Clearing the Firethorn

 

Pyracantha (Firethorn)

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

 

 A LOCAL VIEW

The lovely firethorn that succumbed last year,
renouncing green leaves while the summer dozed,
we’ve cut—as all dead things must go. It’s clear,
as now the wide view to the east’s exposed
with all the neighbor’s junked cars interposed.
Those dead, too, should go. Far less lovely than
a perished firethorn is the work of man.

 

 

FAR FROM TOWN LIGHTS

A chill and moonless night
of radiant starlight—
deep black shadow crosses—
silent owl of losses.

 

  

Loki Having Adventures

 

GIFT OF NATURE

Dismayed at TV news, I walk outside
along the fence-line, quiet woodland
where the only coffin is a rotten log
rampant with Artists-bracket fungus—
stratified fans and wings of many colors.
What a beautiful job Nature makes
of blossom and decay. A gift renewed
each morning, it transports heart
and mind—till suddenly at my back
I hear a buzz and grind—always some
gas-powered impatience breaks my
revery, like a picture of Yosemite
labeled on its reverse Made in China,
and the price tag.

 

 

CONNECTIVITY

Gotta be patient
in this little foothills canyon
where WiFi bounces off a satellite
trying to find us on our hill of oaks
and uplift rock ages older than
the Internet. While Facebook fails
to upload my photos from last night’s
reading, I build a fire in the woodstove,
make breakfast, do laundry, write this
poem. Will I find my photos ready
to post when I’m done? Maybe
I’ll still have time enough for weed-
eating, mowing my land under a sun
of infinite patience clouded over
at times by unstable weather,
but still connected.

 

 

Latches Relaxing Between Adventures

CATASTROPHE

The cat has caught himself in nylon
from bygone days, so long forgotten
in the rag bag on a laundry shelf.
Could he have been high on catnip, or
impatient for adventure, to drag
it out—still snagged on a nail—and climb
it like a rung-less ladder? We woke
to such a shocking scream in the dark,
cat dangling by the sharp of his claws
from a long-dead grandmother’s stocking.

 

 

TIME CHANGE

No matter how we change the clock,
the big hand and the little hand
we unlock to once again lock—
our ritual twice-yearly fuss—
the best of us must understand
it’s always Time that changes us.

 

 

Today’s LittleNip:

’64 VW
—Taylor Graham

her first car was a bug    
training wheels

fly

_____________________

Many thanks to Taylor Graham for today’s poetry and photos, as she transports us to the foothills of the Sierra. And bless her heart for not succumbing to the temptation to put a hyphen in her poem about Latches: Cat-asthrophe. (As you can see, I have no such restraint.) Latches will be further featured in the Kitchen today; scroll down to see how.

Here are the forms TG sent us examples of this week: a Rhyme Royal (“A Local View”); a Word-Can Poem (“Gift of Nature”); a rhymed quatrain (“Far from Town Lights”); Normative Syllabics/Word-Can (“Catastrophe”); a rhymed 6-liner (“Time Change”)—sexain, sixain, sextain, sextet, sestet, hexastich?—any of these names may be used for 6-liners, rhymed or not; and last week’s Triple-F Challenge, the wee Tilus (“’64 VW”).

•••Tonight (Friday, 3/25), 7-8:30pm: Sac. City College’s el gigante presents a reading by their Creative Writing Faculty (Steve Cirrone, Jeff Knorr, Troy Myers, Danny Romero) plus open mic. Zoom at cccconfer.zoom.us/j/9348057923/. Host: Danny Romero.

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 forms and get them posted in the Kitchen, by golly! (See Medusa’s Form Finder at the end of this post for resources and for links to poetry terms used today.)

Sometimes ya just gotta rhyme. Joyce Odam has sent us a poem of rhyming Tercets, and thanks to her for that:


STARING AT TIME
—Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA   

fluttering down from the trees
the little souls of leaves
the life that death believes…

the splintering of bird-songs
the little rights and wrongs
the way it all belongs…

the mental vertigo
the things that stay and go
the tercets in a row…

the souls that wait in stones…
the music in the bones
the casual undertones…

the threes and twos and one
the endings late begun
the black glare in the sun…

____________________

Last week’s Ekphrastic Challenge was this plucky little dandelion (courtesy of Joe Nolan), and both Stephen Kingsnorth and Claire Baker responded to it:

 

 

BLING  
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales, UK

Against contracting mire of mud
admire the struggle—such the norm—
reaction to the breakthrough bloom
from cake of crazy paving cracks.
But seeds abound for luck as this,
fall, open opportunities,
to delve, find trigger, tapping route—
in hope of flight another year,
spring gene leap too, further afield.

