Tuesday, February 07, 2023

The Whispered Truth of Our Muses

Cold Winter Sun
—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam, 
Sacramento, CA
—Photos by Robin Gale Odam
—Joyce Odam

Waking came slow.
The outside world was forming.
The fog was beautiful in the gray sky.

I thought it was morning, how strange
a thought holding the moment
so silent and fading.

I wanted to cry, I
wanted to follow, but it was
not my time to make a confusion.

My little fog bird was
appearing again, the little
gray bird with the seeking eye, until

it recognized me and promised one more
time not to follow the long streaks
of daylight shimmering by

before I could change the sign to normal
and own my self again . . . don't let it
go away . . . I am not ready.


—Robin Gale Odam

blinding fog, barking of dogs,
soon the cold winter sun

i used to have mercy, some-
thing happened along the way

deep night, the salt of tears,
love held tightly inside

whispered prayer, solitude
before morning

the gray dawn,
songs of geese high above
 The Whispered Truth
—Robin Gale Odam

could I offer mercy for the
whispered truth of my muse,
truthteller at the waking edge of

sleep—the low reach of memory,
where I pull myself into morning
and then rise, fully awake, into

daylight, with reservation and the
preference to chronicle the peaceful
dark after sundown, the sacred

nighttime—but she has secured her
offering . . . bare branches of winter,
little birds of morning, the raucus crow
 My Muse

—Joyce Odam

Light candles.
It is dark.
It is so large and black in my room.
Make light.
I am afraid.

Oh, what an old, old child
I have become.

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/13/15)


—Joyce Odam

what is the price
what is the name
the way of now

I live my name without the fame
all life is free without the blame
so much is now that I protect
"alas and wow" to all regret—
what is it that I mean to say
I never know—it goes away

trust is slow  
for those who can relate

I am alone now to myself
of my opinion mine is free
words can kill me . . .
what is trust . . .
when trust is nothing I can see
For The Harmony
—Joyce Odam

I remember
the two
for when
time was long
and time was slow.

we knew
each other
from the time-ago—
and they were of each other.

one was
always "time
and the world"
and the other was
"quarrel, and pace the days."


 —Robin Gale Odam

they danced into summer,
my sweet liar
and the clever thief
A Slant of Light 

—Joyce Odam

You start your life
With all the fire
Of optimism
And desire.

You live your life
And painfully
Find all not what it
Seemed to be.

You near the end—
What did you learn?
Perhaps you only
Had your turn.

(prev. pub. in My Stranger Hands, 1967)
How Many Cryings

—Joyce Odam

We are waiting now for all the death,
we are waiting now for life.

We are waiting for the harmony
that is left from all our wantingness.

What was wrong with our crazy-crying,
our crying laughter from our bliss.

Though we regret a few regrets,
how many cryings did we cry from this.


Today’s LittleNip:

 —Robin Gale Odam

Pressed into the morning,
visible in a slant of light, trace
of your exit—crisp as parchment.

(prev. pub. in
Brevities, May, 2016)


Gratitude to Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam this morning for poems and photos that are merciful and beyond! That was our Seed of the Week: Mercy.

Our new Seed of the Week is “Love, Regardless”, a nod to upcoming Valentine’s Day, but also to greater issues. 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.

It’s Poetry Out Loud season, and tonight at 6:30pm, Stanislaus County Poetry Out Loud competition takes place at Oakdale High School Theater, 739 W. G St., Oakdale, CA. Students have memorized 2 poems to recite. The winner goes on to the State Competition later this spring, and the winner there goes on to the National Competition in Washington DC. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about this and other future poetry events in the NorCal area—and keep an eye on this link and on the Kitchen for happenings that might pop up during the week.


 —Photo Courtesy of Public Domain

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.




Monday, February 06, 2023

Mercy, Mercy

—Watercolor by Laurie Edelman
—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Ian Copestick, 
Stephen Kingsnorth, Sayani Mukherjee, 
Joe Nolan, Shiva Neupane, and
Caschwa (Carl Swartz)
—Original Watercolors by Laurie Edelman
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joe Nolan
 Empty bottle

stuck in sand,
thrown to shore
by wind and waves,
holds the sun
and lover’s dreams,
a glassy ghost
of summer past.

