Dancing Between The Shadows

 The Author
—Poetry and Visuals by Smith, Cleveland, OH

 

 

O yes

Mind monsters
cranium creatures
environmental viruses
survival of the fittest
sing hallelujah
ever onward in sorry sojourn

I dance between the shadows
suck what sun I can
watch women walk the harder path

Wife says she's "the Zen in resentful"
while I keep pushing OFF buttons
in this ever-ON world

O let us pray
may the bad be better
and the good remain

 

 

 

 Old

          
We write what we know
and right now it's a heap of sweat
in hot bath heat trying to hide the pain
outside's humid, dampening noise
making far farer
and yet faint hope lurks heavy
behind the hot

Slow slide neck into liquid hug of heat
soothe lizard brain
where flies are for eating
poop is fair play
and pain always pays
in our rapid run to rot

We needed lizard brain
to crawl from ocean
to beach
to tree
survive savannah
beat competing meat
eat sheet bleat repeat
but that was then
this is now
now we don't
we can't
it's fuck-all stupid

If it eats it feeds it fecunds
follows god of flesh
entropy
bleeds vermillion by the millions
enough bone dust for all
free underground resting rotting Johnny

Can't go back
can't control forward
so be here now
knowing

Set a chair
light a lamp
roll out a rug
offer friend or passer-by a word
a cup of coffee
a toke
let em in on the joke
while we await the punch line  

 

 

 

 Fast Lane

And we're off
pain taking the lead by a length
me hurting behind

I'm an angry man
in an old body breaking down
with a good heart
and a skeptical mind

I hurt myself
not on purpose
just hurt myself
cuz that's the clump of clod I am
hurt myself
then hunker down to endure healing

I am Sisyphus I am rock I am hill

Me not smart monkey
but me not dumb
and me not only one

DNA
what a way
to play

The gaps between the ghosts getting smaller
ghosts of course getting oftener

 

 

 

Zen Garden

I love my life
I love my wife
don't like world strife so much

down to weary
wary
worried thought climb
from good of me
through bad of them
(and me we)

I sweat my poisons out
hope sum left in balance

thing about pain
they're daily
like dark seed of sun

thing about seed
is plantings unknown
in brain of bloom and blame
and groan
which we must own

thing about thing
is no thing

Zen in

Ing

 

 

 

 Methodology

Go write your words in sand or stone
you still age and break
likely die alone

No matter who or what pulls the strings
God or plot naught before or after
you have to pay the rent

You're born and washed in bowl
you die and are washed in bowl
it's the dirt between that matters

You wanna play you gotta pay
you wanna pray you gotta pay
go or stay?—pay

Me, I'm making memories
to keep me moist
in the near hereafter

 

 

 

Eatbeat

 

 
Digging through the night
looking for the layers
needed for the light

Worm warm wonder
moist earth magic
penetration however slight

Greed got us here
and greed'll get us killed
so sez want and will

Once the race was won
the finish line went wrong
preyed upon the dumb

And now we eat the eaten
beat our meat replete
seek new deals to sweeten

Don't know much
but been around long
learned some of the song

Keep the worry
work the weary
sharpen wary way up high

 

 

 

Food Chain

There are life forms
beneath us
around us
on us in us
above us
beyond us
we can't see
or even fathom
life miles below sea surface
in what darkness deep as a grifter's heart
or life covered in miles of ice
colder than a preacher's art
life is what life does to life
in self-serving circle
eat to be am
die to be eaten to be am

I am what I am when I'm eaten
me myself the lie

 

 

 

 The River Runs

I take what sun I get
I give what cheer I got
life goes on
I got coffee
I got me
I got wife in kissing tree
the road not taken
I been taken
repeatedly

There's lies below
more lies above
helping push of shaping glove
you got your gods
you got your not nods
you still have to pay the rent

Sitting in a parking lot
watching a man sitting in a car
driver door open
scratching betting cards
looking for money
finding little or none
doing it again
and again
going in coming out
more cards
grim face
doing it over an hour now
in for cards
out with cards
sad silence

I wish him well
must be serious to keep the prayer going

My god's not meat
my god is the all of nothing
the knot of now

Never pray to meat
it rots

Where's this edge?
You get to it and there's another
there's always another
another up or down
in or out
and they all want rent

If not rent, respect
which is psychic rent

Here in workaway world
stress runs the mess
gets the killing done
fills the pantry
cooks the kitchen
preys on land run wrong

Stop and smell the roses
before they rot
and fall to the ground

They're beautiful either way

 

 

 

 Improvements

Today’s LittleNip:

Like the cicada
I sing my song
leave a husk

___________________

—Medusa, with Pre-Halloween greetings to Smith-by-the-zoo (Stephen B. Smith), and thanks for his fine, fine poetry and visuals this morning from this Kitchen witch over here on the Other Coast…

 

 

 

Requiem

—Smith

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

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

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!

