail,
as featherweight in boxing ring
while featherlight speaks for itself.

Now this an anapodoton,
the main clause missing, but implied,
an idiom, the rest assumed—
those in the know to understand;
birds of a feather fits the bill—
as flock together, lesson learned.

It features, art of rhetoric;
it’s heard atop the omnibus.
It’s written by the quill in hand;
transcribed by keyboard, laptop codes.
Device in conversation, books,
an agèd idiom revealed.

 

 

 

THOSE DANG SQUIRRELS
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

Growing up in the city I would occasionally
see a squirrel. I heard tell from folks who
professed to have a more worldwide view,
that there were actually 2 kinds of squirrels:
ground squirrels and tree squirrels.

I believed what they said and henceforth held
the common sense view that if a squirrel was
scavenging about on the ground, that was a
ground squirrel, and if it was up in a tree, that
was a tree squirrel.

All that worked fine until we moved to the
suburbs, and each and every day I would
observe squirrels first scavenging about on
the ground, and then those very same squirrels
would climb up into a tree, no problem.

So maybe these squirrels I see in the suburbs are
some kind of hybrid, which I will hereby denote
as the “all terrain squirrel.” And that’s all I know.

 

 

 

 

HOW TO APPROACH A VOLCANO
—Caschwa

Is that an active or inactive volcano?
She’s a gal in the dressing room volcano,
and she’ll be ready when she’s ready. Find
something else to occupy your time, pal.

 

 

 

Blue-Footed Boobie

ANTI-DEPRESSANT
—Caschwa

(Digital Age Advice)

A key element of Spell Check
helping you avoid the frown
you would get from the act of
pushing the wrong button down

 

 

 

 

FAMILY
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India

I live among the trees
The lush greenery of global earth
Moonstone of glowing night
Monsoon is spreading its wings
The Mayflower of seasonal changes
God is among us
Watching the children grow
The Godspeed of everything
Poetry music nature of dappled earth
Family of flora and fauna.
As I sip my morning June
With coveted rain and blessing. 

 

 

 

 Debyanshi Neupane at Parliament House

(Birds of a feather hang out together—

at Parliament House!)

MY TRIP TO CANBERRA
—Devyanshi Neupane, Age 5, Melbourne, Australia

I saw kangaroos on my way to Canberra.
I saw sheep on my way to Canberra.
I saw bridge on my way to Canberra.
I had visited to Parliament house in Canberra. 

 

 

 

 

 

WARM BUTTER
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

Don’t say “old,”
Since after old
Very soon
Comes dead.

Don’t say a word
That augurs
Something we
All dread.

Don’t say it.
Don’t say it.
Don’t even think it.

Think instead
Of bread,
Warm and delicious,
Fresh from an oven,
Ready to slather
With butter.

Oh! To be so well bred
That you always had bread
And better, still,
To have had butter
To slather at will,
All you want.

Such dreams of youth and pleasure
Surely keep spirits young.
Think of the way warm butter
Went dripping onto your tongue.

 

 

 

 

MOST LIKELY
—Joe Nolan

Most likely
There will be
A sense of ending.

Most likely
There will be
A sense of loss,

When all
The timbers
Of trees
Are shattered
By bombs
That have
Flown across.

Most likely
You won’t have answers
To questions
How no one cared
Better than
To destroy all we know
As if destruction were bliss.

 

 

 

MIGHT HE MATCH YOU?
—Joe Nolan

Which windy whirl
Might arc and swirl
Autumn leaves
Down from their trees?

While walking girls
With lovely curls,
Laugh and tell their stories,
Walking down their streets.

Listening,
An acquired skill,
Is put to task
As girls ask,
“Tell me more
About your suitor?
Is he able, skilled and deft
Or have his ways
Left him bereft
Without a social clue?

Do you think he
Might match you?”

 

 

 

FALL IN LOVE AND DANCE
—Joe Nolan

Fall in love and dance.
Fall in love and
Dance, dance, dance.

The sparkle
Of infatuation,
Eyes held in
Embracing glance,

Hold your partner tightly
And dance, dance, dance.

Brightness
In a sweet caress,
The rhythm of the movement,
Fall in love and
Dance, dance, dance.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

SURE IT IS
—Caschwa

Where in the world is Acapulco?

It’s right on the flip side of Acapushco.

