—Public Domain Dragon by
Laith Abashaar, Courtesy of
Nolcha Fox
—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Caschwa, Joe Nolan,
Michael Ceraolo, Stephen Kingsworth,
Sayanı Mukherjee
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Joe Nolan, Nolcha Fox and
Stephen Kingsworth
Lights sparkle outside
the window,
dancing firework
fallout surfing
midnight wind.
Are they lost
fireflies,
sparks from a blaze,
or dragon dust
from another land?
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
the window,
dancing firework
fallout surfing
midnight wind.
Are they lost
fireflies,
sparks from a blaze,
or dragon dust
from another land?
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Nolcha Fox
WHAT?
—Nolcha Fox
I see your mouth moving,
I can’t hear you.
What?
Now you point.
Yes, that’s the table.
So what?
Now you point to the floor.
Oh. The vase is in pieces.
Oh, the cat!
You point to my face.
What?
Is my nose missing?
You shake your head.
So sorry to frustrate.
You point to the top of my head.
Oh!
I perched my glasses
where I wouldn’t forget them.
You know I can’t hear without glasses.
—Nolcha Fox
I see your mouth moving,
I can’t hear you.
What?
Now you point.
Yes, that’s the table.
So what?
Now you point to the floor.
Oh. The vase is in pieces.
Oh, the cat!
You point to my face.
What?
Is my nose missing?
You shake your head.
So sorry to frustrate.
You point to the top of my head.
Oh!
I perched my glasses
where I wouldn’t forget them.
You know I can’t hear without glasses.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Nolcha Fox
We couldn’t find them
anywhere, they vanished
from the dance floor.
They left behind
a perfumed mist
of perspiration,
a trail of
corsage petals,
his shoes,
her heels,
that led us
to the exit.
Just in time
to see them
running barefoot
to the beach.
—Nolcha Fox
anywhere, they vanished
from the dance floor.
They left behind
a perfumed mist
of perspiration,
a trail of
corsage petals,
his shoes,
her heels,
that led us
to the exit.
Just in time
to see them
running barefoot
to the beach.
—Nolcha Fox
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Nolcha Fox
EMPTY, EMPTY
—Nolcha Fox
This empty house
sings sentience,
despite the barren rooms.
The floorboards
echo spectral steps,
old laughter bounces
off the walls,
stale air breathes sighs
from people
long since gone.
Unlike this empty
soul I wear,
a chain around
my body.
My muffled steps
are melancholy,
my shadow in
another room,
detached from
my bland body.
I’ll fill this house
with furniture,
but what will
fill my inner void?
—Nolcha Fox
This empty house
sings sentience,
despite the barren rooms.
The floorboards
echo spectral steps,
old laughter bounces
off the walls,
stale air breathes sighs
from people
long since gone.
Unlike this empty
soul I wear,
a chain around
my body.
My muffled steps
are melancholy,
my shadow in
another room,
detached from
my bland body.
I’ll fill this house
with furniture,
but what will
fill my inner void?
—Public Domain Photo by Ugar Arpaci,
Courtesy of Nolcha Fox
She’s an alley cat
at midnight,
a first flight
of firelight,
prowling
the fish pond
in moonlight,
looking for
an easy catch.
—Nolcha Fox
at midnight,
a first flight
of firelight,
prowling
the fish pond
in moonlight,
looking for
an easy catch.
—Nolcha Fox
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
THE BIGGER PICTURE
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
when trying to be seen as smarter and conspicuously
well-read on things, it soon becomes apparent that
there are a whole lot of different:
types
forms
sorts
genres
issues
categories
ratings
approaches
tastes
smells
feels
sounds
images
weights
strengths
tolerances
fonts
audiences
knobs
buttons
levers
meanings
sexes
genders
possibilities
nuances
scenarios
formulas
recipes
serial comma rules
ways to reach the same conclusion, and
strokes for different folks
then when you try to connect all the dots
to simplify the underlying message, you
encounter a vicious storm of Here Be
Dragons and risk just sounding stupid.
