Michael E. “Maik” Strosahl
—Poetry and Photos by Michael E. “Maik” Strosahl,
Jefferson City, MO
Jefferson City, MO
FUJI MUSUME (The Wisteria Maiden)
In Kabuki,
the actor is the wind
swirling his long hair
as a branch alive with blossoms
and he becomes her,
the wisteria
dancing the birth of spring,
the rise of her spirit
sweet upon the air.
In my garden,
the wind is the actor,
pulling at her flowers
and it is the maiden’s flight,
the wisteria
out across the goat pasture,
the scent gathering divine
in the evening’s warmth—
the crowd is enthralled.
In Kabuki,
the actor is the wind
swirling his long hair
as a branch alive with blossoms
and he becomes her,
the wisteria
dancing the birth of spring,
the rise of her spirit
sweet upon the air.
In my garden,
the wind is the actor,
pulling at her flowers
and it is the maiden’s flight,
the wisteria
out across the goat pasture,
the scent gathering divine
in the evening’s warmth—
the crowd is enthralled.
SCOTS’ DIKE
The rievers flow over batable land
from the Solway Firth inland
to the muckle toon of Langholm,
four hills in the Esk valley and
home to Clan Armstrong.
The wool grows thick on plunder
as they graze the threap grasses
of the Liddell and the Sark.
The queens of Scot,
the kings from London,
brought their laws and order
to be ignored
throughout these Debatable Lands
until Johnny of Gilnockie
and thirty-one hanged
at the Chapel Caerlanrig,
declaring all discussion void—
their lines drawn into the land
where the rievers once roamed,
where the waters still run free.
The rievers flow over batable land
from the Solway Firth inland
to the muckle toon of Langholm,
four hills in the Esk valley and
home to Clan Armstrong.
The wool grows thick on plunder
as they graze the threap grasses
of the Liddell and the Sark.
The queens of Scot,
the kings from London,
brought their laws and order
to be ignored
throughout these Debatable Lands
until Johnny of Gilnockie
and thirty-one hanged
at the Chapel Caerlanrig,
declaring all discussion void—
their lines drawn into the land
where the rievers once roamed,
where the waters still run free.
Closed and Open
THE WANDERER
Cruithne is lost,
somewhere on the other side,
wandering with Mercury and Mars.
She wobbles and sways,
tumbles and plays
while our summer burns
and we slowly catch up.
Come November,
she will see us coming and turn,
running off again
across the darkened skies,
false gods calling her near
while the grasses in the upper moors
bend to cooling winds
and a faithful moon
makes the midnight bright
upon those keeping their eyes
toward the heavens,
searching in earnest
for others who may have strayed.
Cruithne is lost,
somewhere on the other side,
wandering with Mercury and Mars.
She wobbles and sways,
tumbles and plays
while our summer burns
and we slowly catch up.
Come November,
she will see us coming and turn,
running off again
across the darkened skies,
false gods calling her near
while the grasses in the upper moors
bend to cooling winds
and a faithful moon
makes the midnight bright
upon those keeping their eyes
toward the heavens,
searching in earnest
for others who may have strayed.
Pandemic Picnic
THE PIETA
inspired by Laszlo Toth’s
attack on the statue when
he believed he was the risen
Christ
Mamma!
Sono io!
Sono risorto!
Non piangere più!
Non piangere!
With the first swing
I chipped off a tear,
with the second
I broke off the run in her nose,
stopped the marble cry,
chipped away at the
blubbering of grief,
but she kept holding him,
this stone image made
of my previous form.
Mamma!
Sono io!
Sono risorto!
It is a pity
that one who should not
has had to mourn the wounds,
has had to bear the bones,
the lifeless form of the child
she carried to life,
cared for as he grew,
before anyone else knew.
Non piangere più!
Non piangere!
A pity!
No one should have to mourn
for those who have come forth
from the loins,
nor hold themselves together
as that precious life
bleeds away in their arms.
Non sono Laszlo!
Sono il risorto!
Sono il Cristo!
Gesù tuo figlio!
A pity
she still bears that life bled,
the one pierced by spear and nails,
even my hammer—
twelve blows to say I have risen
as they dragged her son away
to preach to the insane.
With my last blow,
I broke away her arm,
took the support from
the marble mass
of what I was,
of what I am no more.
Mamma!
Sono risorto!
Non piangere!
inspired by Laszlo Toth’s
attack on the statue when
he believed he was the risen
Christ
Mamma!
Sono io!
Sono risorto!
Non piangere più!
Non piangere!
With the first swing
I chipped off a tear,
with the second
I broke off the run in her nose,
stopped the marble cry,
chipped away at the
blubbering of grief,
but she kept holding him,
this stone image made
of my previous form.
Mamma!
Sono io!
Sono risorto!
It is a pity
that one who should not
has had to mourn the wounds,
has had to bear the bones,
the lifeless form of the child
she carried to life,
cared for as he grew,
before anyone else knew.
Non piangere più!
Non piangere!
A pity!
No one should have to mourn
for those who have come forth
from the loins,
nor hold themselves together
as that precious life
bleeds away in their arms.
Non sono Laszlo!
Sono il risorto!
Sono il Cristo!
Gesù tuo figlio!
A pity
she still bears that life bled,
the one pierced by spear and nails,
even my hammer—
twelve blows to say I have risen
as they dragged her son away
to preach to the insane.
With my last blow,
I broke away her arm,
took the support from
the marble mass
of what I was,
of what I am no more.
Mamma!
Sono risorto!
Non piangere!
The Grinch Eats a Sign
Today’s LittleNip:
RONNA, QUETTA, RONTO, QUECTO
—Michael E. Strosahl
When my zetta and yotta
are not enough to please,
when your zepto and yocto
are not close enough to zero,
ask me more,
bring me less,
until all I have is but
one more world to give
and all you care
is too much concern
for measure.
RONNA, QUETTA, RONTO, QUECTO
—Michael E. Strosahl
When my zetta and yotta
are not enough to please,
when your zepto and yocto
are not close enough to zero,
ask me more,
bring me less,
until all I have is but
one more world to give
and all you care
is too much concern
for measure.
Michael E. “Maik” Strosahl is back in the Kitchen with us here today, and we’re all the better for it! Maik writes: “…finally am catching up with all the creations I did driving around the Midwest in my Semi. I got behind and had pieces stored in my phone and on scraps of paper. Took an office job to be home for a while and am taking advantage of the time. As far as photos, I included a silly profile pic and a serious one—you may chose which is more appropriate for your site. I also included the last truck I was driving (white) and my previous truck (red) where I was tracking all the states I have delivered to Dollar Stores in (I only count 23 magnets. I could swear there have been 24 but cannot figure out which one is missing)”. Welcome back to the Kitchen, Maik—and try to stay off the road. It’s a jungle out there.
In his first Medusa post (Oct. 4, 2020), Maik mentioned his long involvement with poetry in Indiana, and that he had moved to Jefferson City, MO, in 2018. He is in good Kitchen-company there, with poets Kimberly Bolton and Michael Brownstein, for example, who are regular contributors to Medusa’s Kitchen. The web of poetry grows and grows…
_____________________
—Medusa
_____________________
—Medusa
Maik Strohsahl
For upcoming poetry happenings in
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!
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!
