Chicken Revenge: Cooping
—Visual by Robert Fleming
—Poetry by Robert Fleming, Nolcha Fox,
Stephen Kingsnorth, Sayani Mukherjee,
Caschwa, Joe Nolan, Shiva Neupane,
and Kelly Moyer
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Joe Nolan and Nolcha Fox
—Other Visuals by Robert Fleming,
Shiva Neupane and Kelly Moyer
very thin chickens have a sharp keel and
almost no breast muscle
—Robert Fleming, Lewes, DE
hoom made an inside to keep fli out
fli in to suck hoom blood
circle ur head
u sway ur arms uP
i waltz my wings
you & i
hoom & fli our dance is on
b4 u get ur swatter think
twice b4 u swat me
if fli b gone
no bird nor frog
2 b prey 4 &
uP the food chain until
all ur game hens are less than 2 lbs.
2 keep chickens 5.7 lbs.
hoom drop ur swatter &
leave water-pools still &
fli will egg offspring overnight
almost no breast muscle
—Robert Fleming, Lewes, DE
hoom made an inside to keep fli out
fli in to suck hoom blood
circle ur head
u sway ur arms uP
i waltz my wings
you & i
hoom & fli our dance is on
b4 u get ur swatter think
twice b4 u swat me
if fli b gone
no bird nor frog
2 b prey 4 &
uP the food chain until
all ur game hens are less than 2 lbs.
2 keep chickens 5.7 lbs.
hoom drop ur swatter &
leave water-pools still &
fli will egg offspring overnight
Chicken Revenge: Kidnapping
—Visual by Robert Fleming
—Visual by Robert Fleming
I DON’T DO LOVE POEMS
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
If romance could slap me upside the head,
I’d think it was a mosquito
sneaking through the door,
or maybe a bee mistaking
my nose for a rose,
that left me swollen
from its visit.
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
If romance could slap me upside the head,
I’d think it was a mosquito
sneaking through the door,
or maybe a bee mistaking
my nose for a rose,
that left me swollen
from its visit.
Chicken Revenge: Decapitating
—Visual by Robert Fleming
—Visual by Robert Fleming
WILL O’ THE WASP
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
How can the splitting splutter find
words to articulate enraged?
When masticate, chew tongue, grate teeth
how verbalise the shocking faced?
What phrases form in foaming throat
if breathing patterns interrupt?
There is no cut and thrust in speech
when reason’s gone, trapped maddened cage?
Demented by audacity,
aerated through incited voice,
lambasted for propounded case,
upbraided for chop-logic cause;
but do I overstate her case,
a lesser fury than road-rage?
Though if the Furies are unleashed
ensuing chaos knows no bounds.
Or, overused like crying wolf,
we lose its currency of worth,
if such reduced to column inch,
as manufactured wrath in text.
So how rate anger in a scale?
Antacid need to counteract?
Serrated edging, wordsmith blade,
like Alexander’s Popish plots?
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
How can the splitting splutter find
words to articulate enraged?
When masticate, chew tongue, grate teeth
how verbalise the shocking faced?
What phrases form in foaming throat
if breathing patterns interrupt?
There is no cut and thrust in speech
when reason’s gone, trapped maddened cage?
Demented by audacity,
aerated through incited voice,
lambasted for propounded case,
upbraided for chop-logic cause;
but do I overstate her case,
a lesser fury than road-rage?
Though if the Furies are unleashed
ensuing chaos knows no bounds.
Or, overused like crying wolf,
we lose its currency of worth,
if such reduced to column inch,
as manufactured wrath in text.
So how rate anger in a scale?
Antacid need to counteract?
Serrated edging, wordsmith blade,
like Alexander’s Popish plots?
Chicken Revenge: Plucking
—Visual by Robert Fleming
JUNE
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India
My Pearl eyed harbored glass
Gladly written all over my smoked fudge
My haywire roses
They smell of the last rites of June
Trembling and fudgy
Like a newly bought ice cream
Melting glaciers swollen earthy
Too quickly to fall
Into my palms
They smell of rose-gold glaciers
Like the last rites of June.
