Moving Along

 

—Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,
Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down to
Form Fiddlers’ Friday, with poetry
by Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Caschwa, Jerome Berglund,
and Christina Chin

 

 

SLIPPING TOWARD EQUINOX

The dark falls sooner every day
as sun ignites its last gold ray
and birdsong drifts to forest sleep—
how did the hour so soundless creep & slip away?

Our light must keep inside the latch
till woodstove calls for kindling, match
and flame to warm a winter’s heart,
until the subtle fire—the art—of spirit catch.

 

 

 

VECTORS

The moon rose above Stone Mountain
just loafing, casting a jovial grin
over our field— pasture gone to weed & seed,
nothing to take to market. It isn’t
parka weather yet, I’m out in shirt-sleeves
waiting for bats to swoop & dart
for dread mosquitos—a zigzag hunger sport.
The moon will soon enough be gone,
bound for its western port.

 

 

 

 

MOVING DAY

Isn’t every day a day to get moving?
Otis and I are finishing our morning walk.
There’s a young woman—eyes straight
ahead in a sour face that doesn’t glance
our way when I wish “good morning.”
Driving home, I see a young man in front
of Raley’s—is he waiting for a bus?
Big smile, he’s dancing in place
to a song on his lips, he’s conducting
with one hand and raising a can of pop
in the other. Isn’t walking or even waiting
on two good legs a joy, a reason to smile?

 

 

 

 This is Shelby, Otis’s new pal, who TG and Otis
rescued from the shelter.

SCRATCHERS

Here’s a ticket on the ground, discarded
under a eucalyptus shedding its bark.
Enticingly iridescent, tempting as neon—
not a winner. How much
did somebody spend on hope?
Yesterday I spent a lot
for flea & tick protection for my dog.
According to the news,
there’s plague—the Black Death—
somewhere around Tahoe.
I’ve been reading a modern-day mystery
about plague in New Mexico.
Much too close on our shrinking world.
I watch my dog for scratching.
I pay the price for hope.

 

 

 

 

SUMMER CYCLE

Remember the old rickety barn,
barn full of swallows, an owl, bats—
bats swooping out at sunset—
sunset pink-orange as ripe melon.
Melon to savor while waiting.
Waiting for what? to remember.

 

 

 

 

TRIATOMA PROTRACTA

At dawn in my kitchen sink,
dark beetle—too much of the wild.

What message from the underworld
of drillers for human blood?

It comes by night through tiny chinks
and shares a body’s slumber.

I have a human way to help it travel
out the back door.

I have a mallet to ease it
into its own deep slumber.

 

 

 

 

Today’s LittleNip:

EDGE OF TOWN
—Taylor Graham

blackberries shriveled,
gone—one bike rim in bramble—
summer travels on

____________________

Medusa’s Kitchen welcomes Shelby the Shepherd mix to the Graham family, a companion and playmate for Otis, and a new challenge for black cat Latches. As always, Taylor Graham will write about Shelby and about life in the Sierra foothills, and we thank her for that!

Forms TG has used this week include the Florette (“Slipping Toward Equinox”); a Word-Can Poem (“Vectors”); a Haiku (“Edge of Town”); a Daisy Chain (“Summer Cycle”); and a Just 15s (“Triatoma protracta”). “Moving Day” is a Response Poem to our Tuesday Seed of the Week (Moving Day), and the Daisy Chain and Florette were last week’s Triple-F Challenges.

In El Dorado County poetry this week, Poetic License meets in Placerville on Monday, 10:30am. And for info about EDC’s regular workshops, scroll down to Medusa’s Kitchen’s http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html/. For more news about such events and about EDC 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/. And you can always click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html). Poetry is Gold in El Dorado County!  
 
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

Poets who sent responses to last week’s Ekphrastic photo were Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth, and Caschwa:


I HAD TO EAT VEGETABLES
AFTER YOU DIED
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

Vegetables. You always worried about me eating enough vegetables. I eat them now, I promise. I salt them with my tears.

I eat all vegetables except broccoli. Broccoli is grief, green corrugated cardboard I choke on. It tastes awful raw. It clogs up the garbage disposal. It doesn’t fit in the trash. I’m substituting Brussel sprouts instead. But I still find broccoli in the refrigerator.

