Monday, August 31, 2020

Senior Ballers and Lots of Other Cool Stuff—And No Masks Required!

—Public Domain Photos by Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA

—Mary Lynne McGrath, Sacramento, CA
Why would she wear a skirt so short—
She's at a dance at the senior center
for God's sake,
and even though one Japanese gal
wears a short skirt,
she's petite.

Not six feet tall in gold heels.

Two suave dudes wheel her round the room,
farmer plaid shirts, pressed slacks,
taking turns.

Her black lace hem is dangerously
close to full disclosure.
How old or how young do you have to be
to risk it?

Her hair is long, straight and blond,
she looks old enough to be a grandmother
but she has great legs.

The word is passed around by the ladies
circling the room.  "She says she likes
freedom of movement."
The snickers are mostly covert.
She's a joke—or is she?

Senior sex—sexy seniors,
somebody's always ready to bring you down.
What is unseemly, undignified or trashy?
She's unrepentant
and standing on principle
in those gold heels.

Her legs flash around the floor,
a samba, a tango full of dangerous dips,
cha cha cha.  The skirt looks something like
the bottom of a two-piece bathing suit,

except, of course, it's a skirt and
the place
between the legs
is open...

—Michael Ceraolo, S. Euclid, OH
          Jim Brosnan

I was a better pitcher and a better writer than Bouton,
but he had played for the Yankees and so received
all the superlatives from those who hadn't heard of me
and even if they had, probably didn't realize
I actually wrote my books myself
I had had a good year for the White Sox in '63,
but when they wanted to put a clause in my contract
prohibiting me from writing without their consent,
I retired from baseball
Years later I testified for Curt Flood in his suit
and I was proud to have done so, though he lost
And that led me to my one regret in baseball:
that I, perhaps having an even better case,
hadn't been the one to challenge baseball

* * *

          Eliot Asinof

Long before James Frey,
I knew the value of marketing fiction as non-
And while I would never compare myself to Shakespeare,
old Will and I are alike in this:
my Eight Men Out and his Richard III
have both been taken as history
by those who should know better

—Jean Jones, Wilmington, NC

When Orpheus asked his critics what they wanted from him, 

They all said, “Astonish us!” 

Can you do that? Astonish your critics? 

Robert Frost claimed that it was what “got lost in translation.” 
And Sandburg claimed it was a sack “of invisible keepsakes.” 

What is it to you? 

I would claim that the key lay “in the hands, something in the hands, surely it must be that.”

My friend, Andrea Young, asks me, “Are you reaching toward being a true poet?” 

What is it, Andrea? 
What is it? Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote, 

Regarding the true poet the following: 

“The true philosopher and the true poet are one, and a beauty, which is truth, and a truth, which is beauty, is the aim of both.” 

My friend, Howard McCord, wrote to me and said, “Poetry is whisky. 
Prose is mash. DISTILL!” 

I still wish to be astonished.

(A poem about the poet’s mother)
—Jean Jones

Bitterness was not your calling card. 

Neither was regret. 

If you had not lived these last ten years 

My memories of you 

Would have been filled with bitterness, anger, 

Regret and frustration. 

The anger is not totally gone. 

Neither is the regret. 
But watching you deal 

With less and less power in your hands, not under your control—

To accept these losses 

Without bitterness and regret has taught me 

How to grow old with grace 

And fall in love with you 

Perhaps for the first time 

Since I was a little boy 

And loved you as my mother

—Jean Jones

I’ve been told 

That before you die 

You see your double, 

That Catherine the Great 

Saw her double 

And ordered the guards 

To kill that woman, 

And when they couldn’t find her, 

Catherine died. 


I saw my double last night 

Waiting for the light to turn: 

Behind me was a man just like me, 

A bit heftier, I thought, but for all I know 

He was me, the way that others see me, 

Or he could have been me if I had done a few things differently in my past. 

And next to him was a woman who was a dead ringer for my ex, 

And she was twirling her hair like my wife does now when she gets bored, 

And this woman was trying to talk to my double, 

But he was glaring forward at the road, 

Right through to back of my neck, his eyes glazed over. 

So, I turned and waved goodbye 

To one of my possible pasts 

When the light changed. 

Maybe I will die soon…maybe not. 