So draw the moisture just below
and blaze above in fashion show,
spread solar panels, green of course,
to glow for hover from above.
Drawn by the sense of pheromones,
call carrier, high pollen count,
collect whatever male was left—
delivered, wild oats sown abroad—
the stigma now considered low.

This layer cake, clay dry to wet—
reminds of coffee, walnut flake—
has lost its status, centre stage,
to showy model, bold bling gold.
It’s found the means, its standout rôle,
to gather pupils, homework set,
biology, arithmetic—
though do bee eyes bear such a well,
or compound interest instead?

To cede grey wilderness to bright,
against the gloom, doom-ridden site,
through sight of mindful insight eye
is complement, how life’s to be.
I’m by herbaceous border now—
a privilege (though weeds grow too),
so cannot preach to those trapped, dire,
who face more hell than I will bear.
But still I trust that power of seed.

* * *

LIFESPAN   
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

After seeing a yellow daisy
in a desert widely cracked,
yet someone was drawn
to take a photograph,

later this same day,
I read about & picture
the royal Romanovs
at their firing squad
execution, the young
Anastasia wearing
a gorgeous yellow dress.
Had she sewn jewels

into its cloth, as her mother
urged the four daughters
to ward off bullets?
Had Anastasia escaped?

___________________

Does this photo have you stumped? It was our Ekphrastic Challenge for week-before-last, and Claire Baker successfully responded to it:

 

 

AT EDGE OF UNKNOWN WOODS
—Claire J. Baker

A
patty
of
sun
center
of
stump
covering
ten
rings
&
more
to
count
while
inhaling
life.

____________________

Carl Schwartz (Caschwa) came up with a photo (below) last week and sent it to me, so I promptly posted it on Monday. Then he came up with a response to his own photo—self-ekphrasticizing, as it were:

 

 

 

Staycation Cruise Ship

—Photo by Caschwa

(Note the graceful lines, built

for smooth sailing) 

 

GRACIOUS AMENITIES
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

Modern fleet of cruise ships and riverboats, designed for
passenger comfort. Provides guests with a personal oasis as
well as a private view of the passing scenery. Every
stateroom is among the most spacious in the industry and
the perfect setting for a rewarding day’s activities.

_________________

Another challenge last week, the Triple-F, was the wee Tilus, so Caschwa sent us this one. The Tilus is so delicate—like a tiny piece of lace:


THE WHOLE SET
—Caschwa

encyclopedia
yesteryear

now 

 

 

Caschwa also sent a Nonet: 

THE “LIE”BRARY OF CONGRESS   

—Caschwa

pride is boosted by marking in ink
our taxes fund this endeavor
everything that’s fit to print
kept neat, tidy, ordered
eloquent language
boilerplate terms
colloquy
ideas
law

______________________

And finally, from Joe Nolan, another of his poems which follows no specific form. But, as I said above, sometimes ya just gotta rhyme…


HERE, TOGETHER
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

In our private,
Intimate space,
In our quiet,
Verdant place,
Opportunities
For grace.

Splendid vistas
We can see,
Surrounded
By natural beauty.

Eight-billion angels
Dance this pin.
Star-centered orbit,
Geo-centered spin.

Just you and me,
When we
Pull the curtains
For privacy—
Just you and me!

______________________

Many thanks to our SnakePals for their brave fiddling! Would you like to be a SnakePal? 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 CHALLENGE!  

See what you can make of this week’s poetry form, and send it to kathykieth@hotmail.com! (No deadline.) This week's challenge:

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

Here’s Billy Collins’ poem, “Introduction to Poetry”, to start off your weekend right: www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/46712/introduction-to-poetry

And see the bottom of this post for another challenge—this one an Ekphrastic one!

