—Poetry by John Dorroh, SW IL
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
GENESIS
I am stuck in a hotel room
I am stuck in a hotel
I am stuck
I am
I freeze for good reason
in Iceland’s afterbirth,
the glow of active volcano
from my window, how lava
grows and flows and melts
your bed in the wee hours,
how no one is safe from it,
how no one prays to fire and ice
how everyone understands
this volcano language.
I am stuck at the bottom of a melting glacier
I am stuck at the bottom
I am stuck
I am
I need to be in my own bed
so close to the kitchen
that I can hear the bread breathe
that I can make a cheese sandwich
at 2 am, stick my head out a crack
in the door, look up into icy sky,
see aurora waves undulating
like florescent green snakes.
I am stuck in a hotel room
I am stuck in a hotel
I am stuck
I am
I freeze for good reason
in Iceland’s afterbirth,
the glow of active volcano
from my window, how lava
grows and flows and melts
your bed in the wee hours,
how no one is safe from it,
how no one prays to fire and ice
how everyone understands
this volcano language.
I am stuck at the bottom of a melting glacier
I am stuck at the bottom
I am stuck
I am
I need to be in my own bed
so close to the kitchen
that I can hear the bread breathe
that I can make a cheese sandwich
at 2 am, stick my head out a crack
in the door, look up into icy sky,
see aurora waves undulating
like florescent green snakes.
COLLATERAL DAMAGE
The wolves next door
are gnawing on our house
again. Ravenous appetite
for things they can’t digest.
They watch us wash dishes
through the kitchen window
waiting for us to make a
mistake: Take out garbage
in cold moonlight. Drop
chicken blood on the soles
of my shoes. Track my own
blood into the back door.
The wolves next door
are gnawing on our house
again. Ravenous appetite
for things they can’t digest.
They watch us wash dishes
through the kitchen window
waiting for us to make a
mistake: Take out garbage
in cold moonlight. Drop
chicken blood on the soles
of my shoes. Track my own
blood into the back door.
DISCHARGE
There are open sores in the valley.
No one wants to talk about them.
Tuck them away pretending they
aren’t there.
You have only so much time.
They fester and boil and ooze
into your morning tea. Honey
and agave won’t sweeten them.
The old houses know these things,
their scabbed plumbing, their
cracked spines and weathered tiles.
They wear them shamelessly.
Like prayer.
There are open sores in the valley.
No one wants to talk about them.
Tuck them away pretending they
aren’t there.
You have only so much time.
They fester and boil and ooze
into your morning tea. Honey
and agave won’t sweeten them.
The old houses know these things,
their scabbed plumbing, their
cracked spines and weathered tiles.
They wear them shamelessly.
Like prayer.
REPURPOSED
My grandparent’s house
is now a Kroger grocery
store. Their bedroom is
a coffee station. Their
kitchen is produce.
They’ve been gone too
long but it’s not so sad
any more. When they
cut the tress to build
their house, my grand-
ma said, “Who knows
how long we’ll last?”
My grandparent’s house
is now a Kroger grocery
store. Their bedroom is
a coffee station. Their
kitchen is produce.
They’ve been gone too
long but it’s not so sad
any more. When they
cut the tress to build
their house, my grand-
ma said, “Who knows
how long we’ll last?”
NEVER READY
My mother’s hand quivered
in mine as she slipped away
into a brisk autumn morning.
My feathers are still wet.
My mother’s hand quivered
in mine as she slipped away
into a brisk autumn morning.
My feathers are still wet.
RESURRECTION
There are lessons in bread.
Science principles, magic
in the way it all works out.
The rising like spirits,
proofing and rising again,
cold dough laid in metal
tombs, placed into an oven
for final rites of passage.
There are lessons in bread.
Science principles, magic
in the way it all works out.
The rising like spirits,
proofing and rising again,
cold dough laid in metal
tombs, placed into an oven
for final rites of passage.
NICHE
Asparagus crowns pop
through the soil, their
tender sleep spoiled for
another season.
Short lives enjoyed by
many who transform
their slender stalks into
energy for living.
They are here, they are
gone, having satisfied
a clockwork purpose
so gracefully.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
TRANSFORMATION
—John Dorroh
Cut fancy like diamond
carbon like coal, dead
things 20 million years
ago, rising like ghosts
____________________
That John Dorroh eats liver once a week to boost his iron levels should not be held against him. That he admits he eats it should be. John has had poems published in the last 7-8 years in journals such as Feral, River Heron, Selcouth Station (UK), Bunringowrd, Pinyon, and North Dakota Quarterly. Two of his poems were nominated for Best of the Net. He also won enough money for a sushi dinner as recipient of the Editor’s Award for a Midwest journal. He has two chapbooks to his credit: Swim at Your Risk and Personal Ad Poetry (Alien Buddha Press); his first chapbook came out in March, 2022, and the second one will be released on the 14th of this month. John lives in southwest Illinois, about 30 miles east of St. Louis. Welcome to the Kitchen, John, and don’t be a stranger!
This Monday (Labor Day, 9/5): the Sac. Poetry Center reading featuring Tom Meschery and Linda Jackson Collins has been postponed until October, due to hot weather. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about this and other future poetry events in the NorCal area.
_____________________
—Medusa, welcoming September—will she bring rain?
Asparagus crowns pop
through the soil, their
tender sleep spoiled for
another season.
Short lives enjoyed by
many who transform
their slender stalks into
energy for living.
They are here, they are
gone, having satisfied
a clockwork purpose
so gracefully.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
TRANSFORMATION
—John Dorroh
Cut fancy like diamond
carbon like coal, dead
things 20 million years
ago, rising like ghosts
____________________
That John Dorroh eats liver once a week to boost his iron levels should not be held against him. That he admits he eats it should be. John has had poems published in the last 7-8 years in journals such as Feral, River Heron, Selcouth Station (UK), Bunringowrd, Pinyon, and North Dakota Quarterly. Two of his poems were nominated for Best of the Net. He also won enough money for a sushi dinner as recipient of the Editor’s Award for a Midwest journal. He has two chapbooks to his credit: Swim at Your Risk and Personal Ad Poetry (Alien Buddha Press); his first chapbook came out in March, 2022, and the second one will be released on the 14th of this month. John lives in southwest Illinois, about 30 miles east of St. Louis. Welcome to the Kitchen, John, and don’t be a stranger!
This Monday (Labor Day, 9/5): the Sac. Poetry Center reading featuring Tom Meschery and Linda Jackson Collins has been postponed until October, due to hot weather. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about this and other future poetry events in the NorCal area.
_____________________
—Medusa, welcoming September—will she bring rain?
John Dorroh
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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!