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
when trying to be seen as smarter and conspicuously
well-read on things, it soon becomes apparent that
there are a whole lot of different:
types
forms
sorts
genres
issues
categories
ratings
approaches
tastes
smells
feels
sounds
images
weights
strengths
tolerances
fonts
audiences
knobs
buttons
levers
meanings
sexes
genders
possibilities
nuances
scenarios
formulas
recipes
serial comma rules
ways to reach the same conclusion, and
strokes for different folks
then when you try to connect all the dots
to simplify the underlying message, you
encounter a vicious storm of Here Be
Dragons and risk just sounding stupid.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
OUTSIDE THE BOX
—Caschwa
there are two things people gonna do
whether laws approve it or stand agin it:
beat drums and shoot guns
now looky see, we don’t have a whole
Constitutional Amendment to address this,
but if a person visits a classroom, or
movie theater, or other public forum, and
starts beating on their drum, folks will
gather round and escort them away, give
them “the talk”
and then if resistance is below the
extreme level, it never reaches the police
or the courts of law,
but then there’s that scenario with the guns
which is a whole new ball game from just
walking up to some drummer boy and
telling them that you’re going to beat your
drum if they don’t stop beating their drum
because here, they could shoot and kill you
but our forefathers, as wise as they were,
only saw guns as the key to maintaining
control, and failed to envision the whole
“what if” scenario where the very people
who were out of control got the guns,
and all the control slid over to them
and all the law slid over to them, too
lucky for us, our guvment hired “only the
best people” to solve problems just like
this, so relax, help is on the way…
—Caschwa
there are two things people gonna do
whether laws approve it or stand agin it:
beat drums and shoot guns
now looky see, we don’t have a whole
Constitutional Amendment to address this,
but if a person visits a classroom, or
movie theater, or other public forum, and
starts beating on their drum, folks will
gather round and escort them away, give
them “the talk”
and then if resistance is below the
extreme level, it never reaches the police
or the courts of law,
but then there’s that scenario with the guns
which is a whole new ball game from just
walking up to some drummer boy and
telling them that you’re going to beat your
drum if they don’t stop beating their drum
because here, they could shoot and kill you
but our forefathers, as wise as they were,
only saw guns as the key to maintaining
control, and failed to envision the whole
“what if” scenario where the very people
who were out of control got the guns,
and all the control slid over to them
and all the law slid over to them, too
lucky for us, our guvment hired “only the
best people” to solve problems just like
this, so relax, help is on the way…
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
SURREPTITIOUS SURPRISES
—Caschwa
—Caschwa
some things may not turn out as they appear:
Example 1 — backup beepers on trucks are not
primarily to protect anyone’s safety, but instead
are designed to mask the insufferable cursing
of inept drivers who never really learned how
to steer a truck in reverse
Example 2 — we all think we know full well
what those red, octagonal, signs posted at
intersections are meant to do, but actually it is
a flat out dare:
Speed
To
Overtake
Police
Example 3 — likewise, there is no substitute for
knowing at what speed:
My
Penis
Hardens
Example 1 — backup beepers on trucks are not
primarily to protect anyone’s safety, but instead
are designed to mask the insufferable cursing
of inept drivers who never really learned how
to steer a truck in reverse
Example 2 — we all think we know full well
what those red, octagonal, signs posted at
intersections are meant to do, but actually it is
a flat out dare:
Speed
To
Overtake
Police
Example 3 — likewise, there is no substitute for
knowing at what speed:
My
Penis
Hardens
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
THE BODY
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
The body
Is an archaeological dig,
Full of remnants
And leftovers,
Broken pottery,
Tarnished baubles,
Long buried,
Traces of ancient things,
Long gone.
Inscribed within its scars
Are bumpy things
You have to read
With Braille.
Hieroglyphics—
Symbols and letters
From an ancient language,
Long silenced by time.
Who cut them into flesh?
What message was meant
For all the world to see—
To touch, to feel, to read
From this victim of impression
And for what reasons?
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
The body
Is an archaeological dig,
Full of remnants
And leftovers,
Broken pottery,
Tarnished baubles,
Long buried,
Traces of ancient things,
Long gone.
