Shadows & Snakes

 

—Poetry by Julie A. Dickson, Exeter, NH
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Julie Dickson

 

 

SNAKES
 
Her braided hair
snakes entwined
I’ve seen her before
tattooed on many
 
Do they choose her
to fend off suitors,
love-immune, that
closed-off heart?
 
Stay away you,
lest I turn you to stone
and soon you’ll be cold
as my wounded heart
 
hand extended
a warning to any 

brave to come near,
yet it is I who fear you.

 

 

 

 

Does a babe
 
swaddled tight
in a burnt-out house
lie in wait
 
for its mother
to rouse from sleep
not knowing
 
death
has torn through
their village
 
her cries
too weak to be heard
over gunfire
 
mortar blasts
like the one that destroyed
the roof
 
moonlit sky
illuminates mother’s still face
she cries
 
eyes closed shut
against bursts of light,
acrid smoke
 
exhausted
she sleeps near the corpse
that will never wake

 

 

 

 

CIRCLES
 
Sun eclipses pasture,
dark shadows the field,
covers livestock grazing;
none stop to gaze up.
 
Arial view, celestial crop
circles mingle, crisscrossed
lines delineate cart paths,
plow marks like scratches.
 
Rows of bright yellow,
whether tulips or daffodils,
loaded wagons to market
run between cow corn carts
 
headed to silo conveyor—
wheat sways, gentle rustle
symphony of fragrant farm
adds to late summer song.

___________________

Tonight’s LittleNip:

Concentrate on what you want to say to yourself and your friends. Follow your inner moonlight; don’t hide the madness. You say what you want to say when you don’t care who’e listening.

 

—Allen Ginsberg

___________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Julie Dickson for stopping by with today’s fine poetry and photos!

 

 

 

Medusa discovers she has a grey hair!

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Amatoria Fine Art Books presents
Oswaldo Vargas, Miqo Anang, & Patrick Grizzell
plus open mic tonight, in Sacramento,

5:30pm; and Mahogany Urban Poetry 

meets tonight in Sacramento, 7pm.
For more 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!

 

 

 

Belonging

Musing

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

 

 

BE LONGING : BELONGING.
—Joyce Odam

The sky, so wonderful—so close—so far with its
panoramic clouds, its endless-ness, how it sets me
to gazing : Does sky touch earth. If not, where does
sky begin its invisible texture—and the night sky,
with its nomadic moon, wandering the huge sky
until it is almost gone—feeling my eyes follow. Of
course, I know this is not thus, but the mysterious
continuations of sky that compel me so. And I roll
this earth around under my feet with great 

imaginary skill, feeling it go round, and marveling 

why I don’t fall off . . .
                                                    

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/11/17)

 

 

 

Little Butterfly

 

 
field of olden blooms
perfume sighing over graves
promises to keep

—Robin Gale Odam


(prev. pub. in Brevities, May 2017)

________________________

                FISSURE
           —Joyce Odam

              …if     once
         I stand     in rain
        and feel     myself
             wear     away
 feel the dark     heaviness
            of me     slip
            down     feel me
            stand     like a
           mortal     flower
        in liquid     earth
         feel me     glisten
               and     brighten
         with all     the new tone
      of myself     make a
       sound of     river
              with     myself
            as the     sea
           and all     that is
       swift and     urgent
        hurrying     mysteriously
                into     me


(prev. pub. in The University Review, June 1968)

 

 

 

Raindrops

 

 

IN BLUE REFLECTION
—Joyce Odam

After "Water", Photo enhancement
by D. R. Wagner, in Medusa’s Kitchen


Now water separates against the land.
Now earth has broken away.

Now there is only sky and water,
there is only dream, with its
ancient illusion.

The sky is caught in blue reflection
of nothing there—

where is the gasp of warning—the
change that will change again—
surge back against

the awesome beauty of destruction.
Is this but a held breath—
 
time’s elasticity
that let's go a cosmic sigh
that settles back into a reflection.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/7/21)

____________________

WEEDING
—Joyce Odam

pulling the roots
out
pulling them right out
straight out and up
through the heart and flesh
of the earth
laying them exposed to the air
which will shrivel them
pulling them right out
of the reluctant earth
which holds them so firmly
which tugs at your fingers
for grip
you and the earth
struggling for
the weeds


(prev. pub. in Poet News, August 1992;
Brevities Mini-Chap, 2002; and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/3/20)

 

 

 

Gathering

 

 

OUT THERE IN THE FOG
—Joyce Odam

Out there in the fog
the farmer is working with his hoe.
I can almost not see him.

