—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of
Stephen Kingsnorth
—Other Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth,
Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
SUBMIT
It’s tough, verse-choosing, PD site,
what or what not words to send,
as some give vent, our Parky tears,
while others, of the wordsmith forge,
but bellow forth more generally
with poetry as stand alone.
So what’s the stance I should adopt,
that style adapted for our sight,
as cut and paste the post on wall,
graffiti now, tomorrow gone,
forgetting soon that Bill was here,
with date on cue for waiting queue?
I thought a mix and match, but found
my PD line in short supply,
despite, if choose to send elsewhere—
then need explain the PD scare:
not Public Domain (no need, explain),
Power Distribution (chuckle here),
Panic Disorder (cease to laugh),
Pulse Duration (length, metric verse?),
though all seem, strangely, to apply.
Then website challenge, artist’s share;
ekphrastic poem, are you there?
I’ll not respond—five dollars cost.
With chance of publication nil—
one of six hundred sent as well.
But despite ‘No’ in bold black font,
it tempts, that testing image laid,
and I must scribe, stanza response,
to translate picture into verse.
And so I’ve written, answer filed—
it’s better than I linger, hold;
but to submit, those dollar bills—
plus credit card transaction fee?
I’ll pass on this—though what a waste,
as now the closing date is near.
Is it fear, that baring, sole,
should sit alone, soul burdensome?
So I, resistance failed, give up;
press button, lines are on their way.
Submission, knock out, all the same,
as recognise, beyond control.
A first for me, to pay for say;
at least, The Wall, my greenbacks stay.
It’s tough, verse-choosing, PD site,
what or what not words to send,
as some give vent, our Parky tears,
while others, of the wordsmith forge,
but bellow forth more generally
with poetry as stand alone.
So what’s the stance I should adopt,
that style adapted for our sight,
as cut and paste the post on wall,
graffiti now, tomorrow gone,
forgetting soon that Bill was here,
with date on cue for waiting queue?
I thought a mix and match, but found
my PD line in short supply,
despite, if choose to send elsewhere—
then need explain the PD scare:
not Public Domain (no need, explain),
Power Distribution (chuckle here),
Panic Disorder (cease to laugh),
Pulse Duration (length, metric verse?),
though all seem, strangely, to apply.
Then website challenge, artist’s share;
ekphrastic poem, are you there?
I’ll not respond—five dollars cost.
With chance of publication nil—
one of six hundred sent as well.
But despite ‘No’ in bold black font,
it tempts, that testing image laid,
and I must scribe, stanza response,
to translate picture into verse.
And so I’ve written, answer filed—
it’s better than I linger, hold;
but to submit, those dollar bills—
plus credit card transaction fee?
I’ll pass on this—though what a waste,
as now the closing date is near.
Is it fear, that baring, sole,
should sit alone, soul burdensome?
So I, resistance failed, give up;
press button, lines are on their way.
Submission, knock out, all the same,
as recognise, beyond control.
A first for me, to pay for say;
at least, The Wall, my greenbacks stay.
SWAN LAKE: DANCE FOR PARKINSON’S
You babble on, your Jenga skill,
the pillar raised by robbing base,
with one hand only, poking wood,
until too much, whole column razed—
hearing shrieks from Babel Towers.
But shaky ground with Parkinson’s,
those tremors of a quaking base
move up through legs to finger tips,
so when indeed by digit tipped,
the tipple, proof, of quiver blend.
But are there games more suitable?
I have tried darts, but feathers flew.
Then at charades I tried my hand,
but when I stepped on stage I froze,
both film and book outline a joke.
My best achieved, group Swan Lake,
when we were told to shake a leg,
to let our hands fall, shake the dust—
no effort here—they shake at will,
whatever my intent, control.
So here I wait, position, stance,
but trying, when I’m asked to dance,
a plié here, there, arabesque,
the cygnet prance, a foray chance
for muscle tone, I glide at will.
