Pig Lipstick and Other Monday Morning Thoughts

—Winter Garden Photos by Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

OLYMPIC FIRE AND ICE
—Jennifer Fenn, Fresno, CA

Some say the world will end in fire, some in ice.
            —Robert Frost

Snow blankets Seoul stadium,
burying news broadcasts
of fiery tensions
between North and South Korea.
It glows under red and blue rain
of fireworks spreading
long, embracing arms
across the night sky.

Dignitaries from both sides watch,
eyes widening, mouths falling open
at drones forming a glistening dove.
Four singers from both nations
take turns singing “Imagine”.

Runners, one at a time,
bear the flame closer to the cauldron.
Athletes, one from each nation,
both wearing white,
carry it up the icy slope together,
each with one hand on the torch.

The flame is lit.

____________________

THE BLANKET PROJECT
—Jennifer Fenn

Toddlers and teenagers at Shriners’ Hospital
curl up into balls in metal hospital beds,
peering over their covers,
anxious about what their time will be like
away from friends, pets, and schools.
Will surgery hurt? Will stitches tear open?
Will leg braces be heavy?
How long will therapy take?
Will the scars on their skin go away?
Such mountains to conquer!

Groups of Rainbow Girls of all ages
sit around tables
to start their blanket project
for these children.
Each group takes two sheet-sized pieces
of bright colored flannel, one plain,
one with flowers or cartoons.
They carefully cut fringe on each one,
then tie the pieces together,
making the blankets twice as warm.
Chattering about future service projects,
their college and career goals,
and school soccer games,
they dream of the days
when children at the hospital
will be able to do those same things.
They imagine a blanket
draped over each child,
like an embracing rainbow
over their mountains.

THE RED-SILK BANNER
OF DOUBLE-HAPPINESS
—Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA

The red-silk,
Chinese banner of Double-Happiness,
With four peacock-couples
One couple, each,
Posted at each corner of the banner,
All facing the center, the middle, the heart,
Where the world was centered between them,
Somehow came
To the groom’s grandmother
Twenty years before
Her grandson’s wedding-day
To his Chinese wife.

When their lives were joined
Under the banner,
They were reminded
That the happiness of one
May be doubled to two
When two are joined
As one,
And the peacocks danced
The dance of silken peacocks
On the wall
As they achieved their fate,
And a wonderful time
Was had by all!

_________________

THE GHOSTS I LIKE MOST
—Joseph Nolan
 
My ghosts linger.
They come to measure
And comfort me
At any time of day.
Sometimes they
Want my body
As their own
And display
Aggressive,
Intrusive
Intentions
To take
My body
Away!
As their own.
So I,
Must disown
Them
And send
Them
Away,
Though I
Do not like to.
I wish I
Could keep them
By my side
The ghosts
I like
The most!
And maybe later
We might
Drink a toast
To older days
When they
Were still alive. 

WHY POETS WAKE IN THE NIGHT
—Joseph Nolan

There’s a meaning to our madness
And symbols in our rhyme:
Prolific poets
Work overtime,
Overnight,
When they awake
With a line or two
They dare not shake
And their burning,
Vain ambition
Pursues them in the dark
When they’d be better off
On a lark.

So they throw
Warm covers off
And get up in the night,
To let elusive
Thoughts and images
Into light—
For morning saved!

Since they
Oh! So easily
Do slip away,
Confounded and blurred
By dreams,
And stretching time
That does betray!

_________________

NO UPSIDE GETTING DRUNK
IN FRONT OF THE RELATIVES
—Joseph Nolan

There’s no upside
Getting drunk
In front of the relatives.

It’s sort of like
Being a psychic-flasher.
Nobody likes a flasher
No matter what! 
No matter how perfect
The body
Or well-chiseled
The gut.

Something bad always comes out
Surprise! for all to see!
Any they’ll never
Ever forget it
And that’s pure misery.

Forever after
And-a-day
You’ll hear
The tales be told
Of the day,
The week,
The month,
The year
You thought you
Might be bold.
And it grows old! 

