—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Nolcha Fox
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Nolcha Fox
She has good bones
beneath the bleak,
but you can’t tell
if you walk by.
Pug-ugly hides
the starlight pouring
from her heart,
the sunlight glowing
in her eyes.
She’s a heart-stealer,
a fixer-upper,
if only you will buy.
beneath the bleak,
but you can’t tell
if you walk by.
Pug-ugly hides
the starlight pouring
from her heart,
the sunlight glowing
in her eyes.
She’s a heart-stealer,
a fixer-upper,
if only you will buy.
I showed up
at the right time, but the wrong day.
I don’t know what day it is, they start
and end the same, with bed. I don’t know
which date it is, because I’m looking
at the wrong month.
at the right time, but the wrong day.
I don’t know what day it is, they start
and end the same, with bed. I don’t know
which date it is, because I’m looking
at the wrong month.
I don’t shut my mouth
with Scotch tape anymore,
I don’t glue a smile to my face.
I found people like me
when I’m just myself.
But now I have sticky stuff
on my face.
with Scotch tape anymore,
I don’t glue a smile to my face.
I found people like me
when I’m just myself.
But now I have sticky stuff
on my face.
My skin
is a salt flat,
heavy with sea dreams,
with thick summer air.
You are a river
of distraction dividing the hours,
a seam of loneliness with loose threads,
a star detaching from a twilight cloak,
a lost child on a milk carton,
a doorway to desolation.
of distraction dividing the hours,
a seam of loneliness with loose threads,
a star detaching from a twilight cloak,
a lost child on a milk carton,
a doorway to desolation.
Half of everything
I was before
I lost you
thinned back to
barren limbs
leafless
The banshee keens
for death of youth,
for shape-shift shrinking
form that fades and folds.
She warns of wither,
gloomy doom of lasting
sleep in soil and water.
She weeps of age that seeps
and creeps and rots,
decays in twilight of the hours.
Grief is a gusset
in the girdle that holds
in the day, a barrel
brimming with birdsong,
dynamited dandelion fluff,
and cloudburst.
In between
the rosy clouds fading into cotton
candy fading into gray flannel
fading into diamond-studded dark,
are the moments to stop breathing,
to crave silence, as the sidewalks
roll up and streetlights sputter sparks.
The need is so great
to light candles to weariness,
to steal each breath, one, then another,
to be all in the unplanned space between thoughts,
at the same time running for tomorrow
and running away.
to light candles to weariness,
to steal each breath, one, then another,
to be all in the unplanned space between thoughts,
at the same time running for tomorrow
and running away.
Today’s LittleNip:
The bad news is
I’m going to die even if
I eat my broccoli.
—Nolcha Fox
___________________
Many thanks to Nolcha Fox for today’s fine poetry, and for finding us some photos, too! See more of Nolcha’s poetry and news about her publications at https://www.facebook.com/nolcha.fox and/or https://nolcha.substack.com/.
Sacramento’s Twin Lotus Thai will celebrate its first anniversary tonight with music and poetry, including a reading by Sacramento’s Bob Stanley with musical accompaniment. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about this 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.
___________________
—Medusa
—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
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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
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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!
