In Praise of Sticktoitiveness

Perseverance, Our Seed of the Week

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

* * *

—Poetry by Claire J. Baker, Stephen Kingsnorth, 

Caschwa, Sue Crisp, Karma Howard,
Sayanı Mukherjee, Joe Nolan, and Nolcha Fox
—Visuals Courtesy of Sue Crisp,
Karma Howard, and Medusa

 

 

A HAIRLINE FRACTURE  

         senior apartment living  
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

(Inspired by Medusa’s photo above)

Linda, an elder, fell hard
against her apartment wall,
upper arm badly bruised!

A hairline shoulder fracture
anchored her in hospital
for pain relief . . . A flower

must have grown in that crack
for now Linda is back—in a week
or so, soon as mischievous as ever? 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa

PERSEVERANCE
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

It sounds like handbag, purse for cash—
that’s how we start to hear the term;
then cutting and a harsher word,
for sever and severe in tone,
as if the bank is calling loan
and I’m indebted, hanging on.

Or hanging in there while I may,
determined, not so undermined;
against the grain, like slicing meat—
but me give in, or persevere,
still stand my ground till in the clear—
that balance read soon turned back black?

So purchases must be curtailed—
that sense of stance ’bove solid hold,
to gain advantage, foothold deck;
whatever winds, not veer aside,
nor tack—sails, rudder, all applied,
to steer me, spendthrift, on my course.

Ignoring channels on the box—
a tidal flow of shopping needs,
I censor cheap attractive trash—
for nature broadcasts opt instead.
I’ve bought lawn mowers, plants to bed,
a shed, new tools at cutting edge.

So now the bank’s severe again—
not newly built grass slope I mean—
but greenback monster holding safe;
just sever costs, your purse, they moan—
there’s no more cash by way of loan..
My perseverance didn’t pay.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Cartoon Courtesy of Medusa

OY VEY SURVEYS
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

first of all, I am NOT a
panel of experts, just one
unpaid amateur

so when I show up at a
medical office to have a
doctor examine an area
that may need some surgical
intervention, and shortly after
that visit concludes they rush
me a survey to complete

I have no standing to rate that
doctor on his or her knowledge,
experience, or efficiency, we
just haven’t been there yet

so it is like we are both in our
casual street clothes out on
the sidewalk, standing at a
newspaper rack, neither
one of us having any
news to share with
the other, but then
there’s this survey
please be patient,
and wait. 

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

BEFORE BAR MITZVAH
—Caschwa

Junior High School—pretense and posturing
out of nowhere—strange hormonal changes
Hebrew School—like mastering one piece
    at the piano, afterwards complete
    dud at sight reading

The Big Event—air with oxygen is rare to find,
    hiding behind colognes and perfumes

Got handshakes, gifts, money, smiles, then
looked around and was given pause to wonder

all these other fellows, including uncles,
who had their Bar Mitzvah well ahead of mine,
are they fully fluent in Hebrew, or is that now
just unclaimed baggage stashed in storage?

 

 

 

 Cat Gang
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

FOREGONE CONCLUSIONS
—Caschwa

forget about jurisprudence, the
Rule of Law, Due Process,
established Case Law, our beloved
Constitution, just put that             to the side

all you need are a few favorite
opinions you’ve heard other
people spout and you can be a
profiler extraordinaire

go up to any microphone armed
with your foregone conclusions
and put on the airs of an expert
in the field

talk about blacks and women like
they are second-class citizens or
lower, and cite all the “proof”
you have heard other people shout

sorry, SHOUT!! from the rooftops
offering fodder for the proposition
that we are just the States, NOT
the United States, because we can’t
be united until everyone believes
the very same as you, put that         to the side

if only big government wasn’t always
meddling in our affairs, then we could
have a peaceful nation; do               as I say…

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Sue Crisp

FOREST WHISPERS
—Sue Crisp, Shingle Springs, CA

Forest trees speak to one another in many languages, depending on the species.  They speak of young seedlings sprouting at their base and surrounding areas due to their dropping of tree seed bearing seeds, helpful birds, squirrels, and other seed eating dwellers.  They sensed the change of seasons and responded in kind.  They saw new growth as well as devastation due to forest fires and man's destructive greed.  They saw their elders fall with grace and give back to the earth the nutrients it had provided for them and shelter for forest animals.  They showed thanks for nature's gifts.  Their leaf whispers carry on the wind their stories to one another as old and new generations listen.

