—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth, Joseph Nolan,
and Carl Schwartz (Caschwa)
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joseph Nolan
FOR EVERYTHING, A SEASON
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wales
The soil receives its autumn dead,
for re-birth in the spring ahead;
until we till and turn the ground
intensively, and grain rebounds.
We store in barns, where mounds surround,
some millstone, ground, knead, feed our needs,
but leave the hungry round the globe,
to fill our stores with cupboard love.
Then turn that land once more around,
to bury tarnished treasure there.
The cycle, seasons, we endorse,
the buried seed, with unearthed greed,
though fruit now processed, plastic wrapped,
that human mark, blot, intercede,
our stewardship, what God provides.
(prev. pub. by Literary Yard, April 2021)
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wales
The soil receives its autumn dead,
for re-birth in the spring ahead;
until we till and turn the ground
intensively, and grain rebounds.
We store in barns, where mounds surround,
some millstone, ground, knead, feed our needs,
but leave the hungry round the globe,
to fill our stores with cupboard love.
Then turn that land once more around,
to bury tarnished treasure there.
The cycle, seasons, we endorse,
the buried seed, with unearthed greed,
though fruit now processed, plastic wrapped,
that human mark, blot, intercede,
our stewardship, what God provides.
(prev. pub. by Literary Yard, April 2021)
GOSSAMER
—Stephen Kingsnorth
Like snakeskin cast off in the shine,
best fresh apparel finding mate—
ablutions may remove our worst—
but where the subtle, oh so thin,
that airy place where skylarks wing,
a henge where ancients laid their dead,
patina walls where candles waxed,
cold shafts of moon joined uttered prayers,
those pheromones for God alone.
I see it, unknown dust afloat,
that soup revealed when sunlight right,
suspension speckled, tongue and eye
to tell me most unrecognised.
The spider prone, vibration sprung,
pond-skater on meniscus skein,
hushed rhythmic sleeping of cot mite,
the Kairos waiting for its time,
old zeitgeist in new paradigm.
For who can catch that spirit’s breath,
wind, ruach on the waters stirred,
intangible or lost if held,
the moment in eternity
when ever, always, present now?
If box it, claim it, own its name,
we babble, towers, ladder gone,
for rainbows arch of prism mist,
and gossamer the silken way.
—Stephen Kingsnorth
Like snakeskin cast off in the shine,
best fresh apparel finding mate—
ablutions may remove our worst—
but where the subtle, oh so thin,
that airy place where skylarks wing,
a henge where ancients laid their dead,
patina walls where candles waxed,
cold shafts of moon joined uttered prayers,
those pheromones for God alone.
I see it, unknown dust afloat,
that soup revealed when sunlight right,
suspension speckled, tongue and eye
to tell me most unrecognised.
The spider prone, vibration sprung,
pond-skater on meniscus skein,
hushed rhythmic sleeping of cot mite,
the Kairos waiting for its time,
old zeitgeist in new paradigm.
For who can catch that spirit’s breath,
wind, ruach on the waters stirred,
intangible or lost if held,
the moment in eternity
when ever, always, present now?
If box it, claim it, own its name,
we babble, towers, ladder gone,
for rainbows arch of prism mist,
and gossamer the silken way.
COMIC STRESS AND OVERWORK
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
(borrowed from a phrase in “Returning
to the Real World” by Mike Hickman,
Medusa’s Kitchen, October 16, 2021)
I am not a seasoned scientist, hardly even
a mediocre dilettante, but I do so admire
the works of scientists in a manner that
crawls out from under the skin of those
bedridden Neanderthals who somehow
live to see the light of another day
science, you don’t see, is a trip wire that
is quite beyond the scope of our grasp
and perception until we fall over it, and
then we have endless, proven, time-tested,
remarkable conclusions that will spew
from that science cell in our brain
science again, you don’t see, represents
those Answer Sheets, locked in a vault of
secrecy by teachers, who sometime later
present confusing lectures and materials
raising questions so perplexing as to dare
us to recognize the answers as being such
and so we abandon bedpans, march down
the hallway to return to the real world, and
the last thing we see is the floor hitting our
face …… didn’t see the trip wire…
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
(borrowed from a phrase in “Returning
to the Real World” by Mike Hickman,
Medusa’s Kitchen, October 16, 2021)
I am not a seasoned scientist, hardly even
a mediocre dilettante, but I do so admire
the works of scientists in a manner that
crawls out from under the skin of those
bedridden Neanderthals who somehow
live to see the light of another day
science, you don’t see, is a trip wire that
is quite beyond the scope of our grasp
and perception until we fall over it, and
then we have endless, proven, time-tested,
remarkable conclusions that will spew
from that science cell in our brain
science again, you don’t see, represents
those Answer Sheets, locked in a vault of
secrecy by teachers, who sometime later
present confusing lectures and materials
raising questions so perplexing as to dare
us to recognize the answers as being such
and so we abandon bedpans, march down
the hallway to return to the real world, and
the last thing we see is the floor hitting our
face …… didn’t see the trip wire…
UNFINISHED BUSINESS
—Caschwa
(further thoughts about “crossing
the finish line” from Sara Altman’s
“In Pursuit”, Medusa’s Kitchen,
October 13, 2021)
that finish line is right there
then it moves farther away
until it vanishes altogether
you have finished the easy
questions on the test, and
then you go on to the harder
ones, look up at the clock,
only one minute left, ten
hard questions to go…
unto us a baby is born
passes the parts-list test
the immediate future is just
one giant learning curve with
public school, scouting outings
university, organic foods
different careers, cars, home
addresses, circles of friends,
moved out of state for more
cost-feasible higher education
we rarely see him anymore, cut
the cord, now voice and text
—Caschwa
(further thoughts about “crossing
the finish line” from Sara Altman’s
“In Pursuit”, Medusa’s Kitchen,
October 13, 2021)
that finish line is right there
then it moves farther away
until it vanishes altogether
you have finished the easy
questions on the test, and
then you go on to the harder
ones, look up at the clock,
only one minute left, ten
hard questions to go…
unto us a baby is born
passes the parts-list test
the immediate future is just
one giant learning curve with
public school, scouting outings
university, organic foods
different careers, cars, home
addresses, circles of friends,
moved out of state for more
cost-feasible higher education
we rarely see him anymore, cut
the cord, now voice and text
FORMATIVE YEARS
—Caschwa
how best to say this?
