—Poetry by Tom Goff,
Carmichael, CA
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
DEPARTURE
I promise I’ll never tell you how I miss
Your face, your gait, your musing careful voice
Each time you go. Too flurried now to kiss,
How do you convince my mind it’s by your choice
Your vanishing clings during and after loss?
Your loss is in my warped head, I learn first
From afterimage, that other-you embossed
When stared at long enough in one sharp burst
As sunset presses retinas in each age,
Eyelids crush sights with photo-album heft:
Petals inside books dry but scent like sage,
Leave deep stains, the type saffron threads have left.
Chafed crocus filaments whisper where you leave,
With sifting sounds, half flour and half sieve.
I promise I’ll never tell you how I miss
Your face, your gait, your musing careful voice
Each time you go. Too flurried now to kiss,
How do you convince my mind it’s by your choice
Your vanishing clings during and after loss?
Your loss is in my warped head, I learn first
From afterimage, that other-you embossed
When stared at long enough in one sharp burst
As sunset presses retinas in each age,
Eyelids crush sights with photo-album heft:
Petals inside books dry but scent like sage,
Leave deep stains, the type saffron threads have left.
Chafed crocus filaments whisper where you leave,
With sifting sounds, half flour and half sieve.
NEAR
for Nora
Near you, I feel quieted, subdued,
Not eager to blurt all things on my mind.
You make no murmur to imply I’m crude
As I think I am. Near you, I unbind.
What riddle don’t you, near me, clarify?
How nice to feel you’ve thought ahead of me
The thought I was about to spring (but why)?
The air near you’s not thick, not thin; just free.
To know you, hear you air some soft complaint
In your spoken contralto, firm and fresh?
Not heavy going. Poison loses taint,
Ropes, halters, chains won’t trap me in their mesh.
Odd: “soul’s” not linked with Plato, just with you.
Soul knows you’re here, song flows unstrained, all true.
for Nora
Near you, I feel quieted, subdued,
Not eager to blurt all things on my mind.
You make no murmur to imply I’m crude
As I think I am. Near you, I unbind.
What riddle don’t you, near me, clarify?
How nice to feel you’ve thought ahead of me
The thought I was about to spring (but why)?
The air near you’s not thick, not thin; just free.
To know you, hear you air some soft complaint
In your spoken contralto, firm and fresh?
Not heavy going. Poison loses taint,
Ropes, halters, chains won’t trap me in their mesh.
Odd: “soul’s” not linked with Plato, just with you.
Soul knows you’re here, song flows unstrained, all true.
BY WHAT RIGHT DO YOU
CALL YOURSELF PATIENCE?
She sat like Patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief.
—Twelfth Night
Grievers and priests adore you, my cold éclair,
You and your chastely seducing marble dimples.
Compliant lip-curves emit upon listless air
Forbearance like foam, you’ve swallowed so many simples.
Your face, all your stone exoskeleton chapped,
Rain-chafed, yet still you sit in wait to hatch
A coffin, hoping the old green corpse has napped,
No more: a livid cadaver-life you’d snatch,
Hoping the chick-like lich pecks its way out.
What Maestro lofts the baton for his next ictus?
You are not Patience, carcasses are. Grave clouts
Lift, peeling away skin, mold, rot. Desecration’s
Indifferent to them, they to you, so-called Patience.
Cherubic lips loosen, Time carves the abyss-dark rictus.
(prev. pub. in Spectral Realms #17, 2022)
CALL YOURSELF PATIENCE?
She sat like Patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief.
—Twelfth Night
Grievers and priests adore you, my cold éclair,
You and your chastely seducing marble dimples.
Compliant lip-curves emit upon listless air
Forbearance like foam, you’ve swallowed so many simples.
Your face, all your stone exoskeleton chapped,
Rain-chafed, yet still you sit in wait to hatch
A coffin, hoping the old green corpse has napped,
No more: a livid cadaver-life you’d snatch,
Hoping the chick-like lich pecks its way out.
What Maestro lofts the baton for his next ictus?
You are not Patience, carcasses are. Grave clouts
Lift, peeling away skin, mold, rot. Desecration’s
Indifferent to them, they to you, so-called Patience.
