—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth, Nolcha Fox,
Shiva Neupane, Joe Nolan, Michael Ceraolo,
Taylor Dibbert and Michael Ceraolo
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
SQUIRRELLY
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
Pine redwood clime as conifers,
where native red, blush leap of branch,
for grey found way from foreign climbs,
where habitat trained, habit formed.
Drab, dominating tree twig drays,
bore more invaders of the land,
whose birth rights claimed old birth rite names,
expelled those long established tribes
who knew the ground they’d freely roamed.
But, news, they’ve made infertile feed
to seed the cones on scattered brown,
in hope those brave might rise again,
their spirits fly as eagles fare.
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
Pine redwood clime as conifers,
where native red, blush leap of branch,
for grey found way from foreign climbs,
where habitat trained, habit formed.
Drab, dominating tree twig drays,
bore more invaders of the land,
whose birth rights claimed old birth rite names,
expelled those long established tribes
who knew the ground they’d freely roamed.
But, news, they’ve made infertile feed
to seed the cones on scattered brown,
in hope those brave might rise again,
their spirits fly as eagles fare.
GROOMING
—Stephen Kingsnorth
When younger, grooming was desirable,
not just for horse, but for me,
silent seen, as from a stable home;
neat clothes, hair, clean face, small talk,
answering only questions posed.
Water used to wash things white
but misted bright eyes glistened strange,
and bushy tailed, though mother said,
had meaning I did not understand
when uncle talked to squirrel me.
—Stephen Kingsnorth
When younger, grooming was desirable,
not just for horse, but for me,
silent seen, as from a stable home;
neat clothes, hair, clean face, small talk,
answering only questions posed.
Water used to wash things white
but misted bright eyes glistened strange,
and bushy tailed, though mother said,
had meaning I did not understand
when uncle talked to squirrel me.
LITTLE SQUIRREL
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
Watch me run straight up a thought,
no sense to come out of the rain,
perhaps unhinged, perhaps deranged,
perhaps too worried I might be
one of the nuts I store
to munch on every day.
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
Watch me run straight up a thought,
no sense to come out of the rain,
perhaps unhinged, perhaps deranged,
perhaps too worried I might be
one of the nuts I store
to munch on every day.
COFFEE
—Nolcha Fox
I love drinking coffee.
My dogs love drinking coffee.
We’re a house of caffeine junkies.
We shouldn’t drink coffee.
The rooms jitter from caffeine.
—Nolcha Fox
I love drinking coffee.
My dogs love drinking coffee.
We’re a house of caffeine junkies.
We shouldn’t drink coffee.
The rooms jitter from caffeine.
MOTHER GOOSE
—Nolcha Fox
She nests on the carport,
repairs rattled twigs
as workmen cause
rumbling and ruckus
with tools that
split eardrums, with
comings and goings,
rebuilding below.
Feathers unruffled,
she oversees progress,
and like a good manager
naps through the noise.
—Nolcha Fox
She nests on the carport,
repairs rattled twigs
as workmen cause
rumbling and ruckus
with tools that
split eardrums, with
comings and goings,
rebuilding below.
Feathers unruffled,
she oversees progress,
and like a good manager
naps through the noise.
TIME IS MONEY
—Shiva Neupane, Melbourne, Australia
Who doesn’t need money?
Everyone is desperate for it.
We trade it in our sleepless nights.
Every day our account is shrinking—
The money finds its way to get through.
It only remains with us temporarily
And makes us jittery about expenses.
It establishes and also terminates relations.
To me, it buys happiness but destroys, too.
The recession is striking our way of life
With an inflationary knife.
Now we have to squeeze our times
To make any money.
—Shiva Neupane, Melbourne, Australia
Who doesn’t need money?
Everyone is desperate for it.
We trade it in our sleepless nights.
Every day our account is shrinking—
The money finds its way to get through.
It only remains with us temporarily
And makes us jittery about expenses.
It establishes and also terminates relations.
To me, it buys happiness but destroys, too.
The recession is striking our way of life
With an inflationary knife.
Now we have to squeeze our times
To make any money.
BRILLIANT FIREFLY
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
There once was a lightning-bug
Who built up a terrible charge—
So strong,
So brilliant
Would it be,
Then when released,
The blinding light
Would mark his mahasamadhi.
He knew
That he,
Like Zeus,
Harbored lightning, inside.
He lived as though
He were a moth
Hovering close to a flame–
His promise of release and liberation.
He only had to rub
His wiggling parts together,
When the time was right,
To let out his blinding light.
So surprised
Would the other
Fireflies be!
They would remember him for eternity
As a most-brilliant bug.
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
There once was a lightning-bug
Who built up a terrible charge—
So strong,
So brilliant
Would it be,
Then when released,
The blinding light
Would mark his mahasamadhi.
He knew
That he,
Like Zeus,
Harbored lightning, inside.
He lived as though
He were a moth
Hovering close to a flame–
His promise of release and liberation.
