Mormon Cricket, the Scourge of the Fields
—Poetry by Caschwa, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Michael Ceraolo, Shiva Neupane, Joe Nolan
and Nolcha Fox
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Joe Nolan
CLIMATE CHANGE
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
Don’t know if this is a poem
or maybe a dream
or a droem
the clouds look like faces
seen before in places
ho hum, no races
some trees bend in the wind
no act of obedience
owindiance
nature and human things
strewn about together
violating patent laws
We saw it coming, it was
all over the news
chattering crickets
ancient powers cause the
Earth to orbit, like a
string around thumb
we’ve answered with a
culture of ultimate authority
money top priority
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
Don’t know if this is a poem
or maybe a dream
or a droem
the clouds look like faces
seen before in places
ho hum, no races
some trees bend in the wind
no act of obedience
owindiance
nature and human things
strewn about together
violating patent laws
We saw it coming, it was
all over the news
chattering crickets
ancient powers cause the
Earth to orbit, like a
string around thumb
we’ve answered with a
culture of ultimate authority
money top priority
JUST NOT CRICKETS
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
Enquiring ‘crickets’, Google search,
I’m offered, since location moored,
my boundaries established, known,
a score of sites where cricket’s toured,
from bat and ball to Wisden’s voice—
for that must spell what Briton meant—
so each a googly, without choice.
It’s AI, knows my real appeal,
a finger raised, declared dismissed,
that insects could be true request—
but here’s all cricket’s pitches list,
with leg spin, leg break, longstop terms,
bowled over, six flies out of ground,
just as that leaping bug affirms.
The Third Man not a zither film,
The Oval, silly mid off, square,
in lingua franca of the field,
one chain-length measures bowlers’ dare.
It is the Lord’s day brings the Test,
to earn the Ashes once again,
though ducks find far pavilions nest.
‘Tis Grace that brought team’s heart to fear,
like famous umpire, Dickie Bird;
‘howzat?’ to white coat overplayed—
less often asked, more likely heard.
Address the ball, crease, trouser press,
till drawing stumps, endgame, not art;
unsporting, just not crickets, yes?
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
Enquiring ‘crickets’, Google search,
I’m offered, since location moored,
my boundaries established, known,
a score of sites where cricket’s toured,
from bat and ball to Wisden’s voice—
for that must spell what Briton meant—
so each a googly, without choice.
It’s AI, knows my real appeal,
a finger raised, declared dismissed,
that insects could be true request—
but here’s all cricket’s pitches list,
with leg spin, leg break, longstop terms,
bowled over, six flies out of ground,
just as that leaping bug affirms.
The Third Man not a zither film,
The Oval, silly mid off, square,
in lingua franca of the field,
one chain-length measures bowlers’ dare.
It is the Lord’s day brings the Test,
to earn the Ashes once again,
though ducks find far pavilions nest.
‘Tis Grace that brought team’s heart to fear,
like famous umpire, Dickie Bird;
‘howzat?’ to white coat overplayed—
less often asked, more likely heard.
Address the ball, crease, trouser press,
till drawing stumps, endgame, not art;
unsporting, just not crickets, yes?
PRODUCTION VALUES
—Michael Ceraolo, South Euclid, Ohio
It wasn't for nefarious purposes;
grave-robbing had long been banned
It wasn't to add to the sum of human knowledge
It wasn't to seek artistic inspiration
And so
the fate of the imploded submersible
wasn't tragedy,
it was farce,
an outcome on the order of those
who accidentally killed themselves
attempting selfies in a dangerous place
—Michael Ceraolo, South Euclid, Ohio
It wasn't for nefarious purposes;
grave-robbing had long been banned
It wasn't to add to the sum of human knowledge
It wasn't to seek artistic inspiration
And so
the fate of the imploded submersible
wasn't tragedy,
it was farce,
an outcome on the order of those
who accidentally killed themselves
attempting selfies in a dangerous place
PROPOSED STANDARD
—Michael Ceraolo
Innocent until proven guilty
is the legal standard,
and rightly so
But
for outside the courtroom,
where all are able to judge for themselves,
I propose a new standard:
stupidity should be considered harmful
until proven harmless
—Michael Ceraolo
Innocent until proven guilty
is the legal standard,
and rightly so
But
for outside the courtroom,
where all are able to judge for themselves,
I propose a new standard:
stupidity should be considered harmful
until proven harmless
TALENT SCOUTS
—Michael Ceraolo
I would have thought it impossible
to unearth a less worthwhile candidate
than the incumbent mayor,
but
those opposed to her managed to do so
—Michael Ceraolo
I would have thought it impossible
to unearth a less worthwhile candidate
than the incumbent mayor,
but
those opposed to her managed to do so
THE AGE OF TIME
—Shiva Neupane, Melbourne, Australia
What time did the time exist?
