Chances to Venture

 —Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,
Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down to
Form Fiddlers’ Friday for poetry by
Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Claire J. Baker, and Caschwa

 

 

BELIEVING SPRING

We take our daily walk as devotion
to the spirit, the hopefulness of coming
spring. This trail’s defined by railroad track
and ranch, its fence, security for a pale old
retriever dog and older wagon with wooden
spokes retiring into mud. Below pasture,
a shady niche surging with Indian lettuce
and damp dark earth. March is the balance
point. A tree’s fallen across the trail.
A flock of flitting birds raises its chorus
in brush leafing out in honeysuckle,
while a vulture circles overhead
recanting what the living think of spring.
We keep on walking like believers.

 

 

 

 

 

BETWEEN DIRT ROADS

A chance to venture, open forest space
to walk my dogs—that was my only aim
that late spring morning with its greening grace,

following my dogs in unfettered chase.
But some cloud on the spirit overcame
the chance to venture. Open forest space

held threat or ghost I couldn’t quite erase
from mind. I called my dogs; they left their game
that late spring morning. With its greening grace

the woods held secrets, and a girl whose face
was on the front page—missing—with her name.
A chance to venture open forest space,

a hunt where bones with leaf-fall interlace.
Then, decades later, the same woods aflame—
late summer morning scorched its greening grace.

Another year, with ash and ghost I pace
the ravaged land where nature will reclaim
a chance to venture open forest space.
This late spring morning, with its greening grace.

 

 

 

Otis

 

WAITING TO MEET THE DOG

Patience, I tell myself,
for the rehab of a rescue dog.
I’m finishing up the paperwork
and I haven’t even met him,
except darkly, in anticipation.
Dogs have their seasons,
but the wish for a dog is not
seasonal. How did he tumble
remotely onto my laptop screen,
eyes soft with compassion
and hope? Now
in my car, a woven line
that bound me to one dog
after another
until they were gone;
a dog crate in the bedroom
empty. Now, patience.

 

 

 

 

SPRING CHICKENS   

Rooster perched on driver’s head-
rest, driver in the shotgun
seat, hen looking out back-door
open to this spring morning.
Car parked beside the RR track
and the bike & hiking trail—
there when we started walking,
there when we came back again,


unchanged. Mustn’t there be some
story here? the who what where
when how and why? of it. Or
else there must be a poem.

 

 

 

 

RANDOM RENGA

This morning the world
is comprehensive as golf
among the tigers.
I shall walk the earth prepared
for whatever slinks or flies.

Blue sky’s opening
its eyes reflecting the pond
if not vice versa.
Midnight adjusted its lens
for daylight’s broken fragments.

Such a transaction
revises spring’s climate
while we’re unaware.
We’re wonderland hostages
finding our way as we can.

 

 

 

 

ABOVE FLOWING WATER

The bridge’s heart, an alcove of padlocks—“locked
in love,” they say. Shining, many-shaped and
-colored padlocks clicked shut on bridge railing
above the creek running high after storms. Bridge
between wind and water—solid ground so far below.
Once I stopped with Loki and clicked her picture,
a pleasing composition of life caught against the still-
life of bridge; today my dog is gone, the photo
remains. Beyond the bridge a man is singing opera—
E lucevan le stelle—and the stars were shining... 

 

 

 

 

Today’s LittleNip:

TRESTLE TRAIL
—Taylor Graham

We stopped mid-bridge where the heart-locks
shine rainbows high above the creek.
You asked, why lock the arch, when air
and water flow so free?

_________________

Taylor Graham has a new dog, Otis, a rescue that is part German shepherd and—possibly—part wolf. As usual, TG has turned her life into poetry, and we’re all very thankful for that. Forms she has used this week include two Word-Can Poems (“Believing Spring” and “Waiting to Meet the Dog”); a Villanelle (“Between Dirt Roads”); a Ryūka (“Trestle Trail”); some Normative Syllabics (“Spring Chickens”); and a Renga using random words (“Random Renga”). TG says, “Lacking a partner for the Renga, I got random words online for the partner-half.”

In El Dorado County this week, on Saturday afternoon (tomorrow), last week’s Riparian workshop moves to the library in Placerville. Then on Monday morning, Poetic License takes place in the Placerville Sr. Center. And don’t forget to register for the next Wakamatsu workshop by Taylor Graham and Katy Brown which will take place on Sunday, April 14. For news about El Dorado County poetry—past (photos!) and future—see Taylor Graham’s Western Slope El Dorado on Facebook at www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry or see Lara Gularte’s Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/groups/382234029968077/. (Poetry is Gold in El Dorado County!) 