______________________

RESOURCE OF THE WEEK:

•••www.masterclass.com/articles/poetry-101-learn-about-poetry-different-types-of-poems-and-poetic-devices-with-examples#15-types-of-poetic-forms (Billy Collins’ quick definitions of basic poetry terms, as part of his Poetry 101 Master Class)

_______________________

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

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

•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry

•••Hainka: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/hainka-haiku-tanka-new-genre-of-poetic-form

•••Nonet: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/nonet-poems-poetic-form

•••Normative Syllabics: hellopoetry.com/collection/108/normative-syllabic-free-verse AND/OR lewisturco.typepad.com/poetics/normative-syllabic-verse

•••Quatrain: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms?query=quatrain

•••Rhyme Royal: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/rhyme-royal-rime-royale 

•••Tercet: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/tercet

•••Tilus (tee-loo-uz): www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/tilus-poetic-forms

•••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

Taylor Graham’s Cat, Latches
—Photo by Taylor Graham

* * *

Today's Ekphrastic Challenge!
 
See what you can make of the above


photo, and send your poetic results to 


kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.)



 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

 

 

 

Poems Between the Lines

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(Sometimes

        silence 

            is best...) 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_________________

 

—Medusa 

—Artwork Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Why Candelabra Die

 

Light On The Wall

—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

—This Photo by Katy Brown, Davis, CA

SIGHT VISITS SONNET

In space, clock turn, a trinity describes      
my timeshare, equilateral, long days,          
acute, three angles mental health prescribes—    
screen box, fin swim aquarium, chair laze.
           
With channel surf, current affairs, wave high,         
not hot top, red head, scandal banner views,           
more updates seen, repeats, same scene rely—          
distraction step, a balanced stance, fade blues.   
       
That flutter tank where flatter guppies prance,           
demands I rise, childcare, hour feed the breed,
amongst the plants, flit dance attracts, entrance,      
while fry, with net escapees trapped, need freed.  
 
Then throne, where laptop cursor blink awaits        
the fingertip, tried tremor word translates.  

 

 

 

Long Hall, Darling House, Santa Cruz, CA
—Photo by Katy Brown

 

 

JUDE

My title, Jude, you understand?
If but a hardy soul, you should.
Perhaps my verse is not your space
but yours the access—trace my mind.
Why can you not hear what I voice
and, taken plunge, still get it wrong?
I’ll write, gazing in crystal ball—
if yet unseen, your wiring’s poor.
I’ll use the info learned at school—
for poetry found learnèd brains.
Perhaps I’ll translate, common state,
and then you’ll celebrate as found?
Now what I share is something known
or else the poem’s not owned, mine,
but common knowledge, commonwealth,
and recognition not my deal—
the common touch still calls for breadth—
but as I’ve finished, up to you.                                       .

“But, friend, we seek a commonplace,
that least you write, available,
not easy grace for trampling swine
but observation, chiming bells.
So, application to the task,
my answer only if both work,
and then the page that typist typed
has archetypal emphasis.
So, come together, pilgrim road,
discover what’s new in our world,
inherent posers, if we ask—
an entry point, art comprehend.
If bounded, wedded, stewardship
it might be both, best understand.”

 

 

 

—Photo by Katy Brown

 

FISHER KING

Where ash and bullfinch,
kicking the curl dust-desiccated floor
bedding conkers, to collect,
and learn why candelabra die,
the seasons passing, marking dance?

Tell the mistle from the song,
know more than robin’s easy blush,
the finches beak from starling stab,
enjoy the dripping on the crust
before we shared the fatty stub;
now thistles gone, greyed decking sum,
concrete for rims, wheel mowing lines.

Bruised reeds, unbroken, layabout,
minnows, a jam jar, string around,
tadpoles, toads and newts nearby,
seen thread or clump, we gathered spawn
to grail the jellied specks with awe.
We early reckoned death with us,
fashioned cross where goldfish earthed,
more celebrated brought to birth.

That’s what early learning meant,
reading lines thought heaven sent,
dandled, dawdling, driven less,
halcyon, raft calming seas.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Stephen Kingsnorth

 