 

 

Travellers on the Same Journey

 —Poetry by Hongwei Bao, Nottingham, UK
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

A CHINESE GENESIS
After Shanhaijing, a 4th century BCE classical
Chinese text

Pangu slashes open the chaotic
cosmos with a silver sword, dividing
the world into night and day.

Nüwa dips handfuls of soil into the river,
squeezing and shaping them into figurines
of various shapes and sizes.

The God of the Wind walks past,
breathing life into the figurines.
The Goddess of the Rain descends,
moistening them with tears.

Nüwa is happy. She calls these figurines
ren, human beings. She hasn’t
expected, nor can she anticipate,  

these people would later be divided
into men and women, labelled
gay and straight, black and white. 

 

 

 

 

HERBALIST

Mum must be an herbalist.
In summer, she cooks Silver Ear Mushroom
Soup,
translucent with white lotus seeds and red
goji berries,
effective for clearing the throat and relieving
coughs.

In winer, she makes Wood Ear Mushroom
Soup,  
rich in dates, chestnuts, and chicken stock,  
white steam arising from an ancient clay pot,
good to warm up the stomach and nurture
the soul.

I have always been fascinated by
how many types of mushrooms she knows,
and how different the variety of soups she
makes
each with a distinct medicinal purpose.

Away from home, whenever I see mushrooms
I feel my throat dry, stomach growling
eager to taste Mum’s mushroom soup
to cure my homesickness. 

 

 

 

 

A TASTE OF HOME

It’s the third time this week I’ve visited
the restaurant. Spring couplets
on the doorframe. Red lanterns
above the windows. Cherry blossoms

on the wall. I sit down at a corner table,
gaze at the Moo Shu pork on the menu:
golden omelette adorned by green
cucumbers, black wood-ear mushrooms.

A middle-aged Chinese woman talks
to the phone in broken English.
A girl, perhaps a university student, scurries
around with plates full in both hands.

Customers, young and old, bathed
in the creamy steam of Hot Pot, the spicy
aroma of Kung Pao Chicken, the heart-
wrenching Cantonpop from the nineties.

Please don’t blame me for frequenting
this place when many other restaurants
are nearby. It feels like home:
its sight, its sound, its flavour, its taste—

 

 

 

FELLOW TRAVELLERS

The sun beams brightly between the shadows.
The display boards blink without making
apologies.
The café emanates roasted and ground coffee
beans.
The train waits patiently at the platform when
I arrive.

Empty seats open their arms waving at pass-
engers.
I take a table seat with a nice view through
the window.
An old woman sitting opposite inquires about
the time.
Small talk soon leads to a lengthy conversa-
tion about

language, culture, family, life and places visited.
Two hours flash past like trees and fences
outside.
It’s ridiculous to think about how easily people
connect
on a fast-moving train traversing the fields,
the towns.

I can only imagine we are pre-destined to meet,
ready for chance encounters and small surprises.
A gentle smile, a quick nod, some soft-spoken
words,
we are all fellow travellers on the same journey. 

 

 

 

 

THE WINNER TAKES IT ALL
After the BBC Show, “The Traitors”, Season 2

I’d always wanted to be a Traitor,
taking control of my own destiny, and those
of others. What’s good about being a Faithful?
Sheep-like, waiting to be slaughtered,

without knowing when.

I’m that bright, sunny boy in your dream.
My angelic face, sparkly eyes, innocent
smile take anyone off guard,
women or men, gay or straight.

Who says beauty is only skin deep?

Thank you all for supporting me.  
Your trust is so comforting.
Mollie, I love your cute naïvety.
Andrew, your emotion hangs you dry.

In the Traitor’s world, there is no place
for virtue. Because the winner takes it all.  

