—Poetry by Linda Klein, Playa Vista, CA
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
THE LIFE OF A ROSE
We were tight, little rosebuds,
wrapped petal over petal,
pink and perfect in our innocence.
Stirring and thriving in the sun,
my velvet petals, open, waiting,
fresh with dew, to be chosen.
Was it the same for you?
As quickly as a rose is picked,
its life begins to fade.
My head is bowed and limp
upon my stem. My edges curled,
my color browned,
my petals closed in shame.
I'm still a rose though pressed
inside a book, a memory
of life that's short, and as my scent is,
a sweet and painful reverie.
We were tight, little rosebuds,
wrapped petal over petal,
pink and perfect in our innocence.
Stirring and thriving in the sun,
my velvet petals, open, waiting,
fresh with dew, to be chosen.
Was it the same for you?
As quickly as a rose is picked,
its life begins to fade.
My head is bowed and limp
upon my stem. My edges curled,
my color browned,
my petals closed in shame.
I'm still a rose though pressed
inside a book, a memory
of life that's short, and as my scent is,
a sweet and painful reverie.
THREE SUITORS
First, there was unassuming Mr. White.
With the passage of time, arrived twilight.
Mr. White was enveloped by the shadow of Mr. Gray.
Overwhelmed, he fled, for that was White's way.
Although that fine, young man was gone,
I had Mr. Gray and I tried to hold on.
I seemed to be falling into desolate despair,
decrying, declaring, Mr. White had been unfair.
Mr. Gray smothered me, as White's flame disappeared,
Gray's layer of ashes and smoke filled the air.
Again I faltered, gasping and grasping for Mr. Gray.
I prayed that he never would go away.
Night was nigh. Looming ahead was Mr. Black.
Filled with fear, I clung close to Mr. Gray.
Mr. Gray had weak bones in his back,
so weak, his back was ready to give way.
Without the slightest attempt to fight,
he surrendered me to the deepest well of night.
Mr. Black, triumphant, had the final way to fool,
by welcoming me to his infinity pool.
I fell right into the arms of Mr. Black,
an embrace from which I would never come back.
First, there was unassuming Mr. White.
With the passage of time, arrived twilight.
Mr. White was enveloped by the shadow of Mr. Gray.
Overwhelmed, he fled, for that was White's way.
Although that fine, young man was gone,
I had Mr. Gray and I tried to hold on.
I seemed to be falling into desolate despair,
decrying, declaring, Mr. White had been unfair.
Mr. Gray smothered me, as White's flame disappeared,
Gray's layer of ashes and smoke filled the air.
Again I faltered, gasping and grasping for Mr. Gray.
I prayed that he never would go away.
Night was nigh. Looming ahead was Mr. Black.
Filled with fear, I clung close to Mr. Gray.
Mr. Gray had weak bones in his back,
so weak, his back was ready to give way.
Without the slightest attempt to fight,
he surrendered me to the deepest well of night.
Mr. Black, triumphant, had the final way to fool,
by welcoming me to his infinity pool.
I fell right into the arms of Mr. Black,
an embrace from which I would never come back.
YELLOW, SWEET, AND SAD
At the bottom of my cup,
where tea leaves once formed messages
foretelling the future
in days before tissue paper tea bags,
lies my yellow lemon wedge
with its pale buds of juice
like teardrops cowering in coarse, abused skin.
What message do these teardrops hold for me?
The flavor they impart is sour
mingled with the taste of sugary, amber brew,
bringing back long-forgotten nights
with good friends and happy, nostalgic songs
that left our hearts light and carefree.
How I love the taste,
the jubilance of this warm, wild juice,
a sunny, yellow remnant of the past.
NO ANSWERS, ONLY QUESTIONS
So much depends upon our wisdom and our strength.
How do we react when violence threatens our way of life?
Do we maintain calm restraint, until death, for what we know is right?
Stand by and watch while the innocent are slaughtered,
or rush to their defense at any and all cost?
Can we still live our lives with this disorder?
Will morality and conscience be forever lost?
Whose bloody, severed head is that, placed upon a skewer,
dripping scarlet rain to soak the ground?
Is someone, somewhere totaling up the score?
Is there any good solution to be found?
Can we endure having seen his shocked surprise?
What does it mean to tolerate the horror in his eyes?
________________________
Today’s LittleNip:
You can never get a cup of tea large enough or a book long enough to suit me.
—C.S. Lewis
________________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Linda Klein for the fine cup of tea that is her poetry today! And check out UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS for poetry events tonight!
How do we react when violence threatens our way of life?
Do we maintain calm restraint, until death, for what we know is right?
Stand by and watch while the innocent are slaughtered,
or rush to their defense at any and all cost?
Can we still live our lives with this disorder?
Will morality and conscience be forever lost?
Whose bloody, severed head is that, placed upon a skewer,
dripping scarlet rain to soak the ground?
Is someone, somewhere totaling up the score?
Is there any good solution to be found?
Can we endure having seen his shocked surprise?
What does it mean to tolerate the horror in his eyes?
________________________
Today’s LittleNip:
You can never get a cup of tea large enough or a book long enough to suit me.
—C.S. Lewis
________________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Linda Klein for the fine cup of tea that is her poetry today! And check out UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS for poetry events tonight!
For upcoming poetry events in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
in the links at the top of this page.
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!
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
in the links at the top of this page.
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!