I tried to stuff my life into the microwave, since it’s zapped without you. But it didn’t fit. I steam my vegetables in the microwave instead.

I don’t bread or fry my vegetables. My brain is fried, so I eat my head.

My head is a Brussel sprout. I eat it salted.

* * *

STOCK MARKET
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

So much displayed is as expect;
distinctive mark will be the taste.
No middleman to take his cut
(but do not females do the same?),
just crop from farm to trestle top
and thus to cook and kitchen pot.

The chalk board, Wales, more syllables,
as Farmer’s Market claims their name—
and citrus unknown hereabouts,
so oranges would have appeal.
Are these crown jewels within gloved hands—
though rubber far from delicate?

Potatoes in an orange box—
an irony when thinking on—
what fun our etymology,
the usage and its story trail,
some sorry tales of misheard, spoke,
like Chinese whispers, kiwi fruit.

But eyesight poor—need carrot juice,
an orange cocktail, root on tap;
indigenous share wisdom’s care
sufficient only from the snare,
respect for land, sky, sea and air—
as nearby stalls stock market share.

On small producers of our fare,
so rarely fair, conglomerates,
as locals spared the air-mile fares,
serve only what the weather yields;
when will we eat what season bears,
picked for our table from the fields?

* * *

THANK YOU
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

This kind, considerate individual
vending wonderful produce is
thoughtfully wearing gloves so
all those particles that the fingers
keep in store don’t migrate to the
consumer’s plate

compare to a fellow on TV they
call the produce guy, who handles
all with bare fingers
no gloves
no photo op of him
washing his
hands
no concern for sharing germs

I’ll be enjoying salads today
made by conscientious employees
who put on a fresh pair of gloves
each time they prepare a meal

* * *

Today we also have an Ars Poetica from Caschwa (Carl Schwartz):

 

 

BURYING HISTORY
—Caschwa

It is two in the morning
page has turned
August is history
new calendar entries
to enlighten my path

Can’t sleep. The fare
on TV is abysmal trash
triggering a quick “Off”
on the remote

Hit the books for
fresher thoughts
“Sleeping with Love”
(by Wesli Court)
prompts the mind with
heroic couplets
that are coyly not
meant to refer to
people who are
sleeping together

“From under us,
Our winding sheets
are torn.” “Death
must sleep with
Love when we are
born”

* * *

 

 

 

Jerome Bergund and Christina Chin are frequent Tan-Renga partners and visitors to the Kitchen, and we have some more from them today. Jerome is Editor of Heterodox Haiku Journal, and he (with Nun Prophet Press) has released the new book, Heterodox Haiku: Contrarians: Dissent in Japanese Inspired Micropoetics, an anthology of short-form poetry from 81 writers around the globe, and, according to Amazon, “essays exploring how sociopolitical critique remains an instrumental part of and factors significantly into contemporary Japanese-inspired theory and composition with verses of our day.” See more info at https://www.amazon.com/Contrarians-Dissent-Japanese-Inspired-Micropoetics/dp/B0FM41XFMS/. Here are some Tan-Renga from Jerome and Christina:

 

 

 

THE SIGNED BOOK
—Jerome Berglund, Minneapolis, MN (italics)
and Christina Chin, Malaysia (plain text):

private island
house sparrows
of the new world
even the tunes
change

    ~ ~ ~

Saint Valentine
patron of epileptics
clobbered with clubs
the toddler’s stacks
block the gate

    ~ ~ ~

one who got away . . .
left sad and alone
a kidnapper
the ants keep
marching

    ~ ~ ~

reaching for
the nearest book
he ponders determinism
a clock's hand
ticking sound

    ~ ~ ~

microphone
with foam cover
obelisks
whether harmful
or neutral

    ~ ~ ~

rouge about
cheeks simulates health
cardinal sin
the mirror
cracks

     ~ ~ ~

signed book
dedicated to someone else
rakish feeling
a dog-eared page
marks the paused

__________________

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.)  While we’re talking about short forms, how about a wee Bina, little sister of the more complicated Sestina?