 

 

 

 

LIFE ON THE BAO SPACESHIP

Bao lives in a spaceship that hovers between
Jupiter and Mars.
He floats in a silver Bao spacesuit inside a
vacuum chamber made of stainless steel.
He drinks Bao juice from a long tube attached
to a beer barrel.
He sleeps with Bao spacesuit on and attaches
the belts to bed posts.
He remembers details of his life on the earth,
the Bao House where he once lived,
the Bao dumplings his Mum steamed,
the Bao bag his carried on his back to school,
the red Hongbao packets with money he
received for Lunar New Year.
Bao tries to write a memoir, but he can’t find
a ballpen.
When he finally finds a pen and opens a packet
of paper,
all sheets fly away, like flowers scattering in
the Bao spaceship.
This reminds Bao of his hometown on the earth.
It must be Spring there. Cherry flowers must
be in full bloom.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

All I need is a sheet of paper
and something to write with, and then
I can turn the world upside down.

―Friedrich Nietzsche

___________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Hongwei Bao for today’s fine poetry!
 
Go to https://chippewavalleygrowers.com/the-magnificent-history-of-chrysanthemums for “How Mums Became a Symbol of Fall”.

 

 

 

 

 Hongwei Bao

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For info about

future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

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

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

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

Canvas of Light

  

Night Has A Need

—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Visuals by Joyce Odam

 

 

HEDGEHOG POEM
—Joyce Odam

Brazenly based on Hedgehog in the Fog
(animated film, 1975, directed by Yuri Norstein,
written by Sergei Grigoryevich Kozlov)

When I was out walking in the fog one day, I met
a materializing old horse with sad brown eyes. He
was an old dim photograph of a horse. We sur-
prised each other, each having no destination—he
cautioned me about the semi-darknesses in life, I
concurred to his wisdom. He was such a beautiful
old brown and gray horse. “Kinda’ like us” I said,
and laughed. He snorted and stomped and stirred
the air into silver particles that whirled awhile then
settled, we were talking about the word ‘Beautiful’
and agreed that it was a beautiful word and should
be allowed—with that solved, we talked some more
about the fog, how thick and long-lasting it was.
“Like sadness” he said and I shivered and felt the
sadness of the fog and the beautiful leaves started
falling—falling silverly around us—like tears—
beautiful, old, silver tears from an invisible tree.
We empathized a bit longer, having taken each
other at face-value and appreciating this brief in-
timacy of strangers. An evening breeze came up—
scattering the leaves and the old horse stomped his
hooves, and I stomped my boots, and the fog did a
fog-dance around us and thickened even more.
And I felt a sad loss—such a sad loss.

                                                          
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/20/16; 10/4/22) 

 

 

 

Away Is Not Far

 

FOLLOWING THE SHADOWS
—Joyce Odam

You’ve walked too far down the beach.
You are following someone, but their
pace is faster, yours too full of anger.
Something must be avenged. The
sand grows heavy under your
slowness. The day will not
hurry. Your eyes are
playing tricks, scouring
the distance which wavers
and changes. There is no one—
no one to follow, only the two
shadows—shadows of your rage,
almost forgiven, living again, some
long ago betrayal, failure of proof, the distance—

ever-widening—the following as useless as the love.
                
                                                           
(prev. pub. in  Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/4/20)

 

 

 

Mother Dreaming

 

FLAPPER
A Tease
—Joyce Odam

Long ago my mama danced the shimmy—
shook her shoulders under sweaty lights                              
that whirled and glittered, the music loud and tinny.

She shook her hips and shimmied away the nights;
her hip-beads would swing and click against her
skirt.
Her legs were pretty.  She even caused some
fights—

she couldn’t help it that she loved to flirt.
She drank and laughed until the years would spin—
as if to hold away all future hurt—

the tears to be—the way it all changed when
the carefree jazz was traded for bad news,
brought by some man she loved.  But until then,

she danced the shimmy-shimmy—not the blues
she’d later dance—in sadder dancing shoes.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s  Kitchen, 5/12/15)

_____________________

THE REBELLION OF ANGELS
—Robin Gale Odam

After Autumn in the Scottish Highlands,
—Photo by Sorin Rechitan

Then the serpent said to the woman,
Ye shall not die at all... Genesis 3:4
(1599 Geneva Bible)


Translated in the reflection of the house,
the rune offers mystery but gives no clue.

