—Oil Painting by Norman J. Olson,
Maplewood, MN
—Poetry by Claire J. Baker, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Nolcha Fox, Sayani Mukherjee, Joe Nolan,
and Shiva Neupane
—Original Artwork by Norman J. Olson
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Nolcha Fox and Joe Nolan
UNDER THE WINGS OF SKY
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
the sky wings under an eagle
while his mate,
settled as a planet
shields a fledgling
whose talons fold into breast/
belly, a pre-mighty glider
not yet ready to show the sky
how to fly high and still tow
along a weightless white stratus
and cumulus accumulation . . .
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
the sky wings under an eagle
while his mate,
settled as a planet
shields a fledgling
whose talons fold into breast/
belly, a pre-mighty glider
not yet ready to show the sky
how to fly high and still tow
along a weightless white stratus
and cumulus accumulation . . .
Getting Ready for Summer
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joe Nolan
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joe Nolan
GORGEOUS
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
Can it be routed in the throat,
the neckline fashion of the French?
See my etymology quote,
my pupils taught from lexicon.
As gorge reminds of food, stuffed well,
foie gras by gullet pumps achieved,
gavage, force-feeding, livers’ swell,
a dainty spread—unless the geese.
The guilt of Eden lore retold,
is this not Adam’s apple site,
man’s pleasure as creation sold,
that lump in throat, the swallow hard?
If our repasts from stock and flock
were laid waste on our table top,
would vegan block meat, fix a lock,
that steak stick in our crop, best earthed?
And even fishy dish supplied
by bottom trawling, raking bed,
is as your lawn with scree landslide
so woe betide your bedded blooms.
Now drop-dead gorgeous saying’s wise
for both the slaughtered and mine host;
I’m waking up—and woke the prize,
a better guide, the more despised.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Nolcha Fox
THE EXTREME DEAL
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
Carl the cat was crabby,
he’d been constipated
for a couple of days.
He caterwauled
an incantation
to relieve his unease.
a cacodemon appeared
in fire and smoke
to offer Carl a deal.
In exchange for regularity,
Carl would live forever
as the Halloween poster cat
for the rest of his unnatural
life.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Nolcha Fox
Once I was
a stuffy fluffy ball of white
with ears that flopped
and bounced with every move.
Now my coat is worn and frayed,
white fluff is stained and flattened.
An eye is somewhere on the floor.
My ears have disappeared.
I go from room to room all day,
and outside in the sun.
Sometimes I’m dropped
upon the walk or in the grass,
or sometimes rolled under the bed.
Misplaced, perhaps, but finally found,
to be again the dog’s best friend.
—Nolcha Fox
a stuffy fluffy ball of white
with ears that flopped
and bounced with every move.
Now my coat is worn and frayed,
white fluff is stained and flattened.
An eye is somewhere on the floor.
My ears have disappeared.
I go from room to room all day,
and outside in the sun.
Sometimes I’m dropped
upon the walk or in the grass,
or sometimes rolled under the bed.
Misplaced, perhaps, but finally found,
to be again the dog’s best friend.
—Nolcha Fox
—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain
GORGEOUS
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
She opens slowly,
lips upturned to kiss
the springtime warmth.
My joy is this moment.
It’s only others who mourn
my brief life.
AS LOVE IS
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India
My two penned casual curls
Homeland a borderless journal
People’s miscommunication
Haunted blinds
God's own country has fallen asleep
Outside glimmering
Shaping of thoughts
Kites toys pencils crayon days
Love’s beauty has its own bliss
Torrential calmness
As a fish out of water
Gets waterA splashing lyrical rhythm
No boundariesIt floats
Like mothers are mothers
Like children are sweet
Candies soft touched skimmed milk
Love’s beauty
In God’s own country
Only bliss of rain
Amidst out of love
Only Love pours.
My two penned casual curls
Homeland a borderless journal
People’s miscommunication
Haunted blinds
God's own country has fallen asleep
Outside glimmering
Shaping of thoughts
Kites toys pencils crayon days
Love’s beauty has its own bliss
Torrential calmness
As a fish out of water
Gets waterA splashing lyrical rhythm
No boundariesIt floats
Like mothers are mothers
Like children are sweet
Candies soft touched skimmed milk
Love’s beauty
In God’s own country
Only bliss of rain
Amidst out of love
Only Love pours.
—Art by Norman J. Olson
FLUNG OPEN
—Sayani Mukherjee
Blackbirds come knocking
A strange sublime affair
My mountain-scape filmed with dreaded
pleasure
Rain drenched I come back
Home
Black crows and the little girls
Sparking a twilight affair
My soul is morbid
Subliminally I love the greys
Torn thorny thirty-pound dangers
I always play in the dangerous alley
Taboos and voodoos
A strange sublime rain
My wet dripped soul
Indies and greys
I lied
I hated spring mostly.
For I am
A preacher’s daughter.
—Sayani Mukherjee
Blackbirds come knocking
A strange sublime affair
My mountain-scape filmed with dreaded
pleasure
Rain drenched I come back
Home
Black crows and the little girls
Sparking a twilight affair
My soul is morbid
Subliminally I love the greys
Torn thorny thirty-pound dangers
I always play in the dangerous alley
Taboos and voodoos
A strange sublime rain
My wet dripped soul
Indies and greys
I lied
I hated spring mostly.
For I am
A preacher’s daughter.