HOOPS

In vest, short shorts, quick reflex points,
our up and over, chain-link fence,
we traded jokes, paraded skills,
especially under watch of girls,
as learnt to make a better pass,
slow-climbed team pecking order, cheeked,
our early learning underway.
Lithe limbed, grown pecs, less heaving chests,
we argued, competition rules,
but knew that friendship surpassed wins;
we found that bruising brought out best,
concern, take care, strip bandages,
best treatment, algebra of bones.
We cursed at dogs which mucked about,
grass scraped together, rubbed along,
and rolled our joints to reach our dreams.
Short bounce, tall slide, taut words and terms,
vocabulary of the court,
and when were caught, swore under breath,
the oaths we’d take another place.
While palms were crossed, high five for some,
as sentence passed, no spin at all.    
And now this frame is old, grey, tired,
waste band that sags, hangs out below,
with knots, sad bag, though ties still hold,
wee lads that made it to the man.
I guess this now a sunset cause,
the last post calling, rusty links,
as green tufts breaking through the tar,
our baby stubs, where we first puffed.
Buddleia blooms, flit butterflies
now hover where we stood our ground;
but soon I’ll lie and rest awhile,
those sods around the plot I chose—
a final hoop, then down to land.  

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Stephen Kingsnorth

GOLD

Twelve sides, portcullis brass,
so looked threepenny bit.
A sterling eightieth,
not mighty spending power.
I kept a special piece;
its value highly prized.

The train was peopled close,
and no remaining seats,
I gave my place to age,
as trained from early years.

My station platform due,
the blazer buttons home,
emblazoned brass in place,
door handling to alight,
into my hand is pressed,
my protest waved aside,
the threepence coin piece,
nugget of living gold.

What can be bought is nought:
what represents is all.

______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

PSALM OLIVE
—Stephen Kingsnorth

Some read future in the palm,
life-line prosper or cut short;
shade from warming of the earth,
warning, dawning, bitter days.

Palms once cut, hand waved, way paved,
table laid, cup passed, dismayed;
too long delayed, prayed that cup
pass over dawn, bitter day.   

Fronds, as friends, see rising sun,
risen son to offer hope,
oil and date of Olivet,
grinding wheel, stone rolled away.

_______________________

—Medusa, with many thanks to Stephen Kingsnorth for today’s sonorous collection of poems, and to Katy Brown for her equally sonorous photos!

 

 

 

—Photo by Katy Brown

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is 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!

 

“So, come together, pilgrim road,
discover what’s new in our world . . .”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What Have You Got To lose?

On Two Sides
—Poetry, Photos and Artwork by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

 

 

 

BLUE FIRE AND RED SKY    
    
As trees through blue fire sputter
and moan, their branches tangling,
their roots in a lessening hold—
grasping for blue which
may be sky or dream—
blue fire and red sky—
oh, fiery love and loss—
held together through all
destruction, what have you
got to lose but life and its memory—
wild music rushing through like wings
beating in sudden joy and madness—
balance in all its harmony and discord,
like all that music never written . . .    


(prev. pub. in Poets’ Forum Magazine, 2020)

 

 

 

Whatever It Is

 

CIRCULARITY

circle me,                                                                                                                    
en-closing, and out-closing

is the circle
confined or open
top to bottom
working
vertical
or
horizontal

Is the circle the line
or what the line encloses,
only a shape

can it be
undone by erasing part
of the line—

what spills, falling out
of circularity
of questions

                                
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen)

 

 

 

To Light The Way

 

 

FULL MOON

What deception, held like a hoop
in the arms of a playful child-woman
remembering the younger time
before grief and sorrow
took their turns.
Her ghost
obeys the mockery,
leaping in silhouette
from darkness to darkness,
the cold moon
stolen from the sky
to light the way;
what mockery
to think she can
get away with this,
the sky gone dark,
black clouds taking the place
of the stolen light—hers from
the old trickery—the spell she puts on
disbelievers forced to believe what they see.

 

 

 

Prophesy

 

THE FULL MOON HANGS SO LOW
THE DARKNESS OPENS

trees of white bend and make their motion
in the surrealistic whiteness
of their dance

old women move in memory—
their tethered forms soul-caught against
the shadowy landscape quiverings—

and they dance together—the women and
the trees—interchanging in the light
which startles them

                                                  
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 10/28/2011)

_____________________

FURTHERINGS

I steal portions of my life. Mine again. To own
myself is what I mean. I dream myself like this :

flower, soul, and death—an unwound tapestry,
unpainted—yet blank again. I ache to hold me.

I escape like a shadow—sensitive to touch—
follow a word-thief all my life, language made

of wisdom—also stolen—an alphabet I try to
memorize—iconic thoughts—I knew I could

belong—            I was my own sorrow—something
wrong with my beginning. I laid me down to

dream. What had parents to do with this—
minds apart—the “if” and “why” of everything.