 

And of course you can always click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html) for details about future poetry events in the NorCal area—not the least of which is Sacramento Poetry Center’s busy schedule of events to celebrate National Poetry Month. Go to their website at https://www.sacpoetrycenter.org and click on Poetry Month @ SPC for all the details.

And now it’s time for…  


FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY!  

 

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.)


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!

* * *

 

 

Last Week’s Ekphrastic Photo

 

This week, we received Ekphrastic poems from Nolcha Fox and Stephen Kingsnorth:


OLD PICKUP
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

I’d never seen that truck before
until it ran me over,
and dragged me to
a wished-for life,
a past I always wanted.
A farm so picture-perfect,
with horses and some cows,
a tractor and a barn of red,
a farmer and his son.
I thought I’d found my heaven
until the farmer said,
it was my job to run the place
since he was tired out.
I had no clue what I should do,
the son was just a toddler,
so I jumped in that pickup truck,
turned the key and prayed
that it would take me to
a place where I could sit
and rest my feet because
I am retired.

* * *

OILY RAG
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Another jigsaw, Grandpa’s site,
in red and green with blue, brown,
of transport, field, then clothes horse count,
that rusted mailbox, kitten, hen.
From sward-play, where the tail unfolds,
see this is titled for the child;
its memory, implanted young,
discovery, as journey on.
So had he paused—not chicken run—
more likely what he saw in grass;
but surely kid not in the van—
so was he parked up on the track?
My puzzle not to reconstruct
as piece together, broken up;
but work on motives, moments spent,
as if a murder, I’m the ’tec.
Though no one cares, rebuilding plot,
except the scene as on the box;
just busybody, me, intrigued,
as all that’s seen—what is the cause?
From Panamas, blue ribbon bound
to tractor model, past its best,
these grazing saddles, outbuildings,
mine ignorance of rural life.
What fascinates the boy indeed
is not the cat or farm estate,
but Echo, sounding from the past—
according to the label sold.
He’ll have no truck with an exchange,
barter, ‘troque’ if you were French,
for memories too soon defiled,
new lamps for old, like classic con.
There’s more horsepower across the fence—
the wheels are tyred but paint’s good nick;
I bet the lad knows index tag—
you get the picture—oily rag.

* * *

Speaking of dogs, Claire Baker has sent us a Double Cinquain this week:

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo

 

CELL PHONE LITTLE GUYS
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

These days
am offered more
puppy friends than humans.
Yes, for the masses tiny dogs—
more love:

Yorkies,
Shih Tzus, black Labs,
tea cup Chihuahuas,
mug shots: snowy Malamutes, ah—
more love.

* * *

Caschwa (Carl Schwartz) writes, “I don’t remember what my first word was, but according to my late parents, it was “No!’” Here is a first-word Acrostic using the different inflections of my first word that my parents told me I practiced over and over.”

 

 

 
(the different inflections of) NO
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

No, too mushy!
No, maybe later
No, you knew that
No, I would never!
No, no, no, get it?
No, that’s wrong
No more greens, bring desert
No, too much
No, not even close
No hug, no eat
No, why would I want a bib?
No substitutions accepted
No, let me hold the spoon
No seconds, thank you
No, how could you?

* * *

And here is another first-word Acrostic from Carl, sort of a sequel to the No poem. I’m so thrilled that he spelled “lightning” right; you’d be stunned at how often people spell it with an E (lightening). My response to that is DON’T:

 

 

 
DON’T
—Caschwa

Don’t go outside until you
Get some raingear on, the clock has
Struck midnight, dark clouds, no moon
By which to illuminate the path, hail comes
Lightning fast

* * *

Carl also sent a Pantoum:

 

 

RECLINING, FOR BEGINNERS
—Caschwa

my electric-powered recliner chair
came with a remote device with arrows
the up-arrow brings the footrest down
the down-arrow brings the footrest up

came with a remote device with arrows
really quite handy once mastered
the down-arrow brings the footrest up
and there’s a reason behind that

really quite handy once mastered
came with a remote device with arrows
the down-arrow brings the footrest up
and there’s a reason behind that

the down-arrow brings the footrest up
the up-arrow brings the footrest down
and there’s a reason behind that
my electric-powered recliner chair

* * *

And here is a List poem from Carl that is also an Abecedarian (the poem is, not Carl. Carl is a Septuagenarian.)

