Wednesday, November 20, 2024

Mystic Songs

 —Poetry and Original Art and Photos by
Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, W. Covina, CA


GLANCE

In an ever-changing world,
I glance at my watch,
time is limited,
a hurried glance is all I can muster.
I seek tranquility
but I am almost out of time.
Half-lowered were my eyes
when I took another glance  
at the clock with wings.

I reach for the door.
My fingers turn to dust.
It must be a dream
as my chest constricts.
In the distance
a beautiful voice
calls from the shadows
as time expires.
 
 
 
 
 
WANDERING EYES

I have wandering eyes:
everything is a canvas
with plentiful possibilities
that fits in a frame.
This is how I live life
with failure as a gift.
I am not hostile to shape
or color: l like escaping,
like larvae fleeing from
danger. Life comes in
stages. I am of the
opinion it is a gift with
a two-edged sword.
Treat it like a game
and you are sure to
lose. Take failure in
stride. Get yourself
off the floor and start
again.  Let your eyes
wander and draw a
picture of life’s gift,
the soaring birds,
the changing colors
of the sky. A smile
on a stranger’s face
after escaping from
the arrows of sorrow.
 
 
 

 
YELLOW CAT

On top of the fridge
a yellow cat figurine
was set to pounce.

Tripping out as I
fall to the kitchen
floor the yellow cat

figurine pounces.
It breaks next to me
in yellow puzzle pieces.

When I come back
to my senses I sweep
up the mess left behind.
 
 
 


TO LOVE

Who does not want to love
before it is much too late?
Feelings become deformed
like an old tree’s root or
its branches. Who does not
want to love before the
feeling sours? Hearts are
complex and complicated
when they rely on a mind
that can no longer wait in
vain. Who does not want
to love when time ticks away
as health becomes a factor
and a hindrance to lasting love?
 
 
 
 

BOOK SMART

I saw how you ate
what you should not
eat. The sweets that
eventually
took a toll on
your health. I see
myself doing
the same thing. You
were book smart and
so am I. Why
did you eat like
that? Why do I eat
like that? We each
fought death for years.
I hope I can
make it as long
as you did, eight
months shy of your
seventieth
birthday. I know
it is not a race.
It just feels that
way. I need to
watch what I eat.
Perhaps I could
squeeze a couple
of decades out
of this body
that relies on
my decisions.
I may be book
smart but I am
failing myself.
 
 
 
 

MYSTIC SONG

The mystic sings his song
to ward off the spirits that
hide in a desert of darkness.

His voice does not tremble
and it does not waver. Its
strength keeps danger away.

The mystic sings his song
from the depths of his soul
sending the dogs from hell
howling, petrified with fear.

His voice instills hope and
courage in the face of
fierce demons who are sent
away shrieking and cowering.
 
____________________
 
Today’s LittleNip:

FIRST-THOUGHT BOX
—Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

When I translate my own poems
something always gets lost.
From my lips to the page, I
change one word to another,
and I end up second-guessing
myself.  I go back years later,
gradually making changes in
my mind, and still I cannot
decide what word I like better.

____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Luis Berriozábal for today’s fine poetry and visuals!
 
 
 
—Photo by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal
 



 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 










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!
 


 

























Tuesday, November 19, 2024

Beautiful

 
Pearl
  —Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam, 
Sacramento, CA 
—Original Artwork by Joyce Odam
 
 
DREAM-THIEF
—Joyce Odam

I am the one here made of the surreality
of dreams. You want me to save you.

You bring me your desires,
your wishes, your pretty flatteries.

Please, you say, do this for me.
And I think about it.

I move in my dream-state
toward you.

I dream-move over the scenery
which is strange to both of us.

I pass through you,
and you do not feel me.

I touch you and speak to you,
but you do not see me.

I would do as you want, but I am
being changed—

I am being held
by the forces of myself.
 
 
 
 Leona


INSOMNIA XIV
—Robin Gale Odam

The night summons me in the
amity of darkness—I breathe a
question into this peregrine
complexity of time: “What is it
like when I cross your mind?”

deep is collective
whenever I look for you
one more memory
             

(prev. pub. in
Brevities, January 2017; and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 10/31/23)
 
 
 
Lynne
 
 
EXISTENTIAL
—Robin Gale Odam

Ok we will go to the gallery.

