tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132623202024-03-19T01:48:16.719-07:00Medusa's KitchenWelcome to the Kitchen!—daily poetry from around the world (poetry with fangs!). Read our DIARY, the cream-colored section at the left, for poets local and otherwise. Then scroll down our GREEN AND BLUE BULLETIN BOARDS on the right for more poet-phernalia. And please feel free to be a SNAKEPAL and send your work, events and releases to kathykieth@hotmail.com—see "Placating the Gorgon" in the FUCHSIA LINKS right below here for info. Carpe Viperidae! Seize the Snake!Kathy Kieth, Wrangler-in-Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11925893540872899117noreply@blogger.comBlogger6715125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13262320.post-27771379884195578752024-03-18T07:29:00.000-07:002024-03-18T07:29:33.855-07:00The Joie de Vivre of Kites<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh34YAhh6Vr-KbV6QzEyRoHVb-hcjLSY9uYJ98eSdPSRm0T1Viag9mrKeTzaPIyHyRJi-SiiCxUUEApVP8IOfopqB2NBx2yMB4f_DFdBbtvryjXeozBZh7eeE0k0AjYJqSib7NvKFwShn7AMOiGZEF50CaQfNsvgVIw_bQ3OHChpbIyxqJD4f4pqQ/s640/girl%20riding%20bee%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="640" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh34YAhh6Vr-KbV6QzEyRoHVb-hcjLSY9uYJ98eSdPSRm0T1Viag9mrKeTzaPIyHyRJi-SiiCxUUEApVP8IOfopqB2NBx2yMB4f_DFdBbtvryjXeozBZh7eeE0k0AjYJqSib7NvKFwShn7AMOiGZEF50CaQfNsvgVIw_bQ3OHChpbIyxqJD4f4pqQ/w400-h400/girl%20riding%20bee%20jn.png" width="400" /></a></div><i> —Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,<br />Dawn Pisturino, Joe Nolan, and Caschwa<br />—Public Domain Photos Courtesy<br />of Joe Nolan, Stephen Kingsnorth <br />and Dawn Pisturino</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">NOT ENOUGH LIFT<br /><i>—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY</i><br /><br />I don’t recall the colors.<br />I don’t recall the shape.<br />I recall a futile flight<br />of kite into the air.<br />I hoped we would <br />get closer, give <br />love a little lift.<br />We needed more<br />than wind to send<br />a failure flying high.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-gAQvnuYxyb1VEZYu7EVgdna1Sm-TBV43cWkfO0IPNLG73iOumCjqDZJRAU1stej9I2YEHmA0l0b_zB-fdGm2YSzxGEwg4ZLMaJwkD5b5HW5aUeLXQ0UCvZnfwrpCln_AFF8c34cMHWc60fwkiBDj6i7IZzGLorL5HwHQ5JNvyYatrroMXzgCcg/s326/red%20Kite%20sk.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="245" data-original-width="326" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-gAQvnuYxyb1VEZYu7EVgdna1Sm-TBV43cWkfO0IPNLG73iOumCjqDZJRAU1stej9I2YEHmA0l0b_zB-fdGm2YSzxGEwg4ZLMaJwkD5b5HW5aUeLXQ0UCvZnfwrpCln_AFF8c34cMHWc60fwkiBDj6i7IZzGLorL5HwHQ5JNvyYatrroMXzgCcg/w400-h300/red%20Kite%20sk.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i>Red Kite</i><br /><i>—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Stephen Kingsnorth</i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /> </div><div style="text-align: left;">RED KITE<br /><i>—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales </i><br /><br />Mosquito dancing, hover hair, <br />jig to ballroom, sudden fall, <br />though scooped before full fly to floor, <br />a shudder, hold, then swoops to whirl, <br />until it drops, bite leaves its mark. <br /><br />Too, here be dragons, gold on black, <br />spitting fire in air attack <br />as pull on strings; or lighting wick, <br />moon rising lanterns, airlift shrines, <br />in clouds of witness, past enact. <br /><br />Fast run and throw, for lift off, strand, <br />far reach of sand for landing strip, <br />with off shore wind, unwind taut line, <br />see soar of shape from clifftop site, <br />until that tug, pang hunger strikes. <br /><br />Euclidian, so clear defined, <br />a quadrilateral designed <br />reflecting symmetry in kind, <br />diagonal, its axis line. <br />Unless a box, core type refined. <br /><br />The kite’s a mark engraved in glass, <br />on labels where a sofa lies, <br />protection against smash in crash, <br />or feeding fire, its noxious smoke—<br />for quality, trade guarantee. <br /><br />It’s BSI, the agency, <br />a British Standards Institute, <br />that flies a kite for safety first; <br />though fly by nights with shoddy goods <br />sure break the law from market stalls. <br /><br />But flying kites in bedtime tales, <br />now column inches, stories leaked— <br />more floated schemes, political, <br />to test the current public mood, <br />as the elect, their safety first. <br /><br />With forked tail, not the tongue above, <br />not dragon, red, flag field of green, <br />but plot, airspace, prey, red kites, <br />the poisoned raptor breeds once more, <br />Welsh nation’s, note, favourite bird. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpqivbEIKAr9UPKfGsAcCasLv8slXCQGqAJGXU995Y5SH4yUJe8uNehslbiLuEMBrSsI1EXSVGLQrVEEQ3cBdtxMH7_Hgm0au1vKh0iG9ovJzai4n2AWfH9-ze3dY1G9a6ru1hSmecIqSi5wgug30VE6QPvSt8VKoa7RS5H_zG87e_gJuBGUAIYA/s2400/bridge-at-sunset_Public%20Domain.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2400" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpqivbEIKAr9UPKfGsAcCasLv8slXCQGqAJGXU995Y5SH4yUJe8uNehslbiLuEMBrSsI1EXSVGLQrVEEQ3cBdtxMH7_Hgm0au1vKh0iG9ovJzai4n2AWfH9-ze3dY1G9a6ru1hSmecIqSi5wgug30VE6QPvSt8VKoa7RS5H_zG87e_gJuBGUAIYA/w400-h253/bridge-at-sunset_Public%20Domain.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i><span style="font-size: x-small;">—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Dawn Pisturino</span></i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />THREE POEMS ABOUT SAN FRANCISCO<br /><i>—Dawn Pisturino, Golden Valley, AZ</i><br /><br /><b>Flying Kites on the Marina</b><br /><br />Spending the day flying kites on the Marina<br />While noisy seagulls circle overhead,<br />Making spectacles of themselves<br />Among the colorful alien objects<br />With long tails flapping in the wind.<br />Kites shaped like dragons <br />Breathe fire at the sun.<br />Oblong boxes made from scratch<br />And plain paper diamonds in rainbow colors<br />Reach to the heavens,<br />Tethered to the earth by eager children<br />And expert adults, so earnest in their endeavor<br />To fly highest and farthest.<br />Blow, wind, blow, and help the competitors<br />Outdo one another!<br />Crowds gather to watch the race,<br />Making mental bets on the outcome.<br />The excitement grows,<br />The crowd oohs and aahs,<br />And suddenly, the wind dies<br />And all bets are off.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br /><b>San Francisco</b><br /><br />I watch psychedelic flowers on the wallpaper<br />Turn somersaults, spinning like pinwheels<br />Against a green background.<br />Coit Tower emerges from this garden,<br />Rising high against an ocean sky.<br />The Golden Gate Bridge shines brilliantly<br />Against a yellow sun, its orange towers<br />A familiar landmark among the clouds.<br />19th & Irving hangs heavy with smoke:<br />Restaurants and coffee houses,<br />Reefers and incense from the<br />Head shops along the street.<br />I breathe in ocean spray and seaweed<br />On Ocean Beach, meditating on<br />The full moon and moonlight<br />Flung carelessly across the water<br />At high tide. A soothing scene<br />That captures my heart<br />And peacefully lays<br />My soul to rest.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br /><b>Foggy City</b><br /><br />Cold, clammy fog<br />Settles over the city<br />With stifling thickness,<br />Turning the living into ghosts<br />Wandering through an ethereal<br />World of white nothingness.<br />Muffled sounds break through the quiet.<br />Red lights flash through the foggy shield.<br />The dead rise unwillingly,<br />Already caught in their own purgatory. <br />The world of the living<br />And the world of the dead<br />Intermingle, recognize this mishap<br />Of Fate, withdraw, and return<br />To their own spheres of being.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi48KUhZnqYvn2iyUtNVZwqDSgHkRW5d_MCd0xHCG0y4M3vYEYMKC5aa1c0S3AabNyAHAYNzv4Nre8V_BCEIiMonDBbTdK5Cvh8K-brveSVdJOw8Jy9ntz-KDZ_OKwC39NbvGC_syGYoElPaOsBqjTsd8OFCkc_QNUBlfQVxbo72YiFwqL1K_Beg/s747/stone%20steps%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="747" data-original-width="500" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi48KUhZnqYvn2iyUtNVZwqDSgHkRW5d_MCd0xHCG0y4M3vYEYMKC5aa1c0S3AabNyAHAYNzv4Nre8V_BCEIiMonDBbTdK5Cvh8K-brveSVdJOw8Jy9ntz-KDZ_OKwC39NbvGC_syGYoElPaOsBqjTsd8OFCkc_QNUBlfQVxbo72YiFwqL1K_Beg/w268-h400/stone%20steps%20jn.png" width="268" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>—Public Domain Photo </i></span></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Courtesy of Joe Nolan</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />ZOOM VERSUS LIVE ATTENDANCE<br /><i>—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA</i><br /> <br />In portal,<br />A predicament,<br />About a carbon footprint<br />We have spent<br />Just to get here,<br />To our <br />Poetry reading.<br /><br />Maybe we<br />Should have stayed <br />On Zoom,<br />Looking at 24 faces<br />Per page?<br /><br />That way, we <br />Could have saved our gas,<br />That we burned on <br />Overburdened highways,<br />Coming and going,<br />Contributing<br />To global warming<br />And all the degradation<br />We deplore.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEily92pDcnLx2Z4_doVDjVwFFXro0nYCRq16oVf1omx682e5o5NHYEJY265qwC9bzhyMbahAUbOlFGbftKjAwMD9Fcb78OS-83XFnCdYhSPbMJl-cv7PmYNXGh2pwDhSPQTyEw8d7rMYZwXGYN4uS8aE32WtzWpo2sckU36wjItMtl6nG1xQZ_h3Q/s200/Komodo%20dragon:dont%20mess:monday%20kk.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="112" data-original-width="200" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEily92pDcnLx2Z4_doVDjVwFFXro0nYCRq16oVf1omx682e5o5NHYEJY265qwC9bzhyMbahAUbOlFGbftKjAwMD9Fcb78OS-83XFnCdYhSPbMJl-cv7PmYNXGh2pwDhSPQTyEw8d7rMYZwXGYN4uS8aE32WtzWpo2sckU36wjItMtl6nG1xQZ_h3Q/w400-h224/Komodo%20dragon:dont%20mess:monday%20kk.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Don't mess with me on Mondays...<br /></i></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain</span></i><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />THE ONLY GAME IN TOWN<br /><i>—Joe Nolan</i><br /> <br />There’s a game in town.<br />Everybody, gather round.<br />It’s a game <br />Of up and down.<br />The losers take the latter.<br /><br />Evictions and foreclosures,<br />People on the street.<br />That’s the way<br />We do,<br />These days,<br />When their circle is complete.<br /><br />In a game of musical chairs,<br />Some must lose their seat.<br />The D.J. on the music-beat<br />Controls the needle-arm.<br />The timing of the trauma<br />Is meant to do you harm.<br /><br />It’s a game<br />We’ve all<br />Signed onto—<br />To play, to<br />Win or lose.<br /><br />It’s not a game <br />That we’d prefer, but<br />It’s the only game in town.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI8Qq7Aqgfc8ka04FnHRjW47oXTYF1J8DHuydvq1M7OFcoeCtzZSVo5LrQqAzqZYLuWpSrPWnz7apLT_Vvfs6rwiTWS_QMtRSpk_3L4kVReE7vgwyTQ8pLIu3IJCfzE4o7hbkSJV1AWNOn4vHrCkShWwhe6zEQduU_UWtmPSSYtjpNbGwaDGtcsw/s621/dr.%20seuss%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="621" data-original-width="500" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI8Qq7Aqgfc8ka04FnHRjW47oXTYF1J8DHuydvq1M7OFcoeCtzZSVo5LrQqAzqZYLuWpSrPWnz7apLT_Vvfs6rwiTWS_QMtRSpk_3L4kVReE7vgwyTQ8pLIu3IJCfzE4o7hbkSJV1AWNOn4vHrCkShWwhe6zEQduU_UWtmPSSYtjpNbGwaDGtcsw/w323-h400/dr.%20seuss%20jn.png" width="323" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>—Public Domain Illustration </i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Courtesy of Joe Nolan</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i> </i></span><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />THE COLLAPSE OF WESTERN CIVILIZATION<br /><i>—Joe Nolan</i><br /><br />The collapse of Western Civilization<br />Has happened before.<br />It happened to the Romans<br />And to the Byzantines,<br />One-thousand years, later.<br /><br />It seems that a collapse<br />Is scheduled in the cards,<br />Waiting to descend.<br /><br />Nations and empires<br />Have their beginnings<br />And also, their ends.<br /><br />What are we<br />To make of this?<br />We, who <br />Wish to persist,<br /><br />Within our own existence,<br />Though the gates of <br />Our nations might fall? </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcA2ZtEsSqIrIGIGZFwoQqWp577xlzstr5GO2hAq21PnezzrcGsJIcURGkPAomp65C6qnyZ2eK88dlxPQ_3DqP9NIknPLSxuyDDHyIHxH0uClvz5LfeMidpGLmP5Lf_g1FwnkrZuFXPOGUcW0k5mM28P9WPUVFIJc3i4yriLJOV9Da57ngWaqfBQ/s615/girl:yellow%20tulips%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="615" data-original-width="615" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcA2ZtEsSqIrIGIGZFwoQqWp577xlzstr5GO2hAq21PnezzrcGsJIcURGkPAomp65C6qnyZ2eK88dlxPQ_3DqP9NIknPLSxuyDDHyIHxH0uClvz5LfeMidpGLmP5Lf_g1FwnkrZuFXPOGUcW0k5mM28P9WPUVFIJc3i4yriLJOV9Da57ngWaqfBQ/w400-h400/girl:yellow%20tulips%20jn.png" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan</span></i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br /><i>JOIE DE VIVRE</i> FOR LONGEVITY<br /><i>—Joe Nolan</i><br /><br />Try to eat <br />A little bit<br />Of everything<br />Doctors tell you<br />Not to,<br />Each and every day.<br /><br />Drink a drink of <br />Fish-can’t-drink,<br />Since they live<br />In water,<br />Every single day,<br />No matter what <br />Advisors say.<br /><br />Stubbornness<br />Promotes longevity.<br />The more you do things<br />Your own way<br />The longer you<br />Are likely to<br />Exercise your will.<br /><br />Continue to do <br />What you like to do<br />Despite the rules—<br /><i>Joie de vivre</i><br />Is what lubricates<br />Your machine. <br /><br />__________________<br /><br /><i><b>Today’s LittleNip:</b><br /><br />KITEKU <br />—Caschwa<br /><br />I’ve had several <br />good days flying kites, and they’re <br />still up there, somewhere<br /><br />__________________<br /><br />—Medusa, wishing us all a little more </i><b><span style="color: red;">joie</span> <span style="color: #800180;">de</span></b> <span style="color: #2b00fe;"><b>vivre</b></span>…</div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTAAqvhOHdRrdOHfYD4OFQgcZIlO_G9Le2X4wWXLUD5svvx82_iPxAAWP7KFjt1gDmmwcWmyh6P-4QWBhdXN7gZVuLrlj8-nuKuqNBQZCwTeQDyAA_fibmk-HsTtXhyphenhyphenfFSeZS7fI36EfML1YCwZyOKl1ycm4wLRdiKlFykFstfyDxVsZkWWOV3Sg/s350/cat's%20pjs%20kk.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="350" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTAAqvhOHdRrdOHfYD4OFQgcZIlO_G9Le2X4wWXLUD5svvx82_iPxAAWP7KFjt1gDmmwcWmyh6P-4QWBhdXN7gZVuLrlj8-nuKuqNBQZCwTeQDyAA_fibmk-HsTtXhyphenhyphenfFSeZS7fI36EfML1YCwZyOKl1ycm4wLRdiKlFykFstfyDxVsZkWWOV3Sg/w400-h400/cat's%20pjs%20kk.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i> The REAL cat’s pyjamas…</i><br /><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain</span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i><br /></div><i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>A reminder that</i><br /><i><b>Poetry in Motion</b> read-around</i><br /><i>takes place in Placerville </i><br /><i>this morning, 10:30am; and </i><br /><i><b>Sacramento Poetry Cente</b>r presents</i><br /><i> <span style="color: red;">Julia Levine</span> and <span style="color: red;">Susan Kelly-DeWitt</span></i><br /><i>tonight in Sacramento, 7:30pm.</i><br /><i>For info about these and other</i><br /><i>future poetry happenings in </i><br /><i>Northern California and otherwheres, </i><br /><i>click on</i><br /><i><b>UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS</b></i><br /><i>(<a href="http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html">http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html</a>)</i><br /><i>in the links at the top of this page—</i><br /><i>and keep an eye on this link and on</i><br /><i>the daily Kitchen for happenings </i><br /><i>that might pop up</i><br /><i>—or get changed!—</i><br /><i> during the week.</i><br /><br /><i>Photos in this column can be enlarged by </i><br /><i>clicking on them once, then clicking on the x </i><br /><i>in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.</i><br /><br /><i>Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down</i><br /><i>under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button</i><br /><i>at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets </i><br /><i>by typing the name of the poet or poem</i><br /><i> into the little beige box at the top </i><br /><i>left-hand side of today’s post; or go to </i><br /><i>Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of </i><br /><i>the blue column at the right</i><br /><i> to find the date you want.</i><br /><br /><i>Would you like to be a SnakePal? </i><br /><i>Guidelines are at the top of this page</i><br /><i>at the Placating the Gorgon link;</i><br /><i>send poetry and/or photos and artwork</i><br /><i>to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post</i><br /><i>work from all over the world—including</i><br /><i>that which was previously published—</i><br /><i>and collaborations are welcome. </i><br /><i>Just remember:</i><br /><i>the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—</i><br /><i>for poetry, of course!</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2kWg9uWu1dx0eZkurGDp6lCUJD3m-mOqWQ5HXWeqqew92G_nlfrcgKIaB7VwcQzkNh32hIjYDO8pFXU6mSkFFgD7DUX0DZdkDkUEFYlI7f-4qSnEZqAIVh4eiFlNvk1noGDDWX1zbHrykNI1AHg7zwfoTEHCK9wlm8n_Nd0iSgiCpE1LgcdkOxw/s225/kite%20w:dragon.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2kWg9uWu1dx0eZkurGDp6lCUJD3m-mOqWQ5HXWeqqew92G_nlfrcgKIaB7VwcQzkNh32hIjYDO8pFXU6mSkFFgD7DUX0DZdkDkUEFYlI7f-4qSnEZqAIVh4eiFlNvk1noGDDWX1zbHrykNI1AHg7zwfoTEHCK9wlm8n_Nd0iSgiCpE1LgcdkOxw/w200-h200/kite%20w:dragon.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /> </i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div>Kathy Kieth, Wrangler-in-Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11925893540872899117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13262320.post-31659197868362523642024-03-17T08:33:00.000-07:002024-03-17T08:33:38.748-07:00Then You Have Loved<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxJjHIAAyHZII-YQDSFZ8glzSxSDXvCXarcyD79_05sJyseKY__zjKV33bm1MzJk-br-t3UulpDOtsMcq6CZTwR4GoFwH5djjlgxCqFodeZNrWAvwHLwt_79R7esXvUToFpndokDBTzNuTmIGsOyHmcM1oHa-2kYkFS9uOTGggmpRg-3MiFQtdRw/s600/girls%20circle%20night%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="481" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxJjHIAAyHZII-YQDSFZ8glzSxSDXvCXarcyD79_05sJyseKY__zjKV33bm1MzJk-br-t3UulpDOtsMcq6CZTwR4GoFwH5djjlgxCqFodeZNrWAvwHLwt_79R7esXvUToFpndokDBTzNuTmIGsOyHmcM1oHa-2kYkFS9uOTGggmpRg-3MiFQtdRw/w321-h400/girls%20circle%20night%20jn.png" width="321" /></a></div> <i>—Poetry by Vandana Kumar, New Delhi, India<br />—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">REAR-VIEW MIRROR<br /><br />Drops on windshield<br />the rains<br />still slow<br />been at it<br />since a few hours now<br /><br />I like the haze<br />that keeps me<br />from seeing the ghettos<br />repeated head counts<br />after calamity<br /><br />a decade ago<br />we still could use fuddy-duddy clichés<br />call our cities<br />‘melting pots’<br /><br />I resist the wiper<br />as long as I can<br />larger drops<br />stain the car<br />the radio is on<br />nebulous days<br />when smokescreens<br />take us away<br />from city ghosts<br />and<br />the clarity of by-lanes.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj70D_7dU2I6jGPATBhKNjFF5eFL8AnD3rGjPV6WxxN1ZgB3jG3qu43wzH0V4nvAKbIC2srQH2J5hrABTtX6b0d9Wlbg3-OxR6lMcMZX6IaPh9Nc_jWwpdn95gKfifr6llDEOX0DWKU0_z4kNsUU27Nt9jDygFWP5C4scxu-5xwaHTVqee2qRRHeg/s498/girl%20archer%20snow%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="498" data-original-width="479" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj70D_7dU2I6jGPATBhKNjFF5eFL8AnD3rGjPV6WxxN1ZgB3jG3qu43wzH0V4nvAKbIC2srQH2J5hrABTtX6b0d9Wlbg3-OxR6lMcMZX6IaPh9Nc_jWwpdn95gKfifr6llDEOX0DWKU0_z4kNsUU27Nt9jDygFWP5C4scxu-5xwaHTVqee2qRRHeg/w385-h400/girl%20archer%20snow%20jn.png" width="385" /></a></div> <br /><br />A STILL WINTER<br /><br />It isn’t the sort of cold that moves <br />static all around <br />I look for a pizza cutter<br />and ice cream scoop<br />I imagine making triangles<br />out of the dense fog <br />and consuming it<br />to make visible spaces in the atmosphere <br /><br />I imagine the ice cream scoop lifting the fog<br />splashing it<br />into dessert glass<br /><br />it is a decadent country <br />of stale debate <br />on fresh television screen<br /><br />the Winter from another eon <br />seems to have seeped into the bones <br />so quietly<br />there are no surface breezes<br />I am wary<br />a Winter without its wind-chill<br />is no Winter at all</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4zReyj-e8giD-wQ2QFHUfaW4kixQQ8OyiFK7HtlTgP2Wu6cCKdQGmURLasTBgT3BXkigpUL0iHsjHgMdBjowU9D2UtWURsMShDc0R6S9iZMKXwP4UNZZFUu1qhkQFF-CUvw07b4M2pHuuMr44AWsjwJtwJhveYAee2TCBkFuOXeWTcmb3tFEwiA/s350/red.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="280" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4zReyj-e8giD-wQ2QFHUfaW4kixQQ8OyiFK7HtlTgP2Wu6cCKdQGmURLasTBgT3BXkigpUL0iHsjHgMdBjowU9D2UtWURsMShDc0R6S9iZMKXwP4UNZZFUu1qhkQFF-CUvw07b4M2pHuuMr44AWsjwJtwJhveYAee2TCBkFuOXeWTcmb3tFEwiA/w320-h400/red.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br />LADY IN RED<br /><br />You, in vermillion attire<br />with a slit that starts from the waist<br />and runs as long as the river Nile<br /><br />how I wish you smiled<br />just for me<br />and not<br />for all the pirates of the Pacific<br /><br />you!<br />With rings on fingers<br />on the hand, right<br />on the hand, left<br />are you a prisoner?<br />Of one of the men<br />whose harem you head?<br />Do you play out your politics in bed?<br />For an entire tribe?<br /><br />You in your dress, oozing red<br />I wonder just how many doctors<br />run to your rescue<br />press the nerves<br />kiss every pore<br />suck out the blood stains<br /><br />it is a day parched<br />such thirst<br />single malt<br />quality unquestionable<br /><br />come to me<br />Oh woman, in scarlet or cerise dress<br />become every dirty thing<br />I want you to be.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgllhakC37YVG_OTpahpNEiln7nIE-HRxz3ze3MoUzsA4FKr9cBGdNFiaotsVXXzoslX2edgAJr-C-SOtd07eMgW8NPkoxprNi9mvBOWWDhtUYFeB9kTcy7FUOM1JYVMnVM7CpbNsHzgQurmv41xtmXBYUGGuYlPrEFIo_QQMFl1C-kV_pbO4aGFQ/s726/girl:dark:sunflr%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="726" data-original-width="580" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgllhakC37YVG_OTpahpNEiln7nIE-HRxz3ze3MoUzsA4FKr9cBGdNFiaotsVXXzoslX2edgAJr-C-SOtd07eMgW8NPkoxprNi9mvBOWWDhtUYFeB9kTcy7FUOM1JYVMnVM7CpbNsHzgQurmv41xtmXBYUGGuYlPrEFIo_QQMFl1C-kV_pbO4aGFQ/w320-h400/girl:dark:sunflr%20jn.png" width="320" /></a></div> <br /><br />WAIT UNTIL SUMMER!<br /><br />When you hate the Winter <br />Oh! Those teeth that chatter <br />and several inches of snow <br />several days of it in a row <br /><br />the season harsh so <br />isn’t the best thing for the libido <br />the layers of clothes you must negotiate <br />the mere thought of undressing can wait <br /><br />if the parts of you down there —right under <br />refuse to cooperate, don’t wonder <br />such a bummer! <br />To leave the steamy sex <br />for Summer! </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg01Ze1MofnYS83K6Z0Q0AWyySSrl-kA7ypw6xjwrznsGrdxL1mJTH9AXFLWw7OGILZd7I_rsYMFgtgKPr3Is1_GU6RBCoSMT5t3wcwz-AaqHg7A-bM4-qWpOtCVtt3lF7GFh01M4pv1UiheiSxWg0Ko15pItEgEGSUhYHA_8HegIiRECV5kTG-PA/s564/girl:eagle%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="564" data-original-width="564" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg01Ze1MofnYS83K6Z0Q0AWyySSrl-kA7ypw6xjwrznsGrdxL1mJTH9AXFLWw7OGILZd7I_rsYMFgtgKPr3Is1_GU6RBCoSMT5t3wcwz-AaqHg7A-bM4-qWpOtCVtt3lF7GFh01M4pv1UiheiSxWg0Ko15pItEgEGSUhYHA_8HegIiRECV5kTG-PA/w400-h400/girl:eagle%20jn.png" width="400" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> <br />AND NOTHING SHORT OF THAT!<br /><br />There will be a mesh <br />after the hernia you got removed <br />it won’t reoccur <br />you are reassured<br /><br />gall bladders <br />one kidney <br />one ovary or two <br />without it <br />sooner or later<br />we half-learn to survive <br /><br />but with all the dangers fraught <br />O have your heart <br />right out <br />in your throbbing hands <br /><br />and walk along the sidewalk <br />the one with leaves strewn <br />some freshly fallen <br />some dried <br />roads with egos waylaid <br />all that matters <br />to the heart that walks outside of you <br />is giving <br />even as it puts itself at risk<br /><br />like leaving your home <br />front door unlocked<br />or entering wars unarmed <br />for battles meant to be lost <br /><br />no collateral allowed<br />the rest is mere convenience <br />or serendipity <br />when put to test <br />your favorite clothes<br />also tear at the seams <br /><br />walk into the night <br />starless <br />no candle-lit home around<br />to help navigate <br />for hounds might bark and pounce <br />conditions and consequences <br />only for the meek <br /> <br />sit and watch your heart wrecked<br />unable to distinguish <br />night from day <br />or the dance of one season <br />into the next <br /><br />know that then <br />you have loved <br />and loved <br />and loved. <br /><br />______________________<br /><br /><i><b>Today’s LittleNip:</b><br /><br />your hand<br />touching mine.<br />this is how<br />galaxies<br />collide.<br /><br />—Sanober Khan<br /><br />______________________<br /><br /><span style="color: red;">Vandana Kumar</span> first appeared in Medusa’s Kitchen on Feb. 19 of this year. She is a French teacher, translator, recruitment consultant, Indie Film Producer, cinephile and poet in New Delhi, India. Her poems have been published in national and international websites like </i>Mad Swirl, Grey Sparrow Journal, The Piker Press, Dissident Voice, Borderless Journal, Madras Courier, Outlook, Ink Pantry, Backwards Trajectory, The Daily Pointers, Synchronized Chaos<i>, and </i>everywritersresource.com<i>, to name only a few. She has been featured in literary journals like </i>Fine Lines, and anthologies like Harbinger Asylum, But You Don't Look Sick<i>, and </i>Kali Project,<i> which was a Finalist for the 15th Annual National Indie Excellence® Awards. </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br />Vandana was a jury member for the All India Poetry Competition organized by Cocoa-Butter, and she also co-edited their debut print anthology that resulted from this competition in 2020-2021. She was the only Indian of 40 participating poets in the INĐIJA PRO POET 2023, a festival held in June, 2023 in Serbia. Her poem was translated into Serbian in the Pro Poet anthology published there. Her debut collection of poems, </i>Mannequin Of Our Times<i>, was published in February 2023; it was awarded The Panorama International Book Award 2023 and The Mighty Pens Awards 2023. She is also a Pushcart Prize-nominated author-poet for the year 2023. Thanks for today's poetry, Vandana!</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br />_____________________<br /><br />—Medusa, wishing us all top o’ the morning and a happy St. Patrick’s Day—</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPWjreK-1JFNaYfQFXzmBeW5Y4_zQxNyhy9xjlTcEyEDol37teV7V-Y3HfoMnbi6aShMdjTPkUX50NQI2BQCkzcGf8Uzhi_tmEcyz29uB0Tg_YBBXlgCbFZN6JK2fUIrsvIzFQOjOcWObiFX2b_MVsZESJK2njnCLkAgiAUc6IgJE_40VFaONRHQ/s1714/vandana%20kumar%20mic.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1439" data-original-width="1714" height="336" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPWjreK-1JFNaYfQFXzmBeW5Y4_zQxNyhy9xjlTcEyEDol37teV7V-Y3HfoMnbi6aShMdjTPkUX50NQI2BQCkzcGf8Uzhi_tmEcyz29uB0Tg_YBBXlgCbFZN6JK2fUIrsvIzFQOjOcWObiFX2b_MVsZESJK2njnCLkAgiAUc6IgJE_40VFaONRHQ/w400-h336/vandana%20kumar%20mic.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i> Vandana Kumar</i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>A reminder that </i><br /><i><b>Poetry of the Sierra Foothills</b> </i><br /><i>features <span style="color: red;">Frank Gioia</span> and <span style="color: red;">Paul Godwin</span></i><br /><i>this afternoon in Camino, 2pm.</i><br /><i>For info about this and other</i><br /><i> future poetry happenings in </i><br /><i>Northern California and otherwheres, </i><br /><i>click on</i><br /><i><b>UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS</b></i><br /><i>(<a href="http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html">http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html</a>)</i><br /><i>in the links at the top of this page—</i><br /><i>and keep an eye on this link and on</i><br /><i>the daily Kitchen for happenings </i><br /><i>that might pop up</i><br /><i>—or get changed!—</i><br /><i> during the week.</i><br /><br /><i>Photos in this column can be enlarged by </i><br /><i>clicking on them once, then clicking on the x </i><br /><i>in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.</i><br /><br /><i>Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down</i><br /><i>under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button</i><br /><i>at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets </i><br /><i>by typing the name of the poet or poem</i><br /><i> into the little beige box at the top </i><br /><i>left-hand side of today’s post; or go to </i><br /><i>Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of </i><br /><i>the blue column at the right</i><br /><i> to find the date you want.</i><br /><br /><i>Would you like to be a SnakePal? </i><br /><i>Guidelines are at the top of this page</i><br /><i>at the Placating the Gorgon link;</i><br /><i>send poetry and/or photos and artwork</i><br /><i>to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post</i><br /><i>work from all over the world—including</i><br /><i>that which was previously published—</i><br /><i>and collaborations are welcome. </i><br /><i>Just remember:</i><br /><i>the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—</i><br /><i>for poetry, of course!</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVo6ZLKIGqlPnWJZA9Sfw8qagusINW96Ixpj0e2W_yP2iKXW1J8HEUypZKJOnaMRwDF2VCAYjS1PcdwxYN3phJBQuEVgbdN4bYwRCaN-jxdjc_KGcDNG-ehCKMuH_aDQWbyFCjqwPvz2EYaP2DSGm9RHEB1ANsk-5eF8AKNBmS6yaHiM4-uRypKg/s248/charmer%20standing.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="248" data-original-width="203" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVo6ZLKIGqlPnWJZA9Sfw8qagusINW96Ixpj0e2W_yP2iKXW1J8HEUypZKJOnaMRwDF2VCAYjS1PcdwxYN3phJBQuEVgbdN4bYwRCaN-jxdjc_KGcDNG-ehCKMuH_aDQWbyFCjqwPvz2EYaP2DSGm9RHEB1ANsk-5eF8AKNBmS6yaHiM4-uRypKg/w164-h200/charmer%20standing.jpg" width="164" /></a></div>LittleSnake is charmed <br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>by Vandana's poetry!<br /> </i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><i></i></div>Kathy Kieth, Wrangler-in-Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11925893540872899117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13262320.post-14719814426122369872024-03-16T08:33:00.000-07:002024-03-16T08:34:28.951-07:00Waiting for the Peace Dove<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKpNMc5jWowVq6m-KEKK61JT31ggkx3RV6CFDkhM5kY5pE-4L9RKGUMk7pE29mTU0v8BMEPBizDuaB7CaZ9Lqnqx1af6kw-DrzPg8c4j1Y2WxZGA26CU_M_7zXue6b7lvQqooVb0pKcTNAIMhqwaUM7iTxoftW5hfPrj0m1oNpKaG0NMoSBvYnbQ/s225/rainbow.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKpNMc5jWowVq6m-KEKK61JT31ggkx3RV6CFDkhM5kY5pE-4L9RKGUMk7pE29mTU0v8BMEPBizDuaB7CaZ9Lqnqx1af6kw-DrzPg8c4j1Y2WxZGA26CU_M_7zXue6b7lvQqooVb0pKcTNAIMhqwaUM7iTxoftW5hfPrj0m1oNpKaG0NMoSBvYnbQ/w400-h400/rainbow.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><i> —Poetry by Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA<br />—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">HOW TO FLY A KITE<br /><i> in one’s nineties</i><br /><br />After sipping tea or coffee,<br />grip your kite string nonchalantly.<br /><br />Loosen fingers, stretch your hand,<br />make small shadows on the sand.<br /><br />Envision eagles flying high, <br />just missing trees, they climb the sky. <br /><br />Your kite wins Nobel Prize for skies,<br />symbolically slicing truth from lies. <br /><br />You say you had this dream before<br />‘mid driftwood by a windy shore?<br /><br />This kite that flies to far and bold<br />is childhood for all who held and hold.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq0p_JvpL22QIfcaPyQGfxsigwifgd3TYoVdMT-IEUJyiPDjvUVf3mTh0WyA6LWtZcEV0UqtTndn4M_a6YU8X7A8NH9RsH2KverA8oA4qoEURc2uScOuT7pYjLJGt3LldMkG8_GXwj866mNU-tS36FXKmFarjccXPUhIun0fhmb6BxFDBeN-YpIA/s1200/white%20on%20dark.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1200" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq0p_JvpL22QIfcaPyQGfxsigwifgd3TYoVdMT-IEUJyiPDjvUVf3mTh0WyA6LWtZcEV0UqtTndn4M_a6YU8X7A8NH9RsH2KverA8oA4qoEURc2uScOuT7pYjLJGt3LldMkG8_GXwj866mNU-tS36FXKmFarjccXPUhIun0fhmb6BxFDBeN-YpIA/w400-h300/white%20on%20dark.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br />LESSONS IN REFUGIO<i> PARK<br /> Hercules, Ca.</i><br /><br />In this crowded local park,<br />I share a long picnic table<br />with a sign-language instructor,<br />her pages of paper hand positions<br />diagram words, the alphabet <br />spread across our dark green surface.<br /><br />She is teaching two deaf children,<br />now playing nearby, <br />to read her hands and to reply;<br /><br />A blind child, who joins her friends,<br />sits at table’s end. She reads <i>Grimm’s <br />Fairy Tales </i>in Braille, one by one <br />fingering tiny paper-scrambled-eggs,<br />smiling as if she’s unearthing pure gold<br />coins. Sensing my admiration, <br />Maria smiles, moves to sit beside me.<br /><br />Here’s hoping the teacher’s charges <br />learn to read today’s signed message:<br /><i>You are loved, study well, be proud.</i><br /><br />Blind Maria has progressed at close range—<br />all hands and their gestures <br />meaningful, marvelously moving.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMSMO3kwMFj6FdDJuZElGxN4uFbNxHeG0lNClT6awSAMZJg-Bo9MCpDdpy9sPtlxFILaeRqGGevIOF2UFGFreIKo222Ar3qAF6ehQdabbPFASt6y9ghY4kli-Zj2HoZAgnx_7yEl-Ht7kthrfJcLrZTkfAIodfBhTBRBq9B4fjP5AnjQTX2OZeAA/s297/outline.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="170" data-original-width="297" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMSMO3kwMFj6FdDJuZElGxN4uFbNxHeG0lNClT6awSAMZJg-Bo9MCpDdpy9sPtlxFILaeRqGGevIOF2UFGFreIKo222Ar3qAF6ehQdabbPFASt6y9ghY4kli-Zj2HoZAgnx_7yEl-Ht7kthrfJcLrZTkfAIodfBhTBRBq9B4fjP5AnjQTX2OZeAA/w400-h229/outline.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />ROBBIE<br /><br />You, Robbie, warm <br />& real as you were,<br />became a scrap <br />of address, come upon<br />one cold day while looking <br />in a catch-all drawer<br />for matches.<br /><br />Did you slip or soar away?<br />What is your story,<br />your name for or claim<br />to glory--<br />you, Robbie,<br /> warm & real <br /> as you were.<br /><br /><br /><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/7/22; 8/12/23)</span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjWtIXcr4l1q4hapjG-pd523VQtlIImd2d35efdYA9H-wCLk2SpHrtckBDqL7l3jdYYOMTny_M_h9uwXqP_nAY3GrzzuFNzbLgH4VHCubzrEEPIYJPAENoRFwPMvoDz5LWIcatmi7Geo-nEJpfvb7yrzXa4IQoiijkTDSYG3aDMtfkbyeHz1Q5TA/s295/three%20w:sun.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="171" data-original-width="295" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjWtIXcr4l1q4hapjG-pd523VQtlIImd2d35efdYA9H-wCLk2SpHrtckBDqL7l3jdYYOMTny_M_h9uwXqP_nAY3GrzzuFNzbLgH4VHCubzrEEPIYJPAENoRFwPMvoDz5LWIcatmi7Geo-nEJpfvb7yrzXa4IQoiijkTDSYG3aDMtfkbyeHz1Q5TA/w400-h232/three%20w:sun.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /> </span></i><br />OUT OF THE BLUE<br /><br />We remember when<br />songbirds kept <br />circling our doubts.<br /><br />We might have caged <br />them for clarity. <br />Instead, we let <br /><br />the flock circle,<br />as we listened<br />intently to their song.<br /><br /> <br /><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(prev. pub. in </span></i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Brevitie</span><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">s, revised) </span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjJALLU2QizzsOOUs7X46xO0V3HTJv9JfmY60Q2sEoX-tDcAfAwTDlqV53Unipx190fOB9rw4zD5VE9mL24f1xN6b4PnZZlvL8bHwKxtI5RJmToFwvBCI8GxFuIjBnLwMhsz-o5Uo447SkV4h_ZxHMPBfV7XjpJbrdbFoL82eddrwfMu6mucT90w/s302/brown%20lvs.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="167" data-original-width="302" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjJALLU2QizzsOOUs7X46xO0V3HTJv9JfmY60Q2sEoX-tDcAfAwTDlqV53Unipx190fOB9rw4zD5VE9mL24f1xN6b4PnZZlvL8bHwKxtI5RJmToFwvBCI8GxFuIjBnLwMhsz-o5Uo447SkV4h_ZxHMPBfV7XjpJbrdbFoL82eddrwfMu6mucT90w/w400-h221/brown%20lvs.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> </span></i><br /><br />POET WITH DOVES <br /><br />If the dove <br />you released a week ago<br />has not yet circled back <br />to your shoulder,<br />hold out<br />your writing hand<br />palm pitched up and watch<br /><br />a peace dove land<br />on your lifeline<br />which long ago <br />a fortune teller’s story<br />enlivened when<br />unveiled she read <br />your lifeline into glory.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDSxYdHxOKmAIeReAlydaEsOqrv3fwHuxFyElJcfFL1jSy7H6DKez-7Viosxn8yIJamX5A9x02TFdat_pho62NE2VcoaEAApu9dr36Lk-idXjiGI4uh8r0v6pq7cUSM0Wpwherc8wUby5Cer5IDb5h12uNBDd_8kbJHIOIZKKYh26pIeX2by2cAg/s275/wings%20inward.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDSxYdHxOKmAIeReAlydaEsOqrv3fwHuxFyElJcfFL1jSy7H6DKez-7Viosxn8yIJamX5A9x02TFdat_pho62NE2VcoaEAApu9dr36Lk-idXjiGI4uh8r0v6pq7cUSM0Wpwherc8wUby5Cer5IDb5h12uNBDd_8kbJHIOIZKKYh26pIeX2by2cAg/w400-h266/wings%20inward.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <br /> </div><div style="text-align: left;">AGAIN THE CLOUDS ASK.<br /><br />Again the clouds ask<br />while draping the hills<br />of home: <i>must war keep <br />speaking, sickening<br />this water planet?</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">While framing the hills,<br />again the clouds ask:<br /><i>where is healing rain,<br />clean air for forests <br />and river willows?</i><br /><br />Regal in white robes<br />celestially clean,<br />again the clouds ask,<br /><i>will industry go <br />solar/wind full-bore,<br /><br />resist resistance?<br />May clean inner skies<br />bring cosmic colors?</i><br />Again sky-clouds ask,<br />though mostly are mute:<br /><br /><i>when will more windmill <br />birds top hills, reap wind,<br />solar fields humming<br />power for people?</i><br />Again the clouds ask.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzLn76_AKwd9J4yzE-Bzp0fhUO2RWZbkAhEh-p3tUbFtGeAusEzQ8FeX7SeM73V-RnQI9bRPKFmIblQ3aQQJxcNWoRd89b5o0RcQBUMBXA_SxvPRm28MomDv_0huFuxYJXRkRvNtEStYTi3mnw_wme6QtcCKyNqHcFMA3U1OSsZuXlGyABfxUfbw/s2000/white%20on%20grn.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzLn76_AKwd9J4yzE-Bzp0fhUO2RWZbkAhEh-p3tUbFtGeAusEzQ8FeX7SeM73V-RnQI9bRPKFmIblQ3aQQJxcNWoRd89b5o0RcQBUMBXA_SxvPRm28MomDv_0huFuxYJXRkRvNtEStYTi3mnw_wme6QtcCKyNqHcFMA3U1OSsZuXlGyABfxUfbw/w400-h240/white%20on%20grn.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <br /><br />HOMEWARD NOW<br /><br /> A house of cobwebs<br /> is not<br />for me and you<br />since we need golden rooms<br />of flowers and sun.<br />In finding ourselves,<br />we’ve sipped to the dregs<br />a bittersweet brew:<br />have neither lost nor won.<br />Still and evermore <br />no house of cobwebs will do,<br />though sometimes our steps <br />run shadowy and blue<br />and we grow misty<br />from walls pulsating gloom. <br />No house of cobwebs <br /> ever dare loom,<br /> only golden rooms<br /> of flowers and sun.<br /><br />_________________________<br /><br /><i><b>Today’s LittleNip:</b><br /><br />WHAT IF…<br /><br />through every<br />mild and harsh<br />life experience<br />trees<br />of our spirit<br /><br />add another<br />growth ring <br />until we stand tall<br />like Sequoias<br />leaned on by ferns?<br /><br /><br />—Claire J. Baker<br /><br />______________________<br /><br />—Medusa, with thanks to <span style="color: red;">Claire J. Baker</span> for her fine poetry today!</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZJa25PUAGW7k9z1eJjgu2BwEeuPYT3_YktjT82Dv9QVC5AaWIxTNykieasoMWfxPe2c-xoWzT1NAt09ax_HHX0zMzMjkva4cbw-bS99MYqsgLsx2lu-S0sl2MQDzrf85RHxSN-NtO22O6wlxR1BRqhOUWOV9anacdyn4g6MAVqNPu9MUAi3wFLQ/s2048/claire.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1598" data-original-width="2048" height="313" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZJa25PUAGW7k9z1eJjgu2BwEeuPYT3_YktjT82Dv9QVC5AaWIxTNykieasoMWfxPe2c-xoWzT1NAt09ax_HHX0zMzMjkva4cbw-bS99MYqsgLsx2lu-S0sl2MQDzrf85RHxSN-NtO22O6wlxR1BRqhOUWOV9anacdyn4g6MAVqNPu9MUAi3wFLQ/w400-h313/claire.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i> Claire Baker at work while she waits </i><br /><i>for the peace dove</i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /><br /></i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i><i>A reminder that <b><br />Sacramento Poetry Alliance</b> features <br /><span style="color: red;">Danny Romero</span> and <span style="color: red;">Nancy Gonzalez St. Clair</span> <br />today in Sacramento, 4pm;<br />Beers Books presents <b>Authors in Conversation</b><br />with <span style="color: red;">Josh Fernandez</span> and <span style="color: red;">Jamil Jan Kochai</span>, <br />also in Sacramento, 6pm; and<br /><b>Out the Way on J </b>features </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>poets and music tonight, <br />also in Sacramento, 7pm.<br />For info about these and other<br />future poetry happenings in <br />Northern California and otherwheres, <br />click on<br /><b>UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS</b><br />(<a href="http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html">http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html</a>)<br />in the links at the top of this page—<br />and keep an eye on this link and on<br />the daily Kitchen for happenings <br />that might pop up<br />—or get changed!—<br /> during the week.<br /><br />Photos in this column can be enlarged by <br />clicking on them once, then clicking on the x <br />in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.<br /><br />Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down<br />under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button<br />at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets <br />by typing the name of the poet or poem<br /> into the little beige box at the top <br />left-hand side of today’s post; or go to <br />Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of <br />the blue column at the right<br /> to find the date you want.<br /><br />Would you like to be a SnakePal? <br />Guidelines are at the top of this page<br />at the Placating the Gorgon link;<br />send poetry and/or photos and artwork<br />to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post<br />work from all over the world—including<br />that which was previously published—<br />and collaborations are welcome. <br />Just remember:<br />the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—<br />for poetry, of course!</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmFaDetaylGK2OJVimf6uoupYCIk2JzIVZV5I0OdWhInXR2utsdH65f70aGFuKrDfpqQefzIgMYIn-yOJ5uokruthYnOV9pDkWti2qQxUEcMCQK5r7qHM3XGyrOAx4bt-sbyfa-mhyphenhyphenxugkVoRzABpbb7Fxn8wYj8gZGqRhyphenhyphen7FvRXPvt4rhQj0vSw/s1400/tread%20mindfully.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1050" data-original-width="1400" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmFaDetaylGK2OJVimf6uoupYCIk2JzIVZV5I0OdWhInXR2utsdH65f70aGFuKrDfpqQefzIgMYIn-yOJ5uokruthYnOV9pDkWti2qQxUEcMCQK5r7qHM3XGyrOAx4bt-sbyfa-mhyphenhyphenxugkVoRzABpbb7Fxn8wYj8gZGqRhyphenhyphen7FvRXPvt4rhQj0vSw/w200-h150/tread%20mindfully.jpeg" width="200" /></a></div><br /> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /><br /></i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div>Kathy Kieth, Wrangler-in-Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11925893540872899117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13262320.post-46889653376178666572024-03-15T08:36:00.000-07:002024-03-15T08:37:24.732-07:00The Ides of March<div style="text-align: center;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSJ7oLOuLTuRYUNMfs2fJJIiOo3kv9Rji6IHFH5ky0eSHZceJjCbdd8igDaST723klQ9O3mUWCz3wimPqoy9Ica2bzbnoXGzeOXJXFCDi27pBLGf0A6gO6S8_6GvNdqkuGdgH-BZS0Uumxh1_gkhD-ZHJOAfpHUy_8xD3O4Lv6DDdpzt2foYHKwA/s640/pond%20tg.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="481" data-original-width="640" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSJ7oLOuLTuRYUNMfs2fJJIiOo3kv9Rji6IHFH5ky0eSHZceJjCbdd8igDaST723klQ9O3mUWCz3wimPqoy9Ica2bzbnoXGzeOXJXFCDi27pBLGf0A6gO6S8_6GvNdqkuGdgH-BZS0Uumxh1_gkhD-ZHJOAfpHUy_8xD3O4Lv6DDdpzt2foYHKwA/w400-h301/pond%20tg.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> —Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,<br />Placerville, CA<br />—And then scroll down for<br /><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Form Fiddlers’ Friday</span></b>, with poetry by<br />Caschwa, Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,<br />and Joyce Odam</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">INSUFFICIENCIES<br /><br />It’s an early Monday mood, families having <br />breakfast, getting ready for the work-and-school<br />week, worrying about practicalities like money. <br />I’m looking out my kitchen pane sprinkled <br />with more than the forecast “intermittent light <br />rain,” meteorologists uncertain as stockbrokers <br />about what’s really going to happen. Beyond <br />the window, my garden where nothing grows but <br />ground squirrels, and a solitary crow heckling <br />from the wellhouse roof, protesting that I don’t <br />provide a field of golden corn. Be glad <br />for what you’ve got, I tell him—and myself.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIfV3sRp7TaZmf0DUCwa5cak3nL7BR6GExmF_iFRPy2iuxoe8vgGFEmOeJ0Xh5YgPJOShDAuVB6m1Ep8Nff5n4tnILjbe4Qj8U1wafA8zCgAF5MuFjuCjv6VkMWELpVLfvWAxZzkl9Br1Z8KKi8gncKbBt_UfY5cK8E_5FWpFxgABBXabT4WbgFg/s640/fence%20tg.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="481" data-original-width="640" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIfV3sRp7TaZmf0DUCwa5cak3nL7BR6GExmF_iFRPy2iuxoe8vgGFEmOeJ0Xh5YgPJOShDAuVB6m1Ep8Nff5n4tnILjbe4Qj8U1wafA8zCgAF5MuFjuCjv6VkMWELpVLfvWAxZzkl9Br1Z8KKi8gncKbBt_UfY5cK8E_5FWpFxgABBXabT4WbgFg/w400-h301/fence%20tg.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <br /><br />SANDBAGS DOWN THE CREEK<br /><br />Winter of sailing<br />sandbags down the creek becoming<br />a river, sandbags <br />off the levee that was <br /><br />road, water remaking<br />landscape that was <br />pasture, was neighborhood and home.<br />We woke to new year<br /><br />back to zero which was <br />mud from which <br />the water creatures crawled ashore <br />to live under<br /><br />waves of uncertain weather, sandbags<br />sailing like clouds.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDbCWZ4Jm6Dxfsww1bdcjbJmdtPcjd-nka_t0zWEvFIDmQIuqhZwNjJBqVVBFfHIpkL4F8XmtVtDJKGamQsY7OcT8ZxW_EbmyBWfzxCDZJf3cpjImWe0m8MLrJl9nZOidjJkNAUC9sqBFPRGYlerdVJmBesUgYFm8UPXf72Uk5E3vLzCYwmaV8QA/s1920/wht%20flwrs%20tg.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDbCWZ4Jm6Dxfsww1bdcjbJmdtPcjd-nka_t0zWEvFIDmQIuqhZwNjJBqVVBFfHIpkL4F8XmtVtDJKGamQsY7OcT8ZxW_EbmyBWfzxCDZJf3cpjImWe0m8MLrJl9nZOidjJkNAUC9sqBFPRGYlerdVJmBesUgYFm8UPXf72Uk5E3vLzCYwmaV8QA/w400-h300/wht%20flwrs%20tg.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <br /><br />BRIGHT SPOT<br /><br />This small wordsworth of<br />golden daffodils in full<br />bloom with lush green grass<br />outside RV storage, by<br />a campaign sign fallen flat.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxhp35kbjrhKMKdCjco57JYhyJGyAnqiQ9rwg5U5xb2j5qGwQnzGFNBRTvGAeeIWH01qm06WjXlfTwcmbRx52VnraHYurNRnDKnyH5toU9oAmfeCGw_9TAAtm5__7NhlKz54vwF6Z10zKHcaB43Tz-GH9_pV4CzwycqMVC-QZQgvFntZJsNooPKw/s1920/river:trees%20tg.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxhp35kbjrhKMKdCjco57JYhyJGyAnqiQ9rwg5U5xb2j5qGwQnzGFNBRTvGAeeIWH01qm06WjXlfTwcmbRx52VnraHYurNRnDKnyH5toU9oAmfeCGw_9TAAtm5__7NhlKz54vwF6Z10zKHcaB43Tz-GH9_pV4CzwycqMVC-QZQgvFntZJsNooPKw/w400-h300/river:trees%20tg.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br />BEFORE SPRING<br /><br />What does white moth seek?<br />A spirit dances spirals<br />of woods light above the trail.<br /><br />How does the earth tilt?<br />Four dogs come bounding unbound<br />from human leashes to joy.<br /><br />What does river say?<br />Man gazes across water<br />rushing his footprints away.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj43bOgAGXQz3yQZz616_g1nX0gi-bSk-aSVraLvEFPavWNlAylEYY0ux6INh0XxFjj6Q99sWl8706Kpg483Mh-liHt6alDYYheGdv5sM-hZRqZV1MGjERAabwE7qn6AeecQqCL-3QafekbureLlUPC7OuONZXrx8r2uNF7YpYeW16UAGxjdnma2w/s1920/blue%20flwr%20tg.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj43bOgAGXQz3yQZz616_g1nX0gi-bSk-aSVraLvEFPavWNlAylEYY0ux6INh0XxFjj6Q99sWl8706Kpg483Mh-liHt6alDYYheGdv5sM-hZRqZV1MGjERAabwE7qn6AeecQqCL-3QafekbureLlUPC7OuONZXrx8r2uNF7YpYeW16UAGxjdnma2w/w400-h300/blue%20flwr%20tg.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />SEASONAL<br /><br />Behind the concrete dumpster wall,<br />not far from financial planner<br />and dentist, sits a car-seat which<br />served as resting place for someone <br />last summer. Now I find only<br />assorted storm-sodden items <br />of clothing, fallen leaves turning <br />to compost, and a plastic soft-<br />drink cup, mold’s permanent abode.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsYMVLe9kghVp-BNDfzZPwNRRp_UfvOeMSGiZi6K0yvv8-BoBkkg8w5XiMS3fmQv83LJU1zrX2682U9OWzpXqtuZeYo6IANzQNwe9ICQJHNxrUTNP4IlYzm5msz7p2feCPGuZPZHqG4qt7Cpknzrl7zPrV-r8BiP0N6hNFjbQqGe9X3PY3WIhfcg/s640/poo%20tg.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="481" data-original-width="640" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsYMVLe9kghVp-BNDfzZPwNRRp_UfvOeMSGiZi6K0yvv8-BoBkkg8w5XiMS3fmQv83LJU1zrX2682U9OWzpXqtuZeYo6IANzQNwe9ICQJHNxrUTNP4IlYzm5msz7p2feCPGuZPZHqG4qt7Cpknzrl7zPrV-r8BiP0N6hNFjbQqGe9X3PY3WIhfcg/w400-h301/poo%20tg.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />IN PASSING<br /><br />Among a herd of Angus and Charolais, one heifer <br />lies flat on pasture ground. Too far away<br />to tell if she’s breathing. If I’d seen my horse <br />like that, I’d have called the vet. No farmhouse <br />in sight. My dog and I keep walking the trail. <br />The day is overcast and so is my mood. <br />At the bridge we turn back. There’s the field. <br />There’s the heifer awake, alive— <br />not trounced by anything but maybe a touch<br />of pre-spring fever. Grazing now <br />with the rest of the herd. Clouds persist, but sky <br />and earth look brighter.<br /><br /><i>___________________<br /><b><br />Today’s LittleNip:</b><br /><br />BEFORE THE READING<br />—Taylor Graham<br /><br />We wait under tilting circles <br />of one turkey vulture—scanning<br />for dead poets among living?<br />Are our poems alive?<br /><br />___________________<br /><br />The Ides of March bring (or is it brings?) us more fine poetry and photos from <span style="color: red;">Taylor Graham</span>, including a <b>Tanka</b> (“Bright Spot”); some <b>8-syllable lines</b> (“Seasonal”); a <b>Bema's Best</b> (“Sandbags Down the Creek”); a <b>Ryūka</b> that is also a <b>Question Poem</b> (“Before the Reading”); a <b>Word-Can Poem</b> (“Insufficiencies”); and a <b>Katauta</b> (“Before Spring”). The Question Poem and the Katauta were two of last week’s Triple-F Challenges.<br /><br />In El Dorado County poetry this week, <b>Poets and Writers of the Sierra Foothills</b> features <span style="color: red;">Frank Gioia </span>and <span style="color: red;">Paul Godwin</span> in Camino this Sunday, and <b>Poetry in Motion</b> read-around meets in Placerville on Monday morning. Then on Thursday, <b>Cameron Park Library Poets and Writers Workshop </b>meets at 5:30pm. For news about El Dorado County poetry—past (photos!) and future—see Taylor Graham’s <b>Western Slope El Dorado</b> on Facebook at <a href="http://www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry">www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry</a> or see <span style="color: red;">Lara Gularte</span>’s Facebook page at <a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/382234029968077">https://www.facebook.com/groups/382234029968077</a>/. (Poetry is Gold in El Dorado County!) And of course you can always click on Medusa's <b>UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS</b> (<a href="http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html">http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html</a>) for details about future poetry events in the NorCal area. <br /><br />Another workshop that is coming up in ED Country, this one in Georgetown on Saturday, March 23, 1-4pm, is <b>Explore Riparian Landscape Through Art, Poetry and Native Plants</b> with <span style="color: red;">Alicia Funk,</span> <span style="color: red;">Corina del Carmel</span>, and <span style="color: red;">Lara Gularte</span>. You need to pre-register for this one at <a href="http://www.eldoradolibrary.org">www.eldoradolibrary.org</a>. April, National Poetry Month, will be crackling with readings and other events, not the least of which is another <b>Wakamatsu workshop</b> in Placerville with <span style="color: red;">Taylor Graham</span> and <span style="color: red;">Katy Brown </span>on April 14. Register for that at <a href="http://www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry">www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry</a>/.<br /><br />And now it’s time for… <br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY! </span></b></span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;"> </span></b></span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRoMGWzFguHjZqXqdbo39JjXm0v3KEoYVGvTtw3wbXWLDOAibFi5DGJCst2bl7ZVUY4BoSnuT00UhyKpTMRAGQOYGh4w7Y4_aI9LHi93CS6tMnGOaimx6BW1efhU79cRmAycUPpxfgF2NwHuSbda65rOtx5wPynKHMyGMCwAWULgJazRfo0XRt0A/s800/irish%20mouse.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="800" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRoMGWzFguHjZqXqdbo39JjXm0v3KEoYVGvTtw3wbXWLDOAibFi5DGJCst2bl7ZVUY4BoSnuT00UhyKpTMRAGQOYGh4w7Y4_aI9LHi93CS6tMnGOaimx6BW1efhU79cRmAycUPpxfgF2NwHuSbda65rOtx5wPynKHMyGMCwAWULgJazRfo0XRt0A/w200-h200/irish%20mouse.jpeg" width="200" /></a></div></span></b></span>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.)</i><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /> There’s also a 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. Got any more resources to add to our list? Send them to kathykieth@hotmail.com for the benefit of all man/woman/poetkind!</i><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">* * *</div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJrNhiBDodYhOcaUGeBUiKuBl6U8vFeaZuACVSrciK-YN0d35TVXU7E2uWAFIj99VGuHxMyPMJrqeWAIIcLWoNvLX087ojmJKZs3CHnPG-h8zqhU68e6o2XRHnLjk8naWXjkBOay2af4PUZ18VzdLowXe4bGMZcfabmP5kRm9BAUaUhNv_Wwolkg/s400/OLD%20EK%20lion%20cranky%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="400" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJrNhiBDodYhOcaUGeBUiKuBl6U8vFeaZuACVSrciK-YN0d35TVXU7E2uWAFIj99VGuHxMyPMJrqeWAIIcLWoNvLX087ojmJKZs3CHnPG-h8zqhU68e6o2XRHnLjk8naWXjkBOay2af4PUZ18VzdLowXe4bGMZcfabmP5kRm9BAUaUhNv_Wwolkg/w400-h225/OLD%20EK%20lion%20cranky%20jn.png" width="400" /></a></div> <i><b>Last Week’s Ekphrastic Photo</b><br /><br /><br /></i><div style="text-align: left;"><i>This week we received responses to last week’s <b>Ekphrastic</b> photo from </i><span style="color: red;">Caschwa, Nolcha Fox,</span><i> and <span style="color: red;">Stephen Kingsnorth</span>. Caschwa (Carl Schwartz) took the surprising slant of the lion’s teeth; Nolcha used the “out like a lion” angle; and Stephen wrote about some of the many roles of the lion figure in England; he included photos:</i><br /><br /><br />MAKES ME WONDER <br /><i>—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA </i><br /><br />should I pay a little more <br />and get one of those <br />electric toothbrushes <br />that swirls in circles? <br /><br />it has really been tough <br />going using the straight <br />handle ones they give <br />away at the dental office <br /><br />maybe next time I’m in <br />town I’ll stop by the store <br />and grab me some of <br />those newfangled (pun <br />intended) devices<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />MARCH<br /><i>—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY</i><br /><br />The lion and the lamb,<br />a march to a hill,<br />a ribbon of roses<br />I followed to you,<br />the blood and the spear.<br /></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">* * *</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhblXckfsNVul_BUPXaot-sSEbMAdK1v2Xa5qPmoonMHUfHymL19Y8-m7O94ac19l2fDTD9Xxiezwssyxw7OWa2wt5Nyl5xzPzl-k99sabA9bDd1mlDNdIAww5g66ly_A5zI_13UmC-N8kXJsDnk1iBdY6WQltR16P2mpB09ddr1a6YfbDtD112Vg/s474/Lion%20roar%20Trafalgar.