Another Monday? Already??
—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Julie A. Dickson,
Claire J. Baker, Stephen Kingsnorth, Joe Nolan,
Michael Ceraolo, Caschwa and Taylor Dibbert
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Joe Nolan and Julie A. Dickson
Another snow storm
hurls white flakes
against each solid object.
I know that if I clear the snow
away from paths and windows,
my work will be undone post haste.
Why battle weather, why not wait
for winter to be over?
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
hurls white flakes
against each solid object.
I know that if I clear the snow
away from paths and windows,
my work will be undone post haste.
Why battle weather, why not wait
for winter to be over?
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy
of Julie A. Dickson
of Julie A. Dickson
GHOST OF WAR
—Julie A. Dickson, Exeter, NH
I am not the ghost;
let me be clear on this.
The ghost is my past,
and my most fervent hope
is to at last be free.
I am the ghost warrior,
fighting invisible echoes,
a war that is better forgotten.
I realize no gain or reward
from listening to a ghost.
I am its bane, to silence a voice,
an apparition I cannot see or hear.
I hum music, close my eyes to horror,
to assuage fear, writing words
that may allow this ghost to rest easy.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy
of Julie A. Dickson
of Julie A. Dickson
RED ON GOLD
—Julie A. Dickson
Fields of burnished gold,
we're seldom ever told
of warfare, weapons raised
The fronds sway in breeze
move ever as they please
wheat, like soldiers can't be saved
Fallen stalks of grain are crushed,
after battle troops were rushed,
grasses painted red on gold
Sad, forgotten memory
My father never told me
His lined face just looks old
When we walk in fields,
the look in his eye reveals
many horrors he has seen
My small hand clasped in his,
I can give him only this
comfort but elusive dream
Night echoes of his past pain
to occur once and again,
we walk together in silence
I can't heal my father;
he was a strong warrior,
if only I could offer solace
CABIN CREEK
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
My parents picked their bottle:
Cabin Creek bourbon,
ordered by the case.
One
party night my stepfather
tumbled down the cellar steps
trying to reach another “Creek.”
His surgery was miserable.
I can imagine the cased bourbon
bottles whispering among themselves:
how awful, he’s such a brilliant man
and the party seemed to be pleasant.
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
My parents picked their bottle:
Cabin Creek bourbon,
ordered by the case.
One
party night my stepfather
tumbled down the cellar steps
trying to reach another “Creek.”
His surgery was miserable.
I can imagine the cased bourbon
bottles whispering among themselves:
how awful, he’s such a brilliant man
and the party seemed to be pleasant.
TICKLE PINK
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
For some a war is come to terms,
so pick and choose while choice is yours;
war playing games, screened screaming bombs,
or drones deployed to photoshop.
It’s tense is this collective plan—
I had first thought that they to be—
but, Nope, whatever that may mean,
so picking battles, wise it seems.
How true that was, enigma code,
as breakers knew their convoys weak;
to intervene meant break revealed,
so some must die if plan succeeds.
What skirmishes must stand aside,
whole war too wide, encounters left,
but who decides to die, let live,
that divide, hidden strategy?
Are their hearts, minds, of oak and steel—
issue commands, manipulate,
that marshal field in martial lore,
their rising stars amidst the dark?
There have been speeches, rally troops,
some battle cries, in silence wept,
or burning drafts and fleeing girl,
the press gang with true negatives.
But maybe ground less nation state—
of other theatre perhaps?
Domestic, boardroom, what the stage
where civil war is uniform?
To put some back, try Trojan horse,
for misdirection casts a spell—
and guile can see Goliath’s fall,
by slings and arrows, being, aimed.
The best disarming I have seen
is wit and wisdom, laugh appeal,
often by women in the race
who tickle pink testosterone.
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
For some a war is come to terms,
so pick and choose while choice is yours;
war playing games, screened screaming bombs,
or drones deployed to photoshop.
It’s tense is this collective plan—
I had first thought that they to be—
but, Nope, whatever that may mean,
so picking battles, wise it seems.
How true that was, enigma code,
as breakers knew their convoys weak;
to intervene meant break revealed,
so some must die if plan succeeds.
What skirmishes must stand aside,
whole war too wide, encounters left,
but who decides to die, let live,
that divide, hidden strategy?
Are their hearts, minds, of oak and steel—
issue commands, manipulate,
that marshal field in martial lore,
their rising stars amidst the dark?
There have been speeches, rally troops,
some battle cries, in silence wept,
or burning drafts and fleeing girl,
the press gang with true negatives.
But maybe ground less nation state—
of other theatre perhaps?
Domestic, boardroom, what the stage
where civil war is uniform?
