Time Off for Labor Day!
—Poetry by Claire J. Baker, Nolcha Fox,
—Poetry by Claire J. Baker, Nolcha Fox,
Mary McGrath, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Sayani Mukherjee,
Caschwa, Joe Nolan
—Public Domain Visuals Courtesy
—Public Domain Visuals Courtesy
of Joe Nolan and Nolcha Fox
IN THE VIENNA WOODS
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
If one evening,
as you stroll familiar trails,
a nightingale sings to you
sweet and long
from a nearby branch
in a dark part of the woods,
it is only fair
that another evening,
while strolling a different path
in a lighter part of the woods,
that you sing for the nightingale
who listens from a lower limb
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
If one evening,
as you stroll familiar trails,
a nightingale sings to you
sweet and long
from a nearby branch
in a dark part of the woods,
it is only fair
that another evening,
while strolling a different path
in a lighter part of the woods,
that you sing for the nightingale
who listens from a lower limb
BLURRY
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
My glasses on,
I cannot see.
Has blindness come
so quickly?
No, the lenses
finger-begrimed,
freckled with dust.
Scrubbing smudges
is no better.
Colors dazzling,
edges piercing,
voices deafening.
Life is better blurry.
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
My glasses on,
I cannot see.
Has blindness come
so quickly?
No, the lenses
finger-begrimed,
freckled with dust.
Scrubbing smudges
is no better.
Colors dazzling,
edges piercing,
voices deafening.
Life is better blurry.
THE REAL DISH
—Nolcha Fox
I eat here every morning,
I sit in the same booth.
My order never varies:
scrambled eggs
with brisket, coffee
hot and fresh.
The eggs are always
clumpy, cold.
The brisket was
a shoe sole.
The coffee tastes
like day-old mud.
I’m not here
for the awful food,
but for the man
who serves it.
He’s the dish
I’ve come to love.
Yum!
—Nolcha Fox
I eat here every morning,
I sit in the same booth.
My order never varies:
scrambled eggs
with brisket, coffee
hot and fresh.
The eggs are always
clumpy, cold.
The brisket was
a shoe sole.
The coffee tastes
like day-old mud.
I’m not here
for the awful food,
but for the man
who serves it.
He’s the dish
I’ve come to love.
Yum!
WHERE TO WEAR MY WOMB
—Nolcha Fox
My womb complained
it’s dark in here,
I want to bask in sun.
I promised her a day out
to wine and dine with friends,
but how to get her there
without chancing
stern reproach for
indecent exposure?
If I wore her as a purse
I might lose
loose change.
Perhaps a shoulder
pad but only one
would never do.
She could be a bow
on one of my pink
satin heels,
But knowing me,
I’d fold her up
and store her in a shoe box.
I finally pinned her
on my belt, disguised
as paisley pattern.
To distract
the curious
I also hid my smile.
—Nolcha Fox
My womb complained
it’s dark in here,
I want to bask in sun.
I promised her a day out
to wine and dine with friends,
but how to get her there
without chancing
stern reproach for
indecent exposure?
If I wore her as a purse
I might lose
loose change.
Perhaps a shoulder
pad but only one
would never do.
She could be a bow
on one of my pink
satin heels,
But knowing me,
I’d fold her up
and store her in a shoe box.
I finally pinned her
on my belt, disguised
as paisley pattern.
To distract
the curious
I also hid my smile.
IT’S SUNDAY, I’M SUPPOSED TO REST
—Nolcha Fox
I have to rest
today from all
the work
I didn’t do.
I was distracted
by wild turkey
dodging trucks.
I was stopped
by sheets
of white snowflakes.
I was flustered
by a crochet hook
that escaped its lapghan,
I haven’t found it yet.
I’ll have to rest
when I am dead.
I hope it’s not today.
—Nolcha Fox
I have to rest
today from all
the work
I didn’t do.
I was distracted
by wild turkey
dodging trucks.
I was stopped
by sheets
of white snowflakes.
I was flustered
by a crochet hook
that escaped its lapghan,
I haven’t found it yet.
I’ll have to rest
when I am dead.
I hope it’s not today.
I CAN’T SING LOUD ENOUGH
—Nolcha Fox
I can’t sing loud enough
to shatter illusions,
to fracture denial.
I can’t sing loud enough
to forgive the dead,
to give the living solace.
If I can’t sing louder
so someone can hear me,
why should I sing at all?
—Nolcha Fox
I can’t sing loud enough
to shatter illusions,
to fracture denial.
I can’t sing loud enough
to forgive the dead,
to give the living solace.
If I can’t sing louder
so someone can hear me,
why should I sing at all?
CHOICES
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
Wealth lies just there, decision time,
riches, choosing, from the hand,
whether dealt, or product mined,
choicest when the prospect’s two.
