Louise
—Poetry by Louise Robertson, Columbus, OH
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
A BED TO LIE IN
When I take the kids to the backyard,
where I’ve mowed, pulled up the poison sumac,
and collected stones the size of choking
hazards, we lay ourselves under the tree
laughing. I point to the leaves
and shadows, but they’re small and instead
act out the usual soap operas. Flowers are picked,
dandelions strung together. They stomp
and poke the dirt with sticks. The baby
pops an overlooked stone
into his mouth; it clicks against his
eight teeth—rubies for a ferryman. Bread and
bologna are abandoned on the ground. The raven
flies aways. The aforementioned dirt
frosts their hands and shoes and faces.
When I take the kids to the backyard,
where I’ve mowed, pulled up the poison sumac,
and collected stones the size of choking
hazards, we lay ourselves under the tree
laughing. I point to the leaves
and shadows, but they’re small and instead
act out the usual soap operas. Flowers are picked,
dandelions strung together. They stomp
and poke the dirt with sticks. The baby
pops an overlooked stone
into his mouth; it clicks against his
eight teeth—rubies for a ferryman. Bread and
bologna are abandoned on the ground. The raven
flies aways. The aforementioned dirt
frosts their hands and shoes and faces.
HEAVEN
Burning is the mood.
Not sure what the neighbors
did for their fire
pit, but I spent November
picking up
broken bricks, thrown
rocks, thumb-sized stones and
made a circle. It’s March and I drag
out the beach chairs, tear up
take-out pizza boxes
—excellent tinder
—excellent kindling.
I’d been saving
pieces of fall-down
branches in the gazebo.
Surrounded by morning sun,
leaf blower buzz from across
the alley and with the highway
rush at low tide, I inhale
left-over ash.
Burning is the mood.
Not sure what the neighbors
did for their fire
pit, but I spent November
picking up
broken bricks, thrown
rocks, thumb-sized stones and
made a circle. It’s March and I drag
out the beach chairs, tear up
take-out pizza boxes
—excellent tinder
—excellent kindling.
I’d been saving
pieces of fall-down
branches in the gazebo.
Surrounded by morning sun,
leaf blower buzz from across
the alley and with the highway
rush at low tide, I inhale
left-over ash.
THE CAT
Green-eyed, and black and white,
she slithers against the railing,
and lingers in front of our door.
I think “Who do you love?” and
she slithers against the railing.
But I ask “Who loves you?” while
I think “Who do you love and
who shouldn’t you have loved?”
But I ask “Who loves you?” while
she peers inside.
Who shouldn’t she have loved?
We have too many living here already.
She peers inside.
Maybe she could join us where
we have too many living already.
Another cat could love and be loved.
Maybe she could join us here where
—green-eyed and black and white—
another cat could love and be loved
and linger in front of our door.
Green-eyed, and black and white,
she slithers against the railing,
and lingers in front of our door.
I think “Who do you love?” and
she slithers against the railing.
But I ask “Who loves you?” while
I think “Who do you love and
who shouldn’t you have loved?”
But I ask “Who loves you?” while
she peers inside.
Who shouldn’t she have loved?
We have too many living here already.
She peers inside.
Maybe she could join us where
we have too many living already.
Another cat could love and be loved.
Maybe she could join us here where
—green-eyed and black and white—
another cat could love and be loved
and linger in front of our door.
HOW TO WRITE A SHAKESPEAREAN SONNET
You Google “Shakespearean Sonnet.” Get
astray your task by the list of what else
You Google “Shakespearean Sonnet.” Get
astray your task by the list of what else
people ask: “what’s the stock market’s best bet?”
and here also “when is it that dry ice melts?”
Step two: remind yourself of school and days
Step two: remind yourself of school and days
when you could not be the self you wanted.
Step three: take in the coffee brewed and plays
Step three: take in the coffee brewed and plays
you read for class, how Will’s were aged and haunted
by folks still known and unknown. Here’s a man,
Othello, who beats his breast as stone and yes,
he’s one you’ve met, who, with jealousy’s plan
more jealous is made by smile and by dress.
He carves your heart apart with mind and lip,
by folks still known and unknown. Here’s a man,
Othello, who beats his breast as stone and yes,
he’s one you’ve met, who, with jealousy’s plan
more jealous is made by smile and by dress.
He carves your heart apart with mind and lip,
reminds you of one guy and pain’s old grip.
____________________
Today’s L(onger)Nip:
GRATITUDE LISTS
—Louise Robertson
Instead of writing poems, I
____________________
Today’s L(onger)Nip:
GRATITUDE LISTS
—Louise Robertson
Instead of writing poems, I
write gratitude lists. One day,
it’s “my job.” The next, “my health.”
And so on. If I don’t pay
attention, the habits
of poetry creep in. I’ll write,
"the furious heads
on the trees” or “that ragged hairline” or
“a milk crate and gravel."
I tried to thank anxiety,
which sours the milk
so often. “You make me try”
was the best I could do. It is
way easier to make these lists
than to mine for
profundities and trauma. “Thank you city
water department for taking
online payments” was how I began
on Thursday. “Thank you
stiff chair. Thank you,
socks.” One might think I’ll
get around to being grateful
for everything. But
I am too cowardly for that.
“Thank you, foot pain.”
“Thank you, droughts.”
“Thank you, cigarettes
and emphysema and my
father’s hollow,
wooden chest in the ICU.”
____________________
Another new voice joins us in the Kitchen this morning! Poet Louise Robertson serves as the marketing director for Writers' Block Poetry Night in Columbus, OH, where she lives with her family. She counts among her many publications, awards, and honors: a jar of homemade pickles that she received for running a workshop, a 2018 Pushcart nomination (Open: A Journal of Arts and Letters), and several Best of the Net nominations. Welcome to the Kitchen, Louise, and don’t be a stranger!
Today from 1-5pm, Sac. Poetry Alliance (www.sacramentopoetryalliance.com) presents Poetry in Locke, featuring readers from the brand-new anthology, Voices 2021: An Offering of Fruit (Cold River Press, www.coldriverpress.com) in Locke Community Gardens. See last Tuesday’s post (medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2021/09/midnight-pen-and-paper.html) for further details.
___________________
—Medusa
___________________
—Medusa
Louise
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
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Would you like to be a SnakePal?
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Just remember:
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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—
for poetry, of course!