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="315" data-original-width="474" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhblXckfsNVul_BUPXaot-sSEbMAdK1v2Xa5qPmoonMHUfHymL19Y8-m7O94ac19l2fDTD9Xxiezwssyxw7OWa2wt5Nyl5xzPzl-k99sabA9bDd1mlDNdIAww5g66ly_A5zI_13UmC-N8kXJsDnk1iBdY6WQltR16P2mpB09ddr1a6YfbDtD112Vg/s320/Lion%20roar%20Trafalgar.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> Lion Statue, Trafalgar Square, London</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of </span></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Stephen Kingsnorth</span></i></div><i> </i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">UPROAR<br /><i>—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales</i><br /><br />If British Empire is its stand,<br />does lion roar with bleat of lamb?<br />It takes me to the prophet’s text:<br />both will lie down, in peace, as one.<br />But human trait, genetic trail,<br />is snarl, growl, teeth, claim monarch’s name,<br />a domination, king with pride,<br />the mane cat prowling on the veld.<br /><br />Now this is mode. one of attack,<br />like those which guard Trafalgar Square —<br />a battle won, past days, acclaim.<br />‘Land of hope and glory’ remains<br />anthem, nation’s prime concert, ‘Prom’—<br />flag wave music, lyrical shame?<br />So there were two kings, left their stamp,<br />just as King Richard, <i>Lionheart,</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuqPRxdUtahzU9xCEr4QpN_a2o4LjcUjwoft6WUd3tQ251URF0W1pwWv4ZYvPwDqKnQOX_j7ZL00agw9qPGggqxrGInRFA_nW8KWacSL7cacfLG8gEZH1gReQ0mYpKafccwyo4Rjnm8vFCGkUgXChAsLEE5qstgm0F7lLl6cjkYM7oqYaU245ArQ/s289/Lion%20stamp.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="248" data-original-width="289" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuqPRxdUtahzU9xCEr4QpN_a2o4LjcUjwoft6WUd3tQ251URF0W1pwWv4ZYvPwDqKnQOX_j7ZL00agw9qPGggqxrGInRFA_nW8KWacSL7cacfLG8gEZH1gReQ0mYpKafccwyo4Rjnm8vFCGkUgXChAsLEE5qstgm0F7lLl6cjkYM7oqYaU245ArQ/s1600/Lion%20stamp.jpg" width="289" /></a></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of </span></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Stephen Kingsnorth</span></i></div></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />With <i>katzenjammer, </i>caterwaul,<br />its rumble with a five mile spread,<br />the highest count of decibels,<br />for any beast in prairie lair;<br />is this the carcass, Samson’s tale,<br />bee swarm’s retreat for honey sweet,<br />brand syrup tin for Tate and Lyle? <br />It’s changing now, for world’s moved on,<br />Bible, empire, but not uproar.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2zglzcWw802GfdIA0X9ynL9L6wcJOWBgiY-STqucxBLwyqDoZjjcvihWu3EDrFV3UcN9uaph5Kcj0KGU04sGWbNB_HmNSdwcS2f4NjWjq_-ZV-52jYvzwaw2fxeWWXaYwLtVN_VODij1oVp84xj1OTR6OeO1Qx0Wi3Iwowfbg78IWpnJuBCrBig/s314/Tate%20and%20Lyle.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="235" data-original-width="314" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2zglzcWw802GfdIA0X9ynL9L6wcJOWBgiY-STqucxBLwyqDoZjjcvihWu3EDrFV3UcN9uaph5Kcj0KGU04sGWbNB_HmNSdwcS2f4NjWjq_-ZV-52jYvzwaw2fxeWWXaYwLtVN_VODij1oVp84xj1OTR6OeO1Qx0Wi3Iwowfbg78IWpnJuBCrBig/s1600/Tate%20and%20Lyle.jpg" width="314" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i><span style="font-size: x-small;">—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of </span></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Stephen Kingsnorth</span></i></div></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">* * *<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><i><span style="color: red;">Taylor Graham</span> sent us a poem made up of 8-syllable lines this week (“Seasonal”, see above). Here is a moody tour-de-force by <span style="color: red;">Joyce Odam</span> that is made up of <b>seven-syllable lines:</b></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><i> </i></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmre5HydiO553PKoW_9WvDBrca5coYE7tgyTH-ETPxtMAfFjeuzckDVDn8V9rG22_UG6P-ElTI-suTdVjgzKvUiWTehQyRhG6Ph_Y414aiUHX6lfbDDV-SBkLxeiGBSXhdJ3qMRHhFiQhIF_U2AIKHBkcMhvO3wcQCz8WVjbqt3PGYPWbcmtC2wA/s500/stairs%20kk.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="375" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmre5HydiO553PKoW_9WvDBrca5coYE7tgyTH-ETPxtMAfFjeuzckDVDn8V9rG22_UG6P-ElTI-suTdVjgzKvUiWTehQyRhG6Ph_Y414aiUHX6lfbDDV-SBkLxeiGBSXhdJ3qMRHhFiQhIF_U2AIKHBkcMhvO3wcQCz8WVjbqt3PGYPWbcmtC2wA/s320/stairs%20kk.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> —Photo Courtesy of Public Domain</span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />THE MOODY HISTORY <br /><i>—Joyce Odam<br />After “Natural History Museum, London” </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>(a photo by Tony Ginger) </i><br /><br />Everywhere there are stairways <br />and halls, curved walls and windows, <br />ornate shadows and random <br />echoes that burrow through the <br />old places that seem to be <br />inhabited, though they are <br />empty now—all the olden <br />palaces and castles and <br />cathedrals—some in forests, <br />some on moors. Even the seas <br />remember them—nearby or <br />distant—all the old tourists <br />with their fables and tales. I’ve <br />read of them and lived a few. <br />I know how they feel, and smell, <br />and moan, ever-so-slightly <br />at every departure. Their <br />musty draperies still hold <br />together and their cellars <br />still guard the wine. Their stories <br />are buried in forgetting—<br />their stairways still climb, and their <br />walls still curve together in <br />searchings and followings. Damp <br />halls disappear into rooms <br />that watch the widows fill with <br />captured views that never change. <br /><br /><i><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/27/19) </span><br /><br />* * *<br /><br />And here is an <b>Ars Poetica</b> from <span style="color: red;">Stephen Kingsnorth</span>, wherein he writes about the importance of poetry to him despite his ongoing battle with Parkinson’s Disease:</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW9JWeUUeMjVunG5_fMzSTMPuExS9f4IleWf_khM02Ouc1WIfqQOlX1fiALPH2oU-CicPbMHKB-QMCW3f8alR51PWaS3R6_prnEzpcx-ui-GaT0YXVbW1eEfHdvs5Kg7kYN_t9uiFPyIPUhie9sY3qrNn7FPSfVRk4nZrTTPwmbhhy-DFl-QTe9g/s169/charlatan%20sk.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="169" data-original-width="159" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW9JWeUUeMjVunG5_fMzSTMPuExS9f4IleWf_khM02Ouc1WIfqQOlX1fiALPH2oU-CicPbMHKB-QMCW3f8alR51PWaS3R6_prnEzpcx-ui-GaT0YXVbW1eEfHdvs5Kg7kYN_t9uiFPyIPUhie9sY3qrNn7FPSfVRk4nZrTTPwmbhhy-DFl-QTe9g/w301-h320/charlatan%20sk.png" width="301" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of </span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Stephen Kingsnorth <br /></span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">CHARLATAN VS. CROWN OR CLOWN<br /><i>—Stephen Kingsnorth</i><br /><br />I am a poet, foremost, first.<br />I’ll not let symptoms interfere—<br />though balance wayward, sway or turn, <br />twitch, stumble, gout, or catch a fall,<br />handshake infirm or aching joint,<br />kick boxing though the woken night,<br />afflictions’ visit of the old,<br />arthritis—yes, the list is long.<br />But they’ll not dominate my lines,<br />or freeze me out from what I do,<br />as shuffle through the tipping point<br />to reach beyond imposed ill health.<br />Such imposition will not steal—<br />some claimed pathetic fallacy.<br /><br />I am a poet, foremost, first.<br />I’ve words to write, as muse dictates,<br />a smith to bend wrought curlicues,<br />as wonder, wander through my world<br />of grief and joy, community;<br />apprentice journeyman unfolds<br />both secrets and the obvious,<br />with craft of glyphs laid side by side, <br />by rhythm berthed at pulse’s core.<br />I’ll not provide my illness space<br />to bully, assert, cower me.<br />This charlatan can’t have his way,<br />that sham, fake, but a shameless quack; <br />my days are mine and so will be.<br /><br />I’ll prove I’m poet first, foremost,<br />and not an advert, symptom’s reign.<br />It has no voice, less give it so,<br />can claim no power, unless allowed,<br />for it’s my verse from first to last,<br />that moves, if so, beyond that chance<br />encounter with drained dopamine—<br />whatever is afflicting you,<br />some metaphor that draws the line,<br />that illness claiming it is prime.<br />If you read me, my sick complaint,<br />then I have failed to dominate,<br />instead of being, complement,<br />the stanza as my one concern.<br /><br />Treat as imposter vain disease;<br />why rant, accord significance?<br />Exhibit crown, though maybe clown<br />that versifies because I must.<br />I’ll not use fighting talk again,<br />as if the bout what’s all about,<br />this cheat who thinks the knockout his,<br />but won’t deflect me from what’s mine.<br />So while my will, ignore the lout,<br />his spouting in my ear I’m ill—<br />it’s an ill wind that blows no good—<br />creative stirred in paint and word,<br />and peerless gold when friends involved,<br />as I count peers in my surround.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyjOYGaBnjPV8vA5pGKhbpKPJGq5cH4wXbu50GoyTKkTg0o5m39GdV24NP_ok2s5uEl7fX-yWzIAXWMVirT4Ni-oPc5OrpFyp-eOnOYOKVEhMoAp4PC1EZXh3YCmPO36lvYTPkWvFD1oiB5EG_nn1qJ44ljUKq1tJ9h4ZluY4D9PCULL56unYGcw/s2527/Cream%20Tea%20sk.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2527" data-original-width="1920" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyjOYGaBnjPV8vA5pGKhbpKPJGq5cH4wXbu50GoyTKkTg0o5m39GdV24NP_ok2s5uEl7fX-yWzIAXWMVirT4Ni-oPc5OrpFyp-eOnOYOKVEhMoAp4PC1EZXh3YCmPO36lvYTPkWvFD1oiB5EG_nn1qJ44ljUKq1tJ9h4ZluY4D9PCULL56unYGcw/s320/Cream%20Tea%20sk.jpg" width="243" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> Stephen and Denise Kingsnorth</i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><i><br />Our recent Ekphrastic photo challenge featured a tea set, and Stephen sent this photo of him at tea with his lovely wife, Denise.</i><br /><br /><i>___________________<br /><br />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!<br /><br />___________________<br /><br /><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">TRIPLE-F CHALLENGES! </span></b></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJC_Lplj9R09dJ70-jYPvKOB_7EGZpCXoxxykJyI-OnK6jqlfed2tW3e1tkzXOFrKloWjpTKinSEs9B96QKXct31CaYZpzEFh-nkyTffonq_86j5sKIAdG2tmidH7Jrpiu7z1gNF5ZUwqvN8w2CjjNsEEviRqSir_ySWArwt-N2wBYg2dWd8emWw/s1300/snake%20around%20pen.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="778" data-original-width="1300" height="120" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJC_Lplj9R09dJ70-jYPvKOB_7EGZpCXoxxykJyI-OnK6jqlfed2tW3e1tkzXOFrKloWjpTKinSEs9B96QKXct31CaYZpzEFh-nkyTffonq_86j5sKIAdG2tmidH7Jrpiu7z1gNF5ZUwqvN8w2CjjNsEEviRqSir_ySWArwt-N2wBYg2dWd8emWw/w200-h120/snake%20around%20pen.jpg" width="200" /></a></div></span></b>See what you can make of these challenges, and send your results to kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.) Here’s a crazy-maker, the <b>Barbee</b>. (One of our SnakePals is<span style="color: red;"> Sam Barbee</span>, but I’m sure this has no relation to him...)<br /><br />•••<b>Barbee:</b> <a href="https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/barbee">https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/barbee<br /></a><br />•••AND/OR the equally exacting form with an interesting name, the <b>Blood Quill</b>:<br /><br />•••<b>Blood Quill:</b> <a href="https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/blood-quill">https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/blood-quill</a><br /><br />•••AND/OR a form that is appropriate to the season and the times we live in, the <b>Bryant</b>:<br /><br />•••<b>Bryant: </b><a href="https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/bryant">https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/bryant<br /></a><br />•••See also the bottom of this post for another challenge, this one an<b> Ekphrastic</b> photo.<br /><br />•••And don’t forget each <b>Tuesday’s Seed of the Week!</b> This week it’s “Kites”.<br /><br />____________________<br /><br /><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">MEDUSA’S FORM FINDER: Links to poetry terms mentioned today:</span></b><br /><br />•••<b>Ars Poetica:</b> <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ars-poetica">www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ars-poetica</a><br />•••<b>Barbee:</b> <a href="https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/barbee">https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/barbee</a><br />•••<b>Bema’s Best:</b> <a href="https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/bemas-best">https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/bemas-best</a><br />•••<b>Blood Quill:</b> <a href="https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/blood-quill">https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/blood-quill</a><br />•••<b>Bryant:</b> <a href="https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/bryant">https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/bryant</a><br />•••<b>Ekphrastic Poem:</b> <a href="http://notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry">notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry</a> <br />•••<b>Katauta:</b> <a href="http://www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/katauta-poetic-form">www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/katauta-poetic-form</a><br />•••<b>Question Poem:</b> <a href="http://penandthepad.com/write-question-poem-6933078.html">penandthepad.com/write-question-poem-6933078.html</a><br />•••<b>Ryūka:</b> <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ryūka">en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ryūka</a><br />•••<b>Tanka: </b><a href="http://poets.org/glossary/tanka">poets.org/glossary/tanka</a><br />•••<b>Word-Can Poem:</b> putting random words on slips of paper into a can, then drawing out a few and making a poem out of them<br /><br />___________________<br /><br />—Medusa</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggzMNB9WKvrvsBYaJQ5NpY5xhHX2RvMoT5nNEwrZ4znWmZ_njH-P6vlBgszx-mBYQ1_K6tU2hEbDYg_zE1vhbd8GS6CwbBi9WOIkoodU_xJjAR1tSi2h4gEijrs4cH7FDJcBlQO2c3Pca8uw9HM43UOQ7XOcQ4QxBvLU9m2SPTa2fhNCHKSGDMmA/s350/NEW%20EK%20lady%20w:a%20fan%201904%20raphael%20kirchner%20austrian%201876-1917.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="240" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggzMNB9WKvrvsBYaJQ5NpY5xhHX2RvMoT5nNEwrZ4znWmZ_njH-P6vlBgszx-mBYQ1_K6tU2hEbDYg_zE1vhbd8GS6CwbBi9WOIkoodU_xJjAR1tSi2h4gEijrs4cH7FDJcBlQO2c3Pca8uw9HM43UOQ7XOcQ4QxBvLU9m2SPTa2fhNCHKSGDMmA/w274-h400/NEW%20EK%20lady%20w:a%20fan%201904%20raphael%20kirchner%20austrian%201876-1917.jpg" width="274" /></a></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b> Today's Ekphrastic Challenge!</b></i><br /><i> </i><br /><i> Make what you can of today's </i><br /><i>picture, and send your poetic results to </i><br /><i>kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.)</i><br /><br /><i>* * *</i><br /><br /><i>—Illustration Courtesy</i><br /><i>of Public Domain</i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> <br /><br /><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i>A reminder that</i><br /><i>Luna’s Cafe retired barista/owner</i><br /><i><span style="color: red;">Art Luna</span> <b>will speak today </b></i><br /><i>about his experiences at Luna’s— </i><br /><i>CSUS, 3pm.</i><br /><br /><i>Photos in this column can be enlarged by </i><br /><i>clicking on them once, then clicking on the x </i><br /><i>in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.</i><br /><br /><i>Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down</i><br /><i>under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button</i><br /><i>at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets </i><br /><i>by typing the name of the poet or poem</i><br /><i> into the little beige box at the top </i><br /><i>left-hand side of today’s post; or go to </i><br /><i>Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of </i><br /><i>the blue column at the right</i><br /><i> to find the date you want.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Uo_04Lk5_neOWkLIzoWqIJqHRVhpJhjgLr3CQ7tg-TV9ZDO15qfI7vZ1Ij7DA6b0ALuW5SCu0nqwxD5tphHyeZDtvXwiqh7K6wAeWXxUp9kMhWKSCwTdcfYCEMk26x1Xj2xjqhnEiFqdP34qYwahk09vDt5L7CZTm0h9IAEzJXL4LI9sCPjWjQ/s693/crocus.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="693" data-original-width="658" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Uo_04Lk5_neOWkLIzoWqIJqHRVhpJhjgLr3CQ7tg-TV9ZDO15qfI7vZ1Ij7DA6b0ALuW5SCu0nqwxD5tphHyeZDtvXwiqh7K6wAeWXxUp9kMhWKSCwTdcfYCEMk26x1Xj2xjqhnEiFqdP34qYwahk09vDt5L7CZTm0h9IAEzJXL4LI9sCPjWjQ/w190-h200/crocus.png" width="190" /></a></div> LittleSnake celebrates Spring</i><br /><i>with crocuses</i><br /><br /></div><br /></div><i><br /><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div>Kathy Kieth, Wrangler-in-Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11925893540872899117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13262320.post-60594764343488028022024-03-14T08:36:00.000-07:002024-03-14T08:36:09.377-07:00I Am A River<div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0sdgYmXvUXUqmVv52ZIQQc81f4WJmHSL-9ldoyN4ysiT9GFQaFVWhmOvCLriFlwkceBRDQFUllB_WgXU-_lKQ5tfu2Nuas8VbT1FSFR7ts6XowpvN1ZydHViJAY9Ds4Km2VlU2XqnV88ro_lExetlI73sPpi6HiB_SnlYypYzDOsQYmZSeL861A/s1920/stuck:restaurant.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1282" data-original-width="1920" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0sdgYmXvUXUqmVv52ZIQQc81f4WJmHSL-9ldoyN4ysiT9GFQaFVWhmOvCLriFlwkceBRDQFUllB_WgXU-_lKQ5tfu2Nuas8VbT1FSFR7ts6XowpvN1ZydHViJAY9Ds4Km2VlU2XqnV88ro_lExetlI73sPpi6HiB_SnlYypYzDOsQYmZSeL861A/w400-h268/stuck:restaurant.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><i> —Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY<br />—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of<br />Nolcha Fox </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">STUCK IN THE RESTAURANT OF HELL<br /><br />Any time I want to do <br />what’s easy, not what’s right,<br />I know I’ll find myself <br />locked in the Restaurant of Hell.<br />Servers could take centuries<br />to notice I am there.<br />They pour my coffee down my neck<br />instead of in my cup.<br />The roast beef is still mooing,<br />and bleeding on the plate,<br />and leaves a cake of poop<br />before it wanders out the door.<br />The salad sags and vibrates.<br />It grew from nuclear waste.<br />The bill is triple even though<br />I sit here all alone.<br />I’m paying for the privilege<br />of gagging up my food.<br />Best to choose some better moves<br />before it is too late,<br />and make my reservations<br />for a seat at heaven’s gate.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHCfpceHfbpnmJG9ZPkxz8DQlseuh-YkFzYSLZcJB6QkwyJ50W-xmz3TOIQQFqUOUnf_swDfShlfEvNPtWFHJIdcHX2e5jI8X11PQZdgjLEC9c8N_rOYBumZTU7lmEYQKyplifiszzyvX2FZDo3op-pqxbqtbvLjwPL6aIfFUoybXZHnKw8EM78Q/s1920/taking%20sides.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1920" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHCfpceHfbpnmJG9ZPkxz8DQlseuh-YkFzYSLZcJB6QkwyJ50W-xmz3TOIQQFqUOUnf_swDfShlfEvNPtWFHJIdcHX2e5jI8X11PQZdgjLEC9c8N_rOYBumZTU7lmEYQKyplifiszzyvX2FZDo3op-pqxbqtbvLjwPL6aIfFUoybXZHnKw8EM78Q/w400-h266/taking%20sides.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <br /><br />TAKING SIDES<br /><br />It’s true that we must take a side,<br />left or right, up in the sky <br />or down below.<br />But I can choose another place,<br />perhaps the center of the room.<br />Or I can choose to hold my ground, <br />to claim what’s mine,<br />refuse to yield.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSyDQj_qcnaqEnCBoWV1VGRLRiz8QRvlhCOKUaAkmIhYeo8VMfOIYxA_7YGkG92YrNKIbNVLVRpEcxpAqczMdw1wPLNmwQXzQnqh_16mkwD0v01_ZcdH0DPqk-A1osmcVNY2xkKHuqTR0eEQyjNaKN6vz3hgwciCyFYCLYhlPfhVfrLSRJ2wi44Q/s1920/solitary.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSyDQj_qcnaqEnCBoWV1VGRLRiz8QRvlhCOKUaAkmIhYeo8VMfOIYxA_7YGkG92YrNKIbNVLVRpEcxpAqczMdw1wPLNmwQXzQnqh_16mkwD0v01_ZcdH0DPqk-A1osmcVNY2xkKHuqTR0eEQyjNaKN6vz3hgwciCyFYCLYhlPfhVfrLSRJ2wi44Q/w400-h300/solitary.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <br /><br />SOLITARY <br /><br />A sickly sun behind a cell tower considers being swallowed into the mouth of a sullen steel bridge. A rusted shopping cart, the only vehicle parked in an empty lot, steels itself to roll into the concrete river under the bridge. Gone are the sticky fingers, the heavy loads, the metal-on-metal collisions. In this desolate world, it dreams of basking in warm, green water, of sparkling in the sun. It dreams of beauty.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSjsHc1Jn5FfhwLjt6HvxfplCaYWy-7zw7QBXbGfLiwhJr5CcCvfHE-b81WEC3ViE-cZG1ajUblK45oJ6WJuDy_IiDGeL35RaAXo4Wvg_gz3f19czEVgkZ4fL4mO49BfKeO8BBpkhSvPJ6Ngs81W4ew7c4hUo4v3U4v0bX4SxQWiabY9VcrI4xwQ/s1920/you%20adore:feet.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1920" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSjsHc1Jn5FfhwLjt6HvxfplCaYWy-7zw7QBXbGfLiwhJr5CcCvfHE-b81WEC3ViE-cZG1ajUblK45oJ6WJuDy_IiDGeL35RaAXo4Wvg_gz3f19czEVgkZ4fL4mO49BfKeO8BBpkhSvPJ6Ngs81W4ew7c4hUo4v3U4v0bX4SxQWiabY9VcrI4xwQ/w400-h266/you%20adore:feet.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <br /><br />YOU ADORE MY FEET<br /><br />You swaddle me in fuzzy crush,<br />you keep me from the snow and ice.<br />You don’t mind acrylic stench<br />when my wool socks are in the wash.<br />I love you more than you are worth.<br />I swoon for you when days turn cold.<br />You are my only darling<br />til your laces break or soles wear out,<br />dear winter boots.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOPSGIbj4RMNS55Y0C6GlsgVNJi-MLNjNoKYLLz3DeAoHTLZav418iuHJ-xtB7QkWgEQN8vg31vowPMWwDWl1ciGyj-k69G0bQ8QYmyEV8oCQ8RxtotYbeYbkbfOfXwSnfhMkmEhwHGI3W5hOQXClXfGpi6AkQXZjxx7CEzgTU8WKFxozDtyQvLA/s1920/carried%20inside.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1920" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOPSGIbj4RMNS55Y0C6GlsgVNJi-MLNjNoKYLLz3DeAoHTLZav418iuHJ-xtB7QkWgEQN8vg31vowPMWwDWl1ciGyj-k69G0bQ8QYmyEV8oCQ8RxtotYbeYbkbfOfXwSnfhMkmEhwHGI3W5hOQXClXfGpi6AkQXZjxx7CEzgTU8WKFxozDtyQvLA/w400-h266/carried%20inside.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <br /><br />CARRIED INSIDE<br /><br />I thought I left everything behind when I walked out with two suitcases and a typewriter. <br /><br />I thought I left behind the blinds that rippled from too many days with a humidifier, and too many summer evenings I pushed them aside to watch my friends play when I was supposed to be in bed. I thought I left behind the confusion I was for the woman I wanted to be. I thought I left behind a shattered marriage, anger, and neglect for something better I’d never seen. <br /><br />I opened my suitcases. It was all there, everything I thought I left.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwdLccnfap9zXbNy1LcunYuoy0wJigzb3pPczJnplEcsKSB33Ws9aelGZuPiocLzFfqiALokHv_f7Xn0IA0ZWoGZn5UGm169fRgBJEFZyRkTz5Svw281Ceyth9ZVvJs39hF-B1MnAPQpDl-7jQ-mHCP-G9Y57UN_gUTwInx12H20E47FamgCxzUQ/s1920/shut%20up.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1271" data-original-width="1920" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwdLccnfap9zXbNy1LcunYuoy0wJigzb3pPczJnplEcsKSB33Ws9aelGZuPiocLzFfqiALokHv_f7Xn0IA0ZWoGZn5UGm169fRgBJEFZyRkTz5Svw281Ceyth9ZVvJs39hF-B1MnAPQpDl-7jQ-mHCP-G9Y57UN_gUTwInx12H20E47FamgCxzUQ/w400-h265/shut%20up.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />SHUT UP<br /><br />I heard a voice inside my head<br />that was dissatisfied.<br />You’ll never learn to cook a steak.<br />You’ll never be house-trained.<br />You’d fail as a mother.<br />You barely rate as wife.<br />Your hair’s too gray to wear so short.<br />Your butt is way too wide.<br /><br />I tried a bribe of Reese’s<br />to make that voice go quiet.<br />The voice was unimpressed<br />and snarled she’d only eat Godiva.<br />I gave the voice a ticket<br />to a tropic paradise.<br />She said she went there yesterday<br />and prices were too high.<br /><br />I joined the local marching band.<br />I played the music loud.<br />The voice gave up and went away,<br />but now I’ve lost my hearing. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLhDHIC047pi70bCOPcZUIjt_H99HG2aPHO__3LlHVWRxNkKV5zzCa9h23fD-5OSaUSB_mQI3c0ARPdfzJo5pA9elVT1Gnvu7X8LevODvRChevmbHRSnwmgPQjonOWhpb30r-n2cu_XQOS7KbnD6YhrIWehNdJ03j3Sg5GnEWmFsuJXIWPKB7iyw/s1920/it's%20all%20water.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1277" data-original-width="1920" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLhDHIC047pi70bCOPcZUIjt_H99HG2aPHO__3LlHVWRxNkKV5zzCa9h23fD-5OSaUSB_mQI3c0ARPdfzJo5pA9elVT1Gnvu7X8LevODvRChevmbHRSnwmgPQjonOWhpb30r-n2cu_XQOS7KbnD6YhrIWehNdJ03j3Sg5GnEWmFsuJXIWPKB7iyw/w400-h266/it's%20all%20water.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />IT’S ALL WATER<br /><br />1.<br />Rivers empty into the mouths <br />of other rivers that kiss the sea.<br />The sea spits up water into the mouths of clouds.<br />Clouds open their mouths to drench the land with <br />rain.<br />I am a river, drinking the rain, thirsting for the sea.<br /><br />2.<br />You stare for hours at the waves,<br />your feet tangled in kelp, <br />sea and sand in soggy shoes.<br />Sun or rain or heavy seas,<br />you let the cold into your bones.<br />Perhaps you see your younger self<br />splashing in the surf.<br />Perhaps you see the ship<br />you never took sail out to sea.<br />Perhaps you’re waiting for the time<br />you turn to salt,<br />to melt into water.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9cyv57n1qdQpCbqRXJp3DfqFlhuzpjVUltaHvbKJJ9vR5ioMzeynMt9lVUnRg-3daproYn7r1IhNNgALoZcOyNkHi8T5UcuZxMUDUsEkI-pm2hs1Grn4e2BLiZTqjHypP64u_8LmbXLEpYWHcHiAAMLed2EqMY5U-eyEdBocNVJDIhY4QJesE-w/s500/memory%20keeper.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="333" data-original-width="500" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9cyv57n1qdQpCbqRXJp3DfqFlhuzpjVUltaHvbKJJ9vR5ioMzeynMt9lVUnRg-3daproYn7r1IhNNgALoZcOyNkHi8T5UcuZxMUDUsEkI-pm2hs1Grn4e2BLiZTqjHypP64u_8LmbXLEpYWHcHiAAMLed2EqMY5U-eyEdBocNVJDIhY4QJesE-w/w400-h266/memory%20keeper.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />MEMORY KEEPER<br /><br />You were the one I went to<br />when I could not recall<br />silly things. What do I take<br />to make congestion go away?<br />What remedies can ease<br />the aches of living every day?<br />Family stories, recipes,<br />you kept them in your mind.<br />My soggy brain was free<br />of all the weight of memories.<br />You left with all your treasures,<br />and now I have to find<br />a box to keep what I retained<br />before it slips away.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj942WUDwaiors3WxGoDIgWzaGtiCh-E-S9En-clngyToY-HDmcmZny_YmZ2fJbP66-loZsgeD8Tw1Heo8C94vxaw2NKzSK-hgVvboSyqGLNm5ncgNeaBqhXDEPvFLB4GdJirMFf-v10LvEJ8Rgc2e751QQ-pR5TH4pekFhyJm75a6LK5_iNy_juA/s1920/signs%20from:beyond.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1920" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj942WUDwaiors3WxGoDIgWzaGtiCh-E-S9En-clngyToY-HDmcmZny_YmZ2fJbP66-loZsgeD8Tw1Heo8C94vxaw2NKzSK-hgVvboSyqGLNm5ncgNeaBqhXDEPvFLB4GdJirMFf-v10LvEJ8Rgc2e751QQ-pR5TH4pekFhyJm75a6LK5_iNy_juA/w400-h266/signs%20from:beyond.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <br /><br />SIGNS FROM THE BEYOND</div><p></p><p>My family was never a model of clear communica-<br />tion. I had to ferret out the meanings on my own. <br />Closed doors, silence, facial rictus, walking out the <br />door. Most often, I was left alone, puzzled by the <br />absence. <br /><br />They’ve refused to tell me what it’s like when<br />bodies turn to ash and bones, to tell me of their <br />wanderings now that they’re only souls. <br /><br />Or maybe I just miss the little things they send to <br />tell me they’re ok, to let me know they’re helping <br />me when I don’t know what to do. <br /><br />Or maybe they do now in death what they did when <br />alive. Just leave without a wave goodbye, to never<br />speak of where they are, to travel on their own.</p><div style="text-align: left;">___________________<br /><br /><i><b>Today’s LittleNip:</b><br /><br />I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I JUST WROTE, <br />BUT DON’T I SOUND SMART?</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>—Nolcha Fox<br /><br />Decay of plausible resignation,<br />vanquished regret,<br />exit from a circus of addiction.<br /><br />___________________<br /><br />—Medusa, with thanks to <span style="color: red;">Nolcha Fox</span> for today’s fine poetry!</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2V781ID-VuXsJNFNm2s2V1w4zW9AnzMFmS2gZ8aHIHGnIxPRkeRkxNeJh6w26GP8QjsX0NG9DohPim8HTEMaC-cfX25hYtWOaCXouKJkgkptKkFkwAOPxsGUILgNvodqXQo8jbdFNDuG1OhZ0AZqF8vfkdfuyzDSRO5OjLvRXF8BIvpxkmTx7jQ/s675/fox%20face%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="618" data-original-width="675" height="366" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2V781ID-VuXsJNFNm2s2V1w4zW9AnzMFmS2gZ8aHIHGnIxPRkeRkxNeJh6w26GP8QjsX0NG9DohPim8HTEMaC-cfX25hYtWOaCXouKJkgkptKkFkwAOPxsGUILgNvodqXQo8jbdFNDuG1OhZ0AZqF8vfkdfuyzDSRO5OjLvRXF8BIvpxkmTx7jQ/w400-h366/fox%20face%20jn.png" width="400" /></a></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i> —Public Domain Photo Courtesy </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA</i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>For future poetry happenings in </i><br /><i>Northern California and otherwheres, </i><br /><i>click on</i><br /><i><b>UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS</b></i><br /><i>(<a href="http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html">http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html</a>)</i><br /><i>in the links at the top of this page—</i><br /><i>and keep an eye on this link and on</i><br /><i>the daily Kitchen for happenings </i><br /><i>that might pop up</i><br /><i>—or get changed!—</i><br /><i> during the week.</i><br /><br /><i>Photos in this column can be enlarged by </i><br /><i>clicking on them once, then clicking on the x </i><br /><i>in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.</i><br /><br /><i>Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down</i><br /><i>under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button</i><br /><i>at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets </i><br /><i>by typing the name of the poet or poem</i><br /><i> into the little beige box at the top </i><br /><i>left-hand side of today’s post; or go to </i><br /><i>Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of </i><br /><i>the blue column at the right</i><br /><i> to find the date you want.</i><br /><br /><i>Would you like to be a SnakePal? </i><br /><i>Guidelines are at the top of this page</i><br /><i>at the Placating the Gorgon link;</i><br /><i>send poetry and/or photos and artwork</i><br /><i>to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post</i><br /><i>work from all over the world—including</i><br /><i>that which was previously published—</i><br /><i>and collaborations are welcome. </i><br /><i>Just remember:</i><br /><i>the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—</i><br /><i>for poetry, of course!</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6uSy-vTTVoaY-EwHt6hc5luBxTn9kx5NsbAJ8qEi1PJOQQ6E-GRAHsZRjjZXx1aXpHzm9iDX7KXCzWEr1kSOw9ADH0S0y1AR6nW6oNh9XzAZiPC72MYnHwcGnSKNcAn_Yz69HGZWlouR2S21x1Q4unpuR_fB8UNlGTwHg3-v6xNAWrSzxBR4QSg/s300/snake%20yo.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" height="112" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6uSy-vTTVoaY-EwHt6hc5luBxTn9kx5NsbAJ8qEi1PJOQQ6E-GRAHsZRjjZXx1aXpHzm9iDX7KXCzWEr1kSOw9ADH0S0y1AR6nW6oNh9XzAZiPC72MYnHwcGnSKNcAn_Yz69HGZWlouR2S21x1Q4unpuR_fB8UNlGTwHg3-v6xNAWrSzxBR4QSg/w200-h112/snake%20yo.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /> </i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div> </div>Kathy Kieth, Wrangler-in-Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11925893540872899117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13262320.post-58776997512776397962024-03-13T08:35:00.000-07:002024-03-13T08:35:39.597-07:00Stranger in the House<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVAn16iCKVCOUNfLgdhse35WhKFb3eaB-fNSsQyARauDlNSre6PKswnN5BcW6mRgq4BU-jFhUTd-Zm4wCnDiiANW6DMPFQj0MlABdqr94YTE_TGeXr6swe9_ZPcexPw6eFIU_wobSf6EJ9-9J65GHj6y3KznYe28wYVwsRl9x4jSPfhheM9kXlfQ/s450/top.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="450" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVAn16iCKVCOUNfLgdhse35WhKFb3eaB-fNSsQyARauDlNSre6PKswnN5BcW6mRgq4BU-jFhUTd-Zm4wCnDiiANW6DMPFQj0MlABdqr94YTE_TGeXr6swe9_ZPcexPw6eFIU_wobSf6EJ9-9J65GHj6y3KznYe28wYVwsRl9x4jSPfhheM9kXlfQ/w400-h320/top.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><i> —Poetry by Joshua C. Frank<br />—Cartoons Courtesy of Public Domain</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">IF YOU CAN’T BELIEVE IT’S NOT BUTTER<br /><br />If solidified oil with chemical clutter<br />That helps it look yellow and tasty to eat<br />Makes you think there’s no need to believe it’s <br />not butter,<br />You believe in modernity’s biggest deceit.<br /><br />If you think things can just be replaced with a <br />model<br />And the ghost of what’s good is on par with <br />the best,<br />If chemical mixtures that go in a bottle<br />Can replace Mother’s milk and the warmth of <br />her breast,<br /><br />If changing appearance is all that is needed<br />To match the real thing if you only pretend,<br />If killing a game villain means you’ve succeeded<br />And a shadow of color onscreen is a friend,<br /><br />If pretend’s just as good and you’re happy to settle<br />For text in a chat thread instead of a life,<br />If androids are people with hearts made of metal<br />And pixels of flesh are as good as a wife,<br /><br />If any religion’s the same as another<br />And feelings and fiction are equal to fact,<br />If a pet parent’s just like a father or mother<br />And a fatherless family’s as good as intact,<br /><br />If you still think this fake bubble life doesn’t <br />make you<br />As homeless as beggars who sleep in the street,<br />If this insect-hive world of today doesn’t <br />shake you,<br />You believe in modernity’s biggest deceit.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>(First published in </i>The Society of Classical Poets<i>)</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCaWdMFuoR8wzoPxjwqsD46rT02zRmzn9EKNnqjd9gO1CU_FaPkrV64CME1igzLzHTkKLsRhiUDwtxvLVGppr6tdX4mJ0xUZ6oA-5-7hoq7yRYOd6fRfqwGr8VYCa3dWmuwfb092P8i2atHk_Aokir7CcnEg7kEC4MaffXetpa6MAN-EDufFqvhQ/s225/mid.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCaWdMFuoR8wzoPxjwqsD46rT02zRmzn9EKNnqjd9gO1CU_FaPkrV64CME1igzLzHTkKLsRhiUDwtxvLVGppr6tdX4mJ0xUZ6oA-5-7hoq7yRYOd6fRfqwGr8VYCa3dWmuwfb092P8i2atHk_Aokir7CcnEg7kEC4MaffXetpa6MAN-EDufFqvhQ/w400-h400/mid.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> </span><br /><br />NO EXTRA LIVES<br /><br />While all his friends were learning skills<br />To gain them wives or pay their bills,<br />John fought with monsters on a screen,<br />Got knighted by a game world’s queen,<br />Amassing troves of digi-treasure<br />That bought eight bits of gaming pleasure.<br /><br />But as the habit lasted longer,<br />John’s dungeon shackles grew much stronger.<br />His friends moved on and all gained wives<br />While he sat gaining extra lives—<br />One-upped by men just half his age<br />Who’d put in time and earned life’s wage.<br /><br />One day, much older, John awoke<br />And felt his electronic yoke:<br />No friends, no wife, and children none,<br />His life still stalled at World 1-1.<br />No princess wishes to be saved<br />By a gaming hero thus enslaved.<br /><br />John’s game-themed room now seemed a waste,<br />An emblem of his time misplaced.<br />No dragon’s hoard of jewels and gold<br />Could buy back time and youth he’d sold<br />For shiny bits of program code—<br />He wept beside perdition’s road.<br /><br />But, leaving home and breaking free,<br />He had no guide for strategy.<br />The social world seemed too complex<br />To a man who lived in pixel specks,<br />And so he ran back home to game,<br />Never quitting, to his shame.<br /> The moral of this tale in rhyme?<br />Work while you’re young, don’t waste your time.<br />Don’t put your life goals off till later;<br />Shoot down your schedule’s space-invaders,<br />Or, like our captured gamer guy,<br />You’ll find your life has passed you by.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>(First published in</i> The Society of Classical Poets<i>)</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYUKechZf6A-CLQT2qTMKt5JjAewmgyvm3n_1fbXsWWrAmOb0SHS_eo6AvrHbebJDFh1ViF0dbTNLtEnmLWo8E-gUoTTx7Iky6kNEXpGcNEFMrjUh8RlKxL7iIbuR9LNLJC9DUBwwOW6JXrKOcOPe1QTZnqG6xCfDT0NG29eHhWQscGM7HavW3FA/s225/bottom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYUKechZf6A-CLQT2qTMKt5JjAewmgyvm3n_1fbXsWWrAmOb0SHS_eo6AvrHbebJDFh1ViF0dbTNLtEnmLWo8E-gUoTTx7Iky6kNEXpGcNEFMrjUh8RlKxL7iIbuR9LNLJC9DUBwwOW6JXrKOcOPe1QTZnqG6xCfDT0NG29eHhWQscGM7HavW3FA/w400-h400/bottom.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <br /><br />THE STRANGER<br /><br /><i>Based on a story circulating online at least <br />since 1999</i><br /><br />My dad once met a stranger in the mall,<br />New to our town, just months before my birth.<br />The stranger moved in quickly with us all<br />And soon became the source of endless mirth.<br /><br />My mother taught us how to love God’s Word;<br />My father taught obedience is key,<br />But from the stranger, our whole family heard<br />All kinds of captivating tales for free.<br /><br />Adventures, mysteries, and jokes he told,<br />And tales of kinder, gentler times of ours.<br />He drew realistic pictures and could hold<br />Our family spellbound every night for hours.<br /><br />He took my parents with me and my brother<br />To sports events and movies every week,<br />To meals with actors, movie stars, and other<br />Celebrities who made us feel so chic.<br /><br />The stranger spoke nonstop; Dad didn’t mind.<br />But sometimes Mom would quietly walk away.<br />While we were all enthralled, she’d go behind<br />Her bedroom door to read her Bible and pray.<br /><br />I think she prayed the stranger soon would leave,<br />For though Dad ruled the house by moral code,<br />The stranger didn’t care what we believe<br />Or honor this, our straight and narrow road.<br /><br />Though Dad would never let a person curse<br />Within his walls, the stranger freely spoke<br />Four-letter words like “damn” and “hell” and <br />worse,<br />But Dad would not condemn the words he’d croak.<br /> Though Dad called alcohol “the devil’s brew,”<br />The stranger offered us his wine and beer.<br />He said we all should be exposed to new<br />And different ways of life to see and hear.<br /><br />He made tobacco smoking look refined,<br />Though Mom and Dad have prayed we never <br />smoke.<br />He scoffed at sacred marriage and maligned<br />Its holy bed routinely as a joke.<br /><br />At first, the smut he spouted scorched my ears;<br />He told a twisted tale of what love is.<br />But as my brother and I advanced in years,<br />Our views on marriage slowly changed to his.<br /><br />Again, again, opposing Mom and Dad,<br />He never was rebuked or asked to leave.<br />He always preached in favor of what’s bad,<br />Yet somehow we weren’t able to perceive.<br /><br />Though thirty years have passed, the stranger’s <br />there,<br />Still drawing, telling tales of fantasy<br />To Mom and Dad, who’ve now no other care.<br />We always called him by his name... “TV.”<br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(First published in </span></i><span style="font-size: x-small;">The Society of Classical Poets</span><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">)</span><br /><br />____________________<br /><br /><b>Today’s LittleNip:</b><br /><br />I find television very educating. Every time somebody turns on the set, I go into the other room and read a book.<br /><br />—Groucho Marx<br /><br />____________________<br /><br />—Medusa, with thanks to <span style="color: red;">Joshua Frank</span> for today’s fine, cautionary poetry!</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9bVfYxISbBVGpqJwrihEoe1ozVMs3xRvKZHyeS356YgsCfPf7jcmk6vm3eIRBfF7wo9RdTC6O5-2Dxr89LSo4Jal11G9VY1O8uPPCFE_sezExqIw-CVIKaDwlf0UveRiFqvKGctSedtMVCd9v4OC7JGhhDU9P-BlV5-MXd5fPSGUF_YwTtyDY1w/s275/cat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9bVfYxISbBVGpqJwrihEoe1ozVMs3xRvKZHyeS356YgsCfPf7jcmk6vm3eIRBfF7wo9RdTC6O5-2Dxr89LSo4Jal11G9VY1O8uPPCFE_sezExqIw-CVIKaDwlf0UveRiFqvKGctSedtMVCd9v4OC7JGhhDU9P-BlV5-MXd5fPSGUF_YwTtyDY1w/w400-h266/cat.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i>For future poetry happenings in </i><br /><i>Northern California and otherwheres, </i><br /><i>click on</i><br /><i><b>UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS</b></i><br /><i>(<a href="http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html">http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html</a>)</i><br /><i>in the links at the top of this page—</i><br /><i>and keep an eye on this link and on</i><br /><i>the daily Kitchen for happenings </i><br /><i>that might pop up</i><br /><i>—or get changed!—</i><br /><i> during the week.</i><br /><br /><i>Photos in this column can be enlarged by </i><br /><i>clicking on them once, then clicking on the x </i><br /><i>in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.</i><br /><br /><i>Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down</i><br /><i>under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button</i><br /><i>at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets </i><br /><i>by typing the name of the poet or poem</i><br /><i> into the little beige box at the top </i><br /><i>left-hand side of today’s post; or go to </i><br /><i>Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of </i><br /><i>the blue column at the right</i><br /><i> to find the date you want.</i><br /><br /><i>Would you like to be a SnakePal? </i><br /><i>Guidelines are at the top of this page</i><br /><i>at the Placating the Gorgon link;</i><br /><i>send poetry and/or photos and artwork</i><br /><i>to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post</i><br /><i>work from all over the world—including</i><br /><i>that which was previously published—</i><br /><i>and collaborations are welcome. </i><br /><i>Just remember:</i><br /><i>the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—</i><br /><i>for poetry, of course!</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipZQxurMIU0QR9JREidtoVY53gXOsICf2Fo1NZ_gw2H-iPBTKEdOk7qRpRVJzzhsx5ZGOSWbtbYdUwbhtaNrlpzhe8-SbtrfTd-_RU9hu9bywM9Y7lr_2Nj2hhzrhlkomZfM3-P5GJL6-08tQDw7D36hRQwxCi0Cd01MZ_cKNiumCARM_ll6CIEw/s246/bar:drink.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="205" data-original-width="246" height="167" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipZQxurMIU0QR9JREidtoVY53gXOsICf2Fo1NZ_gw2H-iPBTKEdOk7qRpRVJzzhsx5ZGOSWbtbYdUwbhtaNrlpzhe8-SbtrfTd-_RU9hu9bywM9Y7lr_2Nj2hhzrhlkomZfM3-P5GJL6-08tQDw7D36hRQwxCi0Cd01MZ_cKNiumCARM_ll6CIEw/w200-h167/bar:drink.png" width="200" /></a></div><br /> </i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div><i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></i><br /></div>Kathy Kieth, Wrangler-in-Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11925893540872899117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13262320.post-87661240499821021832024-03-12T08:35:00.000-07:002024-03-12T08:35:10.305-07:00Shadows on the Morning<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeyKXqVBC4Tz8mau7Y_7fnGZSjVlYaAkMbKkq2h6wzsXgpbWDiw_EgUByNMOLmcYnBQCoHy2-oVe_MOmG9rYncReAbW4YwMyGqoFf40qgQ-PzkN2XOawvDn05gMGDddiutcBYvpcw-irBbAe1VrFSdIndYShHj-bSvf-s5HdiSCena8PadYZjUpw/s2750/TIMELY%20(000).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2369" data-original-width="2750" height="345" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeyKXqVBC4Tz8mau7Y_7fnGZSjVlYaAkMbKkq2h6wzsXgpbWDiw_EgUByNMOLmcYnBQCoHy2-oVe_MOmG9rYncReAbW4YwMyGqoFf40qgQ-PzkN2XOawvDn05gMGDddiutcBYvpcw-irBbAe1VrFSdIndYShHj-bSvf-s5HdiSCena8PadYZjUpw/w400-h345/TIMELY%20(000).jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <i>—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,<br />Sacramento, CA<br />—Photos and Artwork by Joyce Odam</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">PENDING <br /><i>—Robin Gale Odam</i> <br /><br />one generic poem, <br />whatever comes our way <br /><br />it’s today again—that keeps <br />happening </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgreC0WCf92pX8HXM408Hp2caTxxtoK6GsS_MHF3YuhvObFpqMlnpNJmOYUj0PTHiahbZjCOU3gGjmiDyd8RrqUG7_6qcLeiBBsVfosCpFuDRvrKsnglLe-YrmUCoV2THf287fYc0voOwi-kdFZWK6ZuGHlWmGQRq7id_9e6O7lVzCE19lf-LTJ6A/s2025/HAPPENSTANCE%20(091).JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1595" data-original-width="2025" height="315" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgreC0WCf92pX8HXM408Hp2caTxxtoK6GsS_MHF3YuhvObFpqMlnpNJmOYUj0PTHiahbZjCOU3gGjmiDyd8RrqUG7_6qcLeiBBsVfosCpFuDRvrKsnglLe-YrmUCoV2THf287fYc0voOwi-kdFZWK6ZuGHlWmGQRq7id_9e6O7lVzCE19lf-LTJ6A/w400-h315/HAPPENSTANCE%20(091).JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i>Happenstance</i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />MEMORABILIA <br /><i>—Joyce Odam</i><br /><br />Things my mother saved: sunflower doilies <br />with bright red centers, sooty-white pillowcases <br />embroidered with blue thread.<br /><br />Clay dolls with broken fingers. <br />Her old lullaby—words in a gibber.<br />Her standard recipes for love, fragile with use.<br /><br />Books in a foreign language.<br />The moody window she stared out of— <br />taken down and wrapped in old newspaper. <br /><br />Letters she never opened. An envelope full of <br />hair. A plastic box of unpainted fingernails. <br />A tiny black emery board, worn down.<br /><br />Maps of where we’d been,<br />the little towns circled in pencil—then erased. <br />I don’t remember any of them.<br /><br />The year she left me when I died three times <br />before she came to get me—the toys I left<br />all gathered back, like explanations. <br /><br />The years between <br />this one and the year when I was born—<br />the first and last coincidence. <br /><br /> <br /><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/1/11; 11/12/19)</span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0uv13aI7MoJALrQvPVByYlxzIpxFkpRVL3FSj0_ZQTMXxfX1VTy7cB86wxJTKGs7sORhkqHmz3TxXr-ZVCBtENnkWin8X3cG0Uqkt2Ng4YGfFodDlCVO_qhyTewz9kGMmHL88J2AvpncqjKmLgHjFdpPz0RxqrrsDhyphenhyphen8e2WXHjaeEfG6KafJg3A/s3648/FARAWAY%20(012).JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0uv13aI7MoJALrQvPVByYlxzIpxFkpRVL3FSj0_ZQTMXxfX1VTy7cB86wxJTKGs7sORhkqHmz3TxXr-ZVCBtENnkWin8X3cG0Uqkt2Ng4YGfFodDlCVO_qhyTewz9kGMmHL88J2AvpncqjKmLgHjFdpPz0RxqrrsDhyphenhyphen8e2WXHjaeEfG6KafJg3A/w400-h300/FARAWAY%20(012).JPG" width="400" /></a></div></span></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span>Faraway</i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />SHADOW ON THE MORNING <br /><i>—Robin Gale Odam</i><br /><br />gravity is the shadow on the <br />morning, the lid covering the eye, <br />the moan of a small plane climbing . . . <br /><br />the dog wags her tail so i rise . . . <br /><br />one tiny diamond has fallen from the <br />ring, the carpet is an endless forest . . . </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTdPHb7ULqJMWyrvnDgzjlRzIuNcR0EoZAy1qgbtX58r2mShzls-7T7as_6OJVwTwWqCmGxLcQHUtvJrztmPQs7yd8IPxBD922m1NV33p4o7QBXUIbHAbnK02rE-TX54cpKXCNWN0aMSg7wIZvgxWNtUg5E-oFPzYQpbWDoRt9Wg6Tx-eFFFU3ug/s2097/PENSIVE%20(053).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1618" data-original-width="2097" height="309" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTdPHb7ULqJMWyrvnDgzjlRzIuNcR0EoZAy1qgbtX58r2mShzls-7T7as_6OJVwTwWqCmGxLcQHUtvJrztmPQs7yd8IPxBD922m1NV33p4o7QBXUIbHAbnK02rE-TX54cpKXCNWN0aMSg7wIZvgxWNtUg5E-oFPzYQpbWDoRt9Wg6Tx-eFFFU3ug/w400-h309/PENSIVE%20(053).jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i>Pensive</i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />A SEPIA DAY<br /><i>—Joyce Odam </i><br /><br />It was a sepia day. We strolled downtown, to-<br />ward a late café that waited for us where we <br />would claim the small round window-table <br />and be seen by our own reflections. Moody<br />again, not quite in love, we would waste an-<br />other hour touching hands by accident and <br />offering a wounded smile. Nothing else was <br />real. We saw to that. The waitress would <br />come and go as frequent shadow. <br /><br />The soft light did not change until we noticed <br />dark around the edges, and the distraction <br />of the bell on the door as someone came or <br />left, and the way the day grew sudden once <br />again : and it was late : and we were outside, <br />walking down a boulevard of closing stores. <br />And still we did not speak, and were amused <br />to see ourselves break up in all those windows. <br /><br /><br /><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(prev. pub in Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/27/17) </span></i><br /><br />____________________<br /><br />MEAN LOVE<br /><i>—Joyce Odam</i><br /><br />I would say<i> Sorrow</i> waits in every love—<br />in every vow—in every lie, well-meant,<br />intensified by doubt and mean despair.<br />Love hurts, it cannot help itself—<br /><br />Falling-short-of-expectation lets it love <br />the moody rain and light—the way it <br />loves its tears, wept often and alone.<br />Forget all that—love needs itself—<br /><br />Despite the woe—the absence that it<br />leaves in retrospect—why else give up <br />the power of the risk—how else define<br />the indefinable for what it means?<br /><br /><br /><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/12/13;<br />2/14/17; 9/14/21) </span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizyj7zHA19idtsHdvPab6xOnhpj9nIeCwjp36if9BTHhlIHBwFTtKWJp5BKbe9hGefkszcI3jB5bOLlVnBhmImXBMxEuVF1AqmEY2aHQkX1tI76uVCtzg02thtkzyWcRLiNBBGa-XMXaG-HyIRMEnVEPoG_fsRK8iJelm1zAcec_dit_yGUw6LPQ/s1482/SOLEMN%20(026).JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1469" data-original-width="1482" height="396" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizyj7zHA19idtsHdvPab6xOnhpj9nIeCwjp36if9BTHhlIHBwFTtKWJp5BKbe9hGefkszcI3jB5bOLlVnBhmImXBMxEuVF1AqmEY2aHQkX1tI76uVCtzg02thtkzyWcRLiNBBGa-XMXaG-HyIRMEnVEPoG_fsRK8iJelm1zAcec_dit_yGUw6LPQ/w400-h396/SOLEMN%20(026).JPG" width="400" /></a></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i> Solemn</i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />GAZEBO<br /><i> —Joyce Odam</i><br /><br />In the wet and shining world where summer rain<br />falls through the light and spatters to the ground,<br />droplets splashing on the thirsty day,<br /><br />and they’re in love—in love—in love,<br />as they go slowly walking, side by each,<br />their faces happy and their sorrows told—<br /><br />those first confessions lovers have to tell<br />when sharing secrets—bonding—bonding, and<br />the light rain falls between them, and they know<br /><br />that they can trust each other all their lives.<br />And then the rain falls harder and the clouds<br />grow thick above them, and they start to run—<br /><br />they laugh and start to run toward a shelter.<br />The shelter takes them in. They watch the rain,<br />and one goes moody, and the other grows uneasy.<br /><br />The rain falls harder. A bolt of lightning<br />flashes all around them like a warning. They<br />laugh and count the seconds toward the thunder<br /><br />that breaks the air—and breaks the tension—<br />the rain a downpour now. They hold each other.<br />Rain puddles form. It is the last of summer.<br /><br />___________________<br /><br />AND <br /><i>—Robin Gale Odam<br />After “Postscript” by Seamus Heaney </i><br /><br />and there is something more, something <br />that comes after something that passes <br /><br />through a hurry—and wonder trails, <br />and wonder trails after something like <br /><br />the flock of birds was heard, and far away <br />and passing through a memory, only high <br /><br />and far away, the cries of flocks of birds, <br />and trailing off, and far away the flocks <br /><br />and the trailing clouds and the memory, <br />and the ebbing cries of birds</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij-oqHVQQHG2IhZtUngrkg8HXGbtMCtOuTpkUwkaEM9FSxhhaFx27uZz_vUj4LOsUsnKHrl6Vd0EVTWMu20p9ByxNcyxNTfJ4fxViDKLh_aB2wb5Axs8LphXPI7AFbJabugrRqHBOePfge0gTrBt0Y3P6Yj-lkNK0LMcyolcchXBcXEpmXflksRA/s3282/CHANCE%20(034).JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2488" data-original-width="3282" height="304" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij-oqHVQQHG2IhZtUngrkg8HXGbtMCtOuTpkUwkaEM9FSxhhaFx27uZz_vUj4LOsUsnKHrl6Vd0EVTWMu20p9ByxNcyxNTfJ4fxViDKLh_aB2wb5Axs8LphXPI7AFbJabugrRqHBOePfge0gTrBt0Y3P6Yj-lkNK0LMcyolcchXBcXEpmXflksRA/w400-h304/CHANCE%20(034).JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i>Chance</i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />SATURATION <br /><i> —Joyce Odam</i><br /><br />How often do you need this to be true? You are <br />such a tragedy—sitting alone—in the rain—at the <br />little sidewalk table since you love moody <br />atmosphere. <br /><br />You sip your drink of rainwater and ask for the <br />bill, and the waiter comes indifferently toward you, <br />but you keep receding into the old pathetic story. <br /><br />You love the ancient way you feel. You love the <br />misery of your own eyes in the distortion of the <br />window. Inside, patrons are looking out at you, but <br />they don’t hold <br /><br />together any more. You have been here too long, <br />wearing yourself thin with repetition—boring <br />everybody—even the long-dead artist you conjure <br />for effect. <br /><br />And now we leave you there in your private <br />reverie, the waiter never arriving, the rain falling <br />into your glass—you, shining so deeply, like a <br />wet tree.<br /><br /> <br /><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(prev. pub. in </span></i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Parting Gifts</span><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">, Winter 2004, and<br />Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/12/16; 9/1/20)</span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil6vf6g2PUuAFiPxgId4EG3GoibN_vtVO8OKV0yxHRx-5TEcfPMhkrv5Kansuav7ECRWX4fvD-1FEZo1gpTmW5KpIlfXr_C0FG_GrI2UPzoNsaLCQGCGLrzHiPCAE-9gcX7-tRZTgOT1xb3tz6fanHYtFwxcNHCOJsb-CC104QM3KdgWd9TdvaiA/s3648/QUIETED%20(027).JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil6vf6g2PUuAFiPxgId4EG3GoibN_vtVO8OKV0yxHRx-5TEcfPMhkrv5Kansuav7ECRWX4fvD-1FEZo1gpTmW5KpIlfXr_C0FG_GrI2UPzoNsaLCQGCGLrzHiPCAE-9gcX7-tRZTgOT1xb3tz6fanHYtFwxcNHCOJsb-CC104QM3KdgWd9TdvaiA/w400-h300/QUIETED%20(027).JPG" width="400" /></a></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i> Quieted</i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />WHEN LIFE IS GOOD<br /><i>—Joyce Odam</i><br /><br />Lest I regress to some old meaning<br />less desired <br />old scriptures lost <br /><br />burdens of cost <br />old blunders<br />redefined <br /><br />poor rhyme not wanted here <br />slant or pure <br />all layers intertwined<br /><br />but my heart and soul can overflow<br />at the sight of pink blossoms <br />in the moody month of spring<br /><br />how the quickened feeling <br />of hope<br />can change the air—<br /><br />but more like the close call <br />of some gentle creature<br />that got away from death<br /><br />or the final unwinding of<br />the endless ball of tangled string<br />that life depends upon…<br /><br />____________________<br /><br /><i><b>Today’s LittleNip:</b><br /><br />I WANT <br />—Joyce Odam <br /><br />I’m October. <br />I’m moody. <br />I don’t know what I want. <br />I want it all. <br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">(prev. pub. by One Dog Press, October 1996)</span><br /><br />____________________<br /><br />Our recent Seed of the Week was “Moody”, and <span style="color: red;">Joyce and Robin Gale Odam</span> have sent us fine poetry and photos full of moodiness—many thanks to them for that.<br /><br /><b>Our new Seed of the Week is “Kites”. </b>Come fly with me—moody, windy March is the season of kites! 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 <b>Form Fiddlers’ Friday</b> for poetry form challenges, including those of the <b>Ekphrastic</b> type.<br /><br />_____________________<br /><br />—Medusa</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAN6ZR1isptrUnw0p3-HgS-ZkHTvTe7sOZbl6SY5GWF6P5ik-_hwj8FJUR4nw8wNG3WSR3XAYzfhDDoGUT_aLdNBJKk0eDiV8EqORw6QeWe7veLvXq9XGMh_XEH9PtXYkV9mK2S8gCAgy90R1EEcKa_mJgJev68R4tDqcPvhGpFqesBfji240qJg/s225/kites.