The two white geese are
hunched in the wet grass by the pan of water.
Silence is sifting upon everything,
cold and gray.

The farmer is wearing a white wool sweater
and moving in and out of motion
in swirls of energy.
He seems far away.
The sun is icy white above him,
the fog between.

The window I look out of is dark with morning.
I am the farmer’s wife,
his recent lover.
I watch him work
with an awesome pride.
He is stronger than winter.

He is turning and turning the earth that he loves
with a methodical determination.

The dog with the cowbell around her neck
is allowed off the chain
and she lets me know where he is
whenever he drifts out of vision.
                                                  

(prev. pub. in Interim, 1997; and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/20/18)

 

 

 

Visionary

 

 

SPRING FERVOR
—Joyce Odam

This worried sky, this field of yellow grass,
this birdless hour,

and that lonely man, lonely or not,
taking a simple walk through fields of swollen light—

oh, here the season changes—maybe not this day
or moment, but soon—

soon as the rustling starts and builds
and the sky overwhelms the shadow-heavy earth

and the man heads home, and may not make it,
this blending man, caught

in the roil of swarming shadows that move in and
out,
this man, at one with everything, storm caught.

                                                              
(prev. pub. in Song of the San Joaquin, Spring 2019
and Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/23/21; 09/26/23) 

 
____________________

AT THE SHORELINE
—Robin Gale Odam

He wears dark as a tribute in the
sorrow of the mountainside, at the

shoreline where salty waves gather
memories, lay rings of salt at his feet,
offer pearly shells for his grief—for his
deep and grave pockets to keep.  


(prev. pub. in Brevities, July 2017) 

 

 

 

Tapestry

  

WE ARE
—Joyce Odam

all particle—of the earth—of the air—
of every whispering voice and every

tear fallen from grief, or joy, and every
tear for the silk fabric of fog, mist over

water, sound of crying, the harsh notes
of rage, the emptied stare,

looking at everything—brooding,
crying—the very act of this—the

very rhyming in every windowed
reflection made of glass, the sensation

of touch, the rush of pleasure, the feel
of darkness to the grope, the sunrise,

the sunset, the blur of hope in the frazzled 


mind, the very hope of existence in the doubt,

the distance and the near—the everything,
and everywhere—in this moment, here.

                                                 
(prev. pub. in CFCP)

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

at the seventh hour
when the artist takes his rest
then creation stirs

from the ether and the dust
into ether     into dust


—Robin Gale Odam


(prev. pub. in Brevities, March 2020)

______________________

Our Seed of the Week was Mother Earth, in honor of yesterday's Earth Day 2024, and Joyce and Robin Odam are celebrating the earth with their fine poetry and photos today. We send them thanks and good wishes!

Our new Seed of the Week is for Arbor Day (last Friday): “Trees”. Tell us about the trees in your life. Trees I Have Known. Trees I Have Loved/Hated. I remember a huge, HUGE fig tree that I played under in my aunt’s yard. Then there are trees that I have lost because someone thought they should be cut down, like my uncle’s peach orchard in Modesto—the whole orchard was removed to build more suburbia (the fig tree went, too). But part of the income from that sale sent me to college.

Anyway, 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 from which to choose. And see every Form Fiddlers’ Friday for poetry form challenges, including those of the Ekphrastic type.

Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.

______________________

—Medusa, wishing a Happy Passover to our friends of the Jewish faith~

 

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
there will be an Open Mic at the
Sacramento Native American
Health Center today, 6pm; and
Twin Lotus Thai Fourth Tuesdays
features
Bethanie Humphreys, Heather Judy &

Autumn Newman plus open mic   

 in Sacramento tonight, also 6pm.
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!

 

Celebrating Our Mother

Mother Earth

—Design by Nolcha Fox (with Microsoft Designer)

 

* * *

—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Caschwa, Michael Ceraolo, and Joe Nolan
—Visuals by or Courtesy of Nolcha Fox,
Stephen Kingsnorth, Caschwa, and Joe Nolan

 

 

MOTHER EARTH

wears roses in her braids. Her dress is leaves and dandelions. Gardens grow beneath her feet. When she changes her attire, autumn winds will blow spring flowers away.