 

 

 

INITIAL IMPRESSION
—Caschwa 

 

Arrive                Abort 

Begin                 Bow out

Commence         Cease
Do it                  Desist
Enter                 Exit
Fire up               Forego
Get on               Gone
Here                  Hither
Inclusion            Incision
Joined                Junked
Kindle                Kill
Lighthearted       Livid
Manifold             Missing
Nice                   Nasty
On                     Off
Plethora             Paucity
Queenly             Quacky
Risen                 Resting
Start                  Stop
Tumultuous        Tiny
Universal            Unique
Vast                   Void
Wonderful           Wicked
Xanthochroid       Xeroderma
Yardstick             Yonder
Zig                     Zag

* * *

In addition to her Ekphrastic poem today (see above), Nolcha Fox sent us a Quadrille that is based on our current Tuesday Seed of the Week, “Abundance”.bAbout the Quadrille, she sends the following quote from the publication, dVerse (dVerse — Quadrille Monday #198 — Fuzzy Frameworks): “The name for the Quadrille form is taken from an 18th Century dance, but as you may know, is also a poetic form of just 44 words (not counting the title) and includes one word the host provides to you.” This photo of Nolcha’s shows her little linden tree in front of the larger ash. Here is Nolcha’s Quadrille: 

 —Photo by Nolcha Fox

UNEXPECTED ABUNDANCE
—Nolcha Fox

Of three ash limbs,
just one survived.
Cut down the tree,
it’s going to die!
Our neighbor said.
Now one limb
forms a canopy
so large, our neighbor.
says, Cut down that ash,
or it will stunt
the growth of your
little linden tree!

* * *

And here is an Ekphrastic poem from Stephen Kingsnorth, based on a photo that appeared in Medusa’s Kitchen on 3/23/24. Stephen often writes about photos that are not “official” Ekphrastic challenges. But then again, everything is an Ekphrastic challenge if you can use it for a poem, right? Here is Stephen’s work about the path to the sea:

 

 

 

HEARTWARMING
—Stephen Kingsnorth

I love the beach by hearted trunk,
for gas storage, the dappled leaves,
a keyhole into wonderland,
both sloping reach and inlet cove.
The ness, a windbreak, cliff, scree, scrub,
still waters yet of tidal brine
for paddle in, or out canoe,
where time is left to sun and moon.
Completed laps are waves alone,
where ‘It’s a drag’ is rarely known,
for lunar pull more sliver beams,
yet heat is funnelled, warmer flesh.
This window through cork cambium
bypasses phloem and xylem flow,
the constant stream, root, canopy,
a tree of life in climate change.
As azure dies and night arrives
with stippled sky of pinprick lights,
I’ll see Orion, belted up,
as hunter for crab, Pisces fish.
The dark, like light, an active space,
so ask your questions, face yourself.

___________________

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!

___________________

TRIPLE-F CHALLENGES! 

 

See what you can make of these challenges, and send your results to kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.)  Take a cue from Nolcha Fox (above) and give a Quadrille a shot:

•••Quadrille: 44 words (not counting the title), includes one word the host provides to you. The word I'm providing today is popcorn.

•••AND/OR: The Bar Form (think "Star-Spangled Banner"!):

•••Bar Form: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/bar-form

•••See also the bottom of this post for another challenge, this one an Ekphrastic photo.

•••And don’t forget each Tuesday’s Seed of the Week! This week it’s “Abundance”.

____________________

MEDUSA’S FORM FINDER: Links to poetry terms mentioned today:

•••Abecedarian: poets.org/glossary/abecedarian
•••Acrostic Poem types: https://studybay.com/blog/how-to-write-an-acrostic-poem
•••Ars Poetica: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ars-poetica
•••Bar Form: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/bar-form
•••Cinquain (Crapsey): poets.org/glossary/cinquain AND/OR www.poewar.com/poetry-in-forms-series-cinquain/. See www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/adelaide-crapsey for info about its inventor, Adelaide Crapsey.
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry 
•••List Poem: clpe.org.uk/poetryline/poeticforms/list-poem
•••Normative Syllabics: hellopoetry.com/collection/108/normative-syllabic-free-verse AND/OR lewisturco.typepad.com/poetics/normative-syllabic-verse
•••Pantoum: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/pantoum.html AND/OR https://poets.org/glossary/pantoum
•••Quadrille: 44 words (not counting the title) and includes one word the host provides to you
•••Renga, Renga Chain: www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/poetic-asides/renga-poetic-forms
•••Ryūka: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ryūka
•••Villanelle (rhymed; can be unrhymed): www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/poetic-forms-villanelle
•••Word-Can Poem: putting random words on slips of paper into a can, then drawing out a few and making a poem out of them

___________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

  Today's Ekphrastic Challenge!
 
 Make what you can of today's
picture, and send your poetic results to
kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.)