LIPSTICK ON A PIG
—Joseph Nolan

Lipstick on a pig
Lipstick on a pig
At the beauty counter
They said this was really big!

I went to buy a wig
I need to wear a wig
And have a drink of whisky
And take a real, big swig.

I voted in the election,
I voted for our new king
Who wore a bright, red MAGA hat
And promised heaven to bring.

The news is bought and paid for,
Paid for on TV,
By all the advertisers
Who can’t sell their stuff for free.

And so are the elections.
And so are all the votes.
Even if you won’t admit it,
It’s all an awesome hoax!

Follow all the money!
Find a money-tree,
Pluck the dollars before they fall
And buy a new TV!

This world is full of wonders—
Wonders for us to see!
It makes you stop to wonder
If anyone’s really free? 

WHAT IF…
—Caschwa

…man has really destroyed the very
possibility for life on Earth to continue? 

Let’s say that once the polar ice caps have
fully melted away, sea levels will rise, land
masses will shrink, and our continental
shelves will suffer damaging changes beyond
recognition. 

All major metropolitan areas will become
Atlantis.  Those who manage to survive will
face endless struggles to control what little is
left of dry land.

Our whole package of daily concerns, from
screaming, banner headlines to everything of
lesser degrees will become virtually irrelevant. 
From collusion, to war, to major crimes, to rare
and monumental political events, to product
recalls due to undeclared allergens, all will be
overridden by tides and waves.

In addition to the fact that most dead bodies will
simply be flushed away, the entire end-of-life
industry will die from lack of material resources.

IN THE MEANTIME…

…each and every post in the news is just a distraction,
while those individuals who already own enormous
parcels of land make every effort to ensure their own
safety and prosperity.  Period.

____________________

TOUGH ALLEY
—Caschwa

I still have that pair of bowling shoes
I bought brand new ages ago, when
my new bride and I were in a league

seeking to overcome all the walls,
plateaus, blocks, and infinite other
barriers to raising our modest scores

the perfect game just kept glaring
down at us like some stony, medieval
gargoyle fiercely guarding a very
exclusive private entrance

daring unwary on-comers to “make it
look easy” while colluding with too
many left feet to swallow the balance
of anyone gazing upward to read the
scoreboard…

…my senior feet no longer remember
those nice shoes that used to fit well,
but now don’t fit at all, like the prices
from decades ago, like some of our
elected officials, like I am going to need
a new pair of “Go Shoe Me” accounts. 

MISFIT
—Caschwa

I like my little sedan
it fits in my small
garage, my wife and
I can both easily enter
or exit, and it has a
comfy ride

But now the very
same carmaker that
happily sold me the
sedan posts TV ads
to announce that one
of their new pickup
trucks or SUVs would
better suit my needs
and be the vehicle
really worth having

all of this shaming me
and my comfy sedan
makes me reconsider
doing business with
this same carmaker
ever again

___________________

Today’s LittleNip(s) by Caschwa:

The OPTION Law Office

Other
Peoples’
Trouble
Is
Our
Nourishment

* * *

FRENCH ODE, RANDOM MODE

Flowers often receive mail from
our rugged men flying over rural
Memphis, ferreting out rude
meanings for opening rose mallow.

(fire six hidden forms in this poem)

* * *

PHRASING

The penis, mightier than the sword.

___________________

Thanks to today’s varied contributors, including rarely-heard-from Jennifer Fenn from Fresno, who was featured on Medusa 1/11/17 and hasn’t appeared much since. Welcome back, Jennifer!

Want to get away from it all for ten days and focus on your writing? Alexa Mergen writes that the Ely Pink House in Pulga, Nevada, has a ten-day residency program for poets, writers, photographers, and other artists. Write to her at alexamergen@gmail.com or see www.pulgatown.com/artist-residency-1/. Deadline is Feb. 28, but there will be another residency offered later this year.

Alas, convergence Managing Editor Cynthia Linville writes that their final issue is online at www.convergence-journal.com/winter18/ and that she appreciates the support of all of the contributors and readers over the fifteen years of publication. All issues, from 2003-2018, are archived at www.convergence-journal.com/archive.html/.
 This snappy local online publication will be sorely missed!

