Friday, May 23, 2025

Light Out of Dark

—Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,
Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down for
Form Fiddlers’ Friday, with poetry by
Nolcha Fox, Lynn White, 
Stephen Kingsnorth, and Caschwa 


MISTY MORNING

Waking.
It’s a dark sky misty at morning,
a frightfully blazing lamp.
Nobody knows what’s coming.
What about logic?
Should I run with go-bag?
Or is day promising illumination?
I’ll walk out anyway,
light out of dark
so much possibility—
summits and sloughs, portals, vistas.
Down with walls that block my passing.
Mind ajar,
I’ll follow inklings, instincts,
my imagination roving. 
 
 
 

 
STRANDED

in my own driveway, car idling while I
close our gate. Back to car. Door won’t open.
Locked, windows up. Dog in the car with key in
ignition, engine running. Spare key up
hill in house. House locked tight after reports
of some crazy woman knocking on doors,
trying to get in. Phone in pocket. Call
AAA. Iffy reception but I
have a tow truck coming. Watch dog in car
trying to bust through driver’s window to
chase neighbor’s free-range chickens in our field.
Dog locked me out. Nice guy from AAA
opens car door. All is well. He goes his
way. In driver’s seat, I reach for seatbelt.
It’s bitten through. I must contain Otis
more securely in his hatchback quarters. 
 
_____________________
 
IF I’D LET HIM

Quickery-slickery
Otis of ForestWild
never just journeying,
ever alert.

Prey is his fantasy
sensory-vigilant,
rabbit as main course with
hare for dessert. 
 
 
 
 
 
DUAS 3

nestbox 2, five blue eggs—box 3, four tiny beaks

box 5 had none, now full of wren-twigs & hope

**

wildflowers in lavish bloom along trail

someone’s garden rose trampled underfoot

**

an hour to lose & find myself in nature maze

man & 2 boys—do they know where they’re going? 
 
 
 

 
WHERE NOW?

Ghost pine leans over woodland posted “no trespass” where homeless would camp.

At the edge of canyon, woman with handicapped boy stand wondering.

Young man at dropoff looks down on green-shady ravine. His bike just waits. 
 
 
 

 
UNFORTUNATE SITUATION

Armed with motor-scythe I set out to cut the weeds
already turning brown and dead but rich with seeds
to propagate themselves another year, their deeds
daunting: against weeds, who in this battle succeeds? 
 
 
 

 
Today’s LittleNip:

AMONG ROCKS & WEEDS
—Taylor Graham

Behind strip mall, one
red poppy blooms—why here? it’s
Memorial Day.

___________________

That Otis is a real firecracker! A spirit as wide and as wild as all the Sierra forest! (And Taylor Graham’s patience is just as huge—) Our thanks to her for her poetry and photos today, and for her homage to Memorial Day.

Forms TG has used this week include a Double Dactyl (“If I'd Let Him”); some Duas (“Duas 3”); some Blank Verse that is also a Response to our Tuesday’s Seed of the Week, Stranded (“Stranded”); a Lipogram (no "e"s)  that is also a Response to last week’s Ekphrastic Photo (“Misty Morning”); an American Sentence Poem (“Where Now?”); an Awit (“Unfortunate Situation”); and a Haiku (“Among Rocks & Weeds”). The American Sentence and the Awit were last week’s Triple-F Challenges.

In El Dorado Country poetry this week, Lara Gularte will present a workshop, “Writing Words to Light the Way”, at the El Dorado Hills Library on Thursday, 5:30pm. 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!  
 
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!

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 Nolcha Fox, Lynn White, and Stephen Kingsnorth:



MISTY MOMENT
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

A locomotive light is all
that brightens up the day.
The smoke shakes hands
with fog and disappears
without a nod.
The locomotive doubles
in the puddles to the side.
Ghostly trees reach out
to grab the moment
as it leaves.