He only had to rub
His wiggling parts together,
When the time was right,
To let out his blinding light.
So surprised
Would the other
Fireflies be!
They would remember him for eternity
As a most-brilliant bug.
A HATED THING IS SCORNED
—Joe Nolan
The hated thing is hairy.
Hairy brows
Droop before its eyes.
To meet it
Is to worry,
To pray for
Its demise.
Heaven is full
Of hate and hairy,
Though we never notice
Down below.
They had a blow-out once,
Before our race was born
And therefore, ever-after,
A hated thing is scorned.
—Joe Nolan
The hated thing is hairy.
Hairy brows
Droop before its eyes.
To meet it
Is to worry,
To pray for
Its demise.
Heaven is full
Of hate and hairy,
Though we never notice
Down below.
They had a blow-out once,
Before our race was born
And therefore, ever-after,
A hated thing is scorned.
A MEASURE OF ERROR
—Joe Nolan
It’s only a measure of error
That keeps us all apart.
Something we find
That blocks our heart,
Something that
Comes from the mind.
Red stripe,
Blue stipe
White stripe,
Green,
No matter the color,
No matter the flag,
It’s human beings
Who drag steel
Cannons up steep
Hills, to fire
On men, below,
Just like Dien Bien Phu.
—Joe Nolan
It’s only a measure of error
That keeps us all apart.
Something we find
That blocks our heart,
Something that
Comes from the mind.
Red stripe,
Blue stipe
White stripe,
Green,
No matter the color,
No matter the flag,
It’s human beings
Who drag steel
Cannons up steep
Hills, to fire
On men, below,
Just like Dien Bien Phu.
AMIDST THE DRIFT
—Joe Nolan
Everything that drifts away
Is somehow caught below,
By an ancient artifact
Or something not-let-go.
By weight
By fate
Or rage
Or hate.
Everything that drifts away
Has found its place in snow,
Where burdens are relinquished.
Never gives way
To what won’t be let go.
Bedraggled wanderers
Curse the Earth.
Mass-murderers
Slaughter children.
What to do
And when?
—Joe Nolan
Everything that drifts away
Is somehow caught below,
By an ancient artifact
Or something not-let-go.
By weight
By fate
Or rage
Or hate.
Everything that drifts away
Has found its place in snow,
Where burdens are relinquished.
Never gives way
To what won’t be let go.
Bedraggled wanderers
Curse the Earth.
Mass-murderers
Slaughter children.
What to do
And when?
CASEY AT THE BAT: CATCHER’S VIEW
—Michael Ceraolo, South Euclid, Ohio
The scouting report on Mudville worked as planned
on that day;
we led them four to two with but one inning more
to play.
We were confident, not overconfident, not a whit,
that given another chance, Casey would not get a hit.
So we decided to stay with what had worked before;
that would leave little chance of Casey coming to
the fore.
And then with two quick outs we liked our chances
even more;
there was almost no hope Mudville would even up
the score.
Then the pitcher decided to shake off the signs put
down,
and two hitters in a row hit safely the pitches thrown.
And so Casey would get another at-bat after all.
All we could do was shake our heads and say, well,
that's baseball.
A visit to the mound, a reminder what got us here,
telling him to follow my signals was made crystal
clear.
A first-pitch fastball Casey watched go by him for
strike one,
and when he watched the second one we knew that
he was done.
I called for his weakness, the change, to be tossed
to the plate.
And not making the adjustment keeps him from
being great.
—Michael Ceraolo, South Euclid, Ohio
The scouting report on Mudville worked as planned
on that day;
we led them four to two with but one inning more
to play.
We were confident, not overconfident, not a whit,
that given another chance, Casey would not get a hit.
So we decided to stay with what had worked before;
that would leave little chance of Casey coming to
the fore.
And then with two quick outs we liked our chances
even more;
there was almost no hope Mudville would even up
the score.
Then the pitcher decided to shake off the signs put
down,
and two hitters in a row hit safely the pitches thrown.
And so Casey would get another at-bat after all.
All we could do was shake our heads and say, well,
that's baseball.
A visit to the mound, a reminder what got us here,
telling him to follow my signals was made crystal
clear.
A first-pitch fastball Casey watched go by him for
strike one,
and when he watched the second one we knew that
he was done.
I called for his weakness, the change, to be tossed
to the plate.
And not making the adjustment keeps him from
being great.
CASEY AT THE BAT: UMPIRE’S VIEW
—Michael Ceraolo
Game One of a three-game series in Mudville on
that day,
and you could judge its relative importance in this
way:
I was not the only umpire assigned to work the game.
And working behind the plate would bring me a modi-
cum of fame.
Having umped here before, I knew Casey was a kicker,
and I resolved he wouldn't have any chance to bicker.
And I kept that resolution, umpiring my best game;
Casey tried to show me up, thus living up to his fame.
