One Soul

Mandala

—Poems by James Lee Jobe, Davis, CA
—Photos Courtesy of James Lee Jobe

The blue night above the cold water of the lake.


The white moon, alone against the black sky.


Not a star to be seen.


Quiet.


It could be that all of our souls together


Make up the body of one vast soul.


Such is the grace of night.


These things are the rags of The One,


Pitiful garments worn in the presence of humans.


Prayer is a blessing of solitude,

Conversation with The One.

Yes, our souls join together,


Here, now, everywhere.


We are one soul.

    

         (for Jose Montoya)

 Tibetan Prayer Flags

The hot, dry wind touches this earth, this creek,


And dances over these hills of fire.



Here are owls and bats.


Rattlesnakes. 



Here are farms and vineyards.


Orchards.



This hot, dry wind touches all,


Kisses every heart, every life.



"Where are you going?"


The earth ask this of the wind.



"Nowhere. Everywhere.


Where you live, where you breathe."



Putah Creek. The Vaca Mountains.


Summer.


____________________


The winter. Cool and wet.


The summer. Long, hot, and dry.


Valley of tall trees.


Valley of rich soil.


Even the owls in the pines


Know that this place


Is a corner of heaven.

 Bonsai Tree (Juniper)

A few trees on a slight rise in this flat valley. From here they look like oaks. Nothing else around but tilled fields. Perhaps the earth just wanted those oaks to be right there.

____________________

Silent in his sorrow, he seldom mentions
His dead younger brother,
The other son.
Nights go by like years
And vice-versa, and from the other room
I wonder how he remembers
The little boy who ran down the hall
Hoping his big brother would play with him.
Under his door I often see the light
Of his computer screen
In the very late and very early hours.
He is alone, and I am alone,
And somewhere else in this house
The mother is also alone.


 Enso


Start with the number one.

You were fetched to this place to count the stars.
Here, the door is open. The stars belong to you.

On the wings of magic, you can test the waters.
Take the pebble; toss it into the still pond.

Here, we love with blessed kindness.
Come into this life, everyone is ready for you.

Start with the number one.



           (for Khaleesi Luna, granddaughter)

 

 Buddha 

I am not anyone in particular. 


Just a piece of the universe, 


The same as anything else. 


The same as everything else. 



The same as you.

I am the black of the night sky. Yes. 


And I am also the light from the distant stars. 


Just a piece of the universe, 


The same as anything else. 


The same as everything else. 



The same as you.


___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

That all people have compassion in their lives, actively, both to receive and to share, this I pray.

—James Lee Jobe

__________________

Our thanks to James Lee Jobe for his peaceful poems on this leap-year day, and for the photos he graciously sent with them.

For up-coming poetry events in our area, scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

__________________

—Medusa

 —Anonymous

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.

Chasing Life

—Poems and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA

A DOG’S LIFE

You build your fences high to keep me in,
and talk of man’s dominion over beast;
you lead me snapped on leash to walk the creek
beneath a windblown sky. You see the world
as you perceive it, with your eye. The world
is more than that. I’d stalk the woods at night
and scent the bear—is that a shock to you?
I live inhaling winds that falcons fly.
Back home, inside your walls, you offer treats
to me, small cookie-cut reward for how,
rife with boredom, I slow my gait to yours;
your striding less adventurous each day.
I run in my sleep, whimper and sigh. You
call it chasing rabbits. I’m chasing life. 

IF NAMES ARE MASKS

You walk among the quiet flutter of hands
and fingers weaving stories like nests of birdsong
without sound, dancers in domino.
You’ve taught yourself some of their signs—
words and phrases. Still they won’t give you
a name. It can’t be bought. You must earn it, learn
it in your self—pulsing from heart to fingers.
Then it won’t be masquerade. Then
they’ll tell you your own soundless name. 

UNMASKING
      for Charley Parkhurst

It was a masquerade that lasted
past the last drawn breath—
an orphan arrived in the wild wild West,
become stagecoach driver with a wicked whip,
tobacco-chawing, patch-eyed, swearing
like a drover.
Yet at autopsy the masquerade
was over. Charley Parkhurst was a she. 

ACERIA GENISTAE IN DISGUISE

Poufy white blossoms on Scotch Broom
(invasive species of our foothills;
vibrant yellow flowers)—
what are these blossomings
on one of our worst wildland weeds?
You tell me, gall mites: microscopic beasts
cause these growths that kill the Broom.
Gall mites are our friends!
newcomer critters
traveling long distance on winds
hitchhiking on footed creatures…
Let’s welcome gall mites to our hills!
Who knows what other unknown helpers
live among us, still in disguise? 