Between the devil, deep blue sea,
rock faced, hard place, what’s to be?
Which is the tail, most can see,
struggles, keeping float at scene.
Our treasure chest, freewill indeed—
like that church collection phrase—
if our privilege the more,
mindset bearing is revealed.
What’s the compass we use to point,
which direction draws us close,
open, closed, our other’s need,
global tilt or equity?
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
Wealth lies just there, decision time,
riches, choosing, from the hand,
whether dealt, or product mined,
choicest when the prospect’s two.
Between the devil, deep blue sea,
rock faced, hard place, what’s to be?
Which is the tail, most can see,
struggles, keeping float at scene.
Our treasure chest, freewill indeed—
like that church collection phrase—
if our privilege the more,
mindset bearing is revealed.
What’s the compass we use to point,
which direction draws us close,
open, closed, our other’s need,
global tilt or equity?
(as posted in MK last Monday)
CLIMB RATE CHANGE
—Stephen Kingsnorth
Holds sway they say, this Parkinson’s,
and yes it bears due influence,
but also bares what ought to know,
a balanced life, walk tall though slow.
I don’t stride off, sunset intent,
but smaller steps, two soles with toes,
a bridge to heeling, cure of souls,
a firmer stance, more than a glance.
A grab rail here, banister there,
the spandrel palm to blunt the sharp,
that third leg stick to push the earth—
a Sisyphus without the fuss.
U-Haul yourself when moving, house,
but if those ladder rungs too deep,
our clime is heated, quivers race,
and pace suspended, mid-air crash.
If there’s a space where you would plant,
it’s like the landing on the moon—
though unsure where, but tranquil place,
a giant leap, small move untraced.
But you know started from a stop,
thawed that freezing point found on ground,
lifted, launched, one foot, more maybe,
what eye can’t see but yet I know.
—Stephen Kingsnorth
Holds sway they say, this Parkinson’s,
and yes it bears due influence,
but also bares what ought to know,
a balanced life, walk tall though slow.
I don’t stride off, sunset intent,
but smaller steps, two soles with toes,
a bridge to heeling, cure of souls,
a firmer stance, more than a glance.
A grab rail here, banister there,
the spandrel palm to blunt the sharp,
that third leg stick to push the earth—
a Sisyphus without the fuss.
U-Haul yourself when moving, house,
but if those ladder rungs too deep,
our clime is heated, quivers race,
and pace suspended, mid-air crash.
If there’s a space where you would plant,
it’s like the landing on the moon—
though unsure where, but tranquil place,
a giant leap, small move untraced.
But you know started from a stop,
thawed that freezing point found on ground,
lifted, launched, one foot, more maybe,
what eye can’t see but yet I know.
(as posted in MK last Monday)
DOWN AT THE BUSH
—Stephen Kingsnorth
Crowbars invented, but before
crows drank, obviously, alone,
a bargain, twitchers, glass to eye,
watching, each ritual imbibed,
victual, plumage, stark quill fiends.
A murder, mob, collective horde,
Corvids with pandemic hint,
its own class, ornithology,
caw, croak, cloaked in shiny black,
motorways, once elm tree nests.
Choughed to see roadside carrion,
magpie, snapper, silver things,
but unconsidered, trifling lives;
mad, rave ’n dance, beefeaters’ Tower,
jay walker crossing on the street.
The castle rook as chessboard piece,
hooded, cowled monk of the dark;
what cans, the bar staff serve their drinks,
then lever payment, strongbox claws,
ruffle feathers, pay that tab?
DEMENTIA
—Mary McGrath, Sacramento, CA
Dementia
Demonic Dementia
Destroying Potentia
I do Regretia
I do Resentia
Destroying Potentia
Always something missing
Demonic
Dementia
Can anyone Quentia
—Mary McGrath, Sacramento, CA
Dementia
Demonic Dementia
Destroying Potentia
I do Regretia
I do Resentia
Destroying Potentia
Always something missing
Demonic
Dementia
Can anyone Quentia
Ever since I read, as a kid, Robert Frost’s poem, “The Road Not Taken”
where Frost’s traveler decides to take the road where the path in the grass clearly wasn’t so worn and trod
and advised that an intelligent person should also choose the road not obviously taken by so many before
But a road I felt compelled to choose to take, where I’d spiritually be bearing Christ's cross
Besides, St. Matthew tells Christian believers to take the path to life where “narrow is the gate and difficult"
But though I personally never liked always following despite the loss or cost
I still always wanted to go off the road altogether and go right into Frost’s “yellow wood”—
is that not what so many characters in literature and fantasy stories do in their adventures?
