—Public Domain Photos
—Poems by Maik Strosahl, Bob Boldt, Cory Adamson,
Kimberly Bolton, Blake Adamson, Michael H. Brownstein
—all from Jefferson City, MO
ASHTAPADA
—Maik Strosahl
Gautama would not play
the eight by eight,
nor his disciples,
forbidden
even the boards of their minds—
ashtapada played on the sky—
moving through castles
haunted by Buddhist ghosts
not sure where they will be reborn.
But the Rajah
glides across the battlefield
with his ship, a horse, an elephant,
foot soldiers sacrificed
by the cast of the die,
rules of engagement fluid
as the fields became checkered,
royalty replacing the Hindus,
Christians pushing across the land—
a dark bishop
rising from the left and countered,
the knight advancing in evening hours,
moonlight to F3.
—Maik Strosahl
Gautama would not play
the eight by eight,
nor his disciples,
forbidden
even the boards of their minds—
ashtapada played on the sky—
moving through castles
haunted by Buddhist ghosts
not sure where they will be reborn.
But the Rajah
glides across the battlefield
with his ship, a horse, an elephant,
foot soldiers sacrificed
by the cast of the die,
rules of engagement fluid
as the fields became checkered,
royalty replacing the Hindus,
Christians pushing across the land—
a dark bishop
rising from the left and countered,
the knight advancing in evening hours,
moonlight to F3.
SLEEP, MAMA, SLEEP
—Maik Strosahl
She made me promise—
said if I really loved her,
I would spare her
the lonely shadows
that swallow the mind,
sweeping the halls clean
long before the current tenant
has had a chance
to pack up and move on.
It was my weakness
in honoring her wishes
that let her
lose the grandchildren,
her daughter’s face,
even the last good years
of her husband.
She still found me
familiar enough at least
to help her bathe,
pick out her dresses,
brush her hair.
I wonder,
as she now lies so peaceful,
if her last thoughts
were of polyester fluff
and betrayal,
or were they exhaled
with a sigh of relief
unknown to the hands
that fought me
for one more breath.
HER FIRST CRO-MAGNON
—Bob Boldt
I never forgot the day I first saw him,
sinew and muscle stretched thin over bone,
like the rabbit’s shank, and a long shank it was.
Black against the squinting sky, he was looking
down into me. A curved stick in his hand,
he moved like a deer, leaping among the rocks,
stalking in the trees along Snow Bear Lake.
I ran back to tell my kin.
I tried to show them how he leapt,
but I couldn’t.
Later they came upon us. They were as beautiful
as their weapons, except their eyes—
cold and mad,
not like any animal’s eyes we had seen.
All this was many suns ago—
many hunts and many deaths.
Yet, I remember that day I first saw him,
dark and thin, stretched against the rising sun.
—Bob Boldt
I never forgot the day I first saw him,
sinew and muscle stretched thin over bone,
like the rabbit’s shank, and a long shank it was.
Black against the squinting sky, he was looking
down into me. A curved stick in his hand,
he moved like a deer, leaping among the rocks,
stalking in the trees along Snow Bear Lake.
I ran back to tell my kin.
I tried to show them how he leapt,
but I couldn’t.
Later they came upon us. They were as beautiful
as their weapons, except their eyes—
cold and mad,
not like any animal’s eyes we had seen.
All this was many suns ago—
many hunts and many deaths.
Yet, I remember that day I first saw him,
dark and thin, stretched against the rising sun.
Lucky Money in Yellow Apricot Tree
Vietnam, Tet Lunar Festival
HER NAME MEANS APRICOT BLOSSOM
—Bob Boldt
Hong Hanh stops to rest
on the road to Ho Chi Minh City
Through the heavy afternoon air,
she carries her son—
a legless, armless trunk of a boy—
in an improvised backpack.
The war is nearly forgotten now.
What is its memory
next to tired feet,
choking dust,
the weight of her beloved burden?
Robed monks pass in silence.
She drops a coin in their bowl.
The gods are now as remote from her
as the men who mixed the poisons—
who killed the crops, made the animals sick,
birthed all the misshapen children.
Slowly she rises to complaining joints.
If she makes her cousin’s before nightfall
There will be rice and a warm place to sleep.
