Wednesday, December 26, 2012

A Poet in a Red Scarf

—Photo by Michelle Kunert, Sacramento

—Taylor Graham, Placerville

Moon-ship above canopies of limbs and leaves,
above clouds, above us searching through the dark.
A fingernail-paring sliver moon filling
itself heavy as tides. Moon-rigging full. Ageless
archeal moon gazing down a haze of cloud
on us looking for a boy disappeared since noon,
eleven hours gone. My dog leads a way
through woods. No help from moon's regal
silence. Moon-ship full of the dead, waxing moon
of skulls in search of landfall, bones shining
over oak limbs, fallen leaves. Aim my flash-beam
low, high, into every cranny. Does only moon
know where in dark a boy is? Old, cold
moon weary of seeing. Waning moon-ship
sailing from us ever more away. Even if moon
has no words, my dog may say.


—B.Z. Niditich, Brookline, MA

Snow is indifferent
at first light
wrinkles the wind
from a four-day
early winter storm
a few strong squalls
snap and snatch
the bark whirring
on oak trees,
at the sealed window
a poet in a red scarf
and dark jacket
waits for calm
to explore thick woods
along the bridge
sunshine gleams
on a lonely road
and grackles
search for bread
in the faded dawn
of an unruly coast
a collapsed kayak
on the Bay
from the home harbor
drifts in constant ice
of a ditch water shore.

—B.Z. Niditch
The first swan
the meditative one,
under the sun shower
at noonday
followed by Twonela
toned as a poem
in the warmth
her primed feathers
in the airless landscape
as the third, Aurora
in a swan song
with oracles
for her silent partner
on the blue lake
with jumbled music
for the fourth swan
interlaced in a circle
of flowery arms
and nape of her neck
on the journey's duration
followed by a fifth swan
named Granada
over wells of water
as incarnations
rise by curly bed rocks
shells and shale
by a porous acrobat
the sixth, anonymous
caught in a flash
of camera and lightning
for a brief pose of birth
skims a chilled darkness
through silver liquidity
in a mute absence
of solitary secrets
from a growing afternoon
on a row
at the last chain
covering space and time
pass as dancers
at the ports of voyage
by water pillars
of the suns' reflections.

Wayne Kunert's Lego Village
—Photo by Michelle Kunert

—Caschwa, Sacramento

The trees lining my street
got news of the senseless
killings in Connecticut

with tears of rainfall
and shrieks of wind
they spoke as if in unison

dropping tender young
saplings to the ground
many longer than I am tall

lives cut short for
no good reason
Winter just beginning


Some say this is not
just another ho hum day
it is the beginning of
a new Mayan calendar

however last I looked "Mayan"
was not a synonym for rock solid
or reliable or the mainstay
of investment portfolios

in a world where we rate cars
by crash test statistics,
top our pizzas with delicious
fungus and mold

consume our spare time
with bungie jumping
and are visited by a fiscal cliff that
has far overstayed its welcome

one more living-on-the-edge
prophesy is just another day
death and taxes
ho hum


Thanks to today's contributors for their fine poems and pix! About her photos, Michelle Kunert writes: My brother Wayne's seven-month-old kitten Pandi is having fun on Christmas eve. His two "sisters" Butters and Shades wouldn't come out from hiding, though. (Wayne found out Pandi's about 11 pounds and not fully grown yet!)

Carl Bernard Schwartz (Caschwa) has sent us two timely poems, including an end-of-the-world poem which we didn't get posted during the Christmas rush; thanks, Carl! 

And about his poems, Barry Niditch writes: For the last few years when I go to Rockport, the most distant point out on the Atlantic, an art colony where T.S. Eliot visited, six swans follow me even as I go early to a great coffee shop for muffins they are outside the window waiting for me. Outside the window it was snowing this Christmas Day. The poem came miraculously and is my gift to you at Medusa' Kitchen. Thanks, BZ, for thinking of us from all the way in Massachusetts! I wrote back that we have four black swans who are residents at the near-by lake; now that's a picture in the snow!

New Beginnings: that's our Seed of the Week. Send your thoughts about fresh starts to  Medusa likes fresh starts as well as anyone.


Today's LittleNip:

What memory when an elegy of energy returns as a visionary's verse.

—B.Z. Niditch



—Photo by Michelle Kunert