—Poetry by Mary Lynn McGrath, Craig Steiger,
Stephen Kingsnorth, Nolcha Fox,
Joe Nolan, Caschwa
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
(thanks to our contributors)
DIM HALLWAYS
June 28, 2022
—Mary Lynn McGrath, Sacramento, CA
I never thought I would see an armed guard in the vestibule.
He's there in case the Catholic Mass is stormed by protesters.
I doubt they will break in,
it's not really a woman's way.
The bishop advises: under no circumstances are we to physically
engage these individuals by pushing, shoving, or escorting them outside if
they have gained access to church.
Suspicious activity, call 911.
In back of me a baby is crying.
June 28, 2022
—Mary Lynn McGrath, Sacramento, CA
I never thought I would see an armed guard in the vestibule.
He's there in case the Catholic Mass is stormed by protesters.
I doubt they will break in,
it's not really a woman's way.
The bishop advises: under no circumstances are we to physically
engage these individuals by pushing, shoving, or escorting them outside if
they have gained access to church.
Suspicious activity, call 911.
In back of me a baby is crying.
YUBA PLUNGE
—Craig Steiger, Nevada County, CA
Down the swift knock of rock
hips bouncing and careening
in sleek abandon
through the plunge of spillways,
with a frogkick sliding sidelong
over fluted granite into narrow blue halls
streaked with sunlight,
skim the bottom quartz
rolling lewdly as a smooth river otter
break the surface
huffing in warm summer air.
CORONA COVIDAE
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
I used to welcome, man in van,
distinctive yellow, pointy crown,
big C was top, pop-man to me,
teen carbonara, bubble tap;
aerate screwed-top, soda-streams fear,
cool hustle swagger ginga, bier.
My twitching followed Corvidae—
rook parliament that cawed, dead elms,
congress of ravens, tower behead,
crow murder guarding carrion;
hack choughs peck throat, grudge breathing sludge,
black-capped jackdaw, life-thieving judge.
Just one magpie for sorrow blamed,
no secret seven, though wishing eight,
nine for the kiss I cannot give;
past passerines late passed me by,
lambs to the slaughter, Bovidae,
as we become class Covidae.
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
I used to welcome, man in van,
distinctive yellow, pointy crown,
big C was top, pop-man to me,
teen carbonara, bubble tap;
aerate screwed-top, soda-streams fear,
cool hustle swagger ginga, bier.
My twitching followed Corvidae—
rook parliament that cawed, dead elms,
congress of ravens, tower behead,
crow murder guarding carrion;
hack choughs peck throat, grudge breathing sludge,
black-capped jackdaw, life-thieving judge.
Just one magpie for sorrow blamed,
no secret seven, though wishing eight,
nine for the kiss I cannot give;
past passerines late passed me by,
lambs to the slaughter, Bovidae,
as we become class Covidae.
PROOF
—Stephen Kingsnorth
They shared debate around the flames,
a glowing fire, domestic shrine,
thus sacred turf the site for pitch,
that like the peat, the team was sweet,
whatever referee had said.
These Antrim sods of Ireland, North,
that stood, still, watching Bushmills turn,
Scotch planted, like the Black and Tans,
as coppers in a sentry stance,
stir dancing gold of liquor burn.
As shots were fired and bellies gripped,
bloodred vein creep of colour, cheeks,
they laid down arms, await refill,
the cause to weigh, old arguments,
that giant step that staked the land.
They look out, castle in the air—
where all washed up, across the bar,
in place of wake they celebrate,
for who knows where the future lines,
save all agreed that Bush retained.
(prev. pub. in The Whisky Blot)
—Stephen Kingsnorth
They shared debate around the flames,
a glowing fire, domestic shrine,
thus sacred turf the site for pitch,
that like the peat, the team was sweet,
whatever referee had said.
These Antrim sods of Ireland, North,
that stood, still, watching Bushmills turn,
Scotch planted, like the Black and Tans,
as coppers in a sentry stance,
stir dancing gold of liquor burn.
As shots were fired and bellies gripped,
bloodred vein creep of colour, cheeks,
they laid down arms, await refill,
the cause to weigh, old arguments,
that giant step that staked the land.