 

 

 

From Time To Time

 

SLOPE
After “Slope” by Rella Lossy

I crawl and climb—climb and crawl—
all over my life, which is mine.
I stop and rest, think and rest,
measure my time,
which is mine.
I am prone,
I am vertical—
I have no horizon
line, only my climb,
which is slow—as slow
as my echo, which is mine—
as silence—my silence as inside
my echo. I am without, and between,
half up, and half fallen, which is time. 

 

 

 

 The Curving Shape of Air

 

THE SMOOTHNESS OF THE DANCE
After Lines & Spaces, mixed media by Cynthia Hurtubis

And there are myths to be gotten over,
new ones to make up.
tragedies to memorize, with their betrayals and . . .

it is a dance, never finished,
columns of light to glide between, distances
to measure, why not just let . . .

let’s take, for instance, green—a sky of it,
a wash of light—a suggestion
of birds lifting up in rainy conversations that—

‘trail’… is that the word you mean—those blotches
are barriers, they could be anything that impedes
the dance, which is the metaphor here, as if . . .

as if smears of light are to be considered,
how they relate
and the mystery of the four dark barriers . . .

gates?
brush strokes?
a reflection of yellow? like water-shimmer in . . . ?

in a square room, without windows or doors,
a dance floor, all those green shadows of movement,
other dancers with their invisible presences—

besides, there were five—five darks—
the blur hides one. You are to be forgiven—
you with your impatient eyes. Why do we always . . .

always keep these shadows for reminders—
how perfect you are in this light—how beautifully
we dance together in our different rememberings.

 

 

 

Awake Under My Sleep

 

WHEN YOUR SHIP COMES IN

How soon will the boat come for you?
You are such a small harbor;
maybe the boat will not find you.

Will it be a rowboat?
Will it have a sail?
Will it be a yacht?

You are such a poor person,
wearing mended clothes.
And you are not impatient.

All your life you wait,
bent in a looking position,
staring through the glitters
in the direction of the setting sun.

You will not see Luck coming,
until it gets dark,
and then it will be too late
to go sailing,
or rowing, or riding on a yacht.

________________________

Today’s LittleNip:

BIRDLESS SKIES
—Joyce Odam

dark
moon    
lost in
night of
missing stars,
of sky-winds
that threaten
to tear the sky
with a grittiness
of sounds that wail
and sigh until there is
nothing left but fury of
regret, everything dying
at last—heaven's last bird

_____________________

Good morning, and our thanks to Joyce Odam for patiently putting together this fine post about our Seed of the Week, Impatience. Our new Seed of the Week is “Ginger”. Wait—are we talking about the spice, or that red cat, or red hair, cookies, beer, spicy personalities…? Ginger Rogers? 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.

 

 

 

 

•••This Sat. (3/26), 4pm: Sac. Poetry Alliance features Susan Kelly-DeWitt and Albert Garcia at The Library of MusicLandria, 1219 S St., Sacramento, CA. Info: www.facebook.com/events/1036595227201761/. Host: Tim Kahl.

______________________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

Ginger Snake

 

Magnificat

—Poetry by Marie Asner, Stephen Kingsnorth, 

Caschwa (Carl Schwartz), Michael Ceraolo, and Joe Nolan

—This Photo Courtesy of Public Domain

DAY BEFORE SPRING
—Marie Asner, Overland Park, KS

Our kayaks float like feathers into the icy current.
See the wind move through sullen branches
as we pass the hanging basswood tree
that wants to touch us with frost
still clinging to bark. Here, the North Country
whispers of change to come,
but today is not the day to begin planning
in green, instead of cold white.
Ahead of schedule, we button our water gear
and glide into river mist with stars
still on the horizon waiting for the sun’s cue
to disappear, but clouds decide to wait a day.

 

 

 

 —Photo by Katy Brown, Davis, CA 

SKY BALL
—Marie Asner                   
 
Sky takes shallow breaths in anticipation,
then begins to fold itself tightly
as a backdrop for bouncing lightning.
People wave to each other as they look at the clouds
and know what is to come. Wind tells angels
to stay home tonight and have a cup of tea.
Sun exits by way of a hilltop, slowly closing the blinds.
In the backyard, our favorite locust tree
has gathered its branches and now stands
straight as a telephone pole, afraid to move a leaf.
Wind decides to blow from the North,
not alerting anyone of his decision,
sending cloudlets scurrying to hide
behind thunderheads, who lace up for the real game.
 
