Sunday, June 26, 2022

Missing

 
Star Dancer (On Stage)
—Painting by Edgar Degas
—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain



BALLERINA, MISSING A LEG

You hung in my bedroom
until I left home.
You danced on the stage
on one foot, alone.
Parts of dancers
peeked out behind you.
They didn’t look at you.
You didn’t look at them.
You didn’t look at me.
Was it because I was
underneath you?
I wasn’t one of the pretty ones.
I couldn’t dance on air.
You looked up at the ceiling.
But I never saw anything there.

When I left home,
I never saw you again.
Where did you go?
Did you dance off-stage?
Did you ever find
your missing leg?
 
 
 

 
 
WHERE DO MISSING SOCKS GO?

I know I put a pair of socks
on the kitchen table.
But now they’re gone
(so is my hat).
What’s a girl to do?

First, I look inside my shoes
(not the ones I’m wearing)
No socks there, but
they hold mittens
that I lost last week.

I check the dryer, isn’t that
what eats most missing socks?
No luck there,
and so I check
the purse that I’d been carrying.

In my purse, I find no socks
but there’s my bathing cap.
The dog is looking guilty,
yup, she’s sitting
on the socks.

But my hat is still missing,
and now I can’t find my keys.
 
 
 

 
 
THE PARK

Bare feet broiled
by simmering
summer sidewalks
skipped me to
the park.
The me of
not-child,
not-teen,
freely roaming
sun-kissed
changeling.
Shielding,
shimmering
leafy canopy,
green blades
cool between
my toes.
Swinging high
to kick the future,
pouring sand
upon the past.
In the moment,
hiding from
uncertainty
and fear.
 
 
 

 
 
YOU

are a midnight black sky,
a seeping wound,
your eyes windows of despair,
shuttered to all hope,
your breath a trail of smoke
you follow to the plastic
bag over your head,
to the last exit
of your deserted road.
 
 
 

 
 
THAT WOMAN

That woman is a mystery,
a water-damaged postcard
floating on Atlantic Ocean waves.
She comes to me with postage due.

That woman whispers secrets.
She is the blue china
doorknob to a door
that can’t quite shut.

That woman is the secret twin,
hiding in the high school gym.
She waits for me
to take her to the prom.

That woman is a red lace shawl,
a promise of midnight delight,
but in her pattern
I can find no warmth.
 
 
 

 
 
LOOK OUT, WORLD

I’m old now,
I no longer care
what everybody thinks.

I wear jewels
from carnivals,
fuzzy socks and boots.

Feather boas,
pink or lime,
hats with nets and flowers.

Mink coats
in the summer,
on top of my pajamas.

I’ll show you all
how odd I am.

But I’ll have to
leave the house.
 
 
 

 
 
Today’s LittleNip:

DON’T
—Nolcha Fox

touch the horn,
It’s antique
like me
and it can break.
If you really
want to hear
the music,
pay full price

_________________

Thank you to Nolcha Fox for her intriguing poetry today! Three of her poems are based on our most recent Seed of the Week, Sanctuary. About these poems, Nolcha says, “When I was a child, I found sanctuary in ‘The Park;’ ’You’ is about my baby brother, who killed himself over 20 years ago. (This is the wrong kind of sanctuary). And finding sanctuary in a person isn't always a good idea, as in ‘That Woman’.”

_________________

—Medusa
 
 
 

 





















For upcoming poetry events in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
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, June 25, 2022

That Killer Instinct

 
—Poetry by John Yamrus, Pennsylvania
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain



Emily was

a horror show,
but her legs were the real deal,

and Lenny
knew enough about noir to know
that the only thing Emily needed to pull it off

was
a name
like Gilda
or Veronica.

and
he knew
that a noir woman
is always the promise
of the best sex you’ll ever have,

and
also the reason
you’re going to die.

but,
Lenny
was good with that.

you’re
damned if you do
and damned if you don’t.

and
when it
comes right down to it,

Gilda
or Veronica or Emily
or any other name she chose to have,

would
never really give a damn,

would she?
 