PROVING YOURSELF

Real ID wants documents.
Your birth certificate—so long ago—
was lost in all the movings,
or maybe windstorm,
flood or fire. Your passport expired.
The land underfoot keeps you.
Is this a masquerade?
How shall you verify yourself
but in words, those potent tools,
proof of human existence?

Today’s LittleNip:

PRE-SPRING RITES
—Taylor Graham

Tom turkeys parade—
five of them for 20 hens
who quite ignore them. 

_____________________

Thanks to Taylor Graham for sprightly poems and pix today, chronicling springtime life in the foothills for us, as she does so well, and weaving in our recent Seed of the Week: Just a Masquerade!

Tonight at Avid Reader on Broadway in Sacramento, Speak Up: The Art of Storytelling and Poetry meets at 7pm, with readings on the theme of “Magic”. (Sounds magical!) Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about this and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

__________________

FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY!  
 

It’s time for more contributions from Form Fiddlers! Each Friday for awhile, there will be poems posted here from some of our readers using forms—either ones which were mentioned on 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 forms and get them posted in the Kitchen. 


About her poems this week, Taylor Graham writes: "Carl's [Schwartz’s] rule-breaking sonnet [last week] reminded me of an unruly sonnet I wrote a few years back, so I'm sending it ("Dog's Life") [see above]; there's internal rhyme but no end-rhyme, sort of a Visser Sonnet [see everysonnet.blogspot.com/2012/11/visser-sonnet.html/]. "Aceria genistae" [also above] started as a Shadorma but it got too long, so I scrunched lines and all the stanzas together."

Taylor also sends us a Breccbairdne, an Irish form (www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/poetic-asides/breccbairdne-poetic-forms/). So many fun rhymes here, both at the ends of lines and within them! You can hear the electricity in crackles, cattle, grackles! Sometimes forms can force us into some great sounds and sensations we wouldn't have thought of otherwise:


SKY’S FALLING
—Taylor Graham

Sky boils a kettle
of buzzards, then crackles
electric as cattle
stampeded by grackles.

Our trees hunch, wringing
leafless arms in warning.
The great black oak, writhing,
falls in clear morning. 

________________________

Joyce Odam has sent us a Doricimba this week, a form which is hard to find online, but here is the formula that Joyce sent. (If you’re wondering what Blank Verse is, go to literarydevices.net/blank-verse, and Free Verse is at literarydevices.net/free-verse/):

DORICIMBA:

Lines 1 through 4  –  iambic pentameter (a, b, a, b)
Lines 5 through 8  –  4 lines of indented free verse
Lines 9 through 12 – iambic pentameter, blank verse


THE STENCH OF JEALOUSY
—Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

He can’t explain the stench of jealousy
that rose from everywhere and hung like dye
upon the yellowed air and covered him
with such a thought that broke to such a cry—
    
        Sick with power—
        with reprisal—He destroyed.
        —It was not me—!
        Oh, what’s the use!

He can’t explain the ancient mask of doubt
that will in turn beseech and then accuse
and make love answerless before doubt’s rage.
He can’t explain the stench of jealousy.

____________________

This past Wednesday, Claire Baker sent us a Blank Verse, in fact, which I shall re-post, in case you've forgotten it:
 

BREAKING UP
(with help from Millay)

—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

The human brain is convoluted, halved:
the right side clings to faded fantasy,
the left admits a shaky castle crumbled.
My feelings lag behind my made-up mind—
not crossing over, to end a long-held hurt.

In reading sonnets of Millay, I learn
just how the genius ended dumb affairs:
when both ends of a candle burn, the flames
will reach the middle, die a natural death,
she may have told a foe or lovelorn friend
before she wrote those famous candle lines,
that quatrain metaphor. Not coy nor shy

she told a scoundrel off: "I find this frenzy
insufficient reason for conversation
when we meet again." A gutsy poet,
Edna ends a sonnet: "I shall be gone,
and you may whistle for me!" Thanks, Millay.

_____________________

Carl Schwartz (Caschwa) has been at it again, this time fetching himself some more forms with which to fiddle. Bravo to him for his industriousness and sense of adventure! First is a Naani (shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/naani.html/), in which he has also addressed the "Masquerade" Seed of the Week:


TRUTH SERUM
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

Start with real lemons
to make fresh lemonade
hide the truth wholly
for a fun masquerade

* * *

Then a Nonet (shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/nonet.html/):
 

CAMPAIGN
—Caschwa

We hold the power in our own hands
notwithstanding sinister ads
boldly defining our thoughts
without asking us first
trying to steer us
like animals
no, no, no
we will
vote

* * *

Then a Tanka (shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/tanka.html/):
 

VISITOR
—Caschwa

dog sounded alarm
intruder in our back yard
danger, untold harm
a chicken, alone, no peers
first time in eleven years

____________________

So that’s it for this edition of FFF, and thanks to our fine writers! Don’t be shy about trying some of these forms yourself; the snakes of Medusa are always hungry ~

—Medusa

 —Photo by Taylor Graham

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.