Evening, just around the corner, delays a bit
and lets the show begin ahead of schedule,
with tree tops murmuring in despair
of broken branches to come. Percussion warms up
in the distance, a signal for slowly growing tulips
to hide under dry leaves from the past autumn.
Stars take their lanterns and stay at a
respectable distance, taking notes
for their annual meeting, knowing
that the electrical wattage in the universe
will have a run for its money tonight.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Stephen Kingsnorth

 

IMPATIENS
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales, UK

I see it in inpatient queues,
elective surgery slow paced,
the waiting list, through weighted, missed,
most urgent, like a triage test,
thrown front, on cue, in overtake.

Does disease know its time still runs,
dis-ease, unease of hip, knee bone—
not dancing to patella groove—
disjointed frame, like Jacob’s limp,
when joined-up links might set the joints.

But wear and tear not creep flesh eat,
so patient wait while water plant,
an in-joke from my neighbour shared,
impatiens spreading by my chair,
and far worse scene on TV screen.

That operating theatre
of war, on list as ‘special op’,
though know so far from surgical,
for hospitals, as rouble, lie
in rubble, basement gas, air, fire.

If education, health, a right,
and not the privilege of wealth,
then we have found a commonwealth
fit any age or tribe or tongue,
the rites of man in passage, time.

Now that is where impatience, gold,
when dispossessed and refugee
must suffer through the pride of might.
We wait, their put-down from their seat,
well-being shared, Magnficat. 

 

 

 

Carousel

—Painting by Olexandr Murashko, 1906 (Ukraine)

 

CAROUSEL
—Stephen Kingsnorth

What do we see in retrospect,
when ironies are flung about,
through fall, the rise of empires checked,
or icons, in their life or death?
As if all care is cast away,
these riding girls, with costumed grace,
enjoy the fair ground where they play,
one loose to sway, one knotted scarf.

I learned today Volodymyr,
cathedral city, saint of Kyiv,
was by this artist’s Dad revered,
in icon workshop, worship site.
So Olexondr painted too,
Carousel, prize of gold award;
but died, abducted, street gang coup,
shot in the back—what turnabout.

How brief may be this lazy date,
as if this frame were fixed by lens,
when unsuspected twist of hate,
takes over reins and rides away.
A debauchee, by name translate,
RasPutin’s claim, spell Russia cast—
‘rebirth through sin’ his credal state—
haemophilia, lone can staunch. 

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Caschwa

 

ANTIPOSED
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

on one side is the blunt force
and poison of lead, magisterial
ammunition for mercenary squads,
platoons, troops, battalions,
brigades, and regiments

on the other side is the artistry of
leadership, prudent, purposeful
composition of all the necessary
elements to achieve a venerable
goal, despite great odds 

 

 

 

Staycation Cruiser
—Photo by Caschwa

 

 

BLANKETS OF TRUTH
—Caschwa

confession to achieve
the outcome of making
an oppressor back off

blushing skies
baring their
understorms

cogito, ergo
I vote my mind
not your spin
 
breathing is a
crime, punishable
by lung failure

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

THE COUNTRY THAT CRIED WOLF
—Michael Ceraolo, S. Euclid, OH

Henry Adams, Woodrow Wilson, Harry Truman,
Joe McCarthy, Dwight Eisenhower, John Kennedy,
Richard Nixon, Ronald Reagan et al.

For over a century the cry has been
The Russians are coming!  The Russians are coming!
(whether then or at a later date never specified)

And then when the wolf warned the world
it was going to invade its neighbor,
and did so,
                   the country
didn't encourage its citizens
to leave the wolf's country
until it was perhaps too late

 

 

 

—Public Domain Cartoon Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

SHOW, DON’T TELL
—Michael Ceraolo

(A Zoom poetry reading
with half a dozen or so poets
taking turns reading one poem at a time)

 

And when hecklers hacked into the meeting,
one of the poets,
                          a legend in his own mind,
felt compelled to say several time
that he was heckled often
because of his superior knowledge
obtained from a half-century of serious study

The only time he demonstrated
his superior knowledge was when
he called his own poetry doggerel 

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

A JAY-BIRD’S JIG
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

I watched a jay-bird
Wash himself
In puddles on the lawn.

Spritely splashing
Beads of water
Tossed about the air.