All I know is that for now 

I’m glad about the choices I made, 

And like Frost wrote, “that has made all the difference.”

(These three above poems were prev. pub. in The Horror Zine at

—Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA

What would you like to do,
Keeping in mind,
You run out of time,

Time is not money.
They can’t be exchanged.
You might auction off
Each spare moment
To the highest bidder,
To enhance one
At the cost of the other,
But you can’t buy a
Single moment back.

Time is what you lack,
When all your time
Has run out.
So what would you like to do?

How would you like
To spend your moments
In your tiny
Slice of infinity?

—Joseph Nolan
Oh? I didn’t hear.

Oh? I was nowhere near.

I had no idea
That it happened.

I didn’t watch
The news that day.

I must have been out fishing
Or somewhere else, away.

And that’s why I missed
The story of a tryst
That made a prince
Blush red!

At least that’s what they said,
On the news-cycle replay,
That recapped
All the news that bled,
From the previous day. 

—Joseph Nolan

Are only
Sung in Spring,
When daffodils
Run through the glades,
Leaving us amazed!

If Heaven-sent,
Our world, unruly,
Was ever meant
To show such
Wondrous beauty?

And I
Put my arm around your waist
And pull you to me.
Blessed, we must be,
To be within the ambit
Of such beauty,
In love,

—Joseph Nolan

Shadows, long,
When sun is low.
Shadows, short,
When sun is high.
Ambition is
A lullaby.

Old man winks
And says “Hello!”
Walking down
The street, he goes.
He’s been there.
Now, retired. 

—Joseph Nolan

I have never been here,
Or anywhere.
I wander, abstract,
In a reckless dawn.

Where could I belong
With restless legs
Causing me to amble
Across the endless dregs
Of humankind?

Thrown across a landscape
With nothing touched,

Just shadows
Washed away,
By the flooding light
Of each new day. 

—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

once tired of being colonies, we sing
unity as states, pretending to be just
and abiding by the rules written to bring

equality to all the stakeholders first
and then to people of all origins and
beliefs, eventually becoming the worst

Hippocratic States, beyond the pale
we have one race unite against another,
and you already know which must prevail

we have managed to disprove the “one
size fits all” underlying design, but are
slow to recognize that always using a gun

to enforce the laws for all of the citizens
is actually harmful, such as going to the
County Fair with all its differing denizens,

buying a blue-ribbon pecan pie, and sharing
it with someone allergic to tree nuts, causing
them to become deathly ill, and stop living.

DING! DING! (Bored)

“Little things are great to little man.”
           —Oliver Goldsmith,
The Traveller

morning commuters swarm up
the ramp to board the light rail
train for that last leg of their daily
trip to an office of some sort

carrying books, laptops, pillows,
newspapers, anything and every-
thing they will need to avoid that
dull reflection of their own image

they are ants, no longer amused
by the hill they built, happy enough
to ensconce themselves in elaborate
tunnels they bored for high purpose

arriving downtown, scurrying hither
and dither, hunting for this and that
credit card and key card to grab some
fresh coffee and start the new day

clockmaker by trade
creator of myriad
faces of period

collectively one giant,
ticking metronome
for in or out of home

culinary arts,
when to propose,
shut off the hose

administer medicine,
key to great sex,
release of a hex

musical expression,
tuning up engine,
tossed into dungeon

winning a race, letting
grief run its course,
watering a horse

the heart of a joke,
retire to bed,
something else instead


Today’s LittleNip:


Old people certainly do
have bigger behinds than you
all those years of their past
slip by sneaky and fast
looking much smaller in rear view


Wake up and good morning; it’s Monday, the last day of August! We have an action-packed post for you today, including a new SnakePal, Jean Jones, who will be featured on Sept. 23. Mary McGrath sends her musings on seniors; Michael Ceraolo continues his book on baseball; Joseph Nolan sends powerful poetry and often-astonishing photos; and Carl Schwartz worked with our Seed of the Week: Bored. Artistic Adepts, they all are, and we’re mighty thankful for it!

Here in our area, Sac. Poetry Center uses Zoom for weekly readings and workshops. For more info, go to SPC online poetry events this week include:

•••Mon. 7:30pm: SPC’s Fifth Mondays Charitable Reading Series presents A Reading for Autism w/Dr. Michelle Bitting, Connie Post and Dr. Andy Jones. Info: Zoom:  Meeting ID: 815 9970 4076

•••SPC Tuesday night workshop at 7:30pm, hosted by Danyen Powell. Bring a poem for critique. Contact for availability and Zoom info.

