Wildflower Honey

  

Breathing 

—RosZie (Pixabay)

—Poetry by Ann Wehrman, Sacramento, CA

—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Ann Wehrman

 

 

 

SACRED SPACE #21: AIR QUALITY IN THE GREEN ZONE
 
I’ve taken to checking the online air monitors  
several times a day
air quality’s been hazardous
brown, even red zone, or worse  
but today the air’s so clean it’s intoxicating to drink it  
 
I’m drunk on the air today
though I do not drink alcohol
it’s better than Nana’s gin and tonics  
better than Mom’s directions, Pour me a martini, Honey
 
drinking air is guilt-free
fills my lungs with wild freedom
sweet, pure, invigorating
can’t live without it 

 

 

 

Air Quality in the Green Zone 

—Ann Wehrman

 

SACRED SPACE #23: UNIVERSE WITHOUT LIMITS
 
glistening spectrum of colorful stars  
streaming, dancing through the cosmos
 
no judgment—truth, karma rule
mistakes, however horrible
purified by fire to ashes  
becoming nothing  
becoming hard-won memories
becoming wisdom
 
but wouldn’t we be bored?  
need the sharp pleasure of evil?
it may be hard at this point to imagine  
eternal goodness and joy
 
perhaps it’s like the difference  
in flavor, in satisfaction  
between evil as saccharine  
and righteousness, goodness
as raw wildflower honey 

 

 

 

 Circinus Galaxy (NASA)

LOSING MY TEETH
 
masterful, yet sensitive
the oral surgeon sedated my mouth
then slip-yanked out my two lower front teeth
—one dead, one loose—
before I could begin yoga breathing
to shield against anxiety and pain
 
I left the office wobbly
the first night, dutifully slept on my back
upper body elevated to prevent inflammation
felt like a mummy or robot
 
craved a deep burrow
into the mattress on my belly or side
but that would pressure the jaw
displace the temporary partial, the flipper
 
had to keep that thing in my mouth
liquids only, first 24 hours  
must wear it daily for a few months
or maybe I’ll keep it permanently
getting implants instead would mean
more pain, expense
 
when I take out the flipper  
look in the mirror
see the gaping black square
center of my bottom jaw
I even scare myself 

 

 

 

 Laundry 

—Ryan McGuire (Pixabay)

OFF BALANCE
 
checking account wouldn’t balance
bank said I have a dime more  
spent three hours adding, re-adding  
finally pried myself off the chair, out the door
 
maybe I should have stayed inside longer
air gritty with particles of smog
maybe the fields were sprayed again
maybe too many winter fires in fireplaces
maybe just an inversion layer  
and people keep on driving, driving, driving
 
November air chilly, my hips were feeling it
lifted quilts into my cart, trundled  
to the shadowy, run-down laundry room  
reeking of mildew, disinfectant, bleach
flipped the light switch, pushed myself through 

three loads
 
project put off far too long
today’s the last day of the lunar cycle
tomorrow’s new moon brings a fresh start
moving my body, hoping my mind would right itself
 
maybe the bank’s error (however unlikely)
something reassuring about balancing my account 

each month
countering hysteria, sorrow, loneliness
 
laundry done, I returned home, turned on 

evening lights
eyed the bank statement  
reached instead for online work, food, Netflix
resolved to work on it all again tomorrow 

 

 

 

Pen 

—Samuel Francis Johnson (Pixabay)

 

PERMISSION
 
she opened a file
maybe she should use paper and pen—
even pencil, more tactile—
decided to use the computer
in her studio, door locked, background music soft  
she’d created the illusion of safety
no one would disturb her
she could pour out her heart and desire  
the only judge, her own conscience
 
would it really be OK
or a complete, foolish risk to write about her passion
would it ruin her reputation—
what matters is the truth, and love is key to life
sexual love part of the eternal creative heart of God
it must be OK to express what she understood
but then, was she writing for self-glorification
careless, just braggadocio, to gain attention
to publish it, if possible?
she worried over it like picking at a hangnail  
 
she wanted to write of her love
still just erotic fantasy  
yet, though she’d thought it through for the 