Inscribed within its scars
Are bumpy things
You have to read
With Braille.
Hieroglyphics—
Symbols and letters
From an ancient language,
Long silenced by time.
Who cut them into flesh?
What message was meant
For all the world to see—
To touch, to feel, to read
From this victim of impression
And for what reasons?
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
THREE FROM DUGOUT ANTHOLOGY
—Michael Ceraolo, South Euclid, OH
Jim Bouton
I'm glad to see that some in these poems
talk about things beyond baseball,
because many things are more important
I'm also glad had had
the ability to play baseball
gave me a greater opportunity
to address those more important things
* * *
Roy Campanella
Jackie and I had the same end in mind,
though we used different means to bring it about
His way was right for him
My way was right for me
Our differences shouldn't have led
to animosity between us
Later, when our playing days were done,
I had some appreciation for his way
after my car accident
And after the youngbloods called him
one of the names he used to call me,
I think he understood me better,
and we reconciled
* * *
Phil Rizzuto
AfterCasey took over the team,
he didn't like having around those of us
who knew him before he became a genius,
and eventually he got rid of us:
Joe alone retired on his own terms
Me, they told me on Old-Timers Day
that I was now an old-timer
and no longer an active player
Holy Cow, what a way to fire somebody
But I soon landed on my feet,
in the broadcast booth to be exact,
and outlasted Casey by decades
—Michael Ceraolo, South Euclid, OH
Jim Bouton
I'm glad to see that some in these poems
talk about things beyond baseball,
because many things are more important
I'm also glad had had
the ability to play baseball
gave me a greater opportunity
to address those more important things
* * *
Roy Campanella
Jackie and I had the same end in mind,
though we used different means to bring it about
His way was right for him
My way was right for me
Our differences shouldn't have led
to animosity between us
Later, when our playing days were done,
I had some appreciation for his way
after my car accident
And after the youngbloods called him
one of the names he used to call me,
I think he understood me better,
and we reconciled
* * *
Phil Rizzuto
AfterCasey took over the team,
he didn't like having around those of us
who knew him before he became a genius,
and eventually he got rid of us:
Joe alone retired on his own terms
Me, they told me on Old-Timers Day
that I was now an old-timer
and no longer an active player
Holy Cow, what a way to fire somebody
But I soon landed on my feet,
in the broadcast booth to be exact,
and outlasted Casey by decades
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth,
Wrexham, Wales
Sleeves rolled up high, bootstraps pulled tight,
forewarned, now forearmed, battle site,
a piercing spike to hover, jab,
chasing the dragon, foiled attempts.
Yet valley rift, for high ground quest,
wound tourniquet marks battle wounds,
once nostril flames now fire in veins,
myth monster, fixed term, soon complete.
But is this dragon sold on streets,
or fly, whipped, over lily ponds,
komodo, reserved nature park,
or slain, defeated by St George?
Knight errant may be night’s mistakes
as wander, improve the CV,
my record in chivalric code;
though dream now fading, tenement.
Abasement, flat, is self-imposed—
through lighter fuel comes cheaper zest.
A puff of magic all I need,
though gone to pot, that theory,
Jackie Paper’s roll, draggin’ joint,
imagined rôle in lyrics’ pop.
My one old dragon, her indoors,
Nyx, Hecate, both joined in one.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
AFTER BUBBLE WRAP
—Stephen Kingsnorth
My life was spawned from underneath
in bubble wrap, clump globule place,
beside the strings of weed and toad,
where boatmen search amongst gnat rafts,
transporting death as ferry, Styx,
on cauldron mix, like witch’s brew.
Full ramshorn snails, newts, slimy things,
their fins, fine crests, fly caddis sticks,
shrimps, sucking leech, elodea,
and rotting leaves which feed the fuel,
stir gene spread thrive in stagnant pool.
Brief spell, metamorphosis trail,
like Ovid’s tales set by the sea,
this fluid state within, without
from dot to frog by withered tail,
and legs erupting in their turn,
encapsulates transforming stew.
