Survival

 

—Poetry by Linda Klein, Playa Vista, CA
—Illustrations Courtesy of Public Domain

THE SCULPTOR

A large, moist block of clay awaited his touch and imagination.  It stood on a solid wood pedestal and was covered with damp cloths to keep it supple and to prevent the studio air from drying it.

Ah, the air, a variety of musty, vaporous odors, a treat for his nostrils as he entered the room each morning.  The air told of the clay's origins and composition.  It brought images of plants, trees, and animals, decomposed, buried deep inside the huge lump of clay.

To the sculptor, it was as though they were there in the room alive again, a wild forest of long ago, creatures ambling through shrubs and grasses.  Behind trees caches of badgers, beavers, spiraling snakes, foxes, and wolves, with their animal scents, co-existing, moving about among the vegetation, consuming it as they went.

He reached inside the moist clay to reveal the scene, first with his hands and fingers, then an arm, and found a baby deer.  The deer looked at him curiously, lovingly.  Its ears curved as leaves curve.  The sculptor caressed its bowed head.  With a cutting tool he carefully carved the rest of its graceful body from the dense mound of clay.

He continued passionately, digging in deep to find as many forms of life as he could.  He must release them all, bring them back to life again.  They were counting on him.

 

 

 

   

                                                                        

SURVIVAL

From day to day, all in all, life is tragic.
It passes with a flutter of the wind.
Survival requires a link between luck and logic,
maintaining a safe and even spin.
All around me things are changing.
Against my will, my world is rearranging.
I have lost so much for which I cared.
Often I wonder what is happening,
what unimaginable horrors await.
I pray to escape, not be trapped in.
I struggle in a prison of fate.
Yet, in spite of not knowing what lies ahead,
my life force is strong.  I refuse to lie dead.

 

 

 

                                                          

A TURTLE ADAPTS

His shell was his home, not a burden,
though it slowed him down.
What mattered most was security.

He'd pull his head, tail, and feet inside
and rest from the day's travels,
from his journey's travails
and stay still as a rock
while pulling in the sun's rays,
yet cool and undetected, protected.

The journey was long, but it didn't matter.
He had all of eternity to be
peaceful, sheltered, and covered.

____________________
                         
Today’s LittleNip:

PASSAGE
—Linda Klein

Swift bird, fly on.
Let your strong wings
carry you to new, unknown places.

While I follow with trust and love,
a passenger, shielded beneath
those sure, fanned wings.

____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Linda Klein for her fine poetry today!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For upcoming 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?
All you have to do is 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’s Glimmer of Hope
(A cookie from the Kitchen for today)

whirling squirrels
make dervish-rings
around the patient
evergreen~

Caesuras of Your Heart

 

Hum

—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,

Sacramento, CA

 —Photos by Joyce Odam

 

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. 4/6/21)

____________________

now the bow is drawn
sunray holds the glint of scales
in a catch of shade

just beneath the plane of view
arrow whispers to the heart

 
—Robin Gale Odam

 

 

 

Softspoken

 

HE WHISPERS AS HE BRUSHES BY
—Joyce Odam

I almost hear his word.
He whispers and averts his eye.

We touch the narrowed walls
that soften down the muffled halls.

I think he threatened me
with love. I think he said goodbye.
 

(prev. pub.in Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/5/21)

___________________

INSOMNIA VIII
—Robin Gale Odam

A furious sun had surrendered to dark-
ness. The day had cast something into

the twilight—it lingered over my sleep
and lured me to the wake of night, like

a fisherman casting into ripples above
the shadows that fall through dreams.


(prev. pub. in Brevities, July 2016)

 

 

 

Voices

RUMOR AS TRUE
—Joyce Odam

What is this force of blueness
that comes from everywhere,
that we know will swallow us.

Look how it is forming—   
becoming a climate.

It knows where we are.
It has not yet made a decision.
Come, let us dress for the weather.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/12/22) 

 

 

 

Narrative

 

FATHER FRAGMENT
—Joyce Odam

My father is an old rumor.
Where is he now,

his lifelong disappearance
still disappearing?

Life goes one way by itself.
What if my life had held him?

Father, I name you ghost.
Ghost-Father.  Haunt.  Haunt.
                           