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAN6ZR1isptrUnw0p3-HgS-ZkHTvTe7sOZbl6SY5GWF6P5ik-_hwj8FJUR4nw8wNG3WSR3XAYzfhDDoGUT_aLdNBJKk0eDiV8EqORw6QeWe7veLvXq9XGMh_XEH9PtXYkV9mK2S8gCAgy90R1EEcKa_mJgJev68R4tDqcPvhGpFqesBfji240qJg/w400-h400/kites.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i> —Photo Courtesy of Public Domain</i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i>A reminder that <span style="color: red;">Bob Stanley</span></i><br /><i>will interview <span style="color: red;">Kathleen Lynch</span></i><br /><i>this afternoon at <b>Coffee and Poets</b></i><br /><i>(Twin Lotus Thai, 2pm); and</i><br /><i>tonight at 7pm, </i><br /><i><b>Second Tuesday Poetry </b></i><br /><i>at MoSt in Modesto features </i><br /><i><span style="color: red;">Rhony Bhopla</span> and <span style="color: red;">Lynn Hansen</span>.</i><br /><i>For info about these and other</i><br /><i>future poetry happenings in </i><br /><i>Northern California and otherwheres, </i><br /><i>click on</i><br /><i><b>UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS</b></i><br /><i>(<a href="http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html">http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html</a>)</i><br /><i>in the links at the top of this page—</i><br /><i>and keep an eye on this link and on</i><br /><i>the daily Kitchen for happenings </i><br /><i>that might pop up</i><br /><i>—or get changed!—</i><br /><i> during the week.</i><br /><br /><i>Photos in this column can be enlarged by </i><br /><i>clicking on them once, then clicking on the x </i><br /><i>in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.</i><br /><br /><i>Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down</i><br /><i>under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button</i><br /><i>at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets </i><br /><i>by typing the name of the poet or poem</i><br /><i> into the little beige box at the top </i><br /><i>left-hand side of today’s post; or go to </i><br /><i>Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of </i><br /><i>the blue column at the right</i><br /><i> to find the date you want.</i><br /><br /><i>Would you like to be a SnakePal? </i><br /><i>Guidelines are at the top of this page</i><br /><i>at the Placating the Gorgon link;</i><br /><i>send poetry and/or photos and artwork</i><br /><i>to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post</i><br /><i>work from all over the world—including</i><br /><i>that which was previously published—</i><br /><i>and collaborations are welcome. </i><br /><i>Just remember:</i><br /><i>the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—</i><br /><i>for poetry, of course!</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRITrnKaqQo8KaPgcDAh2Cy3cRP4_mLhBFO824y_Nh4dhPzcXLHoMe4pWcp9voqh85pZ0FTYuPraQ2HEKMF8CjbxIURIm2_PuZzezC9a3P18_kNEhdn6R1pZsqI6YAneTiFwdpTUvDgikpQuPx4S50ppTFFe8MLHzoeNIW9FKtsG2toweJnzSbXA/s233/winking.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="233" data-original-width="216" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRITrnKaqQo8KaPgcDAh2Cy3cRP4_mLhBFO824y_Nh4dhPzcXLHoMe4pWcp9voqh85pZ0FTYuPraQ2HEKMF8CjbxIURIm2_PuZzezC9a3P18_kNEhdn6R1pZsqI6YAneTiFwdpTUvDgikpQuPx4S50ppTFFe8MLHzoeNIW9FKtsG2toweJnzSbXA/w185-h200/winking.jpg" width="185" /></a></div><br /> </i><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div><i><br /><br /><br /><br /></i><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> <br /></div>Kathy Kieth, Wrangler-in-Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11925893540872899117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13262320.post-37337673014812248232024-03-11T08:34:00.000-07:002024-03-11T08:34:13.711-07:00Moody, Moody March<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_sTjQe09WEsOTV-Z8xaMwxZt5pW2kKT-ovnx91LkryfanKKtW57eMga7TTsOhOA_n5-8q7-XMNeaTaNQtuI4vwBzjwPOfkRdJ9MpV9FEjQGgfsaxk5gtTYHD4KbSn_5ffHwdnUDwcLL6ybTAUkIH4RD7B3vTnOUInkBoH70ZIKEL6TMBdqSwDAg/s945/pink%20vw%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="945" data-original-width="756" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_sTjQe09WEsOTV-Z8xaMwxZt5pW2kKT-ovnx91LkryfanKKtW57eMga7TTsOhOA_n5-8q7-XMNeaTaNQtuI4vwBzjwPOfkRdJ9MpV9FEjQGgfsaxk5gtTYHD4KbSn_5ffHwdnUDwcLL6ybTAUkIH4RD7B3vTnOUInkBoH70ZIKEL6TMBdqSwDAg/w320-h400/pink%20vw%20jn.png" width="320" /></a></div> <i>Spring is Springing!<br />—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,<br />Annette Towler, Caschwa, Sayani Mukherjee, <br />Taylor Dibbert, Shiva Neupane, Joe Nolan, <br />and Ann Privateer<br />—Public Domain Visuals Courtesy <br />of Joe Nolan <br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">STOP CHANGING<i><br />—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY</i><br /><br />March winds blow a snowstorm in.<br />She wraps herself in wool.<br /><br />Sun melts snow.<br />She digs herself a garden.<br /><br />Clouds pour rain.<br />She runs inside.<br /><br />This March day won’t stay one way,<br />She shuts the curtains, burrows into bed.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPeTg5YjJeBj1vRj_kRwMN_7ZIbIX86sVCM0LbqEw2CB8oo7dFevM4jxQ0mYqZ3jYrT4chfvpbR09bAuwPdkwJGoc50rJMVi8NfRKG7s2kdkVcRaxoT_3AktTn80iH2zeeLiU_seFgQCqgeIfRSk5Aru2Yz2Ex1I7Vh9t6Ys9rxbNZGMtM98jmOg/s1101/girl%20w:dragons%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1101" data-original-width="735" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPeTg5YjJeBj1vRj_kRwMN_7ZIbIX86sVCM0LbqEw2CB8oo7dFevM4jxQ0mYqZ3jYrT4chfvpbR09bAuwPdkwJGoc50rJMVi8NfRKG7s2kdkVcRaxoT_3AktTn80iH2zeeLiU_seFgQCqgeIfRSk5Aru2Yz2Ex1I7Vh9t6Ys9rxbNZGMtM98jmOg/w268-h400/girl%20w:dragons%20jn.png" width="268" /></a></div> <br /><br />MOODY<br /><i>—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales </i><br /><br />For those with hymnbook, yesteryear, <br />with Sankey came the Moody steer, <br />for Ira sang while Dwight, he preached, <br />revival, thirty years’ campaign. <br />But could a faith, religious creed, <br />ensure a future, hope’s fresh seed, <br />to battle greed that feeds just self <br />and find contentment, settled ease? <br /><br />Yet if the Nazarene your man, <br />he turned the tables on corban, <br />for whip lash sometimes mood required <br />and Jesus, ‘mild and gentle’ died. <br />To share the moody blues as news <br />that we too wear our fears, abuse, <br />why tell the sky to sympathise <br />with rays of light or billow clouds? <br /><br />Though moody must mean changeable, <br />an outlook, unreliable, <br />a darker feel, behavioural, <br />our choice, or body chemicals? <br />Robotic not the folk, globe seeks, <br />but world including freaks judged geeks, <br />for those outside conforming norms, <br />they set the mood, excite surprise. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5F7yeTKJKIQr7_UVzmY_puaC-ModUUNpqb5WuephdvM60cGlQGGmu5reSh6LIapraUKwRZsNtUyiVJGUFHbw8giyZ2ewvUhvQy8zu_z7NGwAEuNN4VC8KFaxnkM9fYBn4rIJQG3vARHjfppFNK-erxr3t5-cSMl2zBkXQvfpeWimAvfjmoiajQA/s824/pasta%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="824" data-original-width="685" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5F7yeTKJKIQr7_UVzmY_puaC-ModUUNpqb5WuephdvM60cGlQGGmu5reSh6LIapraUKwRZsNtUyiVJGUFHbw8giyZ2ewvUhvQy8zu_z7NGwAEuNN4VC8KFaxnkM9fYBn4rIJQG3vARHjfppFNK-erxr3t5-cSMl2zBkXQvfpeWimAvfjmoiajQA/w333-h400/pasta%20jn.png" width="333" /></a></div> <br /><br />PASTA NIGHT<br /><i>—Annette Towler, Milwaukee, WI</i><br /> <br />Ripping the spaghetti in half with my hands</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />No need for utensils, I place the whole-wheat <br />pasta into the boiling</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />Water and think back across the years of <br />freedom</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />Many throw a party to celebrate the day in <br />court</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />Yet I choose to throw the pasta into the pot <br />rather than into the air</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />To remind myself that I am a reasonable cook <br />with a flair for adventure</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />Sometimes, choosing Linguine, or Farfalle <br />bows, or the wide sheets for Lasagna</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />To remind myself that within me is a cook, <br />waiting to be discovered, not a chef</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />Cordon Bleu, just a woman who can take the <br />basic ingredients of pasta, some tomato sauce, <br />and a smidgeon of garlic and whip it into a <br />meal that is good for one or two</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />Not a large dinner party where everyone is <br />invited but a simple meal to celebrate what it <br />feels like to awake in the morning feeling that <br />you have the capacity to boil water in the pot, <br />strain the pasta in the sieve and sprinkle <br />parmesan cheese on top of the pile of spaghetti <br />in a solid bowl that is not overflowing or <br />abundant with meat and vegetables, just a <br />simple meal of freedom.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgFz09PtLoqWcLTSaN5GIxpVOtB4nAqMjr8QtPMLJE3ELCW9WdI0nCLFc54Uu0lT6cWLOU-YEiE6UcpejfegDLERAAW010pmbcX4N-FBtBR8FX6H1T03GGrF-HGs6Sk7-P04mUIOJXqyaW6gvRu5RqM3y6s-UiPOYG2ukc1cUfLE3B3x51z8YHtQ/s400/plumed%20hat.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="300" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgFz09PtLoqWcLTSaN5GIxpVOtB4nAqMjr8QtPMLJE3ELCW9WdI0nCLFc54Uu0lT6cWLOU-YEiE6UcpejfegDLERAAW010pmbcX4N-FBtBR8FX6H1T03GGrF-HGs6Sk7-P04mUIOJXqyaW6gvRu5RqM3y6s-UiPOYG2ukc1cUfLE3B3x51z8YHtQ/w300-h400/plumed%20hat.jpg" width="300" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: center;">The Plumed Hat<br /><i>—Painting by Henri Matisse</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">PROMISES, PROMISES <br /><i>—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA<br /><br />(after </i>The Plumed Hat <i><br />by Henri Matisse)<br />(after </i>Wearing the Hat <i><br />by Joyce Odam, MK, 3/5/24) <br />(after I finish my breakfast) </i><br /><br />her mother convinced her <br />let’s get you dressed up <br />and we’ll go to Church <br />and pray to the preacher’s <br />God, he/him all day long <br /><br />she so wanted to be in her <br />comfy jeans, at the creek, <br />playing with baby frogs and <br />counting clouds as they sailed <br />quietly overhead <br /><br />on the way home from Church <br />she drove too fast and got <br />pulled over by a serious officer <br />who didn’t know it was Sunday <br />and didn’t recognize her plumed <br />hat as a marker of royalty, of <br />stop what you’re doing and just <br />let this youngster get home <br /><br />now she has paperwork to <br />complete and fines to pay and <br />Mother! I will never let you <br />talk me into going to Church <br />ever again, and that awful <br />outfit can serve to warm us up <br />on a cold, winter night with its <br />flames in the fireplace <br /><br />have no worry, little frogs, I <br />haven’t forgotten you.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixyexp1_C7WwXIZWO42Or1WiXTl4l1O5ubzc0_YXzCstO-MQS0dEDXn9C9DsYCmMFliopMQlD5N0X_-sAtKhkVfxRVRwh7uEfnxvSM0AqdcYs3pKxPY2fHjZnYFXPcxdsoU9o68TvO_gIUtrKyP_Gw1gO3pHgwjEg_NDEW9_xMX8ir6eMYMK8-uA/s350/frog:bed.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="329" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixyexp1_C7WwXIZWO42Or1WiXTl4l1O5ubzc0_YXzCstO-MQS0dEDXn9C9DsYCmMFliopMQlD5N0X_-sAtKhkVfxRVRwh7uEfnxvSM0AqdcYs3pKxPY2fHjZnYFXPcxdsoU9o68TvO_gIUtrKyP_Gw1gO3pHgwjEg_NDEW9_xMX8ir6eMYMK8-uA/w376-h400/frog:bed.jpg" width="376" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">THE BARREL <br /><i>—Caschwa</i><br /><br />went into the general store <br />to buy a big barrel, had to <br />have one, I explained because <br />I am always being asked to <br />hold my applause <br /><br />so what would be better than <br />to just have a big barrel handy <br />and ready when I need to get <br />up and add some applause to <br />the supply I haven’t used yet? <br /><br />so far, it is working out quite <br />fine, though there was this one <br />time I almost put applause into <br />my barrel of laughter, no joke, <br />I must act when it’s time to renew</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_6r-MqE5y1G0LJS_IZQEYYKR-ycEvYRxdCAcnuYyYaPZ3bOX-Z3uaq_83IQ0pZY2SyPcNXP03PCHhgmC2DM4Cf0fDWMU07td3Kx-awLVyqsIow5jSIwek214UrNt8MGV_vfeT5miZyFgXwdhD2g-zQ4WtO4gFtA5nvRob-WH-svzL1lQ5Uoa58w/s400/body:woods%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="362" data-original-width="400" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_6r-MqE5y1G0LJS_IZQEYYKR-ycEvYRxdCAcnuYyYaPZ3bOX-Z3uaq_83IQ0pZY2SyPcNXP03PCHhgmC2DM4Cf0fDWMU07td3Kx-awLVyqsIow5jSIwek214UrNt8MGV_vfeT5miZyFgXwdhD2g-zQ4WtO4gFtA5nvRob-WH-svzL1lQ5Uoa58w/s320/body:woods%20jn.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br />INTRODUCED. STOP. <br /><i>—Caschwa </i><br /><br />what do you call someone <br />whom you haven’t really met? <br />a band buddy introduced <br />me to his celebrity wife <br />who was across the room <br /><br />we both held up a hand <br />and waved it to say hello <br />and that was all of it, so <br />we did kind’a, sort’a, meet <br />but no dialogue, no exchange <br /><br />my friend’s wife directed a <br />beauty pageant and I played <br />in the ensemble in the orchestra <br />pit not seeing much, so again <br />we were in the same auditorium <br />at the same time, participating <br />in the same event, but didn’t <br />meet and talk <br /><br />at my friend’s memorial service, <br />his widow thanked me and a host <br />of other band buddies for helping <br />to celebrate his life, but the gesture, <br />through solemn, was not personal, <br />more like when they swear in a jury <br />all at once</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWewTTogfNdCDU8eYeV7NE8jPVEIRb2uU4CQT2cwu9bb_UQvZEyWREEEn8zQz2wL5n6iyboUU0qhFI2F2M3fNDi7wy9W8Adkj75baDXRlaDbCQUKzKdePpaDNDvKIxyYYxdPnVQFh23UTczgTI6HE2H_8LYrHaQaTheTEDKkkkiZySfqFVsnF5iw/s375/frog%20prince%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="375" data-original-width="300" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWewTTogfNdCDU8eYeV7NE8jPVEIRb2uU4CQT2cwu9bb_UQvZEyWREEEn8zQz2wL5n6iyboUU0qhFI2F2M3fNDi7wy9W8Adkj75baDXRlaDbCQUKzKdePpaDNDvKIxyYYxdPnVQFh23UTczgTI6HE2H_8LYrHaQaTheTEDKkkkiZySfqFVsnF5iw/w320-h400/frog%20prince%20jn.png" width="320" /></a></div> <br /><br />BEHAVE MYSELF <br /><i>—Caschwa </i><br /><br />was stopped in traffic <br />waiting for the light to <br />change, and a truck <br />pulled alongside bearing <br />a small sign reading: <br /><br />“Certified Clean Idle” <br /><br />it took every ounce of <br />restraint I could muster <br />to not whip out my bold <br />permanent marker and <br />complete the message <br />to read: <br /><br />certified clean idle hands <br />are the work of the devil <br /><br />then the light changed, <br />traffic resumed flowing, <br />opportunity gone <br /><br />maybe next time </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjStL7otezAzpR-Mw8K9cxtpUJUQ3DaNDXAECuRRYX06uEpvQxGch_mthLvhHRLDK2NRzXWzrGfXJLaKyPtghyphenhyphen0M2K0oHlV5QIwuAKa2MMzejnnARuxbAtkViR-Cb4wF_Gh-5kexT-EjLdIXmSoMvWU9naK-V3JpupcUO2ZyYmIsSk8BiFildoStw/s1280/sky%20dancer%20jn.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="797" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjStL7otezAzpR-Mw8K9cxtpUJUQ3DaNDXAECuRRYX06uEpvQxGch_mthLvhHRLDK2NRzXWzrGfXJLaKyPtghyphenhyphen0M2K0oHlV5QIwuAKa2MMzejnnARuxbAtkViR-Cb4wF_Gh-5kexT-EjLdIXmSoMvWU9naK-V3JpupcUO2ZyYmIsSk8BiFildoStw/w249-h400/sky%20dancer%20jn.jpg" width="249" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Sky Dancer</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />KITES<br /><i>—Sayani Mukherjee, <br />Chandannagar, W. Bengal, India</i> <br /><br />The dreaded past before me <br />I pine before an obliged smile <br />The hooded troops of trumpet <br />Fell over <br />Behind the lake of frostbites nothing <br />It's scourging to heal <br />When the kites have flown <br />Before the red parchment sky <br />A long daisy before my unwritten script <br />To skim a milken pond <br />Lost reveries, beaded smile <br />The scoopnecked tapestry of humdrum beats <br />I once knew before it fell from a torpid sky <br />As all happens in a skydrawn dance. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqs9Uz0SxolpZlHzVwEH8XHBUs2MhCJfzkwcGTgstSzxCt-ZLhyphenhypheneaNLGLt6N_uDJr4iBDLgDi4VCs7WEEjtS9URHbPu2EF8bei25dIAZZx2ExXXzOaEj0v6tWv3whGh79bFfFoajIOwxGNlFEz69YvEMRtlSHhsWRZP-VALbs3yOv8AzndySxong/s726/tulip%20tree%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="581" data-original-width="726" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqs9Uz0SxolpZlHzVwEH8XHBUs2MhCJfzkwcGTgstSzxCt-ZLhyphenhypheneaNLGLt6N_uDJr4iBDLgDi4VCs7WEEjtS9URHbPu2EF8bei25dIAZZx2ExXXzOaEj0v6tWv3whGh79bFfFoajIOwxGNlFEz69YvEMRtlSHhsWRZP-VALbs3yOv8AzndySxong/w400-h320/tulip%20tree%20jn.png" width="400" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">DAMSEL<br /><i>—Sayani Mukherjee</i><br /><br />A playground of damsels <br />The orchard bowed green fever <br />Strikes me as hard as a penknife <br />A red tissue over my scarred brow <br />The pencil-stricken leather boots <br />The church bells passed away <br />I reckon in the purple wondrous sky <br />The coffins are too loud today <br />To pluck a white rose from the people <br />Sky roads are always high <br />They said in hibernation <br />As if my brown skirmish high swam too often. <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjErO4KJCTJxMYJtMHdtnzAWzBhiI4HUAWQ3ohinb0YFrGBeQRj2bgJf4jNrHR7BDbL3DWtGBncOq06aBStJYRN8CTMU5ni8xK6y7Dx3PZhFcTgrBzRmrD80fj3ZG2AcNL8eeoGg4sHOv-nvC0SShvG0Twbn0LMDVjhl1XVw3a4Xi9DDEIvf7wxyw/s537/want:hear%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="537" data-original-width="463" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjErO4KJCTJxMYJtMHdtnzAWzBhiI4HUAWQ3ohinb0YFrGBeQRj2bgJf4jNrHR7BDbL3DWtGBncOq06aBStJYRN8CTMU5ni8xK6y7Dx3PZhFcTgrBzRmrD80fj3ZG2AcNL8eeoGg4sHOv-nvC0SShvG0Twbn0LMDVjhl1XVw3a4Xi9DDEIvf7wxyw/w345-h400/want:hear%20jn.png" width="345" /></a></div><br /><br />EXCEPT THE FEAR<br /><i>—Taylor Dibbert, Washington, DC</i><br /><br />Love and<br />A blended family,<br />Disagreement and<br />Child custody litigation,<br />All kinds of love and <br />All kinds of disagreement<br />All over,<br />They took <br />Too many hits<br />Too early,<br />They had<br />Enough drama<br />To fill <br />A lifetime<br />Of marriage<br />And so they <br />Crashed and burned<br />And by the time<br />The divorce was finalized<br />There was nothing there<br />Except the fear<br />Of trying again.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZOxbmG9RQpNPdR2-R_fOkTyZbh0fc21Ug_JyA6k4DlkVfr9a_tK7a44dI2j-5K67VqYOSbXWNBhClH69QkCupsOrWyY4zxGQOHJUhOXwbR9ED-SnH8C-XeDjhT5L2rEuJY8079HZEv4nuRpV0BsKa-vxttNjcZM5zyAO2S05NHI2AXqfEQA7u4A/s960/shiva%20&%20grands.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZOxbmG9RQpNPdR2-R_fOkTyZbh0fc21Ug_JyA6k4DlkVfr9a_tK7a44dI2j-5K67VqYOSbXWNBhClH69QkCupsOrWyY4zxGQOHJUhOXwbR9ED-SnH8C-XeDjhT5L2rEuJY8079HZEv4nuRpV0BsKa-vxttNjcZM5zyAO2S05NHI2AXqfEQA7u4A/w300-h400/shiva%20&%20grands.jpg" width="300" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Shiva Neupane and his grandparents</i><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />MY GRANDPARENTS:<br /><i>—Shiva Neupane, Melbourne, Australia </i><br /><br />When I was a toddler<br />I used to play with grandparents<br />On their laps.<br />I tried to make fumbling steps <br />But fleetingly fell back on their laps.<br />My journey was confined to their laps<br />But that very journey shifted me<br />On the lap of earth here in down under <br />Where I had shared my moment with them.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-8HkDq9Dfc56L-035PkL5KNXWpi2msw3G0xPuZJzCbQ-YOOY2FzaHrnhxHV5J7QiLfP_p6SRb56axE4KQQYitNfz0aaUWliCCB3VSpUzIHDoZBezrRoqXNNDA0uzOUKHGp1H0sB74gvn64s0UmOHkftOPmfzJ6mtPB5yjaqxoWRM9mZGKl0O0kw/s1013/pink%20tulips%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1013" data-original-width="675" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-8HkDq9Dfc56L-035PkL5KNXWpi2msw3G0xPuZJzCbQ-YOOY2FzaHrnhxHV5J7QiLfP_p6SRb56axE4KQQYitNfz0aaUWliCCB3VSpUzIHDoZBezrRoqXNNDA0uzOUKHGp1H0sB74gvn64s0UmOHkftOPmfzJ6mtPB5yjaqxoWRM9mZGKl0O0kw/w266-h400/pink%20tulips%20jn.png" width="266" /></a></div><br /><br />BUREAUCRAT’S CONFESSION<br /><i>—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA</i><br /><br />I got a clinical degree<br />To become a bureaucrat,<br />Managing my minions,<br />As if I were “all that.”<br /><br />At first <br />I thought<br />I could try<br />To change the <br />World<br />And make it better,<br /><br />But I finally came<br />To understand<br />Idealism is a fetter<br />Against progress<br />Up the social scale.<br /><br />So I have <br />My desk, <br />My chair,<br />My place<br />Within an <br />Office building.<br /><br />I show up to work <br />On time,<br />Every day,<br />Always sober.<br /><br />I never drink<br />Except at home<br />At night,<br />When I’m alone.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC6cnevaEW5tP-RsEMYCitoVcSZ0ZwFBZteQB30OXcshtpAoQNjzGbMuXpCuXP_hcxM8sihmmtchKR-DgM0KhrJS10JjDmtXsKpQto7-zUKJU6JcvoNXUNgM6EHiQsJ5zWvsMHLTyYeMYPuCULSUELTKlVfudH_8EiL19jgshdypwGLLV_CIQzRQ/s939/sheep%20trail:mtn%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="939" data-original-width="626" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC6cnevaEW5tP-RsEMYCitoVcSZ0ZwFBZteQB30OXcshtpAoQNjzGbMuXpCuXP_hcxM8sihmmtchKR-DgM0KhrJS10JjDmtXsKpQto7-zUKJU6JcvoNXUNgM6EHiQsJ5zWvsMHLTyYeMYPuCULSUELTKlVfudH_8EiL19jgshdypwGLLV_CIQzRQ/w266-h400/sheep%20trail:mtn%20jn.png" width="266" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />ENTERING A GAUNTLET<br /><i>—Joseph Nolan</i><br /><br />When you choose<br />To venture through<br />A gauntlet,<br />To suffer all the <br />Battery, within,<br />To endure<br />All the suffering<br />That comes naturally <br />From this world of sin,<br />Remember Me,<br />Since I am <br />With you.<br /><br />I went there<br />Before you,<br />To save the world<br />From sin.<br /> <br />If you carry cross<br />Across the mayhem,<br />Walk on fire<br />Across the coals of Hell,<br />Remember Me,<br />Since I am <br />With you,<br />I have walked that <br />Path before.<br /><br />I am with all<br />Who bear suffering,<br />When they offer<br />It all up to Me.<br /><br />I can carry every weight<br />Every horror, <br />Every fate,<br />Bearing it all<br />Into Me.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk__obwWhl0tGznEn09Mqz5k7x8cWVZ9MWXzeTmFc1NrNtwMbz04PTx8EJuJoSq1dyKDC4GyNnDAcVPC4Mlh5oE1KemUKuPzj7w2dEJ7feYGpC53_ohMjZLfY7oF9D6qE_rxdRVn3dyKvTnAiGzTwIeul-zTRkXjYZlvE8tBkZX6ryLuKolUpLUQ/s540/tired:shit%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="540" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk__obwWhl0tGznEn09Mqz5k7x8cWVZ9MWXzeTmFc1NrNtwMbz04PTx8EJuJoSq1dyKDC4GyNnDAcVPC4Mlh5oE1KemUKuPzj7w2dEJ7feYGpC53_ohMjZLfY7oF9D6qE_rxdRVn3dyKvTnAiGzTwIeul-zTRkXjYZlvE8tBkZX6ryLuKolUpLUQ/w400-h400/tired:shit%20jn.png" width="400" /></a></div> <br /><br />OUR CRUMBLING EMPIRE<br /><i>—Joe Nolan</i><br /><br />Who will save<br />Our crumbling empire<br />When the Visigoths <br />Are in town,<br />Colliding with the Vandals<br />And every Goth around?<br /><br />When they’re burning <br />Down the temples<br />Of Zeus and Apollo<br />And no lightning-bolts <br />Shock them down?<br /><br />Don’t they know<br />God’ll get them <br />For that?<br /><br />We’ve always had our motto<br />Printed on every coin<br />Ever since Remus and Romulus,<br />That says, “In God We Trust.”<br /><br />Now, though,<br />You’d better check your coins,<br />Boy,<br />‘Cause your gold has turned to rust, <br />Zeus is on vacation<br />And Apollo’s sating his lust.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0e8DoiT5fTcmg-ne0YzziqhyphenhyphenZa0uuAjP95EKTLXZm7_3Kd40FfQBpv4lVZqTBBu6t8YiUirz18EXHttvKUkbWV23LA391XGLEjKnvdv-VfE98m-8BWVz33crOEzcbDdp5sx7QNdWS2RjgjYEFStpsXzReg47U32vNwfcJD-fhHHnR4U8bjSgMFQ/s900/fantasy%20girl:star.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="900" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0e8DoiT5fTcmg-ne0YzziqhyphenhyphenZa0uuAjP95EKTLXZm7_3Kd40FfQBpv4lVZqTBBu6t8YiUirz18EXHttvKUkbWV23LA391XGLEjKnvdv-VfE98m-8BWVz33crOEzcbDdp5sx7QNdWS2RjgjYEFStpsXzReg47U32vNwfcJD-fhHHnR4U8bjSgMFQ/w400-h300/fantasy%20girl:star.png" width="400" /></a></div> <br /><br />BREATHLESS BEFORE BEAUTY<br /><i>—Joe Nolan</i><br /><br />Are you ready to die for beauty?<br />Devote all your days?<br />Worship with your dying breath<br />When life is slipping away,<br /><br />Live each moment in <br />Breathlessness,<br />When your wind<br />Is sucked out of your chest?<br /><br />Live each moment <br />In breathlessness<br />In awe and total wonder? <br />Struck dumb,<br />With nothing left to say, <br />Except, <br />“Please don’t go away!”<br /><br />If so, then, <br />Dear children,<br />Go and run and play<br />In the Garden <br />I’ve made for you—<br />To be in love, each day.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxlU0P702ms2VDFYi706XT8y-S3s9RGi8YZZ1e3KiOkMhPZ7y63tOOnvHyAeWwvgZ0gGpSWjmDB7TUodYcttYlstTjx8bGiASkWrdpJovKoKqDjVgnOlIo4KHDYhUaVB1CoDZgAHxmCoxhpbO-BGILfrcWTqxdi1b7MvsnPMBjXs3MO3hjhyfY3w/s852/girl%20outlined:sun%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="852" data-original-width="481" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxlU0P702ms2VDFYi706XT8y-S3s9RGi8YZZ1e3KiOkMhPZ7y63tOOnvHyAeWwvgZ0gGpSWjmDB7TUodYcttYlstTjx8bGiASkWrdpJovKoKqDjVgnOlIo4KHDYhUaVB1CoDZgAHxmCoxhpbO-BGILfrcWTqxdi1b7MvsnPMBjXs3MO3hjhyfY3w/w226-h400/girl%20outlined:sun%20jn.png" width="226" /></a></div> <br /><br />WONDER WITH REGRET<br /><i>—Joe Nolan</i><br /><br />She seemed <br />Like a good model<br />Of someday, maybe,<br />Mine,<br /><br />So I <br />Asked her <br />For her <br />Number<br />And called her<br />Half the time,<br />When I <br />Wasn’t <br />Out with <br />Others.<br />I was <br />Doing fine.<br /><br />Then one day,<br />She went away<br />And I <br />Was left <br />Behind.<br /><br />I wonder<br />Where she<br />Went to...<br /><br />If she’s <br />Had her<br />Babies, yet?<br /><br />I’ve had mine<br />With another lover.<br />I wonder<br />With regret.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUE_YJJsDwLhtJJxaA-YMHjL9Un8CDjP21ZouoAWBAzZnQ0d8_wrLTVFME2DxIRCsxK0yQoETUmJGUb6TqVbhDx1v4xsu_Jsgn6Iu-sNVaPIrjau4LehmBidzb0tPVDk3XobfJFmTM5_mHrK_4P9NazUQcqIoyjtWvfH0KmiaUhNA-a0znauEquQ/s1025/castle%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1025" data-original-width="840" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUE_YJJsDwLhtJJxaA-YMHjL9Un8CDjP21ZouoAWBAzZnQ0d8_wrLTVFME2DxIRCsxK0yQoETUmJGUb6TqVbhDx1v4xsu_Jsgn6Iu-sNVaPIrjau4LehmBidzb0tPVDk3XobfJFmTM5_mHrK_4P9NazUQcqIoyjtWvfH0KmiaUhNA-a0znauEquQ/w328-h400/castle%20jn.png" width="328" /></a></div> <br /><br />READ THE NEIGHBOURHOOD<br /><i>—Ann Privateer, Davis, CA</i><br /><br />My bookshelf contains a rainbow<br />Of places I’ve never been to<br />Gunga Din, Nosferatu…nostalgia lands<br /><br />And mysterious creatures that don’t<br />Live here, unlike my neighbours<br />The folks with campers that travel<br /><br />And view other places<br />The unseen miles along<br />The road while living in<br /><br />Their house cars<br />And, after weeks<br />Out there they say<br /><br />How lovely<br />It is to be home.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_peAVFOCrc_BaK8lOgMHHGPvM2xoNsd0t1QKUQu7GO1zRfwrLzKER1Oq1NIxxw1Iffk2ztbNkv4kHOpNGTAvPgg1n5gc_KUUx8VejwQ_dVTmVx5YT52E_DCJ79n6JSJzYfOy7muxSxZk_2dSEx5aWWCsrD12UVsCLAC8hSlggb83r8tX_LSXzeA/s400/lord%20grant%20me%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="400" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_peAVFOCrc_BaK8lOgMHHGPvM2xoNsd0t1QKUQu7GO1zRfwrLzKER1Oq1NIxxw1Iffk2ztbNkv4kHOpNGTAvPgg1n5gc_KUUx8VejwQ_dVTmVx5YT52E_DCJ79n6JSJzYfOy7muxSxZk_2dSEx5aWWCsrD12UVsCLAC8hSlggb83r8tX_LSXzeA/w400-h300/lord%20grant%20me%20jn.png" width="400" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b><i><b>Today’s LittleNip:</b><br /><br />FAMILY<br />—Ann Privateer<br /><br />Father of the moment<br />Mother of the underdog<br />Brother of wisdom<br />Sister of stars<br />Lover of a gypsy<br />The morning call.<br /><br />_________________<br /><br />Many thanks to today’s huge variety of contributors, some of which riffed on our Seed of the Week, “Moody”. Be sure to check into the Kitchen on Tuesdays for a new Seed of the Week.<br /><br />Newcomer <span style="color: red;">Annette Towler</span> is a psychotherapist who lives in Milwaukee. She was born in England and moved to the United States thirty years ago, and is now an American citizen. Welcome to the Kitchen, Annette, and don’t be a stranger!</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br />Spring is inspiring poets everywhere, and fortunately they're sending their handiwork from around the world to the Kitchen, so we have many tasty posts ahead to look forward to. Don't be left out—send poetry to kathykieth@hotmail.com/. The snakes of Medusa... well, you know...</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br />________________<br /><br />—Medusa</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJBC6764agXoYTuHxNB7BWI4OYTN_zqyFFrR_nbw-Bw_xStlDmnEE2p-kkzRpvVNrcB-FFpm3HPsGgik41FS0rJBUo4EvaOqpdBlKJlZuJbR_r_lLYKeO5pCjY6cAl7sTqXVcqC-X1dnKxK666xwuoL3-BUip_LrNzQiGuyneo4qIqZ-2ptQFYnQ/s400/be:reason%20%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="290" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJBC6764agXoYTuHxNB7BWI4OYTN_zqyFFrR_nbw-Bw_xStlDmnEE2p-kkzRpvVNrcB-FFpm3HPsGgik41FS0rJBUo4EvaOqpdBlKJlZuJbR_r_lLYKeO5pCjY6cAl7sTqXVcqC-X1dnKxK666xwuoL3-BUip_LrNzQiGuyneo4qIqZ-2ptQFYnQ/w290-h400/be:reason%20%20jn.png" width="290" /></a></div><br /> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i><br /> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i>A reminder that <b>Poetic License</b></i><br /><i>takes place in Placerville this morning;</i><br /><i>then <b>Sacramento Poetry Center’s</b></i><b><br /></b><i><b>Youth Open Mic</b> will happen tonight.</i><br /><i>For info about these and other</i><br /><i>future poetry happenings in </i><br /><i>Northern California and otherwheres, </i><br /><i>click on</i><br /><i><b>UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS</b></i><br /><i>(<a href="http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html">http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html</a>)</i><br /><i>in the links at the top of this page—</i><br /><i>and keep an eye on this link and on</i><br /><i>the daily Kitchen for happenings </i><br /><i>that might pop up</i><br /><i>—or get changed!—</i><br /><i> during the week.</i><br /><br /><i>Photos in this column can be enlarged by </i><br /><i>clicking on them once, then clicking on the x </i><br /><i>in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.</i><br /><br /><i>Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down</i><br /><i>under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button</i><br /><i>at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets </i><br /><i>by typing the name of the poet or poem</i><br /><i> into the little beige box at the top </i><br /><i>left-hand side of today’s post; or go to </i><br /><i>Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of </i><br /><i>the blue column at the right</i><br /><i> to find the date you want.</i><br /><br /><i>Would you like to be a SnakePal? </i><br /><i>Guidelines are at the top of this page</i><br /><i>at the Placating the Gorgon link;</i><br /><i>send poetry and/or photos and artwork</i><br /><i>to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post</i><br /><i>work from all over the world—including</i><br /><i>that which was previously published—</i><br /><i>and collaborations are welcome. </i><br /><i>Just remember:</i><br /><i>the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—</i><br /><i>for poetry, of course!</i><br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXuL7mgUvRP_3TSwS-Qa96QYgOPWUwDjHHsxrBHcGCzihNOidaAwGq0JJ-vijW5YXfWIr2sa8K8kSVu33MICapvY4CXeo2ir3C-cENSz-nTuEfYSazwoB_yEAxDJHCMDGmuLMieuUhn5ZNe2XSmdOrTWehp19cU4v5u0MO8K1hzj_ZPh0wfN0FMg/s225/sarcastic.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXuL7mgUvRP_3TSwS-Qa96QYgOPWUwDjHHsxrBHcGCzihNOidaAwGq0JJ-vijW5YXfWIr2sa8K8kSVu33MICapvY4CXeo2ir3C-cENSz-nTuEfYSazwoB_yEAxDJHCMDGmuLMieuUhn5ZNe2XSmdOrTWehp19cU4v5u0MO8K1hzj_ZPh0wfN0FMg/s1600/sarcastic.jpg" width="225" /></a></div><i>Feelin’ moody today?</i><br /><br /></div><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br /><br /><br /> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Kathy Kieth, Wrangler-in-Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11925893540872899117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13262320.post-51325594419465372682024-03-10T08:37:00.000-07:002024-03-10T08:38:21.273-07:00Dream After Dream<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3IIoc_shmYfob3RURERij4BjsuH0JovGOsBRvwfFK5BnmLnbzMwJsQ_0Iyv1pFmPdERnv1VjLH-KOC2eFAH0cYNEb3BS1LIM6w5P-uRbjzyvcrFwXxyr1TbjzSQunjz5VdJslC0GtoVT25b115T7lv4iYoJ00ZGVUS11CvY8cFRrsnotKjUYUbQ/s271/1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="186" data-original-width="271" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3IIoc_shmYfob3RURERij4BjsuH0JovGOsBRvwfFK5BnmLnbzMwJsQ_0Iyv1pFmPdERnv1VjLH-KOC2eFAH0cYNEb3BS1LIM6w5P-uRbjzyvcrFwXxyr1TbjzSQunjz5VdJslC0GtoVT25b115T7lv4iYoJ00ZGVUS11CvY8cFRrsnotKjUYUbQ/w400-h275/1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <i>—Poetry by Hongwei Bao, Nottingham, UK<br />—Peach Blossom Photos Courtesy of <br />Public Domain</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"> <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">A GUIDE TO THE PEACH BLOSSOM GARDEN<br /><br />The Peach Blossom Garden is not a dream, <br />or a fantasy. One simply needs to know how <br /><br />to find it. You follow a murmuring <br />stream that zigzags in front of you. Walk <br /><br />upstream until a giant rock stands <br />in your way. The origin of the stream is hidden <br /><br />beneath the rock. You climb up <br />the giant rock, a small path unfolds <br /><br />amidst green meadows. Keep walking <br />towards the pink clouds that adorn <br /><br />the sky. Do not look back until you arrive <br />at a red-lacquered garden gate decorated <br /><br />by golden frames. Push the gate gently <br />open. Have no fear. You will be greeted <br /><br />by dancing butterflies, buzzing bees, chirping <br />birds and a garden full of peach flowers. <br /><br />If you feel thirsty and hungry, sit down and sip <br />the dewdrops or eat the nectars from the flowers. <br /><br />If you feel tired, lie down on the soft soil covered <br />by fallen peach flower petals, and fall <br /><br />asleep, dream after dream. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZrAoubutYQB-hWb9P_TN7ogdHu73Rlz12wxpjvNtobpQpD5qzqltdwhhFnQY9ciNnE_dVBG3N69LCeRXxk0U8Vt1CL3LGTwRY5ZJ8yQfSEv3DArGAWyxrPqcnTeGU_lIXdWuGpzQeRrmNfNzTFqn5YF8uMNSywVkuCDbGTEd5-NTwlcdMquaZZw/s900/2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZrAoubutYQB-hWb9P_TN7ogdHu73Rlz12wxpjvNtobpQpD5qzqltdwhhFnQY9ciNnE_dVBG3N69LCeRXxk0U8Vt1CL3LGTwRY5ZJ8yQfSEv3DArGAWyxrPqcnTeGU_lIXdWuGpzQeRrmNfNzTFqn5YF8uMNSywVkuCDbGTEd5-NTwlcdMquaZZw/w266-h400/2.jpg" width="266" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />PICNICKING IN AUSTRALIA<br /><i>for Minglu </i><br /><br />On New Year’s Eve my best friend posted a picture <br />on Facebook showing her having a picnic with her <br />husband. Both wearing T-shirts (because it is <br />summer <br />there), smiling radiantly to the camera, Chardonnay <br />glasses sparkling in their hands. Two plates full <br />of rice <br />and curry invite appetite. Apples and bananas wait <br />patiently on the checked tablecloth. A still life <br />painting. <br />A giant jeep stands brooding behind them, its green <br />surface and shiny glass translucent. Underneath lies <br />the yellow sand and stone. Above, twigs extend like <br />a spider web. Against the backdrop are trees (or <br />bushes <br />as the Aussies say) pressed low by silver clouds, <br />reminiscent of an old Turner painting but set <br />on the Australian outback on a hot summer day. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM0x2ficGNsMU8Nl1mvsJVJjyuhs1smfUSpSfkyp1sn6zlV0B4o2vW4Cm8Vpc6xSP3nfGIety8Th17CBBhRMpF8L6MP_bKEbEXcxtLvD10xElmBhZuzRoQACDC5hzdoAawtjUIw2DLxWlCkqmNm5JknJcDex989w2kE8ZYLST2VGP4tLRZW6KPWg/s225/3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM0x2ficGNsMU8Nl1mvsJVJjyuhs1smfUSpSfkyp1sn6zlV0B4o2vW4Cm8Vpc6xSP3nfGIety8Th17CBBhRMpF8L6MP_bKEbEXcxtLvD10xElmBhZuzRoQACDC5hzdoAawtjUIw2DLxWlCkqmNm5JknJcDex989w2kE8ZYLST2VGP4tLRZW6KPWg/w400-h400/3.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <br /><br />GAY BAR<br /><br />In that dark, narrow neighbourhood bar, <br />tucked inside an alleyway, <br />time stands still. <br /><br />Dust dances in the sunbeam. <br />Beer and food stains on the table. <br />Stories of thick and thin times. <br /><br />That pungent smell saturates the air, <br />pounding hearts, <br />speeding up breaths. <br /><br />How many rounds have I walked past, <br />wandering outside <br />before finally giving in? <br /><br />How many casual conversations have I struck up, <br />unfolding another life, <br />a different shade of loneliness? <br /><br />How many times have I stood in trance <br />before the washer, clothes carrying <br />the mixed odours of cigarette, alcohol and sweat, <br /><br />the memories of <br />this man’s bulging veins on his hands, <br />that man’s trimmed mustache on his lips? </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixwgxyWrV3Fz1htCClHQoRu_IA8nMGfaATwvOp7804H6KzytYz5CJTn7tbrsIw_65R_PNskcPDNoU2P2fyDK5YyctMBe7UHUIgh8qaithENyg3mU7Yeq2tBaB6CkWViUDk50Hd91WF40h2OFkOlEVfYl7AgxxX31ZH6uFZgb2y6NDgaDokB0X-vg/s276/4.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="276" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixwgxyWrV3Fz1htCClHQoRu_IA8nMGfaATwvOp7804H6KzytYz5CJTn7tbrsIw_65R_PNskcPDNoU2P2fyDK5YyctMBe7UHUIgh8qaithENyg3mU7Yeq2tBaB6CkWViUDk50Hd91WF40h2OFkOlEVfYl7AgxxX31ZH6uFZgb2y6NDgaDokB0X-vg/w400-h265/4.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br />CONFESSION<br /><br />We met at the Mardi Gras <br />last summer and kissed <br />under the rainbow-coloured Sydney sun. <br /><br />The cross necklace you wore <br />on your neck <br />dangled in front of your chest. <br /><br />Now I see you wake up <br />in the middle of the night, gazing <br />at the cross, deep in thought. <br /><br />How can you <br />stagger into a church on a Sunday morning, <br />hair messy, eyes half-closing, <br /><br />alcohol in every breath, listening <br />to the preachings of Adam and Eve <br />almost dozing off; <br /><br />waiting patiently in a queue <br />for a pathetic-looking piece of wafer <br />and a drop of sugar-loaded wine <br /><br />after a Saturday night out <br />at a gay club, drinking shots and pints, <br />dancing till your legs ache? <br /><br />And how can you <br />still pick up the Book and pray <br />after we’ve had sex and drugs? <br /><br />What have you told the priest <br />that you won’t tell me? <br /><br />Do I ever feature <br />in your heart-wrenching confession? </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_Qg1v8rxgWTw_Ri-4o205XDBtQsocrDPJ1zzs9nRD5eWcgFnXEQkroyVLFslcHn7-cKRBixKZNSYgH_5haVCf3V5mZ2m7Uom66-BIZQjI-JEcw0ox0X-IQY5VoxOqH5iCWMND4qgfjz71V8UqVY68KBsEczY8WcdE3rpHRTF6uSjNmO5rVwWyiw/s275/5.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_Qg1v8rxgWTw_Ri-4o205XDBtQsocrDPJ1zzs9nRD5eWcgFnXEQkroyVLFslcHn7-cKRBixKZNSYgH_5haVCf3V5mZ2m7Uom66-BIZQjI-JEcw0ox0X-IQY5VoxOqH5iCWMND4qgfjz71V8UqVY68KBsEczY8WcdE3rpHRTF6uSjNmO5rVwWyiw/w400-h266/5.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <br /><br />BLUE SKY THINKING <br /><br />Just imagine— <br />the consultant raises his voice, arms spread wide: <br />a school without departments and departmental <br />offices; <br />teachers allowed to teach what they are researching; <br />students able to choose what they are interested in, <br />walk into a service centre and have all their <br />problems solved; <br />fewer staff which would mean less bureaucracy, <br />more efficiency, <br />better customer service, greater satisfaction rates— <br />how wonderful, how exciting this would be! <br /><br />The consultant drops his arms, still wearing that <br />dreamlike smile, satisfied with the rhetorical <br />force of his words, rehearsed so many times. <br />His thick eyebrows sweep across a room <br />full of impressed managers, silent staff. <br /><br />Trying to avoid his eye contact, <br />I look out of the window and gaze <br />at the small patches of blue sky <br />amid accumulating dark clouds. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBGvTwWfDE77mTPtpIlAKY-y1gUbrS_x2lC793-W2ja_iMHkj0H_n1AEbszbKF-VBlK8tqZlEnbE80FwshqH33n2KBjYO6AH1xXFBQpOdCD7WjswOauvxaw79YV9S-NdekABsKM1xlkEylem01k2xEQt3VlDVoJuqeWKBy5eTub3mTVerGp15GEg/s225/6.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBGvTwWfDE77mTPtpIlAKY-y1gUbrS_x2lC793-W2ja_iMHkj0H_n1AEbszbKF-VBlK8tqZlEnbE80FwshqH33n2KBjYO6AH1xXFBQpOdCD7WjswOauvxaw79YV9S-NdekABsKM1xlkEylem01k2xEQt3VlDVoJuqeWKBy5eTub3mTVerGp15GEg/w400-h400/6.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />PANCAKE <br /><br />On those long, winter nights, <br />I and my friends, a group <br />of university students, pondered <br />on the meanings of life, <br />stomachs rumbling after a whole <br />evening’s banter, film, music, computer game. <br />Someone shouted: <br />The pancake man is here! <br /><br />We rushed downstairs, <br />in our thinly layered clothes, pyjamas even, <br />competing with one another <br />to see who could get there first. <br /><br />Outside the dorm building, <br />on the pavement, dimly lit <br />by the streetlamps, stood a man <br />with his tricycle, a hot <br />pancake stove installed on the back. <br />White steam rose in the air. <br />Sweet aroma stimulated the nostrils. <br /><br />We stood in a zigzagging queue <br />rubbing hands, stamping feet, <br />waiting for our turn, knowing <br />it would be worth the wait. <br /><br />Those were cold nights <br />and bright days. <br />Twenty years later, <br />the chilly wind of the night <br />still penetrates my bones. <br />The sweet smell of the pancakes <br />still titillates my stomach. <br />The young faces of my friends <br />still shimmer in my head. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiDnU1OpO40lXSZ8JQG8tHjV6NYE1SAvPbQGv_IkY_6SQxRJ-LtYw8V3ki5bnSSNcvH03Q49Dqy3BaTxdiTpAMlNDLaciH3KZ2bumzngBRSyYI1-UU8rHithvKyMljaAtbcaQBlnY9NZ9HfNSpiAmexpP3xDvs540bZjL9vDFLvs-sNUkCtuMMSA/s275/7.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiDnU1OpO40lXSZ8JQG8tHjV6NYE1SAvPbQGv_IkY_6SQxRJ-LtYw8V3ki5bnSSNcvH03Q49Dqy3BaTxdiTpAMlNDLaciH3KZ2bumzngBRSyYI1-UU8rHithvKyMljaAtbcaQBlnY9NZ9HfNSpiAmexpP3xDvs540bZjL9vDFLvs-sNUkCtuMMSA/w400-h266/7.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <br /><br />PUPPY ON THE BRIDGE <br /><br />Last night I saw a puppy. <br />small and white, a Labrador, I think, <br />standing on the cast-iron bridge <br />not knowing where to go. <br /><br />Then I saw you. You bent down <br />and picked it up. It didn’t struggle. <br />Its soft white limbs resting in your arms. <br />Its bright eyes staring at you <br />—that clear pool of water! <br />You hugged the puppy <br />as if holding a baby. You carried it <br />across the bridge and gently put it down. <br /><br />I don’t know what happened next. <br />I couldn’t tell where the dog came from, <br />or what it was doing out there. <br />I wasn’t sure where I was, <br />or if I was there. It was a still <br />image with a clear foreground <br />and blurred background. <br />A deep focus. <br /><br />Perhaps it was a dream. <br />Perhaps I was thinking about the puppy <br />I never had. An idea <br />you’ve always said no to. <br /><br />Perhaps I wish I was that puppy. <br />When I got lost, you’d come <br />to my rescue, picking me up, <br />hugging me gently in your arms. <br /><br />___________________<br /><br /><i><b>Today’s LittleNip:</b><br /><br />We should consider every day lost on which we have not danced at least once. And we should call every truth false which was not accompanied by at least one laugh. <br /><br />—Friedrich Nietzsche<br /><br />____________________<br /><br />Newcomer <span style="color: red;">Hongwei Bao</span> grew up in Inner Mongolia, China, and now lives in Nottingham, UK. He uses short stories, poems and essays to explore queer desire, Asian identity, diasporic positionality and transcultural intimacy. His creative work has appeared or is forthcoming in </i>Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, The Rialto, Shanghai Literary Review, The Hooghly Review, The Ponder Review, the other side of hope, The Voice & Verse Poetry Magazine <i>and </i>Write On. <i>His flash fiction, ‘A Postcard from Berlin’, won the second prize in the Plaza Prize for Microfiction in 2023. His debut collection, </i>The Passion of the Rabbit God<i>, is forthcoming from Valley Press in Summer 2024. Welcome to the Kitchen, Hongwei, and don’t be a stranger!<br /><br />____________________<br /><br />—Medusa </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOS-6gnhSoQV6fW2Ht8y95l_WWsDDNaVRaPL0N72mFkZda6YTmj9gRzS_BcyDU1f8yEotAlw3jzbz3LaF5hzkpID8xMKB1YTo3QU5xGNEQzR52gLMs_q-PrvO_Eb347Wef55o4sCYV8KbWoqqCwi6XJloXSkHjgzi7pk189s5cGaU3nsSBxbkFvw/s4032/Hongwei%20Bao%202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOS-6gnhSoQV6fW2Ht8y95l_WWsDDNaVRaPL0N72mFkZda6YTmj9gRzS_BcyDU1f8yEotAlw3jzbz3LaF5hzkpID8xMKB1YTo3QU5xGNEQzR52gLMs_q-PrvO_Eb347Wef55o4sCYV8KbWoqqCwi6XJloXSkHjgzi7pk189s5cGaU3nsSBxbkFvw/w300-h400/Hongwei%20Bao%202.jpg" width="300" /></a></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i> Hongwei Bao</i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>A reminder that <span style="color: red;">Loch Henson</span></i><br /><i>will be reading today at </i><br /><b><i>The Poets Club of Lincoln’s</i><br /></b><i><b>Open Mic Sunday</b>, 3pm. </i><br /><i>For future poetry happenings in </i><br /><i>Northern California and otherwheres, </i><br /><i>click on</i><br /><i><b>UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS</b></i><br /><i>(<a href="http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html">http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html</a>)</i><br /><i>in the links at the top of this page—</i><br /><i>and keep an eye on this link and on</i><br /><i>the daily Kitchen for happenings </i><br /><i>that might pop up</i><br /><i>—or get changed!—</i><br /><i> during the week.</i><br /><br /><i>Photos in this column can be enlarged by </i><br /><i>clicking on them once, then clicking on the x </i><br /><i>in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.</i><br /><br /><i>Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down</i><br /><i>under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button</i><br /><i>at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets </i><br /><i>by typing the name of the poet or poem</i><br /><i> into the little beige box at the top </i><br /><i>left-hand side of today’s post; or go to </i><br /><i>Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of </i><br /><i>the blue column at the right</i><br /><i> to find the date you want.</i><br /><br /><i>Would you like to be a SnakePal? </i><br /><i>Guidelines are at the top of this page</i><br /><i>at the Placating the Gorgon link;</i><br /><i>send poetry and/or photos and artwork</i><br /><i>to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post</i><br /><i>work from all over the world—including</i><br /><i>that which was previously published—</i><br /><i>and collaborations are welcome. </i><br /><i>Just remember:</i><br /><i>the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—</i><br /><i>for poetry, of course!</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM6ZmsynoBrneKbssMC91meZXuu_M5HytNo8p5slK_q6dmuYYDhF_4II7SkrPwO0rlwGfnjaArhBDqcfp75si9LAehRQExkVofgfOI5EnfHPidInt3K9LPtwe2MeId5zqPmtrrbg4Niy3c0gPA61cwkvkFMETy1akuCRek-T9vVlfrczroiQZuCg/s446/flowers%20around.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="442" data-original-width="446" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM6ZmsynoBrneKbssMC91meZXuu_M5HytNo8p5slK_q6dmuYYDhF_4II7SkrPwO0rlwGfnjaArhBDqcfp75si9LAehRQExkVofgfOI5EnfHPidInt3K9LPtwe2MeId5zqPmtrrbg4Niy3c0gPA61cwkvkFMETy1akuCRek-T9vVlfrczroiQZuCg/w200-h198/flowers%20around.png" width="200" /></a></div><br /> </i><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div></div>Kathy Kieth, Wrangler-in-Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11925893540872899117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13262320.post-17610251891894645632024-03-09T08:36:00.000-08:002024-03-09T08:48:12.184-08:00One Hand Clapping<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIrqDxdKmyw5y4hFYcsYQXzJBJtp81mPQkKKnLZB0hYMuvnImWm-wmRwfIUCln3HK72hpdAD1W-rrZiqy9rDZ7k8sYVUdu81WEGb4dOhlanQagUTw-P4MVydZ1Svz5vSj_Gmt76RSfPneQM70u6Kv4UN4WTVWKjjHJ8kXVWWMuIieDuvgNSZ-h3g/s657/horse:snow%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="546" data-original-width="657" height="333" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIrqDxdKmyw5y4hFYcsYQXzJBJtp81mPQkKKnLZB0hYMuvnImWm-wmRwfIUCln3HK72hpdAD1W-rrZiqy9rDZ7k8sYVUdu81WEGb4dOhlanQagUTw-P4MVydZ1Svz5vSj_Gmt76RSfPneQM70u6Kv4UN4WTVWKjjHJ8kXVWWMuIieDuvgNSZ-h3g/w400-h333/horse:snow%20jn.png" width="400" /></a></div><i> —Poetry by Michael H. Brownstein, <br />Jefferson City, MO<br />—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of <br />Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">MOUNTAIN STORM<br /><br />It’s a rock day full of song erosion and then it rains,<br />the wind noise crisscrossed, cross-stitched,<br />glacier waters bleeding off-course, bumps and <br />pebbles,<br />stone and flesh, branch and burp. How easily bones<br />flush from the mountain after a storm, white-washed<br />like albino skin, the broken facade of stucco, the last<br />snow melting, and sometimes the singing is a Siren.<br />Great walls open and collide, stale and crusty. A tree<br />breaks at its waist and everyone hears it. In a rock day,<br />and yes, you can hear the sound of one hand clapping.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRFhMXA_dt_v687e6aLNBvORFjaTOZqO_DJYer_NH854b9JCirDlvv50DrVKktsZ0ASdMesxG1Cvr9GJ7aPjq8mV8zrQMI8prr-GRm231GfTHE-ldaoI8OytkE6ip4mKC9lP_EqtCsiM3h7a83IxwlhQznq3tbJnhd8iRezclb1a7f-TOuDaDCrw/s720/volcano%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="699" data-original-width="720" height="389" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRFhMXA_dt_v687e6aLNBvORFjaTOZqO_DJYer_NH854b9JCirDlvv50DrVKktsZ0ASdMesxG1Cvr9GJ7aPjq8mV8zrQMI8prr-GRm231GfTHE-ldaoI8OytkE6ip4mKC9lP_EqtCsiM3h7a83IxwlhQznq3tbJnhd8iRezclb1a7f-TOuDaDCrw/w400-h389/volcano%20jn.png" width="400" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />REIGN OF ASH<br /><br />This is one of those nights you never dream,<br />the sky not on fire, but burning.<br />Falling ash and ember. An orange cantaloupe moon. <br />Nosebleeds. <br />Diarrhea.<br /><br />The volcano dome collapses, a sudden cloud, and <br />night is hyphenated.<br />A rain of black ash<br />And all of the stars drop from sight in bundles.<br /><br />The people come out of their homes and stand on <br />their verandas,<br />A people of the long knife and volcanic dust,<br />Skin hard with ash, hair ash-poisoned, ash-sweat stew.<br /><br />Spirits roam the roads and pathways, find life in <br />the old ones,<br />The village’s simple center crowded into the hill,<br />Welcomes the voices of the dead.<br /><br />Later island rescue comes with breathing masks,<br />A church opens its doors early to pray for rain,<br />Goats come from their hiding places to shake them-<br />selves free.<br /><br />All day dust clouds landscape and window.<br />The mountain sacrifices itself to lahars and spirit <br />people.<br />Everything, every leaf, every iguana, every ghost <br />wrapped in ash.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlQxLDrclwvx0VAYRPXGiPt0J_2r8dtellQZEFFLftI1lFxdyPie9FLYIun_SLMhaMqa4UR3MZNpEWfVnhkjEoEapW6tQvxwYLcm2Bl63f-KbSuFU_QBzf6ju24Iko0KZPSLtYy0aqKoyC2QM1qYiWEftr-tynaZwFsSLDYrSiUAEPC-v4_SEVmQ/s1040/woman:headdress%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1040" data-original-width="735" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlQxLDrclwvx0VAYRPXGiPt0J_2r8dtellQZEFFLftI1lFxdyPie9FLYIun_SLMhaMqa4UR3MZNpEWfVnhkjEoEapW6tQvxwYLcm2Bl63f-KbSuFU_QBzf6ju24Iko0KZPSLtYy0aqKoyC2QM1qYiWEftr-tynaZwFsSLDYrSiUAEPC-v4_SEVmQ/w283-h400/woman:headdress%20jn.png" width="283" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />HIGH ON HER MOUNTAIN, THE <br />WITCH WITCH WARMS HERSELF<br /><br />The witch witch wakes hungry,<br />ice on her breath,<br />clouds in her hair,<br />underwear gray and red,<br />warts sprawled across her arms.<br />There are always people who are meant to harm <br />you.<br />The witch witch is not one of them.<br />She can dig a shallow grave,<br />pray over a cat at play with a mouse,<br />squash a scorpion between thumb and forefinger.<br />The witch witch sees the dormant volcano<br />through an opening in her wall,<br />the sudden rise of steam, the push<br />of ash like wet sand,<br />the beautiful collapse of the dome.<br />She walks onto her veranda,<br />folds her small hands into a smile,<br />and watches the mountain catch fire.<br /><br />___________________<br /><br /><i><b>Today’s LittleNip:</b><br /><br />WINTER HORIZON<br />—Michael H. Brownstein<br /><br />Winter's horizon<br />an orange line across snow—<br />cloud-light gathers wind.<br /> <br />Then:<br />a cloudy opera,<br />melody of leaf and limb,<br />a quality of falling snow.<br /><br />___________________<br /><br />—Medusa, with thanks to <span style="color: red;">Michael Brownstein</span> for today’s fine poetry! And don't forget to spring your clock ahead one hour tonight at midnight.<br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaQxIH1_4BqzKtRZUFgzJ99Wgd51d94hcHsKiciGQlWWBIOiWPpfxOAYPPDQkmloqCp4yJcqxN8Nq6tg-S-AcebZNchZX-DbmqwKWaXfW3AXvC53Jq3rhDmvSuBiwVzo0ZMJhS3UcReW2RFX3fvngKPV2-G6kCS5FNkpU8YYuGRHUv8Uj80EVJ3Q/s742/horse:motion%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="742" data-original-width="510" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaQxIH1_4BqzKtRZUFgzJ99Wgd51d94hcHsKiciGQlWWBIOiWPpfxOAYPPDQkmloqCp4yJcqxN8Nq6tg-S-AcebZNchZX-DbmqwKWaXfW3AXvC53Jq3rhDmvSuBiwVzo0ZMJhS3UcReW2RFX3fvngKPV2-G6kCS5FNkpU8YYuGRHUv8Uj80EVJ3Q/w275-h400/horse:motion%20jn.png" width="275" /></a></div><br /> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i>A reminder that <b>Mosaic of Voices</b></i><br /><i>takes place at the Lodi Public Library </i><br /><i>today, 2pm; then tonight, 5-8pm,</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Sacramento Poetry Center will hold an<br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Art Exhibit, Reception and Reading</b> </span></span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">by <span style="color: red;">Asantewaa Boykin</span>.</span></span> </i><br /><i>For info about these and other</i><br /><i>future poetry happenings in </i><br /><i>Northern California and otherwheres, </i><br /><i>click on</i><br /><i><b>UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS</b></i><br /><i>(<a href="http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html">http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html</a>)</i><br /><i>in the links at the top of this page—</i><br /><i>and keep an eye on this link and on</i><br /><i>the daily Kitchen for happenings </i><br /><i>that might pop up</i><br /><i>—or get changed!—</i><br /><i> during the week.</i><br /><br /><i>Photos in this column can be enlarged by </i><br /><i>clicking on them once, then clicking on the x </i><br /><i>in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.</i><br /><br /><i>Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down</i><br /><i>under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button</i><br /><i>at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets </i><br /><i>by typing the name of the poet or poem</i><br /><i> into the little beige box at the top </i><br /><i>left-hand side of today’s post; or go to </i><br /><i>Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of </i><br /><i>the blue column at the right</i><br /><i> to find the date you want.</i><br /><br /><i>Would you like to be a SnakePal? </i><br /><i>Guidelines are at the top of this page</i><br /><i>at the Placating the Gorgon link;</i><br /><i>send poetry and/or photos and artwork</i><br /><i>to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post</i><br /><i>work from all over the world—including</i><br /><i>that which was previously published—</i><br /><i>and collaborations are welcome. </i><br /><i>Just remember:</i><br /><i>the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—</i><br /><i>for poetry, of course!