—Poetry by Linda Klein, Playa Vista, CA
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA
WORDS
Words are multi-faceted jewels.
They can be blunt or sharp tools,
used to express feelings and thoughts,
to calm fears and expel doubts,
to drive home points when opinions differ,
or to offer solace to those who suffer.
I keep mine in a silk-lined box,
and use them often. No need for locks.
Every day I scan and sort,
consider their value, what each is worth.
Some may sparkle like pendants emitting light,
others soothe, smooth as pearls. They fall just right.
My objective is to select them
so those who hear them don't reject them.
Words are multi-faceted jewels.
They can be blunt or sharp tools,
used to express feelings and thoughts,
to calm fears and expel doubts,
to drive home points when opinions differ,
or to offer solace to those who suffer.
I keep mine in a silk-lined box,
and use them often. No need for locks.
Every day I scan and sort,
consider their value, what each is worth.
Some may sparkle like pendants emitting light,
others soothe, smooth as pearls. They fall just right.
My objective is to select them
so those who hear them don't reject them.
THE POWER OF WORDS
Many of us are afraid to use them.
We cower at words as at claps of thunder.
Those who would speak fear how their words
might be perceived, perhaps misunderstood,
afraid of the changes they may bring,
or the commitment they may carry.
Those who might hear them are hesitant
to discover how the words will affect them.
New ideas, plans, or opinions are held back,
hidden golden nuggets, they bounce around
inside us like painful, imaginary gallstones
that linger long beyond any need or use.
It takes courage, also willingness to listen.
To speak is to risk challenge or ridicule.
Many of us are afraid to use them.
We cower at words as at claps of thunder.
Those who would speak fear how their words
might be perceived, perhaps misunderstood,
afraid of the changes they may bring,
or the commitment they may carry.
Those who might hear them are hesitant
to discover how the words will affect them.
New ideas, plans, or opinions are held back,
hidden golden nuggets, they bounce around
inside us like painful, imaginary gallstones
that linger long beyond any need or use.
It takes courage, also willingness to listen.
To speak is to risk challenge or ridicule.
THE HOARDER
They say I'm a hoarder.
I may be just on the border.
Saved pieces of tangled string
for tying up everything
from packages to meats,
boxes filled with years of receipts.
There are newspapers and magazines,
bill stubs, still, from my home in Queens.
Closets stuffed with vintage clothing,
old letters that tell tales of love and loathing.
I never know when I may need them
to prove, to show, that I received them.
I cannot part with even one speck.
To do so would make my life a wreck.
They say I'm a hoarder.
I may be just on the border.
Saved pieces of tangled string
for tying up everything
from packages to meats,
boxes filled with years of receipts.
There are newspapers and magazines,
bill stubs, still, from my home in Queens.
Closets stuffed with vintage clothing,
old letters that tell tales of love and loathing.
I never know when I may need them
to prove, to show, that I received them.
I cannot part with even one speck.
To do so would make my life a wreck.
THE HOUR OF REGRET
It is when the sun descends
that you see and feel the shadows
of evening closing in,
too soon.
You look back at your life,
and 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 that rascal work with you,
and 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,
too soon.
You look back at your life,
and 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 that rascal work with you,
and direct him with your will;
instead, you gave him reign.
You waited and reached this sad hour.
LIGHT AND SHADOW
My life is a walking shadow, its light casts none.
I try to walk in sunshine, beyond the normal run,
pleading now to linger as does a longer day,
but life keeps walking swiftly and slipping fast away.
I cling in desperation to what I still can hold.
The shadow creeps in closer. It reaches to enfold.
One day I'll lose the struggle. My life will be no more.
Though I pull and scuffle, there's a scratching at my door.
Despite my fight, life will leave me. The shadow will move on.
Will my light be undistinguished, extinguished, and gone?
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Books have a unique way of stopping time in a particular moment and saying: “Let’s not forget this.”
―Dave Eggers
______________________
Thank you, Linda Klein, for today’s retrospective-thought poems. She writes that her last poem [above] was inspired by William Shakespeare's phrase. "life is a walking shadow".
On Facebook, I ran across an anthology from Finishing Line Press that sounds interesting, entitled Poets With Masks On. Here’s the info: www.finishinglinepress.com/product/poets-with-masks-on-a-pandemic-anthology-by-melanie-simms/?fbclid=IwAR1HN25pJSk_xToD46r5oCyEOLey11sc7jwKpaLI9Dzm5_4XmMrKLdSPrQ0/. And here’s the cover:
______________________
—Medusa
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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—
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