—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

 

 

 

 Giant Plastic Tap by Benjamin Von Wong

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of 

Stephen Kingsnorth

MOLDED BY MADNESS
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
 
From rise to set, sun penetrates
as clouds of ancient warning brew;
from rise to fall, the tide recalls,
both waving, drowning, laps increase.
Our stalwart trees store while they stand,
but bark out shrinking rings unheard.
So much laid out here, sands of time,
this scene screened—though that sun less so—
the scree we see, but blind, our lot,
as stumble, tumbling, rubble drop.

We tick as plus, recycle box,
a make of plastic, self inflict,
because we’re molded, present past,
though imperfect, uncertain, tense.
Such giant steppes slow claim the globe,
dismissed as stuff of fairy tales.
But it’s not wicked, which to face,
for if ignored, the choice is made;
lagoons, retreat reefs of the rich
soon lost at sea, no landing, stripped.              

Dust devils swirl from stranded sand,
the islands soon to be engulfed,
and plastic balls once played on beach
long overshot as pellets, brine.
We’re woken, force of faucet gush,
but stop the cock, up underneath.
Poor pupils for the insights known,
we focus imperceptible,
sea, sky and tree with constancy,
but not ice melt, seep, drip of tap. 

 

 

 

 —Photo by Caschwa

TELL ME AGAIN
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

tell me again
your complaints
about too much dirt
but whisper, dearest
Mother Earth would be
most offended

tell me again
your opinions
about not enough time
but whisper, dearest
Grandfather Clock would
be most offended

tell me again
your concerns
about political trends
but whisper, dearest
Uncle Sam would be
most offended

tell me again
your loss of faith
in our government
but whisper, dearest
the Paparazzi repeat
all they see and hear

 

 

 

—Photo by Caschwa

A FEW IDEAS
—Caschwa

sometimes when a food item is used up
the container, if clean, can be recycled;
however other times, the potato salad
or peanut butter, etc. leaves a residue
that cannot easily be removed, so this
becomes garbage to go to the landfill

there have been suggestions to rinse the
item, which of course involves using water,
but I pay dearly for that water

WATER POLICE: Do not use too much water!

ok, got a low flush toilet, and there’s some
gadget in my shower head to reduce the flow,
and I only water the lawn on certain
specified days, and I replaced the sprinkler
system with a drip line

WATER POLICE: You are using more water
this year than in the same time period last
year. Your water use is out of control. You,
lowly scumbag, are not doing your part!

how about this? according to signs posted in
the parks, the Parks Department commonly
uses recycled waste water, so what if we just
left our peanut jars there for them to power
rinse, transforming the jar into a material easily
handled by the normal recycling process? 

 

 

 

—Photo by Caschwa

ALLEGIANCE
—Caschwa

I filed a grievance to the gag order
of the most blighted judges of America,
and the leftists’ picnic for which they stand,
tarnation, heavy fog, indecisive, denying
puberty and mistress to me

 

 

 

—Photo by Caschwa

BACK ON COURSE
—Caschwa

there was an abrupt, loud knock
on my front door! Oh, what
could it be?

a neighbor stood there shyly
telling me that his little girls
were playing and their ball
came over the fence into my yard

it was not a meteor, did not leave a crater
not loose parts from a commercial airliner
just a colorful, adorable little rubber ball

which I found behind my backyard shed,
tossed back over the fence, and was
instantly rewarded with shrieks of
happiness from two little girls

this has happened before, from the neighbors
on both sides of my house, and I don’t mind it;
such a wonderful feeling being surrounded by
children who are delighted by such little things

 

 

 

 —Photo by Caschwa

TURNOVER ON DOWNS
—Michael Ceraolo, S. Euclid, OH

The former football-coach-turned-senator
show that he had sustained the brain damage
from the big hits taken by his players

 

 

 

Not Always Bringing Happiness…
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

SPEAKERSHIP CAMPAIGN SLOGAN
—Michael Ceraolo

Jim Jordan 2023:
Because Molesters’ Lives Matter

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

A DAY IN THE MULLIN PATCH
—Michael Ceraolo

The former fighter-turned-senator
showed he had sustained brain damage from those
blows to the head
when he lamented the change in the chamber's rules
that prohibited him from caning someone

 

 

 

 Every cat has a story…
—Public Domain Photo

MY LISBON LADY
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

It was out upon a limb
A Lisbon lady loved me.