Fishes swim just outside the door,
drag old fishing lines through watercolors
and the watery songs of birds through the
muddy waver of the deep skyline.

Trace the surface of the evening to the
worry at the edge of the water—the house
awash in sunset, the hill behind on fire
with the slow color of rust.

 

 

 

The Cocoon

 

WEB OF SUNLIGHT
—Joyce Odam
 
"Your own shadow sits in silent study”
                          —Charles Simic
                       
You sit in your yellow shadow in brazen
sunlight, haunted by the darkening eyes  
of watching—you glow for me—almost
burn with shimmering blindness—how
can I turn away. I have yet to love you.
The light forms around you with such
fierceness. I penetrate the glare with
my possessive eyes—you emanate
and draw me in. I become a blaze
with you—the web of sunlight
holding us together, till I am
merely a vibration and you
are a stunning presence
waiting to absorb me.
                                         

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/24/17;
8/4/20; 2/15/22)

 

 

 

No Compromise

 

THE CHILD ARTIST AT AN EASEL OF LIGHT
—Joyce Odam

This maelstrom of self—this painting on mirror—
this
discovery—will the child come true—continue
to be,

primitive, child of the fierce proud look. How much
discovery can glass hold; how much distance

can extend behind the positioned, reflective, self?
What does the child know beyond color and smear—

what does he grasp of perspective’s first freedom,
how much will the child retain of the old
connection

between hand, and mind, and eye—and this canvas
of light—this pigment of the sun’s dispersive glare?

To what far-self does the child begin to compare
with his rapt intensity. See how he is private—

lost in his art—how he holds his brush—its body
braced, sure of itself?  See how his eyes insist on

his just-discovered right to perfection, how he fills
the glass surface and beyond, how he paints on

through the dimension of mirror, paints the ground
beneath, paints the frame’s restrictive, bordering
air,

how he paints the blue and dazzling sky behind
him;
how he paints the lowering sun, how he paints
himself?

                                                                 
(prev. pub. in Tule Review, Summer 2000; and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/14/15; 2/15/22) 

 

 

 

The Intentions of Dreams

 

sword of flames for light
in remembered fantasies
riding upon fire

through an olden tale of dreams
with the old imaginings

—Robin Gale Odam 

 

 

 

An Old Temptation

  

                        
FAME
—Joyce Odam

I didn't know him, standing in winter, standing
among trees, his face smiling cold, his shirt open
to his heart, standing like a young man, awkward
and alive, brazen with power, hands on his hips,
having shouted someone's name and waiting for
their answer. Branches and sky fought the air
above him. He gave them no attention. What he
was doing now was being seen for the man he was,
a poet, a wild man of dreams, and all his songs
were in his heart, beating, he was the wealth of ex-
istence, having written his one book of sorrow and
truth; how he believed in himself. It was in his face,
expectant and open, shining from the darkness that
was descending from the awesome suddenness of
wilderness. There was no home here, why did he
stay, to mock the question and the answer. Why
did the one he called not hear?

___________________

THE FRUSTRATED POET
—Joyce Odam

After “Shall I compare Thee”
by T. Alan Broughton, Southern Review, 2001
(“According to early Icelandic law, it was a serious
offense to address a love poem to a woman, even
an unmarried one.” )

How will I hide this, and you not know, not fear
my ardor, (suspected or not) not know by my
glance, or certain silences (filled with pending).
How can I not offend you with my love poem
made of guarded words, or made of outpourings,
I must speak—must overwhelm you—with my
longing. How else can I disobey the old taboos :
will love kill me? cause rumor and shame? must
I write this on silence—hoping you’ll find it and
lower your eyes in my direction and make some
sign? O Lady, dare I risk this poem for you?


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/6/16)

 

 

 

Shaping the Moon

 

THE LONELY RAIN
—Joyce Odam

What a lonely rain. What a strange night for a
lonely rain to fall. What a sad shame that the
lonely night has to end under such a lonely rain.

What a cold sight to see two leaning people under
a struggling umbrella—leaning into and away
from the cold sad rain—pressing hurriedly to-
gether as they cross the rain-dimensioned street
and disappear into a flattened doorway where the
white moon casts an image that reflects and then
shreds back against the night.

