—Poetry from Laura Stamps, Columbia, S. Carolina
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
Postcards to Herself
Postcards. She loves them. Yet nobody sends them. Not anymore. But why? A pretty postcard. In the mailbox. Scribbled with a tiny message. Personal. Intimate. Such fun to receive. What’s not to like? What? Postcards. She decides to buy some. Fifty or so. Stores them in a decorative box. And then, and then. She contacts her friends. Asks if they’d like to send postcards. To each other. Would they? Will they? No. They’d rather text. They say. It’s easier. Faster. They say. And it is. But then, but then. There was one friend. A poet. He loved postcards too. For years they sent postcards to each other. Just for fun. Handmade postcards. His. With fragments of his poems. She loved them. All of them. But he died. Postcards. She should send some. To herself. Just for fun. She reaches into the box. Selects one. “Dear Elaine,” she writes to herself. “Bet you’re surprised to hear from me. Me too.”
To Elaine (With Love)
His postcards. Her poet friend. Bizarre works of art. That’s what they were. But she loved them. All of them. Postcards. His. Cardboard cut with scissors. Decorated with images torn from magazines. Attached with Elmer’s Glue. Wild collages. Crazy art. Crazy. Just like him. And she loved it. All of it. On the back he scribbled fragments of his poems. Or messages in Latin. A language she also knew. From high school. Two years of Latin. Another two in college. Four years of Latin. For her. But then, but then. That was thirty years ago. And now. He was still fluent. He was. In Latin. And she wasn’t. Thank goodness for the Latin dictionaries. At Waldenbooks. The little paperbacks. She bought one. Just for his postcards. Of course. She never told him. Postcards. Between friends. Some things are best left unsaid.
Seeds
She selects a postcard. A big one. From a box of postcards. She must have a hundred by now. Postcards. At least. “Dear Elaine,” she writes to herself. “The flowers in my garden are troopers. They’ve survived four days of frost. And one hard freeze. Tough little critters. Those flowers. They are. Tougher than me. Much. This week I’ve been reading a book. By Thich Nhat Hanh. Angry people plant seeds in your soul. This he says. Anger, despair, deep sadness. The words they speak. They’re seeds. Planting, planting. Seeds we water. When we believe them. Respond to them. Defend ourselves against them. Angry words. Watering, watering. These seeds. They’re in my soul. I can feel them. Seeds growing into weeds. Anger, despair, deep sadness. Weed seed. Inside me. I can feel it. Don’t want it. It’s not mine. Didn’t come from me. But there it is. Seed planted. By angry people. And weeds. Too many. Rip them out. That’s what I want. All of them. Gone. Like the weeds in my garden. But how? Maybe, maybe. Thich will tell me. In the meantime. What have you been up to? Can’t wait to hear. Tell me, tell me. What say you?
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
People deal too much with the negative, with what is wrong. Why not try and see positive things, to just touch those things and make them bloom?
—Thich Nhat Hanh
____________________
—Medusa, with a welcome-back and thanks to Laura Stamps for today’s prose-poems!
“Are Poetcards Obsolete?”, go to
For upcoming poetry happenings in
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click on
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Photos in this column can be enlarged by
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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!
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
in the links at the top of this page.
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!