(including the Star Trek theme “To boldly go where no one has gone before…”)
But then again, I consider and fear that, in truth, it also may lead one to destruction and hell…
—Michelle Kunert, Sacramento, CA
where Frost’s traveler decides to take the road where the path in the grass clearly wasn’t so worn and trod
and advised that an intelligent person should also choose the road not obviously taken by so many before
But a road I felt compelled to choose to take, where I’d spiritually be bearing Christ's cross
Besides, St. Matthew tells Christian believers to take the path to life where “narrow is the gate and difficult"
But though I personally never liked always following despite the loss or cost
I still always wanted to go off the road altogether and go right into Frost’s “yellow wood”—
is that not what so many characters in literature and fantasy stories do in their adventures?
(including the Star Trek theme “To boldly go where no one has gone before…”)
But then again, I consider and fear that, in truth, it also may lead one to destruction and hell…
—Michelle Kunert, Sacramento, CA
IMPOSSIBLE
—Michelle Kunert
I learned as a kid through my parents and church that “all things are possible through Christ”
but don’t expect Jesus to give you a “miracle” on your demand—
To Christians, God through Jesus is just like a servant as well as a master
so he’s not at all in that role such as would be a dog—
Even though God in many aspects often gets scornfully treated by believers if he is
and even often abused, cursed at, and only taken for walks on Sundays
God is also certainly no magical genie in a bottle
and so he makes up his own mind whether to grant your wishes
and sees to it that they fulfill what is also his will
So all you can do is ask Him to help you with the impossible in your prayers
but in your personal relationship, don’t make any deals with God that you probably can’t or won’t do
However, the unbeliever still has to learn Jesus is Lord, even when you aren’t granted what you want
—Michelle Kunert
I learned as a kid through my parents and church that “all things are possible through Christ”
but don’t expect Jesus to give you a “miracle” on your demand—
To Christians, God through Jesus is just like a servant as well as a master
so he’s not at all in that role such as would be a dog—
Even though God in many aspects often gets scornfully treated by believers if he is
and even often abused, cursed at, and only taken for walks on Sundays
God is also certainly no magical genie in a bottle
and so he makes up his own mind whether to grant your wishes
and sees to it that they fulfill what is also his will
So all you can do is ask Him to help you with the impossible in your prayers
but in your personal relationship, don’t make any deals with God that you probably can’t or won’t do
However, the unbeliever still has to learn Jesus is Lord, even when you aren’t granted what you want
SHAPE
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India
Kitchens dishes ramblings
For the sake of it.
Planners chopsticks chairs
Houses and ruins
With Time will come
Then black out.
A beaded loom of oblivion
Edge of control
And let me mark each hour
How far can one swim?
Just living on edge
Living room talks, sautéed grinds
Just come upon the surface
Mercurial thoughts
Holding the magic casement
Up on the ladder
It's a little floated up
Takes time to take shape
Rubbles and arid nothings
End of rituals
Questions bubble up
My faith a red amulet
Sacred milk thought-shaping
Policing
Takes time to take shape
Mould brain wireless
Bending stiffing
Promise of the millennium
Still my kitchens have their faith
Amoral objectives
With no rush hour left
Keep it a tidy neat picking beast
Just needs time to shape.
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India
Kitchens dishes ramblings
For the sake of it.
Planners chopsticks chairs
Houses and ruins
With Time will come
Then black out.
A beaded loom of oblivion
Edge of control
And let me mark each hour
How far can one swim?
Just living on edge
Living room talks, sautéed grinds
Just come upon the surface
Mercurial thoughts
Holding the magic casement
Up on the ladder
It's a little floated up
Takes time to take shape
Rubbles and arid nothings
End of rituals
Questions bubble up
My faith a red amulet
Sacred milk thought-shaping
Policing
Takes time to take shape
Mould brain wireless
Bending stiffing
Promise of the millennium
Still my kitchens have their faith
Amoral objectives
With no rush hour left
Keep it a tidy neat picking beast
Just needs time to shape.
