My Va-Va-Voom Done Va-Va-Went~

 —Public Domain Illustration 

Courtesy of Joe Nolan

* * *

—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Caschwa, Ernest Federspiel, Sayani Mukherjee,
Shiva Neupane, and Joe Nolan

—Original Art by Ernest Federspiel
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Joe Nolan

 

 

THAT CERTAIN SOMETHING
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

Bogart had it in Casablanca.
Monroe had it in The Seven Year Itch.
That tilt of the head.
That look, that spark.
That turn of the lip.

Films almost catch it.
Magazines want it.
The French call it va-va-voom.
My va-va-voom took a wrong turn
and ended up in the Cleveland sewer.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

BUTTERFLIES
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Swoop beaks catch snatching from the air
mosquitoes dancing in their cloud,
alighting ladies, beetle bugs,
injected sting from wasp unseen;
they’re manifold in nature’s play
but yet surprise, shock or delight,
capricious as they cross our path,
a serendipity in life.

The chaos theory, not at all,
where first call, random, determined yet;
such flutter by of butterfly
base origin of distant storm.
Or maybe as the Northern Lights
which caught me napping, weeks ago,
though neighbours saw, Welsh hills surround,
green dancing sky from solar slares.

While I’m relaxing, garden chair,
those flakes appeared; so snow in June.
While I’ve been burning candle ends
the visitor; from my deep sleep.
As cyclist, Cambridge roundabout;
I’m fed up, cars though slow, don’t care;
the panicked driver, me prostrate,
my slight guilt trip at playing dead.

Is it the vocab, time-warp sense?
My mother hear, glass broke by phone,
would never dream, hand-held device—
for her, full flute, devil’s device.
Of Gaza, Ukraine, USA,
I’d not expected what obtains;
the worse if ripens in each case,
then I will pass, inheritance. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Poster Courtesy of Joe Nolan

DREAM LIFE
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

now doesn’t that sound positive?
as if one could pick their dreams
instead of the different varieties of
dreams making their own decisions
as to when and where to visit the
unsuspecting sleepyhead

more than once, I have believed I
was awakening from a dream, only
to find myself deeply immersed in
another dream…talk about confusion!

I still remember a dream I had when
I was about 4 years old, laying on my
back in the driveway when I felt the
vibrations of a delivery van pulling
over me, then opened my eyes to see
our kitty cat purring loudly on my
chest, while I lay safely in bed

guess I’m not paid-up on dream fees,
because that dream never visited me
again, and only now as I sit at my
desktop computer I hear the vicious
struggle of 2 or more howling felines
thrashing in the shrubs, thumping
against my window, and just as quickly,
they disappear

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy 

of Joe Nolan

HERB THE OCTOPUS
—Caschwa

tenuously learning to walk
was anxiously waiting for
the other tentacle to fall

wanted to make an online
purchase, but didn’t under-
stand contract terms

he knew about putting
things in ink, but then ink
was all you got

Herb was jealous of monopods
walking around all day with no
cares at all about tripping over
one’s own legs

he quietly amuses himself
watching fish use their flat
legs they call fins

eight legs are enough for me,
says Herb, I don’t need fins to
confuse matters even more

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

DEEP PORES
—Caschwa

when I was in primary school I was
nearsighted, and neither I, nor my
parents, nor my teachers knew this
or thought to test for it

my reading comprehension may have
even been a little above average, but
I never got to the rapid pace where I
could quickly scan material and retain it

instead, I would be microscopically
peering at the pores in my skin, or
the fabric of the paper alongside the
words, which were very much in clear
focus, and quite a bit more suited for
my memory than the content of the
words on the page

I tested well in rote-repetition math,
reading, spelling, and vocabulary, but
in other subjects, like history, it was as
if my mental post office was missing
some cubby holes, so though I could
easily hear what was said when the
teacher presented lessons, such data
was not ever filed away in a place where
I could retain or retrieve it

then my whole world changed in short
order: matriculated from primary to
junior high school, with its multiple, big
text books, heavy not only in measurable
weight but requiring deep concentration
to comprehend the material

was taking piano lessons and Annabelle,
the elderly lady providing the instruction, had
me using “Teaching Little Fingers to Play” at
the same time my new hormones were making
their grand debut, and my temple was preparing
me for my Bar Mitzvah, that point where they
would say “Today you are a man” and with all
this going on, my parents finally took me to have
my eyes tested and I got my first pair of corrective
lenses

no more squinting at the big screen in the movie
theater, or getting distracted by looking at the pores
in my skin while reading; however, as to those
missing cubby holes, at this writing, it is more than
half a century later, and they are still missing 

