Sunday, October 31, 2021

Creepy Stuff to Scare You Out of What Wits You Have Left


—Skeleton Pot Photo by Michelle Kunert
 —Poetry by Joseph Nolan, Stephen Kingsnorth, Jean Jones
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joseph Nolan and Stephen Kingsnorth

—Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA

He no longer feared
A monster lurked under his bed,
Not since he
Was the age of six
And his brother shined a flashlight there
To show him all was clear,
Nothing to justify fear,
No hidden trap-door in the floor,
Through which a monster might disappear,
Just before a light shined
Into its dark abode
To find him.

But, as you
Grow older and wiser,
You cannot be
Quite as sure
As you were,
Unsteadied your
In the ways that
Friends could be trusted,
And you learned that
Some may betray you,
As though they
Lurked under your bed
Or deep in your closet
Or lost in your hair
Or in other places, where,
They cannot be found
With flashlights.

Nothing so simple
Could secure your night,
To a peaceful and restful sleep
When field-mice gnaw
Holes in walls
And sucker-fish
Lay their eggs
In mud
So deep!



—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales, UK

It is the week we kill the lights—
as when the carol singers come,
hum out of tune what they don’t know—
for this tradition’s weak in Wales
where coal seams dark, shrouded enough,
with ghoules and ghosties, unemployed.

For treats we kept a biscuit tin,
but callers mocked, rejected them—
or chalked the path as vagrants do—
their sign of trick or no welcome.
We’re scared that neighbours take offence,
beyond the pale, their kids’ treatment.

So still, we dread that knocking door,
the volume low on news events,
and whisper, crouching, curtains closed,
from upstairs, scare, fence leaping shapes.
And soon fireworks, thatch rocket drops,
and jumping jacks through letter box.

It covers weeks our mother died—
her at rest, we wraiths inside—
that wreath we choose, three spinsters’ care,
gravely laid this time of year.
For now masked terrors on the step.
It feels like lockdown come again. 




—Stephen Kingsnorth

Here’s thirteen days, all hallowed ground,
we sat beside his struggle cot,
and ours the gasp when grasp was lost,
left space far greater than his span.
Though tiny lad of days, not months,
his gracious giving to our lives
was that such scrap relied, our love;
the secret less in being loved
than lover of a fragile soul,
a complement, to be, belong,
believe some day he’ll sing a song.
So, neither trick or treat resolved,
by blaming or in praising cause,
and little gained by masking up,
pretending only good or ill
inform our smiles, our tears or frowns.
It’s not the time—maybe next year—
when we can gather sibling pair,
and knock on doors with silly japes,
though more, by then will join our son,
e’en moved along, been passed through death.
We stay the shade, wight in our eyes
reflect on bundle, tiny toes,
and would that he were man enough
to curl his fingers round our one.
By choice I’d join him, hold his hand,
supportive father with his son,
but I’m held back by other two,
who want to walk the streets, knock doors.

(prev. pub. by Spillwords)





—Stephen Kingsnorth

Where is the cauldron flashing fame,
the darker night when hags conspire,
white flash-dance flame, red ember bed,
accoutrements, those charming spells,
less lore alone, black pointy hats?
This more of rural festive site,
a ballet class for young at heart,
sum frolic in the candle bright,
crossed bones and skulls to drink the cup.
The trick to get the girl to strip,
to trip, fantastic, petticoat,
expecting flex of ceiling light
for fancy dress at Halloween,
this Bright Hour for the widows’ group,
a coven in its jolly phase,
with plastic props to add some spice,
I’m grammar sad, a long debate,
an anorak, word etiquette—
apostrophes tell what’s at stake—
unless this record’s, sloppy take.
The Witches Dance or Witches’ Dance,
collective subject, present tense
or frolic possessed by these folk?
If title right this girls’ night out
has movement by descriptor phrase,
an active verb, as happens now,
and we observers of the rite.
As yearly comes All Hallows’ Eve
and ghosties, ghoulies prance the streets
to trick or treat, misnomer term
for fragile lives, hatch battened down,
the bulbs turned down, pretend we’re out,
I think the mood in western world
is on the change, for nerves are frayed,
by threats and insolence, anon,
such antisocial media.
This painting framed without a name,
no provenance to claim, a shame,
its execution neatly done,
but pot-boiler or driven spur—
forget not, where’s that cauldron, hot?