—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
 —Watercolor by Laurie Edelman, Westchester, CA

—Nolcha Fox

Tomato soup and rain heat
and bubble in my stomach,
two married memories
I cannot divorce.

I cannot divorce diets.
Every morsel is misery,
expanding my body
beyond mirror’s edge.

Beyond mirror’s edge I eat
to live, to remember.
If I don’t remember what I ate,
I will live to eat.

I will live to eat and bake.
I bake myself into this place
to pretend I can’t leave.
If I give up baking, where will I go?

—Ian Copestick, Stoke-on-Trent, England

I sit here
Sober on
A Saturday
By my pets.

Up until last
Year, I would
Have been
Every night,
But especially
On a Saturday.

I really miss
My Mrs, and
My Dad, And
The friends
Who've died in
The in the last
Couple of years.

Tommy Cherry
Felt like my
Musical mentor.
Although we never
Met, I considered
Him a true friend.

He was.

But, now I have
To say that I
Feel quite happy,
More than I have
Done for a long

Suits me.

—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

I hear it, newsflash, of a dash,
so S.O.S., in coded morse,
saving our souls, though also sole—
is honour there in mercy shown?
Its quality not strained, I hear,
but undermined—is justice seen—
with punishment rarely aligned—
but sometimes fitted by Old Bill?
Is it meeting the other’s eyes,
there but for grace of God I go;
restorative, that justice grown,
victim forgiving, perp so changed?
Is it pity for one who wrongs,
knowing all fall, that target short;
maybe as ‘thank you’ from Mon Dieu—
for mercy shown, is merci given?
Could it be Base, Tranquillity,
or sci-fi type, far-side-of-moon?
The questions flow, for we don’t know,
as how to live with mercy found.
Rarely can it be owned, this craft;
we need musician, frame and dance,
the aural, visual, move expressed,
for insight, angels fear defend.
How strange a feast when just deserts
are taken from the menu served. 

—Sayani Mukherjee,
Chandannagar, W. Bengal, India

Burning up and down
Like the highest peak can't be touched down
My dolce et petition
My sweetest devotion
Cracked open
I made my religion breakthrough
Through cracks and bones
Amongst midnights and alleyed bones
Little fragile heart at my doorstep
Visiting my underworld stairway
My heavenly coldness
Crowns in my living room way
The porched open house
Little graffiti artistic pursuit
Of my hotspot on the opened door
Aside from the bottom line
Made my phone book worthy
Like living waters
The transparent ghost
My front porch open window
Burning lilies hanging open
My superbloom my resilient religion. 

—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
The power to create,
The power to destroy,
The power to use,
The power to employ,
To create the pyramids
Above the sands
That once were wet—
The Great Sahara Forest,
The Nile,
Running east to west,
The center
Of a jungle
That ran abreast
Both sides
Of a river
Across the north of Africa,
Broad and wide,
Before the dawn
Of modern times,
Twelve-thousand years ago.

Still, we did not know
Until we looked below
From far above—
Eyes put into heaven,
Looking down
Could see below
The sandy ground—
An ancient river-bed
Across the Great Sahara.

Climate changes,
This we know,
Looking down,
We see below,
The loss of a flowing river
Gave birth
To a giant desert.

—Joe Nolan

A cat
Licked a string of pearls
Until they
Were worn down,
Then turned into a clam.

From the outside,
None could tell
The change that
Was within him.

All the perfect
Round things
Then within him,
He smiled a perfect smile,
And knew, “I AM!” 

—Joe Nolan

Lies a field
Along a river
That barely runs
A trickle
In the summer.

Its farmer
Took a job
In town
Working as
A plumber
After shutting
His farm down.

—Shiva Neupane, Melbourne, Australia

The strategic patience is over
When Chinese balloons hover
Above your roofs
And they make you go Oops!

Wake up! America
Do not let others be your replica.
Your strategic assets may be stolen 
And you may be fallen.

