—Poetry by Joe Nolan, Nolcha Fox,
Michael H. Brownstein, Caschwa,
Stephen Kingsnorth, Michael Lee Johnson
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Joe Nolan, Nolcha Fox,
Stephen Kingsnorth, Michael Lee Johnson
—Photo by Katy Brown
FOREBODING
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
Who could see
The catastrophe
Coming
From around the bend,
Promising dear misery
To everyone,
Without end?
Who can bear the misery
That is coming
From around the bend?
Coming, dear children,
To ruin life, with end.
Who could see
The meaning,
The reason or the rhyme,
Of who would benefit
From crushing time?...
Pushing through the wrath
Of exquisite pain, sublime,
The dragons of deliverance
Would not, their saviors, send.
Who could see
The catastrophe
Coming
From around the bend,
Promising dear misery
To everyone,
Without end?
Death doesn’t
have a task list.
She only has one thing to do.
Death isn’t a clean freak,
she can leave the scene a mess.
Death doesn’t have an appointment book.
She shows up whenever it’s time.
Death can work a crowded room.
She’s fine with a boatload of souls.
Death doesn’t roll her eyes.
She’s seen it all before.
I would suck
at being Death.
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
DO YOU DIE IN THE WATER, WHEN YOU HIT
THE WATER, OR DURING THE FALL?
—Michael H. Brownstein, Jefferson City, MO
(for John Barryman)
The noise of morning rises with the cream of dawn:
it is I who opens the gate to Samael,
it is I who finds window glass wanting,
it is I who no longer wishes to wait,
it is I who seek entrance with Thyone.
Can no one help?
Can no one see?
Why is it I am left?
This is how cream degrades in heat,
how milk curdles into sour frowns,
how we are taken away from those we seek.
No matter. I find a fog within fog,
a pathway of crows
swimming birds,
the silver outline of tarpons
a crease in water.
LAISSEZ-FAIRE
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
Big Business gobbles up all the property it can,
and then when the little people seek to get some back,
Big Megaphone puts their feet in the tattered shoes
of the little people and cries out:
They are coming for your guns!
They are coming for your rights!
a noisy reiteration of the older sentiment,
They are coming for your slaves!
and yes, the little people really don’t want to let that happen,
don’t want government to bully them that way,
so they turn up at the polling places and vote for
whatever Big Propaganda favors on the ballot
and then return home to their miniscule property
only to find it has gotten even smaller while
Big Pig has gotten even bigger
BLACKSTAB
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth,
Wrexham, Wales
A silky crow, sheen shine in bake,
clamped to bloat, so stabbing care—
though gas expelled, had long depart—
gorging on the offal there.
Carcase, Varanasi float,
Benares, back street he had birthed,
always moored, black ghats about
Ganges gods, slat water gloat;
lobbed for fear from funeral pyre,
shortage of pile wood supply,
limit, holy time applied.
When beak peck, dorsal stripped their share,
mantras, incense, saffron robes,
sanyasi silent in sage prayer,
that bird flopped off from bobbing lump,
near wallow slurping ash smudge flesh,
with belly wobble dignity.
Death too busy in this life.
VOID VOICES
—Stephen Kingsnorth
Void voices, people gone from room
hang in the space, seeping from walls
both recent past, long history;
not just the clue, wallpaper styles,
or scribbled scraps found trapped in drawers,
unclaimed detritus, floorboard trap,
chipped bits of bone hid cupboard, slid
or unfaced sweepings under rug.
Where someone was, their voice still is;
some people sense in parish church,
cathedral, abbey, priory,
the prayers of generations past
sunk marble, plaques, sarcophagi.
The same is claim in stately homes,
the servants' quarters, nursery,
the back stairway or dining room,
in gardens, discreet arbour climes.
In retrospect it saddens me,
occupant, rooms with history,
Victorian with four floors piled,
or Cambridge college, porters' lodge;
I gave no thought to those before
who studied, argued, conversed there.
I do not wish, conjure, imply
from drapes, spirits, patina bronze,
misericord or organ loft,
but, learn to listen every room
for rustlings of the scholar, sage,
voice trembling fall, debtor, peasant,
the scream of fag and fagged at school.
BACK TO WISTMAN’S
—Stephen Kingsnorth
Time-tricks played ‘After Wistman’s Wood’,
that day, scout troop, from Dartmoor camp,
we changed, tor climbing, abseil, glamp,
to tracing leat, moor water course,
a channel flow, slow gravity.
