Catching Ourselves

 Midnight Shooting Star
—Ashwini Biradar, Pune, Maharashtra, Incia
* * *
—Poetry by Steven Bruce, Wydry, Poland
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

MIDNIGHT VERSE, I

In the night,
sirens sing lullabies
to the restless.

We lie awake,
waiting for the next wave
to swallow us.

 

 

 

 Midnight City
—Ash Hussein, Baltimore, MD

THEY’LL ASK, WHAT IS IT?

It, because the night’s lonely.


It, because the morning’s worse.


It, because we forgot
how to live without
a crutch.

It, because it doesn’t judge.


It, because it fills
and leaves us empty.

 

 

 

Tannhäuser (1886) by Henri Fantin-Latour

APHRODITE, BEAUTY THERAPIST

Thirty minutes to transform trouts
into sirens.
Aphrodite paints nails blood-red.
Waxes bikini lines.


Draws eyebrows with soldier’s precision.


Tells her clients, Gorgeous, babe, gorgeous.

Her laughter hides desperation.


Her foundation hides bruises.

Sometimes,


she catches herself
in the mirror.
Older, sharper, tired.


Wonders


if beauty ever loved her back

 

 

 

 Jupiter and Semele by Gustave Moreau

ZEUS, RETIRED CEO

His lightning cufflinks gather dust.


His phone stopped ringing
two summers ago.
Zeus watches daytime television.


Shakes his fist at the neighbours.


Yells at thunderstorms,
like an old general


cursing a disbanded army.

Once, he ruled from a sky-tower office.


Now he wrestles to unscrew
jam jar lids.

_______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Let us live for the beauty of our own reality.

—Charles Lamb

_______________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Steven Bruce for today’s fine poetry and a couple of pix, in addition to Ashwini Biradar and Ash Hussein for their artwork.

Medusa’s Kitchen will have its 20th anniversary this May 29, and we will celebrate with poetry, of course. Send a poem that celebrates something—anything—form or free verse—and I’ll post it on May 29. 20 years! Amazing!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.

Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)

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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Black Beads in Winter

 Night Bird Sings To The Night II
—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Visuals by Joyce Odam

 

 

SLEEPLESS
—Robin Gale Odam

The fragile mechanics of pain and the
psyche—the gauzy connection to the dark

The wind of thought—the lift, the senseless
grab-and-run, the indiscernible mar of it

Songbird before dawn—caffeine,
dishes in the sink


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/18/23) 

 

 

 

 Staying In

LOSING TIME
—Joyce Odam

It was because this morning’s full white moon
shone in the window and I happened to look
and could not look away.

It was the endangered way a distracted bird
sat on the fence, so close, outside my intrusion,
and did not fly away when I stood there staring.

It was the studied, patient way a long-dead
picture stared back at me
when I was in a reverie and the clock stared, too.

It was the brooding way I could not answer my
own lost self that could not move, for the world
fell back, and time stayed frozen to my thought.

It was the unrelenting way some time-worn
heaviness became a weight that this day made me
wear—like a heavy garment made of grief.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/5/11; 4/6/21;
12/5/23) 

 

 

 

 The Secrecy

AWKWARD
—Robin Gale Odam

in the dream of climbing
the air, the awkward importance

of height and the senselessness of
dimension—the indiscernible falling

just before waking into the unex-
plainable measure of daylight

                          
)prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/18/23) 

 

 

 

 Because

BLACK BEADS
—Joyce Odam

I wear black beads in winter.
Am I sad?

I wear the black of ceremony,
dimensionless and closed,

a privacy—
a sentimental flaw—

or just a grief,
too long refused.

 
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/15/12; 3/5/24)

 

 

 

 Where To Go

THE REPEATING

—Joyce Odam 



 

Going as far as pity

they come to the torn place in the earth


look for the seed in the drop of water


see it there


look upward and give thanks.


They are religious now.


Fanatics with a cause.


They have taken


all the death and forgiven it.



 

At night they go out


on rituals of loneliness


and choose up sinners.


(They are not perfect.)


They are ragged from living


her old red dress


with sequined hem dragging


making sparks against the stone

s
he carrying the old weapons he used to use


left over from wars and murders


and self defenses.

