—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
—Poetry by Claire J. Baker, Nolcha Fox,
Stephen Kingsnorth, Joe Nolan
and Shiva Neupane
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Joe Nolan and Stephen Kingnsorth
THE SPROUTING CLOUDS
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
This summer day
two young children wear
lapis lazuli sun hats and royal
blue sunsuits on a sandy beach
among red, yellow, turquoise toys by
a sleepy lagoon, safe from ocean tides.
They seem not yet to notice
cumulus clouds sprouting and
changing shapes—even into Teddy
Bears, a giraffe, a piglet . . . . May one
day these children pause in play, look up,
thrill to a petting zoo in the bewitching blue.
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
This summer day
two young children wear
lapis lazuli sun hats and royal
blue sunsuits on a sandy beach
among red, yellow, turquoise toys by
a sleepy lagoon, safe from ocean tides.
They seem not yet to notice
cumulus clouds sprouting and
changing shapes—even into Teddy
Bears, a giraffe, a piglet . . . . May one
day these children pause in play, look up,
thrill to a petting zoo in the bewitching blue.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
THROUGH A BUS WINDOW
—Nolcha Fox
I shiver in my shirt
full of black holes
that whisper despair
and come hither,
as the sun sets over
a herd of rusted trailers
galloping backward
out of view.
This road is a ribbon of white
dipped in cloudburst
and melting into a future
I can’t see.
—Nolcha Fox
I shiver in my shirt
full of black holes
that whisper despair
and come hither,
as the sun sets over
a herd of rusted trailers
galloping backward
out of view.
This road is a ribbon of white
dipped in cloudburst
and melting into a future
I can’t see.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of
Stephen Kingsnorth
SUNSET CAUSE
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
What is the subject of this frame?
You think me fool to entertain,
to frame such query in my lines—
and obvious the featured scene?
So most reply, the sunset glow,
the lustre burn of honey streak,
dividing space, cold soil, grey scud,
the dying embers of the day.
Is it soak colour, warmth in frost,
horizon caught before the drop,
that passing sense, brief moment frieze,
the tone unknown till shutter seized.
It could be survey, length of field,
once meadow then a pasture laid,
now grassland stretch green quilted patch,
the space to plan the hikers’ trip?
Perhaps high bubble vat of ore,
gross floating dross for skimming off,
or Bessemer of molten pig,
pork fat to draw, horse hooves for glue?
Then brittle bones in silhouette,
deep marrow, xylem buried, fed,
black twigs in contrast, red gold sky,
fingers of promise, hibernate?
Some celebrate the frozen clock,
the capture of a hanging sun;
or land agent, a business deal,
developer, move flock to build.
The chemist, from his daily round,
for poet, artist, sculptor, clouds;
but most wait winter into spring
the dormant life arise again.
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
What is the subject of this frame?
You think me fool to entertain,
to frame such query in my lines—
and obvious the featured scene?
So most reply, the sunset glow,
the lustre burn of honey streak,
dividing space, cold soil, grey scud,
the dying embers of the day.
Is it soak colour, warmth in frost,
horizon caught before the drop,
that passing sense, brief moment frieze,
the tone unknown till shutter seized.
It could be survey, length of field,
once meadow then a pasture laid,
now grassland stretch green quilted patch,
the space to plan the hikers’ trip?
Perhaps high bubble vat of ore,
gross floating dross for skimming off,
or Bessemer of molten pig,
pork fat to draw, horse hooves for glue?
Then brittle bones in silhouette,
deep marrow, xylem buried, fed,
black twigs in contrast, red gold sky,
fingers of promise, hibernate?
Some celebrate the frozen clock,
the capture of a hanging sun;
or land agent, a business deal,
developer, move flock to build.
The chemist, from his daily round,
for poet, artist, sculptor, clouds;
but most wait winter into spring
the dormant life arise again.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of
Stephen Kingsnorth
BEACH BAGGAGE?
