Where is the eye?
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joseph Nolan
—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth, Caschwa (Carl Schwartz),
Michelle Kunert, Joseph Nolan
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joseph Nolan
and Michelle Kunert
BATTERY CAGED
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales, UK
I paid her way, she learned her place,
I knew to maintain her ordered cage;
down steps, unsteady, stumbled legs,
in the dark, doorframes misjudged.
My source of power is battery,
under command, vast broiler barns;
bleeding hearts go pump elsewhere,
where chicken-women, clucking, star.
On my farm, workers, animals,
in the control room buttons-press
one grid supplies, one measures too
the output, making cock of coop.
The regimen transferred to house
when warehouse presence not required;
she flappy, flighty, wings need clipped,
as common mass, unfit to breed.
I know her sort, she knows herself,
undisciplined, flabby in style,
she trusts, with me in charge of life,
I know the best, she takes my lead.
I rarely took her out of place,
she shy and mousy, cowered too;
now let me down, away to cell,
on her word taken to this jail.
More daily like the hens I reared,
here I pecked, matted, draggled stare,
fixed vacancy, in headlights, caught,
I serve this sentence, unsure where.
No appetite for hearty meals,
my spindly arms thus tend to bruise,
for battery is how I lived,
and now, how dare they, they cage me?
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales, UK
I paid her way, she learned her place,
I knew to maintain her ordered cage;
down steps, unsteady, stumbled legs,
in the dark, doorframes misjudged.
My source of power is battery,
under command, vast broiler barns;
bleeding hearts go pump elsewhere,
where chicken-women, clucking, star.
On my farm, workers, animals,
in the control room buttons-press
one grid supplies, one measures too
the output, making cock of coop.
The regimen transferred to house
when warehouse presence not required;
she flappy, flighty, wings need clipped,
as common mass, unfit to breed.
I know her sort, she knows herself,
undisciplined, flabby in style,
she trusts, with me in charge of life,
I know the best, she takes my lead.
I rarely took her out of place,
she shy and mousy, cowered too;
now let me down, away to cell,
on her word taken to this jail.
More daily like the hens I reared,
here I pecked, matted, draggled stare,
fixed vacancy, in headlights, caught,
I serve this sentence, unsure where.
No appetite for hearty meals,
my spindly arms thus tend to bruise,
for battery is how I lived,
and now, how dare they, they cage me?
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joseph Nolan
LEAVING CUNEIFORM’S RADIANCE
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
money goes back to the British pound, about
1,200 years ago, though three millennia earlier
people already had an accepted method of
counting quantities via cuneiform
expanding on the etchings of cavemen to
publish for all their little world to see a tally
of their most cherished accomplishments
civilization and its money handling then rode
a storm of twists and turns until the Great
Depression, undoubtedly our darkest days,
when all those things that count, that we’d
been counting on, were no longer part of the
calculation
we had stepped outside the illumination of
cuneiform to embrace the artificial light of
that beacon of commerce, the Great Stock
Exchange, trading all of our other values for
being rich on paper
Sorry, this is a ship that has no captain, no
clearly mapped destination, no lifeboats,
just several well-appointed luxury, staterooms
where you can leave markings on the walls
as the ship sinks like stones to the bottom of
the barrel
Pico Verde Jobe
—Photo by James Lee Jobe, Davis, CA
PEEKABOO
—Caschwa
(inspired by James Lee Jobe’s
Facebook reference to his Pico
the conure)
conjure a Rococo depicting
confounding movement in all
directions emanating from
one’s shoulder
lights and colors gone loco,
aiming to demur, taking
exception to the sufficiency
of the very law of gravity
zero posture in zero gravity,
motions intended as poco a
poco just jerk and dart away
oblivious to controls
and after all that playing hooky,
Pico, the ne’er contrite conure
returns to the shoulder, home
of conundrum, to announce
sensible syllables in no certain
order, whilst pondering another
charade
—Caschwa
(inspired by James Lee Jobe’s
Facebook reference to his Pico
the conure)
conjure a Rococo depicting
confounding movement in all
directions emanating from
one’s shoulder
lights and colors gone loco,
aiming to demur, taking
exception to the sufficiency
of the very law of gravity
zero posture in zero gravity,
motions intended as poco a
poco just jerk and dart away
oblivious to controls
and after all that playing hooky,
Pico, the ne’er contrite conure
returns to the shoulder, home
of conundrum, to announce
sensible syllables in no certain
order, whilst pondering another
charade
TAKING A WHUPPING
—Caschwa
Boxing great Mohammad Ali said it best:
“You got to whup the Champion.”
At the end of the Civil War the presumptive winner,
the North, was too busy preoccupying itself with
raising the metaphorical “Mission Accomplished” banner
they let their britches fall and have been taking a terrible
whupping from the South ever since. So today there are
great, big voting segments of our nation that are profoundly
determined to make every effort to resist a peaceful transfer
of power. This is even further beyond the reach of compromise
than a prison riot, and we need, finally, for our leadership
to take out the big guns and put down the resistance. Time’s
a wastin’
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Michelle Kunert
A STOPPING STARTING POINT
—Caschwa
raped, impregnated, carrying his baby
if the laws of the land force her to not abort it
she should have a way to sue the government for rent
just imagine if some intruder forced their way inside
a U.S. Army supplies depot, and dumped their personal effects there
and then the government, by its own rules, was not allowed
to remove those items, and worse, had a duty to preserve them
well, how ridiculous is that? Let us stop making women our mules.