I grew up in an environment
where the act of communicating
placed more emphasis on composing
and delivering a comprehensible sentence
than on making rapid gestures to some
electronic device that would enhance
and magnify our thoughts, adding
pictures and diagrams
my generation sought to put
real smiles on the real faces
of real people, add real warmth
to the real hearts of real living souls
and now look at us, the infamous smile
of Mona Lisa could represent everything
from a trick play in football to successful
tax-dodging techniques
all it takes is a few strokes on the
keyboard and we hit the bull’s eye
to the entertainment center of other
people’s brains
and then people go out and cast
their votes based on how one or
another advertisement made
them feel, vetting candidates
like it is the Gong Show
the one thing that has stayed the same
is our schools keep holding drills, mine
had air raid sirens sound every Friday
at 10:00 a.m. sending us under our
desks, and today they have “active
shooter drills”
if the human race survives, what’chu
wanna bet all the kids in their formative
years will still be doing those same drills?
—Caschwa
how best to say this?
I grew up in an environment
where the act of communicating
placed more emphasis on composing
and delivering a comprehensible sentence
than on making rapid gestures to some
electronic device that would enhance
and magnify our thoughts, adding
pictures and diagrams
my generation sought to put
real smiles on the real faces
of real people, add real warmth
to the real hearts of real living souls
and now look at us, the infamous smile
of Mona Lisa could represent everything
from a trick play in football to successful
tax-dodging techniques
all it takes is a few strokes on the
keyboard and we hit the bull’s eye
to the entertainment center of other
people’s brains
and then people go out and cast
their votes based on how one or
another advertisement made
them feel, vetting candidates
like it is the Gong Show
the one thing that has stayed the same
is our schools keep holding drills, mine
had air raid sirens sound every Friday
at 10:00 a.m. sending us under our
desks, and today they have “active
shooter drills”
if the human race survives, what’chu
wanna bet all the kids in their formative
years will still be doing those same drills?
SOME DIFFERENT STROKES
—Caschwa
just couldn’t wait to have my own
wrist watch to flash around at
grade school and everywhere I went,
till the skin on my wrist told me
it had had quite enough of all that
and I should trade in the wrist watch
for a different timepiece that didn’t
have to touch my skin all the time
while setting up my bachelor pad
I was moved to buy a wall clock
with a pendulum, loved the appearance,
the motion had a calming effect, but
could never quite get used to all the
constant, conspicuous audible clicks
that dared to keep me up all night
likewise, my early-morning paper
route had me getting up by alarm
around 3:00 a.m. every single day
and although I fell into the routine
for six years straight, could never
really get used to that kind of most
unnatural sleep pattern
ADOPT-A-PET POEM
—Caschwa
just take it home with you
doesn’t need food or water
or grooming or rabies shots
it has a mouth as wide as
the biggest river you have
ever seen, gathering wisdom
like an unborn, unnamed
child still in the womb, its
infinite future held in darkness
careful, don’t let it swallow
you up, steal your energies,
become your dictator, your
only thing in the world that
matters, just give it a proper
throne upon which to sit
and approach with respect;
genuflecting is optional, as
your submission is a given
FIRE IN THE FOOTHILLS
—Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA
Fire waltzes mayhem
Over sun-dried fields
Of tender tinder.
Fire
Breathes oxygen,
Expiring See, Oh! Too...
Just like me and you.
Driven by the wind,
Leaping over
Leagues of in-between,
Heading off in each direction
Devouring, devouring,
What could fire mean?
To be so hot
And so burning,
Near our
Precious homes?
What could fire
Want or need
To make it
Overrun our fields
As though
It were inspired?
It just needs fuel!
Fuel we have
Left for it
To consume!