—Bob Boldt
Hong Hanh stops to rest
on the road to Ho Chi Minh City
Through the heavy afternoon air,
she carries her son—
a legless, armless trunk of a boy—
in an improvised backpack.
The war is nearly forgotten now.
What is its memory
next to tired feet,
choking dust,
the weight of her beloved burden?
Robed monks pass in silence.
She drops a coin in their bowl.
The gods are now as remote from her
as the men who mixed the poisons—
who killed the crops, made the animals sick,
birthed all the misshapen children.
Slowly she rises to complaining joints.
If she makes her cousin’s before nightfall
There will be rice and a warm place to sleep.
UNCLE JUAN
—Cory Adamson
Couldn’t keep his hands
off that one type of woman.
Gave his nephew a whole
colony of aunts. Revolution
was inevitable, and copper-
headed Juan was overthrown.
Next month will be lined
with skeleton hand trees.
A sharp, snowy beard calls
him “Blowfish” but forgets
how Juan played the trumpet
with ballooned cheeks, riding
the pendulum between brassy
classics and sexy low notes.
Auntie umpteen brags about
her Diamond district broach
before Pentecostal war cries
conquer the lectern. Applause
is like a teenage kiss. Inapt
quotations and greeting-card
goodbyes do not put bullets
back in the chamber. A conga
line that could link Hong Kong
to Spanish Harlem files past.
He’s still ruddy-faced after
the blood loss. We bury
Uncle Juan with his scarlet
tie and a rose in his lapel.
Long day? Sleep under
a winter blanket and you shall
fear no evil. There are two
cardinals in the snow. Proof
God knows how to paint.
—Cory Adamson
Couldn’t keep his hands
off that one type of woman.
Gave his nephew a whole
colony of aunts. Revolution
was inevitable, and copper-
headed Juan was overthrown.
Next month will be lined
with skeleton hand trees.
A sharp, snowy beard calls
him “Blowfish” but forgets
how Juan played the trumpet
with ballooned cheeks, riding
the pendulum between brassy
classics and sexy low notes.
Auntie umpteen brags about
her Diamond district broach
before Pentecostal war cries
conquer the lectern. Applause
is like a teenage kiss. Inapt
quotations and greeting-card
goodbyes do not put bullets
back in the chamber. A conga
line that could link Hong Kong
to Spanish Harlem files past.
He’s still ruddy-faced after
the blood loss. We bury
Uncle Juan with his scarlet
tie and a rose in his lapel.
Long day? Sleep under
a winter blanket and you shall
fear no evil. There are two
cardinals in the snow. Proof
God knows how to paint.
CLAIMS OF CLAUSTROPHOBIA
—Cory Adamson
Always a gravel rough embrace preceding suffocation.
“But what if I need something?”
Leading, leading, leading to that underwater cave.
“Because I have a problem, Honey.”
The one you squeeze through. More mole rat than monk fish.
“You remember how you just couldn’t part with your toys?”
Squeeze between two rough rocks spaced like molars.
“I could never do that.”
Not through the hole. not down into the water I’ve heard you say.
“You know how excited I get when I find something.”
Charming, Southern belle life with a wide yard and scenes from
a Grecian urn and the Hallmark Channel.
Hello. I see you’re down here already.
—Cory Adamson
Always a gravel rough embrace preceding suffocation.
“But what if I need something?”
Leading, leading, leading to that underwater cave.
“Because I have a problem, Honey.”
The one you squeeze through. More mole rat than monk fish.
“You remember how you just couldn’t part with your toys?”
Squeeze between two rough rocks spaced like molars.
“I could never do that.”
Not through the hole. not down into the water I’ve heard you say.
“You know how excited I get when I find something.”
Charming, Southern belle life with a wide yard and scenes from
a Grecian urn and the Hallmark Channel.
Hello. I see you’re down here already.
THE NEIGHBORHOOD
—Kimberly Bolton
(After Billy Collins)
A child’s face peers out the window,
Tiny nose mashed against the pane of glass
In the house across the street.
Then she quickly turns her head,
As something or someone inside has drawn her attention.
Maybe an older sibling insisting she come play,
Or her mother, stirring up cake batter in the kitchen, perhaps,
Offering the spoon to lick.