To put some back, try Trojan horse,
for misdirection casts a spell—
and guile can see Goliath’s fall,
by slings and arrows, being, aimed.
The best disarming I have seen
is wit and wisdom, laugh appeal,
often by women in the race
who tickle pink testosterone.
Time to plant!
THE BLOOD OF JUICY OLIVES
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
Tomatoes
Are all about the sauce—
The flavor
They donate
To others,
The tanginess
Uniting with
Foods you love,
To savor.
Allow us
The color
Red!
And olive oil
To dip our bread
On small plates
Set off to side,
With no butter,
Since we love
The blood
Of juicy olives.
Take a trip to Italy.
Settle down in Tuscany.
Go to restaurants.
Develop your favorite haunts.
Hope for simple homilies
To calm your nerves
Where something makes
Sense,
In spite of the indifference
Of natives of your chosen land
Who wander by
In their private lives.
You, just a tourist,
Trying to imbibe a foreign draft.
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
Tomatoes
Are all about the sauce—
The flavor
They donate
To others,
The tanginess
Uniting with
Foods you love,
To savor.
Allow us
The color
Red!
And olive oil
To dip our bread
On small plates
Set off to side,
With no butter,
Since we love
The blood
Of juicy olives.
Take a trip to Italy.
Settle down in Tuscany.
Go to restaurants.
Develop your favorite haunts.
Hope for simple homilies
To calm your nerves
Where something makes
Sense,
In spite of the indifference
Of natives of your chosen land
Who wander by
In their private lives.
You, just a tourist,
Trying to imbibe a foreign draft.
FISHING
—Joe Nolan
You can expect to pay
For every inch
Of every worm
You impale upon a hook
To winnow its way
Into a fish’s mouth,
To set
And drag him in,
But remember the poor,
Gasping thing
Will expect to be fed
Every moment of its
Desperate life
Until it is dead
And soon, thereafter,
Eaten.
—Joe Nolan
You can expect to pay
For every inch
Of every worm
You impale upon a hook
To winnow its way
Into a fish’s mouth,
To set
And drag him in,
But remember the poor,
Gasping thing
Will expect to be fed
Every moment of its
Desperate life
Until it is dead
And soon, thereafter,
Eaten.
Cat Bandits
WORRY AND WANDER
—Joe Nolan
Which worry makes
A maelstrom disappear?
Which fear,
When I grow near?
Which flurry in
A mixing cup,
When we stir it up—
The mixing of
Strong tea and
Falling tears?
How can we
Hold air
That blows away?
Sand,
Though our fingers,
Every day?
Evanescent light
That fades away,
Every sunset,
Giving berth to night
Beneath our candles,
Set alight,
To let us
Long the day?
We live in wonder.
Thus, we wander.
EVERYTHING IS EMPTY
—Joe Nolan
Everything is filled
With nothingness.
Thus, scoffing
Must come,
Often.
The richest men
Are drenched with tears,
Carried off in coffins.
Bleed the empty dredge of time.
Salute the membrane
Between the line,
Of the here
And the hereafter.
Most of what we perceive
In our world
As solid,
Is empty space.
99.99% of matter
Is nothing
And what else can’t
Be traced, to anything
Except a vacuum’s dollop
Of sweet whipped-cream
On your morning scones.
So here’s to your
Morning-dollop of cream,
Whatever it might mean,
In a universe of vacuums.
—Joe Nolan
Everything is filled
With nothingness.
Thus, scoffing
Must come,
Often.
The richest men
Are drenched with tears,
Carried off in coffins.
Bleed the empty dredge of time.
Salute the membrane
Between the line,
Of the here
And the hereafter.
Most of what we perceive
In our world
As solid,
Is empty space.
99.99% of matter
Is nothing
And what else can’t
Be traced, to anything
Except a vacuum’s dollop
Of sweet whipped-cream
On your morning scones.
So here’s to your
Morning-dollop of cream,
Whatever it might mean,
In a universe of vacuums.