 

 

 

A thin pencil outline of a full moon

—Artwork by Ernest Federspiel (with
Microsoft Designer and Canva)

A FULL MOON SIN
—Ernest Federspiel, Litchfield, MI

I  pulled into Cherry Valley in my pea-green
Ford
I had to get some gas from the quick-mart
store
There was a cute little blond staring straight
at me
She said “I’ll show ya something mister that
you ain’t never seen”
Well I paid for the gas and we sped out of town
We headed up to the California mountains, no
other souls to be found

She told me to pull onto a path “There is a creek
up ahead
“We can go skinny dipping while listening to the
Grateful Dead”
She jumped out of the truck before I brought it
to a stop
She wiggled and giggled as she pulled off her top
I swear the water was freezing as we both
jumped in
This was the beginning of the Full Moon Sin

We swam for awhile then danced under that
full moon
Come daylight I asked her if she wanted to jump
the broom
She then dipped down, spun around and smiled
at me
She said “I can’t marry you, babe, I’m the queen
of the valley”
We jumped into the back of my truck, drinking
her Cherry Valley gin
And enjoyed the morning after the Full Moon Sin

I took her back to the valley, and as she left my
Ford
She said “I swear to ya, Ernie, I could ask for
no more
“You’re the best lover that has ever been
“And I really enjoyed The Full Moon Sin”
This is the true story of the Cherry Valley Queen
She was the finest little blond these eyes have
ever seen 

 

 

 

Earth from Space

—Artwork by Ernest Federspiel (with
Microsoft Designer and Canva)

THE ANIMAL CALLED MAN
—Ernest Federspiel


What happened to our future that we can’t
understand
Why is destruction so commonplace for the
animal called man
Back through time, we record our mistakes and
it’s very plain to see
That the survival of this planet comes down to
you and me
There is no simple cure to relieve Mother
Earth’s strife and pain
It will be a long journey to get this turned
around again
Must the whole planet watch as we slowly
destroy this precious rock
Can’t we all come together and make it just
stop
Power resides in mighty high places where
bad decisions are made
To save this planet maybe we should shake it up
and make a trade
Let the not-so-wealthy take their turn at the plate
Maybe without the greed we can provide a
different fate
Seems like the people without money care more
about the land
So once again let’s put the care of earth back
into their hands
I’m sure if they could talk the creatures of the
ocean would all agree
The trash we dump there is providing them
with pure misery
But the common man doesn’t take time to think
about such things
We poison our planet without thinking about
future dreams
You can see the destruction we’ve done and
know the cures to use
To turn this apocalypse into divine bliss means
quitting all of the abuse
We need to do it now before we finish laying the
planet to waste

I mean, come on people, the animal called man
is sending his trash to space

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

MOSS
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India

Dewdrops around my clock table
A newly refurbished watch
The steel clean peel, the orangy desk
The rumination around
A heavy buzzkeep silence
The opulence of tall heavy strain
Straight out of the hillsides
The air mists a blue hour
My peonies are hung around
The bonnets are wet-dried
My nestled dropped homeskill
To myriad ways the honey-touch smile
Kills the open-ended questions
Before they end, before the red postbox
It stays around
Whatever we try to ponder on
As the river slithers around
My new desked moss. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

TOUCH
—Sayani Mukherjee

A mahogany of lost leaden high
The namesake kept its promise
The turbulence of sea horse runner
The silver disk is a little low tonight
For Baroque's touch of midas res
The high strung of novelty
The joyous currents of sea beds
Leaves me open-stranded
In an Island of Mediterranean blue
I sing and hum the national green
The olive touch of Texas to Britain
Ghettos land in the islands of poverty
I skimmed a holistic touch. 