Something from the heart of an artist
will linger in his works, stare out at me
from the wall, choke at my heart
and steal my eyes away from you.

Then you will want me back.

                            
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/28/23) 
 
 
 
 Eleanor


THE EYE THAT BETRAYS THE VISION (I)
—Joyce Odam

After Girl with a Pomegranate, detail, 1875
by Wm. Adolphe Bougereau


Her eye, her earring, the silken drape of her scarf,
her blue dress buttoned at the shoulder...
her unbidden blush of skin.

Her eye is following your perusal—
does not blink—does not tear,
her eye is a judgment and a question.

She peers through the corner of the curtain.
Her earring brushes her scarf and makes
a small tinkle of movement.

She is the epithet of Beauty,
with no other reason but this—no other
purpose but this. Her artist loves her.

Her eye is both haughty and pleading—
never to be worthy for anything
beyond this. Dare she grow old...?

Dare she love another...?
Dare she lose the intensity of her look...?  
Her eye darkens at the conjecture.  

Her eye possesses your eye—accepts the
vanity that is given her—forbids your look—
does not question past your curiosity.
                                           

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/5/17; 1/2/24)
 
 
 
 Blu


THE EYE THAT BETRAYS THE VISION (II)
—Joyce Odam


After Girl with a Pomegranate, detail, 1875
by Wm. Adolphe Bougereau


That which you wear
is an apology for what is not perfect.
The eye is a sore judge of beauty.

Come forth through the shadows
that swarm for you. They will let you be,
and you will be beautiful.

What touches you now and makes you cry?
It is the spy for mother.
You are not who you thought you were.

Reach into the reaching place.
How deep it is.
What is there that you want, or need?

You had an image in mind—
it held more for your touch.
The touch is too tender to bear.

Last night in your dream you wrote a saga.
It was only one paragraph long—a very long
paragraph with no punctuation.

You were out of breath,
and when you woke up
hard to read pages fluttered all over the place.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/2/24) 
 
 
 
 Patrice


PATRICIAN
—Joyce Odam

After
An October Evening by Sir John Lavery

An autumn evening with light still waning,
surrounding her shadow, the dark chair

disappearing, the window burnished red,
dull gold mixed in—her thoughts

dormant—her face blurred
through a mirror

that is far away—
that will not answer her stare.

Who is she—
if not Her Self—

any one,
and any where.

She who was the most beautiful
to her beholder,

now exists in likenesses by his eye and brush,
his shortened memory:

his nonexistent, perfect female
after the art of all the others.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 10/27/15) 
 
 
 
 Josephine


LOVE  
—Robin Gale Odam

he was fathomless—
i fell in love because of his
insanity, it was the same as my
father’s    and maybe mine 
 
 
 
 Marcella


HER MARCELLED HAIR 
—Joyce Odam

She may have been twenty-eight.
About 1932.  Perhaps Seattle.

Coming home from school
I found her
sitting on the couch
knees crossed
mid-day
dressed up in her new dress

of crepe de Chine
shiny as night’s
soft amber lights
of places she had been…

she smiled at me
with a smile that was her own
to make a declaration of herself
sitting there, posed,
like a glamour girl…
a movie star…
a model…

her hair just done,
marcelled,

those rhythmic waves
tight-pressed to her small head
which she held
mirror-proud

and I
in awe of her…
my mother…
beautiful.
 
 
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/26/13)  

 

 
Madeline

 
MYOPIA
—Joyce Odam

After
Lady with Red Hair 
by Georgia O’Keeffe, c. 1914-16

Her shedding fur blows soft against her face—her
old face powdered white.  She’s all but faded now
although her famous red hair still attracts a glance.

She lives between the walls of now and then—still
haughty and aloof, the yellow snow of street lights
drifting down around her in a blurry dance—

her red hair stuck with snow-stars now.  Her eyes  
glaze through the churning light. She lets a clouded
memory slip through—a triumph or an old romance. 
 