As for poetry readings in our area, things are heating up again, now that the holidays are over. Sac Poetry Center readings are back tonight, 7:30pm, with Khaya “Khalypso” Osborne plus open mic. Poetry Off-the-Shelves poetry read-around in El Dorado Hills meets on Tuesday from 5-7pm at the El Dorado Hills Library on Silva Valley Parkway. On Wednesday, SPC’s new writing workshop with various facilitators, MarieWriters, meets at SPC at 6pm, tonight’s group facilitated by Laura Rosenthal. [This workshop is primarily to generate writing in a small group, as opposed to SPC's long-running Tuesday Night Workshop which meets at the Hart Sr. Center as a critique group.]

Thursday night at 8pm, Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe presents Traci Gourdine plus open mic. Then on Saturday, Sac. Poetry Center Gallery features its Second Sat. Reception for Paradise Relief: An Invitational Art Show to Benefit the Camp Fire Survivors. From 5-6:30pm, come look at the art which was selected; then at 6:30pm, some poets (including Susan Kelly-DeWitt and others) will read poems based on the theme, followed by open mic.

Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about these and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa

 Alley Cat Opinions

—Anonymous Photo

(Celebrate Poetry!)

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
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Change for the Better?

Alley Sign
—Poem and Photos by Charles Mariano, Sacramento, CA

SIGN OF THE TIMES
(Sacramento 2019)

shouldn’t bother me
after all these years
and it doesn’t
not really, but…

before i saw this sign
on a recent walk
through the stylishly new
trendy area in Sactown,
couldn’t help
but let my dusty brain
wander backwards

i’m standing in front of
freshly minted, upscale stores,
formerly Crystal Ice,

staring across the way
where Orchard Supply
used to be
and shake my head
in cross-eyed amazement

flashy shops, eating stops,
and a line for coffee
out the door

further down, spittin’ distance really,
where Safeway is (and that shiny horse)
and wondering what happened
to the stampeding buffalo mural

change for the better? 
yeah, i guess,
just not for someone like me,
who prefers walk speed,
rotary dial phones, and cheap beer
at cozy hole-in-the-walls

about a block
from the high-ho hubbub,
i spotted
a freshly minted street sign
no, it was an alley sign,

Tomato Alley

stopped dead in my tracks
had to touch it
make sure it was real

i looked down the alley
and across the street
clean as a whistle
no field, no plants,
not even a patch of dirt

“means nothing,”
i tell myself,
“just a sign”

sure, i worked the fields
a hundred-thousand acres
of tomatoes, and everything else
that grew out of the ground
backbreaking labor, blinding heat,
for peanuts

means nothing,
another time, another life

i mean,
it’s not exactly sacred ground,
living and dying
in those fields,
nobody remembers, nobody cares
anymore

shouldn’t bother me
after all these years,
and it doesn’t,
not really

_____________________

—Medusa, with our thanks to Charles Mariano for today’s fine poetry and photos!

 Farmworkers, 1966

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
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Blueberries of the Sun

—Poems and Photos by James Lee Jobe, Davis, CA
 

Time hasn't slowed my heart
And so it is that I still lift my spirit
Up to the blueberries of the sun.
Even now, the light that blesses me
Is also available for you, for anyone.
Sit or stand so that you feel at ease.
Hold up your hands, your arms,
Your joy. The love that is inside of you.
Lift up the soft eggs of your eyes
And give praise. It isn’t yesterday
And it isn’t tomorrow; this is now,
Feel your heart. Feel your strength.
Feel the blueberries of the sun.
All that we have is simply enough.

Altar of my flesh, temple of my spirit.
After three seasons of a lifetime I give praise and thanks.
Mi alma es mío, como mi corazón.
Here, where my heart beats.
Here, where my soul dwells.

Lift me now from the black water,
And all of the life that is left to me
Is a consequence of that life I have already lived.
Naked and rising, the water drips from my skin.
I will be bone dry before I reach the stars.
A young child, I can't tell if it is a boy or a girl,
Holds out a hand for me to touch as I pass by,
But it is too late, I am gone,
Looking down on a smiling face.