Misty Trees

—Poems and Photos by Carol Louise Moon, 

Placerville, CA

THERE IS A FAR DISTANCE
BETWEEN HERE AND MISTY TREES

In this winter of green upon green,
seeds still remain—a root, a bed, a love
made easier beneath a clear blue sky.

Beneath a wintry sky all is gained and
nothing lost—a lung’s breath in and
an unknown word given out.

Even the soil, having not given out,
will be nourishment to trees and to seed-
pecking birds and their daughters.

Princess Shikishi, third daughter of Emperor
Go-Shiragawa, says of winter, in virgin voice,
“The moon bares the garden.”

The garden of the princess is revealed.
Little stones encircle the cherry tree,
which is her Beloved. A bird shuts its beak.

The canary shuts its beak. Only the song-
sounds in its head remain. It is no longer
young and knows this.

Having known the princess and pecked
seeds at her feet, the bird sits on her head
listening to cherry tree blossoms.

Blossoms and songs (green and the sound
of green) are heard across the great
distance between misty trees and here.

 Buckeye Candles 

 

CRAPE MYRTLE
“Look at the grey tree…”
         —Tomas Transtromer


Her leaves hold fast to limbs
of cosmetic leathered bark.
Her roots are hidden deep
beneath the soil.

You are welcome here,
welcome to breathe in
your own release.
But do not inquire of the myrtle
regarding her roots,
nor volunteer achievements,
your failings: underpinnings
of desire and regret.

You can only guess
what she must be standing on. 

VALLEY VIEW

Valley deciduous trees stand
clustered, crimson-topped.
A palm leans tall, beleaguered,
between two ragged oaks each
popping bouquets of mistletoe.
Cypress, usually on the march,
stand windless at attention.
A surprise of prickly pear cactus
cozies along a graying fence;
all seen from bird’s eye view—
all on a cloudy valley day. 

 Maui Palms

 

THE PALM

The palm, she sees the clouds float by
in hues of blue. The seas, they roll
in this slow dawn on Honolulu’s shore.

What’s more is now the birds
have joined the tree to sit and see
the show of early sunset’s rustic glow—

before the nighttime closes in,
when all the stars shine
not so bright as moon,
later on tonight... but not so soon. 

 Toyon Berries

INVITATION

You will run
through grassy shadows
with me, yes?
In orchards, rows of wood
stand against the winds of apathy.
There we can find strong
opinion branches: primary,
secondary, tertiary.

There are arms full of leaves.
Concerning these trees,
their shade happens daily.

We’ll run together,
never tripping on shadows,
never going our separate ways. 

Today’s LittleNip:

LONG LIVE THE OAK…
—Carol Louise Moon

the passage of time
evident in this Blue Oak—
oh, that I should live
so long a life, arms outstretched
greeting sunshine and
storm with equal forbearance.

___________________

Welcome back and thanks to Carol Louise Moon for her talk of trees and their forbearance this morning, something we could all use a little of...!

Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe & Juice Bar meets tonight at 8pm on 16th St. in Sacramento, with featured readers and open mic. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about this and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

____________________

—Medusa, celebrating grassy shadows and arms full of leaves…

 —Anonymous Artwork

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.

Fair Winds and Following Seas

St. Peter’s Chapel, Mare Island, Vallejo, CA
—Poems by Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
—Anonymous Photos

LIGHTLY, AND WITH COLOR

Suddenly I feel
all that joy can offer.
Harsh winds change course
when they meet my breath,
boulders soften when I lean.

Gazing at the Great Pond,
I see swans arch, dip
into the still pool,
in raising, drop pearls
from their beaks.

Now I am a raft of ripples
given light and color
through sky that is water,
water that is sky.

When I ask the Great Pond,
of what does joy consist,
how can one prolong its wonder,
the tide ripples back:
all answers are momentary.

MARE ISLAND SHIPYARD, VALLEJO, CA.
            (decommissioned 1996)

We come to visit the 1855 redwood
memorial chapel,
its twenty-five large Tiffany
stained glass windows.

We enter in reverence.
Sun slanting through trees
flickers light and leafy shadows
over memorials to heroism
at sea...Beams settle on glass
suns and moons,
rendering them more real,
more luminous.

In one Tiffany window
Jesus and three sheep move
ever so slightly.
And there, Mother Mary's
gown quivers.

In leaving,
we lean toward
the majestical windows,
but tiptoe away from war!

IN THE STILLNESS

In the stillness
the evening star moves
the width of a sigh,
pauses on the spire
of a hilltop chapel
we had not thought
so vivid and so high.