 
 
Delilah
                                                            
 
SEA HAG   
—Joyce Odam

She dances her bony siren-dance on the     
shrouding shore as you in your shanty
stir your clam-bisque on your small
wood stove, she offers a gull-feather

in return for just one bowl, she offers
to dance all night for you—as memory
as mist—she laughs her awful laugh.
Snuff the candle. Lock the gate. Evoke

some half-forgotten rune that will send
her away—don’t risk your soul for hers,
she lives in the sea and cannot be
appeased. Resist! She cannot be saved.
                                        

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/29/10;
6/16/20; 8/16/22)


__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

PANG
—Robin Gale Odam

her scent,
the curve of thin light
on her pearls
           

(prev. pub. in
Brevities, October 2016)

__________________

Coquettes Joyce and Robin Gale Odam have sent us some beautiful poetry today, along with Joyce’s artwork, and we thank them for all this good stuff! Our Seed of the Week was “Coquette”.

Our new Seed of the Week is “Embryo”. As always with prompts, explore the many meanings of a word to see where your muse wants to go; think metaphors as well as the literal. 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.

__________________

—Medusa
 
 
P.S. Joyce and Robin have used women’s names for the pictures today; four of the names are people they know (two grandmothers, Pearl and Josephine, and two poets from the Hart Senior Center Wednesday writing group, Blu and Patrice). Here are the meanings of these names:

BLU: Calmness, serenity, and tranquility. Blue is symbolized as a color of trust, beauty, and wisdom.

DELILAH: Delicate

ELEANOR: Shining, radiant, bright one. God is my Light (torch or lamp). (Hebrew); “Ancient North” or “Noble North” (German); The other Aenor, or foreign Aenor (Latin)

JOSEPHINE: “God will increase” or “He shall increase.” (Hebrew); French and variants connection adds depth and richness to the name.

LEONA: Lioness

LYNNE: Idol (French); A cascade or waterfall (Anglo-Saxon); Waterfall or From the Lake (English)

MADELINE: Strength, elegance, sophistication

MARCELLA: Derived from Mars, the god of war; dedicated to Mars or “warlike”; Strength and martial qualities.

PATRICE: Dignity, refinement; noble

PEARL: Precious
 
 
 
 
 Girl with a Pomegranate, detail, 1875
by Wm. Adolphe Bougereau





















 
 
 
 
 
A reminder that
Twin Lotus Thai features
The Sisters of the Pen tonight,
6pm—reservations strongly
recommended!
For info about this
(who ARE Sisters of the Pen?)
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!
 
LittleSnake in Coquette Mode~
 













 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Monday, November 18, 2024

My Little Coquette

Coquette Hummingbird, Costa Rica
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

* * *
 
—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth, Nolcha Fox,
Caschwa, Michelle Kunert, Joe Nolan, and
Sayanı Mukherjee
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Joe Nolan and Medusa
 
 
HMMM…
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

The air is humming, flighty thrill
of stimulating pheromones,
aroused through frills and ornament,
apparel dressed, both to enflame,
discreet though, as appeal addressed—
for too shrill, unattractive trait?

The mohawk head tuft, stunning red,
or white rump patch, green-crested bird
are standout features, subtle waived,
a signal to the would-be mate—
potential, here lies benefit
in quiver, suspense, flapper dare.

Flirtatious, now hear whistle-stop,
across full range of species’ spread,
is telling how these pairings work;
escapee spiders, cannibals,
is not the norm for every male.
No wonder, suspense by the flower. 
 
 
 
—Public Domain Movie-Still Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan


TO A BLACK WIDOW, FROM
A WILLING VICTIM
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

I’d risk my life to love you openly.
I’d give you all I have.
Anyone who comes to you
is never seen again.

I’d give you all I have
to hold you in my arms.
Let’s run away, never to be seen again.
I know it’s worth the risk.

To hold you in my arms is my reward.
Anyone you’ve loved cannot compare.
I know it’s worth the fear to flee.
I’d risk my life to love you openly.
 
 
 
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan


IT DON’T HURT TO FLIRT
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

she walks along runways
slides down greased poles
is oblivious to holy days
with their singular roles

slip her some money
she’ll show you some skin
call you sweetie and honey
again and again

her earnings will enlarge
while a man’s hormones expand
she might be called Sarge
in an all-girl’s band

Dominatrix in the French
if that’s your sort of thing
sitting naked on a bench
no conclusion will it bring
 
 
 
 Little Amanita, Full of Poison...
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa



COMMITMENT
—Caschwa

Tinker, tinker, little bell
had her out once on a date
she didn’t know me very well
my goal was fun, not full-time mate

she wanted me to sign my name
on some agreement based in law
I didn’t want to play that game
so that’s the last of her I saw

maybe I have an allergy
to all that faerie dust and stuff
don’t expect an apology
just keep your diamond in the rough
 