Today’s Little"Nip" (so to speak…):

—Jean Jones

What if?
What if vampires were
Real? What would they be like?
Heroin addicts.

Bela Lugosi
Watching the start of
The Hunger, I watch vampires
Feasting on young flesh.

Bela Lugosi II
Wandering at night,
I come upon your coffin,
You look up at me…


Our thanks to today’s contributors for sending such treats to us! In keeping with our Seed of the Week, “Haunted”, Michelle Kunert sent us a link to “The 11 Most Haunted Places in Sacramento, CA”: She also sent a link to the Love and Rockets’ song, “Haunted When the Minutes Drag”, which she calls “creepy music that one can imagine a band of ‘vampires’ would play if they were in a pop-rock band”. Listen to it and creep yourself out tonight at




Happy Halloween!

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 poetry, of course!












Saturday, October 30, 2021

All Created Equal

—Poetry by Yuan Changming, Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

            for Helen Hengxiang Liao

Not coincidentally, I have met many a person
With a strong appearance of a lower species
For instance, one school mate of mine carries
The features of a rabbit, another close relative
Those of a horse, a colleague of a familiar dog
An acquaintance of a hedgehog, a fifth of a
Snake, a sixth of a pig, a rooster, a rat, a water
Buffalo, a donkey, a goat or chimpanzee &
Each seems fated to fall within or without some
Chinese zodiac year
                                       While my wife often
Looks like a nasty cat, she says my face oftener
shows all the hideousness of a demon, as if to re-
Mind her, like every other fellow human, I was
Born in an extra year of Satan though we were
                      All created equal in His image
Papaya Fruit Fly

I believe the pair of shoes you sent me as a
Birthday gift is made of genuine leather, but
It needs a pair of socks & even a pair of
Trousers made of natural, not artificial, wool
To go with it, which in turn requires an
Equally authentic leather belt to tie my
No-less-faithful lower body, including my
Penis that has become softened with age
As with my mind & heart, but despite all
My bona fides, my upper body is clothed
With manmade or fake fibres, especially
My face masks, or faces per se, not only to
Protect me against covid-19, 22, or anything
Else like that, but to cover my mouth
& nose in case I should inhale false air
& spit out some hardened spittle of truth
About life, about the real world. Indeed
I am never sure if that’s your original in-
Tention, but I do like whatever is actually
Genuine, real, true, natural or authentic
While I keep walking along, or alone 
Papaya Salad
             for Li Lan

When I spotted your papaya steamed
With snow clams upon returning
From my night shift at Choices Market
I felt like stumbling happily into
Some heavenly fairy tale. It was real
On weixin, though I can neither smell
Nor taste it. How cozy our home is
On the screen: every day I eat, sleep
Talk with you. Our feelings are as fresh
As the fruit flesh, as we enjoy our
Privacy of love as if within the shell
Of the snow clam. We kiss good night,
Good morning; I work outside to make
A few bucks while you learn drawing
At home. What a virtual housewife! &
             Me? I like all your artworks 


It’s no other than fear, I well know that, but just
Cannot help feeling afraid you would turn away
From me the next moment, or become upset
With what I have to say, or refuse to answer my
Call, or remove me from your weixin list, or
Cut off all my links to your world before I
Weave your being into the fabric of my love, or
Show no more initiative in contacting me, or lose
Interest in me & my life, or become really fed up
With my word-service, or stop missing me
As your old flame, or fail to pass the secular tests
Of time, or withdraw your affection under
The pressure of guilt or gossip, or lock your
Self up suddenly within the cage of traditional
Values & moral concerns… yes,
I fear you
Would do all such things, one or another, for
Some or no reason at all; I fear you would not
Hold your love for long; I fear you would change
Your heart (again as about half a century ago
On the other side of this world); indeed, I fear
My ugly wrinkled face, shrunken statue &
Softened manhood would disappoint you; in
Particular, I fear you would stamp out my
Inspirations before I burn them into poetry; above
All, I fear you are never afraid of my fears about you
Dwarf Papaya Tree

               for Yi Ming

meeting you face to face
you seem to hide yourself
behind a fog in another world

separated by the pacific in between
you often look like the flower
blooming on my window ledge

have a blue dream
and you will see a little cloud
drifting around like me
near that borderline

I have packed you up tightly
into my backpack, the luggage
I cannot consign, or sent by mail
but carry it with me
close to my chest

you are neither light
nor heavy, but you will
occupy a solid space
in the closet of my heart    


Today’s LittleNip:

Growing apart doesn’t change the fact that for a long time we grew side by side; our roots will always be tangled. I’m glad for that.