 



Going as far as remorse


they tear at the earth with their fingers


dig up


the seed and the drop of water


to give to the ravenous bird


with the amputated wings.


And having done with it all again


they kneel 


in the red moonlight.


Thank you for sorrow, they whisper.  

 

 

(prev. pub. in Cellar Door, 1979;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 10/25/11) 

 

 

 

 Yesterday

NECKLACES
—Joyce Odam

I remember the world
of seven to eight—
the Home—

where you left me, Mother,
to redirect our lives
without Father.

I remember the rules
imposed
to fit me in with the others—

abandoned, I thought—
and learning the tics of childhood,
I wet the bed

and was taught by
impersonal punishments to grow shy
and ashamed

and obedient.  I remember the
waiting-hall where I sat on the floor,
to be invisible,

sucking my bottom lip to rawness;
and the long communal tables
of the dining hall

where we ate together,
none sibling to another,
but where one girl

had a bottle of catsup that was
all her own, that she shared
when I asked for some.

And the territory
of the playing-room
with the individual cubicles
                                  
for our individual belongings,
and how I envied one exotic girl
who was Indian, she said,

and who had a coveted box of beads
that she would string
and restring into necklaces.


(prev. pub. in Poets’ Forum Magazine, Sept. 1996;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/5/24)

 

 

 

 A Long Letter

SCORE
—Joyce Odam

the way we play
against Death
with all our charms
our arms held out
for holding
how empty they become
the way life moves through us
like a harm
beginning slowly
then all those years
gaining their soft momentum
crying into mirrors
taking pieces of laughter down
time after time
like finished pictures
of precious calendars
oh, we are not to blame
life is blameless
we are all composed of error
used clay reformed
of thought and air
cold in the winter
because winter is so
synonymous with death
we know that
we fit together
in separate misery
betrayed
abandoned
unforgiving
our own error-choices
put away
in little memory boxes
our bones vibrating with effort
shall we dance
oh, what a complicated harmony
we have become
shall we dance
another music has begun


(prev. pub. in Coffee and Chicory, Feb. 1997;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/26/20) 

 

 

 

 Artifice

SO I WHISPER TO THE WORDS
—Joyce Odam

Imploring them,     repeating them,
becoming intimate with their meanings,

though that is not important to know.
I want,    I need,

their texture—
their silent directives.

Old muse of me
hurts to want so much of them,

thinking them necessary to use for language:
that precision,    that tone,    that undertone.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/19/16; 12/5/23) 

 

 

 

Insomnia III

FOR THE SCRIBE
—Robin Gale Odam

Grave is the act of the scribe—
the trembling note for the score,
the restless phrasing in the stanza, the
deepest mark for the indiscernible script.
 

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/18/23) 

 

 

 

 Autumn Will Find Us

THEIR HISTORY
—Joyce Odam

They were lovers, though they had never met.
One was cruel, the other had a heart as soft as

need; their paths would never cross; their
children would be born to others, theirs was

a tragedy that would never happen. Once, they
met in mirrors—a glance that would let itself

be distracted—that would enter other mirrors
and allow them to miss each other. They would

always regret this, would tell it as a sad part of
their lives. They even had a song for it that kept

their love alive—they would look off into the
distance—they even betrayed each other

—and never forgave.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/26/20)

 

 

 

 Rapt


A LOVE POEM
—Joyce Odam

A woman made of snow cannot love a man of fire,
with all the difference that will torture them
with harsh desire.

A man of snow with all his melting ways,
his summer moods, will always blame
a woman without praise, who also broods.

Alas again, for all inequities by which
imbalances betray. Take music, or take silence;
expect of this what words can never say.

The hollow heart will echo till it fails. What has
abandoned it? Why can’t it listen? It gave and gave
and gave, and gave again, and nothing back will give.

How selfish are the sufferers who have no right to woe.
How helpless, too, the inability of sympathy
to ease a single throe.

