Let's Take A Journey!

—Poetry by J.D. DeHart, Chattanooga, TN
—Public Domain Photo

THE FIRST SIGN OF EMBARKING

Let’s take a journey.

So, they drove through the night
to strange oceans and dens, past monsters
of present and future, past warnings
and talismans.

All of the fast food places were closed,
so they snacked in the car, listening to the hum
of music from long ago.

They passed political markers
and signs of the times, warnings ahead,
and people holding up cries for help.

These were the days before
a soothing electronic voice, so they
traced the journey by hand, making
marks they hardly knew on a map
they knew even less.

There were sunburns and sharks,
an assembly of photographs, pausing
and posing, lots of candy wrappers.

Small monuments.

She was both giddy and delighted,
rare words in her job of filing documents
and teeth.

At the end, they would remember in pieces,
wondering where the time went, and
if that’s where all of their travels really

began,

revisiting and revisiting again
through shoeboxes of photographs, some
with labels and some devoid of context. 

I WRAP

myself in the magic
of quiet. Why do words find
such fury?

These are voices
that have no faces. I make them
up as I go.

Now, I will silence them for
the moment, a temporary relinquishment
of verbal prerogative.

I will wrap this moment
around myself, my blanket,
throwing off all of the pain

that traces along my heart
like a child coloring inside
and outside the lines.

I will not worry about tomorrow,
even though I often do.

Giving myself a new name,

I wrap myself in metaphor
so I don’t have to tell the truth
in all its blatant forms.

FOUND POEM FROM PEOPLE MAGAZINE (MAY 25, 2020)

After struggling,
First Birthday at Home in Los Angeles,

Families in central Florida
and beyond are getting TP’d.

There’s so many avenues
to success.

Their first Christmas card.

We wanted to
write a road map, a rabbit
named Rue.

I mean, who didn’t watch Tiger King?

She sets out on a righteous
revenge quest to save them, answered
an open casting call, unflinchingly
stares down modern political
and social ills.

satirical romp, vividly absurd,
The Story of Soaps,

Exclude Yourself, Loving
the Way I Am Today,

LOVE LIKE THIS

like two trucks flirting
with disaster,

like the honk of horns,
like pandemic living.

Like a hazy morning where
thoughts are collected
at the kitchen table.

Learning to groom dogs
yourself, and keeping up with the daily
total of cases.

Like slowing your scroll
for a Simon and Garfunkel lyric
that speaks to you now

as it did years ago.

Like making plans to not
plan much.

A REVIEW OF MANY-STORIED HOUSE (IN POETRY)

Thank you, Ms. George Ella Lyon, for another
fine collection. I relish this floor plan of your memories
and dreams.

I love its beams and edges.

In you I find a voice not far-removed from
many of my experiences, a song that sounds much
like the ones I’ve heard for decades, but recast

in your lyrical cadence.

In the miner’s hat, post hole diggers,
junk drawers, river rising,

alongside so many other elements, figments,
recollections, and voices, I find a poetic voice,

titles I will read over and again,
reminding me of who I am.

______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Some beautiful paths can't be discovered without getting lost.

—Erol Ozan

______________________

—Medusa, thanking J.D. DeHart for today’s fine poetry!

 George Ella Lyon
For more about George Ella Lyon, go to 

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/George_Ella_Lyon

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.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com.
The snakes of Medusa are always hungry!

Yee-Haw!

Saddle Up, Poets!