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen 6/2/10;
11/1/11; 6/19/12; 6/23/15)

 

 

 

To Say

 
PAGES FULL OF RAIN
—Joyce Odam

And now we get into lines
that stagger away
and down

the page
of your thought
that builds and carries

and we get to your
breaking parts—those
caesuras of your heart and

the abstract hesitations
of your eyes—and the way
you whisper to yourself,

and we get to the reason
you allow yourself to follow
what you do not know,

and I love
the way the rain
leads the way with this.

             
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 10/11/11; 11/9/21) 

 

 

 

Undertone

 

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) 

 

 

 

All Said

 

SIGHINGS
—Joyce Odam

Song becomes song, which becomes
whisper, which becomes lament.

All has been told, and told again in silences.
There is a rage that has been tamed.

Something in the eyes commands light.
Darkness cowers.

Only love knows love,
which becomes honest. This is true.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/12/19;
2/16/21; 7/16/22) 

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

now to remember
it was then and nevermore
ever shall I pine

gathering the cherry fruit
we were in the childhood then


—Robin Gale Odam

____________________

Joyce and Robin Gale Odam have sent us fine murmurings about our Seed of the Week, Murmurations, and we send back our thanks, as always, for their poetry and for Joyce’s photos!

Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week. Our new SOW is “Toxic Relations”. 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

 

 

"… and I love the way the rain leads the way…"

 —Photo Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that, in addition to
Sac. Poetry Center’s weekly
Tuesday night workshop in Sacramento,
there will be a Poets and Writers Workshop
in Cameron Park today at 5:30pm.
For info about these and other
upcoming 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?
All you have to do is 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’s Glimmer of Hope
(A cookie from the Kitchen for today)

tapestry of wet leaves
blankets the black
asphalt—
and more to come!

Murmurings of Murmuration

  

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy

of Stephen Kingsnorth
—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth, Nolcha Fox,
Caschwa, Sayani Mukherjee, and Joe Nolan
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Stephen Kingsnorth and Joe Nolan

TRANSIT
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Loud voices soothe to murmur sighs,
wool nimbus clouds spin, lined with gold,
cumulo murmurations claim
last acrobatic swirl display
against the brooding blood screen sky.

Flit flight of polkas merge in play,
fledge starlings search their lodging ledge,
oil speckled green, stab beaks lie down,
when birds dream guano, cushion nest,
and stooping threat of sparrowhawks.

As morning star hails day’s decline,
the plough dips still, plods weary home,
signs, zodiac, rotate, foretell,
as whispered conversations spell
transit, the glory of dusk space.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Stephen Kingsnorth

MURMURS
—Stephen Kingsnorth

What are these murmurs that I hear?
Air eddied lifts that swirl so near,
my flapping lobes as strain from ache
of catching where the flow seems bent;
no twitter feed of twilight fights,
or dusky notes of lullaby,
from ground to arching dome, traced vaults,
no evensong ’gainst birds of prey.

A gentle thudding, currents brushed,
alight, slight drum beats, inner ear,
the patter, sounds, as curve rebounds
in interwoven wing tip swings.
In wispy curls like smoke unfurled,
what’s seen provokes no crackle fire;
the murmurs sound from open mouths,
amazed at wonder in their eyes.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

THAT HAIR
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

I’m not imagining things. It’s real. It’s the hair on my chin. Not a big, brash black hair. No, it’s a color entirely invisible under light. I hear it in the dark morning hours, whispering. I hear it on windy days, rustling. I can feel its bristle when I rub my chin. Don’t tell me to pluck it or wax it. I’ve tried that. The next day, it’s back. With a suitcase of swear words and a sour expression. It threatens to bring back five of its friends the next time I try to get rid of it. I don’t want to start a new career in the circus as the Gorilla Girl. Can somebody please give this hair a home that’s better than my chin?

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

SNO IT A RUM RUM
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

(with apologies to "A Little
Drummer Boy")

hold your hands up high
and just let it snow
just let it go
you won’t even know

sno it a rum rum
order that drink
don’t try to think
top off with pink

raise your glass up
over your head
while lying in bed
leave nothing said

cancel your plans for
the rest of the night
better worlds in sight
drawn by the light

sno it a rum rum
order that drink
don’t try to think
clank, clunk, and clink

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

 OFF THE CHART
—Caschwa

what if one’s mother was
somewhat less than superior?
or their dad was more of a
Mr, Break It than a Mr. Fixit?

nonetheless, they can still hold
those glorious family titles

if I ever get the chance, I
would love to visit the South
and sample some of their
cooking. Heard that it is a
culinary experience that
leaves one in Heaven

well worth it to put up with
clear disregard for the rules
of grammar, spelling, and
punctuation, or the casual
dismissal of any scholarly
or academic pursuits

just sit me down at the table
and serve me a plate of extreme
sensory satisfaction; I’m in.