hundredth time  
given herself permission to write and publish it
 
the words that grew under her fingers
told a different story  
of the face, smile, mind of her love, when first met
years spent apart, then finally  
hearing him again, in her mind, asking to rekindle 

the flame
pledging to him alone but not finding him anywhere  
other than a whisper in her ear, a warm brush of wind
a seeming shift of events in her favor, a sense of 

being protected, cared for
 
she smiled—maybe he wasn’t ready to show himself
or maybe the problem was within her
that night, she ended up writing about how she longed  
to cook dinner together, clean house together
go for a walk together with her love
 
then she saved the file and logged out

______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

There exists a universal order that we each play a distinct role in carrying out. Light always struggles to emerge from darkness. Each of us is the bearer of our own lantern. We find ourselves when we realize our place in an interconnected world. The struggle to pierce the darkness that shrouds us from realizing a state of perceptive awareness is the biggest part of both our individual story and our communal storyline.

―Kilroy J. Oldster, Dead Toad Scrolls

______________________

Our thanks to Ann Wehrman for her poetry today, and for sending us these photos from public domain to go with. (People end sentences with "with" now. Weird.)

 

Tomorrow's El Dorado County Poetry Out Loud Finals in Placerville has been changed from a live venue to a virtual one due to inclement weather. Tonight, though, Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe in Sacramento presents featured readers plus open mic, 8pm. And there will also be a poetry reading and reception at the Mistlin Gallery in Modesto tonight at 7pm, featuring the collaborative show, Collision VII: Eighteen Poets and Eighteen Photographers Collide in an Act of Creation. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about these and other future poetry events in the NorCal area—and keep an eye on this link and on the Kitchen for happenings that might pop up during the week.

 

 

 

—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!

 

 

Swimming with the Dolphins

 

(The Wrist of Robert Beveridge)

—Poetry by Robert Beveridge, Akron, OH

—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

EMPIRICAL

Notice the wick
for without it
the candle could not burn

light
blazes
down

from these ugly electric
lamps

maybe
these tungsten wicks
will explode
and plunge us
into naught
but candlelight

 

 

 

 

DROP THE MIC

if you sing
at the party
drinks will
be poured
for you
by suitors
you have
never met
before

if you do
not sing
at the party
you will
be invited
to the next
one

 

 

 

 

STRAIGHTENING

lips under mine
close enough to touch
breath exchanged
your shirt open
to the waist, curls
spill down over you
your arms around
my neck, mine grip
your sides

you asked if I like
your hair better straight
I twined one curl
around a finger
and pressed my tongue
to yours

 

 

 

 

NIGHTGOWN
       for Rhonda Lynn Youssef

I kept your nightgown
next to me last night,

your perfume, sweat, our sex
before you went to work, waited

for you to come home,
your scent in my dreams.

 

 

 

 

CARMINE

your eyes
redden
it drifts
into eternal
blood
sleep

 

 

 

 

SLEEP

I see your fear
I see the waves of reddened oceans
break on your shore
needles ringed with dirt
and scarred
with the tracks
of a violet lover

touch the leather of lust
to your pale scarred throat
skim that hard skin
with your lips of need
cry at the beauty
of your pale blood

those burnt flowers
the ghosts of lovers past
call to you:

sleep, sleep
sleep, sleep

you watch these dolphins wash
helpless onto shore
infected and scarred
with the tracks
of violet needles

dirty dolphins wash
onto your shore
covered in the blood of sunset
as you cry one single tear

sleep, sleep
sleep, sleep

where were the days
when you swam with the dolphins
free and wild
naked before the sunset
braving the bitter cold

of this endless frosted night?
Do you remember the dolphins?

Those narcotic lovers tell you
drift into our arms
give up your awareness
you can sleep, sleep
dream of those dolphins
and sleep, sleep

look at them
dead on your shore
in the violet sleep of sunset

even as they tempt you
you know
that you can never dream
of those dolphins again

I see your fear
I see the waves of oceans red
with dolphins' blood

turn away from those red oceans
turn away from those narcotic shores
so many other oceans wait
cry no longer
at the beauty
of your pale scarred blood
fear no longer

wake, wake

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

DAYBREAK
—Robert Beveridge

immense
light
diffused
through rain

___________________

Today's new visitor to the Kitchen, Robert Beveridge, makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry on unceded Mingo land (Akron, OH), with recent/upcoming appearances in MockingOwl Roost, South Broadway Ghost Society, and Commo, among others. Welcome to the Kitchen, Robert, and don’t be a stranger!