Words are useless—fire and snow—
a window placed between a love that streams and ends
at last as rain—the tears love comes to know.
                                                        

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/6/20; 02/13/24)

 

 

 

 Better To Have Loved

WHAT SLUMBERS, WHAT RETURNS
—Joyce Odam

For she is loyal to this wild emotion
she remembers…  tells of…

first she will tell you her long love story,
and drift into its ending…

then the lull while she remembers alone
and is gone from you…

     
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/6/21)

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

TWILIGHT NOCTURNE
—Joyce Odam
                         
In the mauve grove where twilight falls
soft and fragile, where poems

are born in the souls of birds;
where old trees listen to the songs

of shadows; where everything
comes to rest and be safe—even

the terrors—even the dreams
in the minds of the oldest of children—

even the blamed and wounded loves
who have no reunion. There let us

be—in the minds of all that sylvan
bliss, and speak nothing but prayers.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/29/17; 12/24/24)

___________________

Joyce and Robin Gale Odam have presented us with some fine work on the subject of "Stranded", and many thanks to them for that! Our new Seed of the Week is “Chasing poems”. 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’s Kitchen will have its 20th anniversary this May 29, and we will celebrate with poetry, of course. Send a poem that celebrates something—anything—form or free verse—and I’ll post it on May 29. 20 years! Amazing!

___________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
JoAnn Anglin, Richard Turner  

& Susan Flynn
will read at Twin Lotus Thai
in Sacramento tonight, 6pm.
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.

Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column at the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.

Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones  by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Circus of Circumstance

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
* * *
—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Devyanshi Neupane, Sayani Mukherjee,
Caschwa, and Joe Nolan
—Public Domain Poetry Courtesy of
Joe Nolan and Medusa

 

 

I’M A WRECK
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

You abandoned me,
stranded me, knocked
the wind out of my sails.
What a gut punch.
I lost hope. I’m a mess,
a morass of mourning.
See me sink into sorrow,
a shipwreck, forgotten and gone.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo 

Courtesy of Joe Nolan

ALONE, AVERSE
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

As day breaks into fall of night,
dusk time fades line, horizon melt,
the black-white thread of hidden shade,
that strand of thread become the clock.

And on the stretch, long crescent beach,
dividing strand ’twixt land and sea,
the hem that keeps the tide at bay
has shingles, matted, marram grass.

Out there, at end, peninsular,
the colonies, a company
of puffins, gannets, razor bills
in raucous company to breed.

Genetic strands, mixed DNA,
communities, collective crews,
flotilla, fleet, raft, even wreck,
those marine masters, cresting waves.

So thread is cited, day or night,
as sands coast by, bedecked on ship,
but it’s collective, subject, noun,
the common cause alone averse. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo 

Courtesy of Medusa

HURKLE-DURKLE
—Devyanshi Neupane, Age 5,
Melbourne, Australia

Today is Saturday
I am lying in the bed.
And, holding teddy
Because I like it. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

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

The sun and all its flowers
The vision that haunts me
Opening the circus of circumstances
All's well that ends well
That crimson joy of night dreams
Always stand at my periphery
Good days are numbered enough
All that glitters is not gold
God's son is in heaven now
Singing snippets of joyous song
Always ends in a hurry of forgiveness
Till the gates of heaven in choir now. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

MY MIRROR MADE THE SAME ARGUMENT
—Caschwa

(Response to “The Least Became the Most and
This Became the Argument of the Day” by
Joyce Odam, Medusa’s Kitchen, May 13, 2025)

Poet’s dominant left hand on the PC keyboard
conformed with the QWERTY system, while the
errant right hand strayed off a little bit and the
outcome was garbage, not suitable for repetition
or publication. Then the mirror intervened to shoo
the author’s image away from the PC, and position
those same fingers at the piano keyboard, where the
left hand rendered a well tempered series of tradi-
    tional
open and closed chords, topped by the right hand’s
happy, jubilant, clusters of tones: the icing on the   
    cake. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

THOSE SCARY SERVERS
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

(Upon hearing Medusa was having

trouble with the computer server)

My folks had fine China they never took out
it was kept in a hall closet behind other stuff;
I, too, have fine China that was a wedding gift
from decades ago and ended up archived in
cabinets handily out of reach, above the fridge

Maybe if I had one of those big fancy servers
I might be more disposed to use the fine China
but more likely not, after watching a deft waitress
at a local eatery add plate after plate after plate
onto one large server and then, with the server in
one hand and one more dish in the other, maneuver
through a circus of tables, chairs, and wandering
children to deliver several meals, no slippage, no
drops, as perfect as if she was a master of levitation

Well I’m not shopping for a server, not inviting
those daring moments when I alone could ruin a
meal and destroy a fine set of dishes all in the blink
of an eye

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

EARLY FALL
—Caschwa

(a Response to a recent Seed of the Week,
“So Extravagant!”)

