When Owls Become Vegan
—Poetry by Charles Mariano, Caschwa (Carl Schwartz),
Stephen Kingsnorth, Michelle Kunert, Joseph Nolan
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joseph Nolan
(unless otherwise labeled)
GUEST OF HONOR
(Thanksgiving)
—Charles Mariano, Sacramento, CA
indeed, an intense
out-of-control
craving,
for you, only you,
my sweet
your long, alluring
headless body,
beautifully laid out
swathed
luxuriously
in butter
i want to peel
your soft, tasty skin
with my teeth,
run my fingers
gently, ever so gently,
across your smooth,
glistening thighs
wings spread
wide,
long, full legs…everywhere
i wait
in ravenous anticipation
of rapturous ecstasy
for your braised,
buttery nakedness,
scrumptious curves
waves of tantalizing,
savory aromas
violate my senses
beautifully laid out,
simmering seductively
through smoked glass,
in warm, succulent juices,
leaves me drooling, weak,
until finally, i surrender
i give thanks, lovingly,
for you, only you,
my sweet
(Thanksgiving)
—Charles Mariano, Sacramento, CA
indeed, an intense
out-of-control
craving,
for you, only you,
my sweet
your long, alluring
headless body,
beautifully laid out
swathed
luxuriously
in butter
i want to peel
your soft, tasty skin
with my teeth,
run my fingers
gently, ever so gently,
across your smooth,
glistening thighs
wings spread
wide,
long, full legs…everywhere
i wait
in ravenous anticipation
of rapturous ecstasy
for your braised,
buttery nakedness,
scrumptious curves
waves of tantalizing,
savory aromas
violate my senses
beautifully laid out,
simmering seductively
through smoked glass,
in warm, succulent juices,
leaves me drooling, weak,
until finally, i surrender
i give thanks, lovingly,
for you, only you,
my sweet
—Photo Courtesy of Stephen Kingsnorth
COPPERHEAD
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales, UK
When I mowed the outer field
in burning sun, my copper head
failed to recognise host strategy.
As I circled, drawing in,
expecting rabbit targets at the bull
(can hardly say cornered in circumference)
the Kentucky cowboys
watched me work, sat with beer
(gin is my elixir of life, the tin bath stills
of mountain dew in the hillbilly
woods beyond the scrub).
I now know the date for course;
then untutored, less bothered anyway.
They swigged and laughed
that I had fallen in their trap
though I did not admit the bait
(if you understand, I’m mean).
Independence Day they said
we’ll watch the limey work, we’ll play
but I said July fourth does not signify for me.
They choked the bottle when I declared,
with some pomposity I guess,
in my best posh English which they mocked,
that I was glad they’d gone away.
No recognition from the Stetson-topped,
but I hummed The British Grenadiers
and thought busbies grander
than their wide-brimmed hats,
even if my hair would melt
in that heat-cruel concentrate.
When that central final swathe was reached
there were no rodents, eye-rollings in the hay
(as Mum had regaled from her Somerset
harvest-rough-cider-tipsy-girly days.
Are bunnies rodents anyway?
I checked: they moved before first world war,
like secrets, they were re-classified).
There was a snake, a copperhead,
but none would roll in hay with that.
Iced Howdie Steve, they made a cake
on my first day, and saw me off
for Greyhound race, the pampas next.
—Photo Courtesy of Stephen Kingsnorth
FLUSHED
—Stephen Kingsnorth
As mother wipes her finger,
then dips in dribble, red,
knows that dying natural,
blush pigments in her hair;
she tries cross-leggèd chatter,
to drown the next door wheeze,
but hopes the dust unsettled
not raised by faintest breeze.
Long months before the monsoon,
nine if the timing right,
now drift of concentration,
her own far wedding night.
Old matchsticks from the oil-lamps,
the nib is raised, her brush,
it’s tough to draw precision,
when sight is mist with tears.
Four days were like an epic
of Ramayana times;
two partners of our Sanskrit,
a complementary pair.
She chuckled at her palette,
the tools she had to use,
the wizened twig in outline,
the filler, oozing flush.
Smeared ochre mixed with lampblack,
some leather cast aside,
she saw it in their bedroom,
pack mudded, dun pat walls.
But now back down to figures,
her rope-string bedding frame,
Bihari dreams and goats’ milk,
in deed, what might have been.
The Kohbar style, tradition,
leaves little space for mess;
the field to be made fertile,
both rites and signs of life.
But so much incongruent,
how paint the pattern shapes,
when clean cut is the last thing
that dominates her mind?
