National Pet Day

 —Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

—Public Domain Photos Courtesy 

of Nolcha Fox

 

ABOUT MY SHADOW

My shadow lost her tennis shoes
while climbing up a tree.
I want to soothe her upset,
I want to patch her bruise,
but she unplugged the lamp
and hid beneath the table.
I can’t find her in the dark.
So now there’s only one of me
instead of two.

 

 

 

 

BATTERY

Where is the battery
that I bought yesterday?
It wasn’t in the envelope
I was about to mail.
Did I put it in the cabinet?
I opened up the ladder
and found my glasses on the shelf.
Oh, never mind, it’s time for lunch.
I took a bite out of my burger,
and found the battery.

 

 

 

 

GOING SOMEWHERE

Clouds race and morph through the sky.
Maybe they have somewhere to go and don’t
know what to wear. They don’t notice me at all,
unless I register as a little clot of boredom the
wind doesn’t move, something to pass with a
yawn. A hole that lets the sun blink for a second
before it goes back to its coffee and croissant.

I have nowhere
to go today. The world
can go somewhere for me.

 

 

 

 

WAITING AND WAITING

I’m waiting for you at this bus stop.
At the corner of Life and Not Life.
I’m waiting for you to resurrect.
To step off a bus. If you don’t arrive,
I’ll wait. For the Rapture.
I know I’ll find you. When I get there.
But wear a nametag. Just in case.

 

 

 

 

WHEN I DIE

People will come
to my funeral
to get out of the rain,
get some free food,
and to learn
when they can
go through my stuff
to find a good deal.


(inspired by Mari Evan’s “The Rebel”:
https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-rebel-13/)

 

 

 

 

AUDREY ON MY MIND

Part saint, part stoic,
part princess, part starlet,
part drum corps of an off-
tune marching band,
part cheap lace,
part toe-clicker on tile floors,
you’re my bed warmer,
my first girl, my worry,
my scaredy-cat, you just
want my love, you
don’t care what I say.

You’re deaf.
You can’t hear me anyway.

 

 

 

 

WILD DRAGON BEAUTY

Safe within some inner cave,
I hoard fire and flowers,
evening winds and watercolors
painted on the clouds,
slices of the sun that danced
across the walls and floors.
When dark and gloom
embrace the day,
I breathe out in steam
and heat the treasures
I keep buried in my lair
to remind the hours
beauty hides in pools
of tears.

 

 

 

 

PRAISE BE

Praise be men
who preyed on my desire.
They told me that they loved my soul.
They loved my body, left me wasted.

Praise be maturity
that came decades too late.
I understood that love and desire
are two very different beasts.

Praise be my hormones
that retired to Florida.
I hear they’re enjoying the beaches
while I enjoy life without them.


(inspired by https://allpoetry.com/poem/8511419-Men-by-Maya-Angelou)

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

While it’s better to apologize than burn
bridges,
sometimes, a crackling fire
is better than words.

—Nolcha Fox

____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Nolcha Fox for her fine poetry and for the photos she sent to go with it. As usual, I have posted an appropriate photo of a springtime fox for her (see below). See more of her work tomorrow on our Form Fiddlers' Friday. 

 

And Happy National Pet Day!—go to https://www.nationaldaycalendar.com/national-day/national-pet-day-april-11/

 —Photo Courtesy of Publlic Domain

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Becoming Something More

 —Poems by Johnathan Herold, Lodi, CA,
from his poetry collection,
“Anima Apotheosis”
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

 

 

PAST THE TREETOPS


Here we are,
aloft again.
One step further
from beginning;
one step closer
to the end.


Branch by branch
I climb, I claim,
stoop beneath the stars,
shoulder past the passerby
and fly                   far away,
to where I’ll never need
to hide again.

 

 

 

 

APOTHEOSIS



 

choose to let go,
to become something more than
who I’ve been before.

 

 

 

 

UNKIND OR OTHERWISE


Lend me your kindness,
the best of your being,
the fruit from the root
of your tree.


Still, I would settle,
brave ravenous waiting,
for anything
you’d give to me.

 

 

 

Tree on Lighthouse

 

 


OF DUST AND BONE


Every line
that leaves
her lips


Could
levitate
a thousand
pounds
of stone


Could
resurrect
this man
of dust
and bone

 

 

 

 

NEXT LOVE


I’ve handed my heart
to a fine family,
and friends
who can coax out
potential they see.