•••Wed., 6pm: MarieWriters workshop (prompts), hosted this week by Laura Rosenthal; go to

•••Wed., 6pm: 916 Ink young student writers share their work from the 916 Ink Amplify! Virtual Summer Camp. Zoom: (Note: Zoom number is not the usual SPC Zoom link.)

•••Fri., 4pm: Writing from the Inside Out workshop led by Nick LeForce. Reg. in advance at After registering, you will receive a confirmation email containing information about joining the meeting. (If you have registered before, use the same link.)

* * *

Also this week:

•••Every Friday, 7:30pm: Video poetry reading by Davis Poet Laureate James Lee Jobe at or

•••Saturday (9/5) is another in the series of Mad Mouth Poetry Readings (Week 9) for Black Poets Matter, this week featuring Marvin Jordan, 8-9:30pm via Zoom at Info: scroll down on Facebook at To see videos of previous weeks’ readings, go to

* * *

Finally, this letter was in my email box from Sac. Poetry Center:

"The SPC Board of Directors has voted to postpone the annual meeting for the election of new directors—usually scheduled at 1719 25th St. on the second Monday of September—because of being shut down due to COVID-19.

We need to determine the most effective protocol for holding elections, including whether members can vote electronically, and then amend our bylaws to reflect that protocol. After this has been accomplished, we will inform you on when and how members can vote for Board candidates.

In the interim, we will continue our regular Board meetings at 6pm on the second Monday of each month via ZOOM. We use the same zoom room where we hold our Socially Distant Verse events. The information for entry into these meetings is as follows:
Meeting ID: 763 873 3462
password: spcsdv2020

If you are at all curious about how the Board operates, please drop in to take a peek. Hopefully you might even eventually decide to run for a director position yourself!"


—Medusa, agreeing with Jean Jones'
friend, Howard McCord, [who] said, “Poetry is whisky. Prose is mash. DISTILL!”

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 We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously-published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for more poetry!

Sunday, August 30, 2020

Some Things Are Never Clear

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy 
of Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA

—Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, West Covina, CA

Do not discount to look
between the shadows.
Come armed to the teeth
with imagination.
Do not look away when
death shows you its face.
Offer it a drink, a joke,
try to murder it with life.
Do not refuse when your
lover pours you a drink.
She will embrace you
when you start shivering.
Do not drink poison even
when you feel a great thirst.
Be kind to strangers, to
the poor, and to ghosts.
The ocean is a place of
adventure and grand depths.
Laugh hard, laugh often
until you end up hoarse.
Do not feel lonely
living in an empty house.
Do not forget to give thanks
to the day and the night.
Do not take for granted
the beauty of flowers.
Take comfort in hope
when you are feeling sad.
Do not hold back truth.
Let it spill from your chest.
If you feel tired, you are
welcomed to my bedroom.
If you need an ear,
I have time to burn.
The consequences of love
are not always prophetic.
There are mysteries in life
that cannot be answered.
Despite certain transparencies,
some things are never clear.


—Medusa, with thanks to Luis Berriozábal, who does not hold back truth ~

Tribute drawing to little dog Coffey,
who passed away this week, 
by Luis Berriozábal
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 We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously-published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry!

Saturday, August 29, 2020

No Beginning or End

—Poetry and Photos by James Lee Jones, Davis, CA

We will build this house with glass, all of the houses, a city made of glass. Glass walls, glass ceiling, and streets paved with glass. Then we will encase our city with a dome of glass. It will be beautiful, ethereal. Who, I wonder, will be the first one of us to cast a stone?

A nice day like this, there should be a river to cross. There should be a mountain to climb. Warm, but not hot. There is a breeze, but I wouldn’t call it windy. The air feels good, clean, and the sky reaches from heaven to earth. Maybe just being alive is the river to cross, the mountain to climb.

I tend words like a shepherd tends a flock of sheep. I have spent a lifetime with this work. And the flock has grown larger, healthy and fat. Look now. See the morning sun on their thick fleece.