* * *

—Photo Courtesy
of Public Domain

 

A reminder that
T-Mo Entertainment presents
The Kings and Queens
Spoken Word Showcase
tonight in Sacramento, 7pm.
For info about this and other
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

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

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Symbiosis

 —Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth, 

Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

SYMBIOSIS

As foxgloves climb, their hanging bells,
from lower males to female clime,
invite the bees to raise their game,
and pollinate from first to last.

And ants know forage, aphid time,
to milk the sweet from herded horde,
their honey, mutualism due,
a treasury without the cost.

As woolly bats and pitcher plants,
pistol shrimps and gobies trade,
oxpecker on striped zebra type—
they practise symbiotic art.

So honeyguides know sweet-toothed tribes,
insistent call when buzzing sounds,
and humans access nesting bees,
while birds take break for larvae, wax.

 

 

 

 

 

SHAKEN STILL
After ‘Aspens’ by Edward Thomas

What does the tree that speaks to me
from Eden through to Calvary,
or that of Life revealed at last,
the Bhodi, under Buddha sat,
or any faith with canopy?
The aspen shimmers with, without   
its solid trunk, true-hearted, stout,
whatever weather, whether seen,
despite, because the busy world
will ever curse, sing, without doubt.
The inn and smithy are long gone,
but still those leaves, whatever done
will weep, speak, mycorrhiza deep,
and still those leaves will never be
for shaking, turn as globe spins on.
The crossroads, place of gossip, choice    
have towered above with unheard voice
of wights and shades amongst the boughs,
in silent witness, industry
of men who likewise fear, rejoice.
Dun turning leaves, our print departs,
though spells are cast in craft and arts,
as when the auxin calls for fall
in sacrifice to birth new life,
when dust-to-dust fresh cycle starts.
And so your aspen, other tree,
will stand as complement, to be,
as city scape or hamlet strife
shout and scream, as wont to do,
free whispers treat of all they see.

 

 

 

 

LARKRISE

I hear far, fore I see its spin,
ascending and descending swirl,
free-scaling notes in rise and fall,
but white light stealing sight from eyes
where curlicues drift, riff twirl in air.

Each height sinks slight then reignites
in upward spiral, tighter coil,
a slight bite further, dare to tear,
eviscerate all fear of drop.

This sprite delights to scare all wights
those ghosts that stalk the earth below,
to fight all drag and pull down low,
release from shades all wraiths beneath.

So if you near its ode to joy
then watch your footing, springy turf
or you might trample, downland earth,
the nesting herald brought to birth.

 

 

 

 

WASTE

Cold lover, rime slush hoar,
mother with her polar horde,
white dirty cream, receding snow,
ice retreating, floe thaw flow;
banking clouds, dark cloaked sills,
looming outburst rolled as wool—
will water pour, through glacier,
a cataract fill crevasse space?

 

 

 

 

KAMIKAZE GODS

Homeland search, fry their eggs,
climb the thunder falling waves,
rush salmon trek, weiry climes,
sunny-side up, spawning, overwhelming cause.   
Skin-stripping claws, waiting jaws,
though death above alevin redds,
instinct impels, propels this charge,
high water kamikaze gods.

 

 

 

 

FRUTTI DE MARE

The wreckers search the post storm strand,
both eye and ear, revenue men,
and always lurking, pressgang fear,
but shipwreck yields the common touch.
Both cargo and the hulk bear fruit,
the timber, sailcloth, coal and plate,
and even keel set in its place,
a stable board of food, hoard stores.
This treasure chest from tidal horde
will keep the winter gnaw at bay
while we can spar the lighter beams
as coffin rest, bedraggled mates.
The coinage of foreign mint,
but now rechristened in the waves
these strangers face a common god;
we’ll not disguise these wights, now shades.
Their blue-bleached flesh now beached among
gulls, crows and terns, all skua birds,
a thicket, wings and pecking beaks,
that we must brave to feed our own.

 

 

 

 

Today’s LittleNip:

IN FUR
—Stephen Kingsnorth

Ring, a ring of roses,
posies fail, ward off fleas—
it’s not sneezes, tissues, fall.
Plague’s about, rats roam free,
shiploads travelled down the plank—
of smugglers—stowaways infer,
snug bugs in rugs,
black yak hair stacks.

___________________

Stephen Kingsnorth is celebrating nature and its cycles with us today during this, the "cruelest month”, and we send him many thanks over the sea. Watch for more from Stephen in the Kitchen tomorrow.

___________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy
of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Julia Levine and Rebecca Foust
will read in Davis tonight, 7pm;
Vincent & Sekani Kobelt will host
their new poetry series on Zoom,
featuring Sacramento Poet Issa; and
today is the deadline for submissions
for Lit Fest 3 in Winters, CA.
For info about these and other
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

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

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!