•••Bina: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/bina

•••AND/OR the Atom, relative of the Haiku:

•••Atom: https://poetscollectivepoetryforms.wordpress.com/2014/12/22/atom-2

•••AND/OR something more complicated that should shine a ray of light into our lives, the Beacon of Hope:

•••Beacon of Hope: https://poetryforms7.wordpress.com/2014/11/17/beacon-of-hope

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

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

____________________

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

•••Ars Poetica: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ars-poetica

•••Atom: https://poetscollectivepoetryforms.wordpress.com/2014/12/22/atom-2

•••Beacon of Hope: https://poetryforms7.wordpress.com/2014/11/17/beacon-of-hope

•••Bina: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/bina
•••Daisy Chain: poetscollective.org/poetryforms/daisy-chain
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••Florette: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/essence.html
•••Haiku: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/haiku-or-hokku AND/OR www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/haiku/haiku.html
•••Just 15s (devised by Sarah Harding): poem or stanza of 15 syllables
•••Response Poem: creativetalentsunleashed.com/2015/11/18/writing-tip-response-poems
•••Tan-Renga: https://www.graceguts.com/essays/an-introduction-to-tan-renga
•••Tuesday Seed of the Week: a prompt listed in Medusa’s Kitchen every Tuesday; poems may be any shape or size, form or no form. No deadlines; past ones are listed at http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/calliopes-closet.html/. Send results to kathykieth#hotmail.com/.
•••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.)

* * *

—Artwork Courtesy of Public Domain
 

 
 
 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that

a new reading series premieres tonight

at Two Rivers Cider Co. in Sacramento,

6-9pm; and
Micah Bournes & Jazmarie LaTour
will be reading in Stockton tonight
with others, 7pm.
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.

Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.

Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)

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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

To Be Is To Communicate

 

—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth,
Wrexham, Wales
—Public Domain Artwork Courtesy
of Stephen Kingsnorth and Joe Nolan

 

 

MOON STRUCK

Our moon, one girl, top hand with ring—
those bones with skin scape, Scapa Flow—
but it’s the juxta, cause play, dis-play,
as if appliqué, tech applied,
to switch then pose; a question mark?
That pose, spatial relationship—
as soon as real, manipulate;
does tromp l’oeil explore some truth,
a whimsy, quirk, sum fancy take,
or ology more tablet fun—
even a symptom, pill dreams spun?

So hear me, metric, rhyme perchance,
wherever bends, deep breathing sense,
know chosen chime, run rings by type.
Orbit, thence maria sees,
still frozen knuckle, coat for chill,
but sandals, even warm flesh walk,
though soon to cycle, lunar time?
The hue of red—one takes its cue,
but only hand, blood circulate;
maybe Edam, that ball, sky high?

It could be harvest, hanging beams,
not Super Blue (nor glue if need),
but curse or, shortcut, shift and paste;
believing is not scene as seen,
but what now veiled seems reel as screened.

 

 

 

 

BOUNDARIES

To catch infinity in space
demands a booking, gallery;
a queue of viewers, tenner spent,
two minutes to absorb it all,
a selfie for the Instagram,
absurd if to assimilate
the mirrors, lights, submersible.

Kusama, polymath in art,
had troubled sixties, trying life,
another stealing her repute.
But now, as female artist’s work,
near third of world uptake is hers.
Installing lights with mirrorwork,
reflective, the experience.

In Venice, Biennale start,
she built beyond the boundary;
but thirty-on she found her place
pre-programmed by officialdom.
But if so bound or borderline
can she express the infinite?
It’s ‘60s profile scene again.

 

 

 

 The New Bucephalus
—Edgar Ende (Germany) 1961

SHADOW

So rare as window, psyche drawn—
they speak of mesmerising frame—
internal shadow laid afore,
from fearful eye, flit cloak withdrawn,
turn sunlight beaming, morning star,
so stallion tamed, but not the mind.

The surreal, Surreal classed,
Spiegel im Spiegel, mirror work,
not art prefabricated, stored;
haunch to wall, blue-eyed from foal,
the two, both Great and Head of Ox
association, myth in mix.

Kafka, Baron, Father Brown,
the mare of night, tall story, bike,
this name has long been borrowed, worn
by fiction, mystery, old lore,
then told, one generation more,
by Michael, other Ende on.

This artist told he cannot paint,
express himself, what’s in his brain;
as war destroyed his oeuvre past,
is this the mighty hemmed, cross-barred,
or Plato’s cave, where shades are played?