 

 

 

For a neatly trimmed lawn, order a pair of sheep.

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

TIME MACHINE TACTICS
—Caschwa

After we thought the Civil War
had ended, we really screwed
up, because there were still all
kinds of flaming embers to put
out. If only we could jump in
our time machine and have
another shot at it….

OK it’s over!! We won! Now
we have to keep those tricky
Confederates from claiming
that they were the victors, going
around .putting up hero statues,
and generally acting like they
were in charge. The answer is
to do what other winners of war
have done: sell the losers into
slavery. What an auction that
would be! White and feisty, really
nice, that’ll help to up the price.

We would have money in our
coffers to pay the war debt, and
just for a nice bonus, when
Congress can’t agree on a new
budget, we’d already have more
money on hand to keep the
government running longer.

Income tax? Thanks, no thanks,
we’ll just put that on hold until we
really need it.

If only we had that second chance… 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan 

 

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

The fountain had its heights
The maverick of Springfield season
Each had its plenty
Mahogany branches
Full of spring season quilt
Moonlight by the shadows
It had its fall
Falling over bemused darkness
The noontide heaven of
Lost symphonies
Trees by the fringe side
Cover of darkness
A descriptive zeal
Heavenly shadows by the wrong fence
A dull moment of ragged feast
The fountain's courtly vehicle
I survived the two-penced crowd
Making the nightmares blue
Out of a dark sonnet
My fountain had its climax
So full of plenty
It died a blooming shore.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

MUSING
—Sayani Mukherjee

There goes my path
Of unflinching state
Devotees of choir sang
An unsung ballad
Trees whispering a
Mountain of trees
Cobalt blue of musing
Masterpiece
I jumped an untrodden museum
Kite runners held their guns
Glory’s unmet desires
Full of nonchalant melody
It is the season of
Unspoken understanding
Vanilla-blue topaz in my hand
My path rained a thousand
Prophet songs
Devotees of choir of
Newly built musing. 

 

 

 

 Who’s Counting?
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

DIONYSUS AND PERSEPHONE
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

Dionysus has gone blind
In pursuit of Persephone
Who never could commit
Because of a prior engagement
With Hades in the realm of the dead.

No matter the volume of wine,
Mornings would moan, “Not mine.”

No one can hold Persephone
Beyond her allotted time
On Earth,
Which makes it all the more precious,
More painful, more sublime.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan 

 LOOK AT GAZA
—Joe Nolan
 
When the smell of death
Has driven out the flies,

When from under rubble,
We hear children’s cries,

When prisoners
Are slaughtered
In their cells,
By the tens of thousands,

We shall say,
“Look what they’re doing to Gaza!
Don’t sugar-coat genocide.
Just because
They’ve been victims, forever,
We shouldn’t finish them off.” 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan 

 

REMNANTS OF DREAMS
—Joe Nolan

Yesterday dreams
Have come and gone.
Yesterday’s toys
Are left on the lawn
For morning joggers to see.

Not stolen, fortunately.
What are cheap, plastic toys
Worth, anyway, that anyone
Would want to steal them?

So it is that play resumes,
When morning’s fog has cleared—
Time, again, to choose-up teams,
Set new boundaries,
Resume the games,
As though no night had passed
Through which
Pythons and panthers roamed
In darkness,
Across unending plains. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

MINDFULNESS
—Joe Nolan

Mind watching mind
Watching mind
Watching mind,
Like a hall
Of reflective mirrors,
Until mind is full
Of mind-watching-mind—
Thus, you approach mindfulness.

What good will it do
To put one dog in charge of another
Or in charge of itself?
Can it walk itself on a leash?
If it carries its leash in its mouth, it may.

Can you put your mind on a leash
Or will it have wandered away
Down a roadway,
Before you have noticed,
Made of stones,
Constructed by Romans
So long ago,
Noticing aqueducts
That still carry water,
While all roads still lead to Rome—
Leaving your mind unleashed?

