BBQ in the Brain

 —Rengay Collaboration by Barbara Harris Leonhard,
Melissa Lemay, and Nolcha Fox
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Nolcha Fox

 

 

THEY WON’T LET US BACK AGAIN

We poets trashed the hotel room
We shattered the window to toss Bukowski’s
and Plath’s
ghosts into the pool, they were downers
anyway

They floated out of the water as though
baptized
They ordered biscuits and booze at the bar

Sylvia said the biscuits
were overdone–too crunchy
Then she fell asleep

She left crumbs in the sheets
and spilled wine and sleeping pills on the
pillows

Charlie put his cigarettes out on the mattress
We tossed the two renegade poets out the
window again
and slipped past reception without paying the bill

Two phantoms of Hemingway’s cats
met us outside, “time to pay up,” they said

 

 

 

 

SEASONS HAVE NO REASON

My flower garden
grows brittle and golden
at season’s close.

Season’s clothes change
too often, I’m confused.

Orange is not my color. I look sallow
in yellow. Brown brings me down.
I miss spring pinks. Summer blues.

Wearing flip-flops in the snow,
I fall down the stairs…

I can’t adjust to season’s moods.
She is too hormonal
and she flip-flops way too often.

We sip cranberry lime seltzer water. Pretend
it’s wine. And wait for Spring, who’s always late.

 

 

 

 

ANGER BRINGS ME DONUTS

To console me for the nightmares she inflicts
until each dawn, although we share a sweet
tooth,
she always brings me down

Anger gives me sweets so my teeth decay
I invite her to pay the dental bills

She throws my money
out the car window and eats
bars of dark chocolate

The bitter kind, like her, a disgruntled old lady
who has lost
her smile because she’s lost her teeth to sweets

When I’m toothless
I can eat the insides
of a jelly donut

And shut anger in the container
I keep my dentures in at night

 

 

 

 

BARBECUED

My inner critic is hosting a barbecue in my brain.
All you can eat with takeout boxes. People love
the burnt beef. Word Salads. Bangers & Mash.

My inner critic says, don’t bake words,
bake pies at the local restaurant, there’s a job
opening.

Critic, shut up.
You aren’t Siskel or Ebert.
Go wash some windows.

I’ll scrub the mouth of that inner judge.
Convicting me.
Serving me up on a chipped platter. He’s
minced meat.

That inner critic stuffs me full of
chocolate-covered lies.
No way I can diet that down.

I add some marshmallows between
graham crackers and make s’mores.

 

 

 

ON A DARK STREET

Under the stars
the streetlights shine
in their own universe

The moonlight casts shadows of characters
in the park across our dark street

On a dark street, I hit a doe with my truck
I’ll put her in the freezer before I’m jailed
for hunting in town without a license

A rabbit’s eyes glow in the
floodlights of an oncoming car

They honk a warning, and the rabbit veers
into the trees, scattering fireflies into the fescue
and alarming owls on the hunt for mice

Critters skitter through the silence
left in the wake of lights slicing the night

 

 

 

A GOLDEN PASSPORT

I met an old lady with a cloudy right eye.
She gave me a golden key,
a passport to where?

Thankfully, I didn’t need
to get my picture taken.

My photos are fractured
by light and by grief.
I scissor them along the lines.

My fractured face gets me on
The Good Ship Lallylag.

I drift away to Neverland.
Never want to come home—
I lollygag.

Never mind, Neverland. Not going anywhere
but the emergency room. I’m gagging on
lollipops.

 

 

 

ALL ABOUT POWER

I push the button.
He turns into a robot
ready for battle.

My power surge is stronger.
He doesn’t have a chance.

Lightning strikes the generator.
Power is out all over town.
How am I going to make coffee?

I’m out of batteries
and I don’t have matches.

I’m facing the robot, looking for options,
I short-circuit him, trip him,
push him down the basement stairs.