This underworld where gangsters thrive
with dragons, nymphs and beetle dives,
slaters, skaters, sticklebacks
is threatened by so much above—
a starling beak like scuba stab,
before its murmuration cloud,
drag fishing net, jar ringed with twine,
by muddy knees, excited shriek,
and Eden’s asp, snake in the grass—
all dippers launched from outer space.
And airy, rising from the deep,
stream bubbles, photosynthesis;
when all seems well in mirrored glass,
from sediment, in clouded view,
that all-consuming teeth-bared pike.
—Stephen Kingsnorth
My life was spawned from underneath
in bubble wrap, clump globule place,
beside the strings of weed and toad,
where boatmen search amongst gnat rafts,
transporting death as ferry, Styx,
on cauldron mix, like witch’s brew.
Full ramshorn snails, newts, slimy things,
their fins, fine crests, fly caddis sticks,
shrimps, sucking leech, elodea,
and rotting leaves which feed the fuel,
stir gene spread thrive in stagnant pool.
Brief spell, metamorphosis trail,
like Ovid’s tales set by the sea,
this fluid state within, without
from dot to frog by withered tail,
and legs erupting in their turn,
encapsulates transforming stew.
This underworld where gangsters thrive
with dragons, nymphs and beetle dives,
slaters, skaters, sticklebacks
is threatened by so much above—
a starling beak like scuba stab,
before its murmuration cloud,
drag fishing net, jar ringed with twine,
by muddy knees, excited shriek,
and Eden’s asp, snake in the grass—
all dippers launched from outer space.
And airy, rising from the deep,
stream bubbles, photosynthesis;
when all seems well in mirrored glass,
from sediment, in clouded view,
that all-consuming teeth-bared pike.
—Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of
Stephen Kingsnorth
FLAG CYMRU
—Stephen Kingsnorth
I assumed dragons around caves
and not laid out in field of green
with clear white sky, no hint of flame—
except as tongue, in coloured flesh.
Not the land of my fathers, yet
eisteddfod born beyond the hill—
its name World’s End—just as it seems—
a launchpad, buzzards, where I live.
A nation known for poets, bards,
of brass bands, lyres—not birds but strings—
for mountain railways, coal seams, slate,
and Snowdon, highest kingdom peak.
And stranger finds, maybe unique,
exotic scenes, Portmeirion,
Italianate bricolage,
its pottery, The Prisoner fame.
But there’s no flutter in my heart,
no waves of passion passing through,
though flag it up, with strings of harp,
the crwth—a useful Wordle word.
Wales has new titled Prince announced,
investiture, no song or dance,
in state noted for male voice choirs,
where bara brith, our yellow bread.
For some, appointment up the pole,
though William may win their hearts.
But Aberfan all Britain knows,
a mining slag heap sliding down,
engulfing village school below,
to steal the lives, a hundred, more.
The late Queen slow to visit site,
then most moved by gift posy note,
quote that summed the tragedy: ‘from
remaining children, Aberfan’—
for dragons yet stole through the land.
—Stephen Kingsnorth
I assumed dragons around caves
and not laid out in field of green
with clear white sky, no hint of flame—
except as tongue, in coloured flesh.
Not the land of my fathers, yet
eisteddfod born beyond the hill—
its name World’s End—just as it seems—
a launchpad, buzzards, where I live.
A nation known for poets, bards,
of brass bands, lyres—not birds but strings—
for mountain railways, coal seams, slate,
and Snowdon, highest kingdom peak.
And stranger finds, maybe unique,
exotic scenes, Portmeirion,
Italianate bricolage,
its pottery, The Prisoner fame.
But there’s no flutter in my heart,
no waves of passion passing through,
though flag it up, with strings of harp,
the crwth—a useful Wordle word.
Wales has new titled Prince announced,
investiture, no song or dance,
in state noted for male voice choirs,
where bara brith, our yellow bread.
For some, appointment up the pole,
though William may win their hearts.
But Aberfan all Britain knows,
a mining slag heap sliding down,
engulfing village school below,
to steal the lives, a hundred, more.