 

 

 

Hope Is A Light

 —Poetry by Linda Klein, Playa Vista, CA

—Public Domain Photos Courtesy

of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

 

 

DISSOLUTION OF THE MOON

On a hazy night a cloud passed in front of the moon.
It seemed to caress its full, pale roundness
as it would a loved one, tenderly, yet as it moved
the cloud split, surrounding parts of the once-round,
dear one, wanting to hold it so close as to be one
with it, causing the moon to appear to dissolve.

I looked up and saw the moon losing shape,
becoming cloudlike and thought, how sad
it would be if this ardent lover stole our moon,
sailing off through the sky and leaving earth
dark and desolate without its guiding glow,
the guardian of our safe passage through night.

 

 

 

 

ABANDONED

He is a river withdrawn from the shore,
while I, the shore, lie fallow and
wither with the winds of time,
even so,

I would not try to bring him back.
No trick, nor ploy would work.
There is a chasm between us.
He has receded far from me.

He left abruptly with the tide,
using an artful lie to ease his escape.
It seemed as though he had done this before.
It was cruel, unexpected, undeserved.

Angrily, I thought him a coward, a fool,
so different from the way I once saw him
in a girlhood dream born of desire.
We shall live separate lives with no contact.

 

 

 

 

THE YIN AND YANG OF A TATTOOED MAN

We all called him Chick,
the nickname his  parents gave him.
When I knew Chick, he was sixty-two to my
forty-one.
We worked together for a textbook publisher.
The eldest proofreader in the pool, he seemed
oddly out of place.
For forty years he had been in the U. S. Navy.
He was tan, muscular, and had many tattoos.
His voice was gruff and coarse.
Only a fluff of curly, white hair softened his
presence.

So proud was Chick of his tattoos, that he kept
the sleeves of his
T-shirts rolled up to his shoulders.
Tattoos covered both of his arms.
The ones I could see were of the common variety—
a ship, an anchor with "U.S. Navy” printed under it,
a mermaid, and a red heart with the word "Mom"
inside.
He said, with a sly little smile,
that the best ones were out of sight.
I must admit that I had negative feelings about him
when I first started working there.

As his kindness and patience were revealed, that
changed.
He sensed that I didn't care for his tattoos.
I have never been one to hide such feelings.

Chick lived in the San Gabriel mountains.
He had a wife, children, and grandchildren.
I asked him how his wife felt about the tattoos,
most of which he already had when they met.
He said she understood that he was comfortable
with having them and nothing else mattered.

He explained that when a man lives at sea
for months at a time with only other men,
he needs to establish a macho image.

Macho Chick took on yet another name
in his sailor life.  His shipmates called him Chaz.
Whether Charles, Chaz, or Chick, he was,
in essence, adorably avuncular.
Although I abhorred his adorned skin,
I learned to appreciate the man inside.

 

 

 

Fireflies

 

AS RAIN FALLS

Dark clouds loom across the sky
filled with resentment and fury,
a heavy burden that they have
held too long.  How much longer
must they wait to release the
anger that consumes them?

They cannot be ignored forever.
Let it rain freely.  Let torrents splash
and enrich the earth and all life
that dwells upon this precious planet.
Only then can we be nourished,
and joyously free as falling rain.

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Hope is a light
that emanates from you.
Concentrate and it grows bright
to show you where you need to go
and what you need to do.

—Linda Klein

__________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Linda Klein for today’s fine poetry!

 

 

 

Hope is a light…

 

 

 

 

 

For future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

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

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!

 

 

 

Half of Any Damn Thing

I Love the Birds in the Background

—Photo of Early Painting of Joyce 

by JoAnne Lawrence 

* * *

—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Visuals by Joyce Odam

 

 

HERALDINGS
—Joyce Odam

The rooster crows.
It is dark outside.
It is morning.

A second rooster crows.
Its voice a mechanical echo.
The first rooster listens.

It is morning.
It is dark outside.
The roosters take turns crowing.


(prev. pub. in Brevities, January-February 2021;
Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/29/23)

 

 

 

A Long Time

 

A WINTER MORNING
—Joyce Odam

From a soft distance I hear the old rooster
crowing again to the dark morning hour
and I listen awhile and
drift back to sleep
a few minutes
later and
wonder how
he can live to be
so old—these years and years
ago, and I hear the same old dog—
softly yelping in the same old distance,
and I sleep again and the same old rooster
keeps crowing till sunrise and I waken.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/13/16;
Song of the San Joaquin, 1/6/17)

___________________

THE ROOSTER LOOKS HARD AT ME
—Joyce Odam       

The rooster looks hard at me
with his unreal eye,
his small head
jerking with thought.
I will have to let him in
for he wants my house.