I’ve learned to give thanks
for the he, she, and we,
but my next love
will finally be
me.

________________

Today’s LittleNip:

SUMMER’S END
—Johnathan Herold


These weeks are waning,
our youthful starlight straining.
We are no longer
protagonists, to amend;
we fly to fall: summer’s end.

________________

—Medusa, with thanks and welcome back to Johnathan Herold, who first visited us in 2013, but has made subsequent visits that were few and far between. Don’t stay away so long next time, Johnathan!

 

 

 

 Johnathan Herold

 

 

 

 

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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Serenity of Stone

 We Are Not Meant For Sorrow

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

 

 

THE MELANCHOLY DANCE
—Joyce Odam

Let us be melancholy together.
we are so poor, with our
serious dance and deepest stares

into the shadowed mirrors of each other.
Let us say love with a particular
meaning. We are so sure

of destiny and fate—merged
into some dim happiness.
We are not meant

for sorrow, our favorite word,
polished with our tears. And so
we dance in a small circle,

in the tiny room of our survival,
the window rained shut,
and the hours fading into morning.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/25/14) 

 

 

 At The Shadow's Door

 

CANON (THE WEIGHT OF THEORY)
(Portrait of Leo Tolstoy in His Study
by Ilya Yefimovich Repin, 1891)
 —Robin Gale Odam

Should I go out today, I would take up my shadow
for a wrap and my volume of values for company—
we would take that one path and veer away from
burden.

Back in my study I would turn from the weight of
theory to the bottom of the page, and collect my
title.

Only gravity would be weighed in, only one such
measure, and then I would collect my title.

On reflection, I would parlay my shadow and
translate my values, and then I would collect my
title.

I would adjust the light and cast my shadow at the
door, should I go out today.

    cumbrous in the air
    gravity would fall to rest
    at the shadow’s door


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/20/23)

 

 

 

 The Thin Directing Stream

 

PRECINCTS
—Joyce Odam

Shadow-bird finds the deep canyon of sleep,
follows the thin directing stream
until it comes
to the vulnerable alley of night
with its haunt of houses.

The hurrying sky
pulls the clouds in the other direction.
Shadow-bird enters the restless dream
of a boy who is frightened of the dark

—cries out.

One of the windows opens and lets the bird in
and
the boy
out
—becoming Shadow-Bird,
remembering back to some un-
wounded wilderness where it was not extinct.

                                                    
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/1/11; 10/28/14)

__________________

IN THE SERENITY OF STONE
—Robin Gale Odam

Preparing for the arena, bathing in the
northern light, cool as nerves in meditation.

The swordsman, consummate entertainer
schooled in the ethics of dying well—or to
live another day, to outwit the game of the

opponent, the rage of the wild beast,
the eyes of the condemned, to take up
the passions of a thunderous audience—

the gladiator, admired in the bloodthirsty
age of humanity—and in the arts, rendered
in the serenity of stone.

 

 

 

 Gathering Perfume

LAVENDER  

—Robin Gale Odam

She makes it at dreamtime, to pacify sorrow—
the lavender tea in her grandmother’s teapot of
iron with spikes of tall flowers cast into the
handle—she lifts it and pours at the table he
made her of what he selected from out of their
youth, from the forest beyond the far meadow.

Her tears are from winter, she holds them inside her.
She takes up the cube of white sugar for sweetness.
She sings to her children who dance with the morning
in fields deep with lavender, gathering perfume
to steep in her teapot, to braid in her dark hair,
to sip over dreamtime to sweeten the sorrow,
to soften the evening of gathering memory—
to quiet the tears . . . for the quiet of tears . . .

 

 

 

A Beautiful Weeping Bird

 

MARATHON IN FOUR MOVEMENTS
—Joyce Odam

Do not take me onto the blurry floor to
walk-dance in the drunkenness—the tired
music, the numbness of arms falling to sides.

Do not lose me through the blurring ceiling light
above the floor—the sallow, mottling bulb
still trying to glitter for the dance.

Do not let some cold unfeeling mouth or probing
eyes close over my eyes—turning me into a mask.
I am a mask already—and this is masquerade—
no partner here but my own illusioned one.