They look out, castle in the air—
where all washed up, across the bar,
in place of wake they celebrate,
for who knows where the future lines,
save all agreed that Bush retained.
(prev. pub. in The Whisky Blot)
If I am what
I drink,
I am a jar
of instant espresso.
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
CULTURE-COLLISION
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
When Captain Kangaroo
Met the Thin White Duke
Dylan sang "Queen Jane, Approximately,”
About mothers sending back
Their children’s invitations.
A White Knight was talking backwards
Telling us to, “Turn on! Tune in! and Drop out,”
Chasing downward spirals
Into rabbit-holes
Of madness on installment-plans.
“Subterranean Blues” and “Like a Rolling Stone”
Presaged the dregs of homelessness
That was thirty years away,
After a flood of napalm
Burned Vietnam
Into liberation,
When disgusted and burned out
With internal-fragging,
We finally left.
Bell-bottoms
Flared our legs out
Loud and proud,
Over Frye boots
Everyone wore,
As though a uniform,
Because everyone was trying to be different
In exactly the same way.
Finally, to cap off the Sixties
We got a big, fat slice
Of “American Pie”
To let us know
The Music Had Died,
Behind good-old boys
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
When Captain Kangaroo
Met the Thin White Duke
Dylan sang "Queen Jane, Approximately,”
About mothers sending back
Their children’s invitations.
A White Knight was talking backwards
Telling us to, “Turn on! Tune in! and Drop out,”
Chasing downward spirals
Into rabbit-holes
Of madness on installment-plans.
“Subterranean Blues” and “Like a Rolling Stone”
Presaged the dregs of homelessness
That was thirty years away,
After a flood of napalm
Burned Vietnam
Into liberation,
When disgusted and burned out
With internal-fragging,
We finally left.
Bell-bottoms
Flared our legs out
Loud and proud,
Over Frye boots
Everyone wore,
As though a uniform,
Because everyone was trying to be different
In exactly the same way.
Finally, to cap off the Sixties
We got a big, fat slice
Of “American Pie”
To let us know
The Music Had Died,
Behind good-old boys
“Drinking whisky and rye.”
GRAZING ON ALPHABET SOUP
—Joe Nolan
It made her itch to
Loll around in the
Same soup-bowl
From which he had
Eaten so many letters
Of the alphabet.
She couldn’t help wondering
Which letters
Went down the best
And how long he
Left his lips wet
Before wiping them off
With a bed sheet as a napkin.
—Joe Nolan
It made her itch to
Loll around in the
Same soup-bowl
From which he had
Eaten so many letters
Of the alphabet.
She couldn’t help wondering
Which letters
Went down the best
And how long he
Left his lips wet
Before wiping them off
With a bed sheet as a napkin.
CREAM IS BEST
—Joe Nolan
Every christened
Coffee-flavor
That ever promised
To surpass
The richness
Of sweet cream,
Has so far, failed.
None other
Than liquid butter
Creams your tongue
With memories
Of bliss!
Get ready,
Get ready
For this!
In the tang of coffee flavor
Something rich
You will savor,
Flowing on your tongue.
Reminding you
When you were young
And you didn’t have to worry
What pleasure met your tongue.
EAT KIMCHI
—Joe Nolan
World make no sense?
Eat some kimchi!
Kimchi good for that sort of thing.
Broken heart?
Eat a lot of kimchi.
Then you feel better.
It’s because of how kimchi is made—
In a huge clay pot
Filled with whole cabbages
And lots of red, hot chillies
And buried in the ground to
Ferment for a couple years
Until everything is ripe,
The cabbage is soft,
It’s easy to eat
And makes good germs
Grow in your gut
To fight off all the bad ones.
That sort of thing
Teaches your body a lesson—
To go underground
Surrounded by hot chillies
That make cabbage
Slowly boil
Until you soften up.
Eventually, you get back
To an ordinary state of ambivalence,
Almost all the time.
SOMETHING MISSING
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
looking through published real estate
ads for houses, and they list all the
usual rooms, bed, bath, kitchen, dining,
garage, plus maybe a fireplace
but what about all those other important
places?