Like funnel flag of shipping line
or white, black field, as terror sign—
identity—so twinkle’s where?
What exploits, epic tales hear groan,
who brims in head, unstable, door,
unbolted view, dark horse alleged,
free fall of man—how Kafkaesque—
Bucephalus, rein unrestrained?

____________________

LOST IN SPACE

and off-beat dreams are de rigueur.
What rubrics rule poetic rôles
save that both mind and heart engage,
chop-logic or fresh pheromones,
some sentiment or complement—
to be is to communicate.
So listen, look and learn about,
audio, video, disco chant?

____________________

Today’s LittleNip(s):

There are no passengers on spaceship earth. We are all crew.

—Marshall McLuhan

* * *

The Universe is under no obligation to make sense to you.

—Neil deGrasse Tyson

• • •

If you are on a spaceship that is traveling at the speed of light, and you turn on the headlights, does anything happen?

—Steven Wright

____________________

—Medusa. with thanks to Stephen Kingsnorth for today’s fine Ekphrastic poetry!

 

 

 

Can Pluto be made a planet again? It’s so mean
to say Pluto can’t be a planet again, just because
it’s little~
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of
Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 A reminder that

Catriona McPherson & Neil McRoberts

will read in Davis tonight, 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.

Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.

Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)

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!

 

 

 

Revelations

 —Poetry by John Grey, Lincoln, RI
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

 

 

AT THE SCENE OF A FEATHER LANDING

All that history repeating itself.
An argument, spur of the moment, long time
    coming.
And in a public place.
Yada yada yada.
And then a feather
floats down from the sky,
lands between us.
You laugh.
I laugh.
For all I know,
the feather laughs.
Though maybe not the bird that dropped it.

 

 

 

 

FREIGHT TRAIN

First in line at the railway crossing,
waiting for the freight train to go by—
I give each car the name
of someone I know—
Rita, Joe, Paul, Samantha—
then, when I run out
of friends and acquaintances,
I go with the letters
of the alphabet,
and having reached Z
with plenty more of those
cars to come,
I merely count
them off
1-2-3-4
until I enter some kind
of Zen,
no thoughts,
no awareness of my body,
and at the head
of a queue of similarly
enlightened drivers,
as finally, the caboose goes by,
the gate rises
and 1/10 of the population
of a small town
in western Maryland
are all in a blessed state
of calm and clear awareness
cojoined in one
abundant mindset
before reluctantly
moving on.

 

 

 

 

REVELATION

Being able to flop back in this chair,
close my eyes,
imagine myself transported
to a nearby forest,
or distant jungle,
or even a far planet
and in the company
of only those
I choose to be with,
I no longer feel the need
to go from one room to the other.

 

 

 

 

OUR DEAD

Strong winds, huge breakers,
booted him out of the sea,
left him flat on his face in a pit of gray sand.

The smaller waves that spread
their way up the shore
may have broken foam around him
but they didn't take him back.

From a distance, Tom thought
him a lump of something inanimate,
a heap of washed-up seaweed
or, if a once living thing,
maybe a leatherback.

But it was a dead man sure enough.
His hair was matted and stinking of salt,
his flesh, green as dune-grass.
One look at the body
and Tom could feel
all the losses in his own life—
frail people on one side,
a limitless ocean on the other.

He called 911 on his cell phone.
The tide was slowly pulling out.
Sandpipers, crabs, leaped upon the leavings.
A pelican, a flock of terns, soared above,
eyes scouring the bobbing surface.
Until the cops, the ambulance arrived,
he could only sit on a rock and watch over
the rotting corpse.
Not one other creature wanted his job.

 

 

 

 

PREGNANT LAND

In this country
women refuse to give birth,
though they get pregnant often enough.
They just let the thing
grow and grow beyond the nine months,
into nine years if necessary,
or nine lifetimes.
They want the passion,
the ovary explosion,
the growth inside them—
but not the pain
of pushing that thing out,
spilling it on the desert,
tossing it in a trash bag,
strapping it to their back
as another target for
the army or guerrillas
in the hills.
They want to grow round
as hot air balloons,
float off into the battle-free sky.
If only what weighs them down
could lift them up.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

There is poetry as soon as we realize that we possess nothing.

—John Cage

____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to John Grey for today’s fine poetry!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.

Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)

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!