Is this the retaliatory agony ensued from Hainan Island?
To poke the skies above America’s mainland?
The geopolitical-Lakshmana Rekha causes consternation
at South China Sea because it is a bone of contention.

Wake up! America
Decipher the pluralistic truth of new world order.
You’ve walked on the moon,
And you will be walking on otherworldly places soon.

You’re the greatest nation,
filled with the scientists of great notion.
The American dream will again blossom
And may spread the fragrance of fortune.
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

now independent of one brutal king
we made changes to honor ideals
without benefit of a step-by-step
program to get used to just how that feels

the very Greeks that gave us democracy
were themselves the owners of slaves
they just needed a forum to gather and talk
about local concerns in their enclave

reconstruction and prohibition
both noisy, stinky locomotives
following the track ahead
that often as not took us away
to some other place instead

we looked at whole institutions
where we wanted to get a new start
so we criminalized their followers
while taking the damn things apart


weather reports show
Russia suffering severe
sub-freezing temperatures
which may help explain why
Mr. Putin is so warm on the
idea of being in Europe
rather than in Asia

can’t wait for the news that
he has hijacked a Euthanasia
Airlines jetliner….



confirmed:  disappointment scheduled for November

either my candidate wins by a vastly one-sided margin
or the nation is catapulted into another Civil War

We, the adult white males of the Confederate States,
in order to form a more perfect autocracy, abolish
justice we don’t approve of, ensure domestics stay
slaves, provide for self-gratification, promote our genital
Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves
and it stops there, do ordain and establish this Declaration
of War against the United States of America


just completed a Smart Driver
online course to be eligible for
a discount on my auto insurance

part of the Smart Driver presentation
included what you do in the case of
a collision, and part of that discussed
where to properly place flares or
reflector triangles

clicked on the map to see what the
State of California had to say about
this, and they had a stupid rule that
you had to place the flares or triangles
200 to 300 feet behind your car

remember, this is a scenario where
you’ve just been in a collision and
maybe, just maybe you didn’t get there
with all the tools and experience of
a major league baseball groundskeeper,
or those experts who determine the
spacing of airport runways and tarmacs,
and several different body parts report
to you that they hurt and you better do
something about it, but hot damn!, the
State of California wants you to figure
out how to measure the distance of
200 to 300 feet for proper placement
of your safety flares

took a personal inventory of my measuring
devices and came up with a few 12” rulers,
a couple yardsticks, and a tape measure
that extends to 25’.  That’s it.  None of them
long enough to keep me safe in California.

reaching for stars one
might only imagine

(after reading the poetry of
Stephen Kingsnorth, Medusa’s
Kitchen, February 2, 2023)


can’t sculpt worth a damn
but if I see a nude at the beach
laying still in the sunlight
the sculptor has shared the
gift of his sources with me

the same paint brush that
another may use to recreate
some awesome visual image,
when put in my hands, is now
the tool of a toddler; though my
mind is capable of seeing and
admiring that awesome visual

there are people who are born
to execute graceful dance steps
without years of cumbersome
lessons, all they need to learn
is to not get in the way of that
natural talent; I, too, will not get
in the way, gracefully receding
to be a flower on the wall, content
that dancers need my audience
to be complete


Today’s LittleNip:


is sunshine after a blizzard,
a promise of spring.

—Nolcha Fox


Good morning to readers everywhere, poets and otherwise, from our contributors, some of which are having mercy on us (our Seed of the Week: Mercy). Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week. Today we have SnakePals who are visiting not only from Stateside, but from Wales, England, Australia, and India! Wow!

Congratulations to Nancy Gonzalez St. Clair on the occasion of being named the inaugural Poet Laureate of Lodi, CA! Nancy hosts a monthly poetry series called Mosaic of Voices, which is held on the second Saturday of the month in the Lodi Public Library, 2pm.

