—Painting by Douglas Polk
—Poetry by Douglas Polk, Michael H. Brownstein,
Sayani Mukherjee, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Nolcha Fox, Caschwa, Joe Nolan
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Joe Nolan and Nolcha Fox;
Original Paintings by Douglas Polk
THE SIDEWALKS OF MANHATTAN
—Douglas Polk, Kearney, NE
the sidewalks of Manhattan I shall never walk,
the thought makes my stomach contract,
my legs go numb,
too congested, the air heavy,
overloaded with people’s breath,
and auras,
alone in the hills of Nebraska, by myself,
I still battle the static of others’ presence,
the air layered with their spiritual remains,
the same as the soil beneath my feet.
layer after layer,
drowning,
my essence fighting for air,
for voice,
unable to express myself.
without interruption,
my words seem crazy,
my thoughts confused,
even walking lonely paths in the Nebraska prairie...
the sidewalks of Manhattan I shall never walk.
—Douglas Polk, Kearney, NE
the sidewalks of Manhattan I shall never walk,
the thought makes my stomach contract,
my legs go numb,
too congested, the air heavy,
overloaded with people’s breath,
and auras,
alone in the hills of Nebraska, by myself,
I still battle the static of others’ presence,
the air layered with their spiritual remains,
the same as the soil beneath my feet.
layer after layer,
drowning,
my essence fighting for air,
for voice,
unable to express myself.
without interruption,
my words seem crazy,
my thoughts confused,
even walking lonely paths in the Nebraska prairie...
the sidewalks of Manhattan I shall never walk.
—Painting by Douglas Polk
SAFE PLACES
—Douglas Polk
isolated in emptiness,
valleys hid by hills of sand,
untouched by modern man,
places, a boy could ride his horse,
and believe himself safe to dream,
as his fathers before him,
it was our land,
hid by these hills of sand,
years flew by,
both fast and slow,
felt now,
the advance of the modern world,
footprints found in the mud and the sand,
presently only in the outer fringe of our land,
where civilization, and electricity light the night time sky,
an old man,
with a pain in his chest,
the panic felt,
for the valleys,
hidden by the hills of sand.
—Painting by Douglas Polk
MEASUREMENTS AND A MEANING TO LIFE
—Michael H. Brownstein, Jefferson City, MO
I open the hood of my ancient truck,
pull out the broken tongue to check the transmission,
notice a pink violet glow at its end,
wipe it clean,
then replace it to see if the leak is still there.
Of course, it has to be.
Machinery does not often fix itself.
Today a soft glow is at its end,
like a shine of saliva.
I close the hood with a touch of gentry
remembering the time it closed too softly
and almost broke
and another time when it closed too hard
and almost broke.
The measurement for the transmission has value,
and I know the truck will last awhile longer
regardless of what my mechanic says.
—Michael H. Brownstein, Jefferson City, MO
I open the hood of my ancient truck,
pull out the broken tongue to check the transmission,
notice a pink violet glow at its end,
wipe it clean,
then replace it to see if the leak is still there.
Of course, it has to be.
Machinery does not often fix itself.
Today a soft glow is at its end,
like a shine of saliva.
I close the hood with a touch of gentry
remembering the time it closed too softly
and almost broke
and another time when it closed too hard
and almost broke.
The measurement for the transmission has value,
and I know the truck will last awhile longer
regardless of what my mechanic says.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
THE ROBINS ARRIVE HOME
—Michael H. Brownstein
The robins came too early this winter,
snow snuggling up against brush and fence
a brazen wind arrow, fist and splinter.
No matter. Thaw began in the evening,
rivulets melting across grass and stone;
the first earthworms climbed to the heaving.
Robins scattered to a landscape of trees,
found elbows and curves for nests within branches,
harvested everything to make a home that pleased.
Winter not over was over, not spring,
not yet. A sort of in-between, a breeze,
no blizzard, a soft wind, a kinder fling,
and the robins found a freshness, a ting,
a walk-around dance, flight, a need to sing.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
THE DAY LABORERS, CHICAGO, WILSON AVE.