Half a year till Halloween and ambitious spiders
on the front porch are finding spots from which
to spin their cobwebs, out of the rain, out of the
sun, paying honor to the yellow porch light which
is normally on 24/7. Certainly they knew in their
dear hearts that the “Welcome” on the mat was
meant for spiders, first and foremost. An abundance
of leaves from the aromatic rose garden and from
other flowering plants and tall trees cling together
like that butcher, baker, and candlestick maker,
giggling in the bathtub, and hug the edges of the
    porch
awaiting with glee the gentle motion of a rake to
realign their little hills. Various neighbors have
    come
and gone, and we’ve learned not to stock up on too
much fun-size candies, as each year fewer kids visit
the door, and our aging organs are no longer able to
metabolize all those tasty left overs.

In my youth, Mom baked
and served us pumpkin pie once
Trick Or Treat was done

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

BIGGER EYES THAN MINE
—Caschwa

(A response to “Fresh Eyes”; this might be called
a WXYZ poem…)

Why can’t we grade our own papers, you ask
What does it matter to mark comments in red?
Who issues degrees just for nodding your head?

Xenophobia failed to keep immigrants off the
    continent, so
X chromosomes dating back to
Xerxes I, became our link to the king of Persia

You didn’t ask for my help
Yet here we are, and I’m grading
Your papers just like all the others

Zombies, you argue, could do this task better, as
Zero human intelligence is required to go to the
Zoo and let the gorillas stare at your papers

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo 

Courtesy of Joe Nolan

BLEACHERS OUTSIDE AUSCHWITZ
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

Don’t take your eyes off the genocide.
They put bleachers
Outside of Auschwitz.
Everyone was watching.
Everyone knew the score.
Everyone was horrified,
But nobody said a thing.

It’s like that, here,
With Gaza—
It’s all across the news.
Everyone is horrified
But nobody says a thing
At our poetry readings.

See, hear, speak no evil,
Lest we ruffle some feathers.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

LOVE IN DISGUISE
—Joe Nolan

Joy in the heart—
Love in disguise
The sweetness of greeting
Pours from our eyes

We just let go
Things move along
In their natural rhythms
We don’t hold on

Or try to train
The growth of budding stems
To the top of their trellis
From which they dangle
Sweet grapes.

We just let go.

______________________

Our thanks to day’s contributors for their fine poetry, and to Joe Nolan for equally fine pix! Our Seed of the Week was "Stranded". Be sure to check every Tuesday for the SOW.

Medusa’s Kitchen will have its 20th anniversary this May 29, and we will celebrate with poetry, of course. Send a poem that celebrates something—anything—form or free verse—and I’ll post it on May 29. 20 years! Amazing!

 

 

 

 Devyanshi Neupane, Age 5, Melbourne, Australia

A reminder that
Poetry in Motion meets today
in Placerville, 10:30am;
and Sacramento Poetry Center’s
readers have been switched to
Evan Myquest and Traci Gourdine
tonight in Sacramento, 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.

Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.

Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)

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!

 

 

 

Seventeen Syllables

 —Poetry by Morley Cacoethes, Cleveland, OH
—Public Domain Photos

Sweet Riffs of Zen Jazz
Blown Seventeen Syllables
At a Time for YOU—

Morley Cacoethes here, friends in haiku. Got five poems to lay down while I'm staying warm in the library, dig? Blessings and beatitudes to you all.

Peace,
Morley Cacoethes

 

 

 

 

Crouched on lake sand,
we smoke, watch the lightning streak
before the storm hits.

* * *

After the rain storm,
yellow sunflower petals
paint the sidewalk gold.

 

 

 

 

Drunk in the snow storm,
each set of passing headlights
causes me to flinch.

* * *

My thumb, my finger,
and Buddha: just enough to
untangle these leaves.

 

 

 

 

Beneath opaque clouds
in beach sand puddles, flickers
of secret movement.