</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5lei62OInr27nd9CmX0KXtcIDyiq9nZAxm96Pbnv9TXEiBcvmBrZVuvVUrrIqtV_tAi1y67Or18vdSjuNTWV_smwxV2nK89hrMKywpl3HhBfRcMejZ3sRzGHgqsrf4qU0qHsVCnWGcBxdAK3_Cg8F9-nKQGgJNY1-lox7GIJpda4QF9oRzTLR5g/s600/purple%20witch.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5lei62OInr27nd9CmX0KXtcIDyiq9nZAxm96Pbnv9TXEiBcvmBrZVuvVUrrIqtV_tAi1y67Or18vdSjuNTWV_smwxV2nK89hrMKywpl3HhBfRcMejZ3sRzGHgqsrf4qU0qHsVCnWGcBxdAK3_Cg8F9-nKQGgJNY1-lox7GIJpda4QF9oRzTLR5g/w200-h200/purple%20witch.jpg" width="200" /></a></div></i><i>LittleSnake as Witch Witch</i><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div>Kathy Kieth, Wrangler-in-Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11925893540872899117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13262320.post-54571655603164615142024-03-08T08:33:00.000-08:002024-03-08T08:33:35.908-08:00Gather Ye Daffodils<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilGOqILwjhY_EKunJloOZDDyXjnwtMOah5LPXKoaQhvucybgU-yl5t0k_sc5SkoJJTKY1sbyC1wcCLM71gtOpsDH-ZB8OPR2ET_iL4J1U1KlDh3IdXch_ILuLSnNk_qH2HuNZm0o21UHt5Zq7-tSXKiV6ilK3GfcALZZmiNTAJkLuBcJrfJlLo-g/s4080/waterfall%20tg.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3060" data-original-width="4080" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilGOqILwjhY_EKunJloOZDDyXjnwtMOah5LPXKoaQhvucybgU-yl5t0k_sc5SkoJJTKY1sbyC1wcCLM71gtOpsDH-ZB8OPR2ET_iL4J1U1KlDh3IdXch_ILuLSnNk_qH2HuNZm0o21UHt5Zq7-tSXKiV6ilK3GfcALZZmiNTAJkLuBcJrfJlLo-g/w400-h300/waterfall%20tg.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <i>—Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,<br />Placerville, CA<br />—And then scroll down for <br /><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Form Fiddlers’ Friday</span></b>, with poetry by<br />Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,<br />Joe Nolan, Michael H. Brownstein,<br />Caschwa, Joyce Odam, <br />and Acelin Kane</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">GET MOVING<br /><br />Out the door and out to greet the morning. <br />Time to reboot the computer in your head. Listen. <br />That’s no old winter song the towhee’s trilling. <br />Maybe it’s the avian version of “gather ye rosebuds<br />while ye may.” Who knows? the words are yours <br />to find. And the brain works freer, fresher <br />when the body is engaged in moving. <br />February rains have plumped and plushed <br />the moss on stone and stump, a thousand <br />soft green pillows if you need a moment’s rest.<br />The grass will never be sweeter.<br />In droughty summer you’ll recall this living <br />green-gem day. Was it just a dream?<br />Get out your camera, <br />you may need proof this day is real.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRYBy1rvurVR-9C5cuK5a8CjbdBkKplUu2slcj5s5tVojXX5dhNykp3GzCqDwmsIaM4e_aaAuwvZ6mIyoyQsZm4ZhzS98KH6jer1gcZoBuhHRc1JTrjDbUSL82klmsHH_3iTiykM-uHAz0KZHIAhyphenhyphenZblkJ5t7-JxAjpdiB8zv8rtkzsKeKyw8Erw/s640/daffodils%20tg.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="481" data-original-width="640" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRYBy1rvurVR-9C5cuK5a8CjbdBkKplUu2slcj5s5tVojXX5dhNykp3GzCqDwmsIaM4e_aaAuwvZ6mIyoyQsZm4ZhzS98KH6jer1gcZoBuhHRc1JTrjDbUSL82klmsHH_3iTiykM-uHAz0KZHIAhyphenhyphenZblkJ5t7-JxAjpdiB8zv8rtkzsKeKyw8Erw/w400-h301/daffodils%20tg.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">AMONG SPRING GREEN<br /><br />Last year’s star-thistle stands brittle<br />as if forever, with a dead<br />white blossom at each branching tip—<br />golden stars turned to ash.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaMj38KsreQlHS_I1S53xT3q5KmxzYW275EFu9JF202HxuCFUt21ar_E9YxeiGI2A1jIEVr0GlyZf04GNeGY7Hs5HJUVuFOFnsMIjkStx1uC9aoJqlH287jwoUqM6t7APT9Xas4SB-0ClHdowZgFwKfKng9aqR4XCP8-E63nkzc_HDYvpE0FsnFA/s640/is%20it%20jewel%20tg.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="481" data-original-width="640" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaMj38KsreQlHS_I1S53xT3q5KmxzYW275EFu9JF202HxuCFUt21ar_E9YxeiGI2A1jIEVr0GlyZf04GNeGY7Hs5HJUVuFOFnsMIjkStx1uC9aoJqlH287jwoUqM6t7APT9Xas4SB-0ClHdowZgFwKfKng9aqR4XCP8-E63nkzc_HDYvpE0FsnFA/w400-h301/is%20it%20jewel%20tg.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> Claytonia</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />IS IT JEWEL, BLOSSOM, OR SALAD?<br /><br />Claytonia—Indian lettuce—<br />heart-shaped green leaf on <br />slender stem. Then,<br />a jazzy rough cupped disk<br /><br />with a tiny<br />faceted green gem,<br />soon to burst into one<br />pale pink blossom. In all <br /><br />these shapes and phases of <br />its spring, I <br />pick a mouthful while my <br />dog grazes on <br /><br />green grass whose <br />solitary jewel is the dew.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhViY5MdcN-Eil_trnJNdOpwZXNwaVPJ2yAd4CBnmSbxuKgY3_m-k5OyA9FAiovIv_GphKquIZW1mGo6BB9zj7NqtwE-C18FHwGih4I_Meo4HfcI9qrhxEYba17uHw7088eNBp2k3GY50oPmHP3fYX_pVsvUKKB-jGhVczjg9TRzXxsP7eBtFDWMg/s4080/pastoral%20frenzy%20tg.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3060" data-original-width="4080" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhViY5MdcN-Eil_trnJNdOpwZXNwaVPJ2yAd4CBnmSbxuKgY3_m-k5OyA9FAiovIv_GphKquIZW1mGo6BB9zj7NqtwE-C18FHwGih4I_Meo4HfcI9qrhxEYba17uHw7088eNBp2k3GY50oPmHP3fYX_pVsvUKKB-jGhVczjg9TRzXxsP7eBtFDWMg/w400-h300/pastoral%20frenzy%20tg.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <br /><br />PASTORAL FRENZY<br /><br />Another communal flutter session<br />around the feeders overlooking our east field.<br />Titmouse chases the nuthatch away, <br />jay’s jabbering and throwing uneaten seed<br />down for migrant sparrows and juncos—<br />a model of unintended generosity.<br />Now a woodpecker replaces the titmouse.<br />I never provide enough. I might scatter <br />cornbread crumbs but no one wants them. <br />On the backwoods edge, a vagrant cat <br />furrows the fur of its brow with homicidal <br />(or is it avicidal?) aspirations.<br />But the seed is gone, the birds fly off<br />so I can refill the feeders.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUUrv_-UNeAeAcyl_sItA7Oz_3AtJye32g9APoiIetiBeMeW2bsaa5bNCdiMdirotJSbEIPZEIQ0_2lj7cv3IDYnzg5P3s02Mw6U5j0pUw8nFR0U7t1P6IH4IFdTdFmbH-zeu-M6_6U9_kWticEdMev8qFOFu2g_9hSYrkAT4N3jH_3PyEbAqqWg/s4080/paved%20creek%20tg.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3060" data-original-width="4080" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUUrv_-UNeAeAcyl_sItA7Oz_3AtJye32g9APoiIetiBeMeW2bsaa5bNCdiMdirotJSbEIPZEIQ0_2lj7cv3IDYnzg5P3s02Mw6U5j0pUw8nFR0U7t1P6IH4IFdTdFmbH-zeu-M6_6U9_kWticEdMev8qFOFu2g_9hSYrkAT4N3jH_3PyEbAqqWg/w400-h300/paved%20creek%20tg.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <br /><br />PAVED CREEK THRU TOWN<br /><br />How high the waters, wild the storm to hoist<br />this pennant on wrecked debris—<br />ghost flag of a stripped ship.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhEJozfjZ1VrnoP4ZnQ3QQsZZc4vYBkhikQKCPUua5tnn_xRGahqat0GHa9JJTUdbl8_dCQawWRGmkfwWE-0QMdc0woZtiTbPbNh-9dq5ZFRnfnmaopKxBxk1cQ_7VbL5X99feuAQDK4Ra6ZO23tVXyf4yT3h6W0kmTtvmOmD0A6a1W_9fkmAnNQ/s4080/wht%20blossoms%20tg.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3060" data-original-width="4080" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhEJozfjZ1VrnoP4ZnQ3QQsZZc4vYBkhikQKCPUua5tnn_xRGahqat0GHa9JJTUdbl8_dCQawWRGmkfwWE-0QMdc0woZtiTbPbNh-9dq5ZFRnfnmaopKxBxk1cQ_7VbL5X99feuAQDK4Ra6ZO23tVXyf4yT3h6W0kmTtvmOmD0A6a1W_9fkmAnNQ/w400-h300/wht%20blossoms%20tg.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <br /><br />NO MILESTONES<br /><br />Beyond the locked <br />bar gate across the track <br />where no train <br />runs, beyond the official trail<br /><br />we start walking —<br />our first time <br />here. No marker tells how <br />far we’ve got to go.<br /><br />The track is long deserted, <br />train not running<br />anymore. We walk between abandoned <br />rails, muddy paths.<br /><br />If the spirit moves us<br />we may run.<br /><br />____________________<br /><i><br /><b>Today’s LittleNip:</b><br /><br />IT COMES DOWN TO THIS<br />—Taylor Graham <br /><br />What’s that garnet-red<br />I glimpsed thru trees, here just off<br />railroad track and trail?<br />Oh, another derelict<br />red car, once gem-like, rusting.<br /><br />____________________<br /><br />Spring is tiptoeing in around here, despite the recent storms; <span style="color: red;">Taylor Graham</span> has written about it this morning, and we are grateful to her for her fine poetry. Forms she has used this week include two <b>Bema's Bests</b> (“Is It Jewel, Blossom, or Salad?” and “No Milestones”); a <b>Pastoral</b> that is also a <b>Word-Can Poem</b> (“Pastoral Frenzy”); a <b>Tanka</b> (“It Comes Down to This”); a <b>Kimo</b> that is also an <b>Ekphrastic</b> on her photo (”Paved Creek Thru Town”); and a <b>Ryūka</b> (“Among Spring Green”). The Bema’s Best was one of the Triple-F Challenges last week.<br /><br />Tonight in El Dorado County, there will be a <b>book launch</b> for </i>A River Called Home—a river fable<i> by <span style="color: red;">Robin Center </span>and <span style="color: red;">Moira Magneson</span>, at The Barn at Camp Lotus in Lotus, CA, 5-7pm. And then next Monday morning, Poetic License read-around takes place in Placerville at the Sr. Center, 10:30am. For news about El Dorado County poetry—past (photos!) and future—see Taylor Graham’s <b>Western Slope El Dorado</b> on Facebook at <a href="http://www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry">www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry</a> or see <span style="color: red;">Lara Gularte</span>’s Facebook page at <a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/382234029968077">https://www.facebook.com/groups/382234029968077</a>/. (Poetry is Gold in El Dorado County!) And of course you can always click on Medusa's <b>UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS</b> (<a href="http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html">http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html</a>) for details about future poetry events in the NorCal area. <br /><br />And now it’s time for… <br /><br /><br /><b><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY! </span></b></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><b><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> </span></b></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><b><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE-Q1jYwHlrV4afTpnO4m-dPPfVVfNB7zP3-cp0gGAgVfBnmgenPNiyHtKJOzyVs4GHxAiuLwYHPSSXv0wobOr8IJJ8eI5hiuv7pjjwFeee6DpoZeFodGdyKZTgBNhaVpzHsxw4SiM7YiYAPpFzVI6DP4zPRwyBqGTq4MWbGK8JJ1H9Tb64cK1GA/s225/boy:stump.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE-Q1jYwHlrV4afTpnO4m-dPPfVVfNB7zP3-cp0gGAgVfBnmgenPNiyHtKJOzyVs4GHxAiuLwYHPSSXv0wobOr8IJJ8eI5hiuv7pjjwFeee6DpoZeFodGdyKZTgBNhaVpzHsxw4SiM7YiYAPpFzVI6DP4zPRwyBqGTq4MWbGK8JJ1H9Tb64cK1GA/w200-h200/boy:stump.jpg" width="200" /> </a></div></span></b></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>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.)</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /> There’s also a 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. Got any more resources to add to our list? Send them to kathykieth@hotmail.com for the benefit of all man/woman/poetkind!</i><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">* * *</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX_o1KE6fkd7jhXygkf6sCbEfUvGIu1RXEHx7WupchUV57uPnb-FHoAfSRDOVJ0zWGaUGd5diZO16HBwEwctS2Fl5e5uHRpnZmbJe-LqkYXzDv2zKtc_Qh5XNObaJagtyqYl8l5ofCqob6-tAldETGrb2X0_rXpmd_N-87kAHtobuniF2aI7kjBg/s350/OLD%20EK%20tea%20kk.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="293" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX_o1KE6fkd7jhXygkf6sCbEfUvGIu1RXEHx7WupchUV57uPnb-FHoAfSRDOVJ0zWGaUGd5diZO16HBwEwctS2Fl5e5uHRpnZmbJe-LqkYXzDv2zKtc_Qh5XNObaJagtyqYl8l5ofCqob6-tAldETGrb2X0_rXpmd_N-87kAHtobuniF2aI7kjBg/w335-h400/OLD%20EK%20tea%20kk.jpg" width="335" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b>Last Week’s Ekphrastic Photo</b></i><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br /><i>This week we received responses to last week’s Ekphrastic photo from <span style="color: red;">Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth, </span>and<span style="color: red;"> Joe Nolan</span>:</i><br /><br /><br />TEA<i><br />—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY</i><br /><br />The table set <br />for tea for one. <br />The finest china, <br />buttered scone <br />filled with red jam. <br />Flowers in a <br />matching vase <br />and near my plate <br />distracts me from <br />the empty chair <br />where you once sat.<br /><br />• • •<br /><br /><i><span style="color: red;">Stephen Kingsnorth</span>, our resident in Wales, writes that “the EK led me in a little rant”. Appropriate comments here from a Britishman—and who better to talk about the daily tea?</i><br /><br /><br />EMBROIDERED<br /><i>—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales</i><br /><br />But what a setup, fairy tale, <br />a nonsense to those in the know— <br />I’m animated, sacred cow, <br />that studio could blow the show, <br />misrepresent ceremony. <br /><br />It’s scone that gives the game away <br />(some rhyme with ‘cone’, but me, I’m ‘con’) <br />for who could have so wide a gob <br />at English tea, in café, home, <br />when daintily is how it’s done? <br /><br />Blue Willow pattern, English set—<br />we use these pieces in our home <br />because my grandpa, grandma did, <br />with milk jug—take the roses out— <br />and if they’re plastic, in the bin. <br /><br />A knife important as the spoon, <br />and sugar bowl with silver tongs, <br />with serviette to dab the mouth; <br />where clotted cream, preserve preferred, <br />but never two halves joined as one. <br /><br />Which first applied, by county lines, <br />in Devon, teen home, jam on top, <br />but Cornwall border, foreign ways; <br />and pastry offered, fruit or plain— <br />I’m for the latter—don’t distract. <br /><br />A stronger brew, as I would have, <br />unlike the ‘tea-dash’, Auntie Flo— <br />both white and brown in equal tide <br />(why little boys would want tea cold?)— <br />but we could not offend our aunt. <br /><br />Back after war, end ration books, <br />they sent that cream up London way; <br />it came by post, in tin with string, <br />and thrilled us kids, in fifties gear. <br />Now you’d be sick—the postman’s week. <br /><br />* * *<br /><br />ENGLISH TEA<br /><i>—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA</i><br /> <br />This must be English tea?<br />Open wide,<br />Across the gums,<br />Look out, tummy,<br />Here it comes!<br /><br />And its full<br />Of yummy jam?<br /><br />And is that <br />A slather of butter?<br />That's the way<br />To do a scone. <br /><br />Too good to be true.<br />And it comes with tea and flowers?<br />Maybe British Imperialism wasn’t all bad?<br /><br />* * *<br /><br /><i>Two <b>Haiku</b> this morning from <span style="color: red;">Michael Brownstein</span>. Be sure to check out the Kitchen tomorrow for more of Michael's poetry:</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOiaZyyXLYEXLumCyP4p9TRMK30FOj1nnjSuzUQs7n5CpCLfp62gXv955Jer4CJ3u7F_rV7ZqgIJYkHKPK6y2Spc2yn_Z-qHMz7CjDQWr_sbQa_bmxdQ9ZD6td80zp7_gsU20QiT-HDPNP5D7feqtLHUqsXZh9wJWzQCtWnQTPfraHPilkKIJdSA/s373/buddha.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="228" data-original-width="373" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOiaZyyXLYEXLumCyP4p9TRMK30FOj1nnjSuzUQs7n5CpCLfp62gXv955Jer4CJ3u7F_rV7ZqgIJYkHKPK6y2Spc2yn_Z-qHMz7CjDQWr_sbQa_bmxdQ9ZD6td80zp7_gsU20QiT-HDPNP5D7feqtLHUqsXZh9wJWzQCtWnQTPfraHPilkKIJdSA/s320/buddha.png" width="320" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />1.<br /><br />in the shade, Basho's<br />ghost sings its praise to blue skies—<br />wind imagery<br /><br />2.<br /><br />the ghost of Basho<br />sits under the gingko tree<br />perfumed imagery<br /><br /><br /><i>—Michael H. Brownstein, Jefferson City, MO<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />Another <b>Haiku</b>, this one from <span style="color: red;">Carl Schwartz</span> <span style="color: red;">(Caschwa)</span>:</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRqJf6_PfuqLbpxd_7On8Sv4yOI-UWGeBdtmYk88pFyEL6mTBjJofBDCw8mTBFUbwCNjxUp8rx9Gk1ALlNlX3ddE_0jtOlNpBlYCgQT5HqZ9C3i7F52rhYdQujU7rPLZ5YeVx4iF1RBoR6PAaB5bXwrFimuaB_4rhOSMPOQn3k8GJx1W-FuGfphA/s225/lyre.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRqJf6_PfuqLbpxd_7On8Sv4yOI-UWGeBdtmYk88pFyEL6mTBjJofBDCw8mTBFUbwCNjxUp8rx9Gk1ALlNlX3ddE_0jtOlNpBlYCgQT5HqZ9C3i7F52rhYdQujU7rPLZ5YeVx4iF1RBoR6PAaB5bXwrFimuaB_4rhOSMPOQn3k8GJx1W-FuGfphA/s1600/lyre.jpg" width="225" /></a></div> <br /> </div><div style="text-align: left;">BALD FACE LYRE <br /><i>—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA</i><br /><br />it would only hold <br />the music page upside down <br />and no other way<br /><br />* * *<br /><i><br />Here are five <b>Katautas</b> from <span style="color: red;">Joyce Odam</span>. This form uses the question-answer format as laid out here by Joyce: </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZcGGGQixlsz_vbhc9htCDUZQvEsfa5ImJFsQpgf6gROzPiP8N3fMS2h6pMKOibeT2_NsD4FcuSHpW7e8RP7gCsCLoAcIT1m87er9zdRc4nmx2_wnK42K5U9fLwRlhEgH3lRkmFQgRRDDd8OvJ7tXDYfkDoP2Mw4q4Pn7RflMJirtALdq1aCX_gQ/s259/geese.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZcGGGQixlsz_vbhc9htCDUZQvEsfa5ImJFsQpgf6gROzPiP8N3fMS2h6pMKOibeT2_NsD4FcuSHpW7e8RP7gCsCLoAcIT1m87er9zdRc4nmx2_wnK42K5U9fLwRlhEgH3lRkmFQgRRDDd8OvJ7tXDYfkDoP2Mw4q4Pn7RflMJirtALdq1aCX_gQ/s1600/geese.jpg" width="259" /></a></div><br /></i><br />THE HOLLOW LIGHT<br /><i>—Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA</i><br /><br /><b>What is that bright sound?</b><br /><i>Whenever I hear color<br />rage against light, there is grief.</i><br /><br /><b>What does the sky pull?</b><br /><i>The geese cried down this morning.<br />It was too bright to see them.</i><br /><br /><b>What will release us? </b> <br /><i>Shadows pass through each other<br />then separate with no touch.</i><br /><br /><b>Will we remember? </b><br /><i>Blue beads will break to a path,<br />then just the string, then the clasp.</i><br /><br /><b>Will there be regret?</b><br /><i>Love aches with hunger, then starves.<br />There is taste, then aftertaste.</i><br /><br /> <i><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 10/31/17) </span></i><br /><br />* * *<br /><br /><i>Questions. All writing, including poetry, lets questions (implied or open) hang in the air. I asked form-whiz Taylor Graham if she knew of poetry forms that were mainly—or all—questions, and here is her reply:<br /><br />“Neruda's </i>Book of Questions (El libro de las preguntas) <i>consists of couplets and single lines (usually 4 or 5 grouped together) that are questions—no introductory sentence, no answers or commentary. </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br />"Then there's the <b>Quinzaine</b>. There may be other such forms, but this is the only one that comes to mind. I suppose you might, with punctuation, make the entire stanza a question (?). This is what <a href="http://poetscollective.org">poetscollective.org</a> says:<br /><br />"The <b>Quinzaine</b> is an internet form found at </i>Shadow Poetry<i> and </i>Instant Poetry for Kids<i>, named from the French </i>quinze<i> (fifteen) for the 15 syllables the poem contains. The <b>Quinzaine</b> is:<br /> —a tristich, a poem of 3 linesm<br /> —syllabic, 7/5/3 syllables per linem<br /> —unrhymed,<br /> —composed of: L1 a statement, L2 and L3 questions related to the statement.”<br /> <br />Here is TG’s example of a <b>Quinzaine</b>:</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2uLYddLOfwpjVkjtlgYO_K3qH3JtjBB4_issQI9dny7npJ04xX_OP_mZVs473j0N0p8zY9Yog-HVJYWfwOxtVngGvKN8444oYZ_tIqSYj79ZPRsSGxwPnya2w-FoBdfNdx7V8emfmZZAKhyi9Fm_7x80tQPSoBA2Fkhnx7YYqWcjhs5jxLnPTdw/s264/tomatoes.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="191" data-original-width="264" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2uLYddLOfwpjVkjtlgYO_K3qH3JtjBB4_issQI9dny7npJ04xX_OP_mZVs473j0N0p8zY9Yog-HVJYWfwOxtVngGvKN8444oYZ_tIqSYj79ZPRsSGxwPnya2w-FoBdfNdx7V8emfmZZAKhyi9Fm_7x80tQPSoBA2Fkhnx7YYqWcjhs5jxLnPTdw/s1600/tomatoes.jpeg" width="264" /></a></div></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i><br /><br />NOVEMBER QUESTIONS<br /><i>—Taylor Graham</i><br /> <br />Green tomatoes on the sill,<br />do they mourn the end<br />of garden?<br /> <br />Our deck is damp with drizzle.<br />When might fire season<br />ever end?<br /> <br />Dark-eyed juncos have arrived.<br />Does this mean winter<br />has found us?<br /><br />* * *<br /><br /><i>There is also the <b>Question Poem</b> as listed on </i>Pen & the Pad<i>, at <a href="http://penandthepad.com/write-question-poem-6933078.html">penandthepad.com/write-question-poem-6933078.html</a>/. <br /><br />Here is a <b>Question Poem</b> from newcomer <span style="color: red;">Acelin Kane</span>, about which she writes, “This piece was a kind of experiment for me. I noticed that I include a lot of questions in my journal entries and some of my poetry and it got me inspired. I wanted to try and write an experimental form where the poem was solely made up of questions.” <br /><br />Acelin is a college student, herbalist, and aspiring teacher originally hailing from Colorado. She is a queer disabled author and activist and currently lives in Wisconsin with her partner and their cat, Turnip. You can find her on X/Twitter @acelinkane. Welcome to the Kitchen, Acelin, and don’t be a stranger!<br /><br />Here is Acelin’s <b>Question Poem</b>:</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhahaB4KOGWf_hY1BNpQB_KI7XmW7rhYc1KmOwC65iaGwD2CXhN6iQHEeVnUo42cZpfKtTqaVBKTd7Cjt3FmZCHgrHMcN1WfiYN1A4sW79k8GzU_7R6NjKZDC6eL5i89xKr4sg-2EiQWPTsToRgHAZH-eIv2VUwh9tBgk1VyilIlt1tqU0dQr9u-Q/s700/broken_heart.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="467" data-original-width="700" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhahaB4KOGWf_hY1BNpQB_KI7XmW7rhYc1KmOwC65iaGwD2CXhN6iQHEeVnUo42cZpfKtTqaVBKTd7Cjt3FmZCHgrHMcN1WfiYN1A4sW79k8GzU_7R6NjKZDC6eL5i89xKr4sg-2EiQWPTsToRgHAZH-eIv2VUwh9tBgk1VyilIlt1tqU0dQr9u-Q/s320/broken_heart.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> </i><br /><br />UNANSWERED QUERIES<br /><i>—Acelin Kane, Wisconsin</i><br /><br />Do you still miss me? Do I want to know? Would it make a difference? Would a difference feel like a difference? And what if it did, would I be happier? Could I ever go back to how I felt before? Can time turn back with the sheer force of will? If it could, would life stay stuck forever? Would it be a better or a worse hell to stay stuck with the devil you know? And what about you then? Did you feel stuck with me? Did you think I was too stuck on you? Did I make you happy? Did you mean it when you said you loved me? Did you wish you could stop? Did you regret stopping? How was it for you after? Did slowly ruining me do it for you? Was that enough? Did you want to take something more? More than my soul? Has anyone else made you feel that way? If anyone else could then why are you still here? Do you know that you are the snake lurking in my garden? Do you know that I turn you into a million things you are not? Do you know it’s because I cannot believe a man could do everything you did? Do you know there are people worse? Do you know I’ve never met any of them? Are you proud to be a unique kind of Hell to me? Do I want to know? </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br /><i>If you can think of another poetry form that uses questions, don’t be shy about letting us know about it at kathykieth@hotmail.com/.</i><br /><br />* * *<br /><br /><i><span style="color: red;">Nolcha Fox</span> has been ferreting around in MK’s Calliope’s Closet page [<a href="http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/calliopes-closet.html">http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/calliopes-closet.html</a>] for prompts, and she writes that “<span style="color: red;">Robin Gale Odam</span>’s abandoned stairs idea sent me off into a potpourri of images.” (Scroll down on that page to “Some Sample Ekphrastic Subjects.) Here’s Nolcha’s <b>Ekphrastic</b> response (which is also a <b>Haibun</b>) to Robin’s abandoned stairs photo:</i><br /><br /><br />UNGENTLY USED<br /><i>—Nolcha Fox</i><br /><br />You used me as a rug, a rag, a set of stairs to clamber to devotion from another with more money and more fame. You didn’t care about the dents and whacks your rising pride inflicted on my tender hide. I was just a can of nectar you enjoyed, then crushed and tossed, litter on a highway to perdition. <br /><br />I’d rather be abandoned <br />than to join you on the road<br />to bad intentions.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br /><i>And here is another <b>Ekphrastic </b>poem, this one by <span style="color: red;">Stephen Kingsnorth</span>, based on a photo by <span style="color: red;">Taylor Graham</span> that was posted on MK on 2/23/24:</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb8RZWRrv78easLRKu_zHnBLwJ3YR0fWRuffCe9DfMbGjG9Tbz0T6zVY0FCtbiD76vcspQvDXFqIYGCd6Muigfb0b5R_kZpH5dkgAwzRpHy2-lrsCNEhjS05F1kWNaxlluKVptDK4G9em6rZj2rOzD9WyrE8oQP06jWFbA70NPjC7CH-lw1Yi0qQ/s400/TG%20walker.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="400" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb8RZWRrv78easLRKu_zHnBLwJ3YR0fWRuffCe9DfMbGjG9Tbz0T6zVY0FCtbiD76vcspQvDXFqIYGCd6Muigfb0b5R_kZpH5dkgAwzRpHy2-lrsCNEhjS05F1kWNaxlluKVptDK4G9em6rZj2rOzD9WyrE8oQP06jWFbA70NPjC7CH-lw1Yi0qQ/s320/TG%20walker.jpg" width="320" /></a></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>—Photo by Taylor Graham</i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />ZEN? <br /><i>—Stephen Kingsnorth</i><br /><br />A walker rests against the tree, <br />not strange with tangled undergrowth. <br />But with this frame come question marks— <br />can such support be burdensome, <br />equipped as seat, perambulate, <br />but not freewheeling mountain bike? <br />Is it redundant, old machine, <br />a flying carpet, had its day, <br />though part recycled, resting post, <br />awaiting daily route’s repose? <br />If this four-wheeled, rare crash conclude, <br />its forward motion hitting trunk— <br />through ‘tree’ a clearer steer, report, <br />jalopy, hood in cut and shut. <br />So tired, retired, however gloss, <br />in ready black this throne awaits <br />Zen master of the overview; <br />will they turn scrub to paradise? <br /><br /><i>___________________<br /><br />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!<br /><br />___________________<br /><br /><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">TRIPLE-F CHALLENGES! </span></b></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgubO1g2DrgUx0tGT6MT9F807K5aFxCeufA8G5gpLLb4Tq82jC_6shLD8kopMeOQTMgJU-iDUvnuDDP4nHs-OHrgrF1-hTBxijYeRiGUIax5eBRgOjE0xOyf2A9iNLZu66X-oUA7aP3P3sga2lL9FYrkdlsN4kGJsT6G7_Wa7ew9f3AhSdaP7nJQQ/s1300/snake%20around%20pen.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgubO1g2DrgUx0tGT6MT9F807K5aFxCeufA8G5gpLLb4Tq82jC_6shLD8kopMeOQTMgJU-iDUvnuDDP4nHs-OHrgrF1-hTBxijYeRiGUIax5eBRgOjE0xOyf2A9iNLZu66X-oUA7aP3P3sga2lL9FYrkdlsN4kGJsT6G7_Wa7ew9f3AhSdaP7nJQQ/s1300/snake%20around%20pen.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="778" data-original-width="1300" height="120" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgubO1g2DrgUx0tGT6MT9F807K5aFxCeufA8G5gpLLb4Tq82jC_6shLD8kopMeOQTMgJU-iDUvnuDDP4nHs-OHrgrF1-hTBxijYeRiGUIax5eBRgOjE0xOyf2A9iNLZu66X-oUA7aP3P3sga2lL9FYrkdlsN4kGJsT6G7_Wa7ew9f3AhSdaP7nJQQ/w200-h120/snake%20around%20pen.jpg" width="200" /></a></div></span></b><br />See what you can make of these challenges, and send your results to kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.) This week, try your hand at one or all of the question poems. Writing one of each will solidify the differences between them in your mind:<br /><br />•••<b>Katauta:</b> <a href="http://www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/katauta-poetic-form">www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/katauta-poetic-form</a></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> <br />•••<b>Quinzaine:</b> <a href="http://www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/quinzaine.html">www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/quinzaine.html</a></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> <br />•••<b>Question Poem:</b> <a href="http://penandthepad.com/write-question-poem-6933078.html">penandthepad.com/write-question-poem-6933078.html</a>, either in the couplet form that Neruda used, or like the longer example that Acelin Kane used [see above].<br /><br />•••See also the bottom of this post for another challenge, this one an <b>Ekphrastic</b> photo.<br /><br />•••And don’t forget each <b>Tuesday’s Seed of the Week!</b> This week it’s “Moody”.<br /><br />____________________<br /><br /><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">MEDUSA’S FORM FINDER: Links to poetry terms mentioned today:</span></b><br /><br />•••<b>Bema’s Best:</b> <a href="https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/bemas-best">https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/bemas-best</a><br />•••<b>Ekphrastic Poem: </b><a href="http://notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry">notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry</a> <br />•••<b>Haibun:</b> <a href="http://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/haibun-poems-poetic-form">www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/haibun-poems-poetic-form</a><br />•••<b>Haiku:</b> <a href="http://www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/haiku/haiku.html">www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/haiku/haiku.html</a><br />•••<b>Katauta:</b> <a href="http://www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/katauta-poetic-form">www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/katauta-poetic-form</a><br />•••<b>Kimo:</b> <a href="http://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/kimo-poetic-form">www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/kimo-poetic-form</a> AND/OR <a href="http://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/kimo">poetscollective.org/poetryforms/kimo</a><br />•••<b>Pastoral Poetry: </b><a href="http://poets.org/glossary/pastoral">poets.org/glossary/pastoral</a> AND/OR <a href="http://4thstcog.com/theology/what-are-the-characteristics-of-pastoral-poetry.html">4thstcog.com/theology/what-are-the-characteristics-of-pastoral-poetry.html</a> AND/OR <a href="http://www.masterclass.com/articles/poetry-101-what-is-a-pastoral-poem-learn-about-the-conventions-and-history-of-pastoral-poems-with-examples">www.masterclass.com/articles/poetry-101-what-is-a-pastoral-poem-learn-about-the-conventions-and-history-of-pastoral-poems-with-examples</a>/, A short pastoral poem is called an <b>Eclogue</b> (<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eclogue">en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eclogue</a>), also an <b>Idyll </b>or a <b>Madrigal.</b><br />•••<b>Question Poem:</b> <a href="http://penandthepad.com/write-question-poem-6933078.html">penandthepad.com/write-question-poem-6933078.html</a><br />•••<b>Quinzaine:</b> <a href="http://www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/quinzaine.html">www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/quinzaine.html</a><br />•••<b>Rondeau: </b><a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/rondeau">www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/rondeau</a><br />•••<b>Ryūka:</b> <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ryūka">en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ryūka</a><br />•••<b>Tanka:</b> <a href="http://poets.org/glossary/tanka">poets.org/glossary/tanka</a><br />•••<b>Word-Can Poem:</b> putting random words on slips of paper into a can, then drawing out a few and making a poem out of them<br /><br />___________________<br /><br />—Medusa</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXp8lXcTHq7KY8VSVnDG_RmRU8Tkxv5k1ZMoYy3ablcAjRUuoi0PHNQhoRkZ8M73Re6_XOfaUidnDCQua-jVDbQ8BF_UFRpV2fTEYovyJIf_oFhfil5kFcKXAtifhh3-_dyObrvVyAjlkcU1UX7lg1yKPcKyQs9AyW-Z95VwHDEtCNMP2_dFdsqw/s800/lion%20cranky%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="800" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXp8lXcTHq7KY8VSVnDG_RmRU8Tkxv5k1ZMoYy3ablcAjRUuoi0PHNQhoRkZ8M73Re6_XOfaUidnDCQua-jVDbQ8BF_UFRpV2fTEYovyJIf_oFhfil5kFcKXAtifhh3-_dyObrvVyAjlkcU1UX7lg1yKPcKyQs9AyW-Z95VwHDEtCNMP2_dFdsqw/w400-h225/lion%20cranky%20jn.png" width="400" /></a></div></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan<br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> <br /><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b> Today's Ekphrastic Challenge!</b></i><br /><i> </i><br /><i> Make what you can of today's </i><br /><i>photo, and send your poetic results to </i><br /><i>kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.)</i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><br /></div><i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Photos in this column can be enlarged by <br />clicking on them once, then clicking on the x <br />in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.<br /><br />Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down<br />under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button<br />at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets <br />by typing the name of the poet or poem<br /> into the little beige box at the top <br />left-hand side of today’s post; or go to <br />Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of <br />the blue column at the right<br /> to find the date you want.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPeGgh1FteNSrLLvjHqJvNvpVoIilmCEZE2sM-fzuCTrskx_SaRBSQ-j8X8-ywEF4IN3Rd2frRdWn768QkMirGFNcogJj-54jcqsv_WUDnpgdF7c2GpFKp5ZA47NT-oiOq0X0kIXbm3D1YZjgbrkHbq_o_mRXBEc5EwY6qAr7FPkoH5hrVGbMpNQ/s246/lion.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="205" data-original-width="246" height="167" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPeGgh1FteNSrLLvjHqJvNvpVoIilmCEZE2sM-fzuCTrskx_SaRBSQ-j8X8-ywEF4IN3Rd2frRdWn768QkMirGFNcogJj-54jcqsv_WUDnpgdF7c2GpFKp5ZA47NT-oiOq0X0kIXbm3D1YZjgbrkHbq_o_mRXBEc5EwY6qAr7FPkoH5hrVGbMpNQ/w200-h167/lion.png" width="200" /></a></div><br /> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /><br /></i><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>Kathy Kieth, Wrangler-in-Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11925893540872899117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13262320.post-38936427862275641722024-03-07T08:37:00.000-08:002024-03-07T08:37:43.611-08:00Kitchen Table, Treatment Room<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF3JnWiOPrVs-upCFfhquOCZY73Yeo74op2746RyzFQuZvAvFhQa5xiYBkM7m7oxGkR2gUh0LRB5ba-B947ZOeUSDKsF4ER75mcEYDOZiugxNWMBGbaoDX5oHmrBPJQEJL8Zs3h4gJfs7m-MVg8sR3EHMf2ITTaFt-l4qXAnbJPa26ZN_cwXq6Jw/s2594/Fig%20Bowl%202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2594" data-original-width="2198" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF3JnWiOPrVs-upCFfhquOCZY73Yeo74op2746RyzFQuZvAvFhQa5xiYBkM7m7oxGkR2gUh0LRB5ba-B947ZOeUSDKsF4ER75mcEYDOZiugxNWMBGbaoDX5oHmrBPJQEJL8Zs3h4gJfs7m-MVg8sR3EHMf2ITTaFt-l4qXAnbJPa26ZN_cwXq6Jw/w339-h400/Fig%20Bowl%202.jpg" width="339" /></a></div><i> —Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, <br />Wrexham, Wales<br />—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of <br />Stephen Kingsnorth</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">THE FIG BOWL<br /><br />The fig bowl not a bowl at all,<br />but named so in the family,<br />an amber pot like honey glazed,<br />but circled, fig limbs curling round.<br />Because he daily ate them, loved—<br />the routine comfort of itself—<br />hard pressed and packed in cellophane,<br />a fruit unseen in nature’s growth,<br />the tree alike unknown to him,<br />save on the Bible picture page.<br />But there, in corner, by his chair<br />the brave pot made its stand for him—<br />assumed an heirloom from his past—<br />who taught the scriptures all his life<br />but never saw the Holy Land.<br />I wonder how it would have been—<br />he who never sailed or flew—<br />a trip to see that native soil.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />Could he drink deep beside the shore<br />and eat his fig by Galilee,<br />see sycamore by Jericho,<br />the winepress near tiered vineyard hills,<br />those garnered fields from sowers’ work?<br />Or more annoyed, commercial tone,<br />injustice seethe for Palestine,<br />take pills for change of food and time,<br />dream, his chair, and the fig bowl?</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHws679L6CBdNcjfXWfNrL_v6JGgfIxNJDTLnb8s8goLdl8VK2vYQDOkPUDYaGgN-sk45kp_LEWFOX_qVU3YlMjNGIezd_47opNeBj-8t4Fpgm5ZeYlNsSn8z8-FsKT4N-QcxmFp9nHeWyPOqVNWfcRl66lDnGUM9WgvlzTYqZmrZQ7ms7zD8zfw/s1024/table%20kk.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHws679L6CBdNcjfXWfNrL_v6JGgfIxNJDTLnb8s8goLdl8VK2vYQDOkPUDYaGgN-sk45kp_LEWFOX_qVU3YlMjNGIezd_47opNeBj-8t4Fpgm5ZeYlNsSn8z8-FsKT4N-QcxmFp9nHeWyPOqVNWfcRl66lDnGUM9WgvlzTYqZmrZQ7ms7zD8zfw/w300-h400/table%20kk.jpg" width="300" /></a></div> <br /><br />TREATMENT ROOM<br /><br />Dead leaves, tea treasure chest, transport,<br />once caddy locked, Nilgiri hills,<br />one scoop for each plus ‘one for pot’,<br />then cosy capped against cool draught,<br />bone china cup with pinkie crooked,<br />more likely mug when comfort sought.<br />Restricted bag with lifting string,<br />but better loose, then strained with milk,<br />yet how the study, upturned cup,<br />those swirling specks in saucer tipped,<br />for seers and charlatans to treat.<br />What is our reading, comfort break,<br />the past consoled, or future meet?<br />A ceremony of the heart,<br />the kitchen table, treatment room.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdVjTyGaQ6U6AQMDR_p2HRmXpnOjIW6RPfsTglxPIT9AFo4B2y49u31fxZk5tQ6usOnvf-AOtU4ypJnVZ9I-eIMW9XsvJbNVl1vSYbyDpE1aKpHT1-741qt_wbZQeNiYwGW4qPixfQ9B_CVshTdFjRyh4dQLnavKKYhmIl60rWP4uzHCASu7svpQ/s477/pinky.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="357" data-original-width="477" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdVjTyGaQ6U6AQMDR_p2HRmXpnOjIW6RPfsTglxPIT9AFo4B2y49u31fxZk5tQ6usOnvf-AOtU4ypJnVZ9I-eIMW9XsvJbNVl1vSYbyDpE1aKpHT1-741qt_wbZQeNiYwGW4qPixfQ9B_CVshTdFjRyh4dQLnavKKYhmIl60rWP4uzHCASu7svpQ/w400-h299/pinky.png" width="400" /></a></div> <br /><br />COMFORT BREAK<br /><br />There’s nowt so cozy, cup of tea,<br />said pot prepared with boiling scald,<br />one scoop for each plus ‘one for pot’,<br />then cosy capped against cool draught,<br />as leaves infused or mashed, e’en stewed,<br />each clause of place as gazetteer.<br />From first weak pour to builder’s brew:<br />bone china cup with pinkie crooked,<br />translucent body of the ware,<br />or mug with sugars piling up,<br />and floating bag since loose the norm.<br />‘Shall I be mother’, lore of pour,<br />a cuppa, char and chai well known,<br />when ‘squeeze one more’, ceramic told,<br />the rite for every mishap calmed,<br />a comfort break as ministered,<br />ceremony unrealised.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_hkA6r0E1pvaFohrAOYHl1CoqCYXBtrFbF5rlLNH9BYwgyHypWpGIVL7St_RrnYDPJJ59YShh3TLB908yW53wMXr-VfGYw6f6d7OqVVH_dETOuA18OPynSQUUXTSEhCyNiqCp8qT6semn11GtcKA85Qb5inP8UztYiBYLlAsRPx_iI5GqxmsDiA/s335/Bite.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="234" data-original-width="335" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_hkA6r0E1pvaFohrAOYHl1CoqCYXBtrFbF5rlLNH9BYwgyHypWpGIVL7St_RrnYDPJJ59YShh3TLB908yW53wMXr-VfGYw6f6d7OqVVH_dETOuA18OPynSQUUXTSEhCyNiqCp8qT6semn11GtcKA85Qb5inP8UztYiBYLlAsRPx_iI5GqxmsDiA/w400-h280/Bite.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <br /><br />BITE<br /><br />My meal means mouthful maelstrom,<br />strange sense, secretions by buds,<br />aromas acting as they should, <br />trigger to tingle under tongue, <br />sharp shooting zest meets test,<br />those first incisors, firebrand taste,<br />tandoori chicken, bite of breast.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdV1b8CxgL-F5EbmhBvSqCPZNkVKkaH2VVwqJnIvrm6NP4uIsKCKLGtyBFX3glZlYKuu2qEejFs92UCFrgpY-voc6cgEqc1x2e82wwPy1nUWuPOgAk9ybcU6Va38cYdcu4DMiDlNdHLyOYbbEDxefkIrA3X6ekQd9irjhz0Z0twGIGHMkG8WjVCw/s1874/green%20room%20kk.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1874" data-original-width="1500" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdV1b8CxgL-F5EbmhBvSqCPZNkVKkaH2VVwqJnIvrm6NP4uIsKCKLGtyBFX3glZlYKuu2qEejFs92UCFrgpY-voc6cgEqc1x2e82wwPy1nUWuPOgAk9ybcU6Va38cYdcu4DMiDlNdHLyOYbbEDxefkIrA3X6ekQd9irjhz0Z0twGIGHMkG8WjVCw/w320-h400/green%20room%20kk.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />GREEN ROOM<br /><br />As comfort, night time malted drink,<br />a pattern followed, by the clock,<br />without good reason to disown—<br />why would I end the day alone?<br /><br />I’m told that change is all around, <br />I’m not an island to myself,<br />or I’ll be simply left behind,<br />which is my lot—as I remind.<br />Change marks growth, from seed to bloom,<br />but do core values yet remain,<br />the mannerisms, polite style,<br />courtesy, respect, second mile?<br /><br />While yes, there’s much so strange to me,<br />it is routine, my leading star,<br />for I need anchor, taking strain,<br />secure hold, less their binding chain.<br />They have my ways mechanical,<br />when customary more my frame;<br />I sense my five alone will guide,<br />but well-worn paths from synapse hide?<br /><br />Now dado, carpets, green I see;<br />this path I’m sure goes to my room.<br />But when the bell chimes in my head,<br />the corridors are meat and bread.<br />So here I am at bed and board,<br />with folks uncertain who they are;<br />that night time malted drink my own,<br />so I’ll not end this day alone.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5oh59RZr7T-s8uC6G1xbXhdoYbHNBShvqLlUzx95sU_Xmd8e9NetJV9tanDNAAy6BwgmH8tkr9hcoWti8dctTwk-vTJ1r8mLmlGppxq1eOtQFByAlrNUWGgvCrRDLybDFtfmwP_Sm_U-9bRM_3C0fInIUipYQlqDQhug5wnduvZ6RWfNNxuH1-w/s293/The%20Patient%20Dyed.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="293" data-original-width="210" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5oh59RZr7T-s8uC6G1xbXhdoYbHNBShvqLlUzx95sU_Xmd8e9NetJV9tanDNAAy6BwgmH8tkr9hcoWti8dctTwk-vTJ1r8mLmlGppxq1eOtQFByAlrNUWGgvCrRDLybDFtfmwP_Sm_U-9bRM_3C0fInIUipYQlqDQhug5wnduvZ6RWfNNxuH1-w/w287-h400/The%20Patient%20Dyed.jpg" width="287" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />THE PATIENT DYED<br /><br />Is it branched tree in carmine sky,<br />a silver beech in silkscreen art;<br />is it red cabbage for the chop,<br />when pickled, with a meaty dish?<br />Is this rare steak, so marbled strange,<br />more flesh exhibit than a meal;<br />are these branched veins, the patient dyed,<br />or desiccated, mummified?<br />It may be all, or none of these—<br />for context, knowledge, how perceive;<br />so, art, cuisine and butchery,<br />the surgeon staring, scope or screen,<br />or Fleet Street demon barber dream?<br /><br />I have met each in past life scenes—<br />but what of you, and where you’ve been—<br />what have you seen to raise the steaks,<br />to lay your bet on what is framed?<br />So much fake news, but this I know—<br />and not cause AI told me so—<br />this is the work of Sweeney Todd,<br />said surgeon barber, stripey pole,<br />who sliced his victims, well-preserved,<br />and served them, oriental meal;<br />chop-suey of short back and sides,<br />with cutthroat razor, threw a strop,<br />to lift his cargo, meaty dish.<br /><br />So that’s my takeaway today,<br />that Mrs Lovett of meat pies,<br />a penny dreadful deceit, lies,<br />some fiction friction to deny.<br />As huddled in this corner space<br />with graphic prompts snipped down to size,<br />bred cabbage, brassica unfurled—<br />though whole, when split, still writhes white tree—<br />I find new worlds and words uncurled. <br />My aches retreat from inclined plane<br />(this rise-recline at angled choice),<br />my licenced verse unbalanced, fine,<br />as poetry my dopamine.<br /><br />___________________<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><i><b>Today’s LittleNip:</b></i><br /><br /><i>You can never get a cup of tea large enough or a book long enough to suit me.</i><br /><br /><i>—C.S. Lewis</i><br /><br /><i>___________________</i><br /><br /><i>—Medusa, with thanks to <span style="color: red;">Stephen Kingsnorth</span> for today’s poetry—a fine packet of food for thought! The cup-of-tea motif was an Ekphrastic challenge on our last <span style="color: #2b00fe;"><b>Form Fiddlers' Friday</b></span>. Check into the Kitchen tomorrow for more "cuppa" poems from Stephen and others.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZDKL_OABrT0MYBb1mScTfk1OgHQj39dDWvqi3sFS2E0MmdMah07TfVL_k6G7Cy5iAHaw4CgTyr1ySvxTYmZPjtfx9HVMNJAjU-IPWoC6AdweVo5Rb8DrVoNTXp-PJD4AoZP8x8fFzvobtcqgwGpM_WtoIZB2rYQ_asn17fgDzoGQUSNDgxL5vaQ/s200/tea%20cup%20kk.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="150" data-original-width="200" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZDKL_OABrT0MYBb1mScTfk1OgHQj39dDWvqi3sFS2E0MmdMah07TfVL_k6G7Cy5iAHaw4CgTyr1ySvxTYmZPjtfx9HVMNJAjU-IPWoC6AdweVo5Rb8DrVoNTXp-PJD4AoZP8x8fFzvobtcqgwGpM_WtoIZB2rYQ_asn17fgDzoGQUSNDgxL5vaQ/w400-h300/tea%20cup%20kk.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /> </i><br /></div><i><br /><br /><br /><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>A reminder that <br /><b>Poetry Night Reading Series </b><br />in Davis tonight features<br /><span style="color: red;">Maceo Montoya</span> and <span style="color: red;">León Salvatierra</span>.<br />For info about this and other<br />future poetry happenings in <br />Northern California and otherwheres, <br />click on<br /><b>UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS</b><br />(<a href="http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html">http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html</a>)<br />in the links at the top of this page—<br />and keep an eye on this link and on<br />the daily Kitchen for happenings <br />that might pop up<br />—or get changed!—<br /> during the week.<br /><br />Photos in this column can be enlarged by <br />clicking on them once, then clicking on the x <br />in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.<br /><br />Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down<br />under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button<br />at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets <br />by typing the name of the poet or poem<br /> into the little beige box at the top <br />left-hand side of today’s post; or go to <br />Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of <br />the blue column at the right<br /> to find the date you want.<br /><br />Would you like to be a SnakePal? <br />Guidelines are at the top of this page<br />at the Placating the Gorgon link;<br />send poetry and/or photos and artwork<br />to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post<br />work from all over the world—including<br />that which was previously published—<br />and collaborations are welcome. <br />Just remember:<br />the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—<br />for poetry, of course!</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBaT3qoxGTXbOKkUHV8coiSTVSDAlSbGoVUpVl2MKEEoFTd6YwdAoBkNgbFjTHPGiPO9lmbBjQkRAkHwdiAc-RSNosu9NHRTjb4Qb6Mm1DTBruq-YDNzXm6NA5qOquhbGuk74NXFoQk_QGouQY9CCc1wbFHGxtd7CTUhzfDYA66cYll6hFtgswdw/s232/coiled:coffee.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="232" data-original-width="217" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBaT3qoxGTXbOKkUHV8coiSTVSDAlSbGoVUpVl2MKEEoFTd6YwdAoBkNgbFjTHPGiPO9lmbBjQkRAkHwdiAc-RSNosu9NHRTjb4Qb6Mm1DTBruq-YDNzXm6NA5qOquhbGuk74NXFoQk_QGouQY9CCc1wbFHGxtd7CTUhzfDYA66cYll6hFtgswdw/w187-h200/coiled:coffee.jpg" width="187" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><br /> <br /></div>Kathy Kieth, Wrangler-in-Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11925893540872899117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13262320.post-4441574633311172972024-03-06T08:34:00.000-08:002024-03-06T08:34:21.175-08:00Leftover Food of Regrets<div style="text-align: center;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHVYF8evXO6JphkDtVmrDp9QgnGVl2EZixfcFO034LZ2oKpV2SzDA-KSQhY72TgjliCZQPTrG3S3MxHGjU-_WTUi_QPHMdubXzlfi7XnK3nFAPIEboFseu7Ey0zFzaWbPgtKmOqYVAU324XHDYqwCkkjiBa4xeXOmMtcG-3tKKuOEoG2AWd2gsNQ/s4608/Photo%20of%20Sreelekha%20Chatterjee_2.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHVYF8evXO6JphkDtVmrDp9QgnGVl2EZixfcFO034LZ2oKpV2SzDA-KSQhY72TgjliCZQPTrG3S3MxHGjU-_WTUi_QPHMdubXzlfi7XnK3nFAPIEboFseu7Ey0zFzaWbPgtKmOqYVAU324XHDYqwCkkjiBa4xeXOmMtcG-3tKKuOEoG2AWd2gsNQ/w400-h300/Photo%20of%20Sreelekha%20Chatterjee_2.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><i>Sreelekha Chatterjee <br />—Poetry by Sreelekha Chatterjee, <br />New Delhi, India<br />—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain </i><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">UNVOICED WOUNDS<br /><br />Convulsive movements of suddenly agitated body <br />parts,<br />pulvinated, then drowned in fatigue,<br />display the pain of the speechless<br />when leaves are torn, branches dislodged—<br />physical disturbance, disrupting the normalcy.<br />Spontaneous pulsation of the leaves accompanies<br />like heartbeats—irregular systolic and diastolic, <br />arrhythmic curves, anomalous fluctuations.<br />Lacerated twigs with signs of decay,<br />tension reaches the throbbing tissues.<br />A shock wave overwhelms the entire plant body,<br />negative impulse transmits, followed by<br />excitation varying with age, season, intensity of <br />wound.<br />Depression for hours together, <br />an inexpressive interlunation.<br />Leaves paralyzed, senses benumbed; <br />gradually regain sensitivity<br />leaving the hurt as a thing of the past.<br />Each green body experiences birth, growth, and <br />death.<br />All predestined yet intervened by human <br />invasions—<br />war, cruelty, insensitivity, selfish motives.<br />Clouds of battle smoke, irritants,<br />toxins, clearing of verdure<br />leave the vegetative world in gloom.<br />Their noiseless screams from death and wound,<br />discouragements, reminders of pain and mis-<br />fortune <br />fill the air, but drown in the humdrum<br />of the burgeoning human population.<br />Cosmic palaver of life stirs the green entities—<br />both giant trees and miniature species like algae—<br />who wordlessly react to them, striving and carefree,<br />enduring the moments of light and darkness,<br />blazing summers and freezing winters, gentle <br />breeze<br />and whirling storms, arrival of life and its <br />departure.<br />Ways to end the trespassing footprints, <br />torments of human interventions, <br />unloading their incessant purgatories<br />on the green, verdant creatures of nature seem <br />uncertain,<br />unless they learn to lend a voice to their cries. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZKEqA7BSaZFV6guXBCZEazX4otDCTFdjsxcdB7kU99c0adMcC51OG78T4neMGkCV8tA6VJykS4PFnlWAs6uwvd1Ejgm9_zs1H2UULohgrEBkmsntY1LWaMACQ8t8_y_eLwi4Fb7jAlKYj-HcjMwv6gUjPE1WzosMdCUy3z9yowHZL0cK_F5P-Ag/s470/lotus%201.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="311" data-original-width="470" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZKEqA7BSaZFV6guXBCZEazX4otDCTFdjsxcdB7kU99c0adMcC51OG78T4neMGkCV8tA6VJykS4PFnlWAs6uwvd1Ejgm9_zs1H2UULohgrEBkmsntY1LWaMACQ8t8_y_eLwi4Fb7jAlKYj-HcjMwv6gUjPE1WzosMdCUy3z9yowHZL0cK_F5P-Ag/w400-h265/lotus%201.png" width="400" /></a></div> <br /><br />LARCENY<br /><br />Unusually long time for filling up my water tank<br />arouses my suspicion.<br />A neighbor is stealing my water.<br />I confront him, charging him with it.<br />He hovers over several excuses pleading not guilty.<br />I cannot turn a blind eye to the witnessed utility <br />theft.<br />A thief, perhaps a kleptomaniac, unable to control <br />his urge<br />to steal from a place of abundance.<br />Without any supply shortage, he appropriates water <br />to save expenses on running the electric pump.<br /><br />Goldilocks reaches an unlocked house in the forest,<br />sees porridge spread on the dining table to cool.<br />Delicious aroma from the steaming bowls draws her <br />near.<br />She tastes the bowls of Mama bear, Papa bear, <br />but finds the one of the Baby bear to be just right.<br />When she finishes eating and looks up,<br />the three bear are right in front—wide-eyed, gaping.<br />Defying the need for permission, she celebrates her <br />win.<br />Ridiculed, the three bear—utterly stupefied— <br />stare at her when she asks for proof of her pilfering.<br /><br />Similarly, I have no evidence of the thievery.<br />A photograph or a video will suffice my point,<br />as if catching him red-handed isn’t enough.<br />I remain bewildered at his audacity<br />to conduct surreptitious burglary, <br />lending an air of subterfuge.<br />With a bitterness hanging in the air,<br />I return to the solitude of my room.<br />I pray for a world without deception and purloining,<br />hoping my wish will be fulfilled.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTr2_uQzqH-NlH9VIOOQ8azYeaLLJrDpEVs35cDgmrVqddSLaFQsmcvSz__xMfUnIC0MtnNlFwj6WMgaviPZIXFMKDIVLYO-_R8BFVLz2neSKiG6SyyV77ctHW2bcloXY9YjI0c0OvAXRI7m6g_wvu4kx7vJkS8UhSz47yLTsgpGsg6DlNeuM9sA/s275/lotus%202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTr2_uQzqH-NlH9VIOOQ8azYeaLLJrDpEVs35cDgmrVqddSLaFQsmcvSz__xMfUnIC0MtnNlFwj6WMgaviPZIXFMKDIVLYO-_R8BFVLz2neSKiG6SyyV77ctHW2bcloXY9YjI0c0OvAXRI7m6g_wvu4kx7vJkS8UhSz47yLTsgpGsg6DlNeuM9sA/w400-h266/lotus%202.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <br /><br />DEFENCELESS<br /><br />Unseen wounds—old and new—accumulate like <br />silt<br />on the mind’s river bed,<br />sometimes washed by the current of daily lives<br />to distant shores as time schedules,<br />at times stuck like stubborn stains on clothes.<br />When one bites into the labyrinth of consciousness—<br />lacerated with torture and agony—<br />they taste like the metallic tinge of despair.<br />In moments of desolation, scare and torment,<br />they resurface, uninvited, each of their <br />ugly faces contesting for attention—<br />a prey in the threatened grip of birds’ talons,<br />an insincere existence of wisdom tooth<br />hassling with sudden, occasional aches.<br />Like Bhishma’s bed of arrows, one lays<br />floating in the air around, ungrounded.<br />Each arrow stinging with regrets, vices, <br />temptations,<br />said–unsaid hurt, pain, betrayal, sins—<br />the list endless, extorting the quiet.<br />Unlike Bhishma’s boon, the voluntary egress from <br />the never-ending passage of emotional anguish is <br />hard,<br />as the stairway for its easy ingress remains <br />unrestricted.<br /><br /><br /><i>Note: Bhishma is a major character in the Hindu </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>epic, </i>Mahabharata.<i> He reclines upon the bed of </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>arrows on the battlefield, waiting for the auspicious </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>moment to choose his time of death. </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjde3BSODdbDUUbxCx3p2rDCd058vSaPbmD2BlIWDFmbinYLNES86nebvfsGedcI-QgCJSypzwLW2y39PPEVugiDbP__PudK7gANu7rrY2XNpBbSb1FYFM_NMBWWfLucj8xTn8sVUpV9tspb7QjUjXiqwQ9EDTcb-Nk1WPji-bB_4absAFpewm8TA/s225/lotus%205.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjde3BSODdbDUUbxCx3p2rDCd058vSaPbmD2BlIWDFmbinYLNES86nebvfsGedcI-QgCJSypzwLW2y39PPEVugiDbP__PudK7gANu7rrY2XNpBbSb1FYFM_NMBWWfLucj8xTn8sVUpV9tspb7QjUjXiqwQ9EDTcb-Nk1WPji-bB_4absAFpewm8TA/w400-h400/lotus%205.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i><br />YOUR EYES SAY IT ALL<br /><br />Your eyes are the vessels where beauty manifests,<br />the unparalleled sublime, mesmerizing creation,<br />the windows through which you gaze upon the <br />world, <br />through which love and tenderness find voices to <br />prevail.<br />Your calm eyes serve as channels to spread warmth,<br />I long to be bathed in that gaze of comfort. <br />Your lotus eyes—an awakening of life in full <br />splendor,<br />a living embodiment of the divine.<br />Your ethereal eyes are the conduits for the galactic <br />energy,<br />forces of creation and preservation.<br />I wish to take refuge under the wings of your eyes,<br />like a spider suddenly slipped down from its silken <br />web,<br />exposed, rushes back to hide somewhere safe, <br />when its home in the gigantic world is momentarily <br />out of sight.