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India
My Pearl eyed harbored glass
Gladly written all over my smoked fudge
My haywire roses
They smell of the last rites of June
Trembling and fudgy
Like a newly bought ice cream
Melting glaciers swollen earthy
Too quickly to fall
Into my palms
They smell of rose-gold glaciers
Like the last rites of June.
Chicken Revenge: Wish Bones
—Visual by Robert Fleming
WAIT FOR IT
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
get your popcorn or
other favorite snack
ready, because the
sum total of social
influences will find a
common path to reach
this prickly scenario:
a pre-teen girl from a
family that is extremist
anti-abortion gets raped
by a woke liberal fellow
she gets pregnant, and
that news is immediately
followed by her family’s
ultra-strict rules banning
termination of the fetus
yep, that’s right, she must
now risk her entire life and
well-being to the effort of
allowing a well birth of a
woke liberal fetus
she has no choice, it is written
or does the family take other
steps to make the problem
disappear?
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
get your popcorn or
other favorite snack
ready, because the
sum total of social
influences will find a
common path to reach
this prickly scenario:
a pre-teen girl from a
family that is extremist
anti-abortion gets raped
by a woke liberal fellow
she gets pregnant, and
that news is immediately
followed by her family’s
ultra-strict rules banning
termination of the fetus
yep, that’s right, she must
now risk her entire life and
well-being to the effort of
allowing a well birth of a
woke liberal fetus
she has no choice, it is written
or does the family take other
steps to make the problem
disappear?
—Public Domain Cartoon Courtesy
of Joe Nolan
of Joe Nolan
PENNY-CANDY GALORE!
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
I need wagons
To be red,
To be laden-full,
To have a handle
For to pull
And for hills to shrink.
If you’d like,
You could get in,
With bottles for the store.
They pay two-cents,
Five, for a quart.
On our way
We’ll look for more
To fill brown-paper-bags
With penny-candy, galore!
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
I need wagons
To be red,
To be laden-full,
To have a handle
For to pull
And for hills to shrink.
If you’d like,
You could get in,
With bottles for the store.
They pay two-cents,
Five, for a quart.
On our way
We’ll look for more
To fill brown-paper-bags
With penny-candy, galore!
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy
of Joe Nolan
of Joe Nolan
GAVIN AND NANCY OF NAPA VALLEY
—Joe Nolan
To thrive on Swiss cheese
With Chardonnay,
Out on a veranda,
Under shading awning,
Poking salty olives
With toothpicks
Made of Redwood,
Is the satisfaction
They have come to know
In a famous resort.
Should we feel
All guilty
To enjoy
Something so spoiling?
Stripping barren moments
Free of virtue-signaling,
And trumpet,
“It’s great to be a member
Of the ruling class
In Napa Valley!”
And dine at French Laundry
Without a mask—
We, who rule
In Sacramento,
Like Gavin Newsom,
Soon to be a candidate
For President,
While his auntie,
Nancy Pelosi,
Shows off her
Ice-cream freezers,
Inside her home,
To the newsreel cameras—
Our Marie Antoinette
Of the Grand Dessert,
Beckoning peasants
To eat dirt
If they have no ice cream.
—Joe Nolan
To thrive on Swiss cheese
With Chardonnay,
Out on a veranda,
Under shading awning,
Poking salty olives
With toothpicks
Made of Redwood,
Is the satisfaction
They have come to know
In a famous resort.
Should we feel
All guilty
To enjoy
Something so spoiling?
Stripping barren moments
Free of virtue-signaling,
And trumpet,
“It’s great to be a member
Of the ruling class
In Napa Valley!”
And dine at French Laundry
Without a mask—
We, who rule
In Sacramento,
Like Gavin Newsom,
Soon to be a candidate
For President,
While his auntie,
Nancy Pelosi,
Shows off her
Ice-cream freezers,
Inside her home,
To the newsreel cameras—
Our Marie Antoinette
Of the Grand Dessert,
Beckoning peasants
To eat dirt
If they have no ice cream.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy
of Joe Nolan
of Joe Nolan
A GAME CALLED “DIRECTIONS”
—Joe Nolan
Let’s play a game
Of a thousand questions
Called, “Directions.”