 

 

 

Sloth moves slowly to avoid stress
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

HER SOUND OF IGNORANCE
—Shiva Neupane, Melbourne, Australia

I tried to be all-ears
But couldn’t hear the
Sound of ignorance
Despite its being so loud.
I cried so much to myself
The rolls of tears zeroed in 
On my cheeks.
Carving the creeks of deep agony,
The language of ignorance
Butchered my heart into pieces
But, the glue of my dreams has defragmented
those pieces of my heart
and ushered me in the path of my life.
The dreams came to my aid as lifeboats
And repealed the invitation to my watery grave.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy 

of Joe Nolan

DEBATING THE WORD, “GENOCIDE”
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

Fear-dogs of foreign power
Are devouring the weak
With bombs that come
From you and me.

Let us not prevaricate:
Murder is murder and
Death is death.

You can debate
The label of “genocide,”
But it all
Comes out of hate.

Why do we participate?
Someone is pulling our strings.
If you walk alongside murderers,
Beware what your future brings.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

UNDERSTANDING GRANDCHILDREN
—Joe Nolan

Known, this spirit
From its birth
And the shape
That it would form,

Which beauty
It would fulfill,
Which weakness
Shown in scars.

Its destiny
Was clear-foretold—
Its virtue and its sin.
None of this would alter
By the flesh it was within.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

IN STILLNESS AND SILENCE
—Joe Nolan
 
Stand still silent
Still silent stand
Silently stand-still.

We pray for peace.
We hope we shall.
Shall we
Hope for peace?

Stand still, silent
Silently stand still
Listen to the silence
When the war has stopped.

Still, we hear the crying.
The crying never stops.
Moan and moan,
So all alone.

Stand still silent
Still silent, stand
Silently stand still.

 

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Grandchildren are the dots that connect the lines from generation to generation.

—Lois Wyse

____________________

Thanks to today’s contributors from all over the world, including the U.S. (Wyoming, Michigan, California), India, Wales, and Australia.

Two workshops on the calendar this week: Sac. Poetry Center’s new “Meter & Flow” on five upcoming Thursdays with Daniel Kemper, and a MoSt workshop next Saturday in Modesto with Gary Thomas. Also a deadline this week: Swan Scythe Press’s 2024 chapbook contest deadline is Saturday. Click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html) for details about these and other future poetry events in the NorCal area—and keep an eye on this link and on the Kitchen for happenings that might pop up during the week.

____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Poetic License meets in Placerville
this morning, 10:30am; and
Sacramento Poetry Center
features Youth Open Mic
tonight in Sacramento, 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!

 

Mondays...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Above / Below

 

—Poetry by John Rowe, El Cerrito, CA
—Photos by John Rowe

 

 

MEDITATION WITH CROW

For once
we are quiet
in each other’s presence

Crow perched
on the backyard deck railing
I at the open door

Hello, I say softly
Crow looks at me
I look at him

A breeze
A blue rose in bloom
The garden Buddha

Minutes pass
Crow and I
stand still in silence

When we awaken
from our trance
I am he, he is me

He now watches from doorway
as I spread my wings and fly
to the neighbor’s sycamore tree

 

 

 

 

ABOVE / BELOW

Atop the redwoods
sharp calls
of red-shouldered hawks

while far below
where I am
grounded

a blue dragonfly
shimmers and hovers
in shared
sunlit space

quieter than
my whisper
if in this moment
I were to make
such a sound

 

 

 

 

STILL

I return to look at
the front step

where the praying mantis
had landed—

it’s still there
and still still

 

 

 

 

WHILE TAKING A BREAK FOR A DRINK OF WATER
(or maybe something stronger)

after my struggle
the past hour
to commit
a few lines of poetry
to the page

I bow down
to the hummingbird
outside my kitchen window
showing off her
70 wingbeats per second

 

 

 

 

 

YELLOW

She’s pre-teen
and the large slice
of yellow watermelon
she holds at eye level
precariously between fingers
is all smiles to mask
her self-consciousness.

That wedge of fruit
mirrors crescent moon,
extending twilight summer night.