I can’t open the darned door to get to that trip
switch.
I’d better not walk into that dark basement alone.

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

When angry, count to ten before you speak. If very angry, count to one hundred.

—Thomas Jefferson

___________________

—Medusa, with thanks to our Three-Muskateer collaborators today for their fine poetry! For more about the Rengay, go to https://haikupedia.org/article-haikupedia/rengay/.

 

 

 

 “Anger gives me sweets…”
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that

El Dorado County Poet Laureate
Stephen Meadows will be reading
in Cameron Park today, 5:30pm.
For info about this and other
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!

 

Where are those donuts?

 

Storms of the Heart

 Fall

—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Original Artwork by Joyce Odam

 

 

TANGO THREE
—Joyce Odam
After The Great Dancer, 1926, by Hans Arp

The whale dances with the amoeba, which dances
with
the jellyfish, which dances with the man in the
tuxedo
and the woman in the white stockings.

Together
they demonstrate the life they share with the music
that is different to each.

They are so tolerant of each other—with the
motion
to guide them—and no end to reach.
They are perfectly secure in each other’s embrace.

The whale comes up for air and to see the sky.
The amoeba follows the curiosity, and the jellyfish
changes shape with every motion of the others.

The tuxedoed-man and the white-stockinged
woman
continue to be oblivious to all but the passion of
the dance as they move to the virtual shape of the
music.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/24/18) 

 

 

 

Daytime

 

THE LADY WHO COLLECTS ELEPHANTS
—Joyce Odam

The lady of the elephant collection
is alive again this morning.

She awakes to hear
singing from the whales
in the coffee pot.

Her next life swims in the sea
which is nearby to serve her.

All of her glasses gleam,
she has been busy since
darkest morning.

On the brick mantle top
her first elephant weeps
offering a silver transparent tear
for her camera which fails so often.

All day she floats through her rooms
in many dresses and changing her hair
into different positions.

Her carpets are soft for her feet.
She lives alone
behind soft-curtained windows.
She does not talk to herself.
                                          

(prev. pub.in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/31/18) 

 

 

 

Morning

      

   
SPARROWS
—Robin Gale Odam

The journey to the edge of the water—
now the small boat, the churn of the river,

the pull of the current choking in the tangle
of roots—the choke of the river in the roots,
the rush of the sparrows—

wrap the blue sweater tightly—the fugue of
sorrow surrenders in the red mist of morning.
                                       

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/20/23) 

 

 

 Summer

 

CONCERNS
 —Joyce Odam

swimming into the mouth
          of locked water
                   a young whale

                            finding the
                                 shallow beach
                            at the end

                   and rocking itself
          to death
against our helplessness

                              
(prev. pub. in Parting Gifts, 1997; and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/25/11; 6/22/21) 

 

 

 

Of Mind

 

flocks in shadowland
at the tick of memory
chatter of worry

 —Robin Gale Odam


(prev. pub. in Brevities, January 2020; and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/1/23) 

 

 

 

Spring

 

THE BLUE SHIPS
—Joyce Odam

Ships are blue because they are blue,
creating their own distance, sailing
into horizons where everything
ends, even watching—
a diminishing blue on a dark ocean.

Ships are blue because
memory likes them that way :
little painted boats on little ponds,
happy as toys—
even little suffered ships in bottles,
the pride of clever boys.

Ships are blue because memory sails them
into blue calms and storms—
wondering about their destinations,
their passengers, their crews.

Sometimes tantrums drown them, careless
as storms of the heart, the angry power
in the moment. How they resist,
turning bluer and defiant—
buffeting upon the towering waves
that fight the lowering skies.

Home will always remind them
of love
with its
lighthouse,
its dutiful prayers,
its candled windows.

Ships are blue
because they are made of farewell
which is final—adrift in
the desolate mind of feeling and no feeling
—even the heart pumps blue to fill the ocean
of that strange longing.
                       