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

HOW SWEET IT IS
—Caschwa

I scream
you stream
we all dream
of a new theme

__________________

Today’s post begins with murmurs and sighs from Stephen Kingsnorth, in keeping with our Seed of the Week, “Murmurations”. Such a soothing word that is—but it’s also the term for a collection of swallows, a murmuration. A murmuration of swallows… Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.

On a lighter note, about his poem, “Sno It A Rum Rum", Caschwa (Carl Schwartz) says he took the letters of this week’s SOW and put them in reverse order for the poem’s title. Actually, I like saying sno it a rum rum.

We have noted that Nolcha Fox’s mother passed away recently, and Nolcha wrote poems along the way as her mother became more and more ill. Those poems have been collected into a book, called Cancer Isn’t Just A Constellation: Writing Through My Mother’s Diagnosis and Death, which is available on Amazon at https://www.amazon.com/Cancer-Isnt-Just-Constellation-Diagnosis/dp/B0CNTKXSGP/.

And a note that the December issue of Sac. Poetry Center’s December Poet News is available at https://www.sacpoetrycenter.org/poetnews/. It continues to expand under the guidance of Editor Patrick Grizzell; check it out for events, submission opportunities, and all sorts of helpful po-stuff.

__________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Cartoon Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Sacramento Poetry Center will present
an all-open mic night tonight (plus cake!).
For info about this and other
upcoming 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?
All you have to do is 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’s Glimmer of Hope
(A cookie from the Kitchen for today)

on top of things?—no…
these days I’m lucky
to even be near
the middle of things…

Songs of the Heartland

 

—Poetry by Charles Mariano, Sacramento, CA
—Photos of Merced River
Courtesy of Public Domain

LIFEFLIGHT

i go back
through the written years
the daily notes
endless pages
and see myself,
an incredible view
wings spread
gliding
all those days
hundreds, thousands
of emotions

the colors, shades
dim
to blinding

it seems
my mind traveled everywhere
and yet,
i  never left
a while ago
a concerned friend
called
in the midst of my review
the pages turning,
dazzling my tired eyes
he said to me,
“I knew you’d be there,
stuck in that room”
and i said,

“No,
you’re wrong,
i’m not here,

i’m flying”

 

 

 

 

UNDER THE FREEWAY
(Merced, CA)  

 

Years ago 

when Mama talked about someone,
I’d stop her occasionally
and ask
where this person lived

She’d wave her arm a direction
left or right, and say,

“Ohh, they lived over there, under the freeway”

At first I thought
it was people
who lived underground,
which sounded strange,
but didn’t question it

I realized, as I grew older
she must’ve meant homeless people
camped out
a long time ago,
under the overpass

Why would I doubt it?  
we were poor, so in Mama’s day,
pitifully poorer

Years later
home from college one day,
Mama was telling me a story
about my relatives, and said
they too
lived under the freeway

“Wait a minute, tio Vicente and tia Lupe
lived under the freeway?” I asked

I knew for a fact
they didn’t,
so that had to be wrong

“Just the other side of 13th”
she answered,
pointing towards M Street

I look out the kitchen window
of our house,
the projects on 12th & K
and about fifty feet away
was the massive presence,
of Highway 99

“Si Mijo,” she says,
waving her arms and pointing
that direction again,

“Before the new 99
smashed down all their houses,
they lived right there,
under the freeway”

 

 

 

 

HEARTLAND

i realize
after decades away
thousands of trips home,

Highway 99,
that stretch of road
between Sacramento and Merced,
is now part of me
and constant

holidays, family events
numbing, traumatizing
funerals,

on the 99, always the 99,

i realize
the winding rivers of my youth
flowing all directions
in Merced County,
are also constant

like the river
by Henderson Park
family gatherings,
rafting

or the river in Winton,
by Shaffer Bridge
where we swam,
just down the road
from the sweet potato fields,
we worked

and further down
in Ballico,
another bridge,
the river
where we catfished,
went swimming
near the asparagus fields,
where Daddy worked

and later, as a teenager
drinking, driving
the backroads through Snelling,
along the river,
that led to Mariposa,
and higher,
all the way to Yosemite

from there
the powerful, mesmerizing
Merced River
that rages down the mountains
from Yosemite,
caressing rocks, boulders
to glistening jewels,

flowing wildly, mightily
to the lower valley,
that feeds
into all the streams and rivers
of my childhood

i realize now,
it’s always been

the Merced River
and the 99

that bind,
connect,
converge,

take me home

 

 

 

 

SUPERMAN

Yesterday,
a story in the Sacramento Bee
said a man saved another man
from a horrible fire.  