—Ally Condie


Welcome back to Yuan Changming, one of our pals from far away, and thanks to him for today’s poetry! Yuan first visited us in 2018.

This afternoon (10/30), 2pm: Poetry of the Sierra Foothills features Lucille Lang Day plus open mic, Love Birds Coffee & Tea Co., 4181 Hwy. 49, Diamond Springs (where Hwy. 49 meets Pleasant Valley Rd.). Host: Lara Gularte.


—Public Domain Cartoon

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 poetry, of course!



Friday, October 29, 2021

How CAN You Let This All End??

 —Poetry by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA
—Photos by Taylor Graham and Carol Eve Ford
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joseph Nolan

Remember that burst of winter-bloom
in a tiny triangle between the canyon road
and vacant lot graded for development?
Coyote bush as if decked with snow
but all in blossom, a pre-Christmas dazzle.

They say, bees come out
of hibernation for the nectar. Coyote bush
otherwise non-descript, chaparral-dull,
you might not notice.
For me, a bit of doldrums-cheer
in winter-dark on the canyon grade.

You know the story. The road
was widened—safer, but somehow
the old one cheered my soul. And that
ready-graded lot got developed,
wiping out coyote bush.

How about the bees? 

(prev. pub. in Windows of Time and Place, Cold River Press, by Taylor Graham)


Almost Halloween. We come
to the old town graveyard—spooky?
Not at all. Listen to the dead. As if rising
from under ground clothed in garb
and flesh of their prime, they tell their
stories. How they struggled and prospered,
making the town we call ours.
As if in hibernation till this yearly
visitation, actors in guise of the dead.
Owner of furniture store and funeral
home, he taught Esperanto.
Suffragette. Cattle rancher. Porcelain
artist. Musician. Doctor in Cholera
pandemic. Deputy sheriff gunned down
by highwaymen…. Listen to how
our town came to be, as the town goes
about its business, as shadows
lean against gravestones and October
sun slips behind the ridge. 


So brief
the leaf
let loose on breeze.
So bare in air
the leafless trees.

sky’s gray
but wild grape vines
shine gold,
autumn’s designs. 


Dark clouds spread over the town I’m leaving, its library where the lights abruptly went out. Aiming down deep, narrow canyon, my headlights try to guess the curves. It’s not twilight but in this tunnel of pine and incense cedar, black oak and—suddenly big-leaf maple flaring yellow on the roadside where I find a pullout. Why stop? leave my car and walk to dropoff lost in dark —but here and there a flicker of maple-leaf candles beckoning. Rising scent of leaf-fall out of earth, why does it smell like home? Why stay here, hibernate till dogwood blossoms?

twenty miles away
shines my distant porch-light dark
as if in welcome 



I’ve left the library,
left the town under a cloudy sky
for the drive home down-canyon.

What could make me pull over
at a wide spot off pavement
and stop my car?

Big-leaf maple’s turning,
yellow hands caught mid-dance
among deep dark green.

Conifers in the gorge,
glimpses of trees changing leaves,
beckoning to the steep edge.

Earth smells of hibernation,
dark-damp comforters of treefall
for the winter’s sleep.

I shake myself awake,
remember Frost’s long way
home through the dark. 


Full moon rises over flowing water—
moon’s tarnished silver lined as if with age
or with a script that says nothing
until I’m mummy-wrapped for sleep.
Night’s chill with altitude, thin-air edge
of wilderness. Not another human
for miles—but muffled voices
from up-canyon. How to sleep under such
a moon, ageless and mute, voices
flowing without mouth or words? I drift
down-current into sleep that speaks
what an old friend, dead now, might have
said—lyrics of a song heard long ago,
the moonlight midnight of tonight. 

Today’s LittleNip:

—Taylor Graham

What’s that raucous call?
from low above the oaks, so
chill, it winters Fall.