—Stephen Kingsnorth
As mother wipes her finger,
then dips in dribble, red,
knows that dying natural,
blush pigments in her hair;
she tries cross-leggèd chatter,
to drown the next door wheeze,
but hopes the dust unsettled
not raised by faintest breeze.
Long months before the monsoon,
nine if the timing right,
now drift of concentration,
her own far wedding night.
Old matchsticks from the oil-lamps,
the nib is raised, her brush,
it’s tough to draw precision,
when sight is mist with tears.
Four days were like an epic
of Ramayana times;
two partners of our Sanskrit,
a complementary pair.
She chuckled at her palette,
the tools she had to use,
the wizened twig in outline,
the filler, oozing flush.
Smeared ochre mixed with lampblack,
some leather cast aside,
she saw it in their bedroom,
pack mudded, dun pat walls.
But now back down to figures,
her rope-string bedding frame,
Bihari dreams and goats’ milk,
in deed, what might have been.
The Kohbar style, tradition,
leaves little space for mess;
the field to be made fertile,
both rites and signs of life.
But so much incongruent,
how paint the pattern shapes,
when clean cut is the last thing
that dominates her mind?
Kohbar of Milthila
—Photo Courtesy of Stephen Kingsnorth
WAY BACK IN THE DAY
—Caschwa
transferred from a community
college to UCLA, where they
had plentiful piano practice
rooms, and so I sat there with
my little book of Bach’s Two-Part
Inventions, wrapping them up
with a rhapsody of rote repetition
until I had a couple of them down
by heart, my little, obedient fingers
responding quite rapidly
five decades later, that little book
might be hiding in the piano bench,
safely distant from fingers that are
no longer so obedient or rapid
GROWLING APPETITE FOR PEACE
—Caschwa
two new deputies hit the trail
“We are champions of the peace!”
each would back slap the other
in commemoration and celebration
they happened upon a young
rattlesnake, which announced its
animus with a hiss, seconding the
motion with a terrifying rattle
one deputy drew his gun, took aim,
and discharged a kill shot to the
head of the snake, earning back
slaps, commemoration, and celebration
they continued down the trail and were
“confronted” by the hiss of a young black
man jogging past them, both drew their
guns: “We are champions of the peace!”
they raised their service weapons in
public service and felled the jogger
each back slapped the other in
commemoration and celebration
further down the trail they were fully
terrified by another young black man,
this one’s rattling tail was a cell phone:
that deadly arsenal of killing machines
they issued forth 20 rounds of lead,
and after all was done and said
“We are champions of the peace!”
commemoration and celebration
next up on the trail was a young,
black man with his hands up in the
air, “Our work is never done
till we kill them all and not leave one”
“We are champions of the peace!”
—Caschwa
two new deputies hit the trail
“We are champions of the peace!”
each would back slap the other
in commemoration and celebration
they happened upon a young
rattlesnake, which announced its
animus with a hiss, seconding the
motion with a terrifying rattle
one deputy drew his gun, took aim,
and discharged a kill shot to the
head of the snake, earning back
slaps, commemoration, and celebration
they continued down the trail and were
“confronted” by the hiss of a young black
man jogging past them, both drew their
guns: “We are champions of the peace!”
they raised their service weapons in
public service and felled the jogger
each back slapped the other in
commemoration and celebration
further down the trail they were fully
terrified by another young black man,
this one’s rattling tail was a cell phone:
that deadly arsenal of killing machines
they issued forth 20 rounds of lead,
and after all was done and said
“We are champions of the peace!”
commemoration and celebration
next up on the trail was a young,
black man with his hands up in the
air, “Our work is never done
till we kill them all and not leave one”
“We are champions of the peace!”
—Photo by Michelle Kunert
The opening episode of The Beatles' Get Back now steaming on Disney Plus verifies to me how possibly John Lennon broke up the band—
John Lennon struts into the Twickenham studios in the wintertime of 1968, looking kind of like a pimp wearing a designer mink coat
and then Lennon proceeds to boss around bandmates Paul McCartney and George Harrison on everything
He demands George's Hari Krishna friend must leave at once, rather than be allowed to hang out to observe
Lennon insists that Paul and George make outright changes to songs they wrote, to whatever he wants—
It appears Lennon, by this time, calls the shots to the complete business of “The Beatles”, without sharing the running of it with the other three
He even tells Paul he must change the entire theme lyrics of a song from “the wind” to “my mind…”
and indeed, watching this, I wondered what was going through the mind of John Lennon here
as well as why Paul and George are being too nice and not standing up to Lennon, talking back to him some more—
and I can understand if Paul and George finally did get conscious of John's disrespect toward them, acting like their boss
I also felt like saying “Damn it, John, chill out and smoke some marijuana instead of those tobacco cigarettes you’re smoking—“
Perhaps “weed” would have helped with more “peace and love”, as well as more creative juices flowing among them at that time
This footage provides a window into how the guy who later, in 1971, wrote the song “Imagine” was, in life, personally more like an asshole diva
and that this legend of Lennon being “very conscious” about how he treated others beside himself merely arose from his 1980 murder . . .
