—Poetry by Linda Klein, Los Angeles, CA
—Public Domain Photos
LIFE, TIME AND DEATH
Sometimes you can see the writing on the wall,
telling you—you will never get to the other side of it.
[There is the element of time, after all.]
You might try to scale the wall,
or take a run at it, hoping to smash through.
[Personally, I've never had suicidal tendencies.]
My choice in such circumstances
would be to turn around and walk away.
[Whoever built that wall had his own reasons.]
One day when I am far enough away.
the builder may disassemble his wall, brick by brick.
[He might peer over it, looking for someone to join him.]
If it is me he is looking for, he will need to seek me out.
Perhaps he will stay behind his wall forever.
[I might occasionally think about him in the quiet.]
I won't agonize over him. I will live my life as it is, for me,
deriving satisfaction from my own reality.
[Life, Time, and Death, I respect you.]
Sometimes you can see the writing on the wall,
telling you—you will never get to the other side of it.
[There is the element of time, after all.]
You might try to scale the wall,
or take a run at it, hoping to smash through.
[Personally, I've never had suicidal tendencies.]
My choice in such circumstances
would be to turn around and walk away.
[Whoever built that wall had his own reasons.]
One day when I am far enough away.
the builder may disassemble his wall, brick by brick.
[He might peer over it, looking for someone to join him.]
If it is me he is looking for, he will need to seek me out.
Perhaps he will stay behind his wall forever.
[I might occasionally think about him in the quiet.]
I won't agonize over him. I will live my life as it is, for me,
deriving satisfaction from my own reality.
[Life, Time, and Death, I respect you.]
ACROPHOBIA
At the top of stone steps, rugged, steep, and rough-edged,
I stopped, and looked down at the slab of sidewalk.
I looked nervously from left to right, not seeing railing on either side.
I wanted to close my eyes, but knew I could lose my balance.
I was compelled to look at the cold stone until my body swayed.
My thoughts were to turn and walk back through the arched entrance,
Unable to turn or move, but for my trembling, I was frozen in place.
The others in our group were skipping steps, two or three at a time.
If only one of them had seen me, come over, and taken my hand.
At such times, I am rarely seen.
My voice pleaded softly, desperately for someone, anyone,
but soon they had all moved on, as breeze moves through leaves,
without regard for how it has disturbed them.
An image appeared to me on the cement below. Broken arms and legs
askew, a twisted, bloody sacrifice, splayed out and offered up
on a cement altar. I saw my own horrified face, as blood flowed
from my fractured skull out into the street.
I shuddered and walked toward what appeared to be my body,
taking the steps slowly, exactly twenty steps. As my foot touched
the final step, I bent and reached out to an image gradually fading.
There was no body, or blood, only the wind, debris, and dry leaves.
At the top of stone steps, rugged, steep, and rough-edged,
I stopped, and looked down at the slab of sidewalk.
I looked nervously from left to right, not seeing railing on either side.
I wanted to close my eyes, but knew I could lose my balance.
I was compelled to look at the cold stone until my body swayed.
My thoughts were to turn and walk back through the arched entrance,
Unable to turn or move, but for my trembling, I was frozen in place.
The others in our group were skipping steps, two or three at a time.
If only one of them had seen me, come over, and taken my hand.
At such times, I am rarely seen.
My voice pleaded softly, desperately for someone, anyone,
but soon they had all moved on, as breeze moves through leaves,
without regard for how it has disturbed them.
An image appeared to me on the cement below. Broken arms and legs
askew, a twisted, bloody sacrifice, splayed out and offered up
on a cement altar. I saw my own horrified face, as blood flowed
from my fractured skull out into the street.
I shuddered and walked toward what appeared to be my body,
taking the steps slowly, exactly twenty steps. As my foot touched
the final step, I bent and reached out to an image gradually fading.
There was no body, or blood, only the wind, debris, and dry leaves.
PRISON OF THE SELF
Can you see the faces in the rock,
feel their pain, see their shock,
etched by time's cruel creases?
They show desire never ceases.
An eternity spent entrapped, they watch
as water falls freely. If they could catch,
be caught, become part of the fountain,
they'd flow joyously down the mountain.
Can you see the faces in the rock,
feel their pain, see their shock,
etched by time's cruel creases?