 

 

 

 Samson, Karma Howard’s Corn Snake Pal
—Photo by Karma Howard

DREAMCATCHER
—Karma Howard, Memphis, TN

What have you to say
Harbinger of truth
Unknown entity
Sent to chastise me

What have you to do
Great serpentine god
With glittering eyes
And bright onyx skin

What message will come
As your gaping mouth
Glides up to my face
Long body in tow

What force will you use
As I stand my ground
And patiently wait
The verdict you give

What pose will you strike
When you hold my gaze
And see that I am
Unmoved, unafraid

What battle ensue
Between you and me
A fight to the death
Not this—to the life

What will you transform
As we grapple there
The might of myself
Embracing you whole

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

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

The tiny necklace at my back
The spasmodic rhythm of the divine
At my worst I call a light
It's divided and careless
Fidgety spinning all around
The globe moves on
It's an autumn child they called
Few hydrangeas lay at my desk
I call and back to tell the truth
The divine rhythm all around us
To a matchstick it hinges upon
As I knew the summer from autumn
Where lie little fishes into my bowl. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

IN A DIFFICULT MARKET
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

When no one
Has any money,
Nothing can be
Sold.

We venture into
The dearth
Of markets,
As in
Days of old,

When peasants
Went out
Swinging items,
Up and down
The street,

Up and down,
All day-long,
Until an item meets
With a willing buyer,
Which granted a
Bright reprieve.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

DUST-FREE PLACES
—Joe Nolan

There are fancy places
Where nothing gathers dust
Because armies of cleaning-ladies
Sweat to feed their kids
Left behind
By departed fathers
D.A.’s fail to trace down
To hand them bills
For their children’s support.

Fancy and clean
Though they may be,
They do not reflect
Reality,
Except for alienation,
Brought on by
Broken families
With children
Left alone
Or with sitters,
Since their mothers
Can’t stay home
With them
To be an
Unbroken family.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa

ONE WORLD GOVERNMENT
—Joe Nolan        

We now serve the Devil,
Now that power’s won,
Power to annihilate
Over everyone.

When you serve the Devil,
Be quick, be sure, be true.
Never say a single word
About your duties-rued.

Lest the steamroller
Turn upon you,
Crush you under its wheels.
The Devil doesn’t give a whit
For how a minion feels.

The Devil may devour
Millions by the score
“As many as it takes,” he says,
And when we have our power, here,
We’ll start another war,

To spread our Revolution
Over every land
Until, in the final end,
The Devil has command
Over every human
On the planet Earth,
Teaching all our children
They’re just made out of dirt.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

GRACE AND DISPLACEMENT
—Joe Nolan

Grace displaced
By false grace,
Masquerading
From a lesser place.
Underneath,
An undertow—
A rip-tide that might
carry you away.

Grace,
A place
You choose to be in,
Circling yourself
In a cloud
Of bright energy.

Displaced
By distraction,
Called to other things.
When shall you return
To your state of grace
That awaits you,
Your ever-patient lover?

It’s only a question of time
And your state of mind
Until your bright, soft cloud
Once again surrounds,
As you chant your mantra,
With Divinity to bind.   

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

PERSEVERANCE
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

Tell me I’m a bird that flies
against a gale-force wind,
a flowing stream that
takes its time to wear
the boulders smooth.
Tell me that I won’t give up,
that I will persevere.
I will smile, I know that I’m
just plain old stupid stubborn.

___________________

Thanks to our contributors today for fine work, some of it about our Seed of the Week, Perseverance. And welcome to the Kitchen to newcomer Karma Howard and to her SnakePal, Samson!

 

Speaking of perseverance, my wee tomato plants which were ravaged recently by Mama (Jane) Doe to became a subject of one of our Seeds of the Week have persevered, replacing their leaves, and now sprouting blossoms, a forecast of tomatoes to come. Shh—don't tell Mama Doe... 

And a reminder that poets everywhere will be celebrating Sacramento’s Joyce Odam’s 100th birthday (which is Wednesday, August 7) at the Hart Center in Sacramento tomorrow, Tuesday August 6, at 2pm. For more info about Joyce and this coming Do, go to http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2024/07/repercussions-of-light.html/. Joyce is a long-time contributor to the Kitchen, and to Rattlesnake Press before that. Happy Birthday, Joyce! I bet you’ve learned a bit about perseverance in 100 years…

_____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Lara Gularte’s Ekphrastic workshop
will meet in Placerville today, 5:30pm;
and Sacramento Poetry Center
features Terry Freeman Moore
tonight, 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!