A time of disease, people are dying by the thousands. Hundreds of thousands. The pandemic. Grief and fear are in the air, thick, yet so is the sweet fragrance of my jasmine, my roses. Finches appear for the seed that I scatter. Life and death perform a mad dance in these times. And in all times. Blue sky in the springtime. 

A family? Yes. I have one. One son is dead, another is somewhat less than sane. Something whispers in my ear that I failed them both. There is a daughter, now sober, who also has a daughter; the little one is a delight and commands more magic than the rest of us put together. And my wife still tolerates me. Can you imagine? Married to the most minor of poets! Poor dear. Family, come and bring the mops! I will pour the soapy water on the floor, the same old floor as always, and together we shall begin to scrub our dirt away.


Today’s LittleNip:

Geese flying in a wide V. A blue sky, no beginning or end. Grace and beauty. Beauty and life, above.

—James Lee Jobe


Our thanks to James Lee Jobe for the grace and beauty of his poems and photos today! A warm beginning to a warm week.

Tonight is another Mad Mouth Poetry Reading (Week 8) from Davis for Black Poets Matter, featuring LaLa DeVille, 8-9:30pm via Zoom at Info: scroll down on Facebook at To see videos of previous weeks’ readings (plus a lot of other cool poetry videos besides), go to

And don’t forget Fridays, 7:30pm, with video poetry readings by Davis Poet Laureate James Lee Jobe at or



 —Photo by D.R. Wagner, Locke, CA

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 We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously-published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry!

Friday, August 28, 2020

Gangly-Birds and Blood-Suns

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



Creak-screak or coiny-jingle shopping carts
on asphalt, all of us in a rush to mask/unmask.
Squirt/rub hands, car-key in lock. Bananas
avocado beans up-loaded, ready for homeward - -
What’s the awful noise? my little car
breaking apart?
There! Balanced on cart-corral corner-post
beak wide open—
Crow in close-up profile watching me
side-eyed. Thirsty in this heat?
Dog-dish of water
solemnly slowly set it down.
No-thanks Crow flies away.
slide-rasping across strings of air. 


After “Post Industrial Work Basket, 2018”
by Monique Sonoquie

She stems from lines of basket weavers—
four Native American tribes plus Irish—joined
together in a woman of Now. Their art,
a space of woven tule, hazel, willow that bends
to need; her basket, created for survival,
to preserve a culture and the land that dwindles
and changes with climate and human doings.
Look at the weaving of this piece, a cornucopia
of electrical cable and metal spacers.
Whatever could it hold?
not a grain of earth, nor water, nor air.
A basket holds but can’t contain: its maker’s
invention, hope and wishes,
resourcefulness, imaginings, and dreams. 


They say a village once was here
where now a foot & bike path’s planned.
And still the verdict is unclear—
whose heritage is it, whose land?

We’ve histories by grant and blood—
of money, and hands soiled with mud.
Shall we dig up a proof of bones
to tell the testament of stones? 


You call the heron Gangly-bird
on stilts stock-still. And now in flight
with heavy wing-strokes. No sound’s heard.
You call the heron gangly-bird;
I wish you’d find a kinder word.
It’s flown already out of sight.
You call the heron gangly, bird
on stilts stock-still—now gone in flight. 


That time—last-minute apologies to our
featured reader from a distant more cultured city,
where the bookstore wouldn’t be locked up tight,
having forgotten about a poetry reading
scheduled months ago—
poetry finds itself so often homeless.
That evening we slunk into the ice cream parlor,
far-back corner with extra chairs; asked
in our sweetest vanilla voice: might we meet
for just an hour, and of course
we’d all have ice cream. 


We’re sandwiched within our walls
no matter how wildwood calls—
landscape chokes on smoke,
sun’s a hot-pink crown
of blaze-corona.
Wildfire coming down
the distant hills? Shut
tight the windows, stay inside.
Breathe twice-used air; hide, abide. 

Today’s LittleNip:

—Taylor Graham

As if
a stockwire fence
could keep the blood-sun—pale
in its ring of flame—from lighting
right here.


Our thanks to Taylor Graham today for her smooth poetry, punctuated with her fine photos! She has sent us two Ekphrastics (“A Scoop of Rocky Road” & “Subsistence Weave”); a Rispetto (“Bedrock Mortar”); a Triolet (“Grace”); a Cinquain (“Smoke Sun Rising”) and a try at Carl [Schwartz’s] Sandwiched by Sevens (“Pandemic Firestorm”).