 
 
 


i remember the last time

my mother
combed my hair.

i was standing in
the kitchen with my friend Stephen

(it was always Stephen, never Steve)

and
we were
getting ready
to go back out to play.

i don’t
remember how old i was,

i just remember
being sweaty and dirty

and i’d washed my face
and got a drink

and
i asked
my mother
to comb my hair
and i remember the way
Stephen looked at me when
she held the comb under the water

and ran it thru my hair.

i looked at the floor.
i heard the water running in the sink.

i felt
young and
stupid and ashamed.

the sink was
cold against my skin.
 
 
 
 


he was once

editor
and publisher
of one of the finest
small presses in the world.

he
wrote poetry
with talent, insight and
more than a little
humor.

he had
a magnificent family,

and balls
made
of

tempered steel...

which made it
all the more puzzling

(when covid hit)

to see him
curl up

in
an even
bigger ball and

cry.
 
 
 


he

knew
his poems
weren’t going to change anything

or
move anyone,

but
he kept on writing,

even when
the bills came due,

his
friends gave up

and the
dust on the table
was thick enough for him
to lick his finger and write his name.
 
 
 
 


Shostakovich

had
the goods,

but
his music
lacked a certain killer instinct.

when
i listen to him,
even his most famous compositions,

i’m left
feeling like he was
never quite able to put it away.

if only
he had the
right kind of help.

it’s
too bad
he never got to hear

The Ramones.
 
 
 
 

 
i think

the best
part of the reading—

it was
this thing to mark
the release of an anthology
put out by this neat little art gallery

and many
of the contributors
came to read from the book—

i did my thing
and sat and listened
and smiled and clapped,

but,
i finally
had enough, and
while i was packing up

and
heading
for the door
i knocked a glass
of wine onto my stuff,
soaking my pants and shirt

and the
bag i was holding,
along with the books in the bag,

and i
didn’t know
such a little glass
could hold so much wine,

and i
walked out of there
smelling not only of wine,

but also
failure
and regret

and the
diminishing sound
of one more writer reading
words he found increasingly difficult

to
understand,

appreciate

and
finally
even hear.
 
 
 
 


you lay in bed and

there’s a train whistle somewhere
off in the distance and
it takes you back
to a place and
a time you
don’t
even care to remember
where it was or
when.

back to a place with dirty sheets
and dust in the corners and
under the bed and you
start thinking about
why and who and
where and
how

and you know it doesn’t really matter
because there will always be trains
and beds and sheets and the sun
coming up as you wait
for another day
that’ll bring you that much closer to
whatever it is that’s out there,
waiting to
finally

do you
in.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.

—Ray Bradbury,
Zen in the Art of Writing

_____________________

We have a new visitor to the Kitchen today—John Yamrus, who writes: "I live in PA, 40 miles west of Philadelphia, with my wife of 46 years and our dog, both of whom suffer the indignity of letting me write about them. Just before my
Selected Poems came out, my book, Five Dogs, was released. It’s about the five we’ve known, loved and shared our lives with."

In a career spanning more than 50 years as a working writer, John Yamrus has published 35 books (29 volumes of poetry, 2 novels, 3 volumes of non-fiction and a children’s book). He has also had nearly 3.000 poems published in magazines and anthologies around the world; a number of Yamrus’s books are taught in college and university courses. His latest book is
Selected Poems: The Director’s Cut (Concrete Mist Press, 542 pp.). A book of his Selected Poems was just released in Albania, translated into that language by Fadil Bajraj, who is know for his translations of Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Bukowski, Ginsberg, Pound and others. Welcome to the Kitchen, John, and don’t be a stranger!

A Poetry of the Sierra Foothills reading will take place in Diamond Springs this afternoon, with Janet Rodriguez and Zheyla Henriksen plus open mic. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about this and other future readings in the NorCal area.