 

Snakes on a train . . .

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For If And Then . . .

 The Portioned Air
—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Photos and Original Art by Joyce Odam

 

 

FIRST SHADOW
—Joyce Odam

I am the one your heart cannot recall.
See how pale I am against the moving wall,
my shadow glancing past the glazing mirror
to become the faintest image there—
the way it falters. as though caught,
and maybe held by memory—or not.

I was the one, alas, who entered where
you were—the one who stayed—
who stayed—
you welcomed me awhile, the years
like sand, and, they were, alas. 

 

 

 

 Earth and Sky

IF THEN
—Robin Gale Odam

What if you meant to say a thread of
uncertain synonyms for if and then,
and then I looked away—a fine strand
of twisted fibers—

I tried to write this letter, I thought
I heard you say,

for if and then, as statement of fact—
and then you looked away

—starlings in the sky again, the flurry
of startle—

evening divides into two evenings.
If you arrive then I shall go.

 

 

 

The Flight

 

THERE IS MORE TO NOW THAN NEVER
—Joyce Odam

—oh flowing time—oh moving river
made of tears

                    take the word away
            and nothing changes
the count is nil

time is held in every moment
all now,
not when,

thought knows
how this
is so

life cannot hold you
        it moves on
                and you move with it—

                saying  yes
           saying no
saying  oh,h,h

 

 

 

 The Occasion of Life

WOMAN FLOATING ON A BED OF LEAVES
—Joyce Odam

In a floating soliloquy of leaves, among flicker-
ing water-lights, among vanished sound of ripples;

among the sweet and carrying sounds of birdsong,
and the complete, stunned, listening of the bright

air, and the vast, prolonging sound of time stand-
ing still, and the powerful bunched feel of the

shoulders of the shoreline as it suspends its own
breathing—among the great forces of waiting at the

end of this sentence—among all these—the woman
floats—asleep on the eddying surface of the water

(her floating arms stroke the water in assistance)
slowly following the buoyancy of its own motion,

her eyes closed forever and her mind tuning 

    inward—
not here to remember or forget—not here to sink

into death’s oblivion—but here to shine against
the sweet instant—the imagined something caught

in a flash of someone who glances up, or someone
just staring to see if she is real—or just another

glittering illusion of this sun-lit, moving water . . .

                                                           
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/14/21) 

 

 

 

Angelic

THE ANGEL THAT WILL TAKE ME
—Joyce Odam
(for my mother:  “I’ll just let the angels take me…”)

Each morning the angel wakes her
with its supporting arm and guides her
through her day’s small chores

though she is not aware of the presence
of the assisting angel—ready
to lend her its very own wings

at the moment she needs them.
Obedient to the rising, she goes,
dream-like, through the rituals she

measures by as she strengthens and
leans into the heart of the angel
which even now is moving inside her.
                                     

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/10/13) 

 

 

 

 How Round The Hour

DRIFTING BACK INTO SLEEP
—Joyce Odam

Let sleep appease me like the comforting
mind-wander of a daydream
as I lean against a pillow
with my finger in the pages
of some book I’ve read before
and read again because I love the words.

Let some soft sleep just overtake me
while I rest within its wings
and drift in the sounds and light
of some quiet morning—
the house at rest
and the bedside lamp still burning,
though the sun is on the wall,
moving across my mother’s picture
and the face of the uncaring clock.

Such a sleep—
completely restful,
my glasses on,
the book holding its place,
and the little urgent map of time
folding back against my need of it.

 

 

 

 The Sense Of Time

Today’s LittleNip:

INSOMNIA XXXIV
 —Robin Gale Odam

the birds in the third shift,
the moving prelude of a season
changing overnight

the long train leaves the city

the metronome of the second hand
measures the spell

                       
(prev. pub. in Brevities, September 2018;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/19/23)

__________________

 

Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam have sent us fine poems and fine pix today, and we're grateful to them for their on-going support.

Our new Seed of the Week is “Exasperation”. 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

 

 

 

 Bird of Paradise
“. . . the birds in the third shift . . .”
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy
of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column at the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.

Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones  by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)

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!

 

 “Drifting back into sleep…”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Let's Get Moving!