 

 Party on!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Power of Light

 —Poetry by Sarah Das Gupta, Cambridge, UK
—Visuals Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

LIGHT THICKENS

The trees, dark sentinels,
along the field’s edge.
Twilight thickens into night;
the owl flies silently
hunting among black thickets.
Bats flitter above the graves
in the failing light.

In the city’s narrow alleys,
darkness is flooding in,
forcing its way into open doors.
In smoke-filled bars, glimpses   
of serious drinking,
of rowdy brawls,
in gloomy, half-lit saloons.

At sea the first watch settles.
For a moment the half-moon
light plays on fringed foam,
before Night resumes her reign.
The waves a vast, breathing stretch
of unrelieved black again.

The Southern night is sensuous
the darkness velvet, soft.
Fireflies, tiny sparks,
pinpricks of amber light
weave patterns of liquid gold.
Nyx, whom even Zeus fears,
grasps her dark sceptre. 

 

 

 

 

 

CHANGING LIGHT

In Eden it was eternal Summer,
sunlit Garden of perfection.
Shady trees never shed their leaves,
flowers bloomed, fountains played,
crystal water flowed for ever.
Yet, light perfection may be no solution
just another version of light pollution.
Varying light throughout
the hours, throughout the days,
throughout the seasons,
alters a place, a scene, a space,
into a constantly changing story.

The sun at midday with the fiercest ray
beating down on the bluest ocean
may suggest iced coffee, a hammock,
the shade of a striped umbrella.
The scene by night presents a different sight
the sea with a moonlit path resting
on the calm waters of the ocean,
total stillness, no movement no motion.

Fine rain, nothing more than drizzle.
Towering trees, a gentle breeze,
a grey sky, through a puzzle of branches
perfect backdrop to solitude.
A dramatic stillness, a darkening sky,
a thunder crash, a lightning flash,
there is a power, an energy set free,
which comes from an ancient source.

That translucent light of early autumn
sets fire to the tips of petals,
picks out the clouds of tiny insects
follows the path of departing swallows.
The misty haze of autumn days
hangs over the distant hills,
over the streams and rills,
meandering down misty valleys.

The winter light has a special power,
full of witchery and mystery.
Snowy skies have a strange metallic glow—
a candle shining through lead.
On the shortest day of the year,
darkness is a constant fear,
We not only long for light
but in all its various tones and hues
which change and offer countless views.

 

 

 

 

THREE PATHS

The forest is closing in
threatening, menacing.
Leaves whisper, brushing,
touching his arms, his face.
Which is the path to escape,
freedom, space?

He tries the first—grassy
spring-like, enticing,
new green life.
Birch branches sway
in a southern wind.
Voices on either side
suddenly shrieking.
His mother from
sharp brambles—angry
critical, implacable.
Lying in bed,
distant arguing,
sound of a leather belt
lashing, swishing, hurting.

The second path,
meandering, unclear,
impossible to follow.
The summer has died,
autumn leaves flaming
fallen, trodden, rotten.
Running, running,
tired, exhausted.
The end in sight
but always fading.
‘You’re not exactly
the person we’re
looking for.’
Casual friendships,
hiding in night shadows.
A lone bird flies up
at his feet.

The third path beckons.
Sharp flints cut his feet.
Looking up through
bare, winter branches,
the sky is darkening,
the path ahead steepening.
The finish is nearer but
the effort greater.
Walking, challenging,
running, impossible.
He sits down to rest.
The snow falls quietly,
the way ahead hidden,
the white cover comforting.
Perhaps at the end,
dreaming is best?

____________________

 

Today's LittleNip:

 

Change, like sunshine, can be a friend or a foe, a blessing or a curse, a dawn or a dusk.

—William Arthur Ward

 

____________________

 

—Medusa, with thanks to Sarah Das Gupta for today’s fine poetry!

 

 

 

 “The winter light has a special power,
full of witchery and mystery.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Josh Fernandez will hold
his first writing workshop
today, 12pm, in Sacramento.
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!

 

 

 

Lessons Learned

 Spice Island
(Previously Published in I-70 Review)

* * *

—Poetry and Collages by Maryfrances Wagner,
Kansas City, MO

 

 

CLEANING OUT THE CLOSET

The red sweater goes in the dry-clean pile
with the sweater Margery knitted, its black
angora threads woven with raw silk.