I am a quiet, sane, person on a seashore in an 

hour of
soft blue light moving toward me—as slowly as it can,
a beautiful weeping bird with wings of whitest white.

                                                             
(prev. pub. Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/10/20)

__________________

IN BROKEN ROSES NOW
—Joyce Odam

After "White Bee" by Pablo Neruda
from Twenty Poems and a Song of Despair


we lie among thorns
caress the long stems
and twine among the petals

sweet
sweet smelling
and clinging

they fall like rain from our arms
as we fall
from each other

like
the
roses

so many flounderings
against the
love

__________________

AFTER READING “WAKING AT 3 A.M.”
BY WILLIAM STAFFORD
—Robin Gale Odam

  . . .  even in the cave of the night
  . . .  all that the darkness ripples across
  . . .  as far as your thought can run
                                   —William Stafford

even in the cave of the night . . .
at the resting in the dreamscape between the
first and second sleeps, the neuro-chemistry
will cast dark ripples of imagination—

all that the darkness ripples across . . .  
will stir and blink against the sprint of thought
and the chatter of reason, at the ripples, the
original mirage, an imaginary vision—

as far as your thought can run . . .  
and as far as you can wander the dream will
pull you to the chase of curiosity and morph
into the mirage of disappearance—

the timepiece will hold the hour for hours,
and the sun will rise and set again 

 

 

 

 In A Deep And Recovery Sleep

Today’s LittleNip:

OF SYMBOLIC NECESSITY
—Joyce Odam

On a soft leaf—on a living tree,
a perfect shaped and glossy
leaf—I picked it.

You were in a hospital corridor—
on a gurney—in a deep and
recovery sleep.

Not able to sleep, or pray, I waited,
all the while—holding on
to the soft and living leaf.

___________________

An abundance (our Seed of the Week) of thanks to Joyce and Robin Odam today for their fine poetry and Joyce’s photos

Our new Seed of the Week is “Unexpected Surprises”—redundant terms, it’s true, but somehow they seem right together. 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

 

 

 

Kourage Kat
Something we need in abundance…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Jazmarie LaTour, Kristy Lauron,
Elizabeth Sousa and Kevin Walton
will read tonight in Modesto, 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!

 

Surprise!
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

An Abundance of Abundance

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy
of Stephen Kingsnorth

* * *

—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth, 

Claire J. Baker, David Fewster,
Caschwa, and Joe Nolan
—Original Artwork by Norman J. Olson
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joe Nolan
and Stephen Kingsnorth

 

 

ABUNDANCE
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

See hanging fruit, full apple tree,
all swelling where no space remains;
those granaries, vast waving fields,
a heavy harvest, hundredfold.

Thus why abundance can cause cloy
when erotemes, ‘unfair’ applied
more readily, exploring verse—
for most material in store?
Is it such showers known before—
yet little need has crossed my path,
so plenteous has taken grant,
for granted means so little thanks?

Is greed, not need, confirmed as ploy
to be resisted, lonely voice—
against the bonhomie, rejoice
that gods accepted sacrifice?
I do not want abundance scene
when lottery of where we’re born
dictates desert or party mood?
My world not wasted save by waste.

Biologists, artists—ABUN,
united to conserve, projects
that universal wealth maintained
for health of wildlife on our ground.
So good that dance is half the word,
for energy in limbs on move
is overflow, beyond the norm
of walk, talk, being complement.

And so it is for nature’s seed—
a multiplicity indeed—
and if who have so much will share
then dancing spirits mark the globe. 

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

ECLIPSES AND . . . .
OPHTHALMOLOGY
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

We don’t
have filters, wait
while the moon slips into
right slot to darken the sun. Stop,
don’t look. 

 

 

 

 —Art by Norman J. Olson, Maplewood, MN

EMILY CARR IN PARIS
—David Fewster, Tacoma, WA

When she was 40,
some nice young feller from
their shared 2nd-rate art school
took Emily to see the paintings
by the new-fangled Fauves.
And the layers of accumulated crust
from decades of crappy academic training
flaked off like the scales on St. Paul's eyes.

Johnny Cash spent his entire life
coming out of his cave periodically
to see what the new musicians were doing.
His last hit record was a cover of
a Nine Inch Nails song.
How fucking cool was that?