 Or, As the Brits say, Moving House…
—Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa
* * *
—Poetry by Claire J. Baker, Nolcha Fox,
Stephen Kingsnorth, Caschwa, Joe Nolan,
and Sayani Mukherjee
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Joe Nolan and Medusa 

MOVING DAY HALLELUJAHS
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

This indeed is a moving day.
But I’m not going anywhere
that I cannot speak with you,
trip with you and laugh with you.

In simple words, no moving van
when we’ve a steady sailing ship
that journeys planets far and near
and hallelujahs us all the year.

So long as you and I can move
each other with salutations
and unpossessive bye-byes
wherein we settle into freedom,

we won’t need a moving van. 

 

 

 

—Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa

MOVING DAY
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

Today’s the day
I pack your books,
your grudges, mopings,
dirty clothes,
the secrets that
you kept from me,
your shadow
that won’t leave.
I’m moving on
with someone else.
You’re moving to
the trash.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

LOCATION?
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Is it location, or surround,
for those confined, by limits bound?
I always thought that place the thing,
that common ground which shared so much.
While not forgetting nature’s sounds—
new traffic, sirens do impose—
but yet it is the house-held signs
those prompts to recall down the years,
the faces, voices, laughter, tears,
companions through the closing days;
these speak as loudly as the hills.

As autumn leaves I would have books,
not so for reading, but to see,
the covers, colours, flies inscribed,
all taking stock of what, who passed.
Small bits of glass and that engraved,
the homemade gifts, me, child and mine—
those painted, carved but sweated things,
fool’s gold to those who wont for wealth.
So if it moves, it climbs the list;
if useful, merely, do without;
we’ve walls and floor, the roof intact.

And cast aways to outer space,
a few pence for some charity—
though priceless last week, lodged within.
The toughest loss, my hymnody,
Germanic upright, Kaiser age,
played less by sight as fingers, ear—
piano, key to leaving here,
that transport of delight for me.
Once seven main rooms down to six,
but now at four and more than most,
at least without the stairs to climb. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa

THE HOUSE THAT MOVED
—Stephen Kingsnorth

Told moving house a major stress,
but where the emphasis?
My relocation, focal site,
transferring home from house.
The change was of my fixed mind-set,
with salt drips reaching tongue,
half-empty cup now overflows,
I feel it in my bowels.

Never chessboard gambit, clever,
nor shift, a change of gear,
timely initiating—but
fresh rhyme, new paradigm.
Stone lintel long-divorced from wall,
each hang had its own song,
put-up-with hatch that I moaned, now
anointed without oil.

The tin bath is my jacuzzi,
gas ring my Aga range,
my outhouse mangle, laundromat,
sea shanties I sing there.
Before door shaped the bell lost flex—
but like the clapper swing;
beneath, the scraper where I tread,
soiled boots swop for my soul.

Still sat, I stare through the pained glass,
cracked, garden, easy whin,
built on dolerite foundation,
now this my box on sill.
Kites pennant, hawks stoop, thermals swoop,
vigilante cloud patrol,
while even storm petrel coastguards
serve lookout for my byre. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

TEXTURES
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

(Moving Day)

The ocean floor is basic blue
echoed by a standup double bass
playing tones better felt than heard

overlaid by the subtle honeydew
of a baritone saxophone’s winning ace
claiming spoils like a predatory bird

beneath the tides, one color becomes two
an adept flautist aptly states the case
insinuating that there is yet a third

it is odd in cold water to have such a stew
waves crash on shores like percussion in a race
bare feet may capture some of what occurred

a rainbow of colors, none absent but a few
harmonies of lower brass put smiles on the face
of an artist using brushes, but nary a word

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

FOLLOW SUIT
—Caschwa

(Dark Cave)

Sometimes, when our law
enforcement officers flash
their badges but still confront
potential resistance, they may
go the next step up and display
their gun.

bicycle riders who go out
after dark may feel the same
way when they shine their
headlight, to no avail because
just that light alone is not enough
to convince motor vehicle drivers
to avoid hitting them.