___________________

—Medusa

 

Robert Beveridge

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
in the links at the top of this page.

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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My Name is Fury

 

A Thought to Ponder

—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,

Sacramento, CA

—Photos by Robin Gale Odam

 

 

 

ONCE THERE WAS A NAME
—Joyce Odam

Once there was a name that needed blame.
It had no chance, it could not choose nor
pick a mood from which it came—it
had no lie to change to true, just
a defence to hide behind :
my name is Beauty . . .
my name is Diamond . . .
my name is Gorgeous, none of
which caught on . . . my name is Fury now. 

 

 

 

Then and Now

 

 

THUS COMPOSED
—Robin Gale Odam

the ring around my heart,
the long summer, the winter bell,
I've lost most of it now

birds outside the window, the flight
of words, another sunrise—the poetry
of consolation

 

 

 

Simply Turn the Hours

 

 

COUNTER-CLOCKWISE
—Robin Gale Odam

Today I will write
from yesterday—I will
simply turn the hours
counter-clockwise,

watching for what has
come to pass through my
fury—a vexing search for
temperance. Or the one
flailing character flaw.

Or one tick of space held
in the transition of the hour
hand. Or the one grain of sand
fixed in the hourglass.

__________________

THE FIERCENESS OF THE DAY
—Joyce Odam

I love the fierceness of the day,  
the subtle way the sun can blaze
with sunlight and move red shadows
all around and yet the cold can go as deep
as snow before it, too, melts and freezes . . .

I love the fierceness of late winter days,
the subtle way the sun can burn its sky,
the redness of the clouds that change the
colors of the sky before they drift away
and let the icy air burn out . . .

 

 

 

Transition

 

WHAT OF TIME
—Robin Gale Odam

the canary in the mine—was it
yellow, or green . . . dusting of soot

now this different morning,
the noise of a train pulling away
and the innocence of birdsong in the
gray sky, freedom in frozen tree limbs
and the icy air of first light

now the chitter of a canary, pearly
white with a blush of crimson at his
cheeks—he lives in a lovely cage at the
window, opened just a few inches so that he
may hear the finches, and savor the freezing air

___________________

I SEE SHADOWS EVERYWHERE
—Joyce Odam

shadows everywhere—inside,
outside, shadows on the wall and on  
the door-ways and careless in traffic

the way bushes wait, then wildly
flutter to the storm and to the
stopping just before the
whole day blows
away

I know I
tend to otherwise
but somehow this day is
otherwise

some love is lost
and there is a then and now

a weary thought to ponder
before the winds conspire with
me and it all destroys the
love within the hate
before it's gone

 

 

 

Through Fury

 

I COULD SYMPATHIZE
—Joyce Odam

I could sympathize with my great grandson
when he, after some parent refusal, stomped
out of the room and I laughed after him and
he looked back, in a way explaining his woe,
"I JUST WANT TO GET MY WAY" and we
were all laughing.

 

 

 

 Frozen History

DON'T I FEEL BLUE
—Robin Gale Odam

(Listening to Cyndi Lauper's
interpretation of Jules Shear's
"All Through the Night")

the divide of being
a girlchild, of finding
one's self in such a world
as this

all my history frozen
in this dark night     
this night     
this one

 

 

 

Something About the War

 

 

TO THE GUNS
—Joyce Odam

Come to The Carol—it's a sunny day.
Today we are for mercy, take a step away.
Take the grief away—today we need a blessing.

Today we need a cry—something is remem-
bering—something is goodbye, oh how bitter,
song-like, oh how treasure-like is the bitter song.

Nothing to remember, today the world is wrong.
We forget our lessons. We forget our song. I want
to hear the blessings. I want to right the wrongs.

Sing a song of pity to another lie—another cry—
another try—holy, holy, holy—thunder in the sky—
voices loud and mending—loud and remembering.