A man on the side of the road
trapped in a burning car.  
People standing there,
frozen, watching him screaming,
burning to death.  

Suddenly, another car stops,
a man jumps out,
races into the flames,
busts out a window,
and pulls the man to safety.  

“He came out of nowhere,”
a witness said,
“Like Superman!”

The newspaper didn’t say
He was a Mexican immigrant
who spoke no English,
because he was.

It didn’t say
he dove into the fire
to save a white man.  

It didn’t say a Catholic man
saved a Christian man,
or poor man
saved a rich man.  

He was just a man.

Through a translator
they asked this hero
why he risked his life
diving into the fire.  

“He needed help,
so I helped him,”
he answered simply.

Not a brown face,
or a purple face,
a human face.  

Able to leap
religion, race,
insane, stupid politics
in a single bound.  

More powerful
than runaway hate,

…Superman


(Poem reprinted from Song of the San Joaquin, 2009;
Sacramento Bee article referenced was pub. 8/14/2006)

 

 

 

 

MIJA

at some point
all the silly faces
giggles and laughter
will stop,

and my little girl
will look past me,
move on

for today, though,
this sunshine
and funny songs,
six years and counting,
loves me to pieces

wish i could bottle up
her adoration,
pure innocence

“grandpa?”
“yes mijita”
“i sang a new song today
in school”
“you did, that’s great,
sing it to me”

“i love my grandpa,
he loves me too…
we go to the park and laugh
and plaaaayy,
i love my grandpa,
he loves me toooo”

she stops, looks up at me
with that goofy smile,
my heart, in her tiny hands

“please, please, never grow up,”
i whisper

“what grandpa?”

“that was great, mija,
sing it to me again”

 

 

 

 

FOOTPRINTS

don’t want to get into
why
it felt so bad
that we were poor

why
i wore ugly shoes
and pants
that fit too big,
with holes

that brown duplex
on 12th and K
we lived in,

government housing
for those
woefully without

why
it bothered me
yesterday

when i drove by
saw every building
leveled,
an empty lot

i stopped
took it all in
the air
hauntingly quiet

it’s all gone now
like Mama
and my childhood
nothing’s forever

family gatherings
Mama cooking up a storm
in that small kitchen

the black neighbors
the McMartins,
the Harrises
magnificently poor,
like us

shared tables,
best friends

a variety of music
Trio Los Panchos,
Nat King Cole,
James Brown,
blared
out our windows

the sweet smell
of capirotada and barbecue
wafting, curling

a framed picture
of JFK
next to the Virgin Mary
a lit candle in the middle

Thanksgiving, Christmas,
countless birthdays
that ugly house
filled to the brim
with warm memories
every loving inch

don’t want to get into
why
this empty lot bothers me
why my chest aches
for every last
precious piece

i see Mama at the window
her foodstained apron,
hair in bobbypins
her scarf
wrapped tight around her head
like Aunt Jemimah,

waving goodbye

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

INVISIBLE
—Charles Mariano

it’s so easy
to not see them,
farmworkers
in the fields

but they’re there
always there

rows and rows
of stick figures
against the sun

bundled, faceless
chopping, picking,
dying

it’s okay,
it’s them, not you

just turn your head
slightly,
drive by
pretend…

they’re not there

__________________

—Medusa, with many thanks to Charles Mariano for his fine poetry today! Charlie’s book, Between Here and There: Central Valley Off the 99, is available at https://emiliosoltero.blogspot.com/2021/04/charlie-marianos-new-book-between-here.html/.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For upcoming 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?
All you have to do is 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’s Glimmer of Hope

(A cookie from the Kitchen for today)

silent as a cloud,
puma stalks deer
in gathering twilight

 

Discovery And Decision

 

—Poetry by Charles A. Perrone, Santa Cruz, CA
—Artwork Courtesy of Public Domain

FROM MY NEW CELL COMPLETE WITH
DESK CALENDAR

The tigers in colour photos look at me
as if something ultra-feline were at stake,
and I fake a fee-fearful response just to be
accommodating and an overall nice guy.
But then I think of the others who thought
that sending me pictures would make a dif-
ference in the conjuncture of feral beings.
I, after all, am not striped nor too sure, sorry...