The black wool pants go in the charity box,
the blue-and-white striped dress as well.
At the back is my mother’s navy knit I saved.

I remember other dresses she prized—the flouncy
shirtwaist she wore to dance around the house
with my brother, the pink sweater she spent

winter nights beading with quartz and crystals,
our companion blue frocks that never fit right,
even after the aunts altered them. Arms crossed

over the shelves of their ample breasts, they said
my mother’s shoulders were too round, my waist
too short while we stood pinched and stiff among

pins poking us everywhere while they tucked darts.
And my mother always said it wasn’t only clothes
that never quite fit. Instead of social visits, she

beaded. Winters when my brother and I pitched
marbles within the circled pattern in our rug or tried
to fit jigsaw pieces into a Niagara Falls puzzle,

my mother sewed seed pearls on her black tam,
studded rhinestones into sweaters that curved
around her then perfect size eight, or she beaded

evening bags and embellished gowns she wore
to weddings, long pearl flower patterns she invented
as she went. As we aged past mini dresses,

she shifted to jumpers and roomy smocks
before I inherited her clothes. I pull
the kilt I wore in high school from its hanger,

a gift made in Scotland to fit exactly. As years
passed, I moved the button over more than once,
but now it’s time to let it go with so many others.  

 

 

 

 August

(Previously Published in I-70 Review)

SUNDAY AFTERNOON

     Braced for banter on Sundays, the day we always get together, my father and brother send salvos, bullets, wasp stings, smacked softballs, snake bites until conversation breaks down and my mother winds them in with cherry pie or applesauce cake. On this Sunday, my father and brother seek common ground—union news, buy American, gun talk—before my sister-in-law announces their four-year-old son has leukemia. My mother gasps and bolts from her recliner where she’s been crocheting herself into transcendence. Staring at a wren’s nest, knowing I should be unloading the dryer, I snap into focus. My nephew has climbed inside a box, and his younger brother shakes his rattle at the air that is suddenly heavy as wet wool and silent.

 

 

 

 American Mercy

WOUNDED VET

You don’t have
                to be homeless
               
                               to feel

    lost,
            exhaled    
                               like vapor,    
to grab at bits
       
        that sting    
                        like fire ants
                   
or ice pellets.
                You sit
                                with the moon.    
                   
It’s traveled
                with you
                                but doesn’t reach
    
out.
        Your hand
                        tightens        

around a glass of scotch.   

                        Words
                                    stumble out    

clumsy as mittens.  
                        I see you in a room

of thought   
                        far off,    
                                   though I’m only    
feet away.
                A breeze sifts   
    
                               across the sill,        
shivers a curtain.   
                        Long ago    

                                        you waited
       
on standby   
                with a four-day pass. 

Is it wrong  
                to ponder    
                                unfinished business?

 

 

 

 What Did We Miss?

REMEMBERING ERIC SANDERS

We didn’t take him seriously the day
he cruised through the parade
in a convertible, his shaved head
sunburned around his crossbones tats.
The safety pin in his ear glinted.
We thought he was getting in character
for a play. Behind a bullhorn, the boy
always open for a chat, who loved chess
and drama, said we needed to build
a shelter, stock up on water and jerky.
Said Neo Nazis had formed camps to blow
us up, send us in pieces across a crowded
sky. He said killing is a mysterious passion
and every citizen has a prepared place
under a burial blanket. We shrugged,
but raised our blue snow cones.  
The next Monday during lunch, he
streaked across the school parking lot
after he tossed a cherry bomb in a toilet.
At his new rage, we tried a fist bump,
but he turned away, broke his pencil,
spit on the floor, and tossed his backpack.
Once the angel in the fifth-grade play,
the one to suffer wasp stings to bring  
cornflowers to Ellie, alone in the hospital
with mono. When he drove off a cliff into that
good night, we talked about it for weeks,
counselors offered time to process, and we
kept wondering. Bill printed Eric’s motto
from when he ran for class president. We
pitched in to get the words engraved on a plaque
we hoped the principal might hang in the library.  