· Apology and regret room
· Epiphany room
· Failure and growth room
· Fix broken toys room
· Introspection room
· Kiss and make up room
· Peace and quiet room
· Truth and justice room
there is so much more to raising children
than all the usual rooms, plus maybe a
fireplace
WE GOT PARTWAY THERE
—Caschwa
It was vacation time! Marvelous!
Dad and Mom planned a bigger
outing than usual, we were going
to head North from Southern Cal
and see how far we could get;
told we might connect with some
distant relations up in Washington,
so we buckled up and joined traffic
on the Redwood Highway, seeing
all the sights, and pausing to buy
souvenirs, or for pit stops, all at my
Dad’s most gas-efficient speed of
45 mph, strictly observed. We stopped
at one of those mystery places where
the water seems to flow uphill, and
drove through a tree that had a tunnel
cut out of it, just to please curious
motorists. We got as far as the southern
border of Oregon, found a spot to stay
overnight, and then turned around to
come home, being that half our time and
other resources were spent. This trip
comes to mind every time the news
headlines show how our political parties
act: the Dems are inching along the
Redwood Highway, swallowing all the
eye candy, while the GOP whizzes by in
the fast lane straight to their singular
destination. There have been a few times
in our history when the US Senate declared
War, putting that ahead of other business
because keen focus was required and this
just had to be done first. Such prioritizing
was not intended to diminish the high level
of concern that was in place for other items
on the agenda that were still waiting for
proper attention, but a first-things-first
approach seemed to work better than an
everything-at-once approach. So now is the
time to be really picky about what to do first,
before democracy as we know it crumbles,
and we have to gather up our souvenirs,
turn around, and go back home.
—Caschwa
It was vacation time! Marvelous!
Dad and Mom planned a bigger
outing than usual, we were going
to head North from Southern Cal
and see how far we could get;
told we might connect with some
distant relations up in Washington,
so we buckled up and joined traffic
on the Redwood Highway, seeing
all the sights, and pausing to buy
souvenirs, or for pit stops, all at my
Dad’s most gas-efficient speed of
45 mph, strictly observed. We stopped
at one of those mystery places where
the water seems to flow uphill, and
drove through a tree that had a tunnel
cut out of it, just to please curious
motorists. We got as far as the southern
border of Oregon, found a spot to stay
overnight, and then turned around to
come home, being that half our time and
other resources were spent. This trip
comes to mind every time the news
headlines show how our political parties
act: the Dems are inching along the
Redwood Highway, swallowing all the
eye candy, while the GOP whizzes by in
the fast lane straight to their singular
destination. There have been a few times
in our history when the US Senate declared
War, putting that ahead of other business
because keen focus was required and this
just had to be done first. Such prioritizing
was not intended to diminish the high level
of concern that was in place for other items
on the agenda that were still waiting for
proper attention, but a first-things-first
approach seemed to work better than an
everything-at-once approach. So now is the
time to be really picky about what to do first,
before democracy as we know it crumbles,
and we have to gather up our souvenirs,
turn around, and go back home.
HERE’S WHERE IT ALL WENT WRONG
—Caschwa
In the Spring of 1865, all the principal
Confederate armies surrendered, and
on May 10, 1865, Union cavalry captured
the fleeing Confederate President
Jefferson Davis; resistance collapsed
and the Civil War ended…
…but no, the resistance had far from
collapsed, and the war wasn’t at all
over, as we can clearly see today.
The only event that would have
brought our Civil War to a real
and final close would have been
if the surrendered Confederate
armies and the captured Confederate
President had been taken as slaves.
The process of Restoration for
the former black slaves would
have received all the necessary
support and funding to prevail,
while the KKK lynch mobs, and
civil rights deniers would be out
in the fields picking cotton for us,
cleaning up loose shit in the barn,
and their women bending over
whenever told to.
Then, 157 years later, we would
be having some very much different
round-table discussions.