 

Shelter

City of Light

—Photo by Chris Feldman
—Poetry by Ann Wehrman, Sacramento, CA

AN ANIMAL NEEDS TO EAT
In Response to Joyce Carol Oates’
"Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been?"

air conditioner battles St. Louis’ June night heat
visiting for a week, as every summer,
ten years old, I kneel alone at Nana’s bedroom window
push up heavy glass, inhale traffic’s exhaust,
decades of city dirt, trees’ green aroma
my avid gaze sweeps Lindell Boulevard, traffic steady at 9:00 PM

pinpricks of red and gold, safety lights blink through mist
distant checkerboard Ralston-Purina tower melts into velvet darkness
below me, warm yellow light pours from 24-hour diner
muted whirs of wheels, car horns’ barks

teeth brushed, nightgown caressing me
I tarry, drink in the world through the window
a few minutes more before locking it, crawling into
Nana’s giant bed to sleep in protected comfort

yesterday, I changed my mind at the last minute
declined the Beatles’ concert with Nana’s friends
though I know all their songs, sing all their songs
nights back in Illinois, transistor radio
rocking me to sleep, secretly under my pillow

  Fundraising in Salt Lake City, 1982
—Photo by Chester DeWitt Rose

CHRISTMAS EVE
Salt Lake City, 1982

Snow squeaks under my boots’
careful trudge, mountain road
door-to-door in twilight
above a bowl of sparkling gold

mansions dot the darkening road
shivering, I approach, ring the bell
inside, lady views my box of prints
gifts for donations to our church

not her church, yet she donates
compelled to give on Christmas
feeling respect, sisterhood
or maybe just compassionate

I step out of her warm home
ready to go to the next, but
my path is blocked--city cop’s car
crunches to a halt before me

no solicitation permit, no excuse, no lip
we drive down the mountainside
at the station, I call the church center
back in Illinois

team leader calls in at prearranged time
gets my news
he pays the fine
more than I brought in today

I breathe more easily
hands and feet warm
we pick up Chinese
check the team into a motel

Fundraising in Salt Lake City, 1982
—Photo by Chester DeWitt Rose

NIGHT MOON UNDER QUARANTINE

surreal, unreal, it doesn’t seem real
alone in a small studio
third month now
I have what I need to survive

others starve, are homeless
shelter in place without clean water, any water
no heat, air conditioning, power
no access to medication or care
locked down with an abuser or molester

read of thousands sick
numbers of the dying unthinkable
every country
beloveds of all ages
elders, mothers, fathers, children
many dying alone in hospitals
some buried in mass graves

nurses, doctors
traumatized by service
this strange war is everywhere now
affects all people
enemy lives on surfaces
attacks through touch, travels by air
no cure, no vaccine yet

it is real but doesn’t seem real
do soldiers in battle experience this
strange juxtaposition between being alive
in their bodies while
danger, death rage all around them
small flowers glow white in the moonlight still
and the night breeze is sweet
do civilians feel that still, cowering under attack

humanity sheds thick, blind skin
will grow through this trauma
reborn as immunity develops
but first, what loss
what sobering, permanent pain

 Lockdown

—Photo by Chris Feldman

Today’s LittleNip:

The true alchemists do not change lead into gold; they change the whorl into words.

—William H. Gass

________________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Ann Wehrman, Chris Feldman, and Chester DeWitt Rose for today’s fine presentation!

 —Public Domain Photo

 

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.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com.
The snakes of Medusa are always hungry!
 

This Dangerous World

A Dangerous World

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

EARLY DARK                       

walking downtown
dark at six o’clock
a mild winter evening
just early enough yet
for hotel boys to be out
on roller blades and bikes
and lone men ambling by
with hands in their pockets
and you and I looking for
a restaurant we heard about
the car six blocks away
too late now I think of
the money in my purse…
stories of murders…
a dangerous world…

(first pub. in Parting Gifts, 1998-99)

 The Stars

Drawing the moon to me,

for its strength,
drawing the night around me,
for a cape with pockets of stars.

I have heard that the moon is lonely.
Lovers have told me this.
The moon has not so conspired.

It is not for loneliness that I am devoid
of light and texture—of light and
dark meanings—secrets of the self.

The moon in my hands
has closed it eyes and become two.
I hold it from breaking.

The sky waits for me
to let it go—
to let it just drift back into place.

The wall behind me is window now.
My hands are still shaping the moon.
It is still asleep.  The sky pulls.

I can feel my hands letting go.
The globe I use for a model is perfectly round
and balanced in this room of world and ambition.