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

This is the moment when we must come together to save this planet. Let us resolve that we will not leave our children a world where the oceans rise and famine spreads and terrible storms devastate our lands.

—Barack Obama

__________________

—Medusa, with thanks to our friend in haiku, Morley Cocoethes, for his fine poems today!

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Poetry in the Sierra Foothills
meets in Camino today, 2pm;
and Poets Club of Lincoln
features Kathy Moore in
Lincoln today, 3pm.
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.

Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.

Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)

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!

 

 

Earth As Man, Man as Earth

 —Poetry by Fay L. Loomis, Kerhonkson, New York
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

LATE APRIL DAY

“tis a cold and snowy morning
flakes flash like coconut slivers
layer the ground

clutches of snow cling to evergreens
hover over white Andromeda blossoms
on a late April day

 

 

 

 

 

QUICKENING

wind riffles pine needles
slivers of tinsel shimmer

lift from mundane
quicken soul 

 

 

 

 

EARTH

husky wind
dark brown soil
sun-dried grass stubble

earth as man

 

 

 

 

LOOKING BACK

life trickles by

too afraid to live
waiting to die 

 

 

 

 

I WEIGH THE IDEA

excruciating leg cramps nightly
even if aborted
throbbing pain following day

eight-year stroke delay
eighty-seven years of age
(stark numbers)

push through exercise
eases suffering
pain never stops

better to stop living
I weigh the idea

 

 

 

 

CHAINSAW PENNIES

Musk says chainsaw the one cent
costs more than three cents to produce.

Does he know the magic a penny holds
for a kid born shortly before WWII?

Candy corn, Bazooka Bubble Gum, licorice—red
    or black
jelly beans, Hot Lips, Tootsie Roll, colored suckers.
    Wow!

Been collecting found coins for several years.
Two tea tins crammed full, mostly pennies.

Bu Shen Yang Gan Tea, astragali for fitness and
    longevity, Pekin Chine
picture of an old  robed man seated on a woven
    mat, cup in hand.

Orange Ginger Mint, The Republic of Tea
displays a teapot, nestled on black leaves, scorch-
    ing red sky.

I pick up paper rolls from the bank
awkwardly wrap the vagabond coins.

Discover I have ten one-dollar bills (who threw
    them away?)
pennies, nickels, dimes, quarters, and two Euros.

I stand at the window while my deposit is counted.
    Two lumpy rolls
rewrapped. The women now understand my
    challenge.

I deposit $34.75 into my checking account.
Not bad for a previous hoarder.

I rarely find money these days
know I’ll never have this experience again.


(prev. pub. in Culterate Magazine, 3/31/25)

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

LONG FINGERS OF NIGHT
—Fay L. Loomis

why frown you so in your sleep, my love
‘tis a time for rest

fall into the long fingers of night

___________________

—Medusa, welcoming Fay Loomis back to the Kitchen, and our thanks to her for sharing her fine poetry!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Zoe Byron will read in
Oakdale today, 1pm; and
Love Jones Vibes takes place
tonight in Old Sacramento, 8pm.
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.

Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.

Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)

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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Night Dreams And Fairy Tales

 —Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,
Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down for
Form Fiddlers’ Friday, with poetry by
Lynn White, Joe Nolan, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Caschwa, Christina Chin, and
Uchechukwu Onyedikam

 

 

DUAS
       

one tall cottonwood on polluted creek

woolly sunflowers flourish everywhere

*

out for exercise she outruns the landscape

bumblebee assesses sweet lupine.

*

heart-locks on bridge keep love from falling

vulture shows off its wings

*

cig-break smoke wafts by Grocery Outlet

above cutbank the tall conifers

*

sky lupine edges grow-nothing asphalt

chainlink holds hillside from encroachment

 

 

 

 

BEGINNINGS AREN’T THE END

At the start of today’s trail, I passed a woman
walking her dog; she returned my nod and smile
with sour. Is this how the rest of the trek
will go? But the path is edged with French broom
in full yellow flower, and here comes a guy
sporting a straw hat, and he breaks into sky-wide
smile and raises two fingers in a victory V.
A house of sunburst gables faces a stringer of oak
and big-leaf maple, leaves filled with last-of-April
green-fire sunlight. How can this trail go wrong?