I couldn’t wrap my head around it.
I am conceptually mired in imagination
And timelessly baffled to find time.
The womb of time
is timelessly designed
But I don’t know the designer
Whose elixir of intelligence created it.
If I were to live longer than the stars
I would have witnessed the death of the stars
Under my watch.
I will be decayed in the cosmic graveyard
Long before those stars.
I am always what I am,
The universe is always the same.
It is just the transformation
Which defines the time.
—Shiva Neupane, Melbourne, Australia
What time did the time exist?
I couldn’t wrap my head around it.
I am conceptually mired in imagination
And timelessly baffled to find time.
The womb of time
is timelessly designed
But I don’t know the designer
Whose elixir of intelligence created it.
If I were to live longer than the stars
I would have witnessed the death of the stars
Under my watch.
I will be decayed in the cosmic graveyard
Long before those stars.
I am always what I am,
The universe is always the same.
It is just the transformation
Which defines the time.
GRINDING BEANS, A-MORNING
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
Furl your hard,
Black coffee-beans
Into your grinding-machine,
Carefully, so you won’t
Have to chase
Runaway coffee-beans.
It’s early in the morning
And you’re not fully awake.
If you want the best of it,
You can surely shake
The machine while
It’s grinding the beans.
Nobody will criticize
What you do
So early in the morning
When everyone is still asleep
Or else trying to wake.
Find a filter
To install
Before you pour in the grounds
Or else you’ll have
Another chore
Of cleaning
The reservoir out.
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
Furl your hard,
Black coffee-beans
Into your grinding-machine,
Carefully, so you won’t
Have to chase
Runaway coffee-beans.
It’s early in the morning
And you’re not fully awake.
If you want the best of it,
You can surely shake
The machine while
It’s grinding the beans.
Nobody will criticize
What you do
So early in the morning
When everyone is still asleep
Or else trying to wake.
Find a filter
To install
Before you pour in the grounds
Or else you’ll have
Another chore
Of cleaning
The reservoir out.
LI TIAN TIAN
—Joe Nolan
Cryptic prescriptions.
Pushed around
By white gowns.
Restricted by edict.
People wear frowns
Behind masks.
Small potato
Made a noise.
Push it down
Into dirt.
Pregnant
Woman
Sentenced
To asylum
For squeaking
Dissent.
She couldn’t have meant
To oppose the regime
If she were sane.
It must have erupted
From a fevered brain.
—Joe Nolan
Cryptic prescriptions.
Pushed around
By white gowns.
Restricted by edict.
People wear frowns
Behind masks.
Small potato
Made a noise.
Push it down
Into dirt.
Pregnant
Woman
Sentenced
To asylum
For squeaking
Dissent.
She couldn’t have meant
To oppose the regime
If she were sane.
It must have erupted
From a fevered brain.
CARESS AND FUGUE
—Joe Nolan
If I loved you more,
I might have left you, less,
In spite of every offering,
By which, I did caress,
Your weight
In the wake
Of fugue.
I still stand in awe
Of your silky skin.
Happiness surrenders
To the joy of sin.
I, and your Mother
Often warned you,
“Don’t delay
When it’s time to begin!”
Now, several children
Have been conveyed
From your loins
Into the world.
I have almost nothing
Left to say.
I am just their sire.
Let them have their way.
—Joe Nolan
If I loved you more,
I might have left you, less,
In spite of every offering,
By which, I did caress,
Your weight
In the wake
Of fugue.
I still stand in awe
Of your silky skin.
Happiness surrenders
To the joy of sin.
I, and your Mother
Often warned you,
“Don’t delay
When it’s time to begin!”
Now, several children
Have been conveyed
From your loins
Into the world.
I have almost nothing
Left to say.