The late Queen slow to visit site,
then most moved by gift posy note,
quote that summed the tragedy: ‘from
remaining children, Aberfan’—
for dragons yet stole through the land.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy
of Joe Nolan
BORDERLINE
—Stephen Kingsnorth
The bus crosses the border twice,
so masks are coming on and off,
as down up round the winding snake,
by valley route, both lobes and roads.
Do dragons breathe, this side or that,
through nostrils, if the mouth is shut?
Thick skinned by second, third ply some,
layered—cake sucking through a straw.
Perhaps the castle keep is blocked,
the drawbridge raised, but foe inside,
now lifted shield, armorial,
is moat too wide or mote in eye?
Though lips are sealed, the views are clear—
if stares were daggers, blades are drawn,
below, the scabbard, yawning gap,
as cloth is eaten, soggy wrap.
This omnibus, for Clapham sect,
and evangelical their cause,
a border force for changing sides,
flip flop conversion, swap of rules.
So faced with zygomatic arch,
a buttress, if the bridge is pinched;
will finger press hold back the stream
that threatens breach, dyke Offa’s edge?
The highwaymen, delivery
to those, coach stop, who stand and wait,
as steadfast, firm, vicar of Bray,
this trip, for health, now borderline.
But underground, coal shafts were mined,
and tin, by Romans in their time,
who happened to patrol the shelf,
and left their wrecks beneath the soil.
But where they dug, those seams abound,
they had no inkling, what above,
the crossings, border unpatrolled,
and seamless—Celts and picks were found.
Its global stretch removed the pain,
time’s acute angle now obtuse,
though Angles, angels, not confused,
by Welshmen proud, Glyndŵr’s stand.
—Stephen Kingsnorth
The bus crosses the border twice,
so masks are coming on and off,
as down up round the winding snake,
by valley route, both lobes and roads.
Do dragons breathe, this side or that,
through nostrils, if the mouth is shut?
Thick skinned by second, third ply some,
layered—cake sucking through a straw.
Perhaps the castle keep is blocked,
the drawbridge raised, but foe inside,
now lifted shield, armorial,
is moat too wide or mote in eye?
Though lips are sealed, the views are clear—
if stares were daggers, blades are drawn,
below, the scabbard, yawning gap,
as cloth is eaten, soggy wrap.
This omnibus, for Clapham sect,
and evangelical their cause,
a border force for changing sides,
flip flop conversion, swap of rules.
So faced with zygomatic arch,
a buttress, if the bridge is pinched;
will finger press hold back the stream
that threatens breach, dyke Offa’s edge?
The highwaymen, delivery
to those, coach stop, who stand and wait,
as steadfast, firm, vicar of Bray,
this trip, for health, now borderline.
But underground, coal shafts were mined,
and tin, by Romans in their time,
who happened to patrol the shelf,
and left their wrecks beneath the soil.
But where they dug, those seams abound,
they had no inkling, what above,
the crossings, border unpatrolled,
and seamless—Celts and picks were found.
Its global stretch removed the pain,
time’s acute angle now obtuse,
though Angles, angels, not confused,
by Welshmen proud, Glyndŵr’s stand.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
SOLACE
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India
Nascent images booned
My brewed morning
With words as if fragmented clothes
I thought,
They will play with me—
A criss-cross algorithm
Between simplicity and public vain
And then will appear
A blessed halo
And silver whispers
That will somehow ring by my side
With nightshades and soft clouds—
A brimful of common poetry.
Because, only I know the voice
Natural, unscarred within
And the serene utterance
As it colours the morning prayer.
Then, a cradled shadow,
A wet-dripped morning,
Raindrops two or three,
And a cottage of green simplicity.
The rugged path will be my destiny
It is not just worldly wisdom
For my wishy-washy tale
But my whimsy haze
And my romantic spree
An eternal wish for an April spring
With my brewed morning
And my winged pen
Leading my green path
Towards my bundled sky
And a grim, earthy solace.
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India
Nascent images booned
My brewed morning
With words as if fragmented clothes
I thought,
They will play with me—
A criss-cross algorithm
Between simplicity and public vain
And then will appear
A blessed halo
And silver whispers
That will somehow ring by my side
With nightshades and soft clouds—
A brimful of common poetry.