I was not one of those who made himself part of the
game,
but this one thing future generations should know
(in addition to possibly discovering my name):
I was correct on my calls on Casey, replays would
show.
—Michael Ceraolo
Game One of a three-game series in Mudville on
that day,
and you could judge its relative importance in this
way:
I was not the only umpire assigned to work the game.
And working behind the plate would bring me a modi-
cum of fame.
Having umped here before, I knew Casey was a kicker,
and I resolved he wouldn't have any chance to bicker.
And I kept that resolution, umpiring my best game;
Casey tried to show me up, thus living up to his fame.
I was not one of those who made himself part of the
game,
but this one thing future generations should know
(in addition to possibly discovering my name):
I was correct on my calls on Casey, replays would
show.
DUMPSTER FIRE
—Taylor Dibbert, Washington, DC
Reading
The news
About Twitter
Every morning
Before work,
Feeling so
Happy that he
Left that
Dumpster fire
Years ago.
—Taylor Dibbert, Washington, DC
Reading
The news
About Twitter
Every morning
Before work,
Feeling so
Happy that he
Left that
Dumpster fire
Years ago.
EASIER SAID THAN DONE
—Taylor Dibbert
When love doesn’t go your way,
An important thing is recognizing
That it doesn’t always have to be that way,
Which is easier said than done.
HELP WANTED
—Taylor Dibbert
Get busy building art,
Because art doesn’t build itself.
_______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
A FAITH OF BRIGHTNESS
—Michael H. Brownstein, Jefferson City, MO
In honor of Holocaust Remembrance Day
(Yom Hashoah), April 18th
Soot poured from the large chimneys.
Coloring clouds distemper and black.
The men in the camp did their labor
Thankful for the cover of shade,
But each man also saw the slim light from the sky
Watching over them and it gave them substance.
Sabbath, the men forced to work
Followed the light, whispered passages of Torah,
Passed coded prayers to one another
Knowing the guards could cause more evil
Forcing their bodies to degrade even further,
But knew they could never stunt their souls
Growing stronger and stronger
Ten times brighter than the sun.
_________________________
Good Monday morning to poets around the world, as here in the US we launch into another week of National Poetry Month! Our Seed of the Week was “Squirrelly”—a most appropriate subject for our squirrelly poets! And Nolcha Fox’s poem about Mother Goose refers to a nesting Canada goose I have across the street from me. And thanks to Michael Brownstein for his poem in honor of this coming Tuesday, Holocaust Remembrance Day.
Too many NorCal poetry events this week to list here, so click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html) for details about this week's poetry events in the NorCal area—and keep an eye on this link and on the Kitchen for additional happenings that might pop up during the week. And a reminder to reserve your spot at the Capturing Wakamatsu poetry walk/workshop for this coming Sunday, 10am-12pm, with Taylor Graham and Katy Brown.
__________________________
—Medusa
—Taylor Dibbert
Get busy building art,
Because art doesn’t build itself.
_______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
A FAITH OF BRIGHTNESS
—Michael H. Brownstein, Jefferson City, MO
In honor of Holocaust Remembrance Day
(Yom Hashoah), April 18th
Soot poured from the large chimneys.
Coloring clouds distemper and black.
The men in the camp did their labor
Thankful for the cover of shade,
But each man also saw the slim light from the sky
Watching over them and it gave them substance.
Sabbath, the men forced to work
Followed the light, whispered passages of Torah,
Passed coded prayers to one another
Knowing the guards could cause more evil
Forcing their bodies to degrade even further,
But knew they could never stunt their souls
Growing stronger and stronger
Ten times brighter than the sun.
_________________________
Good Monday morning to poets around the world, as here in the US we launch into another week of National Poetry Month! Our Seed of the Week was “Squirrelly”—a most appropriate subject for our squirrelly poets! And Nolcha Fox’s poem about Mother Goose refers to a nesting Canada goose I have across the street from me. And thanks to Michael Brownstein for his poem in honor of this coming Tuesday, Holocaust Remembrance Day.
Too many NorCal poetry events this week to list here, so click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html) for details about this week's poetry events in the NorCal area—and keep an eye on this link and on the Kitchen for additional happenings that might pop up during the week. And a reminder to reserve your spot at the Capturing Wakamatsu poetry walk/workshop for this coming Sunday, 10am-12pm, with Taylor Graham and Katy Brown.
__________________________
—Medusa
—Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
For more about National Poetry Month,
including ways to celebrate, see
https://poets.org/national-poetry-month.
And sign up for Poem-a-Day at
https://poets.org/poem-a-day/, plus
read about Poem in Your Pocket Day
(this year, April 27) at
https://poets.org/national-poetry-month/poem-your-pocket-day/.
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!
including ways to celebrate, see
https://poets.org/national-poetry-month.
And sign up for Poem-a-Day at
https://poets.org/poem-a-day/, plus
read about Poem in Your Pocket Day
(this year, April 27) at
https://poets.org/national-poetry-month/poem-your-pocket-day/.
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!