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 10/30/15) 

 

 

 

Sterling

 

for the faint of heart
now the garden gate is locked
silver to the troll

—Robin Gale Odam


(prev. pub. in Brevities, January 2020)

 

 

 

Before I Wake

 

HER FATHER IN A DREAM OF WAKING
—Joyce Odam

Her father, in a dream of waking
looks for his ghost-child
afloat on the edge of his memory.

He does not remember her
though he feels he should:
What was her name?

He tries to say it,
but she eludes him.
She says, Father, and he disappears.

                                                      
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/12/11) 

 

 

 

 Nighttime

TINY BIRDS, MAYBE THREE
—Robin Gale Odam

The cries of wind
tempered by cold of starlight—
strange homeland.

I am a stranger even to myself.

I pull the cover around me,
listen for harmonics. Tiny birds,
maybe three.

                       
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/20/23) 

 

 

 

Winter

 

THE BREATH OF TIME
—Joyce Odam          

The view is good from here.
Snow birds cry love to me.
The mountain peaks shine

and the sunlight pours down
on everything.
I hear the thin ring of bells

from valley churches.
I can even fly—soar
through all my dreams—

all explained. My body
is light, and my mind
has never been so deep.

Love shines from within me
and touches everyone.
It is brief but good.

I feel a swarm of color
and am surrounded by sunlight.
I transform into all of it.

I have reached the magic number
of myself.
This year I celebrate.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

LIGHTHOUSE
—Joyce Odam

If I were the sea
I would use you for a focal point :
your light for my darkness;

I would use you for a boundary
to gauge my edge against;
I would know where I could test
my calm and fury,
let my ships beware,
warn my whales,
and give your shore-gulls praise
for marking stormy skies
with their whiteness.

I would always know where you are
so I could ever surge toward you
with my lonely power.

                                                                    
(prev. pub. in Poetry Now (Sacramento), May 2009
and Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/29/12; 12/31/19)

_____________________

This week’s Seed of the Week was a quote from a PBS program, Soul of the Ocean: “In Nature there is darkness as well as light, and all shades in between.” The Odam Poets sank their teeth into the multiple meanings of that quote, with wonderful results, and we thank them for their fine work!

Our new Seed of the Week is “Horses”. Too much horsepower? Hold your horses! Too much horseplay. Quit horsin’ around—I gotta go see a man about a horse…  Those magnificent creatures have worked themselves into our language, that’s for sure. Tell us about horses, and 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.

 

The November issue of Sacramento Poetry Center's Poet News is now available at https://www.sacpoetrycenter.org/poetnews/. Check it out for area poetry events (including the Bay Area), poetry, submissions, workshops and more!

______________________

—Medusa

Did you vote?

 

 

 The Great Dancer, 1926
—Hans Arp (oil on wood)

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.

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!

 

 The passion of the dance…
shape of the music…

 

Darkness, Light, & Comfort Food

 Mirror Shield Two
—Digital Collaboration by Robert Fleming and Jon Wesick

* * *

—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Caschwa, Joe Nolan, Shiva Neupane,
and Keith Snow
—Gorgon Visuals by Robert Fleming, Jon Wesick
—Public Domain Visuals Courtesy of 

Stephen Kingsnorth, Joe Nolan, Shiva Neupane,
and Medusa 

I’M VOTING FOR MY DOG FOR PRESIDENT
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

Her little body wags because
she knows you’re going to love her.
She stands on two hind legs
and hugs your thigh. Awwww.
Her Phyllis Diller hair waves in
the wind to send you kisses.
When you talk too much she yawns
and begs you for a treat. Because
she’s sweet and she deserves it.
When you get up to get a treat,
she hides your hat and gloves
in places you won’t find them.
She runs outside to chase
the FedEx truck. She defends you
and distracts you so you leave
and wonder why you’re so darned cold.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Stephen Kingsnorth

GRAVE GUARANTEE
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

“In Nature there is darkness as well as light, and
all shades in between.”
—Soul of the Ocean, PBS Presentation 

So many love the nature walk,
though roadkill squashed on nearby road,
the hedgehog, badger, carrion,
mere tarmac smear, tomorrow gone,
where only willow sheds a tear.