________________

SANDY'S MEMORIAL

At last,
her food fantasy is granted:
dried rose petal flakes
sprinkled over walnuts
swimming in a slightly
sweet creamy sauce.

Sandy,
nicknamed "blowtorch"
in tasting this dish
might have flung out her arms
curtseyed in her Renaissance Faire
gown and shouted "Hallelujah"
in perfect Cajun French.
RIP, Sandy.

AMAZING GRACE, 2

Dear People,
It's not just that
the marvelous visits
and revisits,
but that miracles
stand so firm-footed
among us as, hello,
each other.

__________________

SUNFLOWER

Vincent,
the only sunflower
in our garden is fading fast,
does not hold gold enough
to last another week.
Dear painter, this gem
would have inspired you:
larger, friendlier than most;
saves energy by not turning
to face the sun.

Reaching, we lift
the spent bloom toward the sun.
Petals frayed, core dried,
shaggy, the seeded face droops
in our hands. We want to hold it up
but have to let it go.
Van Gogh, we tried. But, unlike you,
we can't make a sunflower live forever.

SUNFLOWERS

It is written that van Gogh
in a frenzy to paint
ate paint in his food—

turpentine tainted soup,
potatoes laced with linseed oil,
verde corn, ochred artichokes,
peaches and oranges
tinted blue

yet
those sunflowers.

__________________

BREAKING UP
(with help from Millay)

The human brain is convoluted, halved:
the right side clings to faded fantasy,
the left admits a shaky castle crumbled.
My feelings lag behind my made-up mind—
not crossing over, to end a long-held hurt.

In reading sonnets of Millay, I learn
just how the genius ended dumb affairs:
when both ends of a candle burn, the flames
will reach the middle, die a natural death,
she may have told a foe or lovelorn friend
before she wrote those famous candle lines,
that quatrain metaphor. Not coy nor shy

she told a scoundrel off: "I find this frenzy
insufficient reason for conversation
when we meet again." A gutsy poet,
Edna ends a sonnet: "I shall be gone,
and you may whistle for me!" Thanks, Millay.

(blank verse)

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

CLOSING ARGUMENT
—Claire J. Baker

May
we
lean
toward
the
language
of
roses.


(first pub. in Brevities, 2020)

__________________

Welcome back and thank you to Bay Area poet and SnakePal Claire Baker for bringing us the aromas of redwood and sunflowers and the sea in her poetry today! For more about St. Peter’s Chapel, the oldest Naval Chapel in the United States, go to www.calexplornia.com/st-peters-chapel-the-oldest-naval-chapel-in-the-united-states/.

For up-coming poetry events in our area, scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

__________________

—Medusa, wishing you fair winds and following seas, and plenty of landmarks to follow ~

 Cairn

See en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cairn/.

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.

Disguises and Enigmas

 Facade

—Poems and Original Artwork by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

 

DISGUISES

There she is again, my mother, showing up
in somebody else’s photos or poems—
somebody else’s life that sounds like mine.

How does she do that and remain my own.
This time she has on her white dress
and summer hat. That’s me by her side—

held close to her.  She dotes on me.

And I am shy. Awkward. Not pretty like her.
Sometimes she pretends not to know me—
glancing away at a particular moment.

But I know that’s just one of
her enigmas that she keeps from me—
her eyes always give one flick of recognition.

 Green Cocktail

FOOLISH THOUGHTS

What is this feeling that comes over me?
I hear a dove and sense a loneliness.

A tiny sparrow makes me want to cry.
Oh, Fie! That strange word.

How can a word come back like that
from nowhere?

Makes no sense to be so close to tears :
something as simple as a texture,

or a tone
of someone’s voice.

What do I miss this moody day
that overwhelms me so?

 Earth as an Old Balloon

EXOTIC NAMES

You all have foreign names, dear ghosts
and never-met-friends of my imagined
other lives—laden with mysterious and
curious endings, remembered later in full
and partial detail : the dark moviedom,
names significant with foreignness, like
the names I gave to paper dolls—glamour
names, movie after movie of my own pre-
tending—believable—to the unrealities I
live now that I am old and out of plots
with nothing that can measure up.


(prev. pub. in Medusa's Kitchen, 2015)

 Fishbowl
 

TRICKERY

She is gold light
personified into woman—
you see her through half-closed eyes,
how she appears at the edge of
your disbelief, how she seems real.

Believe in her.
She is there
for your imagination—
only yours.
She shimmers.

All her thoughts are transparent.
Do not fear her. She is only woman.
She is only light. As long as
you are not shadow,
she will exist.

 Where and When

SHE IS YOUNG AND BEAUTIFUL

He will put on the mask
and make her smile.