—Stephen Kingsnorth
What is the silhouette we form
when brighter light shines from behind?
What is our shape against the sky
as interrupt that beam’s fierce rays?
And what describes the shadows cast,
serenity or dreadful scare?
We search to find the context, mood,
assume laid bike shows strand of play;
but maybe wheels dropped in despair,
sunset, evacuation queue?
Horizon may be bar to cross
or evening scene of holiday.
I note those dunes, not pillar, stark—
as folk speak when felled tree does not;
still less the concrete pillar site
of street lamp, fuel from that sun.
With every image, questions posed,
if mind alert to wider worlds;
so how is our translation skill
and is it lifestyle-bordered drill?
The fiery scene, some tourist dream,
distracts, alternative, real tears—
for view is coloured, painted by
vacations’ fun or desert storm.
But where am I, assumptions made,
my baggage, fear or sunscreen cream?
—Stephen Kingsnorth
What is the silhouette we form
when brighter light shines from behind?
What is our shape against the sky
as interrupt that beam’s fierce rays?
And what describes the shadows cast,
serenity or dreadful scare?
We search to find the context, mood,
assume laid bike shows strand of play;
but maybe wheels dropped in despair,
sunset, evacuation queue?
Horizon may be bar to cross
or evening scene of holiday.
I note those dunes, not pillar, stark—
as folk speak when felled tree does not;
still less the concrete pillar site
of street lamp, fuel from that sun.
With every image, questions posed,
if mind alert to wider worlds;
so how is our translation skill
and is it lifestyle-bordered drill?
The fiery scene, some tourist dream,
distracts, alternative, real tears—
for view is coloured, painted by
vacations’ fun or desert storm.
But where am I, assumptions made,
my baggage, fear or sunscreen cream?
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy
of Joe Nolan
JUST BEFORE SUNSET
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
Just before sunset,
The sun drops down
Into skies blushed pink,
Floating above
Contours of mountains,
As it descends
Behind a wall
Of Earth.
Then we whisper,
“I love you!
“Eu te amo!
“Wau I nee!”
In a thousand tongues.
We hope for blissful oblivion
As we cross into dreams.
We cast aside
Wisdom we’ve learned,
Embarrassed to not know the answers
To the most fundamental of questions–
How to live without regret
When day gives way to night?
When we undress
To lie between sheets
To kiss each other
“Good-night!”
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
Just before sunset,
The sun drops down
Into skies blushed pink,
Floating above
Contours of mountains,
As it descends
Behind a wall
Of Earth.
Then we whisper,
“I love you!
“Eu te amo!
“Wau I nee!”
In a thousand tongues.
We hope for blissful oblivion
As we cross into dreams.
We cast aside
Wisdom we’ve learned,
Embarrassed to not know the answers
To the most fundamental of questions–
How to live without regret
When day gives way to night?
When we undress
To lie between sheets
To kiss each other
“Good-night!”
—Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Joe Nolan
GOD SAID
(In re: free will)
—Joe Nolan
God said,
“I knew,
When I made you,
I would send you to Hell—
To be tortured for all eternity.
I gave you “free will”
So it would all seem fair—
All on the up-and-up,
So no one should complain.
If you question
The heart of the matter:
Whether anyone can scatter
His fore-known
Painful fate,
Just ask Lucifer,
The brightest of angels,
How the creation of humans
Made him go a-grange,
Out there with the raging bulls,
Demanding I throw him out
And make for him—
A dark place,
That did not exist, before,
With his billions of minions?”
(In re: free will)
—Joe Nolan
God said,
“I knew,
When I made you,
I would send you to Hell—
To be tortured for all eternity.
I gave you “free will”
So it would all seem fair—
All on the up-and-up,
So no one should complain.
If you question
The heart of the matter:
Whether anyone can scatter
His fore-known
Painful fate,
Just ask Lucifer,
The brightest of angels,
How the creation of humans
Made him go a-grange,
Out there with the raging bulls,
Demanding I throw him out
And make for him—
A dark place,
That did not exist, before,
With his billions of minions?”