A throstle pipes fine melody,
thrush mate has smashed the shell of snail
beyond the pearly trail of slime,
our words, a judgement in the trial
of predator or prey involved.

What sentence then do we pronounce
on jackal, scavenger at large,
hyena, hunched, gore-dripping snout
that it may feed its young with meat
like mother from her Sunday joint?

Or fox, through chicken wire with craft,
where feathers fly by headless neck,
while hunt flies past in gaudy red,
stags torn to shreds near blooded youths,
and cubs are clubbed to feed the hounds?

As batteries cage floodlit hens,
by those atop in nature’s reign,
still apple pie and mistletoe—
reliant thrush, snail-wiping beak—
fight for core lifeblood, xylem, phloem,

Our language is so rarely grey,
and even veldt, director’s cut,
the chase is shown, but not the kill—
more often failure in pursuit,
a sighed relief, though offspring starve.

The jungle lore, though sunset bathed,
glows red with beauty, tooth and claw,
in gory glory, palate mix,
as palette, carmine fevered blood,
the stage where puppets not allowed,
but grave, the only guarantee. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Stephen Kingsnorth

PULLING DOWN THE BLINDS
—Nolcha Fox

In Nature there is darkness as well
as light, and all shades in between.
It’s all too overwhelming.
I can’t deal with the change.
And so I shut the window,
pull down blinds, close all the curtains.
Nature can go natural
and I don’t have to watch it.

 

 

 

 Mirror Shield One
—Digital Collaboration by Robert Fleming and Jon Wesick

SALT TO TASTE
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

(in response to a recent
Seed of the Week,
“Brazen”)

reheated food
repeated jokes
conceited mood
zero sugar Cokes

perpetual motion
consensual sex
habitual ocean
let’s have Tex Mex

presumption of innocence
consumption of falsities
a gumption for common sense
all night diners, giant cities

destination peace
contemplation deep
abomination beast
all gathered in a heap

allegiance to the flag
preponderance of doubt
abundance of drag
it’s a party but we’re left out

concern we’re not dressed right
adjourn to the alleyway
the big burn will last all night
food is sparse, grab some anyway

adorable dreams invite themselves in
affordable housing yet escapes our reach
horrible politicians living in sin
huge revenue streams give them yachts at the beach 

 

 

 

—Public Domain Art Courtesy of Medusa

ALL DONE
—Caschwa

(in response to a recent
Seed of the Week,
“The Imperative to Stash”)

yes
done
I voted
ballot received
and counted, too
now stashed away
where I can’t touch it
you can argue your position
and I might even change my mind
more likely to be hit by lightning
but I can’t change my ballot
we’ll just have to live with it
for better or for worse
until death do we part
my vote will not
be subject to
opinion
polls
no

 

 

 

 Mirror Shield Three
—Digital Collaboration by Robert Fleming and Jon Wesick

HURRICANE HELENE
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

The Devil is strong in the rain—
The pouring down of a river
That floats through a raging sky.

The crashing in
Of waves to the shore
That rise above
And over-pour
Seawalls
Meant to block them.

They open the dams
When the dams are weak
And let the heavens’ torrent
Wash down a river’s chasm

Through homes and farms
All washed away.
They say they had
No choice
And it’s better this way,
Than if the dam broke through.
Things would be much worse.

The measure of catastrophe
Is a scale of
Screams, moans and cries—
Bodies, helpless,
Washed away,
Before onlookers’ eyes.

Catastrophe’s cacophony—
The staggering mass
Of loss--
Unprecedented,
A thousand-year flood,
Almost every season
Arrives from year-to-year.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Art Courtesy of Medusa

BUICK DESIRE
—Joe Nolan

Maybe I
Should buy
A classic Buick
With which
To worship
The sky?