There native upland woodland oak
with clatter, granite boulders bed,
paint patchwork quilts, spreads lichen, moss,
fringed brown soil border to the trees,
by bracken, gorse, fruit bilberry,
owned by The Duchy, Prince of Wales.
Dwarf growth, their limbs spread through the rocks,
the oldest wizened of its kind,
with some, five hundred, by their rings;
host populations, adder nests.
Would we sit splayed, drawn over space
in shades of writhing, low creep dark,
had we known shades might be ourselves?
AFTERTHOUGHT
—Stephen Kingsnorth
The ghost, an insubstantial thing—
so article indefinite,
no entity or stuff at all.
Will-o-the-wisp, or spectral wraith,
some shade of wight that’s had enough
of being tied as complement,
with cherubs, seraphs, angel trains,
fresh putti in another’s hands.
I am unmoved by poltergeists,
or holy ghost authority
when used to prove some politics,
opinions of a certain kind,
those undead of the zombie mind.
So class your nether world as will—
note ferry times, what fare-stage due,
or those you think have missed the boat,
a knock-out, laid flat on the deck,
to fit myths with witch you aspire.
But leave me stranded on the shore
amongst sand, grains of time and rocks
until I float across the bar
with single fare.
WITCHY HALLOWEEN
—Michael Lee Johnson, Itasca, IL
Inside this late October 31st night,
this poem turns into a pumpkin.
Animation, something has gone
devilishly wrong with my imagery.
I take the lid off the pumpkin’s headlight
and the pink candles inside.
Demons cry, crawl, split, fly outsides—
escape through the pumpkin’s eyes.
I’m mixed in fear with this scary, strange creation.
Outside, quietly tapping Hazel the witch,
her broomstick against my windowpane rattles.
She says, “nothing seems to rhyme anymore,
nothing seems to make any sense,
but the night is young.
Give me back my magical bag of tricks.
As Robert Frost said:
“But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep.”
Today’s LittleNip(s):
Haunted by hallways
lined with portraits
of hats three sizes too big.
Corridors lit by amber mornings
of mismatched shoes
and second chances.
Passages melt into poppies and robins,
old anguish, and misspent youth.
—Nolcha Fox
* * *
feast of pumpkins
sharpening their teeth—
ahhh!—tasty children
—Michael H. Brownstein
___________________
Our poets got into the magic of Halloween this week, answering the Seed of the Week, but other calls from the Muse were answered as well. About his “Back to Wistman’s”, Stephen Kingsnorth writes that “Reading of Joyce [Odam’s] 'shadows and sunbeams' brought back boyhood memories…” He’s referring to her “Where Shadows Play With Sunbeams” which appeared on her post last Tuesday (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2022/10/doorways-full-of-dreams.html). A Memoir: we’ve been talking about them on Form Fiddlers’ Fridays. Anyway, thanks to all our contributors today for their poetic tricks and treats!
Okay, I’ll admit that, given our SnakePals, we have an unfortunate title today, this nod to Bill Shakespeare’s witches. A “fenny snake”, by the way, is one that lives in the fens. As opposed to a funny snake…
Sacramento Poetry Center's Monday reading series is on hiatus as they work to build a new space for hosting hybrid readings and workshops. So far, workshops will continue during construction, they say. On Thursday, Poetry Night Reading Series in Davis will present Joshua McKinney and Matthew Chronister plus open mic. On Saturday at noon, you can Zoom Part Three of Artists Embassy International’s Dancing Poetry Festival. Then, on Saturday night, Love Jones Spoken Word Show takes place in Sacramento. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about these and other future poetry events in the NorCal area—and keep an eye on this link and on the Kitchen for happenings that might pop up during the week.
A reminder that today is the deadline for submissions to The Poeming Pigeon. See ThePoemingPigeon.com/.
And a happy Día de los Muertos to our Hispanic friends, too! Congratulations to Placerville’s Rina Wakefield for having her poem, “Día de los Muertos”, named the Poem of the Month by Placerville’s Mountain Democrat. See www.mtdemocrat.com/prospecting/poem-of-the-month-dia-de-los-muertos/.
Oh—and happy Halloween! Watch out for those tricksters!
_____________________
—Medusa
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