4:06 AM. A Delta breeze. Stars. Clouds.
My Redwood trees dance just a little,
As if they wanted to sashay their skirts
Above the dance floor of Mother Earth.

Life from the air in each breath, joyful.
Life from the fire that gives warmth, joyful.
Life from the light from the sun, joyful.
Life from the water that falls and flows, joyful.
Life from the fruit of the earth, joyful.
Life from the love within us, joyful.
Let my thanks be joyful also.

Today’s LittleNip:

May I find a way to heal that which needs healing—
In myself, in others, and in the world.
May I find the courage, wisdom, and kindness to do this.

—James Lee Jobe

_____________________

Many thanks to James Lee Jobe for today’s fine celebration of poetry and photos, and a reminder that today you are invited to enter 3-5 artworks to the SPC fundraiser art show at the Sacramento Poetry Center Art Gallery entitled "Paradise Relief: An Invitational Art Show to Benefit the Camp Fire Victims", curated by Bethanie Humphreys and Heather Judy. Drop off submissions at SPC today between 12-2pm. (See www.facebook.com/events/202445027323910/?active_tab=about/ for info.) Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about this and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa

 —Anonymous Photo
(Celebrate poetry!)

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.

Arias of Love and Death

Alley Cats in Panama

—Anonymous Photos

RECITATIVE
—A.E. Stallings (b. 1968)

Every night, we couldn’t sleep.
Our upstairs neighbors had to keep
Dropping something down the hall—
A barbell or a bowling ball,

And from the window by the bed,
Echoing inside my head,
Alley cats expended breath
In arias of love and death.

Dawn again, across the street,
Jackhammers began to beat
Like hangovers, and you would frown—
That well-built house, why tear it down?

Noon, the radiator grill
Groaned, gave off a lesser chill
So that we could take off our coats.
The pipes coughed to clear their throats.

Our nerves were frayed like ravelled sleeves,
We cherished each our minor griefs
To keep them warm until the night,
When it was time again to fight;

But we were young, did not need much
To make us laugh instead, and touch,
And could not hear ourselves above
The arias of death and love.

ALLEY CATS
—Dahlov Ipcar (1917-2017)

One little alley cat singing a solo.
All alone in the lonesome street,
Nothing to eat.
Pity a kitty
Singing a lonely ditty.
One little alley cat
Singing her own song,
A lone song,
A solo.

Two little alley cats singing a duet.
Out on the backyard fences,
Out of their senses.
Caterwauling and bawling,
Wailing and calling.
Two little alley cats
Singing a love song,
A heaven-above song,
A duet.

Three little alley cats singing a trio.
Out in the rainy night,
Under the dim street light.
Singing in rain-fog and wheezing,
Shivering there and sneezing.
Three little alley cats
Singing wet songs,
In rain-fog,
A trio.

Four little alley cats sing a quartet.
Out in the wind and the weather.
Huddling together.
Rain in their cold wet fur;
Still they can purr.
Four little alley cats
Singing a sweet song,
A city street song,
A quartet.

ANOTHER INSANE DEVOTION
—Gerald Stern (b. 1925)