Something that
So runs on
Four wheels
That it show you
How it feels
To be together
When you are apart—
When you have
A wounded heart
That still wants to
Celebrate
As if it were forgiven?

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

POURING CREAM
—Joe Nolan

I’m pouring cream
Pouring cream
In a dream
In a dream
I’m filling up
Your cup,
Your cup,
We’re gonna wake
Your baby up,
Baby up,
The one that sleeps
Inside you,
Deep inside you
And when we wake
Your baby up
Baby up
We’ll dream another dream
Of family.

 

 

 

Are these all for me??
—Public Domain Art Courtesy of Medusa

COMFORT FOOD
—Joe Nolan

Comfort comes
In many colors,
Flavors, feels
And scents.

Every country
Has its cuisine.
Its people
Are its larger
Family.

They gather
Every evening
To cook
And eat
And rest,

And every night,
Throughout the night,
The baby
Gets the breast.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Shiva Neupane

THE FIRST FOOD DICTIONARY OF NEPAL
—Shiva Neupane, Melbourne, Australia
 
I was over the moon
Upon the completion
of my food dictionary.
The river of sweat
Over the years has
Come to fruition
And, the ruthless  
Culinary gladiatorial
Strife has overcome
The kitchen nightmares.
 
I made history
In Nepal by hitting
The shelves with the books.
And the happiness
Poured on the face of cooks.

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Kim called James Jay-bird
he did not like that nickname
her lips were so soft.

—Keith Snow, Harrisburg, PA

__________________

Thanks to today’s contributors, including collaborators Robert Fleming (Lewes, DE) and Jon Wesick (Woburn, MA) who have returned to the Kitchen with various Gorgonisms. Our Seed of the Week was the quote about Nature being both darkness and light, and some of our poets had strong thoughts about that—some very strong thoughts… Some strong thoughts about voting tomorrow, too. Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.

By the way, my email address is kathykieth@hotmail.com [note spelling]. As a warning, though, there is a kathykeith@hotmail.com out there [note spelling], who is kind and long-suffering and sometimes (but not always) forwards the improperly addressed e-mail to me. But I suspect she’s getting tired of that. You might want to check your spelling. Or maybe I should change my last nam… That’s kIEth, as in i before e, except… [note spelling].

 

Yesterday's post was all about B.L. Kennedy; see The Sacramento Bee's article about him in Sunday's paper at https://www.sacbee.com/news/local/article294545764.html#campaignName=sacramento_morning_newsletter/.This article is—how shall I say it?—more candid...

__________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Art Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Sacramento Poetry Center features
Michael Zyst tonight, 7:30pm.
For info about this and other
 future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!

 

 

Been Born Poet

  B.L. Kennedy—a very long time ago

* * *

—Poetry and Visuals by
B.L. Kennedy (1953-2024)

 

 

 

LUNA’S CAFÉ

Thursday night at Luna’s Café
I stand out front
The acoustics are better out front

I shoot the shit
With poet Frank Andrick

We talk serious art
The Cure
Patti Smith
Philip Lamantia
Artaud
Sonic Youth

Some local tries to catch
Our drift and disappears

When he catches the eye
Of some chick seated with Felicia McGee

Our discourse continues
As Kimi Julian takes to stage to read

We talk Arthur Rimbaud, Kenneth Anger
Frank has just given me some bootlegged
Copy of Lucifer Rising

Crawdad Nelson steps outside
He listens and hasn’t any idea
As to what we are talking about?

There is not that much difference between
Picasso and Godzilla

Yeah, says some dip shit seated by
The planter smoking an American Spirit

Godzilla always returns

 

 

 

 


THE WAY BASEBALL HAPPENS

Well, I guess you need a ball to throw at something
From which it will bounce and maybe

Hit something or someone
Walls are good
So are windows

You can throw balls at rocks and trees
I once threw a ball at some running

Dinglehumps and Simpooginks

Once I pick-up a dead bat
To catch some vision, hit well

Above my head, out
There far out
There in the center of the world

Where the print is tiny
Too tiny to read between your toes

So one day, I invented a game
With a belly full o' wine and giggles
I walked away

 

 To fart!