<br />Sheltered under your affectionate glance,<br />like a traveler under the tree’s shade <br />in midst of the scorching sun,<br />your eyes route me back to life,<br />when lost in the world’s cursed temptations.<br />Your eyes embellish my soul,<br />I experience the ambrosial pudding of contentment,<br />the cherries of satisfaction and fruits of solace. <br />Your open eyes depict the sunshine of my universe;<br />when they close, they determine my deliverance. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw432AT6nzsZ9i7FUABIuZxpsZ1h2HhtCa0Y2XzVtF9z8ERp5pMetS1EzwhTmBwXFUaZu44dPsDQe8UUnIP5JSGFEHzAgKMS8UBEvNGgpcy5_Iu9m1x4jepgiAhp9wzkvzudhYckimqZRBjCLhwXgvHuZ8Ens0XMBq1m_cYk88uVwi9-qDTyfvTw/s3430/lotus%204.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="3430" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw432AT6nzsZ9i7FUABIuZxpsZ1h2HhtCa0Y2XzVtF9z8ERp5pMetS1EzwhTmBwXFUaZu44dPsDQe8UUnIP5JSGFEHzAgKMS8UBEvNGgpcy5_Iu9m1x4jepgiAhp9wzkvzudhYckimqZRBjCLhwXgvHuZ8Ens0XMBq1m_cYk88uVwi9-qDTyfvTw/w400-h229/lotus%204.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <br /><br />CHIMERICAL THREATS<br /><br />Paperboys exhibit excellent memory,<br />know exactly where to deliver which newspaper.<br />I forget to return to my house of contentment<br />in my head when stuck in a muddy, sorrowful <br />humdrum.<br />Migratory birds have eidetic memory,<br />remember the only way back home <br />after a long winter vacation in a warmer foreign <br />land.<br />I forget my achievements in difficult phases,<br />linger over the trivial failures.<br />Shopkeepers have a photographic memory of the <br />prices—<br />a level of unparalleled expertise honed specially <br />with mental calculations of purchase.<br />I neglect the value of happiness, underprice its <br />sharing, <br />dwell over the sad moments in isolation.<br />Ant colonies remember their habitual trail systems <br />year after year,<br />older ants transfer to the younger ones the<br />knowledge <br />of progressions,<br />the next generations retain and reproduce the<br />previous path.<br />I fail to follow the course of satisfaction,<br />accustomed comfort routes of my understanding.<br />Enduring memory though the deleterious<br />will soon find a way to extinction.<br />My memory slowly establishes like a book,<br />consciously I get entangled in episodic and <br />semantic memories.<br />I release the button of unlearning, clear the road<br />jams of mental traffic<br />only to find what has been learned has already<br />been forgotten.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7mxtzZ4ni4cmJ-uYm4ESECPhwpcGpduqqdMMqoWh1nIuW_c5755XjQgzZ6dezd90InFHnW2Yn-8QQbFRhrCKC231Q67uIxMmC-eITN4ZpWGQLvTiMIgNcoAC9OJpbFkac8HuTekLJFc8_tMtfSKWfG2sYoki35vBp-nCluJ4JmKcQ9Xx9W-v5vw/s274/lotus%203.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="274" data-original-width="184" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7mxtzZ4ni4cmJ-uYm4ESECPhwpcGpduqqdMMqoWh1nIuW_c5755XjQgzZ6dezd90InFHnW2Yn-8QQbFRhrCKC231Q67uIxMmC-eITN4ZpWGQLvTiMIgNcoAC9OJpbFkac8HuTekLJFc8_tMtfSKWfG2sYoki35vBp-nCluJ4JmKcQ9Xx9W-v5vw/w269-h400/lotus%203.jpg" width="269" /></a></div> <br /><br />RESPITE<br /><br />Teardrops sparkle in my eyes like gleaming dew-<br />drops,<br />the day losing its physiognomy to the darkest of <br />clouds.<br />Calm wavers in my eyes like the lightning in a <br />murky sky—<br />playing hide and seek amidst the tumultuous <br />weather of my mind;<br />a shudder flowing through its great countenance,<br />perpetrating a tensed agitation of mysterious <br />cognizance.<br />A crowded kitchen sink or a busy countertop <br />resembles my thinking abode—<br />constant cleaning of the leftover food of regrets,<br />wiping up the spills of expectations, <br />closing open containers of sorrow,<br />tossing out empty bottles of worries,<br />washing, sweeping and tidying the internal <br />conflicts.<br />At times successful, mostly a failure,<br />my intellect giving way to frenzied emotions. <br />My eyes have the intensity of a bottomless pit—<br />riotous, yet unknown, in my realm of <br />consciousness,<br />brimming with heartaches that can hold no longer.<br />Precipitation at first inconsistent, then free-flowing <br />like rain,<br />I mourn my weaknesses concealed <br />behind a false façade of strength;<br />I repent the aspirations that birthed in my mind’s <br />womb<br />but emerged as stillborn.<br />I grieve all natural sorrows, loss of both living and <br />non-living.<br />Uncontrolled release from my eyes like a dam burst,<br />I remind myself of the difficult phases survived.<br />But inexorable tears appear to be soothing, <br />easing my tensed inner being—<br />a sweltering day getting relief in the comfort of a <br />downpour.<br />I see a rainbow when the light <br />of my eyes scatters from my teardrops.<br />When its fragments disperse in every corner,<br />the rainbow-hued space brightens<br />as colors spill into my monochrome air,<br />calling an end to my belated miseries, a much-<br />needed respite.<br /><br />__________________<br /><br /><i><b>Today’s LittleNip:</b><br /><br />Make the most of your regrets; never smother your sorrow, but tend and cherish it till it comes to have a separate and integral interest. To regret deeply is to live afresh.<br /><br />—Henry David Thoreau<br /><br />__________________ <br /><br />Newcomer <span style="color: red;">Sreelekha Chatterjee</span>’s poems have appeared in various magazines and journals, such as </i>Raw Lit, The Mini Magazine of Assam, Verse-Virtual, The Wise Owl, Ghudsavar Literary Magazine, Orenaug Mountain Poetry Journal,<i> and </i>Ukiyo Literary Magazine,<i> as well as in anthologies such as </i>The Harvest & the Reaping, Winter Glimmerings, Whose Spirits Touch<i> (Orenaug Mountain Publishing, USA) and </i>Christmas-Winter Anthology Volume 4<i> (Black Bough Poetry, Wales, UK). She can be reached at Facebook: <a href="http://facebook.com/sreelekha.chatterjee.1">facebook.com/sreelekha.chatterjee.1</a>/, X (formerly Twitter): @sreelekha001, and Instagram: @sreelekha2023/. Welcome to the Kitchen, Sreelekha, and don’t be a stranger!<br /><br />__________________<br /><br />—Medusa</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkHj87blANM0l-LWHWc7Tj-HXsUoMStx9bsa_YkowF_0d8SCx1Qv-_4eoEI8QgK_jNZ4D4UotjojHyG3wVzI60ZiWnLuVNgVXH4JNTaXh0Y9JJ5ezdMMtXgXfLhLh8inAWWwn66-nnBAVjJbzae_maYq9qzsP5jgOCq6UuIxoui-kL4uiXFDwKQA/s3079/Photograph%20of%20Sreelekha%20Chatterjee_1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2309" data-original-width="3079" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkHj87blANM0l-LWHWc7Tj-HXsUoMStx9bsa_YkowF_0d8SCx1Qv-_4eoEI8QgK_jNZ4D4UotjojHyG3wVzI60ZiWnLuVNgVXH4JNTaXh0Y9JJ5ezdMMtXgXfLhLh8inAWWwn66-nnBAVjJbzae_maYq9qzsP5jgOCq6UuIxoui-kL4uiXFDwKQA/w400-h300/Photograph%20of%20Sreelekha%20Chatterjee_1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i> Sreelekha Chatterjee</i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> <span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs xlh3980 xvmahel x1n0sxbx x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" dir="auto" lang="en" style="font-size: small;">A reminder that this <b> </b></span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs xlh3980 xvmahel x1n0sxbx x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" dir="auto" lang="en" style="font-size: small;"><b>Sunday, March 10</b>, is the deadline </span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs xlh3980 xvmahel x1n0sxbx x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" dir="auto" lang="en" style="font-size: small;">for applications to this year's </span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs xlh3980 xvmahel x1n0sxbx x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" dir="auto" lang="en" style="font-size: small;"><b>Community of Writers </b></span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs xlh3980 xvmahel x1n0sxbx x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" dir="auto" lang="en" style="font-size: small;"><b>Summer 2024 Poetry Workshop</b>, </span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs xlh3980 xvmahel x1n0sxbx x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" dir="auto" lang="en" style="font-size: small;">to be held from June 17-23. </span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs xlh3980 xvmahel x1n0sxbx x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" dir="auto" lang="en" style="font-size: small;">See info at <a href="http://communityofwriters.org">communityofwriters.org</a>/. </span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>For future poetry happenings in </i><br /><i>Northern California and otherwheres, </i><br /><i>click on</i><br /><i><b>UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS</b></i><br /><i>(<a href="http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html">http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html</a>)</i><br /><i>in the links at the top of this page—</i><br /><i>and keep an eye on this link and on</i><br /><i>the daily Kitchen for happenings </i><br /><i>that might pop up</i><br /><i>—or get changed!—</i><br /><i> during the week.</i><br /><br /><i>Photos in this column can be enlarged by </i><br /><i>clicking on them once, then clicking on the x </i><br /><i>in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.</i><br /><br /><i>Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down</i><br /><i>under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button</i><br /><i>at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets </i><br /><i>by typing the name of the poet or poem</i><br /><i> into the little beige box at the top </i><br /><i>left-hand side of today’s post; or go to </i><br /><i>Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of </i><br /><i>the blue column at the right</i><br /><i> to find the date you want.</i><br /><br /><i>Would you like to be a SnakePal? </i><br /><i>Guidelines are at the top of this page</i><br /><i>at the Placating the Gorgon link;</i><br /><i>send poetry and/or photos and artwork</i><br /><i>to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post</i><br /><i>work from all over the world—including</i><br /><i>that which was previously published—</i><br /><i>and collaborations are welcome. </i><br /><i>Just remember:</i><br /><i>the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—</i><br /><i>for poetry, of course!</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi57rGdQYV7l3iDveJovHOMhMDQKWa7ljmX_K23a7HtF7jGQTYDyMVCSHU7eXzYskluxnOzco8cP8e8MtbGVE0XNGolfIzaYN-0wWFWogUWklJCDl7HDmoyrssP34UrBZecTYlWckPUfsZ3KDr-VvZnHL_YM5HqTu3QV5F4tIG72n-X7OTLspK88w/s303/white%20flwrs:log.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="166" data-original-width="303" height="110" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi57rGdQYV7l3iDveJovHOMhMDQKWa7ljmX_K23a7HtF7jGQTYDyMVCSHU7eXzYskluxnOzco8cP8e8MtbGVE0XNGolfIzaYN-0wWFWogUWklJCDl7HDmoyrssP34UrBZecTYlWckPUfsZ3KDr-VvZnHL_YM5HqTu3QV5F4tIG72n-X7OTLspK88w/w200-h110/white%20flwrs:log.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /> </i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> </div>Kathy Kieth, Wrangler-in-Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11925893540872899117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13262320.post-61168039358387294892024-03-05T08:37:00.000-08:002024-03-05T08:37:06.373-08:00Black Beads in Winter<div style="text-align: center;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6meruw5ARE51363QKI9-w1Dm86V1bwqadCYQFDFFL4ktx3kXiVAdcLDTAcmNGAHoAjlmlWsP-kc7GUtzcjQhf9Y-CBTQGpJB20NijNg3Vf3K5MTrBPcQK_rKxx68SdczeNkjZt0ldonFnvZo_WotpG36sIHtLelOLhKEzcB2oRhUCnRfzJIQWFw/s3648/LETS%20GO%20THERE%20(012).JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6meruw5ARE51363QKI9-w1Dm86V1bwqadCYQFDFFL4ktx3kXiVAdcLDTAcmNGAHoAjlmlWsP-kc7GUtzcjQhf9Y-CBTQGpJB20NijNg3Vf3K5MTrBPcQK_rKxx68SdczeNkjZt0ldonFnvZo_WotpG36sIHtLelOLhKEzcB2oRhUCnRfzJIQWFw/w400-h300/LETS%20GO%20THERE%20(012).JPG" width="400" /></a></div><i>Let’s Go There <br />—Photos by Joyce Odam<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,<br />Sacramento, CA</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">HOOFPRINT<br /><i>—Robin Gale Odam</i><br /><br />Black ribbon-clouds <br />cut the sky <br /><br />Trails of heartbreak <br />twine through mountains <br /><br />Ice crystals before sunrise,<br />memory at low hills <br /><br />Through tangles of branches, <br />the tailwind of a storm <br /><br />__________________<br /> <br />BLACK BEADS <br /><i>—Joyce Odam</i><br /><br />I wear black beads in winter. <br />Am I sad? <br /><br />I wear the black of ceremony, <br />dimensionless and closed, <br /><br />a privacy—<br />a sentimental flaw—<br /><br />or just a grief, <br />too long refused. <br /><br /> <span style="font-size: x-small;"> <br /><i>(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/15/12) </i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikO_BBJx2tlT_Fnmc2hb-uUKdn-Y7-nUdaFD_W2-bQs-ZsgBhN_0oeKxAOA1qRLrT57h6c6ASjCKLznZLowAr4vYpIQRLuAdg2GNwcGPYJMh1l0MHCJMUs07RTxybgIuE1isXD_LtYgTUc1oF2wsVhEPVURkUJsg8asmsIiEjXoIKdoDI5myojfA/s1778/BETTER%20TO%20HAVE%20LOVED%20(044).JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1333" data-original-width="1778" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikO_BBJx2tlT_Fnmc2hb-uUKdn-Y7-nUdaFD_W2-bQs-ZsgBhN_0oeKxAOA1qRLrT57h6c6ASjCKLznZLowAr4vYpIQRLuAdg2GNwcGPYJMh1l0MHCJMUs07RTxybgIuE1isXD_LtYgTUc1oF2wsVhEPVURkUJsg8asmsIiEjXoIKdoDI5myojfA/w400-h300/BETTER%20TO%20HAVE%20LOVED%20(044).JPG" width="400" /></a></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i> Better To Have Loved</i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />NECKLACES<br /><i>—Joyce Odam</i><br /><br />I remember the world<br />of seven to eight—<br />the Home—<br /><br />where you left me, Mother,<br />to redirect our lives<br />without Father.<br /><br />I remember the rules<br />imposed<br />to fit me in with the others—<br /><br />abandoned, I thought—<br />and learning the tics of childhood,<br />I wet the bed<br /><br />and was taught by<br />impersonal punishments to grow shy<br />and ashamed<br /><br />and obedient. I remember the<br />waiting-hall where I sat on the floor,<br />to be invisible,<br /><br />sucking my bottom lip to rawness;<br />and the long communal tables<br />of the dining hall<br /><br />where we ate together,<br />none sibling to another,<br />but where one girl<br /><br />had a bottle of catsup that was<br />all her own, that she shared<br />when I asked for some.<br /><br />And the territory<br />of the playing-room<br />with the individual cubicles<br /> <br />for our individual belongings,<br />and how I envied one exotic girl<br />who was Indian, she said,<br /><br />and who had a coveted box of beads<br />that she would string<br />and restring into necklaces.<br /><br /><br /><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(prev. pub. in </span></i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Poets’ Forum Magazine</span><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">, 9/96)</span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxl6IbZDztkCeAlmjJB098pKsI8hCQEkP5NnzLN7AO8qJm7VOyBAkXIGFXaYqZNWtnsD6rkdmb1rYw-gVg6K-dYCqQI4DiwU4dA9ItnyTn1F_rj3OjTK_W8XHxgk1HhoHvis6sWr6_q6rHCLVsJfutq8mh2BU5Z3fRPCzqsOhzokaUasai9wKoHQ/s2535/PEACE%20THAT%20SURPASSES%20ALL%20UNDERSTANDING%20(002).JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1669" data-original-width="2535" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxl6IbZDztkCeAlmjJB098pKsI8hCQEkP5NnzLN7AO8qJm7VOyBAkXIGFXaYqZNWtnsD6rkdmb1rYw-gVg6K-dYCqQI4DiwU4dA9ItnyTn1F_rj3OjTK_W8XHxgk1HhoHvis6sWr6_q6rHCLVsJfutq8mh2BU5Z3fRPCzqsOhzokaUasai9wKoHQ/w400-h264/PEACE%20THAT%20SURPASSES%20ALL%20UNDERSTANDING%20(002).JPG" width="400" /></a></div></span></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span>Peace That Surpasses Understanding</i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><b><br />and now it rains </b><br /><i>—Joyce Odam</i><br /><br />upon a place of never ending drought<br />falls into cracks of earth<br />rolls down the backs <br />of cattle <br />and polishes <br />their long curved horns <br />glossing over <br />the naked body of the child<br />who dreams the rain is real<br />who makes it rain by his imagining<br />the rain is gray—thick and gray—and dry <br />and is not a mirage <br />only the dusty <br />long-imagined rain<br />dreamed by the native child <br />who wears but a string of beads <br />and cannot remember rain<br />the dust kicks up as the milling herd <br />tramples the silt with their restlessness <br />the child is an icon now<br />barely seen through the raising of the dust<br />and the cow he strokes so solemnly<br />bows her head into his touch</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEVkR1zSycLccUednb_p0NyTXTrQPpOBJh-Ll3NFbtbxkDYvm4GtjFv8qMzj52P8p88THRVTYMYfPeJc1EVhs1EHuZWpLgqPPgPOJQVicIvy0KHk8fpwi6TTDSeDMgROxNpScfMZANJUkACzt2qKDMBzdUZxXTMffJQZxDVBCyR_qDzazAIgEnBw/s3648/SILVER%20HEART%20(025).JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEVkR1zSycLccUednb_p0NyTXTrQPpOBJh-Ll3NFbtbxkDYvm4GtjFv8qMzj52P8p88THRVTYMYfPeJc1EVhs1EHuZWpLgqPPgPOJQVicIvy0KHk8fpwi6TTDSeDMgROxNpScfMZANJUkACzt2qKDMBzdUZxXTMffJQZxDVBCyR_qDzazAIgEnBw/w400-h300/SILVER%20HEART%20(025).JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Silver Heart</i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />SILVER <br /><i>—Robin Gale Odam <br /></i><br />she woke and thought about color, <br />considered the brushes and the palette—<br /><br />she felt for the silver locket at her neck, <br />chose sorrow for the shade of the day, <br />curled into her blanket, closed her eyes <br /><br />__________________<br /><br />WEARING THE HAT<br /><i>After </i>The Plumed Hat, <i>c. 1919, Henri Matisse</i><br /><br />Too young for such a hat<br />this ingénue sophisticate <br /><br />stares long into herself,<br />changing the expression of her face <br /><br />to suit the feather—brim,<br />and lace—liking the way<br /><br />it tames her hair <br />and makes her see <br /><br />her self— <br />matured<br /><br />in voile dress<br />laden with beads— <br /><br />the listening way <br />she stands<br /><br />and stills her hands <br />and fills the mirror with her eyes, <br /><br />seeing Her… Her… Her…<br />in such a hat.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB9G6aXdT5xXdMhtHm-V51NrWuNwXbL5MbMgu8gFhT3cqDxzcqCWYhBs5G5c2zwQyNGiDO1moxFHTqeSZQpxRaP8iTS7vJqlRlFuP4qVvsFlX6hB-GsC3P4-wlBRZyc0gdjikeSZzC-Fxha5TSO-RqJ__c11vHoXBTaX-gQkF4Dp0Gh7g6MTNy1w/s1824/ALWAYS%20AND%20FOREVER%20(032).JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1368" data-original-width="1824" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB9G6aXdT5xXdMhtHm-V51NrWuNwXbL5MbMgu8gFhT3cqDxzcqCWYhBs5G5c2zwQyNGiDO1moxFHTqeSZQpxRaP8iTS7vJqlRlFuP4qVvsFlX6hB-GsC3P4-wlBRZyc0gdjikeSZzC-Fxha5TSO-RqJ__c11vHoXBTaX-gQkF4Dp0Gh7g6MTNy1w/w400-h300/ALWAYS%20AND%20FOREVER%20(032).JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Always And Forever</i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />THE DISSUASION<br /><i>—Joyce Odam</i><br /><br />If you see me as beautiful, know I am real,<br />I am tattooed to enhance my beauty,<br /><br />I wear a gold ring in my nose <br />and a silver one in my lower lip.<br /><br />I wear a spiked bracelet around my head.<br />I braid beads into my hair.<br /><br />I carry this branch of tree-life in my hand.<br />Every talisman has its power.<br /><br />I am the daughter of the sky <br />and of the stricken land. We accuse you.<br /><br />You see love in my eyes.<br />You see my mouth does not open to speak.<br /><br />I am female. <br />I forgive nothing.<br /><br />I may love you, but I love my beauty more. <br />It is my own.<br /><br />You may desire me, <br />but that would be your sacrifice.<br /><br />Animal soul and tree soul imbue me<br />The elements nourish me.<br /><br />I am deathless now. Would you hold me?<br />It will take more than that. It will take more.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcroicudcrXjkhkQJnk-RfAurWAxXy92EGytV3PzJnzkURjdO87eJQa6awL1Zx1jIrlb5Sqx9Nu41uRZlBaxp8QEXmBv-A3xjhRSEQgeroc37BjEhFN23cAOVCc07hxHnLCAH9SvROYp4wPotblRzrjAeWPPq45H5cq5yloFsZPwqzo3DrbwNdyg/s1056/WORDS%20TO%20MURMUR%20(054).JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1056" data-original-width="733" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcroicudcrXjkhkQJnk-RfAurWAxXy92EGytV3PzJnzkURjdO87eJQa6awL1Zx1jIrlb5Sqx9Nu41uRZlBaxp8QEXmBv-A3xjhRSEQgeroc37BjEhFN23cAOVCc07hxHnLCAH9SvROYp4wPotblRzrjAeWPPq45H5cq5yloFsZPwqzo3DrbwNdyg/w278-h400/WORDS%20TO%20MURMUR%20(054).JPG" width="278" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Words To Murmur</i><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />WIND OUTSIDE THE DOOR <br /><i>—Robin Gale Odam</i><br /><br />He took the best of her poetry <br />with him—he is gone away <br /><br />She can barely remember—<br />there are stuttering consonants <br /><br />and vowels unfolding, <br />the pencil in the heavy green jar <br /><br />and the dry paper with curled edges, <br />and the little box of matches <br /><br />and the candle blown out—<br />she cannot fathom the ache in her <br /><br />bosom, the mark on the calendar, <br />the cold diamond on her hand <br /><br />___________________<br /><br /><i><b>Today’s LittleNip:</b><br /><br />SOFT SHADOWS OF DELUSION<br />—Joyce Odam<br /><br />by dark waters of daylight<br />long summer sea-edge <br />and clockless-ness<br /><br />mermaid child<br />never again<br />to know tears<br /><br />those bright beads<br />never to reach the end <br />of this continuous beach<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/3/19)</span><br /><br />___________________<br /><br />Our Seed of the Week was Jewels, and <span style="color: red;">Joyce and Robin</span> took the challenge and ran with it. Many thanks to them for today’s fine, moody poetry and for Joyce’s photos!<br /><br /><b>Our new Seed of the Week is, in fact, “Moody”</b>—whether it’s you or your cat or the weather or…? 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 <b>Form Fiddlers’ Friday</b> for poetry form challenges, including those of the <b>Ekphrastic</b> type.<br /><br />___________________<br /><br />—Medusa</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzir6IxM9kT3fXjaHplYFgc6J-Vi_wLacUfi9YtkeijGzGi3LIcDKK7mMrK6B7-MAGQuMq49vNA6jqRuyir5z1pwa-7980WpFLFslwJzEgcxfm7w4zxiarPFjmEOg5hCLLzhjcUi7HtrVgeItKbWpMN0MZFrqgpyx9qshNbWVAjn77Jc1OKLa8Bg/s400/plumed%20hat.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="300" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzir6IxM9kT3fXjaHplYFgc6J-Vi_wLacUfi9YtkeijGzGi3LIcDKK7mMrK6B7-MAGQuMq49vNA6jqRuyir5z1pwa-7980WpFLFslwJzEgcxfm7w4zxiarPFjmEOg5hCLLzhjcUi7HtrVgeItKbWpMN0MZFrqgpyx9qshNbWVAjn77Jc1OKLa8Bg/w300-h400/plumed%20hat.jpg" width="300" /></a></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i> The Plumed Hat</i><br /><i>—Painting by Henri Matisse</i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>For future poetry happenings in </i><br /><i>Northern California and otherwheres, </i><br /><i>click on</i><br /><i><b>UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS</b></i><br /><i>(<a href="http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html">http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html</a>)</i><br /><i>in the links at the top of this page—</i><br /><i>and keep an eye on this link and on</i><br /><i>the daily Kitchen for happenings </i><br /><i>that might pop up</i><br /><i>—or get changed!—</i><br /><i> during the week.</i><br /><br /><i>Photos in this column can be enlarged by </i><br /><i>clicking on them once, then clicking on the x </i><br /><i>in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.</i><br /><br /><i>Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down</i><br /><i>under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button</i><br /><i>at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets </i><br /><i>by typing the name of the poet or poem</i><br /><i> into the little beige box at the top </i><br /><i>left-hand side of today’s post; or go to </i><br /><i>Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of </i><br /><i>the blue column at the right</i><br /><i> to find the date you want.</i><br /><br /><i>Would you like to be a SnakePal? </i><br /><i>Guidelines are at the top of this page</i><br /><i>at the Placating the Gorgon link;</i><br /><i>send poetry and/or photos and artwork</i><br /><i>to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post</i><br /><i>work from all over the world—including</i><br /><i>that which was previously published—</i><br /><i>and collaborations are welcome. </i><br /><i>Just remember:</i><br /><i>the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—</i><br /><i>for poetry, of course!</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEUDZ1CoA_EukYwURldP_Uw2SyEon3zZQdJKH2OOMH418ZGccDNf2NFnAvS7NeJfjLp_59oe4_KYPOKV7-YnyBclkSoV5JhMqeRB-AQ4zk4RbUH0d4ufcv_Kxqh75F0FYPaUJFM7dnYmaNMIqE4Q9V7UfvBv3ZcSGjnCxdifgpPCDfhGeUgDpxDA/s291/dark%20cloud.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="291" data-original-width="173" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEUDZ1CoA_EukYwURldP_Uw2SyEon3zZQdJKH2OOMH418ZGccDNf2NFnAvS7NeJfjLp_59oe4_KYPOKV7-YnyBclkSoV5JhMqeRB-AQ4zk4RbUH0d4ufcv_Kxqh75F0FYPaUJFM7dnYmaNMIqE4Q9V7UfvBv3ZcSGjnCxdifgpPCDfhGeUgDpxDA/w119-h200/dark%20cloud.png" width="119" /></a></div><br /> </i><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div></div>Kathy Kieth, Wrangler-in-Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11925893540872899117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13262320.post-14001052137851627062024-03-04T08:32:00.000-08:002024-03-04T08:32:51.211-08:00A Preference for Dewdrops<div style="text-align: center;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQxUlrcZUtmdTeUJ9peX5JxhL5jeIL84gWMlnXDAq72Q62tVlxVJbsqe-F5Twkq_ByfzbpTPextYBRea4NZP2btfM-4XXlWW8NCU6A0EnC0uP0XqJoHLRrD8GQTsnUXk2sNpFREYRM3qnhpKoQKcPVgrgzkKrWjMh7X6pSzs_pb3d0P5FC56NJqw/s391/daffodils%20kk.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="391" height="358" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQxUlrcZUtmdTeUJ9peX5JxhL5jeIL84gWMlnXDAq72Q62tVlxVJbsqe-F5Twkq_ByfzbpTPextYBRea4NZP2btfM-4XXlWW8NCU6A0EnC0uP0XqJoHLRrD8GQTsnUXk2sNpFREYRM3qnhpKoQKcPVgrgzkKrWjMh7X6pSzs_pb3d0P5FC56NJqw/w400-h358/daffodils%20kk.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><i>Daffodil season is here!<br />—Public Domain Photo</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>* * *<br /><br />—Poetry by Claire J. Baker, Stephen Kingsnorth, <br />Caschwa, and Joe Nolan<br />—Original Photos by Caschwa<br />—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joe Nolan</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">EARLY MORNING LAWN <br /><i>A cinquain to condensation <br />—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA</i><br /><br />I’ll bend, <br />hold a loose pearl <br />beside fresh-grass dewdrops— <br />a brief game to prove I prefer <br />dewdrops. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBLFOOM2FnXR2ACECHpf8cOiEAK8onRIBz4fH-pj6_wAo_qu9mS3LYQNtFLogyMkZrqWHBdV84tzP6F4no4i3TyahfjhgCeCpKHTctXGWOhFpjvFsgm3BgSs9Ix3dJ0taKf22uEeSxaidm02jPQywBlKPXs_vUXEmXB3ivu1YQYAXUuBpfzZcOuQ/s950/hummer%20fdg%20chx%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="950" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBLFOOM2FnXR2ACECHpf8cOiEAK8onRIBz4fH-pj6_wAo_qu9mS3LYQNtFLogyMkZrqWHBdV84tzP6F4no4i3TyahfjhgCeCpKHTctXGWOhFpjvFsgm3BgSs9Ix3dJ0taKf22uEeSxaidm02jPQywBlKPXs_vUXEmXB3ivu1YQYAXUuBpfzZcOuQ/w400-h265/hummer%20fdg%20chx%20jn.png" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i><span style="font-size: x-small;">—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan</span></i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />GIRL’S BEST FRIEND<br /><i>—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales </i><br /><br />These jewels pried out from the pit <br />by those abused and undermined, <br />in ruby red, blood diamonds, <br />like pearls emerging through that grit. <br /><br />So many chained, hanged by the neck, <br />while empire thieves stole native wealth <br />to dress ivory towers of wives <br />with baubles hanging, chained at nape. <br /><br />Not Crown and Chalice, public house, <br />those gems instead for king and church, <br />with minor stones around the wrist, <br />watch movements strapped below the blouse. <br /><br />Hard pressed, those minerals in rock, <br />and dense, as measured by Mohs scale, <br />investment banked ’gainst ’flation’s rise, <br />until needs must put stock in hock. <br /><br />See garniture that garnets bring, <br />or opalescent opal ice, <br />Sri Lankan sapphire saturate, <br />it’s cut and claw that holds the ring. <br /><br />But if those riches passed you by <br />and you rely on common sights, <br />then watch the stars, spy rippling stream, <br />or walk the woods, light dappled sky. <br /><br />Thus you’ll see wonders of our world, <br />eye lustre, facets, daily round, <br />their smiles that are a girl’s best friend, <br />the laughing face of child unfurled. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge7ZBCItQmh1pyE2ckXGciAehaAJ0q2AYGteumouocKAIS7xNf6gmQHlssV6xXkBe7BgkTgfPJ5b-K-LU1eEv_0LVJds9iQmojwviOJ4aPBmTXBh69rc0w5POWxJHouL4Uu7yqEXKCBPReEo5SX7H5WotOXbgIu3DN7mBsWdlgUk5208gF74ylYw/s1920/camellia2%20cs.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge7ZBCItQmh1pyE2ckXGciAehaAJ0q2AYGteumouocKAIS7xNf6gmQHlssV6xXkBe7BgkTgfPJ5b-K-LU1eEv_0LVJds9iQmojwviOJ4aPBmTXBh69rc0w5POWxJHouL4Uu7yqEXKCBPReEo5SX7H5WotOXbgIu3DN7mBsWdlgUk5208gF74ylYw/w400-h300/camellia2%20cs.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i><span style="font-size: x-small;">—Photo by Caschwa </span></i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />THE CROWN JEWELS <i><br />—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA <br /></i><br />Hey, wait! <br />This is America <br />we had an F-ing <br />revolt against that <br />terrible system <br />and we won! <br />Or did we? <br /><br />Madison Avenue <br />hits us with daily <br />ads about the King <br />of this, that, and <br />the other, roll out <br />the red carpet, like <br />it has the same <br />meaning it had in <br />royalty <br /><br />look on the shelves <br />at the grocery store <br />and see all the nice <br />product names using <br />Crown, or Royal, or <br />Jewel <br /><br />So the F-ing revolt <br />killed bodies of men <br />but we’re still very <br />stuck with the same <br />expressions they used <br />over and over again <br /><br />one can dare to quote <br />Shakespeare without <br />wading in royal <br />accoutrements, <br /><br />but Royal Crown Jewels <br />puts us right back to being <br />subjects of a king, as if we <br />never really wanted it <br />different than that </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLUDuas4riKXEkV074cHESnJxlqXMZWUbZ2TcFUufiJAZtQUbc8vtGCAhWLI3bcBQL0uK691Yfq9TLpKb5AMsxrpw0OJkdbIlfUbxC07exwV3-Hb7a2TNUD_PH5rnQkSaBy0aXciX0w3L4wIYHyuulKhBNPqy2KlkU0b6h9Xa5Tz8wRSdzJhejFg/s2448/camellia%20cs.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1836" data-original-width="2448" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLUDuas4riKXEkV074cHESnJxlqXMZWUbZ2TcFUufiJAZtQUbc8vtGCAhWLI3bcBQL0uK691Yfq9TLpKb5AMsxrpw0OJkdbIlfUbxC07exwV3-Hb7a2TNUD_PH5rnQkSaBy0aXciX0w3L4wIYHyuulKhBNPqy2KlkU0b6h9Xa5Tz8wRSdzJhejFg/w400-h300/camellia%20cs.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> <i>—Photo by Caschwa</i></span><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />THE FAITH GAME <br /><i>—Caschwa</i><br /><br />travel agent, travel agent <br />book me a flight <br />red eye, all night <br />I sense a winning Lotto ticket! <br /><br />numbers pageant, numbers pageant <br />waiting to be chosen <br />like some embryos still frozen <br />this will surely be the one! <br /><br />purely cogent, purely cogent <br />the world’s best melodrama <br />unfolding in Alabama <br />just can’t wait to cash it in!</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXBdcuCmqKQWFsQHKUAUajcN67X66ypEY5aSsHSG89O2-_wPVOgoDJGd1tBJ70BN8DsiAFA7Oft2FtXcEfz9lT0roHTBmVkXWyDA7YjqK_wQO0iiJNKqeNBQsx9BLluDrdXc8P-XA-s7pVDt2E-M_dezxOaz5CsJZVJ6qysY-pBrFGBBBvyW4vRA/s680/baby%20goats:space%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="680" data-original-width="599" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXBdcuCmqKQWFsQHKUAUajcN67X66ypEY5aSsHSG89O2-_wPVOgoDJGd1tBJ70BN8DsiAFA7Oft2FtXcEfz9lT0roHTBmVkXWyDA7YjqK_wQO0iiJNKqeNBQsx9BLluDrdXc8P-XA-s7pVDt2E-M_dezxOaz5CsJZVJ6qysY-pBrFGBBBvyW4vRA/w353-h400/baby%20goats:space%20jn.png" width="353" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>—Public Domain Visual Courtesy </i></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>of Joe Nolan</i></span></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">DON’T MACH TOO MUCH NOISE <br /><i>—Caschwa </i><br /><br />you want to know what it is like <br />being a Baby Boomer? well just <br />imagine you are in the pilot’s seat <br />of a single turboprop, powered by a <br />Pratt & Whitney PT6. And no sooner <br />do you fire up the engine to drive <br />the propeller, than you notice that <br />all the dash meters and monitors <br />have changed <br /><br />there is now a strange reference <br />to jet fuel, and a sign prohibiting <br />non-military aircraft from flying <br />faster than sound, so as not to make <br />too much noise or cause property <br />damage to those below you <br /><br />the headphones on your ears no <br />longer connect with any wires, and <br />something called micro circuits have <br />significantly shrunken many of the <br />larger, heavier implements you were <br />used to using <br /><br />other than that, it is pretty much just <br />like any other day at the airport</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZtxG-D0Hu5pT3ra51djIKERps9GJaIs1A4JUXXWbjJgCkuSV_Oybn2SmM76OrRlTJdhW-ePXmd4zXChXrTugA_sZk9p66eSdAsmL3AWgXUivt6iXuDrZ6K5Bew-5t7CAUsuDmNpgX3tJFocKfFRXzpp4FfM44np0uSHvbXPiynIk5mLQ_eibksg/s640/rocket%20man%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="451" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZtxG-D0Hu5pT3ra51djIKERps9GJaIs1A4JUXXWbjJgCkuSV_Oybn2SmM76OrRlTJdhW-ePXmd4zXChXrTugA_sZk9p66eSdAsmL3AWgXUivt6iXuDrZ6K5Bew-5t7CAUsuDmNpgX3tJFocKfFRXzpp4FfM44np0uSHvbXPiynIk5mLQ_eibksg/w283-h400/rocket%20man%20jn.png" width="283" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> <i>—Public Domain Photo Courtesy </i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>of Joe Nolan</i></span><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />IT’S THERE SOMEWHERE <br /><i>—Caschwa</i><br /><br />for sure, the keyboard rendering <br />of my ideas into words and phrases <br />is much, much easier to read than <br />my handwriting <br /><br />that said, putting form over substance <br />doesn’t mean that I had anything <br />particularly relevant to say in the <br />first place <br /><br />we readily accept Mark Twain’s <br />recurrent flaws in grammar and <br />spelling because he effectively <br />makes the point he is trying to make <br /><br />so I may have valid findings to <br />report, but I cannot fit them into <br />all the regimens dictated by <br />scientific practice and procedure, <br />nor can I, all of the sudden, issue <br />poetry and prose as if I had for <br />years been a devoted understudy <br />to the Bard <br /><br />maybe our nation has been looking <br />for Democracy in all the wrong <br />places, as if we could open up the <br />Constitution like a glasses case <br />and find Democracy sitting in there <br />just waiting for us to use it <br /><br />so the hunt will continue, with mongrel <br />dogs and purebred know-it-alls, all with <br />a keen eye for the different shapes and <br />reflections of truth </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhTf5wly_p97V_E6bHUuzw6asFcINRCdvW3A6alFnwWnuDGSe-Ucse-4SKhAoIYrdgYfhbLWDGSB-9XZjdZfWg63u0rVaYFpbjfJVGrfw1yc6gj27EVHZU53v3i8Cs3-SxbWJO7xGP5BRgmqBCkpsgDq7mYBz_KY7kniE6XqHsE0L6gJ9NJtmqxg/s350/jersey%20devil%20kk.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="240" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhTf5wly_p97V_E6bHUuzw6asFcINRCdvW3A6alFnwWnuDGSe-Ucse-4SKhAoIYrdgYfhbLWDGSB-9XZjdZfWg63u0rVaYFpbjfJVGrfw1yc6gj27EVHZU53v3i8Cs3-SxbWJO7xGP5BRgmqBCkpsgDq7mYBz_KY7kniE6XqHsE0L6gJ9NJtmqxg/w274-h400/jersey%20devil%20kk.jpg" width="274" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> <i>—Public Domain Photo </i></span><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />ANGELS AND DEMONS<br /><i>—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA</i><br /> <br />Angels know<br />How to deal<br />With demons.<br /><br />Slap them with<br />Energy blasts<br />That come from<br /><br />Divine light. <br />After that,<br />They take flight.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp50lFG8seejJuIp_vMyOxQc8b7wu3mMWjcrFGZ5rI1fI_zX0_a_zEsGaSLXgprKksHITpJY2oLCEKySqIqpCMvUXq0ITO9eyc1SSd8fh2m4yHEnJ89PzVK851unWnr2bQURZs2nDDoJMl946aXTyHUFCRuLdTRLaGdF2gj4OTPQ3_Ogad7kx8ng/s350/kitten:bk%20kk.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="280" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp50lFG8seejJuIp_vMyOxQc8b7wu3mMWjcrFGZ5rI1fI_zX0_a_zEsGaSLXgprKksHITpJY2oLCEKySqIqpCMvUXq0ITO9eyc1SSd8fh2m4yHEnJ89PzVK851unWnr2bQURZs2nDDoJMl946aXTyHUFCRuLdTRLaGdF2gj4OTPQ3_Ogad7kx8ng/w320-h400/kitten:bk%20kk.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> <i>—Public Domain Photo </i></span><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /> <br />SUCH A BUSY PLACE!<br /><i>—Joe Nolan</i><br /><br />Such a busy place!<br /><br />Whiskers help them<br />Find their way in the dark,<br />Home from a public park,<br />Where they fought <br />With other cats<br />For the right to mate.<br /><br />Dogs are so good at smelling.<br />With tails wagging, <br />They sniff the ground,<br />Knowing, thus, <br />What’s been around.<br />They can trace a trail<br />All the way to its source,<br />So rabbits had <br />Better beware!</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirlGWGsOYwAqMc9J-tuh7yJ2em1KAB1sjSx2AHqvxSpwqdcrE77pmE_2AxOg7jmmKdETJBDk80CYkaRhyRF54p0QjDWcn7ngZwfiTW98F473QQgos-K6qzJF-0b0yfFhn22wnWOhkvhlHy0wup5jdy4Xt9IPLAogzVh87Kqyjo2maTF0nWK_VkDQ/s200/cat:%20talk%20kk.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="200" data-original-width="200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirlGWGsOYwAqMc9J-tuh7yJ2em1KAB1sjSx2AHqvxSpwqdcrE77pmE_2AxOg7jmmKdETJBDk80CYkaRhyRF54p0QjDWcn7ngZwfiTW98F473QQgos-K6qzJF-0b0yfFhn22wnWOhkvhlHy0wup5jdy4Xt9IPLAogzVh87Kqyjo2maTF0nWK_VkDQ/w400-h400/cat:%20talk%20kk.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> —Public Domain Visual </span></i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />IS REMBRANDT DEAD?<br /><i>—Joe Nolan<br /></i><br />Who said <br />Rembrandt is dead?<br /><br />His paintings seem<br />To burn an ochre flame<br />Deep into the night,<br />That gives flight<br />To hope and imagination,<br /><br />Beyond the realm of pastels,<br />Into dirty treasures—<br />That glow<br />In their furtive details.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAgqNJegcimymEe4_RzVio5j3SNoQ30NIIFgwdo3pnggpvSsuqDdnuK2KCMb0Cvh1x9d1AVy5Lt7TOMkJEecJx5kMxWsbP9GgKrakmg8JWryiZzGai6PN0wxozE-5C8QAz448pf7oUc4To_szIXbD_JC6X2QqEZXRlMrQirT5CsZG7LrOxfdlZ6Q/s200/selfie%20cat%20kk.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="188" data-original-width="200" height="376" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAgqNJegcimymEe4_RzVio5j3SNoQ30NIIFgwdo3pnggpvSsuqDdnuK2KCMb0Cvh1x9d1AVy5Lt7TOMkJEecJx5kMxWsbP9GgKrakmg8JWryiZzGai6PN0wxozE-5C8QAz448pf7oUc4To_szIXbD_JC6X2QqEZXRlMrQirT5CsZG7LrOxfdlZ6Q/w400-h376/selfie%20cat%20kk.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Selfie Cat <br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">—Public Domain Photo</span> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />ACES UP THEIR SLEEVES<br /><i>—Joe Nolan<br /> </i><br />We’ve declared a reprieve<br />From the reams of aces<br />We have up our sleeves<br />With which we win all poker games,<br />Since five aces beats <br />A Royal Flush<br />And we never blush,<br />But insist we are correct<br />Even though <br />A deck of cards<br />Only has four aces.<br /><br />It’s a matter of interest and usury–<br />We can make what doesn’t exist,<br />By virtue of fractional, reserve banking,<br />And a simple slip of the wrist.<br /><br />You’re dealing with a card-mechanic<br />Who knows how to stack a deck.<br />We have every card marked well.<br />Playing with us<br />Is a pathway to Hell.<br /> <br />___________________<br /><b><br /><i>Today’s LittleNip:</i></b><i><br /><br />GRACE<br />—Joe Nolan<br /><br />Grace is <br />Like a<br />Tuning fork<br />That rings<br />In harmony<br />With what it is <br />And should be, <br />Internally,<br />Ringing out<br />Its pure sound<br />For all the world to hear,<br />Silently— <br />A sound that none can hear<br />With human ear,<br />From a place of balance<br />We call “grace.”<br /><br />_________________<br /><br />Good morning from the bowels of the lower Sierra as we shake the rain off and give thanks for today’s contributors. Our Seed of the Week was “Jewels”, but don’t think you have to send poems that are only based on that subject. Every Monday, we have a mix of poets writing on Tuesday's SOW subject and many other subjects as well. <br /><br />SnakePal<span style="color: red;"> Ken Tamaro</span> has put together a project for YouTube, in which he had 14 people—some poets and some that Ken calls “everyday people”—read his poetry. Listen to it at <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HwUGCkzc3C0">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HwUGCkzc3C0</a>/. Interesting project, Ken!<br /><br />Saturday I posted that poets everywhere are encouraged to send information about new books [and other projects] they have in publication to Medusa's Kitchen (kathykieth@hotmail.com), and we'll give you free advertising. It's best to send a packet o' poems in the package, too, of course. The snakes of Medusa are always hungry!</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>The March issue of Sacramento Poetry Center's </i><b>Poet News </b><i>is now available<span style="font-size: small;"> at </span></i><i><span class="x_gmail-s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a data-auth="NotApplicable" data-linkindex="1" href="https://www.sacpoetrycenter.org/poetnews" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank"><span class="x_gmail-s2" style="font-kerning: none;">https://www.sacpoetrycenter.org/poetnews</span></a>/.</span><span class="x_gmail-Apple-converted-space"> <br /></span></span></i><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br />____________________<br /><br />—Medusa</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizxx7dv91Z9hNgkGlfnbWSRf8kfMxWn9MgNUaPTnjCN90tBMITHMtuHCMBmqyQwy8snkOPo3gu9bW_4gy1UePS3E0K84zs-8ziuAZCzbv4zet__YnYST2A69GM07f6ODX7iEUNrjeQrIgpb1yPc5jCOGFp7b9NPS48HT_yb8DG3fQP9hG-7-BdZQ/s585/big%20girls%20on%20top%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="585" data-original-width="490" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizxx7dv91Z9hNgkGlfnbWSRf8kfMxWn9MgNUaPTnjCN90tBMITHMtuHCMBmqyQwy8snkOPo3gu9bW_4gy1UePS3E0K84zs-8ziuAZCzbv4zet__YnYST2A69GM07f6ODX7iEUNrjeQrIgpb1yPc5jCOGFp7b9NPS48HT_yb8DG3fQP9hG-7-BdZQ/w335-h400/big%20girls%20on%20top%20jn.png" width="335" /></a></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> —Public Domain Visual Courtesy of Joe Nolan</span></i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>A reminder that tonight is the</i><br /><i><b>2nd Annual Al-Mutanabbi Street Starts Here </b></i><br /><i>reading at <b>Sacramento Poetry Center.</b></i><br /><i>For info about this and other</i><br /><i>future poetry happenings in </i><br /><i>Northern California and otherwheres, </i><br /><i>click on</i><br /><i><b>UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS</b></i><br /><i>(<a href="http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html">http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html</a>)</i><br /><i>in the links at the top of this page—</i><br /><i>and keep an eye on this link and on</i><br /><i>the daily Kitchen for happenings </i><br /><i>that might pop up</i><br /><i>—or get changed!—</i><br /><i> during the week.</i><br /><br /><i>Photos in this column can be enlarged by </i><br /><i>clicking on them once, then clicking on the x </i><br /><i>in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.</i><br /><br /><i>Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down</i><br /><i>under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button</i><br /><i>at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets </i><br /><i>by typing the name of the poet or poem</i><br /><i> into the little beige box at the top </i><br /><i>left-hand side of today’s post; or go to </i><br /><i>Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of </i><br /><i>the blue column at the right</i><br /><i> to find the date you want.</i><br /><br /><i>Would you like to be a SnakePal? </i><br /><i>Guidelines are at the top of this page</i><br /><i>at the Placating the Gorgon link;</i><br /><i>send poetry and/or photos and artwork</i><br /><i>to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post</i><br /><i>work from all over the world—including</i><br /><i>that which was previously published—</i><br /><i>and collaborations are welcome. </i><br /><i>Just remember:</i><br /><i>the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—</i><br /><i>for poetry, of course!</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHX0H_dRGI19m8FOx7lvr-IPKC8f8BT5lJsVCerGACtbxAco4aOL88u2_y4CieLhHuBR7WE_dvEWMlG4xLhoVOoVsvjosQl6EFsaEqnI_Yt39t2NHQ7W95fLRRqarYeExsu5XMHeWApFR6dBWU8q2mZVWs4Y8V58OXeK-U4Mgd4VWxI2GOyo6tcA/s450/flowers:tulips.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="450" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHX0H_dRGI19m8FOx7lvr-IPKC8f8BT5lJsVCerGACtbxAco4aOL88u2_y4CieLhHuBR7WE_dvEWMlG4xLhoVOoVsvjosQl6EFsaEqnI_Yt39t2NHQ7W95fLRRqarYeExsu5XMHeWApFR6dBWU8q2mZVWs4Y8V58OXeK-U4Mgd4VWxI2GOyo6tcA/w200-h200/flowers:tulips.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /> </i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div><br /><br /><br /></div>Kathy Kieth, Wrangler-in-Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11925893540872899117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13262320.post-45518643854609888122024-03-03T08:33:00.000-08:002024-03-03T08:33:28.019-08:00Edgeless Dreaming<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUWS7vHRyiuBynA_NJCFC8Dj_cpYxhyphenhyphen5VojuCmgEis1QTFEGUiNKiTPcnw46RPjbyux_3SWfnAgmfZvkotZyL7Hw5YYvYtHLHK4zbDEhEP8_AYfrsKTGNv-qQHGuBdGmQcpp4u_jdImGmt4uabvgCBGnFywAk4dUBImrV2CHknq0NLmUCGEHMogQ/s227/wave.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="227" data-original-width="222" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUWS7vHRyiuBynA_NJCFC8Dj_cpYxhyphenhyphen5VojuCmgEis1QTFEGUiNKiTPcnw46RPjbyux_3SWfnAgmfZvkotZyL7Hw5YYvYtHLHK4zbDEhEP8_AYfrsKTGNv-qQHGuBdGmQcpp4u_jdImGmt4uabvgCBGnFywAk4dUBImrV2CHknq0NLmUCGEHMogQ/w391-h400/wave.jpg" width="391" /></a></div><i> —Poetry by Sam Barbee, </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Winston-Salem, NC<br />—Paintings Courtesy of Public Domain</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">DEMISE<br /><br />I misplaced a latest rhyme. <br />Never wrote it down. Pre-destined <br />as a new favorite, this chime possessed <br />energy, elation for any gurgling chorus.<br />Grief saturates this silence. We <br />all spend one night in paradise, <br />in a palace, watching the hourglass.<br /> <br />From the beach house balcony,<br />I scan shoreline where gutted sharks <br />were hooked overnight. After breakfast, <br />a mermaid escorts me to this land of angry fins. <br />Fetid sand sharks grin, reanimated<br />as if remembering past victims, <br />and scold me how disingenuous <br /> <br />to taunt myself that life may not <br />supply me rhymes. Advise to forgive <br />myself over any mislaid couplets.<br />I detect a final wheeze from sharks’ <br />fresh-death-faces, one last whisper <br />providing definitive directions <br />into dunes where sun goes to die.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjdH383J0U2ApFjvCnlp6AGMZf_v3n-FUZsO5wZI_AE1k0WCsn3ljNFvvnIETOl5ooY7Ysv8Ow5aY4g2U-IIdELfNIOZdltH47I0xg_c7qjdSsy0OW4WBsl_KLsdllkcy3YlqHOsmJm8verbClKnQaww4aVzNQj5e2eCMyJijARRQrYGmyrhRnqA/s259/lotus.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="259" data-original-width="194" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjdH383J0U2ApFjvCnlp6AGMZf_v3n-FUZsO5wZI_AE1k0WCsn3ljNFvvnIETOl5ooY7Ysv8Ow5aY4g2U-IIdELfNIOZdltH47I0xg_c7qjdSsy0OW4WBsl_KLsdllkcy3YlqHOsmJm8verbClKnQaww4aVzNQj5e2eCMyJijARRQrYGmyrhRnqA/w300-h400/lotus.jpg" width="300" /></a></div> <br /><br />ALONE WITH THE SEMI-PRECIOUS<br /> <br />Polite cameo at a wilted family <br />function. Hold babies, smooth <br />foreheads and hands to kiss. <br />Blah-blah repartee. Festive platters. <br />Nothing sparse or dense. I sidestep <br />particulars, allude archiving <br />those departed. My progeny <br />smile, slide out early. <br /> <br />Back to my sanctum, I inventory <br />slight epiphanies. Semi-<br />precious shadows, fragments <br />tucked into shelves. Hand-painted <br />china roses—pastels bunched <br />in a porcelain vase. My unburdened <br />children will one day share <br />each idle heirloom. Vitrified love <br /> <br />and indiscriminate keepsakes skimmed <br />with daylight. Tin-tinctured hair, <br />my blue eyes hardened to silver. <br />Dilemmas of a fossilized bouquet <br />boxed in papier-mâché. <br /> I must forsake <br />all this, venture outside, scarred <br />and reckless, where steeled wind <br /> <br />deadwoods trees. New horizon of<br />blameless clouds—fortune unforetold.<br />A daydream mosaic like my cache <br />of cracked pleasures in the attic.<br />I place an unpolished brass statuette <br />beside lampshades screaming <br />accent colors. A simple dance really, <br />after years practicing alone.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI5-7Vs9GWZ3OV_qlHK5J2ZW7qjlzbLZmXkXBvD6X_d65FL8CEsDdKjp1Qzvz1EWAw5fki524AhmXhADlR3NdaZDgvjBgl3EJpuYwmmT6lBKLJ_JiJRmAC5kDUVUktVxHVQS4bjSWOjhDxn0gQckGMHnYDQfYcZaU4cdXljlVEoA997zSkI4g7qw/s1131/hair.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1131" data-original-width="770" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI5-7Vs9GWZ3OV_qlHK5J2ZW7qjlzbLZmXkXBvD6X_d65FL8CEsDdKjp1Qzvz1EWAw5fki524AhmXhADlR3NdaZDgvjBgl3EJpuYwmmT6lBKLJ_JiJRmAC5kDUVUktVxHVQS4bjSWOjhDxn0gQckGMHnYDQfYcZaU4cdXljlVEoA997zSkI4g7qw/w273-h400/hair.jpg" width="273" /></a></div> <br /><br />HAND-IN-HAND<br /> <br />Knowing I will never dance on water<br />does not deter my clapping to music.<br /> <br />Innuendo helps shake hostility loose, <br />tender day into a crucifixion posture.<br /> <br />Someone inside me must extract each spike,<br />ignore twitch, not inhale my exhale.<br /> <br />Reflexive mistakes and quicker recovery,<br />errors and resolution handstand as equals.<br /> <br />I collect pink rose petals that tumble daily. <br />A vow is a vow is a vow. Buttons buttons.<br /> <br />My cheap stuff proves the best I’ll ever hold until <br />next year’s cheap stuff, next stuff, next year.<br /> <br />Propped on my forearm beside your down pillow,<br />ear cupped to the dream-whisper, hoping<br /> <br />not to hear another serration <br />capture another’s name.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH-VOfZoLh3pcjFHQq-lNdnqAJQoY1KDAgwfkHuf1NEzS_yhWIhSUhpN50msrKBLJX0eqxdsro7rjTQ_Pt4L4zWwDFUWtSlyGjz9m9phqRE4bpoXe4JV0pRpX5-cBlME-2wwCixKnC0g2peoNSg-cOiQakQHwCDdfyGqxiqHPy0R7FD0DamXuR2Q/s259/moon.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="259" data-original-width="194" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH-VOfZoLh3pcjFHQq-lNdnqAJQoY1KDAgwfkHuf1NEzS_yhWIhSUhpN50msrKBLJX0eqxdsro7rjTQ_Pt4L4zWwDFUWtSlyGjz9m9phqRE4bpoXe4JV0pRpX5-cBlME-2wwCixKnC0g2peoNSg-cOiQakQHwCDdfyGqxiqHPy0R7FD0DamXuR2Q/w300-h400/moon.jpg" width="300" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">FRIENDS BECOME STRANGERS, AGAIN<br /> <br />A tabby-cat raises resting head <br />to proclaim her peace has been disturbed, <br />pupils fixed like a doe hearing twig snap.<br />Squirrel on bark, mantis under leaf, <br />your lidless eyes do not wince. <br /> <br />Lover, your affection contours unconditionally,<br />never expect revision. You belittle <br />my retentions, then offer a farewell <br />cigarette knowing I never smoked. <br /> <br />Your inner-child emerges, drags <br />her rag doll like a denied fidelity—<br />loose-jointed legacy—reunited <br />now a comforting heirloom. <br /> <br />For you, love, sly with proffered liquor, <br />maybe an innocuous nip under <br />a starburst. I cannot sleep, breath <br />compressed, waylaid with dread—<br /> <br />only recollect words, and peel them <br />so light bounces off their shiny pith. <br />Night reels along my edgeless dreaming. <br />Weary of water, wind; sun, moon, <br />my private elegies to fill your void. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEKMKMAWWsXo0PKWtt4FFtacF55gSyYjnCHgzbsHAYRbuIhVnsGu0i5YvSJ9DWkfC2vrx91zfVCP10VMhvIhe4gwpCtKhg0Z4oDbdOHYOyDm5GYQg5hhkNGXc12Yqm7slpfeflPUn3z5ll-zib6C6iFs1h_t_DZqXqvBk_2j-cC9ONgtP1pyZ74A/s225/blue.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEKMKMAWWsXo0PKWtt4FFtacF55gSyYjnCHgzbsHAYRbuIhVnsGu0i5YvSJ9DWkfC2vrx91zfVCP10VMhvIhe4gwpCtKhg0Z4oDbdOHYOyDm5GYQg5hhkNGXc12Yqm7slpfeflPUn3z5ll-zib6C6iFs1h_t_DZqXqvBk_2j-cC9ONgtP1pyZ74A/w400-h400/blue.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <br /><br />PROXIMITY<br /> <br /> * <br />Sunrise through trees burns like a lantern sways<br />above unkindled leaves, pyres still cold.<br />They escort dawn to gash early-hour temptations. <br /> <br />Sin’s vernacular is still sinful. I expect my day <br />to fissure, and constrict. Psalms and proverbs <br />to escort symmetry to a visible place. <br /> <br />Anything can alter the moment: <br />a new shade of lipstick, a siren in the night, <br />a late train out of town.<br /> <br /> <br /> **<br />I am no backup singer—shower solo off-key, <br />imperfect pitch. Yearning spotlight glare <br />center mic. where I can reimagine<br />standard songs. Reinterpretations destined <br />to become a hit single. <br /> I balk without <br />reasoning with my critics. Watch leaves pile <br />against my white fence. Echoes of nicked <br />prayers left for those I forget to proclaim.<br /> <br /> <br /> ***<br />I find a charm to defuse my faults. Enchant <br />today’s renewals and censures. Transport <br />me to the edge of re-awareness, away <br />from sameness, to measure yesterday's crimson <br />dusk.<br /> <br />Always another pasture to lay your head, <br /> <br />or cropped lawn for toes and fingers to winnow. <br />On a morning so bright without ash in the wind, <br />sunrise retained, and palms offer fronds <br />to ignite the Easter fire.<br /> <br />____________________<br /><br /><i><b>Today’s Little-Nip:</b><br /><br />Hold fast to dreams, <br />for if dreams die, life <br />is a broken-winged <br />bird that cannot fly.<br /><br />—Langston Hughes<br /><br />_____________________<br /><br />—Medusa, with thanks to <span style="color: red;">Sam Barbee</span> for visiting us today with his fine poetry!</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6SkbgIHCXZjlDNkPVKZabSlvXL7_KJH2dZLwPh8TOn6s9gR6igHNzEq3tCl4QW-muaFkeh72Zv0O5Oyz0NtItbXFgrLrL6Q2HdBXmJgrafubGlKhUhWavwo_IbWNp_yx_gyag7oxi6gmf6TtHZJu85J4-63xZsY49ws2iRXr-Apsv1QoECMZoUw/s400/sam.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="400" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6SkbgIHCXZjlDNkPVKZabSlvXL7_KJH2dZLwPh8TOn6s9gR6igHNzEq3tCl4QW-muaFkeh72Zv0O5Oyz0NtItbXFgrLrL6Q2HdBXmJgrafubGlKhUhWavwo_IbWNp_yx_gyag7oxi6gmf6TtHZJu85J4-63xZsY49ws2iRXr-Apsv1QoECMZoUw/w400-h400/sam.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i> Sam Barbee</i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>A reminder that there will be</i><br /><i>a <b>book release</b> on Zoom today:</i><br /><b>Love’s Meditation</b><i>, a poetry</i><br /><i>anthology of Bay Area poets</i><br /><i>from Random Lane Press.</i><br /><i>For info about this and other</i><br /><i>future poetry happenings in </i><br /><i>Northern California and otherwheres, </i><br /><i>click on</i><br /><i><b>UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS</b></i><br /><i>(<a href="http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html">http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html</a>)</i><br /><i>in the links at the top of this page—</i><br /><i>and keep an eye on this link and on</i><br /><i>the daily Kitchen for happenings </i><br /><i>that might pop up</i><br /><i>—or get changed!—</i><br /><i> during the week.