Whatever he says
she will believe.

He will shine for her
inside the mask.

Whatever she wants
he will obtain.

No flaw will show . . .
no cruelty.

And when she believes
he will remove the mask.

 Wherever

FEBRUARY IN RETROSPECT

Create a missive to send—
one for the love, or one for the heart
left over from brokenness.

Hearts are unfair—
as if to forgive must always retain
the ache and beat again.

Maybe a single sentence will do
or a page of rapid scribbling
too fast to read.

Let the receiver open
or not—know or not know
—what to anticipate.

Sign with the receiver’s name
—for this is the purpose
of your intention—

whether to
send,
or even write this Valentine.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

FLICKERINGS
—Joyce Odam

Small pieces of light
flit everywhere,

some turning color
as if made of crystal,

some staying at the corner of my eye
to pretend I only imagine them.

Who tells me this
if not you, O my mother?

I know you tease me—
this familiar game we play.

___________________

Thank you, Joyce Odam, for today’s cookin’s in the Kitchen around the subject of Just a Masquerade, our Seed of the Week. Our new Seed of the Week is In the Garden, In Her Bonnet. 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.

For up-coming poetry events in our area, scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

___________________

—Medusa (Kathy “Think Metaphor” Kieth)

In the Garden, In Her Bonnet

 —Anonymous Photo

 

  

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.

Message in a Bottle

—Anonymous Photos Courtesy of Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA

MESSAGE IN A BOTTLE
—Joseph Nolan

At issue
Was a message
From a bottle.

It said
Someone
Was stranded
On a desert isle.

It might have been
From Gilligan,
The Captain,
Or Professor,

But I was holding out
For Mary-Anne or Ginger
And threw the bottle
Back into the sea!

___________________

IN MARINARA, TOGETHER!
—Joseph Nolan

In another
Marinara,
Where sauces
Do not climb,
Up to the top
Of the rim
Of the bowl,
Pasta Festival,
So divine!

Imagine
Us together!
Pasta strands
Do us entwine,
Together at
The table,
Talking,
Feeling fine.

MAMA FISH-FRY!
—Joseph Nolan
 

Hello,
Mama fish-fry!
I am here
To lick your batter
And eat your
Fried
Fish.

Might you
Like to make
A wish,
Before we
Begin?

Extra salt
Or vinegar?
Or plain
As the wages
Of sin?

Pleasure,
A virtue,
We struggle
To win!

________________

WANDERING CHILD
—Joseph Nolan

Born
With a traveler’s heart,
With feet that
Were meant to wander,
With a constant, burning wonder—
What’s over
The next hill.

Come what will,
She’ll be on the road, tomorrow
Or the next day.
There isn’t any way
To hold her here,
When grace
Will take her away.

Born
To roam,
Made
To ramble,
Grown
With two strong legs
And a will to amble
Over hill and dale,
Even through the brambles,
She’s a wandering child,
Free and wild! 

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE XXVII
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

when you are short on cash
and all the best sales prices
only offer a savings in
Rewards Points.

__________________

WHAT IF FEELS LIKE XXVIII
—Caschwa

when your tax dollars are spent to
hire and pay good wages and benefits
to full-time legislators to create laws
that direct full-time law enforcement
staff to arrest, detain, and impose very,
very large fines against full-time homeless
individuals who were somehow pushed
into retirement without a golden parachute,
and who now clutter and foul the space
they are in because they have no access
to housing or restrooms.

oh wait!  the pioneers we celebrate
roughed it without housing or restrooms,
but that was before all territory became
someone’s property…

what a fine mess we have here today

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE XXIX
—Caschwa

when you wake up in a jail cell
and realize that your whole world
is a power struggle, like it was when
you were on the outside, like it will
be again when you get released

forget about your skills
sharpen your shivvie

____________________

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE XX
—Caschwa

when one’s best excuse was that
they didn’t have the opportunities
necessary to thrive, and then they
are presented those opportunities
and have no idea what to do with
them

maybe the public school curriculum
should be giving as much weight to
teaching how to reap the benefits of
opportunities as it already does to
teaching all the negatives that arise
from disobedience, to better mold
the minds of our future voters

____________________

Today’s LittleNip: 
 

VICTIMS OF A STORM!
—Joseph Nolan

Creaky, aging branches
Moan into the wind,
Fearing they might break.

It’s been known to
Take a few:
The weaker ones
Who’ve sinned.

At least
That’s what
Some trees say
About the ones
Who’ve blown away,
Victims of a storm!

__________________

Merry Monday and thanks to Joseph Nolan and Carl Schwartz (Cashwa) for stirring up things in the Kitchen today!