 

 

 

 

WITHOUT TEARS

I think of Lenny Bruce
Of his sacrifice
For freedom of language
And the consistency
Of that freedom

I show my young lover
A documentary of his life
Swear to Tell the Truth
She cries

It is so unfair
The way he was treated
I think of her generation
As closed down
Closed-minded to such issues

As freedom and equal rights
Of all things which concern themselves
With language, sex, and religion
I tell her that
Lenny Bruce is my saint

How, like him, I suffered the attack
Of the censors and their mind police
How once in Davis, California
I was pulled from the stage
Under cries of pornography and
Filth talk not poetry

The host screamed as he pulled at my arm
Holding a poem set on fire
By the candle near the podium
At which I read

That is an interesting story
My young lover tells me but,
Things are different now
Young people will not look at you
With serious eyes
They only see an old man

I think of Lenny Bruce
The Social Critic and I too cry without tears

 

 

 

 

___________________

B.L. Kennedy passed away in late October of this year from a variety of health issues. Back in the Oughts, he was very involved with Rattlesnake Press; we published his Luna’s House of Words, Been Born Bronx, The Setich Manor Poems, and four interviews in the form of broadsides. He was also Interviewer-in-Residence and Reviewer-in-Residence for Rattlesnake Review. In addition to posting some of his poetry in Medusa’s Kitchen, he had a regular spot there for short reviews, called “B.L.’s Drive-Bys”.

But those were just a few of B.L.’s works, and today’s post is just a smidgin from his pen and his contributions to the Sacramento poetry scene. Here is the biography that we included in Been Born Bronx back in 2005—though I know we missed some of his achievements, such as how instrumental he was in the establishing of the annual Sacramento Poetry Day (October 26).
 

About BLK

Born in the Bronx, educated at Naropa Institute on scholarship (MFA) and at CSUS (BA and two MA’s), honored in Who’s Who in America, Bari Louis Kennedy has an extensive list of credits, including numerous scholarships, grants, and awards (Danae Poetry Award, Texture Literary Award, SPC Lifetime Achievement Award, and Community Service Award from SMAC, 1989).

For the past thirty years [before this book came out], Kennedy has served the Sac. community by spearheading many poetry readings, fundraisers, and major poetry events in Colorado, Oregon, and Northern Cal., including the now-famous “World’s Longest Outdoor Poetry Reading” (1986, 1996), the annual “October in the Railroad Earth: An Annual Tribute to Jack Kerouac” (1980-2004), and the establishment of a special collection of books and other collectibles from Sacramento writers at the UCDavis Shields Library Special Collections Department.

Meanwhile, Kennedy’s poetry and art have been exhibited in locations such as the University of Colorado and have been collected into twenty-two books (such as Jim Morrison Visits Disneyland; The Eyes of the River, which was pub. by SMAC and SPC in 1989; Anatomy of Seasons; Sex Toy; and Screaming Pygmies). His work has also appeared in many journals and anthologies, such as Bombay Gin, Freethought Poetry Magazine, Steelhead Review, Cleveland Poetry, Landing Signals, and Nevada County Poetry Anthology (2004).

 

* * *

 

As time went on, though, and B.L.'s health problems worsened, he became less active in the community. But his contributions to Sacramento poetry are still visible and, for those who knew him and his energy, much appreciated. Rest easy, big guy. The hard part is over.

 

P.S. See The Sacramento Bee's article about B.L. in Sunday's paper at https://www.sacbee.com/news/local/article294545764.html#campaignName=sacramento_morning_newsletter/.

 

_______________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 B.L. Kennedy

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!