NorCal poetry events kick off this week with Anthony Xavier Jackson and Geoffrey Neill at Sac. Poetry Center tonight, 7:30pm. Poetry Unplugged takes place at Luna’s Cafe in Sacramento on Thursday, then Angela Drew is featured in A Night of Spoken Word Poetry/Open Mic at Modesto Junior College Library on Friday, 7pm. Rest up this week, because Saturday will be a lollapalooza of poetry, starting with Sacramento Poetry Alliance presenting Rooja Mohassessy and Tamer Mostafa at 4pm; Sac. Poetry Center’s book release of
Chimera by Brad Buchanan at 6pm; then T-Mo Entertainment’s Love Show at 7pm. All of that on Saturday!

On Sunday, The Poets Club of Lincoln will feature Sacramento Poet Laureate Emeritus Jeff Knorr plus open mic, 3pm. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about these and other future poetry events in the NorCal area—and keep an eye on this link and on the Kitchen for happenings that might pop up during the week.


—Public Domain Cartoon Courtesy of Joe Nolan

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.

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!



Sunday, February 05, 2023

Take These Stanzas For A Ride

—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Nolcha Fox
Take these stanzas

for a ride,
gun those couplets,
love the mileage
of the meter.
Clutch your pearls
and let the wind
chew down your nails.
Wring your hands
and pay me,
pay me for this poem. 

I wrote this about visiting my grandparents' house as a child. My grandmother always burned her toast, then scraped all the black stuff off before she ate it.

Burnt Toast

Trees play pat-a-cake
above my head,
a sheltering sunshade,
lead us to your house.
Your house. Surrounded.
Homes worn smooth
by feet and anger,
paint-chipped bruises,
sagging bases.
Attic steps to hidden
treasures, peeking
through thin sun,
musty dust and
fading mint.
Kitchen reeking
borscht and black stuff,
singed with burning toast.

This is how my parents met.

That Moment

At a family wedding,
he was bored, brash,
but dutiful.

At a family wedding,
she was overlooked, born too late,
but obedient.

Their eyes roamed the room,
looking for an exit.
Instead, they saw each other,
an unimagined exit,
married at first sight.


I’m a shell of myself,
tossed by the surf,
shot from a gun.

Subjected to time loss,
another dimension,
devoured, sucked empty

by Twitter and Facebook.


I gather buttons, sweep them off the table.
Once they held my clothes together.
Now I hold their empty purpose in a box.

When the crossing
arm descends, you race
across the tracks.

When yellow lights
say wait, you say
go faster.

When traffic clogs
the roads, you jump
the median.

You have no
patience for delays,
you will not stop

until you’re dead.

Not Speaking

The curtains don’t tell
what they hear.
The carpet holds
footsteps of exits.
The faucets leak
drips of resentment.
The windows pretend
perfect people.
Words left unspoken
peel paint.
Fear is not speaking
at all.

Wrapped in Plastic

Like vegetables
or day-old bread
wrapped in plastic,
she wants to preserve
her shelf life.

She wraps her body
in plastic
She wants to preserve
her beauty.

She wraps her hair
in plastic rollers.
She paints her face,
a plastic mask
to hide the flaws.

She bought
a plastic casket
to preserve
her bones,
her beautiful bones.

She comes back

to haunt him.
She sits in
their café,
a ring on
her finger.
Their eyes meet.
He looks down.
He walks out
the one she
will always


She cultivates stupidity in her garden,
planting it with sunflowers and squash.
She tells her friends stupidity
will make them rich and famous.
They buy it from her, every single stalk. 

What we miss when the oven door

shatters in pieces on the floor
is not the money that
we pay to buy
another oven,
not the baking,
not the broiling.

We miss the handle
to hang the kitchen towel.

No glasses needed

in my dreams,
the story sharp,
no rounded corners,
choices clear from
coming back here
every single night.

Flower petals scatter

from a flush of wings that rustle
leaves the memory of the flush
of cheeks, the flush of love, a promised
flush of bricks that wall the royal
flush, a hand that claps, applause for flush
accounts, no money left to toast
the scotch flushed down the drain.
Hope hitches a ride

on unbathed white hair.
Wind slicks and sun flicks
float with each footfall,
the floor a dusty flashback
of unswept fields, and a race
to embrace the wind.