This was gruesome—fighting over a ham sandwich                  
with one of the tiny cats of Rome, he leaped
on my arm and half hung on to the food and half
hung on to my shirt and coat. I tore it apart
and let him have his portion, I think I lifted him
down, sandwich and all, on the sidewalk and sat
with my own sandwich beside him, maybe I petted
his bony head and felt him shiver. I have
told this story over and over; some things
root in the mind; his boldness, of course, was frightening
and unexpected—his stubbornness—though hunger
drove him mad. It was the breaking of boundaries,
the sudden invasion, but not only that it was
the sharing of food and the sharing of space; he didn't
run into an alley or into a cellar,
he sat beside me, eating, and I didn't run
into a trattoria, say, shaking,
with food on my lips and blood on my cheek, sobbing;
but not only that, I had gone there to eat
and wait for someone. I had maybe an hour
before she would come and I was full of hope
and excitement. I have resisted for years
interpreting this, but now I think I was given
a clue, or I was giving myself a clue,
across the street from the glass sandwich shop.
That was my last night with her, the next day
I would leave on the train for Paris and she would
meet her husband. Thirty-five years ago
I ate my sandwich and moaned in her arms, we were
dying together; we never met again
although she was pregnant when I left her—I have
a daughter or son somewhere, darling grandchildren
in Norwich, Connecticut, or Canton, Ohio.
Every five years I think about her again
and plan on looking her up. The last time
I was sitting in New Brunswick, New Jersey,
and heard that her husband was teaching at Princeton,
if she was still married, or still alive, and tried
calling. I went that far. We lived
in Florence and Rome. We rowed in the bay of Naples
and floated, naked, on the boards. I started
to think of her again today. I still
am horrified by the cat's hunger. I still
am puzzled by the connection. This is another
insane devotion, there must be hundreds, although
it isn't just that, there is no pain, and the thought
is fleeting and sweet. I think it's my own dumb boyhood,
walking around with Slavic cheeks and burning
stupid eyes. I think I gave the cat
half of my sandwich to buy my life, I think
I broke it in half as a decent sacrifice.
It was this I bought, the red coleus,
the split rocking chair, the silk lampshade.
Happiness. I watched him with pleasure.
I bought memory. I could have lost it.
How crazy it sounds. His face twisted with cunning.
The wind blowing through his hair. His jaw working.

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:
 
Amorous cat, alas
You too must yowl with your love...
or even worse, without!

―Yaha

__________________

—Medusa

For more about Dahlov Ipcar, go to www.islandportpress.com/dahlov-ipcar.html/.

 Celebrate poetry!

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
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New Days

—Poems and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA

A NEW DAY

Sleeping dog and cat
on our bed early rising
in a full moon mist—
from dreaming of owl and dove
I’m slow to turn on the lights.

NEW YEAR SURVEY

This pared-down time of year—
early afternoon but the sun’s aslant,
trees almost leafless,
new grass barely boot-tread high.
A chance for starting fresh.
We see things we never noticed.
Maybe they weren’t there, by autumn
light or late last summer.
Things that make us wonder:
a stretch of two-strand wire
fence across a swale that isn’t
pasture. Who put that up? why?
A puzzle for the new year.
So many stories only partly told
by January slant of cold light.
And here, prints impressed in mud—
bigfoot? bear? human?—
off-road tire tracks breaking
soil where driving’s not allowed.
So much can happen
when we’re not around.

A FRESH START?

Now is the winter of our lessened days
made easy by the paving of our road—
our neighborhood rutted, eroded way
from county two-lane up to hilltop home.
I liked it like that, bucking the breakers,
the bedrock risers and iceberg boulders.
It kept out strangers and salesmen. It kept
us to ourselves and our land. Now it’s paved,
life will be easier though every chore
grows heavier with passing years. We should
be glad, our road graded, spread, rolled flat
as anywhere else in the paved gray world.

FINDING THE WAY
for the Rev. Charles Caleb Peirce

He was born on a pathway and so he lives
with what possessions the fire spares.
Light of the Lord is a cleansing flame—
oh, a Gold Rush town is flammable!

With what possessions the fire spares
he follows his Master and he travels light.
Oh, a Gold Rush town is flammable,
the stuff of parable, of instruction.

He follows his Master and he travels light
about the countryside, God’s land
the stuff of parable, of instruction
on river and ridge, the joy of His earth.

About the countryside—God’s land—
light of the Lord is a cleansing flame
on river and ridge. The joy of His earth!
Born on a pathway, this is how he lives.

PHOTO ONCE TAKEN, UNTITLED

When the wolf’s at the door,
do you close it? But it’s already shut

behind her. Out on the street,
long skirt black against snow, last

night’s fall already trampled
by the day’s traffic, dirty soles.

Bare hands, she holds some-
thing close. End of an old familiar

year, its known intersections, street
numbers. Vestibule of what’s to come.

Too cold to just stand there
for the lens. Time to start walking,

pad softly, wolf-dog at her flank.