Hello and goodbye—hold the breath forever—do not
love the fury—against the world so painful—let the
fury by—let The Carol ring—let the fury by.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip

AFTERMATH
 —Robin Gale Odam

aberration of fragile heart
troubled relationships
my father was in a war


(prev. pub. in Poems-For-All:
Scattered Like Seeds, #1222)

____________________

Our thanks to poets Joyce Odam and her daughter, Robin Gale Odam, for their fine poems about Fury today—our Seed of the Week—and to Robin for her photos, too! Our new Seed of the Week is “Etched in Stone”. 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.

Tune in to Harry’s Poetry Hour today at 1pm for a Zoom reading by William O’Daly and Lois P. Jones. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about this and other future poetry events in the NorCal area—and keep an eye on this link and on the Kitchen for happenings that might pop up during the week.

____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

—Cartoon Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fury on a Monday

 

—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth, Nolcha Fox, 

Caschwa and Joe Nolan

—Public Domain Photos Courtesy

of Joe Nolan

 

 

 

* ! * !
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Spit spluttered, incoherent speech,
sole punctuated, need to breathe,
and that by gasping, grasping air,
with wave froth washing, bubbled forth,
asterisks, stark exclaiming marks.
Scales fall unfair before our eyes,
the judge unfolded, lids raised high;
sat on the bench, in pupillage,
learning just how advantage works—
so much about us, scene unjust.

A wasted stare, but who could dare,
that moment split by searing pitch,
thrust energy from tearing guts,
bypass logic, strategic too,
boots yomping over flower beds.
Is that why fury’s of the gods,
thrown thunder, lightning from above,
pathetic fallacy engaged—
if our outrage be echoed there,
it’s complemented, blame divine?

Chuck allusion, the classic fare,
scare, shoutout share, bout koiné swear,
stick both thick fingers in the air,
and then, who cares, swing fists, a round,
talk body threat, flex back, smash black.
Avenging agent, nemesis,
both anger, jealousy in vent,
pyroclastic flow, boiling blood,
as if sour core pulsates, enraged,
explodes past crust inhibitors. 

 

 

 

 

This house

wants me to go away.
Doorknobs crumple at my touch.
Doors refuse to close.
Curtains close and block the sun.
Floorboards whisper Hit the road!
Walls bend away, clocks face the wall.
Without you, rooms are mouths
that swallow my desire to stay.
It’s time for me to let you go.
It’s time for me to leave.

—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, NY

 

 

 

 

  

FOR SURE AND UP IN THE AIR
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

BIRTH: “if” is a big maybe, but we can describe
 “when” with certainty
DEATH: “if” is a certainty, but we can only describe
“when” with guesses 

 

 

 

 

DETHRONED AND FURIOUS
—Caschwa

American Patriots couldn’t kick the
King of England out of his throne
so they did the next best thing

they started their own government
that removed royalty from the equation
replacing it with our own Constitution

setting up a flexible pattern where
previously hard and fast laws could
be modified or amended

establishing three distinct branches of
government to balance all that power,
making Due Process a pillar of Democracy

and all through this process there were
white Southern gentlemen who owned
from a few to a few dozen slaves

each of these slave owners was like a king:
the key part of the equation, inflexible,
no balance of power, no due process

you know what happened next, the
Constitution was amended to free the slaves
leaving the slave owners dethroned and furious

these once-be kings created their own flag,
lived by their own rules, and embraced rebel
militants to force compliance with their rules

Guess what happened next? the Civil War
ended on paper only, and we still have all
those once-be kings and their armies 

 

 

 

 

GENERATIONS SWEPT AWAY
—Joe Nolan

Those who know
How bombs explode
Are driven into rage
When they see the
Vain unfurling
Of battle-flags and colors.

Young men into uniforms—
A sign of looming death
And massive mayhem.

I hear little of
Marching bands.
Blood runs red,
Drains into sand—
Life is blown away. 

Somewhere
Is a meter
Just beside your bed
That measures all you’re dreaming,
The books you’ve never read
And implants them into memory—
Generations, swept away,
Away, away—away!

 

 

 

 

 

IF
—Joe Nolan

If I were just a tiny spot
Of shining, sparkling light
Or just bright sound
From a singing bowl
Formed to fulfill healing,

How could I bear the weight
Of suffering?