Jean Cocteau spent his 50-year career
trying to make the young people love him,
frequently a figure of disdain,
like an overly made-up old tart
clutching a fox fur on a chilly cafe terrace.
Suddenly, at the end of his life,
the new wave kids adopted him.
Godard adored him.
Truffaut financed his last film,
made when he was 70.

Is there anything more pitiful than
the old geezer sitting at the reading,
antennae flailing wildly,
looking for signs of the new?
No.
I know, I am that geezer.
And what, may you ask, are my conclusions
about the innovations I've discerned in
the poets of the 21st century?

They all read their stuff
off their phones.

 

 

 

 

—Art by Norman J. Olson

FULL OF IT
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

there are some people
who are just full of
abundance
(you know what I mean)
and if you use the shorter
word to tell them that, it only
brings a smirk to their
unkempt composure

what are we to do with
these people? they are
the only kind of people
who make trickle-down
work, because that kind
of abundance decomposes
at its own rate and tries to
impregnate itself into our
home and life style

it is not as workable as
moldy cheese, where you
could cut some away and
manage to salvage a bit,
no, every iota of that stinking
abundance that trickles down
stains something else

Fortunately we have people
to represent us in both houses
of Egress and the Supreme hog
who have a long history of
managing abundance, so maybe
they will think of a good solution
agreeable to them, that will
eventually trickle down to us 

 

 

 

 

—Art by Norman J. Olson

ENIGMAS GROW HERE
—Caschwa

aging is causing me to lose my youth
if you find any of it,
take better care of it than I did

there are two identical doors here:
one is a portal to the age of enlightenment
the other a portal to the age of ignorance

in one afternoon one might find oneself
thinking they are consuming something nourishing
and then finding out it is cancerous

or avoid something they think is cancerous
and then finding out it is nourishing

I’d just like to know how much money I have
without letting everyone else know

I am not selling shoes, or bibles, but
as soon as it falls out, my hair is on the market
it will be the best hair anyone has ever seen

There are odd days and even days, but seven
times a year, there are two odd days in a row 

 

 

 

—Art by Norman J. Olson

CERTIFIED
—Caschwa

I fully understand how
a piece of wood could
be called a board

and how such wood is
used for people to step
on to board a ship

but when a person says
they are board certified,
does that mean they’ve
been approved by a mere
piece of wood that people
step on?

 

 

 

 —Art by Norman J. Olson

MOTORCYCLE INJURIES
—Joe Nolan
 
Grateful for
The way a cookie crumbles,

How the crumbs
Are there
For the gathering.

Managing catastrophes
Is more than a
Meaningful pastime.

It’s something
We should
Aspire to do,
Skillfully.

It’s not just paramedics
We adore,
But also trauma doctors
And E.R. nurses
On the trauma unit
Who do their best to
Paste us back together,
With screws, rods
And super-glue,
When we’ve come apart
Into little crumbs.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

THE BIRTH OF A MERMAID
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

A woman
Had a baby
By a fish.

It was not her wish.
She did not command
It.

Slippery,
The fish jumped from her hands
And went below.
What happened later
She says she does not know,

But her baby
Grew with fins and tail,
From waist, down,
Covered-over in scales.
From her head,
Hung a golden mane.

She struggled
To choose a suitable name
For her mixed-species offspring.

Finally,
She settled on
A name no one would claim:
Golden. 

 

 

 

 —Art by Norman J. Olson

ATTRACTION AND REPULSION
—Joe Nolan

Too many wounds
Too hard to heal.

Too strong a will
That would not yield,
But had to have its way,

So we had to say,
“Good-bye.”

We are creatures
Descended from
Other creatures,
In circumstances,

Born with warts,
Fins or fans.

Fade!
The bright, undone.

Good fences
Keep neighbors
Far enough apart,
They don’t need to start
In upon
One another.

Love your neighbor
As yourself.
Keep them at arm’s length
Or somewhat farther,
Maybe across a yard
Or maybe two.

Do the best that you can do
Managing magnetic fields
Among the stubborn
Who never yield
Who might overwhelm you.

 

 

 

 —Art by Norman J. Olson

A DREAM OF SOMETHING SMALL
—Joe Nolan

Dream a dream
Of something small,
A thing
You call
Yourself.