“I wasn’t expecting it to be so drippy,”
she announces to her off-balance friend
grasping leash attached to a Golden Lab
pulling other end,
warm wet nose guiding toward
the delicate petals
of a fragrant yellow rose.

 

 

 

HAPPINESS
 
Who says happiness
can’t sit and wait
at a bus stop
even if the bus
never arrives?
I see happiness
sitting there alone
scribbling down a poem.
Truth is
happiness is not alone.
A crow in a nearby tree
keeps one eye on happiness.
Happiness is old and wise
but doesn’t feel that way.
Now I see happiness
turn into a child
with an ice cream cone.
Three scoops
of favorite flavors.
Before long
laughter shows up
and sits down
next to happiness.
A certain kind
of music follows
to last a lifetime.


(prev. pub. in the anthology, Ice Cream Poems, from World Enough Writers, 2017)

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

ON THE RETURN TRIP

I came back
through the tunnel
and saw the light
at the beginning of it

—John Rowe

_____________________

Bay Area SnakePal John Rowe has poems appearing in numerous small press journals and anthologies. He is the author of several poetry chapbooks, including At My Wit's Beginning, and Winsome Losesome (Eventuality Press), and Beyond Perspective (Finishing Line Press). For over 25 years, John has enjoyed active participation as a featured reader at many venues and festivals, as well as volunteer involvement in the organization/leadership of community poetry events in the San Francisco Bay Area. He currently hosts a monthly (2nd Saturday) open reading on Zoom for the Bay Area Poets Coalition (BAPC). He and his wife, the poet Jan Dederick, reside in El Cerrito, CA with their black cat, Benny, and two backyard ducks. Find out more about John at www.rowepoet.com and/or https://www.pw.org/directory/writers/john_rowe/.

Welcome back to the Kitchen, John, and don’t be a stranger!

____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 John Rowe

A reminder that Poets Club of Lincoln

Open Mic meets today, 3pm.

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!

 

Got myself all tied up in knots!
 

 

Pulling Faces

 —Poetry by Mike Hickman, York, England
—Images Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

WHO PULLED THAT FACE FOR YOU?

You don’t so much roll your eyes,
As bowl them,
Your eyebrows performing Schulz-style
Apostrophes of incomprehension
Somewhere above your forehead,
Floating in thin air,
As you pull that face
At my colleague, or my colleague’s behaviour
Or your disgust at whatever it is this time,
And all I can do,
As I watch your mobile features contort themselves
Is wonder,
Who pulled that face to you?
Was it mummy or daddy?
Was it a teacher or a squadron leader?
Who are you mirroring when you gurn your way
Round your reaction to the people you disdain,
Because it isn’t a good look,
It doesn’t sit well with your position,
It gives far too much away
Of how people must have treated you,
And what you have inspired in them.

Still,
It raises the prospect
Of just how much fun
It would be
To play poker with you.

We always know when you have the losing hand.


(prev. pub. in The Haven)

 

 

 

 

 

YOU INSUFFERABLE ARSE

Now, I don’t know why this needs to be said,
When you are, in your own estimation,
Of such tremendous renown,
With personal and professional achievements
Lighting up a life of almost total success,
And you have been on every board in the land,
Passed every audition,
Hobnobbed with everyone of note,
And been fêted with garlands and medals
(And money, let’s not forget the money).
I don’t know why this needs to be said
To a gentleman who enters every room
With the beatific smile of the Hollywood star,
Knowing that he is recognised,
And expecting the autograph books to come his way
(No doubt, so he can refuse them),
But
I have never met you before.
I do not know who you are until this moment.
I don’t know your name until you are introduced to me,
And it’s interesting how few people will enter
Your immaculate orbit to perform those introductions.
And
As you do not have your CV stapled to your forehead,
And as there aren’t billboards advertising your brilliance
On every street corner,
I have nothing else to rely on,
When it comes to assessing your character,
Than the way you present yourself
In this moment,
This one obnoxious moment,
As a complete and total,
Absolute insufferable arse.

And, believe me, before you doubt my qualifications
to comment,
I know all about that,
Having got being an insufferable arse off to such a perfect
tee myself.