What is needed is a drastic
upgrade to that bicycle headlight
that puts out a veritable fireworks
show that can’t be so easily
ignored.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Illustration 

Courtesy of Medusa

DON’T I WISH
—Caschwa

(Just a Dream)

I wave the emperor’s scepter
and all beneath me backs
away, disintegrates
in the face of my
brave warriors of
blight and intrusion

Hey! This was easier
than I thought it would
be, hardly any work at all

Then I hear the voice
the voice that must be heard
the voice of demands
demands that must be met

“I still see that nasty ring
in the toilet. Put some muscle
into that scrubbing, then don’t
forget the tub, you’ve got a lot
more work ahead of you”

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa

HERE IS MY ANSWER
—Caschwa

In the process of completing a DIY
brain examination, I must have
inadvertently disable or removed the
photographic memory component. So
I don’t have the pool of data to answer
your questions. You can repeat your
questions using a louder voice, more
details, or different inflections, but I am
only able to give you the same answer. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Cartoon Courtesy of Joe Nolan

LET’S TALK
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

Let’s talk about religion and
Internal wisdom.

Let’s talk about
The wind and how
It blows.

Let’s talk about
International conflicts,
Reservoirs of hate
And how they grow,
Overflowing dams
Built to contain them
And let it out
Little by little
To dribble from our faucets
The better to heat our tea
For us to swallow
Sip by sip.

Let’s talk about the
Falsehood of truth—
All the things
We’re sure we know
That just ain’t so,
That jumble up
Our brain-cells
With today’s news,
We’re supposed to know
Unless you’ve just let go.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

THE DEAD-MAN’S HAND
—Joe Nolan

I could only be
The ghost of your dead father,
Who died when you were just 13,
Cast into the shadow of a man
Doing stand-in as a husband
For as long as it took
A train to crash.

Simple and complex—
Unmet needs
Playing out
Through other bodies.

Strange demands—
Crying out for Daddy
In the context of a marriage.

We couldn’t resurrect him,
Didn’t know that we were trying
Until the all-or-nothing
Was thrown down on the table—
Aces and 8's,
The “dead-man’s hand.”
How could we have known?

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

AS THOUGH WE USED TO BE
—Joe Nolan

What can I say,
My darling?
Whatever I say
Would only
Make it worse.

The pain of
Our separation,
The logic
Of an
Impending Hearse,

That carries us off
To our lying beds,
You next to me
And we
Next to each other,

Unwilling,
Though we may be,
To lie
Along
Each other,
For Eternity,
In our humble graveyard,
Where bodies are reposed,
Collect me and caress me,
As though we used to be.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

SAGAS OF LOVE AND HATE
—Joe Nolan

Your lover stands
A-knocking
Outside your patio door,
Close to your
Luscious garden.
Why won’t you
Let him in?

He never stops his knocking.
He makes a horrible din
All through the night.

Something’s not right.
If you don’t want him
You should send him
Down the road,

With grief more
Than he can carry,
Such a heavy load—
To be bereft.

It happens so often—
Walking-papers given
To lovers, suitors
And others
Who just don’t fit,

Sent away to meet
Their fate
In sagas of
Love and hate.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

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

A night of tremendous rain
My soul is soaked in the letters
The greenery is beautiful
Like the sunken earth
With all the daisies around
I sip life's soma in great abundance
The birds are chirping around
The girls with polka-dotted umbrellas
Clouds gather in the North Carolina
The letter has arrived
It contains your soul-deep love
Till the rain hangs overs my body
I play with life's work.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

It’s not about working hard. It’s about what we’re working hard about.

—Craig D. Lounsbrough

__________________

Our thanks to today’s poets for all they sent us (our Seed of the Week was Moving Day), and wishing all who labor a replenishing Labor Day.

 

Sacramento Poetry Center re-opens tonight with its refurbished interior and a Labor Day open mic. The new Poet News is also available online at https://www.sacpoetrycenter.org/poetnews, and it tells of many Fall events on the calendar, including readings, workshops, and publications. They're gearing up for Sacramento Poetry Week in October, and the deadline for the latest Tule Review has been extended to Sept. 16. Lots going on—check it out, both in Poet News at in Medusa's calendar at http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html/. Summer's over—it's time to get moving!  

___________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

Squirrel Moving House
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

A reminder that
Sacramento Poetry Center re-opens
tonight, 7:30pm, with an Open Mic: 

What Work Is: A Labor Day Reading.
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.

Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.

Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)

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!

 

 

Zapping The Cobwebs

 —Poetry by Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
—Public Domain Photos of Monet's Lilies

Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

A CRANIAL APP?