Dream your dream
Your lifetime, long,

When old,
Sit on your shelf,
 
Surrounded by
Your books and memoirs,
Read by no one, else,

Before
You are
No more. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

Today’s LittleNip:

And then my heart with pleasure fills
And dances with the daffodils.

—William Wordsworth

____________________

Many thanks to our contributors today, including artist/photographer Norman J. Olson for the work he has sent us. Our Seed of the Week was Abundance, and we certainly have a rich abundance of poetry and visuals here in the Kitchen. Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.

Today is the day of the total solar eclipse! The bad news is that we won’t have a total eclipse here in Sacramento; the good news is that we do get a partial one. Go to https://www.timeanddate.com/eclipse/in/usa/citrus-heights?iso=20240408/, for example, to see what will be happening in Citrus Heights, CA, this morning.

And there is an abundance of events celebrating National Poetry Month in our area this week, including, among many others, the Sierra Poetry Festival (sierrapoetryfestival.org/) next Saturday in Grass Valley, with all its Pop-Up Poetry events happening on different days around the area. For more about National Poetry Month 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.

__________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 William Wordsworth’s Daffodils
—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain

A reminder that
Poetic License read-around
takes place in Placerville
this morning, 10:30am;
Nellie Wong and Vincent Kobelt
(with open mic) read on Zoom
for the Rivertown Poets & Aqua Cafe
tonight, 6:15pm; and tonight is
Youth Open Mic at
Sacramento Poetry Center, 7:30pm.
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!

 

 

 

 

 

I Will Survive

 —Poetry by Hongwei Bao, Nottingham, UK
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

 

 

TOMORROW YOU’LL BE LEAVING

The Owl

It remembers
The night when the moon is up.
The forest ripples like dark oceans.
Branches spread like open hands.
A fiddle-like vibration travels in the spring air.

It folds its wings on top of a roof
Under which flickering lights shine through the
windows,
Whispers, occasional sobs, can be remotely heard,
Our bodies are seen lying next to one another.
Tomorrow you’ll be leaving. How shall my owl
remember you?

 

 

 

 

CONNECTIONS

What connections do I still have to this land
Where I was born and grew up
But have lived away for too long

If not for the silver hair of my parents
The gentle voice of my sister over a weekly
phone call

The occasional sight of an old, fluffy Samoyed
Tails waving, staggering to stand still

Aged faces of school and university friends
Red in the saturation of beer and wine
Bright in the glow of the campfire

A nomadic childhood in North China
Sliding down sand dunes in lucid Mandarin

Memories of past lovers’ hands
Running down my spine, lips pressed against mine

Those loose connections, perhaps suffice
To string together the broken bracelet beads
To feel a gentle vibration on the Erhu strings

 

 

 

COVID

O you mighty beast
Sneaking into my body
Shortening my breaths
Paralysing my muscles
Raising my temperature
I cough and sweat and toss and turn
Through sleepless nights and half-sleeping days
Through constant despair and renewed hope
My weapon is my aging and aching body.
My tactic is my time and patience.
Every extended hour, each
extra day is a step
towards
victory.
I will
survive. 

 

 

 

THISTLES

Us standing tall in the snow.
Us breathing thick, white fogs.
Us braving the chilly north wind.
Us guarding the silence of the highlands.
Us despised by some and kept away at all costs.
Us others crown as national flowers and revere.
Us who refuse to bow to kings and praise queens.
Us who remember the perished and mourn the
forgotten.
Us who insist on treating the rich as bandits, and
money as manure.
Us who continue to bloom year after year, despite
snows, despite storms, despite fires. 

 

 

 

YOU ARE WHAT YOU EAT

You
are not
what you eat
if you were born
into a family with several
children and each one of them is
suffering from malnutrition, or if you
have an entire family to feed so you must
work hard in shifts, or if you can’t afford expensive
foods from organic shops, or inexpensive ones from supermarkets,
or if the Jobcentre refuses to give you the benefits you deserve
so you must sleep rough on the street, or if you are trapped
in a war zone and don’t know when the war will end,
if at all, or if you have to wait forever for your
refugee status to be approved. Until then
you realise you are not what you eat,
you eat what you can find and
afford, and struggle to
survive in forgotten
corners of
society.