MY DAD’S PRIVATE PHOTO COLLECTION
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
stashed away inside
his several cameras
on black-&-white film
as yet undeveloped
nothing more risqué
than before and after
views of a broken
fence repair job
he passed on some
30 years ago, leaving
behind a multitude of
cameras: a multitude
of possibilities…
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
stashed away inside
his several cameras
on black-&-white film
as yet undeveloped
nothing more risqué
than before and after
views of a broken
fence repair job
he passed on some
30 years ago, leaving
behind a multitude of
cameras: a multitude
of possibilities…
APPROACHING A THRESHOLD
—Caschwa
(Concocted vocabulary, following
"Liminal" by Stephen Kingsnorth,
Medusa’s Kitchen, September 4, 2022)
Liminal—you exit the bar and enter your car
Subliminal—you fall asleep in one place, and
wake up somewhere else
Anterior Liminal—you are at the front door,
searching for all the keys
Medial Liminal—you are black, so whatever is in
your hand is clearly a handgun
Lateral Liminal—you are in grandma’s backyard,
getting shot 20 times
Superior Liminal—and in other news of the day,
limits imposed on water use outpace
limits imposed on firearms
—Caschwa
(Concocted vocabulary, following
"Liminal" by Stephen Kingsnorth,
Medusa’s Kitchen, September 4, 2022)
Liminal—you exit the bar and enter your car
Subliminal—you fall asleep in one place, and
wake up somewhere else
Anterior Liminal—you are at the front door,
searching for all the keys
Medial Liminal—you are black, so whatever is in
your hand is clearly a handgun
Lateral Liminal—you are in grandma’s backyard,
getting shot 20 times
Superior Liminal—and in other news of the day,
limits imposed on water use outpace
limits imposed on firearms
GOT THE MESSAGE
—Caschwa
California’s drought:
Nature’s WTF statement
about Trickle Down
—Caschwa
California’s drought:
Nature’s WTF statement
about Trickle Down
THE BURDEN OF CHOICES
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
The burden of choices,
When our wills are not free,
Means that our moods,
Forlorn, will be.
Obscure
Considerations,
Take up our time
With doubt.
So many things to consider,
That can’t be done without!
We wonder
How our future
Is so necessary
To our doubt.
Off-base,
Off-pace,
Stagger, we, along,
Into something we’ve chosen,
But in which
We do not belong.
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
The burden of choices,
When our wills are not free,
Means that our moods,
Forlorn, will be.
Obscure
Considerations,
Take up our time
With doubt.
So many things to consider,
That can’t be done without!
We wonder
How our future
Is so necessary
To our doubt.
Off-base,
Off-pace,
Stagger, we, along,
Into something we’ve chosen,
But in which
We do not belong.
Goats on the Lam
FLOWERS IN DROUGHT
—Joe Nolan
Roses dance with tulips,
Sing songs in different keys.
Softly, do their voices rise,
Preserving melodies
In off-key harmonies.
Down the road
The goats have run,
Got loose, as they might please.
A gardener is pulling weeds,
Bent on hands and knees.
The housewife
Doesn’t worry.
The goats will sure return.
The flowers lifted up their songs
As a prayer for rain,
Since summer drought does burn.
KISSING REEDS
—Joe Nolan
When reeds kiss
In the wind,
They somehow, both,
Sultry, bend,
And flex like
Waving wands,
A though
Leading a song.
—Joe Nolan
When reeds kiss
In the wind,
They somehow, both,
Sultry, bend,
And flex like
Waving wands,
A though
Leading a song.
LIKE DANCING IN HEAVEN
—Joe Nolan
You have to play baseball
Like you are dancing in Heaven.
Nothing to fear
When the ball’s coming near.
Raise your arm to the sky
And don’t look up.
You already saw
Where it was going
And where to put up your mitt.
You don’t need to check
To be sure.
The ball will fall in
The way you dance
In Heaven,
Where the joy is pure
In the doin’.
—Joe Nolan
You have to play baseball
Like you are dancing in Heaven.
Nothing to fear
When the ball’s coming near.
Raise your arm to the sky
And don’t look up.
You already saw
Where it was going
And where to put up your mitt.
You don’t need to check
To be sure.
The ball will fall in
The way you dance
In Heaven,
Where the joy is pure
In the doin’.
—Photo by Ann Privateer
Today’s LittleNip:
I AM
—Ann Privateer, Davis, CA
I am the sea vast and intrepid
I am an ant carrying more than my weight
I am Monet and Kierkegaard
I am the flower that blooms and the cold stone
I am the stench, the kiwi, a boned turkey
I am you and you are me
And we are one.
_____________________
Lots of fine poetry to read today—maybe Medusa’s attempt to keep you from going outside and frying your brain in this heat! Our Seed of the Week is Choices, and some of today’s contributors have written to that subject—including the question, Why Should We Sing? Claire Baker says it’s fair exchange, but Nolcha Fox leaves the question hanging: Why should we sing?
If you check out the calendar at the UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS link at the top of this page, you’ll see that September is a-hoppin’ with events: readings, workshops, deadlines. Looks like we’re pretty much back to “normal”—back to the bizzi-ness that our poetry community had before the pandemic. Something to be grateful for!
Word.
Tonight, however, the Sac. Poetry Center reading featuring Tom Meschery and Linda Jackson Collins has been postponed until October, due to this astoundingly hot weather. Stay home, stay cool…!
_____________________
—Medusa
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!