(prev. pub.  in The Haven)

 

 

 

WHEN WORDS DON’T FAIL ME

You are the door handle through the belt loop,
That upends me on the way into the bathroom,
When my visit was already urgent.

You are the coaster stuck to the glass,
Causing me to spill my drink down my front,
At precisely the point I am making my introduction.

You are the knife at the bottom of the washing-up bowl,
Which I never once manage to encounter by the handle,
And never with the hand I don’t actually need for 

everything I do.

You are the crumbs in the toaster
That spill over my trousers when I gently move the thing
Seconds before the visitors arrive.

You are the chewing gum on the underside of the seat
On the bus, when I’m trying to relax,
Or bracing myself at the driver’s poor braking.

You are all these things to me,
In every waking moment I have to share with you,
And you’re there in the bloody dreams I have, too.

Oh, don’t be offended,
Don’t be upset,
And don’t ever change,
Because your level of nuisance is more bearable than
so much else in this world.
And it does, at least, give me something to write about.


(prev. pub.  in The Haven)

 

 

 

 
 

YOU GIVE ME GRIEF

The man in the specs wants to sum up, somehow.
“So much loss,” is the way he puts it,
Blinking behind his lenses, his eyes dewy and doe-like,
If said doe was also suffering from a migraine.
“It’s more than most”, he says,
Paisley hankie dabbing at his forehead,
“But I’m sure you know that.”

It isn’t that we have been counting the lost.
I haven’t even covered my grandparents,
My uncles, the fact my father’s family were unknown
to us
Even from the first.
I haven’t talked about my father leaving,
And my mother never really being a mother at all.
There hasn’t been the chance.

Because grief, it turns out,
According to the man in the specs,
Is not just about those lost to age and time,
Some of them even naturally,
But those things lost even as they began,
Those things lost that promised so much
Even if only for the one day.

Grief, it turns out, is something you make me feel.
Albeit not the kind you had already caused
With the upset and the attempt and the trips to A and E.
Grief, it turns out, is what follows
When promise is upended,
And even the gaslight is extinguished.

Grief is all I have left of you.

The man in the specs wants to sum up, somehow.
“So much loss,” is the way he puts it,
Blinking behind his lenses, his eyes dewy and doe-like,
If said doe was also suffering from a migraine.
And he is right.
It is more than most.
It isn’t just you.
So it is a wonder he expects me to let it out,
To recognise the emotion,
To accept it and maybe even begin to move on.

I accepted it many, many years ago.
And—surely he can see this?—made it a key part of
who I am.

Cause me grief, why don’t you?
It is all I have come to expect.


(prev. pub.  in Know Thyself, Heal Thyself)

 

 

 

 

THE UNFILTERED TRUTH

You worry about it, you say.
You worry that it has slipped,
Your personal microphone pop filter-shield
That protects your listeners from more than your ‘plosives.
You worry that you might have let something loose,
In “Paging Dr Freud” fashion,
And you say this, too,
When feeling secure enough to share,
And perhaps your colleague worries,
Fears that you will feel this is a filter slip, too,
Except he wouldn’t
Because, on the list of personal qualities
That you carry with you in everything you do,
There is the conscientiousness and the humility
That mean you worry about the filter in the first place,
That you listen to what you say when you say it,
And you reflect on it afterwards,
Sharing the vulnerability,
Wanting to learn,
Wanting to do better next time,
Wanting to grow.
The unfiltered truth, of course,
Is that you do not need to worry
To be good at what you do,
But the fact you do is one of the reasons
You are capable of being so.

And there is the only filter that,
every so often,
Ought to be allowed to slip.

The one that does not let you see
How very good a person you truly are.


(prev. pub. in Know Thyself, Heal Thyself)

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself in any direction you choose. You’re on your own, and you know what you know. And you are the guy who’ll decide where to go.