He wants
to come in to be
close to my guitar.
He wants to crow with it,
for he loves
all music that is
not intentional with death.
He is a pet,
a friend,
a guest,
white-feathered, gold-footed dancer,
shitting upon my rug
as if all innocence and welcome
were his right.

He waits on the porch
where the mirror is.
He is vain
and rightly so.
He is waiting for the
music to begin. 

 

 

 

Turn Back the Years

 

 

AT 3:43 THE ROOSTER CROWED
—Joyce Odam

Old woman of myself, how slow you are today,
your limp too practical for dance or play, your
mouth a mumble of sigh and groan with all your
tired news and complaint; your eye inspired
to inward look. Such reverie… such sorting out…
to pull the years to such thin climb; years that ravel
and become this flimsy day.

Oh, I know how you think, old frail, old Grump.
You want to tell yourself some new rehearse: but
now—your hip, your knee, your neck, your hand—
all ache with some arthritic stiffness which you
must smooth out. Oh well, oh well, you say, with
resignation, and laugh at how acceptance is the
rule and lesson now.  Oh well.

_____________________

B MINOR SEVENTH CHORD
ON FRET SEVEN
—Robin Gale Odam

I strike a match.
The light wavers the dark.

I take your guitar out,
study the fretboard, remember
the creek that used to be filled with

the songs of hundreds of frogs, next to
the house, and you taught me that chord.

I told you it was too far of a stretch for me,
you told me to reach for it and to hear the
frogs, they only come once a year—

it made no sense to me so I went to the
kitchen. You wrote the song.

___________________

CAPON CANVAS
—Joyce Odam
 
Blue fringe petticoat edging. Orange
layers in petal pattern. Rust detail at
the throat. Length not quite long but
longer than average—shorter than
extreme, sleeve similarity for cape
effect—tighter weave for warmth.
Fashionable drape of blue fringe.
Model   struts,   pauses,   struts,
pauses,  struts, turns her head
a bit—her eye on you. She
cackles, and scratches
at the ground.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 10/6/20)

 

 

 

Song Bird

 

CLEMENT
—Robin Gale Odam

old cat lies in stippled
sunlight in the grass . . .

young bird serenades,
dismissing the curious stalking
of her hatchlings last twilight . . .

__________________

EGGS
—Joyce Odam

I cannot name the egg again.
It remains as mysterious as ever.
          .
I, making ordinary breakfast
of the egg,
never consider what I am doing.
          .
Sometimes I try to be talented with it,
cracking it open with one hand
and dropping it into the pan
without breaking it.
          .
Nests of it turn under chickens
into a tedium of miracles
which I can hear forming.
          .
If it floats, it is bad.
It can be saved for throwing.
          .
Original Chicken pecks her eggs
with her curving and yellow beak
that is hard as a bone.
          .
The eggs of the goose are stacked into
a mountain.
She will not hatch them.
          .
I am surrounded by eggs.
I use them for symbols.
          .
Three ducks so far have given us
three sets of ducklings.
One or two of each set always drowned,
though I always knew
that ducks always take to water.
          .
At dusk, we gather the eggs,
stealing them from all the intention.
We go where it is dark and full of straw
and take them.


(prev. pub. in Permafrost, Fall, 1980;
Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/15/10; 12/20/11; 4/2/13)

 

 

 

The Moon Is Heavy

 

 
FULL MOON LAMENT
—Joyce Odam

Today they cart the moon away
for it is heavy
and night is through with it.

It was a pale moon after all…
no match for dawn with its slow insistence
and gray intensity.

The rooster knows.
All night he tried to tell us while we slept.
He crowed and crowed.

How far we have come depends on love
and how much more we need of it…
like this moon…fading into thinnest silver.


(prev. pub. in CSPS Newsletter, Feb. 1995;
One Dog Press, Dec. 1997;
Senior Magazine, Aug. 2002;
Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/8/15; 5/4/21)

 

 

 

Call Me

 

 

DAWN LIGHT
—Joyce Odam

When the dawn begins to pale the sky—whatever
its hour, winter and summer—daylight or daylight
saving time, and I hear the old rooster crowing, and
crowing, and crowing from some loneliness, and
the winter thermostat clicks on to heat the rooms as
if the day wants to begin itself, and I must choose
whether to turn back to my book or watch the sky
with a duty-look, feeling that I should get up, but
grow suddenly sleepy and want to turn out the light
and drift back down, and another rooster answers
the first one, and the heater clicks off, and the hens
begin to cluck, and other sounds begin, and I must
decide—for the sky’s full light is catching up.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/16/18)  

 

 

 

 Ever So

RESTIVENESS
—Joyce Odam

Ice in the moonlight—
the stars breaking like glass,

old, cold moonlight—
old rooster of the neighborhood.

