—Poetry by Linda Klein, Playa Vista, CA
—Illustrations Courtesy of Public Domain
IN PRAISE OF CHEESE
You emit smoky essence, sultry and intoxicating,
looking innocent enough in golden yellow shades,
or with blue veiny lines, crags, or holes,
but the scent, the feel from that Provolone wheel
draws me in, and the Swiss is a kiss I can never
resist.
Give me Cheddar and Colby, Gouda and Gruyere,
I proclaim you all boldly, an Edam so fine and
tasty Muenster with your rough orange rind.
I can melt, mix, or blend you. Watch you coat,
seep, and
incredibly wend your way into pasta, potatoes, or
eggs, and you,
the one made of cream, make a wonderfully
smooth spread.
A sprinkle of Parmesan, grated, is exactly what
pizza has awaited.
Oh cheese, your taste is exquisitely nice
to eat even plain, served by the slice.
You emit smoky essence, sultry and intoxicating,
looking innocent enough in golden yellow shades,
or with blue veiny lines, crags, or holes,
but the scent, the feel from that Provolone wheel
draws me in, and the Swiss is a kiss I can never
resist.
Give me Cheddar and Colby, Gouda and Gruyere,
I proclaim you all boldly, an Edam so fine and
tasty Muenster with your rough orange rind.
I can melt, mix, or blend you. Watch you coat,
seep, and
incredibly wend your way into pasta, potatoes, or
eggs, and you,
the one made of cream, make a wonderfully
smooth spread.
A sprinkle of Parmesan, grated, is exactly what
pizza has awaited.
Oh cheese, your taste is exquisitely nice
to eat even plain, served by the slice.
SURVIVAL
From day to day, all in all, life is tragic.
It passes with a flutter of the wind.
Survival requires a link between luck and logic,
maintaining a sane and even spin.
All around me things are changing.
I see danger and uncertainty everywhere.
Against my will my world is rearranging.
I have lost so many things for which I cared.
Often I wonder what is happening,
what unimaginable horrors await.
I pray to escape, not be trapped in.
I struggle in a prison of fate.
In spite of not knowing what lies ahead,
my life force is strong. I must resist death.
From day to day, all in all, life is tragic.
It passes with a flutter of the wind.
Survival requires a link between luck and logic,
maintaining a sane and even spin.
All around me things are changing.
I see danger and uncertainty everywhere.
Against my will my world is rearranging.
I have lost so many things for which I cared.
Often I wonder what is happening,
what unimaginable horrors await.
I pray to escape, not be trapped in.
I struggle in a prison of fate.
In spite of not knowing what lies ahead,
my life force is strong. I must resist death.
PENGUIN PARADE
It was December in Melbourne, summer there. We left in the middle of the night, as if on a secret mission. Bussed to a cold, windy beach, we stood exposed, atop a boulder, waiting. The sun slowly emerged, dazzling in the haze. Still we waited. We wondered if on this day they would march. Perhaps, they would remain sheltered in their caves, and sleep all through the frosty morning, leaving us with unfulfilled expectations.
Other groups were gathered just as we were, scattered, some nearby and some farther. We finally heard a hum from those groups, a signal announcing the arrival of the birds. Bashfully the penguins appeared, approaching the water. Their short legs, and flat, webbed feet moved hesitantly. The little penguins seemed to be aware of watchers. They were fearful as they walked together. There must have been thousands, huddled closely in their somber black and white suits. They were a marvel of innocence, the little penguins of Phillip Island.
It was December in Melbourne, summer there. We left in the middle of the night, as if on a secret mission. Bussed to a cold, windy beach, we stood exposed, atop a boulder, waiting. The sun slowly emerged, dazzling in the haze. Still we waited. We wondered if on this day they would march. Perhaps, they would remain sheltered in their caves, and sleep all through the frosty morning, leaving us with unfulfilled expectations.
Other groups were gathered just as we were, scattered, some nearby and some farther. We finally heard a hum from those groups, a signal announcing the arrival of the birds. Bashfully the penguins appeared, approaching the water. Their short legs, and flat, webbed feet moved hesitantly. The little penguins seemed to be aware of watchers. They were fearful as they walked together. There must have been thousands, huddled closely in their somber black and white suits. They were a marvel of innocence, the little penguins of Phillip Island.
MY MUSE
If I had to name a muse,
music is the one I'd choose.
A soothing song, a sweet sonata,
stimulates cortex to medulla oblongata.
My fascination swims
in wild flourishes and whims,
swaying with the rhythm and the beat,
stirring my senses and moving my feet.
Rapturous sounds of wind and rain
capture my thoughts. Need I explain,
describe how I feel? I know the sizzle
of the sun's warm kiss is real.
Chirping birds' songs bring my words home.
It all comes together in a poem.
Ringling, clinking, and clanging,
Singing, jingling and jangling.
The music of life's composing,
symphonies that lead to supposing,
random sounds pulled from the air
tell of joy and dark despair.
They are the soul of my inspiration,
the impetus for my imagination.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Music was my refuge. I could crawl into the space between the notes and curl my back to loneliness.
―Maya Angelou
_____________________
—Medusa
If I had to name a muse,
music is the one I'd choose.
A soothing song, a sweet sonata,
stimulates cortex to medulla oblongata.
My fascination swims
in wild flourishes and whims,
swaying with the rhythm and the beat,
stirring my senses and moving my feet.
Rapturous sounds of wind and rain
capture my thoughts. Need I explain,
describe how I feel? I know the sizzle
of the sun's warm kiss is real.
Chirping birds' songs bring my words home.
It all comes together in a poem.
Ringling, clinking, and clanging,
Singing, jingling and jangling.
The music of life's composing,
symphonies that lead to supposing,
random sounds pulled from the air
tell of joy and dark despair.
They are the soul of my inspiration,
the impetus for my imagination.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Music was my refuge. I could crawl into the space between the notes and curl my back to loneliness.
―Maya Angelou
_____________________
—Medusa
Poetry Unplugged meets at Luna's Cafe
in Sacramento tonight, 8pm; don't miss
this, one of the last readings there.
For details about this and other
upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
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
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
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!
Grey squirrel passed away;
today her daughter builds a nest~