</i><br /><br /><i>Photos in this column can be enlarged by </i><br /><i>clicking on them once, then clicking on the x </i><br /><i>in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.</i><br /><br /><i>Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down</i><br /><i>under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button</i><br /><i>at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets </i><br /><i>by typing the name of the poet or poem</i><br /><i> into the little beige box at the top </i><br /><i>left-hand side of today’s post; or go to </i><br /><i>Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of </i><br /><i>the blue column at the right</i><br /><i> to find the date you want.</i><br /><br /><i>Would you like to be a SnakePal? </i><br /><i>Guidelines are at the top of this page</i><br /><i>at the Placating the Gorgon link;</i><br /><i>send poetry and/or photos and artwork</i><br /><i>to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post</i><br /><i>work from all over the world—including</i><br /><i>that which was previously published—</i><br /><i>and collaborations are welcome. </i><br /><i>Just remember:</i><br /><i>the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—</i><br /><i>for poetry, of course!</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr7OfW8CSNple9NE7uIxAzqZZ03Kqq_GGHkGzTDhCZgGriSk9Wq1Rwgmv5ainFS6eyG0CtAlHeoTtZAVHUTnXH8cjucQCRAIDvT3UTNQotejjeSx77se95ND9JOv9uJ90JhnujKUnTxwBTpUH68UjwF3wQFBubJkwma_vr-2AteWOnV5esz-4eIw/s246/nightcap.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="205" data-original-width="246" height="167" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr7OfW8CSNple9NE7uIxAzqZZ03Kqq_GGHkGzTDhCZgGriSk9Wq1Rwgmv5ainFS6eyG0CtAlHeoTtZAVHUTnXH8cjucQCRAIDvT3UTNQotejjeSx77se95ND9JOv9uJ90JhnujKUnTxwBTpUH68UjwF3wQFBubJkwma_vr-2AteWOnV5esz-4eIw/w200-h167/nightcap.png" width="200" /></a></div><br /> </i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><i></i></div>Kathy Kieth, Wrangler-in-Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11925893540872899117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13262320.post-87137536603159391872024-03-02T01:20:00.000-08:002024-03-02T01:20:43.680-08:00Missing London<div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOfx69SOin09hfQsoY4N6NFfN9dolwJsndA3wkndyTnfz4ZXAbll0Msaobyys3ALy-j3aliEGCKxRX-CTnK8X9-RSnrQxujzERTsxr2a5ip_qFe61yVnHrWD100ZQpj3M85xdUgmqus4DuLQEtQlhHWwbH3UJI4eIhRIhSxFmT4PRI7ht_V1kRaA/s4160/5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3120" data-original-width="4160" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOfx69SOin09hfQsoY4N6NFfN9dolwJsndA3wkndyTnfz4ZXAbll0Msaobyys3ALy-j3aliEGCKxRX-CTnK8X9-RSnrQxujzERTsxr2a5ip_qFe61yVnHrWD100ZQpj3M85xdUgmqus4DuLQEtQlhHWwbH3UJI4eIhRIhSxFmT4PRI7ht_V1kRaA/w400-h300/5.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <i>London Dibbert <br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>—Poetry and Photos by Taylor Dibbert,<br />Washington, DC</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">RIGHT </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />His now ex-wife<br />Used to accuse him<br />Of favoring London<br />Over the other dog<br />And even her kids,<br />He never engaged<br />With what<br />Was obviously<br />Intended to be<br />A criticism<br />Of him<br />But she was right.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_l-4ThpJlFz1QijuRdKLs_nc7bdR3MMPE0WPbv4vHdZfg3SKrQd3QCfZzSFFJEdGMlmcqhObPYyrFugN2DfaXX1cMCgghm-HOjb3F7S_s9qrAI3smIA1JzgnyYqu82P3cmjFW6I-AGToiiynNMiLIQKNdU0twaxB-9_dHLGuy7LprPdpGn0MdwQ/s4160/2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="3120" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_l-4ThpJlFz1QijuRdKLs_nc7bdR3MMPE0WPbv4vHdZfg3SKrQd3QCfZzSFFJEdGMlmcqhObPYyrFugN2DfaXX1cMCgghm-HOjb3F7S_s9qrAI3smIA1JzgnyYqu82P3cmjFW6I-AGToiiynNMiLIQKNdU0twaxB-9_dHLGuy7LprPdpGn0MdwQ/w300-h400/2.jpg" width="300" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">VERSATILE </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />A love bug <br />And queen<br />A daughter<br />And more,<br />So much more,<br />His versatile<br />Little London.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIHQUFXswJhxdJdJ1mzXu7k6QeZRSJcgmWdNg-uR_PFl4sXb81Xb_Tx-yXWaV6W8jncoC1FCXSPpVaNEg-MSxqAFGxYefswoqgn0_xTcglj2x7N384W5jTz1RUP_3_upVWRPb5OxE9d5Njcbp1Jm7D0X_L5TxXLL9F0x9NQNh0cQMCxK0wXXdi6A/s4160/3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3120" data-original-width="4160" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIHQUFXswJhxdJdJ1mzXu7k6QeZRSJcgmWdNg-uR_PFl4sXb81Xb_Tx-yXWaV6W8jncoC1FCXSPpVaNEg-MSxqAFGxYefswoqgn0_xTcglj2x7N384W5jTz1RUP_3_upVWRPb5OxE9d5Njcbp1Jm7D0X_L5TxXLL9F0x9NQNh0cQMCxK0wXXdi6A/w400-h300/3.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /> </div><div style="text-align: left;">MEDICINE<br /><br />He can’t <br />Bring himself <br />To throw away<br />London’s medicine,<br />He isn’t sure<br />What that means.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgld3kYkbTetDsO6XN2j95mIEolXFlvU3nnXy1zbzNWbp1zQ6VuSpwXw9KMBE-ey3ok-ke5TafPzJStvmQSJOb7HUeMXanKShFmF1obQ__oTFuEVdAmk0q8YnmgQLDFTzYSD4ul0b2-PzIuvXrQiQkq3Il0licURyOS6o3Pv4mdk2mkBJ4KZs-lfQ/s4160/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3120" data-original-width="4160" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgld3kYkbTetDsO6XN2j95mIEolXFlvU3nnXy1zbzNWbp1zQ6VuSpwXw9KMBE-ey3ok-ke5TafPzJStvmQSJOb7HUeMXanKShFmF1obQ__oTFuEVdAmk0q8YnmgQLDFTzYSD4ul0b2-PzIuvXrQiQkq3Il0licURyOS6o3Pv4mdk2mkBJ4KZs-lfQ/w400-h300/1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">WONDERING WHEN<br /><br />He’s examining<br />One of his<br />London tattoos,<br />The one on<br />The inner side<br />Of his right leg,<br />Just above<br />The ankle,<br />She was <br />Such a<br />Special dog,<br />Will always be<br />Such a <br />Special dog,<br />He’s thinking about<br />Their last moments<br />Together and<br />Wondering when<br />They’ll meet again.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnEBNUyo6zxBbSUXEc2y5w8jhr5EIQlxai1X1A1weG1hVgCdzfOJIir0wkxLKqEZAA1zci3-JtvdBC044L_gJAd8ZKaqEcb8YXFymbKRnvZqWC4tHFo8tFKcg_gfoi9zb0Tx8oAyxn1dzpuiNggLpb1YIFf-WubuCjggAYj4HANBoNIM9WEkKLxg/s4160/4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="3120" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnEBNUyo6zxBbSUXEc2y5w8jhr5EIQlxai1X1A1weG1hVgCdzfOJIir0wkxLKqEZAA1zci3-JtvdBC044L_gJAd8ZKaqEcb8YXFymbKRnvZqWC4tHFo8tFKcg_gfoi9zb0Tx8oAyxn1dzpuiNggLpb1YIFf-WubuCjggAYj4HANBoNIM9WEkKLxg/w300-h400/4.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b> </b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b> <i>Today’s LittleNip:</i></b><i><br /><br />VALENTINE’S DAY, 2024<br />—Taylor Dibbert </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br />He just misses<br />His little dog.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>__________________ <br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /> Those of us who mourn the death of our pets sympathize with <span style="color: red;">Taylor Dibbert</span> about the loss of his little London. Sometimes writing helps, and TD has sent us some of his results on the subject. </i><b>London,</b><i> Taylor’s second full-length poetry collection, was published by Alien Buddha Press on March 1 (<a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/204299293-london">https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/204299293-london</a>), and his third, </i><b>In the Arena,</b><i> is due out in April. Taylor's new book, </i>Londo<i>n, may be found at <a href="https://www.amazon.com/London-Taylor-Dibbert/dp/B0CQW34G9P/ref=sr_1_1?dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.u3MuPrC7buYf7WO1q08z6w.XRPeId1Sl20CuZd1t40MwwtXOOejgDpAmM-Vzfy8r60&dib_tag=se&keywords=London+by+Taylor+Dibbert&qid=1709295344&sr=8-1">https://www.amazon.com/London-Taylor-Dibbert/dp/B0CQW34G9P/ref=sr_1_1?dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.u3MuPrC7buYf7WO1q08z6w.XRPeId1Sl20CuZd1t40MwwtXOOejgDpAmM-Vzfy8r60&dib_tag=se&keywords=London+by+Taylor+Dibbert&qid=1709295344&sr=8-1</a>/.<br /><br />Hang in there, Taylor. We know what you mean… and congrats on your new book! London would be proud.<br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Poets everywhere are encouraged to send information about new books they have in publication to Medusa's Kitchen (kathykieth@hotmail.com), and we'll give you free advertising. It's best to send a packet o' poems in the package, too, of course. The snakes of Medusa are always hungry!<br /><br />__________________<br /><br />—Medusa</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL9PQUYFFobnSB-l228IXD0KDVcbWCAZfZosNCq1IjObSFIgCIFAMY3Cg1GVnDLy-FVOTn6o1V3IBKv4czLjlo8HOMuQnDu2xkVop6Kaq_dPm2pP_eVsDyFZhGXocsiBy0uKHE9JIYul9dL5_d4Lo6tEKM85EYfNZDO14QVDNCpor3VuE7DRGxtg/s1500/cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="971" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL9PQUYFFobnSB-l228IXD0KDVcbWCAZfZosNCq1IjObSFIgCIFAMY3Cg1GVnDLy-FVOTn6o1V3IBKv4czLjlo8HOMuQnDu2xkVop6Kaq_dPm2pP_eVsDyFZhGXocsiBy0uKHE9JIYul9dL5_d4Lo6tEKM85EYfNZDO14QVDNCpor3VuE7DRGxtg/w259-h400/cover.jpg" width="259" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Taylor's new book!</i><br /></div><br /><div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>A reminder that there are<br />two workshops in NorCal today:<br /><b>The Business of Art Symposium</b><br />in Grass Valley, and<br />a <b>poetry workshop</b> in Lodi <br />with <span style="color: red;">Nancy Gonzales St. Clair</span>.<br />For info about these and other<br />future poetry happenings in <br />Northern California and otherwheres, <br />click on<br /><b>UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS</b><br />(<a href="http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html">http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html</a>)<br />in the links at the top of this page—<br />and keep an eye on this link and on<br />the daily Kitchen for happenings <br />that might pop up<br />—or get changed!—<br /> during the week.<br /><br />Photos in this column can be enlarged by <br />clicking on them once, then clicking on the x <br />in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.<br /><br />Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down<br />under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button<br />at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets <br />by typing the name of the poet or poem<br /> into the little beige box at the top <br />left-hand side of today’s post; or go to <br />Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of <br />the blue column at the right<br /> to find the date you want.<br /><br />Would you like to be a SnakePal? <br />Guidelines are at the top of this page<br />at the Placating the Gorgon link;<br />send poetry and/or photos and artwork<br />to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post<br />work from all over the world—including<br />that which was previously published—<br />and collaborations are welcome. <br />Just remember:<br />the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—<br />for poetry, of course!</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUjQwjk3Mk3R4TGr8MiHlJ7GV5nxWyMWTbNPAe5nR-nlx4qTjFt4Pl41gBe-dqCubPW8eBh45BK75uOcmuJqlTol-WiA4hML_LNkSmEV9NW3o8CRDXLjnRiqC52RviLQhvwG8usRL6st4aG7N-2t8nBQ_ZKW9ZoB2eptf4YgFPETMisfcTNa3wtw/s239/dog%20w:snk%20on%20nose.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="239" data-original-width="211" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUjQwjk3Mk3R4TGr8MiHlJ7GV5nxWyMWTbNPAe5nR-nlx4qTjFt4Pl41gBe-dqCubPW8eBh45BK75uOcmuJqlTol-WiA4hML_LNkSmEV9NW3o8CRDXLjnRiqC52RviLQhvwG8usRL6st4aG7N-2t8nBQ_ZKW9ZoB2eptf4YgFPETMisfcTNa3wtw/w177-h200/dog%20w:snk%20on%20nose.jpg" width="177" /></a></div><br /> </i><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div></div>Kathy Kieth, Wrangler-in-Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11925893540872899117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13262320.post-11128424498207281222024-03-01T08:35:00.000-08:002024-03-01T08:35:36.313-08:00Moonlight Fantasy<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7k_tZrjBRtyKhTYX9G5MW528zJYK62f347gMmh8t4VOn2APW40-MGOVInixTIfApca7QrBVM46qCfLJ-VBtXmi0OuJOEj9hpMPtoJO_uinXNQkdSftlrYsfiLQNXC0_CoOi5gHxamufnSdg8gcMHsfhZbqa5b4rjG0kz94lYIA73fU-W7aivqPg/s640/red%20flower%20tg.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="481" data-original-width="640" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7k_tZrjBRtyKhTYX9G5MW528zJYK62f347gMmh8t4VOn2APW40-MGOVInixTIfApca7QrBVM46qCfLJ-VBtXmi0OuJOEj9hpMPtoJO_uinXNQkdSftlrYsfiLQNXC0_CoOi5gHxamufnSdg8gcMHsfhZbqa5b4rjG0kz94lYIA73fU-W7aivqPg/w400-h301/red%20flower%20tg.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><i> —Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,<br />Placerville, CA<br />—And then scroll down for<b><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><br />Form Fiddlers’ Friday</span></b>, with poetry by<br />Joe Nolan, Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,<br />Claire J. Baker, Joshua C. Frank, <br />and B. Lynne Zika</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"> <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">WHAT WENT WRONG<br /><br />A junior jinx, a gremlin in the circuitry <br />squashed your poem like a small animal.<br />My computer declined to save even a snippet <br />of your verse. What remained on the screen <br />was an empty vessel. I flipped the switch,<br />killed the machine, replaced it<br />with a walk outdoors to settle my mood.<br />A winter moonlit evening<br />transformed every stone to silver <br />mica in reflected light, bright <br />as your poem that survives<br />death by computer.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVfYP6l7ipSyA63-ci7pfJPp82eYdtxl4mUCeqb197fbITyE5co6v0Dn71CswaHdyn1xwzkFKPHbGbCtHH52qC1actgsZ-N7hAzZYYECKk1dc_0xavjrUDzBqhxhKnFGUERF0yIGxMgc7Hyf1x0RPmKgpJwStw6m4qYBwjqvTXDB_kTnYmVlLoMA/s1920/moonlt%20fantasy%20tg.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVfYP6l7ipSyA63-ci7pfJPp82eYdtxl4mUCeqb197fbITyE5co6v0Dn71CswaHdyn1xwzkFKPHbGbCtHH52qC1actgsZ-N7hAzZYYECKk1dc_0xavjrUDzBqhxhKnFGUERF0yIGxMgc7Hyf1x0RPmKgpJwStw6m4qYBwjqvTXDB_kTnYmVlLoMA/w400-h300/moonlt%20fantasy%20tg.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br />MOONLIGHT FANTASY<br /><br />Did they come, surreptitious between storms, to this confluence by winter moonlight? Prospectors for gold with their equipment, trudging trails flooded with so much rain—did they misjudge the current so it snatched their gear away, left it beached where the canyon narrows? Stormwater rich with treasure—<br /><br />garnets, diamonds, gold flakes<br />washing over the truly<br />awesome waterfall</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSrDzaaUyN56EkXfJ3QjmdBFWc_YLetNTfUqugmRWEFAgJFamPl09QQjus-lMelsuts_MOfV4zyyOeHZ6LQeGN9jzw4Kjdc7gZfJKOl81m1sm5IAGhtoHU8EjN14gnt6Irbp8m7ILu5cEnEr08epZbmoIpp5lWiGRBWtLB7XwrtUJCEEqSoOQJqg/s8160/tiny%20sign%20tg.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="6120" data-original-width="8160" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSrDzaaUyN56EkXfJ3QjmdBFWc_YLetNTfUqugmRWEFAgJFamPl09QQjus-lMelsuts_MOfV4zyyOeHZ6LQeGN9jzw4Kjdc7gZfJKOl81m1sm5IAGhtoHU8EjN14gnt6Irbp8m7ILu5cEnEr08epZbmoIpp5lWiGRBWtLB7XwrtUJCEEqSoOQJqg/w400-h300/tiny%20sign%20tg.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <br /><br />TINY SIGN ON GIANT TREE<br /><br />These mirific woods<br />too steep for walking—why<br />posted <i>No Trespass?—</i><br />so deep and dark, I’ll traverse<br />them in imagination.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRjF7KZyFgiZqDC_jLSy2SadQu9HxW-gMQpo6S9dG5xhSHxOlZqfF44494lLJ07uOsEVh1609OnBSSRMpUuOUpEAAK48v4jNIzKeA37-e8U4Tgx0b1yXQvm_GIOCRCWR_xtKyZMATYByGwmn12rDrM_SosrQhoeudf53gydXxsItIe4F-iFzGAHQ/s640/deer%20tg.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="625" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRjF7KZyFgiZqDC_jLSy2SadQu9HxW-gMQpo6S9dG5xhSHxOlZqfF44494lLJ07uOsEVh1609OnBSSRMpUuOUpEAAK48v4jNIzKeA37-e8U4Tgx0b1yXQvm_GIOCRCWR_xtKyZMATYByGwmn12rDrM_SosrQhoeudf53gydXxsItIe4F-iFzGAHQ/w391-h400/deer%20tg.jpg" width="391" /></a></div> <br /><br />TRAIL PUZZLE<br /><br />Why, in the midst of trail,<br />Is a perfectly good sleeping bag<br />There, tossed in a heap,<br />Not a sleeper inside?<br />Even though it’s morning, sunbeams<br />Sleep behind horizon. But bird-<br />Song? It bursts from every tree.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR0KnQx55oO5oDSb574Du4_evfpS3xjZs9t80g5JV9sXuaR3X5eTqcP_bowZHEHLNAkXo7CUrrUjfbB3LOOoPlKIJ6vByubdklW7DnvsRZyfLZvODXgDddhiDpa3m7KYt2IxL12nx8NSokmM7jinH-dtNa6VzjJGUb9JVXjIaqSJLgsbyrUP95Sw/s1920/tracks%20tg.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR0KnQx55oO5oDSb574Du4_evfpS3xjZs9t80g5JV9sXuaR3X5eTqcP_bowZHEHLNAkXo7CUrrUjfbB3LOOoPlKIJ6vByubdklW7DnvsRZyfLZvODXgDddhiDpa3m7KYt2IxL12nx8NSokmM7jinH-dtNa6VzjJGUb9JVXjIaqSJLgsbyrUP95Sw/w400-h300/tracks%20tg.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />WHO’S STEERING?<br /><br />Who’s riding shotgun? <br />A dog and his man should be <br />inseparable—<br />but one with wind-blown head out the window,<br />the other with hands on the wheel.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSUiKBWSwY7aIU9HZjArz06RujJXng8e1atpPWZ-oXuO066P5zXGRgwE41nnzWacnwDUcRgHZ5KTmbRsWYSaWLh0_vM1vdgdEoaAAZBEEUKrl6wk2Or3M06vV-m9fMdQtqa-WTFKYtJx7Ygq1sk_kVVwVb-WoQGM9j32D7DQTFAqTnxrS3jfOpXg/s1920/tree%20on%20stream%20tg.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSUiKBWSwY7aIU9HZjArz06RujJXng8e1atpPWZ-oXuO066P5zXGRgwE41nnzWacnwDUcRgHZ5KTmbRsWYSaWLh0_vM1vdgdEoaAAZBEEUKrl6wk2Or3M06vV-m9fMdQtqa-WTFKYtJx7Ygq1sk_kVVwVb-WoQGM9j32D7DQTFAqTnxrS3jfOpXg/w400-h300/tree%20on%20stream%20tg.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <br /><br />WHITE HORSE<br /><br />On our second try for the pass, a ghost<br />stepped out of the trees in guise of a horse<br />gazing at us till we quit. Did I sense<br />a spirit of the land to guard this trail?<br /><br />Muddy with rain, and difficult the trail<br />skirting an old railroad track, history’s ghost<br />running between the rails... Can this make sense<br />of why our third try never found the horse?<br /><br />After storms, could one even ride a horse,<br />so many trees fallen across the trail?<br />My dog refused to go on. Could she sense <br />cougar, or bear, or a malignant ghost?<br /><br />It takes another sense to walk this trail<br />without the ghost in guise of a white horse.<br /><br />____________________<br /><br /><i><b>Today’s LittleNip:</b><br /><br />TONIGHT’S WINTER LIGHT<br />—Taylor Graham<br /><br />A cloud-cloaked moon gives<br />thunder, lightning, rain instead—<br />open curtains, look!<br /><br />____________________</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihaS7d37X6eqb_6MoeAr6irpZ2BQfrrsVc9JIzJopFZFPjCvjI3sVXXduf_Ejeq_T2EzKS5-AbHFMdn-U02eEki2R7xXuA-GCfYpgNr_cdoaPkwCWgz3fqlWM_-t7W0f9ek-GNdm_0kqOzQGKTPnLq24dqMqMTq_Oy-jt1iSHwTLCedyAeS5N9Xw/s600/tg%20at%20davelle%202:25:24%20gularte.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="450" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihaS7d37X6eqb_6MoeAr6irpZ2BQfrrsVc9JIzJopFZFPjCvjI3sVXXduf_Ejeq_T2EzKS5-AbHFMdn-U02eEki2R7xXuA-GCfYpgNr_cdoaPkwCWgz3fqlWM_-t7W0f9ek-GNdm_0kqOzQGKTPnLq24dqMqMTq_Oy-jt1iSHwTLCedyAeS5N9Xw/w300-h400/tg%20at%20davelle%202:25:24%20gularte.jpg" width="300" /></a></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i> Taylor Graham reading at last Sunday’s </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Poetry of the Sierra Foothills </i><br /><i>—Photo by Lara Gularte</i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>* * *<br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br />March is roaring in around here like a lion, bringing us <span style="color: red;">Taylor Graham</span> with a grand swoosh of wet weather. Our thanks to her for today's fine poetry and photos. Be sure to check out her latest book, </i>Walking the Bones<i> (Hot Pepper Press).<br /><br />Forms TG has used today include a <b>Word-Can Poem</b> (“What Went Wrong); a <b>Haibun</b> (“Moonlight Fantasy”); a <b>Tanka</b> (“Tiny Sign on Giant Tree”); a <b>Double Acrostic</b> (“Trail Puzzle”); a response to Medusa's <b>Ekphrastic </b>photo of last week (“Who's Steering?”); a <b>Sestina Sonnet</b> (“White Horse”). and a <b>Haiku</b> (“Tonight's Winter Light”). The Sestina Sonnet and the Double Acrostic were both Triple-F Challenges last week.<br /><br />For news about El Dorado County poetry—past (photos!) and future—see Taylor Graham’s <b>Western Slope El Dorado</b> on Facebook at <a href="http://www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry">www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry</a> or see <span style="color: red;">Lara Gularte</span>’s Facebook page at <a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/382234029968077">https://www.facebook.com/groups/382234029968077</a>/. (Poetry is Gold in El Dorado County!) And of course you can always click on Medusa's <b>UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS</b> (<a href="http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html">http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html</a>) for details about future poetry events in the NorCal area. <br /><br />And now it’s time for… <br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY!</span></b></span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> <br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQaB-9oJRZ20owtoZpKdv45L2QMFbj81N64FKMv_2DDdJa4BT7KdAC-q9VPyMOVqQJQwt61lX0_3rO2kxWL3RVHptKC13uFWtpw7c9GPT0-dwEnDMKe3XN3cfhZ-uyzAiwX1TZinNWFyuGD3BJ2uctE9DvmectDUYk7yg88SGGc4aVm9dQgu1Yrg/s400/violins%20kk.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="267" data-original-width="400" height="134" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQaB-9oJRZ20owtoZpKdv45L2QMFbj81N64FKMv_2DDdJa4BT7KdAC-q9VPyMOVqQJQwt61lX0_3rO2kxWL3RVHptKC13uFWtpw7c9GPT0-dwEnDMKe3XN3cfhZ-uyzAiwX1TZinNWFyuGD3BJ2uctE9DvmectDUYk7yg88SGGc4aVm9dQgu1Yrg/w200-h134/violins%20kk.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>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.)</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /> There’s also a 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. Got any more resources to add to our list? Send them to kathykieth@hotmail.com for the benefit of all man/woman/poetkind!<br /></i><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">* * *</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz_pqOxjmwScgoB52YmCG-kt99sCfljPWCE2KGmV8usE-naT6RuQ7l3qRflP-IjXCKb6rNT4nbULJCtybIueM1072EiK3Swb5pxP-TwpC3pLvmbwzOjRQcVcTqAz_H03ar4NwAs_mX4IQP78kymECfyAgIJe2-CZmVBKr7JITbsBOdBfZbCvm8Dw/s400/OLD%20EK%20waiting%20dog:man.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="267" data-original-width="400" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz_pqOxjmwScgoB52YmCG-kt99sCfljPWCE2KGmV8usE-naT6RuQ7l3qRflP-IjXCKb6rNT4nbULJCtybIueM1072EiK3Swb5pxP-TwpC3pLvmbwzOjRQcVcTqAz_H03ar4NwAs_mX4IQP78kymECfyAgIJe2-CZmVBKr7JITbsBOdBfZbCvm8Dw/w400-h268/OLD%20EK%20waiting%20dog:man.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b>Last Week’s Ekphrastic Photo</b></i><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>This week we received responses to last Friday’s <b>Ekphrastic</b> photo from <span style="color: red;">Joe Nolan, Nolcha Fox, </span>and<span style="color: red;"> Stephen Kingsnorth </span>(in addition to the one above from Taylor Graham):</i><br /><br /><br />NATURE’S COURSE<br /><i>—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA</i><br /> <br />A happy man<br />With his happy dog—<br />An image of tranquility.<br /><br />What need has he<br />To change his course?<br /><br />May nature have other plans? <br />What’s around the next bend? <br />Stay tuned<br />For how he’ll<br />Remember<br />How happy he was<br />Back then,<br />Before he got a horse.<br /><br />* * * <br /><br />TEACHING MY BEST FRIEND TO DRIVE<br /><i>—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY</i><br /><br />He’ll be great behind the wheel.<br />He hates cell phones, radios.<br />He’s sharp, alert, a friendly guy<br />who doesn’t lose his cool.<br />He’ll be great behind the wheel<br />as long as roads are free<br />of cats and rabbits, he’ll ignore <br />the posted speed and chase<br />them over curbs and brush.<br />That’s what doggies do.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />RETRIEVER<br /><i>—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales</i><br /><br />A golden world, environment— <br />retriever, trees, car window frame, <br />through filtered sun, or gaffer, grip, <br />who set lighting equipment up. <br />Who’s driven autumn merriment, <br />the middleclass in leisure time? <br />I fear it, half a life ago, <br />me on the road to where I am. <br /><br />In one steer, dog hangs over wheel— <br />hangover cure, hair of the dog— <br />distinctive fur in foreleg light, <br />within a whisker, DUI. <br />And there’s that scarf hung over neck, <br />those rainbow lines, by woven skill, <br />to hide ID medallion, <br />or chip implanted under skin? <br /><br />My dogs recalled, those seasoned scarves, <br />so much retrieved from early days, <br />not prey of hunters’ shooting game, <br />but memories before escape; <br />of mother love, Dad, strains resolved, <br />of family, wife, children, friends, <br />of college days and learning ways, <br />of fellowship, companion bread. <br /><br />With host of saints clouding beyond, <br />contentment, more than gleaming smile; <br />but now charged, dump greeting cards, <br />whose signatures call up passed shades. <br />Like fading days, full glory scene, <br />yet falling leaves, year’s task fulfilled, <br />are not for discard, sweep away, <br />but tilth for resurrection seed. <br /><br />* * *<br /><br /><i>Nolcha Fox sent a lovely-but-sad <b>Haibun</b> in response to our current Tuesday’s Seed of the Week, “Jewels”:</i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcxGClYuMTwjZHgNe9i7mVK-XTO7RbXZFMZgjUXyq9CKQabjo43JmP0lQNO53Vzg9SrE9raw5w1eYIs9K_xxXA89ZVw7JnLzjrNfWbDUbNBBkNh5bq-CXHJUtvlKeZ7_HIY15HYSF0M0f4SOyBqp6KSI098BNRwat7hynCFmec4YABA7C2KmOBfg/s612/jewel.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="612" data-original-width="612" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcxGClYuMTwjZHgNe9i7mVK-XTO7RbXZFMZgjUXyq9CKQabjo43JmP0lQNO53Vzg9SrE9raw5w1eYIs9K_xxXA89ZVw7JnLzjrNfWbDUbNBBkNh5bq-CXHJUtvlKeZ7_HIY15HYSF0M0f4SOyBqp6KSI098BNRwat7hynCFmec4YABA7C2KmOBfg/w200-h200/jewel.jpg" width="200" /></a></div></i><br /><br />THE MISSING JEWEL<br /><i>—Nolcha Fox</i><br /><br />You kept me dry on days that rained discontent and flu. I hid behind your smile in a room of strangers. You waved your pom-poms when I didn’t want to show up on the field. You gave me a standing ovation when I couldn’t spit out the words.<br /><br />And now, I am<br />a gold ring<br />missing its diamond. You are gone.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br /><i>All this talk of winter moons inspired <span style="color: red;">Claire Baker</span> to pen her own response:</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoF6LSVKyC8ctEaLqYzpSfb_dtS0iIWErxlGX7llcpJ1_6_fvZWU9lTQurCMX7mnZe-knFqpSzADD2F6XzU7-BTwaZ7dju7qjdmSuKcuMYLO8-k7WFQ5iczrQv1UDa6P1y87SinWFao7AavbAnjine080EmghyphenhyphenV_5mE8t0eQSUrZpxF0Q8MxXZvA/s1050/winter-moon-glow-tv-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1050" data-original-width="840" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoF6LSVKyC8ctEaLqYzpSfb_dtS0iIWErxlGX7llcpJ1_6_fvZWU9lTQurCMX7mnZe-knFqpSzADD2F6XzU7-BTwaZ7dju7qjdmSuKcuMYLO8-k7WFQ5iczrQv1UDa6P1y87SinWFao7AavbAnjine080EmghyphenhyphenV_5mE8t0eQSUrZpxF0Q8MxXZvA/s320/winter-moon-glow-tv-1.jpg" width="256" /></a></div> </i><br /><br />WINTER MOON <br /><i>—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA</i><br /><br />When the full moon was born, <br />this genius of the night <br />was carefully memorizing names <br /><br />of stars, beginning with fires <br />near its circular rim—taking <br />care when it encountered <br /><br />flare-ups <br />to the magnitude of explosions, <br />stars releasing pressures. Yes, <br /><br />we poets are given huge sparkles <br />from atop earthly hills, now <br />snow-white as angel wings. <br /><br />* * *<br /><br /><i>Here is a <b>Rondeau</b> by <span style="color: red;">Joshua C. Frank</span>:</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTR6RCJm6LW6PMjBmsPXBigGy53pAc9Ff1liNRl4ONdsJs6pcDYt8nenZxSua636wlxVs1vOGNnJqljXKFPVSS_XuRuH4IKMzDl4cXPmqaxDjdLXM75XlGrtWFq7CwjQUgS1WTz3K_Z7Ajnh33bfwHpzD99GHeompJc6LIiT6HBAoq3iGmLAu9EA/s225/two%20empty%20chairs%20kk.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTR6RCJm6LW6PMjBmsPXBigGy53pAc9Ff1liNRl4ONdsJs6pcDYt8nenZxSua636wlxVs1vOGNnJqljXKFPVSS_XuRuH4IKMzDl4cXPmqaxDjdLXM75XlGrtWFq7CwjQUgS1WTz3K_Z7Ajnh33bfwHpzD99GHeompJc6LIiT6HBAoq3iGmLAu9EA/s1600/two%20empty%20chairs%20kk.jpg" width="225" /></a></div></i><br /><br />TWO EMPTY CHAIRS<br /><i>—Joshua C. Frank<br /><br />“We did the NFP [natural family planning] bit for awhile [sic]... and have felt revulsion over it ever since. During that time we might have had at least two more children.” </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> —Letter to the Editor, </i>Seattle Catholic<i>, 2002</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i><br /><br />Two empty chairs, each in its place—<br />The kitchen table’s vacant space,<br />Where our six children see the chill<br />Of unworn seats, both standing still<br />Like Tiny Tim’s by the fireplace.<br /><br />We timed the marital embrace<br />To procreate at slower pace.<br />That empty phrase means none shall fill<br />Two empty chairs.<br /><br />Our family planning did erase<br />Two precious souls we can’t replace;<br />We chose ourselves above God’s will.<br />Their nonexistence buys each frill,<br />And never shall their presence grace<br />Two empty chairs.<br /><br /><i><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">(First published in </span></i><span style="font-size: x-small;">The Society of Classical Poets</span><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">)</span></i><br /><br />* * *<br /><br /><i>Always-skillful Josh has also sent us a <b>Villanelle</b>. Love the repeated line: Oh look! It’s yet another field of corn!</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkmgTTbtdcGuY5mxC70i7rnBYyfos-oBuy_Yf9W4BNVkshXwOgjTFSNXBzC2Ip1Va8n71oMT7Ze9_-T1RnHG0XQQ8_H_2jEoV7auioPufYBOkH3zf6t2QXTatPY6d0f4VQKV4SxpzwgIbmerCzz8ls34GfoemlGjyEGpn9196ikosnA1I7Vvoaqw/s318/kansas.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="159" data-original-width="318" height="159" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkmgTTbtdcGuY5mxC70i7rnBYyfos-oBuy_Yf9W4BNVkshXwOgjTFSNXBzC2Ip1Va8n71oMT7Ze9_-T1RnHG0XQQ8_H_2jEoV7auioPufYBOkH3zf6t2QXTatPY6d0f4VQKV4SxpzwgIbmerCzz8ls34GfoemlGjyEGpn9196ikosnA1I7Vvoaqw/s1600/kansas.jpg" width="318" /></a></div> </i><br /><br />DRIVING THROUGH KANSAS<br /><i>—Joshua C. Frank </i><br /><br />I drive a Kansas highway, full of scorn;<br />The squares of endless flatness wear me down—<br />Oh look! It’s yet another field of corn!<br /><br />The semi truck behind me blasts its horn,<br />Allowing me to hear the driver’s frown—<br />I drive a Kansas highway, full of scorn.<br /><br />Brochures for Highway 83 don’t warn<br />About vast fields of dried-out gray and brown—<br />Oh look! It’s yet another field of corn!<br /><br />The filling station food mart’s stocked with porn<br />(The playhouse of that agribusiness town)—<br />I drive a Kansas highway, full of scorn.<br /><br />The highway’s shown the same old scene since morn;<br />I pass gray grass torn like a tattered gown—<br />Oh look! It’s yet another field of corn!<br /><br />The amber waves of grain the state has borne<br />Are harvested by every Big-Ag clown.<br />I drive a Kansas highway, full of scorn—<br />Oh look! It’s yet another field of corn!<br /><br /><br /><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(First published in </span></i><span style="font-size: x-small;">The Society of Classical Poets</span><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">)</span><br /><br />* * *<br /><br />Here is an <b>Italian Sonnet</b> by <span style="color: red;">B. Lynne Zika</span>; go back to yesterday’s post for some more fine poetry by her:</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIbg5bGhgzn3eLmoHu3FpUQIn9S32oGsyyT70ihkdkTFYcBNlCIkaDnCO3OjtB6oroAug1aNgrhc2qxbdvm06JhL5zn2gHng-6DEl1gV-YYEw1LHHWxy7HaVh7BLAluMLvaTfxL6E5RwAIwz5qcfUNNrQxcE_SD8FG0gTkwNtKF4JDOLw5HZ39Ig/s300/glass.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIbg5bGhgzn3eLmoHu3FpUQIn9S32oGsyyT70ihkdkTFYcBNlCIkaDnCO3OjtB6oroAug1aNgrhc2qxbdvm06JhL5zn2gHng-6DEl1gV-YYEw1LHHWxy7HaVh7BLAluMLvaTfxL6E5RwAIwz5qcfUNNrQxcE_SD8FG0gTkwNtKF4JDOLw5HZ39Ig/s1600/glass.jpg" width="300" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />THE ART OF WAR<br /><i>—B. Lynne Zika, Burbank, CA</i><br /><br />They go to arm themselves at the dry-stone wall.<br />The thin boy pulls a forked stick from his shirt<br />and bends toward a pebble in the dirt.<br />Tom says, “You won’t catch nothin’ at all,”<br />and snags a larger rock beside the gate.<br />He winds a strip of rubber around the stick,<br />cut from the limb of a black oak, strong and thick.<br />The thin boy stammers, “Tom, you’d better wait.”<br />But Tom’s got the slingshot pulled and aimed to <br />shoot.<br />He fired awry. His daddy’s at the door.<br />A pane of glass shatters to the floor.<br />The old man cracks two shards beneath his boot.<br />Tom says, “Bill, I think you’d better go,”<br />then bends to take what’s coming, blow by blow.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br /><i>And we have a closing Ekphrastic poem from <span style="color: red;">Stephen Kingsnorth,</span> based on a public domain photo posted in MK on Saturday, Feb. 24:</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghnSRYaN3Bi0phBq1XTPTX4OlCdCdoh6vL2VMXi0LXMKaDzqOTu8z389r-qX0o1tS_g84vwtxHWj77FznLLvQfFASRytYnc7zbhSfCZ4HySipxAlqtb8vHRaTajozvLxXLJejLjVb_dgr2n7cuwnhqBcGd94YDejqjfh4XOeJXh5SVjnOu39rGWA/s350/bldg%20kk.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="324" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghnSRYaN3Bi0phBq1XTPTX4OlCdCdoh6vL2VMXi0LXMKaDzqOTu8z389r-qX0o1tS_g84vwtxHWj77FznLLvQfFASRytYnc7zbhSfCZ4HySipxAlqtb8vHRaTajozvLxXLJejLjVb_dgr2n7cuwnhqBcGd94YDejqjfh4XOeJXh5SVjnOu39rGWA/s320/bldg%20kk.jpg" width="296" /></a></div></i><br /><br />BLOOMING BRICKS<br /><i>—Stephen Kingsnorth</i><br /><br />What contrast, border, parched grey earth, <br />save cement strip, as tower above, <br />back garden to flat, uniform, <br />perennials despite storm norms. <br />This floral bed of pillowed blooms, <br />lies plump yet creased, sense drowsy scent, <br />a depth denied by plaster cast, <br />all vibrant texture, rainbow mix. <br />But where buzz bees, earwigs indeed, <br />those pollinators, plant refresh, <br />or infestations, draining sap, <br />when too close planted, petal fold? <br /><br />What rhyme or reason drives our part <br />as painting, writing, crafting oeuvre, <br />in charting folks’ goals with a heart, <br />imparting hopeful attitude? <br />Our street art may be fantasy, <br />the scene as we’d prefer its view, <br />a home where we would rather be; <br />a fiction, visionary draw? <br /><br /><i>___________________<br /><br />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!<br /><br />___________________<br /><br /><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">TRIPLE-F CHALLENGES! </span></b></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;"> </span></b></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvSNDI5Xc-qycVzU_JnQDkz1J7HQ9yflxbQjHPHhna5YpkAXhYsulUm3HKWEmfkcuFnq2tfAOZrZvT-8sSZyTsuVzJvz7VyMDuA7HrJjJNmmLq6-ti7O3tdCJyKyO1GrhmqRTGb1x5YbgckWmkIy34oRp63bk6uQE4ome3AWAKpDrZ3tpOAtct2g/s1300/snake%20around%20pen.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="778" data-original-width="1300" height="120" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvSNDI5Xc-qycVzU_JnQDkz1J7HQ9yflxbQjHPHhna5YpkAXhYsulUm3HKWEmfkcuFnq2tfAOZrZvT-8sSZyTsuVzJvz7VyMDuA7HrJjJNmmLq6-ti7O3tdCJyKyO1GrhmqRTGb1x5YbgckWmkIy34oRp63bk6uQE4ome3AWAKpDrZ3tpOAtct2g/w200-h120/snake%20around%20pen.jpg" width="200" /></a></div></span></b>See what you can make of these challenges, and send your results to kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.) I do believe the <b>Bema’s Best</b> was devised by Sacramento Poet <span style="color: red;">Be Davison Herrera</span> (who has passed away), though </i>Poet’s Collective <i>left the “Be” off of her name. This form is based on 3’s and 5’s:<br /><br />•••<b>Bema’s Best:</b> <a href="https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/bemas-best">https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/bemas-best<br /></a><br />•••AND/OR try a <b>Blind Rhyme or Hidden Rhyme</b>, which fools around with internal rhymes. (Be sure to scroll down for “Shit Creek”):<br /><br />•••<b>Blind Rhyme or Hidden Rhyme:</b> <a href="https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/blind-rhyme-or-hidden-rhyme">https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/blind-rhyme-or-hidden-rhyme</a><br /><br />•••See also the bottom of this post for another challenge, this one an <b>Ekphrastic</b> photo.<br /><br />•••And don’t forget each <b>Tuesday’s Seed of the Week!</b> This week it’s “Jewels”.<br /><br />____________________<br /><br /><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">MEDUSA’S FORM FINDER: Links to poetry terms mentioned today:</span><br /></b><br />•••<b>Acrostic Poem types:</b> <a href="https://studybay.com/blog/how-to-write-an-acrostic-poem">https://studybay.com/blog/how-to-write-an-acrostic-poem</a><br />•••<b>Bema’s Best:</b> <a href="https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/bemas-best">https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/bemas-best</a><br />•••<b>Blind Rhyme or Hidden Rhyme: </b><a href="https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/blind-rhyme-or-hidden-rhyme">https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/blind-rhyme-or-hidden-rhyme</a><br />•••<b>Double Acrostic</b> (Carl Schwartz): first letters and first words of each line form Acrostics<br />•••<b>Ekphrastic Poem:</b> <a href="http://notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry">notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry</a> <br />•••<b>Haibun: </b><a href="http://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/haibun-poems-poetic-form">www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/haibun-poems-poetic-form</a><br />•••<b>Haiku: </b><a href="http://www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/haiku/haiku.html">www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/haiku/haiku.html</a><br />•••<b>Rondeau:</b> <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/rondeau">www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/rondeau</a><br />•••<b>Sestina Sonnet</b> (Joshua C. Frank): uses the Sestina algorithm for four end-words, plugged into the Sonnet form<br />•••<b>Sonnet Forms:</b> <a href="https://blog.prepscholar.com/what-is-a-sonnet-poem-form">https://blog.prepscholar.com/what-is-a-sonnet-poem-form</a> AND/OR <a href="http://poets.org/glossary/sonnet">poets.org/glossary/sonnet</a> AND/OR <a href="http://blog.prepscholar.com/what-is-a-sonnet-poem-form">blog.prepscholar.com/what-is-a-sonnet-poem-form</a><br />•••<b>Tanka:</b> <a href="http://poets.org/glossary/tanka">poets.org/glossary/tanka</a><br />•••<b>Villanelle</b> (rhymed; can be unrhymed): <a href="http://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/poetic-forms-villanelle">www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/poetic-forms-villanelle</a><br />•••<b>Word-Can Poem:</b> putting random words on slips of paper into a can, then drawing out a few and making a poem out of them<br /><br />___________________<br /><br />—Medusa</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9sQIDjcBRt1JIKTaVOYPfKJ76l8b80MqM5BwqyWkwI_OTYbYHhHnHZwSrqMXE-cJzqAydoL6yj9rn29YtYONeVibRiaax0vEoFrig54HiNGV1MZHUjS0Sl-ShmGDqQgAUpPF6LSseBB7J0SEbuNXgZHGjRR9SQuoTnsLbVpTcmzVqQxOWE1KeRQ/s350/NEW%20EK%20tea%20kk.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="293" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9sQIDjcBRt1JIKTaVOYPfKJ76l8b80MqM5BwqyWkwI_OTYbYHhHnHZwSrqMXE-cJzqAydoL6yj9rn29YtYONeVibRiaax0vEoFrig54HiNGV1MZHUjS0Sl-ShmGDqQgAUpPF6LSseBB7J0SEbuNXgZHGjRR9SQuoTnsLbVpTcmzVqQxOWE1KeRQ/w335-h400/NEW%20EK%20tea%20kk.jpg" width="335" /></a></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b> Today's Ekphrastic Challenge!</b></i><br /><i> </i><i> </i><br /><i> Make what you can of today's </i><br /><i>photo, and send your poetic results to </i><br /><i>kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.)</i><br /><br /><i>* * *</i><br /><br /><i>—Public Domain Photo </i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> <br /> <br /> <br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><i>For info about </i><i>upcoming poetry </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>happenings in </i><br /><i>Northern California and otherwheres, </i><br /><i>click on</i><br /><i><b>UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS</b></i><br /><i>(<a href="http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html">http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html</a>)</i><br /><i>in the links at the top of this page.</i><br /><br /><i>Photos in this column can be enlarged by </i><br /><i>clicking on them once, then clicking on the x </i><br /><i>in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.</i><br /><br /><i>Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down</i><br /><i>under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button</i><br /><i>at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets </i><br /><i>by typing the name of the poet or poem</i><br /><i> into the little beige box at the top </i><br /><i>left-hand side of today’s post; or go to </i><br /><i>Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of </i><br /><i>the blue column at the right</i><br /><i> to find the date you want.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi92x_IfIyVmqttdIFMHTvPNsvBYP3pehtDMJNjZQReFYN7CMNae3g2g2BbHxDE1wX_FeBZYfCYCi5UHIh8csPbZUw5dkNm70H_hLxhTOCr4I6LjzQeiKaUy5C-ux7KtnbETulzQMGwOX2pj98Yrpy1K0Z6D9q_4CYPq2zTGJ2A-5g1EcAaW-6Y2Q/s400/ssss.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="393" data-original-width="400" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi92x_IfIyVmqttdIFMHTvPNsvBYP3pehtDMJNjZQReFYN7CMNae3g2g2BbHxDE1wX_FeBZYfCYCi5UHIh8csPbZUw5dkNm70H_hLxhTOCr4I6LjzQeiKaUy5C-ux7KtnbETulzQMGwOX2pj98Yrpy1K0Z6D9q_4CYPq2zTGJ2A-5g1EcAaW-6Y2Q/w200-h196/ssss.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Let's see: what rhymes with sss?</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>I know!—sss!<br /> </i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div><i><br /><br /><br /><br /></i><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br /><br /><br /> </div>Kathy Kieth, Wrangler-in-Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11925893540872899117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13262320.post-15163751962525668682024-02-29T08:35:00.000-08:002024-02-29T08:35:39.343-08:00That Cunning Sun<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6ljQPvA4P3hSRQfscYvQ8zWozFpT4HysjYgc4EBIZJICkKU4TEM6vqWfdtLx8EQFA_ZOpJwh5F4rjlMibxC1U6N1pqQpuTWuvS4ytMp5s0DY78OraveXsdJcJA3-QLixjucrG8cH2XPaLnUrKa-mDeplzJhpcHynuJiZMEOr71aIcE7-irCeIeQ/s239/gita%20photo.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="239" data-original-width="178" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6ljQPvA4P3hSRQfscYvQ8zWozFpT4HysjYgc4EBIZJICkKU4TEM6vqWfdtLx8EQFA_ZOpJwh5F4rjlMibxC1U6N1pqQpuTWuvS4ytMp5s0DY78OraveXsdJcJA3-QLixjucrG8cH2XPaLnUrKa-mDeplzJhpcHynuJiZMEOr71aIcE7-irCeIeQ/w298-h400/gita%20photo.png" width="298" /></a></div> <i> —Photo by B. Lynne Zika<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />—Poetry by B. Lynne Zika, Burbank, CA<br />—Photos by Jiri Vlatch and B. Lynne Zika</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">GITA<br /><br />Beneath the window passerines <br />cluster in their family clutch, <br />claiming for the afternoon<br />a place to share, to speak, to touch.<br /><br />Behind the screen my daily plague <br />begins its torturous harangue.<br />Lone I—vanquished-—then concede:<br />I am now become the pain.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifZRBBb7mcneNNqW0K3iMBPJZ3mlH6jhsAR56nlkpWROK4TTPdXWdDy6Mbki6L5M51XRgS0dwqoSGciqMAoFVzuF8vtp4Gv0zyP_-Yql6N9qEsL4te2NbB1jFu2BcguUMtHFM0DC5W3HvJo-s0yp2BBRsmPiq9Wc6og1Rs73hokyvcKNFg5blCfQ/s1600/cunning%20sun:Vlatch.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifZRBBb7mcneNNqW0K3iMBPJZ3mlH6jhsAR56nlkpWROK4TTPdXWdDy6Mbki6L5M51XRgS0dwqoSGciqMAoFVzuF8vtp4Gv0zyP_-Yql6N9qEsL4te2NbB1jFu2BcguUMtHFM0DC5W3HvJo-s0yp2BBRsmPiq9Wc6og1Rs73hokyvcKNFg5blCfQ/w400-h300/cunning%20sun:Vlatch.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> —Photo by Jiri Vlatch</i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />AND THE CUNNING SUN<br /><br />Morning sun stretches long green fingers through <br />the grove<br />and cups her hand over a breast of creekbank moss. <br />Downriver, rapids churn the day to a start;<br />beech trees lean into their stately tasks. <br />A monarch butterfly loops around me, <br />tracing arabesques, wings beating a delicate thrum, <br />cocooning me in a silent, twinkling applause,<br />and the cunning sun<br />slips over to steal flecks of gold and copper from <br />my hair.<br />My love has gone.<br /><br />___________________<br /><br />AVONDALE<br /><br />On the south end of Noble, gold-lettered coaches<br />carry children with richer daddies down a circle <br />of track.<br />Across town, a necklace of boxcars<br />waits to be hitched at the dock.<br />The mill whistle cuts the day in half.<br />Dye from the vats still froths the creek<br />bounding the house that failed to hold my mother<br />past the year she was of age.<br /><br />The morning Mr. Raymer dropped a milk bottle<br />on the kitchen step, she woke to her father’s<br />tongue pushing past her lips, pushing away<br />18 years of safety. She must have gone cold,<br />felt the slip she’d pulled on the night before <br />too thin<br />against her body. Outside, the milkman<br />swept the last of the splinters<br />and whistled off to the comfort of his route.<br /><br />Three-thousand miles later, I open a package<br />my mother has sent from home. A gold chain<br />to safekeep the charm I’ll be left when she’s gone.<br />A pocketknife she means for my grandson—<br />“My daddy’s,” she writes.<br /><br />I remember a man with pockets of candy.<br />The way we swept into Woolworth’s,<br />grand with our Saturday dimes.<br />Our mother. Laughing.<br />Slapping pink balls with wooden paddles<br />one-hundred-and-twenty-nine times.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjROpuNJCTv_wH6-r16w85aUFJ4QQwz_eBHyZkzOJL3BoQlM8BbE-JG00YzkBGwvQxOOlC4k437vT_c4ignSdhqA1DNDTHITbKOwylszgpDYD8NGqCFJP2n4ElDFQjxwiFrXcAMw1egRq5JBEGEYmGGqsIOjQMrMpf-Os7-I8sz6ye8D5QWoe7cYg/s216/promise%20photo.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="216" data-original-width="172" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjROpuNJCTv_wH6-r16w85aUFJ4QQwz_eBHyZkzOJL3BoQlM8BbE-JG00YzkBGwvQxOOlC4k437vT_c4ignSdhqA1DNDTHITbKOwylszgpDYD8NGqCFJP2n4ElDFQjxwiFrXcAMw1egRq5JBEGEYmGGqsIOjQMrMpf-Os7-I8sz6ye8D5QWoe7cYg/w319-h400/promise%20photo.png" width="319" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> —Photo by B. Lynne Zika</i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />PROMISE<br /><br />Soon it will be spring.<br />In the patch of ground<br />outside the window,<br />fruit trees will swell<br />from bud to flower—<br />young maidens with growing breasts<br />preparing for the fullness<br />of motherhood.<br />They will bear fruit.<br /><br />Surely<br />a life of pain bears<br />something of benefit:<br />a testament to the comfort<br />love can bring<br />or bearing witness to the world,<br />to those who believe themselves forgotten<br />or never seen.<br /><br />I see you.<br />Come.<br />Let us remember together<br />the bud as it bursts open,<br />the sunlight casting shadows<br />at our feet.<br /><br />____________________</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><b>Today's LittleNip:</b></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Truth is like the sun. You can shut it out for a time, but it ain't goin' away.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>—Elvis Presley</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>____________________ </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br />—Medusa, with thanks to <span style="color: red;">B. Lynne Zika</span> for her fine poetry today on this most unusual date that only happens once every four years! (Where will we be four years from now?) Anyway, visit the Kitchen again tomorrow for Lynne’s Italian Sonnet.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKqAeC6c0eayX4GScyYduuiiF9dx0ZY7AZ655czsU6GgsOGFHPTVp0DJ__IYEhKEB_exauRvlZwOT41ydpKAuP6Ew9jaeLbfelKhKWF-G4g2RkgfoXU6ukPrRoGo2mcEfbrVAfbWbk3tV5gnwwar_qgLUlm61VA4FtlXEP1KMBjKd1QT1YWfhFtw/s1280/b.%20lynne.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1115" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKqAeC6c0eayX4GScyYduuiiF9dx0ZY7AZ655czsU6GgsOGFHPTVp0DJ__IYEhKEB_exauRvlZwOT41ydpKAuP6Ew9jaeLbfelKhKWF-G4g2RkgfoXU6ukPrRoGo2mcEfbrVAfbWbk3tV5gnwwar_qgLUlm61VA4FtlXEP1KMBjKd1QT1YWfhFtw/w349-h400/b.%20lynne.jpg" width="349" /></a></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i> B. Lynne Zika</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><i>For future poetry happenings in </i><br /><i>Northern California and otherwheres, </i><br /><i>click on</i><br /><i><b>UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS</b></i><br /><i>(<a href="http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html">http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html</a>)</i><br /><i>in the links at the top of this page—</i><br /><i>and keep an eye on this link and on</i><br /><i>the daily Kitchen for happenings </i><br /><i>that might pop up</i><br /><i>—or get changed!—</i><br /><i> during the week.</i><br /><br /><i>Photos in this column can be enlarged by </i><br /><i>clicking on them once, then clicking on the x </i><br /><i>in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.</i><br /><br /><i>Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down</i><br /><i>under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button</i><br /><i>at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets </i><br /><i>by typing the name of the poet or poem</i><br /><i> into the little beige box at the top </i><br /><i>left-hand side of today’s post; or go to </i><br /><i>Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of </i><br /><i>the blue column at the right</i><br /><i> to find the date you want.</i><br /><br /><i>Would you like to be a SnakePal? </i><br /><i>Guidelines are at the top of this page</i><br /><i>at the Placating the Gorgon link;</i><br /><i>send poetry and/or photos and artwork</i><br /><i>to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post</i><br /><i>work from all over the world—including</i><br /><i>that which was previously published—</i><br /><i>and collaborations are welcome. </i><br /><i>Just remember:</i><br /><i>the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—</i><br /><i>for poetry, of course!</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjAgOfqmFFsFvCcoJ7cMRXOigG_aKSHzRXVShBIAHjM6SMXxqorUC4bo1H42Is1a7E2PJSypULKDeyPQ8e3R0JZYcz4vf2Su59qufQVcgf7NYFJeeOyCSSJYbhFHrfG-xufFekEj2n9C2yTL6U_UVo7PNX64scMYMB5ENL5j2tcv4O3Qb3TajMTA/s259/hot%20sun.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="195" data-original-width="259" height="151" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjAgOfqmFFsFvCcoJ7cMRXOigG_aKSHzRXVShBIAHjM6SMXxqorUC4bo1H42Is1a7E2PJSypULKDeyPQ8e3R0JZYcz4vf2Su59qufQVcgf7NYFJeeOyCSSJYbhFHrfG-xufFekEj2n9C2yTL6U_UVo7PNX64scMYMB5ENL5j2tcv4O3Qb3TajMTA/w200-h151/hot%20sun.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /> </i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> </div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div></div>Kathy Kieth, Wrangler-in-Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11925893540872899117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13262320.post-35908198291039199332024-02-28T08:34:00.000-08:002024-02-28T08:34:03.438-08:00The Angry Gods of Transport<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidadLxhAGS0OpJPX3mXItry5eYkjRg_sbc4Yzc3pvngpVjZsHQ2kGTGIbBspfwYdI_Ecij3w3ZtkCgnV2l1MhidEkE-YwDs1aN_uCR03-OPhWwXMYxAVQyf4HaOaHvKyreN_CheJBbrlHptVCwK2pPoB_pwwVf91Se1U6_5t3SL1fe3naXiFImcA/s649/erange.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="631" data-original-width="649" height="389" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidadLxhAGS0OpJPX3mXItry5eYkjRg_sbc4Yzc3pvngpVjZsHQ2kGTGIbBspfwYdI_Ecij3w3ZtkCgnV2l1MhidEkE-YwDs1aN_uCR03-OPhWwXMYxAVQyf4HaOaHvKyreN_CheJBbrlHptVCwK2pPoB_pwwVf91Se1U6_5t3SL1fe3naXiFImcA/w400-h389/erange.png" width="400" /></a></div><i> —Poetry by Neil Fulwood, Nottingham, England<br />—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">CONTRAFLOW<br /><br />The gods of transport infrastructure <br />are angry. They demand laudation,<br />obeisance. They demand respect<br />in Aretha Franklin terms of magnitude.<br /><br />The free flow of traffic offends them.<br />Uncluttered bus lanes offend them.<br />Cars offend them, swinging merrily <br />into workplace car parks bang on time. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />They have visited a plague of potholes,<br />a reigning down of raised ironwork,<br />a <i>weltuntergang</i> of widening foretold <br />by the exponential increase in road users.<br /><br />And lo, the acolytes come as summoned,<br />some by van, some by flatbed. Some <br />by saloon, side panel decals demarcated<br />with the livery of traffic management.<br /><br />And lo, they come with theodolites,<br />distance meters, hard hats and clipboards.<br />They set out cones, weigh down A-frames <br />with sandbags and bolt into place<br /><br />warning signs running the gamut <br />from ROAD WORKS AHEAD to ROAD<br />NARROWS, and just for the cosmic<br />shits and giggles, temporary traffic lights,<br /><br />four-way control: a stop-start sequence<br />slower even than Peckinpah slo-mo.<br />And lo, with their toytown smelting tins<br />to fill in potholes like patchwork quilts,<br /><br />with their sci-fi behemoth Barber-Greenes<br />resurfacing lengthy but incomplete stretches;<br />lo, with their battalions of heavy plant<br />roadside-parked and unattended; and lo,<br /><br />with their checklists and risk assessments,<br />their buzzwords on the theme of health<br />and safety, their PR pushed-for accreditation <br />as considerate contractors … they bow down </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />to the gods of transport infrastructure,<br />promise chaos, delay; the renunciation <br />of God, St Christopher and Henry T. Ford; <br />an endless proliferation of red lines </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />snaking from here to home on the satnav.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtZrB1vTOwuQuRfJgPqstGsLbLwM__7LNGnZbtNYm5llkLzU9jCx9J3UpZqbD3Vp0Cp50WeIHVFqAzG__rfbtbwuJBudnXsaZm8UcARnQFecPFw7FxbCcUmPamJFBoojXR9sdS4CyHxjkKbs58otHxuDNHUsOrx2Nk_FI5snIBLYdllU-Yr2FQdA/s1300/fog-signal-warning-sign-near-a-lighthouse-england-uk-europe-BDP57M.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="955" data-original-width="1300" height="294" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtZrB1vTOwuQuRfJgPqstGsLbLwM__7LNGnZbtNYm5llkLzU9jCx9J3UpZqbD3Vp0Cp50WeIHVFqAzG__rfbtbwuJBudnXsaZm8UcARnQFecPFw7FxbCcUmPamJFBoojXR9sdS4CyHxjkKbs58otHxuDNHUsOrx2Nk_FI5snIBLYdllU-Yr2FQdA/w400-h294/fog-signal-warning-sign-near-a-lighthouse-england-uk-europe-BDP57M.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <br /> </div><div style="text-align: left;">FOG <br /><br />The long route, out into the sticks,<br />two-and-a-half hours the full round trip<br /><br />byways and potholes, hidden dips<br />liable to flood at the first spit <br /><br />of rain. Hedgerows up for a go<br />at the paintwork, low-hanging branches<br /><br />fancying a crack at the mirrors.