And congratulations to Carol Lynn Stevenson Grellas for having the Poem of the Month published in the
Mountain Democrat (Placerville, CA); see www.mtdemocrat.com/prospecting/poem-of-the-month-lavender-fields-forever/?fbclid=IwAR2RjwYKUuxeqGQxihBPOfQkixaZIaklSJ2thMxKX1P6Nq0Q9dqXbnMPq-Y/.

_____________________

—Medusa
 
 
 

 





 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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!
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 

Friday, June 24, 2022

Mustang Spirit

 
—Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham, 
Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down for 
Form Fiddlers’ Friday!!
 


POETRY OPEN MIC + ONE GUITAR

He wrote a song
for guitar after hearing
one of our poets read—whose
poem could it be? could we guess
the inspiration that sparked his
wordless music?

And now he plays
his guitar at open mic, each
of us wondering, whose poem
could have inspired his guitar?
Whose poem was melodic as
speechless birdsong?
 
 
 
 
 
 
I CALL IT VANILLA EXPLOSION

This picture I found on the internet,
painting by a mountain artist, without
title. It might be a vanilla-white
funnel-cloud hovering between high sheer
cliffs. Makes me imagine 4th of July
in Yosemite, where I wouldn’t be
on a holiday weekend, except in
search of the lost. No, not a funnel-cloud.
An angel? On either side, streaks & shards
of earth-tones, a vivid motion-in-still-
life display. Not fireworks, they’re outlawed
in climate-crisis drought. Maybe it’s an
ice cream cone melting as it does its best
to save the mountains from global warming.
 
 
 
 


TO CATCH THE PONY 2022

I’m following a virtual target moving
across the land. Pony Express Re-Ride progress,
on-time (green horse icon)/behind schedule (red),
on a GPS SPOT map without road signs;
mountain peaks ID’d only by elevation; lats & longs.
Why no trail reports from Nevada? What can a map
tell of June heat bludgeoning the basin, or horse-
sweat as they climb the next range? When
might the Pony reach Tahoe? Pollock, Rescue…?
Can I figure it right, to see the hand-off,
switching mochila saddlebags horse to horse?
Do my homework and hope.
 
 
 

 
 
A PONY NAMED HOPE

The Pony’s coming over Railroad Pass after days of Midwest cloudburst, Basin and Range, headed for impassive rise of Sierra, winter’s snowpack trickling into creeks; springs and seeps becoming headwaters rushing down like a bay horse bearing mail in its mochila back in the days before internet, air-mail, overnight delivery; mail from the States to this wild west—I check the website: it’s on its way, alive again, once a year in remembrance. With luck it’ll be here on Thursday.

high-desert rider
recalls her moonlit run like
an epiphany.
 
 
 

 
 
OFF HOPE MOUNTAIN
    Pony Express 2022

Somewhere to the south
the SPOT device went offline—
big blank on the map
and a rider’s lost four hours.
Way out west I hope and wait.

Those old-time riders
lost without tracking device?
big blank on the map.

Past and present, horse with rider
galloping across desert miles,
racing to catch up on lost time
running with the wind.
 
 
 

 

MUSTANG SPIRIT
    for a Kiger Mustang mare

Very patient she waits
eased by her rider’s hand,
symbol of wind to run—
shadow swift as old time.
Every stretch of the trail,
land’s flying under hoof.

Old age goes creeping by
following the most fleet
year by year, just behind.
Old but steady she runs
under sun—it’s a timed
race she still loves to win.

Down over the crest to
evening’s fall she runs
sure as a heartbeat, still
in the night that swallows
road and trail, and peaks that
echo a last hoofbeat.
 
 
 
 


Today’s LittleNip:


FIGURATIVE FIGURES
—Taylor Graham

One wild turkey
hen with her one remaining poult
on the deck, drinking water from
a pie tin—no, one hen with four
poults on the lawn—there’s another
with just one, and

one on deck with
hen—or did the one come from hen
with four? Three hens, six or seven
babies moving too fast to count.
Overrun with turkeys, all wild,
make a poem.