* * *

ALL THAT IS SOLID
—Lynn White, Blaenau Ffestiniog, North Wales


It seems too solid
to be held in a cloud
and the sun seems too bright
to descend from a cloud
and make a reflection
in the pool of dark
and the cloud seems too round
to hold the moon
in the gloom
and nothing looks right any more.

* * *

SOME SNAP
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Through fog suspense of sullen moist,
slow metal chugs, tank billows’ store,
low geyser outlets, pistons, fore,
top funnel roll that clouds the more.

Flat stagnant pools that might be oil
reflect that lone lamp in it all—
such winter murk, trees reaching tall,
undressed for months since autumn fall.

There’s rhythm beat in laid sound track,
despite that dull noise-muffling cloak
of hanging vapour clogged with smoke,
invading cab, trained drivers choke.

So which pervades, gives higher score,
predictable and regular  
chuff overture, joint rollover
or damp grey woolly pullover?

What swirls round heads of footplate crew
as peer ahead or concentrate
to gauge the pressures, dial rate,  
whether conditions make for late?
 
Delays for travel, air or road—
where speed reduced to pace of snail—
but few concerns, laid sleepers, rail,
less veil of tears shrouds red light tail.

See tracery of vaulted roof,
a branch line, clear scene if less drear—
a cold steam chest for atmosphere—
some snap (‘ensure the sun’s to rear!’).

* * *

TG posted some Duas today; here are some others from Caschwa (Carl Schwartz), with photos also from Carl:
 
 

 
Somewhere above me are keener eyes than mine
 
And they watch every move I make
 
 

 
A large waterfowl rests on the pond
 
Even its reflection is grand
 
 

 
Deer share their homes
 
Mine is double-locked
 
 
 
 
Here is the crew I hired to haul away rubbish
 
Far more efficient than humans

* * *

This Haibun from Carl is a Response to our recent Tuesday Seed of the Week, “Stranded”:
 
 

 
STRANDED, FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL
—Caschwa

Away from home, dearly missing the affection and
comforts of my parents, cat, dog, all my toys. I was
left on an island of strangers, assertive adults with a
new set of rules, denials, leaving us kids with the
quandary of can’t take part of home to school, but
must take part of school home. Forced to trade out-
door daylight discoveries for indoor tours of dark 
tunnels of knowledge. Back at home, everyone has 
a neck, here at school, no necks visible, just Eliza-
bethan collars.

It’s skulls and crosswalks
no sweet goodies as reward
only letter grades

* * *

A List Poem from Carl:
 
 

 
I WISH THEY’D JUST PRINT IT OUT
—Caschwa

On TV they showed some fellow from
an institution or committee or something
that had WAC in its name, but they never
divulged what they intended WAC to mean.
That leaves it to people everywhere to try
to postulate what it might mean. Here is
my attempt:


Warm And Cozy
Warm Apple Cider
Winston Apple Churchill
Wife And Children
Whittle And Curve
Worst Ad Campaign
Weep And Cry
Wipe Away Carefully
We Are Clones
Which Answers Count
Women And Children
Witches And Curses
Wobbly And Confused
Wars Are Chaotic


* * *

This poem is a variation on the Borrowed First Line form, in the it also has a Borrowed Last Line:
 
 

 
 LHD, ETC.
—Caschwa

“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.” [Medusa’s footnote, bottom of each post] Kind of like British cars such as Rolls Royce and Bentley sold as Left-Hand-Drive (LHD), if the steering column is on the left-hand side:

The tradition of mounting a horse from the left side primarily stems from military practices. Soldiers, typically right-handed, would mount their horses from the left side to avoid their sword, worn on the left, from interfering with the mounting process or being accidentally struck. This tradition has persisted even though swords are no longer a standard part of equestrian attire.

