WHO KNEW?
The dinosaurs didn’t.
They ate the plants,
they ate each other,
never thinking this
was their last meal.
Wiggling their big
dinosaur butts,
they had no clue.
When they saw
the blazing streak
tearing the sky apart,
did they think
“that’s pretty,”
and go back to doing
dinosaur things,
the same as yesterday
and the day before?
Or did one think,
“oh crap, this is the end,”
and try to run away?
What will we do
before we know.
DOG ON THE LOOSE
The same dog is loose every day,
running through the news.
Neighbors complain each week
in our Rolling Log.
It roams from street to street.
It might change color,
it might change size,
depending on who reports it.
No one knows who owns it.
The police never catch it.
Clever dog.
BUT THEY CAN’T READ
A plastic bucket
filled with water
advertises
DOGS ONLY
NO SEAGULLS
How do dogs
know the water
is for them?
How do seagulls
know to stay away?
Were they taking
reading classes
when we were asleep?
Must we humans
guard the water,
beckoning to dogs
and scaring seagulls?
That’s a job
that I don’t want.
Better to turn
the sign around
so everyone can drink.
MISSED LANDING
She flies in circles round the yard,
a kamikaze, reckless abandon.
A final leap, she hits the landing
with her chin.
A body-shake later, she prances in,
proud that she hit the target.
WHAT WOULD A DOG DO?
When the weather turns bad,
I grumble.
What would a dog do?
Fall asleep.
On warm summer days,
I stay inside.
What would a dog do?
Run in circles outside.
When I want to scream,
I take a walk.
What would a dog do?
Roll over for a belly rub.
When no one is looking,
I have an extra cup of coffee.
What would a dog do?
Eat poop.
I’m not going to try that one.
You were handed to me
out of nowhere,
a voluptuous vision
in a fake fur coat.
“Do you like it rough?”
You didn’t say no.
We whipped it up,
a frenzy of tossing
and turning.
You squeaked,
to my delight.
I ignored food
to adore you.
Alas, I was
too much for you,
your final squeal
smashed to the
laundry room floor,
your sensuous curves
deflated as padding
wafted down.
Although we weren’t
together long,
you’ll be always
on my mind,
until I get another
squeaky toy,
I’ll eviscerate
just like you.
Let me be
the leap,
the joy.
Let my eyes
be only
on you.
Let me live
for the moment
of contact.
Let me
carry your love
in my mouth
like a Frisbee.
All us little monkeys
whip through branches,
chatter reproach as
we groom cousins,
uncles, aunts,
parents, and siblings.
If one of us is still,
we hang him
from a branch
and let him dangle.
Soon the canopy
swells up with
strung-up bodies.
That is why it’s called
our family tree.
____________________
—Medusa, with our thanks to Nolcha Fox for her poetry today and the photos she sent to go with it. Dogs. Ya gotta love ‘em…
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!