I would need a body
To feel such pain.

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

The sun

sets barren branches on fire.
It won’t give up the day
without a fight.

—Nolcha Fox

__________________

Our Seed of the Week was “Fury”, so some of our poets have attacked the subject furiously, and our thanks to them for that on this 2023 Presidents’ Day.

This morning’s monthly Poetry in Motion read-around in Placerville has been cancelled, due to Presidents’ Day. Tonight’s Sacramento Poetry Center reading has also been cancelled. Tomorrow (Tuesday), Harry’s Poetry Hour features William O’Daly and Lois P. Jones on Zoom, 1pm.

Coming up Thursday, Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe in Sacramento presents featured readers plus open mic, 8pm; and there will also be a poetry reading and reception at the Mistlin Gallery in Modesto at 7pm, featuring the collaborative show, Collision VII: Eighteen Poets and Eighteen Photographers Collide in an Act of Creation.

Friday night at 7pm will be the 2023 Poetry Out Loud El Dorado County Finals in Placerville. Then, Saturday at 6pm, Woolman Sierra Friends Center present Rooja Mohassessy and her new book, When Your Sky Runs Into Mind, in Nevada City. And on Sunday, Poetry of the Sierra Foothills features Jemi Reis McDonald and Susan Flynn, plus open mic, 2pm in Camino. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about these and other future poetry events in the NorCal area—and keep an eye on this link and on the Kitchen for happenings that might pop up during the week.

____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Is it morning yet?


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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! 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Eating Well

 —Poetry by Barbara Anna Gaiardoni, Verona, Italy

—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain 

 

 

 

to the land of childhood 

sweet figs tickle the palate

nella terra d’infanzia
la dolcezza dei fichi solletica il palato 

 

 

 

 

 

spiritual recipe
in the Garden of Olives he prayed

ricetta spirituale
nell’Orto degli Olivi pregò

 

 

 

pranks in the kitchen
selfie with nettle risotto with Asiago PDO cheese

scorribande in cucina
selfie con il risotto alle ortiche con Asiago DOP 

 

 

 

 


pumpkin gnocchi
passion that slips into the depths

gnocchi di zucca
passione che scivola nelle profondità 

 

 

 

 

 

drops of Genoese pesto
strengthening the soul

gocce di pesto alla genovese
rafforzamento dell’anima

 

 

 

 

apple pie sugar free
the health of the lifelong friend

torta di mele senza zucchero
la salute dell’amico di lunga data 

 

 

 

 

 

Saint Lucy has arrived
how to make a dream come true...with short pastry

Santa Lucia è arrivata
come sfornare un sogno...di pastafrolla

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well.

—Virginia Woolf

___________________

How’s your Italian? Welcome today to Italian poet Barbara Anna Gaiardoni, a freelance Pedagogist and Love Writer who has published books with various Italian publishing houses, and has participated in national literary and poetic competitions, obtaining the publication of her texts. Barbara currently publishes Japanese poems such as Shahai (a picture with haiku or senryu) in English in the international trade journals. Shahai by Barbara and her life partner, Andrea Vanacore, appeared in Medusa’s Kitchen on Jan. 16 of this year (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2023/01/flooded.html/). They’re both fans of good food from all over the world! Welcome back, Barbara, and thank you for today’s tasty micro-poems! 

 

Photos today are ones that I found in public domain. 

____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Barbara Anna Gaiardoni


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
in the links at the top of this page.

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!

 

 

 

That Old Devil Moon

 

—Poetry by Judith Yarrow, Seattle, WA

—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

 

ENTER, THE MYSTERY

You say you want to know
what I think about
living
and
dying.

I don’t know what to think
or
I think too many things,
and I feel even more,
a kind of terror
in the face—
it isn’t an unkind face—
of ending,
the blank wall of dying.

You ask, what?
And I can say, only,
after
a
point
what?
is answered later,

as far as I can tell,
but
one thing I think
about living
is how
mysteriously persistent
life is, a flame
on coals,
flickering,
making visible
some
—let’s call it—
element, and
this body feeding
it,
the mysterious it
we call life.

 

 

 

 

TIME AND ITS DIMENSIONS

Time is long but
we are longer still,
and time, yes, time is
all too short, too short
to fit ourselves into.