In the protesting mouth of silence,
seven words left to say :

Innocent morning—
once more stricken with eyes.
           
                               
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/28/011;
8/26/14; 08/10/21)

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

ANY DAMN THING
—Robin Gale Odam

i look at the mirror,
step back, slip quietly away

it is only reflection and
just under my breath i don’t

understand half of any damn
thing anymore

____________________

Spring Chickens Joyce and Robin Odam have taken our Seed of the Week (Spring Chickens) and run with it, and we thank them for that—no April Fools, they!

Spring is a time of Abundance, and that’s our new Seed of the Week—“Abundance”. Send your poems, photos & artwork about this (or any other) subject to kathykieth@hotmail.com. No deadline on SOWs, though, and for a peek at our past ones, click on “Calliope’s Closet”, the link at the top of this column, for plenty of others to choose from. And see every Form Fiddlers’ Friday for poetry form challenges, including those of the Ekphrastic type.

Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.

____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

An Abundance of Blossoms

—Public Domain Photo

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that 

Cameron Park Library
Poets and Writers workshop
meets today (5:30pm)
with a change of site, moving to the
Moonraker Millhouse (this week only).
Also tune into  

Susan Rich and Diane Seuss 

reading on Zoom, 5pm,
for Two Sylvias Press Weekly Muse.
For info about these and other
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

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

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!

 

 LittleSnake cultivating abundance

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

National Poetry Month!

  —Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Joe Nolan, and Caschwa
—Public Domain Visuals Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

NO SPRING CHICKEN
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

You know I’m no spring chicken.
My step has lost its pep.
I’m past the age to spread my wings,
they’re molting anyway.
My meat is mostly gristle.
I’m no sweet tender thing.
All I can give is foot rubs
by the fire on winter nights,
an ear to listen to your woes,
a smile to share your breakfast.
If you want a younger chick
to drape upon your arm,
you can take the car and house,
I’ll keep the retirement money. Honey.

 

 

 

 

SPRING CHICKENS
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Brought better price, those spring-born fowl,
while winter took its toll of course;
so farmers sought to dress old birds—
to kid their custom—quite absurd—
but clients charged, not spring at all!

Three hundred years, that term now slang,
thus just like mutton dressed as lamb;
the men cast off, with insult trade,
as some aged women are afraid
their value lies in outward skin.

But wisdom runs through wrinkle lines
and seeps from pores in wizened skin;
as names the bard, in blaming flame,
expense of spirit, waste of shame.
The cuter chicks don’t stay that way.

So strip the paint, the model stance,
and cease to be the mannequin;
experience, the boast of old,
and broaching subject of fool’s gold,
toast with simple ring and brooch.

Ignore the spin of media,
the advertising, social trends;
the broiler may be tougher eat,
but that’s the meat I’d rather meet;
though won’t protect me from the Fall. 

 

 

 

 

BLUE, BUTTERFLY, BLUE
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
 
Blue, butterfly, blue,
Every abstract artifact
Had done all
It could do
Before it turned to stone.

Fallen leaves
Have blown about
Into piles.
Children shout,
Jumping in with glee!

The falling
Of dew
Each morning
Is mercy—
Glistening the grass.

Dogs on leashes,
As they pass,
Sniff the grass
To tell who’d passed,
This way and that way,
Yesterday
Or before.

Blue, butterfly, blue,
What, this day,
Should you do
If this day
Were your
Last day?

Butterfly, blue,
You would do
What’s in your
Nature to do.
You would not do
Any other. 

 

 

 

 

SALVAGE TITLE
—Joe Nolan

In the shadow-world
Of salvage title
Prices are much lower,
But you never know
When you might need
A tow-truck to come over
And haul your wheels away
Because you cannot pay
To put it back together.

Someone had the wherewithall
To buy replacement parts
And screw them in
Where they should go.

Hopefully, they know,
But maybe not?
Maybe they missed a clip,
A bolt, a nut or some
Other part
That keeps your buggy
All intact
As you roll on down the road.

Such a heavy load
To have to worry. 

 

 

 

 Bee Bizziness

AGING IN THE SUN
—Joe Nolan

Everything old
Has been scorched
By the wind.

Canvas, bleached
By the sun,
Wood dried brittle—
Its strength undone.