Taylor Graham’s tales today tell of late Fall and mountain roads and the occasional appearance of a witch—two days til Halloween, and her atmosphere is all ready for it, and a big thank-you to her! Some of her poems are in forms: a Triversen (“Stopping in Late October Woods”); a Haibun (“Return from the North”); an Ekphrastic poem (“Moonlight Midnight”); a Brazilian Haiku (“October's Hawk”); and a Brevee (“Roadside Glimpses”). Links to definitions of these are at the bottom of the post.

And now it’s time for…

It’s time for more contributions from Form Fiddlers, in addition to those sent to us by Taylor Graham! 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.)

Fasten your seatbelts—today we have a very busy and ‘way cool FFF, beginning with a San Hsien ( that Joyce Odam sent to us: 
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joseph Nolan
—Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

Light is thin—
leaves are brown—
some old town
that I’m in;
holding me;
can’t begin.
Write this down:
leaves are brown—
light is thin.

(prev. pub. in Sorrows [mini-chap], 2002 and Brevities, 2020)         

Stephen Kingsnorth was intrigued by recent photos-challenges, so he sent us two Ekphrastic poems:
Ekphrastic Challenge Two Weeks Ago

—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales, UK

A masterpiece, surrealist art,
said critics, sight, a fur-lined pot;
deformed to fit the photo shot—
was this the choice of ginger tom?   
Euphemisms, slang at work—
that feline term some mocking bird,
like Dick and Harry, peeping, boy,
gender bending, cat-call scenes,
that name leads to a doubtful man.

My verse is lined, shaped heartfelt space—
can hairshirt coat be felt, indeed?
This cramped flex body, stuffed escape,
headstrong, not proportionate,
but whisker from surrealist,
is he another critic’s voice?
Displaying independent streak—
as way expect, Eliot’s work—
is moggy stuck, not giving way,
inscrutable, not losing face,
his fur coat seen as commonplace,
Ben, Jerry, Tom, ice cream cartoon?

That crafty cat snapped to amuse,
tickle our fancy, quirky pose.
But tabby is in full repose,
mackerel, classic, spotted, ticked,
disdainful of artistic frame.
From Tybalt, king, to alley cat,
Officer Dibble here at work,
cat’s cradle woolen strings attached.
all be it top cat on the prowl,
grimalkin, all encompassing.
Last week's Ekphrastic Challenge
—Stephen Kingsnorth

Influence, lunar pull of moon
and waterborne its fluent sheen;
save recall, no appeal for me,
though prompt, as if stage apron wings.

‘Moon River’, tones that take me back—
my sister’s tranny after dark—
her first transistor playing tracks,
beneath the sheets, Mancini sound.

Then of me lying, grass at back,
stretched prone on lawn and staring up,
too bright the night, meteor shower,
another year, no moon, clear clouds.

That moonshine still lends double talk,
with mares, bad dreams—or silver seas,
just as my sibling’s radio
when caught up slang or lingo moves.

I saw my shooting star at last—
thought airplane lights or firework sparks—
but Leonid, as Brezhnev named,
Cyrillic to those in the know.

So what I see is different from
the voices replayed in my mind.
The sight is but a pixel frame,
the noise, tinnitus, yesterday.
—Public Domain Cartoon Courtesy of Joseph Nolan

Stephen writes that he has also sent “My very poor attempt at the Petrarchan Sonnet [also known as the Italian Sonnet;]; it taught me to value discipline…”

—Stephen Kingsnorth

Hear this! That Abba rhyme, seared melody,
as final Mamma Mia note, resolved,
the winner takes all, gargle breath dissolved,
rasp dying strains in wight wraith harmony.
Crushed apple—side a fruit of Adam, man,
weight fashioned necklace, wait, carotid block,
patella stop, staunch headstrong pillar lock,
blood pulses free, life-flow, here dammed; but scan.

The yoke, then ring, lynch rope once hung, strange fruit,
this cap has damned, black matters taken back.
Old choke hold, ancient silence turned dispute,
for secret curse online, tik-tock, soundtrack,
finds volume, voice, a channel to reroute
the energy, all races, run one track. 
—Public Domain Photo
Here is another Ekphrastic poem, this one from Joseph Nolan, also based on last week’s picture of the moon:

—Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA

How might
A moon of white
Hover over
Dark gray river,
Give it light,
Make it shine?

