Word Play with U.F.O.'s

 

—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,

John Yamrus, Sayani Mukherjee, and 

Joe Nolan

—Public Domain Photos Courtesy

of Joe Nolan and Stephen Kingsnorth

 

 

 

CHIP
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

She attacked with force,
with determination,
with hammer and chisel.
The granite was stubborn,
it would not yield.
A grinder finally made a nick.
A hammer to that tiny nick,
she made a chip
in the old block
to sculpt the head
of her dear stubborn dad.

 

 

 

—Photo Courtesy of Stephen Kingsnorth

 

 

 
CHIP OFF THE BLOCK
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Carrera, marble of the best,
or soapstone carved on workshop floor;
theirs craft, the handling, hidden art,
releasing from the block in stock,
the spirit borne, contained within.

The chiselled face, in sculpted form,
that bears resemblance to their past,
the father through genetic weave,
and skill in drawing out the form,
as taught, tradition, family.

And what is true in studio,
found too, the ground, stone mason’s shop,
as carpenter’s, beneath the bench,
where chips lie, strewn from sliding plane,
blond curls unfurled as grain spokeshaved.

Same common child as chip-off type,
from pulpit preached, text sermon, then
Milton, antiprelatical;
this block, Adam, foundation laid,
the Second coming, carpenter,
Golgotha cross from Eden’s tree.

 

 

 

—Photo Courtesy of Stephen Kingsnorth

 

he was in

a nursing home
memory unit.

the
last time
i was there he was in
wrinkled blue pajamas and a robe.

we sat
in the community room

and
the tv was on
and the place had that
smell of medicine, sweat and old age.

sitting there,
across from him,
trying to cheer him up,

i said:
my father-in-law
always used to say: don’t get old...

i guess
he liked that,
because he smiled,
looked down at the floor
and said (almost to himself):

i’m not old,
i’m just a young guy
something really bad happened to.


—John Yamrus, Pennsylvania

 

 

 

 

  

IT’S ALL IN THE HEADS
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India

My origin is specific
The sad hours if any pass by
A collision a tell-tale heart
Have no bounds as summer breeze
That streams over my angelic tapestry
Moves a little too hard
Patience propriety a movie screen
Blinds too early then
A softly treaded path of no man's land
I have passed my hours in solemnity
Saw heaven and hell
It’s in a head a heartbeat of a stranger
That passes away as it comes
With my moving patience
It collides
Forever a word play
Heaven and hell's dance. 

 

 

 

 

BELL-BOTTOM BLUES
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

There is an old lady
Who lives in a shoe
Who flowered in the Sixties
And has those bell-bottom blues.

What’s an old lady to do
When her children have grown and gone,
When she is left behind
And has to carry on,
Alone?

Buy some brand-new laces
To decorate her door,
String them neatly
Through the holes
To keep her tongue held down?

Since no one wants her bitchin’
They only want her smile.
It’s been fifty years or so
Since she got around.

 

 

 

 

APOCALYPSE
—Joe Nolan

First will come the fire,
Then will come the rain
To wash away the ashes
And leave us all in pain.

We shall know
When black bells tone—
Gone is human grace.
Splinters shall befall us,
Each in his separate place. 

We see it now
Across the field,
A poisoned seed has grown—
Forests are cut down.

Hunger, soon, will follow,
Followed by disease.
A scythe will sweep
Across the land
Felling, felling, felling,
Nearly every man.  

 

 

 

 

U.F.O.’s
—Joe Nolan

U.F.O.’s don’t fly.
They glide along
Through our sky
By means we
Don’t understand. 

Ninety-degree turns
At six-thousand miles per hour
Seem to be
No problem
For any alien creature that’s inside,
If any there may be. 

We don’t know what they are.
We admit it,
When we call them,
“Unidentified”.

Little green men
Or grays
Could be inside,
Visiting our planet,
Or just along for the ride,
But we
Don’t
Know
That,
So—
We call them
UFO’s.  

 

 

 

 

LOVE IS SUBLIME
—Joe Nolan

You are growing
More and more
Beautiful
Every day.

I see it in your
Skin and smile,
The luster in your eye.
I pray
It won’t go away.

Soon,
You will be married
And children
Will dance around your heart.

Love will
Grace you and
Behold you,
Once you make your start.

Be ready
When your lover
Will approach you.
Chance and time,
Poetry and rhyme.
The pairing of two—
He and you.
Love is sublime.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

AVALANCHE AT BIG SUR
—Joe Nolan

Reckless mercy—
An avalanche pulled down the trees
And covered Highway 1.

No one killed.
Everyone now
Takes the long way around.

How shallow
Roots can seem
When Earth
Slips out
Beneath them.

____________________

Welcome to the last week of April, National Poetry Month! Our thanks to all our contributors on this, the day-after the day-after the 53rd annual Earth Day. The “chip” poems are meant to address our Seed of the Week: Chip Off the Old Block. Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.

There are NorCal poetry events every day this week—especially on Saturday, the 29th, so check ‘em out in the UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS link at http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html/.

____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

—Public Domain 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!