 
 
 
—Public Domain Graphic Courtesy of Medusa


CARNIVAL TRICKS
—Caschwa

(in response to a past MK Seed of the Week,
Consulting the Oracle)


in one hand I hold the Rod of Asclepius
and in the other the Rod of Caduceus
around me are the town’s elders, the
wise man from the top of the mountain,
and a host of social media fact-checkers

all know or pretend to know the unique
properties of each of these rods, but NO
ONE will speak up and tell me which is
which, so the best I can do is
pretend

Attention everyone, people of sound minds
and the village idiots, too, I hold in my
bare hands the answers to all the mysteries
of the Universe! In these two rods are all
the electrolytes of a well-rounded diet, and
all the phases of the moon, including Gibbous
whether they taught you that in school or not

bring your eyes closer but leave your hands
in your pockets, please aim for the clean
ones, we don’t want to be sharing diseases

now clear me a path so I can ascend the
stairway to the heavens and reactivate these
rods so we can use them to their full potential

Thank you, when I return I expect to see each
of you with your eyes glued to a smart phone,
you can believe half of what it tells you, but I
will not disclose which half that is 
 
 
 
 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa


OUT OF MODE
—Caschwa

(in response to a previous MK
Seed of the Week, The Art of Losing)


I don’t tune in to sporting events
to hear the broadcasters in the
booth try to one-up each other on
funny sayings or jokes

if I wanted to hear a laugh track
I’d set the dial to watch I Love
Lucy
reruns

nor will I tolerate announcers who
relentlessly throw jokes on the wall
until one appears to stick, maybe

athletic competition guarantees one
loser, so don’t try to camouflage bad
humor as the spoils of victory

get back to announcing play by
play, and who did what to whom
on the field of play, tell us the score,
the time left on the clock, and save
the funny stuff for your grandchildren 
 
 
 
 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa


HEARSAY HISTORY
—Caschwa 
 
All this stuff we are just supposed to know… 

Who discovered the New World?


I didn’t witness it. Might have been Columbus,
might have been the Vikings, might have been
some little green men in a flying saucer.

Who’s buried in Grant’s Tomb?

I didn’t witness it. Might have been President
Grant, might have been Grant’s stunt double,
might have been some ranch animal.

Who signed the Declaration of Independence?

I didn’t witness it. Might have been its authors,
might have been some interns, might have been
retroactive artificial intelligence.

Who was the Brooklyn Dodgers’ MVP?

I didn’t witness it. Might have been a Hollywood
screen actor, might have been Yogi Berra, might
have been some fellow who bought a free round
for everyone at the bar.

Why do we even bother to shorten the 4-letter word
OPUS with the 3-digit abbreviation OP.?


I can only guess. Might be to leave one more free
letter for symphony, conductor, or orchestra, might
be to suggest that it can also stand for the longer
word
Opioids, might be because someone is pulling
our leg.
 
 
 
 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan


CHRYSANTHEMUMS FOR PALESTINIANS
—Michelle Kunert, Sacramento, CA

If Israel is represented by the Rose of Sharon
    Perhaps the Palestinians’ flowers are
       chrysanthemums
    Chrysanthemums traditionally among the
       flowers of the Autumn season
    often used for decoration of funeral memorials
       and gravesites—
    a flower symbolizing grief and loss like no other
    its petals as if layers of tears—
    Meanwhile The Rose of Sharon knows it's
       guilty for the massive loss of “innocents’”
       lives—justified to supposedly get one Hamas
       terrorist killing by bombings so many Palestin-
       ians who didn’t attack Israelis,  
     A nation of Holocaust survivors who declared
       “Never again” decided to commit
       genocide upon their Arab neighbors
    There need to be wreaths of chrysanthemums
       everywhere for protests aimed at Israel, saying
      "Arab lives matter”
 
 
 
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan


This is the 21st not the 19th century
  yet Old Sacramento district insists on presenting
  horse carriage rides—
  Claiming it's part of the “creating gold-rush era
  ambience for tourism
  even though there is also car traffic coming through
Old Sacramento horse carriage routes converge
  right near a freeway exit    
  and undoubtedly there’ve been collisions between
  the two
In the Summertime the horses are expected to work
  for hours in the heat
No ports for water for horses in temperatures that
  can reach over 100 degrees
Horses probably have passed out without it being
  reported
Protests in favor of these horses’ proper care
  continue—
animal rights activists decry that horses are feeling,
  sentient beings, not machinery
yet these cries probably go unheeded for the sake
  of money