 

 

 

Lessons Learned

 

 

THIRD HOUR REMEDIAL ENGLISH III

My first year, my principal assigned me
one class of Remedial English III, when schools
still tracked students. The course had no books
other than the same novels the regular students
read and a workbook that wouldn’t last a month.
I ordered a weekly magazine with stories and
exercises.
I invented sentences about them to teach
punctuation.
We studied their favorite song lyrics for figures of
speech.
The classroom, converted from the vice principal’s            
former office, at a time of exploding district en-
rollment,
was long and narrow with thirty desks crammed
together.
So small, not even a filing cabinet or bookcase
could fit.
The closet was a converted bathroom with two
shelves,
a mirror over a nonfunctioning sink, and a missing
doorknob. That first Halloween, I brought a pump-
kin
full of treats and put it in my closet. Each hour I
went
for the pumpkin to hand out candy. During third
hour,
Donnie Watts shut the door behind me, a door
I could not open from inside. Everyone laughed
but didn’t let me out. The room was on the ground
floor.
The students opened the windows and climbed out.  
I could hear them laughing. I could hear my prin-
cipal
on the intercom asking why my class way playing
Frisbee on the front lawn. He couldn’t hear me
calling from the closet. After the bell rang,
Terri, climbed back in and opened the door
but begged me not to tell the others she had.
I filled her purse with Snickers and Milky Ways,
took
a deep breath, and smiled as the next class
shuffled in.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Your imagination knows what to write, so get out of the way.

—Ray Bradbury

_____________________

Welcome to newcomer Maryfrances Wagner! Maryfrances’ newest books are The Immigrants’ New Camera, and Solving for X. She co-edits I-70 Review, serves on The Writers Place board, was 2020 Missouri Individual Artist of the Year, and was Missouri’s sixth Poet Laureate, 2021-2023. Her Red Silk won the Thorpe Menn Book Award and was first runner-up in the Eric Hoffer Award 2024 (reissued in 2023), and short-listed for the Grand Prize. Her poems have appeared in New Letters, Midwest Quarterly, Laurel Review, American Journal of Poetry, Poetry East, Voices in Italian Americana, Main Street Rag, Rattle, Unsettling America: An Anthology of Contemporary Multicultural Poetry (Penguin), Literature Across Cultures (Pearson/Longman), et al. She is the granddaughter of four Italian Immigrants. Welcome to the Kitchen, Maryfrances, and don’t be a stranger!

____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Maryfrances Wagner

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that the
2024 Stanislaus County
Young Poet Laureate
Reading and Reception
takes place in Turlock today, 2pm.
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!

 

 Cleaning Out the Closet

 

Counting Oaks From Acorns

 —Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,
Placerville
—And then scroll down for
Form Fiddlers’ Friday, with poetry by

Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,

Caschwa, Joyce Odam, and

Melissa Lemay

 

 

COLD CALLS

The mercury’s hit another benchmark
for July. So hot, hypothermia almost sounds
like an invitation. I’ll take the trail down
to the South Fork, maybe get my feet wet
in snowmelt off the mountain. Pick my way
over granite and dead weeds prickly as holly
leaves. At water’s edge, the swift current
shooshing by without a human word.

 

 

 

 

MORNING DRILL

How my hands manage to get the day going:

feed the cat three times because he makes
crumbs he won’t eat and says he’s starving;

pet the dog—nose, ears, chest & tail because
he slept outside all night under cool of stars;

grab a leash, walk that dog, counting oaks
from acorns, each blessing along the trail;

then I manage breakfast and the day goes on. 

 

 

 

 

OTIS AMONG TALL TREES

He
leads out
as we walk
the wooded trail,
leaving his calling
card—lifting his leg as
high as it ever will go,
anointing rough bark—a good shot
aimed at announcing Otis Was Here!
He leads out as we walk the wooded trail. 

 

 

 

 

TRAIL OF CAST-OFFS

What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?
                                —T.S. Eliot

An old singer, scruffy and lame—what
became of his song? Now along the creek is
a feral cat feeding station and a sign that
warns of Polluted Water. Caterwauling noise,
and my dog is on alert now.
My rescued dog wants to know what
wants to trash him—a hissing gray tabby is
what. A homeless howl like the
other dogs at the shelter, or the wind
blowing promises away for all our doing. 

 

 

 

 

ROADBLOCKS

        to the old Gold Rush cemetery

No sign gives direction
or warning of a break-car road
to the ghost town graveyard.

Miles of hardpan dust
are gouged from forest thicket
past a falling-down barn.

We drive blinded by dust,
leave our rigs to mount another
driven by former strangers.

At last even the jeeps fail
and we walk under sun-strike
sharing water bottles.

We trail-mates discover,
hidden among conifer and oak,
a community of rock.

Citizens of a ghost township
lie buried under a hundred years
of leaf- and needle-fall. 

 

 

 

 

TARGET PRACTICE

We were just taking morning air
and there the kinfolk stood—
a father, mother, and three kids
like clothespins made of wood.