_____________________

This week, the annual re-enactment of the Pony Express galloped across the country, and Taylor Graham recorded it in colorful poetry. Forms she used included the Manardina (“Poetry Open Mic + One Guitar” and “Figurative Figures”); a Haibun (“A Pony Named Hope”); a Hainka plus Ryūka (“Off Hope Mountain”); a Spirit Vessel, last week’s Triple-F Challenge (“Mustang Spirit”); and a Blank Verse Sonnet which was also last week’s Ekphrastic Challenge (“I Call It Vanilla Explosion”).

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.)

There’s also a newly dusted-off 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. Got any more resources to add to our list? Send them to kathykieth@hotmail.com for the benefit of all man/woman/poetkind!

Here are three responses to last week’s Ekphrastic Challenge:
 
 
 
Last week’s Ekphrastic Challenge
 


SMOOTH OPERATOR
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

Ladies, don’t believe him,
don’t trust his sweet words.
They melt in his mouth,
but they’ll freeze your brain.
By the time you defrost your senses,
he’ll have stolen your heart
and your purse.

* * *

SCOOP
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

For some a scoop, (without a war,
not novel, Waugh, or headline prize),
then curl from block pressed firmly down,
against child’s wobble, less gull swoop;
for others whip, balletic swirl,
that twisting spiral into cone,
a substitution, style for meat,
the difference more than wafer thin.

In context, vast range, parlour games,
(though vendors rarely scene that way
in leisure, weekend, sundae treat)
with pastel shades, exotic names,
I wonder if a trick of light
has turned the lemon zest too white?
Unless the cream from dairy milk
is like herd field, green chocolate slip?

It could, perhaps be snow machine,
some pristine steel from ski slope lift,
a giant snowball, avalanche,
film dream beneath vanilla sky,
with Monet mood, impression shared;
one leg of lunar module’s three,
the moon not made of cheese but ice?
Or simply ice-cream for a treat?

* * *

NEWS SCOOPS
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

1619: 20 enslaved Africans seized
from a Portuguese slave ship
and brought to America

1863: Emancipation Proclamation

1865: 13th Amendment, freeing slaves

1873: “The South Will Rise Again”

21st Century: Critical Race Theory

* * *
 
Nolcha Fox came up with her own Ekphrastic Challenge, based on this Wyeth painting, which went with a poem by Joyce Odam last week:
 
 
 
Wash Day on the Maine Coast
—Painting by N.C. Wyeth, 1934
 

DIRTY CLOTHES
—Nolcha Fox

If I lived on the Maine coast,
overlooking the ocean,
wash day would never come.
Instead of bending over,
washing dirty clothes,
I’d stand tall in my yard
and let the wind blow me away.

* * *
 
And here is a poem from Joe Nolan that is also based on one by Joyce Odam:
 
  
 


 
COINS TOSSED IN FOUNTAINS
After Joyce Odam’s poem of 6/21/22, “Coins in Bright Distortion”
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

I walk past
Lovely fountains,
Into which
Bright coins
Were thrown.

Each coin, brightly shining,
Reflecting dreams-were-sewn,
With toss of hand
And generous abandon
Into hope,
That space between
Water, light and land,

When one wave of infinity
Has power to command
Any desired inflection
To the prophecy of man.

Bright coins,
Brightly shining,
Beneath a fountain's shower–
With power to bring to fruition
Whatever one might wish.
 
* * *

This poem from Caschwa (Carl Schwartz) is a response to a previous challenge. He says, “One can read this literally, or as ‘coffee shop’ being a metaphor for ‘saloon’”: 
 
 
 

 
 
SMUG MUG
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

Victim of sleepiness
Easy prey to nod off
Showing no regard for
Steering wheel position
Erratic moves bring on
Loss of control, what next?