* * *

And speaking of left turns, here is an Ars Poetica from Stephen Kingsnorth as he writes about what happens when a poem takes a left turn of its own:
 
 

 
NOWHERE
—Stephen Kingsnorth

How strange that,
destination planned and title given,
calamnus raised, the flow soon takes a stranger turn
and I am on an unexpected road,
falling into some unexpected pothole of conceit.
Where will this quill lead?

Who can obey the unities
when ouija musings' mutinies take charge,
and I am led I know not where,
a herring in the shoal,
or starling in a murmur.
I weep, then chuckle at the thought, flourish
oratorically,
then clichèd comment on the point,
count the feet, then freely speak, though
metre tries again, exert control.

In youthful art of plaster cast
on Wednesday afternoons
when rugby, cricket need avoid,
and speech through other medium explored,
though, as customary,
(false-prophet tutor to mature foretells)
elements need to be explained
to those who wish to understand.

Pedestrian when I share insight
though more I feel, may travel more,
rambling wayfarer with quickened plod,
variously vagrant drifter, vagabond
of trifles, purposed hiker.
I know because I was there,
the richest seam,
but sometimes I find nowhere.

__________________

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.) Play around with the Lipogram like Taylor Graham did (see above), or jump in with both feet and write a Pangrammatic Lipogram:

•••Lipogram/Pangrammatic Lipogram: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lipogram

•••AND/OR take a cue from Taylor Graham and write a poem in honor of Memorial Day—Ode, Elegy, Memoir—or no form at all.  Pretend you’re a Poet Laureate and have to write something for your city.

•••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 “Chasing Poems”.

____________________

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

•••American Sentence (Allen Ginsberg): https://poetscollectivepoetryforms.wordpress.com/2014/12/21/american-sentence
•••Ars Poetica: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ars-poetica
•••Awit (Philippines): https://poetscollectivepoetryforms.wordpress.com/2014/03/03/awit
•••Blank Verse: literarydevices.net/blank-verse AND/OR www.masterclass.com/articles/poetry-101-what-is-the-difference-between-blank-verse-and-free-verse#quiz-0
•••Borrowed First Line: Just what it says.
•••Double Dactyl: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/double-dactyl
•••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
•••Elegy: https://poets.org/glossary/elegy
•••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
•••Lipogram/Pangrammatic Lipogram:  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lipogram
•••Memoir: www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/memoir (may be written in poetry form)
•••Ode: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ode
•••Response Poem: creativetalentsunleashed.com/2015/11/18/writing-tip-response-poems
•••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!
 






























Thursday, May 22, 2025

Waiting . . .

 —Poetry about Revolutions by Lynn White,
Blaenau Ffestiniog, North Wales
—Public Domain Photos
 
 
NINETEEN FIFTY SOMETHING

It was the time when teenagers were born
to parents who had given up their shape
to fit into old people’s clothes
so they could hold the line,
to try to stem the flow
of the coming revolution.

It was the time when music became dangerous
and could no longer speak across generations,
a time when new alliances were formed
and old ones forgotten or misremembered.
New friends, new foes,
new fears alongside the old.

Such was that time
back in the beginning,
back in the beginning of our time
the time when we began
to make ourselves up
and run free
for a time.

(First published in
Mocking Owl Roost, 2024)
 
 
 

 
A TIMELY REVOLUTION


“I’m late,
I’m late again”,
said the White Rabbit
staring at his pocket watch
with exasperation.
He turned the minute hand back a little
and perused the new time
with satisfaction.
He knew the effect would be limited,
that there would be no revolution
in time
unless he could turn back the hands
on all the clocks everywhere,
but it made him feel better
briefly.
He had pondered this issue many times.
He knew that the revolutions of clocks
and watches were irrelevant
to its passing,
which made him feel better
about his manipulation.
Philosophically speaking,
he knew that he could change the time.
He could break the watch and freeze it.
Break all the wheels that revolved inside.
Smash them to smithereens.
But even then,
even when
broken,
he knew
the wheels of time would keep turning,
that even, given time,
there would be no timely revolution.
The wheels would still turn
time after time.