I am just their sire.
Let them have their way.
CRICKETS
—Joe Nolan
So much is said
About so little said—
It’s called, “crickets.”
Little clicks,
Straight-on notes,
That repeat
And repeat
And repeat.
The oppression
Of repetition—
Chirping sounds
Under your bed
Keep you from sleeping.
Crickets
Under your bed?
Or wicked daydreams
Inside your head
That lead you
To probe
All your corners,
Everywhere
Inside your house,
Desiring to make them all dead?
So you can sleep
Without weeping.
No one really cares
If crickets meet
Unfortunate fates,
Although it is bad luck,
I hear.
Chirp-chirp!
________________________
Today’s LittleNip:
WHAT’S THAT I HEAR?
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
You tell me
I don’t listen
when you spout
baseball scores.
You tell me
I don’t listen
when you say
the world is ending.
I ask what you
want to eat
and I hear
crickets.
______________________
Good morning, and many thanks to our contributors today for all their varied subjects and styles, including some worthy chirping about our Seed of the Week: Crickets. Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.
About his poem, “Li Tian Tian”, Joe Nolan writes, “This is about a woman in Hunan. My wife, who is from China, told me the story. She was an elementary school teacher. She voiced some criticism of this or that, nothing terribly serious. She was sentenced to an asylum for fourth months when she was four months pregnant. After her release, her family emigrated to Japan. She had lost her job, and the community in which she lived in Hunan Province was hostile to her. Asylums for dissenters became prevalent under Yuri Andropov, former KGB head, when he became Premier of the USSR. It is being proposed in Canada for covid shot refusers.”
—Joe Nolan
So much is said
About so little said—
It’s called, “crickets.”
Little clicks,
Straight-on notes,
That repeat
And repeat
And repeat.
The oppression
Of repetition—
Chirping sounds
Under your bed
Keep you from sleeping.
Crickets
Under your bed?
Or wicked daydreams
Inside your head
That lead you
To probe
All your corners,
Everywhere
Inside your house,
Desiring to make them all dead?
So you can sleep
Without weeping.
No one really cares
If crickets meet
Unfortunate fates,
Although it is bad luck,
I hear.
Chirp-chirp!
________________________
Today’s LittleNip:
WHAT’S THAT I HEAR?
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
You tell me
I don’t listen
when you spout
baseball scores.
You tell me
I don’t listen
when you say
the world is ending.
I ask what you
want to eat
and I hear
crickets.
______________________
Good morning, and many thanks to our contributors today for all their varied subjects and styles, including some worthy chirping about our Seed of the Week: Crickets. Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.
About his poem, “Li Tian Tian”, Joe Nolan writes, “This is about a woman in Hunan. My wife, who is from China, told me the story. She was an elementary school teacher. She voiced some criticism of this or that, nothing terribly serious. She was sentenced to an asylum for fourth months when she was four months pregnant. After her release, her family emigrated to Japan. She had lost her job, and the community in which she lived in Hunan Province was hostile to her. Asylums for dissenters became prevalent under Yuri Andropov, former KGB head, when he became Premier of the USSR. It is being proposed in Canada for covid shot refusers.”
I'm sure you've heard about Luna's Café in Sacramento being sold. Art Luna has been interviewed about that in a variety of places recently; the latest was yesterday in The Sacramento Bee. Check it out, incluidng news about the new owner and his intentions, at https://www.sacbee.com/food-drink/restaurants/article276728611.html#:~:text=In%20August%2C%20Luna%E2%80%99s%20Cafe%20will%20host%20its%20final,jazz%20musicians%20wanted%20to%20play%20one%20final%20show.%29
The July edition of Sacramento Poetry Center's zippy online newsletter, Poet News, is out; see https://www.sacpoetrycenter.org/poetnews/. If you'd like to be on their mailing list, go to https://www.sacpoetrycenter.org/mailing-list/. We have a SnakePal, Shiva Neupane, from Australia, and I see SPC will be having a Zoom event next Friday that will feature Neil Creighton from Australia and John Guslowski from Virginia. Hands across the globe! Click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html) for details about this and about other future poetry events in the NorCal area and beyond—and keep an eye on this link and on the Kitchen for happenings that might pop up during the week.
_______________________
—Medusa
_______________________
—Medusa
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!