—Dr. Seuss

___________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Mike Hickman for his fine poetry today!

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Sacramento Poetry Alliance
features Sally Ashton and Cami DuMay
in Sacramento today at 4pm; and the
Ina Coolbrith Annual Poets’ Dinner/Picnic
meets in Pinole today, starting at noon.
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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Places of Nature's Healing

 —Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,
Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down for
Form Fiddlers’ Friday, with poetry by
Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Caschwa, Joyce Odam, and
Joshua C. Frank

 

 

PRAYER FLAG
from ForestSong, RIPE AREA
Arts & Nature Festival, 6/2/24

This morning a mourning dove was calling,
live oaks moving with the rhythm of a breeze,
dappling dead cut stubble underfoot.
This place—like all our places now—in peril.
This place of Nature’s healing.
I think of the black bear crossing the road
from honey hive to chaparral,
the sphinx moth with its unanswerable questions,
columbine blooming in shady corners
among stone,
the gloaming that gathers
a day’s pangs and agonizings,
its disintegrations and re-makings,
our darkness and our light. 

 

 

 

A MOONSCAPE, EXCEPT

Holiday traffic racing up & down mountain 2-lane—
skeletons of burned conifers to the horizon—
dozer-gouged dirt from fire-fight 3 years ago—
charred & weathered branches, rocks & pebbles,
a few pine seedlings planted in desolation—
one heavy-duty glove,
a carefully constructed stone fire pit with grill,
a milled-plank bench,
three uprights posted in triptych—
a question:
who dared sit here under stars & constellations
shepherding a pit fire
sheltered against wild summit winds
amid the dark around & overhead,
the black that was a forest? 

 

 

 

 

SHE’S BACK IN THE BURN SCAR

Memorial Day 2024

O ladybug on leaf
of oak-sprout on this moonscape—burned-out scars—
this stump that won’t give up its root-belief
in soil and sun, as cars

on holiday whiz by,
no reason to be stopping here; dead trees,
no lovely forest scenery under sky.
O ladybug, stay, please. 

 

 

 

 

SILLY OTIS

The rescue kennel called him goofy. I call him
silly Otis, as he rolls around on the marrowbone
meant to keep him happy while I’m gone.

Now I’m home, he waves big speckled paws
in the air. Bushy tail’s a plume thumping
joyous tattoo as he rolls on his bone.

“Silly” comes from Old English gesaelig,
“happy, prosperous;” he is, with his hollow bone,
marrow extracted. Gesaelig from Proto-Germanic—

Old Saxon & Old High German salig,
to modern German selig, “blessed, happy,
blissful.” Otis rolling on his hollow marrowbone. 

 

 

 

OTIS’S DNA

He’s not ornery, just prey-driven,
inheritance of unnamed hunter canines.
The jury isn’t out yet on the question
of his ancestry. His swab-kit is stalled
on its way to the lab, moving thru
the network, in transit to next facility,
arriving late. It’s already
5 days late according to postal updates.
Does frustrated mean ornery?
Or is it just the fruit of our rush-rush
caught-in-traffic anxious lives? 

 

 

 

 

GREEN SPACE

along the bike & hiking trail

How narrow a swath of wild on either side,
buffering this quiet woodland trail
from industrial park and big box store,

sheltering with ever-changing green of trees
and brush, where once I found a larkspur
I never knew before; where once I saw

a doe turned statue to my spellbound dog,
before she lifted off in spring-leaps
too light for mortal hooves—gone.

Gone like the woods this morning. Just
stumps and severed rounds. Underbrush
cleared away; bare dirt all around;

a sudden view of pavement, walls, roofs
row on row expanding into farther town.
Where does a doe find shelter now?

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

DEEP DARK
—Taylor Graham

canyon lit only
by spring-green leaves capturing
the high morning sun

___________________

Our thanks to Taylor Graham for her lovely poetic snapshots this morning! Forms she has used include an Etymology Poem (“Silly Otis”); a Haiku (“Deep Dark”); a List Poem (“A Moonscape, Except”); a Bryant that is also an Ekphrastic response to Medusa's recent ladybug photo (“She's Back in the Burn Scar”); and a Word-Can Poem (“Prayer Flag”), which actually uses ten words chosen from three different cans at last weekend’s RIPE AREA Festival. The Bryant was one of last week’s Triple-F Challenges. I asked TG for resources about Etymology poems, and she said there were none. She thinks she made up the form.