Check out these poetry events in our area this week. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about these and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

•••Tonight in Placerville, Poetry in Motion poetry read-around meets from 6-7pm at the Placerville Sr. Center on Spring St.

•••Also tonight, at 7:30pm, Sac. Poetry Center presents Hugh Behm-Steinberg and Lucy Corin plus open mic, 25th & R Sts., Sac.

•••Thursday, 8pm: Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe & Juice Bar features readers and open mic, 16th St., Sacramento.

•••Friday: Speak Up: The Art of Storytelling and Poetry meets at 7pm at The Avid Reader on Broadway in Sac., with readers on the subject of “Magic”.

Interested in workshops? Check the green box at the right for a listing of local ones which will be held this week and/or later.

____________________

—Medusa, still thinking about that angler fish thing…

 Spring is on the Wing!

—Anonymous Photo

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.

As The Pearls Of Morning's Dew

—Anonymous Photo

TO DAFFODILS
—Robert Herrick (1591-1674)
 
Fair Daffodils, we weep to see
You haste away so soon;
As yet the early-rising sun
Has not attain'd his noon.
Stay, stay,
Until the hasting day
Has run
But to the even-song;
And, having pray'd together, we
Will go with you along.

We have short time to stay, as you,
We have as short a spring;
As quick a growth to meet decay,
As you, or anything.
We die
As your hours do, and dry
Away,
Like to the summer's rain;
Or as the pearls of morning's dew,
Ne'er to be found again.

___________________________

—Medusa

For more about Robert Herrick, see www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/robert-herrick/.For more of Robert Herrick’s poems, including “Upon Parson Beanes”, “To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time” (Gather ye rosebuds, while ye may…), and “The Bad Season Makes the Poet Sad”, go to www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/47335/to-daffodils/.

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.

Death is a Rainbow

—Poems by James Lee Jobe, Davis, CA
—Anonymous Photos Courtesy of James Lee Jobe

What we have,
And what we have not.

These poems are fairly worthless; a house
Made of twigs, mud, and thistles.


The good comes, perhaps, from building them,
More than from their use; an exercise for the spirit.

So take them with a grain of salt.
I am only a human, after all.

Autumn in America. Waking at dawn
On a cross country bus. Gleaned fields.
A damp fog, gray and cold.
Arkansas? Oklahoma?
Snores from a passenger.
Wheels on pavement. The whining
Sound of a highway.
We are leaves caught in the current,
Floating along on the strong river.

I am growing colors in my garden. It's easy, because death is nothing. There are rows of red, yellow, and blue. There are also rows of coffins that stink of rot and pain. The colors and coffins are fertilized with the debris from a razed building. The earth eats the broken boards and the bent, rusted nails. This garden is alive. Death is a rainbow.



__________________

I am determined not to be eaten alive by a shark.

They are sleek as silver, and as bold as sound and fear, lightning bolts with teeth that can hunt like my father, like my uncles.

Some humans find them beautiful, as a tiger is beautiful, fierce and strong, but for me they are teeth and terror. I stay out of the ocean the way a sober alcoholic stays out of a tavern.

These lightning bolts can strike again and again, until your blood is a downpour, until the light opens up and welcomes you home. 

This is a wine that I can not drink.


I don't hate anyone at all. Hate chews up your stomach the way a mouse chews through the cardboard box to get to the crackers. Hate turns on you. You can count on that. It eats you up from the inside out while the person you hate isn't bothered at all. Hate will grind up your eyeballs and your heart and your flesh until you are less than a memory. Because who wants to remember the hateful, anyway?


_________________

Now the coals are glowing red and orange. There is a soft light to the room. A gentle warmth, the quiet time. A time beyond any need to speak.

Rumi said that your only faithful student is yourself, that all the others will leave you sooner or later. It’s true of being alive as well; wherever you go, there you are. There’s no escaping yourself. You can be your own best friend or your own worst enemy. What will you do with your life? Don't ask me; I don’t write poems because I have all the answers, you know. Sometimes I'm just reminding myself to not be an asshole. I hope it’s helpful for you as well.


____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Yesterday, watching the sunrise, I was a wren, or perhaps a starling. As I chirped, the new light grew. Powerful. Golden.

—James Lee Jobe

____________________

Our thanks to James Lee Jobe this morning for the lively colors of his poetry and the artwork he has provided! Punxsutawny Phil has spoken for an early spring, and it is indeed springing up all around us: daffodils, cherry blossoms, tulip trees—all bringing color to the Kitchen, just as James has. Enjoy it while you can: Powerful. Golden.

Today is packed full of poetry events:

•••Writers on the Air, beginning at 9:30am this morning, featuring Frederick Foote, Michelle Woods, and Vicki Carroll plus open mic. That's at Sac. Poetry Center on 25th & R Sts., Sacramento.

