—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth, Nolcha Fox,
Sayani Mukherjee, Joe Nolan, and Caschwa
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Joe Nolan and Nolcha Fox
SLIPPING
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
What can I say, for Faith employed,
yet fallback, verging heresy,
weak trembling hope, all will be well.
So little, orthodox, remains—
dissenting, though, my rootstock known—
but evidence of fruitful creed?
Just as that scene, Golgotha’s skull,
religious man yet crucifies
that pilgrim search, stepped out of line.
Ashamed to wear the name, abused,
whose reputation soiled in world,
corrupted truth, beyond the lake.
Despite religious evidence,
the only signs of light I see—
faint scattered candles in the dark.
Of every race, belief or none,
some smoulder wicks unquenched as yet—
though slipping grasp, holistic earth.
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
What can I say, for Faith employed,
yet fallback, verging heresy,
weak trembling hope, all will be well.
So little, orthodox, remains—
dissenting, though, my rootstock known—
but evidence of fruitful creed?
Just as that scene, Golgotha’s skull,
religious man yet crucifies
that pilgrim search, stepped out of line.
Ashamed to wear the name, abused,
whose reputation soiled in world,
corrupted truth, beyond the lake.
Despite religious evidence,
the only signs of light I see—
faint scattered candles in the dark.
Of every race, belief or none,
some smoulder wicks unquenched as yet—
though slipping grasp, holistic earth.
Believe
that to swallow something
beautiful is to keep it.
So, I swallow sunlight
resting on your ribs,
curved angel’s wings
fluorescing this tiny
hidden hope that you
won’t fly away.
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
that to swallow something
beautiful is to keep it.
So, I swallow sunlight
resting on your ribs,
curved angel’s wings
fluorescing this tiny
hidden hope that you
won’t fly away.
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
She is the sound
of thunder, a chair
dragged across
the floor, thrown
out the window,
shattered lightning
in her eyes.
She is the perfect
storm.
—Nolcha Fox
Based on a true story of II Hun Ro, who disappeared in Yellowstone Park in July 2022. His body dissolved in a hot pool, except for a foot preserved by his shoe. Also based on the unsolved case in British Columbia of shoed feet appearing in the water, minus the bodies.
Listen to your mother,
always wear good shoes.
Foul play or accident
in water, hot or cold,
may disappear your body.
But shoes preserve your feet,
so we can bronze you,
place you on the mantle.
—Nolcha Fox
Poets should write
about birds gobbling worms,
starlight pricking holes in the dark,
moonlight caressing the mountains.
But I grew up in a city; to me,
birds are jets spewing thunder,
starlight and moonlight
hide behind smog. But
I can tell you where
to find the best coffee.
—Nolcha Fox
Homeless
Weathered sand dune ridges
worm up to wild curls.
Wind-scared cheeks.
Grey-splattered grizzle.
Those eyes, though.
Those wondering child eyes.
See less than face’s years.
—Nolcha Fox
Time hates
tidy. Time stomps.
Stories into slime.
Run from home.
But don’t return.
Time pulverizes
panes. Rots wood.
Peels paint. All
your nostalgia.
Sawdust clouds.
In the wind.
SOLEMN THOUGHTS
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India
Bring back solemn thoughts
Night's carpe diem of mahogany sighs
Of Tweetering Florentines of mega-city high
Passion's twofold manifestations
Keeping an eye over the bamboozled gyre
It opens at the mighty funnel
Glistening teardrops along the hooded path
Collecting numerous vigilant eyes
Looking inwardly at the silverdisc high
Of its luminosity that may warm in the eye
Lakes of regional temper that mumble
With tremors of bloodshed wars
Longest night of the year’s end
Oldest ruins of the kaleidoscopic gyres
Little ink-eyed keeping songs
Of folklore of year's end night
Tweetering daisies that sigh in my mind.
Bring back solemn thoughts
Night's carpe diem of mahogany sighs
Of Tweetering Florentines of mega-city high
Passion's twofold manifestations
Keeping an eye over the bamboozled gyre
It opens at the mighty funnel
Glistening teardrops along the hooded path
Collecting numerous vigilant eyes
Looking inwardly at the silverdisc high
Of its luminosity that may warm in the eye
Lakes of regional temper that mumble
With tremors of bloodshed wars
Longest night of the year’s end
Oldest ruins of the kaleidoscopic gyres
Little ink-eyed keeping songs
Of folklore of year's end night
Tweetering daisies that sigh in my mind.
