—Artwork by Normal J. Olson,
Maplewood, MN
Maplewood, MN
—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth,
Michael Ceraolo, Shiva Neupane,
David Alec Knight and Joe Nolan
—Visuals by Norman J. Olson
and David Knight
SHARED ACCOUNT
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
Her wingman in supportive rôle,
yet motherhood is winging it;
now new outsider looking in
and wrapped, no longer cloth of sac.
Once common beat, one blood in flow,
the cord twixt pumping hearts at core,
a lifeline, not on sweating palms—
though unique print on finger tips.
So when the bite, or clamp and cut,
that helpless freed to its own life;
dependent, independence cries,
as many will through countless hours.
So though weight lifts it just begins—
one bond cut but still mostly is—
as promissory note redeemed,
down payment in a shared account.
So young, if dying breath is heard,
is often calling of her name,
who issued forth through waters, blood
this vital vessel, tender, launched.
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
Her wingman in supportive rôle,
yet motherhood is winging it;
now new outsider looking in
and wrapped, no longer cloth of sac.
Once common beat, one blood in flow,
the cord twixt pumping hearts at core,
a lifeline, not on sweating palms—
though unique print on finger tips.
So when the bite, or clamp and cut,
that helpless freed to its own life;
dependent, independence cries,
as many will through countless hours.
So though weight lifts it just begins—
one bond cut but still mostly is—
as promissory note redeemed,
down payment in a shared account.
So young, if dying breath is heard,
is often calling of her name,
who issued forth through waters, blood
this vital vessel, tender, launched.
—Visual by David Alec Knight,
Chatham, Ontario, Canada
CELESTIAL
—Sayani Mukherjee,
Chandannagar, W. Bengal, India
Evening brightness
Slightly dew-dropped pearl
My butterfly winged dappled sunlight
Hibiscus rhythms of night vapour
That harbours a mild mellow film
Rainbow trout and opal eyed souls
My bright tea tree holes
Labyrinths of turpentine palaces
Singsong lyrical balance
Yet a bright shimmery dew
Whiter than heavens
Celestial realms
A bright future
Beyond cause and effect
Just celestial.
THREE FREE SPEECH CANTOS
—Michael Ceraolo, S. Euclid, OH
Free Speech Canto LXXV
On August 12, 2022,
Hadi Matar,
one of the many weak-minded people
who blindly obey those who shouldn't be obeyed,
stabbed Salman Rushdie and Henry Reese,
the man who was to interview Rushdie
The prompt response and consummate skill
of those dedicated to lifesaving
foiled the attempt at the ultimate censorship,
though it was successful in silencing Rushdie
for that night and some time afterward
* * *
Free Speech Canto LXXVI
From an 1841 Maryland law:
"if any free Negroes or mulatto
knowingly have in his or her possession
any abolition
handbill,
pamphlet,
newspaper,
pictorial representation
or other paper of an inflammatory character,
having a tendency to create discontent
amongst or to stir up to insurrection
the people of color in this state,
he or she shall be deemed guilty of a felony"
Samuel Green was suspected
of being part of the Underground Railroad;
there was not enough evidence to convict him,
but in 1857 he was
sentenced to ten years in prison
for possession of Uncle Tom's Cabin
and other abolitionist literature,
and served five years of the sentence
before being pardoned during the war
* * *
Free Speech Canto LXXVII
The power of the advertiser to censor,
and thus to rewrite history, at least for some:
in 1959 Playhouse 90
televised Judgment at Nuremberg,
sponsored by the American Gas Association
The AGA objected to the phrase "gas ovens",
fearing their product would be harmed
The actor Claude Rains, being an artist,
was going to say the phrase anyway,
but the AGA had an engineer in its pocket
who bleeped out Rains' words
TIME, ME AND THE UNIVERSE
—Shiva Neupane, Melbourne, Australia
Indeed, time passes
Very quickly.
We don’t have any power
To slow down
Or reverse its wheel,
To rejoice in our past moments.
I questioned myself
Why I fell into the abyss of time
And turned into a cosmic culinary delight
for the black hole.
I am an infinitesimally negligible culinary modicum
To be eaten by the black hole as with cosmic stellar.
—Shiva Neupane, Melbourne, Australia
Indeed, time passes
Very quickly.
We don’t have any power
To slow down
Or reverse its wheel,
To rejoice in our past moments.
I questioned myself
Why I fell into the abyss of time
And turned into a cosmic culinary delight
for the black hole.
I am an infinitesimally negligible culinary modicum
To be eaten by the black hole as with cosmic stellar.
SCAM, BAM, THANK YOU, MA’AM
—Joe Nolan
Scam, bam, thank you, ma’am,
You only got in on a lie–
Like you’d always love me
And you’d never die,
But here I stand,
Atop your grave,
Waving you, “Good-bye!”
As for ever-after,
I still have your children.
I shall always try.
You shouldn’t have
Strapped your arm
And plunged a needle
To your vein
With street-pharmaceuticals
No one guaranteed.
SUNSET CRUISE
—Joe Nolan
It was time for a sunset cruise,
No matter the cost of the tickets.
Brilliant colors were guaranteed
Along with a soft, evening breeze.
Hors d’oeuvres
Would be served
Along the railing,
Drinks and soft music to please.
Inside, on the dance floor,
Chances to meet and greet.
Everyone, with his best foot forward,
Tweaking aging knees.
—Joe Nolan
It was time for a sunset cruise,
No matter the cost of the tickets.
Brilliant colors were guaranteed
Along with a soft, evening breeze.
Hors d’oeuvres
Would be served
Along the railing,
Drinks and soft music to please.
Inside, on the dance floor,
Chances to meet and greet.
Everyone, with his best foot forward,
Tweaking aging knees.
—Artwork by Norman J. Olson
WRITE YOUR MANIFESTO
—Joe Nolan
Write your manifesto,
But don’t expect it
To be published
Right after your death.
Instead,
We’ll wrap it in banana leaves
And bury it
Underneath the
Left hind-leg of the Sphinx
And pay psychics to intuit
What it might contain,
Rather than let it out
For the public to face the truth
Of whatever it was that compelled you
To do whatever you did
On your way out.
That’s the way it goes these days–
You can’t even blow a bugle
At your own funeral.
Somebody’s got a stopper
Shoved into your mouth
And coins made of base metals
Placed over your eyes
To symbolize
How they don’t want you to see
What they’ve done with your memory.
JUST ANOTHER PILGRIM ON A TRAIL
Every single asterisk
Demands an explanation,
Such as,
“When to stir,
When to whisk?
Surely, there are mixers
That contain
Certain somethings,
Not-too-slow,
Who remember, not,
Let meanings, go,
In gullies,
Down the tracks
When what is gone
Cannot get back—
Just another pilgrim
On a trail.
___________________________
Today's LittleNip:
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Today we are fortunate enough to have, not only some fine poets, but some original artwork and poetry as well. Our thanks to all of them for their interesting work!
There are plenty of readings and other events this week in NorCal poetry; 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.
Yesterday's post was by Oz Hardwick, and his references to cats prompted me to use some cat photos with his poems. He wrote back, saying his pal, Louis, loved the post, and sending a photo of the two of them. So I included it below. Our thanks to Oz and the intrepid Louis! (They're in the UK in York, by the way.)
______________________
—Medusa
Oz Hardwick and Louis
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!