A few doors down, two roofers are atop
The two-story Victorian brick
Tearing away the old roof tiles and
Flinging them onto a pile on the ground below,
Preparing it for the new roof it deserves.
Ever since moving into this neighborhood,
I’ve been dying to meet the woman who lives in that house,
Just so I could get a peek inside.
Around the block, in the church of the Immaculate Conception,
The young Virgin, dressed in blue and trimmed in gold-leaf,
Holds out her arms in complete supplication and acceptance
Of what is to come to her,
Eyes uplifted in serene docility to the heavens.
Now, the church bells toll the hour.
Deep bell tones echo on the still air,
And I am sitting here next to my window,
Spiral notebook on my lap, fingers curled around my pen,
And a poem comes to me.
A poem comes to me.
—Kimberly Bolton
(After Billy Collins)
A child’s face peers out the window,
Tiny nose mashed against the pane of glass
In the house across the street.
Then she quickly turns her head,
As something or someone inside has drawn her attention.
Maybe an older sibling insisting she come play,
Or her mother, stirring up cake batter in the kitchen, perhaps,
Offering the spoon to lick.
A few doors down, two roofers are atop
The two-story Victorian brick
Tearing away the old roof tiles and
Flinging them onto a pile on the ground below,
Preparing it for the new roof it deserves.
Ever since moving into this neighborhood,
I’ve been dying to meet the woman who lives in that house,
Just so I could get a peek inside.
Around the block, in the church of the Immaculate Conception,
The young Virgin, dressed in blue and trimmed in gold-leaf,
Holds out her arms in complete supplication and acceptance
Of what is to come to her,
Eyes uplifted in serene docility to the heavens.
Now, the church bells toll the hour.
Deep bell tones echo on the still air,
And I am sitting here next to my window,
Spiral notebook on my lap, fingers curled around my pen,
And a poem comes to me.
A poem comes to me.
SONG OF MY ANCESTORS
—Kimberly Bolton
(After Nikki Giovanni and Walt Whitman)
If ever there were leaves of grass,
It was those female ancestors of mine,
Who planted and plowed and sowed their roots
In this land,
And bringing forth grandmothers, mothers, and daughters,
Exactly like themselves.
If ever there was a song of myself,
It came from the souls of these women,
Who survived and thrived in hard times,
And worse times.
Who felt beaten down on occasion by a lack
Of palatable comfort in their lives,
Who pulled themselves up by their bootstraps,
With a genetically inherited resiliency
That has made its mark on my own life.
They got on with it,
Because it was all they could do.
These were women who traversed the Nile Valley
Every Sunday morning on their way to church,
To thank a beneficent God for all that they had,
Which was little enough.
In their own way and in their own time,
They became a part of the hills and the land
Surrounding them.
Like a piecework quilt, they patched together
The intimate pieces of their lives,
Threaded through with a hard history
That would have browbeat them into submission,
If they had allowed it.
It was a quilt held together by tears and laughter
And work-worn hands that never stopped moving
Because of the work to be done.
They only needed the sunshine,
And a bit of rain now and then,
Along with a little luck on their side,
To see them through to the next day.
Note: The Nile Valley is what the folk of Cotton, homeplace of my ancestors, called the little rutted road at the base of a large hill which they followed, either on foot, on horseback, or by wagon each Sunday morning on their way to church.
—Kimberly Bolton
(After Nikki Giovanni and Walt Whitman)
If ever there were leaves of grass,
It was those female ancestors of mine,
Who planted and plowed and sowed their roots
In this land,
And bringing forth grandmothers, mothers, and daughters,
Exactly like themselves.
If ever there was a song of myself,
It came from the souls of these women,
Who survived and thrived in hard times,
And worse times.
Who felt beaten down on occasion by a lack
Of palatable comfort in their lives,
Who pulled themselves up by their bootstraps,
With a genetically inherited resiliency
That has made its mark on my own life.
They got on with it,
Because it was all they could do.
These were women who traversed the Nile Valley
Every Sunday morning on their way to church,
To thank a beneficent God for all that they had,
Which was little enough.
In their own way and in their own time,
They became a part of the hills and the land
Surrounding them.