—Michael H. Brownstein
the rust of sky
not dust, not lust
a ridge of stars
no smidge, a bridge
the lotion of sky
an ocean, slow motion
we wake in the darkness to go to work
too tired to get up and go to work
white-black emotive
a clack, off-track
the false dawn of hype
a waltz of weakness and faults
and join the line of odors, offending smells,
the perfume of sex, sleep, sweat, cheap wine
a strain of monotony
ugly reign, a thick stain,
and we work and labor, end our day
board the bus of anger, can't see a way
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
Every city has its rhythm,
Drape-like it coils
Midnight rush, a single bush
Cemetery playing abound
Journey to a new path
Forged with sanctuaries
A bidden palm
Dropped my hope within
A paperback material
An exchange, a mere triviality
Or a seed too deep
To see in naked eye?
Just to keep on check
Where do i lie?
What is my necklace for?
Q and A and an self image
Losing root that made me
My two sun and moon
Will it cost too much
For this necklace to wear?
A bishop and a different relation
My religion cannot keep on shallow prayers.
For my necklace is made
Of my roots.
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India
Drape-like it coils
Midnight rush, a single bush
Cemetery playing abound
Journey to a new path
Forged with sanctuaries
A bidden palm
Dropped my hope within
A paperback material
An exchange, a mere triviality
Or a seed too deep
To see in naked eye?
Just to keep on check
Where do i lie?
What is my necklace for?
Q and A and an self image
Losing root that made me
My two sun and moon
Will it cost too much
For this necklace to wear?
A bishop and a different relation
My religion cannot keep on shallow prayers.
For my necklace is made
Of my roots.
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India
Let us return to simpler times...
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
A KISS ON THE CHEEK
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
It’s quite enough, when cue is due,
to peck the cheek on carpet baize,
kissing the ball, as making pass.
It is a cheek, the custom now,
to forfeit kiss, burst lips in air
just under ear—no stick repair.
What is the pecking order sign—
as kid old aunts faced in a line—
from mothball hints, rosewater, gin.
Their clucking—true, as mother hens,
would note where cuddles offered too,
unwilling, driven, bosom rest.
A sign of class, the double side,
and fun to watch retreating face
as second plant is left mid-air.
Turn the other, taught at knee—
though rarely seen, as wars obtain—
is this a slip of Freudian?
I do admire the nonchalance,
when upper crust knows match is lost,
but let it pass, in full control.
It’s breeding, feelings under wraps,
though sting in tail, both birds and bees,
where breeding needs another choice.
But round the world old men embrace,
both heads of state by state of heads,
their meeting, greeting, beards entwined.
I notice as curl whiskers brush,
those hands hold shoulders firm in grip,
as if clear private space maintained.
I’m not a player, snooker, pool,
for cool with neither aim nor foil,
but better that than risking cheek.
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
It’s quite enough, when cue is due,
to peck the cheek on carpet baize,
kissing the ball, as making pass.
It is a cheek, the custom now,
to forfeit kiss, burst lips in air
just under ear—no stick repair.
What is the pecking order sign—
as kid old aunts faced in a line—
from mothball hints, rosewater, gin.
Their clucking—true, as mother hens,
would note where cuddles offered too,
unwilling, driven, bosom rest.
A sign of class, the double side,
and fun to watch retreating face
as second plant is left mid-air.
Turn the other, taught at knee—
though rarely seen, as wars obtain—
is this a slip of Freudian?
I do admire the nonchalance,
when upper crust knows match is lost,
but let it pass, in full control.
It’s breeding, feelings under wraps,
though sting in tail, both birds and bees,
where breeding needs another choice.
But round the world old men embrace,
both heads of state by state of heads,
their meeting, greeting, beards entwined.
I notice as curl whiskers brush,
those hands hold shoulders firm in grip,
as if clear private space maintained.
I’m not a player, snooker, pool,
for cool with neither aim nor foil,
but better that than risking cheek.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Nolcha Fox
STICKY KISSES
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
We share some chocolate,
and then a sticky kiss.
Your lips
a sweet delight.
The dog jumps
between us,
covers our faces
with sticky kisses.
I think she got into the chocolate.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Nolcha Fox
ALL MY GHOSTS
—Nolcha Fox
The leaves that shatter
to dust
beneath my feet
are the ghosts
of my lost loves,
the loves who wanted
what I wasn’t,
the loves who died
too early.
Warm, sudsy bubbles
that shake my hands
in greeting
while I wash dishes
are the ghosts
of my grandparents
my father, my brother,
each bright pearl
a kiss.
All my ghosts
are with me.
I find them
in the smallest things.