They show desire never ceases.
An eternity spent entrapped, they watch
as water falls freely. If they could catch,
be caught, become part of the fountain,
they'd flow joyously down the mountain.
THE HOUR OF REGRET
It is when the sun descends
that you see and feel the shadows
of evening closing in.
Looking back, you wonder
if it ever happened.
The line between illusion and
reality is vague and wavering.
This is the hour of regret.
regret for missed opportunities,
for failure to acknowledge
time's flighty, selfish spirit.
The trick would have been
to make old rascal time work with you,
direct him with your will.
Instead, you gave him reign.
You waited and reached this sad hour.
It is when the sun descends
that you see and feel the shadows
of evening closing in.
Looking back, you wonder
if it ever happened.
The line between illusion and
reality is vague and wavering.
This is the hour of regret.
regret for missed opportunities,
for failure to acknowledge
time's flighty, selfish spirit.
The trick would have been
to make old rascal time work with you,
direct him with your will.
Instead, you gave him reign.
You waited and reached this sad hour.
INSPIRE
Dressed in their dark blue uniforms, the young footballers listened to Coach Coleman. He spoke to them as he had so many times before his long absence. While the coach spoke, the gymnasium windows rattled in their encasements. Coleman, still in what was meant to be his prime, struggled to enunciate his words.
The words meant everything. He needed the boys to understand the importance of how time is spent, to point them toward living productive, satisfying lives, to always do their best and believe in their ability to achieve their goals. Rain splashed against the building. It seemed to underline his words as the coach made each point.
When he referred to the illness that had slurred his speech, and would soon claim his life, their tears unleashed sobs echoed in the wet, vicious upheaval outside.
When the talk ended, each of them stopped to thank the coach, shake his hand, and wrap their arms around him in a hug. Their warmth gave him hope that his message had taken hold.
Coach Coleman wheeled his chair outside to find the rain had stopped. Sunshine radiated. It was a sign. His talk had transformed and inspired the boys. The coach had achieved his own life's goal.
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.
—Anton Chekhov
___________________
Meryl Streep in Sacramento??? Well, no, but you can catch her reading poetry online tonight at 7:30pm—that’s EDT—for Poetry and the Creative Mind: Online readings by Meryl Streep, Lauren Ambrose, Orlando Bloom, Hasan Minhaj, Samin Nosrat, Sandra Oh, Sarah Sze and more. Proceeds support National Poetry Month and the Academy of American Poets Educational Program (resources for teachers). Info/reg: poets.org/academy-american-poets/programs/poetry-creative-mind/.
___________________
—Medusa, with many thanks to Linda Klein for her fine poetry today!
Dressed in their dark blue uniforms, the young footballers listened to Coach Coleman. He spoke to them as he had so many times before his long absence. While the coach spoke, the gymnasium windows rattled in their encasements. Coleman, still in what was meant to be his prime, struggled to enunciate his words.
The words meant everything. He needed the boys to understand the importance of how time is spent, to point them toward living productive, satisfying lives, to always do their best and believe in their ability to achieve their goals. Rain splashed against the building. It seemed to underline his words as the coach made each point.
When he referred to the illness that had slurred his speech, and would soon claim his life, their tears unleashed sobs echoed in the wet, vicious upheaval outside.
When the talk ended, each of them stopped to thank the coach, shake his hand, and wrap their arms around him in a hug. Their warmth gave him hope that his message had taken hold.
Coach Coleman wheeled his chair outside to find the rain had stopped. Sunshine radiated. It was a sign. His talk had transformed and inspired the boys. The coach had achieved his own life's goal.
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.
—Anton Chekhov
___________________
Meryl Streep in Sacramento??? Well, no, but you can catch her reading poetry online tonight at 7:30pm—that’s EDT—for Poetry and the Creative Mind: Online readings by Meryl Streep, Lauren Ambrose, Orlando Bloom, Hasan Minhaj, Samin Nosrat, Sandra Oh, Sarah Sze and more. Proceeds support National Poetry Month and the Academy of American Poets Educational Program (resources for teachers). Info/reg: poets.org/academy-american-poets/programs/poetry-creative-mind/.
___________________
—Medusa, with many thanks to Linda Klein for her fine poetry today!
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!