—Michele Kunert
 
 
 
Horse of a Different Color
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa


When I was a girl I had a church pastor who also
  boarded horses
  My parents took me to ride horses on Pastor Bob
  Raup’s ranch
One time he gave me an Appaloosa-mix mare
  named “Crowheart”  
When I mounted onto the saddle, Crowheart slowly
  plodded along
she didn’t seem to want to follow out to the field
  with the group Pastor Bob lead
Pastor Bob heard my complaints
He turned around his horse to meet me and said
  “Go on, kick her in the ribs!”
I didn’t do as Pastor Bob said, but merely gave
  Crowheart a nudge with my feet
but then Pastor Bob came alongside my and Crow-
  heart's right side and kicked her himself
Crowheart then let out a distressed whine and bolted
  in obvious displeasure
Good thing I had gripped Crowheart’s neck enough
  that she didn’t “throw” me and I stayed on    
Ironically Pastor Bob, once being a “humane officer”,
  never kicked his rescue dogs
I have no clue to this day what Pastor Bob was
  thinking  
  but since then I always figure a horse ought to be
  treated with respect and live free of assault—
  So many horses are expected to “perform” or work
  for human pleasure 
But humans never get domesticated horses'
  consent to ride on their backs  

—Michele Kunert
 
 
 
 —Public Domain Graphic Courtesy of Medusa


THE RAMPAGE OF THE GOLEM
—Joe Nolan

Hurry, hurry,
Don’t be late
To be behind
The hands of fate
Is to tremulate.

The stress you feel,
Pernicious, real,
Is trouble
At the gate.

Omens and premonitions—
Who was that handsome demon
Who showed his face in your dream
And touched your calf to make it cramp
Just to show you he could?

Beyond the field,
Across the glen,
Something happened,
Way-back when,
Is coming this way,
Again.

The lumber of the
Pounding legs
Of the Golem—
The beast they made
To conquer Jerusalem,
Is crushing every other nation
In the Middle-East
As it sets its hungry fangs
To devour
Every other living
Human being in sight,
Cannibalistic, genocidal,
Racist and psychotic,
It only cares for the
Purposes of its masters. 
 
 
 
 —Public Domain Graphic Courtesy of Medusa


IS PAUL DEAD?
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

(inspired by the rumor that
Paul McCartney died in the ’60s)


Brilliant lyrics
In steady cadence
Beat out on
A set of drums,

Guitars humming,
Bass and strings,
Welcoming the music,
Whatever both
Might bring.

Ringo
Meets George,
Meets Paul,
Meets John,

Meet screaming
Crowds of teens
Hysterical
In adoration.

Music was hard to hear,
At Shea Stadium
In 1966
Before Paul had died,

After which,
They went-off touring,
For the next four years,
Until they all withdrew
From the Beatles.

"Paul" went out
On his own
But never made another
Item of beauty
Like, “Yesterday.”
 
 
 
 —Public Domain Graphic Courtesy of Medusa


NO “FRISCO”
—Joe Nolan

Never say, “Frisco.”
Never say, “San Frisco.”
Never say, “Frisco-san” to
Your Japanese shiba-inu.

Never think in terms of “Frisco.”
Forget about all things, “Frisco.”
There’s no such place
As “Frisco.”
“Frisco” does not exist.

Just shut up about “Frisco.”
Nobody wants to hear it.
It’ll make people think
You’re from Cleveland.
 
 
 
 —Public Domain Graphic Courtesy of Joe Nolan


HUNGER
—Joe Nolan

Our need
For each other
Begins with hunger—

A baby cries
In the night
To call for
Another feeding.

Later,
Other hungers
Will arise—
Sparks
In each others’ eyes
Setting little fires

Babies crying
In the night
As life aspires
To continue
From body to body
And life to life.
 
 
 
 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan


STAYING CONNECTED
—Joe Nolan

In our
Disappearing daydream
Of the soul
We reach out
With a mooring line
To try to seem we’re whole,
Lest we
Just drift away
Into internal exile
Where waves
Or current
Have their way,
Leaving us
Stranded, someday,
On a beach or bar
With no one
There to play.