____________________

I WILL GIVE YOU THAT BUTTERFLY

What gift
shall I give you :

I will give you
that butterfly
that takes its rest on the flower.

The butterfly is not mine
but I will give it to you.

I will give you the flower too.
And the sweet air around it.
And the earth I pull it from.

These are not mine to give
but

I will put all this in your hand
or in your pocket
or in your eyes.

I will give you anything
in the name of love.


(first pub. in Yes A Magazine of Poetry, 1971)

 Practicing Her Look

USEFULNESS

I am an old rag.
Come wear me.

Let me fit my holes
over your openings.

Put yourself in my pockets.
Read the notes there.

I am faded,
yes.

I am a rag of some
favorite garment that I was.

I tear
with each use.

I stain
with all I do.

But I can be useful
yet.

Here, let me wipe your counter.
Let me shine your shoe.


(first pub. in Paisley Moon, 1990)

 Thinking

FOR THE APPLAUSE

He is doing pratfalls.
He is wriggling his mustache and
walking like Charlie Chaplin.
He is googling his eyes.

His clothes are baggy and
he pulls his pockets out
to show his emptiness.
He’ll be anything to make you laugh:

the butt of every joke;
a sad drunk; a wishful lover;
a hungry person—
pantomiming his real life.

He close-ups toward
the camera,
looks in
and acts surprised to see you there,

grows shy
and hobbles away,
falling again,
this time into a pie.

He pulls the meringue away from his eye
with an index finger, tasting it,
so glad to be fed.  He grins.
You laugh at him.

___________________

FROM PURSE TO PURSE

She takes this old purse to empty it. Oh, what it holds :
years of wrinkle and crumple—notes and reminders all
clipped together or wrapped up tightly in rubber bands.
All that business, stuffed-in against the darkening leather
that sours and molds, everything kept together for the
handiness. She has so many errands, so many appointments,
so many lists and telephone numbers—the coins that slip
down among the receipts—the keys that fit the guarded
locks of necessity—too important to lose.

 Her Eyes

SOLARIZED

And now she stands
in shimmering silver light,
seeming to drown
in wet air—solarized—
looking off
into moody nowhere,
her long coat hanging
long and white,
her hands in her pockets.
Her car breathes
meltingly beside her.
The world has gone wavy.
Behind her, the drowning trees
suffocate into pulling,
emptying skies.
She leans for a balance
between movements of sound
that are becoming screams—
perhaps from those scream-birds,
invisible in the trees.
Where will she go now?  If only
we could see her eyes.

___________________

THE RITUAL OF MOURNING

Leaning in black dresses against black chairs,
the smell of candles in the parlor.

A black and white depiction
of grief and grief’s despair.

A priest with a long face and a black robe,
staring. A pocket watch

in the hand of someone—who, is not clear,
but may be death.

However grim this appears, there is
respect for the ritual for the one who is not there.

 Self

SELFNESS

Here we go hungering after life again,
despite certain hallways and dark-hung mirrors
where we continually walk toward

and through ourselves
as if the walls never taught us
anything. The least structure failure

and we lose who we are,
depending on memory to recreate us.
Each day is like this,

created and uncreated,
life after life, learning the maze of resistance
which is our illusion of difficulty.

We have not been here before,
though part of it seems familiar.
We trust anew, and mistrust eventually.

Why are we singular and not blent
as the smug words say—part of
a single consciousness?

Though I try to enter your space of being,
I feel my difference. I am blocked by my selfness.
I can only imagine you.

Our thoughts combine, and what was confusion
is now love, though we destroy it
with our inability to know, and be known.

Hungry for touch, we reach
and recoil. What is that sensation
that it devours us with such desperation?

______________________

Today’s LittleNip:
 
WORRY STONE
—Joyce Odam

I am the worry stone,
sent to worry you,
to fit your hand
and pocket—
not your shoe;
I would not have you limp
or toss me free—
I would have you
remember…    remember…
ever remember me.