Like a piecework quilt, they patched together
The intimate pieces of their lives,
Threaded through with a hard history
That would have browbeat them into submission,
If they had allowed it.
It was a quilt held together by tears and laughter
And work-worn hands that never stopped moving
Because of the work to be done.
They only needed the sunshine,
And a bit of rain now and then,
Along with a little luck on their side,
To see them through to the next day.
Note: The Nile Valley is what the folk of Cotton, homeplace of my ancestors, called the little rutted road at the base of a large hill which they followed, either on foot, on horseback, or by wagon each Sunday morning on their way to church.
BY OPHELIA
—Blake Adamson
Forget-me-nots in my heart
For you, I grew them special
Gardenia for your hibiscus
For your Edelweiss I brought fennel
And your Geranium is art
An iris of spring crocus
Of Coriander and clematis
But where’s your white chrysanthemum?
You bring me Lavenders clenched in a fist
And is this Purple Hyacinth us?
A hyssop you made my father
A marigold you gave my mind
This flower in my heart
Was it a Columbine?
For that, I’ll be a lotus on the water
—Blake Adamson
Forget-me-nots in my heart
For you, I grew them special
Gardenia for your hibiscus
For your Edelweiss I brought fennel
And your Geranium is art
An iris of spring crocus
Of Coriander and clematis
But where’s your white chrysanthemum?
You bring me Lavenders clenched in a fist
And is this Purple Hyacinth us?
A hyssop you made my father
A marigold you gave my mind
This flower in my heart
Was it a Columbine?
For that, I’ll be a lotus on the water
Fabric
THE UNEVEN LINE
—Blake Adamson
It’s only gone when you notice
Like the stop of a breeze
Where did it go?
How’d it go?
Why?
Is it back?
Where is it?
Will I find it again?
Can I even find it again?
I can see it, nearly taste it, but…
The feeling’s back again
Roosting in my mind
Its nails are in me
Whispers fill me
Where is it?
Where?
I just can’t!
I can’t take it
I have to find it!
I need to find it right now!
Where did I leave it?
How did I lose it?
Why did I lose it?
Can I find it?
It was so long ago!
Words are getting harder?
Memories are fuzzier!
The feeling won’t leave!
It roosts in my mind!
Like an uneven line!
—Blake Adamson
It’s only gone when you notice
Like the stop of a breeze
Where did it go?
How’d it go?
Why?
Is it back?
Where is it?
Will I find it again?
Can I even find it again?
I can see it, nearly taste it, but…
The feeling’s back again
Roosting in my mind
Its nails are in me
Whispers fill me
Where is it?
Where?
I just can’t!
I can’t take it
I have to find it!
I need to find it right now!
Where did I leave it?
How did I lose it?
Why did I lose it?
Can I find it?
It was so long ago!
Words are getting harder?
Memories are fuzzier!
The feeling won’t leave!
It roosts in my mind!
Like an uneven line!
Spring Apricot Cocktail
THE LAUREL TREE
—Michael H. Brownstein
(Because Daphne Prayed to the Gods for Help When Apollo Wouldn’t Take No for an Answer)
This is how magic works against us—
how being in hell is not always necessarily a bad thing—
how the odor from the man sitting nearby decomposes oxygen—
how the feral cat bites the hand that feeds it—
how newspaper headlines promise to lie
and skin sickness spreads into leaves of hair—
sorrow bends tears into strings of bark—
a minute slaves into an hour, the lecturer going on and on,
an hour becoming a day, a day a week, the pen out of ink,
the pencil lead broken, a time to sleep, a time to stretch,
a heart stone, the grain in laminate, rings of tile,
the number of seats in one row, the moon, the sun,
the moon, the sun, the moon, the sun, the moon,
clouds, rain, snow, frost, the moon, the sun, the moon,
the sun and the man at the lectern still speaking
clears his throat finally, swallows an imaginary wind,
begins to sing—the sweat of swamp, the swamp of musk,
a triage of lips/tongue/throat: an eczema of wood.