What a slow-moving night : the rainy window, the
cold room, the remnants of beauty still on their
faces as they lie together—almost in love—listening
to the rain.

    
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/25/18; 9/24/19)

 

 

 

The Silence

 

EXHALE
—Robin Gale Odam

At the fire on my day
my breath will burn away—

my written words and promises
to vapor in the embers.

And works not done are born again
and breathing in the fire—

my breath will draw itself once more
and the muse will draw another.
                              
__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

THE ALBINO NIGHTINGALE
—Joyce Odam
After “No Swan So Fine” by Marianne Moore

Made of pure light, sent from imagina-
tion’s land, straight out of childhood’s
fairy tales—a nightingale of course, in
a silver cage, with an open door to test
its loyalty—mind’s albino nightingale
that preens,  and sings,  and struts for
the emperor whose ownership proves
    vulnerable with mind-sweet trill.  
          I hear it still—all the way
                 from then to here.

                                  
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/3/15;
12/15/20; 5/17/22)

__________________

Our Seed of the Week was “Brazen”, but there is nothing brazen about the Odam Poets—fine as their work is, it needs to be seen, and our thanks go to them for today’s sparkling presentation!

Our new Seed of the Week is “It’s That Time Again”. What time are we talking about? Winter? Holidays? School starting? Daylight Savings (Nov. 3 out West here)? Dentist appointment? 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.

For more about the Russian classic, Hedgehog in the Fog, go to https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hedgehog_in_the_Fog/, or see YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nKDeMBzXnpg/.

 

And yes, "Flapper" is a Sonnet, and a sassy one, indeed! Joyce frequently contributes form poems to Tuesday, but I usually snatch them up and move them to our form day (Friday). I did scoop up her Abracadabra for Friday of this week, but Flapper was so perfect for our Brazen SOW that I left it here. Enjoy!—and check in for Friday's poem, too.

____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

Autumn in the Scottish Highlands
—Photography by Sorin Rechitan

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Brazen Poets

 —Public Domain Art Courtesy of Medusa

* * *

—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth, Nolcha Fox,
Sayanı Mukherjee, Devyanshi Neupane, 

Caschwa, Joe Nolan, and
Victor Kennedy
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Joe Nolan and Medusa

 

 

SCARECROWS?
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Brazen breaks through lazing zone,
wakes the snoozing, zipped up, blurred,
the muzzy mind, prone whining moan,
those unfazed, stirred by undeterred.
Faced with daring (you perceive),
confrontation in their stride,
their ‘in your face’ ( as you believe).
made dizzy, dazzle, plied with pride?

Brash, immodest, with no shame,
steely ’gainst prevailing code—
is that how bold as brass became?
Defiant in audacious mode.
Sight required beyond those eyes
hardened in effrontery,
full frontal guise so undisguised,
a conning tower to win the prix.

Daring crime, type breaking mould—
hemline slash high, flash-flesh bare—
so artists’ con, or gossips’ scold,
this brass, old gold—there’s envy’s snare?
Secret admirers of the brave—
who dares wins, the tidal flow
with waves that crave to be the knave,
once guilty pleasures, scared? Now crow. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

SHE KNOWS HOW TO UNDRESS
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

Look in her window. There you can see a very small patch of dark blue, framed by a little branch. Pinned up by a naughty star, her red rose tattoo glows on her hip. The tattoo plays peek-a-boo as she wiggles out of her pencil skirt. The dark blue silk slip caresses her body, as you wish you could. If only you weren’t so shy. You inhale the perfume of her. You want to see more, but she closes the curtains. You’ll have to imagine the rest.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

THE EARTH IS BURNING
—Nolcha Fox

 

(In reference to the recent passing of Nolcha's dog)

Audrey is dead.
The earth and sky
are mainly orange flames
that sear the air,
incinerate our lungs.
These are the final dog days.
The world is collapsing.
Change is in the air.
Grief is thick with sorrow,
and I can’t breathe it in.
Audrey left a fork in my heart.
I’m bleeding red tears.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Art Courtesy of Joe Nolan

SPECTRAL SHADOWS
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India

A small child of buried past
Pocketed her memories
Over her little watch—
Ping out the unhinged wall
Over the bricks,
Little tulips here and there
Lying flat over
A cauldron
Of Holocaust shrieks
And template of dehumanized
Silence.