This Sun. (8/30), from 10am-12pm, Taylor and Katy Brown will facilitate a Capturing Wakamatsu outdoor poetry workshop at Wakamatsu Farm (outdoors) in Placerville. Please contact or call 530-621-1224 to sign up and to get the carpool meeting location (Placerville). Suggested donation: $5/members, $10/non-members. Social distancing & masks encouraged. Info: (scroll down).

For more info about the basket in the above photo, go to

And now it’s time for 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, by golly! (See Medusa’s Form Finder at the end of this post for links to definitions of the forms used this week.)

Taylor Graham sent us several juicy form poems; see above and give ‘em a try, including the new “Sandwiched by Sevens” form which was introduced by Carl Schwartz in last week’s Fiddlers (8/21/20).

Today Carol Louise Moon has sent us a smooth, sad Octo: 

—Carol Louise Moon, Placerville, CA
We are lonely and separate,
each in a shelter of cocoon
just above what love would accept.
We, evening’s defeated lovers,

dark love of night that hovers
just above. What love would accept
each in a shelter of cocoon. . . ?
We are lonely and separate.

Caschwa (Carl Schwartz) has sent us a Didactic poem, reminding us of some pitfalls in life. He has rhymed the last two lines of each stanza, taking an interesting risk with “impervious” and “virus”—but hey, if it works…

—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
me giving advice?
don’t get me started
your ears are not ready
your rock is not steady

taking precautions
out in the street
a vest of the brightest nylon
to a drunk, you are a pylon

resting most casually
in bathtub quite warm
sleep sinks head
then you’re dead

visiting your grave
to mark your statistics
due to acting impervious
to a pandemic virus

electing authority
that cares not if you die
your survivors can’t change that
by wearing your hat 

 —Public Domain Illustration

Here is a signs-of-the-times Pantoum from Carl:


maybe I need a nice, comfortable mask?
so I can sneak into stores without
having to worry about breathing
of all things

so I can sneak into stores without
revising my entire calendar
of all things
just shop, pay, exit, go home

revising my entire calendar
that would be such a pain
just shop, pay, exit, go home
and other matters of normalcy

that would be such a pain
having to worry about breathing
and other matters of normalcy
maybe I need a nice, comfortable mask? 

 —Public Domain Illustration 
of Current Frustrations

And here is Carl again, re-visiting the Clogyrnach:


we see such a thing every day
weighty document on display
proper frame and seal
but is it for real?
reach and feel
past the say


So there you have it—another Form Fiddlers’ Friday! Here are links to the forms we visited today:

MEDUSA’S FORM FINDER: Links to poetry forms mentioned today:
•••Cinquain: OR
•••Sandwiched by Sevens: 7,7,5,5,5,5,5,7,7, rhyme scheme aaxaxaxbb (Carl Schwartz)

* * *

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 We post work from all over the world, including that which was previously-published. Just remember: the snakes of Medusa are always hungry!




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, August 27, 2020

Nature's Way

—Poems and Photos by Carol Louise Moon, 
Placerville, CA


“The moon appeared.
On the hill stands a man,
a face is hidden under his hat.”
        —Sakutaro Hagiwara (1889-1942) 

The moon appeared
to them to be a ball of gold,
and so they lusted once again
for the golden calf—
the meltdown and formation
of former days.

On the hill stands a man
holding the scales of justice
in one hand, and a law book
in the other. “Drop them! Drop
them both,” they cry out. But

a face is hidden under his hat
so that the children of the land
don’t know the nature of his
smiling, not sure if the man
has ears, at all. 


I don’t ask much of Nature, or her proof.
This rook has prey he carries with his feet.
For better grip he drops it to the street
then brings it up atop my neighbor’s roof.

This is why I try to stay aloof.
I hope that what he caught is just a rat,
and not a baby bird—just like a cat
would snatch, bite in half and carry off.

The sky (a silver screen) with shadowed rook
now magnifies the scene. I take a look
up to the gable, then quickly back away.
This horror is considered Nature’s way,
but I cannot approve the prey he took. 