—Nolcha Fox
The leaves that shatter
to dust
beneath my feet
are the ghosts
of my lost loves,
the loves who wanted
what I wasn’t,
the loves who died
too early.
Warm, sudsy bubbles
that shake my hands
in greeting
while I wash dishes
are the ghosts
of my grandparents
my father, my brother,
each bright pearl
a kiss.
All my ghosts
are with me.
I find them
in the smallest things.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy
of Nolcha Fox
PASS IT ON
—Nolcha Fox
She makes him
a martini, it’s
ready at the door.
He takes it
from her hands
for a kiss.
But the space
between their
bodies speaks
louder than
“I love you.”
The frost
in their eyes
reveals the truth.
The tension
in the room
is strangulating.
But battle
is too awful
for the kids
And so
I learned
to never trust
my instincts,
to hide my feelings,
even from myself.
I played out
the drama
of my parents.
But I can only
really blame myself.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
FATAL KISS
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
after we die,
they will rake us
away like fallen
leaves
beyond the
reach of
modern
science
to repair
nothing to
recycle, not
nearly meeting
the needs of
compostable
organic
waste
a noisy
stinky truck
will come
along, apply
a gentle kiss
on the cheek
of the can
that holds
our several
fallen
parts
lift them up
and away
and drive
off down
the street
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
after we die,
they will rake us
away like fallen
leaves
beyond the
reach of
modern
science
to repair
nothing to
recycle, not
nearly meeting
the needs of
compostable
organic
waste
a noisy
stinky truck
will come
along, apply
a gentle kiss
on the cheek
of the can
that holds
our several
fallen
parts
lift them up
and away
and drive
off down
the street
HIPAA
—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain
COMPETING WITH CLOUDS
—Caschwa
barely a hint of sun is visible, like
squinting at the gas furnace peek
hole to confirm the pilot light is lit
and then that aggressive vacuum
cleaner salesman empties a full bag
of ashes onto everyone’s windshield
not to be outdone, the full moon
gives our atmosphere a litmus test
to betray all the junk we’ve rocketed
into the clouds, including everything
we’ve always wanted to know about
HIPAA compliance and violations
in case you’re wondering, HIPAA is
Health Insurance Portability Aardvark,
as clear as the light of day
—Caschwa
barely a hint of sun is visible, like
squinting at the gas furnace peek
hole to confirm the pilot light is lit
and then that aggressive vacuum
cleaner salesman empties a full bag
of ashes onto everyone’s windshield
not to be outdone, the full moon
gives our atmosphere a litmus test
to betray all the junk we’ve rocketed
into the clouds, including everything
we’ve always wanted to know about
HIPAA compliance and violations
in case you’re wondering, HIPAA is
Health Insurance Portability Aardvark,
as clear as the light of day
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
MADNESS IN TIANJIN
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
I need a pizza
With anchovies,
So I can make the scene.
I need a
Bed-bug-annihilating
Psychiatrist,
To help me
Come clean.
Nothing’s ever
What it seems.
It’s hard to
Get to the bottom.
When it’s time
To yell out loud,
The streets are empty.
It’s all locked down.
The color-code
On your cell-phone,
Tells you
To stay home.
It’s gone from green
To yellow
And soon it will turn red,
When the men
In white hazard-suits,
Will come and
Grab you down.
Didn’t you know they’re
Doing testing,
On everyone in town?
Bend over
For a butt-swab,
So they can see
If you should be
Allowed to be free
Or subject to
A quarantine,
In the City of Tianjin.
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
I need a pizza
With anchovies,
So I can make the scene.
I need a
Bed-bug-annihilating
Psychiatrist,
To help me
Come clean.
Nothing’s ever
What it seems.
It’s hard to
Get to the bottom.
When it’s time
To yell out loud,
The streets are empty.
It’s all locked down.
The color-code
On your cell-phone,
Tells you
To stay home.
It’s gone from green
To yellow
And soon it will turn red,
When the men
In white hazard-suits,
Will come and
Grab you down.
Didn’t you know they’re
Doing testing,
On everyone in town?
Bend over
For a butt-swab,
So they can see
If you should be
Allowed to be free
Or subject to
A quarantine,
In the City of Tianjin.
—Illustration Courtesy of Public Domain
AIR-HEADS
—Joe Nolan
It’s not that I think they’re not
Or that I think they are—
“Air-heads,” I mean.