How lazy, we,
Not to foresee,
How drought and heat
Would combine,
For fires to burn
Overtime,
In our
Precious land.
Perhaps if we
Had combed the Earth,
As carefully as
We comb our hair,
Fire would have
Lacked its food
And our rustic cabins
Would have been spared?
ASSEMBLY-LINE WORKER
—Joseph Nolan
Oh!
I do this thing
I am trained to do,
But do not do
Much more than that.
Like threading nuts
Upon steel bolts
Until they are tight,
Then cut off the ends
Until they are flat.
In these ways
My days
Are spent.
Now that I am older
I wonder
Where my good years went.
I was earning my wages
To keep my bills all paid
And even raised a family,
With the grace of a face I made,
Always smiling, “Yessuh!”
To the boss-man
When he came,
To check on our production
And decide which ones he’d save.
—Joseph Nolan
Oh!
I do this thing
I am trained to do,
But do not do
Much more than that.
Like threading nuts
Upon steel bolts
Until they are tight,
Then cut off the ends
Until they are flat.
In these ways
My days
Are spent.
Now that I am older
I wonder
Where my good years went.
I was earning my wages
To keep my bills all paid
And even raised a family,
With the grace of a face I made,
Always smiling, “Yessuh!”
To the boss-man
When he came,
To check on our production
And decide which ones he’d save.
FALL’S HARVEST
—Joseph Nolan
Sadness, deep,
Betrays your sleep,
With open, weeping eyes.
From across
The lake,
We hear
The cries
Of loons.
They mimic what we feel
When pain from loss
Becomes too real
And after Winter,
Dark,
We shall be confronted
With lack of loving spark.
FREEDOM
—Joseph Nolan
Freedom lies in burned-
Out ashes, where nothing can
Be burned. Nothing, deserved.
—Joseph Nolan
Freedom lies in burned-
Out ashes, where nothing can
Be burned. Nothing, deserved.
THE WHALE-LOVER
—Joseph Nolan
There was a whale
I could not kill or catch or keep.
I had to release her
Against my fervent will
Back into the deep
That she called home.
Drifting beneath,
Though a hundred fathoms
Kept us both apart,
She was grand
And she........
Still had me,
The mistress of my heart.
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
THE GREAT DETACHMENT
—Joseph Nolan
Everything is floating.
All was set adrift.
Nothing has an anchor,
No attachment
To the bottom;
Something foul’s a-whiff.
___________________
Good morning, and welcome to Stephen Kingsnorth from Wales, who has recently come to the Kitchen; we’ll see more of his work later. Meanwhile, he has sent two fine responses to our recent Seed of the Week: Gossamer.
Speaking of SOWs, Sacramento Poet Michelle Kunert wrote to remind me of that old hymn, "Bringing in the Sheaves", which is definitely appropriate to our current SOW, Gathering. See en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bringing_In_the_Sheaves/.
•••Tonight (10/18), 7:30pm (log-in 7:15pm): Sac. Poetry Center’s Socially Distant Verse presents Diane Lee Moomey and Judy Kronenfeld on Zoom at us04web.zoom.us/j/7638733462/. Password: r3trnofsdv.
•••Thur. (10/21), 7-9pm: Poetry in Davis presents Nyeree Boyadjian, Amanda Hawkins plus open mic (4 min. or 2 items), rooftop sculpture garden of John Natsoulas Gallery, 521 1st., Davis. Host: Dr. Andy Jones. Info: www.facebook.com/events/431746891713426?ref=newsfeed/.
___________________
—Medusa
—Joseph Nolan
There was a whale
I could not kill or catch or keep.
I had to release her
Against my fervent will
Back into the deep
That she called home.
Drifting beneath,
Though a hundred fathoms
Kept us both apart,
She was grand
And she........
Still had me,
The mistress of my heart.
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
THE GREAT DETACHMENT
—Joseph Nolan
Everything is floating.
All was set adrift.
Nothing has an anchor,
No attachment
To the bottom;
Something foul’s a-whiff.
___________________
Good morning, and welcome to Stephen Kingsnorth from Wales, who has recently come to the Kitchen; we’ll see more of his work later. Meanwhile, he has sent two fine responses to our recent Seed of the Week: Gossamer.
Speaking of SOWs, Sacramento Poet Michelle Kunert wrote to remind me of that old hymn, "Bringing in the Sheaves", which is definitely appropriate to our current SOW, Gathering. See en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bringing_In_the_Sheaves/.
•••Tonight (10/18), 7:30pm (log-in 7:15pm): Sac. Poetry Center’s Socially Distant Verse presents Diane Lee Moomey and Judy Kronenfeld on Zoom at us04web.zoom.us/j/7638733462/. Password: r3trnofsdv.
•••Thur. (10/21), 7-9pm: Poetry in Davis presents Nyeree Boyadjian, Amanda Hawkins plus open mic (4 min. or 2 items), rooftop sculpture garden of John Natsoulas Gallery, 521 1st., Davis. Host: Dr. Andy Jones. Info: www.facebook.com/events/431746891713426?ref=newsfeed/.
___________________
—Medusa
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!