LAST OF THE OLD YEAR

Who was that girl wending among shoppers
on Main Street at the side of my Prince,
my dog long gone? His image

glanced my way, curious but aloof.
What pedigree—a line we lost long ago?
Golden grace loved beyond reason.

My living dog is silver-sable
electric, wild energy barely contained.
Joyous.

I almost followed the image
burnished gold fading across Main Street.
A lost thing

should lie down quiet on command.
My silver-sable dog waits to be
unleashed, to show me a living world entire.

Today’s LittleNip:

ON THE WOODS PATH
—Taylor Graham

Here we find wild scat
full of berries and grape skins;
a little farther,
wild scat full of fur and bones—
leftover mysteries of night.

_________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Taylor Graham for her fine poems today, as she reflects on the new year and Starting Fresh!

 Girl With Wolf

—Anonymous Photo Courtesy of Taylor Graham
Celebrate the poetry of the past, present and future!

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Unflappable

—Poems by Carol Louise Moon, Sacramento, CA
—Anonymous Photos of Hedgehogs, Bronze & Otherwise

BRONZE, THE HEDGEHOG

Did I mention to you
the blue-green of the bluegrass
here in Kentucky?
Did I remind you
that the bronze hedgehog
is still staring a blank stare
from his place in the garden,
out to the horse palace
with its copper steeples?

The horses are well-fed
and run twice a day,
so I don’t worry about them.
My concern is this:
Has anyone polished
Bronze the Hedgehog lately?
Does he desire, or require, polishing?

The grass has grown around
his girth and up in front of his face.
He’s still staring the horses down.
Perhaps Bronze really is unflappable.

HER SON SHINES THROUGH GLASS

A dark man smiles through
a sculpted brass picture frame
which rests on polished maple.

This brass-framed picture sits
near a triangular spot of light
reflected from the mirror behind.

This triangular spot of light glows
beside a small flower-painted urn
which holds a blue carnation.

The small flower-painted urn
is companion to a white teapot
which wears a gold-rimmed hat.

For company, she pours the teapot
which, dressed in white, tips his
gold-rimmed hat and whispers,

“Good day, Ma’am, whose
son shines through glass.”

TANGLE-HAIR SPIDER

A large black spider sat above my chair
as I slept and dreamt of my gentle lover’s hand.
I woke to find my matted, tangled hair.
Among my gray he’d found a light-red strand
and wove while running fingers round and round.
Among the locks of auburn, gray and dense,
he’d found a strand more pleasing on the crown.
The spider tucked it in, I am convinced—
the light-red strand he tucked is evidence.

THAT OL’ CAROUSER SUN

The Sun looks refreshed this morning
after a half day of carousing
on the other side of the world.

His ogle strikes a note of curiosity,
for which I wonder about his
pandering among the stars.

Has he encouraged a galaxy rave
with careless talk of light speed? Has he
drunk the gin of meteor showers?

Who’s to know, except residents on the
other side of the globe?—they, too busy
carousing in their nap-dreams to notice.

 Sonic Hedgehog

ZAMPHIR, PAN FLUTIST

i.
I lie down in the meadow,
bare-foot and round-eared.
I hope to meet him here:
Zamphir, Pan Flutist.

ii.
He appears near a tree trunk,
leans his back against the bark,
draws in his first breath—
just as the sun is rising.

iii.
Zamphir’s breath slips over
his tongue and through his flute,
music flowing like blue through green.

iv.
Does Zamphir’s hand hold the pan flute?
Or, has the flute threatened to take away
his breath if he puts the flute down?

v.
Zamphir’s heart is throbbing
with each black note escaping
little-pipe-organ-holes;
little-pipe-organ-holes.

vi.
I thought he was a bird.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Write it on your heart that every day is the best day in the year.

—Ralph Waldo Emerson

____________________

—Medusa, with many thanks to Carol Louise Moon for her fine poems today!

