—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Michael Ceraolo, Sayani Mukherjee, Joe Nolan
—Public Domain Photos Found by
Joe Nolan and Nolcha Fox
Too early
to try on a slipper,
a shoe too small
for my foot.
The early bird
may get the worm,
but miss out on the prince.
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
to try on a slipper,
a shoe too small
for my foot.
The early bird
may get the worm,
but miss out on the prince.
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Nolcha Fox
This isn’t what you hoped for
when the slipper fit.
You wanted love,
you longed to be
what everybody wanted.
The prince is with
his mistress now,
and you are all alone,
except for news reporters
who watch your every move.
If you don’t speak, you’re stupid,
and when you talk, they sigh.
If you sneeze, the word gets out.
Some worry you are dying,
some want you to be dead.
You hear the king and queen
bemoan your lack of lineage.
They say their son
must have been ill
to marry such an idiot.
Do you ever miss the days
when you were no one special?
Do you long to run away,
to be plain
Cinderella?
—Nolcha Fox
when the slipper fit.
You wanted love,
you longed to be
what everybody wanted.
The prince is with
his mistress now,
and you are all alone,
except for news reporters
who watch your every move.
If you don’t speak, you’re stupid,
and when you talk, they sigh.
If you sneeze, the word gets out.
Some worry you are dying,
some want you to be dead.
You hear the king and queen
bemoan your lack of lineage.
They say their son
must have been ill
to marry such an idiot.
Do you ever miss the days
when you were no one special?
Do you long to run away,
to be plain
Cinderella?
—Nolcha Fox
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Nolcha Fox
I was tired
of waiting for a prince
to climb up my golden tresses.
I cut off my hair,
jumped out the window,
and learned to fly.
—Nolcha Fox
of waiting for a prince
to climb up my golden tresses.
I cut off my hair,
jumped out the window,
and learned to fly.
—Nolcha Fox
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Nolcha Fox
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth,
Wrexham, Wales
As always Sunday afternoons,
we took our walk in ‘Mummy’s Park’,
but I, scamp, thought to lighten mile,
catch unawares the sisterhood.
Running ahead I masked myself,
a bole of beech, best hiding place,
by bark of tree my leap-out scare,
to prove my presence, make aware.
But clock passed round without a sign,
so peeping, spied the other route,
where fork had offered byway choice,
that path not taken, but their way.
And then I knew that I unmissed,
this cambium but poor defence,
for I became, in Greenman sense,
one in the wood unseen for trees.
I clambered roots which slipped like scree,
knee grazed on lichen, northern face,
and panicked, retraced where might be,
still running, found the dappled glade.
Their conversation, casual,
tree creepers, nuthatch, squirrel leap,
my reappearance unremarked;
how could I tell of fears aroused?
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
THREE POEMS FROM DUGOUT ANTHOLOGY
by Michael Ceraolo, S. Euclid, OH
Arthur Goldberg
It was my first at-bat there since leaving the Team,
and I whiffed in oral argument
before my former brethren
I don't know if my poor performance played into
the Court's deciding against Mr. Flood,
but I want to apologize to him
and the rest of the players for failing
We could have, and should have, won
* * *
Curt Flood
I had been traded early in my career,
and if the trade had happened a few year earlier
I probably would have accepted it
and reported to Philadelphia
But at that point in my career
I had earned the right to play where I chose,
and I was willing to fight for it
I thought I was prepared for the abuse
I knew would be hurled at me,
but I underestimated it
And I knew there was a good chance
that even if I won in court,
it would be too late for me personally
But I would do it again
because it was the right thing
* * *
Johnny Sain
I was the better pitcher at the time:
the newspaper guy put my name second
because it rhymed with rain;
Warren was far better for the whole of his career
When my playing days were done
I became a pitching coach
for a number of teams,
helping enough pitchers improve
so that three different managers
were named Manager of the Year
with me as their pitching coach
And each of them subsequently fired me
Well, ego comes before gratitude,
and not only in the dictionary
by Michael Ceraolo, S. Euclid, OH
Arthur Goldberg
It was my first at-bat there since leaving the Team,
and I whiffed in oral argument
before my former brethren
I don't know if my poor performance played into
the Court's deciding against Mr. Flood,
but I want to apologize to him
and the rest of the players for failing
We could have, and should have, won
* * *
Curt Flood
I had been traded early in my career,
and if the trade had happened a few year earlier
I probably would have accepted it
and reported to Philadelphia
But at that point in my career
I had earned the right to play where I chose,
and I was willing to fight for it
I thought I was prepared for the abuse
I knew would be hurled at me,
but I underestimated it
And I knew there was a good chance
that even if I won in court,
it would be too late for me personally
But I would do it again
because it was the right thing
* * *
Johnny Sain
I was the better pitcher at the time:
the newspaper guy put my name second
because it rhymed with rain;
Warren was far better for the whole of his career
When my playing days were done
I became a pitching coach
for a number of teams,
helping enough pitchers improve
so that three different managers
were named Manager of the Year
with me as their pitching coach
And each of them subsequently fired me
Well, ego comes before gratitude,
and not only in the dictionary
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
MASS
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India
The scaffolding zeros down.
Ruins alleys scratches
Red-alleyed moss flower beam.
Under one roof,
Tiny bit of an anthology
Holds tiny parts of a whole.
A sudden jostling down
Up to the spines
Mirror-stricken ego dissolution drive
Knowing thyself holding grudges
Pent-up energies
Fluids and cosmos
Energies sunbaths corners
Earth dimmed alleyed noon
A Salty pebbled mass.
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India
The scaffolding zeros down.
Ruins alleys scratches
Red-alleyed moss flower beam.
Under one roof,
Tiny bit of an anthology
Holds tiny parts of a whole.
A sudden jostling down
Up to the spines
Mirror-stricken ego dissolution drive
Knowing thyself holding grudges
Pent-up energies
Fluids and cosmos
Energies sunbaths corners
Earth dimmed alleyed noon
A Salty pebbled mass.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
SUI GENERIS
—Sayani Mukherjee
Openings, droplets, simmered cans.
Flask of last day's coffee
Liquidated glassed, a wasted potential
Fractured skin under the unicorn roof
Nomadic prehistoric, an escapist sip.
Turn and swirl around
Ocean's high floor
Games of trapeze and
Youths of have-been, could have been.
Country house
Burnt cottages, ragged doll
A great ruin before time’s scalpel
Drooling over greatness
The brightest star shadowed in isolation
Perky whistle around
Little threats
Falling asleep
Liquidated coffee.
Morning stockings
The light still slips on
Cottaged cages armored whales tipsy soldiers.
Kings’ men crossroads great wars
Lonely maidens Ruth's cry modern haiku
The blunted hell-fire epic and episodes
Borns out of sudden sodden movements
Words wear crowns, it is ruthlessly kingly.
The brightest stars burn.
Liquidated coffee-wasted minds
Still, Words have wings to crowns.
High-altared religious freedom
Question inquiry unlearn traditional music
Still writing cosplay drum telekinesis
psychic abilities
A hinge of long time
Many facets it holds, mountains and oceans
within its spree
A giant cosmic rundown
Five elements intergalactic forces within
Who said it was a wasted flow?
It holds life force.
Makes time out of space
An authored crown, words kingly kinetic
Claims her own
Sui generis.
—Sayani Mukherjee
Openings, droplets, simmered cans.
Flask of last day's coffee
Liquidated glassed, a wasted potential
Fractured skin under the unicorn roof
Nomadic prehistoric, an escapist sip.
Turn and swirl around
Ocean's high floor
Games of trapeze and
Youths of have-been, could have been.
Country house
Burnt cottages, ragged doll
A great ruin before time’s scalpel
Drooling over greatness
The brightest star shadowed in isolation
Perky whistle around
Little threats
Falling asleep
Liquidated coffee.
Morning stockings
The light still slips on
Cottaged cages armored whales tipsy soldiers.
Kings’ men crossroads great wars
Lonely maidens Ruth's cry modern haiku
The blunted hell-fire epic and episodes
Borns out of sudden sodden movements
Words wear crowns, it is ruthlessly kingly.
The brightest stars burn.
Liquidated coffee-wasted minds
Still, Words have wings to crowns.
High-altared religious freedom
Question inquiry unlearn traditional music
Still writing cosplay drum telekinesis
psychic abilities
A hinge of long time
Many facets it holds, mountains and oceans
within its spree
A giant cosmic rundown
Five elements intergalactic forces within
Who said it was a wasted flow?
It holds life force.
Makes time out of space
An authored crown, words kingly kinetic
Claims her own
Sui generis.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
JOY OF SURFING
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
One more little ride,
Over the mountains,
Down to the tide,
To dip my surfboard in
And let the ocean
Kiss my skin.
To ride upon the waves,
Sunlight bright,
Rhythm pulsing,
Delight me, thus,
This feeling, save.
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
One more little ride,
Over the mountains,
Down to the tide,
To dip my surfboard in
And let the ocean
Kiss my skin.
To ride upon the waves,
Sunlight bright,
Rhythm pulsing,
Delight me, thus,
This feeling, save.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
VIRTUE SIGNALERS
—Joe Nolan
We’re gonna try
To be clever
And discrete.
We’re gonna signal virtue
To everyone we meet.
We’ll discretely criticize
Anyone with two eyes
Who isn’t too blind to see
What it is
We’re up to—
Dividing this one from that,
Acting like
We’re God’s gift from Heaven,
Though we don’t
Believe
In that.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
LOVE IS LIKE STARLIGHT
—Joe Nolan
Maybe love is like starlight
That reaches in light-years
From distances
Too far to fathom,
From other stars,
Suspended in darkness,
Part of some galactic whirl.
You need to cry on my shoulder?
My darling, emotional girl!
I’m here for you as long as I last.
Darkness is the predicate
Of light that travels so far.
Otherwise,
No one would notice
Such a beautiful, distant star,
Shining bright in blackness.
Light, distant, beckons, we hope.
We wonder if we are a daydream,
In turmoil, attempting to cope.
—Joe Nolan
Maybe love is like starlight
That reaches in light-years
From distances
Too far to fathom,
From other stars,
Suspended in darkness,
Part of some galactic whirl.
You need to cry on my shoulder?
My darling, emotional girl!
I’m here for you as long as I last.
Darkness is the predicate
Of light that travels so far.
Otherwise,
No one would notice
Such a beautiful, distant star,
Shining bright in blackness.
Light, distant, beckons, we hope.
We wonder if we are a daydream,
In turmoil, attempting to cope.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Nolcha Fox
Today’s LittleNip:
AT THE CROSSROADS
—Nolcha Fox
When I get to the crossroads, I’ll still be lost.
The trees hide the moon, my steps are uncertain.
Each way leads to nowhere that I want to be.
The road is a snake that twists back to bite me.
I look for an opening out of this darkness.
Never again will I run from what’s boring,
My own myth, this story, is better at home.
________________________
Another Monday moves us further into Fall, hopefully not lost in the woods (our Seed of the Week). Our thanks to our contributors, as they spread their words and photos in a warm blanket like the leaves in the yard… Just a reminder that these public domain photos are ones that have been found on the Internet by Joe and Nolcha (and sometimes Medusa). I’ve mentioned it before, but I think it bears repeating.
Wednesday is Sacramento Poetry Day! Click on the UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS link at the top of this column to see what Sacramento Poet Laureate Andru Defeye has up his sleeve to celebrate this annual auspiciousness.
While you’re there, look to see what other poetry events will be taking place this week. Sac. Poetry Center meets tonight, as does the virtual Colossus: Freedom reading and open mic. Frank’s Halloween Costume Poetry Party at Luna’s Cafe in Sacramento takes place on Thursday. On Saturday, Sac. Poetry Alliance features Yuyutsu Sharma, Katy Brown and Allegra Silberstein plus open mic, also in Sacramento, and on Sunday, Yuyutsu Sharma will read at Poetry of the Sierra Foothills in Camino.
________________________
—Medusa
AT THE CROSSROADS
—Nolcha Fox
When I get to the crossroads, I’ll still be lost.
The trees hide the moon, my steps are uncertain.
Each way leads to nowhere that I want to be.
The road is a snake that twists back to bite me.
I look for an opening out of this darkness.
Never again will I run from what’s boring,
My own myth, this story, is better at home.
________________________
Another Monday moves us further into Fall, hopefully not lost in the woods (our Seed of the Week). Our thanks to our contributors, as they spread their words and photos in a warm blanket like the leaves in the yard… Just a reminder that these public domain photos are ones that have been found on the Internet by Joe and Nolcha (and sometimes Medusa). I’ve mentioned it before, but I think it bears repeating.
Wednesday is Sacramento Poetry Day! Click on the UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS link at the top of this column to see what Sacramento Poet Laureate Andru Defeye has up his sleeve to celebrate this annual auspiciousness.
While you’re there, look to see what other poetry events will be taking place this week. Sac. Poetry Center meets tonight, as does the virtual Colossus: Freedom reading and open mic. Frank’s Halloween Costume Poetry Party at Luna’s Cafe in Sacramento takes place on Thursday. On Saturday, Sac. Poetry Alliance features Yuyutsu Sharma, Katy Brown and Allegra Silberstein plus open mic, also in Sacramento, and on Sunday, Yuyutsu Sharma will read at Poetry of the Sierra Foothills in Camino.
________________________
—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!