—Michelle Kunert, Sacramento, CA
Medusa, Knit by Nicki Hitz Edson
Medusa, Queen of The Serpents. is a campy British-made B-grade film streaming currently on Amazon Prime
Carli, a drug-addicted prostitute gains snake-like superpowers from some witches who choose her to reincarnate as their queen
She murders her human and drug-trafficking boyfriend, as well as “Johns” lured to pay for sex in the mobile home park where she resides
While there are no pornographic sex scenes in this movie,
Carli, a drug-addicted prostitute gains snake-like superpowers from some witches who choose her to reincarnate as their queen
She murders her human and drug-trafficking boyfriend, as well as “Johns” lured to pay for sex in the mobile home park where she resides
While there are no pornographic sex scenes in this movie,
it’s also no female version of the dark Marvel heroes such as Venom, where the characters use their powers to achieve justice
Carli essentially ends up as another slave to the witches who cursed her, rather than receiving any kind of liberation
Frankly, this movie indeed made me really want to see film author Alexandra Bracken’s recent book, Lore, also made into a movie
Bracken’s novel offers up modern sympathetic views for her character based on the ancient myth of Medusa
as does Gregory Maguire’s portrayals of the witches in Frank Baum’s Wizard of Oz, in his novel, Wicked
—Michelle Kunert
Carli essentially ends up as another slave to the witches who cursed her, rather than receiving any kind of liberation
Frankly, this movie indeed made me really want to see film author Alexandra Bracken’s recent book, Lore, also made into a movie
Bracken’s novel offers up modern sympathetic views for her character based on the ancient myth of Medusa
as does Gregory Maguire’s portrayals of the witches in Frank Baum’s Wizard of Oz, in his novel, Wicked
—Michelle Kunert
DISAPPEARING COLORS
—Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA
Brilliant colors
In a sunset
Describe the way light dies,
Just before it disappears,
Leaving us in darkness
For years!
Colors
Aren’t for keeping,
As Fall’s leaves
Make so clear.
They fall and blow,
Rustle and go,
Into piles
To dispose.
—Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA
Brilliant colors
In a sunset
Describe the way light dies,
Just before it disappears,
Leaving us in darkness
For years!
Colors
Aren’t for keeping,
As Fall’s leaves
Make so clear.
They fall and blow,
Rustle and go,
Into piles
To dispose.
CHOCOLATE DREAMS
—Joseph Nolan
A big fat piece of chocolate
Slipped itself
Under your tongue,
Surprising you with
Unbid pleasure,
Just like you were young.
Where does chocolate come from,
Unbidden and unsung?
When your head
Lies on a pillow
Dreaming dreams
You’ve wrung
From daily memories
And lifetimes’ goals, undone?
All, on a spinning calliope,
With painted ponies,
On which
Children glide,
To capture their infinity
In a never-ending ride,
Or so
They hope!
While ever-after,
Children’s pleasure,
Adults must strive to cope,
With treasuries
Not fully-funded.
Next year’s raise,
They hope!
—Joseph Nolan
A big fat piece of chocolate
Slipped itself
Under your tongue,
Surprising you with
Unbid pleasure,
Just like you were young.
Where does chocolate come from,
Unbidden and unsung?
When your head
Lies on a pillow
Dreaming dreams
You’ve wrung
From daily memories
And lifetimes’ goals, undone?
All, on a spinning calliope,
With painted ponies,
On which
Children glide,
To capture their infinity
In a never-ending ride,
Or so
They hope!
While ever-after,
Children’s pleasure,
Adults must strive to cope,
With treasuries
Not fully-funded.
Next year’s raise,
They hope!
AROUND THE PLANET’S CORE
—Joseph Nolan
Ideas float
In circular motions
Around the planet’s core.
Some,
Who’ve landed here,
Pray for their salvation,
While others
Seek more and more
Of whatever they’ve had,
Before,
That ever
Gave them
Greater pleasure!
Progress or regression?
Circles circle
For
Eternity’s impression,
As we adore
Or abhor,
According
To our reason or intuition,
Epiphanies,
Or whatever else
We can score.
—Joseph Nolan
Ideas float
In circular motions
Around the planet’s core.