Cherubic lips loosen, Time carves the abyss-dark rictus.
(prev. pub. in Spectral Realms #17, 2022)
CHURCHYARD PASSACAGLIA
Tonight is for the gathering
Of souls that slither insect-like,
From under coffins’ underwing-
Thin lids; up by tomb-crack turnpikes.
Tonight is for the gathering.
This night allows new freedom for
Half-airy, half-liquescent souls
Of high-rise cube or cabin floor;
Their lifetime dooms, grave-narrow holes.
Tonight is for the gathering.
The night air magnifies black bats’
Reconnaissance for souls and ghouls
Of note, in death deemed merest gnats.
Dark squadrons reap, heap, life-rich fools.
Tonight is for the gathering.
This night’s a night for harvesting.
These ring-round-dancers can absorb
—Not bite, with mindless zombie-sting—
Fresh souls in one huge boneyard corb.
Tonight is for the gathering.
These midnight church bells, twelve in all,
Peal night’s peak merriment, echoing
The amorous chant for souls who fall
To Satan’s mess, though they still sing.
Deep midnight caps the gathering.
Those feasting now turn feasted-on,
Soul-scapegoats lodged in blood and molt
Must be devoured before the dawn;
What demons eat they’re forced to bolt.
Past midnight goes the gathering.
Subside now, night chimes’ echoing;
Salacious fiddle-music; flings
Of hand to new ghoul-partnerings;
The wish to cling, forevering:
Submit to first-light silencing.
Too late now for more gathering.
(prev. pub. in Spectral Realms #17, 2022)
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Believe nothing you hear, and only half of what you see.
—Edgar Allen Poe
______________________
Tom Goff is getting us into the spirit today for Halloween, which lurks around the corner. But he starts off his post with poems about his dear wife, Nora. “Near you I feel quiet, subdued…” Thanks, Tom for these gems. Friday Form Fiddlers will note that Tom often writes in Sonnets—and a deft hand he has, indeed!
Hop on your broomstick and head down to Luna’s Café and Juice Bar in Sacramento tonight for Frank’s Halloween Costume Poetry Party! Ghostly goings-on begin at 8pm. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about this and other future poetry events in the NorCal area.
_______________________
—Medusa
Tonight is for the gathering
Of souls that slither insect-like,
From under coffins’ underwing-
Thin lids; up by tomb-crack turnpikes.
Tonight is for the gathering.
This night allows new freedom for
Half-airy, half-liquescent souls
Of high-rise cube or cabin floor;
Their lifetime dooms, grave-narrow holes.
Tonight is for the gathering.
The night air magnifies black bats’
Reconnaissance for souls and ghouls
Of note, in death deemed merest gnats.
Dark squadrons reap, heap, life-rich fools.
Tonight is for the gathering.
This night’s a night for harvesting.
These ring-round-dancers can absorb
—Not bite, with mindless zombie-sting—
Fresh souls in one huge boneyard corb.
Tonight is for the gathering.
These midnight church bells, twelve in all,
Peal night’s peak merriment, echoing
The amorous chant for souls who fall
To Satan’s mess, though they still sing.
Deep midnight caps the gathering.
Those feasting now turn feasted-on,
Soul-scapegoats lodged in blood and molt
Must be devoured before the dawn;
What demons eat they’re forced to bolt.
Past midnight goes the gathering.
Subside now, night chimes’ echoing;
Salacious fiddle-music; flings
Of hand to new ghoul-partnerings;
The wish to cling, forevering:
Submit to first-light silencing.
Too late now for more gathering.
(prev. pub. in Spectral Realms #17, 2022)
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Believe nothing you hear, and only half of what you see.
—Edgar Allen Poe
______________________
Tom Goff is getting us into the spirit today for Halloween, which lurks around the corner. But he starts off his post with poems about his dear wife, Nora. “Near you I feel quiet, subdued…” Thanks, Tom for these gems. Friday Form Fiddlers will note that Tom often writes in Sonnets—and a deft hand he has, indeed!
Hop on your broomstick and head down to Luna’s Café and Juice Bar in Sacramento tonight for Frank’s Halloween Costume Poetry Party! Ghostly goings-on begin at 8pm. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about this and other future poetry events in the NorCal area.
_______________________
—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!