Their knees were hinged to bend and fall
like leaves and leave no trace,
to be knocked down by rifle folk.
They didn’t have a face.

The forest ‘round was silent now,
no trees would tell us who
had shot the peace of mountainside
and splintered sky of blue.

______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

POETRY PLEIN AIR
—Taylor Graham

A summer fountain splashes
me with cooling drops, plashes
so I can’t hear the lady
reading her poems up-front.
I love improv poetry
of freely falling water.

______________________

Here we are in August already, with Taylor Graham and Otis in the foothills—still hotter’n hell—but still exploring the woods and writing to us about their life among the oaks. And many thanks to TG for all of it!

Forms Taylor Graham has used this week include a Dectina (“Otis Among Tall Trees”); a List Poem (“Morning Drill”); a Golden Shovel (“Trail of Cast-Offs”); a Word-Can Poem (“Cold Calls”); a Triversen (“Roadblocks”); a Ballad that is also a response to last week’s Ekphrastic Challenge (“Target Practice”); and some Normative Syllabics (“Poetry Plein Air”). The Dectina and the Golden Shovel were two of last week’s Triple F Challenges; “Roadblock” was a response to last Tuesday’s Seed of the Week (Roadblocks).

In addition to El Dorado County’s regular workshops (go to http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html and scroll down to Workshops), Lara Gularte will facilitate an Ekphrastic workshop this Monday, 8/5, 5:30pm, based on the exhibit, ForestSong, at the Switchboard Gallery in Placerville. If you’d like to sign up, contact Lara at laralg@aol.com/. Then there will be a reading at the Switchboard Gallery on Thursday, 8/11, 5:30pm, of the poems generated at the workshop. No need to sign up for that—just come and enjoy the fine exhibit and poetry.

For more news about 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.

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.)


Check out our recently-refurbed 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 and other ways of poetry. 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

 

Last week’s photo brought several responses from Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth, and two from Caschwa (Carl Schwartz)—a first one and its sequel:

WHO’S THE STUPID ONE NOW?
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

I’m a blockhead,
a pinhead,
a woodenhead.
I thought I knew
better than you,
but you hung me
out to dry.

* * *

UNSETTLED
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Clothespins to some but pegs to me,
from doorstep sales to naïve boy,
Kleeneze man from leather case,
or this, white heather, gypsy girl.
She’d tell your fortune for a bob,  
so not be making one herself;
those moorland sprigs without a grouse,
free pickings for the pheasant stock.

These Romani know exonyms—
nomadic peoples always do—
their homes pitched, pegged out on the grass,
wherever space for caravan.
It brings unsettled life to fore,
a taxing issue, rooted plots,
while night, mares traded, spit and palm
or driveways laid with wasted tar.

We wonder at the wandered style,
recall those wise who followed star,
or irreligious shepherd’s call
as reconcile old mysteries.
Our dirty linen hidden well,
though pegged when pristine on the line,
in billowed wind that blows as will,
the spirit’s breath, Laputa’s isle.

And here she stands with ball and chain,
her crystal, bold gold earring links,
tucked black of ringlets hemming hair
beneath bright scarlet headpiece scarf.
But I have stare of middle class,
a wee lad waiting time for school,
nil tanner, less a bob to spare—
and wishing ’twere Kleeneze man.

* * *

OLD SCHOOL
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

my mother’s parents were
from the old country
old traditions
old ways
that was their normal

when offered, she declined
getting a modern clothes dryer
or a modern dishwasher
she would stand outside and
hang wet clothes on a clothesline
with wooden clothespins

and spend time at the kitchen sink
hand-washing dishes most every day
till she died at age 95

meanwhile I and her 2 other offspring
jumped at the chance to use the tools or
appliances that offered the most
convenience

she accepted that our results were faster,
but steadfastly held to superior freshness
of line-dried clothes, and the closer-to-God
rewards of hand-washed dishes

* * *

OLD SCHOOL II
—Caschwa

my Dad
loved my Dad
but he was not perfect

he was convinced that
women were not meant
to drive automobiles

when my Mom wanted
to learn to drive, my Dad
gave her only the most
rudimentary practice
sessions

being careful to steer her
clear of ever getting a
driver’s license

so she did a lot of walking
while Dad had 2 cars to
choose from to drive

3 boys, no girls
Dad got his way

* * *

Something else from Carl—a Baccresiezé. I was going to describe the form, but I lost it here…