 

 Poetry with fangs~!

 

The Voyeur

 —Poetry by Shawn Pittard, Sacramento, CA
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

 

 

WITNESS

My father knows something I don’t.
Has seen something I haven’t.
Been somewhere I have yet to go.

When he returned, his brown eyes
were blue-gray. He looks at me
from that distant place he visited.

Its gravity holds him
between the place where we talk
and the place where he was taken by the stroke.

He has important things to tell me
through the grip of his one good hand. Stories
I must not forget.

The boy left standing beside his mother
in the wheat field during harvest
after she collapsed under the weight of the sun.

The boy who spent an hour tying
and retying his necktie
before going into town to see a movie with his
cousins.

The boy collecting payment
on his paper route—a handful of loose change
thrown into his face.

My father witnessed my birth.
I am witnessing his death.
We have something we must say. 

 

 

 

WHAT THE WAVES KNOW

My mother was a lifeguard.
She taught her children how to swim.
She turned nineteen
the day before I was born.
She talks about young love
while we watch north coast waves
crash against the sea bluff.
Eighteen and pregnant,
playing in the surf with my dad.
Mom jokes
about me bodysurfing
while still in the womb.
I tell her that I miss my dad.
She says, I miss my husband.
Of the ocean, she says,
It just is. Just is.
The waves know
there is nothing to become.
We are all complete.
Nothing is missing.
One day I will return to the sea.
It would take me now
were I to wade into its cold embrace.
Take me now or take me later, it doesn’t care.
How is it that I come to rest
in the presence of such relentless indifference?
If I ever grow old, I want to fall asleep
to the music of breaking waves.
I would like for that to be the last sound I hear. 

 

 

 

 

WE DO THIS, WE DO THAT
inspired by Frank O’Hara

It took a while but we’re comfortable now
with my helping her with her shower.

We’re past the self-conscious joking.
We focus on the pleasures

of hot water, shampoo, and a bath sponge.
We take the time to scramble eggs

with parmesan, salt, and pepper.
Spend the rest of the morning cleaning up the
kitchen.

Some days we go out to the wildlife area
with our binoculars and a couple of drive-through
sodas

listening to rock-and-roll—
Mark Knopfler is a favorite but Elvis is the King.

During late afternoons, we tally up
the living and the dead:

a younger brother living and retired to the Philippines,
two of her big sister’s three sons still alive;

among the dead her parents,
her husband of 62 years.

She says,
I’m your mother?

Yes, I’m your son.
But you’re so old. 

 

 

 

 

I’M THINKING ABOUT DEATH

Not my death or your death
not even my mother’s death
in my very arms but death itself

that voyeur always lurking
timebomb in the heart
seed of cancer in the sunburned nose

patient opportunist who I sometimes see
in the beaks of vultures
perched in the riverbank trees
or the angels etched into the frieze
at the cathedral.

Is it death who whispers slow down
when you should know there are deer
on the forest road this time of night?

Or says go for it when you look into the black water
from the jumping rock above the bridge.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

GOOD NIGHT, LOVE
—Shawn Pittard

I say good night to the moon
because you do not lie beside me.
To the North Star. Orion’s sparkling belt.
Good night to the streetlight. The lock
on the back door that I check twice.
Good night, love, I say to the place
in my heart where I carry you.
Good night, love, I will rest
with you one day.

_______________________

 Witness

Our thanks to Shawn Pittard for today’s fine poetry! Go to https://thepoetrybox.com/bookstore/witness for info about his new book, Witness, from The Poetry Box, with pre-orders before Nov. 15.

 

And turn your clocks back tonight if you're in PST. A whole extra hour of sleep!

 

_______________________

 

—Medusa

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that today at 1pm,
Stephen Meadows reads at
Folsom Public Library;
Sugar Skull Art Walk takes place
in Placerville, starting at 5:30pm;
and Kings & Queens of Poetry
read in Sacramento at 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.

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!