Reassuring, somehow,
Like the magic of fine wine,
The running water glistens,
In the evening sky.

Does the moon
Notice its reflection
In the fractal water
And find its beauty, there?
Might a passing cloud
Make it disappear? 
—Public Domain Photo
Here is Carl Schwartz’s (Caschwa’s) response to last Friday’s FF challenge, the Brazilian Haiku:

—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

had orgasmic mirth
we tried all, front back and side
in orbit like Earth

did not close the door
alone like solitaire stone
pleasure to the core

after we were done
we slept well, our secrets kept
closed eyes still had fun
—Public Domain Cartoon Courtesy of Joseph Nolan

As to last Friday's other challenge, the Brevee: Carl, like Taylor Graham [see above] has written a Brevee Chain (you can’t write just one…):


city slickers

Autumn rainfall
puddles so tall

now we
can see
so clearly how
counts more
than rising Dow

what it needs first
big plants
wee ants
quench their big thirst
—Public Domain Cartoon Courtesy of Joseph Nolan

Yesterday, we posted Mirror Palindromes (see from our SnakePal in Alaska, Carol Eve Ford. At first I thought they were Tuanortsas (, but Carol said, “The way I understand the Tuanortsa is that they read down one way and then read back up. They ARE Palindromic, but the second “half” is not printed out. There’s an arrow at the bottom to show that you read back up to the top. Carol Louise [Moon] says what we call palindromic is kind of generic, but my ‘This Love’ is a Mirror Palindromic, where the first half is mirrored on the page by the second half.”

So there you have it regarding the difference between the two forms, and I thank Carol Eve Ford and also-SnakePal Carol Louise Moon for clearing that up for me. This is the only poetry form I have ever seen that has that tiny up-arrow at the bottom. Be careful not to erase it, thinking it’s a typo! Here is Carol Eve's Tuanortsa:
—Photo by Carol Eve Ford

—Carol Eve Ford, Kenai, AK

My life is a tiny boat
Embraced by well-wishers in the harbor
I set sail alone
through wind and gale
storm and star shine
night sky for compass
sails billowed or slack
sun-sparkled open sea
ships passing in the night.
Two boats shelter together,
launch two more tiny ships,
well-equipped, hope for tender mercies
sometimes we travel in great fleets,
at times, not a boat on the horizon.
Is there harbor ahead? 
—Photo by Carol Eve Ford

Caschwa is by no means intimidated by forms, and I admire that. He’s always making some up, in fact. This one has three Quintains, each line 7 syllables, rhyme scheme: abcba, deced, fgcgf:


their motion in the waters
all those fancy ports of call
lovers discover what’s real
the deep wake left by a yawl
mother ship and her daughters

excitement of sport fishing
hooking, landing, photograph
vibrations reaching the keel
all hands will help, fore to aft
more than a little wishing

once in lifetime spectacle
a memory kept for years
centerpiece of a great meal
pleasure cannot reach my ears
for I am a barnacle 
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of 
Joseph Nolan

And, finally, here is a poem from Carl in Quatrains, rhymed abcb, defe, ghjh, etc.:


the fighters battled each other
doling out as much punishment
as they could, each declaring
the other hadn’t made a dent

until at long last the referees
called the fight in favor of one
and they returned to their corners
as if the matter was done

the referees left and went home
leaving the fighters to come out
of their corners and resume
throwing punches, renew the bout

men of letters rolled up their sleeves
and drafted an imposing Restoration,
all kinds of rules to be followed, which
the fighters shunned in utter tarnation

and so on and on the battle raged,
the mutual disagreement erupted
one corner sent forth a two-term president
that the other corner fully obstructed

there was no enemy so vanquished
they’d allow a transfer of power
and so they continue into eternity
each, the other, ready to devour


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!



See what you can make of this week’s poetry form, and send it to! (No deadline.) This week's challenge:
•••Harrisham Rhyme:

And don’t forget today’s Ekphrastic challenge at the bottom of this post!


MEDUSA’S FORM FINDER: Links to poetry forms mentioned today: 

•••Brazilian Haiku (Rhyming Haiku):
•••Harrisham Rhyme:
•••Sonnet, Italian (Petrarchan Sonnet): OR
•••Tuanortsa (“astronaut” spelled backward): a Palindromic poem which reads the same from front to back as from back to front/. See


Today's Ekphrastic Challenge!
See what you can make of the above
photo, and send it to (No deadline.)
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of
Joseph Nolan


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, October 28, 2021

How Can You Let This End?