Like trees,
We root
Into the Earth,
Join social clubs
Pay our annual dues
Join political parties
Root for sports teams
Produce children
In a long, hard slog
To be connected,
Lest we drift away,
Where waves
Or current
Have their way,
Leaving us
Stranded, someday,
On a beach or bar
With no one
There to play.

______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

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

God's bemoaning world will end
The sudden path of ups and downs
The silvery mist of downtown lake
A pleasant surprise of forsaken country
A numbness of watery filling
Paths of downtrodden decay
A rainbow will end before the sunrise
Of lungs and tissues of sinewy wild
A melancholic rain will come
A surmise of two-pence jugglery
Nature's secrecy of forever past
Please offer an edifice of joy.

_____________________

Our Seed of the Week was Coquette, in all its meanings: flirt, or hummingbird, or chrysanthemums...  Thanks to our contributors, spectacular as always, who wrote on that theme and others, and to Joe Nolan for these phine photos he phound. Be sure to check each Tuesday for our Seed of the Week.

Welcome back to Michelle Kunert, who says she is a 52-year-old “genXer”,  a CSUS graduate in English studies who’s looking for new job opportunities since being laid off from Pride Industries. Michelle is a SnakePal who has been
in absentia for a couple of years, and it’s good to see MK back in MK.

_____________________

—Medusa
 
 
 
 —Public Domain Photo
Courtesy of Medusa










 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
A reminder that
Poetry in Motion meets
in Placerville today, 10:30am;
and Sac. Poetry Center features
Patricia Wentzel & Julia Levine
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!
 
My Little Coquette~
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 

Sunday, November 17, 2024

You Will Not Be Expecting It

 —Poetry by R. Gerry Fabian, Doylestown, PA
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
 
 
“THOSE SHOES!”

I bought “those shoes”
at Discount City for $8.99
even though they were a size too large.
Black, lace-up dress shoes
with tan leather soles
and black neoprene heels.

At first,
I always wore them
with extra-thick socks
until my feet finally
grew into them.

I wore them to my first job interview;
I was hired.
I wore them on our first date;
and on our wedding day.
I wore them on September 11, 2001;
for a meeting scheduled for 3:00pm
at the World Trade Center.
I was not wearing them
the night our daughter was conceived;
they were next to the bed
but I was wearing them
in the early morning hours
of her very difficult birth.

Seven years ago,
I had “those shoes” resoled
and the heels replaced.
It cost me $45.49.

Over the years,
I have polished, buffed and shined them
The leather is now glove-soft
and they still have their mirror shine.

This morning as I was putting
the Goodwill box
on the front porch,
I dropped it
and “those shoes”
tumbled out? 
 
 
 
 

EXPLORING WILD STRAWBERRIES
ON YOUR CHEEK

It’s just before the birds sing early
and you are in deep sleep.
Your hair is corn silk sweet.
I brush it from your cheek.
Hundreds of strawberry dot freckles
scatter across your face.
If the wives’ tale is true
and each contains an adventure
This is going to be a wild romance. 
 
 
 
 

EARLY WARNING SYSTEM

There is a low pressure system
developing in the kitchen.
Sustained winds are organizing
and blowing across the dining room.
Heat and moisture remain constant.
The decision to seek shelter or ride it out
depends on whether the wind shear
tracks a specific destination
or just slowly dissipates. 
 
 
 
 

AGAIN, YOU WILL NOT BE EXPECTING IT

It will come on a lazy summer day
around twilight when the sun gives in
While early insect mating calls replay,
it will stir from somewhere deep within.

It arrives after a harsh winter tide
when spring arrived too late to stay for long
and thoughts of gray cold have been placed aside,
there will be a gnawing of something wrong.

Lyrics from an old misplaced favorite tune
will take on a new meaning all their own
and sensations which were once deemed immune
will actively ignite a zenith zone.

It will strike more than changes can permit—
again, you will not be expecting it. 
 
 
 
 

CLIMATE CHANGE

A freak November nor’easter
slams heavy wet snow
onto leafy branches.
They resist, then topple
all askew
taking wires with them
and plunging
the entire town
into the nineteenth century. 
 