The sudden fall of
The writer
And institutions that zipped
Up his lips
Over testimonies
Later, he wrote a book
On linguistic silence.
His fall failed back
Between two worlds
Masked and silenced
Words of Jews and
Zeroes.

Dates of people
She remembered well
Her taped
Eyes that grew up
Upon seeing flashes
To spectres
In a whim
Of seated big men,
Eating away within
The ruptured channel.

On Monday,
She met a friend
Of her past school
Swaying by the river walk
Of little feet dangling above.
Rosebuds after the summer haul
And she made friends
From one to many
And chalked out their birthdays
Like her favourite puzzle—
Two of them strung out
She could remember too much
She touched the thumb
And cut the string
And sat down by the last bench
With her little flowery skirt
And loosened net shoes.

"I sat and counted
One two three
I can remember all of them—“
Her favourite way to dance in the hall
And how she made her first cut-out
I sat then and became invisible
A whole bunch of rosebuds
In the afternoon fall
The fallen petals, the trampled buds
And I sat at the end
Tallest and I counted
One petals two and three
With my bag of rosebuds after
The classroom went dingy
And I was alone
And it rained hard
Then I gave them my
Umbrella and my favourite petals
As I sat with my
Spectral shadows
With my pocketed watch. 

 

 

 

 Shiva and Devyanshi Neupane on a train

 

 

A RIDE ON A TRAIN

—Devyanshi Neupane, Melbourne, Australia

I love to ride

On a train

With my Daddy.

He takes me

To the city.

He reads a story

For me,

On a train.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

NO TIME FOR LOGIC
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

(Response to a recent Seed of the Week,
“Imperative to Stash”)

inside my brain is a very dedicated
librarian who helps me keep facts
in order so that such information can
be retrieved as needed. However,
lately she has threatened to go on strike,
demanding higher compensation and
better working conditions.

We never actually agreed that I would
pay her anything, but I just thought that
it comes with the territory like the role
of angels at the gates of Heaven.

And now, with Intellectual Property
being such a big issue, and Patents,
Copyrights, Trademarks, etc. who
among us without photographic memory
can competently store and retrieve all
that information?

If I tell you, I’ll have to insult, demean,
or otherwise discredit you because there
is no other way to attach logic and
reason to what is basically a house of
mirrors. Yes, that is what is inside my
head, and I am terribly proud of all its
brazen distortions and vagueness.

Now somewhere in that labyrinth of
reflections is a well worn librarian who
is seeking a better existence. But it is not
I who holds the Patent on the creation of
human beings, with all their peculiarities
and habits and manners of storing data, so
I’ll just refer those concerns to a higher
authority.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

UNDERTURE TO THE BURIED
—Caschwa

we’re here for you to look into the sky
to fix a gaze at clouds and birds and planes
to answer that eternal question why
investments do not always realize gains

you live a life that’s long and hard and then
the bank sends out a squad to seize your stuff
one payment missed, big deal for mice and men
who count the beans and never have enough

a reel-to-reel projector lights the screen
as you are huddled in a seat that squeaks
you can’t sustain attention that is keen
while everyone around you moves and speaks

but you won’t have to worry any more
you’re in a place that’s permanent, they say
no pressure to upgrade or to restore
expired old computers plug and play

we’ll leave you now to ponder your whole life
some say it doesn’t end when people die
we understand you didn’t bring a knife
just disappointed we forgot the pie 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

JUST CHECKING
—Caschwa

browsing some ads and saw an
intriguing abbreviation: CFM
could that be Chocolate Fudge Mousse?

Nah, just Cubic Feet per Minute
referring to how much air a power
blower displaces

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Art Courtesy of Medusa

AT THE DINNER AFTER CHURCH
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

It was naughty diner’s day
Down at the
Greasy Spoon Café
Where everybody
Got to have his way
On Sunday,
After church,
With ice cream,
Sodas
And burgers on
Toasted buns—
You know the ones,
The ones that are to die for
Toasted on grease on the range.

Yes, indeed,
We all gathered,
Some even stood in line.
It was the place that was
A-happening,
For the best things—
The finest time.  