Alaska Moonscape
—Poetry and Photos by Carol Eve Ford, Kenai, AK


I used to think of space
as a clear sky. Maybe a night sky
curving around and above us.
When I got older I learned that
was full of  planets, lined up in order.
My Dog Has Fleas?
Wait. Every Good Boy…No!
Pff! Mnemonics! If only you could remember
which one goes with what!
Anyway, Space now meant ordered planets.
Then I started thinking about the actual


of Space.
I made a five-foot-wide cardboard “sun.”
I did the (very) rough math.
If the sun were five feet wide, how large
would Mercury be? Venus? Etc., etc.?
More importantly, how much


would be in between?
We tape my sun on the school, drive
for miles, thumb-tack Mercury to a tree.
Drive on and on, put out Venus. Earth…
miles later, the erstwhile speck, Pluto.
Earth vanishes. My planets float, spin, orbit
in infinite

Sky Symphony


One is stone,
one like vapor,
one swirls with mighty tornado winds,
another balances a whole plate
of spinning moons around her middle.
Here a mighty petrosphere of polished agate,
there a ball of ice, and there another
flung and formed and circling mother
the corps de ballet of the Heavens.
But this one alone
is sapphire and emerald
swaddled in satin, lace and diamonds,
moving patterns so grand and life-giving
we, its paltry inhabitants, only notice
a ruined picnic,
snowplows blocking traffic.
We miss pink sunrises,
torrid sunsets.
Maybe we imagine bunnies,
if we think to look up
at all.

It’s a curse, this love—
this answered prayer—
this deeply longed-for grace—
Earth, sea, cloud, mountain, butterfly,
each part, and the whole, sacred—
to stand helpless in this holy moment
as the ungodly rape and murder it.
To stand helpless in this holy moment—
each part, and the whole, sacred.
Earth, sea, cloud, mountain, butterfly,
this deeply longed-for grace—
this answered prayer.
It’s a curse, this love.

(a Mirror Palindrome, prev. pub. in Dads Desk)
Can't Say Good-Bye

Injustice marches down the Avenue.
It doesn’t know and doesn’t care what’s true.

Its blindness and its life are one black hole
in which there is no light, there is no soul.

To love, or right, or persons it is dead;
from history and nature it has fled.

It marches, unaware and unconcerned
regarding what’s been loved, or what’s been learned—

Violence and greed each age the same
since humankind emerged from whence we came.

Yet winding through the marching mindless dread
the liquid song of kindness weaves a thread

as deep and light and true as it is broad,
as strong as any lifeline flung from God.

(prev. pub. in Dads Desk)
Kachemak Bay at Twilight


Whispered cadence asks again, again:
How can you let this end?
Sparkling sapphire sea
sloshing lazily, luxuriantly lusty
rhythms against age-old rocks
lacing robust shore with sea treasures
tide after tide after tide.
How dare we bear to let this end?
Tide after tide after tide,
lacing robust shore with sea treasures,
rhythms against age-old rocks,
sloshing lazily, luxuriantly lusty,
this sparkling sapphire sea—
How can you let this end?
Whispered cadence asks again, again.

(prev. pub. in Dads Desk)
Eternal Sky


Our thanks to Carol Eve Ford today for sending us poetry and photos from her beautiful Alaska! For another of Carol’s poems, a Tuanortsa—Astronaut spelled backwards (, check in to Form Fidders’ Friday in tomorrow’s Kitchen. Both her poems, "Whispers" and "This Love" are Mirror Palindromes (see

Keep SnakePal Michael Lee Johnson in your thoughts for a swift recovery after the terrible traffic accident which occurred on October 2. 8 broken ribs, 8 bone fractures in his right upper leg, broken right ankle in multi-locations. 26 days hospital rehab, weeks to go.
He can use a few kind words; write to him at

Today (10/28), 4:30pm: Sac. Poetry Alliance Literary Lectures presents Sarah Browning, who will speak about activist poetry. The ZOOM link for ALL Literary Lectures is


 Don’t forget our Seed of the Week, Haunted…

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Would you like to be a SnakePal?
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that which was previously-published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!