I can see
How you
Might go there,
But I don’t
Go there,
Myself.
No explanation
For your defamation—
You kept that
To yourself.
Drop a bomb
And move on.
That’s the way
Of shock and awe
And awful revelations—
Like how you feel
After all these years,
About your former friends.
—Joe Nolan
It’s not that I think they’re not
Or that I think they are—
“Air-heads,” I mean.
I can see
How you
Might go there,
But I don’t
Go there,
Myself.
No explanation
For your defamation—
You kept that
To yourself.
Drop a bomb
And move on.
That’s the way
Of shock and awe
And awful revelations—
Like how you feel
After all these years,
About your former friends.
Rocket Man
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
SHINY WINGS
—Joe Nolan
A jet plane
Stretches my caffeine-jitters
All across the sky
On shiny wings,
Brilliant in the atmosphere,
Without a chance to fly,
But only yearn, burn and spurn,
Offending offers
From arrogant
Door-to-door solicitors,
Who defer
When you say, “No!”
And need at least three-tellings
To go away
And leave me alone,
So I can get back to watching hummingbirds
That come in morning.
How bright they are!
How they float!
There’s really nothing like them.
From which planet
Were they imported?
Are there shiny wings
Could take me there?
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
WATCHING SUNSETS
—Joe Nolan
Each sunset
Is just as beautiful
As any other.
Observers,
Single out bright colors
In the distance,
To emphasize,
With brilliant exclamations.
Emphaticize, and sigh!
The sun goes down.
The sky grows gray.
People get up
From their blankets
And drift away.
It might be like this
On any evening
Of any other day,
If it is not raining.
___________________________
Today’s LittleNip(s):
Possibilities
into a mirage of ghosts.
mood lit
ice cracks over frozen crests
white owl sighs
—Michael H. Brownstein
* * *
VALUED
—Douglas Polk
the soul calm,
my spirit not alone,
knowing I am valued,
eases my mind,
and makes life a little less difficult.
___________________
Monday is with us again, in this last week of July. Our contributors have sent many fine poems and visuals in their various voices, and Medusa is very grateful. Our Seed of the Week was “A Kiss on the Cheek”, so we have poems about that and about other faces of the world. Be sure to check out every Tuesday’s post for new Seeds of the Week.
Among our other poets, it’s good to hear from Douglas Polk, with his poetry and paintings—it’s been a long time since we’ve heard from him. See—our prodigals are truly missed!
And don’t forget to click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about this week’s NorCal poetry events. Sac. Poetry Center will be both online and in person tonight, with readers Genoa Barrow and Tamer Said Mostafa. There will be many readings beyond that this week, so check ‘em out. Plus—Wednesday is the deadline for the Davis Art & Ag Poetry Contest, so don’t miss out on that. Details are also in the UPCOMING link.
___________________
—Medusa
—Joe Nolan
Each sunset
Is just as beautiful
As any other.
Observers,
Single out bright colors
In the distance,
To emphasize,
With brilliant exclamations.
Emphaticize, and sigh!
The sun goes down.
The sky grows gray.
People get up
From their blankets
And drift away.
It might be like this
On any evening
Of any other day,
If it is not raining.
___________________________
Today’s LittleNip(s):
Possibilities
into a mirage of ghosts.
mood lit
ice cracks over frozen crests
white owl sighs
—Michael H. Brownstein
* * *
VALUED
—Douglas Polk
the soul calm,
my spirit not alone,
knowing I am valued,
eases my mind,
and makes life a little less difficult.
___________________
Monday is with us again, in this last week of July. Our contributors have sent many fine poems and visuals in their various voices, and Medusa is very grateful. Our Seed of the Week was “A Kiss on the Cheek”, so we have poems about that and about other faces of the world. Be sure to check out every Tuesday’s post for new Seeds of the Week.
Among our other poets, it’s good to hear from Douglas Polk, with his poetry and paintings—it’s been a long time since we’ve heard from him. See—our prodigals are truly missed!
And don’t forget to click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about this week’s NorCal poetry events. Sac. Poetry Center will be both online and in person tonight, with readers Genoa Barrow and Tamer Said Mostafa. There will be many readings beyond that this week, so check ‘em out. Plus—Wednesday is the deadline for the Davis Art & Ag Poetry Contest, so don’t miss out on that. Details are also in the UPCOMING link.
___________________
—Medusa
—Painting by Douglas Polk
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!