In El Dorado County poetry this week, Poetic License meets in Placerville on Monday morning at 10:30am. For more news about this and other El Dorado County poetry—past (photos!) and future—see Taylor Graham’s Western Slope El Dorado Poetry 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.

Also of interest to Form Fiddlers might be the free five-week workshop at Sacramento Poetry Center, starting Thursday, June 13 at 6pm. Led by Daniel Kemper, it’s called “Meter & Flow”, and is focused on these elements of poetry. Info: https://www.sacpoetrycenter.org/events/.

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 responses from Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth, and Caschwa (Carl Schwartz):

NOT TO WORRY
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

You don’t have to run to Mommy.
You don’t have to cry and scream.
What you see outside the window
may not be a scary dream.
Don’t you listen to the people
whispering of monsters dark.
Trust your instincts.
You know better.
It’s your Daddy making sure
that you’re ok before
you go to sleep at night.

* * *

KRAMPUS
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Too clear an image for a dream—
sure not the pane, reflection framed?
From dark interior she peers,
so what light shines, her profile, glass?
Is hand supporting body’s rest
or barring entry to her world?
The demon not for beard, bold teeth,
or craggy face, but temple horns.
A preface plate for craft of art,
both spells and magic of the night?

Or are we in the Krampus site,
the toddler neither scared nor cared;
as he tried more for cringe or cry,
the girl but chortled, demon sighed.
The ancients had him with St Nick,
the naughty children’s Christmas cheer,
with rods of birch for punishment,
and not to spare, as scripture told.
But then the wiser woke to threat
as nothing gained in mental health.

Was this goat monster rooted claw,
its German Krampen meaning so—
an irony so close to Claus,
that kindly cousin of St Nick?
How odd that it should have its birth,
Catholic Christian character;
forefathers sad that they embraced
that young be good for fear of him.
It’s when we know God’s on our side
that we should then be most afraid.

* * *

INCISOR MOUSTACHE
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

when my teeth come in,
apparently some will cause
pain in my gums while others
will overtake my upper lip and
form a bony moustache, one to
compliment my pointed ears
and beady eyes

my teething today is supposed
to become chewing, the routine
cooperative effort of upper and
lower teeth, but can’t see how
that will be possible if my uppers
rest atop my upper lip

is this a computer glitch? an AI
assault? are all mirrors and
windows distortions? Mama,
please don’t forget the straw.

* * *

Caschwa was inspired by Taylor Graham’s journeys with Otis, and sent this poem:

 

 

 

 Otis
—Photo by Taylor Graham

 

HIDDEN KNOWLEDGE
—Caschwa

what a dog sees, hears, and/or smells
while walking right alongside you
neither Power Point, lights nor bells
to share with you what’s in its view

the OED on microfiche
a special reader is required
though greater speed might be our wish
our lowly brain is not so wired

I shall incorporate myself
get deductions, honor, and pride
display my logo on top shelf
my voice in Congress multiplied

we know which people do not vote
despite the changes they could make
to enrich life structured on rote
and add more icing to their cake

in the squat, putting down the signs
directing the flow of a sport
keeping the ball within the lines
churning dirt to trigger the snort

* * *

Remember the Katauta? The form that's so much fun to say? Joyce Odam sent us a chain of them this week:

 

 

 

 —Illustration Courtesy of 

Public Domain

CLARIFICATIONS: Seven Katautas
—Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

Of what use sorrow?
     When Joy steals the poet for
     Joy, the poet writes nothing.

What thoughts control love?
     The mind of the map unfolds . . .
     so many places to go.

What do locks protect?
     Secrets hide.  Windows gossip.
     The police can find nothing.

What is jealousy?
     Flip a coin and it never
     comes down . . . some love-thief steals it.

For what does love grieve?
     Two ornery geese . . . life-mates . . .
     now one is dead.  The dog sleeps.  

What does time recall?
     Fog rolls in . . . land disappears . . .
     cry of something lost cuts through.

Why,   and why,   and why?
     The absolutes do not yield . . .
     only the questions matter.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/5/18)


* * *

Josh Frank has sent us an extended Villanelle:

 

 

 

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

LOST SHEEP, LOST SLEEP
—Joshua C. Frank

The devil takes the people as his sheep.
Surrounded every day by hellish flocks,
I lie in bed with dread and cannot sleep.

