—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Nolcha Fox
Harvest
Coming home
to rough terrain,
the landscape
scarred by
backhoes,
bulldozers,
excavators.
The earth
depressed,
nothing left,
its marrow
is our harvest.
Coming home
to rough terrain,
the landscape
scarred by
backhoes,
bulldozers,
excavators.
The earth
depressed,
nothing left,
its marrow
is our harvest.
Broken Wheels
The motorcycle,
the lawn mower,
crumble into rust,
forgotten by
dirt and grass,
abandoned by history,
by human touch.
The motorcycle,
the lawn mower,
crumble into rust,
forgotten by
dirt and grass,
abandoned by history,
by human touch.
Madonna of the Winds
Your blue eyes cloud over,
flashing lightning.
Tear torrents drench
your pink lilac lips.
Your smile is a wind
propelling birds
across the sky.
You braid hollyhocks
in your hair,
lilies round your wrist.
One word,
the flowers wither.
A cold sigh, leaves
die on the branch.
You walk away,
the world freezes over
‘til you return
with spring.
Your blue eyes cloud over,
flashing lightning.
Tear torrents drench
your pink lilac lips.
Your smile is a wind
propelling birds
across the sky.
You braid hollyhocks
in your hair,
lilies round your wrist.
One word,
the flowers wither.
A cold sigh, leaves
die on the branch.
You walk away,
the world freezes over
‘til you return
with spring.
Homesick
The pressure plunges
roller-coaster style.
The temperature is a jet
that climbs
at light speed.
Sun so bright it melts
my brain
in spite of
double shades.
The wind relieves
the plants
of all their pollen,
coating all the surfaces
with gold.
Between migraines
and allergies,
home knows how
to make me sick.
The pressure plunges
roller-coaster style.
The temperature is a jet
that climbs
at light speed.
Sun so bright it melts
my brain
in spite of
double shades.
The wind relieves
the plants
of all their pollen,
coating all the surfaces
with gold.
Between migraines
and allergies,
home knows how
to make me sick.
We finally received our new oven, but how long will it look new?
We have a lovely
oven, all shiny and new,
no baked-on food crust
we cannot remove.
That will last until
the end of the day.
We have a lovely
oven, all shiny and new,
no baked-on food crust
we cannot remove.
That will last until
the end of the day.
Sept. 20 was the 22nd anniversary of my baby brother's suicide. This poem describes my reaction to the phone for about a year after he died. I thought every call would be bad news.
Don’t pick up the phone
when it rings.
It’s out of control.
You can never
prepare for
the nightmares.
It proudly announces
that someone has died.
When you hope
to win a free trip
to paradise,
you win a free trip
to hell.
It changes you
forever.
Better get rid
of your phone.
You don’t need to know
the world’s ending.
Don’t pick up the phone
when it rings.
It’s out of control.
You can never
prepare for
the nightmares.
It proudly announces
that someone has died.
When you hope
to win a free trip
to paradise,
you win a free trip
to hell.
It changes you
forever.
Better get rid
of your phone.
You don’t need to know
the world’s ending.
I recently found my baby brother's suicide letter in a box of memorabilia.
I thought I finished
mourning, I thought
my puzzle pieces
fit together
with no seams.
But then I found
the letter
he wrote before
he left us.
I’m not as tough
as I would like to be.
Something left
to break me,
hidden in a box.
I thought I finished
mourning, I thought
my puzzle pieces
fit together
with no seams.
But then I found
the letter
he wrote before
he left us.
I’m not as tough
as I would like to be.
Something left
to break me,
hidden in a box.
Table Scraps
Our table is
a battleground,
at least two
scraps each meal.
Fighting over
salt and pepper,
hurling knives
and daggered
eyes, we both
believe we’re right.
We dig in heels,
we claw at wounds.
Each meal ends
with offerings
of scraps of
shredded sanity
littered on our table.
Our table is
a battleground,
at least two
scraps each meal.
Fighting over
salt and pepper,
hurling knives
and daggered
eyes, we both
believe we’re right.
We dig in heels,
we claw at wounds.
Each meal ends
with offerings
of scraps of
shredded sanity
littered on our table.
I Can’t Care Anymore
News on TV is only bad,
in newspapers only worse.
Politicians are corrupt,
cities in a meltdown,
polar bears are out of ice,
we’re blamed for earth decaying.
My eyes are glazed,
my stomach hurts,
and I can’t change a thing.
I cancel satellite TV,
newspaper is kitty litter.
I pay for talks with therapists,
I tranquilize my pain.
When people talk about the world,
I hear “La-la-la-la.”
News on TV is only bad,
in newspapers only worse.
Politicians are corrupt,
cities in a meltdown,
polar bears are out of ice,
we’re blamed for earth decaying.
My eyes are glazed,
my stomach hurts,
and I can’t change a thing.
I cancel satellite TV,
newspaper is kitty litter.
I pay for talks with therapists,
I tranquilize my pain.
When people talk about the world,
I hear “La-la-la-la.”
Motherland
A secret shelter
between lavender
sachets and yellowed
lace, passed on from
mother to daughter.
Rites of make-up,
shaving, menses,
old recipes,
birth, loss, grief.
Motherland hands
clasp across years,
a bridge of love
that no man can cross.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
I swim in a sea
of strangers,
waves of
joy crashing
in this
crowded room.
A secret shelter
between lavender
sachets and yellowed
lace, passed on from
mother to daughter.
Rites of make-up,
shaving, menses,
old recipes,
birth, loss, grief.
Motherland hands
clasp across years,
a bridge of love
that no man can cross.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
I swim in a sea
of strangers,
waves of
joy crashing
in this
crowded room.
—Nolcha Fox
____________________
Thanks and greetings to Nolcha Fox for her poetry today, and for the public domain photos she has found to go with her poems. Waves of joy!
This morning, Sacramento Poets join Making Strides in Sacramento for the Sacramento Walk for Breast Cancer, and this afternoon, The Poets Club of Lincoln presents its Voices of Lincoln Poetry Contest Winners Event. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about these and other future poetry events in the NorCal area.
Apparently King Charles refused to be interviewed by British Poet Pam Ayres for a new TV series. So she sent him a poem of hers, demonstrating how they both love wild hedgerows, and then he consented. The power of poetry! It can move the hearts of kings!
For Pam Ayres’ persuasive poem, “Hedgerow”, go to http://www.thenaturebible.org.uk/reflections_Hedgerow.asp/.
__________________
—Medusa
____________________
Thanks and greetings to Nolcha Fox for her poetry today, and for the public domain photos she has found to go with her poems. Waves of joy!
This morning, Sacramento Poets join Making Strides in Sacramento for the Sacramento Walk for Breast Cancer, and this afternoon, The Poets Club of Lincoln presents its Voices of Lincoln Poetry Contest Winners Event. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about these and other future poetry events in the NorCal area.
Apparently King Charles refused to be interviewed by British Poet Pam Ayres for a new TV series. So she sent him a poem of hers, demonstrating how they both love wild hedgerows, and then he consented. The power of poetry! It can move the hearts of kings!
For Pam Ayres’ persuasive poem, “Hedgerow”, go to http://www.thenaturebible.org.uk/reflections_Hedgerow.asp/.
__________________
—Medusa
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy
of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
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!