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy
of Joe Nolan
HOPE AND COMPASSION
—Joe Nolan
Hope
Is too much
To hope for.
Compassion
Will suffice.
Compassion,
Tolerance,
Acceptance.
Bound together,
Twice--
Once by birth,
Once by
Consent to accept.
Let us moan, together,
Underneath the moon.
—Joe Nolan
Hope
Is too much
To hope for.
Compassion
Will suffice.
Compassion,
Tolerance,
Acceptance.
Bound together,
Twice--
Once by birth,
Once by
Consent to accept.
Let us moan, together,
Underneath the moon.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
ECHOES OF TIME
—Joe Nolan
Time echoes plainly
In waves
Across the veil.
Mists of ancient centuries
Show us
To live is to fail.
All the shades,
The shadows,
Once had their time,
Now gone,
But never gone away.
Time echoes plainly
Across the rippled waves,
Waiting to behold us—
Sprites risen from our graves.
—Joe Nolan
Time echoes plainly
In waves
Across the veil.
Mists of ancient centuries
Show us
To live is to fail.
All the shades,
The shadows,
Once had their time,
Now gone,
But never gone away.
Time echoes plainly
Across the rippled waves,
Waiting to behold us—
Sprites risen from our graves.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
THE BAIT OF ILLUSION
—Shiva Neupane, Melbourne, Australia
What I say is not what I truly say,
It’s just the orchestration of false reality.
The programing of mind is beyond our ken,
Thus, it is mere epistemological circus.
What is happening may not be truly happening,
It’s just the projection of our thought.
We take things for granted,
Without understanding what it means to think.
The drug of illusion has imbibed our brain
And made our body the prison of ignorance.
We have failed to cotton on to what illusion does,
Therefore, we are egotistical in this temporal world.
We have become the delight of illusion;
Our life is voraciously eaten up by it.
We don’t live for ourselves
Because illusion is our mental-bait.
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
OH, LOOK!
—Joe Nolan
Oh!
Oh, Look!
It warms my heart
Each time I see it.
Oh!
Look at that!
There’s ice cream on the moon,
But no one eats it.
Oh?
Why is that?
Because
Aliens are allergic
To butter-fat.
______________________
Good morning and many thanks to our contributors today! Recent Seeds of the Week were “Sprouts” and “Just Before Sunset”, and some of today’s poets sank their teeth into those SOWs. Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.
A note that, in addition to this week’s poetry events in our area, June 15 is the deadline for Swan Scythe Press’s Annual Chapbook Contest, and June 18 is the deadline for this year’s Voices anthology. 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
—Shiva Neupane, Melbourne, Australia
What I say is not what I truly say,
It’s just the orchestration of false reality.
The programing of mind is beyond our ken,
Thus, it is mere epistemological circus.
What is happening may not be truly happening,
It’s just the projection of our thought.
We take things for granted,
Without understanding what it means to think.
The drug of illusion has imbibed our brain
And made our body the prison of ignorance.
We have failed to cotton on to what illusion does,
Therefore, we are egotistical in this temporal world.
We have become the delight of illusion;
Our life is voraciously eaten up by it.
We don’t live for ourselves
Because illusion is our mental-bait.
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
OH, LOOK!
—Joe Nolan
Oh!
Oh, Look!
It warms my heart
Each time I see it.
Oh!
Look at that!
There’s ice cream on the moon,
But no one eats it.
Oh?
Why is that?
Because
Aliens are allergic
To butter-fat.
______________________
Good morning and many thanks to our contributors today! Recent Seeds of the Week were “Sprouts” and “Just Before Sunset”, and some of today’s poets sank their teeth into those SOWs. Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.
A note that, in addition to this week’s poetry events in our area, June 15 is the deadline for Swan Scythe Press’s Annual Chapbook Contest, and June 18 is the deadline for this year’s Voices anthology. 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!