You’ll ask me, ask me, ask me
And I will tell and tell,
But you’ll never remember,
Which is just as well,
Because you do not
Need to know,
At all, which way to go,
Before you hit the road,
Now that there’s GPS.
—Joe Nolan
Let’s play a game
Of a thousand questions
Called, “Directions.”
You’ll ask me, ask me, ask me
And I will tell and tell,
But you’ll never remember,
Which is just as well,
Because you do not
Need to know,
At all, which way to go,
Before you hit the road,
Now that there’s GPS.
Not a chicken…
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy
of Joe Nolan
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy
of Joe Nolan
WHERE, PEACE?
—Joe Nolan
Where shall we find peace,
If not in all the commotion,
The wizardry of ones and zeroes,
Knowledge that floats in a cloud,
Wars waged without any end?
Where shall we find peace,
If not in the looming threat of AI?
Mutating culture that passes us by?
The casting out of those
Who are useless
To the grand design
Of the Global Machine
The tirelessly
Grinds on and on?
Where shall we find rest
If not in results of standardized tests
That sort out the worst from the best
And masses of lumpenproletariat
Who cannot adjust
To endless change
That comes to us
Faster and faster?
—Joe Nolan
Where shall we find peace,
If not in all the commotion,
The wizardry of ones and zeroes,
Knowledge that floats in a cloud,
Wars waged without any end?
Where shall we find peace,
If not in the looming threat of AI?
Mutating culture that passes us by?
The casting out of those
Who are useless
To the grand design
Of the Global Machine
The tirelessly
Grinds on and on?
Where shall we find rest
If not in results of standardized tests
That sort out the worst from the best
And masses of lumpenproletariat
Who cannot adjust
To endless change
That comes to us
Faster and faster?
—Photo by Shiva Neupane
SUPERCALIFRAGILISTICEXPIALIDOCIOUS:
—Shiva Neupane, Melbourne, Australia
When my 3-year-old daughter says
Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious,
I get astoundingly pleased
at what makes her precocious
She has just learnt ABCD
But leapfrogged by getting hang of
literary-device and sesquipedalian.
Although a child is born with a tabula rasa
Their minds get imbued with foreign noises,
That get through the conduit of sensory
memory register.
—Shiva Neupane, Melbourne, Australia
When my 3-year-old daughter says
Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious,
I get astoundingly pleased
at what makes her precocious
She has just learnt ABCD
But leapfrogged by getting hang of
literary-device and sesquipedalian.
Although a child is born with a tabula rasa
Their minds get imbued with foreign noises,
That get through the conduit of sensory
memory register.
Charity
—Artwork by Kelly Moyer
AFTER 17 YEARS OF SILENCE
—Kelly Moyer, North Carolina
My voodoo doll is not your effigy.
My hair’s too short to keep any pins.
I hold her in arms of love and protection,
not in contempt the way you held me.
She is not a weapon nor a scapegoat,
for I take responsibility for all my sins,
while you dressed me in your losses
so as to claim each one a hollow win.
She is not a whore nor a vixen.
Her tender heart is too large to endure
such a fate. So, I vow to keep her
from knowing the darkness around us;
whereas, for me, it was simply too late.
—Kelly Moyer, North Carolina
My voodoo doll is not your effigy.
My hair’s too short to keep any pins.
I hold her in arms of love and protection,
not in contempt the way you held me.
She is not a weapon nor a scapegoat,
for I take responsibility for all my sins,
while you dressed me in your losses
so as to claim each one a hollow win.
She is not a whore nor a vixen.
Her tender heart is too large to endure
such a fate. So, I vow to keep her
from knowing the darkness around us;
whereas, for me, it was simply too late.
Spring Chicken
—Public Domain Chicken Photo Courtesy
of Nolcha Fox
of Nolcha Fox
Today’s LittleNip:
According to the chicken
the universe started
as one humdinger egg.