 

 

 

 

NAMES OF THE WILD

The field’s awash in meadowfoam
as white as clouds above the grasses
with a tide of lupine blue as sky.

Under oaks rise woodland stars,
fairy lanterns lit in secret places,
longspur seablush on the hill—

these flowers that I never knew
until we found this land of rocks
and thistle, diamond snake,

a swift-hawk hunting songbirds,
coyotes stealthing eldritch dusk,
their howl an eerie lullaby.

 

 

 

 

SYLVAN JUSTICE?

Our wise old
oaks were terminated
in the name of wildfire safety.
Our remaining oaks began to fall—I call it
grief, losing support of close-rooted


community. But now
overnight,
what a mess!
A gang of upstarts,
a head-high thicket of bushy green
sprung from a buckeye stump. They didn’t get started
from underground up, making their way
as a seedling oak must.
Is it just?

 

 

 

 

WHAT A MESS

Out of the seed, digging down into earth
to root—no, you might say theirs is inherited
wealth—suckers from a stump.

 

 

 

 

THE THREE WHITE SWANS

Three great white birds on my driveway—swans, Trumpeter Swans! Their leader says, Won’t you make us a path thru the grass so we don’t stain our feathers? And a pond would be nice. So I grab weed-eater and shovel and set to work. Tough going—grasses, wildflowers, weeds chest-high, a tangle of spring green on summer hardpan. By dawn I’ve accomplished nothing. Swans are gone. In their place, three House Sparrows. I’ll start mowing after breakfast.

April casts its spells
in night dreams and fairytales—
white swans on the pond

_________________

Today’s LittleNip:

BETWEEN THE RAILS
—Taylor Graham

Abandoned train track:
NO TRESPASSING sign with
tiniest dog house

_________________

Our thanks to Taylor Graham for today’s fine swans and oaks and tiny dog house! Forms she has used include a Senryu (“Between the Rails”); a Haibun (“The Three White Swans”); a Response to our recent Tuesday Seed of the Week, What a Mess (“What a Mess”); a Triquain chain that is another Response poem (“Sylvan Justice?”); and some Duas (“Duas”). The Triquain and the Dua were last week’s Triple-F Challenges.

In El Dorado County poetry this week, Poetry in the Sierra Foothills features Bridey Thelen-Heidel, Karen Terrey, and Allisyn Gularte this Sunday in Camino, 2pm; and Poetry In Motion read-around meets in Placerville this Monday, 10:30am. Also, El Dorado County’s other regular workshops are listed on Medusa’s calendar (if you scroll down on http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html/). For more news about such events and about EDC poetry—past (photos!) and future—see Taylor Graham’s Western Slope El Dorado Poetry on Facebook at www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry. Or see Lara Gularte’s Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/groups/382234029968077/. And you can always click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html). Poetry is Gold in El Dorado County!  
 
And now it’s time for…  

 
FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY!  

 

It’s time for more contributions from Form Fiddlers, in addition to those sent to us by Taylor Graham! Each Friday, there will be poems posted here from our readers using forms—either ones which were sent to Medusa during the previous week, or whatever else floats through the Kitchen and the perpetually stoned mind of Medusa. If these instructions are vague, it's because they're meant to be. Just fiddle around with some challenges—  Whaddaya got to lose… ? If you send ‘em, I’ll post ‘em! (See Medusa’s Form Finder at the end of this post for resources and for links to poetry terms used in today’s post.)


Check out our recently-refurbed page at the top of Medusa’s Kitchen called, “FORMS! OMG!!!” which expresses some of my (take ‘em or leave 'em) opinions about the use of forms in poetry writing, as well as listing some more resources to help you navigate through Form Quicksand and other ways of poetry. Got any more resources to add to our list? Send them to kathykieth@hotmail.com for the benefit of all man/woman/poetkind!

* * *

 

 

 Last Week’s Ekphrastic Photo

Poets who sent responses to last week’s Ekphrastic photo were Lynn White, Joe Nolan, Stephen Kingsnorth, Nolcha Fox, and Caschwa (Carl Schwartz):


WHO AM I

—Lynn White, Blaenau Ffestiniog, North Wales


I know that soon I must decide.
I can’t escape my curls but
the rest is still a collage
of mismatched pieces
not sure how to look
or whether to smile.
Sometimes I think I have no face,
that I’m entirely made up of disparate pieces
cut and pasted from who knows where
unrecognisable as a face, as my face
and waiting for a breath of life,
waiting for me to decide.