<br />And today, fog. Horror movie tendrils<br /><br />seep their damp grasp from field<br />to roadside, pooling the camber,<br /><br />grey-washing hazards till tyres<br />are shredded, suspension rattled,<br /><br />tracking thrown out with a jolt<br />fit to rearrange molecules. Fog<br /><br />mapping out the creeping nasty fun <br />of your own personal unasked-for </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />Dickens homage: Fog everywhere. <br />Fog up the side of the bus, fog<br /><br />in the blind spot, fog smearing <br />the headlights like a dirty protest. Fog<br /><br />tagging the windscreen—filthy,<br />off-yellow, T.S. Eliot fog. Thicker gouts<br /><br />rolling in, a dull leperous glow<br />at the centre; the fog of black tides <br /><br />and coastal folklore. Fog as diminisher <br />of distance, trickster of perspective; </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />fog blanking out the logistics<br />of developing hazard and response time.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSfaTfR6LFTsCZjeLjboxesgXs4eL7aSfNSgmeTwD6-VGfvPjiS9pYzOQ1n-RUcxcAzlyuLl_VSqBrVNYzy3sjCc3EUvy5JEGm_SLz5K-2Qa5cM8Qzal-3q_JVZOaEqWkQAnjwTewYojZMOFnhnskvnGUpep-YPhyUnejosYS0WSrY2b2cVFu-0w/s277/give%20way.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="182" data-original-width="277" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSfaTfR6LFTsCZjeLjboxesgXs4eL7aSfNSgmeTwD6-VGfvPjiS9pYzOQ1n-RUcxcAzlyuLl_VSqBrVNYzy3sjCc3EUvy5JEGm_SLz5K-2Qa5cM8Qzal-3q_JVZOaEqWkQAnjwTewYojZMOFnhnskvnGUpep-YPhyUnejosYS0WSrY2b2cVFu-0w/w400-h263/give%20way.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <br /><br />SALAMANDER </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />Basically a sheet metal fuel tank<br />on four spiky legs. The exclamation mark</div><div style="text-align: left;">of its flue modelled on the smokestack </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />of Wild West locos; capped </div><div style="text-align: left;">by an unsymmetrical circumflex.<br />User's guide: knock aside<br /><br />the cover flap, fill with paraffin,<br />dunk lath of wood in same.<br />Pay attention: this is the non-<br /><br />health-and-safety part. Strike match<br />(arm's length) against said lath, watch<br />acrid gout of smoke roll back<br /><br />from blue-edged flame, thrust<br />burning hunk of wood<br />into paraffin. Remove at *whomph*,<br /><br />beat to charred remnant on concrete<br />floor. Clout cover back with flat<br />of hand. Never mind </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />the turps, the sawdust thrown<br />down to sop up oil change <br />spillage, the hundred-and-one </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />ways the garage could have gone up— <br />it didn't. There's a lesson in this. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir-WbsS5UTthyv_JoKwR21j7hcup_teM14dAgJ5zObTZqVJYnxHWVVCmYJKlrX-7piUvWMR5sHsmzDxbSBBDyYYyLVacOJgJx7Whl1rVBBRbI_iFrLMa7xoywRCCAtvdjHVFcm5kNBWny3Gi1TUiK0xuQs-tzW8vdUmBrDWwr4NcSaTQPyYesFfQ/s277/slippery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="182" data-original-width="277" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir-WbsS5UTthyv_JoKwR21j7hcup_teM14dAgJ5zObTZqVJYnxHWVVCmYJKlrX-7piUvWMR5sHsmzDxbSBBDyYYyLVacOJgJx7Whl1rVBBRbI_iFrLMa7xoywRCCAtvdjHVFcm5kNBWny3Gi1TUiK0xuQs-tzW8vdUmBrDWwr4NcSaTQPyYesFfQ/w400-h263/slippery.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />MISFORTUNE WITH A KNAPSACK<i><br />(after Anna Akhmatova) </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />Whistling through Tyrolean meadows,<br />stereotypical in national dress.<br /><br />Knapsacking ‘round Nepal, all hippie beads<br />and selfie-stick. Lurking in Lebanon<br /><br />on a false passport, wavelengthed<br />to the political situation. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />Unholstered in a Hollywood fuck pad,<br />soaking up those Ellroy vibes.<br /><br />Torpid in Honduras, draining the last<br />of the day as the sun goes down,<br /><br />tomorrow’s edition in his back pocket. <br /><br />__________________<br /><br /><i><b>Today’s LittleNip:</b><br /><br />Resist much, obey little.<br /><br />—Walt Whitman, </i>Leaves of Grass<br /><i><br />__________________<br /><br />Welcome back to <span style="color: red;">Neil Fulwood</span><b><span style="color: red;"> </span></b>today! This has been a week of visiting Brits: <span style="color: red;">Ian Copestick</span> last Sunday, <span style="color: red;">Neil Fulwood</span> today, and frequent contributor <span style="color: red;">Stephen Kingsnorth</span>. </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Neil Fulwood was born in Nottingham, England, where he still lives and works; he first visited the Kitchen in 2015, and has appeared several times since then. He has four collections out with Shoestring Press: </i>No Avoiding It; Can’t Take Me Anywhere; Service Cancelled; <i>and</i> The Point of the Stick<i>, the conductor/classical music-themed poems of his which were posted in Medusa’s Kitchen in July of last year, and eventually grew into a book-length sequence which has just gone to press and will be out next month. It’s called </i>The Point of the Stick<i> after a guidebook on the art of conducting which was written by Sir Adrian Boult back in the day. Congratulations on the new book, Neil!<br /><br />_________________<br /><br />—Medusa</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO-Dkc1I2NSslXAmCFp54J37fUkEedBuUoRkZF_bdQWXaCl-r_I5L4HQ2CLw9bxjN1859ZNKW2O2sAlgLyYXyRNoOFfe9PHVtV4Hx5PLEcGm3bzvoNiuELgV_xjm9PMzwY6CfwYspe0LOEQxuJB0x5VyKR64cKEIIOpSY14CU0JQV6-32Fzg6iuQ/s960/NF%20with%20funky%20statue.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="717" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO-Dkc1I2NSslXAmCFp54J37fUkEedBuUoRkZF_bdQWXaCl-r_I5L4HQ2CLw9bxjN1859ZNKW2O2sAlgLyYXyRNoOFfe9PHVtV4Hx5PLEcGm3bzvoNiuELgV_xjm9PMzwY6CfwYspe0LOEQxuJB0x5VyKR64cKEIIOpSY14CU0JQV6-32Fzg6iuQ/w299-h400/NF%20with%20funky%20statue.jpg" width="299" /></a></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i> Neil Fulwood</i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>For future poetry happenings in </i><br /><i>Northern California and otherwheres, </i><br /><i>click on</i><br /><i><b>UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS</b></i><br /><i>(<a href="http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html">http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html</a>)</i><br /><i>in the links at the top of this page—</i><br /><i>and keep an eye on this link and on</i><br /><i>the daily Kitchen for happenings </i><br /><i>that might pop up</i><br /><i>—or get changed!—</i><br /><i> during the week.</i><br /><br /><i>Photos in this column can be enlarged by </i><br /><i>clicking on them once, then clicking on the x </i><br /><i>in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.</i><br /><br /><i>Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down</i><br /><i>under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button</i><br /><i>at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets </i><br /><i>by typing the name of the poet or poem</i><br /><i> into the little beige box at the top </i><br /><i>left-hand side of today’s post; or go to </i><br /><i>Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of </i><br /><i>the blue column at the right</i><br /><i> to find the date you want.</i><br /><br /><i>Would you like to be a SnakePal? </i><br /><i>Guidelines are at the top of this page</i><br /><i>at the Placating the Gorgon link;</i><br /><i>send poetry and/or photos and artwork</i><br /><i>to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post</i><br /><i>work from all over the world—including</i><br /><i>that which was previously published—</i><br /><i>and collaborations are welcome. </i><br /><i>Just remember:</i><br /><i>the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—</i><br /><i>for poetry, of course!</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj23k6HaNPhnHLM_1-VnJRtgb9sHxAYGxFAlT0GDiRgy6xdPEIPXnAk2BAoc5mUR2CZD45AwTYQe0zoVSQUvZ8SDQuq-XAYr7FeZ9L5ocwp3p0d2E2EN91w6EcG4Im3s9TgMMT-OSHaRWmFXPlgbs0nwpMNI1dClOhXhBrR9-GcuBE9KYSq2QhHlQ/s225/music%20notes.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj23k6HaNPhnHLM_1-VnJRtgb9sHxAYGxFAlT0GDiRgy6xdPEIPXnAk2BAoc5mUR2CZD45AwTYQe0zoVSQUvZ8SDQuq-XAYr7FeZ9L5ocwp3p0d2E2EN91w6EcG4Im3s9TgMMT-OSHaRWmFXPlgbs0nwpMNI1dClOhXhBrR9-GcuBE9KYSq2QhHlQ/w200-h200/music%20notes.png" width="200" /></a></div><br /> </i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div><i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></i><br /></div>Kathy Kieth, Wrangler-in-Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11925893540872899117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13262320.post-45010101043803971382024-02-27T08:33:00.000-08:002024-02-27T08:33:38.146-08:00The Mirrors of Years<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxujG4KlMQvq3uNHcUYcczGbXuuhI1oGKFkDQznPxdTqhtq_nWr_pr8knfIIElcgj73ySQwI5GtVJMej1RkDa-NhDZSqXKXHzBusuFwD59e6UfTNQMBtY9Ja3-yGVAJ0XeUfJWdRHL1t8jDeY8rNe9twxluToKGr1kKy26_Sdg2XFF-bsecugXvQ/s3648/BARE%20TREES%20FULL%20MOON%20(000).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxujG4KlMQvq3uNHcUYcczGbXuuhI1oGKFkDQznPxdTqhtq_nWr_pr8knfIIElcgj73ySQwI5GtVJMej1RkDa-NhDZSqXKXHzBusuFwD59e6UfTNQMBtY9Ja3-yGVAJ0XeUfJWdRHL1t8jDeY8rNe9twxluToKGr1kKy26_Sdg2XFF-bsecugXvQ/w400-h300/BARE%20TREES%20FULL%20MOON%20(000).JPG" width="400" /></a></div><i> Bare Trees, Full Moon</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>* * * <br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br />—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,<br />Sacramento, CA<br />—Photos by Joyce Odam</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">WINTER MOONLIGHT<br /><i>—Joyce Odam</i><br /><br />Where are you in the moonlight <br />now—the residue of light—<br />the dark, incorporating?<br /><br />I know this light, how it flares,<br />how it dwindles, <br />candle-like.<br /> <br />Whoever leads the way through this<br />is burdened, going ever deeper,<br />into the thoroughness.<br /><br />Here, there are answers. <br />Never opened.<br />There is no light. <br /><br />That was long ago, <br />in your imagination,<br />ever holy— <br /><br />ever <br />wounded <br />by the difference <br /><br />and the myth of knowing—<br />enduring still<br />where hope still promises.<br /><br /><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>(prev. pub. in </i>Rattlesnake Review, <i>2005)</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-smsUJgk2asg9IEmPg_bgk5P4CLxIFTx709esTVczQLe57XQHfZQxPtLbIAOeC5ivbD0-u2RTLWkciuZYH3G4H-q_HA_6di7zaKUIMNc-DXUTJtwLGyJ6HvaaxJaY1xsU-rFlIm79kFCxI8E70n3KVDvNHmF7ZXPmGglOO9MMIB2cWkxhr97WIQ/s3600/WINTER%20MOONLIGHT%20(004).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1863" data-original-width="3600" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-smsUJgk2asg9IEmPg_bgk5P4CLxIFTx709esTVczQLe57XQHfZQxPtLbIAOeC5ivbD0-u2RTLWkciuZYH3G4H-q_HA_6di7zaKUIMNc-DXUTJtwLGyJ6HvaaxJaY1xsU-rFlIm79kFCxI8E70n3KVDvNHmF7ZXPmGglOO9MMIB2cWkxhr97WIQ/w400-h208/WINTER%20MOONLIGHT%20(004).jpg" width="400" /></a></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i> Winter Moonlight</i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />WHAT IS WRITTEN, WHAT IS REAL<br /><i>—Joyce Odam</i><br /><br />It is first a thought.<br />It becomes a love. It becomes a word.<br /><br />It is a word.<br />It is an utterance. It is a poem.<br /><br />It is a mute utterance.<br />It is read by the eyes. It is read by the mind.<br /><br />It is now the poem.<br />It is now the ash. It is now the wind.<br /><br />___________________<br /><br />WHITE SHADOW OF LONELINESS<br /><i>—Joyce Odam</i><br /><br />Tonight the white shadow of loneliness<br />flows down upon the silent room<br /><br />where someone sits in reminiscence <br />in the quiet hour—<br /><br />something mentioned <br />long ago, or<br /><br />only sits and looks at the white chairs<br />caught in similar emptiness, or<br /> <br />simply drifts away <br />from any meaning.<br /><br />Beam by beam<br />the white shadow stretches <br /><br />into moonlight <br />and the hour thickens.<br /><br />The walls take on the brightness <br />that searches the room for some connection.<br /><br />Tonight, the white shadow of loneliness<br />flows down.<br /><br /><br /><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/11/17; 8/10/21) </span></i><br /><br />_________________<br /><br />WHITE UMBRELLAS IN THE SNOW<br /><i>—Joyce Odam<br />After Kennin-ji Temple, Kyoto, Japan <br />—Photo by Modi Galili</i><br /><br />What kind of winter needs a white umbrella,<br />except for the thrill of snow, <br />silently falling—<br /><br />except <br />for the trail of shoes<br />making long white traces in the snow.<br /><br />Three walkers,<br />costumed blue, appear under <br />the relevance of the white umbrellas.<br /><br />Maybe <br />a dance—a ritual—<br />a planned performance, wrong season.<br /><br />The world is wide—the stage a <br />landscape of pure white distance—the <br />white umbrellas vanishing into more white.<br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/24/20) </span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOsLt-pL5WbXdB1RDHXRQ9M5UPNNEcggdTfSun4yVSy6w9pu0z_u6Ivwf8k1BczvGAANKl4LfhRF_8jMP4XvLjG6Q0F0eHxg0D5Lxd4ix9emGxkyEuiJNl475iFtLg1T5JBGdIuigtlPQrlVdeds_OfrtIzsIk8tzRwUASnvSp5FWdD0S8wvjLnw/s2831/TREE%20LINE%20(018).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2089" data-original-width="2831" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOsLt-pL5WbXdB1RDHXRQ9M5UPNNEcggdTfSun4yVSy6w9pu0z_u6Ivwf8k1BczvGAANKl4LfhRF_8jMP4XvLjG6Q0F0eHxg0D5Lxd4ix9emGxkyEuiJNl475iFtLg1T5JBGdIuigtlPQrlVdeds_OfrtIzsIk8tzRwUASnvSp5FWdD0S8wvjLnw/w400-h295/TREE%20LINE%20(018).JPG" width="400" /></a></div></span></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span>Tree Line</i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />AT THE PERIPHERY<br /><i>—Robin Gale Odam<br />After Edgar Lee Masters’</i> Spoon River<br /><br />I’m certain I was here before—<br />the deep lush of green shade at the<br />periphery, the bouquet at my breast,<br />the perfume—<br /><br />fragile sunlight on my parasol, <br />the earth dry and soft—my gown <br />dusted the blue shadows on the path-<br />way, the dust of the earth. The dust,<br /><br />the marker, the granite bench, the <br />linen kerchief—the bowl of fruit and the <br />plate of bread, the table set for guests. <br />I loved the blue shadows.<br /><br />My mother prayed, she said, for the sorrows.<br />I tried to tell her they are called sparrows—<br /><br />we came to gather at the valley, the one <br />you have to cross alone—not to pass like <br />an arid breeze, but just to dip into the <br />stream, and to die the death into the <br />holy grail. <br /><br />I loved the blue shadows.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZejjxipiZrLWvOFb_7bRzSjuonzETPREN3X-RF8QeC9dIUf26P2Vwl2GQJSXybG8LkIOi0aDEKjHZJ0FzdddZ9hnC-ua7IOt0BXCuu4cirbk7xgSTGk3E3F0VJI-vmvl5RUsReWn5yW1ZcR0Mr2dp7tUYsZiics5PFneSyD4eVi4fZkQsxRfp_Q/s1775/I%20THOUGHT%20IT%20WAS%20A%20DREAM%20(010).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1758" data-original-width="1775" height="396" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZejjxipiZrLWvOFb_7bRzSjuonzETPREN3X-RF8QeC9dIUf26P2Vwl2GQJSXybG8LkIOi0aDEKjHZJ0FzdddZ9hnC-ua7IOt0BXCuu4cirbk7xgSTGk3E3F0VJI-vmvl5RUsReWn5yW1ZcR0Mr2dp7tUYsZiics5PFneSyD4eVi4fZkQsxRfp_Q/w400-h396/I%20THOUGHT%20IT%20WAS%20A%20DREAM%20(010).jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i>I Thought It Was A Dream</i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />UNTETHERED <br /><i>—Robin Gale Odam</i><br /><br />a strand of fragile string in my fingers, <br />the cold moon low in the sky—only a few <br />years have gone by </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-cWViYby70WAp-YYl1ECeiiwZqGmmvzlkLLcRW6_ltnm4CeNBgVTWGSIN6aWnv3EW2VmDq8ACBFb7zNtwueSurfyZ_FGQUSijG7vA9fzXxdoFwSz8_NCHOEVQWdKXh2wOgExwdY7TUKtVzhCf3wUIVN7xqyB_XGTF_ulJbckq9vZhPjCeyLs9sQ/s1791/THE%20EYES%20(053).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1325" data-original-width="1791" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-cWViYby70WAp-YYl1ECeiiwZqGmmvzlkLLcRW6_ltnm4CeNBgVTWGSIN6aWnv3EW2VmDq8ACBFb7zNtwueSurfyZ_FGQUSijG7vA9fzXxdoFwSz8_NCHOEVQWdKXh2wOgExwdY7TUKtVzhCf3wUIVN7xqyB_XGTF_ulJbckq9vZhPjCeyLs9sQ/w400-h296/THE%20EYES%20(053).JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i>The Eyes</i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />WHO IS THIS CHILD <br /><i>—Joyce Odam</i><br /><br />Who is this child of the haunted eyes <br />hidden beyond the look. <br /><br />If I should enter <br />such eyes, what would I know. <br /><br />I cannot be mother to this child, <br />he is already too old—<br /><br />years are mirrors, the haunted eyes <br />already formed. <br /><br />Dark tears swim, <br />waiting to burn. <br /><br />What can I do <br />but look past the burning eyes—<br /><br />no book of love <br />to read there. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0PfqQZi5zkeDmJAhyk-Bk1w7_rehc4WJl6hbZQ-jviBLVNcRFpPESQXJ2zt-IA2gjamdK0asAsev6XsOsTsuorN_h9OEe4zQa2agFFfLNv2LwwiQ62Is7js_gZJyygxT8jEinJsuf5r3DBVMWhS0CxPA-nkyh1s9SIl1tG-DN0YK365Lmte1z5g/s981/THE%20CALLING%20(011).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="604" data-original-width="981" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0PfqQZi5zkeDmJAhyk-Bk1w7_rehc4WJl6hbZQ-jviBLVNcRFpPESQXJ2zt-IA2gjamdK0asAsev6XsOsTsuorN_h9OEe4zQa2agFFfLNv2LwwiQ62Is7js_gZJyygxT8jEinJsuf5r3DBVMWhS0CxPA-nkyh1s9SIl1tG-DN0YK365Lmte1z5g/w400-h246/THE%20CALLING%20(011).JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i>The Calling</i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />WINTER SOLILOQUY<br /><i>—Joyce Odam</i><br /><br />What is left but the terrible ash <br />sifting on gray air . . . <br /><br />I feel a twinge of emotion, unnamed <br />and unremembered. Where does it center? <br /><br />I track the season by its loss, knowing <br />it goes too fast. The season slips by, and I <br /><br />am left in its slow wake as if I did not <br />belong here, questioning, and lingering. <br /><br />What is life that I carry it in me so singularly, <br />praising it, and damning it. <br /><br />I mourn the mystery of myself, <br />unfinished, and unsorted. <br /><br />I feel like an unfolding, <br />but I cannot open, and I cannot close. <br /><br />The sight of a single resting heron<br />leaves me with such a mourning. <br /><br /><br /><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/11/22) </span></i><br /><br />___________________<br /><br />WIDOW DANCE<br /><i>—Joyce Odam</i><br /><br />Precarious, <br />on the high wall,<br />the low sun<br />blazing the stones <br />to fiery shadow,<br />loneliness <br />will not have her;<br />even the moon <br />must leave her there, <br />not knowing why <br />she grieves <br />or for how long<br />or with what loyalties <br />due to widows; her cries <br />are the harsh cries <br />of stolen time.<br />Her dance <br />is sacrificial;<br />she dances till <br />the hem of her dress<br />is thoroughly ruined and<br />the evening crows fluster around her.<br /><br /> <br /><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/17/15)</span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwq-HB1nhpR2XZndu4ovql5-PBjbNEHhiMNDVrdhnSIe8n-5cJVfb6LLubUC9A6gT79BMxUw0czQdXQ4NSKQ_k99YX4U8QEu8CI7j-K4Yhc7BAP6mto0xfzimHWeRoJFovJ-TLpPVpITGWokKfom9IOYyhyphenhyphenYXs-h6A6ISn-iuJzqoD1AZ39-6n0w/s3648/THE%20WAY%20HOME%20(062).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="2736" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwq-HB1nhpR2XZndu4ovql5-PBjbNEHhiMNDVrdhnSIe8n-5cJVfb6LLubUC9A6gT79BMxUw0czQdXQ4NSKQ_k99YX4U8QEu8CI7j-K4Yhc7BAP6mto0xfzimHWeRoJFovJ-TLpPVpITGWokKfom9IOYyhyphenhyphenYXs-h6A6ISn-iuJzqoD1AZ39-6n0w/w300-h400/THE%20WAY%20HOME%20(062).JPG" width="300" /></a></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i> The Way Home</i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />WINDOW AND SEA<br /><i>—Joyce Odam </i><br /><br />And the tides—as they pull again <br />at the moon’s urging <br />and the earth’s response, <br /><br />the slow motion of time, <br />the gray window that lets in light, <br />yet holds the darkness. <br /><br />Such is the compromise : <br />subtleties of shadow, <br />the way the cold walls shift, <br /><br />or seem to. <br />How near the sea—<br />the old admonishing sea, <br /><br />claiming what it claims, <br />whispering, <br />come near . . . stay back . . . <br /><br />And the sea breathes in and out <br />with its glimmers of sunlight—<br />the sea’s reflection. <br /><br />And the tiny window <br />glints out over the bay <br />and the day fills with strangers <br /><br />changing the mood and rhythm <br />between window and sea <br />and breaking the connection. <br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/19/16) </span><br /><br />_____________________<br /><br /><b>Today’s LittleNip:</b><br /><br />WRUNG<br />—Joyce Odam<br /><br />your cry<br />on the soft darkness<br /><br />your tears<br />in a tight handkerchief<br /><br />making the rain<br />such sorrow<br /><br /> <br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">(prev. pub. in </span></i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Paisley Moon,</span><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> Winter 1991 <br />and Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/10/19) </span><br /><br />_____________________<br /><br />Our thanks to <span style="color: red;">Joyce Odam</span> and <span style="color: red;">Robin Gale Odam</span> for today’s fine, wintery poetry and photos! <b>Our new Seed of the Week is “Jewels”. </b>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 <b>Form Fiddlers’ Friday</b> for poetry form challenges, including those of the <b>Ekphrastic</b> type.<br /><br />_____________________<br /><br />—Medusa</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhThd5_AVhdCzYWThKRJyqOP-_sWQdlA-fQOACVVr2d3b6xmDayPYyGR9vSBzq6SfhqRhlQBPwKy5aFXfHymmTgtbapcoeMSoaHnD90FyeCLLK2MU-Z5ug9V0NGne58-VuAH1DNiP3PUze7UlyLYWfeKobiJuiKF5SSE4iDHYFzfMbQu7uJj93Ew/s337/catnap:bks%20kk.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="259" data-original-width="337" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhThd5_AVhdCzYWThKRJyqOP-_sWQdlA-fQOACVVr2d3b6xmDayPYyGR9vSBzq6SfhqRhlQBPwKy5aFXfHymmTgtbapcoeMSoaHnD90FyeCLLK2MU-Z5ug9V0NGne58-VuAH1DNiP3PUze7UlyLYWfeKobiJuiKF5SSE4iDHYFzfMbQu7uJj93Ew/w400-h308/catnap:bks%20kk.png" width="400" /></a></div></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain<br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /><br /> </i></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>A reminder that <span style="color: red;">Mario Ellis Hill,<br />Ann Michaels, </span>and<span style="color: red;"> Frank Graham</span><br />will be reading at <b>Twin Lotus Thai</b><br />in Sacramento tonight, 6pm—<br />reservations strongly advised!<br />For info about this and other<br />future poetry happenings in <br />Northern California and otherwheres, <br />click on<br /><b>UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS</b><br />(<a href="http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html">http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html</a>)<br />in the links at the top of this page—<br />and keep an eye on this link and on<br />the daily Kitchen for happenings <br />that might pop up<br />—or get changed!—<br /> during the week.<br /><br />Photos in this column can be enlarged by <br />clicking on them once, then clicking on the x <br />in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.<br /><br />Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down<br />under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button<br />at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets <br />by typing the name of the poet or poem<br /> into the little beige box at the top <br />left-hand side of today’s post; or go to <br />Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of <br />the blue column at the right<br /> to find the date you want.<br /><br />Would you like to be a SnakePal? <br />Guidelines are at the top of this page<br />at the Placating the Gorgon link;<br />send poetry and/or photos and artwork<br />to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post<br />work from all over the world—including<br />that which was previously published—<br />and collaborations are welcome. <br />Just remember:<br />the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>for poetry, of course!<br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihZadoOYzRljBKcR7Q70RJyEBxOeCHzX-vzrDkVbNC0ecOdL4kc_92tAB24873hqgMcerac7ll1GZZBAJYaRt2_yI8N0N0uc30-PugyK_aLQTXjYbfRMZBWxvzzdAkJLsCw-Tnk-TBc-5uuvmdfWFib8iTmEcMGp-SRVn1_h334FOK5KtRdc5itA/s269/coat:pearl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="269" data-original-width="187" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihZadoOYzRljBKcR7Q70RJyEBxOeCHzX-vzrDkVbNC0ecOdL4kc_92tAB24873hqgMcerac7ll1GZZBAJYaRt2_yI8N0N0uc30-PugyK_aLQTXjYbfRMZBWxvzzdAkJLsCw-Tnk-TBc-5uuvmdfWFib8iTmEcMGp-SRVn1_h334FOK5KtRdc5itA/w139-h200/coat:pearl.jpg" width="139" /></a></div><br /> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /><br /><br /><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div>Kathy Kieth, Wrangler-in-Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11925893540872899117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13262320.post-80917086874332489502024-02-26T08:36:00.000-08:002024-02-26T08:39:07.196-08:00Mooning For Springtime<div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq7ok3Tqo6NvVpAE7xT7muOAs0H0xD0ppUBZmTONQrwE7tL4Sz8XaRJmJFixTd2kGClr_KbwZpM04gUJsJ_i51B26GschcqwOhVnblJj1Ys-wdokTpbEdcqcl6XLdxzeeYUF3qAMbGuNn38lb0hoRMSBiB7EI24lDC49uY8Qr3JbXBVxeqkJy-Bg/s565/good%20mrng%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="565" data-original-width="464" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq7ok3Tqo6NvVpAE7xT7muOAs0H0xD0ppUBZmTONQrwE7tL4Sz8XaRJmJFixTd2kGClr_KbwZpM04gUJsJ_i51B26GschcqwOhVnblJj1Ys-wdokTpbEdcqcl6XLdxzeeYUF3qAMbGuNn38lb0hoRMSBiB7EI24lDC49uY8Qr3JbXBVxeqkJy-Bg/w329-h400/good%20mrng%20jn.png" width="329" /></a></div><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joe Nolan</span><br /><br />* * * <br /><br />—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Dawn Pisturino,<br />Stephen Kingsnorth, Caschwa, <br />Shiva Neupane, Sayanı Mukherjee, <br />and Joe Nolan<br />—Photos by Dawn Pisturino, Caschwa,<br />and Shiva Neupane</i><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: left;">WINTER MOONLIGHT WITH NO COMPASS<br /><i>—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY</i><br /><br />I thought it was impossible <br />to survive his death<br />until I did. I still survive,<br />although his eyes, his smiles,<br />are winter moonlit forest paths <br />erased by leaves and wind<br />I follow in my sleep.<br />No boots or coat to keep <br />me warm from snow and chill.<br />The paths lead me in circles,<br />past landmarks I remember<br />then forget and yet<br />I know I’ve been this way before,<br />and I’ll come back.<br />And back.<br />And back.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2BEAL9TJWVVv-iWq-yptudT9K4zvXWlPIG0PF2ePWrPyVLwCAI0e5G0iyHzv9xYL9vJhVOjNTfgDNFmSQOmmGGzqngd6GuoyUkRabZjkEBulq360kZ4iFchZn_4NaYoiBsc-JvybLg4I-PKjsxuM27OIId5YnPJDuoIzg_QTofjsXESKxYRnawA/s420/dawn%20pisturino.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="280" data-original-width="420" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2BEAL9TJWVVv-iWq-yptudT9K4zvXWlPIG0PF2ePWrPyVLwCAI0e5G0iyHzv9xYL9vJhVOjNTfgDNFmSQOmmGGzqngd6GuoyUkRabZjkEBulq360kZ4iFchZn_4NaYoiBsc-JvybLg4I-PKjsxuM27OIId5YnPJDuoIzg_QTofjsXESKxYRnawA/w400-h266/dawn%20pisturino.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i>Dawn Pisturino</i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i><br /><br />FIVE MOON HAIKU<br /><i>—Dawn Pisturino, Golden Valley, AZ</i><br /><br /><b>Samurai</b><br /><br />samurai practice<br />underneath large golden moon<br />bamboo flute playing<br /><br />* * *<br /><br /><b>Fancy Dress</b><br /><br />gazing soulfully<br />at the moon in fancy dress<br />deep meditation<br /><br />* * *<br /><br /><b>Snow Moon</b><br /><br />the full moon rises<br />with supernatural glow<br />reflecting on snow<br /><br />* * *<br /><br /><b>Healing</b><br /><br />mooncakes and water<br />capture moonlight’s silver rays<br />powerful healing<br /><br />* * *<br /><br /><b>Moon Festival</b><br /><br />moon festival comes<br />gazers flock to open fields<br />and watch the moonrise</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg36REYfRwVFPgtSgkRlwc7KBuDhiEcLOfpZ8q4wbpX8o3a16erINdGk2phYW6uWub-bmVipQTAb-7KuHaoKzOrVDDiFSOo2pKb2RzAbUbnPwjRXmL9Z96KJW0hVVDVfQN2n2AYRC1Xpd-Aha7sZriIIEcsbKsU9t4KkdkSNhd-DgLIEXcuw7H3Mw/s1920/dawn%20moon%20pic.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1920" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg36REYfRwVFPgtSgkRlwc7KBuDhiEcLOfpZ8q4wbpX8o3a16erINdGk2phYW6uWub-bmVipQTAb-7KuHaoKzOrVDDiFSOo2pKb2RzAbUbnPwjRXmL9Z96KJW0hVVDVfQN2n2AYRC1Xpd-Aha7sZriIIEcsbKsU9t4KkdkSNhd-DgLIEXcuw7H3Mw/w400-h266/dawn%20moon%20pic.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i><span style="font-size: x-small;">—Photo by Dawn Pisturino</span></i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />MOONSHINE<br /><i>—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales</i><br /><br />Moonlighting, black economy, <br />it’s on the dark side where there’s work, <br />so is it nighttime, gains the name, <br />or does the lunar hide from sight? <br />It’s off the books, no questions asked, <br />under the table, cash in hand, <br />black market, not in sales but jobs, <br /><br />It’s summer norm, on building sites, <br />in spring, grant ending, balance spend, <br />then autumn when the fairs close down, <br />and winter with tears, moonshine drunk. <br />A redshift marks expanding stars, <br />though Before Yule, and Long Nights, Cold, <br />are names of full moons as year turns. <br /><br />Here’s latest operation code, <br />without connection to its rôle, <br />as crosswords puzzlers, pub quiz teams, <br />and gossip columnists at work <br />debate the meaning of the words— <br />sonata playing to the trill— <br />as tidal pull of secrets calls. <br /><br />Do agents plotting in the shade, <br />ghost friction writers fanning flames, <br />now in this season, discontent, <br />lay out deceptions, frozen waste? <br />The sky’s clear, ‘Winter Moonlight’ op., <br />when silver tingles, shiver light, <br />but midnight asks what’s going on. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBqrfV69DaSqiARUP77a20_zgQIrFk0tfgIF4PEcJGhgxf2eX6qW51z9lDp3jm2lUhoimyrd6QJ85dYELzpU-Lm_CtQ2kDkbGx-2ySmcB4FDVDgL4uYqyKR_jtvzxD-GzS9dNsOthSMe5y7ZLD8RrkNEH9wSUliGpcH_F30zE9zNUHw_lmAFILrQ/s525/suburban%20panther%20kk.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="339" data-original-width="525" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBqrfV69DaSqiARUP77a20_zgQIrFk0tfgIF4PEcJGhgxf2eX6qW51z9lDp3jm2lUhoimyrd6QJ85dYELzpU-Lm_CtQ2kDkbGx-2ySmcB4FDVDgL4uYqyKR_jtvzxD-GzS9dNsOthSMe5y7ZLD8RrkNEH9wSUliGpcH_F30zE9zNUHw_lmAFILrQ/w400-h259/suburban%20panther%20kk.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> Suburban Panther</span></i><br /><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan</span></i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />A PERFECT WORLD<br /><i>—Stephen Kingsnorth<br />After “A Perfect World” by Joe Nolan, MK, 2/19/24</i><br /><br />She could have made, imperfect world <br />In which we’d all agree, <br />In which we’d all be happy, <br />In which we’d all be free, <br />Automatons, lone DNA, <br />Without a choice, <br />To love or hate, <br />A programmed mind, <br />pre-printed card for Valentine, <br />But instead, <br /><br />She made a world, <br />Her choice and ours, <br />Where we enslave and disagree, <br />With wars and fears <br />And pain and tears, <br />But love and care, where we choose so. <br />Can love be true, set by decree, <br />or only if not so, possibility? <br />But ours is sure to question why, <br />And reckon path, like Son to die, <br />Painfully, for that was choice, <br />Both hers, and His and ours to be, <br />For loving’s costly, worth shown so. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTUcG3SHYFVitqvCLz-A98aynEchekIo9e5_NthSvPs-Crih5ujMmGFLteHixuf9F1ecM-KK4TgRuLV6YON6emZcTw75hY-Xa8mEuuMZ8N7vDMpl4-T6lCnxwOfWSsXooFxwD9_qytkc2GA0z3G61ip121GjxbRGoyDGn1YA5LeSEyLR4Xor2gyw/s716/purple%20night%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="716" data-original-width="608" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTUcG3SHYFVitqvCLz-A98aynEchekIo9e5_NthSvPs-Crih5ujMmGFLteHixuf9F1ecM-KK4TgRuLV6YON6emZcTw75hY-Xa8mEuuMZ8N7vDMpl4-T6lCnxwOfWSsXooFxwD9_qytkc2GA0z3G61ip121GjxbRGoyDGn1YA5LeSEyLR4Xor2gyw/w340-h400/purple%20night%20jn.png" width="340" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> <span style="font-size: x-small;">—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan</span></i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />MOONY WINTERLIGHT <br /><i>—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA </i><br /><br />burns through the windows <br />like a goony birthright <br />claiming all in its path <br />denouncing rules and laws <br /><br />shiny orb, connected to L.L.C. <br />narrow outlook, sparrow to cook <br />sweet habit, cockamamie orbit <br />imitating mainly worms and bees <br /><br />captures the eyes, then forsakes <br />the tender scalp for rising snakes <br />piles of high-numbered scrabble <br />pieces police the geese for a fee <br /><br />is there no end to globe circling art? <br />who holds the snow globe we share? <br />the call of the ball, to hear a sphere <br />“a stage where every man must play a part”</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0FJlA64cLwP2byMzRg5yMv2owKJ-W3GLioirDvIE_p-N0fFCg55_Yl2QVEo1p_FzheGJ2GUadDEkryoLo30SFePL1rPzi4-46naiZNH-2Myj0pxkeDuJEwhJIxdFTlTmeHsm-rxjod5bMTUwN-RC7oGxW7M5fMuPB_-7aAh86vsdrBJSIWvsNkQ/s813/whale:wave%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="813" data-original-width="651" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0FJlA64cLwP2byMzRg5yMv2owKJ-W3GLioirDvIE_p-N0fFCg55_Yl2QVEo1p_FzheGJ2GUadDEkryoLo30SFePL1rPzi4-46naiZNH-2Myj0pxkeDuJEwhJIxdFTlTmeHsm-rxjod5bMTUwN-RC7oGxW7M5fMuPB_-7aAh86vsdrBJSIWvsNkQ/w320-h400/whale:wave%20jn.png" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan</i></span></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />BEGINNER’S LUCK <br /><i>—Caschwa </i><br /><br />in Southern California, early in the <br />cold morning old fishermen gather <br />at the end of the pier and set up <br />their gear for the day <br /><br />one by one they cast a baited line <br />into the water and hope to get a <br />response; they know all the tricks, <br />or so they’d tell me, and with nothing <br />yet on their hook, I was their captive <br />audience <br /><br />and so I, a newcomer, cast my line and <br />got a bite! in an instant, I was showered <br />with all manner of suggestions, don’t tug <br />too fast, work the line, trust me, don’t <br />listen to them, you need a lucky charm or <br />dance, etc., etc. <br /><br />ultimately I reeled in a 10 lb. King Salmon, <br />teasingly small, opined my friend from <br />Alaska, but a hearty family dinner on the <br />grill at home </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEDhYsXW_ChpBObb9rdVqi0PbXh-mHhnojnQnQ0dy_ZW_uBCGbLXX9OkhsDpFyGnOm6eusGfk1u_R5nN_qFxYMP3f-RQgGbNVKi26iOl6UXyk4WQcWmtl98yBs1i7gVOhVBWCgqm_UmtGI0np5F-JNCtxhBmYplubWtk3nZQBwZCUtOTXxuZ5Okw/s400/bark%20CS.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="400" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEDhYsXW_ChpBObb9rdVqi0PbXh-mHhnojnQnQ0dy_ZW_uBCGbLXX9OkhsDpFyGnOm6eusGfk1u_R5nN_qFxYMP3f-RQgGbNVKi26iOl6UXyk4WQcWmtl98yBs1i7gVOhVBWCgqm_UmtGI0np5F-JNCtxhBmYplubWtk3nZQBwZCUtOTXxuZ5Okw/w400-h300/bark%20CS.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i><span style="font-size: x-small;">—Photo by Caschwa</span></i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />WAVY VIEWS <br /><i>—Caschwa </i><br /><br />peering out the back window <br />moderate winds massage a <br />mature apricot tree that my son <br />had planted from bare root <br /><br />the same winds brush against <br />a neighbor’s oak tree, and its <br />leaves do a different dance <br /><br />high and away from the trees <br />are various cloud formations in <br />constant motion, their outlines <br />at once map personification and <br />just as abruptly kaleidoscope <br />into confetti explosions</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHfc4ZNGNlyzS74a3SUdlu3Gjax-QGCMTDfg1WTkOAAWR9iyMosxp45c4mpjqor77pThVKKNi-Tv4ajfwEmAmPk9zHf8VT4i4yTQc2Z8BIjnVb4qwxBYwWCteih7EtmeuLTPqgwtAc-XGtCX3IKhp5amvx8L7-XDeZ2xdpjOHy9lFk_wCM15-Keg/s1518/shiva%20w:python.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1518" data-original-width="1046" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHfc4ZNGNlyzS74a3SUdlu3Gjax-QGCMTDfg1WTkOAAWR9iyMosxp45c4mpjqor77pThVKKNi-Tv4ajfwEmAmPk9zHf8VT4i4yTQc2Z8BIjnVb4qwxBYwWCteih7EtmeuLTPqgwtAc-XGtCX3IKhp5amvx8L7-XDeZ2xdpjOHy9lFk_wCM15-Keg/w276-h400/shiva%20w:python.jpg" width="276" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Shiva with Python</i><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">PYTHON AND ME<br /><i>—Shiva Neupane, Melbourne, Australia</i><br /><br />The python slithered along <br />My neck.<br />It gave me an adrenaline rush.<br />The leathery wet-like skin rubbed<br />My neck. <br />I felt sensationally amazed <br />At being its amicable friend. <br />There is so much to learn <br />About its instinctual betrayal <br />When it gets hurt and threatened<br />By its surroundings. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9cQxe7HidGHpHcmrAPpBKr6DCMruTJMDvbeVGfVzkBohecNfHiPBLFRB4qGTtYbxG0YRY9iYwREtM19YFe9I0EvXklbP80lotNhCe4XIkeIdJMz7gVlLIM6yfJbctuifRxuoUZ7v8cSuGxLwYaOcY1n0_ceUvYRg4uCG-xZIHZcetMKqrY87Lhw/s705/woman:mirror%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="705" data-original-width="564" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9cQxe7HidGHpHcmrAPpBKr6DCMruTJMDvbeVGfVzkBohecNfHiPBLFRB4qGTtYbxG0YRY9iYwREtM19YFe9I0EvXklbP80lotNhCe4XIkeIdJMz7gVlLIM6yfJbctuifRxuoUZ7v8cSuGxLwYaOcY1n0_ceUvYRg4uCG-xZIHZcetMKqrY87Lhw/w320-h400/woman:mirror%20jn.png" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i><span style="font-size: x-small;">—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan</span></i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />HALT<br /><i>—Sayani Mukherjee, <br />Chandannagar, W. Bengal, India</i><br /><br />A symphony of noon dew song <br />A cavernous inspiration <br />A tulle skirt, a picfair in display <br />Swirling motion in amorphous zeal <br />Born and broken in a Cavendish heart <br />I lost my numbers in a while <br />Play folios on rent <br />I pictured a sumptuous scorn <br />Mere wordplay of vivid illusions <br />Time's lost unbidden voice <br />She strummed through <br />A magical labyrinth of airy valve <br />Before it came a burning halt <br />As it happens in a symphony song. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKD2qFJy-gTqfb5VNXJl3c6ntZXGy__P3vNlnAL-O-kHQzDY_nA-UcfEg9QQDRTaqgiHv-IOIQFXtPWiDLdZsda0uQjKOLLT3FENUi2f4mSIqnoGp-4vIS3ZObVXlO7MPtAlxEWIhzZfB5uxFnz6j_BvPXQqGgi90UG0x2Ce3-13Qtl2sMPxjM1Q/s461/karma%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="461" data-original-width="461" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKD2qFJy-gTqfb5VNXJl3c6ntZXGy__P3vNlnAL-O-kHQzDY_nA-UcfEg9QQDRTaqgiHv-IOIQFXtPWiDLdZsda0uQjKOLLT3FENUi2f4mSIqnoGp-4vIS3ZObVXlO7MPtAlxEWIhzZfB5uxFnz6j_BvPXQqGgi90UG0x2Ce3-13Qtl2sMPxjM1Q/w400-h400/karma%20jn.png" width="400" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan</span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">[typo is not our fault here at MK!] <br /></span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />LIFE IS STRANGE AND KARMA, CRAZY<br /><i>—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA</i><br /><br />Life is strange.<br />Karma, crazy.<br />Wisdom,<br />Often lazy,<br />When it comes<br />To scraping up<br />The dross.<br /><br />Obedience,<br />Resists commands<br />When it’s left <br />To dictators’ demands,<br />From foreign kings—<br /><br />Execrable offerings,<br />From the damned,<br />Who promise wealth,<br />When they plan<br />To steal<br />Your bottom dollar.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqyaeBqeqhnLUCkA-jiDnlZCZ7J3yNVnDqpBRt9_vvgevngXnU8tyZV1EaUlVvculxcxwUCDEp8znuAI7KPEnXHfzAcW_80hwAi6ojwNTZdRQCHYQMaA6BVGsCuxMs_NrvbAW5h1_s46f6jkh7M1-J_zy_PIpnSNygMiTsiD9uHNen-NjyYCmaVw/s640/dinos%20bldg%20pyramids%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="555" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqyaeBqeqhnLUCkA-jiDnlZCZ7J3yNVnDqpBRt9_vvgevngXnU8tyZV1EaUlVvculxcxwUCDEp8znuAI7KPEnXHfzAcW_80hwAi6ojwNTZdRQCHYQMaA6BVGsCuxMs_NrvbAW5h1_s46f6jkh7M1-J_zy_PIpnSNygMiTsiD9uHNen-NjyYCmaVw/w348-h400/dinos%20bldg%20pyramids%20jn.png" width="348" /></a> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan</span></i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />SCIENTISM VERSUS EXPERIENCE<br /><i>—Joe Nolan</i><br /> <br />Someone must have told you<br />What was real and what was not,<br />What exists and what does not,<br />As a metaphysical exposition <br />Of Scientism,<br />As though they had a lock on reality<br />And all those who differed<br />In what they experienced<br />Were mentally ill.<br /><br />It’s the politics of experience<br />That clobbered R. D. Laing—<br />Defining experiential deviants<br />As insane–<br />Suffering from deficiencies<br />Of certain chemicals<br />In their brains,<br />Potentially offset <br />With major doses of lithium<br />Or other, mind-altering drugs.<br /><br />But there was magic<br />Before there was science,<br />Music, beat out with drums<br />To induce a state of trance<br />While everyone got up to dance.<br /><br />The advent of scientism<br />Has failed to make a cure<br />For the wisdom of experience—<br />Transcendent landscapes, pure. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9XMeFALFwXytupdXJGpA3M-rV9T56sCGcbrmJdSORNpPeRvxAgWAKtnnW7BMQ7uwbYrFx7cORjYEj8oQ8-qBBsC-UVtw0-VWEhiYrNLvB3lL6BXbzo93E5QFRLd2mpIepf6MG-lwqKFntb158ZKqIdYjI8VLVNf-oMPbgaYRK5y_JcDPU4Y3jBw/s640/blk%20kitten%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="470" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9XMeFALFwXytupdXJGpA3M-rV9T56sCGcbrmJdSORNpPeRvxAgWAKtnnW7BMQ7uwbYrFx7cORjYEj8oQ8-qBBsC-UVtw0-VWEhiYrNLvB3lL6BXbzo93E5QFRLd2mpIepf6MG-lwqKFntb158ZKqIdYjI8VLVNf-oMPbgaYRK5y_JcDPU4Y3jBw/w294-h400/blk%20kitten%20jn.png" width="294" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan</span></i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />SHAMANISM<br /><i>—Joe Nolan</i><br /><br />Smoke, incense, vapors<br />To bring us into trance<br />To summon outer spirits<br />Into our shaman dance<br /><br />There is more than<br />We know or <br />Care to know,<br />More than we could handle<br />Day to day.<br />Who will watch our children<br />While we play?<br /><br />To touch the <br />Outer garment of a hem,<br />Plunging inward<br />Through the mists of mayhem<br />That jumble up the mind<br />To let the spirits in,<br />Together <br />To dance in trance. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBpq6IATk9gQluO8nWABQLDwg4E9bW-D7umSYo0nd19_-PbbrqizmOQBMgzMcHiCT00MhsJ2FhEHeEwJiseo-Ep3mmMHOGONwilInOfcWLkJ2Va5u3Av3eDlylR9BJXRCnPzAYKkgrmRpFsJU0EWvkBjYFNWRTL9kVuHq9Vv9wzw0FTfrv7MpIEg/s640/sheep:snow%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="620" data-original-width="640" height="388" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBpq6IATk9gQluO8nWABQLDwg4E9bW-D7umSYo0nd19_-PbbrqizmOQBMgzMcHiCT00MhsJ2FhEHeEwJiseo-Ep3mmMHOGONwilInOfcWLkJ2Va5u3Av3eDlylR9BJXRCnPzAYKkgrmRpFsJU0EWvkBjYFNWRTL9kVuHq9Vv9wzw0FTfrv7MpIEg/w400-h388/sheep:snow%20jn.png" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan</span></i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />A NEW IDEA<br /><i>—Joe Nolan</i><br /><br />It’s a new idea<br />That’s yet to find its reign<br />Inside our culture,<br />Inside our brains.<br /><br />It’s hard to push in edgewise,<br />Since something new can hurt,<br />Since it’s unfamiliar,<br />Like living in a yurt,<br /><br />Outside, in winter, <br />When the snow is deep<br />Somewhere in Mongolia<br />Where temperature-drops are steep,<br /><br />And the sons and daughters<br />Of Genghis Khan<br />Raise sheep,<br />Whose wool is so warm,<br />Because it’s so cold.<br /><br />But when a new idea<br />Has taken root in Fall,<br />Before an avalanche of snow <br />Has covered all,<br />Spring will bring its outburst,<br />Surprising one and all—<br />That life is for living and <br />Families for forgiving. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtY2P1oZ-7ZF-NjzlIKBspMrOx9QfDgG1YlCRSwqfw-XdAVre63WSYxgBuuMFJWF0O3qHzUwtnK3STEEFPaoca0namU686hyphenhyphensbMA4pRnpaXTNG87ObtYAqIwjPJEmrWQIbUIZkXQYmF7X85LYME2u8N7fGLXW94w1oJJx5fiQ6R8_5SPtJvnVmtQ/s672/dog%20pals%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="672" data-original-width="549" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtY2P1oZ-7ZF-NjzlIKBspMrOx9QfDgG1YlCRSwqfw-XdAVre63WSYxgBuuMFJWF0O3qHzUwtnK3STEEFPaoca0namU686hyphenhyphensbMA4pRnpaXTNG87ObtYAqIwjPJEmrWQIbUIZkXQYmF7X85LYME2u8N7fGLXW94w1oJJx5fiQ6R8_5SPtJvnVmtQ/w326-h400/dog%20pals%20jn.png" width="326" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan</span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /><b>Today’s LittleNip:</b><br /><br />DARE I SAY THIS <br />—Caschwa<br /><br />never had a dog, Spot <br />forever had a bald spot <br />all my cars had a blind spot <br />which was easier to spot <br />than an open parking spot<br /><br />__________________<br /><br />Lots going on in the Kitchen today—snakes and whales and puppy-dog tails—not to mention sheep—and some responses to our Seed of the Week, Winter Moonlight. (Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.) Our thanks to our contributors for their lively input this morning. I guess I’ll participate in this Monday...</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>As for the typo in the public domain karma visual—I'll go to my grave changing it's to its and vice versa, even for some poets who should know better. I won't live to see it, but it seems clear that apostrophes will be toast within a few decades. </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br />__________________<br /><br />—Medusa</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKO-vx5pnJqzS9_6gcKr7r5UHeUeGYy4GHZXfTVAD4QNLvReI7i2kUdSo0JEDrGvSjRYHEDhuGCHeGRyBJKjojT0KRMNmM16qrbr9xmwiIEN56xAyYcsVHC3hyphenhyphenT7nSpfUPwMR70-4HucVFWRWLHxZiP4se1ocZX62Yhs5xsI5ZVcYYe7GU8my2-g/s760/dog:car%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="760" data-original-width="570" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKO-vx5pnJqzS9_6gcKr7r5UHeUeGYy4GHZXfTVAD4QNLvReI7i2kUdSo0JEDrGvSjRYHEDhuGCHeGRyBJKjojT0KRMNmM16qrbr9xmwiIEN56xAyYcsVHC3hyphenhyphenT7nSpfUPwMR70-4HucVFWRWLHxZiP4se1ocZX62Yhs5xsI5ZVcYYe7GU8my2-g/w300-h400/dog:car%20jn.png" width="300" /></a></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i> —Public Domain Photo Courtesy </i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>of Joe Nolan</i></span><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>A reminder that</i><br /><i><span style="color: red;">Dr. Jeremy D. Green</span> will present</i><br /><i>an evening of poetry and stories</i><br /><i>at <b>Sacramento Poetry Center tonight.</b></i><br /><i>For info about this and other</i><br /><i>future poetry happenings in </i><br /><i>Northern California and otherwheres, </i><br /><i>click on</i><br /><i><b>UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS</b></i><br /><i>(<a href="http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html">http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html</a>)</i><br /><i>in the links at the top of this page—</i><br /><i>and keep an eye on this link and on</i><br /><i>the daily Kitchen for happenings </i><br /><i>that might pop up</i><br /><i>—or get changed!—</i><br /><i> during the week.</i><br /><br /><i>Photos in this column can be enlarged by </i><br /><i>clicking on them once, then clicking on the x </i><br /><i>in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.</i><br /><br /><i>Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down</i><br /><i>under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button</i><br /><i>at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets </i><br /><i>by typing the name of the poet or poem</i><br /><i> into the little beige box at the top </i><br /><i>left-hand side of today’s post; or go to </i><br /><i>Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of </i><br /><i>the blue column at the right</i><br /><i> to find the date you want.</i><br /><br /><i>Would you like to be a SnakePal? </i><br /><i>Guidelines are at the top of this page</i><br /><i>at the Placating the Gorgon link;</i><br /><i>send poetry and/or photos and artwork</i><br /><i>to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post</i><br /><i>work from all over the world—including</i><br /><i>that which was previously published—</i><br /><i>and collaborations are welcome. </i><br /><i>Just remember:</i><br /><i>the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—</i><br /><i>for poetry, of course!</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRLIb2WX_kCSW3mT5fIqgTv_ODQ8GMJge_H5S2o5QX-7DeyigrNHXdmPUjRVNGlKWjPnsa0aNgDwZ6ADTvVMVTwsN0QVF0SgoV0UeWumKN20jCnRQM5k_e7AJ3emMoIPRDJDZm9z2UOaFhZw-315onYIczInKsfCXD4FsNqdRH-7k9HBHjmsD_uQ/s225/bundled:coffee.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRLIb2WX_kCSW3mT5fIqgTv_ODQ8GMJge_H5S2o5QX-7DeyigrNHXdmPUjRVNGlKWjPnsa0aNgDwZ6ADTvVMVTwsN0QVF0SgoV0UeWumKN20jCnRQM5k_e7AJ3emMoIPRDJDZm9z2UOaFhZw-315onYIczInKsfCXD4FsNqdRH-7k9HBHjmsD_uQ/w200-h200/bundled:coffee.jpg" width="200" /></a></div></i><i>Is it Springtime yet?</i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div><br /></div></div></div>Kathy Kieth, Wrangler-in-Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11925893540872899117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13262320.post-2841748938633351552024-02-25T08:34:00.000-08:002024-02-25T08:34:39.922-08:00Levitating<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiymFY2Q-cSimtlY1vawZ9hahqUWgIgJcjxxvW54lPl80RgGFia_Sw0BJTp1AdrQcQOTYW5tD6JUcysIYt2A7HwtBu_iRuvys8MQovI9gyZS4vdWqr7qBOMbj1L9fuk_Ah5rMjtlayarVVv_cb3gZ7ccw-obFHnksGHhlJ9_S_-djSnnON7jj50-g/s747/horses.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="631" data-original-width="747" height="338" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiymFY2Q-cSimtlY1vawZ9hahqUWgIgJcjxxvW54lPl80RgGFia_Sw0BJTp1AdrQcQOTYW5tD6JUcysIYt2A7HwtBu_iRuvys8MQovI9gyZS4vdWqr7qBOMbj1L9fuk_Ah5rMjtlayarVVv_cb3gZ7ccw-obFHnksGHhlJ9_S_-djSnnON7jj50-g/w400-h338/horses.png" width="400" /></a></div><i> —Poetry by Ian Copestick, Stoke-on-Trent, England<br />—Artwork Courtesy of Public Domain </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">HORSE RACING<br /><br />I was walking my dog<br />last week.<br /><br />She likes watching the<br />horses in a field<br />on our route.<br /><br />So do I.<br /><br />Two horses, I think<br />they're mother and child, <br /><br />Were racing each other<br />around the pretty big<br />field.<br /><br />Really galloping.<br />But just for the sheer<br />fun of it.<br /><br />It warmed this<br />cold bitter heart<br />for a while<br />at least.<br /><br />It was beautiful. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6zE5Dsqx5af4NWw5jk906TE4227ZEsFaN9stwxhLqY8kI3NS8C3gpjVM7rCFbyWdns-HyPRTYj8v4iqF9FhmQXydMp5eg0mEFSLC5Fs7WOCkyJRHZgJCSqfRw4Md988t_Uu9zOAZtL-sphhMFuMaJx-XWaL8r48wxdIgl3Zzb8iTDK9y4HTxVsg/s900/moon.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="900" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6zE5Dsqx5af4NWw5jk906TE4227ZEsFaN9stwxhLqY8kI3NS8C3gpjVM7rCFbyWdns-HyPRTYj8v4iqF9FhmQXydMp5eg0mEFSLC5Fs7WOCkyJRHZgJCSqfRw4Md988t_Uu9zOAZtL-sphhMFuMaJx-XWaL8r48wxdIgl3Zzb8iTDK9y4HTxVsg/w400-h400/moon.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <br /><br />LEVITATION<br /><br />A beautiful<br />summer's <br />night.<br /><br />The sky<br />becoming<br />a mass of<br />pink, purple<br />red, blue,<br />white, and<br />every colour<br />you could<br />think of.<br /><br />The birds<br />singing.<br /><br />My soul<br />is levitating,<br />I think.<br /><br />The warmth<br />of the sun<br />on my lily-white<br />English skin.<br /><br />The smell of cut<br />grass, inflaming<br />my senses.<br /><br />I get high on<br />these things.<br /><br />My soul levitates. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9rMf-M2Rgmbo7wwi-cVD_1dr3RFkpkWLeVQ1enJhZ5PiW51lYiopzFEiqQ_K6h-oJujT0cN3DLJycHwPwSa6ey7RGk_xnzitECbfH6I4raWzbOK60l22IFuOcpSNQM8q-ImXNl5A1czB35BRFW8moUo4zp8oFtB16s3M7dRHjeja9PrNSY0yfGA/s533/moon:tree.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="533" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9rMf-M2Rgmbo7wwi-cVD_1dr3RFkpkWLeVQ1enJhZ5PiW51lYiopzFEiqQ_K6h-oJujT0cN3DLJycHwPwSa6ey7RGk_xnzitECbfH6I4raWzbOK60l22IFuOcpSNQM8q-ImXNl5A1czB35BRFW8moUo4zp8oFtB16s3M7dRHjeja9PrNSY0yfGA/w400-h300/moon:tree.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />KNOCK ME UP<br /><br />Thinking back to the good times<br />When my partner was still alive.<br /><br />I remember one time, she owed<br />some money to the milkman.<br /><br />She wrote a note, saying<br />"knock me up, and I will<br />pay you.”<br /><br />I told her "you can't leave<br />that!"<br /><br />"Why not?"<br /><br />“Just read it again."<br /><br />So she did.<br /><br />"Oh my God, Ian <br />Thanks for that."<br /><br />We laughed about it for hours, days<br />I think.<br /><br />God, I miss her so much, it<br />cripples me. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHHkhuJ9ic1KJGw__Xa6ohtdxGeTUOwIZOGdMeA5qIg5vIC0v0fwqdKBqMUaAVJPIWPHm_k8FJg-6vtnInXyQK77k5RhD8M8-xljNT-J2LfXpQEatnEVfbm4AJ8Rn9qmumYhApjhMXnzyXy1GJu_COZeDQWkL28wD3_Y6LBgycks5gIwkygEwqVw/s894/splash.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="461" data-original-width="894" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHHkhuJ9ic1KJGw__Xa6ohtdxGeTUOwIZOGdMeA5qIg5vIC0v0fwqdKBqMUaAVJPIWPHm_k8FJg-6vtnInXyQK77k5RhD8M8-xljNT-J2LfXpQEatnEVfbm4AJ8Rn9qmumYhApjhMXnzyXy1GJu_COZeDQWkL28wD3_Y6LBgycks5gIwkygEwqVw/w400-h206/splash.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <br /><br />A STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS <br /><br />You have to let all <br />of the memories flow<br />It hurts when they come<br />and it hurts when they go.<br /><br />I wasn't much for being young.<br />I don't like being old.<br />Hell will be too hot for me.<br />Purgatory will be too cold.<br /><br />A stream of unconsciousness <br />flows through my brain.<br />I've smoked far too much weed<br />to qualify as sane.<br /><br />But, still I keep on trying, trying<br />to explain myself<br />Nobody is going to do it for me.<br />And they could never define my<br />mental health,<br /><br />You have to try to maintain your flow.<br />That's all that writers have.<br />Although it comes and goes,<br />and you don't notice if it's bad. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilT_FzJmOR-4rxB5arbGR2kIrR6sq9aOElb2hRlJjP8ZpULygm0CBbaodsIo1-0QPjt_LXMmzpPYTnkTa1SjIhvdOzTLc2WJ0bEV_M_AuZKrnB_DHFk-q5oRd5CyYOOGBwMSRgYXfXSfKipv7EfT7wzqlD-znfU9xhhNvp3e6H00o9RN-DccnByA/s279/brown.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="181" data-original-width="279" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilT_FzJmOR-4rxB5arbGR2kIrR6sq9aOElb2hRlJjP8ZpULygm0CBbaodsIo1-0QPjt_LXMmzpPYTnkTa1SjIhvdOzTLc2WJ0bEV_M_AuZKrnB_DHFk-q5oRd5CyYOOGBwMSRgYXfXSfKipv7EfT7wzqlD-znfU9xhhNvp3e6H00o9RN-DccnByA/w400-h259/brown.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />THE POLICE QUESTIONNAIRE<br /><br />Someone I know<br />is trying to join<br />the police force.<br /><br />I know<br />I feel the same<br />way too<br />but I really love<br />this person.<br /><br />I was asking them<br />how the first online<br />interview went.<br /><br />“It's just like a kind<br />of questionnaire<br />sort of thing.<br />What would you do<br />in certain circumstances”<br /><br />Me, being a natural<br />piss taker said:<br /><br />“You come across a<br />gang of white men<br />standing around, <br />and a black man<br />on the floor, bleeding.<br /><br />Who do you arrest?”<br /><br />If you answered<br /><br />“The black man,”<br /><br />Welcome to the police. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-m9y1mWjv-aHwd1UhbrLEIMiLE6lVCCVRvAzjAn0JfdO5SGQRrpOvnaKGGNTyE5WhvmOLkA7XqCtvtMOIlFvoKCoknqTh-pdUnh7IVjm_uD0JNOsyBw5TgZXLnj0RU_2p8UEnp4fKFgCaYYe4BC0hF1uKB6hnaFFW3zucXVqqjcmCw4MeWp7e-w/s258/tangle.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="258" data-original-width="195" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-m9y1mWjv-aHwd1UhbrLEIMiLE6lVCCVRvAzjAn0JfdO5SGQRrpOvnaKGGNTyE5WhvmOLkA7XqCtvtMOIlFvoKCoknqTh-pdUnh7IVjm_uD0JNOsyBw5TgZXLnj0RU_2p8UEnp4fKFgCaYYe4BC0hF1uKB6hnaFFW3zucXVqqjcmCw4MeWp7e-w/w302-h400/tangle.jpg" width="302" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />A GLIMPSE <br /><br />We've lost any glimpse<br />of spirituality<br />We may, once<br />have had.