Forgotten lace-rimmed yellow leaf,
voiceless in your circumstance—
when I pass by I bend a knee
perceiving your defenseless stance,

a piteous fall to ground from grace,
too soon a fall by awful chance.
What force against your blushing youth
has taken your inheritance.

And others, just as youthful too,
have joined you in this dusty dance.
They languish on this valley floor
along my winding vineyard fence.

You, my damsel, sweet and fair, have
pulled my heart strings that, perchance,
you might reside in Castle Grand
upon my hearth—beside my lance. 


What holds us in this calm
memory? Lamps of thought
ablaze beyond the curtain cloth.

Is it gift and gain that holds
this light and keeps us
in this calm remembering?

The breeze that blows and
moves the gentle flame
breathes through us now.

We see the cloth of curtain
moving toward the light—
the light of thought and memory. 

Today’s LittleNip:

—Carol Louise Moon

It is a dream of despair
impossible to escape—
I wonder—How now? Then as
if an audible voice the
instant I would have given
in to despair, Look up and
imagine you otherwise.


Our thanks to Carol Louise Moon for this morning’s beautiful poems, celebrating sound and rhythm with such dexterity!

Tonight from 7-8pm, Connie Post will launch her new book plus open mic on Zoom: Meeting ID: 813 2328 2510. Info on Facebook: Hosted by Malaika King Albrecht.

And also tonight, Sac. Poetry Center’s Comedy in Poetry: What’s so funny? with Carlos Alcala and Frank Graham takes place on Zoom. Register in advance for this meeting at Here’s the Facebook



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 We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously-published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry!

Wednesday, August 26, 2020


—Poetry by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, West Covina, CA
—Public Domain Artwork


I am watching
the milk shake.
I am waiting
for the spill.

I have time on
my hands and
my hands shake
like milk too.

Just like The Cure
song, I am
shaking like
milk. I am

about to turn
blue and fall
all over
the floor like

some piece of crumb
from a hard
cookie to
be devoured

by ants if it is
not swept up.
I watch it
all and weep.


A piece of the sky for sale.
A piece as small like a
slice of pie for sale.
How much could you afford?
I could sell it cheap.
I put it on layaway for you.
I will take a buck or two down payment. I will not charge
much interest, maybe
one percent or two.
I’ll throw in a small inch of a cloud.
You could squeeze out a
drop of rain. I will be waiting
on your offer or response.


Bleached clouds
appear in the sky.

A headless
rider gallops on.

The first drop
of rain misses me.

I cannot
avoid other ones.

an umbrella I

hurry up
to a destiny

I had not
planned on. I found

an awning
big enough for two.

A pretty
woman laughing just

like me and

the rain causing this.


After David Alfaro Siqueiros

Peace as a concept
works. A pinkish rose
held by an outstretched
hand toward the sky
works. In a mural it
works. I could touch it
with my eyes. I could
feel it in my heart.
Why can’t others see?
Why can’t others feel?
The word peace in
pinkish tones like the
pink rose graffitied
on a rock works. Peace
written in Spanish,
“Paz” works. It should
be written on every wall
that is erected at every
border wall in the world.
The more eyes see it,
the more hearts will
believe in the concept
of peace. 


I went up the stairs
and found no room when
I opened the door.
It was the most strange
thing to witness. I
tell you I scratched my
head. Where did the room
go and hide? I went
out and I was in
my room. All I could
do was shout out, hey!
Then I went to bed.
I never slept so
well. My covers were
warm and my dreams screamed,
Wake up! Get up! But
I did not listen.
I slept for three hours
without tossing and
turning. I felt this
was my last goodbye.


Today’s LittleNip:

—Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

Spin out of control.
Hide your soul from the shadows.
Open up a star and
enlighten your curiosity.
The silver lining of
clouds disappear into the night.


Welcome back to new SnakePal Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, and thanks to him for his fine poetry on a wacky Wednesday! For more about artist/poet David Alfaro Siqueiros, go to

Today from 1-2:30pm will mark the beginning of a free, 8-week Zoom workshop entitled “Pandemic//Planet/Protests: Poetry of Place” with
Califragile Editor Wren Tuatha. Info/Register by email at Sponsored by Sacramento Poetry Center.


—Medusa, waiting for my “small inch of a cloud” ~ ~ ~

 —Public Domain Cartoon Courtesy of Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA

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 We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously-published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry!