—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth, Nolcha Fox,
Caschwa, Joe Nolan, Michael Ceraolo,
Sayani Mukherjee
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Joe Nolan and Nolcha Fox
SOW CONFUSION
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth,
Wrexham, Wales
We sow confusion, just as seeds
scatter, broadcast, feed fake news;
gossip grows and false truths fuse,
soiled beds flourish, as weeds greet needs.
We sew maybe flax linen patch,
dressed rot compost over years,
cut hedge edge with pinking shears,
landgrab ceded when plot claim hatched.
But there, off-course, it does not seem,
the sow, pig iron, lends clues,
bends itself to willing muse,
bares a satisfactory theme.
And so, if heard, lip-reading mode,
confuses, less the written word;
pen more mighty than the sword—
our glyphs are symbols; sound that code.
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth,
Wrexham, Wales
We sow confusion, just as seeds
scatter, broadcast, feed fake news;
gossip grows and false truths fuse,
soiled beds flourish, as weeds greet needs.
We sew maybe flax linen patch,
dressed rot compost over years,
cut hedge edge with pinking shears,
landgrab ceded when plot claim hatched.
But there, off-course, it does not seem,
the sow, pig iron, lends clues,
bends itself to willing muse,
bares a satisfactory theme.
And so, if heard, lip-reading mode,
confuses, less the written word;
pen more mighty than the sword—
our glyphs are symbols; sound that code.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
STRANGERS ON A TRAIN
—Stephen Kingsnorth
There’s little noir with those I’ve met,
small stories shared, encounters brief,
not murder swapped, box office meat.
Though cornered space, a plot secured,
connections made, linked things observed,
it’s fine, communication cord,
a harmony in commonwealth—
but always posed, who listens most?
My two strangers sat leagues apart.
Unsettling in my innocence,
return from college interview,
the sweating man, so hungry for,
what did young students get up to?
My best, the shortest, giving seat
as schoolboy to an ancient man,
and finding gold tucked in my hand,
portcullis, chains and coronet,
brass thruppence, but threepenny bit.
I was just twelve, the other old,
and norm in my polite household,
but I alighted, Peckham Rye,
the boaters, caps bound gangsterland,
despite protest, he paid his way—
sad recalled glad, eyed Great War days—
perhaps a farthing came his way.
New ballad view, that city drop.
—Stephen Kingsnorth
There’s little noir with those I’ve met,
small stories shared, encounters brief,
not murder swapped, box office meat.
Though cornered space, a plot secured,
connections made, linked things observed,
it’s fine, communication cord,
a harmony in commonwealth—
but always posed, who listens most?
My two strangers sat leagues apart.
Unsettling in my innocence,
return from college interview,
the sweating man, so hungry for,
what did young students get up to?
My best, the shortest, giving seat
as schoolboy to an ancient man,
and finding gold tucked in my hand,
portcullis, chains and coronet,
brass thruppence, but threepenny bit.
I was just twelve, the other old,
and norm in my polite household,
but I alighted, Peckham Rye,
the boaters, caps bound gangsterland,
despite protest, he paid his way—
sad recalled glad, eyed Great War days—
perhaps a farthing came his way.
New ballad view, that city drop.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Nolcha Fox
Author's Note: I was putting on my gym shoes when I realized they fit on either foot. Confusion!
WHICH?
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
When right shoe fits
left foot, left shoe
fits right foot,
how do I walk
when feet switch sides?
WHICH?
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
When right shoe fits
left foot, left shoe
fits right foot,
how do I walk
when feet switch sides?
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
SOMETHING BIGGER
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
it is that feeling one gets
showing up at middle school
on the first day like one drop
in the ocean, multiple classes,
multiple teachers, heavier text
books, a locker assignment,
must flawlessly memorize both
the location and the combination—
or else
show up for orchestra and
become first chair tuba, a
critical part of that something
bigger, 1812 Overture with
cannons, but this is middle
school so it is tympani,
multiple tympani, an effect
even bigger than that big
lump of brass, back to being
like one drop in the ocean
pack the horn away, report
to English, where the lesson
plan makes one wonder why
one spent so long in grammar
school only to get required
reading that violates matching
adverbs to verbs, a whole,
bigger world is dictating its own
rules of grammar, and you are
graded on a quite different
standard of conformity, better
shape up, you are one drop
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
it is that feeling one gets
showing up at middle school
on the first day like one drop
in the ocean, multiple classes,
multiple teachers, heavier text
books, a locker assignment,
must flawlessly memorize both
the location and the combination—
or else
show up for orchestra and
become first chair tuba, a
critical part of that something
bigger, 1812 Overture with
cannons, but this is middle
school so it is tympani,
multiple tympani, an effect
even bigger than that big
lump of brass, back to being
like one drop in the ocean
pack the horn away, report
to English, where the lesson
plan makes one wonder why
one spent so long in grammar
school only to get required
reading that violates matching
adverbs to verbs, a whole,
bigger world is dictating its own
rules of grammar, and you are
graded on a quite different
standard of conformity, better
shape up, you are one drop
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
MORE THAN A GENERATION GAP
—Caschwa
in a mystery novel—
the author gives out
clues, and leaves it
to the readers to come
up with the answers
in an autobiography—
the author recites
answers, and leaves
it to the readers to
come up with the clues
in a documentary—
the author presents both
clues and answers and
leaves it up to the readers
to come up with a good
reason to stay awake
—Caschwa
in a mystery novel—
the author gives out
clues, and leaves it
to the readers to come
up with the answers
in an autobiography—
the author recites
answers, and leaves
it to the readers to
come up with the clues
in a documentary—
the author presents both
clues and answers and
leaves it up to the readers
to come up with a good
reason to stay awake
—Public Domain Cartoon Courtesy of Joe Nolan
BUT, OF COURSE
—Caschwa
(apologies to Mother Goose)
there was an old president holed up at a club
overflowing with documents whose secrecy he’d snub
he stripped them all clear of their confidential shrouds
and where are they now? look high in the clouds
—Caschwa
(apologies to Mother Goose)
there was an old president holed up at a club
overflowing with documents whose secrecy he’d snub
he stripped them all clear of their confidential shrouds
and where are they now? look high in the clouds
—Public Domain Art Courtesy of Joe Nolan
DISTANT PLUTO
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
Someplace
Far away
Like distant Pluto
Makes messages
Take forever
To get here.
How many
Million miles
Is it?
We don’t know
If we’ll
Be alive
When the
Messages arrive.
So slippery is space!
Almost nothing in it,
At least
That we can trace.
One side,
Blinding light,
The other,
Darkest night
And we,
In the middle,
Temporarily alive.
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
Someplace
Far away
Like distant Pluto
Makes messages
Take forever
To get here.
How many
Million miles
Is it?
We don’t know
If we’ll
Be alive
When the
Messages arrive.
So slippery is space!
Almost nothing in it,
At least
That we can trace.
One side,
Blinding light,
The other,
Darkest night
And we,
In the middle,
Temporarily alive.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
LION AND ZEBRA
—Joe Nolan
To the lion,
The zebra was just another meal
Still moving on its hooves.
To the lion,
Her hunger was her master,
Its commands must be obeyed.
To the zebra,
There was no sense of danger
‘Til the onset of attack,
Then sudden shock!
To the zebra,
There was still a chance to live–
To place a rear-kick quickly,
With all its strength,
To knock the lion down
And run away.
—Joe Nolan
To the lion,
The zebra was just another meal
Still moving on its hooves.
To the lion,
Her hunger was her master,
Its commands must be obeyed.
To the zebra,
There was no sense of danger
‘Til the onset of attack,
Then sudden shock!
To the zebra,
There was still a chance to live–
To place a rear-kick quickly,
With all its strength,
To knock the lion down
And run away.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
LESS TO DO
—Joe Nolan
There was less to do
After he died,
Much less for him to do,
After all.
He used to keep
His fingers busy
Counting money—
Some to save and
Some to pay the bills.
Now, he needn’t worry.
It’s up to someone else
To pay the rent
On his little
Plot of land—
—Joe Nolan
There was less to do
After he died,
Much less for him to do,
After all.
He used to keep
His fingers busy
Counting money—
Some to save and
Some to pay the bills.
Now, he needn’t worry.
It’s up to someone else
To pay the rent
On his little
Plot of land—
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
TWO POEMS FROM DUGOUT ANTHOLOGY
—by Michael Ceraolo, S. Euclid, OH
Monte Irvin
You know,
Jackie and I were born less than a month apart,
and everyone thought I would be the first
But after playing only three games in three years
because of my time in the army,
and because of what I went through there,
I wasn't ready physically and mentally
to go through what I would have been subjected to
A few years later I still faced some of that,
but nothing I couldn't handle
After my playing days were done,
I worked in the Commissioner's office
and made it my mission to educate
the public about the Negro Leagues
and to help enshrine some of those players
in the Hall of Fame
* * *
Jackie Robinson
No human being should be demeaned,
especially without having the chance to fight back,
so when Mr. Rickey said he wanted someone
who wouldn't fight back the first two seasons,
something that didn't fit my personality,
I had to think long and hard about it
The success of The Great Experiment
was important, and not just to me,
so I went along with Mr. Rickey's strictures
Two years of enforced meekness against the abuse
ruined my health and led to premature death,
but it was worth it for the race
—by Michael Ceraolo, S. Euclid, OH
Monte Irvin
You know,
Jackie and I were born less than a month apart,
and everyone thought I would be the first
But after playing only three games in three years
because of my time in the army,
and because of what I went through there,
I wasn't ready physically and mentally
to go through what I would have been subjected to
A few years later I still faced some of that,
but nothing I couldn't handle
After my playing days were done,
I worked in the Commissioner's office
and made it my mission to educate
the public about the Negro Leagues
and to help enshrine some of those players
in the Hall of Fame
* * *
Jackie Robinson
No human being should be demeaned,
especially without having the chance to fight back,
so when Mr. Rickey said he wanted someone
who wouldn't fight back the first two seasons,
something that didn't fit my personality,
I had to think long and hard about it
The success of The Great Experiment
was important, and not just to me,
so I went along with Mr. Rickey's strictures
Two years of enforced meekness against the abuse
ruined my health and led to premature death,
but it was worth it for the race
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
HIGHWAY
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India
Keeping on the highway—
Strings attached, non-attached.
My feverish simplicity for the road
A long haul, spontaneously flawed
Nagging over the brimful of skyline;
An observed sport.
Watching ethers from the physical realm
A passé now to looking above
Elsewhere is the stream of cannabis
A Passionfruit dreamcast rule
To hop for the bridge
Shooting stars, cinnamon, autumnal pines
Heavily snuggy sensory input
I wanna swim into—
Highways cityplanes forging rocks
Lofty spontaneous combustion
Flawed, uneven, a nuanced brat
Against the bridge wall
My feverish simplicity, my recurring couplet
A long haul.
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India
Keeping on the highway—
Strings attached, non-attached.
My feverish simplicity for the road
A long haul, spontaneously flawed
Nagging over the brimful of skyline;
An observed sport.
Watching ethers from the physical realm
A passé now to looking above
Elsewhere is the stream of cannabis
A Passionfruit dreamcast rule
To hop for the bridge
Shooting stars, cinnamon, autumnal pines
Heavily snuggy sensory input
I wanna swim into—
Highways cityplanes forging rocks
Lofty spontaneous combustion
Flawed, uneven, a nuanced brat
Against the bridge wall
My feverish simplicity, my recurring couplet
A long haul.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy
of Joe Nolan
TINY
—Sayani Mukherjee
Midair
Flighty to crack open
Gusts of control
Need airy intervention
Spongy tiny little facets
Until, it clasps open—
Bell rings festivities
All my crumpled nimble wishes
In a spongy river
Swallowed whole.
First, to make a tower
Need lightning
Sudden flashes
Bolting to the core
Orion and Stella
Dropped up pressures
Phony noisy empty
What builds up
Stays on the tower
Fires, thunders, doorknobs, asphalt
Throbbing and pulsing
Greens live through
Up in the heads
No symphony for season's change.
The room gets smaller
An empty ash tray
Still nibble
Tiny seeds
Germs for Spring.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip(s):
EDUCATED AND CONFUSED
—Caschwa
can read a compass
fine, though still not know just where
it is pointing me
* * *
IN THE MONEY
—Caschwa
getting a patent
for my ballet cleats idea
boy, will I be rich!
____________________
Last Tuesday’s Seed of the Week was Confusion, and some of today’s poets have hit that subject head-on (with great results!). Our thanks to them, and to Joe and Nolcha for photos, too! Be sure to check each Tuesday for the week’s Seed of the Week.
NorCal will be action-packed with poetry events this week, including the return of Poetic License poetry read-arounds this morning in Placerville, and Linda Collins and Tom Meschery reading in-person and online tonight at Sac. Poetry Center. On Thursday, Emanuel Sigauke and Aeisha Jones read at Sacramento’s Library of MusicLandria for Sacramento Poetry Alliance; Laura Martin and Bill Gainer read at Poetry Night Series in Davis; and Joe Montoya’s Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s in Sacramento will have features and open mic.
—Sayani Mukherjee
Midair
Flighty to crack open
Gusts of control
Need airy intervention
Spongy tiny little facets
Until, it clasps open—
Bell rings festivities
All my crumpled nimble wishes
In a spongy river
Swallowed whole.
First, to make a tower
Need lightning
Sudden flashes
Bolting to the core
Orion and Stella
Dropped up pressures
Phony noisy empty
What builds up
Stays on the tower
Fires, thunders, doorknobs, asphalt
Throbbing and pulsing
Greens live through
Up in the heads
No symphony for season's change.
The room gets smaller
An empty ash tray
Still nibble
Tiny seeds
Germs for Spring.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip(s):
EDUCATED AND CONFUSED
—Caschwa
can read a compass
fine, though still not know just where
it is pointing me
* * *
IN THE MONEY
—Caschwa
getting a patent
for my ballet cleats idea
boy, will I be rich!
____________________
Last Tuesday’s Seed of the Week was Confusion, and some of today’s poets have hit that subject head-on (with great results!). Our thanks to them, and to Joe and Nolcha for photos, too! Be sure to check each Tuesday for the week’s Seed of the Week.
NorCal will be action-packed with poetry events this week, including the return of Poetic License poetry read-arounds this morning in Placerville, and Linda Collins and Tom Meschery reading in-person and online tonight at Sac. Poetry Center. On Thursday, Emanuel Sigauke and Aeisha Jones read at Sacramento’s Library of MusicLandria for Sacramento Poetry Alliance; Laura Martin and Bill Gainer read at Poetry Night Series in Davis; and Joe Montoya’s Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s in Sacramento will have features and open mic.
Saturday will be the S’more Poetry and Song Competition at the California State Railroad Museum in Sacramento, plus the stage play, God’s Trying to Tell You Something, in Sacramento, and the Third Saturday Art Walk in Placerville, featuring Rina Wakefield. On Sunday, Sacramento Poets join Making Strides in Sacramento for the Sacramento Walk for Breast Cancer, and 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.
____________________
—Medusa
____________________
—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!