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Art Courtesy of Medusa

BUFFALO IN WINTER
—Joe Nolan

My, oh my!
It’s Buffalo in Winter.
Everything is covered
In snow.

We crawl out our
Second-story window
With cross-country skis,
Since our front door
Is plowed-in,
Down below.

Once we have landed
On snow-covered pavement
We can cut tracks
Down snow-covered roads.

It’s really rather magical
How our ways, our hacks,
Turn trials into jubilation
As we glide up and down
Through fluffy powder
That slips us on to
Where we want to go.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

ALIENATION FROM FREEDOM
—Joe Nolan

You brought yourself
Abruptly to the surface
To get away from
Things you couldn’t swallow.

Everything is hollow,
So, you believe,

And everyone
You say you love
Has something up his sleeve,
Ready to play
In the next game.

What if it’s
All the same,
When losers
Are the bettors
And the reason
You subscribed to
Was found to
Be insane?  

 

 

 

  —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

HARBINGERS OF FUTURE, SENSELESS WARS
—Joe Nolan

Oh-Oh!
Exactly how
The harbingers
You know,
Will doll out
Future fortunes,
Remains to
Be shown—

Like bullet-holes
Fired into
Concrete walls,
In the 1990's,
Remnants of the ruin
Of Sarajevo,
The birthplace
Of World War One,

Where the Austrian Empire’s Archduke
Was assassinated
And the two European Alliances
Fell into war
Against each other
In the Summer
Of 1914.

On maps we draw
Lines and diagrams
To try to explain
The convergence of forces,
Men sitting in trenches for four years,
Who, when they went over the tops
Of their trenches,
Mostly were mowed down
To fertilize
The corduroy landscapes
Of Belgium and France.

 

 

 

 Let wisdom protect us…
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

PROPORTION
—Joe Nolan

Let me see, now,
Let me see, now,
Everything that waxes
Also wanes.

Let me see, now,
Let me see, now,
Increase
Is followed
By decrease—
In shrinkage
We all feel our pain.

We think
We must
Grow and grow,
But if we did
We would be
Too crowded.

We must,
In future,
Be shrouded
By sense of proportion,
To know
When enough is enough—
Let wisdom protect us—
From homelessness
And living rough
Which follows when
Too many
Claim support
From too few.

 

 

 

 Medusa has a headache…
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

THE DEATH OF THE GORGON
—Victor Kennedy, Maribor, Slovenia

The Medusa myth never made any sense
until I read Barthes.
Why was she killed for turning men into stone
when rich and powerful men
pay big money to artists
to make statues of them?

But “The Death of the Author” explains it.
Perseus was a hitman.
Statues are worth a lot more
when the sculptor isn’t around
to make any more.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

UNNATURAL WEATHER TANTRUMS
—Joe Nolan

Oh, my!
Starlink was a lullaby
That let us whisper music
Into each others’ ears
When all the other ways
For far-away,
Had fallen down.

Let us thus
Be thankful
For mercy
On those
Distraught
By weather tantrums
Caused by who-knows-who?
For surely they were unnatural.

_____________________

Many thanks to today’s contributors, some of whom sent poems on our Seed of the Week, Brazen. Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest SOW.

Sacramento Poetry Week is starting next Sunday! This year, Sac. Poetry Day (10/26) has been expanded to a whole week of events (10/20-10/26), including specials like contests for youth and adults. See all the info about what's happening every day at https://www.sacramentopoetryweek.com (click on Events).

The final day, Sat. (10/26), 7-10pm, will be the Sacramento Poetry Day Awards Gala at the Sacramento Public Library Tsakopoulos Galleria, 828 I St., Sacramento, CA. (Info: https://www.sacramentopoetryweek.com/.) Free, but get tickets at Eventbrite while they last: (https://www.eventbrite.com/e/sacramento-poetry-day-awards-gala-tickets1029546560477?aff=ebdssbdestsearch/).

And see Medusa's link, "Sacramento Poetry Day by Patrick Grizzell" (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/sacramento-poetry-day-by-patrick.html) for the whole story about the origins of Sacramento Poetry Day.

______________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

Sunny holds money for Pablo Escatbar
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that Poetic License
will meet in Placerville today, 10:30am;
and Sacramento Poetry Center’s
Youth Open Mic meets tonight, 7:30pm.
For info about these and other
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

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

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

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

 

Monday Mood 3