* * *

RE-ASSEMBLED
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

Chopped to bits,
Scattered
Back together,        
Somehow
The outline held.

The lips remained in place.
Complexion like a
Back-splash for a stove,
Just one eye,
Oversized
With pensive gaze. 

* * *

RIGHT JUSTIFIED?
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Now here is make-up of a face,
in each allotted case, the crème—
both eye and lips with pride of place
because they’re mirror, recognised?
Identikit of slotted keys,
those featured portions making mark,
unique as portraiture concerned,
a wanted poster of no use.

This pastel image, window panes
bears little semblance to real flesh
in either mouth or optic, well
no pupil of anatomy—
A cheek, that zygomatic arch,
shaped chin, verisimilitude,
but this not cubist style of art,
still less a part of style I know.

So what of brow and lid or lash,
of temple, dimple set in space?
Is this a mother humanoid,
another’s likeness, relative?
I see four quarters, overlap,
a composite in ratio,
as if a colour chart gone wild
with hex of many, fraught displayed.

What is the context that pertains
to bring perspective to this piece;
unless these motifs have a voice
then few will hear what’s so expressed?
Entitled frame might name the same,
or show the artist’s fame misplaced.
If self-amusement only aim
does that suffice to publish it?

So choose your portion, follow through—
maybe that right side justified—
surreal though, feel overall.
What counts, components of our face?
Assemblage of appendages
accoutrements mixed too portrayed,
but can we face distorted mask,
symbolic statements inked on skin?

* * *

INSIDE OUT
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

My head is full, it needs to share
whatever’s on its mind.
Pieces fall and promenade
behind me as I walk.
Shapes and colors, what a mess.
How did they fit inside?
As fast as they can spill outside,
new thoughts are ready to jump in,
and quickly will replace them.

* * *

WE, THE MICROCHIP GENERATION  

will have to consult with our great-
great-grandparents to figure out what
it is about black-&-white televisions,
with vacuum tubes you have to replace
yourself, and a CRT and a pre-historic
antenna system that requires constant
adjustment, and get this, No remote!

No streaming, no DVR, shuts down
at midnight, most screens under 21”
diagonal, how could anyone survive?
Glad to be among the privileged that
grew up in a culture commensurate
with all the advancements of modern
technology. No need for repairs, just
turn in your old one and they give you
a new one for free.

—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

* * *

Carl Schwartz (Caschwa) has sent us a few Duas, one of last week’s Triple-F Challenges (no titles allowed!):

 

 

 
[NO TITLE]
—Caschwa

Took a seat at the diner’s counter

They played music my late wife liked

    ***

My past rests in containers of ashes

So does my future

    ***

Conquered a very steep hill on my bicycle

Had to teach my lungs how to breathe again

    ***

Flowers already know when to bloom

It is not a well kept secret

    ***

The stinger of a bee

The obligations of marriage

    ***

This will be the last time

Add it to the list

* * *

A List Poem from Carl:

 

 

 

TBTF HAS SOME COMPANY
—Caschwa

Too Big to Fail
Too Broken to Function
Too Backwards to Follow
Too Bankrupt to Float
Too Blighted to Fix
Trials Betray the Flaws
Terror Broadens the Force
Tremors Break the Faith
Traitors Betray their Followers
Tea Bags Timed Fastidiously
Toasted Bagels Taste Fine
Two Boxers to Fight
Teen Boys Tempt Fun
Take Back the Façade
Tiny Bugs Taint Food
The Big Top Folds
Tender Baby Touches Face
Truth Burrows Through Falsities
The Bank’s Terrible Fees
This Broth Tastes Fishy

* * *

Some of Carl's Hot-and-Hardy Haiku:

 

 

 