Officer, I’ll explain
Found this great coffee shop
Yesterday and rather
Overdid it sipping
Until that one last drop
Remained at the bottom

Couldn’t resist, you know,
Oscar, at the counter
Forced me to finally
Finish my drink, pay and
Exit back to my car
Except, without coffee

* * *

And Carl sent a Joseph’s Star chain:
 
 
 

 
 
 
JUST A DREAM
—Caschwa

If
I had the
Means, money, moxie
And connections, I would lock
Ted Cruz and Mike Pence in a
Cell together and
Record all
Talk

The
Focus would
Go past the arrows
Of public insults each one
Suffered from the lips of the
President of the
United
States

And
Center on
The mystery of
Why both of these fellows still
Lavish abundant praise on
Their chief insulter,
Kissing his
Ass

* * *
 
Here is a rhyming poem by Joe Nolan. Joe has his own rhyme schemes; I call this one a “Nolan”: aaxxbb ccxxdd:
 
 
 
 

 
IN UNIVERSE WE TRUST
—Joe Nolan

Death is no emergency.
It’s as normal as a breeze
Blowing through green-leafed trees
Or through brown leaves in Autumn,
Making them fall.
It happens to us all.

Why should we be alarmed
If nothing is harmed
By the passing of a human being?
Surely, life continues
All around us.
In Universe we trust.

____________________

Wise words, Joe—trust in the universe. Many thanks to our SnakePals for their brave fiddling! Would you like to be a SnakePal? 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 CHALLENGE!  

See what you can make of this week’s poetry form invented by Joe Nolan, and send it to kathykieth@hotmail.com! (No deadline.)

•••The Nolan: aaxxbb ccxxdd

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

And don’t forget every Tuesday’s Seed of the Week! This week it’s “Sanctuary”.

____________________

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

•••Blank Verse Sonnet: www.poetrymagnumopus.com/topic/1051-blank-verse-sonnet
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••Haibun: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/haibun-poems-poetic-form
•••Hainka: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/hainka-haiku-tanka-new-genre-of-poetic-form
•••Joseph’s Star: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/josephsstar.html
•••Manardina: poetscollective.org/poetryforms/manardina
•••Nolan (devised by Joe Nolan): aaxxbb ccxxdd
•••Ryūka: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ryūka
•••Spirit’s Vessel: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/spiritsvessel.html

____________________

—Medusa
 
 
 
 Today's Ekphrastic Challenge!

 
See what you can make of the above

photo, and send your poetic results to 

kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.)
 

***
 

—Public Domain Photo
Courtesy of Joe Nolan 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 




For upcoming poetry events in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
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.
 






 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thursday, June 23, 2022

Do Not Play Poker With Death

 
—Poetry by Ryan Quinn Flanagan, 
Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain



GOLFING IN SPACE

The wealthy
show off their wealth
by golfing in space.

Buying up their own
ecosystem.

Terraformed for 18 holes.
Under a see-through dome
with a great view of the cosmos.

Riding golf carts over moon rock
on the way back to the clubhouse
for a for drinks.

Caddies vetted like sand traps
on a difficult back nine.
So the space tourism lobby
can make a bundle.
 
 
 

 
 
HAPPY TRAILS

The forest near my place is quite dense.
Hardly as dense as the people near my place,
but it can be tough slogging if you venture
off the trails.

And they are happy trails, you can tell
by the way they open up.

Very social.

Even with a fresh pile of bear scat
on its head,
the optimism never
wavers.

With a tiny sapling in hand,
I walk in awe.

The sound of idling 4X4s
in the near distance.
 
 
 

 
 
HOUSE RULES

Do
not
play
poker

with
Death,

bluffing
doesn’t
work

and
you
never
have
the

best
hand.
 
 
 

 
 
GORE VIDAL, ARTHUR MILLER, AND
PAUL NEWMAN ALL IN ONE CAR

On the way to a function
during the Democratic National Convention
in Chicago
1968

tear gassed from police volleys
in the street

so the Democratic donkeys could decide
which ass would lose
to Nixon.
 
 
 

 
SHE WASN’T THERE

She taught cooking at the university
and we visited her once,
parking in the back lot
trying to avoid the future firefighters
putting out imaginary fires
all around us,

but she wasn’t there,
so we made the two-hour drive west
back home

the setting sun
a constant nuisance

when you want to see clearly,
but are forced to slow down
and squint.

Now, she is a cashier at the Espanola FreshCo.
University cutbacks are a bitch.