It cracked to make a scramble,
but life poured out instead.
No eggs-aggeration,
Chickens never lie
(although they lay).
It’s the eggs-act truth.
—Nolcha Fox
_____________________
Break out your flagpoles; it’s May Day, time to make your kids dance around on the lawn! Or maybe your chickens…
Our thanks to today’s poets for providing the verbal sights and sounds for this first of May: Robert Fleming brings news and pix of chickens (see more of Robert at www.facebook.com/robert.fleming.5030/); Kelly Moyer’s latest book, Hushpuppy, a collection of experimental Ku, is due out this year; and Caschwa (Carl Schwartz) returns after a debilitating illness of the skin. Our Seed of the Week was “Infuriated”, but Carl says he would place his poem more in the category of Snarky…
Sacramento’s Thursday Writers Group has a new publication, Confluence, an anthology of fiction, poetry, essay, and song from authors Todd Boyd, Jennifer O’Neill Pickering, SM Caruthers, Lynette Blumhardt, RoseAnn Goodwin, Michelle Woods, and Tim McHague. Find it at Amazon ($17): https://www.amazon.com/Confluence-Fiction-Sacramento-Thursday-Writers/dp/B0C2SRHBK5/ref=mp_s_a_1_1?crid=RCO5YVE86YZM&keywords=confluence%20Todd%20Boyd&qid=1682620182&s=books&sprefix=confluence%20todd%20boyd%2Caps%2C136&sr=1-1&fbclid=IwAR1OAgAq4fgF-xeJoB_DdpoZLqsJDH63O-70dqjwNVEP8OwA8A_xCdZ9jyQ/.
Two workshops today: Rhony Bhopla at Women’s Wisdom Art this afternoon, and Indigo Moor’s Renegade Literati this evening. Also this evening, Sac. Poetry Center features Mary Mackay and Jan Haag. Click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html) for details about these 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. Just because National Poetry Month is over doesn’t mean that NorCal poetry is over—not by a long shot!
_____________________
—Medusa
According to the chicken
the universe started
as one humdinger egg.
It cracked to make a scramble,
but life poured out instead.
No eggs-aggeration,
Chickens never lie
(although they lay).
It’s the eggs-act truth.
—Nolcha Fox
_____________________
Break out your flagpoles; it’s May Day, time to make your kids dance around on the lawn! Or maybe your chickens…
Our thanks to today’s poets for providing the verbal sights and sounds for this first of May: Robert Fleming brings news and pix of chickens (see more of Robert at www.facebook.com/robert.fleming.5030/); Kelly Moyer’s latest book, Hushpuppy, a collection of experimental Ku, is due out this year; and Caschwa (Carl Schwartz) returns after a debilitating illness of the skin. Our Seed of the Week was “Infuriated”, but Carl says he would place his poem more in the category of Snarky…
Sacramento’s Thursday Writers Group has a new publication, Confluence, an anthology of fiction, poetry, essay, and song from authors Todd Boyd, Jennifer O’Neill Pickering, SM Caruthers, Lynette Blumhardt, RoseAnn Goodwin, Michelle Woods, and Tim McHague. Find it at Amazon ($17): https://www.amazon.com/Confluence-Fiction-Sacramento-Thursday-Writers/dp/B0C2SRHBK5/ref=mp_s_a_1_1?crid=RCO5YVE86YZM&keywords=confluence%20Todd%20Boyd&qid=1682620182&s=books&sprefix=confluence%20todd%20boyd%2Caps%2C136&sr=1-1&fbclid=IwAR1OAgAq4fgF-xeJoB_DdpoZLqsJDH63O-70dqjwNVEP8OwA8A_xCdZ9jyQ/.
Two workshops today: Rhony Bhopla at Women’s Wisdom Art this afternoon, and Indigo Moor’s Renegade Literati this evening. Also this evening, Sac. Poetry Center features Mary Mackay and Jan Haag. Click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html) for details about these 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. Just because National Poetry Month is over doesn’t mean that NorCal poetry is over—not by a long shot!
_____________________
—Medusa
of Joe Nolan
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!