Because, only I know the voice
Natural, unscarred within
And the serene utterance
As it colours the morning prayer.
Then, a cradled shadow,
A wet-dripped morning,
Raindrops two or three,
And a cottage of green simplicity.
The rugged path will be my destiny
It is not just worldly wisdom
For my wishy-washy tale
But my whimsy haze
And my romantic spree
An eternal wish for an April spring
With my brewed morning
And my winged pen
Leading my green path
Towards my bundled sky
And a grim, earthy solace.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
REFRAME
—Sayani Mukherjee
Two small frames are enough
To capture an ocean
A moment's glance,
A perilous longing
The white forest emerges
Out of cryptic movements.
Under the heaving spree
Of elm tree
I have hidden my
Pandora's box
Of rubies and pearl-whites
The key responds to your
Humming note
Always
At the nighttime,
The Heaviness bemoans
Worldly matters
Of chopping down a
Wood with a nice
Sickle and angst.
On midnight
I sketch down
The secret temple of Vestas
Priestesses who drowned
Their fires to the
Sacred learning—
The arrows sling open
Outside a masculine urge
To crown the passage.
But, Victory lies in my firm oath
My fleshy wishes
To not cut open
The inside blossom
The thousand lotus flowers
A sanatorium of feminine ideal.
Then, I sung my mon amor tune
The dolphins and the siren slope
The messy underworld
Of Neptune and cosmic sky
Knitted with
Hell fire and the beauty of woe.
When spring comes
I clean my tunes
Amor and infinite veils
The last is the truest prophecy
For the mind dwells
In sacred fire
Of infinite love and
The hymn of learning.
—Sayani Mukherjee
Two small frames are enough
To capture an ocean
A moment's glance,
A perilous longing
The white forest emerges
Out of cryptic movements.
Under the heaving spree
Of elm tree
I have hidden my
Pandora's box
Of rubies and pearl-whites
The key responds to your
Humming note
Always
At the nighttime,
The Heaviness bemoans
Worldly matters
Of chopping down a
Wood with a nice
Sickle and angst.
On midnight
I sketch down
The secret temple of Vestas
Priestesses who drowned
Their fires to the
Sacred learning—
The arrows sling open
Outside a masculine urge
To crown the passage.
But, Victory lies in my firm oath
My fleshy wishes
To not cut open
The inside blossom
The thousand lotus flowers
A sanatorium of feminine ideal.
Then, I sung my mon amor tune
The dolphins and the siren slope
The messy underworld
Of Neptune and cosmic sky
Knitted with
Hell fire and the beauty of woe.
When spring comes
I clean my tunes
Amor and infinite veils
The last is the truest prophecy
For the mind dwells
In sacred fire
Of infinite love and
The hymn of learning.
—Public Domain Photo by
Simon Goetz, Courtesy of
Nolcha FoxToday’s LittleNip(s):
After the rain
the air we breathe
is a peppermint
kiss on the cheek.
—Nolcha Fox
* * *
PLEASED TO REPORT
—Caschwa
Goal: be filthy rich
Status: the first half is now
officially done
* * *
ETERNITY BECKONS
—Joe Nolan
Earth beckons.
Eternity beckons.
Time reckons.
Eternity can wait,
We think.
____________________
Lots to read in the Kitchen today, as some of our poets responded to the Seed of the Week: “Here Be Dragons”, and others responded to technicolor prompts from their inner muses. Our thanks to the poets, and to those who found us photos, including Joe Nolan. Be sure to check each Tuesday for our Seed of the Week.
SnakePal Joe Nolan reports that he was the victim of a hit-and-run driver weekend-before-this. He says he was not injured, other than whiplash, but his poor car came out of it the worse for wear, and the evil driver took a powder, as we used to say. So Joe has been left holding the bag. So sorry this happened to you, Joe, and take care of that whiplash! (Check out Joe’s poem about his ordeal next Form Fiddlers’ Friday.)
Readings in our area this week include Sac. Poetry Center online tonight, with Bronte Billings and Amanda Stovicek D’Alessandro; Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe in Sacramento this Thursday; and William O’Daly and Stan Zumbiel (plus open mic) at Poetry in Davis, also Thursday.