 

 

 —Illustration Courtesy of Public Domain

ELUSIVE MEMORIES
—Caschwa

there is this recurring notion
like tides and waves in the ocean
my brain is teasing me to think
            I lost it here

constant reminder in the ear
I’m missing something important
there is this recurring notion
            I lost it here

hard to reconstruct memories
that one did not even start with
history lessons never heard
            I lost it here

* * *

Speaking of Carl… he sent a poem last week, but neither of us could remember its form. Taylor Graham identified it as Ballad stanzas; according to Poetry Foundation (https://www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ballad/), Ballads “usually follow a form of rhymed (abab) quatrains alternating four-stress and three-stress lines.” Thanks, TG! Here then, one last time, is Carl’s Ballad:

 

 

—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain

ONE LAST TIME
—Caschwa

we don’t need no president
and surely not a king
just let chaos rule us all
not worry ‘bout a thing

there’s crazies on the ballot
from top to the bottom
Napoleon Bonaparte
singing Early Autumn

miracle in Wisconsin
teenagers out with guns
can’t believe it wasn’t staged
like intentional puns

candidates like sausages
both are getting older
place your bet for faster horse
not the smell that’s bolder

I’ll place my bet in secret
really not tell a soul
except social media
because that is the goal

* * *

Joyce Odam has sent us a Haibun today:

 

 

 —Photo Courtesy of Public Domain

THE IMPORTANCE OF SOLITUDE
—Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

Two strangers meet on a bridge, increase their
distance from each other, try to remain alone. But
they have been invaded by each other’s presence,

each with his own reason for being there, lingering
at the edge of private thought. The view can belong
to one only : the roiling sky, the shimmering detail
of disturbed weather, the changing motion of the
waters beneath the bridge. They stand far enough
apart to have no need to speak. They stare into the
building moodiness of the morning that is too early
for direction, or decision. If only the other were not
there . . . what might be different . . . ?


        instead of a dream
        I am throwing away my cross—
        I am on the bridge

                                           
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/5/19)

* * *

Here is an Ekphrastic poem from Stephen Kingsnorth, based on this photo which appeared on Medusa’s Kitchen on Monday, July 22 (the Day of Infamy when the Kitchen got chastised because we had too many cuss words…  😋 ). Love the way Stephen rhymes canoe and phew:

 

 

—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain

WREST FOR AN OLD CROCK
—Stephen Kingsnorth

An earnest of importance, stare,
a handbag, yes, left luggage, more,
but who would think in terms of chair,
or leaning back into the jaw?
Some shiny scales accessory—
though maybe now the climate’s changed—
that fashion, snap shut clasp we see
be better left, clamp teeth arranged?

I saw them in the everglades
half drugged as wrestled to the floor,
tail-dragged in game play of charades
by cowboy showmen, crowds unsure.
What is the roll call, hunting game,
whose rôle to fill the death roll spin,
convince, spectator sport to maim
for carpet, baggers made of skin?

The noble savage Caliban—
a comment, white supremacy—
yet holds the glass to western man,
more kills for thrills, chivalrously.
So rest awhile, lean back, take nap,
dream Orinoco, in canoe,
and see the glide path, shore to snap,
your head in corkscrew, death, wake, phew!


* * *

And we’ll close with a wee Ballad from Melissa Lemay:

 

 

 —Illustration by Melissa Lemay (with DaVinci AI)

MEDUSA’S KITCHEN
—Melissa Lemay, Lancaster, PA

Medusa was a Gorgon,


Whose snakes were long and thin
She longed to have a dinner guest
But no one could come in

For when one crossed her threshold
They’d quickly turn to stone
This was not conducive
To dining in her home

___________________

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.) Let’s mess with the Cinquain, either the Didactic Cinquain and/or the Word Cinquain:

•••Didactic Cinquain: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/didactic-cinquain

•••Word Cinquain: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/didactic-cinquain

•••AND/OR the Dibi, which is an extended Ballad, of which we have spoken of late:

•••Dibi: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/dibi

•••AND/OR revisit the Baccresiezé with Carl:

•••Baccresiezé: www.poetrymagnumopus.com/topic/1882-syllabic-forms-found-in-pathways-for-the-poet/#veltanelle

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

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

____________________

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

•••Ars Poetica: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ars-poetica
•••Baccresiezé: www.poetrymagnumopus.com/topic/1882-syllabic-forms-found-in-pathways-for-the-poet/#veltanelle
•••Ballad: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ballad AND/OR www.baymoon.com/~ariadne/form/ballade.htm
•••Cinquain, Didactic: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/didactic-cinquain
•••Cinquain, Word: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/didactic-cinquain
•••Dectina Refrain: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/dectina-refrain
•••Dibi: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/dibi
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••Golden Shovel: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/golden-shovel-poetic-form
•••Haibun: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/haibun-poems-poetic-form
•••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
•••Triversen: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/triversen-poetic-form
•••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 Photo
Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

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!