DAUGHTER
—Sayani Mukherjee
Uppercut finesse of demanding precision
Liabilities of going against
Grain of finest particle
Land of principles and undercover
Lullabies
Mother's nourishment only makes her weak
Weather-beaten thirsty for the
Blue umbrella
Daughter of the universe
Soils that soften her growth
Only add volumes to her
Hair-swooping strokes
Negative impulses vapours in
Rainbow palettes
Kinesthetic and insights from
Sahasrarat realm
Boots red and black tights
Modern-day bluestocking faithfulness
Zipped chain that soften her wavy sparks
Noontide gloom just a penchant
Of disinterested disillusionment
Magical, a two-edged swordfish
Finesse precision of moderate risk.
FLIP-SIDE SONGS
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
I only listen
To flip-side songs,
The ones that didn’t make it,
The ones that didn’t play
On AM radio,
That never made the Hit-Parade,
The ones that no one loved,
That only served to
Fill a vacuum
On the back of vinyl discs—
Junk-songs and throw-aways
That remind us that brilliant artists
Make junk,
Sad to say.
It makes me feel better,
Since hardly any poetry sells.
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
I only listen
To flip-side songs,
The ones that didn’t make it,
The ones that didn’t play
On AM radio,
That never made the Hit-Parade,
The ones that no one loved,
That only served to
Fill a vacuum
On the back of vinyl discs—
Junk-songs and throw-aways
That remind us that brilliant artists
Make junk,
Sad to say.
It makes me feel better,
Since hardly any poetry sells.
SINCE WE WISH TO AVOID TALKING
WITH ONE ANOTHER
—Joe Nolan
The telephone rings
And goes unanswered.
Later, a phone call’s returned,
A message is left,
That also goes un-returned.
Later, a text-message is sent
And one is sent in reply,
Then another,
And another,
And a semblance of conversation
Is treated as completed,
Since we wish to avoid
Talking with one another.
WITH ONE ANOTHER
—Joe Nolan
The telephone rings
And goes unanswered.
Later, a phone call’s returned,
A message is left,
That also goes un-returned.
Later, a text-message is sent
And one is sent in reply,
Then another,
And another,
And a semblance of conversation
Is treated as completed,
Since we wish to avoid
Talking with one another.
FURRY, LOVING BEASTS
—Joe Nolan
It’s a matter of
Instant gratification
For a dog
To receive
A bone.
Smiling, she,
Instantly,
Glad that she has a home
Where the giving of bones
To dogs
Is not forgotten,
Not minimalized,
Not trivialized,
As though a vain obligation.
The stomach prevails
In all cross-species relationships.
It is “What for,
You give me,
I love thee!”
Not that there’s anything
Wrong with that.
It’s just that we’re dealing
With instincts and needs.
—Joe Nolan
It’s a matter of
Instant gratification
For a dog
To receive
A bone.
Smiling, she,
Instantly,
Glad that she has a home
Where the giving of bones
To dogs
Is not forgotten,
Not minimalized,
Not trivialized,
As though a vain obligation.
The stomach prevails
In all cross-species relationships.
It is “What for,
You give me,
I love thee!”
Not that there’s anything
Wrong with that.
It’s just that we’re dealing
With instincts and needs.
TEXT MESSAGE
—Joe Nolan
O.M.G!
R.u. serious?!
It’s been ages.
We gotta do it soon.
Absolutely!
Text me when u.r. ready.
I’ll be waiting.
—Joe Nolan
O.M.G!
R.u. serious?!
It’s been ages.
We gotta do it soon.
Absolutely!
Text me when u.r. ready.
I’ll be waiting.
CRAP-OLA ON MY POP-SICKLE STICK!
—Joe Nolan
Crap-ola
On my Pop-sickle stick!
Just when I was getting rich,
They pulled the rug away;
It had something to do with the Fed
Increasing interest rates.
Leaving all
On margin call
To suffer their own fates.
This is how the game is changed—
The music stops and
Many chairs are pulled away,
Off into some back-room
Until it’s time
For larger play.
Then the chairs
Are set back out
In the middle of the room,
Interest rates are lowered
And the Market zooms.
—Joe Nolan
Crap-ola
On my Pop-sickle stick!
Just when I was getting rich,
They pulled the rug away;
It had something to do with the Fed
Increasing interest rates.
Leaving all
On margin call
To suffer their own fates.
This is how the game is changed—
The music stops and
Many chairs are pulled away,
Off into some back-room
Until it’s time
For larger play.
Then the chairs
Are set back out
In the middle of the room,
Interest rates are lowered
And the Market zooms.