TO DISCUSS WHAT’S REAL
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
It’s gonna take time
For potatoes to heal,
For turnips to discuss
What’s really real.
For marmots to yield...
For any vain invention
To prevail
Against a morass of momentum
That calls itself, “respectable.”
Just a sliver of
A fallen leaf
Could sneak in,
Underneath.
To re-birth and renew
With love songs
That worked,
Me and you,
At least for
A little while,
While we were still
Young enough
To be betrayed.
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
It’s gonna take time
For potatoes to heal,
For turnips to discuss
What’s really real.
For marmots to yield...
For any vain invention
To prevail
Against a morass of momentum
That calls itself, “respectable.”
Just a sliver of
A fallen leaf
Could sneak in,
Underneath.
To re-birth and renew
With love songs
That worked,
Me and you,
At least for
A little while,
While we were still
Young enough
To be betrayed.
—Art by Norman J. Olson
THE SENTIMENT OF DISTORTION
—Joe Nolan
The true sentiment of distortion
Is to twist the unreal to real.
To drag and drop,
To bludgeon the top,
To demand that
Everyone feel!
It’s getting harder and harder
To make an impact
Into concrete skulls
Built up from eons of
Letting things go,
Until there’s
No ever-after
At all,
When giants have been
Made small.
When midgets
Rule the world.
When Lilliputians have
Strung Gulliver down,
As though they intended
To eat him.
How was it
Something innocuous
Could ever come to flower,
Under the weight of increasing loneliness,
That burdens
Unceasing hours?
—Art by Norman J. Olson
POT OF GOLD
—Joe Nolan
Running like Hell,
Running like a Leprechaun,
To protect your pot of gold,
I saw you
And how much you needed
To be in control,
Which is what your
Pot of gold is good for.
I wish you well,
Truth to tell—
Only thieves wish to steal your gold,
But any man could be tempted
By promise of instant wealth,
So you must be careful
How highlands
Overbear
Green lowlands
That supply them
With their sheep,
While people roil in nightmares
When they’re fast asleep.
—Art by Norman J. Olson
ADRIFT
—Joe Nolan
Somewhere down a winding trail
Your road may disappear.
You’ll lose all recollection of
What had brought you there.
You could wait for passers-by
To riddle for a clue—
What lies ahead,
What fell behind,
If there’s something special
In another kind of mind
Rumored to abide
In unknown-nearby.
—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain
DUSTING OFF MY DREAM
—Shiva Neupane, Melbourne, Australia
I dare to dream that stale dream
That has been buried under the despair.
I suffered a colossal setback
And bruised my ego.
I will dust off my dream
And reinforce my vision.
The age is just the number,
The hope cannot be encumbered.
It is never too late to dream
The validity of dreams is timeless.
I would like to cushion a dream into my heart
To hoist my chest high up in an emotional
turmoil.
The Tsunami of hopelessness
entered into the foyer of my life
But I am being buoyant,
To be able to afloat like a lotus.
Learning the art of living is a must
To patch up the torn dream.
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Words can be like X-rays if you use them properly—they’ll go through anything. You read and you’re pierced.
―Aldous Huxley, Brave New World
______________________
Many thanks to our contributors today, with their words and art zinging around like X-rays! Our Seed of the Week was “Gorgeous”, and we are always grateful for gorgeousness, yes? Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.
—Shiva Neupane, Melbourne, Australia
I dare to dream that stale dream
That has been buried under the despair.
I suffered a colossal setback
And bruised my ego.
I will dust off my dream
And reinforce my vision.
The age is just the number,
The hope cannot be encumbered.
It is never too late to dream
The validity of dreams is timeless.
I would like to cushion a dream into my heart
To hoist my chest high up in an emotional
turmoil.
The Tsunami of hopelessness
entered into the foyer of my life
But I am being buoyant,
To be able to afloat like a lotus.
Learning the art of living is a must
To patch up the torn dream.
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Words can be like X-rays if you use them properly—they’ll go through anything. You read and you’re pierced.
―Aldous Huxley, Brave New World
______________________
Many thanks to our contributors today, with their words and art zinging around like X-rays! Our Seed of the Week was “Gorgeous”, and we are always grateful for gorgeousness, yes? Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.
Here is a biography of on eof today's writers, social butterfly and student of multifarious disciplines, Mr. Shiva Neupane, a Nepalese-born, permanent resident of Australia.
He lives in Melbourne with his wife, Mrs. Devi Neupane Gaihre, and two
daughters: Devyanshi Neupane and Saanvi Neupane. He has published Falang
English Dictionary, In the Pursuit of Utopian Life in Australia, My
Waves, Falang Food Dictionary and The Elixir of My Voice. He has been
writing articles since 2001 for various publications; his articles have
appeared in The Himalayan Times, The Kathmandu Post, The Beatnik Cowboy
(U.S.A), The Nepali Times Australia, scotnepal.com, and the Australia-based newspaper, THE AGE. He has studied multifarious disciplines in
Australia. Interestingly enough, the former Prime minister of Australia,
the Honourable Scott Morrison, issued him a letter during his tenure in
2022 in response to Shiva’s dictionary of multicultural cuisines (Falang
Food Dictionary). In a nutshell, Mr. Neupane says he is a well-rounded
personality and a social butterfly.
Lots going on in NorCal poetry this week, as usual, starting with the release of Rick Rayburn’s new book, Slack Tide, tonight at Sac. Poetry Center in Sacramento. 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.
______________________
—Medusa
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy
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!