You babble on, your Jenga skill,
the pillar raised by robbing base,
with one hand only, poking wood,
until too much, whole column razed—
hearing shrieks from Babel Towers.
But shaky ground with Parkinson’s,
those tremors of a quaking base
move up through legs to finger tips,
so when indeed by digit tipped,
the tipple, proof, of quiver blend.
But are there games more suitable?
I have tried darts, but feathers flew.
Then at charades I tried my hand,
but when I stepped on stage I froze,
both film and book outline a joke.
My best achieved, group Swan Lake,
when we were told to shake a leg,
to let our hands fall, shake the dust—
no effort here—they shake at will,
whatever my intent, control.
So here I wait, position, stance,
but trying, when I’m asked to dance,
a plié here, there, arabesque,
the cygnet prance, a foray chance
for muscle tone, I glide at will.
THE MORNING AFTER THE NIGHT BEFORE
After an Open Mic Parkinson’s Poetry Night
It dawned, I knew some lines at night,
but whisky, wryly climbed to bed,
self-reassuring I’d recall,
though rarely had or not at all.
The next I wrote, fast, early hour,
to type it up, a type for more,
but crabby voice saw crabby scrawl,
deciphered, sound McGonagall.
How can I focus, morning walk,
on planting limbs, repeating lines;
which sets the rhythm, slows the pulse,
but drumming terms or freezing feet?
So urgent, door, I need relief,
not diuretics but a sheet
to pluck back words from winding path—
empty, memory overload.
Collective others know the same,
the muttering like rhyming slang,
poetic tinnitus, it chimes,
to single phrase, become averse.
If only Pitman tool in box,
though that no use in cloak of night,
and would it stay while lift the pad—
where does it blow, thick mist instead?
But then I heard, dictate the words,
so hear it later when replayed.
I feel I’m Einstein, time is mine,
the tape across the finish line.
Except those whispers overcome
by someone snoring near machine;
so not for me, the Open Mic—
she parrots poems while asleep.
After an Open Mic Parkinson’s Poetry Night
It dawned, I knew some lines at night,
but whisky, wryly climbed to bed,
self-reassuring I’d recall,
though rarely had or not at all.
The next I wrote, fast, early hour,
to type it up, a type for more,
but crabby voice saw crabby scrawl,
deciphered, sound McGonagall.
How can I focus, morning walk,
on planting limbs, repeating lines;
which sets the rhythm, slows the pulse,
but drumming terms or freezing feet?
So urgent, door, I need relief,
not diuretics but a sheet
to pluck back words from winding path—
empty, memory overload.
Collective others know the same,
the muttering like rhyming slang,
poetic tinnitus, it chimes,
to single phrase, become averse.
If only Pitman tool in box,
though that no use in cloak of night,
and would it stay while lift the pad—
where does it blow, thick mist instead?
But then I heard, dictate the words,
so hear it later when replayed.
I feel I’m Einstein, time is mine,
the tape across the finish line.
Except those whispers overcome
by someone snoring near machine;
so not for me, the Open Mic—
she parrots poems while asleep.
DOMESTIC
I’m last to bed, first dawning rise;
though me, deep sleep throughout my night,
she slips unknown, brews pots of tea,
and drinks, as I, but mugs not glass.
It’s not the malt still speaking as
domestic violence prevails,
the kicking given, time again,
my partner battered, blue as bruised.
And so we sleep our different hours,
in separate, kick-boxing lives,
until I count the day begun,
so sling the covers, swing my legs,
desert her in first cosy doze,
abuse now ceased, in calm repose,
the end, bout dyskinesia.
I’m last to bed, first dawning rise;
though me, deep sleep throughout my night,
she slips unknown, brews pots of tea,
and drinks, as I, but mugs not glass.
It’s not the malt still speaking as
domestic violence prevails,
the kicking given, time again,
my partner battered, blue as bruised.
And so we sleep our different hours,
in separate, kick-boxing lives,
until I count the day begun,
so sling the covers, swing my legs,
desert her in first cosy doze,
abuse now ceased, in calm repose,
the end, bout dyskinesia.