She was also lesbian.
I asked her, “Why that might be?”
She said, “That’s how my maker made me.”

She said I was a funny man
And she took me lightly.

“Men are funny. Don’t you know?
They play at love and let you go.
It’s best
Not to pin
Too heavy a tail
Upon a reckless donkey.”

And so it was
We stayed together
For just a little while,
Until she heard her lover
Call for her return.
Whereupon, she left me there,
Running thither, sprightly. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

LONG YOURSELF INTO  LIGHT
—Joe Nolan

Long yourself into light,
Dear darling,
When the crushing darkness comes.

It will not be long,
Dear darling,
Before the darkness ends.

Love yourself into light,
Dear darling,
The way your love lit life.

Behold, his specter
Drifts across,
Happy you were his wife.

Long yourself into light,
Dear darling,
As the darkness disappears—
A new world is waiting there.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET
—John Keats

The poetry of earth is never dead:


When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,


And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run


From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;


That is the Grasshopper’s—he takes the lead


In summer luxury,—he has never done


With his delights; for when tired out with fun

He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.


The poetry of earth is ceasing never:


On a lone winter evening, when the frost


Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills


The Cricket’s song, in warmth increasing ever,


And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,


The Grasshopper’s among some grassy hills.

____________________

Our thanks to today’s fine contributors as we celebrate that Other Mother’s Day today. Nolcha Fox is fiddling around with illustrations; thanks to her for today’s and for last week’s, as well. And thanks to Caschwa (Carl Schwartz) for wonderful photos of his garden. Poppies everywhere are glorious this year, and I'm glad he sent a close-up of one.

 

NorCal poets will be saddened to hear that Phillip Larrea passed away unexpectedly this past April 1. For more information and to submit memories, condolences, to send flowers, or to plant a tree in his name (Arbor Day is approaching!), go to https://www.legacy.com/obituaries/name/phillip-larrea-obituary?pid=206789478/.) To see some of Phillip's poetry which appeared in Medusa's Kitchen, go to https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2012/05/tricubes-leda-and-mom.html and https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2013/05/preserve-us-monsanto.html/.

Deadlines coming up: May 1 is the deadline for the next VOICES 2024 anthology, this one honoring D.R. Wagner. Further down the line, July 18 is the deadline for the 20th Annual Voices of Lincoln contest. For details about these and all things NorCal poetic, go to UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html/).

____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Our thanks to Squirrel, who wishes us
a most satisfying Earth Day~
—Public Domain Photo

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
MoSt Poetry Book Club meets
in Modesto tonight at 6:30pm; and
Sacramento Poetry Center presents
an Earth Day Reading tonight, with
Stan Zumbiel & Julia Conner, 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!

 

 

 

Just Get Moving~

 —Poetry by Taylor Dibbert, Washington, DC
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

OLD FASHIONED WITH RYE

He’s having an
Old Fashioned with rye,
One of his favorites,
Used to have
A lot of them,
More recently
He’s been going
For other stuff,
Diving right in,
Not because a
Solid Rye Old Fashioned
Tastes any less
Like heaven
But because
He’s been leaning
On bottles and drinks
That don’t
Remind him
Of the ex,
He’ll be moving
To bourbon
On the rocks
Right after this drink.


*A version of this poem first appeared
in The Whisky Blot.

 

 

 

 

FAR FROM ALONE

He’s writing
From the edge
Of the bar
And everything,
Turns out
It’s way
More crowded
Than he could’ve
Ever imagined.


*A version of this poem first appeared
in The Rye Whiskey Review.

 

 

 

 

NIGHTFALL

Don’t
Make
Him
A
Drink,
Pass
Him
The
Bottle,
The
Night
Is coming
For
Him
And
Everyone.


*A version of this poem first appeared  
in The Rye Whiskey Review.

 

 

 

 

NEIGHBORHOOD NARCISSIST

Engagement is tempting
But ignoring them
Is far better,
They’ll probably
Find new victims
Yet with time
Light crushes darkness.


*A version of this poem first appeared
 in Poetry Soup.

 

 

 

 

REMARKABLE


He wishes
That he
Had paid
More attention
To all
The ways
That those
Remarkably shitty
In-laws
Were hurting
Their marriage.