Some,
Who’ve landed here,
Pray for their salvation,
While others
Seek more and more
Of whatever they’ve had,
Before,
That ever
Gave them
Greater pleasure!
Progress or regression?
Circles circle
For
Eternity’s impression,
As we adore
Or abhor,
According
To our reason or intuition,
Epiphanies,
Or whatever else
We can score.
Wild Scottish Donkey gets even more wild when
he drinks a lot of double-malt Scotch
OUR MODERN, COMMON ESTRANGEMENT
—Joseph Nolan
Have you ever wondered
How one and one
Might become two,
When they have
Nothing in common?
There are so many ways
Of being in the World.
Not all of them are true.
Few are tried and true.
What will you do?
Everything is up for grabs—
Subject to negotiation.
Nothing is writ in stone,
No established negations
Or traditions.
Nothing you can say
To make it go away,
When it defies
All explanation,
From where you’re coming from.
To try to find some harmony
To bind yourself and woo?
When it is more than you can do,
To understand the other,
So far away from you?
TALKING IN DEAD-TIME
—Joseph Nolan
In dead-time, only,
Do we speak—
Time-on-the-road,
Otherwise wasted,
To fit each other in,
Like squirrels
Harboring nuts
For Winter.
Their memories,
I hear,
Are only ten percent—
The remainder
Rot in the Spring.
Dropped-call after dropped-call,
We string our words together
Over interruptions and intermissions.
Oh yes,
Where were we?
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
BE GLAD YOU’RE STILL ALIVE!
—Joseph Nolan
It takes awhile to pee
When you’re sixty-three.
It takes awhile more,
When you’re sixty-four.
When you’re sixty-five,
Be glad to be alive.
Be glad you’re still alive!
____________________
Welcome to another Monday morning, and our thanks to our prolific Pals for all their lively-as-usual poetry and pix this morning! The NorCal area has some events coming up this week:
•••Today (11/29), 7:30pm: Sac. Poetry Center’s Socially Distant Verse presents Sonia Greenfield and Donna Spruijt-Metz plus open mic on Zoom at 763-873-3462; password r3trnofsdv/.
•••Wed. (12/1), 8pm: Sac. Poetry Alliance Tub Open Mic Poetry (STOMP) Reading on Zoom at us02web.zoom.us/j/85846531910/. Info: www.facebook.com/events/3138033573099148/. Host: Frank Dixon Graham.
•••Wed. (12/1), 8pm: Sac. Poetry Alliance Tub Open Mic Poetry (STOMP) Reading on Zoom at us02web.zoom.us/j/85846531910/. Info: www.facebook.com/events/3138033573099148/. Host: Frank Dixon Graham.
•••Thurs. (12/2), 6-8pm: Sac. Poetry Center and Mimi Miller host The Miller Party, SPC’s annual fundraiser, at the beautiful East Sacramento home of Mimi Miller at 1224 40th St. No admission cost or minimum donation requested, but the first $30 of any donation will be applied to a new or continuing SPC membership. Vax cards and masks will be required. Catered food (Brasserie du Monde), raffles (donated gifts), readings (Bob Stanley, Alice Anderson, Traci Gourdine), music (Kent Lacin, Steve Bird, Patrick Grizzell).
•••Sat. (12/4), 8-9:15pm: Sac. Poetry Alliance’s Four for the Quarter features Judy Halebsky, Wm. O’Daly, and Straight Out Scribes. 1169 Perkins Way, Sac. Info: www.facebook.com/SacPoetryAlliance and scroll down.
Sacramentans and NorCal poets will be saddened to learn that Sacramento’s first mayor, Anne Rudin, passed away last Thursday at the age of 97. It was Anne Rudin who was responsible for naming Oct. 26 Sacramento Poetry Day, and she was a strong supporter of the arts. See www.sacbee.com/news/local/obituaries/article256159402.html?fbclid=IwAR2F0pCbHkGEb9EzYjqr7DMk95Oh3d9ZTjOAU03tsWtutEnSPurBy3_p9pk/.
__________________
—Medusa
Sacramentans and NorCal poets will be saddened to learn that Sacramento’s first mayor, Anne Rudin, passed away last Thursday at the age of 97. It was Anne Rudin who was responsible for naming Oct. 26 Sacramento Poetry Day, and she was a strong supporter of the arts. See www.sacbee.com/news/local/obituaries/article256159402.html?fbclid=IwAR2F0pCbHkGEb9EzYjqr7DMk95Oh3d9ZTjOAU03tsWtutEnSPurBy3_p9pk/.
__________________
—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!
about the coming holidays!
