—Poetry by Linda Klein, Playa Vista, CA
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
MY MUSE
If I had to name a muse,
music is the one I'd choose.
A soothing song, a sweet sonata
stimulates cortex to medulla oblongata.
My fascination swims
in wild flourishes and whims,
swaying with the rhythm and the beat,
stirring my senses and moving my feet.
Rapturous sounds of wind and rain
capture my thoughts. I need to explain,
to describe what it is, how I feel.
The sizzle of the sun's warm kiss is so real.
Chirping bird songs bring my words home.
They all come together in a poem,
ringing, clinking, and clanging,
singing, jingling, and jangling.
The music of life's supposing,
symphonies that lead to supposing,
random sounds pulled from the air
tell of joy and dark despair.
They are the soul of my inspiration,
the impetus for my imagination.
If I had to name a muse,
music is the one I'd choose.
A soothing song, a sweet sonata
stimulates cortex to medulla oblongata.
My fascination swims
in wild flourishes and whims,
swaying with the rhythm and the beat,
stirring my senses and moving my feet.
Rapturous sounds of wind and rain
capture my thoughts. I need to explain,
to describe what it is, how I feel.
The sizzle of the sun's warm kiss is so real.
Chirping bird songs bring my words home.
They all come together in a poem,
ringing, clinking, and clanging,
singing, jingling, and jangling.
The music of life's supposing,
symphonies that lead to supposing,
random sounds pulled from the air
tell of joy and dark despair.
They are the soul of my inspiration,
the impetus for my imagination.
Dove Affair
MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH SPRING
The warm wind tugs,
calls to me,
wraps me with hugs,
whispers, "Come see."
My ardent lover
urges me further
that I may discover
all of his fervor.
So this is March.
Soon will begin my sweet Spring,
the gradual arch
from Winter chill to Summer fling,
and how do I feel
when I hear the wild,
wanton song, the zeal.
I'm both restless and beguiled.
I am ready to fly
wherever the wind may lead me.
I never ask why.
I just believe my lover needs me.
Amber Sunset
AMBER SUNSET
One evening in Paris
we walked along the Seine at Lavacourt
on our way to dine at Guy Savoy
and watched the Winter mist
move across the scene.
Transported into the midst
of soft, cool sensibility,
I dreamt of an amber sunset.
Magic Sky on a Radio Night
RADIO NIGHTS
Staring at a little brown box,
serious and silent
Michael, Dad, and I sat at the kitchen table
as sounds emitted from it,
the voice, so perfect, so dramatic.
Our eyes gleamed with excitement,
as we waited for the story to be told.
All the while, Mother stood at the sink
washing dishes and feigning disinterest.
Then came breathy whispered words,
"The Shadow knows," followed by a maniacal laugh.
A plate slipped from mother's hands,
clattered into the sink, and shattered,
and we three, at the table, shivered in expectation.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Hope is a light
that emanates from you.
Concentrate and it grows bright
to show you where you need to go,
and what you need to do.
—Linda Klein
_____________________
—Medusa, thanking Linda Klein for today’s fine poems! As she says, “The Shadow Knows…” where you need to go, and what you need to do.
Amber Sunset in the Surf
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
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—
and collaborations are welcome.
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—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