•••In Placerville, Poetic License poetry read-around meets in the Placerville Sr. Center lobby from 2-4pm. The suggested topic for this month is "close encounter", but other subjects are also welcome.

•••Then back to Sac. Poetry Center by 4pm for the Tule Review 2020 Release reading. (Contributors may pick up their copies from 2-4pm.) Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about these and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa, celebrating Spring, as it leaps around the corner at us ~

 —Anonymous Photo

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.

Finding the Lost

—Poems and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA

CARABINER

It’s snap-jawed, metal-cold and silvery-slim.
It taught me rappelling:
You’re going to step backwards off this cliff;
I’m your link between rope and harness.
It said, Trust me.
walk the cliff, don’t look where you’re going.
It stuck with me.
Now it latches our ranch gate.
It links stockwire field-fence to gatepost,
clips to rigmarole of rusty chain and baling wire,
ignores 3 padlocks (keys and combinations lost—
it never knew their previous owner, who died).
It said, strangers came when you weren’t home.
It won’t tell them its secrets,
lets them clip it back any-which-way wrong.
It has its pride, hates awkward guesses.
It knows its rightful place.
It’s safety, support, home-security spy.
It shines in sun and works in most weathers. 

WHY SNOWSHOES?

You left Main Street far behind—
drove upcountry stunned by sun-glare
off snow—found a pullout
at edge of plowing, wary of getting stuck;
strapped on bindings of borrowed
trapper snowshoes, webbed like
a hundred knotted leather shoelaces
to hold you steady on snow.
From atop a lodgepole, that feathered
pester, Raven—credible sage
of the Sierra—called you sloven
on your fabricated feet. Why
snowshoes? why not skis, or wings?
Who cares for a rude bird’s
mocking? Now you’re trekking across
a sunlit crystal garden
with not a human trace to mar it
except your own, explorer
walking wide and awkward, amazed. 

HARD TIMES

They lost the keys to a bungalow they’d lived in for decades. Couldn’t afford insurance in our climate of wildland firestorms rushing city limits, burning whole neighborhoods. Companies cancelling policies in effect for years. Hard to find a room within reach of their pension. They’ve got an old truck with camper shell. They’re on Main Street on a spring-sunny day, or the shady side in summer swelter. He with guitar, she singing of the down-and-out, anthems of hard times: This land is your land, this land is my land.

Of all the things gone
wrong, she can still sing sweetly
in the key of wry. 

CAT’S IN THE BAG

An empty 50-lb bag of generic dog food
crackles from inside. Did I miss some kibble?
Loki’s latched on the open end, intently
watching movement. Now she lies
with forelegs across the opening. Entrance
blocked. This makes more mischief
inside. Latches the cat has found a new
dark space to fathom. He lacks a key,
Loki’s got him dog-locked. They’ll get this
settled—dog-cat chase around the house.
Then they’ll lie nose to nose napping
on the couch, dreaming up new games. 

KEYING THE BLACK OAK LOST

The only Quercus kellogii on our foothill acres among other species of oak. Black oak: critical species for wildlife; its acorns a staple for Native Americans. Height 30-70 ft (I paced the trunk out to 55 as it lay, but broken-off crown scattered farther). Bark ridged and dark. Leaves deeply lobed (fingered hands vibrant green with spring-light shining through). In closed stands (our hill of oaks), its lower trunk free of branches, crown rising narrow (lost in a canopy of green—a basketball player in a crowd of oak, trying for a shot). Roots penetrate to bedrock (such a crater our black oak left when it fell);

feet rooted in hill,
its crown-head reaching for sky—
how I remember 

FINDING THE LOST
           for Taco & Cowboy

Lost keys? My dog would range out far beyond
anywhere I dreamed they could be—my keys
past edge of parking lot, off toward the pond.
How did they ever get that far? a breeze?

Dog trained as pup to seek out human scent
wherever and however—surely sent
to earth to help me. After years, he died.
Who will find my keys, dog not at my side? 

Today’s LittleNip:

YELLOW-DANCE
—Taylor Graham

February breeze,
first daffodils dance too fast
for my iPad lens—
out of focus? no matter,
sun catches them on the wing. 

__________________________

Good morning and thank-you to Taylor Graham for her poems and photos today, reminding us of our recent Seed of the Week: Lost Keys. About today’s post and her fiddling with forms, she says, “Oh, those lost keys! I'm sending the usual Tanka & Haibun plus a List poem and Rispetto (thanks to Carl [Schwartz] for reminding me).” Carl sent us a risotto—I mean, Rispetto—last week for Form Fiddlers’ Friday.