UNATTENDED MOLD CULTURES
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
criminals have no limits
is cruel and unusual punishment the solution?
but our justice system has to stop short of that
therefore, criminals have no limits
the South will rise again
are centuries of slavery the solution?
but our justice system has to stop short of that
therefore, the South will rise again
one royal family owns all the land
is government by consent of the people the solution?
but then we are mere tenants subject to eviction
therefore, one royal family owns all the land
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
criminals have no limits
is cruel and unusual punishment the solution?
but our justice system has to stop short of that
therefore, criminals have no limits
the South will rise again
are centuries of slavery the solution?
but our justice system has to stop short of that
therefore, the South will rise again
one royal family owns all the land
is government by consent of the people the solution?
but then we are mere tenants subject to eviction
therefore, one royal family owns all the land
REHABERDASHERY
—Caschwa
no men allowed
trouble enough
only women with
ideas and diaries
transform failures,
duds, misfits, how
could you! insulting,
unwearable, stinky
atrocities, and
go back to
square one
to build a
wardrobe
worthy to
wear in
public
—Caschwa
no men allowed
trouble enough
only women with
ideas and diaries
transform failures,
duds, misfits, how
could you! insulting,
unwearable, stinky
atrocities, and
go back to
square one
to build a
wardrobe
worthy to
wear in
public
BUNGLE
—Caschwa
(response to “Bingo”
by Stephen Kingsnorth,
Medusa’s Kitchen,
November 25, 2022)
my best effort
cast aside in
favor of another’s
daily grind
what am I missing?
or do I have too much?
are they allergic
to adverbs?
no amount of editing
will spruce up my
finest baked ham
for a kosher menu
good thing they
now keep those
spray cans locked
up tight, awful
tempting to affix
my words to a
wall of indifference
for poetic justice
—Caschwa
(response to “Bingo”
by Stephen Kingsnorth,
Medusa’s Kitchen,
November 25, 2022)
my best effort
cast aside in
favor of another’s
daily grind
what am I missing?
or do I have too much?
are they allergic
to adverbs?
no amount of editing
will spruce up my
finest baked ham
for a kosher menu
good thing they
now keep those
spray cans locked
up tight, awful
tempting to affix
my words to a
wall of indifference
for poetic justice
I HAVE FAITH
that the lips
of a canyon
utter more
real truth
than the
testimony
sworn under
oath by
partisan
politicians
the visceral,
bold echo of
lightning bolts
in the Grand
Canyon voice
undeniable
powers greater
than that of
any man
—Caschwa
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
SEASON TO TASTE
—Caschwa
Fall lacy sweater
Winter tell neck
Spring culprit end
Summer longer than others
_____________________
Faith was our Seed of the Week, and writing poetry requires not a little faith, yes? Thanks to our poets for musing about that and other subjects during these troubled times, and I hope you had an edifying Thanksgiving weekend.
Sac. Poetry Center Monday night readings are still on hiatus, but events this week include another stop on Wednesday on El Dorado County’s Poet Laureate Trail, this one in Cameron Park, and a Poetry Night Reading in Davis on Thursday with Katie Peterson and Christian Gullette. Both include open mics. And of course there is Joe Montoya’s Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe and Juice Bar in Sacramento on Thursday, with its massive open mic beginning at 8pm. 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.
Congratulation to El Dorado Poet Patti Farrington for having her poem, “Together on the Path”, published in Mountain Democrat’s Poem of the Month. See www.mtdemocrat.com/prospecting/poem-of-the-month-together-on-the-path/.
______________________
—Medusa
that the lips
of a canyon
utter more
real truth
than the
testimony
sworn under
oath by
partisan
politicians
the visceral,
bold echo of
lightning bolts
in the Grand
Canyon voice
undeniable
powers greater
than that of
any man
—Caschwa
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
SEASON TO TASTE
—Caschwa
Fall lacy sweater
Winter tell neck
Spring culprit end
Summer longer than others
_____________________
Faith was our Seed of the Week, and writing poetry requires not a little faith, yes? Thanks to our poets for musing about that and other subjects during these troubled times, and I hope you had an edifying Thanksgiving weekend.
Sac. Poetry Center Monday night readings are still on hiatus, but events this week include another stop on Wednesday on El Dorado County’s Poet Laureate Trail, this one in Cameron Park, and a Poetry Night Reading in Davis on Thursday with Katie Peterson and Christian Gullette. Both include open mics. And of course there is Joe Montoya’s Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe and Juice Bar in Sacramento on Thursday, with its massive open mic beginning at 8pm. 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.
Congratulation to El Dorado Poet Patti Farrington for having her poem, “Together on the Path”, published in Mountain Democrat’s Poem of the Month. See www.mtdemocrat.com/prospecting/poem-of-the-month-together-on-the-path/.
______________________
—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!