FREE SPEECH CANTO LXXII
—Michael Ceraolo, S. Euclid, OH
We must not offend the corporation
Two instances of corporate power,
whether perceived or actual:
Rex Babin's drawing
of a man with a stoma
wearing a suit labeled
BIG TOBACCO
tearing up a settlement as the words
WE'RE THROUGH TALKING
come out of the stoma
Killed by the Albany Times-Union
1998
Milt Priggee's drawing
of two compact cars:
one from Europe with Le Car
on the side of the vehicle,
one from Detroit with Le Heap
on the side of the vehicle
(with a backwards e in Le
in case anyone missed the point)
Killed by the Dayton Journal Herald
1982
—Michael Ceraolo, S. Euclid, OH
We must not offend the corporation
Two instances of corporate power,
whether perceived or actual:
Rex Babin's drawing
of a man with a stoma
wearing a suit labeled
BIG TOBACCO
tearing up a settlement as the words
WE'RE THROUGH TALKING
come out of the stoma
Killed by the Albany Times-Union
1998
Milt Priggee's drawing
of two compact cars:
one from Europe with Le Car
on the side of the vehicle,
one from Detroit with Le Heap
on the side of the vehicle
(with a backwards e in Le
in case anyone missed the point)
Killed by the Dayton Journal Herald
1982
FREE SPEECH CANTO LXXIII
—Michael Ceraolo
Thou shalt not make fun of religion
is not an actual commandment,
though
many editors seem to treat it as such
when they want to censor cartoons
Three examples:
Doug Marlette's drawing
"Upon this Rock,
I will build
My Church"
with
an arrow from the words
pointing to the Pope' head
Killed by New York Newsday
1994
Randy Bish's drawing
of a man in the confessional saying
"Forgive Me, Father, For I Have Sinned"
and Cardinal Law asking him
"You Looking For Forgiveness
Or Advice On How To Cover It Up?
Killed by the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review
2002
M.G. Lord's caricature
of Cardinal John O'Connor dressed in his regalia
with his scepter having a coat hanger on the top of it,
showing the only method of abortion available
were the Cardinal's wishes to come true
Killed by New York Newsday
undated
—Michael Ceraolo
Thou shalt not make fun of religion
is not an actual commandment,
though
many editors seem to treat it as such
when they want to censor cartoons
Three examples:
Doug Marlette's drawing
"Upon this Rock,
I will build
My Church"
with
an arrow from the words
pointing to the Pope' head
Killed by New York Newsday
1994
Randy Bish's drawing
of a man in the confessional saying
"Forgive Me, Father, For I Have Sinned"
and Cardinal Law asking him
"You Looking For Forgiveness
Or Advice On How To Cover It Up?
Killed by the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review
2002
M.G. Lord's caricature
of Cardinal John O'Connor dressed in his regalia
with his scepter having a coat hanger on the top of it,
showing the only method of abortion available
were the Cardinal's wishes to come true
Killed by New York Newsday
undated
IT HURTS JUST TO BE ALIVE
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
the progression of pain
from mere pimples to
multiple boils, each
damned with colic
bursting with wetness
that erodes once secure
bandages like a river
carving its own path
through the very
landscape of your
life story
screaming out the
orchestration of
sorrowful trombones,
wailing catgut, and
indefatigable kazoos
exploring all the
dimensions of
sensual agony
this is the hand
that you, a true miser
have been dealt
forcing you to ante up
all your family heirlooms
all your hopes and dreams
just to keep on hurting
just to keep on
being alive
WHEN HABITS COLLIDE
—Caschwa
a place for everything
everything in its place
I usually adhere to this
good practice
that’s my good habit
put things back where
I found them
but then comes this
bad practice
that’s my bad habit
where I take something
out of the top drawer
and later replace that
top drawer item
to the next drawer down
and spend too much time
hunting and hunting
for that top drawer item
which my mind falsely
“remembers” putting
back in the right place
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
UNBRIDLED
—Taylor Dibbert, Washington, DC
He doesn’t,
Remember precisely,
How the whole,
Writing poetry thing,
First got going,
He just knows,
That he wishes,
He had known,
About poetry’s,
Unbridled power,
Long ago.
______________________
Good morning to battle pickers everywhere, and poets, too—hopefully one and the same! Our latest Seed of the Week is Pick Your Battles, so we have some poetry about that this morning, as well as other subjects from the universe and beyond. Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.
Taylor Dibbert
Newcomer Taylor Dibbert is a writer, journalist, and poet. He’s the author of the Peace Corps memoir, Fiesta of Sunset, and the forthcoming poetry collection, Home Again. Welcome to the Kitchen, Taylor, and don’t be a stranger!
Plenty of readings and other events to keep poets occupied these days, as we head into April on Saturday, the beginning of National Poetry Month, with its special Saturday Sac. Poetry Center reading by California Poet Laureate Lee Herrick, Sac. PL Andru Defeye, and Stockton PL Tama Brisbane. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about other readings and what else is going on in the NorCal area—and keep an eye on this link and on the Kitchen for happenings that might pop up during the week.
On Friday I posted a link to an interview of Andru Defeye in the Sacramento Bee. That article was online; the print version appeared in the Bee on Sunday. To see it online, go to https://www.sacbee.com/entertainment/arts-culture/article272636752.html/.
______________________
—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!
guard your heart~