(First published in
Lothlorian Review, January 2021)
 
 
 

 
CAROUSEL

Round and round,
go the galloping horses
round and round and up and down
with smiling faces on the merry-go-round.

But as time passes
and smiles fade,
gaudy colours
become drab,
faces pale
and worn.

look,
they’re
all
disheveled
now
lurching
and
staggering
round and round
on the
treadmill
of the merry-go-round.

Round and round.
Round and round.
One more revolution
and they may be ready.
Ready to bite the hands
that refused to feed them.

Round and round.
Round and round.
Only one more revolution,
to sharpen up the teeth.
Round and round,
just another revolution
on the not-so merry-go-round.


(First published in Alternate Route, October 2022)
 
 
 
 
 
 I AM A CHILD

I am a child of the revolution
created by the wake of
fascism and imperialism,
that sought to construct
a more just society.

I am a child numbed by poverty,
stultified by working class conformity,
of a mother who wanted better for me,
but also wanted to keep me the same.

I am a child of these contradictions
who became a rebel
in the cultural revolution
of the rock-and-roll generation.
Who was liberated by student life,
by control of fertility,
by other places,
by the music and art
all parents hated.

I am still that child.
This is what made me.
This is what shaped me and
became part of my present,
became part of my future.

Sometimes I have tried to escape it.
Sometimes I still do.

(First published by Ealain, My Heritage, May 2015)
 
 
 

 
JUST HAIR

First came the flowers,
then the song.
Then, in time
many songs
of hope
and love and peace
becoming
intertwined
in Hair.
A revolution.
Time passed.
Then came the spikes
and streaks and shaves
of grungy aggression
and despair.
A revolution.
Time passed.
Now there’s a medley
of coloured words.
The dark and bright
past
intertwined.
Revolutions dying
and being born.
Pasts intertwined
in the words
and in the hair.



(First published in
Vox Poetica, August 2018)
 
 
 

 
THE REVOLUTION IS POSTPONED

The revolution is postponed
until the towels are on,
so they once said.
Until
last orders had been called
and the beer pumps
covered
with towels
to make it clear
that they would be pulled no more
that night,
ten minutes drinking-up time
then it was,
“do your talking
while you’re walking”,
we’ve had your money, now piss off,
and a beery smokey exit.
Unless
there was a lock-in
in which case the revolution
would be postponed again.
Now they’re open all hours.
There’s no last orders,
no need of towels
to cover the pumps.
No ten minutes
allowed to drink up.
They’re open all hours
and the revolution is postponed.
Again.


(First published in
Literary Yard, May 2018)
 
 
 

 
WAITING, STILL WAITING

I’m still waiting for the revolution
in thinking,
in acting,
in feeling,
to happen.

I’m still waiting for it all to collapse
so we can reform
reshape
remake
it from the ruins.

Still waiting, waiting
it’s too long
to be waiting
for growing,
restoring,
recreating
rethinking

and then to watch
them rebuild it the same.
Only the masks are new.

I’ve not waited for that.
No, I’ve not waited for that.


(First published in
Stripes Magazine, Spring 2021)

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Art is either plagiarism or revolution.

—Paul Gauguin

___________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Lynn White for today’s fine poetry from across the sea!

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!
 
And Peter Spencer writes on Facebook: The closing ceremony for Viola's and my collaborative art project, The Ghosts of Electricity, will be held from 4-6pm tomorrow (5-22). The art is on display at the SMUD art gallery located in their building at 6201 S Street in Sacramento. It will be a casual event where I will talk about the project and read a couple of Viola's poems written in response to art (known as ekphrastic poetry). In addition, ten excellent local poets responded to photos of mine and some will read their poems. Hope to see you there!
 
 
 

 
















 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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!
 

 
 
 













 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Wednesday, May 21, 2025

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!
 

 

















 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Tuesday, May 20, 2025

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!