It seemed as though
He liked to play
In morning’s bright sunshine
Bobbing up and down
Like an Irish jig.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

SNOW-LEOPARDS
—Joe Nolan

Even when the world is dangerous,
Winds, strong,
Waves, high,
Knocks, hard,

Exposed and vulnerable,
Hawks in the sky,
Predators, aground,

Some clouds may disappear,
But maybe not enough
To get you safely home
Beneath a storm.

Sometimes, too, the Earth may shake,
More than you thought it could,
Just when you’re putting the crystal away,
Stepping down from your short house-ladder,
Balance startles and you have no base,
No way to link your present with your future.
Some days, you have to be
Far more ready than you know.

Snow-leopards survive
On the flesh of mountain goats,
Year after year,
In winter and summer.

First, in quiet vigil,
Looking down in icy silence
From boulders on the mountainside
They plan a path of approach
Then leap across the land
Like rolling thunder.

Mountain-goats may run and run,
But cannot get away
From beasts that would
Devour them
On cold, gray mountain days. 

 

 

 

Golgotha
—Photo by Katy Brown

 

THE GRIEVING DEAD
—Joe Nolan

Only the dead are safe
From further humiliation.

Resting safely in their graves,
They hear of wars between nations,

From echoes of jack-boots,
That ring through the ground,
And shocks
From exploding bombs.

Only the dead are safe
From war and humiliation,
Delivered to peasants
Who get in the way
Of armies marching to war,
Rushing to borders
To get off the scenes
Of brand-new battlegrounds.

The dead rest in peace,
But listen, they, still
And grieve they, still,
For the living,
Tortured by brothers and sisters.

 

 

 

Camouflaged Sniper (can you see him?)
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

WHEN, WAR?
—Joe Nolan

When inner-light
Is shadow-bound,
Collapses come,
Round after round,
Reason to hope
Is rarely found
And general decline
Brings everything down,
They will send you off to war
To give them a “What for.”

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo by Joe Nolan

 

FLAMES
—Joe Nolan

Each flame
Burns brightly
By itself.

All flames
Are burning
All together
All at once,
Sharing the
Essence of fire.

 

 

 

—Photo by Katy Brown

 

Today’s LittleNip:

NOCTURNAL POETICS
—Joe Nolan

Attached to the stars
Are those who play
With words,
At night;

Alone in the darkness,
Before candlelight,
Spreading black ink
Onto paper.

____________________

Yesterday was the Spring Equinox for 2022; Medusa celebrated it by going to Innisfree. Among the many fine poems and photos in the Kitchen this morning are poems about Spring; about our Seed of the Week (Impatience); and about the Ukraine. Events in the Ukraine seem to be on the minds of a lot of our poets, as judged by today’s work. Poets of all nationalities are moved by the horrors of war, of course. Here is one list of such poems from the Academy of American Poets (poets.org): poets.org/text/poems-about-war/.

 

 

 

 

 

•••Tonight (Mon., 3/21), 7:30pm, Sac. Poetry Center Socially Distant Verse features Marjorie Maddox and Lois Roma-Deeley plus open mic. Zoom at us02web.zoom.us/j/7638733462/. (Meeting ID: 763 873 3462; password: r3trnofsdv/.) Info: www.facebook.com/sacpoetrycenter/.

•••Fri. (3/25), 7-8:30pm: el gigante presents The Creative Writing Faculty at Sacramento City College (Steve Cirrone, Jeff Knorr, Troy Myers, Danny Romero) plus open mic on Zoom at cccconfer.zoom.us/j/9348057923/. Host: Danny Romero. For more information about el gigante, go to  romerod@scc.losrios.edu/.

•••Sat. (3/26), 2pm: Poetry of the Sierra Foothills features Dianna McKinnon Henning and Lara Gularte plus open mic. Love Birds Coffee & Tea Co., 4181 Hwy 49, Diamond Springs, CA (where Hwy 49 meets Pleasant Valley Rd.). Host: Lara Gularte.

 

 

 

 

 •••April 15 is the deadline for poems to be submitted to the annual Dancing Poetry Contest, presented by Artists Embassy International and the Poetry Dance Theater Company. See www.dancingpoetry.com for details.

__________________

—Medusa (reminding you to take deep breaths and think about the magnificence of Spring. Magnificat!)

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is 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!

 

“Attached to the stars . . .”