A hit to both the pride and wallet.

Every space man
come tumbling back down
to spicy peppercorn
earth.
 
 

 

GANG VIOLENCE (3)

You ever seen a weekly book club
cheese platter worked
over?

The gangs of suburbia
show no mercy.
 
 
 
 
 
 
SADOMASOCHISM AS A FINE ART

Why must one be a lover
or a fighter?

I prefer to do both with equal vigour.

And truth be told,
are they really not the
same?

This loving and fighting between us
that has always gone on
and will continue

until we do
not.
 
 
 
 


RADIO SILENCE

drop the mic

drop the
bomb

either way

it is the
end of

transmission.

_________________

Today’s LittleNip:


VICTORY SLAB
—Ryan Quinn Flanagan
 
No one is going over the edge.
There isn't even a mountain.
 
Only this new way to arrive 
at things
which is just leaving 
with expectations.

_________________

—Medusa, with a welcome back to Canadian poet Ryan Quinn Flanagan! Ryan’s name is all over Facebook these days as he publishes poems here, there, and everywhere. Congratulations, Ryan! Check him out at ryanquinnflanagan.yolasite.com/.

Drop by Sac. Poetry Center tonight for cool water and cooler poetry, as Team Haag reads from its anthology at 25th & R Sts. in Sacramento. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about this and other future readings in the NorCal area.
 
 
 

 





 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
For upcoming poetry events in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
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!
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Wednesday, June 22, 2022

Listening to the Wind

 
—Photo by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozabal
—Poetry by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozabal 
West Covina, CA
—Other Photos Courtesy of Public Domain 
 


LOCK HANDS

I will send you a postcard
of the brown mountains.
The beauty in nature is
extra beautiful in this town.

Here we could be happy.
I got my smile back.
Come and take my hand
and the other one too.

I had grown restless.
I just had to go away.
I look everywhere for you
from the hotel window.

There is easy living here
where the smiles are kind.
Let’s lock hands together.
Let’s go out in style.
 
 
 

 
 
WIND ENTERS

Wind enters and exits.
Wind lingers sometimes.
Sometimes cold.
Sometimes warm.
It soothes and it destroys.
It whips up fires.
Sends the flames.
Throws you rain.
Wind untamed.
Sometimes wild.
Sometimes without restraint.
 
 
 

 
 
GO TO SILENCE

Motionless,
I shudder
as I go
to silence.

Sickness fills
my heart. A
day and a
night without

you. Helpless,
my chest hurts.
Sounds of birds
in the trees

and prairies
don’t move me.
I listen
to the wind.
 
 
 

 
 
WAVES

Waves
deep
as
land
becomes
extinct.

Waves
wash
over
tears
of
sadness.

Waves
engulf
this
land
of
killers.

Waves
silence
all
of
us
tonight.
 
 
 

 
 
LISTENING TO THE VOICES

I came in to work.
The day was waiting.
I took it on and
I did my best. I

spent many hours on
the phone listening
to the voices of
people wishing for

better things. Face it,
I want better things
too. I listen to
them on the road home.

The voices stay with
me. In my house I
hear the voices too. I
cannot get to sleep.
 
 
 

 
 
ONE DAY

One day I will come around
and one day I will touch moonlight
and become paralyzed.
Being under the radar is fine
with me. I live in a dream
where life is more comforting.
I do not dance but I sing.
Public places give me anxiety.
I stay off the sidewalk as much
as I can and wear the same shoes
I have been wearing for months.

One day I will come around.
It is easier to lay down and rest.
I rise in the morning to go to work.
It feels wrong to go everyday.
It is a necessity that will end one day.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

DIG
—Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozabal

These hands that dig
the earth without
gloves will one day
be six feet deep

under the earth.
They will not be
touched by wind or
rain. They will not

dig or make a
fist. Without gloves,
they will remain.

_____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Luis Berriozabal for today’s poems, as he brings us the wind~
 
 
 

 






 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
 
 LittleSnake’s scarf against
the wind