 
 
 “…the clouds pass by…”


ILLOGICAL PHENOMENON

It is a pellucid moment.
The gods of devastation
lose their grisly grip
and slink off into the dark mist
like a stray dog tracking an alley cat.
Strangely, Dame Fortune
appears out of nowhere
for no apparent reason
and heavily intercedes.
Within minutes
the clouds pass by
and the moon smiles
like a fat man at the circus.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Quiet minds can be perplexed or frightened but go on in fortune or misfortune at their own private pace, like a clock during a thunderstorm.

—Robert Louis Stevenson

____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to R. Gerry Fabian for today’s fine poetry!
 
 
 

 









 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
A reminder that
MoSt Poetry Book Club
meets in Modesto today, 2pm;
Poetry at Albion Hall meets in
San Francisco today at 4pm; and
Sean Powers & Stucco Factory
is featured at Sac. Poetry Center
this afternoon, 5pm.
For more 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!
 

 
















 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Saturday, November 16, 2024

Wild Men and Angels

 —Poetry by Ryan Quinn Flanagan, 
Eliot Lake, Ontario, Canada
Wild Man of Borneo Photos of 
Films and Book Covers Courtesy
of Public Domain
 
 
MARMOT

Stinking beast,
colossus mountain mouse,
once mistaken for giant gold-digging ants
by our brothers Arabia,
those readied claws, most robust
of legs, buried beneath rockpile
or digging in groups, padded to the coloured pulse,
head full of willing incisors,
carnal and conflicted, tearing at the locked earth:
driven, jammed and reeking...
Stout-bodied compulsions, the unshared way;
no marker to denote what may come
of such simple greeds. 
 
 
 
 

101 WAYS TO LOSE YOUR PICKUP TRUCK

He'd decided to sit down
and build the ultimate country
album:

101 Ways to Lose Your Pickup Truck,
that is what he'd call it.

His whirling lasso legs
pulling a necktie
above the rain.
 
 
 


THE PUNK ROCK KIDS

Punk rock kids
know all the best places
to loiter.

And the two tall spike jobs
stand like leather bookends
in a concrete hysteria.

Pudgy stud face
and some acid-wash chick
to round out the razzing
strange beauty.

Blue Mohawk makes a jerking-off
gesture with his hand.

I shake my head
and smile.

Blue Mohawk smiles back
and gives me the finger.

This is going to be a good one.

Sun on my face
and a gentle prodding wind
daring me on. 
 
 
 


DISCOVERY

I discovered her
lying there.

A most improbable blue.
Like an alien, though we had known
each other for many years.

I could tell that everything
that mattered was gone.

Just the husk remained.

On that ugly cold linoleum
she never got around
to changing over. 
 
 
 
 

THE WILD MAN OF BORNEO
WAS FROM SEATTLE

Imagine being
the execs
at the record company

and admitting
that you didn't know
how to market Jimi Hendrix

to the listening public,

so that
you start calling him:
The Wild Man of Borneo,

even though
The Wild Man of Borneo
was from Seattle

and cut lawns
for his father in the summers

before joining
the 101st Airborne. 
 
 
 

 
ANGELS & SORROWS

Not a childhood one
this time,
but it brings
me back:

to an angel's dancing
calm,

the sound
of a summer lawn mower
through my childhood
window,

the smell
of fresh cut
grass—

that bed
of a thousand

early
sorrows. 
 
 
 


ENJOY THE SILENCE

Standing in a busy elevator
when Depeche Mode's Enjoy the Silence
comes on.

No one seems to be enjoying the silence.
A light Muzak doesn't seem to help.
Awkward looks staring off
into nowhere.

Wishing they were anywhere else
right now.

Depeche Mode
has a lot of work
to do. 
 
 
 

 
MINERVA

For
as long as
it takes,
a ceremonial
headdress.

The epic blocks
of Man,
that fetch
and fasten.

Your own Minerva
to strangle lawless
mountains.

For as long as
you can remember,
our shadow-crescent
eagle

knows its way
to distant fire.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Our feet are planted in the real world, but we dance with angels and ghosts.

—John Cameron Mitchell

___________________

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many mounds of snow.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as:
Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Medusa's Kitchen, Setu, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review. Ryan has been visiting us since 2018. Welcome back to the Kitchen, Ryan, and don’t let all that snow get you down…!

See more of Ryan’s goings-on at https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100014102676963/.

__________________

—Medusa
 
 
 
 Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Wild Man of Eliot























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!