—Caschwa
raped, impregnated, carrying his baby
if the laws of the land force her to not abort it
she should have a way to sue the government for rent
just imagine if some intruder forced their way inside
a U.S. Army supplies depot, and dumped their personal effects there
and then the government, by its own rules, was not allowed
to remove those items, and worse, had a duty to preserve them
well, how ridiculous is that? Let us stop making women our mules.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Michelle Kunert
“Christmas devils”, which are portrayed in Mexican folk art such as these masks intended for their dances and plays around the subject of the Nativity,
are one of the major Mexican traditions, but were never mentioned or discussed in my high school Spanish classes
Of course in the years since, I learned many of both Catholic and Protestant children alike in Mexico are taught to beware of Satan and his devils who are out to deceive and mislead humankind, especially during Christmastime.
The majority of Americans, of course, aren’t taught to look out for evil spirits past Halloween—even in the following season that emphasizes greed and materialism which has been sanctified through the myth of “Santa Claus”
—Michelle Kunert, Sacramento, CA
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Michelle Kunert
JEWELRY AND PLUNDER
—Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA
Have you yet
Overcome your demons?
Demons of vanity,
Clamoring for jewelry?
I can almost
Hear them screaming,
Because they are
Incomplete.
Painful is the fate
That launders
Insufficiency
Into currency of hate.
I wish you every bauble
Jewel, gold and
Shiny, shiny plate,
That might assuage
Your need to plunder
And freedom’s range
Unto your gait.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Michelle Kunert
EPITAPH TO A SUICIDE
—Joseph Nolan
There was another way.
Eternity,
In aftermath,
Could say,
“There was another way.”
Naught was writ in stone.
You had not many sins
For which you must have atoned.
Evil went not to your bone.
You were not alone.
What did you have to say?
We seldom heard your voice–
What you had to say.
Why were you so disappointed?
Were we so in the way
Of what you wanted to be?
We’re glad you’re finally free!
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joseph Nolan
THERE’S A MONSTER IN MY BEDROOM!
—Joseph Nolan
(After Joyce Odam’s “Truth Poem”,
Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/14/21)
“There’s a monster in my bedroom!”
Said he, only three, very seriously!
“Is he out
In the open,
Where I can see?
Or has he
Gone into hiding?
“Is he underneath your bed?
Does he have two arms?
Has he lost his head?
Doe he have big teeth?
Does he growl?
When he stares at you,
Does he resemble an owl?
And what do you
Think we could do,
If he charges at us,
When we go in to see,
If he’s just a shadow
Or if he’s really real?
“What do you think we should do?”
Asked his Mommy.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joseph Nolan
PERFECT DISAPPEARANCE
—Joseph Nolan
I drifted away,
Impeccably,
Perfect in my
Gradual disappearance,
Ghost-like in my
Evanescence,
Sparkling, iridescent,
Luminescent
Astral lighting
In the background,
Before a tiny spot
Popped out
Of this level of
Existence.
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Have you ever
Stared into the owl’s eyes? They blink slow, then burn:
Burn gold in the dark inner core of the snow-shrouded cedar.
—Robert Penn Warren, "Or Else" (Poem/Poems 1968-1971)
___________________
Good morning, Poets! We have some tough subjects today, I’ll warrant, as our Seed of the Week touches on the Winter Solstice (tomorrow) with "Darkest Days". Here in the Kitchen, we seem to have been following the rule of Advent this year: four weeks of contemplation before the celebration of Christmas. (Not that the advertising industry recognizes this rule. Well, okay—we contemplate how we’re going to spend our hard-earned $$ on Aunt Petunia.)
About her poem and pix today, Michelle Kunert writes, “Depictions of demons/devils have been adopted to various dances and rituals from morality plays to satires. Satan appears in dances such as Los Tecuanes and Moors and Christians, as well as in Carnival celebrations. Christmas pageants called pastorelas have masked devil characters that try to keep shepherds from seeing the Baby Jesus.” Some of today’s other poetry has brought about discussions between the poets and myself, with the poets wondering if their subjects are too harsh. But, as I tell them, I am not into censorship, and I believe that hard subjects are just as much a part of writing as the lovely primroses in Aunt Petunia’s garden. Write what your heart tells you, I say, and never pull your punches.
Tonight (Mon., 12/20), at 7:30pm, CharRon invites you to join him and Sac. Poetry Center on Zoom for an open mic themed for the season. He writes, “Bring your Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Christmas, Festivus, Winter, Eggnog soaked poems, and let's have a fireside reading. Each poet will have 6 minutes/2 poems at first; then we'll see what happens after we reload our toddies.”
This coming Thurs. (12/23), 7-8:15pm: Sac. Poetry Alliance Literary Lecture Series presents Iris Dunkle talking about Charmiane Kittredge London on Zoom at us02web.zoom.us/j/81872835469/. Info: www.facebook.com/events/414296657010178/?ref=newsfeed/.
_____________________
—Medusa
This coming Thurs. (12/23), 7-8:15pm: Sac. Poetry Alliance Literary Lecture Series presents Iris Dunkle talking about Charmiane Kittredge London on Zoom at us02web.zoom.us/j/81872835469/. Info: www.facebook.com/events/414296657010178/?ref=newsfeed/.
_____________________
—Medusa
And watch out for those crafty owls!
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!