<br /><br />It's understandable,<br />how much suffering<br />religion has caused.<br /><br />So many wars, so<br />many people killed<br />for no real reason.<br /><br />I, strangely, choose<br />to have some kind<br />of faith<br /><br />In what I don't know.<br />There has to be<br />more than this.<br /><br />There must be.<br /><br />I'm sure I've felt it<br /><br />Even if it is<br />just a glimpse.<br /><br />Just a glimpse of<br />something beyond<br />our knowledge. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5qDRkWo2j9l2HDLO6xrYNTEkXe3c0AeFZUGkWXP2ixppt4B5tNBoW_g8rTD1Oishwp1GvUf4VPzf1zkY-yijxr_xVNPMJeEBmUJFqEZSBLZWWEWeF9gFJWuNUVfTpa2SmUqgV_v4tGQ1aNdCEGUAOoHHXnjpbKSlwFw-jllSqevkhNFYkQH_Xkg/s1100/atlas.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="823" data-original-width="1100" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5qDRkWo2j9l2HDLO6xrYNTEkXe3c0AeFZUGkWXP2ixppt4B5tNBoW_g8rTD1Oishwp1GvUf4VPzf1zkY-yijxr_xVNPMJeEBmUJFqEZSBLZWWEWeF9gFJWuNUVfTpa2SmUqgV_v4tGQ1aNdCEGUAOoHHXnjpbKSlwFw-jllSqevkhNFYkQH_Xkg/w400-h299/atlas.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />THE WEIRDEST THING<br /><br />The weirdest thing<br />I've ever had anyone<br />ask me<br /><br />Was when I started working<br />at the T.J. Maxx warehouse.<br /><br />I filled out all of the forms.<br />As you do.<br />A few hours later, the boss,<br />Well, my boss, turned up with<br />my I.D.<br /><br />The name on it was Ian<br />Copestake.<br />I told him that they'd <br />got my name wrong.<br /><br />He actually, asked me<br />"Are you sure?"<br /><br />At this time I was 40 years<br />old.<br /><br />Did he really believe that I<br />was so fucking stupid that<br />I'd lived for forty years without<br />knowing my name?<br /><br />Apparently, he did. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjofKJNTUf0_sBI6YwVsBUaGXbdZm43ukI_aGz3IH6aBe9Na8skDOs-Jl3FxcZFDwKG8IqxrcNDbde0-XPcuQADApA0VohumZHWjABvOIc1gHN054bUyg1cHWnbYLESICujkqu-T4YidzxO-JtOYeGbRw1xvCELiealw6Ww_AKozyv7pNSKhiBjNQ/s359/yellow.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="359" data-original-width="282" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjofKJNTUf0_sBI6YwVsBUaGXbdZm43ukI_aGz3IH6aBe9Na8skDOs-Jl3FxcZFDwKG8IqxrcNDbde0-XPcuQADApA0VohumZHWjABvOIc1gHN054bUyg1cHWnbYLESICujkqu-T4YidzxO-JtOYeGbRw1xvCELiealw6Ww_AKozyv7pNSKhiBjNQ/w314-h400/yellow.png" width="314" /></a></div><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">AT LEAST ONE THING<br /><br />Well, there's<br />at least <br />one thing I<br />truly <br />know.<br />The longer<br />I live.<br />The more<br />I grow.<br /><br />Not physically,<br />Since I stopped<br />Drinking I've lost<br />A lot of weight.<br /><br />But, I'm definitely<br />Growing spiritually,<br />Emotionally.<br /><br />I hope that I am<br />Becoming a better<br />Person.<br /><br />I don't know,<br />But I hope so.<br /><br />It's what life is<br />All about, really<br />Isn't it?<br /><br />Isn't it? <br /><br />___________________<br /><br /><i><b>Today’s LittleNip:</b><br /><br />Every book, every volume you see here, has a soul. The soul of the person who wrote it and of those who read it and lived and dreamed with it. Every time a book changes hands, every time someone runs his eyes down its pages, its spirit grows and strengthens.<br /> <br />―Carlos Ruiz Zafón, </i>The Shadow of the Wind <i><br /><br />___________________<br /><br />—Medusa, with thanks to one of our friends from across the sea, <span style="color: red;">Ian Copestick</span>, for his fine poetry today!</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguTn6_PNsrN0DA9ytlvdFn8syy4PBL05-Oc-7aGSk9c5zxC4FfKfFd2eMy7L9H8I8iR1IrpNHjDdljKZ40coR3nF6E2yUM56tb5XDqRQ_-4KfInmZ6FKAAV9aNiCcb8YiL8uk9ln8euRGLC6kHCdGxDoc5aHFm3yoaLDlIfoB0zZKdMlJj_TVh5g/s664/moon:water%20kk.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="664" data-original-width="519" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguTn6_PNsrN0DA9ytlvdFn8syy4PBL05-Oc-7aGSk9c5zxC4FfKfFd2eMy7L9H8I8iR1IrpNHjDdljKZ40coR3nF6E2yUM56tb5XDqRQ_-4KfInmZ6FKAAV9aNiCcb8YiL8uk9ln8euRGLC6kHCdGxDoc5aHFm3yoaLDlIfoB0zZKdMlJj_TVh5g/w313-h400/moon:water%20kk.png" width="313" /></a></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i> “… a glimpse of something beyond…”</i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><i>A reminder that </i><br /><i><span style="color: red;">Taylor Graham</span> and <span style="color: red;">Steve Talbert</span></i><br /><i>will be reading in Camino today, 2pm, at</i><i><b> </b></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b>Poets and Writers of the Sierra Foothills</b>.</i><br /><i>For info about this and other</i><br /><i>future poetry happenings in </i><br /><i>Northern California and otherwheres, </i><br /><i>click on</i><br /><i><b>UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS</b></i><br /><i>(<a href="http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html">http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html</a>)</i><br /><i>in the links at the top of this page—</i><br /><i>and keep an eye on this link and on</i><br /><i>the daily Kitchen for happenings </i><br /><i>that might pop up</i><br /><i>—or get changed!—</i><br /><i> during the week.</i><br /><br /><i>Photos in this column can be enlarged by </i><br /><i>clicking on them once, then clicking on the x </i><br /><i>in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.</i><br /><br /><i>Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down</i><br /><i>under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button</i><br /><i>at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets </i><br /><i>by typing the name of the poet or poem</i><br /><i> into the little beige box at the top </i><br /><i>left-hand side of today’s post; or go to </i><br /><i>Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of </i><br /><i>the blue column at the right</i><br /><i> to find the date you want.</i><br /><br /><i>Would you like to be a SnakePal? </i><br /><i>Guidelines are at the top of this page</i><br /><i>at the Placating the Gorgon link;</i><br /><i>send poetry and/or photos and artwork</i><br /><i>to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post</i><br /><i>work from all over the world—including</i><br /><i>that which was previously published—</i><br /><i>and collaborations are welcome. </i><br /><i>Just remember:</i><br /><i>the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—</i><br /><i>for poetry, of course!</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG1JKP7zjds1Vvu-kGgEte7gMqtSr53H44TNftFPTkXwr0Nf0ueXtg6TJ8y8jeEFN8r2L4jGKAo-JwcvuyLtOmAdVkQXJ1LsMCrMXpArNv5SxMKn8Q14kfCHP_GT2IxEqtqCAuyQv0z-ts_tO_xxOb-wHghJOyjCR2yl5xeqvi4CL2qPaQqZnOQg/s244/riding.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="244" data-original-width="207" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG1JKP7zjds1Vvu-kGgEte7gMqtSr53H44TNftFPTkXwr0Nf0ueXtg6TJ8y8jeEFN8r2L4jGKAo-JwcvuyLtOmAdVkQXJ1LsMCrMXpArNv5SxMKn8Q14kfCHP_GT2IxEqtqCAuyQv0z-ts_tO_xxOb-wHghJOyjCR2yl5xeqvi4CL2qPaQqZnOQg/w170-h200/riding.png" width="170" /></a></div><br /> </i><br /></div></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>Kathy Kieth, Wrangler-in-Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11925893540872899117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13262320.post-58504116452756539062024-02-24T08:35:00.000-08:002024-02-24T08:35:30.597-08:00Sexy, Yet Reserved<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGxuMoioMcGLTOhFKZwq7J5h-I3E8ZyEP1KMxwsBMoM_rzMPS4tTh4JlsrAfh4pabqkTOwi-0ijsk37cY9VUohregUXBoM3yECl60Oy2XIdS48rQMNve3YQ3_L2hYEFs3NM9D4fLGbYOq68tHfjKWsFflAnfOTeh2uU-cUgsUo4AQ6C5S1KlzwBA/s2093/Ann%20after%20ARCO%20Concert%202023.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2093" data-original-width="933" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGxuMoioMcGLTOhFKZwq7J5h-I3E8ZyEP1KMxwsBMoM_rzMPS4tTh4JlsrAfh4pabqkTOwi-0ijsk37cY9VUohregUXBoM3yECl60Oy2XIdS48rQMNve3YQ3_L2hYEFs3NM9D4fLGbYOq68tHfjKWsFflAnfOTeh2uU-cUgsUo4AQ6C5S1KlzwBA/w179-h400/Ann%20after%20ARCO%20Concert%202023.jpeg" width="179" /></a></div><i>Ann after ARCO Concert, 2023</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>—Photo by Ethan Pham Aguilar</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>* * *</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> <br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>—Poetry by Ann Wehrman, Sacramento, CA<br />—Photos by Chris Feldman, Ann Wehrman, </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>and Ethan Pham Aguilar</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">HAIR II<br /> <br />hair—my body’s leaves, fur<br />keeps my head warm<br />dead cells seem alive<br /> <br />hair swings, unfurls<br />gleams, glints in the light<br />slips gently through my fingers<br />brushes my skin, soft, sensual<br /> <br />hair drips, cold and wet<br />down my back after a shower<br />tangles, rips, knots, breaks<br />when I try to comb it<br /> <br />hair drops in slow motion between my fingers<br />silken spiderweb strands<br />catch fire in sun’s penetrating rays<br /> <br />hair deep brown for decades<br />now snowy white in my winter years<br />magical, mysterious, beautiful<br /> <br /><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> <br />Note: “Hair II” is a revision of an earlier, short poem, “Hair,” which was published in Medusa’s Kitchen on July 16, 2007. </span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0G3sX2auLsgIKd-LykIIRNtOroYO8s3Vh1KP5SKpVz-YCz5f0hdGuLUbht-ZUG5DjmJn78Kr2qmW-fx0_uSPSsO9SxhcXdoNSXAFQAm4Kt7K5UEn_wHTNrIOYfbF9JcUTEwimas7sk8ZV_JVEtr2GsNjY7OBugKb3CSt8xqG74G_R-h3c05tIGw/s4032/January%20afternoon%20sky_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0G3sX2auLsgIKd-LykIIRNtOroYO8s3Vh1KP5SKpVz-YCz5f0hdGuLUbht-ZUG5DjmJn78Kr2qmW-fx0_uSPSsO9SxhcXdoNSXAFQAm4Kt7K5UEn_wHTNrIOYfbF9JcUTEwimas7sk8ZV_JVEtr2GsNjY7OBugKb3CSt8xqG74G_R-h3c05tIGw/w300-h400/January%20afternoon%20sky_1.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i> January Afternoon Sky<br />—Photo by Ann Wehrman </i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /> <br />JANUARY AFTERNOON IN THE CITY<br /> <br />clouds like doves’ soft breasts<br />sail quickly by on the wind at the horizon<br />above me, dark gray slabs fill the heavens<br />storm clouds, yet few drops fall<br />waiting for the bus, I grudgingly open my umbrella<br /> <br />later, I return home<br />bright gold sun peaks out from stubborn gray clouds<br />giving way to patches of baby blue<br />sweet, deep, cold air<br />good night to stay home, eat something warm, <br />watch TV<br />yet, the trees still crave rain</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJAV57PjyXJg22D3C6t37u1XRHHhOwuz3VgNsKrHEraIYEc1m0pcRgY5hWHazYFmQJQktjjuT9pIXp5PdN3wXOgE2uTQ0mzGlKuAQtYtJcqNz_k0gje_FjAibjz73RBH_9oo1j7sbbeVks9fF8HtYGwV8rrTwoWaWMW7ulSoJSBuYmi5KzFIToQA/s4032/Tree%20and%20Berries.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJAV57PjyXJg22D3C6t37u1XRHHhOwuz3VgNsKrHEraIYEc1m0pcRgY5hWHazYFmQJQktjjuT9pIXp5PdN3wXOgE2uTQ0mzGlKuAQtYtJcqNz_k0gje_FjAibjz73RBH_9oo1j7sbbeVks9fF8HtYGwV8rrTwoWaWMW7ulSoJSBuYmi5KzFIToQA/w300-h400/Tree%20and%20Berries.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> Tree and Berries </i><br /><i>—Photo by Ann Wehrman</i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /> <br />I WAS WRONG<br /> <br />watch the birds play in the tree<br />that shaded me, comforted me<br />talked with me as I waited for the bus<br /> <br />now, as the year ends in frigid nights<br />naked, leafless branches<br />bloom with berries, red-orange seed pearls<br /> <br />birds flutter from branch to branch<br />bite, drink sustaining nectar<br />cock their tiny heads at me, friendly yet wild<br /> <br />for years I’d thought the winter berries<br />parasitic, maybe mistletoe<br />sorrowed for the tree being slowly killed<br /> <br />but today I see winter’s berries<br />grow naturally on this tree<br />birds play hide and seek, then rise and fly away</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhheXrolvpgWJvEJvLRDGu7kjfe7VVc6iVOD1xT95EEccH-SwNBPDnBJnN0wXxgBJscBLEl_pgxezwMr8N3dJWVdpUqDGzQ4tqsoZVvZ_fbWXJjYIh2FmaM-3m2MQoPI8sC-8H5X7x_6SIsbIJjBf_mvu_SD2MzK9H_3HWlkpl0Prxxg6RrvZd7sw/s2000/Green%20Peach%20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1918" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhheXrolvpgWJvEJvLRDGu7kjfe7VVc6iVOD1xT95EEccH-SwNBPDnBJnN0wXxgBJscBLEl_pgxezwMr8N3dJWVdpUqDGzQ4tqsoZVvZ_fbWXJjYIh2FmaM-3m2MQoPI8sC-8H5X7x_6SIsbIJjBf_mvu_SD2MzK9H_3HWlkpl0Prxxg6RrvZd7sw/w384-h400/Green%20Peach%20.jpg" width="384" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> Green Peach<br />—Photo by Chris Feldman</i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />SEXY, YET RESERVED<br /> <br />blouse was Chinese silk, burnt yellow<br />like late afternoon sunshine<br />with a rippled texture<br />like the wrinkled cheek<br />of an Empress Dowager<br />wearing it, I felt glamorous<br />sexy, yet reserved<br /> <br />wore it on a date with my first real love<br />to Zeffirelli’s entrancing Romeo and Juliet<br />afterward, we pledged steady<br />exchanged class rings<br />while Jim Morrison snarled at our generation,<br />“Light my Fire”<br />but my steady slept around<br />I survived, barely<br />moved on, hesitantly<br /> <br />a year later, I wore the yellow silk blouse<br />to the movies again<br />this time, Fantasia with Carolyn<br />two friends out together<br />shared a joint in her beat-up car<br />giggled at Disney’s dancing pink elephants</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguDYXaGHBMv_zoVpHQBBe161T36wHzFjs8tpNsy6Dr6_qRPdJ929mdYHCIDo6o2zWF6_bg5yhCmU4ul8Qpo4J1G-Pocq_xPkSekIUmL2TSkc4PJeNwJOedc7e-jHaf0UKOxO4-mpL8rNk0QRuLMa2Vq5PmOB3YCqBu2mt_6p3xYp2OHwOetNiWWw/s2000/The%20Fire%20Within.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1182" data-original-width="2000" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguDYXaGHBMv_zoVpHQBBe161T36wHzFjs8tpNsy6Dr6_qRPdJ929mdYHCIDo6o2zWF6_bg5yhCmU4ul8Qpo4J1G-Pocq_xPkSekIUmL2TSkc4PJeNwJOedc7e-jHaf0UKOxO4-mpL8rNk0QRuLMa2Vq5PmOB3YCqBu2mt_6p3xYp2OHwOetNiWWw/w400-h236/The%20Fire%20Within.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>The Fire Within<br />—Photo by Chris Feldman </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /> <br />IN THE CENTER OF NIGHT’S EMBRACE<br /> <br />warm darkness surrounds<br />I nestle deep within your arms<br />you stir, awaken me with your desire<br /> <br />in a dream, half-seen<br />I move with you, open to your deep kisses<br />welcome your need with my own<br />we dance as one being<br />in the center of night’s embrace</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRDAUl4XDFKjNJS9EvRCFLu6kS1Wpxtx8gAYGUAS813RI2zOVRfhLDk0NAkxvkdtb2_KaK9xkoI0uwQxDKKAgxkhyphenhyphencrZ0uC7QZf_YWv0Q8fJYCQtG-vL3m3Lt4I1Ju6HFgYbJkKkkyNwcgnYA7A5wKZSVf380FPZqnHvVOk1F-KJNxpwAK2PZFwQ/s2000/Love%20Birds.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1333" data-original-width="2000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRDAUl4XDFKjNJS9EvRCFLu6kS1Wpxtx8gAYGUAS813RI2zOVRfhLDk0NAkxvkdtb2_KaK9xkoI0uwQxDKKAgxkhyphenhyphencrZ0uC7QZf_YWv0Q8fJYCQtG-vL3m3Lt4I1Ju6HFgYbJkKkkyNwcgnYA7A5wKZSVf380FPZqnHvVOk1F-KJNxpwAK2PZFwQ/w400-h266/Love%20Birds.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Love Birds <br />—Photo by Chris Feldman</i><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br /><b>tantra</b><br /> <br />ecstasy of heart<br />our spirits unite<br />in a kaleidoscope<br />your eyes hold me<br />your caresses ignite my core<br />all colors bloom<br />as your embrace opens<br />my inner spine—<br />forest-green heart flowers<br />indigo song<br />amethyst in my brow<br />rises, offering white, pure<br />light of consummation<br /><br /><br /> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwUAf5cChKUwqO_hrax9PbJ7TtvlwMdmB4RQOJYe_RA9ovDyaumZFOHWh-gkyIjin1CtvC4IArN9Y5uCxRAtRjabJ_Li9rbTT6GV4AizBOBs6W4g5Dmnk3Bse68lgrYUIqtSbdUkV2DnwNZpdXnZeXBgkGktGhdmAZeLCMiMLIqXIH3xe6Dsk2pg/s2000/Love%20Mural.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1333" data-original-width="2000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwUAf5cChKUwqO_hrax9PbJ7TtvlwMdmB4RQOJYe_RA9ovDyaumZFOHWh-gkyIjin1CtvC4IArN9Y5uCxRAtRjabJ_Li9rbTT6GV4AizBOBs6W4g5Dmnk3Bse68lgrYUIqtSbdUkV2DnwNZpdXnZeXBgkGktGhdmAZeLCMiMLIqXIH3xe6Dsk2pg/w400-h266/Love%20Mural.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Love Mural</i><br /><i>—Photo by Chris Feldman</i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br /><b>“It’s a Joni Mitchell Kind of Day”<br /></b>(For Carolyn)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />...you’d say,<br />your impish spectacled grin<br />blinding me to the blue tinge of your thin lips<br />the dark circles under your eyes<br />I never quite knew what you meant<br />part of your charm, I guess<br /> <br />was it a day in which<br />the tinkling, lilting soprano<br />would dance over all our troubles<br />or one ruled by Blue<br />the dark sadness in Joni’s atonal, wordless wails?<br /> <br />You shared your art, your music with me<br />got me stoned—too stoned<br />stood by fiercely loyal, stood over me<br /> <br />rebel to the core, you opened your heart to me<br />when my sensitive teenage soul was ready to break<br />on that fast, college-prep track<br />when my passionate heart<br />suffered first love’s betrayal<br /> <br />a friend, an inspiration to me then<br />decades later I wonder if you wanted more from me<br />but held back, kept it to yourself<br />at seventeen, you knew what love is<br />thank you for being my friend<br /> <br />____________________<br /><br /><i><b>Today’s LittleNip:</b><br /><br />I am glad it cannot happen twice, the fever of first love. For it is a fever, and a burden, too, whatever the poets may say.<br /><br />―Daphne duMaurier, </i>Rebecca <i><br /><br />____________________<br /><br />—Medusa, with thanks to today’s collaborators for fine poetry and photos!</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw7N-xviwcihY8IRlTZgR5yEhWoAPIfG5S9FgavP0KIdcBfYedOq_ULQSutIJ3Fy3_VoUowagobDrZc779X4o61Q7PxFPoiWhymlRmFA02qDD0gTRBUvu7fJIsOhcx-Nc5zryAJUdMIxkdLhMlqU7EDOLRWAC5Xpb3xcytwTIH17K_EQZfbUot6g/s350/street%20art:atlantic%20city%20kk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="324" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw7N-xviwcihY8IRlTZgR5yEhWoAPIfG5S9FgavP0KIdcBfYedOq_ULQSutIJ3Fy3_VoUowagobDrZc779X4o61Q7PxFPoiWhymlRmFA02qDD0gTRBUvu7fJIsOhcx-Nc5zryAJUdMIxkdLhMlqU7EDOLRWAC5Xpb3xcytwTIH17K_EQZfbUot6g/w370-h400/street%20art:atlantic%20city%20kk.jpg" width="370" /></a></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i> Street Art, Atlantic City</i><br /><i>—Public Domain Photo</i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i>A reminder that </i><br /><i><span style="color: red;">Susan Kelly-DeWitt </span>and <span style="color: red;">Mary Mackey </span></i><br /><i>will read at <b>MoSt Poetry on Saturday</b> </i><br /><i>in Modesto this afternoon, 2pm; then</i><br /><i>in Sacramento at 4pm, </i><br /><i><span style="color: red;">Frank Gioia</span> and <span style="color: red;">Beverly Parayno</span> </i><br /><i>will read at <b>Sacramento Poetry Alliance</b>.</i><br /><i>For info about these and other</i><br /><i> future poetry happenings in </i><br /><i>Northern California and otherwheres, </i><br /><i>click on</i><br /><i><b>UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS</b></i><br /><i>(<a href="http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html">http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html</a>)</i><br /><i>in the links at the top of this page—</i><br /><i>and keep an eye on this link and on</i><br /><i>the daily Kitchen for happenings </i><br /><i>that might pop up</i><br /><i>—or get changed!—</i><br /><i> during the week.</i><br /><br /><i>Photos in this column can be enlarged by </i><br /><i>clicking on them once, then clicking on the x </i><br /><i>in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.</i><br /><br /><i>Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down</i><br /><i>under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button</i><br /><i>at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets </i><br /><i>by typing the name of the poet or poem</i><br /><i> into the little beige box at the top </i><br /><i>left-hand side of today’s post; or go to </i><br /><i>Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of </i><br /><i>the blue column at the right</i><br /><i> to find the date you want.</i><br /><br /><i>Would you like to be a SnakePal? </i><br /><i>Guidelines are at the top of this page</i><br /><i>at the Placating the Gorgon link;</i><br /><i>send poetry and/or photos and artwork</i><br /><i>to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post</i><br /><i>work from all over the world—including</i><br /><i>that which was previously published—</i><br /><i>and collaborations are welcome. </i><br /><i>Just remember:</i><br /><i>the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—</i><br /><i>for poetry, of course!</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnv-oNs-YPAj9uV7Vo-8U93xj1dI_fC6ynG9uHJP_TvurGIgjf1HW5FTZtbdcg3XAxLcu2SPp8pgrHn0_Vb5A8UDrcZyOOrceyHt5gKHlwIlH_OjCguE7prbNDOeiD1To0J6UbGEA5DnpNQ7CHGmaAC7r2XCgi_G2LTpmhnD-4IakwfM8VUvuZjA/s2716/pink%20w:bird.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2716" data-original-width="1920" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnv-oNs-YPAj9uV7Vo-8U93xj1dI_fC6ynG9uHJP_TvurGIgjf1HW5FTZtbdcg3XAxLcu2SPp8pgrHn0_Vb5A8UDrcZyOOrceyHt5gKHlwIlH_OjCguE7prbNDOeiD1To0J6UbGEA5DnpNQ7CHGmaAC7r2XCgi_G2LTpmhnD-4IakwfM8VUvuZjA/w141-h200/pink%20w:bird.jpg" width="141" /></a></div><br /> </i><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div> </div>Kathy Kieth, Wrangler-in-Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11925893540872899117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13262320.post-25193058105754825062024-02-23T08:33:00.000-08:002024-02-23T08:40:31.344-08:00Almost-Spring<div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmf4xf9EfEkuNDXbJOEZwBc_XbOsmVqxarNxq7I1R6HWD6PwUGM9K7fyTxixX5DtA8o-Fv5qO47VTsIVufSvlXi0oKaIvauOI5SJtQkyA6eLwZuivAJfJyd36rJ_asq0GLAM-6TKahb6YoMSdX3lu4aOYUwFLQ8nF9yw61jeXZlmRyMg-9yQZXOA/s1920/egret%20tg.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmf4xf9EfEkuNDXbJOEZwBc_XbOsmVqxarNxq7I1R6HWD6PwUGM9K7fyTxixX5DtA8o-Fv5qO47VTsIVufSvlXi0oKaIvauOI5SJtQkyA6eLwZuivAJfJyd36rJ_asq0GLAM-6TKahb6YoMSdX3lu4aOYUwFLQ8nF9yw61jeXZlmRyMg-9yQZXOA/w400-h300/egret%20tg.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <i>—Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham, <br />Placerville, CA<br />—And then scroll down to<br /><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Form Fiddlers’ Friday</span></b> for poetry by<br />Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,<br />Claire J. Baker, Vandana Kumar,<br />Joyce Odam, Caschwa, and<br />Joshua C. Frank</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">LEFT AT SCHOOL<br /><br />on playing field fence<br />a black jacket whipped by wind—<br />some child’s pirate flag</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYYWSGpOxfdWtH1D1XRweK0V1_nW2J5RTOiMdCBwMlkbFATyqJE8bPEFd5x7_8fY_znnp0jUAnLvm8HqhAQbVNfTSq0jhoc0a1_yGYaKxCpyaDhfu9u3XV_BwmCB7uVKMI5aEQt_3NcvMakkGUn_pjLIVu4LHSeDV72ZFxa4gXgsI_F4Cwjdk20Q/s1920/wht%20blooms%20tg.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYYWSGpOxfdWtH1D1XRweK0V1_nW2J5RTOiMdCBwMlkbFATyqJE8bPEFd5x7_8fY_znnp0jUAnLvm8HqhAQbVNfTSq0jhoc0a1_yGYaKxCpyaDhfu9u3XV_BwmCB7uVKMI5aEQt_3NcvMakkGUn_pjLIVu4LHSeDV72ZFxa4gXgsI_F4Cwjdk20Q/w400-h300/wht%20blooms%20tg.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />IN ALMOST-SPRING<br /><br />One day at school might be worth a walk along the railroad track, asking what is this? trail dissolved in rainfall puddles, pond that wasn’t there last week, two wild ducks floating dreams of spring, winter-dead vines bursting with question-buds, colors in a dialect he hasn’t learned. And who is that? girl on the far side of barbwire fence between dark woods and pasture oozing grass from underground, not a house in sight. Is she a vision or for real? the way she looks across space, a wordless tongue he wants to learn.<br /><br />I happen by—two<br />together staring silence<br />at me: <i>Go your way!</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvU8YQ5yqCzz3nOPMfd_oY6SHeKGHlhyphenhyphenN4fnmCn1BqVDA1Cn0M-IgZ5oXAdvt1g-ksoEx_pIW4sgq5OZc74UxxFiYEfQ15NJkzLBpmnJ03rOCzEFsle63V4SNq7Wle1KK08wz9eQROwCpL57p_HRPakJOc6V0FjoLMa9m0AjVfYbL_i-QjzF9s3g/s1920/dirt%20road%20tg.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvU8YQ5yqCzz3nOPMfd_oY6SHeKGHlhyphenhyphenN4fnmCn1BqVDA1Cn0M-IgZ5oXAdvt1g-ksoEx_pIW4sgq5OZc74UxxFiYEfQ15NJkzLBpmnJ03rOCzEFsle63V4SNq7Wle1KK08wz9eQROwCpL57p_HRPakJOc6V0FjoLMa9m0AjVfYbL_i-QjzF9s3g/w400-h300/dirt%20road%20tg.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></i><br /><br />BINAL VIEW <br /><br />Here’s an old wrecked car off the track<br />entwined in berry-bramble green.<br />The car is rust in midst of green,<br />hidden when I was on the track.<br />I can’t keep track in so much green.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLC_9GAXLzpwnpYeXX1ALquoCDgIHTofdF5ImKr-tHvws74opUE0aQaHlBj7ittTH6gnE9Iaphj3ZN2CCNgqV8xG_CTCHvdqVmQBnBlogaPgFiM9RaHg6CSpj57PpXEcu_1jTFrYXTZ7eg80LEuOQgvUQzoW54CvCdM7ilbO1Pof6EHWXG4n3bZQ/s1920/off-trail%20discoveries%20tg.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLC_9GAXLzpwnpYeXX1ALquoCDgIHTofdF5ImKr-tHvws74opUE0aQaHlBj7ittTH6gnE9Iaphj3ZN2CCNgqV8xG_CTCHvdqVmQBnBlogaPgFiM9RaHg6CSpj57PpXEcu_1jTFrYXTZ7eg80LEuOQgvUQzoW54CvCdM7ilbO1Pof6EHWXG4n3bZQ/w400-h300/off-trail%20discoveries%20tg.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />OFF-TRAIL DISCOVERIES<br /><br />Last Tuesday I saw that old wreck resting <br />all these years on its roof, as if lasso’d and hogtied <br />by thorn-vines, just off the RR track. Today<br />in an undeveloped field beyond subdivision, I find <br />a rubble pile—winter grasses and young wild radish <br />rooting at its edges. Rubble takes me back <br />decades—disaster dog training over broken slabs <br />of concrete laced with rusty rebar, what was <br />a building. But that was years ago, and <br />Loki never learned the careful paw-by-paw agility <br />for earthquake work, nor sniffing rifts <br />and crevices for live human scent. <br />Now she’s rummaging a critter hole <br />while I search for signs of renewed green life <br />in a vacant field.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGZaluq3cq5QU3kG2OYzHcbHMRB63eToA_7WlhEWyGZsaSeyQ5iuF35P2mj40C0sKx0yN8cCQrJ7bgIqmxRkhcI7wJyhWoOGSzmT5pG_FO5V10178DSU3Yn0a1H7iXCXgH6XLadllt99b8geRI1KWv88pJ8rZggXbZgDpQsm6nUaz6MYPT0-4fSg/s640/wild%20radish%20tg.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="640" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGZaluq3cq5QU3kG2OYzHcbHMRB63eToA_7WlhEWyGZsaSeyQ5iuF35P2mj40C0sKx0yN8cCQrJ7bgIqmxRkhcI7wJyhWoOGSzmT5pG_FO5V10178DSU3Yn0a1H7iXCXgH6XLadllt99b8geRI1KWv88pJ8rZggXbZgDpQsm6nUaz6MYPT0-4fSg/w400-h225/wild%20radish%20tg.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Wild Radish</i><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />FOR AN OLD MAN<br /><i>On the Paved Walking Trail</i><br /><br />May your walker glide like thread on loom<br />all the way down to the Upper Room.<br />May the fare be nourishing, ever free<br />as wildland fruit fallen off the tree.<br />May your walker take you back up the hill,<br />its basket provisioned your needs to fill.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCtbVHKpVBqoctz-DeGkIWRl02NjHeF9xjx0TQugFIHVIh8ABdbtd8VFehX-OxnnOKA3HRq-TPCZ2qQfK63J4uc2yv2nQIYzEa1Q5LPQftZsmOjJjuX76kDFFXaig2lYExpYiPSUUa1STyg1cVgeBqgvosQdfXf6d4N6YQGWzAJ_G6742hsdRfGw/s640/for%20an%20old%20man%20tg.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCtbVHKpVBqoctz-DeGkIWRl02NjHeF9xjx0TQugFIHVIh8ABdbtd8VFehX-OxnnOKA3HRq-TPCZ2qQfK63J4uc2yv2nQIYzEa1Q5LPQftZsmOjJjuX76kDFFXaig2lYExpYiPSUUa1STyg1cVgeBqgvosQdfXf6d4N6YQGWzAJ_G6742hsdRfGw/w400-h300/for%20an%20old%20man%20tg.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <br /><br />WALKER’S BENISON<br /><br />May rain not spoil your journey<br />nor worry turn you back.<br />Surprises be your rations<br />enlightening your pack.<br /><br />Let air be sweet with birdsong—<br />the bluebird’s egg just laid.<br />May sun be bright for shadow,<br />and oaks lean down for shade.<br /><br />And how the trek may wander,<br />and what discoveries seen,<br />may you have much to ponder<br />in dreams of peregrine.<br /><br />__________________<br /><i><br /><b>Today’s LittleNip:</b><br /><br />CAMELLIA<br />—Taylor Graham<br /><br />One perfect rosette<br />blush of a cheek before storm—<br />and now comes the wind<br />tearing at pink petal-cheeks,<br />and a rain like falling tears.<br /><br />__________________<br /><br />Welcome to <b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Form Fiddlers’ Friday</span></b>, with thanks to <span style="color: red;">Taylor Graham</span> for kicking us off with her fine poetry! The Upper Room she's referring to in her poem, "For An Old Man", is a service in Placerville that provides food for the homeless.<br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>TG has talked about her walks today using forms: a <b>Waka</b> (“Camellia”); a <b>Senryu</b> (“Left at School”); a <b>Haibun</b> (“In Almost-Spring”); two responses to our <b>Ekphrastic</b> photo of last week (“Binal” and “Off-Trail Discoveries”); “Binal” is also a <b>Bina</b>; and two <b>Benisons</b> (“Walkers Benison”; “For an Old Man”). The Bina and the Benison were last week’s Triple-F Challenges, and “Left at School” and “Off-Trail Discoveries” were responses to our recent Tuesday Seed of the Week, One Day At School.<br /><br />This coming Sunday, Feb. 25, <span style="color: red;">Taylor Graham</span> and <span style="color: red;">Steve Talbert</span> will read at <b>Poets and Writers of the Sierra Foothills</b> in Camino, 2pm. For news about this and other El Dorado County poetry—past (photos!) and future—see Taylor Graham’s <b>Western Slope El Dorado</b> on Facebook at <a href="http://www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry">www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry</a> or see <span style="color: red;">Lara Gularte</span>’s Facebook page at <a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/382234029968077">https://www.facebook.com/groups/382234029968077</a>/. (Poetry is Gold in El Dorado County!) And of course you can always click on Medusa's <b>UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS</b> (<a href="http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)">http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)</a> for details about future poetry events in the NorCal area. <br /><br />And now it’s time for… </i><br /><br /><b><br /><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><i>FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY!</i></span></b> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnM9LTQ1frDloHdNZbGamtOUrYXlNXkjniwSFyJTOSa0vwJx8R_n94y4Qwt8GmD_QhXjxtTW2gEWrMD8gHVWLy1ns5m52SI6n3vBRzBQpOWy2WnScstGzm4a6_iHEXgMb7odyXtpjTZe4tQHF6_a8-1JXPjN5c5NtQa9YwkNdaoNgcoS5PlgBbBQ/s910/hippopotamus-t-shirt-unicycle-illustration-pull-violin-png-clip-art.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnM9LTQ1frDloHdNZbGamtOUrYXlNXkjniwSFyJTOSa0vwJx8R_n94y4Qwt8GmD_QhXjxtTW2gEWrMD8gHVWLy1ns5m52SI6n3vBRzBQpOWy2WnScstGzm4a6_iHEXgMb7odyXtpjTZe4tQHF6_a8-1JXPjN5c5NtQa9YwkNdaoNgcoS5PlgBbBQ/s910/hippopotamus-t-shirt-unicycle-illustration-pull-violin-png-clip-art.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="910" data-original-width="910" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnM9LTQ1frDloHdNZbGamtOUrYXlNXkjniwSFyJTOSa0vwJx8R_n94y4Qwt8GmD_QhXjxtTW2gEWrMD8gHVWLy1ns5m52SI6n3vBRzBQpOWy2WnScstGzm4a6_iHEXgMb7odyXtpjTZe4tQHF6_a8-1JXPjN5c5NtQa9YwkNdaoNgcoS5PlgBbBQ/w200-h200/hippopotamus-t-shirt-unicycle-illustration-pull-violin-png-clip-art.png" width="200" /></a></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>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.)</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /> There’s also a 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. Got any more resources to add to our list? Send them to kathykieth@hotmail.com for the benefit of all man/woman/poetkind!</i><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">* * *</div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRvj-dNCBrsy5sn0SaBtMfe8L0IJSogxqG9-yudYW7Zht0JJL1nhyphenhyphen_Dknk8KnYcAKvH5R3uTOt_ryneTBtI9K_8rjF7-qG1beA1KLEt7HjB3LCTv4VumFkbmiB9Lc9yI9Dilr5vUmXMuhq9iiWiMqzviYHagzpcTR2k1MVunfR3fuL95_-dywAug/s400/OLD%20EK%20when%20you%20flip%20flivver.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="304" data-original-width="400" height="304" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRvj-dNCBrsy5sn0SaBtMfe8L0IJSogxqG9-yudYW7Zht0JJL1nhyphenhyphen_Dknk8KnYcAKvH5R3uTOt_ryneTBtI9K_8rjF7-qG1beA1KLEt7HjB3LCTv4VumFkbmiB9Lc9yI9Dilr5vUmXMuhq9iiWiMqzviYHagzpcTR2k1MVunfR3fuL95_-dywAug/w400-h304/OLD%20EK%20when%20you%20flip%20flivver.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>When You Flip Your Flivver<br /><b>Last Week’s Ekphrastic Photo</b></i><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br /><i>This week we received responses to last week’s <b>Ekphrastic</b> photo from <span style="color: red;">Nolcha Fox</span> and <span style="color: red;">Stephen Kingsnorth:</span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i><br /><br />DITCHED<br /><i>—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY</i><br /><br />He left me stuck in soggy sludge,<br />our romance a dead fish.<br />He left me for a<br />high-heeled dame<br />that he could ditch<br />again.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />PLAID AND LOST<br /><i>—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales</i><br /><br />So, overall with plaid flat cap, <br />why would a man think scratched head helps? <br />Do thoughts seep out beside said swamp, <br />where muddy track led buckled scrap, <br />to take its toll in telling ways, <br />with tireless straining, spoken wheels, <br />in spin and slosh on sloppy swirls <br />of rims whose trim for farm machine? <br /><br />But slim, the dream a team will haul <br />this wreck which rolls again at whim, <br />as wash invades the axle joints, <br />and slush corrodes established rust. <br />It’s vacuum packed, this iron horse, <br />a heavy metal suction pad; <br />pig in a poke, as puddled, wrought, <br />bogged down in mire, morass, moss turf. <br /><br />If marsh were planted, paddy field, <br />would swelling rice give rise to hope? <br />Or should that muddled quag be drained, <br />assumption being, sump in sump. <br />A crane required—some wetland bird, <br />a turnstone, stilt—or godwit need— <br />or lever, distant fulcrum based, <br />for, far enough, can move the world. <br /><br />What steers how we will see this view? <br />Await post mortem for this weight <br />as engineer, photographer— <br />for why have we this record so; <br />poor maintenance, ill-matched terrain, <br />a farmer checking trespass noise, <br />or rescue service at a loss <br />that one would pay now flivver’s flipped? <br /><br />For would-be driver, bone crusher, <br />some puddle jumper, failed the test, <br />tin Lizzie, though can opened here <br />or bouncing Betty, now found out? <br />So, cheap but not so cheerful steer, <br />nor flats of Bonneville endeared, <br />an off site write-off, sight concludes <br />for pond smelt, playground, paddlefish. <br /><br />* * *<br /><i><br /><span style="color: red;">Claire Baker</span> sent us a poem based on a recent MK <b>Ekphrastic</b> photo:</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrXQ5pG-E2OJz6JM8uVzpRiLInhwYPTm44hsJIlAJG15m-pXApl6Wmk2rk_Tk-8XY6TE3pRFviiIXniMxZ7WLB9lY-g09N-AyZ9lAMeiYUKfS5cUb_nmjD6ZJ3VuUid6DPIe-6qDHY2CQfp1VIbs3iGUo0mLdywfDCcj5SAZOqWkWRAPrRjb-YqQ/s265/OLD%20EK%20shoes%20kk.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="265" data-original-width="259" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrXQ5pG-E2OJz6JM8uVzpRiLInhwYPTm44hsJIlAJG15m-pXApl6Wmk2rk_Tk-8XY6TE3pRFviiIXniMxZ7WLB9lY-g09N-AyZ9lAMeiYUKfS5cUb_nmjD6ZJ3VuUid6DPIe-6qDHY2CQfp1VIbs3iGUo0mLdywfDCcj5SAZOqWkWRAPrRjb-YqQ/s1600/OLD%20EK%20shoes%20kk.png" width="259" /></a></div> </i><br /><br />AFTER STILETTO HEELS PHOTO <br /><i>first steps of my ballerina sister <br />—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA</i><br /><br />As we, her family, gathered around <br />our roasting turkey, <br />on tippety-tip bare toes, foot pads <br />not touching the kitchen floor <br />for balance, child Lucy walked in. <br />How did she learn or think <br />to walk that way? <br />But she <i>did, </i>with surprising ease. <br /><br />At her joining us that day, <br />the kitchen entrance her stage, <br />we were statuary frozen in surprise <br />and admiration. <br />Finally our mother spoke, <br />as our eyes tried to hold on to <br />the tricky image. <i>Lucy, you need <br />ballet slippers and professional lessons. </i><br /><br />* * *<br /><br /><i><span style="color: red;">Vandana Kumar</span> has sent us an <b>Ekphrastic </b>poem based on Monet’s </i>Water Lilies, Setting Sun:</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOPmIUyl9P8Usqw1UmzCAnxiXvPnsKe_vfb8zdIkKY7uoVFZqsZbFnCBHKSOIbaCosytAOUreHZN1YIctAkZU6zj4YDuP-UztlBIyX4FRLuDJ5arwEK-gWLXWD5PpO22YR1CXoKjLzYnXdepH3U2TbyaBU925aE2LpEL_5uw-q_mkr4_dHklJaxw/s1367/water%20lilies%20vk.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1367" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOPmIUyl9P8Usqw1UmzCAnxiXvPnsKe_vfb8zdIkKY7uoVFZqsZbFnCBHKSOIbaCosytAOUreHZN1YIctAkZU6zj4YDuP-UztlBIyX4FRLuDJ5arwEK-gWLXWD5PpO22YR1CXoKjLzYnXdepH3U2TbyaBU925aE2LpEL_5uw-q_mkr4_dHklJaxw/s320/water%20lilies%20vk.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />I SHALL CHOOSE YOU<br /><i>—Vandana Kumar, N. Delhi, India</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>After </i>Water-Lilies, Setting Sun<i> by Claude Monet</i><br /><br />I shall choose you today <br />From the 250 that belong <br />To Giverny <br /><br />It’s an average day <br />About to lose its averageness<br />At mere glimpse <br />Of you <br />Oh water lilies! <br /><br />Leaves that tremble <br />As they float<br />Grace to the skies<br />For the bounty<br /><br />Someone calls you Nymphéas<br />Will your flowers turn to react?<br />I wonder <br />How many other names you go by<br /> <br />They say you also signify fertility <br />I shall see you in a reflection <br />In my lover’s eyes<br /> <br />The fishermen must imagine bigger seas<br />On which to sprawl their nets<br />The waters here aren’t that dense<br /><br />Just little pond<br />The sun going down<br />On Monet’s sleepy hometown <br /><br />Flowers cover the waters<br />On a thin carpet <br />Thick enough <br />To lay my restless dreams on<br /><br />* * *<br /><br /><i><span style="color: red;">Joyce Odam</span> sent us a <b>Rhyme/Rime Royal:</b></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><b> </b></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><b> </b></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4KcZd_ypz9gZJctPC0O9JjJpJRqUmv1-tqw4zr7ypPXY5XFKBUcskPZaKVsoNphoR95PehoPdNB5ZNHYvMHmE0GP_eURSvQFD4lvhCljCha9IQhJeAlENynq68Eo5MUET3beBEn-xXyCN7BDN4DyRPiU8v1pP4bL2qv34S0MwJ4zCGBmCRiYMOQ/s265/clouds:sun.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="190" data-original-width="265" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4KcZd_ypz9gZJctPC0O9JjJpJRqUmv1-tqw4zr7ypPXY5XFKBUcskPZaKVsoNphoR95PehoPdNB5ZNHYvMHmE0GP_eURSvQFD4lvhCljCha9IQhJeAlENynq68Eo5MUET3beBEn-xXyCN7BDN4DyRPiU8v1pP4bL2qv34S0MwJ4zCGBmCRiYMOQ/s1600/clouds:sun.jpg" width="265" /></a></div> </b></i><br /><br />A BREAK IN THE WEATHER<br /><i>—Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA</i><br /> <br />The rain has lessened. Everything subsides.<br />The winds.The sirens. All the dreary news<br />the day began with. All that’s whole divides.<br />The silences stay silent to confuse.<br />We don’t know how to read each other’s clues<br />or all these pendings—not just if but when.<br />It rained. It stopped. And it will rain again.<br /> <br /> <br /><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/19/11; 6/23/20)</span></i><br /><br />* * *<br /><br /><i>Here is a <b>List Poem</b> from <span style="color: red;">Caschwa (Carl Schwartz):</span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="color: red;"> </span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="color: red;"> </span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="color: red;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKVIdUTg80GjEZOCaKANvnBBPi-xHDv_Ww3yY64FUJpNMiwYVT5PouUAP-dowjhLez471FxaS5gbVaufF9DDhBYBYl_IlzKbhNyYVNt5Fv9KneLMugYqd90tsYdvI6xLn6p-dCZYQEJc6rKeZ2Ft-tFydpeNMTXt-D5xiSJwqzcUsjiExrMcPl0w/s750/gravestones.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="750" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKVIdUTg80GjEZOCaKANvnBBPi-xHDv_Ww3yY64FUJpNMiwYVT5PouUAP-dowjhLez471FxaS5gbVaufF9DDhBYBYl_IlzKbhNyYVNt5Fv9KneLMugYqd90tsYdvI6xLn6p-dCZYQEJc6rKeZ2Ft-tFydpeNMTXt-D5xiSJwqzcUsjiExrMcPl0w/s320/gravestones.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> </span></i><br />ASHES ALIVE <br /><i>—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA</i> <br /><br />Now ashes in urns, all of them <br />comprise part of the architecture <br />as inseparable from the home <br />as its very walls <br /><br />Joshua, my wife’s adopted cat, <br />big, yellow, friendly, we bonded <br />right away and when our son <br />was born, Joshua dispelled fears <br />that the cat would reject the child <br />and immediately accepted him as <br />family <br /><br />Bo, our salt and pepper Cockapoo- <br />terrier that we adopted to save from <br />a dire shelter future, knew all blood <br />family by scent, and would scrap and <br />bark loudly when anyone else <br />presented themselves at our door <br /><br />Chica, our adorable light and dark <br />chocolate Chihuahua, loved to chase <br />and be chased, so we would run in <br />circles, and she would stop and look <br />back over her shoulder to ensure I <br />was close by because a big hug was <br />always the end game <br /><br />Jo Lynn, my loving wife of 40 years, <br />finally resting in peace after numerous <br />and varied tormenting challenges, now <br />sits on a shelf in the living room, no less <br />a factor in putting in her two cents’ worth <br />while any matters are being considered <br /><br />* * *<br /><br /><i>Carl has also sent us what he is calling a first-letter-and-first-word <b>Double Acrostic</b>. My resources don’t list this as an “official” type of Acrostic, so I guess we can credit its development to Caschwa:</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDuNT9mrWBQrEDM21xUQUZsmBU_pANB5peRKyQf-EdZ9m1xKR5VIVmzaiR34lQubNtbjzabG-PMyBL_AD-vzseYKhShP_BkdLbQpDbm1ftY1OHsk9aiwytUvWxDSLcftrcd7G0KxZ5lfi7hy1dRqSb0hYJE6UFtEf1vtz3NY7YeCZLKFqB__B9qA/s251/nude.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="251" data-original-width="201" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDuNT9mrWBQrEDM21xUQUZsmBU_pANB5peRKyQf-EdZ9m1xKR5VIVmzaiR34lQubNtbjzabG-PMyBL_AD-vzseYKhShP_BkdLbQpDbm1ftY1OHsk9aiwytUvWxDSLcftrcd7G0KxZ5lfi7hy1dRqSb0hYJE6UFtEf1vtz3NY7YeCZLKFqB__B9qA/w256-h320/nude.jpg" width="256" /></a></div></i><br /><br />STATE OF MIND <br /><i>—Caschwa </i><br /><br />Clothed and sheltered <br />Adults seated in the <br />Lounge engage <br />In spicy discussions to <br />Front their aversions <br />Of public exposure with <br />Raw nerves shaking while <br />Nude statues ignore their <br />Image, knowing it is just <br />Art <br /><br />* * *<br /><br /><i>Here is a <b>Sestina</b> by <span style="color: red;">Joshua Frank</span>:</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH_e5kelb_zgzkP1nIGgiLE2zRWjFy5XZjTdBykJiTBarvLSURUp9D5eO2WCWkS8SsvIim49v4F_4kGBsfrj6MyLU0kX2Fy1_Asv724MWmtQmtyB1tMOhGPI3WNa2PTJpeyZbq5c7YFBy9vZ57mi5AwZSFkLHE7wSY0W1QAcaCAQSvD7QPd5IQGw/s275/beach.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH_e5kelb_zgzkP1nIGgiLE2zRWjFy5XZjTdBykJiTBarvLSURUp9D5eO2WCWkS8SsvIim49v4F_4kGBsfrj6MyLU0kX2Fy1_Asv724MWmtQmtyB1tMOhGPI3WNa2PTJpeyZbq5c7YFBy9vZ57mi5AwZSFkLHE7wSY0W1QAcaCAQSvD7QPd5IQGw/w320-h213/beach.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div></i><br /><br />LAST VISIT TO THE BEACH<br /><i>—Joshua C. Frank</i> <br /><br />The beach, untouched by Time throughout the years<br />As millions of waves washed from the sea,<br />As Time transformed me, now no more a boy,<br />Where I would walk each season on that sand,<br />Each decade by my side a different dog,<br />Still looks the same as we make tracks together.<br /><br />The houses on the cliffs still stand together;<br />The restroom hut’s unchanged in thirty years,<br />But smaller since I went with my first dog.<br />The little village by the wind-swept sea<br />Stands still, unlike an hourglass’s sand;<br />It’s I who changed since I was just a boy.<br /><br />My mother took me as a little boy<br />To this same beach, and here we’d play together,<br />And then she’d read a novel on the sand<br />For well-earned rest back in those early years.<br />She never worried; she could always see<br />Me watched and herded by my boyhood dog.<br /><br />Some years went by; I had another dog.<br />The first would know me only as a boy;<br />The second one recoiled from the sea.<br />The people who’d come here with me together<br />Had slowly disappeared throughout the years—<br />The sea had washed their footprints off the sand.<br /><br />Now, after thirty years, I cross the sand<br />And pass the people, with another dog.<br />It’s sad to climb the crags of early years—<br />Too much departed since I was a boy.<br />No humans with me walk the sands together.<br />The crowd recedes; just me, him, God, and sea.<br /> There’s nothing left for me here by the sea<br />Except to walk more dogs upon the sand—<br />The people here and I don’t go together.<br />The only friend still with me is my dog.<br />I don’t like what they taught me as a boy—<br />I can’t turn back from truth I’ve learned these years.<br /><br />I see the sea the last time with my dog;<br />I’ll leave the sands I ambled as a boy<br />To find a wife, for many years together.<br /><br /><br /><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(First published in </span></i><span style="font-size: x-small;">The Society of Classical Poets</span><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">)</span></i><br /><br />* * *<br /><br /><i>And here is a form developed by Josh, the <b>Sestina Sonnet</b>, which uses the <b>Sestina</b> algorithm for four end-words, plugged into the <b>Sonnet</b> form—a marriage, if you will:<br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4IvaOZxGKvbvNZ0NIhZ_G12HAhpsu47FXJFt7CKARWpwmg0RWdqmVFj0l7c44VwGXZMGwoi0E9GoCpwHbPXtsxkPYghmgd4cr6LtzwyCMPTzlx5ri-tuyp6aOROmWgPUMyuOMz7txq2hjr6OliUgeUwiLFZeXmwgCX9VmERsgTkOfigqtjEjzIA/s500/sunset.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="500" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4IvaOZxGKvbvNZ0NIhZ_G12HAhpsu47FXJFt7CKARWpwmg0RWdqmVFj0l7c44VwGXZMGwoi0E9GoCpwHbPXtsxkPYghmgd4cr6LtzwyCMPTzlx5ri-tuyp6aOROmWgPUMyuOMz7txq2hjr6OliUgeUwiLFZeXmwgCX9VmERsgTkOfigqtjEjzIA/w320-h256/sunset.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> </i><br /><br />RED FLAGS <br /><i>—Joshua C. Frank</i><br /><br />The national flags of the Westerners’ lands<br />Turn red in the dim, fading light of the sunset,<br />Like Communist red—bloody floors in a prison.<br />All the flags look the same when the light fades away.<br /><br />Distinctions of flags have all faded away;<br />You can’t tell your own from the Soviet land’s,<br />And Christians and patriots cast into prison<br />Are told by the warden they’ve seen their last sunset.<br /><br />A country’s long day has to end with a sunset;<br />What soldiers have fought for is fading away,<br />And chaos fights order and locks it in prison.<br />The victim? Depends on just where the die lands.<br /><br />With what we hold dear walled away in a prison,<br />There’s nothing to do now but watch the land’s sunset.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(First published in </span></i><span style="font-size: x-small;">The Society of Classical Poets</span><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">)</span></i><br /><br />* * *<br /><i><br />And here is a short-but-sweet <b>Ars Poetica</b> from Stephen Kingsnorth:</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpoVhJgphq5rj0nzX0ts9laAwwZUvQdVKL8IMUXAtnQDE_JFgmjeBtsAYoOjdpqatbEjgEFBZobfVOvoalasc7ySvesC_hJLvoZUTESV7SgEQDuvokgNdhwtkx6LybfySmW0u5ttgvBWSQQZPnverMvdoXTmCGaJFsMAs0WWRPdV9YF70sQ5IGDQ/s121/space%20sk.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="99" data-original-width="121" height="164" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpoVhJgphq5rj0nzX0ts9laAwwZUvQdVKL8IMUXAtnQDE_JFgmjeBtsAYoOjdpqatbEjgEFBZobfVOvoalasc7ySvesC_hJLvoZUTESV7SgEQDuvokgNdhwtkx6LybfySmW0u5ttgvBWSQQZPnverMvdoXTmCGaJFsMAs0WWRPdV9YF70sQ5IGDQ/w200-h164/space%20sk.png" width="200" /></a></div> </i><br />SPACE<br /><i>—Stephen Kingsnorth</i><br /><br />⸮ With fewer words, <br />more space for thought,<br />but space between <br />the terms creates<br />prompts required <br />for eroteme ?<br /><br />___________________<br /><i><br />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!<br /><br />___________________<br /><br /><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">TRIPLE-F CHALLENGES! </span></b></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7K7KYpBexd0OL_FvDdSGti6_lP_XT8LW72ej_xzemim2lQgHRcmHXvGP7dvK6w8NWcgPj9L86jv3NLpTA2s6QNhekLBs_bUC5v9vXhIALhIJ-Wlgj3MO6tXUN5IBlZZlNt09yhIL-IlWF5kphJmutuLsQ0OAipsM_AxOv_bPBmUPH51xHunB6SQ/s1300/snake%20around%20pen.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7K7KYpBexd0OL_FvDdSGti6_lP_XT8LW72ej_xzemim2lQgHRcmHXvGP7dvK6w8NWcgPj9L86jv3NLpTA2s6QNhekLBs_bUC5v9vXhIALhIJ-Wlgj3MO6tXUN5IBlZZlNt09yhIL-IlWF5kphJmutuLsQ0OAipsM_AxOv_bPBmUPH51xHunB6SQ/s1300/snake%20around%20pen.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="778" data-original-width="1300" height="120" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7K7KYpBexd0OL_FvDdSGti6_lP_XT8LW72ej_xzemim2lQgHRcmHXvGP7dvK6w8NWcgPj9L86jv3NLpTA2s6QNhekLBs_bUC5v9vXhIALhIJ-Wlgj3MO6tXUN5IBlZZlNt09yhIL-IlWF5kphJmutuLsQ0OAipsM_AxOv_bPBmUPH51xHunB6SQ/w200-h120/snake%20around%20pen.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /></span></b>See what you can make of these challenges, and send your results to kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.) Let’s try one of <span style="color: red;">Josh Frank</span>’s <b>Sestina Sonnets:</b><br /><br />•••<b>Sestina Sonnet</b> (Joshua C. Frank): uses the <b>Sestina</b> algorithm for four end-words, plugged into the <b>Sonnet</b> form<br /><br />•••AND/OR try a <b>Double Acrostic</b> as <span style="color: red;">Carl Schwartz</span> has developed it, with a first-letter-and-first-word structure (see above).<br /><br />•••See also the bottom of this post for another challenge, this one an <b>Ekphrastic </b>photo.<br /><br />•••And don’t forget each <b>Tuesday’s Seed of the Week!</b> This week it’s “Winter Moonlight”.<br /><br />____________________<br /><b><br /><span style="color: #2b00fe;">MEDUSA’S FORM FINDER: Links to poetry terms mentioned today:</span></b><br /><br />•••<b>Acrostic Poem types:</b> <a href="https://studybay.com/blog/how-to-write-an-acrostic-poem">https://studybay.com/blog/how-to-write-an-acrostic-poem</a><br />•••<b>Ars Poetica:</b> <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ars-poetica">www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ars-poetica</a><br />•••<b>Benison:</b> <a href="https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/bennison">https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/bennison</a><br />•••<b>Bina:</b> <a href="https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/bina">https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/bina</a><br />•••<b>Double Acrostic</b> (Carl Schwartz): first letters and first words of each line form an Acrostic<br />•••<b>Ekphrastic Poem:</b> <a href="http://notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry">notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry</a> <br />•••<b>Haibun:</b> <a href="http://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/haibun-poems-poetic-form">www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/haibun-poems-poetic-form</a><br />•••<b>List Poem:</b> <a href="http://clpe.org.uk/poetryline/poeticforms/list-poem">clpe.org.uk/poetryline/poeticforms/list-poem</a><br />•••<b>Rhyme/Rime Royal:</b> <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/rhyme-royal-rime-royale">www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/rhyme-royal-rime-royale</a><br />•••<b>Senryu: </b><a href="http://www.masterclass.com/articles/how-to-write-senryu-poems#quiz-0">www.masterclass.com/articles/how-to-write-senryu-poems#quiz-0</a><br />•••<b>Sestina:</b> <a href="http://poets.org/glossary/sestina">poets.org/glossary/sestina</a> AND/OR <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/sestina">www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/sestina</a><br />•••<b>Sestina Sonnet</b> (Joshua C. Frank): uses the Sestina algorithm for four end-words, plugged into the Sonnet form<br />•••<b>Waka:</b> <a href="http://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/waka">poetscollective.org/poetryforms/waka<br /></a><br />___________________<br /><br />—Medusa</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQDHXtvyf2Yrvvy1NaT4zTINCtW9AeGY966qL8Oj8abZbQ4znQIhg-NGJpSWkXqqD3dQjBLsoikx5ufPU9n_yZK-fn6MEqN7XFxqcI_8VGUk-QqG_QdE6fqRuc5OyWkGXaWRzMOM9Nl_ha8SsFL3oXMGusRb1ocEzMGKhclzk5SB93zIt4wFo7qg/s400/waiting%20dog:man.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="267" data-original-width="400" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQDHXtvyf2Yrvvy1NaT4zTINCtW9AeGY966qL8Oj8abZbQ4znQIhg-NGJpSWkXqqD3dQjBLsoikx5ufPU9n_yZK-fn6MEqN7XFxqcI_8VGUk-QqG_QdE6fqRuc5OyWkGXaWRzMOM9Nl_ha8SsFL3oXMGusRb1ocEzMGKhclzk5SB93zIt4wFo7qg/w400-h268/waiting%20dog:man.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i> <b>Today's Ekphrastic Challenge!</b></i><br /><i> </i><br /><i> </i><br /><i> Make what you can of today's </i><br /><i>photo, and send your poetic results to </i><br /><i>kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.)</i><br /><br /><i>* * *</i><br /></div><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>—Public Domain Photo <br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /><br /><br /><br /></i><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> <br /> <br /> <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><i>For info about </i><br /><i>upcoming poetry happenings in </i><br /><i>Northern California and otherwheres, </i><br /><i>click on</i><br /><i><b>UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS</b></i><br /><i>(<a href="http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)">http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)</a></i><br /><i>in the links at the top of this page.</i><br /><br /><i>Photos in this column can be enlarged by </i><br /><i>clicking on them once, then clicking on the x </i><br /><i>in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.</i><br /><br /><i>Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down</i><br /><i>under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button</i><br /><i>at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets </i><br /><i>by typing the name of the poet or poem</i><br /><i> into the little beige box at the top </i><br /><i>left-hand side of today’s post; or go to </i><br /><i>Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of </i><br /><i>the blue column at the right</i><br /><i> to find the date you want.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo3f7nBEHIC9I458r8uANxxvDmRRUd-7F4jiFsFXc4gYN9mF1OeOkzoNSZI-LZMknHDb_cEi06ZgrfJU3SjeBiDuFN7OTdf1l5FAq-mzgHzrDmQ47Y5JpiGCBeGPGx1fqjw8cwx04OAcP-znZ00Afdci-gKG5h1JkuJuVKUC9r6cMKqPVl4psxeg/s301/yellow:computer.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="301" height="112" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo3f7nBEHIC9I458r8uANxxvDmRRUd-7F4jiFsFXc4gYN9mF1OeOkzoNSZI-LZMknHDb_cEi06ZgrfJU3SjeBiDuFN7OTdf1l5FAq-mzgHzrDmQ47Y5JpiGCBeGPGx1fqjw8cwx04OAcP-znZ00Afdci-gKG5h1JkuJuVKUC9r6cMKqPVl4psxeg/w200-h112/yellow:computer.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /> </i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div> </div></div>Kathy Kieth, Wrangler-in-Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11925893540872899117noreply@blogger.com