Trees have no time,
not a tick not a tock
just a rustle and again,
when the wind riffles
jazz in their leaves.

Birds have no time, no time
to waste or spend or fill
with past or future. This seed
yes, that bug, yes, fly now,
now settle down to sleep.

Fish have no time between
catch and be caught
only drift in scattered light
and rise and glide
in their thick present.

 
(prev. posted on her website: jyarrow.com)

 

 

 

 

FLOTSAM ON A HIGH TIDE

Dawn came in like a hot shadow stealing
our dreams; another day without wind.
No sailor, just an able-bodied hitch-hiker.

Whistle for the wind and call up a storm.
Torn sails, tattered tempers. And land’s
a broken promise, a fading horizontal shadow.

After months of rolling shipboards, the ground still
rocks. Red bougainvillea tangles around shacks, dogs
carpet dusty roads. Kids trail behind like shadows.

Paradise, after months of beatings by the waves,
the captain’s tongue, fist, wet clothes,
mold-fouled food, tired stories. Paradise,

or the shadow of paradise. Doesn’t matter.
Missed the packet boat, doesn’t matter either.
Solid ground, space, fresh food, fresh faces.

Every shack full of kids, old women, no cheap rooms,
no rooms at all. Doesn’t matter, there’s a bar.
In the shadows an old chanteuse plays lazy chords,

singing with a smoke-ruined, break your heart
voice, that old devil moon just a shadow
in your eyes. Maybe just making more of herself,

or maybe she really did sing for the Duke.
Her fingers were what he envied, easy
on the keys, carelessly right on the chords.

Bought her a drink, told her he played too, but
had lost his nerve with the keyboard, maybe someday
he’d go back, dragging his past like a shadow.

“There’s a room out back.” Could have been a line
in a song. I believe he came in like a shadow,
in your eyes that old devil moon, she sang.

“Play something for me.” Teasing, cajoled. Duets,
Chopsticks, hand shadows. Playing for centimes and
bottlecaps. Evenly matched. His fingers. Her heart.  

Love washed in, flotsam on a high tide, singing
a new song. Long, slow, hot afternoons
and nights, shadows on the screens, healing

her heart, his music, but can’t stay, can’t
leave, good-bye, good-bye. Some days love
is just flotsam; some days it’s the boat back home.


(prev. pub. in the chapbook, Borderlands)

 

 

 

 

RETRENCH? ASUNDER

Reasoned and measured
willingly pleasured
entropy not unlike
sinking, what? She was never
or near half again as pleased
yes and after, seized.

Raised and releasing
retrench unceasing
hold, she said, closely
but after? Overburdened
or weighted for balance
or pressed, she will dance.

Truly a notion
depths of the ocean
heart over leaping, but
westerly? Inclined or
asunder exhibiting it later
or shrug it off to try nature.

Rarest of treasures
sparing her leisure
aroused in half dreams or
accosted? Bay leaf for crowning.
Ride the white horse. Return
to cover, checkmate and learn.

 

 

 

 

 

war: relating to

trying heart edging
entry this way
surprise no exit

they call this
war or sometimes
bleeding later

then and they
want to say
not leaving

but instead but
aiming vengeance
or raining hearts

needs more needs
other ending but
with yes, not forever

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

She didn't quite know what the relationship was between lunatics and the moon, but it must be a strong one, if they used a word like that to describe the insane.

―Paulo Coelho, Veronika Decides to Die

__________________

Welcome to Judith Yarrow, today’s new visitor to the Kitchen! About herself, she writes, “After wandering around the US for a while, I ended up in Seattle where I've lived for 45 years, except for the four years in Japan, in the 1980s when it was flying high. I've been published in various literary journals, including Women's Words, Cicada, Backbone, Aji, and Raven’s Perch. I was the featured poet in Edge: An International Journal, and my poems have been included in the Washington State Poet Laureates’ 2014 and 2017 collections. These days I spend a lot of my time working on science fiction novels.” See more of Judith’s work at her website, jyarrow.com/. Again, welcome to the Kitchen, Judith, and don’t be a stranger!

__________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Judith Yarrow

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For upcoming poetry happenings in
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