Today’s LittleNip:

A hyphen

blissful to bask
in bubble bath,
instead constrained
by corset to curtail

as a comma.
—Nolcha Fox


Our thanks to Nolcha Fox for her bouquet of poems today, as we dream of gardens to come~ For two collaborative pieces done by Nolcha (poetry) and Bonnie Meekums (fiction), go to https://www.roifaineantpress.com/post/nails-and-spoons-fiction-by-bonnie-meekums-poetry-by-nolcha-fox?fbclid=IwAR1I8S9c-wRKrI6ReEDn2PrsJJR-wDVrwg3Pz0BKRvQPkE04RnRweKK3E9o/. Nolcha does a lot of collaborative work; tomorrow, she will have two poems posted in the Kitchen that were illustrated by watercolorist Laurie Edelman. Lovely!


 —Photo Courtesy of Public Domain

For upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
in the links at the top of this page.

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.

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!


Saturday, February 04, 2023

Just a Pixel in a Pixel

—Poetry by Don Kingfisher Campbell, Alhambra, CA
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
Electrified man screams he can't leave his little house

My brain is surrounded by a fence

My mind is a lion god worshipping a bed of roses

My soul is a cat sitting on a windowsill watching leaves dance

My eyes have been wishing they could climb branches by themselves for decades

My mouth is a troubled door opening wide for a blast of stones

My belly is a flying saucer ready to fly high above the clouds

My penis is an aloe vera plant that transforms into a palm tree

My legs are afraid of becoming pudgy gnomes

My feet are beer cans tossed through the gate of the future

Impressions of September LV

Shiny skyscraping hotels line the I-15

Casino-themed car-filled boulevards

Tanned homeless slumping along sidewalks

110-degree heat thickens the cloudless air

Mattresses left curbside in front of too many houses

Cultural businesses just like any other city

Palm trees and pools seen outside tower-room windows

Post-pandemic non-emptiness in smoky gambling halls

Man-made entertainment volcano blasts night fire

Balding retired men escort their women to $100-a-ticket shows

Neighborhoods of stuccoed homes in named clusters

The whole desert valley ringed by highways

You and Me
You like to see me
wearing basketball shorts

I look at you and enjoy curvy
stripes across your chest

But we are really painting
a domestic banner together

Me, sitting on a sofa
papers strewn about us

There is even a white plastic
trash can, for target practice

In my heart, I want to create
a poem that is a poster of two

Moments when we watch
leaves dance outside the blinds

In our dining room with
a Chinese calendar next
to a psychedelic tapestry

And you like to cut napkins
in half while I blow my nose

I guess this will be a notebook
page of the daily times we share

We both like to drink from hot
mugs, you coffee and me tea

Tulare Trek

Driving past golden hills

Then through the great agricultural valley

Smelling garlic and cows

Arrive at the city with two main streets

Every chain is there to choose from

First it's lunch Raising Canes

Check out dd's discounts, Dollar Tree, 99¢ Store, CVS

Followed by Blaze Pizza dinner

Back to the 200-square-foot square motel room

To watch some flat-screen basketball

While charging the phones

Occasional voices outside the closed draped window

My wife giggles at a rubber pillow from Thailand video

I'm ready to endure a night in a white double bed

With my sweetie by my side providing leg-on-leg warmth

Some Things to Do on This Planet

After a sunny afternoon spent indoors critiquing poetry on Zoom with friends
My wife and I go to the thrift store to look for bookcases
but she finds coffee or tea cups with matching saucers blue striped half price
Then back home I enjoy a salad made by my life partner
Finally relax selecting music to listen to and post on Facebook
Done with that I stroll over to the bathroom to pee
Switch on the light, look into the toilet
I see a tiny dark floater
Must have been left behind by you-know-who
There's even a crumpled ball of tissue beside it
Wait a second, this ain’t poop
Isn't that really a triangle on the surface
with two antennae twitching
It's a moth, soaked and suffering
I piss all over the little lake,
aiming for more indignity for the errant intruder and flush
An unpleasant way to end this stinking poem