All things
Left out
Have been burned
In the sun.

Clothes left out
To dry on a line
Grow lighter
Colors,
Over time.

Everything bright
Gets bleached
In the sun.

Baby faces
Wrinkle
And run
Into deeper
Ridges
When weathered
In the sun.

 

 

 

Froggy Goes A-Wooing in the Spring

 

THE KIBBLE BETRAYAL
—Joe Nolan
 
Who’s withheld
The kibbles
From the bits
When offering
Food to a pet?

Who, indeed,
Would be so mean,
So petty,
To a darling pet?

The sad eyes
That look up
At you
With their sad regret,
Wondering,
“How could you be so mean?

“What exactly do you
Plan to do
With all my kibbles
That you
Should hoard them so,
Against my delicious bits?”

Betrayed eyes
Want to know. 

 

 

 

 

HAPPY DAYS
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

I remember those
happy days in school
in the time of vacuum
tubes, printed circuits,
rabbit ear TV antennas,
reel to reel film projectors
and tape recorders

before even the punch
card stage of computers,
before micro-circuits, and
cell phones and faxes, before
direct debit or deposit, floppy
disks, or hard drives

back before it was considered
a normal everyday experience
for strangers on the Internet to
hack into your accounts and
drive you crazy

but we took the big step, bit the
forbidden fruit, and now there is
no going back, so we live and
learn, forget and smile, fall asleep
to dream of more inventions 

 

 

 

Housing in Hong Kong

 

 

THE PLAY-ALONG GAME
—Caschwa

(If corporations can act like they are
people, then people should be able
to act like they are big business)

you order an item and wait for delivery
and wait, and wait, and wait, and wait
then finally get a notice that the item
has shipped

That doesn’t mean it has moved even
one inch, only that a shipping label
was prepared and maybe applied to
the item

well, two can play that game: when payment
is due, I’ll write a check to pay for the item,
date it the day I write the check, mark the
invoice “Paid” and hold onto if for at least a
week or two, until finally tearing it out of my
checkbook, putting it into a mailing envelope,
adding necessary postage, and dropping it in
the letter box

 

 

 

 

REVERSE WALTER MITTY SYNDROME
—Caschwa

she emerged from her chamber
refreshed and awakened, soon
to be escorted by a parade of
palace guards with a beautiful
chariot adorned in many ornate
accoutrements

her assigned destination, a gas
station in suburban Sacramento,
where she could improve her ability
to carry on intelligent discussion by
getting in some good people time
while tending the cash register

sure enough, customers would be
quick to voice their critical comments
about the exorbitant price of a mere
gallon of gasoline, some even trying
to pin the blame on the cashier, having
no clue how far down the chain of
command she was, how distant she
was from the company’s real decision
makers

but some customers went on to pursue
the idea that she was part of the royal
order, and upon returning to the palace
after work she could say or do something
to lower the price of one gallon of gas

They wished and wished these powers
upon her, day after day, but saw no
change so they increased the pressure
and frequency of insisting that she meet
their immediate desires, but still, nothing
changed.

some became angry and vented their
anger toward the cashier, as if it was
within the realm of her divine guidance
to change their world for the better of
the customers she served

As for me, I pay in cash with exact change 

 

 

 

 

IF I COULD
—Caschwa

if I could I would
inhale a rose
and breathe
the garden
dew and all

if I could I would
inform the poor
of ways
to get more
and more

if I could I would
force courts to
follow the law
like we have to
or else

if I could I would .
separate church
and state the way
our forefathers
intended

if I could I would
separate guns
and children
of all ages
forever

if I could I would
pay for all sins
then declare
bankruptcy
due and all

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

TRIPLE-WASHED
—Caschwa

pinto beans, various produce
in the store
already washed, one less
thing to do

so after I have bathed 3 times
how much time
does that buy me until
the next bath

____________________

Many thanks to our contributors today, as they fiddle with the Seed of the Week, Spring Chickens, on this, the first day of National Poetry Month—and no April Foolin', either! Go to https://poets.org/national-poetry-month  for more info and for ways to celebrate NPM.

Sacramento Poetry Center is celebrating National Poetry Month with its Sacramento Literary Festival. See https://www.sacpoetrycenter.org/poetrymonth for its calendar of events at SPC and around the Sacramento area, or go the new (April) issue of Poet News at https://www.sacpoetrycenter.org/poetnews/.

____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

Happy April, Fools!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tonight at 7:30pm, come have
Coffee & Pastries with the
Sacramento Poetry Center 

Board and Staff
and share your ideas for
improvements at SPC.
For more info about this and other
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

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

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!