 

 

 

 



WHAT COULD HAVE BEEN

He remembers
Trying to
Win her back
And then
Letting her go
With the hope
That she'd
Come back
And then
Letting her go
With the hope
That he'd
Never see
Her again
And now that
He's divorced
And has had
More time
To think
About everything
He knows
That he
Dodged a bullet
And that
He's actually
Quite lucky
And that
All of it
Could have been
Way worse.

 

 

 

RESCUE DOG

London is
A rescue dog,
He rescued her,
He adopted her,
His dear little London,
But four years on,
He’s quite certain
That London wasn’t
The only one
Being rescued
That day.


*A version of this poem first appeared in
Terror House Magazine.

 

 

 

 


CLOSE

He’s looking at
A photo
Of London
On her
Adoption day,
He can’t believe
That six years
Have passed
Since that day,
He really had
No idea
What was coming,
He just knows
He wants
To hold
That day
And all the
Other ones
Close.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

STARTING AGAIN
—Taylor Dibbert

Poetry helped
Show him
The power
Of starting again,
You don’t need
To know
Where you’re going,
You just need
To get moving.

____________________


—Medusa, with thanks to Taylor Dibbert for today’s fine poetry. Taylor’s third poetry collection, In the Arena (https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/205853290-in-the-arena), was published on April 3, and his next collection, Rescue Dog, is due out in May.

 

 

 

 London Dibbert

A reminder that
First Church of Poetry meets
in Sacramento at noon today;

Storytelling Sunday meets
in Placerville at 4pm with
Shawn William and J. Rowe;
LitFest takes place in Winters, 4pm;
Sac. Poetry Center presents its
Tule Review release reading, 6pm;
and tonight, LabRats Sunday Session
Music and Poetry Jam meets in
Sacramento at 8pm.
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!

 

Primeval and Promiscuous

 —Poetry by Kimberly Bolton, Jefferson City, MO
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain 

MISSOURI MURAL

Trees lush with summer green.
Old barns crippled with broken bones.

A tractor rusted to a stop in tall weeds.
An empty silo.

Shadows of clouds passing low over pastures
and dense green hills.

Black snake sleepy in a square of sunlight
near a long-abandoned chicken coop.

Peony bush drops its petals beside the back 

kitchen door,
counting its many lost loves.

The farmhouse stares out at the view with
perfectly lifeless eyes,
while inside, the walls are willing and ready
to talk.

 

 

 

 
US

Hey you, whoever you are, reading this,
I am glad you are here along with me,
each of us uniquely placed on this earth,
under the stars, leaving our footprints in the sand.

Primeval and promiscuous beings that we are,
the divinity of the human spirit unites us all.
Naked, we are shapely in our beatific ugliness.

However you have lived,
however I have done so,
we are connected by a lived life,
and the echoes of our voices are heard ‘round
the world.

Some of us came out on top.
Others remain at the bottom.
Most of us are stuck somewhere in the middle.

We are not forgotten,
nor are we unforgiven for trying our best.
The rivers rise.
The winds blow.
Still we stand side by side.

This is the story of us,
and what a short story it is!
We come and we go.
Books and arms remain open.
The world ain’t done with us yet.

 

 

 

SEASON OF LIGHT

Summer drops a dead weight on our shoulders,
a pulsing aureate of heat, haze, humidity,
the Holy Trinity of a Missouri summer season,
that starts as soon as the winds and rains of March
finally run out of steam.

The sky is as steel-blue as God’s breath.
Not a whisk or wriggle of wind
to make the day tolerable.
Even the soprano pitch of cicadas,
the full-throated basso of frogs,
and insects down in the grass engaging in small talk
are vexing.

Lush green of trees garnish the landscape.
Clouds, thin as whispers, don’t linger long
before they hasten on their way to elsewhere.
Cows swish their tails at the flies,
thinking their carefully considered cow thoughts,
as they gaze over the fence pondering the state of
things as they are.
As we all do from time to time.

There’s no relief in sight from the slow burn of
the day.
The scald of summer has us in a holding pattern.
Shadows stain the green ground here and there,
but this is the season of light.
Everything is held together by light alone.
Shade and shadow are kept to a minimum.

The red roses on the trellis along the side of the
house
are blood-red syllables of this poem,
and a metaphor for the bleeding heart of the
person writing it.