 

 

 

 

DISCOVERY AND DECISION

My dear spouse sent me on a mission
to the guest room to open the storage
to look for old robes with tattered hems
that she had deposited there long ago
I did not think to question my assignment
though she herself could easily have gone
The space had not been occupied in a while
so it was a bit dusty but the closet door was
closed and the interior was somewhat less
untidy
The robes were nowhere to be seen on
hangers
But there on the shelf they were: folded
garments
Inside the tatters and folds I found a silver
spoon
and a locket with snippets of hair and
threads
and an engraved inscription: H e m l o c k.
Here I am still working on vetting that

 

 

 

 

DREAMED VS. DREAMT

dreams are dreamt and meant to occur
dreams are dreamed and deemed to be
dreams are dreamt to justify oneiric activity
dreams are dreamed to unleash imagination
dreams are dreamt to enjoy spatial disorient-
ation
dreams are dreamed to so go with aerial
flotation
dreams are dreamt to let logic lose its few
bearings
dreams are dreamed to allow illogic to gain
steams
dreams are dreamt to compare cool compari-
sons
dreams are dreamed daily and nightly to be
sure
dreams are dreamt to be fertile fodder in
jovial journals
dreams are dreamed to be folly filler in
frightful freefall
dreams are dreamt / dreamed as participles
participating in practical parcels of time
travel
dreams are dreamt and dreamed over and
over
in endless ceaseless unyielding consistent
rotations....

 

 

 

 

 

FURTHER CONTEMPLATIONS OF DOGS

How would you dare to compare
this pair of opinionated creatures?:
the reliable for-prey howling wolves
and the playful hunter hooting owls.

Naught at all chime in the local canines.
Our guaranteed responses to loud sirens–
be they of ambulances, cops or firetrucks–
are, as long expressive sustained notes,
better than both and bother no one.

Or so we are told by our dear guardians.

 

 

 

 

HARD HAT MAN

Their instructions were so perfectly
clear: if I were to enter the feared
restricted area I would have to wear
a colorless hard hat. Of course, I
assumed this rule was universal, de-
signed to ensure cranial protection
for all. However, after a while in
the zone of danger I was able to
come to an alternate conclusion: the
tough heavy lid was actually to pre-
vent so many rebellious and infect-
ious ideas from drifting out of my
ownknowingly loud skull and into the
lull of the place where they keep all
these others on the edge of dull, in
abeyance, captive and silent.

 

 

 

D-DAY OF RECKONING

The time has come to recognize the need to
reconcile this wreck of a body of knowledge
with the silo of grains of wisdom
that has become available to me
should I wish to avail myself of it
before pesky alternative versions
of my self re-emerge on the ledge
of the whirled stage of auto-configuration
and the surface reconnaissance missions
I am forced to endure during the play the
wright has finished penning to send along
to the duly determined diviners of destinies

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

DIVINE TITLE: SEE BELOW
—Charles A. Perrone

God (aka The Supreme Deity
or Being, He/She can decide)
surely knows how to avoid
all sorts of self-assignation
as well as long appellations
lest listeners be distracted
by the pomp and then let
their imaginations allow
them to romp in fronted
fields of fruitless fantasy

___________________

Kitchen Newcomer Charles A. Perrone was born in the Empire State of New York, grew up in the Golden State of California, last studied in the Lone Star State of Texas, finished his working days in the Sunshine State of Florida, and has returned to the West Coast to enjoy retirement between the seashore and the redwoods. His not-so-secret-anymore life as a published poet spans the Americas and the oceans, as well as the Internet; his poetry has appeared in books and journals (print and digital) in USA, Canada, UK, Mexico, Brazil and Australia. Three of his chapbooks were published by moriapoetry, and his volume, Designs: Blueprints of Floorplans of a Provisional Residence, was released by cyberwit in 2022. Welcome to the Kitchen, Charles—don’t be a stranger—and those of us who live inland do love Santa Cruz, and we envy you for living there!

____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

Charles A. Perrone

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For upcoming 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?
All you have to do is 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’s Glimmer of Hope
(A cookie from the Kitchen for today)

ant trail of cars
slowly creeps
along the highway—
another damn
traffic jam…