BAGGAGE
Spare vests and pants of yesteryear
are now accompanied by fear—
for are the correct chargers there
(and that reminds, night malt required)
for laptop, puffs and scooter, phone?
Sufficient tablets for the stay,
each waking, morning, tea time, night,
back-up in case, for some delay,
(though kids, their tablets anyway),
and tonic, diet, to wash down,
stockings, cream, in place of socks
which do not pressure, give support?
Some silk-patched sheets to turn at night,
unwieldy under-mattress-frame
to block my falling out of bed,
though dawning, high jump skills required—
a scissor kick, believe it’s called—
to lift both legs above the steel,
negotiate, ground threatened slide.
Mobile for one not moving round—
it’s used, alarmingly, pill-time—
at least no iPhone—just not me,
though vapes that seem to dull the aches
with refills, menthol nicotine.
The fish, well-fed, timed heat and light,
for neons flash, short power cut—
a week’s long time, aquaria—
the politics, priorities,
replanting weed and netting dead,
unless one first puts kettle on,
remembering the socket’s off.
Such baggage comes with this PD,
the stick, blue badge, and RADAR key—
you know, the loo, I mean to say—
and scooter, battery on charge—
at folks who saunter in the way.
I scribbled checklist, envelope—
can’t read my quiver writing, still
fruit, veg means I’ve mixed shopping list,
though marrow useful for the bones.
So frankly, half-term, dusted down,
I can recline, feet raised on high
with buttons, plugs for chair, TV,
such great relief, back home, to be.
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
I miss singing every day. I can’t sing anymore. My voice doesn’t work. I have Parkinson’s Disease, and it sometimes takes my words away from me.
—Linda Ronstadt
______________________
Stephen Kingsnorth is writing to us today about Parkinson’s Disease (PD), which has him firmly in its snare, and we thank him for his insights into the burdens and barriers that go with his condition.
______________________
—Medusa
Spare vests and pants of yesteryear
are now accompanied by fear—
for are the correct chargers there
(and that reminds, night malt required)
for laptop, puffs and scooter, phone?
Sufficient tablets for the stay,
each waking, morning, tea time, night,
back-up in case, for some delay,
(though kids, their tablets anyway),
and tonic, diet, to wash down,
stockings, cream, in place of socks
which do not pressure, give support?
Some silk-patched sheets to turn at night,
unwieldy under-mattress-frame
to block my falling out of bed,
though dawning, high jump skills required—
a scissor kick, believe it’s called—
to lift both legs above the steel,
negotiate, ground threatened slide.
Mobile for one not moving round—
it’s used, alarmingly, pill-time—
at least no iPhone—just not me,
though vapes that seem to dull the aches
with refills, menthol nicotine.
The fish, well-fed, timed heat and light,
for neons flash, short power cut—
a week’s long time, aquaria—
the politics, priorities,
replanting weed and netting dead,
unless one first puts kettle on,
remembering the socket’s off.
Such baggage comes with this PD,
the stick, blue badge, and RADAR key—
you know, the loo, I mean to say—
and scooter, battery on charge—
at folks who saunter in the way.
I scribbled checklist, envelope—
can’t read my quiver writing, still
fruit, veg means I’ve mixed shopping list,
though marrow useful for the bones.
So frankly, half-term, dusted down,
I can recline, feet raised on high
with buttons, plugs for chair, TV,
such great relief, back home, to be.
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
I miss singing every day. I can’t sing anymore. My voice doesn’t work. I have Parkinson’s Disease, and it sometimes takes my words away from me.
—Linda Ronstadt
______________________
Stephen Kingsnorth is writing to us today about Parkinson’s Disease (PD), which has him firmly in its snare, and we thank him for his insights into the burdens and barriers that go with his condition.
______________________
—Medusa
For upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
in the links at the top of this page.
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!
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
in the links at the top of this page.
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!