Chia Hedgehog

Celebrate poetry in 2019!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Starting Fresh

The Sky Filling With Blue

—Poems and Original Art by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

NEW DAY

The sky, filling with blue, then a fragile cloud or
two, threading. A sharpness of birdsong, penetrating

the silence—brief—and from no distance other than
where it was a startled moment back. Then, that slow,

soft tone of whiteness that takes the place of early
blue, the way you slowly surrender the owned moment

to the swift intrusion of sounds and urgencies, your
reluctance to rise from the warm bed—seductive with

comfort—warm around you. The sky again—gone flat
outside your window-measure, full of daylight now,

the clouds, losing their pink direction, taking on the
heavy factory gray that smudges them.

You stretch and sigh. You look at the clock. 

 Ingress

STARTING IN THE MIDDLE

Writing in parenthesis, (thinking in parenthesis)
to think twice in two ways,
rounding the second meanings from the first.

And so it flows, (the talk between talk)
the innuendos that do research
(against the mind)
that interrupt and have their say.
               ~
Oh, speak
(like this)
and say (like this)
all there is to say.
Book.
Pages.
Open anywhere
(like fingers to a map)
Explore.
                ~
We almost rhyme. It’s in the warning.
The grope through sound with effort,
(even meaning) to communicate and explain.
when little furtive rhymes keep interrupting.
               ~
Like butting in line,
(one item only)
with sorry,
and please
(your hurry).
               ~
The book so long, can’t begin at beginning,
open book at random, read that page
(for guidance) through the book.

 Pending

How well I know the muse now

in our
old hide-&-seek game
taking years
to play,
efforts to make,
then, obedient to her,
trying to catch
all those words she flashes through the mind

___________________

CRISIS

Hey, now the siren . . .
hey now, coming for us . . .

coming through the far-away streets,
pushing dog-howl ahead of it . . .

stirring up
the fog . . .

it is sure of its destination,
knows its job.

 From Your Guitar

NOW IS THE TIME FOR YOUR MUSIC
After Young Spanish Woman with Guitar by Renoir

Long before
I would ever yearn to hear it

you have been chronicled in art
for me to decipher,

sure of your smoldering style,
the intensity

of your concentration—
oblivious of me,

your hands at work.                        
And I am only your poor listener

for what I would hear :
wild flamenco from your guitar.

_________________

NEVER AS NOW

What’s never is now. What’s the use
of hiding it? It will out, as in will in.

Heavy with doubt, we reassess.
Excuses—ever what we use.

Why confuse this
with fact.

Fact is an act.
Act. 1.  Done.

Pure nonsense?
How pure?

Mix this
with that and drink slowly.

In a hurry, she asks?
Here is only here.

Elsewhere is nowhere.
Here is here.

Spinning. A gold child in the center of
her spin. Look. She is happy.  She can spin.

 And Now

and now there will be nothing to say

too easily the parting moves away from the holding
the long journey away from goodbye,
so easily the tender sorrow after sorrow
torn now into aftermath—
a long word apart,
nothing said,
just the last connection of eyes
so full of what they want from each other—
what they need,
the quick kiss on the cheek and the waving goodbye

 Ideography

CARTOGRAPHY
“That the science of cartography is limited”
                                   —Eavan Boland
 
Now let there be, let there be,
a falling of words, following the mind-path,
which is blind, with only pre-knowledge of going

into the far interior of the soul-magic,
which is old and new, and not ever known,
but known only by an intuitive knowing.

Let the words be harmonious with troubled mind,
with seeking mind, with lonely mind—ever
following the mind’s impulse, which is blind.

Let the scripture of the heart forego its worries,
trust in the language of life, that is particulate
with mood and query. Everything is known at

the core and will be reluctant to let go its power.
Every evil has a companion, hovering and advising,
echoing the dark streets of luminous desire,

stroking the thoughts that ache from confusion,
and caressing the dreams beneath sleep.

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

READINESS
—Joyce Odam

And here is paper
     ready to be poem
tucked between the pages
     of this poetry book.

__________________

A big new-year thank-you to Joyce Odam for her starting-fresh poems and lively artwork! Our new Seed of the Week is Alleycats. 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.

—Medusa

 Young Woman With a Guitar by Auguste Renoir
Celebrate poetry!

Insert New Year’s resolutions here: 

1.
2.
3.

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
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in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.