Next weekend (Friday-Sunday) will be hoppin’, as Gold Rush Writers Conference takes place in Mokelumne Hill, CA, at the Hotel Leger. Saturday will be a very big day, event-wise, with the Great Valley Bookfest Festival in Manteca—lots of authors and seminars; Lara Gularte and Dianna Henning reading for Sacramento Poetry Alliance at 1169 Perkins Way in Sacramento; Susan Cohen in Auburn at the new Silver Tongue Saturdays series; She Spits Fire at Brickhouse Gallery in Sacramento; and, if you’re in SF, check out Poetry World Series Litquake 2022. Details for these and other future poetry stuff can be found at the UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS link at the top of this column.
Congratulations to Placerville’s Beatrice Pizer, whose poem, “Soul Loss”, was published in Placerville’s Mountain Democrat this month. See www.mtdemocrat.com/prospecting/poem-of-the-month-soul-loss/.
For those of you who fiddle with forms on Fridays: last week’s challenge, the Veltanelle, listed a link to Poets’ Collective—which badly screwed up the formula for a Veltanelle. The correct form may be found at www.poetrymagnumopus.com/topic/1882-syllabic-forms-found-in-pathways-for-the-poet/#veltanelle/. And thanks to Carl Schwartz (Caschwa) for locating this correct link.
_____________________
—Medusa
After the rain
the air we breathe
is a peppermint
kiss on the cheek.
—Nolcha Fox
* * *
PLEASED TO REPORT
—Caschwa
Goal: be filthy rich
Status: the first half is now
officially done
* * *
ETERNITY BECKONS
—Joe Nolan
Earth beckons.
Eternity beckons.
Time reckons.
Eternity can wait,
We think.
____________________
Lots to read in the Kitchen today, as some of our poets responded to the Seed of the Week: “Here Be Dragons”, and others responded to technicolor prompts from their inner muses. Our thanks to the poets, and to those who found us photos, including Joe Nolan. Be sure to check each Tuesday for our Seed of the Week.
SnakePal Joe Nolan reports that he was the victim of a hit-and-run driver weekend-before-this. He says he was not injured, other than whiplash, but his poor car came out of it the worse for wear, and the evil driver took a powder, as we used to say. So Joe has been left holding the bag. So sorry this happened to you, Joe, and take care of that whiplash! (Check out Joe’s poem about his ordeal next Form Fiddlers’ Friday.)
Readings in our area this week include Sac. Poetry Center online tonight, with Bronte Billings and Amanda Stovicek D’Alessandro; Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe in Sacramento this Thursday; and William O’Daly and Stan Zumbiel (plus open mic) at Poetry in Davis, also Thursday.
Next weekend (Friday-Sunday) will be hoppin’, as Gold Rush Writers Conference takes place in Mokelumne Hill, CA, at the Hotel Leger. Saturday will be a very big day, event-wise, with the Great Valley Bookfest Festival in Manteca—lots of authors and seminars; Lara Gularte and Dianna Henning reading for Sacramento Poetry Alliance at 1169 Perkins Way in Sacramento; Susan Cohen in Auburn at the new Silver Tongue Saturdays series; She Spits Fire at Brickhouse Gallery in Sacramento; and, if you’re in SF, check out Poetry World Series Litquake 2022. Details for these and other future poetry stuff can be found at the UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS link at the top of this column.
Congratulations to Placerville’s Beatrice Pizer, whose poem, “Soul Loss”, was published in Placerville’s Mountain Democrat this month. See www.mtdemocrat.com/prospecting/poem-of-the-month-soul-loss/.
For those of you who fiddle with forms on Fridays: last week’s challenge, the Veltanelle, listed a link to Poets’ Collective—which badly screwed up the formula for a Veltanelle. The correct form may be found at www.poetrymagnumopus.com/topic/1882-syllabic-forms-found-in-pathways-for-the-poet/#veltanelle/. And thanks to Carl Schwartz (Caschwa) for locating this correct link.
_____________________
—Medusa
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
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!