I need the latest for my brain—
through maze of cobwebs I admit.
Installed by one who’s clever & sane!
Quick, some new apps for my brain
so facts don’t falter, lose their cane.
As in a dizzy daze I sit.
I need some apps! Get ready brain—
through maze of cobwebs I admit.

 

 

 

 

AT SKYE SUMMER CAMP                   

No one posted a poem today,
but the camp’s eagle pair began
two lines on their first blue glide.

The beaver nudged out
the spirit of a haiku, placing
seventeen sticks in camp creek
crafting a reflecting pool.

Afternoon sparrows,
well into refrains, chirped out
part of a triolet.

Last night, bears began
sonnets in the forest,
leaving fourteen footprints
and ten scent-tagged pines.

No human
posted a poem today
at Sierra camp called Skye.

 

 

 

 

 

MODERN GODDESS

She’s practical as a frying pan,
charismatic as Cher, charming as
Jill Biden, expansive like Eleanor R.

Rejecting black holes and war
as senseless ventures for mankind,
she strolls among galaxies
and planetary gardens,
sprinkling angel dust
on her Peace Boutique
on Cloud nineteen.
 
Favoring southern amenities,
she sips double mint juleps
and banana daiquiries;
craves watermelon,
jambalaya, quilt-making
and rest in the hammock
hung in her own backyard.

Our Goddess takes courses
in compromise: will forgive,
but does not always forget.
Lady sings—not blues but pinks,
rings eventide bells and thinks
more of heaven than of hell.

 

 

 

 

AT PIER’S END
    Berkeley, CA

This sunset afternoon
while strolling the pier, a poet
and I revel in seeing the sun etch
flames through breaking waves.
Pal: waves crest and curl, golden
from the earth’s curvature.
I respond: the bay is electric,
this planet alive under our feet.
 
We keep strolling . . .
At pier’s end,
a tall wooden fence blocks
our westernmost view:
bridges, sky and beyond.
Through a gap in the grayed
boards we center the sun,
sip apricot brandy.

 

 

 

 

AFTER PRUFROCK’S LOVE SONG
            (apologies to T. S. Eliot)

Let us return, love, you and I, for sunrise
spreads marmalade across the sky.
And honeybees go hunting high and low,
humming for Fra Angelico . . .
I pull off my red dotted socks and rub
my wizened creaky toes. I adopt a persona
that will weather better for fancy teas,
while you make fun of our infirmities.

Worry, worry, losing our hair! Shall we
each wear a wig that’s not too sweaty or big?
Is it time to prime and paint the blue door red,
or let it age down to its own patina, instead?
Time to recount our waning years, sans fear,
oil again the gears, then light some flares?
We’re here, we’re here, we’re still here.

The afternoon awakens with a bang!   
Are we saying what we mean when at last
we’re out of bed? I’m making you an éclair,
presuming you care, Tomorrow, as able,
I’ll lay my arm on a nurse’s table, patiently await
a shot for flu and blank and blank that’s overdue.
How about you? Join me, my dear? Ah, yes
indeed, when home I’ll take a shot—
bourbon with seltzer will do, and do and do.

Meanwhile
  seems long ago, and yet the honeybees
    still go winging high and low,
      humming for Fra Angelico.
        Will honeybees hum for you and me?
            Shall we wait, love, and see?

 

 

 

 

THE DOG WHISPERER

1.
A young trainer
day after day for an hour,
runs a pack of abused dogs
along grassy hilltops.
No one wants these rejects
     for pets.

The rascals weigh the trainer’s
patience, his boundaries;
then the motley pack bounds off.
Alpha man quietly calls each name,
they all gather around him.
He strokes each scruff,
offers treats, hopes each  
       finds a home.
                           
2.
Some days I wish someone kind would
run me along a grassy hilltop,
acknowledge my lit chalice;
help ease early trauma,
If only this kind person would
       whisper, whisper, whisper
and I listen deeply, calmed to the core.

______________________

Today’s Little Nip:

BREAKTHROUGH
—Claire J. Baker             

We
arrive at
a clear pond
where
Monet’s
water lilies
float petaled
moons.

___________________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Claire Baker for today’s fine poetry!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that readers from
the VOICES 2025 anthology
can be heard in Camino
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.

Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.

Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)

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!