 

 

 

CEMETERY VISIT

Driving past field after field of broad, green-leaf
corn
drooping under the weight of a July sun.

Dust devil churning behind the car on the gravel
road.
The distance we’re going measured not in miles,
but in memories flashing past the side windows 

in a near-sighted blur.

We pull up to the rusted gate of the cemetery
out here in the middle of nowhere.

Out here in the middle of nowhere, where my
ancestors
decided over a hundred years ago that this was

as good a place
as any to settle down.

The cemetery is, for the most part, abandoned now,
even by the dead.
No ghosts here except what I conger in my own
mind.

Still, this place thrives with weeds and deceased 

relatives,
generations planted beneath this crop of old stone:
Great-grandparents and the great—greats,
aunts, uncles, a cousin here and there.

This green place, surrounded by the peculiar beauty
of these Ozark hills.
A few family farms breathing a last gasp.
Prime country folk with their plain, broad faces,
toothy grins and stubborn ways,
cut straight out of the canvas of a Benton mural
and barely scraping by.

The past catches up with me here.
What is this nostalgic yearning for a past
I personally never knew?
Their past is not my past and their lives lie some-
where
a remote distance from my own.

And someday, me standing here at this moment,
will become another discarded moment in a past
that is not anyone else’s but my own,
that perhaps, God willing, I will be lucky enough
to remember,
when the future catches up with me.

The growl and purr of a tractor starts up
in a distant field.
The hot summer sun curves a heavy hand
on the nape of my neck.

Starlings, those darling little thieves,
are down in the grass along the fence line,
too busy robbing seed to pay me any nevermind,
while the cicadas sing their country dirge loud
enough
to wake, well, everybody here.

My kinfolk.
So many of them now gone,
and have been for quite some time.
They stood here once, in the very spot
where I am standing,
inside their own here and now,
reminiscing amongst each other
about the folk from their own past that were 

no more.

I long to tell them there are so few of us left.
That the world is shrinking all around me,
as it empties out.

 

 

 

 

ECHOES
For Jamie & Kaitlyn

Your seven times great-grandmother
was born in 1796 in Stokes County, North Carolina.

You and your sister were born in 1983 and 1991, 

respectively,
right here in good ole Missouri,

with the river running in your veins and Missouri
mud on the
soles of your feet,

all because your g- g- g- g- g- g- great-grandmother 

crossed the country in a
covered wagon hanging on to the buckboard for dear 

life, praying they’d
make it.

When they reached the edge of the Ozarks Plateau,
she and her husband
decided this was it.

This was where they’d plant roots.
You and your sister are proof positive those roots
were anchored firmly and
deep.

You both are the product of her fortitude, her 

steadfastness,
her belief in making a better life for herself and 

her passel of children.

They created something from nothing as she
followed behind the plow
her husband drove to break the sod so she could
scatter seed.

Like the wheat they planted, you sprang from her
no-nonsense attitude,
her southern hardiness and heartiness to stand firm 

against whatever good
and ill winds blew around her.

Who knows how she really felt about any of it?
Yet, so much of what you and your sister, and
even I,

learned as women were planted in that dirt
and rooted in us long before any of us were born.

Your g-g-g-g-g-g-great-grandmother gleaned
what she needed to survive as a
woman from the land and from her mother as did
her mother and
all the grandmothers to came before.

While the men in the family railed against the
machine,
against bad luck and taxes, ill-gotten gains,
and against life itself, our women carried on,
because they had to.

Now, when I listen to you, or when you speak to
your own daughters,
I hear the echoes of generations of females in your 

voices.

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

When you're dead, they really fix you up. I hope to hell when I do die somebody has sense enough to just dump me in the river or something. Anything except sticking me in a goddam cemetery. People coming and putting a bunch of flowers on your stomach on Sunday, and all that crap. Who wants flowers when you're dead? Nobody.
 
―J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye

__________________

—Medusa, with many thanks to Kimberly Bolton for today’s fine poetry!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
National Poetry Month continues
in the NorCal area with the first-ever
Blue Sky Earth Day Poetry Festival
in Cameron Park today at 4pm;
Tracks Along the Left Coast tonight
in Nevada City at 6:30pm; and
Molly Fisk and Francesca Bell
at Sacramento Poetry Center
tonight 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!

 

…sleepy in a square of sunlight…