Sequoia Sojourn

Gas up, hop on the freeway

Watch farmland become groves

Trees growing taller as the road winds

Feels like driving a sailboat through choppy waters

Signs declare narrow bridges, switchbacks, recent fires

An hour later reach the last space

In the closest parking and walk

Spot redwoods here and there increase in size

Down to the largest tree on Earth

Stranger couples take cellphone shots for each other

Stroll and find a double tree, a triple arbor

Look at the rings of a fallen giant

Thousands of years longer than a human life

Huff on stone steps back to the car

Sit on halved wood benches on the way

Then unwind the maze to return

Past homey hotels and restaurants

Homes with streams in their backyards

Arrive at the city to stay the night

Tomorrow morning retrace the highway home

Still Life

On one edge of the dining table,
a clear plastic gallon bottle of
purified drinking water is flanked
by two somewhat unevenly used
cardboard paper towel tubes.

One is to the inside left, the other
right, looking like two supplementary
fuel tanks for an Artemis booster rocket.

When observed from directly above,
the combination kind of appears to be
like a dog's face, with the two tubes
as eyes, the bottle cap a nose, and
its handle the jowls and mouth.
I imagine it barking out, woof!

Day after day the bottle is slowly
being emptied, the towel sheets
torn off one by one, until eventually
the empty cylinders are tossed into
a white plastic recycling bucket.

Just need to replace both
to create table art again.

She is a firework in my life

She makes my heart go boom

My breaths fall away like dominoes

My body wants to get on her bicycle

And ride, ride, ride until my mind    

Until her mind says the train

Our train is coming to the station

And I hug security and comfort

We have become family I plan

We plan our day and then we act

Shower dress breakfast brush exit

Into the optimistic world that is ours

And I pray we'll have decades we

Knowing our forms age as we go

Forward into unforeseeable future


It's All Too Much

A universe littered with galaxies beyond my imagination
Every spiral stretching outward festooned of stars
Each sun sporting some planets, moons and asteroids
This sphere always covered by untold clouds
Oceans alive since evolution evolved here
Thousands upon thousands of whales, sharks, and fish cruising currents
Shores infested in the billions because trees grow and humans manifest
Beings briefly bringing forth into being millions of buildings and books
Made merrier making music and art and children
A ground even more populated around a quadrillion animals and insects
Enough food and flowers to delight all those eyes and noses and mouths
Burgeoning brains recreate creating electric visions and revisions
I'm just a pixel in a pixel in a pixel in a pixel
Part of the whole shebang breathing in and out
Cosmic light went on, someday I am shut off
To be recycled as the planet pleases until it ceases
Also repurposed multiversally for unknowable time
Does God have a new design planned in the possibly etch-a-sketch future


Today’s LittleNip:

Dew drops on a dead leaf

—Don Campbell

The giant goes for a walk
under the blazing sun
The behemoth steps and steps
on long concrete sidewalk

A small insect traverses the
width of a rectangle just ahead

One gargantuan sandial darkens
the sky above the bug only briefly

It was the last thing it ever felt,
a mindless accident of location


Don Kingfisher Campbell, MFA from Antioch University L.A., taught at Occidental College Upward Bound for 36 years, has been poetry editor of the
Angel City Review, publisher of Spectrum magazine, and host of the Saturday Afternoon Poetry reading and workshop series in Pasadena, California. For awards, features, and publication credits, please go to http://dkc1031.blogspot.com/. Welcome to the Kitchen, Don, and don’t be a stranger!

Today, from 1-3pm, Amatoria Fine Art Books presents Ajuan Mance, author of 1
001 Black Men, in an author talk/signing, 1831 F St., Sacramento, CA. And tonight, 6pm: Escritores Del Nuevo Sol presents Hablemos del Amor featuring Zheyla Henrikson and Paul Aponte, plus open mic, at the Vida del Oro Foundation, 1324 Arden Way in Sacramento. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of these column for details about this and other future poetry events in the NorCal area—and keep an eye on this link and on the Kitchen for happenings that might pop up during the week.


 Don Campbell

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.

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!