—Caschwa
In the Spring of 1865, all the principal
Confederate armies surrendered, and
on May 10, 1865, Union cavalry captured
the fleeing Confederate President
Jefferson Davis; resistance collapsed
and the Civil War ended…
…but no, the resistance had far from
collapsed, and the war wasn’t at all
over, as we can clearly see today.
The only event that would have
brought our Civil War to a real
and final close would have been
if the surrendered Confederate
armies and the captured Confederate
President had been taken as slaves.
The process of Restoration for
the former black slaves would
have received all the necessary
support and funding to prevail,
while the KKK lynch mobs, and
civil rights deniers would be out
in the fields picking cotton for us,
cleaning up loose shit in the barn,
and their women bending over
whenever told to.
Then, 157 years later, we would
be having some very much different
round-table discussions.
QUOTA-DRIVEN KILLINGS
—Caschwa
the boss gives us quotas to meet
and we had better make it happen,
all in a routine day of business
we KNOW that strippers like #45
hired for sex will use one way or
another to terminate pregnancies,
all in a routine day of business
we KNOW that the highest levels
of our government will run any
programs that bring the money in,
all in a routine day of business
we KNOW there is a quota for new
deaths, to keep the revenue stream
healthy for the end of life industry,
all in a routine day of business
we don’t really KNOW but we might
suppose that the trend to have more
killing machines available to more
purchasers was meant to offset
the increase in abortion restrictions,
to enable us to meet a quota for new
deaths that someone very high up
has set, all in a routine day of business
THE WONDERFUL WORLD OF HEARSAY
—Caschwa
ever sit in a History class and
wonder why everything they
cover is hearsay? everything
from the Ice Age, to Stone Age
to ancient Greek and Roman
empires, to both World Wars
all that neatly articulated and
sorted and weighted evidence
you must remember or fail
but you weren’t there, and have
no independent recollection of
those events, it’s all hearsay
and even if you were there, facts
like where and when you were
born come to you second-hand
I can tell you where my father
was born, and we both know
that is 100% hearsay
warning labels, good hearsay
advice on that 4th of July cannon:
“Don’t look into barrel when firing”
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
TODAY I CELEBRATE
—Caschwa
still having a thumb
that had to be reattached
still having a leg
that had to be rebuilt
still having a brain
that needed the pressure to drain
still having old friends
who never left me
still having dreams
from ages and ages ago
still having ideas
whether valid or not
still able to read
though not as much, not as long
still able to laugh
with no provocation
still possessing memories
of people no longer living
still amused by toys
gotta go, the toys are calling!
___________________
Our thanks to today’s contributors, on this Fourth of July, for poems based on various subjects, including some that are political, some built on our Seed of the Week (You Are What You Drink), and some that are being floated out there just because… (Eat Kimchi!).
No reading at Sac. Poetry Center tonight, due to the 4th. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about this and other future readings in the NorCal area.
And here’s to our lovely, long-suffering country and its huddled, befuddled masses—no matter how upside-down things may seem. Always a work in progress, yes?
____________________
—Medusa
TODAY I CELEBRATE
—Caschwa
still having a thumb
that had to be reattached
still having a leg
that had to be rebuilt
still having a brain
that needed the pressure to drain
still having old friends
who never left me
still having dreams
from ages and ages ago
still having ideas
whether valid or not
still able to read
though not as much, not as long
still able to laugh
with no provocation
still possessing memories
of people no longer living
still amused by toys
gotta go, the toys are calling!
___________________
Our thanks to today’s contributors, on this Fourth of July, for poems based on various subjects, including some that are political, some built on our Seed of the Week (You Are What You Drink), and some that are being floated out there just because… (Eat Kimchi!).
No reading at Sac. Poetry Center tonight, due to the 4th. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about this and other future readings in the NorCal area.
And here’s to our lovely, long-suffering country and its huddled, befuddled masses—no matter how upside-down things may seem. Always a work in progress, yes?
____________________
—Medusa
10 Things You May Not Know
About The Statue of Liberty:
www.manhattanlife.com/Blog/10-things-you-didnt-know-about-the-statue-of-liberty/.
www.manhattanlife.com/Blog/10-things-you-didnt-know-about-the-statue-of-liberty/.
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!