Three poetry events in our area tonight:

•••This just in: The MACC and Cordova Community Council present A Night of Poetry and Song with Acoustic Guitarist Gabe Becker plus Sacramento Poets Bob Stanley and JoAnn Anglin reading at The MACC, 10191 Mills Station Rd., Rancho Cordova, 6-8pm. This presentation is part of The MACC's current exhibit, "1968: A Folsom Redemption: An Exhibit of Johnny Cash's Comeback Tour at Folsom Prison: A Special Art Exhibit by California Inmates." Info: www.facebook.com/RCMACC/photos/gm.182498406294909/805054263331624/?type=3&theater/.

•••In Sacramento at 7:30pm, the Sac Unified Slam fundraiser will take place at Luna’s Cafe and Juice Bar on 16th Street;

•••In Davis, also at 7:30pm, The Other Voice Poetry Series welcomes Rhony Bhopla (in place of Traci Gourdine, who had to reschedule), Bill Gainer, and open mic at the Unitarian Universalist Church Library on Patwin Road. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about these and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

_____________________

FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY!

It’s time for more contributions from Form Fiddlers! Each Friday for awhile, there will be poems posted here from some of our readers using forms—either ones which were mentioned on 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 forms and get them posted in the Kitchen.

Today we have several poems from Caschwa (Carl Schwartz), who has been furiously form-fiddling this week: 

 
LAUGHINGSTOCK (Triolet)
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

we were once the keepers of world peace
powerful, respected, admired
having all that others desired
we were once the keepers of world peace
now that the fox has shed its faux fleece
our decorum is on par with geese
we were once the keepers of world peace
powerful, respected, admired

* * *

I’VE HAD IT! (Villanelle)
—Caschwa

I’ve had it, enough with pluperfect tense
what’s done in the past should stay in the past
a nickel should always be just five cents

“correct me if I’m wrong” just makes no sense
people correct to hear their own lambast
I’ve had it, enough with pluperfect tense

we’re done now with pounds, say goodbye to pence
here is the brand-new financial forecast:
a nickel should always be just five cents

right now, hitherto, and by all means, hence
don’t dig a hole that is not going to last
I’ve had it, enough with pluperfect tense

the court is open to hear arguments
trial quick, speedy, nothing if not fast
a nickel should always be just five cents

maybe Mexico will pay for a fence
this mind-reading stunt will leave us aghast
I’ve had it, enough with pluperfect tense
a nickel should always be just five cents

* * *

REALLY TRYING TIMES (Ottawa Rima)
—Caschwa

Seven-and-a-half cents doesn’t mean a heck
of a lot, doesn’t mean a thing, but give it
to workers who live from small check to small check
to face the winter’s cold and keep the fires lit
deal them a good card from the top of the deck
give them the strength to sometimes take a strong hit
they will repay you by working their butts off
smiling for wages that will stifle their cough


Carl has also been working on Sonnets, with a bit of frustration, so he penned this ditty, trying to break as many rules as he could:


BREAKING-ALL-THE-RULES SONNET
—Caschwa

trumpets blaring, signals flaring
march on, senior high school band
no one in the stands is caring
shako too small, glove slips off your hand

the tune is common, patriotic
showing respect for battered troops
ice cream and toppings, symbiotic
yes, please, give me three scoops

drum major is your BFF
for whatever that is worth
money’s gone, there’s no more left
next, they’ll question your birth

deport the cheerleaders, they are a hex
put them in cages, use them for sex

__________________

Shocking, Carl—your last line will wake us up on a Friday! But thanks.

It occurs to me that, with all this talk of forms, I should re-list some resources that can be used to find online information about forms:

•••Shadow Poetry: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/types.html
•••Poets’ Collective: poetscollective.org/poetryforms/example-index
•••Poets.org: poets.org/glossary
•••Poetry Foundation: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms?category=209
•••Bob’s Byway: www.poeticbyway.com/glossary.html
•••Desolation Poets by Sacramento’s Jan Haag: janhaag.com/PODesIntro.html
•••Baymoon: www.baymoon.com/~ariadne
•••The Poets Garret: thepoetsgarret.com/list.html
•••Writer’s Digest: www.writersdigest.com/?s=poetry&submit= (just type in the form you want in the search bar at upper right)
•••Classical Poets: classicalpoets.org/category/poetry-forms (articles, but not in any order)

There are lots more, but these are a start. Let me know if you have any others to pass on.

___________________

Finally, Joseph Nolan sent us this Haiku. As always, thanks to all the fiddlers for their music:

BUTTERFLY IN WINDSTORM (haiku)
—Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA                                                            

A butterfly’s wings

Were blown off in a windstorm.
No-one heard the news.

___________________

—Medusa, trying to find those butterfly’s wings ~ 

 Nesting Season is Upon Us!
—Anonymous Photo

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.