 

 

 

 

GREY HAIR

You unruly, grey hair
Creeping up while I was hibernating
Through the three long Covid years
Appearing where you are least expected
Mushrooming overnight without waiting for
the rain

You cunning artist
Your thick brush paints my head salt and pepper
More salt and less pepper on each sight
Your thin stroke decorates my forearms with silver
threads
Waving and glittering in the afternoon sun.

Whatever clippers, scissors or shavers I apply
Cannot completely rid me of you
You naughty, calculated and unruly hair
Quietly running a marathon with me, competing
for time, speed and determination

I used to see you as a reminder
Of my growing age, waning strength and
weakening will
Until now I’ve learned to live with you
With my experience, wisdom and optimism

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

PAPER BALL
—Hongwei Bao

What carelessness, anger
or frustration has made me
what I am, tossed on the floor,
near the waste basket, awaiting
an unknown destiny.

And yet I’m still a piece of paper,
carrying a half-written poem
written by an unaccomplished poet.

____________________

—Medusa, welcoming Hongwei Bao back to the Kitchen, with thanks for his fine poetry!

 

 

 

 

Hongwei Bao

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
National Poetry Month roars along
in the NorCal area today, with
a return of First Church of Poetry
at noon, McKinley Park, Sacramento;
Moetry with The Soft Offs
at Sac. Poetry Center, 4pm;
and LabRats Sunday Session
Music and Poetry Jam, also
in Sacramento, 8pm.
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!

 

 

 

 

 

Survival and Art

 —Poetry by Sushant Thapa, Biratnagar, Nepal
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

TRANSCENDENTAL TRUTH

I am not lost
There is no such maze.
No residential address
Cages me;  
No emails send me
Undelivered messages.
In modernity
The rainbow is only a
Matter of desire.
Any room
Is a mental capacity.
My flowering prowess
Is life in its transcendental truth.
Art is a tool of consolation more
Beautiful than truth. 

 

 

 

STALKING

Trespassing as a stalker
Do you have a friendly inking?
Come close for shared loneliness.
Digital divide
Is divine.
There is a screen of connection.
Deep inside, you want to open up
Like a flowing chain of keys.
Appreciation is time-taking;  
Yet, your gratitude
Colors the screen.
Come close if you have
A friendly inking,
And a screen-time divine. 

 

 

 

 

EVERY MORE VERSE IS LESS

Every more verse is less;  
The aura to create is greater.
Philosophy is a guided meter
That can step out of rhyme.
Any new dimension
Is like a gurgling brook
Which the morning listens to.
Heavy-hearted retreat
Is a stay and say of words.
Opening of the shaft
Is inking of the craft. 

 

 

 

 
SURVIVAL AND ART

Art is a flight of stairs
Reaching for the ripe allowances.
In majestic imprint
The lowly water
Becomes a trademark.
Impressions and
Recollections
Play like a drum.
Art holds a decorum,
In its truth
Beauty is pious,
Taking away the morning eye
From the stale news
Of the midnight howl;
That is how you know the
Art of survival, with no heartaches. 

 

 

 

ELEMENTS THAT HURDLE

The river cries
We mistake it for flowing.  
The kingdom sleeps
We mistake it for nurturing dreams.  
Hurdles and distance
Make a runner.
Life has a love blood
Of helping others.
Love is not a trivial issue;
In humanity we thrive.
The blessings are never old.  
Literature is never an old message.
Literature reaches the youths,
The masses and the mind.
A secluded pen has a public life.
The mediocre we mistake for simplicity
Is elegance.
Art can speak less, tell more.
Delight less, spark and ignite more.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

The writer is an explorer. Every step is an advance into a new land.

—Ralph Waldo Emerson

_____________________

—Medusa, welcoming Sushant Thapa back to the Kitchen today, with thanks for his fine poetry!

 

 

 

 Sushant Thapa

A reminder that
Nancy Gonzalez St. Clair will
present a workshop in Lodi
this morning, 11am;
Sac. Poetry Center's
Poetry Month Opening Celebration

has changed from a BBQ to an 

Open House with poetry, raffles, and

food from Queen Tings, 12-4pm; plus the
“Explore Riparian Landscape” workshop
takes place in Placerville, 1pm;
and Josh Fernandez will read
from his new book in
Sacramento tonight, 6pm.
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!

 

...into a new land...