They sell off precious human life for cheap
And weigh your death against the price of stocks—
The devil takes the people as his sheep.

Another mother kills her child; I weep.
Murders tick by like second hands on clocks—
I lie in bed with dread and cannot sleep.

A couple learns the penalties are steep
For right belief as “child welfare” knocks—
The devil takes the people as his sheep.

A woman casts her husband from his keep;
His speaking with his kids, she quickly blocks—
I lie in bed with dread and cannot sleep.

Through Christian doors, satanic toxins seep;
Despite God’s love, each family member mocks—
The devil takes the people as his sheep.

Behind their Jesus masks the demons creep.
Which facts are lies?  Which facts are orthodox?
I lie in bed with dread and cannot sleep.

To God’s small flock, our Shepherd seems asleep
As one more pro-life priest, the Pope defrocks—
The devil takes the people as his sheep.

God says that “as you sow, so shall you reap”
While keeping evil free from bars and locks—
I lie in bed with dread and cannot sleep.

Perhaps I think too much and think too deep
Because I think outside my culture’s box.
The devil takes the people as his sheep;
I lie in bed with dread and cannot sleep.


(First published in The Society of Classical Poets)

* * *

And here is an Ars Poetica from Stephen Kingsnorth in praise of the use of forms and structure—“the poet’s frame”:

 

 

 

—Public Domain Painting Courtesy
of Stephen Kingsnorth

IN DEFENCE OF SCULPTED STANCE
—Stephen Kingsnorth

Some think it hampers flow of verse,
but, discipline, the poet’s frame,
unless would fling out conscious thought?
It is the metre’s feet retained
that traces pulse of rhythmic hearts,
contains our impulse, holds its form,
for readers, yes, but author more,
to give full rein by limits laid,
the risk of border crossing stayed.
Take measure of our prancing words,
trooping our colours, on parade,
as rave becomes an ordered dance,
in ballroom, bluegrass, reeling lines,
terpsichore for musing works.

Some air their humour, open mic,
appealing to vox populi;
such know their space, booksellers’ shelves,
where sell their wares from tabloid stands.
Yet press on; comics have their place,
but working class, a harder part,
must come to terms, need search our souls.

So from the lists I battle on,
and seek to keep my rules in play.
Take soundings—any poet should—
don’t stray where can’t be counted on
(monosyllabic—one distorts).
Avoid distress, less marking point—
’tis said, sung ‘O’, Jerusalem.
Few ending rhymes that jar perforce;
I turned the mangle as a kid—
flat wear wrung out by squeezing tight,
so rhyme and reason rare combined,
More import, campanology;
ring the changes, swing clapper bells,
the beating wings of inner chimes.

Some know the value, more than most
of balance as we walk the line,
of careful mounting, counting steps,
of grasping fleeting phrase that flies
a ready handshake greeting most,
our brand of body meeting mind,
half-empty glass that we refill.

___________________

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.) How about another crazy-making Irish form:

•••Casbairdne: https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/casbairdne-poetic-forms

•••AND/OR: follow Taylor Graham’s lead (above) and write an Etymology poem. (Etymology, not Entomology—though I suppose you could do an Entomology poem, too...)

•••Etymology Poem (Taylor Graham): based on the origins of a person, place or thing

 

•••AND/OR re-visit the always-illusive Katauta (see Joyce Odam's examples above)

 

•••Katauta: www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/katauta-poetic-for

•••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 “The Unexpected”.

____________________

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

•••Bryant: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/bryant
•••Casbairdne: https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/casbairdne-poetic-forms
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry 
•••Etymology Poem (Taylor Graham): based on the origins of a person, place or thing
•••Haiku: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/haiku/haiku.html
•••Katauta: www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/katauta-poetic-form
•••List Poem: clpe.org.uk/poetryline/poeticforms/list-poem
•••Villanelle (rhymed or 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.)

* * *

—Public Domain Illustration

 

For info about
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!

—Kata-WHAT?