                    
(first pub. in Poets’ Forum Magazine)

_____________________
 
Success! I survived the surgery and am good to go, so far, at least. Many thanks to Joyce Odam for her poems and original art this morning! (Notice how she cleverly slips our Seed of the Week, “Pockets”, into her poems.)

Our new Seed of the Week is Lost at Sea. (As always, think metaphorically. It seems like the whole world is “lost at sea” right now.) 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.

For upcoming poetry readings and workshops available online while we stay at home, scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa, mostly adrift ~~~

"I will give you that butterfly..."

—Public Domain Artwork

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.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com.
The snakes of Medusa are always hungry!

 

Yee-Haw!

Saddle up, poets! 

Pockets , Bumbags & La Strada

—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA

TURKEY IN THE STRAW, BUT NOT FOR YOU
—Kevin Jones, Elk Grove, CA

Ice cream van
Passed him up
Again. Because
He knew Coyote
Had no money. Never
Did. Because, no
Pockets. Never had.
Even those great bibs
His granny made for
Him when he
Was just a pup.

In one scene in the animated 1968 Beatles movie, Yellow Submarine, Ringo Star declares “I got a hole in me pocket”
  Just before, Ringo is chasing the "nowhere man”, Jeremy Hillary Boob, Ph.D.
  Boob is a resident of the Sea of Nothing which features big black "polka-dots" on a white background
  Ringo fails in trying to catch Boob, who suddenly disappears down into a polka-dot
  Instead Ringo grabs and picks up a “hole” which turns out to be “portable”
  A kind-of-fascinated Ringo puts the hole on over his head and pulls it out, then pulls his leg in and out
  Ringo finds out it “folds up”, too, and figures it might be cool to keep this "portable hole” in his pants pocket
  There are scientists who probably would also have wanted to physically carry around such an “escape” to another universe
  Professor Stephen Hawking, especially, would have loved to pull a little “black hole” out of one of his pockets to demonstrate a lecture


—Michelle Kunert, Sacramento, CA

La Strada is an Italian 1950’s tragic film which should probably be considered as essential a viewing as Bicycle Thief
    It’s about a young woman named Gelsomiana who performs as a trumpet-playing clown
    Gelsomiana's misfortune is to be “bought” from her mom by an abusive strong man named Zampano
    The girl then happens to fall in love with another clown in a traveling circus, named Matto, who does a high-wire tightrope act
     Zampano gets jealous and enraged with Matto for his continued taunting, and gets arrested for attacking Matto with a knife 
    Though fired from the circus for his violent behavior,
    when Zampano gets released from jail he decides to murder Matto when he finds him again
    Gelsomiana is of course furious with Zampano , but he decides to abandon her rather than murder her, too
    But then shortly after, he regrets dumping her when he realizes he needs her to help him with his street act
    He weeps that he can’t find her, especially when he finds out she might be dead
    French are supposedly known for film noir
    But indeed there are also Italian filmmakers who deserve credit, too, for dealing with dark-subject tragedy as much as with opera

—Michelle Kunert

Interestingly, “fanny-packs” in British English are called “bumbags”
        This is because “fanny” to the British is supposedly vulgar slang for “vulva”
        And so they use “bum” to describe a zippered pocket pack carried right above the buttocks
        even though such a pack can also be strapped on a hip or right below the belly
        Anyway, the “hands-free bag” or “belted satchel” started coming into popularity in the 1980’s
        It’s known that, unlike back packs, they don’t put strain on the spine
        The packs are “unisex”—worn by men and women alike
        and common items carried in them include mobile devices such as USB charging cables and back-up batteries
        and also bottles of water, snacks, tissue paper, first aid, isopropyl alcohol, contact lenses, and self-defense pepper spray
        There are U.S. states in which a fanny-pack can also be used to lawfully carry “concealed weapons”
        Fashion designers such as Gucci, Prada, and Louis Vuitton have even brought the fanny pack out from being considered “nerdy”