_____________________

Our thanks to today’s contributors for comments on our Seed of the Week, Birds of a Feather, among their other words of wisdom. Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week, and Fridays for poetry-form and Ekphrastic challenges. 

Speaking of birds, the Canary Summer Solstice 2025 Issue (Number 69) is available now at  https://canarylitmag.org/?mc_cid=072b92cec7&mc_eid=c689f0c391/. Canary is a fine literary journal, based in California, which “encourages engagement with the natural world, a recognition that we are a part of this complex, integrated endangered system”. Canary's Managing Editor, Charles Entrekin, passed away in February, unfortunately, but his wife, Gail Entrekin, continues to release an issue every quarter. Our condolences to you, Gail, on your loss.

_________________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Dianna Henning & Karen Terrey
will read at Sacramento Poetry Center
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!

 

Ya gotta luvaduck~!
We’re all birds of a feather,
after all . . .

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Little Mad

 —Poetry and Visuals by 

Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal,
 W. Covina, CA

 

 

GAUZE CLOUDS

Clouds seem like gauze
for skies’ wounds. Some
are like puffy shadows.
Some seem like snow
splashes. The gauze
clouds float above tall
buildings and hills. In
the black sky they veil
the stars and the moon.

The white gauze clouds
turn gray after a while.
They bend and break apart.
The wind pushes them
away. They come back
and spread across the
skies. They line up like
sheep and disperse. I
find them at the beach,
out at sea, reflected in
the waves. Late at night
the gauze clouds follow
me all the way home. Surf
sounds remain in my ears

when I hit my bed to sleep.

 

 

 

 

YOUR SMILE

Your smile is as wide as the moon.
You smile to eradicate the gloom.
Oh, excuse me for speaking in rhyme.
You smile and I smile back in kind.
I’m going to walk into the river
To see if I can fish out the moon’s
Reflection, to gather lots of fish,
To see where the world ends.
Your smile will be waiting for me.
My smile will be waiting for you.

 

 

 

 

A LITTLE MAD

Everyone is a little mad,
some more than others.
Ordinary madmen feign
their disorders for a bed
to spend the night in.
When offered medicine
they protest with such
fervor, tears fall out of
their eyes far from gentle.
Their flesh turns red as
if scorched by the radiant
smiles of a thousand suns.

 

 

 

 

SPEAK TOO FAST

I speak too fast
and you speak last
and say goodbye.

I speak from a
place of love. No,
not yes, you say.
I give and give
and get back shade.

I give enough.
I give too much.
You give only
what you could give.
Between you and
me and me and

you, I look at

everything. I
am alive with
death all around.
I am alive.
Death speaks only
truth unspoken.

Now and then, I
stand falling down,
shrinking into
where I cannot
flee. My flesh stripped
all the way down.
I call to you,
my finer friend,
finer than me.
I like you. I
feel so down. I
need you. Are you
there? It is dark
in the flow of
words almost gone.

 

 

 

 

NEVER IMAGINE

I never imagined 

you dead, that you
could die, that such
a force would be
confined in a grave,
where your words,
your smile, and your
laughter would not
be heard again.
I shake my head.
I thought you would
live forever. I feel
a loss I could never
imagine. If I had ten
tongues, they would
all be tied, desperate
to find the words.
I am unable to utter
a sound. Now and then
I dream of the dead
living, talking, laughing
and smiling. If this
is all our future,
well, it is, we live
and we die. Will
someone dream
about me when
I am gone?

 

 

 

 

ANGST

I fear angst
will penetrate
my dream and
leave me out in
the real world.

The door to
the dream world will
close. I will
pace in my room
all night long.

Every move
filled with angst and
despair. Each
step, one sad
reminder of

the dark space
I inhabit
in the real
world without dreams.

Who sleeps in


such of a world?


My legs fall


asleep and I


fall awake.

 

 

 

 

Today’s LittleNip:

MAKING PREDICTIONS
—Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

2067, I won’t be there.
On a street in Paris,
I won’t be there. In the
Hall of Fame, I won’t
be there. I peruse the
menu at my favorite
breakfast joint. I am
here and I will be there
next week, God willing.

___________________

—Medusa,  with thanks to Luis Berriozábal for today’s fine poetry and original artwork and photos!

 

 

 

" I speak from a place of love . . ."
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of 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!

 

LittleSnake high-tails it outta here~