 

 

Mispers

 —Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth, 

Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Stephen Kingsnorth

 

 

 MISPERS

We think we’ve seen scene laid before—
for promenaded esplanade
recall when sea and sky seemed one,
lie hex, indistinguishable.
Horizon melt, waned ochre hue,
embracing both sky, briny blue,
for sunset haze but tepid glow—
but we assume staged sight, a norm.

The vanish point, feint watermark,
a silhouette, pair folding seats,
stark lines we too have lounged about
speak memories of sand on strand.
No paddle, sure, turn-ups knee-rolled,
green canvas deck chairs stacked in pile
by ticket man of UDC,
but empty frames yet unresolved.

Some make up stories, what’s at stake,
search Thermos flask, or bucket, spade,
a landfill site for that Celeste,
and dawning, wonder, early hour?
I hear no shrieks of grandkids, beach,
and question, have these crossed the bar—
a desolation from afar;
perhaps two mispers, files somewhere?


[“Mispers” is short for missing persons.]

______________________

WHITE LIGHT
After "Adlestrop" by Edward Thomas

Imagining a singing bird
too far for inner sight or ear—
too bleak for calling, colly wing,
the starkest change from Adlestrop.
Willow herb least growing, live,
and buddleias with wont survive,
to pull from air, their butterflies.

Fluorescent unknown name strip broke
by bottle thrown or stone from slab.
But who would want to recall tag?
The most lonely space I ever saw,
incomplete, for people-void,
white-light site with vacant stare,
without a shadow, perspective,
or gradation in the bright.
Abandoned cell, no prisoners,
insomnia, awake through force,
unstaffed pale face, station at night.
The pause was brief, the journey grief,
a vacüum, too far from home.

How distant Clapham Junction or

the omnibus, daily full,

populace, porters turn deaf ear

to luggage plea, livery, soot,

the pencil boy with spotter pad,

juggernaut brewing smoke signals,

bogies hidden, wind-up copied,

Dublo model, hobby track.

 

 

 

 

DOLMEN

Moors roll, slow-tectonic screwed,
next just like one before
except for megalith here pitched.
No stone circle, henge, ditch,
but dolmen for passing rich
in wisdom, leadership and wind.
It stands, rock resting nest,
granite witness for the land.

 

 

 

 

ROBIN HOOD’S BAY HEADLAND CEMETERY

They are packed in, a sardine tin,
salt-caked, stacked, domino effect,
too close for bodies, just the head
stones, neither bones nor flesh interred.
No coffers, lead, or rotting, would-
be leatherjacket larvae food,
but Verdigris, copperplate script,
brief only lines engraved to see.
So hearts of oak float, bloated, lost,
the cost of mariners, impressed,
from gangplank or the fishing nets,
who trawled, then lay them down to bed.
Gifts for the poor, their slates wiped green,
now buried treasure out at sea,
beyond the bar, strand, golden sand,
the riches of the wealthy drowned.

___________________

TERMINAL

A thousand terms that box the sand,
both terminal—as note above-
more open word, compounded here;
sandbank just beyond the bar,
sandstone cliffs that edge the beach,
while sandwiched in between those two
sandpipers shrill where sandals worn,
once beatniks, joss sticks, sandalwood.
It’s said the sandman eyes the rheum-
old men dreaming, as hourglass streams;
can sandbags hold back passing time?

 

 

 

 

Today’s LittleNip:

THE WELL
—Stephen Kingsnorth  

When others seen touched, moved,
the stinging brim, brimming sting
uninvite, consequential comes.
Why does kindness strangers overcome?
When loneliness, soul-mate required,
waves driving, breaching lidded eyes,
crest lash, invade the cheek;
source, springs, well that flows?

_______________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Stephen Kingsnorth for today’s fine poetry, as we usher in the month of August!

 

 

 

Click to enlarge...

—Public Domain Poster Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Poetry Night Reading Series
will feature readers from
VOICES 2024
tonight in Davis, 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!