HARDY HAIKU
—Caschwa

Really prepared folks
keep a 1st, 2nd, 3rd, 4th, and
5th Aid Kit on hand

    ***

You won’t need a Real
ID to ride in my car
this clunker don’t fly

    ***

Well educated
offspring looking for good time
with matching onspring

    ***

Nothing will teach him
lessons, but some fire ants could
share the whole story

    ***

We need to have our
Electoral College rules
exclude Royalty

    ***

Six is unlucky
but it is safe to announce
seven minus one


* * *

This is a Borrowed First Line poem from Carl that is also a Haibun:

 

 

 

UNDERWEAR DEGREE
—Caschwa

“A Cornell student famously presented her thesis in her underwear as a form of protest, highlighting the lack of a degree in that specific field.” I noticed my friend seemed to be uncomfortable, so I offered to help her adjust her training bra. She promptly reminded me that she has a PhD in pawing underwear, so I fed her some kibble and we both went our separate ways.

Oh how I love you!
Let me tell you all the ways…
OK, I’ll shut up

* * *

This week we also received some Tan-Renga from Christina Chin of Malaysia (in plain text) and Uchechukwu Onyedikam of Lagos, Nigeria (in italics):

 

 

 

TOURIST CROWD
—Christina Chin and Uchechukwu Onyedikam

evening breeze
prying pistachios
a canine tooth cracks
the kernel parted
in a smile

    ***

sipping cha
he orders another
paneer naan
mostly stuffed with
chopped spinach

    ***

the pratha chef
kneads two doughs
ever so slowly
watching his favourite
sitcom on TV

    ***

pulling
milk tea in the air
local ‘teh tarik’
the outdoor view
of local stalls

    ***

smoke smell
of barbecue street food
forty-five-minutes queue
not counting
the order time

    ***

pouring peanut
sauce on satay sticks
beach tiki bar
charcoal grills
the freshest taste

* * *

And a final Haiku from Carl:

 

 

 

THE LONDON PHILOSOPHIC ORCHESTRA
—Caschwa

Instruments silent
a whole lot of heavy thought,

debate, fine tuning

__________________

Many thanks to today’s writers for their lively contributions! Wouldn’t you like to join them? All you have to do is send poetry—forms or not—and/or photos and artwork to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post work from all over the world, including that which was previously-published. Just remember: the snakes of Medusa are always hungry!

__________________

TRIPLE-F CHALLENGES!

 

See what you can make of these challenges, and send your results to kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.) The American Sentence poetry form was devised by Allen Ginsberg:

•••American Sentence: https://poetscollectivepoetryforms.wordpress.com/2014/12/21/american-sentence

•••AND/OR the Philippino Awit—be sure to get all these details right:  

•••Awit (Philippines): https://poetscollectivepoetryforms.wordpress.com/2014/03/03/awit

•••See also the bottom of this post for another challenge, this one an Ekphrastic one.

•••And don’t forget each Tuesday’s Seed of the Week! This week it’s “Stranded”.

____________________

MEDUSA’S FORM FINDER: Links to poetry terms mentioned today:

•••American Sentence (Allen Ginsberg): https://poetscollectivepoetryforms.wordpress.com/2014/12/21/american-sentence
•••Awit (Philippines): https://poetscollectivepoetryforms.wordpress.com/2014/03/03/awit
•••Borrowed First Line: Just what it says.
•••Dua (devised by Ai Li): a two-line poems with two spaces between each line, no periods and no titles
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••Haibun: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/haibun-poems-poetic-form
•••Haiku: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/haiku-or-hokku AND/OR www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/haiku/haiku.html
•••List Poem: clpe.org.uk/poetryline/poeticforms/list-poem
•••Response Poem: creativetalentsunleashed.com/2015/11/18/writing-tip-response-poems
•••Senryu: www.masterclass.com/articles/how-to-write-senryu-poems#quiz-0
•••Tan-Renga: https://www.graceguts.com/essays/an-introduction-to-tan-renga
•••Triquain: http://www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/triquain.html
•••Tuesday Seed of the Week: a prompt listed in Medusa’s Kitchen every Tuesday; poems may be any shape or size, form or no form. No deadlines; past ones are listed at http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/calliopes-closet.html/. Send results to kathykieth#hotmail.com/.

__________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

Today's Ekphrastic Challenge!
 
 Make what you can of today's
picture, and send your poetic results to
kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.)

* * *

—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain

 
 
 
 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.

Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)

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!