—Michael H. Brownstein
(Because Daphne Prayed to the Gods for Help When Apollo Wouldn’t Take No for an Answer)
This is how magic works against us—
how being in hell is not always necessarily a bad thing—
how the odor from the man sitting nearby decomposes oxygen—
how the feral cat bites the hand that feeds it—
how newspaper headlines promise to lie
and skin sickness spreads into leaves of hair—
sorrow bends tears into strings of bark—
a minute slaves into an hour, the lecturer going on and on,
an hour becoming a day, a day a week, the pen out of ink,
the pencil lead broken, a time to sleep, a time to stretch,
a heart stone, the grain in laminate, rings of tile,
the number of seats in one row, the moon, the sun,
the moon, the sun, the moon, the sun, the moon,
clouds, rain, snow, frost, the moon, the sun, the moon,
the sun and the man at the lectern still speaking
clears his throat finally, swallows an imaginary wind,
begins to sing—the sweat of swamp, the swamp of musk,
a triage of lips/tongue/throat: an eczema of wood.
FRIDAY MORNING
—Michael H. Brownstein
(for Ryllis of St. Kitts)
Cum. E be clear fishin’ an day bright,
sun up strong breath an fresh light.
Me friend, paw paw an water nut for you.
Morn come a crowin’. Milky milky. Love vine. Bamboo.
E’ryting ripe breadfruit green, sugar cane tie togeder,
lime, palm leaf, a shadow of heather.
Silence de ocean an large birds of prey,
one by one de lamps tickle out across de bay.
E be time, me luv, time to waken,
time to prayin’, time to tellin’, time for bakin’.
Cum. E be clear start an day clear bright,
early o’clock strong breath an fresh light.
—Michael H. Brownstein
(for Ryllis of St. Kitts)
Cum. E be clear fishin’ an day bright,
sun up strong breath an fresh light.
Me friend, paw paw an water nut for you.
Morn come a crowin’. Milky milky. Love vine. Bamboo.
E’ryting ripe breadfruit green, sugar cane tie togeder,
lime, palm leaf, a shadow of heather.
Silence de ocean an large birds of prey,
one by one de lamps tickle out across de bay.
E be time, me luv, time to waken,
time to prayin’, time to tellin’, time for bakin’.
Cum. E be clear start an day clear bright,
early o’clock strong breath an fresh light.
Today’s LittleNip:
LOVE GAINED
—Michael H. Brownstein
The rhyme of heartbeats,
a mountain stream full of devotion,
rainbows and clear skies.
Then a simple kiss,
an avalanche of affection,
arcs of love on fire.
______________________
Our thanks to Michael H. Brownstein for this lovely post-Valentine’s gift: poetry from his colleagues in Jefferson City, MO! A whole gaggle of ‘em, each one a gem: Bob Boldt, Maik Strosahl, Cory Adamson, Kimberly Bolton, Blake Adamson, and Michael Brownstein himself. Some of these poets have been featured in the Kitchen; some are due to be in the future, hopefully. Thanks to all of you, and to Michael or curating this fine collection!
I chose apricot blossoms for today’s photos in hope of spreading some good cheer and pungent scents, and in reference to Bob Boldt’s painful poem, “Her Name Means Apricot Blossoms”. The season is almost upon us! I can smell the flowers already, hear the bees, see the pollen all over my car…
______________________
—Medusa
LOVE GAINED
—Michael H. Brownstein
The rhyme of heartbeats,
a mountain stream full of devotion,
rainbows and clear skies.
Then a simple kiss,
an avalanche of affection,
arcs of love on fire.
______________________
Our thanks to Michael H. Brownstein for this lovely post-Valentine’s gift: poetry from his colleagues in Jefferson City, MO! A whole gaggle of ‘em, each one a gem: Bob Boldt, Maik Strosahl, Cory Adamson, Kimberly Bolton, Blake Adamson, and Michael Brownstein himself. Some of these poets have been featured in the Kitchen; some are due to be in the future, hopefully. Thanks to all of you, and to Michael or curating this fine collection!
I chose apricot blossoms for today’s photos in hope of spreading some good cheer and pungent scents, and in reference to Bob Boldt’s painful poem, “Her Name Means Apricot Blossoms”. The season is almost upon us! I can smell the flowers already, hear the bees, see the pollen all over my car…
______________________
—Medusa
For more about Ashtapada, go to
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.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
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.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