—Michelle Kunert

DEHYDRATED
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

Raspberries, fresh off the vine
cleaned up, mashed along with
some banana, and poured into
the dehydrator machine

which sits right beside this desk
and is issuing a kind of white
noise, not the visceral rumble
felt below decks on a ship

seven hours so far, about half
way till done, until the once
juicy fruit will assume a more
leathery disposition suitable
for rolling into loops

much worth waiting for
more fun to eat than to make,
quarantined or no

THE PASSAGE
—Caschwa

you have been there, we all have
the aisles in a health food store
where sly carnival mirrors
make us look fat
just to remind us

we must use their shopping list
borne of fitness and good health
forget what your mother made
start from scratch

you’re a college graduate
one degree above children
not as bright as some others
what to do now?
all you need to know

is to forget what you’ve learned
because that is old baggage
forge a new path to success
start from scratch

out in the woods the trail split
and you had no clue which way
would be the better choice—STOP
you are now in
someone’s telegram

there’s a charge for each letter
you had better be right on
start from scratch

—Anonymous Wag, Courtesy of Joseph Nolan

 

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE XXXIV
—Caschwa

when you are sitting quietly at home
and both hear and feel the enormous
rumble of two train cars being forced
to join together to take the same, long
path, and then the sounds and
vibrations disappear as the train rolls
along

and then you turn on the TV news,
only to hear and feel that same, bold,
enormous rumble as two political
factions, painted the same like two
train cars, pull out every trick in the
book to ensure that they do not join
together for that long haul 

SMATTERINGS

—Caschwa

income history, down payment, credit check,
co-signer, appraisal, escrow, rooms and baths,
how long on the market? local schools, buses,
location, location, location

please come and visit
there are cracks that will be fixed
charming weeds peek through 

***
what do concrete and final exams have in common?
for thousands of years people have been working day
and night with no breaks searching for ways to make
them harder, until today we have the pinnacle of
perfection, surpassed perhaps only by making a living:
“It can’t get any harder than this!”

the shell of a conch
has more purpose than to be
starkly beautiful 

***
how many hold the fear that death will be one of those
reunion events we simply did not want to attend? oh
dear, not that same crowd from high school that didn’t
accept me, or that bully, or that clueless lonely heart, or
all the teachers that failed me, is this forever?

and when you wake up
your fears have written a tell-
all book about you 

OLD GLORY
—Sue McMahon, Cameron Park, CA

Today’s vibe feels like Betsy Ross’s stitches
are unraveling right before our eyes,
will the fighting ever end?
Can we find our way
back to Americana,
back to the country
I thought we
all loved?
I say
yes, and
I hope
you do
too

MORNING WALK IN FOG
—Joseph Nolan

As I take a morning
Walk through morning fog,
Things slowly drift into focus
Out of blurry dreams.

I love how I take things, clearly,
The more they come to me, nearly,
Embrace me in fine, stark clarity,
Before they float away
Behind my footsteps;

And I am never the same
After I’ve been salvaged
By the specters of the fog
That touch me soft and early
Upon a morning walk. 

FIFTY-CAR PILE-UP IN THE FOG
—Joseph Nolan

A fifty-car pile-up in the fog!
They say
Was started
By a dog
Let out to pee,
That ran away,
Across the road,
After a rabbit.
After that,
They’d had it,
When the first car
Hit the brakes.
That’s all it takes.

The papers never asked,
Why it has to be,
That we drive down the road
At seventy,
Incessantly,
When we cannot
Even see
Through our tule fog
That settles in for weeks
Most every winter? 

THE SHOVELER
—Joseph Nolan

Things change more
In colder climes—
Paint peels sooner
In cracking cold.

The old
Sooner grow older
And each winter
A new crop is harvested
By heart-attack weather.

The worst is heavy, wet snow,
Deep-fallen.
Each shovel-full
Challenges aging backs,
Still, a walkway
Must be established
Past the dripping icicles,
Drooping in mid-morning sun,
From the awning of a home’s
Driveway side-door,
But this time
Will be his last time
And our old shoveler
Won’t be back, anymore. 

TWISTED PLOTS, RESOLVED
—Joseph Nolan
 
“God welcomes, also, fertilizer
Into His lovely garden,”
The old man said to me,
“And you are so full of it,
He will put you
Right there at the top!

There is no mercy,
No forgiveness,
Only Infinite appreciation
For the twisted plots
By which you have
Wound your way through life,
All the way to your death.

God will find for you
A fine place in His garden
And grow juicy, red tomatoes
From the top of your head."

SLIPPING WATERS SURELY KNOW
—Joseph Nolan

I just wanted to go swimming
To let the water flow
Along each curve of my body;

Slipping waters surely know
So much more
Than they’ll let go
In pleasant conversation,

With hippos who like to stir the mud
And crocs who lay in wait—
Waters conceal situations.
Don’t be slow!
Don’t hesitate!

Today’s LittleNip:

THE JUGGLER’S BALLS
—Joseph Nolan

When nothing happens,
A juggler’s balls
Must fall.

The curtain must come down.
The curtain-call is for a silly clown
To take the stage.

The crowd must be amused
Since they have been abused
When nothing happened.

They bought a ticket to get in
Expecting entertainment,
Wizardry of spin,
Exactitude of balance,
Lotteried experience
To win
For the price of admission,

But utter disappointment
Rings the last clown’s cue
As all the juggler’s balls
Roll around, all glazed.

_______________________

Welcome to another week at our wild and crazy Medusa’s Kitchen, where anything goes, right under your nose, thanks to these wild and crazy poets of ours! Don’t be afraid to pull up a Kitchen chair and join us by sending in your poetry to kathykieth@hotmail.com. In addition to being hungry, those snakes of hers get pretty lonely…

Today we’re still talking about clowns, pockets, the thrills and chills of government, and, of course, coronavirus. Speaking of which, I got tested for it on Friday because I’m having surgery on my arm today at 2:40 (not on the fracture, which is healing well, but on the elbow, which apparently isn’t lined up quite right). I think I have Medusa ready to go for the next few days, but if it doesn’t show up, that’s where I'll be—hiding under a bedpan somewhere. Just a little hospital r 'n' r...

Meanwhile, Sac. Poetry Center uses Zoom for weekly online readings and workshops. For more info, see www.sacramentopoetrycenter.com/. This week:

•••Mon., 10am: Writers on the Air hosted by Todd Boyd: RSVP in advance via email to writersontheair.message@gmail.com. Zoom link: us04web.zoom.us/j/358106078?pwd=YzdvelcxOW1CNWg2YnBuc05ZYUJaQT09    
(Meeting ID: 358 106 078/Password: 025674)

•••Mon. 7:15pm: SPC Monday Night Socially Distant Verse presents Ellen Bass, hosted by Lynn Belzer. Info: www.facebook.com/events/830195020838715/. Zoom: us04web.zoom.us/j/7638733462
(Meeting ID: 763 873 3462 ["P O E T R E E I N C"] Password: spcsdv2020)

•••SPC Tuesday night workshop hosted by Danyen Powell: Bring a poem for critique: us02web.zoom.us/j/346316163 (Meeting ID: 346 316 163)

•••Wed., 6pm: MarieWriters workshop (prompts) hosted by Diane Funston: zoom.us/j/671443996

•••Fri., 4pm: Writing from the Inside Out workshop led by Nick LeForce. Reg. in advance at: zoom.us/meeting/register/upwkde-opjkpnyQECAVBKolY4hKCdl61uA
After registering, you will receive a confirmation email containing information about joining the meeting. (If you have registered before, use the same link.)


Also this week:
•••Fri. (6/12), 7:30pm: Video poetry reading on Facebook by Davis Poet Laureate James Lee Jobe at james-lee-jobe.blogspot.com/.

•••Fri. (6/12), 6-7:30pm: Nomadic Press Virtual Press Open Mic #13. 90 min., 30 readers, 3 min. each on Zoom. All welcome. Info: www.facebook.com/events/565129650845296/?notif_t=plan_user_invited&notif_id=1591502408363009/. Sign up to read here: forms.gle/1ZNKSnnzRZpXxvUE7

For more about El Dorado County poetry events, check Western Slope El Dorado Poetry on Facebook: www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry/.

For other upcoming poetry readings and workshops available online while we stay at home, scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

And A.D. Winans sends this link to the New Yorker article about the Billy Woodbury documentary on Bob Kaufman: www.newyorker.com/culture/the-front-row/what-to-stream-billy-woodberrys-documentary-about-the-poet-bob-kaufman/. Check it out!

_____________________

—Medusa

 
 

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.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com.
The snakes of Medusa are always hungry!

 Yee-haw!

Sláinte Mhath

—Poetry by Neil Fullwood, Nottingham, UK 

and Ian Lewis Copestick, Stoke-on-Trent, UK
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA

FIRST OF THE DAY

Ad men would reach for images
of cool mountain streams,
chips of ice catching the sunlight
as a skier shoots past,

rapids, waterfalls, the kind of lagoons
conducive to soft focus
and skinny-dipping. There’d be music
of a sub-Sibelius variety

and a gravelly voice growling homilies
about the clean crisp taste.
None of which are required: merely
a bottle opener, a glass

and the zen-like application of patience
as the beer settles. The long slow
moment of anticipation. The long slow
movement as the glass is raised.

Communion of hops.
John Mills got it right in Ice Cold
in Alex. Everything else
is just a sales pitch.

KEG

First vent the keg. Done over bathtub or sink,
a mild hiss of air escaping. Done anywhere
else, a geyser of beer (here’s IPA in your eye!)

Next, extract the tap from the base of the keg:
the plastic may snap or your fingernail break,
but what’s a little discomfort when there’s a pint

at the end of it? Hold your glass at an angle;
give the tap a quarter turn. The first glass
will wash with froth. Let it settle. Top it up.

Repeat till pint at line. Drink deeply. Enjoy
your keg, responsibly or otherwise. Dispose
of it other than in someone’s swimming pool.

Do not be swayed by your inner frat boy.

 Camouflage (can you see it? Click once.)

BEER O’CLOCK

Somewhere in the world
the sun hoicks itself
over the yardarm

and a sign flips
from CLOSED to OPEN
on a pub door. A store-

bought bottle’s served
out of a cool box
in a beachfront shack.

WINE BAR

‘Ambient’ is how the management
describe the lighting. ‘Dim’
is the epithet thrown around
by the clientele.

The decor is halfway between
crèche and brothel
just as the barmaid’s hazy gaze
is somewhere between allure

and boredom. 

 Bear Scratchings

MICRO PUB

As if you couldn’t tell
by the too-effusive barman/owner,
the beardie-weirdies in Grateful Dead t-shirts

and the range of bar snacks that extends
precisely as far as pork scratchings.

AQUA VITAE

Only the tiniest dash of water
and only then if it’s a heady, peaty malt.

Warm the glass, cup your hands
around it. Be reverent.

Inhale. Don’t be shy. Get your nose
right in the glass; breathe deeply.

What notes are you getting? Heather,
sea air, fruit, hints of caramel?

Or is the smoky insistence of peat
ravaging your nostrils? Raise

your glass, make the toast: sláinte
mhath. Take a sip. Feel the burn.

______________________

Today’s LongerNip:

BRING ON THE MONSTERS
—Ian Lewis Copestick, Stoke-on-Trent, UK

The fog around the
old fashioned, orange
streetlights makes this
1980’s-built housing estate
look like the setting for a
low-budget horror film.
I keep thinking that a
badly made-up Dracula
is going to appear
out of the shadows
with his obviously plastic
fangs heading for my
jugular. But no, real life is
a hell of a lot scarier than
any Hammer Horror film.
My Dad is waiting to have
an operation, to cut out
the cancer that the chemo
and radiotherapy couldn't
kill. This scares me more
than any horror film ever
could. In fact, I'd prefer to
be one of the undead, living
on blood for eternity, than
see my father suffering for
one more second.
Bring on the monsters,
them I can fight.

________________________

Fine poems today from two of our British Snake-Pals—all written with great panache, of course. Thank you to Neil Fullwood and Ian Copestick for checking in with us, and we’ll be thinking of you and your father, Ian. (And happy birthday to Prince Philip, who will be 99 years old this week!)

As for news from England, Neil writes, “ I hope you’re keeping well and staying safe. From what I’ve been seeing on the news, America seems like a powder keg at the moment. Things are strange and tense here in the UK. Our government is announcing an easing of lockdown rules and calling for primary school children to go back to school when the general feeling it that it’s too soon, that there’s real danger of a second wave.


“I’ve been clinging onto an adumbrated form of normality via reading and working on poetry. The six that I’ve included . . . came from conversations with numerous friends which all included speculation about which pubs in Nottingham we’d like to meet up at once the lockdown is over. ”

Sounds pretty much like news from the US these days . . .

This morning at 9 am on Zoom, join Larry Dillenbeck and Nick LeForce in the first of a series of four weekly Zoom meetings with select readings from Nick's newest book of poetry, The Undiscovered Country. Register in advance for this meeting at us02web.zoom.us/meeting/register/tZUocemgrTgjHNwGQMOFKj_R8U0sSB2cfkXC/. After registering, you will receive a confirmation email containing information about joining the meeting.

_____________________

—Medusa, toasting your good health, wherever you are ~

 

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.

Footprints

—Poetry by James Lee Jobe, Davis, CA
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of James Lee Jobe

Blue skies, a stout wind. Cold. A brand new day that feels like a fresh start. Like another chance at things. All this while standing at the window with my young son’s young ghost, who smiles a little and fades away. Leaving me there. Again.

____________________

No one seems to be here, but I can see footprints in the damp earth of this field. The field is not empty, it is full of life, and so is my valley, and so am I. How we do go on.

Love enters the town square, moving with grace, moving with ease. Each step is taken slowly and deliberately. There had been a morning fog earlier, but now it is clear. Sunshine lights the face of Love, lights the faces of us all.

America has now been at war for so long that new soldiers are fitted for shrouds and caskets immediately upon enlistment. It's a real time-saver.

America has now been at war for so long that all new soldiers are assigned their own individual Angel of Death to create an original funeral dirge, and to sing this from the moment the soldier is ripped to shreds by shrapnel until the moment the casket is lowered into the ground.

These things have been approved by Congress, Jesus, and grieving parents.

America has now been at war for so long that I find it difficult to even remember a time of peace, and perhaps there never really was a time of peace at all, just a pause to reload.

The smile and the embrace of my grandchild helped me to see, taught me a great lesson. Life isn't about what has happened; we must let the past go. Life is about what is happening right now, and about passing along the love and the blessings to those who come after us. Thank you, child, for that.

__________________

Where we walk, the earth is blessed, the earth is holy. That we draw breath, the air is blessed, the air is holy. For that spark of the divine, our lives are blessed, our lives are holy. Creation itself is blessed, creation is holy. For this day, for these blessings, for this holiness around us, let us give thanks.

A setting moon, westering, only one night on the wane. And there beneath this moon is my oak, taking on a hard wind. Lovely, that. Across the dark, wide prairie of the sky is a slight golden hue deep in the east. A winter night begins its cold surrender. You haven’t got me yet, you bastard. Look at me! I am a man, standing here on the earth. I still live.

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Yesterday’s rain. Today’s mud. Tomorrow’s grass. All is impermanence, life is about change.

—James Lee Jobe

__________________

—Medusa, thanking James Lee Jobe for his thoughtful poetry and the photos he brings to us this early summer morning in the Kitchen! Don’t forget to go to YouTube on Fridays at 7:30pm to hear his weekly poetry reading. That’s youtube.com/jamesleejobe/.

 

—Public Domain Cartoon

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.